Tuesday, December 15, 2009
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
plastic
my stomach did that rumbling thing it does, when it's not really rumbling but more of a dull gurgling emptiness.
except i'm not sure if it's even gurgling. and it's certainly not empty, i guess. not exactly moving, is what i mean, i suppose.
i thought, "sandwich".
i am wearing orange socks, and i walked downstairs in them.
the kitchen was dark, and i opened the fridge without having turned on the lights.
the white light from the fridge made everything inside so colorful yet so bland at the same time.
i forgot why i had opened the door and stared at the contents of the fridge.
heinz ketchup, big and red. that's not what i wanted.
i shut the door.
i turned the lights in the kitchen on and grabbed a plate and two knives, one for the mustard and the other for the mayonnaise.
i started untwisting the twist-tie from the plastic bag of bread. when i was done with that, i pulled at the plastic and it rustled open, revealing another hermetically sealed package with no reasonable way to open it.
i tugged at it. it rustled.
i tried to open it in a way that would force the thin layer of plastic to split. it rustled.
i yanked. it rustled.
it rustled.
i got out the scissors and cut it open.
i slathered my pieces of wholeweat with mayonnaise and mustard. then i wanted to add cheese.
i took the cheese out of the cheese drawer in the fridge (which is also used for cured meats), but it was in shrinkwrapped plastic.
i thought to myself, "i'm too lazy".
i thought to myself, "don't be lazy".
i pulled at the corners of the cheese package. nothing happened.
i used the scissors to cut open the cheese package. the plastic end fell onto the counter.
i pushed the closed end of the cheese package towards the open end. it rustled, but nothing happened.
i pulled at the loose end. it rustled.
i squeezed at the closed end. it rustled.
i used the scissors to open up the packet of cheese and then cut a piece from the block.
i got a ziploc bag out of the drawer to put the cheese into, now that it was opened. it rustled.
i couldn't get the ziplines to match up.
i did only when i pulled it shut from one side to the other.
i opened up the cheese/cured meats drawer and took out some turkey. the first meat i'd eaten in almost a week.
it made me feel bad to think about eating.
i tried to open the ziploc bag of turkey, but instead i ripped the bag.
i took out some pieces of turkey and then put them on to the cheese, which was on the mayonnaise side of the sandwich.
i closed the sandwich with the mustard side.
i squished my hand down into the bread to make the sandwich thinner and less puffy.
i opened the drawer and got a bigger ziploc bag out for the turkey, because i had ripped the one it came in. it rustled.
i flipped the bag around the turkey to push the air out of the ziploc. it rustled.
i opened the refrigerator door and looked down at the vegetables as i slid open the drawer reserved for cheese and cured meats.
i shut the refrigerator and picked up my plate.
i turned the lights to the kitchen off behind me before i walked upstairs.
except i'm not sure if it's even gurgling. and it's certainly not empty, i guess. not exactly moving, is what i mean, i suppose.
i thought, "sandwich".
i am wearing orange socks, and i walked downstairs in them.
the kitchen was dark, and i opened the fridge without having turned on the lights.
the white light from the fridge made everything inside so colorful yet so bland at the same time.
i forgot why i had opened the door and stared at the contents of the fridge.
heinz ketchup, big and red. that's not what i wanted.
i shut the door.
i turned the lights in the kitchen on and grabbed a plate and two knives, one for the mustard and the other for the mayonnaise.
i started untwisting the twist-tie from the plastic bag of bread. when i was done with that, i pulled at the plastic and it rustled open, revealing another hermetically sealed package with no reasonable way to open it.
i tugged at it. it rustled.
i tried to open it in a way that would force the thin layer of plastic to split. it rustled.
i yanked. it rustled.
it rustled.
i got out the scissors and cut it open.
i slathered my pieces of wholeweat with mayonnaise and mustard. then i wanted to add cheese.
i took the cheese out of the cheese drawer in the fridge (which is also used for cured meats), but it was in shrinkwrapped plastic.
i thought to myself, "i'm too lazy".
i thought to myself, "don't be lazy".
i pulled at the corners of the cheese package. nothing happened.
i used the scissors to cut open the cheese package. the plastic end fell onto the counter.
i pushed the closed end of the cheese package towards the open end. it rustled, but nothing happened.
i pulled at the loose end. it rustled.
i squeezed at the closed end. it rustled.
i used the scissors to open up the packet of cheese and then cut a piece from the block.
i got a ziploc bag out of the drawer to put the cheese into, now that it was opened. it rustled.
i couldn't get the ziplines to match up.
i did only when i pulled it shut from one side to the other.
i opened up the cheese/cured meats drawer and took out some turkey. the first meat i'd eaten in almost a week.
it made me feel bad to think about eating.
i tried to open the ziploc bag of turkey, but instead i ripped the bag.
i took out some pieces of turkey and then put them on to the cheese, which was on the mayonnaise side of the sandwich.
i closed the sandwich with the mustard side.
i squished my hand down into the bread to make the sandwich thinner and less puffy.
i opened the drawer and got a bigger ziploc bag out for the turkey, because i had ripped the one it came in. it rustled.
i flipped the bag around the turkey to push the air out of the ziploc. it rustled.
i opened the refrigerator door and looked down at the vegetables as i slid open the drawer reserved for cheese and cured meats.
i shut the refrigerator and picked up my plate.
i turned the lights to the kitchen off behind me before i walked upstairs.
Monday, November 23, 2009
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
Walking through
I opened the door and sat down at a table, or I knocked the table over.
I leaned back in the chair while letting out a sigh of exhaust, or I picked the table back up.
I put my elbows on the table and rested my head against it, or I knocked the table back over.
I turned around to make sure there was no one around me, or I heard someone behind me and stabbed them with a pen.
I turned my attention back on the table because no one was behind me, or I watched as the person behind me died from ink poisoning.
I left the room because I was bored, or I stayed in the room and watched the person die.
I went into another room where I tried to open a can of beans, or I ate the dead person's body.
I couldn't remember how to use a can opener so I yelled for help, or I pooped out the dead person's body.
I was aided by my sister when she heard my yell, or I sat and pooped for several more minutes.
I watched as my sister opened the can for me, or I wiped my ass and flushed the toilet.
I ate all the beans in the can in one gulp and then realized that I hadn't offered any to my sister, or I began to think that I had pooped too soon after eating the dead person's body.
I laughed with my sister about how silly it was to eat so many beans so quickly, or I didn't care how soon I had pooped.
I turned on the radio and my sister looked for a station, or I left the bathroom and walked towards a room with no lights.
I told my sister I had to go poop because of all the beans I ate, or I entered the room and sat down at a table.
I leaned back in the chair while letting out a sigh of exhaust, or I picked the table back up.
I put my elbows on the table and rested my head against it, or I knocked the table back over.
I turned around to make sure there was no one around me, or I heard someone behind me and stabbed them with a pen.
I turned my attention back on the table because no one was behind me, or I watched as the person behind me died from ink poisoning.
I left the room because I was bored, or I stayed in the room and watched the person die.
I went into another room where I tried to open a can of beans, or I ate the dead person's body.
I couldn't remember how to use a can opener so I yelled for help, or I pooped out the dead person's body.
I was aided by my sister when she heard my yell, or I sat and pooped for several more minutes.
I watched as my sister opened the can for me, or I wiped my ass and flushed the toilet.
I ate all the beans in the can in one gulp and then realized that I hadn't offered any to my sister, or I began to think that I had pooped too soon after eating the dead person's body.
I laughed with my sister about how silly it was to eat so many beans so quickly, or I didn't care how soon I had pooped.
I turned on the radio and my sister looked for a station, or I left the bathroom and walked towards a room with no lights.
I told my sister I had to go poop because of all the beans I ate, or I entered the room and sat down at a table.
Monday, November 16, 2009
When discussing high and low culture it is crucial to also consider the context of the times and the effect they have on culture itself. In our postmodern era, with the media being as it is, accessible to almost everyone in the world and everyone in more developed locales, the distinction between high and low forms of culture has blurred. Instead of separate forms or levels of culture, a global culture is beginning to emerge.
What is “serious music” today? How many people are actually aware of the existence and works of contemporary classical composers? Personally speaking, not many. The majority of people today listen not to music that was painstakingly composed by someone with a pen, staff paper and a piano, but to music that was generated in a matter of hours on sophisticated music software; the popular artist’s voice has been digitally altered and corrected, leaving a song free of even one single mistake. Even composers who write music in a more traditional or classical vein – those who may still be considered part of a more highbrow musical form – use computer programs that can transcribe notes or even create arrangements for an entire orchestra without lifting a finger from the computer’s mouse. The process of creating and the process of listening is no longer wholly tangible, physical. What we have now is a mess of media.
Remember the days of the vinyl record? I don’t, so I’ll stick to talking about tapes and CD’s. Back in the good old days, I remember reading about the release date of my favorite band’s next album in a magazine, being excited about it for weeks beforehand and saving every bit of money I had just to be sure I could go and get it on the day it came out. I would walk back home with the album in my hands; so eager to listen to it I couldn’t help but open it up to admire the artwork on the album leaf and the print on the disc itself. The next part was almost a ceremony. I would walk into my room, cradling my new treasure to my chest, and shut the door behind me. I would turn on my boom box, open the CD tray and then gently remove my shiny new disc from its case before delicately placing it in the stereo. I would hit play, sit back on my bed and listen to the whole album through – or at least until I was interrupted for dinnertime.
This concept will be totally alien to the next generation. They will be so used to having music at their fingertips all the time that they will not even be able to comprehend the rush of frustrated excitement one feels when struggling with the vacuum-wrapped CD case. In fact, it’s getting to be that way already, and the people of my generation are the remnants of those who still remember what it is like to hold music in one’s hands. We do not even have to wait anymore for an album to be released before we can listen to it; there are hundreds, if not thousands, of websites that allow you to download “leaks”, unreleased tracks and/or albums. So, already, the anticipation and eagerness is removed from the listening experience. To add to this, nowadays no one goes to the music store anymore. It’s all on iTunes, so why bother walking down the block? And if you can’t find it on your friendly Apple Corporation music program, it’s on a different website that allows you to download it right away after you punch in your credit card number – we don’t even pay for these things physically anymore. Listening to music on your computer is one thing; at least you have to stay relatively nearby it to be able to hear it. But now that literally everyone has an iPod or some sort of portable music device that allows you to store millions of songs, we all have music everywhere, all the time.
It was always so satisfying for me, once I had amassed enough CD’s to fit into a CD wallet, to flip through my albums, debating which one I felt like listening to. Now I just scroll through my iPod, hoping that I can move my finger fast enough to get from the letter A to the letter L in less than two minutes. The physicality of the music experience is gone, and, I think, some of its value and meaning, too. We don’t listen to music as actively anymore, we merely hear it. We have it playing constantly in so many situations that it is no longer music but instead a sort of comforting background noise. Very rarely do I find the time or the concentration to actually listen to an album anymore. Instead, I play an album while I’m reading for class, checking my email or driving my car. And as much as I enjoy listening to music almost constantly, I feel like my appreciation of it is somewhat lessened through the music’s accessibility.
Things are bringing about change in different ways than iPods and iTunes, though. The Internet is revolutionizing the way we hear and discover music. Websites such as MySpace, Pandora and the Hype Machine are responsible for the emergence of hundreds of thousands of new musicians whose songs are all readily available for instant listening. Anyone with a computer can be a musician, and, through MySpace, the entire world can hear your songs. As fine and good as that may sound – everyone has a chance to be an artist – it is actually destroying music. Music, historically speaking, has come to be well known through its musical value or superiority, not through blog hype. Technological advancements have made things so easy for us we even have our music recommended to us by computer-generated algorithms instead of discovering it for ourselves.
We’ve all seen an image Britney Spears on a can of Pepsi, Justin Timberlake on a Burger King placemat; music in popular culture is no longer about the music, but the money. Pop stars are churned out by major record labels that work with other industries to exploit the artist’s moneymaking potential to the maximum before spitting them out, making way for the next young and beautiful (and most likely not very talented) singer. According to Donald N. Wood, “ours is a post-intellectual era. We are experiencing a cultural transformation that is reversing four hundred years of intellectual evolution.” In an age of globalization, where more people worldwide can more easily recognize Ronald McDonald than their nation’s leader, we are beginning to lose our grip on intellectual value.
High music, such as opera, is today being converted into another moneymaking scheme by the music industry. Take a look at Il Divo , a group of male tenors created by American Idol pop-judge Simon Cowell. Like so many other pop acts today, this group was put together by Sony BMG and paraded around the world singing opera hits. "Popera," as it is called, clearly exemplifies the merging of this once high form of music with a lower, commercialized form. High art is commercialized, too. Museums worldwide with works by famous artists have three-hour lines of Hawaiian shirts and sandals clad tourists waiting to shuffle in not to see the art itself but only to have gone to this famous location. Then, on their way out, after hastily having taken a digital photograph of every piece in the entire museum (which they will most likely never even browse through again), they stop at the gift shop to buy a postcard of a work whose artist’s name they have never heard. High literature no longer exists. Instead, we are left with Tom Clancy bestsellers and books that we buy because Oprah suggests them. We glean our values from the media, basing them upon television and biased news reports. R. Cronk, author of Consumerism and the New Capitalism says, “The traditional cultural values of Western society are degenerating under the influences of corporate politics, the commercialization of culture and the impact of mass media. Society is awakening from its fascination with television entertainment to find itself stripped of tradition, controlled by an oppressive power structure and bound to the credit obligations of a defunct American dream.”
The world is becoming westernized and homogenized, based off the American consumer culture we have all played a part in creating. Having grown up in Thailand, I have seen first hand how Asian popular music seeks to emulate not its own traditional music but that of western, and particularly American, pop music. It is this homogenization of music worldwide that is creating a world culture, and it seems to be following the path that low culture set out for it. This combination of technological advancements, the rise of consumer culture and globalization is driving the general population away from high art, music and literature, and towards a mass-produced and advertised form of culture: our new traditions are emerging.
Even politically speaking, we as a whole feed what is handed to us. There are those of us who may complain, disagree, or even protest, but in general, we do not fight for what we believe in on a large scale. We have seen the effects of war and fighting on our country and others’, but today we do not speak up for ourselves. If you compare my generation to that of the youths in the late 60’s and early 70’s who actively sought change in the nation, we are doing nothing to combat the problems we face in this world. Instead, we write in our blogs about how terrible the state of international affairs is before we pop in a microwave meal and settle down in front of the television for tonight’s E! Top Hollywood Stories. We have reached a point in time where things have become so easy for us all we have to worry about is ourselves. This collective narcissism that we have only recently established on our planet is what is causing the decay of our collective intellect. We, through consumer culture, have been reduced to an obedient mass, following the directions of our television sets and the Internet. Culture itself, what it once meant, exists no more.
What is “serious music” today? How many people are actually aware of the existence and works of contemporary classical composers? Personally speaking, not many. The majority of people today listen not to music that was painstakingly composed by someone with a pen, staff paper and a piano, but to music that was generated in a matter of hours on sophisticated music software; the popular artist’s voice has been digitally altered and corrected, leaving a song free of even one single mistake. Even composers who write music in a more traditional or classical vein – those who may still be considered part of a more highbrow musical form – use computer programs that can transcribe notes or even create arrangements for an entire orchestra without lifting a finger from the computer’s mouse. The process of creating and the process of listening is no longer wholly tangible, physical. What we have now is a mess of media.
Remember the days of the vinyl record? I don’t, so I’ll stick to talking about tapes and CD’s. Back in the good old days, I remember reading about the release date of my favorite band’s next album in a magazine, being excited about it for weeks beforehand and saving every bit of money I had just to be sure I could go and get it on the day it came out. I would walk back home with the album in my hands; so eager to listen to it I couldn’t help but open it up to admire the artwork on the album leaf and the print on the disc itself. The next part was almost a ceremony. I would walk into my room, cradling my new treasure to my chest, and shut the door behind me. I would turn on my boom box, open the CD tray and then gently remove my shiny new disc from its case before delicately placing it in the stereo. I would hit play, sit back on my bed and listen to the whole album through – or at least until I was interrupted for dinnertime.
This concept will be totally alien to the next generation. They will be so used to having music at their fingertips all the time that they will not even be able to comprehend the rush of frustrated excitement one feels when struggling with the vacuum-wrapped CD case. In fact, it’s getting to be that way already, and the people of my generation are the remnants of those who still remember what it is like to hold music in one’s hands. We do not even have to wait anymore for an album to be released before we can listen to it; there are hundreds, if not thousands, of websites that allow you to download “leaks”, unreleased tracks and/or albums. So, already, the anticipation and eagerness is removed from the listening experience. To add to this, nowadays no one goes to the music store anymore. It’s all on iTunes, so why bother walking down the block? And if you can’t find it on your friendly Apple Corporation music program, it’s on a different website that allows you to download it right away after you punch in your credit card number – we don’t even pay for these things physically anymore. Listening to music on your computer is one thing; at least you have to stay relatively nearby it to be able to hear it. But now that literally everyone has an iPod or some sort of portable music device that allows you to store millions of songs, we all have music everywhere, all the time.
