Life. It [Continues]

If you know me, you know that sports and I don't quite see eye to eye.
Usually, I'm the kid who gets excited for touchdowns during hockey games and finds more fascination with the crowds than with the games. That's just how I roll.
So tell me. Please. Why am I so concerned over the outcome of this world series?
Why did I just get made fun of for showing my enthusiasm over a Phillies home run?
Am I not allowed to suddenly follow baseball?

Well I've got news for the haters. Just because I watch a newsworthy baseball game every now in then doesn't mean I'm soon to be the fella high-fiving the buds over a beer and plasma screen television. I plead innocence lest I become a sports nut. Because heaven forbid. The day I take an interest in baseball will be the day sports dies.

(And the day I take an interest in football will be the moment Earth caves in on itself)

So let me say it. Let me hitch hike the bandwagon. Allow me to cheer on the Phillies.
My thumb is out.
I'm hopping on.

And there ain't nothin' you can do to stop me.

I took a jog through the rain earlier. I didn't get tired, but my ankles made me stop and reconsider my life as a marathon runner.
They burned. They always burn. But tonight,
I heaved with insatiable pain and threw my feet down on the pavement like I had something to prove. Like I was big. Or something.
One after the other. Left foot. Right foot. Left. Right. Left. Splash.
Oh! But I was listening to Bubba Sparxxx. I could've run until the cow croaked.
I slipped over a pothole. I didn't tell you that.
I tripped over a rock.
I almost didn't make it up a curb.
Oh! And this car. It followed me. And I wondered how I looked. Were my arms too loose? How did my posture look? Would you say my shorts were too short?
...What about this stride??

Ya know, I consider myself a fairly smart person.
So why can I never seem to understand an episode of House??
I watch it with my roommate all the time and as hard as I try to keep with it and follow what's happening, I'm always lost. Maybe because my attention span is that of a gnat's, I lose focus somehow. Maybe I miss all the important conversations, but c'mon. Every second of that show is some dramatic, important conversation! You can't expect me to pay attention the whole 45 minutes.
Then it's the same thing every time. A person gets sick. Two doctors say the word, "biopsy" a lot. And in the end, the person is either cured or dead.
I just like the episodes where something weird is happening or good music plays.
(Because I can always pick out a Ray LaMontagne or an Iron & Wine background song..they always make the cut)

I'm just going off on this because...well...I shouldn't admit this, but I was watching an episode for the second time today because my roommate missed it yesterday and I STILL couldn't quite grasp the plot.

Maybe it's out of spite or maybe it's all psychological.

Either way, I can't bring myself to care.

Before I lament my inability to keep consistently blogging, I'll remind myself that...
It's the quality. Not the quantity.
so I won't feel failure-ific.
See, the reason I don't blog stuff is because there hasn't been too much quality. I don't want to come on here and be like, "so I radiated my McDonalds in the microwave sitting on the floor under the kitchen table after I let it sit out for 30 minutes during an episode of the office..and I was like..wow this is so college. And you know what else is college? Oh and college. Did I mention that time at college?"

Let's be honest. Everything I write could be exactly like that. You're welcome. I saved you a vurp. (For the record, that equates to vomit and burp).

So golly, gee whiz RyGuy? What ever WILL you write about???

It's funny. I've contemplated that thought a lot. What's the purpose of my blog? Some people have nifty purposeful, informative blogs that are professional and themed and all things majorly focused. But me? I'm just the goofy kid who writes stupid things on an unreliably infrequent basis. Go RyGuy!

But let's fast forward a whole lot of mind cramping and brain storming and I'll just tell you what my purpose is.

Ready?
My mission statement is as follows:

To provide an everyday look into the lifestyle of an aspiring college writer who knows nothing about where his craft will take him and writes for daily reassurance that he can compose sentences and say quirky things and maybe every once in awhile make people laugh even if it's not really funny, but just funny enough to ellicit a few chuckles here and there depending on the person reading the blog and the mood and tone I write with, which is sometimes informative, sometimes creative, and always self-deprecative, unique, fresh, interesting, stupid, clever, mindless and oh yes...brief and to the point.

My work here is done.

