On My Mind

"Often, during my association with Sensei, I was disappointed in this way. Sometimes, Sensei seemed to know that I had been hurt, and sometimes, he seemed not to know. but no matter how often I experienced such trifling disappointments, I never felt any desire to part from Sensei. Indeed, each time I suffered a rebuff, I wished more than ever to push our friendship further. I thought that with greater intimacy, I would perhaps find in him those things that I looked for. I was very young, it is true. But I think that I would not have behaved quite so simply towards others. I did not understand then why it was that I should behave thus towards Sensei only. But now, when Sensei is dead, I am beginning to understand. It was not that Sensei disliked me at first. His curt and cold ways were not designed to express his dislike of me, but they were meant rather as a warning to me that I would not want him as a friend. It was because he despised himself that he refused to accept openheartedly the intimacy of others. I feel great pity for him."

- From Natsume Soseki's Kokoro (Translated, "The Heart of Things").

"When the railroad in its turn ran beneath the surface of the water, the convicts did not even know it. They felt the train stop, they heard the engine blow a long blast which wailed away unechoed across the waste, wild and forlorn, and they were not even curious; they sat or stood behind the rain streaming windows as the train crawled on again, feeling its way as the truck had while the brown water swirled between the trucks and among the spokes of the driving wheels and lapped in cloudy steam against the dragging fire-filled belly of the engine; again it blew four short harsh blasts filled with the wild triumph and defiance yet also with repudiation and even farewell, as if the articulated steel itself knew it did not dare stop and would not be able to return. Two hours later in the twilight they saw through the streaming windows a burning plantation house. Juxtaposed to nowhere and neighbored by nothing it stood, a clear steady pyre-like flame rigidly fleeing its own reflection, burning in the dusk above the watery desolation with a quality paradoxical, outrageous and bizarre."

- William Faulkner, If I Forget Thee, Jerusalem

Changes

Hokay. I'm trying to decide what I should do while I'm out of school. Any advice would be great.

Choice a:

Stay in the Atlanta apartment, find some sort of semi-respectable job I can work at until early April. Good: enjoy great Atlanta Spring, hang out with fun Atlanta people, live by myself. Bad: it's probably going to take some time to find a job, I'll be around the same Atlanta people, and I probably won't earn or save much money.

Choice b:

Fly to Chicago after getting back from Charleston, work for a relative up here, installing/putting together computers. Good: meet new people, make lots of money, new city to explore, free room at my Uncle's awesome apartment. Bad: don't know anyone up here, not sure I know how to do the job I'll be hired for, it'll be damn cold, and I'll be living in the city but working in the suburbs, and I'll need to pay for travel to and from Chicago.

A Borges Influenced View of the Office

The office is the natural home of conspiracy. An air conditioner-glazed eye falls on a folder marked ‘ETSU Mouse House 2005’, or ‘Jeblomie, Haywood - CSS’, and the spark of conspiracy is born. A sudden attentiveness as the movement of torsos past cubicles gains ancient significance, ants on a prayer wheel, wind against the mandala’s sand. Who else knows? The secretary must, she watches them gather and leave for “lunch”. Marketing gains a new intern each semester, Design is populated only by bearded men in suspenders and shapeless women in their grandmother’s dresses. This conspiracy has schismed once at least, dividing operations between New York, DC, and Atlanta. This split between Marketing and Design may reflect an unhealed rift in relations, a poison in the conspiracy’s clean blood since this branch’s establishment.

[I'm temping right now. It's alright, but I could use a real job. Give me all your money.]

Ready to get out, crush babies, etc.

And I gots lots of books to read, places to go.

Words I woke up thinking:

It hit him like a sock full of socks emptied into a washing machine which was then dropped at him from a tenth story window.

Life is strange.

Remember to hate.

At Least I'm Using My Time Wisely, pt2

A continuation of the mushroom story recently published in The Tower:

Later, morning, took the newspaper in, soaked in dew, unwrapped, finished vodka behind headboard, sleep.

Can feel myself dreaming as its sleeping and feeling the opposite of the park trip. Big checkered boxes and bar graphs and IF OR AND NOT's broken by patches of the old mushroom induced wing trip.

