You are only as "cool" as you a)live up to in your daily life, and b)think you are. The subjectivity of "cool" bears little influence on the act or portrayal or motions of cool; cool is usually decided after the act either by steely, hard liquor drinking juries of jaded, resigned folks, the lost, or a gabbering gaggle of after-the-fact'ers chattering to hear the chatter.
How cool is your "cool"?
This post is not going how I planned it and therefore it is fitting in perfectly with my point: cool is felt as well.
Do you feel good about the things you did today? Yeah, it was cool.
How was the date? It was cool.
Has your artwork being going well? Yeah, things are cool.
These answers, though vague, are truly heartfelt and positive. Why would you say your date the other night was cool if it wasn't? You wouldn't. You'd say "we had fun" or "good food, bad breath" or something like that. Cool wasn't even in the equation because overall the night wasn't very cool, not like the cool that was hoped for from the adventure.
Now, cool is false confidence too. Taking the side of the late-chirper chorus I've personally witnessed numerous displays of complete UNcoolness going on in some clown who KNOWS that they are "cool". And that is pretty hilarious. Unfortunately I was that clown today.
I got a haircut the other day and it significantly altered folks' perception of my appearance. In the workplace is the most amplified setting to reflect a cross-sampling of your new look. So, I've had folks looking at me a little differently, some smiling and some just looking.
I waltzed in work this morning, big smile on my face and spanky-new dippty-do hair thing going on, and pretty much knew I was cool. So cool was I that I didn't even worry about "cool". I pass some ladies and they smile real big and say good morning. Wow! Folks have really been nice to me this morning!
I remembered the Marta bus driver who just kept talking to me this morning; I thought of those on the train that suddenly, and very oddly, struck up conversations on the commute into town; then there was those people in the elevator that seemed to be in a good mood, usually the elevator is so moody and quiet.
I just shrugged and felt cool, going to get my next cup of coffee in the breakroom. The morning folks had smiles on their faces for me and I just smiled back. Darn amazing, this haircut! I head back to my desk, more hellos and smiles, and get to work.
Second cup of coffee down, my bladder begins to lament from the liquid burden. I head to the bathroom, walk up to the urinal and go to unzip. Funny, the zipper is already down. OH MAN! Seems I've had it down all throughout the commute, through the sidewalks of my work, the security guard ladies, the ride up to the 15th floor, and 2 honkin' cup of coffee trips through the breakroom. Hey everyone, here's my PP! Come look!! Watch me forget about my PP from, like, 2 hours ago!!!!
Not very cool at all.
Tuesday, February 28, 2006
Wednesday, February 22, 2006
Arty Mood
Dan said: "I dig both images (referencing my earlier Pens and Needles entry). Very cool! Post some more!"
Well, ok Dan. I made a new image for you. I took a picture of my pens that I'm using on my project and used that to create a weird scene picture in photoshop. Hope you like it.
Monday, February 20, 2006
2C: Introduction
I always sleep on the bus, it is the way I manage to get to work some days, but his inquisitive tone snapped me awake immediately. I kept my eyes shut, feigning the shaky, bouncing sleep known to those who nap on buses, but I was all ears.
"2C? What in the f* are you talking about?"
2C? Was it a new robot? A version of the Grand Maquis I'd never heard of? What?
He continued on after some moments of quiet listening.
"So, you're telling me this C2, no 2C, is the new thing? How come I've never heard of it?
Now I was riveted to the conversation.
"...well, what the f* am I supposed to do with it? How many n* you see asking for 2C? Sound like bulls* to me...no, you try it and let ME know what the f* I'm supposed to do with it!"
2C...hmmm, I'd never heard of it either. Not that I'm some expert on illegal drugs or anything, but I do know my fair share either from the internet or my ex-fiance. And 2C was definitely one I'd never heard of. Heck, sounded more like a vitamin supplement or a bra size.
"You do what now?! Eat it? How much...no fool, how much do you eat, shorty?"
I could no longer keep my eyes shut. This was fascinating news, much more interesting than the Marta tv feed.
"Milligrams? Sh*, how am I supposed to measure that out?"
I wondered too.
"Nawwww, leave me out of that sh*. I just want the rock and the 'dro. 15 minutes. I DON"T CARE what I'm missin'!" I hear some muttered expletives and and then quiet.
I went back to napping...and woke up 8 stops past my work. Damn! Monday morning for sure. The entire yawning walk to work I kept wondering about the 2C conversation.
