But it does remind me...
I'd been driving the Mazda for seven years; my dad had bought it new and gave it to me when he upgraded and the old civic hatchback he'd made me buy snapped its frame. So I got the 626 and I really enjoyed driving it, all through LA and up to San Francisco, where it stuck with me through poverty and unemployment, vandalism and dead shows, all manner of abuses and difficulties; I grew fond of the inanimate heap, felt at home on the musty velour seats, made my way through life from behind its windshield. I got in a few accidents (never at fault of course, teflon seeps from my pores) but the car was always restored just as I liked it.
Eventually I found myself working in a part of town that was a total cesspit. Now it's gone upscale, but five years ago it was a dank alley under an onramp to the Bay Bridge, strewn with litter and reeking of filth. I parked behind the buildings across the street. That's where the car was when it was broken into - again - and the stereo was liberated. I'd seen it before, many times, and barely cursed under my breath when I found the crystals of safety glass festooning the back seat and the gaping maw where the radio used to be. AAA was contacted and I arranged for a new stereo to be installed.
Four days passed; I picked up the car from a shop LITERALLY four blocks from my office. I parked a bit down the street, in a visible and safe spot,and returned to work, to the narrow confines of the closet that they made into my workspace, assiduously ruining people's lives under the guise of the pursuit of justice. I worked for an hour, an hour and a half maybe. I closed up shop and got back to the car, eager to test the new equipment, to play the music I'd brought along for that very purpose, music I loved and longed to hear as I punched the gas and rolled up those nasty hills....
What did I notice first? The car was wet. There was a piece of paper stuck to the windshield. There was a big hole punched in the windshield. The hood was discolored, charred, warped. Two tires were flat. I screamed an obscenity - just a single word that echoed around the tall condo towers overlooking my tragedy. A few people were sitting on their decks, watching, sipping pastel-colored drinks and toasting my fury with amusement. The note told me that the SFFD had extinguished my vehicle after it had been reported on fire. I had it towed back home.
The car was totalled. The music had melted. I thought the stereo shop was at fault but I couldn't afford a forensic electrician to establish proof, and my deductible was only $100. I got a chunk of chump change and used it to pay taxes. These taxes were credited to the prior tax year - which I'd fully paid already - and returned to me as a refund. I confirmed that the money was mine to spend, and then got a new car. Then the IRS told me I hadn't paid my taxes for the year I'd tried to pay in the first place, and wanted my money back. They let me pay it over time because there was no other way they were gonna get squat. The new car worked okay for a while but eventually died. When I sold it for 2/3s of the purchase price (exclusive of the thousands I'd spent in repairs and equipment), the guy who bought it told me he thought he was ripping me off. Three weeks later I got a notice that it had been abandoned in Colma.
thats just the way it seems to me at [2:59 PM]
Twenty of the things that make, or in the past have made, me sad (explanations omitted) (random order):
20. The buttons you push to make the traffic signal read "walk."
18. Masking tape.
15. Call It Sleep (Roth).
14. Organized religion.
12. The 38 Geary (not the 38L or the 38BX or especially the 38AX).
11. Abandoned pets.
9. Children playing with broken toys.
8. 1970s interior decor.
7. Burned food.
5. Lumps of human waste on the greenspace across from my apartment.
4. When my car burned up.
3. The Wise Men of Chelm
2. Bakersfield and points east
1. Lost opportunity
I thought that would make me feel better. I don't know why I thought that.
thats just the way it seems to me at [2:34 PM]
I sit at the open window. The September sun beats unblinkingly of the buildings across the street. My black t-shirt amplifies the radiance. Shadows seem to sizzle.
Across the street, at the bottom of the hill, stands an old woman with her groceries. She begins to walk, stopping often to rest. Her face is withered and pale. She is bent almost double by the weight of her shopping bags, and the few vegetables and cans she carries in them. The sidewalk glares at the sun’s white heat back up at her; the broad white faces of the buildings lining the ascent shimmer; she, small and black, like a beetle, trudges past them, with the grim resolution of a solar eclipse.
She is fighting for her life, for her self-respect, without which, I can clearly see, she could not live. Her perseverance and self-sufficiency will not bend to the attrition time has worked upon her. She will stop bringing her own groceries up this hill when she stops breathing.
This woman lives meaningfully. She is an affirmation of all the things that I repeat to myself in crises of doubt, things I can hardly believe when I’m optimistic – and there she is, unstoppable, in the incandescent heat, giving herself one more day of autonomy and righteousness, preserving herself as herself, even if only for herself.
And furthermore, she makes her stand, scraping the last shreds of vitality out of her tired body, here in my city, here on my block. This personal odyssey, going to the core of human aspirations and my own, is being played out up this very hill, in this neighborhood so homey and familiar to me, where I too wage that battle every day, in unrecognizable permutations. She lives because this city enlivens her, and in return she enlivens it. The city itself glows and pulses with the same vibrant energy she exudes as she staggers painfully up the hill, the bags in her hands drooping ever closer to the sidewalk. Yet she continues, pausing for breath in the occasional shade of an olive tree.
In this city, I see that energy everywhere, even here from my own kitchen window. I am honored and privileged to have a place here, in a city where autonomy and self-respect are civic virtues. There is a place that turns people into themselves, and now I call it my home, and I can learn its lessons here from my apartment by watching some old lady walk up the block.
“Hey, old lady! I love you! I love this town!”
She stops, puts down her bags, turns to find me in the block of buildings where I live, and, finding me and fixing me with her dimming gaze, she calls back to me:
“Fuck you! You son of a bitch! I’ll bite your dick off and spit it back in your face! You asshole! I’m not taking that shit from you! Come down here you chickenshit! Fucking dickless wonder!”
“Hey, fuck you, old lady! Fuck you! I hate this town!”
