A post for Ms. Amur

I swear to God I'm not a weirdo. I'm not. I'm a totally upstanding, taxpaying citizen of this megaplex with nothing but acres of cheer for the common mortal. Because, I'm mortal, too. Does this make any senses? Let me know! Or! better yet, surprise me. Because she's friendly when she needs something. But, then again, aren't we all? Well, not me. I'll punch you in the stomach when I need something.
Say ... who's got 50 words on them? I've got about two bits. Trade! Sure. My wallpaper on my phone has changed. Twelve best days of the year! Oh, yea. Is it 'yea' or 'yeah'? Wait, don't answer.
I've written lotsa stories, and lotsa stories. If you're to take their leads; pull out every fifth and eighth word; take the first, second and third characters out; and mix them around, you'll find that you should be able to spell this:
"I've Got acres of good cheer for all my immortal friends!" Does this make any senses? Let me know. Wait, don't answer. Bollocks!
*EDIT*
Two things I'd forgotten in my earlier, very serious, text: One, I've recently become inclined to stop defending her in certain situations, that is, to consider all Phillip $ changed in for Gin and Vino. Two, Ms. Amur is linked to my page through the case sensitive link. Enjoy Fuckers!

Sentimental Sunday

More random events've happened this week. So completely random. The pattern resembles a toy vaccum cleaner, in which a collection of plastic balls — filled with nothing — are cast into the air as the wheels turn a cog that strikes them to collide with the clear, plastic ceiling.
My life is unpredictable. I've no fixture save for the story I'm working on at the moment. Yes, after much thought I've decided I care about two things: my final grade at the Missourian and my functioning body's conciousness.

I'm absolutely sure one could make several cases for my 'melancholy.' One, which I'll kindly deliver, I'm a little depressed that the woman I spent Wednesday night with hasn't replied to my messages. Two, the world is a coupled frenzy in which I stand alone, just like always. Three, while reading at my fortress of solitude (Lakota if you're savvy) I couldn't stop from overhearing a beautiful woman's cellular phone conversation. Here's a transcript raped from my memory.

"Hey. I'm fine. What're you doing tonight? Yeah, I was thinking of checking out that movie at Ragtag. It's that Richard Linklater movie, after the Philip K. Dick novel, I forget the name ..." And of course, I knew it was A Scanner Darkly. I've been wanting to see it, just like I wanted to see Superman, that pirate's show, and do other random events with someone with which I could have a romantic repore and erotic voluminous behavior. "Yeah, it starts at 8. Sure, I'm here at Lakota. ..." And etcetera.

Moments of levity underscore nothing. I think that I would have liked to have had her life because she was doing the thing that I couldn't do, which was see that show with someone caring. But nothing. Moments of jealously underscore nothing, too. While I can be happy laughing with good friends in a hot tub while drinking gifted beer from a stranger, it's nothing. The list of things I care about has shrank, and soon one of those things will be completed — filled with nothing, or exited the clear, plastic ceiling; whichever metaphor you prefer — and I'll be back to square one with time to kill before I finally close my eyes.

But hey! I'm not all fire and brimstone. I can falsify levity, too. Here's that hot tub story! [Which is real, bonafide levity. I've shared it since.]

