Truth, Autonomy, and the Life Text Creates

Truth is defined as the conformity with fact or reality. But in every matter, truth is based on the interpretations, perceptions and perspectives of each person involved. In reality, how can any of us be wholly truthful if interpretations differ from person to person? What may seem to be of truth to one person may present itself in a polar opposite manner to another person; we can never be “truly truthful” about anything – even ourselves. Since we interpret our own lives differently than outsiders interpret our lives, there is no real way in which we can describe ourselves and still maintain wholehearted honesty. If the mere factor of being oneself is not a liable enough excuse to state that he or she is truthful about himself or herself, then how can anyone be truthful about himself or herself in an autobiography? Autobiographies are documented thoughts, views, and components of someone’s life, written in that someone’s words. The author of an autobiography has the ability to create whatever life about which he or she desires to write, whether that life includes actual experiences from his or her past or people with whom he or she has interacted through the course of his or her life.

Whether or not an author of an autobiography chooses to include past experiences with people in his or her writing, everyone interacts with other people at some point in his or her life. Without the influences of others, no one would be able to exist, let alone live. Everyone with whom one comes into contact has some effect on him or her, regardless of the weight of the effect. One cannot maintain an individual or autonomous existence because everyone is dependent on other people, directly and indirectly. Without others, an author could not write, period; let alone recount on anything of any interest on which he or she could write. If an author does include the people who have affected him or her, though, there is still the interpretation variable.

If interpretation is the true basis on which truth is determined, then text could, in no way, come from life. There are too many components in one’s life to include in one sitting and along with the components, there are the perceptions of that life. Thus, lived lives do not spawn text, but rather text spawns life. Life has its influence on the content of autobiographies, but autobiographies present new life and an infinite amount of events for people to, once more, interpret.

Bare Skin

Softly blanketed by a moon shadow

and traced with grids of window panes,

her brilliant bare skin glows in the midst of a mist

of wintry breaths

shifting and swaying through open spaces.

Polar breezes decorated with snowflakes

line the air sweetly.

Frigid drops of frozen water lightly kiss

her uncovered shoulders,

waking the hair on her skin,

sending chills down her limbs,

causing heavy heart beats,

drumming thick and

she changes her faces.

Dark chestnut hair strands, stranded on white lands,

tickle her nose and eyelids,

lips and high cheekbones.

Three or so brisk chills crawl across her

blanketed brilliant bare skin.

She turns and unveils piercing blue eyes.

And she thinks back to yesterday

when cold days caused fewer heartbreaks.

Secrets

You can't leave your room

without passing by them

or stepping on

brushing against

walking under them.

They're absolutely

everywhere, unavoidable.

Last week,

your dog buried one in your back yard

by the yellow slide,

close to where he hid

your dad's old left penny loafer -

the one with the hole where his big toe

showed through.

It no longer showed through.

Your younger sister,

though still small,

took one of her own home with her

from the park

and put it on the highest shelf

in her bright pink room,

next to her favourite doll,

where no one could find it.

No one could find it.

She even made it a bit tough for her

to reach back up and get it.

Just last night,

at that big family gathering,

I saw your uncle softly spit one

behind your mom's ear.

I don't know how he kept it

in his mouth

for so long,

but the saliva will surely keep it tightly tucked

in your mother's hair

with her pretty, green, dangling earrings

as a barrier

to keep others from getting too close

for her liking

and

to keep it

from getting out.

They lie under creaky floor boards

in old houses,

where no one would dare to look.

Parents put them

in closets,

under beds,

behind all the monsters,

which keep the kids

scared to peak.

And they are even coated in spit

from uncles' mouths -

disgusting,

repulsive -

but with a shiny, metal exterior

to make people smile and think nothing

of the slobbery, dirty things.

Like the native Americans

who fell for trickery

and traded their land

for shiny metal objects,

because they were pretty.

They, too, lie in the waxy glaze

of those shiny metal things,

which caused the corruption of lands

hundreds of years before your dog

thought to bury his in the soil,

where the same mistake

had taken place.

My own aren't too difficult to find.

They reside in a few locations -

in an art room,

a ceiling tile of a freshman dorm,

the closets of an old school.

Mainly, though, in my room,

behind my canvases,

on the canvases.

Next to the paintbrushes and paints -

watercolor, acrylic, oil.

Usually acrylic.

They're in a wooden art box,

underneath the pastels

and the ebony pencils.

Others have seen them and

received them.

Look there

and you're good to go.

They're good to go

and the price range isn't bad.

Ancillary

Yesterday, you ran through my mind

as I ran through a field.

Simultaneously, my joints unhinged,

and retracted,

while your name ricocheted

from one side of my head

to the other.

My cleanly shaven, pale white legs

propelled me forward,

lifting one foot in the crisp air

while allowing the other to

forcefully pound the Earth,

slowly sending vibrations through

paper thin grass blades of

pine, jade, viridian,

teal, lime, harlequin,

et cetera.

Several of the blades swept

against my exposed ankles and sent

chills up my calves,

ascending toward my thighs

and sky

was the limit for my goose bumps,

which caused every inch of my body

to quiver.

As you lightly brushed

your finger tips against my frontal lobe,

you tampered with the remote

to my emotions.

I tripped over a rock,

distracted by the thought

of you.

In my clumsiness, you too

stumbled, and left a finger print

on one of the buttons of the remote.

My face was covered with dirt

and my elbow had a scrape.

I was not alone, though, in injury.

You bumped your head

and the letters of your name

jumbled up,

leaving me

in my own thoughts' dust.

I steadily regained my balance

and gathered my thoughts.

You were back in the centre,

as if on a treadmill,

running my system.

When my pace increased,

your image,

your name,

all of you became more

prominent.

The brown hair which matched

the bark on the trees I passed

on my way through the field,

and which enhanced the same dark colour

of your eyes,

never fully open -

literally or figuratively.

And your pristine facial structure,

equal to the sheer beauty

of the magnificence by which

I was encompassed.

I suddenly stopped to think about

ANYTHING

but you.

ANYTHING AT ALL.

Nothing.

A breeze caught onto my hair

and carried it as far as it could

before it was pulled back

by its attachment to me.

I wish the wind could have carried you

far

far

far away from my being.

But you didn't move.

You stayed constant to your place in my mind,

as you do

every day,

in my maze of a thought process.

My heart,

without an apparent reason,

pounded and

beat, pulsating and waiting

to rip through my sternum and

free itself from captivity.

And I looked down the opening

of my turquoise t-shirt,

and the beat showed through my skin.

I placed my hand over my chest

just in hopes to stop the outrageousness.

You banged just as hard against

the lining of my skull

in an attempt to keep my attention,

which gave me a throbbing headache

of, well, "epic proportions,"

so to speak.

When the pain and the obscurities were

unbearable,

I woke up.

JAMIE WROTE THIS!!: Thomas the Tank Engine

It is only a dream I have,

not to be taken seriously.

I buy the ticket.

I get on the train.

And I ride it everywhere.

Only it speaks to me,

"Now Jamie, don't say a word

about this.

Or we'll both be out of tracks

to ride on."

I never said a word.

Didn't feel the need to.

Thomas was his name.

He was a mighty fine tank engine.

Strong.  Cynical.  Wise.

Compassionate.

The steam he created...

Well it just gives me 

shivers

thinking about it.

One day, I'll be old enough

to own that tank engine.

Then I'll be able to show the world

how much

I love it.

How much

it loves me.

I'll be able to ride it through town,

blowing the whistle and waving

at the curious bystanders.

They'll never understand.

But at least it will be

legal.

Forbidden Fruit

My alarm sounded at 5:30,

as it does every morning.

My body uncurled from its fetal position.

Left leg, then right leg,

my limbs unraveled and

brought me from my bed,

through the hall,

down the stairs,

through the door,

and to my garden.

Three minutes had swiftly drifted past me

on my way.

With time comes age.

I was three minutes closer.

I made my way through the garden -

past the cherry tree and

away from the watermelons -

until I came to a certain fruit.

I planted my feet firmly into the ground,

squished the fertile soil between my toes,

as if to burrow myself in the Earth to be

a little closer

to that fruit,

that spectacular life force,

thriving on all of its surroundings,

no matter its conditions.

I gazed at it, lovingly.

And I stood,

reversed,

and played.

Over and over.

Every day for nine months.

Sometimes, I would take my own time

away from that beautiful being.

But I would,

nevertheless,

return

at the end of every break,

filled with elation to see

how it had changed -

with time comes growth -

and how it had grown.

My time with it was

a euphoria

of sorts.

The rest of the fruit was good,

colourful, bright,

but it always came and sooner

or later

it was gone.

Always the same.

That fruit, though, lived longer than

the others

and followed through, stayed true

to its purpose.

A couple of weeks ago, my alarm sounded

at 5:31.

Late.

My toes curled and I let out a groan.

I had to see that fruit.

It had been nine months.

I dashed through the house

to get to my garden.

I stepped into it,

refreshed by smells of herbs

and tomatoes and cherries and

watermelons.

And the Earth.

I once more steadied myself

in front of that magnificent organism.

I gazed, longingly.

I reached toward it and, subsequently,

received a prick.

The fruit's leaves had thorns.

One bite was all I wanted.

I reached again.

Pricked again.

Again and again.

I stopped.

It wasn't ripe. It was aged.

But it was not ready.

I was not ready.

One bite is all I want.

With time comes age and

with age comes growth.

And that garden embodies one fruit

I have yet to experience.

One bite

from this forbidden fruit

is all I want.

I am not ready.

Time will tell

as I wait and age

and it ages and grows

and I grow and experience.

But I will wait.

Not the First Time This Has Crossed My Mind

Your impertinence is pestilent
If I were you, I would repent –
And I’m not even a Christian.
But damn it, son, your ways prevent
Anything significant
From exiting your orifice.
You might as well have shoved your fist
Down your fucking throat, and this
Is getting quite vexatious.
You illustrate a mannerism
Of – what do we call it? – masochism.
And honestly your malice
For every single one of us
Exasperates and agitates
And aggravates, infuriates
Not only I, but he and she
And we can all agree on this:
You’re pretty much a selfish bitch.

Vocabulary Story (Yes, I know what soup is)

It was 6:32 a.m. when Amyrose's mom knocked on her bedroom door to wake her up. When there was no response, Amy's mom forcefully turned the door knob, pushed the port forward and stomped to the end of the bed. "Get up and get ready for school," Mrs. Stephens said. Amy simply replied with a languid groan. "Get your ass up," Mrs. Stephens bellowed without restraint. "Mom, I'm sick!" Amy pulled her comforter over her face, but she wasn't sick at all. She feigned an illness in order to get away with skipping school today. "I'm sorry, baby! Let me fix you some soup," said Mrs. Stephens. She left the room and fixed a large bowl of that liquid food of vegetables and chicken broth for Amy. When Mrs. Stephens returned to Amy's room, Amy was sitting up, texting and laughing. "You're not sick," exclaimed Mrs. Stephens. Without a moment of silence after her mom's statement, Amy quickly declared her hatred for her. Amy's rancor for her mother has always been prominent, though. So the statement came as no surprise. In a swift and impassive motion, Mrs. Stephens grabbed Amy's arm and pulled her out of her bed. She mad her apathy for Amy's "sickness" evident when she threw her book bag at her, left the room and yelled, "We're going!"

