Today Was

thoroughly atypical, even though it seemed routine on the surface.

After finishing my homework in Jackson's room, I had nothing better to do...so I wrote, and as I did, one person was reading over my shoulder, then another, and while Jackson didn't read what I wrote, she certainly knew what I was talking about. The wild thing is that I was suddenly uncomfortable. I wrote what I did with the very intention of posting it here. Here, I tell all. Well, mostly. This keyboard does have a backspace button, and I won't pretend I don't use it when I post. I guess the primary difference is that here, there is no face-to-face. I don't know who reads these and who doesn't--the only thing I ever know is who is affected enough to leave a response--generally, not many people. The computer provides anonymity, but that's the one thing I'm trying to escape with these entries. Attaching a face to my name isn't really enough. What I write here are my thoughts, and yes, I will be presumptuous enough to call them my philosophies. I think at this point I have the right. I write because I never seem to be able to speak the right way, to say these things in person. I would if I could. Or if the subject ever came up.

I doubt it would.

The moment of silence wasn't silent at all, nor was it long enough to even be considered a moment.

The response to his death could've been a recording, like the voicemails with someone's name awkwardly inserted in the middle.

Ellen DeGeneres talked about that once. "Somehow," she said, "you wind up sounding more like a robot than the robot."

"Hello. You have reached the personal voice mailbox of...ELLEN."

"Your attention please. A Souderton graduate, RONNIE POWELL, tragically died yesterday."

If you need help, get it. We've got people here. A small speech from Lozano and class goes on. Columbus. Dutch East Indies. The Incas. School goes on. AP Literature. B lunch. Physics. The day goes on. Dinner. Rehearsal. Bed.

Life goes on. (?)

It does, and we are left to interpret the events that shape and comprise our days, evaluate these "moments--" moments of silence, pivotal moments, and all of the moments in between.

Do we spend enough time evaluating our lives? Why should we, and how could we? Like a math problem--one step at a time, and eventually the answer is found? Or like a piece of postmodern literature--analyzing themes, trends, and the details--so many details! Imagine evaluating your life in terms of semantics. Word choice in every speech, conversation, and thought? Awful. That's no way to interpret an entire lifetime......Well, maybe there's some value to it. You can tell a lot about a person by what they say. Well, not just what they say--the words they pick. But that doesn't lead to an answer.

And that's what I'm looking for. When I examine my life, I want answers.

The wild thing is what Mr. Luck said in response to what I wrote. He said "don't be angry at him," referring to Varano. I'm not angry at Varano at all...Okay, maybe this is what's good about the blog. I don't have to explain myself to anyone. I understand. Varano is definitely hurting about it. But he can't afford to be that way in front of the whole school, because someone has to be strong...

Anyway, Mr. Luck said "Once you've done this long enough, you become desensitized to things like this." He turned away. Then he turned back and said "because you have to."

I think when we become desensitized to an event like this--especially by necessity--something is wrong.

I'm not that sensitive to it either. I hardly knew Ronnie. Death, when it doesn't happen to someone close, doesn't necessarily make you sad. It just makes you think. And that's what I do, the second I put my pen down, the second I stop pretending I'm capable of putting thoughts into spoken word, I think. For the rest of the afternoon.

As I walk home, the clicking of my heels provides a metronome, their sound echoing from the row homes across the street. Thoughts keep coming, keeping time with my footsteps. The question I ask myself when figuring out my life--What? Have? I? Left? That is to say, what is the impact I've made?

Who. Knows. I answer in time to the beat. The number of ways we affect others is incalculable--we can never know who we've touched, and how.

As soon as I allow myself a silent celebration for reaching this conclusion, I am startled by my neighbor. God, was I really this close to home without realizing?

How're you doing, I ask.
Keeping busy, he answers. A working father whose house repairs never seem to end. I believe him.
You?
Good, thanks...I keep walking. I'll spare him the truth.