Besides Himself.

He had flawless posture, the man oozed excellence in every aspect of his life. His shirt was always wrinkle-free; his pants always pressed just right and his hair always perfectly messy. Carter had always prided himself on being a put together man. His entire life he strived for the seamless existence. He never lost his cool, drank too much or indulged in the pitfalls of society. Gossip about who slept with whom and who smoked way too much on the weekend never interested him. He was merely above that and refused to revel in the typical banter of his peers.

Carter was eighteen years old today. He had never had a big party with hundreds of people, or a small gathering of intimate friends, he just had dinner with his family and quietly celebrated his birth. Everyone at school thought he was pretentious, Carter was too cool to partake in the immature high school behaviour and that made him different from everyone else. His superiority out casted him at an early age and he had never showed any signs of distress because of this. More often than not he was fine with it, and in fact preferred it that way. This all change at 2:45 this afternoon.

“What is wrong with me? How could she not want me?” Those were the only thoughts that were running through his head at the moment. She was classy, elegant and sophisticated she was also entirely hilarious and sweet at the same time. She had the greatest qualities and everything he wanted in someone, all but one of course; she didn’t want him.

“I think you are a great guy Carter but you’re too serious all the time. I mean, you need to let go and just have fun once and a while, enjoy being young before it leaves you behind, heck my father hangs out with his high school buddies more than you do. My father is fifty two.”
That was her response to his profession of love and he had the sneaking suspicion he’d ever forget those words. They were now tattooed in his brain and he would have to do something about it if he wanted to move on and forget them.

Carter used to pity those people crying on benches, looking to the forest, the lake, or a strangers help, he was now one of them. However on this particular day Carter wasn’t content with being alone, essentially this is why he was sitting on the bench staring off into the trees for the past two hours. He bore a painful expression on his face and anyone passing by could surely see he was a distraught man.

Besides himself Carter found himself experiencing the most typical of high school emotions; heartbreak.

Sand Castles and Slides.

“George!” She shouted out to him, motioning for him to go over to the picnic bench.

He rolled his eyes ignoring his mother and continued to build up the best castle in the whole playground. Looking around he realizes his is the only castle in the playground, in fact George finds himself to be the only one playing in the sand at all. Everyone has crowded the swings and the slides leaving the box vacant. This may seem like a dream come true, in a way it was, all this sand, all this space to roam but what was the fun when you had no one to marvel at your miraculous talent? It was a known fact at Kingston Park; George was the greatest castle builder out of all the four year olds. He could mold the most precise detail into the moat, and the windows with his petite hands. But for the last couple of weeks he found a fewer amount of spectators each day. His once loyal followers have moved on to bigger and better things leaving him behind.

George stood up slowly and delicately making sure he didn’t knock the tower over. He began wiping off his jean overalls and the striped red shirt underneath that was coated in sand. He then looked toward the tallest slide in the park, and he glanced at his mother. She was occupied with a fellow parent and surely wouldn’t notice if he made his way over to the “one”. Looking up at the tall feat he had decided to grow up. Move on from the buckets and shovels and experience the thrill and the excitement everyone else was addicted to. He dashed over to the bottom step and looked up counting 15 stairs. Shouldn’t be too hard he thought to himself. But the steps were so high that his small legs could barely reach over to the next without struggle. By the seventh step he found himself exhausted and wondering what the fuss was about. He carried on nevertheless.

After much work and anticipation he reached the top, and looked around. To his knowledge this was the highest he had ever been, in his life. It terrified him. It frightened him so much so that he was paralyzed with the fear. He grasped the two poles and stuck his head in between his knees and quietly decided this was going to be the death of him. At that moment he heard his name “George! George!”

It took all he had to lift his head up, to a crowd of people below. “What are you doing mister?! You come down from there RIGHT NOW!” His mother yelled, causing him the worst emotion of all; humiliation. He then came to and faced a life decision, face the slide, or bow out with his tail between his legs in his mommy’s arms. Should he grow up, become a man, face his death in the eye and laugh? Or do what he so desperately wanted to do and walk back down those stairs? He looked over to his castle, and at that very moment Lucy’s father stepped on it on his way to the slide, crushing Georges work of art. Just like that he realized that sand castles leave, something he devoted so much time on, something he prided himself in, could be demolished with a strong breeze or rain. He grabbed the sides of the slide, the crowd below gasped as he flung his body down as fast as his small arms could push.

