Thursday, December 4, 2008
Sunday, November 30, 2008
Dear Kerouac draft 2
Dear Mr. Jack Kerouac,
You have been named “The King of the Beats” and so before even opening my first Kerouac book I was excited. I had no idea what a beat was or how to be the king of one but I was excited. My expectations were never left unfulfilled. As I turned the first page open eagerly I was instantly intrigued by the frank but detailed language. That first page was a fine cocktail of dry humor, longing and pure bitter-sweet composure. Everything about “On the Road” engaged me.
The motif of freedom and restlessness spoke to me, a bored teenage boy. What could be greater than leaving all responsibility behind you and seeing the world with your best friends? In the midst of the glorious 1950’s where “The American Dream” conquered the minds of the masses your character, Sal, decided that he frankly didn’t give a damn. He rejected the ideals of society at the time which was to acquire a huge monstrosity of a house in the suburbs, settle down with your beautiful blond wife and father several happy white children. Sal joined the hobos, the socialists and the bohemians with pride. But enough about Sal, I admire YOU, Jack Kerouac.
My admiration for you comes from my love of all that is indie. You, the founding father of “The Beat Generation”, have inspired me as a writer and I would imagine that you were good friends with Bob Dylan himself. If you were a folk singer I would buy every album promptly in vinyl form. That’s just how dedicated I am to you. I could only imagine that you lived a lifestyle similar to Sal’s and yet you say “I am no beatnik. I am a Catholic”. I don’t know of many devout Catholic Benzedrine junkies. You wrote “On The Road” in twenty days while high on speed the whole time. Although it did inspire masterpieces of literature such a crazy lifestyle was ultimately your downfall. “It’s better to burn out then to fade away. The king is gone but he’s not forgotten” says Neil Young, but dying of cirrhosis at the age of forty-seven does not seem quite as glorious. Where else could you get such substance and detail in your stories if not real life? Do words simply flow from your mind to the paper without troubles or do you strain over every inch of ink? I struggle with these things daily with my own writing. Your masterpieces are almost discouraging to me. I’ll never be as great as you and I often wonder what the point is. Is that a silly thing to think? It must be. I’d imagine that you need someone to pass the baton to and I’m right here. I hope you don’t mind passing some wisdom to me as well as the baton because I sure can’t do it on my own. I’m assuming that is where the Benzedrine comes into play... that was a joke.
Sincerely,
William Toler Marsh
You have been named “The King of the Beats” and so before even opening my first Kerouac book I was excited. I had no idea what a beat was or how to be the king of one but I was excited. My expectations were never left unfulfilled. As I turned the first page open eagerly I was instantly intrigued by the frank but detailed language. That first page was a fine cocktail of dry humor, longing and pure bitter-sweet composure. Everything about “On the Road” engaged me.
The motif of freedom and restlessness spoke to me, a bored teenage boy. What could be greater than leaving all responsibility behind you and seeing the world with your best friends? In the midst of the glorious 1950’s where “The American Dream” conquered the minds of the masses your character, Sal, decided that he frankly didn’t give a damn. He rejected the ideals of society at the time which was to acquire a huge monstrosity of a house in the suburbs, settle down with your beautiful blond wife and father several happy white children. Sal joined the hobos, the socialists and the bohemians with pride. But enough about Sal, I admire YOU, Jack Kerouac.
My admiration for you comes from my love of all that is indie. You, the founding father of “The Beat Generation”, have inspired me as a writer and I would imagine that you were good friends with Bob Dylan himself. If you were a folk singer I would buy every album promptly in vinyl form. That’s just how dedicated I am to you. I could only imagine that you lived a lifestyle similar to Sal’s and yet you say “I am no beatnik. I am a Catholic”. I don’t know of many devout Catholic Benzedrine junkies. You wrote “On The Road” in twenty days while high on speed the whole time. Although it did inspire masterpieces of literature such a crazy lifestyle was ultimately your downfall. “It’s better to burn out then to fade away. The king is gone but he’s not forgotten” says Neil Young, but dying of cirrhosis at the age of forty-seven does not seem quite as glorious. Where else could you get such substance and detail in your stories if not real life? Do words simply flow from your mind to the paper without troubles or do you strain over every inch of ink? I struggle with these things daily with my own writing. Your masterpieces are almost discouraging to me. I’ll never be as great as you and I often wonder what the point is. Is that a silly thing to think? It must be. I’d imagine that you need someone to pass the baton to and I’m right here. I hope you don’t mind passing some wisdom to me as well as the baton because I sure can’t do it on my own. I’m assuming that is where the Benzedrine comes into play... that was a joke.
Sincerely,
William Toler Marsh
Sunday, November 23, 2008
Dear Mr. Jack Kerouac
Dear Mr. Jack Kerouac,
Before even starting to read your book “On the Road” I was immediately struck by your name. Just the fact that your first and last name rhymed made me think of you in a greater esteem. A man with such a name must be some great poet, philosopher or at least a talented novelist. My expectations were never left unfulfilled. As I turned the first page open eagerly I was instantly intrigued by the frank but detailed language. That first page was a fine cocktail of dry humor, longing and pure bitter-sweet composure. Everything about “On the Road” engaged me.
