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.