An Evening With Holden Caulfield

It was a dark, foggy night. I was walking back to my apartment on 66th street, though hurrying as it was quite late. Some streetlights were even broken, casting parts of the pavement and surrounding underbrush into eerie, quite darkness. Abruptly, I heard a crash from behind me. I spun around, and couldn't believe who I saw. It was Holden, my old roomie from Whooton. Although, I would've rather had met a psychotic serial killer, than him. He was sprawled on a now broken bench, wheezing and muttering about ducks and a lagoon. Even at a cursory glance, I could detect quite a heavy air of depression pervading him. I knew he wasn't hurt, having personally witnessed his resilience when he picked fight after fight in Whooton. I walked over, and ducked down to his level. I greeted him, but the only response I received was a grimace, and a foggy, blank stare. I was as an anonymous person to him.

I tried to converse with him, but he was quite irascible, and even tried to take a sock at me. He was shaking like a tremulous wreck, and still seemed like he was haunted by something. Same old despondent Holden I remember. Always was something profoundly amiss with him.

I abhorred to see him so reclusive, and so I entreated him to go with me to this bar on 61st street. He assented, even though he probably still didn't know who I was, and I gingerly dragged him across 2 blocks, from 59th to 61st. He was so far gone, he probably didn't even notice. I tried to talk to him when we got there, but all his answers were either brusque and concise, or snide and demeaning, whilst he waited for his glass of water.

When he finally did get it, he drank it all down in a second, then he got another one, and another, and another, and so on. If I hadn't found him the poor dehydrated sonuvabitch would've probably dunked his head in that one frozen pond in Central Park. Then started the tirades. First about phonies, then innocence. After that, intellectuals, and then his plans for running away to Canada, or Colorado, or Mexico. He always knew a friend, or had a guy who owed him a favor. His behavior always evoked pity, rather than annoyance.

Holden, being an avid drinker, started ordering scotch and soda, not to be deterred by being underage, or even the waiter flat-out rebuffing him. I was feeling quite conscientious, hanging out with him, and started wondering if it was prudent. For affability's sake, I stayed with him.

In an effort to start intelligent conversation, I started talking to him, of all things, about the weather. It was looking promising, until he did a Holden Caulfied converational pivot, and starting talking about his sister Phoebe. The spontaneity in his disposition was actually quite annoying. My conversations with him were always one sided. After a while, I was instilled with a quite impelling desire to leave. I did just that and walked out. I don't think Holden noticed, he just kept talking.

He was  a quite lonely, slovenly guy. I preferred serenity in solitariness, to chaos with Holden Caulfied. He was quite a despicable human being.

Inspiration

What is inspiration???

A bolt of lightning,

pilfered from a

mental storm,
igniting the lackadaisical mind.

The poem that I write,

attempting to depict

the proverbial lightbulb,

hanging over your head.

An idea, in a moment

when you have no inkling

of what to do, a conscientous idea

amid the profusion

of slovenly thinking.

Inspiration: a ship,

audaciously, embarking into the unknown,

exploring the realm of

"outside the box".

A mutiny from the usual thing,
deviation from the serenity and prudence,
when you confiscate the pedestrianism,
a hot-headed new undertaking.

A rankle, at the back of the mind,
pushing in new directions, with
encouragement and rebukes alike.

Catcher In the Rye Poem

Who is Holden? You might say.

Holden is a person, like any other,

and yet unlike any other. Holden is

a liar, bending the truth for

convenience, spinning tales taller

than the Sears Tower.  

Holden has given

up, has to force himself

to feel regret. The sarcastic and the goof,

whose overdramatized life spills over to

his speech. 

The one you’re not sure is

trustworthy, the one who hates what he can’t have,

like “The Fox and the Grapes”.  Impatient, and as two-faced

as Harvey Dent.

The one who

relates his story from rehab,

who admires a brother turned prostitute.

That one liar, unforgettable, one of a kind,

Holden.

Book Review: The Hunger Games

                    The Hunger Games

          Author: Suzanne Collins

Review by: Giovanni Ferrari

When Katniss Everdeen is chosen for the Hunger Games, she knows exactly what she’s getting into. And it’s not good.

In the post- apocalyptic ruin of North America, lies a dystopian society called Panem. Similarly to the Colosseum, and the myth of Theseus and the Labyrinth, every year a boy and a girl from each of the 12 districts of Panem, are “reaped” in a ceremony, similar to a raffle, except the name drawn out is the one who goes to compete in the bloody games that are the Hunger Games. Katniss and a boy named Peeta are chosen to go. First they have to go to the Capitol, but once there, they realize that while they are poor and always hungry, the Capitol is the height of wealth and gluttony.

The Games begin, and kids start dying for the Capitol’s entertainment.

