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|Saturday, September 8th, 2007|
I just got paid to use the phrase "looking for dates or mates". Accordingly, the coffeeshop in which I am typing echoed with my titter.
At the going rate, that phrase was worth fifty cents.
|Tuesday, May 15th, 2007|
Oddly great times tonight, as great as you can have sitting around alone, anyway. Found half a clove smoke of the brown-and-gold variety in my avocado-stained blue shirt. (The only shirt with a collar. Just keeping the historical record straight.) Chased my mom around the kitchen with it when she ducked in to wish me goodnight. Held it in my mouth while returning the wish, and stabbed her in the forehead with it. Carried a tray downstairs: 2 sliced-up grapefruits, a bodum of ridiculously strong coffee, and assorted accoutrements like a mug and a spoon. Pulled the computer chair out the downstairs door, made a playlist of wistful Johnny Cash gospel tunes, and sat outside with the wind and crickets and frogs, smoking this clove and drinking this coffee and spinning around in my chair. Did I mention Cash? He was pretty striking, he contributed a lot.
Got in after exhausting my coffee, half-cigarette and plate of grapefruit wedges. Found Ash's Facebook comment on an ancient picture of me, her, Kirsten, Kim, Maria and Andrew eating at De Dutch. She commented on my stupid-looking expression where I opened my mouth as far as it would go in lieu of making a proper photo face. She further commented that I did this a whole lot back when we fraternized frequently. I think she's right. I don't know what came over me. I lately found Ash by the expedient of clicking on her in a window and we talked about this and that. Her story of what happened to her in the last four years (it's been at least that long) was mostly spent describing minor weight fluctuations. It was pretty weird. The following exchange (15 May '07) belongs to you, historical record.
(11:26:48 PM) disintegration: Ok, you want to say Sat afternoon?
(11:26:59 PM) Ash: Pancakes in the afternoon?
(11:27:00 PM) Ash: WTF?
(11:27:03 PM) Ash: I suppose.
(11:27:09 PM) Ash: I could do some shopping dt beforehand.
(11:27:14 PM) disintegration: dt?
(11:27:21 PM) Ash: Buy me some clothes.
(11:27:24 PM) Ash: Downtown.
(11:27:25 PM) Ash: Stupid.
(11:27:33 PM) Ash: gawd.....
(11:27:45 PM) Ash: Anyway, Kim should come. We'll take another picture and draw in a Kirsten.
(11:27:46 PM) disintegration: "Smoking a clove" has so much more context than "shopping dt".
(11:28:03 PM) Ash: WhatEVER
(11:29:38 PM) disintegration: I have to go work on my short story. Three pm Sat?
(11:29:51 PM) Ash: 3?!?!?!
(11:29:53 PM) Ash: What are you doing?
(11:30:00 PM) Ash: First off, you don't eat pancakes in the afternoon!
(11:30:01 PM) disintegration: Well, you type in a number.
(11:30:04 PM) disintegration: ..........
(11:30:08 PM) Ash: And second, you don't eat pancakes for lunch at 3!
(11:30:08 PM) disintegration: ;;;:::;;:::
(11:30:11 PM) Ash: That totally ruins dinner.
(11:30:16 PM) Ash: What kind of schedule are you on?
(11:30:34 PM) Ash: I don't know. We'll have to rethink this whole thing tomorrow. I have to go to sleep.
(11:30:37 PM) disintegration: Sandwich Mean Time.
(11:30:43 PM) Ash: Ask Maria and Kim if they're free that day.
(11:30:49 PM) disintegration: Okay. What's your phone number?
(11:30:59 PM) disintegration: HA! Sandwich Mean Time!
(11:31:06 PM) disintegration: HAHAHAHAHAHA!~
(11:31:16 PM) Ash: errrrrrrrrrrrrrr.............
(11:31:24 PM) Ash: 514-[CENSURED]
(11:31:28 PM) disintegration: That is so my new facebook status.
(11:31:33 PM) Ash: I never answer my phone during the week though, so don't even bother.
