In among the pines, with a useless toolbox I purchased on a whim, I gazed arborward. What could I do with so many wrenches? I had long learned that it only takes one. My partners had deserted me earlier and frankly, I let them, insisting that heading further into the woods was my thing and I didn’t expect anyone to follow. One of them hesitated briefly, the others turned and left. Their shadows galloped out of view.
Looking back, the pines aren’t that bad. I made me a nice little house out in a mystic grove, which dumb luck had delivered and I readily accepted with a pathetic sense of entitlement that one stranded in a mystic pine grove really can’t be faulted for exhibiting. Anyway, there is some strong evidence that a past civilization had criss-crossed the grounds long ago. They had evidently mastered hedonistic masonry and nihilistic poetry. They cast marble-plated shields that, at first, I couldn’t even lift. I made a friend in the grove. Her name was Melissa, and she had reached the grove about two years before me. She showed me how to lift the shields, how to suck the brains out of forest insects (the best part), and how to make my living quarters as livable as possible. She knows her stuff and I think she’s great. There’s this odd dynamic between us. Odd in the sense that it takes two to tango and one is an odd number.
In all honesty, that’s not the point. I sat up one evening in my favorite spot. See the grove is spacious and remote enough that I’ve spread out all through it. I've settled little areas all over the forest, but the best one was up on Great Round Hill.
A quick aside: I can’t claim spreading out was my idea; I found this incredible portfolio of detailed maps in a tree trunk’s unearthed south-facing rim. It took a night of drinking mushroom water with Melissa to figure out that the diagrams mapped to our mystic grove. A couple minutes after I showed her the maps, she said, "Those drawings are maps of the grove." I looked incredulously at the parchment. A few distinguishing shapes peered off the page and rapped at my brain: the perfectly straight line of trees along the creek, the marble columns arranged like picnic benches, all the little half-natural canopies ringing the Great Round Hill. "I think you’re right!"
My weekend spot sits at The Parlor, which is a landing on the fifth highest circle of canopies on the Great Round Hill. At that elevation I can see out over most of the pines, to the end of the pines, the concrete, the shore, and the sea. The landing is about 15 feet wide. It extends 6 feet from the hill. I dug thick round holes into the side of the hill using a tool I found in the grove. I plugged them with slightly thicker branches and then wove less hearty, leafier boughs together to form a roof over my weekend spot. It's easy enough to sit above the landing further up the hill for an unobstructed view of the stars - I rarely go up there though - I tend to stay within the confines of my landing.
I've been slowly adding personal touches to my place at The Parlor: berrymaze molding, marble beam covers, wooden spoons with little holes at the handles. The decoration is welcome, but to me nothing's worse than some lame quotation pinned up as if to stir some interesting emotion within the indifferent, chiefly absent audience. Having said that, we have some wonderful verses up here on Great Round Hill. If I ever hang a quote it would certainly be: "You're decomposing - leave the pines."
Showing posts with label hopeless. Show all posts
Showing posts with label hopeless. Show all posts
Thursday, July 8, 2010
Thursday, June 24, 2010
Norfolk Banks Rag, Side B
Bill fixated on her profile and dried his eyes. He made no adjustments. He snapped out of it but into something far worse: Bill rode down the road fixin' his vocals to the tune of something pleasant. Got grey right quick. The dawn in an instant left for the coast and in it's place a kingdom of ironbelt blue. Smoke stacks and rusty water bins disdained the tracks. Their stubby legs flexed and Bill swiped a cigarette from his pocket, sparked'er 'n' took'er for a drag. The orange flame swelled in the morning's hellborne grey - Bill's train inbound through the fog - ring electricity. He toyed with his cigarette and right then he shuffled half a short one and a lit, second stick. He squinted and drew his chin high and tight.
Shining lights grew tight. Without a thought but with a hearty serving of self, he flicked the cigarettes onto the track. A chunk of shale quelled the short one. The long one sparked wildly as it fluttered to a flame, a once-contained inferno that spread to the farms past the hills past the country line. A large hunk of crosstie caught it. The air above the rails boiled. A fire war raged out of control. Who's side are you on Bill asked himself. He panicked a little because after all it was his long one that started the mess. The fire danced on soulfree. The train had arrived and boarding began. Some drones missed the sparks. Others evacuated. Smoke piped all around. Bill leaned against a post.
The steel composite crisped and charred...undocumented, unregulated fluids ignited...compressed gas combusted...the platform was alive. Several bells rang, drones crawled, pigeons flapped their wings up and shot their faces into puddles and sucked up dirty water, some folks figured doom and began to climb up and out of melting metal window frames (the doors hadn't slid shut). The flames, with gusto, kept on. The heat barreled beyond "intense." Bill watched it all unfold, imagining her.
The day failed to break. The sun wandered off, dusk settled in. Poor men and women had wiggled partially out of the burning train through windows rimmed in fire. Fragments of aluminum poles began melding into their skin. Their faces disfigured slowly, slow enough for Bill's heart to begin racing. He saw a woman with short hair and a shiny black pocketbook with gold buckles lose her left cheek to the pole. She could scream through her distended, disfigured mouth. She screamed. Bill jumped to the top of the burning train and leaped towards the front car, he couldn't feel the slightest warmth.
At the head car, Bill fell on his stomach and took his palm to the conductor's tinted window. He rapped. Bill got really desperate, he hung over the side and pounded wildly at it. He yelled louder than the sodered masses behind him. At once through the tinted chamber the man at the train's helm faded up into view. His back was turned to the wheel and he looked directly at Bill. An old, white-haired, bleak man with fiery eyes stared intensely at him. Through the dense air, Bill's horror overflowed as he gazed a haunting scene deep inside eyes identical to his.
Please turn to Side A.
Shining lights grew tight. Without a thought but with a hearty serving of self, he flicked the cigarettes onto the track. A chunk of shale quelled the short one. The long one sparked wildly as it fluttered to a flame, a once-contained inferno that spread to the farms past the hills past the country line. A large hunk of crosstie caught it. The air above the rails boiled. A fire war raged out of control. Who's side are you on Bill asked himself. He panicked a little because after all it was his long one that started the mess. The fire danced on soulfree. The train had arrived and boarding began. Some drones missed the sparks. Others evacuated. Smoke piped all around. Bill leaned against a post.
The steel composite crisped and charred...undocumented, unregulated fluids ignited...compressed gas combusted...the platform was alive. Several bells rang, drones crawled, pigeons flapped their wings up and shot their faces into puddles and sucked up dirty water, some folks figured doom and began to climb up and out of melting metal window frames (the doors hadn't slid shut). The flames, with gusto, kept on. The heat barreled beyond "intense." Bill watched it all unfold, imagining her.
The day failed to break. The sun wandered off, dusk settled in. Poor men and women had wiggled partially out of the burning train through windows rimmed in fire. Fragments of aluminum poles began melding into their skin. Their faces disfigured slowly, slow enough for Bill's heart to begin racing. He saw a woman with short hair and a shiny black pocketbook with gold buckles lose her left cheek to the pole. She could scream through her distended, disfigured mouth. She screamed. Bill jumped to the top of the burning train and leaped towards the front car, he couldn't feel the slightest warmth.
At the head car, Bill fell on his stomach and took his palm to the conductor's tinted window. He rapped. Bill got really desperate, he hung over the side and pounded wildly at it. He yelled louder than the sodered masses behind him. At once through the tinted chamber the man at the train's helm faded up into view. His back was turned to the wheel and he looked directly at Bill. An old, white-haired, bleak man with fiery eyes stared intensely at him. Through the dense air, Bill's horror overflowed as he gazed a haunting scene deep inside eyes identical to his.
Please turn to Side A.
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
Norfolk Banks Rag, Side A
Despite the discomfort Bill was all blissed out, porker chasing turkeys down a hill 'top Slider Island. Beef and creamy bunsy, night to dawn, short a shirt, breathin' hard for minimum wage, developing wrist tendinitis, thick guitar chords oozing out strong, quickly surrendering - sidestepping to the carefully-delineated shoulder, near tall, skinny birch trees.
