Monday Haikoo 4/XX

I miss Cream of Wheat
And not having to make it
Among other things

7 O’Clock on the Dot, I’m in my **** ***

I don’t even want to procrastinate, but I also don’t want to end the day without writing something.  I feel like I need to because of all this reading I’ve been doing lately and will continue doing until the end of the spring semester.

There is a novel I thoroughly enjoyed that is called The World According to Garp written by John Irving in which the main character Garp makes a distinction between the reader and writer.  I think about it often and whenever I do I wonder into which classification I fall.

I can’t call myself a writer because I don’t take writing as a hobby or potential career seriously.  But what if I did?  How much would I improve if I scrutinized my writings?  I would probably end up disliking writing altogether if that were the case; which is perhaps why I don’t take it seriously and only do it for fun.  I must be careful and dispel any confusion by illuminating the difference between the two kinds of writing I mainly do: fictional writing and scholarly writing.  I do not think I have ever written a scholarly essay for fun, not even once.  It has always been for some assignment or task that is school related.  This makes me uncomfortable because I like the main step that precedes the actual process of writing a scholarly paper: research.  So why don’t I do it for fun?  I don’t know.  The idea of doing research for some sort of side project just as a source of entertainment is simultaneously exciting and tiring.

But I can’t really call myself a true reader either.  I’m not like many who soak up and are able to read through novels quickly and efficiently.  I know of at least one probably reading this that has that quality which I envy about her.  I’m slow with novels.  I often have to stop, reflect, write something down, then read the same passage again.  If I read merely for the plot perhaps I would read faster, but I can’t even begin to force myself to do such a thing; though I have tried a number of times.  So it is for this reason I can’t read more than two novels at once unlike a reader such as my mother was and father tries to be.

Now that I’ve thought about it, I don’t care to be tagged as either a reader or writer.  Suck it, Irving.

Monday Haikoo 3/XX

Stupid fucking shitOh my god it hurts to muchI just stubbed my toe

Friday Limerick: Part 3 of XX

There once was a man named Bones

And Duke Nukem’s voice was his own

He played a few shows and God only knows

How much Jack Shephard’s alone 

The Awakening: or, Eat Your Heart Out Chopin

DEAR JOURNAL,,,…!!!  AS I OPENED my eyes at thirty minutes after the sixth hour this morning before the break of dawn, I was suddenly bound to a certain image.  No, this was not a mental image; on the contrary, journal, this image was part of the environ that consists of my sleeping quarters.  The image, one that was magnificently unaesthetic to my ocular method of perception, DISPLEASED AND HORRIFIED ME.  ”GRAGH,” I declared to the image that spelt out and expressed every nightmare I had ever dreamt and every ill thought anyone had ever thought ON me.   The image, as strange as it sounds, entranced me with its sublimity and I was not able to force mine eyes away from the pattern of colors and lines it consisted of.  It was, I suppose, in complete control of my life at that time.  (It is here, journal, that I have an opportunity to branch off into some branch of philosophy and reflect on what it really means to be in control of one’s life, but I know you tire of such ramblings).   THE WISDOM OF MY YOUTH came crashing down upon my poor mind in torrential loads.   Journal, that didn’t make any sense; what I meant was that I was finally able to see clearly after having been awake for a few minutes.  The image, it seems, was my feline companion.     He asked me, “why do you look at me with wide eyes as if I were some apparition that lacked corporeal form?”   “Devil!  Abhorred beast!” said I.  ”How dare you!”  But I soon forgave and submitted to the little fellow when I realized he spoke in a tongue I was familiar with and also held the point of a small knife to my wide, shining forehead. 

Last Call for Rodney Dylan

The last Rodney Dylan story I posted was one of the first times I gave the poor guy life and a mind of his own. The very short story that follows this introduction is probably one of the last times I wrote about Rodney. It’s incomplete because I was so unimpressed with how Rodney’s once smug, knowing personality had turned into arrogant wit for the sake of wit. I feel that it’s probably better this way. I feel that if I try writing about Rodney at this point that he will be completely out of control and will probably have severed all ties with the Lauren Z.