Finally saw Kevin on F---b--- too. He's in the club of people whose name I type in bimonthly, as opposed to the club of people I've seen in the past couple years. The last I knew, he disappeared into the oil sands (financially, not physically) and I was kind of figuring I'd never see the guy again. Since I stopped smoking weed I guess we'd have nothing to bond about but metal and our illustrious pasts. I really miss that shit right now -- most of the time I don't even remember the adventures that constituted grades eleven, twelve, and post-twelve pre-university. It's floating all around me tonight, though. Reminiscence, not weed. I wonder if I've ever really been able to relax since I stopped -- not that I was able to relax during the last four months or so I was smoking it, the panic attacks or whatever they were (whatever makes your imagination constantly and vividly focus on your bones wrenching out of your body, that was what I had) but damn, I've never had friends like that since. I've never had friends like that.
The night after we saw Radiohead in Vancouver. Big B, Becky, Steve Cardy, Gagne, myself. Big B driving around and around in his weird cramped little sedan, us getting turned down by hotel after hotel for reasons of lacking enough deposit money and being unruly teens. Driving in sort of a spiral away from what we considered civilization, ie. from downtown Vancouver, Big B freaking out over the weird road-markings. That squeaky staccato voice he had when he was miffed. He had a point, the purposes of the lanes were really complex -- it was beyond anything any of us had ever experienced.
Finally we just stopped on the road shoulder, by that point we were near the beach, and someone called that place the "desolate spot" which was a term we bandied around for months later. (Man, remember the desolate spot?) It wasn't so desolate, though, there was a Coke machine by the side of the road, and someone in a car who we presumed was the Coke machine's security guard. Again, beyond anything any of us had ever experienced. We would have probably figured it out eventually, what was the desolate spot's purpose, except we hotboxed the car with about an eighth immediately and the guy in a car glared at our smoke. He didn't leave until three in the morning, and by that time we'd thrown about fourteen empty Coke cans out the window -- they weren't cans from the Coke machine, we just had a flat of Coke in the car. I think there were more empties in Big B's car to start with, and we threw them all out too, and they rolled back and forth under the car all night long.
We couldn't sleep, they kept us up, and for some reason Gagne had this huge navel orange. We were still smoking the pipe and nobody wanted to crack it -- the orange intimidated us with its size and luster -- so we got out and put it on the road and waited all night for a car to drive over it. We put it exactly in the right place for a wheel to hit it, if the car in question were perfectly in the middle of the lane, but apparantly the cars going by were all over the road, because it must have taken two hours. Some big truck shipping god-knows-what eventually smashed the orange and we all perceived this vapor of navel orange smithereens for a fragmentary second. This despite the windows all being rolled up and our noses being plugged from all the weed we smoked.
Me and Big B, somehow, being tricked by Becky, because none of us could sleep in that car when all five of us were jammed into it. I don't remember how she tricked us but it was the middle of the night and we were fucked, it wouldn't have taken much. I just remember spending about an hour on the gray, windy beach, trying to keep warm by laying in the lee of this old driftwood log. I think I even dug a shallow burrow for myself, to keep further from the wind. Big B made fun of these efforts.
People I miss, a vague and fragmentary list: Steve. Ashley. Davey Gravey. Nathan. Kevin. Kevin Fong. Andrea. Andy. Curtis. Jess. Blake. Amelia. Geoff the Priest. God, I miss Andy in his innocence, yeah, but I fucking miss Geoff the Priest.
|Thursday, April 12th, 2007|
I am dividing my so-called "friends" into friends and enemies immediately, based on who gets as joyous as me from reading this.
|Sunday, January 21st, 2007|
|dot, dot, dot
goro nyudo masamune folded the law of heaven
ninety-nine times into each pale sword he forged
and the dark ferrite grains trapped in each steel's quenching
were like spattered constellations on its face.
as for the gray swords of senzou muramasa
that would submit to no bloodless sheathing
their grain was exactly the striation of muscle.
now a traveller from the south provoked the smith muramasa
by speaking of priest goro masamune's esteemed blades
whose sharpness ensured every throat they attained
would take ninety-nine seconds to begin bleeding.
leaving his forge in the care of a black crow
his mute apprentice and a clay image of the buddha monju
senzou muramasa journeyed seven days with a katana
bundled in his woven sleeping-mat.
alongside a certain low pagoda
muramasa waded the shallows of a slow river
to stand his sword's hilt among stones
and he cried the name of goro nyudo masamune
who stood from his rest beneath a maple tree to bow.
