The Grudge

It frightens me how one can invoke a killing intent over petty reasons.  All thought process and emotional stability cease to exist when a person is overwhelmed by the desire to kill.  He does not bother to think about the consequences nor does he think about how he will cover up his crime.  The only thing that moves him is the incessant chanting of his brain, "kill...kill...kill."

How many times have we said "I'll kill you" to a friend while horsing around?  Sure, it may seem like a joke at first because killing someone in the act of making merry is highly unlikely.  Yet, what are the ramifications of that statement, "I will kill you?", even when just having fun?

Could it be possible that people are inherently murderous creatures?  Maybe that is the reason why we gain satisfaction from bullying and threatening others over trivial things. 

Formspring is a prime example of the manifestation of the killing intent.  There were people who apparently found it amusing to write "Why don't you just kill yourself?" on my friend's wall.  Just what did my friend do to deserve such treatment?  How can any teenager, their life full of ambitions and blooming with forthcoming possibilities for greatness, be urged to give up their lives for the satisfaction of crude, immature individuals?

Life is something that cannot be taken on a whim.  Yes, the idea of a despicable person being liquidated is temporarily satisfying, but remember that even the most disliked person has friends, lovers, and dreams. 

Today, I was the victim of my own killing intent.  I rose from my bed, half-frenzied from sleep-deprivation and stress, and grudgingly boarded the school bus to begin my day.  When I got to school I encountered my reagent to my killing intent.  It was a girl that had used her good looks and charm to screw with my head and make a complete asinine out of myself.  She was chattering away with another guy, who was completely unaware that this cute-looking girl had hurt countless number of other people with her persona. 

I looked at the girl.  Her face broad with an ingratiating smile and her body curved in a coy posture, she resembled a teenage Mrs. Robinson.  My anger at her boiled over.  She seemed so nonchalant about herself that it made me want to smash the glass door through which I was observing the whole scene.  My hands curled into fists and my jaw began to ache from being clenched so hard.  I imagined myself running her through with a knife.  As I envisioned this, my lips twisted into a crooked smile.

Then the killing intent dissipated.  For the rest of the day, I felt awful for having had such cruel and violent thoughts.  I wanted to cry when I got home but I was too numb from my killing intent to do so.  I never imagined that I could have had such a vivid murder scene conjured in my very own head just because some girl had irked me with her insincerity.  God, I felt terrible.  I almost wished that I was the one who was dead.

Today, I had demonstrated that I too, am crude and immature.  The only difference between the Formspring bullies and I is that I had kept my killing intent to myself.  But otherwise, we are all the same.  We are always at each other's throats, ready to strike at the moment a bare spot is unveiled.

Can we ever be freed of this killing intent?  Can we ever learn to genuinely love each other?  I wish I could forgive people and move on, but to no avail; I still hold grudges against people that certainly don't deserve them.  I get annoyed even at well-acquainted friends when they reveal their flaws out of the blue.

I'm afraid I've steadily deteriorated in both character and maturity.  Hopefully there will come a time when this downward spiral comes to an end and a new chapter in my life brings to me the true meaning of virtue and happiness.  I'm not going to stop searching for that time.  I will make it happen, for no one is as miserable as the vengeful, grudge-fixated individual.

this is not poetry

So apparently
People think that
If you write with broken, short lines
It's automatically poetry
That's a stereotype
and stereotypes are bad
That's like saying
Oh, she's yellow, she must have had sushi for lunch
I actually had popcorn for lunch
Anyhow
This is OBVIOUSLY not a poem
It's simply a paragraph where I chose,
stylistically,
to break
lines
very
often

I Wanna Become a Good Kid

They tell me that I need to do this and that.  They say that I act crude and boorish and they tell me that I need to change and be more accepting and caring.  I look back at them.  Nothing.  No ideal.  No vision.  Pure sanctimony.

They tell me that I am up to no good.  So they guide me through their archive of morals and ethics and decency.  They show me pictures, stories, films, moralistic paraphernalia.  And yet while the show goes on, they flash their crooked grins and resume their self-indulgence.

