Spiders and Adverbs
I was carefully boiling water for coffee this morning when I lazily leaned forward over the back burner and accidentally hit my forehead on a dangling spider. I properly pulled back to notice the spider was tangled in his own web. Oh, what a tangled web we weave. I patiently wait for the pot of water to boil -- a watched pot still boils -- sometimes shifting attention to the spider that I seemed to have put into a disposition. His two front legs quickly fluttered for grip on the silky thread that connected him to the ceiling. The legs behind those moved precisely so the spider could maintain his balance. While the back two sets of legs rightly positioned on the silky thread where the spider had stopped when he met my forehead. My mind flashes to everything I know about the arachnid: spiders kindly kill other insects; spiders for the most part are harmless. Let him live. I promptly poured water into the French press and watched water turn black. I firmly pushed down on the press and checked on my friend. He wasn't where he was, but higher up the thread. He had gained grip and was rapidly moving up the the ceiling from which he came. A third of the way to the top, the spider stops and fixes the thread with a knot -- 31 knots? -- a sailor with a microscope would studiously look at. Back down a ways, the spider is doing the same thing. His grip is perfect, he's no longer tangled, clearly he's in control. I pour milk into my Circus Circus mug and then coffee on top of the milk. I then take a seat at the table and begin to read about the upcoming World Cup, about China's struggle with itself, and some crossword clues I have no clue the answers to. I wander back to my room and finish the book that I was almost finished reading and am now finished reading, Adverbs. I find myself using more (adverbs) more often, but still not in every sentence. I sort of straighten up my room and then clean my person with a combination of Irish Spring and Pert Plus, which isn't pertinent. I pack up my bag and put on coat, and bike off to school, where I have homework to do but do not, instead, I wrongly write about spiders. And worry about fixing the webs I've wondrously woven.
The battle of lent books
There was one book left on the chair that is outside the front door of my house. J.D. Salinger's Raise High the Rooftop, Carpenters. It was sitting, my roommate reports on the chair, wrapping rubberbands, bookmarked with my name. I don't know why I lent it but I did. Months ago. Last year, I think. Anyway, I tried to make a point to get it back from, well, we'll call her Steel Trap (She remembers everything!), before she left -- she was leaving and -- maybe? -- not coming back. We talked about me getting my book back before she departed. She actually came over but didn't bring it, even thought she swore she didn't want it, that it reminded her of me. Despite the "talk", I didn't get it before she left. I actually wrote that book off. It was a paperback and I wasn't concerned. Yesterday, the thing is on the chair outside my front door. I'm left wondering, did she remember to remember to ask someone to drop it off, who just now remembered. Or, is she back in town? She must be. Do I call her? Do I have to? I wait.
Same day, different message. This one -- we'll call her Cupcake -- says she has my book, Rule of the Bone, and, "would I like it back?" Well, hell yes, I mean of course. Shit, that one's signed and I never should have sent it out of my house. Turns out -- turns out? I knew full well -- I had one of hers, Everything is Illuminated, also a signed copy. Kind of a trade I guess. We weren't really talking anymore, much, Cupcake and I. Things fizzled. It went stale. However in the hell you want to put it. But I went to make the exchange, I'd keep 'em both if I could. Rode my bike to her apartment and made the trade and tried to make small talk. And I'll leave it there.
I left, however, with my book back in my hand, wondering, Why would I ever lend a book? For blog purposes? Hardly seems sensical.
At least these two are back where they belong. Not lost: the rule my dad once wrote about.
Same day, different message. This one -- we'll call her Cupcake -- says she has my book, Rule of the Bone, and, "would I like it back?" Well, hell yes, I mean of course. Shit, that one's signed and I never should have sent it out of my house. Turns out -- turns out? I knew full well -- I had one of hers, Everything is Illuminated, also a signed copy. Kind of a trade I guess. We weren't really talking anymore, much, Cupcake and I. Things fizzled. It went stale. However in the hell you want to put it. But I went to make the exchange, I'd keep 'em both if I could. Rode my bike to her apartment and made the trade and tried to make small talk. And I'll leave it there.
I left, however, with my book back in my hand, wondering, Why would I ever lend a book? For blog purposes? Hardly seems sensical.
At least these two are back where they belong. Not lost: the rule my dad once wrote about.