As I sat back into the hot tub outside the Holiday Inn Thursday night, I became relaxed. Relaxed, just like Ms. Schneiderjans would've liked me to be Wednesday night. After jumping the fence to reach the third pool that night Mr Life, Ms. Villines, Ms. Ruth and I ran into four teachers away from their St. Louis jobs for a conference in the Columbia daytime. I explained to them the horn situation.
After a few pitchers and beignets at Jazz (say yahz) we decided to get a swim in. Mr Rodriguez-Velez declined to join us, so we drove to drop him off. As it turns out, Mr. Rodriquez-Velez lives within 50 feet of Ms. Schneiderjans.
Now, Ms. Schneiderjans and I connected Wednesday night. As she put her head on my chest, both of us exhausted, she said: "Phillip, just relax. You think too much." My mind was trying to guess if she would let this continue beyond that Wednesday; if she was the girlfriend kind. I thought that this was not the case and decided to keep things easy. So, now this brings us to Ms. Villines car parked right outside of Ms. Schneiderjans apartment, who as I said lives within 50 feet of Mr. Rodriguez-Velez, boyfriend of Ms. Villines that — remember — decided not to join us on our swim. The couple went up to Mr. Rodriguez-Velez's apartment for a moment to say goodbye. At which point, I realized where I was.
"Hey," I said. "We're right close to Justine's place." I scanned the outside. "Her light is on, but I won't knock. I'll just call."
And I called. "Hey babe, it just so happens that you live right next to my good friend Leo and I thought I'd call you up while we're waiting for his girlfriend outside the apartment. Talk to you later."
I always was a polite fella.
Then. Mr. Life might as well've destroyed any possiblity between myself and Ms. Schneiderjans.
I hung up and said, "Pathetic, pretty pathetic," in a self-mocking way.
"Yeah, I could've done better," Mr. Life said. He then started shouting to Ms. Villines for her to come out. When he first honked the horn, me and Ms. Ruth said to stop it.
"You idiot. People live around here. Plus, if Justine's in there she'll think I'm a real weirdo," I said, but Mr. Life just kept on honking. Honk! Honk! Honk! for about a minute or so. Machine-gun sputters.
"Dude! Stop! You're gonna ruin any slight possibility I have with this chick! Possiblity that might be there if she's not just after a conquest (attitude and language there compliments of one Ms. Muffintop)!"
But Mr. Life just laughed and said, "But dude, this is totally like 'Strangers with candy', " whatever the hell that is.
... and I haven't heard from her since. But, this entry is just for the record that I did not screw things up with this woman. It was Mr. Life and the horn. Not me this time. I tried everything to stop Mr. Life from honking that fucking horn. God knows why he was doing it in the first place.
Ahh, such is life.

Last night, I completed the worst planned plan I've ever drawn up in my life. This includes attending MU, myriad sexless/sexfilled nights, practical jokes, baking attempts, river crossings, vehicular manuvering, and relationship juggling. How'd I not forsee what problems did arise? Cripes! Well, at least I was on a bike!

Today, I said, "Goodbye," to my corporate job after a conversation with Ms. Lohse; she echoed the evil sentiment in my head — unwilling to acknowledge. I estimate in eight shifts a month for four months, about $30 each shift, plus sporatic/unscanned gifts, I lost Kohl's about $1,200. Talk about savings!

Such exhaustion. Last night was a killer. I'm smiling for sure. Though, I'm worried about how uncool I am. I'm pretty weird. It tends to be a monkeywrench in the moving parts of my life. And she's too cool; keeps her moving parts clean.
Bollocks! I just need to relax.

Monday night, we drank a list longer than my arm; a list which wasn't drawn up until the items were drunk. I never thought one could have a hangover that lasted longer than one was drunk. How does that work? I don't know. Apparently, I missed lotsa stuff yesterday. Figures.

1 for Monday; in which the administrator waxes pathetic about the Pynchon book he completed last night

It was good. Like Mothra into a sunflare I tripped into the '60s mind of one Thomas Pynchon like, well, '60s motion picture. Bearings askew, the cavalcade drew near and delivery of toxic substance mustn't be avoided tonight (perhaps a tangible reason for self-loathing, the administrator's apocheir dallied). Whatta schlemihl!

Sentimental Sunday

In through the out door?
So someone asked me out the other day: a dude. This made me a little sad for two reasons: 1) I can't remember the last time someone asked me out; it's been so long, and 2) He was a dude.
Granted, I admit, he's a good looking fella, but it's just not my thing (that thing). Ironically, I've since been pining over this lesbian chick who's totally hot, totally my style--but gay. Cripes!
So, is it possible that I can meet just one girl--just one--who isn't a total freak, who isn't gay, doesn't talk about her dog nonstop, doesn't devote her life to smoking lots of hashish, doesn't have an ex-boyfriend hanger on (or a current boyfriend for that matter), isn't leaving for Asia in a couple weeks, has opinions, has tact, has any kind of personality not resembling the side of a cardboard box, isn't a journalist (that' be just a plus), and isn't completely lost? I don't think so. Not in this town. I've picked over it pretty well.
... Maybe it is time to switch over to the other side, other team. After all, if I head down to the drag show then it's a guarantee that I'll see some foxy looking women. Sure, they'll really be men, but I'll have better luck with those ladies than real, acutal (biological) ladies. ... Maybe I'll just stay home. Yeah, home.