(This is mine. Ask me for to read more.)
|Friday, December 29th, 2006|
I ought to have gone upstairs an hour ago and primed the yams for consumption: skins off, salt-herbs-oil on, oven up, yams in. This is because Amy phoned me from Duncan with instructions about the simple tasks I could perform to speed the preparation of dinner a thousandfold. My response was that I'd do it in one minute; my procrastination is indubitably sixtyfold.
Dear Amy, here are some choice cuts from the story I'm writing in this computer chair. "...a sidewalk vendor with curling gray sideburns and a wobbling goiter. The branch-sized ebony kebab-pole skewering the day’s selection of charred meats swung at his shoulder like a scabbarded claymore."
"In the twenty-second year of the new dynasty, the emperor decreed tattoos of his face would cover that of every non-ranking man in the police force’s employ, illustrating that all enforcement of public order manifested imperial will directly. The commissionaire’s bulging sickle-jaw dwarfed the spare and pursed lines of the emperor’s own, so the tattooist’s rushed stencil-job seemed to hover over this man’s face like a mask at a masquerade ball."
Please note that a slavish obedience to your schedules would have causally de-actualized these words and phrases. Current Mood: vaguely sweaty
|Monday, December 25th, 2006|
|esteem-building and advocacy
Things Done Meanly On Echthmas-Day
I conceive a mean song for a seagull family to sing.
I emulate a mean SNES.
I drink a mean "Hermannator Ice Bock" beer.
I leave a mean carton of cereal cream out, causing sarcasm in my mother.
I drop a mean handful of presents in a brown bag, in lieu of wrapping-paper.
I install a mean AAA battery in a clip-on booklight.
Newly: I roast a mean duck.
TTTTHIS SKILL IS SO AWESOME AND I HAVE ITTTT Current Mood: satiated
|Thursday, December 21st, 2006|
|the veracity school
Strabo, XV. i. 37,--p. 703.
According to Megasthenes the largest tigers are found among the Prasii, being nearly twice the size of the lion, and so strong that a tame tiger led by four men having seized a mule by the hinder leg overpowered it and dragged it to him. The monkeys are larger than the largest dogs; they are white except in the face, which is black, though the contrary is observed elsewhere. Their tails are more than two cubits in length. They are very tame, and not of a malicious disposition: so that they neither attack man nor steal. Stones are dug up which are of the colour of frankincense, and sweeter than figs or honey. In some parts of the country there are serpents two cubits long which have membranous wings like bats. They fly about by night, when they let fall drops of urine or sweat, which blister the skin of persons not on their guard, with putrid sores. There are also winged scorpions of an extraordinary size. Ebony grows there. There are also dogs of great strength and courage, which will not let go their hold till water is poured into their nostrils: they bite so eagerly that the eyes of some become distorted, and the eyes of others fall out. Both a lion and a bull were held fast by a dog. The bull was seized by the muzzle, and died before the dog could be taken off.
|Monday, December 18th, 2006|
In Winnipeg I met a dancing dog who compressed the entire spectrum of canine emotional reaction into a single hopping, trotting, paw-flapping jig. She was very small. It was too much for me. Dancing every time you're happy is a high plateau of greatness, I think -- but there's a billion flavours of happy. Not that I'm pointing any fingers, or that somebody's primary responsibility might be to teach her another dance.
Second day back. Helped my dad rearrange the TV side of the den, and sorted out the messy wires behind our home entertainment system, braiding them with frustratingly short ties. Met the horrible dawning truth that a second-generation Sega Genesis AC adapter doesn't work with a mark one genesis. Met Curt, briefly, at the Salvation Army. He works with two babes, who are complete babes.
