Imitation Poem

To Think or Not to Think; What a Dilemma!

        for I. I. B.

Without the mask where will you hide, can't find yourself lost in your lie.  I know the truth now, I know who you are, and I don't love you anymore.

                                                                        -Evanescence

        1

My name is Nadia J. Schildt, and I was born

Across the country from Washington,

In East Berlin, PA, where 19 years ago,

I was brought screaming into the world,

Oblivious to the faults and follies of others.

Rose-colored glasses set squarely in place,

Ready to face the world in ignorance.

Until that fateful day, when school began, and

Off came the glasses in a rush of unadulterated reality.

It was not the infamous question of humans,

Whether basically good or basically evil, but instead,

 Humans: basically intelligent or basically lacking thereof.

        2

I confess; I am a cynic towards human intelligence and mentality.

Shouldn’t the masses be capable of wisdom and wit?

I find it hard to believe that people, despite best efforts,

Can’t overcome being generally inept and incompetent.

Cluelessness and absentmindedness, the undeclared dictators

Ruling the vast majority of spawned “intelligent life”.

They plot with ambition but execute with confusion.

They ignore the obvious and overlook the practical.

Ultimately paying a price for crime and, seemingly,

Unnecessary foolishness and incapability of great magnitude.

        3

Idiot, you made not one, but a plethora of fatal mistakes!

In your listlessness, your target was anything, but choice.

Unfortunately for you, firearm has no other definition, but gun.

Furthermore, customers in said type stores, not always, but,

Generally tend to be carriers of such merchandise.

At the pinnacle of your fixation, you failed to heed,

Every warning sign placed directly in front of you,

Immediately before your poor unperceptive countenance!

Not the clearly marked vehicle with the blues on top, nor even,

The uniformed officer’s position at the counter with his cup of Joe.

Regardless of the admonition such objects should have triggered.

You unwittingly pulled a gun, haphazardly brandishing the weapon.

Thus ending the crime spree that never began,

With but two victims, yourself and your aspirations.

        4

I pity myself, because others like you still roam,

Mindlessly and carelessly through life, unaware,

That buried deep within their consciousness is a small thing,

Powerful, yet commonly unused and untapped, is ironically,

And to much chagrin, referred to as, “common sense”.

It does no good to attempt to masquerade, for,

You cannot hide among the intelligent and expect to prevail.

Be sure your true intelligence quotient will find you out!

        5

Stupidity has no boundaries, nor does it hold a bias.

It pays no regard to neither social nor economic status, nor,

Does it choose between race, ethnicity or, culture.

Nothing can confine it, language is no barrier.

It festers among the weak and strong, rich and poor,

Princes and peasants, paupers and rulers alike.

It does not rest, nor does it take any furlough.

Its clutch is inescapable and remains until death and the grave.

        6

Questions then become, how do some escape?

Why are some chosen above others?

What is the method to the madness?

        7

Oh man of innumerable blunders, have you now been,

Spared and graciously granted an escape from your own self?

Thus, avoiding further and far more asinine follies to come?

When will men and women break from the monotony of the dim?

Catching idiocy unaware and bursting forth into brilliance and understanding,

Accompanied by others of their similar mental state and capacity.

We must overcome, and not let the errors of before ruin hope.

(Stop allowing foolishness to contaminate the innocent!)

We must become more than merely functional, but,

Rise to the potential of the brain and not quell the knowledge,

Which has thus far been forced only into a dark corner of the mind.

Everyone was home for Christmas...those from Maine and those from Greencastle all came to Mum and Dad's and we were all together for Christmas Eve and Christmas.  Here are some pics of the kiddies :)

Natalie in a Bucket...she played in there for a real loong time!

Opening Presents

Emmy playing will the Kitchen stuff her and Andrew got for Christmas.  They also got a whol Kitchen Set too!

Hess Trucks are amazing!

Natalie got her rocker with her name on it this year...since it was her first christmas...hehe its also a picture where she is actually smiling

I thought this was a cute pic!  Natalie always lights up when emmy or andrew are around!

We went to look at Christmas Lights on Satuday Night

HAPPY NEW YEAR EVERYONE!!!

