Booklist

Scott Pilgrim Volumes 1-6, Bryan Lee O'Malley

Everything's Eventual, Stephen King

This is a Book, Demetri Martin

Zombie Survival Guide, Max Brooks

Batman Year One, Frank Miller

Batman the Killing Joke, Alan Moore

Watchmen, Alan Moore

Lord of the Flies, William Golding

Waking Up, a poem by Sonny Ebsary

I love waking up, oh how I love waking up.

I can tell by the smell that it’s time to wake up, so I take a sniff of the coffee and grab some to go. I groan and I moan as I fall into the car, and I think about stopping but I figure I’ve made it this far.

I love waking, I just love waking up.

I rev up the engine and and put the pedal to the ground. And when I leave my neighborhood there is traffic abound.

It took an hour or so to get to work, and when I pulled into the office, I was cut off by some jerk.

Oh, I love that guy. I just love that guy.

When I step inside the office, my boss tells me I’m late. I tell him to have a wonderful day.

The boss says to get moving or get out of this place, so I move right along and wear my depressed angry face.

I love going to work. I just love going to work.

I sit down at my cubicle, thinking I’m not doing enough, while trying to think employed people thoughts.

Then my boss walks in with someone younger than me and tells him he’s hired. Then he steps right up to me and tells me to grab my stuff because I’m fired.

I always dreamed of being fired. I just love being fired!

I came back home angry, hurt and lonely. Only to find that I wasn’t alonely.

“You silly, silly man! This isn’t a punishment, this is a dare to make more of you, and even if that weren’t the case I’d still love you because you’re my husband, silly, silly man!”

I love my wife. Oh so much. I just love my wife.

Essay - How I am Going To Spend My Time

Recently, when you asked me to set goals for myself, I was unsure and scared. I’m still scared. I’m supposed to write this essay about what I want to do with my life, and I guarantee, I’m getting to that.

Before you start asking questions about what I’m doing, isn’t the bigger question who I am? Do you expect me to be working towards my future whilst running the gauntlet of human identity? I can answer this for you, you do, and I’m trying.

“Committing yourself is a way of finding out who you are. A man finds his identity by identifying.”

~ Robert Terwilliger

When asked to figure out what I was to do with my life, I imagined an easy road of laying back and writing a small bit of poetry or stories now and again. It wasn’t until I started that I realized that you wanted me to not necessarily do more, you wanted me to find a passion. This request is so simple, but answering it with action is not.

I’ve been well on my way to publishing a book of poetry, and it’s been very interesting and challenging. But apparently you want me to speak more of it.

“Be yourself. Above all, let who you are, what you are, what you believe, shine through every sentence you write, every piece you finish.”

~John Jakes

I’m going to find a way to make it work, I’m going to work hard and long if I have to. I’m going to climb high and travel far if that’s what it’d take to convince you that I’m going to write. I don’t care if it’ll leave me poor and homeless, I give you my word, I am going to write. Not only am I going to write, I’m going to write things like people have never seen before. Not only am I going to knock everyone out of their seats, I’m going to pull them off the ground and keep working; all of my faithful fans begging for just a little bit more.

I’m not going to be just a cult figure, living in the shadows because the rent in the sunlight is too high. I’m going to be adored by my fellow poets and storytellers, and live in the shadows because I hate the sunlight.

But maybe that won’t happen; maybe I’ll just barely scrape by. But isn’t everyone else scraping by already? It’s even possible that I’m not a great author, and that all of my dreams are just illusions of grandeur. But even if I’m not the best in the world at what I do, at least I can have the blessing of being blissfully clueless to it. So simple, isn’t it?

This last bit here is a desperate attempt to stretch out the word count at the end, but I recall an essay needing an ending where you tie up all the loose fragments of an idea together with a few simple sentences.

You asked me a simple question, so I’m going to give you a simple answer.

I’m going to write things. Simple, right?

