**Disclaimer** - The following is a work of fiction I created. The people are real but the events are false. Its also an early draft, so bare with me as I work out the kinks and problems inherent in the style I’m using. Please, feedback is appreciated. Btw…I hope this is interrperuted wrong. I do love my sister, with all my heart and I would gladly give anything for her. This story though, is a fear of mine. A dark fear that I’ve told only to a few because of how much it terrorizes me sometimes. Keep that in mind as you read.
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My knees pressed gently into the soft, moist, fresh earth. Its pungent aroma filled my nostrils, the smell of a thousand cut yards which gave off the taste of years of dutiful toil by some faithful gardener. The rain hissed down around me, droplets caressed the hairs upon my neck as they slid down below the collar of the jacket. My eyes traced the two tombstones before me, imposing marble structures of silken white and green.
The chiseled lines of writing still flowed straight and true, still pristine and unspoiled; the toils of age and decay had yet to affect them. Nature and our man-made pollution had yet to destroy the beauty we had perfected, the irony was apparent. The writing brought tears to my eyes, tears I hadn’t shown in weeks, tears I would never show to another mortal soul. Before me lay my parents, the people who granted me the gift of life and raised me throughout the years. Before me lay my parents, people who I could never forgive.
I sat and cried for hours, wracked with sobs and convulsions. The rain mixed with my tears, became a river of my emotion. The pain and loss I had felt for the past month exploded out of me, echoed and rebounded, gathering strength from the pain of the hearts around and before me, a daemonic spirit intent upon the possession of my soul. A month since my parents had died; I never even went to the funeral. A month since my parents had died; a month since they’d left my sister in my care and ruined my life.
Gradually, my hands tightened into fists and my jaw clamped shut, I succumbed. The hours and minutes of the past month flashed and flitted before my eyes, the graves became a blur of passion, a streak of hate. Time stood still as I sat within my pain, I channeled it into the darkest recesses of my mind, fed off it and shook like a tree which had endured the greatest of storms. Finally, a deep breath cleared the darkness and my mouth opened, a voice that I no longer recognized spoke. It spoke to the dead; It begged their forgiveness and their salvation.
“Momma; Papa; please forgive me. This past month has been so hard; life has been so hard since you left me. The night you left, the night you died, a part of me died too. They called me, at school, to tell me the news and I didn’t believe it. Who could believe something like that? Who would want to believe something like that, but I had to believe it. I knew then that my dreams were shattered, the life I had lived up until then, for myself, was over.”
“It was midnight and suddenly I was coming home. This time I wasn’t coming home for money or for food, instead I was coming home to bury my parents. I was coming home to become a father to my immature sister. How can I replace you? I can’t be a father, I hate kids. I hate her, I hate her so much. The day you brought her home I hated her, I hated you. She took everything away from me; she took away your love. You said I changed? I changed because of her, because I was no longer alone yet every day I became more alone. Now look at me, I’m stuck with her. I’ve lost MY life because of her. How dare you! How dare you do this to me?”
“No one had told her, how do you tell a seven year old kid that her parents will never come back? She had already lost her mom, her real mom, who abused her every day. Then she gets tossed around from family to family and is left with us. For years she grows into us, she becomes one of us and then you up and die? Now she has nothing, all that she has ever known and loved is gone and somehow I have to fill that? Fuck you. Fuck you mom and dad. Thanks for everything, thanks for nothing.”
“She hates me because of it. She thinks it’s all my fault; she blames me for you guys leaving us. I made someone else take her to the funeral, I couldn’t go. I went and drove my car around, for two days I drove nonstop, without thinking, without sleeping, without eating. I drove and drove until I could do nothing else. I wanted to die because of what you left me. You told me there’s a god, where is he? Why does he do this to me? I finally find happiness and it’s taken all away? Good? Ha, I spit in his face. I spit on you.”
