Tuesday, July 31, 2007

Same old shit, in new places.

Go read my story here ----->>> Literary Tonic

If you read my blog regularly you've already read this. Even so, go read it elsewhere, and give me a nice comment. Or I guess a mean one if you really like it when people break into your house at night and bludgeon your toes with a sledge hammer. Just sayin'.

Saturday, July 28, 2007

The Nothing Day

It is a nothing day. There is nothing today. Not even wind outside. Not even a breeze. I have been alone all day, reading Chekhov short stories on my bed, occasionally drinking water and smoking cigarettes on my window cill. Nothing has happened to me. Nothing is likely to happen.

I don't want to eat.

I don't want to watch porn.

I don't want to write.

I don't really even want to scratch the nape of my neck, but it itches.

This nothingness is not unhappiness. I am quite happy being nothing. There is a calm whirling in my stomach. It gently rolls around not unlike a weather system. It rolls and rises and then gently travels south.

I think I change my mind. I will watch some porn. I will most likely not be moved by it.

Friday, July 27, 2007

Adam is not always a douche bag.

My friend Adam wrote a poem about me. He is going to be mad that I am placing it here. But I am going to anyways, without permission. Cause I am a giant fetid gaping asshole.

And I like the poem.

Kendee Like a Sexy Time by Adam Avery Hiniker

Yesterday Kendee and I ate some really good pizza, so good it made my wet toes tingle. Sometimes when she's not around I long for her touch... except when she steals my hair care products, then I just tell her to quit being a hand job. Sometimes we like to eat ice cream and as long as she doesn't see any chinese people and no one tries to sell her a world trade center post card she behaves herself. Sometimes she makes me feel like I have wet jolly ranchers in my pants and for some reason I don't mind the feeling, because I too like a sexy time.

A little Mystery For Yeh

My delightful ex-lover (no, I will never stop referring to you as that), James Fowler, has been writing an inciting little story. I've been scrambling to my email a few times a day lately to get my preview of what goes on his blog. Please hop on over to his blog ---> Of It Maybe <--- for updates. It's a nice way to kill time.

Or if you are lazy, you can just go look at the following links:

Part One: The Benign Beginning

Part Two: Crazy City

Part Three: Escape To Wisconsin

Part Four: And Then Words

Thursday, July 26, 2007

A Ham Sandwich

"I love you."

I punched him.

"I love you."

I punched him again. Blood was pouring down his face.

"Baby. I love you."

I wasn't about to stop punching him anytime soon. I wished he would stop saying that. I wished he would stop talking forever.

"I love you. Hit me again."

I punched his face again. He was just standing there, in his socks and boxer briefs. He had an incredible body. The skin on my knuckles was split, and was starting to ooze blood slightly. My blood and his blood were mixing on the back of my hand. I saw this and it made me ill. I punched him again.

"I love you."

What was wrong with this man? He was depraved. A pervert.

He is not a pervert. No more than everyone else. He just likes to be punched in the faced. I punched him again. Blood squirted out of his eye. His face was beginning to look a little less human. Again and again and again.

"You're beautiful. I love you."

My hand stopped hurting. It was numb. I drank some water. We laid down. I closed my eyes and tried to fall asleep. My hand started to throb again. I could hear him gurgle every time he breathed. There was a high pitched hiss coming from his nose. When he blinked it sounded like someone stirring oatmeal. I became quite nauseated.

I leapt onto him. I punched him again. He had lost teeth. I didn't notice that earlier. He tried to say I love you, but I couldn't understand him. I was more and more revolted by him. He was a completely benign person. He just lied there, begging to be hit.

I slapped him. He moaned.

I became tired again. I rolled off of him, and went into the kitchen. I opened the fridge. There was mostly condiments. There was a ham on rye sandwich behind the sour milk that looked to be over a month old. I opened the plastic wrap and inspected the sandwich. It had lettuce, and mustard and mayo. It was the most standard sandwich I have ever come across.

I sat at the kitchen table and ate the sandwich.

Tuesday, July 24, 2007

Paper Shredder/Pasta Machine

Chef Alton Brown advises us, via Wired Magazine, on how to use your paper shredder as a pasta maker. For best results, he recommends one made by Fellowes that can mince credit cards and CDs.

Just follow these six steps, exactly as related in Wired:

1) Clean your shredder — even if it's new, you have no idea how long it sat gathering dust (or worse) at Office Depot.

2) Ditch the paper-catching bin below it — you'll want room to work with your pasta.

3) Now disable the receptacle sensor so the machine still functions — you can do this with anything but your finger. (Brown suggests duct tape).