It was always so satisfying for me, once I had amassed enough CD’s to fit into a CD wallet, to flip through my albums, debating which one I felt like listening to. Now I just scroll through my iPod, hoping that I can move my finger fast enough to get from the letter A to the letter L in less than two minutes. The physicality of the music experience is gone, and, I think, some of its value and meaning, too. We don’t listen to music as actively anymore, we merely hear it. We have it playing constantly in so many situations that it is no longer music but instead a sort of comforting background noise. Very rarely do I find the time or the concentration to actually listen to an album anymore. Instead, I play an album while I’m reading for class, checking my email or driving my car. And as much as I enjoy listening to music almost constantly, I feel like my appreciation of it is somewhat lessened through the music’s accessibility.
Things are bringing about change in different ways than iPods and iTunes, though. The Internet is revolutionizing the way we hear and discover music. Websites such as MySpace, Pandora and the Hype Machine are responsible for the emergence of hundreds of thousands of new musicians whose songs are all readily available for instant listening. Anyone with a computer can be a musician, and, through MySpace, the entire world can hear your songs. As fine and good as that may sound – everyone has a chance to be an artist – it is actually destroying music. Music, historically speaking, has come to be well known through its musical value or superiority, not through blog hype. Technological advancements have made things so easy for us we even have our music recommended to us by computer-generated algorithms instead of discovering it for ourselves.
We’ve all seen an image Britney Spears on a can of Pepsi, Justin Timberlake on a Burger King placemat; music in popular culture is no longer about the music, but the money. Pop stars are churned out by major record labels that work with other industries to exploit the artist’s moneymaking potential to the maximum before spitting them out, making way for the next young and beautiful (and most likely not very talented) singer. According to Donald N. Wood, “ours is a post-intellectual era. We are experiencing a cultural transformation that is reversing four hundred years of intellectual evolution.” In an age of globalization, where more people worldwide can more easily recognize Ronald McDonald than their nation’s leader, we are beginning to lose our grip on intellectual value.
High music, such as opera, is today being converted into another moneymaking scheme by the music industry. Take a look at Il Divo , a group of male tenors created by American Idol pop-judge Simon Cowell. Like so many other pop acts today, this group was put together by Sony BMG and paraded around the world singing opera hits. "Popera," as it is called, clearly exemplifies the merging of this once high form of music with a lower, commercialized form. High art is commercialized, too. Museums worldwide with works by famous artists have three-hour lines of Hawaiian shirts and sandals clad tourists waiting to shuffle in not to see the art itself but only to have gone to this famous location. Then, on their way out, after hastily having taken a digital photograph of every piece in the entire museum (which they will most likely never even browse through again), they stop at the gift shop to buy a postcard of a work whose artist’s name they have never heard. High literature no longer exists. Instead, we are left with Tom Clancy bestsellers and books that we buy because Oprah suggests them. We glean our values from the media, basing them upon television and biased news reports. R. Cronk, author of Consumerism and the New Capitalism says, “The traditional cultural values of Western society are degenerating under the influences of corporate politics, the commercialization of culture and the impact of mass media. Society is awakening from its fascination with television entertainment to find itself stripped of tradition, controlled by an oppressive power structure and bound to the credit obligations of a defunct American dream.”
The world is becoming westernized and homogenized, based off the American consumer culture we have all played a part in creating. Having grown up in Thailand, I have seen first hand how Asian popular music seeks to emulate not its own traditional music but that of western, and particularly American, pop music. It is this homogenization of music worldwide that is creating a world culture, and it seems to be following the path that low culture set out for it. This combination of technological advancements, the rise of consumer culture and globalization is driving the general population away from high art, music and literature, and towards a mass-produced and advertised form of culture: our new traditions are emerging.
Even politically speaking, we as a whole feed what is handed to us. There are those of us who may complain, disagree, or even protest, but in general, we do not fight for what we believe in on a large scale. We have seen the effects of war and fighting on our country and others’, but today we do not speak up for ourselves. If you compare my generation to that of the youths in the late 60’s and early 70’s who actively sought change in the nation, we are doing nothing to combat the problems we face in this world. Instead, we write in our blogs about how terrible the state of international affairs is before we pop in a microwave meal and settle down in front of the television for tonight’s E! Top Hollywood Stories. We have reached a point in time where things have become so easy for us all we have to worry about is ourselves. This collective narcissism that we have only recently established on our planet is what is causing the decay of our collective intellect. We, through consumer culture, have been reduced to an obedient mass, following the directions of our television sets and the Internet. Culture itself, what it once meant, exists no more.
Sunday, November 15, 2009
Black Friday
I was laying in bed. Thanksgiving had been boring. I called my friend Adam but he didn't answer. My flight back to New York wasn't going to leave until Sunday. It was Friday. I walked down the street to the gas station and got a cup of coffee. I walked back towards my house and stopped at the grounds of my old elementary school. Two trees stood at the entrance. Each tree was many times larger than myself. I remembered when they had been shorter than me, and that was when I was shorter than I currently was. I walked to the playground and sat on a swing and smoked a cigarette while I finished my coffee. I finished my cup of coffee and walked back home.
When I got back home I poured myself a glass of orange juice and ate a bowl of cereal. I was staring at a sentence on the front page of the newspaper for several minutes in a daze. The sentence read: "An Ohio man has been jailed on domestic violence charges after police say he excessively paddled his 10-year-old son." The sentence made me feel that my life wasn't that bad. I had been loser as a kid, but at least I had never gotten beaten. Then I realized that my cereal was getting soggy, so I ate the rest of it.
My friend Adam called me back and we decided to meet up for lunch in a couple of hours. I met him at Taco Bell. I noticed that the prices had gone up since the last time I had gone to Taco Bell, which had been during the past summer when I had come back to Ohio. This made me angry, but I didn't really care. Adam ordered two tacos and I ordered a burrito and a quesedilla.
"This place sure is trashy," I remarked once we had sat down at a table.
"Yeah, everyone working here is high school dropouts," said Adam.
"No, you think so?"
"Yeah, for sure."
"Yeah, I guess so."
After we finished eating, Adam said he had to go home to help put up the Christmas tree and I said I probably had to do the same.
"There's going to be a party later though at John's house, you should come," he said.
"Okay, cool. Yeah, I'll call you," I said.
I drove home and helped my mom and sister put up ornaments on the Christmas tree while my dad watched football. After the tree was full of ornaments I went up to my room and stared at my laptop computer. I tried looking for porn and then I realized I didn't really care.
Later that night I met up with Adam and we went to the party. It wasn't really a party; it was more just a gathering of a bunch of the kids we went to high school with at a bar. Some of them I hadn't seen in years. I felt disgusted but I tried to get drunk so that it would be bearable. I saw my old friend Matt.
"Hey Matt, what's up?" I said.
"Hey dude, how you been?" he said.
"Pretty good, living in New York, trying to figure out what I want to do with my life. That kind of stuff. What did you get a degree in?"
"Oh, finance and economics. I have been working with a marketing firm. A guy from my old fraternity hooked me up with the job."
"Wow, that's cool," I said, but I was lying. It sounded terrible. I felt awful for the guy. But then I realized it was probably his own fault and that he probably didn't even look at it as a fault.
I wished him good luck with his job and walked to the bar under the pretense of getting another drink. I went up to Adam and told him I was going to drive home because I was sober and bored. He tried to convince me to stay and I told him no thanks and I drove home and went to bed and stared at the ceiling in the dark for a long time before I fell asleep.
When I got back home I poured myself a glass of orange juice and ate a bowl of cereal. I was staring at a sentence on the front page of the newspaper for several minutes in a daze. The sentence read: "An Ohio man has been jailed on domestic violence charges after police say he excessively paddled his 10-year-old son." The sentence made me feel that my life wasn't that bad. I had been loser as a kid, but at least I had never gotten beaten. Then I realized that my cereal was getting soggy, so I ate the rest of it.
My friend Adam called me back and we decided to meet up for lunch in a couple of hours. I met him at Taco Bell. I noticed that the prices had gone up since the last time I had gone to Taco Bell, which had been during the past summer when I had come back to Ohio. This made me angry, but I didn't really care. Adam ordered two tacos and I ordered a burrito and a quesedilla.
"This place sure is trashy," I remarked once we had sat down at a table.
"Yeah, everyone working here is high school dropouts," said Adam.
"No, you think so?"
"Yeah, for sure."
"Yeah, I guess so."
After we finished eating, Adam said he had to go home to help put up the Christmas tree and I said I probably had to do the same.
"There's going to be a party later though at John's house, you should come," he said.
"Okay, cool. Yeah, I'll call you," I said.
I drove home and helped my mom and sister put up ornaments on the Christmas tree while my dad watched football. After the tree was full of ornaments I went up to my room and stared at my laptop computer. I tried looking for porn and then I realized I didn't really care.
Later that night I met up with Adam and we went to the party. It wasn't really a party; it was more just a gathering of a bunch of the kids we went to high school with at a bar. Some of them I hadn't seen in years. I felt disgusted but I tried to get drunk so that it would be bearable. I saw my old friend Matt.
"Hey Matt, what's up?" I said.
"Hey dude, how you been?" he said.
"Pretty good, living in New York, trying to figure out what I want to do with my life. That kind of stuff. What did you get a degree in?"
"Oh, finance and economics. I have been working with a marketing firm. A guy from my old fraternity hooked me up with the job."
"Wow, that's cool," I said, but I was lying. It sounded terrible. I felt awful for the guy. But then I realized it was probably his own fault and that he probably didn't even look at it as a fault.
I wished him good luck with his job and walked to the bar under the pretense of getting another drink. I went up to Adam and told him I was going to drive home because I was sober and bored. He tried to convince me to stay and I told him no thanks and I drove home and went to bed and stared at the ceiling in the dark for a long time before I fell asleep.
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
time seems to running out
not as in the apocalypse, but just in general
the clock has been ticking for so long that it wants to stop
i could write a song
but then eventually i would have to stop
i could write this
but eventually i have to stop
i have been feeling alienated while considering the end of time
i dont know what my place will be in a timeless universe
i probably wont even care by then, i guess, hopefully
not as in the apocalypse, but just in general
the clock has been ticking for so long that it wants to stop
i could write a song
but then eventually i would have to stop
i could write this
but eventually i have to stop
i have been feeling alienated while considering the end of time
i dont know what my place will be in a timeless universe
i probably wont even care by then, i guess, hopefully
Sunday, November 1, 2009
Monday, October 19, 2009
Adultessence
1
Growing up, I always wanted to be someone else. I wish I could say that I was always fiercely original but I wasn’t. I wanted to be a baseball or football star or be the president or vice-president. I started playing basketball and did okay but then I realized I sucked and quit. I cared about politics and then I realized I cared but not too much. Then I imagined that I would have sons and that I would genetically alter them so that they could be stars at sports.
I noticed that my penis was getting longer and harder sometimes. I got my first pimple and then another one and then many others. I didn’t have many close friends. I blamed my haplessness on my pimples and my lack of basketball skills. I got in trouble at school a lot and my parents made me stay in my room so I read a lot and wrote a lot. Eventually I discovered pot and liquor. Puberty was weird.
2
The first day of college my mom cried as I hugged her goodbye and then I shook my dad’s hand and they drove away while my mom was sobbing. I decided to go around looking for people and looking for pot.
3
I never had sex my whole life but I got my dick sucked. I had trouble talking to girls.
I smoked a lot of pot everyday and got drunk a good amount of days and sometimes I bought other shit and did other shit. I was living a diverse life. But I wasn't actually doing anything.
4
I walked away from the main area of campus because it seemed that anything anyone said made me feel sad or angry, because it all seemed to be aimed at me, even if they weren't directly talking to me. I took a look back to make completely sure I wasn't being followed.
I stood in a graveyard. I wasn't at all drunk or high or fucked up, and it seemed like the first time in a long time that I hadn't been on drugs. I really wanted to escape. I looked at all the graves and realized that all the people underneath the stones were all dead. They had never found a way to permanently escape. They just died.
5
I sat in a waiting room for hours, with no anxiety at all. I had been crying endlessly and couldn't think of anything. Then they said that I could have a room for the night and leave the next morning. I later found out this was a lie; they actually could keep me as long as they wanted once I signed in.
The first night was really surreal. The nurse asked me if I knew where I was. My room was comfortable and they gave me sleeping medicine because I hadn't slept in four days. I stared at a Van Gogh painting in the hallway. It seemed much too fitting for the place I was in. I felt the medicine kicking in, so I went to bed. In the middle of the night I was awoken by the head nurse screaming at I-don't-know-who. She said the word "rancid." Then I went back to sleep and slept until dinner the next day.
6
I was sitting on my bed trying to read Bukowski. I was in the hospital and my friend had brought it to me from the library. Next to me my roommate, Dale, was eating a cheeseburger. He always took cheeseburgers from the dining room and hid them in his dresser. I don't know why he hid them; I don't think anyone would have cared.
A girl from the down the hall walked into our room. She was always coming into our room. Her name was Ariel. That wasn't her real name but I called her that because I was still somewhat convinced that she was a girl I knew called Ariel. She always seemed way too flirtatious though. Not like the real Ariel.
"What are you up to?" she asked.
"Reading," I said. Dale was taking the cheese off of his cheeseburger and didn't notice her arrival. I don't know why he didn't just get a hamburger.
"Will you go out for break time today?" she asked.
"Of course, it's the only time we can go outside," I said, "But it does suck that we're relegated to a 30 by 30 foot space on the third floor of a hospital for our break time."
"Yeah," she said.
She sat down on my bed and put her legs out so that they were hanging on Dale's bed. I went back to reading my book. Dale continued to fool around with the same cheeseburger. Or maybe it was another one that he had had stashed away.
Bukowski was talking about mowing the lawn as a boy and how his father didn't help him but did watch him the entire time. I could relate to that, and then I wondered if my friend had known I would relate to that, and then I wondered if my friend had been trying to send me a message by giving me this particular book by Bukowski, knowing that I would read this particular passage.
"Do you want to listen to music?" asked Dale.
"Sure," I said.
"Yeah, do it!" said Ariel.
Dale got out his diskman and put in a CD and turned the volume all the way up. He had to turn it up because we didn't have a real CD player, we just had diskmen. He played the song "Bodies" by that bad metal band Drowning Pool and I told him to change it and then he skipped through a couple songs and then he played "What I Got" by Sublime. I smiled and he smiled and Ariel smiled, although I don't know if she smiled just because we smiled, or not. I felt good right then and I began to sing along and then Dale began singing with me and Ariel eventually picked up the chorus and we all felt good and temporarily happy.
7
I finished the Bukowski book and was trying to read Kerouac's first novel, but it was boring and so I was aimlessly flipping through Dale's book by Freud. It was called The Interpretation of Dreams. I was reading about the id and ego and superego and trying to find out if it made any sense to me in relation to reality.
I went up to get a drink from the water fountain across the hall from our room. I noticed there were an unusual amount of people in the hallways. The two ladies who always exercised by walking were passing through our hallway and the one lady was talking about the damned Jews and the other was looking back from me to her awkwardly. I wondered why, and then I shook my head and my hair spun around a little, and then I decided I didn't care.
I went to take a sip of water from the fountain and no water came out. I tried pushing on the lever several times and no water came.
"They turned all the water off."
I turned around and saw a man named Hank who was crazy. He had crazy hair and he always talked about how his roommate had stolen his pants. He always walked around in a robe and tried talking to me, but I ignored him.
"Yeah, they turned it off to punish us," he said.
"Nah-uh," I said, "really?"
"Yeah, the old black man who rides the wheel chair started yelling at one of the nurses and one of them put their arm on his shoulder and he shoved them against a wall," he said.
"Fuck," I said. I began walking back to my room.
"Hold on," he said, "Aren't you going to help us change things around here." He pointed to several other people behind him who were mulling about in the hallways. I didn't know whether he meant that they were going to start some kind of insurrection or what he meant. I shrugged my shoulders and went back to my room to read Freud. Hank said something else, but I had a headache and I couldn't hear him.
8
My final day in the ward my friends were allowed to visit and they brought me Wendy's. I smiled and talked about how I would never waste another day of my life ever again. I had so many ideas and felt like I had so little time before I got old, and this made me anxious but I also felt somewhat audaciously prepared.
My parents came and picked me up and drove me home to Ohio and I talked optimistically about my future the whole way home. It felt good to be in open air.
8
My first day home I sat in my room listening to Philip Glass, staring at the computer screen, feeling sad about how sad I was feeling.
9
I picked up my life and decided to be a true creative force. I wrote often and started a real band and took girls out on real dates. None of the dates worked too well, I think I put too much pressure on both myself and the girls.
10
All the vodka was gone. And the orange juice. I felt whatever.
