Sentimental Sunday

Ahh memories...
What a cool story. Well, cool in my mind. My first semester here at MU, I hung my head in Hudson Hall, which is a part of Gillette, I think. I had some pretty good times living on the third floor. And this past weekend a memory from those good times came into Eastgate. She was after The Red-head Vicki and before Ms. Warren. —Back up,
Ms. Robertson and I met after a fire drill had driven us outside the Hudson residence hall one night. I didn't get her name then, and over the next handful of weeks we'd pass each other making eyes and never having enough time to speak. One day I nearly ran her over while bounding down the staircase. While both of us were a bit outta breath, smiling and looking: "We should go to dinner sometime," or something pathetic. And then we did, and it was OK for a moment (about a couple of weeks). One night she'd mentioned something of trivial nature regarding traditional practices she had participated in just a few days prior with the notwithstanding assumption she'd be accepted, fauned over, popularized and furthered within her sorority.
I said it sounded pretty stupid.
Leaving the conversation at that, we made plans, as was becoming usual. Before the time we'd planned to meet up I'd purchased some tickets to a jazz show — Herbie Hancock, how cool am I? — to surprise her; we'd talked a lot about jazz music, etcetera. OK, so that night when we did meet up — before I could surprise the chick! — she informed me she'd decided not to continue to see me on grounds of my grounds toward her sorority's grounds. She chose her sorority over some of our hard-core romance, which it was promising to be.
... and until yesterday, whenever I told that story I had to leave out really good forgotten details like: Name, Sorority, ... well I guess that's it (unless anyone out there has any, she's in a class of mine, and p.s.: Alpha Chi). And just like that, there's one chronological gap filled.
Oh, and those tickets I'd purchased didn't go to waste. That turned into a first date with Ms. Warren. God I'm pathetic.

I work my ass off
I work my ass off. If anyone has points to the contrary then ... well ... keep it to yourself, but I don't think there are any to be pointed. But, that's not the point here. I work more than anyone within my general arm's reach on a given day. Yess, more than you Ms. ____, more than you Mr. ____. And what do I get for it? Well, let's put it this way: If I work a little bit harder then I might actually break even one month. I'm living in financial oxymoron.
How does any one of those kids do it? Where's all that capital coming from? What is this country breeding? It seems to me that going to school is the biggest waste of money I'll ever see, short of what must go on in political circles, and do you think they're paying any student loans? Not in my wildest dreams is this education I'm receiving worth the $30,000-plus I'll be bleeding outta me for the next coupla decades or so. But hell, fact is stranger than fiction. And this is just an exeptional advent of fact, from an "exceptional" school devoted to divving up fact like bread and butter. "But P-bone, if you were exceptional to match the firstschoolever, then you'd not feel so frazzled." Good point, and I've no defense. My hands're tied. Though dearies, I'd like to think that if I'd been endowed with more than just a good sense of direction and some talent with guitars and shovels (i.e. money) I'd be doing better to fit in and make better grades. Class is class is class, aside from graduating class.
Such is life, I suppose.

Movie Title: Big trouble in little "exceptional schoola journsimsinmo")

So basically, my real desire right now is to jump onto some kind of moving sidecar moving on some kind of track and work at some kind of traveling place of some kind of amusement in which I could operate some kind of booth in which rubes of some kind would trade some kind of monetary currency for some kinds of possessions of arguably trivial value of some kind; or don some kind of seperate personality and/or juggle some odd pieces of: corn cobs, pastry, some kind of ham hocks; and keep some kind of notes of which would people a blog of interest to a select few as I people this land of purple mountains and grain.

Quotes from the week
—"What're you drinking?"
—"Lemonade."
—"Lemonade? What kind of beer is that?"

—"But I gave you a big cock, what more do you want?"
—"No, I like the cock fine, it's just the other things ..." (not what you think, ... well ... )

—"He is exceptional on the mound." (America's favorite pasttime)

—"I only ever see you with other men."
—"Yeah, but what can I say?" (Yep, what can you say?)