Is it so wrong that I want a black lady to raise my kids?
I'm talking BIG black lady. As a nanny. Advisor. Personal assistant.
I look up to Madea. And Big Momma. And anyone who can pull off the phrase, "boy if you don't quit movin' yo lips...or...i'm bout to choke you."
I'd like to maybe once go to a Baptist church and shout some hallelujahs with the pastor and shake my thighs and wave some jazz fingers to the lawd.
OH Happy Day!

This is another phase. Comes to me because I saw the new Tyler Perry movie tonight and it's slightly absurd how hard I can laugh when you put a man dressed up as a big, angry black lady up on the big screen.
I love being only one of two white guys in the movie theater.
And I am not ashamed.
Now matter how melodramatic movies like this may be, you've got to appreciate some mindless SOUL food every now and then.

In the meantime, you won't be hearin no mo' cowboy music comin' from dis brotha!

Life is too easy when I find myself complaining to myself because I have to write a paper that doesn't involve creativity.
I hate research. I hate having to do interviews. I hate writing page after page adhering to the rules of grammar.
If I sound spoiled, it's because I am.
What's my major? Oh right. Writing ARTS.
Read short stories. Don't buy textbooks. Write responses to what you read. And here's an assignment: Translate a formal piece of writing into "black english."
(I kid you not)
So I'm getting my socks all up in a tissy over my journalism and magazine writing classes. I'm feeling the pressure of deadlines that I don't want to ever come. And at the same time...I'm sleeping in until 10:00, drinking wine in a hammock, and indulging in synthesized pop music with noise canceling headphones from the comfort of a living room that looks way more homey than any college apartment ever should.
(I'm still kidding you not)
Want proof of my apartment? I'll give it to you.



Ah. College.

I bought myself a writing computer.
I'm using it now.
My hope: I'll increase my productivity. I'll feel more eager to write stuff. I won't have to unplug my macbook from the millions of wires I've got hooked up every time I need to do a paper.
So I bought a netbook.
It's a Dell Inspiron mini.
And so far...so good. I'm definitely not a windows fan. This is going to take some getting used to. And as I'm typing, I'm noticing that my "e" key makes an obnoxious squeeeeeeeek and all the other keys are a bit too loud for my taste. My wrists hurt because there is no support. But everything else seems to be cool.
I'll work this stuff out.
I'll make this work out. I don't want to have bought this for nothing.

Theoretically, I should be a morning person.
I should be that guy who - in the ass crack of dawn - looks down the bright trousers of the rising sun, sees that moon drifting away, and goes yes. Yes. I feel good. Bring it on.
Baby, bring it out!
I am ready to live the day.
I am hiking up my shorts and I am sniffing the breeze.
I am watching pretty birds and I am feeling dew on my nostrils.
Baby bring it on. I love life!
Oh happy day.

And that's about when I smell my armpits and scratch my frizzled head and unsuction my earlobes from the drool on my pillow. Usually, a snort or two is released and a booger or two falls to the floor before I drop my feet to the carpet and rise to a half crippled stand, holding my back and twitching my eyes fives times in the mirror until my contacts work their way in.

The sun barely makes it into my room. I stumble around in darkness and put on the clothes that I laid out for myself the night before - fully anticipating my state of misery at the ungodly hour I'm faced with. I envision myself sprawling out where I stand and laying spread eagle under my ceiling fan until the sun decides to work its way backwards and replace itself with a moon and some stars. But that never happens.
And I never actually give in to the temptation.

I like to suck it up. Be a man. Take the day and balance it on the peak of my left bulging arm muscle so it knows who's boss.

The shower I clamp down to the right arm. It's the bigger of the two muscles so it is absolutely necessary that I square off with the shower using my right arm. I have to use all the muscle power and energy I can muster to haul my body into that death chamber.
The water comes down all hot and comforting and it's saying, "you know you like me. you know you want me. I'm your friend."
But the water is not your friend. In the morning, people are meant to be sleeping. Not showering. I don't care what anybody says. No matter how right and natural it is to shower in the morning, it's just not the way things were meant to be.

Sleep.
That's the only answer.
That's the way things were meant to be.

Sure. Sure. Say it. "KID, you're gonna sleep your life away! Heavens, how can you be so bleak and lazy and uninspired and sooooo God awfully fat. Unbelievable. INCONCEIVABLE!

My shoulders bouncing up and down and left and right in unison with my apathetic eyebrows and tilted grin should tell you enough.

