In the Mind of a Wise Idiot

While in the New Shoots Creative Writing program in high school, I think we were supposed to write something performance-y or at least something that our mentor, whose name I have forgotten… no!  Ben!  Yes!  Ben was supposed to look over and give comments.  I went through a phase in high school where I thought that writing the most random things that came to mind equalled great poetry.  How very, very wrong I was.

This initally consisted of 3 pages, both sides, of the most random things I could think of.  Some were inspired by what was around me, mainly Math class.  Of these three pages, I then took passages from all three and condensed them into one prose/poem thing.  There’s no story, so it’s not really prose but it’s not structured like a poem (then again, free verse = anything).  I remember thinking this was the most brilliant thing I had written.  How Ben was able to read and make any sort of sense of this is beyond me.

In the Mind of a Wise Idiot

 

“Not at all”, he said to me as I wondered what it would be like to finally taste the sweetness of his lips.  Don’t tell me I’m dreaming again, I think to myself.  Well, how can I be dreaming if I can think?  Maybe it’s that even the first time I saw him that it changed everything for me.  The randomness of school makes it impossible for me to do anything.  At all.  At all, at all.  Somehow, I find myself wondering about him all…yes, all!  The times are changing; perhaps I will feel different tomorrow.  Perhaps, perhaps not.  Perhaps he will finally notice me…

 

Why am I so scared anyways?  It doesn’t make sense, well…we’re all scared of something, especially the truth; it blinds us, it tortures us, it shows us things we’re hiding from All!  this time.  And yet we can’t seem to accept it!  It is like we want another reason, but we are given the reason; we just refuse to believe it.  How stupid of us, all of us.  Why are we all! so stupid?  It doesn’t make sense.  Then again, nothing ever makes sense.  It probably never will.  We will all! continue to blind ourselves from the truth that we refuse to believe.  I don’t understand.  And I probably never will.

 

I wonder if I should do anything about it.  About what?  There’s nothing to do and nothing anyone can do.  Well, except for both of him.  Perhaps he’s scared.  Perhaps he doesn’t know if I am or not.  Perhaps he himself isn’t.  Perhaps this, perhaps that.  Only time will.  Tell me what you think.  Make sense of ALL!  Look, there he is again.  I think he was looking at me. But I didn’t look back.  Should I have?  Who cares anyways?  But it’s not impossible right?  I don’t know what to think anymore.  Should I keep chasing after him, or in that case, anyone if I don’t get high?  Hmm…maybe.  Maybe not.  Maybe I should stop.  Stop.  Stop.  Stop, yes…that sounds quite right.  Hmm…everything seems so wrong.  What is right?  What does it mean?  The brightness of his shirt is overwhelming.  Who is this?  Who are you?  Who is everyone?  Who is anyone?  How do we know who we are if nothing is right? Math is stupid and endearing ’till eternity.

Nothing can escape a black hole; its black, black, black heart swallows all.  This reminds me of when I thought about not breathing ever again before.  Nope, not fun at all.  Why don’t everyone just shut up?  Please, shut up!  Get out now, you stupid opossum!  And stay out!  Don’t forget to shut up!  It makes no SENSE!  Yes, that’s what we all need; some sense.  How can I make sense of sense if I can’t sense it?  Hmm…perhaps my binder holds answers.  I don’t know anything. “Funner” is not a word, you stupid hoe.  I really should just stop because I’m not making any sense…yes, that word again!  I’m confusing myself.  What should I do?  If today is gone, would we be on February 14th?  Quite strange really, but maybe…maybe not.

I wonder if people wonder.  I wonder if people wonder about the same things as I do.  Perhaps, perhaps not.  Perhaps they are normal.  Perhaps, no one is normal.  Perhaps we are all queer and I’m normal.  Perhaps my people are the normal ones.  Perhaps, perhaps not.  That seems to make so much more sense…there’s that word again.  No!  My god!  Your god sucks!!!  Math sucks.  Here sucks.  Do I suck?  I don’t know but probably.  Imagine all the people, living in hell.  That I can do.  Hmm…cards can be fun if you’re a hobo.  The pink fluffy bunnies will continue to hop until their legs fall off.  Alive, then dead.  I wonder about him and the future.  Perhaps it will all! change.  Perhaps, perhaps not.

Wow.  I am so obviously sane.

