My Week

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Thread: My Week

  1. #1

    My Week

    Nothing too significant or important and I have no idea why I'm even posting this.

    Went to brew pub with Kristen. It was an arty place, full of young college students who still have hope for the future. The servers wore fedoras, that should give you a picture of what kind of place this was. Had vegetarian pot stickers. They were insubstantial. During dinner, had two pints of two of the house tap brews. Beer fans may cry foul, but I've never had a locally brewed beer that didn't taste like lake water with alcohol in it. Went home, left Kristen annoyed with my generally bad attitude.

    Went to Pizza Hut with my Wesleyan friend Kris. Always have to watch my language and 'blasphemy' when I'm around him, but he's my oldest friend, so I don't mind. Ate pizza. It was Pizza Hut pizza, so, you know. He'd bought a horror anthology book from Amazon that has a couple of my stories in it. He wanted me to sign his copy, but I forgot to do that. We talked about creating Christmas newsletters and how much comic books suck now compared to when we were young.

    That night, I had to take my brother to the hospital (He's fine), but I sat and waited in the car outside the emergency room for four and a half hours. Did not have enough gas to drive around. Breezy night. Poor person hospital. People drifted in and out to smoke cigarettes. I also smoked many cigarettes. It always strikes me, when I'm around rednecks or hillbillies, just how loud and violently annoying they are. One squat woman stood not far from my car, smoking and screaming into her cell phone. She was in her fifties, and her shrill voice carried in the night. Apparently, Britney let Donnie cut the baby's hair, and only Gary is allowed to cut the baby's hair, and Donnie just butchered the job, and if Britney calls you and says that she was kicked out, that's a lie, because Britney left of her accord. Only Gary is allowed to cut the baby's hair. That went on for half an hour. Then some weird guy came out of the night, his face covered in fresh stitches. He asked to bum a smoke. I never turn anyone down who wants to bum a smoke. As he smoked, he told be all about how he was car-jacked earlier that day, and the carjacker threw his baby in the street. I asked him how the baby was, and he said the baby was fine, and he spit on my arm when he said it. He asked me for a ride and I said no. He asked if he could sit in the car for a while to rest his legs, and I said no. He wandered off. My brother emerged from the emergency room at two in the morning.

    No More Words, by Berlin is playing on the radio right now.

    Yesterday, I hung out with Doug. He wanted to drive all the way up to 16th Street and get Popeye's chicken. So we did. Doug seemed uncomfortable because we were the only white people there. I asked him what he expected. It's Popeye's chicken. I couldn't care less about black people, so I just ate my chicken and biscuits. We went back to my house and we watched The Shining. I told him how Stanley Kubrick was so mean to Shelley Duvall on that shoot that it made her hair fall out from stress. Doug did not know that. We talked for a while after the movie, until he got a headache and went home.

    Starting a fast today. Need more cigarettes.
    If your art doesn't push, you won't get any pull.

  2. #2
    Quote Originally Posted by Arcopitcairn View Post
    Nothing too significant or important and I have no idea why I'm even posting this.
    But I'm glad you did. Was very fun to read about your time spent in these classy eating establishments and with weirdos outside the emergency room.
    "The only calibration that counts is how much heart people invest, how much they ignore their fears of being hurt or caught out or humiliated. And the only thing people regret is that they didn't live boldly enough, that they didn't invest enough heart, didn't love enough. Nothing else really counts at all. It was a saying about noble figures in old Irish poemsóhe would give his hawk to any man that asked for it, yet he loved his hawk better than men nowadays love their bride of tomorrow. He would mourn a dog with more grief than men nowadays mourn their fathers.

    And that's how we measure out our real respect for peopleóby the degree of feeling they can register, the voltage of life they can carry and tolerateóand enjoy.

    Live like a mighty river: a letter from Ted Hughes to his son, Nicholas

    Hidden Content

  3. #3
    Come to England if you want real beer.
    A man in possession of a wooden spoon must be in want of a pot to stir.

