the cement sidewalk or chewing gum?
I thought about this this afternoon while I sat at a table outside of an ice cream shop. I was looking around at the cement and noticed oh so many irregular black stains on the concrete. Each one was unique, and represented an individual wad of spent, cast away bubble gum. So many! So much history! These smears and stains seem to last as long as the concrete does.
Was there ever a time when concrete walkways were relatively pristine, and free of gum smears? How recent is this epidemic of gum graffiti? Was there a crackdown on this sort of litter shortly after chewing gum was invented and people started to notice the problem? How quickly did it get out of hand? Or have cement sidewalks always been this way, the invention of chewing gum having preceded the sidewalk?
When I think about cement, I think about the Greeks and the Romans. I believe that one of them created it, so cement walkways have probably been around since then. As for chewing gum, I don't know when it was invented. I think in the 1900's. Maybe in the 1800's. I believe it's much more recent.
I decided to do some research when I got back to an internet connection, and this is what I found:
Concrete, as we know it today, was patented in England in 1824 by a man named Joseph Aspdin, and is called portland cement, although the Romans used something in their structures that was very similar to that.
The ancient Greeks chewed a gummy substance called mastiche, which was derived from the mastic tree. The first commercial chewing gum was not produced until 1848, in the state of Maine in North America.
Portland cement began to gain popularity in Europe in the 1850's, but was not manufactured in the US until the 1870's.
The sort of sidewalks that we have today began to appear in the 18 and 1900's.
Conclusion:
It appears that concrete sidewalks began to be crafted in the 1800's, which is also when chewing gum began to appear as a mass produced product in modern society. They seem to have a nearly tandem rate of growth. It seems likely that the occurrence of gum-spotted concrete walks grew along with the implementation of concrete walks so gradually that it was never really recognized as a problem. There seems to have never been a pristine era of gum-free cement.
Even the Romans may have faced the problem of scraping chewed and spent mastiche wads from their cement creations.
In dealing with this question, there seems to be only one apt analogy for me to use:
The chicken?
Or the egg?
Thursday, June 29, 2006
Wednesday, June 28, 2006
Aloes
I opened a bottle of wine tonight.
I went into my kitchenette and opened the drawer to get the corkscrew, but saw the two-pronged cork puller first.
Two posts ago, I related the disastrous events that resulted from my second, and last, attempt to use that cumbersome beast of a bottle opener.
Tonight, I remembered a comment my friend made to me about that attempt: that the third time's always a charm, except that in my case, there seemed to be a negative progression, and that a third attempt would probably kill me.
I was tempted. Believe me, I was tempted, but that's why I kept the thing.
As a reminder, and as an option. It's good to have options.
Earlier today, I exercised another option that I had: to re-pot my poor, overcrowded and suffocating aloe plant.
The big mama plant had sprouted 6 babies in a six inch pot that I had let live over the winter and spring; they grew larger as the weeks went by. A month ago, I had taped a sign to the pot that read: "re-pot me please!".
The sign did not go ignored, but did remain for a month without attention. After the third week, my friend told me:
"You've had that sign up for three weeks now, and you still haven't done it. Give it to me. I've already got potting soil."
I felt badly. I already had a fern that looked like it was dying, and now my friend had berated me for not taking care of my aloe plant. I became resolved, and that resolve took tangible form today. I bought a bunch of pots and cactus/succulent potting soil (with bone meal!) and I must have been feeling ambitious because I bought myself a new little succulent to sit on my window sill as well.
I spread out newspaper over the laminate floor in my kitchenette, and took to separating the mother and babies from their pot with a butter knife. (an incorrect family analogy. doctor and clones would be more apt, but I'll stick to what's more sympathetic for plot purposes) It turned out that I had purchased enough pots for the mother and four of her babies, but that left the two measliest babies lying on the newspaper, their roots bare and unprotected, only tiny bits of black soil clinging to their bodies. I picked them up and put them in the trash.
I turned back to the empty bags of soil and folded them flat to put in the trash as well. In doing so, I saw the two leftover babies lying at the top of the can. They looked forlorn and sad; I felt really badly for them.
I picked them out and laid them on the newspaper and looked around. I still had a small pile of sandy soil from the agave plant that I'd re-potted with the others. The special soil was gone. I scavenged my studio for containers that would have good drainage, but didn't find any until I came back to the garbage and saw the little disposable container that the new succulent baby I'd purchased had come in (also re-potted; I'm a maniac). There was enough soil to put one of the babies into that pot. I used a ziploc sandwich baggy as the drain tray for it.
That left one tiny, malformed from overcrowding, poorly rooted (it had grown too close to the main stem to form strong roots) aloe baby with no pot and not enough soil left to put it in.
I felt sad for it for a moment, but nothing could be done. I put it into the trash and let go.
I looked over at the others that were freshly re-potted and felt good about them. Two are presents, but the rest are mine. Perhaps I'll try to give one to my neighbor that I so rarely see.
As for now, this glass of wine that I'm drinking (liberated from the bottle with my trusty corkscrew) is for the sad little aloe baby that just couldn't make it.
Bon voyage, my little homie!
I went into my kitchenette and opened the drawer to get the corkscrew, but saw the two-pronged cork puller first.
Two posts ago, I related the disastrous events that resulted from my second, and last, attempt to use that cumbersome beast of a bottle opener.
Tonight, I remembered a comment my friend made to me about that attempt: that the third time's always a charm, except that in my case, there seemed to be a negative progression, and that a third attempt would probably kill me.
I was tempted. Believe me, I was tempted, but that's why I kept the thing.
As a reminder, and as an option. It's good to have options.
Earlier today, I exercised another option that I had: to re-pot my poor, overcrowded and suffocating aloe plant.
The big mama plant had sprouted 6 babies in a six inch pot that I had let live over the winter and spring; they grew larger as the weeks went by. A month ago, I had taped a sign to the pot that read: "re-pot me please!".
The sign did not go ignored, but did remain for a month without attention. After the third week, my friend told me:
"You've had that sign up for three weeks now, and you still haven't done it. Give it to me. I've already got potting soil."
I felt badly. I already had a fern that looked like it was dying, and now my friend had berated me for not taking care of my aloe plant. I became resolved, and that resolve took tangible form today. I bought a bunch of pots and cactus/succulent potting soil (with bone meal!) and I must have been feeling ambitious because I bought myself a new little succulent to sit on my window sill as well.
I spread out newspaper over the laminate floor in my kitchenette, and took to separating the mother and babies from their pot with a butter knife. (an incorrect family analogy. doctor and clones would be more apt, but I'll stick to what's more sympathetic for plot purposes) It turned out that I had purchased enough pots for the mother and four of her babies, but that left the two measliest babies lying on the newspaper, their roots bare and unprotected, only tiny bits of black soil clinging to their bodies. I picked them up and put them in the trash.
I turned back to the empty bags of soil and folded them flat to put in the trash as well. In doing so, I saw the two leftover babies lying at the top of the can. They looked forlorn and sad; I felt really badly for them.
