oh ; it`s always H A V E && . . . . . . never { h o l d } . . . . . . you`ve - begun to :: FEEL LIKE < home ;

How many servicefolk do you know?

Like, firefighters, police officers, and the like?

I can think off the top of my head - a handful of my friends' fathers who are in the forces. A neighbor of mine at the end of the street who is a firefighter - the firefighter in our neighborhood.

It's funny. Yesterday, I was skimming through older entries, just because I could. I found the one from November 11th of 2011 and... let me see if I can find it... Heh.

"Though I Walked Home Alone, Guiding Me Home"

There ya go. It was Veteran's Day, I think. Yep.

I wonder what makes people in the service stay in the service. Like, sure, the reason they go initially can either be with filial benefits, a selfless inclination, or even a self-worth kinda thing, y'know? But, what keeps them fighting through the trials and tribulations, carrying the burden of an entire nation on their shoulders and still plowing through their own lives, day by day.

I could only imagine it being passion.

Or, at the very least, passion being one of the things to drive them.

About ten of my friends and I were escorted by two of our teachers to go on a trip to the World Trade Center today; the trip was organized by my good buddy Mike Sbarra.

To say the least, he's the man.

I wonder if he likes The Fray.

♫ The Fray - "Look After You" ♪

It's what I'm listening to now, over and over and over. It fits the mood, more or less. But, let's go into what happened today.

The morning was pretty simple: we left a few minutes before our first period class was to end and then made our way to the train station in our school's town. From there, we made our commute, eventually making the train ride much more entertaining than we anticipated it to be.

We got off, having our antics with such a lively group - on the PATH playing along with the screen's "word scramble."

Mike beat us all in, at least, two seconds flat. The word was "cloth." We reveled at his efficiency, while Alex chalked it up to luck, John declared that he had found out the word all on his own.

Into the city we stepped, battered by the chilled winds and engrossed by the sounds of the construction site - the rebuilding site.

We had time to kill, so we ran to grab a bite and sat for a bit, enjoying our sojourn from school.

As all Seniors, I don't think there wouldn't've been a better way to spend one of our last Tuesdays of my school year.

The buildings were high-rise, naturally, for aesthetics and par customs of the industrialized city. The Freedom Tower, which was still in the making, made me crane my neck upwards, just as Alex had noted when he pointed it out. And the sun was doing a grand job of making me squint to look at it.

Mike doled out our tickets at the entrance; we passed through customs and security without a synch - we had no ill will towards any of the myriad of other people visiting the memorial for reasons similar or completely contrasting from ours.

As soon as I stepped in, having conjured up all these thoughts, all of these imaginative concepts of what it would like, I was handed a pamphlet from Christian, another member of the field trip. I reveled at the quaint and tranquil scenery. It was absolutely beautiful - slim, bland trees speckled the pathway.

The site was obviously still under-construction. However, the things we did see were absolutely impressive.

All of the people there, all there for the same reasons we were, to see the same things we had gone to see... it was really commendable.

The North Pool was immaculate.

We approached it, mingling with complete strangers who looked over the panels with the copious inventory of names. I looked over the panel to find the vast, hollow space where the building used to be, where it used to stand and reside, and found a pool of water collected at the bottom of the square waterfall. The waterfalls were so pristine as they glistened down the walls that it made me think good things, happy things.

The whole time we spent there, we were paused mostly at the pools; they were massive. It's surreal, my friends said - this many people, buildings these colossal.

"Just imagine, everything here would have been covered in dirt and rubble and dust and crap."

Alex mused inwardly, looking to me for some kind of response. I didn't even think of what the scene would have looked like, because I had never seen the Twin Towers in person myself. I don't think I had much of a resolve to when I was in the second grade or so.

What's worse is that, as I traced the letters of strangers names and glided my hands over them and whispered a prayer of peace for them and their families, to me, they were complete strangers.

To other people, they were absolute heroes: best friends, family members, love of their lives, and whatnot. It just wrenched my heart when I watched the water slide into that smaller square in the center of the pool.

There's the trick again: we go through our hardships and our struggles, but people live their lives everyday, not knowing what's going to come.

And there were an unfathomable amount of names of people without faces to me who exemplified the notion of "bad things happen to good people."

We rounded the North Pool, casually graced by a swift sweep of wind that carried a spray with it from the pool. Once we had passed the Museum - which looks pretty cool from the outside, might I add - which we could not enter just yet. Making our way to the South Pool, I felt a bit of an inward recoil.

Andrew, another one of the boys on the trip, said to me,

"You know, without any water running at this one, it makes it look a lot more spooky."

There were no waterfalls cascading from the insides of this pool. Just ripples victim to the currents of the deep winds that swooped through. The walls were dry, the panels present nonetheless. We went around, and I just stared at the inside of the pool.

It looked so small from where we were. It looked so insubstantial when just through my eyes. Though, when I looked across the space to the people on the other side, I kind of realized how massive the buildings were.

Alex and I talked a little bit. As we came to the last side of the South Pool, he made a great observation.

"You know, it's really weird. I look at these names, and it makes me realize that it could have been anybody. I look at this name and I think of your friend Natalie. I look at this one and I think of Owen - see?"

He was right. Even if they could have not been related at all, no filial ties, no association whatsoever with one another, the people in the towers were people. They lived lives, they did what they needed to do, I'm sure.

It's crazy.

And, he stumbled across a name in particular he really wanted to share.

One with "hope" in their name.

Amy Hope Lamonsoff

with so much bad stuff that happened that day
and the people whpo died
it was ironic to see somones name had hope in it
saying maybe this isnt the end of the world per say
but like this instance is only going to make things better for people in the future
hence the 'hope'

- Alex Quow

It's past 10 PM. Spell-check no longer exists for Alex.

But, yeah. He has a great point - it's not the end of the world.

ProjectRebirth.org & 911memorial.org/blog

Lastly, we visited the Survivor Tree. It was a tough find at first, though we found it easier when we realized it wasn't like any of the other trees in the memorial. It was very impressive, how it still looked healthy, how it was bolted down and had a ring about it. What's more was that when we were told of its outlasting the fall of the towers, Erik suddenly swelled with respect for it.

Then, when Mike explained that they had been moving it all about the place to showcase it, Erik's respect immediately dissipated.

We found that pretty funny.

All in all, it was a really amazing trip. I got another bracelet, and we got to see the Flag of Honor.

It was truly an amazing experience.

It kinda makes you think differently about everything in your life now, y'know?

Thanks Mike.

<3 ~ Monty.
=]

IN THE BEGINNING . . . . . . [ it was not so ]

In the beginning.

The first three words from the bible. The first three words we usually use to describe origin and initial sources.