Separated from Peeta from the beginning, and fleeing from the Career Tributes, people from the wealthier districts, that are trained for the games, Katniss must use all her skills to survive the Games. Only one “tribute” as they are called, can survive and win

                                   

Katniss is quite a character, skeptical and surly on the exterior, and possessing a fierce determination, as well as an urge to take care of her family, which she sustains by hunting, even though it’s illegal.

Her determination, her hunting skills, and her desire to see her family again, are great assets to her, physically and emotionally during the Hunger Games. She will have to overcome her distrust and work with Peeta to survive.

The other protagonist is Peeta, Katniss’s partner in the Games, who is almost the opposite of her. He grew up in a baker’s home, where he always had food, and never had to worry about going hungry. He is possessed of a soft disposition, and is a dreamer, as opposed to Katniss who is a realist. Peeta has to compete in a sport with a long and bloody history, with no skills except being able to frost cakes.

The antagonist is two-fold. The most obvious one would be the Career Tributes, from Districts 1 and 2, in particular the one who appears to lead them, a barbaric boy named Cato, who swears to kill Katniss personally. The thing is, the real enemy as most of the tributes know, is the Capitol. It is them who force tributes from the Districts, they who rule the Districts with an iron fist.

                          

I found the first 50 or so pages hard to get through, as they only detailed life in District 12, and aspects of the Capitol, but I found that as I read more, the book began to draw me in, combining suspense, action, and hints of desperation at some points, which made it a page-turner. Also the author stopped the book at a suspenseful point, to make you want to read the next one.

I would really recommend this book to everyone, because it’s got a bit of everything, and once it got down to the action, it’s hard to put down, because you want to know what will happen to Katniss and Peeta, since Collins make them so easy to identify with and so likable.

Collins really made a masterpiece when she wrote this, and for anyone who is interested the saga, it continues on in Catching Fire, and Mockingjay.

                          

My Father

My Father is the Don
the head of the family,
the Boss, the Godfather.


He unleashed the Flood.
And he is the Ark.
He is Noah,
and God as well.

He is a ghost,
a golem, a gargoyle,
he is the ram.

He is the preacher,
pastor, and priest.
His own confessional

A runner;
He is the repairman,
the undertaker,
a symphony conductor.

He is the microphone,
the speakers,
a slow and steady beat,
a one-man band.

A compass,
an astrolabe,
a detailed map, and a GPS.


Because of him, I pick up pennies, when others discard,
because of him, I know how to say what I mean,
because of him, I don´t panic when the lightning bolts strike,
because of him, I know who I see in the mirror.

Confessions on Tuesday(Confession Tuesday is so cliche)

1. I hate the computer I'm writing this on, it just has the USB port, the charger port, the earphone port, and a little weird one. Its like they were making the computer, and then when they sold it, they were like "oh shit, we forgot to put everything else on it!" So what did they do? You have to pay more money to buy the attachments, like for the Ethernet, or just to play CDs on it. The only good thing the Macbook Air has, its that its light, nothing else.

2. Have you ever noticed that in the States, you have all these wannabe gangstas, who are like 16 year old, wearing huge baggy clothes, and the people who are in an actual gang, dress normally. (and no a gang isn't when you and your friends hang out after school and throw rocks at cars, that's  called Down Syndrome) Its makes a kind of sense, since they wouldn't want to stand out, though I think they don't have to worry, as the 16 year olds in huge purple winter jackets draw all the attention.

3. When I go to a restaurant in another country, I make sure NOT to try the delicacy, cause usually its some weird thing like "baby squid tentacles, marinated in goat's milk cheese, with fresh snails on top".  I don't care if the people around are eating it up, like they're chocolate chip cookies, I'm not eating it! Although I guess I can't really talk, because over in the States, they serve meals that are completely genetically modified, and they're proud of it.

4. I believe my computer is posessed, it's the reason I'm writing my confession on this Mac Air. Last weekend, on Saturday when I got home from the mall, I lifted up the screen and it was covered in water, the keyboard was wet too, and water was welling up from beneath. I closed it, so I wouldn't have a scene from "The Ring" when the girl pops out of the TV. I swear when I closed it, I heard a little grunt of disappointment, they are getting it fixed, but I think they should send it to a voodoo doctor first!

5.  I don't mind having to use this computer actually, because it's better than my old one, it looked like it was fought in the last Gulf War actually, from all the scratches, and dents in it. It's was more of a bulletproof hat by the time I got it than an actual computer.

