ADVANCED PLACEMENT STATISTICS CAN WAIT.

Afternoons


She sits, rocking,

In the only chair she can call her own.

She stares, silent,

At the white wall. (He doesn't allow color.)

There, on the wall, framed by the whiteness,

Hangs the painting --

The half-hidden profile, the half-clothed torso,

The hand, gripping the sword

That is dripping with blood.

Then she hears it: the familiar creak.

She starts; then she stops rocking.

Suddenly still, she sees the colors --

Colors of rust, of dried blood.

Slowly she starts rocking again.

She wonders what she's waiting for.

-Written by someone I'd expect to leave poetry lying aimlessly online for the world to divulge in.

"I HAVE A CONFESSION TO MAKE," SAID HE.

Of all the gauzed, self-deprecating secrets I hold, there is one that clings most blatantly to the innermost folds of my deepest compassion.
And I truly, genuinely, hate myself for it.
Rarely does it rear its ugly head, but when that time comes, I have little capacity for restraint or even the sheer logistical cognation that runs so steadily in my veins. All reasoning is cut off. Deluded are my sobering understandings, and suddenly, a frightening world that I, myself, have created zooms into focus, crystallized and picturesque and so very, very attractive.
Perhaps it’s that glamour I cling to. Not the versatility or spontaneity of the situation, but those fleeting glimpses of something so imagined, so surreal, so relentless and uninviting. I know I cannot stay in those instances, yet the temptation to do so goes far beyond my knowledge.
[Editor’s Note: This "one" I speak of suddenly illuminates an "other" that forces me into my precarious state of illusion. I used to imagine that their circumstances were far unaligned; they were indifferent towards each other and hardly compatible in their mental appeal. Now, I understand them much differently. Especially at this moment.
In truth, one is far more distant and unattainable a dream (if you can call such realities "dreams"). The other stands in front of me, yet is no more likely a realization than the other. Both free themselves in my thinking far too often, yet this "other" holds nothing close to the illustrious glitter that blocks my gazing thought and sweeping palpitations whenever the first comes into view. ]
These "dreams" are unlike any other I see around me. I have created beings, deities, identities around them, so as to further pursue them in the earthiest of understandings, to make my trivial needs more systematic and far less symbolic. Yet symbols they are: icons; they stand as a mere transport for that which I seek in ridiculous vanity.
Again and again and again without fail, I, myself, rear the head of undignified longing, forcing my way into stalls and mirrors, attaining not the beauty to impress nor the charisma to enthrall; instead, I stand hollow and hallowed, someone else's transport for a deity greater than I. I wish not to be this shrine of someone else's desires! I wish not to be their conduit for sanctity, just as I have unfairly shoved the burden upon them, lacking knowledgeable consent or reciprocity for my deeds.

He looks at me, but not at me.
He looks at her, whoever she is.
I realize that she is all I'll ever be.
So, in utmost retaliation, I look at him.
There we stand, gazing longingly into each other's eyes, never even glimpsing one another.
And, perhaps, that's the safest place for me to be.

CONCERNED FOR THE POPE'S WELL-BEING?

Look no further, my friend.

THIRTEEN WAYS OF LOOKING AT A BLACKBIRD

(Obviously not by Wallace Stevens...Are you crazy?)

VII
My weary tuft of memory folds back into its place,
Hidden not from the palpitations of beating, flapping, pumping
Shame personified;
Remorseless, his feathers still quake with a knowledge:
The If and When and How that shall never be again, all
Laden with a tinge of the blackbird’s gaze.

IT'S A BEAUTIFUL DAY IN THE NEIGHBORHOOD.

Bright, sunny, and pollenated.
I may not make it through the morning. And if that is, unfortunately, the case, I've just a few things to say:
A) I have never been cliff diving with Pauly Shore, and for that, I am saddened.
B) I have never kissed a boy, and I am perfectly alright with that. However, come Flagler College Time, I will have to erase that statement as you all laugh gleefully at my disgustingly stagnant coming-of-age rate.
C) Down comforters, no matter how appealing and attractive, will eventually poke you with their feathers from hell. It's just bound to happen. Be prepared.
D) I've run out of tissues. Someone buy me a few more. Boxes, that is.
Okie dokie. I've wasted the internet's time enough for one day. Time to stop before my computer willingly picks itself up and hurls its angry plastic frame in my ill-weathered face.

DAMN THE COMMON COLD OF ALL COMMON COLDS...

I suppose saying that I'm "horrendously ill" is insensitive to all the dying patients in hospital beds, but as of this afternoon, I consider myself much closer to "horrendous" than normal; I'll let it slide just this once.
Besides my throbbing head and basic symptomatic inklings, I can't wait to find some rest. Indeed: rest, and eight chapters of combined Advanced Placement Statistics and Macro Economics. (Not actually combined, mind you. Two separate, individual courses, both of which I have "horrendous" amounts of work to complete in order to find myself comfortable and a successful high school graduate. No pressure.)
I depart into the wild terrain of St. Pete, only to return by Sunday.
I leave with you an image of hope and grace:
David Hyde Pierce as Sir Robin

Spamalot: The show that just looks too good to be true.

AN ODE TO V.D. (OR "VALENTINE'S DAY," AS SOME LIKE TO CALL IT.)