The motif of freedom and restlessness spoke to me, the bored teenage boy. What could be greater than leaving all responsibility behind you and seeing the world with your best friends? In the midst of the glorious 1950’s where “The American Dream” conquered the minds of the masses your character, Sal, decided that he frankly didn’t give a damn. He rejected the ideals of society at the time; acquire a huge monstrosity of a house in the suburbs, settle down with your beautiful blond wife and father several happy white children. Sal joined the hobos, the socialists and the bohemians with pride. But enough about Sal, I admire YOU, Jack Kerouac.
My admiration for you comes from my love of all that is indie. You, the founding father of “The Beat Generation”, have inspired me as a writer and I would imagine that you were good friends with Bob Dylan himself. If you were a folk singer I would buy every album promptly in vinyl form even IF that was more expensive than CD. That’s just how dedicated I am to you. I could only imagine that you lived a lifestyle similar to Sal’s. Where else could you get such substance and detail in your stories? Do words simply flow from your mind to the paper without troubles or do you strain over every inch of ink? I struggle with these things daily with my own writing. Your masterpieces are almost discouraging to me. I’ll never be as great as you and I often what the point is. Is that a silly thing to think? It must be. I’d imagine that you need someone to pass the baton to and I’m right here. I hope you don’t mind passing some wisdom to me as well as the baton because I sure can’t do it on my own.
I want people to think of me and say “Man, he sure is going to do great things. He doesn’t even seem to try. He sleeps in class and everything. How is he so doggone brilliant if he sleeps in class?”. I’m quite POSITIVE you slept in class too. I bet you didn’t even go to college. Who needs college when you’ve got the whole world to teach you? I don’t see the point of sitting in some seminar in a steamy university building when you could be burning through Joshua Tree with folk rock on the radio and windows down. There is more inspiration and soul in the deserts of ole California then any smug college town. I still have one more question: do you wear flannel?
Sincerely,
William Toler Marsh
Before even starting to read your book “On the Road” I was immediately struck by your name. Just the fact that your first and last name rhymed made me think of you in a greater esteem. A man with such a name must be some great poet, philosopher or at least a talented novelist. My expectations were never left unfulfilled. As I turned the first page open eagerly I was instantly intrigued by the frank but detailed language. That first page was a fine cocktail of dry humor, longing and pure bitter-sweet composure. Everything about “On the Road” engaged me.
The motif of freedom and restlessness spoke to me, the bored teenage boy. What could be greater than leaving all responsibility behind you and seeing the world with your best friends? In the midst of the glorious 1950’s where “The American Dream” conquered the minds of the masses your character, Sal, decided that he frankly didn’t give a damn. He rejected the ideals of society at the time; acquire a huge monstrosity of a house in the suburbs, settle down with your beautiful blond wife and father several happy white children. Sal joined the hobos, the socialists and the bohemians with pride. But enough about Sal, I admire YOU, Jack Kerouac.
My admiration for you comes from my love of all that is indie. You, the founding father of “The Beat Generation”, have inspired me as a writer and I would imagine that you were good friends with Bob Dylan himself. If you were a folk singer I would buy every album promptly in vinyl form even IF that was more expensive than CD. That’s just how dedicated I am to you. I could only imagine that you lived a lifestyle similar to Sal’s. Where else could you get such substance and detail in your stories? Do words simply flow from your mind to the paper without troubles or do you strain over every inch of ink? I struggle with these things daily with my own writing. Your masterpieces are almost discouraging to me. I’ll never be as great as you and I often what the point is. Is that a silly thing to think? It must be. I’d imagine that you need someone to pass the baton to and I’m right here. I hope you don’t mind passing some wisdom to me as well as the baton because I sure can’t do it on my own.
I want people to think of me and say “Man, he sure is going to do great things. He doesn’t even seem to try. He sleeps in class and everything. How is he so doggone brilliant if he sleeps in class?”. I’m quite POSITIVE you slept in class too. I bet you didn’t even go to college. Who needs college when you’ve got the whole world to teach you? I don’t see the point of sitting in some seminar in a steamy university building when you could be burning through Joshua Tree with folk rock on the radio and windows down. There is more inspiration and soul in the deserts of ole California then any smug college town. I still have one more question: do you wear flannel?
Sincerely,
William Toler Marsh
Thursday, October 30, 2008
Monday, October 20, 2008
will Writing Assignment 2 Final draft
As I watch the sun drip down the rail road tracks like honey my mind wanders. My consciousness drifts away like heat off the pavement in this hazy August afternoon. Green vines wrap around the blocks of wood covered in miles of steel. I am a day dreamer. I dream of past places and times and I dream of the future. I’m waiting for a train headed south. Actually, for all I know it could be headed straight up to Canada. What I do know is that it’s sure as hell not here. Not this small town where train tracks haunt me everywhere I go or where I see my former life in everything. It’s not here and I’m fine with that.
There is something about train tracks that always gets to me. When I hear a train rumbling by I think of freedom, moving on. Sometimes I wish I could just pack my life into a bag and hop on one of those trains. Find a new a town, a new place where I can be whoever I want to be. And here I am. I’m gonna hit the road and go wherever the powers that be take me.
The hobo lying on the bench to the right of me reeks of BO and alcohol mixed with a smell of what I would imagine as “restlessness”. His face is pinkish with a scruffy, short beard and patchy brown hair. He awakes abruptly.
“Where you headed, man?” he says to me.
His age is impossible to tell, possibly late middle-ages. Old enough for him to have had a previous life.
