Khendon Sevon
Mar 16th, 2006, 12:16:40 AM
I rubbed the back of my neck for the thousandth time that night. It felt stiff as an oak plant. In fact, if it were a piece of wood it would shine with the luminescent polish of elbow grease. It felt like I had been working those stiff muscles for hours.
My fingers glided over the keyboard of my laptop at a dizzying pace—I paid no attention. There’s a time and place where thought and software word processor combine into an unending, instant communication of the soul.
I was in a writing mood.
So, the ideas flowed from conscious and subconscious springs, filled Poland Spring bottle after Poland Spring bottle until I had a truck worth. There were enough leaks to sink a ship; but, that didn’t matter. I was home in these deep thoughts—cool, crisp pools that went from one side of the earth to the next.
I can imagine my face. It was solemn, maybe a pen was even tucked underneath my comfortable Bose headphones. White, gray, blue, maroon, an index of RGB hues must have danced on my face in a joy of ambient light.
A genre known as power acoustic steadily chopped its way into my ears. The tunes were from a friend’s band—a musician with an amazing voice and guitar talent. I wanted to be inspired. I wanted to feel. That’s why I had Tom Walker steadily churning music in my mind.
I was as separated from the world as I could become. Instead of a collection of muscles bound by sheathes and membranes, I had become a center of thought and creativity. Different muscles were at work here.
Right, now that the obnoxious description is over, onto what this break from my life is about.
I pulled up my favorite piece of “talking” software—an instant message program. It loaded and I’m sure I scanned the list of people that were online. I found the one I wanted to talk to.
Now, isn’t that weird. I keep saying talk. Yet, I’m not talking to these people, oh no. Instead, I’m typing and hitting the “enter” key. What happens? It sends a text message to that person on the other end—at least, I think. For all I know, these people could be in my head or pieces of intricate code designed to fool simpletons like me.
I knew this girl though—at least, I like to think I know her, right? We went to high school together. She and I had talked online for ages about everything and anything. Our digital conversations had gone from the deep to the insanely mundane and even touched upon the completely pointless and obscenely psychotic—maybe that’s saying too much.
I had always loved her.
No. This isn’t an online thing.
I knew Her before this whole net talking started. In fact, this was just a way to stay in touch while we were separated by so many miles. That’s the great—or devilish—thing about the internet, you can chat with someone who’s in the next room or in the next country.
I had always loved Her. Ever since freshman gym. I can still remember taking her hand and making some lame excuse as to seeing if her palm were ticklish. The brute excitement. It was like being struck by lightning—no, I’ve never been, I just assume it’s the same blast of shock and heart pounding experience. More realistically, it’s like that time I encountered that bear.
It was a 300 pounder, easily. I had gotten hypothermia during a Boy Scout swim test and was stuck in camp. I’ve never been a fan of traditional Boy Scout activities like Boy Scout camp. They had put me up with a surrogate troop while mine was out doing the 100 mile canoe trek I had so wanted to do.
It was a bonding experience. I became friends with the adult leaders—I was seventeen and all the scouts in the troop were easily under fourteen. At that time, three years was a big leap. Never the less, I had discussions with the kids, I wouldn’t say we were all friends, but it was fun and they were good kids.
It’s amazing to see the diversity of people.
So, there I was, stranded at Boy Scout camp and sharing time with a bunch of kids who were damn smart and damn nice. We broke bread together, I shared some of my classic stories... they were good times.
Right. The 300 pound bear.
I was walking back to our designated camp site after shooting some rounds at the rifle range. I was alone, very alone, more than anyone there knew. We’ll not talk about the depression, it can be inferred.
I had the greatest hiking boots and I easily walked the worn, winding path. The outdoors had already grown into my living room, my den, my kitchen. Every moment was spent under the sky—it’s an experience that I’ve always loved.
Seeing the bear wasn’t what made my heart skip a beat and start pounding. No. I’ve seen plenty of bears and had plenty of close encounters. What frightened me so badly and sent chills of my spine was simple. All of those kids I had started to bond with were standing ten paces away from that brown furred beast.
Yes, they were discussing throwing rocks and sticks. These children, many barely standing taller than my hip, were talking about assaulting a bear that probably hadn’t had a good meal in forever.
That’s the sensation that goes up my spine every time I see Her. It’s fear, it’s excitement, it’s anticipation, it’s brutal, it’s passionate, it’s love.
Don’t worry about the kids. I saved them. I told them to back away slowly—which they did after me making a face… they looked up to me—and ran and got the bear patrol to chase away the offender.
