Inside My Head

So I never got around to addressing the latter part of Keith’s question regarding high school memories – more specifically, my personal least favorite of them.  No time like the present, since my eyes have been focused so much on the road I’ve yet to travel. It may do my soul some good to turn around for a quick look back.

I’m struggling with this one, though.  Whether high school, for me, was not nearly as full of miserable moments as I’d like to think, or I just have simply buried the past in favor of memory loss, I didn’t expect it to be quite this difficult to pinpoint my worst memory from those days.

There are many different routes my mind takes with such a question.

For instance, might we consider the rainy day in eighth grade, on which my school bus full of high-schoolers was treated to the sight of my nightgowned mother standing on the street, in front of the school, having gotten into a fender-bender after dropping my brother off?

Or perhaps it was the valuable lesson learned when my first love, whom I had abandoned for another, broke my heart in retaliation?

There’s the day I found out that I wasn’t eligible for the Honor Society because I’d gotten an in-house suspension for going along with my best friend, who insisted we skip Social Studies class.

Or, in a more sinister feel, the day a supposed ‘friend’ stole a very personal diary and circulated it throughout my class.

Looking back at my high school days, I expected to find an overabundance of bad memories – instances I no longer wished to recall or even admit had ever taken place.  But I didn’t.  I struggled to recall those times of animosity, of angst – but in their place were softer feelings.  Lessons learned, rather than grudges held.  I suppose that all of the bad times and adversities we beleive we face in our youthful days morph into something more meaningful over time.

I guess this is growing up.

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Thanks again to Keith in Denver for this multi-faceted question.  My initial reaction, one of chaos and far-reaching memory banks, was quickly overcome as the answer to the first part of Keith’s question easily springs to mind (pardon the pun). 

Tennis season.

My all-time, desert-island favorite memory from high school is the spring tennis season of my sophomore year (1994 for those of you counting).  It’s the time of year, the time of life, that still – to this day – comes floating into consciousness with the familiar smell of a tube of Bonne Bell lip balm (pina colada works best) or the happy-folky sounds of the Lemonheads It’s A Shame About Ray. Even that first whiff of spring air after you’ve opened the windows for the first time after a long winter calls it to mind.

I’ve always been a huge fan of spring time.  Consistently vulnerable to the ‘winter blues’, I’ve always had a tendency to stretch my arms skyward to spring’s warmer sunshine.  While I certainly enjoyed playing volleyball during the fall season, there was something special about tennis season.  As a whole, we weren’t that talented as far as teams went.  Tennis wasn’t a sport that kids in my hometown grew up with – no, we were far more well-versed in more traditional sports such as softball, baseball, basketball and soccer.  I joined the tennis team when I was in eighth grade, most likely looking for any reason to not have to go home after school before my father got home, showing up for the first practice with my dad’s old wooden racquet.  A rather insistent demand for an upgrade was soon to follow.

Surprisingly, I got the hang of the sport pretty quickly, and started playing second doubles on the varsity team merely weeks into my first season.  By sophomore year, I was playing second singles, and poised to take over first, as we stood to lose many seniors after that season. 

Sophomore year was good to me.  It was a transition year – a year in which I grew out of my wallflower ways and became much bolder.  I had successfully managed to win the affections of a boy on whom I’d had a six-month long crush, and older boy, in a slightly higher social circle.  I often underestimate the positive impact that whole thing had on my otherwise sheepish personality.  But that’s a story for another day.

It was sometime during that season that I gained the nickname  “Little McEnroe”, as I became well-known for my slight emotional outbursts when I struggled to win a match I knew I could win.  Those opportunities were few and far between (by senior year, I had managed to bring my season win count to a whopping three matches).  My brother, and other members of the guys’ tennis team, would often watch our matches on their off days, gravitating towards my area of the court, placing bets on how many times my racquet would go over the fence and down the hill.

