Melancholic reunion

My father, 4 years dead, stands in the doorway of the restaurant. His presence isn’t permanent– I know that at the end of the day, he’ll return to the darkness. Nevertheless, his being is soothing. His appearance is as gaunt and skeletal as it was on the day he died, a reminder of the havoc wrought on his body by cancer and radiation therapy. He walks over to the table where my mother, her boyfriend, and I sat.

The awkward tension at the table is palpable. The conversation is insignificant compared to the apparent sense of betrayal that can be seen all over my father’s face. Every fiber of my body is filled with shame and regret– my family has moved on after his death and so have I. The world didn’t stop turning as I had wanted it to back in the months following his death, so I learned to cope with my grief. And yet, sitting here, looking at my father in the eyes, I hate myself for doing what was best for me.

All children play Calvinball

It’s been over a month since my last post. Whoops.  My dashboard tells me that someone was looking at the first post of the blog. You know, the one that says that I really want to keep this updated on a regular basis. I wonder why someone would look at that post. Anyway, I’d like to give some excuses for my lack of activity, but I’ll spare you. So anyway, here’s content:

“Are you on the basketball team at Michigan?”

I look down at my outfit, which consists of a Michigan t-shirt and Michigan athletic shorts. I can see why a ten-year-old might mistake me for someone with talent. I take a 15-foot jump shot which clangs off the rim and rebounds straight towards the kid and almost hits him in the face. I chuckle and tell him, no, but it’s my dream to one day walk on to the team. My friend laughs at me and reminds me that I’m running out of time to achieve that goal. He then proceeds to blow the kid’s mind by telling him that he plays on the Michigan football team.

The kid, excited to be in the presence of such a prolific bench warmer, lays down his bike and invites himself into our shootaround. After he’s taken a few shots, he sees his friend coming to join us, he exclaims that we should play two-on-two. My friend and I take opposite sides in the name of fairness. It is the right thing to do.

Summer rain

Outside the window, large drops of summer rain plummet from the sky. I left my house in the morning ill-prepared to deal with such weather. I descend the stairs into the main lobby of the library. A large group of students had just run inside to avoid getting soaked. I notice a few people looking through the glass, ready to leave, but hesitant to tempt the downpour.  The weather does look pretty crummy. You’d get soaked pretty fast by walking outside. Presently, another student walks into the building drenched in the consequences of not carrying an umbrella.

The water balloon that I had been so desperately trying to avoid flies towards my body. Impact. The balloon tears apart, and the previously contained water splashes all over me. I look down at my soaking-wet shirt. Why did people still insist on targeting me with water balloons, despite my protests that I didn’t want to get wet? Such injustice. I do what any other upset four-year-old would do– I start to cry.

It’s not that I was afraid of water when I was younger; I nearly scared my mom to death when I jumped into the pool at the park when I was two years old. I just didn’t like getting wet when I was wearing something other than swim trunks. Cotton is such a pain in the ass when its wet. It doesn’t dry fast, it clings to your skin, it gets cold when you go into a building with air conditioning… I couldn’t stand it. Few things upset me more as a child.

What do dogs look at?

I lay down on a bench in the Diag, determined to finish the final three chapters of The Man in the High Castle. I have been coming to this spot for the past three days, enjoying the sun and the vaguely philosophical words of Philip K. Dick. Small groups of recent high school graduates surround their orientation leaders, excitedly anticipating the college life they will soon be inserted into come September. The orientation leaders rave about the Diag, and the near-constant level of activity that surrounds it during the school year. They explain the superstition surrounding the bronze block M in the main walkway. All things that I heard three years ago when I started my education here at Michigan.

The weather is perfect. The temperature is somewhere in the mid-70s, but it feels cooler than that in the shade of the large tree that stands a few feet away from the bench. The breeze feels fantastic. It’s strong enough to be noticed, but not strong enough to annoyingly flip the pages of my book. The branches of the trees sway soothingly. A smattering of clouds dots the sky. The cloud cover is significant enough to partially cover the sun, for which I am thankful. I still feel the warmth coming down, see blue skies, but don’t feel the sun’s rays singeing my skin. I cannot fathom better weather.

All around the world, we could make time

My brother Jeff would stop at nothing to fulfill his dream of becoming a video game developer. He had a folder on his computer full of ideas that he hoped one day would make it into his work. He also had a few rudimentary Visual Basic programs that he planned on using as the framework for his masterpiece. His best friend Brett shared his enthusiasm, and the two of them passed a floppy disk back and forth, adding files relevant to their inevitable future career in game design.

I’mma gonna buy you… uh-draaaaaaaaaaank

I got to school early that day (which was not very common for me– I happened to enjoy sleep and would do so until my mom forcefully kicked me out of bed so that I would make it to school on time), so I went to the cafeteria, where the kitchen staff prepared uninspired pork roll, egg, and cheese sandwiches for breakfast. However, since they were by far the best-tasting things to come out of that kitchen, there was a veritable cult of students that worshiped the sandwiches.

Going to the cafeteria before school was a departure from my usual behavior. Members of the marching band, tech crew, and drama program would often convene in the hallway outside the band room. I was a member of both the marching band and tech crew, so I often associated myself with these people. After almost three years of doing this routine, I felt like I was unnecessarily pigeonholing myself. I wanted to branch out, and not define myself as a band kid, but as Ian Roberts. I quit marching band at the conclusion of that year.

