Tuesday, December 18, 2012

Nothing

   Why is there something instead of nothing? Well, If there wasn't anything, everything would be nothing. But then again nothing itself is something. So what is nothing? Most may describe it as a black sort of emptyness. Space. But even with that description nothing would simply mean that nothing is space, which is something. What would nothing look like? Wouldn't it look like the space between the image you see right now, or maybe if you were to look in a perfect mirror so that nothing would be reflected back. Even this is something. The fact that I can compare my definition of nothing with something you can imagine means that my definition of nothing is wrong. Something. That's why there is something. Because my hands are on this keyboard, because I can't even conjure up an image of nothing, nothing can't happen, at least not to a concievable level of humans. With nothing there wouldn't even be humans. No one to  even ponder this impossible question. So back to my original wondering;Why is there something instead of nothing? I guess the simple answer is that there can't be nothing, therefore there has to be something. 

Thursday, November 29, 2012

Hefty-bagger Basketball

Since the gym class uniforms are already awful, I thought I would rather sit behind a desk with a cheese grater to my forehead, than put on the horrific, sweaty pinny used by millions of other students that our teacher insisted that we wear. To make things worse, I kinda sorta maybe may have spaced out when the gym teacher released us to battle for a decent-colored pinny, so when my team got there, all that was left was a black and white striped Hefty bag with holes just big enough to fit your hands through without it having the effect of a tourniquette. Then basketball (the selected game of the week) began. And I kinda sorta maybe may have spaced out again when picking opponents and ended up with the total "I'm gonna eat you" athlete crazy people. Ok, so we've established I'm a spacey person.... in gym.

So the game begins, and of course I'm the one to start with the ball. Now, I have never actually played a whole game of basketball, so I knew this would be an experience. As I tried to pass to the only partially open person left on the Hefty bag team, a person flew out of nowhere and used his chest as a blockade. To my luck, he had an unusually bouncy chest, and the ball returned to my posession.

And then it hit me. There was a perfectly good basket sitting right behind me. And since I had miraculously absorbed the rule about no center line push or pull or middle line thingy.... (basically they couldn't cross the middle line until I did) I knew it allowed me to take all the time I needed. I took the shot and the ball went in with a swoosh.

Maybe basketball was my calling.

It didn't make any sense to me that that actually worked, but I turned around expecting my fellow Hefty baggers to start thunderously applauding my clever decision. But no, instead the other team was cheering. Maybe they liked me! Maybe I just made a really good shot! But why wasn't my team cheering?

I finally was told that I shot at the wrong basket. And that's when the person with the bouncy chest bragged about how he got the point, and for the rest of the game he acted as if he was competing against an even remotely good team. I had pointed out several times that he didn't have to try as hard as he was now because his biggest threat was the Hefty bagger that spent more time looking at her nails than the court and screamed and ran away when the ball came within 6 feet of her.

By the end of the class I had aquired the nicknames "rebel," "moron," "backwards basket," and some other uncreative, slightly funny names. So I speak to the future Hefty baggers of the world when I say this- When something seems like an easy shot, it's NOT!

Thursday, October 11, 2012

Pause








People never stop and look
To see what they have passed.
Nor do they look ahead;
They leave questions unasked.
To most a rose is decoration,
Not to be handled, felt, or sniffed,
And very rarely do people pause
to go and take a whiff.
Most people do not realize
that the future is the past ahead,
that they can move the rocks of life
and not trip on them instead.
You may choose to dawdle in the past
or focus on the future.
But the present is the best time
that many leave unnurtured.

Wednesday, September 26, 2012

My Own Applause Button

I was tired of booking gigs
at vacant, dreary, barn like things
so I made my own applause button

It didn't take me long to tell,
my pitchy rhyming wasn't swell
so I made my own applause button

When I found out my only fan
 was my run down, ear-less minivan
I made my own applause button

