I went into the starbucks and ordered a grande caramel machiatto. The girl took my order and turned to the new guy at the coffee machines and started giving him instructions. It took a little while for my drink to be made. As I had placed the order, I had taken out my wallet and my credit card and was still standing with them out in my hand while they made the drink. I had spent the previous evening and night and morning drinking and gambling, and my stomach was a little rotten, my mind slow.
They finished the drink and announced it at the little serving spot at the end of the counter. I walked over and took the drink and said, "thank you." The girl told me to have a nice day. My wallet was still in my hand, but now I'd retracted it a little bit under the coat that I had hanging off of one shoulder.
They both turned away from me to do something else. It was not busy. I walked out to my friends and we left, as I put my wallet away.
Thursday, April 27, 2006
Monday, April 24, 2006
Working at Whole foods as a cashier
I began talking to a customer on Sunday as I rang up his order. He looked to be about 36 years old, and seemed happy, though a little tense.He came around the side and started bagging for himself.
"I worked hard for a long time to be able to afford this for myself," he said to me.
The customers that come into my store are commonly upper class and primarily wealthy. I see a lot of young people that have obviously not had to worry about money in their lives so far.
"What do you do?" I asked him, expecting to hear that he was a lawyer or a financial adviser. I often hear people talking on their little ear phones to invisible partners about buying and selling homes and stock while I work. This has become quite standard to me, right along with the women with their Prada and Louis Vuitton and Chanel bags and wallets and belts and glasses.
"I'm a waiter, " he said to me.
I honestly thought he was joking.
I looked up at him, prepared to accept and join in on whatever humor he wanted to share with me.
He was serious.
It was close. I was one slight muscle movement away from joining in on his joke, and making an ass of myself. My robotic self was humbled.
I said nothing for a moment, but continued to ring his order as he bagged.
"Where do you work?" I asked.
He mentioned a restaurant that I've never noticed, but is on my way home in a very affluent stretch of restaurants and boutiques. I told him I probably knew of it, and we didn't say much else. He paid and left, and I continued to work.
"I worked hard for a long time to be able to afford this for myself," he said to me.
The customers that come into my store are commonly upper class and primarily wealthy. I see a lot of young people that have obviously not had to worry about money in their lives so far.
"What do you do?" I asked him, expecting to hear that he was a lawyer or a financial adviser. I often hear people talking on their little ear phones to invisible partners about buying and selling homes and stock while I work. This has become quite standard to me, right along with the women with their Prada and Louis Vuitton and Chanel bags and wallets and belts and glasses.
"I'm a waiter, " he said to me.
I honestly thought he was joking.
I looked up at him, prepared to accept and join in on whatever humor he wanted to share with me.
He was serious.
It was close. I was one slight muscle movement away from joining in on his joke, and making an ass of myself. My robotic self was humbled.
I said nothing for a moment, but continued to ring his order as he bagged.
"Where do you work?" I asked.
He mentioned a restaurant that I've never noticed, but is on my way home in a very affluent stretch of restaurants and boutiques. I told him I probably knew of it, and we didn't say much else. He paid and left, and I continued to work.
Sunday, April 23, 2006
Sakura no hana.
The first time I can remember noticing a cherry blossom was a year ago this April, in 2005. Near my 25th birthday. I saw a tree a few blocks from my house covered in the most awesome blossoms (apologies for the fatuous alliteration (I just wanted an excuse to use "fatuous")) that I'd ever noticed in quantity. Orchids impress me more, but they do not give the sheer visual onslaught that a large cherry tree does.
The flowers are fat and beautiful like a voluptuous belly dancer. They are in your face and showering all around.
I had to ask my girlfriend at the time (a floral worker) if they were what I suspected they were, and had my first mental recognition of cherry blossoms confirmed.
So strange that I could live 25 years without noticing such an awesome event.
It's not because I'd never seen them before. I clearly remember picking cherries from a tree in my friend's backyard when I was 10 years old, and seeing all the rotting cherries laying in the grass. It's the blossoms that did not enter my memory.
Strange to wonder to about all the things that I cannot remember, that I've no idea I've forgotten, or never noticed; all of the dark spots that surround my memory like the night sky surrounds the earth.
So many things to forget each day!
I just microwaved a tiny pizza.
I could forget that too,
but I won't. In fact, I'm going to surround it with the emptiness of my stomach.
Forget that!
The flowers are fat and beautiful like a voluptuous belly dancer. They are in your face and showering all around.
I had to ask my girlfriend at the time (a floral worker) if they were what I suspected they were, and had my first mental recognition of cherry blossoms confirmed.
So strange that I could live 25 years without noticing such an awesome event.
It's not because I'd never seen them before. I clearly remember picking cherries from a tree in my friend's backyard when I was 10 years old, and seeing all the rotting cherries laying in the grass. It's the blossoms that did not enter my memory.
Strange to wonder to about all the things that I cannot remember, that I've no idea I've forgotten, or never noticed; all of the dark spots that surround my memory like the night sky surrounds the earth.
So many things to forget each day!
I just microwaved a tiny pizza.
I could forget that too,
but I won't. In fact, I'm going to surround it with the emptiness of my stomach.
Forget that!
Friday, April 21, 2006
Flowers blooming like cackling hyenas
From the side walk I heard a sound from the street; that of a small dog barking viciously. Curious, I turned my head to the right and looked around. I saw a man on the sidewalk with his bike, stuffing something into his yellow backpack. The sound ceased. I saw cars stopped in a line, waiting for traffic to start moving again.