Growing up, I always wanted to be someone else. I wish I could say that I was always fiercely original but I wasn’t. I wanted to be a baseball or football star or be the president or vice-president. I started playing basketball and did okay but then I realized I sucked and quit. I cared about politics and then I realized I cared but not too much. Then I imagined that I would have sons and that I would genetically alter them so that they could be stars at sports.
I noticed that my penis was getting longer and harder sometimes. I got my first pimple and then another one and then many others. I didn’t have many close friends. I blamed my haplessness on my pimples and my lack of basketball skills. I got in trouble at school a lot and my parents made me stay in my room so I read a lot and wrote a lot. Eventually I discovered pot and liquor. Puberty was weird.
2
The first day of college my mom cried as I hugged her goodbye and then I shook my dad’s hand and they drove away while my mom was sobbing. I decided to go around looking for people and looking for pot.
3
I never had sex my whole life but I got my dick sucked. I had trouble talking to girls.
I smoked a lot of pot everyday and got drunk a good amount of days and sometimes I bought other shit and did other shit. I was living a diverse life. But I wasn't actually doing anything.
4
I walked away from the main area of campus because it seemed that anything anyone said made me feel sad or angry, because it all seemed to be aimed at me, even if they weren't directly talking to me. I took a look back to make completely sure I wasn't being followed.
I stood in a graveyard. I wasn't at all drunk or high or fucked up, and it seemed like the first time in a long time that I hadn't been on drugs. I really wanted to escape. I looked at all the graves and realized that all the people underneath the stones were all dead. They had never found a way to permanently escape. They just died.
5
I sat in a waiting room for hours, with no anxiety at all. I had been crying endlessly and couldn't think of anything. Then they said that I could have a room for the night and leave the next morning. I later found out this was a lie; they actually could keep me as long as they wanted once I signed in.
The first night was really surreal. The nurse asked me if I knew where I was. My room was comfortable and they gave me sleeping medicine because I hadn't slept in four days. I stared at a Van Gogh painting in the hallway. It seemed much too fitting for the place I was in. I felt the medicine kicking in, so I went to bed. In the middle of the night I was awoken by the head nurse screaming at I-don't-know-who. She said the word "rancid." Then I went back to sleep and slept until dinner the next day.
6
I was sitting on my bed trying to read Bukowski. I was in the hospital and my friend had brought it to me from the library. Next to me my roommate, Dale, was eating a cheeseburger. He always took cheeseburgers from the dining room and hid them in his dresser. I don't know why he hid them; I don't think anyone would have cared.
A girl from the down the hall walked into our room. She was always coming into our room. Her name was Ariel. That wasn't her real name but I called her that because I was still somewhat convinced that she was a girl I knew called Ariel. She always seemed way too flirtatious though. Not like the real Ariel.
"What are you up to?" she asked.
"Reading," I said. Dale was taking the cheese off of his cheeseburger and didn't notice her arrival. I don't know why he didn't just get a hamburger.
"Will you go out for break time today?" she asked.
"Of course, it's the only time we can go outside," I said, "But it does suck that we're relegated to a 30 by 30 foot space on the third floor of a hospital for our break time."
"Yeah," she said.
She sat down on my bed and put her legs out so that they were hanging on Dale's bed. I went back to reading my book. Dale continued to fool around with the same cheeseburger. Or maybe it was another one that he had had stashed away.
Bukowski was talking about mowing the lawn as a boy and how his father didn't help him but did watch him the entire time. I could relate to that, and then I wondered if my friend had known I would relate to that, and then I wondered if my friend had been trying to send me a message by giving me this particular book by Bukowski, knowing that I would read this particular passage.
"Do you want to listen to music?" asked Dale.
"Sure," I said.
"Yeah, do it!" said Ariel.
Dale got out his diskman and put in a CD and turned the volume all the way up. He had to turn it up because we didn't have a real CD player, we just had diskmen. He played the song "Bodies" by that bad metal band Drowning Pool and I told him to change it and then he skipped through a couple songs and then he played "What I Got" by Sublime. I smiled and he smiled and Ariel smiled, although I don't know if she smiled just because we smiled, or not. I felt good right then and I began to sing along and then Dale began singing with me and Ariel eventually picked up the chorus and we all felt good and temporarily happy.
7
I finished the Bukowski book and was trying to read Kerouac's first novel, but it was boring and so I was aimlessly flipping through Dale's book by Freud. It was called The Interpretation of Dreams. I was reading about the id and ego and superego and trying to find out if it made any sense to me in relation to reality.
I went up to get a drink from the water fountain across the hall from our room. I noticed there were an unusual amount of people in the hallways. The two ladies who always exercised by walking were passing through our hallway and the one lady was talking about the damned Jews and the other was looking back from me to her awkwardly. I wondered why, and then I shook my head and my hair spun around a little, and then I decided I didn't care.
I went to take a sip of water from the fountain and no water came out. I tried pushing on the lever several times and no water came.
"They turned all the water off."
I turned around and saw a man named Hank who was crazy. He had crazy hair and he always talked about how his roommate had stolen his pants. He always walked around in a robe and tried talking to me, but I ignored him.
"Yeah, they turned it off to punish us," he said.
"Nah-uh," I said, "really?"
"Yeah, the old black man who rides the wheel chair started yelling at one of the nurses and one of them put their arm on his shoulder and he shoved them against a wall," he said.
"Fuck," I said. I began walking back to my room.
"Hold on," he said, "Aren't you going to help us change things around here." He pointed to several other people behind him who were mulling about in the hallways. I didn't know whether he meant that they were going to start some kind of insurrection or what he meant. I shrugged my shoulders and went back to my room to read Freud. Hank said something else, but I had a headache and I couldn't hear him.
8
My final day in the ward my friends were allowed to visit and they brought me Wendy's. I smiled and talked about how I would never waste another day of my life ever again. I had so many ideas and felt like I had so little time before I got old, and this made me anxious but I also felt somewhat audaciously prepared.
My parents came and picked me up and drove me home to Ohio and I talked optimistically about my future the whole way home. It felt good to be in open air.
8
My first day home I sat in my room listening to Philip Glass, staring at the computer screen, feeling sad about how sad I was feeling.
9
I picked up my life and decided to be a true creative force. I wrote often and started a real band and took girls out on real dates. None of the dates worked too well, I think I put too much pressure on both myself and the girls.
10
All the vodka was gone. And the orange juice. I felt whatever.
it's cold out there but inside i am so hot that i am sweating
i realized i have a problem today
i bite down on my cigarettes
too hard and too much
today i bit an actual cut so big that it almost fell apart
i need to to stop biting down while i am smoking
i don't want to get to the age of seventy
and no longer have incissors
because i was biting down on my cigs too much for too many years
also, they say it might "ruin" the cigarette
ruin was my own word but they said it
i bite down on my cigarettes
too hard and too much
today i bit an actual cut so big that it almost fell apart
i need to to stop biting down while i am smoking
i don't want to get to the age of seventy
and no longer have incissors
because i was biting down on my cigs too much for too many years
also, they say it might "ruin" the cigarette
ruin was my own word but they said it
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
the end of an era
the summer is fucked and gone
the pot of soup is boiling
and i stick my hand in it
to see if i can feel
anything
anymore.
the answer is yes, i can.
but:
everything
is
delayed.
i am filled with sand.
i am a sand bag.
i am a heavy weight.
i am a ropeless anchor tossed to sea.
i am.
i am not.
it is so hard
not to cry
over the onions
when you start crying
before you cut them.
if i had a chance to survive
my own violent
self-examination,
i would want to
cut open
my chest
and remove
the pounding organ
from inside.
then,
i would like
to slice slice slice
and boil
the pretty pieces
until they dissolve
into an ugly brown mess.
then,
i would caress
the ugliness
with my tongue
and lap up
my potent potion.
then,
i would be
full of myself,
literally.
smack smack smack
crack crack crack
black black black
sick sick sick
stick stick stick
kick kick kick
bite bite bite
fight fight fight
light light light
night night night
fuck fuck fuck
duck duck duck
suck suck suck
i want to take it all back
and start over again.
the pot of soup is boiling
and i stick my hand in it
to see if i can feel
anything
anymore.
the answer is yes, i can.
but:
everything
is
delayed.
i am filled with sand.
i am a sand bag.
i am a heavy weight.
i am a ropeless anchor tossed to sea.
i am.
i am not.
it is so hard
not to cry
over the onions
when you start crying
before you cut them.
if i had a chance to survive
my own violent
self-examination,
i would want to
cut open
my chest
and remove
the pounding organ
from inside.
then,
i would like
to slice slice slice
and boil
the pretty pieces
until they dissolve
into an ugly brown mess.
then,
i would caress
the ugliness
with my tongue
and lap up
my potent potion.
then,
i would be
full of myself,
literally.
smack smack smack
crack crack crack
black black black
sick sick sick
stick stick stick
kick kick kick
bite bite bite
fight fight fight
light light light
night night night
fuck fuck fuck
duck duck duck
suck suck suck
i want to take it all back
and start over again.
Thursday, October 8, 2009
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
my life now
11 aa kk uu
22 bb ll vv
33 cc mm ww
44 dd nn xx
55 ee oo yy
66 ff pp zz
77 gg qq
88 hh rr RACECAR
99 ii ss
101 jj tt
22 bb ll vv
33 cc mm ww
44 dd nn xx
55 ee oo yy
66 ff pp zz
77 gg qq
88 hh rr RACECAR
99 ii ss
101 jj tt
Sunday, October 4, 2009
things i now know i like to do
salt (when it comes from a salt shaker)
carrying around a copy of rimbaud so i look cool and because you can just leave it open and sit and eat food (i might come back to this)
ice cream (preferrably in a cone but it doesnt really matter)
horror movies
considering my diet
waiting for godot (i used to think it was sweet and then i was like no its lame and now im like no its sweet)
sweaters
"dressing up" in my "fine" clothing
bass guitar (once again, more of a rediscovery)
sweaters
pills
shampoo (though i need a special kind)
writing nonsense that no one will read
fascism (as an idea, not as something practical)
meeting new people (this one is a lie)
cigarettes that havent been crushed (i dont like cigs that have been crushed)
holding onto library books as long as i want because the library has no "power"
forgetting to post on other peoples blogs (i only do that so they will look at this)
beer in cans (unless its magic hat or corona or ginger ale)
langston hughes (hes kind of funny when you think about it)
laughing to myself when no one else is around
cupcakes (with icing)
calling people names, usually their actual names
old retro shit (because its retro)
new order (the band)
looking at my fingers and wondering how i scratched them
carrying around a copy of rimbaud so i look cool and because you can just leave it open and sit and eat food (i might come back to this)
ice cream (preferrably in a cone but it doesnt really matter)
horror movies
considering my diet
waiting for godot (i used to think it was sweet and then i was like no its lame and now im like no its sweet)
sweaters
"dressing up" in my "fine" clothing
bass guitar (once again, more of a rediscovery)
sweaters
pills
shampoo (though i need a special kind)
writing nonsense that no one will read
fascism (as an idea, not as something practical)
meeting new people (this one is a lie)
cigarettes that havent been crushed (i dont like cigs that have been crushed)
holding onto library books as long as i want because the library has no "power"
forgetting to post on other peoples blogs (i only do that so they will look at this)
beer in cans (unless its magic hat or corona or ginger ale)
langston hughes (hes kind of funny when you think about it)
laughing to myself when no one else is around
cupcakes (with icing)
calling people names, usually their actual names
old retro shit (because its retro)
new order (the band)
looking at my fingers and wondering how i scratched them
Friday, October 2, 2009
... all-american drug, angie, aunt nora, barbs, base, basuco, bazooka, bazulco beam behind the scale beiging belushi bernice bernie bernie's flakes bernie's gold dust bush big bloke big C big flake big rush billie hoke birdie powder blanco blanca blast blizzard blotter blow blow blue blow coke blow smoke blunt bolivian bolivian marching powder booster bouncing powder boy bubble gum bump bunk burese burnese CC-dust C-game candy flipping on a string C joint C & M cabello cadillac caine california cornflakes came candy C carnie carrie carrie nation cecil chalked up chalking charlie chase chippy choe cholly coca cocaine cocktail cocoa puff coconut coke coke bar cola combol coolie cork the air corine corrinne cotton brothers crack cocaine crack crystal dama blanca do a line double bubble dream duct dust dynamite el diablo el diablito esnortiar everclear flake flamethrowers florida snow foo foo foo-foo dust stuff foolish powder freebase freeze frisco special frisco speedball friskie powder gaffel geeze ghost busting gift-of-the-sun-god gin girl girlfriend glad stuff gold dust goofball go on a sleigh ride H & C happy dust happy powder happy trails have a dust heaven heaven dust Henry VIII her hitch up the reindeers hooter horn horning hunter ice icing inca message jam jejo jelly joy powder junk king king's habit lace lady lady caine lady snow late night leaf line love affair mama coca marching dust marching powder mayo merck merk mojo monkey monos monster mosquitos movie star drug mujer murder one nieve noseNose candy nose powder nose stuff number 3 one and one oyster stew paradise paradise white pearl percia perico peruvian peruvian flake peruvian lady piece pimp polvo blanco pop powder powder diamonds press primos quill racehorse charlie rane ready rock recompress rock roxanne rush sandwich schmeck schoolboy scorpion scottie scotty serpico 21 sevenup shaker/baker/water she sleigh ride smoking gun sniff snort snow snowball snow bird snowcones snow seals snow white society high soda speedball sporting squirrel star stardust star-spangled powder studio fuel sugar sweet stuff T talco tardust teeth teenager thing toke toot trails turkey tutti-frutti white girl white horse white lady white mosquito white powder whiz bang wild cat wings witch woolas yeyo zip all-american drug, angie, aunt nora, barbs, base, basuco, bazooka, bazulco beam behind the scale beiging belushi bernice bernie bernie's flakes bernie's gold dust bush big bloke big C big flake big rush billie hoke birdie powder blanco blanca blast blizzard blotter blow blow blue blow coke blow smoke blunt bolivian bolivian marching powder booster bouncing powder boy bubble gum bump bunk burese burnese CC-dust C-game candy flipping on a string C joint C & M cabello cadillac caine california cornflakes came candy C carnie carrie carrie nation cecil chalked up chalking charlie chase chippy choe cholly coca cocaine cocktail cocoa puff coconut coke coke bar cola combol coolie cork the air corine corrinne cotton brothers crack cocaine crack crystal dama blanca do a line double bubble dream duct dust dynamite el diablo el diablito esnortiar everclear flake flamethrowers florida snow foo foo foo-foo dust stuff foolish powder freebase freeze frisco special frisco speedball friskie powder gaffel geeze ghost busting gift-of-the-sun-god gin girl girlfriend glad stuff gold dust goofball go on a sleigh ride H & C happy dust happy powder happy trails have a dust heaven heaven dust Henry VIII her hitch up the reindeers hooter horn horning hunter ice icing inca message jam jejo jelly joy powder junk king king's habit lace lady lady caine lady snow late night leaf line love affair mama coca marching dust marching powder mayo merck merk mojo monkey monos monster mosquitos movie star drug mujer murder one nieve nose nose candy nose powder nose stuff number 3 one and one oyster stew paradise paradise white pearl percia perico peruvian peruvian flake peruvian lady piece pimp polvo blanco pop powder powder diamonds press primos quill racehorse charlie rane ready rock recompress rock roxanne rush sandwich schmeck schoolboy scorpion scottie scotty serpico 21 sevenup shaker/baker/water she sleigh ride smoking gun sniff snort snow snowball snow bird snowcones snow seals snow white society high soda speedball sporting squirrel star stardust star-spangled powder studio fuel sugar sweet stuff T talco tardust teeth teenager thing toke toot trails turkey tutti-frutti white girl white horse white lady white mosquito white powder whiz bang wild cat wings witch woolas yeyo zip all-american drug, angie, aunt nora, barbs, base, basuco, bazooka, bazulco beam behind the scale beiging belushi bernice bernie bernie's flakes bernie's gold dust bush big bloke big C big flake big rush billie hoke birdie powder blanco blanca blast blizzard blotter blow blow blue blow coke blow smoke blunt bolivian bolivian marching powder booster bouncing powder boy bubble gum bump bunk burese burnese CC-dust C-game candy flipping on a string C joint C & M cabello cadillac caine california cornflakes came candy C carnie carrie carrie nation cecil chalked up chalking charlie chase chippy choe cholly coca cocaine cocktail cocoa puff coconut coke coke bar cola combol coolie cork the air corine corrinne cotton brothers crack cocaine crack crystal dama blanca do a line double bubble dream duct dust dynamite el diablo el diablito esnortiar everclear flake flamethrowers florida snow foo foo foo-foo dust stuff foolish powder freebase freeze frisco special frisco speedball friskie powder gaffel geeze ghost busting gift-of-the-sun-god gin girl girlfriend glad stuff gold dust goofball go on a sleigh ride H & C happy dust happy powder happy trails have a dust heaven heaven dust Henry VIII her hitch up the reindeers hooter horn horning hunter ice icing inca message jam jejo jelly joy powder junk king king's habit lace lady lady caine lady snow late night leaf line love affair mama coca marching dust marching powder mayo merck merk mojo monkey monos monster mosquitos movie star drug mujer murder one nieve nose nose candy nose powder nose stuff number 3 one and one oyster stew paradise paradise white pearl percia perico peruvian peruvian flake peruvian lady piece pimp polvo blanco pop powder powder diamonds press primos quill racehorse charlie rane ready rock recompress rock roxanne rush sandwich schmeck schoolboy scorpion scottie scotty serpico 21 sevenup shaker/baker/water she sleigh ride smoking gun sniff snort snow snowball snow bird snowcones snow seals snow white society high soda speedball sporting squirrel star stardust star-spangled powder studio fuel sugar sweet stuff T talco tardust teeth teenager thing toke toot trails turkey tutti-frutti white girl white horse white lady white mosquito white powder whiz bang wild cat wings witch woolas yeyo zip ...
