I bought my sister her first official shot as a twenty-one-year-old--a lemon drop. It was the only vodka-based shot I could think of at the time, and still is. I wasn't doing vodka straight, no sir, not on your life. I don't remember what I'm calling her, so I'll have to look that up later when I write about the weekend in more detail. Right now I'm sitting in a towel at 8:41 on the first of December, dreading class today because of absences and unfinished work. Not enough time or motivation to get it all done, yeah? An all-nighter, a bender as I call 'em, but not an unproductive one. I just wish I were more productive. I'm dead afraid there's a paper due at two o'clock which I haven't even touched, only fondly thought about. So I'll be bulshtin' that one in a few hours.
The paper I did write tonight, during bouts of internetting, which is a catch-all category meaning I did fuck-all, of course, but you knew that--the paper I did write was, I hope, a good exercise back into writing papers, of which I'm gonna have to get real good at in the next two weeks if I'm passing this term. I used to be good at 'em once, I've fallen off. Homesick, I know that, I'm setting a date to go home in six months, which means I gotta graduate first, which is a pain in the ass, but I guess it's time. No more pissing 'round.
I don't know why I'm making some piss-all contribution to the board right now, either, 'cept to kill ten minutes 'fore I dress up all nice like and go to class. Gotta cup o' strong-ass coffee in me right now that's really doing all the work, maybe I can conjure up another one when I walk in in three hours to write a paper on Zadie Smith's White Teeth, and what I've decided will be teeth imagery in Zadie Smith's White Teeth, as they relate to both a concept of bodily completion (mental, physical, emotional) and racial health in a community you refuse to assimilate with. Whoops, spent all that time looking for the right words and now it's time to get dressed and go. Guess that's where half my night went after all, looking for those words. Looks like I remember a little bit of that high school programming class after all?
Tuesday
Thursday
Zounds!
When I was in middle school I drooled over my friend's RPG Maker--a stupid little piece of software that helps you make your own low-tech, mid-nineties-grade RPG. I pined for that program for years. In high school, a fellow student finally shot a copy my way, and since then I haven't been without the very disc he gave me.
When Karfilov and I lived in Canada, which was the pet name we or somebody else gave our third-story dorm room, I brought the RPG Maker out because I thought he would appreciate it, which he did, and we set to work immortalizing our selves in a game about...well, our selves. Needless to say, we didn't get very far. Trying to combine two computers' worth, two brains' worth, really, of effort, into one homogeneous program, simply was too much to ask of the dusty technology, and we never got the 'sitting around together to work on it' habit quite down pat.
That hasn't deterred me, however, and now Zounds!, the Castle-themed RPG I started six months ago, has followed in Canada's well-remembered legacy.
For months after starting it I let Zounds! go, because I busied myself with many other things. Now, I'm back into the basic programming, lengthy map-building, and all-around not-worth-the-trouble-edness, because the inanity of this activity has got me sitting in the chair, back stiff, concentrating on the screen, and, most importantly, thinking. I'm not saying Zounds! is the production of a lifetime, my career-builder. What it is, however, is a constructive project to get my self back into shape.
Or am I just making more excuses?
A good long post in the works for tomorrow: thoughts on T-Day as I spend it alone with Irish Whiskey and fine Korean dining. For now, though, I need to sleep, because I'd hate to miss everything I'm looking so forward to.
When Karfilov and I lived in Canada, which was the pet name we or somebody else gave our third-story dorm room, I brought the RPG Maker out because I thought he would appreciate it, which he did, and we set to work immortalizing our selves in a game about...well, our selves. Needless to say, we didn't get very far. Trying to combine two computers' worth, two brains' worth, really, of effort, into one homogeneous program, simply was too much to ask of the dusty technology, and we never got the 'sitting around together to work on it' habit quite down pat.
That hasn't deterred me, however, and now Zounds!, the Castle-themed RPG I started six months ago, has followed in Canada's well-remembered legacy.
For months after starting it I let Zounds! go, because I busied myself with many other things. Now, I'm back into the basic programming, lengthy map-building, and all-around not-worth-the-trouble-edness, because the inanity of this activity has got me sitting in the chair, back stiff, concentrating on the screen, and, most importantly, thinking. I'm not saying Zounds! is the production of a lifetime, my career-builder. What it is, however, is a constructive project to get my self back into shape.
Or am I just making more excuses?
A good long post in the works for tomorrow: thoughts on T-Day as I spend it alone with Irish Whiskey and fine Korean dining. For now, though, I need to sleep, because I'd hate to miss everything I'm looking so forward to.
Wednesday
Fear of God
That's it. I've killed myself tonight.
Figuratively. Literally. I dunno, depends on who or what you are.
I deactivated my Facebook account. I'm tired of maintaining it. I'm tired of it maintaining me.
I've let so many things distract me lately that I've become a distraction. Myself, my Self. That's all it can be, right?
The television. Video games. Stupid, inactive distractions from life have become a numbing sort of comfort to the only-slightly-more-demanding activities, obligations, that I completely ignore. Why? The demands.
No, homework assignments are not demanding. So why does it feel like they are? Is it some sort of reaction? I'm thinking it is.
Out of a two-year relationship, spending ungodly hours in a restaurant that is punching cancerous holes into my soul. I'm depressed because I'm exhausted, unhappy, and inhibited (physically, in my apartment, mentally, all that "laundry", and emotionally, because of my physical and mental state). I don't want to deal with it, so I'm shutting myself in, piece by piece.
And I just deactivated my Facebook account. I just, virtually, killed myself. I severed ties to family, friends, and old friends. I want to get away from them. I want to get away from them. I want to get away from them.
So what am I still doing here?
I dunno. Nobody reads this shit anyway, so it's not like I'm trading one thing for another. Here I can write, here I'm forced to. Here, I don't have ties to ex-girlfriends, and old acquaintances. Here, I'm not distracted by the past. Here, I can only write about the past, remember it. But I can't contact it, I can't communicate to it. Here, I'm only where I am now.
Which is not a great place. The next step is the television, the gaming system. I have to get away from these things, I have to concentrate on what I have to do.
So many peers, the students I'm surrounded by--they don't waste their souls on demanding jobs to make the rent every month. I do, almost every day. And if that's going to work, while school's working, I have to turn so far inward that it's painful. There's no sex and drugs for Ian, David.
I gotta get my own place. I gotta get away, make new memories, leave the old ones to gather dust. I'm killing myself here, hung up on the people I don't know or shouldn't remember. Hung up on everybody that are too compliant or comfortable. On Beatrice, who gets everything he wants, but won't get anything; on Karfilov, who has anything, but probably won't get what he wants; on Maow, Karfilov lite, who needs what she has, and should stay away from what she doesn't want, but can't; on Lovely, who can't stay away from what she doesn't want, and doesn't want what she needs (and who I still most relate to, I think); on Verde, I think that's what I named her, who represents a new direction down the same old path, a painful reminder of everything that's eating me from the inside out; and Rojo, her boyfriend, an appropriate Hindu name, who hates everything about the Chain but hasn't quit; on Mom, and Dad, and Mr. Mom, and Ms. Dad, who seem happy, but are five years ahead of me instead of twenty-five; on every goddamned thing, really.
I gotta get out of here. I feel like I'm twenty-two going on forty-five, except that I don't have the miserable office career - a miserable restaurant job certainly puts you in the right mindset, but you don't have twenty years into a savings account, assuming you've played your cards right.
I want to be creative, and I'm not. I'm repressing everything that I am because I'm in a strange environment, with strange people, at strange times.
Fear. Of. God. Ten weeks ago, my life was at a crossroads. I've simply come back around and now, maybe, I've just wasted ten weeks walking in circles.
Ten weeks is not a long time. Why does it feel like a lifetime ago?
We gotta come back, you and I. We're not going to do it here, nosiree.
The plan for tomorrow is to make it to the store, so I have a bottle of Jameson to spend T-day with. I need time to talk with Mum and Pop, too, because I don't know about Friday, and I've really been looking forward to it...
There is no comfort in self-pity, this I know. Where is the horn that was blowing? How did it come to this?
Figuratively. Literally. I dunno, depends on who or what you are.
I deactivated my Facebook account. I'm tired of maintaining it. I'm tired of it maintaining me.
I've let so many things distract me lately that I've become a distraction. Myself, my Self. That's all it can be, right?
The television. Video games. Stupid, inactive distractions from life have become a numbing sort of comfort to the only-slightly-more-demanding activities, obligations, that I completely ignore. Why? The demands.
No, homework assignments are not demanding. So why does it feel like they are? Is it some sort of reaction? I'm thinking it is.
Out of a two-year relationship, spending ungodly hours in a restaurant that is punching cancerous holes into my soul. I'm depressed because I'm exhausted, unhappy, and inhibited (physically, in my apartment, mentally, all that "laundry", and emotionally, because of my physical and mental state). I don't want to deal with it, so I'm shutting myself in, piece by piece.
And I just deactivated my Facebook account. I just, virtually, killed myself. I severed ties to family, friends, and old friends. I want to get away from them. I want to get away from them. I want to get away from them.
So what am I still doing here?
I dunno. Nobody reads this shit anyway, so it's not like I'm trading one thing for another. Here I can write, here I'm forced to. Here, I don't have ties to ex-girlfriends, and old acquaintances. Here, I'm not distracted by the past. Here, I can only write about the past, remember it. But I can't contact it, I can't communicate to it. Here, I'm only where I am now.
Which is not a great place. The next step is the television, the gaming system. I have to get away from these things, I have to concentrate on what I have to do.
So many peers, the students I'm surrounded by--they don't waste their souls on demanding jobs to make the rent every month. I do, almost every day. And if that's going to work, while school's working, I have to turn so far inward that it's painful. There's no sex and drugs for Ian, David.
I gotta get my own place. I gotta get away, make new memories, leave the old ones to gather dust. I'm killing myself here, hung up on the people I don't know or shouldn't remember. Hung up on everybody that are too compliant or comfortable. On Beatrice, who gets everything he wants, but won't get anything; on Karfilov, who has anything, but probably won't get what he wants; on Maow, Karfilov lite, who needs what she has, and should stay away from what she doesn't want, but can't; on Lovely, who can't stay away from what she doesn't want, and doesn't want what she needs (and who I still most relate to, I think); on Verde, I think that's what I named her, who represents a new direction down the same old path, a painful reminder of everything that's eating me from the inside out; and Rojo, her boyfriend, an appropriate Hindu name, who hates everything about the Chain but hasn't quit; on Mom, and Dad, and Mr. Mom, and Ms. Dad, who seem happy, but are five years ahead of me instead of twenty-five; on every goddamned thing, really.
I gotta get out of here. I feel like I'm twenty-two going on forty-five, except that I don't have the miserable office career - a miserable restaurant job certainly puts you in the right mindset, but you don't have twenty years into a savings account, assuming you've played your cards right.
I want to be creative, and I'm not. I'm repressing everything that I am because I'm in a strange environment, with strange people, at strange times.
Fear. Of. God. Ten weeks ago, my life was at a crossroads. I've simply come back around and now, maybe, I've just wasted ten weeks walking in circles.
Ten weeks is not a long time. Why does it feel like a lifetime ago?
We gotta come back, you and I. We're not going to do it here, nosiree.
The plan for tomorrow is to make it to the store, so I have a bottle of Jameson to spend T-day with. I need time to talk with Mum and Pop, too, because I don't know about Friday, and I've really been looking forward to it...
There is no comfort in self-pity, this I know. Where is the horn that was blowing? How did it come to this?
Thursday
Laundry
Laundry mounds in little heaps around the half-room, I shed every day to the floor to trip over later. If it's not important I'll reorganize clothes and blankets and towels into the closet and I'll wash it all some day one day: when I have the time, the motivation, and the quarters. It doesn't smell, it's not even soiled, but here is a stark reminder that I have things to do, obligations that wouldn't be there tomorrow if were I staunch enough to do them today.
Why shirk the journey? A basket a night and there wouldn't be any laundry in three days, save for what I don't have time to wear, neat and fresh and wrapped around a hanger, free from the sweat of stress and toil.
Life hidden in the silent folds of red and white and black. My mess of an existence is suffocating among the crusty sheets of just last month, the grease-less, royalty-free Levi's I haven't bothered to think of for even so long, and occasionally a nice white shirt or the confident feel-good briefs that I thought I'd lost forever. If you cycle it tonight you can wear it tomorrow and life won't suck up the floor space you want to have back, that drying rack doesn't need to be, and it's a clear trail to the bed when you stumble in drunk because you're stupid, and not desperate.
Why shirk the journey? A basket a night and there wouldn't be any laundry in three days, save for what I don't have time to wear, neat and fresh and wrapped around a hanger, free from the sweat of stress and toil.
Life hidden in the silent folds of red and white and black. My mess of an existence is suffocating among the crusty sheets of just last month, the grease-less, royalty-free Levi's I haven't bothered to think of for even so long, and occasionally a nice white shirt or the confident feel-good briefs that I thought I'd lost forever. If you cycle it tonight you can wear it tomorrow and life won't suck up the floor space you want to have back, that drying rack doesn't need to be, and it's a clear trail to the bed when you stumble in drunk because you're stupid, and not desperate.
Wednesday
Help Me, I Think I'm...
Diary Queens and Seven Elevans...
Two references already. Musical references, maybe.
I've observed, working in the place that I do, and being in a concentrated workplace, that one of the smalls things to get you through every painful day is your work relationships.
Specifically, the workwife/husband. I remember, when I was only a young server, being asked who my work wife was.
How to answer this question? I didn't know what a workwife was, which, to clarify, was the term more appropriate to my own heterosexual tendencies.
Broad-spectrum (I've adopted that term from House!), the concept of the work-spouse is, I think, an important one. A member of the appropriately attractive sex that gets you through the day. At barest value, the acute reader understands. Who is the specific one for you? Think about it.
When I started, I was but modest and kept my opinions to my manipulated self. There were peculiar servers, a particular lady server, perhaps, that I considered my "work wife". In retrospect, our relationship no where neared the requirements.
Because your work wife is somebody, in my case the woman, that you share a specific bond with, a bond that only the two of you have in common, and bond that she doesn't extend to any of the other staff members. Miss Canned, Mrs. Buster, and I, didn't have that marriage: I only looked up to her.
The next girl to come along, sure, we flirted. There was something, I think: She was a cute blond girl, artistic; but she extended our relationship to include a cook, and eventually exclude me, and now she doesn't even work at the Chain anymore, likely because of what didn't work out.
Since then, I've struggled to fill the void, engage a new work wife, and nothing is working. Is this why work sucks?
Because, quite simply, all of the potential candidates are quite taken with somebody else, or else, too dangerously fill the bill. Which is to say, I don't want to start a work-only flirting relationship with the cute, bilingual Spanish-type naivete, because I'd rather not explain in a month why I can't indulge in something more, that relationship that comes with the I'm-trying-to-be-nice-about-this freshman package. Don't get me wrong, she's a nice enough girl and yesterday's hug was, particularly, extended. But I'm too aware of those doughy eyes, you understand? And what do I want with new girls who have never served before, and are too taken with the arrogant assholes our own sponsored asshole has decided to hire? There's Bar, but she's taken and I respect her Man, and his local replacement; Mamma's the same age as my mother, and she's being threatened by local forces; etc, etc, etc, until all that's left is the most unlikely option, but the best choice.
What can I say, I'm ambitious? Sheldon copped a feel today! I'm two days late, but I haven't gaped a smile that big in a coon's age.
I haven't had this much whiskey intravenously in just as long. I'm depressed tonight, and looking at pictures of Lovely times isn't improving it. I expect to realize when I've hit rock bottom, and I expect I'm getting close. Water, Jack, a handle I've already replaced that warrants finishing...the hangover later, when I needs be doing work. I skipped even class today, papers are late, because I was too tired to leave bed. Is this because I am in fact exhausted, or is it something more? Depression? A shuffling of habits? Chain music? Which I'm streaming right now, by the way, and I addictively can't stand Hallmark Stars (The Lackloves: this is another song that is just plainly too obnoxious over the Chain's lousy-ass PA system). I realize I've just made a contradictory observation, but what do you expect from an observer who, just this morning, was ready with three of his greatest sub-conscious quotes ever (because last night, in Dreamy, the Quotable bit of me brain was working full-time, and I woke with the genuine intention of publishing it all: thankfully, I've forgotten everything since then, although instincts still suggest the brain's contributions were pretty bad-ass)?
Wu-wei. Sometimes, the flow is all you've got, but it's hard as hell to go against.
Two references already. Musical references, maybe.
I've observed, working in the place that I do, and being in a concentrated workplace, that one of the smalls things to get you through every painful day is your work relationships.
Specifically, the workwife/husband. I remember, when I was only a young server, being asked who my work wife was.
How to answer this question? I didn't know what a workwife was, which, to clarify, was the term more appropriate to my own heterosexual tendencies.
Broad-spectrum (I've adopted that term from House!), the concept of the work-spouse is, I think, an important one. A member of the appropriately attractive sex that gets you through the day. At barest value, the acute reader understands. Who is the specific one for you? Think about it.
When I started, I was but modest and kept my opinions to my manipulated self. There were peculiar servers, a particular lady server, perhaps, that I considered my "work wife". In retrospect, our relationship no where neared the requirements.
