Let it come down, and wash away the miasma that has clouded our judgment.

Enjoying the weekend storm safely indoors. I awoke literally sick to my stomach, after about two days of moping due to the idea that my transferable-skills approach to the past three and a half years of my university education has culminated in the most disappointing way. "Just because you majored in it doesn't mean it's what you'll do!" "Pick something you like, and the rest takes care of itself!" In hindsight: it doesn't. Even now, I carry this vague idea of who I want to be, without actually fleshing out the details. I was probably the last person anyone would bet on being a slacker, and yet here I am. I chose one of the most vaguely describable majors on the menu, knowing full well that I disliked a lack of clarity. What does a communications major do? I still couldn't tell you, other than the same tripe about analyzing how media affects society and vice versa, the same sentence I've uttered a million times, like the directions to the University Hall visitor parking lot, the same exact thing that make you cringe as they come out of your mouth, that don't go any easier when you try to reword it in some fresh new way.

Outside, the rain carried on, without any sign of hesitation. Nature didn't have the problem of self-doubt, hesitation that froze into inaction; it had a singular purpose in its actions, whether it was to recycle condensation back to terra firma or to move excessively inconvenient pockets of air across the land. Inside, things were still. Maybe I'd imagined that it would've been pleasant to listen to this with someone else. But some things are not meant for sharing. Sharing is what you do with commonly enjoyable things that are accepted readily, like party invitations, and cheap beer. This bit of stillness, of quiet but steady solace, in all its lengthened brevity, belongs to me. Alone.

Adventures in Second Person, Pt 2

The family friends' daughters tease you, and you even get into a few fights here and there. You start becoming that guy, the one whom everyone came to see at lunch with their empty history worksheets. But your real friends, all three of them, are into the Pokemon-Playstation-WWF trifecta. A neighborhood girl makes fun of your "tight-ass pants" at the bus stop. A boy on the bus ridicules your lack of understanding of human procreation. You cry too easily from any making-fun of at school. But at least the teachers understand. Looking back, though, it seems rather ridiculous.

Who knows, give it another couple of years and something might have blossomed. Maybe your friends might have evolved some interest in girls and helped you along. But that's not the way it turned out; periodic downturns happened, and your father, after all, couldn't have worked for the petrol corp forever.

Thus were you displaced. You didn't exactly appreciate the idea, but starting over seemed accceptable enough. But you didn't know where to begin. In your first days, you eat alone, you draw alone. At some point you are photographed with oval glasses and a flattop, alone, which is later published for all to see in the yearbook. Oh, and you start wearing Hawaiian shirts.

Come to think of it, things went relatively well during this time. Sure, you couldn't catch a football to save your life, and your closest friends--despite similar interests of wrestling, videogames, filmmaking, and-ahem-pornography--generally treat you sans respect (though they had nice things to say on birthday cards). But there were girl friends, too. And the novelty of Instant Messaging. Basketball games. Other people's drama (come to think of it...there was a lot of that). Racing for mile times. Karaoke in public.Vans sneakers and an ill-fated attempt at skating. Books read: The Contender, maybe part of Shane, (ooh, The Dark Half three years before!) parts of a novel from the school library explicitly describing virginal sex). Here and there you are confused by flirting attempts such as compliments, physical and otherwise. You're already busy being jealous of other guys. Oh, and school goes pretty well, too.

It was not a good way to go. You pick a bad one to start out with; there is zero reciprocation, in spite of a grand gesture involving a handwritten letter and--oh jesus christ--your father's cologne. (The incident is remembered by one and continues to haunt you for years to come.) This marks the start of a familiar pattern: an interest develops, and you hold on and you never act on it for fear of what will happen. Only after months of wasted opportunities later does it dissapate. You do manage a date for the formal that year, though, via hotmail (natch). You rent a classy tux (surprisingly fitted, w/ mandarin collar), buy a corsage, and your parents pick her up. It's all very classic; nevertheless she leaves you for her friends at the end of the evening.

Somehow, you never learn what it meant to "go out". Did that mean your parents drove you out for a night of mini-golf at Funworks? Did that mean holding hands in the courtyard at lunchtime? You don't take the lead to find out, and, of course, no one stops along the way to clarify. There wasn't much mention of such matters among your friends.

"...The world is your oyster!" One teacher writes in your yearbook. (not the same one you purportedly jinxed to death.) You arrive late at graduation, wearing jean shorts, give a speech. You take a picture with the girl you fancied, which you treasure wistfully for years.

You can't help but notice how goddamn awkward you look trying to perch on her shoulder. There must've been a half foot gap between the two of you.

Adventure in Second Person

You think back, and wonder.

You think through a haze, peeling back all the layers of the past, unraveling alongside that tangled strand of web, and hoping to spot that sparkle of a dew drop that marks the turning point. What was it like, back in the old country? ...No, it couldn't have happened then. Sure, you got slapped around a few times, mostly for talking back or inappropriate self-discovery, but it was all fine. You were famous among the parents for putting words to paper, and had special tutoring from the art teacher, and got chastised for screwing around in class a few times. You remember a girl with a bob haircut putting you in a chicken wing, but also two others, one with a braid and the other who wore hers in buns, who laughed and chased you through that park with the lake, on the way back to the apartment blocks where you all lived. (Things before this time are kind of hazy, but you remember a latch-key, and snowman-building, and Cracker Jack-like snack with an odd little Japanese prize in it.) It was fine, then.

Then you left it all behind, for California, America. Come to think of it, you never did mail your teacher that postcard of Niagara Falls.

You remember arriving at the new house in a fog; you remember meeting pet dogs for the first time in your life. You remember your youthful incredulity when the folks tell you there's actually a TV channel that plays cartoons all day. So you develop the habit of drawing a villain of each afternoon Fox Kids program, until you're making weekly collages. School's a bit of a change, though. While the other kids do their worksheets, they give you a piece of paper to draw on, since you can't read the words, yet. (Years later you would go on to become the top of the English class, four years straight.) They gawk a little at your pink tracksuit, but somehow you get along okay. There's a cute blond girl, whom you fancy, but as fate would have it a car accident sweeps her away before the year's up.

English comes easier to you after a summer computer class. Steadily you develop a reputation; schoolwork's down pat, no acting up, and you're so quietly composed, so mature, that your parents have no trouble taking you anywhere. In fifth grade there's an instance when you melodramatically compose a handwritten note to what you thought was a romantic rival in jealousy. In some perplexing way that's been lost to time, it's read as hate speech, and you receive a demerit for the first time in a long time. It wasn't much, but it was the worst they could do for your record in fifth grade; frantic, you show up to your music class in tears.

Little did you know, it was the last time you would be honest of your own accord for years to come.

TBC