cxxi

“It’s the end of the world as we know it…and I feel fine…”

-R.E.M.

            Time has gotten away from me. So I wrote this poem:

Apocalypse Now

It’s the night of the Rapture and, of course, I can’t sleep.

My head is weary but my heart is full of regret.

There is nothing like Armageddon to really put things into perspective.

My pillow only can register that each moment is now more precious than the last,

the doomsday clock slowly ticking down until

the inner monologues racing around my soul will finally screech to a halt.

Finally.

Forever.

How will it happen, tomorrow or never?

Will the world mouth a last gasp from tremoring cracks in its cement crust,

people cursing the time into which they were born,

material possessions grossly dissolving in front of tear-reddened eyes?

Or will there be a quiet sense of calm,

an assured, collective knowledge that there is something much greater than politics and cubicles, reality television and oil prices,

sighs of relief wafting to the heavens on the wings of millions of prayers?

Well, shit, I don’t know.

I’m not a theologian or a philosopher or even someone with a firm head on their shoulders.

I’m just 
an almost poet with an eighteen dollar notebook and a dull pencil,

a mediocre Catholic, Bible buried in the bottom of a cardboard box.

a barely sophomore who has no idea what to do for the next sixty years

          (barring any Second Coming of the Christ, of course.)

And all that I do know is,

if I somehow survive this small-pocketed weekend of Evangelical hysteria,

I’ll have a new motto:

Live every day like it’s the end of the world.

And I won’t worry about grades or girls or good-paying jobs,

because we don’t know the time or the hour and,

for all I know,

it’s coming up real soon.

So, bring it on.

cxx

“I’ve developed a new philosophy…”

-Charlie Brown

            I’m a big believer in not stressing.

            Let me just rephrase that: I’m a big believer in big believing. It’s my new philosophy.

            Almost every other day, it seems, I will announce to whoever I am eating lunch with or just to an empty dorm room that I, Brandon James Wainerdi, will now and forever, live by this, my brand new personal philosophy. But, without fail, the mantra quietly manages to fade away as the week passes and, eventually, I find myself lost, without even a slightly off-kilter, philosophic compass. Or, at least, lost until the next phrase that I read on the Internet or the newest witty saying I came up with in the shower takes its brief, glorious place in my life.

            Time, mantra-filled or not, has been passing quickly; the past few months going by with a rather alarming speed. So, for posterity’s sake, I’ve taken to write down some of my favorite philosophies of the past months, so that, when I am graying and wrinkled, I can look back and laugh at how foolish I was as an eighteen-year-old. Some of them (the admittedly “lame” ones) are my own creation and others were penned by rappers or fictional characters or authors or saviors. It’s a rather eclectic blend:

·      Just smile and smell good.

·      Nap often.

·      Preach the Gospel every day. If necessary use words.

·      Get busy living or get busy dying.

·      I’ll sleep when I’m dead.

·      Early to bed. At least, before midnight.

·      Bike at 4 AM. Hear the birds wake up and see the sun rise.

·      I’m a big believer in not stressing.

            If you can’t tell, my views on sleeping/not sleeping vary by the week, my overall life philosophy, overall life goal, consistently shifting and bending to the influences of the hour. But that’s my life.

            For this week, at least.

*****

            A Post Scriptum, or whatever: The biggest stress-reliever that I have had in my life, at least for this semester, is my radio show. It’s not often that someone gets the opportunity to rant and play music for two hours but I’ve been lucky enough to do just that and it has been wonderful. In between breaks, I’ve found myself writing more and more poetry, including:

Disc Jockey Love Anthem

How do I love you?

Let me count the mix CD’s.

I do not sing, my voice flounders at low octaves,

I do not dance, my body shuffles awkwardly on wood-panel floors,

I have no rhythm of my own to give.

But others, more talented and patient that I, have felt the same way,

of that I am positive.

Tracklist poetry.

My heart burns like the red blank disc spinning in my laptop’s undergroove.

Here are volumes 1 through 4.

