Prompt 16: Paid To Talk

If I could be paid to talk about anything, what would it be? Well I can honestly say that the answer does not immediately jump right out at me. I suppose if I had to choose just one thing it might be drumming. Yes! Drumming is what I would talk about. I would go on and on about how I hear song on my iPod or radio and can't help but play along in my head, memorizing every beat and pluck of the bass. I might even tap my foot on the floor of my car and accidentally pressing down the gas pedal a little too far. Or I might tap my fingers hurriedly against the steering wheel, just barely retaining control of the vehicle. Oh yeah.  I could talk on and on about drumming.

I'd love to talk about history. I'm studying to teach it, so I'd better like talking about it shouldn't I? I could blab on about the rise of the Roman Empire; its roots as a simultaneously religiously driven culture, and a militaristic culture, all because of its first two rulers. Or how the similarities between the devolution of their glorious republic and the goings on of our country are eerily similar. I'd pontificate about how the communists and the fascists were not ideological enemies, but more like feuding brothers; each vying for the same group of believers. It is called Nationalist Socialist for a reason you know.  But history doesn't make the big bucks, and that's what we are talking about isn't it?

Maybe politics would fit the bill. Yeah. Maybe instead of drumming or history, I would talk politics. Go on those Sunday shows and lay it down like the best of them. I would spit about how the democrats and republicans are taking all of our freedoms away one by one and destroying the constitution. Yes! And then I'd sputter and hiss about how our moral framework as a country has failed and how the debt is going to crush us and how we should pull out of every country militarily. And I would fume about how liberal the media is and how cowardly the GOP is and how great Rand Paul is!

OK. So maybe that's not such a great idea.

I really should talk about something a little less controversial. Such as religion! I could tirelessly exhort people to accept and to believe in Jesus. And I wouldn't even mind if I had to do it on a street corner in front of a marijuana clinic. That wouldn't be controversial, right?  Here is an idea. How about I talk about sports, or rather Boston sports? No. What about cooking? Never mind. I'm terrible at cooking. Maybe just food and the eating of it? Computers? Guns? Graphic Design? My blasphemous dislike for the Beatles, but not without the caveat that I appreciate their voluminous contributions to music in general?

Alright. So I have a lot of interests, likes, and hobbies. I seriously could not pick one if I had a gun to my head. However, what has driven me to teach history isn't really about the “money” at all. I want to do that because kids hate history. I hated history! Yet I believe it is the most vital of subjects to learn. So if I could get paid to talk about anything, and it really was about the money, I guess I would just talk about anything. Really. It would be a variety show of bloviation. I do it anyways. Might as well get paid for it.

Prompt 13: If My Hands Could Talk

Much like the infamous title of one of Clint Eastwood's greatest movies, if my hands could talk, they would weave a tale of some good, some bad, and a sprinkling of downright nasty. But mostly nasty. From early childhood until this very moment as I quickly pluck the keys of this computer, they both have a similar tale, yet both have their own creases, wrinkles, and scars. Personally, I think my right has received the brunt of all the punishment I can deal, but I'll try to stay neutral and just tell their story.

I have been touching things all my life, so I know quite a lot about the subject. Based on my assessment of all the things I can recollect touching, my hands would likely complain to you and tell you how horrible I am. But what they won't tell you is all the great things I've touched. Like puppies, peanut butter right out of the jug, and raindrops. As recently as a few weeks ago, I touched around two pounds of BBQ smoked pork ribs. How can my hands possibly say anything bad about that other than to complain that they don't have mouths to eat the ribs? This summer I touched fireworks and freshly cleaned shirts. I touched jelly and often repeatedly rubbed my belly. I shot guns and buttered oven fresh buns. In a court of law, if I were to argue against my hands, I would have to say that life is pretty good.

But I won't be partisan and only tell you all the good, I'll tell you some bad as well. If my hands could speak they would likely tell you of the needle pokes I routinely get from clumsily doing my job. The occasional broken tissue paper when I blow my nose. Or even clipping my toenails. I have sympathy when all these things occur. Yet I believe the good outweighs the bad. Unless you throw on the dead mouse I had to pick up, the sweaty hands I've had to shake, or even the countless burns my hands have incurred. From tripping into a campfire and having burning marshmallow stuck to my left palm to picking up a red hot grill plate with my right, I have indeed inflicted a great deal upon my hands. But look at the good things! Well, except for the things that my hands touched as a baby.

