Something I wrote for English...

Prelude in Ab Major: Alright, so we have to do this Romanticism project for English where we journal in some place that makes us think seven times, and then write a reflective essay about it, "and be creative! the possibilities are endless!" and take pictures, lalala, auld lang syne.

And lately I've been, perhaps, just a bit too cynical, turning up my nose at projects that are supposed to inspire creativity and relishing, like a ravenous idiot, in the ones that are supposed to drain all sorts of creativity from you.

We've been reading examples of these essays in and out of class, and Sands seems to dig the ones that reflect upon some certain object for long periods of time, like a leaf or a pond or whatever. And, being the sarcastic ass I can often be, decided to place my tounge firmly in my cheek for the duration of the assignment, refusing to give way to the typical cliches of high school depth, sentimentality, and eloquence, and allowing my love for absurdity, vagueness, internal conversation and sentence-long paragraphs to run free.

This is what we are left with.

Now, it should be noted that I have only journaled in my thinking spot once to date(Borders) but I can kind of see where my thoughts will end up going. Here it is...

Yes, I could write about the two things I find most beautiful about Borders, books and coffee, though the endless list of connections and memories I’ve made at the store and others owned by the same machine worldwide are more valuable, though less tangible, than these two inanimate objects that seem to spring so close to true life that I can almost feel a pulse beating within them as I press my naked palm to their exterior—how I adore their ephemeral wonder, how I swoon when I even think of them, so much so that it might cause the Beloved, an all-seeing representative of the divine forces that govern our daily life, to worry that I might be pulled astray.
But I am not going to meditate upon my love for coffee and books, for they have been, remain, and, I suppose, will always be, static, one of only a few constants in the ever-changing marketplace of my life.
Rather, I have come only recently to appreciate the simpler things in life, for even they, under close examination, reveal just as much complexity as something we consider so advanced, like the microwave. I have come to admire that which we seem, for little reason, to hold least sacred, that which so few hold with any sort of high respect.
I am speaking of the table and an infinite number of variations thereof.
I am amazed at how few people admire, or are truly willing to admire, their respect for the table; when I inquire as to the state of my friend’s appreciation for this structure of wood and wonder, I am typically met, or would be met, were I to actually ask, with blank stares and stuttered statements.
“Jayson,” they’d say to me, I am certain, “I think it’s just about time you conform to standard patterns of thought.”
And I would laugh that crazy, maniacal laugh I get when convinced of my personal genius, for, if professing my admiration that supports my habits, (both good and bad, that supports my studies, indeed, supports the basic foundations of the essentials of life, if this is wrong, than I shall indeed remain in the wrong!
I say this as I am writing, not on a table, or a desk, a rather common variation, (my bedroom desk is, in fact, our old dining room table!) but upon a clipboard, a most despicable alternative. This board cramps not only my hand, but my style as well, for I yearn almost tragically for a space that could adequately attend to a steaming cup of organic, dark roasted coffee, or an aromatic spot of Earl Grey tea. It has not the capacity to embrace my set of Merriam-Webster reference books, nor the novel or collection of poetry I happen to be in the midst of. It cannot contain the five or six books I require to be by my fingertips at all times, should I feel the craving for new inspiration or my daily dose of other’s artistic genius. It is a disgrace to the piece of furniture I have sanctified above all others, it pales in comparison. Clipboard, I dare you to stand next to a table and demand some semblance of glory! You would faint from your lack of dignity, I am certain of it. You are small, unpractical. You lack the reflective, waxen sheen to be found on even the most second rate desks, you are flimsy; made, perhaps, of balsa instead of a mighty oak, you are unstable. It would require more fingers and toes than the set I have at my disposal to count the number of times my pencil has slipped, leaving tiny holes in my paper, most unsightly to the eye.
Might I then compare my table, my desk, the tables to be found in the café at Borders, to a summer day? No, the answer is no; the table, made of what one supposes was once the stateliest of trees, transcends all seasons. Trees transcend each and every one of our lives, they were here long before us, when they fall out of existence, we will as well. I see writing upon a desk, or eating upon a table, or any of an infinite number of daily functions that are performed upon the above, as a communion with the spiritual realm of nature. For, even when one is in the middle of the most desolate city, one will always find a desk, and that desk, if made properly, will have been made from what might be considered God’s greatest gift to mankind.

(I have not edited, I have no even read through it the entire way yet, I am still uncertain as to the actual existence of the G man.)

(Here I stand.)