Ignore This Subject Line

Ignore this story.

This Will (Should) Probably Be the Last One of These Types (I Guess)

Raymond Carver opening; my stuff on the lawn, but no dancing. No Will Ferrel movie version. Other shoes where my shoes went, other moments where mine, ours, used to be. Our house, our bed, our Oregon, our story-- something different now. Just a prologue, apparently, but now separate. Other shapes and shadows occupy the space where mine had stood, sat, slept, ate, laughed and loved. And was loved. Deconstructing through rearranging, replacing through building over the old, is something I don't have the ability to do. I really don't. I'm terrible at it. I don't find and replace, erase, or try to forget. I had thought that was the worst thing ever, to distort those memories, or worse, lose them. Worse than just being somebody on a list, worse than being a poem in a collection of poems, including ones--I'm sure--about those who helped take something special from me. So I don't make overt steps to cover up those memories and moments by creating new ones right directly over the old. Or pretend they weren't there. But lying is a form of pretending and maybe I need to get better at lying to myself. At pretending. Then I could tell myself, I could pretend, that one day I could replace, forget, not-think-about. That would be easier, make it simpler to go about the world. Like, I could drink a sloe gin fizz, in Portland, Oregon, with someone else, create something new that would replace the old. Like someone else's slippers. Maybe that's all takes. I suppose that would make things easier. For some, it's all about what's easy, or what's easiest. And why should I be any different? At the very least, it would make it easier to order a sloe gin fizz.

Sunday Night Muse

I should probably preface this: I have had way too much to drink on way too empty of stomach. My routines were rippled and altered to the point that I don't know what the day is or the time, etc.If that's something one can ever know.  It's good to know, however,  that people that weren't my family I still think of as family, and they still think of me the same. First Street Hugs. Warms me up. I've had such a tough time with the latest story, but have not been more excited about a story as I am with this one. Too close to home, I guess, in some ways, in many ways. But I keep working at it. Damn her.

Also on my mind: 3am calls from far away places is an acceptable reason to be tired, up all night reading is acceptable, staring at the walls listening to worn out playlists...hmm, not so much. Not as much. It's tough to cut something out, when that something seems pretty damn important. Always has. Certainly seemed important at the time.  I'm slightly worried-- as worried one can be on a slight level-- how much I just don't care. How much I want to not care. To remove elements that make me care.  I have always loved The Stranger, but never because I thought it was an ideal way to live life. But maybe it is. When you give everything, you give your whole and complete self, and then everything is lost, or taken, or shat upon, then what are you really left with? Nothing, I suppose.

Oh, The Big O, Sing It OR Links to Songs To Drink Whiskey To

I just want to give Otis a big hug. It would have to be zombie Otis, of course.

Good Things

Repeats on repeat.

Ocean Horse Repeats Or The Art of Skipping Songs

Meander and trudge through the brown sludge of the day, the cup. Don't worry that it takes a certain kind of light to notice the absence of things, and maybe a certain kind of darkness to create shadows where no shadows should be. There is a science and a philosophy to the idea of nothingness, and emptiness, but that doesn't mean it can be defined. Reaching across the bed for something that's not there... that's something, I suppose, but still nothing.

Small Wonder and Corner Man Catch A Thief

I stare at maps. Maps on my wall, maps in books, maps on the computer. I used to have a map shower curtain that I'd study while rinsing and repeating. I look at streets I lived on, live on, walk by. I look at the intersections, the rivers, the blue highways, and all the distance between me and those I love. The distance is inches, or feet, or thousands of miles, depending on the mood, the view, the map.

I've been reading old notebooks and staring at word maps, the details of places and times well known and half remembered, or half forgotten.  I wonder what I will think when I look back at the notebooks of today, the maps of my here and now.

Going Through Little Black Notebook Dated November 25, 2009 Through February 5, 2010

Hurts.

The Lady's Grace and Other Drink Names Consumed

Intervention...my heart beats Pacific. Randomness at late night-ness. This is where I'm at now. Two steps forward several hundred steps back. I'm not surprised at the way it ended up today. I don't have time for intervention. Words coming through while I write words, trying to hold it together, not sure what "it" really is. I thought I was ready to rip it up, sort of did rip it up, now, not so sure. Someone is standing on my chest. Boot chest. I used to live on Northeast Streets... then the west side. I walked down California and Gold the other day, and had to stop and turn around. When the morning sun is missing... etc. It's tough to be so big and feel so small.

An Excerpt of a Stalled Project, Shelved and Forgotten Or When to Stop Writing Therapy Fiction

Blue.

I was part way through the bottle of whiskey and I managed to open and take a couple of Unisom-- or its store brand equivalent,--when I noticed that the TV screen had gone all blue.  It was the only light in my bedroom, but it seemed bright. Dark bright. The entire room was blue, my hands, my drink, the walls, the floor, the air, all of it… blue. I don’t remember if I was even watching anything, if it had always been at a blue screen, or anything. My world became the color, the color became an idea, a sustained musical note, yet visual, a moment, a thing, some thing, wrapped in blue.