From poop to cheerios, my hands would likely declare war on me, if they could, and succeed for the things I touched in my formative years. While I can't remember my early years, my mother certainly does. She tells me that I never did one of those crazy smear poop on the walls disasters, but she has also never denied that I touched it. I can't imagine my hands would be to pleased with coming onto contact with these type of substances. But that is also assuming that they would have any concept of what is gross or not gross at such a young age. Maybe just as I was unaware of what was going on as a baby, my hands were as well. Maybe they don't actually know all of what they have touched at all.  That is to say if they did not hear it from me sitting here, spilling the beans, and telling them all about it. So how about we forget about this entire piece of writing all together. We'll just keep it between us and not tell my hands. Oh if my hands could hear!

Prompt 14: Writing Like A Fisherman

Just like fishing, writing for me takes only a few very important components to be successful. Now I have not fished but for a few isolated times, and those were not very fruitful. But just like in the Holiday Inn Express commercials, I have have watched a few fishing shows, so I think I'm qualified to make this correlation.

The first and maybe most important ingredient in catching a fish is the bait. When I write, I need an idea. It might come to me as soon as I am done reading a prompt; Blam!. Or I might stew for a while. I have to go somewhere, do something. I have to think it over and make a plan of attack. Like bait, if I don't have the right idea, I won't catch the fish. Just as well, I use different baits for different fish. I might listen to music or watch TV. I might read or look at something else to get inspired. Or I might just drop it all together and come back later. But my favorite bait for a good idea is coffee. Coffee works more often than not. If I may throw in a random quote; as Mike Ditka once said, “Coffee is the lifeblood that fuels the dreams of champions.” Words to live by Coach. Words to live by.

Secondly, fishing requires patience. Waiting. And Waiting. And Waiting. Until you can't take it anymore! I want my idea to be able to just blast out all at once and rearrange itself into functioning sentences with all the proper punctuation and structure. But as many who have proofread my work would openly confess, that is just not a reality. I don't have a whole lot of patience with writing, but I don't have too little either. I just squeak by. It's kind of like going fishing, but instead of waiting for something to bite, you hook your pole into a clasp on the side of the boat and go grab a drink out of the cooler. For me, that clasp is spell check.

Lastly, a good fisherman requires tenacity. Once you have your great white, you have to real that sucker in without it capsizing your boat and nibbling your legs off. As soon as I get an idea, I start cranking away. I can't stop and I won't stop until I finish as much as my brain will allow. I may be writing and my oven timer starts beeping. My phone may buzz until it falls off the table. But I can't be distracted by these menial trivialities. You see, the risk that I run by turning away from the page is that like that great white, I can't let it get away or it might be gone forever. Or at least until the next time it munches on some skinny dipping high school girl.

Yes. Writing for me is just like fishing. It takes the right bait, a little patience, and tenacity reel in that perfect catch. Now when I get frustrated, I might do what a few old fisherman I know have done on occasion. Throw some high explosives at it.

Week 3 Theme: Fenway Sardines

The passenger train rumbled loudly into the humid subway pulling a cloud of hot air with it. It stunk. My mother, brother, and a family friend waited anxiously to jump on board. There were people flooding down the staircase so as not to be late. Around one hundred people waiting there at the edge of the rails. I looked around and noticed that almost everyone had some sort of Red Sox apparel on them, myself included. Apparently all of us were heading to the same place.

“Look...at...all the people,” my mother said in amazement.

“I know,” responded my brother Kevin. “How are we all gonna fit?”

“You going to the game,” I asked to a couple standing near us.

“Yeah!”

“Awesome. Apparently everyone else is too,” I said laughing.

Another man standing behind them did not appear to be going to the baseball game but offered some late advice.

“You guys are leaving awful late.”

“Really?”

“Oh yeah. The game's in ten minutes.”

“How long does it take to get there,” I asked, now nervous that I might miss something.

“At least fifteen.”

“Oh well,” said my brother. “It could be worse.”

