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Monday, January 26, 2004

Beginning of week number two of the new semester. Things going steadily well, with organization and commitment to academics, exercise, sleeping and eating well.

Swimming entrance test coming this Friday, not sure if it is a do-or-die type thing.

New classes, new faces, feeling older, like most Seniors probably do. Social life back online, roommates back in town. Sonia and her cooking (and her loneliness and all-too-familiar visage of muted anxiety.)

Sometimes wondering if school is a distraction from the heartbreaking realities of everyday life or absorption into the grandiosity and delicacy of human thought and it's multiple functions within and throughout the rest of my body.


Sunday, January 25, 2004

On Beans

JBOTELLOLYNCH: I have a ryme (sp) for that
ok marty ok: ?
JBOTELLOLYNCH: american beans
JBOTELLOLYNCH: the more you eat them
JBOTELLOLYNCH: the more you like um
JBOTELLOLYNCH: the more you like um
JBOTELLOLYNCH: the more you fart
JBOTELLOLYNCH: so please eat beans at every meal???
ok marty ok: ......
ok marty ok: that was horrible mom

Tuesday, January 20, 2004


Next door to our apartment building live over three dozen sorority girls in a three story sorority house. Last year especially the positioning of our balcony window afforded us the pleasant fortune of being able to casually glimpse across the balcony into a room where there lived two young ladies. Freely, daily they would undress and dress and then sometimes undress themselves again in full view of their window, located five yards directly across our balcony.
Showers were generally followed by generous full-body applications of lotion.

That was last year, and, with the changing of rooms in the sorority, this year has been different. Up until yesterday, all year long all we ever saw of the room across the balcony were the imbrications of blinds fastened shut. With a tiny bit of hope I wondered if the beginning of a new semester would bring about any changes.

Tonight, around bedtime, I stood topless in my Woody Woodpecker pajama pants looking across the balcony at another topless person. She bent over to wrap her wet hair over her head and unloosened the towel wrapped around her waist. Dumbstruck, I gawked, and gawked just a second too long. She looked up and over at the paralyzed moron staring back at her and quickly scrambled to fasten her blinds shut.

They've been shut ever since then.

Sunday, January 18, 2004

James Bonding somewhere, grassy knoll.

Spying on the Chi O's next door. They spy back. Oops.

Jamming with Chris.

Thursday, January 15, 2004

tom petty says it best

Walking home today from work at 4:58 on the Quad I looked up at the sky. Far off to the southwest sprung a farm of pink patches that scattered their way along and across the underside of fluffy cumulous clouds. The sun was setting off somewhere over there near IMPE and the January black crowes assumed their daily aeronautic dance before bedtime, the sound of their caws competing only with the ringing of the bells at Altgeld Hall. I counted all the rings, (1,2,3,4,5pm) for a quick reality check, but the supernatural contrast of pink against grey blue and the cawing crows, the overall sense of completion, of being homeward bound; all this still had me wondering if I wasn't living in a dream world.

Today was Angela's last day at work:

"She's a good girl, loves her mama.
Loves Jesus, and ... her boyfriend too."

Friday, January 9, 2004

The rectangle shaft of sunlight laid across the ground in a slight angle before it made its way to the intersection of the wall and floor. From then on, it scaled it's way up along the blue-painted upright edifice. There it laid pasted as I stared across at her in the bed, the rectangle shaft of sunlight framing her bare torso.

She lay on her side with her head propped up by her left arm, smiling at me through golden brown rivulets of hair coursing down across her face. I contemplated the indentation that her left elbow made in the bed, the safe harbour of her hips that anchored a rested right palm.

I smiled back from across the room briefly before suddenly leaping into action. Pouncing down atop her I exulted my war-cry of victory. Crouching over my victim on all fours allowed to peer inside eyes that momentarily expressed a relection of my own jubilee. Her foot on my stomach sent me wheeling off into the air, however, landing on my back to the right of the bed onto the floor. The sunlight rounded over the top of my thighs now before scaling up along the wall as I laid there grinning dumbly at the ceiling above.

