For GRID use.
Thursday, May 28, 2015
Sunday, June 13, 2010
get there
I smiled at his words. He wasn't being cocky or self absorbed. He knew himself. He was confident in himself. Regardless of what anyone tells him, he will always know that, at least to him, he will always be good enough. And that is more than most any of us could say, even myself. I envied him.
- A modified excerpt of something that I am currently reading. It just hit me that the same thing happened to me. Or, is happening to me, actually.
- A modified excerpt of something that I am currently reading. It just hit me that the same thing happened to me. Or, is happening to me, actually.
Monday, September 1, 2008
i'm not moving
the. best. love song. i've heard. yet.
like seriously.
Going back to the corner where I first saw you,
Gonna camp in my sleeping bag. I'm not gonna move,
Got some words on cardboard got your picture in my hand,
Saying if you see this girl can you tell her where I am,
Some try to hand me money they don't understand,
I'm not broke I'm just a broken hearted man,
I know it makes no sense, but what else can I do,
How can I move on when I've been in love with you
Cos if one day you wake up and find that you're missing me,
And your heart starts to wonder where on this earth I can be,
Thinking maybe you'd come back here to the place that we'd meet,
And you'd see me waiting for you on the corner of the street.
So I'm not moving,
I'm not moving.
Policeman says son you can't stay here,
I said there's someone I'm waiting for if it's a day, a month, a year,
Gotta stand my ground even if it rains or snows,
If she changes her mind this is the first place she will go.
Cos if one day you wake up and find that you're missing me,
And your heart starts to wonder where on this earth I can be,
Thinking maybe you'd come back here to the place that we'd meet,
And you'd see me waiting for you on the corner of the street.
So I'm not moving,
I'm not moving.
I'm not moving,
I'm not moving.
People talk about the guy
Whos waiting on a girl
There are no holes in his shoes
But a big hole in his world
Maybe I'll get famous as man who can't be moved,
And maybe you won't mean to but you'll see me on the news,
And you'll come running to the corner
Cos you'll know it's just for you
I'm the man who can't be moved
I'm the man who can't be moved
Cos if one day you wake up and find that you're missing me,
And your heart starts to wonder where on this earth I can be,
Thinking maybe you'd come back here to the place that we'd meet,
And you'd see me waiting for you on the corner of the street.
So I'm not moving
I'm not moving.
I'm not moving...
I'm not moving.
Going back to the corner where I first saw you,
Gonna camp in my sleeping bag not I'm not gonna move.
Monday, August 4, 2008
the. best. thing.
We all have dreams. Big ones, small ones. Great ones, simple ones. Some selfish, some selfless. Some even silly or downright ridiculous, and we know it, and we say "Who cares, it's my fucking dream?" Fact is, we all dream of the best things. The best position in little league, the best table in the high school lunchroom, the best college in the state, the job with the best pay, the person to best marry. We too make up the best of plans and schedules and timelines to realize all this. We scheme, we plot, and we go out of our way risking all four limbs to reach a satisfaction we blindly seek. And in our determination-slash-desperation to get what we want, we do our very damnedest to follow these plans. But do we ever stop to ask ourselves if these dreams are worth all the hardwork, the time, the almost-religious devotion of trying to make them come true? Because, ironically, sometimes, the best thing to ever happen to us is something that we never planned on. It's just, the trouble with that is, because of our ravenous preoccupation with following the plan to the dot, we sometimes fail to notice that that best thing has been right smack in front of us all along. We may opt to pretend that we do not see it, or we could just be the pitiful stoics that we are, but we could never deny it to ourselves when it happens -- if it happens. And we better ask the hand of fate for some luck, because when that happens, then we're screwed.
