Sentimental Sunday

Sometimes, I carelessly look into the sun. It's not a good idea, I know. But who cares.
I'll be driving on a long stretch of highway and the sky and its clouds would turn the perfect shade of orange, flecks of purple and pink, and the sun would emerge from a syrupy fertile color of dying fall leaves and hammer-banged thumbs. As I look that sliver of light becomes burned into the sensitive flesh of the retina, causing a ghost to appear in even the most docile of images I look at through the day.

And of course, it's this carelessness that I've taken for granted. A while ago I checked out. Not a care in the world. I picked up the tab, threw the last beer to shambles against the wall, and words dropped from my fingers like gumballs (this terminology's shamelessly stolen, complements of a somewhat recent acquisition: "The Rules of Attraction") and allowed my mind to disentangle itself from lunacy, from paranoia.
I only thought my paranoia'd checked out, too.

Those who read every other week or so probably have a loose grasp of what motivates me. These long flowery blog posts (this little ditty of terminology's a gift from a friend) do tend to go on with random details of various vulnerabilities. My movements and their directions work counter to that of forces combating me secretly. With every finger I move and breath I take I manifest an opposing set of movements, which means me harm. Often in my paranoia I imagine a blade going into my back: such as when I'm pulling items from the machine (my car), at an ATM, on a darkened phone, at a deserted 4 a.m. gaspump, etcetera. I'd like to think that whomever would do the stabbing would also — quickly — finish the job with other blade methods not worth going into here. I also imagine a bit of a struggle, but in my imagination the reality of reality wins out and the person with the surprise attack on the street usually wins.

Usually, I know that my manifestations are just that: manifestations, purely psychological and of no real consequence. And when I checked out a couple-three (Pynchon word stolen by me, shamelessly) weeks ago the desire to allow the dissection and ultimate demise this overanalytical endgame world in my mind became reasonably heavy on the invisible scales of which I've no control. I began to smile, and be smiled at.
After a while, my imagination post-check out was quite more hospitable for myself. Fantasies returned and the swell of luck in my chest followed.

(Here's some literal stuff: With a week off at my jobs, I traveled back home to see my parents and some old friends. It was a better x-mas with them than past episodes with my parents. Mr. Harvey and Mr. McKee are still up to their old tricks. I had a careless good time drinking swill and talking small- and large-scale politics with a few thugs like me. And, in spite of how there are now houses over it all, I took pictures of old haunts in the forest of which I've sentimental attachment (attachment in my newly reactivated imagination mind you; my childhood home is quite gone). Hey, I even picked up one bitchin' camera, compliments of Mr. Kuwajima, and one really Bitchin'! leather jacket.)

Levity and the promise of an easy time of my life's path'd seemingly finally usurped a fog of paranoid devices, until, little did he know (I watched "Stranger than Fiction," which was cool, and of which I've shamelessly stolen prose again. Yaa!), a true reason to become paranoid would emerge. That knife in my back is now possibly very real, futurereal (yess, even I'm scratching my head). That kid that elaboratively nodded his head in the car beside me is now, really, an agent of the opposing force. That ring on a frequented landline, which when taken off the receiver goes to a dialtone is a portend to any number of quality fictional realities. That knock at the door, out of the ordinary, now really scares up shadowfigures armored by tons of tattoos, a head full of ether (that thievery upon Mr. Thompson is for all you who've never been in a fight, and much less fight as if you believe a bar-brawl ever stays above the ground, wet pavement and all (that bit I feel like I've stolen from Pynchon's V., but it's hard to say.)) and belief of an embittered atheist (the sort of atheist who does not so much disbelieve in God as personally dislike Him.) (compliments of Mr. Orwell; it's a crime spree!)). That footsteps (yess, that footsteps, only I would think to write something like that, probably) scratching sidewalk in time with my stride is a real reason for me to duck into someplace — any place — for a moment.

There are countless ways to get to me. If anyone wants to just blow my head off it's entirely possible. If anyone wanted to corner me then there are countless corners to do so. If anyone of this counterforce disposition were to come across the readily available information about my life like, say, telephone number, address, vehicle make and model, blah blah blah, I'd say "Bollocks!" which's borrowed from our friends across the divide.

