A while back my car battery died. I got a jump from a friend, but it wasn’t the battery. Some sort of alternator problem.
Then it was my (i)pod’s battery that died, and I let it be. I didn’t listen to it for like a week. I never plugged it in, just left it dead.
My cell phone's battery died. Well, I didn’t have time to recharge it. I had to go to work. You have to plug in phones. And wait for it.
Sometimes I think I have a battery inside me, I don’t always know what charges it. Sometimes it’s time. Sometimes it’s food. It could be caffeine. Sleep sometimes, I think, is what charges my battery. But sometimes I’m not always right.
I’ll often wake up with too little sleep. I’ll want to get up, have energy to burn. Battery power unspent. Other times I'll feel depleted.
I have to let battery die before recharge.
By (the way) the numbers
For $5.32 my former land lord, J. & K. Kolb, certified an envelope sent to my new address.
My previous address had a refundable security deposit of $700.
Plus a $250 refundable pet deposit.
Backstory: my landlord gave my rooomates and I an ultimatum to pay an extra $350 a month.
Or to move out within 30 days.
This was on July 1.
In 14 days we found a new home.
It's 10 blocks east.
And seven blocks south.
On moving day we rented a U-haul for $41.83.
We woke up a 9 that morning.
And moved until 1 p.m. -- I called out of work.
At the former place, I picked up 245 cigarette butts.
And 164 styrofoam peanuts -- don't ask.
I filled up six trash bags.
And made four loads in my Volvo station wagon.
I sold the washer and dryer for $60.
I pulled 85 weeds.
I replaced two sets of blinds.
And two screens for two windows.
By the first of the month I was ready for checkout.
Note: A landlord has 30 days to repay deposit or explain what's taken out.
J.K. Kolb replied to me on the 18th of last month. Subtractions were as follows:
$66.00 materials, $150.00 - To replace broken mirror/closet door in main bedroom.
$97.93 -missing window blinds
$44.90-missing hose and reel
$111.00-broken doggie door
$85.00 material, 50 labor -replace and recode missing garage door openers
$150.00 rebuild wood gat a dog run entry, chewed by dog
$29.98 -replacement of broken towel rod in bathroom
$140.00 -labor paid to JDK construction to install blinds, doggie door, and towel rod
$31.43 + $15.50 -unpaid garbage bill, charge to pick up full bins
TOTAL = $971.74
"Thank you again for being residents of our home at 1824 SE Taggart St., the letter declared."
"Catch you later," K.'s final words to me in person.
Never.
My previous address had a refundable security deposit of $700.
Plus a $250 refundable pet deposit.
Backstory: my landlord gave my rooomates and I an ultimatum to pay an extra $350 a month.
Or to move out within 30 days.
This was on July 1.
In 14 days we found a new home.
It's 10 blocks east.
And seven blocks south.
On moving day we rented a U-haul for $41.83.
We woke up a 9 that morning.
And moved until 1 p.m. -- I called out of work.
At the former place, I picked up 245 cigarette butts.
And 164 styrofoam peanuts -- don't ask.
I filled up six trash bags.
And made four loads in my Volvo station wagon.
I sold the washer and dryer for $60.
I pulled 85 weeds.
I replaced two sets of blinds.
And two screens for two windows.
By the first of the month I was ready for checkout.
Note: A landlord has 30 days to repay deposit or explain what's taken out.
J.K. Kolb replied to me on the 18th of last month. Subtractions were as follows:
$66.00 materials, $150.00 - To replace broken mirror/closet door in main bedroom.
$97.93 -missing window blinds
$44.90-missing hose and reel
$111.00-broken doggie door
$85.00 material, 50 labor -replace and recode missing garage door openers
$150.00 rebuild wood gat a dog run entry, chewed by dog
$29.98 -replacement of broken towel rod in bathroom
$140.00 -labor paid to JDK construction to install blinds, doggie door, and towel rod
$31.43 + $15.50 -unpaid garbage bill, charge to pick up full bins
TOTAL = $971.74
"Thank you again for being residents of our home at 1824 SE Taggart St., the letter declared."
"Catch you later," K.'s final words to me in person.
Never.
LIFES LESSONS
Summers over, and all I found out was what's possible.
Well, it's possible to have one's rent hiked up to-- and possibly more than--33 percent, causing one to move (I to move anyway).
I suppose it's possible to spend three months away from girlfriend.
It's possible to drink nearly everyday without exceeding (sometimes exceeding) and still function as a person. It's possible to walk the dog every morning.
It's possible to think about but do no school work everyday. It's possible to work five days a week and still not be able to save money.