I’ll give you the rest tomorrow.

cxix

“If suffering brought wisdom, the dentist’s office would be full of luminous ideas.”

-Mason Cooley


            This is definitely not how I expected to be spending one of the first mornings of my much-needed spring break: lying on a quasi-operating table, having the rubber-gloved hands of some annoying stranger probe my mouth as she concurrently makes fun of my intruding gum line.

            “Have you been brushing and flossing regularly?” the dentist’s assistant asks me loudly.

            “Of course,” I oh-so-casually reply. Or, at least, as oh-so-casually as I can reply while my mouth is being forced open, suction tubes running the line of my bottom jaw.

            And that above exchange is the foremost reason why I absolutely hate going to the dentist’s office: it is the only place in the world where someone can catch me lying to their face. She can totally see, from her high-stooled perch, that my teeth aren’t pearly white and that my gums are incredibly sensitive. She knows that the garbled sentences coming out of my never-flossed mouth are just straight up lies, murmured only because I do not want to have a conversation with her. Which is completely true, mind you.

            But it’s too far late for that.

            “What school do you go to now?” she begins, asking for the fourth time this morning, “Oh yes, that’s right. My son almost went there but he went to community college instead for two years and then transferred out. We always joked that…”

           

            Her poor tries at an oft-rehearsed stand-up comedy routine are quickly tuned out, providing only a shrill soundtrack to the next half-hour, and I slowly stop paying attention to my surroundings.

            But after only a few minutes, her voice again returns to my consciousness: “But how have you been? How have your first few months of college been going?”

            She has thankfully stopped talking about her simply hilarious family anecdotes for a brief moment and, instead, turned the tables on me. Of course, I don’t answer, if not because I don’t care, but the main reason that I physically cannot. There is no possible way to respond to her, as whatever minty chemicals she’s currently shoving into my mouth have made sure of. But if I could, I’m sure it would go something like this:

            “My life is going just great, I can assure you, even up to this moment, as you scrape my teeth of food residue and pump my mouth full of banana-flavored fluoride. But, if we’re going to be honest here, I haven’t had much time to myself in the weeks leading up to break, to write or to think or to pray. Not because I’ve been studying, of course, but because of just all this damn stuff I need to do. And my life, whether it be academic or religious or social, is suffering because of it.

            “All of my friends have come back from school with all these party stories and hook-up trophies and relationship statuses and, in that regard, I have nothing to show. If anything, the only thing I have worth bragging about is my once-a-month “Brandon Time”, when I spend a Friday evening alone in my dorm watching a movie and eating ice cream without a shirt on, instead of going out to a party or to hang out with friends. It’s hardly the most enamoring college story, but it’s a college story nonetheless.

            “And now Freshman year is almost over. I can honestly say that I would have done absolutely nothing differently, besides study a little bit more. Wow, that’s a really refreshing personal realization. Thank you so much for listening to me and letting me get that all off of my chest.”

            I open my eyes (I guess they had been closed this entire time) and glance around my surroundings. She is still talking, blissfully unaware of whatever chat we, imaginarily, had:

            “…and he was singing the Beta fight song! Ninety-one years old and his mind is in better shape than mine! I can’t even remember what I had for lunch yesterday.”

            And, just like that, she stops without another word or a warning, adjusts the chair, hands me a bag with a new toothbrush, and tells me I can go. My tongue traces over the smooth ridges of my teeth as I half-grin to say good-bye, feeling a little more confident in both my life and my smile. Thirty minutes was all it took to restore the whiteness of my teeth and the “spring in my step”.

            Maybe the dentist’s office isn’t so bad, after all.

cxviii

“Baby it’s cold outside…”

-Jessica Simpson, Zooey Deschanel, Dean Martin

            I’ll be quite honest here: the list of things that I don’t like far surpasses the things I do. And one of the things that tops that very long, very detailed list (above, even, animals and surprises and mayonnaise) is cold weather.

