Youngest of One

One With The Lake:

Yesterday, as I was leaving the Book Nook, the quaint little bookstore that brought me so much joy instantly, I enthusiastically told the old woman behind the counter, "You have a wonderful store."  Naturally, she was accustomed to the same normal pleasantries that occur once someone has just made a purchase.  Though I can not prove it, I suspect that her mind was elsewhere, and so she was only focusing on me to the small extent necessary to make polite banter.  Once the opening words of my kind sentence had passed from my lips, she had already assumed that she knew what the ending would be.  She had convinced herself that my sentence was going to end with the word "day."  She figured that I was simply wishing her a nice day like all of the other customers who either give a damn or pretend to out of courtesy.  And so, as I was walking away, she said the appropriate reply to the sentence that she only thought she had heard: "You too."  Normally I would have considered these two words to have been odd and misused, since I have no store which may be called wonderful.  However, I had expected her to make that very mistake, since I knew all along that she wasn't really in the moment.  Maybe it was the fact that she never made eye contact with me, or perhaps it was because whenever she spoke it sounded like she might have been yawning instead.  Whatever the reason, I could tell that she wasn't paying attention to me.  Maybe she was too busy traveling through time, much like Billy Pilgrim.

I realize that that last remark was odd, but I'm sure you understood it nonetheless if you have ever read Kurt Vonnegut's Slaughterhouse-Five.  Personally, I have read one hundred and sixty-one pages of that novel since I arrived here at Yankee Lake three days ago, and I am finding it difficult to think about anything else.  I read it on car trips, during commercial breaks of television programs, and at any other spare moment I have.  I love to read, and so I am downright ecstatic when I read Vonnegut's prose.  However, don't believe anyone who may tell you that I always have my nose stuck in a book.  While I do always have a book with me, I rarely put my nose inside of it.  I have found that the print becomes much to blurry to read once the book is held that close to my face.  Resting the book at half an arm's length works best for me.

I have spent the last two nights sleeping on a bed that is actually a futon folded outward into an impostor.  Earlier today, a new arrival, my uncle Mark's friend Rich, came to stay with us.  As a result, tonight I am going to sleep on an inflated mattress lying on the living room floor.  I think that this arrangement may be more comfortable than the futon impostor, but I'm sure it will not be pleasant in the morning when Mark and Rich will wake up much earlier than I would ever hope to and I'll be there in the middle of the living room floor.  I have been told that I am a heavy sleeper, and I hope that this will be evidenced tomorrow morning.

Today I got much closer to Yankee Lake.  In fact, I was on top of it for a while.  I walked to the end of a dock that is neither wooden nor metal.  The structure looks as if it was built from enormous Lego pieces, and there are many logos on it displaying the same product name, "E-Z Dock."  I wanted to feel peaceful and enlightened.  I wanted to feel myself become one with the lake, and I realized that this task must be quite easy for the dock beneath me.  I wondered what the dock would say if it could speak.  Then, I thought of what I would say to it under such circumstances: "What's up, dock?"  While I stood at the edge of the Lego dock, I also discovered that I really like the sound of coins landing in a lake.  I have estimated that I lost at least two dollars and thirty-four to cents to that lake this afternoon, but it was money well spent on the lake's service of providing that marvelous "ploop-ah" sound.  In the span of a few minutes, I drowned George Washington, Franklin D. Roosevelt, Thomas Jefferson, and Abraham Lincoln.  So it goes.

End Post.

The Book Nook:

First, I have a message for my uncle Mark and cousin Katie, with whom I am currently staying in a house near Yankee Lake.  I am sorry that I ate all the Oreos.  In my defense, however, I did best you both in Scattergories today, and to the victor go the spoils.  In this case, the spoils were the remaining Oreos.  Tomorrow, you may find that the rest of the cheddar flavored Goldfish are spoils as well, but I have not decided that yet because I am not hungry.  You see, I've just eaten a lot of Oreos.  Again, that was my bad.  This concludes my message to my uncle Mark and cousin Katie.

