I’ve noticed that some of the hardest working, most driven individuals tend to feel unhappy, unsuccessful and mediocre. A few people I know come to mind; people I admire for many different reasons, people that have so much going for them but, for some reason, it just isn’t enough.
Here is the paradox: I know other, less admirable people; people who have very little accomplishments, no plans for their future, people who rely on luck, rely on others. Yet these people seem happier. They seem to take things as they come, staying down for only a few moments at a time when their mediocrity is brought to their attention. For the most part, they don’t feel mediocre. They feel quite alright.
So who should we envy? The ambitious people of the world who are always peering over the fence towards the greener side, or our mediocre neighbors that settle their lawn chairs onto their patchy grass with a glass of lemonade in their hands and a smile fixed on their smug faces?
While our carefree neighbors may seem to be making it, at the end of the day one fact remains: we live in a meritocracy—a society in which advancement is based on individual ability or achievement. What does this mean? Oh, something very simple: only the strong survive. And in the end, those who struggled will come out stronger. And those who took the easy road and were ahead in the beginning, will be left in the dust.
Sunday, September 6, 2009
Thursday, June 11, 2009
Conversations with myself
Me: Why are you giving away your dolls?
Four years old: (In a know -it-all tone) I don’t need these, silly. We're moving to America! I can buy all the dolls I want there.
Me: Is that why you promised your friend Yubelki a new doll?
Five years old: What is this dirty place?!
Four years old: I’m going to send her one from America. Super express mail!
Me: (Laughs) Sure you will...
***
Me: Well, Its a section of Brooklyn called East New York. This is America, Rosmary. Welcome.
Five years old: (Disappointed, clutching a post card with a snowy scene of the Manhattan skyline) Where....is....the snow ?
Me: (Laughs) Its March!
***
Seven years old: (Crying)
Me: Why are you crying, Rosmary?
Seven years old: Papi is homeless. He is sleeping in the subway. He has no food.
Me: Did he tell you that?
Seven years old: (Blows nose on t-shirt) Yes...he called me crying and--
Me: And how did he call you if he is homeless?
Seven years old: (Hesitates) I....
Me: Here, I’ll tell you how; he is sleeping in his sister’s house. Warm and comfortable. Away from all the problems mom is facing now.
Seven years old: But...he said...
Me: Yes, he says a lot of things to make you cry. Don't cry for him.
***
Eight years old: (Writing attentively in a notebook)
Me: What are you writing?
Eight years old: A crime novel.
Me: Why?! Its summer break! They’re having a block party outside! The fire hydrant is open. Go out there, please, have fun!
Eight years old: (Stares out the window for a moment) Nah. I'll go later.
Me: (Shakes head) You will wish you did, one day.
***
Ten years old: (Crying)
Me: Why are you crying, now...
Ten years old: I’m just...embarrassed. People are giving us clothes.
Me: And what are you embarrassed of? That’s very nice of people to do. After the fire, and all.
Ten years old: (Whispering) But I don’t want to wear other people's clothes. Everyone will know .
Me: You listen to me, what these kids think doesn't matter?! This moment, right now, will only make you stronger.
***
Eleven years old: (Sitting in the principal’s office)
Me: What are you doing here?
Eleven years old: I’m going home.
Me: And why is that? Its only 10am.
Eleven years old: Because I got in a fight.
Me: You! Fighting?! (Laughs) Fighting implies you hit them back. Did you hit back?
Eleven years old: Well, he pushed me. So I pushed him back. Then...he put me in a headlock...and...I couldn't get out of it.
Me: (Laughs hysterically) He was twice your size! What were you thinking?!
***
Thirteen years old: (Writing attentively in a notebook)
Me: What are you writing?
Thirteen years old: It’s a mystery novel. I'm sending it to Roxy. She likes to read my stories. She's in the Navy now, you know, stationed in Virginia.
Me: Why do you bother?
Thirteen years old: (Looks up, surprised) What do you mean?
Me: (Shrugs) You’re never going to finish it anyway.
***
Fourteen years old: (Crying in a near empty bedroom)
Me: Why are you crying?
Fourteen years old: I hate it here. I HATE IT HERE!
Me: Woah. Calm it down. You're going to hurt our sister's feelings. She's only 23 years old and look, she bought this house and moved the family down here, because she wanted us to be together. Don't you realize what an amazing sacrifice she's made?
