CT4L

Though Book Pt. 3

2012-01-14T19:31:00.000-08:00

Well I got home that day, after class, and I could ramble on about class, and toss in a couple of clichés here and there, and then I could ask somebody something overplayed and dry such as, “So what about your folks? How was your childhood?” or I could go try out for some soccer team at school or do any of a list of thousands and nine hundred billions of Sky-esque things that Sky Children do, only I really didn’t feel like it today. I say “I don’t feel like it today,” quite often, really, and I always get return speeches from various concerned adults about how I’m wasting my youth, and how I should be playing with all the other Sky Children, but I have never really had any concern for doing any of those sorts of things, and I let them know that. Then, they go and they say to Mommy, “Oh, he’s depressed. I know a really good and professional child psychologist honey, oh, he’s so good. When my son,” and then you throw any old generic Sky Child name in there, and then continue with, “got depressed, I took him there, and it worked wonders. Oh yes, he was experiencing the exact same symptoms, and that psychologist fixed him right up.” Then they flash a little grin my way, and it’s one of the ugliest old wrinkled up, make up caked on, religious fanatic soccer mom Sky Child monkey see monkey do looking smiles that you ever did see, and they give it to me like they think that, possessing only a first grade education, currently being enrolled in the second grade, that I’m not quite intelligent enough to understand what it is they’re talking about. Well I’d just love to let every little trinket and knick knack flow right out of my bubble gum Thinking Box inside my head too, and I would if I was a Sky Child like they are, and didn’t understand any manners apart from phony smiles and dime-a-dozen thank-yous and yes sirs and no sirs and yes ma’ams and so ons. But I don’t, since I actually use my little Sunshine Head, and it functions correctly, since I keep it in shape with all my deep thinking and countin’ of the zags I do all the time. I keep my rude and snobby opinions all to myself, especially the ones about how I have no interest for playing with any of their Sky Children clones, or even associating with them, or their church moms or their baseball coach dads, because I have no motivation to, because I can see no reason to, and I can’t create any false reasons to just because I want acceptance from my peers, because, to be quite honest, I don’t want any of that. I’d rather them be content with letting me operate just as I’m best suited to, as I’m content with letting them wind up and then wander around aimlessly picking up scraps of each other’s opinions and gorging themselves on them until their true self is unrecognizable under all of the Sky Child filth. I don’t agree with it, I certainly don’t understand it, oh no, not in the least, but I’m content with it, and I let it happen nonetheless.
And yet, maybe I’m not so content. Or maybe I was before, just a few seconds ago, I really don’t remember how I was feeling just then. I feel as though I’ve just been hit with a wave of something, I’m not sure what. It’s like nausea, only it’s not physical but more inside my Sunshine head. I had been countin’ the zags, you see, when this began, but now I was just too overwhelmed to even consider doing such a thing.
I couldn’t explain it if I wanted to, truthfully. I’ve never quite felt this way before. The ugly sweater that I had only moments ago been analyzing, now seemed so foreign, and it scared me, but not to cause a reaction. I didn’t throw it across the room, I only stared and wondered why it scared me, and wondered why I was here, and why Mommy and Daddy were here, and how we got here, and who made the universe, and if it was God, then who made him, and if no one made him, then how? And if he didn’t make it, if no one made it, then what? And then realized I was still looking at the sweater, and I wondered who made that sweater, and why, and I wondered about their childhood, and I wondered what got them into sweater making. . .
I could go on, and I could try hopelessly to tell you what all I was thinking about, and with each thought I relayed a thousand more could come, and my mind was racing, and so was my heart, and I pictured my heart, a mass of pink and red, straining and throbbing violently, and I became dizzy. I just needed to lie down; I just want to lie down. I wanted to go home, but I was already home. And then suddenly it was gone. I was okay. My stomach eased (it had been aching before, but I didn’t mention it since there was too much else to tell about) and I calmed myself. I didn’t cry myself to sleep. I just stared at the wall, and thought some about what I had felt. And then I sort of began to drift off to sleep, but suddenly I became so self conscious, and my brain started wondering, and asking me “Why?” all in a split second, and so I shot up. I just sat up in bed, and was completely aware, but I still didn’t know why. I was scared, but not a terrific scare, or an excited scare. My fear lay dormant for what seemed like hours, and I couldn’t get back to sleep. There was no closure, or comfort, just shakes and nausea and confusion. I felt diseased, but not physically, in a way that I never even knew about before. I wanted to tell somebody for a second, and then I quickly realized it would do no good. Nobody would know how I was feeling, even though they might have thought they did. I wasn’t feeling like myself, but not in the way people normally mean when they say that. I really could never tell anyone how I felt, no matter how I tried, no matter how expansive my vocabulary was. I was trapped inside my head, and nobody else in the universe had ever felt like I was feeling; not the starving Africans, or Atlantians, or any of them.

