Tuesday, March 08, 2005

Rebuttal:

it snowed today. a lot. it's still snowing.
i'm happy.

there really isn't much to do around the house i spent so many years in, i've sort of exhausted the building itself as a means of entertainment.
let me rephrase that, there isn't much i want to do around this house.

i could go play in the snow.
like a little kid.

it's so very cliche, but everyone really secretly wishes they could go back in time and be themselves, but know everything they know now. i could be a stoic, pompous little elementary-schooler, and know perfectly well what i was doing.
i could make millions.
like i said, cliche.
so cliche, there's a spielberg movie about it.
that's when you know it's cliche.

oh well.
so as i sit here in the hallway, i can see in my parents' room.
it's nice, the window shades are pulled down, but there's that glow of white creeping out behind them.
it's like i remember it.
i swear one day i'll write a memoir.

it's that sort of natural thing that we have tried so many times to recreate with fluorescence behind material, yet never looks quite the same.
and it's still snowing.

remember when you were little and you would stare at things until it seemed like they would come alive?
like walls and chairs. and then you would move your eyes and realise it wasn't moving, you were just staring at it for a while.
this was about the same time you would press on your eyelids and see stars and weird designs.
it was probably bad for your eyes, but fun to do when you were bored in class.
until the teacher called on you and the stars wouldn't go away for a bit, so you couldn't really see anything.

i dropped my mom off at the doctor's office this morning, she let me take the car (actually, it's because i needed to go to the post office to mail my broken digital camera all the way to texas).
and i dropped her off and watched her walk to the building, (she was going right from there to work, since it's like a block down the street).
she had her hood up and was walking through the snow, i don't know.
i owe my parents so much.
maybe it's all the childhood cartoons where clark kent sends practically all of his paycheck back to ma and pa in hicksville.
maybe it's society telling me i should be looking out for everyone.
but i do owe them a great deal.

more than i care to let on.

look, i'm sorry i upset you, i didn't mean to. i also didn't mean to insinuate anything false or bad about you, but even if i did i have the suspicion that no one would believe it. you don't give yourself enough credit, and people know who you are, and wouldn't believe anything bad i said about you.
but i am truly sorry, why would i ever want to cause you any pain when you've been so damn nice to me the past half a year (and before that, i suppose).
i don't deserve most of what we do together, but now i'm getting all mushy.

i applied for a job at borders today.
i'm applying for a job at tobyhanna sometime this week.
i just really don't want to go back to being a gas station clerk.
the pay was good, but it sucked.

i always get really great ideas for short stories, but i can never follow through on them.
i just hit a dead end.
i think it's because i have no idea where the story should GO.
i ave beginnings, but no endings, therefore i can't make middles.
go-fricking-figure.


let's forget, and play in the snow.
i can make an angel
look just like you, imprinted on a hillside
it'll even have a handprint on it,
and shoe scuffles starting just outside.
but right there there's an
accurate representation
of a foolish realisation
of you to me.
and when i fall i'll stay down
breathing out hard, melting
the snow beneath my face,
and leaving yet another temporary signature
for whoever may look out from a tree
top. we'll slide down the hills
and laugh and cry and fear.
and it'll be just as i remember it
to be, a white wintry mix
of child-dreams and hot cocoa.

i'll make a fort and hide from you,
and walk across the mile-wide lake.
on my own two feet,
to camp on the island in my best
frozen impression
of huckleberry finn.

so let's go play.

fin.

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