a list of capricious thoughts
Saturday, June 12, 2004
Thursday, July 10, 2003
Friday, July 04, 2003
Fireworks Chaotic my dad calls it.
We gather 'round and spill out our minds
Into a bag in a box with a box inside
Full of explosives, colors and dangers.
One hit my mom,
Another missed my dad,
But i had fun -- don't be sad.
Tuesday, July 01, 2003
beware! this next post was written randomly and without reguard to anyone. this post does not reflect personal beliefs or hatreds and is, in fact, supposed to be satirical in nature. enjoy.
complete gnorbald
the story of the gnorbald is unique. they aren't human, but they look it. I guess the same way that neanderthals look human but aren't really. well, i suppose you could say that they are our cousins, but that's only if you believe in that darwin bull-crap. the gnorbald are among us and i think it's god's fault.
i know He's always loved us, but this time i'm pretty certain that He's made a mistake by placing such strange-indipendent creatures among us, lightning don't strike me where i stand. you have to agree, unless you are one of those mormons or a gnorbald yourself.
the reason i distrust the gnorbald so much is because they deny who they are. you ask, "you a gnorbald, eh?" and usually they say "no," or "not really," or "i think you are mistaken sir." I'm not mistaken, thank you very much indeed. there are signs to identifying a gnorbald and seeing him correctly.
first, they don't have false teeth. only old old presidents had fake teeth and old old people in florida. these gnorbald are crafty, remember? no self-respecting and cunning and smart gnorbald man, or woamn, would live in florida. so if you think you know a gnorbald from florida you are either wrong or that individual isn't really from florida or truly lives there. they probably have some simulated world that they escape to if they somehow do get stuck there though.
second, something else the gnorbald will do is deny God! what nerve. they see the sunset and the sunrise, yet they still disbelieve? incredible. are they blind to mountain lakes and the way that math just seems to work so well with everything and how the order that is our planet and it's surrounding brothers, how it all just screems "i am created by the hand of the master!" i'm not that crippled in the head, but the gnorbald are.
last good thing i can think to say when identifying the gnorbald is that they are self-preserving creatures. why? i dunno. if God asked me to give my life for a His cause i would do it in a heartbeat, maybe less. probably less. the gnorbald will go out of their way to avoid confrontation that doesn't seem to help anyone. "picking their battles," or some varient of that slosh and trash. you are right if you think that that immediately excludes palestinians. they don't even have a country and are too daft to be ammalgamated by some other land, or worth the effort for other lands to absorb them. plus, they are islamic. you know. not Christian. for all we know they killed Him in his sleep. well, scratch that thought, they didn't, that was the jews (and i have a feeling that a lot of them end up being gnorbalds when it's all said and done.)
“I like you”
Why are you being such a punk lately.
Secretive smile this, secretive smile that.
Then followed by some punkish action with a monkish fashion of brown robe and bald head.
I see what's going on around here,
And I don't think I like the looks of it.
President Abraham Lincoln once said something great,
But all he did was monopolize on the northerners hate,
For those that didn't think that slaves were a debate.
I agree,
Charlie Tuna is dolphin free,
but is it free of Cubans that find themselves caught in the nets of fishermen,
Eager to make a buck.
I think not.
Monday, June 30, 2003
woke up
I woke up and scratched my nose; not the tip and not the underside but the side of my nose. I made contact with my nostril and index finger only to put a beginning to the day’s actions. It transitioned into a wipe of the eye and from there I realized that I needed to get out of bed.
A walk across the room and around the pile of books in the center of my room and out the door through the hall and into my parents' room and into their bathroom brought me to the shower. Deftly closing the door and shedding myself of the meager supply of clothing wrapped around my waist, I stepped into the shower. It was quick and I was soon laying a used towel on the ground from my dad perhaps thirty minutes earlier. Softly stepping along the towel's back I opened the door of a cabinet just under the sink. Pulling forward a fresh towel I began to dry and had no thought about what the day would entail.
Towel now wrapped about my waist I made a swift run down the stair found to the right outside my parents' room and turned another right into the dining room. Our family does not eat there, but we entertain there for formal dinners. After exiting the short run of the dining room with its matching carpet runner to keep either dirty or wet feet from ruining the new carpet I found myself in the kitchen in front of the phone. Picking the phone up and seeking Mollie's phone number, I replace the phone and I return up the stairs and into my bedroom to look for my palm pilot. Upon finding it in the front left pocket of the shorts I wore yesterday and the week before and at that concert a month ago and planned to wear today without washing I went back to the phone in the kitchen to make my call.
It is important to phone Mollie this early, seven-twenty in the morning; because she will leave for school without me if I do not indicate that I am coming to pick her up by calling or arriving in her driveway. Sometimes I run into the car she is riding in as it is leaving and force her to switch rides. We have a peculiar relationship and I would like to keep it like that. Next year will not be the same with her as a resource for literature and math or a friend to talk to on the way to school. When will she entertain the notion that she needs a driver's license?