The biggest problem with this piece is that it takes place when Rodney first meets Lauren; however, his mind has drastically changed since the encounter in the college cafeteria. So on the time line it’s meant to precede everything that’s happened between Rodney and Lauren, but Rodney’s mind is on the end of the time line. I ask that you ignore this continuity error, but I kind of like it even though it was never my intention for it to have turned out this way. Blame Rodney, not me.

This will probably be the last Rodney piece

————————-

Rodney Dylan Meets the Lauren Z.

The florescent lights shone indifferently down on Rodney Dylan. As he stared up at the ceiling, attempting to solve a great mystery, he noticed that it may be wise to count all of the ceiling panels in the room (excluding incomplete ones that sulk in the corners of the room). But before he could do so he had to decide how he would count them: by twos, by threes? Perhaps he could count by-

“Excuse me, sir, excuse me, sir. Sir. Sir. Sir!”

Rodney winked at the ceiling because he had made a bet with it about how many times they would hear the word ’sir.’

“Why, hello,” said Rodney.

“Sir. AHEM. Sir. You are, according to the other consumers and my personal opinion, too peculiar to be standing where you are.” This person smiled at such a witty comment.

Rodney frowned. And then he smiled. And then he threw a one dollar bill at the ceiling and said, “You win, I guess.”

“Sir?” asked the person.

Rodney replied, “sir. Stir. Stir the sir and stare at the mare. What might your name be?”

“Uh, Lauren.”

“Lauren what?” asked Rodney.

“Lauren Zeem-”

“Lauren Z.! A fascinating one if I ever heard one like it. Tell me Lauren Z., what on earth are we doing in a small fountain inside of a sushi restaurant?”

“I work here. And you are disturbing the staff and consumers.”

(End)

Monday Haikoo 2/XX

These need imagery

Traditionally, at least

<Insert image here>

Character Fiction

NOTE: *sigh*  I don’t know what the problem is with the text not formatting correctly.  I apologize for the text walls.  It just seems to magically unformat.

When I was a Freshman in college I created this character and named him Rodney Dylan. Ironically, I am now pretty good friends with someone named Rodney who loves the musician Bob Dylan. The original purpose of Rodney was an outlet for me to help get accustomed to college; high school took a lot out of me, especially my last two years. I had also just met Rachel around the time I created Rodney, so some new changes were going on in me that influenced how he behaved and thought. As I became more involved with my studies and more comfortable away from home I slowly lost contact with Rodney; he was simply no longer needed. I also didn’t like where he had ended up. He eventually could no longer find any sort of grip on the remaining threads of sanity.

When he was first conceived I had intentionally made Rodney a little crazy, but my hope was for him to eventually accept the absurdity of life like I would. The parallel I wanted never stuck, and so I parted ways with Rodney.I still find scraps of looseleaf paper with weird situations Rodney had gotten himself into and it brings me back to better days. I wanted to share one of the first Rodney stories I had ever written. This particular instance is the only Rodney story that was ever posted on the internet before now. I won’t tell you where it was, in fear of embarrassment.

So Happy Birthday, Rodney Dylan. You’re only two years old; who knows if we will meet again. I hope you and the Lauren Z. are happy.It’s interesting to see how my fictional writing has changed. I have become more and more abstract and post-modern, which I consider a bad thing. Good thing I don’t want to make a career out of it.

Enjoy, I guess.

———

Rodney Dylan: Part 1

“Is that so? And what exactly do you mean when you say that vegans are full of shit?”

In the small cafeteria inside the Student Union of the University of Louisiana at Lafayette, Rodney Dylan sat back in his chair with the slightest hint of a grin on his face. It was only about, oh, say twenty four seconds after the moment he had told Lauren Z. vegans were full of-

