RR 32 I sat up in bed and tried to arrange my thoughts

We’ll talk of dosages and passing ships and how Staten Island doesn’t really look like much from a distance. The conversation hums along as good banter, witty white noise with which to fill empty space and allay fears of being awkward.

But, do you have a contingency plan? Software licensing doesn’t segue well into the career pitfalls and high points of Nicholas Cage. Does he even read the scripts anymore or is he just trying to break some record for the most movies made over a lifetime? I don’t know how a nautical thermometer works, is it just like a regular thermometer? Yes. It is; it just has an anti-glare matte finish. I never thought about how it’s sad that the lights on the bridges never go out. But, I can see how it makes them seem less special to those that see it every day. But, isn’t that true of anything? People live across the street from the Forbidden City and all they think is “Man, it would be great if I could cut through there to get to work faster.” Err, I mean “人, 它 會 是 偉 大 的 如 果 我 能 穿 過 那 裡 得 到 快 速 地 工 作” But wait, is that the right flavor of Chinese? I have no idea. It looks like Chinese to me. But, maybe this is more correct: “兄弟, 我能去快速地工作如果宫殿这里不是” Someone who reads Chinese will have to tell me if I’m even warm on this and what flavor looks more like Mandarin. Spell check is no help on this. I hope we get there soon. I don’t know anything about child psychology and have nothing to contribute to the conversation here.

Did they (the big giant they that designed the Forbidden City) ever think that those turtle statutes that face the residential palaces are wishing the emperor a slow death rather than a long life? I bet they smirked to each other when they did that.

Forsan et haec olim meminisse juvabit

Forsan et haec olim meminisse juvabit

RR 30 10/10/06

I catch a glimpse of a man wrapped in black lawn and leaf bag plastic sleeping on the side of the highway as I blow by to get to class. The air smells like tar and when you look at the city the air forms a high brown halo around it. I’m in this halo but can’t see the brown in front of my face. It’s only visible from a remote distance.

She's talking and I hear sibilant S’s added into her speech. I want to reach in to her mouth and give her tongue a massage so she can form the words correctly. Of course, I don’t and can only think of her sibilant saliva spraying in my food. Actually, is it her tongue or lips? I exhale the sounds myself as a test and I’m certain the sound comes from a tongue held near, but not pressing, the roof of the mouth.

Comics always talk about the DMV because of the limits of their experience. They need to associate to something familiar to everyone else, and the DMV is what they have to draw on. They don’t have nine to five jobs. They don’t sit in rush hour traffic. They have time to watch daytime television.

Who’s that singing? “You sold me what you want me to buy.” “What else would I ever want to sell?”

Inspected by 65 rr28

They strolled side by side, with about an arm's length between them, and spoke towards the ground. The intensity and intimacy in their voices showed familiarity with each other and, more importantly, with the subject matter. Again, they would try to talk it out. Again, they would make promises. Both are tired of it. Both knew they wouldn’t change.

She tells him about her emptiness and swears it had nothing to do with him. She says that she’s not happy, but she’d rather be unhappy with him than with anyone else. She’s being honest when she says it. Deep down, it isn’t the truth. But, deep down hasn’t yet been tested. So, the truth is the truth for now.

He feels her lie. He is uncomfortable with how angry his is about it. But, he doesn’t want to shake anything up. This isn’t the truth and he knows it. He wants to fight with her. He wants to say clear, incisive phrases with the hope that she’ll want him more for attacking her words. It’s fear that prevents the attack. He’s not much of a gambler and even less a debater. He won’t put stock in himself on his ability to successfully call her bluff.

single-handedly slab

The below message was delivered to one of my work email addresses onSunday 8/27/2006 at 2:13am. None of the wording or spacing has been altered:

I do like, said Anne, but I want to impress on your mind that wehave MUCH finer moons in Avonlea. Only yesterday Katherine had beenpositively insulting at a staff meeting. Do you think it doesnt hurt me toknow it? For the first time it camehome to Katherine that life might be beautiful, even for her. Only yesterday Katherine had beenpositively insulting at a staff meeting. You couldnthave known them when I got through with them. For the first time it camehome to Katherine that life might be beautiful, even for her. And a dog really is such a protection at night. Do you think it doesnt hurt me toknow it? And youll feel deliciously sleepy after this walkin the frosty moonshine =

Of stranger (RR 27)

Her words wandered though she was trying to be formal. I know her well enough to know she was fighting back her feelings.

“When they draw these caricatures, I don’t see it as a negative. Someone has taken the time to look at my face, to study it and pull out the nuances of it. That the result is ugly is immaterial. It’s a rendering. It’s how I am seen by this person. It’s one artist drawing another. I am important enough to be rendered by another. I am important enough to have that rendering printed in a magazine. It would be sadder if I were completely ignored.”

She didn’t look at me while she was saying this. Her eyes were looking down and to the left. If they had been focused, they would have been staring at crumbs from the croissant on the corner of the table. But, they weren’t. Her mind was focused enough to compensate for her eyes.

She read articles about Neil Young. She wanted to be as strong as he and let everything roll off her back. But, she couldn’t do what he did. She couldn’t go on tour and get booed every night while road testing Greendale. On stage, she had a habit of politely whispering ‘Thank you’ very quickly after every song as if she was in disbelief that we weren’t mad at her yet.

