Wednesday, March 30

Deep Down Trauma Hound

Sometimes you don't want to be there. Sometimes you just want to get away from the rain. Sometimes you just got to be thankful for the little things that find you, and the friends that are always there no matter what.

So with that in mind, I present an old favorite (and occasional chat buddy from back in the day)
Dave the Rave.
[Listening to: Body Count, "Cop Killer"]


Tuesday, March 29

La Casa Azul

Last night after not being able to for many days, I got back out and ran. Seven miles in whipping storm winds and the sting of drizzling rain. My muscles complained and my legs were tight but I pushed on anyways, knowing that in the end the distance had to be doing me some good.

When I came home you were there. We watched the last half of a documentary about Kahlo, finding ourselves driven to words by her paintings and moved to all too familiar silences by her physical and emotional struggles.

Unfortunately the miles had taken their toll and before the show came to a close I was long gone, fallen to a deep slumber under velvet-blue waters filled with questioning mermaids and strange color coral.

In the dream I sank towards bottom, but never truly found purchase. Deep water rivers wrapped around my body the way an old comforter might if you cocooned the corners around your feet before pulling the remaining fabric tight against your shoulder. The blanket became a second skin, a torso without limbs or extensions -- built not to move; but to sink slowly into couch cushions until that secret place is revealed, the one that holds you in it's arms all night without disappearing suddenly so that you have to break the sleepspell and find it again.

After so many sleepless nights, the crash should have seemed unavoidable -- but even as my head began to nod away from the paintings and the sketches on the television screen, I found myself surprised by the weight of my eyelids, even resisting their pull.

Why not surrender myself to the inevitable?
Why not just fall asleep, let the muscles relax?
Through the clouds of the darkness I imagined melting waves of sand crashing against water and then slowly rolling back. I envisioned cactus inside coffecups. I felt the heat of red-heeled shoes and the sympathy for nails driven into skin as eyebrow-shaped birds that only gave the impression of movement soared in place above our heads.

Meanings escaped, but at the same time I can't be sure how hard I really searched at all. It seemed enough perhaps just to be there at that particular time and place without worrying about the approach of the coming day or fearing the challenges that surely lie off in the distance.

[Listening to: Arturo Sandoval, "Tanga"]


Monday, March 28

Diving Kusanagi

Lying on this couch, unable (unwilling?) to sleep. The hours nothing more than yellow numbers like some predators eyes staring back at me in the dark. If I wanted to, I could easily figure out just how much time is left before the alarm goes off.

Because it will.
Because it always does.
Asking yourself how. Asking yourself why.

I'll miss this streetlight piercing through the curtain. I'll miss the shadow of the cat sitting on top of the car, licking her paw slowly before combing it over her ear. A process projected by moonlight against papershaded windows, larger than life and yet small enough to dissapear against the tides of everything else in the air.

I'll miss the sounds of sleeping from down the hall.
I'll miss the spots in the floor that creak as you pass.

I'll miss this place.
More than maybe I'll even allow myself to admit right now.
But lying awake like this... lost in my own self-doubt, dancing across the floor with these whispers of desperate optimism, these frozen cracks in the ice that are just enough to still lead me to anger and frustration over the things that by now should just be let go?

That I'll be happy to see fade into darkness.

             If it ever does.
[Listening to: Pat Benetar, "Precious Time"]


Wednesday, March 23

My Dinner with Armond

...That wasn't really oregano you put in the pasta, was it?
[Listening to: Daft Punk, "Robot Rock"]


Saturday, March 19

Demon Finality

I hope it takes you fuckers a million years to find the secret trace of skin that always reduces her to quivers when I touch it.

...a million years.
[Listening to: Submersed, "Complicated"]


Wednesday, March 16

Pompitous

What do you keep with you?
What stays when everything else is put away?
How do you make your workspaces home?
How do you shelter yourself against the rains?


The endorphins are gone. The high has passed. Four days ago I couldn't be any more topside. Four days ago I shattered my own paces, made my own declarations, and curb-slid Sisyphus out of my consciousness forever. Four days ago I kissed you so deeply that you moaned for more, and felt the fear of loving me all over again.

Four days later it's raining again,
and I can't seem to make it stop.
Almost by reflex yesterday I picked up the faded copy of Alice's Adventures in Wonderland and Through the Looking Glass that I keep in the backpack. The copyright says 1971 - but it's been mine for as long as I can remember.

The pages are worn. Spines crack and buckle. There's a rip growing on the back cover that threatens to swallow the entire thing if I'm not careful, and two more on the front - like scars forgotten, cutting over the queen of hearts as she orders Alice's head removed.

How many times have I read this?
How many times has this been there for me?

I know the romance is in hardback books. I know the true ninth gate only opens through leather bindings, embossed edges, and original printings, but that's not where I live. My home is in paperbacks -- folded and torn, pages faded until they feel like down pillows against the whorls of your fingertips.