—"To the Beer Cave!" ( ... and then we ran: she's so goddamn—awesome)

—"All she wants is me. She loves only me. It's fucked up baby. We work, we pay the bills, and when we're together, we hump. If it was legal, we'd screw in the parking lot. You know what I'm sayin' baby." (Two-Camo's-a-day Ben, on he and his old lady)

To the coolest guy I know
Mr. Gilbreath is a contemporary of mine at Eastgate. A couple of months ago he started working there, and the first thing he ever said to me after he'd completed chatting with a few random customers, this: "... yeah, I got stung by a scorpion."
It's a long story, which makes him the coolest guy I know. There's other stuff, too.
Well, he recently had a death in his family, which led him to bust right outta town and back to Joplin. I saw his face when he heard the news via cellular phone. He was standing by the pints and I was sitting in the office, ordinary setting. "What!" he yelped, and then (analogous to the time elapsed videotaped rise and decay of a flower) it fell into place that the gravity of the situation he'd been aware of has become reality: sobering, heart-rending, current. It was a real emotion. It was tragic. I saw his face break, and then he flipped out understandably. Pray for him and those he loves.

Dream
Just once, I'd like to be watching the 5, 6 or even 10 p.m. news and something happens. This something: The weather or sportscaster does their thing and then returns with the anchors to the newsdesk, at which one of the anchors says, to the weatherman for example: "Well, it's looking like we're going to have a really nice couple of days," holds hand in the air, palm facing the weatherman, "Up top," gesturing for a high-five.
Or: "Kickin' sportscast man. Five-down-low."
... you know, something fun.

5-0
You many have realized my sentimental post for this week is slightly more lighthearted than previous posts. And the reason is obvious. I am a dork, but with some kind of fuzzy warm feeling around my fingers and in my pit (stomach). "Wait ... what's this?! HuHgh!" Hold all punches, please.
Headline — Whitecastle in Como?
T-Deck — Local youth finds a girl who's not at all like the rest, any of you.
Alternate headline — Cynics: Start your stopwatch (Fuck you! ;) )

Contemplate if you will the sound of an understood pause between two people. A pause that comes after some kind of shared event like a joke, vision ... and the same thought through respective heads. Then the yielding look in the eye, mouthcorners realigning face to chart joy, and the sound.

"Her signal reaches his cellular phone.
'Hey,' huge grin as he answers.
'I decided not to work tonight. Got time for photographs?'
Ha, does he have time: Ironic and not all at once. He's enough time to get to her. Then it loses its meaning, burden.
He types it later."

She's smart. She's funny. She's social. And normal, like the rest ... until certain moments when public-interation defenses soften — brief, fractal moments — I can see how real she is. I can see her real humor, intellect, gorgeous presence. The quarter-Italian, shuttereye, girl who'll call me away for the impulse!
She exists.

Forum — one last one before business as usual

Mr. Bondeson, famed professor of medicine and ethical matters — and genious, no question — has created a Web site derived from MU sources and for MU students who're enrolled in his Medical Ethics class. ("who're" I kill me.) A link is located under The Rest. Check it out, if you must.
At the Sept. 18 lecture a discussion ensued among the class about the virtues that a doctor should possess. For the most part, everyone imparted their ideas (that one bastard who always talks and says the stupedistisc things I've ever heard; how did this Moron get in here? Really how? He's just plain got no senses?) and I was no different.
"A doctor should care," I said, and then something about passion. This was after one of the students said something to the tune of: "The doctor should be able to put themself in the place of their patient," to which Mr. Bondeson — genious, no question (and no sarcasm for you cynics out there, greedy fucks!) — dumbed into "empathy" for the masses around me.
Back to me: "Care to elaborate?" he volleyed, probably.
"A doctor can only work for so long before he or she becomes jaded, tired. It's the same for every profession. The one thing that I think keeps them going is their love, passion for what they do."
"So you're saying they are able to understand, feel what's going on with the patient—" and I winced, responding to my bastardized proze "Yeah, but—"
"—enough to help them along, put them in their place (oh yeah, that part's accurate) and empathize with them. Am I getting at your question?"
"Sure, empathy. It's the same," back off P-bone.