It's possible to start to read five books, continue to read them, and still be reading all of them (or think you are). It's possible to wane one's responsibility and have others give up on you. It's possible--but not yet proven--to win them back.
It's possible to own a car but not drive it everyday.
It's possible to regret stuff.
It's possible to believe in hope.
It's possible to believe it's bullshit.
It's possible to believe it's both.
It's possible to have friends who are girls that won't be girlfriends.
It's possible to eat a burrito six out of seven days a week.
It's possible to drink a bottle of wine in a night by yourself.
It's possible to ruin a ping-pong table by leaving it out in the rain.
It's possible to be in debt for years and years.
It's possible to read Sometimes a Great Notion (I still believe).
It's possible to find non-pleated pants that fit at Goodwill.
It's possible to get a good haircut for less than 20 dollars. I
t's possible to get published.
It's possible to finish a master's degree (or think you can) in the fall.
It's possible to grow a (protest) beard.
It's possible to spend the whole summer working in the Blue Room of Powell's.
It's possible to spend the whole summer without putting on a swim suit.
It's possible to spend a day reading the Sunday Times--or most of it.
It's possible to ride your bike through: Saturday Market, the Bite of Oregon, Flutag, the Obama Rally, the Blues Festival, Rose Festival, Oregon Brewers Festival, concerts, movies in the park, but not attend any of them.
It's possible not to see a movie in theaters (oh wait, there was the dollar flick Forgetting Sarah Marshall I saw with my brother and father in Albuquerque).
It's possible to miss the bus twice.
It's possible to reunite with high school acquiantences after 10 years.
Well, it's possible to have one's rent hiked up to-- and possibly more than--33 percent, causing one to move (I to move anyway).
I suppose it's possible to spend three months away from girlfriend.
It's possible to drink nearly everyday without exceeding (sometimes exceeding) and still function as a person. It's possible to walk the dog every morning.
It's possible to think about but do no school work everyday. It's possible to work five days a week and still not be able to save money.
It's possible to start to read five books, continue to read them, and still be reading all of them (or think you are). It's possible to wane one's responsibility and have others give up on you. It's possible--but not yet proven--to win them back.
It's possible to own a car but not drive it everyday.
It's possible to regret stuff.
It's possible to believe in hope.
It's possible to believe it's bullshit.
It's possible to believe it's both.
It's possible to have friends who are girls that won't be girlfriends.
It's possible to eat a burrito six out of seven days a week.
It's possible to drink a bottle of wine in a night by yourself.
It's possible to ruin a ping-pong table by leaving it out in the rain.
It's possible to be in debt for years and years.
It's possible to read Sometimes a Great Notion (I still believe).
It's possible to find non-pleated pants that fit at Goodwill.
It's possible to get a good haircut for less than 20 dollars. I
t's possible to get published.
It's possible to finish a master's degree (or think you can) in the fall.
It's possible to grow a (protest) beard.
It's possible to spend the whole summer working in the Blue Room of Powell's.
It's possible to spend the whole summer without putting on a swim suit.
It's possible to spend a day reading the Sunday Times--or most of it.
It's possible to ride your bike through: Saturday Market, the Bite of Oregon, Flutag, the Obama Rally, the Blues Festival, Rose Festival, Oregon Brewers Festival, concerts, movies in the park, but not attend any of them.
It's possible not to see a movie in theaters (oh wait, there was the dollar flick Forgetting Sarah Marshall I saw with my brother and father in Albuquerque).
It's possible to miss the bus twice.
It's possible to reunite with high school acquiantences after 10 years.
QUICK THOUGHTS
McCain made the wrong choice. I shouldn't care but do. Don't know why I care. There are more important things. I can't think of any. I think of many (Gustav is flooding the once flooded.) that I can't put into a sentence (just did). What's with me tonight (any night)? I'm here (have been here for years). I'm not here (not always present). I think of things that I shouldn't (I'm alone) but can't share. I put headphones on and that helps (other voices, noises) block out the deranged thoughts. It doesn't help. Music makes me think of other things I don't want to think of. I take headphones off. I put them right back on. I put another song on (skip). I start to say things aloud (to myself, to the world). I speak out loud. I picture people from long ago (how long?), images I make up in my mind. I picture myself (not the reflection I find in the mirror), I picture me then (it makes me cringe) and me now (cringe again). I wonder what happened (I know, I didn't know). I wonder what will happen (and I'm frightened). I'm here. I close my eyes and breathe. I think, 'I'm alive. I'm here. I'm now.' This simple thought weighs. It feels like a pulse: Control. Out of control. I don't have control of it. And I worry. And I want. And I wish. And I get depressed. And I'm uncertain. And now my mind has calmed. I'm content to be what I am, where I am. I'm sure. I calm my breathing: In. Out. In. Out. Breathe: Here. Now. Here. Now. Breathe. I close off everyone in proximity. I'm here alone in thought and don't want anyone else around me. This. Sure. Type. Thoughts. But alone. Very. And make 'em public. Whatever public is is. But also private. Thoughts to share.