Folks, there's something new on the loose. Lock up the kids and cancel allowances. Alert the hospitals, the mental institutions, welfare, the cops, and even the Red Cross. Now we've got some shite called 2C to contend with and if history has taught us anything...then it'll soon be a problem like all the others that came before it.
And this comes from a retired hippy.
Friday, February 17, 2006
Pens and Needles
Messin' around with an image I was messing around with from a pen and ink drawing I'm currently messing around with. I took the top mini dv snapshot of a small part of my project and turned it into the image below it in Photoshop. Crazy.
Thursday, February 16, 2006
Remembering Becoming Me
I've been flashing back to this certain memory of an event in my past lately. It is so strange, it just popped up out of the swirling abyss of my mental sludge and keeps floating up to the top. I hadn't thought about this event in ten or fifteen years and boom! out it emerges and now keeps nagging at me. I figure I'm meant to write it out.
I was fourteen or fifteen years old and we were all on a church retreat. I was heavily involved in our church growing up and I used to go on retreats and choir tours and mission trips all the time. My best friend, Brian (aka B), was a churchgoer as well and we'd crack ourselves up over many, many miles of lonely roads going here or there. Man, we sure were goofy but it was such innocent fun.
This retreat was at a college up in the mountains of Georgia or North Carolina, I can't remember, and many other youth groups from various churches all merged at a college for a long weekend of study, praise, singing, meeting others, and just being together. We slept in dorm rooms and spent the day in classes and doing activities.
At this point in my life I was very into skateboarding, punk rock music, and girls. I hated posers, zits, scrambled eggs (me and B's term for the confusion caused by chicks), and all orders of dorks. These likes and dislikes were pillars of our life and we were hardcore and ardent supporters or completely anti whatever we decided was cool or totally beat. Black and white. We both were quite radical and alternative souls in our Southern Baptist group, but well liked and good kids.
We would have our meals in the college cafeteria and these times were the highlights of the day. We'd get to see other groups, scope out the chicks, look for like-minded individuals like ourselves, and generally crack each other up with our exclamations and observations. B was and is one of the funniest humans on the face of the earth, and I"m sure he'd say the same about me, and I swear we both had 6-pack abs from all the years of complete hilarity we shared together.
There was a youth group from Canton, GA, that had some skater and freestyle kids in their mix. They made their way over to our table and sat with us and we all hit it off right off the bat. It was like we'd all grown up together we melded so well. Well, lunch ended and our groups dispersed in various directions for the afternoon activites. B ran on up ahead to do something and left us as we dwadled our way to the dorms.
One of the guys from Canton mentioned he had brought his skateboard and so had two other guys. We talked about how we'd love to go riding down the hills of the campus and it suddenly occurred to him that, in fact, he had brought an extra skateboard too. That's all it took.
We went to the dorm room, grabbed the boards, and set out to explore the campus. The guys were about as good as me; they could ollie higher and better, but I could do G-turns and powerslides better, even on some unfamiliar board. We were having a good old time, the classes and activities and retreat completely gone from our minds. Skating and laughing and swapping stories and just being kids, and completely lost track of time.
Well, it started to get dark and we all were getting hungry. We head to the cafeteria to get some grub and the place is locked up and empty. Reality began to settle into our thoughts and we were all quiet. The campus seemed different, kind of alien, and not at all the welcoming skate park of the afternoon. I handed the board back to my new pal and walked alone to my dorm.
I entered into the main room and my entire church group was gathered there having a serious prayer session. When I opened the door, all eyes in the room lifted from the bowed position and locked on me. Instantly everyone was in a flurry. I walked straight into the room and began to sit down but one of the chaperones, B's Dad to be exact, sternly said, "Go to your room Mark, right now." It was cold and aloof as I passed by all of my church group, barely daring to look at B on the way out.
In the hallway the stern voice became an angry voice that demanded answers from me.
"Where have you been?"
"Do you know that we've been very worried about you?"
"Why did you go off like that?"
On and on. I couldn't stay in the room with Brian that night, I had to have a counselor in my room with me. I didn't sleep much, wondering over and over all night how I could just break away from everyone and go skating with some folks I hardly knew. And I felt bad because I had just left B, just split and went off, and that was what really made me feel guilty. The next morning I didn't see the Canton skater guys in the cafeteria and we all packed up and went home. The feeling on the trip back was as if the entire bus had passed judgement on me, distanced themselves. No one was rude, but no one tried to talk to me either. Even Brian was quiet and we just listened to Oingo Boingo or something on the headphones and wished we could get home quicker, even though home was boring as hell. And when I did get home, I didn't say anything to my Mom about it. I just took my skateboard and went riding, wondering about the guys from Canton and trying to ollie higher and better.