I don't think I ever mentioned it in here before, but when I was on one of my last SHIP runs of my high school career, I sat to speak with one of the people we were serving. He was a very intelligent and talkative individual. He engaged in my interests, weaving what I liked into the conversation and showing me different vantages to it.

We spoke of the power of spoken word, of the power of will manifesting - spiritual force in the words we speak.

"In the beginning..." 

He had asked for the first three words in the bible. Honestly, for some reason, I stumbled with uncertainty in choking those three words out.

I didn't know that they'd basically circumvent my life after then.

We were in the gymnasium last I left us, right? Starting the retreat and all? Right. So let's pick it up.

Actually, let me go wash my hands. I've been eating chocolate. Great stuff.

So, right. In the beginning.

What's the first thing you think of when I say "beginning"? Was it when you woke up this morning? The creation of life, whichever what-way it was done? Or maybe you think about your mother giving birth to you - the beginning of your life? Even the beginning of lives of others around you? Maybe? Maybe not?

Well, whatever the case, there's always a beginning. True statement.

We sat on the floor of the gymnasium, sure to be more than a diameter of our wingspan away from anyone and everyone. Basically, for a few moments, people sat on the floor and swung their arms around them to make sure they weren't near anyone else. They said something, I didn't quite hear because of the acoustics of the gymnasium, but the lights then went out. I presumed it was meditation time, seeing as how people were sitting there, getting comfortable, and closing their eyes.

"...There will be people running around touching your head, so don't freak out."

I managed to make that out from the booming speakers. I had no clue what they were planning.

I would take a few seconds to actually close my eyes and listen to the blaring music that was soon turned down to accompany our inward contemplation. The music was pretty soothing. Then a voice started speaking.

"When I call your name, I want you to stand and follow the voice."

I peaked open a few times and saw people running about with cloths in their hands, their feet drowned in the ample cover of the music. An irrational though which had been embedded in me from my frightful mother crossed my mind.

I was going to die.

It was completely irrational. But I was admittedly a bit intimidated. I quickly closed my eyes and anticipated that they were calling particular people, that they were going to blindfold only random choice.

I heard a pair of feet approach me from my left, as I was sitting against the mats on the gymnasium wall. I leaned my head forth so that whoever it was could wrap the cloth over my eyes. I didn't know what was going on, nor did I think I wanted to know.

The feet left me there, sitting in the dark.

I opened my eyes to try and cheat the system again.

The system had found my loophole.

I suppose I've got to just sit here and play along, then.

That was my thought in passing.

When they called my name after a myriad of others, I had a sudden... resistance to standing. That same resistance, that uncertainty that initially coached me to not go to the retreat. But, rising to my feet, I remembered where the girl and boy in my path to the voice were, and did my best to maneuver about them.

After I presumed I had gotten beyond them, I didn't remember who else was in the way. I walked in the general direction of the voice, cautious, wary, and found that there were gentle fingers on my shoulders guiding me. They were soft and comforting, and I felt very secure in them. Of course, it was a person, but I got the angelic vibes. No worries.

The voice grew louder and louder, and soon enough, I could see a light pathway. There were other people being guided by people behind them, walking as calm and steady as possible. I let my arms down and left the rest to the person behind me - they had to know what they were doing, surely.

The twists and turns weren't that immense and grand and what have you. I was eventually led to a chair and assured to sit. And left there. A few moments later, I heard someone clamor into the seat beside me. Eventually, the voice, having called nearly everybody, soon told us to take off our blindfolds.

The setting was a room we would become very familiar with. As I'm writing this now, I recall the first and last talks, and I smile, missing it all.

From the ceiling hung brown paper, on a similarly tan changing screen, and from the "branches", hung leaves. Accompanying the many leaves was one, red paper apple.

I looked about at the others sitting with me in the audience. Approximate sixty kids, I'd learn to inventory. But, before I could look elsewhere, two familiar faces came skipping down the short aisle. In their hands, they held scripts. In their eyes, they held excitement.

A skit. The Garden of Eden. This, the branches, the tree, and the apple - it all clicked. Of course, they were clothed, and they were reading their lines from papers, but it wasn't about the simple aesthetics for a reason - the message was most important.

Team HUNIS got it right: a theme throughout the entire weekend, amongst the many, was centered on what we learned in the first night.

The act of taking the apple from the tree, the "snake" "talking" to Adam and Eve - whatever you want to believe as a creation story, as a real, literal explanation or a metaphorical comparison - was never too great for us.

Original Happiness; Original Unity; Original Nakedness; Original Innocence; Original Solitude.

Whenever Mr. Rose would say "original" to explain the story we witnessed, revealing our Team Leaders as the helpers along our paths to find out our three fundamental questions, the audience would think and respond "sin".

He laughed at our determination to be right in the wrong.

We laughed with him at ourselves as well.

Those original qualities were the things we had before original sin, before the break between man and the deity we know identify as God.

The bliss of Eden. When you think of the Garden of Eden, whether you believe in the actual story or not, is it a place with pits of hellfire and chasms of vast darkness that never end? Abysses upon abysses that tear you to shreds?

Exactly.

The safety and security of our oneness with our creator. The humility, vulnerability. The ignorant and uninformed minds we had that needed to know nothing but love. And, when man was created, according to scripture, he was lone and so he was made a partner.

Team HUNIS.

But, what Team HUNIS didn't truly espouse was the three questions we were pressed to let resurface in our lives:

- Who am I?
- Why am I here?
- Where am I going?

[ Funny thing, the three songs I've had on repeat are Franklin by Paramore, One Last Breath by Creed, and Where Are You Going? by Dave Matthews Band - it's for a school performance in a couple of days, but the last question reminded me of it. And, connections and stuff! -wiggles fingers- Hahah. ]

Of course, these are questions we've asked many times in our lives before; if something's popped up in our paths and we have no clue which way to turn, no clue what to do, who to talk to, we start asking questions that we, ourselves, can't even answer.

"Who am I?"

How do you even answer that?

Apparently, going back to the beginning has all the roots and answers we need.

So, let's go.

The first talk. It's where a person with a prepared speech sits before the audience and relays the burdens of their hearts, their past, and ties it into lessons and teachings from Jesus, more or less. It's geared towards us, as the audience, and completely comprehensive, relative, and impressive for us, as a like-aged group. It helps tons that, with the inhibitions, struggles, and understanding we all have experienced, it makes us comfortable - even if it's a microscopic measurement.

From it, I took LN's 3Ds.

No, Jordan, not the "Daily Dose of Darin." That wasn't it at all. Haha.

They were dignity, destiny, and defects.

They're basically innate in every human being, defining us and helping us find the answers to the three fundamental questions - they're basically our first building block.