Bought a frozen duck. No gift-giving 'til Boxing Day, apparently, because that's a day of price slashing. Not that I'm pointing any fingers, but somebody needs to discover thrift stores.
Either I finish a short story over the break (my life will be compressed into my parents' basement as it is, for the visiting thing) or I come back to school with my fingernails yanked out by me.
The frozen duck's for yuletide dinner.
|Monday, October 30th, 2006|
Yesterday I'm carping at Andy's lady friend (not sure if those last two nouns are correlated) about how Andy's erratic schizo cat tracked kitty litter all over my bed and left the pink wing of a bird on my floor. Andy tells me it comes with the territory: "This is a house of outlaws."
I admire the punchy dialogue, which is something most people don't master in real life. Yet --
SAY WHAT MISTER DOOR says the floral-patterned blanket tacked above my doorframe.
SAY WHAT MISTER CLOSET says my cardboard box full of dirty laundries.
SAY WHAT MISTER FLOORBOARDS says the bottomless pit.
O.K. I made that last part up.
|Monday, September 25th, 2006|
|vode to ictoria
No god hath seen our inexplicable consumption;
But I tell you: the sewers will open.
the painted lips of manholes will shudder
and spit back every latte gone sour beneath us,
will retch the putrescence of aged mochas, brackish matés,
clotted septuple espressos, wheatgrass cappuccino infusions:
o patient sewer, burnt and silted, drowning irony:
o ocean fat and nectar-pasty with sustainably harvested maple,
with honey and agave, with sucralose:
rise up stagnant gentricanos, rise up antarcticanos:
scour this polite labyrinth of sustainable cement:
grind away street vendors, fully licensed and bonded,
and their wares: tiny soaps infused with the hemp-wax of southern morocco,
erroneous sundials, unleavened breads labelled with nutritional information:
rise, foam and ichor muck, on this scene, this complacent gallery of gomorrahs:
sing, thin crows, as tepid breakers crash on designer tarpaper:
as the golden plaque topples clattering from each heritage shingle,
and gilded chrysanthemum-pots wrench from phone-poles:
rise, iced quad shots of chicory soy:
wrack and corrode the dusty rose marble of designer birdbaths,
that thin crows might preen and dabble in the pans of our open skulls:
especially the commissionaire who told me
put on shoes or
|Friday, June 9th, 2006|
|the set of empty sets with brown sugar
Very tired. So tired that I didn’t know when to stop putting brown sugar in my coffee. I got trapped in this repetitive loop, and I heaped that brown sugar in, I heaped and heaped it. Then the coffee proved to be undrinkable due to excessive sweetness and I threw it into the road. How it hung in the air. How it glistened. You will never touch that timeless picosecond. You will never take that away from me.
Drank coffee after my job interview, not before. As ever, I cannot explain my actions. The owner added my sleeplessness to the obvious facts about me, e.g. black eye and broken glasses, and concluded I was ‘aggravated’. But he said he would be aggravated too if the meth fiends were after his laptop.Interjection: I am good at fighting off the meth fiends.
They are having me come in; they are giving me the old college try. This is on Monday. I have, what, three nights? – Yes. Three nights to correct my erratic sleep schedule. I will self-medicate with coffee on the one side of the scale and boring movies on the other side of the scale.
I couldn’t remember some of the pertinent facts about my life in that interview. So when the owner asked me if I had work experience prior to the experience listed on my resume, I answered in the negative. I should have answered in the yes I worked at a clothing store in Nanaimo. Also he was asking me if I was doing other work-related things. I answered with a blank stare and some mumbles about a novel. I should have answered that I am doing the mad tech support and ebaying for one local bookstore owner and in the mad negotiations for the same with another bookstore owner. I was just too aggravated, I suppose.Correction: Sandy, I AM NOT A LIAR, I AM AGGRAVATED.
Intercom: If Alphonse S. Munich is in the library, he should come to the desk.
Out of library time. This interview is over.
|Monday, October 31st, 2005|
Stir fry cooks according to random distribution. Axiomatic there. I turn the food chunks with something that approximates rhythm, but these food chunks are colliding crazily. My meager pattern can't contend with such roiling wok chaos.
