Fair Harborside (4)

Read Fair Harborside (1), Fair Harborside (2), and Fair Harborside (3)

Frank abruptly walked headlong into a grimy wall. His mind wishing for the beautiful side of the city had tried to take a right turn, but he was on a rounded road. He tapped his pocket again, for comfort, to remind himself of his dreams, to remind himself what the city had promised him, what the city had baited him with. He pulled the postcard out of his pocket. It was lined and greasy, the creases were chipped, he could barely make out the beauty he had once found so heart achingly perfect. He was too late. His toes had hit the steps of a factory.

Amelia slowly stepped out of the elevator. The sounds of the crowds reached her first, then the bright flashes of cameras. Her new world was set to be bright. She was designed for the city. The city was designed for her. She stepped out the doors, the cameras followed her, she turned to the monoliths, she understood: Harborside knew the world and the world knew Harborside, within Harborside was the world. She turned to the sea, there laid the cradle of life, status, money; it flooded into her the meaning of value, the true meaning: money.

Photo Credit: http://funguerilla.com/

As she walked the city doors opened to her. She was Amelia, the city was hers. She would never be lost to the crowd, the city would never bowl over her, time would not forget her, Frank was already fading.

She wandered the city all day, the crowd only grew around her, but as she strayed closer and closer to the borders of her postcard the crowds grew restless. Space seemed to shift. Where she walked she owned, the postcard was empty space with blank people, but where she walked new hope, new futures sprang up like daisies in her wake. But as she neared the last corner, the last wide boulevard, her daisies seemed to fight for sunlight. Her unique ownership was being pushed back by the ownership of the many, the workers no longer singular but one full moving entity, lost to the mindless grind of the crowd, the fingers became a hand.

She had reached the end of the immunization ring, the end of the filigree border on the postcard of Harborside and standing on the other side of the glass was Frank.

Before Amelia, who was the crux of the city, eyes of the future, was Frank, whose hands bled from his first shifts in the factories, who was beginning to smudge around the edges.

Before Frank, the disenchanted dreamer, a man of ideals and cities past, was Amelia, a small mechanical girl with holographic eyes and the entire modern world and future in her circuit board chest.


Fair Harborside (1)

It was dingy as hell, not recognizable as the city everyone saw in the postcards: moss and algae crept down the walls; the side streets were lined with open sewers; the factories ran all hours of the day, belching out waste and haze. Soot streaked down the faces of the workers whose hands were cracked and brown with exposure. What little they had they called home, whether roof or coat, they took what they could. They struggled through narrow congested streets, seemingly stuck in the past — a bygone era, that had long since been passed by the rest of the city — an open sore without medicine.

On these congested streets lived all manner of discard: tech no longer current, factory waste, dreams of fame and fortune, the relics of the country people once left, heirlooms of cultures long swallowed. But as the streets turned oceanside they widened and lightened, the haze of smog dropping away the closer one moved to the harbor, the mecca of trade, the jewel of the city, the picture perfect postcard. Harborside was a world of glass and gold that rose high enough that those with bloodshot eyes and wasted dreams believed that maybe it reached heaven.

The city of Harborside was rich, modern, urban, cultured, and only surface deep. Every man, woman, and child that lived in the skyward reaching world was a dreamer, a planner, a story. Their streets were lined with rare plants and their roads paved with exotic shell. Every home was its own, sitting pretty at the height of progress. They would want for nothing and everything.

Such severance was there in the city of Harborside that it was as if a blight, a disease, had been stretching out from the landward outskirts of the city but had abruptly hit a vaccine three quarters of the way toward the harbor. It was as if an immunization had been injected into the sea and had spread to the seafront but had been content to protect the few.

Photo Credit: steemit.com

Life was bobbing at a sea-sickening rate as Frank finally found the city. He had taken every form of transport available to him: car, bus, train, plane, his own two aching feet, bicycle, and finally boat. As the city rose over the bow of the leaky, decades-old fishing boat, the tug behind his gut seemed to loosen. The folded postcard in his breast pocket was a molten brand of hope and childlike optimism on his heart.

Life had ground to an overly warm stagnate existence for Amelia. Trapped above the cloud level – in a glass box – Amelia had the entire world at her fingertips. She was at the height of modern technology, she was as mapped out as the best planned city. There was no one like her, there never had been another like her, nor would there ever be one like her. She was a road map. She was not her own. She was caught, ensnared. Made and unmade.

Curtain Call

As this year is drawing to an end, this is my last mandatory blog.