Fourteen years old: I...
Me: Besides, don’t you know who you'll find here?
Fourteen years old: Who?
Me: Yourself, you silly girl!
***
The one that got away
Though it had been three years since he last saw her, she seemed to have frozen in time. In a way, she looked so much as she had back then. But he was amazed at how many new things he noticed, things about her that he should have noticed then and were now too hard to ignore. Like the way she rolled her eyes toward the ceiling and smiled when he complimented her, or how she would bite her lower lip when recalling some detail of her story.
But there was something different about her as well. Though her eyes were still kind and her smile as warm as ever, in her eyes there was something missing. She did not look at him the same way, the way she used to look at him back then.
As he pretended to be engaged in her story about the last three years, an odd sensation crept over him. As if something thick and cold was trickling inside his stomach; it was a dreadful type of feeling, one that pointedly made him wonder what he had expected when they made plans to see each other after so many years.
I expected her to feel the same way, a truthful voice said inside his head, and though the logical part of him knew he was being irrational, he could barely piece his feelings together.
Did he feel the same way? He had not really thought about it. In fact, he rarely thought of her anymore—a sign that, to him, signified his feelings had melted into time and space. After all, he had been with numerous women after her.
But as she sat before him, her brown skin appearing so supple that he was tempted to touch it, he slowly realized that everything he had felt, and perhaps more, was rushing back to him all at once.
Yet this realization only caused the dreaded feeling inside of him to intensify. Because although she had once been his, and his alone, and if all was the same he would have leaned in the middle of her story to kiss her full lips, the woman that now sat before him was farther away from him than anything else in the world.
But how could it be that he, who knew her body, who knew her secrets and details that no other knew, was now as much of a stranger to her as a man she had never met.
"So now," she said, her eyes full of excitement, "tell me all of your wonderful news."
He replied with something witty, something he knew would make her smile. And when she did, he could not help himself and he leaned in and kissed her lightly on the lips. It took only a second—he just wanted to feel her lips—but when he pulled back he knew at once, by the look in her eyes, it had been a mistake.
When she spoke, he thought he would die of embarrassment and disappointment.
"Cedric," she said slowly, her eyes bearing into his, "I’m engaged."
He glanced down at her hand. Sure enough, there was a ring on her finger. He had not noticed it, yet now it seemed so bright it was blinding. What could he say now? Three seconds before he could have feigned happiness for her. But now, she knew how he felt; she saw the words he did not speak lurking just behind his eyes.
And what was worse? She did not feel the same.
But there was something different about her as well. Though her eyes were still kind and her smile as warm as ever, in her eyes there was something missing. She did not look at him the same way, the way she used to look at him back then.
As he pretended to be engaged in her story about the last three years, an odd sensation crept over him. As if something thick and cold was trickling inside his stomach; it was a dreadful type of feeling, one that pointedly made him wonder what he had expected when they made plans to see each other after so many years.
I expected her to feel the same way, a truthful voice said inside his head, and though the logical part of him knew he was being irrational, he could barely piece his feelings together.
Did he feel the same way? He had not really thought about it. In fact, he rarely thought of her anymore—a sign that, to him, signified his feelings had melted into time and space. After all, he had been with numerous women after her.
But as she sat before him, her brown skin appearing so supple that he was tempted to touch it, he slowly realized that everything he had felt, and perhaps more, was rushing back to him all at once.
Yet this realization only caused the dreaded feeling inside of him to intensify. Because although she had once been his, and his alone, and if all was the same he would have leaned in the middle of her story to kiss her full lips, the woman that now sat before him was farther away from him than anything else in the world.
But how could it be that he, who knew her body, who knew her secrets and details that no other knew, was now as much of a stranger to her as a man she had never met.
"So now," she said, her eyes full of excitement, "tell me all of your wonderful news."
He replied with something witty, something he knew would make her smile. And when she did, he could not help himself and he leaned in and kissed her lightly on the lips. It took only a second—he just wanted to feel her lips—but when he pulled back he knew at once, by the look in her eyes, it had been a mistake.
When she spoke, he thought he would die of embarrassment and disappointment.
"Cedric," she said slowly, her eyes bearing into his, "I’m engaged."
