This website has no other purpose than to display Chris Barclay's apparent lack of writing talent.

Pancake Thoughts

Pancake Thoughts

I went to this cutesy little pancake place adorably called, "Buttermilk Kitchen", a house renovated breakfast place with wooden floorboards, cute white walls, cute white and black chairs, tiny little pitchers for syrup and cream, and entire families having pancakes and bacon and orange juice. Don't get me wrong, I'm not poking fun at it. It was immaculate.

Haunched over like a gargoyle I couldn't have felt much more out of place and meant to be as I did. I felt like L from Deathnote eating sugary foods and observing the room like a rat in a cage. I listened in on one family: a father coming back from Europe for a high school reunion; a waitress commenting on how the biscuits are "the best she's had in her life"; a family sitting in happy silence eating away at their meals, the son engrossed in the world of his miniature iPad and large blue headphones. My brother sits across, reading his book on something security related. I feel surrounded by the constant vibrant blues and whites and tans—complementary colors elegantly painted across the room like a scene in a movie.

My brother knows the waiters and waitresses here. I play Scrabble on my phone. None of the words add up. I could make Satire if the T only fit. "Utters", nope. "Sitters"? How is "satter" or "ratters" not a word? In the book I'm reading, the character recalls playing scrabble with his friends before a party. I find it amusing.

I finish my pancakes. There's nothing to do but wait on my brother for the next 20 minutes and quietly either observe or play scrabble against a machine way better than me. I choose the former, scrutinizing my cup and memorizing its details. The cups are different colors.


I have a green cup. 


My brother has a gray cup, and everyone else has red blue green white gray orange yellow purple or pink cup.

Why did I get a green cup?

Was there a purpose to it? I bet the waitress looks at everyone before she gets the cups and says "this persons a green" or "a blue". What does it mean? I find it depressing that it's probably random. I wanted a puzzle to be there.

This brings me to my reoccurring notion: this entire world is just a book with reoccurring jokes and instances and sad moments and tragedies. There's symbolism everywhere: the shoes you wear to the color of the cars you drive by. There's a meaning to *everything* and it's something so perfect. I've heard theologies refer to the idea as "gods plan" or "the will of god" . . .  but I kind of want it to be random. Like if you rolled a die 10,000,000 times and it always landed on 6. There wasn't inherent meaning or a creator making sure there was a purpose, there just *was*. A book where destiny slams its slimy fingers on the keyboard and it types the most beautiful epic unimaginable.


A few days after writing this piece, I woke up and spent 4 hours taking the SAT also known as (Standardized [test] Affecting The [rest of your life apparently]). I was feeling devoid of any passion, so I took a drive and whilst wandering my way down town I just simply, ya know, SLAMMED MY CAR INTO ANOTHER CAR BY SUDDEN ACCIDENT. In that moment the possibility that I had killed another human being meandered itself into my mind and consumed all my thoughts until the manifestation burst its way through my heart and eyes in the form of molten-hot tears and struggled to comprehend my actions. Everyone was ok. The police officer gave me a tiny, cutsey little government ticket for me to pay and wished me well along my way. I felt like I was just expected to skip on by, gladly forget my shock, and return to my "happy", "normal" "insignificant" life. I went to a coffee shop and—like Morty in episode 6 of season 1—looked around at everything as though I was a dead man walking. Anyways, here's what I wanted to add. An aesthetic realism poem I found on wikipedia discussing the inherent beauty of life:

Hot afternoons are real; afternoons are; places, things, thoughts, feelings are; poetry is;

The world is waiting to be known; Earth, what it has in it! The past is in it;

All words, feelings, movements, words, bodies, clothes, girls, trees, stones, things of beauty, books, desires are in it; and all are to be known;

Afternoons have to do with the whole world;


Full poem link:

The Mysteries of Eye Contact

The Mysteries of Eye Contact

Of Art and History: Connections between Fine Art and the Arc of History

Of Art and History: Connections between Fine Art and the Arc of History