Take from it what you will.
Sunday, May 25, 2008
Thursday, May 22, 2008
Californication 8:25
"Not only are you a cadaverous lay, you also have shitty taste in movies."
- Hank
- Hank
Glorius Shuffle
Tonight I saw my roommates fight to the tune of "Warwick Avenue" (0:00-1:26) by Duffy, an emerging soul artist from England. Another tiff screeched to life and was concludedly squashed as the song came to a close (3:47). They then ravaged each other with a bear hug until 1:09 in "Scared".
(Shuffle was turned on.)
(Shuffle was turned on.)
Quotes of the Evening #1
"Chris, guess what I did before you got home?"
"Uh, I'm not sure I want to guess."
"Uh, I'm not sure I want to guess."
Random #2 - Space Butt
The floor is rumbling. I'm at work, sitting atop a spaceship at liftoff. I have not confirmed this but I suspect there to be thousands of generators sparking with life only a few feet below me.
Located in one of our many data centers, I cannot see farther than a few feet in front of me. Red cables, blue cables, orange cables, black cables, all manner of cables block out my sight. How will I stayed glued to this place when we reach another atmosphere? A coworker of mine labors assiduously beside me; making me look bad.
There's nothing for me to do yet so I continue to blog about being in space.
I thought space would be quieter. No solidarity can be held in this room. Hot air discharges from our rows of servers and into the cold. I'm glad that I brought my sweater. My original plan, a t-shirt, would not have cut it here.
----------
*will update when I get home (or so he says)
Located in one of our many data centers, I cannot see farther than a few feet in front of me. Red cables, blue cables, orange cables, black cables, all manner of cables block out my sight. How will I stayed glued to this place when we reach another atmosphere? A coworker of mine labors assiduously beside me; making me look bad.
There's nothing for me to do yet so I continue to blog about being in space.
I thought space would be quieter. No solidarity can be held in this room. Hot air discharges from our rows of servers and into the cold. I'm glad that I brought my sweater. My original plan, a t-shirt, would not have cut it here.
----------
*will update when I get home (or so he says)
Saturday, May 17, 2008
Random #1 - Sky Meat
The sky is a slab of meet. Sliced thick it exposes layers of purple, peach, blue, and soon enough black. The outermost layer protects us from the most: space. Or at least it's supposed to. It's more lover than fighter. Passive by nature, our front line can be excessively friendly when it shouldn't, "Hello Mr. Asteroid. Have you seen these dinos? They're pretty friendly once you get to kno- Shit." Which leads me to my next point: we don't want a chatty epidermis. Ours should be cold and tough and slightly resemble Arnold Schwarzenegger when he was the rip-my-own-arm-off type of Terminator that we knew and loved.
The shank in the middle just does it's job: transmit sensations of pain, itch, and temperature. Rinse/Repeat.
Planes darted along; bringing and taking the most and least important.
What connects us all here isn't as clear as a punch in the eye. Sockets rattle. No prisoners here, but plenty know the drilling dryness of getting by.
----------------
Author's Notes:
The shank in the middle just does it's job: transmit sensations of pain, itch, and temperature. Rinse/Repeat.
Planes darted along; bringing and taking the most and least important.
What connects us all here isn't as clear as a punch in the eye. Sockets rattle. No prisoners here, but plenty know the drilling dryness of getting by.
----------------
Author's Notes:
- random uncensored
- almost spelled Arnold's name right the first time (two letters off)
- Whatever led me to think up imagery of meat for the sky I will never know
- the last bit is ok
- starts off trying to be X but quickly settles into a comfy spot
- added some new stuff
- moved some words around
- some even left
Tuesday, May 13, 2008
Be still.
It's harder than you think.
------
Whenever the dust settles the only thing I can think about is kicking up some more.
What is this tension between peace and chaos?
Why does it exist in my head?
*Wishing it was sugar-coated so that I could be done with it*
Which reminds me: I'm celebrating an anniversary tonight (though it is officially tomorrow).
Whatever happened to a simple "I love you" and an arm wrestling match?
Whenever I get around to it, I'll be sure to post what I meant to post before this.
(The short version is already written. I'm just a lazy, couch potato. Don't tell anyone.)
P.S. The image of a potato sitting quietly on a couch doesn't strike me as lazy. Maybe the trick is to be as still as a couch potato.
------
Whenever the dust settles the only thing I can think about is kicking up some more.
What is this tension between peace and chaos?
Why does it exist in my head?
*Wishing it was sugar-coated so that I could be done with it*
Which reminds me: I'm celebrating an anniversary tonight (though it is officially tomorrow).
Whatever happened to a simple "I love you" and an arm wrestling match?
Whenever I get around to it, I'll be sure to post what I meant to post before this.
(The short version is already written. I'm just a lazy, couch potato. Don't tell anyone.)
P.S. The image of a potato sitting quietly on a couch doesn't strike me as lazy. Maybe the trick is to be as still as a couch potato.
Sunday, May 11, 2008
The Way Death Is - En Route
Hope full y
To night !
--------------
Edit: This has nothing to do with Mother's Day.
--------------
Edit (May 17,2008): Words are still sitting in my notebook. Jump, damnit!
To night !
--------------
Edit: This has nothing to do with Mother's Day.
--------------
Edit (May 17,2008): Words are still sitting in my notebook. Jump, damnit!
Thursday, May 8, 2008
Sunday, May 4, 2008
Breakfast Street - En route...
I promised myself I would get a blog out today.
(This isn't it.)
Stay Tuned...
(This isn't it.)
Stay Tuned...
Breakfast Street
.Sunday.