Existence Smexistence
If you asked me if you, or I, exist then I'd tell you it's not certain. It's not up to us. But then again it is? Who knows? ... But it should be me that knows if I exist or not, right? Cripes!
The way I see it, if nothing means anything to me then I can't reason why it would be essential in a sense not parallel with the function of physical life--thus starving nonphysical life. Therefore, nothing exists because there is no meaning. It's pointless.
Ms. Timmons would tell me it's merely melancholy, but I however believe that's too easy an out. I'd like to believe that I exist, that god exists and we're all happy little existees, but what for? *segue to*

Tomatoes!
I've got a whole crop of 'em. Tomatoes that is. About a dozen really healthy looking ones. I'm excited. I'd've placed a picture here, but I can't seem to locate my camera. Granted I haven't looked for it, but who gives a fuck. It's pointless. Wait. ... Back to the subject.
Ingredients:
12 whole tomatoes to be fucked up
1 nice bottle of merlot
1 not so nice bottle of Three Thieves
1 hippie jug of Carlo Rossi
6 cans of tomato paste
1/2 tps. of arsenic (because I'm trying to develop an immunity to it)
3 willing subjects to try (without my private arsenic blend of course, I'm not a monster)
Some olives (for martinis), garlic (for vampires), onions (for weirdos), basil (for potheads), oregano (for potheads), and thyme (because there's never enough).
I'll also have BLT's for a week or so, omelets with diced tomatoes, and, maybe, even a nice tomato snack on the way to work in the morning. Goddamn these fucking tomatoes are sweet. Literally sweet. I can't go back to grocery store tomatoes.

*EDIT* 7/25 @ 1:41 p.m.
Something sorta almost resembling Irony, but not quite it at all
I spent the other night--entire night until work at 7:30--playing protest songs and drinking Chinese beer, in America.

Alright. OK, I guess I've been working too hard. Three Eastgate patrons came to my queue, all of which I'd been friendly and shared drinks with; all of which I didn't remember upon sight (until I'd carded them). I should try some deep breathing: my own medicine. That'r Chinese beer!

Here's how I'm set apart: There's probably no one that would've followed me up the old Anthropology building's highest tower, now a dangerous construction-ridden heap, to see the subtle sunset colors beyond the parking garage on Cherry and Locust streets. The entry: bizarre. The climb: precarious. The spoils: psycadelic, useless.

I saw her again last night. She's set apart from people, the same way I am. Well... maybe not the same way, still... She's captivating, terrifying, sexy; Corona, Camels, a star on her arm, black hair, severe blue eyes. Who am I kidding? Of course, she's gonna be too cool.

I feel I must soon say goodbye to the ones I love. Benjamin, Jemima, and Gordon, too. In reality, I don't believe anyone will help them in my stead. This's the likely outcome. No one cares, because caring's ancient. Self is the new existence. In three weeks, goodbye tomato kids.

2 for Monday

When my self's crushed, I rent a really depressing movie, tear apart a good book, slam my hand in a door, burn the notes to a song I've written; so I can reason the irrational: my self's crushed. How can one exist and be nonessential, too? I just don't know.

[I think of Ms. Terrell every time I use the word "nonessential," per a conversation held more than a year ago. Good memory.
I feel the word encompasses all of being faded, overused, a state of post-completed uselessness. It's good to define words for one's self. It's rare to do.]

Don't we all want to be in a band that will get to heaven? That'd be something to work toward. Hell, I'd sell my clothes, books, belongings, and burn London whole to prove them all wrong.
I'm wrestling with an antithesis to existence, because ... and there won't be anything, anymore.

My descent into Columbia's Catacombs was memorable and strangely beautiful. Not even the coolest of my friends've been down there (except Mr. Wallstin), so there's "street-cred" for myself. I met some strangely intoxicating and eclectic people. We talked a lot, don't remember much of our conversations though. V. was sublime!

What a nice nap I've had. And all night, too! What a nice meal I had this morning. Fancy Panera! Fuckin-A! What nice paychecks I've received. A man sure can get used to this! Now, all I need is to see that fucking Superman before they scrap it. Praiiisethhha Lauwd!