I was fourteen or fifteen years old and we were all on a church retreat. I was heavily involved in our church growing up and I used to go on retreats and choir tours and mission trips all the time. My best friend, Brian (aka B), was a churchgoer as well and we'd crack ourselves up over many, many miles of lonely roads going here or there. Man, we sure were goofy but it was such innocent fun.
This retreat was at a college up in the mountains of Georgia or North Carolina, I can't remember, and many other youth groups from various churches all merged at a college for a long weekend of study, praise, singing, meeting others, and just being together. We slept in dorm rooms and spent the day in classes and doing activities.
At this point in my life I was very into skateboarding, punk rock music, and girls. I hated posers, zits, scrambled eggs (me and B's term for the confusion caused by chicks), and all orders of dorks. These likes and dislikes were pillars of our life and we were hardcore and ardent supporters or completely anti whatever we decided was cool or totally beat. Black and white. We both were quite radical and alternative souls in our Southern Baptist group, but well liked and good kids.
We would have our meals in the college cafeteria and these times were the highlights of the day. We'd get to see other groups, scope out the chicks, look for like-minded individuals like ourselves, and generally crack each other up with our exclamations and observations. B was and is one of the funniest humans on the face of the earth, and I"m sure he'd say the same about me, and I swear we both had 6-pack abs from all the years of complete hilarity we shared together.
There was a youth group from Canton, GA, that had some skater and freestyle kids in their mix. They made their way over to our table and sat with us and we all hit it off right off the bat. It was like we'd all grown up together we melded so well. Well, lunch ended and our groups dispersed in various directions for the afternoon activites. B ran on up ahead to do something and left us as we dwadled our way to the dorms.
One of the guys from Canton mentioned he had brought his skateboard and so had two other guys. We talked about how we'd love to go riding down the hills of the campus and it suddenly occurred to him that, in fact, he had brought an extra skateboard too. That's all it took.
We went to the dorm room, grabbed the boards, and set out to explore the campus. The guys were about as good as me; they could ollie higher and better, but I could do G-turns and powerslides better, even on some unfamiliar board. We were having a good old time, the classes and activities and retreat completely gone from our minds. Skating and laughing and swapping stories and just being kids, and completely lost track of time.
Well, it started to get dark and we all were getting hungry. We head to the cafeteria to get some grub and the place is locked up and empty. Reality began to settle into our thoughts and we were all quiet. The campus seemed different, kind of alien, and not at all the welcoming skate park of the afternoon. I handed the board back to my new pal and walked alone to my dorm.
I entered into the main room and my entire church group was gathered there having a serious prayer session. When I opened the door, all eyes in the room lifted from the bowed position and locked on me. Instantly everyone was in a flurry. I walked straight into the room and began to sit down but one of the chaperones, B's Dad to be exact, sternly said, "Go to your room Mark, right now." It was cold and aloof as I passed by all of my church group, barely daring to look at B on the way out.
In the hallway the stern voice became an angry voice that demanded answers from me.
"Where have you been?"
"Do you know that we've been very worried about you?"
"Why did you go off like that?"
On and on. I couldn't stay in the room with Brian that night, I had to have a counselor in my room with me. I didn't sleep much, wondering over and over all night how I could just break away from everyone and go skating with some folks I hardly knew. And I felt bad because I had just left B, just split and went off, and that was what really made me feel guilty. The next morning I didn't see the Canton skater guys in the cafeteria and we all packed up and went home. The feeling on the trip back was as if the entire bus had passed judgement on me, distanced themselves. No one was rude, but no one tried to talk to me either. Even Brian was quiet and we just listened to Oingo Boingo or something on the headphones and wished we could get home quicker, even though home was boring as hell. And when I did get home, I didn't say anything to my Mom about it. I just took my skateboard and went riding, wondering about the guys from Canton and trying to ollie higher and better.
Wednesday, February 15, 2006
Right Here, Right Now, and a beer
Right Here, RIGHT F-ing now!
(the following is a list of thoughts in my mind as I finish this tall beer)
Art transcends emotions and evokes thoughts.
