Sentimental Sunday — 2

This environment isn't altogether accepting — meaning that the word "accepting" is not an accurate qualifying adjective for the general attitude that populations around me have. Tolerant — maybe a fraction closer. But I don't want to give this place too much credit.

Shooting the shit with Mr. Tone in his apartment the other day, I noticed a book on the floor in his office. The title escapes me now. It was a self-help book for homosexuals to openly assert his or her sexuality to his or her parents or guardians. It was quickly thereafter that Mr. Tone confided in me his "alternative" lifestyle ("alternative" as termed by the governing body of G-boro, a nearby population in which bars exclusively homosexual are prohibited, and the closest sort of activity for homosexuals, and counterculture in general, are for regular, omnisexual bars to hold "alternative" Fridays, and somesuch). This news was surprising.

In hopes of achieving succinct contriteness, a hallmark of 50 word stories that I've already broken here, I'll get to the point by first saying this this: It's fucking hard to be a homo around here.

I don't know exactly how hard. I've got the nice, straight-person problems. And for someone who's gay in this town, he or she is more likely to get a parade before getting laid around here — both distant realities.

Mr. Tone told me a little story about the book, about his prior landlord kicking him out, about the Army (insert your own jokes, he's got plenty), about his father, and about life in general. The story lasted about 30-40 seconds. Afterward, we watched a motion picture, which we both recommend.

Anyway, here's what I want to say: I haven't been laid in longer than I care to think. It sucks, but at least when I do get a good girl to take my arm and cruise these empty buildings with me, it'll be socially acceptible. There is a blessing that very nearly puts things into perspective (of course, the adjective "blessing" would be redundant if people 'roun' these parts could be called "tolerant," but that's another rant). I can only provide prayers to Mr. Tone. He's had an unfortunate run of things in the past few weeks ... apartment catching fire, j-o-b ending, transportation proving unreliable, Hank the Dog chewing up his stuffs. He did find another job quickly, which is good. And really, the point of it all, if Mr. Tone can live with this population and achieve a modicum of happiness — in spite of his unfortunate occurrences both recent and ongoing — surely so can I.

So, as far as my escape plans go, phase one will not yet to come to fruition for a good pile of months. I've accepted this place for what it is: my present tense. And with no prospects for a ladyfriend in the meantime, I've resolved to adopt a number of activities others could simplify into calling hobbies: oil painting, knife throwing, baking, collecting redneck jargon, and a part-time job.

Sentimental Sunday — 1

The violence in my dreams has dropped sharply. Instead, a collection of friends from years ago appear. Mr. Smith, Mr. Brewer, Ms. Daniels, and even that hippie Misty have all offered cameo appearances in my head. On Sunday, I dreamt of Ms. 2012. She was driving up Cherry Street while I was in my machine right behind her.

Set up: Days before I worked up the courage to talk to her, I had planned to talk to her after the design class we shared was over. I started to talk to her after that class, but lost my nerve. While driving back to my apartment, I noticed she was in the car ahead of me. I had thought about jumping out of the car and talking to her on the street — It'd've been unplanned, exciting and maybe a little romantic. However, I did not do this, losing my nerve in the 45 seconds it took for the street light to change.

In the dream, I got out of the car. I took the uneasy steps toward her Ion and stopped by the driver's door. I wanted to lift my hands to tap on the glass, but I couldn't. They seemed to have been bound at my sides. Additionally, she wouldn't look over, seeming not to acknowledge me; she didn't ignore me or observe me, I just wasn't there. I felt frustration and bitter, heart-rending acceptance.

Ms. 2012 drove ahead. The smell of freshly roasted espresso beans filled the air. The cloud came from Lakota, and I started to walk that way. In the alley, one of CoMo's homeless kids sat on some box. He was shadowed in a way that seemed natural in the alley, but is unnatural from the reality that I remember. He cocked his head toward me with a knowing, shithead sneer.

As I rounded the block walking up Ninth Street, I noticed the row of buildings across the street from Lakota was demolished. That K-ldi's joint, Uncle Paul's, Makes Scents, that U of M store, on up to T-llers: rubble. I woke up. My heart was pounding.

A few days ago, I discovered her blog. I referenced her entries with my entries and nearly started crying, maybe I did a little. I don't remember.

