Archive for December, 2004

Comin back like boomerangs when you throw’em, with these old ghetto poems

Posted in Blog on December 12, 2004 by trevorgregg

It’s been a while.

Too long, for my taste. I fell off the wagon, as they say, but I’m back and I can only hope that you benevolent masses will forgive my absence. On the rare occassions that I lose the habit of writing in this godforsaken thing regularly, it’s god damn hard to get started again.

Strange days. An expression I use often, but seems so apt so much of the time. I’m weary as hell now, in so many ways, but we have much to discuss. First: excuses.

My computer broke, and my soul and sanity were strained beyond the manufacturer’s recommended limits by the stress of finals. I seem to have emerged unscathed, though I suppose only the grade postings will tell us for sure. At this point it’s all assumptions and hope, tricks and nonsense and grade-curving voodoo that has little correlation to my actual academic success. I’ve been done with finals for over 24 hours now, and already it seems like an eternity ago. The world has moved on. What matters now is the future.

A decent few days. My friends’ graduations went off completely hitch-free, and those of us that screamed ourselves hoarse in the top row while banging on the congo drums we brought even managed to enjoy the whole ritualistic fiasco. Good work, kids, I wish I was up there with you. I can’t wait to never have homework again. And to the dude sitting in front of us that paid us twenty bucks to bang our drums for his daughter, thanks man. We would have done it for free, but twenty bucks never hurt a college student.

Forgive my lack of details; striking anecdotes of hilacrity or passion or tragedy fail me at the moment, though undoubtedly there have been many over this last week or so. Today was gorgeous, the sun shined and it was December as it should be: 75 degrees and no wind, flip-flops and t-shirts. White Christmas my ass, I’m going to the beach.

The times, they are a-changing. This whole graduation situation has clued me into the significant degree to which my college career is winding down. I, like Jerry Rice, am beyond my glory days. Now I’m just going through the motions, waiting to get kicked out of the exclusive little club of youth and sent off to some home where I can eat reconstituted potatoes and canned pears. A dark thought, for so many reasons, but dark thoughts seem to be the theme of the hour. If I was me, I would tell me to shut the fuck up. I’ve spent the last however many hours since my 1pm final on Friday surrounded by friends, enjoyment, and sun. In the presence of such grandeur, on the eve of what should be quite the bad ass winter break, I have no reason to complain. No valid reason, anyway. Those faceless demons, though, how they hound me. Evil, cackling sorrows which wait around up in the dead trees like vultures, waiting for me to slip, to show some sign of weakness. They’re on to me now, despite the jokes and the high-fives and the beer. I can see their beady red eyes lurking in the shadows just outside the light cast by my monitor. Leave me be, assholes. Leave me be.

I saw on TV once that talking about these things makes them better. I doubt it, but at this hour of the morning there’s very little I won’t try.

First: My dim and dying faith in the justice of the universe took another serious blow when one of my homeboys did not succeed with a lady he deserves. To see a brother slip, weakened and timid in the face of a pretty smile and all its possibilities, is a shot to my spiritual kidneys. Where’s the fucking happy ending? My only hope now is that the ‘end’ as we’ve seen it thus far is not so much an ending, but an opportunity for a better and more appropriately scripted sequel.

Second: Apparently, I’m a much worse person than I had previously anticipated. I understand that, for whatever reason, my assigned/chosen role in life ranges from decent person to stone-faced villain. Lately, however, the occassional comments about the viciousness of my silver tongue or the cold-heartedness of my actions have increased in frequency, sincerity, and impact. I guess I’m stepping on toes and drawing blood in places I hadn’t anticipated, which is a terribly depressing realization. Perhaps stoicism and sarcasm are just going out of style, and like my college experience my run as a source of smiles, or at least wit, is coming to an end. Where does that horribly sobering thought leave us? What the hell do you do when you can’t be the protagonist of even your own stories, when even you won’t root for your own character? We shall see.

Certain parties have suggested that a lot of these questions are, at their root, caused by the lack of… companionship in the recent past. I’m not saying its outside of the realm of possibility, but whether it’s true or not is academic. Loneliness is not ice cold. If my options are solitude or mistreatment, isolation or insults, we both know which I choose. Even at three AM, even after a few drinks, even after a solid week of sleep deprivation, I won’t cave to the same weaknesses which have led me so far astray in the past. Surrender would not improve my situation even in the short run, and in the long run would dig my hole even deeper, so the status quo of driving alone watching the streetlights, of baleful stares and quiet remorselessness remain the game plan. Trevor, they ask, how can you be so ice cold?

Look around, friends,
how can you not?

Time to crash, I’m falling asleep at the keys.