Because your work wife is somebody, in my case the woman, that you share a specific bond with, a bond that only the two of you have in common, and bond that she doesn't extend to any of the other staff members. Miss Canned, Mrs. Buster, and I, didn't have that marriage: I only looked up to her.
The next girl to come along, sure, we flirted. There was something, I think: She was a cute blond girl, artistic; but she extended our relationship to include a cook, and eventually exclude me, and now she doesn't even work at the Chain anymore, likely because of what didn't work out.
Since then, I've struggled to fill the void, engage a new work wife, and nothing is working. Is this why work sucks?
Because, quite simply, all of the potential candidates are quite taken with somebody else, or else, too dangerously fill the bill. Which is to say, I don't want to start a work-only flirting relationship with the cute, bilingual Spanish-type naivete, because I'd rather not explain in a month why I can't indulge in something more, that relationship that comes with the I'm-trying-to-be-nice-about-this freshman package. Don't get me wrong, she's a nice enough girl and yesterday's hug was, particularly, extended. But I'm too aware of those doughy eyes, you understand? And what do I want with new girls who have never served before, and are too taken with the arrogant assholes our own sponsored asshole has decided to hire? There's Bar, but she's taken and I respect her Man, and his local replacement; Mamma's the same age as my mother, and she's being threatened by local forces; etc, etc, etc, until all that's left is the most unlikely option, but the best choice.
What can I say, I'm ambitious? Sheldon copped a feel today! I'm two days late, but I haven't gaped a smile that big in a coon's age.
I haven't had this much whiskey intravenously in just as long. I'm depressed tonight, and looking at pictures of Lovely times isn't improving it. I expect to realize when I've hit rock bottom, and I expect I'm getting close. Water, Jack, a handle I've already replaced that warrants finishing...the hangover later, when I needs be doing work. I skipped even class today, papers are late, because I was too tired to leave bed. Is this because I am in fact exhausted, or is it something more? Depression? A shuffling of habits? Chain music? Which I'm streaming right now, by the way, and I addictively can't stand Hallmark Stars (The Lackloves: this is another song that is just plainly too obnoxious over the Chain's lousy-ass PA system). I realize I've just made a contradictory observation, but what do you expect from an observer who, just this morning, was ready with three of his greatest sub-conscious quotes ever (because last night, in Dreamy, the Quotable bit of me brain was working full-time, and I woke with the genuine intention of publishing it all: thankfully, I've forgotten everything since then, although instincts still suggest the brain's contributions were pretty bad-ass)?
Wu-wei. Sometimes, the flow is all you've got, but it's hard as hell to go against.
Tuesday
Trying Not To Bitch
I whine too much on this blog. It doesn't matter now because nobody reads it. Someday, however, when I finally have a subscriber or two, it will be because I've moved on from internal struggle to witty observations executed in fine, flowing prose.
Needless to say, for the careful reader, my Title is a great step in the right direction. This is sarcasm.
The Chain is what it is, a chain, a national chain, with broad-spectrum, non-offensive music. I hate the music, I do, I hear the same infectious pop songs every day at work and quite frankly I can't swallow them any more. So why do I come home and stream the poorly-programmed playlist from the Chain's main website? Why is their web radio bookmarked, hyperlinked for easy, return access?
Because these are infectious pop songs, that's why, and out of context they're harder to complain about. Also, I can largely ignored these songs in the relaxing comfort of my home, and get a warm, fuzzy feeling in my soul all the same. At work, that warm feeling is replaced with shrapnel and the like, which wears away at one's patience and increases one's reception to anything remotely irritating, like infectious pop songs.
I am cataloging the entire set now, song by song. Of note:
Detours - Sheryl Crow. A surprise hit out of left field -- for me, at least. Sheryl Crow any more is something of a bane in my existence. Last July Forth I was working -- at the Chain -- and they were of course broadcasting the free concert that was happening just over the river at the Art Museum. Splitting my attention between her show and the Miss World Pageant (nevermind that the restaurant was dead), I finally decided that Sheryl Crow is in fact a supermodel posing as a rock star: and from this angle, certain huge singles come off as plainly irritating. So I was not expecting Detours, a sweet, delicate number, to share in with Crow's regular commercial stock. What do I know, though? If the world has already discovered this song I wouldn't have the slightest idea, because I live in the quiet, unpenetrated dark about such things, i.e., I don't follow the radio.
Juliet of the Spirits - the B-52s. This song has grown on me. I didn't recognize the artists right away because Fred Schnieder is conspicuously absent from the vocal track, and Cindy and Kate's voices are subdued, whether by the chorus's ghostly affectation, or age, I can't tell (one informs the other, I think). The song is off of the 2008 album Funplex, and demonstrates that the B-52s can still cut a hellishly catchy number -- I'd argue that, despite their legacy, they're in fact an underrated pop band.
Shine On - The Kooks. Maybe you're heard this in a recent television ad somewhere? Never mind, I hate this song. The lyrics are not awful, but they could be a lot better. The chorus is bright, upbeat, and induces suicide. I'm sure my opinion is jaded by the fact that this is one of the more prevalent songs over our lousy PA system, but when you're hearing it once and even twice a day, you seriously consider how potentially lethal a petty excuse for a steak knife can be. Which is nothing to say for-
That song. Oh. My. God. I only wish I knew what it was called. I'll find out, in time, and post as soon as I do. It is so freaking slow, so painfully melancholic, so inappropriate in an upbeat dining establishment, especially one that frequently lacks enough business to qualify as 'upbeat'. It completely and thoroughly sucks your adrenaline out through your eyeballs and leaves your soul dead on the floor, but isn't thoughtful enough to offer the body a complimentary gesture. I've pondered, often and only during this song, what will bring the swiftest, sweetest release: The grill, which is hot and bears merciful flame; a cook's knife, sharp and broad; the bar, to make up for that laughable paycheck in alcohol poisoning; or the simple insult of a guest, who is likely packing heat, of which there's rarely a shortage.
Needless to say, for the careful reader, my Title is a great step in the right direction. This is sarcasm.
The Chain is what it is, a chain, a national chain, with broad-spectrum, non-offensive music. I hate the music, I do, I hear the same infectious pop songs every day at work and quite frankly I can't swallow them any more. So why do I come home and stream the poorly-programmed playlist from the Chain's main website? Why is their web radio bookmarked, hyperlinked for easy, return access?
Because these are infectious pop songs, that's why, and out of context they're harder to complain about. Also, I can largely ignored these songs in the relaxing comfort of my home, and get a warm, fuzzy feeling in my soul all the same. At work, that warm feeling is replaced with shrapnel and the like, which wears away at one's patience and increases one's reception to anything remotely irritating, like infectious pop songs.
I am cataloging the entire set now, song by song. Of note:
Detours - Sheryl Crow. A surprise hit out of left field -- for me, at least. Sheryl Crow any more is something of a bane in my existence. Last July Forth I was working -- at the Chain -- and they were of course broadcasting the free concert that was happening just over the river at the Art Museum. Splitting my attention between her show and the Miss World Pageant (nevermind that the restaurant was dead), I finally decided that Sheryl Crow is in fact a supermodel posing as a rock star: and from this angle, certain huge singles come off as plainly irritating. So I was not expecting Detours, a sweet, delicate number, to share in with Crow's regular commercial stock. What do I know, though? If the world has already discovered this song I wouldn't have the slightest idea, because I live in the quiet, unpenetrated dark about such things, i.e., I don't follow the radio.
Juliet of the Spirits - the B-52s. This song has grown on me. I didn't recognize the artists right away because Fred Schnieder is conspicuously absent from the vocal track, and Cindy and Kate's voices are subdued, whether by the chorus's ghostly affectation, or age, I can't tell (one informs the other, I think). The song is off of the 2008 album Funplex, and demonstrates that the B-52s can still cut a hellishly catchy number -- I'd argue that, despite their legacy, they're in fact an underrated pop band.
Shine On - The Kooks. Maybe you're heard this in a recent television ad somewhere? Never mind, I hate this song. The lyrics are not awful, but they could be a lot better. The chorus is bright, upbeat, and induces suicide. I'm sure my opinion is jaded by the fact that this is one of the more prevalent songs over our lousy PA system, but when you're hearing it once and even twice a day, you seriously consider how potentially lethal a petty excuse for a steak knife can be. Which is nothing to say for-
That song. Oh. My. God. I only wish I knew what it was called. I'll find out, in time, and post as soon as I do. It is so freaking slow, so painfully melancholic, so inappropriate in an upbeat dining establishment, especially one that frequently lacks enough business to qualify as 'upbeat'. It completely and thoroughly sucks your adrenaline out through your eyeballs and leaves your soul dead on the floor, but isn't thoughtful enough to offer the body a complimentary gesture. I've pondered, often and only during this song, what will bring the swiftest, sweetest release: The grill, which is hot and bears merciful flame; a cook's knife, sharp and broad; the bar, to make up for that laughable paycheck in alcohol poisoning; or the simple insult of a guest, who is likely packing heat, of which there's rarely a shortage.
Sunday
and.
Got a hug from one of my regular strippers a few weeks back as I walked into the Cube. Just something I'd like to get out there, especially to the readers from back home.
"Mad came by tonight, right? Yeah, I'm losing my mind."
Which kind of epitomizes how I'm feeling.
Hello. I haven't written here on Something Else in well over a month. In fact, the last time I did, I was proud of my screenwriting achievement. The one over my roommate? You can read about it below.
Page 88 is where I've stopped, and I haven't looked at the damned thing in six weeks. Here's why:
1. The term started. I owe the school $12000, which I don't have.
2. Week 2: Term is two weeks in. I've resolved my tuition problem, effectively draining my savings account and falling guilty on my knees before several department heads. Was an hour late to work the day they transferred two grande from an emergency account to keep me in school, mere hours before class registration closed.
3. Week 3: Fresh-faced, I learn the basic tenants of Hinduism and read half of Jane Eyre in days. Gonna be a rough term. First draft of that screenplay is due already, but I haven't finished it. I don't remember clearly, but Lovely's probably moved away by now. She didn't want to renew her lease and never found a new apartment. This was significant factor, if you will, in her decision to move back home.
4. Week 6: Was it Week 6? I can't remember well. Flogged by association with three of the major Eastern religious systems, and Jane Eyre and Heart of Darkness--I realize now that I didn't explain, I'm in an Eastern Philosophy class and a British Literature Class--I'm tired, but catching up on those two weeks of lost time. Screenplay still not done. Lovely and I are stretched thin. I'm trying to make it work, more for her sake than mine, and It's not working that way. I believe it is in Week Six, maybe Week Five, that the Phillies lose to the Yankees. Sigh. Next year, boys. Off with Pedro.
I'm sorry, Pedro's a fine pitcher. Or wait, maybe he was FIVE YEARS AGO when he led Boston to THEIR victory. Pitchers expire. Cliff Lee hasn't. Where's your goddamned common sense?
Maybe next year. The Phils are still a sharp bunch. The heartbreak has almost gone away, and at least I can drink Brooklyn again.
Which is my favorite draught over at the Cube. Brooklyn Lager. It's expensive, a fiver a pint, but amazing. Karfilov doesn't much care for it, which really only cements the thirst I've developed. He says it's too buttery. He didn't like Punk either, the Dogfish Head seasonal. I never doubt his judgment, but my tongue is mine own, and I'm damned happy with it. I didn't drink Brooklyn all through the Series, which was hard. Worse: my favorite thermal shirt is in the closet for the season. It's an Old Navy piece and it says "New York" right across the front, in script. Until I'm over this inner welling, which is to say when I see a blue-and-gray hat or a that shirt somewhere in the street and don't automatically snarl, I simply can't wear mine. Sucks, but my black thermal is catching the slack. And the skull on it is cool.
5. Halloween. Lovely and I agree that this is it. Ideally, this should make our last night together agreeable, albeit bittersweet. It's same-old same-old, however, and I push her as far as I ever have--for a few days, I wore proof in the form of a bruised lower lip. We couldn't exactly establish whether that was from her drunken punch or when she bit me later on, during the "I'm drunk and I want this" session-o-intimacy. -Sex. Talked to her last week when she was out getting pizza, but she was staying at a friends' house and I didn't want to see her. I still...don't. Do. It's tough, right? We're over, and I have so many reasons that convince me it's the right thing to do. Each day is getting harder, though. It's withdrawal, which I've gone through in mild stages: when I go Home I don't smoke, and after a few days the headache is unmanageable. The same if I haven't had a cup of coffee in two days, or a drink, and now it's Lovely. Had a great conversation at the bar last night with Katharine (I didn't know it was the Katharine!), a girl I work with whose relationship is constantly tumultuous: it's helped, she's a good ally, and we had fun. She sent me an appreciative text which I didn't get until tonight.
Honestly, she's only one of the minor crushes I entertain at work. I've felt for a while that there's something potential between us, but we're both responsible enough to leave it be. Our dishwasher is a cute girl who doesn't speak a word of English, and doesn't seem to enjoy her job, so I do my best to give her a reason to smile. My boss is great, but I've already told you that. She was in my dream the other night--it wasn't like that, of course, but I still woke up with that sort of, Woah, feeling.
My dreams. I managed them for a while, a few shots of Jack and I wouldn't dream a damned thing. But I've adapted, and now the visions are as forward as ever, intense, vivid, and distracting. This is to say, not sleeping well again. Maybe that's because I've broken up with my girlfriend, I hate my job, I'm having trouble with school, I want a new place, and I'm sick for home!
Did I mention Lovely and I are over? It's bothering me more by the day, I'm sure the worst is yet to come. I only pray that she's doing well, but I do her no good trying to be there when I don't take care of myself first. Not to be selfish, honest. But it is impossible, I feel, to give yourself to somebody when there's nothing to give her, and right now I'm not much of something.
Work is hard, school is hard. Haven't finished draft Number One, and the third one is due in a matter of weeks. Drinking too much, maybe. Cut back on the cigarettes, dropped Newports for Marlboro Lights, and my lungs have been rebuilding themselves, if just a little. I can feel it.
That I'm back writing here is a step in a good direction. I'm in a sinkhole that I need to climb out of, and getting back to the habit is a healthy start. I know that I've been tired, exhausted really, with life. But weeks, months ago, before all this happened, I was going somewhere. So I just need to get back on the path, right? Walk straight. Things Are Tough All Over, some wise philosophers once reasoned. Pick yourself up, kiddo, dust yourself off. Wipe the blood from your lip and nose, swallow it if need be, tighten up those laces and get going.
Mad's been in LA for three months, but she came by tonight and was happy to see me. She's no worse for the ware, which isn't bad, though I detect a subtle change in her. Maybe it's wishful thinking, maybe I just haven't had contact with her in so long that I've forgotten. She's lost weight, so there's a physical change...maybe a mental one to match?
Truth is, I had to remember she was here. I took a shower tonight, and she popped in to say goodbye--that's how I remembered she was actually here. Tonight. Tonight's a Saturday, right?
So much to write about. The muscle is rusty, nothing a little oil can't fix. One day at a time, one day at a time, one day at a time.
Licking the blood off, lips are chapped and dirty. Spitting the grit out, no use staying down.
Where have I been?
Hello. I haven't written here on Something Else in well over a month. In fact, the last time I did, I was proud of my screenwriting achievement. The one over my roommate? You can read about it below.
Page 88 is where I've stopped, and I haven't looked at the damned thing in six weeks. Here's why:
1. The term started. I owe the school $12000, which I don't have.
2. Week 2: Term is two weeks in. I've resolved my tuition problem, effectively draining my savings account and falling guilty on my knees before several department heads. Was an hour late to work the day they transferred two grande from an emergency account to keep me in school, mere hours before class registration closed.
3. Week 3: Fresh-faced, I learn the basic tenants of Hinduism and read half of Jane Eyre in days. Gonna be a rough term. First draft of that screenplay is due already, but I haven't finished it. I don't remember clearly, but Lovely's probably moved away by now. She didn't want to renew her lease and never found a new apartment. This was significant factor, if you will, in her decision to move back home.
4. Week 6: Was it Week 6? I can't remember well. Flogged by association with three of the major Eastern religious systems, and Jane Eyre and Heart of Darkness--I realize now that I didn't explain, I'm in an Eastern Philosophy class and a British Literature Class--I'm tired, but catching up on those two weeks of lost time. Screenplay still not done. Lovely and I are stretched thin. I'm trying to make it work, more for her sake than mine, and It's not working that way. I believe it is in Week Six, maybe Week Five, that the Phillies lose to the Yankees. Sigh. Next year, boys. Off with Pedro.
I'm sorry, Pedro's a fine pitcher. Or wait, maybe he was FIVE YEARS AGO when he led Boston to THEIR victory. Pitchers expire. Cliff Lee hasn't. Where's your goddamned common sense?
Maybe next year. The Phils are still a sharp bunch. The heartbreak has almost gone away, and at least I can drink Brooklyn again.
