I've reached this solid point where I just really don't care about what happens to me (mostly in school) anymore. My brain is telling me to keep going but I somehow hit override and screwed it up. There's a possibility my excessive amount television watching is a problem but no matter. It's not like I need a tv. I'd be better off with a summer. What I really need is a perfect summer. To relax, rejuvenate and just be with my friends, I don't need to nonsensical stresses that are related with school. So much bladity bloop about college and your future and what you do now affects your whole life. Bull crap! If I run into the kitchen downstairs and eat a kit kat bar my future will not be affected (other than having to brush my teeth again...maybe) It's just this piece of garbage idea that society thrusts upon us to do things. One of these in the seemingly mandatory life of a kid is to go to college or the crappy ol' war we have no point in fighting in. I'm not going to college, thats why i went to a trade school so I can work and enjoy life and not be pounded down under books and projects and essays of another 4 years of school I can barely stand now.
Have a good one people.
-Ben
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
Sunday, May 2, 2010
So White The Head High Snow
Daniel Castro (AKA) An extraordinary writer with a key sence for detail and and innate prespective.
But for their voices
The herons would disappear
The morning snow.
-Kaga no Chio
“How high is the snow?” she leaned over him on the bed, stretching to see out the window, which was frosted in blown white like thick cobwebs across the glass.
“I don’t know. On the news they said three feet.”
“The news.” She rested her chin on his chest, “The news is always wrong.”
“They predicted about three.”
“So we’ll either get six inches or twelve feet.” She dug in her chin.
“Is that how it works?”
“I dunno. Look out the window, hun. I can’t see from here.” He could feel the movements of her jaw, up and down as she spoke, and balanced perfectly over his heart.
“I want you to make me a snow angel,” she said, at this point kicking him by his side with both feet. Hank drifted out of bed like an avalanche, with thundering cracks, still heavy with sleep. His bare feet padded against the cold hardwood floor, each toe an icicle, as he made his way to the window. He winced as the cold went up his leg, and snapped like frozen branches.
“It looks deep enough for snow angels.”
“How deep? You need a foot or two to make a quality snow angel.”
“I don’t know. Probably a good foot or two.”
“You need four good feet. Two feet to get there. Two to sink in.”
Hank cracked a smile, “We have at least three and a half good feet between us.”
“Good.” She jumped up on the bed, sitting over her knees and smiling in his shirt. “Good. Good. Good.”
“How old are you?” Hank sat at the edge of the bed, looking.
“I don’t know. I’m as old as the snow is new. Cold on your tongue.” She walked on her knees over to him, and kissed him on the side of his mouth.
“You missed, kiddo.”
“You need to brush your teeth, stinky.” Her eyes were snow globes, with little flakes of light swept around, a nor’easter circling tiny irises. Hank grabbed her arms, smiled mercilessly, and kissed her, meanly.
“Eeeeewwww!” She squealed playfully. “Lemme-go, lemme-go!” He licked her nose and then released her, standing up to look out the window again.
“You do taste like snow.” He stared out past the single dogwood tree in the yard, past the frozen garden mounded white like a whitewashed cemetery, down the street where the plow truck pushed the snow into wet rubble for the morning traffic, past that old farm house on the right where the tree nursery still slept with all the young pines in snowy blankets, past the false horizon and the tree-line all in white and motionless. Everything and everyone motionless as he stood.
“You taste like old person.” She reached her arms from behind him, hugging his chest, and feeling him breathe, slowly. “But I guess you can’t brush that away.”
“Maybe. But I can shake it off.”
He wrested out of her grasp, but then she held him tighter.
“Careful,” she said, “You’ll shake the young off you, too.”