I’ve been struck by Her more times than a lightning rod. It’s just a blast of instant awareness and fear and intense, heart pounding love-what-have-you.
Where was I going with this? Ah, yes.
So, I sent Her a message. We exchanged a few comments. Essentially, we talked.
Then, She said, “how much do you love me?”
I was caught off guard. I thought of a thousand suave phrases and clichéd comments. This was my opportunity—sure I always told Her I love Her, it just seems right to end every conversation I have with Her with, “I love you.” Yet, this was different.
I didn’t want to say it straight up. I didn’t want to say something anyone else could say. She’s always having guys tell Her they love Her. That’s what happens when you’re a unique soul that’s enveloped with beauty inside and out.
I’m stupid. Very, very stupid.
Russell, my best friend since I can remember, has said that I’m a romantic. I agree, I’m a hopeless romantic.
If a girl doesn’t get that about me, she doesn’t get me.
I’m not talking about roses and candy. No. It means I expect love and beauty and savoir faire. I look at things in a pure white light and hope it sinks in and I’m not disappointed by cracks in the thin finish I’ve painted. That seems like a horrible metaphor. Let me rephrase it: I expect too much.
My thought out response, “the only real answer would be to say that I do not know and can never know, because I'm only me, a man, and it goes far beyond anything I could ever conceive.”
Think about that for a second.
Okay, you’ve had your time. Think about this: She responded, “haha answer this 1a. How do Locke and Rousseau differ in their treatment of the following Enlightenment questions: Human nature; the condition of man in nature; the nature of the contract; the purpose of government; the rights of individuals, and the ability to dissolve government?
1b. Examine the Declaration of Independence and Declaration of the Rights of Man, and tell me who inspired each, Locke or Rousseau? You will need to describe the main points of each document to support your contention regarding inspiration.”
An anvil descended from some heavenly spirit and crushed my exposed and warm heart into a tiny, squishy, complaining mess. Blood still spouted in minor torrents from the exposed and torn veins and arteries. Really. I was hurt.
In a word: Crushed.
So, now I sit here thinking about how me talking on the net is nothing but digital distortion over endless cables. A cobweb of flowing 0’s and 1’s that mean absolutely nothing when uniquely dissected. Strung together in a streaming line, well, they construct something fruitful.
Who cares. I don’t.
I’m crushed.
My fingers glided over the keyboard of my laptop at a dizzying pace—I paid no attention. There’s a time and place where thought and software word processor combine into an unending, instant communication of the soul.
I was in a writing mood.
So, the ideas flowed from conscious and subconscious springs, filled Poland Spring bottle after Poland Spring bottle until I had a truck worth. There were enough leaks to sink a ship; but, that didn’t matter. I was home in these deep thoughts—cool, crisp pools that went from one side of the earth to the next.
I can imagine my face. It was solemn, maybe a pen was even tucked underneath my comfortable Bose headphones. White, gray, blue, maroon, an index of RGB hues must have danced on my face in a joy of ambient light.
A genre known as power acoustic steadily chopped its way into my ears. The tunes were from a friend’s band—a musician with an amazing voice and guitar talent. I wanted to be inspired. I wanted to feel. That’s why I had Tom Walker steadily churning music in my mind.
I was as separated from the world as I could become. Instead of a collection of muscles bound by sheathes and membranes, I had become a center of thought and creativity. Different muscles were at work here.
Right, now that the obnoxious description is over, onto what this break from my life is about.
I pulled up my favorite piece of “talking” software—an instant message program. It loaded and I’m sure I scanned the list of people that were online. I found the one I wanted to talk to.
Now, isn’t that weird. I keep saying talk. Yet, I’m not talking to these people, oh no. Instead, I’m typing and hitting the “enter” key. What happens? It sends a text message to that person on the other end—at least, I think. For all I know, these people could be in my head or pieces of intricate code designed to fool simpletons like me.
I knew this girl though—at least, I like to think I know her, right? We went to high school together. She and I had talked online for ages about everything and anything. Our digital conversations had gone from the deep to the insanely mundane and even touched upon the completely pointless and obscenely psychotic—maybe that’s saying too much.
I had always loved her.
No. This isn’t an online thing.
I knew Her before this whole net talking started. In fact, this was just a way to stay in touch while we were separated by so many miles. That’s the great—or devilish—thing about the internet, you can chat with someone who’s in the next room or in the next country.
