Tag Archives: reward

“Life is a game, but the consequences are real.”

Advertisements
Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

Memorial

You come home to a house you’ve kept clean for a week solid after spring cleaning, but today you are tired. You drop your stuff on the floor and go to the kitchen to grab some snacks. You’ve worked hard this week. You decide you deserve a treat. You can’t remember the last time you had a milkshake. You scoop out the ice cream, Oreos, chocolate syrup, and some more ice cream, and hold the “blend” button. The blender decides that now is a good time to commit suicide and grind its gears, and not your milkshake, until you hear a pop and see a little wisp of smoke trail away from your newly departed appliance. You now understand the phrase ‘giving up the ghost,’ but you still don’t have a milkshake. You find yourself on the couch minutes later with a long spoon and the top half of the blender in your hand, scraping out the last bites of your milkstir, and realizing that the top half of the blender actually isn’t a bad way to eat a snack. It even has a handle and a spout. Over the next few weeks you keep using the top half of the blender to eat while the bottom half still sits plugged in on your counter top. No, it still doesn’t work. And now you’ve gotten used to it being there that it has just become part of the kitchen counter; a fixture, a statue, a memorial even. A few months later you invite friends over and one of them gets really drunk and asks you why you couldn’t just make margaritas from scratch when the blender is sitting right there. You tell him, “oh, it doesn’t work.” Like it’s supposed to not work. And he just stares at you for a little while because he’s obviously drunk, and nothing is wrong with you, or the blender.

Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

To Know

To Know

The moment.
The moment of clarity.
The severity,
a rarity
that stings
and rings
with things
you can’t describe,
but only feel
and know
—you just know
what will happen,
and that you can’t
stop it
no matter how hard you try.
For better or for worse,
you lie to yourself
and say
I see the light;
another way.
I will fight!

Yet, you know.
You just know
that you’re only distracting yourself,
and falling back
into the very same moment
of clarity
which trapped you before,
and you know,
you just know
that you’ve been here before—
you’ve seen it,
you’ve felt it,
and now it is here
and is all you can see,
and you know,
you just know
it is all that can be,
and you slip

—Oh, you slip—
and you fall
to your knees
and say, If only
that moment of clarity…
hadn’t shown itself,
hadn’t spoken to me,
hadn’t consumed
then until now
in the wink of an eye,
so that months of inaction
have rolled on by
with nothing
more than the words
“Why couldn’t I…”

But you knew.
You just knew
when your future
appeared
that it would hold you,
entrance you
with its mysterious face,
so you watched
and you listened,
running in place,
when all it would take
to avoid that path
is to speak out
and say “No,
this can’t pass!
That isn’t my fate!”

…but you couldn’t,
you wouldn’t
want to leave it to chance;
take a risk
give her a kiss,
when at that moment’s glance
you cannot be together,
but she’s still in your life,
and to you that’s still better
than ‘maybe’ or ‘might,’
and you want nothing more
than to cherish that moment,
to keep what you can,
to hold onto the light;
even if only
a flash in the pan.

When the future finds you
and you don’t agree,
it takes all that you have
to let go of that moment,
and what used to be,
and accept the tears of its clarity.

Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

If ignorance is bliss, is it better to have forgotten something or to never have known it at all?

…I don’t even know how to answer that question.

You could start by picking one or the other.

I mean, you’re asking about the loss of knowledge, where if you have experience either forgetting or not-knowing, then by it’s very nature you won’t know what it is you forgot, or never knew, therefore discrediting your own opinion as soon as you open your mouth.

I get what you’re saying, but isn’t it possible to know what you’ve forgotten, yet impossible to know what you’ve never learned?

Hmm, then I suppose yes and no. I know I used to be good at calculus in high school, but if you gave me a double integral I wouldn’t know where to begin.

Not many of us would.

Anyhow, in that sense I know what I’ve forgotten, but that’s just a matter of practice and maintenance of the mind. But for the other half of that, if we want to get real technical, I’ve never learned how to fart–I just know how to do it.

But that’s just a bodily function. That’s like saying you know how to grow your own hair.

No it’s not. You don’t have to make a conscious effort to grow your hair, but you can however make a conscious effort to fart. It’s something you have control over more or less.

I’m still not buying it… what’s that smell?

Nothing — Anyways, I guess it’s just hard to quantify your own loss of knowledge, ergo consciousness.

Like asking someone, “are you asleep yet?”

Yeah, you need someone else to remember for you.

But if we can’t even trust ourselves to remember, how can we trust someone else to?

Hmm, I guess I’ll start taking more pictures.

Don’t forget to smile.

You don’t have to remind me.

Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

Remember when we would pick berries, and when everyone stood on the hill to watch the airshow we’d sell them for 25 cents a cup?

Yeah. Remember the dog barking at us from the deck because he wanted to pick berries with us too, but he fell through the slats and landed on his face?

I remember he fell, but I don’t remember seeing it. Do you remember what we spent our earnings on?

We weren’t allowed to keep the money; we had to put it in the piggy bank. Do you remember when I took it and hid it?

Do you remember when I smashed it open and took everything?

No, but I remember getting punished for it. Do you remember how much was in there?

Not a clue.

Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,
Advertisements
Advertisements
%d bloggers like this: