Science Fiction

I took Honors science all the way up through high school. For the students of Conestoga Valley High School, "Honors Science" means an Honors credit for a class of the same caliber as the "Traditional" course, extra brownie points with the teacher for being an "Honors student", and a ribbon at the school science fair if you're a half decent liar, but I took honors science seriously. I was one of the few people that actually attempted to conduct experiments for my science fair projects. 


Looking back, I realize I would have been better off fudging data like everyone else. It would have been less work for one thing, and the winning projects were always made up. I could have won a ribbon or two and joined the Future Business Leaders of America to pursue a career in lying if only I had followed my peers. We were always told to write the introduction of our science fair reports last because it was the most crucial part. We got that speech every year along with the same instructional packet. The only difference from the Biology science fair packet to the Chemistry science fair packet was the quote on the cover page. Once it was a quote from Michael Scott, a character on the hit TV show The Office. It said, "You don't go to the science museum and get handed a pamphlet on electricity. You go to the science museum, and you put your hand on a metal ball, and your hair sticks up straight...and you know science." I think I kept the cover page of that packet, stuffed it into my journal where I could find it later for a good laugh. I threw the rest of the packet out after my project report was returned to me with a desirable grade on it. 


I'm the kind of student that keeps all their notes just in case, but even I knew there was nothing in that dense pile of papyrus worth remembering. I also knew that if the teachers that had composed the science fair packet were the same teachers that were handing ribbons to first class liars on the night of the fair, then it was trash. The whole damn cycle was trash. Each year the same instructions, each year the same advice, each year the same liars, sorry wieners, wait.. winners, yes winners, excuse me. 


There was no truth in the "science" we were doing. Science fair was merely a contest to see who could get away with the most outrageous data and still win a prize. As much as I believed that, I did end up taking away a small amount of truth from my experience with science fair. After four mediocre projects, I discovered that science was not my forte, and that the only thing saving me from a failing grade in both Biology and Chemistry was my ability to write. My procedure may have been flawed and sloppy, but my lab reports were so meticulously composed that I always pulled through in the end. Science was not for me, true. The second truth was actually a piece of advice from the science fair packet. The page explaining "The Introduction" of the project warned that it was the most vital section of the report because it would draw in judges. The only way to seduce the judges and win a ribbon was to actually talk to one of them at the fair. Put simply, the introduction determined whether or not your talent for lying would be discovered. As my career as a science student ended and I began to spend more time writing, I was surprised to find that my science teachers had been right. 


The introduction or the opening paragraph of any work should be the most captivating part of the piece. If a publisher picks up your manuscript, reads the first paragraph, and falls asleep, it’s not likely that your career as a writer is going anywhere. So no pressure, but the first couple of sentences you put down on the page had better be as sumptuous as a full on feast. I’m certainly in no position to preach. I’ve never earned a cent from anything I’ve written, but I do enjoy reading. And as an avid reader, I reserve the right to be critical of writing. I’ve read books with opening paragraphs about as appetizing as a moldy clementine. There have even been books, published books, with openings so cliché, dull, or down right horrific that it takes me several chapters just to get the bad taste out of my mouth. I keep this all in mind while writing the introduction of any piece of work, and I remember my science teachers’ advice. Only now I’m not writing for science fair judges. I'm writing for an audience, seducing them with my words, and I can lie to them if I want. In fact, I do lie to them because lying is much more interesting for both of us and because lying is what wins prizes.  

The Second Man

Sometimes I feel more alone when I'm with people than I do when I'm actually alone. I think this is mostly due to the fact that none of us understand each other. Is that terribly pessimistic of me? I do not believe that anyone has or ever will fully communicate their ideas to another person. That in and of itself was a sobering realization to come to, but now when I'm with other people, simultaneously misunderstanding and being misunderstood, that thought surfaces, and I feel a terrible loneliness take over me. Consequently, I spend a lot of time doing solitary activities, and I enjoy "being alone," as it's called, because that's when I'm the least lonely. 

