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posted by josh @ 5:17 PM
3.09.2002
The comments are gone, and they will not be back. If you need to tell me anything just email me.
This narrative paper I wrote for my english composition class. It's just a ruff draft, revisions need to be made, and It's a bit wordy. It was inspired by a post I made a few months back, maybe some old school readers will remember.
When I was a kid I lived in a small logging camp in southeast Alaska. The camp consisted of 6 bunkhouses and about 15 trailer houses, Bunkhouses being for the single men, trailers being for the men with families. My step dad worked long hours logging. Their wives (my mother, and my friends mothers) usually sat around all day, watching the one TV station we had in-between social sessions with neighbors. For them, this was the epitome of boring. For us, it was heaven. It was fantastic. There were about 10-15 neighborhood kids, and we traveled in a pack. When you picture Alaska, in all its rugged and un-forgiving glory, this is what you see. We were surrounded by mountains and trees as dense as the hairs on my head. Huge trees.
I was at the wonderful age of seven, and I was invincible. I lived life with a passion. Everyday I had some glorious reason to wake up. Whether it was to play gi-joes with my friends, dig a hole in the dirt, or make another vain attempt at gaining entrance to the tree fort.
At one end of the camp there was a small hill leading to the town ‘park,’ if you will (it was the same thing that could be seen in all four directions, but somehow this part got branded as the ‘park.’ I have no idea why). There was a tree fort that was a regular hang out for some of the older kids. I remember wanting to hang out in that tree fort so badly, so bad I could taste it, my thoughts were consumed by it.
That fortress, a goliath structure constructed of boards and plywood by some of the older kids, was the oasis in the park. It was the place free of parents, free of cares. Although I hadn’t actually been, it appeared that when one graced the floors of that perfect tree fort he was forever changed, just a little bit freer. He has seen a place so free and perfect that there is absolutely no way he could leave without a sense of achievement and accomplishment and freedom. I was in the park every day, standing adjacent the ladder that would carry me to the top if only the big kids weren’t waiting there, denying me entrance. Harsh words were cast in my direction when attempts were made to climb that ladder. Even a few Death threats were spit at my seven-year-old stature.
There were many restless nights, tossing and turning with one vision in my mind, that tree fort. I just knew that there was something special about it. I knew that the moment I stepped in it I would be forever changed.
The day of my ninth birthday I walked down the street, to the park, to the base of the ladder. I stood, as I did every other day, next to the ladder and stared at the big kids towering above me. This day was different, though, the resistance had diminished. No more harsh names were cast my way. It was my ninth birthday. I was no longer a child; in fact I could feel myself turning in to an adult. It was now time for my rite of passage, gaining entrance to the tree fort.
My palms were sweating as I stepped on to the old wooden ladder. I could feel my heart race, gaining speed with each step. At the half way point I turned my head and stared at the place where I had stood, everyday, begging to do what I was doing at that moment. It was surreal, years of longing for this tree fort had manifested in my mind, glorifying its plain wood walls and makeshift ceiling. As I stepped on to the floor, I laid on my back and stared at the ceiling, the walls, and the big kids I had just joined. I realized that this tree fort, while a nice place to hang out, was nowhere near the glorified oasis I had built it up to. Its simplicity was only made interesting by the conversations that were held. I laid there for what seemed like hours, conversing on every topic imaginable. I was swept in to social activity. I all but blocked out the fact that I was sitting in a place that I had longed to be for years.
Years of building up the tree fort made the grand finale a major disappointment. I realized that people, in essence, are what make things interesting. We hold the power to make any place appear as some sort of oasis, simply by portraying an image of happiness in the surroundings. And while I was mislead for years, I learned a life lesson that needed to be learned. I wasn’t left with an empty plate; I could take the principles learned and apply them to every part of my life.
People are what make life interesting.
This narrative paper I wrote for my english composition class. It's just a ruff draft, revisions need to be made, and It's a bit wordy. It was inspired by a post I made a few months back, maybe some old school readers will remember.
When I was a kid I lived in a small logging camp in southeast Alaska. The camp consisted of 6 bunkhouses and about 15 trailer houses, Bunkhouses being for the single men, trailers being for the men with families. My step dad worked long hours logging. Their wives (my mother, and my friends mothers) usually sat around all day, watching the one TV station we had in-between social sessions with neighbors. For them, this was the epitome of boring. For us, it was heaven. It was fantastic. There were about 10-15 neighborhood kids, and we traveled in a pack. When you picture Alaska, in all its rugged and un-forgiving glory, this is what you see. We were surrounded by mountains and trees as dense as the hairs on my head. Huge trees.
I was at the wonderful age of seven, and I was invincible. I lived life with a passion. Everyday I had some glorious reason to wake up. Whether it was to play gi-joes with my friends, dig a hole in the dirt, or make another vain attempt at gaining entrance to the tree fort.