2011

Tuesday, July 24, 2012

Harvey

             The other day, my family and I attended a production put on by the Monomoy Theatre. This play was Harvey, a story about a 6'1 1/2 pooka. What is a pooka you ask? A pooka is a spirit embodying a large animal of some sort. In this case Harvey was a rabbit pooka. Throughout the entire play, the only ones who saw Harvey were his best friend Elwood P. Dowd and some unexpecting cast members who finally saw that Elwood was not crazy. This was hard to believe. Elwood was a grown man that had a giant rabbit as his best friend (who until the end of the production was thought to be imaginary), he spent a majority of his adult life in the bar, and everywhere he went, anyone, even a baby in a stroller recieved his calling card and an introduction to Harvey.
             The hilarious play and the wonderful cast made my cousin and I believe in Harvey so deeply that in the car ride home we had decided that Harvey had come home with us, and we even fastened a seatbelt for the creature. We then escorted  Harvey inside where we took a picture of the three of us and used that as a base for illustrating a portrait of  us and our new friend. We had no idea dinner with a pooka would be so interresting. It turned out Harvey absolutly loves lobster. The butter dripped from the suculent meat nearly every time Harvey attempted to eat it. By the end of the meal, Harvey's entire front had been stained yellow. I showed Harvey the bathroom and gave him some soap . Harvey stepped out of the bathroom with a coat as white as ever.
            We were now ready for the evening family board game. That night the selected game was Clue. Harvey did not quite understand the first time around and ended up showing his cards to everyone. He agreed to take another  shot at the game, now with the understanding that the point of the game is to keep your cards secret. This time Harvey crushed all of us. Not long after that Harvey checked his pocket watch and decided it was time to go home. I managed to ask where he lived, but the only reply I recieved was a tip of the hat and a wink.
            Harvey, if you too are reading this post, do not hesitate to drop by, you do know where I live.
2012

Monday, July 23, 2012

Early Morning Storm

             My head throbs as I lay flat on my back, cringing at the white streaks of light that whip my face. A low rumbling shakes the house and I swear it would lift right out of its foundation and start spinning like in The Wizard of Oz. The house stayed in place but my heart and stomach had been jolted and moved as though they had been forced into a blender and then put back into me as the mushy pulp that the concoction had bended into. Rushing downstairs, I grab a phone. My dad was dropping my brother off at camp, so I was home alone momentarily. The time had not occured to me until my tired hands fidgeted with the phone. It was 8:30A.M.. In the morning! This was hours before I even normally  even think about waking up.
              BOOM! CRASH!! The thunder and lightning were nearly on top of each other. A new noise followed. A ripping sound. A splitting sound. A fiery sound. I rushed to the front yard where a tree not 20ft. away from me had caught a fiery crown. It wasn't long before the flames had reached the front of the plant, scorching it's face and tearing its leaves from its grasp. Who to call? Panic. That word is often misused. Today I felt true panic. I did not flail or cry or scream. I froze. My mind as blanck as an empty wall. My musles  tightened and twitched.  I finally snapped out of it when another gut wrenching boom echoed through the town. The tree teetered. If it fell one way, the house would share the flames, and if it fell any other way, the rest of the forest would.  Although my senses were back, they still lagged a great deal.  My dad's number was already in the phone. I pressed my phone up to my ear and hit dial. My dad's cheerful voice came through the phone
 "What are you doing up so early?" He asked.
"Thunderstorm," I replyed somewhat layed back. " I mean there's a fire in the front yard!" I said, this time a lot more urgent sounding.
"Did you call the fire department?"
I didn't think about this. The fire department, Alex. You know, the people who handle fires! How could I be so STUPID! Without warning I hung up on my dad and called the fire department. Apparently they had had a lot of these sort of calls this morning.
              The firemen arrived and extinguished the flames before it engulfed any thing else. In the end I was left with a crispy tree, a confused father, the true meaning of panic, and a bed waiting for me to climb back into.
2012

Friday, June 29, 2012

KCA Comedy

        " No, no Alex that's a wall!" Chloe yelled as I zoomed down the virtual slopes of wii ski. "I knew that" I joked as I quit the game, "what should we do now?" It was the annual KCA anniversary and the K (KC), the C (Chloe), and me the A couldn't wait to write what we came here for, our super silly, slightly stupid, homemade commercial. Racing up the stairs and into chloe's room, ideas filled our heads. A portal to mars that's really just a toilet paper tube, an automatic portrait painter that's really just a camera, or even a magic box that takes your bread and gives you a piece of toast in return that's just a toaster. The awkward silence loomed, hot and sticky, in the air until KC's "aha" moment voice cut through it like a sharp knife. "The body packge" she exclaimed as Chloe and i looked at her like she had just declared she was a marshmallow and was going off to live in Stop and Shop. "We can dress up those body pillows with big sweatshirts and wigs and stuff" we all nodded in agreeement and set to work on the commercial.
         About halfway through the commercial writing I closed my eyes in thought. At school, I don't have many stand out friends or could do many sports. I was always the slightly mysterious follower to what anyone else was doing and never had many of my own ideas introduced into groups. But here was my oasis of randomness and expression with my loyal friends surrounding me. This was truly my home away from home. My eyes opened and my brain got back into action again spitballing ideas. "Are you alright?" chirped Chloe. "wonderful" I reply smiling and putting my oversized sweatshirt on a body pillow.
          Finally we were done with rehersals and everyone was fitted with their costumes. It was time for the real thing. KC held the camera towards the scene of the commercial and began to record.
2011