Nobody, and I mean NOBODY, is worth your life. And no person should ever dare to try to take happiness from me again.
My mind dwells in the dark less the more I stay active.
Global Warming Sux! I just had a hornet attack me IN my bedroom.
My new friend Dan and I will do positive contributions to art and life in our friendship.
Mogwai is the most underrated band ever. No doubts.
I love my job and no one there is going to make me ever not enjoy my job...so make your ass aware of that banner team.
I feel like skateboarding down the street on my buddy Rob's longboard.
I sure wish I had learned airbrushing when I had the chance.
Marta has some major issues.
It is hard to find a voice in my writing for the newsletter. It seems as if I'm creating a new one, which is odd but offers hope.
I miss my cat worse than my ex. I miss my ex the most in that I cringe at remembering all that closeness lost to a drug, a refusal to change, a watered-down commitment, a dream of truth fading into ghostly vapors.
I've got to escape this place. I've got to get out. I've got to be gone. I've got to go...
Busch beer, while priced ok and not too bad on the ol' taste buds, just isn't the way to go. "Head to the mountains" because that's where the good stuff is sold!
Well, that's the end of my beer and my captured time experiment. Hmmm, whatever.
(the following is a list of thoughts in my mind as I finish this tall beer)
Art transcends emotions and evokes thoughts.
Nobody, and I mean NOBODY, is worth your life. And no person should ever dare to try to take happiness from me again.
My mind dwells in the dark less the more I stay active.
Global Warming Sux! I just had a hornet attack me IN my bedroom.
My new friend Dan and I will do positive contributions to art and life in our friendship.
Mogwai is the most underrated band ever. No doubts.
I love my job and no one there is going to make me ever not enjoy my job...so make your ass aware of that banner team.
I feel like skateboarding down the street on my buddy Rob's longboard.
I sure wish I had learned airbrushing when I had the chance.
Marta has some major issues.
It is hard to find a voice in my writing for the newsletter. It seems as if I'm creating a new one, which is odd but offers hope.
I miss my cat worse than my ex. I miss my ex the most in that I cringe at remembering all that closeness lost to a drug, a refusal to change, a watered-down commitment, a dream of truth fading into ghostly vapors.
I've got to escape this place. I've got to get out. I've got to be gone. I've got to go...
Busch beer, while priced ok and not too bad on the ol' taste buds, just isn't the way to go. "Head to the mountains" because that's where the good stuff is sold!
Well, that's the end of my beer and my captured time experiment. Hmmm, whatever.
Monday, February 13, 2006
Valentine's Day 2/14/05-A Recap
Valentine's Day: One Year Ago
We were very hyped about the evening that sprawled before us like a glowstick-edged carpet of possibilites. I had obtained VIP guestlist tickets, she bought an new outfit, we both got our haircut, and we had managed to squirrel away some money. We were completely cool. And better yet, we were going to be with someone we loved on Valentine's Day, a first for both of us.
I was so surprised how I got the tickets. I just happened to meander over to my favorite dj's website, www.djdb.com, and I was shocked to discover that he would be playing in ATL on Feb. 14th! But, by my slow-ass meandering, I had missed the tickets. I immediately wrote an e-mail to him describing my total devotion to his music (which was all completely true) and how much I was hoping to see him spin. He wrote me back the same day and we got to e-mailing one another. I told him about letterboxing and he was intrigued. I offered to carve him a stamp for him to keep in a trade for two tickets. He put us on the VIP guestlist. I about crapped in my pants when I read that e-mail. I started carving his stamp that very evening, she went shopping.
The stamp came out good; I chose an album cover design from one of his albums and it was cool. I had to enlarge it a lot so it really was an artistic effort, not just a copy. I stamped it and put the image up on the bathroom mirror in the slum we were living in for hope...every blank morning in that place I saw that design and felt hope.
Hope turned into excitement as the day drew near. That evening we got decked out, sipped a few beers with the roommates, and kicked it downtown. We found the place, left our jackets in the car (like idiots! It was SUPA-cold for ATL...maybe 28 degrees and windy as a fartbag) and scurried to the Mark, which aptly enough, was the spot DJDB chose to play here.
We walked in and were immediately asked for our tickets. We proudly announced to no one, except the bouncer, that we were on the guest list thank you very much. Sure enough, we checked out and got to go on in while the other 3 early arrivers sat in the corner and loomed at us.
