My cellphone rings; an automated voice says:
"You’re having trouble."
[pause; then, cheerily]
"Goodbye."
In any another situation, I would have dismissed the call as a random interruption...but it stood that, at the time, I was indeed having trouble.
It’s been hours and I’m still scanning rooftops for snipers.
Goodbye? What do you mean, "goodbye"?
Wednesday, October 24, 2007
Saturday, October 20, 2007
Vocabularity
weakness:
an inadequate or defective quality, as in a person’s character; slight default or defect.
cocksure:
perfectly sure or certain; completely confident in one’s own mind.
contumacious:
stubbornly perverse or rebellious; willfully and obstinately disobedient.
periphrastic:
roundabout and unnecessarily wordy.
pugnacious:
inclined to quarrel or fight readily; quarrelsome; belligerent; combative.
...
strength:
a source of power or force; vigor.
amaranthine:
unfading; everlasting.
ipseity:
selfhood; individual identity, individuality.
rapturous:
full of feeling, or manifesting ecstatic joy or delight.
wondrous:
extraordinarily good or great; wonderful; remarkable.
sourced from Dictionary.com
an inadequate or defective quality, as in a person’s character; slight default or defect.
cocksure:
perfectly sure or certain; completely confident in one’s own mind.
contumacious:
stubbornly perverse or rebellious; willfully and obstinately disobedient.
periphrastic:
roundabout and unnecessarily wordy.
pugnacious:
inclined to quarrel or fight readily; quarrelsome; belligerent; combative.
...
strength:
a source of power or force; vigor.
amaranthine:
unfading; everlasting.
ipseity:
selfhood; individual identity, individuality.
rapturous:
full of feeling, or manifesting ecstatic joy or delight.
wondrous:
extraordinarily good or great; wonderful; remarkable.
sourced from Dictionary.com
The Bobcat, The Dumptruck & The Sweater-Vest
The smoke is lit; the sweater-vest is pink.
The dump truck flexes upwards at a 45-degree angle; the sweater-vest chips away at the driveway with an over-sized pickaxe.
The bobcat scoops from the dumptruck; the cigarette falls from the sweater-vest - "Noooooo!"
The back-door of the dumptruck swings open violently, the entirety of its gravel-load crashing down on the bobcat; the sweater-vest nearly collapses in anguish.
The emergency shovels are summoned; the cigarette is extinguished but not the bobcat, as years and years of digging-technique-advancements prevail.
The bobcat and the dumptruck laugh together in the ether of the aftermath; the sweater-vest needs to sit on the curb for a while.
The smoke is lit; the sweater-vest is sweaty.
The dump truck flexes upwards at a 45-degree angle; the sweater-vest chips away at the driveway with an over-sized pickaxe.
The bobcat scoops from the dumptruck; the cigarette falls from the sweater-vest - "Noooooo!"
The back-door of the dumptruck swings open violently, the entirety of its gravel-load crashing down on the bobcat; the sweater-vest nearly collapses in anguish.
The emergency shovels are summoned; the cigarette is extinguished but not the bobcat, as years and years of digging-technique-advancements prevail.
The bobcat and the dumptruck laugh together in the ether of the aftermath; the sweater-vest needs to sit on the curb for a while.
The smoke is lit; the sweater-vest is sweaty.
Wednesday, October 17, 2007
Sunday
Can’t smell, can’t think, can’t hear, can’t focus.
Sniffle sniffle & a thousand mile stare.
They are watching me as my voice shorts-out like a walkie-talkie dropped in the pool; they are watching me as I stand up and wobble, clogged ears temporarily cutting off my equilibrium at the knees; they are watching me as I snort mucous between sentences, involuntarily covering their mouths in disgust...
Some would say that I’m a hero for sticking this out despite my obvious sickness; others, like my students, would disagree.
Wholeheartedly, I believe.
Sniffle sniffle & a thousand mile stare.
They are watching me as my voice shorts-out like a walkie-talkie dropped in the pool; they are watching me as I stand up and wobble, clogged ears temporarily cutting off my equilibrium at the knees; they are watching me as I snort mucous between sentences, involuntarily covering their mouths in disgust...
Some would say that I’m a hero for sticking this out despite my obvious sickness; others, like my students, would disagree.
Wholeheartedly, I believe.
The Energy Disruption
I almost got flattened by a bolt of lightning a couple of years back. I, at the time, assumed it to be random chance that an electrical death-bolt from god would crackle into the nearby batting cages instead of my chest, but have since realized that I am but a conduit.
Energy in, energy out.
How else to explain my infuriating lack of internet access for the third time this year? Maybe I was a rebellious electron in a previous life, raping & pillaging a village of ions to produce a bad enough electric-karma that it followed me throughout my various reincarnations; maybe I discharge a physical-and-psychological-energy so profound that it wears-out equipment at rate heretofore unknown in the scientific community.
Or maybe I’m reading a wee bit too much into a faulty DSL line.
Whatever the reason, for anything, I’m as tapped as my electronics - I’m writing this with one hand whilst curled up in my computer chair, layered with blankets and as fetal as one could be while still sitting upright - and I’m hoping that the return of my interweb-acess is a harbinger of my own energy returning as well.
As it stands, I’m a digital-alarm clock submerged in mud: everything’s working fine, I guess, but I’d be able to see a lot better if I wasn’t in a fucking puddle.
Energy in, energy out.