Stupid fucking town. Too damn hot. This shirt itches.
thats just the way it seems to me at [2:23 PM]
it was the hardest thing I'd ever said
and the words just fell
out of my mouth
they lay on the floor
between our four feet
looking for a place to hide
wishing that I'd never said them
can't pretend it never happened
yet you stand there saying nothing
eyes like the first day of school
blank and hard and empty coldness
I should get a piece of paper
pick those words back off the carpet
like a spider trapped indoors
likely to run up my arm
makes me just a little anxious
hoping you can't see me quaking
as I turn and walk away
my warped, misshapen words all huddled
in the middle of the paper
get them to an open window
let them drop down where they will
maybe someone else will find them
crumpled up against the coping
pry them back apart and wonder
why the hell would he say that?
thats just the way it seems to me at [2:44 PM]
I heard a story not long ago about a girl in elementary school who developed a bruise on her forehead. Over a few days it became larger, darker, more noticeable. It began to sag a bit, but caused no discomfort. When it was nice and thick and droopy, she somehow caught it on something and it tore open; a legion of ants crawled out over her face and into her hair. What a great story; I have found no evidence of any ants that live this way though. However, our dear friend Dr. Andy advises us that he's had professional occasion to see a patient who complained of some tumors on his arm, the size of a nickle, red and swollen lumps. Andy looked them over and said, "looks like boils, let's lance'em and get you cleaned up." (Andy's pretty direct; he's also a genius diagnostician - usually...) He took a scalpel and cut open one of the lesions; a pair of mandibles jumped out and grabbed the blade, pulling against it. Andy screamed (or maybe he squealed) and asked for more advice from his colleagues; one calmly advised him he'd just uncovered a bot fly. The recommended therapy was to wrap a piece of raw bacon around the affected area and wait for the damn things to come out and feed... then hit'em with a phone book I guess...
thats just the way it seems to me at [4:54 PM]
walking to the office today I was moving pretty quick - no reason to dawdle - and blew past someone whom I pass almost every day. She's a shorter, older woman, kinda heavy, nicely dressed; her legs don't barely work at all, she can lock her knees and then uses big crutches (the kind that cuff her arms) to get leaning forward, hikes up and swings her legs out in front of her - her feet drag the ground as she moves forward, as if they were suitcases or a stranger's dismembered limbs she'd picked up on the street somewhere... It honestly takes her about 15 seconds to take each "step." God knows how far she has to walk that way, but it must take her forever to get anywhere. I usually am just impressed with how much work she expends. Today, instead, I felt guilty about going so much faster than she, about zipping past her in a cloud of dust and leaving her to struggle along, as she does everyday, as if I should be offering her help, as if she wanted my help... I need to keep myself from feeling superfluous guilt, I have enough primary guilt to last a lifetime
thats just the way it seems to me at [3:06 PM]
Last time I went down to LA I sat next to a guy about my age (late 30s) who was dressed to impress - nice summer suit, expensive haircut, tidy cuticles... I was a bit more shlumpy but projected my aura of intellectualism to start a conversation. Actually, I asked to check an article in his NYT Sunday magazine in which Bill Safire granted "blog" status as an actual word. That got us talking generally about what I post and why. I told him I used my blog to rant, to share, to work out verbal problems or games, to write things I wanted to remember, to memorialize... and as an outlet for my creative writing. He told me that he had been in Governor Wilson's cabinet during the last state administration (I didn't ask, didn't want to know, what he'd been in charge of); now he's a consultant for private organizations that need governmental support or assistance. He was clearly articulate and smart, but he told me he'd never written poetry, never written creatively just for the pleasure of knitting words and ideas into a new garment. I was not sure whether he'd accomplished more than I'd ever do in my life, or if he'd never do as much in his life as I do in a day spent creatively. It sure encouraged me to write more though...
thats just the way it seems to me at [2:45 PM]
Just finished reading a favorite old book again... in the market for the next huge tome that will occupy my thinking and late nights and early early mornings... suggestions are cheerfully solicited and may equally cheerfully be ignored...
thats just the way it seems to me at [2:37 PM]
She sat with her arm in the clumsy black cuff, slumping sullenly in the contours of the molded plastic chair in the pharmacy aisle of the overgrown grocery store. Her legs, giftwrapped in black jeans, extended before her; a ribbed cotton top, red and white, clung to her barely ripening torso. Her face was the picture of boredom and frustration as her eyes rested on the screen to the side on which her blood pressure was to be displayed. Three and one-half inches from her sagging shoulder bristled the broad gut of her father. He wore a dark grey collared knit shirt, and black slacks, and black shiny shoes with broad shiny silver buckles. His arms were well-muscled, though seemed spindly next to the bloat over his beltline. His hands clutched his hips in a posture both confrontational and isometric. His hair was wispy and thinning; his goatee was trimmed very short and pencil-thin; his eyes too were fixed on the readout screen.
They co-existed in the bright neon aisle: he, willing his beloved daughter to be healthy, fecund, loyal, grateful, happy - extending the strength of his character psychically, while forgetting that his abdomen loomed within a beetlebreath of her delicate form, nearly eclipsing her delicacy, seemingly on the verge of crushing her; she, grateful for the chance to sit quietly, trying to distract herself, trying to ignore her father's nasal exhalations as they rained down over her head, determined to take advantage of each precious opportunity to be left alone - even from a two-bit diagnostic jukebox - even here in the pharmacy aisle - even if only in her mind...
thats just the way it seems to me at [2:33 PM]
What some people fry these days... it's a pity they can't just consume each other, they'd enjoy the extra fat and we could auction off the extra cars in the parking lot at the end of each day....
thats just the way it seems to me at [5:36 PM]
unngh.... Lorna got back from 3 weeks in Hawaii and brought me a box of candy - ToffeeMacs, which are little square lozenges of milk chocolate-enrobed crunchy toffee with macadamia nurts. Eighteen come in a box; serving size is four. One serving contains 43% of a standard dude's RDA of saturated fat. Guess how many hours it took me to eat the whole box? (hint: I didn't go to visit Helen Jane today - so I had that special bitterness hunger, makes me eat out of spite...) Freaking ToffeeMacs be pimping me nasty like a ToffeeMacDaddy. Need roughage... and the big green couch...
thats just the way it seems to me at [3:46 PM]
Life's a game
and I'm the puck
comments are back
so what the fuck
this whole thing
is quite deranged
enetation has come back on line and netcomments hasn't been on line since I set up my witty comments boxes for them - so screw it I'm reverting - damn it's nice to be home
thats just the way it seems to me at [12:49 PM]
more muni madness: I'm riding the bus and they're advertising "collector's edition" muni passes. Out of desparation borne of boredom I'm reading the copy and I notice, first, that they're "only" releasing 375,000 of these items. That sounds like a lot of muni passes to me; 375,000 of anything has got to put some downward pressure on the resale market. Then I notice where these things are being distributed - a list of places I've never heard of: Muni Koban, Hallidie Plaza (heard of it but don't know where it is), Victoria Park Sales Booth, and my personal favorite, 1 Dr. Carleton Boodlett Plaza (rm 14). It makes my own home town seem like a bizarre foreign outpost, and I'm putting in my application to serve as a bizarre foreigner... I'm itching to find these places, get my commemorative bus passes, and collect and trade 'em all! Then again I keep old toothpaste tubes - just in case...
thats just the way it seems to me at [11:55 AM]
You gotta enjoy the good times when they happen... most everybody piled off the 38BX at the first downtown stop; I was almost alone near the back of the bus with the two cute young women who'd gotten on and wedged themselves in place near my bench back around Masonic street. We were watching everybody leaving, sucking down the newly-available stores of oxygen in the stale municipal air. One of the women was pointing out to the other that a big heavy guy sitting across from us had left a big wet puddly mark on the back of his chair. We giggled and watched it evaporate. It was like a party. Makes me wonder what's lingering on the seats that seem clean....
thats just the way it seems to me at [4:53 PM]
We ordered the chair. But it's so much more than that.
