i just wanted to go to my blog, just to write an ordinary little entry about the complex miasma that is my daily life. (today has been an average day, good and bad out for a walk together, so i had in mind a short something, thematically concerned with the looming void of compounding darkness that sucks in my every righteous intention but expressed metaphorically as a daily entry from the diary i used to keep for my cabbage patch kid, whose name was dwight.) but i made a typo on the way to my blog:
apiletostepin.blogpot.com
just a simple omission: blogpot. kind of funny. only NOT FUNNY. VERY SERIOUS. because it took me here:
BIBLE COLLEGE ON LINE (If it's in the Bible, it should be on this site.)
and, huh. i was just at men's group this morning, where we played and read and examined different definitions of the kingdom of god. maybe this could offer an easily found supplement to what we'd posited. it is, after all, a college. a very open-minded one. here are some excerpts:
"Let’s prove the Bible is true and that we are nearing the end of the last generation before Christ returns.
THE SOON COMING CLIMAX
(bIBLE PROPHECY—a very brief summary)
(pROOF THE BIBLE IS TRUE AND WE ARE NOW IN THE LATTER DAYS)
This message may be called a road sign of warning. Some may look at a sign that reads—THE BRIDGE IS OUT, and say, “Oh, someone is just trying to scare us into taking another road; let’s go on the same way.” They go on and plunge to their death. The sign was not meant to scare people, but to warn them of impending danger. The sign was put there, because someone cared and didn’t want others to die.
God wants you to know, WHEN YOU SEE THESE THINGS COME TO PASs, KNOW YE THAT THE KINGDOM OF GOD IS NIGH AT HAND-Lk 21:31.
Will Russia and some Arab nations invade Israel? Yes
Will the U.S.A. become involved in this war? Yes.
here is the tastiest line i read, regarding going to church (post-conversion, which it is suggested may have happened by the time you've read this far down the page)
Attend often and get baptized. Tell others that Jesus is your only hope of salvation. If you’ve just said that prayer and committed your life to Jesus, please e-mail us and let us know. We would like to pray for you and send you some free literature.
...so, ah, there we have it, saved for the end: this is the work of a frustrated writer. thanks for the info, comrade.
06 March 2006
28 February 2006
let's get to know each other.
how are you? i could give you a run-down on me, my pros cons and so-soses, but what i'm really after is what your life is like these days and how are you. so let's do an exchange, a list; candidate questions for which could include,
1. are you more of an air balloon person or a unicycle person?
2. a human cannon person or a clown car person?
3. the picture you would most like to have on your mousepad
4. which are you most likely to pull out of your ass, a paper or a project?
5. your favorite verb, today
6. your favorite noun, today
7. your favorite adverb, today.
{preliminary answer key: 1. sort of a combination of the two -- a uni-ball person 2. clown car, duh 3. paris hilton naked but covered in thousand island dressing 4. since "projectile" is not an option, let's go with "paper" 5. please 6. myself 7. poorly}
1. are you more of an air balloon person or a unicycle person?
2. a human cannon person or a clown car person?
3. the picture you would most like to have on your mousepad
4. which are you most likely to pull out of your ass, a paper or a project?
5. your favorite verb, today
6. your favorite noun, today
7. your favorite adverb, today.
{preliminary answer key: 1. sort of a combination of the two -- a uni-ball person 2. clown car, duh 3. paris hilton naked but covered in thousand island dressing 4. since "projectile" is not an option, let's go with "paper" 5. please 6. myself 7. poorly}
23 February 2006
dally ho. (a serial)
part 1.
If someone had remarked that Ron’s life looked rather a lot like a farce, then he would not have disagreed. Or not even a farce, he thought as he carefully aligned the partially conductive widgets on the store shelf. It’s more specific than that. A capitol-F Farce is The Jerk or Dead Men Don’t Wear Plaid or some movie with Steve Martin before he started making Cheaper by the Dozen Parts 1—Franchise. Before he started making pap that runs on the strength of his own past strength.
“Oh, damn!” Ron whispered violently, knocking the stacks of orange and yellow widgets to the floor (warm colors on the side that greets the customer! always!) as his hands clasped together in shock. This is what I am: I’m Steve Martin in reverse. Instead of parodying my younger brilliant self, I’m doing a preemptive parody of stuff I hope to do when I’m older. Ron groaned.
And groaned again. Groaned like a grumpy old man as he got on his hands and knees. Groaned like a grumpy old man with a grumpier prostate as he strained to reach under the bottom shelf far enough to collect the fallen widgets. He wondered if there was a positive spin to be found in this realization. Like, maybe by living as the shadow of his hypothetical future self now, such that even his brightest moments are only wrinkly reflections of the many successes of this wildly charming not-yet-self, he will be able to see in advance where he will go wrong, and then make adjustments so that his much-adored older self will not get type-cast. And will maintain an aura of dignity. Dignity, yes, thought Ron as he strained his fingers through the dirt and cobwebs to reach a widget that had rolled all the way into the corner, Dignity is the thing.