Alice is like that.
There are places it falls open to when you set it on a table. There are pages missing corners folded once too often. It's a home. A comfortable blanket -- even with it's flaws of pretentiousness and archetype. Who knows, maybe that's why I like it so much.

It seemed kneejerk last month when I found myself wanting to re-read Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas (although it's probably about time for my annual visit anyways), but I solved my own problem by already having packed it into a box somewhere. I used to keep it with me at work, but people wanted to borrow it too much and it's too good of a read for some people to bring back (are there even words to express just how much I hate book borrowers who turn into book keepers?)

But Alice is in my bag.
Alice stays with me.
We see the Lucy tonight. I don't even know what to expect. Last Saturday nine miles high everything seemed clear. But now it's like the shadows are stretching. Now the weight on my shoulders grows heavier every day.

...it's gonna be like this for a while, I think.

But maybe that's what needs to happen
before I can come out on the other side...
"Come back!" the Caterpillar called after her. "I've something important to say!"
This sounded promising, certainly: Alice turned and came back again.
"Keep your temper," said the Caterpillar.
"Is that all?" said Alice, swallowing down her anger as well as she could.

        "No," said the Caterpillar.
[Listening to: Steve Miller, "The Joker"]


Tuesday, March 15

Apartment

Every word becomes a room. Each new room can still become a memory; but right here, right now - all I can see are the reflections of all that has passed me by.

I look because I have to. I look because the clock will tick. All these walls painted the same color. All these carpets with the vacuum lines perfectly matched. It's like a cough drop -- the hint of candy melting into the bitters of medicine. You know it's good for you. You know it's what you need. It's just that you wish there was something about it you could enjoy, something that you could honestly look forward to.

Instead you find yourself confused. Instead you grow yourself into the belief that all salvations must taste hard, that growth can only come from pain.

And like a child pushing away the green on his plate,
you start to avoid the things that you need the most.

Just at this moment Alice felt a very curious sensation, which puzzled her a good deal until she made out what it was: she was beginning to grow larger again. She thought at first she would get up and leave the court; but on second thoughts she decided to remain where she was as long as there was room for her.

"I wish you wouldn't squeeze so," said the Dormouse, who was sitting next to her. "I can hardly breathe."
"I can't help it," said Alice very meekly: "I'm growing."
"You've no right to grow here," said the Dormouse.
"Don't talk nonsense," said Alice more boldly:


            "You know you're growing too."
[Listening to: Hendrix, "Burning of the Midnight Lamp"]


Saturday, March 12

River Runned

Distance Run: 15K
Overall Rank: 6926 (out of 9,269)
Gun Time: 2:04:26
Chip Time: 1:58:39
5K Split: 37:57:00
10K Split: 1:17:50
Pace per Mile: 12:44
I did it. And not only did I finish, but I clocked in with a better time than I would have ever expected to have -- better than than anything I had done up to this point in training. The weird thing about it though is that I feel really good -- not at all on the verge of death or at the very least needing to fall into a deep, coma-like sleep anytime soon.

Anyways, that's the update. I promise more details later, but right now

I'm all about the afterparty, knaamsayin?
[Listening to: Mudvayne, "Happy"]


Friday, March 11

Wikki-Wikki-Wikki-Wikki

    1. Drink Irresponsibly
    2. Wander the Intarweb
    3. Figure the second one was kinda funny -- why not click the third?
    4. Find yourself laughing so hard you snarf all over the keyboard
    5. Try to remember what you used to do on Friday nights
    6. ...repeat
[Listening to: System of a Down, "The Metro"]


Tuesday, March 8

Vinculo

Now we're closer.
Now the tension is gone.
Now you know what that look in my eyes is for.
Now is when I can feel you sitting close to me, smell the perfume on your skin, and hear the sounds of bracelets as they shutter around your coffee-colored wrist.

Now we talk.
Now you miss me.
Now we're friends.

           ... because now we know.
[Listening to: Kenji Kawai, "Tagutsu Tauramitechiru"]


Sunday, March 6

Actually Spoken During the Course of My Evening

    "It's sort of like Boobah - with tits."

[Listening to: Hed PE, "Half The Man"]


Saturday, March 5

Brad Hates Red States #6

You know it's not every day you get to say something like this, but
that really is a cute Hitler
[Listening to: Mudvayne, "The Patient Mental"]


Friday, March 4

Just Eat It, Vernon!

This is wrong.
Disturbing, wanton, and wrong.
And I say this with total confidence and certainty,
       Because I've watched it
       a million times in a row
[Listening to: Deep Inner Voices, "Perpetual Twilight"]


Tuesday, March 1

Take it Where You Can Get It

Yesterday's lesson in class was a refresher to help the students prepare for this mongo standardized reading exam that they've got coming up in a week. We discussed techniques you use to identify and label the rhyme schemes of basic poetry. To illustrate this, we compared one of Shakespeare's sonnets to the lyrics of "Baby Got Back" by Sir-Mix-a-Lot.

Before I locked up my classroom this
afternoon, I found a little message:

- Center Whiteboard, Room #167
[Listening to: John Scofield, "Techno"]


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