Tuesday, December 20
Thursday, December 1
50. (Fifty.)
We're coming up on the bad times. Reports are due. People are getting stressed. The outflow of books is beginning to reverse itself. Finals Week is upon is. But no one gives a fuck about your final paper. We don't care if you've got to study. You've got books to sort, so get your ass in gear.
Finals Week! The end of a semester! The end of an era--an era of laziness, sloth, and ineptitude! We enter these last weeks of 2005 with the knowledge that not all of us will make it out the other side. You don't know fear until you've seen a man crushed to death under the weight of a cartload of bound periodicals of ridiculous size.
Finals Week seperates the wills from the can'ts. The men from the boys. Them women from the girls. Finals Week tells us who's going to make it here at the library, and let me tell you, it's not going to be pretty. Men will cry. Women will go into hysterics. Hands will bleed and wrists will ache from the sheer number of books brought in, magnetized, barcoded, discharged, stamped, sorted, and ordered.
Finals Week. The bad times. I'll see you on the other side, soldier.
Finals Week! The end of a semester! The end of an era--an era of laziness, sloth, and ineptitude! We enter these last weeks of 2005 with the knowledge that not all of us will make it out the other side. You don't know fear until you've seen a man crushed to death under the weight of a cartload of bound periodicals of ridiculous size.
Finals Week seperates the wills from the can'ts. The men from the boys. Them women from the girls. Finals Week tells us who's going to make it here at the library, and let me tell you, it's not going to be pretty. Men will cry. Women will go into hysterics. Hands will bleed and wrists will ache from the sheer number of books brought in, magnetized, barcoded, discharged, stamped, sorted, and ordered.
Finals Week. The bad times. I'll see you on the other side, soldier.
Monday, November 28
49. (So what was I saying?)
So anyways, like I was saying earlier I've started drinking coffee in larger quantities. I used to be satisfied with one of the usual coffee mugs we have at the house, or a Starbucks "tall" (small, to you non-corporate-shills), but now I've moved up to two or three house mugs or a Starbucks "grande" (medium). It's not that I need more coffee in order to be satisfied with the experience, it's that I've gotten a higher endurance for caffeine and can enjoy the java in higher volumes without getting all shaky from overcaffeination.
I used to freak girls (and my mother) out by bending my elbows backwards. I'm a little double-jointed, so they bend a little bit past where most people stop. If I put all my weight on my hands, it's really noticeable.
I have really big veins in my arms, and can make them stick out really far with a little effort.
I dyed my hair red once. I liked it better than the blonde, but it's such a hassle. I don't know if I could be bothered to do it again, and even if I did it would only be a semi-permanent job like the last one, so that after a while it would fade out instead of creating a red line in my hair where the dye stops as the hair grows longer. It's pretty long as it is: tied back in a pony-tail it reaches to about the horizontal apex of my shoulder-blades.
I'm wearing a sweater that I've only worn once before. It's very classy.
I used to freak girls (and my mother) out by bending my elbows backwards. I'm a little double-jointed, so they bend a little bit past where most people stop. If I put all my weight on my hands, it's really noticeable.
I have really big veins in my arms, and can make them stick out really far with a little effort.
I dyed my hair red once. I liked it better than the blonde, but it's such a hassle. I don't know if I could be bothered to do it again, and even if I did it would only be a semi-permanent job like the last one, so that after a while it would fade out instead of creating a red line in my hair where the dye stops as the hair grows longer. It's pretty long as it is: tied back in a pony-tail it reaches to about the horizontal apex of my shoulder-blades.
I'm wearing a sweater that I've only worn once before. It's very classy.
Thursday, November 24
48. (IT GO'N RAIN.)
At my parents', where we celebrate Christmas every year, the tree is silver with pink-and-white lights.
When my mom said they were going to use that one, I just stared at her and protested, "No."
It didn't phase her. So now, on Christmas morning, I get to open presents with a brightly shining metal monstrosity with vividly pink lights.
Lovely.
(Yes, I'm whining about it. Shush.)
When my mom said they were going to use that one, I just stared at her and protested, "No."
It didn't phase her. So now, on Christmas morning, I get to open presents with a brightly shining metal monstrosity with vividly pink lights.
Lovely.
(Yes, I'm whining about it. Shush.)
Thursday, November 17
47. (Shit-ton.)
I've graduated from tall to grande.
I've moved up from medium to dark.
I've grown out of huge amounts of sugar.
I'm
Holy shit what the hell was that. The caffeine must be getting to me.
The story behind this: I was writing up a post about coffee and how I drink it in larger quanities with less in it than I used to, when my darling fiancee MSN'd me this image. Already hopped up on java, I immediately lost my train of thought and any caring I had towards the post. Which makes the whole thing true--yes, ladies and gentlemen who didn't already know, I'm Hulk Hogan. Sorry I've kept it hidden for so long.
Okay, so maybe that last part's not true. It's not exactly been hidden, after all, what with that show on VH1 and all. OH YEAH!!!
I've moved up from medium to dark.
I've grown out of huge amounts of sugar.
I'm
Holy shit what the hell was that. The caffeine must be getting to me.
The story behind this: I was writing up a post about coffee and how I drink it in larger quanities with less in it than I used to, when my darling fiancee MSN'd me this image. Already hopped up on java, I immediately lost my train of thought and any caring I had towards the post. Which makes the whole thing true--yes, ladies and gentlemen who didn't already know, I'm Hulk Hogan. Sorry I've kept it hidden for so long.
Okay, so maybe that last part's not true. It's not exactly been hidden, after all, what with that show on VH1 and all. OH YEAH!!!
Wednesday, November 16
46. (Why?)
My eyes are itchy as hell now.
I just spent three or so hours proofreading the critical work of my peers. It's something I quite enjoy, I just wish I hadn't allocated only this night to do it, and so late.
I'm so damn tired. So damn tired. So damn tired.
I just spent three or so hours proofreading the critical work of my peers. It's something I quite enjoy, I just wish I hadn't allocated only this night to do it, and so late.
I'm so damn tired. So damn tired. So damn tired.
Thursday, November 10
45. (Forsaking rules for fun and profit.)
he reached up and grabbed the book off the top shelf straining on his toes to reach it
he smiled at me as i entered the aisle searching for a book on modern biblical study why they put these books in the oldest part of the library i don't know but what worries me more is the glass floor
why glass it's aesthetically pleasing yeah but it doesn't seem safe even if it is several inches thick
how are you doing he asked me smiling he reached up and grabbed hte book off the top shelf straining on his toes to reach it i said i'm fine how are you i asked
he told me he's had better days reached up grabbed strained on his toes i've never seen you around here before he said and i'm here all the time
i told him he couldn't be here all the time the library is not open all the time i felt really confused i kneeled down on the floor the book i wanted was on the bottom shelf and in the old parts of the library the bottom shelf is only half an inch off of the concrete
the concrete felt warm to the touch i felt confused
reached up strained on his toes fell
all the time he said reached up to get his book
you must get excellent grades i told him if you're here that much
he just grinned down at me strained on his toes why is the floor made of glass why is that panel of the tiling covered in re-enforced with wood planks
the concrete on the first floor felt warm to the touch i could see his shadow above me the glass floor of the second story is the glass roof of the bottom level i was on the bottom level kneeling to pick a book off the bottom shelf i could see him through the cloudy glass above me and am curious i could have sworn that there was no one up there when i came down through it to get here the concrete is warm to the touch here and i don't know why it doesn't make any sense
i went up the stairs and found him standing there reaching up straining on his toes to get his book standing on the panel of the glass floor cieling with the wooden planks supports
maybe you just didn't see me he says i say maybe but i come here a lot too
he just smiled reached strained grabbed his book
my name's michael i told him aaron he replied
i saw him from down below but he couldn't have been there couldn't have i came down through there the bottom two levels of the old wing of the library are underground i came in from the third floor walked right past where he was saw nothing came down to the warm to the touch concrete looked up saw his shadow
the glass cieling floor echoes creaks groans when you walk on it i walked on it myself and heard it
watch out for the cracks he tells me
how did he get up there i would have heard him i would have heard him walk i would have seen him standing there reaching straining to grab his book but he was not there when i came down he was not there i would have seen him
what i ask
the cracks he says sometimes they just open up beneath you reaching straining on his toes all his weight on a single piece of glass one foot by one foot with caulk holding it to the next eight tiles in a square making floor cieling out of glass why why would they do such a thing it doesn't make any sense it's not safe it doesn't make any sense he can't have slipped by i'm here all the time and i know what it sounds like when someone walks in here the old wing of the library is noisy even when you try to sneak around
i'm kneeling on the bottom level glass cieling above me no shadow the concrete floor is warm to the touch i'm standing on the second floor alone there is no one here there is no one here you're not here you're not here you can't be here
the cracks he says the cracks where this panel broke it's quite safe now they re-enforced better late than never huh
i'm alone here i'm alone here i'm alone here
they won't let me leave he continues not put-off by my ramblings by my shakings by the fact that i tripped i slipped and bumped into him passed through him he's not even really there i'm voiding my bladder in my pants i'm so afraid so afraid the cracks it's like a rope is holding me to them and i can't break free so afraid stuck here
felt so cold when i passed through him he's not real he's not real you're not real he's not real you're not real
re-enforced glass panel because it broke once newspaper says it broke just a rumor man killed aaron mitchelson library staff library dean says no one ever died here just a rumor just an urban legend you're not real not real not real not real
i'm alone on the second story cold space in the air over the cracks in the glass floor cieling over the warm to the touch concrete i'm alone on the bottom level with his shadow above me
now whenever i go down there i start shaking always see his shadow but he's never there he's never there air always cold concrete floor always warm where he died he's not there he's not there but his shadow is always is always
he smiled at me as i entered the aisle searching for a book on modern biblical study why they put these books in the oldest part of the library i don't know but what worries me more is the glass floor
why glass it's aesthetically pleasing yeah but it doesn't seem safe even if it is several inches thick
how are you doing he asked me smiling he reached up and grabbed hte book off the top shelf straining on his toes to reach it i said i'm fine how are you i asked
he told me he's had better days reached up grabbed strained on his toes i've never seen you around here before he said and i'm here all the time
i told him he couldn't be here all the time the library is not open all the time i felt really confused i kneeled down on the floor the book i wanted was on the bottom shelf and in the old parts of the library the bottom shelf is only half an inch off of the concrete
the concrete felt warm to the touch i felt confused
reached up strained on his toes fell
all the time he said reached up to get his book
you must get excellent grades i told him if you're here that much
he just grinned down at me strained on his toes why is the floor made of glass why is that panel of the tiling covered in re-enforced with wood planks
the concrete on the first floor felt warm to the touch i could see his shadow above me the glass floor of the second story is the glass roof of the bottom level i was on the bottom level kneeling to pick a book off the bottom shelf i could see him through the cloudy glass above me and am curious i could have sworn that there was no one up there when i came down through it to get here the concrete is warm to the touch here and i don't know why it doesn't make any sense
i went up the stairs and found him standing there reaching up straining on his toes to get his book standing on the panel of the glass floor cieling with the wooden planks supports
maybe you just didn't see me he says i say maybe but i come here a lot too
he just smiled reached strained grabbed his book
my name's michael i told him aaron he replied
i saw him from down below but he couldn't have been there couldn't have i came down through there the bottom two levels of the old wing of the library are underground i came in from the third floor walked right past where he was saw nothing came down to the warm to the touch concrete looked up saw his shadow
the glass cieling floor echoes creaks groans when you walk on it i walked on it myself and heard it
watch out for the cracks he tells me
how did he get up there i would have heard him i would have heard him walk i would have seen him standing there reaching straining to grab his book but he was not there when i came down he was not there i would have seen him
what i ask
the cracks he says sometimes they just open up beneath you reaching straining on his toes all his weight on a single piece of glass one foot by one foot with caulk holding it to the next eight tiles in a square making floor cieling out of glass why why would they do such a thing it doesn't make any sense it's not safe it doesn't make any sense he can't have slipped by i'm here all the time and i know what it sounds like when someone walks in here the old wing of the library is noisy even when you try to sneak around
i'm kneeling on the bottom level glass cieling above me no shadow the concrete floor is warm to the touch i'm standing on the second floor alone there is no one here there is no one here you're not here you're not here you can't be here
the cracks he says the cracks where this panel broke it's quite safe now they re-enforced better late than never huh
i'm alone here i'm alone here i'm alone here
they won't let me leave he continues not put-off by my ramblings by my shakings by the fact that i tripped i slipped and bumped into him passed through him he's not even really there i'm voiding my bladder in my pants i'm so afraid so afraid the cracks it's like a rope is holding me to them and i can't break free so afraid stuck here
felt so cold when i passed through him he's not real he's not real you're not real he's not real you're not real
re-enforced glass panel because it broke once newspaper says it broke just a rumor man killed aaron mitchelson library staff library dean says no one ever died here just a rumor just an urban legend you're not real not real not real not real
i'm alone on the second story cold space in the air over the cracks in the glass floor cieling over the warm to the touch concrete i'm alone on the bottom level with his shadow above me
now whenever i go down there i start shaking always see his shadow but he's never there he's never there air always cold concrete floor always warm where he died he's not there he's not there but his shadow is always is always
Monday, November 7
44. (One of my favorite authors.)