Just a little before my birthday this year I got home from work on a standard issue wednesday to find a 9 x 5 business yellow envelope stuffed into our mailbox. Handwritten, properly addressed, stamped, not cancelled, and, with a loopy little heart, return address: "Joy Challenger." I took it up and checked it out. I was tired and not in the mood for parlor games. It seemed benign, I opened it with anthrax-foiling delicacy. Inside: a sheet of notebook paper, folded, blank. Inside the paper: ten $100 bills. God's honest truth. A thousand dollars, cash in hand. I put the wad of money down and staggered to another room to cradle my brains in the crook of my arm till I understood better what had just happened. I was still there when Kel got home; I had her take a look at it and she exploded in profanities. "What is this?," she paraphrasically asked. A week later we had no more information. We still don't today. The mystery never got deeper, never got clearer. We're beneficiaries of an anonomous donor. Bitchin'.
We decided, with this windfall, to buy a mission rocker - et cetera. We've done or will do more as well, but one thing Joy C. was going to bring to our lives was a damn nice piece of buttly comfort. We've been looking for that single iconic chair for months now, over four counties so far and a lot of time on line. I was almost ready to settle, to get something adequate in place of the perfect platonic ideal I'd had in mind....
I got home from Happy Hour kinda late last friday (particularly fine time at happy hour last friday - discrete wave to those who partook) and got home to a plate of fresh-baked biscotti with pistachios and dried cherries - groin-grabbingly good, really I think they're the best biscotti I've ever had. And lord knows I needed them then - it had been a long day and a longer night and my dinner had been a series of Anchor Liberties. As I gnawed my way through my second (or third) cookie I noticed a catalogue had been laid out open for me. The chair was there. We ordered it. It will be delivered Friday. We have met the challenge and are about to reap the joy.
So how's by you?
thats just the way it seems to me at [4:20 PM]
why i write
mostly I want the things I do
to be means unto ends
and I shape my actions to my goals
through a myopic lens
my studies, sacrifices, dreams
are fenceposts on the path
that gauge efficiency and progress
on either side, through time
and fore and aft
in the liberating confines
of the hoary virgin page
able to do here as I will
every vast horizon open
here my goal is but my action
action is unto itself
watch myself with fascination
as I blow myself off course
going where the weather wanders
this is why I love the writing
because everywhere else
I am focused to identity
doing my utmost
to justify my vanity
but here on the page
I can put it aside
and just ramble along
nothing in mind
but the rhythms of speech
I should have better discipline
were I a writer
but literary onanism's
not yet made me blind
thats just the way it seems to me at [4:01 PM]
why am I so stressed about the comments - or lack thereof? Simple answer: my essential, inherent conceit, my belief that what I do is not as important as who's watching me do it - and their ability to tell me the same... if I wrote for its own sake I wouldn't care... or is there some other element in play, less self-aggrandizing than conceit - perhaps a sense of community, a desire to be open to the ideas of others, to share thoughts around the circle instead of down the line? Not to mention the undeniably malignant motive of vanity, expressed in my bloviated embarassment at my rampant commentlessness... what hath blog wrought? (special credit for identifying the word for which wrought is the past participle...)
thats just the way it seems to me at [3:51 PM]
In honor of sf sourdo'h I've bumped my pixel size - for your reading ease and comfort....
thats just the way it seems to me at [1:41 PM]
HOW CAN THIS BE? I CHANGED MY COMMENTS SERVER TO MAKE THIS WORK. THE NEW ONE IS DOWN NOW. WHY DOES GOD PUNISH ME LIKE THIS? WHY MUST MY LIFE BE TURNED INTO A MORASS? WHY DOES FAILURE DOG MY EVERY FOOTFALL? o what the hell anyway
thats just the way it seems to me at [12:49 PM]
I'm downstairs doing laundry and there's this shirt hanging near the machines, it's gotta be from my landlady's family. It's longsleeved and white cotton with bright red stripes and colorful polygons all over it, which on closer examination are supposed to be cigarette boxes, except for one that's a lighter that reads "1932 - Zippo - 1932." Makes decent sense. The other cigarettes have names like "Khamel - Paris" (okay), "Major Brand" (starting to lose me here), and "Miity Twigum" (or "minty twigum"?). Sounds incoherently refreshing. The funny thing is that these people don't smoke. Reminds me of Ol' Bombala's reference to this....
thats just the way it seems to me at [12:34 PM]
yesterday morning we were walking the dog through the rose garden in the park - it's near our home, we see it as an extension of our living space, but are expecially glad to see the world come to frolic and gawk there. So anyway we're on our way down the path when we see a typical elderly asian couple, she diminutive and he somewhat stocky, both in sweatsuits and sneakers, like they're coming back from one of the big tai chi sessions they get going there in the mornings. She's walking with a kind of robotic jerkiness, her arms kind of locked at the elbows and her hands rigid and flat, shoulders twisting and stopping with each step like she's being controlled by strings. He is leaning way forward with each step, stretching the backs of his legs and letting his face drift toward the ground with big sort of storklike motions. They're out of synch with each other, each in his or her own world, adjacent but separate; and separately they noticed us, and the smooth calm concentration with which they were moving began to crumble, they started to restrict their movements as we approached, eventually absorbing the entire gesticulation into an ordinary gait. These people are at the twilight of life, immersed in a community which holds my opinion as utterly valueless; the dog was not in the least interested in them; I think I embarassed them into not exercising and the guilt is going to destroy me. They've probably earned their paranoia.
