What is the Cost

Now the title might have you thinking this is economics-related. Sorry, just a poem.

What is the cost
of the love I have lost?

Is it the disguised opportunity
of a man, newly free?

Or is it truly a failed test,
a "...so I'm depressed."

Each chance I had to win her over,
or at least a little closer,

the words would fall out of place
or not come out right just like right here.

And when all was set, just like rehearsed,
something would not fit the verse.

Don't get me wrong, I told her one day.
She also said the perfect thing to say.

She didn't dis me or tell me how she felt.
It just wasn't a good play with the hands we were dealt.

So, did I pay dearly for my lofty love?
Or was it a good deal, considering I can now rise above?

Diary Entries from Freshman Year #8

3/29/10
Yes, I skipped a day. Which, in essence, is like skipping two days.
~
The rest is undecipherable. And the rest is math notes and occasional blips. Here's one to Victoria, back when I had a crush on her:
To the unsympathetic
ear it might seem lame
And I agree its pathetic,
these feelings I can't tame.
But with Spring flourished this feeling
of a crush but not crushing:
A hurt without want of healing
and a heart with blood rushing.
Why is it called a crush?
When I fell light and in love
I love the euphoria, the rush,
the pairing of unerring doves.
Already she was depressed with me
Though not by my doing
And it made me a little happy-
Bringing 'perfection' to ruin.
But I don't want perfect!
I want whatever she is
and regardless of what defect
it might have, that love is my bliss.

~
and one more, but I'd rather not share it. The rest is scratch work. Thats it for now!

Diary Entries from Freshman Year #7

3/27/10
This day-of-no-plans was crammed. In a relaxing way, of course. Talking of courses, we started with a brunch at Crystal Cove, a place I would enjoy with more friends this summer. For today, I had a Mexican-influenced breakfast featuring an egg sunny side up, tortilla strips, filet mignon and a host of smaller particulars. Aunt Ann, the birthday girl, shared a generous amount of her macadamia nut pancakes with coconut syrup (made at Beachcomber's). After dining, I gingerly walked in the waves and, just ass I felt ready to swim, walked back up the shore. We visited Roger Gardens and then I drove from home to THS. After dropping Timmy's racket off along with the sports shorts I was going to wear, I took the first steps to coaching: getting the hurdlers out of the shade and running the track and the a few hurdles. Giovanni: I can coach, but I will leave the injured Kelvin to his own devices.
For next week: Monday is just running laps. Tues or Thurs will be block starts only. Wednesday will be half 110s, half sprints. The other T-day is open but should be a relatively restful day. Friday should be distance or at least running laps. I have to figure out when I can leave UCI and what time. It may well be too busy a quarter to take coaching too.
~
Coaching couldn't happen, because. prophetically, it was a busy quarter.

Diary Entries from Freshman Year #6

3/26/10
Fred Fred Burger Fred Fred Burger Fred Fred Burger! I can spell my name! Fred, F-R-E-D-F-R-E-D-B...U...R... ... ... ...GER! Fred Fred Burger!
Well...mostly was preparing for school next week. You know...put in three calendar'r reading assignments, then not look at them and asking my peers what I'm supposed to read and by when instead.
But I did go to Tustin's track meet, the first they put on and second that I've attended this year. For once we had more people helping than needed; regarless I whole-heartedly became keeper of the hurdles. Okay, I make it sound grander than it is, but I did move them from W110 H to M110, then made manifest the migration of fleets for the 300s. And I was responsible for a great deal of the clean-up process.
I think I should be in Hurdles coach. I have little experience, a lot of ambition, and enough guts and time to make it happen. But little is certain.
After the Track Meet, we went to Pake and Beppe's. We greeted the Colorado-based Wassenaars, ate pizza, soda, and for some some beer. We all enjoyed the family time. Possibly the highlight was meeting Matt's girlfriend and questioning her, a pleasant and potential-full girl.
~
Her name is Rachel. Matt is Randy's friend.

Diary Entries from Freshman Year #5

3/25/10
Nothing compares to pulling into the Target parking lot singing "I Will Survive" by Gloria Gayner with Urian. I have a recording of it on my cell, I'll have to see if it turned out any good. Why Target? To lament the loss of the electric section (its going to be a produce section) and get Marianne and Urian's dad presents for their respective birthdays. Of course this followed our exercising time, held at the same tennis court as the previous tennis match, only this time for two hours. Surprisingly, we were doing well for a good deal of time. Paulina called, apparently wanting a repeat of the conversation held on Tuesday. I'd rather not talk too much with her; I haven't needed my stress stone in a while.
Also something of tragic note: Jessie was bit one her walk with mom and dad. She should be fine, but it was alarming and might dissuade Jessie from being so eager for her walks. Doubtful.
About Marianne's party: It IS on Saturday. Apparently Urian is going to sing "Its Raining Men." I think I will just wing-it: either choose not to sing or choose one I know once I'm at the place. Time to do what Wassenaar's do best!
~
like post post script in the diary? starting to become more active that spring break... makes me feel I should be more active now...