Family Ties

I wish I wouldn't have to depend on my brother every time I wanted to go to the mall. I have to call him and tell him when the movie's ending, and in turn have to listen to him ordering me around, and telling me where I have to be at this time. Last weekend when I went to the mall, the movie I was watching ended 10 minutes after it said it would. I had to put up with him, calling me 100 times, yelling obscenities at me, because I was late, as if his losing of 10 minutes would seriously mess him up. When I get into the car, I have to listen to his interminable tirades, all because he had to lose 10 minutes or so of his time. What, killing ogres and trolls on his computer can't wait? I abhor his feeling of superiority over me, when he doesn't get out with his friends almost at all, except to go play more computer games with them as a group. Its a vice, and his usual haunt, getting home, and getting on the computer, and then nothing can impel him to leave his computer alone, and when he has to leave it, he gets all irascible and impatient.
If the Internet goes down, his despondent curses reverberate around the house, now just a recluse with nothing to do. But that's alright, to each his own I guess, i'm not perfect either. I hate having to depend on him because my other brother, the cool one, has to go study for his mastery, or go out with his girlfriend, or go out with his friends, and generally lead a  life that's not completely cybernetic.

Big Brother

(Before I start this post, let me just say the title has nothing to do with the character from the 1984 novel, as some smart asses would probably say)

The phone rings, my brother on the line.

I head over and pick up the receiver,

he explains that today he was going to,

the unveiling of the Spyder.

The Porsche Boxster Spyder.

He would pass by the house,

on his way there, and so he asked me,

if I would like to go with him, knowing

I had an interest in these things.

So I got ready, and I waited,

and when he got home,

I was greeted by the usual,

words I cant include

in this poem.

He gets ready shortly,

We leave, not in a fancy car,

but a practical Outlander.

Turns on the radio, and

the last station comes on,

music that both of us listen to,

even with a 10 year difference.

We get there, and first take

some time to see how his

car was taken care of,

when he asks me if I

admire his car, I say “yes”

for the hundredth time.

Words I meant every time I

said them. He’s proud of his car,

custom rims, never generic ones,

and a rack on the top,

efficient and nice looking.

Decals on the sides of the car, Cayenne

TranSyberia S. The only one is Panama,

another fact he’s proud of. Its an elegant occasion,

I can wear dark jeans, and a dark button-up shirt,

because I’m a kid, he can wear what he wants,

because he wears it with style. We go in and he orders a red wine, and orders me a Coke, shaking his finger at me mockingly, playfully as he gets his wine.

Then later, tells me to get in the Boxster, and then he becomes a mentor,

cool, calm showing me all the functions, telling me things about the

engine, and chassis, explaining it with detail, in case I don’t understand.

Tells me I have to hurry,

and learn stickshift in time to drive these cars,

 cars that have to be driven in stickshift,

classic ones, that need skill, and control.

The other car we are looking at,

he says will come out in 2013,

by then you can drive,

legally, he says with emphasis

on the last word, knowing that

I drive now anyways, he is my

teacher too, in the passenger seat, making me drive

him to the deli, pushing me to learn.

Then we leave, and as he turns on the radio,

Hotel California comes on,

and he hums along softly,

and I mumble the lyrics under my breath.

Then I press the mute button, catching him

in mid-sing. Then he laughs, and turns

the radio back on, and keeps singing

off-pitch. Thankfully the car’s windows didn’t break.

Falling Upstairs

I write about this, because it still puzzles me. How the hell do you fall....UPSTAIRS!!!!
As Alejandro said "Its like defying gravity." (Well he actually said "dude, thats like defying gravity, thats cool")

So we're in the lockers, the ones smack in the middle of the 3rd floor. Going to my locker, I'm talking(no surprise) to Alejandro and JD. So then Alejandro goes "What's up Natalia, pound it."
Then we see her last 2 fingers are in a bandage. So Alejandro goes "dude, like what happened to your hand???"(Yeah, he's gonna be saying "dude" a lot more in this post.)
She explains that she closed a door on her hand, and I go, what's with you? First you fall down the stairs and mess up your hand, and now you close a door on your fingers, and mess them up too???

This is where the discussion developed. Because I had to be corrected, you see she didnt fall downstairs... She fell UPSTAIRS! Well I said that I could see her tripping up three or more steps, but a whole staircase? As Alejandro stares into space with a blank look on his face, (as usual) I find out that if you jump REALLY high, you can trip upstairs(which I guess involves some Michael Jordanian superjump, and some jetpacks on your feet).

As a tide of midgets in red flows by(the 3rd graders are leaving Mrs. Vallarino's room), we: Mafe, Natalia, Alejandro, and me argue about if you could fall upstairs, and then the conversation is ended by the one force you can't argue with. Mrs. Meadows casually passing by and commenting that we might want to hurry up, or just get a detention(either one...). And Alejandro goes "Dude we better hurry up!!!" (This is the last "dude" you'll hear I promise).

So yeah apparently you can fall upstairs.

If You Know Everything, Do You Also Know What It Is Not To Know?

I hope the extremely profound statement above(made by me) has inspired you to read this, if not then you’re not reading this anyway so who cares. Anyways I abhor people who act like they know everything, and then when I ask them something… “I forgot.”(Something is amiss here)

“Oh yes, I forgot too. I forgot that you’re a presumptuous idiot…(I’m the only one who knows everything, everything important.)”