Which is my favorite draught over at the Cube. Brooklyn Lager. It's expensive, a fiver a pint, but amazing. Karfilov doesn't much care for it, which really only cements the thirst I've developed. He says it's too buttery. He didn't like Punk either, the Dogfish Head seasonal. I never doubt his judgment, but my tongue is mine own, and I'm damned happy with it. I didn't drink Brooklyn all through the Series, which was hard. Worse: my favorite thermal shirt is in the closet for the season. It's an Old Navy piece and it says "New York" right across the front, in script. Until I'm over this inner welling, which is to say when I see a blue-and-gray hat or a that shirt somewhere in the street and don't automatically snarl, I simply can't wear mine. Sucks, but my black thermal is catching the slack. And the skull on it is cool.
5. Halloween. Lovely and I agree that this is it. Ideally, this should make our last night together agreeable, albeit bittersweet. It's same-old same-old, however, and I push her as far as I ever have--for a few days, I wore proof in the form of a bruised lower lip. We couldn't exactly establish whether that was from her drunken punch or when she bit me later on, during the "I'm drunk and I want this" session-o-intimacy. -Sex. Talked to her last week when she was out getting pizza, but she was staying at a friends' house and I didn't want to see her. I still...don't. Do. It's tough, right? We're over, and I have so many reasons that convince me it's the right thing to do. Each day is getting harder, though. It's withdrawal, which I've gone through in mild stages: when I go Home I don't smoke, and after a few days the headache is unmanageable. The same if I haven't had a cup of coffee in two days, or a drink, and now it's Lovely. Had a great conversation at the bar last night with Katharine (I didn't know it was the Katharine!), a girl I work with whose relationship is constantly tumultuous: it's helped, she's a good ally, and we had fun. She sent me an appreciative text which I didn't get until tonight.
Honestly, she's only one of the minor crushes I entertain at work. I've felt for a while that there's something potential between us, but we're both responsible enough to leave it be. Our dishwasher is a cute girl who doesn't speak a word of English, and doesn't seem to enjoy her job, so I do my best to give her a reason to smile. My boss is great, but I've already told you that. She was in my dream the other night--it wasn't like that, of course, but I still woke up with that sort of, Woah, feeling.
My dreams. I managed them for a while, a few shots of Jack and I wouldn't dream a damned thing. But I've adapted, and now the visions are as forward as ever, intense, vivid, and distracting. This is to say, not sleeping well again. Maybe that's because I've broken up with my girlfriend, I hate my job, I'm having trouble with school, I want a new place, and I'm sick for home!
Did I mention Lovely and I are over? It's bothering me more by the day, I'm sure the worst is yet to come. I only pray that she's doing well, but I do her no good trying to be there when I don't take care of myself first. Not to be selfish, honest. But it is impossible, I feel, to give yourself to somebody when there's nothing to give her, and right now I'm not much of something.
Work is hard, school is hard. Haven't finished draft Number One, and the third one is due in a matter of weeks. Drinking too much, maybe. Cut back on the cigarettes, dropped Newports for Marlboro Lights, and my lungs have been rebuilding themselves, if just a little. I can feel it.
That I'm back writing here is a step in a good direction. I'm in a sinkhole that I need to climb out of, and getting back to the habit is a healthy start. I know that I've been tired, exhausted really, with life. But weeks, months ago, before all this happened, I was going somewhere. So I just need to get back on the path, right? Walk straight. Things Are Tough All Over, some wise philosophers once reasoned. Pick yourself up, kiddo, dust yourself off. Wipe the blood from your lip and nose, swallow it if need be, tighten up those laces and get going.
Mad's been in LA for three months, but she came by tonight and was happy to see me. She's no worse for the ware, which isn't bad, though I detect a subtle change in her. Maybe it's wishful thinking, maybe I just haven't had contact with her in so long that I've forgotten. She's lost weight, so there's a physical change...maybe a mental one to match?
Truth is, I had to remember she was here. I took a shower tonight, and she popped in to say goodbye--that's how I remembered she was actually here. Tonight. Tonight's a Saturday, right?
So much to write about. The muscle is rusty, nothing a little oil can't fix. One day at a time, one day at a time, one day at a time.
Licking the blood off, lips are chapped and dirty. Spitting the grit out, no use staying down.
Where have I been?
Friday
quick confession, too.
I didn't mean to call myself a saint. I didn't mean to imply I'm saintly. I'm just as much a thorn in everybody's side. A jerk, a jackass. A bad guy?
I raid the fridge, both food and alcohol, quite shamelessly; I'm fairly disrespectful of personal space. I've messed a few people up, not physically, but maybe I make a bigger deal of it in my head than I should. I'm entirely capable of underestimating people, but I've had a mixture of experiences that have left me wildly indecisive.
I don't really like a lot of people, and I don't see people in favorable lights. I automatically think or assume the worst. Regardless, I try to see all the sides and disregard them just the same.
I think part of this is conditioning: I've been at the Chain almost two years, and waiting on people in Philadelphia is a bittering psychological adventure. I'm vindictive by virtue of what I do, and surrounded by people who are the same. I grew up in solitude, so I'm isolating by nurture. It's hard to connect out when you cling stubbornly to what you know.
I try to balance myself against my roommates, who are internal and static. I try to balance myself against my coworkers, who are becoming a gang of raging alcoholics. The ones that stay, anyway. I try to be real to myself and my environment, which leaves me largely unapologetic, but I acknowledge my guilt.
I don't know how much of this, if any, makes sense. I am trying to hold my own, though, which requires a degree of aggression. Once I conquer my own begrudged laziness, I can put this aggression to more fruitful use. Just keep telling yourself this, keep putting it online, right? Whine, whine, whine...if nobody else is reading, at least the internet is listening. Wow, pretty pathetic. Maybe I should be writing this shit down, instead of typing it out. At least then somebody will discover it, if only eventually.
I raid the fridge, both food and alcohol, quite shamelessly; I'm fairly disrespectful of personal space. I've messed a few people up, not physically, but maybe I make a bigger deal of it in my head than I should. I'm entirely capable of underestimating people, but I've had a mixture of experiences that have left me wildly indecisive.
I don't really like a lot of people, and I don't see people in favorable lights. I automatically think or assume the worst. Regardless, I try to see all the sides and disregard them just the same.
I think part of this is conditioning: I've been at the Chain almost two years, and waiting on people in Philadelphia is a bittering psychological adventure. I'm vindictive by virtue of what I do, and surrounded by people who are the same. I grew up in solitude, so I'm isolating by nurture. It's hard to connect out when you cling stubbornly to what you know.
I try to balance myself against my roommates, who are internal and static. I try to balance myself against my coworkers, who are becoming a gang of raging alcoholics. The ones that stay, anyway. I try to be real to myself and my environment, which leaves me largely unapologetic, but I acknowledge my guilt.
I don't know how much of this, if any, makes sense. I am trying to hold my own, though, which requires a degree of aggression. Once I conquer my own begrudged laziness, I can put this aggression to more fruitful use. Just keep telling yourself this, keep putting it online, right? Whine, whine, whine...if nobody else is reading, at least the internet is listening. Wow, pretty pathetic. Maybe I should be writing this shit down, instead of typing it out. At least then somebody will discover it, if only eventually.
The Changeling, & What I Do
In school, I am obliged to write two [2] full-length screenplays, one as a workshop exercise and the other as my senior project. Beatrice had to do the same thing.
His workshop exercise was a dismal piece that only passed because he finished it. He came in well above par, it was seventy-seven pages. It was supposed to be between ninety-five and a hundred or so.
I just nudged mine over eighty pages, and still haven't resolved the main conflict. I use Beatrice's experiences as a bar, albeit a low one, so I consider this my first major success. Call it malevolent, or what you will, but if he's going to live vicariously through me, as he does from time to time, I have a right to be a little bitter toward him.
I laugh because I must put him through hell, but sometimes I feel justified in doing so. Somebody has to make his life interesting, and he can afford therapy if he needs it.
I like coffee. I like making coffee, smelling coffee, and drinking coffee. Not too keen on the physical rush, the jitters, but sometimes I embrace the feeling with a certain, unavoidable giddiness. Right now, induced states irritate me a bit, but I think that's because I spent the day with a numbing hangover. I'm in and out of phases, inconsistent, to be honest. In secret, I fear an irresponsible combination of caffeine and nicotine will one day literally explode my heart. So I'm also a little paranoid, even if I don't act like it.
His workshop exercise was a dismal piece that only passed because he finished it. He came in well above par, it was seventy-seven pages. It was supposed to be between ninety-five and a hundred or so.
I just nudged mine over eighty pages, and still haven't resolved the main conflict. I use Beatrice's experiences as a bar, albeit a low one, so I consider this my first major success. Call it malevolent, or what you will, but if he's going to live vicariously through me, as he does from time to time, I have a right to be a little bitter toward him.
I laugh because I must put him through hell, but sometimes I feel justified in doing so. Somebody has to make his life interesting, and he can afford therapy if he needs it.
I like coffee. I like making coffee, smelling coffee, and drinking coffee. Not too keen on the physical rush, the jitters, but sometimes I embrace the feeling with a certain, unavoidable giddiness. Right now, induced states irritate me a bit, but I think that's because I spent the day with a numbing hangover. I'm in and out of phases, inconsistent, to be honest. In secret, I fear an irresponsible combination of caffeine and nicotine will one day literally explode my heart. So I'm also a little paranoid, even if I don't act like it.
Tuesday
my dreams...
Have gotten strange lately, unnerving.
A few nights ago I had one set at some kind of camp. Never in the day, only at night, and the figures that appeared were all out of my youth-group past. Two significant things happened in this dream. The first was a suicide "scene", if you will, where somebody that I don't recognize, we'll call him the Surgeon, cruised down a hill in a car and plunged into the ocean. As the car passed me everything happened in slow motion, and I caught the defeated expression that he wore on his miserable face. He wore glasses. Then the car disappeared. Heavy stuff, I guess.
Then we come to some sort of board meeting--this happened later in the dream--where Spike Milligan voices four of the characters, acted by people I used to know. They're all bad impressions of Goon Show personalities. I particularly liked that they were bad impressions and truth be told, most of them were Seller's characters anyway. As Spike struggles to voice four people, I recall Bloodnok and Crun, somebody reminds him that he has to do a fifth because the Surgeon is dead.
When Spike Milligan appears in your dream, doing five voices, you may have problems.
I've had a series of strange, wonderful, and anxious dreams in the last two weeks, but I don't remember many of them, only the feeling I have when I wake up. Last night's dream was long and detailed, however. It featured Her at the beginning, dolled up and glad to see me, but in the end the same girl I remember--It's that scene right out of High Fidelity, where Rob seeks out Charlie and finally realizes what an awful person she actually is.
Then it goes in a vicious murder and a vengeful retribution, the entire act of which I am both an observer and a participant. Then I'm at home, on the sloping hillside that runs up along the driveway, at night. It's neither somber nor festive but it's connected to the murder somehow, in a post-traumatic sort of way, and I'm a new, separate character, albeit reborn of the dead murderer. I'm fortunately detached from his motives and mind.
At least, that's what I make of it all. I don't remember falling asleep at Lovely's, and I really don't remember much of what happened after we got to her place, although it must have been six in the morning. The walk was cold. I don't remember cutting my knuckle on my guitar and I don't remember Lovely tearing at my back, but the marks are all there.
A mild bout of amnesia, but I'm blaming the dreams this time and not the beer.
A few nights ago I had one set at some kind of camp. Never in the day, only at night, and the figures that appeared were all out of my youth-group past. Two significant things happened in this dream. The first was a suicide "scene", if you will, where somebody that I don't recognize, we'll call him the Surgeon, cruised down a hill in a car and plunged into the ocean. As the car passed me everything happened in slow motion, and I caught the defeated expression that he wore on his miserable face. He wore glasses. Then the car disappeared. Heavy stuff, I guess.
Then we come to some sort of board meeting--this happened later in the dream--where Spike Milligan voices four of the characters, acted by people I used to know. They're all bad impressions of Goon Show personalities. I particularly liked that they were bad impressions and truth be told, most of them were Seller's characters anyway. As Spike struggles to voice four people, I recall Bloodnok and Crun, somebody reminds him that he has to do a fifth because the Surgeon is dead.
When Spike Milligan appears in your dream, doing five voices, you may have problems.
I've had a series of strange, wonderful, and anxious dreams in the last two weeks, but I don't remember many of them, only the feeling I have when I wake up. Last night's dream was long and detailed, however. It featured Her at the beginning, dolled up and glad to see me, but in the end the same girl I remember--It's that scene right out of High Fidelity, where Rob seeks out Charlie and finally realizes what an awful person she actually is.
Then it goes in a vicious murder and a vengeful retribution, the entire act of which I am both an observer and a participant. Then I'm at home, on the sloping hillside that runs up along the driveway, at night. It's neither somber nor festive but it's connected to the murder somehow, in a post-traumatic sort of way, and I'm a new, separate character, albeit reborn of the dead murderer. I'm fortunately detached from his motives and mind.
At least, that's what I make of it all. I don't remember falling asleep at Lovely's, and I really don't remember much of what happened after we got to her place, although it must have been six in the morning. The walk was cold. I don't remember cutting my knuckle on my guitar and I don't remember Lovely tearing at my back, but the marks are all there.
A mild bout of amnesia, but I'm blaming the dreams this time and not the beer.
Friday
Eh.
My boss is pretty hot. The obvious choice, not the other two/three. Sorry, I just want to confess this to someone/thing.
what i wrote to Jersey
"I understand, things happen. How was your birthday? The big 2-3, you gettin to be one ol' lady!
"Right, yes, well I should call, but you know how well that tends to work out. I've been dealing with a tuition crises the last few weeks--School's already a week into the term and I'm still not registered! Haha, I should really get to bed.
"And [Lovely]. Of all the people who don't need to hear about my current relationship problems you're high on the list, but the truth is that I do a lot for her and it's still not really enough. Coupled with the fact that she doesn't do a whole lot for herself I'm quite exhausted with it, but I don't have the heart to tell it so. She's vulnerable, and doesn't have a whole lot. However, she's moving back to her parents' house, out in a suburb somewhere, and we've pretty much agreed that things will be ending when she does, so I'm trying to hang with her while she's still living in the city. It doesn't help that I'm so tired of school, and work, my roommate, [Beatrice]...
"I keep making excuses for why I'm not pursuing my own interests, writing and music, but the truth is I let distractions get in the way and I need to shape up. Which, in the end, is just depressing.
"I've changed a lot since you and I knew each other. I think I am pretty depressed, waiting for the right combination of time or inspiration or motivation to come along and give me a push. I shouldn't be waiting, I need to make the circumstances I want. It's trite dribble, everybody is always waiting and I'm no different. I want a break I haven't deserved, or earned. I'd love to see you again and I feel pretty low leaving it in your hands, because you're so busy with your own life. So don't beat yourself up, if you are...I know you, you want to apologize (probably), but I'm just venting I suppose because you're so detached from all of this, have no responsibility in it. Keep that in mind.
"Sometimes I'm afraid I'm not nice to people, because those people tell me I'm not. But when I try to step back and examine the situation, I wonder if I'm actually feeding them and letting them take advantage of me. So many of the relationships I have right now are based on the fact that I listen and don't judge, that I give automatically and never ask for anything in return. It's the way of saints, you could say, but most saints end up burned at a stake somewhere because nobody stands up for them, including themselves."
"Right, yes, well I should call, but you know how well that tends to work out. I've been dealing with a tuition crises the last few weeks--School's already a week into the term and I'm still not registered! Haha, I should really get to bed.
"And [Lovely]. Of all the people who don't need to hear about my current relationship problems you're high on the list, but the truth is that I do a lot for her and it's still not really enough. Coupled with the fact that she doesn't do a whole lot for herself I'm quite exhausted with it, but I don't have the heart to tell it so. She's vulnerable, and doesn't have a whole lot. However, she's moving back to her parents' house, out in a suburb somewhere, and we've pretty much agreed that things will be ending when she does, so I'm trying to hang with her while she's still living in the city. It doesn't help that I'm so tired of school, and work, my roommate, [Beatrice]...
"I keep making excuses for why I'm not pursuing my own interests, writing and music, but the truth is I let distractions get in the way and I need to shape up. Which, in the end, is just depressing.
"I've changed a lot since you and I knew each other. I think I am pretty depressed, waiting for the right combination of time or inspiration or motivation to come along and give me a push. I shouldn't be waiting, I need to make the circumstances I want. It's trite dribble, everybody is always waiting and I'm no different. I want a break I haven't deserved, or earned. I'd love to see you again and I feel pretty low leaving it in your hands, because you're so busy with your own life. So don't beat yourself up, if you are...I know you, you want to apologize (probably), but I'm just venting I suppose because you're so detached from all of this, have no responsibility in it. Keep that in mind.
"Sometimes I'm afraid I'm not nice to people, because those people tell me I'm not. But when I try to step back and examine the situation, I wonder if I'm actually feeding them and letting them take advantage of me. So many of the relationships I have right now are based on the fact that I listen and don't judge, that I give automatically and never ask for anything in return. It's the way of saints, you could say, but most saints end up burned at a stake somewhere because nobody stands up for them, including themselves."
Tuesday
Before They Make Me Run
1. We have a new neighbor, he lives on the ground floor. When I was downstairs on Saturday the entire lobby was perfumed with the unmistakeably odor of Ms. Mary Jane, and that's only the start. While I was at the Chain Saturday night he had an enormous house party and was sending guests up three flights of stairs to use OUR bathroom. Drunk people, apparently, were stumbling into our apartment, no questions asked. We've never met this guy, he hasn't had the courtesy to introduce himself. I'll call him Gatsby.