Even though words make no difference now, I still feel terrible. I've lost my head. My cushy life in this boring town offers me only opportunities for a thorough introspection into the gross details of my life. Even if I will myself to focus attention toward more upbeat subjects, my dreams conclude the cycle of my heart's desire — only with decidedly more vague and emotionally entangled resolutions.

Intermission

Link
Very little dignity still remains in this country.
But, it's still alive.
Link

Sentimental Sunday — 2

I had a dream last night. After looking in the mailbox I found some cards from friends. When I brought them in, Ms. Benji was cooking something. I was so happy to see her I started laughing uncontrollably. We talked around the kitchen of my apartment here in K-town, which for some reason had a table and art and lots of other things. We kissed once and cooked something and ate it. She asked if she could go to the bank to check something, implying the drive into K-town was a bit expensive. I informed her it was Sunday, and the banks were closed.
When I woke up, I was immediately disappointed. However, I'm taking this as a good sign. So, maybe I can live here and have a good time. Today, I completed my first oil painting while lounging by that river that runs through town. There were two men down by the water's edge: a father and son pair. They were fishing. It was overcast. My painting isn't that great. Nevertheless, I feel I've already come out from under my spell of dispair. My dreams have recovered from corruption.

On an unrelated note, my neighbor, Mr. Tone, had a kitchen fire in his apartment. His hand suffered a second-degree burn from extinguishing it. A sizeable portion of his kitchen is ashen. Direct your prayers to that guy please.

Tomorrow's another week. And even though I can predict everything, the place is becoming tolerable.

Sentimental Sunday — 1

This life is nothing if it's not predictable.

Fans, traitors, lovers, haters, everyone in the middle, where I wish I was now — I'm not interesting. I tried to have a life this weekend, but it's not going to work out. I don't belong here.

Unfortunately, I've no alternative but to stay. If I had the option of a continual return into this world, things might be different. However, there's only one existence: the here and now. Like I said before, things are as they are and they aren't going to change any time soon.

If you really care to, check in from time to time. Don't expect anything great; there's nothing great to be written right now. If you had watched and wanted me to take a wrong turn, congradulations. If you were in the handful that actually cared about me, and wished me the gift of inner prosperity, I can say nothing other than I've let you down.

The time has come again to surrender my self, my will, to that current which takes us all to where we will go. It's not very strong right now. It's a drought, afterall. Please, pray for me; I need some good thoughts.

To you, the readership, I can assure you that I'll be here, wasting away, wasting my life, just like before. Now, though, my dreams are corrupted, and my hopes are only of

Sentimental Saturday

"Hey. How you been?
"Yeah, I really want to know. Like you even have to ask.
"The job's OK. It's fine enough. The town's OK. It looks nice outdoors. There's a lot of empty buildings, especially downtown. The people are nice.
"There're some people here, though, I don't know about. See, there's no middle. And the rich people I've meet all seem a little off, like they have no problem robbing anyone.
"Yeah, well you remember how paranoid I get.
"The only place I've found that I can hang out at is the paper. There're no places for me here.
"I still think about you a lot. I wonder how your life is. Like, what you wear, how you talk, what all is different. You keep your hair cut? Is it in some kind of fashion now? I mean, are you looking the part?
"I don't even think I know this guy you're living with. Like, even know of him.
"I can tell that I'm already planning my escape from this place. But, to keep any kind of career I might want to have in the future I'm committed for at least a year. Then again, you remember the thing about me and committments.
"How did you move in with another guy so fast?
"I've checked out your pages online. They're decent. Joy would approve. I'm doing some good things here, too.
"I think that's going to be the only thing holding me together for this next year: designing pages. That and once I get my computer, maybe a nice long story.
"—God, things would be soooo different now. Impossible to tell exactly what would be different, but I can be sure of one thing: I wouldn't be alone. And right now, that would be enough."

Tomorrow, the machine is going in to see a specialist. I'm nervous for her, Jenny. She hasn't ran the same since the Smokies. What if it's ... Cancer! I don't know what I'd do. "Come on now, P-bone. We don't know that." Yeah, but I can't help thinking of the worst.