“I’m not quite sure, I’m just getting out of here.” I tell him.
“Hah, I sure know where you’re comin’ from.” He replies in a husky, cigarette voice. He notices my guitar case close at hand. “Play me some music man, I’ve had a long day…”
He goes on to tell me about his “long day” (his dog runs away, loses his cigarettes in a bet etc.). I don’t really need to get into it. As I pull out my beautiful honey-burst guitar along with my harmonica he asks me to play a song about a train. I immediately recognize the sentimental value of this and start up “Slow train coming”.
“I had a woman down in Alabama,She was a backwoods girl, but she sure was realistic,She said, "Boy, without a doubt, have to quit your mess and straighten out,You could die down here, be just another accident statistic."There's a slow, slow train comin' up around the bend.”
My attempt at a Bob Dylan drawl sounds more like a washed up Neil Young but I pull it off.
“That’s some intense stuff, man” He says as silent tears drop like feelings kept to himself.
That was flattering, honestly. I go on to play “Serve Somebody”. I’m no evangelist but I know how to work a crowd.
“It might be the devil
It might be lord
But you gotta serve somebody”
In the middle of the second verse the music is overcome by the sounds of moaning steel coming to a halt. He apparently has decided to rest a little bit longer in his spot under the Amtrack sign and we part are ways. I shake his hand and climb aboard the south bound train with my guitar, harmonica, and a backpack full of an extra pair of jeans, boxers, and plenty of flannel shirts.
There is something about train tracks that always gets to me. When I hear a train rumbling by I think of freedom, moving on. Sometimes I wish I could just pack my life into a bag and hop on one of those trains. Find a new a town, a new place where I can be whoever I want to be. And here I am. I’m gonna hit the road and go wherever the powers that be take me.
The hobo lying on the bench to the right of me reeks of BO and alcohol mixed with a smell of what I would imagine as “restlessness”. His face is pinkish with a scruffy, short beard and patchy brown hair. He awakes abruptly.
“Where you headed, man?” he says to me.
His age is impossible to tell, possibly late middle-ages. Old enough for him to have had a previous life.
“I’m not quite sure, I’m just getting out of here.” I tell him.
“Hah, I sure know where you’re comin’ from.” He replies in a husky, cigarette voice. He notices my guitar case close at hand. “Play me some music man, I’ve had a long day…”
He goes on to tell me about his “long day” (his dog runs away, loses his cigarettes in a bet etc.). I don’t really need to get into it. As I pull out my beautiful honey-burst guitar along with my harmonica he asks me to play a song about a train. I immediately recognize the sentimental value of this and start up “Slow train coming”.
“I had a woman down in Alabama,She was a backwoods girl, but she sure was realistic,She said, "Boy, without a doubt, have to quit your mess and straighten out,You could die down here, be just another accident statistic."There's a slow, slow train comin' up around the bend.”
My attempt at a Bob Dylan drawl sounds more like a washed up Neil Young but I pull it off.
“That’s some intense stuff, man” He says as silent tears drop like feelings kept to himself.
That was flattering, honestly. I go on to play “Serve Somebody”. I’m no evangelist but I know how to work a crowd.
“It might be the devil
It might be lord
But you gotta serve somebody”
In the middle of the second verse the music is overcome by the sounds of moaning steel coming to a halt. He apparently has decided to rest a little bit longer in his spot under the Amtrack sign and we part are ways. I shake his hand and climb aboard the south bound train with my guitar, harmonica, and a backpack full of an extra pair of jeans, boxers, and plenty of flannel shirts.
Sunday, October 19, 2008
will Writing Assignment 2 Draft 2
There is something about train tracks that always gets to me. When I hear a train rumbling by I think of freedom, moving on. I see train tracks everywhere I go in this small town. I can’t get away from them. Sometimes I wish I could just pack my life into a bag and hop on one of those trains. Find a new a town, a new place where I can be whoever I want to be. I think I'll hit the road and go wherever the powers that be take me.
So you say you want to be jaded? Well, we'll see about that. You want to know what freedom really means. We'll see about that too. We could go north or we could go south it doesn't matter to me. Let’s just drive your car, we could drive all day. Let’s just get the hell away from here. We'll be like bandits on the run, pilgrims searching for the unknown enlightenment that only the setting sun has seen. Because I am sick again, just plain sick to death of the sound of my own voice.
Let’s go to Chelsea, there is something about the buildings there that always brings me back. I dream about New York City sometimes. I see the dark waves washing away the night. I see stars that look like suns exploding in the sky that have just now begun to fade away. Whenever I hear that song on the radio it takes me to the city, takes me away from here.
We could head west. Hop a train on its way to California and I've always wanted to go to Mexico. Living off nothing but taco bars and sweet sunshine we could finally fade away. We could do the things, all the things you want to. No one here really cares about us anyway. We could forget about everything and all the memories that keep you down. Simply let go of the things that holds us back. I'll buy some cowboy boots and we'll just drive. It's been so long since I've seen a palm tree.