It’s unfortunate, and I don’t like it. I certainly don’t love it, either, and I’m not concerned with how wrong you may think it sounds. It’s unfortunate that there are so many people out there, and in here, and everywhere else, and it’s no good. And they all say things, they’re always saying things, but they never realize the depth of what they’re saying. They all talk, and pour out opinions and ideals, and it makes a big old salty sea. I’m floating in that sea, regardless of how much I’d like to just enjoy a nice sit on the beach, and they never realize the depth of the sea they’ve got me floating in. I’d love to let it go, and just not think about it; honest, I would. But that just doesn’t seem quite possible anymore, to be one hundred and thirty two percent honest.
That rush of thoughts I had last night, and questions, and statements, and memories. . .
I’m not quite sure what to call it and my Sunshine Head is just a bit too scattered and shaky right about now to come up with a clever name for it. But that big rush of solar energy in my old Sunshine Thinker Box last night, that was just about the most uncomfortable experience I’ve ever had in my old Sunshine life.
I feel like this whole rush, this massive bubbling wave, it’s like a puzzle set out for me, and I need to sort it out, and get it all figured out, but it’s just so hard. It’s too much for me; it’s just too much for old Sunshine Head. And it’s not something I can quite share with anyone either. Believe me, dear listeners, when I say that if I could relay all that I thought, and all that I felt to a trusted friend then I certainly would. But there were two little obstructions in the path I would have to use if I were to transfer that information. There was the fact that all that information was much to muddled, and disorganized, and scattered about to be loaded up and sent off to some place like the listening ears of a concerned old pal. And then there was the fact that, even in the event that I was able to pack all these goodies up into a nice compact pack of dialogue, there was nowhere for me to send it all. There was no destination for it at all; I had no trusted friends.
That next morning, after that big clustered orgy of negative thoughts and disconcerting notions, I felt quite alright when I first woke up. My little old Sunshine Brainy Boo was too deepy in sleepy to be concerned with petty old things, and irrational campaigns against brain eating parasite monsters, and other things of that nature. But then, as soon as I was awake enough again, as soon as my old Sunshine Head went to shining again, I had a thought about what I felt only eight or so hours ago. And then I was humbled down low, and nothing else mattered, I just needed to curl back up in bed.
“Sunshine! What in the world are you doing, son? You’re fixin’ to be late, though I’m sure you know it, and here you are acting as if it’s the moonlight shift! Don’t you know the sun needs to rise bright and early in the mornings? Don’t you realize how dark it’ll be if you just cover your old Sunshine head with your blanket?” This only added more stress, though, and added a sense of guilt, and responsibility. I tried to tell myself: C’mon old Sunshine! Rise up; you’ve no excuse to stay in bed this morning! And when I thought that I had totally decided it’d be best to sit this day out, then I felt alright, and when I felt alright, it made me feel like I could handle going to school. And then, when I had decided I would get up and head on down to the old school house on my bright blue bicycle, this nervous, disturbed feeling peeked its old head out again, but only I could see him, nobody else could ever know, and then I felt like I should just stay home again. It was all a real confusing business, and there was no way to fight it, because it was inside me, right there in my cerebral cortex, or wherever, and I saw that it would be better to just go neutral and try to sleep, seeing as how it was about the best I could do in my situation. I told Daddy Dearest that I thought it’d be best for me to stay home this day, and, being the pleasant old soul he is, he didn’t object, and so the sun went back down pretty early that morning. Sunshine Head was taking a sick day, and he wasn’t even sure why.

I used to think that I lived on the same old planet Earth as the rest of the boys and girls around me. I figured, since I saw them there, and I heard them there, and sometimes I even smelled them there, then they must be there. But then I started having those attacks, those big red and purple waves of questions without answers, and asymmetrical statements and jumping animals and all kinds of other things jigging around in my head, and things quit being so simple. Now I’ve adopted a much more philosophical mindset, a real complex philosophy. And I think, maybe my perception of reality isn’t anything near reality. Maybe it’s based upon some reality, somewhere, and that reality could be near, or far, or neither; it could be way off in some other dimension somewhere. Or it could be a completely misguided perception entirely. And, you know, well. . .
There, do you see there? See how the mind just rambles and rolls on that way? There’s been a surplus of solar energy floating around the old ball of Sunshine, and I can’t make it stop.
I’m a child, in the second grade of the United States schooling system, and I shouldn’t have to worry about these things. How the universe is constantly expanding, and how it could roll back over on itself, and how gravity is holding me down to the ground, but I can’t see it, but I’m just supposed to know it’s there. It’s too much, and I wish I didn’t ever know it, and I wish I had no conscience, and no overwhelming desire to push forward and be progressive. If I was like that, I’d just sit in the dark, but not in a sad way, oh no. I wouldn’t even know I was in the dark, to be just perfectly honest, since I’d just be totally blind.
Enlightenment truly is a curse. You know those people that just love to hear themselves speak, and they always try to sound so dark, and deep, and profound, but you can’t help but shake the feeling that they’re just repeating things they’ve heard others say? Well, that’s the kind of person I would normally imagine to say such a thing, “Enlightenment is a curse,” but right now I’m really feeling it. I’d hate to imagine myself as one of those kinds of people, but I’m confused, and I’m truly suffering now. Social details don’t matter so much to me, no worldly things do. I’m all too aware of how insignificant my existence is now, and how insignificant the entire world I live in could very well be. It’s so vast and so overwhelming to me, and yet it’s only a speck in relation to the vast universe. It’s too much to fathom, and I’d love to just deny it, and be a religious little boy, and attend church every Sunday, and prance around all day and say, real condescendingly: “Jesus loves you! I know you’re lost right now, but He still loves you, and it’s never too late to ask His forgiveness!” I’d say that, I certainly would, and I wouldn’t think much about what I was saying, I’d just say it and forget I even said it a second later, and all would be well as far as I was concerned. And whenever any little bits of uncomfortable fact and cold hard truth started beating on my ear drums, and created a little bit of dissonance within my old Sunshine head, I’d just drown them out with a few versus of “Joy to the World,” or some nice Baptist hymn or something.
I’d love to be blind, and oblivious. The idea of being oblivious to my surroundings does seem scary to me now, terrifying actually, but if I were to suddenly get knocked over the head with a stone, and forget every bit of what I just related, then that’d be okay with me. I’d be too dumb to even know I was dumb; that’s just how I’d love for it to be. This enlightenment, it strips beauty and poetic value from everything. Love is just infatuation and sexual desire, and friendship is nothing but a mutual agreement of companionship, since us humans long for it, and nothing more. We cling to our mothers, but not out of some divine love, simply because we are animals, no different than the domesticated puppy who nurses from its mother. We feel more deeply, we do have deeper consciousness, that is true. But it’s just consciousness, a higher level of evolutionary intelligence. It’s all just chemicals and electrical signals, there is no soul. There is no love. I’d like to convince myself that I’m just being negative, but my logical thinking tells me that I’m simply being realistic. And the worst of it is that this seems to be only a small part of the whole enlightenment that I will soon receive. I’m not so sure I’ll live through it all, and I’m even less sure I want to live through it.