Today, I was informed by each of my parents that the internet connection in our own home is now working flawlessly.  If my life is anything like a situation comedy television program, then I am certain that this fortunate development occured at the precise moment that I stepped out the front door with my luggage.  Well, at least now I will have a reliable connection to the magical series of tubes when I return home on Saturday.

Thus far, I have not set foot or even toe in yonder lake, and I wouldn't have it any other way.  I have nothing against the lake itself.  Nevertheless, I just haven't felt the desire to change into my swimsuit and float about it in.  I had significantly more fun during our visit to the local town of Port Jervis today.  Admittedly, I'm not sure that the town is local exactly.  We did get somewhat lost in our journey to Port Jervis, New York.  We even spent a few minutes in Pennsylvania looking for the place, through no fault of anyone in particular.  When we finally arrived in the small town, I was extremely glad that we did, because the first establishment that we entered was a quaint little bookstore called the Book Nook.  I assure you that the store itself is just as charming as that adorable name.  While my uncle went upstairs with the proprietor to shop through their record collection, I was left to my own devices in front of a large shelf simply labeled "Literature."  And, oh, what literature there was!  The selection of new and used books was marvelous, and of course the used ones were my favorites.  Books that are published nowadays most often look too flashy, more like something you would find on a magazine rack rather than in a library.  Some of these books at the Book Nook were old enough that they were hardcover with no flashy design and no annoying paper jacket.  I regret that I only purchased two books of that design, but I am very happy with my haul of seven books for under twenty-five dollars.  The titles I took from this grand "Literature" shelf are listed here in alphabetical order according to the author's last name: Cantebury Tales by Geoffrey Chaucer, Crime and Punishment by Fyodor Dostoyevsky, The Idiot by Fyodor Dostoyevsky, This Side of Paradise by F. Scott Fitzgerald, Great Tales and Poems of Edgar Allen Poe, 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea by Jules Verne, and The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde.

Finding such joy on a single shelf made me realize something.  I belong in a bookstore.  The closest thing I've had to a job in my life so far has been working for my high school's bookstore in exchange for free school books, and I believe that I would like to work in a real bookstore someday.  Everyone gets asked during their childhood, "What do you want to be when you grow up?"  Right now, I want to be a writer.  And when I find out that such a living won't support me, I'll find a job at a bookstore.  Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm off to do some reading.

End Post.

Here's Your Answer:

I had to travel approximately two hours by car (with my father behind the wheel, of course), but I have finally found a friendly place with a more reliable internet connection than the one we presently have in my home.  A few weeks ago, the phone company Sun Rocket went out of business, and that was bad news in my household.  With no telecommunication left besides our cellular phones, my parents decided to depend on Time Warner Cable for our telephone service, since it is the same company that already provides our cable and internet connectivity.  Though the phones have not been installed yet, my father did pick up a new cable modem for our house about a week ago, and our access to the internet has been limited ever since.  From what I've seen, in our home, the internet is only available for a few hours each days and sometimes only minutes at a time.  For me, this malfunction is intolerable, unbearable, insufferable, and a number of other very bad things.  Being cut off from the internet created a lot of spare time for me in the last four or five days.  I spent a lot of that time either napping or reading (from start to finish) the novel God Bless You, Mr. Rosewater by Kurt Vonnegut.  This is only the second Vonnegut book I've read.  The first one was Cat's Cradle, an assignment for English class in sophomore year.  These two books have taught me enough to know that I will probably be reading Vonnegut's novels for years to come.  Dedicated readers of this blog may remember that I was deeply upset by his death.  Among the luggage I packed for this trip is Slaughterhouse-Five, which I intend to begin reading tonight.