Some say love is what saves us from ourselves. I say that love is a ghost train rumbling through the darkness, howling on the radio, haunting anyone who happens to see it. I see it every day as the sun is setting in the West. The moaning steel gets almost too loud that I can’t bear it, and then it slowly fades away to an echo in the distance. We could spend all our lives chasing it, following the train tracks until we reach the shimmering ocean on the other side. I'm not quite sure what I'm chasing anymore. Am I searching for freedom from the past and a small town or the ghost train that is love? Could that be the reason for my wanderings? A physical search for one big metaphor which is haunting love. Once you get a glimpse of it rolling on by you cannot resist following it. The irony is overwhelming. Life is one big circle after all. We’ll spend all our lives searching for freedom but in fact we have no other option.
So you say you want to be jaded? Well, we'll see about that. You want to know what freedom really means. We'll see about that too. We could go north or we could go south it doesn't matter to me. Let’s just drive your car, we could drive all day. Let’s just get the hell away from here. We'll be like bandits on the run, pilgrims searching for the unknown enlightenment that only the setting sun has seen. Because I am sick again, just plain sick to death of the sound of my own voice.
Let’s go to Chelsea, there is something about the buildings there that always brings me back. I dream about New York City sometimes. I see the dark waves washing away the night. I see stars that look like suns exploding in the sky that have just now begun to fade away. Whenever I hear that song on the radio it takes me to the city, takes me away from here.
We could head west. Hop a train on its way to California and I've always wanted to go to Mexico. Living off nothing but taco bars and sweet sunshine we could finally fade away. We could do the things, all the things you want to. No one here really cares about us anyway. We could forget about everything and all the memories that keep you down. Simply let go of the things that holds us back. I'll buy some cowboy boots and we'll just drive. It's been so long since I've seen a palm tree.
Some say love is what saves us from ourselves. I say that love is a ghost train rumbling through the darkness, howling on the radio, haunting anyone who happens to see it. I see it every day as the sun is setting in the West. The moaning steel gets almost too loud that I can’t bear it, and then it slowly fades away to an echo in the distance. We could spend all our lives chasing it, following the train tracks until we reach the shimmering ocean on the other side. I'm not quite sure what I'm chasing anymore. Am I searching for freedom from the past and a small town or the ghost train that is love? Could that be the reason for my wanderings? A physical search for one big metaphor which is haunting love. Once you get a glimpse of it rolling on by you cannot resist following it. The irony is overwhelming. Life is one big circle after all. We’ll spend all our lives searching for freedom but in fact we have no other option.
Sunday, October 12, 2008
will Writing Assignment 2
There is something about train tracks that always gets to me. When I hear a train rumbling by I think of freedom, moving on. I see train tracks everywhere I go in this small town. I can’t get away from them. Sometimes I wish I could just pack my bags and leave. Find a new a town, a new place where I can be whoever I want to be. I think I'll hit the road and go wherever the powers that be take me.
So you say you want to be jaded? Well, we'll see about that. You want to know what freedom really means. We'll see about that as well. We could go north or we could go south it doesn't matter to me. Let’s just drive your car, we could drive all day. Let’s just get the hell away from here. We'll be like bandits on the run, pilgrims searching for the unknown enlightenment that only the setting sun has seen. Because I am sick again, just plain sick to death of the sound of my own voice.
Let’s go to Chelsea, there is something about the buildings there that always brings me back. I dream about New York City sometimes and I can see the dark waves washing away the night. I see stars that look like suns exploding in the sky that have just now begun to fade away. Whenever I hear that song on the radio it takes me to the city, takes me away from here.
We could head west. Hop a train on its way to California and I've always wanted to go to Mexico. Living off nothing but taco bars and sweet sunshine we could finally fade away. We could do the things, all the things you want to. No one here really cares about us anyway. We could forget about everything and all the memories that keep you down. Simply let go of the things that holds us back. I'll buy some cowboy boots and we'll just drive. It's been so long since I've seen a palm tree.
Some say love is what saves us from ourselves. I say that love is a ghost train rumbling through the darkness, howling on the radio, haunting anyone who happens to see it. I see it every day as the sun is setting in the West. The moaning steel gets almost too loud that I can’t bear it, and then it slowly fades away to an echo in the distance. We could spend all our lives chasing it, following the train tracks until we reach the shimmering ocean on the other side. I'm not quite sure what I'm chasing anymore. Am I searching for freedom from the past and a small town following the ghost train that is love? Could that be the reason for my wanderings? A physical search for one big metaphor which is haunting love. Once you get a glimpse of it rolling on by you cannot resist following it. The irony is overwhelming. We’ll spend all our lives searching for freedom but in fact we have no other option.
So you say you want to be jaded? Well, we'll see about that. You want to know what freedom really means. We'll see about that as well. We could go north or we could go south it doesn't matter to me. Let’s just drive your car, we could drive all day. Let’s just get the hell away from here. We'll be like bandits on the run, pilgrims searching for the unknown enlightenment that only the setting sun has seen. Because I am sick again, just plain sick to death of the sound of my own voice.
Let’s go to Chelsea, there is something about the buildings there that always brings me back. I dream about New York City sometimes and I can see the dark waves washing away the night. I see stars that look like suns exploding in the sky that have just now begun to fade away. Whenever I hear that song on the radio it takes me to the city, takes me away from here.
We could head west. Hop a train on its way to California and I've always wanted to go to Mexico. Living off nothing but taco bars and sweet sunshine we could finally fade away. We could do the things, all the things you want to. No one here really cares about us anyway. We could forget about everything and all the memories that keep you down. Simply let go of the things that holds us back. I'll buy some cowboy boots and we'll just drive. It's been so long since I've seen a palm tree.