Repetition

Love is lovely, lovely twos.
Love is love is love is you.
Love is high and odd and low,
Love loves normally new and old.
Love is forever and love is a fade.
Love can't be created, but it's certainly made.
Love is the ship that was the ship that we always sink,
But love is lovely, don't you think?

Gods Like Men

If you were with me, would you be proud?
If I’m down here, where’s god now?
Is what I’ve done perfect? Have I become flawed?
I guess if I’m not perfect, neither is god.
I’ll chase down that shadow as fast as I can,
I won’t let you down, so long as I don’t have a plan.
Am I violent because I’m flawed?
Am I quite so guilty when the evil is not?
I’m proud enough to hear myself say it,
I’m sorry god, but I’ve lost my faith.

Screech

Scream a poem and set me free,
And end this creative lobotomy.
I beg to you to let her go, so that I can go and be on the go.
You send us our threats and quiet our calms,
And give us a place to quarry our qualms.
You can fool the others with a smile,
But I can see you, crocodile.
You say that you hide love beneath,
But all I see are snarling teeth.
Ensnare her senses, embroil my mind,
I hope it hurts you every time.
Every time you crack a joke,
Its all nonsense otherwise I just can’t cope.
Scream a poem or leave her be,
Either way it works for me.

I am

Sonny Ebsary is a democrat, and is not trying to convince his friends of different beliefs to all of a sudden paint themselves blue and ride a donkey to mexico. Sonny Ebsary is a democrat, but he does not choose to draw a hitler mustache on politicians he does not like. Sonny Ebsary has a point to make. Sonny Ebsary implores his democratic friends ...

The River Wild

The mirror was broken in the name of vanity.
The seeker was a token from which to buy the insanity.
The lake calms, the river wild,
Something I watch every once, every while.

My heart was human, my head was moving,
But nothing seemed to beat.
I looked upon the river wild,
Which and where nothing fell to sleep.

The river captured and swallowed up,
The lake stood by and by still.
The river raged and rallied corrupt.
While the lake sent a smile and vibes of good will.

The lake has stooped and lost and compromised
And the river never hides its lying eyes.
The whole rivers and lakes and all of their waters,
Are sullied and polluted and I wonder why bother.

I wish I had hope in this great ocean o' blue,
But this young hopeful's hope is running out too.

All you as well have this problem and ask and take:
Why do we support this frivolous lake?

I'll say this once and I'll say this again,
An enemy is worse than a disappointing friend.

Sad Sad Ranting

Y'know those feelings that make everything seem like everything is going all right, but really it's just God being a total jerk-off and giving you a taste of glory so that every other miserable moment of your time here'll be made even worse by comparison, those wonderful, truly sacred emotions that make you feel as though you're surrounded by love and acceptance in every possible capacity, that you actually have people who'd give a fuck if you died tomorrow. And when those confounded eras end, you're left in a sadness eternal, a pit of despair as the veil is lifted and you understand that as an individual, you're very insignificant and that those who you may have thought were eternal allies, are actually just shadows that honestly wouldn't assist you in a time of need. And like for some people with their own hope, which they believe springs eternal, the effects of hope on myself are for lack of a better word, middling.

Hope springs false and the loud prophet's fables fall upon deaf ears. The feeling of utter happiness, like a coffee table, is taken for granted when we have it, but when it isn't there, the marks on the floor it trails behind won't leave you and the only way to mask the ugliness is to buy some hastily put-together drawer that's only an inch too small so every time you vacuum you see the marks and realize what you've lost.

I miss those times. I miss looking into a lovely woman's eyes and feeling everything else deconstruct around me. I haven't felt that nirvana for a good while and although I want my better judgment to tell me that this feeling is so rare that I probably will only feel it once or twice, As of late, I given my better judgment the middle-finger and have been living pretty happily and I suggest you try doing that too.

One last thing, despite common sense, my own words and the supreme court, I'm not infallible (though I am dangerously sexy, which when used right, gives you all the power of being infallible).

