Checking In

I haven't posted for awhile, and now is a good time, I suppose. I've really been concentrating on getting through this latest semester of school with a 4.0 gpa. It's been harder than I thought at some points, and easier at others.

American National Government is a really frustrating course. I can't quite put my finger on why. Is it because I don't find our government interesting? Is it because the instructor offers no "fun" activities, instead having us write and write and write some more? I don't know what it is, but this is the class I've hard the most trouble with. I'm not cut out for the world of politics, whatever the reason.

Psychology of Human Relations has been cool. I still plan on Psychology being my major, so already I know its something I enjoy. The instructor does a good job with lectures as well and invites class participation. Not a horrible class for 7:30 am.

College Algebra hasn't been a bad class, just really challenging. I spend a lot of my time studying on this class. It is a constant struggle not only to learn the lesson in front of me, but also to see how this lesson fits in with every lesson I've learned before. The instructor makes all the difference in this class as well. He is very available for assistance when I'm having problems with the course material.

The real gem has been Cultural Anthropology and Human Diversity. The guy that teaches this class cracks me the hell up. He doesn't get off subject and just start talking about anything either, he actually makes the course material exciting and fun. MATC got a deal on this guy, no matter what they pay him.

Finals are next week. I have two of my three projects done, my second to last exam for College Algebra today, and one comprehensive final exam to study for. Psychology and Anthropology are A's. I'm comfortable saying that. I'm pretty sure about College Algebra as well. American National Government is a coin toss between an A and a B at this point. We'll see what we see, I guess.

The art of forgiving

I have a hard time forgiving people. A really hard time. I remember almost ever single thing that anyone has ever done wrong to me. Every sneer, every dollar not paid back, every knife in my back. I still remember what those people look like, what they did to me, and dream of what I would do to them if I ever saw them again.

But why do I dream of what they've done wrong to me? Why do I obsessively fantasize about getting even when no one else remembers what it is I'm so upset about? Answer? Because I can't forgive myself. I can hardly begin to. I constantly beat my own spirit up about what I've done to people and how evil I am. I can hardly stand myself some days. I literally have dreams about going back after the kids that bullied me in elementary school when I was undersized and bullying them because I'm the crazy one now.

But what if I go back, and no one remembers? What if they've all forgotten? Would that be better because I could carry out my sick dreams and never get caught? Would that really help me? Wouldn't that just make me more evil and sadistic? Wouldn't that make me less able to forgive myself?

Why is it that I'm unable to forgive myself, you ask. Well let's see. I HAVE been that bully that I hate so much. I've beaten down the weak and defenseless. I've been the overly violent one. Let me just say that being the overly violent one is very hard on the soul for me. I feel great when the power of anger is gripped tightly between my clenched fingers that form fists. I feel righteous and invincible and the air tastes so sweet when you breathe it in deep gulps. And then... and then... and then... it ebbs. The feeling of power and control leaves me, and I've done it again. There before me is a crumpled shape that was a confident person that I had to take down a notch for some imagined slight. This slight may not have been directed at me, mind you. It's just that I feel like I have to equalize for everyone I guess. That is such a horrible, empty, desolate place. All the colors come out of the world, and all I'm left with is shame. Hot tears are sure to follow.

So what's this all about? A dream. A dream where I saw someone that used to pick on me when I was in junior high because he was bigger than me, except that now, I'm bigger than him. I'm still pissed off at him, by the way. I have not been able to forgive him yet.

So I see him in the dream and he owes me 500 dollars. I knew he wouldn't be able to pay me back and that's part of my joy. So the next time I see him, I beat him down. I have him hemmed up in a corner and I kick him a few times while he's down for good measure. Nothing in the face, mind you, but he knows he's being kicked. I bend down to him and put my fist in his neck right under the jaw, so he can't go anywhere and I really put my weight into it. I tell him he's got 30 days to pay me, or else it goes up 25 dollars every day after that.

I know he can't pay me back, but that's the beauty, right? I've just told him that's he's mine until I say he isn't. Except that's just a dream. That's not really what happened. The fact of the matter is, until I forgive him, I'm his. He probably doesn't remember me. I remember him. Who's really owned here?