thats just the way it seems to me at [12:26 PM]
Kel was telling me on the way home last night about someone of her acquaintence who has glass eyes - she'd gone blind early in life and her useless darkened eyes were causing her discomfort and inconvenience, so she had 'em replaced with plastic ones. Apparently the process involves filling the empty socket with hot wax, somehow forming a mold for the custom apparatus under construction. My question was, How do they get the wax out? The other cool thing is sometimes they accidentally put the eye in upsidedown, and it looks at you strangely; that's a look I'd like to perfect. In researching this post I did not learn how to extract a solid wax orbitmold from a yawning socket, but did find this:
thats just the way it seems to me at [11:31 AM]
Yesterday we went to Santa Cruz to visit Sara and Greg and see some cool glass art and have a delicious and enormous home-made sushi dinner and played a deviously simple and amusing game - not the sort of thing I usually enjoy but this one is pretty cool... I'd recommend the glass art exhibit if you're in Santa Cruz. There are a lot of crusty bones and skulls and stuff, and some of the ravens look like they could just peck your eyeballs out. Good times....
thats just the way it seems to me at [11:14 AM]
Alright my friends, I am writing with somewhat tragic news - my old comment server is floating upside-down at the top of the fishtank and I've had to transfer my patronage to Netcomments - old Enetation has been off-line for three days and even before that they seemed a bit quirky, even for britons... Netcomments is a '.uk' too but they seem to have a faster and cleaner site - and as for all of those thoughtful and poetic comments that had been made to some of the older items here, I do regret their loss but can only look with tear-dimmed eyes to a future of commenting ease and proliferation and enabled html tags... still, some of that stuff was pretty damn good - thanks guys...
thats just the way it seems to me at [10:56 AM]
SF Gate has published this list of celeblogs - just so you can check out billy or gene and confirm that nagging suspicion in the back of your mind that you actually are more interesting and compelling a personality than a lot of famous people with lots of money and their faces on the t-shirts of millions of americans I'd rather not share an elevator with...
thats just the way it seems to me at [10:38 AM]
My grandfather died in May; my grandmother is in no condition to travel. These are the maternal g.p.s; the paternal ones are long gone; my mom never even met my dad's mom. My sister's new husband has no living grandparents. At their wedding they asked me to say a few words about those grandparents who were there in spirit only and I read this poem:
for prodigal read generous
- for youth read age -
read for sheer wonder mere surprise
(then turn the page)
contentment read for ecstacy
- for poem prose -
caution for curiousity
(and close your eyes)
- e e cummings
thats just the way it seems to me at [9:59 PM]
One thing that I really did notice on our way out of Burbank was the shadow of my airplane against the ground below. By the time we were high enough for me to see the shadow the houses were pretty tiny, and I was shocked at how large our shadow was against them as we streaked across roofs and pools and utility sheds in orderly rows across the neighborhoods were I grew up... the really impressive thing, though, was the speed with which we were travelling - how fast those umbral wings sliced through the blocks, eating up the cul de sacs and wiping clean the tired sideyards, moving so quickly it took my breath away - it's not like when you're watching one plane from another plane going the opposite direction, where the speeds add up and it looks like the other plane is going 1000 miles an hour and you're standing still - here the land was flying faster than the plane, I could feel it beneath my skin and it was exhillerating
thats just the way it seems to me at [9:54 PM]
you know, a guy can think, hey I'm hot shit, I can write poetry and cook figs and all this great stuff, I'm so special, and then you find a message like this scratched into the paint on the wall by the urinal and it makes you reevaluate everything:
the one who writes
on the walls
has very tiny
now thats art
thats just the way it seems to me at [9:45 PM]
That was a pretty cool trip to LA. We stayed at a very funky hotel and I got to eat my favorite life-shortening breakfast at my favorite diner and consumed really surprising amounts of alcohol. Now I'm kind of burned out but we made some inportant progress on behalf of downtrodden masses wheresoever they are found. What could the future hold? What special promise does tomorrow bring? and most importantly, how often do they wash the pillows on airplanes?
thats just the way it seems to me at [9:39 PM]
I'll be back on friday with my nurts in a sling... hope to get a chance to feed you all some cool links in the foregoing and suchlike but now it's time to put it to sleep - cuz it's getting up at the asscrack tomorrow and I fear it'll be in a grouchy mood...
thats just the way it seems to me at [10:52 PM]
RECIPEE CORNER: Return from the Center of...
So now FIGS are on the market again; they're so sweet and sexy you should all buy lots and eat them in orgiastic bacchanals of fruitloving. What's that you say, you don't know what to do with a goddamn fig and you sure as hell aren't going to look like a fool asking the produce wonk "hey buddy how do I eat this piece of fruit?" Sure, you're angry and disenfranchised, but that doesn't mean you can't enjoy a wonderful figgy treat: Take your fig (or your goddamn fig) and cut it in half top to bottom. Scoop a bit of the seedy middle bit out with a melon baller (heh) and mix that tasty goodness with some marscapone, honey, and hell maybe some sherry; then scoop it back into the figs and press it gently flat, as with the side of a spatula; using the side of a phone book dropped from shoulder height produces a disappointingly flat or wall-bound fruit dish. Once you're satisfied with the pure glacial flatness of the top of the fig, drizzle a little bit of REAL GOOD balsamic vinegar - and not that crap that comes with coupons for a banquet at the Olive Garden either, splurge on this part - save money by stealing the figs from the abundant fig orchards that choke our national highways and byways... if you make this let me know if it's good; I just made it up
thats just the way it seems to me at [10:47 PM]
The thing that got me
about being up there
wasn't the forest
where the trees seemed to shrink
and retreat from each other
it wasn't the clouds
that just towered above me
and pummeled the sky
till they shattered with lightning
the thing that I noticed
was something invisible
I would be breathing
the ordinary course
of my human behavior
and the air would go in
to my hungering lungs
but it just wouldn't fill them
there was nothing to breathe in it
My alveoles clutching
for stuff that was missing
it's like I was smothering
there in the coolness
of fresh mountain air
that I thought just might kill me
but then I got better
the breathing came back to me
Now I'm at sealevel
breathing is thoughtless
just something that happens
but up there I thought on it
maybe that's better
anyway it is the thing I remember
thats just the way it seems to me at [10:39 PM]
here's a bit of the good stuff:
Before you condemn this eminent freak
as an outrage upon mankind,
reflect: something there is in him
that must forever seek
to share the condition it glorifies,
to shed the skin that keeps it apart,
to bury its grace in a human bed -
and it walks on knives, on knives.