Twan's gone
Anthony left today. This morning at 11. He doesn't know if he'll be back. He says it depends. We're not counting on him coming back, which is sad. But we're not happy for him either, which is sad in a different way. We're having a hard time finding happiness these days. It doesn't come around as often.
Hey, Anthony, we said, can we have your bike?
Yeah, I'd like you to have my bike. It's a good bike, except for the seat. Watch out for the seat.
Well, Twan, we put a new seat on it.
Then it's perfect then. It's a perfect bike.
Anthony, when you're gone and not coming back, can we have your couch? The one you slept on for so long?
Twan, when you're gone never to return, can we have your half of the Co-op membership?
When Twan's gone, we get his TV. We get his antenna.
Twan can we have your comb?
Since you're not coming back, can we finish your drink, Anthony?
Can we have that book you finished?
We're talking about someone's things like their dead when they are in fact in front of us.
But not for long.
Anthony left this morning. Twan's gone. But we won't forget him.
Hey, Anthony, we said, can we have your bike?
Yeah, I'd like you to have my bike. It's a good bike, except for the seat. Watch out for the seat.
Well, Twan, we put a new seat on it.
Then it's perfect then. It's a perfect bike.
Anthony, when you're gone and not coming back, can we have your couch? The one you slept on for so long?
Twan, when you're gone never to return, can we have your half of the Co-op membership?
When Twan's gone, we get his TV. We get his antenna.
Twan can we have your comb?
Since you're not coming back, can we finish your drink, Anthony?
Can we have that book you finished?
We're talking about someone's things like their dead when they are in fact in front of us.
But not for long.
Anthony left this morning. Twan's gone. But we won't forget him.
Hey, Jude
Paul, you heard of Paul McCartney? the stranger said, when I said hello to the stranger outside of the Plaid Pantry. Sure, I said, course, the living Beatle, him and Ringo. Yeah, he said. Yeah, I said, what about him? Sean just walked up. He was eating with his wife, you know his new wife. He was married to Linda before. She died. Cancer. Yeah, what about it? I told him. He was eating with his wife in a restaurant the other night. Here? I wanted to know, because I was sure that this story was going somewhere that was geographically relevant. Blank stare. No, the man said, in London or some shit. OK, then what, I wanted the story to move. He was sitting with his wife -- his new wife -- you know Linda's dead, his new wife is like 38. Yeah, I said, she's got one leg, they had a baby. So, he ignored, they're listening to some music in this restaurant, and this woman regonizes the song, the voice, and she asks Paul, Is this you? Paul says, Yeah, it's Hey Jude. Can you believe that? The man I met, with Sean now standing next to me, said. She's too young to remember 'Hey Jude'.
He went on: You know Keith Richards? Yeah, Rolling Stones, I told him, who doesn't? So the other day Keith Richards is telling me. Wait, you? I have to interject, and I'm starting to think this guy thinks that the TV/Radio is always talking to him. He goes on. The man says, now with a British accent, in his best Keith Richards voice: The Rolling Stones were like a Mom and Pop Shop. Mick was Mom. He would always wake up and make a list of things to do. He would always plan out what he was going to do. Keith, I implied, now with this story, would just wake up, make sure he was still alive, make sure the phones still worked, were off. He's the Pop.
This man goes on. He blabs about being a former hippie, from San Francisco, an astronomer, a would-be mid-school science teacher. He tells us to read Carlos Castaneda. He says he's good shit. That he wrote about Don Juan, the shaman, and peyote buttons, mushrooms, phycadelic drugs and The experience. Nice man, good recommendation. I'll check him out, I tell him. Sean agrees, we work at a bookstore. If you don't see me working tomorrow, I'll be reading Carlos Castaneda. Good.
Hey (Jude), I said to the man before parting ways with him minutes after I wish we had, what's your name? In case I see your 'round. Paul, he said. Oh, like the Beatle, I told him.
Say hello to Ringo for me, would ya Paul?
He went on: You know Keith Richards? Yeah, Rolling Stones, I told him, who doesn't? So the other day Keith Richards is telling me. Wait, you? I have to interject, and I'm starting to think this guy thinks that the TV/Radio is always talking to him. He goes on. The man says, now with a British accent, in his best Keith Richards voice: The Rolling Stones were like a Mom and Pop Shop. Mick was Mom. He would always wake up and make a list of things to do. He would always plan out what he was going to do. Keith, I implied, now with this story, would just wake up, make sure he was still alive, make sure the phones still worked, were off. He's the Pop.