Conversations With a Ghost

The original short story which was then adapted into On the Bus, which was produced and filmed in my last term at Vancouver Film School.  (the video at the bottom)  There are clear differences between the short story and the film.  Which do you like better?

I wrote this story back in high school after a similar experience I had.  I won’t go into the details right now but if you’re wondering, I don’t converse with ghosts anymore.

Conversations With a Ghost

I sit there, dumbly, my mind pushing itself to think of an answer.  Who should I ask out?  I had only a few more days ’till the bet was up with my friend.

“You could ask me.”  I recognize that voice.  It’s him again, sitting across from me, wearing what I last saw him wear; a baseball cap turned backwards, a casual sweatshirt and jeans, topped off with glasses that actually make him look semi-smart.

“Why would I do that?”  My voice shows a possible foreshadowing of anger.

“Because you like me.  You’ve always liked me, since the moment you saw me.”  He smiles, which I interpret to be an evil smile, and tilts his head slightly to one side.

“Yeah, so what?  I’m scared.  I’m scared that you’ll reject me.  Why in hell would anyone want that?”  The anger is rising.

“You don’t know that.”

“Yes, I do.”

“How?  What’s this based on?”

“On the fact that most times when I happen to see you in the halls, some slut is hanging off of you, like a dead animal.”

“That doesn’t mean anything.  We’re just friends.”

“Oh, I’ve heard that before.”

“Did you ever stop to think that it might be true?  Why would I lie to you?”

“Oh, I don’t know; because you keep breaking my heart, dammit!  You’re the only guy I haven’t ever really gotten over.”

“I’m sorry about that.  I can’t help that I’m so good looking.”

“Shut up.  That’s not helping.”

“What do you want me to say?  ‘Oh Jeremy, I’ve been in love with you too and I’ve been waiting 4 years for you to tell me!  Let’s get married and ride off into the sunset!'”  He laughs (loudly, I might add).  I silently fume to myself.

“You have no idea what it’s like when you see someone you love and know you won’t ever end up with them, but you still want them to be with you.  You have no idea how sad I am when I see you, the only boy I’ve ever really fallen in love with.  You just don’t get it do you?”  By this time, depression has replaced my rage.

He leans forward in his seat, closing the gap between our faces.  The complexion on his face is hard to read.  I expect him to say something comforting.

“Why are you doing this to yourself, Jeremy?  You say you like me and stuff but you’re too scared to talk to me because you’re afraid I’ll reject you.  What have you got to lose by talking to me?”

“Everything, including my life.”

“You know what the most pitiable part of this whole thing is?”  He leans back against the seat, his arm draped across the adjacent seat, trying to look laid-back.  I already know what he’s going to do and begin to brace for the worst.

“The saddest thing about this is that you have to make me up to talk to you.  I’m part of your stupid little fantasy.  You make me say whatever you want to make you feel better…

“Shut up.  Stop it now.”

“…and it works, yet when the real me comes strolling along, you might as well have jumped in a ditch or something…

“Shut up right now.  I mean it, Sean.”

“…because you’re just too shy to talk to me.  Now that is just sad.”

“You don’t know me.  You don’t know me!”

“Oh, I know you alright.  But do you wanna know something really pathetic?”

At this point, I can’t even talk anymore.

“No matter what you do, no matter how hard you try, you are never ever going to get over me.  Never.”  He smiles that evil smile again.  I hate that one.

I’ve had enough of this charade.

“Stop it!  Go away!  Leave me alone!”  I shut my eyes tightly.

For a few seconds, I don’t hear anymore from him.  When I open my eyes, a fat woman in an ugly pink muumuu is sitting in his seat.  I can feel her studying me, which makes me feel like a lab rat.

“Are you okay, dearie?”  She pulls out a small tissue from her matching ugly purse.  It is not until now that I feel the warm streaks of tears on my face.  I had been crying, during my own fantasy where I was in control, or at least thought I was.

I tell her I am fine and take the delicate paper from her to wipe my eyes.

“I remember when I was in high school, so many memories…” her voice continues.

Stop talking to me!  And get some new clothes while you’re at it! my mind screams.

“…and bad ones, too.  I don’t think I’ll ever get over those ones…”

I glance up at her, my entire body in shock.  Her face slowly morphs into Sean’s as they both finish the last word simultaneously: “Never.”