For the most part, I held my own playing tennis.  There were times, yes, when I lost horribly (I still remember how to do the Dover-Sherborn rain dance), and rare instances where I came out victorious (Marion was generally on our level, and King Phillip – well, even we walked all over those guys).  But most of the time, I lost, but I went down fighting.  It was a sport that I could get better at.  It provided a challenge and a release, and I had a coach who believed in me.  Perhaps it was the rare, three-month period each year that my mother actually paid attention – she would religiously attend my matches, even sitting in as the coach for a match when he was delayed.  She was rooting for me; proud, even. Maybe.  It gave her something to talk about with the other mothers – something that didn’t have to do with my brother, which was exhilarating.

It was also during that particular tennis season that the sun set on my first ‘love’, and the Wayland chapter began.  But again, that’s for the latter part of this layered question.

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Remember the olden days, when something written in print usually implied a certain level of topical expertise on the part of the author?  Before the days of hyper-internet-mania, one’s struggle to bring their work to the literary forefront was compounded by competition, unimpressed publishers, and the ever-present question, “Why would someone want to read it?” As readers, we could hold on tightly to the illusion that something published was something intelligent and worthwhile.

Welcome to the blogger era. An era in which anyone – soccer moms, gamers, foodies, the shady guy next door that you’re still not sure about – has the creative license to put up a blog site and blast their opinions, solicited or not, to the internet masses. 

Certainly there are intelligent and informative blogs in existence.  Just yesterday, I learned from a blogger in Toledo how to keep my bully squash plant from strangling its garden neighbors – useful advice from an intelligent woman well-versed in the areas of botany.   The advice was not, however, without opinions and bias, which seems to be a point lost on this modern world.  Blogs, while the may be helpful, are not indifferent and necessarily entirely factual – a key distinction from news and entertainment journalism.  

The blogging age has taken the usual morning-commuter-rail-conversation up a notch by providing just about anyone with their very own pedestal on which to stand and dispense their personal opinions as they see fit.  This is America – this is the 21^st century.  There is nothing wrong, fundamentally, with this new medium of editorial content – freedom of speech and the rights to one’s opinion are certainly not new ideals to us.  

What is lacking, however, are the fundamental basics of conveying said opinions.  

Blogging, in many ways, is not unlike an online argument.  A blogger makes his or her opinion known, as is inherent in a blog site, and the various readers of the inter-web make their comments known (at times far more insistently than others).  In order to maximize the effectiveness of one’s opinion, let us not forget some simple concepts that should remain fairly consistent over time. 

1. Keep it clean.  If you have to resort to trashy language or feel the need to drop random F-bombs in for good measure and added effectiveness, you’re pretty much doomed from the start.  No one wants to take advice from the schoolyard bully who’s going to resort to potty-mouthery.  You’ll simply end up sounding unintelligent, stubborn, closed-minded and foolish.  People might also laugh at you. I know I would.
2. Have something to say.   It’s really swell that you’re a huge fan of Akon, and that you want the world to know just how much you love his new album.  Unless you’re going to tell me something I don’t already know (assuming, of course, I happen to actually be an Akon fan, which I am not), such as what his plans are for future projects, who he is collaborating with, or other key bits of information, something like this would be better suited to your Facebook wall than a blog.
3. Play nice.  No one is going to agree with you 100% of the time, unless, of course, you have mastered mind control, in which case, we should hang out.  Otherwise, get used to the idea that whatever you post will more than likely receive negative feedback.  This is a key opportunity to display your intellectual prowess by responding intelligently and appropriately.  Akin to suggestion #1, you’re only going to vastly discredit yourself if you allow yourself to become wrapped up in a foul-mouthed comment tirade.  Rise above – it generally makes the other person appear silly anyway, thus achieving the same desired result.
4. Negative Nancy. None of us are truly happy (well, maybe a select few that are rather fortunate).  This fact, however, does not mean to imply that misery loves company.  Your day job sucks, you disagree with US foreign policy, or your new iPhone completely disappointed your overly-high expectations.  Don’t just complain about it.  If you’re moved to blog about something that angers, irritates, annoys, or otherwise just bugs you, provide solutions rather than simply complaining.  Everyone has a complaint or two – distinguish yourself by having a plan to minimize such complaints.  You just might help someone else who’s having a really hard time, too.
5. Know your subject.  This seems rather simplistic, but all too often, bloggers fall into a trap of trying to seem like a subject expert where they are not.  Even if you are blogging about an area that is somewhat new to you, by doing some simple research before sitting down to write your piece will help your credibility tremendously.  It’s also okay to admit that you aren’t an expert in the subject, and therefore, are citing other sources.  