Blowin’ Smoke

I slowly pried my numb, limp body from the hard chair with a moan and grimace.  You know, one of those with the little desk attached; the ones that even if you were two years old you wouldn’t have enough room to color on it.  After two and half hours of sitting in class learning about crazy people and why they are like that, I was ready to get home.  I trudged from the classroom with a very puzzled look and creased forehead. I was still thinking about Sammy, one of the many topics of discussion from the class. What possesses a 40-year old man who, by all appearances, seems stable and cognitive, to stand on a box in York proclaiming to be God?  I’m certain I’ll never understand the human mind, but it provides comic relief.  Unfortunately it also puts ideas into my twisted little mind about how to impersonate such people.  That class was so taxing that afterwards I always felt like there was cement blocks attached to my feet when I walked.  I even half expected some mob member to jump from the shadows and drag me to the pond in the middle of campus at any moment.  Needless to say, I finally managed to find my car and throw my books into the back and slam the door, venting some of my psychology frustration.  I situated myself in the seat and started the engine.

                Whew, the car started.  I finally remembered to turn my lights off!  If I get stopped by a cop maybe I should act like Sammy.

“Do you know how fast you were going ma’am?” … “No! But it was righteous!!”

  I better just not get stopped.  Let’s just focus on staying awake and getting home alive!  What is this person doing in front of me?  Do they know that if they go over the speed limit their car will not explode?!  Dang, because of them I had to run that yellow light.  Yellow.  I don’t look good in yellow.  The sun is yellow.  I can’t wait for summer!

                I merged onto route 30, doing approximately sixty.  The first exit couple exits flew by.  I was only slightly slowed by the “law-abiding” citizen who apparently thought that since the construction zone was not  Maybe this guy could be an object of study in my psychology class.  Sammy II, the chronic non-speeder.  Maybe if I flashed my lights he would pull over and I could take him in for show and tell!  I bet that would get me brownies points!  Finally out of construction I raced over the river towards York. active he should do under the recommended speed limit.

Almost half-way there!  I will soon be home! I can relax, read a book, eat some supper, and go to bed! Oh, and I get to sleep in!  And there’s another car in the dust.  Literally, dust?  That’s weird.  Is it foggy?  What in the world is that?  Is that from my car?  Is my car SMOKING??

                Indeed, as I looked in my rearview, the lights of the poor soul I had just passed had illuminated a trail of “something” behind me.  It appeared to be smoke!  Immediately my brain, heart, mind, soul, and anything else keeping me conscious completely spazzed out and made a mad dash for home.  By the time my car had gone twenty more feet they had already managed to run the last thirty miles and were sitting quivering in my closet in my room!  Their return was somewhat bittersweet.  My heart executed a perfect choke hold on my windpipe and decided never to let go.  But with the presence of my brain back, I managed to grab my phone from the seat, speed dial home, and steer my car off the highway onto the ramp at Hallam.  At the end of the ramp my car stopped in a small cloud of white.

Is my car on fire? Dad please pick up!  Hmmm…well that cloud of “smoke” was smaller than I expected.  Maybe it’s not as bad as I think.  Oh, Rutter’s, good!  I’ll pull in there.

                To my dismay Dad did not pick up the phone.  Instead it was my mother.  Now I was stuck in a lose-lose situation.  Either I tell Mom why I need to talk to Dad and then ask for him; in, which case she will freak out and think I’m going to die in the next thirty seconds. Or, I ask for Dad, with my desperation being betrayed through my voice and she wastes my time trying to pry out of me what I need.  And in that case, my car could blow up and I could die before I ever get to talk to Dad.  So I chose the lesser of the two evils and picked the former.

“Hey Mom, can I talk to Dad, my car is having trouble. I think its smoking.” (putting a cheerful edge to my voice to sound nonchalant so as to soften the news).

“It’s what?  Smoking?!  What’s wrong?” (Wide eyed in genuine concern, or was it terror).

“Mom, if I knew I wouldn’t need Dad, can I please talk to him?” (face puckered into an exasperated grimace).

“Ok” (Dismay, as if she is the one sitting in the car).

                Well, with that going better than expected I waited for the phone to be handed off to the resident mechanic at the Schildt household.  While waiting, I self-consciously I peered around at the other patrons of the gas station.  My brain was reaching a bullhorn from my forehead, begging them not to look at me.

“Hello?” (mildly concerned).

“Hi, umm, I think my car is having a problem.  I think its smoking.  Something white is coming out the back.” (sounding clueless in order to hide my alarm).

“Are there any lights on?  Is the check engine light on?” (still mostly unconcerned)

“No, no lights are on.” (vaguely befuddled…shouldn’t something be on?)

“Well, does it start? Can you make it home do you think?” (let’s establish the obvious).