That afternoon, Bill drove through sunlit ivy-covered underpasses. Shadows angled down the highway, and as he peeked the rear-view, his heart sunk as his city retreated. Driving down Kingsley (quarter-mile), thinking about getting off early, really turning the thing on its head, leaving it legs up in the sun. Bill pictured the scene:
An endless drive in a storm of stories, nuisances with wings, headed down east. Billy sighed 'n' rolled his eyes, affirming the family of clouds banded together over their heads, blindly approving of the historian's "analysis" of his ancestry. Maybe drugs would make this trip better. This was truly as comfortable as Bill's bear's lair: neatly organized war novels on the top shelf; pristine non-fiction par with his bloody eyes; cookbooks, transcriptions, and folk tales on the next two shelves. A green crusty old-taled sofa, figurin' for a drink, ridges deep and dark, pronounced "oh-no oh-no." A thick maple kitchen table with two refurbished, sturdy benches that could comfortably seat four, beneath fruit-stained stained glass with dark dirty black lines tracing the shapes of strawberries, pickles, and pears.
Endless driving all afternoon, weaving left turning right weathering the storm's onslaught. As for hope, as for the tunnel's exit light, Bill blinked morosely, took a drag of wild fantasy, and puffed some tumbling white cloth, tan skin, and human touches out the window. The road opened with the tenderness of a pregnant embrace. As if seasoned by the intricate coast and the unfracked Western springs, the signage smiled, the road ricocheted warmth, and inbound chromejets soared in silence. All this was undeniable. Bill had absorbed these violent fistfuls of shackled action before. He'd walked away with his hands in his pockets, and he knew he was headed down that same highway.
They arrived at the old bay house. Bill exhaled to erase the vision of a four-sided dungeon on the cove. She appeared. She wasn't wearing red shoes or a red ribbon in her long strawberry-blond hair. The house lacked a rickety, shingled water tower on its roof. Bill swallowed meekly, and the storm's comedy commenced. Laughs labored as they evaporated into the clean crisp air. Tales flowed as her tumbling white cloth vanquished the crappy little waves in the bay. Seconds later, more plastic planks like the ones on the recliners stirred the scene and punctuated Bill's uphill struggle.
Please turn to Side B.
That afternoon, Bill drove through sunlit ivy-covered underpasses. Shadows angled down the highway, and as he peeked the rear-view, his heart sunk as his city retreated. Driving down Kingsley (quarter-mile), thinking about getting off early, really turning the thing on its head, leaving it legs up in the sun. Bill pictured the scene:
An endless drive in a storm of stories, nuisances with wings, headed down east. Billy sighed 'n' rolled his eyes, affirming the family of clouds banded together over their heads, blindly approving of the historian's "analysis" of his ancestry. Maybe drugs would make this trip better. This was truly as comfortable as Bill's bear's lair: neatly organized war novels on the top shelf; pristine non-fiction par with his bloody eyes; cookbooks, transcriptions, and folk tales on the next two shelves. A green crusty old-taled sofa, figurin' for a drink, ridges deep and dark, pronounced "oh-no oh-no." A thick maple kitchen table with two refurbished, sturdy benches that could comfortably seat four, beneath fruit-stained stained glass with dark dirty black lines tracing the shapes of strawberries, pickles, and pears.
Endless driving all afternoon, weaving left turning right weathering the storm's onslaught. As for hope, as for the tunnel's exit light, Bill blinked morosely, took a drag of wild fantasy, and puffed some tumbling white cloth, tan skin, and human touches out the window. The road opened with the tenderness of a pregnant embrace. As if seasoned by the intricate coast and the unfracked Western springs, the signage smiled, the road ricocheted warmth, and inbound chromejets soared in silence. All this was undeniable. Bill had absorbed these violent fistfuls of shackled action before. He'd walked away with his hands in his pockets, and he knew he was headed down that same highway.
They arrived at the old bay house. Bill exhaled to erase the vision of a four-sided dungeon on the cove. She appeared. She wasn't wearing red shoes or a red ribbon in her long strawberry-blond hair. The house lacked a rickety, shingled water tower on its roof. Bill swallowed meekly, and the storm's comedy commenced. Laughs labored as they evaporated into the clean crisp air. Tales flowed as her tumbling white cloth vanquished the crappy little waves in the bay. Seconds later, more plastic planks like the ones on the recliners stirred the scene and punctuated Bill's uphill struggle.
Please turn to Side B.
Thursday, October 8, 2009
Modern Is Now
Through a glut of "conditioned behavior," as the conservatives call it, we realize that the autumn beach offers an escape. That is to say, standing there in wind-whipped flannel, you have a chance to think not about societal pressures, seemingly hard-wired desires, but to escape to the beauty of the natural interface. I stood alone. My sandy metal bucket handle clanked against its side as its base settled down. I was taught that folding your arms is body language for "I'm not listening," but I was listening to the waves and the water on the shore.
A meaty white hand dimly lit (how appropriate) pounded down on the maple bar. The lights were out and a few haphazardly strewn trails of Christmas lights backlit a leather jacket and pair of brothers. Some smoke filtered in and out of view, some beer flushed through the camcorder lens. Hoarsely and repentant I said something neither profound nor comforting. If the constellation of red cans lent any cosmic insight, it hadn't reached my person. Distracted by anything shiny and/or voluptuous, I saw a leather-laced Spaniard disappear into the arched medieval walkway that led to the hexagonal washroom.
If our home proved unwelcoming, our guests would not realize it until they left. So gray rain fell and we opened the door to our golden passageway. I'll diagram the situation now. On the ground floor's exterior, a lifeless fragment of derivative architecture looked back with hostility - an indigenous aspect (at least). Carried away, rolled up, slammed shut, our central corridor boasted an odd combination of crap and a spartan aesthetic. We beamed with pride and paid off a new car in rent.
And this is how it went for awhile.
A meaty white hand dimly lit (how appropriate) pounded down on the maple bar. The lights were out and a few haphazardly strewn trails of Christmas lights backlit a leather jacket and pair of brothers. Some smoke filtered in and out of view, some beer flushed through the camcorder lens. Hoarsely and repentant I said something neither profound nor comforting. If the constellation of red cans lent any cosmic insight, it hadn't reached my person. Distracted by anything shiny and/or voluptuous, I saw a leather-laced Spaniard disappear into the arched medieval walkway that led to the hexagonal washroom.
If our home proved unwelcoming, our guests would not realize it until they left. So gray rain fell and we opened the door to our golden passageway. I'll diagram the situation now. On the ground floor's exterior, a lifeless fragment of derivative architecture looked back with hostility - an indigenous aspect (at least). Carried away, rolled up, slammed shut, our central corridor boasted an odd combination of crap and a spartan aesthetic. We beamed with pride and paid off a new car in rent.
And this is how it went for awhile.
Wednesday, April 8, 2009
Hopping Home with Ed and Jim
The afternoon was normal. I sat atop the metal ladder and chatted with Jim over the top of the aluminum shelving between aisles twenty-three and twenty-four. I turned away from Jim for a second to sneeze. I wiped my nose with the bottom of my Centre Megamart apron. I looked down at aisle twenty-three. I have been fronting premade pie crusts for an absurd amount of my life, I thought. "No, I'm working a double this weekend. I don't think I'll get out in time." Jim looked disappointed. "I guess I could try to switch with someone." Jim looked up. "I'll let you know." I had been a lousy gambler all my life. The carnival was in town, but that wasn't the point. The point was that I never asked anyone to switch, and I missed Jim's party.
After my double I went out to my lonely car in the lonely parking lot under the tall white lightpost. I sat on the hood of my red clunker, shoulders surrendering inward, neck stretched low. I looked down at my stupid shoes. What kind, what symptom of a, where should the...I straightened my back, trying to crack the tension out of it. I leaned back slowly and finally laid down completely, legs dangling off the side of the Dodge.
Bells rang and some old woman answered. She said, "won't it stop?" The next and last stop on this train is...warm and inviting, who could refuse? The bells were counting down the ties in a cord attached to a hulking steel orb cast in deep black. The ties slid down and down until eventually, a yellow-caped hero revealed himself. It was this kind of eventuality that slowed progress so. It was this anticipation that momentum consumed and languished therein. And I stirred and stirred this ingenious machine's tanktop - but it was weak and lethargic and refused the warm air.