Friday, December 14, 2007
matty 1.1
I DON’T BELIEVE in god. I don’t think I ever did. And that’s saying something considering I grew up spending my Sunday mornings in Sunday school, singing incredibly catchy songs and coloring Noah’s elephants green.I vividly remember this girl Vivian. She made it a habit to color her rainbows with 27 different crayons, that by the time she finished with them, they looked more like abstract paintings of Van Gough. They were hideous. I somehow found it amusing to keep teasing her about this sad fact that by the next coloring session, she seemed to finally have had enough of me. I wouldn’t anymore go into details, but know that after the (nasty) ordeal she put me through, clumps of my brown locks had ended up clutched in her little Crayola-smudged hands. Yeah. Talk about tantrum.Anyway, I once came across this study that said kids who admitted to not believing in a/any/their religion grew up in an environment where Jesus and his disciples were but likely another canvas in the dining room wall – meaning, an environment where the ‘rents basically don’t give a cent’s worth whether their children read today’s bible verse or not. That’s if they even give a damn what today’s bible verse is. Well, I say, bullshit. My folks are as devout Christians as the next couple in our old town. And that’s saying something as most all households in Grison go to church every Sunday. Ours, most certainly, included.
My mom would wake us all early each Sunday morning and always make a fuss about what we should wear that day, and telling us her kids to be like this and act like that. She liked that a lot, I tell you, giving instructions. And making up rules! Oh my, don’t even get me started on her rules! She was also particularly uptight with me since she’s sworn it her life’s sole duty to keep me prim and proper – her everyday form of drastic measure, I think, after that entire ruckus with "that nightmare of a child Vivian!" I honestly don’t know if I was better off in that Norfolk Juvenile Facility for Girls or at home.
Well anyway, this one Sunday, I was throwing death glares at my mom all the way to church after she made me wear a dress that I spurned like hell. I didn’t even like wearing dresses in the first place, and making me wear one that had great big flower prints and lace all over was just plain torture. I didn’t have a choice about the whole thing either, as she threatened to ground me for a week if I didn’t put the dress on. Mom then proceeded to knock herself out preaching about how girls should always dress strictly in skirts when entering the house of god. Freaking yeah, right. See how you’d hate her made up rules, too.
Inside the building, my brother Bertram was surreptitiously dozing off as Pastor Sheridan gave his sermon. You wouldn’t put it past Bertram either if you yourself heard the kind of speeches the old bard gave. You’d be bored shitless before you can even say "Amen". Anyway, it’s most certainly a mystery how he does it, but Bertram had always been good at getting away with sleeping in public places, ones where I wouldn’t try blinking a little longer than normal. I had to smirk however, when this time mom caught sight of his head lolling a little too obviously to the left. She’d have to be thick if she didn’t realize something was sticking out of her boundaries of pious ideals. I thought Bertram must perhaps have been up for the best part of the night. That – or he’s finally losing his touch, dear old Bertram.
"Bertram!" hissed my mom through the corner of her mouth. She liked that, too, hissing. Especially when it’s more instructions to fling out at someone.
When Bertram appeared to be just drooling some more on his jacket, "Bertram!" she said again, with a tad more force into the hiss, and immediately looked around to see if anyone was yet aware of what was happening. Only Jimmy do-Gooder, son of one of the town’s pastors, gave notice. But I knew Jimmy was too much of a do-gooder to blab about. Mom must have known, too, because she gave him a small (fake, I bet) smile.
Like the most faithful Stepford wife, my mom was direly afraid of public humiliation. How much of that would she suffer if people found out her son was "desecrating" the holy house of the lord? (Would you believe, she actually used that word, desecrating, when she gave Bertram a telling to that evening?) I bet a hundred bucks she was making up some more senseless rules in her mind that very moment. "Bertram!"
Bertram rolled his head to the right.
"Mathilde," she finally said, giving up on him, "go wake your brother this instant!"
I shot her another one of my death glares.
"Now!" I could definitely hear panic in her voice. Very faint, but still there.
"Fine," I said, rolling my eyes. I shook Bertram’s sleeve with the littlest enthusiasm and he woke up like he was never asleep. I found out later he really wasn’t. He only enjoyed giving Mom a fright and that "She should’ve known better calling me Bertram in public."