Now after my short tirade has finished, you’re probably thinking “Here you are complaining, and you’re the same thing”.  In which case I reply, “Didn’t you read the thing above retard?!?!”

But seriously(As serious as I can be), if you know what you say isn’t true, then why do you say it. Do you think anyone cares?  Acting all high and mighty like some sage or something, what are you Einstein? If you go around bragging that you know everything, no one is going to listen to what you say, and you’ll end up a recluse (except when they ask you for answers, cause that’s different).

When you’re in some kind of group work, in school or at work, people are going to expect you to do everything, and since you clearly don’t now anything, you’re gonna crash, burn, and everyone is going to hate you. And you’ll end up a despondent little person (like the midget in the movie Leprechaun,(Warwick Davis???)) so please, I entreat you , smug know-it-alls(Nicholas, Max,), stop acting like you’re a genius, otherwise……. I’ll haunt you!!!! And it’ll be even scarier than what they really stick in the Happy Meals at McDonalds (shudder, shudder).

I hope this rant will impel you to change your attitude, because without it I see an interminable future of people ignoring you.

            So once I’m doing some group work with a guy right. It was in some random camp, so this guy he knows everything right? Wrong, this kid didn’t know what he was doing, any more than the director of Percy Jackson and The Lightning Thief, when he made that movie. So I affably refer to my partner, and he met me with a stare blanker than Ms. Panama when they asked her who Confucius was(in reality I screamed at him “GOT ANY IDEAS!!!!!!!”(I was mad and he wasn’t contributing, he deserved it)) And then of course he got the little tremulous lips, and started wailing louder than an air raid siren. (For a few seconds there I almost jumped other a desk. (Yes, he was that similiar to a raid siren)).

And no, I’m not a hypocrite. Don’t tell me this or comment saying that, because I’m quite irascible and will  yell very loud,(KHHHAAAAANNNN!!!) it’ll reverberate.

(For those of you who didn’t get why I supersized the word Khan, in the middle of my post, ignore it. For those who got the reference… J.)

Confessions of an Everyday Life

1.     I  think the people who designed the Oreo cakesters box are idiots. I mean “dunk them or don’t”? Everyone knows they taste better when you chuck ‘em in a glass of milk. Of course sometimes they break apart, and you have to go fisherman with a spoon to get that damn cookie out.

2.     I think the toucan in Mrs. Frederick’s class is watching me. We joked that it was a vulture, cause its kind of hunched over, but now every time I look up, the darn thing is staring straight at me. Freaky little bugger, its got eyes bigger than Bugzy’s (the hamster in the movie where the bedtime stories become true).

3.     I don’t like Confession Tuesday. Everyone gets all serious and makes deep confessions about themselves, and I’m like the only one who jokes around on his blog come Tuesday. Oh well, I’m not the serious type anyways.

4.     Did I mention how much I hate Confession Tuesdays. Oh crap I said that above. Who cares. Never mind that go on, go on. Read the next one.

5.      I have witnessed one of the most hilarious events I will probably see in my life, only 4 people were witness to this event. The victim, the 2 people seeing the event(me and someone else), and the culprit. I must confess it was hilarious even though I should feel bad for laughing. Victim, I am sorry I laughed. P.S. : I advise you not to make any revealing comments if you read this. If Mrs. Meadows finds out, it’ll be everywhere.

6.     I confess that I’m suffering from writer’s blockage. For the ones who can’t infer, or are mentally challenged, this means I have no idea what else to write. Now go away, and go read someone else’s blog. This post is now officially over. Good bye.

Passing Through

He passes through the store,

looks all around,

hundreds upon hundreds

 of brands, flavors, and types

 arrayed around him.  More chocolate

 than Willy Wonka

 could ever have. He looks

 around in wonder,

 can’t decide where to start.

Picks up a sweet chocolate. He used to love

 those for such a long time. But no longer,

now he puts it down,

 forgets about it,

 leaves it behind.

He passes over

to the bitter

chocolate that everyone

eats, but he’s  not ready for that.

He can’t decide

should he take

 the sweet one, and lose himself

 in the bliss,

like rain,

after a drought,

like the sun,

after the storm,

shimmering

reflecting on all the droplets.

That sweetness,

that joy borne of hope,

that fantasy,

that dream,

that everyone lives,

not fully enjoying,

till its lost.

 or he should he take the bitter

 one, the one that leaves a lasting taste.

Like finding out that the rain only

lasts a while,

and the drought

sweeps in,

joy felt all for nought.

Like the sun gets

covered by a cloud,

and the sky rumbles menacingly.

That disappointment

that bitterness,

that harsh reality,

that everyone

has to face.

Bitter like

lying to friends,

bitter like living

a lie, bitter

like your

heart just

died

in your chest.