“Shit, I’m not even sure I want to hear it,” said Lauren with a sharp sigh.The chairs in the cafeteria often made him wonder. They were comfortable; the average person fit perfectly into one. Ass, back, and all. It wasn’t how comfortable they were that made him wonder, it was the fact that he didn’t have the urge when sitting in one to lean back and rock on the two hind legs. The back of the chair bent just far enough under his weight to relieve the urge. Far enough to lower the odds of him losing his balance when on the two rear inch-and-a-half in diameter legs, falling back, splitting the back of his skull open, and having a concussion.”I’m sure you probably don’t want to hear it.” He leaned back comfortably, grin barely visible. Visible enough, as he knew, to make the girl across from him squirm uncomfortably in her chair. He wondered if she liked the chairs. Her ass was much smaller than his, he thought. Perhaps there was too much seat and too much back. Or maybe it was for her like sitting in an old couch that is so big and soft it seems to pull you into its hug of dusty pillows and cushions. The couches that you only sit on when marijuana is being passed between two lovers while Hendrix is giving you a quiet, private show in the background. He wished his ass was small.”Don’t tease me, dammit. You can’t just say something like that and then expect me to react indifferently.”"Indifferently.”"Do I need to reiterate?”"Reiterate.”"Excuse me?”He’d like to see that little ass.”Man, this ham isn’t cooked in the middle. I’m not even sure if I should give it back for another one.” He looked to his right where ham and green beans that were leftovers from last week were being served.”Why are you telling me?! I don’t eat that stuff cooked or uncooked! Now, will you get back on the subject and answer me?” She leaned forward and set her elbows and forearms firmly on the table, her hands made into tight little fists. No, they couldn’t have been tight because her fingernails were too long. Her ass was probably tight though; she jogged daily.”No, you don’t need to reiterate.” He leaned forward and set his elbows firmly on the table, his hands into tight little fists. He didn’t have long fingernails, but they still weren’t tight fists anyway.”That’s not what I meant. I meant the whole thing about vegans being full of shit.”"Well, they are,” cocking his head to the left.How did other guys do it? They talk to a girl they hardly know and then an hour later he’s on top of her in his dorm making her breathe heavily, moan, and maybe even scream if she’s a screamer. An hour after that the girl is walking back to her dorm, emotionally torn, confused, and remembering as the blood trickles down her thighs that she forgot to say, “I’m a virgin.”"We’re going around in circles now.” Look of disappointment.”THERE! Why the long face, my dear Lauren Z.? Don’t play it off as if it was an expression expressing ‘There is no fruit in this fruit salad!’”"Have I ever told you that you are probably the most fucked up person I have ever met?” Ear to ear smile.”Vegans are full of shit because…” He trailed off as he watched a tall blonde, a Canadian girl from the Volleyball team, walk behind Lauren Z. towards where ham and old green beans were being served. He looked at Lauren Z., frowned, switched back to the Canadian and retained the slight grin again. He sighed heavily, looked back at Lauren Z., found a smooth spot on her cheek, and fixed a blank stare on that smooth little spot. He imagined that if that smooth little spot of cheek was multiplied several times and then divided by two it would be a smooth little ass. It would be only a few hours later until he realized that he happened upon a brilliant mathematical equation just then.”Is there something on my face?”"Yes.”"Why are vegans full of shit?!” She was desperate now. She made it out as if she was begging to learn the meaning of life, the secrets of time and the universe, and why men stopped caring about birthdays somewhere inbetween eighteen and twenty five. All three bundled in a nice little 3-for-1 package next to the Harlequin rack in the check out lane in Wal-Mart. Not K-mart, no sir. Only at the Wal.”Calm down, you’ll make a scene!” He stood up suddenly and flung his arms up in the air and shook his hands violently. Lauren Z. looked at Rodney with wide eyes as he calmly sat back down in his chair as if nothing had happened.Rodney began, “did you know that this ham came from an animal? A pig, I bet. Do you bet? He was born, fed until he was fat, slaughtered, packaged, and then frozen. He didn’t even have a choice to decide his own fate. I’m sorry, I forgot I was talking to a female and a vegan; let me correct myself. She didn’t even have a choice to decide her own fate. What is interesting, however, is that are we sure that pigs even have choice? Oh, I’m sure it has been proven that pigs lack the proper brain cells or whatever they are called that gives an organism what we have defined as choice, but what about instinct? Isn’t instinct a form of choice? Or is that only something that is primal and, due to a change in the environment, intitiates something automatic in the brain and is carried out by the body? Perhaps instinct is a primal form of choice.”As he pondered this question of life he brought his hand to his chin and rubbed it inbetween his thumb and index finger, staring with half closed eyes at one of the many water sprinklers protruding from the cafeteria ceiling.”I feel like I’m talking to nothing. Does anything I say to you matter?” She looked at him with tight lips and eyebrows pointed towards his ham.He felt like nothing lately, to be frank. He broke his ponder pose and proposed to ponder later. He looked back at Lauren Z. and sighed with disinterest.”You know, you really shouldn’t scowl like that. I think you look just fine disappointed.”"Now you listen to me. I’ll put on whatever face I want to and you’ll appreciate me for who I am as a woman.”"Lauren, I have to go, this isn’t going anywhere.” He pushed his chair back and began to stand up.”What!”"Ah, not a cloud in the sky.” He smiled happily as he stared directly up at the ceiling. He sat back down and breathed in deeply, slowly, feeling the scent of pizza, ham, and hamburger hit his senses.”The world is dying, you know. The more advanced man becomes, the more the earth dies. I’ve always been one to support space exploration and development. Man will have to move before the earth dies or before a big rock from space murders the earth and human race.” Ponder position.”I know what your problem is, Rodney.”Rodney suddenly shoots all attention at Lauren and burns his eyes into hers. “Really?! You found out?! Please tell me, I’ve been trying to figure it out for so long!”"You can’t-”"I can do anything.”"Let me finish!” she said.”Pigs and chickens will be bred and slaughtered. Cows will be bred and slaughtered and skinned for their hide. As will trees be grown and cut down for paper over and over.”"What?”"Vegans are full of shit.”"Wait a minute.” Lauren suddenly sat very upright and gave her undivided attention to Rodney.”The majority outweighs the minority, don’t you know. No matter what anyone does, there will always be more people who don’t give a shit and act selfishly than people who do give a shit and act a little less selfish. What’s that bumper sticker say? ‘Think globally, act locally’? It’s a great cause, hell I fight for it, but it’s hopeless in the end. At least it makes us feel good.”"Is that why we’re full of shit, because we care? You’re a hypocrite for saying all of that and then say that you’re fighting the good fight!”"I’m a hypocrite, and a vegan.”"You’re eating ham!”"It’s frozen in the middle.”