Amy still refused to go to school. She had a good reason, though. Mrs. Stephens stomped back into the room once more, only to find Amy texting again. Mrs. Stephens ripped the phone from her hands and began to go through the messages. "I'm sorry," one read, from a boy named A.J. "Are you in trouble?" Mrs. Stephens wanted to know what could cause the questioned trouble. "What did you do?" Amy ignored her mom. Mrs. Stephens, vehement and full of various emotions, bolted to her computer to email the school. To her surprise, there was already a message in her inbox that read:

Dear Mrs. Stephens,

We have been worried about Amy a lot lately, and we wanted to make sure everything was all right at home. We had heard word that your daughter was involved in impudent "extracurricular" activities. So, we took the matter into our own hands and checked her locker and found multiple media of memorandum; we found texts, emails and passed notes. There were several recipients and correspondents. I don't know how to say this lightly, but we found a whip in her locker and erotic notes between Amy and a few different boys. Obviously, flagellation is entirely inappropriate, especially on school grounds. I wish you would speak to her about her decisions. Hopefully you can influence her and guide her in a better direction.

Thank you,

Dr. LaBorde

In amazement, Mrs. Stephens slowly stood up and walked to Amy's room. Amy still sat in her bed, looking directly at the wall ahead of her. Mrs. Stephens sat on the bed and a tear slid down her cheek. "Why did your principal email me?" Amy dropped her head in shame. "What the HELL is your problem," Mrs. Stephens screamed. Amy jumped up from her bed and Mrs. Stephens followed. The two entangled themselves in a heated feud. "You're nothing but a whore," said Mrs. Stephens, lugubrious due to her daughter's lack of self respect. Amy retorted with another "I hate you" and slapped her mom right across the face. In order to prostrate Amy, Mrs. Stephens pushed her to the floor, which knocked the wind out of her. Mrs. Stephens stood, motionless for a while. She had a "vision," so to speak. In prescience, she saw her daughter waving goodbye and climbing out of the window. Terrified of the possible events to come, Mrs. Stephens picker her daughter up off of the floor and hugged her. Reluctant to reciprocate the action, Amy pulled away, reticent.

A door slammed. Amy and Mrs. Stephens both hesitantly looked toward the hallway. Their neighbor, Topaz Ross had broken in. "I heard screaming and other clamour. Is everything all right?" Amy ran and hugged Topaz. "I HATE her," said Amy. Mrs. Stephens rebutted with a harsh glare and a raised fist. "Come on you guys! Why are you fighting?! Please stop," requested Topaz, in an attempt to intercede and put an end to the quarrel. "I refuse to merely let go of what Amy has done and how badly she has embarrassed me," said Mrs. Stephens. "You are rather obstinate, Mrs. Stephens. So I wouldn't expect anything else," replied Topaz.

Topaz released Amy from her refreshing hug. Before anything happened and before anyone said anything, Amy ran toward the window, lifted the handle and sat on the pane. Topaz and Mrs. Stephens both stood, immobile, filled to the brim with fear. "Don't do it, Amy," said the two in unison. To prove she was indomitable, though, she sprouted wings and jumped. Shocked to no end, Mrs. Stephens and Topaz dropped their jaws, turned toward one another and fainted. An hour later, they woke up, tied to chairs, with double cheeseburgers in their laps. "What the hell," exclaimed Topaz. "After I left," said Amy, "I felt bad, so I stopped by some fast food place and got you guys some food." Mrs. Stephens and Topaz fainted once more and they never woke up again. Amy killed them by gagging them with their cheeseburgers.

A Dead Beaver and Some Inquisitive Thoughts

I spent Friday night and Saturday night at a friend’s house. The friend? It doesn’t matter who. It was a great time, though. Today, I had to come back to the dorm for study hall. I wasn’t even supposed to leave this weekend, but the duty teacher was cool enough to allow me to get away from this hell hole for a little bit of peace. My friend’s sister generously offered to drive me back to campus, because sadly enough, I do not have a car just yet. Oh well. On the way back, we listened to the Beatles and sung every word to every song. I love the Beatles so much. The last song we listened to was “Love Me Do,” which happens to be one of my all time favourites. Right as we got to the chorus, we drove over the railroad track – the one by the Sara Lee factory. I was so into the song that nothing could distract me. At least, that’s how it usually would have been. But just as I looked to my left, over the steering wheel, I saw…a dead beaver.