And then, he thought, she felt like Catherine did in the wintertime. With her long hands and cold fingers. But where Catherine had held him like a lover, to keep warm, this girl held on to him like a kid hangs around their parent’s ankles, always as tightly as she could, as if along for the ride. These subtleties were frigid reminders, and he’d almost rather no one, to someone close. He had met his wife at the pond when they were young, seen her skating backwards in big open circles over the ice. Her eyes were shut and her mouth closed, lips tight, and it was as if she had sleepwalked all the way there, and in her dreams she was dancing with someone dear to her. She was one of many very pretty girls he had seen in his lifetime, but perhaps it was because she moved with some unsettling grace, some angelic precision across the cloudscape of heaven, as though still through the white snow falling in petals, and collecting wet on his face, that Hank could not resist taking her picture.
“Isn’t everything so pretty with snow on it?” the girl asked, with her head resting against his back, and swaying.
“It is.” He answered. “It always is.”
“Every year I think it gets prettier. The first snow. The way it covers over everything. But I do hate it eventually. It gets tiresome. Sometimes I get afraid that one winter it just won’t be pretty anymore. It’ll just be cold, and tiresome.”
“Is it pretty now? It’s all that matters, really. If it’s pretty now.”
“It’s pretty now.” He couldn’t tell if she was smiling or not when she said it. “Isn’t it amazing how each and every snowflake is different. Every single one of those little tiny flakes of snow is com-plete-ly unique. And it’s been that way forever.” She kissed him, “Like you.”
He shook his head, and moved away from her.
“It all melts eventually.”
She brought herself against him again.
“You don’t seem so old. Not as old as you say. Not as old as the pictures.”
“I’m just as old as the pictures. I’m as old as the snow is new.”
She ran her fingers through his hair, sweeping it around.
“How long has your hair been white?”
“A long time.”
“Was it born white? I mean, were you born with it white?”
“It started to turn when I was about thirty.”
“That’s a horrible way to put it.” She fell back on the bed and reached out her arms and legs, moving in scissors over the white sheets and smiling. “Started to turn. Like as if you were an old fish.”
“You said it yourself that I stink.” He walked over to the bed and stood between her feet, and she closed them on his knees.
“You do. You’re a big old stinky fish.”
“And you’re an angel, kiddo.”
Catherine had this way of bobbing her head with a close-lipped smile and steady eyes, and she would do it whenever she was particularly proud of something. The girl mimicked the movement beautifully. She had only seen her in photos.
“Take my picture.” She kicked him away. “Go get your camera.”
“No. I don’t… not now.”
“C’mon…honey…” she whined, the pitch of the wind through cracked windows.
“I don’t have any film. I don’t think…”
“You never take pictures anymore. I don’t think probably once I’ve seen you take a picture.”
“I’ve taken your picture before.”
“Like really take it.”
“I have.”
“No. You’ve taken a picture of me. You’ve never taken my picture.”
“I don’t…” Hank sighed now. His sigh was older than her. “Why does it matter?”
“I like how I am on the bed. I think I’d look pretty right now, in a photo.”
She swept her arms up and down in the white sheets, her body spreading little hills around her, making a snow angel on the bed.
“You always look pretty.” He nudged her foot with his knee. She pulled it away.
“Why don’t you ever take my picture!” she sat up now, her eyes straight on him. “You’ve got pictures all over the walls. Beautiful pictures. Of your family, your kids, your friends. That you took.”
“They’re just photos...”
“No. They’re not just… you’re like…,” she sighed, terribly. “How long have I been here? How long have we been together? And I’m not a fixture yet. I’m not anywhere on those walls, in those frames. Why not?”
“Why are we doing this now?”
“Because it’s driving me crazy!” she said, “Because I live in this house. And I feel like it’s haunted. I’ve seen those photos of your wife, all in black and white. With her just frozen in light and shadows. And the way you look at them, like she’s been preserved in ice somewhere. I want you to do that to me, Hank. I wanna live forever in one of your pictures, in ice like that! I want you to make me a snow angel.”
“No,” he said. Picturing Catherine, in similar light and this same shadow, composed in frames on the wall of the staircase, crystallized in ice,and under all that snow, under all those good feet.
