Looking back, 2005 was bad -- not my year. I wasn't happy all that much. One thing is true, however, 2006 is going to do some major mopping of what 2005 left behind. That's the thing about '06, it cleans up messes. It's postive. It's happy it's here. Wants to be here. And I'm happy it's 2006. I'm happy again. That said. Here are my resolutions.
More bounce, some falls, but quicker get-ups.
Less apologies, so sorries; less mistakes. Less forgiving in '06; more forgetting.
More bus/bike rides, streetcar sits, MAX movement.
Eating more, greens, browns, reds and yellows. Not picky about foodstuff.
More kind words, thoughts, sentences; letters home.
Less critical of customs, more creative time, and creating more time to create.
Deeper breaths, out-of breaths, and, being left breathless more.
More crafts, less collecting of things that hold no value.
Rake more leaves, but leave less rakes out to rust.
Less TV, more movies.
Meet more people with names that I don't already know people with those names.
More chit-chatter with those I already know.
Less fines, tickets, wrist slaps, late-fees, past-dues, residue, redos, redux,
More rendezvous, runnaways, risky rants.
That's all I've got for now. But I promise* you this: you are going to love '06.
*Less promising in '06, more making things come true.
Did you know?
that:
It's a fact that I've been in Portland over a year.
Carsonation celebrated its one-year anni this month.
I'm 26 and have all my teeth, though a couple are chipped --fucking beer bottles.
I live with three other males ages 22-29, and I'm not in a frat.
I have a dog, Heidi.
As of this summer, I have no car.
Now, I ride my bike.
I ride the bus/MAX/streetcar more.
I have two jobs and get paid for only one, making a mere $8.25/hour sucking the corporate cock.
It's raining out. Or will be within the hour.
I'm 5 feet 11 inches but sometimes tell people I'm well over six-foot.
I've weighed 140 lbs. for the last decade, despite it all.
I'm certain this will catch up with me, so am watching what I drink.
There isn't one particular girl in my life.
Thanks to Maury, I found out that I am NOT the father.
I got everything I asked for for Christmas, except for the X-box 360 (Fuck you too, Santa.).
I smoked a Cuban cigar on Christmas with my friend Maria; we had a cigar seance, attempting to communicate with Che. To no avail we talked to one another instead.
I talked to my two cousins on the phone for the first time in years; they both referred to me as carsonation, so I'm certain they'(ve)ll read this, and do in fact owe me a phone call.
Despite my offers on this site, no one requested a gift from me this Christmas.
It is my pleasure to publish your comments, whatever they may be. So long as they don't attempt to sell things/services.
It's a fact that I've been in Portland over a year.
Carsonation celebrated its one-year anni this month.
I'm 26 and have all my teeth, though a couple are chipped --fucking beer bottles.
I live with three other males ages 22-29, and I'm not in a frat.
I have a dog, Heidi.
As of this summer, I have no car.
Now, I ride my bike.
I ride the bus/MAX/streetcar more.
I have two jobs and get paid for only one, making a mere $8.25/hour sucking the corporate cock.
It's raining out. Or will be within the hour.
I'm 5 feet 11 inches but sometimes tell people I'm well over six-foot.
I've weighed 140 lbs. for the last decade, despite it all.
I'm certain this will catch up with me, so am watching what I drink.
There isn't one particular girl in my life.
Thanks to Maury, I found out that I am NOT the father.
I got everything I asked for for Christmas, except for the X-box 360 (Fuck you too, Santa.).
I smoked a Cuban cigar on Christmas with my friend Maria; we had a cigar seance, attempting to communicate with Che. To no avail we talked to one another instead.
I talked to my two cousins on the phone for the first time in years; they both referred to me as carsonation, so I'm certain they'(ve)ll read this, and do in fact owe me a phone call.
Despite my offers on this site, no one requested a gift from me this Christmas.
It is my pleasure to publish your comments, whatever they may be. So long as they don't attempt to sell things/services.
my gift to you
And so it seems that some things I write won't get published for the weekly paper I'm working for. Little space. No room for my insane stuff. So--my gift to you-- the goods are all yours. I'm happy to share, the hard work I'm not getting paid to write for you or anyone. Tear it apart like ten-year olds on Christmas opening gifts they don't deserve. Love you.
