The Unswung Bat

Monday, December 27, 2004
 
Non-Fiction

Dave is the best roommate ever. Also our sidewalk is the most shovelledest on the street.

Andra's coming over tomorrow to play Magic cards. Phase One is complete.

Saturday, December 18, 2004
 
andre/tactics/3

Breakfast, as usual, was short and in front of the tv. Oatmeal and bread were gone, so the last of the milk went into a bowl of cheerios. He stirred it with his spoon to dunk every O into the milk while someone on the screen droned through nothing notable and Mark's mind hovered above the impulse to turn off the set.

The weight and warmth of his coat was comfort to an instinctive part of him before he stepped out into winteriness and day, clattering down the front steps with his bike. From a halting start he sped off to the street corner and turned into the traffic lanes without stopping.

He arrived at the university winded because anything else would mean he was taking it easy or stupidly riding too hard, and locked his bike to a fence. He left it there after his class had ended. He liked to take a walk during the hour between classes. It was the first stretch of peacefulness in his morning.

In the student lounge he met Josef and Katarina, who respectively raised an eyebrow at him and flashed him a smile. Josef had been telling a story about one of his professors, which he started over as Mark fell next to Katarina on the couch and curled in his legs.

Tuesday, December 14, 2004
 
Holey Words

In that, yeah, they have holes in them. Gaps. You know, the line-spacing is a little relaxed. I don't want anyone to conclude I've taken up Religion, 'cause God (ha ha, anyway,) knows there isn't that kind of order in me right now.

But the questions we say have no answers get asked, and not answering them is an answer.

And since so many of these questions raise themselves through the inconceivable (!) patterns in life, I'm always asking if the answers are written there as prominently, and simply are often ignored? We do all make a lot of the same mistakes, right?

And if I never asked what was the difference, or the sameness, or in whatever ways the mystery, between myself and That Other with the stare and the smiles and something, then I'd have never thought about what is myself. And I never know what that is more strongly than when I know there is a death ensured for me. That death doesn't scare me so much. Dying scares me, I don't cherish the thought of sickness and bodily decay, hell I don't even like feeling nauseous after a long race, and that's candy compared to some things.

But I feel like every passing way in which I live my life in some way right is an indefinable, lasting triumph over that death. I'm not talking about ascending to the heavens on a column of light so much as putting, or at least provoking, something good in the world.

This ain't really my sort of thing to write, you know. But I felt like it, dammit.

So where is this leading me? Is it worth asking? I know I'll have to find an answer somewhere, and, sometimes I hope, soon.


Edit: Kirsten, who incidentally has been arguing with christian wackos who say that oral sex is okay before marriage but condoms mark one for hell, just asked me if I was dying. Let me lapse from laughter to the sternest of eyes: haha, no. Holding off on that one for a while, you wouldn't want me dying without you knowing about it, right?

Friday, December 10, 2004
 
I want . . .

I'm tired.

My exams are done, a big   gap   in the school year waits for me
To fall in . . .

In winter I probably need the time off. I always hate the little fist my mind has tightened into by this part of the year. I'm work-minded. Winter's bad to me in other ways too: my hands freeze and dry up until little lines of blood appear on my knuckles and the ball of my wrist, making it hurt to type, or play piano, or do dishes. My lips crack. In fact every night I wake up with dust in my mouth and have to climb out of bed to get a drink of water.

And some spirit has carpeted my room in the finest grains of sand, that pack and screech minutely against each other when trod on.

The house seems a lot bigger, there is a taste of salinity in the air. Expansiveness too, as if the walls are backing away from something. A stalking hydrophage.

Outside my window a sucking wind howls through dessicated twigs of trees and soon will blast through huddling dunes of needles of snow, transforming them into hurricanes.

And the edge of my left eye thinks I see a flash of someone watching me from behind a curtain. And at the edge of my right ear, at the threshold of hearing, someone whispers:

"Did you see . . . ?"

Thursday, December 09, 2004
 
There's a Comments Thing

But André, you said you'd never get a comments thing!

The comments thing is not really a comments thing.

Just me being subtle and, what's the word, crafty. Like a subtle craftsman suttily sneaking past your caught-unawares wide-openedness under the cloak of my cunningly misdirecting blanket of sleighty deception.

Kay.

Monday, December 06, 2004
 
And Then I Read the Poems, And Then I Felt Alright

current mood: feelin' alright
current music: this ain't livejournal

Just did my Big Poetry In-Class Essay Numbah 1, concerning a couple of sonnets by a certain Shakespeare I could name. Wanna know what of its I kicked? I'll give you a hint: it was the ass.

So yeah, if I used the phrase "slam dunk" for anything, and I think I should start,* it would be this.

Just in case it was too good, I entitled the essay Shakespeare: Melon Farmer or Echidna? That oughta keep success from going to my head.

------

* Scene: André is in the kitchen, playing Simon with Ray Charles. Enter Dave.

André: Hey Dave.

Dave: (hoisting bag o' bagels aloft) We have bagels!

André: Nice, how much were they?

Dave: Two dollars off!

André: (somewhat impressed) Slam dunk.

Ray Charles: Hell yeah! (Then he wins at Simon, while I'm not looking)

roll credits.

Saturday, December 04, 2004
 
A Lie of Omission

Today a stranger emailed me to say she wished me good luck finding my friend. True Story.

Friday, December 03, 2004
 
Something Something

I want to be brushed by the breeze that can’t help feeling happier than sad.
I want negative entropy.
I want a smile like an open palm,
not unlike rain-soaked earth after a drought.
I want to dance wildly on rain-spattered earth after a drought.
I want dust to mud to earth to life.
I want the moral of the story, that, even when I can’t see it, always is there.
I want matter and antimatter and chaos and the beginning of the world.
And the World.
To feed pearls to black elephants.
Smoke to follow the extinguished candle’s gaze.
Fire.
I want to read that monologue I didn’t do in OAC - my fourth piece.
I want to be weak in the knees,
and to hear my heart.
I want to fly the world backwards, and around itself.
I want someone to call me crazy and mean it.
I want someone to call me out and mean it.
I want the vague suggestion of pairs to resolve itself and become real everywhere in me.

 
Werd

Here's something some crazy guy emailed me. Read it.

I cdnuolt blveiee taht I cluod aulaclty uesdnatnrd waht I was rdgnieg. The phonemneal pweor of the hmuan mnid! Aoccdrnig to a rscheearch at Cmabrigde Uinervtisy, it deosn't mttaer inwaht oredr the ltteers in a wrod are, the olny iprmoatnt tihng is taht the frist and lsat ltteer be in the rghit pclae. The rset can be a taotl mses and you can sitll raed it wouthit a porbelm. Tihs is bcuseae the huamn mnid deos not raed ervey lteter by istlef, but the wrod as a wlohe. Amzanig huh? yaeh and I awlyas thought slpeling was ipmorant.

Note: I noticed that ipmorant was spelled wrong (not enough t's).



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