It was this cartoon scenery that called us all back. It was this nursery tale that swatted and gashed us, our faces mangled and throats sore. Against an ancient brick wall the black orb pounded, weakly at first and more weakly thereafter. There are carpets of course and such traditions well-noticed. A fire on the crossties shimmered in the rain. We doubted so much and counted our chances, in a redrock hotel on the Utah frontier. A shadow moved up and shifted in the crackway, the door was less open than closed.
Anticipation personified as a blackboard under fire by an impotent brainstorm of timid white chalk. The blackness retreated as the scrawling lay siege, propped up by the classics, bold-face texts and maybe six or seven magazines. Its hand was shaky and it's sketches suffered, but more directly, the board grew unwieldy - and what remained, of course, was misdirected passion, aimed anywhere but the board — that's generous — aimed away from the board. Hope grew out of this meaningless fog, it was the hope for a cleaning, a fresh start, more daylight, shifted responsibilities, crafty excuses, all things hardly head-on.
When the board cleared up and the blackness returned, the walls eroded and deposits formed. It was a false sense of security, indeed, a trap. There will never be order when the clean slate is restored. May the texts be erased and bold-faces scorned, may the periodicals be shredded and foundation fall. I want to peel off this hood and build a new engine, I thought, but I got in my car and drove straight home.
After my double I went out to my lonely car in the lonely parking lot under the tall white lightpost. I sat on the hood of my red clunker, shoulders surrendering inward, neck stretched low. I looked down at my stupid shoes. What kind, what symptom of a, where should the...I straightened my back, trying to crack the tension out of it. I leaned back slowly and finally laid down completely, legs dangling off the side of the Dodge.
Bells rang and some old woman answered. She said, "won't it stop?" The next and last stop on this train is...warm and inviting, who could refuse? The bells were counting down the ties in a cord attached to a hulking steel orb cast in deep black. The ties slid down and down until eventually, a yellow-caped hero revealed himself. It was this kind of eventuality that slowed progress so. It was this anticipation that momentum consumed and languished therein. And I stirred and stirred this ingenious machine's tanktop - but it was weak and lethargic and refused the warm air.
It was this cartoon scenery that called us all back. It was this nursery tale that swatted and gashed us, our faces mangled and throats sore. Against an ancient brick wall the black orb pounded, weakly at first and more weakly thereafter. There are carpets of course and such traditions well-noticed. A fire on the crossties shimmered in the rain. We doubted so much and counted our chances, in a redrock hotel on the Utah frontier. A shadow moved up and shifted in the crackway, the door was less open than closed.
Anticipation personified as a blackboard under fire by an impotent brainstorm of timid white chalk. The blackness retreated as the scrawling lay siege, propped up by the classics, bold-face texts and maybe six or seven magazines. Its hand was shaky and it's sketches suffered, but more directly, the board grew unwieldy - and what remained, of course, was misdirected passion, aimed anywhere but the board — that's generous — aimed away from the board. Hope grew out of this meaningless fog, it was the hope for a cleaning, a fresh start, more daylight, shifted responsibilities, crafty excuses, all things hardly head-on.
When the board cleared up and the blackness returned, the walls eroded and deposits formed. It was a false sense of security, indeed, a trap. There will never be order when the clean slate is restored. May the texts be erased and bold-faces scorned, may the periodicals be shredded and foundation fall. I want to peel off this hood and build a new engine, I thought, but I got in my car and drove straight home.
Thursday, October 30, 2008
Half Purple, Half Black & White
Next time we goin' east side. East side. I heard. I'm gettin' squeezed she said, I mean...he said...to her, and she didn't really get it. Well, that's what she gets - he said. Later on, when the candle ran out but the track had plenty left, I left - cuz I was gettin' squeezed from both sides. And each time, I turned to my side - tried to create a little friction, you feel me? I asked. She rubbed my side - tried to create a little friction. She asked, did you hear me? I heard. Next time, east side.
I really am gettin' squeezed though...it's tough to get up. Mornings are hard. Evenings ain't much better. Two sides meet, get the job done. In a manner of speech, of childish dreams obliterated, the side of my head - tryin' to create a little friction - is my heart made of stone? Hand me a saw, it'll get the job done.
So there I was hangin' tight on the handles beside the open sliding doors. A pill dropped from my mouth and fell 18,000 feet onto the desert floor. Against everything I knew, I thought about jumping. The thought, crossed my mind, it took a while. It came in from my left ear actually, and it juked for a while. And for a while, I stood there bracing myself with both arms outstretched - no intention of jumping.
I really am gettin' squeezed though...it's tough to get up. Mornings are hard. Evenings ain't much better. Two sides meet, get the job done. In a manner of speech, of childish dreams obliterated, the side of my head - tryin' to create a little friction - is my heart made of stone? Hand me a saw, it'll get the job done.
So there I was hangin' tight on the handles beside the open sliding doors. A pill dropped from my mouth and fell 18,000 feet onto the desert floor. Against everything I knew, I thought about jumping. The thought, crossed my mind, it took a while. It came in from my left ear actually, and it juked for a while. And for a while, I stood there bracing myself with both arms outstretched - no intention of jumping.
Sunday, October 12, 2008
Alert! New and Full of Intrigue
So there they was. They sat and laughed and made blow-up noises. And little tires screeched and glorious people operated machinery and we laughed so heartily. I haven't laughed so hard in a long time, even though I laughed harder when I recollected all the jokes. And I thought, "This is a daydream."
So the man with the plan said to me, "listen, man. You gotta keep walkin, keep movin' on and on and along." A wind like none other filtered through my decrepit little screen and brushed my stubble and I thought, "this is a fantasy." A wind like no other said, "you did that last time and look where you ended up."
And I thought, "this is rich. Now I'm walkin'." I walked past a few stores that didn't have anything in stock that I would buy. They had plastic brooms and these tall plastic buckets of cleaning brushes. I saw a girl wearing a short skirt on the corner and sneakers on her feet. What a deal! So I thought, "I need to get my things organized."
So the man with the plan said to me, "listen, man. You gotta keep walkin, keep movin' on and on and along." A wind like none other filtered through my decrepit little screen and brushed my stubble and I thought, "this is a fantasy." A wind like no other said, "you did that last time and look where you ended up."
And I thought, "this is rich. Now I'm walkin'." I walked past a few stores that didn't have anything in stock that I would buy. They had plastic brooms and these tall plastic buckets of cleaning brushes. I saw a girl wearing a short skirt on the corner and sneakers on her feet. What a deal! So I thought, "I need to get my things organized."
Friday, September 12, 2008
Accordion Breath
"Oh! You startled me!" said the woman with perfect skin to the man who couldn't feel his arms. He zig-zagged closer to the front of the queue at the bus stop. A relatively big guy with child-bearing hips felt like a little baby in his body, and he walked into a corner deli. The skinny-sideburned skinny guy behind the counter had the same name as the guy in the adult shell, and he was standing on a platform behind the counter. (This is a simple and effective tool to deter any kind of funny business in a corner store. Heh.) The shell moved quickly out of sight into an aisle with diapers and pet food. The guy behind the counter was exchanging pleasantries with an associate wearing a Chicago Bulls jumper.
The shell grew sad. The kind of deep sadness that doesn't have an equivalent because it's not really that bad. The kind of sadness that stems from indecision - not bad decisions. The sadness of sitting all alone and accepting that the inside of the shell is made of worthless, pathetic composite.
"I feel like a bug, a useless firefly, a pointless insect (which is a remarkable word)," oh come on you're being too hard on yourself! Remember when you used to fly high? Yeah, remember all that flying you did, remember all of it? "No, it was worthless, look at my shell." Stop it, everything going to be ok! Everything is delicious, everything is inexpensive. Everything is a breeze.
The shell grew sad. The kind of deep sadness that doesn't have an equivalent because it's not really that bad. The kind of sadness that stems from indecision - not bad decisions. The sadness of sitting all alone and accepting that the inside of the shell is made of worthless, pathetic composite.
"I feel like a bug, a useless firefly, a pointless insect (which is a remarkable word)," oh come on you're being too hard on yourself! Remember when you used to fly high? Yeah, remember all that flying you did, remember all of it? "No, it was worthless, look at my shell." Stop it, everything going to be ok! Everything is delicious, everything is inexpensive. Everything is a breeze.