Diary Entries from Freshman Year #4

3/24/10
Probably the most interesting thing that happened yesterday was a viewing of "Seven Samurai" by my choice at about 7:00. I had to record the end though, because Timmy has school today. Its pretty cool: a '54 Japanese (subbed in English) black and white with colorful language but also occasional thoughtful lines, scenes, and actions. Regardless of the stereotypical content, I was content to watch it for its compelling vitality, even ad a 55 year old movie.
I also, working backwards, went to the gym with Vijay and drove to get the haircut that was pretty much everything I wanted in a haircut: almost the same length, but less heavy. (In other words I paid $30 for a lot of styling and a lot of 'spin' on what was occurring.) But that's all good because I didn't know what I want, just what I didn't want: too short or too dramatic a change. I wonder if I could apply the same concept to the major dilemma? Which is of course which major do I want to pursue and, more distantly and importantly, what job will I pursue? I like how I word it as my job as opposed to more economically (in what service or to what firm will I sell my labor) or socially (how will I contribute back to the society that I grew up in). Its more political this way.
~
Sorry.

Diary Entries from Freshman Year #3

03-23-10
Yesterday, I played Metroid Prime. The day was focused around exercising with Urian, which actually turned out much differently than what either of us would have predicted. I did not read the book Mom left out for me to read, only because how much I wanted to just about equaled how much I wanted to do something else. But back to exercising. We biked to Tustin Sports Park, started playing tennis, and were doing rather well. Some guy approached us, asked if we could help him move his car to the nearest (downhill) gas station. Apprehensively, we agreed, put our bikes and rackets in his car, and pushed the car down the hill, through a left-turn and into the Shell gas station. I accidentally broke his taillight and judging by how little gas he put in, he won't be getting a new one, but it still felt good to do something nice. My bad, random dude, thanks for the workout!
~
One of the more telling stories, I think. Urian didn't know I broke the taillight until he read this, he went a step beyond me in pushing, and then giving him some change so he had an even $5 to put in for gas. The guy also dropped his cell phone, twice, once during the left-hand turn, and once near the curb.

Diary Entries from Freshman Year #2

3-22-10
Official Beginning
Hello, my name is Ryan and this is my journal. Well, an entry in one of the journals. I suppose I will start with yesterday, though the events of yesterday were of a general normality so as to seem fresh in my short term memory but quick to be replaced by different memories, whether the new memories hold more or less weight than yesterday's memories. Like an escalator having someone who weighs 110 pounds on one step and, one revolution later, holds a new person on the step. Unless of course the 110 pound person ran back up the escalator at a pace that allowed her to step on the same step for the next revolution. But even then, her weight would be different by a Wii-Fit-board measurable amount because she ran up the automated stair system.
The less-than-precise middle of my morning began with the conclusion of car-washing: car-drying. I picked out a medley of melodies with my essential rock classics CD and dad's essentially acoustic 6-string guitar. I take that back: I was playing on my guitar with the amp that is a sprinter.
I also began Metroid Prime 2, which is predictably better than the first and unpredictably less nauseating for me. Now that I'm thinking of it, I'll go play.
~
Oh, the glories of spring break. Need I say more?

Diary Entries from Freshman Year #1 continued

After she left, I thought about why I didn't ask if I could come meet her friends. Probably a stupid idea. But it seized me, and I felt I would feel regret later if I didn't did not ask. So, I called her, and, as my capability allowed, asked (hopefully cordially) if I could go to lunch with them (who? Corinne-plus-a-friend who I want to meet, possibly a second time?) She kindly said not this time, maybe another. Using the rejection clause as a way to foot my foot in the door, I said she should let me know when we could hang out. I have little hope that she will call me--this reason or last--but am happy that such dialogue and interaction occurred and is bound to happen again. Thus, though the classes near end, perhaps this friendship will be more everlasting.
~
Indeed, it was not. Facebook friends?