Normally my enemies fight me in my mind because at least that part can be made up by me. If my enemies want to fight me with other, actual, items then I really can't say which'll be produced in higher numbers: metaphors or injuries.
Like I told a good friend the other day, the last thing a paranoid like me needs is a legitimate reason to cook up these scenarios. Well, it's here Fuckers. My 2007 is starting now with a big batch of my carelessness manifest toward reality. My year begins in peril; my careful attention is now drawn toward that peril and my imagination only produces paranoia at this point.

One last thing. When Mr. Harvey and me stopped into this corporate burger joint for a brew and a bite, we spotted a sign-in list for patrons to mark. Mr. Harvey put his name on the paper, an action to which my reaction was something to the tune of: "Are you really going to sign that? You'll leave a paper trail, kids come by, blow your head off," some dialogue stolen shamelessly from "The Way of the Gun." Mr. Harvey laughed. ... And I did, too.
It was right then — when I cracked that joke — that I'd actually acknowledged that my paranoia was on the rapid decline. Talk about irony! So much for being careless, little did I know.

Happy new year everyone.

Sentimental Saturday

"Slave!
"Things will inevitably happen; I assure this to you. Everything marches on whether you are involved or not."
I don't care. The things that mean something to people around here do nothing for me.
"This apathy is a mistake. For very soon the details of your life will change. Very soon items will move across the field so quickly you will not be able to keep track, keep up, or have a good place at the table. Hope for you is wasted thinking — have you not already begun to feel it? — for the more that you try the more you will end up failing. And the more that you don't try the more you hope. And the more you hope the faster your life becomes that which you have always opined sensibilities about but have never completely grasped: pointless."
I made a mistake. Did I?
"Facts are never mistakes. Feelings toward them are. Hasn't school taught you anything?"
I refuse. I will make something of myself, whether that means I have to take all of them on. If I had the choice to either submit like the rest of those fucking sheep, or do it my way, then the choice would be clear. Instead the lines are so blurry, and I'm only a child...
It's not like it's a choice anyway.
"Don't be naive. There're countless others in the world. There's a certain way things are done. There's certain people you must know. Tickets don't come cheap, and if you're not willing to play ball then there's an army of people that will right behind you. Slave, you won't get far."

All about Jen
I met Ms. Curtiss at the Benton County Daily Record. She was the beautiful vixen who typed up all the marriage licenses, death notices and something else. She made me curious just by the way she looked; her soft appearance looked like it had an edge that was not reserved for the newsroom.
We would sometimes joke about the ages of the couples who'd bought marriage licenses, and we'd offer our good tidings to those whose elder component was female. We'd go to see movies and such. We had some fun.
I don't get to see her all that much these days. She takes classes at U of A, and we send electronic letters often. I remember the day she spoke of Mr. Dilmore. She said it about a year and some change ago that she'd found him easy on the eyes — my language — and that since she'd given her two weeks notice at the Record she'd go ahead and ask him out. I encouraged her immensely because after meeting the guy a couple times I felt like they'd make a good fit.
I guess, as they say, that's history right there because last weekend Ms. Curtiss announced that she and her long-time boyfriend Mr. Dilmore'd trucked it on into Eureka Springs and got hitched. That's right, real-life marriage with rings, a tux & dress, corn-on-tha-cob and all (actually I don't know about the corn). Ms. Curtiss has changed her name to Mrs. Dilmore, and (this detail'll bring the situation to your level) changed her facebook.com picture and marriage status to reflect.
I don't know a lot about Mr. Dilmore, but I'm sure he's a great fella. Hell, he's got Jen. As one relationship in my life takes a step backward, and another a step forward, both of varying sensibilities and numerable degrees of importance on my psyche and outward projection, I also begin to reflect. Not in the same facebook.com way, but in other ways. Sometimes things work out and sometimes—
Jen is a very close friend of mine, with whom I have the most trust and no blood connection — otherwise not a compatible set of traits I find in the everyday bastards that comprise my life. I am thrilled that she's found a mate who presses all the buttons and who she loves dearly. Without going into details of how disappointed I am that she didn't tell anyone (and I know she's got more people with whom she does share a blood relation that she's to answer to) I'll only say I wish I'd've been there and I wish Mr. John Dilmore and Mrs. Jennifer Dilmore all the best.