We are all persecuted for doing what we love. Outside eyes can see it in us. Some're confused into thinking what they're doing really is love. Some turn their eyes away from what they love for whatever reason. It's clear: There are forces alive that work to tear our hands, suction cups, away from what means the most to us in the short existence we're imposed with/given/drifting with. Constant greed, the sedentary autopilot from which, when balance is threatened, desire springs, lashes out. If it could be described to a child, a large black entity caught with a silver halo of backlight, resembling the outline of a cloud of cigar smoke in a fan, rises up, seizing the watery eye's catchlight in the moment the shutter slams, wraps silvery threads around first muscle movement, pulse, fragrance, and desire (a byproduct of love); this entity is always in motion, always alert, and will never fade because shadows are already faded ... it lives within the faded eyes you see, associate with, and help create. And what is one to do, especially when they may not know what it is they're to do. Definition can burden someone into a life of privilege, remorse and nights where the lights never seem dark enough, when the air lacks it's crux definition because sweetness was always an intangible idea, forever a product of unreality, and the joy to be had is false before what could have been — what was never known.
I want to care about things. I want to believe there's something that attaches us all to one another like a network of electrical breaths. I really, really empathize with those who've found what they care to do: journalists, doctors, politicians, workers, actors, artists of all kinds — because art is really the center of a person. I want to care so deeply that I'd fall into an antivoid as sweet as the air must be on the highest mountain peak of desire after my footprints've disappeared: a bitter silver wind taking the path to places called memory. ... It's like I've been there before, but all the time I really know I've never put myself there, and probably never will.
... Still I hope that for just one moment the air—

Forum

Is Empathy the same as Care?
Example:
—A doctor can care about a patient's ailment and provide treatment. He or she cares enough to want the patient to be healthy, which leads to delivering the best treatment.
—A doctor can empathize with a patient's ailment and provide treatment. He or she can put themself in the position of the patient, which leads to delivering the best treatment.
(subquestion: Am I splitting hairs?)

This is highly irregular, but I'm allowing a the comment function on this post, and baiting the advent of a reply with the promise of "eternal life." Failing that, and because it's within my capacities, I promise* either: 1, free cup of coffee; 2, a free "airplane shot" of alcohol; 3, the likeness of whomever you choose to be sketched into a "readable" "erotic" "fiction" of sorts; 4, a free punch in the stomach (that is, you punch me); 5, the guarantee that, at any particular moment in time, your one-time command will force me to do whatever you might desire; with a comment.
"Do you really think anyone is likely to reply?" Possibly, possibly not.
"Why this change in policy?" Because—

I'm in Love! Her name is Miriam and she's totally foxxy! She's so hands on and knows what to do with the tools. Her A-frame makes me want to swing my hammer, drill and erect foundations. What?! She's married?! We could go to my place. It needs fixing up anyhow.

Sentimental Sunday

Three of them
It's not so hard to imagine that if I were to die sometime in the near future, there would most likely be something written on my tombstone dealing with my hair. Because for the most part that's all I am to people. Just some kid with lots of hair that gums up the works.
"Why do you think that P-bone?"
Hey, I'm glad you asked. A professional woman with whom I work, who recently had her own freak flag lacerated into shape, was making inquiries in close proximity to me one day last week. Keen as I am in observing tiny differences in facial ticks, footwear, and shoulder gestures mixed with the corresponding eye movement (it's the focus on ones own socket that gives them away), I noticed her haircut and said something to the tune of: "I like your hair."
"Thanks Phillip," she said, usual social disdain mixed in, "We like yours, too," — simple as that.
My mother would've reacted: "Who? You and the mouse in your pocket?"
Mr. Ameling: "You and what army?"
Only, I know what army. It's unseen to the likes of me: the undergraduate. I fit in around this place about as well as 3-inch penis in an orgy. I get the feeling that terse, dispassionate, negative conversations have occurred regarding me in general: mere trivial details like the hair, nothing substantial. How can I not? And this note should segue into ...

Criticism
I took a night out Friday, which ended stone drunk at the Waffle House (for a change). Therein, spliced with some obvious unrelated unpleasantness, I received welcome criticism toward my ... OK how should I say this ... character, character that has the quality (if one is of weak skin/stomach) to drive lovers and even friends to replace my presence around them with the presence of something replaceable: interchangeable as cogs of similar qualities but without that undesirable ... something. ... And — center on Character.
I don't know. An easy out is just to say I'm weird, but I'm even too weird for the weirdos. I'm never at home.
And, more criticism says, I make it too easy for women. I'm what they call in some circles (frat house study sessions, cheaters, self-obsessives) an "easy mark."
However, criticism from this summer says that I impose a nervous atmosphere on those who would reveal my "easy mark" status. I am conflicted and further uninformed as to what to do to assimilate into the world of the normal.
It is, perhaps, better for me just to drop everything. I should really forget everything and everyone, try to get away from that cabal that I, for better or worse, work alongside. I should submit to the fact that I'm just not going to get a turn in the orgy, but will be rooted out like smegma at the end of the semester; I will not be remembered nor will I be spoken of in the future. Not around here.
Of course, the time would go a bit easier if I turned from being an "easy mark" into a "contemporary." But we can't all be cogs alike. Isn't that right?