“The funeral was beautiful, or so they say. Everyone was there, you had so many friends. They’ve all tried to help me, help us, but it’s not enough. I wake up every morning to being a father to a girl who hates me. I send her off to school and hear the mocking echoes of your passing. The days don’t get any easier, they don’t get any shorter. Jess turned eight today, I’m nineteen now, you two were gone for that. All of that, and how much else are you missing? You’ll never see me marry; you’ll never see her graduate and become a woman. You left me the burden to see her through life, you left me with something I never wanted and its something I can’t even bare. Every night I fall asleep staring at the gun upon my lap, the pills within the cabinet. Every morning I wake up knowing that I can’t do it because of Jess, I can’t put her through that. Because of her, I give up everything. Now I know what parenting is, and I despise it more than life itself. I hate her just as she hates me.”
“I’m so angry now mom, dad, I’m so angry at everything. I’m so scared though, so completely scared. I’m being forced to grow up and I don’t think I can, I don’t know if I’m strong enough. I hope I can make it through, I have to make it through this. I’ll try and raise her the best I can, just as you’d want. I know she’ll make you proud, and I hope I can say the same, I hope I can think the same. I was always a disappointment but I won’t fail here. These tears are my promise, to myself and you. I won’t fail Jess like I failed you. As much as I hate her, as much as I hate you, I’ll keep going. I won’t leave, not like you did. These tears are my promise, my bond. I love you, and I miss you so much.”
The storm had passed, the clouds had moved onto another town, another grassy knoll. I straightened and my knees cracked with the change. It was dark now, the stars glared at me above the trees and the wind mournfully called through their branches. I gave one last look to the tombstones, one last promise, and turned to my car. In the back seat my sister laid asleep, arms peacefully crossed upon her chest. Her face echoed a serenity I could not feel, sureness with the world that I would never again see. With her rested my future, a future I did not want, one that I was not sure I could bare. I opened my door and slid into the car, turned my back upon the past and drove home. Home, it echoed so hollow within my mind. A home without parents, a home without past…my home.
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Music is my escape. When I’m angry, I’ll crank some Staind, or Deftones, or even some Flaw and let the singer’s emotions seep through me, replacing my own anger with a feeling of emptiness. When I’m depressed I go into a music searching frenzy, I download dozens of mp3’s looking for a new band that fills something in me. When I’m happy, well, anything can be campy and cool at that point.
I don’t know why I have such an obsession with music, or why it has such a powerful effect on me but I know it’s been there since a very young age. My parents could never stop me from beating on pots that I stole from the cupboards, whistling horribly off tune (I’ve gotten much better), and eventually tweeting away on a little recorder (flute like instrument) they bought me. I still remember the first tape player I got and how overjoyed I was, instant access to tapes and radio; no way!
I still remember the day I told my parents that I wanted to learn the cello, the first time I ran my hands over that beautifully smooth, red wood. The haunting sound that emanated from its chambers, I fell in love with that instrument, and I was good, damn good. Nothing can kill someone’s ambitions though than knowing that you’re the odd man out and have no one to learn from at a new school. So, shortly after moving to Camp Hill around sixth grade, I dropped the cello. It was a sad goodbye and sometimes I still hear the music that I would make, remembering the hours I would sit at my chair, gliding the bow across its strings trying just one more time to get that song right - to reach perfection. That was one of the few times I’ve ever desired perfection, I’m just too lazy otherwise.
Eventually I picked up the drums and continued on that way but it never felt the same, was never as rewarding as I found the cello to be. With drums you can take out all your aggression, you can support others and occasionally have some incredible jam sessions, but it still lacks something. I think it had something to do with the fact that as creative as you can be with drums, I cannot create the music that I hear within me upon a shell wrapped in skin.
One of my best friends from back home won a guitar the other day and I realized that this summer, I’m going to get a guitar myself. Probably an acoustic one to start with and, if I enjoy playing it and I become somewhat decent, maybe I’ll pick up an electric one too. I hope that it’ll fill the need within me to create music; I hope it’ll provide that outlet for my melodic thoughts. Who knows, maybe I’ll find myself again behind a hollowed out trunk laced with steel wires and think, “hey…this is me. Its good to be home.”