All the things that I'd take back

I'd take back the words that hurt you
I wouldn't make myself lose
I'd keep my dick in my pants
And my hands off the booze

I'd pick you up off the floor
Put the tears back behind your eyes
The knife back in the drawer
I'd give you back your lies

I'd keep the car on the road
The weed out of your lungs
I'd speed up the parts we slowed
I'd take us back to young

The glass would come out of your face
Your smile would be whole again
And your bones would reform in place
...unfinished

Ryan and Frankie

Ryan Johanssen sat on the newspaper box and cracked his knuckles. He hated when his parents fought. He hated having to take his sister Frankie out with him when they did. What was he supposed to do though? Leave her in there while they fought over who blew all the rent and grocery money on what drugs? Even his slow flickering mind could cast light on the idea that this was no good.

His stomach churned acid. They were going to have to go to the shelter to get something to eat again. He hated scraping and groveling but how else would he eat today? The church ladies always looked askance at him when he walked in. Almost like they thought all he did was walk around looking for free food all day. There was nothing he could do about his size. Food just stuck to his ribs better. That’s what his grandmother always said, but the shelter ladies always looked at Frankie and then Ryan like he was stealing her food. He had never even fathomed such an idea. He had to protect her and keep her fed on days like these, otherwise she would begin to cry and sniffle. If there was one thing Ryan was not equipped to deal with, it was Frankie’s emotions.

It was a long walk to the shelter though. If his parents realized he had taken his sister on that far of a walk they would punish him. Ryan also did not have the tools available to deal with someone being mad at him. His two responses were silence and rage, and neither flew with his parents, especially when they were sober.

They had owned bikes once. Not that they were great, but they were faster than walking, and kept the two from feeling as poor as they actually were. Ryan didn’t really know what happened to them, it was better not to ask. They were probably sold for a few rocks of cocaine while the kids were sleeping.

The kids wouldn’t even have clothes on their backs if it weren’t for holiday presents from relatives and their grandparents. Sometimes Ryan wished everyday was a weekend day and his grandparents were actually his parents.

The soundtrack of his real parent’s argument was indistinguishable from any other: Various yelling punctuated by something being slammed or thrown. Occasionally the cacophony of breaking glass could be heard. No possession lasted long in the ground floor apartment. The sound would die down from time to time. Ryan knew from experience that this was not the end, merely a chance for his parents to catch their breath and find something else to argue about. To enter during one of those intermissions would simply invite punishment of some kind.

It wasn’t so bad when they punished him. He could wait it out. He knew it would be over soon and that someday it would be over for good. What hurt most was when they went after Frankie. She had stopped reacting. He glanced over at her to see how she was doing. She had crawled into the other newspaper box like some feral creature trying to protect itself from predators. The only way that someone could get to her was from her line of vision. Her stare was listless and spacey as it was in times like these anymore. She had her ways of protecting herself, and they were somewhere deep in her subconscious.

Ryan’s stomach churned again. He made a decision, for better or for worse. He coaxed Frankie our of the newspaper box, held down the lid so that she didn’t scrape herself as she got out. He then scooped her up and started walking. She would walk eventually, once she came to and realized they were going somewhere. He just hoped there wouldn’t be too much trouble for them when they returned. Only two more days until the weekend.

Ty Ty the Bitch

Gabcast! Ty Ty the Bitch #1




She was just a blonde
bitch the first time we met
She ran over and grabbed my hand
I hadn't learned her name yet

Her golden eyes looked up to mine
Take me home they said
But I had no home
So I went back to jail instead

Then I heard the stories
Her home life wasn't good
I mused about taking her
After my release, decided I should

She was grateful
Her rear end trembling with pleasure
She held my hand whenever she could
The length of her kisses was without measure

We share our pasts in common
Both raised to fight, to win
But we would rather just love
Forgetting our past sins

She's always disappointed when I must go
She sighs and hangs her head
But inside she knows
Soon I will return and we'll run to the bed

Where she'll leap right in
Her hands busy in play
Her body telling me she loves me
Her panting telling me all she cannot say

Until I figure out she smells like shit
Once again she's been rolling in flowers
Delicately I pick her up, holding her away from me
And take her to the bathroom for a shower

The Pardon by Richard Wilbur

My dog lay dead five days without a grave
In the thick of summer, hid in a clump of pine
And a jungle of grass and honeysuckle-vine.
I who had loved him while he kept alive

Went only close enough to where he was
To sniff the honeysuckle-smell
Twined with another odour heavier still
And hear the flies' intiolerable buzz.