"Why do you have to do this?" the girl asked me. "Why don't you just take the money and buy something you like? What's the good of thirty Big Macs?"
I shook my head.
My wife explained, "We're sorry, really. But there weren't any bakeries open. If there had been, we would have attacked a bakery."
That seemed to satisfy them. At least they didn't ask any more questions.Then my wife ordered two large Cokes from the girl and paid for them.
"We're stealing bread, nothing else," she said. The girl responded with a complicated head movement, sort of like nodding and sort of like shaking. She was probably trying to do both at the same time. I thought I had some idea how she felt.
My wife then pulled a ball of twine out of her pocket--she came equipped--and tied the three [employees] to a post as expertly as if she were sewing on buttons. She asked if the cord hurt, or if anyone wanted to go to the toilet, but no one said a word. I wrapped the gun in the blanket, she picked up the shopping bags, and out we went. The customers at the table were still asleep, like a couple of deep-sea fish. What would it have taken to rouse them from a sleep so deep?
We drove for a half hour, found an empty parking lot by a building, and pulled in. There we ate hamburgers and drank our Cokes. I sent six Big Macs down to the cavern of my stomach, and she ate four. That left twenty Big Macs in the back seat. Our hunger--the hunger that had felt as if it could go on forever--vanished as the dawn was breaking. The first light of the sun dyed the building's filthy walls purple and made a giant SONY BETA ad tower glow with painful intensity. Soon the whine of highway truck tires was joined by the chirping of birds. The American Armed Forces radio was playing cowboy music. We shared a cigarette. Afterward, she rested her head on my shoulder.
"Still, was it necessary for us to do this?" I asked.
"Of course it was!" With one deep sigh, she fell asleep against me. She felt as soft and as light as a kitten.
Haruki Murakami - "The Second Bakery Attack" (Translated by Jay Rubin in The Elephant Vanishes)
I shook my head.
My wife explained, "We're sorry, really. But there weren't any bakeries open. If there had been, we would have attacked a bakery."
That seemed to satisfy them. At least they didn't ask any more questions.Then my wife ordered two large Cokes from the girl and paid for them.
"We're stealing bread, nothing else," she said. The girl responded with a complicated head movement, sort of like nodding and sort of like shaking. She was probably trying to do both at the same time. I thought I had some idea how she felt.
My wife then pulled a ball of twine out of her pocket--she came equipped--and tied the three [employees] to a post as expertly as if she were sewing on buttons. She asked if the cord hurt, or if anyone wanted to go to the toilet, but no one said a word. I wrapped the gun in the blanket, she picked up the shopping bags, and out we went. The customers at the table were still asleep, like a couple of deep-sea fish. What would it have taken to rouse them from a sleep so deep?
We drove for a half hour, found an empty parking lot by a building, and pulled in. There we ate hamburgers and drank our Cokes. I sent six Big Macs down to the cavern of my stomach, and she ate four. That left twenty Big Macs in the back seat. Our hunger--the hunger that had felt as if it could go on forever--vanished as the dawn was breaking. The first light of the sun dyed the building's filthy walls purple and made a giant SONY BETA ad tower glow with painful intensity. Soon the whine of highway truck tires was joined by the chirping of birds. The American Armed Forces radio was playing cowboy music. We shared a cigarette. Afterward, she rested her head on my shoulder.
"Still, was it necessary for us to do this?" I asked.
"Of course it was!" With one deep sigh, she fell asleep against me. She felt as soft and as light as a kitten.
Haruki Murakami - "The Second Bakery Attack" (Translated by Jay Rubin in The Elephant Vanishes)
Thursday, November 3
43. (Little.)
It's the little things in life that really make my day worth it. I mean, I live a pretty good living right now, honestly. Sure, I'm exhausted and depressed (both because of damned damned damned school), but the coffee shop downstairs (at the library, in which I work) now accepts debit cards. No longer will I have to bum a buck-fifty off of one of my co-workers in order to get my tall Starbucks house with caramel syrup and three to four little cups of half-and-half. This makes working until midnight so much easier, it's not even funny.
Thank you, The Bookmark, for making my evening. You're the best ever. Except for my sweetheart, who's the best by default.
[This post brought to you by Perfect Spelling--make that spellchecker waste its time!]
Thank you, The Bookmark, for making my evening. You're the best ever. Except for my sweetheart, who's the best by default.
[This post brought to you by Perfect Spelling--make that spellchecker waste its time!]
Wednesday, November 2
42. (Naaaa, nanananananaaa, naaa, na na, na, na na, naaaaa.)
My love of Katamari Damacy and We Love Katamari is competely and totally motherfucking endless.
Thursday, October 20
41. (Tired.)
My asthma kicked back in recently. The meds I'm on for it now, the inhaler specifically, are like a kick of adrenaline in the downstairs bits. Seriously, my heart'll start pounding, and my hands'll start shaking, and it gets hard to concentrate.
It's an interesting experience, to say the least. What I find most curious about it is that when I get really sleepy, all those things happen. Well, not the heart pounding.
Okay, so maybe it's not so similar after all.
It's an interesting experience, to say the least. What I find most curious about it is that when I get really sleepy, all those things happen. Well, not the heart pounding.
Okay, so maybe it's not so similar after all.
Tuesday, October 4
39. (SomniaIn.)
Insomnia's a funny thing. I'm not talking about the long-term kind, I'm talking about the pop-up-and-punch-you-in-the-face kind.
Seriously. I was sleepy and tired and yawny pretty much until I got into bed. And now I'm wide awake, playing Kingdom of Loathing past midnight, despite the fact that I have to get up tomorrow. Oh well, I did decently on my midterm today so I've earned a little stay-up-and-go-insane time.
I really wish I was sleepy again, though.
...
You're fighting a Quiet Healer
You gain 6 Mysteriousness.
You gain 12 Roguishness.
You gain a Moxie point!
...
So yeah, I'm a little out of it now. That's KoL, by the way--one of the later adventures, in fact. One of my favorites.
Still not sleepy. I wish I was, really do, because I have to get up and go to class in the morning. Tomorrow is going to suck quite a bit.
Why am I even writing this in here? This is just random crap that pops out of my head. If you're looking for something relevant, don't bother reading any further in this entry. There's not going to be anything intelligent in it. Just my usual rambling bullshit.
Seriously.
Need to sleep.
This is getting ridiculous.
Seriously.
The thing is--as wide awake as I am, I'm totally tired at the same time. It's like two halves of my body are fighting each other for supremacy: the tired half, which has worked all day, and the awake half, which hasn't seen midnight out of bed in a while.
...I wonder if that's normal? Or am I just weird?
Blah blah blah. I'm seriously just spouting off random things that pop into my head now.
I want to buy and play We Love Katamari. Oh yeah.
I want a lot of things, though, and there are things that are more important than a videogame, no matter how insanely fun/funny/awesome said game is.
Hmm....
Still typing, aren't I? That means I'm not in bed.
Alright, got an image in my head. Hang on, kiddos, it's story time.
______________________________________________
The prince's concubine gave birth to a son today. The city was up and about in celebration. It's been too many months since something like this has happened, and the tension just seemed to... snap. In all the hubub not many people noticed the arrival of the Wanderer. He came in as he always does, materializing out of the desert, wearing those heavy, brown robes and black goggles. Average height, average build. The robes hide his skin-color, the goggles hide his eyes.
We don't really know anything about him. He comes in once a month and buys in bulk enough food to feed a family for a month, as well rolls and rolls of parchment. I wonder what he uses it for.
People tell stories about them--we're not sure how many are actually true. The only one I've actually confirmed--and it is my job, as the Royal Librarian--I saw with my own eyes. Three of the royal guards, fresh off of a drinking binge, tried to unmask the Wanderer. Before anyone could stop him, he broke the first guard's arm, slung his long rifle around and emptied a shell into the chest of the second, smashed in the head of the third with the butt, and buried a dagger in the neck of the first while he was clutching his freshly-broken arm.
He bought his things and vanished into the desert within the hour. The next month, when he returned, he was met by an armed contingent of guards, led by Magistrate Chin. We expected a fight. Instead, Chin simply fined the man and apologized on behalf of the late guards who attacked him. The tension between them that day could have smothered you.
They say he's untouchable. They say he's a ghost, a traveller from one of the long-dead nomadic tribes of the desert. They say he's a hero for standing up to the guards. They say he's a monster who hides his face to avoid scaring away women and children.
I say they're idiots. I say he's just a man who can't stand living around people. I say he's not alone out there.
But people like me say a lot of things.