"In the beginning, it was not so."

It was a line that LN drilled into us during her talk of where we screwed up along the way, the grooves and ditches of humanity that we were too confident, too ambitious to consider fitting in and securing ourselves on while scaling the incline slope we call Life. Those same grooves, our stretches to reach the further, smaller nooks would get us there quicker, but have greater risks.

The corners we cut, so to speak.

The whole thing of being blindfolded in the dark gymnasium and brought into comfy room and sat in chairs, you ask?

Well, it's simple.

The gym was dark.

The room was light.

After the talk, we were ushered into small groups to talk about... the talk. The whole experience so far.

Much to my chagrin, we had LN in our group. Most of my group was actually pretty cool people. Only LN proved to be a talker, and, incidentally enough, as we were to open sessions with prayer, our mouths were sealed shut and our eyes were glued to the table before us.

A round table, two parchments of paper, a poster board, and a packet of washable, non-toxic markers.

LN started us off in prayer. We went around, introducing ourselves and got relatively familiar with one another before we went and poured our hearts out.

I admitted something that I never really thought would be one of my personal nuisances.

One of the major boots on my wheels before that weekend, using the analogy of a car being restricted by a boot, was my family. I stray from the topic all the time, just because of the complications, and whenever I do mention them to my friends, they have to write it down or draw to follow it all.

To say the least, I've got my issues.

But, listening to each of the people in my group, I found that some of the issues I had were fickle compared to what other people were going through. And, to openly admit such things, just like with the talkers, instantly conjured respect for them. My respect.

I heard a person sniffling and sobbing at another table. My heart dropped.

The griefs and burdens we all carried were nothing compared to the cross. Of course, they may be our cross to carry, or they may be just enough, but we're not in it alone.

The next day, just as a jump forward in time for a second, CT let us know that we weren't in this fight alone.

We were never in it alone.

That's what being a part of a community - Christian, Muslim, Jewish, Buddhist, etc. - is all about. Not only your personal relationship and preference, but... finding the communal focus and channel. All the things that follow are dependent on your perspective, your ideology - who you are.

The rest of the evening was a precursor for the weekend. It let me think a lot. Not with this "writer" mind, or with an "entertainer" mind, looking to make sure that others were participating and enjoying and understanding things themselves, but with my own personal mind. I contributed and followed along with things. I experienced what I needed to, when I needed to, and made new friends for just being me.

Such a great feeling, isn't it?

Well, before I mentioned a group by the name of Team H.U.N.I.S., right?

What was our group name, you might wonder? Or you actually may not, but it's okay, because I'm going to relieve your sudden curiosity anyhow.

We were called the Plum Sloths.

Just because,

We're that awesome.

So, after all that was said and done, we made our way up to the church at night. It was the first time I'd actually step foot into the church, and, to say the least, it was beautiful. The chandeliers were dimmed, the pews empty. It was vast and huge, and I didn't even think to glance at the cross before the alter.

In our hands, we had candles that were lit and given to us at the top of the stairwell.

Into the church we walked, and down the aisle we went, focused on the flame in our hands. Beyond the line I followed, I found that there were other kids already sitting against the pews and holding their candles. The light of the sanctuary was insubstantial to what it probably was during the day.

We were seated on the carpet and steps at the front of the sanctuary by a man who I would learn to love and [ presently ] identify as LI.

We stared at our flames in the dark.

"Welcome home," he started. "I'm your daddy," he held a larger candle in his hands, pacing about. Well, these weren't his exact words, but he was starting a story, and we were wrapped up in his recounting to think anything of it.

"This is where we keep the plates and forks and knives, but you're too young to use them. This is where mommy and daddy sleep. This is where you will sleep. I am your daddy, LI."

LI, in the center of our candlelit polygon, looking over our heads, at our flames, at our faces, and down at his own, continued to walk.

Imagining people as infants is always a band-aid for me. Babies, for the most part, are cute and adorable, so to think of a person who's grown and developed out of their baby years as an infant is just like searching for the quintessence of purity and goodness in their hearts.

Soon, his story of childhood innocence took a turn to focus on us.

We were instructed, told to focus on the flame in our hands.

I looked around for a brief moment, finding people in intense focus and found people recoiling from the hot wax rolling onto their fingers. They had told us to hold it as straight as we could manage. And then, my eyes found the hot flame before me, growing taller with my imagination.

Sometimes hearing what you already think you know makes you think about it more. Maybe there's something about it you don't know for sure, or that you never really thought about in such a way. Well, LI's remarks of life and all it's... glorious struggles... he basically sparked the candle for our weekend up in that sanctuary.

Even with the luminescence of over fifty candles in one area, and the silence of over fifty mouths, and the turmoil of over fifty weathered souls... LI's voice rang out.

"If anyone's ever hurt you, I want you to blow that candle out."

I sat there. I heard people blowing out their candles. I couldn't think of anything, and I didn't want to seem like a self-righteous bastard, of course.

Though, when the next line of words left his mouth, it all came rushing at me.

"And, if you have ever hurt anyone, I want you to blow your candle out."

Both, instances of when I've been hurt or disappointed or when I've gone out of my way to damage someone else loomed over me. They suffocated me until I barely had any air left to exhale over the wick of my candle and show that I was just like everyone else.

And that we were all the same.

 LI blew out his candle as well, and we all sat there for a few moments in the stillness.

The night's events ended there. LI was most certainly a surprise, seeing as how I didn't know much of anything that was to happen. But, his spiel of taking all the crap we've been through and basically going back to the beginning to start anew coincided with the rest of the night.

It was the beginning of starting to go back to the beginning. The beginning that was right.

The beginning that was good.

"In the beginning, it was not so."

<3 ~ Monty.

=]

t.o.d.a.y. - i s t h e [ D A Y ]

Wow.

Well, before I get into all the nice stuff, I'd like to acknowledge Blogger's new look..?

Yeah. It's weird, but I'm sure I'll get used to it. Haha. Suppose I have to.
Very well then!

I'm listening to "Secret" by Maroon 5 because I'm anticipating on performing it at an Open Mic, if I end up going. That'd be exciting.

Anyhow, like I was saying:

Wow.

This "Berry Berry Good Lemonade" I'm drinking sucks. It might just taste weirdly because of my allergies, and I may be miserable because of my allergies, but life sucks.

Or maybe it's the fact that my weekend retreat is over.

I'm sure there was some kind of reluctance in everyone's hearts as they left the comfort and safety of their homes to go a church for the weekend. Right, right - Church. You think of the pews and aisles and token at the center-focus of the venue. Of course, not all retreats are held in the actual sanctuary - at least, that wasn't where mine was.