Mommy and Daddy tried to take me to the doctor
When Sunshine wouldn’t rise that day
Though I already had a notion,
Of what kind Doctor would say

“A generic case of angst, dear land
Nihilism ailing the soul
Just a temporary head illness my boy
Common as the commonest soul”

But there was something more to it
I just knew it, and here is where I’ll
Cease the rhyming, since it’s
Tedious and often comes at the expense
Of the meaning of the poem

I did lots of thinking, in bed all day, yesterday
And I thought, and maybe it means nothing
Maybe it’s just a sentimental coincidence
I mean, it’s not like I believe in fate anyways

But I realized, all along
That I am Sunshine, and that the
Sunshine belongs in the sky
And maybe I’m not so otherworldly as those children

Maybe I belong in the central point
Maybe I am the equivalent
Of one million mind blowing Earths
Sunshine Head, extraordinaire
“And that’s my poem, dear class mates. It doesn’t feel like I poured enough in there, the texture of it felt like a half empty cup coming out, to be quite honest. I’m not so great at writing, and trying to be sincere and thoughtful on command, and so I’m not too fond of school assignments. Not too passionate about this institution at all, really, but got to keep the grades up to keep old Mommy happy. Well, thanks for the listen!” And with that I sat down.
That was class today, where Mrs. Teacher Ma’am (her name escapes me now, since it’s not very often I have to call on her) had us to write a poem. She said it could be about anything, an abstract concept or a physical object or place or a person, anything. Of course the general consensus of my beloved second grade classmates was to write about the playground, or mommies and daddies, or doggies, or some sort of play thing, and so it came as no surprise when the dear old teacher woman acted a bit shocked at what I had written. That was all deep fried fine and dandy, of course it was. But then this insolent instructor had the audacity to accuse me of plagiarism! That’s right, dear listeners, plagiarism. She had been giving me funny little looks all through the school morning, and that I didn’t mind much, I was perfectly capable of disregarding that. But then, soon as the bell rang for lunch hour (which is actually less than an hour for us primary schoolers) she asked that I stay for a moment to discuss something with her. When I enquired whether or not it was an important matter, she said yes, and when I placed a further inquiry of whether or not it could wait until after my lunch minutes, of course, she said no. And so, there I was, sitting in the desk closest to hers, engaged in a game of Accuse the Sunshine Head of Plagiarism. What a dull game it was, and the fact that it was wasting my lunch period made it all the more bothersome.
“Now Sunshine Head, I know you couldn’t possibly have written that poem. I realize you are a young little Sunshine boy, and so I won’t report you to the principal this time, but, plagiarism is a. . .”
“Plagiarism? Mrs. Teacherma’am, please,” to which she corrected my by telling her name, which was entire insignificant and irrelevant to my point, “that little poem was by no means plagiarized. Why, you saw me scribble it down with your own two eyes, right through your old spectacles. Plus, it says my name in the poem, not just at the top next to the date and subject, but right there inside the of the old word complex itself.”
“Now, Mr. Sunshine, you and I are both completely aware of the possibility that you just erased a few details and chucked your own little name into the poem as you saw necessary. Please, don’t try any further tactics to deceive me, or I’ll reconsider informing the principal.”
“Well, yes, I suppose that is most definitely a possibility. Of course I would never do such a thing. I’d never defile such a piece of literature so, if I were to find one that it could be done to. I could strip it of a few minor details, and interject my own name instead of the poet’s, but that would just be completely immoral. Pure degeneracy it is, dear Mrs. Teacherma’am.”
She corrected me on her name again, and then went on to say, “Sunshine Head, you’re only in the second grade. You’re less than a decade old, little pupil of mine, and I know that I have not expanded your vocabulary to such a level that a piece of poetry like that one could be crafted. And, I’d bet your Sunshine Head on the fact idea that your previous instructors probably didn’t, either.”
“Well, you’d surely win the bet, dear Teacherma’am,” to which she corrected me by saying ‘That’s Mrs. Teacherma’am,’ and then grunting and ultimately giving up on trying to teach her name to me. “However, the old schoolhouse isn’t the only place for literary knowledge and passion to be attained, oh no, of course not. I’ve gathered these terms into my old Sunshine Head all on my own, through reading, and watching the News, and listening to old Daddy talk to his intellectual acquaintances. And, as I implied in my previous retort, doing what you are accusing me of is completely immoral, and would cause a wonderful piece of poetic beauty to collapse entirely.”
“How so, Sunshine Head? Explain, won’t you?”
“Gladly, my severely mistaken mentor. What if there was a poem written about alligators, and I liked it, and I wanted people to believe that I myself had written it; and so, to reinforce the belief that I was the poet, I replaced every instance of the word “alligator” with my own name. The poem would cease to make any sense whatsoever, and any metaphors or deep spiritual meanings would be rendered non sequiturs, now wouldn’t they?”
“Well yes, little Sunshine, I suppose, but. . .”
“Well, did you not take a careful listen to the poem? Where you two busy wallowing in your preconceived notions that my poem would just be another cookie cutter poem about mommies and daddies? As if I’d stoop to such clichés! If you’d like to take a careful read of the poem, you’ll clearly see that the analogy about the sunshine fits perfectly in place with the poem.” She picked up the paper which contained the poem in question, and read it through once carefully. “See then? It’s clear that the poem was clearly meant to contain the Sunshine Analogy from the very get-go. There was no replacement, no intentional sabotage. It was handwritten entirely by old Sunshine Head, sitting here and speaking to you as we, well, speak.” She finally came around, and my perfectly truthful explanation finally began to sink in. I was dismissed to the lunch room, and I made a perfect grade on my poem, too.