At one end of the camp there was a small hill leading to the town ‘park,’ if you will (it was the same thing that could be seen in all four directions, but somehow this part got branded as the ‘park.’ I have no idea why). There was a tree fort that was a regular hang out for some of the older kids. I remember wanting to hang out in that tree fort so badly, so bad I could taste it, my thoughts were consumed by it.
That fortress, a goliath structure constructed of boards and plywood by some of the older kids, was the oasis in the park. It was the place free of parents, free of cares. Although I hadn’t actually been, it appeared that when one graced the floors of that perfect tree fort he was forever changed, just a little bit freer. He has seen a place so free and perfect that there is absolutely no way he could leave without a sense of achievement and accomplishment and freedom. I was in the park every day, standing adjacent the ladder that would carry me to the top if only the big kids weren’t waiting there, denying me entrance. Harsh words were cast in my direction when attempts were made to climb that ladder. Even a few Death threats were spit at my seven-year-old stature.
There were many restless nights, tossing and turning with one vision in my mind, that tree fort. I just knew that there was something special about it. I knew that the moment I stepped in it I would be forever changed.
The day of my ninth birthday I walked down the street, to the park, to the base of the ladder. I stood, as I did every other day, next to the ladder and stared at the big kids towering above me. This day was different, though, the resistance had diminished. No more harsh names were cast my way. It was my ninth birthday. I was no longer a child; in fact I could feel myself turning in to an adult. It was now time for my rite of passage, gaining entrance to the tree fort.
My palms were sweating as I stepped on to the old wooden ladder. I could feel my heart race, gaining speed with each step. At the half way point I turned my head and stared at the place where I had stood, everyday, begging to do what I was doing at that moment. It was surreal, years of longing for this tree fort had manifested in my mind, glorifying its plain wood walls and makeshift ceiling. As I stepped on to the floor, I laid on my back and stared at the ceiling, the walls, and the big kids I had just joined. I realized that this tree fort, while a nice place to hang out, was nowhere near the glorified oasis I had built it up to. Its simplicity was only made interesting by the conversations that were held. I laid there for what seemed like hours, conversing on every topic imaginable. I was swept in to social activity. I all but blocked out the fact that I was sitting in a place that I had longed to be for years.
Years of building up the tree fort made the grand finale a major disappointment. I realized that people, in essence, are what make things interesting. We hold the power to make any place appear as some sort of oasis, simply by portraying an image of happiness in the surroundings. And while I was mislead for years, I learned a life lesson that needed to be learned. I wasn’t left with an empty plate; I could take the principles learned and apply them to every part of my life.
People are what make life interesting.
posted by josh @ 4:34 PM
3.07.2002
Every time I begin an entry in this journal I tell myself that this time I will be positive, that I will focus on the good things and block out the bad. But, in the end it turns out to be mad caveman scribblings on dark walls with dim light, or so it seems. And every time I ask myself what the hell is wrong with me. Why the hell can't I just be happy. Damn it, thats all I want, an even, flowing happiness that I don't have to dive toward and hold on for dear life, for fear it will slip away.
I loath and I sulk.
The story of my life, my friends.
I feel like the one in the corner with my face in my hands, never opening my eyes. The one who stairs through cracked shades at the people walking by. The quiet boy who only wants to be a part, who loves people, who requires touch but rarely recieves it, who sweats in social situations, who wants to live but doesn't fully know how or why or when to do it.
And when I try to think of a reason for my apparent social disorder, to find the source of what, to others, must appear as some sort of anti-social disease, I am left staring at a blank page. No answers are conjured, and I am left with nothing to help. So what shall I do? I've gone in search of food to feed the masses and returned with nothing to share, and I fear the crowd will soon seek vengeance. So, I go to bed at night, I wake up in the morning, copy/paste. And I don't know what to do. I wish I had someone to stay up all night with. Someone I can tell stupid jokes with, and laugh with. Someone who will stop by and say hi, for no reason.
I just get so sick of being sometimes. My longing is to find whats broken and fix it, but it's really hard when what I am looking for seems hide in the dark.
And so, I spill my guts for you, I tell my sad tales and my ghost stories. I try to decifer some meaning from my daily occurrences because, in reality, I have no idea what the hell is going on. So, thats that.
I loath and I sulk.
The story of my life, my friends.
I feel like the one in the corner with my face in my hands, never opening my eyes. The one who stairs through cracked shades at the people walking by. The quiet boy who only wants to be a part, who loves people, who requires touch but rarely recieves it, who sweats in social situations, who wants to live but doesn't fully know how or why or when to do it.