C Day Lewis, from Almost Human
thats just the way it seems to me at [10:31 PM]
I couldn't help noticing the big sign at the edge of the Grand Canyon for people who wanted to pray; it said "Rim Worship Facilities 500 feet". Wouldn't that be cheerful in this town? How thoughtful to set aside a special place for that special moment...
thats just the way it seems to me at [10:22 PM]
It's true but not too true - Chuckles is back from the Ancient West, where he performed traditional shopping and gaping rituals, visited nature's most impressive crack, and celebrated himself into a coma. The whole scene was great. My sister is now married and I scored a killer flask and a sweet handmade tshirt and some very cool art and Kel got a phenomenal handmade quilt - and we met some new people, drank some new beers, played in new parks... tomorrow I leave at 5:15 for LA for two days. Not a lot of time to post, but the Queevil Een gave me a strongly worded precatory statement that I get this damn thing updated and who the hell am I to let her down.
thats just the way it seems to me at [10:11 PM]
The cool thing was I got back to my desk after two hours of bargaining team caucuses and presentations on insurance options, and my head was all full of flaky dried brain cells, and there was an email from Adolpho (of "Where's Adolpho?" fame) with the following taxonomy which I reproduce here for your edification. Enjoy and take notes; the field guide will be updated when more information becomes available:
The Undercover Ho' - This type of ho often goes unnoticed in the community, and can only be detected by a trained eye. She holds down a decent job during the day, but is secretly ho'ing around with at least 5 different trifling men. Two of these mens are married, and at least one of these mens is dating her best friend.
The Church Ho' - Her hair and nails is always did. This ho be in church every Sunday and carries a Bible with her at all times, but spends Tuesday thru Saturday night of every week in a different club. She is sometimes mistaken for the Undercover Ho.
High Class Ho' - (This type of ho' is also known as "THE Glamour Ho") this type of ho' rocks Prada and Versace, and only dates players, ballers, and shot callers. She is most often the cause of some fight in a club (i.e. Source Awards). She tries to act like she's got class, but confuses regular English with ebonics. She also has trouble with simple arithmetic.
Ole Ho' - The Ole Ho' used to be tight "in her day," and thinks she "still looks good for her age." She tries to wear all the Soul Train fashions, thinking that she will blend in with the rest of the hunnies. You can find her at any club on any given night, grinding on the dance floor during any song, with any man, of any age.
Nasty Ho' - This ho' has not exactly been blessed in the looks department, but is usually very popular with the mens for her other talents. Most often, she has a 'tight body,' and can be found working in a strip club.
Sneaky Ho' - The Sneaky Ho' cannot be trusted in anyone's home or with anyone's man. Money and other personal items "turn up missing" long after she's gone. She is always "dipped," and can never remember where she's purchased the coveted item of clothing. The Sneaky Ho' aspires to be Undercover Ho, but has already made too many enemies by stealing.
Project Ho' - This ho' is living ghetto fabulous, squeezing money and trinkets out of her drug dealing "baby daddies." She likes to fight, and you will most often hear her before you see her.
Stupid Ho' - She is usually very cute. The Stupid Ho' keeps a string of men who constantly come over after midnight for bootie calls. They often return to eat her food, watch her cable, and borrow her car and/or money. She complains about them to her friends (i.e., Sneaky Ho and Project Ho) but never does anything about it.
Crazy Ho' - This is a popular ho.' Although she is very smart, the Crazy Ho is virtually an upgrade from the Stupid Ho. She has the same terrible luck with men, but unlike Stupid Ho', she seeks revenge. Her area of expertise include slashing tires, keying cars, making prank calls from UNLISTED numbers, visiting the trifling man's (or other ho's) job, and appearing on Judge Mathis for any of the aforementioned activities.
The Stank Ho' - This is perhaps the most popular Ho of them all. The Stank Ho has appeared on shows such as Ricky Lake, Jerry Springer, and Jenny Jones. She has deluded herself into believing that she is beautiful, and she sleeps with everyone to justify it. Her choice of wardrobe most often includes spandex (of every color), bra tops, and fuck me pumps. She has a permanent "unwashed" look about herself that cannot be removed with any amount of water or soap.
thats just the way it seems to me at [12:46 PM]
--There once was a person whom you don't know. This person shall never be known to you and for that matter to any friends of yours.
--Yeah, I know the guy you're talking about...
thats just the way it seems to me at [11:17 PM]
the joy a leopard has in running a human should have in conversation
thats just the way it seems to me at [11:14 PM]
We hear only the questions to which we are capable of finding an answer. Neitzche
The phrase "finding your voice" is misleading because it suggests that your voice is lost out there, and you have to go groping around to find this thing. I think finding your voice is a matter of not looking outside yourself but just allowing part of yourself into your poem that you've been excluding. Billy Collins
So what happens when all I can hear are questions, and I've used up all my answers? What is it when the voice inside is a chorus, a cacaphony, a crowd in disagreement?
thats just the way it seems to me at [11:02 PM]
seduction is the difficult made easy - or attainable...
thats just the way it seems to me at [11:02 PM]
what a complex and distracting day - nothing to show for it either, so let's toss this one to the studio audience. THE MOST DISGUSTING THING I EVER ACTUALLY REALLY ATE, ON PURPOSE AND KNOWING WHAT IT WAS, IS: my answer is Uni, or japanese sea urchin - maybe I was kinda tipsy at the time but it was like taking a mouth full of someone else's cold phlegm. It's not food, it's a symptom - and I dont' care what Steingarten says about it.
thats just the way it seems to me at [5:51 PM]
ode to subordination:
Can't you see we're walking backwards
just to pave your path with petals?
Don't you know we'd kill each other
if we thought it made you happy?
Don't worry about anybody
else who may have once existed -
You are all we can imagine,
out of you our souls are wrought.