“Why not?” she cried, and he started to turn away towards the window again, in the silence of everything, and watched the snow fall over the tall old trees bending from the weight on every bough, crowned in white, and growing tired.
“It hasn’t been snowing that long,” he said, rubbing his finger, just over the knuckle, where the bone felt coldest. “But it’s not pretty anymore.”
WEEKS later, she was gone, and the house was covered in deep snow. Hank woke up next to a girl, who ran her fingers through his white hair, and smiled. She kissed him on his mouth, and stared at his face, smiling slightly. She was ghostly pale, and except for her freckles, two blue eyes, and thin rosy lips, she disappeared in the bleach of white sheets.
“I could stay in this bed forever,” she said.
Hank closed his eyes.
Hope you enjoyed it, I'll do my best to continue the updating.
-Ben
But for their voices
The herons would disappear
The morning snow.
-Kaga no Chio
“How high is the snow?” she leaned over him on the bed, stretching to see out the window, which was frosted in blown white like thick cobwebs across the glass.
“I don’t know. On the news they said three feet.”
“The news.” She rested her chin on his chest, “The news is always wrong.”
“They predicted about three.”
“So we’ll either get six inches or twelve feet.” She dug in her chin.
“Is that how it works?”
“I dunno. Look out the window, hun. I can’t see from here.” He could feel the movements of her jaw, up and down as she spoke, and balanced perfectly over his heart.
“I want you to make me a snow angel,” she said, at this point kicking him by his side with both feet. Hank drifted out of bed like an avalanche, with thundering cracks, still heavy with sleep. His bare feet padded against the cold hardwood floor, each toe an icicle, as he made his way to the window. He winced as the cold went up his leg, and snapped like frozen branches.
“It looks deep enough for snow angels.”
“How deep? You need a foot or two to make a quality snow angel.”
“I don’t know. Probably a good foot or two.”
“You need four good feet. Two feet to get there. Two to sink in.”
Hank cracked a smile, “We have at least three and a half good feet between us.”
“Good.” She jumped up on the bed, sitting over her knees and smiling in his shirt. “Good. Good. Good.”
“How old are you?” Hank sat at the edge of the bed, looking.
“I don’t know. I’m as old as the snow is new. Cold on your tongue.” She walked on her knees over to him, and kissed him on the side of his mouth.
“You missed, kiddo.”
“You need to brush your teeth, stinky.” Her eyes were snow globes, with little flakes of light swept around, a nor’easter circling tiny irises. Hank grabbed her arms, smiled mercilessly, and kissed her, meanly.
“Eeeeewwww!” She squealed playfully. “Lemme-go, lemme-go!” He licked her nose and then released her, standing up to look out the window again.
“You do taste like snow.” He stared out past the single dogwood tree in the yard, past the frozen garden mounded white like a whitewashed cemetery, down the street where the plow truck pushed the snow into wet rubble for the morning traffic, past that old farm house on the right where the tree nursery still slept with all the young pines in snowy blankets, past the false horizon and the tree-line all in white and motionless. Everything and everyone motionless as he stood.
“You taste like old person.” She reached her arms from behind him, hugging his chest, and feeling him breathe, slowly. “But I guess you can’t brush that away.”
“Maybe. But I can shake it off.”
He wrested out of her grasp, but then she held him tighter.
“Careful,” she said, “You’ll shake the young off you, too.”
And then, he thought, she felt like Catherine did in the wintertime. With her long hands and cold fingers. But where Catherine had held him like a lover, to keep warm, this girl held on to him like a kid hangs around their parent’s ankles, always as tightly as she could, as if along for the ride. These subtleties were frigid reminders, and he’d almost rather no one, to someone close. He had met his wife at the pond when they were young, seen her skating backwards in big open circles over the ice. Her eyes were shut and her mouth closed, lips tight, and it was as if she had sleepwalked all the way there, and in her dreams she was dancing with someone dear to her. She was one of many very pretty girls he had seen in his lifetime, but perhaps it was because she moved with some unsettling grace, some angelic precision across the cloudscape of heaven, as though still through the white snow falling in petals, and collecting wet on his face, that Hank could not resist taking her picture.