Tuesday, January 6, 2004

this is a dream, this is only a dream

Mario and I were babysitting baby twins for a middle aged, upper-middle class couple. We swang them back and forth on swings, near and far, occasionally each of the twins colliding with each other in their seats due to uneven lines of projection, "Aww how cute."

We carried the babies back to their tiny rocking chairs. I felt a little awkward at first holding the baby, focusing more on fastening them securely in my arms than in loving, gentle cradling. By the time we got to the chairs I looked down to see that the body of my baby had mysteriously slid out from underneath my arms and all I was left with was a brain. The brain was the size of a marble.

I tried to stay calm and bend over and place the brain in the chair and hoped nobody would notice. And if somebody did notice then it wasn't all hopeless they could reconstruct the rest of the baby from the brain. Science these days boy gotta love it. Couldn't they? The slimy brain stubbornly clung to the end of my right hand sleeve and in an attempt to unfasten it, it unrolled out into the shape of a noodle of Pad Se Eu from a Thai food restaurant.

Unstuck, I gently placed the brain in the crevice of the tiny seat. Horrified I realized the brain was missing a few pieces. Looking around and beneath the chair I found a piece. I heard the parents slowly approaching behind me and prepared to explain the situation to them.

"Oh it's alright, here," they said, as they grabbed what looked like a handheld Dirt Devil and began to suck up all the bits and chunks of the incomplete brain, including the sizable portion in the crevice of the seat. I was horrified, "Now watch," they said, and after ten seconds of a whirring noise within the vacuum, out plopped from one of its compartments a fully formed, marble sized cerebrum.

They lived in the mountains, these parents. The father said that he would soon need me for a brave expedition out to the remotest reaches of the planet. Relieved from the brain incident and now excited with adventure, I looked out to the snowy mountains covered with virgin white snow and said to the mother, "I hope he sends me to Antartica."

An empty IMPE in an empty Chambana finished with a set of tricep curls and, pacing thoughtfully, thinking, "Bjork song on the radio when I first came in, she reminds me of soft beautiful things. She recorded her last album alone in a dark room with her baby in her belly. Thin white girls with babies in their bellies. Ceserean, no doubt, the babies, that is. Gyneth Paltrow knocked up. Chris Martin you lucky fucker. My brother's name is Chris, my name is Martin. Tee-hee, Chris Martin. Get it? Tee, I forgive you and your Coldplay."

"Shiver" The first song of Coldplay's first album begins to play right then through the lone pitiful speakerhorn hanging 20 feet above me in a room with the shitty acoustics of a racquetball court.

Without showering I migrate from IMPE to Cafe Luna for lunch. Grilled salmon sand:which was topped with alfalfa sprouts and alio cucumber sauce and small heart shaped leaves of green romaine lettuce sprinkled with slivers of swiss cheese all over a warm, toasted buttery slice of sourdough bread. Accompanied, no less, by seven to eight gentle morsels of seasoned sweet potatoes, lined up directly below four purple grapes, still clinging onto their little branches. Amputating, no- liberating the grapes for their stems with smacking lips I watched the bubbly foam atop my Spaten beer sink. All throughout ingestion process treated to the entirety of Coldplay's second album, A Rush of Blood to The Head. Coincidentally, mind you.

I felt like the waitress spoke to me like as if she knew I hadn't had a conversation with another person in days, "That's right," I thought to myself in breaths between casual banter about coffee and the Intervasion Christian Fellowship, "It's been days."

Directly from Cafe Luna, to Walgreens for contact solution and dishwasher detergent. Pausing, telepathically opening the automatic sliding door, stepping in over slush and into the opening chords of In My Place, a catchy Coldplay song with an even catchier guitar riff, playing over the cable broadcasted radio station.

Coldplay is the Band of the Year, today I found out, according to the cover of a Spin magazine. After Luna, before going home, there in the magazine section of the Illini Union Bookstore I saw what I had been hearing all day long: Mr. Martin & his overwhelming blues.