Tuesday, September 2, 2008
Sinister
The itch came early in the evening, and even earlier in the day now that the summer was behind us. You see, we enjoy these kinds of things now that the sun goes in so much earlier. The temperature and the seasons and whatnot. So I decided to traverse from my naked state to my clothed state: I picked up some gray socks. One of them was balled up in the other so I had to undo it with my dominant hand. Then I put the socks on, first my right foot then my left foot. I was naked except my light gray socks. Then I walked over to get my boxer-briefs. I thought about how annoying this election was.
Does anyone really know what's going on? I mean does anyone, ANYONE, claim to know what 56% of 300,000,000 people are thinking. It's kind of misleading. Heh. You can't research this stuff as with Consumer Reports. No one is "informed." No one has any idea what goes on behind closed doors or what politics is really all about or has a remotely "expert" understanding of the "demographics." I don't think ANYONE actually knows what's best or what will work out better or anything. Despite this, the outcome is actually really important. It's like when you pull out a board game and can't find the dice. You either have the right dice or you pull some dice from another game and it just doesn't work the same. At the end of the day though, you're picking dice.
I picked out my favorite boxers because I thought someone might see them today, why else do you wear your favorite underwear? You either do it deliberately, or you do it when you go out with no prospects. So they're light blue. Light blue boxers and gray socks. I started thinking about food again: $17 for a po'boy in NYC in August? Actually, if it's any good that's probably a decent price. Starting now.
I want to be crisp but I want to be real. I want to be slick but I want to be understated. I'm going for professional and blue-collar. I want to stand out among the conformers I hang out with enough that I'm lavished with attention but still subdued enough to come across earnest and humble.
There's this sign on Houston Street, it's a fun little sign, hehe, hoohoo ha ha. I rolled around and autumn leaves fell on top of me and it was amazing. It. was. surreal. I found America. After these two minutes of daydreaming, I lost myself. I lost myself. When I go outside, WAY outside, the risk is still so small. It's like turning your headlights off in the Pennsylvania backwoods for a second with every intention of turning them on a second after. I mean, what would I do if the lights didn't click back on? I'd slow down quickly and stop, right? And then a giant moose would be in front of my car like Jumanji.
I put on my white undershirt and that was fine. It was crispish. I was stretching my knees out and dancing a little while seated.
Does anyone really know what's going on? I mean does anyone, ANYONE, claim to know what 56% of 300,000,000 people are thinking. It's kind of misleading. Heh. You can't research this stuff as with Consumer Reports. No one is "informed." No one has any idea what goes on behind closed doors or what politics is really all about or has a remotely "expert" understanding of the "demographics." I don't think ANYONE actually knows what's best or what will work out better or anything. Despite this, the outcome is actually really important. It's like when you pull out a board game and can't find the dice. You either have the right dice or you pull some dice from another game and it just doesn't work the same. At the end of the day though, you're picking dice.
I picked out my favorite boxers because I thought someone might see them today, why else do you wear your favorite underwear? You either do it deliberately, or you do it when you go out with no prospects. So they're light blue. Light blue boxers and gray socks. I started thinking about food again: $17 for a po'boy in NYC in August? Actually, if it's any good that's probably a decent price. Starting now.
I want to be crisp but I want to be real. I want to be slick but I want to be understated. I'm going for professional and blue-collar. I want to stand out among the conformers I hang out with enough that I'm lavished with attention but still subdued enough to come across earnest and humble.
There's this sign on Houston Street, it's a fun little sign, hehe, hoohoo ha ha. I rolled around and autumn leaves fell on top of me and it was amazing. It. was. surreal. I found America. After these two minutes of daydreaming, I lost myself. I lost myself. When I go outside, WAY outside, the risk is still so small. It's like turning your headlights off in the Pennsylvania backwoods for a second with every intention of turning them on a second after. I mean, what would I do if the lights didn't click back on? I'd slow down quickly and stop, right? And then a giant moose would be in front of my car like Jumanji.
I put on my white undershirt and that was fine. It was crispish. I was stretching my knees out and dancing a little while seated.
Monday, August 4, 2008
ayla_napoli
The idea is to have a set of rotating images with words beneath them. The page will scroll horizontally in the middle. There will be definitions and more images to accompany the main one to refine the text that accompanies each primary image.
I have a list of personal requests, and I'm not sure how to attack the work left: "rocket scientist," "psychedelicatessen," "flavor," and "chicken." I'm pretty sure one of those will be first. I also would like one on "brooklyn," one on "cooper," one on "american football," and one on "blog."
Don't spill the beans, this is going to be tremendous.
I have a list of personal requests, and I'm not sure how to attack the work left: "rocket scientist," "psychedelicatessen," "flavor," and "chicken." I'm pretty sure one of those will be first. I also would like one on "brooklyn," one on "cooper," one on "american football," and one on "blog."
Don't spill the beans, this is going to be tremendous.
Saturday, June 21, 2008
Shutters
Pour some arancia directly into the sauce you'd been preparing, that's what they told me. That's what I had to work with. I figured, "Hey I gave it my best." I analyzed the curve. Indeed, there was a steep scale on which infatuation turned into disrespect, which caused me to open the window over the urban backyard.
I had been thinking of that green hose a few times more recently. I thought about shattering that garage light with the little basketball. I guess that's in my past. What would a mental mirror show? Yuck, I don't even want to picture it - even that's flattering terminology.
So the window opened, and I looked out. Things looked pretty normal. I saw little ants, gravel, chlorinated water, some slick pavement. I saw a barbecue and a ladder, a fence and a man. That's that I thought. My heart felt empty knowing I'd never get to be in that same setting again. That was behind me. That is gone now. It sits about six feet under a nicely manicured lawn. It is sad. I am sad.
It's an odd vacancy because I remember those moments most fondly. That's incongruity. I saw a picture of a girl H.H. who looked great on paper. That is a kick, this is a kick, I don't think I'm flexible enough to kick the window back up. To keep it up without letting it close for a few more years. It is depressing to be honest. It is sick and filled with regret.
It's borne of some kind of resentment for other people. They are on the other side of my forced mannerisms. From them obligation turns to resentment. From the source comes obligation and from me comes resentment and with that the scale. Is everything doomed, am I stuck as a master of white lies and scorecard credit? It's an odd situation. There's so much time? Right?
There aren't many things that could prevent me from the stupid window. But that's a lie and I know it. There are things that necessarily prevent it, and they are pathetic. They are thoughtless and inane. I am a subject on the manor of perception and narcissism. I obey my master, and my master wears boxer-briefs but would like to switch back to boxers in the near future.
That's the way it is. Duh. Seems like a rotten deal doesn't it? Well it's not too bad. It's sort of standard, I can see it dates back at least to Madison Avenue in 1960. We'll see what happens next. I'm sure it'll be a real hoot. I'm sure the window will go up and down and nothing will change. Or maybe they'll stick it to me. Maybe they'll slam the fucking shutter down on my hand and break my bones into a thousand pieces. Maybe they'll take turns turning salt against me and slapping my face. Maybe that's what's in store. I need help I scream out the closed window and the submarine is submerged. Oh it's eternally submerged. Too soon. It's over. The legend has left his backyard.
I had been thinking of that green hose a few times more recently. I thought about shattering that garage light with the little basketball. I guess that's in my past. What would a mental mirror show? Yuck, I don't even want to picture it - even that's flattering terminology.
So the window opened, and I looked out. Things looked pretty normal. I saw little ants, gravel, chlorinated water, some slick pavement. I saw a barbecue and a ladder, a fence and a man. That's that I thought. My heart felt empty knowing I'd never get to be in that same setting again. That was behind me. That is gone now. It sits about six feet under a nicely manicured lawn. It is sad. I am sad.
It's an odd vacancy because I remember those moments most fondly. That's incongruity. I saw a picture of a girl H.H. who looked great on paper. That is a kick, this is a kick, I don't think I'm flexible enough to kick the window back up. To keep it up without letting it close for a few more years. It is depressing to be honest. It is sick and filled with regret.
It's borne of some kind of resentment for other people. They are on the other side of my forced mannerisms. From them obligation turns to resentment. From the source comes obligation and from me comes resentment and with that the scale. Is everything doomed, am I stuck as a master of white lies and scorecard credit? It's an odd situation. There's so much time? Right?