TO GET TO THE PARK
To get to the park I wake up.
I get out of bed and go downstairs.
And put shoes and socks on, my shoes,
shorts and a sweatshirt this day—it's cool, not hot.
To get to the park I use the bathroom
I drink a pink glass of water.
I put on my dog’s leash, on her collar,
and a plastic bag in my pocket, an indication of Walk.
To get to the park I go out my front door.
and take a right on the sidewalk, our sidewalk.
I pass houses and apartments—my neighbors.
I notice Direct TV satellite dishes.
To get to the park I cross a main street.
I walk to a median, then to the other side and safe.
I pass Subarus for sale, and empty bags of fast food.
I walk to another corner, thinking about last night.
To get to the park I take a left, there.
Roadway not improved, the sign says and I read.
I walk up the sidewalk until it ends.
The gravel road, an overgrown alley seems to make sense to me.
To get to the park I walk three blocks of this.
It will be a surprise if I ever see another soul.
I’ll walk through stop signs, never needing to stop.
(Sometimes for my dog stops to eat some grass or just sniff.)
To get to the park I go through a schoolyard.
It’s like the park: it has grass and playground equipment, basketball courts and soccer goals.
But a bit further is the real park, the one I woke up for.
To get to this park you must get to the park.
I get out of bed and go downstairs.
And put shoes and socks on, my shoes,
shorts and a sweatshirt this day—it's cool, not hot.
To get to the park I use the bathroom
I drink a pink glass of water.
I put on my dog’s leash, on her collar,
and a plastic bag in my pocket, an indication of Walk.
To get to the park I go out my front door.
and take a right on the sidewalk, our sidewalk.
I pass houses and apartments—my neighbors.
I notice Direct TV satellite dishes.
To get to the park I cross a main street.
I walk to a median, then to the other side and safe.
I pass Subarus for sale, and empty bags of fast food.
I walk to another corner, thinking about last night.
To get to the park I take a left, there.
Roadway not improved, the sign says and I read.
I walk up the sidewalk until it ends.
The gravel road, an overgrown alley seems to make sense to me.
To get to the park I walk three blocks of this.
It will be a surprise if I ever see another soul.
I’ll walk through stop signs, never needing to stop.
(Sometimes for my dog stops to eat some grass or just sniff.)
To get to the park I go through a schoolyard.
It’s like the park: it has grass and playground equipment, basketball courts and soccer goals.
But a bit further is the real park, the one I woke up for.
To get to this park you must get to the park.
EVERYDAY A FAVORITE
The first day there were
Many.
I picked out the biggest
One.
It’s trunk had a stand-in
Cave.
I walked right up to it;
Stood.
My body fit perfect,
In.
The view from there was great
True.
Second time it was a
Root.
That drew me to like a
Bench.
Cause nothing beats a good
Sit.
Little later my butt
Hurt.
Still, I sat and looked out
Wide.
And I could see many
More.
‘Today it’s this one that’s
Mine.’
The next day I’m feeling
Sad.
I go to the park any-
Way.
And pick one to fit my
Mood.
Tall this tree, too, it
Droops.
Branches hang like a hound’s
Cheeks.
A certain amount of
Moss.
Surrounds the circumference
Low.
The bark goes vertical
High.
Willow-like weeping, and
Me.
I walk around every
Day.
And say, this one, this day
You.
When alone I need some-
Thing.
I choose a tree in the
Park.
And make it my own tree,
See.
I walk home; I leave it
There.
Everyday a favorite
Tree.
Many.
I picked out the biggest
One.
It’s trunk had a stand-in
Cave.
I walked right up to it;
Stood.
My body fit perfect,
In.
The view from there was great
True.
Second time it was a
Root.
That drew me to like a
Bench.
Cause nothing beats a good
Sit.
Little later my butt
Hurt.
Still, I sat and looked out
Wide.
And I could see many
More.
‘Today it’s this one that’s
Mine.’
The next day I’m feeling
Sad.
I go to the park any-
Way.
And pick one to fit my
Mood.
Tall this tree, too, it
Droops.
Branches hang like a hound’s
Cheeks.
A certain amount of
Moss.