Well, I was ten years old and very much afraid.
In my kind world the dead were out of range
And I could not forgive the sad or strange
In beast or man. My father took the spade

And buried him. Last night I saw the grass
Slowly divide (it was the same scene
But now it glowed a fierce and mortal green)
And saw the dog emerging. I confess

I felt afraid again, but still he came
In the carnal sun, clothed in a hymn of flies
And death was breeding in his lively eyes
I started to cry and call his name

Asking forgiveness of his tongueless head.
...I dreamt the past was never past redeeming:
But whether this was false or honest dreaming
I beg death's pardon now. And mourn the dead.


This poem affected in a couple different ways. Obviously, it speaks of death and the fear of those who are dead coming back to repay us for the ways we wronged them in their life or their death. The boy who is ten is worried that he neglected the dog, left him alone too long, and that he may have died because of it.

I also liked the contradictions the poem presented in the last two stanzas. Even though a dead dog is rising from it's grave, the green glows a fierce and mortal green. The flies intolerable buzz instead becomes a hymn. Death is breeding in his lively eyes.

I related to the fact that as children, we don't understand, tolerate or accept death. The first death is always the strangest. How could a pet or a relative simply be gone? How could our parents, who can fix everything, be unable to make this right? Why would a being who created our world and who is all powerful let this happen to a soul that we wanted to keep around?

Then the author tries to come to grips with the idea in the last few lines when he says I dreamt the past was never past redeeming... I beg death's pardon now. And mourn the dead. The author humanizes death ( as many of us try to do) in order to understand it. He asks forgiveness from death itself for his childhood transgressions against it. Maybe because he fears his own death someday.

This poem jumped out at me. I've lost alot of relatives and pets over the years. I've never really been a fan of death. Now as I grow older however, I try to show death some respect so that I may be treated well in my own death. It doesn't make any rational sense, but there it is just the same.

The Card Sharks

The kitchen is smoky and hazy, even though the ceiling fan turns at a decent pace. It’s cold outside but the small house is kept warm by the old furnace in the basement and by the 15 or so people that are packed in to it’s small floor plan. It’s Friday night, and as always, the extended family flocks to my grandparents’ house for some cards and company.

I am six years old and the scene is nothing special to me. It is exciting, however, because it is a chance for me to play with all of my cousins and mingle with the older relatives. My grandfather calls on me again and again to perform in some way while everyone plays cards. Every time I do perform, he throws his head back and laughs from his seat at the end of the table. My grandmother smiles quietly when everyone else laughs because she knows this is not who I really am. I do this only to appease my grandfather, the patriarch. Besides, she never speaks much when playing Canasta, but she wins a lot.

My cousin Earl and I end up rough housing on the floor at my grandfather’s feet. Earl is older than me and heavier, but I can beat him if I try my hardest. My grandfather looks down and gives a quick “QUIT IT.”

We sheepishly comply and end up playing some simple game on our butts in front of his chair. He calmly works the cards around in his new hand of cards until he has them arranged and then looks down at us, smelling of Afta Shave. “Do you like to sweat?” he asks me. “What?” I don’t know what sweat means. He turns to my older cousin. “Earl, do you like to sweat?” My cousin quickly chimes in, “Yeah, I like to sweat Unca Earl!” I’m still confused. My grandfather repeats the question, but I just stare at him with my mouth hanging open. What is sweat? He tells me it’s what happens when you work hard, and that I should like it. I quickly stammer that I like it, but he’s already playing this hand of cards.