  4. #4
    Been feeling the existence of my ceiling lately, mentally, I mean. Iíve been very conscious of its constancy. I am disquieted by it. I drove through a very long tunnel not long ago, in the Rocky Mountains, west of Denver, a tunnel that runs for a mile under a mountain. I could feel the countless tons of rock hanging over my head, and I figured that the structure would pick that exact moment to fail, and that collapse would reduce me, and the girl I was with to some unrecognizable and unrecoverable liquid mass, and we would both merge, and we would seep down through the newly formed cracks and mix into the water table. Obviously, we were not annihilated like miserable insects, but the feeling has remained.

    I was in a parking garage a few weeks ago, and for the first time during my infrequent visits to these sorts of buildings, I could see nothing but my body smashed into a quivering blob of jelly by the gigantic concrete slabs which were only moments away from a pancaking collapse. I found that I could not comfortably remain in the garage.

    And now my own ceiling betrays me. Chances are I would survive the rush of wooden beams and plaster, if they were to fail, but I would probably find myself notably injured. I am disturbed.

    This week, a song by Tears for Fears called ĎThe Working Hourí has been stuck in my head.

    I tried to unstop a stopped-up toilet using telekinesis this week. It did not work.

    I think the whole ceiling thing comes from the fact that the idea of instantaneous destruction of the human body troubles me greatly. I was in an office complex that was hollow in the middle, meaning that basically there was an indoor courtyard, and from the balconies on various floors, one could look down onto the lobby far below. I did this very thing, and though I thought the feeling had subsided from previous experiences, I find that I still have an annoying case of twitching death-urge. I looked down on the lobby, and my heart started beating fast, and I saw me hurling myself head first over the side. I would watch the tiled floor speeding towards my face in those few horrible moments before everything I was was wiped out and obliterated in a gore explosion that the lawyers and secretaries would talk about in hushed tones for years following. I hate it when that happens.

    Iíve been in several head-on collisions, which tracks along with these thoughts, because of the Ďsnap-of-the-fingersí way you are injured in a car wreck. Youíre driving along. You are fine. You are fine. You are fine. Youíre broken and your car is destroyed!

    Went to an art studio complex this week. Beforehand, this girl and I had some chips (fries) with curry dip and malt vinegar, topped off with a decent IPA brew. The art show was neither here nor there. There was some small amount of talent on display, but it seems to me that sixty or seventy percent of Ďartí is simply having the balls to create something and call it art. There was one artist though, who showed a series of wonderful charcoal and graphite pieces depicting women morphing into various inanimate objects and invertebrates. I found it quite compelling, and the artist had a perfect grasp of anatomy, composition, and the use of negative space. He was also able to achieve a very bold and taut line quality with his medium, which is not the easiest thing to do, in my estimation.

    Drove yesterday out to the country to visit a sprawling antique mall. There were many beautiful things there, but I only got an old copy of ĎStagí magazine, which I am very much looking forward to reading.
    If your art doesn't push, you won't get any pull.

  5. #5
    Have seen many issues of Knights of the Dinner Table floating around. For years I would pass them by when scouring quarter boxes at the local flea market. I finally broke down and bought some issues and read them. They were surprisingly fun. I find the gamer subculture to be wonderfully interesting, but I myself have never been able to get into role playing. I just donít have that thing in me, whatever it is, to be able to act like the character on the D&D sheet. But I like the people who do. I like all the rules and minutiae, all the micro-management. Iím a fan of the passion that people have for their chosen loves, like cosplayers, G-Fans, people who speak Klingon, or anybody who has a subscription to Wrapped in Plastic. Knights of the Dinner Table brought these feelings home in a nice way, and I would recommend the series to anyone who likes gaming.

