New Words

This day feels limnent. Limnent, from subliminal, immanent, and luminous. Like dreaming of being about to wake up. Or waking up, at least, waking up during that time of life when it's obvious you've got more years of life remaining to live than you've spent thus far.

I Became a Counselor So I Could Tell Rape Victims They Asked For It

Seven years of bad luck, but it seems this world's full of mirrors, and every step the breakage of another reflection.

Which is why I shouldn't take public transportation, these thoughts running through my head. What do I mean? What was I thinking?

People. The other person as a reflection of myself. Is that an American thing? We seem so self conscious, or perhaps I just feel more conscious of how I act, how I think around foreigners. So many questions... how can you really know what a person thinks, speaking in their second language? It's always been a problem for me, and I suppose the problem exists even in my home, where the only language spoken is our first.

Green light, no cars. The few feet between sidewalk and black asphalt's strewn with glass and cigarette butts. And, further off the road, I can see it clearly now in an image, one that I make into words as I think it, but the first thing I see when I think of those bushes in the empty lot between gas station and liquor store:

wet grass, stilldamp from morning dew in the shadow of higher bushes, and cradled in ones, each 2'4” from the other, small bottles, each with a well known name. Vodka mainly, or whiskey, sometimes gin, but those names are

Well known to me, drinking, but I've heard it said that wondering if you have a problem is the first indication that the problem exists. I fear to apply this same rational to the other problems in my life. Though I suppose, in the nights that I've spent thinking about it, the rational, I have applied it to my life as a whole, which takes the whole choice away, and I don't know why I've been watching those pigeons instead of the light, because suddenly the walk faster sign is blinking, and I've got another road to cross, taking my first step while I'm still remembering the bottles.

Further up my path, when this road intersects with MLK just before passing that sad little park. There's always the same two homeless men there, one of them huddled into himself, almost indistinguishable from the garbage bags the other roots through. Roots through? Why do I say that? If anything, the first man – the huddled one – is more animal. I've never seen his eyes, even when summer sets asphalt boiling and walkers like myself fermenting in damp and sweat itched clothes.

The second if anything, is higher than man, a sort of animal-man hybrid blending into his environment in the same way that I've never believed existed, even after seeing him every day and every evening, talking with him on occasion, most notably the one I remember as I think of rooting through trash bags along this stretch of side road, rimmed on either side with warehouse loading docks.

It was one of the hotter months, maybe August

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That's as far as I've gotten. I'm taking the day to walk down Clark until I hit a supposedly interesting area just along the lake. There's some used bookstores, people much better dressed than me, coffee shops, the usual in that sort of area.

I'm really going there to prove that it's still possible to get into the city without a car. I'm maybe two miles into the five mile walk, finishing lunch (coffee and bagels) in Uncommon Grounds (recently voted "the city's best coffee and social spot"). I dunno. I'm not really a social person. I'm sitting here looking out the window, and occasionally waiters come by. It's quite cozy.

The story above's loosely based on my life, loosely on my brother's, and there's a good mix of overheard stories and plain fiction in there. I suppose the style would be called realist, with modernist touches. The transition between the narrator's thoughts and his description of the airline booze bottles could be considered post-modern.

I should write science fiction. I was thinking of a quick adventure story - you know, bounty hunter with all sorts of cool gadgets, except, in the story, he'll be a dorky IT guy, whose job just happens to include killing brain sucking parasites which invade the company ship's mainframe. It'll be fun. I might even stick in some open source jokes for Brit.

Criticism, comments, and suggestions are always welcome. Also, yo mamma jokes.

Fucking Yes.

Cheer up kids! School will be over soon, and Nextwave will blow stuff up!

Fuck Memes.

Reply to this post, and I'll tell you one or two (maybe even three) reasons why I hate you.

Then put this in your own journal, and spread the hate.

Chicago Needs More Pretty People

Here's an idea: Know anyone interesting and full of life in Chicago? Get them to contact me. We'll run around or something. I'm seriously starved for non-boring companionship. See below:

Working in an office is seriously weird. I feel like my eyeballs are wearing mittens.

Though that could be because I got bored at home and went to this place called The Empty Bottle were they fed me Blackened Catfish Tacos, $2 bottles of PBR, and a good local band opening for a sort of shitty Scottish band called Frightened Rabbit. Also, they had a separate room with a couch (containing a cat) and a pool table, so I petted the cat and read a local music magazine between sets. Also, I drank a beer, which the cat tried to eat, and it was great.

Felt very morose during the non-cat/eating taco parts of the night, didn't even try to hit on Random Boring Scene Girl who was totally out of my league. Of course, it was also pretty dark in there, but the crowd seemed uglier than one might usually expect at a $7 show, and older, so I didn't think the RBSG actually made an appearance. Also, I think the winters here make people old and ugly.

My social life seems to pendulum back and forth: on weekends, Carl and Jeff take me to hang out with yuppies, gay guys (indistinguishable from yuppies), and lesbian sculptors. On weekdays, I venture out into the wilds of Chicago, using the hour of daylight after work to find some way to surround myself with beautiful women who will feed me grapes and make limericks about my private parts. My strategy so far has been to just go for walks, and it is failing terribly, but the walks are a lot of fun. Really, the walks are more fun than my normal strategy RE female companionship - getting drunk and pretending to be a Fun Guy.