See how well I've adjusted to this lifestyle?
thats just the way it seems to me at [5:49 PM]
I used to think - get this - that the hyoid bone was the only bone that didn't touch the other bones. Now I wonder - does the patella meet the same description?
thats just the way it seems to me at [5:46 PM]
thats just the way it seems to me at [5:41 PM]
Today I scored a "freak-off" - I was sitting as usual next to an empty seat and I saw his eyes widen as he hove himself onto the bus. He was ready to nuzzle up to me and make me crazy like he was. But there was a sourfaced barrelbutted woman in the aisle ahead of him and he was huge, too big and fat to get around her. She sullenly stomped her way to my bench and sat next to me, took out a Garrison Keillor book from the library and started reading the flyleaf. I felt the big man's heart sink; he wanted to get at me but he'd been thwarted. Instead he took a seat perpendicular and contiguous to me, he was about 10" from my right shoulder, and he talked the damn ear off the poor guy he was next to. All I could think was, "turn up the headphones... he's not talking to you..." I escaped. That's a fine way to start a short week. (Short? Yes, if you count the days I'm at my desk at work as two, then one day in negotiations, then off to Flagstaph for to enmarry my sister off...)
thats just the way it seems to me at [5:17 PM]
He pronounces the "ron" in "iron" and the "w" in "two"....
thats just the way it seems to me at [4:50 PM]
Isn't anything funny on TV?
How come nobody ever visits me?
Got nothing nice to say, and I say it anyway
I like to complain
Got tired of living in the city
I get allergic smelling hay
This house smells funny - so do you
I like to complain
Nothing ever turns out exactly the way I like it
You know I'm not about to take that sitting down
I'd just blow my top if I couldn't make it stop
I'd rather be the squeaky wheel then another clown
This food looks like you cooked a hairball
This water isn't wet enough
This song is stupid - so are you
I like to complain
thats just the way it seems to me at [4:50 PM]
Been damn busy today - but not too busy to unload another poem: this one I wrote in high school while I was working at a department store (I actually wrote it on the back of a piece of cash register paper!):
The days of light and laughter now have passed
and nothing now is left for us to praise
but stoicism to maintain the fast
and better memories of yesterdays.
Upon the stars did we direct our gaze,
with folly-blunted arrows did we shoot:
now, falling short, we wander from our ways
and groan about misfortunes we recruit.
Discussion of the way it was is moot;
our words become to us a mortal maze
wherein we charge at arrows on the ground
or drop the cause, to lie and sleep and laze.
The light and laughing days may not have passed
but it is up to us how long they last.
thats just the way it seems to me at [4:44 PM]
The most physically isolated I've ever been, I think, was at the top of Donahue pass in the middle of a four-day hike from Mammoth into Yosemite's Tuolome Valley. We only saw two or three people a day; bears ate our food and nearly ate a portion of my buddy Barry. We slept at nearly 12,000 feet; the tent was stiff with ice when we woke up. So my question is, how far do you have to go to get the hell away from everything?
thats just the way it seems to me at [3:24 PM]
Update on the RECIPIE CORNER: Last night we had pasta with anchovies and hazelnuts in a garlic-oil sauce; it was brilliant and filling but you gotta get the good anchovies. Kel had chocolate banana brownies waiting for me when I got home from Happy Hour on Friday; molten but irresistable. And HelenJane told me about the maple syrup disaster, in which her precious stock of hand-tapped syrup drained all over the inside of her suitcase and onto the suitcases of her fellow air travellers; she had never marinated a pork chop in syrup (with cayenne or black pepper) before broiling it; serve with mashed boiled yuca (even better if you fry it after it's been boiled).
HelenJane had brought beef sticks to happy hour. Sure. She called them beefstix but by the way she tore open the package with her tidy incisors, I could see these things would unleash the inner carnivore. They were as thick as my pinky and taller than my beer, and they glistened and swayed provocatively in the dusky light. They tasted like campfires, bacon and sweat - a combination that works just fine for me. After I finished my stick, it started in on me. Had I not been pummelling it with beer, things could have gotten ugly.
thats just the way it seems to me at [2:47 PM]
she told me she ran a mile as fast as she could, and the next day her lungs still hurt. I told her about riding up the canyon on my bike, pushing with everything I had so that once I reached the top of the hill I hurled. We revelled in our shared masochistic desire to test our endurance. But my tollerance for some kinds of pain has really plummetted as my tollerance for others has increased. I can take more physical pain than ever before, but embarass me or expose me to the nadir of the condition of the species, and I have no endurance at all.
thats just the way it seems to me at [2:40 PM]
I keep seeing increasing frail old people in athletic gear... this morning I saw an old Chinese man in nike from head to toe, from his jaunty swoosh cap to the matching sweat suit to the hi-tech footgear, barely able to negotiate the curb of the sidewalk. I felt like challenging him to a race, and maybe pushing him over to get things started. In the end I just watched his impossibly tiny steps as he inched along his way, and wondered, does this guy even know who "mike" is, and would he like to be like him? Why else would he dress like a lockerroom wannabe? Does he know he's a walking advertisement for a lifestyle he never lived and never will? Why don't they come out with Tai Chi wear for these people so they don't look so ridiculous? Hell I'd buy some of that stuff...
thats just the way it seems to me at [2:32 PM]
hey here's one that's been mouldering in my drawers for a long time...
Utterly alone he waits,
his muscles straining for the test -
he hears the laughter of the fates
the turmoil of his inner states
he reaches for his mother's breast.
He stands at two-score years and five,
his socks he wears and nothing more
within his heart self-loathing writhes,
his mother is not now alive.
The saints and devil he implores.
His hands are shaking with desire
to nurse at peace is all he begs
impaled on a burning spire
he feeds an all-consuming fire
and wraps his arms around his legs.
His strength in prayer he has spent,
he sinks into a pool of fear.
He needed what despair has lent -
the cosmos now know what he meant:
a breast before his mouth appears.
No questions twist his hungry lips,
he is untroubled by surprise.
The world beyond the nipple slips
away, but he has come to grips -
in ecstacy he sucks it dry.
thats just the way it seems to me at [2:05 PM]
The room was dark and throbbing. I knew some of the faces drifting past my own but not well enough to ask any of them to help me, to extricate me from my dim sense of responsibility. There were maybe 3, 400 people in my living room; the walls looked unfamiliar and the toaster I'd hung from the ceiling was an artifact from some archeological expedition, not a basic tool from my kitchen. The basic tool was me. I stood staring into the industrial plastic trash can, down into the depths of where the punch used to be. I figured someone had taken it somewhere; my mind feverishly tried to imagine how it could have been carried out past such a crowd. The floor was bouncing alarmingly; the music was familiar but the hearing of it was not. People started gathering around me, "he lives here, he'll set up the punch..." I was starting to have trouble with the concept of punch, and even the idea of "party" was beginning to get away from me. I hadn't been there when the punch was made; I think someone sliced a bit of his thumb in it but I didn't think that was what people wanted from me. I didn't know what they wanted. My clothes were floating over my skin. Larry the dangerous freak was at my side; we took French together and attended each other's parties. "You look like you need this, buddy," he smiled, and handed me a cigarette. Gratefully, hungrily, unthinkingly I took it from him and placed it in my mouth. It felt unfamiliar. It was unfamiliar. I handed it back to him. "Dude," I told him, "I don't smoke." There was still no punch. Later on we learned that the floor beams had split and we all could have been killed. The house was razed after we moved out.
