#8.5

    Who I am is not a result of a special versatility of character, but of a survival methodology.  When I’m around my friends, I’m a goofball.  I feel obligated to indulge in as many sidetracks of humor as possible, if only to stave off the looming threat of worthwhile conversation.  To some people, I’m known as the kid with all of the pedophile jokes.  To others, I’m known as the guy who has something to say to them only every few months, perhaps all this may be is a sly recognition of this peculiar relationship.  To most adults I am solemn, careful, and considerate.  None of them right.  I am not static.  To speak in generalities, I assume different mannerisms and behaviors around different people.  Although I do have a strong sense of self, I find it difficult to not fall into a persona when interacting with differing expectations.  It is easier to meet expectations and act accordingly then be who I perceive myself to be.  It is comforting for both me and the people I interact with for me to be a static, flat character.
    With all of these strange, contradicting senses of self, I wonder if I am any of them or all of them.  I do have a strong idea of who I would like to be, and who I fancy myself to be, but considering how easily I swap personality traits, maybe I am none of them.  I suspect that there is no value in trying to sum myself up to one being.  It is an interesting exercise in futility.
    I think I understand the dynamics of my adapting to ever changing parameters in expectations and intellectual environments.  I was deemed to be middle aged by the age of eleven.  At the time, I was floundering to attach myself to something, anything, if it meant that I could have meaningful interactions with kids my age.  I couldn’t engage in the kind of conversation that I wanted to, so I took the easiest route to acceptance.  I did not try to fit in, as many kids my age did, but I tried to be as “out there” as I could be.  I made ritualistic cat sacrifice jokes.  I watched South Park, in the hopes that I could learn a new dirty word to share with my friends.  I could have an air of pretension when I needed to, so when it came down to it, I could talk with authority on things that I had little comprehension of.  It eventually became more than method acting, and it became who I was.  I tucked away who I wanted to be into a little corner of my soul, hoping that some day it would be able to shine.  It wasn’t until high school that I was able to drop the condescension, and start to let leak who I felt as though I deserved to be.

#8

    Mrs. Bensen, my sixth grade history teacher, once asked me if I was born middle aged.  I thought about it for a while, and without much grasp of the implications of such a question, asked her what she meant.  “It means you were born grown up.  You don’t like a lot of things kids your age likes, and you don’t talk very much like kids you’re age.  Has anybody ever asked you this before?”  I told her no, and sat thinking about what my teacher was getting at for a while.  I was humbled and quieted.  Considering the question now, I feel as though I may be able to aspire to give an appropriate answer, or get at what one might be.
    There are a lot of vague, loosely associated memories from my childhood.  I remember melancholy, yearning, and distinct feelings of displacement.  There wasn’t much stability to hold on to, as when I was about five I moved from South Boston, to live with my aunt in Florida.  It was a condominium, but it sufficed to house my mother, my aunt, and I.  I didn’t start school until an appreciable time after moving.  I don’t recall much about my early schoolings in this house, but that is irrelevant in the long run.  I lived in that condo for what may have been several years, or several months.  We eventually moved out, some time after my aunt already had, which meant a new school.
    We ended up manipulating a preparatory school system into believing that I lived with my aunt in her gated community of the time.  I believe this to be about first grade.  I only went there for a month or so, but somehow I managed to become overwrought with a crush and was close to telling my dearly beloved that what I had going was a sham.  I never did, and she was soon forgotten, as I was accepted into North Andrew Gardens Elementary school a month into the school year.
    It was a magnet school.  I got in through a lottery, being too young to be forced to take the entry exam.  It had a specialization in the liberal arts.  There were your standard generalized classes, but you also chose a major and minor, similar to college.  This did not come into play until third grade.  I don’t remember the selection process, but ultimately I ended up taking dance and keyboard.   The label of “major” and “minor” is not relevant at this point, as I currently don’t have any dance intuition, and sometimes I can bring myself only to fiddle with my guitar.
    I ended up staying at this school for my last three and a half years in Florida.  During this time, I can recall moving twice.  Much of this period of time is hazy, so the potential for missing households is quite high.  At some point, I had roommates, but that was towards the end.  They were Marjorie and Art, both of whom were NASCAR aficionados.  I did not like them.
    My social life during this time was stunted by the constant travels.  I recall sleeping over friends houses on several occasions, and little carnival time, during this whole span of my life.  At the time, I remember perceiving the benefit of living in Florida to be the beaches and the carnivals.
    I remember at one point taking a specialized aptitude test.  The school had decided that I was not special.  Nothing had come of it, but I remember my mom cradling me in her arms cooing to me that it didn’t matter, she knew I was special, and that was that.
    After the illusion of safety in Florida, being in proximity to my mom’s older sister, was gone my mom decided to move back to Massachusetts.  The homecoming was explained to me as seeking better health care.  Once again, I was forced to deal with a new school system, in Dedham.  During my education there, I lived with another branch of my family’s clan, the McIntyres.  We were not wanted.  I slept on a single bed parallel to my mother, with our feet positioned optimally beside each other’s heads.  I remember much strain in our relationship because of this, but also a deeper bondage.  I had a deep interest in books up until this point, but I soon became secluded into them.
    I did manage to make friends in the several or so months at the Dedham Avery School.  I remember fist fights, camaraderie, and the fourth grade variant of flirtation.  For years, I would look back onto this time as my golden age.
    For all of the sense of loss that living in Florida and the consequent return to Massachusetts gave to me, it also enriched my education dramatically.  It wasn’t until the seventh grade that school became engaging again.  In all aspects of education, I was far ahead.  This was not resultant of anything I did, just my luck in getting into the magnet school.
    Towards the end of that school year, my mom had found another boyfriend.  Eventually, we moved in with him in North Attleborough.  The three of us had to commute an hour every morning.  My mom did eventually find stable work at Coldwell Banker, and has been working there ever since then.
    During that summer, we moved again to Norwood, where I live now.  I never quite adapted to my new school system, and made casual friendships.  Saying that they were superficial would not be adequate, as not many fifth graders have deep spiritual bondages with their peers, but my interactions were limited.  During this time, I became obsessed with video games, secluding me even more from the world.
    During middle school, I did adapt and had several social stints.  For a while, I was cool.  Then, just as easily, I was not.  The effect was devastating, and I spent the seventh grade to myself.  The eighth grade was manageable, as I was becoming adept at seclusion and quietude.
    During my whole childhood, and up to recently when it would no longer be a practical evaluation, I was told how easy I was able to talk to by adults.  I had political opinions, and could give an adult a run for their money when it came to current events.  For grown ups, I was mostly a novelty, not something to behold but to wonder.
    The answer to the question is not that I was born middle aged, but that I was made middle aged.

#7

              It was one of those situations where its mutually accepted that either party involved has no particular interest in talking to each other.  The kind where you don’t realize your opposite doesn’t plan on putting any stake or investment in the conversation, until it is far too late to escape.  You end up submitting into a state of horror, once its understood that neither of you are fertile for engaging conversation, at this particular moment.  Perhaps ever.  There is much floundering, hoping that against all odds, you will come out alright in the end.  The futility of your predicament is your motivation, as if to defy the logistics of captivating conversation.

              “My daughter goes to Northeastern,” says my opponent.  The intense disinterest in my soul was excruciating to manage without emitting disgust pheromones, so I acquiesced.

              “Oh.”

              Up to this point, I was able to flagellate my soul and converse with acceptable eloquence, but I had had enough.  I figured that at this point, I should cut my losses and attempt to leave with minimal irreversible damage done.  I was planning to find an unassuming corner and try to cope with my new vision of self.  Lick my wounds, if you will.  But the gods had turned against me on this particular night, as they are oh so fond of doing, and my escape was not meant to be.

              “That is Eddie’s grandpa.   That’s his other aunt, and that’s his uncle.”  She starts rattling off a list of attendees‘ relations to Eddie, and points them off in the crowd.  I begin to reflect on what I did wrong.  On how I ended up here.

              I went to the opening of my high school’s production of Willy Wonka alone.  I did not recognize many faces, other than the occasional classmate or two.  I didn’t have any friends in the show, so I had no personal stake in the show’s success.  There was little camaraderie to be had for me there.  This ended up making me quite lonesome.  I wasn’t even sure if I should go or not, until a last minute decision.  As it turns out, the deciding factor was my mother telling me that nobody will ever love an atheist.

