Holocene

                                Not a note perfect, not a harmony melodic, not a lyric profound.  Limited in my life experience, I flounder.  I can pick along to the scrolling notes on the page, follow the crinkled scribblings in my notebook as I lay upon my bed.  I know I have nothing to preach, nothing to offer the world of music.  In my own head I visualize what I write as a nebulous arrangement of planets, following their divine trajectory with no variation or inspiration.  Still I write and I play.  In sparse occasion the planets will align, coaxing me to play further, hoping to achieve the same celestial feeling.  When my skin crawls and my pulse accelerates from my own doing, I know I have created music.  It’s a drug like any other.  Runners extract a high from pain and torment; junkies push euphoria into their veins through a needle.  I draw my high from the eclectic beauty of song.  On off days when my fingers blister and my voice goes hoarse, I find satisfaction scouring the internet for Bon Iver, Fleet Foxes and Dispatch hoping their familiar exoticism offers me my fix.  I feel crushed underneath my own failure, yet grateful to the artists who describe my feelings in ways I can’t.

Bon Iver- Holocene:

…and at once I knew I was not magnificent
strayed above the highway aisle
(jagged vacance, thick with ice)
I could see for miles, miles, miles

Suspect in Killings of Homeless Men Has Family Link to Homelessnes

                Feet crunching in the wet gravel, Itzcoatl Ocampo shuffled up to the rusted door of his father’s broken down big-rig truck.  His thoughts were racing, carefully planning the upcoming conversation.  He knew he had blood on his hands and an uneasiness flowing through his conscience.  The ungreased spring of the door handle creaked and clicked open with a metallic twang.  His father’s grizzled mug oozed through the crevasse with the enthusiasm of a disgruntled, un-unionized carney.  The cracks and crags of his once handsome visage were reminders of a life hard lived.  He missed his son, a recently minted war veteran, and welcomed him to his temporary shanty.  Times were hard and he’d begun to stretch the definition of shelter to its limits. 

“They found another one”, Itzcoatl said, referring to the recent rash of serial killings.  “He’s targeting the homeless; I hope you’re taking care of yourself.” 

“I’ll be fine, I’m safe in my truck”, the elder Ocampo replied.

“I just don’t want to see you end up like the rest of them.”

Refugio Ocampo reassured his son, who’s glance was shifting and constantly looking over his shoulder.  “Your brother Mixcoatl told me you had come back changed-that all the veterans come back changed.  I hope you are still the same man.”

Itzcoatl responded, “I am the same man.  I am sad, but I am the same man.”

“Izzy, we all mourned the loss of your friend.  Claudio was a good boy and an even better man.”

Hushed and teary-eyed goodbyes were said and just as suddenly as he appeared, Refugio’s son was gone.  A few days later he caught word of the killer’s capture.  Nothing could have prepared him for the title of the article: Suspect in Killings of Homeless Men Has Family Link to Homelessness.

Post 1: Greek Week 2011 shirt

Still riding the high I got from accepting my bid to Pi Lambda Phi fraternity, I walked through the hard-wooded halls of 321 Fraternity Row like I owned the place.  Though I can now navigate the century-old house blindfolded, a mere three months ago it was still full of mysteries.  The walk to my big brother Miles’ room was a familiar one though.  I spent the last couple weeks hanging out, watching football games and pulling pranks with him, hoping he would be my mentor for the coming months of pledging.  We seemed the perfect fit for each other, Industrial engineering majors, tall, athletic and the biggest goofballs anyone can meet.  I sat down on his black futon to congratulations of accepting my bid and his appreciation that I picked him as my big brother.  He gave me an overview of what he expected from me and what I could expect from him. He wished me luck and sent me on my way, but not before tossing a grey-blue ball of cloth into my surprised hands.  I unknotted the tangled mess, unveiling my first letter t-shirt from last year’s Greek Week, an annual competitive event between fraternities and sororities. He reminded me that anytime I wear them I represent not only our fraternity, but the values and standards that our brotherhood has built over the past 116 years.

            Some might look at this t-shirt and turn their nose up in disgust.  It’s old, worn out and smells like a frat house laundry room.  To me, it is representative of all the work I put into myself as a person and into the house that has given so much back to me.  It means finally finding a place where I can not only be myself, but become the best version of myself possible.  Since meeting the 12 other members of my pledge-class, the group of men I learn my history and knowledge of the fraternity with, I have become best friends with all of them.  We know each other’s deepest secrets and greatest aspirations.  I know we will attend each other’s weddings, children’s births, and eventually funerals.  Since initiation, I wear that shirt with pride, representing the group of like-minded individuals I have earned the right to call my brothers.  Every time I put on the shirt, I sense the lingering smell of unknown detergent and dryer sheets and feel the cloth, worn from a year of use by a 6’5” giant.  Though it’s stretched and stained from countless pre-games and tailgates, I would never think of throwing it away, it’s far too emotionally valuable.  I hope next year I will find a little brother who will understand its significance and cherish it as I have.