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Wandering:
Chaotic Dreamer Strikes Back

On this page as of September 2nd, 2002 ...

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The Runner


One day a group of average people decided to run across the continental US. They all knew it would be a difficult trip, especially since few of them had any experience running, but it seemed like a good idea. It would get them in shape, it would unify them, and it could be fun. So, off they went, from Maine to California, stopping when they were tired and needed food. Some of them had backpacks and others fannypacks, to carry a few things they thought they might need. Someone argued that experienced runners wouldn't carry anything with them that would weigh them down, but these few couldn't give up their bags - they found too much security in keeping them, and change, they knew, would only be bad. One by one, the runners picked up little habits that kept them preoccupied and made the trip easier. Some listened to music and blocked out their surroundings, focusing only on each next step and the beat in their ears. Others focused only on their surroundings, taking in the view when there was one and warning the others of oncoming traffic. Some would run directly behind others, using them as a cushion against the wind, and others took it upon themselves to be those cushions, to take the brunt of the wind and the rain, when necessary. Slowly, the bag-carrying runners lightened their loads, dropping off trash or unused items when they deemed it time - all except for one runner, who couldn't seem to lose his bag. It wasn't a big bag - others had had bigger, and it wasn't particularly heavy - others had had heavier. He just couldn't lose it, no matter how convincingly he talked to himself or how many times he tried to just drop it off and forget about it. He supposed this was a good thing; after all, his security was in his bag, and change, he knew, would be a bad thing. So, on the runners went, through the New England States and the Northeastern States, growing in endurance and strength and unity. The runners became like family to each other, looking out for one another, helping when they could, encouraging when one looked exhausted or sad. The weather proved to be a slight enemy - slight only, though, and easily conquered by bright yellow ponchos and songs sung at the highest volume humanly possible. Soon, though, the lone bag-carrier began to lag behind the rest of the group. At first, he recognized it as his own fault for not giving up his bag, and he did his best to compensate for the extra work he needed to keep up with the group. They were encouraging and didn't seem to mind. He drank more water and rested longer than before, and this seemed to help, for a time. Not much time passed, though, before he began to fall behind again. This time he began to get slightly irritated with the group when they encouraged him and pushed him along. He was trying, he reasoned, and that should be enough. He was doing his part, and they should leave him alone. He chugged along, working as before, and sometimes he could keep up. Eventually, he couldn't keep up at all. He was always last in the group. As much as the group encouraged him and pushed him, he wouldn't give up his bag, nor would he work any harder. His bag was his security, and any change, he knew, would be bad. His bag defined him. He wouldn't - couldn't lose it! He was infuriated with the group for wanting him to lose himself - what, he wondered, could they possibly know about bags? Theirs were never as heavy as his, theirs were never as big as his, and they had given theirs up a looooong time ago. No, he reasoned, they were in no place to lecture him about his bag-carrying habits. The group, understanding but getting weary of his antics, shrugged their collective shoulders and let him tag along behind. The bag-carrier felt justified - he was right, they were wrong, they needed him, etc etc. Things went on as they had been - until the bag-carrier began to feel weighed-down and discouraged. He would never keep up, he knew, never, and yet he couldn't lose the bag that kept him back. He would lose himself, he reasoned, and then where would he be? No, his security, dwindling though it was, was in that bag, and any change, he knew, would be worse than the current situation. It HAD to be. He couldn't believe anything else, or he would have been wrong the entire time. So he trudged along, sometimes in so much pain from carrying the bag that he had to cry, but he never let his fellow runners see his tears. He thought they didn't notice - how could they? He was still such a good runner, they must recognize his strength! One day the runner tripped. He'd stumbled before, but never actually fallen, and this was a surprise to the entire group. They had been aware, vaguely, that he was getting tired, but they hadn't been paying close enough attention to see how worn out he really was. Shins bleeding, eyes watering, face red, bag sagging on a hunched back, he declared in a wavery voice that he wanted to quit. Stunned, the group couldn't comprehend this apparently sudden change in their fellow runner. They asked him why, and he merely shrugged, eyes shadowed, and said he just couldn't go on anymore. He knew he'd been a failure to the group, he knew he'd let them down, and to continue to run with them would only be further failure to the group. He just couldn't do it. The runners pushed and prodded, encouraged, tried to understand, but to no avail. He wouldn't be budged. Finally, someone asked, tentatively, if he wouldn't mind losing his bag. It would help, she reasoned, and he might feel better, in time. He screamed, eyes wide and bloodshot, that she should just step back. He was up against a guardrail now, back of his knees on cold metal, over a ravine by the road. If she touched it, he threatened, he would quit for sure. She leaned forward, quietly, and said that it would be best for everyone, himself included, if he would just let it go, let someone else carry it or just give it up completely. It would help the group, and besides, they'd be very sad and disappointed if he left - that would be his only failure. She leaned forward to help him with his bag, and gently touched his shoulder. He had been listening, calming down throughout her entire speech, but when she touched him he became defensive and upset again. His knees had been against the guardrail, buckling on the metal, and he jerked when she touched him, lost his balance, and flipped backwards over the rail, into oblivion and uneven rocks, the weight of his bag speeding and making his fall inevitable. . .
m.e. armes july 30th and 31st, 2002, finished 1:35 am july 31st...rough draft