A Lovely Poem Written

My heart won't start quite until I see you again.
Here beside me, there unriling, I can't see the difference.
Half in the box, half outside,
You spun me around and allowed me to the wild side.
I can't shake that feeling of the velvet glove.
Take away my healing and give it to you, step inside, love.
The door unlocks though you threw away the key,
I looked beyond what once was evil and told you, "you look lovely".
Love is lovely, us lovely two,
I wouldn't know love if I didn't know you.

Not Alright

"Okay Jonathan, do you remember the plan?"

"What plan?"

"You don't remember what we're doing tonight?"

"I thought we were going to have a pleasant evening eating at this rather nice restaurant."

"Why would we do that?"

"I don't know, maybe because we're engaged?"

"You know, sometimes I forget why I accepted your offer..."

"Well, maybe I'll just have to show you."

"So you remember the plan?"

"How could I forget, you must've gone over it a hundred times in the car"

Jonathan wasted very little time and stepped off of his seat and unloaded his relatively small gun. His accomplice stepped onto the table and smirked in such a way that some people may recognize as body language for the sentence "There's the man I love!". Jonathan handed the woman the tiny, un-intimidating gun to the woman, who, as it happens, looked significantly more intimidating with the gun than Jonathan did. Jonathan, who previously had radiated confidence in the conversation before, shot a glance of fear at the woman. The woman leaned in toward Jonathan and whispered

"Everything is gonna be alright, Jonathan."

"I love you, Lucy."

The pair kissed briefly but then realized that at that point, they were standing on a table in a crowded restaurant kissing whilst there was work to be done. Jonathan then bent down to reach his seat and lifted up what appeared to have been a frilly and stylish handbag at one point, but was now reduced to a tattered rag that would barely suit carrying a young man's old discarded socks. Lucy reached her right hand into the bag and unveiled a shiny and rather petit handgun that nicely matched the obviously unintimidating pistol to her right.

That Lucy, always into fashion.

Jonathan reached into the small bag and wrestled with a rusty silver handle for a moment.

"It's stuck."

"I TOLD you we needed a new bag if you were going to carry around that rusty old sword."

"Well we were broke when you said that and now, at the time when I need the damn thing, to GET cash to buy a bigger bag, its STUCK."

"You know what? Just use your old knife."

"For the last time, its a DAGGER."

"Well, why don't you use your DAGGER?"

"I don't WANNA."

"Then use this!"

Lucy violently threw the less shiny pistol at Jonathan, who was forced to duck to avoid a rather intimidating headache from what was usually considered a rather un-intimidating handgun. It was at this point that the patrons of the restaurant began to watch the couple's antics, which if you were unable to tell by now, were quite loud and what some would designate as "vaguely humorous", although Lucy would probably be angered if they were designated as such.

"WHAT WAS THAT FOR?"

"BEING AN IDIOT, THAT'S WHAT!"

"SHOULDN'T WE BE DOING SOME SORT OF ROBBERY RIGHT NOW?"

"WELL WE WOULD BE IF YOU HADN'T BROUGHT THAT DAMNED SWORD!"

"WHAT DID MY SWORD EVER DO TO YOU!?"

"JUST GET ON WITH IT!"

"FINE! Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, I apologize for Lucy and I's vulgarity and I hope we can put that behind us and perform this robbery in as civil a way as possible."

After saying this in an attempt to calm the patrons of what he thought would be a distraught and angered restaurant, those poor people began to laugh.

"Stop!"

"You'll make her angry!"

"SHE'S LIKE THE GODDAM INCREDIBLE HULK! YOU WILL NOT LIKE HER WHEN SHE IS ANGRY!"

Jonathan's pleas were drowned in a sea of lousy laughter. Lucy balled her hands into fists and fumed with what Jonathan believed to be anger. Lucy aimed her shiny gun that despite it's small size, packed a punch, at the glass skylight of the restaurant and pulled the trigger in a very decisive decision to cause chaos. The skylight shattered and bits and pieces of the glass fell on a married lecherous old man who was eating his dinner with a young woman whom he was not in love with and was probably either his mistress or his trophy wife. Either way, he sort've had it coming to him.

