(I guess I forgot to post this one last week, when life was good.)
The index finger moves down the calendar weeks. Finger prints rub over time. Wipe your finger off the wall, and, if you look closely you will see, inbetween the lines that define you, time that has passed. These are the wrinkles that really define how old we are.
Look again. Squint if you have to. Etched in the creases. Deep in the valley are rivers of what was. Time defined.
People ask, "Where has the time has gone?" It's there. Seeped inside your skin. You have memories, even if you don't remember. They're in you. And there should be no question about where it went or if it was wasted.
"Time flies," people all too often say. But it doesn't. You're around for it until your demise. It's here and so are you. And it's what you make of it. It's going to pass but you're awake for it until you pass out.
"You take your chances," a 5-year sober alcholic told a wino who got kicked out of the library this day on the street car. He said he was because he was drunk and didn't care. He took a fifth into the library because it's a warm, dry place to drink cheap booze. He lost his privledges. And as the man shuffles off the trolly it's easy to feel sorry for him, but harder to try to help him. The empathetic often doesn't want to be the company of those they feel for.
And so, when I take the bus home tomorrow night from the Willamette Week for the last time, I won't be questioning where the last three months of my life went. I'm aware of where I was. And though my finger prints are worn down a little more by pressing the keys of the iMac I'm typing on, the ruts still house the memories made, the stories untold, and the time taken aback. Maybe it's the warn prints that make it seem that the memories are over-flowing the inset seems. Or maybe I just have more to look back on.
This intern is hungry, and is hoping to be filled in the near future. Time in front is what we have to worry about. It hasn't happened yet, isn't dead, isn't yet alive. Sure, it will be before we know it, as another time cliche spews out of me. But when it's here we'll know it. And should make the most of it. Because before we know it's gone and were awaiting the future once again.
If only this was my non-pay internship
Well, I don't get paid to write here. Not yet. I don't get paid to write anywhere. It sucks, but that's life. I mean, I can barely spell anyway. Who's gonna pay me to write hogwash bric-a-brack? Yeah, no one I've met. Yet.
In the meantime I've been whoring my self out. Not just here. Not just for the evil empire I slave for for at $8.50 an hour. I do it for nothing for an alternative weekly that you, even outside of Puddletown, can read. You might even be able to find the bits I've written over the past two months if you click carefully. I've done two attributed snips. And gobs of little things not much longer than my name,and thus not attribution. But, I've accomplished what I came here to do, and that was to get a byline. I've been published again! That and an internship will get you a cup of coffee, is what I've learned. And not much else. As of yet, you say, you optimistic reader.
Thank you.
Oh, find my time-consuming sentence construction, along with loads of other writing by people actually getting paid on a simple, easy to remember site with lots of w's.
www.wweek.com
It's free. And it's not for long. Internship up March 1. Then, they'll have to pay me. Or then, I'll come back here to the nice warm blanket of unedited, uncommented (few exceptions), blog o mine. Please feel free to comment here, or on the weekly newspaper website. E-mail, call, or talk to me on the street. Mention for how much I'm loved and mean to the small world of afterthoughts.
Couldn't be here without each and every one of you. Until next time my cyber sidekicks...
In the meantime I've been whoring my self out. Not just here. Not just for the evil empire I slave for for at $8.50 an hour. I do it for nothing for an alternative weekly that you, even outside of Puddletown, can read. You might even be able to find the bits I've written over the past two months if you click carefully. I've done two attributed snips. And gobs of little things not much longer than my name,and thus not attribution. But, I've accomplished what I came here to do, and that was to get a byline. I've been published again! That and an internship will get you a cup of coffee, is what I've learned. And not much else. As of yet, you say, you optimistic reader.
Thank you.
Oh, find my time-consuming sentence construction, along with loads of other writing by people actually getting paid on a simple, easy to remember site with lots of w's.
www.wweek.com
It's free. And it's not for long. Internship up March 1. Then, they'll have to pay me. Or then, I'll come back here to the nice warm blanket of unedited, uncommented (few exceptions), blog o mine. Please feel free to comment here, or on the weekly newspaper website. E-mail, call, or talk to me on the street. Mention for how much I'm loved and mean to the small world of afterthoughts.
Couldn't be here without each and every one of you. Until next time my cyber sidekicks...
With a K, by the way
I wasn't sure if I had to tell people about this thing. It's probable to read this without me actually telling you where to look. Should I be ashamed? Maybe. And I? I'm not. Look.. Dems da conditions. I'm on the web, fine. Anyone can read if they want. Kids are checking friendster and finding this that way. I guess I had forgotten I streamed it there. Whoops. I thought people were done with friendster, had moved on to myspace, and then offline where they belong. But, friendster is a good place to find someone you knew, thought you knew, or want to know. Or, you could ask them. Seems you could get in less trouble that way. I'm not trying to be mean. I mean it's curiosity that killed the cat, or the journalist. --beep-beep, man that was a good hour. But, you have to be careful what you look for. You have to be certain you want to read what you are looking up, I guess. That's fair. I'm accountable for what I write. You for what you read. You certainly don't have to. Me neither. You don't have to document the fact that you were here, saw what you saw. I won't be able to tell. You don't have to tell me later that you stumbled across something interesting on my, uh, blog(?). You don't. But you can. Can comment. Can leave remarks. Start conversations. Discuss. Can question me, that's for sure. But then again you don't have to. I'm not doing this for you. I like to hear myself type. There's a flow. The click, click, clicking makes my head agree in rhythmn. I'll do it when I can. I'll type for fun if I have to. No one on the other end?...