The weekend started out pretty lively and entertaining. To say the least, traveling with parents kin to mine, it's destined to lead us about in a circle or two for a predetermined amount of time, for sure. After an hour had passed, I stumbled from the parking lot, up the stairs, greeted by three teenagers like me, and ushered into an entrance from the side of the church.

It was about forty-five minutes from home, and it was about eight in the evening; sun had set and the only noises I could hear were now the cars outside and the people downstairs. As they told me drop my things amidst the myriad of other belongings, I grew anxious. I didn't know anyone, no one's face was familiar, and I didn't know where to go or what was going to happen.

Nothing in the world could have prepared me for what was going to happen within the next two days.

Nothing.

So, I look back to my mother, the sole gambler who dragged her exhausted limbs into a car to drive for a little over an hour and a half, returning home after it all. At the end of the day, I have to respect her more than I actually do.

But, I digress. Before she scampered off, a face - a familiar one - breached the doors we had once entered through.

"There he is!" Called the individual who invited me on the retreat, one of my professors.

For the sake of anonymity, respect, and confidentiality, we'll call him by his endeared self-dubbed "nickname"...

"Chocolate Thunder." We'll call him CT for short. Sound good?

CT dragged me down some stairs after assuring my mother and her motherly concerns that we'd all be fine and fantastic. After we turned down a corridor I would become relatively familiar with within the next two days, we found ourselves walking into a carpeted room, where I met with another familiar face - Mr. Rose, who ran our Senior Retreat.

To say the least, it was a relief to see him happy to see me.

Well, being an hour late and being received with smiles isn't exactly the first thing you would expect, is it?

.... Well then. = _ =;;

I suppose I should have expected better, sure, but I didn't know better. Heh. It'll resurface, no worries.You'll get a kick out of it, I'm sure.

So, after greetings and all the brief niceness, CT then dragged me into the gymnasium, called to a kid by his name, who we'll dub "TM" [ who was wearing a calendar-necklace on his chest with the rest of his name or nickname. Whatever the case, people didn't call him "TM" ] and he was my partner for whatever game they were playing. I found that it was a familiar and classic from our retreat back in January [ or March since I'm REALLY good at this game hahah ]: Perch & Birdie.

Basically, a bird perches, right? So, when a bird perches, it hops on a branch [ or whatever it's perching on ] and stays there, right?

I think you can get the visual of a myriad of people leaping onto one another, simulated by an aura of Musical Chairs and Simon Says. It's fun, definitely, and it shatters awkward walls people tend to find time to build rather than make friends.

TM and I were in it to win it.

Except we were, y'know, runner-ups.

It fell through when TM decided to switch roles and do the same thing the Birdie was supposed to do when he was actually the Perch.

Whatever. Not the focus of this retreat. Hahah.

TM and a number of other individuals were then revealed to me as "Team Leaders", or our peers who would be leading and helping us along our search this weekend for whatever it was we were looking for.

Sorry, I took a little moment there to keel over from my allergies.

The next game we played was OLMC Says - the customized version of Simon Says, only with OLMC being the initials of the church we were in for the weekend. After a few rounds, we turned it over to starting the retreat.

The entire retreat was amazing, to say the least, and with this as a preface to the occurrences, more or less, I'm glad to say that I went.

I've learned a lot of things I've forgotten.

A lot of things that I needed to remember to figure out:

- Who am I?
- Why am I here?
- Where am I going?

And, to say the very least, our theme song for the Legend of the Hidden Temple Retreat was "Today is the Day" by Lincoln Brewster.

It reminded me that, while life's pretty darn difficult, there's always a way to get through it.

And I'm here to relay the baton to you all.

<3 ~ Monty.
=]

somethin` to leave BEHIND . somethin` that I call DEFINE - I JUST wanna be ; SEEN && HEARD ;

The New Yorker, "Letter from California: Jumpers" by Tad Friend

I know not everyone in the world has the time to sit down and read a six-paged article; though, I can almost feel certain enough to guarantee you that, should you sit and read it, you'll begin to think in a completely different way.

Monday [ yesterday ] we had a guest speaker at school.

You know how those always go; everyone's excited or disappointed to miss a class they may or may not like, berate the powers unknown for making them sit in seats that make their hinds fall asleep and then completely go on about their day, forgetting what the individual who came to speak with them even said entirely.

Admittedly, I don't have the greatest of memories, but this one would definitely make a mark on me.

He, an African-American man, was identified as a "Dr. Mykee". I wonder if I can find him on the internet; give me a second.

Aha~! Success!

His name is Michael Fowlin, and he is an amazing individual, from what I gathered during the presentation. He has a Doctorate in Psychology [ if I'm not mistaken ], and is an actor. And maybe something else - see? That amazing memory coming into play here. Haha.

Well, his show, as the website says, is bookended [ meaning it starts with, ends with and is more or less centralized on ] by a poem by Langston Hughes.

"Still Here"
By Langston Hughes
Been scared and battered.
My hopes the wind done scattered.
Snow has friz me,
Sun has baked me,

Looks like between 'em they done
Tried to make me

Stop laughin', stop lovin', stop livin'--
But I don't care!
I'm still here!

The first time he said it, it slipped right by me. It sounded like a pretty awesome poem, and I recognized it from hearing it in middle school. However, as he continued with his presentation, I found that it held a deeper, pronged meaning than just a bunch of words that sounded... poetic.

Honestly, I went in there battered by seasonal allergies. There are two things that personally derail me: allergies and frustration. Allergies are a category all of their own. But, I digress - I went in there a bit disgruntled; I would listen, but I wasn't expecting much from it. The man spoke to us, he talked of discrimination, of injustice, of all the things that are wrong in peoples' minds.

Though, he started with a joke his seven-year-old daughter replies steadfastly to:

This explanation / recounting is much better than my own. Hahah.

Did you laugh? I thought it was pretty grotesque.

Dr. Mykee's daughter's response, however, he told us went something like this: "Daddy, Superman's not supposed to hurt you, he's supposed to save you." He then attributed the wisdom of mankind to, obviously, individuals who utilize their brains a lot more oft. Makes sense, right?

What color was the last thing you drank?

Don't remember? You didn't observe it all that well, then.

Would you get up to close the door or would you rather remain in your seat, bed, etc.?

By human nature, as we grow older and more experienced with things, we become comfortable, lethargic, and, ultimately, lazy.

Whereas, the individuals who are inspecting just about everything - the ones who are key in shining pearls of wisdom - are the ones who are new to the world's wonders. The ones who are years of age that you can count with both hands, approximately.

Pardon me for a second, having a bit of an allergic reaction. -runs to take allergy medicine-

I did forget to mention the song, didn't I? Well, here it is: Karmin - "Remembered" - it completely ties into the theme for this one.