As readers in this convoluted world of information overload, we must remain selective in what we choose to read or follow on the internet.  Blogging, at the end of the day, is still writing.  And if, as a writer, you expect the masses to stop and pay attention to you, it should be good writing.  Otherwise, why bother?

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I stared helplessly at my watch (again), as if hoping that my glower would amass the power needed to intimidate time into moving backwards, or, at least, stand still.  It was going to be more than close – at the rate with which the pilot was leisurely circling the airport, it was going to be a downright miracle. 

Weather had delayed our departure from Dallas, giving me ample time to unwind from the morning’s inter-state mad-dash (which had somehow been well-orchestrated enough to put my arrival in Dallas at an obscenely early hour). The unforeseen delay, however, was now poised to severely mar my chances of successfully making a twenty-five minute connection time, and I sat restlessly in my center seat, desperately trying to salvage my plan. 

I hadn’t spoken to any other passenger during the flight.  A subtly-dressed woman in her early thirties sat in the aisle seat next to me, quietly reading her magazines with headphones on. At one point during the flight, she had looked over and kindly offered an ear bud from her MP3 player. Smiling, I had graciously declined, somewhat surprised by the gesture.  Reflecting on her generosity, I tapped her arm to get her attention. 

“I’m sorry to bother you,” I said quietly, “but I’m supposed to make a connection that leaves in twenty minutes.  Do you mind if, when we land, I get out ahead of you?” 

The woman looked down at her watch, out the window, and stiffened up. 

“Let’s switch now,” she suggested, “that way you can high-tail it out of here.  That’s gonna be a tough one!”  

I could have thrown my arms around this stranger in appreciation for helping me as we quickly switched seats, leaving me in the aisle seat, with one foot in the aisle, ready to go.  The other passengers at the front of the plane, noticing the 30,000-foot game of musical chairs taking place, soon grew curious until my kind savior spoke up. 

“Twenty-minute connection,” she stated grimly, with obvious sympathy in her voice.  Those around us, having remained relatively quiet during the duration of the flight, were now suddenly keyed up as a cycle of watch-checking and window-scoping unfolded.   

“What the hell is he doing?” one passenger asked, noting the lack of weather in our arrival city.   

“He’s just circling the runway,” another noted with slight disbelief.  There were no obvious reasons why our pilot would not be attempting a landing – no air traffic, no weather; no signs at all of why we were not on the ground. 

The chatter at the front of the plane grew louder as I found myself with a loyal, yet frustrated, gang of supporters, all of whom were focused on my connection time.  As my own tension quickly infected those around me, an overwhelming sense of annoyance spread through the cabin. 

“Just land the god-damned plane already!” an unknown male voice shouted. 

“She’s only got fifteen minutes!” a woman exclaimed. 

Within a few minutes, apprehensive sighs of approval swept through the cabin as the pilot finally began the descent into Dulles.  The slight jolt of the plane as the wheels touched pavement had never been as welcoming as the dozen-or-so passengers around me quizzed me on the details of my connection.  As soon as the captain gave the go-ahead for mobile phone usage, about ten people, myself included, frantically whipped out cell phones and Blackberries. 

“Who’s got a Travelocity number for me?” I shouted, desperately trying to connect to my email and frantic for information.  There was a strange quiet in the cabin as passengers everywhere dutifully searched their mobile internet devices for some tiny scrap of contact information.  All at once, voices shouted numbers at me until we had finished taxiing to the gate.  I had only ten minutes left. 

“I’ve got it!” someone shouted, yelling out the number to me from two rows over.  The crowd tensely waited as I desperately tried to get someone on the phone. 

Before I could get a voice, the cabin door opened, and the crowd of passengers parted like the Dead Sea, all but personally escorting me out ahead of them.  As I hurriedly dashed for the door, I turned briefly, throwing a hand up in the air. 

“Thank you!” I yelled, to no one in particular, and rushed down the jet bridge with shouts of encouragement following in my wake.