He touches

it, he can almost

feel the bitterness,

 He’s wary

 of taking it. He knows that once

 once, he took it,

 and bought it,

 he couldn’t put it back.

He can almost taste,

 his heart pounding,

 a sour, metallic

 taste in the back

 of his throat.

Moans in his throat,

 short on time,

the pressure, a stone.

Hungry, stomach

shriveled like a crone.

So he stays

 in the store, tons of chocolate,

no longer wondrous,

now oppressing,

and grim.

 He stays for a time, stuck

with his choice. And then he decides,

and puts

both down.

A choice for another time.

And he doesn’t

 take anything,

 deciding just to leave,

 leave things the way they are.

Plague Rat Burger

I walk over to where the vendors have et up their stands. My mom’s words echo in my head “You shouldn’t eat in those places, because they don’t know what they give you”.  In a sense she was right I had no idea what was in there, and I don’t think they would just throw away meat. The street vendors have their own method of recycling: “If it looks like food stick it in there, they wont know the difference.”

For all I know I could be eating Scooby Doo, or a  sewer rat, or something  I don’t know. But who cares it tastes like chicken, so it must be, never mind that pretty much all foods taste like chicken.

But who was my mom to lecture me, she ate fried slugs as a delicacy. The French and their strange foods, (shiver) how can she know what they stick in those snails.

So I ordered a hamburger, and a skewered sausage.

What do you know I wake up at 4:00 in the morning, and get to introduce my stomach’s contents into the toilet. And that stuff definitely wasn’t chicken.

Maybe I should listen to what people tell me… Or not.

The Journal

                                                                                                                            

                                                                                                                                




                                                                                                                                  911 Witch Lane

                                                                                                                                  Salem, Massachusetts

                                                                                                                                         B. Jackson

September 8, 2010

Dear Dr. Zhivago

The following journal has been sent to you from B. Jackson. We're sorry but we had a remodeling to modify our capabilites and work speed, and mail services have just resumed. Normally we would wait a while before delivering again, but this package is marked, imperative. Its only now we can send this journal to you. Sorry for the incovenience,  the journal goes like this: 

January 1st Sunday

I really must write to you about the state of affairs of my younger brother Jeffrey. I really do believe his disposition has taken a turn for the worst. Just today he spent two hours talking to an anonymous presence only he could see.  My grandmother (in frail health) spent that same day ranting about how her generation wasnt as crazy as ours. Thank God she doesnt live with us.

January 4th Wednesday

I read an anthology, composed of journal entries that details the life of an ancestor of mine who had behavior similiar to Jeffrey's. I've been most perturbed, and for some unfathomable reason, I'm instilled with a sense of fear. 

January 5th Thursday

I now fear for my life. From what, I know not. Today I caught Jeffrey talking to his "friend". For some reason this vastly annoyed me, and I snapped. In rage, I yelled at him that his friend didnt exist. Before I could even blink twice,  a sense of supernatural cold encompassed the room. An urn that previously sat still,  spontaneously flew at me.  I pivoted just in time. Something strange goes on here.

January 7th Saturday

These strange events are growing prevalent throughout the house, I grow anxious around Jeffrey, afraid to incite another attack, for the event to recur. Its getting bolder, and its guile seems endless. Today I turned on the stove, but there was a loud crashing and banging. When I went to investigate I found one of our flowerpots had fallen down. Presently there was a burning smell wafting from the kitchen. I rushed in, and the drapes had caught fire!!! I managed to put them out, but a few seconds later, and there would have been an explosion with the gas tank.

January 9th Monday 

I desperately hope I'm wrong, and this is all foolish conjecture, but everyday things get worse. In the morning, everything in the hallway had been trashed, there was a dead something in the middle of it all.

I heard deep laughter at night.

January Wednesday 11th

Jeffrey doesnt look me in the eye now. I hear him talking to it at night. They plot against me I know it. Whose mind state deteriorates now, Dr???

Thursday 12th

The house is quiet. I know I should run, should extricate myself from this outlandish situation, but the dread holds me down. Hopefully this journal will be found, as I doubt I will be sending it. The doors are opening. Everything is breaking. Chaos. It howling. The End is near. I feel it.

Thursday 12th

Its dark now. Sometime around 11:00 I believe. The door starts shuddering under heavy blows I know Jeffrey could never give. Something else is at the door. Clock ticking down to midnight. The shuddering stops, and then impossibly the lock turns!!! The door creaks open slowly, I see a shadow cast upon the ground, but no body. The clock strikes 12:00. A new day. Laughter, low, malevolent, victorious. And then..... *Journal ends abruptly, curious stain on last page*

Dr. Zhivago as you can see this journal came from someone who was obviously not well. We at the postal service, can assure you that efforts are being taken to find the owner of this journal, who was pronounced missing on the 13th. Everything said here is merely coincidence, spoken from a obviously perturbed individual. 