The little old Sunshine Head of mine had stopped working a mile-a-minute for a short while, being distracted by the various going-on of the day after my deep debate with old Mrs. Teacher Lady. Upon being dismissed to the lunch room the Sunshine sure did glow with joy, because these two eyeballs that are so naturally and sophisticatedly hardwired to send electrical signals to my brain took in an image of. . .
Sorry folks, my old Sunshine Head was challenging me to a playground footrace again, charging off on me. But it’s all deep fried fine and dandy now, because I stole a couple of deep breaths of oxygen from the atmosphere, which helped to ease the tension in my mind caused by the dissonance created by the. . .
Ah, there it goes again, old Pinky Wrinkles, my brain that is, prancing about and throwing in complex ideas and words with too many syllables into what I would like to be just an ordinary old storytelling session with my dear listeners. But no matter, I’ll be sure to keep it simple, but not oversimplify it, for the sake of orderly information exchange, and correct organization, and literary correctness, and for the sake of capturing the interest of your minds with constant change and colorful tales and an elaborate word usage and. . .
Oh, I give up, I give it all completely up. A simple transfer of a few kid friendly words, the relaying of a nifty little story of how my day went is entirely impossible this day. I give it up, I say again, throwing in the imaginary towel, I am. There isn’t a whole lot I can do at this point, my mind taking steps at a seven to one ratio in comparison to the steps I myself am trying to take. I just can’t seem to keep my thoughts contained. Maybe tomorrow will be a better day, or maybe I’ll just die this way 84 years from now, who knows. No one can say, except maybe Goddy Boy up there in the sky, if he truly exists. Anyways, regardless of the belief of any supernatural deity, there will be no more storytelling this day. My listeners, you are dismissed, to prance and stroll freely about, and don’t be disconcerted with notions that dear old Sunshine Head has too much on his mental plate at this time. It’s all deed fried fine and dandy, as was previously stated, I’ll swallow down this broccoli, and brussel sprouts, and mashed potatoes, and all these other troublesome metaphoric odd foodstuffs, and be back to my story in no time at all. Well, maybe not no time, but some time- not too much. Time. . . It’s a peculiar thing, isn’t it? Is it tangible, is it truly countable, or is it but an abstract concept? Does the manmade measuring system of time, with all these seconds and minutes and hours, pertain to the true nature of it at all? Or is it just useful to make things convenient within a human society? And what about animals, hm? Why do they save that animals have no sense of time? And another thing. . .
Oh, there Pinky Wrinkles goes again. Goodbye for now, dear listeners.