There are tree lovers, huggers, and anti-tree toppers --in Oregon we love
our evergreens. We’ll chop them, hock them, sit atop them. We'll prop them up in
our homes. But holly forbid we agree on a name to call them.
The tree is on our cars’ plates—does that make us Christmas people? We
send more trees out of state this time of year than any other state. We
should really own Tree, register a trademark, dot com it--If it's not too late.
This year holiday stole the tree from us, and from Christmas. Holiday took the tree from Christmas, which stole it from Solstice, which was invented before Christ
was around to insist we celebrate. Now, there’s just a holiday season--the
holiday tree shades more of us.
A drunk Portlander was recently arrested for reselling trees he stole, but it’s the
tree that stole the my Christmas time attention. Wait a miracle,
has the Christmas tree dried out? Are we dropping Christmas from Christmas
holiday? Or are just the trees falling?
"Rev." Jerry Falwell heckled Boston’s mayor for calling its tree a holiday tree,
but does he own Christmas? Do Christians or capitalists?—not to be
confused with those on Capitol Hill who argued the name of the tree in
D.C. –now there are two, a Christmas and a holiday tree.
For most—85 percent of the U.S. population is Christian-- the tree is the
gathering spot for consumer celebration on Christmas Day, this year Dec.
25. It’s the Christmas tree – there aren’t holiday menorahs, or Christmas
menorahs for that matter—that’s a staple living room or city square decoration. It was a Christmas tree that Charlie Brown bought and gave meaning to, and a trip
to the Christmas tree lot on A Christmas Story, where we first learned the
word fuuuuudge. So why does it seem that this year, more than any other,
there is a drive to steal Christmas and give it the holiday name?
Well, retailers don’t want to offend; politicians want to maintain constituency.
I suggest Adam Sandler's name for the once-living, add sugar to your stand’s water, foliage that we light up--and gather around: marajuanic-ah.
Enjoy your holiday.
There are tree lovers, huggers, and anti-tree toppers --in Oregon we love
our evergreens. We’ll chop them, hock them, sit atop them. We'll prop them up in
our homes. But holly forbid we agree on a name to call them.
The tree is on our cars’ plates—does that make us Christmas people? We
send more trees out of state this time of year than any other state. We
should really own Tree, register a trademark, dot com it--If it's not too late.
This year holiday stole the tree from us, and from Christmas. Holiday took the tree from Christmas, which stole it from Solstice, which was invented before Christ
was around to insist we celebrate. Now, there’s just a holiday season--the
holiday tree shades more of us.
A drunk Portlander was recently arrested for reselling trees he stole, but it’s the
tree that stole the my Christmas time attention. Wait a miracle,
has the Christmas tree dried out? Are we dropping Christmas from Christmas
holiday? Or are just the trees falling?
"Rev." Jerry Falwell heckled Boston’s mayor for calling its tree a holiday tree,
but does he own Christmas? Do Christians or capitalists?—not to be
confused with those on Capitol Hill who argued the name of the tree in
D.C. –now there are two, a Christmas and a holiday tree.
For most—85 percent of the U.S. population is Christian-- the tree is the
gathering spot for consumer celebration on Christmas Day, this year Dec.
25. It’s the Christmas tree – there aren’t holiday menorahs, or Christmas
menorahs for that matter—that’s a staple living room or city square decoration. It was a Christmas tree that Charlie Brown bought and gave meaning to, and a trip
to the Christmas tree lot on A Christmas Story, where we first learned the
word fuuuuudge. So why does it seem that this year, more than any other,
there is a drive to steal Christmas and give it the holiday name?
Well, retailers don’t want to offend; politicians want to maintain constituency.
I suggest Adam Sandler's name for the once-living, add sugar to your stand’s water, foliage that we light up--and gather around: marajuanic-ah.
Enjoy your holiday.
I wanna be your shopping-mall santa
There is no waiting in line here. Sit on my lap? It's not going to happen, however, if you want to hear from me this holiday season and you want something from me, here are the rules:
1. It's got to be a book, CD, DVD, or something that can be found at a Borders. (this is where I work; I have Borders Bucks, and that is all I can afford to spend. I may be crafty, but not for you, not this holiday season.)