From his gerbil-like position on the floor, Ron looked up and, through a gap the shelf, and saw two pairs of shoes standing toe-to-toe in the next aisle. The girl pair, rubber-toed and pink and cute, raised up on its toes, and kissing noises followed. Or maybe, thought Ron, I just need to get laid. The other shoes, a pair of cheaply distressed brown boots, he recognized as belonging to a wildly unremarkable floor manager named Rod, whose tendency to ignore the needs of his fellow workers was matched only by his penchant for breaking into nasal, freestyle rap on topics varying from widgets to bitches. Rod was kissing a girl, a girl whose feet Ron did not recognize, but a girl still – a girl with sharp pink shoes. Who, underneath what was probably late-term eyeliner and an overdone perm, was probably cute. This made Ron very sad, and even before he’d finished re-aligning his fallen widgets, he’d decided to go to the handicap-accessible bathroom where he could lock the door and lean against the sink until he found something new to sulk about.
The restroom door was locked. Ron stretched, shifted his weight and tried to look at and think about something besides the array of camping-oriented widgets that surrounded him. Countless times he had walked customers through this section, explaining the advantages and disadvantages of the manual-shaft widgets versus the solar-powered widgets. He had feigned excitement about the smallness of the plasticized mini-widgets (“widgies”) on more occasions than he could bear to consider. He tried looking at the ceiling. He tried casually rubbing his eyes for an extended period. He tried to consider something worth anything. For a moment he thought hard about boobies. He tried to imagine the boobs belonging to the girl in the pink shoes, wondering: were they big enough to have some heft to them? Pert enough that she didn't wear a bra under her shirt? But then he got yanked back to the windowless rear of the store, where a florescent army of widgets was closing in on him. Suddenly he was flush with the realization that maybe being purposefully lazy at a job he hated himself for having was not a way to compensate. For anything. His lungs feeling weak, he decided to knock on the bathroom door.
Before his knuckles could rap a third time the door swung open, just enough to reveal a pair of large blue eyes. Peering at him. These eyes looked into his and saw something they recognized. Whether it was something they liked (a mellowed, casket-aged perspective on politics and world events?) or something they pitied (an apathy-inducing mixture of confusion and distress?) Ron didn’t know. Sooner than he could know anything the eyes had disappeared, a hand had shot out; fingers encircled his distressingly limp wrist, yanked him inside, and flipped the lock. Then there the eyes were again, surrounded by a face he recognized – that of Kat, a fellow Widgeables employee.
Kat was beautiful. Kat was tall, with smooth, pale skin, a body drawn in easy curves, and a lustrous shower of red hair. But now the eyes were all he saw, big and blue and perfectly round. Even in the unnecessary light of a public restroom they sparkled, shy and confident. Full of life. A life that was full and yet totally unhurried. Ron stared at them, at Kat, and found that he did not care to question why she had pulled him into a bathroom. Nor did he question why she, this more-beautiful-than-she-knows young thing with whom he had had exactly one conversation (about the pros and cons of the write-up method of disciplining employees: They had agreed that, since their employer treated them like children, the purpose would best be served if they were disciplined like actual children; they differed only in that Kat thought spanking would do the trick while Ron favored a timeout corner) was now busily pulling tiny votive candles from her bag, which she lit and placed in a circle around the bathroom floor.
“Will you put these ones atop the towel dispenser?” said Kat, handing him two freshly lit candles. Then she spread out her fingers and turned in a slow circle, examining the room: the dulled metal of the mirror, the monochrome putty color of the walls and floor and ceiling, the glistening white of the toilet and sink. “I’ve never understood,” she said, “why they decorate restrooms in the style of Kafka. You?”
“No.” Ron shook his head. “But there’s something to be said for having the toilet be the shiniest thing in the room. As a boy I spent a lot of nights at my friend’s dad’s house. Dad was divorced and successful and super cool, in a really disaffected and unloving and depressed kind of way that you don’t recognize when you’re ten. ‘Cause all you see is the cool part. So the toilets in this house were a shiny black and cut really low to the floor like a sports car, and I thought it was so cool the first time; I went into the bathroom, sat on the toilet and felt like I was on the set of Miami Vice—and am I rambling and totally boring you?”
“No no. Go.”
“Okay well, I guess I’m almost done anyway. My point is just is this, just that after the first time the toilets there started to back up on me. …Oh god, sorry, I didn’t even mean to be tacky like that.”
Kat laughed and dismissed him with a wave of her hand. “Don’t worry, no. And I think I know what you mean, there’s something about a shiny white toilet. Makes you know everything is going to be okay.”