The barking started once more as the cars began to crawl forward, and it was coming from a white SUV with it's windows open. I looked inside for the dog, but all I saw was a woman in the passenger seat, her mouth open very wide, her head shaking in violent little jerks with each bark of the dog. She was the dog. I watched her for a moment, just long enough for it to register in her or her friends thoughts that someone was staring. I'm sure I'm not the first. Maybe it kept her laughing.
The barking started once more as the cars began to crawl forward, and it was coming from a white SUV with it's windows open. I looked inside for the dog, but all I saw was a woman in the passenger seat, her mouth open very wide, her head shaking in violent little jerks with each bark of the dog. She was the dog. I watched her for a moment, just long enough for it to register in her or her friends thoughts that someone was staring. I'm sure I'm not the first. Maybe it kept her laughing.
Thursday, April 20, 2006
walking home
The weather was nice and warm on my walk home from work tonight. Many people were out, and I chose to take a more populated route along a busy street; perhaps because I was planning to spend my evening alone in my room, writing. The juxtaposition appealed to me.
I found myself walking behind a couple holding hands. I settled into the rhythm of their footsteps, about 20 feet behind them, rather than keeping my pace and passing them. They held the sidewalk between them, walking widely and then closely, varying their distance. The man had the collar of his polo shirt turned up, a current sign of a cavalier attitude among those that own many polo shirts. They were both young, twenty at the oldest, and they seemed carefree and worriless to me. They appeared perfectly comfortable in the affluent neighborhood, as though it matched them perfectly.
As we walked, I noticed that I passed a home on my right that seemed to house the elderly. A large complex, I often saw old folks watering a garden or lounging on portable chair-frames with wheels on the far side of it, when walking through the adjacent park.
It was dark out, but the long walk leading up to the front entrance of the building was lit from below by lights lining the walkway. At the far end from me, I noticed a figure in shadow, sitting. I saw wheels underneath the sitting figure, but it did not seem to be a wheelchair; likely one of the chair-frames that double as walkers that I've seen before. The figure sat there alone, far from the street, but with a clear view of it. I noticed no movement.
I passed, and the figure passed, and I hastened my gait and passed the couple in front of me, surprising them briefly as I walked around from the street side.
It was strange to me to think that I felt more in common with the lone figure sitting on that walk than I felt with the two young lovers I saw on the street.
I found myself walking behind a couple holding hands. I settled into the rhythm of their footsteps, about 20 feet behind them, rather than keeping my pace and passing them. They held the sidewalk between them, walking widely and then closely, varying their distance. The man had the collar of his polo shirt turned up, a current sign of a cavalier attitude among those that own many polo shirts. They were both young, twenty at the oldest, and they seemed carefree and worriless to me. They appeared perfectly comfortable in the affluent neighborhood, as though it matched them perfectly.
As we walked, I noticed that I passed a home on my right that seemed to house the elderly. A large complex, I often saw old folks watering a garden or lounging on portable chair-frames with wheels on the far side of it, when walking through the adjacent park.
It was dark out, but the long walk leading up to the front entrance of the building was lit from below by lights lining the walkway. At the far end from me, I noticed a figure in shadow, sitting. I saw wheels underneath the sitting figure, but it did not seem to be a wheelchair; likely one of the chair-frames that double as walkers that I've seen before. The figure sat there alone, far from the street, but with a clear view of it. I noticed no movement.
I passed, and the figure passed, and I hastened my gait and passed the couple in front of me, surprising them briefly as I walked around from the street side.
It was strange to me to think that I felt more in common with the lone figure sitting on that walk than I felt with the two young lovers I saw on the street.
Wednesday, April 19, 2006
Getting Older
"Sunrise Assisted Living of Lincoln Park
with a community for the memory impaired"
These are the words on a sign that I frequently walk beneath when leaving my apartment. I look into the building attached to the sign as I walk past, and see soft yellow lighting and lots of browns and yellows and pastels. Flowers sit in vases, always fresh (or fake) and big thick drapes are held back in the day time to let light into the communal areas that I can see into on the ground floor.
If I walk past at dinnertime, I see many of the elderly gathered around tables in the dining area, silver ware and silver drink containers and silver wheelchairs and the people all moving so slowly, their faces like old weathered stone, mostly immobile. It's a rich neighborhood, and this must be an expensive home to live in. A place where the upper middle class come to die, when they can't remember what to do anymore.
When I walk past at night, there is often an ambulance parked outside. People that I see attending the ambulance and it's activities rarely look very worried. They do not move very quickly. They are not in a place of urgency, but a place to forget things.
A place to finally forget to live, after such a long time of remembering.
with a community for the memory impaired"
These are the words on a sign that I frequently walk beneath when leaving my apartment. I look into the building attached to the sign as I walk past, and see soft yellow lighting and lots of browns and yellows and pastels. Flowers sit in vases, always fresh (or fake) and big thick drapes are held back in the day time to let light into the communal areas that I can see into on the ground floor.
If I walk past at dinnertime, I see many of the elderly gathered around tables in the dining area, silver ware and silver drink containers and silver wheelchairs and the people all moving so slowly, their faces like old weathered stone, mostly immobile. It's a rich neighborhood, and this must be an expensive home to live in. A place where the upper middle class come to die, when they can't remember what to do anymore.