There's a Game


There's a game in there tonight, in that room once full of friends
A pretense in the laughter, the message mocking sends
Is of fear and insecurity, one breeding hope, one hate...
And my mind says these emotions aren't something that can't wait
My heart, however, plays along - how well it knows the game!
For pretense is home to those of us whose dreams and lives aren't the same
My stumbling, my rambling, my carefully crafted mask
A foil to the questions that few would dare to ask
I would that they would know me - oh, to sit down for awhile
With friend or foe - anyone you know, the comfort of a child's
Gaze and unquestioning trust, we lose so early on
This game has taught us to be "strong;" our tenderness is gone
And tenderness is something that just MUST exist b'twixt friends
For lack of tenderness is just a message mocking sends
Yes, there's a game in that room tonight, and our friends seldom know
That seeds of doubt, mistrust, and fear oft' cause hatred to grow
Hatred of self, of love, of life: the list goes on and on
All we sacrifice these nights, in the name of being strong
There's a game on in that room tonight, and I know it all too well
My head hangs low, my heart - it aches, memories become one's hell
And memories should bind us, yes? Should make us free and safe
But safety's seldom warranted by friendship's "harmless" games
Oh, there's a game in that room tonight; my heart can't stand the play
So I'll sit outside, watch dreams die, and slowly fade away
*bows and exits stage left*
~mearmes
july 2002


Rambler Gives Advice


Oh narcissistic sage, the epitome of me
Wisdom expelled with each stroke of a key
It's like every sentence I type is a reflection of a thought;
A long-lost recognition of something, someone ought
To have written down or remembered, but who cares? was long ago
And its meaning and its measure are something that few know
A mystery of sorts; the riddles of a try
A dream, a resolution - something for which many die
"A dream, a resolution!" roared the mob to frightened children
Notice later that their zealousness unlocked the door to killing
Because dreams, unchecked, are nightmares; even freedom needs its bounds
Lack of will and lack of caring breed and apathy abounds
Apathy to hatred, hatred births to strife
And someone's dream, someone's resolution batters someone's life
And life, above all mysteries, MUST ENDURE
Its sacredness, its sanctity - life alone can be called pure
But life stained by the envies of an often-failed ambition
Becomes a nightmare, fear unfolded, living without inhibition
So life, dear children - hold it tightly to your hearts, your dreams
And learn the hard way that in life, little is just as it seems
Few friends love as they would like, and many seldom try
Relationships abandoned for the beauty, comfort of a lie
So easy to uphold, painless to maintain - so little to lose, and everything to gain
Dear children, learn the value of a truth told without fear
Don't be blinded by ambition or its companion, fear
Both can and might destroy you and in this life one chance is given
To find a love, to learn a trust, to make worth in what you're living
Dream well, little ones, dream well - but stay wary of fear
Fear resides when love must hide and keeps a pain quite near
Pain of heartache, pain of loss - don't underestimate them
These two combined with apathy create a fatal prison
The point of all this rambling, children, is to tell you this:
While grief and fear patrol these realms, love is alive and bliss
Can be found for those of you whose hearts would dare to try
Stay true to self, stay true to love, and stay away from lies
~mearmes, july 2002