Mollie picked up the receiver and I was spared a jovial, banter-filled conversation with her mother. Mollie does have a nice family, but I am clad only in a towel and need to move towards putting on clothes if I plan on meeting Mollie in the next half-hour. I need to think of when I am going to pick her up, and so I say, "Yes, Mollie, I will be there in approximately twelve minutes. Yes, twelve minutes." It is a lie but one that Mollie will entertain. A good rule of thumb if I give time in minutes until something I am doing happens is to switch the tens and ones digit. Therefore, I should be pulling into Mollie's drive in about twenty-one minutes. The clock has started.
Another run down the upstairs hall deposits me in the guest room. Our family uses the unused and well-kempt guest-room-bed as a repository of clean clothes. Sometimes we look in our closets for the clothes we will wear, but most of the time I just dive into the guest-room-bed and find the clothes that I am most likely to wear for the day. Of course, the clothes I find typically do not account for socks and a pair of shorts. I normally just grab a shirt and some underwear. Not too much at all. The shorts, or pants, and socks are going to be found on the floor of my bedroom next to the bed, where I threw them the night before or the night before last night. I usually rotate the socks so that they do not become too dirty. Dirt in socks, I have found, makes holes in socks.
I think that I am ready. I have the clothes on and I have visited the guestroom bathroom to brush my teeth and tongue once over and to apply a spot of gel to my hair, which requires me to make a run to my parents' bathroom once more to use my mom's hair dryer to make sure that the gel sets the right way. Otherwise, my hair just will not look right. I wash my hands at my dad's sink to the right of the sink I was just at with the hair dryer to clean my hands of excess gel because my mother's sink does not work correctly. She had a would-be plumber fix it so that it would drain. Now it does not run water out the tap. There is irony in that situation somewhere. I am almost ready to be out the door.
This time I turn left at the bottom of the stairs. This brings me into the foyer and if I were to head straight I would be in another room like the dining room that is never in use except for family. I have to turn left once more and now I am in the den. The family room as some would call it. My mom sometimes is on the left right about now, sitting to the far left of the couch along the wall I just saw the back of that is a part of the room no one uses from the foyer. She is not there and I soon waltz back into my parents' room to say that I am leaving. I have collected my Birks and my backpack is still in the car. I am ready to go and it is only seven-thirty.
I duck back through the den and as I pass the sofa my mom sometimes sits in I unlock the back door and exit the house. I am on the deck and it is different than it was one year earlier than today. It has now got a roof and a wall along the right side. My dad and I have added onto our deck and have made it a porch, soon to be screened in. Soon, we will add some more decking to wrap around the house. It will run almost right into the ground because of the slope of our yard. That will be a happy day when we finish because our overweight dog who is currently on the sofa sleeping the day away on a permanent siesta cannot take stairs anymore. He is grossly overweight to the extent of injury. My dad wants to finish before graduation. He and my mother plan on using it on graduation day to entertain friends and family and I just enjoy the new roof because it is just outside my bedroom window and in the afternoon sun it is a great place to read a book. My books are in the car and so is my corduroy jacket and driving hat. The light-brown jacket lies in the back of the now clean car. I cleaned it last night. It took at least two hours. I did it for the passengers. Now i can have three people in the car besides me instead of one.
After walking down the stairs I am sent into a trot by momentum as I prepare by getting my keys out of the car. Keys in hand I open the picket-gate made of cedar and close it close behind me. Stepping from slate to slate I reach my car in no time. The door takes no time to open either and soon I am inside. The deep green driving hat from Newport will not grace my brow until this afternoon, when my hair will be beyond repair.
Saturday, June 28, 2003
trousers
"shut the door." his voice was tense, steel; his anger constricted and this was apparent to those who were in within hearing.
the door was pulled in by a lone hand, stark in conterast to the polished black that expressed the age of the door in volumes that crackled paoint would have left as sentences. tthe black of the door that expressed age more thouroughlyu than any faux paint could have hoped for. strived for.
the hand pulle dthe door inward and the light beyond was cut, a tether was snapped, it seemed, and the last vestige of reality was swept from the corners of the room and the black of shadow sprinted accross chairs and tables and over shoes and up trousers. eyes twinckled as retinas exploded in a vain attempt to capture at least a little of the remaining mists of photons screaming through the last crack of the door. finally the room was still. though there had been no movement since the door's first opening and seats had been taken, now that the light was gone it was as if the experience of sight was once just a form of motion that all present had serundipituously ignored their whole lives.
again he spoke. movetment now. a sigh? perhaps a shudder. those within the gaping hole in reality were not surprsied to now see the smallness fo light issuing forth from a point just ahead of them. although they had been sitting in rows and in seats around tables and in benches all arranged for a grand view of the stage ahead, accross form the door, the door behind them, they now could see no neighbour. the light was theirs alone it seemed. the man continured to talk.
earlier the small release, gasp, of emotion at his words had been one of ignorance, like a laugh placed after was was apparently a joke when you found that he person talking was unintelligible but had spread the look of waiting one knows comes after a poorly told joke. it was a reaction like that of a smile when someoen seemed to know you and had smiled at you. the return of a wave to a stranger. just a reaction to the surroundings really, this thoughtless gasp had been. this crowds mass reaction to his speaking was just a quaint comprehension of what it was that he was actually saying. they did not understand the words, this was not the language that they had been born with on their tongue, instead it was a comprehenstion. they also knew that the ballroom reserved next door had people going through a similar experience. one not too unlike their own.