Thought Book Pt. 2

2011-12-01T20:09:00.001-08:00

And so, that morning, which is the morning right after the night on the bridge, I waltzed right on through the rectangular archway, which is kind of an oxymoron if you think about it, and into the kitchen. And there I saw my loving old Mommy, and she was working diligently on a couple of blueberry waffles for me. Boy, how she toasted those waffles. . . She toasted them well; I’ll tell you that now.
“Good morning, Sunshine,” she said, but her tone of voice didn’t match the content of it. Put simply, she didn’t sound in a very Sunshine-y mood at all, and so, skipping the casualties, I asked her just what it was that had her talking in that tone. And so she said to me: she said that there wasn’t a single thing on the planet that had her talking in that tone.
“I’ll have you know,” she went on, “that I’m in perhaps one of the greatest moods I’ve been in quite a long while, this particular morning. As a matter of fact I’m just. . . Eh, what is it that you’re always saying? Kentucky fried fabulous and-“
“Deep friend fine and deliciously dandy!” I corrected, and so she said “Yeah, that’s what I meant” and continued on to tell me about what a wonderful time she had last night with the Jonesmiths, the neighbor family. She told me about how, after they returned my ungrateful bottom back home, they went out with the Jonesmiths, and their two lovely children, the epitome of the perfect American set of siblings Capital and Trendina. Yes, after little ungrateful Sunshine was returned home to sulk all alone in his dark bedroom, Mommy and Daddy and the Jonesmiths and the Jonesmith’s children were out and about having the most wonderful time of all. She even went so far as to tell me all about how those two little prodigies raved on and on about the ride that I had just refused to ride. I was just about to begin to retaliate, and tell her about how the ride was in an amusement park, meaning it was for amusement, and that these sorts of things didn’t amuse me in the least, when finally those two old blueberry waffles hopped right on out of the steaming slots they had been set in. But they were burnt by this time, and blacker than the black tops at school, which I was running a bit late for, and so I stepped right on out of the door without breakfast and hopped onto my bright blue bicycle.
“Bye, mommy, and sorry you and Daddy wasted all that hard earned money on that ticket, though it’s not like I ever asked for the damned thing to begin with!” and with that I was away, and I didn’t even get to hear her tell me about how I shouldn’t be talking like that, since it makes me sound ignorant, because by the time she had her speech prepared I was well down the street and heading towards the old school house. I had skipped out on this one, and it sure set me in high spirits that morning, which was quite a feat, seeing as how this was a school morning. I never cared for school much, since it’s ran for Sky Children and by Sky Children, and they’re always trying to base your smarts on petty little things. It’s basically like catching a bunch of grasshoppers, and a little lady bug, and putting them all in a box, school is, and then giving them letters based on how good they can hop. Well of course all of those grasshoppers are going to make A’s, or maybe B’s, C’s at the lowest, but that one little ladybug, well he’s not going to make anything but F’s, or D’s if the teacher feels a little sorry for him. You just don’t put ladybugs in hopping boxes, it’s common sense, it’s basic knowledge. At least, you’d think it was, until they stuck you in school and saw that it was what was socially accepted. It’s the law, too, like it or not, and if you’re not up and there when they tell you to be there they’ll charge you for it. They charge you a pretty fair amount too, even though you never signed up to go there. It’s all a really silly business, but it’s been established, and the masses like it, because they’re mostly all grasshoppers, or ladybugs that could be beautiful fliers but would rather waste all their time trying to be grasshoppers, because most everyone else is one. That’s school, where the Sky Children hive.

And so I get there, to school, and I pull the little brake lever on my bright blue bicycle, and I chain it up right there in the rack by the sidewalk I rode on. And wouldn’t you know I saw a pretty funny thing going on as soon as I stepped away from my bright blue bicycle. And wouldn’t you know I saw a whole pack of Sky Children, about 4 or 5, and two were girls, and three where boys, and the girls were standing in the back and just a’giggling, and the boys where standing in front of them, and they looked particularly aggressive and mean. They were wearing their flannelled shirts, and they had swoopy haircuts and little rips in their jeans which probably cost about eighty thousand buck-a-roones. Yes, these were regular Grade A sky children if I had ever seen any before, and they were standing right over this little old girly looking boy, who looked particularly passive and afraid. He was squatted down, like he had been knocked down and wasn’t sure whether or not it would anger those two old Sky Boys if he got back to his feet yet. I had been waltzing on over to them, just close enough to get a general idea of what was going on. There were those smart curly headed kids, who were too not-ignorant to be a part of such a petty spectacle, and there were those athletic kids, who do all kinds of throws and runs and flips and spins because they’re not quite bright enough to know how to be cautious and careful and calm, and there were those girls that made you feel funny when they talked to you, kind of like you’re in a dream, and make all the blood rush out of your head and into your pants, and then there was a small group of just regular old fellows, and I’m not sure how to describe them other than that, so I won’t try. And those regular fellows, well they happened to be standing right there next to the spot where this little altercation had been taking place, and so I took a spot right next to the one who was on the far left and stood to watch. He looked over at me, old Lefty, and so I smiled at him, but he didn’t offer a return-grin. It’s funny; I don’t fit in with even just the regular old guys. It’s really not that funny though, it actually makes me feel trapped inside my head, like there’s just no one out there in all of the vast universe that can relate. But “Hey now, Sunshine Head, you’re rambling and bird walking again!” I started thinking to myself, and then I started concentrating on what was relevant to me now. And what was relevant to me now was this altercation right here in front of me.
“Why do ya gotta be so fruity all the time, you fruity fruit!” said the first Sky Boy.
“Yeah, you’re like a little princess boy, ain’t he?” said the second, first to his victim and then to his buddy. The first Sky Boy replied by saying that he certainly was, and then his little brain strained, and hatched probably the most creative thing it would ever spawn. And I’m using the term “creative” pretty lightly; sarcastically, actually, to be just right on point.
“He’s like . . . a princess fruity boy or somethin’!” And at that all the kids, the smart ones, who didn’t seem so smart any more, and the athletics, and the pretty ones, who seemed a little dumber than they were pretty, just began howling with wrathful joy and humor, and even a couple of the just regular guys that were next to me let out a snicker or two. I’ll tell you, just about the only two kids out there in the schoolyard that weren’t laughing that day were me, and the little boy who was on the ground. Princess Fruity Boy was his name, and those two Sky Boys spit right on him, right on his poor little girly head, but no teachers saw it, and they got away with it. Then the bell rang, and it was time to go to class, and it seemed like everyone had forgotten all about it. But there were a couple of people who I guessed hadn’t quite forgotten; actually, I knew for a fact one of them hadn’t forgotten, because it happened to be me, and the other one I guessed had most likely not forgotten either: Princess Fruity Boy.