If you follow, there's a bell curve of doneness inside my bowl. Most of the food's crisp and juicy, but I had a choice to make -- cook for too little time, or too long. To move the curve up or down, that is. I stand by my choice, but a fraction of my broccolis were entirely too crunchy. (I sit, I pick statistical outliers from my teeth.) There is a grand metaphor in that. I glimpsed it. But then it was confusing to write down, so I started thinking about something else.
I'm not as passionate about Sabotage (the Sabbath album) as was I once. I haven't listened to it, I think, since I stopped smoking weed. Five years later, this album is disorienting, patchy, and self-consciously experimental. A fine argument for weed.
(Hole In The Sky is still a bitchin song. My cortex slams to Tony Iommi's thunder.)
I have to write a rent check and get it into the little slot. I have to make a pot of tea so I can use it to edit eight workshop poems for me. I have to do laundry, but I'm not going to.
Something's whispering at me that a diary's a place where you write about your day.
Day sucked. B on my novel-study midterm. Regardless, I continue to hold that it was too easy. Counselor (class-advice counselor, not shrink) off smoking weed rather than meeting me at the predetermined meeting time. Abruptly ended, darty-eyed conversations under a miserable grey sky. Walked out of Moral Philosophy due to bland, droning professor explaining the same thought-experiment for the third class in a row.
All the people I know are fucking insane.
|Wednesday, May 11th, 2005|
There is a film of shitty, oily beer on my teeth. My dad bought a six-pack of Pilsner on his birthday, brought it over here, drank one, and reminisced for a half hour about how it was his childhood beer. (He frequently segued into discussions of how my great-grandfatherly namesake stayed warm in his unheated shack during Saskatchewan winters. The key was blankets; two feet of blankets. I know because Da made a lot of gestures.)
The can has a complicated, garish label showcasing various modes of transportation in the olden days. In all of two inches of mural, we've got a horsey carriage, a biplane (yellow), a Model T (seems to be shooting dandruff out its ass), and a slender red train. It also has four Indians, their dog, and what appears to be some kind of nobility at a table full of eggs, stirring a bowl of batter. I am not the first to stare at this cultural locus. I am, however, entirely sober. Thusly I feel distinguished.
I wouldn't be writing in livejournal, because I hate livejournal, and all its users
, except that the alternative is ghastly. Maria and Andrew are bringing some "daemon womb anime" over tonight, and I've got to clean up for their most prestigious presence; right now I'm hardly unpacked, though I've been living here two weeks. Instead of taking my furniture with me when I left, I spasmodically gave it to the free box. So my floor is covered with clothes, and my clothes are heaped around boxes of nintendo, super nintendo, sega genesis, ps2, vhs, dvd bricabrac. Except for the tapes, this is all digital information, clumsying up my life with its clumsy material packets. I will type it here, every line of machine code, and liberate it into the realm of cyberspace.
I just got phoned with a job interview offer. I will celebrate by getting a life.
|Sunday, October 24th, 2004|
Comments, of course, are appreciated. Nebulous praise is the best; it dulls the ache of being alive.AFTER-HOURS ODDS IN A REPUTABLE BARBERSHOP
In ninety minutes McCrasky can sort a whole pound
of swept hair from his discard bin. He knows
its nappy currents; can uncover perfect blonde
in handfuls. Tonight, four values: black, auburn,
silver, gold, wagered in great pinches. The pair line
ante on the waiting area's table, cleared of magazines.
Expressionless, the dark and noseless man
adds to the pot a stack of brunette curls.
They come from his pocket -- yet,
he is blonde. McCrasky asks no questions
as the table grows unkempt. An itchy filigree clings
to hands, webs at faces, tickles shoulderblades.
Cutting-capes, brushes and collars are taboo on this night.