Sunday, September 27, 2009
this is a poem about poems
dont really know what the point of poetry is
my friend said the words "poetry" and "vagina" in the same sentence last night
i didnt hear the other words in the sentence
my friend said the words "poetry" and "vagina" in the same sentence last night
i didnt hear the other words in the sentence
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
life change
a kid i knew in middle and high school was a very peaceful type. he was friendly, soft spoken and the school track and swimming star. last year i found out he was a sniper in the US army. today i read his facebook status:
i became very sad and wrote this.
If I Met my self from 5 years ago I think he would be distugested with what he will become. *sigh* then he would probably feel sorry for me and ask if I want a hug.... I miss my hippy self.
i became very sad and wrote this.
Monday, September 21, 2009
I’ll love you forever, as long as I’m living. This creeping sensation builds
up as we grow older and eventually festers
within us, inside us, like some black mold promising to tear us
down little by little, clotting our lungs and congesting our reason.
Where did this happen?
How, when we each were once so unique and true, did our days mutate into
something so pedestrian?
This lifelong theme of amour, this hunt
for a sentiment so fleeting in
something so fleeting
is our means to our end
This inharmoniously
dissatisfying bubble spins and turns but never falters
up as we grow older and eventually festers
within us, inside us, like some black mold promising to tear us
down little by little, clotting our lungs and congesting our reason.
Where did this happen?
How, when we each were once so unique and true, did our days mutate into
something so pedestrian?
This lifelong theme of amour, this hunt
for a sentiment so fleeting in
something so fleeting
is our means to our end
This inharmoniously
dissatisfying bubble spins and turns but never falters
Sunday, September 20, 2009
The History Of Western Philosophy
Socrates-"I'm gay."
Plato-"I wrote down what my boss said but it might just be what I said."
Aristotle-"I'm so old-fashioned. Fuck!"
Jesus-"I don't know why I gave up so easy. My philosophy is weak."
Seneca-"It will be okay, I think, or maybe not."
Augustine-"I'm Christian, but I am a serious philosopher."
Aquinas-"Me too!"
Machiavelli-"I'm the dude who is the favorite philosopher of every dumb bro."
Descartes-"I think therefore.....whatever."
Pascal-"I believe in God because I don't want to go to hell."
Spinoza-"We need to start pissing people off."
Locke-"I'm a racist."
Hobbes-"I'm a douche."
Rousseau-"I want to go on a walk."
Voltaire-"Shit sucks."
Kant-"I will explain everything but you will learn nothing."
Adam Smith-"I love money!"
Mill/Bentham-"Sex is good; so is reading a book."
Schopenhauer-"I hate life, I think. Maybe not."
Hegel-"I am going to kill you and then steal half of your clothes."
Marx-"It is impossible to misinterpret my philosophy."
Dostoevsky-"I write really long books."
Kierkegaard-"God is alive, I think."
Nietzsche-"God is dead, pretty much."
Dewey/James-"We're American."
Weber-"Bureaucracy!"
Freud-"There's something I really want to say but I'm staying silent."
Wittgenstein-"Why should I say anything?"
Jaspers-"I'm random but I fit in somehow."
Husserl-"I'm important."
Heidegger-"I'm a Nazi."
Arendt-"I am a Jew but I think Heidegger is cool."
Jung-"I am indifferently opposed to Nazis."
Lacan-"You probably can't understand anything I say."
Sartre-"We're totally free and this makes total sense!"
Camus-"We're totally free and this makes no sense!"
De Beauvoir-"We're free because I agree with Jean-Paul a lot."
Althusser-"We're not free."
Foucault-"Yeah, we're not free."
Derrida-"Yeah. I hate myself. And you."
Adorno-"Everyone is so critical."
Rorty-"We got to get back to how shit used to be."
Rawls-"We need to help the poor."
Nozick-"Fuck the poor."
Habermas-"What the fuck did you say?"
Peter Singer-"I think he's talking shit about my animal friends."
Baudrillard-"Fuck it."
Zizek-"Youtube me!"
Clancy Martin-"Google video me!"
Plato-"I wrote down what my boss said but it might just be what I said."
Aristotle-"I'm so old-fashioned. Fuck!"
Jesus-"I don't know why I gave up so easy. My philosophy is weak."
Seneca-"It will be okay, I think, or maybe not."
Augustine-"I'm Christian, but I am a serious philosopher."
Aquinas-"Me too!"
Machiavelli-"I'm the dude who is the favorite philosopher of every dumb bro."
Descartes-"I think therefore.....whatever."
Pascal-"I believe in God because I don't want to go to hell."
Spinoza-"We need to start pissing people off."
Locke-"I'm a racist."
Hobbes-"I'm a douche."
Rousseau-"I want to go on a walk."
Voltaire-"Shit sucks."
Kant-"I will explain everything but you will learn nothing."
Adam Smith-"I love money!"
Mill/Bentham-"Sex is good; so is reading a book."
Schopenhauer-"I hate life, I think. Maybe not."
Hegel-"I am going to kill you and then steal half of your clothes."
Marx-"It is impossible to misinterpret my philosophy."
Dostoevsky-"I write really long books."
Kierkegaard-"God is alive, I think."
Nietzsche-"God is dead, pretty much."
Dewey/James-"We're American."
Weber-"Bureaucracy!"
Freud-"There's something I really want to say but I'm staying silent."
Wittgenstein-"Why should I say anything?"
Jaspers-"I'm random but I fit in somehow."
Husserl-"I'm important."
Heidegger-"I'm a Nazi."
Arendt-"I am a Jew but I think Heidegger is cool."
Jung-"I am indifferently opposed to Nazis."
Lacan-"You probably can't understand anything I say."
Sartre-"We're totally free and this makes total sense!"
Camus-"We're totally free and this makes no sense!"
De Beauvoir-"We're free because I agree with Jean-Paul a lot."
Althusser-"We're not free."
Foucault-"Yeah, we're not free."
Derrida-"Yeah. I hate myself. And you."
Adorno-"Everyone is so critical."
Rorty-"We got to get back to how shit used to be."
Rawls-"We need to help the poor."
Nozick-"Fuck the poor."
Habermas-"What the fuck did you say?"
Peter Singer-"I think he's talking shit about my animal friends."
Baudrillard-"Fuck it."
Zizek-"Youtube me!"
Clancy Martin-"Google video me!"
Monday, September 14, 2009
The elevator was humid and dim and it seemed to be taking forever to go down. I was on my way to a job interview at a company called Martin Publishing House. It was located on the fifth floor below ground level in a skyscraper. Ever since I had graduated from college six months before, I had been pretty lazy about looking for a job. A friend had recommended I apply for a job in publishing. So here I was, trying to move up into the world.
When I got off the elevator I had to close my eyes for a second because the lights in the hallway were blindingly bright. When my eyes recovered from the shock I began looking for the door marked -531. I opened the door to the office and walked up to the receptionists' window. A couple of women were seated on the other side of the waiting room reading magazines.
At the receptionists' window I tried clearing my throat and coughing to get the attention of the receptionist but then I realized that she couldn't hear me because there was a glass window between us.
I tapped on the glass and she opened the glass door and said, "Hello."
"Hi, my name is Bob Dorff. I am here to see Mr. Martin."
"Okay, let me look here."
I waited patiently while she typed away on her computer and flipping through files. I tried to look out of the corner of my eye to see if the two women were looking at me or if they were reading their magazines. I had stretched my face as far as I could without directly looking at them, and then the receptionist said something.
"I'm sorry, what did you say?" I asked.
And she said, "Is your name Bob Dorff?"
"Yes," I said.
She then proceeded to begin looking through a file cabinet again. I watched the hands on the clock behind her desk as they moved. I waited for four minutes and twenty-two seconds.
"Okay, Mr. Martin will see you now. Follow me."
She motioned to a door next to a window. I opened it and followed her down a hallway. She knocked on a door and then opened it.
"Mr. Martin, Bob Dorff is here for his interview," she said.
I heard a muffled, indecipherable voice, and then she turned to and smiled and held out her arm for me to go in. Once again I had to readjust my eyes, because there was only a desk lamp on in his office. The secretary closed the door and left.
I looked over the desk at Mr. Martin. He had gray hair and a moustache. He had on a pair of round, wired glasses that made his stare seem even more intense.
"Have a seat," he said.
I sat down.
"So you are looking for a job in publishing, correct," he said.
"Um, yes."
"What kind of work would you hope to do should I hire you?" he asked.
"I mean, I could read manuscripts and edit them, and that kind of stuff."
"I see," he said.
He began looking over my application. I sat there staring at him and then I began looking around the room. There was a plaque saying he graduated from Dartmouth University. Along one wall there was lots of photos. In one of the photos he was sitting on a beach chair next to a woman. I noticed that he was naked and his flaccid penis was hanging out. I opened my mouth in mock horror (or was it real horror) and then glanced at him to make sure he hadn't seen my make that facial expression.
He continued looking at my application. I could hardly stare at him anymore, for fear of immediately envisioning him on a beach chair with no clothes and a flaccid penis. At the same time, I could hardly look at the walls for fear that I might find another such picture. I decided to look down at my lap.
"Well, it looks like you could do a good job here, Bob, but it will just be a matter of figuring out exactly where to put you. We'll give you a call, okay?"
I said "okay" and "thank you" and then I asked where the nearest bathroom was and went and washed my hands. Then I left the office and walked as fast I could to the elevator. When I got to the ground floor and left the building, I was blinded by the sun, because it was so bright.
Rather than taking the subway, I decided to just walk the whole way home. It took me 80 minutes to get back to my apartment. I sat on the stoop and smoked a cigarette and then I went inside. On the way to my apartment I heard loud noises coming from the apartment across the hall from me. It sounded like a dog yelling in pain. I opened the door to my apartment and went in and shut it behind me and bolted the door.
I went to my bedroom and sat down at my desk and laid my head down on the desk. I tried to fall asleep but I couldn’t, so I turned on my computer and checked my email repeatedly every five minutes over the course of two and a half hours while I browsed websites on the Internet.
I leaned back in my chair and looked at the living room and kitchen of my apartment. I didn’t really need them anymore, because I had moved most of my furniture and the microwave and the fridge into my room. Since I was always in my room, there was no need for the television, because I would prefer to just stare at my computer screen. Since the microwave and the fridge were in my room and that was what I used when I cooked food in the house, there really wasn’t any need for the oven. My proudest possession in the room was a hibiscus plant which I watered everyday. I kept it on table by the window because I was afraid that if I put it on the windowsill it would fall twelve stories and smash into oblivion on the sidewalk.
I called my friend Mark and he told me to go over to his apartment. I took the subway over to his apartment. We talked about how much we hated everything and how we didn’t want to get real jobs and how we were above all that and then he asked me how my job interview went.
“Oh, um, pretty good,” I said.
“Where was that again?” he asked.
“Martin Publishing House,” I said.
“Oh yeah, I remember now,” he said. “Come to think of it, I’ve actually been thinking of taking this job offer from an advertising agency downtown.”
“Oh yeah,” I said.
He began talking about this job that he had been offered and one sentence began to bleed into the next. He began to sound like the teacher sounds in the show Charlie Brown. I thought about feeling sentimental about the fact that we were growing up and then I realized that I didn’t really care even though it did was kind of overwhelming.
When I got off the elevator I had to close my eyes for a second because the lights in the hallway were blindingly bright. When my eyes recovered from the shock I began looking for the door marked -531. I opened the door to the office and walked up to the receptionists' window. A couple of women were seated on the other side of the waiting room reading magazines.
At the receptionists' window I tried clearing my throat and coughing to get the attention of the receptionist but then I realized that she couldn't hear me because there was a glass window between us.
I tapped on the glass and she opened the glass door and said, "Hello."
"Hi, my name is Bob Dorff. I am here to see Mr. Martin."
"Okay, let me look here."
I waited patiently while she typed away on her computer and flipping through files. I tried to look out of the corner of my eye to see if the two women were looking at me or if they were reading their magazines. I had stretched my face as far as I could without directly looking at them, and then the receptionist said something.
"I'm sorry, what did you say?" I asked.
And she said, "Is your name Bob Dorff?"
"Yes," I said.
She then proceeded to begin looking through a file cabinet again. I watched the hands on the clock behind her desk as they moved. I waited for four minutes and twenty-two seconds.
"Okay, Mr. Martin will see you now. Follow me."
She motioned to a door next to a window. I opened it and followed her down a hallway. She knocked on a door and then opened it.
"Mr. Martin, Bob Dorff is here for his interview," she said.
I heard a muffled, indecipherable voice, and then she turned to and smiled and held out her arm for me to go in. Once again I had to readjust my eyes, because there was only a desk lamp on in his office. The secretary closed the door and left.
I looked over the desk at Mr. Martin. He had gray hair and a moustache. He had on a pair of round, wired glasses that made his stare seem even more intense.
"Have a seat," he said.
I sat down.
"So you are looking for a job in publishing, correct," he said.
"Um, yes."
"What kind of work would you hope to do should I hire you?" he asked.
"I mean, I could read manuscripts and edit them, and that kind of stuff."
"I see," he said.
He began looking over my application. I sat there staring at him and then I began looking around the room. There was a plaque saying he graduated from Dartmouth University. Along one wall there was lots of photos. In one of the photos he was sitting on a beach chair next to a woman. I noticed that he was naked and his flaccid penis was hanging out. I opened my mouth in mock horror (or was it real horror) and then glanced at him to make sure he hadn't seen my make that facial expression.
He continued looking at my application. I could hardly stare at him anymore, for fear of immediately envisioning him on a beach chair with no clothes and a flaccid penis. At the same time, I could hardly look at the walls for fear that I might find another such picture. I decided to look down at my lap.
"Well, it looks like you could do a good job here, Bob, but it will just be a matter of figuring out exactly where to put you. We'll give you a call, okay?"
I said "okay" and "thank you" and then I asked where the nearest bathroom was and went and washed my hands. Then I left the office and walked as fast I could to the elevator. When I got to the ground floor and left the building, I was blinded by the sun, because it was so bright.
Rather than taking the subway, I decided to just walk the whole way home. It took me 80 minutes to get back to my apartment. I sat on the stoop and smoked a cigarette and then I went inside. On the way to my apartment I heard loud noises coming from the apartment across the hall from me. It sounded like a dog yelling in pain. I opened the door to my apartment and went in and shut it behind me and bolted the door.
I went to my bedroom and sat down at my desk and laid my head down on the desk. I tried to fall asleep but I couldn’t, so I turned on my computer and checked my email repeatedly every five minutes over the course of two and a half hours while I browsed websites on the Internet.
I leaned back in my chair and looked at the living room and kitchen of my apartment. I didn’t really need them anymore, because I had moved most of my furniture and the microwave and the fridge into my room. Since I was always in my room, there was no need for the television, because I would prefer to just stare at my computer screen. Since the microwave and the fridge were in my room and that was what I used when I cooked food in the house, there really wasn’t any need for the oven. My proudest possession in the room was a hibiscus plant which I watered everyday. I kept it on table by the window because I was afraid that if I put it on the windowsill it would fall twelve stories and smash into oblivion on the sidewalk.
I called my friend Mark and he told me to go over to his apartment. I took the subway over to his apartment. We talked about how much we hated everything and how we didn’t want to get real jobs and how we were above all that and then he asked me how my job interview went.
“Oh, um, pretty good,” I said.
“Where was that again?” he asked.
“Martin Publishing House,” I said.
“Oh yeah, I remember now,” he said. “Come to think of it, I’ve actually been thinking of taking this job offer from an advertising agency downtown.”
“Oh yeah,” I said.
He began talking about this job that he had been offered and one sentence began to bleed into the next. He began to sound like the teacher sounds in the show Charlie Brown. I thought about feeling sentimental about the fact that we were growing up and then I realized that I didn’t really care even though it did was kind of overwhelming.