I held up my blue glass, the blue cubes swirling in blue liquid. I drank the rest. I could feel the blue strolling down what had to be my blue throat, into a blue stomach, where it would see the departure of the blue pills I had taken not so long ago; departing my stomach, leaving through the walls, going through to the rest of me until I became liquid. Heavy. Thick. Encased in an idea of something, sleep perhaps—blue sleep to end a blue day of blue.

I Fell. On My Keys. It Was Loud.

Sunshine and smiles about, all about. I keep saying this, repeating this: it is easily the nicest day of the year, and I want that to be enough.

I've been eating a lot of oatmeal for breakfast and beans and rice for all other meals. Fuck you Jamie Lee Curtis.

More Silly

A Hero Reflects

Song Time

The Methadones "Murmurs In The Dark"

Story Time Time

Got a story in A Cappella Zoo called "Popper's Choice."

Support them. Buy an issue. 

(Not about Blues Traveler).

Cereal Post

I feel like I need more Lucky Charms in my life, but really Grape Nuts is what I probably need.

It's odd....
To go from feeling gregarious and then to wanting isolation and silence.

To want to share laughs and play with friends old and new, and then moments later wanting to laugh at Play All of season six of The Simpsons, alone in the loft.
 
To go from thinking I have something figured out, to knowing I have nothing figured out.

To smile at the sun coming out, to remembering why I wasn't smiling in the first place.

It's odd to feel like words are my only way out, and no words come out except these ones, reflecting on what's odd.

Post Serial

Two types of wine. One before nap, one after. Also, coffee after dark. Lots of cheese, both the Tillamook persuasion and the cream kind. Records. The Black Keys, Banner Pilot, even Arcade Fire. Working on a new story that is close to home, not about home, not about me, not exactly, but it is the taco bell of stories, or rather my stories are taco bell-ish. Each item on the menu is very similar to other items on the menu. This story has a mash-up mix-up of them all, I suppose. I suppose a lot lately. Also sigh a lot.

I get sad when I grocery shop. I avoid it. I get sad at cereals like Koala Crisp, and Cafe Yum sauce, and I cannot even utter the phrase "taco night" without a pang and a stab and a clench. As a result, I either don't eat or I eat out. I have lost fifteen pounds this year and I'm out of money.  I avoid songs by Kurt Vile, Seapony, Gaslight Anthem, and determined that even thinking about Sunny In Philadelphia makes me sad. And hurt. That's stupid. That's me. Stupid.

Sunny Side Yup

Tried writing in cursive the other day. Not a good idea. Less on that later.

Still floating in some sort of nexus point. Can one float in a nexus? I'm still drifting in many ways. How many ways can one person drift? What's the difference between moving in the right direction and drifting? At least I am coming back to Me. Or has Me been coming back to I? That has been refreshing. More so than refreshing inboxes looking for word on word school.

Speaking (writing) of words...I am going to go type some. Different from these ones, (mostly.). And I actually won't "go" anywhere. Funny how all that works.

The Etc. Era, Eon, Age, etc.

Loft living day...27? Doesn't seem like that's a lot of days when I really think about it. And I really do think about it. Yet, as I've stated elsewhere on the internets, my world has once again returned to boxes. Life in boxes is a common theme if one moves around a lot, and it some ways it feels as though I've always been moving. Might sound romantic, but I don't see it that way. It's sad, actually. What does sound romantic, and a bit idealistic, and not sad, is the ol blank page now staring at me. The metaphorical blank page, that is. It can be a scary thing, especially if you thought you were working on something that had many filled pages, pages of adventure, love, building a life with someone, promising futures. To extend this semi cliche metaphor, because I love to extend things, especially metaphors about metaphors, a new chapter of my life begins--or rather, a whole new book. I hope it's a new book. One without the repeats of the last books, with new themes, and new successes, and overcoming, and etc. etc. etc. Loads of "etc."

Re: Turn

Some things aren't meant to be. Been learning that lesson a lot lately.

Got the word from the word school, and the word is-- no word school for me from that word school. Another repeat. I still have other hopes, but at this point, hope feels strange in my stomach.

As I've said before, if they really think they've selected the best people for their program, then it is not a program for me.

Anyway. Time to go stare at the wall for several hours.

Re: Used

Another fine couple of years nicely flushed down the ol' crapper.

Review

The new issue of The Southeast Review is out with a story of mine in its pages. I submitted it while I was still in Michigan. Not sure if that means anything.
Story is called "Hadron".

A Not So Interesting Take On the Application Of Pressure

Once upon a time there were a group of people that I went to breakfast with every morning. Because we all worked second shift, we all had our mornings together, and therefore had breakfast... in the morning. Then one day, due to tragedy and poor decisions, they took first shift jobs, during our breakfast time...in the morning. When I said to them, "since you chose to work first shift, we can't have breakfast together," I said it because I was sad, and it was reality, not because I didn't want to have breakfast with them. Then, the end.