It was easy for him to say. He wasn't going to America's most beloved ballpark. I had asked him and our friend if they wanted to go to the game while we were down on vacation, but they both said no thanks. My brother said it would be boring. I had tried my best to convince them but to no avail. My brother, who, months later, nabbed a free pass to a Cincinnati Reds game, would later tell me he wished he had come; that it wasn't boring at all. “Oh well” is right.

The doors opened and the myriad of faithful fans poured onto the train. We stepped on board but quickly found no place to go. The train was filled and filled and filled, until I knew precisely what the proverbial sardine can metaphor was intended to convey.

I looked at some of the locals and saw them nervously laughing as they observed what was becoming a ridiculous situation. I was standing with my back to the very back wall of the train. More and more people poured on, ending with a group of very attractive South American girls. I thought to myself, “well, it could be worse.” Yet suddenly, after spending the entire day walking the Freedom Trail in the hot sun, my very next thought was, “Oh man I stink!” As if in some magical never-land world I'd somehow find the love of my life crammed in the back of this train. The train lurched forward to the sound of squealing and giggling passengers.

“Oh my gosh this train is packed!” said one man next to us.

“We're all gonna die,” joked another another.

The train struggled to pick up speed as it turned the first corner that would take us west and up the back bay. Loud screeching erupted from beneath us as the wheels and breaks struggled to gain a hold of the tracks.

“We're gonna flip,” yelled out someone up front.

“Hang on,” I said to my family.

As the train took one turn and then another, stopping and starting again, you could not help but bump and nudge everyone around you. Shoulder to shoulder doesn't quite adequately describe it. One of the foreign girls in front of me was not ready for the train to stop so suddenly and began to trip up (though I doubt she would have reached the ground with so many people stuffed in there). I reached out and gently grabbed her back as she reached of and latched onto one of her friends arms. She looked back for a just a second.

“Sorry,” she laughed as her friends laughed with her, continuing their conversation in Spanish.

Like I said, it could have been worse.

Though no one may have actually said it without joking a little, I think everyone on that train believed that we could have derailed on our way to the field. Even the locals looked a little concerned. The train came to a stop and the multitude pour out of the car and into the subway. Some jokingly gasped for air. We jumped off and followed the crowds up the steps, onto the street, across the bridge, and onto the hallowed street of Yawkee Way. The man back at the train was right. We were a little late. And we had been crammed on a subway train that had almost derailed. But yet, as I looked up at the beautiful sign hanging over the one hundred plus year brick doorway that read: “Fenway Park”, I again thought to myself, “It could be worse. I could be a Yankee fan.”

I handed my ticket to the doorman and walked into ecstasy.

Prompt 12: Morning at Church

I sit on my drum throne rubbing wax on my drumsticks. An awesome present from my brother, by the way. They are always flying out of my hands.

I look around and see the small crowd of people. There are several children chasing each other in the back. One of their parents comes and quickly apprehends them,. Ushering them to their seats. The announcement person picks up the mic and tells everyone to take a second to great someone they have not greeted yet. Everyone stands and begins to shake hands and give out hugs.

There is laughter and loud chatter. Some are joking with one another and others are hugging and maybe consoling, giving their prayers. Some walk around, deliberately finding certain individuals they may not have recognized yet. The pastor laughs and shakes hands with several visitors in the back.

It is loud and jovial. Where I am, there is color all around me from the LED lights that wash the wall is neon green and blue. I chat a bit with my brother on guitar about the specifics of one of the songs and turn back to hear the announcements begin. People find their seats and their 411's (our weekly bulletin).

After announcements the offering is taken with everyone collectively reciting our prayer of blessing. People then pour to the front placing their tithes and offerings into the baskets. Many then come forward to the stage. I turn up my headphone monitor and give a signal to by brother to begin. I start swinging away at my drums and people begin to clap, hoot, and holler in excitement. It's time to rock.

Prompt 10: Conversations at Church

I'm standing near the rear of the church as people converse all around me. I write down a little of what I hear.

“Oh yeah! We live way out there in the middle of nowhere.”

“You hunt at all?”

“No. No. Used to though. There's probly a hundred acres up there out back of my house. Good hunting for sure.”

“Is that right? I'd like to do a little this fall, maybe a couple days on the weekend or something.”