His most entertaining bit was where he took his alleged talents [ making up voices; his anecdote explaining this incorporated prank phone calls when he was in about sixth grade and being quite the character in having girls' boyfriends chase him into the night at rendezvouses he was not attending; one particular instance took a turn for worse, and a girl's boyfriend and his friend died in a car crash, chasing after him - he didn't resent himself for it in the slightest, as it was a justifiable thing to think was funny when at his age: the phone calls, not the occurrence; ergo, he, more or less, turned his focuses to helping others rather than himself ( not belittle it, but, y'know, it's something that is an aside for the most part ] and created the persona for us.

Whether you read and recognized them on the website that showcased his presentation or not is not that important. It's the message each of them carry with them.

He reverberated the poem - "Still Here" - only to segway into wearing a cap and sitting in one of the four chairs on the stage.  The first of his characters was named Jermaine - a young boy who dreams of being the President of the United States, as his mother prospects, yet is... rather hyper. In fact, he has ADHD - Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder - and is constantly being sent to disciplinary figures for disrupting class and such. His performance was absolutely endearing - I paid attention to the words he was saying, because you kind of had to try and keep up with speedy Jermaine. In the end, didn't appreciate always being in trouble; his engaging attitude made it easy for us, the audience, to sympathize with the youth. And it was particularly funny when he said he had to pee, hence his incessant tittering which could have otherwise been pinned to his ADHD.

He walked to the other side of the seats, picking up a jersey and showcasing it to us. It was a Rutgers jersey - Rutgers being a university in the state I live - with the number twenty-three, Alex is 89% sure. If this number is incorrect, so be it - the premise was that this character, Octavious Furious *something* was a football player. He was getting a full-ride to college for being a star running back. His story incorporated a feel of... unease. Pressing on matters that people don't usually like to sit through, Octavious revealed to the audience, through an aside, that he was a homosexual. The discrimination notice surfaced before, but now it took precedence here. Octavious tapped vigorously into the psyche of the audience - being a football player, it was in the interest of the majority listening. Octavious wasn't entirely dedicated to playing football after he graduated college, didn't care much for Going Pro. Though, the highlight of his life story to us was in the last game of the season, his team ran a game winning play that wasn't supposed to work. Octavious, confused, spoke with his coach - "Why did you call that play?" The play that wasn't supposed to work. "There's a difference between what you were supposed to do and what you needed to do, Octavious," His coach basically replied, without the logistics of the presentation. Octavious, saying that he didn't quite understand the difference to the audience, told his coach that he did and went on his merry way.

Next was a rather interesting character - his name was Benjamin and he was a Jewish-Italian. His story was pretty grim; not fitting in, not belonging - the norm, sure. But, y'know, in accord with Octavious' racial highlights [ being a black guy with friends of other races ], Ben found the rougher end of the antisemitism. As you could imagine, all the abhorrent associates of a hate-crime against a Jewish individual. Benjamin was.. very emphatic here; he even got really upset at the pitiful, racist jokes - usually race, as an ice-breaker, would be the pseudo-glue to hold people together, to, at the very least, make things seem nice: to make them gilded. He was emo, he admitted to the audience. Or to some degree he respected the goth and observed their like-mindedness. The one thing that stuck out to me was that he felt comfortable when he was adorned in all-black garb and walked through cemeteries. What kind of person you know who does that and is at peace with themselves? Not too many kind of whatever persons you may have been able to muster up, though.

After Benjamin and his depression came Sabine, and Indian-Asian female who is made fun of because of her appearance, because of her weight issues, because of her origin. She experienced the stringency of society, of close-minded cliques, of self-degrading acts like Bulimia. The pressures of life just led her into traps that she most certainly was too smart to avoid.

I don't know how or why exactly he was able to amplify these stories in such a manner that captivated us all, but he did. And it worked. He then went on things I occasionally skip onto in here: legacy. Have you been listening to the song? Should you have, you could most certainly tell that the song, even in its title, is relating to one's memory, one's honor and whatever they leave behind - the footprint to leave behind of the world. When he asked the audience if we've ever been asked by our parents "What do you want to be when you grow up?" nearly everyone raised their hands. When he asked us about "What will you leave behind - what will be your legacy?" I could only see one of my own friends uncertainly begin to raise his hand. I would have raised my own as well, but I was sincerely observing and absorbing his presentation. I needed the vigor that he was injecting into the room.

My mom always talks about legacy. She always does. And I can most certainly thank her for doing so - it's driven me to do things that I otherwise would have never done. Even making these blog entries is something I never really anticipated to ever be accepted by anyone other than a handful of my friends. Hopefully the words I scribe or the actions spurred by me or someone else in this world will carry on and follow through to infect the rest of the world positively.

Speaking of which, Dr. Mykee mentioned two articles during his presentation. One was on the Golden Gate Bridge suicides and such, while the other was of a survey of individuals who were 95+ years old and were asked about their lives. "If you could live your lives over, what would you do differently?"

If I'm not mistaken, he said that the underlying message was that they would reflect inward more - try and make things different and make things better.

But the one I wanted to focus more on was the one with the Golden Gate Bridge: Jumpers.

The New Yorker, "Letter from California: Jumpers" by Tad Friend

{ It was at the top of this entry, if you missed it or decided against clicking it. }

To sum it up, it's basically talking about the Golden Gate Bridge and how it's one of the most popular sites for committing suicides - in fact, it's number one. Before we get any further, however, let me say this: I do not condone nor encourage the act of suicide, and if there are issues, whether I personally am capable of executing them to the best of my abilities all of the time, it is important to talk them out. It's a mutual learning experience for us - there are occasions when people say something circumventing suicidal thoughts in the heat of the moment or facetiously, but they're all the same words.

The whole controversy, I think, of the six pages is the entirety of ethical obligation. A barrier, in short, would reduce the suicidal count, though people are worried of aesthetics, finances, and the notion that the repercussions may hurt people.

When I read the part about "public safety", I nearly glared at my computer, as if the people who said that would have seen my internal judgment.

So, yeah. Look at that, and take it with a grain of salt.

The part Dr. Mykee referenced, though, was on the last page.

The bridge comes into the lives of all Bay Area residents sooner or later, and it often stays. Dr. Jerome Motto, who has been part of two failed suicidebarrier coalitions, is now retired and living in San Mateo. When I visited him there, we spent three hours talking about the bridge. Motto had a patient who committed suicide from the Golden Gate in 1963, but the jump that affected him most occurred in the seventies. “I went to this guy’s apartment afterward with the assistant medical examiner,” he told me. “The guy was in his thirties, lived alone, pretty bare apartment. He’d written a note and left it on his bureau. It said, ‘I’m going to walk to the bridge. If one person smiles at me on the way, I will not jump.’ ”
- "Letter from California: Jumpers", The New Yorker [ 10/13/2003 ]

It's crazy.