    Joined in a discussion in the debate forum this week. It was something that I told myself that I would never do, and I regret doing it, and Iím not doing it again, and Iím not sure why I did it in the first place. Maybe I just wanted to participate. I mean, thatís why Iím a member here, yeah? To participate? Perhaps I felt it was something that I should do. Itís just that when I read the threads, they make me kind of sad, because they are a reflection of a habit of human nature that Iíd rather avoid. Nobody agrees on anything, somebody always knows better, or more than somebody else, and people just donít treat each other right. I have said things to people in online debates that I would never say to their face. It injures me. As a person, it hurts me to callously treat the opinions and thoughts of others that way, and if youíre guilty too, then it hurts you too. It is disintegration, degradation, and I doubt Iíll participate in it again. Itís not a harmless or fun thing for me, a throwaway lark. It has to mean something. I need to be fulfilled by an activity, and an online debate will not do that for me.

    Plus it has no art in it.

    I consider myself a man of art. Iím not saying that Iím a great artist, or a great critic or have a special understanding of art. If I said those things, I would be a pompous ass. I just like being around it. Art: I like it in my life. I would rather spend my time thinking about Alphonse Mucha than thinking about abortion. I think that the Clair De Lune is much better than organized religion. Gregory Peck in To Kill a Mockingbird kicks ass all over the Middle East. I prefer Avram Davidson to gay marriage. I need art much more than I need to argue the finer points of nothing with someone I donít know. I can talk about those sorts of things with my friends. Iím here to read and be read, or to discuss non-controversial things, and thatís what Iíll stick to.

    Helped Kristen put up a fence in her backyard today. Nothing major, just a little fence to keep her new dog from wandering away into oblivion. Disturbed a bee hive. Got stung three times on my arms and left hand. As Iím typing this, my hand is so swollen that itís hard to make a fist. Annoying.

    I can smell the roast cooking downstairs. Iím gonna go get me some.
    If your art doesn't push, you won't get any pull.

  6. #6
    Quote Originally Posted by Arcopitcairn View Post
    During dinner, had two pints of two of the house tap brews. Beer fans may cry foul, but I've never had a locally brewed beer that didn't taste like lake water with alcohol in it.
    i used to like the alcatraz pelican IPA. i almost cried when they shut they place down. RAM is alright, i guess.....but doesn't compare to the alcatraz.
    sounds like you were on MASS ave or broad ripple. don't go there much. not really my type of crowd.
    "Man, you should have seen them kicking Edgar Allan Poe.Ē

  7. #7
    Quote Originally Posted by dale View Post
    i used to like the alcatraz pelican IPA. i almost cried when they shut they place down. RAM is alright, i guess.....but doesn't compare to the alcatraz.
    sounds like you were on MASS ave or broad ripple. don't go there much. not really my type of crowd.
    I think this particular place was an Upland in Bloomington. Yeah, I'm not so much the Mass Ave or Broad Ripple sort either. I was hitting those scenes 20 years ago, and now it's all changed. Passed me by. Young person's game.
    If your art doesn't push, you won't get any pull.

  8. #8
    Was sick this week with the thing, you know, the thing that's 'going around'. Still had to go do outside work while I was very ill. Felt put upon and sad, listening to 80's music while I worked, music from my shining time. That music makes me feel invincible and old at the same time.

    Caught poison ivy from outside work. Currently battling poison ivy.

    Started brush fire today and the pile exploded. Burned hair off my right arm (the one with the poison ivy) and the flames crisped half my beard. I smell like burned eraser.

    If your art doesn't push, you won't get any pull.

  9. #9
    On the tail end of being sick, I was finally able to do things. Went to some garage sales. Bought a Bosson bust for my wall, the Highwayman, and I was surprised to find just how many of these strange heads exist. There are a multitude of Bosson heads, for every occasion, and I have to say I am annoyed that I did not know of their existence before now. I donít know what I would have done with that information, but I donít like not knowing about things that are interesting. It makes me feel incomplete.

