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archives links mario jenny r jenny b sammy megan dylan |
| monday, june 10 |
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it's been nice, but i'm done blogging. not that i don't enjoy it, because i do. i've wanted this blog, this retreat, for as long as i can remember, and it's lived up to my every expectation. i guess the soapbox just isn't for me. laters... ryan :: 6/10/2002 01:08:07 AM |
| sunday, june 9 |
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so much to say. do they exist, the words, or am i too weak to find them? in my exhaustion, words crumble from my lips. the stars, slowly fading into the morning, sang to us. nightswimming deserves a quiet night. the photograph on the dashboard, taken years ago, turned around backwards so the windshield shows. every streetlight reveals the picture in reverse. still, it's so much clearer. i forgot my shirt at the water's edge. the moon is low tonight. nightswimming deserves a quiet night. i'm not sure all these people understand. it's not like years ago, the fear of getting caught, of recklessness and water. they cannot see me naked. these things, they go away, replaced by everyday. nightswimming, remembering that night. september's coming soon. i'm pining for the moon. and what if there were two, side by side in orbit, around the fairest sun? that bright, tight, forever drum could not describe nightswimming. you, i thought i knew you. you i cannot judge. you, i thought you knew me, this one laughing quietly underneath my breath. nightswimming. the photograph reflects, every streetlight a reminder. nightswimming deserves a quiet night, deserves a quiet night. tears, like words, escape me. it kinda hurts to not cry. ryan :: 6/9/2002 12:58:51 PM |
| saturday, june 1 |
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i'm done. holding this report card in my hands, i can look past the grades. aided, yes, by the fact that they're hideous. but i can look past them nonetheless. the failures, the victories, the in-betweens. because i'm done. whew. ryan :: 6/1/2002 02:05:06 PM |
| thursday, may 30 |
i should write more often. i can't count the number of times i mentally shape something worth writing about, in the shower or eating breakfast or driving somewhere, anywhere. and then i sit down to write, and it's gone. not the writing, but the motivation. why write? for whose benefit? sometimes i feel selfish thinking that if i write, somebody will read, as if what i have to say has a precedence over whatever else that person is doing at the time. i'll argue with myself, stalemate and flick the thought away, like a cigarette, its momentary brilliance tumbling and exploding in a helpless shower of reddened ashes on pavement. sigh.
roroboy02: so this is our first day of summer...don't get me wrong, summer's great. but right now it's just so mellow... ryan :: 5/30/2002 11:13:00 AM |
| saturday, may 25 |
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mathematically, the best grade i can earn for this semester is a D+. if i use my notes, quote my reading accurately, give it my best and earn an A+ on this exam, my semester will be worth a D+. however, keeping in mind my never testing higher than a C in this class, i may be luckier shooting for a straight D. basically, i could do just about anything, save for not actually taking the test, and still manage to pass the semester. so on top of oversleeping my english exam and bombing calculus, i failed my modern novels semester today... ryan :: 5/25/2002 01:10:50 AM |
| thursday, may 23 |
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the bluebird of happiness. traditionally, mrs. krell gives the tiny glass paperweight to her graduating seniors on their last day of class. i remember freshman year, sitting toward the back of the room, watching adam briggs, amy kiel and leann specha receive theirs. sophomore year, it was chelsea litteken and caitlin dewilde. if i remember correctly, mrs. krell asked each of them to say something about their years with the zephyr or drift, respectively. a few found themselves a bit choked up, and as stupid as i thought a glass bird was at the time, i kind of felt a sentimental twinge myself. i knew these people had put a lot into what they did, and the recognition obviously meant something to them. little did i know... she didn't ask me to say anything today. maybe the lack of seniors on staff last year threw a wrinkle into tradition. but it's okay -- i think i would have found myself a little choked up too. ryan :: 5/23/2002 03:34:22 PM |
| tuesday, may 21 |
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my grandma picked me up from my last day of junior high. that's according to her, of course, since i apparently have no accurate recollection of my pre-teen youth whatsoever. she's generally pretty reliable though, so i take her word for it. anyway, last day of junior high. it wasn't even a real school day, just a brief period to pick up report cards and final announcements. lots of yearbooks going around, hugs, that sort of thing. ryan and i gave mr. brown a shirt comparing a soccer ball to "your brain," and a football to "your brain on drugs" -- part of a friendly "rivalry" we soccer players had with, well, every other sport. good times. i walked away from school that day with heavy feet, and an even heavier heart. as i buckled up for the ride home, i turned to my grandma and said that "nothing will ever beat junior high." i was wrong, of course, but not entirely. i found my eighth grade yearbook the other day, smiling as i sifted past the traditional yearbook cliches: good luck, stay sweet, never change, don't forget me. yearbooks are funny like that, but even this forced sentiment made me nostalgic, and suddenly my memory wasn't so inaccurate. have i changed? am i still sweet? was i ever? i'll never forget them, but do i even know them anymore? tory resides on the title page. she and i used to be best friends; if you asked her, she'd probably say we still are. and in some respects, i guess that's true. Dimps -- Hey honey, sup? I'm going to miss seeing ya every day. But I'll still call every day. You have to come and go swimming w/ everyone. Well, gotta go. Love ya -- always, Tory."dimps," because i have dimples. huge ones, if you've never seen them. i called her "tortles," for reasons beyond me. i don't remember when the daily phone calls started thinning, but we rarely talk anymore. she dropped out and moved, either late last year or early this one, i don't remember. but yeah, i miss seeing her every day too. jarred is on the back, inside cover, this year was bomb. scattered memories agree: mimicking professional wrestlers for the final battle of mrs. lundin's civil war game, who's on first at literary contest, our relay team nearly missing our heat at the state track meet. bomb, indeed. in seventh grade, i was in a garage band. i use both "garage" and "band" lightly, since we lacked a garage and, above all, talent. instead, the four of us semi-regularly made noise and lit incense in our drummer's basement. the same drummer who eventually gave us all the boot. can one guy kick the other three out of a band? either way, i'm still bitter. of the other two ousted from 9th Hour, dave is in the front, inside cover (i play bass); a half-page later, alex tells me to get good on your guitar, ok? i've learned very little since the first three songs dave and alex taught me, but hey, i'm getting better at them... Ry -- what can I say -- it's been a great ride! Best of luck at THS! Remember: Right now! It's your tomorrow! Make it count! I know you'll do great things. --Mrs. Li think i'll visit her this summer, maybe i'll take jarred and dave with me. i should call tory sometime soon, too. then i'll -- wait. i'm out of room. i'm finally out of room... you, my friends, are the real ground beef. -- not that you care, but there's a little preview of rgb before we distribute zephyrs on thursday. last issue, last column. i'm kinda proud of this one. sigh...somehow, it looks better on paper. ah well. ryan :: 5/21/2002 01:59:54 AM |
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