At times today, my eyes've focused and refocused on the same tangent sentence, object, issue. I got not a single wink of sleep last night. For some reason, books, movies, guitar, and consiousness occupied my night. It's happened before. The world always looses a slight layer of believability/existence without sleeping.

In one day I've'd someone dismiss my theory of existance, tell me they've "new respect for me," comment on my literary stylings, comment on paperscraps in my laundry pants pockets, profess hatred of loving my talents, and offer another chance at romance. I choose to believe none of it, yet.

2 for Tuesday

"Girl, I was wo'chin Law n' Order last night, and I wus bustin' up somethin' fierce! There's this place over in China, or Micronesia, that suckers child'ens into whoopie slaves. For Real! Anyways girl, I'm gonna need ya' to book me a flight to Micronesia to sort thiss'll mess out."

I can't count how many times I have personally sold this man a fifth of Congress vodka. He left an impression with other employees as well. I can't say I'm surprised, though I feel like there was something I could've done. In a way, I'm party to his alcohol-diluted actions.

2 for Monday

During the game Sunday, I looked through my phone and saw a missed call at 2:39 a.m. I wish I'd've been awake. Ironically, I asked for a moment of sleep and got it—to miss her call. I wonder what she wanted. Alcohol, advice, or maybe something in the middle.

*EDIT* 2:35 p.m.
The administrator has (after selling plasma) censored what was here, because the point was (hopefully) received. It's difficult, if not impossible, to believe in nothing, or to disbelieve anything. It's the equivolent of forcing one's own eyes out. Doing so will merely believe oneself out of existence. No offense, seriously.

Italy and France: they share a border. They are both in Europe. Both countries have great landmarks that the cattle flock to every year. However, in the words of the Highlander motion picture series, "There can be only one." (MacLeod is from Scotland, though, and me America.) Such is life!

Sentimental Sunday

To my surprise, event've occurred in the past 72 hours which I had not expected nor would have guessed. It's almost as if the external world is telling me that it really is alive. How thoughtful of the world!

[Though, my ideas of the world are merely impressions generated through a series of sensations, passions, feelings and memories. And because I'm merely a bundle of these sensations there's no way of being certain that these sensations are really there; you can't reason a matter of fact such as the impression of shaking a man's hand on the roof of my apartment complex. Oh No! No more free will, reality isn't real, hamburgers eat people, lottery winners are temporal nexes to the gateway to Eastgate, then Eastside, then Southside, then — Southpark Avenue, shots with a pretty view, have another beer or two, chillin with the weirdo few, face catching morning dew — and back to reality. If he were alive, I'd punch David Hume in the balls and ask him to tell me if it's real or not. God I'm weird. What else is new. Thanks for a reason to open up my 5-year-old philosophy book Ms. Morrow. "I reject your reality and substitute my own."]

The past few days were good days. They were unique; perhaps my wits have been dull in the past few months and I haven't appreciated how unique all that fucking stuff was. Who knows.
*take a drink*
Here's a few things: 1) The number of single girls has narrowed to narrow, and the number of attached girls is ... large and unfair. 2) If I hear "How are you?" one more time — you know the phrase, the polite deflection — then I just don't know; I won't be held responsible. 3) I feel like I should try to write in magazine, or for paperback publishers, or join the circus. 4) It's the simple things — ice, comfortable shoes, fresh food, personal conversations — that make the rest colorful/flavorful/almost worth opening one's eyes in the morning. 5) My brother is back in August. If he thought the Marines was hell, then he's been away from the country for too long. Pictures will be available in the events to come.

My tomato plants are thriving! I'm getting some pretty tasty looking fruits! Is it sad that growing those goddamn plants is the second most worthwhile thing right now (second to doing all that stuff I do at The Missourian)? Wait ... don't answer. Any answer might loose the nebulous grasp of reality I have at the moment.
Now, to close my eyes for a few moments before it all starts back up again. Just a few is all I ever ask for.

"Basic necessities!? I love those things!" I said, pondering milk. I've the means to buy more, but choice is something that should be savored. Some butter on toast, strawberries for cereal, meat for dinner, honeywheat beer, and — yes! — both regular and chocolate milk. Yep, I sure know how to live!

In a past life I was an executive with no real goals. But my goal was to make money; I had to play with new/unwritten rules. People got mad, poor. But I couldn't do anything. Hell, it broke my heart to save my own. And, to my surprise, open casket!