“Sure! Sure! You'd have a twelve point buck in no time.”

(laughter)

I hear another conversation.

“Did you hear?”

“No, what?”

“Bev's mother passed away.”

“Ohhh nooo.”

“So she won't be here today cause she's out there with her family, of course.”

“That's too bad. I'll have to send her a card.”

“Yeah.”

“Aww, that's awful.”

(unintelligible)

I listen in on yet another conversation.

“Wait Ashley. You have to check in first. Don't run off.”

Little girl stops and walks back to the front desk.

“How are you today Ashley?”

“Good,” says Ashley, shyly.

“So I'm going to give you this sticker. And this will make sure that no one but your mom can come get you after service, OK?”

Ashley's mom smiles and looks down at her.

“Is that OK hun?”

“Yeah.”

“So where would you like it?”

No answer.

“OK, I'll just put it right...here.”

“Alright, says Ashley's mom encouragingly. “Lets go!”

I continue into the sanctuary, taking my place at the drums and waiting for church to begin.

Prompt 9: Free Flow

As I sit down to write, I begin to draw a blank. So, I strike up a conversation with myself.

“You are running out of time.”

“I know.”

“Well?”

“Shh, I'm thinking of a topic.”

“Well just start writing and the topic might fall into your lap.”

“OK. I'll try it.”

I begin to write.

“This isn't working. It stinks.”

“Yeah.”

“Well now what? This thing is due like yesterday.”

“Walk away, watch some football, and dwell on it. Maybe you will get an inspiration.”

“From what?! Football?! May-be. But it is more likely that I will forget all about this paper. No. I'm going to sit here until my head explodes out my ear.”

“Alright.”

(Silence. Hands resting on keyboard but not typing.)

“Are you going to write or not?”

“Yes.”

“Well go on then.”

“OK.”

I begin to type.

“Hmmm.”

“What?”

“This isn't that bad. I think I might have something here.”

“OK. Yeah. Maybe this will work.”

“I think so.”

I continue to write, moving line to line, transcribing my thoughts as they come to me and not thinking about where it will end.

“This is great stuff.”

“Yeah. It's like one of those weird free-form, existential things that poets write sometimes.”

“Oh wait.”

“What?”

“I think I running out of steam. Not sure what to write next.”

“Well just type a few more lines and be done with it. It's pretty good as it is.”

“Yeah. OK...There. Last line. Done.”

Theme Week Two - My Story

At the time of my birth, apart from God, no one could have known what the future would hold. I could have never guessed that the events that have shaped my life would have occurred as they have. Yet, somehow, looking back on it all so far, it seems as if it was all laid out for me. Like bricks paving the road before me as I walk.

Everything has a beginning. At the start, the 80's were reaching their end and hip hop was coming alive. Reagan demanded of Gorbachev, “tear down this wall,” and with that, the end of an era. But it was the beginning of another. Out of the 80's and into the 90's.

Styles changed. People stopped wearing knee-high striped socks with purple and lime spandex and a headband, and they began to wear ripped jeans with over sized jackets and sweaters; hair greasy and long. Nirvana. Pearl Jam. The battle between Whitney and Mariah. Music changed. Hair metal was out, and Seattle grunge was in.

I wore ugly sweaters, ugly shirts, ugly shoes, and ugly pants. I had a bowl haircut. The styles I the 90's didn't make sense and it didn't seem to matter.

I remember sitting in my living room and seeing the images of the gulf war on the television. An old wooden paneled looking television by the way. It was something I could not have comprehended at the time, but would affect my future tremendously.

The economy was good. My dad had plenty of work at his fathers delivery company. New businesses were prospering, people were spending, and all of my Christmas' were bountiful. The economic foundation laid by Reagan was, to a large degree, perpetuated by Bush and Clinton. But so was the spending of the government; something that would soon come to dominate my future.

Y2K. New years eve me, my family, and a neighbor stood and watched the goings on at Times Square in New York. We joked about what might happen, all of us out in the waists, scrounging for food. But inside we were all uncertain. That is until the moment of truth came and set us free. Everyone was then certain. We were emboldened. Nothing was going to stop, nothing was going to shut down. The Bubble would burst, however, only a year and a half later.