I picked them out and laid them on the newspaper and looked around. I still had a small pile of sandy soil from the agave plant that I'd re-potted with the others. The special soil was gone. I scavenged my studio for containers that would have good drainage, but didn't find any until I came back to the garbage and saw the little disposable container that the new succulent baby I'd purchased had come in (also re-potted; I'm a maniac). There was enough soil to put one of the babies into that pot. I used a ziploc sandwich baggy as the drain tray for it.
That left one tiny, malformed from overcrowding, poorly rooted (it had grown too close to the main stem to form strong roots) aloe baby with no pot and not enough soil left to put it in.
I felt sad for it for a moment, but nothing could be done. I put it into the trash and let go.
I looked over at the others that were freshly re-potted and felt good about them. Two are presents, but the rest are mine. Perhaps I'll try to give one to my neighbor that I so rarely see.
As for now, this glass of wine that I'm drinking (liberated from the bottle with my trusty corkscrew) is for the sad little aloe baby that just couldn't make it.
Bon voyage, my little homie!
Friday, June 23, 2006
Solstice Tooth
I missed the Summer Solstice.
It occurred last Wednesday, the 21st of June, and marked the day of the year with the most sunshine that we're going to get, unless you live on the equator in a tropical paradise (or third world nation), or at one of the two poles and desperately spend all of your time trying to stay warm.
"missed it".
I suppose I didn't really "miss it", although I didn't realize I was experiencing it. I got up early that day and actually saw the sun rise; or evidence of it rising at least, as the sky got lighter around the buildings that constantly surround me here in Chicago. After my sunrise activities, I napped until noon and then went outside for awhile.
I played soccer with an 8 year old boy who has one humorously conspicuous permanent tooth grown in in a gum line recently emptied of baby teeth. He told me that he knew how to drive a stick shift, but that he just wasn't tall enough to see over the steering well. He also told me that he knows 4 languages. I asked what they were. He told me he could speak French, Chinese, and English. Then he stopped to count and told me that he only knew 3 languages.
The disparity between this boy's abilities at the age of 8, and my abilities at the age of 8, are enough to make me question our being of the same species. I'm only 26, and I've already been left behind by evolution...
Regardless of my lack of conscious knowledge of it (which probably has to do with my inferiority to the capabilities of most children; me being a member of a receding species), I had a good Solstice, and I'm glad.
I'm not very fond anymore of most of the holidays celebrated in America. I grew up with Christmas, Easter, Halloween, Valentines Day, Thanksgiving, and a few others, but I've found that in recent years, even the last few that I found thrilling have been losing their glow.
Last Christmas, I noticed that the Winter Solstice was marked on my calendar. I questioned a few people as to it's meaning and then looked it up on the net. Least amount of daylight in the year (for my hemisphere) and the first day of winter. Oh... neat. It represents death, but also renewal, as the days get longer from that day forth. And it's governed by the rotation of the earth around the sun, not the relatively arbitrary date of the birth of an Important Person that may or may not be a fabrication of necessity, and whose birthdate may have also been politicked in order to better subjugate and assimilate a rival culture.
Screw that shit.
I'd rather mark my time with the planet and share that marking with countless cultures that have erupted and exploded on this globe since the history of man began.
These are my major holidays now: the two Solstices, the two Equinoxes, my birthday, and my Chicagoversary, August 1st, the day I arrived in Chicago.
I like declaring these holidays as my own. They give me something to hold onto and identify myself with when I'm feeling empty and detached from the rest of mankind. They can be cultural anchors for me, when I want them; however, I am finding that I am just as likely to ignore them as I am any of the other holidays, as evinced by "missing" the summer Solstice by three days.
In practice, a holiday is just another day to pick out of the distractions that constantly call for attention; one day is just as important as the next, really.
It occurred last Wednesday, the 21st of June, and marked the day of the year with the most sunshine that we're going to get, unless you live on the equator in a tropical paradise (or third world nation), or at one of the two poles and desperately spend all of your time trying to stay warm.
"missed it".
I suppose I didn't really "miss it", although I didn't realize I was experiencing it. I got up early that day and actually saw the sun rise; or evidence of it rising at least, as the sky got lighter around the buildings that constantly surround me here in Chicago. After my sunrise activities, I napped until noon and then went outside for awhile.
I played soccer with an 8 year old boy who has one humorously conspicuous permanent tooth grown in in a gum line recently emptied of baby teeth. He told me that he knew how to drive a stick shift, but that he just wasn't tall enough to see over the steering well. He also told me that he knows 4 languages. I asked what they were. He told me he could speak French, Chinese, and English. Then he stopped to count and told me that he only knew 3 languages.
The disparity between this boy's abilities at the age of 8, and my abilities at the age of 8, are enough to make me question our being of the same species. I'm only 26, and I've already been left behind by evolution...
Regardless of my lack of conscious knowledge of it (which probably has to do with my inferiority to the capabilities of most children; me being a member of a receding species), I had a good Solstice, and I'm glad.
I'm not very fond anymore of most of the holidays celebrated in America. I grew up with Christmas, Easter, Halloween, Valentines Day, Thanksgiving, and a few others, but I've found that in recent years, even the last few that I found thrilling have been losing their glow.
Last Christmas, I noticed that the Winter Solstice was marked on my calendar. I questioned a few people as to it's meaning and then looked it up on the net. Least amount of daylight in the year (for my hemisphere) and the first day of winter. Oh... neat. It represents death, but also renewal, as the days get longer from that day forth. And it's governed by the rotation of the earth around the sun, not the relatively arbitrary date of the birth of an Important Person that may or may not be a fabrication of necessity, and whose birthdate may have also been politicked in order to better subjugate and assimilate a rival culture.
Screw that shit.
I'd rather mark my time with the planet and share that marking with countless cultures that have erupted and exploded on this globe since the history of man began.
These are my major holidays now: the two Solstices, the two Equinoxes, my birthday, and my Chicagoversary, August 1st, the day I arrived in Chicago.
I like declaring these holidays as my own. They give me something to hold onto and identify myself with when I'm feeling empty and detached from the rest of mankind. They can be cultural anchors for me, when I want them; however, I am finding that I am just as likely to ignore them as I am any of the other holidays, as evinced by "missing" the summer Solstice by three days.
In practice, a holiday is just another day to pick out of the distractions that constantly call for attention; one day is just as important as the next, really.
Thursday, June 15, 2006
Clumsy
That is a cork puller. I have one just like it, and had tried to use it, just once, before tonight. I was unsuccessful at removing the cork the one time I tried. Recently, I'd found some instructions and decided to give it another go.The principle sounds simple. The two blades are gently inserted inbetween the bottle and the cork, starting with the longer blade. When both blades are in, you then slowly pull while turning, and the corks comes out. Simple.
The first time I tried it, I managed to get the blades all the way in, but I also pushed the cork a quarter of the way down. Then, when I tried to pull the blades out with the cork, the blades came out, and only little tiny chunks of the cork came with it. I had to rescue the bottle with a corkscrew. After finding instructions, I realized that I hadn't twisted as I pulled. That must have been the problem.
Tonight:
Firstly, I've been keeping bottles of wine on top of the fridge in my studio. It gets warm up there sometimes; I've noticed that bread molds more quickly when I keep it up there. Heat also pressurizes liquids in airtight containers.