When I walk past at night, there is often an ambulance parked outside. People that I see attending the ambulance and it's activities rarely look very worried. They do not move very quickly. They are not in a place of urgency, but a place to forget things.
A place to finally forget to live, after such a long time of remembering.
Monday, April 17, 2006
Sam
Sam was tired. Sam was bored.
He got home from work and set his suitcase on the floor. It was an old case, and he knew that the other sales reps looked down upon him for having such a beat up old case. He'd patched a hole in it with black electrical tape. He sat down in front of his computer and stared at it for a little while. A picture of a sunset, somewhere tropical, was frozen on the screen. He lit a cigarette.
He'd spent most of that day learning to compile spreadsheets with Excel to conform to the companies database records, typing numbers and staring at grids for hours; it was numbing, and his fingers felt like dull pencils.
"Fuck," he mumbled. He looked down at his suitcase, next to the computer, fallen over onto it's side where he'd set it. The tape over the hole was peeling up at the edges, little gummy bits of stickiness holding onto bits of dirt. It looked grimy.
He turned off the computer monitor and got up, leaving his small apartment to walk to the corner store. Bought a bottle of vodka from the mustachioed man behind the counter.
Went back to his apartment and poured a shot. Drank it and felt it burn down to his stomach. Spreadsheets, sales figures, client names, profit margins.
He poured another shot right after the first and drank that one too.
Neckties, starched shirts, ironed pants, patched up holes.
He drank two more shots and laid down on his old couch. He closed his eyes and watched the redness behind his eyelids fade and dull to a darker color as the sun slowly set beyond his window, beyond his darkened computer screen. The alcohol settled into his stomach and along his spine and into his brain, cuddling up with an unsettled crunch of tension coming closer to view. Things left undone.
He opened his eyes, turned his head and looked out the window. Darkness outside. Street lights on, shining and bouncing light in. He sat up, got up, took off his tie and dropped it on the floor.
He left his apartment again. He walked back to the corner and turned and followed that street up to the next one, a wider one.
Cars raced past, making the green light. He walked down that street, stopping on the sidewalk, halfway between the stoplights at either end of the block.
He watched the headlights coming from both directions for a time, the closer ones zooming by from left to right, and the cars flying past on the far side from right to left, the vodka warming his limbs, his fingers; thinking of dull pencils.
He picked a lone pair of lights coming fast from the far right, bracing himself and tensing his legs. He waited for it to get to the green light and come through the intersection. Breathing deep and fast, he waited for it to come towards where he stood, nearer, nearer, and when he wasn't quite sure about it anymore, he lunged forward, running across the street.
The car came at him as a bright leviathan of swiftness. He ran as hard and as fast as he could strain himself to do, directly into it's path. The car's brakes screeched as it tried to stop and the lights swerved erratically. He felt the heat of it as it came on him and jumped forward; felt it's mass moving under and behind him, just missing.
He landed on the sidewalk and kept running, his blood flushing his face, and his lungs bellowing. The screech of brakes ended in a metal crunching crash and thump. He ran into an alley and kept going to the next block over. He slowed down, and noticed a bar. Went inside, sat at the bar and ordered a shot of vodka. The bartender looked at him strangely, but didn't say anything. Sam's hands were shaking and he was red and sweating. He paid for the shot with cash, drank it, and left the bar. Outside he hailed a cab. Sirens wailed in the distance, coming closer, as he got into the car.
Sam told the cabbie to take him downtown. He'd find a bar down there, further away. He thought that he'd probably call into work the next day.
He got home from work and set his suitcase on the floor. It was an old case, and he knew that the other sales reps looked down upon him for having such a beat up old case. He'd patched a hole in it with black electrical tape. He sat down in front of his computer and stared at it for a little while. A picture of a sunset, somewhere tropical, was frozen on the screen. He lit a cigarette.
He'd spent most of that day learning to compile spreadsheets with Excel to conform to the companies database records, typing numbers and staring at grids for hours; it was numbing, and his fingers felt like dull pencils.
"Fuck," he mumbled. He looked down at his suitcase, next to the computer, fallen over onto it's side where he'd set it. The tape over the hole was peeling up at the edges, little gummy bits of stickiness holding onto bits of dirt. It looked grimy.
He turned off the computer monitor and got up, leaving his small apartment to walk to the corner store. Bought a bottle of vodka from the mustachioed man behind the counter.
Went back to his apartment and poured a shot. Drank it and felt it burn down to his stomach. Spreadsheets, sales figures, client names, profit margins.
He poured another shot right after the first and drank that one too.
Neckties, starched shirts, ironed pants, patched up holes.
He drank two more shots and laid down on his old couch. He closed his eyes and watched the redness behind his eyelids fade and dull to a darker color as the sun slowly set beyond his window, beyond his darkened computer screen. The alcohol settled into his stomach and along his spine and into his brain, cuddling up with an unsettled crunch of tension coming closer to view. Things left undone.
He opened his eyes, turned his head and looked out the window. Darkness outside. Street lights on, shining and bouncing light in. He sat up, got up, took off his tie and dropped it on the floor.
He left his apartment again. He walked back to the corner and turned and followed that street up to the next one, a wider one.
Cars raced past, making the green light. He walked down that street, stopping on the sidewalk, halfway between the stoplights at either end of the block.