Sunday, January 4, 2004

field of dreams

Driving with Ryan and Jeff in his SUV, going to some party, but first to a liquor store. O'hare area late at night or some otherwise wide open, empty suburban area. Liquor store in a strip mall.

Ryan's cell phone works but he keeps on asking to use mine. By the third time he does, I look at my diminished battery indicator level and ask him why he doesn't use his. "I don't want to use up all my battery," he says.

Jeff hops back in with the liquor are we are off to socialize. Almost a few seconds after we pull out of the parking lot he asks, "Does anyone want a beer?" and starts to drink .... and drive.

I decline and look up into the sky at a huge, very sharp and very clear projection of the lower sixty percent of the continent of Africa. The detail of the image is remarkable and without questioning who or what was able to project it onto the sky twenty to thirty feet above and behind us I try to direct the guys attention. "Yo, guys check it out! It's Africa, look, look," wagging my pointing finger. They look but are surprisingly unsurprised.

I guess Ryan and I and maybe even Jeff are in a band because next to Ryan in the back seat and even further back in the rear seat lies assorted guitar and amplifier equipment. Either were gear monkeys for another band or in one ourselves on the way to a show.

We continue driving and I think again about the image of Africa. The image zooms out, and I begin to see more of the continent and its surrounding areas. It must be a satellite image I tell myself as it zooms over more parts of the earth, almost randomly. As I see with a new depth and clarity the crevices and folds and overhangs and mountains of the various regions of the earth I sense the artistry of its creation. Continental drift grinding two continents together creating huge mountain ranges, or otherwise sliding them apart and leaving whole huge ocean trenches spawning an unfathomable array or marine life. I know there's something majestic about it, and I questions not it status of being pure art, the geography of this planet, uncorrupted by desire for material achievement or connection with an audience. It's beautiful and finally my thoughts quieten and soften and drool over the whirlwind tour de images projected above.

We pull into the restaurant where we are to meet our partners in binge drinking. Dark, quiet, almost too fancy for our apparel, and we are seated, someone and I next to two girls. To my left is a shy, dark, and petite figure. I smile cordially and peruse the menu. Almost instantly I being to comment, trying to establish some communication level. She sensed the slight aire of desperation in my attempt, and gradually became overwhelmed by it, as it only increased as my meaningless banter continued to unfold. Instead of asking me to slide up and out of my seat to exit her's, she daintily climbs on top of the dining table, hops down and away.

"She'll be back," I tell myself.

Saturday, January 3, 2004

different styles of religion as different styles of martial arts.

[kung fu and catholicism and karate and judaism]

is god the common denominating factor in all different styles of religion. different religious defined more by their variance from each other than from their inherent uniqueness? Woudn't each inherent uniqueness by inevitably what causes variance between different religions?

Friday, January 2, 2004

OK so I'm trying this whole writing without looking back thing like you mentioned.

It kind of reminds me of my dreams you know, how I like to write them down and don't really reread them. I don't know why I write them down, especially if I don't reread them, I don't know what to do with all of those records. Oh well, just keep on writing, keep on forging ahead.

image worship

"What's the matter?"

"Well it's the words you know. Its the words themselves. Of course I could stammer on for ages trying to recapture and then project what it is that I see in her but to me, when I hear them coming out of my mouth or see them there on the screen they just seem a bit too subjective. too inadequate."

"What do you expect is going to happen when you try to reproduce something irreplicable?"

"But it's there you know, I can see I can hear it, I remember it in my dreams, I know it's there but I just can't represent it.

This writing comes from anguish you know, it really does. My yoga instructor is showing me how to let go of all of that, maybe I should just stop."

"Well hey come on, it's a form of expression isn't it? A kind of release right? That has to help doesn't it? So maybe it comes from anguish, from your anxiety; if it's a true representative of it. Just because you write something doesn't mean you have to hold on to it, you can still let it go."

"You think so, really?"

"Look, try this. Try writing, just keep on writing, but don't look back. Keep writing, see what happens."