______________________________________________
Still not ready for bed, though. I'm getting tired of sitting here, but there's not really anything else to do at the moment. Keep playing KoL, I guess. I'm going to stop writing now, though, so have a nice night.
Seriously. I was sleepy and tired and yawny pretty much until I got into bed. And now I'm wide awake, playing Kingdom of Loathing past midnight, despite the fact that I have to get up tomorrow. Oh well, I did decently on my midterm today so I've earned a little stay-up-and-go-insane time.
I really wish I was sleepy again, though.
...
You're fighting a Quiet Healer
This is a quiet girl who is probably the last survivor of some ancient race of extremely quiet, extremely Magical people. After being improbably rescued from either the government or some evil empire by the Protagonist, she quietly stands by his side, quietly casting healing spells on him. He's not here to protect her now, though...
You get the jump on her.
You work up a Thrust-Smack. You hit for 90 damage. BOOF! WHAM! BARF! WHAMMO! ZAP! SMACK! ZAP! WHAM! WHAM! BIFF!You win the fight!| You gain 105 Meat. |
| You acquire an item: soft green echo eyedrop antidote |
You gain 6 Mysteriousness.
You gain 12 Roguishness.
You gain a Moxie point!
...
So yeah, I'm a little out of it now. That's KoL, by the way--one of the later adventures, in fact. One of my favorites.
Still not sleepy. I wish I was, really do, because I have to get up and go to class in the morning. Tomorrow is going to suck quite a bit.
Why am I even writing this in here? This is just random crap that pops out of my head. If you're looking for something relevant, don't bother reading any further in this entry. There's not going to be anything intelligent in it. Just my usual rambling bullshit.
Seriously.
Need to sleep.
This is getting ridiculous.
Seriously.
The thing is--as wide awake as I am, I'm totally tired at the same time. It's like two halves of my body are fighting each other for supremacy: the tired half, which has worked all day, and the awake half, which hasn't seen midnight out of bed in a while.
...I wonder if that's normal? Or am I just weird?
Blah blah blah. I'm seriously just spouting off random things that pop into my head now.
I want to buy and play We Love Katamari. Oh yeah.
I want a lot of things, though, and there are things that are more important than a videogame, no matter how insanely fun/funny/awesome said game is.
Hmm....
Still typing, aren't I? That means I'm not in bed.
Alright, got an image in my head. Hang on, kiddos, it's story time.
______________________________________________
The prince's concubine gave birth to a son today. The city was up and about in celebration. It's been too many months since something like this has happened, and the tension just seemed to... snap. In all the hubub not many people noticed the arrival of the Wanderer. He came in as he always does, materializing out of the desert, wearing those heavy, brown robes and black goggles. Average height, average build. The robes hide his skin-color, the goggles hide his eyes.
We don't really know anything about him. He comes in once a month and buys in bulk enough food to feed a family for a month, as well rolls and rolls of parchment. I wonder what he uses it for.
People tell stories about them--we're not sure how many are actually true. The only one I've actually confirmed--and it is my job, as the Royal Librarian--I saw with my own eyes. Three of the royal guards, fresh off of a drinking binge, tried to unmask the Wanderer. Before anyone could stop him, he broke the first guard's arm, slung his long rifle around and emptied a shell into the chest of the second, smashed in the head of the third with the butt, and buried a dagger in the neck of the first while he was clutching his freshly-broken arm.
He bought his things and vanished into the desert within the hour. The next month, when he returned, he was met by an armed contingent of guards, led by Magistrate Chin. We expected a fight. Instead, Chin simply fined the man and apologized on behalf of the late guards who attacked him. The tension between them that day could have smothered you.
They say he's untouchable. They say he's a ghost, a traveller from one of the long-dead nomadic tribes of the desert. They say he's a hero for standing up to the guards. They say he's a monster who hides his face to avoid scaring away women and children.
I say they're idiots. I say he's just a man who can't stand living around people. I say he's not alone out there.
But people like me say a lot of things.
______________________________________________
Still not ready for bed, though. I'm getting tired of sitting here, but there's not really anything else to do at the moment. Keep playing KoL, I guess. I'm going to stop writing now, though, so have a nice night.
Tuesday, September 20
38. (Hoo!)
I haven't got anything to say today.
I saw an owl on my way to school. As I started to cross the bike-bridge past Berry, it swooped past me. I slammed on my breaks and swore. Startled, it flew off.
I've been trying all day to attach some meaning to it, but I've decided not to. It doesn't need a meaning. It was simply a wonder.
I saw an owl on my way to school. As I started to cross the bike-bridge past Berry, it swooped past me. I slammed on my breaks and swore. Startled, it flew off.
I've been trying all day to attach some meaning to it, but I've decided not to. It doesn't need a meaning. It was simply a wonder.
Sunday, September 11
37. (A preview.)
The following text is raw--uneditted, unproofread, unspellchecked. Please forgive any spelling or grammar errors, as I honestly don't give a damn in this stage of the writing process.
...from "City" (working title), a short story currently in the works, by Jayson Marsh:
There are fires. The smoke rises up out of the rubble, blocking the view of the city below. A city destroyed, a city under siege by itself, a city in ruins. Behind me the blades of the rescue helicopter tear through the air, but my mind’s not on them. I’m looking down from the roof of the skyscraper I work–worked, probably–in, wind in my hair, tie flying to-and-fro, tears gathering in my eyes. Someone behind me is yelling at me to get on the copter.
The chopper takes off without me. The pilot is obviously in a hurry. I let it leave without protest. I have something I have to do first.
I take my last look at the blue sky, and I remember sandy-blonde hair. I remember crow’s-feet at the corners of her eyes. I remember her favorite blue dress. I remember how her skin felt against my fingers, how it smelt, how it tasted. It’s a long staircase down, so I’m given a lot of time to remember. And a lot of time to think.
The first quakes hit us at nine in the morning, just as the workday was starting. I’d watched Elise put her class plan together the night before, so I know she would have just been starting teaching her kids their math lessons. The initial shockwaves weren’t that bad, and they probably went into emergency-drill mode and ducked under their desks or unto doorframes. I can imagine them just peeking out after the all-clear when the second wave hit.
I don’t need to imagine the screams, or the sound of the ceiling falling in, or bodies and debris hitting the ground as people scurried for shelter. I heard all of that in my office. I remember shaking like some dumb kid who hasn’t lived in. I remember watching Caroline’s arm break when the monitor tipped off her desk and landed on it.
I remember putting her on the helicopter, alive. I have only a vague idea of how many days later that was. Five? Six? A whole week? We were trapped inside for so long that I didn’t see the blue sky for days. I don’t know when the next time I’ll see it is.
Ground-level. I was right: the black smoke from the fires has completely blotted out the sky above me. I squint, and rub my eyes. The city is deathly quiet around me. I can’t see anyone. The street is peppered with rubble large and small, the remains of cars without wheels or, I’m sure, stereos. Here and there bodies stand out amid the grey, mostly grey themselves with splashes of the blue or the yellow or the green of their clothing or, more often, the red of their blood. Five or six or however many days ago it was, I might have wretched. Now I’m too hollow to bring anything to the surface.
I head north, towards the school. It’s going to be a long walk, but if I’m going to find my wife that’s where I should start. The helicopter pilot told us that even the rescue services were having trouble getting into most buildings, and there weren’t any rendevous places for survivors to meet up. There was no real way on or off the island, really, so rescue crews had to fly in and out. The going was slow, but they were getting people out as quick as they could. We all heard the helicopter with the loudspeaker on the first day telling people to stay where they were, to avoid wandering around the ruins, to stay inside and barricade all doors and windows until someone could get there to help them.
I wonder if they heard that same helicopter at the school? I know the faculty has always had a back-up food store in the basement, in case something like this ever happened; teachers are smart–I’m sure Elise and her coworkers stayed there, waiting for help.
And yes, I realize how much of a fool I am for trying to do this myself, instead of letting the professionals take care of it. Damn my hero complex–I can’t help myself, honestly. I wouldn’t be able to sleep at night, even if she made it out safe and sound. I have to do something, even if it’s pointless.
I walk for hours. I hit sections of the city that are so collapsed in on themselves that I can’t tell what direction I’m facing. As the black cloud above me starts to grow darker, as the sun goes down against a blue sky I can’t see, I realize that I am totally, helplessly lost. It’s amazing how different a grid-like city-structure can seem so foreign when it’s half-buried under the buildings that used to form the grin. I hunker down for the night under a halfway-collapsed wall, sheltered from the winds that come rushing between the remaining high-rises. It’s late fall. The nights are very cold.
I only manage to sleep a couple of hours.
Sunday, September 4
36. (Dream a little dream?)
555-4635. No. 555-4626. No. 555-4646. No. Damn it, fingers, dial. Wait--no, damn, that's a pound sign. I hate this stupid fucking phone. Dial. Dial. C'mon, please. Heart's beating. Fast. Like, seriously beating--damn, damn, damn. Why are these buttons so small? Mom's number is so much easier to dial, for some reason. Dad's always gives me problems. Come on, come on--there, got it.
Dial-tone. Dial-tone. Dial-tone. Come on, old man, pick up.
"Hello?"
And everything comes rushing back to me. Dominique's plane arriving. Winning that car in the contest. Selling it when my mom made me. The storm. Hiding in the basement. My house getting torn to shreds. My aunt's shop being ripped apart. Giving the car money away to help my family. My mother's stupid fucking drama. I'm so tired of it. So I told Dom I'd fly to the UK with her. Just for a few days, to get away from it all. Just for a few days.
And here I am at the airport, desperately trying to get a hold of one of my parents so they don't think I'm dead or something. Why the hell wasn't Mom's phone on? Why the hell are the buttons to small on this stupid thing?
"Where are you?" he asks me, and I find I can't answer right away.
The airport, I tell him.
"Seeing that girlfriend of yours off?"
I tell him she's not my girlfriend. I tell him we're just good friends. He chuckles. And I tell him I'm going away.
"What?"
I tell him I'm getting on the plane with her and flying to Britain. Just for a few days. He asks me if my mother knows. I tell him I couldn't get a hold of her. I tell him I'm sorry I didn't tell them sooner. I tell him a lot of things.
"But just for a few days, right?"
I tell him, right, just for a few days. The plane's boarding now, I continue. I've really got to get going. He tells me he loves me. He tells me Mom feels the same. My hands are shaking. I tell him I love them both, too.
And I hang up the phone and start down the little retractable tunnel thing that leads to the plane. I'm aboard, but I'm still shaking and my heart's still pumping full-throttle. I look down the middle aisle and the plane seems to double, triple in length, twisting and turning.
I'm afraid of flying.
And then Dom's hand is in mine, and she's tugging me into a seat. Our hands end up in my lap. She smiles. I take a deep breath.
It'll just be a few days.
Right?
Dial-tone. Dial-tone. Dial-tone. Come on, old man, pick up.
"Hello?"