I understands me. Where my thoughts are lost in translation to the rest of the world, I can decipher them. I is the only person I know that can do that. That how I feel sometimes, like I'm two people. The first person, my physical being (my outward appearance to the world, the symmetry of my face or the overly enthusiastic and cliche phrases I use while making small talk) is quick to respond and is the person that does all of the communicating. The second person, "The Second Man" as I like to think of him, is my inner self. Some might refer to it as my soul or my spirit. I personally like to think of as Me trapped inside my body in the form of my brain. That second person is the one that is never understood. That Me can only communicate with other people vicariously through my outward being, and like playing whisper down the lane, the exact content of the message is never quite transfered.

It would be romantic to think that there is one person that can connect with that second Me, and that that person is "My One True Love," but I'm not sure I'm a romantic. Some people think that there is only one "being" that can understand the second person in all of us and that that being has jurisdiction over all the intricacies of their life, but I'm not particularly fond of that idea either. Perhaps the second person is really just a built in companion, someone to really understand what the first person is trying to communicate so that we're never really alone at all.

I am from a man I hardly remember
With a half stick of gum he'd holler the question
"How many girls are there in this house?"
And we would come running so that he could count

I am from wash baskets turned into boats
Magical potions like Root Beer Floats
A sweet foamy liquid we'd anxiously drink
To turn into gypsies and monsters and queens

I am from walking around in new slippers
Getting used to a smell that I'll always remember
Peeling down yards upon yards of wet paper
The slippery slime dried to chalk on my fingers

I am from mountain tops named for good stories
Fruit roll up chomping and bouldering glories
Trees and blue skies on an endless expanse
Changing appearance as the sun and clouds dance

I am from coffee breath whispering in church
Leftover lunch Sundays and toast that was burnt
Omelets that fry on a pan of brown butter
And taking a sip from the drink of my father

I am from biting my nails in 5th grade
To bitting my lip and not knowing my age
I am from not knowing just who I am
But I am and I am and I am...

Green

I know, somewhere, they grow pink grass
I just haven't found the place yet
The sun shines purple, the flowers are blue
And the air tastes like mandarin oranges

The people that live there, a happy few
Climb carrots and plant mountains to harvest
They snack all day long on sing-along-songs
To the gleam of the buttermilk moon

I anxiously wait and anticipate
The day that I finally see
A pink blade of grass, sagaciously masked
By a world that appears to be
Green

Hanging In

"The world's not upside down." I said

In a feeble attempt to calm a friend. 

"It's rightside wrongside inside out 

And upside downside round about, 

But upside down it's certainly not." 

I turned to my friend.... 

Their neck in a knot.

Broken Dreams, Broken Trees, Beavers, and Bubblegum

Gum (n): A pliable putty-like material which, when inserted into the mouth, creates an atmosphere of smell around the chewer, masking the majority of unpleasant smells lingering on the chewer's person and giving the illusion of good hygiene.

I wonder about gum. I wonder who invented it. I've heard that it got its start way back when they still used grunts and hand signals to communicate. Apparently there was a certain kind of tree that had thick chewy sap. Someone stuck a wad of it in their mouth one day, and gum was born. Eventually I guess someone decided to manufacture their own gum concoction, but when did gum go from being a chew toy to being a substitute for a meal,  or a source of pleasure or, as I mentioned before, a cologne? And why is it that people always seem to need something to chew on? Did we actually evolve from beavers instead of monkeys?

Speaking of beavers, do their teeth grow continuously because they chew so much or do they chew because their teeth are constantly growing? And can a beaver bite down a tree? I've seen trees that look like a beaver bit them down. Today I saw a piece of art about beaver bitten trees. The artist described them as broken. "Broken dreams and broken trees," is what she told us she was portraying. I wonder why her dreams broke. I wonder what her dreams were, and how she knew they were her dreams. I wonder when I'll know what my dreams are. Maybe you don't realize your dreams until a beaver bites them down. Do beavers chew gum?