"YOU THINK THAT'S FUNNY?"

The robots are coming!

The robots are coming!
The mutant cadavers are running and running!
Impact can see me, north is south bleeding!

Pollack

“Dad?”
“Yeah?”
“Where are we?”
“I can’t say.”

Pollack was just a normal person, a lot like me or you, except he stumbled into a mess someone else made for him.

“Why, dad?”
“You done somethin’ mighty wrong son…”

Pollack Janes was a well-known murderer in his own time, this mainly stems from the accusations of him murdering his late wife, who at the time was our first female president.

“Where is Elizabeth?”
“You done a bad thing, son…”

Former president Elizabeth Janes died of food poisoning, and by food poisoning, I mean someone actually placed poison in her food. Many suspects were interviewed, considering how many enemies the late president had, clowns, fellow politicians, several primates and a particularly suspicious bear whom was classified as Jo-Jo.

“Son, you done somethin’ wrong, and you need to be punished. I’m putting you in a private place, where you can live the rest of yer life in peace.”

Pollack Janes disappeared soon after the first rumors of the homicide began to pop up. Unbeknownst to the majority of the public, he was kidnapped by an age-old organization known only as The Corporation.

“What did I do? Where is Elizabeth?”

The Corporation kidnapped Pollack for the perceived good of the public. The Corporation saw the turmoil being caused by Pollack’s existence and swept him away before the main public uproar began. This was all orchestrated by Pollack’s father, Edward.

“Elizabeth is dead, and you killed her, Pollack.”

And Then That Happened

I stood in front of that tall, imposing hotel building, three large sacks of food in one hand, my suitcase in the other.
“Can I take your bags, sir?”
This guy.
“Sir?”
Why is he calling me sir?
“Yes?”
“Can I take your bags, sir?” he said with fake excitement.
“No, please just leave me here with three heavy bags and a suitcase filled with unknown materials” I thought facetiously. I handed him my bags and followed him out of the dirty, oily parking lot and to the hotel gate, where I saw him walk through an odd rotating door, and I believe he expected me to walk through with him. I stood at least three steps away from that contraption but I knew eventually I would have to enter through that odd portal in order to enter the hotel so I closed my eyes and hoped my next leap would be the one home. I opened my eyes when a glass door slapped against my back and realized that this strange piece of machinery was moving by itself and regardless of where I was, it was moving, regardless of my own pace. I was hypnotized by this piece engineering and must have completed near six rotations before the bellhop I was following pulled me out angrily and pointed in the direction of a nearby black plastic staircase with a passion I’ve never seen anyone point at in the past.
After dizzily stumbling onto those seemingly normal, albeit strangely colored stairs, they began moving me upward. I stood on the stair-like platform until it dropped me off onto the second floor where I saw the bellhop pressing a button to call the elevator down to the second floor and I attempted to follow him but after I attempted to take my first step I almost immediately fell on my face. It was at this point I realized that my shoelace was being attacked by that strange moving platform. The bellboy viciously slammed on the button to the point of near breaking.