Five complains later, by the way, his party is busted up. Karfilov's in the thick of it, trying not to get arrested, one way or the other.
2. Dogfish Head Punkin Ale. Quite possibly one of the finest beers I think I've ever had. A damned seasonal.
3. I spent futile time trying to rinse my coffee maker today, because a buildup of grounds prevents any coffee from being made, which is bad, before I discovered that the filter basket pops right out, allowing one to wash it in the sink. In Beatrice's words, "It's almost like they designed it to be cleaned!"
It works now, the coffee pours a more beautiful amber tobacco than it's ever poured before. Ah, Nectar of the Gods! If you taste anything like a fine cup of coffee, then damn you, Gods! Nectar better taste like freakin' Dogfish Head Punkin Ale. Not that I'm getting to try it, the Nectar that is, any time soon or regardless.
Five complains later, by the way, his party is busted up. Karfilov's in the thick of it, trying not to get arrested, one way or the other.
2. Dogfish Head Punkin Ale. Quite possibly one of the finest beers I think I've ever had. A damned seasonal.
3. I spent futile time trying to rinse my coffee maker today, because a buildup of grounds prevents any coffee from being made, which is bad, before I discovered that the filter basket pops right out, allowing one to wash it in the sink. In Beatrice's words, "It's almost like they designed it to be cleaned!"
It works now, the coffee pours a more beautiful amber tobacco than it's ever poured before. Ah, Nectar of the Gods! If you taste anything like a fine cup of coffee, then damn you, Gods! Nectar better taste like freakin' Dogfish Head Punkin Ale. Not that I'm getting to try it, the Nectar that is, any time soon or regardless.
Beatrice sleeps next Door.
There's a lot I can write about today. I'm not sure what to start with.
The Big Cheese - I don't remember if this is the name I liked best or if I had devised a better one, but it's a start. One of the characters I'm considering for a short story, a mob boss of sorts whose motif-inspiring preoccupation is with cultured dairy - if you will. Not meant to be serious, but by no means comedic.
Other shorts may include the Agent, an idea I've tossed around for a little while, and maybe a western? I basically envision a series of stories that are only connected by some incarnation of the Chestnut Street Diner. More on that sometime, I want to write the pieces first. We'll see, I suppose.
Beatrice is asleep not five feet from me, but he's not snoring. I may be keeping him up, and I don't care anymore. Meanwhile, Lovely is that twenty minute walk away, packing. In a little over a week she moves away.
Cello Suite #1, Prelude in G Major. Johann Sebastian Bach. I've just added it to The 8, effectively making it The 9, but that doesn't have as nice a ring to it. How can music, sounds, to be vulgar, be so conceivably beautiful? The cello, of course, is one of the finer instruments, and there is never enough of it in the music I listen to. This, and saxophone. Prelude to a Kiss and Goodnight Julia (yes, the Seatbelts) absolutely stun me - when Suite #1 comes back on in a few minutes I can and might die a happy man.
The House premiere was a fine piece of work. Online reviewers cringe at sprinkled elements, here and there, but many people seem to miss that each mental patient, not just a few of them, is an intentional reflection of the show's more regular characters. If I were writing a proper review I would bother to use actual names, and even expand on my ideas. Instead, I'm satisfied with the provocative but fictional show starring inspiring characters and deep situations that I've just seen on the television, and don't really care to take my opinions much further than this. Not online, at least, where I don't seem to have anyone to talk to anyway.
Lovely leaves in a week an a half. I'm not registered for any classes, because I still owe the Institution money. Working to resolve this as quickly as I lazily can, but...
I still have half a screenplay to write, and only two weeks to do it. Sleeping instead, as an excuse for why I haven't gotten any work done. I've almost satisfied my Castle Crashers fix, which is an excuse for why I'm not working, but it's a legitimate one. Aren't they all? No, they're not. I'm tired of Lovely complaining about her old life, which she's reluctantly retreating to, but too disconnected anymore to help her through it, even if she just wants to vent. She's been venting for a while. I feel guilty and unsupportive. I haven't told her yet that I can't or don't want to invest my time and energy into her new, old life, but I feel like I don't need to insult her intelligence, either. I don't despair that there's nothing I can do, either. Does this make sense?
Lovely and I aren't meant to be together, not anymore. We're incompatible, and we even know it. I don't know why we're gambling with odds here, except that it makes the dwindling time we have together a little less lonely. As for myself she's taught me too much and I look forward to avoiding relationships for a good long while.
With that said, I'd like to inform any passing reader that Jersey is crossing the river for a Saturday here. I haven't seen her since December 8th, 2006. Almost three years. I loved her, too, and officially for just a few months before I realized how stupid I was being. That was then.
Suite #1. Hope is a girl I work with at the Chain. Last week we were opening together when she told me, quite casually, while I reached for the coffee pot, that I had been in her dream. A group of us were at the movie theater when I collapsed in a fit of hysterics.
It's a telling analogy of my current situation, and in the dreams of a girl I only work with. I call her the Chain's Unsung Hero, she does a lot of work and pulls more than her weight but seems to avoid getting any credit. For a while I've realized that she's special, but didn't realize just how Intuitive, or Perceptive, she actually is. I capitalize these words - her antenna is unusually receptive. That, or I'm radiating a strong signal. It must be a combination of both, really. Why her? Who's sending me a message, and how do I respond?
I've had my share of freak coincidences, but when she told me that she doesn't usually remember her dreams, and proceeded to sweep my jaw into a butler, I considered the potential necessity of my dusty old Book. In fact, I'm not even sure I have a copy, which isn't good regardless.
I have my thoughts on the cosmos and where we belong in it, however, and I don't like most of the people I've met in church. These are people that moved from the tight community of their high schools to a slightly narrower community and then quit growing up. I don't mean to generalize, of course - at least not too much. But, if you're familiar with the church politics that I grew up around, you'd probably understand.
Lovely moves away soon.
The Big Cheese - I don't remember if this is the name I liked best or if I had devised a better one, but it's a start. One of the characters I'm considering for a short story, a mob boss of sorts whose motif-inspiring preoccupation is with cultured dairy - if you will. Not meant to be serious, but by no means comedic.
Other shorts may include the Agent, an idea I've tossed around for a little while, and maybe a western? I basically envision a series of stories that are only connected by some incarnation of the Chestnut Street Diner. More on that sometime, I want to write the pieces first. We'll see, I suppose.
Beatrice is asleep not five feet from me, but he's not snoring. I may be keeping him up, and I don't care anymore. Meanwhile, Lovely is that twenty minute walk away, packing. In a little over a week she moves away.
Cello Suite #1, Prelude in G Major. Johann Sebastian Bach. I've just added it to The 8, effectively making it The 9, but that doesn't have as nice a ring to it. How can music, sounds, to be vulgar, be so conceivably beautiful? The cello, of course, is one of the finer instruments, and there is never enough of it in the music I listen to. This, and saxophone. Prelude to a Kiss and Goodnight Julia (yes, the Seatbelts) absolutely stun me - when Suite #1 comes back on in a few minutes I can and might die a happy man.
The House premiere was a fine piece of work. Online reviewers cringe at sprinkled elements, here and there, but many people seem to miss that each mental patient, not just a few of them, is an intentional reflection of the show's more regular characters. If I were writing a proper review I would bother to use actual names, and even expand on my ideas. Instead, I'm satisfied with the provocative but fictional show starring inspiring characters and deep situations that I've just seen on the television, and don't really care to take my opinions much further than this. Not online, at least, where I don't seem to have anyone to talk to anyway.
Lovely leaves in a week an a half. I'm not registered for any classes, because I still owe the Institution money. Working to resolve this as quickly as I lazily can, but...
I still have half a screenplay to write, and only two weeks to do it. Sleeping instead, as an excuse for why I haven't gotten any work done. I've almost satisfied my Castle Crashers fix, which is an excuse for why I'm not working, but it's a legitimate one. Aren't they all? No, they're not. I'm tired of Lovely complaining about her old life, which she's reluctantly retreating to, but too disconnected anymore to help her through it, even if she just wants to vent. She's been venting for a while. I feel guilty and unsupportive. I haven't told her yet that I can't or don't want to invest my time and energy into her new, old life, but I feel like I don't need to insult her intelligence, either. I don't despair that there's nothing I can do, either. Does this make sense?
Lovely and I aren't meant to be together, not anymore. We're incompatible, and we even know it. I don't know why we're gambling with odds here, except that it makes the dwindling time we have together a little less lonely. As for myself she's taught me too much and I look forward to avoiding relationships for a good long while.
With that said, I'd like to inform any passing reader that Jersey is crossing the river for a Saturday here. I haven't seen her since December 8th, 2006. Almost three years. I loved her, too, and officially for just a few months before I realized how stupid I was being. That was then.
Suite #1. Hope is a girl I work with at the Chain. Last week we were opening together when she told me, quite casually, while I reached for the coffee pot, that I had been in her dream. A group of us were at the movie theater when I collapsed in a fit of hysterics.
It's a telling analogy of my current situation, and in the dreams of a girl I only work with. I call her the Chain's Unsung Hero, she does a lot of work and pulls more than her weight but seems to avoid getting any credit. For a while I've realized that she's special, but didn't realize just how Intuitive, or Perceptive, she actually is. I capitalize these words - her antenna is unusually receptive. That, or I'm radiating a strong signal. It must be a combination of both, really. Why her? Who's sending me a message, and how do I respond?
I've had my share of freak coincidences, but when she told me that she doesn't usually remember her dreams, and proceeded to sweep my jaw into a butler, I considered the potential necessity of my dusty old Book. In fact, I'm not even sure I have a copy, which isn't good regardless.
I have my thoughts on the cosmos and where we belong in it, however, and I don't like most of the people I've met in church. These are people that moved from the tight community of their high schools to a slightly narrower community and then quit growing up. I don't mean to generalize, of course - at least not too much. But, if you're familiar with the church politics that I grew up around, you'd probably understand.
Lovely moves away soon.
the warmup and Heart Full of Soul
I was sitting just here last night, I think, but not at the same time. I'm drinking the same coffee--not the same coffee, but out of the pot I brewed yesterday, which I didn't empty last night because I was afraid it might explode my heart. And stuff.
I guess Heart Full of Soul was playing when I paused iTunes, closed the computer up, and ventured out into the city. This was to spend time with Lovely, and we watched the Astronaut's Wife together, which isn't really a very good movie. It's well written, and poorly executed--one of those, if you will.
At Cublett I had an Oktoberfest. There are many Oktoberfest, but only one ever on draught, if you know what I'm talking about. My heart's not entirely into it tonight, my voice is tired and dusty, or apathetic, or tired, which seems to reflect the exhaustion with which I dread tomorrow morning, at the Bursar's office, and the next day, and the day after that, and every day I live and dredge through until I don't owe Student Loans, or at least have the job that will put my mind at some comfortable ease, anyway. Which I'm going to have to work for, which is fine, but have no idea where to start, which is unnerving. I don't remember the last time I had nerves.
Anyway, my heart's generally full of soul but tonight it feels the sole, a heel that presses down on it, or the chords that wrap it tightly around my feet as I trudge forward, forward, over a bed of coals or nails and with nothing else to walk on. No wings, not tonight. Tonight the burden of reality seeks to put forth a genuine psychic effort on my behalf, with the desperate hope that maybe I can tip the balance in my favor. If only for a while.
Mad's gone, too. I didn't get to say goodbye, but she probably doesn't think I'd want to, anyway. I'm not going to say it's her loss unless she feels that way.
I guess Heart Full of Soul was playing when I paused iTunes, closed the computer up, and ventured out into the city. This was to spend time with Lovely, and we watched the Astronaut's Wife together, which isn't really a very good movie. It's well written, and poorly executed--one of those, if you will.
At Cublett I had an Oktoberfest. There are many Oktoberfest, but only one ever on draught, if you know what I'm talking about. My heart's not entirely into it tonight, my voice is tired and dusty, or apathetic, or tired, which seems to reflect the exhaustion with which I dread tomorrow morning, at the Bursar's office, and the next day, and the day after that, and every day I live and dredge through until I don't owe Student Loans, or at least have the job that will put my mind at some comfortable ease, anyway. Which I'm going to have to work for, which is fine, but have no idea where to start, which is unnerving. I don't remember the last time I had nerves.
Anyway, my heart's generally full of soul but tonight it feels the sole, a heel that presses down on it, or the chords that wrap it tightly around my feet as I trudge forward, forward, over a bed of coals or nails and with nothing else to walk on. No wings, not tonight. Tonight the burden of reality seeks to put forth a genuine psychic effort on my behalf, with the desperate hope that maybe I can tip the balance in my favor. If only for a while.
Mad's gone, too. I didn't get to say goodbye, but she probably doesn't think I'd want to, anyway. I'm not going to say it's her loss unless she feels that way.
Monday
another one.
...it's ten minutes later. Each post could read like a new chapter, maybe.
Beatrice updated his blog a few weeks ago, when he had his eyes done and he couldn't do anything else because he COULDN'T SEE.
You can following the Adventures of Beatrice the Blind here. [October 2--I got rid of this hyperlink, in case he traces it.] Actually, it's Beatrice's entire blog, and it's a bore. So don't get too attached.
I've avoided posting a link to his site for some reason. I'm afraid I'll be discovered, my autonomy will evaporate and I'll be left to start another blog so I can write without hesitation. Mad knows about Knots, though, and if she lingered on the site awhile she'd discover Something Else, and plenty about herself that I can't seem to say to her face. Maybe she already knows, and she's better at holding her tongue than I give her credit for.
Exercise. I'm trying to exercise my wrist and fingers and head here, trying to get into the habit of sitting in a chair for periods of time while I discover the rhythm to make those periods fruitful. When I play guitar it takes anywhere from a half-hour to an hour before the neck is greased and my fingers wake up and the bar chords sound good and the notes don't ring. Writing is the same way, but it's always been something I've done for a grade. I want writing to be a recreation and hobby, and eventually a toned muscle that I might use to lift a few good weights. I spent far too long playing video games today, but Castle Crashers is like crack and even so when I finally was done I sat down here, in front of my window...that counts, right?
It really doesn't. Hm, it smells like autumn out there and it's only the middle of September, so it's early. I tried to load SimCity 3000, Unlimited, but I couldn't get the program installed, so I abandoned that and sat down to Blogger. It'll be Knots for a bit before I call Lovely and apologize for missing her call. Assuming Karfilov's latest title, which involves plastic guitars and the most influential band in the history of music, doesn't prove an unfortunate distraction. I'm going to find out if either of them know where my cigarettes went, but not before closing this damned browser window. I need to get away from arbitrary journaling, give enough time for something interesting to happen. And right now I'm just putting off the actual work I have to do, aren't I?
Thanks for sticking with me, Loyal Reader. I'm talking both to you and to myself, actually. Deep Purple's okay, Hugh Laurie's back on the telly in a week.
Yeah.
Oh, I need some advice. Do I want to see AC/DC next month? Tickets are about a hundred dollars a pop, for bad seats, and I'd have to take Lovely with me if I went. I could probably earn the money, but I want to start paying off the student loan I'll be accruing soon, too. Which is more important, in the long run? A once-in-a-blue-moon-type opportunity, or the establishment of an important and necessary habit? The girl in the apartment far across the street has curtains in the way and I can't see what she's doing. One day I hope to indulge the little voyeur in me, but only to satisfy what is pure curiosity. I'm not a creeper, I promise. God, I hope I don't find the government knocking on my door in a day or two.
I'm dislocated. It could be the coffee, it could be the time I've spent in front of a screen today. I need to get my brain back together, pile up all the mush it's become and mold it back into the reasonable piece of work it sometimes is. I hope you've enjoyed spying on me.
Beatrice updated his blog a few weeks ago, when he had his eyes done and he couldn't do anything else because he COULDN'T SEE.
You can following the Adventures of Beatrice the Blind here. [October 2--I got rid of this hyperlink, in case he traces it.] Actually, it's Beatrice's entire blog, and it's a bore. So don't get too attached.
I've avoided posting a link to his site for some reason. I'm afraid I'll be discovered, my autonomy will evaporate and I'll be left to start another blog so I can write without hesitation. Mad knows about Knots, though, and if she lingered on the site awhile she'd discover Something Else, and plenty about herself that I can't seem to say to her face. Maybe she already knows, and she's better at holding her tongue than I give her credit for.
Exercise. I'm trying to exercise my wrist and fingers and head here, trying to get into the habit of sitting in a chair for periods of time while I discover the rhythm to make those periods fruitful. When I play guitar it takes anywhere from a half-hour to an hour before the neck is greased and my fingers wake up and the bar chords sound good and the notes don't ring. Writing is the same way, but it's always been something I've done for a grade. I want writing to be a recreation and hobby, and eventually a toned muscle that I might use to lift a few good weights. I spent far too long playing video games today, but Castle Crashers is like crack and even so when I finally was done I sat down here, in front of my window...that counts, right?