He watched the headlights coming from both directions for a time, the closer ones zooming by from left to right, and the cars flying past on the far side from right to left, the vodka warming his limbs, his fingers; thinking of dull pencils.
He picked a lone pair of lights coming fast from the far right, bracing himself and tensing his legs. He waited for it to get to the green light and come through the intersection. Breathing deep and fast, he waited for it to come towards where he stood, nearer, nearer, and when he wasn't quite sure about it anymore, he lunged forward, running across the street.
The car came at him as a bright leviathan of swiftness. He ran as hard and as fast as he could strain himself to do, directly into it's path. The car's brakes screeched as it tried to stop and the lights swerved erratically. He felt the heat of it as it came on him and jumped forward; felt it's mass moving under and behind him, just missing.
He landed on the sidewalk and kept running, his blood flushing his face, and his lungs bellowing. The screech of brakes ended in a metal crunching crash and thump. He ran into an alley and kept going to the next block over. He slowed down, and noticed a bar. Went inside, sat at the bar and ordered a shot of vodka. The bartender looked at him strangely, but didn't say anything. Sam's hands were shaking and he was red and sweating. He paid for the shot with cash, drank it, and left the bar. Outside he hailed a cab. Sirens wailed in the distance, coming closer, as he got into the car.
Sam told the cabbie to take him downtown. He'd find a bar down there, further away. He thought that he'd probably call into work the next day.
Friday, April 14, 2006
parking lot
My connection to the internet has been experiencing datum interruptus, which leaves me with a larger hole than I'd really like in my chronicling. So it goes.
-------------------------------------------
A large busy parking lot.
A sunny day in winter, chilly but just a little warmer any place the sun hit, easing zippers and buttons on coats just a bit.
Five security guards monitor the parking lot all day. They drink coffee, chat with people and each other, and watch to make sure noone parks their car and leaves the lot to go somewhere else. It's a free lot, but high volume, so it has to be monitored to protect against abuse. Most of the guards will try to warn someone if they are seen leaving the lot, but sometimes there's no option other than to tow the car away; that is the threat and the occasional reality.
A small of group of people dressed affluently walked out of the lot. A wife and husband, a kid, and a friend, prepared for an afternoon of shopping at the neighboring stores. Their car was parked in the lot that the security guards monitor.
One of the guards stood in the shade of the building at the edge of the lot, watching all the cars. A young woman was jogging away from where he stood, moving towards the family that was then on the sidewalk.
"Hey, " she yelled to the them. "I gave him $10 bucks, so we should be fine!"
The parking guy moved a little further back against the building as the family walked to the corner.
-------------------------------------------
A large busy parking lot.
A sunny day in winter, chilly but just a little warmer any place the sun hit, easing zippers and buttons on coats just a bit.
Five security guards monitor the parking lot all day. They drink coffee, chat with people and each other, and watch to make sure noone parks their car and leaves the lot to go somewhere else. It's a free lot, but high volume, so it has to be monitored to protect against abuse. Most of the guards will try to warn someone if they are seen leaving the lot, but sometimes there's no option other than to tow the car away; that is the threat and the occasional reality.
A small of group of people dressed affluently walked out of the lot. A wife and husband, a kid, and a friend, prepared for an afternoon of shopping at the neighboring stores. Their car was parked in the lot that the security guards monitor.
One of the guards stood in the shade of the building at the edge of the lot, watching all the cars. A young woman was jogging away from where he stood, moving towards the family that was then on the sidewalk.
"Hey, " she yelled to the them. "I gave him $10 bucks, so we should be fine!"
The parking guy moved a little further back against the building as the family walked to the corner.
Friday, April 07, 2006
My teeth
During most of my adolescence and early 20's, I hated my teeth. I liked the bottom row, but my top two front teeth, and most notably, the space between, bothered me.It's taken a long time, but I am comfortable with my teeth now. I like them. They are distinctive and large. When I smile, people notice. My teeth draw attention.
There are some practical aspects to the gap though, that I've had to learn to deal with.
It causes me to have a slight problem with "th" sounds and an occasional whistle with "s"'s. Flecks of spit are more likely to escape through the gap when I speak. Most of the time I can control it well, but I have to be careful when I've been drinking or when I get excited.
One aspect of my toothy separation that I didn't notice till more recently, is the effect it has upon my bite. When I pick up a sandwich and bite into it, a small portion of the sandwich does not get severed, and the sandwich retains a small bridge to the bite that is in my mouth. To fully separate a bite from a sandwich, I need to take several quick bites from side to side, or I need to take one bite and tear away to the left or right with my head.
Bacon is the worst. I seem to never be able to bite all the way through a piece of it. Pepperonis on pizza are almost always eaten whole by me. Strands of fresh onion are also a problem, as they tend to fit nicely into the gap. I'll pull away from the sandwich with my mouthful, and find an onion ring dangling from my lips.
Today, whilst eating a delicious sandwich I made for myself, I discovered a new tactic for sandwich eating which may be a valuable tool in my arsenal of survival techniques.
I pick up the sandwich and squish it pretty flat. Not forcefully, but just enough to compact it a bit.
Then, to bite, I open my jaws, insert the sandwich and bite down, fast! Then pull away just as quickly.
I surprise the sandwich.
It worked!
Thursday, April 06, 2006
American money gets uglier
I am jealous of the currency in other countries; not because of the value of it, but because of the color in it.I started seeing the new $10 bill at my work a week or two ago. The first one I saw, a neurotic woman was about to use to pay for her purchase.