Bertram was two years younger than me, and at fourteen, he spent the better part of his life detesting his name, and claiming to most everyone he knew he really was called ‘Scott’. Although I haven’t the slightest idea how he came about picking ‘Scott’, I couldn’t blame him, the poor guy. If I produce a son myself someday, I would never for the love of all good christen him Bertram. And I’d most certainly not call him Mathilde either, if he were a she. Come to think of it, my older brother didn’t fare so well in the name department either, as he’s called Carlyle. God, were my parents awful in naming their kids. You’d think they weren’t from this universe or something.
My mom would wake us all early each Sunday morning and always make a fuss about what we should wear that day, and telling us her kids to be like this and act like that. She liked that a lot, I tell you, giving instructions. And making up rules! Oh my, don’t even get me started on her rules! She was also particularly uptight with me since she’s sworn it her life’s sole duty to keep me prim and proper – her everyday form of drastic measure, I think, after that entire ruckus with "that nightmare of a child Vivian!" I honestly don’t know if I was better off in that Norfolk Juvenile Facility for Girls or at home.
Well anyway, this one Sunday, I was throwing death glares at my mom all the way to church after she made me wear a dress that I spurned like hell. I didn’t even like wearing dresses in the first place, and making me wear one that had great big flower prints and lace all over was just plain torture. I didn’t have a choice about the whole thing either, as she threatened to ground me for a week if I didn’t put the dress on. Mom then proceeded to knock herself out preaching about how girls should always dress strictly in skirts when entering the house of god. Freaking yeah, right. See how you’d hate her made up rules, too.
Inside the building, my brother Bertram was surreptitiously dozing off as Pastor Sheridan gave his sermon. You wouldn’t put it past Bertram either if you yourself heard the kind of speeches the old bard gave. You’d be bored shitless before you can even say "Amen". Anyway, it’s most certainly a mystery how he does it, but Bertram had always been good at getting away with sleeping in public places, ones where I wouldn’t try blinking a little longer than normal. I had to smirk however, when this time mom caught sight of his head lolling a little too obviously to the left. She’d have to be thick if she didn’t realize something was sticking out of her boundaries of pious ideals. I thought Bertram must perhaps have been up for the best part of the night. That – or he’s finally losing his touch, dear old Bertram.
"Bertram!" hissed my mom through the corner of her mouth. She liked that, too, hissing. Especially when it’s more instructions to fling out at someone.
When Bertram appeared to be just drooling some more on his jacket, "Bertram!" she said again, with a tad more force into the hiss, and immediately looked around to see if anyone was yet aware of what was happening. Only Jimmy do-Gooder, son of one of the town’s pastors, gave notice. But I knew Jimmy was too much of a do-gooder to blab about. Mom must have known, too, because she gave him a small (fake, I bet) smile.
Like the most faithful Stepford wife, my mom was direly afraid of public humiliation. How much of that would she suffer if people found out her son was "desecrating" the holy house of the lord? (Would you believe, she actually used that word, desecrating, when she gave Bertram a telling to that evening?) I bet a hundred bucks she was making up some more senseless rules in her mind that very moment. "Bertram!"
Bertram rolled his head to the right.
"Mathilde," she finally said, giving up on him, "go wake your brother this instant!"
I shot her another one of my death glares.
"Now!" I could definitely hear panic in her voice. Very faint, but still there.
"Fine," I said, rolling my eyes. I shook Bertram’s sleeve with the littlest enthusiasm and he woke up like he was never asleep. I found out later he really wasn’t. He only enjoyed giving Mom a fright and that "She should’ve known better calling me Bertram in public."
Bertram was two years younger than me, and at fourteen, he spent the better part of his life detesting his name, and claiming to most everyone he knew he really was called ‘Scott’. Although I haven’t the slightest idea how he came about picking ‘Scott’, I couldn’t blame him, the poor guy. If I produce a son myself someday, I would never for the love of all good christen him Bertram. And I’d most certainly not call him Mathilde either, if he were a she. Come to think of it, my older brother didn’t fare so well in the name department either, as he’s called Carlyle. God, were my parents awful in naming their kids. You’d think they weren’t from this universe or something.
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