              During the walk there, I had some reservations about seeing the play yet.  In a strange way, I felt as though I had no right to go.  More than that, it was a sense of not belonging.  I had apprehension that distinctly tasted of outsider.  By the time I arrived, about a half hour later, I was guilty about going.  As if I had intruded and dirtied something of high sanctity.  There was a sense as though I should have a fear of getting caught; of being revealed for who I am.  Of course, there was not anything as telling of the enemy’s evaluation of my presence as an accusing look.  They were nothing more than a congregation of merry people waiting to be entertained.

              Collectively, this made me quite anxious.  I now understand my anxiety at the time to be palpable, because that would explain why this poor woman decided to try her luck with me.  The audacity of small talk is quite expensive to most.

              Through talking to her, I managed to gather that she was Eddie Lynch’s, Willy Wonka, aunt.  I managed this feat because she had told me as much  In fact, she made sure to employ grandiose hand gestures and tone of voice while doing so.

              “I’m Eddie’s aunt, dontcha know?”  As a matter of fact, I didn’t.  So that was good.  We were on even ground now, knowing what kind of sense of self each other had.  But she made one fatal mistake.

              “Do you know anybody in the play,” she asked condescendingly.  She saw me as lower standing in society as she did, because the only thing that matters is who you know.

              “I know Eddie Lynch and a few others,” I lie.  I knew of him, and talked to him occasionally, but I did not know him on the same intimate, ingratiatingly deep level that his aunt apparently did.

              “Oh, you mean Willy Wonka?”  This is how his aunt decided to identify her dearest nephew.  The hilarity of her speaking mannerisms went beyond me at the time, so without much consideration, I said “yeah, yeah.”

              She then went on to say how proud she, and the rest of their family was of Eddie.   She went on for quite a bit.  After much fellation of Eddie,  she reconsiders what she is saying.  There is a deep, considered pause.  After much time, this is when she tells me of her daughter‘s attendance at Northeastern.  I guess she felt some kind of moral obligation to say something of her own offspring, as she stops speaking as animatedly.  She becomes deflated.  Nothing could ever live up to Eddie Lynch in her eyes.

              After pointing out Eddie’s lineage in the crowd, she looks at me.  It is a deep, knowing look, the pinnacle moment when we finally understand each other.  She leans in a bit closer to me, and says “We’re his friends.”

              With a shy advert of the eyes downward, she looked away, ending all conversation for the night.

#6

               I want to write comedy right now, but the awkward juxtaposition of my creative desires and how I feel right now is inhibitive to such a task.  Perhaps a medium can be reached.  I hope you like dark humor, because that is what happens when you mix the revelation that the purity of your childhood was compromised because your mother was addicted to sex…and comedy.  On second thought, perhaps we won’t go down that route.  I’m tired and need to my AP Chemistry homework, but I have also committed to writing every night.  I shall try a purely free form format.  See where it goes.  If you become confused, it’s because so am I.  It’s two fifteen in the morning, and I may end up pulling an all-nighter.  We’re in the long haul.  Together.

              I remember the last time I stayed up all through the night, and well into the next day.  I ended up having hallucinations.  It was around eight at night, and I recall it being dark outside.  I’m not entirely sure if there is any significance to be mined from this, but I just recall the darkness.  It was at a point where I was feeling floaty, and nausea was abundant.  I set my alarm for school, and went relatively straight to bed (the phrase I often use to describe this degree of weariness is “sh*t faced tired“).  It was at this point that the book I was reading in English class started to haunt me.  A Separate Peace had finally broken me, after numerous attempts (I found it quite terrible).

              I recall being awoken by Brinker, the classy business like character.  He told me that Finny wanted to fight me, and that Gene supported him.  I knew that I wasn’t dreaming because I recall seeing my usual bedroom surroundings around me perfectly, except for the intertwining streets and tunnels.  I knocked my alarm clock off of my bed to make absolutely sure.  The veracity of my memory was verified later.  The alarm clock was on the ground, about five feet away from me.