Sunday, September 13, 2009
a poem constructed out of things that my math teacher said and things the loud girl sitting behind me said, as well as the occasional ambient noise.
prepare your questions;
i'll give you a moment of time.
if you just came in, you need to look at that kid's hair.
laughter.
feel the pressure on question number ten!
whoever just came in needs to answer first.
time is flying.
we're all gonna fail this class.
another question:
how many of you did the problems?
you are all geeks.
your answers are all correct.
this is only sometimes true.
i explained this very briefly before.
please go over it again.
the distinction between so-called exercises and so-called solutions is not much of a distinction.
right now, i am reading and writing only some of the things i'm thinking.
only some of these words are true.
sometimes they say, suppose this is true?
in such cases, you have two examples of the same kind of sitaution.
suppose it is said the union of these two examples is happening. sometimes this union happens but sometimes it doesn't happen.
distant sirens.
but this example is still not equal to that example. it is very simple to see what is going on.
deception is going on.
this is always true, therefore there are conditions.
ohhhh. ohhhhh. ohhh. yea yeah.
well, I was in a rush.
this is dumb.
this is always true.
this is pure logic.
let's discuss law number 1.
law number 1 tells me these two examples are the same thing.
car horns.
a similar argument proves this law number 2.
law number 2 tells me these two examples are different.
i'm gonna show you this in a minute.
law number 2 can be proven by thinking.
i'm going to prove it to you with a little mathematical trickery.
that is what mathematicians do.
i could do this in words but i like to do it in numbers.
this is always true.
the beauty of this rule is that it is always true.
it is complicated, however. if you think about it, it is because you can never experience either of these kinds of examples in real life.
this is always true.
these rules are sometimes true.
this is simplified.
this was a rule made by people - a convention.
don't get nervous about that.
conventions happen sometimes.
here in mathematics they happen all the time.
there is another possible answer too:
this class is so boring.
i'll give you a moment of time.
if you just came in, you need to look at that kid's hair.
laughter.
feel the pressure on question number ten!
whoever just came in needs to answer first.
time is flying.
we're all gonna fail this class.
another question:
how many of you did the problems?
you are all geeks.
your answers are all correct.
this is only sometimes true.
i explained this very briefly before.
please go over it again.
the distinction between so-called exercises and so-called solutions is not much of a distinction.
right now, i am reading and writing only some of the things i'm thinking.
only some of these words are true.
sometimes they say, suppose this is true?
in such cases, you have two examples of the same kind of sitaution.
suppose it is said the union of these two examples is happening. sometimes this union happens but sometimes it doesn't happen.
distant sirens.
but this example is still not equal to that example. it is very simple to see what is going on.
deception is going on.
this is always true, therefore there are conditions.
ohhhh. ohhhhh. ohhh. yea yeah.
well, I was in a rush.
this is dumb.
this is always true.
this is pure logic.
let's discuss law number 1.
law number 1 tells me these two examples are the same thing.
car horns.
a similar argument proves this law number 2.
law number 2 tells me these two examples are different.
i'm gonna show you this in a minute.
law number 2 can be proven by thinking.
i'm going to prove it to you with a little mathematical trickery.
that is what mathematicians do.
i could do this in words but i like to do it in numbers.
this is always true.
the beauty of this rule is that it is always true.
it is complicated, however. if you think about it, it is because you can never experience either of these kinds of examples in real life.
this is always true.
these rules are sometimes true.
this is simplified.
this was a rule made by people - a convention.
don't get nervous about that.
conventions happen sometimes.
here in mathematics they happen all the time.
there is another possible answer too:
this class is so boring.
Monday, September 7, 2009
I was sitting in a coffee shop staring at a girl sitting a few tables away. I thought, "Should I go up to her and introduce myself?" I thought that she seemed to be involved in her newspaper and that it would be rude to interrupt her. Also, I hadn't the faintest idea what I would do after I introduced myself and was afraid that it might have gotten awkward. I sat there drinking my coffee and contemplating this for several minutes, and then she got up from her seat, threw her newspaper in the trash bin, and walked out of the coffee shop.
During my whole time staring at her I had felt self-conscious, reserved, and detached all at the same time. The intensity of my gaze upon her had been so great that I had realized that if I knew someone was staring at me I would feel very uncomfortable. And yet, it is so much easier to look at someone when there isn't a gaze reflected back at you. But then I realized that everybody else in the coffee shop was involved in completely different endeavors than staring. By the time I thought of that, the girl had left shop, and so I stood up, paid my bill, and went outside and lit a cigarette.
I got into my car and began driving aimlessly. My cell phone began to vibrate. It was Danny.
"Hey," I said.
"Hey, what's up?" he said.
"Nothing, just driving around."
"You want to hang out?"
"Sure. I'll come pick you up."
"Alright, cool. Bye."
"Bye."
When I arrived at Danny's parents house, I sat in my car in the driveway for five minutes, expecting him to come out. Then I called him, and he said, "Oh, you're here?" and hung up.
When he got in the car, we each lit a cigarette, and then I asked him what he wanted to do.
"I don't know, just drive until one of us thinks of something," he said.
I began driving up hills and hills and more hills. Eventually, I realized we were driving near the highest point in the county. I looked out over the hill we were driving on and I could see the whole city of Cuyahoga Falls laid out before me. I looked out over the thousands of beige and gray boxes and felt nothing. I then realized that Danny had been saying something to me.
"What'd you say," I asked.
"I said that it could maybe even be kind of nice to live here for the rest of my life. You know, have my own house and get married and shit."
"No, that's stupid," I said, "Then we would have kids like everyone in all those houses down there and then our kids would grow up like us, complaining about how much it sucks to live here."
"Yeah, I guess you're right."
"You want to go eat pizza?"
"Alright."
I drove to the nearest Pizza Huts and we both ordered the buffet and then we both remarked how all the other Pizza Huts had gotten rid of their buffets.
I nodded out the window at the bar across the street.
"You want to go over there after this?" I asked.
"Isn't it a little early?" asked Danny.
"If it was too early then it wouldn't be open," I replied
Danny shrugged and then he took a bite out of his bread stick. Knowing him as long as I knew him, I figured that meant that we would go to the bar.
After we had each eaten everything on our plates we got up and walked across the street to the bar. Before we went in, Danny said, "Isn't it kind of early," again, to which I said, "It's six o'clock."
Inside the bar, the lights were dim and the music was relatively loud, but neither of these things bothered me because I had gotten used to the fact that most bars were like that. The bartender was watching the six-o'clock news on a television, and I had to clear my throat in order to get his attention so that we could order our drinks.
We sat down at a table and sipped on our drinks. The news was talking about the presidential election. I squirmed around in my seat, trying to find a comfortable spot. I thought about removing my wallet from my back pocket to make the surface of my butt balanced but I was too lazy.
As we sipped on our drinks I looked at the three other people in the bar. One was the bartender, who was still gazing intently at the news on the television. Another was guy that was maybe a few years older than myself, and I suspected that he had some kind of relation to the bartender. The other person in the bar was a rather ragged looking older man who had dirty white hair and what looked like a week-old beard. I looked at his face and then I saw that he had turned around and was looking at me from his chair at the bar. He nodded his head at me and I looked away and began talking nonsense to Danny.
"I was reading about how Sartre did mescaline once and he had a bad trip," I said.
Danny gave a somewhat confused look and then he said, "Cool."
I began telling him how Sartre became obsessed with Judaism and the messiah at the end of his life, and then I noticed the older man from the bar was walking over and I was lost for words.
"How is that related to him taking mescaline?" asking Danny.
I stared at the old man as he walked over towards us. Danny noticed that I was looking oddly at something and then he too began staring at the man.
He walked up to our table, "Hi, I'm Pete, can I sit with you?"
Danny said sure, but he moved over to give the man a place to sit, but the man decided to nudge me over instead.
We all introduced ourselves and then we all sipped on our drinks in silence for about 30 seconds.
"What do you do?" Danny asked the man.
"What do you mean?" he asked.
"Like what do you do for a job?"
"I'm the bouncer here," said the man.
"Ah," Danny and I each said simultaneously.
"Yeah, I just check ID's and stuff. But I'm pretty good at guessing people's age. You are both in your mid-twenties," I would say.
"Twenty-four," said Danny.
"Twenty-five for me," I said.
"Yeah, thats what I thought," he said. "To be honest, the liquor board hardly ever comes here, so I hardly ever check. I think that if you are old enough to go and die in a war, then it should be fine if you have a drink."
"Yeah, I've always thought that was how it should be," I said and Danny concurred.
"Either of you in the military?" asked the man.
"No, no way," I said.
"Well, I was in the military, back in the 70s."
"That must have sucked," I said and I realized that he wasn't as old as he looked.
"Yeah he sure did suck," he said. "I thought I was going to go do some good, and all I ended up doing was killing people and destroying my mind for the rest of my life."
"Shit," said Danny.
"Yeah, so I wouldn't recommend it," the man said. "What do you guys do anyway," he asked.
"I just graduated college this past spring," I said.
"I am going to graduate next spring," said Danny.
The man asked me what I was doing with my degree and I said that right now the economy was bad and I was just working at a deli in New York City. He asked what I was doing in Ohio and I told him I was home for Thanksgiving. Danny said that he was home for Thanksgiving too, and then the bouncer had to get up to check the IDs of three barely-legal looking boys. Danny and I finished our drinks and walked out of the bar. We got in my car and each of us lit a cigarette.
"What do you want to do," I asked.
And he said, "I don't know, just drive around until one of us thinks of something to do."
During my whole time staring at her I had felt self-conscious, reserved, and detached all at the same time. The intensity of my gaze upon her had been so great that I had realized that if I knew someone was staring at me I would feel very uncomfortable. And yet, it is so much easier to look at someone when there isn't a gaze reflected back at you. But then I realized that everybody else in the coffee shop was involved in completely different endeavors than staring. By the time I thought of that, the girl had left shop, and so I stood up, paid my bill, and went outside and lit a cigarette.
I got into my car and began driving aimlessly. My cell phone began to vibrate. It was Danny.
"Hey," I said.
"Hey, what's up?" he said.
"Nothing, just driving around."
"You want to hang out?"
"Sure. I'll come pick you up."
"Alright, cool. Bye."
"Bye."
When I arrived at Danny's parents house, I sat in my car in the driveway for five minutes, expecting him to come out. Then I called him, and he said, "Oh, you're here?" and hung up.
When he got in the car, we each lit a cigarette, and then I asked him what he wanted to do.
"I don't know, just drive until one of us thinks of something," he said.
I began driving up hills and hills and more hills. Eventually, I realized we were driving near the highest point in the county. I looked out over the hill we were driving on and I could see the whole city of Cuyahoga Falls laid out before me. I looked out over the thousands of beige and gray boxes and felt nothing. I then realized that Danny had been saying something to me.
"What'd you say," I asked.
"I said that it could maybe even be kind of nice to live here for the rest of my life. You know, have my own house and get married and shit."
"No, that's stupid," I said, "Then we would have kids like everyone in all those houses down there and then our kids would grow up like us, complaining about how much it sucks to live here."
"Yeah, I guess you're right."
"You want to go eat pizza?"
"Alright."
I drove to the nearest Pizza Huts and we both ordered the buffet and then we both remarked how all the other Pizza Huts had gotten rid of their buffets.
I nodded out the window at the bar across the street.
"You want to go over there after this?" I asked.
"Isn't it a little early?" asked Danny.
"If it was too early then it wouldn't be open," I replied
Danny shrugged and then he took a bite out of his bread stick. Knowing him as long as I knew him, I figured that meant that we would go to the bar.
After we had each eaten everything on our plates we got up and walked across the street to the bar. Before we went in, Danny said, "Isn't it kind of early," again, to which I said, "It's six o'clock."
Inside the bar, the lights were dim and the music was relatively loud, but neither of these things bothered me because I had gotten used to the fact that most bars were like that. The bartender was watching the six-o'clock news on a television, and I had to clear my throat in order to get his attention so that we could order our drinks.
We sat down at a table and sipped on our drinks. The news was talking about the presidential election. I squirmed around in my seat, trying to find a comfortable spot. I thought about removing my wallet from my back pocket to make the surface of my butt balanced but I was too lazy.
As we sipped on our drinks I looked at the three other people in the bar. One was the bartender, who was still gazing intently at the news on the television. Another was guy that was maybe a few years older than myself, and I suspected that he had some kind of relation to the bartender. The other person in the bar was a rather ragged looking older man who had dirty white hair and what looked like a week-old beard. I looked at his face and then I saw that he had turned around and was looking at me from his chair at the bar. He nodded his head at me and I looked away and began talking nonsense to Danny.
"I was reading about how Sartre did mescaline once and he had a bad trip," I said.
Danny gave a somewhat confused look and then he said, "Cool."
I began telling him how Sartre became obsessed with Judaism and the messiah at the end of his life, and then I noticed the older man from the bar was walking over and I was lost for words.
"How is that related to him taking mescaline?" asking Danny.
I stared at the old man as he walked over towards us. Danny noticed that I was looking oddly at something and then he too began staring at the man.
He walked up to our table, "Hi, I'm Pete, can I sit with you?"
Danny said sure, but he moved over to give the man a place to sit, but the man decided to nudge me over instead.
We all introduced ourselves and then we all sipped on our drinks in silence for about 30 seconds.
"What do you do?" Danny asked the man.
"What do you mean?" he asked.
"Like what do you do for a job?"
"I'm the bouncer here," said the man.
"Ah," Danny and I each said simultaneously.
"Yeah, I just check ID's and stuff. But I'm pretty good at guessing people's age. You are both in your mid-twenties," I would say.
"Twenty-four," said Danny.
"Twenty-five for me," I said.
"Yeah, thats what I thought," he said. "To be honest, the liquor board hardly ever comes here, so I hardly ever check. I think that if you are old enough to go and die in a war, then it should be fine if you have a drink."
"Yeah, I've always thought that was how it should be," I said and Danny concurred.
"Either of you in the military?" asked the man.
"No, no way," I said.
"Well, I was in the military, back in the 70s."
"That must have sucked," I said and I realized that he wasn't as old as he looked.
"Yeah he sure did suck," he said. "I thought I was going to go do some good, and all I ended up doing was killing people and destroying my mind for the rest of my life."
"Shit," said Danny.
"Yeah, so I wouldn't recommend it," the man said. "What do you guys do anyway," he asked.
"I just graduated college this past spring," I said.
"I am going to graduate next spring," said Danny.
The man asked me what I was doing with my degree and I said that right now the economy was bad and I was just working at a deli in New York City. He asked what I was doing in Ohio and I told him I was home for Thanksgiving. Danny said that he was home for Thanksgiving too, and then the bouncer had to get up to check the IDs of three barely-legal looking boys. Danny and I finished our drinks and walked out of the bar. We got in my car and each of us lit a cigarette.
"What do you want to do," I asked.
And he said, "I don't know, just drive around until one of us thinks of something to do."
Monday, August 31, 2009
ob stands under the streetlight smoking a cigarette. The streetlight is off, despite the fact that it is beginning to get dark out.
He feels a vibration in his pocket. It is his phone. Mark is calling him.
"Hey," says Bob.
"Hey," says Mark.
"What's up?"
"Nothing. You want to come over and get drunk with me and Kaley and Gene?"
"Sure. I'll be over in half an hour or so."
"Ok. Later."
"Bye."
Bob walks to the nearest bus stop. While waiting for a bus he sees a group of Orthodox Jewish males walking across the street. At least he thinks they are Orthodox Jews because they have long beards.
He sits down on the bus stop bench next to a lady with red hair. He begins looking at her legs but then she begins to turn slightly towards him, so he pretends to be scratching his eyes.
His bus comes and he rides it for nine blocks and then gets off. He then waits for his next bus. No one is waiting at that bus stop. He whispers to himself, "Motherfuckers."
His next bus comes and he rides it for eight blocks and then he gets off and walks four blocks to Mark's apartment.
He knocks on Mark's door. A girl named Kaley opens it.
"Hi!" says Kaley.
"Hey," says Bob.
He walks in and says hello to everyone and then finds an empty chair. They all seem deeply involved in some kind of horror movie. Except for Kaley, who looks bored and tired. Bob doesn't try to catch up with the film. Instead, he just watches the expressions on everyone's faces.
Twenty minutes later the movie is done, and everyone says how much they liked it. Bob doesn't care and he remains silent.
The conversation then veers into other movies. Then they all get bored talking about movies and no one says anything for fifteen seconds.
"So what do you guys want to do tonight?" asks Mark.
"I want to go to the bar," says Kaley.
"I don't want to spend money on drinks," says Gene.
"Me neither," says Bob.
Mark looks perplexed. "We could just go see Halloween again."
"But we can't drink in the movie theatre," says Bob.
"Yeah, that's right," says Mark.
"Remember when we used to be allowed to drink in movie theatres?" says Bob.
"We weren't alive then. I don't know if that was ever legal," says Mark.
"Everything used to be legal," says Bob.
"What is that supposed to mean?" says Kaley.
"Well, there was a time before the state and before laws or any of that stuff wasn't there?" says Bob.