Diary Entries from Freshman Year #1

There's many of these, so it might take me awhile to get all these posted.
3/9/10
Corinne
After beginning by asking if she wanted me to put her quiz in her backpack and closing it for her, and her refusal for me to do either thing, I felt comfortable enough to continue talking to Corinne as she went to her bike. Looking Back, I see her refusal as an act of independence, not needing me, or any guy; and never dependent on anyone. In the moment I was conscious only that I was trying to be conscientious. Discussing grades, we reached her bike. She was commenting on her assurance that I would pull out with an A on both the final and the class. She is more likely to get the A, both according to me and probability, as she has had an A on both midterms. Anyway, at her bike, I guessed correctly that she was not going to work today. What tipped me off were her clothes, her leisurely pace, and relaxed demeanor. She said she was going to lunch (and she didn't word it exactly like this, but to this effect) with a friend (was it singular or plural?). I, too entranced to even think of what to do in the situation, said something about me biking home, and how I didn't want to even though i had the wind with me this time. Obviously, both the subject and the delivery could have been improved. Then, as she left, I rhetorically asked what was the point in following her to her bike (Yeah, leave her feeling awkward, after failing to impress her, why don't you?) Though I sulkily bring pencil to paper, at the time I was cloud-happy.
~
Corinne was a study-buddy I met in Humanities, and who would help me, and I her of course, in our 20-series calculus classes. She worked at Disney. This particular entry was written very shortly after the described scene, a fairly common one but one that for some reason touched me to writing of the incident. Though my words are poor compared to the thoughts and feelings I was teeming with, they do justice to the short-lived love I had for a girl who, as I knew, would not return it.

La di da

Sitting in a lab with Urian. U-Rian. I need to figure out how I'm going to deal with what is distracting me. I know what it is, it is the same thing that has motivated me to do so much in supplement to my own personal, simple necessities. But no matter how much I do it won't change that my personality being offensively contrary to what is liked by the distraction. Cello concert went fantastic. School, I feel behind but I do not know if that is entirely correct. Eventually I must learn how to do this blasted computer science lab...

"Terrible...the war was terrible."

This was the time when rubber was used by the military, so kids and adults alike rode on the rims of their bicycles. These were the places where farmers would search downed aircraft for the asbestos-material for insulation and parachutes for cloth to make clothes. Fear of the Gestapo was palpable; everyone knew someone who had been taken away. Neighbors and family members in equal measure helped and ratted out Jews, enlistment-age men, white-market and black-market distributors, and the countless other divers and rebels to the occupying force.

My grandmother reminds her spouse of the radio, hidden in her parent's attic. She can't remember it ever working, but she knew they would be in a lot of trouble if the Germans found it. They never did, but not from lack of trying. They got as far as combing the attic, and then they dropped the search: the termite-bitten ceiling could not support the investigators away from the cross-braces.

Yet that wasn't the closest grandmother got to being caught in the wrong by the Germans. Regulations existed of what people could access in terms of food, and meat was supposed to be on the illicit side for the occupied. Farmers, nonetheless, still had to raise and butcher the German's meat. Inevitably, some ended up on black markets. My great-grandmother cooked such meat in pots and pans. The meat had to be hidden during the night, so she would put the meats and pans under grandmother's legs on her bed, and throw the covers over. Several times the Gestapo came in, and each time, her family insisted they don't wake the sleeping child. Obviously, she was terrified, but pretend to sleep she did, until they left.

Meat also brought my grandfather's family many close calls with the Germans. His father butchered and distributed meat, often distributing it to the citizens of nearby farms and cities. One time, he was caught. Luckily he knew a meat seller, who sold to both the Germans and to the Dutch. The Germans let him go after that, but he was on shaky ground--men up to age 60 were drafted with the exception of most farmers. In fact, boys on farms were often enlisted anyway. That's why my grandfather's family paid to have his elder brother exile. They couldn't afford to all leave, but at about twenty, his elder brother would have been at the prime age for the military.

My grandfather never was asked to leave, but he was asked once if he knew anyone of a certain vague description, a German tactic to get practically-innocent farm children to rat out hiding men. Not knowing better, he said he thought someone lived in the shed down the way. Luckily, he told his father about the incident, and he was able to warn the man before the Police could come.

How divers, food, newspapers, news, pamphlets, and other illicit freight was transported and hidden showed the ingenuity of a desperate population. My grandfather's story of how a neighbor of his smuggled meat is a prime example. The Hollander, knowing a security checkpoint was just a little farther along the road, took his bicycle to the nearby house, asked to borrow their dog in exchange for a little meat, and left the meat with the house-owners. Before the checkpoint, he put the dog in his bicycle's basket, above his front wheel. When the Germans had him yield, and demanded to see what was in the basket, he warned them and said he had just bought the dog, and if they let him out, he would run back to the house. Well, they ignored him, opened the basket, and the terrified dog ran back to the house. The bicyclist was upset, biked after him, and, upon reaching the house, put the meat in the basket instead of the dog. Upon reaching the checkpoint a second time, he said coldly, "Are you going to check the basket again, or let me pass?" And so he continued to his destination.

These are only a few isolated stories, and I hope to learn of more. But despite my interest in this particular tidbit of family history, I am far happier to regale in my grandparent's lives today and not press the memories of that dark time to the surface. Forgive me for my bias, try to understand that these are important but not the most important thing about my grandparents.

~RSW

Boring Outpouring

I'm getting bored of the crosswords, over rubbing my eyes. I want to join the birds high up in the sky. I shouldn't complain-everything's alright. I just want to leave these chains and stretch my wings into flight. Yet even as an eagle, I wouldn't mind being caged-as long as the keymaster is also my slave...