And as I recollect against these furrowed sheets the rough of brick against naked back shadow of not-grown-wing memory. I curl and push the covers back like a dog dreaming of open fields.

The boxes again, a calendar of the rip, two days ago the brownies, Trip Month One, day one. Cooking, drinking, waiting on the porch which belonged to the guy we bought from. That's three months before even doing anything but drink. We weren't sure if the oven should be at 400 or 450.

Jack, before we left the park, throwing those golden flowers at joggers. He ran track, 800 meter, 1200 meter.

This is amazing.

Every second I turn and feel the spot on my back just under where my shoulder blades push hardest against skin.

My mother worries downstairs. I left the door unlocked, my shoes on, an empty carton in the fridge, go a 2100 on the SAT's, I'll fit in too well at State in the city, grey hair at her age?

Cliques that Matter

Things Which Are for Pretty People:

Drinking Responsibly
Ponies
Umbrellas
Espresso
Hats
Lemon Peels in Drinks
Thai Food
Cars
Not Buying Condoms in Bulk
The Two Dollar Bill
Stainless Steel Cookware
Teaspoons
Dancing During the Daytime


Things Which Are for Ugly People:

Higher Education
Eye Shadow
The Internet
The Written Word
Contraceptives
Trenchcoats
Knitting
Libraries
Random Makeouts in Dimly Lit Rooms
Cats
Veganism
Costume Parties
Newspapers
Grain Alcohol
The Two Dollar Bill
Talk Like a Pirate Day
Indie Music
Punk Music
Fuck It, Pretty Much Every Musical Genre Ever Created

Lightning Bolt is Fucking Awesome in the Mornings

So I go to sleep extra early last night, 'cause I'm supposed to be awake at 7:30 this morning. And then I spend untill about 2am rolling between 4 different sleep positions, knowing that the problem isn't the position I'm sleeping in, but all these words running through my head. Looks like it's time to write more.

Also, I'm listening to a song called "Mohawk Windmill", by Lightning Bolt.

Couldn't find a copy online, but listen to this (http://www.loadrecords.com/sound/lightningbolt_draculamountain.mp3), and be amazed.

I Spent Two Hours Pasting Bitches to Walls Yesterday

I read this really great short story last night. Tempted to just type the whole thing up in this bitch. Bitch being slang for basically anything. As in Zack's example, "I'll leave as soon as I get these bitches tied".

Erhm. That's the sound my brain's making right now. I'm not sure why it reminds me of the sound a coffee machine makes right before it's gotten all the steaming water into the carafe. Goddamn I've got to stay the fuck away from surrealism.

Anyway, here's some pretty pictures:









I think those last two make up for the first one.

College is For Ugly People

Discuss.

Ogle-Philosophy, Inanition

Discussion seems to randomly gravitate towards Oglethorpe's philosophy department, and what's wrong with it. We're working on a solution. Keep watching this space for more info.

Reading through A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, and I keep finding words I don't know, which is damn unusual. This is one of them. I like it. It seems like a good word to relate to the novel as a whole.

Dictionary.com:

inanition \in-uh-NISH-uhn\, noun:
1. The condition or quality of being empty.
2. Exhaustion, as from lack of nourishment.
3. Lack of vitality or spirit.

Inanition derives from Latin inanitio, "emptiness," from inanire, "to make empty," from inanis, "empty." It is related to inane, "lacking sense or intelligence; pointless."


Dorland's Medical Dictionary:

inanition (in·a·ni·tion) (in”ə-nish´ən) [L. inanis empty] marked weakness, extreme weight loss, and decreased metabolism due to prolonged severe insufficiency of food (starvation).

City Hall East is a Huge Hunk of Brick

Why is it that trees must be skeletal, thinks me, between watching the sidewalk for suddenly uprooted pavement. There is a business card in the bush to my right, I guess the bush is holly, though I'm also sure my guess is incorrect. It could be a good guess, if I had four choices, and I was sure one of the choices was a type of tree, and the other two choices were bushes I had never seen before.

The traffic suddenly clears, and I start across the four lane road. I watch myself from the eyes of drivers under red traffic lights on both sides, listening to NPR or classic rock, in this section of town. I look both ways too often, swinging my head rapidly and foolishly even before I've crossed two lanes. The drivers watch me, and drink 9am coffee, and wait for the light to change.