I wanted to take a second and thank all you have read my blog through my year in this class, but this isn’t the last of me.

I plan to be blogging this summer through whatever adventures I may encounter, but I will be back regularly in a few months.

Many of you have enjoyed my poetry or sports stories this year so I will leave you with one last poem.

Thank you for bringing traffic to our site, and please spread the word.


As it draws to an end so does this journey.

Another year, going nowhere, sitting in the same spot we were in, when the first day started.

The same spot we were in the first time my eyes met yours.

As I prepare to take my final walk out on stage, I would like to think I’d see you in the audience.

The applause resonate through the building, and I stand behind closed curtains.

Shaking, nervous as could be, hoping you’ll be there, but when they open and I take my final bows, where the applause once were, lay and emptiness.

My heart drops, and once again I feel alone.

Just as I did when this show began.

This is the kind of show I never want to see the end of, but you hold my head towards the screen.

I would like to live in the illusion I have created of how our show ends, but instead you put me in front of everyone, only to find myself standing alone, and you aren’t even there.

I take my bow to an empty room, but it does not stop.

The show must go on.

Beginning of the End

I can picture myself on June 8th, 2012. I’ll be standing on stage, in front of my peers and my family, accepting my high school diploma. And it will officially be over. These four dreaded years we call high school will OFFICIALLY be in my past. I have dreamed about this moment for so long.

I should be feeling happy. Actually, I really should be feeling overjoyed. Completely ecstatic. And a part of me is very excited for that moment to come. A small part.

The bigger part of me is feeling overwhelmed, nervous, and sad.

Ojai Valley School has not been my only high school experience. Public school came first. Back then, I never pictured anything different than walking out with about 500 other students accepting our diplomas on the gigantic front lawn of my public high school. And thank God I was wrong about that.

This school has taught me everything I know about myself, really. I have discovered so much more than I knew existed within myself. I remember the day that I showed up here. I wanted to leave more than anything. I wanted my old life back and I wanted to go home.

Now, this is home. This place is my home. Not just a place that I live, but much more than that. I have made countless friends, some of them who I hope I will know for the rest of my life. I look up to some of the faculty at this school more than I look up to anyone I have met before. They have really pushed me to be my best self. Without them, I would not be who I am today, and I really owe everything to them; they are truly a second family.

With them, I have laughed, I have cried, and I have laughed and cried some more. I have argued, I have slacked off, I have worked hard, I have tried new things. I have sang, I have danced, I have met amazing people, I have been pushed to my limits. But the most important thing that I have done here at OVS is I have found myself.

I know, 9 months seems so far away, but really I know that it will come much too quickly. Time really does fly by, and for once in my high school career, I wish it would just slow down so I could enjoy the amazing moments of my senior year that are to come.

So, with a heavy heart I say to you all, here’s to the beginning of the end. Because before I know it, it will be June 8th, 2012, and I will be standing on stage in front of everyone, saying goodbye, looking back at all the good memories I have of this place. Bitter-sweet is the only way to describe it. And who knows where I will be headed after then? As the saying goes, “when one door closes, another door opens.” As much as I look forward to everything in my future, I just wish this door would never have to close.

The Subtle Difference Between Living and Experiencing.

Everything always seems to flow so quickly before me.
I feel like it was just yesterday I was a stumbling, mumbling, and awkward freshman.
It was just yesterday that I was lost
and lonely in a new place with new people and new feelings I had never witnessed before.
There is no distinct line
no significant bright flash
no abrupt change in events that separates all the past years from this one.
How did I get here?
Where did the time go?
Why did I not grip to those moments while they lasted?
And now I’m back.
Freshman and sophomore years are over.
Surreal summers have come and gone, flying past in an unreasonably quick wind.
It barely rustled my hair before it was gone, leaving still and stale air in its wake.
Now that there is no wind
no more cool breeze
the air is hot and suffocating.
It weighs down on me with a significant pressure
I am Atlas.
I am willed by others to be mature
in control of absolutely everything and anything I can be.
I am willed by myself to succeed
to be in control of what I can
to be happy instead of content.
I do not want to be responsible for everything else
if only to just live life.
I want to be responsible for myself
and experience life, not just mundanely live it.
I reach for the excitement that others only yearn for.
I want to explore the world
change lives
become a better person than anyone ever anticipated.
I want not to live up to others expectations
but to live up to and surpass my own.
I want to be free from others and myself.
I want to be happy,
I want to experience life,
I want to change lives.
I need to be me.