Scraps and Spoils
It was a feeling of euphoria at least somewhat similar to the feeling of standing up too fast. At that present moment Alfred stood in one of two lines with some 200 other band geeks on opposing yard-lines of the football field. The tension among them all seemed to accompany the thick warm air of mid September better than most other situations. It was as if the sweat of many a brow were raindrops trickling into the great lake of humidity that was that afternoon. What they were all waiting for is what many of them referred to as the most hardcore game of steal the bacon ever. And all he could do was wait for his section to be called.
It was official marching band steal the block day. The band was divided based on their instruments: half of the instruments positioned themselves on one side of the field, and the other half positioned themselves on the other. Two sections would then be called to race to the center of the field and obtain a tiny red woodblock, run it back to their side of the field, and to claim it for the glory of their section while being pummeled by members of both the opposing instrument, who were trying to make sure that you didn’t obtain the block, and the heroes from your section who played steal the block like little kids play soccer. A true diva at steal the block could look forward to being completely and utterly trampled.
Yet somehow, despite the fact that Alfred was a 135 lb, 5’4” tall flute player; began to feel like a true diva. Instead of a scrawny 15 year old, he saw himself as an angel of death out to destroy-en masse-everyone willing to oppose him. He could feel rising adrenaline turn what was once a budding excitement soon bloomed into an all-consuming rush, as if the world were slowly cracking and reforming beneath him.
"Trumpets and Alto Saxophones," shouted the man on the side of the field. Then, as soon as he uttered the word “Go,” the two sections took action and sprinted toward the little red woodblock wolves rushing at a wounded stag. As the half-crazed band nerds piled on top of each other, he saw the relatively fast and furious members of both sections (the alpha wolves) that were now piled on top of each other-fighting for their next meal-and the scrawny and weak of the pack, who were awkwardly standing outside the mob, waiting for their spoils of the action. The hot blood, seeping out of the dead, and steaming on the clear, snow covered landscape in his head animal made the humidity of the air seem even more unbearable...
Once the block had been obtained, the current mass was slowly pushing the block, carrier and all, toward the side of the trumpets. He stood waiting: poised on the sidelines like a star Olympian athlete. At that moment, Alfred would have loved to rush the pile of warring kids like it was the100 meter dash, and rip through them like Lázló Papp in the boxing ring. He could sense the lightheaded numbing feeling in his head from before spread throughout the rest of his body, as if it were a cancer, which was then eclipsed by a tidal surge of energy. He knew that he was wasting away in order to leave room for this new-found invincibility, and for the first time he could recall, his physical form, despite its many flaws, would come to serve as an adequate mask for the beast that was now fully thriving inside.
“Flutes vs. Clarinets” yelled the man on the sidelines. He was off, as if through a loophole in the laws of physics: weightless, frictionless and damn near body-less. The plethora of cheers and cries from the sidelines had meshed together into one big amplified silence. His mission: to seek and destroy.
Before long, our hero was many feet closer to the blood-red woodblock than those of either section. At last, he swooped down on his prey, as if to deliver its coup de grace. He dove viciously; he dove stealthily; he dove with such force that he all but missed the woodblock entirely. It had been barely graced by his right hand when he hit the dirt. The meager eight inches it had shifted had left him in shock. After recovering, he tried to squirm his way back over toward his elusive adversary, only to be re-slain by four equally tenacious clarinets and left face down in the earth-defeated and spent-as a victim of his own adrenaline.
Almost immediately, Alfred returned to his own state of being. Not only could he feel and hear at a normal level, but also it felt as though there was noticeably less humidity in the air. His clouded brain was not unlike one that has just awoken from a strange dream and was concentrating on getting its sheepish client to the shower. Was this foray a state of blissful abandon or bitter decadence? Either way, Alfred’s mind was at ease once he returned to the line and, aside from being a little sore, he felt quite relaxed. He did not know who won the round, nor would he ever find out the final results of the game. Yet he didn’t seem to care, for it was no longer a game to him, but a pure lapse of character into an unknown realm of his personality. Sending a message to the world that even a scrawny flute player can be an epic diva.
It pretty much is my intention that spoils is an excercise in descriptive writing. To be honest, I came up with the idea for the story off the top of my head 10 minutes before the rough draft was due based off the exact same thing happening in marching band the day before. To be honest, I didn't even really like the idea for my story much at all, which made me that much more determined to make it as well-written as possible. Although I play drums, not flute.
The photonarrative movie was fun anthough rather stressful. My only gripe with it personally is that it feels kinda forced and is rather long. I'm much more proud of the sound accompanyment to it which I made on garage band and which is feel captures the mood perfectly.
Throughout my existence I’ve heard many things regarding the element of chance: from the self-pitying claims “that everything [bad] always happens to me,” to the self-righteous claim that “everything happens for a reason (with the implication that that is why I’m awesome).” Although I’ve made both of those claims, and many other ones that fall between the two (after all, I am a living being), in most of my states of mind, my belief is in the immortal words of Dire Straits guitarist Mark Knopfler who once said that “ sometimes you’re the windshield: sometimes you’re the bug.” Such a statement is the Diet Rite metaphor behind my photo narrative, which follows the growth of a beautiful flower, only to discover that it was growing in front of the lawnmower all along, and is then cut down only to begin it’s growth again.
In other words, even if you are a beautiful person, living a beautiful life, that the cruel hand of fate shall come crashing down on you at some point, and that then it is not a chance to mope at the injustice of the world (although we all do at some point), but a chance to grow just a little bit stronger. An Example of this in my life would be when I was seven and I was hit in the jaw by a speeding S.U.V. with no headlights while crossing a wet road in the early evening. As a result my jaw was broken and badly mangled and I lost my 3 front teeth, and almost lost my life. However, I don’t need, nor do I particularly want anyone’s sympathy. For the only reason why I bring such a thing up is that, as a result of the accident, even when I feel at my most useless, I feel that my life truly has a purpose just by being there, and that I should always strive to be the best person that I can ever be.