"Is this real?" she asked me.
"That's odd," I said, looking at the bill.
I marked it with the counterfeit-detector pen, and it looked good, then I held it up to the light, and it had a watermark in it.
"It seems real, but I've never seen it before, " I told her. "Maybe it's fake."
"Well then I want to pay with it," she said, appearing anxious about the possibility that her money might be counterfeit.
"I'll take it," I told her. "It's probably a limited edition. Look, it says 2004 on it. It's two years old, but it looks new."
She quickly changed her mind and took the bill back from me. "Good," I thought, "it was probably a fake."
The next day, I saw a few more, and now they're everywhere. I don't like the redesign. I do not appreciate it's aesthetic feel.
The bill looks like a dehydrated person pissed all over it, and then left it in the sun for a week. Then a conservatively prudish and retarded art school graduate was given a red highlighter that was almost out of ink, and told to: "go wild!"; which the graduate did with it's typical lack of gusto.
A Google Image Search for "currency" yields a whole page of links to money that is prettier and more colorful than ours. I'm not including coins in my jealousy; our coins are satisfactory to me. It is our bills that I would like to see really improved.
I believe that Australia has the best example of why our money seems deficient to me.
Their money has depictions of famous Australian artists and prominent members of the culture. Here, you have to be the president to get on a bill. The bills are vibrantly multicolored and shiny and made of plastic. If I were to make space money from the future, I would make it look a little like this.
Our bills are drab and mostly of the same color palette; the few attempts to add color that have been made so far appear to be the work of a printer dying of leukemia; it's soul leaking out with the marrow of it's fading ink.
We are security obsessed, and are ignoring the face we show to the world. The lack of aesthetic appeal of our money is just one more example of the sad state that America is grasping at in it's current decline.
Monday, April 03, 2006
what i did today
I shampooed my hair today.
I picked up the small shampoo bottle that I keep in the shower caddy, and found that it was empty. I reached around the outer shower curtain liner to grab the large bottle of shampoo that I keep on the window sill for refilling of the small bottle. (I prefer to use the small bottle because it opens from the bottom.)
When the small one was full, I squeezed a large amount into my palm and lathered my hair with it. I rinsed. I repeated with a smaller amount of shampoo.
I grabbed my bottle of conditioner and squeezed a large amount of that into my palm. I lathered and lathered and lathered and then rinsed that out.
My hair clean, I reached for the bottle of face wash (also a bottom opener) that I keep in the shower caddy next to the shampoo. I squeezed a small amount of the goop into my left palm, closed the lid, replaced the bottle back into the caddy with my right hand, and brought my left hand up and smeared the goo into my hair, in the same spot I'd put the conditioner.
I realized that I had just smeared daily wash facial cleanser in my hair at the same moment my hand smushed it in. I removed my hand and squinted at it stupidly. I felt the cleansing goo sting a little on my scalp; I washed it out and tried again, remembering to put the goo on my face that time.
I picked up the small shampoo bottle that I keep in the shower caddy, and found that it was empty. I reached around the outer shower curtain liner to grab the large bottle of shampoo that I keep on the window sill for refilling of the small bottle. (I prefer to use the small bottle because it opens from the bottom.)
When the small one was full, I squeezed a large amount into my palm and lathered my hair with it. I rinsed. I repeated with a smaller amount of shampoo.
I grabbed my bottle of conditioner and squeezed a large amount of that into my palm. I lathered and lathered and lathered and then rinsed that out.
My hair clean, I reached for the bottle of face wash (also a bottom opener) that I keep in the shower caddy next to the shampoo. I squeezed a small amount of the goop into my left palm, closed the lid, replaced the bottle back into the caddy with my right hand, and brought my left hand up and smeared the goo into my hair, in the same spot I'd put the conditioner.
I realized that I had just smeared daily wash facial cleanser in my hair at the same moment my hand smushed it in. I removed my hand and squinted at it stupidly. I felt the cleansing goo sting a little on my scalp; I washed it out and tried again, remembering to put the goo on my face that time.
Friday, March 31, 2006
Tuesday, March 28, 2006
humidity
I got in the shower today with a plan to wash my hair, but when I stepped into the tub, I again noticed the mold that has been growing on the inside of my shower curtain liner. I've been here 5 and a half months, and enough of it has appeared to annoy me. I've been planning on cleaning it for awhile, but it's been an easy thing to put off. I only see it once a day, and I am naked and myopic and trying to get myself clean, and usually in a hurry as well; the mold gets ignored.
Until today. I didn't have to be anywhere. Time was not an issue.
I got a bottle of cleaner from under the sink, and the sponge that I keep next to it. I didn't even have to step back out of the shower. The water ran warmly from the showerhead.
I sprayed the curtain all over with the cleaner and proceeded to scrub at it with the sponge. Scrubbing either end of the liner was easiest because I could spread the curtain against the tile wall and have a hard surface to scrub upon. The end where I enter and exit had the most mold, so it was good that it was easiest to clean; the reason for the extra mold is that the end of the liner tends to fold back on itself when wet, and then sticks together, trapping the moisture and aiding the growth.
Cleaning the middle section was harder.