It was terrifying. Me and my entire eighth grade class watched on the screens on the wall, totally confused. We joked around, unable to fully comprehend what was happening, but we could see on the teachers faces that this was no ordinary day in our lives. Terrorists had blown up our countries greatest buildings. The new president was trapped in Air Force One by the uncertainty of what, or who, was next. It was the seminal moment in my life. And quite possibly the most influential moment of the last, or next one hundred years. Everything changed on September 11, 2001. A new beginning.

The last half of my life was uneventful; apart from two wars, our first black president, and general pandemonium economically and politically. We went to war in Afghanistan first, to attack those responsible for 9/11, and then Iraq second, to stop Saddam Hussein. We became mired, however. Thoes against the war, and who were against the president from the beginning, grew in number. I didn't enlist, but my cousin did. Bush was drummed out of office amidst a massive economic meltdown. The great recession as it is now aptly named.

Our first black president gave new hope to many. But those days have now ended. Continued economic unrest and stagflation, continued wars overseas, and a dramatic influx of racial animosity have left me uncertain of my future. But then again, the future is always uncertain.

My life has been the story of War and Peace, Scandals, economic booms and busts, and catastrophe. Like bricks paving the road before me as I walk, the future is unclear, and the past seems like it has always been.

Keepsake Apartment

Some have a keepsake box. Some have a necklace with charms. Me? I have an apartment.

It depends on who you ask. I would say, kinda. Yes, my apartment is a little messy. But I would not say it is all that bad. I am a bit of a pack rat in that I just don't throw things away. Unlike a hoarder, it isn't because I think I need the item, or will in the future. I just literally forget to throw things away. There are, however, many things that I choose not to throw away. Things of true meaning to me. Things I will never throw away.

So my apartment remains messy until I just can't take it anymore, transforming into a whirling dervish and going to work. Right now? It's not too bad. OK. A little.

I can point to several things here that bring back memories. My old Canon camera for one. I had thought that using a normal film camera was cool. An it was. Until I bought my digital one. Alright. So maybe not everything that is older is better. Only most stuff. Need I bring up the funk?

I see my great grandfathers violin. No really. The man made it himself. Not only did he make the one that sits in my living room, but he made around twenty or so others. I never really knew my great grandfather. Nor did I ever really know his son in law, my grandfather, both on my mothers side. I wanted to try and carry on some sort of tradition by learning how to play on my own. But a few broken parts and not enough time have so far resulted in squat. I have always wanted to learn to play such a beautiful instrument. Right now I sing and play drums. Maybe someday I will.

I look over at my bookshelf and see the bounty of great books. I have started almost all of them, but I have read less than half of them completely. They are something that continues to push me, however. I am a slow reader. My brain likes to take things in slow when I read. So the result is very few books finished. I wasn't very good in school. Probably because I am a typical boy. (Boys are typically drugged and suppressed by most schools these days. I know I was.) So I have tried to combat my low economic standing and education by reading and learning as much as I can on my own. It worked for Franklin. Why not me? It worked for Lincoln. Why not me?

I don't have much within the keepsake chest that is my small apartment. But what I do have inspires me to push on. It reminds me of my past, and heralds my future. That's why they continue to sit in my apartment. A little messy, but again. It depends on who you ask.

(week two: prompt six)

The Boy Band Apocalypse

I was talking to a friend at work yesterday about a disturbing trend in the America today, and the world at large. An unrivaled calamity that will be our ruin if we don't take preventative measures now. You wanna talk about those forgetting the past being doomed to repeat it? Has everyone in this country collectively received a lobotomy operation and I missed the boat? There are things happening in this nation that are disconcerting at best, and blood-curdlingly horrifying at worst. In the words of AC-DC, there is no longer one way to the top if you wanna rock and roll. I am, of course, referring to the Phoenix-like reemergence of the boy band.

What are we doing people? I thought we killed this thing off last decade?

First I witnessed a relentless ad campaign structured to make the new teen boy band “One Direction” (creative name huh?) the new thing in music. Is this how bands have always become popular? Multimillion dollar ad blitz's? Now I have nothing against capitalism. In fact I love it so much I want to marry it. But, come, on. I saw these commercials desecrate my TV not but a year ago. And yesterday I saw One Direction albums all over Wal Mart and little girls with the bands cute little faces printed all over their shirts. Where did this band come from anyways?