Fill my time
I work at Lakota Coffee Co. now. It is fun and laid back. Not that I don't like working at the Missourian or Eastgate, because I'm going to continue on at those as well.
But there is wanting. Nothing has emerged as focal in the past cycle. The closest thing I have to a cause is—

I stuck my neck out there for her. Because, maybe people aren't as superficial as they seem. She didn't surprise me. And I have another event to add to the list of events unattended: Shakespeare under a perfect sky. After a promising exposition, talk's just talk.
She didn't surprise me.

I smelled of French Vanilla in the morning, Coca-Cola in the afternoon, and Jim Beam in the evening (bottle broke at Eastgate, p.s.). I almost became roadkill working on a photo for class. Now I just want light to cinch up, like a Crown Royal sack, so I can rest.

The sun was perfect, pulsing like a steady heartbeat, leukocytes, plasma, street noise, skirts and smiles, and I tap off the excess Colombian roast powder from the starchy brown paper bag that sits in my passenger seat. Sunglasses on, wind encircling the cabin, I shout and unclot in the vein.

" 'What's that word?: Negative energy?' He asks himself. 'How does one operate when this is overhead?' He knows it's all in his mind. External's all deception, a wash. Though, faces must be maintained. Usually shaves, showers, smiles, 'How are you's cover it. Ante this time though ...
He types it later."

Ready for some "good news"? I acquired a job at Lakota Coffee Co. This job was built up considerably by my then-prospective employer. Approximation: "We've had lotsa turnover for this position, it's difficult, but easy, and 'fun.' "
So ... The List:
Shovel
Mower
Keyboard
Corkscrew
Register
Mouth
Weedeater
Guitar
Dewey-Decimal-System
...Beanroaster?

The thing in which I keep my photo I.D., credit cards, student I.D., and to which I clasp my dollar bills to has gone missing somewhere in the folds of Ellis Library. It is frustrating. Mostly because the student bill (outrageous!!!) is due Friday. Fuck MU. I hate this place.

I ate my last bit of food this morning: three eggs. I have absolutely zero dollars. Also, paying for the CD digitization of my photos for photoclass has put me into Overdraft Protection! (--Say like '50s monster mash.) All change is gone. No cents either. Payday two weeks away. CryCkiey!

Sentimental Sunday

And it feels just like it should
What can I say: easy come, easy go. It's always the same. Always. Even when it's different. I never really seem make a whole lot of sense, and even confuse myself sometimes. But, when a girl says there's something to be had, you gotta know something's fucked up. No matter how much there is to be fucked: you may have found your emotional equal, someone who rides a public/political face as well (if not better) than you; you may have been infatuated with her — it's always the same, even when it's different, different details.
And the beauty part is: She'll never know.
I feel just a little savage. Anyone who'd give a damn about what's in here *tap heart* must be a little loopy in here *tap head* because what's in here *close eyes* is blank, and what's down here is all that matters anyway.
You strip away the skin and bones and you'll find joints, moving parts, a network of reflexes and automatic capacitors that drone along ...
Blank
After much thought, I really can't seem to find anything. I continue moving my arms legs fingers tongue when it suits the present occasion, but the fuel to do so is only fuel.
How does everything move along so well? If everyone is like me, a static normal?, if it's all just shotgun blasts at one another then how does anything come together? If I'm the lone shotgun, what do I aim at, and what do I spare? Perhaps not a firearm, but instead another metaphor. Something as dramatic, but less tangible and more disappointing.

Headline: The snake bites it's own tail!!! Continual pain and life at once!