Surrounds the circumference
Low.
The bark goes vertical
High.
Willow-like weeping, and
Me.
I walk around every
Day.
And say, this one, this day
You.
When alone I need some-
Thing.
I choose a tree in the
Park.
And make it my own tree,
See.
I walk home; I leave it
There.
Everyday a favorite
Tree.
PHONES AND FRAMES
I was sitting in the waiting room when I started to count: Phones and Frames.
I got my first pair of glasses when I was in the 10th grade. I was driving by that point— sometimes at night– and my mother agreed with my opthamologist hat I should have eyeglasses. My vision was affected by an injury I got at summer camp. But that’s not this story. With my first written prescription in hand, my mom and I, we went to the mall and picked out my first pair (one). They were silver and black, had round lenses, and gave me a new look. I was Eddie Bauer. I lost those pair in no time, maybe a month. Usually, when I left the house there was a pocket-check: glasses, wallet, keys, pager. But one morning I couldn’t find them. I looked hard but couldn’t. My mom took me to get another pair—thanks, Mom. I got the same frames (two). They were a brown but the same size and style. A few days later, well, I found the original silver and black pair, so I had a back up. I still have both pair those glasses; they’re in the top drawer of my childhood dresser. I saw them the last time I was home.
I took one of those pair—maybe both—to college with me. I wore them some, but didn’t worry about seeing that first year in college. I sat in the back of lecture halls; I didn’t pay too close attention.
One night in my second year of college, I flipped over a catwalk backwards and landed on the cement. I hit my head. Because of the fall, my eye doctor rechecked my vision. And before I went back the next semester my mom said I should get new glasses. You have to see where you’re going, it pained her to say. I picked out some new black frames (three) for my white face. They were oval, and I took care of them best I could. I started seeing better after that.
After that semester I got a cell phone to compliment my Calvin Klein frames. I went with the Samsung 8700 (one), and was told by the salesman that it was the Furby of cell phones.
A bit later, I was adjusting the sides of the glasses—they were crooked from me sitting on them—as I was on the phone. The person on the other end was talking but I couldn’t hear her. The side of the oval glasses frame broke in my hand. The earpiece on my Samsung went out. My phone was dead, my glasses were broken. As quickly as I had had them both, I learned for the first time that I could lose it all in a matter of an adjustment, or a telephone conversation, or a fuzzy trend.
A replacement phone was sent to me so fast you could say it sprinted. I singed up for insurance as if I knew this type of thing would happen. Furby insurance. I waited, however, to get new glasses. I could live without them, I convinced myself. Plain ole me was the brand new me. I struggled seeing what my professors projected and by the end of that semester, I knew if I was going to graduate college I needed new glasses.
So, I got new specs (four), a new look. But then I picked up this dog, and this dog picked up my pair of glasses and took them outside to munch on them like a rawhide bone. Another set of frames was lost. The day before I went on a road trip I got a new pair of glasses with my somewhat dated prescription. These new frames (five) I loved the best. They were the same brand as the first pair(s) of John Lennon-like specs I had, but these were different, they were more Buddy Holly than Lennon I still had the same phone at—the refurbished Furby—so apologizing to whom I left was possible.
I wore the Buddy Hollys for about a year, during which I got a new phone. What the fuck is a Furby? people would say when I described my phone. The joked wasn’t funny anymore. I got a new phone with new games and more minutes. I was set with my Kyocera (three).
But what good is a cell phone if you don’t have anyone to talk to? Then, my glasses broke at the bridge of my nose. It was another adjustment mishap; I don’t learn. Luckily, I found the same frames (five)—a slightly different shade—Online and had Lens Crafters put the lenses in for me free.
The truth is I hated my phone. Kyocera is Korean for crappy. I went back Online and fell in love with new phone. It reminded me of an SUV I had seen on TV, the Extera. I couldn’t afford the Extera, but I could afford the SANYO. I bought it (four) and got a factory rebate on the deal—it really felt like buying a car.
I had the SUV of cell phones and glasses frames that I felt comfortable in. I was single and I met new people who called me. This one girl started calling me a lot. I was calling her some, too. One night I spent there at her apartment. When was leaving in the morning I thought I forgot my glasses. Driving home, I wore sunglasses. When I went to switch to my eyeglasses I couldn’t find them. I picked up the SUV phone and called the girl to ask her to look around her room and under her bed to see if she could see my specs. No luck, she said. I could talk on my phone, hear just fine what was on the other line, but I was having a hard time believing what I was hearing. I couldn’t picture myself without those frames.