And everything comes rushing back to me. Dominique's plane arriving. Winning that car in the contest. Selling it when my mom made me. The storm. Hiding in the basement. My house getting torn to shreds. My aunt's shop being ripped apart. Giving the car money away to help my family. My mother's stupid fucking drama. I'm so tired of it. So I told Dom I'd fly to the UK with her. Just for a few days, to get away from it all. Just for a few days.
And here I am at the airport, desperately trying to get a hold of one of my parents so they don't think I'm dead or something. Why the hell wasn't Mom's phone on? Why the hell are the buttons to small on this stupid thing?
"Where are you?" he asks me, and I find I can't answer right away.
The airport, I tell him.
"Seeing that girlfriend of yours off?"
I tell him she's not my girlfriend. I tell him we're just good friends. He chuckles. And I tell him I'm going away.
"What?"
I tell him I'm getting on the plane with her and flying to Britain. Just for a few days. He asks me if my mother knows. I tell him I couldn't get a hold of her. I tell him I'm sorry I didn't tell them sooner. I tell him a lot of things.
"But just for a few days, right?"
I tell him, right, just for a few days. The plane's boarding now, I continue. I've really got to get going. He tells me he loves me. He tells me Mom feels the same. My hands are shaking. I tell him I love them both, too.
And I hang up the phone and start down the little retractable tunnel thing that leads to the plane. I'm aboard, but I'm still shaking and my heart's still pumping full-throttle. I look down the middle aisle and the plane seems to double, triple in length, twisting and turning.
I'm afraid of flying.
And then Dom's hand is in mine, and she's tugging me into a seat. Our hands end up in my lap. She smiles. I take a deep breath.
It'll just be a few days.
Right?
Thursday, September 1
35. (And now.)
What if clocks were set on a 25 hour iteration?
What if the years were two months longer?
What if the moon really was made of cheese?
What if concrete floated on water?
What if the sky was violet at mid-day?
What if clouds were made of wood?
What if the nudists were right all along?
What if we're all in Hell, and God's giving us a second chance?
What if God was one of us? Just a stranger on the bus?
What if he was trying to make his way home?
What if we all had photographic memory?
What if books flew on their pages like birds on their wings?
What if windows reflected both ways?
What if light was dark?
What if we didn't have shadows?
What if we are the shadows?
What if we are the reflections?
What if you could put your hand through bricks without harming them?
What if the dolphins rose up and took over?
What if the years were two months longer?
What if the moon really was made of cheese?
What if concrete floated on water?
What if the sky was violet at mid-day?
What if clouds were made of wood?
What if the nudists were right all along?
What if we're all in Hell, and God's giving us a second chance?
What if God was one of us? Just a stranger on the bus?
What if he was trying to make his way home?
What if we all had photographic memory?
What if books flew on their pages like birds on their wings?
What if windows reflected both ways?
What if light was dark?
What if we didn't have shadows?
What if we are the shadows?
What if we are the reflections?
What if you could put your hand through bricks without harming them?
What if the dolphins rose up and took over?
Wednesday, August 31
34. (Changes.)
As you can see, things have changed around a bit here. Just look to the right.
Things are changing all over. Times are a'changin', as I think the song goes. Life. Love. Everything.
And yeah, I'm being ambiguous on purpose.
Almost done with school. Almost done with other things. Movin' on up, as I think the song goes. Love. Life.
And yeah, I'm being ambiguous because this will start bordering on an 'emotional' post, the kind of post I usually avoid posting here. This isn't for emotion, it's for writing. I'm learning to separate the two.
Things are changing all over. Times are a'changin', as I think the song goes. Life. Love. Everything.
And yeah, I'm being ambiguous on purpose.
Almost done with school. Almost done with other things. Movin' on up, as I think the song goes. Love. Life.
And yeah, I'm being ambiguous because this will start bordering on an 'emotional' post, the kind of post I usually avoid posting here. This isn't for emotion, it's for writing. I'm learning to separate the two.
Tuesday, August 30
33. (Someone Else's Text.)
"In the university the base of the whole academic endeavor has traditionally been the Freshman Composition course, where the student learns to write. Not to write truths that count for him. Not to connect his experience to what he reads and hears about in the classroom, but to master an academic tongue and a manner of footnoting and snipping out other persons' words and rearranging them in a new introduction-body-conclusion form. 'Tell 'em what you're going to tell 'em, tell 'em, and then tell 'em what you told 'em.' And that will finish them off. Make sure they will look at your paper to see how many pages it takes up rather than what it says.
"This dehydrated manner of producing writing that is never read is the contribution of the English teacher to the total university."
...from Uptaught, by Ken Macrorie.
"This dehydrated manner of producing writing that is never read is the contribution of the English teacher to the total university."
...from Uptaught, by Ken Macrorie.
Thursday, July 28
32. (To whom it may concern, and may not read this.)
It's a simple message:
You didn't trust me.
You didn't respect me.
You made me feel obligated into doing something I didn't want to do.
That's not how friendships work.
Between friends, there is trust.
Between friends, there is respect.
Between friends, there is no obligation.
You didn't trust me.
You didn't respect me.
You made me feel obligated into doing something I didn't want to do.
That's not how friendships work.
Between friends, there is trust.
Between friends, there is respect.
Between friends, there is no obligation.
Wednesday, July 27
31. (I dream of.)
There's a film.
It's by a man named Falsburger. He's released several in a series, all short, experimental films, but all featuring the same motif. In fact, they could all be mistaken for one another. Short flashes of different images, some of them hard to identify. Like Dog Star Man, only more coherent. I'm watching one of them.
Dog, cat, spinning red glass thing, lake. The lake is the most identifiable--it's a flat water surface with light fog trailing along the top of it. Probably from England. Small children, fur, metal gears, clockwork, lake. More fog this time. Something ripples on the surface. A car, a highway, dog, cat, spinning red thing (somewhat less out of focus now, it looks like part of a wind-chime). Lake. Distinctive ripples.
By now, the film has taken over the whole of my vision. I'm not watching it, I'm experiencing it. It's everywhere and everything.
Red glass wind-chime (yes), hanging from a suburban porch. Lake. Something dark bobs on the surface. Clouds, stars, sky, dog, cat, small children. Lake, same dark bobbing thing, slightly taller. Car, clouds, cat, child, dog, fur, light, light, light, burning suburban house, shattered wind-chime. Lake.
Something is rising from the surface, a dark, mannish figure in dark rags. Maybe. The next flash of the lake is clear, ripple-free, but then the one after that is completely shrouded in thick fog except for the dark, slowly-approaching figure.
I've seen this film before. There never was a lake in it, much less a dark, sinister figure coming at me.
It's by a man named Falsburger. He's released several in a series, all short, experimental films, but all featuring the same motif. In fact, they could all be mistaken for one another. Short flashes of different images, some of them hard to identify. Like Dog Star Man, only more coherent. I'm watching one of them.
Dog, cat, spinning red glass thing, lake. The lake is the most identifiable--it's a flat water surface with light fog trailing along the top of it. Probably from England. Small children, fur, metal gears, clockwork, lake. More fog this time. Something ripples on the surface. A car, a highway, dog, cat, spinning red thing (somewhat less out of focus now, it looks like part of a wind-chime). Lake. Distinctive ripples.
By now, the film has taken over the whole of my vision. I'm not watching it, I'm experiencing it. It's everywhere and everything.
Red glass wind-chime (yes), hanging from a suburban porch. Lake. Something dark bobs on the surface. Clouds, stars, sky, dog, cat, small children. Lake, same dark bobbing thing, slightly taller. Car, clouds, cat, child, dog, fur, light, light, light, burning suburban house, shattered wind-chime. Lake.
Something is rising from the surface, a dark, mannish figure in dark rags. Maybe. The next flash of the lake is clear, ripple-free, but then the one after that is completely shrouded in thick fog except for the dark, slowly-approaching figure.
I've seen this film before. There never was a lake in it, much less a dark, sinister figure coming at me.
Monday, July 25
30. (I.)
I should be making more of an effort to write in here. Honestly, though, I just don't feel like I can be knackered with it lately. It's summer vacation, after all. I'm lazy.
My mind should be sufficiently invigorated once school starts again in August. The problem then becomes time.
My mind should be sufficiently invigorated once school starts again in August. The problem then becomes time.
Friday, July 22
29. (Non-non-fiction.)
He came barging into our house at precisely 7:00 pm. Dark blonde pony-tail, blue-grey eyes, short and slim and generally of small build. I was disturbed slightly by how worried, annoyed, angered, and slightly-crazy the young man seemed. I was slightly more disconcerted by the fact that he barged in via not a door or window or something functional like that, but through thin air itself. I was even more freaked out by the fact that he was me.
I looked myself over. I looked right back at me, and tried to catch my breath. We looked at ourselves for a while. We were both pretty confused about the whole situation I seemed to be in.
"What happened?" I asked myself.
"I don't really know," I replied.
"Am I real?" Obviously this was getting a little too confusing for my sleep-addled mind.
"Of course I am. The question is, am I real?"
"That's who I meant. Me."
"That's who I meant. Me."
This was all getting rather silly. "Hang on," I said to myself. And then I turned everything I said red.
"See, this is a lot more convenient," I said. "Thanks for making the change."
"Any time," I replied. "No, want to talk about why I'm here? The me who just appeared in thin air, I mean. Me."
"The convenience of the red lettering has its limits, doesn't it?"
"Yes."
"A better question would be how I did the coloring thing in the first place. I mean, it seems a little odd to talk in red text."
I sighed and buried my face in my hands. Attaching such a color to my speech was only adding more complications to our ability to communicate. "Look, you've got to be here for a reason--oh, what the hell is this?" My text had turned blue spontaneously.
"I wanted to know if I could do it, too. I guess it makes sense that I can, since I can."
"This is really stupid."
"Yes it is."
"No, I mean--the color, me nancy."
I laughed at myself. "That doesn't even make any sense!" I said. "I sound like caveman!"
"See, this is much better." We were both getting distracted. "How is it that we can do this?"
"I don't really know."
"Oh, now you're just showing off," I snapped. And then, without thinking, I punched my own lights out. As I fell, I hit my head on the table and poofed out of existence in a shower of dark-red text.
"Oh," I muttered, returning things to their normal hue, "Now I've got a mess to clean up."
I looked myself over. I looked right back at me, and tried to catch my breath. We looked at ourselves for a while. We were both pretty confused about the whole situation I seemed to be in.
"What happened?" I asked myself.
"I don't really know," I replied.
"Am I real?" Obviously this was getting a little too confusing for my sleep-addled mind.
"Of course I am. The question is, am I real?"
"That's who I meant. Me."
"That's who I meant. Me."
This was all getting rather silly. "Hang on," I said to myself. And then I turned everything I said red.
"See, this is a lot more convenient," I said. "Thanks for making the change."
"Any time," I replied. "No, want to talk about why I'm here? The me who just appeared in thin air, I mean. Me."