thats just the way it seems to me at [11:25 AM]
Once a day it's time for lunch
and I retreat a little deeper
crawl beneath my spotless desktop
digging down into the carpet
looking for the roots and grubs
that grow up from the seventh floor
and populate the musty crawlspace
blooming furious and thick
between the floors up in the sky
I'm sure I smell their perfumed stamens
just another couple inches
maybe I'll work on the weekend
finish with my excavations
build myself a little burrow
never have to go outside
thats just the way it seems to me at [4:26 PM]
Well it happened again. I may need to put out my own eyes if I can't keep from looking at strangers on the bus. Either I'm the only person sitting next to an empty seat (and I wonder whether they can all just smell me, or can actually read the evil cogitations in my little brain), or the single weirdest person on the bus wants to be my best buddy. A week or so ago it was the over-emotional transvestite; this morning it was Naomi, who wanted me to know about her wonderful group of friends who all would love to meet me and SUCK THE VITAL ESSENCE FROM MY DESSICATED HUSK OF A BODY. She just got back from her vision quest and wanted to tell me about her conversations with the mice and bugs and such. I couldn't help wondering if those innocent woodland creatures felt the same as I did when trapped in a conversation with this pentagenarian pixie - like slashing their wrists (or whatever) and ending the misery. I have Naomi's voicemail number, but it's only good till monday. I am restraining myself from abusing this information, out of fear she'll ENJOY THE HUMAN CONTACT. She was so damn cheerful. It was like bathing in warm margarine, talking to her. From now on I have to keep my eyes on my shoes, the whack jobs can pick me out of the crowd too easily...
thats just the way it seems to me at [4:19 PM]
Keep your filthy foriegn money
stuff yourself with milk and honey
olive oil, sweet and running wetly down your woven apron
Rest beneath our heavy datepalms
rub your temples with our balms
flowing waters bring you calm in rolling fields of saffron
So welcome to the Land of Goshen
dancing women fan the air
oasis in a foaming lotion
fragrant spices in a potion
sure to thicken up your hair
(this is as far as I've taken things... if it ain't organic it ain't worth writing...)
thats just the way it seems to me at [3:27 PM]
Golden moment from contract negotiations with management: to see the Deputy Exec Director/Director of HR smiling, tenting his fingers, serenely advising us that "You're always going to have someone kicking you in the head in ways that are unpleasant." Always? Unpleasant? This is HR? We must have another option...
thats just the way it seems to me at [3:23 PM]
THE LIFE AND TIMES OF PIN MONEY PETE
Pin Money Pete's an institution
Pin Money Pete knows where it's at
Pin Money Pete signed the constitution
Pin Money Pete can skin the cat
Pin Money Pete will make his journey
choosing paths that men reject
Pin Money Pete is in no hurry
Pin Money Pete is the elect
It is the space within the clay that makes the vessel useful
it is the space within the bow that drives the arrow home
it is the space within your head that makes existence real
it is Pin Money Pete it is the arch it is the dome
Watch the quickly spinning spheroid
crashing down the burnished path
he's not worried, he's still smiling
all his money's in the bank
Pin Money Pete can trace a circle
Pin Money Pete has drawn the line
his body gleams in white and purple
he cannot fall he has no spine
I seek him in the hall, beneath the rug and on the stairs
I snap apart his head and throw the pennies in the air
he grins without reserve because he really doesn't care
he has brought me milk and honey from within the lion's lair
You squat beneath the incense like a buddah on a 'lude
you resonate harmonically in C
you watch us twist and flutter in our overanxious panic
you smile on us you have been set free
Pin Money Pete has kicked the habit
Pin Money Pete has been blown out
if you would drink the purest water
you must drink it from the spout
thats just the way it seems to me at [10:19 PM]
Yesterday was my THIRTEENTH WEDDING ANNIVERSARY. After being out of town, running my sorry ass back to work, being so sorely beset by the very fact of existence, we kind of skated on the "formal celebration" thing. We grabbed a light supper, followed immediately by a full-sized meal at the same restaurant, and got nice and narcotized on food. The remainder of the evening recedes in the mists of discrete cinematography... If I'da had time I'da done a bit more shopping...
thats just the way it seems to me at [10:11 PM]
I finally finished Milorad Pavic's 1990 novel, "Landscape Painted with Tea. I read his prior masterpiece, Dictionary of the Khazars - it minced my brains and turned me into a different person. (Or maybe returned me to an original condition in which I had never previously been?) I've been working on this Tea book for years and it just kept getting weirder. I see reviewers writing things like "remarkably accessible" and "not overwhelmingly obtuse" and I wonder what happened to my copy. It's full of stuff like this: "All of Captain Milut's calluses started aching from the shock; he pulled a pistol on the major, who grinned at him from under something that looked like artificial skin, but he felt like a man who has just had a bird shit in his glass. And that is why Major Pohvalich was faster. He was already holding the key to his bachelor apartment in his hand. The captain scratched himself with his pistol, pulled the roses out of the garden, and moved into Pohvalich's small apartment. He hastily arranged the wedding of his daughter to his former friend, wrapped his military pistol in a shirt, sent it to his son-in-law, and never drank or peed again for the rest of his life. He died with the words: The crazy live as long as they want, the wise as long as they have to." and this kind of crap goes on for 340 pages! The first 100 pages are a novella that seems to consist of two stories in different time periods being told consecutively, full of nuggets like "One night, the Empress Theodora dreamed that angels had descended into her bedchamber, carrying toothed whips, triple scourges, fishhooks, and sickles. And the angles started to flog and tear at the emperor sleeping by her side. And when the empress was awoken by her own fear and by the rustling of wings, she saw the Emperor Theophilos on the bed beside her, almost dead from the contusions, lying all broken and bruised in the angel's bloodstained feathers, not even receiving his name in his ear. That same night the entire army went hoarse, and for six weeks not a single commander could issue an order (....) and from that silence, as from the most piercing scream, Constantinople's Church of Churches finally shook itself out of its hunded-year dream. The emperor had a night mass introduced for the Virgin Mary, and brought into Hagia Sophia two hundred women with children at their breasts, and the infants prayed for the parents of their sinful milk...." The other, nested story seems to have to do with a monestary on Mt. Athos and a man's missing father. After 100 pages of this, I have no idea where I am - and then the next 200 pages or so are broken into little chapters with titles like "2 across" and "3 down", to correspond to some weird impenetrable crosswords Mr. Pavic bestows on us - about 150 pages later there's a chapter on "how to solve this book" that explains what the hell has been going on, which is thereby demystified enough to show you where the real weirdness lies. I've put years into this book and now I have NO FREAKING IDEA what it's about. There's a "solution" at the back - it makes as much sense as the rest of the book. You must be at least this tall to ride this novel....
