Shiny shoes

My friend was visiting from out of town, and I was showing him around downtown a little bit at night. Walking, and trying to remember the very limited trivia I've absorbed about the city thus far, we found the Billy Goat's Tavern and went in for some dinner and drinks.
I remembered reading about the place as a famous hangout for reporters from the Chicago Tribune building across the street, and lo and behold, there were quite a few reporterly looking fellows having drinks at the bar.
We ate and absorbed the journalist brain juice oozing from the dirty walls and left to wander the city some more. We came near the State street bridge over the Chicago River and I was telling Chris about Marina City when we heard a voice.
"Hey man. Hey! Thems some nice shoes. Say-uh lemme shine em for ya."
We turned and saw a black guy in a thin jacket and wearing shiny Nikes coming up. Shine shoes? He spoke really really fast and I noticed that many of his teeth were broken, but some were capped with metal.
When my friend and I didn't immediately walk away, he quickly knelt down and pulled out a cloth and a bottle of shoe shine. He took my friends foot up on his knee, squirted some brown liquid on his shoe and proceeded to shine it with the cloth.
He talked to us the whole time.
He told my friend, "Okay, I got a riddle for you. You answer it, double or nothin, double or nothin."
"Don't do it," I told him. "Don't do it. You'll lose."
The shoe shine guy looked up at me and said, "You talk real fast, where ya from?"
"I've lived in Chicago for a couple years, " I told him.
He finished the shine on both shoes, and my friend and I agreed that they did look much shinier.
The man put his hand out and said something that neither of us understood, but we realized it was money time, of course.
My friend pulled out his wallet, and took the singles he had in it, $3, and was about to give it to the guy when he said: "Seven bucks, it's seven bucks."
"Damn," I said.
My friend laughed and pulled out a $10 bill and gave it to him.

The guy said, "Alright, Imma ask you the riddle. Okay. Now tell me, how many sons did your father have?"

I knew that my friends father was somewhat estranged from him. I asked him if he knew.
He said, "Oh yeah, I know."
I thought about what I knew about him and guessed: "3".
My friend said, "No, 4. I've got three brothers from my dad."
The shoe shine guy said, "Wrong! Shit, you know your dad didn't have no babies! That's what mothers do!"
With that he walked away from us, and we turned to cross over the river and see what else could happen to us in Chicago.

Terminator 4

I went towards my kitchenette this morning because I was hungry. I know what's in there. Not much, but I did have 4 boxes of Boca Spicy Chick'n Patties which are mostly gone now. They were on sale at my work, and I've had one for breakfast and one for dinner every day for a week.
I opened the freezer door, reached in, and removed a cellophane-wrapped chick'n patty from the box. Closing the door, I then turned and removed the wrapper and placed the frozen patty on a plate. I then opened the door to the refrigerator and placed the plate inside and closed it. I then (very quickly) opened the fridge, removed the plate, moved two feet to my left, opened another door (this time to the microwave) and put the food in.
Open the door, close the door, press the buttons, yay! - but only if I'm standing in front of the microwave. My fridge doesn't have any buttons.

Machines: 1 Nate: 0

echo

It's daunting sometimes, trying to think of what to say, what I could possibly have to say to entertain a passerby, or a friend, or myself in this space?
That is the duty here. To entertain, to engage, to communicate. This is not activism. It's just another moment that I struggle to infuse with some sort of life, or at least a hopefully natural extension of my personality.
I could talk about something from two days ago:

I went to the Chicago Cultural Center with the purpose of seeing some art, and also to place myself in a large ornate building and see how that felt.
I was wandering up a huge grand staircase, admiring the metallic inlay above me and in the walls when I heard a very large sound. It was of a grand piano, bouncing around the rooms and off the stairs and me. I felt urgent! Suddenly, there was import being sifted tangibly from the air and settling everywhere; the room felt thick. The sound was everywhere, and whomever was playing was doing so very vigorously.
I began to move very slowly, almost certain that something shocking or life altering was about to happen. A clone of myself that my unknown father had been growing and raising for the last 23 years was waiting for me at the top of the next staircase, and the crescendo of the music was coming closer as I ascended to meet my destiny in the eyes of myself...