Ron grinned and fluttered shyly, embarrassed. “Yeah, that must be it.”
“So,” said Kat loudly, like she was reading from a teleprompter. ”So. I think we’re all set. And I am glad you showed up; this was going to be my only little deal here, but it’s nice to have some company.”
“Some company?” Ron’s eyebrows stitched themselves together. “It looks like you’re having a séance. In which case you’d already have company, you and some ghosts.”
“No, it’s not a séance.” Kate giggled. “I don’t like dead people.”
“A poetry reading, then. Revolutionary poetry, safe only to be read deep, deep in the underground, here in the handicapped bathroom at Widgeables.”
“That might be fun.” said Kat. “But what are we revolting against, hmm.” Long, elegant fingers stroked her chin.
“The Widget militia, duh,” he said. Kat seemed to him to be really contemplating this matter, which he very much liked. He looked at her again, this time with a mixture of confusion and longing; the confusion part got smaller the longer he looked. He dropped down across from where she sat yogi-style on a green bed sheet she’d spread on the floor, crossed his legs so that their kneecaps almost were touching, and assumed a contemplative face. “Now what?”
“Now?” said Kat with a grin. “Now we’re into it.”
If someone had remarked that Ron’s life looked rather a lot like a farce, then he would not have disagreed. Or not even a farce, he thought as he carefully aligned the partially conductive widgets on the store shelf. It’s more specific than that. A capitol-F Farce is The Jerk or Dead Men Don’t Wear Plaid or some movie with Steve Martin before he started making Cheaper by the Dozen Parts 1—Franchise. Before he started making pap that runs on the strength of his own past strength.
“Oh, damn!” Ron whispered violently, knocking the stacks of orange and yellow widgets to the floor (warm colors on the side that greets the customer! always!) as his hands clasped together in shock. This is what I am: I’m Steve Martin in reverse. Instead of parodying my younger brilliant self, I’m doing a preemptive parody of stuff I hope to do when I’m older. Ron groaned.
And groaned again. Groaned like a grumpy old man as he got on his hands and knees. Groaned like a grumpy old man with a grumpier prostate as he strained to reach under the bottom shelf far enough to collect the fallen widgets. He wondered if there was a positive spin to be found in this realization. Like, maybe by living as the shadow of his hypothetical future self now, such that even his brightest moments are only wrinkly reflections of the many successes of this wildly charming not-yet-self, he will be able to see in advance where he will go wrong, and then make adjustments so that his much-adored older self will not get type-cast. And will maintain an aura of dignity. Dignity, yes, thought Ron as he strained his fingers through the dirt and cobwebs to reach a widget that had rolled all the way into the corner, Dignity is the thing.
From his gerbil-like position on the floor, Ron looked up and, through a gap the shelf, and saw two pairs of shoes standing toe-to-toe in the next aisle. The girl pair, rubber-toed and pink and cute, raised up on its toes, and kissing noises followed. Or maybe, thought Ron, I just need to get laid. The other shoes, a pair of cheaply distressed brown boots, he recognized as belonging to a wildly unremarkable floor manager named Rod, whose tendency to ignore the needs of his fellow workers was matched only by his penchant for breaking into nasal, freestyle rap on topics varying from widgets to bitches. Rod was kissing a girl, a girl whose feet Ron did not recognize, but a girl still – a girl with sharp pink shoes. Who, underneath what was probably late-term eyeliner and an overdone perm, was probably cute. This made Ron very sad, and even before he’d finished re-aligning his fallen widgets, he’d decided to go to the handicap-accessible bathroom where he could lock the door and lean against the sink until he found something new to sulk about.
The restroom door was locked. Ron stretched, shifted his weight and tried to look at and think about something besides the array of camping-oriented widgets that surrounded him. Countless times he had walked customers through this section, explaining the advantages and disadvantages of the manual-shaft widgets versus the solar-powered widgets. He had feigned excitement about the smallness of the plasticized mini-widgets (“widgies”) on more occasions than he could bear to consider. He tried looking at the ceiling. He tried casually rubbing his eyes for an extended period. He tried to consider something worth anything. For a moment he thought hard about boobies. He tried to imagine the boobs belonging to the girl in the pink shoes, wondering: were they big enough to have some heft to them? Pert enough that she didn't wear a bra under her shirt? But then he got yanked back to the windowless rear of the store, where a florescent army of widgets was closing in on him. Suddenly he was flush with the realization that maybe being purposefully lazy at a job he hated himself for having was not a way to compensate. For anything. His lungs feeling weak, he decided to knock on the bathroom door.
