The Unswung Bat

Tuesday, April 24, 2007







"7 / 10"

Sunday, April 22, 2007
Prières en Sports

"There's this idea that God isn't to be worshiped, isn't outside our imagination. Intead of God over all, He's your buddy—in evangelical Christianity, there's a growing tendency to look at God in a very subjective, even narcissistic way. It's God as therapy.

"When an athlete prays for a win while other players on the other team are doing the think as though your personal performance equates to God's plan is a pretty confused thing to do."

- Sports and philosophy guy sur CBC

"The Lord deserve some of the credit for our win today."

- Some evangelical football player

"Drop-kick me, Jesus, through the goalposts of life."

- A song of some sort


I'm writing this on a nifty tablet PC majig that recognizes my (!) handwriting and renders it as text, albeit text that that needs some going-over, which divides my writing attention in previously unheard-of ways. So I sound different.

These sorts of things—the difference between writing on a keyboard vs. writing with pen and paper, or even between pen and pencil have interested me for, well, awhile. Same with reading techniques. But for even semi-serious writing, I don't really like this having to scrutinize every word twice to make sure it rendered right. Oh well, fun to try. Would have been fun to leave all its miswritings in place, now I think about it.

Whulp I'm off: been co-opted into yardwork detail. Now go and judge a book by its cover.

Sunday, April 15, 2007
I do, I did.

I am still, be it said, getting hang of the four defenses against libel.

   those being:
   truth (this shouldn't be shaky)
   consent (waiting for that one to come up)
   fair comment (all the damn time--look it up)
   privilege (?)

If you think I haven't, by the end of typing this, proofread it sufficiently, you would be wrong.

Then, however, you also wouldn't be you.


On cowardice, of those who know my name, Adom Jeffers alone was thus far cognizant that midway--I think it was midway, maybe somewhat more far--

through a cross-country race, I quit.

Walked. Walked for maybe a whole minute!

marking the slant, obv.

(To mon ami: sorry. He helped me out: 'comment ça va' or something like it, he asked)

And I started again so late--even at that level of competition, five second's rest is much.

Charitable, very, to call nothing else blunt. I once thought (I do still think, but in early age thought) very literally, cross-country The Race.

Across the country: was there any more race? No! Ocean, only! Splash! Choking on salt and tuggy undertow! Though even in first grade I rationalized: surely it was only a distance equivalent to the breadth of Canada, run (by the CC runners, so I'd fabricated) over the course of a year. Olympian, worth the singular article and capital R. But doable.

Why in god's name--?

But I certainly did, mon ami.

My two best long-distance races (oh, I am definitely a long-distance runner, even if one who made bad mistakes) ended in me throwing up.

actually, my very best, my medal-winner, did not (good for me, I brought home my lunch and a medal to boot)

but the other two...

Most unpleasant successes. Or, to borrow from First Year, [they] brought the inside out

   (gross; uncalled for)

that is, unravelled, as evolution; or, the down- and up-side of natural selection

(so uncalled for. But I did win that medal).

Just so: embarrassing, that first editorial. But, dear God, how I'm ready to slather my brain, or heartblood, across a page, provided it's the right one (it hasn't). And on the other side--bread (why not!) in the sandwich (?! I ask) with my poor head as meat--one leaden, firing straight as fuck.

I do not want to be forward
I do not want to be straightforward I don't
want--sometimes, and too often--
I don't want to be.



But there, my friends, songs like trees bear fruit only in their own time and their own way: and sometimes they

Friday, April 13, 2007
April 12th, 31:13 a.m.

I hear birds outside my window. It's snowing. Why, why, why must you always pretend? asked Ms. Kenton. And then I laid down and waited to complete.

Essays are dripping like rain off a black bough from my hands, and I'm not doing anything I particularly should but shivering a little and clicking the keys. Or the other side of that is I'm doing great, 85s and 90s great. I just waited, then turned back to the car, to drive off to wherever it was I was supposed to be.

I was Tommy D. in elementary school and Kathy in high school and Stevens at various points and Farraday in spare moments. Tommy was the rightest but, unfortunately, at odd moments and with the usual result of some violence. And he did let them take out his guts when the note came for his fourth donation. I even saw Ezra Pound twisting his mustache back there.

What's the meaning of that obfuscation? All you've done (this is the André from the universe where André lives in a one-floor house near San Francisco) is smush together a few characters you've thought about for essays. Farraday and Pound you barely even mentioned in any paper!

He will go on. He has learned to communicate with me across the zero-point barrier, by thinking the exact negative of the thoughts he wants me to hear. I haven't learned the trick. I can only assume he has gifted spies who watch what I'm writing, or a wildly accurate imagination. The opposite, I'm sure, to my fuzzy one.

Hell, I bet right now he's just bought some big callous-headed koi for the pond he worked on the last couple months that his wife smiles about. Well that's certainly something. There must be some trouble in his life, though--just money (a serious problem, but boring) or what?

Oh, he goes on, but he knows when everything starts to go wrong. The skid point, when it hits, shocks his limbs rigid as mine--makes me a good skier, terrible soccer player, running ability unaffected.

That shock to the limbs, I know, is what keeps him up all night or stuck in his garden looking at a koi pond. Oh hell. That's just not true. He forgot about staring into dark shallow water late into the night.

Or if you like, 7:13 the next morning.

And there's the pair my little essay-writer, you can pretend well enough to know it:

I can-
not go
on I
go on.

Tuesday, April 03, 2007
Every Essay Makes it Worse

I'm writing an essay about...never mind. You don't care what it's about. I don't care what it's about. I can't remember the last time I really loved writing something. I'm sure it was long ago, I just can't use my brain properly right now, so I can't remember.

And I'm only half-done. Oh Fuck. Someone shoot me in the face. Seriously, I'm sure I'll be fine. It'll wake me up.

*** *** ***

Wow, my eyes must have been pretty bloodshot, or my mind awfully bruised, to have left that saying how every essay "make it" worse. As it is it's a pretty damned shoddy thing to say, but at least it's grammatical.

On other notes, I do believe that Oscar Wilde never actually died, but instead flies across the face of the planet, possibly travelling through the interwebs through means obscurely technological and sufficiently witty, fighting evil and making eyes at things.

After this essay, I've two more books needed read for another essay, after a fiction thing and an exam. I might be a news editor as of tomorrow morn—later this morning. I might be a comment editor. I might have a news piece to throw together on the fast.

Growth, pressure, conditioning, tensility, catching, vine-clearing, lightning and the instinct of recoil. Five hundred pounds of spanish moss (the lower case denoting) hanging like a bag of pennies. Soft active ground and a boardwalk. Looking across the continent to the other coast (Pacific) and a dry room of wood the color of skin, of wooden shutters and heavy books palming the varnished clerical desk and lighted in slats that wash their color, and the smell of fuzzy green from a rock-pond nearby and drawer handles the color of worn pennies, and a hand at the back of the heavy neck.

I wonder when the branch breaks.

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