Well, class went by, and I pretended to care, and I pretended to learn, and I wrote some words, and maybe a number or two, and by that time I was a pretty hungry little Sunshine Head, seeing as how I hadn’t eaten my blueberry waffles that morning, burnt and black as they were. And so after a couple hundred hours of sitting in class, it was finally time for me to waltz on down to the cafeteria and have myself a nibbling. Class was a lot more tiresome, and seemed to drag on a lot longer on this particular gray old day, because I couldn’t stop thinking about what had happened, with the naming and the spitting on of poor old Princess Fruity Boy. It was a really sad business, I thought, but no one else really seemed to think so. I felt like that often, really, whenever everyone laughed at someone else. There was probably a problem with me; that seemed more likely then they’re being a problem with everyone except me, so I figured that must have been it.
Well I did a whole ton of thinking about all of that, regardless of what was probably wrong with me, and by the time lunch period rolled around I was most certainly famished, but most of all I was anxious to step on in and have a little sit down with old Princess Fruity Boy himself. Now, I don’t normally do this, so don’t paint a picture in your head of some social butterfly, and if you’re an eager little sky child then you’ve probably already painted one, so go ahead and tear it up and burn it and squash it, and quit listening before you get any more offended. I know first impressions are important, so I just want to stress to you that this isn’t the kind of little Sunshine Head I usually am, oh no sir. I’m not even so sure that this could be called a first impression, since this whole shenanigan began last night, and if you go by one impression per day then you’d have to call this a second impression, but you get the picture nonetheless. Anyways, you caught me on a real special occasion, because I usually spend my lunch period alone, eating my potato chips and chocolate milk (don’t you dare try to correct me on that, that chocolate milks so solid and spoilt you practically do have to eat it), and thinking about countin’ the zags, or actually performing the act, if I get lucky and catch a sit next to a Sky Child whose wearing one of those ugly sweaters. But on this particularly day, after that forty-seven thousand notebooks worth of thinking I did about Princess Fruity Boy, I came to the conclusion that I had better sit with him. I’m not this way, so don’t you dare start to paint that mental image of the social butterfly again, but I hear talk that most kids, when they’re down, like to have a little company. And so I thought I might provide a bit of that to the old princess this fine day, but wouldn’t you know, when I arrived in the cafeteria, the fruit basket wasn’t anywhere to be seen. And so I just sat down alone, munching on my chips and milk, and then I spotted a boy in an ugly sweater, and so I started to make my way over to where he was sitting, when some old brown headed broad came and snatched the seat right from my grasp. I’m not sure what a broad is, but old Daddy likes to use it when he talks about women he doesn’t particularly care for, so context clues would lead me to believe that this is a good situation in which to use that term. Anyways, the broad snatched my seat, and Princess Fruity Boy was no were in sight, and when I went back to my table it had been taken, so I had to waltz on outside to sit in the cold, it being towards the end of November by this time.
Well, at first, as you can probably guess, I wasn’t too happy about this. I wasn’t too happy at all. But then after a couple of minutes of freezing out there on those old lonely chilled metal tables, I heard a little sobbing coming from around the corner of the schoolhouse, over on the side that would be the left side, if you were facing the entrance from the inside. Well, I looked around, just to make sure no teachers were peeking on me, and when I saw that there weren’t any, I waltzed right on over to the side of the school where all that crying was coming from. And wouldn’t you know, there was old Princess Fruity Boy, sitting down against the wall and crying his old fruity eyeballs out!

