The HighwayI've always heard people talk about my way or the highway. Their way IS the highway.
The highway is the way that gets you right where you need to go. No thrills, no hassles, no surprises. Just a set speed where you can zip right along to the destination. And there's an accident or two along the way, sure. A chance to stop and slow down, look at the carnage, and drive on. You can get off the highway in a safe place, stop for a bite, but then you get right back on. The sights are the same, and you know just what to do. All across the land, you know just where you're going.
My way is not the highway.
My way stays off the highway.
When you stay away from the highway, you take all kinds of unexpected twists and turns, detours and old roads that have been worn to the ground and forgotten. You see all kinds of things that you never expected to see. You make all kinds of stops and starts, taking in the sights, meeting people in the most unexpected of places. You never know where th
A Tribute to George CarlinGeorge Carlin was my comic hero.
Today has marked the end of the life of the greatest American stand-up comedian who has ever lived. George Carlin has left this earth, gone forever. Taken from the public after fifty years of making us not only laugh, but think.
It was late last evening that I was having a rather ordinary evening. After browsing onto Fark.com, I saw the headline that George Carlin had died of heart failure at age 71. The first words out of my mouth were Oh, no. I sat in my chair, stunned. I stared at the screen blankly, unable to conjure up any words. I spent the rest of the night looking over every article I could, trying to make sense of it. It was so terrible to lose such a beloved icon.
Like so many others today, I'm well aware that my words may go widely unnoticed. I know that my tribute may fade away, just become another piece no one reads. Yet, like all those same people, I have the need to express myself because I feel so strongly and so passionately
The EndI stand in the empty room, looking out at the bright sunny day through the open windows. This was my room. But its not now. Ive moved out, moved on. But it still feels like home. And now, I stand here in this room for the final time.
The highs and lows come flooding back to me, standing here in silence. I remember the day, coming home, knowing I was going to graduate. I remember screaming at the top of my lungs in ecstatic joy. At the time, I was so happy to be graduating. But now, what I wouldnt give to go back to the beginning of the school year and do it all over. Im already starting to miss college.
They were really the best years, in this room. Its only now that I understand what people mean by wanting to return to these days. During those years, I would give anything to get out. Now that I finally made it out, I want back in. Such is life. Such is this cynical view of life that I feel starting to creep into my head.
I think of the phone calls from my
Thoughts after graduationTo my fellow denizens of the Internet,
Many of you reading this are probably aware by now that I'm officially a college graduate. I've just completed my last final in my university, and am well on my way to earning a degree in Theater Arts, something I've been working at for a very long time.
Of course, working at something like this goes beyond just going to classes and finishing assignments. If shit were that easy, there wouldn't need to be shrinks in schools these days. That's the way school is so perfectly designed: it must be easy enough that a lot of people can do it, but hard enough to make actually finishing the motherfucker a daunting task. Thankfully, I've learned from the big mistakes I made throughout, and hopefully learned from the small ones, too.
During my freshman year of high school, I was the quiet kid who stuck to himself. The rest of my freshman year, my mother and father did what most white parents do when they find out their kid isn't normal: they completely went
MotherThe king slept soundly under sheets of silk. The morning had already broken, sun shining through the window onto the floor of stone, piercing through the sparse clouds the floated like leaves on a pond through the auburn sky. His arm underneath the pillow that cushioned his head, the elvish sovereigns mind drifted off towards the end of a dream.
The dream world was a familiar to the king all too familiar, in fact. The soft but bright greens of the forest trees hung overhead like a work of art, dancing from the cool breeze of the warmer seasons. Light streamed down onto his body as he lay on the top of the bed hed become so used to resting his body and mind upon, a canvas of elvish grace and craftsmanship that felt like it was created just for him.
As he stirred in his former home, the soft call of a womans voice made the king turned his head. The sound nearly soothed him back to sleep from its charm. It came from a lady he knew all too well.
BondI look back up at the clock. It's fifteen minutes until it's time. But they always come early, don't they? I thought they'd be here by now. No worries. They said they'd be here at 5:00 sharp. It's not 5:00 yet, is it?
I hope they haven't eaten yet. I really want a burger. I haven't had a good burger from Wendy's in ages. I miss those. They always had the best. But the youngest doesn't like them. Maybe we'll all go out somewhere else instead. As long as we're all happy.
I log online. There's one of them. I chat it up with him for what feels like hours. The door knocks. I tell him I'll see him later, and I promise him that. I know not to break promises with my brother. I know how much a promise means to him. Maybe, I think, promises should mean more to me too. I haven't had anyone to really connect to for a good long while besides him and...
Him and him. There they are at the door.
"Hey," I say casually. Like this is no big deal. But it is a big deal. Why do I toss this off as casual mee
The WriterHe stares at the empty page on the screen that begs him to fill it with words. Begs him to find a way to enchant and enthrall and reflect on the nature of living. To reflect on natures of love, life, hate, humor, rumor, rampant sexuality.
All art comes from demons.
How does he draw in a reader? How does he not get bored halfway through and call it quits? how to make sure the reader won't? How does he make this work into a work of art? How does he imprint his name on it?
All art comes from demons, he thinks again.
What demons? He never grew up in the slums. He never had to wonder if he would die coming home. He worried about monsters under the bed and skeletons in the closet as he grew up.
But, all art comes from demons.
What did he have to worry about? His parents? They divorced when he was twelve. They lavished him, trying to win his affection over the other parent. The bitterness in those gifts was staggering.
All art... comes from demons.
He remembers it now. The one toy he always w
WaltzA white and brown-tailed falcon flew through light-falling snow, soaring close to a stone tower of a tall castle. A gold band attached to its right leg glowed a soft blue for a fleeting moment, and the falcon darted off to the left at the last moment, cutting through the air with grace normally unseen in this sort of weather.
Down on the cold, snowy earth below, the young, elvish king of the land watched the falcon fly through the air, unblinking eyes stinging a bit from the cold. The king, an elf in his mid-twenties, was dressed rather modestly for a man of his stature and the weather of his land. A white cotton shirt showing in the opening of his jacket, laced with navy blue silk on the interior, and what appeared to be printed cotton in a soft tan color with a traditional leaf-like pattern sewn into the fabric. Draped on his shoulder and buckled on his collarbone was dark cerulean cape that fell to just above his heels. White pants completing the ensemble were joined by a silver rin