"The convenience of the red lettering has its limits, doesn't it?"
"Yes."
"A better question would be how I did the coloring thing in the first place. I mean, it seems a little odd to talk in red text."
I sighed and buried my face in my hands. Attaching such a color to my speech was only adding more complications to our ability to communicate. "Look, you've got to be here for a reason--oh, what the hell is this?" My text had turned blue spontaneously.
"I wanted to know if I could do it, too. I guess it makes sense that I can, since I can."
"This is really stupid."
"Yes it is."
"No, I mean--the color, me nancy."
I laughed at myself. "That doesn't even make any sense!" I said. "I sound like caveman!"
"See, this is much better." We were both getting distracted. "How is it that we can do this?"
"I don't really know."
"Oh, now you're just showing off," I snapped. And then, without thinking, I punched my own lights out. As I fell, I hit my head on the table and poofed out of existence in a shower of dark-red text.
"Oh," I muttered, returning things to their normal hue, "Now I've got a mess to clean up."
Sunday, June 5
28. (Changes.)
There's a train coming down the tracks, and we're on it.
In a matter of days--literally, a matter of days--my life is going to take a drastic turn. For the worse? For the better? Hopefully and most likely the latter.
In two days, on Wednesday (so maybe it's technically three days, but whatever) I'll be hopping on a plane to see my girlfriend in California. A matter of days later, we'll embark on a two-day road-trip back, bringing her to my house, where she will be living with me. Living with me.
It's a change, yes. And, as my parents and friends have yet to get tired of warning me, a big one. A big, huge, change.
And honestly? I'm not afraid. I'm nervous as all hell, but nerves and fear are different things. I'm nervous. But I'm not afraid.
So all you nay-sayers, who keep telling me all these things in a vain attempt to either dissuade me of brace me for the future: stow it. My girl's coming to live with me, and I know--I know I wouldn't have it any other way. There will be problems. There will be issues. There will be clashes.
And I don't care. That's life. That's living. Existence is change. We'll work through it.
Together.
In a matter of days--literally, a matter of days--my life is going to take a drastic turn. For the worse? For the better? Hopefully and most likely the latter.
In two days, on Wednesday (so maybe it's technically three days, but whatever) I'll be hopping on a plane to see my girlfriend in California. A matter of days later, we'll embark on a two-day road-trip back, bringing her to my house, where she will be living with me. Living with me.
It's a change, yes. And, as my parents and friends have yet to get tired of warning me, a big one. A big, huge, change.
And honestly? I'm not afraid. I'm nervous as all hell, but nerves and fear are different things. I'm nervous. But I'm not afraid.
So all you nay-sayers, who keep telling me all these things in a vain attempt to either dissuade me of brace me for the future: stow it. My girl's coming to live with me, and I know--I know I wouldn't have it any other way. There will be problems. There will be issues. There will be clashes.
And I don't care. That's life. That's living. Existence is change. We'll work through it.
Together.
Sunday, May 1
27. (They.)
1. She's sitting pretty as usual and while I can appreciate this, I no longer wonder what might have been, what could have happened, or what it might have been like. I no longer have a need. She tells me she's nervous, and I do my inexperienced best to tell her it's going to be okay. She should be confident. She's an intelligent woman. I want to tell her that she's a talented writer, but I don't know that because, while I have endless respect for this friend of mine, I have never read anything she's written. No matter what the results of the source of her worry, I would like to change that before the end of the summer.
2. Sitting on the other side of a huge crab dinner, relating a story that I already know to our third. His former shame, his fall, his failure that he looks back on with sadness but confidence that it won't happen again. I understand how he feels, yet I am unable to truly relate. I've been in a similar situation, but not exactly so. I feel awkward, because the third relates far better than I, though I have known the teller far longer than he has. It isn't jealousy on my part, just... Uncertainty. He is one of my best friends and I love him, but while I respect his beliefs I want to grab him and shake him and tell him what he's saying is ridiculous. Thankfully he is one of the good kind. He hasn't forced it on me, and won't.
3. His car is a prettier shape than mine, but I don't envy the color. Forest-green is a hue that should be reserved for living things. His arrogance so far today has slapped me time and again, but he's my brother and I love him, even if he can be a jackass to the people who care the most for him. If he weren't so stubborn, everyone would get along better; but that's not the case, and as such even his girl complains to me that he's got something up his ass. I sometimes wish that so many people didn't turn to me with information like this, especially people in my family. Maybe I should try to stop being so neutral, but I don't think that that would work out, as it's somewhat against my nature.
4. The one, the big one, saved for last because she's the most important. I have to reach back farther for this one. She's pressed and warm against my chest, my arms around her waist, and we watch the television. We laugh and make jokes and I am, suddenly, without doubt. In a matter of months this arrangement won't be temporary anymore. We'll lay around and watch TV whenever we want, instead of this limited time-span. A week is far too short for everything I want to give her. Thankfully, I've given her the rest of my life.
2. Sitting on the other side of a huge crab dinner, relating a story that I already know to our third. His former shame, his fall, his failure that he looks back on with sadness but confidence that it won't happen again. I understand how he feels, yet I am unable to truly relate. I've been in a similar situation, but not exactly so. I feel awkward, because the third relates far better than I, though I have known the teller far longer than he has. It isn't jealousy on my part, just... Uncertainty. He is one of my best friends and I love him, but while I respect his beliefs I want to grab him and shake him and tell him what he's saying is ridiculous. Thankfully he is one of the good kind. He hasn't forced it on me, and won't.
3. His car is a prettier shape than mine, but I don't envy the color. Forest-green is a hue that should be reserved for living things. His arrogance so far today has slapped me time and again, but he's my brother and I love him, even if he can be a jackass to the people who care the most for him. If he weren't so stubborn, everyone would get along better; but that's not the case, and as such even his girl complains to me that he's got something up his ass. I sometimes wish that so many people didn't turn to me with information like this, especially people in my family. Maybe I should try to stop being so neutral, but I don't think that that would work out, as it's somewhat against my nature.
4. The one, the big one, saved for last because she's the most important. I have to reach back farther for this one. She's pressed and warm against my chest, my arms around her waist, and we watch the television. We laugh and make jokes and I am, suddenly, without doubt. In a matter of months this arrangement won't be temporary anymore. We'll lay around and watch TV whenever we want, instead of this limited time-span. A week is far too short for everything I want to give her. Thankfully, I've given her the rest of my life.
Sunday, April 24
26. (Wigging.)
As I write this (first typed: "drink this") I'm wigging out on coffee and my eyes feel like they're going to burst out of my skull (first typed: "school"). I'll be noting any large-scale typos (first typed: "typies") as a result, words that aren't supposed to be involved at all but, somehow, get pumped out as I ejaculate this entry into my blog.
Sexual references aside...
I've noticed over the last couple (first typed: "could") of years, since starting college, really, that my typing skills have improved greatly. I blame the internet, textual role-playing, and being a writer. Blame's not a right word for such a description, though.
I took a typing class in highschool, when I was a junior, taught by a man I know as Fish who happens to be a family friend. He has since attended the funerals of both of my father's parents, but that's beside the point. I'm just trying to point out his relation to me, in terms of family-friendliness.
Anyways, he always made it a point that I should type the traditional way: asdfjkl; and its derivatives, reaching up into the exact places where the letters are supposed to be. In a way, this is (first typed: "his") how I type now, four years later, a junior in college. It's hardly anything direct or (first typed: "of") concise.
As I was typing a web-address into (first typed: "inop") the address bar on the top of the IE window (IE at work; I use Firefox at home) I realized that with habit, my hands have started pumping out words that I type all the time. When I type (first typed: "typo") words (originally typed: "works") that my hands are accustomed to inputting--screen-names, passwords, web-addresses (I never--EVER--let the window type it for me)--my hands tend to become (first typed: "be come") very sloppy.
It feels, as I noted a bit ago, like I'm just slopping the words on there. My hands become floppy, random things that splat against the keyboard in no sense of order or plan, just jamming out words and letters as fast as is physically possible. Fish, they feel like. Big, wet fish, slamming against the black (or, at home, grey) plastic that is my keyboard.
I type damn fast. As you can tell from this entry alone, my (first typed: "byt") accuracy is hardly up to snuff. I'm a horribly ugly typer. One day, I'm going to wear out the 'backspace' button on my personal keyboard, and that'll be all she wrote. The day that happens, I'll give up computers forever and just write on a typewriter.
I honestly hope that that day never comes. Sad as it might often sound, the internet has become an integral part of my life.
And it will continue to be so, until June 9th, until she's here, until I don't need it for my own personally happiness and it reverts to being the thing I use to keep myself from getting bored.
And I didn't even note all the typos, just the (first typed: "hte") big ones.
Sexual references aside...
I've noticed over the last couple (first typed: "could") of years, since starting college, really, that my typing skills have improved greatly. I blame the internet, textual role-playing, and being a writer. Blame's not a right word for such a description, though.
I took a typing class in highschool, when I was a junior, taught by a man I know as Fish who happens to be a family friend. He has since attended the funerals of both of my father's parents, but that's beside the point. I'm just trying to point out his relation to me, in terms of family-friendliness.
Anyways, he always made it a point that I should type the traditional way: asdfjkl; and its derivatives, reaching up into the exact places where the letters are supposed to be. In a way, this is (first typed: "his") how I type now, four years later, a junior in college. It's hardly anything direct or (first typed: "of") concise.
As I was typing a web-address into (first typed: "inop") the address bar on the top of the IE window (IE at work; I use Firefox at home) I realized that with habit, my hands have started pumping out words that I type all the time. When I type (first typed: "typo") words (originally typed: "works") that my hands are accustomed to inputting--screen-names, passwords, web-addresses (I never--EVER--let the window type it for me)--my hands tend to become (first typed: "be come") very sloppy.
It feels, as I noted a bit ago, like I'm just slopping the words on there. My hands become floppy, random things that splat against the keyboard in no sense of order or plan, just jamming out words and letters as fast as is physically possible. Fish, they feel like. Big, wet fish, slamming against the black (or, at home, grey) plastic that is my keyboard.
I type damn fast. As you can tell from this entry alone, my (first typed: "byt") accuracy is hardly up to snuff. I'm a horribly ugly typer. One day, I'm going to wear out the 'backspace' button on my personal keyboard, and that'll be all she wrote. The day that happens, I'll give up computers forever and just write on a typewriter.
I honestly hope that that day never comes. Sad as it might often sound, the internet has become an integral part of my life.
And it will continue to be so, until June 9th, until she's here, until I don't need it for my own personally happiness and it reverts to being the thing I use to keep myself from getting bored.
And I didn't even note all the typos, just the (first typed: "hte") big ones.
Friday, April 22
25. (Sometimes.)
Sometimes you can't make everybody happy.
Sometimes you can't make anybody happy.
Sometimes you make the people you want to be happy sad.
Sometimes you make mistakes.