There aren't many things that could prevent me from the stupid window. But that's a lie and I know it. There are things that necessarily prevent it, and they are pathetic. They are thoughtless and inane. I am a subject on the manor of perception and narcissism. I obey my master, and my master wears boxer-briefs but would like to switch back to boxers in the near future.
That's the way it is. Duh. Seems like a rotten deal doesn't it? Well it's not too bad. It's sort of standard, I can see it dates back at least to Madison Avenue in 1960. We'll see what happens next. I'm sure it'll be a real hoot. I'm sure the window will go up and down and nothing will change. Or maybe they'll stick it to me. Maybe they'll slam the fucking shutter down on my hand and break my bones into a thousand pieces. Maybe they'll take turns turning salt against me and slapping my face. Maybe that's what's in store. I need help I scream out the closed window and the submarine is submerged. Oh it's eternally submerged. Too soon. It's over. The legend has left his backyard.
Friday, May 30, 2008
Cheap Buttons
Three years ago there was at the very least a hope, an inspired confidence that at the very least enabled the ability to hope, even if so recklessly. Now we have an uninspired gig offering a paltry wake. It's a shame...it's a boomerang feather. This has happened before, in the desert with the shades, in the jungle, in the back garage! i wonder if you'll think of me, holding you tight in the hall, at the back end of an awful gathering - prodding you on.
When I see I thought it, I thought it, I dreamed, I listened and we kept talkin' and on...and on...and on to the dreams to the reckless dreams of their ancestors between worlds, every family had been known for every virtue, for every vice. I frowned. I felt fine, but I was not smiling. Hey, I lost my place. What's it like? Probably when people keep it clean and don't bring up it's verb half-sibling. It's a loft isn't it.
"Yeah, Long Island City, it's dope man."
"Dude, I hear it's really inex...inex...chchchchc..."
I am anxious. I'm rattled now, Rhesus. Cuh cah. Juhjeejee oh ahead. Carbon. Sinister. Fula, prepare for the end of days. So I said, "Haha, the real end of days?"
"Dude, this is retarded."
And it was, it was inane. Especially since one of the closest members of the inner circle had fallen like this. I ripped the foil off the food. Oh god.
When I see I thought it, I thought it, I dreamed, I listened and we kept talkin' and on...and on...and on to the dreams to the reckless dreams of their ancestors between worlds, every family had been known for every virtue, for every vice. I frowned. I felt fine, but I was not smiling. Hey, I lost my place. What's it like? Probably when people keep it clean and don't bring up it's verb half-sibling. It's a loft isn't it.
"Yeah, Long Island City, it's dope man."
"Dude, I hear it's really inex...inex...chchchchc..."
I am anxious. I'm rattled now, Rhesus. Cuh cah. Juhjeejee oh ahead. Carbon. Sinister. Fula, prepare for the end of days. So I said, "Haha, the real end of days?"
"Dude, this is retarded."
And it was, it was inane. Especially since one of the closest members of the inner circle had fallen like this. I ripped the foil off the food. Oh god.
Saturday, May 17, 2008
Structual Integrity
In a distant land that was equally (if not more) civilized than our own, a wise old man tripped down the stairs of his apartment and broke his neck. After surgery and the physical therapy sessions with Sumako, he promised himself to think about his youth more often and write parables for his children and grandchildren. Below, please find a passage from his writing. As you will see, his writing has been affected by the trauma he suffered when he fell down the stairs. Still, the man's wisdom is quite evident, through the rhetorical spasms and mangled prose:
...for in this impossible period, which the doctors told me came from my relentless cognitive dissonance, I was unable to channel the vivacity of my earlier years. Still a young man combing the darkness, I was unable to reach the stop lever, I was unable to stop - utterly helpless. Inert for what was then the foreseeable future. Livid inside, hearing my body's sirens yet smiling on sunny days. I knew how to rid myself of this awful addiction, there were substances. So on the outside, I stopped everything, and started telling the inside: "we must stop."
It is hard to imagine a more elegant expression of the hopelessness of addiction. When I read this prose, it throbs within me, and my mind is blown.
...for in this impossible period, which the doctors told me came from my relentless cognitive dissonance, I was unable to channel the vivacity of my earlier years. Still a young man combing the darkness, I was unable to reach the stop lever, I was unable to stop - utterly helpless. Inert for what was then the foreseeable future. Livid inside, hearing my body's sirens yet smiling on sunny days. I knew how to rid myself of this awful addiction, there were substances. So on the outside, I stopped everything, and started telling the inside: "we must stop."
It is hard to imagine a more elegant expression of the hopelessness of addiction. When I read this prose, it throbs within me, and my mind is blown.
Monday, April 21, 2008
Pest Control
The cows shuffled in the fields and summer dew coated blades of summer grass and made tiny rainbows for tiny insects stuffing their faces in the dirt searching for culinary treasures in a pesticide minefield out in my meadow. All this was boxed in by a water-logged wooden fence built long before the most recent batch of cows swept over the fields. So the lightshow persisted. The sky turned grey and the vista wasn’t even close to where the Old Guard had set their lowest expectations. Such is the lament of the downtrodden technology chief as he comes out of the ‘pen, camera flicker-flashes assaulting his eyes, cable news sitting in the cat[fish]bird seat. They salivate with half the story in one hand and half the story whirling around in a pesticide-saliva monsoon that washes all the little vermin back into their holes (hopefully cracking their necks and killing their dreams) ruining their afternoon scavenge under the dew rainbows. in. my. meadow.
We are all profane, she exclaimed – so I spun her around and dipped her down and then we released for a time and did a little jig with our hands to the whitest beat in the tune and maybe moved our feet a little and swung our hips in a measured manner to the right to the left and back again and since we’re advanced, we would spice it up with a right-right here and there; then we clasped hands again and pressed against each other and maybe mouthed the words but I didn’t sing out loud because that would kill the moment and she sang out loud and we both loved it for reasonably different reasons. The sky quicktimed in a glorious gradient of blue to yellow orange red purple and the climate followed suit from pleasant to warm cool summer-night and still.
A long walk to the long table with the one microphone in the middle took the cows by surprise. They pecked at the ground and meandered towards it solemnly, agents in tow. The cow who had it the worst, we’ll call her “Sam,” had black eyes and on this awful day, Sam’s eyes hurt a ton. She approached the microphone and nudged it with her nose, a low feedback puff filled the air. She sighed. Her tear ducts swelled. She nudged the mic again. Blood pumped viciously through her veins. Then she regurgitated the scandal in most uncertainless terms: there was the cheating, the lying, the late nights, the gambling…the whoring…the fraud, the gluttony, the pain, the psyche, the mortar, and the incidents of larceny.
After the press conference everything went back to normal: bees flew around and the army of insects scattered in the dirt in the grass forest and it rained and everyone spit and moist hairs sloped down everyone’s backs and the mud mixed with the pesticide and everything went down all around her but without her she’d been cut out – excised for being too ambitious, for letting her naively-formed dreams transform her permanently. Now she’s gone to far to go back, and gone to far to go forward.
We are all profane, she exclaimed – so I spun her around and dipped her down and then we released for a time and did a little jig with our hands to the whitest beat in the tune and maybe moved our feet a little and swung our hips in a measured manner to the right to the left and back again and since we’re advanced, we would spice it up with a right-right here and there; then we clasped hands again and pressed against each other and maybe mouthed the words but I didn’t sing out loud because that would kill the moment and she sang out loud and we both loved it for reasonably different reasons. The sky quicktimed in a glorious gradient of blue to yellow orange red purple and the climate followed suit from pleasant to warm cool summer-night and still.
A long walk to the long table with the one microphone in the middle took the cows by surprise. They pecked at the ground and meandered towards it solemnly, agents in tow. The cow who had it the worst, we’ll call her “Sam,” had black eyes and on this awful day, Sam’s eyes hurt a ton. She approached the microphone and nudged it with her nose, a low feedback puff filled the air. She sighed. Her tear ducts swelled. She nudged the mic again. Blood pumped viciously through her veins. Then she regurgitated the scandal in most uncertainless terms: there was the cheating, the lying, the late nights, the gambling…the whoring…the fraud, the gluttony, the pain, the psyche, the mortar, and the incidents of larceny.