Unless you know me personally, you have probably been asking yourself the same question ever since you read the opening sentence of this entry.  Since I am inside of your head (or, at the very least, I have scouts there), I shall now voice that question: Where in the world is Will Hoffacker?  Well, here's your answer.  For the next four days, I am residing with my uncle Mark and cousin Katie in a house just a stone's throw away from Yankee Lake.  This invitation was extended to me a few days ago, and at first I was somewhat hesitant, because I am usually not the type who enjoys the outdoors.  The sun always seems to ruin my good time, what with its heat and brightness.  Furthermore, I have a strong distaste for bugs who have a taste for me, and I've noticed that there are many of those outdoors.  However, soon I got a look at the pictures of Yankee Lake that my father took during his visit here last Saturday.  I was transfixed by the tranquility and spellbound by the serenity.  Then, when I was told of this house's reliable internet connection, I could not refuse the offer.  I've been here since this afternoon.  Though I have not been in the lake, I have seen it up close.  Therefore, it is with utmost confidence that I declare that Yankee Lake is a very nice lake at which to look.  Tomorrow, I may set foot in the lake, but that is not a promise.  So far, I have found that I am quite happy inside this living room with a lot of stations on the television, a series of tubes that I can enter, the comfort of a Vonnegut novel, and a bunch of 'World War Hulk' comic books that I brought from home.

Until Saturday, I am here.  And so, as long as you are here, we are both here, and we shall be so together.  I understand that the previous statement is not particularly poignant.  What can I say?  I just can't imitate Vonnegut.  He was one of a kind.  I'm off to learn more from him, or perhaps to scribble in my own notebook.  It has been nice to talk to you again.

End Post.

You Will Be The Death Of Me:

Last night, seven friends and I went to Madison Square Garden to see Muse perform live.  This thrilling event left me too tired to do any writing.  Earlier today, I finished reading a novel called The Stranger written by French existentialist Albert Camus.  This book tells the story of a man's thoughts and interactions after the death of his mother.  This man eventually commits a murder, and (spoiler alert for a book that was written decades ago) he is sentenced to death.  Then, earlier this evening, because I was bored and I found it in my room, I read Emo Boy Vol. 1: Nobody Cares About Anything Anyway, So Why Don't We All Just Die?, which is a collection of the first six issues of a comic book called "Emo Boy" from Slave Labor Graphics.  This series tells the story of a high school freshman with a sad, mysterious background.  He is known only as Emo Boy, and he contains strange emo powers that often escape his control.  While very funny at times, the book nevertheless upset me somewhat, because I could identify with the character of Emo Boy.  Once I finished this book, I realized I had accidentally spent the last twenty-four hours in such a way that I was sent spiraling into a state of depression.

Don't get me wrong.  Muse is an amazing rock band, not some whiny emo band.  They rocked so hard last night that my socks were never sighted again.  However, all of their lyrics speak of (scream of, actually) a lot of deep emotions, most of them painful.  Furthermore, it was not an easy thing to leave my friends after having such a great time with them.  Then, the following day, I immersed myself in the two most depressing philosophies known to man: existentialism and emo.  I like them both a lot, but I think I must have overdosed on them.  This was all bad enough to make me feel down, but the upsets didn't stop there.  Last night, when I wanted it most, my internet connection was lost due to some problem with our new cable modem or something else that I can't pretend to understand.  This error explains why this blog entry is coming to you two days late, why the timeline of these events seems messed up, and why I have even more things to mope about than I did when I starting writing this post last night.  For instance, today I woke up very early in order to go to my high school for a meeting of the Walkathon Committee, which was supposed to be my big chance to see some friends that I haven't seen in months.  Soon before I was ready to leave the house, I got a text message on my cellular phone informing me that the meeting had just been canceled because the previous night's thunderstorm was ruining commutes for everyone.  Rather than leaving the house and socializing as I had planned, I went back to bed and slept for approximately six hours.  That might seem like enough smiles turned into frowns to last a whole week, but the saddening news continued when I went to the web site for the Knitting Factory in Manhattan to see if tickets are still available for tomorrow's performance of one of my favorite bands, Say Hi to Your Mom.  Thus, I discovered that this show is only open to people of the age eighteen and over.  I am seventeen, and that won't change until January.