4) Turn the machine on — as the mechanism churns, coat it with nonstick cooking spray.

5) Run pasta through — your sheet of dough should be no wider than the paper feed. The length is up to you.

6) Catch the noodles — do this as they come out, so they don't pile up and stick to themselves.

Do not try this at the office unless you intend to stop working there in the very near future.

My glorious view of New York Shitty.


taken from my bedroom window

Monday, July 23, 2007

The Divine Secrets of Mr. Gregor

I met another cockroach today. On the subway platform on my way home from work. He was standing next to me, wearing a bow tie and a ridiculous monocle. I was trying to be subtle, watching him from the corner of my eye, holding my book close to my face to make it seem as if I was still perusing its pages. He noticed. He cleared his throat.

"Do you need something miss?"

"No. I'm sorry."

"Why are you sorry?"

"Because I was being rude."

"Yes you were."

Silence. For a moment.

"What is your name?"

"Gregor."

"That's odd."

"That's rude."

"Sorry."

"It's alright."

Some more silence. Where is that blasted train?

Then he spoke to me.

"What are you reading?"

"Me?"

"Obviously."

"Sorry. The Fall. I'm reading The Fall."

"Oh. I see. I don't have much of a palette for that prickly, ill-natured shit."

"Really? It seems to me that someone like you would like this."

"Why? Because I'm a cockroach? Why is it that humans always suppose that just because I have an exoskeleton I would waste my time reading something so morose and severe. I prefer a little light hearted humor, and nothing too political at that."

"Like what?"

"I've been enjoying The Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood as of late."

"Really?"

"Yes really. Miss, if you don't mind me saying, you could stand to improve your manners."

"Sorry."

"I should hope so."

And with that the train pulled in and Gregor scuttled onto the train, did an about face and gave me a sour expression as the doors closed in his face, with The Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood tucked under his top two left arms.

The birds, the bees, and the Umbrella Heads.

Today, when I woke up it was pouring, slow and steady. Not a storm, just simply a patient and sagely down pour. I donned my best hoodie, the grass green one with a big crow that I shoddily sewed on myself, made from black polyester with little while poka dots. I twisted my hair up into a little curly crown around my head, secured with one hundred bobby pins, because on a day like today no amount of blow drying is going to straighten this mane that grows curlier with each birthday, Christmas and Valentine's day. I looked at the umbrellas on the door. Neither are mine. I grabbed what I thought to be the better of the two. I was amiss in my decision. With the first draft outside it blew inside out. Soaking wet, I laughed like a madwoman the rest of the journey to work.

I like watching people in the morning in New York when it rains. If you can manage to peer out from the belly of your own nylon make-shift shelter, you can see most everyone else not peer out from the belly of their make-shift shelters. It looks like you are walking into a see of people who have umbrellas for heads. Tall graceful men and women in black business suits, with black umbrellas for heads. People do, however, sense in their periphery other umbrellas on the path to collision with their own, and like a sixth sense will move their umbrellas slightly up or down accordingly. They bob up and down respective to their fleeting partners in what appears to be the mating dance of the Umbrella Head race.

Sunday, July 22, 2007

Now it is my turn. Now it is your turn.

We were standing not far from each other on the train. He was in his twenties, a good-looking Jewish man. I have a soft spot for Jewish men, a Jewophile, if may be curt about it. We faced each other even though it was not necessary to do so. This happens often on the trains. You get on and subconsciously look around, in an attempt to make eye contact with an accomplice, or maybe a comrade. It must be the fail safe in us all, expecting a disaster, and in such close proximity to other people, that person you make eye contact with for a split second when you get on is the person you will go to when you find your self in the middle of a major electrical failure, leaving you trapped, in the dark, below the surface, with the unsafe others. Once you make that initial eye contact, you are maybe not so very much alone for time time being.

I could feel him watching me. I waited until I could see in my periphery that he was looking at someone or something else. Then it was my turn to look again. Then it was his. Then it was mine. Then sooner or later it was his again.

We wanted to talk to each other, these things can be very clear. But we do not. That is against the rules.

The train surfaces for a short while. It leaves the tunnel to cross the bridge into Manhattan. The sun was setting and all of us who were standing pivoted our bodies to look out the window at the bay. At pier 17. Its a lovely view when it is blushing outside. We all look together. Then we go under again. Satisfied that the world still exists and begin again to look around for our fail safe companion.

----------

Lately I have been filling quite a bit of my time reading Noah Cicero's {check this existential shit, yo} blog, anxiously awaiting the next installment of 390 miles (a blog novel). Please take some time and go read it. It is lovely.