She was looking so fine that night, I remember it clearly. Geez, I was in a blissful state of contentment and excitement. We grabbed a beer, walked around the room, and smiled like happy buddhas. I was kind of anxious because I had that stamp I carved for DJDB and I wanted to not only close our trade, but also to meet him.
The room began to quickly fill full of all kinds of folks. It was interesting to see the hardcore fans and all the stripes of lifestyles that DB had connected into. She had to pee by now, and the long line was ridiculous, so I told her I'd hit the bar for our next round while she waited to squat. 10 steps after leaving her there amid the bladder-addled folks, I see a tall, familiar dude walking over to the bar. No one around seemed to take notice of him, but I made a direct line and stepped up and said, "Hey DB, man, it is sooo good to finally meet you!" He was cool, not nonchalent but not overly enthused about a fan coming up in his face. I said, "hey, thanks for getting us on the guestlist." He looked over at me then and I handed him his stamp. His face instantly changed, recognizing who I was-the face meets the e-mail character-and smiled big. He turned the stamp over in his hand and said, "So you had no problems? Good. Great to meet you." I told him briefly of our big V-day outing and asked him if he'd please put in some stuff from the early cuts. He just smiled and said, "just wait...enjoy your date tonight."
It was so very cool that my words now are weakening the experience of that special moment, that stellar evening.
After a few stunned moments I order our next round of brews and go to find her, who is totally POed that she didn't get to meet DB. Tough love.
We find a spot to chill, getting restless for the show to start. The evening is a tagteam between DB and DJ Dara, which means that they take turns but have to connect the song into the last song that was playing when one or the other tagged out. As we lounged on a sofa with some other dudes, who turned out to be very cool, we heard the first notes of Dara's mix emerge from the speakers. I had an epiphany: A Forest by the Cure, slowed down but definitely it. And the musical influx was on...
DJDB emerged on the stage after 2 or 3 songs and changed it into something recognizable to all his followers and I began to float into another place, a position or phase or spot I cannot describe. Life was better than good, it was transcending known levels of pleasure and joy. She disappeared up front to dance and I kicked the steps in the back, studying the beats but relishing them as well.
All good things come to an end. The theme of this tale is not the arguements on the way home or the disaster of the rest of the relationship: those will all be told other ways at other times. This is simply the tale of how I gave my favorite dj a stamp I carved for him on Valentine's Day last year and how he provided entry into one of the most memorable experiences of my life.
Keep spinning DB...a true friend and fan.
We were very hyped about the evening that sprawled before us like a glowstick-edged carpet of possibilites. I had obtained VIP guestlist tickets, she bought an new outfit, we both got our haircut, and we had managed to squirrel away some money. We were completely cool. And better yet, we were going to be with someone we loved on Valentine's Day, a first for both of us.
I was so surprised how I got the tickets. I just happened to meander over to my favorite dj's website, www.djdb.com, and I was shocked to discover that he would be playing in ATL on Feb. 14th! But, by my slow-ass meandering, I had missed the tickets. I immediately wrote an e-mail to him describing my total devotion to his music (which was all completely true) and how much I was hoping to see him spin. He wrote me back the same day and we got to e-mailing one another. I told him about letterboxing and he was intrigued. I offered to carve him a stamp for him to keep in a trade for two tickets. He put us on the VIP guestlist. I about crapped in my pants when I read that e-mail. I started carving his stamp that very evening, she went shopping.
The stamp came out good; I chose an album cover design from one of his albums and it was cool. I had to enlarge it a lot so it really was an artistic effort, not just a copy. I stamped it and put the image up on the bathroom mirror in the slum we were living in for hope...every blank morning in that place I saw that design and felt hope.
Hope turned into excitement as the day drew near. That evening we got decked out, sipped a few beers with the roommates, and kicked it downtown. We found the place, left our jackets in the car (like idiots! It was SUPA-cold for ATL...maybe 28 degrees and windy as a fartbag) and scurried to the Mark, which aptly enough, was the spot DJDB chose to play here.
We walked in and were immediately asked for our tickets. We proudly announced to no one, except the bouncer, that we were on the guest list thank you very much. Sure enough, we checked out and got to go on in while the other 3 early arrivers sat in the corner and loomed at us.
She was looking so fine that night, I remember it clearly. Geez, I was in a blissful state of contentment and excitement. We grabbed a beer, walked around the room, and smiled like happy buddhas. I was kind of anxious because I had that stamp I carved for DJDB and I wanted to not only close our trade, but also to meet him.