I came home from work and took the bottle down, setting it on the counter: a bottle of Charles Shaw Shiraz. Otherwise known as two-buck chuck. I took a small white glass from my cabinet and set that beside the bottle. I then opened the cutlery drawer and removed the cork puller. I unsheathed the prongs and removed the metal foil from the top of the wine bottle. The foil came off well and neatly; I felt adept, but not for long.
I carefully pushed the longer of the two blades inbetween the bottle and the cork. A very tight fit, but I was able to get it in there. The second one was a little harder. The angle of the cork pulling blades is very strange, as they curve outward. It's difficult to insert both blades. I found that the second was having trouble, and, relying on the sharpness of the tip to find it's own way around the cork, I pushed down with a little more force.
It happened very quickly. There was a very loud popping sound and I felt wine splash all over my face and chest. There was wine in my eyes, and as I stood there, still holding the cork puller in one hand and the bottle neck in the other, I felt it burn into my eyeballs; I blinked stupidly for a moment, staring in offense at the bottle: how dare it?!
The first thing I did was turn on the water at the sink (I was luckily standing next to it) and take off my glasses to wash them, and my face. I put my glasses back on, water dripping, and looked around.
There was red wine everywhere. It was on the counter. There were scattered spots on a few of my clean dishes in the dish rack, as well as in the clean pans that I keep on the range. I cleaned those first. A couple of the drops had made it into my small white glass. There was wine on the floor too, but that was my last worry. There was wine on the white paint on my wall, and I could see it dripping down. I was surprised at how high up the streaks ran as my eyes followed them, ending at the ceiling, and a huge red splotch of wine that was up there, still dripping onto the floor, and me. I wiped the walls down with a sponge, and then dragged my computer chair over to work on the ceiling. The chair wasn't high enough, so I had to climb up onto the counter and sink rim, still wet from the wine and water used to clean it, and balance there in my socks while I scrubbed the ceiling.
I wasn't fast enough. There are faint red splotches and streaks all over the wall and ceiling in my kitchenette.
And my white shirt. It's in a bowl of detergent and hot water, soaking, but I have little hope for it.
Me, I finally came back to my bottle after all the cleaning. A cork floated at the top. I had to use a butter knife to push the cork away to let the wine flow out. I'm drinking it right now.
And I'm going to keep the cork puller. It's done me wrong, but the top portion is a really wonderful beer bottle opener. I thought about throwing it away, but no; I'll keep it around as a reminder to never use a cork puller again.
Wednesday, June 14, 2006
Something totally awesome
Monday, June 12, 2006
hungry?
"$8 for that. That's not bad."
"Yeah, that's a lot of peanut butter."
"Yeah, and I'm going to eat it all tonight."
"You're going to puke."
"Uh-huh. And then I'll eat it again."
"It might be good...no. That's acidic food. Pickles and-"
"My cat does that."
"It's actually a good idea, nutritionally. If you could bring yourself to eat your own feces, you'd need less food."
"That's what college was like."
"Yeah, that's a lot of peanut butter."
"Yeah, and I'm going to eat it all tonight."
"You're going to puke."
"Uh-huh. And then I'll eat it again."
"It might be good...no. That's acidic food. Pickles and-"
"My cat does that."
"It's actually a good idea, nutritionally. If you could bring yourself to eat your own feces, you'd need less food."
"That's what college was like."
Friday, June 09, 2006
My simulated life
It seems to me that I spend a lot of time trying to stay happy. Or get happy? Or not feel badly?
I have to sleep. That's first. Very few things can cause me to maintain a sense of peace if I've not gotten enough sleep for several days in a row. I begin to feel paranoid and awkward.
Eating well. I cannot live on ramen alone, and feel good. I've tried. There's got to be some variation for me to feel good. Or decent, at least.
Seeing people.
Not seeing people.
Finding things to do that I find worthwhile. Maintaining that sense of worth in those things. Continuing to do those things.
Not being a waster.
Being a waster.
I just want to feel good about my life, but there are so damn many things crowding for attention, sucking the bad feelings out to blossom like poison fungi. It's so much maintenance.
I used to play "The Sims". I discovered that my roommate at the time had the game, and set it up on my computer. I named my little sim, picked out his look and chose a profession for him. I made him pee and clean himself and get to work on time and sleep and make friends; I even tried to set him up with a female sim that I created to live down the block from him. Then he electrocuted himself, trying to change a light bulb, and died.
I'd never even lost a pet before that.
I got over it, and moved on to the girl down the street and her female roommate. I concentrated on making them go pee and get to work on time and meet friends and dance and talk. I bought them a bookcase with the money they made from working so that they could read and become educated and not electrocute themselves while changing a lightbulb.
They advanced in their occupations and I bought them better appliances to try to make their grooming routines more efficient; it takes so much time to bathe and eat and pee (do sim's poo?). Then they needed to have more friends to advance in their jobs, so I created four more sims using KISS skins that I found on the net and moved the band in on the opposite end of the block from where my first poor sim died of ignorance. Who wouldn't want to party with KISS?
The cops, apparently.
The first time the girls invited the band over, a lady cop showed up at midnight and gave them a ticket for a noise disturbance. I was furious, everyone got upset, and my girls didn't get enough sleep, making them hell to wake up in the morning. How would my government employee ever make and keep 8 friends to fill the requirement to advance to astronaut training if she couldn't even have a small party without the cops showing up to make her feel badly? And why did the cops even show up? The only other houses in my sim neighborhood belonged to a dead guy, the empty house that the KISS guys lived in, and a rich mansion at the far end of town.
At this point in the life of my sims, I stopped for some evaluation. Six months had gone by in my life. I was drinking a lot, and hated my job. I didn't have a girlfriend and often forgot to put the garbage cans out on Sunday night. I wasn't shaving very often.
I was taking care of my sims better than myself.
Fuck.
That bitter revelation was enough to sever my surprisingly weak emotional ties to my sims, and I deleted the program from my hard drive.
A few months later, I moved to a new town and got a girlfriend. I started shaving more frequently and got better about taking the garbage out, and I feel confident that if I can make enough friends out here, I can eventually become an astronaut.
I have to sleep. That's first. Very few things can cause me to maintain a sense of peace if I've not gotten enough sleep for several days in a row. I begin to feel paranoid and awkward.
Eating well. I cannot live on ramen alone, and feel good. I've tried. There's got to be some variation for me to feel good. Or decent, at least.
Seeing people.
Not seeing people.
Finding things to do that I find worthwhile. Maintaining that sense of worth in those things. Continuing to do those things.
Not being a waster.
Being a waster.
I just want to feel good about my life, but there are so damn many things crowding for attention, sucking the bad feelings out to blossom like poison fungi. It's so much maintenance.
I used to play "The Sims". I discovered that my roommate at the time had the game, and set it up on my computer. I named my little sim, picked out his look and chose a profession for him. I made him pee and clean himself and get to work on time and sleep and make friends; I even tried to set him up with a female sim that I created to live down the block from him. Then he electrocuted himself, trying to change a light bulb, and died.
