I'm Back (Soon)

Note Found Under My Windshield Wiper:

THOUGH THE STREETS ARE PUBLIC, WE WOULD APPRECIATE IF YOU DID NOT PARK SO INAPPRORIATELY ON OUR BLOCK. IT IS RUDE AND DANGEOUS TO TAKE UP MUCH NEEDED SPACE AND TO BE STICKING OUT INTO TRAFFIC. IF YOU ARE UNABLE TO RESPECT YOUR NEIGUBORS PLEASE FIND SOMEWHERE ELSE TO PARK.

THANKYOU AND GODBLESS!

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What a great way to start the day.


Also, all green lights on the way to work!

Additionally: I've got a project I'd like to work on some time: I'd like to create a large theremin and hide it under a piece of sidewalk, complete with concealed speakers loud enough to transmit sound from the theremin to the pedestrian "playing" it.

Very First Draft

I actually overheard the conversation I'm describing in this story. It was one of the scariest things I've ever heard, and I hope to capture here a bit of the desperation I've felt since.

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Virginia Woolf wrote an essay titled "A Room of One's Own". I haven't read it yet. I will eventually. I'm trying to keep my mind clear of the meanings Woolf associated with the phrase, at least until I've finished telling you this.

I've also been worrying about something I overheard yesterday:

A senile woman in a wheelchair suddenly speaks up, loudly, "is there a chair behind me?"
"No Margaret." Says the nurse filling out reports.
"Is there anyone behind me?"
"No Margaret."
The nurse glances towards me, sharing the desk on her right. This floor smells like washed out urine and apple sauce; other residents occasionally moan phrases much less sane than Margaret, and the sound seems perfectly in tune with the smell of carpet and sharp overripe fruit.
"Has the nurse come yet? She's supposed to be here in fifteen minutes."
"No Margaret."
The nurse was originally from Trinidad and Tobago, but she only spoke in the accent with other nurses from small islands in the Caribbean. Occasionally I would come upon a group of them riding the elevator up or down (there were two male nurses - if you met a nurse in that place, even with your eyes closed, you would know that she was born on a small island in the Caribbean, wore a shapeless uniform almost as deep red as her skin, and was profoundly tired. This was true at 9 am, at lunch in the cafeteria, and even sitting on the benches outside as we left for home. The two men were never seen outside the third floor), and the women would ask me about the lunch menu or new equipment they needed in just barely a hint of the accent they spoke in only seconds before.
"This is all trash isn't it?"
"Your nurse will be here at 3 Margaret."
"Just trash, trash words."
We were both carefully avoiding the old woman's voice. I expected the nurse to be better at it, but neither of us knew what to do.

I just read Woolf's first few paragraphs. She writes with a much better voice than I could ever use.

The thing about this other woman, this senile woman wearing jewelry older than me, the thing is that I still can't imagine living in her world. Right now, me talking, for me, is My World. And that world just can't live with the simultaneous existence of an insane world.

New Cities

One bad thing about moving to a new city: Friendwise, you start over at square one - the equivalent of Freshmen year of college, except, unlike college, where new students are all eager to meet other new people and learn important lessons about sexually transmitted diseases, everyone here already has friends, and couldn't care less about having an extra random guy hanging around.

So that's not too great, but I've managed to meet a good collection of interesting people in these parts so far, most of whom can be distinguished by the amount of hair they've got. Seriously. The range goes from mohawk (!yay!) to troll-doll-esque (in a good way, of course). If you're reading this, you probably know how bad I am with names. Also, you problem noticed how, for the first few weeks I knew you, I never once said your name because I was worried I would say the wrong one.

That's another thing I miss about having a good group of friends - it's really hard to establish a posse in this town. I mean, some nights, when the weather's nice, you really need to be able to make some calls and eventually end up downtown, on the roof of an abandoned building, with a few good friends and a fifth of whiskey. Or, in the woods roasting marshmallows. Or just walking until you run out of street. The important thing is numbers and trust.

See, it takes a good bit of time to get to the point where there's enough trust between you and a friend to break laws together. And it takes even longer to get roughly that same amount of trust with a good group of kids. And, longest of all is the amount of time it takes to convince people that responding to the random phone call will definitely lead to fun or at least interesting times.

Marginalia is a good word

I was buying gas a few days ago, or, more accurately, waiting in line to buy gas. This old pyramid shaped guy sort of showed up out of the corner of my eye and said I looked "ectomorphic".