“Isn’t everything so pretty with snow on it?” the girl asked, with her head resting against his back, and swaying.
“It is.” He answered. “It always is.”
“Every year I think it gets prettier. The first snow. The way it covers over everything. But I do hate it eventually. It gets tiresome. Sometimes I get afraid that one winter it just won’t be pretty anymore. It’ll just be cold, and tiresome.”
“Is it pretty now? It’s all that matters, really. If it’s pretty now.”
“It’s pretty now.” He couldn’t tell if she was smiling or not when she said it. “Isn’t it amazing how each and every snowflake is different. Every single one of those little tiny flakes of snow is com-plete-ly unique. And it’s been that way forever.” She kissed him, “Like you.”
He shook his head, and moved away from her.
“It all melts eventually.”
She brought herself against him again.
“You don’t seem so old. Not as old as you say. Not as old as the pictures.”
“I’m just as old as the pictures. I’m as old as the snow is new.”
She ran her fingers through his hair, sweeping it around.
“How long has your hair been white?”
“A long time.”
“Was it born white? I mean, were you born with it white?”
“It started to turn when I was about thirty.”
“That’s a horrible way to put it.” She fell back on the bed and reached out her arms and legs, moving in scissors over the white sheets and smiling. “Started to turn. Like as if you were an old fish.”
“You said it yourself that I stink.” He walked over to the bed and stood between her feet, and she closed them on his knees.
“You do. You’re a big old stinky fish.”
“And you’re an angel, kiddo.”
Catherine had this way of bobbing her head with a close-lipped smile and steady eyes, and she would do it whenever she was particularly proud of something. The girl mimicked the movement beautifully. She had only seen her in photos.
“Take my picture.” She kicked him away. “Go get your camera.”
“No. I don’t… not now.”
“C’mon…honey…” she whined, the pitch of the wind through cracked windows.
“I don’t have any film. I don’t think…”
“You never take pictures anymore. I don’t think probably once I’ve seen you take a picture.”
“I’ve taken your picture before.”
“Like really take it.”
“I have.”
“No. You’ve taken a picture of me. You’ve never taken my picture.”
“I don’t…” Hank sighed now. His sigh was older than her. “Why does it matter?”
“I like how I am on the bed. I think I’d look pretty right now, in a photo.”
She swept her arms up and down in the white sheets, her body spreading little hills around her, making a snow angel on the bed.
“You always look pretty.” He nudged her foot with his knee. She pulled it away.
“Why don’t you ever take my picture!” she sat up now, her eyes straight on him. “You’ve got pictures all over the walls. Beautiful pictures. Of your family, your kids, your friends. That you took.”
“They’re just photos...”
“No. They’re not just… you’re like…,” she sighed, terribly. “How long have I been here? How long have we been together? And I’m not a fixture yet. I’m not anywhere on those walls, in those frames. Why not?”
“Why are we doing this now?”
“Because it’s driving me crazy!” she said, “Because I live in this house. And I feel like it’s haunted. I’ve seen those photos of your wife, all in black and white. With her just frozen in light and shadows. And the way you look at them, like she’s been preserved in ice somewhere. I want you to do that to me, Hank. I wanna live forever in one of your pictures, in ice like that! I want you to make me a snow angel.”
“No,” he said. Picturing Catherine, in similar light and this same shadow, composed in frames on the wall of the staircase, crystallized in ice,and under all that snow, under all those good feet.
“Why not?” she cried, and he started to turn away towards the window again, in the silence of everything, and watched the snow fall over the tall old trees bending from the weight on every bough, crowned in white, and growing tired.
“It hasn’t been snowing that long,” he said, rubbing his finger, just over the knuckle, where the bone felt coldest. “But it’s not pretty anymore.”