thats just the way it seems to me at [10:00 PM]
how about a tv show about a saccherine adolescent teenager from the fifties who sublimates her blossoming sexuality by collecting a bunch of tacky crap - you could call it Joanie Loves Tchochkies..
thats just the way it seems to me at [10:46 AM]
I'm working my way through grad school as an ASSHOLE...
thats just the way it seems to me at [10:45 AM]
In honor of the happy hour at Ucky 13 that I missed last friday, me and the northwest party crew (kel and pj and heather and robin and justin) went into seattle to explore the options. We started at the Bad Juju Lounge, which had nothing but good juju for us and that heavy guy in the black patent leather bikini top and wire-stiffened tutu; then we hied ourselves to the Owl and Thistle, which wanted a $4 cover and thereby earned our undying scorn; we strolled over to the cozy Bookstore Bar at the Hotel Alexis and then briefly visited the Lusty Lady to see if their "Chicks Ahoy" sign was available on a t-shirt or coffee mug; and then wound up at the Pike Street Brewpub for last call and a purloined Orval glass. On the way back to the car we had a lovely chat with the gents installing powerlines under the downtown streets. The bridge floats. The city rocks.
thats just the way it seems to me at [10:42 AM]
Let's just put this out there so it can start to evolve on it's own: Chick Beardwang and his (her?) sidekick Nimbus Chigger. Who? How? Why? These questions are as yet unanswerable but the mission of discovery has begun...
thats just the way it seems to me at [10:28 AM]
Lesson learned from the pastor and our commentators: it takes three to make a good marriage - the husband, the wife, and Britney. When you only see two sets of footprints, its because Britney's riding your ass. But feel free to return the favor - that's called "doing it Britney-style."
thats just the way it seems to me at [10:27 AM]
There has been a lot of partying. Hardcore partying; games that involve screaming and buzzing at people and a 4-oz "jackass" shot that only cousin Justin dared endure. Lots of hot tubbing and ham. This seems like reality. I do not look forward to leaving. The flight is in three hours.
thats just the way it seems to me at [10:25 AM]
So we were all at "Table 1," which was way up near the front on the left side. The bar was in the back on the right side. After several rounds of cocktails we noticed that every person seated at table 1 was standing around chatting about three feet from the bar; every other table was seated and watching us because no one would be served until we sat down. We got more drinks. Ultimately, they tried to steal the number card off our table and we had to sic Justin on'm to kick some ass...
thats just the way it seems to me at [12:03 PM]
thats just the way it seems to me at [12:00 PM]
The twin 9 year old boys' heads were silhouetted against the 32" diagonal digital sony flat screen. They were playing a snowboarding game on the x-box. One of the groom's friends, in from Cambridge with a long blonde ponytail and eyebrows that arch questioningly, stood behind them, his hands clasped behind his back, watching the action as the red-clad boarder shot down the tubes and smashed into barriers. He'd played Halo into the wee hours the night before. The bloodlust was on him. "There are no weapons or rockets in this game," he intoned. The boys didn't turn around.
thats just the way it seems to me at [3:50 PM]
The air mattress on which we're sleeping has a firm warning on the side, in all the languages of the EU (English, french, russian, pashtun and urdu): "CAUTION: Use with the flocked (floque, beflockte, floccata, geflockte, flocada) side up after inflating." So I'm wondering, who gives a damn? Why should one side be cautionary and one be recommended? WHAT WILL HAPPEN TO ME WHEN I SLEEP WITH MY FLOCKING DOWN? Watch this space for updates... assuming survival...
thats just the way it seems to me at [3:44 PM]
I watch it sizzle on the grill
the juices spewing on the coals
the flesh becoming carbonized
I cannot keep myself from drooling
Try to think that this was once
alive, an animal I'd try
to keep from hitting with my car
(but just for fear of body damage)
but there is nothing here to call
to mind that noble stupid beast
my plate is sweaty in my hand
as I impatiently await
the magic moment
when I eat
dripping down my fingers
borne of death
-- inspired by my carnal consumption here among the hearty folk - and bombsquad Tanja's latest fashion tip...
thats just the way it seems to me at [2:22 PM]
little kids can say the darndest things... just this morning I was talking to my little nephew and I asked him what his favorite thing was to do in school; he though for a second and then brightly said, "gimme that freaking beer or I'll burn the skin off your face with drano while you sleep." What a cute kid. I'm hiding the drano.
thats just the way it seems to me at [2:12 PM]
so they said they'd run out and get some craft supplies for the wedding, and then we'd go kayaking. Two hours later they're still drawing maps of the tables and talking about high school yell leader tryouts. I'm surrounded by very high definition sound and video equipment showing a breathtaking variety of violent fantasies, and I have to maintain my equilibrium. Regardless, it would be cool to fill the hot tub with sterno and find a cherry bomb somewhere... the gazebo would certainly make a good photo opportunity as it immolated....
thats just the way it seems to me at [2:09 PM]
This is not seattle - it's a pine-carpeted suburb so close to MicroSoft I can smell the money. We're not doing the city thing. We're doing the backyard hot tub, the ultraviolent computer games, the low impact strolling and the high impact highballs. I will be sorely challenged to keep up with the partying here. And it's not like I don't get any practice. Tonight is the rehearsal dinner. I'm not planning on doing any driving, except maybe the porcelin buick if I'm not careful...
thats just the way it seems to me at [4:10 PM]
a few days ago an image occurred to me that I do not ever remember seeing - someone getting his tongue cut off, and his mouth filling with blood. It was an image both unbidden and unwelcome, and now I can't unthink it.
thats just the way it seems to me at [3:55 PM]
working in the library... chopping down books and digging holes in the floor...
thats just the way it seems to me at [3:52 PM]