            That’s not to say that I am a huge fan of the heat, either; I can pretty much find a general complaint with whatever the temperature is outside. But what really gets to me is the sub-freezing temperatures and the biting winds and the slippery sidewalks.

            And, just my luck, that’s exactly the weather that we’ve been having in BIGCOLLEGETOWN this week.

            It’s not even the good kind of cold weather, where you get extended periods off of an icy school, for the sole reason to stay at home, avoid the outside world, and drink some hot cocoa. No, it’s been the “walk outside with three jackets on, go to all of your classes, have the gears of your bike freeze over twice, and then get sick” kind of cold weather.

            And so, my throat still hurting and my fever still semi-raging, I casually present what I have learned the past two-or-so weeks through this cold weather, or, keeping with tradition, as I would like to call it:

            Brandon Wainerdi’s One-Hundreth-and-Eighteenth Irrefutable Law of Life and Love in General: If the weather outside is below forty degrees, don’t even bother getting out of bed. It will only get worse because…:

                                                           

·      Addendum 118.1: There’s no manly way to tie a scarf: While I’m sure, buried in the hallows of Wikipedia or Youtube, there is some manner of a less, shall we say, feminine way to carry a scarf around your neck, I have yet to discover it. And, while the atrocious burgundy and beige knitted monstrosity may be the only thing standing between me and serious bout of lower-chin frostbite, I will definitely not be looking my best with it as an accessory.

·      Addendum 118.2: It’s incredibly difficult to lock/unlock your bike with big, puffy ski gloves: As I discovered huddled above my bike one frozen morning, you end up having to decide between the safety of your five-year-old bike and if you want to keep your five fingers.

·      Addendum 118.3: Beach Boys songs make everything worse: To be short: hearing “Surfin’ Safari” or “California Girls” while it is sleeting on your head is guaranteed to make you want to scream.

·      Addendum 118.4: I am, apparently, unrecognizable with a beanie on: This quasi-compliment was given to me numerous times throughout these past couple of weeks. Why is it a compliment? Because, for one, I hate my beanie, and two, that means I can officially be a master of disguise or a spy.

·      Addendum 118.5: Girls look deceptively cuter with their “winter gear” on: This really should be the first bullet because it is definitely the most upsetting. Let’s just say that with all that bundling up, the line between a “good-looking, in-shape” co-ed and a “bad-looking, out-of-shape” co-ed becomes seriously blurred. Gross.

·      Addendum 118.6: It takes exactly thirty-two seconds in the cold for my face to become all red and stiff: Self-explanatory. And painful.

·      Addendum 118.7: It is impossible to bike around campus without wanting to start crying: Comparatively, it is much much colder on a bicycle, with the wind blowing harder as you skim across the frozen-over roads. Every inch of your exposed body wants to scream. Sometimes it gets so bad that I just feel like crashing into a bush and then curling up into a ball, huddling pitifully for warmth.

            The weather forecast predicts that, this week, the temperatures are only going to drop more. So I'd like to make my own forecast: I am personally predicting that I won’t be getting out of bed. You know where to find me, then: buried under blankets and sheets, Beach Boys blaring, and my hideous scarf hanging above my dresser.

cxvii

“A kitten is chiefly remarkable for rushing about like mad at nothing whatever, and generally stopping before it gets there.”

-Agnes Repplier

            Thanks to a brief moment of clarity earlier this morning, I realized one of the irrevocable, impossible, irreversible truths of the universe: it impossible to run with a backpack on without looking like a complete idiot.

            Unfortunately, I’ve had to learn that the hard way. Since I only have twenty minutes in between my two earliest classes to get from one far end of campus to the absolute other, lugging my books always ends up as a sprint to the Harrington Education Center finish. And it never ends prettily.

            I suppose I must be a funny sight to see to the hundreds of casual, sunglassed observers that I race by: my two-year-old backpack swinging from side-to-side in an awkward half-pendulum around my body. It definitely also doesn’t help that I haven’t actually exercised since the beginning of the school year, my face red from both the cold and, more than likely, just sheer exhaustion. And, invariably, I arrive to Economics with a guaranteed half-a-minute left before class starts, wheezing, drawing the attention of the two-hundred other people already in their desks, as I make my way to the very front of the class. It’s a great way to start the day, to be sure.