And do you know what I did when I seen Princess Fruity Boy just sitting down against the wall, crying his old fruity eyeballs out? Well, of course you don’t, seeing as how I haven’t even told you yet, but don’t you worry, don’t you worry all your pretty heads, since I was just about to get there anyways. I waltzed right on up to that fruity boy, just blubbering like a big old blubbery whale, only not quite so big, and at first he didn’t really seem to notice me. Just kept on dishing out the tears, keeping a steady flood of unhappy pheromones, being the princess that he is; but then a little change happened. He didn’t look up at me or anything, and he didn’t speak any words out of his fruity old mouth, but he stopped blubbering just long enough to where I knew that he acknowledged my presence; then he did speak, only he still didn’t look up, but I was pretty sure it was to me.
“Well, what is it then?” I wasn’t quite sure just what it was he meant by that, and so you know what I did? I asked him just what it was he meant by that. “Well, most of you clones and conformists are content with only heckling me when it’s quite convenient for you, but I suppose I should have expected some chipper and adventurous contributor to society would work up the willpower, the nerve, the pure unfounded audacity to fancy a stroll right on out here to pester me more.” He was a clever little fruity boy, only when he talked his face reddened up a fair bit, and he had a round boyish face; only I’m sure that’s common and expected amongst us second grade fellows. It reminded me of a sort of tomato, only he was fruity, and I couldn’t really remember whether or not tomatoes were fruits. I wasn’t quite sure what to say to all that, either, but I figured it up and I did the equations in my head, and I surely was not confident in my calculations, but it’s better to guess then leave answers blank, if those test strategy assemblies really know what they’re about, and I figured the same principles applied in this here situation, and so I figured I better say something instead of just stand here like I’m completely dumbfounded. And so I started to say something, only I only got a little grunt out before he cut me off, so I’m not even sure that could be considered saying anything. And that one little grunt didn’t stand to well on its own, oh no, it made me sound pretty salamander silly, a phrase that sounds silly all in its own. You know how when you watch a movie, and people are talking, their facial expressions look pretty normal most of the time, right? But then as soon as you pause it, if one of their faces is on screen, that one little frame looks really silly, right? Well, that’s just what this little grunt was like, and if princess here had allowed me just an eighteenth of a second longer I could have finished what I was saying, and I wouldn’t have had to feel like a fool, but oh no, he had to pause me. That feeling I had for him in my stomach started to subside at this, and then it grew back a little, but more out of resentment this time, then out of pity.
“Well come on then,” he said, “I’m taking a survey here,” and he held out his right palm, and he held his left fingers together like he was holding a pencil, but he wasn’t. “Which mark do I put for you, Sunshine? A witty remark, a wet loogie to the forehead, or a tight fisted bust to the cheek bone?”
This fruity fellow really was starting to confuse me, even being the smart little Sunshine head that I am, and it also startled me quite a bit when he somehow knew my name, so I said, “How in all the blue and green Earth under the vast grey sky did you know my name?” He told me that he didn’t, and informed me that he’d like to know just what gave me the notion that he did. “Well, because you just said it, Princess.”
“Ah, so a witty remark it is,” and then he used his imaginary pencil on his palm pad and placed an imaginary mark into the imaginary “witty remark” category. I wondered how many of those marks he had to put down already today, and then I asked why it was that he put me down for that one. “Well, just like I didn’t believe for a second that a mother would truly name her child Sunshine, I expected that surely you would at least possess the intellectual capability to determine that my true name wasn’t Princess.”
“My name is so Sunshine! Sunshine Head, actually, but my mommy named me that just the same. And just what is it that makes that so hard for you to chew on up and swallow, huh? And what do I call you, if it’s not Princess Fruity Tomato Head What-cha-ma-call it?” He rose to his feet, and he quit covering his face, and he gave me this real piercing eye contact, which you can imagine caught me a bit off guard. I mean, you wouldn’t normally expect a fruity old tomato faced princess boy to have such piercing eye contact, but this was no ordinary fruity old tomato faced princess boy, and his eye contact was the absolute piercing-est.
“It’s Nobizzen.” I acted real interested, still trying to maintain a friendly attitude towards him like I set out to do, and I asked what his full name was. “Nobizzen Essuv Your’s,” he remarked, and just as soon as the words left his fruity old lips the bell rang to end lunch period, and he walked on off all full of pride and fruity flavor. Well, you can imagine now that I had had my opinion about this fellow stamped and evaluated and handed right back to me, and you can also infer that I probably didn’t care too much for the results. My first realization that I was wrong came as soon as I heard the bell, and I seen his eye contact, and I smelled that he didn’t smell so fruity at all, and I felt his confidence and pride, and I didn’t really taste nothing important except for the leftovers from my potato chips and milk, but I wanted to include taste just so it didn’t feel left out. Fruity and frail fellows don’t pierce you like that, and have timing that perfect, oh no, the whole dainty darned school was wrong about this not so fruity fellow. The second realization; and this one hit me hard diligent listeners, and intrigued comprehend-ers, the second realization was when I finally caught the joke, about eighty-four hundred thousand minutes after it’d been fired at me, when school was almost over with. I finally realized that that old princess had duped me, jipped me on some sensitive information as it were. I realized that his name wasn’t Nobizzen Essuv Your’s at all, and that that was just a crafty and sly way of slipping me the hint that his true name was none of my business. Well if you know me at all you know that got me grudging mad, but the grudge only lasted about a fifth of a millisecond, because then I saw the funniness in it, and I busted out laughing. Everyone else in the room was quiet, too, and working on their math, and they hadn’t been there or had any clue about the picture show going on inside my old Sunshine Thinker Box, so they looked at me like I was a wild Egyptian Sphinx Cat or something when I busted out laughing that way. But that was quite all right, because I wasn’t big on analyzing public opinion anyway, just sweater designs, and I had a good little sensation right down in my Sunshine Gut that my new buddy Nobizzen, or the princess until I can figure out his truly legal name, didn’t care much for public opinion either.