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I can’t help it if
it hurt back then
because it did, and I
didn’t deny that.
Fresh stings, now,
in a way
to have lost the game
without playing
to an unworthy
opponent
hell-bent on
destroying
that which
she sought
to win.
I would have
been much
more
delicate.

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I had the pleasure of enjoying a rather warm phone conversation with a very dear friend last evening, and it couldn’t have come at a better time.  A connection, a touchstone…it’s strange to me who, as I grow older, manages to give me the sensation of home. 

I didn’t have to explain the feeling of losing a tiny piece of myself when a relationship, platonic or otherwise, takes a sour turn or falls through my unwitting hands altogether.  The misconceptions, misunderstandings, mistreatments I amass are not new or foreign to him, as these are expected trials minds like ours face.  We invest too much; we remain hopeful.  We extend an empathetic hand though we know it is more likely to be cut off than embraced.  We feel too much to fully be swayed from our desires. 

The twenty-first century family unit of like minds has grown, to me, to possess an almost greater value than the assumed bonds of lineage and birthright.  They are the mentors, the commiserators, the teachers, the protectors; ready to rise up to the fight not because of obligation or reputation but because the fight is all too familiar, only now, we find our strength in numbers.

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It’s a funny thing about women
You see
The subtle differences in
motives
behaviors
convictions.
Environmental espionage
Self-saboteurs
From my alien vantage point
Under separate structured
conditions
I wonder how it is a man
Will always choose
What’s wrong for
him.

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They came in droves, seeking out well-guarded secret desires and personal goals that, for some reason, she had the ability to fulfill.  Some were hoping (temporarily, at least) to fill a subconscious void with the fresh, new spin she seemed to offer on the same-old, real-life monotony of life.  Some came simply to catch a glimpse from a safe distance.  Others couldn’t quell their own curiosity and arrived ready to poke, prod, examine, and ultimately abandon. Most of them, though, stood for awhile in awe upon the realization of what she’d accomplished without the nurturing guidance of a teacher, a mother, a friend, or a lover.  To some a miracle, to most an oddity, having managed to remain afloat, despite worldwide attempts to sink her ship.

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Last week’s post-event wind-down provided a massive amount of material to work with for this week’s SMSC, what with a physically exhausted body and a mind merely capable of functioning at half its normal IQ.  Inadvertently choosing an incredibly fitting theme, Chez Angele was teeming with zombie films galore as I gently coaxed myself back to real life, post-Comics Against Cancer. 

This week, my sketch-loving friends, I bring you the Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup of zombie films; a film that dares to combine the creepy awesomeness of the undead with the skin-crawling wretchedness of WWII Nazis, Steve Barker’s Outpost. 

Set in an unidentified, seedy war-torn area of Eastern Europe, Outpost tells the story of Hunt, a mysterious businessman who appears in a local bar, seeking to hire out a team of mercenaries to protect him as he ventures off to explore a recently acquired old military bunker.  With the promise of lots of cash and little risk, the cantankerous group of ex-soldiers can’t help but bite, and the group begins their journey into the unknown. 

Now, this sets us, the viewers, up for a nice, tense little tag-along ride as Hunt and his group of misfit toys begin their adventure.  We know there is much to fear where they are headed.  Why? Because we simply wouldn’t be watching it otherwise.  

For the members of the makeshift unit, however, it’s difficult to believe that, after having been assured that there is little threat in the job,  these men would slink around in a rather stealth fashion, guns drawn and ready to kill the first thing that moves.  Call me crazy, but it just seems a bit overkill for such a ‘safe’ mission.  We get it. We know there is something vastly freaky awaiting you lot – but you don’t. 

As the group arrives at their destination – a deserted WWII-era bunker – it suddenly becomes quite clear that this is not the safe little trip the soldiers were promised.  Unseen enemy fire rains upon them from the perimeter of the bunker, with one bullet resting in the left shoulder of one unlucky solder-for-hire.  As the film unfolds, we witness the mysterious advances of an unseen enemy force as the clearing around the bunker is brightly lit up at night, and the terrifying sound of ammunition is deafening. 