Dow Jones Day
I sent no resume to any news organization. Several others did. I heard about it all day Friday, which was Dow Jones day. I'm confused:
—Should I care about this?
—Am I as consequence blackballed for not participating?
—Am I better off?
In an earlier post I tried to capture unsuccessfully the feeling that one must experience when in the cockpit of a device that ensures a highly risky break from Earth's gravitational field. As a mass of particles circulates around the super-dense structure of a black hole, it's shape becomes elongated and travels faster than the speed of light. As this happens, particles celerate and collide with one another causing a scatter, relativistic jets. All particles that were once large, self-efficient stars were slowly (relative term) pulled toward the center of the universe until the world became ... thinner. Holes were noticed and we see through them. Upon blast-off I wonder what a smile looks like, as the skin, distorted, steps into the unknown. And since there is no way to positively record items that exceed the speed of light, we're forced to merely observe, send out as many as we can to various names in hopes that they'll just pull. Here's an approximate quote.
Oh, you got in there. Yes, that's great. That's a great place. There was a guy last year — oh what's his name — he said it was great. I can't remember who he was, but I'm so happy for you.
I should be a name on a piece of paper. I'm a pretty good editor. I catch stuff every day, every where. But it doesn't look like I'll be able to put food on the table with this skill after graduation. Instead, I feel the street calling me. I feel more like pitching a tent in various places. I feel, instead, like dropping completely away from a life inside this American machine. *thoughts of starvation, weeks of walking, and assimilation post-wanderlust*
I know that'll never happen. After this post I'll begin researching my life in order to distill necessary factual items into a resume, and then I'll do something with it. It doesn't matter. Should I include necessary drug information, relationship schema and band and songlists along with the dates? That would make for an interesting read. And, I guess, that is on my mind, and that is what's missing from my life present and future. Nothing means anything if you can't put it on a resume, right?

It's time for this cycle to come to a close. I've free time, true, but events that've been coming together in the weeks prior have came and went. Anticlimactic and heart-rending necesssary decisions have been made. Futures've been secured, and others are winding up in fantasy.
Someone once told me that people like me don't change. Whether this is true, time definitely changes, and with it I must say goodbye for a while. As always, I hope that the stuff of the world is in your hands. I hope that you don't feel too far away from love. I hope that at least once your heart is filled with such joy, with the right about of bitter counterbalance, that it overwhelms. I hope your pulse opens up, and allows for the feeling to run across your skin like a cat across the midday jungle dust, and tears stream down your face finally allowing submission — not submission of knowing that you must grindingly continue to try to impress teachers, employers, parents, friends, strangers, everyone, but submission to absolute love. You guys pray for me too, OK?

The Wednesday Headache

The headache began at 7 after reviving the machine. Checkkkka da tachkkkka! One hundred-sixty miles on one 12-gallon tank.
"That's OK, right?"
Simple pre-calculator mental neighborhooding of numbers opposed the out-loud statement.
"Yeah," as car warms, time 7:07, "Well fuck you, too."
Tone of the day: Set.
p.s. — 13mpg

A multitude of ironic occurrences comprises the preceeding 28 or so hours — yet none to talk about. Sometimes, irony's not all it's cracked up to be; irony can be made to be interesting quite easily, though mostta the time it's not. "Why not share, P-bone?" Self-censorship. Yes, I'm growing up!

" In the highest tower (second highest) of the gothic castle (Memorial U) he sits mainipulating brain chemistry (studying for tomorrow's human memory examination). After sealing himself in the chamber (random posh room) denigration of senses ensues. Lists condense into groups, as in 'chunking' for him, enrichly.
He types it later. "

Treason: Starbucks at 1 a.m. I engaged people of toward whom I've little reference. I've drank and now must study. Combo: questionable. No one givezzaffucck. People cross paths. Nothing means anything. I care about little, still. 1:20 a.m. Nothing changes. Grind it out, day in, day out. Nothing ever changes.

Hey everyone!
P-bone here. I was just nosing around on the internet, trying to fuck up all this human memory garbage (i.e. contextualize and encode, richly I might add,) when I discovered this little gem on the desktop of a random computer here at good ol' Ellis. Have a look!