How often do you smile at strangers?

I smile at just about everyone in school [ on any normal day ] and I smile at most people on the way home. I never even thought about the things people do, the tests people have for complete strangers. All I look to do is better people's days, people's lives with a basic and pretty straightforward smile.

You may not care, because you don't know him, he may have lived his life already, or whatever excuse you may think up but I think everyone has their ruts, and they need a pick-me-up to turn everything right-side-up.

I most certainly did yesterday.

As I was looking around for the article, I found a few responses to it. Well, one response to it that also tied into another blog.

If you love reading, then this most certainly is the entry for you. Hahah.

WriteGray - "If One Person Smiles"

I read part of this first, then I checked out the other blog, ZenHabits - Find Stillness. It was really interesting; took a part of my mind that I rarely expound upon.

Read it. If you don't like it, all you have to do is click the "x"s on the tabs.

Oh! Oh! I remembered something else.

Benjamin was really upset at his early-schooling teacher for instilling the discrimination within impressionable children; "find what doesn't belong and strike it with an 'x'." His converse, in a much calmer tone, was "find what is different from the others... and put a smiley face next to it."

This was one of the many things that made me smile.

What was another thing, you ask? Well, after the four seats and their props had been identified, Dr. Mykee plopped down and assumed the poise of a physically impaired individual. He identified this muse as a male with Cerebral Palsy whose name was Peter. Peter was absolutely adorable, and not because he gripped anyone's heart with a hint of pity or entirely of compassion, but because he was a genuine person. He was relative to both you and I. Peter told us about this time he was in the supermarket and when a kid his - our - age was making fun of him; he wasn't bothered by the occurrence because it apparently happened all the time. The mother of the boy, however, lashed out at him, berating the boy for making fun of Peter for fright that what happened to Peter might happen to him.

When he started crying on the stage, I instantly felt a swell of tears burn at my eyes.

But I didn't cry. Because I was too captivated.

"It just hurts me to hear that people think that what happened to me is a punishment - that God doesn't love me."

Peter then went on to say that he loved himself. That he was proud of who he was, that there was nothing wrong with being Peter, that there was nothing wrong with being yourself.

You see why I adored his character?

One of the first things he said was, "you know what I do when I first wake up in the morning? . . . . I put on clothes, because people get freaked out by a naked guy in a wheelchair."

Just about everyone in the audience laughed, I'm pretty sure.

But, yeah. It was a crazy day. I walked down the stairs and someone called me beautiful, as the phenomenon that was Dr. Mykee's epic resolution to the show had us recite the poem "Still Here" with him as he walked off stage: he told us to call ourselves beautiful, to call each other beautiful, and instructed us to basically live, laugh, and love.

By far, the best assembly I've had in my four years of high school, and probably the best guest speaker I've experienced in my life.

So, that's pretty much it. I don't want to blabber any more, because I'm sure I'll be managing to do that after the retreat this weekend.

Yeah! That's right! =D The retreat is from Friday to Sunday. I probably won't have internet access Friday, so I'll take logs of each day in a notebook, and if they're neat enough, I'll scan straight from them. If not, I'll type them up for next week, no worries.

Until then, "you are beautiful." So, don't make a mountain out of a molehill, and don't try to climb the mountain barefooted.

Also, if you could have flying or invisibility, which would it be, and why?

Was your first impulse to answer to help other people?

Let's train ourselves so that it is next time.

"I'm Still Here"
By Langston Hughes
Been scared and battered.
My hopes the wind done scattered.
Snow has friz me,
Sun has baked me,

Looks like between 'em they done
Tried to make me

Stop laughin', stop lovin', stop livin'--
But I don't care!
I'm still here!

<3 ~ Monty.
=]

P.S.
There was something about clams and pearls, but we'll save that for another time. Hahah.

. it`s not * F A I T H . if you use your ( E Y E S ) .

Because today's just one of those Tuesday where words don't really work as well as music does.

Paramore's my favorite band. This man's a complete stranger. He's amazing with the keys, though. Take a listen, maybe pop on some Rainy Mood, relax or work to it. Whichever way, I'm pretty sure his finesse didn't happen overnight.

Hard work and dedication and passion must have played a part.

Keep up the good work. No one else can do it as well as you. I'm sure.

Oh, and you should check out his other stuff. Just because. =D

<3 ~ Monty.
=]

`` i got my ticket , and i`m going to go . . . ``

Easter~!

Bunnies and rabbits and colorful eggs and sweets.

It's what we've commercialized it as, though people who believe and celebrate in whatever they choose highlight it as a coherent milestone of the season.

Every year, life is new, the world is new.

With particular backgrounds, the celebration of Easter could be many things. Rigorous research [ something that I definitely didn't do ] would probably source multiple things of religious affiliation. Whatever or whoever you believe in, Easter is still going to be what it is for many people - a holiday.

Some time to spend with the family, a time to relax and enjoy what you have.

I suppose the previous entries that noted that I would rarely speak of religion was entirely tightly wound as one would expect. I'll just stay off the margins for this one, though - as I do with the most of them.

Oh. Before I get into it, though, I've stumbled over The Civil Wars' My Father's Father. It has a symbolic connection, if you haven't gathered already.

So, we all know the story of Jesus Christ. Or, at the very least, we know the end of his human story. Followers and believers of the religion founded off his beliefs and ethics are convinced that the man, who was human like you and I, ascended into heaven after his crucifixion. Individuals who are brought up with the particular background believe such things, and there are many others in the world who believe similar things of their avatars, prophets - or maybe they don't. I wouldn't know until I've experienced them all, something I probably won't be doing anytime soon.

However, my focus is on the Passion of the Christ; the trials Jesus had to endure.

For what, you ask?

Well, whether you consider him so or not, he's essentially a martyr.

MARTYR
      noun

1. a person who willingly suffers death rather than renounce his or her religion.

2. a person who is put to death or endures great suffering on behalf of any belief, principle, or cause: a martyr to the cause of social justice.

Jesus was a teacher, at the very bare core of history. He existed, and existence is supported by contemporary writings by Jewish-Roman historians such as Pliny the Younger and what's his face Tacitus; I'm not sitting here to try and convince you to believe a certain way or to change your perspectives on anything [ well, I am doing that, more or less, but not with any means of force ] that you wouldn't wish to.