Fortunately, I was also buying some candy bars and a coke. I waved them at him as I scampered as if to say "I promise I eat food!"

Another Song for the "Band"

Doo doo doo
Making hotdawgs
doo doo doo
dee dee
Eating them for breakfast!
bu doo doo dee!

[repeat for 2:30]

A Story for the First Day of Spring

“I had to sell my drum machine to make rent. Dunno why I bought it in the first place.”

“Where should we sit?”

“I like here, right between these two sidewalks.”

“Too much mud.”

“We should stay away from edges.” I pointed to the muddy tracks along our stretch of sidewalk, then looked for higher ground. It’s difficult to find high ground in Chicago, in a park, next to a pond.

“We should stay away from sidewalks in general. How about under a tree?”

“Or many trees. Let’s head towards that copse.” I paused and started taking off my boots. “In a second.” The other boy’s hands filtered through his guitar’s strings as I pulled at my cement scarred boots. The girl, Nicole, moaned softly against the boy’s chords, a melody more for fire-lit nights than afternoons in the park.

New Story, Alpha Build

Things Which Are Fascinating:

Curved mirrors
The placement of snow on trees
Cats
Hooded jackets in the wind
Cab drivers

The boss says a number in her slightly emphasized mode of speaking, so I make an “I'm writing this important number down” motion on my legal pad. The boss's slightly emphasized mode of speaking is reduced by a half step, and I think of virgins sacrificed to volcanoes. Now she is using her normal meeting tone, which is warm, slightly smooth, and contains a sprinkle of two and three word phrases like “deployment phase” or “currently conducting negotiations”. I suspect, if I listened carefully enough, I would discover that each speech the boss makes during these meetings is actually a formed from a pre-assembled diagram. The names of our clients are changed monthly, the numbers and statistics are products of a formula she keeps on one of her spreadsheets.

Varieties of Boss-Speech:

Whispered confidential in hallway
Theatrically confidential in office or (slightly louder) conference
Normal behind closed door
On phone with family
On phone with client
This is important (office mainly, hallway/cubicle rarely)
Slightly emphasized mode of speaking (meetings only)

The meeting ends and I push a chair in on my way out. I hold the legal pad close to my body, worrying that the others will realize why I'm so careful.

Things I'm Careful About:

Venereal diseases and pregnancies
Stop signs
Client confidentiality
Easily confused words
Microwave settings
Cooking chicken or eggs (always overcooked)

There's an hour of work left after the meeting, enough time to tally my hours from the last two weeks, respond to emails I've gotten over the last two hours, and finish up the first page of a new analysis. I started building a rubber band ball earlier, and it keeps rolling into my right hand as I type.

Pretty good review of the new Kundera thingy.

I'm trying to think of a name for this story I'm trying to get published. Turns out names are the hardest parts. The only names I can think of make fun of the story and its' themes.

Another Snowy Night, and Me Home Washing Dishes

Yah, posting an old IM transcript. Don't blame me, I'm still recovering from my cold.

I find the thought of me naked pretty hilarious. Or, at least more hilarious than me with clothes on, which is only good for an occasional chuckle.

I'm "Backpfeifengesi" (short for backpfeifengesicht, the German word for "a face which makes you want to slap it"), and Anonymous is the gal, who is anonymous.

If I can be bothered to use instant messaging, this is the stuff I usually write. Which is why I don't usually use it. Plus, I don't think many people are interested in hearing about how pretty I am. Except you, oh citizens of the Internet.

Backpfeifengesi: oh man, if I could find the connecty cord for this camera, I'd so be sending you and everyone else on the internet naked pictures of myself
Backpfeifengesi: I'm like a lil dynamo of sexy
Anonymous: but i already know what you look like naked
Anonymous: quite well actually
Backpfeifengesi: yeah, I'm just saying, I look better and better each day
Backpfeifengesi: like fine wine
Backpfeifengesi: not fine cheese

Awesome. And completely true. Even though I'm deathly afraid of growing older, I find myself mysteriously handsomer each day. Somewhere, a picture of me is gaining wrinkles and gray hair.

I Have Your Pen

Currently listening to Office.

Music here. Myspace here.

They're good indie-pop fun, and some of their songs incorporate typewriters. Hopefully seeing them in a week or so.