I'd never even lost a pet before that.
I got over it, and moved on to the girl down the street and her female roommate. I concentrated on making them go pee and get to work on time and meet friends and dance and talk. I bought them a bookcase with the money they made from working so that they could read and become educated and not electrocute themselves while changing a lightbulb.
They advanced in their occupations and I bought them better appliances to try to make their grooming routines more efficient; it takes so much time to bathe and eat and pee (do sim's poo?). Then they needed to have more friends to advance in their jobs, so I created four more sims using KISS skins that I found on the net and moved the band in on the opposite end of the block from where my first poor sim died of ignorance. Who wouldn't want to party with KISS?
The cops, apparently.
The first time the girls invited the band over, a lady cop showed up at midnight and gave them a ticket for a noise disturbance. I was furious, everyone got upset, and my girls didn't get enough sleep, making them hell to wake up in the morning. How would my government employee ever make and keep 8 friends to fill the requirement to advance to astronaut training if she couldn't even have a small party without the cops showing up to make her feel badly? And why did the cops even show up? The only other houses in my sim neighborhood belonged to a dead guy, the empty house that the KISS guys lived in, and a rich mansion at the far end of town.
At this point in the life of my sims, I stopped for some evaluation. Six months had gone by in my life. I was drinking a lot, and hated my job. I didn't have a girlfriend and often forgot to put the garbage cans out on Sunday night. I wasn't shaving very often.
I was taking care of my sims better than myself.
Fuck.
That bitter revelation was enough to sever my surprisingly weak emotional ties to my sims, and I deleted the program from my hard drive.
A few months later, I moved to a new town and got a girlfriend. I started shaving more frequently and got better about taking the garbage out, and I feel confident that if I can make enough friends out here, I can eventually become an astronaut.
Wednesday, June 07, 2006
List
Here is a list of things that I keep next to my computer monitor:
Bjork movie: Drawing Restraint 9
Rockie
Die Mommy Die!
Comas + brain study
Hawking - Brief History of Time
Get incense
Draino for sink
Pearl: glass bottles?
Bjork movie: Drawing Restraint 9
Rockie
Die Mommy Die!
Comas + brain study
Hawking - Brief History of Time
Get incense
Draino for sink
Pearl: glass bottles?
Sunday, June 04, 2006
I learned some new things
The meteor that hit the Earth 65 million years ago and led to the extinction of the dinosaurs left what is known as the Chicxulub crater off the coast of the Yucatan peninsula in Mexico. The crater was formed by a 10-14 kilometer wide meteor impact, and set off an ice age that ruined the dinosaurs, allowing mammals to gradually take over in dominance. I remember hearing about this extinction from my teacher when I was in the second grade and we were studying the dinosaurs.
What I don't remember ever hearing about, is a greater, more complete, extinction that took place much further back in Earth's past.
Apparently, about 250 million years ago, there was an extinction event that killed off almost all life on land and life in water in a very short period of time. Various causes have been suggested, including prolific volcanic activity and a large impact from space.
Very recently, what appears to be an enormous crater has been found in Antarctica. It is about 500 kilometers wide, and would have been caused by the impact of a meteor about 50 kilometers wide. That is a rock five times the size of the one that killed the dinosaurs.
After that enormous smash and die-out, dinosaurs gradually became dominant over the next 185 million years, until they were killed off by the lesser impact, 65 million years ago.
Primates got their chance, and started thriving 60 million years ago, but didn't start walking upright until about 6 million years ago. That was a big leap, as it left our hands free to do things other than move around; things became much more complicated. Homo Sapiens have been around for less than 250,000 years.
The Earth is estimated to be about 4.7 billion years old. Life began over 3.9 billion years ago, according the oldest fossil records, but it was single cellular. Multi cellular life didn't begin until about 1.5 billion years ago.
In about 5 billion years, our sun will have used up all of it's hydrogen and have inflated into a red giant, swallowing the inner planets, including the earth, but we've got less time than that for life as we know it. The sun is gradually heating up as it burns off it's hydrogen, and in about 1 billion years, things will be too hot for water to exist in a liquid state on this planet; bad news for us.
So.
Our kind of life form has been around for 1.5 billion years, and only has another 1 billion years to go. We're over the hump. This is Thursday in the week of perfect evolutionary conditions on this planet. It doesn't get any better than this! We're, "it", as far as this planet is concerned. I suddenly feel much more important.
I need to go to sleep now.
For all I know, tomorrow could be a very big day.
What I don't remember ever hearing about, is a greater, more complete, extinction that took place much further back in Earth's past.
Apparently, about 250 million years ago, there was an extinction event that killed off almost all life on land and life in water in a very short period of time. Various causes have been suggested, including prolific volcanic activity and a large impact from space.
Very recently, what appears to be an enormous crater has been found in Antarctica. It is about 500 kilometers wide, and would have been caused by the impact of a meteor about 50 kilometers wide. That is a rock five times the size of the one that killed the dinosaurs.
After that enormous smash and die-out, dinosaurs gradually became dominant over the next 185 million years, until they were killed off by the lesser impact, 65 million years ago.
Primates got their chance, and started thriving 60 million years ago, but didn't start walking upright until about 6 million years ago. That was a big leap, as it left our hands free to do things other than move around; things became much more complicated. Homo Sapiens have been around for less than 250,000 years.
The Earth is estimated to be about 4.7 billion years old. Life began over 3.9 billion years ago, according the oldest fossil records, but it was single cellular. Multi cellular life didn't begin until about 1.5 billion years ago.
In about 5 billion years, our sun will have used up all of it's hydrogen and have inflated into a red giant, swallowing the inner planets, including the earth, but we've got less time than that for life as we know it. The sun is gradually heating up as it burns off it's hydrogen, and in about 1 billion years, things will be too hot for water to exist in a liquid state on this planet; bad news for us.
So.
Our kind of life form has been around for 1.5 billion years, and only has another 1 billion years to go. We're over the hump. This is Thursday in the week of perfect evolutionary conditions on this planet. It doesn't get any better than this! We're, "it", as far as this planet is concerned. I suddenly feel much more important.
I need to go to sleep now.
For all I know, tomorrow could be a very big day.
Friday, June 02, 2006
Junk
Tonight, I had a craving for junk food.
I walked into 7-11, thinking about ice cream, and saw nachos.
I grabbed the large container of nachos, and thoroughly drenched them in cheese and chili from the mechanical dispenser.
Then I got a strange snickers brownie ice cream thing, as they didn't have my favorite ice cream cookie sandwich.
I came home, knowing that I needed to do my laundry and go to sleep early, but dug into the cheesy nachos immediately. I began eating them ravenously, but settled into a languid motion of picking and chewing as I finished. I then got my laundry together and down to the machines, came back and ate the ice cream thing.
It was ok. Not wonderful.
Now, my laundry is in the dryer and I feel like junk. I need to suck water and sleep.
Urgh, my freakin stomach feels like lead.
I walked into 7-11, thinking about ice cream, and saw nachos.
I grabbed the large container of nachos, and thoroughly drenched them in cheese and chili from the mechanical dispenser.