You know who/what I miss? Ms. Amur. Mr. Collins. Mr Tissi. Ms. Trinklein. Lakota. Jingo's takeout. Sunsets on the garage.
You know who/what I like? Hank the dog. Mr. Life. Mr. Tone. Ms. Shutterbug. The paper. Main Moon takeout. Scotch on my sofa. Choppin' wood on Saturday. North Carolina sunsets.

"He sends a text: 'Happy late birthday!' to Ms. Familiar. This is funny because the day before her birthday he sent a text: 'Happy early birthday!'
He receives a text: 'Thank you. ...'
Considering a prior text conversation, in which a meltdown ensued, he worries about her and types it later."

The Wednesday Headache

Nothing, nothing, causes me more of a headache than a typogroo0uphical error. Factors of intensity include caffeine level in my bloodstream (which's low at 7 a.m.), which publication, prominence of size, promimence of erred content and opportunity for sexual activity after observation. My head really hurts now because of nightside.

The josiusmisoim school finally caught up with me this morning. Some suit callin' my cellular for $1,100 or so. Fuck 'em! ... Actually, not really. I'm a square now, remember. Squares always pay up, like good little voters/taxpayers/homeowners/consumers/medicine-guinea-pigs/status-quotients.
—Half the classes were priceless; the other half worthless. "Fair enough, I guess."

Disturbing dreams continue. The other night I was a divorce attorney. My client's ex was a giant Preying Mantis intent on killing me in some strange apartment. A few others've got me, knife at my throat, paralyzed. I can't figure what's wrong. ... if I had some company while sleeping maybe...

It seems that 50 word stories has once again garnered another member of the "loyal" readership. And, in keeping with tradition, I'm linking posts of a time one could describe as previous. Well, I guess you could describe them as nonessential, regarding journalism, regarding chicks, regarding sex, regarding drinking, ... etcetera.

At 4:47 p.m. EST, I spotted these two articles in the fold. Note the time disparity, as well as the respective quoted numbers of supporters for the currenly-dominant candidate via popular social networking Web site. Project ahead and see how easily the youth of this country can be controlled. Yuuuh—Yuuuuhh—Yuuuu—YIKES!!!

Sentimental Sunday comment

I've come to the conclusion that small towns always seem find a way to draw you back in after you've gotten out. Out of one, into another. There are those of us who've lived here most of our lives, then made the escape, and yet somehow found ourselves back again.

And then we, like you, wonder every day if moving back was a big mistake. But I hope you enjoy your time in K-town while you're here. It's not so bad. There are moments now and then that remind me why I decided to come back all those years ago.

In honor of your blog's title every paragraph here's fifty words long. I discovered your blog a couple weeks ago, hope you don't mind. I know it can be weird knowing people you know outside the internet are reading. But I like blogs (it's why I wrote a blog book).

-Shana
(aka, as Pat says, the girl who has the biggest office at the FP)


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Shana Norris
http://www.shananorris.com
Something to Blog About - February '08 (Amulet Books)

Sentimental Sunday

There are several things on my mind at the moment.
= Last night I had a fairly interesting night shooting pool and singing kareoke. I say interesting because my company, Mr. Tone, kept on pounding Hypnotiq Breazes and proving himself to be the wrong person with which to cruise chicks.
= I watched the second half of the airing of a television program this morning. The content of said program reaffirms my apathy toward the state of American politics. It wasn't enough to analyze all the analogies toward sporting events — my favorite is the horse race specifically because of its general abundance — but to observe further the bickering details regarding quips and how "likeable" and blah blah blah. Pretty soon, these little "races" are going to be given the same hype as that of your garden-variety Brad&Jenn break-up: worthless pop culture. —Somebody! Give me a good reason to believe supporting one or the other will mean anything; show me how (if it's not already decided) having one candidate win over the other will be any different. —Anybody!
= I surrendered a total of about $400 on drinks, a couch, a coatrack, oil painting supplies and a television stand. And as I enjoy them, there comes over me a sinking feeling, which is a nice segue to ...
= I can't quite place whether moving here was a big mistake. I'm going to side against it, but today, while driving, I gave this subject a great deal of thought.
It really doesn't matter where I am. As long as the weather is nice. *Look outside to K-town's bella vista y tiempo* For the most part, the girls in this town don't seem like the marrying kind, but they don't seem like the girlfriend kind either. They most definitely seem like the fling kind, but they also come off as being the (lack of better term) small-town-minded kind. Basically, I have a feeling I won't get into that much trouble, which's good.
Here is a thought I simultaneously formulated and delivered to this lipsticked chick a while ago while looking at puppies in the K-town mall: Places like these tend to have an overarching mindset. That is, when individuals spend years of their early life living in such a place, they develop a distaste for it. "You know, gotta branch out, see what's else's there's." I can recognize this in the locals. After all, it wasn't so long ago that I tried and succeeded in leaving my town behind — and that place was fucking bad. So the sinking feeling I'm experiencing is due to the fact that I've left one town that everyone wants to escape, only to settle in another town where everyone wants to escape. I'm a hippie in a strange town deep in the depths of a strange state.
But anyway, nothing matters. At the end of this train of thought, I decided this town is as good as any. The fact that it's not so great is not the point, is it.
= ... I need to get laid like now.