My prescription was too old, so I couldn’t just walk in a get new glasses. I had to get a new one, but my original eye doctor retired. I went to a new doctor and got new frames (six). I didn’t like my new frames as much as my old, but I got a good deal them. That said, my phone was working fine.
Not to detract, it was at this time I moved to Portland. On my phone I could talk to the people I moved away from and the people I would meet.
The first female I met in Portland would call my SUV phone, and come over late at night. I’d take off the specs I didn’t care for and we’d kiss. One morning I woke up next to her and put on a jacket that I hadn’t worn since I had moved. I put my hand in one of the pockets and I found my old frames, the famed frames I thought I’d lost (five).
That girl ended up removing me from her phone—another story— but hey, I had those glasses.
There was an ice storm that winter in Portland. I happened to go out the night it came. Luckily, I went out with my back-up glasses (six), and I left them the bus. I had the back-ups, the frames I loved, the Buddy Hollys. I still had the SUV cell phones.
One night, after I packed my bag for a trip I was taking I went out for a drink. I was riding my bike home from the bar and I crashed in to a parked car. I lost my glasses in the spill. But the next morning, before the flight, I went to the scene and found them. They were (slightly) scratched, (a bit) bent, but I felt lucky to have them.
The screen on my phone cracked that night and digital ink spread. I had to get a new phone (five), replaced later with a new provider and phone (six), an LG. Those frames finally broke for good—another story that takes place on New Year’s Eve—and I had to get new glasses (seven). Those broke quick, a stooge kicked me in the head with a soccer ball. I replaced them (eight and nine) with a two-for-one deal. And that’s where I’m at now. Added up: phones and frames, six and nine.
Like this? Want to contribute a story? Click here
I got my first pair of glasses when I was in the 10th grade. I was driving by that point— sometimes at night– and my mother agreed with my opthamologist hat I should have eyeglasses. My vision was affected by an injury I got at summer camp. But that’s not this story. With my first written prescription in hand, my mom and I, we went to the mall and picked out my first pair (one). They were silver and black, had round lenses, and gave me a new look. I was Eddie Bauer. I lost those pair in no time, maybe a month. Usually, when I left the house there was a pocket-check: glasses, wallet, keys, pager. But one morning I couldn’t find them. I looked hard but couldn’t. My mom took me to get another pair—thanks, Mom. I got the same frames (two). They were a brown but the same size and style. A few days later, well, I found the original silver and black pair, so I had a back up. I still have both pair those glasses; they’re in the top drawer of my childhood dresser. I saw them the last time I was home.
I took one of those pair—maybe both—to college with me. I wore them some, but didn’t worry about seeing that first year in college. I sat in the back of lecture halls; I didn’t pay too close attention.
One night in my second year of college, I flipped over a catwalk backwards and landed on the cement. I hit my head. Because of the fall, my eye doctor rechecked my vision. And before I went back the next semester my mom said I should get new glasses. You have to see where you’re going, it pained her to say. I picked out some new black frames (three) for my white face. They were oval, and I took care of them best I could. I started seeing better after that.
After that semester I got a cell phone to compliment my Calvin Klein frames. I went with the Samsung 8700 (one), and was told by the salesman that it was the Furby of cell phones.
A bit later, I was adjusting the sides of the glasses—they were crooked from me sitting on them—as I was on the phone. The person on the other end was talking but I couldn’t hear her. The side of the oval glasses frame broke in my hand. The earpiece on my Samsung went out. My phone was dead, my glasses were broken. As quickly as I had had them both, I learned for the first time that I could lose it all in a matter of an adjustment, or a telephone conversation, or a fuzzy trend.
A replacement phone was sent to me so fast you could say it sprinted. I singed up for insurance as if I knew this type of thing would happen. Furby insurance. I waited, however, to get new glasses. I could live without them, I convinced myself. Plain ole me was the brand new me. I struggled seeing what my professors projected and by the end of that semester, I knew if I was going to graduate college I needed new glasses.
So, I got new specs (four), a new look. But then I picked up this dog, and this dog picked up my pair of glasses and took them outside to munch on them like a rawhide bone. Another set of frames was lost. The day before I went on a road trip I got a new pair of glasses with my somewhat dated prescription. These new frames (five) I loved the best. They were the same brand as the first pair(s) of John Lennon-like specs I had, but these were different, they were more Buddy Holly than Lennon I still had the same phone at—the refurbished Furby—so apologizing to whom I left was possible.
I wore the Buddy Hollys for about a year, during which I got a new phone. What the fuck is a Furby? people would say when I described my phone. The joked wasn’t funny anymore. I got a new phone with new games and more minutes. I was set with my Kyocera (three).
