// Commentary:
So here's a story I wrote, and it would be amazing if all you guys read it because so much of what is in here comes from my experiences with all of you. Thank you. Inspiration comes from all walk of life, and our paths, no matter how arduous, just happened cross.
The assignment was to take a picture and describe the memory that comes to you. I did something a little different.
//End.
A Writer’s Account
It would be accurate to state that a picture is worth a thousand words, but that just begs the question: what then, if the picture is not present to frame the moment? What if there are no memories to speak of, connecting the picture to a particular account? Will the moment still be worth describing? It is very common to associate a picture with reality, but so much of our experience cannot, or has not been captured by a picture. It is because of this dilemma that I have decided not to include a photo to describe what memory it evokes. Instead, I’ve decided to include the memories dearest to me- absent of any tangible representation. I can only hope that these thousand words will paint a picture a camera can never hope to capture. Sometimes, it takes more than a picture to evoke a memory.
Tyler-James (or TJ as we like to call him), our drummer, showcased his talent on the stool. The drum sticks rapped across the surface, changing the tempo every so often while keeping the rhythm at a steady staccato. Johnny, our lead guitarist, shredding his instrument unplugged so the faint sounds the guitar made, was drowned out by the drumming. It was still a sight to behold however, the way his fingers moved so effortlessly all over the fret board. Taylor, our singer, sat on the couch opposite to mine, staring at nothing but the ceiling, unquestionably deep in thought. The ambiance of anxiety had touched us all in some way shape or form, and the personification of this feeling has leaded us all to allow our minds to wander. To wander onto what we do best- anything to take the thoughts off what was yet to come. A performance, our biggest one yet. The performance to trump all others, the one where our future as a band will be determined. Universal Studios was in the crowd, or so we heard, along with many other prestigious promotional companies. This was going to be the performance of a lifetime. I on the other hand, managed to scrounge myself a pen and paper, and translated my thoughts into words.
Watch the passion bleed and embrace,
Drowning yourself in music.
A passion where indulgence is preferred,
Leaving those with the appreciation
In awe.
So there we were, in a room where there was only enough space for two couches on either wall where only one person could stand at a time. Here we were, boxed in, caged like an uncontrolled beast they were about to release. Snarling, growling, rapping against the caged bars; we were that beast, anxious to release our pent-up passion on stage. To evoke catharsis within the crowd, to send chills down the audiences’ spine. Anxiety will only make us stronger. The wait, for the moment when the mics are turned on. The wait, for the moment where the speakers will project the noise that will determine our fate as a band.
Four social misfits, dressed for show rather than taste. We were a band. Tight jeans, and even tighter shirts, we left our hair to manage itself. Spiked, matted, and straightened, just another way for a musician to express. Four kids dressed up as punks, we were really four punks dressed down as kids. The image we posed was the music we tried to sell. To the outside observer, we were just another group of misfits, four in number, locked in a room with nothing better to do but to drum on a stool. The stage manager walked in. The drumming abruptly stopped, and Johnny’s fingers paused their dancing. Taylor snapped out of his trance, and I slipped the five lines I wrote in my pocket. The moment has come. The opportune moment. No sooner, no later.
***
A moment most easily forgotten. Lost potential.
We were alone. The cafeteria contained not a soul but us. The silence, suffocating to the point where my thoughts could barely breathe. The lighting, dimmed. Loosening the tie that gagged me, I could only think about what we lost. The tournament, lost.
“How did we lose?” I asked, breaking the silence that perpetuated through the room, allowing my voice to echo through the halls.
“Arrogance.” Was all my debate partner, Issac could say.
From the start we knew that we were able to preset ourselves as passionate, skilled debaters. The confidence in our abilities, lead us to present ourselves the way we did. We just believed in our abilities too much, letting the arrogance get to our heads. From our first debate onwards, we have never been committed researchers. Our philosophy had a very sophist attitude towards the way we presented our arguments; there is no right or wrong, only persuasive arguments. We were good at that. No, we were amazing at that. Our persuasive abilities made us the top debaters in our club. We allowed our arrogance to flourish, consume us. We though this was the most effective way to win. Our second debate proved this point.
“U.S. Census Bureau reports that the average income for households headed by a college graduate in 2001 was $97,593. This shows that an investment into education will provide substantial benefits to the quality of living and standards for the individual.” I stated.
“They’re just statistics, they could be wrong.” My opponent refuted.
We lost that debate. Why? We asked ourselves, because they were more persuasive. Their arguments lacked substance, but what they lacked was made up in the power of their words. The judge was obviously moved by the convincing, but fallacious arguments of the opposing team. It was here that we decided that even the minimal amount of research we did was utterly useless. Our fourth and last debate proved just how wrong we actually were.
“What we know now as our Canadian identity will soon become distorted in a world of mass media and MTV.” I stated confidently, thinking that this display of self-assurance was to surely sway the judge. I was right. I must have been right. We lost the debate.
One learns from their mistakes all too well. Arrogance. Now the senior team could not make the playoffs. Failure is the bitter medicine one must take for self-evaluation. In the car I sat, examining at how we structured our arguments. I took my laptop out, and wrote the lesson I had learned. I would not forget this moment. I will not lose my potential.
There is an assumption that some arguments based upon inference will succeed and provide validity towards the paradigm of an accepted opinion; thus confirming the proposed opinion as knowledge, is utterly false.
In other words, arguments based entirely on bullshit won’t work. Research your arguments before you try to use beautiful language.
***
Just another ordinary moment, casually dressed, deep in thought. In front of the laptop I sat, staring at the screen. In the library, in the mist of students, buried in their studies. I noticed a man whose behavior seemed awkward at best, as if he was trying to control an urge he could barely contain- but his passion for books he could not hide. Is something wrong with him? I thought, considering the fact he might have been mentally challenged. There I sat, in front of my laptop, where the thought occurred. Like a fork of lightening, the idea sprung from my mind and manifested itself through the words I had written. Calm, contrived was how I seemed. Anxious, excited was how I was. How did that man seem? What could be going through his mind? I typed furiously, as I sought to answer these questions.
The genius calibration, set within the human mind contains many questionable qualities. The effects on their behavior have shown that their descent into madness have allowed for some to become admired for their intelligence. The mentally insane have many natural tendencies, to excel in areas where it may require double (or perhaps more) the human effort to achieve. Why is this so? How can one perceived with a disability be able to distinguish themselves so well that at times; it may seem like we are the ones with the disability, and not them.
***
Photographs only record an artificial moment where one superficially poses themselves as if to perfect the memory. A habit of mine. To describe a moment I’d like to remember, forever preserved in writing. In the end, this memoir may be the story of my life, but it is up to the reader to experience the times. These are just some moments I’d like to remember.
Sun Apr 26, 2009 3:07 pm