And then there was the news that the Backstreet Boys were getting back together. Oh my. Where is my favorite metal record?! Quick!

And finally the death knell sounded in the comfort of my home a few nights ago, destroying what would have otherwise been a delightful evening. A Foxwoods Resort commercial peddling a massive concert for a band I had never heard of in my life. “Wanted” or something. I tried to forget. I mean, there were videos of this boy band abomination singing in front of crowds of thousands. Thousands! Who are these people? They sounded good. But it is a boy band. They are chronically doctored to not only sound great, but look great; inevitably stealing the hearts of tween girls who think they might have a chance.

You might think to yourself (or say out loud if your a little outspoken), “your just jealous.” Well maybe a little. But only because there is no rhyme or reason the stardom that these bands achieve. And I use that word , achieve, loosely.

The problem is that in our culture. If a little girl thinks the boy is hot, and if through the TV he winks at them personally in the middle of a music video, they are spellbound. Good music or not. But if all of their friends think that all of their friends think that these boys are hot, then they are like crack addicts locked in a Colombian underground chem lab. It is about over saturation of the airwaves. Make it seem as if everybody loves the band, and everyone will.

I, for one, see what is coming. I desolate, moon-like landscape of music. You might as well cut my ears off now. The first round of this debacle was tragedy. But the newest incarnation is just farce. It ain't in the Bible, but this has to be a sign of Christ's return. The boy band apocalypse is upon us.

The Dusty Photo Album

I pick up the photo album, dusting it off. I don't often take time to look inside as you might probably see. I open it up. The old pictures preserved inside the plastic sleeves tell a story. The story of my life.

The very first photo shows myself as a baby in the arms of my mother. Those huge, thick glasses she wears are the epitome of the eighties. For her first child, she is slightly older than most moms. Late twenties I think. My dad wanted to name me Thomas Michael, after himself and his father before him. My mom, not wanting me to be a junior, would negotiate for a little switcharoo. Michael Thomas would be the name on my birth certificate. Not a junior.

I flip to the next photo and see me and my new baby brother. This time, I am doing the holding; but without thick glasses. He is much more pudgy than I was. All than extra weight is now long gone.

I see on the next page an image of my first day at school. I had no idea at the time how hideous the sweater I was wearing actually was. Than again, it was the early nineties, so probably no one did. They were all wearing one too.

I turn the pages to find a picture of me and my brother wrestling with my dad on his bed. I must have been “Twister”, and my brother, “Volcano.” The “Natural Disasters” are what we called ourselves. My dad wouldn't be wrestling with us for long, however. He and my mom would soon separate, making me the man of the house.

I then see a picture that makes my heart ache. Not for me, but for my mom. The Christmas after the split. She had returned to work as a housekeeper at a local motel. We shouldn't have even had a Christmas, but she had wanted so bad to give us something. Almost all of the toys were dollar store or yard sale quality gifts. Stuff you certainly couldn't go to school and brag about to your friends. But hard winter makes the spring smell that much sweeter. Looking back, that Christmas taught me a lot.

I then view a picture of my graduation from high school. And by the skin of my teeth no less. I wasn't very good in school. To much fun to be had I suppose. As most kids my age, I was short sighted.  Not interested in, or even aware of, the future. I took a few years off of school after that. “Joining the workforce” I think is what they said as I crossed the stage to shake the principal's hand.

There are few pictures in the album after that. Too busy I suppose. Funny how adults have their picture taken much more seldom than children. Not as cute maybe? Or maybe we are just too busy.

I put the photo album down, sliding it back into its spot on the bookshelf. Well, gotta get going.

Journal Entry: Day Five

I don't like complainers. I don't like excuses. I don't like chronic laziness. People who show up late and always have a story about why. People who seem to be plagued by misfortune and can't see that the problem is them. Those people who don't like cops because cops are always busting them for drunk driving, drugs, or fill in the blank. People who have more trouble telling the truth than they have telling a lie. And I especially do not like people who tell you one thing, and tell everyone else another.