I had to put my left arm behind the liner and sandwich it between my hand and the sponge on the other side, allowing me to scrub one hand-sized section at a time. My progress slowed, and I turned off the water faucet; all pretenses of a quick cleaning job at the beginning of my shower having washed down the drain with citric cleanser and invisible granules of scrubbed mold.
The mold in the middle section of the liner was centered on vertical folds still remembered by the material from it's days on a shelf at the store I bought it from.
When I finished the middle section, I sprayed the whole curtain again, and then went over it with my eyes and the sponge, catching spots that I'd missed.
When I was done, I turned the water back on, and turned the nozzle to wash the remaining cleaner from the curtain.
I resumed my shower, and washed my hair.
My curtain is clean.
Until today. I didn't have to be anywhere. Time was not an issue.
I got a bottle of cleaner from under the sink, and the sponge that I keep next to it. I didn't even have to step back out of the shower. The water ran warmly from the showerhead.
I sprayed the curtain all over with the cleaner and proceeded to scrub at it with the sponge. Scrubbing either end of the liner was easiest because I could spread the curtain against the tile wall and have a hard surface to scrub upon. The end where I enter and exit had the most mold, so it was good that it was easiest to clean; the reason for the extra mold is that the end of the liner tends to fold back on itself when wet, and then sticks together, trapping the moisture and aiding the growth.
Cleaning the middle section was harder.
I had to put my left arm behind the liner and sandwich it between my hand and the sponge on the other side, allowing me to scrub one hand-sized section at a time. My progress slowed, and I turned off the water faucet; all pretenses of a quick cleaning job at the beginning of my shower having washed down the drain with citric cleanser and invisible granules of scrubbed mold.
The mold in the middle section of the liner was centered on vertical folds still remembered by the material from it's days on a shelf at the store I bought it from.
When I finished the middle section, I sprayed the whole curtain again, and then went over it with my eyes and the sponge, catching spots that I'd missed.
When I was done, I turned the water back on, and turned the nozzle to wash the remaining cleaner from the curtain.
I resumed my shower, and washed my hair.
My curtain is clean.
Saturday, March 25, 2006
Miracle
I've been wearing my glasses a lot recently.
Last night, I'd been drinking.
I took my glasses off, set them down, and then put my contacts in.
After I put my contacts in, without thinking about it, I put my glasses back on, as they were in a spot I only place them in temporarily; such as when I am changing shirts, or showering.
I put my glasses on, and suddenly my vision turned blurry.
I squinted my eyes, and reached up to rub one of them, then I noticed that my peripheral vision around the glasses was excellent.
I pulled my glasses off my face, and I could see!
I ran to the window, leaned out, threw my glasses out into the street, and screamed:
"Hallelujah, I can see!!!"
-------------------
This morning I woke up with a hangover.
I couldn't find my glasses anywhere.
Then I remembered why.
And wrote this.
Last night, I'd been drinking.
I took my glasses off, set them down, and then put my contacts in.
After I put my contacts in, without thinking about it, I put my glasses back on, as they were in a spot I only place them in temporarily; such as when I am changing shirts, or showering.
I put my glasses on, and suddenly my vision turned blurry.
I squinted my eyes, and reached up to rub one of them, then I noticed that my peripheral vision around the glasses was excellent.
I pulled my glasses off my face, and I could see!
I ran to the window, leaned out, threw my glasses out into the street, and screamed:
"Hallelujah, I can see!!!"
-------------------
This morning I woke up with a hangover.
I couldn't find my glasses anywhere.
Then I remembered why.
And wrote this.
Thursday, March 23, 2006
Waaaaaaah!!
There was a child somewhere nearby, crying and having a tantrum.
A man walked up to me in a nice hat, laughing.
I looked at him, and I started laughing too; we both knew what we were laughing about.
"I sometimes enjoy the cries of children, " I said.
"I think I'd like to do what he's doing, somedays," the man said.
"Yes, " I agreed. "Me too."
And we laughed some more.
A man walked up to me in a nice hat, laughing.
I looked at him, and I started laughing too; we both knew what we were laughing about.
"I sometimes enjoy the cries of children, " I said.
"I think I'd like to do what he's doing, somedays," the man said.
"Yes, " I agreed. "Me too."
And we laughed some more.
Wednesday, March 22, 2006
Croissant (sp?)
I was working as a bagger at a grocery store.
A woman was purchasing 3 croissants in an open plastic bag from the bakery.
The cashier picked up the bag to count them and then set it down.
"Did your finger touch that?" asked the woman of him, quickly.
"No," he said. "My finger just touched the wrapper."
"I don't want them." She said tersely. "Take them off."
"Ok," he said, and set them aside.
I looked on in shock. Because a man who is unfamiliar to her may have briefly touched one of her croissants with one or two fingers, she was unwilling to buy them. What did she think may have been transferred? Should I be worried? No, I don't feel worried. How does she think those croissants were made? Does she think that no hands have ever touched them before?
I don't know, and it made me sad. It made me think of the paranoia that seems to be so harshly gripping so many Americans. What are we so fucking afraid of, that we can just throw away food like that for the most asinine and remote dangers. Why are we so worried all the time? We have very little to worry about, compared to most of the world. It bugs me.
I took them back to the bakery and told the clerk there that:
"A customer didn't want these anymore because a cashiers finger may have touched them."
I said it kind of loudly, I suppose. I heard a woman behind me say, "well, I wouldn't either."
Goddammit, that was enough.
