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Rant #1
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| MY MIND . . . |
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| These are some topics that I had to write about in English class. I'm especially proud of the ones that I place on this page so no negative criticism will to tolerated. I'll most definitly be placing more good stuff throughout the school year so... |
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| Daytripper Little men live in the rain clouds. I’ve seen them. They fall from the sky in raindrops bent on destroying all we have. Little men with little sledge hammers relentlessly pounding on wood paint and roof tiling. The men above Oakland, to name a singular location, carry files instead of hammers so it takes longer for roofing and wood to corrode. But Tempe has hammer-wielding little buggers that’ll rip apart wood like cherry flavored gummy bears. They have houses up in the clouds and they ride little horses with littler horseshoes. Why they want to take away what we have I don’t rightly know. Maybe we inspire furious jealousy in their little black hearts because of our mighty stature. Their grand scheme is to make the rain taste like chocolate milk so when the clouds open up, the human populous will rush out with open mouths. Once you have ingested one of these little men, they run around your intestines and bladder and spleen and kidneys and slowly corrode your important inside parts. There are enough of these little men so that at least 40 of them are assigned to each person. They’re small enough so that about 27 can fit in each raindrop, but no more than 27 because then they’ll fall out on the way down. Every raindrop, with 27 or less men inside, that isn’t swallowed, hits the ground with incredible force. If you listen hard enough you can hear them scream in fear and yell at each other to bail out of their plummeting ride. Once they do hit the ground, getting back up takes nearly four times as long as coming down. They have to sit on the ground and wait for the sun to come out and suck them back up to their homes. Ever notice the sweetish smell that comes when the sun shines on the wet ground? That’s the smell of millions of little men sweating in the uncomfortable heat. I mentioned that I had seen these little men before. This is still true. One day I was staring up at the clouds and a single drop of rain fell into my eye. This happens to people all the time but the human reflex steals the vision of these little men by blinking them away. Somehow I resisted the blinking impulse and stared at this drop of rain. Since the rain had fallen directly on my iris and the water had magnified it still more, I could see the little men gnashing their little molars and striking at my eye with their sledgehammers. I cried out in surprise and pain and blinked these little men away. This event could not have happened to me alone, I said to myself, so I went to an old library about 17 minutes away and found a single book on these rain men. Apparently, it rains little men everywhere, not just in Oakland and Tempe alone. They wield ice picks in Madagascar and wooden staffs made of sandalwood in India, so no one, anywhere, is safe from being heartlessly disemboweled from the inside out. There is a way we can strike back, however, my brothers! Save all of your bodily fluids in mason jars. Then, the next time it rains, put it all in spray bottles and cover the ground with your precious horde. Ammonia weighs them down so that it is impossible for them to evaporate again. Sadly, they die a slow painful death from starvation and heat exhaustion, but surely the price must be paid for their evil intentions. Nevermind worrying about nuclear holocausts and school shootings! These men must be stopped and only we, the united people, can make the difference necessary for saving humanity. Like Glass I had bummed a ride from my friend mark after the first day of school. The office had messed up my schedule and given me seventh hour release and instead of waiting 51 minutes for my carpool or going to the office to fix my schedule, I met up with mark and his girlfriend Lauren. We walked to his car and I said, “Mark, I could never have pictured you driving an SUV.” He said it was his parent’s and we all climbed into the car with Mark driving, Lauren in the passenger seat and myself in the back driver’s side. Not even after a minute of driving along Rural towards Elliot, Mark tried to adjust the radio and while his attention was averted, he slowly crept closer to the curb on the right hand side. I felt a bump that made me look up from whatever I was doing. Both right hand wheels were up on the curb and to avoid a street lamp, Mark corrected to the left. We were making a beeline for the oncoming traffic so he corrected again towards the right. Having overcompensated twice and going at a steady 45 mph, not to mention in a top-heavy Ford Explorer, the car flipped and rolled three times down the center of Rural Road. I don’t remember screaming or hearing anything at all. I didn’t know that the windows had broken or that the roof and both sides had been crushed in like a meager tin can. I didn’t know that Mark had hit his head on the steering wheel above his eye or that an impressive hole had been torn in his left elbow. Lauren had been cut on the leg and was covered with Mark’s blood. My right foot had been ripped open with glass. When the car stopped rolling and landed with a jerk on its wheels, my first thought was, “oh my god, the car’s going to blow up.” Mark and I crawled out the windows on our side and waited for Lauren to follow. We walked to the sidewalk and started asking each other if we were all right. A pool of