Sorry for the inconvenience,

The Mail Company

Epilogue

The Dr. got up, shaking his head at the things he had just read. As a psicologist, he could see that this man was obviously insane. He saw that a lot. Therefore he was cynical to the horrors written down in these pages. He got up and went to sleep.

If anyone had been in that room many hours later, at the dark of night, they would have felt a sudden unexplainable chill. If they had been there, they would have seen the journal levitate slightly, briefly, ever so slightly, but levitate it did. If they had been there, they would have heard the laughter. Low, malevolent, victorious.

Early Bird Gets The Worm Yeah Sure...

I must confess I think my dog is half terrorist. Unless anyone here can explain why he jumped up and rammed a kid on a bike. (9/11????). He literally flew through the air to get him.. (When I checked he didn’t have any food on him, so I have no explantion.)

I believe I’ve been corrupted by a certain friend of mine, who pointed this out to me during lunch when I was desperately trying to finish my Math homework (Sorry for the juice spot on the middle of the paper Mrs. Culberson!!!)

I don’t see myself as funny or hilarious, so I really wish people would stop saying “Make me laugh”… (What do I look like Katt Williams??? Go read a book or something!!! Jesus….) I dont deliberately think of jokes, they just pop out of the blue and I say them, so no I'm not a personal comedian for people's enjoyment...

I have to confess  I’ve grown addicted to punching the speed bag my dad set up for me at home. Although it’ll probably wear off once I end up slapping myself in the face with it… (For the ones who live under a rock, a speed bag  is like a punching bag, except its pear-shaped and you have to hit it quickly, hence the name “speed bag”)

I think I spend more time discarding  ideas than coming up with them on a Confession Tuesday, and I also end up rewriting the comments  I publish like a million times (or as Mrs. Meadows puts it showing some love, which I think might actually be the title for a song by Bob Marley… Now you all know why I stare off into space when Mrs. Meadows says  that particular phrase) , so that it doesn’t sound like all my comments are the same and I just fill in your names.


I hate it when my parents wake me up, at 3:00 just cause they set their alarms wrong, and want someone else’s  morning to get  screwed up…


By the way that “early bird gets the worm” saying its  not true. Cause like in my case something else probably ate the worm in the night. And then in the morning you have a bird that’s pretty pissed off cause it woke up early for nothing. So you don’t think I’m crazy, I say this because a few days ago I woke up early (30 minutes less sleeping time the horror!!!!) to have some waffles.  I quickly found out that one of my brothers had decided that he wanted waffles for breakfast, when he got home  at 1:00. So no waffles and I just stumbled downstairs  at 5:30 in the morning to find that it was all for nothing. Early birds get the worm, my ass…


I'm tired of being treated like a baby, although not in the way you would suspect... Yesterday I got smacked straight in the face with a soccer ball. I spun in the air so fast,  I looked like one of those little tops that were so popular in like 3rd or 4th grade. Even though my face had just probably been pushed in 10 millimeters, and my braces had left like 6 holes in my upper lip,  I felt fine. But no!!!, the game had to be stopped to see if I was fine. Of course I was fine but I had to leave to get ice, so that my face didnt swollen. Good thing too, because thanks to that, my lips didnt end up like those, of the people who for some reason, surgically remove their rear end and stick it right in their lip.
By the end of the night, I took one to the nose, another soccer ball to my butt, and a hit to the nuts. I think Coach Borras had something against me, because he kicked all those. I'm joking, he did apologize repeatedly, which only served to heighten my annoyance. I hate being treated like a 5 year old.

Going Insane???

So yes, I’ll admit it I temporarily went insane today… So would anyone after having to sit for 5 hours straight, giving people cake… After the 3^rd hour, there wasn’t anyone to talk to, I started getting bored… I think I saw every corner of the weird food  fair in Atlapa… Then I sat in a seat looking at the people, who passed by, I ate ceviche de corvine, and laughed at the “Italians” who were ser ving lasagna from Riba Smith, and pizza from the fast food  pizza place: Pizzeria Italia… (I know it’s mean, but I couldn’t help myself)… And then all along  I had a thought lurking in the back of my mind: All the homework is waiting for me back home….That’s when things got a little crazy, sitting in a chair doing nothing  interesting will do that to a guy… I found myself actually PRAYING for the end of this event… I finally to my immense relief, convinced my brother to come and pick me up…

Of course being Panamanian I had the one detrimental, deeply ingrained trait that a lot of  us share… Laziness, and then when I get home, Lo and behold “the Blogger service has  momentarily broken down on YOUR computer. Have a Nice Day”

( I seem to have an incredible luck streak don’t I?)

The Fog and The Stars

 Car doors slapping shut.

My dad gets out the big keyring, and fiddles with it,

trying to open the exaggeratedly enormous padlock.