But what good is a cell phone if you don’t have anyone to talk to? Then, my glasses broke at the bridge of my nose. It was another adjustment mishap; I don’t learn. Luckily, I found the same frames (five)—a slightly different shade—Online and had Lens Crafters put the lenses in for me free.
The truth is I hated my phone. Kyocera is Korean for crappy. I went back Online and fell in love with new phone. It reminded me of an SUV I had seen on TV, the Extera. I couldn’t afford the Extera, but I could afford the SANYO. I bought it (four) and got a factory rebate on the deal—it really felt like buying a car.
I had the SUV of cell phones and glasses frames that I felt comfortable in. I was single and I met new people who called me. This one girl started calling me a lot. I was calling her some, too. One night I spent there at her apartment. When was leaving in the morning I thought I forgot my glasses. Driving home, I wore sunglasses. When I went to switch to my eyeglasses I couldn’t find them. I picked up the SUV phone and called the girl to ask her to look around her room and under her bed to see if she could see my specs. No luck, she said. I could talk on my phone, hear just fine what was on the other line, but I was having a hard time believing what I was hearing. I couldn’t picture myself without those frames.
My prescription was too old, so I couldn’t just walk in a get new glasses. I had to get a new one, but my original eye doctor retired. I went to a new doctor and got new frames (six). I didn’t like my new frames as much as my old, but I got a good deal them. That said, my phone was working fine.
Not to detract, it was at this time I moved to Portland. On my phone I could talk to the people I moved away from and the people I would meet.
The first female I met in Portland would call my SUV phone, and come over late at night. I’d take off the specs I didn’t care for and we’d kiss. One morning I woke up next to her and put on a jacket that I hadn’t worn since I had moved. I put my hand in one of the pockets and I found my old frames, the famed frames I thought I’d lost (five).
That girl ended up removing me from her phone—another story— but hey, I had those glasses.
There was an ice storm that winter in Portland. I happened to go out the night it came. Luckily, I went out with my back-up glasses (six), and I left them the bus. I had the back-ups, the frames I loved, the Buddy Hollys. I still had the SUV cell phones.
One night, after I packed my bag for a trip I was taking I went out for a drink. I was riding my bike home from the bar and I crashed in to a parked car. I lost my glasses in the spill. But the next morning, before the flight, I went to the scene and found them. They were (slightly) scratched, (a bit) bent, but I felt lucky to have them.
The screen on my phone cracked that night and digital ink spread. I had to get a new phone (five), replaced later with a new provider and phone (six), an LG. Those frames finally broke for good—another story that takes place on New Year’s Eve—and I had to get new glasses (seven). Those broke quick, a stooge kicked me in the head with a soccer ball. I replaced them (eight and nine) with a two-for-one deal. And that’s where I’m at now. Added up: phones and frames, six and nine.
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I saw this ad on craigslist.org
$1150 / 2br - Alberta Arts bungalo for rent
I replied as soon as I saw it:
Would love to check out this bungalo. Feel free to give me a call or email back.
Thanks,
Carson
I got back:
Do you want to schedule a time to see the home?
So I said:
Yes I would. The ad says after the 15th. I'm free in the morning/early afternoon on the 15th, 16th or 17th.
Let me know when.
Thanks,
Carson
Then:
Would love to check out this bungalo. Feel free to give me a call or email back.
Thanks,
Carson
I got back:
Do you want to schedule a time to see the home?
So I said:
Yes I would. The ad says after the 15th. I'm free in the morning/early afternoon on the 15th, 16th or 17th.
Let me know when.
Thanks,
Carson
Then:
I have scheduled showings at 9 and 9:30 on the 15th. Anytime after that will work for me. What time would you prefer?
Thanks,
Grant
I wrote: can meet at 10 on the 15th so long as you are already over there. Unless you need more time between, I'll be there then.
Best,
Carson
Best,
Carson
That’s great, see you then. Please call if you need to reschedule. (503) 515-xxxx.
Followed by:
My 9:30 cancelled, would you be able to meet at 9:30? If not let’s keep the 10am.
Are you still available at 10 or can you make it at 9:30 tomorrow?
(I went to visit Maggie in Eugene and didn't get my gmail until later)
Sorry to get back to you late but I think I'll only be able to get there at 10.
(Then, I met Grant and checked out the house. I liked it and wanted to move. To spare details, it's great: location, rent, yard. I filled out an application and went back to pay a money order.) And, I wrote him this follow up:
Grant,
It was good to meet you and see the house this morning. To further my interest, I put in your door my application and money order.