“No man left behind” I thought.
I attempted to drag my shoe away from that shoe-eating monster that carried me here, but unsurprisingly, it pulled back. I heard a ding and the elevator stopped on the second floor, forcing me to abandon my poor, young, left shoe to be devoured by that machine. I slipped my shoe off and escaped that stair-contraption; hopped over the dirty floor on one foot and grabbed the edge of the door to keep it from closing and leaving me behind.
“Hey buddy, you sure are slow.” The bellboy snorted. I sighed, I didn’t like that bellboy calling me buddy.
“Which floor ya’ goin’ to, buddy?” I looked at my hand and saw a blurry number that could’ve either read 669 or 1669.
“Errrr… Either the sixteenth or the sixth” He snorted and pressed two buttons and we waited through the rest of that unpleasant elevator ride in relative silence (excluding the bellboy’s grotesque snorts and the elevator’s obnoxious dings).
When we escaped that tiny, claustrophobic, moving room we stepped onto the sixth floor and for a moment I was blinded by sterile, white, judgmental lights that were so common that the room lacked shadows. I held my hand above my eyes so I could see where room sixty-nine was and immediately saw the bellboy standing halfway across the room, twiddling his thumbs and waiting for me, I quickly ran as fast as a man with one shoe could run (not very fast) and soon reached my room.
“Where’s you’re card, bucko” He asked.
I rummaged through my pockets for a bit and handed it to the bellboy who snatched it from my hand and slid it through the reader several times.
The bellboy turned around and said in a level of solemnity uncharacteristic for his attitude and said
“This is the wrong room, buddy” he said as he began to walk back to the elevator and I attempted to keep up with his stride.
When we reached the elevator, a plain white sign proudly disclaimed “out of order”.
“This is ridiculous!” The bellboy yelled, back to his former, loud, obnoxious self.
He began to run to the nearby stairs and I struggled even further keeping up, I was going to lose my bags, he was going to leave me on the sixth floor with no bags and a mysteriously broken elevator, I hopped faster and yelled that he needed to slow down, but he began running even faster. I attempted to throw his dust out of my mouth as he began dashing up the stairs.
“I’m taking this out of his tip” I thought as I hopped up dirty, garbage-laden stairs. I tried to think of the bright side when I realized “At least they’re not monsters”.
I only began to realize how far behind I was around the eleventh floor staircase when I stopped hearing the unnaturally fast bellboy’s snorting. And then around the thirteenth floor I stopped hearing his footsteps. And then finally on the fourteenth floor I heard an unnaturally loud snort and a door slam. It was another sixty-five steps until I reached the sixteenth floor and saw the bellboy waiting outside the stairs tapping his foot and looking very annoyed. He was standing in fronting of a door marked 69 and held his hand out expecting a tip. I handed him a quarter or so, he threw the change on the floor and ran away. I sighed and walked into my room and jumped into the bed and finally relaxed.
Then the fire alarm went off.