Thursday, July 19, 2007

Proof of my bordom.

I don't know how to feel about this.

I think I think it's funny.

Or just very sad.

Confused.

It's over.

The Meaning of Life

Wednesday, July 18, 2007

Tuesday, July 17, 2007

Mark, maker of knots.

I met a man this weekend. His name was Mark. He was the bouncer of a place called Beauty Bar. When we walked up, I had been just a bit irritable, due to our wandering around Manhattan on an empty stomach. I liked him from the moment I saw him. He was standing there, with no front teeth, making himself a bracelet out of black nylon chord, practicing his knots.

Naturally, I complimented him on this decorative endeavor. I feel strongly for bouncers and anyone, for that matter, that has a job that makes people automatically dislike them. Mark offered to make me a bracelet. So we stood there, outside the hipster bar, with some here-today-gone-tomorrow band blasting full volume, and shitty martinis being gulped by the thick pasty red lips of party girls, waiting for about ten minuets for Mark to make me a bracelet.

"Thats a nice braid."

"It's not a braid, its a half-hitch."

"Oh. That's a nice half-hitch."

"No, it's not. But that's all your gonna get."

"Oh . . . Thanks Mark."

"Did you know that when someone ties a friendship bracelet on you and you make a wish, when the bracelet falls off, the wish comes true?"

"Sounds like a bunch of crap."

"Yeah."

I made a wish. It was a bunch of crap. I liked when he talked. His top lip hovered over where his front four teeth might have gone. It wiggled a bit, like a horses mouth. He didn't look right at you. I think one of his eyes was crooked. He looked around you, while staring right at you. It was alarming, really. He was incredibly tall, with skinny legs and arms and a big gut. He was a beautiful creature, that Mark.

"You can learn to make knots."

"How?"

"Buy Ashley's Book of Knots."

"Oh."

"Do you have the book memorized?"

"No, its over 2000 knots. It took Ashley 20 years to write it."

"Oh. Do you know a lot of them?"

"Yes."


Yes, indeed, this is Mark's craftsmanship.

Monday, July 16, 2007

385 miles is still quite a ways away.

He wrote a book about her. He does not know he wrote a book about her. But she knows, she is acutely aware.

The sun shines in her eyes as she sits next to him in Washington Square Park and she can see it refract into a thousand pink and white lines off of her eyelashes.

He asked her why she moved away from Minnesota, to New York. She natters on for a while about plenty of good, sound reasons for leaving the Midwest. Then she stops.

"I guess I left to miss it. I wanted to miss Minnesota. To pine. I love to pine for things."

This was the first time she thought of this. She became self-conscience.

"You should learn to pine. It feels good," She said.

"Maybe I will, maybe I will drive 390 miles home thinking 'Sarah' . . ."

She blushed. She could not believe he said that.

He wrote a book about her. Her name is the eighteenth word in his book. This makes her feel more lonely than ever.

She is alone.

He is at Wal-Mart right now. Reading Yates and hating most everything. Soon, she thinks, he will be at Denny's, talking to a waitress named Stacey, who is tragic and beautiful. Stacey is a fuck up. Stacey has a great ass.

Friday, July 13, 2007

The man without time.

I the vein of my previous post here is a wonderful clip from the afore mentioned Radio Lab.

Clive

The story of a man who’s lost everything. Clive Wearing has what Oliver Sacks calls “the most severe case of amnesia ever documented.” Clive’s wife, Deborah Wearing, tells us the story along with Oliver Sacks. And they try to understand why, amidst so much forgetting, Clive remembers two things: Music and Love.



Also read about Clive here.

Thursday, July 12, 2007

Radio Lab


(an old radio laboratory)

Lately, feeling a bit amiss in my free time, not quite knowing what to do with myself in this new place. My routine swept from under me, crashing flat on my back, face to the sky, wind knocked fresh out of me, dazed. Whirlwinded. I've been partaking in passive activities. One such activity is listening to new and obscure radio shows. On the top of my recommendation list is Radio Lab {click here}.

It sounds like Car Talk, what with obnoxious banter, but replace cars with metaphysical musings, moral quandaries, and analytical research of the brain. As you would expect from two scientists, there are a plethora of bad jokes and sound bites, but listen on, its worth it.