I like sleep.
And early mornings can go suck on doodling rooster eggs.

I was whacked three times on the arm while sitting on the bench swing in the backyard.
The little blonde looks to me and says, "Now turn into a seven year old."
"You are now seven."
Whack. Whack. Whack.

I look down my shoulder and give her cocky grin. "Riley. I don't think it worked."

She laughs. I laugh. I feel better.
At least my sister isn't completely crushed. She was only kidding.

But I think she has a point. Inherently, she wishes I could be more of her playmate. I feel bad that I'm not fun and I become sulky and lame and quiet.
And it's not just me being miserable. Although I admit much of it has to do with laziness and the strong unwillingness I have towards changing into a bathing suit, wading precariously into cold pool water, and pretending amusement at diving for coins and shuttling around a sunscreen lathered younger sister who wants nothing more out of pool time than to cling to my arms and have me dive to the bottom and play pointless color guessing games so she has an excuse to do backflips in pool water.

A lot more of it comes from the off-switch.
My off-switch.
The bubble buster.
My low-key.
The burned out.
My detachment.
My dull.

So sorry Riley. My ticker, my mojo, my personality has been stuck unceremoniously in the off position for the past two days. Your magic wand is fruitless to my electrical circuiting. I'm rusty. Down. Sunken. And my grunts and my groans are the pits and spits of a jammed copper switch. It's stuck. But I'm trying to push back. Trust me. I am. I really am. Can you not imagine my inner elves squinting, working and leaning their tiny little bodies against the switch to get it over. Farting and shoving, sweating and plighting in a constant push towards light.
You see? I'm trying here. I want excitement. I want the switch back on.

Because days when it's on, I feel vibrant and energetic and passionate and all things alive.
Those times, I can be seven years old in the backyard and run around and be entertaining.
But to turn that on, I really have to concentrate and focus.
...Or pray my elves will come through.

Today. Wasn't happening today.
And I don't like it.

It's like I'm just going through the day.
But the day isn't going through me.

Which is so against everything I stand for.
So what I'm trying to say is this:

I need to live. I'll resolve to turn my switch to the ON.
I want to be energetic and cool and lively. Why waste time stuck in dirt?

If I've reached any point, it's that I really have to (HAVE TO) stop taking the easy way through every day just being content downloading new music and hacking as many different routes into my iPhone as I can find. That's the switch off.

The switch on....well...when the switch is on, I'll know it.
You'll know it.

The world will know it.

Inspiration comes. Inspiration goes.
Sometimes I'm lazy. Sometimes I'm cool.
These days..these months.. life has been a lot of going and sleeping and working and eating so I'll face the truth right here. I've been quite uninspired, lazy, and un-cool.

Just in case you were counting on a mental picture, this pound of fat that has nestled in on the flabs of my love handles can attest to my self deprecation. The beauts are a living testament and everyday reminder that when the calories come in, sometimes the calories rest where the burner does not light.

It's the summer effect. I've been so wrapped up in tanning to the perfect complexion, working, and obsessing over removing all traces of dust and dirt from my bedroom that I've neglected my...well..passion. Strong word. Yeah. And I don't like to just throw that around. But I've realized that writing is what I want to do. So it makes me crazy when I go for months without doing what I want...what I should..be doing.

I'm talking about writing. Again. And being lazy. Again.

Sorry, it is getting old. And I hope it doesn't make me sound amateurish.
(Actually it's probably no worse than the fact that I just used the word amateurish and talked about love handles)
(Which I don't have by the way)
(Never will have)
(Do not want)
(And pray to keep my metabolism)
(...I'm a faithful person)

But stop. Who gives a shit?
Love handles and all of the above aside, I've decided right now I'm about to turn this piece around faster than a Dr. Drew rehab stint.
So I haven't written in months. Big deal.
You (and I mean this in no ways to be directed at YOU but rather at ME) can watch me bemoan about my existence, complain over my shortcomings, listen to me drag on and on about myself and my narcissistic, self-centered, woe-is-me, I'm a failure kind of thoughts.. OR.. I can pretend that the last 200 words didn't exist and you...ME...will move on.

My "meta-writing" can be out of the way.
I can stop throwing swear words around.
I can pretend I didn't just spend the last 30 minutes typing to myself.