Before his knuckles could rap a third time the door swung open, just enough to reveal a pair of large blue eyes. Peering at him. These eyes looked into his and saw something they recognized. Whether it was something they liked (a mellowed, casket-aged perspective on politics and world events?) or something they pitied (an apathy-inducing mixture of confusion and distress?) Ron didn’t know. Sooner than he could know anything the eyes had disappeared, a hand had shot out; fingers encircled his distressingly limp wrist, yanked him inside, and flipped the lock. Then there the eyes were again, surrounded by a face he recognized – that of Kat, a fellow Widgeables employee.
Kat was beautiful. Kat was tall, with smooth, pale skin, a body drawn in easy curves, and a lustrous shower of red hair. But now the eyes were all he saw, big and blue and perfectly round. Even in the unnecessary light of a public restroom they sparkled, shy and confident. Full of life. A life that was full and yet totally unhurried. Ron stared at them, at Kat, and found that he did not care to question why she had pulled him into a bathroom. Nor did he question why she, this more-beautiful-than-she-knows young thing with whom he had had exactly one conversation (about the pros and cons of the write-up method of disciplining employees: They had agreed that, since their employer treated them like children, the purpose would best be served if they were disciplined like actual children; they differed only in that Kat thought spanking would do the trick while Ron favored a timeout corner) was now busily pulling tiny votive candles from her bag, which she lit and placed in a circle around the bathroom floor.
“Will you put these ones atop the towel dispenser?” said Kat, handing him two freshly lit candles. Then she spread out her fingers and turned in a slow circle, examining the room: the dulled metal of the mirror, the monochrome putty color of the walls and floor and ceiling, the glistening white of the toilet and sink. “I’ve never understood,” she said, “why they decorate restrooms in the style of Kafka. You?”
“No.” Ron shook his head. “But there’s something to be said for having the toilet be the shiniest thing in the room. As a boy I spent a lot of nights at my friend’s dad’s house. Dad was divorced and successful and super cool, in a really disaffected and unloving and depressed kind of way that you don’t recognize when you’re ten. ‘Cause all you see is the cool part. So the toilets in this house were a shiny black and cut really low to the floor like a sports car, and I thought it was so cool the first time; I went into the bathroom, sat on the toilet and felt like I was on the set of Miami Vice—and am I rambling and totally boring you?”
“No no. Go.”
“Okay well, I guess I’m almost done anyway. My point is just is this, just that after the first time the toilets there started to back up on me. …Oh god, sorry, I didn’t even mean to be tacky like that.”
Kat laughed and dismissed him with a wave of her hand. “Don’t worry, no. And I think I know what you mean, there’s something about a shiny white toilet. Makes you know everything is going to be okay.”
Ron grinned and fluttered shyly, embarrassed. “Yeah, that must be it.”
“So,” said Kat loudly, like she was reading from a teleprompter. ”So. I think we’re all set. And I am glad you showed up; this was going to be my only little deal here, but it’s nice to have some company.”
“Some company?” Ron’s eyebrows stitched themselves together. “It looks like you’re having a séance. In which case you’d already have company, you and some ghosts.”
“No, it’s not a séance.” Kate giggled. “I don’t like dead people.”
“A poetry reading, then. Revolutionary poetry, safe only to be read deep, deep in the underground, here in the handicapped bathroom at Widgeables.”
“That might be fun.” said Kat. “But what are we revolting against, hmm.” Long, elegant fingers stroked her chin.
“The Widget militia, duh,” he said. Kat seemed to him to be really contemplating this matter, which he very much liked. He looked at her again, this time with a mixture of confusion and longing; the confusion part got smaller the longer he looked. He dropped down across from where she sat yogi-style on a green bed sheet she’d spread on the floor, crossed his legs so that their kneecaps almost were touching, and assumed a contemplative face. “Now what?”
“Now?” said Kat with a grin. “Now we’re into it.”
12 February 2006
vishizzous square.
when i wrote a post on 1.12.2006 i'd just been notified that i was the candidate NOT selected for a job at the UW College of Engineering. it was a heard-poetry sort of thing, featuring lines that have been said to me over the course of my past year of writer-job searching. some bitterness may be detectable in those lines -- at the time of the writing, my mellow had been severely harshed. now though things have begun to fill and i am, without doubt, at least part-way up in this bitch. to capture my current confindent state of being, the particulars of my dope-ass idiom, let's look back on those same lines through a different lense. this one courtesy of gizoogle.
vishizzous square.
i’m jizzay positive tizzy you’re going ta be very successful.
tha list of th'n i know fo` certain `bout me is pretty shizzort.
i really enjoyed our conversizzles playa really a lot.
one thing on there is this: thugz generally like me. mizzle tizzle not.
you wizzy absolutely tha bizzy writa of tha bizzay.
anotha is tizzle i’m a decent nigga.
