Archive for December, 2003

Age 64; A Scene From “The Life of Andrew: The Original Motion Picture”

Wednesday, December 24th, 2003


One time during his later years, an aged and weary Andrew sat down at a café on a warm California Christmas Eve.

“Is there something I can get you today, sir?” asked the waitress.

Her name was Reagan. She was a student at the nearby university—a junior studying business and world economics—and worked just short of 40 hours-a-week as a part-time employee.

(The manager used this strategy with a number of waiters and waitresses so that he could have nearly-full-time workers without having to provide them with full-time worker benefits.)

“I’d like what he is having,” replied Andrew with a wink as he gestured to an attractive young couple a few tables away.

There was an exhausted, cold, seriousness to the statement which caused Reagan to stumble a moment while attempting to figure out if the old man was joking or not. She finally decided that it was mostly jest, and that Andrew was referring to the thin, attractive, wide-eyed companion of the young man.

The young woman had rich brown eyes and straight brown hair that fell just below her shoulders. She was dressed plainly but well, and was madly in love with her handsome young escort.

(In less than five hours, she would be overwhelmed with joy as the young man presented her with a modest but elegant diamond engagement ring. It would be nothing spectacular—just the traditional bended knee, solemn, request for marriage—but at that moment she would believe that she was the most beloved woman ever to exist. And perhaps she would be correct.)

But Andrew was not referring to the young man’s companion. He was not referring to the man’s entrée or beverage either. Nor was he referring to the youth, health, beauty, or modest wealth. What Andrew desired was the young man’s appreciation for all that life had provided for him and the unconcern for all that life had withheld from him.

“The Bourbon Street Chicken with Rice?” inquired Reagan with some hesitance.

“Yes, that would be wonderful,” Andrew responded, “with a glass of lemonade, please.”


Sunrise on an artificial day

Thursday, December 18th, 2003

It is like a dueling banjo competition, with either side plucking the chords of light until an overwhelming fevered pitch is reached and one side emerges the victor. The challenger from the East is slow to warm up, but always wins; and the once-proud West is put out. But regard for a wandering prodigy fades as quickly as its warmth, and soon the once-proud and now-deposed West begins to shine again.

Excerpt from a day of flight (or trying to fly)

Saturday, December 13th, 2003

Houston was also beautiful to see from the air. First it was just a few glowing clouds beneath the plane, then the light began to break through the clouds as we got closer. As we passed through the clouds, the city began to emerge, appearing like a vast volcanic plain of the far North. Thick clusters and thin strands of golden orange lights looking like volcanic hot-spots and magma veins. Large patches of darkness—interrupted by bluish-greenish lights resembling glacial ice patches that capture and release the light from the moon and magma pools—appear as newly-hardened or melting basalt and obsidian.

Walking With Homo Sapien Sapien

Wednesday, December 10th, 2003

Praise the heavens.
There is a strangely warm and luminous rain on a cold night in Morgantown.
It reminds me of nature’s grace and beauty, despite all this human grafitti that we call civilization.

Even as the cold touch of nature’s indifference penetrates my denim hide,
I have never been more grateful to be a simple insignificant animal on the lonely blue planet in the lonely milky galaxy.

I fold, dealer wins.

Monday, December 8th, 2003

In anticipation of my upcoming twenty-second birthday, I have composed a haiku sequal to last year’s. It carries on with the blackjack as a metaphor for life theme.

Happy Birthday Andrew! (2004)

Twenty-two is bust.
I am over twenty-one,
can I quit the game?


Some thoughts on being square

Sunday, December 7th, 2003

Sydney Smith (1771–1845), a witty parson, writes the following in his Sketches of Moral Philosophy:
If you choose to represent the various parts in life by holes upon a table, of different shapes—some circular, some triangular, some square, some oblong—and the persons acting these parts by bits of wood of similar shapes, we shall generally find that the triangular person has got into the square hole, the oblong into the triangular, and a square person has squeezed himself into the round hole. The officer and the office, the doer and the thing done, seldom fit so exactly that we can say they were almost made for each other.