This man goes on. He blabs about being a former hippie, from San Francisco, an astronomer, a would-be mid-school science teacher. He tells us to read Carlos Castaneda. He says he's good shit. That he wrote about Don Juan, the shaman, and peyote buttons, mushrooms, phycadelic drugs and The experience. Nice man, good recommendation. I'll check him out, I tell him. Sean agrees, we work at a bookstore. If you don't see me working tomorrow, I'll be reading Carlos Castaneda. Good.
Hey (Jude), I said to the man before parting ways with him minutes after I wish we had, what's your name? In case I see your 'round. Paul, he said. Oh, like the Beatle, I told him.
Say hello to Ringo for me, would ya Paul?
S'cuse me, do you have the time?
This watch: well, it was a present. Valentine's 2003. Remember where you were, then? I do. I get to think of that, and of her, and of time every time I look to see what time it happens to be. The watch, a silver one, was resting in my desk for a long time, when, the other week I decided to fix the band, have a new battery put in. It works now. I guess you can say we've been re-united.
There's another watch I sometimes wear. A digital one. It beeps on the hour. A girl gave me that watch, too. She said it was to remember her. I think her name was Kjerstin. I doubt that's how you spell it, but I remember her. I do when I where that watch.
When it beeps, and like I said it does on the hour, I'm reminded that another hour has past. I told that to girl once, said it was a reminder that I was alive. Was it a good hour? she sometimes wanted to know when were were lying around being reminded of the hour. It usually was, I remember.
I rembember my grandfather. He died almost two-years ago. When he died, I put his watch on my wrist and wore it for a while. It isn't fancy or anything, simple, it kept good time. And I wore it, slipped in on my wrist until the battery died. People, like batteries, die. I wrote that in high school, when my English teacher asked me to write a simile. It's kinda silly.
That's something about time, you're reminded of it through people in many ways. If you're looking at your wrist, listening to the beep, recalling past events, you're taking up your time, mine.
And now it's time for me to go.
There's another watch I sometimes wear. A digital one. It beeps on the hour. A girl gave me that watch, too. She said it was to remember her. I think her name was Kjerstin. I doubt that's how you spell it, but I remember her. I do when I where that watch.
When it beeps, and like I said it does on the hour, I'm reminded that another hour has past. I told that to girl once, said it was a reminder that I was alive. Was it a good hour? she sometimes wanted to know when were were lying around being reminded of the hour. It usually was, I remember.
I rembember my grandfather. He died almost two-years ago. When he died, I put his watch on my wrist and wore it for a while. It isn't fancy or anything, simple, it kept good time. And I wore it, slipped in on my wrist until the battery died. People, like batteries, die. I wrote that in high school, when my English teacher asked me to write a simile. It's kinda silly.
That's something about time, you're reminded of it through people in many ways. If you're looking at your wrist, listening to the beep, recalling past events, you're taking up your time, mine.
And now it's time for me to go.
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The blogger in charge understands the newest technologies. And is aware of trends. He's quite computer savvy (see above).
Carsonation has many readers. Believe it. So, send your destinations and watch your hits soar to new levels.
Millions read. Few comment.
People in my life in order of importance.
Let's say you had a hierarchical chart for the people in your life and their position is according to their importance. Who would you put where? How would you make your list? Who do put on top?
If the contact list in your cell phone wasn't alphabetical, but was based on this importance list, who would you call first? What would you text?
Close your eyes and make your list. Scratch it down on a piece of paper. Make your line-up, and change it. Move someone up, someone down, someone off. Give yourself a limit. Make people more important than others, cause aren't they? Be an asshole, well, aren't you? Don't you have to be? Sometimes?
So it seems. And even if we don't want it to be true, for many us, far too often we place ourselves of utmost. Those we love, of course, come in a close second. Friends, other family follow. But fuck, doesn't that leave a majority of people that just aren't important to us? Don't they fall off the list, and in our minds off the face of the earth. Is it me or are caring less, and letting our growing populationsuffer.
Comment here and I'll gladly add you, based on importance, to my life's list, which still seem incomplete.
Like yours, my life's a joke; punch line's the same.
If the contact list in your cell phone wasn't alphabetical, but was based on this importance list, who would you call first? What would you text?