Some say love is what saves us from ourselves. I say that love is a ghost train rumbling through the darkness, howling on the radio, haunting anyone who happens to see it. I see it every day as the sun is setting in the West. The moaning steel gets almost too loud that I can’t bear it, and then it slowly fades away to an echo in the distance. We could spend all our lives chasing it, following the train tracks until we reach the shimmering ocean on the other side. I'm not quite sure what I'm chasing anymore. Am I searching for freedom from the past and a small town following the ghost train that is love? Could that be the reason for my wanderings? A physical search for one big metaphor which is haunting love. Once you get a glimpse of it rolling on by you cannot resist following it. The irony is overwhelming. We’ll spend all our lives searching for freedom but in fact we have no other option.
Sunday, September 28, 2008
Emotions Paper Final Draft
I can still remember that it was the first snow of the winter in Baltimore. Come to think of it, it was the first snow of the new MILLENIUM in Baltimore. That’s something to get your head around. I was out playing in the snow with “the girls from Australia”. That’s what I remember them as. They were making snow angels and were ecstatic because they had never seen snow in their entire lives. I was giddy! That’s quite an adjective. My parents had just bought my brother and me the new Backstreet Boys album “Millennium” which totally blew my mind. So catchy and yet meaningful! Maybe that fleeting sense of euphoria was simply to prepare me for the news. That morning my parents told me that we would be visiting Charlottesville in the spring. I didn’t really care though. Why should I care about us visiting Charlottesville? I had visited the Zoo before, don’t get me wrong the Zoo rocked, but it wasn’t life changing. Little did I know we would be visiting the house we were moving in to. Those tricksy parents of mine fooled me again.
That spring I remember that my Brother and I had acquired a good amount of gifts from my parents. I grew even more suspicious when my parents announced that we would be getting a new television AND a Playstation. After that my parents finally officially announced that we would be moving to Charlottesville, Virginia that summer. I was shockingly apathetic to the situation.
I was trying desperately to find my pre-pre-teen angst but I just couldn’t find it. I wasn’t mad at my parents I just felt empty like I was supposed to be feeling something. But after a while it began to sink in. I felt like when if I left the city then that part of my soul would die. I loved that city with my whole heart, I didn’t even mind that much that we lived in what the white people here would call Da Hood. We lived in the artsy part of the Hood though, that’s different. So whenever someone says that I’m the whitest person in the room which happens a lot and is totally false I say “Get Back! You know the show The Wire ? That’s based on my exploits as a 6 year old!”I even thought it comical that our car got stolen about once a month. One time some dude broke into our car and stole my sisters diaper bag. THAT was awesome. We all found it hilarious because instead of the hoodlum getting the good kind of Booty he got the, well you know, bad kind. Talk about Karma.
My dad was a professor at Loyola College in Baltimore. His book “Gods Longs Summer” got some attention (he won some fancy award) and as a result the University of Virginia was interested in him. Obviously he got the job and that is why we moved to Charlottesville. I was frustrated that I would have to leave my life and best friend Claire (we were also going to get married). I was also hopeful because my parents promised a better life.
I remember in that summer of 2000 the single “Wonderful” by Everclear was blasting on the radio everywhere I went. Wonderful was on the radio driving away from those shiny, perfect blue buildings. Wonderful was ringing in my ears as I moved into my new room. Man, my heart still skips a beat whenever I hear that song. “I want the things that I had before, like a star wars poster on my bedroom door. I wish I could count to ten and make everything wonderful again.” With the refrain “Please don’t tell me everything is wonderful now!”. The whole song has been imprinted into my soul and the tune is still in the back of my head. I was saying the same thing to my parents; please don’t tell me that everything is wonderful now.
My first impression of Charlottesville was that there were many attractive ladies jogging around my neighborhood. That part wasn’t too bad after all. I was curious. Why is everyone running? Are they running from something? I didn’t really have any expectations of Charlottesville though and it didn’t sink in that we were moving until it was too late to protest. Only that my parents promised that our house would be bigger, education would be better and that we would not get our stuff jacked all the time. Ironically enough the very first month that we moved here some chump broke into our house and stole my mom’s purse. He was apparently an idiot because he left it all in our back yard. That kills two birds with one stone. He was uneducated and a criminal.
My dad knew some professor at UVA who had a kid my age so I met him before school started. I felt pure excitement; little did I know he would be one of my best friends of my childhood. He liked Pokemon and Harry Potter books. What could go wrong? With the smell of hot rubber cascading through the hot August mid-day he introduced me to his friends Michael, Travis and Paolo. I remember the first thing Michael said to me was “its monkey business” when he was on the monkey bars. For some reason I thought that it was really funny. Travis struck me as a funny looking guy. That was my impression of him. You can tell him I said that too. That leads us to Paolo, the over-emotional Italian –Israeli. He was always whining or laughing about something. Never the middle ground. I was best friends with all of them within 10 minutes. I was immersed in relief and excitement for the promising future awaiting me. It was a good first day of school.
That spring I remember that my Brother and I had acquired a good amount of gifts from my parents. I grew even more suspicious when my parents announced that we would be getting a new television AND a Playstation. After that my parents finally officially announced that we would be moving to Charlottesville, Virginia that summer. I was shockingly apathetic to the situation.