I reached the top of the stairs and found the source in a grand room, that I realized I'd been in before. I worked a cleanup for a special events company after a wedding in that room. It's really magnificent. There's a high dome of colored lit glass in the center, and the ceiling gradually slopes down, covered in mosaic tiles until it meets the walls.
An Asian man with long hair in a pony tail sat in front of the piano, and he played like a small monster, his face moving and contorting with the motion of his hands on the keys and in synch with the music being issued.

There was seating for at least a hundred people in the room, but only a handful of people were there, all sitting near the back.
I quietly entered and took a seat to the side of them, and watched him play.
I spent an hour or two in that seat, and learned that his name was Alpin Hong and that he was only practicing for a recital the next day in the same room.
He was surprisingly good, and I felt just fine about sacrificing the rest of my gallery viewing time to listen to and watch him play.

Searching for god

No this post isn't about searching for god.
It's just about some girl I used to know.
I met her while I was dating another girl, and she was the friend of a friend. When I met her I thought, "Dammit. Why am I dating this girl. This other girl is amazing!"
Soon after that, the relationship fell apart, though I hadn't intended it to.
Awhile later, I saw the other girl again. Started talking to her, and seeing her more often.
I was always so confused, I could never figure out what she was thinking, even though sometimes I felt like I knew. We became close, with more time, but not very close, then exploded one day, and only one day, and that was all it ever was.

It was the anticipation that really made it worthwhile.
Waiting and waiting and waiting and thinking, "oh my god (whoops, there's god) what the hell do I even still call this person for" and doing that for so long.
Waiting and waiting and waiting. It's easy to do. I've spent a lot of my life waiting for things. Most people have.
A good deal of my waiting time has been spent thinking about love, and why I do things.
Something I read recently elicited this: love in another is the search for god in heaven. When one turns from religion, releases from that all-permeating envelope of acceptance and peace in the fold, one must turn that which made one seek that, and place it somewhere. The need does not dissolve. Falling in love with someone, setting them effectively up as a god, is only natural.
If I were very religious, I might not need to think about women so much, and I might not write posts where I talk about girls long gone, and how this one time I threw an empty beer can at her head, but missed.
It's okay though, I intended to miss.

Two

A surprisingly accurate occurrence.
The last time I got really stoned I found myself reading about the mapping of the human genome (they finished! I didn't know that) and about space and time as dimensions. I learned what a tesseract was and viewed a stereoscopic image of one. At the bottom of one article on hypercubes, I found myself staring at a fractal image, and then I wanted to watch a visualization program. I hunted G-Force out of the Winamp plugin archives, and spent an hour watching that.
All from smoking weed.
Seems like very typical behaviour for a pot smoker, but still I found it odd that I ended up accidentally exhibiting that typical behaviour, as one that rarely smokes .

And today, something rare.
Working as a cashier, I saw two asian women enter my line with two bottles of beer. I listened carefully to them, as I do everytime I see someone ambiguously (to me) asian, to discern if they are Japanese speakers. They were, as I could tell from their speech. I rarely know if someone is japanese before they sign their credit card slip. I said "Konnichiwa" to them, and then told them I spoke a little japanese (in japanese) while I rang them up. I asked them if they wanted paper or plastic (kami ka purastiko(i think i fucked that part up)).
At this point, I noticed that I was trembling very badly. I was shaking. I don't think anyone noticed, but I could tell that it was more difficult to control my arms and hands when I was opening up a bag.
In wondering why I was shaking, I remembered other times that I'd shaken in the same way.
Leading up to and during and after my first kiss. It was a prolonged one, and took place in the front cab of a two seater toyota truck, my first car. I was very nervous and remembered trembling enough for the girl to notice. The severity matched that of what I had today.
The next closest was the first time I drove a car. I was very nervous, but not trembling nearly as much, though the sensation was the same one.
The link seems to be because I was doing something very new and that I'm not experienced in, rather than because the people I was speaking to were female. Also, whether I see the activity as being of import or signifigance or a great desire affects the strength of it.
I tremble! How odd.