The place I work is all underground. See, it's a really fancy retirement home, which means all the pretty stuff is above ground, surrounded by elm trees taller than any tree you'll ever see in Atlanta. So they stick all the employees in offices buried in deep underground bunkers, and the underground facility is huge and sprawling like your mother, so I spend a substantial portion of each day getting lost on my way to supply closets or bathrooms or cafeterias.

Anyway, I got back from the show about 1, read and interneted for a bit, fell asleep at 2, woke at 6:50, fell asleep again, woke at 7:16, said "oh shit" in my head, and got to work only a few minutes late. On the other hand, I'm dressed in a manner which could only be described as "sharp". As in: Bluish white dress shirt composed of intricate gridwork, black pants made from spun hatred, shoes which were approved by Carl before purchase, and a belt which is just the right color. Actually, all of these items were approved by Carl before purchase, otherwise I'd be sitting here in sleeves too long for me looking like a fucking dork, as opposed to now, when I'm sitting here looking like a fucking pimp who is also a dork and smuggles a copy of Dubliners into the office every day.

Nietzsche, Inside Jokes

"That the ascetic ideal has meant so much to man, however, is an expression of the basic fact of the human will, its horror vacui: it needs a goal, - and it would rather will nothingness than not will."

-Nietzsche, On the Genealogy of Morality, "Third Treatise: What Do Ascetic Ideals Mean?"

My Thoughts:

- I opened the book randomly, sitting on my bed idly watching my brother play video games, petting the cat with the one foot hanging over my bed's board. But the funny part, the funny part is this wreckage of party around me, bottles, cups, a reek of booze like happiness filtered through chemicals and red fruit. And my brother's cut and bleeding, a casualty of too much happiness in one night. And I'm reading about Asceticism, while thinking about Aesthetics, or, more accurately, wondering why I don't agonize over aesthetics.

- It's a strange world out thar.

- After dipping my toes into Derrida, Genet, and other Frenchmen, Nietzsche's a lot easier to read.

- Genet charges $5 for a toe dip. Haha.

Lexx!

Your results:
You are Lex Luthor

Lex Luthor 45% Apocalypse 45% Venom 42% Dr. Doom 42% Catwoman 42% Dark Phoenix 40% Magneto 39% The Joker 37% Poison Ivy 37% Mystique 36% Riddler 33% Green Goblin 32% Juggernaut 32% Kingpin 31% Mr. Freeze 29% Two-Face 16%

A brilliant businessman on a quest for world domination and the self-proclaimed greatest criminal mind of our time!

Click here to take the Supervillain Personality Quiz

I'm reformatting the hardrive on my new laptop, as the people who sent it to me decided to include a lot of bullshit software who's only purpose is to ask me stupid fucking questions.

Also, I woke up an hour ago, and slept through three different phone calls between the hours of 6:30 and 5:30.

And my mouth smells like something died in it, and I'm not wearing any clothes.

This is what fancy art types call "Mise en Scène". Which I've actually been researching a bit, as I'm currently (not this second, but since yesterday, or whatever the fuck day it was yesterday, I'm not sure, I was crossing time zones) reading House of Leaves, which is a lot of fun.

I don't have the book next to me, but I believe the first page contains only the words "Muse un Siene", which, if you're liberal with your accent, sounds like "mise en scène", and is a good way to describe the book's first chapter.

The question: To what extent can the book as a whole be called "mise en abyme"?

Anyway, I'm sure I'll be writing more about this subject, if I don't forget about it.

Other subjects to write more about: The Western Wall. Habbits of the American Tourist. Shwarma. Snorkling and Acid. Drinking at Noon. Airports.

The False Start

Shot of bourbon
Half shot of apple brandy
Juice of half a lemon,
Fill with apple cider

Served in a rocks glass, neat.

Cleaning my room, listening to all Laurie Anderson's albums, in a row. O Superman is pretty great.

It's nice to be back in Atlanta, even though I miss Chicago, and New York, and New Orleans, and just the sensation of being on the road, only stopping for gas, eating peanutbutter sandwiches for strength, inhaling coffee and caffeine, and sleeping in a different place each night.

I'm flying down to Miami Saturday afternoon, staying at the airport for an hour or so, then meeting a big herd o' Jews and flying to Israel. That will be good. I'm trying to strategize the sort of impression I'll make when I meet everyone - it's probably going to be the version of myself I'll be stuck being throughout the trip, so it's an important decision.

My morning in New Orleans:

We had spent the entire night wandering, staying mainly in this deserted harbor area a few blocks west of Burbon and Canal. Occasionally we'd sort of swoop through Burbon street, but it got boring fast, and I couldn't bring myself to even attempt talking to drunk Tennessee girls staring at me with drunk girl eyes.

So we got back to the car around 5, washed off with the big gallon water jug, and curled in our respective seats to sleep. I don't know what sort of time Jeremy had, sleeping, but I kept being bombarded by a sort of exhilirating paranoia. I would close my eyes, and the shadows around the corners curled and formed fractal creepers pointing towards the ghost me, and then all these weird Jungian type images moved in. I say images, but it was closer to seeing pictures of words, as often happens in dreams. Anyway, I didn't really sleep.

We drove off to find food at about 8am. Went far West down St. Charles, took a left, and found a gas station next to a river. I picked up beef sticks, coffee, and Whoppers, and we spent the next few hours walking along the river, getting horribly lost.

So that was morning. Then we left for New Years Eve party in Hattiesburg.