Interview

John Connell may or may not be super-human

Many of you here have not met John Connell and those of you who have probably haven’t talked to him yet (mainly because he’s quiet, I had to speak much of my interview through sign language). I my interview, I’d like to think I took the time to get to know him a little bit, and I was surprised at what I found.

He apparently has super-human hearing, as evidenced by his statement of being able to hear mechanical noises that many others cannot. His strange super-power may intrigue many of you and I would go into the details of this fact, but, for the sake of the preservation of my own evil, this shall remain unexplored.

After hearing of his superpower, I realized that not only does he have this superhuman ability, but the name John Connell also sounds like the name of some sort of super hero.

This would probably lead you to wonder, Is John Connell a superhero?

Alongside fighting the forces of evil, John enjoys many sorts of writing and loves to write fan-fiction, and after a long discussion about the subject I asked him if there were any movies he hated, he cited a strange film where a family was trapped in a mine shaft and were assisted by strange dwarfs with funny hats. Why he knew of such a film, we may never know.

So, leading back to my original question, is John Connell a superhero? True, he is a nice person, with the perfect cover-up job, but even with this mounting evidence to the contrary, is John Connell a superhero? No, probably not, but still, we ought to keep an eye on him anyway, you never know when those powers will show up.

Horror

John Galsworthy once said that beginnings were often messy.
And what I’ve done tonight has added incredible credence to that end.
Because, tonight, something began, and I certainly have a lot of cleaning up to do.
I can’t say why, this began tonight, but the keys to the cell door were right outside my front door, and who could pass up opportunity when it was obviously knocking.
I could go into the details of my normal childhood, and thusly why this has happened, I could bore you of my neighborhood, with all its normal houses, and normal people. This story would, however, bore the living daylights out of you, so I’ll stick to only the most important details, and hope you don’t leave.
My parents raised me with all the happiness money could buy, and I lived a roughly happy existence, and with exception of a few mysteriously dying pets, nothing went wrong. I made sure of it. My parents were a perfect couple, both from stuck-up upper-class families. Father drank away his sorrows at the local pub each night and one night, expressed his anger at where his life was on my mother with his pet, a .45 caliber pistol.
I was left an orphan with essentially nothing. I was visited by a therapist in the foster home three times a week in an attempt from what was left of my imprisoned dad to allow me to have a normal life. The therapist would talk to me for hours at a time, and I told her the truth. And she didn’t like that.
One.
Little.
Bit.

She sent me to an asylum with rubber pads where she continues to visit me, trying to fix me. I’ve never done anything wrong. And they felt they had the right to throw me in here. Its very lonely in here, the walls are… mocking me. They giggle at my misfortune and I scratch and claw at them each night when everyone goes home. I’ve been trapped here for three years, and according to the guards, I’m still here. I’ve been left a very rich man, and from that, I’m given access to the depths of sleaze that money provides. And if you hear in the news that a guard valiantly stopped an escaped inmate from murdering everyone in the asylum, make no mention of it. And if a therapist mysteriously disappears, pretend it never happened.
I am an invisible terror, I am the boogeyman, fear me, remember me, and I will grow.

Yucas Are Rude, Evil And Poisonous

Dearest commander Patrellipatel,
I am here alive and well.
In the zone of questionable return,
near the sun with fiery churns.
I’ve landed in a rather odd place,
Coordinates: numero uno-cinco-seis.
The beings here are peaceful and about yay high,
Which is quite refreshing alongside blue-ish blue skies.
These creatures are rough, oblong and live in the ground,
As I can tell from the ones that I’ve found.
But these creatures are rudely quiet in the worst way and sort,
So we chopped one up and attempted to absorb.
However we realized from after that day,
That eating these things was far and away.
So in conclusion Arch-duke-count-duchess-king,
The things I’ve found here are the worst kinds of things.
Rigid, bitter-sweet poison that’s hard on the eyes
Big, moronic, squishy alien-type guys.
This poison we ate, on an evil brown tray,
However may be used as fuel as some flarkdorbs may say.
And also lord-baron-queen-emperor-count,
Monkeys are attacking and we need help getting out.

A Short Poem About Being A Little Sad

Mama, I’m scared and something is coming.

I think life isn’t fair, but is that so uncommon?

Am I the only person thinking these thoughts?

Running mental drills and learning the untaught?

I’m nervous and scared and I can’t think to run.

I’ve made a wrong deal that can’t be undone.

I’ve cheated my mother and disappointed my dad.

I’ve angered my family and made my friends sad.

I can pickle victory, brew death,

Write unwritten and most of the rest,

But I’ve done something wrong in something important.

I’ve forgotten what, but that something is something of a long-dead romance.

I’m so sorry friends if you’re angry at me,

If I have any friends, I think I mean.

Log

July 12 - 23 2010
Mondays - Friday ICE Writers' Camp

August - December 2010
Monday: Algebra
Every other Tuesday: Advanced Camping Experts (ACES) through Campfire USA Sunshine Council
Wednesday: America The Story of Us is an epic 12-hour television event that tells the extraordinary story of how America was invented.

February - May 2011

Monday: Algebra
Every other Tuesday: Advanced Camping Experts (ACES) through Campfire USA Sunshine Council

Wednesday: Ballroom Dancing

March 2011 - May 2011

Science through Videos with further self directed exploration: Walking with Dinosaurs, Walking with Beasts, Blue Planet (The Blue Planet, The Deep, Open Ocean, Frozen Seas, Seasonal Seas, Coral Seas, Tidal Seas, Coasts), An Unreasonable Man, Who is Harry Nelson

Reading in Free Time

Also Sonny has been studying various portions of pop culture especially award winning movies.