A suicide note

I am sometimes questioned about the nature of my sense of humor.

I have been told at different times that it is very dark, really sick, and that I have a crazy laugh. I have been called morbid, sardonic, and twisted, all for things that I find funny. After failing recently to describe my sense of humor, I now think that the best way is this:
there are moments when one has to laugh, or cry; I generally choose to laugh.

Or do I?

It may be true that all the universe and all within it is a determinable sequence of events; a steady causal chain that could be traced forward and back, given the right variables and tools to process them. Which means that everything I do, I do because I couldn't have done anything else; I am literally programmed to do what I do. The programming is the result of everything that has occurred before, i.e. the particular events of my life and birth and genetics and environment, all directing my actions.
This is determinism as I understand it.
So where is there room for any real decision, actual free will?

Perhaps free will is contained within the mind, and nowhere else. The ability to conceptualize a multitude of possible actions at any given moment is free will, regardless of any actual compulsion that will push me towards one of the options.

In this sense, free will would exist alongside my ability to perceive of myself as a self, and nowhere else. It would be an illusion, but one equal in importance to the illusions that I use to allow me to mingle amongst others and survive and communicate.

To drop the illusions completely, (if that is even possible without becoming permanently insane) would then also abolish any possibility of free will, though perhaps the sheer magnitude of everything being constantly experienced would make the question of free will moot. A life lived without illusion would be all consuming.

Who knows what I would then find to laugh about?

practical

Today was a tiring day, but I feel well, except for the bruise that is my chin and the scabby goop that is stuck to the bottom of it. Five-six hours of my life, and all I have to show for it are two bloody shirts, a blood stained tie, a bunch of wounds and a mystery.
Not bad, but I can't afford a repeat anytime soon.
I'd probably lose an eye or get hit by a car.

Late

Very late. Late night. Saturday. Or Sunday.
I greeted this mornings sun stained in blood like the sun rising on my face.
A hospital behind me, I walked, looking for home and the familiar.
I dripped blood on the bus and ate sesame sticks slowly from a small bag that had survived the night with me. I wondered how I'd ended up where I was at. It was not the first time.
I got home and saw myself, looked at my reflection in the mirror.
It was fearsome. I was a hairy beast of a creature, coated in my own blood, puffy and oozing in my livelihood; I could taste myself.
I slept for a couple hours and took my beaten frame to work. I was late, and did what I could to buttress my mind against the onslaught of humanity and need that I knew my work would throw at me.
My work ended and I went out again, with my puffy lip and soreness. I saw a show and went to a party. I kept going.

It's over now.
I'm home. I can go to sleep, finally. My wounds will heal. I can pick the little black thing embedded in my palm out in the morning.

What did I do last night?

The last thing I remember was being at Reversible Eye (1103 N. California) gallery at around midnight. My next memory was me standing in front of Rush Medical Center at 7am. I had all my stuff, but I was wearing my back pack upside down and my wrists were covered in dry blood. And my lip hurt. I just got home and found dried blood all over my shirt. And a bash on my leg. Did I piss someone off last night? I have a 7 hour memory gap. This is the weirdest one yet.

Whole Foods

I had a miserable night at work.

My day started out wonderfully. I engaged in a discussion before work that got my brain juices oozy and slippery, and went to work feeling quite human.
Everything was going well until...