We’re at the car garage next to Pan y Canela,

Throw myself to the floor, and look up at the sky,

While still my dad fiddles with the padlock, trying to find which key is

which, cursing all the time. (I would probably do the same, but we’re

but hey, we’re related).

Throw myself on the floor, trying to ignore the text updates. There’s a weird

mist/fog hovering over the school. A bit of the hangs fog over us, partially obscuring the stars at some points, looking like some massive quilt.  The dew on the ground bites into my back, frosty little pokes. I forget the amount of homework I have to do, the mechanic work I’m gonna have to the now with my dad. Its just the here and now. Then the car horn sounds, calling me back to the mundane…

Live the Moment…

Confessions

1. Yesterday I stayed up until 12:00 finishing my  homework, because I chose soccer over schoolwork, and then the next day teachers tell me I'm so responsible and do all my homework... (Oh the irony!!!)

2. Yesterday I had to chase my dog all over the neighborhood, I got so mad I started throwing pieces of frozen bread at him, when one of them smacked him in the face, I almost killed myself tripping over him, and then I tried to see if he was alright. Go figure...

3. Sometimes I wonder if I'm bipolar, it would be the only explanation for being moody and angry, and then bouncing all over the place the next class. Or it could just be that my phone got taken away and then I drank like 3 cans of Hawaiian Punch. (Either one...)

4. I can't stand my grandmother... The first few days, it's nice to have her around, and then after those first few days, I start wishing she would just leave, and stop pestering me.

5. We got a foozball table a few days ago, and since then every night I play a bit with my dad, who I think is the most like me in the family... A joker, and someone who doesn't mind pulling some pranks or jokes every now and then... (Of course when we play he beats me like 10-0, but hey it's the spirit of the game right???)

I Go To Church

every Sunday, and promptly space out...
Because my parents make me,
dozing off, even in the
uncomfortable wooden pews...
Pretending I'm somewhere else.
I sneeze, and everyone looks at
me very badly.... Hey, last time I
checked sneezing wasn't counted as
a sin anywhere... I fall into a robotic trance,
mumbling along with everyone else,
doing what everyone else does..
I think I've read the pamphlet a million times,
and counted to 500 and backwards, and I'm still bored...
Just when I think I'm about to scream, everyone gets up and starts
leaving, and I do the same, along with everyone else..

ALELUYA...

The Fiend In The Night

Moon glinting through the shutters,

they sway softly in the midnight wind...

I gathered up my folders, sweeping them

into my case, my eyes droop, and through my half-closed

eyes, it looks like a cascade of color...

Shutting the lights, the only ones still

on in the entire station... Swiftly passing

through the hallways, the silence eerie and ghostly.

That was when the loud tapping and banging ensued...

Echoing, echoing in the silence, like the butcher's meat cleaver

on the block, shattering the eerie quiet...

I catiously edged around the corner, and at once grimaced and relaxed,

when I saw a wild-looking woman at the door. The look on her face, 

allowed me to surmise that the night just got longer.

I poured another cup of coffee and offered it to her,

she shook her head, so I took it for myself.

I gingerly held the steaming cup in

my cold hands, and drank the coffee,

the dark liquid pouring down like

the night coming in at dusk.

The heady scent of it, inflaming my senses,

keeping me awake... I once again endeavored to 

understand what this witness was saying,

but her abrasive nature was leaving a dusty and dehydrated taste in my mouth...

She had heard a noise, like a unearthly inhuman shriek, like Death's shriek of

victory as it caught another person... And then a shuffling and creaking sound, 

continuing even after she was leaving...

I succumbed to the women's wishes,

and ushered her out.  As I left the quiet and

the darkness was oppressing...

I decided that if this woman was right, 

it wouldn't do to show up in my

noisy old car, with it's gears clanking and engine groaning,

to the house of a man who was possibly a killer...

I made a quick inventory of my belongings,

deciding which I could afford to carry, and which could stay in the car.

In the end, I just took my firearm, and detective badge...

I tried simulating how I would go about confronting the 

suspect, as I set out toward the location the woman,

had told me... I knew the place, a few blocks down. More than enough

time for me to figure something out. I hoped this was actaully worth it, because

I was cold, hungry, and tired... 

I rubbed my hands, my breath frosting out in front of me, 

and walked off into the darkness.

The door was of a mahogany finish,

with a large brass knocker. The design: a lion

roaring, with the actual ring in it's gaping jaws.

The door was answered by a young man,

clad in only a dark bathrobe.

I took a tour of his abode, my search meticulous, and 

careful, far from cursory...

There was an odd manner about the chap.

and I derived something must be wrong...

However until I could corroborate my witness's story,

I couldn't allow my opinions to take root. That was when

he led me into the old man's chamber, who was supposedly away

on a trip whose existence I was starting to doubt.