I just wrote a song called "The other way around." It's about choices never made. It's a pile of chords under another pile of lyrics, the song is. Emotions forge decisions we make. The more we set'em free, the less we control our selves. So, make up for it on ...

It's OK, it's OK. I've only a few steps to go before total assimiliation. I'm only venting. Don't be afraid. Everything's gonna be alright. Example: This morning I found someone on MY roof. Quite a change of pace. He's from CPM, my renter. Completely unexpected event!
Possibilities are still alive!

[**—Thus to live without them is impossible.]

From the roof of my apartment complex I can see the Fire in the Sky display quite nicely. In my left hand is a fresh bottle of honeywheat beer. In my right a Parliament light and a set of bottle rockets. More than Fire in the Sky, I can see other displays of independence bursting through a 360 degree night sky. It is cool and clear tonight, and the privacy of my roof is both intimate and inviting, for me alone.
As I throw a lighted bottle rocket in the air—for it to fulfill it's sole purpose of existence—I think of last year. Mr. Kravitz, Ms. Youngs and I lounged on the sidebar of Stadium Boulevard to view the bombs bursting in air at the same time 365 days ago. What's new? I'll tell you.
Inconsequential details have occurred. Lives have crossed and passed through one another. It doesn't matter, only to look back. As a mantra I never look back at what could've been, but it's hard not to do so. Especially when so many seeds've been sown, sprouted without care or observation; I've no idea what I'm growing. So much for passion. It's hard to have any when everything is rotten, when everything is superficial, false, unnecessary, nonessential. There is no purpose and details are of no consequence to anyone, anywhere, ever.
I could have done so much to save so many relationships in the past year. Conversely, there's so much that was out of my hands. But was everything that never came to fruition impossible? Of course not. For all intensive purposes the past never happened, though at the time decisions were made anything was possible. It's in the my heart, and the hearts of all those I've crossed and passed through, that decisions happen. What never happens(ed) is of no consequence.
So what could have been is not impossible. It is only when one is left completely without choice that events become impossible.
The past 10-entry series is about the beginning of last summer. In retrospectect, I had no choice. My emotions controlled me as they do today.** My relationship with Ms. Smythe was uncontrollable to me, and defined as impossible to me—for all meaning outside decisions, it never happened. My relationship with Ms. Winterton was entirely within my control, thus everything was possible but ultimately doomed because of my misplaced savageness within.
So much has happened after this period that is only be deemed impossible, nonessential. I could start to care again—make choices—but what would be the point? Somewhere along the way, this question and its answer came at once: there is no point. There is no one and nothing in the world that inspires me to decide on anything again. There's nothing. This life is pointless and silly, there's no to and fro, whether or not, this or that, either or the other, north or south, or anything. I've fallen into a life without choice, but filled with inconsequential details that must be fulfilled for some reason that doesn't mean anything. My life can be defined as impossible.

But, then again, I think too much. Isn't that right? So I'll climb back down into my apartment and play a few chords. If a bottle rocket has a meaning, then surely I can find something that means something—ANYTHING!!!!!!!!!!—in this fucking heap of a town. If that's the only decision I've left, then it's the only way I'll go. But, is this the ultimate trick? Left without choice to choose to find a choice? What happens if there is no decision that I can make? What happens if the lighted fuse crackles up the length and into the pack of powder only to falter because of a flaw in the design?
Happy Fourth of July everyone!

It takes two — 10

I haven't heard from Ms. Winterton since; about a year. Our 6-week-long fling surpassed the previous fling in passion, eroticism, and meaning. Why?
We shared ever-kinetic emotion. The prior was always potential, and ever-inert.

Without passion, past is meaningless; future is pointless. Close the distance within, and never look back.

It takes two — 9

The prior and I once vacationed at the lake. We bought lots of alcohol, including a handle of Bacardi Superior. Never finished, I still keep two remaining shots. Somehow, I'd like to think we'll one day finish that bottle. However, I know it's fantasy; too dramatic, passionate, not our style.

NNN

It takes two — 8

"It was my ex I shouted at," "She returned the ticket and left," "We never connected within," "Her love's empty," "It's over;" Regardless the explaination, she saw the truth: it wasn't over the prior — a part of me loves the prior to this day. Ms. Winterton left me quickly thereafter.

NNN