"I guess," says Kaley.
"Well then, there used to be no laws prohibiting drinking in theatres a long time ago."
"But there weren't even movie theatres back then," says Mark.
Bob says,"Yeah, but just think about it....I don't know...I think I've had to much to drink."
He feels a vibration in his pocket. It is his phone. Mark is calling him.
"Hey," says Bob.
"Hey," says Mark.
"What's up?"
"Nothing. You want to come over and get drunk with me and Kaley and Gene?"
"Sure. I'll be over in half an hour or so."
"Ok. Later."
"Bye."
Bob walks to the nearest bus stop. While waiting for a bus he sees a group of Orthodox Jewish males walking across the street. At least he thinks they are Orthodox Jews because they have long beards.
He sits down on the bus stop bench next to a lady with red hair. He begins looking at her legs but then she begins to turn slightly towards him, so he pretends to be scratching his eyes.
His bus comes and he rides it for nine blocks and then gets off. He then waits for his next bus. No one is waiting at that bus stop. He whispers to himself, "Motherfuckers."
His next bus comes and he rides it for eight blocks and then he gets off and walks four blocks to Mark's apartment.
He knocks on Mark's door. A girl named Kaley opens it.
"Hi!" says Kaley.
"Hey," says Bob.
He walks in and says hello to everyone and then finds an empty chair. They all seem deeply involved in some kind of horror movie. Except for Kaley, who looks bored and tired. Bob doesn't try to catch up with the film. Instead, he just watches the expressions on everyone's faces.
Twenty minutes later the movie is done, and everyone says how much they liked it. Bob doesn't care and he remains silent.
The conversation then veers into other movies. Then they all get bored talking about movies and no one says anything for fifteen seconds.
"So what do you guys want to do tonight?" asks Mark.
"I want to go to the bar," says Kaley.
"I don't want to spend money on drinks," says Gene.
"Me neither," says Bob.
Mark looks perplexed. "We could just go see Halloween again."
"But we can't drink in the movie theatre," says Bob.
"Yeah, that's right," says Mark.
"Remember when we used to be allowed to drink in movie theatres?" says Bob.
"We weren't alive then. I don't know if that was ever legal," says Mark.
"Everything used to be legal," says Bob.
"What is that supposed to mean?" says Kaley.
"Well, there was a time before the state and before laws or any of that stuff wasn't there?" says Bob.
"I guess," says Kaley.
"Well then, there used to be no laws prohibiting drinking in theatres a long time ago."
"But there weren't even movie theatres back then," says Mark.
Bob says,"Yeah, but just think about it....I don't know...I think I've had to much to drink."
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
An overwhelming feeling of deja vu seems to be haunting Bob more and more frequently. As he opens his eyes in the morning. The clock says, "8:14." He thinks, "I opened my eyes exactly like this either yesterday or the day before at 8:14."
He walks into the bathroom and turns on the shower. He puts his hand in the water to make sure it is hot. He takes off his clothes, turns off the light in the bathroom, and steps into the shower. He stands motionless with his back to the shower head for several minutes before he shampoos his hair. These are all choices he has made freely and originally, but that feeling of deja vu continues to sweep over him. He can't remember making the same choices any other morning, but yet it seems that he has made them a thousand times.
A pepperoni sandwich for lunch, a quesadilla dinner. He knows for a fact that he's eaten those exact same meals before but he can't remember where or when.
"Hi, I would like two pounds of apple-cured bacon...Hello?"
Bob turns his eyes to the right and sees a woman smiling at him. He has been daydreaming for several minutes. He blinks.
"Ok."
Bob bends down into the meat case and grabs a handful of bacon. He weighs it. It weighs one and a half pounds. He takes a smaller handful and then puts it in a bag, weighs it, puts a sticker on it, and gives it to the lady.
"Anything else?" he asks.
"No thats all for today."
"Have a good night."
"You too."
Bob watches as the woman leaves the deli. He looks up at the clock. It says 8:14. He only has one hour and forty-six minutes left to work.
He turns to April. April is a forty-two year old mother who works in the deli with Bob. She isn't as fun to look at as Margo, but she is not ugly at all and she is able to carry on a meaningful conversation. She and Bob share the distinction of being the only two people who work at the deli that have college degrees.
"Hey, April?"
"Yeah?"
"Will you marry me?"
"No."
"Fuck."
"I think I might have asked you that before."
"I don't think so."
"Oh."
Bob grabs a broom and begins to sweep so that he looks busy. April is cutting stacks of cheese. She looks really bored. Bob is really bored too.
"Margo really sucks to work with; she's so lazy," he says.
"I don't mind her."
"Yeah, neither do I."
"You just said you did."
"Yeah, but I was just feeling you out."
"Oh," she says.
"Do you ever get moments of deja vu?"
"Not too much anymore."
"I've been getting them a lot lately."
"You know it could just be you're getting tired of a routine."
"I don't have a routine," he says.
"Oh."
"I mean I do a lot of the same stuff everyday, but not in the exact same way."
"Does that matter?"
"No, I guess it doesn't."
"It could mean you're a psychic. At least that's what I heard," she says.
"No I can't see the future, I can only remember something from the past, except I can't even really remember it, I just know that it happened."
"It also could mean you're reincarnated."
"You mean like in a past life I was a roach or a pebbler or a rodent?" he asks.
"Yeah, something like that."
"Well then, how come I can remember activities that only a modern industrialized man, such as playing tetrus."
"I don't know. I don't believe in that stuff anyway. I was just leading you on" she says.
"Yeah, no one believes in psychics or reincarnation anyway."
"Well, someone must. They each seem to be fairly profitable ideas."
"Yeah, I guess."
"I'm bored," says April.
"Me too," says Bob, "This will be the summer to remember. We will tell our grandchildren about it someday."
April laughs and says, "The summer of 2008. We'll never forget you!"
He walks into the bathroom and turns on the shower. He puts his hand in the water to make sure it is hot. He takes off his clothes, turns off the light in the bathroom, and steps into the shower. He stands motionless with his back to the shower head for several minutes before he shampoos his hair. These are all choices he has made freely and originally, but that feeling of deja vu continues to sweep over him. He can't remember making the same choices any other morning, but yet it seems that he has made them a thousand times.
A pepperoni sandwich for lunch, a quesadilla dinner. He knows for a fact that he's eaten those exact same meals before but he can't remember where or when.
"Hi, I would like two pounds of apple-cured bacon...Hello?"
Bob turns his eyes to the right and sees a woman smiling at him. He has been daydreaming for several minutes. He blinks.
"Ok."
Bob bends down into the meat case and grabs a handful of bacon. He weighs it. It weighs one and a half pounds. He takes a smaller handful and then puts it in a bag, weighs it, puts a sticker on it, and gives it to the lady.
"Anything else?" he asks.
"No thats all for today."
"Have a good night."
"You too."
Bob watches as the woman leaves the deli. He looks up at the clock. It says 8:14. He only has one hour and forty-six minutes left to work.
He turns to April. April is a forty-two year old mother who works in the deli with Bob. She isn't as fun to look at as Margo, but she is not ugly at all and she is able to carry on a meaningful conversation. She and Bob share the distinction of being the only two people who work at the deli that have college degrees.
"Hey, April?"
"Yeah?"
"Will you marry me?"
"No."
"Fuck."
"I think I might have asked you that before."
"I don't think so."
"Oh."
Bob grabs a broom and begins to sweep so that he looks busy. April is cutting stacks of cheese. She looks really bored. Bob is really bored too.
"Margo really sucks to work with; she's so lazy," he says.
"I don't mind her."
"Yeah, neither do I."
"You just said you did."
"Yeah, but I was just feeling you out."
"Oh," she says.
"Do you ever get moments of deja vu?"
"Not too much anymore."
"I've been getting them a lot lately."
"You know it could just be you're getting tired of a routine."
"I don't have a routine," he says.
"Oh."
"I mean I do a lot of the same stuff everyday, but not in the exact same way."
"Does that matter?"
"No, I guess it doesn't."
"It could mean you're a psychic. At least that's what I heard," she says.
"No I can't see the future, I can only remember something from the past, except I can't even really remember it, I just know that it happened."
"It also could mean you're reincarnated."
"You mean like in a past life I was a roach or a pebbler or a rodent?" he asks.
"Yeah, something like that."
"Well then, how come I can remember activities that only a modern industrialized man, such as playing tetrus."
"I don't know. I don't believe in that stuff anyway. I was just leading you on" she says.
"Yeah, no one believes in psychics or reincarnation anyway."
"Well, someone must. They each seem to be fairly profitable ideas."
"Yeah, I guess."
"I'm bored," says April.
"Me too," says Bob, "This will be the summer to remember. We will tell our grandchildren about it someday."
April laughs and says, "The summer of 2008. We'll never forget you!"
Monday, August 17, 2009
“You need to shave.”
These words interrupt Bob’s daydreams. He has been cutting cheese on a cheese slicer at the deli, gazing at each piece of cheese as it falls, thinking about Karl Marx’s sex life. Could he have had one?
“Did you hear me, Bob? You need to shave for now on before you come into work,” says Jack, the manager of the deli.
“I did shave today,” Bob says. He didn’t. He doesn’t know why he said that. He could have just as easily have said, “Okay.”
“C’mon,” says Jack, looking skeptical and confused.
“This is an afternoon shadow,” says Bob.
“Well, just make sure you shave before work for now on.”
“Okay.”
Jack walks to the back of the deli and into his office. Bob looks at the clock. 5:00—only five more hours. He’s almost halfway through his shift.
He continues cutting cheese. He cuts a piece of cheese and puts it to the side of the slicer and then cuts more pieces of cheese and stacks them on top of it. He begins to daydream again. He thinks about feminism, and wonders what it can do to help his sex life. He thinks about having a boner.
“I’m going on break,” says Margo. Margo is a girl who works at the deli with Bob.
“Okay.”
Bob watches Margo as she takes off her apron and walks outside for her break. He should ask Margo out. He should ask someone out. He returns his focus to cutting cheese.
“I’d like two pounds of chip chop ham.”
Bob looks up, startled. A fat woman is standing on the other side of the counter. He goes over to the meat slicer and cuts her two pounds of chip chop ham. He walks over and puts it on a scale.
‘Those slices are way too thick,” says the woman.
“That’s how we normally cut it,” says Bob.
“And people buy that?”
“Well, yeah.”
The woman gives him a suspicious look and then says, “Well, that just won’t work for me.”
Bob goes back to the slicer and cuts another two pounds. He cuts it so thin that he can barely see the slices. It is amazing that he even knows they are there. He takes the new two pounds of chip chop ham over to the scale.
“This look good?” says Bob.
“Well, it will work, I guess,” says the woman.
“Anything else for you today?”
“Oh yes. Yes. I need two pounds of cheddar cheese.”
Bob cuts two pounds of cheddar cheese and gives it to her.
“Anything else today?”
“Oh yes. Yes. One pound of potato salad.”
He scoops her one pound of potato salad and weighs it.
Fourteen ninety-seven is your total. Anything else?”
“No. No. That’s all.”
She gives Bob a twenty and he gives her the change.
“Have a nice night,” he says.
“You too.”
Bob feels her response was sarcastic, and he knows that he had been sarcastic. He wants to kill her. He wanted to stab her with a knife the entire time he was waiting on her.She probably takes pleasure in the fact that he has to be at work on a nice afternoon like this.
He returns to his cheese. After slicing several loaves of cheese he takes the stacks of the cheese he sliced and begins putting them into one pound stacks. He gazes out the window of deli and thinks about nothing.
Margo returns from break. She puts on her apron and turns to him.
“Did you hear about Obama?”
“What? That he’s half-white?” says Bob.
“Ha, yeah, think how many more votes he would have got if that was true,” she says.
Bob winces. She is misinformed. But he feels too lazy to inform her of her mistake.
“He’s going to raise taxes,” she says.
“Who told you that?”
“A man at the bakery. I went there to get a muffin, and yeah, he told me that.”
Bob stares questioningly at Margo. He wonders what kind of muffin she ate.
“Do you think it’s true?’ she asks Bob.
“Well, if he did, he’d be breaking his campaign promise, and you know how politicians never lie.”
“You’re kidding, right?”
“Yes.”
“Why do you always have to make a joke about everything I say?”
“I don’t know.”
Margo rolls her eyes and goes over to the meat slicer and begins cutting roast beef. Bob looks at her ass. She has a nice ass. He wants to touch it. He never will.
He sits and stares at the cheese as he cuts it for several minutes. The silence is uncomfortable.
“Hey,” he says.
“Yeah?”
“Which do you like more: this job or your other job ?’
“I like working at Arby’s more.”
“Why?” asks Bob, “Because it’s easier?”
“Well sort of…”
“Because it’s more efficient and less complicated?”
“Yes.”
“I think humans like things that way.”
“I know I do.”
“But isn’t chaos good, sometimes?”
“Like anarachy? Everyone fucking and killing whoever they want with no consequence?” she says.
“I don’t think that is really anarachy….”
“What is anarchy ” asks Margo.
“I don’t know. Chaos.”
“When I think of chaos I think of riots.”
“When I think of chaos I visualize someone slowly pouring water on an anthill.”
“That’s terrible, how can you even—“
Margo stops and looks over at the counter. A guy, who looks to be in his mid-twenties, waves to her. He is wearing a light blue dress shirt and khakis. He looks like a douchebag. Margo goes over to him and they begin what looks like an animated conversation.
Bob wishes he were that guy, coming to the deli to talk to Margo, glancing indifferently at the other worker with an air of superiority at how he doesn’t have to work at the deli.
The guy didn’t give a look of indifference to Bob, because he didn’t even look at him at all.
Margo leans over and kisses the guy on the cheek and then waves goodbye to him as he walks out the front of the deli. Bob pretends to be busy concentrating on his cheese cutting.
“That was my boyfriend.”
Bob looks up, pretending to be startled that she was directing her words towards him.
“Oh really? I didn’t know you have a boyfriend.”
“Yeah, his name is Marcus. We’ve been going out for a couple of months.”
“Hmmm.”
“He goes to law school across town at Columbia.”
“Where did he go to college?”
“Oberlin.”
Bob smiles. Oberlin is in Ohio. He used to live in Ohio. He got out of there right after high school. Ohio sucks. Marcus paid to go to college in Ohio. What a loser. Bob regrets having ever felt inferior to Marcus, and is pretty sure they he never did.
“Why are you smiling?”
“That’s my home state.”
“Oh yeah. Well, he’s very smart. He always picks the best movies.”
“Like what?”
“Last night we watched Fight Club.”
“I hate that movie.”
“Well it was the first time I saw it, and I thought it was amazing.”
“It’s horrible.”
Margo looks around as if she knows there is something better to be doing than talking to Bob.
“How long have you guys been dating?” asks Bob.
“A month or two.”
Bob looks at the clock. It is almost six.
“I’m going on break,” he says.
“Okay.”
He walks out of the deli and lights a cigarette. He has half an hour to do whatever he wants. He thinks about walking to the bistro ten blocks away, but he knows he wouldn’t have enough time to make it there and back. He considers going across the street to the bakery to get a muffin, but that seems too close and too simple.
He leans against the window and continues smoking his cigarette. He tries to figure out what emotion he is feeling. He feels nothing.
He finishes his first cigarette and begins smoking another one. He runs his hand through his hair. He finishes the cigarette and looks at his cell phone to see the time. His break is already halfway over. With so little time, he has no other option than to walk across the street to the bakery.
He walks into the bakery and goes up to the counter. He orders a doughnut instead of a muffin. He thinks he might be feeling like shit, so perhaps a doughnut will raise his spirits. He thinks that perhaps doughnuts are happy and animated in comparison to muffins,. He walks down the counter to the cash register.
“Two dollars,” says the cashier.
“Really?” says Bob.
“Yes,” says the cashier, “Two dollars.”
Bob pays the cashier and then stuffs the entire doughnut in his mouth. The doughnut hasn’t made him feel better. In fact, he now feels fat and lazy. He is lazy. He should do something sometime.
He walks outside and lights another cigarette and opens his copy of Rimbaud’s A Season In Hell and reads that for the remainder of his break.
These words interrupt Bob’s daydreams. He has been cutting cheese on a cheese slicer at the deli, gazing at each piece of cheese as it falls, thinking about Karl Marx’s sex life. Could he have had one?
“Did you hear me, Bob? You need to shave for now on before you come into work,” says Jack, the manager of the deli.
“I did shave today,” Bob says. He didn’t. He doesn’t know why he said that. He could have just as easily have said, “Okay.”
“C’mon,” says Jack, looking skeptical and confused.
“This is an afternoon shadow,” says Bob.
“Well, just make sure you shave before work for now on.”
“Okay.”
Jack walks to the back of the deli and into his office. Bob looks at the clock. 5:00—only five more hours. He’s almost halfway through his shift.
He continues cutting cheese. He cuts a piece of cheese and puts it to the side of the slicer and then cuts more pieces of cheese and stacks them on top of it. He begins to daydream again. He thinks about feminism, and wonders what it can do to help his sex life. He thinks about having a boner.