I'd rather that. And good thing it didn't take too long for the "ah-hah" moment, because now that I've gotten the obligatory cursing of my self and poor motivations off the checklist, I can return to writing things that make me laugh and make me smile and make me wonder what variation of acid I had raging through my system as I read my blog days after I write.

I'll just leave it at that. And hope - that now begins a new phase.

Sorry. Still not ready to start again.
One of these days...one of these days....

My coffee got me thinking of something I was thinking as I was driving back down to school earlier this evening. And that's what's troubling me most - not the fact that coffee makes me think of random memories..that's besides the point...but I don't THINK I was even thinking the whole time in the car. But I had to be. Cause I was driving. And that requires thought. But there's not much recollection. So it's still there right? I imagine it would be. I was thinking of something. I had to be. I normally think of a lot. Let me get this right:

Okay. I had my seat leaned back G-style, one hand..and one hand only..propped 12:00 on the wheel. I was driving to Nelly. I wasn't reppin any shades and I kept my shoes on my feet. This was 3 minutes out of my driveway.

I hit the fast road a little too fast and..oh hot damn..my car went belly of the beast, put-put, push-push and produced a big, loud display of disgust at my abusive pedal foot. I pulled over to get it to shut up. 5 minutes out of the driveway. Eventually, it stopped because I stopped forcing it to be something it wasn't. Sparky's no hot machine. I've come to terms.

More. I ride in front of a devil in a silver..a silver...car. And I can feel its intense energy coming up and into the car from Sparky's exhaust hole and I start to feel all intense too. So I start going over to the right lane so this monster can find a new stallion to stick to and sure enough, it goes on over to the right to follow me more. So I'm thinking. And I'm thinking about what kind of demon it could be and why it doesn't just shoot on past and crash into a pole or something.
Then I felt bad for ever wishing it harm. Cause it's not realllly an evil creature, it's probably just Betty White. And I just wished it dead. What's wrong with me? So I slowed down more to get to the bottom of this because it...she...had to get sick of driving slow sometime. And eventually, she moved back over to the left and I got to steal a glance over and I was mystified because it wasn't a demon or Betty White. It was a normal human being.

Music was on. I forced myself through a Blink-182 song because I wanted to prove to myself that I could listen to any song on my ipod and not want to change it because if I did want to change it, then it shouldn't be on my ipod in the first place. Logical? yes. I knew I had thoughts.

One more. I sang along to a Good Charlotte song in 3 different high pitched, mocking voices for each part of the song. It made me feel like I was an oblivious character being filmed in an embarassing moment in his car. So I sang loud enough for the boom mic to capture every agonizing note. And prayed no midgets were hiding out in my backseat.

But progress on the one thing I wanted to really remember?
None.
I still don't remember, but I do remember it was something that I wanted to write.
And I've remembered that I was INDEED thinking the whole time I was driving, SO that mystery has been solved. That's good.
The rest? About as good as an ice-cream truck without wheels or popsicles.

Is my life over?

Basically.

Nothing fancy tonight. I'm more out of tune and more out of sync with my brain than an overweight turkey.
In the barn. On a rainy day. Dumb. Stupid. Meaty. And 2 days before Thanksgiving.

Good news! I'll be more with it this weekend.

What matters MOST NOW is actually a new thing that I threw on the right side of the page. It's a new site I signed up for. The execs. call it blip.fm. and it's a word almost as disgusting as blog, but I swear, it's cool. I would sit with it at a lunch table. Maybe, I would even give it my sandwich..provided it doesn't condone the slayage of turkeys or accept the horrible mentality that besets the veal industry.
Yeah. I'll admit. I'm a fan of blip. And to think I've only just met thee...think of the future to come.

Alright basically, I only want to exploit my narcissim and superior sense of intellectual, mellow music with those who actually read my shit. Now, not only do you get my words, but you get the music that is behind them. Most likely, it's what is fueling them. Giving them substance. Giving them gustoooo. Making me suffer from much too much mental stimulation at one time.
(Let me tell you. What they say IS true. A closed and quiet room with flourescent lights and a reflective glare from an obnoxiously white MacBook spewing folk music...it brings out the best.)