After the press conference everything went back to normal: bees flew around and the army of insects scattered in the dirt in the grass forest and it rained and everyone spit and moist hairs sloped down everyone’s backs and the mud mixed with the pesticide and everything went down all around her but without her she’d been cut out – excised for being too ambitious, for letting her naively-formed dreams transform her permanently. Now she’s gone to far to go back, and gone to far to go forward.
Thursday, March 13, 2008
Warm Soil
the option[s] stretch out before me, I shuffle into the huddle - well, the back of the huddle, and I think, I'm not really part of this team. i'm into such a position, seriously. I wanted time to myself in the sense that if I have time for myself I can spend it however I like. That kind of thing is liberating, thinking, "this could be the peak of my life." realizing, "this is it, this is why I'm alive." thinking, "there's no doubt..."
and then I snap out (in?). I think, it's good to see you back again. it's been such a long long time. we were walking in the city streets, haha, no we weren't we never did that that much at all. seen you cry. actually i missed alot of it. I missed too much of it to justify a comeback. that's conservative. Hehe, I saw the little sea change, haha, you know what? let's compare how contaminated we've become: I go to the brick walled, I have to ask you? where did you stay exactly? When I listened to the national anthem in my ears off the subway, why do I think of you whenever I think of how much I love cities? why do I think of you whenever my subconscious is in a remotely unhysterical state? That's when you dream, I'm instructed.
talk about fresh starts. I wish I could script this a little: that's what it would take at this point, some hollywood theatrics, girl. Laughter fills the air. I'm dreaming all I can right now. I know it's silly, I know it's pointless. It's just really dumb. I can't help it you know? I just, need another chance. I would prefer not to deal with the periphery at this point. I'd like not to think about those comments. and then in the early hours, the city gets it's 2 hours. yeah even new york. Even here in my hometown. it sleeps, trust me, so they go down to this place we like, alone. and we order something good, something excessive right out of Ernest's head.
and then I snap out (in?). I think, it's good to see you back again. it's been such a long long time. we were walking in the city streets, haha, no we weren't we never did that that much at all. seen you cry. actually i missed alot of it. I missed too much of it to justify a comeback. that's conservative. Hehe, I saw the little sea change, haha, you know what? let's compare how contaminated we've become: I go to the brick walled, I have to ask you? where did you stay exactly? When I listened to the national anthem in my ears off the subway, why do I think of you whenever I think of how much I love cities? why do I think of you whenever my subconscious is in a remotely unhysterical state? That's when you dream, I'm instructed.
talk about fresh starts. I wish I could script this a little: that's what it would take at this point, some hollywood theatrics, girl. Laughter fills the air. I'm dreaming all I can right now. I know it's silly, I know it's pointless. It's just really dumb. I can't help it you know? I just, need another chance. I would prefer not to deal with the periphery at this point. I'd like not to think about those comments. and then in the early hours, the city gets it's 2 hours. yeah even new york. Even here in my hometown. it sleeps, trust me, so they go down to this place we like, alone. and we order something good, something excessive right out of Ernest's head.
Sunday, March 9, 2008
Telescopic Project
Deskside, where I hold court in the evenings and weekend afternoons, my spectacular IQ denominator presides, holding itself in contempt, loving every minute of it, and, like the little symbols for whales and birds, it eagerly anticipates the migration back North. Evidence precedes me, my old friends know me well. I scatter my one, benign secret into other secrets, and then type them into password boxes on the Internet. If password boxes could talk they’d bore you to tears, but if you could somehow monitor their dreams…I bet you’d find out a lot about people.
But besides all that, there is this word I know. I have literally met the word and extended my hand to it. It was a firm handshake. I can’t tell you what an impression it made on me the first time I met it – and sometimes, I think back to that first meeting: “what’s the use in worrying?”
The legend knew the word well and somehow never entered the arena of public disdain. It’s interesting because to me he transcends the spectrum of society that I grapple with all the time. So I test myself with that, the Legend’s Paradox.
But besides all that, there is this word I know. I have literally met the word and extended my hand to it. It was a firm handshake. I can’t tell you what an impression it made on me the first time I met it – and sometimes, I think back to that first meeting: “what’s the use in worrying?”
The legend knew the word well and somehow never entered the arena of public disdain. It’s interesting because to me he transcends the spectrum of society that I grapple with all the time. So I test myself with that, the Legend’s Paradox.
Monday, December 31, 2007
New Year's Solution
public class Engine { private URL _theurl;
public URLConnection _theconnection;
private String _rootURL; public BufferedReader _in; public Engine(String root) {
_rootURL = root;} public String showRoot() { return _rootURL;}
public void setUrl(String urlstring) throws MalformedURLException, IOException {
_theurl = new URL("http", [pattern host], 80, urlstring);
_theconnection = _theurl.openConnection();
_in = new BufferedReader(new InputStreamReader(_theconnection.getInputStream()));}
public static void main(String args[]) throws MalformedURLException, IOException {
String trialinput = new String();
String trialoutput = new String();
ArrayList[parameterization] goodones = new ArrayList[parameterization]();
FileWriter fw = new FileWriter(new File("ohfives.txt"));
BufferedWriter bw = new BufferedWriter(fw);
NumberFormat nf = NumberFormat.getInstance();
nf.setMinimumIntegerDigits(5);
nf.setGroupingUsed(false);
Engine sweep = new Engine([website pattern string]);
long starttime = System.currentTimeMillis();
for (int i=0; i<100000; i++) {
trialinput = sweep.showRoot().replaceAll("pattern", nf.format(i));
sweep.setUrl(trialinput);
trialoutput = sweep._theconnection.getContentType();
if (trialoutput.equalsIgnoreCase("video/mpeg")) {
goodones.add(i); } }
long endtime = System.currentTimeMillis();
Iterator[parameterization] it = goodones.iterator();
int curs = 0; while (it.hasNext()) {
String temp = nf.format(it.next());
bw.write(temp); System.out.print(temp + "\t");
if (++curs % 25 == 0) {
System.out.println(); } bw.newLine(); } bw.flush();
System.out.println("\nScan complete ("+goodones.size()+") in " + ((endtime - starttime)/1000) + " seconds."); }}
public URLConnection _theconnection;
private String _rootURL; public BufferedReader _in; public Engine(String root) {
_rootURL = root;} public String showRoot() { return _rootURL;}
public void setUrl(String urlstring) throws MalformedURLException, IOException {
_theurl = new URL("http", [pattern host], 80, urlstring);
_theconnection = _theurl.openConnection();
_in = new BufferedReader(new InputStreamReader(_theconnection.getInputStream()));}
public static void main(String args[]) throws MalformedURLException, IOException {
String trialinput = new String();
String trialoutput = new String();
ArrayList[parameterization] goodones = new ArrayList[parameterization]();
FileWriter fw = new FileWriter(new File("ohfives.txt"));
BufferedWriter bw = new BufferedWriter(fw);
NumberFormat nf = NumberFormat.getInstance();
nf.setMinimumIntegerDigits(5);
nf.setGroupingUsed(false);
Engine sweep = new Engine([website pattern string]);
long starttime = System.currentTimeMillis();
for (int i=0; i<100000; i++) {
trialinput = sweep.showRoot().replaceAll("pattern", nf.format(i));
sweep.setUrl(trialinput);
trialoutput = sweep._theconnection.getContentType();
if (trialoutput.equalsIgnoreCase("video/mpeg")) {
goodones.add(i); } }
long endtime = System.currentTimeMillis();
Iterator[parameterization] it = goodones.iterator();
int curs = 0; while (it.hasNext()) {
String temp = nf.format(it.next());
bw.write(temp); System.out.print(temp + "\t");
if (++curs % 25 == 0) {
System.out.println(); } bw.newLine(); } bw.flush();
System.out.println("\nScan complete ("+goodones.size()+") in " + ((endtime - starttime)/1000) + " seconds."); }}
Tuesday, December 18, 2007
Wasn't the Spring
You'd suspect that tall yellow-green weeds in front of a boarded-up house indicates an extended period of neglect, and in most cases, you'd be right. So let's analyze those cases when you'd be right, ok? You call up the town commissioner's office to ask about the property, and they tell you "nothing's been reported." You call up other local authorities, and they tell you, "haven't had any problems." So you walk to the library and check the newspapers for natural disasters in the past year and all the papers say is "..." (See #1 below.) Alas, nothing about any natural disasters, including epidemics, I forgot to mention that you'd look into epidemics in addition.