I was trying desperately to find my pre-pre-teen angst but I just couldn’t find it. I wasn’t mad at my parents I just felt empty like I was supposed to be feeling something. But after a while it began to sink in. I felt like when if I left the city then that part of my soul would die. I loved that city with my whole heart, I didn’t even mind that much that we lived in what the white people here would call Da Hood. We lived in the artsy part of the Hood though, that’s different. So whenever someone says that I’m the whitest person in the room which happens a lot and is totally false I say “Get Back! You know the show The Wire ? That’s based on my exploits as a 6 year old!”I even thought it comical that our car got stolen about once a month. One time some dude broke into our car and stole my sisters diaper bag. THAT was awesome. We all found it hilarious because instead of the hoodlum getting the good kind of Booty he got the, well you know, bad kind. Talk about Karma.
My dad was a professor at Loyola College in Baltimore. His book “Gods Longs Summer” got some attention (he won some fancy award) and as a result the University of Virginia was interested in him. Obviously he got the job and that is why we moved to Charlottesville. I was frustrated that I would have to leave my life and best friend Claire (we were also going to get married). I was also hopeful because my parents promised a better life.
I remember in that summer of 2000 the single “Wonderful” by Everclear was blasting on the radio everywhere I went. Wonderful was on the radio driving away from those shiny, perfect blue buildings. Wonderful was ringing in my ears as I moved into my new room. Man, my heart still skips a beat whenever I hear that song. “I want the things that I had before, like a star wars poster on my bedroom door. I wish I could count to ten and make everything wonderful again.” With the refrain “Please don’t tell me everything is wonderful now!”. The whole song has been imprinted into my soul and the tune is still in the back of my head. I was saying the same thing to my parents; please don’t tell me that everything is wonderful now.
My first impression of Charlottesville was that there were many attractive ladies jogging around my neighborhood. That part wasn’t too bad after all. I was curious. Why is everyone running? Are they running from something? I didn’t really have any expectations of Charlottesville though and it didn’t sink in that we were moving until it was too late to protest. Only that my parents promised that our house would be bigger, education would be better and that we would not get our stuff jacked all the time. Ironically enough the very first month that we moved here some chump broke into our house and stole my mom’s purse. He was apparently an idiot because he left it all in our back yard. That kills two birds with one stone. He was uneducated and a criminal.
My dad knew some professor at UVA who had a kid my age so I met him before school started. I felt pure excitement; little did I know he would be one of my best friends of my childhood. He liked Pokemon and Harry Potter books. What could go wrong? With the smell of hot rubber cascading through the hot August mid-day he introduced me to his friends Michael, Travis and Paolo. I remember the first thing Michael said to me was “its monkey business” when he was on the monkey bars. For some reason I thought that it was really funny. Travis struck me as a funny looking guy. That was my impression of him. You can tell him I said that too. That leads us to Paolo, the over-emotional Italian –Israeli. He was always whining or laughing about something. Never the middle ground. I was best friends with all of them within 10 minutes. I was immersed in relief and excitement for the promising future awaiting me. It was a good first day of school.
Monday, September 22, 2008
Emotions Paper Draft 2
I can still remember that it was the first snow of the winter in Baltimore. Come to think of it, it was the first snow of the new MILLENIUM in Baltimore. That’s something to get your head around. I was out playing in the snow with “the girls from Australia”. That’s what I remember them as. They were making snow angels and were ecstatic because they had never seen snow in their entire lives before (in case you didn’t know, it doesn’t snow much in Australia, NO I don’t mean Austria even though I’ve made that mistake before). I was giddy! That’s quite an adjective. My parents had just bought my brother and me the new Backstreet Boys album “Millennium” which totally blew my mind. So catchy and yet meaningful! Maybe that was to prepare me for that was the morning my parents told me that we would be visiting Charlottesville in the spring. I didn’t really care though. Why should I care about us visiting Charlottesville? I had visited the Zoo before, don’t get me wrong the Zoo rocked, but it wasn’t life changing. Little did I know we would be visiting the house we were moving in to. Those tricksy parents of mine fooled me again.
That spring I remember that my brother and I had acquired a good amount of gifts from my parents. I grew even more suspicious when my parents announced that we would be getting a new television AND a Playstation. After that my parents finally officially announced that we would be moving to Charlottesville, Virginia that summer. I was shockingly apathetic to the situation.
I was trying desperately to find my pre-pre-teen angst but I just couldn’t find it. I wasn’t mad at my parents I just felt empty like I was supposed to be feeling something. But after a while it began to sink in. I felt like when if I left the city then that part of my soul would die. I loved that city with my whole heart, I didn’t even mind that much that we lived in what the white people here would call Da Hood. We lived in the artsy part of the Hood though, that’s different. So whenever someone says that I’m the whitest person in the room which happens a lot and is totally false I say “Get Back! You know the show The Wire ? That’s based on my exploits as a 6 year old!”I even thought it comical that our car got stolen about once a month. One time some dude broke into our car and stole my sisters diaper bag. THAT was awesome. We all found it hilarious because instead of the hoodlum getting the good kind of Booty he got the, well you know, bad kind. Talk about Karma.
My dad was a professor at Loyola College in Baltimore. His book “Gods Longs Summer” got some attention (he won some fancy award) and as a result the University of Virginia was interested in him. Obviously he got the job and that is why we moved to Charlottesville. I was frustrated that I would have to leave my life and best friend Claire (we were also going to get married). I was also hopeful because my parents promised a better life.