              I was quite disturbed that the ever lovable Finny had a beef with me and questioned Brinker why this might be.  He didn’t give me a proper answer, deciding it best to grunt and point towards one of the tunnels leading to the town square that had replaced my bike.  You must understand, my room had depth at this point.  Looking, I saw a whole gang of clichéd ‘forties punskters heading my way.  I grew quite disturbed at this point.  I had not moved an inch, and was sitting there looking at my quilt all befuddled.  What was I to do?  I shifted a little, and looked up again.  As it happened to be, things would to turn out alright.  There would be no rumble tonight, for now they were crouch lunging at each other haphazardly in inscrutable, mystical intervals.  The entourage of cool were all bending down then leaping at each other, reaching heights of five feet or more into the air.  This did not garner much entertainment from me, because as accepting as I was with the turn of events, I was still tired.  I told Brinker to go away and rolled over, falling asleep promptly.  To this day, I wonder what this says about me.

#5

               “You have been declared terminally uninteresting.”  That was enough.  Katie did not need more, yet she yearned in a deep, hungry place of her heart to hear an explanation.  She very well knew that words would not comfort her now, as they had before in numerous pow wows, but loose ends are scary beasts, and must be contained.  If left unchecked, they mutate into something bigger and scarier, becoming ever more inconceivably powerful until one begins to hate shoe laces as a transcendental way of coping.  If one is to regain control of your happiness, one must handle the process delicately and with patience.

              “Fwah…wha…nyuh…huh,” she says.  Katie did not have a solid comprehension on the virtue of prudence.

              “Yes, yes.  It appears to be that on Tuesday of last week, you were denounced by Greg Gregory McGregor Gregorson Chadwick the fourth. [Editor’s note:  The Chadwick clan is legally obligated to become proportionally obnoxious in the naming of their youths to the price of meat, as a result of an unfortunate confusion between Greg Chadwick’s Mightiest Meat, and Melinda Chatsworth’s Mitigated Teat].  As this was not the first complaint by an Honest citizen our corporation has received, we had the legal obligation to submit your case to a panel for arbitration.  After much deliberation, the Honorable Men concluded that it was best to put forward a motion to activate your schnloz” - Katie nodded at this, as this was standard protocol - “and examine the readouts.  They were successful.  The deciding factor was your apparent fixation with the Venerable Henrietta‘s guinea pig.  As it turns out, there was a discrepancy between the biorhythms of your blood pressure and the frequency and pitch of your voice, in correlation to the people you were addressing around you.

              “As you became appreciably more excited and invested in your various monologs, those around you became fatigued, or interested by only a small margin.  That is to say, you’re boring.”  A job is enjoyable only if you can get the word palpable involved, and the OFBD [Editor’s note: Organization for a Better Death] clerk was quite satisfied with his.  Pinch had quite the penchant for four point words.

              The grief on Katie’s face was palpable.  It had quite an unsettling effect.  Unfortunately for Katie, Pinch had a meaty dominance over his chair and remained settled.  Unmoved in heart and heft, Pinch continued on.

              “After your case was processed, it went to federal hearings.  Your mother, who has an internship as The Coffee Broad for Mr. Smurf [Editor’s note: Edmondson Smurf is the president of the OFBD], became aware of the proceedings.  She attempted to anonymously appeal to the jury that you are, in fact, a good time on the basis that you do your own hair, but the jury was unmoved.”  Pinch took a moment to pause.  It was a weighty pause, the kind that a controversially fat man takes to revel in what has been said.  “After little deliberation, the jury voted forty to zero.  You were charged with Grand Banality.”

              Katie was horror struck, in the sense that the bailiff Horror struck her unconscious with a cudgel.  The OFBD operated with a grandiose sense of class and taste, even in economic downturns.

Katie awoke several hours later in her own bed.  Perhaps it was all just a horrid dream, none of it was real.  Such a vivid unreality could only come from the digestion of something horrible.  She wondered if she had confused her Tic Tacs for her grandmother’s roofies again.  This rumination was completely unrelated to events prior.  There was no way that cheerleader extraordinaire Katie Confucius could ever be deemed uninteresting.

              Katie stood up and stretched.  With a yawn and a crack of the neck, she made her way to her mirror.  She wanted to scream in horror and grotesque fear, but she couldn’t.  Katie wouldn’t be doing any such thing anymore.  Stretched across her lips was a big, black X, the Mark of Silence, sealing them tight forever more.