It really doesn't. Hm, it smells like autumn out there and it's only the middle of September, so it's early. I tried to load SimCity 3000, Unlimited, but I couldn't get the program installed, so I abandoned that and sat down to Blogger. It'll be Knots for a bit before I call Lovely and apologize for missing her call. Assuming Karfilov's latest title, which involves plastic guitars and the most influential band in the history of music, doesn't prove an unfortunate distraction. I'm going to find out if either of them know where my cigarettes went, but not before closing this damned browser window. I need to get away from arbitrary journaling, give enough time for something interesting to happen. And right now I'm just putting off the actual work I have to do, aren't I?
Thanks for sticking with me, Loyal Reader. I'm talking both to you and to myself, actually. Deep Purple's okay, Hugh Laurie's back on the telly in a week.
Yeah.
Oh, I need some advice. Do I want to see AC/DC next month? Tickets are about a hundred dollars a pop, for bad seats, and I'd have to take Lovely with me if I went. I could probably earn the money, but I want to start paying off the student loan I'll be accruing soon, too. Which is more important, in the long run? A once-in-a-blue-moon-type opportunity, or the establishment of an important and necessary habit? The girl in the apartment far across the street has curtains in the way and I can't see what she's doing. One day I hope to indulge the little voyeur in me, but only to satisfy what is pure curiosity. I'm not a creeper, I promise. God, I hope I don't find the government knocking on my door in a day or two.
I'm dislocated. It could be the coffee, it could be the time I've spent in front of a screen today. I need to get my brain back together, pile up all the mush it's become and mold it back into the reasonable piece of work it sometimes is. I hope you've enjoyed spying on me.
Autosave Failed!
this was going to be a great post, but then I lost it.
not true. I'm just being silly.
Do I call Lovely? Do I call the Kid? Do I get back in touch with Jersey? Do I continue writing, and transfer my energy to Knots?
Can I do all four?
not true. I'm just being silly.
Do I call Lovely? Do I call the Kid? Do I get back in touch with Jersey? Do I continue writing, and transfer my energy to Knots?
Can I do all four?
she took my cigarettes.
I think Mad did. Last night Mad was upset. I can't fathom why she's turned to bullying me all of a sudden, unless it's some manifestation of a separation anxiety, in which case I'm giving her awful last memories of our times together, or she's always been like this and I'm only now deciding it's bullying. Regardless, I can't stand it, really. Can't stand the Chain, either, and I'm having a hard time with most of the people around me. Is it cabin fever? Lovely leaves in two weeks, she moves back in with her parents and it will probably be a matter of time before we've stopped seeing each other altogether. Mad goes away for six months, Beatrice has taken a permanent vacation from me despite the fact that, two nights ago and with him sitting up in bed listening to J-pop, my relationship with him is an increasing mental strain. Classes start next week, and if I can't get in touch with Dad I won't be on campus. Shame that four years of study have come to this, and as much as I want it to be over I should be working harder to fix my mistake. She took my cigarettes, I'm sure of it.
The Chain made a mess of itself at Cublett, our bar, this weekend. Mama is a regular and she gets her kicks for free, but general misunderstanding indeed left her and the rest in Dire Straights. A two-hundred fortysomeodd tab, to be specific, and after a scramble by the loiterers to get it covered there was only enough left for an eight dollar tip. Too many friends ordering expensive drinks that the bartender can't comp, too few of them dropping cash, either ignorantly or on purpose. Lovely and I sipped Long Island Iced Teas from three seats over and watched the great Tab Debacle of 2009 at a distance--even Mad threw in more than her share, though it was confirmed the next day that she was pounding them professionally. At work they'll be arguing over who owes who what for the next week, and the guys at Cublett won't forget the damage, either.
Get it in line. And for the rest of you, always remember to keep your own tab.
The Chain made a mess of itself at Cublett, our bar, this weekend. Mama is a regular and she gets her kicks for free, but general misunderstanding indeed left her and the rest in Dire Straights. A two-hundred fortysomeodd tab, to be specific, and after a scramble by the loiterers to get it covered there was only enough left for an eight dollar tip. Too many friends ordering expensive drinks that the bartender can't comp, too few of them dropping cash, either ignorantly or on purpose. Lovely and I sipped Long Island Iced Teas from three seats over and watched the great Tab Debacle of 2009 at a distance--even Mad threw in more than her share, though it was confirmed the next day that she was pounding them professionally. At work they'll be arguing over who owes who what for the next week, and the guys at Cublett won't forget the damage, either.
Get it in line. And for the rest of you, always remember to keep your own tab.
Friday
Pissing Buckets
Is it still hurricane season? That's why I haven't written in a month, perhaps. Too busy ticketing those naughty hurricanes. One bit my auntie.
Sixteen posts in July and zero posts in August reflect a great many things. Karfilov nor Beatrice have anything to do with them.
We suffered through July with no gas because Beatrice, well, he's an easy scapegoat, but Karfilov and I thought he'd volunteered to fix it all. Eventually the gas was turned back on and we all celebrated with a nice hot shower...ha, we didn't, not at the same time at least. Now I'm drinking hot tea, and it makes me nauseous? I'm not sure about this. Nor do we have any toilet paper at the moment. How does spell check know which there/their/they're is the proper one to use?
Is it dust settled over and into the teabag or is the tea just old? It only makes me feel like this if it's the first thing I drink after a night out, as last night was. Instead of throwing up I took a long shower, and now I feel a little better. The Mad Dame has been spending the last week here, her lease ran out about the same time but she's moving to the City of Angels on Tuesday, for six months, and she needs a home base until then that's not at home. Interesting that she counts me so close a friend, or that I count her one, but we get along. Still, she's been at Beatrice's side since he came back into town a few nights ago. He's been hitting the SoCo, the handle's almost empty and I know I didn't do it, I've been back home for Mum's wedding. Mad is a heavy drinker, maybe not an alcoholic yet but certainly a socialite. I could be wrong. I think she's still fascinated with the Rum, which is something you grow out of once you've had your fill and regular drinking becomes less about quantity. In theory. The Kid made his club soccer team, which apparently has inspired his entry into the career field. Train, or Katherine, both my sister, likes Captain and gingerale, which I will have to try. I prefer Bombay and gingerale, with a slice of orange, which I've either already noted here or just think I have. I call it "Miss Egypt", along the lines of James Bond's "Vesper"; I was reading Casino Royale when I named it. Not that I have a relationship with Miss Egypt. She was drinking gin and gingerale before I was, I fixed it for her, and liked the idea. Gingerale? Ginger ale?
It's pissing buckets of rain here and it has been for weeks. Arrows of furious water darting sidewides, and sideways, getting in up under your umbrella, if you have one, and into your face and down your collar, if you don't. It's probably cold, too, but I haven't been out yet. It's dressed and to the Chain for me, I have twenty minutes before I leave. I would like to tell this story:
We've had a guest at the Castle, the Mad Dame, and another, in a stretched reference/pun, which happens to be the Doormouse. When the gas came back we were finally able to wash the dishes, too--New Cups!
Yes, a Mouse, gleaning crumbs and whatnot from the unfallowed field that is our red carpet. We are not ashamed to have a mouse--it's not as embarassing as, say, slaughtering a swarm of hatched flies as they beat a fruitless escape into the bright living-room windows--but we recognize the unlikely health risk and would rather be rid of the thing, regardless. Karfilov fashioned a trap out of a large plastic tub, a cardboard tube, and a bit of peanut butter: he suspended the tube over a counter ledge so that if Mouse crawled in, to taste the Noms at the far open end, a weight shift would cause rodent and tube to tumble into the bin below, where either the fall would kill our prey or we would have it at our disposal.
This didn't work.
There is an intimidating bug, a mosquito, I hope, flying around in my window. I look up and stare straight at it, and think of all my exposed parts. I'm sitting only in a towel, post-shower habit, you could say, and I hope to have a lurvley squash if this intruder thinks to peek out from behind the blinds again.
Mouse continues to run along our baseboards when we're watching television, or scuttle about on the counter, though it can hear us talking. It's not afraid of us, but perhaps that's because it senses we don't think it a threat. Not like, say, Mama at work, who can't stand it when Oatmeal charges about along the bar.
It doesn't matter, anyway. Mouse is dead. I found it on Karfilov's threshhold today. It must have only just died. I'm glad I found it before his heavy sliding door did.
Sixteen posts in July and zero posts in August reflect a great many things. Karfilov nor Beatrice have anything to do with them.
We suffered through July with no gas because Beatrice, well, he's an easy scapegoat, but Karfilov and I thought he'd volunteered to fix it all. Eventually the gas was turned back on and we all celebrated with a nice hot shower...ha, we didn't, not at the same time at least. Now I'm drinking hot tea, and it makes me nauseous? I'm not sure about this. Nor do we have any toilet paper at the moment. How does spell check know which there/their/they're is the proper one to use?
Is it dust settled over and into the teabag or is the tea just old? It only makes me feel like this if it's the first thing I drink after a night out, as last night was. Instead of throwing up I took a long shower, and now I feel a little better. The Mad Dame has been spending the last week here, her lease ran out about the same time but she's moving to the City of Angels on Tuesday, for six months, and she needs a home base until then that's not at home. Interesting that she counts me so close a friend, or that I count her one, but we get along. Still, she's been at Beatrice's side since he came back into town a few nights ago. He's been hitting the SoCo, the handle's almost empty and I know I didn't do it, I've been back home for Mum's wedding. Mad is a heavy drinker, maybe not an alcoholic yet but certainly a socialite. I could be wrong. I think she's still fascinated with the Rum, which is something you grow out of once you've had your fill and regular drinking becomes less about quantity. In theory. The Kid made his club soccer team, which apparently has inspired his entry into the career field. Train, or Katherine, both my sister, likes Captain and gingerale, which I will have to try. I prefer Bombay and gingerale, with a slice of orange, which I've either already noted here or just think I have. I call it "Miss Egypt", along the lines of James Bond's "Vesper"; I was reading Casino Royale when I named it. Not that I have a relationship with Miss Egypt. She was drinking gin and gingerale before I was, I fixed it for her, and liked the idea. Gingerale? Ginger ale?
It's pissing buckets of rain here and it has been for weeks. Arrows of furious water darting sidewides, and sideways, getting in up under your umbrella, if you have one, and into your face and down your collar, if you don't. It's probably cold, too, but I haven't been out yet. It's dressed and to the Chain for me, I have twenty minutes before I leave. I would like to tell this story:
We've had a guest at the Castle, the Mad Dame, and another, in a stretched reference/pun, which happens to be the Doormouse. When the gas came back we were finally able to wash the dishes, too--New Cups!
Yes, a Mouse, gleaning crumbs and whatnot from the unfallowed field that is our red carpet. We are not ashamed to have a mouse--it's not as embarassing as, say, slaughtering a swarm of hatched flies as they beat a fruitless escape into the bright living-room windows--but we recognize the unlikely health risk and would rather be rid of the thing, regardless. Karfilov fashioned a trap out of a large plastic tub, a cardboard tube, and a bit of peanut butter: he suspended the tube over a counter ledge so that if Mouse crawled in, to taste the Noms at the far open end, a weight shift would cause rodent and tube to tumble into the bin below, where either the fall would kill our prey or we would have it at our disposal.
This didn't work.
There is an intimidating bug, a mosquito, I hope, flying around in my window. I look up and stare straight at it, and think of all my exposed parts. I'm sitting only in a towel, post-shower habit, you could say, and I hope to have a lurvley squash if this intruder thinks to peek out from behind the blinds again.
Mouse continues to run along our baseboards when we're watching television, or scuttle about on the counter, though it can hear us talking. It's not afraid of us, but perhaps that's because it senses we don't think it a threat. Not like, say, Mama at work, who can't stand it when Oatmeal charges about along the bar.
It doesn't matter, anyway. Mouse is dead. I found it on Karfilov's threshhold today. It must have only just died. I'm glad I found it before his heavy sliding door did.
Thursday
there is
A Chief Mouser to the Cabinet Office. Literally, the title given to a cat living officially with Britain's Prime Minister. He or she is employed as a civil servant, with tenure, I suppose, and costs at least one hundred pounds annually. I don't believe the British elect their Chief Mousers, anymore--historically, candidates have left the United Kingdom in the death throes of unbounded spraying, and the smell doesn't dissipate for years.
The latest cat, named for Sibyl Fawlty, died recently. If she's anything like her namesake, it's no wonder the Prime Minister didn't like her. Sibyl probably tied the phones lines all day, gossiping about all the neighborhood alley cats, and idly ran the government, with a frustrating sarcastic yowl, much to the chagrin of the former's own inept and inhospitable flailing.
There was much ado when Mr. Obama rescued a dog for employ as consort and companion to the White House and it's current family, but we don't have an official title, do we? The British have a great sense of humor.
Additionally, I have learned that the Prime Minister's name is Gordon Brown, and that many of Britain's important officials live on a place called Downing Street. Thank you, Sibyl, for broadening my horizons.
The latest cat, named for Sibyl Fawlty, died recently. If she's anything like her namesake, it's no wonder the Prime Minister didn't like her. Sibyl probably tied the phones lines all day, gossiping about all the neighborhood alley cats, and idly ran the government, with a frustrating sarcastic yowl, much to the chagrin of the former's own inept and inhospitable flailing.
There was much ado when Mr. Obama rescued a dog for employ as consort and companion to the White House and it's current family, but we don't have an official title, do we? The British have a great sense of humor.
Additionally, I have learned that the Prime Minister's name is Gordon Brown, and that many of Britain's important officials live on a place called Downing Street. Thank you, Sibyl, for broadening my horizons.
For the last three or four hours...
...I have been reading The Aeneid. The start of IV straight through VIII.
I do not recommend this. Do you know how you feel when, after you've been on your feet for several hours, your legs and joints become sore? And then you sit down, and can't get back up?
My brain cannot get back up.
I do not recommend this. Do you know how you feel when, after you've been on your feet for several hours, your legs and joints become sore? And then you sit down, and can't get back up?
My brain cannot get back up.
Tuesday
Runnin' Away
Your desert island seven? I'm thinking, of course, about the seven albums I'd have the unlikely fortune of bringing with me when I'm indefinitely stranded on some tiny beach in the pacific ocean. These really only matter if I can figure out how to power a record player with coconuts, but it's the thought that counts in the end.
Sly and the Family Stone are so completely mellow that I'm surprised their greatest hits compilation cannot hope to fight for a spot on my list. Most of these songs are impossible to enjoy more than once in a few days, though, so that might contribute to whatever sympathetic feeling currently eludes me. The ones you don't hear every other hour on the radio station, however, and Hot Fun In The Summertime, would be sorely missed.
On some other note, it's much easier for me to smoke and type when the cigarette is in my left hand.
I mixed a drink today that I really enjoy, and wonder what to call it. Since I'm not suppose to dip into the restaurant stock I usually go for the well stuff, which is a little harder to account for and much cheaper to resupply. Gin and ginger ale--one part gin and two parts ginger ale, as it seems to be--and a slice of orange squeezed in. Drop in whatever's left of the orange and finish this off when your cup's empty, the meat soaks up the flavors real nice.
Joni Mitchell is on my desert island seven, and her contemporary welsh prodigy, who I've mentioned many times already. Listen to Free Man in Paris and Jem's I Always Knew back to back and tell me that she isn't cut from the same cloth, er, playing in the same groove.
Beatrice is away to Los Angeles for almost a week. Will he be a different man when he returns? Unlikely. He has a blog that I follow, as discretly as possible, but since it's common knowledge I've long spoiled any chance of reading about myself on it. Which is a shame, because if he has any grievances beyond what debts I haven't paid him, I don't know about them. Including whether or not he's been awake on nights when Lovely and I have spent intimate time together in my bed, an arm's length from the one he sometimes snores in.
He complains about other things on this blog, however, and quite honestly it's the steam of those minute frustrations that also makes him unbearable at times. Read his blog, which is fizzling out (no surprise), and you meet a bitter stranger whose infatuations last until they let him down. He started it to comment on life through his glasses, and ultimately discovered he was recording a log of his personal failures, which continue to depress rather than inspire or motivate. I suppose, given the volume that Beatrice perversely fascinates me, that I use this space to complain a little, too. But maybe, if I'm still writing here in a few years, this blog will document those dusty details I have no hope of remembering, instead of the discouraging feelings I didn't chance to change.
It is the middle of July. In just over two months, Beatrice's blog with be a year old.
Sly and the Family Stone are so completely mellow that I'm surprised their greatest hits compilation cannot hope to fight for a spot on my list. Most of these songs are impossible to enjoy more than once in a few days, though, so that might contribute to whatever sympathetic feeling currently eludes me. The ones you don't hear every other hour on the radio station, however, and Hot Fun In The Summertime, would be sorely missed.
On some other note, it's much easier for me to smoke and type when the cigarette is in my left hand.
I mixed a drink today that I really enjoy, and wonder what to call it. Since I'm not suppose to dip into the restaurant stock I usually go for the well stuff, which is a little harder to account for and much cheaper to resupply. Gin and ginger ale--one part gin and two parts ginger ale, as it seems to be--and a slice of orange squeezed in. Drop in whatever's left of the orange and finish this off when your cup's empty, the meat soaks up the flavors real nice.
Joni Mitchell is on my desert island seven, and her contemporary welsh prodigy, who I've mentioned many times already. Listen to Free Man in Paris and Jem's I Always Knew back to back and tell me that she isn't cut from the same cloth, er, playing in the same groove.