While amidst a partitioned hour, created specifically for swimming and writing, I came across something remarkable. Here, to the best of my abilities, I will try to recall and decipher what I saw and scribbled.
An airliner weaves around the gray clouds as the sunlight chokes its way through to the cool, brown earth below. The wind is blowing from the west over my bare feet. I imagine my feet are old man's feet with bronchitis. They are struggling to remember where they left their slippers and whether it's Tuesday or Thursday afternoon. I tuck them in under each other, switching occasionally to give the one on top a change of pace. From the hills pours a stream of tanks; warlords of clouds, balls of nightfall racing toward me at 3 in the afternoon. Another wave of planes adjust their angles of attack. But it's the ducks along the river banks that begin to make for the shores, and their homes; rounding up their families before the rain causes a panic.
The paths resemble conveyor belts; shuffling contents from location to location. They wrap harmlessly along the waterway. A woman wearing multiple sweaters and attached to a very brown husky strolls up to me and asks, "where is there a pool around here?"
At first I found this question to be odd. She clearly wasn't in swimming attire. But then I recalled that I was wearing flip-flops, a bathing suit, and a bright orange and red Garfield towel. This was common attire for writing in 50 degree storm weather, I assured myself. I notion that there exists a pool behind me in the apartment complex where I'm from.
------------
A deceptive pool of blue breaks through momentarily. I am distracted. Sunlight bursts through like a flare; reaching across everything. What if the picture was reversed? The houses, land, and everything in them suddenly began to float up. Certainly an odd sight for the cows in the hills. Their lives are so quiet.
------------
The human blanket moves out of sight, replaced with another woman wearing a purple track suit. Bouncing boysenberry trunks. She stands out. Her track shoes crunch on the rocks underfoot. The sounds reminds me of the sound my jaws make while chewing cereal. Some bits kick back up and off to the side as she runs. The next course arrives on wheels. A bike-riding couple peddles by, oblivious to the giant man-moving mechanism that they are on. He's wearing a long-sleeve, marmalade-orange sweater. They match. It's not that cute.
Tempos ring down the paths. As my hour nears its end, I am left with one image. One man in particular cannot stand the ringing. He is not wearing bright colors. He does not have headphones on. He is not smiling. The guy sits down and covers his ears. For a minute he stares out across the view, silent. The ducks have left. The wind picks up. A muffled noise rushes across my face. And without notice the man begins to wobble his head like a clock in reverse: up, left, down, right, up. Then in reverse order. The pattern continues for some time and during so the man says nothing. Up, left, down, right, up, right, down, left, up.....After this he stands up quietly and walks out of view.
The whole picture feels like clockwork or coffee at 9 a.m. - deceptively normal. My time is up. I head back home, taking a shortcut down breakfast street.
------
Author's Notes:
While amidst a partitioned hour, created specifically for swimming and writing, I came across something remarkable. Here, to the best of my abilities, I will try to recall and decipher what I saw and scribbled.
An airliner weaves around the gray clouds as the sunlight chokes its way through to the cool, brown earth below. The wind is blowing from the west over my bare feet. I imagine my feet are old man's feet with bronchitis. They are struggling to remember where they left their slippers and whether it's Tuesday or Thursday afternoon. I tuck them in under each other, switching occasionally to give the one on top a change of pace. From the hills pours a stream of tanks; warlords of clouds, balls of nightfall racing toward me at 3 in the afternoon. Another wave of planes adjust their angles of attack. But it's the ducks along the river banks that begin to make for the shores, and their homes; rounding up their families before the rain causes a panic.
The paths resemble conveyor belts; shuffling contents from location to location. They wrap harmlessly along the waterway. A woman wearing multiple sweaters and attached to a very brown husky strolls up to me and asks, "where is there a pool around here?"
At first I found this question to be odd. She clearly wasn't in swimming attire. But then I recalled that I was wearing flip-flops, a bathing suit, and a bright orange and red Garfield towel. This was common attire for writing in 50 degree storm weather, I assured myself. I notion that there exists a pool behind me in the apartment complex where I'm from.
------------
A deceptive pool of blue breaks through momentarily. I am distracted. Sunlight bursts through like a flare; reaching across everything. What if the picture was reversed? The houses, land, and everything in them suddenly began to float up. Certainly an odd sight for the cows in the hills. Their lives are so quiet.
------------
The human blanket moves out of sight, replaced with another woman wearing a purple track suit. Bouncing boysenberry trunks. She stands out. Her track shoes crunch on the rocks underfoot. The sounds reminds me of the sound my jaws make while chewing cereal. Some bits kick back up and off to the side as she runs. The next course arrives on wheels. A bike-riding couple peddles by, oblivious to the giant man-moving mechanism that they are on. He's wearing a long-sleeve, marmalade-orange sweater. They match. It's not that cute.
Tempos ring down the paths. As my hour nears its end, I am left with one image. One man in particular cannot stand the ringing. He is not wearing bright colors. He does not have headphones on. He is not smiling. The guy sits down and covers his ears. For a minute he stares out across the view, silent. The ducks have left. The wind picks up. A muffled noise rushes across my face. And without notice the man begins to wobble his head like a clock in reverse: up, left, down, right, up. Then in reverse order. The pattern continues for some time and during so the man says nothing. Up, left, down, right, up, right, down, left, up.....After this he stands up quietly and walks out of view.
The whole picture feels like clockwork or coffee at 9 a.m. - deceptively normal. My time is up. I head back home, taking a shortcut down breakfast street.
------
Author's Notes:
- Imagery could be a bit more conducive
- Feels a bit disjointed. Like two stories that never knew each other just found out they had the same mom, she just remarried.
- Wait, so what is breakfast street?
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