I said the only thing I could think of, “What’s wrong with letting it hurt your feelings? It’s natural. I would be hurt too.” Truth told, I don’t know if it would hurt. I’ve never had anyone take the time to render me. But, I can imagine being hurt. They picked on things of which she was already self conscious and gave her new things of which to be aware.

Was her neck that long? Was her posture so bad? Did her nose hook so much? Was her face so round? Did her teeth separate that much? Is this how everyone saw her?

On the way out

“These small napkins will never go out of style…unless the world finds there is no longer any room for a little decorum.” The loose folds of her neck shimmied as she spoke and betrayed a deep-rooted lament for a world gone lost.

Overly-polite, in hushed tones, we ate lunch with the ramrod posture and hesitation of youth desperately trying figure out “a little decorum” on the fly.

I usually eat lunch standing outside next to the day’s street vendor of choice.

I usually drink a wheat germ soy protein banana peanut butter shake for lunch while walking back from the gym.

I usually eat a salad at my desk while talking on the phone with my mother during my lunch break.

I usually close the door to my office and smoke a cigarette while watching joggers in the park during lunch break.

I usually microwave a Lean Cuisine and watch TV in the lounge for lunch.

Yesterday, the theme was crutches.

Does each day have a theme? I'll often notice something early in the day and it will repeat
throughout the day.

Yesterday, the theme was crutches. I feel I saw more people on crutches yesterday than usual. Maybe it wasn't more than usual and was simply given more attention than usual.

While jogging a few days ago, I noticed a pair of crutches set out on the curb for disposal. Perhaps
the image endured in my subconscious for a few days only to resurface as a daily theme.

Perhaps this is the beginning of mental illness. These traps we set in our subconscious could easily spiral out of control and turn us into rabid conspiracy theorists or an elected official.

Pink

Pink

Hanging uncomfortably close to his stall,
The cape still holds the scent
Of other bulls whose sides it has brushed.
But,
It no longer burns so bright;
For days he has tried to reach it
And now he is tired.

“We say to ourselves,
‘Why do we bother?’”
Said Madeleine Asher,
51,
Who pushed her curtains back one morning
To see the garbage man on Medina Drive
Dump lawn clippings in with the trash.



The second stanza is a quote from the following article. I’m not sure if I have to cite my source since this is a poem. But this is the source information:
Schwartz, Noaki. “Residents Say Crews Are Trashing Recyclables” Los Angeles Times 22 June 2001: B1+.

Rant Rant 22: The Weatherman

"All of the people I could be," he tells us, "they got fewer and fewer until finally they got reduced to only one -- and that's who I am.”

All promise in a person eventually disappears. In small increments, it’s replaced by disappointment, missed opportunities, and fear. Eventually, senility and physical decline will creep into this list. At the moment I am too young to know and can only speculate their addition. Perhaps, as we cross a certain point in our lives, the size of the increments increase at a constant rate. In other words, once the ball starts rolling, it builds into an avalanche. One disappointment easily sets off a chain of disappointments.

While the idea of an avalanche is illustrative of the increasing rate, I find myself applying a different metaphor to the entire idea. I see a roofed veranda being shuttered up. How southern, maybe I’ve read too much Tennessee Williams. But, the shuttered veranda is applied differently. It represents the person left behind, not the rate of decline. In the beginning the veranda has light coming in on all sides. The person can look out in all directions. But, there are shutters and, when they are all closed, only odd trickles of light beam into the veranda. What’s worse, shutters always let in a soft glow of light. What’s the glow? It’s a reminder.

It’s fitting that I name check Williams. The entire idea smacks of “Sweet Bird of Youth.” Then again, it also smacks of Willie Loman in “Death of a Salesman,” Charles in Madame Bovary, Swann in Remembrance of Things Past, Jake in The Sun Also Rises, Dean in On the Road, or all the surviving members of the Compson family in The Sound and the Fury. Part of the tragedy in all these characters is that they survive in the husks of wasted lives.

A large percentage of us are destined to be the walking husks of wasted potential. ...

Every day is an artifact (Rant Rant 21)

I found the page on the sidewalk. I brought it home and read it. I photographed the page, had it enlarged to a 6' x 4' print, and framed it. Now, upon entering the living room, my guests are confronted with it:

“Rocky. Shaky. With wings like tobacci. In the age of information, how can one keep themself optimistic about the future? Am I getting fat? The books have tired pages. Torn pages. I read small snippets and wonder “where is my tattoo?” Happy Birthday…all is full of love. But the movie is late and I’ll pay fines for having it. We’ll all pay fines for me having my movie. Does this tooth taste like pencil lead? Tis nigh, tis nigh. A low is expected to roll in tomorrow all around the car. Two hundred and seventy seven. The number must be mathematically significant to someone. But that is all beyond me. Granules of sea salt and drying ink. Take off the dust jacket before you put it in the case.”

It’s the only picture that hangs in the apartment. I’ve no idea who wrote it. I’ve no idea what it means. This is why I like it. Each day, before stepping out the door, it is the last thing with which I am confronted.

What Brownfield?

What Brownfield?
a)2 pounds of Italian Cookies, the fancy ones dipped in chocolate.
b)"Who will take care of me when you're gone?"
c) 6:15, Thursday