Beatrice is away to Los Angeles for almost a week. Will he be a different man when he returns? Unlikely. He has a blog that I follow, as discretly as possible, but since it's common knowledge I've long spoiled any chance of reading about myself on it. Which is a shame, because if he has any grievances beyond what debts I haven't paid him, I don't know about them. Including whether or not he's been awake on nights when Lovely and I have spent intimate time together in my bed, an arm's length from the one he sometimes snores in.
He complains about other things on this blog, however, and quite honestly it's the steam of those minute frustrations that also makes him unbearable at times. Read his blog, which is fizzling out (no surprise), and you meet a bitter stranger whose infatuations last until they let him down. He started it to comment on life through his glasses, and ultimately discovered he was recording a log of his personal failures, which continue to depress rather than inspire or motivate. I suppose, given the volume that Beatrice perversely fascinates me, that I use this space to complain a little, too. But maybe, if I'm still writing here in a few years, this blog will document those dusty details I have no hope of remembering, instead of the discouraging feelings I didn't chance to change.
It is the middle of July. In just over two months, Beatrice's blog with be a year old.
Saturday
Friday
"In life her name was Nerissa."
This is a short one. if you google that phrase, with the quotations specifying the search, my blog is the only result you get.
The crash happened just up the road from my rural home. i remember waiting for the bus that morning, seeing the flashing lights where the street intersected. the tree that they hit still stands all by itself, the only tree fifty feet in either direction. tar immortalizes the scars left in the trunk.
it was an icy day, and my friends were just up there, dead or dying.
That day's left me screwed up, in places, at times.
Jem - "You will make it through." My immortal, to her My Immortal.
The crash happened just up the road from my rural home. i remember waiting for the bus that morning, seeing the flashing lights where the street intersected. the tree that they hit still stands all by itself, the only tree fifty feet in either direction. tar immortalizes the scars left in the trunk.
it was an icy day, and my friends were just up there, dead or dying.
That day's left me screwed up, in places, at times.
Jem - "You will make it through." My immortal, to her My Immortal.
Wednesday
the first song I've ever tried writing
is locked in, as of this moment. Beatrice has problems with some of the lines, but doesn't understand the approach I've taken to it, a tongue-and-cheek satire of our shared experiences with a corporate video production office. He assures me, nonetheless, that it's an indie runaway hit.
I don't know how accurate his judgment of ground-level songwriting/musicianship is, but I'm flattered all the same. He and Karfilov both have begun to amuse themselves with song titles and lyrics, and some of their work actually gives me hope. Beatrice has currently discarded any ambitions that involve actual mastery of an instrument, instead yielding to his appropriate calling as the Singer. I still wish he would sit at the drum set, which collects dust in our moldy basement, but he'd rather shine a light into our pool of limited resources and see who foolishly surfaces. For my part, I can bang a bar chord, which in time will blossom into bigger and better things. Without sounding too self-serving, I'd also like to add that my own lyrics are capable of complex rhymes and rounder thoughts, but I might be speaking too soon. I'm the only one that's put living music to anything, at any rate.
i turned in a paper today, and began to doubt it as soon as the subject fell into the classroom's open forum. We'll see about this.
I had a strange dream last week involving two black widow spiders. They were both male, even though one was black and red, like the female. They were homosexual, wrapping a web tight around them like lovers under a comforter. I wonder exactly what this means. Taken literally, these were two of a specie of spider, engaged in a coital act that naturally means the death of the lesser. In this case, though, there was no female to complete a mortal transaction. It was a beautiful thing to dream, in HD, but when I came to the details left me puzzled. There were other, more significant dreams that night, but I don't remember them anymore.
I still haven't had the courage to order from Honest Tom.
A revelation! The joke is, or has been, that the world's best golfer is a black man, while the world's best rapper is white. Funny, because it reverses heartily established stereotypes. Forty years ago, however, the world's best rapper was white, too (Bob Dylan), while the world's best guitar player was a black man. I think guitar is more badass, but that doesn't mean that a multi-million dollar Nike contract won't get a man laid just as quickly. Karfilov and Mao were quick to point out that Tiger Woods is half-Asian, but I don't feel like this is a big deal to whoever made the original, witty, observation.
I am embroiled in an internet game, which I am too ready too admit. But I've spent more time with my computer lately, though she's not happy with me. Neither is Lovely, who I haven't seen in over a week. We talked for a long time last night. Over the course of our conversation she slipped slowly away, because she was drunk. But there may be hope for us yet.
The second song I'll ever try writing may be about her.
I don't know how accurate his judgment of ground-level songwriting/musicianship is, but I'm flattered all the same. He and Karfilov both have begun to amuse themselves with song titles and lyrics, and some of their work actually gives me hope. Beatrice has currently discarded any ambitions that involve actual mastery of an instrument, instead yielding to his appropriate calling as the Singer. I still wish he would sit at the drum set, which collects dust in our moldy basement, but he'd rather shine a light into our pool of limited resources and see who foolishly surfaces. For my part, I can bang a bar chord, which in time will blossom into bigger and better things. Without sounding too self-serving, I'd also like to add that my own lyrics are capable of complex rhymes and rounder thoughts, but I might be speaking too soon. I'm the only one that's put living music to anything, at any rate.
i turned in a paper today, and began to doubt it as soon as the subject fell into the classroom's open forum. We'll see about this.
I had a strange dream last week involving two black widow spiders. They were both male, even though one was black and red, like the female. They were homosexual, wrapping a web tight around them like lovers under a comforter. I wonder exactly what this means. Taken literally, these were two of a specie of spider, engaged in a coital act that naturally means the death of the lesser. In this case, though, there was no female to complete a mortal transaction. It was a beautiful thing to dream, in HD, but when I came to the details left me puzzled. There were other, more significant dreams that night, but I don't remember them anymore.
I still haven't had the courage to order from Honest Tom.
A revelation! The joke is, or has been, that the world's best golfer is a black man, while the world's best rapper is white. Funny, because it reverses heartily established stereotypes. Forty years ago, however, the world's best rapper was white, too (Bob Dylan), while the world's best guitar player was a black man. I think guitar is more badass, but that doesn't mean that a multi-million dollar Nike contract won't get a man laid just as quickly. Karfilov and Mao were quick to point out that Tiger Woods is half-Asian, but I don't feel like this is a big deal to whoever made the original, witty, observation.
I am embroiled in an internet game, which I am too ready too admit. But I've spent more time with my computer lately, though she's not happy with me. Neither is Lovely, who I haven't seen in over a week. We talked for a long time last night. Over the course of our conversation she slipped slowly away, because she was drunk. But there may be hope for us yet.
The second song I'll ever try writing may be about her.
Saturday
ghosties in my dreams
This is not the first time, even recently, that I've woken up unsettled because of the ghosts in my dreams.
In this particular dream the ghosts were not spirits of any dead I recognized, but they were trying to get my attention. We were in a tall, old house, nestled snugly into a green cliff face so that you looked out, past the winding road which restrained the little yard to within it's wrought-iron perimeter, and saw a vast valley that spread out far beyond and below you. If you've ever driven through the hills of Appalachia you know what I'm talking about.
I say the house is tall, because it is. We've just bought it and we arrive to inspect it. The drive is steep, the house is steeper. There's a path running up behind the house which I use to gain access to a crow's nest-type lookout on top of the three-story building--and from here I realize the house literally leans forward, making this a dangerous place to be. I break one of the aging wooden rails trying to get down.
The ghost doesn't appear right away. Of course, when we were buying the house we heard the stories, but Dad laughs at them. He doesn't believe. I'm taking pictures of everything and flashes of a little boy show up in one. Nobody else sees it. And then I actually start to see the boy, at first here and there. He courage builds gradually. Finally, I'm the only one seeing him tramp up and down the stairs, and I'm chasing him around trying to get a picture, while my family which doesn't believe me is cleaning the house up, or fawning over it's more magnificent features. The boy is a trickster, and lets me get close, or shows up in a photograph, only to disappear when I'm about to snap the lens, or when I run to my mother to show her my proof. The boy enjoys playing with me, and I'm rather frustrated with him.
Outside things get dark, but that's not because it's late. Clouds are rolling in and Dad decides that if it thunderstorms we're going to have to stay the night, because navigating the hilly roads would be dangerous. This is when the boy starts to get creepy. He pours a stream of water on my head from the second floor, trying to get my attention. He does it twice, actually, and Dad still ignores the fact, even though he's sitting next to me when I'm soaked. Then the ghost lowers a skillet of raw meat, like an offering to Dad, and Dad starts to change his mind. Then I actually get a decent picture of him to show Mom, who also begins to believe me. Then the boy beds down for a rest, falling asleep at the top of the stairs with a blanket.
This is when the next ghost shows up, a cavalier that dances. I only see his silhouette, or shadow, on the wall. He wears a cape and hat, and his movements are a little unnatural, the effect of that being an eerie-looking dance. Since we haven't even moved in and I've already have problems with one ghost I'm not in the mood to introduce myself to a second. This is when I wake up.
This was not a pleasant dream, and it left me feeling uneasy, especially with Beatrice and Karfilov out for the afternoon, leaving the house empty. I got a phone call from Titomo and another from one of his roommates, and they were both looking for the same person, who was supposed to be standing on my porch at the time: so I went downstairs and there's nobody waiting, of course, but the trek back up is nervous, avoiding the mirrors and the walls for fear of a shadow that is there but doesn't exist, an extra face winking at me perhaps from the window of another plane opened just over my shoulder.
In the previous dream I had, that I remember, which feature ghosties, I was visited by my Angel of Death, in the sexed-up form of an old friend of mine, who died when we were in tenth grade. In the dream I'm playing guitar in the dead of night, in the dark, and she's listening--in calf-length leather boots, fishnets, black boyshorts and evening gloves, and nothing else. She doesn't have wings, but I know it's her, my Angel of Death, in to check on me. She likes the music. Maybe she's a Muse as well. In life her name was Nerissa.
I only have Ghost Dreams here--never at Lovely's. The worst one so far was the in one which I met the Nun, our own resident ghost, who lives in a portrait of Jesus Christ that we've tacked up just below the thermostat.
In the dream she was walking around with a broken neck. Our nun hung herself, I guess, because she couldn't stand the drab convent life. That dream was unnerving, and I woke up stiffly, afraid to move, aware that she was probably watching me. I only have Ghost Dreams here because I think the Nun uses them as a means of communication. Of course, in last night's dream you could say that, the ghosts vying for my attention coincide with the attention I've lately given my past; for example, talking with an ex-girlfriend, or two. That boils the literal, supernatural factor out altogether, leaving a halfway decent explanation for my peculiar subconscious. But I have fun with it: Karfilov's girlfriend, Mao, had a dream of the Nun the night after I told her about mine.
The ghosties visit me in my dreams because I listen. Last night, I realized that if I was going to live in that house I'd become desensitived to the ghosts' plights, and subsequently to the plights of ghosts everywhere. But a nightmare is a nightmare, and waking from one is impossible to get used to.
In this particular dream the ghosts were not spirits of any dead I recognized, but they were trying to get my attention. We were in a tall, old house, nestled snugly into a green cliff face so that you looked out, past the winding road which restrained the little yard to within it's wrought-iron perimeter, and saw a vast valley that spread out far beyond and below you. If you've ever driven through the hills of Appalachia you know what I'm talking about.
I say the house is tall, because it is. We've just bought it and we arrive to inspect it. The drive is steep, the house is steeper. There's a path running up behind the house which I use to gain access to a crow's nest-type lookout on top of the three-story building--and from here I realize the house literally leans forward, making this a dangerous place to be. I break one of the aging wooden rails trying to get down.
The ghost doesn't appear right away. Of course, when we were buying the house we heard the stories, but Dad laughs at them. He doesn't believe. I'm taking pictures of everything and flashes of a little boy show up in one. Nobody else sees it. And then I actually start to see the boy, at first here and there. He courage builds gradually. Finally, I'm the only one seeing him tramp up and down the stairs, and I'm chasing him around trying to get a picture, while my family which doesn't believe me is cleaning the house up, or fawning over it's more magnificent features. The boy is a trickster, and lets me get close, or shows up in a photograph, only to disappear when I'm about to snap the lens, or when I run to my mother to show her my proof. The boy enjoys playing with me, and I'm rather frustrated with him.
Outside things get dark, but that's not because it's late. Clouds are rolling in and Dad decides that if it thunderstorms we're going to have to stay the night, because navigating the hilly roads would be dangerous. This is when the boy starts to get creepy. He pours a stream of water on my head from the second floor, trying to get my attention. He does it twice, actually, and Dad still ignores the fact, even though he's sitting next to me when I'm soaked. Then the ghost lowers a skillet of raw meat, like an offering to Dad, and Dad starts to change his mind. Then I actually get a decent picture of him to show Mom, who also begins to believe me. Then the boy beds down for a rest, falling asleep at the top of the stairs with a blanket.
This is when the next ghost shows up, a cavalier that dances. I only see his silhouette, or shadow, on the wall. He wears a cape and hat, and his movements are a little unnatural, the effect of that being an eerie-looking dance. Since we haven't even moved in and I've already have problems with one ghost I'm not in the mood to introduce myself to a second. This is when I wake up.
This was not a pleasant dream, and it left me feeling uneasy, especially with Beatrice and Karfilov out for the afternoon, leaving the house empty. I got a phone call from Titomo and another from one of his roommates, and they were both looking for the same person, who was supposed to be standing on my porch at the time: so I went downstairs and there's nobody waiting, of course, but the trek back up is nervous, avoiding the mirrors and the walls for fear of a shadow that is there but doesn't exist, an extra face winking at me perhaps from the window of another plane opened just over my shoulder.
In the previous dream I had, that I remember, which feature ghosties, I was visited by my Angel of Death, in the sexed-up form of an old friend of mine, who died when we were in tenth grade. In the dream I'm playing guitar in the dead of night, in the dark, and she's listening--in calf-length leather boots, fishnets, black boyshorts and evening gloves, and nothing else. She doesn't have wings, but I know it's her, my Angel of Death, in to check on me. She likes the music. Maybe she's a Muse as well. In life her name was Nerissa.
I only have Ghost Dreams here--never at Lovely's. The worst one so far was the in one which I met the Nun, our own resident ghost, who lives in a portrait of Jesus Christ that we've tacked up just below the thermostat.
In the dream she was walking around with a broken neck. Our nun hung herself, I guess, because she couldn't stand the drab convent life. That dream was unnerving, and I woke up stiffly, afraid to move, aware that she was probably watching me. I only have Ghost Dreams here because I think the Nun uses them as a means of communication. Of course, in last night's dream you could say that, the ghosts vying for my attention coincide with the attention I've lately given my past; for example, talking with an ex-girlfriend, or two. That boils the literal, supernatural factor out altogether, leaving a halfway decent explanation for my peculiar subconscious. But I have fun with it: Karfilov's girlfriend, Mao, had a dream of the Nun the night after I told her about mine.
The ghosties visit me in my dreams because I listen. Last night, I realized that if I was going to live in that house I'd become desensitived to the ghosts' plights, and subsequently to the plights of ghosts everywhere. But a nightmare is a nightmare, and waking from one is impossible to get used to.
Thursday
Jem
...is an amazing artist. Well, maybe not amazing. It depends on your frame of reference.
My frame is strict, really, but I have a high, high tolerance for lady singers. Don't take this the wrong way; generally, I accept them, no questions asked. I can't get enough Chrissie Hynde, especially when her voice, even in Pretenders Mode II, comes over the speakers at work (these are great songs regardless, if you accept that they're cut of a particularly different band). Milla Jovovich has cut one of my favorite albums to date, and I listen to a lot of critically-regarded material. I'm not trying to establish the dominance of my opinion, by any means. But I'd like to think that it counts, even if only a little. We'd all like to think that.
Currently, this post is fulfilling a couple of objectives. I want to write here, indifferent to the fact that no one is reading. I had a conversation today with one of the bar regulars, a "writer" some ten years' my senior, who teaches art history now, I think, and claims that writer's block has stifled his blogspot career. I refuse to believe, in the liberal medium that is available here, that writer's block (is this spelled correctly?) can dampen anybody as much as general boredom seems to, especially if one is receiving little or no feedback on his/her posts. Very frustrating.
I've had a couple of beers in me, which kills inhibition and promotes the ease of writing nothing. I'll try to keep a relatively uninteresting post short, but humor me by reading with some peculiarly interested voice. It's called, "willing suspension of disbelief," I think, and it works quite well.
3.) Ever try to type with a cigarette fixed between your middle and index fingers? It's a challenge, and a romantic one at that. The guys who do it in movies make it look like a breeze, but you're in danger of burning something, yourself or your keyboard, and classes don't review the dexterity necessary to make it work, only practice. Try it sometime.
And listen to Jem, if you get the chance. She won't change your life, but she'll mellow it just a bit.
I don't know about Lovely and I, call this the "drunken rant" bit. I Love her, but apparently not enough. I met a fellow adventurer tonight whose advice was, "better to know yourself first," which is I believe the very philosophy that I and my particular, significant other struggle over. But this woman's married at nineteen, so she must have had a hell of a headstart.
Cigarettes, homemade beer, online gaming, troubled loves, Led Zeppelin, Jem, buzz-to-drunkeness, typing with a handicapped right, class in a few hours, do-it-yourself...
something else I'll change later...