Jesus's teachings were centralized of compassion and love and trustworthiness and humility - all the virtuous things that most people may embody but do not exercise. Note the verbs in that statement: "may" - possibility of it being viable and "do not" - actively against. That's something that people need to understand and embrace: turning the other cheek or kissing the feet of your enemy may not be the most satisfactory thing, but if you do it enough, you won't have any strikes against you, nor will your enemies stand in your way.

Just. Saying.

Haha. Anyway, Jesus was crucified for "blasphemy" - specifically proclaiming that he was "God" or something along those lines. Y'know, I wasn't really there, so I wouldn't know the specifics, but this is what I've heard. And don't get too fussy with whatever you've got ingrained in you just yet - Jesus never objected to the decision of the people. He endured what they had put him through, and delving deeper into the books that recount this experience would show that he was already wary of his fate - and he accepted it.

Fictional or not, if someone was ready to die for the sins of others, or so they would say, how would you look at that person?

If they were merely a nobody?

What if they were one of your closest friends? Or maybe a family member?

And they did it just for you?

Easter.

"...is a Christian feast and holiday celebrating the resurrection of Jesus Christ on the third day after his crucifixion at Calvary..."
- En.wikipedia.org/wiki/Easter

New life. The legend of a phoenix is renown for rising from the ashes. [ I'm just now seeing a connection between the Phoenix and Jesus of the ashes and stuff. Pretty cool to me, I don't know about you. ] But what did Jesus actually die for?


Earlier, I said that he was crucified for "blasphemy" - it was his teachings that the Romans were upset with.


And look at this, a little history lesson for you folk - ironically enough, I flee from history as best I can. But, this time, it's inevitable.


Jesus's time was obviously not as advanced as our own. And with nothing else for people to focus on - like trending websites, activities and past-times - he could very well talk to people and have them understand him. This song by the Civil Wars, "My Father's Father", obviously has some kind of honor to it. I haven't looked up the lyrics yet, but it's really pretty, so I'm going to finish this sentence.


Thanks to Facebook and Mahogany Aminzia, I got a bit side-tracked. Sorry about that. Hahah.

"My father's father's blood is on the track
A sweet refrain drifts in from the pastI got my ticket and I'm going to go home"

Ancient ties are on these tracks that civilization, that the world has, as an entirety, [ for the lack of a better word ] driven over. The blood - the very essence and being that "My Father's Father" was - everything about him is in that blood. It's good blood. Or it could very well be bad blood. "My Father's Father" could have put his blood, sweat, and tears into the rails - or he could have shed blood onto the rails. We won't know for sure unless he were to come back and tell us himself.


Oh. But "a sweet refrain drifts in from the past", and it's the life-lessons that "My Father's Father" told "My Father..." and from him, it comes to me. I hear the refrain, and I understand it because it's in tones, words, and a presentation that I know.


It's something that I'm familiar with.


Now "I got my ticket and I'm going to go home."


I've got what I've learned from it - something that I'm trusting in and biding all my comfort in leading me to go home - and I'm going to do just that: go home, go back to my roots, go back to where it all started.


A basic understanding of the world and how it works could very well be applied here.


And I just found it necessary to flesh that out, since Easter [ for Christianity-affiliated believers ] is all about Jesus going back home, and the people following suit.


So, why don't you find something you'd very well become a martyr for?


There's no use in living for nothing, right?

Yours Truly by fellow-blogger, G-Fish. =]
http://goldfishlovin.blogspot.com/

Hope you all enjoyed your Easters with or without your family! Blessings for many more!
<3 ~ Monty.
=] 

P.S.
Sorry for the random font size change.
I don't really know what happened. ^^;;

Where your `` t h o u g h t s `` could be on a ~RAINY DAY . . .

Hey guys. Just going to keep it simple for this one.

Whenever you've the time to yourself, just have a seat and click on these two things, here.

The Quiet Place Project`s "The Thoughts Room" + RainyMood

A formula for taking your Good Friday and putting it to good use. It would have went well with "Honesty", but "Embracing" is just as good, I suppose.

You're welcome.

<3 ~ Monty.
=]

These streets are old - they shine with the things I've known...

♪ Jamie Cullum ♫ Gran Torino ♪

I m a g i n a t i o n .

It most certainly is a powerful thing, isn't it?

To have thought of doing something outside of the norm, going against the grain with utter motivation and perseverance; I'd say this was the entirety of my life. From the first day I took a breath on this earth, it was surely destined that I would endure the same experience as everyone else, as everyone else who was experiencing the same thing as me - experiencing the same thing with me.

A laugh escaped my lips.

"Endured" would be the wrong word, I suppose. Life isn't merely the downcast of the world all about. At least, that's what I grew up thinking. And, truth be told, I've lived it out since this day. From my youth, I can't recall a single day when I let defeat ultimately win. My childhood was rough, my upbringing as a teenager was chaotically unstable - even adulthood had its trials and tribulations.

To say the very least, I've [ e n g a g e d ] in it all.

"I don't know what to write."

I remembered the days, back in high school, when I started my whole niche. Writing - it was my escape from what I didn't want to face, from the world and myself, ideally. I started these abstract and optimistic "letters" as a sense of duty to others; to help them with my words when my actions could not reach them. Evidently, it gave me a mask to hide behind and a purpose to keep living.

Seeing smiles on others' faces made me feel as though I were doing the right thing.

But, this time, I really didn't know what to write. The expectations were most certainly as high as the sky could reach and even beyond that space. I rolled up my sleeves, held my pencil in hand, and took to my old-fashioned approach.

My doctor had told me that sitting before a screen for some odd number of hours wasn't entirely good for me. Looking down at my tight grip on my pencil through my brown-rimmed reading glasses, I gathered she was right. My eyes could use a bit more of that carrot juice my mom loved to make.

Maybe they'd expect something short. Maybe they'd want me to go on about nothing - just accept the award and walk off stage after offering my generic gratitude. But, what if that permitted the inability to attain any further awards? Where would that put me, if I tried to take the quick route, to cheat them all - all the people who've helped me get this far?

Not to mention the fact that if I were to simply appear with standard response, my face would dissolve just as quickly as my name would.

I touched the tip of my pencil to the paper again, but nothing came.

Thinking of my past would dig up great trenches, three solid decades, soon to be a fourth after my approximate novel would be released. And then, after another decade, half a century - more than half of my life - would have passed me by.

I withdrew my pencil.

It was a frightening thought.

Looking at the wrinkles on my hands, their weathered yet conditioned appearances proving me justice in producing percussion in idle thought.

Light gleamed off the bracelet on my left wrist, as well as the wristwatch above it, and the silver band on a digit. A smile graced my lips, just as the thought graced my mind and soul. My life had most certainly skyrocketed since my biggest flux of life. Musical and performance careers most certainly had not died as of yet, though I'd taken a bit of an interest in re-pursuing my passion of writing; not too many of my fans were upset at this, even, and so I got to spend more time with my friends and family.