Sometimes life isn't as smooth as you like.
Sometimes you work it out.
Sometimes you don't.
Sometimes you just go around.
Sometimes you should just shut up.
Sometimes everything isn't enough.
Sometimes good people die.
Sometimes you have to shovel a dead body into a trash can.
Sometimes it's not a dead squirrel.
Sometimes you just want everything to calm down.
And sometimes, you just want to sleep.
Sometimes you can't make anybody happy.
Sometimes you make the people you want to be happy sad.
Sometimes you make mistakes.
Sometimes life isn't as smooth as you like.
Sometimes you work it out.
Sometimes you don't.
Sometimes you just go around.
Sometimes you should just shut up.
Sometimes everything isn't enough.
Sometimes good people die.
Sometimes you have to shovel a dead body into a trash can.
Sometimes it's not a dead squirrel.
Sometimes you just want everything to calm down.
And sometimes, you just want to sleep.
Thursday, March 31
24. (I smell like dirt.)
I skipped my Egyptian and Mesopotamia History class today, for the second (of two) times this week. Sounds kind like a liveJournal starting out, doesn't it?
Don't worry. I'm not here to tell you all about my day and give you a pointless play-by-play that only losers would really be interested in today. I am, however, going to tell you why I skipped the aforementioned class.
Early this month, my grandmother passed away. I inherited a large amount of liquor that probably was her late husband's. I've moved into her bedroom, and my brother has moved from our parents house and into my old room. We had a pool out back, above-ground, with a deck. Said pool cost, like, $1000+ to maintain each summer, and obviously we can't afford that.
So they tore it down. There's a big pile of aluminum and plastic by the curb.
But the deck's the important part. We're tearing it down. Notice how here I used 'we' and before I used 'they' when I used the 'tear down' verb-phrase.
I didn't help with the pool. I'm a lazy ass. But I'm helping with the deck. It involves a lot of swinging of a full-sized sledgehammer. Y'know, the kind you see used in movies when people are working on railroads. A good four feet of shaft, and a heavy steel head. You swing it overhead, or in a wide horizontal circle. Basically, we've been forcing the planks apart and breaking the deck into pieces, pulling up the supports, and smashing the concrete off of them. It's hard, back-breaking work, but it's ridiculously fun. Fun. Yes, physical labor, getting sore (my wrist still hurts) and tired out in the fresh air of a beautiful spring day. To sweat, to labor, to accomplish a goal.
We completely tore the upper deck apart and pulled up some of the supports, but we're not quite done yet. There's still a whole lower deck to smash up and haul off.
So, on top of that pile of aluminum and plastic is now a pile of timber and nails and concrete. I haven't felt this accomplished in months.
Don't worry. I'm not here to tell you all about my day and give you a pointless play-by-play that only losers would really be interested in today. I am, however, going to tell you why I skipped the aforementioned class.
Early this month, my grandmother passed away. I inherited a large amount of liquor that probably was her late husband's. I've moved into her bedroom, and my brother has moved from our parents house and into my old room. We had a pool out back, above-ground, with a deck. Said pool cost, like, $1000+ to maintain each summer, and obviously we can't afford that.
So they tore it down. There's a big pile of aluminum and plastic by the curb.
But the deck's the important part. We're tearing it down. Notice how here I used 'we' and before I used 'they' when I used the 'tear down' verb-phrase.
I didn't help with the pool. I'm a lazy ass. But I'm helping with the deck. It involves a lot of swinging of a full-sized sledgehammer. Y'know, the kind you see used in movies when people are working on railroads. A good four feet of shaft, and a heavy steel head. You swing it overhead, or in a wide horizontal circle. Basically, we've been forcing the planks apart and breaking the deck into pieces, pulling up the supports, and smashing the concrete off of them. It's hard, back-breaking work, but it's ridiculously fun. Fun. Yes, physical labor, getting sore (my wrist still hurts) and tired out in the fresh air of a beautiful spring day. To sweat, to labor, to accomplish a goal.
We completely tore the upper deck apart and pulled up some of the supports, but we're not quite done yet. There's still a whole lower deck to smash up and haul off.
So, on top of that pile of aluminum and plastic is now a pile of timber and nails and concrete. I haven't felt this accomplished in months.
Wednesday, March 30
Tuesday, February 22
23. (Fiction.)
He watches the gold-fish float along, the blue-green light of the aquarium casting its glow on their table. The small, graceful fish vanishes behind her head and his attention is on her now. Her hands move quick and easy--graceful--and bring the noodles to her mouth, but the chopsticks in his own hand are far more clumsy. The noodles slip and splatter, but not enough to mark his clothing or the white table-cloth.
She giggles, dark eyes narrowing slightly in mirth. "This was a good choice."
"I'd heard that it was the least Americanized in town; you were just complaining--"
She interrupts: "It's not as bad as some, but I approve." A smile. "Next week, sometime, I'll have my mom make you some of this. Show you how it's supposed to taste."
"I'd like that," he replies. They go silent again as he struggles to use the foreign utensils. A woman swings by and snatches up their glasses. His companion rises and strides off, then returns with a completely different selection of food. The woman drops off fresh glasses of soda.
He's up now, and away, examining potential meals through well-cleaned glass. Could he use the chopsticks on this? How about that? Rice was out of the question.
He goes back to the table, just as she rises for another helping. She comes back with a bowl of fried rice, with chunks of egg and chicken. She eats it with a fork. They smile.
Some god or beast glares at them as they leave, frozen in stone. She complains, verbally, that she hates this synthesized bullshit. In the car, in their shelter, she pops in a CD of music that she thinks would fit the establishment better.
He can't help but agree.
She giggles, dark eyes narrowing slightly in mirth. "This was a good choice."
"I'd heard that it was the least Americanized in town; you were just complaining--"
She interrupts: "It's not as bad as some, but I approve." A smile. "Next week, sometime, I'll have my mom make you some of this. Show you how it's supposed to taste."
"I'd like that," he replies. They go silent again as he struggles to use the foreign utensils. A woman swings by and snatches up their glasses. His companion rises and strides off, then returns with a completely different selection of food. The woman drops off fresh glasses of soda.
He's up now, and away, examining potential meals through well-cleaned glass. Could he use the chopsticks on this? How about that? Rice was out of the question.
He goes back to the table, just as she rises for another helping. She comes back with a bowl of fried rice, with chunks of egg and chicken. She eats it with a fork. They smile.
Some god or beast glares at them as they leave, frozen in stone. She complains, verbally, that she hates this synthesized bullshit. In the car, in their shelter, she pops in a CD of music that she thinks would fit the establishment better.
He can't help but agree.
Sunday, February 20
22. (Something I'd like to share.)
"...if the story is about a man and a woman changing a tire on a remote highway... you've nonetheless got to convince me of the highway, the tire, the night, the margin, the shoulder, the gravel under their knees, the lug nuts, the difficulty getting the whole thing apart and back together, and the smells. You must do that. But that's not what you're there to deliver. That's the way you're going to seduce me... after you've got my shirt caught in the machine of the story and you've drawn me in, what you're really going to crush me with are these hearts and these people. Who are they?"
--Ron Carlson, in an interview with Susan McInnis (as transcribed in Imaginative Writing: The Elements of Craft by Janet Burroway)
I love his use of conflicting imagery. The use of seduction moving straight into an image of a machine, which is crushing him... it's lovely. It just goes to show that imagery doesn't have to be straightforward to reach you.
--Ron Carlson, in an interview with Susan McInnis (as transcribed in Imaginative Writing: The Elements of Craft by Janet Burroway)
I love his use of conflicting imagery. The use of seduction moving straight into an image of a machine, which is crushing him... it's lovely. It just goes to show that imagery doesn't have to be straightforward to reach you.
Wednesday, February 16
21. (We're All Looking for a Little Piece.)
A moist, rotting room, full of thugs. Sam stands in the door, paused mid-stride as he enters. It's his room. What little goods he owns have been smashed--some still in the process. The urge to lash out wells up within him, but fear overtakes him and Sam turns to run. In seconds, the thugs are on him, beating him, mocking him. He lashes out when he can, but the beating continues until Sam can barely move. The thugs exit, jeering. Sam moans. His typewriter is destroyed, his work, his livelihood set alight and burning. He screams in anger.
Another moist room, less ramshackle than the previous. Eileen, getting on in years, pushes back a mop of gray hair and stares at Jessica, wide-eyed in shock. Her eyes are blue, blood-shot. The sounds of Sam's beating reverberate through the floor.
You call that music? You are a scary little thing, aren't you? It's no wonder they left--oh, don't make that face. Drink your tea, girl. He's better off if them finish him--you are, too. The two of you... quite a pair. He knew they'd be down there, you know. But he had to check. S'why he came up here with you. Wanted you to be safe. Must feel alien for you, huh? Your parents never felt like that, s'why they left, I bet. Stop looking at me like that, you little wretch. I didn't ask for you, I didn't want you. If he doesn't come back for you, it's off to social-services. I'm not like him--not a fool. S'probably why he's getting roughed up now, and I'm brat-sitting a lunatic like you. Oh yes, girl, I heard the stories. Gun must've felt mighty heavy in your hands, huh? Did you watch them bleed? Did he look scared, watching you kill them?
She pours another cup of tea, making sure to drop in an ice-cube so the tea is not too hot. The girl starts to look drowsy, and Eileen brings her to a ratty sofa and lays her down, letting the child rest. Chatting away the whole time, admonishing the girl, mocking the man downstairs. She pulls a blanket over Jessica to make sure she's warm, then sits in the recliner opposite, watching the exhausted child sleep. After a moment she rifles through the girl's belongings and retrieves the gun--right as it enters her rant--and with an uncommon comfortability she removes the clip, pops the bullets out one at a time, and replaces the now-empty clip in the gun. The weapon is then placed back where she found it, in the pocket of Jessica's large jacket. Eileen returns to the recliner, watching the child sleep.
Another moist room, less ramshackle than the previous. Eileen, getting on in years, pushes back a mop of gray hair and stares at Jessica, wide-eyed in shock. Her eyes are blue, blood-shot. The sounds of Sam's beating reverberate through the floor.
You call that music? You are a scary little thing, aren't you? It's no wonder they left--oh, don't make that face. Drink your tea, girl. He's better off if them finish him--you are, too. The two of you... quite a pair. He knew they'd be down there, you know. But he had to check. S'why he came up here with you. Wanted you to be safe. Must feel alien for you, huh? Your parents never felt like that, s'why they left, I bet. Stop looking at me like that, you little wretch. I didn't ask for you, I didn't want you. If he doesn't come back for you, it's off to social-services. I'm not like him--not a fool. S'probably why he's getting roughed up now, and I'm brat-sitting a lunatic like you. Oh yes, girl, I heard the stories. Gun must've felt mighty heavy in your hands, huh? Did you watch them bleed? Did he look scared, watching you kill them?