He glanced down at her hand. Sure enough, there was a ring on her finger. He had not noticed it, yet now it seemed so bright it was blinding. What could he say now? Three seconds before he could have feigned happiness for her. But now, she knew how he felt; she saw the words he did not speak lurking just behind his eyes.
And what was worse? She did not feel the same.
Friday, June 5, 2009
Untitled (from compiled quotes)
Staring at her own reflection, she brushes away a rolling tear with her fingertips. She winces at her own touch--not because her touch feels cold, although it does. She winces at the confirmation that her face, which she hardly recognizes, is her own. Transfixed, even as her heavy makeup begins to smear down her face, she watches as her tears wash away this lie for the last time. What would they think if they saw me now, she wonders of all those who claim to adore her.
"I'm serious, Joe, I want to take lessons!" She said, the night she realized she was a joke and had always been a joke.
"Why, Jeane? You're wonderful," He said in a bored voice. The book on his lap was currently more interesting to him than she was.
She turned from him, toward the window that looked onto the city of Los Angeles. "I know how third rate I am," she said, realizing he would never appreciate how much it hurt her to admit it, "I can actually feel my lack of talent, as though it were cheap clothes I'm wearing inside."
He was silent.
"You know, Joe, I used to look out at the Hollywood night and think 'there must be thousands of girls sitting alone like me, dreaming of becoming a movie star. But I'm not going to worry about them; I'm dreaming the hardest,' little did I know, It was always better off as just a dream."
Still, he was silent. Was he even listening?
"Joe?" she said softly, now sitting on the window sill, still staring out into the night. She needed to feel his presence, to know she was not alone.
"Yes, Jeane?"
She remained silent for a moment, partly because words failed her. But mostly, she felt that every word she spoke that night exposed some raw part of her soul. And yet, she felt an unyielding desire to speak from her heart, regardless of how erratic it may sound.
"No one ever told me I was pretty when I was a little girl," she glanced at him, he was looking up at her, "All little girls should be told they are pretty, even if they aren't."
He laughed and something inside of her cringed. She turned to the window again so he would not see it in her eyes."I like jokes, Joe, I just don't like to look like one."
He turned a page of his book before speaking, "What is it with you tonight? You're speaking nonsense."
She was silent. Though she could not see it from her window, there were billboards of her out in the Hollywood night; Her name, up in lights. The first time she saw one of them she thought, 'God, somebody's made a mistake.' But there it was, in lights. And she sat there and said, 'Remember, you're not a star.' Yet there she was, up in lights.
She sits in front of the mirror now, her tears have dried but her eyes are swollen. Her makeup has now completely smeared her face. For a moment, she has half the thought to fix her makeup but then she laughs, realizing she is still playing a role even as the curtains are nearly closing. Her whole life, she decided, had been a joke. She rattled the pill bottle in her hand. Despite herself, a smile came over her face. She found the sound sweet, like the sound of the rattling toys babies played with. She probably never played with one herself, though she could not be sure. She was an orphan child and now the adult equivalent. She was alone, truly, for who even really knew her? Her very last thought as she lost consciousness was that few people, if any, would know Norma Jeane Morteson died that night. They would be too concerned with the death of someone else, someone that did not really exist; Marilyn Monroe.
"I'm serious, Joe, I want to take lessons!" She said, the night she realized she was a joke and had always been a joke.
"Why, Jeane? You're wonderful," He said in a bored voice. The book on his lap was currently more interesting to him than she was.
She turned from him, toward the window that looked onto the city of Los Angeles. "I know how third rate I am," she said, realizing he would never appreciate how much it hurt her to admit it, "I can actually feel my lack of talent, as though it were cheap clothes I'm wearing inside."
He was silent.
"You know, Joe, I used to look out at the Hollywood night and think 'there must be thousands of girls sitting alone like me, dreaming of becoming a movie star. But I'm not going to worry about them; I'm dreaming the hardest,' little did I know, It was always better off as just a dream."
Still, he was silent. Was he even listening?
"Joe?" she said softly, now sitting on the window sill, still staring out into the night. She needed to feel his presence, to know she was not alone.
"Yes, Jeane?"