A large old black lady. Lots of jewelry. Whatever. Normal. I didn't look twice. She had a younger man with her. He said he was pulling the car up, and left right as the woman came up next in line.
I scanned a couple items, and asked her what kind of bags she wanted, looking at her. I look at people, to see if they're looking at me.
She wasn't. And she didn't answer.
"What kind of bags would you like?", I repeated. Now she looked at me.
"What?" she said.
A little louder now: "Would you like paper or plastic?"
She looked at the bagger and said, "What did he say?". That made no sense to me, I was standing closer to her than the bagger, if she can't understand me, less than two feet from her, how will she understand him? I was beginning to be annoyed.
I pointed at the paper bags, and I pointed at the plastic. She just looked at me. I have no idea what she could have been thinking.
The bagger stood there with some of her groceries and looked at her.
"Double shopping bags, " she says. (which means double paper.)
I rang up her order. Whatever. So she's hard of hearing, maybe has bad sight too. She's old. Forget it.
A younger woman came up to join her, maybe her daughter.
I finish ringing and tell the woman her total.
"What?" she said.
I said it again, and pointed at the large screen with her total on it.
"What?" she said again.
I could feel my temperature rising. I told her the total again, and she repeated the first part, and asked me what the second part was. I told her, as she went through her purse.
Her daughter was not helping.
The woman tossed some twenties on the counter in front of her purse without saying anything. I counted them, then she tossed a card on the counter and said something that sounded like:
"seewhatsonthat".
"what?" I said.
"She wants to see what's on her card," the daughter said.
"ok." I picked up the card and looked at it. No signature. The "This card is not valid until activated" sticker was still on it, and it looked old and weathered, as though it had been through some rough times with this woman. I felt a lot for that sticker.
I handed it to the daughter, and she slid it through the little machine.
"I want to use that before I use the cash. See if it works." This was the most the woman had said to me.
The card did not go through. My computer displayed "insufficient funds". I told them exactly what the computer said.
The daughter laughed, and the old woman said, "what?".
So I said it again, and she just kept looking at me. Did she want me to yell it? I could have yelled it at her. It might have felt good.
"It worked before, " she said.
I didn't know what else to say, and I didn't really want to say anything. I just wanted her to go away.
I picked up the cash she'd already put on the counter. It was the right amount. I counted it again. She watched me do it. Her daughter was still laughing. I wanted to laugh too. I really wanted something to laugh about. Someday she'll die. I gave the woman her change. She continued to stand there, not really looking at me. I moved slowly, but she didn't move or say anything.
Fine. I looked at the next guy, and began to ring up his order. The old woman went away slowly, with her daughter. My face was red, and I could feel my blood, pulse pulse pulse through my temple; my hands shook. I could have ripped the monitor off it's bolts and smashed it through the window screaming.

Then I heard a man's voice about ten feet behind me. It was the first guy, her son maybe. He was talking to my supervisor. "oh fucking oh no what the hell is going on" was all I could think. I turned around and looked at them. He looked at me. I treated her as well as I could figure. How the hell can I deal with someone that can't or won't communicate with me? Her son and daughter were no help. I felt like I was fucking set up, that I'd fallen into a trap.
I heard my supervisor call the store manager. "jesus fuck," I thought, and I'm stuck here in this register with a line of people expecting me to help them. I couldn't defend myself and I had nowhere to hide; I was naked.

The bagger had left, but another one came over. I told him a little bit of what was happening. I swore. I felt impotent. I was fucking pissed and said so. I was ringing up a mans order, he was little and white and probably 32. I was swearing and visibly angry and showing it. This is very rare for me, so I squeezed out a fast apology.
"Excuse me, " I said.
"Fucking niggers, " he said.

haguhopqgkl'agkl;'asgdklagdioqrewmpqvjalgd.

What? What? The bagger looked at me, and he said something loudly, "whoah," probably. He walked away.
"Oh no, " I said to the man, as I softly exhaled. "No. Anybody can be like that."
I looked at him. I know why he said it. I was in an obviously vulnerable state. I was sharing the kind of raw emotion that doesn't get seen. The kind that is released with your close friends, and sometimes not even then. He felt that as a bond.
And decided to share something secret of his own.
I know why he said it.
I don't know why he thought it.

I finished with him as quickly as I could.

I did not turn around again. I found the last two things that had occurred hard to believe. I did not want to know anything more. The store manager came over to me and asked me what had happened. I was still livid and trying to help another customer. I recounted, as well as I could, how difficult the woman had been, and told him exactly how I told her the card had been declined. I had been very careful, and told him that. He told me that I should run the card twice next time. I could have fucking pried all of his teeth out with vice grips and eaten his gums with a potato peeler.

The large old woman and her two friends or children were gone.
I spent the last 45 minutes of my shift (and my walk home) trying to calm down. I bought a bottle of bourbon. Bought dinner to go from McDonald's.
This is how I'll redeem myself.