Hunt and his soldiers explore the secret bunker, which has seemingly laid undisturbed since the Nazis occupied it in WWII, and find, much to their horror, evidence of shocking human experimentation and other mysterious devices.  Having stumbled upon a chamber of naked, non-decomposed corpses, the soldiers are horrified to discover a survivor laying in the pile.   

A survivor!  Huzzah!  Surely this is something to be celebrated as the soldiers have seen nothing but death around them since their arrival.  Alas, our brave group of mercenaries instead seem to gang up on the unresponsive survivor, beating him and intimidating him into talking (which he does not).  So much for playing the victim. 

As the night unfolds, we begin to learn more about the secret work that took place in the bunker, including shape-shifting experimentation and reanimation, all in an effort by the SS to create the undefeatable super-soldier.  Deliciously haunted by a hint of actual history, the movie plays on the theories of Die Glocke (“the bell”), a purported top secret Nazi scientific technological device which has become something of a legend among believers in zero-point energy, perpetual motion machines, anti-gravity devices, reality shifting, reanimation, and time-space manipulation. 

This film, as far as zombie movies go (although I question the accuracy of dubbing this film’s villains as such), delivered more than one could ever hope for in a relatively unknown, almost-B horror movie.  Disregarding the strained, Saving Private Ryan-esque acting on the part of the mercenaries, this movie successfully creeped me out in unimaginable ways, leaving me tingling with anticipation over the rumored 2010 sequel, Outpost 2 (clever, eh?). 

And now, my dear readers and lovers of everything sketchy, I leave you with this week’s Sunday Morning Sketch Cinema quote of the week: 

Prior: See, the bright light… it ain’t heaven, son. It’s just a muzzle flare.

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We’re going to get a little heavy today, thanks to Keith in Denver, and discuss the ever-elusive meaning of life.  Many of us, religiously faithful or otherwise, cling hopefully to the notion that through all of life’s ups and downs, pitfalls and successes, there is some underlying sense to it all.  The efforts we put into this roller coaster ride of existence certainly can’t be for naught. Right? Right? 

Well, I’d like to introduce a concept that may not be all that popular with those of you who are driven by a higher power or a divine purpose. 

There simply is no meaning to life. 

Mankind, as a species, has evolved from our basic, animalistic ancestors into deliberate and complex beings, with an appreciation for art, knowledge and technology.  One of the side dishes which was served with this meal of distinction, however, is hubris. 

As far as animals go, we are pretty darn egotistical.  

Oh, I’m sorry, did I offend you just now by referring to you as an animal?  Forgive me, but that is exactly what we are.  We are, deep down, on the same level as bears, apes, dogs, cats, duck-billed platypus.  We possess instincts to hunt, to defend, to fight, protect, nurture.  Our animal instincts drive us to procreate, thus furthering the species. 

Christians of all kinds are familiar with the concept of original sin.  A fable, if you will (as I will refer to it here solely in an effort to remove any theological spin), depicting man’s expulsion from the Garden of Eden upon consuming the fruit of knowledge.  Historical artifacts now suggest that this fable actually emerged out of true life events.  Theory has it that early man thrived around the area of the fertile crescent, where food was naturally bountiful, and thus led a fairly relaxed lifestyle of hunting and gathering.  Without having to worry about farming or harvesting (i.e. manual labor), early man was free to appreciate arts and culture, which is apparent in markings and monuments found near the original sites.  As public gatherings increased, so did the need to feed the increasing numbers of ‘townsfolk’, if you will, who would gather in a communal area for ceremonies and celebrations.

This increase in headcount, naturally, led to the need to harvest the land.  No longer able to get by on a hunter-gatherer lifestyle, man was forced to till the land, thus beginning a never-ending cycle of labor.  Gone were the carefree days of Eden…some would say, because we learned. 

As we’ve grown to a more complex species, capable of understanding things far beyond the mental capacities of other animals, we have lost sight of what we truly are: animals.  There is no greater meaning behind life than what we as humans assign to it, and there is nothing wrong with that.  Each of us must create our own meaning, our own purpose – otherwise, we grow complacent, bumptious, vain.  And nothing good can come of that.

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