They know the trick's to blow it off your lips, or else,
just swallow hard. Cigar smoke feathers the pit in the silent one's
head. Clippers jarred in sterile blue agreed
to look away -- nine hours a day, their boss maintains
a reputable joint. Combs float, and overlook the matted
bets, and can't decide on whether this means
shame. As cigar butts hit the floor, their ragged glow
ignites stray tufts of bet. Acrid punctuation
studs the air, tanging on furred and mellow
smoke. Nothing exotic -- this place is respectable. Still
they raise higher, rock in adjustable seats,
scoot and swivel in jerky glee. (McCrasky will just blame
the scuffed floor on the weekend help.) They can't
last. Laying down their cards, each notice
the twin jokers that seal the other's straight flush --
and the combs in their oubliettes watch McCrasky
flip the table in a furious billow of shag.
He wads his winnings into the thrashing face,
plugs the snuffling cavity with a motley crest.
The barber has just bearded his best customer.
|Saturday, October 9th, 2004|
|metatron, metatron, can't we both just get along?
Reading a lot of Rumi's quatrains.
Anyone can bring gifts.
Give me someone who takes away.
This reminds me, really strongly, of that movie where Santa creeps down the chimney with a knife in his teeth and runs amok. I think it was called 'Black Christmas'.
Playwriting workshop on Wednesday well frustrated me. I think it'd have been straight-up shaming if I didn't know that I know my shit. Next time I workshop something, maybe I'll edit it first, smooth it out of three-AM-land. I've brought three things to class this year, and all of the feedback has been interchangable. 'You have wroughtten* beautiful imagery! I don't understand any of it!' -- I can't decide if my classmates are imaginationless lichens better suited to carpet a taiga, or if I'm accidentally writing haiku in lichen language.Rebuttal:Hey, catfuckers, I stitched Joyce's mummified hippocampus into my underarm. So don't worry about not being able to understand me. It's not like you're tuned into the source of the force. It's not as if you could translate me into your stale coffeeshop sublanguage. But know, still, that I hang upside down in Leonard Cohen's closet, and he fears my twelve probing fingers. When Ray Bradbury saw me at my latest signing, he said I remind him of the first day of summer. Every creative writing prof in the department has been soulless for weeks, soulless under the psionic thrall of a hypertopological metafungus that grew on a piece of toast I bit and left on the steps outside. And that's not even my skills responsible.
Anyway, I'm going to try to do really really good on the next assignment.
*See, I am
Joyce, I make up my own words and all, even. Current Mood: optimistic
|Thursday, September 30th, 2004|
Win the lottery, buy a brick of hash. Buy a brick of hash, don't brush your teeth for a month. Don't brush your teeth for a month, exude foul blood from your gums. Exude foul blood from your gums, cough up an wad of phlegm.
Mistakenly believe you have lung cancer,
record a defiantly melancholy hobo-country album,
evade your stalkers by moving to Singapore,
step in front of a bus,
(Relatedly, (belatedly,) I am glad Caitlin has reacquired the habit of filling her journal with substance, because I love nothing more than her unknowing participation in my dancin' meme-life.)
Before I can write my play, I need to find some Hasidic Jews, and pump them for theology. I can't talk to my grandma about it, though, she's too old.
|Sunday, July 18th, 2004|
On return from the Xiu Xiu show I was in a sour state; I've never had to walk out of a concert before. Paying ten bucks for a joke is one thing. I'm down with that. I'm a cool dude. But if the joke is to be on me, I'd like it to be at least funny, for ten bucks.
Blake, as usual, saved me from malaise. See, Becky had been cagedly gazing around the bar for the set's duration (I was mesmerised by the contrast between shit and what I expected -- Beck, expectationless, just got bored), and she noticed him as he lined up for beer. That jerked me solidly back to a place where I could do things other than hate Xiu Xiu.Foreshadowing: like hate Blake.
We absconded. Blake mentioned that he got in without paying, because the door people had left the room entirely to watch the show. I hate Blake, he really is a nob.
So you'll be pleased to jump ahead to the next chapter, wherein Becky leaves, and Blake goes off in a maelstrom of incoherent (but compelling) convincing and I find myself scuttled into the corner at the Banclan's dirty house. (B.A.N. : Bunk Ass Nigga.