Some days just really get me down.  And some days like that last more than one day.  Thanks for reading.  I'll be back once I cheer up.

End Post.

I Try To Mend:

I've spent most of the day reading The Stranger, a novel written decades ago by French existentialist Albert Camus, and watching Avatar: The Last Airbender, a television program on Nickelodeon about a really important kid who travels on a flying bison.  Both of these activities are very compelling and entertaining, and so I do not intend to separate myself from them for very long.  Therefore, rather than writing an entirely new entry for you, I have chosen to share an old poem that I accidentally discovered in my house earlier today.  The poem is written on looseleaf paper in what appears to be an early form of my handwriting, which has since changed but still seems recognizable here.  Evidence shows that I was in fifth grade when I wrote this poem, and so my disdain for school is evident and understandable.  Back in those days, I didn't have many real friends at my school, since my class was so small and because all of the other students were so different from me.  We could hardly ever agree on music, movies, television, recreational activities, or even simply attitudes.  Furthermore, the academic lessons of elementary school did not interest me at all.  I just learned enough to get good grades, which always came naturally to me.  There was nothing challenging or even intriguing about academia back then, and that only changed once I reached high school.  Now you have enough background information about me to appreciate this embarrassing poem about the days of the week.

Sunday's the weekend, but hard to enjoy.
It's hard to even play with a single toy.
Cause back in my mind, I will always know,
Tomorrow is Monday and I hope it will snow.

Monday is the worst day of the week.
Saturday, Saturday is the day I seek.
Watching the clock the entire day.
"I want to go home," is what I say.

Tuesday is not very different than any other.
Just dozens of kids shouting "Oh brother!"
On Tuesday I have my choir class.
So that I am prepared to sing at Mass.

On Wednesday the fifth grade has Gym.
The rest of the day looks pretty dim.
Except for band, which I'd like to diss.
When summer comes there's nothing I will miss.

On Thursday my class has Art.
Which is about as boring as a game of darts.
There isn't much else that I can say.
Except that Thursday is a very boring day.

It's almost the weekend when Friday comes.
All that I am thinking is that school is dumb.
Friday is also Music which I truly hate.
There is also Health which isn't so great.

Saturday is the start of the weekend.
My broken spirit I try to mend.
Saturday is my absolute favorite day.
Because all I seem to do is play.

End Post.

No Regrets:

For the longest time I was unable to blog yesterday, and when I finally had the opportunity to write I was so tired that I felt I could not do anything besides lie down on the living room couch and watch Avatar: The Last Airbender.  I am going to do that again tonight, quite soon in fact.  I awoke yesterday at approximately 8:00 A.M. because my father, my uncle, and I set out an hour later to visit the Princeton University campus, hoping to arrive there in time for a tour at 11:00.  We accomplished this goal, though unfortunately the tour was not what we had expected.  Most of the information was concerning the university's profoundly long history.  The only building that we set foot inside on the tour was the chapel, so I have no idea what any of their dorms or classrooms look like.  Furthermore, it was disgustingly hot outside yesterday.  Despite all of that, I still left with the impression that Princeton is amazing, because the campus was unspeakably beautiful.  Plus, Joyce Carol Oates, who wrote one of my favorite short stories ("Where Are You Going, Where Have You Been?"), is a teacher there, which is great news me as an aspiring fiction writer.

Basically, I've been hanging out with my cousin The Lips and his friends ever since then.  I have no regrets about these past two days, except that I left their company.  Time for some more Avatar.  Good night.

Time's Up. End Post.