So it's looking more and more likely that your original suspicion was correct. You double back to the house because this is a blog and there's no time to walk. And as you approach it, you notice that nothing about the house has changed, it's still boarded up and lots of weeds remain in the front yard. The sun is setting because of all you've done today and because there needs to be some kind of trigger for the surreal events that follow:
A small red ribbon blows [like a tantrum]. Then it lands near your foot. You bend over for the ribbon but it swings all the way to the left [of you] and so you pivot a little and go to grab it on the left. You know you're getting old when you bend over to pick up a magic ribbon and wonder, "what else can I do while I'm down here?" Oh yeah it's a magic ribbon, forgot to mention that, just figured you'd have another one of your well-educated suspicions. Who has AIDS? The magic ribbon is sticky on one side.
There you are - supporting a guardian angel and a devil's advocate on each shoulder standing in front of a boarded-up house that's almost certainly been subject to long-term neglect, having spent a good part of the day researching that very issue, and holding a magic red ribbon.
The angel says, "do the right thing," and the devil does a spinny motion with his fingers and the ribbon becomes translucent and tape-like. He expands it over your eyes and nostrils and ear canals and tongue and fingertips and says, "Do you think this cape goes with these boots?" And you say, "sure, you're the devil and things look appropriately hellish." The devil says, "Have you ever heard of salvation?" And you respond, "Ha, well of course I've heard of it but there's not much to say." The devil replies that you are completely incorrect about the cape, boots, and salvation. So you look at the house in front of you and it still looks boarded up. Then, the reality (See #2 Below) slithers into your mind: there might be malnourishment going on in the house, the government may be making some kind of statement, there could be a class action lawsuit against the proprietors, current or previous, of the residence - The devil has black hair.
There is no resolution because it's not spring yet.
#1 - Newspapers sure say a lot when you request historical information.
#2 - Remember that your senses have been cloaked in the devil's Scotch red tape!
So it's looking more and more likely that your original suspicion was correct. You double back to the house because this is a blog and there's no time to walk. And as you approach it, you notice that nothing about the house has changed, it's still boarded up and lots of weeds remain in the front yard. The sun is setting because of all you've done today and because there needs to be some kind of trigger for the surreal events that follow:
A small red ribbon blows [like a tantrum]. Then it lands near your foot. You bend over for the ribbon but it swings all the way to the left [of you] and so you pivot a little and go to grab it on the left. You know you're getting old when you bend over to pick up a magic ribbon and wonder, "what else can I do while I'm down here?" Oh yeah it's a magic ribbon, forgot to mention that, just figured you'd have another one of your well-educated suspicions. Who has AIDS? The magic ribbon is sticky on one side.
There you are - supporting a guardian angel and a devil's advocate on each shoulder standing in front of a boarded-up house that's almost certainly been subject to long-term neglect, having spent a good part of the day researching that very issue, and holding a magic red ribbon.
The angel says, "do the right thing," and the devil does a spinny motion with his fingers and the ribbon becomes translucent and tape-like. He expands it over your eyes and nostrils and ear canals and tongue and fingertips and says, "Do you think this cape goes with these boots?" And you say, "sure, you're the devil and things look appropriately hellish." The devil says, "Have you ever heard of salvation?" And you respond, "Ha, well of course I've heard of it but there's not much to say." The devil replies that you are completely incorrect about the cape, boots, and salvation. So you look at the house in front of you and it still looks boarded up. Then, the reality (See #2 Below) slithers into your mind: there might be malnourishment going on in the house, the government may be making some kind of statement, there could be a class action lawsuit against the proprietors, current or previous, of the residence - The devil has black hair.
There is no resolution because it's not spring yet.
#1 - Newspapers sure say a lot when you request historical information.
#2 - Remember that your senses have been cloaked in the devil's Scotch red tape!
Sunday, September 9, 2007
September 5, 2007
A secretly traitorous journalist would never have stood for the abhorrent treatment of La Stuarda. It would have shocked him out of his insincere complicity with the king - and that would have been amazing.
Here's the idea: station 5 testers with laptops on 34th Street. One at 10th Ave., one at 7th, at 5th, at Madison, and at 2nd. Each one has 2000 tests to administer. The test is simple: you start each person at a web browser with the standard Google homepage showing - fine. You tell them to type 'america' into the Google search bar plug-in. The autocomplete function will list about 10 choices that begin with 'america:' '-n airlines, express, eagle, idol, apparel, ...' - then, you let the person select whichever one they want, and repeat the process using words on the first page that comes up after the selection is made. For example, if I did it ten times, I would be on the following web site: http://www.riowild.com/saquarema.asp.
Another: Ok, so because physical discomfort sucks, I thought it would be good, while still young, to record how my body feels when it is at its maximum comfort. As a young person, it's still quite possible that more than half of the year, this level of physical comfort is sustainable. If I record that data, and then record days where I don't feel as good, rating the discomfort relative to the maximum comfort level, my days in advanced age would be significantly more enlightening. I could be fifty and in the hospital for some random heart condition, and I could reflect on 1) how maximum comfort felt, with resolution down to specific body parts, 2) the ridiculously outdated technologies I used to construct this system. If you want the idea, take it.
One more: A hit TV show about changing life career on a dime. For example, depressed NYC 20-something moves to Chicago and joins AIDS consultancy, meets prestigious guests in swanky hotel restaurant where blues from the fifties is playing, falls in love with waitress, older, married. Goes back to NYC, meets depressed 20-something, female, who receives protagonatory baton from the first guy. She quits her job, becomes more honest with people, gets a little crazy in the head - starts yelling "Get me off this plane" at 20,000 feet. Emergency landing at airforce base, angry passengers, advertising spot. Take it, publish it, but if you're going to chop my head off, make the first chop count.
Here's the idea: station 5 testers with laptops on 34th Street. One at 10th Ave., one at 7th, at 5th, at Madison, and at 2nd. Each one has 2000 tests to administer. The test is simple: you start each person at a web browser with the standard Google homepage showing - fine. You tell them to type 'america' into the Google search bar plug-in. The autocomplete function will list about 10 choices that begin with 'america:' '-n airlines, express, eagle, idol, apparel, ...' - then, you let the person select whichever one they want, and repeat the process using words on the first page that comes up after the selection is made. For example, if I did it ten times, I would be on the following web site: http://www.riowild.com/saquarema.asp.
Another: Ok, so because physical discomfort sucks, I thought it would be good, while still young, to record how my body feels when it is at its maximum comfort. As a young person, it's still quite possible that more than half of the year, this level of physical comfort is sustainable. If I record that data, and then record days where I don't feel as good, rating the discomfort relative to the maximum comfort level, my days in advanced age would be significantly more enlightening. I could be fifty and in the hospital for some random heart condition, and I could reflect on 1) how maximum comfort felt, with resolution down to specific body parts, 2) the ridiculously outdated technologies I used to construct this system. If you want the idea, take it.
One more: A hit TV show about changing life career on a dime. For example, depressed NYC 20-something moves to Chicago and joins AIDS consultancy, meets prestigious guests in swanky hotel restaurant where blues from the fifties is playing, falls in love with waitress, older, married. Goes back to NYC, meets depressed 20-something, female, who receives protagonatory baton from the first guy. She quits her job, becomes more honest with people, gets a little crazy in the head - starts yelling "Get me off this plane" at 20,000 feet. Emergency landing at airforce base, angry passengers, advertising spot. Take it, publish it, but if you're going to chop my head off, make the first chop count.
Monday, September 3, 2007
September 1, 2007
Raw, huh? Is that the goal? Well I'm going to need a fix if raw's what you want. A little fix because without one I'm just a two-ton brick tied to a giant neon sign and some bended metal harness, plunging into the East River from one of the Manhattan bridge girders. One more time, way up on one of those giant metal substructures. The next time it rains...darlin.' Twenty-four, ninety-five. Start timer.