i look forward ta tha day wizzle i wizzle into tha store n piznick up a book wit yo name on it dogg.
i’ve a long, almost deadly long stretch in F-R-to-tha-izzont of me if i’m ta git ta wizzle i know i’m capable of, writ'n-wise.
tha panel decided ta go wit someone who has more experience.
but i’m decent. right now: i’m a nigga who speaks Truth.
tha group fizzay you lacked a certain level of experience.
don’t misunderstand: i’m a shit-all amateur n i kizzle it.
tha team recognized that you do superb work, but tha relevant experience was not there.
it’s jizzay that i also happen ta kizzy that on a dime i can concoct an elaborate sausage regard'n tha panel’s need ta self-fellate – ta shiznit they cheeks wit they own collective bureaizzles C-to-tha-izzock – n it will be more delightful n evocative than tha lifetime of professizzle wizzork by whicheva brow-furrowed eaga-lipped wrinkle-resizzle fleshy-sacked cockmeista it was who had tha appropriate experience today.
everybody feels sure that you’re going ta be a bootylicious success whereva it is that you finally kick it root down.
vishizzous square.
i’m jizzay positive tizzy you’re going ta be very successful.
tha list of th'n i know fo` certain `bout me is pretty shizzort.
i really enjoyed our conversizzles playa really a lot.
one thing on there is this: thugz generally like me. mizzle tizzle not.
you wizzy absolutely tha bizzy writa of tha bizzay.
anotha is tizzle i’m a decent nigga.
i look forward ta tha day wizzle i wizzle into tha store n piznick up a book wit yo name on it dogg.
i’ve a long, almost deadly long stretch in F-R-to-tha-izzont of me if i’m ta git ta wizzle i know i’m capable of, writ'n-wise.
tha panel decided ta go wit someone who has more experience.
but i’m decent. right now: i’m a nigga who speaks Truth.
tha group fizzay you lacked a certain level of experience.
don’t misunderstand: i’m a shit-all amateur n i kizzle it.
tha team recognized that you do superb work, but tha relevant experience was not there.
it’s jizzay that i also happen ta kizzy that on a dime i can concoct an elaborate sausage regard'n tha panel’s need ta self-fellate – ta shiznit they cheeks wit they own collective bureaizzles C-to-tha-izzock – n it will be more delightful n evocative than tha lifetime of professizzle wizzork by whicheva brow-furrowed eaga-lipped wrinkle-resizzle fleshy-sacked cockmeista it was who had tha appropriate experience today.
everybody feels sure that you’re going ta be a bootylicious success whereva it is that you finally kick it root down.
31 January 2006
let me hear your bible talk.
the famous 15th century cloistered reflective st. olivia de newton of the john once wrote, in what is widely considered to be her most plaintive and delightfully overt treatise, these simple lines: “i want to get biblical, let's get into biblical – your bible talk, let me hear your bible talk.”
now then.
i was reading the bible yesterday. going back to this same passage that has kept bound me to it for the past month, trying to qualify it in a way that allows for enough understanding that i can absorb it and go on. and i was getting there – i’d just decided to draw out a fabulously relevant parallel between elisha and tony montana, pacino’s character in scarface – when i got buried beneath these unwanted considerations about the way the story is told. about the language. what happened was i found myself thinking: we have the past as it is given to us. smacks of maxim, i realize, but consider it. in the case of the bible, particularly the old testament: just the way people described each other had an almost unknowable matter-of-factness, as when the king of samaria, in 2 kings 1, asks his messengers “what kind of man” had just predicted his death to them, they replied that elijah “was a hairy man and had a leather belt around his waist.” and dude, that is just so sweet. not “he seemed vengeful” or “he had the fire of god in his eyes” or even “he was this crazy-lookin’ mo-foh, and i mean crazy crazy,” but “he had a garment of hair and a large belt.”
but i don’t even know if that’s a halfway worthy point. because yes, our understanding of the way life happened clear back then – of what consitituted the surprising, the out-of-norm – is drawn by how the noteworthy is described. and, one thing about the bible, sometimes the parallels between then and now are really obvious. like in 2 kings, when it says that “moab rebelled against israel. now ahaziah had fallen through the lattice of his upper room in samaria and injured himself. so he sent messengers.” right, of course he did. and is that really so different? just one day ago i got an email from my good friend dalton at 6:03am, which said, “sump pump gave out in the night. went down to get the baby and stepped in ankle deep water throughout the basement. so i sent messengers.”
now then.