"Maybe looking through my old works will jog something."

Funny how I used to say that as well when I was blanking for entries. I never did, though. I knew what to think of, and, should it not have come to me right away, I just kept typing, kept thinking until my mind generated something.

To my left, present via my organized desk, was a black, leather notepad. It was a planner of sorts, though I kept in it a log of my screenplays, my movies, my songs, albums, and musical collaborations. It was a list of my history. And, so far at about forty years of life on earth, it wasn't too shabby, if I do say so myself.

Coming right out of college, I would find myself floundering with the rest of the bohemians in the late 20-teens, hoping, praying to get a big break. Of course, it would never come easy without dedication and work, something I'd learned to embrace all my years of schooling. Ironically enough, e n g a g i n g life did me a world of good for myself. And, in such an experience of benefits and progress, I would tell others to embrace, enjoy, and - ENGAGE - life. They didn't shy away from my advice.

I'm proud to say, though, while I was digging through the earth's core for potential places of employment, to further my passions, I maintained my communications with most of my good friends and managed to ensure that I had a direction to head in. My minor in Journalism led me into a "dog-eat-dog" realm of writing. I was not entirely prepared for it, but it would be where I met one of my greatest friends and best partner associates. His name, I'll never forget.

Just like my friends from high school - Erik Garnes, contemporary musician extraordinaire, helping me help us spur off our musical career; Alexander Quow, official announcer of many sports events as well as a popular television face, assisting me in promotional and advertising and network - this friend from my work experience would make it easier for me.

"You've got a good soul, kid," he told me.

My eyes widened. I switched focuses from my journal to the parchment before me. Leaning forward, I hurried to sketch that phrase down at the top, and left it in quotes. Looking at the first line I had in the paper, it'd be... more or less of a challenge to get it off its heels and have the speech, the emphasis of my gratitude, reach a reasonable length with astounding content.

"Let's see..." Looking back to my journal, my thoughts returned to my work-partner. He told me that he never looked to become a Journalist, though he most certainly was more interested in the current events than myself. The politics, the foreign affairs, the technological advancements, the ethical sophistication - all of it suited him better than I ever thought I would want.

My eyes widened as another line of his trickled from my lips, soon to be apparently swallowed by my whisker-beard when I pulled my lips into my mouth.

"Take it all head on - fix yourself, square off, and engage in whatever they throw at you. It's not your job to love what is wrong with the world - it's your job to let people know, and start the renovation."

How was I supposed to put that into words? I put it down anyway. Some good speeches start with quotes from different people. The only difference with mine, as of yet, was that the quotes only came from one person. So far, anyhow.

I thought about what he meant. What he could have possibly been thinking of for it to sound so generic that it basically applied to everything in my life. At the time, that is. Life was dealing me blows, and I didn't think I'd manage to take the brunt of any further. My elder brother still had yet to contact us, even upon the days of my graduation from high school and college; my father was steadily growing ill due to the poison that was his blood; my family members were suffering through their own burdens and sins - though there was nothing I could do to help them.

I was offered to travel near and far to help other individuals who less fortunate, more fortunate, and just as fortunate as I was - as I had always prayed for them to be blessed and what have you - though, I couldn't help everyone all at once. I couldn't give them anything I couldn't give to my own family, my own flesh and blood.

To say the least, my life was just as tumultuous entering university as it was exiting.

I wrote the word "Life."

With a capital 'L' and a period. Just like that.

I looked at it for a second longer than I had anticipated. What did it really mean? I had lived my life so far, I had performed on Broadway more times than I had digits to count on, I had been in a fair amount of movies as minor and staple roles, I had produced feel-good music with Erik and made changes in the world as we had anticipated. Though, as I stared at this word, I wondered what it was all for.

Was it for the family I had? My brothers and sisters? My predecessors? My own household and descendants? Two elegant girls and two virtuous boys now in their years of schooling, experiencing the same things I had - they were my kin, they were the reason I woke up now in the mornings. Before them, I had other reasons to wake up. Perhaps it were these reasons why I did the things I did.

Perhaps it were these things that defined my life.

I glanced at my watch. About half an hour before the event. I needed to have this done in a handful of minutes so that I could proofread it and dissect it and make any amends, as I usually did with my literature work.

"To get where I am today,"

I started,

"I had to take a step backwards. I had to take a step backwards and see the greater picture. It wasn't about me - it was never about just me; it still isn't about me today. I came to understand the meanings of certain concepts that weren't done justice with just a word labeling them for identity's purpose."

I grinned. Something about this speech was going to make me feel proud as I recited it with definite passion.

"I started out as a nobody, as everyone does. I never became a somebody, nor did I ever stop being a nobody - in fact, I maintained being me the whole time. And, to be frank, it's been the best way to go for all my thirty-eight years of life.

"I always aspired to be a performer, someone to captivate and evidently use that to advantages that were not greedy, but selfless and compassionate - to better myself to change the world. With all the auditions I've been discouraged from and the strangers who've said very malicious things of the characters I've portrayed, the ideals I've held, the things I've done... It's unreal. This whole experience.

"I didn't win this award. I didn't earn it. I didn't do anything to deserve it. I've been acknowledged for doing things I've always done. For sharing with the world when I had little-to-nothing. For being acknowledged for intending to instill motivation and perspectives into individuals. For [[ ~ e-n-g-a-g-i-n-g ]] in life."

It was sloppy penmanship. I looked over it a bit, added a few lines to wrap things up, identifying close persons to me who were invited to the event and would be present and thanking them [ and many more individuals ] for giving me everything I've ever needed of them.

"...Hopefully my life won't effect you in any derogatory ways. Instead, I'd much rather if you take everything from my mistakes, my beneficial decisions, and mold them to your advantage. Thank you all for coming tonight, and God Bless. Thank you again."

I would be holding my first, golden batch of awards altogether. It was more or less of a "private" event, for individuals who've received awards for more than one discipline of arts. It was a stretch to even dream that I would have an Academy Award when I was younger, looking forward to my future, but when I had been given notice to attend for reception of my Academy, Grammy, and Tony Awards.

My colleagues would hold their seventh or eighth in each respective designation, though I'd brandish my firsts with pride and humility that was unwavering. And when I staggered off, attempting to stuff my speech back inside my blazer pocket, I'd laugh with the esquire that life, indeed, was good.

From that month, April, back in 2012, I had looked at my life, looked forward at my life differently.

And I had resolved to never let anything in my path stop me. I would engage in life to the best of my abilities, and embrace who I was, what I've done, and where I was going with my entire being.


<3 ~ Monty.
=]