Close your eyes and make your list. Scratch it down on a piece of paper. Make your line-up, and change it. Move someone up, someone down, someone off. Give yourself a limit. Make people more important than others, cause aren't they? Be an asshole, well, aren't you? Don't you have to be? Sometimes?
So it seems. And even if we don't want it to be true, for many us, far too often we place ourselves of utmost. Those we love, of course, come in a close second. Friends, other family follow. But fuck, doesn't that leave a majority of people that just aren't important to us? Don't they fall off the list, and in our minds off the face of the earth. Is it me or are caring less, and letting our growing populationsuffer.
Comment here and I'll gladly add you, based on importance, to my life's list, which still seem incomplete.
Like yours, my life's a joke; punch line's the same.
when I refuse to do homework
Why do I search for anything at all to do to distract me from what I am supposed to do? I'll wait to the last minute. Make myself uncomfortable, almost on purpose, in order prolong, procrastinate, not do what's due till I'm sure I have no more time to do it. I promote myself to something bigger, better. On my mind lots, little, nothing, one thing. All at once, I'm looking at myself wondering why? how? now and then, it's a sure-fire sign, don't even know what that means, it just came to my mind, and now what, rhymning? This is getting fucking dumb.
I look across the room and see others. Some working, some wondering. Some wandering. I see myself in them. How I'm supposed to be here and nowhere else. I've got nowhere else to go. These fingers with nothing else to type but what comes to mind at this time. So I'll sit. Sloutch. Put pressure on my tailbone until it hurts and I have to get up. Stretch. I'll continue to push to the back of my mind what I'm here to do. But I'll think of you and if you'll even read this, have access, come across and see for a second what little bit it is I've published today.
And for a moment I think about my deadline. Then the dead.He says, "Good." A simple, encouraging word. Providing direction. Instruction to the next step with nods, and affrirming gaze. Pursed lips as the chin rises. Yes. Move one. Good move. Go head.
I look across the room and see others. Some working, some wondering. Some wandering. I see myself in them. How I'm supposed to be here and nowhere else. I've got nowhere else to go. These fingers with nothing else to type but what comes to mind at this time. So I'll sit. Sloutch. Put pressure on my tailbone until it hurts and I have to get up. Stretch. I'll continue to push to the back of my mind what I'm here to do. But I'll think of you and if you'll even read this, have access, come across and see for a second what little bit it is I've published today.
And for a moment I think about my deadline. Then the dead.He says, "Good." A simple, encouraging word. Providing direction. Instruction to the next step with nods, and affrirming gaze. Pursed lips as the chin rises. Yes. Move one. Good move. Go head.
I saw you...
On the streetcar Wednesday afternoon. You were staring out the window and looked sort of tired. Didn't you sleep well enough, alone in your bed last night. Or are you just tired of it all. With your black computer bag, are you going to school or just pretending? Was it a real job that you came from or do you work for $8.78 and stuggle to make ends meet? I sure was willing to talk to you, just had a hard time grabbing your attention. Do you ever notice others? I don't think it's all that creepy to make eye contact on the street car, you should try it sometime. Maybe even smile. Find some feeling. Look up; talk more. I'm sure you have some sort of observation that I'd find humorous, or hadn't thought of, or was critically important to my day. The man in me: some girl on the streetcar you didn't notice, loves the woman in you: a sad-looking student with disheveled hair, in a well-worn brown sweatshirt, and dark circles under his eyes.
Delayed
Airplanes aren't the trouble, airports are.
So, before my trip to New Mexico (I'm already back, WTF!?) I was cleaning the garage (R.I.P. Garage Dweller) and came upon a tiny knife -- no bigger than my pinky. Absentmindedly, I picked it up. It was just a piece of junk I found and discarded into the trash halfway house I call my pants' pocket. I forgot about it until I was standing in the security line at PDX. When I remembered it was too late. I was past the point of no return. And it wasn't like I could pull it out of my pocket and announce, "HEY! OOPS, I FORGOT, I'VE GOT AN EFFING KNIFE HERE!" So, instead, I slipped it into my laptop bag, thinking, 'They'll either see it or they won't.' If they do I've got some s'plaining to do, if they don't I've got a story to report. Well of course they find it -- Homeland Security at its finest. I must have been put on some sort of watch, though, because the next thing I know I'm being asked to check one of my carry-ons. "Uhh, OK," I said, shifting things from one bag to the other.