Listen to what I'm listening to. Humor me. Cause this is REALLY what is driving my posts..either to oblivion and total waste.....
.....Or to something insightful (pssh)
Mellowdramatic (maybs)
Or downright clever (bah)

Tonight though, I've gone music free - provided the background snoring doesn't count
I'll just leave it at that

Sometimes nothing prevails

If I can wake on time without an alarm clock
and cook myself lunch without cooking a hand,
do my homework with the diligence of a Japanese dishwasher
and listen to the music of reclusive bearded men living in cabins
(emerging more profound and spectacular than reborn Buddhist monks)
then something tells me
that maybe I'm....

Maybe I'm...okay
a little too structured.
Too structured in fact to ever let
an alarm rattle me up
with a kitchen flame a burning
and homework a singeing
and my hand lifted with a fire so spectacular and profound that it coincides with cooking crickets

But what it all comes down to is this

Since I've never enjoyed a screechy alarm
And I don't think I'll ever enjoy being caught amongst a flame
I'll probably just stay content in my cabin for now
Listen to the crickets
Cook my food and do my work
And wait for the day when I will emerge
More spectacular and more profound, laughing, and laughing and laughing from a crumpled structure that probably burned by my hand

If I were to make a list of all the things that confuse me, I could wipe out a jungle in Honolulu. I could send a contortionist to her hind legs. I could make a plate of cookies disappear into thin air.
I could stand still in the middle of the kitchen, turn off all the lights, drop down on the floor, sit, spin my back around a few times, stand back up again, steady, turn on the lights again...and I'd still be a confused person.

How come the weather was so booty this morning and so bright 2 hours later?
How come I didn't know that registration started at 6 a.m. this morning?
How come the jellybeans were practically gone at 6 a.m. this morning?
How come I got to class 5 minutes later than normal and still found myself a seat?
How come that Walmart friendly looked so unpleasant?
How come I bought a deodorant that resembled the remains of a fried bottle of dish detergent?
How come I saw so many artistic people at the cafeteria at one time for dinner?
How come I saw that girl from freshman year who told me how she snorted cocaine from her bathroom mirror, had sex in her hot tub, and received numerous alcohol violations all after I suggested that we be writing partners for creative writing.
How come I still smile when I say hi to her?
How come I could only eat 3 cookies without feeling like an inflated biscuit?
How come I can stand to see how many of the same thing over and over and over and over?
How come I haven't backed out of this yet?

Best give it the band-aid treatment.

I'll tell you. This one is okay. It's about good.
It's about mornings when I wake up and I'm all alone.
When I streak across the apartment and nose dive into the bathroom.
To shower of course.
Today, I nod and smile to the shampoo foam when it comes down my head,
It covers my eyes a little bit and I just let it
Work its stuff
Until the drain beckons and it gets moving on down past my avenues and I watch it fall down
All the way down
To the swirly area of the tub where many shampoos have collected and been sucked down
All the way down
To live a life inside the pipes and meet up with all the things that have also been sucked down
I think, good thing I'm not shampoo because when I get out of the shower I go, "whew"
I like being a person.
I can walk and I can talk. I can eat blueberrys and I can smell like green shampoo
I can open windows
I can brew coffee
I can sit on a microwave, turn it on for 30 seconds and let the radioactive heat generate enough warmth to soothe my muscles, dry my legs, and cook a chicken.
There's an invigoration in the solitude.
There's a voice in the rain.
There's also me. Did I mention there was me?
I may be all alone in the apartment
And I may have nothing better to do than shower
Play with shampoo
Drink coffee and fantasize about blueberrys, microwaves, and chicken
But I tell you.
There's something about a murky morning
And a lot of wet rain
That drys out my hair, makes me poof it, and go oh yes.
There is a voice in the rain.

It overtook me.
Like a chip. Like a spicy chip in stifling dip. Like a sudden
Mood.
I wanted to lug nut some nut.
I wanted to jack a screw and just send it
Sailing.
But it's easier to just sit here.
And watch.
And listen.
And nod.

I hate car grease. What's so appealing about car grease?
That cloud is appeasing. It laughs but I don't
Care.
The pavement is more juicy.
It's soft. And more fun. And more
Poetic.
It's easier to just sit here.
And watch.
And listen.
And nod.