I had always loved Her. Ever since freshman gym. I can still remember taking her hand and making some lame excuse as to seeing if her palm were ticklish. The brute excitement. It was like being struck by lightning—no, I’ve never been, I just assume it’s the same blast of shock and heart pounding experience. More realistically, it’s like that time I encountered that bear.
It was a 300 pounder, easily. I had gotten hypothermia during a Boy Scout swim test and was stuck in camp. I’ve never been a fan of traditional Boy Scout activities like Boy Scout camp. They had put me up with a surrogate troop while mine was out doing the 100 mile canoe trek I had so wanted to do.
It was a bonding experience. I became friends with the adult leaders—I was seventeen and all the scouts in the troop were easily under fourteen. At that time, three years was a big leap. Never the less, I had discussions with the kids, I wouldn’t say we were all friends, but it was fun and they were good kids.
It’s amazing to see the diversity of people.
So, there I was, stranded at Boy Scout camp and sharing time with a bunch of kids who were damn smart and damn nice. We broke bread together, I shared some of my classic stories... they were good times.
Right. The 300 pound bear.
I was walking back to our designated camp site after shooting some rounds at the rifle range. I was alone, very alone, more than anyone there knew. We’ll not talk about the depression, it can be inferred.
I had the greatest hiking boots and I easily walked the worn, winding path. The outdoors had already grown into my living room, my den, my kitchen. Every moment was spent under the sky—it’s an experience that I’ve always loved.
Seeing the bear wasn’t what made my heart skip a beat and start pounding. No. I’ve seen plenty of bears and had plenty of close encounters. What frightened me so badly and sent chills of my spine was simple. All of those kids I had started to bond with were standing ten paces away from that brown furred beast.
Yes, they were discussing throwing rocks and sticks. These children, many barely standing taller than my hip, were talking about assaulting a bear that probably hadn’t had a good meal in forever.
That’s the sensation that goes up my spine every time I see Her. It’s fear, it’s excitement, it’s anticipation, it’s brutal, it’s passionate, it’s love.
Don’t worry about the kids. I saved them. I told them to back away slowly—which they did after me making a face… they looked up to me—and ran and got the bear patrol to chase away the offender.
I’ve been struck by Her more times than a lightning rod. It’s just a blast of instant awareness and fear and intense, heart pounding love-what-have-you.
Where was I going with this? Ah, yes.
So, I sent Her a message. We exchanged a few comments. Essentially, we talked.
Then, She said, “how much do you love me?”
I was caught off guard. I thought of a thousand suave phrases and clichéd comments. This was my opportunity—sure I always told Her I love Her, it just seems right to end every conversation I have with Her with, “I love you.” Yet, this was different.
I didn’t want to say it straight up. I didn’t want to say something anyone else could say. She’s always having guys tell Her they love Her. That’s what happens when you’re a unique soul that’s enveloped with beauty inside and out.
I’m stupid. Very, very stupid.
Russell, my best friend since I can remember, has said that I’m a romantic. I agree, I’m a hopeless romantic.
If a girl doesn’t get that about me, she doesn’t get me.
I’m not talking about roses and candy. No. It means I expect love and beauty and savoir faire. I look at things in a pure white light and hope it sinks in and I’m not disappointed by cracks in the thin finish I’ve painted. That seems like a horrible metaphor. Let me rephrase it: I expect too much.
My thought out response, “the only real answer would be to say that I do not know and can never know, because I'm only me, a man, and it goes far beyond anything I could ever conceive.”
Think about that for a second.
Okay, you’ve had your time. Think about this: She responded, “haha answer this 1a. How do Locke and Rousseau differ in their treatment of the following Enlightenment questions: Human nature; the condition of man in nature; the nature of the contract; the purpose of government; the rights of individuals, and the ability to dissolve government?
1b. Examine the Declaration of Independence and Declaration of the Rights of Man, and tell me who inspired each, Locke or Rousseau? You will need to describe the main points of each document to support your contention regarding inspiration.”
An anvil descended from some heavenly spirit and crushed my exposed and warm heart into a tiny, squishy, complaining mess. Blood still spouted in minor torrents from the exposed and torn veins and arteries. Really. I was hurt.
In a word: Crushed.
So, now I sit here thinking about how me talking on the net is nothing but digital distortion over endless cables. A cobweb of flowing 0’s and 1’s that mean absolutely nothing when uniquely dissected. Strung together in a streaming line, well, they construct something fruitful.
Who cares. I don’t.
I’m crushed.