#4

               I want to write right now, but I can’t think of anything in particular.  So I’ll tell you about my little sister, Felicia.  I’ve kind of become her father figure.  Her dad, by definition, exists.  He is real; he is corporeal.  But he does not fit the role that we as a society have designated to fathers.  Her father is currently not allowed to be her father.  The details are not relevant to the current story, but this is a required set up.

              Felicia fills me with joy every day.  What I like about this is that she also fills every day with joy.  I like this system we have going quite a bit.

              The other day, I was taking a shower.  Every once and a while, I will take a shower that is longer than what is expected of a boy.  This upsets my little sister, who usually wants to play with me in intervals of every twenty or so minutes.  On this day, however, things turned out delightfully.  My little sister walked right in and said “No no!  Don’t be angry!  I’ve gotta use the bathroom,” in the most delightful little voice.  She then asked me when I was getting out.  I told her that I would have been out by now if she wasn’t there, as I was already done (at this point, I was in for only about ten minutes).  Before she even sat down to relieve herself, she says “Oh!  OK then,” and promptly exits.  She never had to go the bathroom.  She had come in only to talk with me.

              For her birthday, I got her SpongeBob Operation.  The buzzing and vibration that SpongeBob’s nose gives off when you brush the tweezers against the side scared the crap out of my little sister.  She was genuinely afraid of it.  Felicia is five, so of course I teased her about this on the basis that she’s far too old to be scared by something so silly.  This hurt her feelings.  She ran off into her bedroom to hide.  Literally.  After coaxing her out of hiding, I promised her that I wouldn’t tease her anymore and that I’d show her that SpongeBob isn’t really all that scary.  This took a good deal of persuading and sweet little nothings on my part, but after much pouting and little little tears, she agreed.  I brought her back to the board and got the buzzing going.  This freaked her out, and she backed off a bit.  I told her not to be scared and she came closer and closer.  Thinking that trickery was afoot, she asked me one more time if I wasn’t going to trick her.  I assured her I wasn’t, and continued with her desensitization.  Once Felicia could stand within five feet of the setup, I put my nose to SpongeBob’s and prompted the buzzing.  This made her giggle a little.  I wanted her to do it.  After much reassurance that nothing would happen, she agreed to go nose to nose with SpongeBob too.  Felicia wasn‘t at a point where she felt comfortable starting the buzzing herself, so she had me do it.  Once the nose lit up and it started vibrating with her nose touching his, she exclaimed “Hey!  That tickles!” Giggling, she looked at me and smiled.  She said “Thank you,” and proceeded to hug me oh so tight.  This was one of the proudest moments I’ve had as a brother.  Now sometimes she pulls out SpongeBob operation and just holds the tweezers against the side and giggles and giggles.

#3

September 10, 2009

Ernie English

1234 Writing Lab Lane

Write City, IN 12345

Dear Mr. English:

               Patrick Marshall, despite whatever one immediately gut reaction gleans from his student record, is an exceptional student and person.  Through the process of student admissions, you will inevitably read hundreds, if not thousands of letters that use the word “exceptional” as part of its thesis.  The authors of such letters are sincere in their usage of the adjective, but may not appreciate what they are implying by labeling their student as exceptional.  As his guidance councilor of now three years, I can say without need of a qualifier and without hesitation, that Patrick is an exception to tradition and a rare occurrence.

               Patrick, at some removed level, functions as an underachiever.  Despite persistent reassurance of his self worth and intellectual capacity (both practical and empirical) by his teachers and peers, he does not believe that he is worth much praise.  He does not see the good he can do if he applies himself.   Patrick takes a minimalist approach to it.  In daily conversation with his peers, he may casually mention that he did not get much sleep the previous night.  He would go on to mention that despite this, his homework was not done.  Patrick does this not to brag – as he will adamantly tell you – but rather, what he won’t be as quick to clarify, is that he does this as a form of self defense.  If he quips about his shortcomings, he feels that this excuses him from it.  It abstracts the offense from the offender, to minimize opportunity to berate him.  This easily lead to an inescapable circle of progressively lowered self esteem.  With a little inspiration and direction, I feel as though he will be able to break free from such a vicious circle.