She pours another cup of tea, making sure to drop in an ice-cube so the tea is not too hot. The girl starts to look drowsy, and Eileen brings her to a ratty sofa and lays her down, letting the child rest. Chatting away the whole time, admonishing the girl, mocking the man downstairs. She pulls a blanket over Jessica to make sure she's warm, then sits in the recliner opposite, watching the exhausted child sleep. After a moment she rifles through the girl's belongings and retrieves the gun--right as it enters her rant--and with an uncommon comfortability she removes the clip, pops the bullets out one at a time, and replaces the now-empty clip in the gun. The weapon is then placed back where she found it, in the pocket of Jessica's large jacket. Eileen returns to the recliner, watching the child sleep.
Monday, February 14
20. (Of Omens and Ironies.)
The first thing I laid eyes on as I left my house this morning was a dead bird. My puppy had gotten a hold of it. I don't know when.
Suffice to say the realization didn't dawn on me until I was on my way to school that that might have been a bad way to start my day. It being Valentine's day and all. An omen? I don't believe in anything about the future being set in any way. The last time I did, I found myself horribly mistaken, and now I'm not willing to place bets on the future at all.
But back to the subject at hand: a dead bird, first event of the day, Valentine's day.
Lovely, no?
And oddly enough, I was just having a conversation last night--technically this morning--with the person with whom today should be significant in regards to me.
Death is a funny thing. I'm a spiritual person. I believe in things we can't see. So maybe it was a warning of some kind? Warning me of what, though?
It's all very perplexing. Perplexing.
Suffice to say the realization didn't dawn on me until I was on my way to school that that might have been a bad way to start my day. It being Valentine's day and all. An omen? I don't believe in anything about the future being set in any way. The last time I did, I found myself horribly mistaken, and now I'm not willing to place bets on the future at all.
But back to the subject at hand: a dead bird, first event of the day, Valentine's day.
Lovely, no?
And oddly enough, I was just having a conversation last night--technically this morning--with the person with whom today should be significant in regards to me.
Death is a funny thing. I'm a spiritual person. I believe in things we can't see. So maybe it was a warning of some kind? Warning me of what, though?
It's all very perplexing. Perplexing.
Friday, February 4
19. (Plugging.)
If you're reading this, then you're probably aware that I'm a writer. Well, guess what? It's time to plug the living shit out of my work. Following are several links directly into my DeviantArt Account. Anything with more than one part will link internally to the later parts, so that things don't get repetitive in this post.
Feel free to read if you want. Or don't, if you don't want to.
Of course, this isn't everything. Just the things I'm proud of.
"Dejeme Adentro"
"The Blind Bravery of Thieves"
"Under"
"We Jedi"
"Lost"
If you only read one, read the last one, "Lost". It's my best.
Feel free to read if you want. Or don't, if you don't want to.
Of course, this isn't everything. Just the things I'm proud of.
"Dejeme Adentro"
"The Blind Bravery of Thieves"
"Under"
"We Jedi"
"Lost"
If you only read one, read the last one, "Lost". It's my best.
Wednesday, January 26
18. (Stride.)
If there is one thing that truly do well, it's walking.
Yes, you read that correctly: walking.
Now, I'll admit first off that I'm ridiculously clumsy and stumble often. My legs are too short for my torso, really, so I tend to unconsciously mis-step. Or maybe that's just me making bullshit excuses and wearing my pants low on my hips, which makes my torso look longer than it is be extending the length of what is perceived to be my stomach by a good handful of inches.
Or something.
But it isn't my actual ability to walk properly that I'm writing about here, it's my ability to walk confidently. I don't just walk, I stride, hunched just slightly forward, a slight bounce in my shoulders, each step thrown forward without a second thought or fear as to where it's going to hit the ground (this could, admittedly, be why I stumble often).
It's a challenge I'm issuing now. Walk with confidence. Walk like you've got a pair, as I've instructed the drumline at least twice when walking from place to place in a group.
'Cause once you start walking with confidence, nothing can stop you. And once nothing can stop you, you can let that confidence spread to other aspects of your life.
Yes, you read that correctly: walking.
Now, I'll admit first off that I'm ridiculously clumsy and stumble often. My legs are too short for my torso, really, so I tend to unconsciously mis-step. Or maybe that's just me making bullshit excuses and wearing my pants low on my hips, which makes my torso look longer than it is be extending the length of what is perceived to be my stomach by a good handful of inches.
Or something.
But it isn't my actual ability to walk properly that I'm writing about here, it's my ability to walk confidently. I don't just walk, I stride, hunched just slightly forward, a slight bounce in my shoulders, each step thrown forward without a second thought or fear as to where it's going to hit the ground (this could, admittedly, be why I stumble often).
It's a challenge I'm issuing now. Walk with confidence. Walk like you've got a pair, as I've instructed the drumline at least twice when walking from place to place in a group.
'Cause once you start walking with confidence, nothing can stop you. And once nothing can stop you, you can let that confidence spread to other aspects of your life.
Sunday, January 23
17. (Lessons.)
As we go through years, and age, and become adults (to an extent, at least), there are lessons we learn.
Don't drink orange juice after brushing your teeth. Even though heroes say bad words, it's not okay for you to use them. Salt tastes good by itself, but it can hurt your tongue if you have too much of it. Don't spit into the wind. Girls have cooties. You can't turn left onto Main if you're coming from the south side of the street. The speedometer isn't always right. Everyone's afraid of cops. Liquor tastes bad only at first. Papercuts hurt. Stand on your own two feet. And while Love is blind, she's also a total bitch--and fickle, to boot.
The words 'never' and 'forever' don't mean a lot.
A broken heart mends with time--or with affection.
Absence makes the heart grow stronger.
She's beautiful, caring, understanding, and I've got a lot in common with her. Problem is, I'm doing something to myself that I promised myself I would do again (again).
And honestly? She's worth the fear.
I'm a coward. I've been hurt time and time again and time and time again I've set myself up for it. Some days I can't help but feel like I'm doing it again.
But I don't care. I love her, and if I can bring her some kind of happiness before we fall, then that's good enough for me.
I'm not a fatalist, though. I have hope--for the first time in months--that things will work out for the better this time. This time. What makes it different from the other times?
Not much. I'd be doing a disservice to the people I care about, though they've hurt me in their various ways, if I were to say that she's somehow better than them, more worthy in some manner. That is not, of course, to say that she's not amazing. I can't help but feel, right now, that I'm surrounded by absolutely outstanding people. I'm just lucky in that.
And she's fantastic. Fantastic! I want so bad to say how she's the most amazing person ever and that I'm infinitely happy now that I've found her.
But that... that would be a lie. Am I happy? Yes. She she amazing? Yes. Don't let my inability to shower you with large-scale compliments make you feel like I think badly of you in any way, sweetheart. Far from it. I think the world of you.
Yeah, I think the world of her! I love her! I said it, you read it, fucking deal with it. I don't care what anyone thinks about it, I don't care what anyone has to say, and I don't care about all the silly little inane questions that are sure to come up one day. I just don't care. I love her that much.
I love you, sweetheart. Please don't ever let my general craziness drive that fact from your mind.
Don't drink orange juice after brushing your teeth. Even though heroes say bad words, it's not okay for you to use them. Salt tastes good by itself, but it can hurt your tongue if you have too much of it. Don't spit into the wind. Girls have cooties. You can't turn left onto Main if you're coming from the south side of the street. The speedometer isn't always right. Everyone's afraid of cops. Liquor tastes bad only at first. Papercuts hurt. Stand on your own two feet. And while Love is blind, she's also a total bitch--and fickle, to boot.
The words 'never' and 'forever' don't mean a lot.
A broken heart mends with time--or with affection.
Absence makes the heart grow stronger.
She's beautiful, caring, understanding, and I've got a lot in common with her. Problem is, I'm doing something to myself that I promised myself I would do again (again).
And honestly? She's worth the fear.
I'm a coward. I've been hurt time and time again and time and time again I've set myself up for it. Some days I can't help but feel like I'm doing it again.
But I don't care. I love her, and if I can bring her some kind of happiness before we fall, then that's good enough for me.
I'm not a fatalist, though. I have hope--for the first time in months--that things will work out for the better this time. This time. What makes it different from the other times?
Not much. I'd be doing a disservice to the people I care about, though they've hurt me in their various ways, if I were to say that she's somehow better than them, more worthy in some manner. That is not, of course, to say that she's not amazing. I can't help but feel, right now, that I'm surrounded by absolutely outstanding people. I'm just lucky in that.
And she's fantastic. Fantastic! I want so bad to say how she's the most amazing person ever and that I'm infinitely happy now that I've found her.
But that... that would be a lie. Am I happy? Yes. She she amazing? Yes. Don't let my inability to shower you with large-scale compliments make you feel like I think badly of you in any way, sweetheart. Far from it. I think the world of you.
Yeah, I think the world of her! I love her! I said it, you read it, fucking deal with it. I don't care what anyone thinks about it, I don't care what anyone has to say, and I don't care about all the silly little inane questions that are sure to come up one day. I just don't care. I love her that much.
I love you, sweetheart. Please don't ever let my general craziness drive that fact from your mind.
Wednesday, January 19
16. (Like Las Vegas' water supply.)
Today's tirade is about metaphors.
The metaphor above (specifically, like: "There's a toilet that won't stop flushing out, like, all of Las Vegas' water supply.") was actually used not more than a few minutes ago. Okay. If you're going to make a metaphor, that's fine. Really. Just be sure that it makes sense.
For one thing, what the hell does Las Vegas have to do with the library, the library located in Oklahoma, several states away from Nevada? Secondly, does Las Vegas even have a notable water supply? I mean, it's in the middle of the desert. Sure, they've got a supply, but it couldn't be that large, compared to, say, some of the places I'll use in a minute.
So, what would be a better metaphor for use with a constantly-flushing toilet? There are several options available to you.
There's the snobby Euro-traveler metaphor: "It's flushing out enough water to fill the canals in Venice."
Or the politically incorrect, attention-grabbing metaphor: "It's flushing out enough water to drain Thailand after that tsunami flooded it."
Or the perverted, (also) attention-grabbing metaphor: "It's flushing out water like a loose girl gushing after a great lay."
Or you could just dead-pan and say: "It's flushing out a lot of water."
My point is this: metaphoring isn't hard. At all. An idiot can do it. So why do people insist on using these utterly ridiculous examples? Because people are stupid, of course.
The metaphor above (specifically, like: "There's a toilet that won't stop flushing out, like, all of Las Vegas' water supply.") was actually used not more than a few minutes ago. Okay. If you're going to make a metaphor, that's fine. Really. Just be sure that it makes sense.
For one thing, what the hell does Las Vegas have to do with the library, the library located in Oklahoma, several states away from Nevada? Secondly, does Las Vegas even have a notable water supply? I mean, it's in the middle of the desert. Sure, they've got a supply, but it couldn't be that large, compared to, say, some of the places I'll use in a minute.