Preach on.  I will listen.  Show me the way to righteousness and purity.  Show me how to become the ideal human being.  I will listen.  I will conform.  I won't complain.  I shan't rebel.  I will gladly  adhere to your sententious words.

 I wanna become a good kid after all.


Oh boy, I can't wait until the next lecture.  I will pay for the lesson, don't worry about the money, I've got it.  4:00?  ...okay, let's do this.  Time to become moralized!  I feel like I'm getting enriched everyday!  Preach on brother, preach on!  ...this program has helped me become a better person.  I am so great that I joined it.


...and yet while the show goes on, they flash their crooked grins and resume their self-indulgence.

Direction

Sometimes I wonder if parents actually remember what it is like to be in high school. They constantly tell me to treasure being young. They tell me that it's these years that will be the best years of my life.

And honest to god, I'm tired of being young. Sure when I'm older I'm going to have to think about marriage stability, and children, and bills. Sure, I'm going to have to make a living.

But as a kid, I lay awake at night wondering who I'm going to be. Wondering what direction I should be taking. Whether I'm making the right choice, whether I'm going to be happy in the end. I can't stand being ignorant. I'm in a place where I can't ask for help being this place is my life. My realities.

I wonder if parents remember those feelings.

Once upon a time there lived a very cute banana girl.

She loved to eat curry and make friends with people who yelled "ALLLAAAHHHHHHH!!!!"

She had an elephant who liked to wear pink turbans and a deranged duck who had a penchant for Indian cusine.

Everyday the happy trio would go to Mecca and buy Shish Kebabs.

The banana girl loved happiness so she made a vow to bring happiness to the world.

And to this day, the banana girl fulfills her promise, one crochet at a time.


-Lucy Pei, your laughter cheers me up everyday.  I'm so glad to have become your friend.

  Minjeh

:)

Once upon a time there was a dolphin from outer space who came to visit the planet earth.
He was a brilliant musician, talented writer, amazing artist, and
he was the captain of a ship that sailed pilgrims to Mecca
he was the lead quacking duck in his entire state
he was the champion elephant rider in India
he was also a funny, caring, and genuine friend.

Happy Birthday Minjeh :)
thank you for being so amazing

The Death of a God

The pianist died.  No one knew how.  Some suspected foul play.  Others suggested suicide.  But one thing for certain was that the death of 23-year old Zachary Mortenbaum was far from normal.  Not a scratch could be found on the body.  No blood had been shed. The police could not find the murder weapon within the vicinity of the crime scene nor could they trace any usual suspects. There was one thing however, that suggested that some extraneous factor had taken the young pianist's life; his pupils were gone.

An orchestral conductor who had once looked into the eyes of Zachary Mortenbaum exclaimed, "Those aren't the eyes of a man!  They are of God!"  And this was no mere adulation.  Mortenbaum's eyes indeed had radiated with a god-like aura.  His golden-brown irises and sharply defined eyebrows were reminiscent of Hermes.  His affirmative and charming stage presence captivated audiences and critics around the world and captured the hearts of many aspiring young musicians.  There had also been a rumor in which a beautiful violin student from Juiliard fainted after throwing a cursory look into Mortenbaum's eyes.  No one could corroborate that such incident had taken place, but the fact that Mortenbaum possessed divine charisma and virtuosity remained incontrovertible until his death.  

The dark circles where his pupils had once remained were now enveloped by the golden-brown irises.  This made Mortenbaum look like a vampire.  Yes, Mortenbaum did resemble a vampire in certain ways.  He was handsome, but a bit gaunt and pale.  His fingers were long and delicate and his jet black hair was always combed to the side so that his bangs fell mostly to the right-side of his face.  When he played the piano, the whole world stood still.  No one could ever play as beautifully as he could.  Melodies would literally drip from his fingers as he commanded the Grand to submit to his will completely.  He was only 4 when he gave his first public performance.

From then on, Mortenbaum appeared on every prestigious musical competition known to men.  And won them all.  His father  worked little Mortenbaum to near death, forcing him to practice 18 hours a day, only allowing him to take breaks for meals.  When the child begged his father for a respite, the cruel man beat him savagely.