Then I got a strange snickers brownie ice cream thing, as they didn't have my favorite ice cream cookie sandwich.
I came home, knowing that I needed to do my laundry and go to sleep early, but dug into the cheesy nachos immediately. I began eating them ravenously, but settled into a languid motion of picking and chewing as I finished. I then got my laundry together and down to the machines, came back and ate the ice cream thing.
It was ok. Not wonderful.
Now, my laundry is in the dryer and I feel like junk. I need to suck water and sleep.
Urgh, my freakin stomach feels like lead.
Tuesday, May 30, 2006
Heat and paint
I noticed that my vinyl shower curtain was limp today, it's plastic slightly warm, a little more pliable in my hands. I intended to take a cool shower, to alleviate the heat of the day, but the water pressure in my building denied me my desired amount of cool water, leaving me with a quite warm shower instead.
I went to the craft store today, so that I could buy materials to paint with. I was recently given three tubes of acrylic paint, and have been itching to use them.
At the store, the woman at the counter where the bags are checked was busy with another customer and told me to check my own bag, pointing towards a free clip with two identical tags locked in it. I felt a small thrill of freedom as I stepped behind the counter with one foot, and attached the clip and one tag to my bag, taking the other tag to put in my pocket.
I shopped for awhile, thinking about the four things I knew I wanted. The first item, they were out of, and the second item, a new pen, they were nearly out of as well. Actually their selection of pens is diverse, but the brand that I like was mostly gone. I settled on blue pen.
Next, I needed a cheap palette and a brush.
Found the palette easily. $.49; I bought two.
The brush took longer. Their brushes cost from $4-$60 and I took awhile finding the cheapest brush that I liked. As the act of painting came tangibly closer to occurring, I decided that I wanted some more color too, and bought two more tubes: ivory black and cobalt violet.
I went back to the counter to pay, and an oriental man was buying a few things. His facial features, hair, and accent seemed Japanese to me, but I've often been wrong before. I watched him pay and thought about asking him. I thought about what I would say to him. Atsui desu ne? (It's hot outside, yes?) Or: Hajimemashite. (Pleased to meet you.) Perhaps he's in a hurry, and I'd put him in a situation where it would be impolite to rush off, but would make him stressed and quick to end any conversation we might have. There's always something to worry about, isn't there?
I felt hungry, and opted to not attempt waylaying him.
He left, nearly forgetting his change, and it was my turn to pay. My bill came to $20, twice what I planned on. Next time, I won't plan.
I accepted my things, declining a bag, as I'd brought my own that was waiting for me behind the counter. I moved to retrieve bag myself, but was disappointed as she beat me to it.
I thanked her, left, and rode the train home.
I went to the craft store today, so that I could buy materials to paint with. I was recently given three tubes of acrylic paint, and have been itching to use them.
At the store, the woman at the counter where the bags are checked was busy with another customer and told me to check my own bag, pointing towards a free clip with two identical tags locked in it. I felt a small thrill of freedom as I stepped behind the counter with one foot, and attached the clip and one tag to my bag, taking the other tag to put in my pocket.
I shopped for awhile, thinking about the four things I knew I wanted. The first item, they were out of, and the second item, a new pen, they were nearly out of as well. Actually their selection of pens is diverse, but the brand that I like was mostly gone. I settled on blue pen.
Next, I needed a cheap palette and a brush.
Found the palette easily. $.49; I bought two.
The brush took longer. Their brushes cost from $4-$60 and I took awhile finding the cheapest brush that I liked. As the act of painting came tangibly closer to occurring, I decided that I wanted some more color too, and bought two more tubes: ivory black and cobalt violet.
I went back to the counter to pay, and an oriental man was buying a few things. His facial features, hair, and accent seemed Japanese to me, but I've often been wrong before. I watched him pay and thought about asking him. I thought about what I would say to him. Atsui desu ne? (It's hot outside, yes?) Or: Hajimemashite. (Pleased to meet you.) Perhaps he's in a hurry, and I'd put him in a situation where it would be impolite to rush off, but would make him stressed and quick to end any conversation we might have. There's always something to worry about, isn't there?
I felt hungry, and opted to not attempt waylaying him.
He left, nearly forgetting his change, and it was my turn to pay. My bill came to $20, twice what I planned on. Next time, I won't plan.
I accepted my things, declining a bag, as I'd brought my own that was waiting for me behind the counter. I moved to retrieve bag myself, but was disappointed as she beat me to it.
I thanked her, left, and rode the train home.
Monday, May 29, 2006
Hot
It's become hot, here. Very hot, and all at once, coupled with a thick and cloying humidity. I have been dripping sweat for days now. Summer has ensconced Chicago in heat, and I welcome it.
I have a cold beer and a glass of ice water in front of me. At a BBQ last night, I made tequila sunrises for people and napped on a porch after eating a huge meal.
I've been reading Raymond Carver and Stephen Baxter and I just finished an amazing book about pygmies.
Sleeping has become a strange and warm affair since the weather lost the humility that it maintains through the chillier parts of a Chicago spring. My dreams have turned sweaty, and my mornings have been sunny, disconcerting things; my alarm buzzing rhythmically from the direction of creeping sunlight. My dream state has been interrupted too abruptly, two mornings in a row now. The heat slows my mind while the humidity fogs it. I cannot say right now, with exactness, where the dream ends and reality begins. I don't mind it, though. The days and the nights continue. I'll write this and go to sleep. Tomorrow I will wake without an alarm. Good night.
I have a cold beer and a glass of ice water in front of me. At a BBQ last night, I made tequila sunrises for people and napped on a porch after eating a huge meal.
I've been reading Raymond Carver and Stephen Baxter and I just finished an amazing book about pygmies.
Sleeping has become a strange and warm affair since the weather lost the humility that it maintains through the chillier parts of a Chicago spring. My dreams have turned sweaty, and my mornings have been sunny, disconcerting things; my alarm buzzing rhythmically from the direction of creeping sunlight. My dream state has been interrupted too abruptly, two mornings in a row now. The heat slows my mind while the humidity fogs it. I cannot say right now, with exactness, where the dream ends and reality begins. I don't mind it, though. The days and the nights continue. I'll write this and go to sleep. Tomorrow I will wake without an alarm. Good night.
Saturday, May 27, 2006
Ragged Things
...into air, back up so high for a moment and then back down again, but to a different place. Perhaps we'll go out to the island and watch the moon for a bit and listen to the monsters dance and sing. The demon lovers rest on a rock beyond the tide and melt like magma upon one another.
We rest and think about the queens out buried in the trees, behind the walls. Workers hurrying in both the light and the night. They are busy and the queens wait. We could wait forever on the shore, watching the signals flare out from the other islands. Not ignoring them, but letting them exist with us. It is a reverent thing, in the glinting lights, the loud and whimsical singing, the lone spot of moon overhead, crying like a virgin, seeping translucence.
Quick, as quick as we can. The light is faster and the shore does not end. The islands do not open until the end when it is already too late. The light fades and I am high again, looking around, waiting.