2. Contact me. E-mail is best: kitcarsonsmith@yahoo.com. And when you do, be specific. Type titles, authors, bands, ISBNs, UPCs. These things I understand. The more specific you are the better your chances of Saint Kit coming down your chimney. (I got to write that!)
3. You must do this soon. Sometimes it takes me a while to do stuff. I'd hate for you to have nothing under your tree from me. So hurry; get me your list.
4. And I was kidding when I said list. You should ask for one special book or CD. Maybe you should have a back up. You won't get both. You'll be lucky to get one. I will try.
5. Your addy is required. I'll need to send you this gift. Unless you come to me... Plus, if you get me your location you just might get a card or something written that tells you more about me. Or some complete lie like that.
6. I'm the final judge on who gets what. If I don't like what you want, you don't get it. If I have any problems finding what you what, ziltch. If I don't really know you, chances are I'm spending your Bucks on someone I do. Other restrictions do apply. But I won't go into those at this time.
Dems da conditions dat prevail. Nuff said.
1. It's got to be a book, CD, DVD, or something that can be found at a Borders. (this is where I work; I have Borders Bucks, and that is all I can afford to spend. I may be crafty, but not for you, not this holiday season.)
2. Contact me. E-mail is best: kitcarsonsmith@yahoo.com. And when you do, be specific. Type titles, authors, bands, ISBNs, UPCs. These things I understand. The more specific you are the better your chances of Saint Kit coming down your chimney. (I got to write that!)
3. You must do this soon. Sometimes it takes me a while to do stuff. I'd hate for you to have nothing under your tree from me. So hurry; get me your list.
4. And I was kidding when I said list. You should ask for one special book or CD. Maybe you should have a back up. You won't get both. You'll be lucky to get one. I will try.
5. Your addy is required. I'll need to send you this gift. Unless you come to me... Plus, if you get me your location you just might get a card or something written that tells you more about me. Or some complete lie like that.
6. I'm the final judge on who gets what. If I don't like what you want, you don't get it. If I have any problems finding what you what, ziltch. If I don't really know you, chances are I'm spending your Bucks on someone I do. Other restrictions do apply. But I won't go into those at this time.
Dems da conditions dat prevail. Nuff said.
Bus stop banter
In the City of Roses, singles' eyes meet each other's by chance. At bus stops, on streets, in stores. I think, here more than anywhere I've ever lived, there is more of a desire not to be alone. I'm still unsure why that is, and right now I'm like Wilco: It's good to be alone, but here you can see it in others, they do not. They are reading on buses, in coffee shops, at home, where you can't see them but can understand them, and they're alone and don't want to be. The problem is most of the refugees here, the fugitives, the self-absorbed, the sweetly artistic, yet somewhat darkened beings seriously find a richness in not finding another person. The joy of being alone for them is getting along with the one person that they want to share with another. And that's when the throat gets sore. Around us there is so much to take in: it's tasty but it's also poisonous. Fill you mouth and follow through with a gulp. Send it all down to where it will set in the stomach, in the cells, in the soul. Shared with others, these bodies of myth can take on a new form. Dangerous to a degree is what keeps most from allowing the possibility to exist.
The roses are gone. It's getting cold(er) out. Find a warm cup and fill up with something that makes you feel good inside.
The roses are gone. It's getting cold(er) out. Find a warm cup and fill up with something that makes you feel good inside.
overwrite is really an insert
Now I know.
I remember early on in my typing a frustration I had. It was that damn insert button. I would push it and then make mistakes of course, try to re-type and end up losing stuff. For a while there I couldn't figure out the overwrite. This time I purposfully do it. I'll make a post to overwrite my last.
It's not that I regret things that I write. I have never been one to pull anything that I've posted here. I just feel I could do better. I'm here at a cafe, have access to the machine and am going on.
Good news to report: I got an internship at a weekly here in town. I'll commit three month -- without pay -- to a learning experience. Free journalism lessons is how I look at it. I'm thrilled about this as it falls on my one year anniversary. I look forward to a graduate school prospect as well. And the possiblity of saving some money with both a roommate or two moving in, and being too busy to spend any of my hard-earned, book shelving dollars.
I'm giving up women for amibition, an attractive trait, that I've lacked for a little while.
Wonder Woman, wait and see.