He pulled up some chairs, and we chatted

about nonsense, and plesantries,

but we both felt the electrifying tension

in the room, both of us watching each other's 

reactions to the senseless words we uttered,

both of us staring at each other, the stare of a killer, meeting
my smiling face, the facial expression carefully crafted to conceal
the hardness beneath...

But gradually his careful countenance started to slip,

his grip on sanity started to slip... I could see the madness

and rage in his eyes, until with a cry, like the cry of a wounded cat,
he flung his chair across the room
and tore up the floarboards with his bare hands, 

and his dark deed was unveiled. The gruesome body of the old

man, frozen in it's death throes, rigid and cold...

I slammed him against the wall, and cuffed him, meanwhile

the blood from his savaged hands, the skin torn while ripping up the floorboards

drummed on the floor, with a slow relentless ticking...

This a story modeled after Edgar Allan Poe's "The Telltale Heart",

portrayed from the detective's point of view...

Confession Tuesday

I know a lot of people who like dogs. As a little kid(7 years old), I used to walk over to some stables in Coronado. Every weekend, and pass the time with the dogs there (including Labradors, Great Danes, Bulldogs, and Dalmations... I have to confess that at that time I probably liked dogs more than people. To me it seemed simpler being with them, as I was a hyper little kid, and I had finally found some animals that matched my energy level. They didn't nag me, like everyone else at the time. They were easy to get along with, and never got tired, or decided they didn't wasnt to keep playing like my much exasperated brothers, or my sister. I 've been told I had an amzing amount of empathy for those animals, befriending them almost instantly, even when I was about five. Those days, laying on the ground, listening to the neigh of horses, and the pant of dogs, were an integral part of my childhood..

Memoir Monday

My sister comes and asks me "Do you want to play tennis??? I'm bored..."  I answer "Yes" without thinking... This fact makes me pause and stop... There was a time,

not too long ago... Where I would have declined,

just as fast as I accepted just now... I would have preferred

the company of computer and videogames, to

playing sports with my sister...

I couldn't really place when the change came about...

It was gradual, and yet quick at the same time...

As I walked out the door, with my tennis racket,

I think of how it happened... It was like a gradual

loss of interest, which happened without reason...

One day, I just didn't want to play

games anymore... It  might have been thanks to

soccer nights with my dad during the vacation, 

the bright bubbles in a sea of boredom, day after day of 

construction work, alleviated by these nights where I could

kick loose... It helped me see things differently, 

and suddenly the TV didn't have the same irresistible appeal,

and I didn't lose myself in games anymore, and started to 

waste less time on them...

This Year.....

Sad little piles,
of clothes thrown,
on the floor. My
backpack upended,
on my bed, its bowels strewn,
on the bed. Possesions of mine,
useful, and useless thrown indiscriminately,
around.
This year I hope to be more organized...





I turn my backpack upside down,
shaking it from side to side,
and smacking it against the wall,
as if that would somehow,
make my homework appear.
I throw random objects around the room,
not caring about their value. I throw my backpack
against the wall, not caring my phone is in there.
I pound my closet door, thrying to vent,
my anger. Shake my hand, ignore the sting of pain
I rage and curse, not caring thats its my fault,
that I lost every single piece of my homework.
Not even wondering at the unreasoning anger I
feel.
This year I hope to be a calmer person...





I manuever the forklift around
construction areas so messy
they put my room to shame.
The wind blows a cloud of dust,
and the smell of stale sweat
into my face, but I ignore it
focusing on the task at hand.
Right now the task is to move
pallets carrying steel pieces.
In the next hour I might be
shoveling dirt, or breaking
concrete. It doesn't matter...
Its the fact that I make my own money,
the freedom of it, that makes it worthwhile
This year I hope to be a more independent.




My eyelids droop with fatigue,
slowly closing as if
a heavy weight bears down on them.
I curse myself for not doing my work
as soon as I got home.
As usual I ended working till twelve.
My will keeps me awake,
so that I can finish my homework,
before I drop off to sleep.
The droning hum of the crickets,
and the hooting cry of an owl,
ring through the night.
The night sounds produce a hypnotic effect,
everything else drowned out, a lullaby at midnight.

My head bangs into my keyboard,
and I start as a song starts to blare
out. I squint at my screen, and am
amazed to see
that while I was
zoned out, I finished my work.
I drop into a bed with a book,
but before I even touch the book,
I'm out cold.
This year I hope to be more responsible...





My mind slowly wanders as I stand on the football court.
There was not a lot going on, and I idly daydreamt.
A warning rent like the air like a thunderbolt.
Next thing I knew, a player
from the other team,
a younger-looking man, barreled into me.
I sailed sideways and landed hard,
I skidded on the floor, trying not to
cry out as the skin on my back and
legs shredded and was scraped off.
I got up with a grimace,
feeling like someone set my nerves
on fire. I hobbled over to the goal,
to defend, cautiously watching out for any other
crazy people.
This year I hope to be a more attentive and aware person....