My frame is strict, really, but I have a high, high tolerance for lady singers. Don't take this the wrong way; generally, I accept them, no questions asked. I can't get enough Chrissie Hynde, especially when her voice, even in Pretenders Mode II, comes over the speakers at work (these are great songs regardless, if you accept that they're cut of a particularly different band). Milla Jovovich has cut one of my favorite albums to date, and I listen to a lot of critically-regarded material. I'm not trying to establish the dominance of my opinion, by any means. But I'd like to think that it counts, even if only a little. We'd all like to think that.
Currently, this post is fulfilling a couple of objectives. I want to write here, indifferent to the fact that no one is reading. I had a conversation today with one of the bar regulars, a "writer" some ten years' my senior, who teaches art history now, I think, and claims that writer's block has stifled his blogspot career. I refuse to believe, in the liberal medium that is available here, that writer's block (is this spelled correctly?) can dampen anybody as much as general boredom seems to, especially if one is receiving little or no feedback on his/her posts. Very frustrating.
I've had a couple of beers in me, which kills inhibition and promotes the ease of writing nothing. I'll try to keep a relatively uninteresting post short, but humor me by reading with some peculiarly interested voice. It's called, "willing suspension of disbelief," I think, and it works quite well.
3.) Ever try to type with a cigarette fixed between your middle and index fingers? It's a challenge, and a romantic one at that. The guys who do it in movies make it look like a breeze, but you're in danger of burning something, yourself or your keyboard, and classes don't review the dexterity necessary to make it work, only practice. Try it sometime.
And listen to Jem, if you get the chance. She won't change your life, but she'll mellow it just a bit.
I don't know about Lovely and I, call this the "drunken rant" bit. I Love her, but apparently not enough. I met a fellow adventurer tonight whose advice was, "better to know yourself first," which is I believe the very philosophy that I and my particular, significant other struggle over. But this woman's married at nineteen, so she must have had a hell of a headstart.
Cigarettes, homemade beer, online gaming, troubled loves, Led Zeppelin, Jem, buzz-to-drunkeness, typing with a handicapped right, class in a few hours, do-it-yourself...
something else I'll change later...
Monday
...& from the vault:
Because I feel like it:
Thursday, October 23rd, 2008:
"i am my only profile views"
"which means that i am the only one reading this and wondering what the author is like.
"I have refrained from drinking beer/liquor all night. It's difficult to do, especially when one is tired, frustrated, and quite surrounded by suicidal bottles/cans/handles/etcetera. But, at this rate I will not be getting sleep for some time, and I do not believe the temptation would improve the present so much as quite possibly numb the future. Maybe I'll bring some along to my class. The first begins at eleven (i will be five minutes late); the last ends at three (I wouldn't mind leaving five minutes early). four-hundred and twenty minutes from now is that three. It will mark twenty-four hours of uninterrupted wake, a habit I believe I am getting too intimate with.
"I have refrained from drinking beer/liquor all night. I have not refrained from reading tedious, mediocre poetry, or making vague use of haughty intellectualism. actually i will leave the poet-women alone, for reasons. one: they obviously enjoy word play, and i admire this. I am assigned to read, : they are two lady writers who seem to understand each other's unique incoherency. Incoherency? A word? dunno.
"ah...yes, quite obvious that they enjoy chewing on obscure words and assorted magnet sentences like wads of sticky bubblegum, and pop thin, bloated bubbles onto whatever is growing out of the typewriter. the more bubblicious they pack the greater the hole they punch. More ammunition, mr. master general joe! i'm bleeding through the ghosts of scabs I've picked off my back.
"She used to write poetry and She told me her secret once. The poem didn't make any sense but it was impossible to interpret reasonably so everybody assumed it was great and she took me aside and told me exactly what it meant and I've realized since then that you can pluck the smallest detail or most unlikely image out of your head and turn it into an impossible glittering mountain of wordery and wondery and nobody has to understand, not even you, and even if you do at the time it doesn't matter if you forget 'cause I guarantee she wouldn't remember the poem now if I asked her about it; or she would hate it; in the end the reader takes what he takes from the readed whether the words really matter or not and that's really the secret now, is't? If it matters to you in the instant, and somebody else thinks it beautiful, what does it matter once the instant is over excepting that that it's yours and not theirs even though they may adopt it as the most meaningful thing they've ever clung to and all you've done is spit it out to stick it to some tiny choking tree you've passed on the street?
"I think this is how Bob Dylan used to work. I think this is how these lady-poets work now, but they try too hard to be visceral. i saw nothing immortal in the words they gave to me."
and guess who just found his old livejournal account?
Thursday, October 23rd, 2008:
"i am my only profile views"
"which means that i am the only one reading this and wondering what the author is like.
"I have refrained from drinking beer/liquor all night. It's difficult to do, especially when one is tired, frustrated, and quite surrounded by suicidal bottles/cans/handles/etcetera. But, at this rate I will not be getting sleep for some time, and I do not believe the temptation would improve the present so much as quite possibly numb the future. Maybe I'll bring some along to my class. The first begins at eleven (i will be five minutes late); the last ends at three (I wouldn't mind leaving five minutes early). four-hundred and twenty minutes from now is that three. It will mark twenty-four hours of uninterrupted wake, a habit I believe I am getting too intimate with.
"I have refrained from drinking beer/liquor all night. I have not refrained from reading tedious, mediocre poetry, or making vague use of haughty intellectualism. actually i will leave the poet-women alone, for reasons. one: they obviously enjoy word play, and i admire this. I am assigned to read, : they are two lady writers who seem to understand each other's unique incoherency. Incoherency? A word? dunno.
"ah...yes, quite obvious that they enjoy chewing on obscure words and assorted magnet sentences like wads of sticky bubblegum, and pop thin, bloated bubbles onto whatever is growing out of the typewriter. the more bubblicious they pack the greater the hole they punch. More ammunition, mr. master general joe! i'm bleeding through the ghosts of scabs I've picked off my back.
"She used to write poetry and She told me her secret once. The poem didn't make any sense but it was impossible to interpret reasonably so everybody assumed it was great and she took me aside and told me exactly what it meant and I've realized since then that you can pluck the smallest detail or most unlikely image out of your head and turn it into an impossible glittering mountain of wordery and wondery and nobody has to understand, not even you, and even if you do at the time it doesn't matter if you forget 'cause I guarantee she wouldn't remember the poem now if I asked her about it; or she would hate it; in the end the reader takes what he takes from the readed whether the words really matter or not and that's really the secret now, is't? If it matters to you in the instant, and somebody else thinks it beautiful, what does it matter once the instant is over excepting that that it's yours and not theirs even though they may adopt it as the most meaningful thing they've ever clung to and all you've done is spit it out to stick it to some tiny choking tree you've passed on the street?
"I think this is how Bob Dylan used to work. I think this is how these lady-poets work now, but they try too hard to be visceral. i saw nothing immortal in the words they gave to me."
and guess who just found his old livejournal account?
Christmas Trees in July
i did not go to Honest Tom's on thursday. i barely slept the night before, and had a little trouble getting to the office with time to spare.
two years ago Beatrice and I resolved to start a band. it was a practical gesture: Beatrice is generally the dull sort who fancies the attention and wealth of an exotic profession, the likes of which a playboy writer or rock god might satisfy his yearning. Beatrice, however, is a mediocre wordsmith with a weak work ethic, and has barely learned a guitar scale in the two years since he's constructed our first riff (with, of all things, a computer program).
Beatrice has read book on god-forsaken book, has learned the rules of touring and all the studio etiquette, has nuzzled away fun and helpful anecdotes from the world's most successful musicians and rock acts--and is no closer to attaining their status than, um, that guy over there. While my own guitarering comes along slowly, any bar chord I play puts him in a place--he claims that bar chords hurt his fingers so, and subsequently has not bothered with them. my exposition should sharpen to a point, so bear with me.
We decided to title the riff, as if it belonged to a longer song. "Christmas Trees in July" was the christening biproduct of yours truly, and absolutely no progress has been made on it since. A driving, overdriven computer effect (I've never tried to learn this piece on a real guitar), a curious name, and a trippy concept is all that's left of our abandoned, anticipatory project.
"The things we want are what's tearing us apart."
Beatrice has become a source of constant irritation, much like a tick bite I've been scratching at for the last two weeks, except that you can flush a tick away and in time the poisons dissipate. Beatrice stays, sucking similarly imperceptible; and then you realize he's a parasite, disguised as a boy. It takes a surgery to rid one of a tapeworm, and those grow to immense sizes when left unchecked. Beatrice stands about five-eleven.
But I'm not here, entirely, to wail on my roommate's shortcomings. No, I had the revelation two nights ago as I lay next to Lovely, on what may be our final sleep together for at least some time. We've had problems the last year, but more specifically, in the latest months, with the needs, wants, and expectations we nurse as two individuals in a young and vigorous relationship. It's finally clear, as we shake for fear of the words that balance on the broad of our dampened lips, that our paths are increasingly divergent ones, that our singing is off key--the harmony not forgotten, but rather, impossible to recapture.
I've swallowed a Skittle whole.
"The things we want are what's tearing us apart." Lovely wants to live together. I did, too, before I thought about it. And, once I did, I decided I wanted to live on my own first. She would have been fine with this, but I resigned the lease here with Karfilov and Beatrice regardless. I don't have the time, right now, to get away from this life and start the next, let alone the exclusive one we'd share, no matter how much I Love her. And please, don't think any less of me. I Love this woman. I'm not ready to trade old circumstances for familiar ones, however, without trying on a few of my own first. Call it selfish, if that's the way you see it. There's more to this story, however, and you cannot possibly be in any high place to judge.
Lovely...she's impossible to describe. I lack the simple words and sensual grace of my friends Homer and Ovid, the only poets who could justly immortalize this woman.
Christmas Trees In July--the song one day will be about the lives we live in ignorance, the lives we live when we forsake our souls' most basic nourishments. These are miserable lives. If you dream a glamor dream that's out of reach you're keeping a Christmas Tree in July. If love is the reason you linger, and not the passion of the present but the cherished memories of happier times, you're keeping a Christmas Tree in July. They're beautiful to gaze on, these douglas firs and pines, but they're impossible to water, and the gifts that ring the treestand have either been too long gone to remember or are too distant-off to look forward to.
two years ago Beatrice and I resolved to start a band. it was a practical gesture: Beatrice is generally the dull sort who fancies the attention and wealth of an exotic profession, the likes of which a playboy writer or rock god might satisfy his yearning. Beatrice, however, is a mediocre wordsmith with a weak work ethic, and has barely learned a guitar scale in the two years since he's constructed our first riff (with, of all things, a computer program).
Beatrice has read book on god-forsaken book, has learned the rules of touring and all the studio etiquette, has nuzzled away fun and helpful anecdotes from the world's most successful musicians and rock acts--and is no closer to attaining their status than, um, that guy over there. While my own guitarering comes along slowly, any bar chord I play puts him in a place--he claims that bar chords hurt his fingers so, and subsequently has not bothered with them. my exposition should sharpen to a point, so bear with me.
We decided to title the riff, as if it belonged to a longer song. "Christmas Trees in July" was the christening biproduct of yours truly, and absolutely no progress has been made on it since. A driving, overdriven computer effect (I've never tried to learn this piece on a real guitar), a curious name, and a trippy concept is all that's left of our abandoned, anticipatory project.
"The things we want are what's tearing us apart."
Beatrice has become a source of constant irritation, much like a tick bite I've been scratching at for the last two weeks, except that you can flush a tick away and in time the poisons dissipate. Beatrice stays, sucking similarly imperceptible; and then you realize he's a parasite, disguised as a boy. It takes a surgery to rid one of a tapeworm, and those grow to immense sizes when left unchecked. Beatrice stands about five-eleven.
But I'm not here, entirely, to wail on my roommate's shortcomings. No, I had the revelation two nights ago as I lay next to Lovely, on what may be our final sleep together for at least some time. We've had problems the last year, but more specifically, in the latest months, with the needs, wants, and expectations we nurse as two individuals in a young and vigorous relationship. It's finally clear, as we shake for fear of the words that balance on the broad of our dampened lips, that our paths are increasingly divergent ones, that our singing is off key--the harmony not forgotten, but rather, impossible to recapture.
I've swallowed a Skittle whole.
"The things we want are what's tearing us apart." Lovely wants to live together. I did, too, before I thought about it. And, once I did, I decided I wanted to live on my own first. She would have been fine with this, but I resigned the lease here with Karfilov and Beatrice regardless. I don't have the time, right now, to get away from this life and start the next, let alone the exclusive one we'd share, no matter how much I Love her. And please, don't think any less of me. I Love this woman. I'm not ready to trade old circumstances for familiar ones, however, without trying on a few of my own first. Call it selfish, if that's the way you see it. There's more to this story, however, and you cannot possibly be in any high place to judge.
Lovely...she's impossible to describe. I lack the simple words and sensual grace of my friends Homer and Ovid, the only poets who could justly immortalize this woman.
Christmas Trees In July--the song one day will be about the lives we live in ignorance, the lives we live when we forsake our souls' most basic nourishments. These are miserable lives. If you dream a glamor dream that's out of reach you're keeping a Christmas Tree in July. If love is the reason you linger, and not the passion of the present but the cherished memories of happier times, you're keeping a Christmas Tree in July. They're beautiful to gaze on, these douglas firs and pines, but they're impossible to water, and the gifts that ring the treestand have either been too long gone to remember or are too distant-off to look forward to.
Wednesday
We're in for some Chop!
I watched Aliens in class today and found it unsettling. It's part of the curriculum for a class designed around Literature for Screenwriters, an interesting class if you're in to this kind of thing. We examine the deep roots of some of filmdom's most abundant story-trees, including the Bible and, this week, Beowulf itself. Our movie, like the poem, was long, which I expected, but I am amazed that James Cameron found a soul bold enough to light his creative, albeit disturbing, visions. Aliens left me paranoid and a little paralyzed--i think the physical stiffness is from sitting in our theater-shaped classroom for so long, though. I guess I'm curious because most movies--post-coital--don't leave me feeling this affected. However, my mood can potentially be attributed to this awesome hangover I've got.
Last night's cosmic decree was that I turn twenty-two, so I did. I slept for the entire day and avoided the usual and highly stereotypical means of young-person celebration, which involve a good deal of alcohol, and more alcohol. But then...
...about eleven, we all ventured out to a new pub that's opened just a door down from work. When I say "we" I am of course talking about Karfilov, Beatrice, and I; Beatrice didn't drink, big surprise, and Karfilov had himself a few beers before contacting the owner about a feature for the school paper. In the interim I drank too much, however, and must have been a fright this morning when I stumbled in to Classics ten minutes late, dripping sweat, and probably green. As we talked about Odysseus' pain, his honor, and his trip to the Underworld I made a comparable journey down the hall, and returned some time later with what dignity I could still summon. I hope I didn't smell too much, some of the girls in this class are cute, and one of them remembers me.
I spent the rest of the period nobly wiping snot into my sleeve and trying to look as pathetic as possible. This did not get us out early. I slept all afternoon, maintained a headache through Aliens, and emerged thoroughly mindfucked. Why was this, though? I've seen plenty of violence, gore, and death, I'm quite use to flashing lights and loud noises, and the surge of adrenaline I walked home with was by no means some fear-ridden resistance that undoubtedly laced a few of my classmates' nervous systems. The hangover, then? Or the disturbing brilliance of a one-trick pony at the height of his filmmaking prowess? Could it be Cameron?
I don't think so. When I recognized Corporal Ferro as the dropship pilot from Starcraft, and the dropship itself as the Pelican from Halo, I realized that Aliens has a breadth of influence I've underestimated. And the guys that made those games aren't as creative as I thought. My respect for one has superceded my respect for the others.
I still wanted to play Halo when I got home.
If you have a hangover, I don't recommend Aliens.
Last night's cosmic decree was that I turn twenty-two, so I did. I slept for the entire day and avoided the usual and highly stereotypical means of young-person celebration, which involve a good deal of alcohol, and more alcohol. But then...
...about eleven, we all ventured out to a new pub that's opened just a door down from work. When I say "we" I am of course talking about Karfilov, Beatrice, and I; Beatrice didn't drink, big surprise, and Karfilov had himself a few beers before contacting the owner about a feature for the school paper. In the interim I drank too much, however, and must have been a fright this morning when I stumbled in to Classics ten minutes late, dripping sweat, and probably green. As we talked about Odysseus' pain, his honor, and his trip to the Underworld I made a comparable journey down the hall, and returned some time later with what dignity I could still summon. I hope I didn't smell too much, some of the girls in this class are cute, and one of them remembers me.
I spent the rest of the period nobly wiping snot into my sleeve and trying to look as pathetic as possible. This did not get us out early. I slept all afternoon, maintained a headache through Aliens, and emerged thoroughly mindfucked. Why was this, though? I've seen plenty of violence, gore, and death, I'm quite use to flashing lights and loud noises, and the surge of adrenaline I walked home with was by no means some fear-ridden resistance that undoubtedly laced a few of my classmates' nervous systems. The hangover, then? Or the disturbing brilliance of a one-trick pony at the height of his filmmaking prowess? Could it be Cameron?