Speaking of hate. I hate parties where the 'goers do nothing but talk about being drunk. This one got a paradigm shift, however, when a chubby little bong (too tarry to touch, too leaky to fill, and at least 40% duct tape by weight) was brought out. Soon the conversation turned to marijuanical musings. One faction held that pot was the superior of the two intoxicants. The drunker group maintained the opposite. Voices, already being raised, remained unchanged. I should have jumped in and said both were boring. Thing is, they already found me a nerdish wallflower, for not saying anything at all to any of them. So I could have at least brought sparks to the air, without fear of my rep slipping. Eventually I took to the road. Is it a faux pa to duck out the side without saying goodbye, if you haven't said hello?
When I say I hate Blake, what I mean is that Blake and I are very different people.
So, I was saying: Xiu Xiu tricked me, by means of the studio, into thinking they were a band. Live, they were vapid and affectless. They had a few dozen odd instruments (dulcimers, triangles, et al
), seven kitschy old amps, no songs, no desire to give a shit, and only shit to give. Half the band was some chick (she wasn't even hot, she looked like a guy) who hit precious-looking percussion sets and squoze accordion lines without so much as regard to how the song went. She seemed incredibly bored, beneath us. Most of the time, one hand was dangling at her side. Anyone from the audience could have stepped in and done her job better. The only thing pulling its weight was the hypermodern sequencer.
The emperor's hornrimmed indie-nerd glasses are not glass, but cellophane. Also, his pants are down, and shit is coming out of his butt. Current Mood: accomplished
|Thursday, June 17th, 2004|
even if god's the only one keeping score, and although the board seems empty from here, it seems fair to acknowledge that said emptiness might result from a simple lack of events. i suggest that this letter is first in a series of informational letters to people who've made the excellent decision to live elsewhere than here. seeing as we are still co-aligned timewise,jessica
you have no choice but to align your head to such floating dots as these, and realize that i'd be making nonsense even without this semi-late night, this mediocre coffee, and other etceterae. and really, if you don't want things spilling out of the respectable channel of msn, you might turn your pity towards me in the manner of not shutting your box down when i leave to tuck in amy the seemingly un-tuckinnable. seriously. can't you handle a ten-minute unexplained absence?
my theory is that, despite your msn flaws, you're really not such a bad person.
i should start writing about something. that, really, is the crux of this letter's point. i think i misunderstand livejournal and its ilk because the audience is so diffuse it's hard to write about anything but how cool one is -- and when i do that, i start worrying if i come off sounding like a square, and the illusion is broken. so if i were to direct this to a person as opposed to a they, i'd sound like a kind of neo-contemporary james dean meets barney rubble character.
typically i'd be cracking the seal on my nintendo right now, or at the very least, staring off into some sort of absence. i think this new focus - letters! - has sharpened me. or, to return to the very least, i'm too busy pining over games i don't have to realize how cool my collection is. this is an epiphany of the worst kind; one that might induce me to change my behavior. i think there's a specific mindset for every game ever made, and i'm finding specific mindsets scarce.
coming back to the diffuse, pointless ramble about my life being a diffuse, pointless ramble.
but really, the point would just be to find something to fill the point-hole. things seem really static ever since school ended. now i'm casting around for some kind of change, and all i find is different routes to overheatedly wander downtown. looking for a job is ten flavors of neopolitan bitchwax. it has honed my ability to rationalize away new possibilities (i could never work at the market on yates! too many yuppies!!) and my autonomic nervous system has never had greater freedom to twitch (that describes each and every interaction between me and a potential employer, but especially the 180 degree turns).
my dream job involves stooping over a keyboard and nervously shelving inventory. isn't that rich?
there's a video store three blocks from my house, and i walk by it several times a week. it finally occurred to me that i should walk down that street in clothes that don't look like i salvaged them from a tire fire, and go into the store, and demand employment. when i did that yesterday, the boss grinned cattily at me, and asked me if i knew why that was funny. apparantly it was funny because he'd already hired a clerk that same day. the trainee was a curvacious girl with abrupt, exciting eyebrows. she saw me in my shame. thinking back, i have lost my ability to not find this funny.