blood was making my foot slip around in my sandal and Mark was leaving a drip-trail of blood on the pavement. We all turned to look at the car. Usually, SUVs are pretty hard to total but we had done a glorious job. It had slip off its wheels on the left and the front passenger side was flattened. How any one us had gotten out of that car and walked a few 100 feet was a regular miracle. A line of cars had stopped already and a man was on his cell phone calling the paramedics who responded quickly. We all gave reports while we were checked for serious injuries. Mark was taken in the first ambulance and Lauren and myself were loaded into the second. Because we were minors, we were given neck and head braces and strapped to stretchers until x-rays could be taken at the hospital. The whole way to the hospital I was making small talk and cracking jokes; mainly to keep from crying and I didn’t want Lauren to be as scared as I was. Once all the x-rays were taken and I was in the hospital bed, I had some time to think. The whole time I was giving reports and being driven to the hospital I had been in such a drugged state of shock with gallons of adrenaline still pumping through my veins. I had almost died. I had walked out of a totaled Ford Explorer nearly unscathed. I had tumbled down the center of a major surface street without touching another car. I had almost died. I had blood all over my legs. I had almost died. Dead died. My friends were all fine except for stitches, a sling, and a couple solid rolls of gauze. If I hadn’t been wearing my seatbelt, I would have broken my neck at least three times and most likely rocketed out a window. What scared me most was how easy it was. A little turn of a wheel going the legal speed limit. I read somewhere that skin is just the glass that holds the dust in. Never could I think of a better example of how three precious young lives nearly ended like the glass on a Ford Explorer left in the middle of the road. Selfish or Noble I think the entire idea of courage depends so heavily on the situation that it would be impossible to describe. Like the concept of any human trait, it differs with every person and every perception. Person Number One just pulled a man off the roof of his house in he middle of a gigantic flood and boats him to safety. Possibly the man that was saved feels that P.N.O. did this out of the goodness of his heart and that he endangered his own life to save his. But say P.N.O. knew that the man stranded on the roof was a multi-millionaire and the greediness in him made him pluck him up and hope for a reward. Both situations are equally as likely. I had a conversation with a friend of mine once about if we were trapped in a burning building, would we rush in to save the other? He said he would have to because he wouldn’t be able to live with himself if I had died and he had just sat by and watched. In this situation, would be have saved me because he valued my life above his own or because he feared the guilt that would surely eat him alive? Both positions, again, are equally as likely and there really is no way to test what goes through a person’s head in a moment like that. Is true courage when you sacrifice yourself or your happiness for another or is it some elaborate plan to make yourself remembered once you die by keeping your death burned in someone’s memory. To be truthful, being forgotten scares me infinitely more than death so I would leans towards the latter, as conceited and wrong as it is. If you were put in a situation where you had to choose your life or another’s, do you instantaneously know who deserves to live more? Admittedly, not all acts of courage have anything to do with death, but then couldn’t your actions be simply described as solidity under pressure or compassion? Courage is no different than any meager adjective. What one person thinks is pretty can be considered hideously ugly by another and who’s to say who’s wrong? Maybe it’s possible for something to be both beautiful and ugly in the same sense that courage can be noble and selfish. Why are people so needful of answers in the first place? When I was in 7th grade I remember having a two hour conversation with my friend Jamie and her brother Cody about the definition of cool. All three of us were throwing ideas at one another, never stopping to think that there might just not BE a definition. It’s just another adjective that proves that none of us are uniformly right or uniformly wrong. Small Worlds for Small Minds The most interesting quality about humans, in my opinion, is their fascination with size. Since humans have control of their entire planet, they assume that there can be nothing large or threatening or even unknown on any other planet. They judge the size of Earth by the Sun and the stars which is all they know and if you judge size by limited knowledge, of course there’s a chance you’re going to be a little “off.” But in this instance, humans are off by more then just a LITTLE. Men In Black was the most entertaining human-made movie that I’ve ever seen, solely for the closing five minutes. It shows an alien toddler playing marbles with a little hollow ball enclosing an entire galaxy. People somehow got it into their minds that worlds revolve around their self-importance when, in reality, humans are no bigger than the tiniest parasite. Maybe a galaxy is a bottomless, sideless, infinite stretch of space to a man who himself is no larger then an air molecule floating through the sky, but how would your opinion change if I told you the reality of the situation? The truth that takes your self-importance and throws it through a tiny window onto a tiny street in a tiny, tiny world. Have you ever walked on the beach and felt the grains of sand move