How else to explain my infuriating lack of internet access for the third time this year? Maybe I was a rebellious electron in a previous life, raping & pillaging a village of ions to produce a bad enough electric-karma that it followed me throughout my various reincarnations; maybe I discharge a physical-and-psychological-energy so profound that it wears-out equipment at rate heretofore unknown in the scientific community.
Or maybe I’m reading a wee bit too much into a faulty DSL line.
Whatever the reason, for anything, I’m as tapped as my electronics - I’m writing this with one hand whilst curled up in my computer chair, layered with blankets and as fetal as one could be while still sitting upright - and I’m hoping that the return of my interweb-acess is a harbinger of my own energy returning as well.
As it stands, I’m a digital-alarm clock submerged in mud: everything’s working fine, I guess, but I’d be able to see a lot better if I wasn’t in a fucking puddle.
Wednesday, October 3, 2007
Uninsane
It’s not like me to be stressed; yesterday, however, I was stressed.
A powerfully humourless, heartbeat = kick-thump to the chest kind of stressed...and justifiably, too.
It usually matters very little to me when my job’s management-structure falls apart like a flagpole made of playing-cards, but for some reason yesterday I was taking life seriously and seriously considered checking myself into Hammertown’s friendly-neighbourhood lunatic-asylum - honest and true.
I weighed the pros & cons, eventually coming to the understanding that while possibly free to check myself in, I was then at the mercy of the mental-health workers to get out again...leaving open the very scary, and to my embattled brain very real, possibility that I might get labeled "nuts" and have to claw my way free whilst ball-gagged and padlocked in a straight-jacket.
Fortunately, I am uninsane...and though I hold no concrete evidence to support this, I do know that any room can be a padded-room if you have strong enough shoulders, and that clarity is enough to keep me from exploring the lunch-menu at my local loony-bin.
Where, though, did this clarity come from? It certainly wasn’t apparent as I paced a divot into my tiled kitchen-floor, or when I smoked until my voice sounded like a death-rattle escaping a rusty box of rail-spikes, or when I ran out of fingernails to bite and started biting at people in the hallway...no, I was free of claritythen.
Write this down: clarity comes from shaving your head. In the forever that I’ve been doing so, I’ve always been energized afterwards, and everything else just seems to work itself out.
Perhaps head-hair blocks the extra-terrestrial logic that descends upon us as brain-beams of floating knowledge, some mental-energy waves of unknown origin ushered in through the otherwise-intolerable static and noise of the universe, a cosmic jurisprudence sliding to earth like the mind-rays of an intergalactic super-genius and into the very thoughts of those receptive enough to receive them - those without the hindrance of head-hair.
Who’s crazy now, motherfuckers?
A powerfully humourless, heartbeat = kick-thump to the chest kind of stressed...and justifiably, too.
It usually matters very little to me when my job’s management-structure falls apart like a flagpole made of playing-cards, but for some reason yesterday I was taking life seriously and seriously considered checking myself into Hammertown’s friendly-neighbourhood lunatic-asylum - honest and true.
I weighed the pros & cons, eventually coming to the understanding that while possibly free to check myself in, I was then at the mercy of the mental-health workers to get out again...leaving open the very scary, and to my embattled brain very real, possibility that I might get labeled "nuts" and have to claw my way free whilst ball-gagged and padlocked in a straight-jacket.
Fortunately, I am uninsane...and though I hold no concrete evidence to support this, I do know that any room can be a padded-room if you have strong enough shoulders, and that clarity is enough to keep me from exploring the lunch-menu at my local loony-bin.
Where, though, did this clarity come from? It certainly wasn’t apparent as I paced a divot into my tiled kitchen-floor, or when I smoked until my voice sounded like a death-rattle escaping a rusty box of rail-spikes, or when I ran out of fingernails to bite and started biting at people in the hallway...no, I was free of claritythen.
Write this down: clarity comes from shaving your head. In the forever that I’ve been doing so, I’ve always been energized afterwards, and everything else just seems to work itself out.
Perhaps head-hair blocks the extra-terrestrial logic that descends upon us as brain-beams of floating knowledge, some mental-energy waves of unknown origin ushered in through the otherwise-intolerable static and noise of the universe, a cosmic jurisprudence sliding to earth like the mind-rays of an intergalactic super-genius and into the very thoughts of those receptive enough to receive them - those without the hindrance of head-hair.
Who’s crazy now, motherfuckers?
Saturday, September 29, 2007
Repulsion in 5 Easy Steps
Step 1:
Indulge in a little gathering or "get together" with a known-acquaintance ratio of about 50%.
Step 2:
Let everyone prattle on, as they do, while waiting for a pause in conversation.
Step 3:
Loudly relate this non-sequitur:
"So, I’m sucking this guy’s cock, right? He leans down and asks me if I’d tickle his ass a little bit, like a Rusty-Trombone in reverse, and I say to him, I say, ‘what am I, some kind of faggot?’"
Step 4:
Smile broadly.
Step 5:
Enjoy watching people you don’t know try to pick up the pieces of their ruined evening.
Indulge in a little gathering or "get together" with a known-acquaintance ratio of about 50%.
Step 2:
Let everyone prattle on, as they do, while waiting for a pause in conversation.
Step 3:
Loudly relate this non-sequitur:
"So, I’m sucking this guy’s cock, right? He leans down and asks me if I’d tickle his ass a little bit, like a Rusty-Trombone in reverse, and I say to him, I say, ‘what am I, some kind of faggot?’"
Step 4:
Smile broadly.
Step 5:
Enjoy watching people you don’t know try to pick up the pieces of their ruined evening.
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