It's really the cracks in the sidewalk which are skeletal. A good comparison, the type I'd write down if I was still at work, but will instead forget on the way home. Really a very good comparison as the cracks beneath my feet open like great negative spaces in the city's sidewalk exoskeleton.

A homeless man limps by, and he is too wrapped against the cold for our eyes to meet.

I won't think about my earlier decision to volunteer at a shelter until I'm waiting for my coffee and oatmeal at home. Two things about that last thought before I go back to watching the sidewalk; the thought which skitters light across my mind in the cold of a sidewalk next to newly renovated lofts, along a busy street. First, the coffee. I've stopped at two cups a day, thought I wish I was the sort to drain a pot of coffee and halfpack of cigarettes for lunch. Second, home. I travel a lot, I think, compared to other people, though my immediate circle does tend to enjoy travel. For me, home is the place I sleep, which is one of two possible ways for frequent travelers to understand home.

Cash Money Mob has tagged the bus stop shelter ahead of me, and the women pulled against the shelter's shield seems to strain from the grafiti, though her position is only a result of the early cold.

Living in a K-Hole

I don't know why I haven't been listening to more of the Silver Jews. Especially the stuff they did before Tanglewood Numbers, like American Water. Perfect music for sitting on the porch with a heavy glass of sippin' bourbon, watching the sunset behind tree flower shapes and reflected off skyscraper sides.

Falls pretty nice. I've got all the windows open on the windward side of my place, and the sun's setting almost fast enough to watch, like the speed you get over west coast oceans.

It's funny. We don't get real sun in the cold months. And the weather's miserable. And sometimes I feel like shouting against the cold and just heading south 'till I hit equator. But this is one of those rare good cold days. Cold strong wind, torn patches of cloud against skylines, and things are starting to line up.

(title: wiki ketamine)

Dr Collins is a Fucking Clownshoes

I really don't understand Dr Collins.

I mean, I've always assumed that you should trust teachers. I trust most people, but teachers especially because they don't seem to have much reason to lie to students. However, Collins has lied to me every time I've spoken with him.

I realized he would be lying a lot after our first meeting, so I did all the work for the Oxford application myself, even the things one might expect an advisor's help with.

Things Collins has lied about:

Due date of application
Requirements for admission
Information to be sent with application
Length of Oxford term
Time term begins
Date at which he would email me information (he said two weeks ago, I'm still waiting)
Date at which he would speak with Oxford people (also two weeks ago, but I haven't heard anything since)
Scholarships available for study abroad

Why isn't someone else doing Dr Collins' job?

Topics Are Subtropical

Siouxsie & the Banshees' Hong Kong Garden is the greatest song ever written. My god. Head currently equals 75% Hong Kong Garden, 10% Twisted Little Fingers' Suspect Device, 10% London Calling, 5% Spanish Bombs.

And I should be writing. Like, for school. 3 pages to go.

That Chorus is Horrible

Song Title: Exerpts from the Surrealist Manifesto, to the Tune of Siouxsie and the Banshees' "Hong Kong Garden"

He is wasting his time, for I refuse to go into his room.
Others’ laziness or fatigue does not interest me.
I have too unstable a notion of continuity
to equate or compare my moments of depression or weakness with my best moments.
[chorus]
Let's build a raft out of eagle bones.
floating homes
endangered is just another word
gone, tear down these zones
[/chorus]
Let us not mince words:
the marvelous is always beautiful,
anything marvelous is beautiful,
in fact only the marvelous is beautiful.
[chorus]
Let's build a raft out of eagle bones.
floating homes
endangered is just another word
gone, tear down these zones
[/chorus]
Man, that inveterate dreamer,
daily more discontent with his destiny,
has trouble assessing the objects he has been led to use,
objects that his nonchalance has brought his way,
[chorus]
Let's build a raft out of eagle bones.
floating homes
endangered is just another word
gone, tear down these zones
[/chorus]
This summer the roses are blue;
the wood is of glass.
The earth, makes as little impression upon me as a ghost.
[chorus]
Let's build a raft out of eagle bones.
floating homes
endangered is just another word
gone, tear down these zones
[/chorus]
It is living and ceasing to live which are imaginary solutions.
Existence is elsewhere.