“I’m going on break,” says Margo. Margo is a girl who works at the deli with Bob.
“Okay.”
Bob watches Margo as she takes off her apron and walks outside for her break. He should ask Margo out. He should ask someone out. He returns his focus to cutting cheese.
“I’d like two pounds of chip chop ham.”
Bob looks up, startled. A fat woman is standing on the other side of the counter. He goes over to the meat slicer and cuts her two pounds of chip chop ham. He walks over and puts it on a scale.
‘Those slices are way too thick,” says the woman.
“That’s how we normally cut it,” says Bob.
“And people buy that?”
“Well, yeah.”
The woman gives him a suspicious look and then says, “Well, that just won’t work for me.”
Bob goes back to the slicer and cuts another two pounds. He cuts it so thin that he can barely see the slices. It is amazing that he even knows they are there. He takes the new two pounds of chip chop ham over to the scale.
“This look good?” says Bob.
“Well, it will work, I guess,” says the woman.
“Anything else for you today?”
“Oh yes. Yes. I need two pounds of cheddar cheese.”
Bob cuts two pounds of cheddar cheese and gives it to her.
“Anything else today?”
“Oh yes. Yes. One pound of potato salad.”
He scoops her one pound of potato salad and weighs it.
Fourteen ninety-seven is your total. Anything else?”
“No. No. That’s all.”
She gives Bob a twenty and he gives her the change.
“Have a nice night,” he says.
“You too.”
Bob feels her response was sarcastic, and he knows that he had been sarcastic. He wants to kill her. He wanted to stab her with a knife the entire time he was waiting on her.She probably takes pleasure in the fact that he has to be at work on a nice afternoon like this.
He returns to his cheese. After slicing several loaves of cheese he takes the stacks of the cheese he sliced and begins putting them into one pound stacks. He gazes out the window of deli and thinks about nothing.
Margo returns from break. She puts on her apron and turns to him.
“Did you hear about Obama?”
“What? That he’s half-white?” says Bob.
“Ha, yeah, think how many more votes he would have got if that was true,” she says.
Bob winces. She is misinformed. But he feels too lazy to inform her of her mistake.
“He’s going to raise taxes,” she says.
“Who told you that?”
“A man at the bakery. I went there to get a muffin, and yeah, he told me that.”
Bob stares questioningly at Margo. He wonders what kind of muffin she ate.
“Do you think it’s true?’ she asks Bob.
“Well, if he did, he’d be breaking his campaign promise, and you know how politicians never lie.”
“You’re kidding, right?”
“Yes.”
“Why do you always have to make a joke about everything I say?”
“I don’t know.”
Margo rolls her eyes and goes over to the meat slicer and begins cutting roast beef. Bob looks at her ass. She has a nice ass. He wants to touch it. He never will.
He sits and stares at the cheese as he cuts it for several minutes. The silence is uncomfortable.
“Hey,” he says.
“Yeah?”
“Which do you like more: this job or your other job ?’
“I like working at Arby’s more.”
“Why?” asks Bob, “Because it’s easier?”
“Well sort of…”
“Because it’s more efficient and less complicated?”
“Yes.”
“I think humans like things that way.”
“I know I do.”
“But isn’t chaos good, sometimes?”
“Like anarachy? Everyone fucking and killing whoever they want with no consequence?” she says.
“I don’t think that is really anarachy….”
“What is anarchy ” asks Margo.
“I don’t know. Chaos.”
“When I think of chaos I think of riots.”
“When I think of chaos I visualize someone slowly pouring water on an anthill.”
“That’s terrible, how can you even—“
Margo stops and looks over at the counter. A guy, who looks to be in his mid-twenties, waves to her. He is wearing a light blue dress shirt and khakis. He looks like a douchebag. Margo goes over to him and they begin what looks like an animated conversation.
Bob wishes he were that guy, coming to the deli to talk to Margo, glancing indifferently at the other worker with an air of superiority at how he doesn’t have to work at the deli.
The guy didn’t give a look of indifference to Bob, because he didn’t even look at him at all.
Margo leans over and kisses the guy on the cheek and then waves goodbye to him as he walks out the front of the deli. Bob pretends to be busy concentrating on his cheese cutting.
“That was my boyfriend.”
Bob looks up, pretending to be startled that she was directing her words towards him.
“Oh really? I didn’t know you have a boyfriend.”
“Yeah, his name is Marcus. We’ve been going out for a couple of months.”
“Hmmm.”
“He goes to law school across town at Columbia.”
“Where did he go to college?”
“Oberlin.”
Bob smiles. Oberlin is in Ohio. He used to live in Ohio. He got out of there right after high school. Ohio sucks. Marcus paid to go to college in Ohio. What a loser. Bob regrets having ever felt inferior to Marcus, and is pretty sure they he never did.
“Why are you smiling?”
“That’s my home state.”
“Oh yeah. Well, he’s very smart. He always picks the best movies.”
“Like what?”
“Last night we watched Fight Club.”
“I hate that movie.”
“Well it was the first time I saw it, and I thought it was amazing.”
“It’s horrible.”
Margo looks around as if she knows there is something better to be doing than talking to Bob.
“How long have you guys been dating?” asks Bob.
“A month or two.”
Bob looks at the clock. It is almost six.
“I’m going on break,” he says.
“Okay.”
He walks out of the deli and lights a cigarette. He has half an hour to do whatever he wants. He thinks about walking to the bistro ten blocks away, but he knows he wouldn’t have enough time to make it there and back. He considers going across the street to the bakery to get a muffin, but that seems too close and too simple.
He leans against the window and continues smoking his cigarette. He tries to figure out what emotion he is feeling. He feels nothing.
He finishes his first cigarette and begins smoking another one. He runs his hand through his hair. He finishes the cigarette and looks at his cell phone to see the time. His break is already halfway over. With so little time, he has no other option than to walk across the street to the bakery.
He walks into the bakery and goes up to the counter. He orders a doughnut instead of a muffin. He thinks he might be feeling like shit, so perhaps a doughnut will raise his spirits. He thinks that perhaps doughnuts are happy and animated in comparison to muffins,. He walks down the counter to the cash register.
“Two dollars,” says the cashier.
“Really?” says Bob.
“Yes,” says the cashier, “Two dollars.”
Bob pays the cashier and then stuffs the entire doughnut in his mouth. The doughnut hasn’t made him feel better. In fact, he now feels fat and lazy. He is lazy. He should do something sometime.
He walks outside and lights another cigarette and opens his copy of Rimbaud’s A Season In Hell and reads that for the remainder of his break.
Tuesday, August 4, 2009
hunt deer
deerhunter is art-rock in one of its truest forms. like the velvet underground of today, bradford cox and his ensemble blend poetry and waxy, shimmering music into a swirl of aural enchantment. they create canvases of sound; dark and looming, like an impressionist painting of an impending storm over the calm blue of the ocean.
Thursday, July 23, 2009
short stories
- when i was seven all i wanted to be was eight.
- i woke up this morning, sneezed and looked around for a tissue - there were none to be had.
- i chased a duck when i was in pre-school once - it bit my cock.
- the night michael jackson died, someone's facebook status said, "You can do it, MJ". I googled michael jordan immediately, but he was fine.
- my first kiss was behind the slides at the playground; we decided to stare into each other's eyes until we fell in love.
- the breakdown in cyndi lauper's "girls just want to have fun" gives me the chills.
- i briefly felt the satisfaction of having landed the ollie off the box before i stood up and looked at my hand; all my fingers were wrenched backwards and my eyes burst from my skull.
- the first thing i did when i took off my glove to see why my finger was hurting and saw that it was twisted around my other fingers in a manner not physically possible was whip out my cell phone and take a picture.
- when i fell into the rapids and the brown, frothing water was swirling like ten foot walls 360 degrees around me i screamed, inhaling the muddy, bubbling liquid into my lungs. no one heard me.
- i want to be sitting on a white-sand beach, looking out at clear, turquoise water, drinking a piña colada from a coconut.
- i briefly dated this girl i wasn't really interested in in ninth or tenth grade, and when she asked me if i loved her i said, "Yes."
- i've been listening to music in headphones again, even when i am alone.
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
dont count your chickens
a balloon
A small one
That will inflate
With a kiss
It will expand
And rise above
To new views
New frontiers
But tomorrow
Let go
It will flop
Agitated and cold
Flounder and fall
Becoming the used
Empty skin
Disabled at such a young age
A small one
That will inflate
With a kiss
It will expand
And rise above
To new views
New frontiers
But tomorrow
Let go
It will flop
Agitated and cold
Flounder and fall
Becoming the used
Empty skin
Disabled at such a young age
Monday, July 13, 2009
Gray Ynn Meadow
its always strange,
walking a room full of determined producers ( at least for the 20 minute's they're in )
each one in they're own sphere of needs and wants
of course were all here for the same ball park reason,
some may have particulars that brought that here
but in the end were all washing off the same sweat.
walking a room full of determined producers ( at least for the 20 minute's they're in )
each one in they're own sphere of needs and wants
of course were all here for the same ball park reason,
some may have particulars that brought that here
but in the end were all washing off the same sweat.
Sunday, July 12, 2009
Saturday, July 11, 2009
starving
naked in bed
eyes open
trying to fall asleep
squirming like a turtle that is caught in its shell
six hours of staring at the ceiling
breakfast
an omelet and a bowl of cereal
cigarette
two dollars for the bus
firetrucks parked outside an apartment building
smoke billowing from a fourth floor window
the Barnes and nobles is the same as always
they don't have any books by Ann beattie or Kathy acker or pretty much any women
the Mexican restaurant is the same as always
enchilads are five dollars
chips and salsa are free
water is free
beer costs three dollars
the dollar store is the same as always
generic peanut butter cups are one dollar
holographic diffraction grafting glasses are one dollar
beer and cigarettes are not sold at the dollar store
naked in bed
eyes open
trying to fall asleep
squirming like a turtle that is caught in its shell
six hours of staring at the ceiling
breakfast
an omelet and a bowl of cereal
cigarette
two dollars for the bus
firetrucks parked outside an apartment building
smoke billowing from a fourth floor window
the Barnes and nobles is the same as always
they don't have any books by Ann beattie or Kathy acker or pretty much any women
the Mexican restaurant is the same as always
enchilads are five dollars
chips and salsa are free
water is free
beer costs three dollars
the dollar store is the same as always
generic peanut butter cups are one dollar
holographic diffraction grafting glasses are one dollar
beer and cigarettes are not sold at the dollar store
i feel ambiguous
i went into work today and i couldn't tell if i seemed engaged or detached
i felt very detached in a very engaging way
when i looked into the eyes of a fellow worker i could tell that we were only communicating on a very superficial level
then again, he might have felt detached too
i am sitting at my desk and i am thinking of picking up my phone and calling alice
i have been thinking about calling alice for years now
i take a sip of my beer
i am not going to call alice
i chug the rest of my beer and call alice
the phone keeps ringing and then goes to the voicemail
i hang up immediately
perhaps she will never even know that i called and then it won't be awkward
i sit at my desk and stare at the computer screen
my eyes become glazed on the monitor
my phone begins vibrating
i jump out of the chair in shock
it is alice calling me
i sit back down in the chair and play it cool
i pick up the phone
"hello?"
"hi, bob, it's alice. you called me?"
"umm, yeah..."
"what's up?"
"nothing. nothing at all. why do you ask?"
"well my phone said i had a missed call from you, so i was calling you back."
"oh yeah, i did call you. i was just seeing what you were up to."
"oh, well right now i'm at the bar with my friends."
"oh okay."
"did you need something?"
"oh not really, i was just seeing what you were up to and if maybe you'd like to hang out sometime."
"oh yeah, sure. we should do that."
"cool."
"cool. well, my friends are talking to me now, so i better go, but i'll call you soon, okay?"
"okay. bye, bye."
"bye, bye."
i slowly close my phone and stare at it.
i wait for it to vibrate again.
i want her to call me back, saying she will leave her friends and come to me.
i fall asleep with my head against the desk.
i went into work today and i couldn't tell if i seemed engaged or detached
i felt very detached in a very engaging way
when i looked into the eyes of a fellow worker i could tell that we were only communicating on a very superficial level
then again, he might have felt detached too
i am sitting at my desk and i am thinking of picking up my phone and calling alice
i have been thinking about calling alice for years now
i take a sip of my beer
i am not going to call alice
i chug the rest of my beer and call alice
the phone keeps ringing and then goes to the voicemail
i hang up immediately
perhaps she will never even know that i called and then it won't be awkward
i sit at my desk and stare at the computer screen
my eyes become glazed on the monitor
my phone begins vibrating
i jump out of the chair in shock
it is alice calling me
i sit back down in the chair and play it cool
i pick up the phone
"hello?"
"hi, bob, it's alice. you called me?"
"umm, yeah..."
"what's up?"
"nothing. nothing at all. why do you ask?"
"well my phone said i had a missed call from you, so i was calling you back."
"oh yeah, i did call you. i was just seeing what you were up to."
"oh, well right now i'm at the bar with my friends."
"oh okay."
"did you need something?"
"oh not really, i was just seeing what you were up to and if maybe you'd like to hang out sometime."
"oh yeah, sure. we should do that."
"cool."
"cool. well, my friends are talking to me now, so i better go, but i'll call you soon, okay?"
"okay. bye, bye."
"bye, bye."
i slowly close my phone and stare at it.
i wait for it to vibrate again.
i want her to call me back, saying she will leave her friends and come to me.
i fall asleep with my head against the desk.
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
why are those people laughing?
i squint my eyes at them, trying to figure it out
why is the wind blowing so hard?
i continue to walk in a straight line as if i dont even notice
why did that car just honk?
i check my fly to make sure my penis isn't hanging out
why does this food taste like it is plastic?
i throw my meal down in a trash can
everything outside of myself seems to be oppressive and i want to go back to my bed
i squint my eyes at them, trying to figure it out
why is the wind blowing so hard?
i continue to walk in a straight line as if i dont even notice
why did that car just honk?
i check my fly to make sure my penis isn't hanging out
why does this food taste like it is plastic?