I don't think so. When I recognized Corporal Ferro as the dropship pilot from Starcraft, and the dropship itself as the Pelican from Halo, I realized that Aliens has a breadth of influence I've underestimated. And the guys that made those games aren't as creative as I thought. My respect for one has superceded my respect for the others.
I still wanted to play Halo when I got home.
If you have a hangover, I don't recommend Aliens.
Monday
she is everywhere.
just for fun...
i decided...
to find an old girlfriend online. she has a myspace profile, or had one, which i've long forsaken. i don't really want to talk with her anymore. she made it pretty clear, once upon a time, that she didn't really want to talk to me either.
but one wonders, so one wanders the internet as a means of discretely catching up. if you use the same few keywords that I do, you happen upon a myspace profile of a girl living in a particular state, say, Disambiguation, on the west coast. This girl is twenty-two, the proper age, and plays in a band. Her profile header is the same. These are all coincidences, it's not the girl I am looking for.
But it might as well be. There are different versions of the same girl running around, mostly, it seems, in Disambiguation. There is, additionally, a younger model who lives about an hour from where I grew up [East Coast]. Roughly, the girl i fell in love with is reincarnated in Disambiguation and Bullnash, which is what I will call this town near my home.
There are between six and seven billion people on the planet. I wonder how many circumstances really exist, for a life to be repeated like this. I wonder how unique, if at all, my own circumstances make me? Because there are probably copies of me, and I'm probably a copy of other people, too.
i decided...
to find an old girlfriend online. she has a myspace profile, or had one, which i've long forsaken. i don't really want to talk with her anymore. she made it pretty clear, once upon a time, that she didn't really want to talk to me either.
but one wonders, so one wanders the internet as a means of discretely catching up. if you use the same few keywords that I do, you happen upon a myspace profile of a girl living in a particular state, say, Disambiguation, on the west coast. This girl is twenty-two, the proper age, and plays in a band. Her profile header is the same. These are all coincidences, it's not the girl I am looking for.
But it might as well be. There are different versions of the same girl running around, mostly, it seems, in Disambiguation. There is, additionally, a younger model who lives about an hour from where I grew up [East Coast]. Roughly, the girl i fell in love with is reincarnated in Disambiguation and Bullnash, which is what I will call this town near my home.
There are between six and seven billion people on the planet. I wonder how many circumstances really exist, for a life to be repeated like this. I wonder how unique, if at all, my own circumstances make me? Because there are probably copies of me, and I'm probably a copy of other people, too.
speaking of niches...
a couple years ago I was trolling wikipedia's obits and discovered that michael jackson was dead. this particular michael jackson was, of course, the famous beer and whisky expert, if you didn't already know that. he died of a DUI...just kidding, that's in bad taste, it was a heart attack, he wasn't driving drunk, unless he was, and the heart attack got him instead, but i really wouldn't know.
Michael Jackson's death is felt by us all. We no longer have this cultural icon, this amazing talent, this exceptional human being, who could tell you anything you needed to know about beer and whisky. He will be missed.
I did not learn of Michael Jackson's death by wikipedia, however. I was working at the bar when my manager came from the kitchen, put on the news, and cranked the volume so we could hear. It was a breaking story, and I would argue it's the most legimate "breaking" news NBC or CNN has reported in recent years.
It's surreal when you read a name in an obituary and it's not the name you expect it to be. Just last week Charles Barkley died, for instance. I am speaking, of course, about the Canadian politician, but I'm sure I don't need to explain.
However, this time around it is indeed that name. When i got off the bar thursday night i went over to zwolfundcinq, which is the name we have for our friends' apartment, and Titomo insisted that Michael Jackson's death deserves no more...prestige...than the murder of an Afghani civilian, or some punk living blocks away here in West Philadelphia. Titomo would tell you that no single human life is worth more than the next.
In a perfect world, I suppose he's right. In this world, however, the only common quality across the living globe is how disposable each human is. Michael Jackson is dead, he died of a heart attack. His corpse will rot.
But, human beings in every corner of our round little planet know who Michael Jackson is, as they know who the Beatles are, who Shakespeare is and who Jesus Christ is. We've bestowed immortality upon these figures, whether we know it or not.
Titomo is bright-eyed, but naive. He surrounds himself with other characters that want to preserve an anarchic quality of life, and they obviously don't mix with the other 98% of the world. The Real World? I've told Titomo to get a restauranting job. He'll find out just what he says he's worth...
also,
the taco truck is called Honest Tom's. I saw a hand-painted van parked outside of an apartment two nights ago, after work. It was blue, with Tom's moniker splayed across the side in an undulating red tag. I wonder what two dollars will get me come thursday morning?
Michael Jackson's death is felt by us all. We no longer have this cultural icon, this amazing talent, this exceptional human being, who could tell you anything you needed to know about beer and whisky. He will be missed.
I did not learn of Michael Jackson's death by wikipedia, however. I was working at the bar when my manager came from the kitchen, put on the news, and cranked the volume so we could hear. It was a breaking story, and I would argue it's the most legimate "breaking" news NBC or CNN has reported in recent years.
It's surreal when you read a name in an obituary and it's not the name you expect it to be. Just last week Charles Barkley died, for instance. I am speaking, of course, about the Canadian politician, but I'm sure I don't need to explain.
However, this time around it is indeed that name. When i got off the bar thursday night i went over to zwolfundcinq, which is the name we have for our friends' apartment, and Titomo insisted that Michael Jackson's death deserves no more...prestige...than the murder of an Afghani civilian, or some punk living blocks away here in West Philadelphia. Titomo would tell you that no single human life is worth more than the next.
In a perfect world, I suppose he's right. In this world, however, the only common quality across the living globe is how disposable each human is. Michael Jackson is dead, he died of a heart attack. His corpse will rot.
But, human beings in every corner of our round little planet know who Michael Jackson is, as they know who the Beatles are, who Shakespeare is and who Jesus Christ is. We've bestowed immortality upon these figures, whether we know it or not.
Titomo is bright-eyed, but naive. He surrounds himself with other characters that want to preserve an anarchic quality of life, and they obviously don't mix with the other 98% of the world. The Real World? I've told Titomo to get a restauranting job. He'll find out just what he says he's worth...
also,
the taco truck is called Honest Tom's. I saw a hand-painted van parked outside of an apartment two nights ago, after work. It was blue, with Tom's moniker splayed across the side in an undulating red tag. I wonder what two dollars will get me come thursday morning?
Thursday
if you read enough ancient greek and roman literature you learn that nymphs and indeed goddesses are everywhere...
...including the olive-skinned one I passed in the alleyway today, as she searched through her purse for the keys to her olive-coloured jeep. the teasing cut of her dress revealed a black sports bra where it wrapped around the sides of her back. the presentation is sexier than bra straps, i think. there are more exact words, I'm sure, to describe this scene, but i haven't learned them yet.
things that happened today:
I woke up and went to the library to print a hard copy of an assignment due at eleven. on the way to class I passed a new lunch truck, parked in a peculiar place relative to the traffic on campus and hand-painted a solid tan colour. it's just how I want my tacos, really: out of a home-detailing job. the truck was titled, "Honest Tony's", I think. It might have been "Honest Tom's". Regardless, the small business model presented by this particular entreprenuer was especially ten-cent lemonade-stand. Whatever he was cooking smelled delicious.
Wondering if I shouldn't bring a couple bills next Tuesday to see just how honest Tony is, I crossed the street in front of a man on some lawn-aestheticizing vehicle, both hands on the wheel and a new cigarette in his teeth. You kind of had to be there, or I had to be there with a quick shutter, for you to fully experience the comedic value of this instance. let's just say it's one of those moments that doesn't repeat itself.
Before class I decided to buy a ginger ale from the vending machine, but settled for a Dr. Pepper when i found my cornered vendor in the lack. I didn't want Sprite. These particular machines are visually stimiulating, dropping the soda bottle into a shoot that moves up and down behind the glass, ahem, plastic, before finally depositing your purchase upright into a slot next to the coin return. The Dr. Pepper was at the bottom tier, and when the bottle fell into the shoot it leaned. As the shoot rose, the bottle bumped against the tier above it, preventing the completion of the transaction. I didn't get my Dr. Pepper, which thumbed at me from the bottom of the machine, but I did get my $1.25 back. So I bought another Dr. Pepper, and the second bottle knocked the first straight. The shoot could move freely and I got two sodas for the price of one, a good start to a regularly lousy morning. To clarify, any morning that begins before at least eleven is a regularly lousy morning. Karma never sleeps and I sprinkled Dr. Pepper in a clumsy gesture on the bottom of my homework page, but spent the next hour trying not to ogle the very tan legs of an athletic girl sitting next to me. This was in my classics class, where we are discussing the Odyssey. If you read enough ancient greek and roman literature...
things that happened today:
I woke up and went to the library to print a hard copy of an assignment due at eleven. on the way to class I passed a new lunch truck, parked in a peculiar place relative to the traffic on campus and hand-painted a solid tan colour. it's just how I want my tacos, really: out of a home-detailing job. the truck was titled, "Honest Tony's", I think. It might have been "Honest Tom's". Regardless, the small business model presented by this particular entreprenuer was especially ten-cent lemonade-stand. Whatever he was cooking smelled delicious.
Wondering if I shouldn't bring a couple bills next Tuesday to see just how honest Tony is, I crossed the street in front of a man on some lawn-aestheticizing vehicle, both hands on the wheel and a new cigarette in his teeth. You kind of had to be there, or I had to be there with a quick shutter, for you to fully experience the comedic value of this instance. let's just say it's one of those moments that doesn't repeat itself.
Before class I decided to buy a ginger ale from the vending machine, but settled for a Dr. Pepper when i found my cornered vendor in the lack. I didn't want Sprite. These particular machines are visually stimiulating, dropping the soda bottle into a shoot that moves up and down behind the glass, ahem, plastic, before finally depositing your purchase upright into a slot next to the coin return. The Dr. Pepper was at the bottom tier, and when the bottle fell into the shoot it leaned. As the shoot rose, the bottle bumped against the tier above it, preventing the completion of the transaction. I didn't get my Dr. Pepper, which thumbed at me from the bottom of the machine, but I did get my $1.25 back. So I bought another Dr. Pepper, and the second bottle knocked the first straight. The shoot could move freely and I got two sodas for the price of one, a good start to a regularly lousy morning. To clarify, any morning that begins before at least eleven is a regularly lousy morning. Karma never sleeps and I sprinkled Dr. Pepper in a clumsy gesture on the bottom of my homework page, but spent the next hour trying not to ogle the very tan legs of an athletic girl sitting next to me. This was in my classics class, where we are discussing the Odyssey. If you read enough ancient greek and roman literature...
i suppose you could say the world's oldest man dies every day.
i scan wikipedia's obituaries frequently, to see if anyone important has died. to be honest, i'm looking for niches that have drained away and opened up. for example, ed mcmahon, a television personality, passed a few days ago. his tonight show catchprase was legendary. he died broke, owing hundreds of thousands on a $4.8 million mortgage. i'm going to be an adult someday but this man was a cultural fixture and right now I'd like to think, I'm smugly thinking, that i'll make it through life without this much debt. godwilling. but now i'm not really sure how I can relate this nasty little hope of mine to empty niches, because mr. mcmahon's example seems singular and unrepeatable while I type away insignificantly at something no one will ever read.
changing the subject...
supercentenarians die frequently. on wikipedia, the world's oldest living man usually shows up every couple of days. they seem to unconciously emphasize the living requirement. I've never seen any article about the world's oldest dead man, but scientists probably argue about him a lot. also, i'm nibbling on Oxalfixation Mints (www.oralfix.com), which are fruity little mints in a fruity fuschia tin, probably designed by the guys at Apple. they are curious mints. the back of the tin has simple instructions for procuring one from within, consequently reminding the fixated to, "push to please." the innuendo is probably more satisfying than the mints, but many women I know would probably confirm this is one of the more discouraging advantages of a nice package.
changing the subject...
supercentenarians die frequently. on wikipedia, the world's oldest living man usually shows up every couple of days. they seem to unconciously emphasize the living requirement. I've never seen any article about the world's oldest dead man, but scientists probably argue about him a lot. also, i'm nibbling on Oxalfixation Mints (www.oralfix.com), which are fruity little mints in a fruity fuschia tin, probably designed by the guys at Apple. they are curious mints. the back of the tin has simple instructions for procuring one from within, consequently reminding the fixated to, "push to please." the innuendo is probably more satisfying than the mints, but many women I know would probably confirm this is one of the more discouraging advantages of a nice package.
Wednesday
Something Else I'll Change Later.
this will be the first post on this blog, as I've lost my password for the old one, which is sort of a shame, save for the part where I remembered, thankfully, the URL, and thus can access the four lovely tidbits that I p[ublished]osted, delirious, over a year ago. This sentence is long enough, No?
Homebrew Wednesday Afternoon. I am a young man in Philadelphia and today, the third of June, I have nothing better to do than sit and type this junk. I want another beer--we make it right here in the apartment, Karfilov and I--but I have to be at work in less than three hours, and a seven-hour, lame bar shift is only made worse when you're so numb you can't stand on your own two feet. When I come home, about twelve-thirty, I also have intellectual assignments to complete. I will be drinking beer then, obviously.
I guess I can wait. As for the assignments...I could be wasting my time with those now, but I think I'll take a nap instead. I'm napping as you read, perhaps.
Homebrew Wednesday Afternoon. I rinsed out my shaker, a Dead-Guy Ale glass that Karfilov got from Rogue for free during Philly Beer Week a few months ago (strange, the damned thing has alluded me within the last few minutes, I don't know where it's at), and poured an amber-coloured California Common that, weeks ago, was only a little boiling wort on our stove (found it, hiding on the busy counter behind me). They've made better, but this little steam lager makes it onto our list. Fermenting conditions in our tight-but-cozy apartment are not ideal--we live on the third floor of an old-fashioned, stone building, that is unfortunately hot during the summer and inadvertently cold during the winter. I can't complain today, this third of June, but that's probably because remodelers have ripped out the middle bay window in the living room where I sit, which welcomes strong, refreshing gusts into an otherwise stuffy space. The left and right bay windows were taken out yesterday, forcing a wonderful, salty crossbreeze, though I was more than amused when we and our dusky red carpet were threatened by a thunderstorm...
Homebrew Wednesday Afternoon. And a chocolate stout that, well, actually tastes of chocolate. Karfilov will not be reviewing this in his weekly article, I fear, but he wants to keep a good secret to himself. Not that Southern Tier minds...
But this, 'blog', is not to be devoted to beers, though I'm sure many of them shall factor in content-wise. More rather, if it's online journaling I'm forcing upon myself, in the slow and boring hours of the day and night, then it's online journaling that you, the random reader, are going to get. Homebrew Wednesday Afternoon, with Lou Reed & Dick Wagner, the Flamin' Groovies, a significant lack of cigarette smoke, and a damned elusive shaker-glass depicting a helmeted, fetal-shaped dead person. As for the cigarette smoke, well, that's something else i'll change later...
Homebrew Wednesday Afternoon. I am a young man in Philadelphia and today, the third of June, I have nothing better to do than sit and type this junk. I want another beer--we make it right here in the apartment, Karfilov and I--but I have to be at work in less than three hours, and a seven-hour, lame bar shift is only made worse when you're so numb you can't stand on your own two feet. When I come home, about twelve-thirty, I also have intellectual assignments to complete. I will be drinking beer then, obviously.
I guess I can wait. As for the assignments...I could be wasting my time with those now, but I think I'll take a nap instead. I'm napping as you read, perhaps.
Homebrew Wednesday Afternoon. I rinsed out my shaker, a Dead-Guy Ale glass that Karfilov got from Rogue for free during Philly Beer Week a few months ago (strange, the damned thing has alluded me within the last few minutes, I don't know where it's at), and poured an amber-coloured California Common that, weeks ago, was only a little boiling wort on our stove (found it, hiding on the busy counter behind me). They've made better, but this little steam lager makes it onto our list. Fermenting conditions in our tight-but-cozy apartment are not ideal--we live on the third floor of an old-fashioned, stone building, that is unfortunately hot during the summer and inadvertently cold during the winter. I can't complain today, this third of June, but that's probably because remodelers have ripped out the middle bay window in the living room where I sit, which welcomes strong, refreshing gusts into an otherwise stuffy space. The left and right bay windows were taken out yesterday, forcing a wonderful, salty crossbreeze, though I was more than amused when we and our dusky red carpet were threatened by a thunderstorm...
Homebrew Wednesday Afternoon. And a chocolate stout that, well, actually tastes of chocolate. Karfilov will not be reviewing this in his weekly article, I fear, but he wants to keep a good secret to himself. Not that Southern Tier minds...
But this, 'blog', is not to be devoted to beers, though I'm sure many of them shall factor in content-wise. More rather, if it's online journaling I'm forcing upon myself, in the slow and boring hours of the day and night, then it's online journaling that you, the random reader, are going to get. Homebrew Wednesday Afternoon, with Lou Reed & Dick Wagner, the Flamin' Groovies, a significant lack of cigarette smoke, and a damned elusive shaker-glass depicting a helmeted, fetal-shaped dead person. As for the cigarette smoke, well, that's something else i'll change later...
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