And when I try to think of a reason for my apparent social disorder, to find the source of what, to others, must appear as some sort of anti-social disease, I am left staring at a blank page. No answers are conjured, and I am left with nothing to help. So what shall I do? I've gone in search of food to feed the masses and returned with nothing to share, and I fear the crowd will soon seek vengeance. So, I go to bed at night, I wake up in the morning, copy/paste. And I don't know what to do. I wish I had someone to stay up all night with. Someone I can tell stupid jokes with, and laugh with. Someone who will stop by and say hi, for no reason.
I just get so sick of being sometimes. My longing is to find whats broken and fix it, but it's really hard when what I am looking for seems hide in the dark.
And so, I spill my guts for you, I tell my sad tales and my ghost stories. I try to decifer some meaning from my daily occurrences because, in reality, I have no idea what the hell is going on. So, thats that.
posted by josh @ 11:27 PM
It feels like I am falling behind in school, although my feeling isn't fully supported by my grades, which I think are pretty good so far. Yet, every time I think about it, my kneejerk reacting is to smack myself in the forehead. I result to accomplishing my assignments, slowly, in between longs breaks filled with conversation. It feels like I'm not completely living up to my potential, and that is really eating away at me. Art is something that takes so much out of me. It's rewarding, but to truly create a piece I am content with, a full devotion is a necessity. I've found that Iiving with friends is such a distraction, hours passed just 'doin nothin' and conversing on every topic imaginable is the magnet of my attention. I have three essays to write by next week, which isn't too bad, one of which I am truly excited about. The one I am worried about was assigned two weeks ago, the most ambigious essay assignment I have ever had. Monday I will stand in front of the class, sweating, coughing up bits of information on the topic discussed in my essay. It will be hell. It's due monday. I don't have a title yet. I don't know what I'm even going to write about. Damn it.
posted by josh @ 2:55 AM
3.05.2002
It was said that I would be hit with some sort of nostalgia, that I would relish my past in my hometown, in Alaska, with my family. They said it would be hard to leave it behind, but I’m just not seeing it. I miss my friends dearly, and I miss my family, but none of it, sadly enough, holds enough magnitude to inspire any deep longing for a permanent plane ticket back. A part of me feels like I should want to go back, and I think maybe a part of me does. But after waiting nineteen years in a town where I hid my face in the midst of a cesspool of unoriginality, in a place where the ugliness of the people far outweighed the beauty of the landscape, I am ready and determined to leave it in my past.
My best friend, my confidant, the person I could stay up till dawn over tainted bottles of spirits, is the one I miss. We spoke the night before my departure, a convergence so belated that an outsider would assume us as mere acquaintances. Time, growing up, jobs, and stupid mistakes made it difficult for a once-thriving friendship to grow, and so it was capped off and put on a shelf. I regret that so much now that it hurts. I’m now three thousand miles away, in a new life, in new surroundings, a new person. I wonder how my friends are, and if they are still the same people that I left two months ago.
I’ve changed. I could feel it when I got here, precisely when it started. A slow evolution and expansion of a once adolescent child struck with a repressed passion for life. Years of being repressed, whether actual or some sort of manifestation, has torn at me, piercing my flesh, inflicting wounds that I fear will never fully heal.
In three weeks I will return for a weeklong visit. Nightly rendezvous with friends, who I have been told are waiting for my return, will be really great. Oh, how I miss my friends. I just hope that they aren't stuck in that small town, but I fear that they are. When I told them I was moving away and going to college they stared at me as if I had found some hidden key, as If I had found a way to pull the sword from the sorcerer's stone.
My best friend, my confidant, the person I could stay up till dawn over tainted bottles of spirits, is the one I miss. We spoke the night before my departure, a convergence so belated that an outsider would assume us as mere acquaintances. Time, growing up, jobs, and stupid mistakes made it difficult for a once-thriving friendship to grow, and so it was capped off and put on a shelf. I regret that so much now that it hurts. I’m now three thousand miles away, in a new life, in new surroundings, a new person. I wonder how my friends are, and if they are still the same people that I left two months ago.
I’ve changed. I could feel it when I got here, precisely when it started. A slow evolution and expansion of a once adolescent child struck with a repressed passion for life. Years of being repressed, whether actual or some sort of manifestation, has torn at me, piercing my flesh, inflicting wounds that I fear will never fully heal.
In three weeks I will return for a weeklong visit. Nightly rendezvous with friends, who I have been told are waiting for my return, will be really great. Oh, how I miss my friends. I just hope that they aren't stuck in that small town, but I fear that they are. When I told them I was moving away and going to college they stared at me as if I had found some hidden key, as If I had found a way to pull the sword from the sorcerer's stone.
posted by josh @ 3:41 PM
3.04.2002
New design. Stemmed from a painting I did today, which you see at the left. Some links don't work yet.
Comments?
I'll be back sooner then I thought, I guess.
Comments?
I'll be back sooner then I thought, I guess.
posted by josh @ 10:03 PM