The room began to quickly fill full of all kinds of folks. It was interesting to see the hardcore fans and all the stripes of lifestyles that DB had connected into. She had to pee by now, and the long line was ridiculous, so I told her I'd hit the bar for our next round while she waited to squat. 10 steps after leaving her there amid the bladder-addled folks, I see a tall, familiar dude walking over to the bar. No one around seemed to take notice of him, but I made a direct line and stepped up and said, "Hey DB, man, it is sooo good to finally meet you!" He was cool, not nonchalent but not overly enthused about a fan coming up in his face. I said, "hey, thanks for getting us on the guestlist." He looked over at me then and I handed him his stamp. His face instantly changed, recognizing who I was-the face meets the e-mail character-and smiled big. He turned the stamp over in his hand and said, "So you had no problems? Good. Great to meet you." I told him briefly of our big V-day outing and asked him if he'd please put in some stuff from the early cuts. He just smiled and said, "just wait...enjoy your date tonight."
It was so very cool that my words now are weakening the experience of that special moment, that stellar evening.
After a few stunned moments I order our next round of brews and go to find her, who is totally POed that she didn't get to meet DB. Tough love.
We find a spot to chill, getting restless for the show to start. The evening is a tagteam between DB and DJ Dara, which means that they take turns but have to connect the song into the last song that was playing when one or the other tagged out. As we lounged on a sofa with some other dudes, who turned out to be very cool, we heard the first notes of Dara's mix emerge from the speakers. I had an epiphany: A Forest by the Cure, slowed down but definitely it. And the musical influx was on...
DJDB emerged on the stage after 2 or 3 songs and changed it into something recognizable to all his followers and I began to float into another place, a position or phase or spot I cannot describe. Life was better than good, it was transcending known levels of pleasure and joy. She disappeared up front to dance and I kicked the steps in the back, studying the beats but relishing them as well.
All good things come to an end. The theme of this tale is not the arguements on the way home or the disaster of the rest of the relationship: those will all be told other ways at other times. This is simply the tale of how I gave my favorite dj a stamp I carved for him on Valentine's Day last year and how he provided entry into one of the most memorable experiences of my life.
Keep spinning DB...a true friend and fan.
Saturday, February 11, 2006
I was reading over some old writings of mine and found one that I think represents the beginning of all dark days of my life, the ones which I just narrowly escaped. I find this writing very interesting because it sums up what was about to happen before it ever happened. And now viewing it from beyond the hurt and destruction I see that I subconsciously knew the demise that was about to unfold like scary foreshadowing music in a horror movie.
Rake Hell 11/19/02
Ensanguined heartache dilutes daybreak-splashed hope and begins the dissolution of potential. Imprisonment drudgery and toil: mental anguish at flushed possibilities. Bile and regret coat the cigarette smoke choking my lungs. In my journal, my writing begins '...oh blackest hole, my home of homes...'; wasted words to while away the drunken stint of failure. Lecherous liquor and blackened breathing tissues terrorize my feeble, noncommittal attempts to break this boredom's syrupy lull. Heavy hooded future rescinds behind opaque filters of cataractous ennui. Balancing on slothful inertia, my demise seeps deeply into unintentional companionship and commonality which inflicts accidental damage. Dark wave of ineffectualness blankets all intentions of good. Farewell inspiration, goodbye creativity, au revoir desperate bright hope--all saviors and friends. The end begins...
Rake Hell 11/19/02
Ensanguined heartache dilutes daybreak-splashed hope and begins the dissolution of potential. Imprisonment drudgery and toil: mental anguish at flushed possibilities. Bile and regret coat the cigarette smoke choking my lungs. In my journal, my writing begins '...oh blackest hole, my home of homes...'; wasted words to while away the drunken stint of failure. Lecherous liquor and blackened breathing tissues terrorize my feeble, noncommittal attempts to break this boredom's syrupy lull. Heavy hooded future rescinds behind opaque filters of cataractous ennui. Balancing on slothful inertia, my demise seeps deeply into unintentional companionship and commonality which inflicts accidental damage. Dark wave of ineffectualness blankets all intentions of good. Farewell inspiration, goodbye creativity, au revoir desperate bright hope--all saviors and friends. The end begins...