I remember early on in my typing a frustration I had. It was that damn insert button. I would push it and then make mistakes of course, try to re-type and end up losing stuff. For a while there I couldn't figure out the overwrite. This time I purposfully do it. I'll make a post to overwrite my last.
It's not that I regret things that I write. I have never been one to pull anything that I've posted here. I just feel I could do better. I'm here at a cafe, have access to the machine and am going on.
Good news to report: I got an internship at a weekly here in town. I'll commit three month -- without pay -- to a learning experience. Free journalism lessons is how I look at it. I'm thrilled about this as it falls on my one year anniversary. I look forward to a graduate school prospect as well. And the possiblity of saving some money with both a roommate or two moving in, and being too busy to spend any of my hard-earned, book shelving dollars.
I'm giving up women for amibition, an attractive trait, that I've lacked for a little while.
Wonder Woman, wait and see.
If I quit this...
I can't quit. I'm good at it, sure. I've quit lots of suff. There was gymnastics. There was piano lessons. I quit learning spanish. I gave up on algebra. I quit working at a relationship once. I tried to keep, but ended up quitting a job that paid me pretty well. I quit going to church. I stopped writing for awhile. I quit caring. I quit smoking, then quit quitting. I quit flossing, though I'm starting to think that that would be worth starting up again. I guess you could say, I'm a quiter.
Oh well. Funny word, that quit.
There is quite. Like Donovan says: Quite Right.
There's quiet. I've been quiet for too long -- silent Kit.
There's Quo -- what's your's?
And now I'm no longer making sense. As for carsonation, well it's not quit-tionation. So I think I'll keep posting. Let's be nice to eachother, alright bitches?
Oh, I forgot to mention. Caught Death Cab for Cutie last night. Good show. They play again tonight. I have to worth, though, and I'm afraid they blew their load this first night anyway. I recommend listening to them, or one of Ben's other projects: Postal Service, All Time Quarterback, Post Nasal Drip, etc.
Other music recs include: Wolf Parade, Broken Social Scene, Of Montreal, eels, the new Danger Mouse...
...I quit...for now.
Oh well. Funny word, that quit.
There is quite. Like Donovan says: Quite Right.
There's quiet. I've been quiet for too long -- silent Kit.
There's Quo -- what's your's?
And now I'm no longer making sense. As for carsonation, well it's not quit-tionation. So I think I'll keep posting. Let's be nice to eachother, alright bitches?
Oh, I forgot to mention. Caught Death Cab for Cutie last night. Good show. They play again tonight. I have to worth, though, and I'm afraid they blew their load this first night anyway. I recommend listening to them, or one of Ben's other projects: Postal Service, All Time Quarterback, Post Nasal Drip, etc.
Other music recs include: Wolf Parade, Broken Social Scene, Of Montreal, eels, the new Danger Mouse...
...I quit...for now.
comment no more
Fruit Stripes Gum! You fools are out of control. No wait, just out. There will be no more personality tests on this site. I expell you. Shit's re-fucking-dick-you-lass. I hate. Comments bigger than blog? More brutal? That's the last thing I want. I get the last word in. I'll walk away from this, so help me God, if you keep frightening the others. There are better things to write about. Other places. I know it.
But for now...
Girl troubles continue in carsonation. I wish I was Jay-Z. I wish that a bitch wasn't one of my 99 problems. But I'm going to have to go ahead and say that what keeps me up at night, the last two anyway is two particular bitches. And since they probably don't read this, I'll write about them.
Thought I found a cute one. Maybe not the One. But an one. OK. So I met her at a party. She reminded me of that. Funny thing about memory. I remember her by her tatoo. And maybe I've told you this before, when I saw it, our conversation came back to me. So we meet again. And again. It's our third date and we're in my bed. She says she wants to be honest. I remind her that in bed we are supposed to lie. She tells the truth anyway.
There's another guy, she says. He knows about you and doesn't have a problem with it.
If there was ever a mood killer, a turn off, a time when I wish she'd keep comments like that to herself, it was then. I couldn't go forth. And called it a night. She wanted more. Wanted to me to say that nothing changes. Can't, I say, not my way. I don't play that game. And suddenly I'm synical. So be it.
I must have failed sharing in kindercare.
Same night, I shit you not, I get a call that I shouldn't have answered. At 2:15 in the morning with a former showing herself on caller ID, it's best not to answer. Little lesson for the kids there.