But now that the two-ton brick's been discussed. Let's talk about some of the literature I've been fascinated with lately. Moving on, we can discuss some of the work projects that have piqued my interests lately. Next, we can have a sweet talk about all the great humans I've been interacting with lately. Great, so now I'll fill you in on being such a lucky son of a gun here on the Lower East Side in my own place that I rent. Do you still have time? Ok great, now let's talk about my plans for the future and the evolution of the roadmap I devised back in college. I'm kind of bored, let's chat about my rigorous exercise regimen. Next, we'll discuss all of the really adventurous things I've done and the repercussions of some shady actions that I've had to deal with. Snap, snap, snap, ok let's talk about all the times I've stood up for something I care about. Wait no, first I'll talk about everything I care about. Ok, now let's talk about all the times I've stood up for that. Whew! What a whirlwind. I'm sure you're ears are ringing, so you better get to that. Maybe next time we meet up you can tell me about yourself. End timer.
Timer results: 45.320 seconds. Nice! It must have been all the transition sentences that caused the spike above 40 seconds. A shame a wicked shame. A repulsive, ugly, disgusting, horrible face. A grotesque, greasy supply of fat. Three of the latest and greatest, gratifying me for $24.95 a month for this month. A sweet, sincere face and stretched audio cables. What do you recommend for my headphones? What do you think of these? What can I say you ask?
Radio. RADIO. RADIO. RADIO. Oh, the radio. THE FUCKING RADIO.
I just found what I was looking for. I tuned things a bit. Let's talk about the three vixens of the apocalypse. First there's the hellfire cat of the raging metropolis, the one with the pretty blue eyes. A little chub...not gonna lie. I'm down with that because I'm a little chub. She rides in a pink sports car and when she glides down the highway you realize that some of her hair is naturally brown — almost all of it. Sweet thing. I know why I started with her. It's because she's my favorite. First first. Not like the bleak city I once sort of read about sitting in a state of forced nature. I never got any questions I never asked myself why. I never asked myself what the fuck I was doing. No one asked me anything pride was nothing. I am five years astray. I am seventeen. Someone put this thing in reverse.
That's the wrong approach, ya see!? Can't you see, I can see nothing but the second hellangel lust object Halloween-haired young woman. She swoops in from the West, across the Pitt and back again, above Houston. I want some dough. I need some dough to match the doughiness factor she gives me from her carousel. Mmmm the vicious breadmaking. The ferocious breadwinning. The carnivalesque lighting and the old fashioned light bulbs and the caressing and the focused brutality and all the competition and the plans. The plans! I have no plans I haven't had any plans. Should I thank you you fucking wretch or should I slap your indistinguishably attractive face. At this point people close to me would urge me not to put it in reverse but to forge ahead. I'm not seventeen, they'd say. She said, a hundred (thousand) times. Just charge on further down the road.
Out of the brush came the yellow-haired, third pet of Satan on whom I'm allocating funding for this month. She told me about the true path to salvation. She told me about how I can regain the path to boundless glory. To rolling meadows of gratification where the grass is short and we can play with each other all day long when I get home from work. She said that I should keep going forward, only...not on the path, go offroad until I come to the path I should've been on. I mean actually she didn't say that she just said, "Let's go offroad, baby." But I knew what she meant, or at least, I'm intelligent enough to realize that if I went offroad, while still going forward, I would at least be headed towards the road that I should've actually been traveling on all this time. See, but that's the thing, even if I go offroad with her, the other two hellcat angels will bring me back to the wrong road, the one I'm currently on and I'll drive off a bridge at this rate.
And that's where I am right now. Driving down the wrong road and being fully aware of it. I know the right road, and it's off to the left, through the brush, and the insects, and the grime and wastewater. At this point it would take quite a bit of squint-based driving to ever make it to the right road. There would be leaps of faith involved, because the way I see it there are only four choices at this point. I can go on ahead and see where exactly the path of least resistance leads. I can turn around and go all the way back (not really an option). I can wait for the next rest stop and then reevaluate. Or I can turn left, get offroad, turn the windshield wipers on hope that nothing heavy pierces my transmission.
The last choice isn't really an option either because I'm an unadventurous coward at heart.
Oooh, a feather.
But now that the two-ton brick's been discussed. Let's talk about some of the literature I've been fascinated with lately. Moving on, we can discuss some of the work projects that have piqued my interests lately. Next, we can have a sweet talk about all the great humans I've been interacting with lately. Great, so now I'll fill you in on being such a lucky son of a gun here on the Lower East Side in my own place that I rent. Do you still have time? Ok great, now let's talk about my plans for the future and the evolution of the roadmap I devised back in college. I'm kind of bored, let's chat about my rigorous exercise regimen. Next, we'll discuss all of the really adventurous things I've done and the repercussions of some shady actions that I've had to deal with. Snap, snap, snap, ok let's talk about all the times I've stood up for something I care about. Wait no, first I'll talk about everything I care about. Ok, now let's talk about all the times I've stood up for that. Whew! What a whirlwind. I'm sure you're ears are ringing, so you better get to that. Maybe next time we meet up you can tell me about yourself. End timer.
Timer results: 45.320 seconds. Nice! It must have been all the transition sentences that caused the spike above 40 seconds. A shame a wicked shame. A repulsive, ugly, disgusting, horrible face. A grotesque, greasy supply of fat. Three of the latest and greatest, gratifying me for $24.95 a month for this month. A sweet, sincere face and stretched audio cables. What do you recommend for my headphones? What do you think of these? What can I say you ask?
Radio. RADIO. RADIO. RADIO. Oh, the radio. THE FUCKING RADIO.
I just found what I was looking for. I tuned things a bit. Let's talk about the three vixens of the apocalypse. First there's the hellfire cat of the raging metropolis, the one with the pretty blue eyes. A little chub...not gonna lie. I'm down with that because I'm a little chub. She rides in a pink sports car and when she glides down the highway you realize that some of her hair is naturally brown — almost all of it. Sweet thing. I know why I started with her. It's because she's my favorite. First first. Not like the bleak city I once sort of read about sitting in a state of forced nature. I never got any questions I never asked myself why. I never asked myself what the fuck I was doing. No one asked me anything pride was nothing. I am five years astray. I am seventeen. Someone put this thing in reverse.
That's the wrong approach, ya see!? Can't you see, I can see nothing but the second hellangel lust object Halloween-haired young woman. She swoops in from the West, across the Pitt and back again, above Houston. I want some dough. I need some dough to match the doughiness factor she gives me from her carousel. Mmmm the vicious breadmaking. The ferocious breadwinning. The carnivalesque lighting and the old fashioned light bulbs and the caressing and the focused brutality and all the competition and the plans. The plans! I have no plans I haven't had any plans. Should I thank you you fucking wretch or should I slap your indistinguishably attractive face. At this point people close to me would urge me not to put it in reverse but to forge ahead. I'm not seventeen, they'd say. She said, a hundred (thousand) times. Just charge on further down the road.
Out of the brush came the yellow-haired, third pet of Satan on whom I'm allocating funding for this month. She told me about the true path to salvation. She told me about how I can regain the path to boundless glory. To rolling meadows of gratification where the grass is short and we can play with each other all day long when I get home from work. She said that I should keep going forward, only...not on the path, go offroad until I come to the path I should've been on. I mean actually she didn't say that she just said, "Let's go offroad, baby." But I knew what she meant, or at least, I'm intelligent enough to realize that if I went offroad, while still going forward, I would at least be headed towards the road that I should've actually been traveling on all this time. See, but that's the thing, even if I go offroad with her, the other two hellcat angels will bring me back to the wrong road, the one I'm currently on and I'll drive off a bridge at this rate.
And that's where I am right now. Driving down the wrong road and being fully aware of it. I know the right road, and it's off to the left, through the brush, and the insects, and the grime and wastewater. At this point it would take quite a bit of squint-based driving to ever make it to the right road. There would be leaps of faith involved, because the way I see it there are only four choices at this point. I can go on ahead and see where exactly the path of least resistance leads. I can turn around and go all the way back (not really an option). I can wait for the next rest stop and then reevaluate. Or I can turn left, get offroad, turn the windshield wipers on hope that nothing heavy pierces my transmission.
The last choice isn't really an option either because I'm an unadventurous coward at heart.
Oooh, a feather.
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