Summer Update

Another fall semester is incoming and another short summer is pretty much over. It felt like a short summer but a lot has happened, the biggest thing obviously being that Rachel and I moved in together. Almost everyone we know has already seen our apartment, but I was thinking about using Rachel’s camera to take pictures of the apartment and add stupid comments under them. So expect a virtual house tour post soon!

I also was able to pull an all-nighter for an English class I took during the summer semester. Eight page paper, ahoy. How I managed an A in the class is a mystery.

Not that anyone cares but here are the courses I’ll be taking this fall. Since I’m going to be an undergraduate for two more years I decided to just go ahead and double major with English and Philosophy instead of minoring in Philosophy.

LATIN 201- yes, my chosen foreign language is Latin. Yes, I’m an idiot. I always wondered why Latin was in the Modern Languages Department.
HISTORY 222- This is American History starting after Civil War Reconstruction and ending where we are today. It should be fun because the elections are coming up. Maybe someone will finally just go ahead and give Bush a blowjob so he can be impeached before he does one final ‘fuck you.’
PHILOSOPHY 210- Practical Argumentation, highlighting paranormal thinking. I want to believe!
PHILOSOPHY 329- Skepticism. I’m not very skeptical right now, but I hope to be skeptic of everything this Christmas. Eat your heart out Santa.
ENGLISH 223- Creative Writing. My only English course this semester and it’s an introductory creative writing class. Ohh! Maybe I will post some creations on this here blog-a-log! The excitement makes me tremble.

I guess there will probably be more updates here soon because I love procrastinating through blog posts when I have school work due.

The Resurrection (not really) of Rodney Dylan

As I was cleaning out my closet, packing and throwing away random shit, all the while preparing for my move, I stumbled upon two Rodney Dylan pieces I don’t remember ever writing.  The first one is the shortest and (I think) is supposed to take place directly after the conversation between Rodney and the Lauren Z. in the cafeteria
——-
Rodney walked, nose pointed towards the ceiling and hands in his pockets, out of the Student Union.  Lauren Z., not far behind him, had a nose in a book (called The Tao of Pooh).  She made it very clear, despite her best efforts, that she was walking with Rodney; for anyone who sees a person walk quickly with their face parallel with the sky and then immediately see someone quickly following with their nose in a book on which Winnie the Pooh is on the cover flying kite knows they are close acquaintances.
——-
Who knows where I was going with that.  This next (and last) one, well, shit I don’t even have a clue how the hell I ever thought this up.  Try to enjoy.
——-
“Port”
Often times the two girls would look at each other.  No expression of any sort would light their faces, except for a peculiar look of understanding.  No smile would part the lips with teeth behind them begging for attention.  No frown would shrivel the lips into an accordian.  Only understanding.  But what was it they were able to understand about each other with just a simple stare?  Life?  Death?  A simple sisterly bond?  Maybe it can be said it was just a mixture of all three.  Perhaps they understood that they existed and that that phenomenon was the only thing in a universe so vast that truly mattered.  Politics, science, war, love, literature, and everything else meant little to nothing when they realized they existed here and now.

Rodney put down the book and pondered to ponder a bit.  “Exist.  It is cosmically close to the word ‘exit.’  Except there is an ’s’ in the way.”  He wondered if his body was the ’s’ in the way of his soul to exit into the nothing of nothingness.  No, wait.  His soul was the ’s’ in the way of the body which wants to exit into the earth.  He looked at the book.  He noticed it was upside down.  He put it down again.  He squinted his eyes and remembered where he was.  “Oh my, oh my, I’ve misplaced my Lauren Z.”

“Airports!” cried Lauren Z.  The man in front of her in line looked over his shoulder with an interested glance.  Lauren Z. did not notice because her hands were over her eyes.  The man lost interest and focused on his Hustler magazine again.  He imagined he was a tiny man and could play the guitar inside of the woman’s vagina he was not staring at.  He never realized he had just then given birth to the most brilliant sub-genre of pornography.  Lauren Z.’s eyes became wide with wonder when she realized where she was.  “Airports!” she exclaimed again and shot her hands back up to her eyes.

“Going to Hawaii and the Lauren Z. has gone missing on me,” said a distant Rodney.

Ominous Skies: or, a Catastrophe! Evaded

DEAR JOURNAL,,,…!!!

THERE IS SOMETHING strange occurring, perhaps a change, perhaps NOT.  On this fair and humid morning, when Apollo’s magnificent chariot of rays and flame burst triumphantly through the panes of the window of my quarters, an UNPLEASANT sensation seized me.  Journal, my eyes were closed, so I was not able to perceive what exactly was SEIZING me, but know this, the sensation was coming from the area in and around my mouth.

MY EYES shot open and then immediately closed as tight as a sewer grate on a rich man’s avenue!  CURSE YOU, APOLLO.  Your powerful and terrific rays proved a worthy opponent to my weak and mortal eyes.  Therefore, journal, I was unable to understand or venture to accurately make an educated guess at what the sensation in and around my mouth WAS.

I resorted to a different route of perception: that of FEELING.  I admit, journal, this is an unsavory path to take (you know my worldview as it pertains to feelings and EMOTION).  Unsurprisingly, you may find, my old enemy and terrible rival and little devil makes its appearance in this ENTRY.

You see, journal, once I resorted to FEELING and TOUCHING my senses sensed warmth and thousands of hairs inside and around my eating ORIFICE.  HE was attempting to suffocate me, journal!

“HELP ME,” I pronounced with muffled vigor to the gods.  (They did not hear me this day, I escaped without their help, you will see, through fortitude and bravery).

“Oh?” asked the little orange beast with FLAMES, yes FLAMES, flashing in his eyes!

“PERISH foul monster, abhorred beast!  Take that!” I roared as I landed a tremendous swipe upon his cursed little head.

JOURNAL, he escaped my strike unscathed.  He chuckled maniacally, the horrible demon, and placed his feline body upon my face once again.  However, I rolled swiftly with great agility and made a hurried dash for the bathroom door.

He taunts and mocks me journal, even now, as I sit here quivering with fear and adrenaline.

Monday Haikoo 5/XX

Hey you guys I am
Dead. Not really, ha ha ha
Man I love The Cure

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)