I remember in that summer of 2000 the single “Wonderful” by Everclear was blasting on the radio everywhere I went. Wonderful was on the radio driving away from those shiny, perfect blue buildings. Wonderful was ringing in my ears as I moved into my new room. Man, my heart still skips a beat whenever I hear that song. “I want the things that I had before, like a star wars poster on my bedroom door. I wish I could count to ten and make everything wonderful again.” With the refrain “Please don’t tell me everything is wonderful now!”. The whole song has been imprinted into my soul and the tune is still in the back of my head. I was saying the same thing to my parents, please don’t tell me that everything is wonderful now.
My first impression of Charlottesville was that there were many attractive ladies jogging around my neighborhood. That part wasn’t too bad after all. I was curious. Why is everyone running? Are they running from something? I didn’t really have any expectations of Charlottesville though and it didn’t sink in that we were moving until it was too late to protest. Only that my parents promised that our house would be bigger, education would be better and that we would not get our stuff jacked all the time. Ironically enough the very first month that we moved here some chump broke into our house and stole my mom’s purse. He was apparently an idiot because he left it all in our back yard. That kills two birds with one stone. He was a moron and a criminal. Maybe it was just for kicks.
My dad knew some professor at UVA who had a kid my age so I met him before school started. I felt pure excitement; little did I know he would be one of my best friends of my childhood. He liked Pokemon and Harry Potter books. What could go wrong? With the smell of hot rubber cascading through the hot August mid-day he introduced me to his friends Michael, Travis and Paolo. I remember the first thing Michael said to me was “its monkey business” when he was on the monkey bars. For some reason I thought that it was really funny. Travis struck me as a funny looking guy. That was my impression of him. You can tell him I said that too. That leads us to Paolo, the over-emotional Italian –Israeli. He was always whining or laughing about something. Never the middle ground. I was best friends with all of them within 10 minutes. It was a good first day of school. Relief and excitement for the future awaiting my swept throughout my entire being.
That spring I remember that my brother and I had acquired a good amount of gifts from my parents. I grew even more suspicious when my parents announced that we would be getting a new television AND a Playstation. After that my parents finally officially announced that we would be moving to Charlottesville, Virginia that summer. I was shockingly apathetic to the situation.
I was trying desperately to find my pre-pre-teen angst but I just couldn’t find it. I wasn’t mad at my parents I just felt empty like I was supposed to be feeling something. But after a while it began to sink in. I felt like when if I left the city then that part of my soul would die. I loved that city with my whole heart, I didn’t even mind that much that we lived in what the white people here would call Da Hood. We lived in the artsy part of the Hood though, that’s different. So whenever someone says that I’m the whitest person in the room which happens a lot and is totally false I say “Get Back! You know the show The Wire ? That’s based on my exploits as a 6 year old!”I even thought it comical that our car got stolen about once a month. One time some dude broke into our car and stole my sisters diaper bag. THAT was awesome. We all found it hilarious because instead of the hoodlum getting the good kind of Booty he got the, well you know, bad kind. Talk about Karma.
My dad was a professor at Loyola College in Baltimore. His book “Gods Longs Summer” got some attention (he won some fancy award) and as a result the University of Virginia was interested in him. Obviously he got the job and that is why we moved to Charlottesville. I was frustrated that I would have to leave my life and best friend Claire (we were also going to get married). I was also hopeful because my parents promised a better life.
I remember in that summer of 2000 the single “Wonderful” by Everclear was blasting on the radio everywhere I went. Wonderful was on the radio driving away from those shiny, perfect blue buildings. Wonderful was ringing in my ears as I moved into my new room. Man, my heart still skips a beat whenever I hear that song. “I want the things that I had before, like a star wars poster on my bedroom door. I wish I could count to ten and make everything wonderful again.” With the refrain “Please don’t tell me everything is wonderful now!”. The whole song has been imprinted into my soul and the tune is still in the back of my head. I was saying the same thing to my parents, please don’t tell me that everything is wonderful now.
My first impression of Charlottesville was that there were many attractive ladies jogging around my neighborhood. That part wasn’t too bad after all. I was curious. Why is everyone running? Are they running from something? I didn’t really have any expectations of Charlottesville though and it didn’t sink in that we were moving until it was too late to protest. Only that my parents promised that our house would be bigger, education would be better and that we would not get our stuff jacked all the time. Ironically enough the very first month that we moved here some chump broke into our house and stole my mom’s purse. He was apparently an idiot because he left it all in our back yard. That kills two birds with one stone. He was a moron and a criminal. Maybe it was just for kicks.
My dad knew some professor at UVA who had a kid my age so I met him before school started. I felt pure excitement; little did I know he would be one of my best friends of my childhood. He liked Pokemon and Harry Potter books. What could go wrong? With the smell of hot rubber cascading through the hot August mid-day he introduced me to his friends Michael, Travis and Paolo. I remember the first thing Michael said to me was “its monkey business” when he was on the monkey bars. For some reason I thought that it was really funny. Travis struck me as a funny looking guy. That was my impression of him. You can tell him I said that too. That leads us to Paolo, the over-emotional Italian –Israeli. He was always whining or laughing about something. Never the middle ground. I was best friends with all of them within 10 minutes. It was a good first day of school. Relief and excitement for the future awaiting my swept throughout my entire being.