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Shelly is a really great person. After weeks, months, even years of drama and frustration she’s still willing to give people the benefit of the doubt and start things a new. Those of you who don’t read her weblog are probably wondering what I’m talking about so, in your best interest, I’ll fill you in.
Shelly had originally started a yahoo group called Bloggers Unlimited which talked about using modern internet technology and groups to change things. Or at least, that’s my interpretation of it. Sadly, all good things must come to an end. The group radically changed from what she had originally intended and many people were ignored in favor of rants and wars about which technology was better (RSS v.1 vs. v.2, etc.) and why. Shelly got fed up and, deciding to leave the group, started another called The Renaissance Web. The goals of the new group are:
The sole purpose of this group is to bring together people interested in the next generation of the web, whether you want to call it the Semantic Web or not. However, one rule of the group is that any discussion of technology will be at a level that all members can appreciate it. This means, no lines of code, no unexplained acronyms, and no Geek insider talk.
So far the groups focused primarily on introducing itself and some preliminary banter but even with all that, some interesting ideas have already been produced. One deals with how to get blogging into the mainstream, available to everyone and their grandmother. David proposed the idea of a “blog folder” which would be transparent to the user. I took this and ran with it but I’m in the process of writing a post to clear my thoughts up on this even more. Aren’t groups an amazing thing?
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Music and dancing (the more the pity) have become so closely associated with ideas of riot and debauchery among the less cultivated classes, that a taste for them, for their own sakes, can hardly be said to exist, and before they can be recommended as innocent or safe amusements, a very great change of ideas must take place.Sir John Herschel
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1.) Libraries in general are too sterile. They need some form of chaos otherwise the mine leads too quickly to create its own. Its great to have things organized, but for gods sakes at least leave a chair in the wrong place or a cup sitting on a table! We don’t go to a library for perfect symmetry. We go for usability and that means its lived in.
2.) Don’t take someone with the attention span of a small fruit fly. If you must, face them into a wall, preferably surrounded on all sides (top and bottom too) with black colored paper so that no light gets in. A single light bulb should be the only source of illumination…scratch that. All the walls should emit illumination so said person has no central source of distraction. Better yet, just leave the person at home!
3.) Wireless internet is bad. Yup, I said it.
4.) Men should not wear flip flops with the little thong between the big and index toe. Those are girlie. For gods sakes grow some balls and change your footwear.
5.) Said flip flops are uncomfortable. What the hell were you thinking?
6.) Did I mention that said flip flop wearers are the laziest people in the world? They can’t even be burden with the fact of lifting their feet 2inches above the ground every step. Instead they drag their worthless, sorry sandaled feet across the carpet. Creating a horribly grating noise and thoroughly shocking all they touch.
7.) Never show your work to someone who can never agree with a single thing you say. Your work will always be criticized, never good enough, and damn if they don’t bitch enough to let you know! *cough*Jacque*cough*
8.) I love wireless. Sinning is great!
9.) Did I mention the part about the person with a short attention span? I did, oh, well, yea, double bold that section. Especially when she gets to the point of quoting really big medical terms to you that mean absolutely nothing!!
10.) Crappy carpeting will make noise no matter what the shoe, so buy good carpeting. You’d think its difficult to buy high grade carpet, its not like there’s 10,000 styles to choose from. There really isn’t, it’s the same style with 20 patterns. Hello?
11.) At any tech school there is invariably going to be an array of geeks, slobs, and wierdos. Drexel just seems to have more than its fair share of them. When I say more than its fair share, I mean to say I think we got the amount destined for the rest of the Atlantic sea board. The dweebo population outnumbers the Caucasian and Asian populations at least 2 to 1. Where’d they all come from? A Star Trek convention in Nevada? Must be a result of Drexel’s continued obsession with radiation-producing CRT monitors.
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