(Name withheld, P-bone)
ENG 4300
Extra Credit Essay

Toby Keith: The Contemporary American Frontier Hero

Do you remember where you were when you first heard the news about September 11th? I know I do, and I bet everyone else who was above the age of five does too. The point is that on this fateful day, America was changed forever in some ways, and remained the same in others. Since the inception of our country, there has always been an idealistic view towards the “working man” or to put it in historical context, the “frontiersman.” Following the events of 9/11, we, as a country, have become a nation united, and wish to win the ultimate war, the war on terror. Well, it is debatable whether everyone is united in the war on terror, because the United States has always been so politically diverse. But, the image of the American Hero is still prominent in today’s society, as it has always been. Toby Keith, country music superstar, is meant to embody the modern day image of the American Hero; that is, a rugged, masculine, working class-kind-of-guy that people will identify with as one of their own, in order to sell Ford trucks.
Toby Keith is a country music superstar, which is an undeniable fact. And, in the United States, we are obsessed with celebrities and the culture that surrounds them. So it is natural that Ford would use a man such as Keith to be their spokesperson for their new line of 2007 trucks. Ford is obviously trying to tap into Keith’s image as a man’s man, a man that rolls up his sleeves and gets his hands dirty. But in all actuality, Keith is far from it. The reason that this image can be portrayed is because he is a country music superstar, and not a pop music superstar. Even though Keith may be considered by many a “sellout,” he can still embody the rugged manly man that many see him as because of the stigma attached to country music. ...

The essay goes on, and I smile.

1, like, totally deep post for monday

" 'She is what kind of crazy person?' he exclaimed. Earlier he'd to analyze The Onion's prose. Now this.
'The "What"'s not an auxiliary. Why'd I try it that way in the first place? Or is it "I did try it what way in the first place?"? '
He types it later. "

***EDIT*** 12/12 @ 12:12 p.m.
Doi! "I did try it that way in the first place why?" To get deep you need to try to sleep on it. Hell, this sentence kept me up all night.

Sentimental Sunday

xyxyx xyx subhead here xyxy yxxy
Often when walking or running (I find myself running to my destination and simultaneously wondering why. It's like the destination is temporally important. For just a few fleeting moments I am drawn to find the fastest possible way to work's current destination, class, the Paper, food, even into the house (which is mostly just to pick up things I've forgotten. On a given day, I forget much more than what goes in. Ms. Liponoga and I spoke of this a while ago, I think. Her young brain is like a sponge; it absorbs everything, and since there's not much else to go in but simple toils of the day it stays. My brain has reached a limit, as had my body (which also reacts differently toward certain alcohols. Before I could drink and drink and wake up feeling like one million dollars ($1 million, (or even more)), but now I'm finding certain grains react differently to me. Brandy, for instance, causes a really mellow drunk. Vodka, if not treated well, causes a stabbing-pain-in-the-head hangover. Beer causes the best hangovers.), on what is absorbed. In junior college I never studied. I got all As, every time (except math (and that was probably due to Ms. Foust (who I learned a bit later had a thing for me (which sprung from when me and now-Ms. Smith refused to watch "A beautiful mind" during her classtime)))but that' mostly due to me studying music, anyway), got high all the time, and played music All the Time. I was immortal.) and all without any good reason. Where will I be running a year from now?) I pretend my heart is a drum. Drum, drum, drum, drum, and so on. Blah Blah bla,...

yxy yy xxy and here xy xyxx
My brother's a tough guy. During basic (he's a marine) he did these drills where he and another recruit would take turns knocking their forearms into each other; both recruits' right forearm would collide, then the left, and so on. This was done to deaden the nerve in the arm, which when triggered correctly causes a great deal of pain. At another point in the training his drill instructor tried to activate that nerve in my brother, to no avail. My brother said the instructor was yelling like crazy. "I think the training's working, sir!" my brother shouted back.
Here's an approximate quote from his time at marine boot camp:

It's not hard. It's just more annoying than anything. If you can handle people just yelling at you for no reason then it's not so bad. They feed you well. ... The worst thing I had to do was, when, at one point they made us all take off our underwear and put them in a big pile. Then we had to pick out another pair and wear it; wear something that you know just touched another guys balls.
The Crucible wasn't so hard. Everything was just more annoying that difficult.