The Wendy's Worker and the Toilet Paper
An Attempt at a Modern-day Mythology and True-Life Glimpse of Fast Food Perils

This is a story about life; about romance gone awry, about love conquering all and saving the day. This is a tale of heroic bravery and courage in the face of incredible odds and determination overcoming the threat of fatal failure. If your mother knew it, surely she would have told you this inspiring fable – for it is inspiring, make no mistake about that. This, dear reader, is a story about fast food and toilet paper. If you find either or both of these subjects objectionable, then you are more than welcome to turn away now, before you are sucked in and overwhelmed by the inescapable pull of grease and poorly sanitized facilities. Once, in the land of highway-side fast food, deep amidst the desert of asphalt and far beyond the reaches of most gas stations, there was a respectfully successful restaurant that made its living off of truckers and tired, travel-worn families – an oasis in this sea of roaring vehicles and angry drivers. It makes no difference what the name of the restaurant was, as it changes each time it’s told, but for the sake of this particular telling, we shall call it “Wendy’s.” Now, at this particular sanctuary there worked a young girl. She’d been employed for almost a year and was courteous to most of the customers, most of the time. The job had taught her the benefits of keeping one’s thoughts to one’s self, smiling when one would rather glare, and swallowing any rising saliva that would otherwise work its way into the customers’ food. While this may not seem like much, many people do not learn these skills until much later in life, if ever at all. She wasn’t the best worker that place of business had ever seen, and she wasn’t the worst, either – but she was faithful, which is more than could be said about many of the better workers there. One day, while she was cheerfully cleaning the shiny steel machinery one may frequently find at such places, her manager asked her, quite calmly and almost offhandedly, if she would please change the toilet paper in the ladies’ facilities. The worker slowed her energetic swipes at grime on the machine, and stared at her manager. Fear and trepidation showed in her eyes, for she had never changed the toilet paper before. Her manager, mistaking her head movement for a nod, tossed her a ring of keys and pointed her in the general direction of the back room -- “toilet paper’s back there,” the manager said, and disappeared. The worker turned, fumbled with the clip on the key ring, jammed the keys into her pocket and began her arduous trek into the back room. She skittered by the sandwich makers, all busyness and elbows as they stared at their monitors intently, oblivious to the world outside condiments and stacks of beef as they waited for orders to prepare. She ducked around the pick-up window runner, staging a one-sided conversation with a customer outside through a headset, eyes focused on a window that showed no sign of life outside. She swung around a rack stacked high with boxes and crates of croutons and plastic cutlery and dodged the managers’ office, and found, at long last, behind boxes of take-out bags and straws, rolls of toilet paper. These were no ordinary rolls, dear reader – each roll was perhaps twenty inches in diameter and five inches wide – a cumbersome load, to be sure, but the worker was sure she could manage it. Over and around the obstacle course of flesh and metal she returned, rolls of the precious white paper slung on each arm. She moved hesitantly out into the dining room, past the condiment stand overflowing with straws and salt packets and into the corridor that lead to the lair of the cold, white, toilet paper-consuming toilets. She eased into the room, eyes darting for customers and movement, and gingerly stepped inside. The place was empty; she saw no signs of life, not even the whirling gurgling of a newly-flushed toilet. She propped a stall door open and began work on figuring out the intricacies of an industrial toilet paper dispenser. The key ring held a vast assortment of keys, some large, some small, some shiny, some dull, all designed, it seemed, to confuse the bejesus out of unsuspecting minimum-wage earning workers. She slid keys this way and that until finally, she found the only key that could work -- a small, grey, zig-zaggy plastic affair that popped the paper holder open in a heartbeat. Relieved, she quickly switched the quickly-dwindling roll of toilet paper with the mammoth roll on her right arm and shut the case up again. She repeated this process with the further-most stall and then returned, triumphant, to the kitchen, a proud smile on her face and toilet paper flapping about happily on the sole of her shoe. The manager glanced up from her work in her office, grunted, and returned to the columns of numbers and inventory sheets when she returned the keys. The worker sighed heavily and vowed to never be around when the toilet paper needed changing ever again. Her psychologist would surely agree that such stress was uncalled for and unhealthy on top of that. No, she would never do that again. This attitude persisted for some time until the worker forgot the trauma of the toilet paper and worked happily, smiling freely at her coworkers and suppressing grumbles from the customers. One day, however, the little restaurant was invaded by elderly individuals demanding hot potatoes and cold coffee – an entire caravan of such folk nearly overtook the dining room and threatened to seize the restrooms when the manager turned once again to the worker. Already stressed by the hordes of hungry hip-replacement patients and the sudden increase of straw papers floating about the dining room, the worker was about to snap when the manager wordlessly handed her the keys. Numbly, she looked from the keys in her hand to the panicked manager, and nodded. She knew what she had to do. The future of the restaurant’s facilities rested in the palm of her grease-burned hand, and only she could save them. She took mere seconds to eye the almost-impossible course around the grill workers and fry-droppers and, having seen it, took off blindly for the back room. She twisted around buckets of ice and flattened herself against the wall to avoid fellow workers running for supplies and slid strategically on spilled grease to her first stop – the rack in the back. Without wasting a moment she scooped up two rolls of the pure, absorbent tissue paper and retraced her life-threatening course among her coworkers. The dining room was a different story. Hundreds, if not thousands, of people lined the walls and clogged the very space needed for breathing. She could sense a revolution brewing, right there in the tiny lobby of the Wendy’s restaurant – all would be lost, she knew, if she was unable to complete her task and change the toilet paper effectively and on time. Seeing no alternative route, she ducked her head and ran, plowing through plaintively wailing babies and children, parents, and pleasure-seekers to the corridor that lead to the great white thrones that ruled the small and once-peaceful establishment. She bolted down the pale, dirt-smudged tiles and slammed the ladies’ room door open, stood for a few precious seconds silhouetted in the doorway, and then rushed into the first stall. Screams of surprise and horror erupted and she backed out, refusing to acknowledge her temporary failure and plunged into the next stall. She clutched the plastic zig-zaggy key in her bloodless fingers and popped the toilet paper case open. With amazing manual dexterity, she flipped the empty roll into the tiny garbage can in the stall and slipped the new roll inside, tapped the case shut and moved to the next stall, where she repeated this process with the same applause-deserving results. Breathless and triumphant, she wove her way through the crushing crowd of people to the kitchen, where her manager was waiting, ready to send workers in after her had her mission failed. The manager looked up as she dashed into the office, smiled gratefully, and accepted the keys willingly. She had saved the restaurant, and they both knew it. The worker never had to change the toilet paper ever again, and the community of carbohydrate-addicted senior citizens had found other oases in the desert of asphalt to attack, leaving the little restaurant known as Wendy’s peaceful and paper-supplied once again.