You'd be surprised to know, however, that their things that I do like. I like hard workers. I like people who have been dealt a proverbial “bad hand” and don't say a word, but simply push forward. I like pumpkin pie, a lot. I like those who are hopeless optimists. I like those who have unwavering faith. I like the humble. I like the confident. I like people who above all else, say what they mean, and mean what they say.

So I ask myself, where do I fall?

P.S. I know it's a little deep, but these are some of the things I think about while I'm sewing shirt logos :)

Journal Entry: Day Four

The first week or two of school are hard. I was talking to a friend of mine, who has just started their first semester of college, about the most difficult parts of the year. The first two weeks and the last two weeks. Whew! Stressful. In the first two, you are getting your bearings, purchasing books that you didn't know you needed, and getting caught up on your reading and writing. In the final two weeks, you have about 4 papers due, so.

But, this is what it is all about. As the saying goes: Life is hard, and then you die. The thing I like about college and the difficulty therein, is that you choose to go. I like college a lot more than grammar school because of this reality. I want this. I chose this. And that drives me to achieve and to attain. I strive to accomplish a goal that I set out to fulfill four years ago. A two year degree in four years. But I have to pass these last few classes first. Which means right now, I have to take a Biology test. Adieu.

Journal Entry: Day Three, Not Two

Quiet day at work today. Not a lot of production, sewing, printing and the like, but a great deal of graphic design. Couple of designs for the fire department here in Ellsworth, a t-shirt for the MDI cross country team, and even a logo for the Branch Pond Association. I love the graphic part of my work considerably more than the big, loud machines that are used to sew my logos onto the garments. The one good part about being up and about, however, is the exercise. It can get a little weary when you are gazing at a screen all day, the fat you just ate for lunch congealing in your midsection. And look. Here I am, mimicking my perpetual stationary position in front of a computer. I overlooked yesterday's journal entry due to the holiday. That isn't to say that I thought that Labor Day meant that not only was it a day off from my job, but that I had a day off from all work. I had planned to do it, but simply forgot to take the time. It is just one of those things I suppose. Got some laundry done, though I doubt that will help my grade too much, especially since the course is online.

Not Quiet, Not Alone (week one prompt)

I am typically alone here, yes, but it is rarely quiet. There is always something chattering or humming in the background like the inner workings of a large naval vessel. Even now there are noises all around. The conversation of the radio; Red Sox baseball and their upcoming series with the Tigers. Through a doorway a washing machine churns and pulsates. Through the window rain falls heavily, pattering off the window. I can see the trees swaying in the wind. It is supposed to be like this all day.

I have always loved inclement weather. Especially lightning storms. A flash bleeds in through the window and I am running to my back door. I stand there in the darkened doorway, marveling at the power of the storm hovering above. The blessing of fear makes me want to reconsider my choice of entertainment and head back inside, but I usually fight it off. At least for a while.

My windows to the outside world are small, making the use of a lamp a bit more necessary. They are always on. I can see the neon blue glow of my computer on the walls around my desk; my favorite spot in the room. The flashes of the changing camera angles and scenes bounce off the walls of the next room. It's football season again.

I arrived here years ago, a more than acceptable place to sleep and an offer that I could not refuse. When my income level surpassed the threshold that a government subsidized apartment warranted, I was forced to leave home, 18 and I was finally on my own. Save for the occasional Sunday when my mother insists that I eat some of her food for a change and not the easy bake stuff that I usually prepare here in this room.

So no. I suppose it is not quiet here, but neither am I alone.

Journal Entry: Day One

Sitting in Church today, listening to the pastor speak passionately from the Scriptures, I read to myself the words that the Apostle Paul penned in this letter to the christian church in the Greek city of Corinth. I read his words and in light of them, thought about my own. If I could write with the same passion. The same unwavering commitment to the message delivered. Paul didn't use a lot of high minded ideas and literary flourishes to awe his readers, he just wrote from the inner most parts of his soul. Out of his very being. I think that sometimes, through no real fault of my own, life can bog down my writing like an ox cart in the mire. External cares and worries, like getting a good grade, or writing just to please the teacher (no offense Mr. Goldfine or any other teachers of mine that might happen upon this post). There is a message within every work. I have to find it and commit myself to it. Then I can write from the heart and not the head. Thanks Paul.