i throw my meal down in a trash can
everything outside of myself seems to be oppressive and i want to go back to my bed
Monday, July 6, 2009
Saturday, July 4, 2009
when i think of the fourth of july
i think of assholes shooting off fireworks and thinking they're cool
i stand watching them while i smoke a cigarette, thinking that i am cool
when i think of america
i think of assholes shooting off fireworks and thinking they are cool
i stand watching them while i smoke a cigarette, thinking that i am cool
the moon is brighter than all of the fireworks
i like the moon
the moon revolves the earth
the moon is part of the universe
when you think of the universe you can think of god (if you believe in him, which i don't)
it's like god had sex with some space dust and forgot to wear a condom
and we were created by mistake
and america is the sum total of that mistake
i think of assholes shooting off fireworks and thinking they're cool
i stand watching them while i smoke a cigarette, thinking that i am cool
when i think of america
i think of assholes shooting off fireworks and thinking they are cool
i stand watching them while i smoke a cigarette, thinking that i am cool
the moon is brighter than all of the fireworks
i like the moon
the moon revolves the earth
the moon is part of the universe
when you think of the universe you can think of god (if you believe in him, which i don't)
it's like god had sex with some space dust and forgot to wear a condom
and we were created by mistake
and america is the sum total of that mistake
i wake up and look at my wrists
the veins are visible
i am skinny
i sit and stare at my computer for two hours
i take a shower
i cut my nails
i put on underpants
i put on pants
i put on a shirt
a flannel shirt
i put on socks
i put on shoes
i go outside
i light a cigarette
i check my fly
i don't know when this will end and i am too depressed to care
the veins are visible
i am skinny
i sit and stare at my computer for two hours
i take a shower
i cut my nails
i put on underpants
i put on pants
i put on a shirt
a flannel shirt
i put on socks
i put on shoes
i go outside
i light a cigarette
i check my fly
i don't know when this will end and i am too depressed to care
Thursday, July 2, 2009
the grass in the ground is brownish-green
it looks very dry
the sky hasn't rained in over two weeks
i walk through the field aimlessly
i walk one hundred and eleven steps to my left
then forty steps forward
then eighteen to my right
i walk up to a small tree that is in the middle of the field
i stare at it and feel blank
it looks very dry
the sky hasn't rained in over two weeks
i walk through the field aimlessly
i walk one hundred and eleven steps to my left
then forty steps forward
then eighteen to my right
i walk up to a small tree that is in the middle of the field
i stare at it and feel blank
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
the faun walks out into the road
a boy on a bicycle pummels towards the faun
the boy swerves towards the curb
the faun jumps into the middle of the road to avoid the boy
a yellow SUV runs into faun
the faun falls to the ground, blood dripping from its head
the woman driving the SUV gets out and screams incoherently
i watch from the sidewalk
i light a cigarette
the faun's eyes seem to be crossed irrevocably
i begin walking at a medium pace away from the scene of the accident
a boy on a bicycle pummels towards the faun
the boy swerves towards the curb
the faun jumps into the middle of the road to avoid the boy
a yellow SUV runs into faun
the faun falls to the ground, blood dripping from its head
the woman driving the SUV gets out and screams incoherently
i watch from the sidewalk
i light a cigarette
the faun's eyes seem to be crossed irrevocably
i begin walking at a medium pace away from the scene of the accident
Monday, June 29, 2009
the steps in the office building seem to be infinite
i continue to climb to the highest floor
i get to the highest floor
i have reached infinity
i go out on the roof and light and cigarette
i go the edge of the roof and look down
i am acrophobic
i ash my cigarette onto the dots below
i think how much it would suck if i jumped down
but i really want to jump down
i want to either join the army or become a heroin addict
then i would have structure in my life
i continue to climb to the highest floor
i get to the highest floor
i have reached infinity
i go out on the roof and light and cigarette
i go the edge of the roof and look down
i am acrophobic
i ash my cigarette onto the dots below
i think how much it would suck if i jumped down
but i really want to jump down
i want to either join the army or become a heroin addict
then i would have structure in my life
im running running running
a dog is chasing me
i had been walking on the sidewalk
and then a dog started chasing me
i had gone to buy cigarettes
i was too lazy to put on shoes so i wore sandals
it is easy to walk but hard to run in sandals
i can hear the dog's bark getting closer
a knife gets stabbed into the back of my leg
but its not a knife
its a dogs teeth
i kick the dog in the head
it whimpers
i start running again
a dog is chasing me
i had been walking on the sidewalk
and then a dog started chasing me
i had gone to buy cigarettes
i was too lazy to put on shoes so i wore sandals
it is easy to walk but hard to run in sandals
i can hear the dog's bark getting closer
a knife gets stabbed into the back of my leg
but its not a knife
its a dogs teeth
i kick the dog in the head
it whimpers
i start running again
Saturday, June 27, 2009
The steering wheel on my car feels like it has always been there
So do the pedals
I push on the gas pedal
I speed past a pickup truck
It is navy blue
It is emitting lots of fumes
I blow cigarette smoke out the window
I turn left down a side street
Kids are playing hockey in the street
I push on the gas pedal and attempt to run them over
They avoid me
I turn back onto a main road
I let cars pass me
I feel like an animal running at the back of the herd
I feel like a machine
But not like a cog in the machine
I am a machine and I am fulls of cogs that i can't control
So do the pedals
I push on the gas pedal
I speed past a pickup truck
It is navy blue
It is emitting lots of fumes
I blow cigarette smoke out the window
I turn left down a side street
Kids are playing hockey in the street
I push on the gas pedal and attempt to run them over
They avoid me
I turn back onto a main road
I let cars pass me
I feel like an animal running at the back of the herd
I feel like a machine
But not like a cog in the machine
I am a machine and I am fulls of cogs that i can't control
one of the most fucked up things i've written.
(inspired by the vaselines)
pussycat meow
i want to skin you
and make a hat for my head
to keep it from getting so moist
pussycat meow
i want to shave off all your short, coarse hair
as a funny prank
a surprise to the neighbor when he gets home
rooster crow
i want to hold out your neck
stretch it out good
and watch it spurt blood when it's all over
rooster crow
i want to wrap you
in a floury tortilla smothered in a medley of juices
and stick you in my mouth
pussycat meow
and rooster crow
in a boat with a guitar
while the cow flies over the moon
pussycat meow
i want to skin you
and make a hat for my head
to keep it from getting so moist
pussycat meow
i want to shave off all your short, coarse hair
as a funny prank
a surprise to the neighbor when he gets home
rooster crow
i want to hold out your neck
stretch it out good
and watch it spurt blood when it's all over
rooster crow
i want to wrap you
in a floury tortilla smothered in a medley of juices
and stick you in my mouth
pussycat meow
and rooster crow
in a boat with a guitar
while the cow flies over the moon
Friday, June 26, 2009
michael jackson
for some reason, i am very troubled by his recent death.
i didn't know him, you didn't know him. who actually knew him, anyway?
i think i miss him.
what about blanket?
i didn't know him, you didn't know him. who actually knew him, anyway?
i think i miss him.
what about blanket?
Saturday, June 20, 2009
Friday, June 19, 2009
when i see you cry, i want to cry
when i see you laugh, i think: should i laugh?
when you are sad, i want to be sad
when you are happy, i want to be sad
i am sad
i want to be sad
when i am sad, i want you to be sad
when i am happy, i want you to be happy
i am never happy when you are happy
but i will laugh when you laugh
when i see you laugh, i think: should i laugh?
when you are sad, i want to be sad
when you are happy, i want to be sad
i am sad
i want to be sad
when i am sad, i want you to be sad
when i am happy, i want you to be happy
i am never happy when you are happy
but i will laugh when you laugh
Monday, April 13, 2009
epic war poem
part i:
if i want to go outside
i open the window
part ii:
i got shot in the chest
i wish it had been in the head
if i want to go outside
i open the window
part ii:
i got shot in the chest
i wish it had been in the head
Saturday, April 11, 2009
Love
I walk out into the bright, burning sun. I love it. I love all stars, but the sun is the one closest to me, and therefore I feel a personal connection to it.
I love sitting outside on a cloudless night and looking up at the universe. One of the millions of stars might have blue apes with machines guns running around on it. Or somewhere in the vast darkness there might be a black hole, leading to a separate universe where, well, I don't even know what the fuck would be there. And I love it.
I love getting drunk and remembering that my big small existence on this big small planet really doesn't matter that much in relativity to the obesity of the universe.
I take a screwdriver and screw my head back together. I walk back outside and light a cigarette. A skunk walks over to me and gives me a high five. In the street a car runs a red light and hits an old lady who was crossing the road.
None of it makes any sense.
And I love it.
I love sitting outside on a cloudless night and looking up at the universe. One of the millions of stars might have blue apes with machines guns running around on it. Or somewhere in the vast darkness there might be a black hole, leading to a separate universe where, well, I don't even know what the fuck would be there. And I love it.
I love getting drunk and remembering that my big small existence on this big small planet really doesn't matter that much in relativity to the obesity of the universe.
I take a screwdriver and screw my head back together. I walk back outside and light a cigarette. A skunk walks over to me and gives me a high five. In the street a car runs a red light and hits an old lady who was crossing the road.
None of it makes any sense.
And I love it.
Hate
I walk out into the sun. I love the sun. I hate artificial light. I spend most of my time under artificial light.
I find myself hating everyone around me. As I walk to class I just want to start beating the shit out of people that are laughing among themselves as I walk past them. Their laughter angers me. It makes me hate myself for not being in on the joke.
Which comes to the greater problem: I hate myself. It is through my own denial of hating myself that I turn that hatred outwards onto all the people around me.
Self-loathing. What a cliche. The very fact that it is a cliche makes me hate myself even more.
But this is getting me nowhere. Here I am, in the bright, burning sun, and all I can think about is Hate.
Growing up I was always conditioned to believe the phrase "God is Love." But if God even exists then I think the better phrase would be "God is Hate." If he didn't hate human beings then why would he leave us here to hate each other, kill each other, and miserably wait until death.
But this is getting me nowhere. The existence of God or gods is meaningless, inconsequential. I need to get to the core of the problem. For if I am just going to blame God for everything, then I am just finding another excuse for my hatred.
The solution to the problem is not to find the cause of my hatred but to move past my hatred.
But it's so hard.
And I hate it.
I find myself hating everyone around me. As I walk to class I just want to start beating the shit out of people that are laughing among themselves as I walk past them. Their laughter angers me. It makes me hate myself for not being in on the joke.
Which comes to the greater problem: I hate myself. It is through my own denial of hating myself that I turn that hatred outwards onto all the people around me.
Self-loathing. What a cliche. The very fact that it is a cliche makes me hate myself even more.
But this is getting me nowhere. Here I am, in the bright, burning sun, and all I can think about is Hate.
Growing up I was always conditioned to believe the phrase "God is Love." But if God even exists then I think the better phrase would be "God is Hate." If he didn't hate human beings then why would he leave us here to hate each other, kill each other, and miserably wait until death.
But this is getting me nowhere. The existence of God or gods is meaningless, inconsequential. I need to get to the core of the problem. For if I am just going to blame God for everything, then I am just finding another excuse for my hatred.
The solution to the problem is not to find the cause of my hatred but to move past my hatred.
But it's so hard.
And I hate it.
Monday, March 30, 2009
Stranded
I was stranded on a desert island once with my friend Noah. We had gotten really fucked up and then we took his motor boat out to this tiny island in the Gulf of Mexico, several dozen miles away from the coast. Then we got there and realized we were out of gas.
At first it wasn't that bad, because he had a fridge on the boat. We had some beers and then we laid on the beach and got sunburnt. He also had some fireworks left over from the fourth of July, so we set all those off and that was fun.
After a few hours we realized that we were really fucked. We had no fuel for the boat, and we could see no other boats in sight.
"Let's go explore the island," Noah said.
"No, we need to stay here in case a boat comes," I said.
"Oh yeah."
We stayed by the boat for a few more hours, and then it started to get dark. Noah had some sub sandwiches in the fridge so we ate those. We each laid down on opposite ends of the boat's floor and then we went to sleep.
The next day we didn't really do anything. Noah swam around the island. It was a small island. There weren't many trees, and you could see from one end to the other. We continued doing nothing for several more days. We ate some raw seafood that Noah had in his fridge, but we started rationing it, because we were getting low on food.
Finally, one day I consented to exploring the island. There were a dozen or so tropical looking trees, and lots of big rocks randomly placed all over the island.
After a week we had run out of all our food. For the first day or so I didn't even notice after awhile. Then I began to feel thin and sickly. I felt like complete shit. I wanted to kill myself. Noah decided he needed to be alone for awhile, and he walked to the other end of the island.
I tried drowning myself. I swam out about a hundred meters into the ocean and then I dove my body into the water and when I resurfaced I kept my face in the water. I did that for a good two or three minutes, and was rapidly losing breath. Eventually I gave up brought my head back up. I decided I needed a better plan, a way of killing myself that would be irreversible.
I tried using rocks to slit my wrists. But I couldn't find any rock that was sharp enough to do the proper damage. When I did find a somewhat sharp one I made several gashes across my left wrist and then my right one, but nothing happened except for the fact that blood started dripping everywhere. I put the wrappers from the sub sandwiches over each of my wrists to stop the bleeding.
I had no idea what the fuck I was doing. I was fucking hungry, and I had no way of finding food. I tried catching fish with my hands, but that failed miserably. I decided I needed a better way to kill myself.
I took a pocket knife and cut the anchor from the boat. I found a tree with rock underneath it. I threw the rope from the anchor over one of the branches and tied it like they do in Western movies. Then I stood on top of the rock and put the loop over around my head.
Just as I was about to jump from the rope I noticed a white speck in the distance of the ocean. It kept getting closer and closer and eventually it was right next to Noah's boat, which was drifting in the water since I had cut the anchor.
The people in the boat didn't notice me and I didn't say anything because I was in dark, suicidal place in my mind. I heard one of them yell, "This boat must be abandoned." The tied their boat to ours and began riding away.
I looked up the tree at the branches and then down at the rock. I took the loop off of my head and stepped down from the rock. Then I went to go find Noah, to see what he was up to.
At first it wasn't that bad, because he had a fridge on the boat. We had some beers and then we laid on the beach and got sunburnt. He also had some fireworks left over from the fourth of July, so we set all those off and that was fun.
After a few hours we realized that we were really fucked. We had no fuel for the boat, and we could see no other boats in sight.
"Let's go explore the island," Noah said.
"No, we need to stay here in case a boat comes," I said.
"Oh yeah."
We stayed by the boat for a few more hours, and then it started to get dark. Noah had some sub sandwiches in the fridge so we ate those. We each laid down on opposite ends of the boat's floor and then we went to sleep.
The next day we didn't really do anything. Noah swam around the island. It was a small island. There weren't many trees, and you could see from one end to the other. We continued doing nothing for several more days. We ate some raw seafood that Noah had in his fridge, but we started rationing it, because we were getting low on food.
Finally, one day I consented to exploring the island. There were a dozen or so tropical looking trees, and lots of big rocks randomly placed all over the island.
After a week we had run out of all our food. For the first day or so I didn't even notice after awhile. Then I began to feel thin and sickly. I felt like complete shit. I wanted to kill myself. Noah decided he needed to be alone for awhile, and he walked to the other end of the island.
I tried drowning myself. I swam out about a hundred meters into the ocean and then I dove my body into the water and when I resurfaced I kept my face in the water. I did that for a good two or three minutes, and was rapidly losing breath. Eventually I gave up brought my head back up. I decided I needed a better plan, a way of killing myself that would be irreversible.
I tried using rocks to slit my wrists. But I couldn't find any rock that was sharp enough to do the proper damage. When I did find a somewhat sharp one I made several gashes across my left wrist and then my right one, but nothing happened except for the fact that blood started dripping everywhere. I put the wrappers from the sub sandwiches over each of my wrists to stop the bleeding.
I had no idea what the fuck I was doing. I was fucking hungry, and I had no way of finding food. I tried catching fish with my hands, but that failed miserably. I decided I needed a better way to kill myself.
I took a pocket knife and cut the anchor from the boat. I found a tree with rock underneath it. I threw the rope from the anchor over one of the branches and tied it like they do in Western movies. Then I stood on top of the rock and put the loop over around my head.
Just as I was about to jump from the rope I noticed a white speck in the distance of the ocean. It kept getting closer and closer and eventually it was right next to Noah's boat, which was drifting in the water since I had cut the anchor.
The people in the boat didn't notice me and I didn't say anything because I was in dark, suicidal place in my mind. I heard one of them yell, "This boat must be abandoned." The tied their boat to ours and began riding away.
I looked up the tree at the branches and then down at the rock. I took the loop off of my head and stepped down from the rock. Then I went to go find Noah, to see what he was up to.
Thursday, March 19, 2009
found poem taken from class discussion
listen to your thoughts - a kind of stoner experiment.
see which ones generate nubs that tease.
attuned to your epiphanic thoughts, read.
you are collated, shuffled into one giant piece of flesh.
the terms...
which terms?
there aren't so many terms.
what are the terms?
it's a negotiation.
what negotiation?
it's an agreement.
but what terms? what special language?
ordinary words show ignorance such as:
it is up in the air.
on the stage of intimidation you are still poisoned by questions.
tangents make up your main operation.
stories and anecdotes accumulate the echoes
of technical terms and what is unsaid.
punctuation bears no relation to our impressive temptations.
it is a matter of pacing.
fear and misgiving avert our attention.
what is the material of nervousness?
how do you build your authority on ignorance?
you really haven't got all the data on time.
you've got a disconcerting ability to shift your commitments.
you have a greater commitment to velocity than to commitment.
he walked through puzzles of pain.
boy, you guys are young.
it's better for the chickens to almost scratch a vulture.
if there is the possibility of saying what you really mean, do it.
see which ones generate nubs that tease.
attuned to your epiphanic thoughts, read.
you are collated, shuffled into one giant piece of flesh.
the terms...
which terms?
there aren't so many terms.
what are the terms?
it's a negotiation.
what negotiation?
it's an agreement.
but what terms? what special language?
ordinary words show ignorance such as:
it is up in the air.
on the stage of intimidation you are still poisoned by questions.
tangents make up your main operation.
stories and anecdotes accumulate the echoes
of technical terms and what is unsaid.
punctuation bears no relation to our impressive temptations.
it is a matter of pacing.
fear and misgiving avert our attention.
what is the material of nervousness?
how do you build your authority on ignorance?
you really haven't got all the data on time.
you've got a disconcerting ability to shift your commitments.
you have a greater commitment to velocity than to commitment.
he walked through puzzles of pain.
boy, you guys are young.
it's better for the chickens to almost scratch a vulture.
if there is the possibility of saying what you really mean, do it.
Saturday, March 14, 2009
an unfinished poem i began years ago that i completed today
inner turmoil like the fighting of the morning's last light -
that brisk kind of ship that takes you back to yourself again
the killing of the turmoil, fighting like the last light of the morning.
you briskly take that ship back for yourself again.
what kind of indifference moves me to stillness?
killing the ships of the morning, you fight against yourself.
stillness, like the last light of the morning
briskly indifferent to yourself and your needs.
fighting, you destroy the ship that takes you back
to yourself again, and briskly kill the last of the morning's light.
all is still in the glow of my indifference.
that brisk kind of ship that takes you back to yourself again
the killing of the turmoil, fighting like the last light of the morning.
you briskly take that ship back for yourself again.
what kind of indifference moves me to stillness?
killing the ships of the morning, you fight against yourself.
stillness, like the last light of the morning
briskly indifferent to yourself and your needs.
fighting, you destroy the ship that takes you back
to yourself again, and briskly kill the last of the morning's light.
all is still in the glow of my indifference.
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
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