i'm hoping this message makes sense in the bleak light of tomorrow's sun. i've only taken forty minutes of my quick life to generate this much. the backspace key is not significantly worn down. for me, this is a rather speed-crazy dash.
i want more coffee. there! i got it.
yesterday 'the three stigmata of palmer eldritch' by philip k. dick read me -- i say that because it was an exceptionally passive experience. i think i was really unprepared for it on some psychic level. it fucked me up like a rocket. i came into it forgetting this was one of the few books where his acid-damaged theological experiments actually worked. after awhile it felt like i was storing data as i read, just taking in his ideas, and the new parts i read were directly operating on the old data, translating it into new forms without any sort of intermediary brain stuff to shield me. dick is my favorite philosopher because he never proposes any sort of answer; he just piles on the questions like a drunken pizza chef. this book was basically about transubstantiation, and the idea that it's the foundation of all being/experience. that the mystery of we-came-from-dust is the same as the one of this-wine's-the-blood-of-Christ. i'm not sure what to say about it, because i didn't understand a fucking word, but i think what it set up in my head is something that's going to stare back at me for the rest of my life. i'd like to mail it to you, if you'd dig that. we are both, i think, addicted to confusion.
lucas has all these weary-looking six-inch rubber WWF wrestlers. they're all making faces at me, perhaps complaining that their costumes have been worn away by sweaty littleboyfingers. i'd like to believe them secretly alive, but no luck. they're ossified. (i was looking for that word all day, so i'll use it now.) nobody's been believing in them for too long. even now, their displayment seems mainly an ironic gesture. kitschy hipsters pump life into nothing, let me tell you.
did you sketch around at those illustrations yet? i'm still trying to figure out how the story's going to fully work. silas and dree are living on a giant block of weary history, and i'm not sure what they're going to uncover, or how. lots of ideas, patterning needs work.
i'd really like to see a closeup of a shrunken mouth set into a person's chin. that is one i forgot to tell you about.
i want to go read stuff now. this is my abrupt ending.
|Friday, May 28th, 2004|
Today, while seeking an innovative new center of gravity for the record player, we exploded Lucas' stereo. The idea was to mic my drum and lay a turntable on top of the amp, so that the record would 'rhythmically' skip. It worked really well for approximately twenty-three minutes. He was doing something to his bass that involved an electric drill spinning very close to the fretboard. Sadly, the speakers announced our folly by venting a bunch of stinky smoke. We ran around in fear for awhile, then unplugged things and decided the song would be called dude don't look now but your speakers are on fire
We also electrocuted the stereo base, but that's rather secondary. The important part was being able to tap on the speakers and be greeted by mournful white puffs. Andy told us that the impedance was wrong. He didn't go into more detail, just returned to his smug acoustic guitar.
I went over there (Andy's) so I could bring my stuff over to my new place; with me was Zannie's shopping cart. I kept on imagining scenarios of my interrogation over this unlicensed cart. No, Officer Bulbo, I found it on the median two hundred steps behind us. I did not steal it from Grocery Store. In fact, I was on my way to return it, but first I have to carry my invisible commandant to shore leave.
I left it by the stairs while I investigated the scene at Andy's dirt-soaked, beer-smeared apartment, speaking briefly to the high schoolers on the futon. Then the voices of stout, gruff little men became audible. They seemed to be protesting some sort of illegitimate shopping cart placement. I went back to the stairs, pretending to be there on an unrelated pretext, and found no shopping cart; only a sour, glowering landlord awaited me. I ducked back in, and would have written about how the asshole drove off with it in his red van, except for that Blake showed up and explained to me that it was merely stashed next to the dumpster.
I have what a lesser man might call 'soooo much more to write' but my hunger is distracting me. Lucas and Kyle left to pick up pizza over ninety minutes ago. The only thing poundinger than my hunger is my fear that they absconded with our pie. I have a story about how the guy at the pizza place is a dick for not honoring our four free pizzae, but I'm going to go do something else, and leave this at that.