Climbing Stairs, Or Climbing a Ladder, I'll Take The Latter and Stare at My Climbing

Loft living day number...two? The ceilings are high, which is good because I'm now living in the ceiling. I have some books spread out, clothes spread out, bedspread spread out. Still feel lost and a bit dreamy, as in, I'm in a dream of some sort. Not a bad one, not a good one, but a strange one. And in the dreamscape world, "strange" means things are normal. There are no donkeys eating pineapple, or floating clouds of gummy bears, or burping spiders that quote Chaucer. It's the normal that make this dream weird. How my life has changed at the roots, the routines, the routes, facing a different direction. Then I realize, am realizing, will have realized, had realized, that this is not a dream, not the future, not the past, but is happening now. And then I feel lost again. Unable to see beyond those routines. It's the feeling that I expect to wake up soon, so I need not worry about the end of the day, or the end of the week, or this huge gaping hole in the center of me, or this emptiness, or these arms and legs and eyes and ears I'm missing. I need not worry about the thing that was lost, because when I awake it won't be lost, but then I will have had realized that "I" was the thing that was lost, lost in all the tenses, all the repeats. I should worry, though, because through worry comes dreaming. The type of dreaming where I'm at the finish line and I've won. The type of dreaming where everyone is clapping and I slow motion smile and nod and pump my fist at my victory. Without worry, I can't dream. The right kind of worry. I do worry, though. I'm weary from it, actually. I'm worried about the heaps of anger, heaped up in a corner, so heaping it's about to tumble and take me with it, until I'm swimming in mixed metaphors. I need that lofty dreaming to feel focused, because when I'm focused, I am living.

Moving Day Part Twenty Seven

Words and their reality weigh me down. I'm down town. I'm down. Extra down. I don't want to be down with the down. These are just words of reflection on an otherwise strange day. My whole world is something different now, and I feel half empty-- full of half empty. But the sun is out on a fantastic looking Oregon day. The sky is a different blue here than the blue everywhere else. The sun is a different sort of bright as well. Especially the early February sun. It's a different sun coming through different windows.

Blah Aug

I would dive into the details. But, what difference would that make? I could go into the ins and outs. But that would only confuse those on the outs and upset those on the ins. I could detail all the diving. But that would require a set of definitions and parameters to begin. I could start at the beginning. But the end is what's at the beginning.

Doritos Pushing Flavor Envelope With New Envelope Flavored Doritos

TORONTO, ON—Scientists at the Frito-Lay CERN lab (Doritos Division) announced that they have successfully created the first Envelope Flavored Doritos after several months of failed attempts and setbacks that many thought would endanger the whole program.

"After we created Chutney Seltzer Doritos so easily, we thought we could do this," lead scientist and spokesman, Fred Hansen, said in an interview last week.

But problems with the chip reactor core, and the salt infusion collider created even more obstacles for the already challenging endeavor.

However, after several repairs and test runs, the Flavor Enabling Reactor Matrix Initiator, located deep underground Toronto, was able to produce the long sought after flavor.

When asked why they tried for such difficult one, Hansen said, "When we did Dirt [Flavored Doritos], the matrix was already aligned for something more daring. So, why not?"

And after the recent success of Breast Milk Doritos, and the infamous Anti-Taco Doritos, Hansen felt they had to push the flavor boundaries.

While the first attempts concentrated on the semi-sweet, glue-like substance that many envelopes have for sealing, it became clear that something else was needed.

"That [glue-like sealing flavor] was mostly hooves and Xanthan gum. Piece of cake," Hansen said, alluding to the ease of the successful Piece of Cake Doritos that are still for sale in Sault Ste. Marie, and other boarder cities. But his team wanted to go big.

The challenge, he went on, was the starchy, grainy texture of an actual envelope. U-Line brand, business class was the specific type.

"We kept getting U-Line small mailing box flavor, or the occasional 20 pound cardstock, but that's not what we were after," Hansen said.

According to the official press release issued by Frito Lay (the makers of Doritos), it wasn't until the team decided to try two extremely unconventional and controversial tactics, that they had success.

One, they slowed the collider down by almost 5%.

And two—they didn't add any salt.

When asked what the next flavor would be after so many successes, Hansen grinned and said,

"The big one. Chip Flavored."

New Hear Here Year Here

Head on over here for a link to a fine little publication. (Invisible Girl.)  It will be good for you and your soul. I'm waiting for the print version with the bad-ass cover, which I hear is coming, this year.

Also, I guess it's no go on the fake news writing. Unless I post things here. Which I might.

Also, in other news, but not news about fake news... this year's waiting game begins. While I'm waiting for the game, I take comfort in the hope that I at least pushed the start button. So, I'm starting to wait.