Wednesday, February 08, 2006
The Lunch Post
I was the first one there, Curtis was answering a hip page or getting a candygram or something, and I just started nuking the two-day-old lunch. It was too big to eat at one sitting and not have to use the company toilet; I chose to divide and conquer the meal and I was on day two.
Curtis pops up and sits down and opens the olde-school lunch container, a true heirloom of past lunches, and proceeds to munch on a prepared sandwich which looked tasty. I moved into my boomerang of a lunch and stared forward at the tv rolling propo. From across the room came a stretched friend named Dan. Dan was to soon join both Curtis and myself in the midst of our digestion intake.
At our oddly-shaped table, we soon discovered that Dan had apparently mistaken his lunch for a blunt-force-trauma instrument that he mistook for his sub sandwich. Both Curis and I instinctively ducked before we visually sighted overspilling lettuce and then we were cool. We all figured Security had been alerted and was on top of it, no worries, while Dan proceeded to help the "evidence" disappear.
Angela, aka Bling Lunch, then rounded out our foray into the universally recognized act of pausing work for a food-intake upload/conversation to be determined. Her compatible demeanor and delicious-looking grub not only comforted us but also made it look like our tired lunches weren't lame, thanks Ang!
Labor parties, work ethics and implied governmental actions, beer: the scientific formula, white-suited molecules, Japan, blogs and smoking were all mixed into words and conversations between different, but amicable, lunch patrons like a colorful Pollock collage.
Our lunch was fulfilling, thought-provoking, and mostly just a chill way of relaxing.
Thanks for the fun. Happy digestion.
Curtis pops up and sits down and opens the olde-school lunch container, a true heirloom of past lunches, and proceeds to munch on a prepared sandwich which looked tasty. I moved into my boomerang of a lunch and stared forward at the tv rolling propo. From across the room came a stretched friend named Dan. Dan was to soon join both Curtis and myself in the midst of our digestion intake.
At our oddly-shaped table, we soon discovered that Dan had apparently mistaken his lunch for a blunt-force-trauma instrument that he mistook for his sub sandwich. Both Curis and I instinctively ducked before we visually sighted overspilling lettuce and then we were cool. We all figured Security had been alerted and was on top of it, no worries, while Dan proceeded to help the "evidence" disappear.
Angela, aka Bling Lunch, then rounded out our foray into the universally recognized act of pausing work for a food-intake upload/conversation to be determined. Her compatible demeanor and delicious-looking grub not only comforted us but also made it look like our tired lunches weren't lame, thanks Ang!
Labor parties, work ethics and implied governmental actions, beer: the scientific formula, white-suited molecules, Japan, blogs and smoking were all mixed into words and conversations between different, but amicable, lunch patrons like a colorful Pollock collage.
Our lunch was fulfilling, thought-provoking, and mostly just a chill way of relaxing.
Thanks for the fun. Happy digestion.
Saturday, February 04, 2006
Flat Tire
Stalled, left on the side of motion. I have to decombust the engine, exit my capsule, look at my damage, repair it, and return to the journey. The tire is destroyed; the journey cannot continue as imagined. These necessary repairs snatch me into actuality at the most inopportune moments, but benefit me despite the inconvenience. Don't be discouraged, this tire has served you well. The purpose of this demise shows you how inconstant life can be, how random acts yield areas of growth.
Dirt on my face which is twisting curse words between bitter lips cancels any positivity that might occur. Detrimental seems this product failure and missed is the higher purpose for the pause of secure life. Maybe they are preparation for future tests?
Maybe they are meant to slowly bleed you like harsh words in the soft bed of night, or final passings after the fall...but perhaps you don't fade and finally fold from their inevitable slices. And so where do you go in a car that cannot drive?
I look at the deflated useless tire, still coated with the grime from the miles I've pointed you over, and I see disillusionment. My feelings are selfish; you should have a grand exit. You, beat-ass piece of rubber, have treaded many realms of actions and possibility. My life was carried by your weight and you silently bore the burden. My dirty skin and lopsided limp to safety is not your eulogy because I took you so many different places you would have never seen.
But you, malfunctioning and detrimental, must be replaced for the motion to continue, for the plan to develop and endure. Our moments together of late have been distant, sad, and separated--even mechanical; One must escape from the circular grind before the neglected skin is devoured.
I load you into my trunk, carrying the carcass of your past commitments, and take you into my life as a retired contributor. I must care for the others better than I looked after you. I thank you for the times we rolled together and the bumps endured. You, without suitability, gaze at me and don't understand my care or my appreciation. Flat tire, you have been replaced.