As he slid down the silver his stomach flipped and his fear was forgotten. George had beaten the slide, and was now in utter love with the thrill it offered. As he reached the bottom he felt like he was on top, of the world that is.

Two o' clock.

Audience : Anyone willing. ( teenager - senior )
Purpose : Who do you turn to when all you lived for has parished and you have nothing to do but pass the time .

He walked to the same park, sat on the same bench, and took out the same brand of bread. He began to tear the loaf into pieces small enough for a bird and tossed them a foot away from him. Hector had been wearing the same hat and coat for twenty five years, his late wife bought them and insisted he wear them. The fedora suggested a sense of eloquence and his shined shoes made him resemble a gentleman. The birds all flocked around him and for a split second Hector smiled. As suddenly as it appeared it left, leaving a sad withered look on his once strong face. Every day in this park he could be found at precisely two o’clock in the afternoon.

On his 75th birthday he was forced to retire from his job at the local butcher shop. He was overjoyed at the prospect of staying at home with his beloved wife all day long but shortly after their Fifty fifth anniversary Hectors wife Anne passed away. All that was left for the poor old man was his slowly fading memory and the slowly deteriorating house. Anne and Hector had never had children, and he was left with no family so he began to visit the park everyday and feed the wildlife. He often remembered back on the times he and his friends would chase the pigeons and seagulls as little boys and how he cursed them while picnicking on the beach and how he would try and hit one or two with a rock now and then as a teenager. He regrets this behaviour, for these are the very beings that would come to keep him alive.

It sounds drastic but Hector relied on the bird’s everyday to give him a purpose, they provided him with a meaning. If he were to not show up one day he was aware of the fact they would find another source of food to eat and not be phased by his absence, but when he did come he was able to make their lives a little easier. All he wanted was to occupy time until he would one day join his wife, until then the birds would keep him company.

Leave the heartache at the door ( collage.)

Audience: 14 - 30
Purpose: To express how one person’s expression can show their story.

She steps out of the cab and onto the pavement, where she looks at the new changes in astonishment. On her travels the number of high heel shoes increased and the amount of tired ponytails slowly faded away. With her backpack on and her duffel bag by her side she reeked of outsider. She wore a hat to keep the sun out of her eyes and quickly realized that in the city people rarely wear baseball hats unless they are from a specialized “hat store” in which you do not remove the tags and are by law required to wear your pants below your butt cheeks. She caught her reflection in the mirror; Acid washed jeans and a fleece sweater that had Canada written across the chest maybe once she got settled in she would do some shopping.

Sam once had the face that screamed of a youthful innocence but looking at herself now she sees the face of a tired soul and the eyes of a heartbroken girl. She left behind the man she once believed to be her soul mate and made a decision solely based on her needs this time, and she felt completely at ease. The moment the life left her eyes five months ago she knew this day would come.

She would forget about the man she left behind and her former self and become a better version of the girl she once was. She thought about her friend in the city and how he had changed his entire life for his job, thinking of him put an extra spring in her step and she found herself half heartedly skipping down the busy sidewalk. She always envied him and now she was on the same path. No literally, she was on his pathway and she proceeded to take the first step, then the second, and then she stood face to face with the door to happiness. She turns the handle and pushes it open.
“I’m home!” She yells into the house and steps into her old world, leaving her heartache at the door.

Antiques with heart

Today I sit in the same position I have sat in for the past seven years. Precisely every hour 13 blue birds , 4 robins, and a family of blonde Swedish children pop out of their cuckoo clocks and let me know that another sixty minutes had passed and still no one has showed the slightest interest in me. My life isn’t all lacklustre, when the old man closes the shop up, the flamingo; every figurine, the seventy year old gold plated lamp, and the chandelier family all meet up around my father the grand table. Approximately three years ago four of my brothers had been chosen for use and now all that remains of my family is my father, my sister and I. My father is a very round man, he had other children before but over the years they have gotten lost, he is over fifty years old and he is as sturdy and strong as the day he was created. He tells us about his life, his previous owners, and his escapades. For every scratch on his surface lies a miraculous tale of significance. When I ask him about my mother he tells me that tables don’t necessarily have mothers. They have creators, builders and my siblings and I were made to accompany him through his travels. From the moment my brothers were taken my father said our chance of being desired has decreased immensely, we were built as a set and when a part of that set is missing there isn’t much use for it anymore. While I sit during the daylight I often hope my father is wrong , I hope people can look beyond what is absent and witness what is present ; a great collection of antiques with heart.