SEND
SEND
Carsonation Exclusive: James Frey response
Thank you, Carson, for you kind words at a time that seems most troubling to me. The shit I'm going through now compares nothing with the OD's, the gutter sleeps, the hangovers, but still it's not looking good. They can't take away my PT Cruiser, can they?
I agree with you that despite what I had portrayed as truth in my book, A Million Little Peices, I should still be considered one of the best writers of our time. I mean my knack for dialogue is superior to that of most of today's "writers". Sure, I didn't use quotation marks when talking to people in my head. The real people weren't interesting enough. And I had to write something. I'm just surprised that this came up so late. I can't believe how far I got.
I was born with a gift. An imagination. Sure some of the drugs I've taken over the years--I ate crack rock, mostly--has given me a "challenge" in remembering fact from fiction. But you have to admit that I set up a pretty good scene of me on my knees snorting coke of a dude's dick. Wheather that happened or not is besides the point (Who would make that shit up other than me?). I'm a crazy son-of-a-bith. No doubt. But Oprah loves me. Or she did. When The Smoking Gun article came out yesterday, I shit myself, no really. Literally, I should say. And after I cleaned up that mess I called up Harpo, or the number they had given me, just to make sure she still loves me, and, though she wasn't around, or didn't call me back. I can bet, and you can quote me on this one if you want, that she's not upset with me. I made her cry, kept her up at night, how could she hate me? How could my Oprah regret that she let me on her show (twice!). If you think that her bookclub's next book will be my other, My Friend Lenord, I hope your right. When she announces the title to her club's list this Monday, I'll be close to me set and encourage you to do so also. My Friend Lenord is classified as fiction, as I'm sure you know (working at that good-paying bookstore of yours), and her selecting this just makes sense. I mean MLP, as the kids are calling it these days, was is non-fiction (shelved in Recovery). Oprah's next books should be fiction, which is what MFL (the kids, again)is based on. They're making a movie about one of my two books. And who better to play a most fucked up fictional charcter than me. I'd make a great James Frey.
I'm wrting to ask for your support, your well-read blog's help. Help make me the James Frey character that I have created. Tell your friends that I was once a druggie, that I did preform homosexual acts for money and drugs, that I came out of it all alive, well, and fucking rich as shit. But, and I'll say this to you, as an internet exclusive: I am not a liar. I'm a writer. The best there every was. Is, I mean.
Your hero and mine,
Jimbo
I agree with you that despite what I had portrayed as truth in my book, A Million Little Peices, I should still be considered one of the best writers of our time. I mean my knack for dialogue is superior to that of most of today's "writers". Sure, I didn't use quotation marks when talking to people in my head. The real people weren't interesting enough. And I had to write something. I'm just surprised that this came up so late. I can't believe how far I got.
I was born with a gift. An imagination. Sure some of the drugs I've taken over the years--I ate crack rock, mostly--has given me a "challenge" in remembering fact from fiction. But you have to admit that I set up a pretty good scene of me on my knees snorting coke of a dude's dick. Wheather that happened or not is besides the point (Who would make that shit up other than me?). I'm a crazy son-of-a-bith. No doubt. But Oprah loves me. Or she did. When The Smoking Gun article came out yesterday, I shit myself, no really. Literally, I should say. And after I cleaned up that mess I called up Harpo, or the number they had given me, just to make sure she still loves me, and, though she wasn't around, or didn't call me back. I can bet, and you can quote me on this one if you want, that she's not upset with me. I made her cry, kept her up at night, how could she hate me? How could my Oprah regret that she let me on her show (twice!). If you think that her bookclub's next book will be my other, My Friend Lenord, I hope your right. When she announces the title to her club's list this Monday, I'll be close to me set and encourage you to do so also. My Friend Lenord is classified as fiction, as I'm sure you know (working at that good-paying bookstore of yours), and her selecting this just makes sense. I mean MLP, as the kids are calling it these days, was is non-fiction (shelved in Recovery). Oprah's next books should be fiction, which is what MFL (the kids, again)is based on. They're making a movie about one of my two books. And who better to play a most fucked up fictional charcter than me. I'd make a great James Frey.
I'm wrting to ask for your support, your well-read blog's help. Help make me the James Frey character that I have created. Tell your friends that I was once a druggie, that I did preform homosexual acts for money and drugs, that I came out of it all alive, well, and fucking rich as shit. But, and I'll say this to you, as an internet exclusive: I am not a liar. I'm a writer. The best there every was. Is, I mean.
Your hero and mine,
Jimbo
More of this in '06:
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.
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.
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