So, what would be a better metaphor for use with a constantly-flushing toilet? There are several options available to you.
There's the snobby Euro-traveler metaphor: "It's flushing out enough water to fill the canals in Venice."
Or the politically incorrect, attention-grabbing metaphor: "It's flushing out enough water to drain Thailand after that tsunami flooded it."
Or the perverted, (also) attention-grabbing metaphor: "It's flushing out water like a loose girl gushing after a great lay."
Or you could just dead-pan and say: "It's flushing out a lot of water."
My point is this: metaphoring isn't hard. At all. An idiot can do it. So why do people insist on using these utterly ridiculous examples? Because people are stupid, of course.
Monday, January 17
15. (And the rain came down.)
There's a flood in the library.
Yeah. Read that again, take it in. There's a flood in the library.
Utter madness. Somewhere between the main floor and the floor below a pipeline broke and now the water is flowing up into the room to my right and down into pretty much everything below me, including the men's restroom (which is downright comical right now) and acquisitions.
They've found it, now, as I'm writing this. Off in the room to my right--and now it's stopped. I could hear it, when I wasn't typing, when there was no one around. Water flowing unhindered... not a sound you expect to hear in a place full of books, really.
Thankfully, it's away from the collection, as far as I'm aware. We're going to have to deal with the after-effects, I'm sure, even though Circulation has nothing to do with this end of the building other than the desk I'm sitting at now, which is mostly just a security post to keep people from sneaking out the back door with books and such.
Complete madness. As it today didn't need to get any stranger.
Yeah. Read that again, take it in. There's a flood in the library.
Utter madness. Somewhere between the main floor and the floor below a pipeline broke and now the water is flowing up into the room to my right and down into pretty much everything below me, including the men's restroom (which is downright comical right now) and acquisitions.
They've found it, now, as I'm writing this. Off in the room to my right--and now it's stopped. I could hear it, when I wasn't typing, when there was no one around. Water flowing unhindered... not a sound you expect to hear in a place full of books, really.
Thankfully, it's away from the collection, as far as I'm aware. We're going to have to deal with the after-effects, I'm sure, even though Circulation has nothing to do with this end of the building other than the desk I'm sitting at now, which is mostly just a security post to keep people from sneaking out the back door with books and such.
Complete madness. As it today didn't need to get any stranger.
Saturday, January 15
14. (And herein lies the truth.)
You wanna know how much of a geek I am?
I love the smell of books. Old books, new books, dirty books, moldy books, books, books, books. I work in a library. I love just walking around and smelling the musty, slightly-rotten smell that many of the books give off.
It's glorious.
I want to buy a bunch of old books from the used books joint on Main just to leave them sitting in my room, stinking the place up. The book smell has character! If scent is the strongest scent tied to emotion, then I must really like books. Or something. I dunno. I'm rambling now, if you hadn't noticed.
In all seriousness, though, I'd much rather have an old book than a new book. It just feels better to hold an older, more fragile book in your hands. Hardbacks especially--they feel solid, they feel alive.
You hold an old book in your hands and you just know that sometime, somewhere, someone was reading that same book and likely taking a similar experience out of it. It's a sense of anonymous camaraderie. Untouching brotherhood. A connection with a person you never have nor never will come into contact with.
Character! Books have a character that nothing else will ever be able to grasp. I rue the day that books become obsolete and everyone turns to the internet or to television completely. We're not yet there, but we're close.
As for me, I'll never give up on books. Ever.
The book I'm reading now, The Pendragon by Catherine Christian, smells slightly of mold and, since a certain mishap with my friend Alan, Southern Comfort. It's got more character than most people I know.
I love the smell of books. Old books, new books, dirty books, moldy books, books, books, books. I work in a library. I love just walking around and smelling the musty, slightly-rotten smell that many of the books give off.
It's glorious.
I want to buy a bunch of old books from the used books joint on Main just to leave them sitting in my room, stinking the place up. The book smell has character! If scent is the strongest scent tied to emotion, then I must really like books. Or something. I dunno. I'm rambling now, if you hadn't noticed.
In all seriousness, though, I'd much rather have an old book than a new book. It just feels better to hold an older, more fragile book in your hands. Hardbacks especially--they feel solid, they feel alive.
You hold an old book in your hands and you just know that sometime, somewhere, someone was reading that same book and likely taking a similar experience out of it. It's a sense of anonymous camaraderie. Untouching brotherhood. A connection with a person you never have nor never will come into contact with.
Character! Books have a character that nothing else will ever be able to grasp. I rue the day that books become obsolete and everyone turns to the internet or to television completely. We're not yet there, but we're close.
As for me, I'll never give up on books. Ever.
The book I'm reading now, The Pendragon by Catherine Christian, smells slightly of mold and, since a certain mishap with my friend Alan, Southern Comfort. It's got more character than most people I know.
Wednesday, January 12
13. (Fresh start.)
Sometimes things just happen fast.
You can't exactly always make things work out the way you want, but sometimes you can attempt to get them to work out something similar. Rushing, rushing, rushing. We do what we can to be happy, and make the people we love happy. And sometimes, that means doing things you wouldn't normally imagine yourself doing.
This is not to say that I am unhappy with the decisions made in the last 24 hours. No, no, no, I'm happy. Pleased. Oddly content. Which...
Which is scary as a motherfucker. Every other time I've ever been happy or content, I've fallen, and I've fallen hard. Here's to hoping it doesn't happen this time. Here's to hoping something better comes out of it.
But something things just hit you fast and hard and you can't control them. So you roll with the punches. This one's just a punch on a fresh bruise. A punch in a scar. A punch in a wound.
But I'm rolling with it. Rolling like a rolling stone. I'm doing my best not to be scared and paranoid, which is natural. I miss being an optimist, I miss having true hope, I miss feeling like things are going to work out.
I think they will. But there's still that nagging sense of pessimism I can't just get past.
Maybe I'll roll with that, too. Hopefully.
You can't exactly always make things work out the way you want, but sometimes you can attempt to get them to work out something similar. Rushing, rushing, rushing. We do what we can to be happy, and make the people we love happy. And sometimes, that means doing things you wouldn't normally imagine yourself doing.
This is not to say that I am unhappy with the decisions made in the last 24 hours. No, no, no, I'm happy. Pleased. Oddly content. Which...
Which is scary as a motherfucker. Every other time I've ever been happy or content, I've fallen, and I've fallen hard. Here's to hoping it doesn't happen this time. Here's to hoping something better comes out of it.
But something things just hit you fast and hard and you can't control them. So you roll with the punches. This one's just a punch on a fresh bruise. A punch in a scar. A punch in a wound.
But I'm rolling with it. Rolling like a rolling stone. I'm doing my best not to be scared and paranoid, which is natural. I miss being an optimist, I miss having true hope, I miss feeling like things are going to work out.
I think they will. But there's still that nagging sense of pessimism I can't just get past.
Maybe I'll roll with that, too. Hopefully.
Thursday, January 6
12. (Left a brush; brought something better back.)
Today, ladies and gentlemen, we're going to talk about people.
I just finished up a week-long excursion to the southern-ish tip of Florida, in order to watch the Orange Bowl (a horrifying defeat, which I will not discuss further here). Throughout this week, I spent pretty much all my time with members of the same 35 people (the drumline, that is, which I won't directly discuss further here).
It's nice when you meet someone you already know. The end of this week-long trip was spent spending 32 hours on a bus driving back to the Holy Land of Our Fathers that is Oklahoma. A good portion of this trip was spent talking to a group of people (who I shall refer to as The Rookies--that is, first-year members of the line--I'm a third-year myself), among them a certain young woman whom I had danced with on New Year's while riding the bus to Miami (in another 32 hour journey).
I won't use her name. In fact, I pretty much won't ever use anyone's names when I write in here.
Anyways, this girl has been around for about 5 months or so, since the beginning of the marching season. So, as such, I've spoken to her once or twice; but since she's in the pit (off the field) and I'm in the battery (on the field) there's been little more than that.
Well, on the way home from the beautiful hell that was Miami, we got to spend quite some time hanging out on the bus. Suffice to say, I really, really regret not making an effort to get to know her better, because today's bus-ride was officially the end of the 2004 marching season, and more-than-likely I won't get to see her much before the end of the summer.
This doesn't just go for the girl. It goes for several other members of The Rookies as well, as I got to sit near a bunch of them on the bus and to be honest I wish I had been closer to the lot of them throughout the season.
Oh well, it'll be better when the next season starts, most likely.
So I said I was going to talk about family...
These people, the members of the line, young and old, past and present, are, in so, so, so, so many ways, my family. Not the same as my family-family, but they're not just friends. They're like my brothers and sisters in so many ways.
Family doesn't need blood. Family doesn't even need closeness. There are people on the line of whom I could count the words spoken between us on my hands. And yet, those people are just as much family as the people who were Rookies when I was.
I really just don't know how to explain it, to be honest. And I just felt like getting that offa my chest.
I'm back from Miami, by the way.
I just finished up a week-long excursion to the southern-ish tip of Florida, in order to watch the Orange Bowl (a horrifying defeat, which I will not discuss further here). Throughout this week, I spent pretty much all my time with members of the same 35 people (the drumline, that is, which I won't directly discuss further here).
It's nice when you meet someone you already know. The end of this week-long trip was spent spending 32 hours on a bus driving back to the Holy Land of Our Fathers that is Oklahoma. A good portion of this trip was spent talking to a group of people (who I shall refer to as The Rookies--that is, first-year members of the line--I'm a third-year myself), among them a certain young woman whom I had danced with on New Year's while riding the bus to Miami (in another 32 hour journey).
I won't use her name. In fact, I pretty much won't ever use anyone's names when I write in here.
Anyways, this girl has been around for about 5 months or so, since the beginning of the marching season. So, as such, I've spoken to her once or twice; but since she's in the pit (off the field) and I'm in the battery (on the field) there's been little more than that.
Well, on the way home from the beautiful hell that was Miami, we got to spend quite some time hanging out on the bus. Suffice to say, I really, really regret not making an effort to get to know her better, because today's bus-ride was officially the end of the 2004 marching season, and more-than-likely I won't get to see her much before the end of the summer.
This doesn't just go for the girl. It goes for several other members of The Rookies as well, as I got to sit near a bunch of them on the bus and to be honest I wish I had been closer to the lot of them throughout the season.
Oh well, it'll be better when the next season starts, most likely.
So I said I was going to talk about family...
These people, the members of the line, young and old, past and present, are, in so, so, so, so many ways, my family. Not the same as my family-family, but they're not just friends. They're like my brothers and sisters in so many ways.
Family doesn't need blood. Family doesn't even need closeness. There are people on the line of whom I could count the words spoken between us on my hands. And yet, those people are just as much family as the people who were Rookies when I was.
I really just don't know how to explain it, to be honest. And I just felt like getting that offa my chest.
I'm back from Miami, by the way.
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