When Mortenbaum turned 14, the world knew that it had conceived the most brilliant pianist of the century.  He was a regular at Carnegie Hall and performed with internationally renown orchestras including the Berliner Philharmoniker and the Chicago Symphony.  Fame had made Mortenbaum a rich teenager.  Yet his father appropriated the pianist's earnings and forced him to acquire even more well-paying venues.  

At age 19, Mortenbaum recorded his 4th album, a Rachmaninoff piano concerto.  It went on to become one of the best selling classical albums of all time.  His father at the moment was a rich man himself, because he had completely drained the pianist of his savings.  

Mortenbaum then decided that he had had enough with his father.  He filed a lawsuit against his father for child abuse and theft.  He won the case.  As his father was dragged away from the court to start a new life in jail, he cursed his son, "You are nothing without me!  I gave you that fucking piano!  I gave you life!  I gave you your whole fucking life and this is how you repay me?!"

Mortenbaum afterwards was so depressed that he cancelled his upcoming tour in Russia and retreated to his summer home in San Fransisco.  He then disappeared from the classical scene and remained reclusive for the next two years.  No one knew what happened to him during this time.  The police speculate that Mortenbaum began harboring suicidal thoughts at this time of his life when his existence became virtually evanescent.  

But then he came back.  A 23 year-old Mortenbaum came back on stage after two years of living as a recluse.  His comeback concert at Carnegie Hall was a full house.  His repertoire included Beethoven's 5th Piano Concerto and Shostakovich's Piano Concerto in C minor.  When he finished playing, the crowd went wild.  Mortenbaum was given a standing ovation from nearly everybody in the hall.  Shouts of "Bravo!" and "Encore!" refused to dissipate even after the pianist had left the stage for the night.  Critics said that this concert was the highlight of Mortenbaum's career and that Mortenbaum was destined to lead the musical world to greatness and prosperity.  However, Zachary Mortenbaum never had the chance to accept such honors.  In two days, he was found dead in his apartment.

As a coroner, I can't say for sure just what exactly killed Zachary Mortenbaum.  Maybe all the fame and renown was too much for him to handle.  Or was it because his father's curse haunted him to death?  Who knows.  I for one thing, have never gone to a Mortenbaum concert before.  I confess, I am a philistine when it comes to the arts.  But is it really my fault?  My parents never took me to a concert before, let alone take me to a kiddie show.  They would always tell me, "James, remember.  Work always comes before play".  And I've kept that promise since I was 5.  Now I look at myself and realize that I'm just a coroner.  And the young man I am examining was a god.  

With the help of a colleague, I gently lifted the delicate frame of Zachary Mortenbaum from the carpeted floor and placed him in the body bag.  Then I took hold of the zipper and drew it slowly downwards.  I watched as the zipper closed over the pale face of the divine pianist, forever covering those golden irises that had once mesmerized the world.  Before the zipper clicked shut and sealed the body of the young god, I thought I saw his pupils reemerge.  Then I thought, Look Jim, he's only a corpse.  So I dismissed the fact that there was still some hope for the reincarnation of Zachary Mortenbaum.  Although I had never been to any of his concerts, I felt a tinge of sadness as my colleague and I carried the bag on a stretcher and took the elevator to the lobby where the ambulance was waiting.  My colleague got onto the vehicle first.  He pulled the stretcher upwards as I held onto the back.  The body bag was in place.  I got on.  The doors shut.  Then the ambulance pulled off the driveway and we were off.  

      

"I keep picturing all these little kids playing some game in this big field of rye and all.  Thousands of little kids, and nobody's around...nobody big, I mean, except me.  And I'm standing on the edge of some crazy cliff.  What I have to do, I have to catch everybody if they start to go over the cliff...I mean if they're running and they don't look where they're going I have to  come out from somewhere and catch them.  That's all I'd do all day.  I'd just be the catcher in the rye and all."  -Holden Caulfield
                                                                                                                                            

somebody to love

Can anybody find me
sombeody to love

Do you need anybody?
I need somebody to love
Could it be anybody?
I just need someone to love

There's gotta be somebody for me out there

When everybody loves me
I will never be lonely

Don't you think that you need somebody?
Don't you think that you need someone?
Everybody needs someone
You're not the only one