Metaphor of the week
OK, what've I missed in the interlude: Pluto, Couric, Ooooil, Erwin, Bush Speaks!, tailgating minus kegs, and more explosions. Anyone ever play pachinko! My brother regaled me with his story of pachinko parlours over in happy Japan.
I, and you, are the steel metal balls that become caught up in the network of lights and solid bumpers, all of us jammed neatly between a clear plastic frame and a painted carnival background, pulled constantly by gravity and electronic motion, toward the inevitable payout: In happy Japan the balls are traded for tiles, action figures, and etcetera ... items which are then taken outside the parlour and traded again for Japanese currency (this is a loophole in the Japanese law, which forbids gambling).
And in the past interlude, after trading in the metal balls of the outer world, I find myself no richer or poorer than I was before. Finances and relationships've seen analogous turns for the better then worse, and have leveled off, but it was always a static transaction. The lever I'm pulling is out of curiosity, and a yearning, bitter longing, to believe that there is something at all. Something at all. And I always return to the conclusion, the point from which I start again. And blah blah blah!
Oh, and by the way, my brother told me that he could always spot a pachinko parlour by the two items placed outside: a buxom hologram of blonde folicle and golden digital complection; and a younger man, sleeveless open shirt, arm muscles tightening as he poses to hurl a cosmic fireball in a meaningless direction, fists exposing wrists and opposing each other Street Figher-style. There's a metaphor there somewhere, but what's the point: the point is to keep pulling that fucking lever anyway.

Actual events
1) I need a second job. If for just one reason: I hate hotdogs and if I had money I would buy them.
2) Don't do any more favors. And don't agree to them with alcohol in either hand.
3) My tomatoes are budding up what I can only believe will be their last clutch of fruit before the world changes around late-September, mid-October.
4) The past five-entry series is dedicated to Ms. Walker, who has qualities that can be found sporatically in all the most lovely of women — only she has them all.
5) I just saw Mr. Riek interview Republican candidate Mr. Robb: a) I promise to punch Mr. Robb right in the balls if I ever see him, because of his callous attitude toward the office and his duties — a clear product of cronyism, b) Mr. Riek did a terrible job in that "Smart Decisions" segment.
6) The emdash — it's disrespect is bonded to it's overuse: we can't all be Mr. Boyle (T.C. to friends) so observe the gammut of punctuation and place accordingly, especially if it's me to read your lousy copy.

2 for Saturday

Mr. Nellis phoned me at 2:30 a.m. (p.s. I was stone drunk.)
"Cover for me tomorrow!"
"Sure," all teeth and lusthungry on the E.C. streets, "Count on P-bone!"
Morning, 11 a.m. kickoff at Eastgate, hungover, working. Then work some more. Head a gearbox; metallic, noisy. No rest for the weary.

I'm no liberal, or conservativey. But hell, there's evidence for bothe. Tied to the chair — gasoline in eyesockets — is the same here as there. That's! the real politics ... seperate from power. Some're more/less vulnerable than others. Everyone dies the same, breaks even exceedingly similar. But, not everyone kills the same.

2 for Friday

They say there are worse things than death, torture being one of them. Am I alone to be apathetic to secret prisons, possible mutilations and emotional skewwering? Am I alone to say that's the price of war? Probably. "But, that's inhumane! Violates the Geneva Conventions!"
"Yeah? well what about this?"

50 Word Stories has received a class of readership higher than the usual loquacious nymphs, $-frenzied corruptors and self-possessed children. Not to offend any of the readership, though. After all, this web page's a wash, nonessential, as are most items under sunlight. But ... Thanks for Reading! (Rare Honest Prose, HA!)

Walker on by — 5

Finally, on any normal day, it was memory.
She became a phantom haunting my discovered idea of perfection: crazy with kissing, dancing, soulbending. Calls and messages unanswered: while this was (is) confusing, this ending was sophisticated and free from that beautiful pain — in suit with our time together: blissful rotation.

Walker on by — 4

And then we spun into each other.
Everything was absolutely perfect. Those weeks were the stuff of legend, golden hollywood production, bedtime story, and the like. All our oddities matched, produced counterpoint, vanished before each other. She felt so good to my lips, soul, arms, life. It frustrates me now.

NNN

Walker on by — 3

It was the night of the date.
God she was beautiful. Is. Spliced into the anxiety and relaxation of her presence, I determined falling in love is actually possible: scary, tempting. Concious of the emotional contortions that goes with it, I turned my back on reason and sank into her.

NNN

Walker on by — 2

Sunlight conceives new possiblities.
Walking through a crowded avenue of academia, her figure blossomed ahead. Eyes: brazen ornaments of azure beauty let loose from her eyelids like an anvil in a swimmingpool. I looked, she looked, turned once, twice.
"Do you want to say something to me?"
You're Goddamn Right.

NNN

Walker on by — 1

It was her eyes. They're scary.
Many times I'd thought of her, our clothes off, lungs filling and expelling rapidly while veins course underneath fingertips carrying heat and trace across. Concentration was somewhat malleable as a result: principally because thoughts are always as they are — thoughts.
They scared me stiff.

NNN