This sound familiar to anyone? Sure I might not have to wear other people's underwear, but what do people do, here in this town of Columbia, J-students!, that's more annoying than difficult? What are people subjected to that they can do, but there's just a lot of little details, which can be confused for difficulty in completion? My brother is now a corporal. He makes a load of money and has no more responsibility than that of the position from which he was promoted. How did he get promoted? "Just because I've been there longer than some of the other guys," he says. Draw your own analogies on this end, if you like. You know I do.
Is this the way the world works? Can't be, right?

"OMG P-bone, here it comes."

It makes me a little sad to know that journeys are only called difficult because they're tedious, and that the real hard journeys go unreported. And sad still, because this is just how things go. It is. There's no place for people like me.

Buzz punched a guy in the stomach; the guy'd asked whether his moon trip was a hoax.
FNA, I say.
I'm not made of that kinda stuff, but I'd like to be. "The stuff?" The kind that'd make it "OK" to strap rocket on back to shoot away from Gravity.

OK

The seat of my car is comfortable no longer. My couch has never been comfortable, nor my chair. The office chairs are not comforatble. The most uninjurous way to sit at E-gate is on milkcrates. My hair gets in the way of everything. I've been up for days on end. There's still stuff to do. My mattress is nearing its final days. The lights are blurring into a somewhat continuous stream of daylight, whether incandescent or flourescent. My muscles are laughing at me -- literally I feel them jones for something, some kind of fix. And the edges of reality begin to warp as a piece of cardboard, which is cut in the shape of a head and shoulders, that's been left in the bitter, driven winter snow. Instead of closing my eyes to open them up again it's merely a draft of gray until my hands are at a keyboard again, until I'm back in the steering wheel, until I have to be awake so that my social visage is once again...

"Wait, therezzzaa good song onnndda radio!"

mm - It's poetry in motion
and now she making love to me
the spheres are in commotion
the elements in harmony
mm - but she blinded me with science
and hit me with technology
When i'm dancing close to her
blinding me with science - science!
Science!
I can smell her chemicals
blinding me with science - Science!
Science!
It's poetry in motion
and now she's making love to me

... and afterward I've only seconds to drop the clutch and finish.

Today I remembered exactly why I'm so obsessed with the frontside of this barbershop; this obsession's led me to choose this barber shop as the subject for my photo class' final project. I remembered while passing the local organic food eatery and looking inside, which paralyzed me for a moment.

" At Walgreens, the gentleman who retrieved his developed photos commented randomly that he'd suddenly become incensed with some dense aroma.
'I smell coffee,' the gentleman said.
'I work at Lakota,' he replied, aware that follows him always.
'It's good, If I'd to choose a stink, err, ..."
He types it later. "

" 'Do you work at the liquor store?' he reads on the back of a handout; a note scrawled quickly to him for easy readability across the computer lab.
He nods.
The second part of the note reveals: 'Thought so'.
He gives the gentleman the devil-horned fist, and types it later. "

All day I hunted for a pencil. Mr. Swafford's office, several buildings' main floors, Lakota, the Machine (my car). After heading down to a pizza eatery from the Paper, I spotted one lying amid the snow — completely intact.
"Score!"
I'm so jazzed I've decided to work all night into morning.

Sentimental Sunday

I'm proving completely unproductive in the final few hours of this semester. All I want to do is to head into Shakespeares' and eat a slice. Certain things I feel are winding up, you know, in here *tap heart.* So, how about that slice.

I like to make sounds. Obsequious sounds. I've started reading both "against the day" and "house of leaves" in tandem. This's my most un symbolystic post yet. Prolly not fity words. I
'll nver lern to spell rite. Fuck youall.


P-bone.

FUCK YOU!!!

Last night I took pictures. It was snowing at a fair rate.
Example: Some ladies dressed in their club bests entered Harpo's, high-heeling through the then-3".
Derived: The pictures're blurry; I've much to know about photography. That picture was priceless, but I was/am unable to get it. I'm forever sad.