Please, feel free to leave comments

The primary objectives of me writing this blog are such:

1. To improve my writing skills. I’m trying a little bit to experiment with different writing styles and also trying my hand at various subject matters.
2. To provide thoughtful and intriguing content to whomever bothers to read what I have to say. I want my words to be interesting and worthy of the readers’ time on their own regard, not because I’m saying them.

So for those two reasons, I would really appreciate your feedback. Are there things that I can fix? I understand that not everything I do is perfect, and more than likely, there are glaring flaws in my writing that I just can’t see because I’ve invested too much time in producing a piece. So please, if you have something to say about my writing, your help would be appreciated.

As far as I know, I have it set up so that you can leave comments as guests (anonymously, even), or you can comment via your facebook account. If this isn’t the case, please alert me so I can set it up so that you can do this.

And I’m free… I’m free loadin’

For the past three days I’ve had to deal with the horrendous pain of not having internet access at my house. My housemates and I are in the process of finding a new service plan following a bad experience with Comcast (I digress– all experiences with Comcast are bad. This one was particularly bad). Adverse circumstances have forced me to adapt. I’ve been spending a lot of time at the library and at my friends’ house– and they think that I’m just being extra friendly! Suckers. I could almost get used to this lifestyle, too. I feel like being outside of my house forces me to be more productive, and if I want to stay inside my house, I have to choose more productive-seeming leisure time activities, e.g. reading. But after a while, I feel like a freeloader– except for when I’m at the library; the University has taken enough of my [read: my mom’s] money that I feel righteous in using their internet, despite not being enrolled for classes over the summer term.

I think that this guiltiness was particularly evident when I walked into Espresso Royale for a meeting with my boss. As it turns out, the meeting was actually scheduled for tomorrow, and I had just misread the email. Upon realizing this error, I packed up and left. Certainly, I could have continued my work using the free WiFi provided by the store– none of the employees seemed particularly bothered by my lack of patronage– but I felt too awkward to do so. I scanned the store before I left and saw that everyone enjoying the services of the store– the free WiFi, the tables, the chairs, the couches, the meeting spaces– had ordered a beverage. I would have been fine with purchasing a beverage of my own and staying at the cafe to work, but I had already bought a coffee earlier that morning (at the library, of all places). Simply put, I did not feel like taking advantage of their services without giving them something in return.

January 15 2007

An unread copy of Sir Gawain and the Green Knight lay upon the nightstand next to me. I know that I will be quizzed on the material from the assigned chapter tomorrow, but I can’t bring myself to read—my thoughts are too loud tonight. It had become a routine for me to lie in bed for at least an hour, just thinking about the current state of affairs in my life. Of course, I’d been doing this for long enough that I wasn’t really coming up with any new thoughts at this point in time, just reiterations of week-old ones. I want to get in my mom’s car and take a drive down Ocean Avenue. I have always enjoyed this route that ran alongside the ocean, and it would have been a particularly peaceful drive this time at night– especially in January, when there is absolutely zero chance of beach traffic at any time. I want to get out of my house and my head for a while. Unfortunately, the state of New Jersey deemed me less fit to operate a motor vehicle than 16-year-olds from pretty much every other state.

I curl my pillow around my head, hoping that I can smother the thoughts that rob me of my sleep. It doesn’t work. I haven’t fully come to grips with the thought that my dad was going to die any day now. I knew that his cancer would finally do him in, but it would be weeks from now. Months from now. My brothers had just recently finished their Christmas breaks and had gone back to their respective colleges under the pretense that they would be seeing him at least one more time. They are scheduled to fly in sometime next week. We’d be in the hospital as a family, standing next to my dad’s bed, and he’d have all sorts of tubes and machines attached to him. With a raspy voice, he’d tell my mom, my brothers and me how much he loves us as his vision fades to black and his life expires. That’s the way it happens in the movies.

Biological imperatives

I shut the front door of my apartment behind me, getting ready to take the short walk over to my buddies’ house to watch Game 5 of the NBA Finals. A car is driving slowly along the road in front of the apartment (looking for a parking space, no doubt), tailed by two small children playfully shouting to the passengers in the car.

It’s an instantaneous reaction for me now. It must have something to do with the enthusiasm and naivete with which kids evaluate their experiences. The enthusiasm is infectious. I can’t help myself as a cheshirian grin spreads across my face. 

The kids then run back to their parents, sitting on the ledge in front of Krazy Jim’s Blimpy Burger. I’m not really paying attention to what the kids are saying, but I’m getting bits and pieces of their conversation.

“I’m the grandpa!” says the boy, who couldn’t be older than five.

“I’m the daughter!” exclaims the girl, who looks to be around three years old. Perhaps she lacked a bit in the creativity department in choosing her role, but at least she’s being honest with herself.

“And I’m the mom,” their mother half-assedly interjects.

“Grandpa” starts to run to find a hiding place, apparently unable to deal with the high amounts of stress that come from parenthood.

“I’m abandoning you!” he states bluntly. “I’m abandoning you because I’m a bad grandpa!” He disappears behind the corner of the building.

Never has the concept of parental abandonment seemed cuter to me.