4 hours later, I bump into some canvases, trip into some melodies and I burp really loud over dinner in a public restaurant. And I say, "Laugh. Because I just don't care. I just don't care. I just don't care"

You can be looking at this leaf and you can be looking at this tree, right?
And you can be thinking to yourself that it is a very lovely tree and only the loveliest leaves can come from such a beautiful tree. Because yeah. That's the way things work. Lovely trees yield lovely leaves.

(Actually, I just said that three times in my head and I think my tongue is tied..only it's not really my tongue. It's my brain tongue. See. We all have brain tongues. I think. (Sometimes, a lot of times, I think my brain tongue wants to be my real tongue, but my real tongue is a whole lot stronger than my brain tongue.)
In truth, my brain tongue is pretty well defined. I think. Every once in awhile, I just have to let this be known though, so I'll do it now. (Ready. This is my brain tongue speaking) My brain tongue pops and bulges a vein out and those little lines expose themselves to the world and it is known..it is known..that there exists a fragment, not a figment, of truth that will one day ripple down and create a channel of streams for all the world to see. But not now.)

So this tree. Back to it. It knows its got the goods. It's big. It's bold. It's intimidating. The leaves. They are friggin beauty dogs. Top quality. Grade A winners. You get it? They are awesome.
So anyway, about this tree. It's intelligent. It is aware of its beauty. It is a proud tree and it is very proud of its leaves but this tree, it does not much let the leaves dangle too loosely. It does not want the rest of the world to know them. Most of the time, the leaves are taught and rigid and clamped up tight to the branches. Because it is a lovely tree with lovely leaves. It just doesn't much display them. For whatever reason. It keeps the leaves tight. Maybe to preserve them. Their essence. Who knows.

One day..and you must have known that was coming because every story starts with one day...I'll try not to make this sappy. I'll get right to the root. I won't bark up any other tangents.
The leaves stretched.
If I saw this like I think I saw it, one morning the leaves decided to lift up their fibers and earthy substances to meet the sun. They started with just an inch.
But it only took a small inch away from the branches for the lovely tree to notice. And here's the good part. The lovely tree didn't mind. Actually, he probably never would have minded if they decided to stretch before. For whatever reason, he just never felt the itch or the scratch coming from their inner leafiness and felt no need to let them go. Remember. Proud tree. It's best not to encourage anything that would make less lovely.
The leaves stretched.
Slowly to the ground, they began to extend farther and farther away from the branches. The tree did not mind. With every sunrise, they matched the slow movement of ascension. Quite lovely actually. Like a montage of seasons changing. Frame by frame. Inch by inch. Working the way down to the ground. Extending away.

And here's the even better, best part. The tree..the lovely tree..it didn't find itself any less lovely. Sure. It was different. It was a little saggy. Maybe a little odd. But it stood proud and let go those lovely leaves and let them work their way out and into the rest of the world. It could always stop the leaves. If it wanted, it could draw them back up and bring back the lovely leaves so that they would once again be kept for only the tree itself. But it didn't want that. It would rather they be out and down and around and available for everybody.

The story ends just like that. The tree still lets the lovely leaves be free. Somedays it's cool. Somedays it would be better to have the leaves close like before. But it always knows that change is part of a tree's natural life. So why not?

For the time being, the park looks better anyway.

Really, it was only just he and the headphones on his head and the stairs beneath his feet. And there was a brush in his hand and he was cleaning the stairs in an up and down, back and forth motion and the dirt was being swept up and pushed and prodded up into the air where it would rise so the particles could find each other in the air, make sweet love and babies and fall back down to the stairs together in unison.
Really, it was only just he and the headphones on his head and the thumps in the his ears and the tapping in his toes that caused him to clean the house and clean the house in a nonstop, back and forth motion so that by the time he realized what he was doing, the house was already clean. But he didn't know it when it was happening because he had music in his ears and an entirely maroon field of vision where not even a desperate dust bunny wailing away from the bristles of the destructive brush could distract him from his goal of clean steps.
Really, it didn't take much sweeping before he realized that nothing really puts him to ease like clean stairs beneath his feet and and thumps in his ears. And not even the worst of destructive trash monsters or the worst of wrecks and miserable situations would bother him as long as there were thumps in his ears and a great many number of songs lined up to be streamed and paraded into his head. With the greatest procession of music comes an even greater procession to life and life looks grand, real grand, when there is an endless, ceaseless procession of music thumping its way into the canals of the control station where all good things come.