    Still have poison ivy on my arms, but it is fading. My friend told me something that was counter to everything I believed, and I felt dumb for not knowing it. She told me that poison ivy is not catching. And I did not know that. I thought for as long as you have poison ivy on your body, you are in danger of it spreading to other parts of your body. This is not the case, and I felt silly. I realize, when I think about it, that there are many things I do not know.

    Iíve always wanted to be able to easily identify a specific bird, tree, or flower on sight. But I cannot do that. I never seem to get around to putting in the reading to absorb that knowledge. I keep learning things that I want to learn, rather than those things I sometimes feel I need to learn.

    Iím somewhat lacking in my knowledge of history and geography. I know a good deal, but not enough. I think because I donít absolutely need this kind of information, I pass on opportunities to educate myself. Seems I am content for the moment to occupy my time with fiction. Soon I think I will have to try to digest something with a little more substance, the meat, you might say.

    Itís been a long time since I have been involved in a forum, a message board like this place. In the past, I often caused much trouble because I chafe under the terms of service. I never seemed to be able to function correctly within the confines of a site like this. I have to say that I am quite proud of myself for not getting banned from this site. It really is quite a feat for me, and Iím happy that Iím constructively contributing. I think itís the electronically impersonal nature of these kinds of sites that compel me to cause trouble, but for some reason, not here. I felt before that I was missing some integral component that everyone else seemed to have in their make-up. Something that made me break rules, argue, troll, and perpetrate mayhem. It always felt before that there were no real consequences, because I didnít really care if I got kicked out or banned, but there is, really. I like this forum, so I follow the rules. If you knew me at all, youíd be surprised. I havenít told any of my friends.

    Iíd like to comment on more pieces on the site, but I just donít have a mind for in-depth critique. Iím one of those: I donít know why I like this piece of art, but I do kind of people. I read a lot of things on the site, but I feel sometimes that I have nothing to contribute to the conversation. Just another voice in the chorus. Iím going to try a little harder, though. I hate to see someone post something that gets no response. Iíd like to try and say something, and sometimes I do, but it always comes off a little stiff in my mind. Practice makes perfect, I guess.

    Itís strange, telling people I donít know and will never meet things about my life. I guess I could tell you just about anything and it wouldnít really matter. Iím not going to, just in case someone I know finds this site, but itís an interesting proposition. To just spill all the darkest secrets of your soul, with truth, and no spin. But hereís the rub: Would anybody care? Would I care? If someone really let loose all their stuff, would I care to read those things? I couldnít say for sure, but I find that itís always very interesting to experience something sincere, something true. Openness, truth, and complete sincerity. How hard would that be, I wonder, to write and to read? Donít worry. Like I said, somebody I know may one day discover me here, and I would not want them to know certain things about me, even though they are my friends. But if any of you, who I shall never truly know, wish to spill honest and terrible secrets on the altar of Ďwhy not?í, Iíll read them, and bask in the light of truth.
    If your art doesn't push, you won't get any pull.

  10. #10
    I quite like reading about your weeks.

    Your reflections on message boards in general and this one in particular are interesting to me. Long ago, when my SO was playing in a band, I read and occasionally posted on a local music message board, thinking that I was anonymous. Well, one day I posted a snarky comment about a band that my SO's band had opened for. I'm not sure how, but this was immediately connected to me, my SO and his bandmates were very irritated with my breach of etiquette, and I felt terrible about it.

    Ever since then, I try to write as if I were not anonymous in this public context. In fact, I choose usernames that are related to my real name, just to make sure I don't get too comfy and confessional. It's a temptation, certainly. Spilling your guts is sort of like getting really drunk, I think, feels good at the time but afterwards there is regret and awkwardness and you wish you hadn't. By "you" I guess I mean "I".

    Even simple comments like "I like this" can be very nice to receive on a piece of writing.

    Glad to hear you're feeling better.

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