Overrations

A man’s desire is for the woman, but the woman’s desire is rarely other than for the desire of the man. -Samuel Taylor Coleridge

It should be mentioned, before I begin, that this was almost an Emo Vlog; however, those are intended to contain some sort of subtle comedic value and this is far from what I intend to be comic.

What will I not write here to the few who ever bother reading this perversion of literacy that I have already written in a private notebook? Here you will not see salt, scribbles, random words, and pity for the self. Instead you will see swollen orbs gazing down, but forward nonetheless.

Today I walked. I rarely have days where I have no destination or reason in mind as to why I am walking. Like most, I am always coming or going to some destination meant to attain the ends of completion of some daily chore. I remember the last time I felt it would be healthy to walk for no apparent reason to no particular place. As I recall, I did not walk alone on that particular evening. But today I did and that is that. I originally felt that this would improve my spirits. I was, of course, terrifically mistaken.

The hourglass is cruel. It alone has the power to decide if wounds will close, widen, or scar for life. Can I say what I hope the sand will do for me? No, it is too painful to think in the future tense; but I cannot help but think only of the future. I obsessively hope for reversal and renewal, but sadness permeates through the happiness that hope may bring. These thoughts are pointless and make me idle, but they, like parasites, have latched themselves to my mind and feed from my remorse.

The salt often renews the wound, but it is the fear of the wound closing that has the most power over me; therefore, I have a plentiful supply of salt that seems infinite.

I beg not to be kept waiting under false pretenses. I wish not to be taken for a fool. For those are often, in circumstances such as these, overrated.

This, I suppose, is all I have to say on the subject.

Friday Limerick: Part 2 of XX

A comma can be overused
If one is feeling confused
For grammar is squat if your dots are just blots
And your punctuation abused