8/26/02 . . . After a long night of dealing with such events described above, I felt compelled to write a piece that would devolve rather than evolve the myth surrounding fast food and all its many-textured components. This is the result.


Theme for English AP
Meghan Armes

The instructor said
Go home and write
a piece tonight
And let that piece be just about you ---
And, let it be true.
I wonder, could it be that simple?
I am seventeen, shy, raised at a Christian school
I went to school there, eleven years, then here
to this school on the hill above Lake Erie
I'm just another student in my class
The steps from the hill lead off to the East side
Across 28th, then I pass Pine
Burton Aveue, Dexter, and I come to a hill
Three blocks long hill, which I once walked
to my house, sit down, scratch out this piece
How shall I know what is true for you or me,
At seventeen, my age? But suppose I'm what
I feel and see and hear, home, I hear you:
hear you, hear me -- we two -- you, me, learn on this page
(I hear the school, too.) me -- who?
Well, I like to eat, sleep, sing, and be in love.
I like to laugh, read, learn, and understand people.
I like music for a Christmas present,
good music -- Alanis, alternative, or Andrea
I guess being shy doesn't make me NOT like
the same things other folks like who are more outgoing
So will my piece be shy that I write?
Being me, possibly it might
But it will be
like you, instructor
You are outgoing --
Yet a bit like me, as I am a bit like you.
That's understanding.
Sometimes perhaps you don't want to be anything like me.
Nor will I always want to be like you.
But alike we are, that's true!
As I learn from you,
I guess you learn from me --
Although you're older -- and outgoing --
And somewhat more free.

This is my theme for English AP.

2002