Paul's Diary, Part Three:

November 15th, 2008:  While the homeless population of New York City can not notice me any better than anyone else can, I have started to notice them.  It is hard to believe that all of these hobos were once normal individuals with adequate lives until enough bad luck put them out here on the street.  Most of them have become insane due to their unhealthy living conditions and society's utter neglect for them.  Thanks to my new powers of unstoppable thievery, I live with considerably more comfort and nourishment than they do.  Nevertheless, I worry that perhaps someday I will lose my mind just as they have, since I suffer from this universal neglect that has so far proceeded without exception.  With each new hobo that I see, I grow more and more concerned for the future of my sanity.  Yesterday, for instance, I saw one in Central Park who was screaming something about summoning a pack of bees to form a beard on his own face.  I stuck around for a little while just to see if it would happen.  I've got nothing better to do these days.  After about half an hour, the man gave up, but he vowed to return to that spot with honey.  Personally, I think he is more likely to attract Winnie the Pooh that way.  Bees already have tons of honey of their own, so they're not about to collect it off some lunatic's face.  Also, a new hobo has moved into the train station that I now call home.  He has a large collection of aluminum cans and duct tape, and I think he's building something with these materials.  I can't tell what he's making yet.  Maybe he's designing a hut for himself.  That isn't such a bad idea.

November 16th, 2008:  This morning, a bulldog began barking just as I walked past it, and so I hoped that I had caught its attention somehow.  I watched the bulldog look towards me, then above me, then under me, to my left, to my right, until finally it turned around and lay its head down on the sidewalk, while both dog and owner looked confused.  The canine's outburst went unexplained.  Perhaps it heard something exciting that we humans couldn't hear.  Or maybe, just maybe, it momentarily detected my presence.  There's no telling why it happened, but if I see any more dogs then I'll be sure to examine how they behave.  In the meantime, I think I have discovered what the man with the aluminum cans is constructing.  It looks like he's fashioning himself a pair of pants.  I realize that this seems ridiculous, but it would be quite a relief to him and everyone who happens to look at him, considering that the non-metallic pants he wears now have enough holes to make them indecent.  Honestly, I would really like to see this project completed.  At the very least, I want him to have more success than than poor bee-beard hopeful.  Since it's the only way I can help, I've started collecting a few cans myself and dropping them into his thinning pile.  An hour ago, as I dropped two more Dr. Pepper cans into his collection, I thought I heard him mutter something, though I couldn't make out the words masked by the weight of his beard that resembles a raincloud.  I suppose that people like him must talk to themselves a lot.  I might do the same thing if I weren't keeping a diary.

November 18th, 2008:  I was right about the pants.  I know that with certainty because he has finished them, and now he is wearing them with pride.  His grin is constantly wide, revealing that his teeth are as disgusting as they would be if he had consumed all of those soft drinks himself.  I had expected his new wardrobe item to attract a lot of attention, but so far I haven't seen anyone give him more than a passing glance.  Their reactions are so minimal that they could be simply looking at the wall behind him.  I wanted to tell him that I have witnessed his spectacular and unique achievement, I wanted to tell him that he is the finest aluminum tailor the world has ever seen, and most of all I wanted to know where he found all that duct tape.  I knew that my words would fall deaf on his hairy, sagging ears, but still I wished to speak to him.  I put some distance between us for a while, hoping that I would forget about him and his unusual trousers.  I left the train station and wandered the streets.  Everywhere I went, I swear that I could hear the clanking and crunching sounds that those recyclable pants would make with every step that he took.  Finally, when I could no longer resist the urge to speak to him, I approached him from behind, and the only thing I could manage to say was, "Nice pants."  I was about to say more, but he surprised me so much that I became speechless.  He must have heard those two words, and he immediately spun around to face me.  Our eyes met for a brief moment that felt like hours, because it was the first time in eighteen days that anyone had looked into my eyes.  There was a stunned silence between us that was only interrupted by the sound of a train stopping beside us.  Before I could say anything, suddenly he ran down the platform towards the end of the train.  I tried to pursue him, but my path was blocked by dozens of the train's exiting passengers, none of whom stood aside because they had no idea that I was even there.  By the time I reached the end of the platform, the doors of the train had already closed, and I could see the silver shimmer of his pants on board the last car.  I know the dangers of grabbing onto the back of a subway car, so I chose to watch him leave rather than risk my life, which is worth holding on to now that I know there is someone out there who can notice me.

End Post.