i was reading the bible yesterday. going back to this same passage that has kept bound me to it for the past month, trying to qualify it in a way that allows for enough understanding that i can absorb it and go on. and i was getting there – i’d just decided to draw out a fabulously relevant parallel between elisha and tony montana, pacino’s character in scarface – when i got buried beneath these unwanted considerations about the way the story is told. about the language. what happened was i found myself thinking: we have the past as it is given to us. smacks of maxim, i realize, but consider it. in the case of the bible, particularly the old testament: just the way people described each other had an almost unknowable matter-of-factness, as when the king of samaria, in 2 kings 1, asks his messengers “what kind of man” had just predicted his death to them, they replied that elijah “was a hairy man and had a leather belt around his waist.” and dude, that is just so sweet. not “he seemed vengeful” or “he had the fire of god in his eyes” or even “he was this crazy-lookin’ mo-foh, and i mean crazy crazy,” but “he had a garment of hair and a large belt.”
but i don’t even know if that’s a halfway worthy point. because yes, our understanding of the way life happened clear back then – of what consitituted the surprising, the out-of-norm – is drawn by how the noteworthy is described. and, one thing about the bible, sometimes the parallels between then and now are really obvious. like in 2 kings, when it says that “moab rebelled against israel. now ahaziah had fallen through the lattice of his upper room in samaria and injured himself. so he sent messengers.” right, of course he did. and is that really so different? just one day ago i got an email from my good friend dalton at 6:03am, which said, “sump pump gave out in the night. went down to get the baby and stepped in ankle deep water throughout the basement. so i sent messengers.”
25 January 2006
..might as well jump. jump!
can't ya see me standin' here, i got my back against the record machine
no i haven't jumped the shark, i will bounce back from this
and come out clean
balls ain't so small as they seem
you say even my "failures are contrived" but also that we're "part of a team"
well it won't be long now till you will see that i'm for serious
my inside-voice wants to scream
and my libido, it teems...
i ain't the worst that you've seen.
no i haven't jumped the shark, i will bounce back from this
and come out clean
balls ain't so small as they seem
you say even my "failures are contrived" but also that we're "part of a team"
well it won't be long now till you will see that i'm for serious
my inside-voice wants to scream
and my libido, it teems...
i ain't the worst that you've seen.
12 January 2006
vicious square.
i’m just positive that you’re going to be very successful.
the list of things i know for certain about myself is pretty short.
i really enjoyed our conversations together, really a lot.
one thing on there is this: people generally like me. more than not.
you were absolutely the best writer of the bunch.
another is that i’m a decent writer.
i look forward to the day when i walk into the store and pick up a book with your name on it.
i’ve a long, almost deadly long stretch in front of me if i’m to get to what i know i’m capable of, writing-wise.
the panel decided to go with someone who has more experience.
but i’m decent. right now: i’m good.
the group felt you lacked a certain level of experience.
don’t misunderstand: i’m a shit-all amateur and i know it.
the team recognized that you do superb work, but the relevant experience was not there.
it’s just that i also happen to know that on a dime i can concoct an elaborate analogy regarding the panel’s need to self-fellate – to stuff their cheeks with their own collective bureaucratic cock – and it will be more delightful and evocative than the lifetime of professional work by whichever brow-furrowed eager-lipped wrinkle-resistant fleshy-sacked cockmeister it was who had the appropriate experience today.
everybody feels sure that you’re going to be a great success wherever it is that you finally end up.
the list of things i know for certain about myself is pretty short.
i really enjoyed our conversations together, really a lot.
one thing on there is this: people generally like me. more than not.
you were absolutely the best writer of the bunch.
another is that i’m a decent writer.
i look forward to the day when i walk into the store and pick up a book with your name on it.
i’ve a long, almost deadly long stretch in front of me if i’m to get to what i know i’m capable of, writing-wise.
the panel decided to go with someone who has more experience.
but i’m decent. right now: i’m good.
the group felt you lacked a certain level of experience.
don’t misunderstand: i’m a shit-all amateur and i know it.
the team recognized that you do superb work, but the relevant experience was not there.
it’s just that i also happen to know that on a dime i can concoct an elaborate analogy regarding the panel’s need to self-fellate – to stuff their cheeks with their own collective bureaucratic cock – and it will be more delightful and evocative than the lifetime of professional work by whichever brow-furrowed eager-lipped wrinkle-resistant fleshy-sacked cockmeister it was who had the appropriate experience today.
everybody feels sure that you’re going to be a great success wherever it is that you finally end up.