underneath your feet? And when you pick your foot up to step again, individual pieces of sand stick to your sole and fling off when you kick your feet? Have you ever wondered where that sand goes and if it feels itself propelled thousands of miles in it’s own little scale? Maybe something lives on that grain of sand… something so small that the most powerful microscope could never detect it. Maybe an entire world? Would it be beyond your grand “thought box” to think or even realize that the Earth and all that surrounds it could be placed upon the head of a normal sized pin? Maybe an earthquake is when your galaxy sticks to the bottom of a normal sized foot. Can you disprove me? How can you prove that humans are not the microscopic parasites feeding of, maybe, a flake of skin that I claim they are? Wouldn’t it be depressing to find that all your heroic scientists with all their precious ideals were living off a flake of dead skin that some greater being has shed. Laugh at my preaching while you can… maybe Armageddon will be the Earth melting to make a cup. Loyalty I don’t think that having a “dog’s life” is so bad. Maybe when the saying first came about, dogs were actively abused and beaten. But then cats had it pretty bad seeing how they were thought to be devil sent… Cats also have the brain to see when they aren’t getting their deserved attention or when they aren’t in a happy household. Dogs wet themselves whenever someone glances their way. They get food and water and love and their own little condo in the backyard. Everything, like free room and board, has it’s downfall though. Fleas would drive me insane. Once, my dad left the heater on in the garage/workshop/little play bedroom. The unusual heat made it warm enough for millions upon millions fleas to hatch thinking they had somehow migrated from wintertime Hayward to Bermuda. So my innocent 10-year-old self went downstairs, naively thinking “Ha! Nothing’s feeding on me!” Then I feel a pinch on my stomach and when I pulled up my shirt, to my horror, I found at least 10 fleas polluting my skin. I flipped out and tried to brush them off my stomach, which of course did nothing but whisk them into my pants. I ran back upstairs to my dad in the kitchen repeating “oh my god, dad. Oh my god they’re everywhere!” and stripping off my clothes in the bathroom, hands shaking with disgust and terror. Meanwhile, I’m sure that fleas were gleefully hopping off my clothes while I scrubbed furiously in the shower and hitching rides on the three or four stray cats that dad had wandering around the house. Then maybe they somehow leapt from the cats to my younger brother. If that’s true, then I’m glad. That little walking piece of scum planted a tack in the hallway for me to step on. I hope he combusts. Speaking of dogs, besides fleas and the occasional power-mongering dog beater, dogs have it pretty good. They sleep in the sun while the deluded humans go off the school or some mindless job. Just think of how much easier life would be if we didn’t have opposable thumbs and had someone to coo at the drool running from our big fleshy lips. Come to think of it, they don’t have and body part that can coil or grap. They use their mouths. Then they go eat their free food and wash it down with their own waste and pool water. I’ll bet that dogs do nasty stuff like that just to ease the boredom of their simplemindedness. But then I’ve rolled in mud before and it’s a lot of fun. Burroughsian Why is it that living things are so bent on survival? No matter how horribly you treat your body, it will continue to function. You could flay entire slabs of skin and muscle off some bodily appendage and in an attempt to fight off infection, the entire body will become sick with effort. Eventually, muscle and skin will start to bulge and grow to cover the hole in your arm until nothing is left but the reflective scar tissue. The body is a messy machine functioning on blood and fat, capable of ridiculous feats of regeneration and persistence. Even when the person’s spirit has long since died, the heart continues to pump blood and mysterious fluids continue to push through flexing muscular chambers. Like a single thread holding a thick rope together… a simple act of god and rebuttal to science. Old age, living for 80, 90 years is completely unnatural. Cells exhaust themselves after 50 or so years of breathing exhaust and filtering poisons; the body is not supposed to keep on. Cells grow old and die. We’re animals just like a dog or cat, not some supernatural being capable of eternal life. We were meant to die. Fear of death is not something that should inspire us to keep grappling for a hold that shouldn’t be afforded to a simple animal. If you try and catch a bug, that bug will strive furiously to get away from your hands. Why? This bug can surely not have something to live for to warrant such a valiant battle for life. It exists solely to mate and ensure the survival of its species. I have some to the conclusion that humans function the same way except our primeval goals are shaded with clothes and money. The only reason why bugs and, generally speaking, humans struggle so much for life is because it’s a natural reflex. It’s in our brain chemicals to survive, just like the leg’s reflex is to shoot out when the knee is tapped. But in our “advanced thinking” we have tried to push away our basic animal ness with games. Something to shield the basic means of existence like greed, murder and competition. It’s these games that forge the gaping hole between humans and animals. If this is true, that it’s only a series of mental blankets creating the difference between animal instincts and humans, who is the superior? |
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