               Patrick does not like to talk about himself in any kind of positive light; he’s perpetually cynical.  He feels that idle talk of who he is beyond a persona belittles what that actually might be.  However, through time, one can coax the truth out of him.  In the summer of 2009, he went to see his family in Florida.  The tale he often tells about his travels is how on the first day of his trip, he pulled his back and was laid out for a day.  What he most likely won’t tell you is exactly why he went.  In 2008, it was determined that his uncle has precancerous cells in his liver.   What’s more, Patrick’s aunt is suffering from major depression.  His aunt has ample base cause for this, as she was recently fired as a barmaid.  Just several years ago, she was the regional advertisement director for Arby’s.  Unable to express his concerns for them in words, the most practical way he knew how to rectify his anxieties about them was to go visit them in person.  He purchased the tickets with his own money.

               Know this.  Through all of his hardships and trial, Patrick still manages to be a brilliant person, with an understated kindness and charisma that is rarely seen in all of our studentry.  My hope is that wherever he goes next, he is challenged, in order for him to progress.  There is little left that Norwood High School can do for him, short of catalyzing his success in a small way, or else I fear we may hold him back.

Sincerely,

Rick Ricky Rickyson

251 Rock St. Apt. B1

Norwood, MA 02062

#1

              Writing is the hardest thing to do.  I am in love with the English language, the way it sounds, the rhythms of conversation.  I like the meaning of words, their weight, explicit and implicit.  I like the how human language is, the individual interpretation.  Yet, writing does not come easy for me.  It is work.  As genuine my love is for language, at times I get an uneasy feeling that my love of writing is similar to puppy love.  Puppy love being no more than infatuation with the idea of being in love.  In this case, I fear that I may merely be in love with the idea of writing.

              My favorite part of reading is picking apart and looking at the language that the author employs.  It goes beyond plot, dialog, and the individual aspects of language that you’re taught to dissect in a standard English class.  It is a holistic experience.   The feel that words can gain by mere consequence of structure is powerful.  Consider a phrase that states “little work needs to be done, as process is inconsequential,” when one can say “easy automatic.”  Say that last bit aloud.  The simplicity and effectiveness of meaning is astounding, but it is also so much more.   I am not fawning over simplifying an unnecessarily verbose sentence into an equivocal one that says the same thing with fewer words.  The way that the words sound together gives them each far more power than they would otherwise have on their own.  The con-notations of the words that one immediately feels upon hearing them together gives depth to what is otherwise quite a silly and low class way of saying “little work needs to be done, as process is inconsequential”.  I’m going to take a moment here to emphasize this.  Speaking strictly for myself, as I assume that at all points that I am insane and in the minority, I process words differently when I hear them.  And I like that.  I really do.

              I am done belaboring.  I was tempted for a minute to go into etymology, but when I feel so compelled, I can control myself.  I assure you though, it would have been the bee’s knees.  But that is not where this piece is heading.  I must get back to the thesis, as any good god-fearing English teacher will tell you that that is where it is at.    While conscious my mind tends to wander to strange places that either frighten me, or compel me to believe that I am a genius (I differentiate conscious and subconscious here, because trust me….you do not want know my Freudian psyche).  I must share this with the world; I must write!   After all, the most modest creation is far more valuable than the idea themselves.  Ideas are by nature cheap.  Therein lays the problem.  The inherent lack of intrinsic value in an idea; they are easy come, easy go.  In the end, writing (and the creative process in general) ultimately becomes about execution.  To even consider bringing something out of the swirling nether of my mind into the tangible world is at once both exhilarating and horrifying.  Adversely, the prospect of failure is paralyzing.  This is the biggest contributor to my writer’s block than anything else.  I can start out with a basic concept, and perhaps a few lines to go along with it.  I then scribe a hopefully interesting hook.  As it was hammered into my head in middle school English courses, the hook can be the first and last thing your audience will read.  It is called the motivator for a reason.  Utmost importance and such.  But this leads to a question that everybody who sets out to create faces at one point and must contend with.  Where do I go now?  If I have any solid characters, I like to find out who they are as I go along.  I don’t bother setting out without a strong grounding that has a good well of potential.  Still, it is that writer’s block.  I can usually manage to grapple about a paragraph or two from the previously mentioned unfathomable ether, until the strange powers that be who delegate in my mind decide that taking apart and rebuilding my pen is a far more valuable and fruitful endeavor.  Is this truly who I am?  What could I ever hope to do to remedy it?