Summer Slumber

“Good night,” The dreaded words of summer. “Don’t let the bedbugs bite!”  How can moms say that so INNOCENTLY?  It’s not like I control the evil insects.  Sleeping in the summertime is like telling me not to sleep at all.  As soon as my parents leave me in my too hot or too cold bed, the battle begins.
     My mortal enemy is really the unscreened windows.  Why they are unscreened, is still a mystery even to me.  I know what you’re thinking: How could windows be the enemy?  They don’t do anything but keep cool air from circulating through the room, therefore creating a hot sticky mess.  Well you see, that’s the problem!  If you leave the windows open, the lack of screen causes swarms of bugs to attack from every angle, while crickets screech their endless tune leaving your ears to throb. 
     Then you would probably think: Wow, if I just close the window, wouldn’t it all be over? NO!! If you close the window, the hot, sticky, sweaty, disgusting air looms in the room like a heated blanket. This is the point where I turn to my fan for advice… and some cool air.  The only problem is that the fan is a rather talkative fellow and once again an annoying buzz rings through my brain. 
     Sounds, heat, windows, it’s all so confusing! Oh, why must sleeping in the summer be so ANNOYING!?! Finally, after consulting myself like the President deciding on vetoing a law, I shut the windows, turned off my fan and trudged into my parents’ room with a sleepy groan. I approach the comfy room just to turn right back around again.  I guess I forgot that my dad snores!  Perhaps my room is better after all!
2011

Hurricane Boat Driving

The blades of the summertime wind sliced the air into icy chunks that hit my face in unexpected pieces and wiggled their way down my bathing suit.  Massive rain drops splatter the Plexiglas window of the boat, blurring the view of the mammoth waves ahead.  We were sure that the hurricane had arrived at the worst time possible, our fishing trip.
            A fishing hook whizzed passed my brother’s ear barely nicking the skin. He produced a choked up squeak and sat down on the once white boat seat, not daring to loosen his grip on the side of the boat in fear of falling overboard.
            It was a good sized motor boat. At the bow, there was a well hidden storage space for the anchor which was just big enough to sit on. Behind it was the fish blood stained floor from previous fishing trips. The back of the seat that my brother was sitting was also where the steering wheal was located. It sat proudly atop a hollow pedestal with an opening that only I was small enough to fit into. Now the boat, anchor and all, was at mercy of the waves.
            “Why did the hurricane have to happen now” My brother complained, his voice bouncing from the teetering of the boat. Disapproving of my brother’s actions, I rolled my eyes through the scratched up film of my orange goggles. I, unlike my brother, was completely prepared for the frightful storm. My six inch armor of rain protection only failed my once when the massive wind ripped the hat off my head and dangled it teasingly above the water. In an effort to retrieve them, I left my cloths soaked down to my bathing suit from yet another unexpected wave.
            The hurricane was a surprise to all of us. With the soothing heat of the summer sun tickling our faces and the ocean as calm as a young lamb, it would have normally been a sure sign of good fishing weather, but today, mother nature threw us a fast one.  
            CLUNK! The GPS fell and hit the ground from the shock of a wave.
            “I give up!” my brother whimpered, “I want to go home!” My mom, seeming slightly relieved, signaled to my dad to turn the boat around. When we arrived back at the harbor, my dad held out his hand to let me out.
            “No,” I replied, “boating weather is boating weather.” With that, he started up the loud engine and we headed back out to the choppy ocean, where the noise could be drowned by the crashing of the water.
            For such a large ocean, it was rather empty. The loneliness never lasted long though, for if you thought about it too much, you were destined to get a mouthful of salty sea.
            The farther we got out, the foggier and more electric smelling the air became. The fifteen ft. waves dwarfed the boat, showering it with fishy smelling water.
            On one particular bump, a fishing pole was ripped from my hands and thrown into the open ocean. “Dad!” I yelled lazily, “Dad a fishing pole went overboard.” I was simply expecting him to stop the engine and get out the net, but NO! Before I knew what was going on, my dad was yelling at me to steer the boat around an upcoming rock. “No Dad, don’t. It’s too dangerous!” I didn’t have time to refuse, for when I turned around, my dad was hanging over the side of the boat, grasping for the pole.
            This is all my fault, I thought, Why couldn’t I have just ignored it? What was he thinking anyway, I’m only eight years old, I don’t know how to drive a boat?!?! Wait a second… I have to drive a boat! I had never driven a boat before but I had watched it plenty of times.
            I turned the wheel with all of my might and just barely avoided the harmful sea boulder. My tight grip made my hands sting like little needles poking into my palm. When my dad emerged from the green abyss, he leaned down and kissed my forehead being the only skin visible on my body. “You were great,” he remarked as he took the wheel off of my hands.
            My dad patted me on the back several times after that. Shrugging like it was nothing; I knew inside, that I, a clumsy eight year old, had saved the boat.
            After a long day of no fish and salty skin, we got back home to be immediately showered with questions. Being too tired to answer any of them, we slipped into pajamas and went to bed. “You’re a hero!” he whispered, stroking my forehead as I slipped into a deep slumber. 
2012