Written (ever so eloquently) by the Great Jennifer Gerhardt and the not-so-great Kelley Smith.

So, it's Valentine's Day. Hallmark sells out of those cutesy kissing teddy bears, Godiva swims in chocolate-induced profits, and local jewelry stores revel in how culpable most boyfriends are to the popular media. The world seems in order. Valentine's Day appears, as usual, a sappy and sentimental affair.
Not to burst the proverbial bubble, but this cannot be true: Valentine's Day is ridden with venomous evil unseen to the naive and relationship-inclined. How vast is this evil, you ask? Evil as vast as the distance between the ground and the balcony that Michael Jackson nearly dropped his baby off of, as vast as the crocodile that came within inches of consuming Steve Irwin's infant son- combined. It is the spawn of Satan and some seriously demented executive who thought no one would actually take the time to research the Pagan history of this little holiday.
Well, Satan and Mr. Demented Executive Man, we're onto you and your twisted games. We're taking a stand!
No longer will we tolerate those cheesy pictures we take with our significant others. What, we ask, is the point? Two weeks from now we'll have either chopped them into tiny bits, have superimposed the faces onto voodoo dolls, or have burned them; the future looks that promising.
The future looks so promising, in fact, that we have decided to send our coupled friends gifts to show our "appreciation" and genuine astonishment at their devotion- and what better a way than by sending either a Condolence Basket or Wreath for Sympathy, easily ordered off of Coast To Coast Florist. The Standing Rose Cross or Spirit of Love Angel also prove perfect for any occasion, even for funerals.
Not that we'd dare compare a funeral to a holiday faction centered around love, joy, simplicity, and happiness (or disgrace, in the case of the "personal ad" fad); after all, death is God's way of saying, "Take some time off from the Love-fest. Meditate on total isolation, utter and complete loneliness, things like that. Builds good character."
Chocolate builds things up as well: your serotonin, your cholesterol, your cocoa addiction, all in one fell swoop. Chocolate motivates; chocolate inspires; chocolate infuses Valentine's Day with enough sugar to send anyone into a diabetic coma. It is, quite possibly, the world's most supportive and nutritionally indecent food; therefore, it is the perfect significant other. Although those fake helpings of coconut and cherries, with their regurgitated and shriveled appearances, don't deserve to be coupled with such perfection, we are willing to make a few vital sacrifices- "In the name of love," as Bono and U2 once sang. Fork over that heart-shaped box, complete with Cupid image, now.
While on the subject of hearts, hold a mock drama of saying The Pledge and place your hand over your heart. Feel that familiar "lub-dub, lub-dub, lub-dub" and think of what Bill Nye once taught you. A heart, in fact, never has nor never will be shaped as the type of hearts manufactured in conjunction with Valentine's Day; it would be interesting to see a heart of such fine symmetric shape, we think, but wholy detrimental to the human body. However, for the sake of amusement, we wonder: would sales surge in Valentine's Day propaganda were its icon an asymmetrical valve-ridden blood-pumper? With the anatomically correct form of a heart promoted, would cannibalism reach an all-time high? How would people react to shop windows with functional models of everyone's favorite blood circulation device? The answer: repulsion, re-gifts, and rejection. Oh, and profit plummet.
Valentine's Day has gradually deteriorated, rotted, and dwindled away to nothing more than a holiday of false hopes, false advertising, and false encouragement; yet, we continue to cherish and celebrate the "spirit of love" that it brings. Honesty remains underrated: we cast it aside with disturbing nonchalance. We opt to dupe ourselves into a devastating series of fabrications that ultimately leave us bitter, cynical, and alarming to small children- look to the authors of this column for living proof.
A few fleeting words of advice to actually make Valentine's Day mean something: try and retain the content of this holiday, ditch some of the excessive optimism, and definitely, be practical (we, of course, speak monetarially). This day is by no means the only day to celebrate the ones you love; why pour all of your effort into it? Inconsistency makes you appear haphazard.

IS HOWLING "REALLY" SINGING?

Perhaps I should ask Daniel.
Why would I bother? It would be more productive to jab a lead-ridden pencil into my ears. Which would still lack in productivity.
It is finally the weekend, which promises lots of time thinking about the coming week, defeating the purpose of a weekend.
Luckily, I'm dead to the world. But in a nice, happy way.
I'm relaxed, passive, and far to constructive to be deconstructive.
Breathing is nice.

BAHAMAS UPDATE

-I viciously accosted Bill Clinton (more later).
-My cell phone stopped working as of 3:40 AM this morning.
-I've never eaten so many chicken fingers in my life.
-Too many children exist. Period.
-This time on the internet is costing me far, far too much money.
-I finally found a way to cheat Sean Campbell out of extra credit. Way hot.
-I have less than a minute to finish, post, and get on a ferry.
Under pressure.
More later. I swear.

GET ME A DANISH.

Here I sit, awaiting none other than an escape from this wonderful nation where I can sit for hours on end, listening eagerly to an illiterate Texas oil man who may or may not have served his time in the Texas Air National Guard.
So, instead, I had a sandwich.
Speaking of Jesus...
To end the week with an immaculate yet tiny excursion is probably just what Michael Palin ordered. Not only am I exhausted beyond normal human repair, but the calling of a giant Disney massage is becoming very, very appealing.
Off to bed I trample, to sleep; to sleep, perchance to dream.