Surprise, she's dunk.
I'm not going to share all the details. It wouldn't be right. You wouldn't get it, anyway. But, I'll tell you one thing said. One thing that kept me in bed the next two hours without a wink of sleep. One thing that got me to work on time but with heavy eyes. And it was this:
You hate me because I don't love you.
When I get mad -- and I don't hate -- I just turn sad.
But for now...
Girl troubles continue in carsonation. I wish I was Jay-Z. I wish that a bitch wasn't one of my 99 problems. But I'm going to have to go ahead and say that what keeps me up at night, the last two anyway is two particular bitches. And since they probably don't read this, I'll write about them.
Thought I found a cute one. Maybe not the One. But an one. OK. So I met her at a party. She reminded me of that. Funny thing about memory. I remember her by her tatoo. And maybe I've told you this before, when I saw it, our conversation came back to me. So we meet again. And again. It's our third date and we're in my bed. She says she wants to be honest. I remind her that in bed we are supposed to lie. She tells the truth anyway.
There's another guy, she says. He knows about you and doesn't have a problem with it.
If there was ever a mood killer, a turn off, a time when I wish she'd keep comments like that to herself, it was then. I couldn't go forth. And called it a night. She wanted more. Wanted to me to say that nothing changes. Can't, I say, not my way. I don't play that game. And suddenly I'm synical. So be it.
I must have failed sharing in kindercare.
Same night, I shit you not, I get a call that I shouldn't have answered. At 2:15 in the morning with a former showing herself on caller ID, it's best not to answer. Little lesson for the kids there.
Surprise, she's dunk.
I'm not going to share all the details. It wouldn't be right. You wouldn't get it, anyway. But, I'll tell you one thing said. One thing that kept me in bed the next two hours without a wink of sleep. One thing that got me to work on time but with heavy eyes. And it was this:
You hate me because I don't love you.
When I get mad -- and I don't hate -- I just turn sad.
26 Red Alert
The weekend of my birhday proved to be entertaining at least. I was looking for a roommate, and more found who I'd rather not live with.
My first applicatant -- who just followed up -- was a girl that was the safest from me falling for. She was not unattractive. But I wasn't attracted to her. She comes in with a puppy, expecting a father. But Maury told me this: you are not the father. So I had to pass. I told her on the phone today that a friend showed interest, and that he would probably be moving in. Which isn't entirely untrue.
It's true that a friend of ours wants to move in. He's shown interest. Unfortunatly for him, he's shown us too much of what he's interested in.
The second caller was a girl I'll call Katie, even though I know her only as Katherine, but was actually probably Kathryn. She was a cutie. Checked out the digs and sat on the couch for a Q&A. I think my roommate scared her off, though. She looked like a Katie that he dated. Acted a little like her. It could have been her. Maybe a clone. He freaked her out with his shocking stares. We said she could move in at anytime. That we were ready for her, and that was probably a little creepy. She said she'd call us, and has yet to.
Back to our friend who, drunkenly tells us both on Saturday night that he's a shoe-in. I say, yeah, but what about your girlfriend. She brings mad drama with you. He agrees, but we insist that that might not be the worst thing in the world.
The third and final girl that comes over is named Libby. I liked Libby. My co-interviewer wasn't around though and I had one comment for him: She looks like your sister. Nope, she's out. Hmmm. I guess sometimes it's a good idea not to say those types of things.
Meanwhile, my drinking friend and potential third roommate is suggesting we go to Union Jacks, one of Portland's many strip clubs. And if it wasn't for the Beam, if it wasn't for the girls that also wanted to go, if I hadn't been at the Matador right before, I might have argued that this wasn't a good idea. But we went.
I saw a naked girl for the second time in as many weeks. Happy Birthday to me. Skinny ones, tatooed ones, tall ones, small titted ones, hot ones, ones I feared carried diseases I don't want, and, finally fire breathing ones.
This one stripper ate fire. She blew fire. She lit herself on fire, and as her finally she tried to light the strip club on fire. It worked. The place didn't burn down, but it caught. The fire eating stripper caught the smoke eating machine on the ceiling on fire and I thought we were going to die. I had my birthday scarf over my breathing holes. I was scared though. I didn't want to leave. I hopped there would be a free lap dance out of this. I was wrong. I did see another show, though. I saw my drunken, potential, now off the list roommate make out with a girl I assumed would marry me. I was wrong.