Thanks,
Carson
(I went to visit Maggie in Eugene and didn't get my gmail until later)
Sorry to get back to you late but I think I'll only be able to get there at 10.
(Then, I met Grant and checked out the house. I liked it and wanted to move. To spare details, it's great: location, rent, yard. I filled out an application and went back to pay a money order.) And, I wrote him this follow up:
Grant,
It was good to meet you and see the house this morning. To further my interest, I put in your door my application and money order.
Thanks,
Carson
(He wrote back)
Thanks Carson,
I faxed your info to PVRS [?] this afternoon. FYI I am expecting one other applicant, and together with your application I don’t expect to hold an open house this weekend.
Thanks for your interest and I will keep you informed of my progress
Grant
(Then he wrote)
Carson,
The other application did not come in so I am going to hold the open house tomorrow, looking for one more application. We received your credit info and that looks fine. We are waiting on your employment confirmation as well as previous rental confirmation.
Your application says you are looking for a July move in, would it be possible to move that up at all?
Thanks,
Grant
So I said:
Grant,
I put July on the application as an estimate. I would like to move earlier, and as we talked about anticipate some overlap between my current house and the new place. So sometime in June is realistic.
Carson
And now I wait...
UPDATE:
Carson,
Pvrs is still working on your report as well as the other applicant. I may know more tomorrow and will let you know as soon as I do.
Thanks,
Grant
I put July on the application as an estimate. I would like to move earlier, and as we talked about anticipate some overlap between my current house and the new place. So sometime in June is realistic.
Carson
And now I wait...
UPDATE:
Carson,
Pvrs is still working on your report as well as the other applicant. I may know more tomorrow and will let you know as soon as I do.
Thanks,
Grant
SELFISH GENE
Tired, humble, still unsure of myself, I sit at my desk and wonder when the last time I wrote was, when I wrote something really profound, something I was proud of. I wonder when the last time I read a good book, why I've stopped doing both, what I'm worried about, what's keeping me from doing the things I love. I concern myself with things outside of these things, I'm depressed for reasons that keep my from doing things that might get me out of this depression, though, there are other things that prove to be the cure for this. Still, I wonder what the ultimate cure is. When I'll be healed. I sit alone with the BBC in the background. Heidi in the closet waiting for the lights to go out. But I can't sleep. My body's tired but my mind won't put it in the rack. I'm not done.
I'm excited about stuff. There's much to look forward to. I rub my tongue across my front teeth and they feel rough. Fuck, it's plaque. How did this build up? I wonder. What's become of my dental health? I worry. There's this part of me, though, that's comforted by this feeling. Like I'm in control of things in my life that somewhat seem out of control. I can't control plaque. But I can tame it. There's a grasp, all I have to do is brush.
Like I can check out these books and make time to read them. I can set down my laptop and set myself in front of it to type on it. I can close the door behind me and write, write, write. Still, I wonder why. Or what it is that will mean anything. Who will read it, who my audience is. Does that make it feel better. No. I'm writing, reading for myself. I'll brush my own teeth, thank you.
The BBC rattles off market numbers. Ratios. Up. Down. Down, mostly. I rub again my tongue to my teeth. They feel smooth in the front but rough behind. I'll go brush them when I feel like it. But will it matter? "The earlier you start flossing the longer you'll have your teeth," a voice from the past tells me. And my thoughts rattle off: advice. My fingers dance across the keyboard as I get bored and tired and still and achy.
I reach for water, to hydrate. I swish around the water through the gaps of my plaquey teeth when I think about someone that's not here. And also the one that is here, the one that will remain here until there is no here that's recognizable. Then, I think about the content, the things to read and see and speak of and that's when I realize: I'm brushing for me. It's such a selfish gene.
I'm excited about stuff. There's much to look forward to. I rub my tongue across my front teeth and they feel rough. Fuck, it's plaque. How did this build up? I wonder. What's become of my dental health? I worry. There's this part of me, though, that's comforted by this feeling. Like I'm in control of things in my life that somewhat seem out of control. I can't control plaque. But I can tame it. There's a grasp, all I have to do is brush.
Like I can check out these books and make time to read them. I can set down my laptop and set myself in front of it to type on it. I can close the door behind me and write, write, write. Still, I wonder why. Or what it is that will mean anything. Who will read it, who my audience is. Does that make it feel better. No. I'm writing, reading for myself. I'll brush my own teeth, thank you.
The BBC rattles off market numbers. Ratios. Up. Down. Down, mostly. I rub again my tongue to my teeth. They feel smooth in the front but rough behind. I'll go brush them when I feel like it. But will it matter? "The earlier you start flossing the longer you'll have your teeth," a voice from the past tells me. And my thoughts rattle off: advice. My fingers dance across the keyboard as I get bored and tired and still and achy.