“Where did that come from??” My friend’s sister looked in the direction which my left index finger so fervidly pointed. When she finally set her eyes on the road kill, she came to an immediate stop. “What the hell is a beaver doing over here?” she asked. Obviously, we couldn’t run over and pick it up, but we were so fascinated in the little animal. Where did it come from? Why have I never seen a live beaver around here? I wonder if someone dropped it there to make it seem like there were beavers around. Who would go through that trouble, though? That’d be dumb. Maybe….maybe it’s not really a beaver! Maybe it’s an alien. Yeah. Wait, that sounds kind of dumb too. What if it walked all the way from some clan of beavers? What were its intentions? Did it know where it was headed? Probably not. Better yet, what was its motivation? Perhaps it was some anxt-driven teenager who just needed some time away from his (or her) parents. Poor thing. Karma is a bitch. What if he (or she) was trying to prove a point to his (or her) parents? He…yeah, let’s just call it a ‘he.’ He probably didn’t plan on staying gone too long; just long enough to scare the ‘rents.

What if that’s what really happened? That’s so unfair. I used to want to run away from home so badly. What if I had? What if I had and I had gotten run over by some careless driver? That wouldn’t have proven much of anything. I’m so glad I never ran away. That’s such a terrible way to die – getting hit by a car and left for scavengers. In a few days, bugs, birds and some crazy rodents will have stripped him of his flesh and left his intestines to decay. No one, except maybe I, will remember him. Even if he had died of old age, no human would remember him. It’s just an animal, right? Wrong! Well, maybe that is right. When I die, a few people will mourn, maybe some old high school friends will send my family some flowers, but will anyone really care after all is said and done? I highly doubt it. We, as humans, are given maybe 70 or 75 years on Earth now-a-days. Some of the lucky ones get more, and those who are not so lucky get fewer. Say I die when I’m 80. That gives me until the year 2073. That amount of time will fly with respect to eternity. And when I finally do die, then what? My family and friends will hold a funeral, people will be sad for a little while, et cetera, et cetera. Give or take a hundred years afterward, and no one will remember who Aliya Ilsa Smith was. That name probably won’t be of much importance to anyone by 2173.

What’s the point of my existence? What use am I to the rest of the world if my body will only eventually give out on me and force me to die? And in the end, if my existence is worthless, what happens after death? What will happen to my conscience? It cannot possibly die, because it was never “alive.” Then, if you think about it, I can never technically die, either. Matter can neither be created nor destroyed, so when my body deteriorates along with the coffin in which it shall lie in about 64 years, that matter will be reincarnated. And this has nothing to do with beliefs; that’s strictly science. The circle of life, if you will. The matter which makes up my body today could have been that of a tree centuries prior to my birth. My conscience, though, is a different story. What is it? What is a conscience? It works my brain, which controls the rest of my body, but what runs my conscience? Damn, this is confusing. Aside from that endless circle of disorientation and onto its servants. What about emotions? Why do they change so often? Why do they exist at all? What is the point? This sounds so depressing, but in reality, it’s just a whole lot of ranting on nothing too special. All I want is for something to answer these questions. I guess when it all comes down to it, life is a huge, dense ball of confusion and I’ll never have the answers to any of my relatively deep questions. I’m going to die soon anyway, right? For now, I just want to know what the hell is up with that beaver.