"Here, I'll take them, nevermind." I was pissed. I knew they were just going to throw them away, for what seemed like no good reason to me.
I took them over to the customer service desk and bought them. Screw the paranoia.
I just ate one of them.
It was delicious.
A woman was purchasing 3 croissants in an open plastic bag from the bakery.
The cashier picked up the bag to count them and then set it down.
"Did your finger touch that?" asked the woman of him, quickly.
"No," he said. "My finger just touched the wrapper."
"I don't want them." She said tersely. "Take them off."
"Ok," he said, and set them aside.
I looked on in shock. Because a man who is unfamiliar to her may have briefly touched one of her croissants with one or two fingers, she was unwilling to buy them. What did she think may have been transferred? Should I be worried? No, I don't feel worried. How does she think those croissants were made? Does she think that no hands have ever touched them before?
I don't know, and it made me sad. It made me think of the paranoia that seems to be so harshly gripping so many Americans. What are we so fucking afraid of, that we can just throw away food like that for the most asinine and remote dangers. Why are we so worried all the time? We have very little to worry about, compared to most of the world. It bugs me.
I took them back to the bakery and told the clerk there that:
"A customer didn't want these anymore because a cashiers finger may have touched them."
I said it kind of loudly, I suppose. I heard a woman behind me say, "well, I wouldn't either."
Goddammit, that was enough.
"Here, I'll take them, nevermind." I was pissed. I knew they were just going to throw them away, for what seemed like no good reason to me.
I took them over to the customer service desk and bought them. Screw the paranoia.
I just ate one of them.
It was delicious.
Sunday, March 19, 2006
Successful day
On my walk home from work tonight, I sang. I sang the whole way, on my two mile walk. I sang noises and it was circusy, but sort of drunk walking with my feet flipping out widely on each step.
Me me me.
I exercised my Japan fetish heartily today.
I went to Mitsuwa Marketplace with my Japanese friend and a fellow Nihongo enthusiast. We wandered and spoke and shopped and ate and I spoke more Japanese in a day than I ever have. It was wonderful. I feel so small in my knowledge of the language and constant exposure to just how much there is to learn, but I'm gaining a confidence in my ability to learn it and speak and understand it. Today I really broke through the stress boundary that has encircled by shaky grasp of the language. I spoke it thoughtlessly a few times, and forgot to be nervous.
That's great!!
Best I've felt about the language so far.
Me me me.
I exercised my Japan fetish heartily today.
I went to Mitsuwa Marketplace with my Japanese friend and a fellow Nihongo enthusiast. We wandered and spoke and shopped and ate and I spoke more Japanese in a day than I ever have. It was wonderful. I feel so small in my knowledge of the language and constant exposure to just how much there is to learn, but I'm gaining a confidence in my ability to learn it and speak and understand it. Today I really broke through the stress boundary that has encircled by shaky grasp of the language. I spoke it thoughtlessly a few times, and forgot to be nervous.
That's great!!
Best I've felt about the language so far.
Friday, March 17, 2006
Roast
I was participated in roasting my friend Shabaz on his birthday this Wednesday at a cafe. Here is the speech that I wrote for it (Shabaz was sitting on the stage with me while I spoke):
"Last night I drank until dawn, and I've had a lot to drink tonight. Before I got up here, I was worried that I might pass out first. Now that I'm here, I'm worried I might pass out on the stage. If I do, just drag me to my seat and tell the cops that Shabaz slipped Rufies in my drink. He's that desperate.
A few days ago, I was wondering what I could say about Shabaz tonight, other than to curse him for being a worthless isolated hermit of a layabout that didn't bother to read my mind so he could find out that I'm a huge Arlo Guthrie fan before he didn't invite me to go to the concert with him. I almost learned the guitar just so I could cover Alice's Restaurant, you bastard.
[singing]'Oh, you can get anything you want, at Alice's Restaurant' - except redemption Shabaz. I'll hunt you like the middle-eastern sand lizard that you are, and I'll be reading this again at your funeral.
[At this point I flipped him off, and then walked over to him and kissed him on the cheek. The crowd made a sappy sound.]
"What you don't know is that I have cyanide on my lips."
"Yeah, so I thought of saying all that, and then decided to say this.
Shabaz is my friend, but I haven't known him for very long, so that could still change.
I talk a lot, but Shabaz talks too long. He doesn't know when to close his mouth. One time when I was listening to him talk, his mouth stayed open for so long that an entire family of spiders crawled inside, lived their natural lifespans, died, their little spider corpses shriveled and turned to dust, all in his mouth while I watched, and before the end of his story, which he never actually reached because he fell asleep in his chair while he was talking to me.
Finally, God bless, Holy Shalam, and allah, and whatever else might be relevant to the mystery seasoning packet you call your genetic history. May your mother rest in peace, knowing that she left her son with such caring friends as all of us here tonight. Happy birthday Shabaz."
"Last night I drank until dawn, and I've had a lot to drink tonight. Before I got up here, I was worried that I might pass out first. Now that I'm here, I'm worried I might pass out on the stage. If I do, just drag me to my seat and tell the cops that Shabaz slipped Rufies in my drink. He's that desperate.
A few days ago, I was wondering what I could say about Shabaz tonight, other than to curse him for being a worthless isolated hermit of a layabout that didn't bother to read my mind so he could find out that I'm a huge Arlo Guthrie fan before he didn't invite me to go to the concert with him. I almost learned the guitar just so I could cover Alice's Restaurant, you bastard.