Chivalry really IS dead.

I was on the bus Wednesday morning when I witnessed an interaction between two people. I am not sure if it counts as a conversation if it lasted in the matter of one minute but it was something that sparked a lot of emotions in me and something that is worth noting, or rather... blogging.
So I take the dreaded seventy Coxwell to school and on the way is East York General Hospital so not only is the bus packing at least , I’d guess 70 – 80 people from East York but it also carries doctors, nurses, and patients on their way to the Hospital. So there is a variety of riders any given day and on Wednesday there was no exception. I sat in my same seat in the back looking over the bottom layer of the bus when I saw an empty seat up for gr2abs and I also watched two passengers head for the same seat. A man no older than 30 and a woman in what appeared to be her early forties and about 8 to 9 months pregnant, (in fact she looked like she was heading to the hospital to pop the kid out) headed for the only vacant seat. To my surprise the man (if you can really call him that) saw the lady heading towards the chair and he sped his pace up. He stole the chair from under her and began to unfold his Metro News.
“Wow... Chivalry really is dead.” She spoke my exact thoughts.
“Women want to be treated as equals this is what they get.” The spineless twerp muttered in her direction and proceeded to read what was wrong with the world while literally experiencing it.
At that point I had the strong desire to kick this pathetic excuse for a man where his manhood apparently is. I could probably rant and complain about how much men suck and how our world’s standards are slowly decreasing for pages and pages. I could most likely write a book about the subject in fact. But at this moment in time I just want everyone to think about it. I mean whatever happened to a man holding a door open for a lady and offering a seat. I mean I don’t expect anyone to offer their seat to me or hold open any door I am perfectly capable of pulling open a door and standing for fifteen minutes but If I was pregnant, ten years’ younger or 50 years older I don’t know about that. I could never sit idly by while an elder was standing on the bus because I have respect for them.
That woman was carrying a human being inside of her, something a man could never do. She should be treated not just equally but she should be treated with the ultimate and upmost respect something that man cough chauvinistic pig clearly knows nothing about. Everyday occurances like those make me want to live in the fifties where women were respected ... but then again I can’t cook and or wear those clothes so maybe not.



Bathroom meeting
“I just can’t understand why he won’t just ask me out already. We have been hooking up for 3 months now. He always tells me he loves me.” – Girl number One
“You are too good for him! I don’t get why you refuse to move on.” – Girl number Two

How typical, and no this wasn’t an advertisement for the new movie He’s Just Not That Into You. Although it could easily be. I have yet to see the movie, but I plan to soon. It looks good enough and I’m a huge fan of Drew Barrymore. Back to the point not yet made; desperation. These two females (not like my previous endeavour with the co-workers) were incredibly interesting and kept me entertained during my visit to the bathroom. I was in the stall CHANGING! into track pants get your mind out of the gutter people when I heard the conversation begin. Jackpot. Hearing the way the girl described her relationship with this boy she seemed to have been holding on to the hopes of something more. He had told her that once his marks get better then he can commit to her but until then he wouldn’t have a girlfriend. This poor girl believed him leading me to believe she was in grade nine. She continued to moan and groan about the dysfunction and how she feels used whenever she’s not with him but how she feels completely at peace when in his vicinity.

At this point I realized I have been in the stall silently taking in their entire exchange and feel all too creepy, I wondered if I should crouch on the toilet seat so no one would see that I had been sitting there for the past 8 minutes. I didn’t. The conversation ended shortly with no resolution, and it seemed as though the friend was tired of hearing the same old things and had nothing new to say. I have nothing negative to say about this conversation, (for once?)Putting aside the fact this girl decided to pour her heart out in a public bathroom. I simply felt completely sympathetic towards this girl. Was it worth it? Why should a guy dictate how she feels about herself? It was wrong. It’s sad because people will probably judge this girls situation and see her as the pathetic one, I saw it and immediately judge the guy. I am not saying this girl is too young and naive to think for herself I just believe that this boy full well knows his affect on the girl. I once heard a quote from Henry Louis Mencken “A man loses his sense of direction after four drinks; a woman loses hers after four kisses.” Women can tend to listen to their heart more so then their brain at times which may lead to poor decision making. At the end of the day I would love to talk to this girl and tell her that there will always be other guys, guys who want to be with you and guys who deserve you. Unfortunately I didn’t see her, only her shoes, beige Uggs. Shouldn’t be hard to track down in our school right?