The Mane Attraction

One of a handful of negative remarks I've sustained throughout the entire 30-month ###EDIT 32-month ### experiment with my hair came sometime last week. After purchasing $5 in gasoline, I was walking back to the pump to take my claim.
"You ever heard of scissors," came a voice from the backseat of a grey Alero with a rust spot above the passenger wheel, "XY" as the first two characters on the North Carolina license plate, and a round, fist-sized, multicolored bumper sticker on the bottom left corner of the back window. "Snip, snip." The approximately 5-foot 10-inch caucasian youth wearing a clean, white, ebroidered trucker's cap on cocked to one side; an oversized white T-shirt with a large, square, black and white graphic logo in the center; and loose denim jeans, said while motioning his fingers in a manner mimicking the mechanics of ordinary scissors.
I continued walking to my machine while maintaining eye contact with the youth. He muttered and continued whatever he was doing as well.
As I pumped, I watched him exit the vehicle to have a coversation with someone sitting in a dark green SUV parked alongside the Alero. In his hands, he had a fair-sized, shiny object, the finish of which made it easily recognizable as blown glass. It was about as tall as a can of soda. Upon tipping it in a manner I deduced was its obverse position, a thin trail of liquid poured onto the pavement.
"Burnouts," I said, quite loudly.
The youth made the mechanical motion again while extending a sole middle finger in my general direction.
In the seconds after I pulled out of the gas station's lot, I saw a blue&white cruise in. And a few hours later I bought a new bottle of shampoo.

Something's wrong. Its symptom is being reflected in more than just newspapers, though newspapers are the first to've been striken with such an affliction — like canaries in the cave. CEOs are not the only ones regarding humanity as a machine with interchangeable parts. And it is worse than it looks.

Can you imagine the class act's that produce this show? How many briefcases of cash do you think they'd need just to film one episode? Having screen the episode that aired last night, I feel slightly robbed of my time, yet, admittadly, feel a certain admiration for the production folk.

The Wednesday Headache

Looks like my brother is going to survive his second brush with the Japanese after all. Not only that, but I will see him soon. Below is a transmission submitted blind from deep in Japanese territory. Can't recall when we were last face to face. It's been awhile.
How are things this week man? I go back to America on the 13th! I am so
excited that I accidentally killed a conveinient store clerk with my mind!
When I get to San Diego I get 8 days of leave, then I go back to work until
the 23rd of February, then I am free. What should I do with the rest of my
life? Any ideas?
-Let me know
G

In my dreams last night, the same feeling came over me as on Sunday night — like some child exposed to a terrible reality in the world: heart-rending, disturbing. This feeling won't go away. Where'd it come from? It seems like it's coming from outside of me; I can't explicate further.

At dinner last year, I noticed a couple in love. It was their eyes. Love was plainly visible when she looked into his eyes. I've often wrote about my desire for a woman to look at me in such a way. Is it possible? ... I may not deserve such looks.

After a while tonight, I thought romance was dead. Ms. Familiar killed it, oh yes. Well... she killed the facsimile for which I would've settled. But then, I saw it reborn — at a distance — in a deserving pair.
I'm going to #### ## #### ##### as I can in 2008.