I've Got a Good Memory

Have you ever had a recurring dream? Or have you ever had a dream that played through several nights as a story of some sort? Let me tell you, they’re pretty weird. At the same time, though, they’re so cool. It’s like reading a suspenseful book. You don’t know what will happen when you pick it back up. I used to have those dreams all the time when I was about six or so. When I think back on it, I wish I could be six again. Children’s imaginations are so much more wild and fascinating than that of someone my age. I am still creative, but it takes so much more effort to spit out some great idea than it would have when I was less than ten years of age. I remember a specific dream of mine which continued for about a week. It started off with my family and me in a museum. Well, I knew it was supposed to be a museum in the dream, but it was really just a blank white hallway. At the end of the hall, a blue light shined out of a door on the right. My family and I sped up to take a peak inside and it was the weirdest thing ever. We walked in through the door and on a white leather couch sat Tony the Tiger.

I was so happy because I knew all the words to his song and I happily ran up to him and began to sing it. He simply smiled and waited for the song to end to tell us to put our belongings in the cubbies on the wall. I put my white blanket and my shoes in one at the bottom; I was too short to reach any of the upper shelves. My parents and Iain put their things in cubbies as well. Jake was still only about a year old, so my mom had him propped up in her arms. He had no need for a cubby. When we all turned around, there were four large red cushions on the floor on which Tony insisted we sit. We flopped down on them and Tony stepped down from his couch and sat on the floor. He asked us about how our day had been and it had only been satisfactory…until we got to meet him!

After nearly two hours of just sitting and talking to dear Tony, he stood up in a kind of militant manner – good posture, head up, etc. – and told us we had thirty seconds to gather our belongings and leave the room. We were initially perplexed and thought it was just a joke, but then he started to count down. We bolted toward the cubbies, grabbed our things and ran toward the door. We were just out of the room when I realized I had left my blanket inside. There was no way in hell I was going to leave it, so I ran back for it, but once I finally had it in my hands, time was up. A two-foot thick glass door dropped. My heart dropped along with it. I was stuck inside a white room with some aberrant talking tiger. I think that was justification enough for any fear I had. I banged on the transparent barrier, and my parents reciprocated. There was nothing that could even begin to tamper with the door’s stability. I was actually trapped.

Fifteen minutes went by and my family finally gave up. They waved, blew a kiss and left. A tear ran down my face and a few followed rapidly after it. It was a race…literally. There was a close up, in the dream, of my tears trying to “out-slide” each other, for lack of a better word. When the dream zoomed back out, so to speak, I slowly turned around. Tony sat on the couch, reading a newspaper. I yelled at him to get him to open the door, but he ignored my request. I forcefully stomped toward him and took his paper from him. He yanked it back and continued to read. After that, I woke up. I didn’t know what to think of the dream except that it was all just a dream – thank whatever is holy. I don’t know what I would have done if my parents had actually abandoned me when Tony the Tiger could have killed me. Well, the next night, the dream continued to play, as if I had a movie on “pause.”

Without hesitation, I took the paper back from Tony and ripped it to shreds. Infuriated, he stormed toward me, got “all up in my grill” – as the kids would say these days – and roared. Along with his stressed vocal vomit came a large, orange hairball. The wadded up fur fell on my bare feet. I screamed and kicked him in the face. Bad idea. I knew I shouldn’t have done that, so I immediately ran to the other side of the room, curled up in a ball and prayed he wouldn’t hurt me. He got on all fours and walked toward me like a normal tiger would if he were on the prowl. I shook so much out of sheer terror that someone could have mistaken my nervous habit as a seizure. Again, just as he was about to pounce, I woke up with a cold sweat. I was terrified. For a few more nights, I dreamt of being in that room with Tony the Tiger and we continued to fight. My parents visited from time to time, but they made no attempt to get me out. It was all over to them. The last night, after eight or nine nights of the story, Tony let me out of the room. It was as if nothing were wrong. Just a change of heart, I suppose. When I left the museum and walked outside, the streets were empty. Everything was completely desolate. I was alone. I yelled just to see if anyone would respond. There wasn’t even an echo. I got one response – Tony chuckled a bit behind me. I turned around, he leaped and then…

I woke up.