Sunday, September 14, 2008
What the New Millenium brought
I can still remember that it was the first snow of the winter in Baltimore. Come to think of it, it was the first snow of the new MILLENIUM in Baltimore. That’s something to get your head around. I was out playing in the snow with “the girls from Australia”. That’s what I remember them as. They were making snow angels and were ecstatic because they had never seen snow in their entire lives before (in case you didn’t know, it doesn’t snow much in Australia, NO I don’t mean Austria even though I’ve made that mistake before). That was the morning my parents told me that we would be visiting Charlottesville in the spring. I didn’t really care. Why should I care about us visiting Charlottesville? I had visited the Zoo before, don’t get me wrong the Zoo rocked, but it wasn’t life changing. Little did I know we would be visiting the house we were moving in to. Those tricksy parents of mine fooled me again.
That spring I remember that my brother and I had acquired a good amount of gifts from my parents. I grew even more suspicious when my parents announced that we would be getting a new television AND a Playstation. After that my parents finally officially announced that we would be moving to Charlottesville, Virginia that summer. I was shockingly apathetic to the situation.
I was trying desperately to find my pre-pre-teen angst but I just couldn’t find it. I wasn’t mad at my parents I just felt empty. I felt like when if I left the city then that part of my soul would die. I loved that city with my whole heart, I didn’t even mind that much that we lived in what the white people here would call Da Hood. We lived in the artsy part of the Hood though, that’s different. So whenever someone says that I’m the whitest person in the room which happens a lot and is totally false I say “Get Back! You know the show The Wire ? That’s based on my exploits as a 6 year old!”I even thought it comical that our car got stolen about once a month. One time some dude broke into our car and stole my sisters diaper bag. THAT was awesome. Talk about Karma.
My dad was a professor at Loyola College in Baltimore. His book “Gods Longs Summer” got some attention (he won some fancy award) and as a result the University of Virginia was interested in him. Obviously he got the job and that is why we moved to Charlottesville.
My first impression of Charlottesville was that there were many attractive ladies jogging around my neighborhood. That part wasn’t too bad after all. I didn’t really have any expectations of Charlottesville though and it didn’t sink in that we were moving until it was too late to protest. Only that my parents promised that our house would be bigger, education would be better and that we would not get our stuff jacked all the time. Ironically enough the very first month that we moved here some chump broke into our house and stole my mom’s purse. He was apparently an idiot because he left it all in our back yard. That kills two birds with one stone. He was a moron and a criminal. Maybe it was just for kicks.
My dad knew some professor at UVA who had a kid my age so I met him before school started. He liked Pokemon and Harry Potter books. What could go wrong? He introduced me to his friends Michael, Travis and Paolo. I remember the first thing Michael said to me was “its monkey business” when he was on the monkey bars. For some reason I thought that it was really funny. Travis struck me as a funny looking guy. That was my impression of him. You can tell him I said that too. That leads us to Paolo, the over-emotional Italian –Israeli. He was always whining or laughing about something. Never the middle ground. I was best friends with all of them within 10 minutes. It was a good first day of school.
That spring I remember that my brother and I had acquired a good amount of gifts from my parents. I grew even more suspicious when my parents announced that we would be getting a new television AND a Playstation. After that my parents finally officially announced that we would be moving to Charlottesville, Virginia that summer. I was shockingly apathetic to the situation.
I was trying desperately to find my pre-pre-teen angst but I just couldn’t find it. I wasn’t mad at my parents I just felt empty. I felt like when if I left the city then that part of my soul would die. I loved that city with my whole heart, I didn’t even mind that much that we lived in what the white people here would call Da Hood. We lived in the artsy part of the Hood though, that’s different. So whenever someone says that I’m the whitest person in the room which happens a lot and is totally false I say “Get Back! You know the show The Wire ? That’s based on my exploits as a 6 year old!”I even thought it comical that our car got stolen about once a month. One time some dude broke into our car and stole my sisters diaper bag. THAT was awesome. Talk about Karma.
My dad was a professor at Loyola College in Baltimore. His book “Gods Longs Summer” got some attention (he won some fancy award) and as a result the University of Virginia was interested in him. Obviously he got the job and that is why we moved to Charlottesville.
My first impression of Charlottesville was that there were many attractive ladies jogging around my neighborhood. That part wasn’t too bad after all. I didn’t really have any expectations of Charlottesville though and it didn’t sink in that we were moving until it was too late to protest. Only that my parents promised that our house would be bigger, education would be better and that we would not get our stuff jacked all the time. Ironically enough the very first month that we moved here some chump broke into our house and stole my mom’s purse. He was apparently an idiot because he left it all in our back yard. That kills two birds with one stone. He was a moron and a criminal. Maybe it was just for kicks.
My dad knew some professor at UVA who had a kid my age so I met him before school started. He liked Pokemon and Harry Potter books. What could go wrong? He introduced me to his friends Michael, Travis and Paolo. I remember the first thing Michael said to me was “its monkey business” when he was on the monkey bars. For some reason I thought that it was really funny. Travis struck me as a funny looking guy. That was my impression of him. You can tell him I said that too. That leads us to Paolo, the over-emotional Italian –Israeli. He was always whining or laughing about something. Never the middle ground. I was best friends with all of them within 10 minutes. It was a good first day of school.
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