The attraction for a girl pretty much disappears when you see her making out with a drunken friend at a strip club. You friend pretty much loses his chances of moving in with you when he does such things.
That, and too many babies are having babies. Too many babies having grandbabies. JD. No, JB.
My first applicatant -- who just followed up -- was a girl that was the safest from me falling for. She was not unattractive. But I wasn't attracted to her. She comes in with a puppy, expecting a father. But Maury told me this: you are not the father. So I had to pass. I told her on the phone today that a friend showed interest, and that he would probably be moving in. Which isn't entirely untrue.
It's true that a friend of ours wants to move in. He's shown interest. Unfortunatly for him, he's shown us too much of what he's interested in.
The second caller was a girl I'll call Katie, even though I know her only as Katherine, but was actually probably Kathryn. She was a cutie. Checked out the digs and sat on the couch for a Q&A. I think my roommate scared her off, though. She looked like a Katie that he dated. Acted a little like her. It could have been her. Maybe a clone. He freaked her out with his shocking stares. We said she could move in at anytime. That we were ready for her, and that was probably a little creepy. She said she'd call us, and has yet to.
Back to our friend who, drunkenly tells us both on Saturday night that he's a shoe-in. I say, yeah, but what about your girlfriend. She brings mad drama with you. He agrees, but we insist that that might not be the worst thing in the world.
The third and final girl that comes over is named Libby. I liked Libby. My co-interviewer wasn't around though and I had one comment for him: She looks like your sister. Nope, she's out. Hmmm. I guess sometimes it's a good idea not to say those types of things.
Meanwhile, my drinking friend and potential third roommate is suggesting we go to Union Jacks, one of Portland's many strip clubs. And if it wasn't for the Beam, if it wasn't for the girls that also wanted to go, if I hadn't been at the Matador right before, I might have argued that this wasn't a good idea. But we went.
I saw a naked girl for the second time in as many weeks. Happy Birthday to me. Skinny ones, tatooed ones, tall ones, small titted ones, hot ones, ones I feared carried diseases I don't want, and, finally fire breathing ones.
This one stripper ate fire. She blew fire. She lit herself on fire, and as her finally she tried to light the strip club on fire. It worked. The place didn't burn down, but it caught. The fire eating stripper caught the smoke eating machine on the ceiling on fire and I thought we were going to die. I had my birthday scarf over my breathing holes. I was scared though. I didn't want to leave. I hopped there would be a free lap dance out of this. I was wrong. I did see another show, though. I saw my drunken, potential, now off the list roommate make out with a girl I assumed would marry me. I was wrong.
The attraction for a girl pretty much disappears when you see her making out with a drunken friend at a strip club. You friend pretty much loses his chances of moving in with you when he does such things.
That, and too many babies are having babies. Too many babies having grandbabies. JD. No, JB.
birthday eve.
I was wrong when I said it's never too late.
I was a fool when I said to myself, I'm too tired. I was right when I said you're hard to replace. And you were right to say that it was wrong to think of it that way. We were both right, I guess. Sometimes were were wrong. And maybe we were both right and both wrong and maybe even both at the same time.
It's fine for me if you'd rather not speak. I'd understand. It could very well be the best thing to happen. I'd be lying if I said that I want it this way. I never did. You'd know I was telling you the truth if I said it to you directly. You know when I'm being honest. It's possible that I've mades some sense in my saying. That if it's made sense to you, too, then it's a fact that I'm still here, and growing older, 26 years tomorrow.
I was a fool when I said to myself, I'm too tired. I was right when I said you're hard to replace. And you were right to say that it was wrong to think of it that way. We were both right, I guess. Sometimes were were wrong. And maybe we were both right and both wrong and maybe even both at the same time.
It's fine for me if you'd rather not speak. I'd understand. It could very well be the best thing to happen. I'd be lying if I said that I want it this way. I never did. You'd know I was telling you the truth if I said it to you directly. You know when I'm being honest. It's possible that I've mades some sense in my saying. That if it's made sense to you, too, then it's a fact that I'm still here, and growing older, 26 years tomorrow.
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