We rest and think about the queens out buried in the trees, behind the walls. Workers hurrying in both the light and the night. They are busy and the queens wait. We could wait forever on the shore, watching the signals flare out from the other islands. Not ignoring them, but letting them exist with us. It is a reverent thing, in the glinting lights, the loud and whimsical singing, the lone spot of moon overhead, crying like a virgin, seeping translucence.
Quick, as quick as we can. The light is faster and the shore does not end. The islands do not open until the end when it is already too late. The light fades and I am high again, looking around, waiting.
Friday, May 26, 2006
I'll be honest
I'm a pirate.
Not the kind of pirate that lives on ships and secret fortresses. I don't pillage towns and carry off women with me in my ship. I don't capture ships to steal their gold, and I don't fly a jolly roger from my mast.
I tried living that way for awhile, but I didn't like it. I nearly lost an eye, and I only finished paying the medical bill for it last month.
I do, however, pirate bandwidth.
When I moved into my apartment, I planned on not having the internet, in order to save money, but when I connected my wireless adapter, I discovered an unencrypted network with a good signal. I was connected to the internet, and for the first time in 8 years, I wasn't paying for it.
Too good to be true?
Sometimes. I had no connection for the last eight days, and just when I was getting excited about blogging every day again. Oh well.
I don't feel at all bad about using this bandwidth. People rarely use their connection to it's full capacity, it's more efficient to share. I'm not greedy in my use of it. When I download or upload, I limit my speeds. I don't want to choke their connection. If I could figure out where the signal was coming from, I would be willing to pay part or half the bill, in exchange for, perhaps, moving their router closer to the window.
For now though, I just mercifully thank the unseen soul that has left their network unencrypted. Thank you thank you thank you for the months of internet connection.
Not the kind of pirate that lives on ships and secret fortresses. I don't pillage towns and carry off women with me in my ship. I don't capture ships to steal their gold, and I don't fly a jolly roger from my mast.
I tried living that way for awhile, but I didn't like it. I nearly lost an eye, and I only finished paying the medical bill for it last month.
I do, however, pirate bandwidth.
When I moved into my apartment, I planned on not having the internet, in order to save money, but when I connected my wireless adapter, I discovered an unencrypted network with a good signal. I was connected to the internet, and for the first time in 8 years, I wasn't paying for it.
Too good to be true?
Sometimes. I had no connection for the last eight days, and just when I was getting excited about blogging every day again. Oh well.
I don't feel at all bad about using this bandwidth. People rarely use their connection to it's full capacity, it's more efficient to share. I'm not greedy in my use of it. When I download or upload, I limit my speeds. I don't want to choke their connection. If I could figure out where the signal was coming from, I would be willing to pay part or half the bill, in exchange for, perhaps, moving their router closer to the window.
For now though, I just mercifully thank the unseen soul that has left their network unencrypted. Thank you thank you thank you for the months of internet connection.
Thursday, May 18, 2006
Rabbit
A few days ago, I was walking home at night. In a small patch of greenery to my right I saw a rabbit. It did not move, and it's eyes were wide open.
As I passed, I wondered if I could be quick enough to catch it; I was already very close.
I read a book once (or saw a movie?) which explained how to kill a captured rabbit.
I pictured myself holding the rabbit's head in my hand, and swinging the body around my head like a sling with a stone in it, breaking the rabbits neck. I didn't have any plastic bags with me so I thought that I would just hold it under my jacket; it was dark, and I was only a short distance at home.
Then I thought about what I would do with it. I pictured myself in front of the sink, and thought about which of my knives I would use. I would need to slit the arteries in it's neck, so I would probably use my smaller, serrated steak knife. Then I would tie it's feet and hang it over the sink to let the blood drain out. That done, I would need to gut it next. I thought about a vertical slit on it's belly from it's neck to it's groin, but I would need to not cut into the digestive tract, to keep from contaminating the meat. I would probably have needed to look up the anatomy of a rabbit online.
I remember working at a grocery store in Utah. I'd been feeling a little pointless, and started thinking that I might want to join a big brother program.
The next day, a boy came into the store and started talking to me. And kept talking to me. He stayed for 3 hours that day, just talking to me. I was mystified by how quickly I'd found a little brother.
One day he went fishing and brought me a small cooler packed with ice. Inside, were three tiny bass, and a catfish.
I took them home and put them in the sink. I'd never gutted a fish. He'd told me briefly what to do, and I started by scraping off the scales with a knife. Then I gutted each of the fish, their slimy and tubular entrails slapping down into my metallic sink. It was... strange, and when I finished I had 8 little fillets of fish.
I didn't try to catch the rabbit. I walked past it and went home. The brutality required to catch and kill my own food is not required of me where I live, but the knowledge of what does happen to allow me to eat some of my meals, lingers at the periphery of my thoughts.
I can say, though, that the fillets I separated from the bodies of those fish were extra delicious.
As I passed, I wondered if I could be quick enough to catch it; I was already very close.
I read a book once (or saw a movie?) which explained how to kill a captured rabbit.
I pictured myself holding the rabbit's head in my hand, and swinging the body around my head like a sling with a stone in it, breaking the rabbits neck. I didn't have any plastic bags with me so I thought that I would just hold it under my jacket; it was dark, and I was only a short distance at home.
Then I thought about what I would do with it. I pictured myself in front of the sink, and thought about which of my knives I would use. I would need to slit the arteries in it's neck, so I would probably use my smaller, serrated steak knife. Then I would tie it's feet and hang it over the sink to let the blood drain out. That done, I would need to gut it next. I thought about a vertical slit on it's belly from it's neck to it's groin, but I would need to not cut into the digestive tract, to keep from contaminating the meat. I would probably have needed to look up the anatomy of a rabbit online.
I remember working at a grocery store in Utah. I'd been feeling a little pointless, and started thinking that I might want to join a big brother program.
The next day, a boy came into the store and started talking to me. And kept talking to me. He stayed for 3 hours that day, just talking to me. I was mystified by how quickly I'd found a little brother.
One day he went fishing and brought me a small cooler packed with ice. Inside, were three tiny bass, and a catfish.
I took them home and put them in the sink. I'd never gutted a fish. He'd told me briefly what to do, and I started by scraping off the scales with a knife. Then I gutted each of the fish, their slimy and tubular entrails slapping down into my metallic sink. It was... strange, and when I finished I had 8 little fillets of fish.
I didn't try to catch the rabbit. I walked past it and went home. The brutality required to catch and kill my own food is not required of me where I live, but the knowledge of what does happen to allow me to eat some of my meals, lingers at the periphery of my thoughts.
I can say, though, that the fillets I separated from the bodies of those fish were extra delicious.
Wednesday, May 17, 2006
Hail
A large low limb had been cut from a tree at the edge of a park in Salt Lake City, Utah. The pattern of rings in the cut caught the eye of someone. That person told someone else, and soon, a small shrine had sprung up at the base of the tree. A set of wooden stairs with a platform was built to allow easier viewing of the pattern.
Walking up that short staircase, you would pass dozens of prayer candles and bouquets of flowers, all renewed weekly, if not daily. At the top of stairs, you would have a clear and close-up view of the pattern. I don't know what you would see there.