Dirt on my face which is twisting curse words between bitter lips cancels any positivity that might occur. Detrimental seems this product failure and missed is the higher purpose for the pause of secure life. Maybe they are preparation for future tests?
Maybe they are meant to slowly bleed you like harsh words in the soft bed of night, or final passings after the fall...but perhaps you don't fade and finally fold from their inevitable slices. And so where do you go in a car that cannot drive?
I look at the deflated useless tire, still coated with the grime from the miles I've pointed you over, and I see disillusionment. My feelings are selfish; you should have a grand exit. You, beat-ass piece of rubber, have treaded many realms of actions and possibility. My life was carried by your weight and you silently bore the burden. My dirty skin and lopsided limp to safety is not your eulogy because I took you so many different places you would have never seen.
But you, malfunctioning and detrimental, must be replaced for the motion to continue, for the plan to develop and endure. Our moments together of late have been distant, sad, and separated--even mechanical; One must escape from the circular grind before the neglected skin is devoured.
I load you into my trunk, carrying the carcass of your past commitments, and take you into my life as a retired contributor. I must care for the others better than I looked after you. I thank you for the times we rolled together and the bumps endured. You, without suitability, gaze at me and don't understand my care or my appreciation. Flat tire, you have been replaced.
Wednesday, February 01, 2006
Lately
Lately I've been so out of everything letterboxing-wise. I
don't do shhhhheeeeeeite about the stamps I need to
carve, the boxes I need to maintain, the folks I need
to write.
So, I've been drawing lately. It helps me let out the
bs and focus on something else. Plus it is something I
rarely do.
I come home from work and I open a beer and
I read the funnies in the paper and I mosey through the
house and miss my cat and I sit down at my drafting
table and stare at what I drew the night before. Then
I get up and smoke a cig and finish that beer and grab
another one and go to the table and start drawing.
When I find a stopping point, I grab the beer and
finish that.
Then I turn on the computer and check my
e-mail. Sometimes I never get to the computer part, I
just drink, smoke, and draw. And it keeps me from
being too sad and that, as Martha says, is a good thing.
Sleep is open to interpretations and the sheets seem fearful to me
with their clutched and wrinkled expressions in the morning. I
recall strange images and want to maim and/or destroy the
alarm clock.
And then I wake up to a shower and Marta and work ID
badges and towering buildings and hurried folks,
throngs of them. And I'm one of them. And I like that
a lot.
And then it is elevators and signing in on the
computer and hellos, the coffee scene, grab some new work and
begin. And the next time I register time it is lunch.
And lunch is funny and silly and short and then it is back to
work. And somewhere about 3pm I start to hurt from or
for her and then it is signing out and Marta and a mile walk home
from the beer store and then a beer and then my
drawing...and maybe whispered words in my ear...or
maybe it is the leftovers from my dreams, I cannot tell.
I miss your words.
don't do shhhhheeeeeeite about the stamps I need to
carve, the boxes I need to maintain, the folks I need
to write.
So, I've been drawing lately. It helps me let out the
bs and focus on something else. Plus it is something I
rarely do.
I come home from work and I open a beer and
I read the funnies in the paper and I mosey through the
house and miss my cat and I sit down at my drafting
table and stare at what I drew the night before. Then
I get up and smoke a cig and finish that beer and grab
another one and go to the table and start drawing.
When I find a stopping point, I grab the beer and
finish that.
Then I turn on the computer and check my
e-mail. Sometimes I never get to the computer part, I
just drink, smoke, and draw. And it keeps me from
being too sad and that, as Martha says, is a good thing.
Sleep is open to interpretations and the sheets seem fearful to me
with their clutched and wrinkled expressions in the morning. I
recall strange images and want to maim and/or destroy the
alarm clock.
And then I wake up to a shower and Marta and work ID
badges and towering buildings and hurried folks,
throngs of them. And I'm one of them. And I like that
a lot.
And then it is elevators and signing in on the
computer and hellos, the coffee scene, grab some new work and
begin. And the next time I register time it is lunch.
And lunch is funny and silly and short and then it is back to
work. And somewhere about 3pm I start to hurt from or
for her and then it is signing out and Marta and a mile walk home
from the beer store and then a beer and then my
drawing...and maybe whispered words in my ear...or
maybe it is the leftovers from my dreams, I cannot tell.
I miss your words.
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