To which Samuel Langhorne Clemens (aka Mark Twain) contributes:
A round man cannot be expected to fit in a square hole right away. He must have time to modify his shape.

But to which I reflect:
If we look back, we find that the triangular person is to blame for the square person’s having to squeeze into the round hole. I resent having to change in order to find my place in life and (most likely uncomfortably) fit in.

From the Archives:

Monday, December 1st, 2003

Previous Journal Entries

[We Are Worlds Apart, 05/19/2003]

It is not age or distance or race or gender that divide us; it is experience.

[My One Week of Summer, August 2003]

An insight:
The breaking of the waves is just an infinite sequence of derivatives.

A poem of sorts:
Brought in by the waves,
scattered throughout the sand—
remnants of long-gone creatures.
Dirty whites, orange-ish browns—
these cigarette-butt seashells.

A reflection:
…as i was leaving the ocean near dusk on that foggy last evening that i was there, i found a paper heart in the sand. i brushed it off and put it in a plastic bag. i brought it home, and sent it to Kara. i thought about keepng it, but after all, what use do i have for a paper heart?

Traditional Poetry

The Lost Art Of Poetry

I want to write an epic: a masterpiece to last an age.
Yet how can I achieve this if I cannot fill out a page?
For though I have an insight, it seems my inspiration flees.
A couplet or a stanza, and I can get no more than these.
I lose my motivation and I can’t seem to get it back.
I cannot write my poem. It seems that I have lost the knack.


Two Cans of Cream Soda

I had cream soda and drank two cans
I cut off the tops and with my hands
I tied the knot with string

A simple line-in, from me to you
A phone that’s heartfelt, between us two
A phone that would not ring

But two cans of cream soda
mean I dont care about you
Since I made myself a vow
to no longer be the fool

I doubt even now my heart could mend
if you would have been willing to send
a call that never came

Our line was broken but I don’t mind
I searched for your half only to find
the pointlessness of blame

So two cans of cream soda
mean I won’t think about you
so that I don’t break my vow
and once again be the fool


Tanka Poetry

Winter In Morgantown, WV

Morgantown winter:
The icy breath of winter
cannot blow away
the filth that covers this town
that will not shake from my shoes.

Broken Renga (Linked Verse) Poetry
These “renga” poems are “broken” because they lack the 7-7 linking stanza that should appear between the first and second stanzas.

Death Poem by Andrew M. Janeshek
(One stanza composed each autumn from 2001 to 2003, revised in 2004)

Single falling leaf—
floating in the Autumn air,
rests at dusk alone.

A leaf swept away—
and all that shall remain,
a faint blurry stain.

As a cold autumn wind blows,
my life—a leaf—drifts away.

©2001, 2002, 2003, 2004

A Walk Home (Along Walnut St. Bridge)

A low conrete wall
takes more than is deserved;
A shadow is cast.

I walk on the line,
a golden flash, here then gone;
one foot sees the sun.

From darkness, we rise in turn,
and then we fall like footsteps.


Haiku Poetry

Dining Alone

Always cook for two.
Even when I eat alone,
Je dine avec l’hope.


Why isn’t anybody here?

People are not art—
I thought life should reflect art.
Art is not true life.


Falling, and still in love.

The best of summers,
when life looks up, leads to this:
a terrible fall.


They Say That Drinking Alone Is A Sign Of Alcoholism

Alcoholic? No.
I never drink by myself.
Somewhere, someone drinks.


Happy Birthday Andew!

Blackjack comes but once.
Where do I cash in my chips?
I want to quit now.


A Commentary On This Alleged “LiveJournal Haiku!”

Haiku are not words.
As potent gems, the insight
should brim to the top.


Andy’s cavity haiku:

I just bit my tongue
and it doesn’t bother me;
Half my face is numb.