Sunday, May 20, 2012

Trouble


Betsy longed for a hamster. The chaos that often broke out like an aftershock of siblings came unexpectedly and with large booms. Betsy figured hamsters would soften the blow.  She had done research, pledges, polls, and even plucked shameless tunes of the tiny rodents on her baby Taylor guitar. In any normal household, Betsy’s extreme devotion to a pet she didn’t even own would grant her the permission needed to get the hamster, but with both parents having bad experiences ranging from psycho hamsters to seemingly brain dead ones.  It would take a lot more than a baby Taylor to win them over.

Betsy made collages, diagrams, and just plain asked so often that her parents began running out of ways of saying “No.” Eventually, they ran out completely. One day Betsy asked the usual question. “Can I get a hamster?” Betsy pleaded, holding a wilting bouquet of pale pink roses. Betsy braced herself for a loud NO, for she had heard far too many sincere, apologetic responses lately. Instead, she was surprised by her dad stepping up and beginning a story:
“Once upon a time there lived a normal hamster,” he began, “who went on suicide missions in the air duct, chewed through walls, and escaped to every nook and cranny whenever the chance came knocking.”

Betsy stood utterly confused by her dad’s proposal of hamsters being such trouble. Trouble. Could hamsters really cause such a thing?  Betsy chose to ignore the horrifying story and continue to plead and beg while her parents continued to threaten and poke at her dream. “Trouble” they continued to say, “Trouble.” Finally, after the 496th “trouble,” Betsy gave up. She stopped pleading and begging, and her parents stopped threatening and poking at a dream that no longer lived.

Betsy suited herself for the longest time with duct tape hamsters living in their cage that she assembled herself using loose chicken wire from her dad’s old projects. They made great company until one birthday; Betsy realized that fake hamsters would not suit her any longer. She inspected her gifts thoroughly but none of them were moving or hamster shaped. Betsy sat in a frozen mix of emotions until it was time to open her presents. She received shirts and bedspreads and socks and everything was normal. Before long there was only one present left. It was large and hastily wrapped with a pink bow that was monopolized by the shocking fuchsia paper. Unwrapping the present, Betsy took slow, deep breathes to the beat of the ripping paper. It took Betsy a couple of seconds to realize that she had unwrapped a state of the art, fully assembled hamster cage that was waiting to be lived in. Betsy was a cherry Popsicle of happiness.  Her face, flustered and red, was rooted stiffly to her head in a giant smile. For a while she stayed frozen just staring at the thing. Is this for my duct tape hamster? She wondered. Are they pulling my leg? It took Betsy a while to notice how her parents’ smiles were just as big as hers. The cage was not for her duct tape hamster, but a real one.  There was no need to go into long complicated speeches. Betsy understood immediately that all she needed to do all those times was take a break from begging. 

The cage would not be lived in for a while though. Betsy needed the time to find the perfect hamster. Every afternoon, after school, Betsy rode her bike to the local pet store. The hamsters, as Betsy now knew, flew off the shelves like a best selling book, so there were new hamsters nearly every week. All new except one. One lonely, gray, scrawny hamster remained. Week after week it was excluded from the pack of shiny, new, mahogany colored hamsters. 

One special day, Betsy decided to bring her dad to the pet store for her final decision on which hamster would be hers. “That one.” She pointed to the scruffy homeless hamster. Her dad looked slightly confused. “He sure doesn’t look like a TON of trouble,” Her dad agreed. Trouble. Not that word again. “What are you going to name it?” Her dad whispered.   

“Trouble,” Betsy replied. “I’ll name him Trouble.”  