the man was talking still. a gutteral speech that rustled and guffawed and groped it's way towards each ear and each hearing aid. yet no braileboards. when comprehension is inherent, hearing is not necessarily needed. he was indeed washing them each with explanation, and as he did so their personal fires grew.
still each in the crowd was alone to his thoguhts and the man ahead of them. the light was moving, undulating. moving not thorugh space, but within itself. transitioning. experimenting with it's shade. matching the voice of the man speaking. never toughing the ceruleans and verdant fringes that could stimulate repressed hope. the now orbs of light were edging on crimson. they were a red found on the moon as it rises on teh edge of the horizon, displaying proudly it's bent light.
hands reaching toward this new focal point and none undertanding their need to be so curious. the attenders of this great banquet cannot contain themselves, they have no inner conscience.
fingers aching. armes stretched. it is not necessary to grasp or hold true this new jaunt, they feel it's call. the man beings to speak faster. his voice is the beating of drums, now a pounding of fists it seems on the inner workings of each guest's chest.
arms aiching. on fire.
contact. pain... of light and noise. the white of iron as it's heated to melting. the clang of the hammer on anvil. the coursing of gold through channels of molton beauty. no fire. just raw emotions, their distress at the crouding of the sub-terra chambers. masses of glowing mauves and oranges and crimson fireflys keeping the energy up in place of fire for the smithies. the sweltering currents of emotoin deluge pits and keep the place of the fires that have no presense. anguish lights the lamps of each master viewing the activites of this one mine. rage chases itself around cauldrons as perversion sturs their contents liquid wealth for reclamation in molds and the eventual decoration of one final masters residences. the adornments of one last slaver.
next door there was no flash. only one motivational speaker and his only visual aid was a television. it was black and white and poor for use in instructing. an overheard projector would have been far better, but at least it was not a poster or some other such foolery. the television was without color, and that was how it was supposed to be. sure technologies had lept to such a standard that a tri-dee image would have been feasible, but it also would have hidden the point. this crowd was gathered in radience, almost obcsuring the view like a set of blinds with a dutiful sun poking around its slats accross, perhaps, the same tv screen. these folks alread knew what it was they were supposed to be seeing, what lay behind the tube.
"faith" said the speaker, "lets you see past the grainy picture and into the depth of my true message."
Monday, June 23, 2003
shopping.
"...it depends on what you want. do you want a brand-new model or one that has been refurbished?" he asked.
"i think that i'd rather have something that's been tried and is true to its original intent. something that's been worn-in." she replied.
"ahh yes, i think this here is what you want."
they rounded a sharp corner in the stores exposed warehouse structure and found stationed in the rows of aisles of humanoids a robot of sub-standard make. poorly painted, he fashioned a black color that looked navy when it wasn't in the presence of other blues.
time passed and the old woman nervously bit her lip and finally spoke, "i dont think i want that one." her interjection caught him just as he had begun to voice the closing into his pocket transcriber made specifically for the continous, minute-to-minute rise and drop in demand infamous of the retail industry.
pointedly he stated, "this is the one you are getting. you said you wanted something that had been worn-out." he insisted also with a firm glare and a tap of his pen.
"i didn't say worn-out... thought i said worn-in." and sagging outwardly she began to sob. the broken robot was expensive, afterall.
"well, you've said it now and according to the law you have entered into a verbal, and binding, contract. this isn't france ma'am, this is the united states." he said tersly as he began to walk now, away from the decrept robot and incidently the aged woman as well.
mumbling she said, "i remember when it was."
"hmm?" he had stopped when he had noticed that she was a couple yards in his wake. "what was that?" he finished.
"france. when this was france. you got swindled, yes, but not by someone with a slicked back black tupee and a voice recorder." finding her wind she had finished somewhat strongly.
ignoring her he was imperative with the contract in her face, "i'll be taking your blood-print now." the papers were capapble of digitizing her personal and human code, something that robots can never have.
"put it on my tab." she was firm now too.
confusedly he replied, "you dont have a 'tab,' ma'am."
"my legacy is my children." and with that she pulled from her tiny chic purse a small blade of foreign quality and expertly insisted that it greet her throat and the air beyond.
as she fell the salesman executed his own precise moves. he snatched her falling arm from the air and let fall some blood accross her palm. her soaked thumb met his contract and he called forth an army of cleaners from a recess in the wall.
i thought about getting one of those blogger hoodies, but then i realized it was summer and didn't. several other reasons i thought of as well, but they aren't as interesting.
recent happenings
-black guy talked for me at pretzel time for 3 to 4 hours
-black guy gave me twenty dollar ga tech hat
-black guy said he'd get me more cool shit and a double cheese burger
-black guy accepted payment
-never saw black guy again.
-hardest earned hustle i've even been witness to occured.