I reach for water, to hydrate. I swish around the water through the gaps of my plaquey teeth when I think about someone that's not here. And also the one that is here, the one that will remain here until there is no here that's recognizable. Then, I think about the content, the things to read and see and speak of and that's when I realize: I'm brushing for me. It's such a selfish gene.
HEY, HEIDI
Some hurtful things have happened as of late, I tell Heidi. She's in the closet where she likes to be. I'm fine with that and talk to her from the bed or the chair. The radio is on but for the most part the house is empty of noise and clutter.
My front two teeth still hurt for one. Last week I fell on my face, see. My front two teeth--I'm lucky to still have them--went into my lip and my lip was all bloody. The sidewalk also hit my lip, the outside--there's a scrape. Basically, think of my lip as the meat being squished between the white bread of my front teeth and that of the sidewalk. Flattened like ham-and-cheese in your back pack. That hurt but that's not all. My knee is bruised and the scrap on my nose is still healing. I'll be all right, though, when these teeth can bite down again. You don't need to know how or why I feel. I was running, not with you, for no good reason, really, when I came to a sudden stop. A halt, if you will.
There was another blow, too, I tell Heidi. I'm not a good student, so I won't graduate this term like I told you I would. I slacked off a bit. I didn't take pride in my work as of late. I stopped going, emailing, showing up for things; I stopped talking to people in the program. And now I'm realizing that I couldn't do that and finish, but it's too late. Understanding this, thinking about this in depth has been depressing. It hurts like something I can't always describe. It's an emptiness that suggests utter failure. Like it's a precedent set and I'm stuck with it for a long time.
My personal space was invaded, Heidi. When we were sleeping the other night someone went into my car, he or she went through my things. They didn't take anything--I have nothing of value in there--but they scattered stuff and left the door ajar, leaving the impression that they were there and they could come back at anytime, could have of mine what they want. And that hurt.
So I've been sad, you know? And I should get over this things. I mean I'm not taking it out on you but in a way I am. It's my lack of self-worth that leads me to mope around, not talk to you more often, not take you out, not share stuff (I am telling you all this depressing shit). Still, you know what I need to consider is that my mood--affected by these things--has an effect on others, affects others you might say. And while one of my faults might be being self- centered at times, my greatest gift is to light up another's life. And I can't do that like this.
I'm a mess, I think as I straighten my room up. Heidi's still in the closet, sleeping. She wakes to lick her paw or the carpet. I get things in order: to keep, to read, to recycle. To throw away.
My front two teeth still hurt for one. Last week I fell on my face, see. My front two teeth--I'm lucky to still have them--went into my lip and my lip was all bloody. The sidewalk also hit my lip, the outside--there's a scrape. Basically, think of my lip as the meat being squished between the white bread of my front teeth and that of the sidewalk. Flattened like ham-and-cheese in your back pack. That hurt but that's not all. My knee is bruised and the scrap on my nose is still healing. I'll be all right, though, when these teeth can bite down again. You don't need to know how or why I feel. I was running, not with you, for no good reason, really, when I came to a sudden stop. A halt, if you will.
There was another blow, too, I tell Heidi. I'm not a good student, so I won't graduate this term like I told you I would. I slacked off a bit. I didn't take pride in my work as of late. I stopped going, emailing, showing up for things; I stopped talking to people in the program. And now I'm realizing that I couldn't do that and finish, but it's too late. Understanding this, thinking about this in depth has been depressing. It hurts like something I can't always describe. It's an emptiness that suggests utter failure. Like it's a precedent set and I'm stuck with it for a long time.
My personal space was invaded, Heidi. When we were sleeping the other night someone went into my car, he or she went through my things. They didn't take anything--I have nothing of value in there--but they scattered stuff and left the door ajar, leaving the impression that they were there and they could come back at anytime, could have of mine what they want. And that hurt.
So I've been sad, you know? And I should get over this things. I mean I'm not taking it out on you but in a way I am. It's my lack of self-worth that leads me to mope around, not talk to you more often, not take you out, not share stuff (I am telling you all this depressing shit). Still, you know what I need to consider is that my mood--affected by these things--has an effect on others, affects others you might say. And while one of my faults might be being self- centered at times, my greatest gift is to light up another's life. And I can't do that like this.
I'm a mess, I think as I straighten my room up. Heidi's still in the closet, sleeping. She wakes to lick her paw or the carpet. I get things in order: to keep, to read, to recycle. To throw away.
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