2012


Fire

    Christmas 2011
      Snap! Pop! Sparks fly through the air and land on the floor,slowly darkening the color of the wood. As my foot begins to get hot, I rotate like a pig on a spit. The orangey glow sticks to my face like a hot mask. Resting on my dog's velvety stomach, we lie together in front of the fire place.
     To anyone else this might just be a flame. But to me, especially around Christmas time when pine needles trickle down the base of the tree and sprinkle on my face below, it's home. In front of the metal screen keeping glowing embers from escaping, is the crisp smell of winter snow that can only be described as sweet, frozen water. When you stick your nose in further, there is a burning sensation whose smell resembles a dull cinnamon bun. Lounging in front of the fire is like taking a giant sleeping pill, for whoever dares to stay for too long, is sure to be whisked off to dreamland.


Where I'm From

I'm from my short mysterious scar I got when I was little.
from the smell of my stinky dog in every piece of clothing.
I'm from the hot cheese fondue blanketing baguettes,
That tastes like a salty ocean with a kick of pepper.
I'm from my dog lying in the overgrown grass like a black lion.

I'm from pink flank steaks sizzling on the hot stove.
From my white stuffed duck giving me magical comfort that no one else can summon.
I'm from the howling of coyotes showing off their feasts.
from Yarberow cribbage hands.
I'm from my dog brushing against the green couch where I lay asleep.

I'm from flipping around the house instead of walking.
From the comfort of the cozy red couch in the dark blue office.
I'm from trips to Cape Cod to make bluefish pate.
From KCA comedy.

I'm from all these moments
 and many, many more
   2011

Quail Country

       2012
         You arrive at Quail Country, your heart beating with anticipation as loud as the guns you are itching to fire. When you walk in you are greeted by the friendliest people you could imagine, pulling a chair out from the dinner table for you and asking what you would prefer from their large selection of drinks: iced tea or sweet tea. Others gather around the table. When everything is set up, the conversation begins. If you were to record what we were saying and put it on national television, there would be to many bleeps to follow the topic. 

         When the evening is finished, you are scooted up to your room, which is so close in looks to the next one over that you are often accused of trespassing in someone else's bedroom until you convince them that you are in the right room.

          Georgia, I find, is the one place in the world that one can hear gunshots and not have to worry. BANG BANGBANGBANGBANG BANG- the shots slowly fade away as you drift off to sleep. You wake up to the swishing of brush pants echoing throughout the lodge. The breakfast grits are scarfed down and everyone gathers outside, orange head to toe, gun in hand, to watch the parade of Jeeps barreling down the gravel path. You have to be quick on your feet to get your favorite guide or favorite dog. And when you yourself are barreling down the gravel path in the dog-filled Jeep, you know the fun is about to begin.

          The shooting actually starts off pretty slow as you take practice shots at pine cones and obliterate tiny pine trees at point blank. Then comes the real thing. When dogs go on point, there's no moving them until you send a flusher dog in to scare the birds up high enough to shoot.  Sometimes you are so sucked into shooting the quail that you don't notice the land mine of fire ants that your foot is resting on.  Much like a land mine, if you step on one it will ruin your whole day. Fire ants to me are tiny warriors of darkness, stopping at nothing to suck the happiness out of a day- with one exception: You can shoot it on purpose and watch as the tiny red warriors angrily emerge from their disturbed pile of dirt to seek revenge. 

            There are not many things better than wading through waist high prickers trying to make it to the cramping dogs in time for the wind of the wings to brush against your face before you pull the trigger and hear a satisfying thud of dead bird meat. The dogs aren't the only ones cramping up. Towards the end of the hunt, all four limbs begin to feel like gummy worms but you don't have the guts to give up the last covey.  Much like a long day on the water, the rocking of the Jeeps returns in your bed, and thoughts like "Is my safety on?" and "I've got one in the chamber and one in the magazine" ring through your mind. 

             You wake up the next morning so achy it's hard to move, but the pain dissolves with every thump of dead bird. Before you know it the hunt is over, and soon the trip is over too, and you'll find that it is very hard to part with Quail Country.    


   

Saturday, May 19, 2012

I Am...

I am a phoenix, spreading my wings to the fullest extent and sharing my colors with the world.

I am the unique snowflake that gracefully dances to the ground in the dead of winter.

I am a pen plotting my way, and my way only, in an explosion of vibrant colors.

I am an "I'll do it tomorrow" project, often forgotten and left in a dusty corner.

I am a shoe, always firmly planted on the affirmative.

I am a horn, sometimes awkwardly blown at the wrong times

I am a pretzel, bending my mind into the oddest of forms.

I am...
Me, Alex Myers
2011