[singing]'Oh, you can get anything you want, at Alice's Restaurant' - except redemption Shabaz. I'll hunt you like the middle-eastern sand lizard that you are, and I'll be reading this again at your funeral.
[At this point I flipped him off, and then walked over to him and kissed him on the cheek. The crowd made a sappy sound.]
"What you don't know is that I have cyanide on my lips."
"Yeah, so I thought of saying all that, and then decided to say this.
Shabaz is my friend, but I haven't known him for very long, so that could still change.
I talk a lot, but Shabaz talks too long. He doesn't know when to close his mouth. One time when I was listening to him talk, his mouth stayed open for so long that an entire family of spiders crawled inside, lived their natural lifespans, died, their little spider corpses shriveled and turned to dust, all in his mouth while I watched, and before the end of his story, which he never actually reached because he fell asleep in his chair while he was talking to me.
Finally, God bless, Holy Shalam, and allah, and whatever else might be relevant to the mystery seasoning packet you call your genetic history. May your mother rest in peace, knowing that she left her son with such caring friends as all of us here tonight. Happy birthday Shabaz."
Wednesday, March 15, 2006
Unread, and un-spellchecked
This night.
Seemed a good place to start laying words down.
The trouble is where to go next from there.
The keyboard is unresponsive to my fingertips. One word leaps to the next with the agility of a retarded long jumper. I could be a disfigured cheetah closing in obviously on a kill that will never be.
However, I could be anything, though I sometimes feel that that is reserved for other people. People with will and perseverence. I have endurance, but have not had much else. Never had much gut, or strength, or individuality. I was the one that took punishment and ran away quickly. I didn't want more than what I found without trying. I wanted to be left alone, generally. I could have played video games forever by myself in a closed room for a long time and been happy. Forever, if I'd had the best selection selected for me on a monthly basis, but that involves other people. No way to be alone and be happy for me. I had to find a way to interact.
I've been gradually looking for ways to do so for years. I've gotten better at it, I suppose, though I'm not proud of it. I'm still the same sad kid I was when I was 15, but now I've learned more about the art of distracting myself.
Shiny baubles and all kinds of things; shiny shiny shiny!
I must be kept busy, or life starts to stain through.
Here is where I lay.
The first day of spring will come soon. We will have some equanimity around that, which will be nice.
If I don't contradict myself, I'm happy.
Come on then world, fuck me with your best stillettos on, I'll be waiting with the meanest reviewers to nail you to wall with your brethren, and cry about it afterward.
A good drink always needs a home.
Enough of this.
Seemed a good place to start laying words down.
The trouble is where to go next from there.
The keyboard is unresponsive to my fingertips. One word leaps to the next with the agility of a retarded long jumper. I could be a disfigured cheetah closing in obviously on a kill that will never be.
However, I could be anything, though I sometimes feel that that is reserved for other people. People with will and perseverence. I have endurance, but have not had much else. Never had much gut, or strength, or individuality. I was the one that took punishment and ran away quickly. I didn't want more than what I found without trying. I wanted to be left alone, generally. I could have played video games forever by myself in a closed room for a long time and been happy. Forever, if I'd had the best selection selected for me on a monthly basis, but that involves other people. No way to be alone and be happy for me. I had to find a way to interact.
I've been gradually looking for ways to do so for years. I've gotten better at it, I suppose, though I'm not proud of it. I'm still the same sad kid I was when I was 15, but now I've learned more about the art of distracting myself.
Shiny baubles and all kinds of things; shiny shiny shiny!
I must be kept busy, or life starts to stain through.
Here is where I lay.
The first day of spring will come soon. We will have some equanimity around that, which will be nice.
If I don't contradict myself, I'm happy.
Come on then world, fuck me with your best stillettos on, I'll be waiting with the meanest reviewers to nail you to wall with your brethren, and cry about it afterward.
A good drink always needs a home.
Enough of this.
Monday, March 13, 2006
Noon: Part 2
She stopped looking at the city and looked down at her feet, then at the ground and gravel and bits of broken plastic and glass that littered the shoulder of the road. She didn't like when her father was upset. She didn't know what to do. She kept her eyes on the ground, trying to identify different things there near her. There was a lid and straw from a soda cup, crushed flat and browned with dirt. There were bottle caps and a crushed can. Next to the can was something small and white and round. It looked like it could be soft or brittle. She crouched down and moved her head closer to it. It had a yellowish color stained into it, and was small, about the length of half of her index finger. She reached down and picked it up very carefully. It was fragile and very light, like a piece of hard dust. One end of it ended smoothly and roundly, like her finger tip, but the other end had a hole in it and was burst open, as if something had ripped free and escaped from it. She looked inside it and saw a little brown husk of something within. A discarded skin. It was a moth's cocoon, picked up and blown by the wind, but she didn't know that at the time.
She dropped it back on the ground and stood up. She looked again at the city, burning. She felt a wind blow over them, hot and rich with the smell of something strong and unpleasant. It left a taste in her mouth, hot and plastic. Ashes scattered in the sky and blew like leaves. She was scared. She reached for her dad's hand and found it, fidgeting with his pant leg. She grabbed it and he held her hand.
They stood there for a long while, watching the city burn with the others on the side of the highway, the radio in the car broadcasting worried voices into the air around them as moths would bounce around a bright light.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