So ... how about that snow?

As I waited for the bus today I was provided with ample opportunity to once again tune into the lives of those around me. I was in search for an interesting conversation but all I found was mindless chatter. As the bus pulled into Coxwell station I pushed through the crowd to sit in my usual seat in the back of the bus by the window, if you can call it that, it’s more like a piece of glass coated in mud and variations of dirt and snow-like materials. Back to the assignment, with a coffee in one hand and purse in the other pretending to read a newspaper while listening in would not work so I watched my shoes, (that of which need a good cleaning) and began my second venture into the world eavesdrop.

I witnessed the interaction from start to finish, two early-thirty-something women waiting for the same bus. It started off with the ever so awkward “Hey! (I don’t know you but you work on the same floor as me and I hear about your life and all your shenanigans on a daily basis) How are you?” Let the small talk begin. As I sat down I was rather disappointed when the two women sat in front of me, I was hoping to find a conversation full of stimulating material and something told me that these were not the people to provide. They sat down and started in on what else, the weather. The two women discussed the benefits of hoods. No not the word that is often referred to as a ghetto or slum no they were talking about the piece of fabric that is attached to a coat or garment to protect your head. I kid you not the women directly in front of me described what she feels while wearing one as and I quote “ I feel Invisible, if there is a hood on my jacket I am prepared for every and anything.” Really? At this point you are wondering why I would choose this exchange out of the possibilities.

It is because I utterly hate small talk. I don’t want to become a critic of all things and someone who comes off as a cynic. This is not my intention, I just happened to blog on two conversations in a row that irritate me. I assure you the next one will not be so negative (I hope). I cannot bear small talk, I hate the immense pressure I feel to keep the conversation flowing in order to avoid the awkward silence that will surely follow after you have said all there is to say about the weather patterns in Toronto, its cold and grey out... amazing. Why do we feel the need to fill silence with words that will have no affect on us in the slightest? I personally have pulled the whole ‘listening to my iPod and far too busy to even notice someone’ in order to avoid awkward encounters. When I see the guy who sat three rows behind me in grade seven am I really expected to talk to him for the next ten subway stops? I am sorry but I would rather finish the book I am reading.

However every now and then I do run into someone I know and we do have good conversations. But that is because we chose to skip all the light informal conversation that interests no one. We steered clear of the schedule at school, homework, mutual friends, and the dreaded weather topics and got right to the stuff that matters. What is that stuff you ask? Well for every person it varies, for all I know you could thoroughly enjoy talking about the weather patterns going on outside. If that’s the case I sincerely hope you and I never get stuck on the same bus.

And so it begins..

Why hello all, firstly I would like to thank Ms. C. for giving me the opportunity to creep on strangers this time I have cause. Since the recent heartbreak (my iPod broke) I have become dependent on the conversations of others to entertain me on my 15 minute bus ride to and from school. This assignment was made for me and my stealthy or otherwise referred to stalker-like ways. My first victims were a group of fifteen year olds (I am making a superficial assumption considering the tacky leg warmers that were so last year / two decades ago and also their love for the Jonas Brothers and Miley Cyrus suggests a naive quality that could only belong to said age group). This group of girls were discussing the party on Saturday picking up on some words here and there I quickly tuned in.

I actually laughed out loud on several different occasions listening to these young girls discuss alcohol and drugs and sexual activity as if it were cool and normal. I was probably like them at one point, I probably thought the same things and acted the same way what do I know and it's not like I am so much older and wiser but I feel as though I am. One girl who was atrociously skinny and had hair that was reminiscent of Whitney Houston and Barbara Walters, an odd choice yes but so was this girls hair, any who, she rambled on and on about how while she was up-chucking in the sink her crush " the hottest guy in E.Y " came in and asked if she was okay just to quickly turn around and leave. Yeah, sounds like he is a great catch and cares a whole lot. I couldn't help but feel utterly sorry for her, she would live to regret this behaviour soon enough and bragging about it won't make it all better.

I don't know why society has placed partying as a top priority and the main source of everything fun and cool but my idea of a great time involves all of my friends in Kat's basement playing Rockband, eating food and or watching a great movie ( preferably the movie ends in our sides hurting from so much laughter or our eyes swollen from so many tears).Some may call that entirely lame I wouldn't care to be honest; at least when I look back to my High-school years I can remember getting 99% on Living on a Prayer and not having leftover spaghetti in my hair and ruined shoes.