Wednesday, July 11, 2007

390 miles

Is a book that may or may not be written. It is about two people who will die alone. One in Brooklyn, New York, and one in Youngstown, Ohio. It will not be written by me. It will be written by a lovely man with more tact, or possibly less tact. It is not sad. It is deeply existential. These people, they write to one another, baring their souls- sharing their day to day conditions. They say things like "I feel uncomfortable being close to anyone," and "but i am moved by you . . ." They do not subside or lift their anxieties by sharing them, nor do they expel said anxieties. They share them. It will be nice when this book is or isn't written. I will most likely read it.

Noah-

Watch the mail.

Saturday, July 07, 2007

The apple of my eye visits the big apple.

Recently, my best friend, love of my life, apple of my fucking eye, came to visit me in NYC. He came with his most lovely partner in crime, miss Sarah Jean. In addition there was a surprise visit of a very close dear old friend during the same week. Needless to say we were inseparable for a few days. Of course, I chronicled our adventures.


Tristan, Sarah Jean and I went to the Museum of Natural History, which is an enchanting place.


These guys are over 100 years old. This pleases me.


The museum is dark and cool. Everywhere you walk you are surrounded by shadows. Tristan and Sarah Jean have beautiful shadows.


Occasionally you walk in and out of shadows to find yourself mesmerized by informative boxes of glowing light.


This exhibit was frightening. It was dimly light, and filled with battling crows, vultures and hyenas. It felt slightly more than sinister.


Sarah Jean and I saw this on the way to the "GOLD" exhibit. We agreed that something epic and important was happening in there.


I personally favored the underwater exhibits. Everything seemed suspended. I like suspension. I would like to be suspended.


I felt that this sea cow looked melancholy. I wished I could cheer her up, but I did not cheer her up because I liked her fragile emotional nature.


There were a lot of busts like this one, but since they were not part of any exhibitions, they had to be spot lit, which was kinda lovely and random.


The next day we went to Coney Island.


Oh Coney Island, blast thee who wants to tear you down! You are a beautiful wasteland!


Who can resist?


Apparently not Becky and Cole.


Tristan is so adorable that sometimes I just want to cut him up into a million pieces and burry him in the park across the street from my apartment.


It is a classic sort of place.


Adam was really excited about a daiquiri. He is a special boy. And by special boy, I mean douchebag.


We rode the Cyclone. It feels like it is going to fall apart at any given moment. The whole time we were on it, Cole was right behind me sreaming "Oh god . . . not again . . . we are going to die!"


I like when girls laugh amongst themselves.


Lovely ladies.


This guy served me my beer. I liked him for many reasons.


Tristan said Sarah Jean and I seemed suspect.


Sarah Jean bought a kite. I have never flown a kite before. She demonstrated how on the boardwalk. All day long I could not get that "On The Boardwalk" song out of my head.


We named him the rainbow warrior.


A crash landing.


He was majestic over the ocean.


On the beach we rested. There were lovely sounds everywhere.


The rainbow warrior was smitten with Adam's feet.


I used my toes to write my initials in the sand.


It is true.


I walked down the pier and found my friends huddled over a garbage can.


Someone has just thrown a live crab in it.


Cole saved him.


And threw it back to the ocean. He is home now.


Everyone thought these were funny. I guess they were. That is without a doubt a teenaged girl's handwriting.


I like to think that she took what she wrote very seriously. Gravely serious.


I bought ice-cream here. Peppermint bon-bon.


By the time we headed back to the city we were all very tired and fell asleep on the train.

Some days, I am just not capable of being interesting.

I moved into my apartment a few days ago. The first thing that I encountered upon opening the door, was a giant fucking cockroach. He reeled on his hind legs and hissed "Welcome to New York City."

I named him Leroy. He scurried toward me. I screamed, jumped out of his path. He scattered and was gone. Leroy was about as long as my thumb and almost twice as thick. Granted, I have very small hands. Lady hands.

The apartment is not what I thought it would be, although, it is pretty typical for New York. Not the nicest of neighborhoods, not the worst either. My bedroom has a breathtaking view of a fetid brick alleyway. I like it. It is mine.

Leroy came out again last night when I came home. He again was waiting at the door. When Adam and I opened it, he reared up, popped a wheelie, and charged us. I screamed and danced once again, Adam laughed at me. He stomped the ground over and over. Adam accidentally squashed it. He froze. He told me to just go in the bedroom. I don't think he wanted me to see what was left under his sneaker. Adam is a gentleman. That is good. I do not appreciate bugs.

Even still, I miss Leroy. He was nice.

Tuesday, July 03, 2007

Houses, Poems, and short of breathness.


If you have not already, you should go check out We Will Always Live In These Houses { click here click here }. It gets updated every-so-often.

And also, Mr. Fowler put up a new poem that I am fond of. Read it.

And also, I am whirlwinded.