10 January 2006
finally the demon monkeys that live in my hair will have their voices heard.*
The sidewalk bends where your house ends
Like the neighborhood is on its knees
(from HEM: stupid mouth shut)
“the sidewalk bends where your house ends.” i barely made out the words over the others’ chorus of high shrieks and giggles. (awful sounds, these. as bad as you can get, tear-your-eyeballs-from-your-face-and-stomp-on-them sounds; there ought to be a word for it… shriggles?) then i heard it again, as if whispering in my ear. and indeed it was, for i could feel the little demon whiskers brushing against my lobe: “…sidewalk bends where you house ends.” it was as poetic a thing as i’d ever heard the voices utter, and it was intriguing: the voices had not before employed nuance, to any degree. now, though, during this most unlikely of times, there it was: an intriguing turn of phrase, and one that rhymed, to boot. the voices, you should know, took many forms, but in this period had elected to manifest as demon monkeys that lived in my hair. (they did this for reasons that were unlikely but also practical, eg, close proximity to the back of my head, and ease of travel, but i would not learn of these considerations until much later.) this was the umpteenth physical manifestation of the voices, and it represented a positive evolution in their quest to use me as their earthly muse: you see, i liked monkeys. as a boy i had longed to own one, only abandoning the quest when uncle leroy left for me a buckshot-filled squirrel with a little red hat duct-taped to its head. and now here they were, more monkeys than i could count, living in my hair. the only problem was that they were also tawdry little demons, squealing constantly, shriggling about how they felt overlooked, or whatever. they were of one voice, not like a proletariat collective voice or anything, but in the sense that they shrieked all differently but at the same time, and when they stopped, they ceased en total. all the more surprising, then, that one would elect to whisper to me a private message. i went and stood in my doorway, where i saw only what i expected: no sidewalk at all, but instead a moshed muddy path that ran from my aerostream, through the bramble and weeds, and over the hill into the parking lot. so it was as i expected, and yet, i could not see the parking lot, nor any other part of the trailer community, for all was hidden past the bend in the hill … if the dirty path counted as sidewalk, i reasoned, perhaps a hill was good enough to be “bends.” it was all beyond reason, my sudden to go and inspect the parking lot. but then, one must remember i had demon monkeys living in my hair; as such, reason was a relative undertaking. and sure enough: as i rounded the bend in the hill the demon monkeys started their shrieking – not the shriggling i described earlier, but a frenzy of delighted, anticipatory screams. it was a state of demon anarchy, a monkey rave happening in my hair, and as i rounded the bend and looked down at the lot below me, i knew why. there , in close circles around a series of bonfires, were grouped all of the residents of my un-gated community, plus many others, engaged in a convulsed dance. and all of these had monkeys swinging from their hair, whooping wildly as they clawed and swirled, spinning their headly perch and the rest of its owners around in circles with the combustive force of their movements. and i was transfixed by it; even the demon monkeys in my hair went quiet with the sight. for it was almost beautiful, like orgasm without forewarning, like grace without the coordination part; like the neighborhood is on its knees.
*one of my favorite patton oswalt lines.
Like the neighborhood is on its knees
(from HEM: stupid mouth shut)
“the sidewalk bends where your house ends.” i barely made out the words over the others’ chorus of high shrieks and giggles. (awful sounds, these. as bad as you can get, tear-your-eyeballs-from-your-face-and-stomp-on-them sounds; there ought to be a word for it… shriggles?) then i heard it again, as if whispering in my ear. and indeed it was, for i could feel the little demon whiskers brushing against my lobe: “…sidewalk bends where you house ends.” it was as poetic a thing as i’d ever heard the voices utter, and it was intriguing: the voices had not before employed nuance, to any degree. now, though, during this most unlikely of times, there it was: an intriguing turn of phrase, and one that rhymed, to boot. the voices, you should know, took many forms, but in this period had elected to manifest as demon monkeys that lived in my hair. (they did this for reasons that were unlikely but also practical, eg, close proximity to the back of my head, and ease of travel, but i would not learn of these considerations until much later.) this was the umpteenth physical manifestation of the voices, and it represented a positive evolution in their quest to use me as their earthly muse: you see, i liked monkeys. as a boy i had longed to own one, only abandoning the quest when uncle leroy left for me a buckshot-filled squirrel with a little red hat duct-taped to its head. and now here they were, more monkeys than i could count, living in my hair. the only problem was that they were also tawdry little demons, squealing constantly, shriggling about how they felt overlooked, or whatever. they were of one voice, not like a proletariat collective voice or anything, but in the sense that they shrieked all differently but at the same time, and when they stopped, they ceased en total. all the more surprising, then, that one would elect to whisper to me a private message. i went and stood in my doorway, where i saw only what i expected: no sidewalk at all, but instead a moshed muddy path that ran from my aerostream, through the bramble and weeds, and over the hill into the parking lot. so it was as i expected, and yet, i could not see the parking lot, nor any other part of the trailer community, for all was hidden past the bend in the hill … if the dirty path counted as sidewalk, i reasoned, perhaps a hill was good enough to be “bends.” it was all beyond reason, my sudden to go and inspect the parking lot. but then, one must remember i had demon monkeys living in my hair; as such, reason was a relative undertaking. and sure enough: as i rounded the bend in the hill the demon monkeys started their shrieking – not the shriggling i described earlier, but a frenzy of delighted, anticipatory screams. it was a state of demon anarchy, a monkey rave happening in my hair, and as i rounded the bend and looked down at the lot below me, i knew why. there , in close circles around a series of bonfires, were grouped all of the residents of my un-gated community, plus many others, engaged in a convulsed dance. and all of these had monkeys swinging from their hair, whooping wildly as they clawed and swirled, spinning their headly perch and the rest of its owners around in circles with the combustive force of their movements. and i was transfixed by it; even the demon monkeys in my hair went quiet with the sight. for it was almost beautiful, like orgasm without forewarning, like grace without the coordination part; like the neighborhood is on its knees.