She remained silent for a moment, partly because words failed her. But mostly, she felt that every word she spoke that night exposed some raw part of her soul. And yet, she felt an unyielding desire to speak from her heart, regardless of how erratic it may sound.
"No one ever told me I was pretty when I was a little girl," she glanced at him, he was looking up at her, "All little girls should be told they are pretty, even if they aren't."
He laughed and something inside of her cringed. She turned to the window again so he would not see it in her eyes."I like jokes, Joe, I just don't like to look like one."
He turned a page of his book before speaking, "What is it with you tonight? You're speaking nonsense."
She was silent. Though she could not see it from her window, there were billboards of her out in the Hollywood night; Her name, up in lights. The first time she saw one of them she thought, 'God, somebody's made a mistake.' But there it was, in lights. And she sat there and said, 'Remember, you're not a star.' Yet there she was, up in lights.
She sits in front of the mirror now, her tears have dried but her eyes are swollen. Her makeup has now completely smeared her face. For a moment, she has half the thought to fix her makeup but then she laughs, realizing she is still playing a role even as the curtains are nearly closing. Her whole life, she decided, had been a joke. She rattled the pill bottle in her hand. Despite herself, a smile came over her face. She found the sound sweet, like the sound of the rattling toys babies played with. She probably never played with one herself, though she could not be sure. She was an orphan child and now the adult equivalent. She was alone, truly, for who even really knew her? Her very last thought as she lost consciousness was that few people, if any, would know Norma Jeane Morteson died that night. They would be too concerned with the death of someone else, someone that did not really exist; Marilyn Monroe.
Wednesday, May 6, 2009
Untitled Short Story
It's a curious thing, dying.
I would describe the sensation but would you really want me to spoil it for you? I always spoil things for people—just ask my son. Little tyke, the first time I held him in my arms, the slimy and ugly thing, I knew he would be my pride and joy.
But if you asked him about me he would probably tell you how I spoiled the night he invited his boyfriend home for dinner; I slammed the mash potatoes against the wall. I meant to hit him, but the son of a bitch ducked. My son may be a damn fag but he is a swift fag.
It doesn't matter anymore.
You know, it really is curious, dying. I would describe the sensation but it would be rather rude of me since you don't even know who I am.
Who am I? I am evil, the spawn of the devil himself! At least that is what my wife always said. Sweet thing; Jocelyn is her name. A devout Christian and great cook; she put three bullets right through me. I didn't even get a chance to divorce the bitch, she wouldn't allow it because God frowns upon it. That's right, life loves irony so much it had the woman who sucked the joy out of my life for fifteen years kill me dead, really, really dead. Joke is on her, though, because now I am free.
Dying begins after you are dead. I did not feel myself hit the carpet because I was dead before I ever did.
Right before she shot me I turned my head toward the window. It was a lucky thing too, because the last image I saw was the sight of the UPS truck coming down the street toward my driveway. They finally came, those bastards. Right on time but too damn late; I would never enjoy the golf club I ordered from EBAY. It was my damn Christmas present to myself.
Anyway, back to dying; my eyeballs must have been pushed all the way up to my brain, but I didn't need them any more, so I guess I shouldn't complain. It felt as if my entire body was being pressed into itself from every direction. I was being squeezed into nothing. It's odd because I can somehow see clearer now. Maybe now I can discover the secrets of life or at least discover how to find a way to come back and beat the crap out of Jocelyn; two bullets would've done it, but she really wanted to make sure. She bloodied up the damn body I spent years working on. Now I will be pale and unattractive for my funeral. I just know it; I have lost so much blood. On the bright side, I may not even have a funeral; Jocelyn will probably chop up my body and feed it to the dog.
That's what I would've done. Tyson would eat anything as long as there is some barbecue sauce on it. Damn, I miss that dog. He's the only thing that kept me sane all these years. When I woke up in the morning next to that ugly thing beside me, I would get off my bed to find Tyson snuggled up on the floor over my slippers, keeping them warm. It's like he knew what I liked. He would even fetch them for me when I arrived from work, as soon as he would hear the car pull up to the drive way. I would walk in and find Tyson waiting for me with my damn slippers in his mouth.
I should have married the damn dog. Maybe then I would have been happy. But if I should choose any resting place, I could not think of a better place than the stomach of my best friend. Enjoy your meal, you bastard.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)
Posts
