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Monday, November 24, 2003

Copito de Nieve

Snowflake the rare albino gorilla died today in Barcelona, Spain.

snowflake

I woke up this morning and was amazed to see snowflakes twirling down outside my window.

It took me a little while to put it all together.

Tuesday, November 18, 2003

Die-Hard Sox Fan

When he said "sox fan" I thought it came to his mind as he saw the soft woolly stockings covering my feet, exposed beneath my Jesus sandals. I was sleeping on a couch in the lounge of Snyder Hall, and he was walking with the rest of his family, his wife and son and daughter, the college student. She was showing her family around her dorm and eventually they walked passed me and woke me from my slumber with their comments about my socks. For just a second I wondered how I got to this foreign place and then I remembered walking into the building a few hours earlier to study. (i.e. take a nap)

I saw a squirrel stuff his mouth full of grass outside the entrance to the dormitory. The elasticity of his cheeks seemed to know no end.

I began to to reminisce about living in the six-pack, long days and nights of production-less procrastination, ramen noodles, late night pizza ("Can I get some cheese with that cardboard?"), and my triple-sized dorm room, occupied only by myself, and once in a while by my ex-girlfriend Kara.

She would've cooed endearingly at the squirrel, charmed by those soft and furry and small and fluffy-tailed things that would cross our paths while walking together somewhere. Haunting remnants of our pedestrian relationship floated next to me, held me there as I saw the squirrel and heard her voice, her squeals of delight, her pointing finger and smiling face before I finally realized that the ghosts weren't holding onto me, but that I was holding onto them.

I stoically un-clung myself from this daydream, clasped tightly to the dry reality of time-management and responsibility, and headed home.

Thursday, November 13, 2003

"To do the dishes, to do the laundry, to clean up my room..."

When I walked into Brothers the first thing I noticed was two young ladies gyrating their hips and flinging their arms in the air side to side, dancing on top of the bar.

Their dancing moves were repetitive and recognizable, and their cookie-cutter outfits made them carbon copies not only of themselves, but of the hundreds of other look-alike sorority girls on campus. I still gawked though.

Later on in the night they were dancing to a song that you just aren't supposed to dance to and i'm on the second floor of Brother's, looking down, still refusing to deny myself the simple pleasure of watching them move. There were two older guys on the floor below within dancing distance of them, drinking some kind of expensive foreign beer. One of them had a Solo Cup Company sweater on and the other a brown leather coat and nut-hugger jeans.

The girls mostly danced on top of each other suggestively satisfying and enticing the libidos of many guys (and girls, i'm sure) in the bar. Then they began to move apart from each other like dancing fingers on the hands of the opposite sides of an accordion in action. (breathe in)

Eventually, one girl backed into the Nut-Hugger Jean guy.

She turns around to face him, busts a move real quick, and the guy responds as if he is punching some imaginary foe in the stomach on his right side and kicking another in the shin on his left. She abruptly turns around and glides back closer to her friend. (breathe out)

"Girls" by the Beastie Boys comes on next, I bob my head for a bit, finish my Pork-Chop-In-A-Bottle and head home.

Sunday, November 9, 2003

I'm going to write this and then I'm going to find out what gender I am.

Shirley had the link posted in her away message and I clicked it even though I knew that it would log my screen name.

Stalker? Just interested?

She bakes cakes and cookies and can talk at length and with great enthusiasm about her life.

And she bakes cakes and cookies and maintains a large vocabulary and she doesn't believe me when I tell her I fell in love with her.

Saturday, November 8, 2003

Maybee she is ultra catholic where she lets nothing fly. But her eyes and she doesn't speak English and her red hair speaks Spanish. "Please, speak Spanish."

Y esto, yo que quiero decir. "Cómo sabes mis palabras! Cómo sabes lo que estoy diciendo aunque no sé yo! Como que querría que nunca sabe nada lo que estaba diciendo.

Un borracho yo, un capitán nuevo de esta lenguaje tan inmóvil, tan inexpresable.

I wanted to tell her that the fondest memories of my life were somewhere stored away in Spain, in Spanish.

En Español.

Thursday, November 6, 2003

the inclination to breathe

Dave says it's all about the inclination to breathe.

Like, when you're trying to swim the length of the pool at IMPE without breathing, the hardest thing about doing it is staving off the inclination to breathe. Of course there's always the physical effort involved, the kicking, the pulling, the reaching- all of which gradually require more and more effort as you get farther and farther along the pool. All of which seem to become all the much more dramatic as your lungs start flipping out and your heart starts pounding.

But they're just panicking, you tell yourself. They're just pussies who need air. If you can fight off the inclination to breathe the first thing you'll notice after the little bitch-fit your respiratory system throws is this numb tingling feeling in your fingers. Then the feeling oozes up your hands and arms and you have to really begin to become mindful and deliberate about your movements if you want to make it to the other end.

Maybe the feeling creeps up again in your toes, then your feet. But by that time usually, it's only two or three more half-assed strokes and there you are at the other end of the pool. And there you can show your heart and lungs and nervous and respiratory system that they really had nothing worry about.

Fucking pussies.

So all it boils down to fighting off the INCLINATION to breathe. The DESIRE to breathe- not breath itself, but the yearning, wanting, empty grasping of it.

There's that feeling you get when you look up at the sheet on the board that has the grades posted for some test or exam that you spent hours and hours studying for. As you scan the huge list for the last five digits of your ID number you're thinking to yourself somewhere in the back of your head that no matter how well it says you did on the test, you probably pretend not to be satisfied.

Because you're proud and you try not to show it, excited yet you try to remain stoic. Can I stick this on the refridgerator? Can I get a pat on the back?

Why can't I burst out of the school building doors and run to mom and dad, clutching my graded papers, fluttering through the air? Where's my encouragement and my praise? Where is the pleasant, congratulatory cooing tones of my grandparents? Where is the envy of my peers? Where's my shiny golden star? Where's my Pizzahut Bookit sticker?

Tuesday, November 4, 2003

Metamorphisis of a Question

Metamorphisis of a Question

Starring: the Eggman & the Walrus
Scene: Sitting on a wall somewhere, the duo are engaged in polite conversation.

E: Blah, blah. This and that and this and this.
W: Mhmm, mhmm.
E: Right so, dun, dunun, dundundun doodoodo. Dun.
W: I see.
E: But what about whawha wha wha wha ...

[The walrus patiently awaits the delayed arrival of a question mark, yet he somehow knows that it just isn't coming]

E: ...doodoo doo dOO

[if he was younger, more spirited and more naive, the Walrus would have heard the raised intonation and abrupt pause of the Eggman's voice and been convinced that it was soon going to be his turn to speak]

E: ..beCAUse... if this thisthis this and whawha wha wha you would think that doo doo-doo, doo

[the Walrus huffs just as gradually as he pulls his head away from the Eggman, distantly, resignedly. Nonchalantly he splays his body further along the wall to sleep, Eggman chatter becoming more and more distant as he becomes more and more soporific. His eyelids draw shut, he's sleeping, and now he's dreaming about kings and horses and men and rotten eggs.]