What I saw, was a shape formed by the rings in the wood that could be interpreted as feminine. It could have been a feminine figure with a shaded hint of a cowl over her head. It could have been the Virgin Mary, as all of the candle lighters and bouquet refreshers said it was.
I have heard that the most important word in your language is your own name. When I am in a public place and amidst other people, I often hear my name, and things pertaining to my life, spoken of by people that turn out to be strangers. I hear what I want to hear sometimes.
In an underpass on the north side of Chicago, a stain formed from dripping water, on what looks to be a patched portion of the concrete wall. The stain contained a pattern that somebody recognized, and word of it spread. Now there are prayer candles and fresh bouquets of flowers. A ceramic statue of Jesus rests beneath the stain; the head is broken off, but a drawing of Jesus rests in the hole.
Again, the pattern is reminiscently feminine; the shape of a cowl could be suggested, and one eye seems to have white flecks around the iris.
It could be the Virgin Mary.
It could be a stain on a wall.
I don't really know what it is, but I do know that I'll never be able to see it the same way anyone else does.
Walking up that short staircase, you would pass dozens of prayer candles and bouquets of flowers, all renewed weekly, if not daily. At the top of stairs, you would have a clear and close-up view of the pattern. I don't know what you would see there.
What I saw, was a shape formed by the rings in the wood that could be interpreted as feminine. It could have been a feminine figure with a shaded hint of a cowl over her head. It could have been the Virgin Mary, as all of the candle lighters and bouquet refreshers said it was.
I have heard that the most important word in your language is your own name. When I am in a public place and amidst other people, I often hear my name, and things pertaining to my life, spoken of by people that turn out to be strangers. I hear what I want to hear sometimes.
In an underpass on the north side of Chicago, a stain formed from dripping water, on what looks to be a patched portion of the concrete wall. The stain contained a pattern that somebody recognized, and word of it spread. Now there are prayer candles and fresh bouquets of flowers. A ceramic statue of Jesus rests beneath the stain; the head is broken off, but a drawing of Jesus rests in the hole.
Again, the pattern is reminiscently feminine; the shape of a cowl could be suggested, and one eye seems to have white flecks around the iris.
It could be the Virgin Mary.
It could be a stain on a wall.
I don't really know what it is, but I do know that I'll never be able to see it the same way anyone else does.
Tuesday, May 16, 2006
Gambling
My gambling strategy for video black jack.
Insert $20 into the machine.
Bet 5¢ on the first hand.
Lose.
Bet 10¢ on the next hand.
Lose.
Bet 20¢.
Lose.
Bet 40¢.
Lose.
Bet 80¢.
Lose.
Bet $1.75. (There was no way to bet $1.60 on that machine.)
Lose.
Bet $3.50.
Lose.
Bet $7.00.
Lose.
Feed another $20 bill into the machine and bet $14.00.
Lose.
Feed another $20 bill into the machine and bet $28.00.
Lose.
Take a deep breath. If you smoke, light a cigarette and take a couple drags.
Feed $60 into the machine in whatever denominations you have and bet $56.00.
Lose.
Laugh and cry loudly and take your Gin & Tonic from the cocktail waitress.
Take your remaining $8.20 and play very conservatively until you have had at least $111.80 worth of free drinks from the waitresses.
Then walk carefully to your room, and go to sleep.
Insert $20 into the machine.
Bet 5¢ on the first hand.
Lose.
Bet 10¢ on the next hand.
Lose.
Bet 20¢.
Lose.
Bet 40¢.
Lose.
Bet 80¢.
Lose.
Bet $1.75. (There was no way to bet $1.60 on that machine.)
Lose.
Bet $3.50.
Lose.
Bet $7.00.
Lose.
Feed another $20 bill into the machine and bet $14.00.
Lose.
Feed another $20 bill into the machine and bet $28.00.
Lose.
Take a deep breath. If you smoke, light a cigarette and take a couple drags.
Feed $60 into the machine in whatever denominations you have and bet $56.00.
Lose.
Laugh and cry loudly and take your Gin & Tonic from the cocktail waitress.
Take your remaining $8.20 and play very conservatively until you have had at least $111.80 worth of free drinks from the waitresses.
Then walk carefully to your room, and go to sleep.
Wednesday, May 10, 2006
Hare Krishna
Walking on the street, I heard singing from up ahead. I looked and saw a procession of people in robes and heard a familiar sound:
"Hare Krishna hare rama hare krishna hare rama..." Hare Krishna.
The man leading wore a purple robe and carried a drum slung over his shoulder. He was bald and smiling and singing while beating his drum. About 10 people followed behind, walking at a merry(?) pace. Most of them wore the robes common to Hare Krishnas all over the world, including a woman walking slightly behind the drummer, carrying a small amplifier and microphone and singing into it. They all appeared quite friendly and happy. At the end of the procession, a woman dressed in a business suit that looked more appropriate for walking in the Loop than trotting after a group of Hare Krishnas handed me a photocopied pamphlet and a baggy of popcorn. I thanked her and continued on my way.
A while ago, I attended a bible group meeting in their assembly building. It was a small group and they were all very friendly. They mostly seemed happy to be there and wanted others there to share in that happiness. There were grapes and there was pizza and one girl had baked cookies and brought them; all this food was shared among anyone who wished to partake. The cookies were very good.
When I was in elementary school, I stayed the night with a friend and his mother and sister at their apartment in my neighborhood. They were very poor, as poor as my mother and I were. When I awoke in the morning, my friend told me that we were all going to the local Mormon ward for breakfast because they offered donuts to anyone who came. I walked with them, but instead of going to the ward, I walked home.
-
The pamphlet I received from the Hare Krishnas lays on the table next to my door. I ate the popcorn a few days later. It satisfied my hunger while I prepared a larger meal.
"Hare Krishna hare rama hare krishna hare rama..." Hare Krishna.
The man leading wore a purple robe and carried a drum slung over his shoulder. He was bald and smiling and singing while beating his drum. About 10 people followed behind, walking at a merry(?) pace. Most of them wore the robes common to Hare Krishnas all over the world, including a woman walking slightly behind the drummer, carrying a small amplifier and microphone and singing into it. They all appeared quite friendly and happy. At the end of the procession, a woman dressed in a business suit that looked more appropriate for walking in the Loop than trotting after a group of Hare Krishnas handed me a photocopied pamphlet and a baggy of popcorn. I thanked her and continued on my way.
A while ago, I attended a bible group meeting in their assembly building. It was a small group and they were all very friendly. They mostly seemed happy to be there and wanted others there to share in that happiness. There were grapes and there was pizza and one girl had baked cookies and brought them; all this food was shared among anyone who wished to partake. The cookies were very good.
When I was in elementary school, I stayed the night with a friend and his mother and sister at their apartment in my neighborhood. They were very poor, as poor as my mother and I were. When I awoke in the morning, my friend told me that we were all going to the local Mormon ward for breakfast because they offered donuts to anyone who came. I walked with them, but instead of going to the ward, I walked home.
-
The pamphlet I received from the Hare Krishnas lays on the table next to my door. I ate the popcorn a few days later. It satisfied my hunger while I prepared a larger meal.