WEEKS later, she was gone, and the house was covered in deep snow. Hank woke up next to a girl, who ran her fingers through his white hair, and smiled. She kissed him on his mouth, and stared at his face, smiling slightly. She was ghostly pale, and except for her freckles, two blue eyes, and thin rosy lips, she disappeared in the bleach of white sheets.
“I could stay in this bed forever,” she said.
Hank closed his eyes.
Hope you enjoyed it, I'll do my best to continue the updating.
-Ben
Monday, April 12, 2010
So, Here's The Deal.
Hey Readers, browsers and desperate women in need of love. First off I wanted to apologize for the depressing and gayly emotional writing as of late. Some stuff has been going down and well yeah. But ignoring that I have some exciting news for some, dreadful horror for others. We have a new, well a one time, addition to my writing staff (me and another dude, well now) His name is Preston, he actually wrote a post like months ago then was off on some wild adventure in Florida, but now he is back and is re-opening the zoo as we say. Hopefully he can make you laugh, cry or or moan in sheer pleasure.
Secondly I''m gonna be writing alot of like first chapter sorta stuff, so feedback would make you the coolest people ever. I'm also trying to quadruple spell check cause that has been a re occuring problem. Well anyways, look out for some new stuff.
Have A Good One!
-Ben
Secondly I''m gonna be writing alot of like first chapter sorta stuff, so feedback would make you the coolest people ever. I'm also trying to quadruple spell check cause that has been a re occuring problem. Well anyways, look out for some new stuff.
Have A Good One!
-Ben
Sunday, April 11, 2010
Blowing Up A Heart
This bloody thing called love. One stupid little irresponsible and lazy sixteen year old boy can't get this atrocious, hateful and unworthy love thing out of his tiny pea sized brain. He goes through day like an automatic train that goes in two stupid directions. One sends it careening full blast straight to an abysmal end day after day just to go back to where it started. His love for her is sorta like that, except it runs off track and it careens into a tree every time. The only time he ever felt true love, it inevitably would end up being nothing more than some stupid close friendship. His lays down and night and you know what he does? Yeah, he lets out so fresh souled tears from his eyes. He weeps like some pansy, and not the flower. He doesn't get rejuvenated by some cool thing in life because at the end he comes home to realize she doesn't love him back and probably never will. Then when he gets so beyond pissed and upset he writes some stupid blog post about some stupid non sense that doesn't even make sense and his friends leave comments like "awesome job" or "really cool" to humor him when on the inside their probably laughing at his pathetic and faggot life.
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
"Aint no car window rolled up enough to keep me from gettin' my keys"
My friend Dave locked his keys in his car this morning. I asked him if I could use his story (which was very vague because he never tell me details) and write about it. His exact words were "Heck yes you may". So here it is, with a few minor edits. Its actually more of an "inspired by" or "based on". Unfortunately he gave me the title too, I'm so sorry for that.
Monday, April 5, 2010
Why?
Why do I know so little about you, yet care more than anyone else?
Why do you pass me by without so much as a glance?
Why do my eyes not show my passion when you look at me?
Why can't I hug you and not shed a tear as I wave goodbye?
Why do I never know what your thinking but you can always read my mind?
Why do I have to pour my heart out to you?
Why does my world have to revolve around you?
Why do your pictures stand out, your hair glisten in the sun, your eyes burn into my soul, your body curve like snake?
And, why do I do stupid things, little they may be to try and impressive you?
Oh, Because I LOVE YOU!
Why do you pass me by without so much as a glance?
Why do my eyes not show my passion when you look at me?
Why can't I hug you and not shed a tear as I wave goodbye?
Why do I never know what your thinking but you can always read my mind?
Why do I have to pour my heart out to you?
Why does my world have to revolve around you?
Why do your pictures stand out, your hair glisten in the sun, your eyes burn into my soul, your body curve like snake?
And, why do I do stupid things, little they may be to try and impressive you?
Oh, Because I LOVE YOU!
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