            My mother called me this evening, begging me to switch my class to another day set, effectively forcing me to admit defeat to the scheduling gods. But I will not let my backpack and my schedule determine how I live my life, no matter how often my backpack causes my shirt to ride up my back (very often) and no matter how tired the 1.3 mile trek makes me (very very tired.)

            Luckily, my long-suffering bike is now fixed. So this week is looking up already.

cxvi

“Knowing is not enough…you must apply. Willing is not enough…you must do.”

-Bruce Lee

            Today I am tired. Weird.

            It’s weird because, normally, I am bounded with energy, staying up until the tiniest cracks of dawn. Normally I find myself spastically dancing with my reflection, barefoot on cold linoleum tile floors. Normally my contacts dry from my eyes being awake for so long, soaking in all that is around me and barely blinking from the vigorousness of the day.

            And so, with the first day of a strict new course schedule, of me racing across the campus, avoiding puddles and stares, of me never having laughed so hard or felt so tired, almost officially under my belt, my energy has disappeared. When I threw my blue-jeaned self onto my familiar narrow bed an hour ago, I wasn’t expecting to not be able to have gotten up since. But inactivity has its merits; my fingers have been hitting the wearing letters of my laptop’s keyboard with increasing speed and a list of WILLSANDWONTS appearing on my monitor, to start off the new school year right. So:

            What I will do this semester:

I will study. Sometimes.

I will go to bed earlier.

I will actually exercise.

I will memorize the entirety of the “Forever” rap.

I will organize my iTunes Library.

I will actually pay attention in (most of) my classes.

I will finish the books I have started.

            What I won’t do this semester:

I won’t cry anymore while I read George W. Bush’s memoirs.

I won’t wear any clothes, as is appropriate.

I won’t swear.

I won’t forget my headphones in other people’s cars.

I won’t download discographies of one-hit-wonder bands.

I won’t write haikus.

I won’t pretend I understand football.

            But for tonight, there will be no more running or dancing, my contacts in their chemical case. So there is now time to sleep.

            I will.

cxv

"A film is never really good unless the camera is an eye in the head of a poet."

-Orson Welles

            It’s not very healthy to be nostalgic.

            But, health be damned, because that’s exactly what I’ve been the past week or so, pouring over old yearbooks and the photos that are falling off of my wall. Most of my friends have already gone back to their respective colleges, forcing me to spend my days either focusing on the past or sitting cross-legged in front of my laptop, watching the "classic" movies that I have only pretended to see before.

            There was still snow residue on the ground today, the weather too cold and dreary for me to be putting my pants on, let alone for me to go outside, which is exactly what my little brother wanted me to do. I had to try and argue with him the importance of staying in and culturing oneself with the untarnishable, perfectineveryway Netflix queue. He quickly saw the value and recommended Paranormal Activity.

            I can’t normally bring myself to watch horror movies and today would, again, be no exception to that rule.  I already have way too much stuff in my life that I am worried about, that I am scared of, for me to be frightened by a man in a mask jumping out and spraying blood all over the 13” LCD screen of my MacBook.  And, whether it is the future or relationships or grades or doing laundry, movies have always been the best way for me to forget, for at least an hour-and-a-half.

            And so I would have to argue that a full Netflix queue is one of the purest forms of beauty on this earth, letting my afternoons be filled with, consecutively, The Shawshank Redemption, Close Encounters of the Third Kind, and Pulp Fiction. Over the past few months, though, I have found myself becoming less and less involved with the characters and the plot of films and more and more focused on the technical side, on what I can find wrong with the film. It’s not a very good trait to have. And so, if you combine heavy bouts of nostalgia and a developing movie snobbery, along with the (apparently) extraordinarily egotistical persona that I put off, I’m slowly becoming a person that’s not so much fun to be around.

            Excellent.