The Hypnotube

I have never owned a TV, but I have lived with TV's, though not since last October. I used to be thoroughly addicted to the networks, I mean I knew the schedules pretty solidly for about 5 channels from 5:30am up to about midnight. I could recite the lineups from memory.
That was in 1998. That same year, I started working two jobs and suddenly didn't have time for TV anymore. First I missed one week of my favorite shows, then two weeks in a row. What was happening on Millennium and X-Files? Did the smoking man reappear? Where's Moulder's sister? Who's really engineering the apocalypse?
After a month, I didn't really care anymore, and I haven't gone back to the TV since. Sometimes I'll watch a show if I'm near a TV and other people are watching it, but that's rare.

Yesterday, I was given a little 5.5 inch black and white TV to call my own, my first TV.
I just spent half an hour with it, going through all the channels to see what it receives, and landed on Fox. American Idol was on.
I watched it for a little while, and I found myself to be incredulous. The air of drama that is created by the show seemed no thicker than the wall of a soap bubble. Personally, I was unable to relate to a single person that I saw presented. I've seen more character in a CG animation. I don't know whether to be impressed or disgusted. And this show is incredibly popular - what does that mean?

I have drifted far from my TV watching days.

recycled and unsettled

I posted this as a comment on a friends livejournal tonight:

Tonight, I met with my Japanese tutor for a lesson. A man sitting next to us heard us speaking in Japanese. He turned out to be a doctor from India that spoke fluent English and Japanese and (I assume) Hindi.
Later, I told my Japanese tutor that I only work 4 days a week and have 3 days to myself.
She asked, "nani o shite iru ka?".
Hmmm...What do I do?
Well, I write. And I study Japanese, and I meet with friends and talk to them. I don't go to school. I am definitely not a doctor that speaks 3 languages.
I felt very small.
I came home after my lesson and, feeling somewhat empty, decided to attempt to justify my existence with a beer and the internet. Wish me luck.
Nate

This is an accurate portrayal of the mood I was set into. Caffeine helped. The wonder of knowledge and innocence of learning can be deeply unseated by the realistic prospect of just how much I will never ever know.

gwawk

I made guacamole tonight, and oh oh oh is it good. I'm currently eating it for dinner.
This is the recipe I assembled and used:

4 Haas avocados
1 small can of chopped olives
5 cloves of garlic
2 serrano peppers, minced (wear gloves! My fingers are still burning.)
1 Tsp of salt, fresh ground black pepper, cumin
1 lime, juice of
1/2 a small sweet onion, chopped

This has been my best meal all week. Oh it's so good.
Totemo oishii desu yo!

Denial of Omelets

I've started reading the Denial of Death by Ernest Becker, and the permeation of that web of thought has already begun seeping into my membranes and leaking into my crevices. I will be full of his mind juice soon.
My study of Japanese is going well. Watashiwa nihongosei desu.
Hooray.
This entry is sparse spartan barren.
Like a laid egg with no yolk, this omelet is white like I would be if I weren't half Mexican.

Pride and No Sleep

Tonight I laid down to sleep for 45 minutes and found that I couldn't. My brain is on, and does not appear to want to turn off.
Which is not bad, I'm enjoying it.

I was recently told that my worldview seemed prideful, and that that wasn't good. I didn't have a rebuttal because I had been unsure of how I felt about pride. I think I've developed an answer.

A person with no pride, in anything at all that they do, will likely not do anything interesting. A person with too much pride can be dangerous to the world. Moderation is generally best, but how should that be done? How do I know when I've got too much pride?

My answer:
As long as my close friends can still communicate openly with me, then I am doing fine. Also, as long as I can still meet groups of new people, and get along with at least a couple of them, I can use that to measure as well.
I can ascertain that my friends are good measures, by being very careful about choosing them.
I can strengthen the relative objectivity of my decisions by gaining information continually and increasing my intelligence by as much as I can.
Reading books and doing hard things makes me smarter.
Smarter is always good, cause I often feel kind of dumb.