Thought Book

2011-11-28T19:42:00.000-08:00

I'm writing an abstracat-styled book just as an outlet, and because I love literature. I'm not sure what to call it yet. Love it.
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On this bridge, this unstable platform that represents the instability of this world, and the anxious mass of tangled chords and twisted strands that is the human mind on just a small dose of the new world, of industrialized society; that is where I stand. Perhaps it was built during simpler times; perhaps men with simple, button-up shirts, blue collared, that may or may not have been ironed earlier that morning, had chatted merrily and nonchalantly when they had built it all those years ago. Maybe they were all either wearing blue jeans or khakis and maybe they just talked about things, and didn’t even really care what they were talking about, as they built. And you know, I bet they were happy, too, if it went down even remotely similar to how I’m picturing it.
Yeah those men, those building men, they were probably healthy and happy men. Some may have been small, and some large, and some just medium, but they were probably all at least moderately fit, with faces full of color and a little bit sweaty while they worked. And they were probably the real kind of happy to, not that indefinite and spontaneous happy, not the kind of happy that comes with some substance foreign to the natural body, prescribed by some quack, fresh out of some medical seminar, who cheated on his tests in college. You know, I’m almost positive that they were truly happy, just happy to be working and doing something productive, and they were probably all relatively friendly to each other too.
Countless years later children are racing across this bridge, a mass of happy children, all the little boys trying to win the race and be the most athletic. All the little girls just running from plain excitement, not quite caring who wins the race, and being careful not to fall down and get all dirty, since being dirty isn’t lady-like. But I’m just standing, trying to stay calm, not quite caring whether or not I appear nervous. I mean, it’s not as if any of them could be bothered with even the slightest impulse to steer a momentary glance my way. I’m not racing with the other kids, and I really don’t care too. I find them so simple, so narrow minded, yet I’m completely baffled as to how their brains work. Not thinking deeply at all, and not thinking about anything that doesn’t have to do with their instant gratification, their immediate satisfaction. Their parent’s money dancing and hopping in their pockets, overjoyed to be spent on the new ride on the other side of the bridge and to enter a new pocket where they can dance and sing some more. I don’t understand how it is that they can be so ignorant to how vulnerable they are, how exposed each and every one of us is, under a great mass of gray openness and a randomly arranged matter from somewhere far, far above. It’s so distant, but it’s watching always, as if it were here on the ground with us.
The sky makes me a little nervous, and if you care even the slightest bit to hear about it, then, well, I suppose I’ll tell you why. The sky above absolutely terrifies me to be perfectly honest, which is what I’m trying my best to be. It makes me dizzy and no matter where you look it’s always there in the corner of your eye, so vast, so eager to always make its self known. A real social butterfly that old sky up there is, a regular people person; always wanting to be the center of attention, always forcing his way right on into your line of sight, or her way, if he happens to be a she. I really don’t care much for that old obnoxious sky, and I don’t care much for anyone like him. They’re all an obnoxious lot, and they’re always in a rush, a big cluster of homo sapiens rushing about and fighting each other and then the next second pretending they love each other again, even though they go on fighting each other with the heat-seeking missile called gossip, the one that, no matter who they’re aiming it at, always finds its way right back to the poor old fellow who it’s directed towards, and then the personal fighting starts again and it all goes on for infinity, just like the sky does. Oh, that old sky. . .
And that’s why I don’t like the sky much, or any of the precious little gifts from above that it spawned. It all makes me dizzy, and anxious to be quite frank. What I quite like to do in my own spare time is to analyze the funny little designs on those sweaters. You know, like those really ugly sweaters that everyone gets at one time or another, probably when they’re still too young to dress themselves and are still being dressed by their mommy’s and daddy’s or legal guardians. I like those funny old sweaters, oddly enough; they certainly do a good job of keeping the mind busy, with all those zig zags and those color patterns that seem bland at first, but then just sort of jump out at you. You just have to analyze them, you see, and that’s what I enjoy doing the most. But my old set of a mommy and daddy, who I have affectionately labeled Mommy and Daddy, with a capital M and a capital D, in order to remain grammatically correct, (proper nouns, you know) they don’t quite understand this unique hobby of mine. I just don’t see the use in letting all those poor ugly sweaters go to waste, when there’s starving kids in Africa and in Europe and Atlantis and all those other poor old starving countries who would just love to have one of those sweaters. That’s what I have to say about it, anyways, though the unanimous opinion of Mommy and Daddy and every other opinionated Sky Child out there is that analyzing sweaters, or “counting the zags,” as I have affectionately labeled it, is an unhealthy waste of time that hardly deserves to be called a hobby. Well, that’s all deep-friend fine and dandy, if that’s what they want to believe, but the way I see it is this: the way I see it is that we can either let those dirty old mistreated sweaters rot and go to waste on the clearance racks, or we can take them and put them to use. And I’d just love to buy a sweater or two like them, and mail them right off to Africa or Europe or Bethleham, the latter especially, so they don’t have to birth any more babies in those dirty old mangers, because judging by the name of the place they’re probably the Ham Capital of The Universe, and the last thing they need is babies crowding up their mangers and starving their piggies. Maybe countin’ the zags would become an Olympic sport or something there, and then they could get all kinds of wealth and publicity by selling professional zag countin’ merchandise and improve the state of their economy. Yes indeed, I’d just love to help out one or two of those third-world countries way over there on the other side of the universe, but seeing as how I don’t know the address for a single one of those places, I’ll have to put those sweaters to use the best way I know how, and so I’ll keep on countin’ the zags until the day I die, unhealthy or not. That’s just the way it is, and quite possibly the way it always will be.

“Title”

Well as you could probably infer I never did decide to cross that bridge and get on that ride. My opinions stood firm, despite watching the masses of little girls and boys seeming to have just the wildest time on the ride. I didn’t want to ride it, because it didn’t look enjoyable from where I stood, and so I didn’t do it, and that’s that. It’s not that I’m a stubborn old mule, it’s just that I like what I like, and I dislike what I dislike, and no amount of being the “odd one out” is ever going to change it. No, I’m not a stubborn mule in the least, at least not from where I stand, but rather a grim faced old stone statue, standing out in the midst of a field. And this field, it used to be nice and windy and quiet, and the statue, which is still me, in case you forgot, doesn’t mind the wind in the least, enjoys it even. But, pretty soon all of these trees start growing, and before you know it, the statue is overshadowed and shrouded by all of these old rustling trees. They can be oak trees, or evergreens, or even palm trees, if you like, because the type of trees is completely irrelevant to the metaphor. But those trees come, and they start rustling around and making a big ruckus in the wind, and the statue doesn’t like them much, (that is to say, I don’t like them much) and doesn’t quite enjoy the wind like he used to. But, statues don’t change, no matter how many trees grow around them. They stay grimfaced and beautiful, no matter how overlooked they are by all those rustling trees, by those wild Sky Children.