“I don’t know...I can try I guess.” (sounding more anxious by the second).

“Ok, see how far you can get.  Call me if you have a problem.” (this could be a long night).

“Ok, bye” (Yeah, I can do this.  It’s going to stop smoking.)

                So, I set off again, watching my gauges, lights, and the rearview, VERY intently.  I’m fairly certain that my psychology class should have been studying me at that very moment in time.  Symptoms:  paranoia and edginess.  I got the car back onto route 30.  About 30 seconds into the drive home I passed a truck.  Much to my chagrin, I saw the trail of white once again.  This time it was even larger than the first.  Then all of a sudden there was a bright gleam of yellow emitting from the dashboard, illuminating my horror-stricken face.  That light....NO…not that one!  The dreaded “check engine” light had come on and the temperature was at a steady climb upward.

“Hello?” (half-tense, probably from the intuition that is was me again!)

“It’s me.  The car is smoking again and the check engine light is on!” (thoroughly panicked)

“Ok, go to Rutter’s and we will come get you.” (Calm, cool, and collected?! What? My car is smoking!  Are you serious?)

“Ok, bye” (said with a slight catch in my voice)

(Thoughts running the Indy 500 through my brain), “Rutter’s?  Really?  Ok, so if my car is on fire, I will then blow up the gas station.  That should make me famous.  I think I better find somewhere else to go.”

                By now, I was sitting at the end of the exit ramp, in a HUGE cloud of smoke.  Unfortunately for me, the light was red, so the cloud just kept growing and growing.  People were pulling up and looking at me quizzically.  I almost rolled down my windows and shouted, “YES!  I know my car has a problem!  Thank you for noticing! Please take a number!” or perhaps, “What? Smoking?  That is me? No!  It couldn’t be!” or maybe even, “Hello my children, welcome to my magical kingdom!”.  Seriously people, I get it, you can stop looking now!  I know that there is a problem and that my car is not supposed to do this.  But don’t you worry your pretty little self, I’m working on it.  Finally, the light changed to green.  I went straight through, did a hasty turn to the right into a parking lot, right next to Rutter’s.  That way I could easily be found by the search and rescue team, aka my parents, but I wouldn’t be committing any felonies by setting fire to one big flammable building.

So this is the part where I run from the car!  Should I add screaming perhaps?  Maybe I should flap my arms wildly?  Hmmm…if it is on fire, should I start throwing my stuff from the backseat onto the pavement?  Ok, focus, just get yourself out of the ticking time bomb! 

                I went stumbling from the cloud, coughing and choking, gasping for a breath of fresh air.  I came around and stood at the front of my car, staring in shock.  In order to even slightly understand how dramatic and traumatizing the sight was, you first have to envision something entirely unrelated.  First, imagine you are standing in the middle of hurricane Katrina in the pouring rain.  Now imagine you are cooking carrots.  You put them in water in a pot and put it on high to cook.  Eventually, you have white foam overflowing out of the pot and all over the stove.  Now, save that image and place it right one the hood of my car.  Except instead of foam, there was white steam, POURING from my car; pouring with as much fury as hurricane Katrina.  My poor car was emitting so much steam, he was being completely obscured from view to any passers-by!

Is my car on fire?  What do I do?  I hate you car, I hate you!  Why can’t you just stop!  This has got to be a dream!  Wake up!  Oh man, my car is seriously having a problem!  What in the world?  I can’t handle this!  My head is going to explode!

But hark, who be there in the haze?  A handsome knight on his white stead, coming to rescue me?  Alas, only a helpful young man in his Grand Cherokee, hoping to save some lady in distress, and see if her car was indeed on fire or not.  Thank goodness for that young man who got on all fours on wet pavement and assured me that my car was not on fire and that it would be ok.  To a thoroughly traumatized female, this one act of kindness felt like a dozen roses and a box of assorted chocolates.

Needless to say, my knight in slightly tarnished armor hung around till my parents got there.  After a quick inspection of the situation, like any red-blooded American dad, he decided he could “get the car home”.  We set off with my father braving the vengeance of my raging car.  Finally, we made it home, after three stops and some rather tense moments with an overheated car.  We pulled in the driveway and I finally let air past my blue, oxygen-deprived lips. I tumbled out of the car and floundered down the home stretch to my bed.  Curled up in bed, exhausted and never happier to be in my pajamas, I feel asleep cursing my little gray civic in the garage.