Surviving Life

At some point we learn that one wave contributes to the formation of the next wave and so on and eventually the sequence of waves causes the last to crash on the shore. It crashes and falls back, moving the sand and pebbles and rubbish beneath it. And the water, swept back, leaves the wave to move forward without it. It's relative to society; that society is a wave, one that moves forward, but leaves behind that which gave it it's basis for success beyond the shore. In truth the individual is obviously a component of society. But once he finds his path, continuity and finally succession is his goal.

So I offer a few words of advice, yes, potential platitudes, but advice nonetheless. Void of my explanation, take them as you will.

Give more and expect less. If you have the capability to do well, you will try your hardest to prosper and only then can you do better than he who provoked you. Don't let society dictate your emotion. Have faith - not in humanity, but in God. Easily can we underline our differences on the surface and, although concealed, our similarities are just as prominent, but skin deep.

And the last, unfortunately, reprises the figurative realtionship between society and the wave. (In the long run) You're on your own and no one cares.

P.S.

Needless to say, I must stress the importance of love through all things. Not necessarily love as lovers do. Love is our one chance at emotional sanity.

Critics

I walked past a girl the other day. She was nothing special. She wore her hair over her ears and a sweater covering her arms, and I laughed at the thought that she might be hiding something. She wore a long dress, suitable for prom. and you could see the straps pressing lightly into her shoulders. The skin folded over them. I noticed the freckles on her hands and the wrinkles when she'd tense up and outstretch her fingers. Her eyes, dark brown, glared at me as I looked on. Her hairline frizzed minimally and her baby hairs swathed over her forehead compactly.

Her shoulders were broad enough. Her tight waist gaveway to a stomach that formed a small pouch to meet her hips. She had hips of great breadth. The skin underneath her eyes was drawn. She'd a dimple when she smiled and she smiled quietly. Her eyebrows needed a touchup. Her second chin was coming in nicely. She had blotches on her teeth. She was built on unshapen legs. Her nails were in need of a new coat, though she played it off well.

She combed her hair tightly behind her ears and removed the sweater from her arms. And I looked away. And so did she. And I walked from my bedroom downstairs. My family would be awaiting me anxiously. And my cavalier, nervously. And their eyes lit up as I lightly clutched the rim of the staircase and poised myself so as to prevent a slip.

My family clamored, their thoughts on my appearance made known. I stood by him now. And he turned to me and whispered, "You look beautiful."

The question of the day is: Are we our own worst critic or our own best critic? Well, a critique is a negative or positive analysis.


While we notice every detail about ourselves no one else may notice our infinitesimal properties. Therefore, we are our best critic. We'll pick out the aspects of ourselves that we may or may not like and try to change, cover up or accentuate them. And it's often over done.


We are our best critic in the sense that we critique everything, not in the sense that we are always changing ourselves to please what we perceive society will find appealing.

In Celebration

Today we view the laying to rest of a legend. Not to praise him as anything more than a man. And if at all we are to praise him we are to praise him as just that, a man, for even a King is a man. And we've seen the tragic passing of two great Kings within the past 50 years - Martin Luther King Jr. and now, Michael Jackson.

Both were bearers of many mistakes. The err of the human. And in this society we've built upon another err - the err of ready judgement and eager oppression.

Both were bearers of an oppressive mass of society for a lifetime and with troubled lives unfolded they pushed through criticisms until their time had come. And they left with the same integrity and dignity that had quietlyfollowed them throughout their lives. They were deserving of a better existence. And early on they left us with their messages and memories, to push us to learn on our own, the detriment of our own existence as an eagerly oppressive society and sinful human race. The student must learn on his own for him to follow his teacher's teachings and allow them to make manifest and have impact.

We once celebrated Dr. King's life at the time of his death and continue the celebration.

For Michael Jackson:

He recounted his adolescence and his trials of adulthood through his songs and transitioned from a man of humility to a man filled with passion and aggression when faced with the joyous task of performing. To him happiness, love and understanding was luxury to last a lifetime. The material possessions of which he furnished his home as well as the puerile activites he was engaged in were compensations for lost youth and modest living arrangements prior.

With tears and in celebration, we will watch the the burial of the body, which housed the man, a true King, who many have come to love, respect, and model their lives off of. His spirit, soul, message, and legacy will remain in our hearts and our minds.

I never attended a Michael Jackson concert. Never shook his hand. Never spoke to him. Never met him. But he's helped me push through my days. And where the love he preached comes along, just as the Bible preaches love for all, perhaps Michael Jackson was the human voice I needed to heed such a message.

I'm not in the least bit the most affectionate person, but I believe Michael Jackson deserves love. And I find it easy to say I love him.

Though tears and pain may marinate in the folds of our faces, no more can we do than to celebrate the life- not mourn the death - of Michael Jackson.

A Short Story

About 25 minutes to complete an essay in English class. No specific topic. No extra time. Her mind wasn't blank. But what was she to write about? Her mother had just passed. Her brother had recently taken his life. And her relationship with her boyfriend had ended hours earlier. No need to write of her self-pity, of course. But at this point these were the thoughts that clouded her mind.

Her teacher was of the conventional type: mildly attractive and not exactly willing to provide the extra credit students often requested when they've decided their grade is a bit too low at the end of the semester.

She lifted her pencil to write her name on her paper. The date. The subject. Perhaps a title would be appropriate: "Me" - a bit too rehearsed. "My Life" - not very original. "Their Last Day" - a bit too abstract, especially for the essay she had planned.

Perhaps the essay should be an explanation. Her life didn't need to seem doused with pitiful accounts. How she'd learned from past mistakes. How she'd learned that trust is something amassed with time, not something immediately given or received. Or how she's dealt with the loss of loved ones.

Eraser shavings dropped to the floor as she composed her essay now, with only 15 minutes left to write. And she went home that day considering the grade she'd receive for her essay.

Her teacher passed back their essays the next day. And she was handed hers with a 'C' hovering over the blank page on which she'd composed her story. She'd gotten an 'C,' which was seemingly made more devastating by the red message placed underneath it. Her teacher had written her a note.

"The assignment was to write about an event in your life that has impacted you. You wrote nothing in the 25 minutes that I gave you and for that you've received an 'F.' But sometimes the least amount of words can have the greatest impact and for that you've received an 'A.'"