By the time I reached ABQ, well, it was 11 p.m. and I was tired as shit. Down by baggage claim I waited formy now two bags. They were the first to come out, both my bags were. First out the shoot. And together. Red Backpack came out alright. Zipped and marked, easy to spot. Green Tent Bag, my trusty Green Tent Bag wasn't quiet right, though. It's zipper was split, and I didn't remember checking a split-zippered bag. Nothing looked missing, however, and I was too tired to look for someone to complain to. I flung the bag of dirty clothes into my mom's car and that was the end of it.
I'm sure I'm being monitored because when back at PDX I sent my ride a text message. Now, it might not have been the best choice of words (I think that now that it's too late), but I was sure they were accurate. When a plane lands you can't immediately turn on your phone. You have to wait until the plane taxis. I did that. And that what I texted just happened: JUST TAXIED.
My ride must have been confused (stoned) when he read this because he fired something back. A, REALLY? Or, a, WHAT? Or, I COULD HAVE SWORN TWO HOURS AGO WHEN YOU CALLED I WAS PICKING YOU UP? But I couldn't get those messages, see? And didn't until much later. My phone was on, the signal strong, but messages weren't coming in. So I didn't bother to call to explain that JUST TAXIED, was a simple sentence with the implied subject of THE PLANE (just taxied), and not animplied subject of, I WENT AHEAD AND (just taxied). So much of implications.
That's the problem with text messaging: Your messages can get mis-interpreted. There may be touch tones, but no sarasstic tones. You can miss your ride (though he did come back the forty or so blocks), miss the point, force a state of confussion, delay. So I'm powering down more often and focusing on what's in front of me -- a quarter of graduate classes, where they suggest that I not bring a knife.
So, before my trip to New Mexico (I'm already back, WTF!?) I was cleaning the garage (R.I.P. Garage Dweller) and came upon a tiny knife -- no bigger than my pinky. Absentmindedly, I picked it up. It was just a piece of junk I found and discarded into the trash halfway house I call my pants' pocket. I forgot about it until I was standing in the security line at PDX. When I remembered it was too late. I was past the point of no return. And it wasn't like I could pull it out of my pocket and announce, "HEY! OOPS, I FORGOT, I'VE GOT AN EFFING KNIFE HERE!" So, instead, I slipped it into my laptop bag, thinking, 'They'll either see it or they won't.' If they do I've got some s'plaining to do, if they don't I've got a story to report. Well of course they find it -- Homeland Security at its finest. I must have been put on some sort of watch, though, because the next thing I know I'm being asked to check one of my carry-ons. "Uhh, OK," I said, shifting things from one bag to the other.
By the time I reached ABQ, well, it was 11 p.m. and I was tired as shit. Down by baggage claim I waited formy now two bags. They were the first to come out, both my bags were. First out the shoot. And together. Red Backpack came out alright. Zipped and marked, easy to spot. Green Tent Bag, my trusty Green Tent Bag wasn't quiet right, though. It's zipper was split, and I didn't remember checking a split-zippered bag. Nothing looked missing, however, and I was too tired to look for someone to complain to. I flung the bag of dirty clothes into my mom's car and that was the end of it.
I'm sure I'm being monitored because when back at PDX I sent my ride a text message. Now, it might not have been the best choice of words (I think that now that it's too late), but I was sure they were accurate. When a plane lands you can't immediately turn on your phone. You have to wait until the plane taxis. I did that. And that what I texted just happened: JUST TAXIED.
My ride must have been confused (stoned) when he read this because he fired something back. A, REALLY? Or, a, WHAT? Or, I COULD HAVE SWORN TWO HOURS AGO WHEN YOU CALLED I WAS PICKING YOU UP? But I couldn't get those messages, see? And didn't until much later. My phone was on, the signal strong, but messages weren't coming in. So I didn't bother to call to explain that JUST TAXIED, was a simple sentence with the implied subject of THE PLANE (just taxied), and not animplied subject of, I WENT AHEAD AND (just taxied). So much of implications.
That's the problem with text messaging: Your messages can get mis-interpreted. There may be touch tones, but no sarasstic tones. You can miss your ride (though he did come back the forty or so blocks), miss the point, force a state of confussion, delay. So I'm powering down more often and focusing on what's in front of me -- a quarter of graduate classes, where they suggest that I not bring a knife.
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