Morning Reflections

Show me the sun, and I'll show thee the moon.

Show me the night, and I'll show thee the noon.

Show me a love, and I'll show thee a loss.

Show me a God, and I'll show thee a cross.

Show me a smile, and I'll show thee a frown.

Show me a city, and I'll show thee a town.

Because for ev'ry cap, there is a crown.


Give me a truth, and I'll give thee a lie.

Give me a failure, and I'll give it a try.

Give me a fact and I'll show thee a doubt.

Give me a seed, and I'll give thee a sprout.

Give me a hope, and I'll give thee an action

Give me a whole, and I'll give thee a fraction.


Either show me life, or show me a death,

And I will show you both; both in one breath.




I really hate forwards. They're a waste of paper to produce and a waste of time to read, but this collection (for what else is it?) would seem incomplete without one. Also, some explanation would be needed so that your not simply confused, caught standing there, muttering "what the hell." Who would read this, I can only assume. Who would enjoy this, I can't even conceive, but yet, a forward must be written.

Originally, this whole project began in one particularly stifling French room on Monday June fourth for a bit of fun. I began taking notes about my surroundings in a stream of conscience, adding color and class to the feelings I felt as well. Whether we were simply going over homework or dividing for projects, I wrote the action under the context of emotion. I continued one period later in Science, and by the end of the day, I had about four small pages of messy, delirious notes in the rear of my regents review book—the notes section. When asked what I was doing, I simply replied: "I'm taking copious notes," and I was.

It wasn't until later that day when I decided to continue this mad hobby. "It's pure Gonzo Journalism," my brother Hartford said, and it really was. Here I took simple, chaotic notes, translated them into a story, and I was to determined to continue my quest, inspired by the Master himself: Hunter S. Thompson. I knew that I could never emulate him, but still, the idea appealed to me greatly. That evening I got my small, blue notebook and prepared a mechanical pencil—my gear. Then I thought up a temporary title, Fear and Loathing During the Final Week, again drawing from the late Hunter S. Finally, I decided upon my characters. My attorney, David, was the first one; then I thought up my associate, Preston, and the rest followed.

It wasn't until the next day, while sitting in home room scrawling a few copious notes down that my second and current title came into my head—The Ramblings of Landcaster—courtesy of Mr. Ligeur, my history teacher and Charles, my close companion. The story is this: Mr. Ligeur, being an enterprising man, told Charles to publish a book of his "ramblings" entitled "The Ramblings of Charles." Needless to say, only one look at the raving, chaotic state of my notes drew me to the title as, indeed, these were "ramblings."

So I carried my notebook around, and when I had time, I would write. I would scribble. I would even, in some cases, curse. In every case, though, I would observe. All of these ramblings are true. Some may have been exaggerated. Some may have been stretched or misplaced in time, but every one of them actually happened. Everyone of them is an unfeigned event. All of the people are real, not apparitions of an overactive imagination, and every emotion translated into the prose was real. Certainly, there were parts that I left out. What did I do at home, for example. But, these were either irrelevant or unwelcome.

There is very little organization, but there is a trifle. Each chapter is a day, obviously, and each subheading, shown by the dash and subject heading, is a class (even more obvious). For example, in chapter two (day two), under the subheading French, I am in French class. Easy enough!

And so, my forward thankfully draws to a close, and the story (if you can call it that) thankfully draws ever closer. Yes, each passing minute, nay second, brings you closer to a short story months in the making, and now questions begin to arise, doubts as well. Do I really want to read this? Why did I pick this up a minute ago? Was I bored? Was he bored? Well, it's not too late to turn back. 1... 2... 3... Okay, now it is.