Sunday, May 07, 2006
reaper collecting, widow weeping, banker counting
Shots were heard.
A window smashed.
I'll never sleep as well as I used to.
The night she died, I'd drunk four cups of coffee and a six pack of beer.
I peed the bed and woke myself.
I laid there for a long time, contemplating my predicament as she lay asleep beside me. Then I noticed the broken glass on the floor, and the blood on the windowpane.
And the blood on the floor. The blood on the blanket.
Only after that, did I notice that she was not sleeping.
She lay on her back, above the blankets, and she was cold when I put my hand on her naked belly; her mouth open and slack, a small worm wriggled in one eye socket.
The blood on the floor was very old.
I noticed the smell, and sat up fast, waking as I did so.
Waking up in my bed,
and my apartment,
and alone.
The worm wriggled in the back of my mind as I got up to pee.
A window smashed.
I'll never sleep as well as I used to.
The night she died, I'd drunk four cups of coffee and a six pack of beer.
I peed the bed and woke myself.
I laid there for a long time, contemplating my predicament as she lay asleep beside me. Then I noticed the broken glass on the floor, and the blood on the windowpane.
And the blood on the floor. The blood on the blanket.
Only after that, did I notice that she was not sleeping.
She lay on her back, above the blankets, and she was cold when I put my hand on her naked belly; her mouth open and slack, a small worm wriggled in one eye socket.
The blood on the floor was very old.
I noticed the smell, and sat up fast, waking as I did so.
Waking up in my bed,
and my apartment,
and alone.
The worm wriggled in the back of my mind as I got up to pee.
Monday, May 01, 2006
Water
"Want to go jump in the river? " Ethan asked.
"Yes," Jason replied, though a little shiver of hesitancy trembled through him.
"Is it shallow enough for me to touch bottom? Because you know I can't swim. Well, I can sort of swim, but only for a few feet, and only underwater."
"Oh yeah, you'll be fine. You jump in and you can touch bottom right afterward."
Ethan drove them for awhile through the small town, and, coming to a park, parked the car. They got out and walked along train tracks alongside the river until they came to the spot. There was a short embankment to climb down, and then a short wade through the river to get to a big rock. From this big rock, Jason understood that he was to jump into the river and then swim a very short distance back towards the shore and the shallows.
Wearing swimming trunks, they both waded out to the rock and climbed up on top. Ethan explained to Jason where he should jump into the water. The river ran downstream at a medium speed, but as it hit the large rock, swirling vortexes of water formed, creating a barrier between the shallow area that the rock protected and the rest of the river. Ethan explained that he should jump just to the left of the swirling water, but into a spot that was still deep. From there, it was a short swim into the shallows.
Jason felt that he could do it, and stood for awhile on the edge of the rock, staring down into the swirls and currents. The wind was cold, and the water was colder, but the sun shone hotly down on them.
"You can go first, and then I can jump after you if I need to,” Ethan told him.
"Are you a fast swimmer?” Ethan asked, imagining himself floating down the river and full of water.
"Yeah,” Ethan said.
"Good. If you see me go under, then come in after me."
Jason stood there and took several deep breaths, stood a moment longer, looking from the water to the shore, and jumped.
He hit the water and went under with a splash. As soon as he was in it, he stretched out his body towards where he thought the shore was. He put his hands in front of him and tried a breaststroke, but he flopped around a lot; his body was not moving well in the rhythm of the river. He felt the breath he took up on the rock straining in his lungs. He let his feet down, hoping for solid ground, but felt only water. His mouth opened a little bit, and he felt some water enter; he swallowed, rather than breath it in. He had a sore throat that day, and the cool water was a slight relief.
He suddenly found his head above water, but hadn't fully exhaled his first breath completely. He took in what air he could, and saw that the shore was no closer.
Then he went under again. A little more water entered his mouth, and he swallowed it again. He tried swimming forward more, straining his arms against the water. His head came up again and he yelled, "help!"
He went under again, and strained more, but it was no good.
When he came up again, Ethan was there. Jason got his arm over his shoulders and said, "Help me."
Ethan started paddling for the shallows, his face scrunched up, supporting both their weights.
They made it to the shallows and separated.
"Did you swallow any water,” Ethan asked him.
"Yeah,” Jason said, breathing fast and hard. "But I didn't breathe any in. Only a little bit. "
He coughed and looked back at the water squinting.
He didn't feel cold.
He didn't feel warm.
He just felt not dead.
"Yes," Jason replied, though a little shiver of hesitancy trembled through him.
"Is it shallow enough for me to touch bottom? Because you know I can't swim. Well, I can sort of swim, but only for a few feet, and only underwater."
"Oh yeah, you'll be fine. You jump in and you can touch bottom right afterward."
Ethan drove them for awhile through the small town, and, coming to a park, parked the car. They got out and walked along train tracks alongside the river until they came to the spot. There was a short embankment to climb down, and then a short wade through the river to get to a big rock. From this big rock, Jason understood that he was to jump into the river and then swim a very short distance back towards the shore and the shallows.
Wearing swimming trunks, they both waded out to the rock and climbed up on top. Ethan explained to Jason where he should jump into the water. The river ran downstream at a medium speed, but as it hit the large rock, swirling vortexes of water formed, creating a barrier between the shallow area that the rock protected and the rest of the river. Ethan explained that he should jump just to the left of the swirling water, but into a spot that was still deep. From there, it was a short swim into the shallows.
Jason felt that he could do it, and stood for awhile on the edge of the rock, staring down into the swirls and currents. The wind was cold, and the water was colder, but the sun shone hotly down on them.
"You can go first, and then I can jump after you if I need to,” Ethan told him.
"Are you a fast swimmer?” Ethan asked, imagining himself floating down the river and full of water.
"Yeah,” Ethan said.
"Good. If you see me go under, then come in after me."
Jason stood there and took several deep breaths, stood a moment longer, looking from the water to the shore, and jumped.
He hit the water and went under with a splash. As soon as he was in it, he stretched out his body towards where he thought the shore was. He put his hands in front of him and tried a breaststroke, but he flopped around a lot; his body was not moving well in the rhythm of the river. He felt the breath he took up on the rock straining in his lungs. He let his feet down, hoping for solid ground, but felt only water. His mouth opened a little bit, and he felt some water enter; he swallowed, rather than breath it in. He had a sore throat that day, and the cool water was a slight relief.
He suddenly found his head above water, but hadn't fully exhaled his first breath completely. He took in what air he could, and saw that the shore was no closer.
Then he went under again. A little more water entered his mouth, and he swallowed it again. He tried swimming forward more, straining his arms against the water. His head came up again and he yelled, "help!"
He went under again, and strained more, but it was no good.
When he came up again, Ethan was there. Jason got his arm over his shoulders and said, "Help me."
Ethan started paddling for the shallows, his face scrunched up, supporting both their weights.
They made it to the shallows and separated.
"Did you swallow any water,” Ethan asked him.
"Yeah,” Jason said, breathing fast and hard. "But I didn't breathe any in. Only a little bit. "
He coughed and looked back at the water squinting.
He didn't feel cold.
He didn't feel warm.
He just felt not dead.
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