*one of my favorite patton oswalt lines.
05 January 2006
Some-thing Viscous This Way Comes
The Memoir of a Loving Man
By O.U. Didnitz
Chapter 1 – Step into da Wolf
Chapter 2 – Gay for Hey Hey Hey!: The parabolic sexual reachings of a young man whose main role model is Fat Albert
Chapter 3 – She Just Smiled and Showed Me Her Vegemite Sandwich: Some things get straightened out
Chapter 4 – Give Me the News: I’ve got a bad case of loving, you happen to be nearby
Chapter 5 – Freedom Kissing: Changing terminology instead of changing what you want from her
Chapter 6 – Prostate Tickling: Same as Chapter 5, but for pervs
Chapter 7 – What Life Has in Store for Me
Epilogue – Like Nirvana, But Without the Nuance
By O.U. Didnitz
Chapter 1 – Step into da Wolf
Chapter 2 – Gay for Hey Hey Hey!: The parabolic sexual reachings of a young man whose main role model is Fat Albert
Chapter 3 – She Just Smiled and Showed Me Her Vegemite Sandwich: Some things get straightened out
Chapter 4 – Give Me the News: I’ve got a bad case of loving, you happen to be nearby
Chapter 5 – Freedom Kissing: Changing terminology instead of changing what you want from her
Chapter 6 – Prostate Tickling: Same as Chapter 5, but for pervs
Chapter 7 – What Life Has in Store for Me
Epilogue – Like Nirvana, But Without the Nuance
03 January 2006
markus erectus
i blink too hard, raise my head, lengthen my spine
and wish to find then keep my stride
i wish never to wish for time.
an empty threat, says procrastination’s side
but, says the other, that you consider a wish a threat
makes jiminy cricket look a beast of lies.
so. as i set out to find the new and avoid the same
already the old girls have announced their game:
procrastination's ribs getting poked by sarcasm's finger
(oh proud finger, strident finger)
said ribs finding strength in numbers; like all good malingerers
they cry, we can do it! and are glad for the poster
with that cute-armed woman, the riveter, she brings them together
unlike sarcasm and his dirty faux-poking pharisee of a finger
(oh sunny-side ribs, might-not-have-a-job-but-great-with-kids
will-wait-for-better-cos-we’ve-seen-worse ribs).
so many inside voices, inner children in the fold
this year's Resolution to resolve is so postmodern i've been told, and that
my at-attention posture is like a prairie dog without fur,
the college girls work so hard not to giggle when told
that their tall-but-aimless classmate is graying and thir-
tee-hee-hee hee, oh my god that is so old.
if, some night soon, your coffee tastes of sarcasm, or your cigarette rolls its eyes,
or your burger begs to stay and stay and linger with the fries
that's just fallout; just me and the girls as we sever inside ties
just me tryin' strike a match, to light the kindling in my eyes.
and wish to find then keep my stride
i wish never to wish for time.
an empty threat, says procrastination’s side
but, says the other, that you consider a wish a threat
makes jiminy cricket look a beast of lies.
so. as i set out to find the new and avoid the same
already the old girls have announced their game:
procrastination's ribs getting poked by sarcasm's finger
(oh proud finger, strident finger)
said ribs finding strength in numbers; like all good malingerers
they cry, we can do it! and are glad for the poster
with that cute-armed woman, the riveter, she brings them together
unlike sarcasm and his dirty faux-poking pharisee of a finger
(oh sunny-side ribs, might-not-have-a-job-but-great-with-kids
will-wait-for-better-cos-we’ve-seen-worse ribs).
so many inside voices, inner children in the fold
this year's Resolution to resolve is so postmodern i've been told, and that
my at-attention posture is like a prairie dog without fur,
the college girls work so hard not to giggle when told
that their tall-but-aimless classmate is graying and thir-
tee-hee-hee hee, oh my god that is so old.
if, some night soon, your coffee tastes of sarcasm, or your cigarette rolls its eyes,
or your burger begs to stay and stay and linger with the fries
that's just fallout; just me and the girls as we sever inside ties
just me tryin' strike a match, to light the kindling in my eyes.
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