I Hate Some Things

There are some things I hate in the world. Like I hate scratched lenses in my glasses. And I hate the guy who didn’t clean up the dog puke in my hallway. I hate when I have to buy something I already own but don’t have it close. I hate that there is no place to find books like the books I like with a simple search. I hate litterers. I hate most dogs. I hate crawling through 3 football fields of sewage to freedom. I hate people who diss Harry Potter. I hate that I can’t cut my own hair well. I hate that everybody’s afraid to cut my hair. I hate feeling immobile. I hate bleeding all over my drum set. I hate drinking Nyquil. I hate chicken dip that I can’t stop eating. I hate crafting blog posts and nobody reading them. I hate papaya. I hate the name “Beatrice.” I hate smelling bad smells. I hate sticking wild boars with spears. I hate the names of rappers. I hate that I can’t fix my car. I hate how people compare books and movies as if they’re similar. I hate my jean short cut-offs. I also hate cranberry sauce. I hate dens of thieves.

Sad, Soulful Music

I want to make sad, soulful music with my acoustic guitar. No major chords. No sing-song melodies. I want to make it to express my failures as a man and the miseries of the world. Thumb plucks and rattling strings. My gravel voice and coal raking fingernails. Just to release some of the heavy, burdensome emotion that threatens to burst inside. Climb the heights of craggy cliffs of feeling to be dumped over the edge in low, strained harmony. Thrash the waiting steel and basswood until it changes into a steady streamline of sound. Scream and moan for the pain of existence.

And as my fingers stretch and contract, flying like live things over the neck and body of my guitar, I will feel satisfied and revealed like a mighty river released from a dam or a secret shared. Alone, I will be finished.

Archenemies

I feel lucky to not have an archenemy constantly spoiling my good times and spurring on my death. I’m happy I can sit quietly and think on the great void rather than hatred and malice. Some are not so lucky. Take my friend Phillip of Kingsbury: He has two archenemies, William Hamleigh and Waleran Bigod. They’re constantly plotting to ruin his priory and steal from his pence box. They don’t seem content except when they’re trampling Tom Builder on horseback and hurting women. It’s a wonder Phillip gets anything accomplished on his cathedral at all!

1,000 Tongues

At church, the images can be frightening: like 1,000 tongues. Can you imagine 1,000 tongues singing? Disembodied tongues, flopping around or traveling industriously ala Thing from the Addams Family? And then singing too?! It’s enough to scare a fellow. And what if they weren’t organized? Just a bunch of tongues falling wetly on top of one another and clawing for space like a big bucket of slugs. Terrible, frightening images.

Letter to mewithoutYou Concert Venue

Dear mewithoutYou Concert Venue,

Thank you for offering your space for an interesting band to play last night. You should know, however, that flashing lights in my eyes does not add to my concert going experience. I’m not talking about a little flash, flash, blink, blink. I’m talking about how every time the band builds to a climax, I’ve got popcorn eyeballs having to stare at the floor or squint the crap out of themselves because of random sweeping can-lights or whatever. I wished I had a hat on. Yeah, looking around you have stoned out hipsters staring through the sun-like laser show but little me after one beer turns into a crinkle-faced anger pot wishing I had some un-dilating drops.

I go to concerts to see and hear so maybe quit it with your crazy spinning ceiling light sabers. They look like they’re alive, sortof. You shouldn’t light up the crowd for the band’s sake. You should light up the band for the audience’s. What if I spilled hot coffee on you while you were trying to mow the lawn? Think about it.

Sincerely,

Eric

Alien Abduction Poem

When aliens come to take us away, my toes will worry what happens that day. Will they pull at us? Will they poke us with forks? Will they boil us with potatoes and a side of pork?

When aliens come to boil up my toes, my shoulder blade will worry more stronger than those. Will they move me in circles? Will they split me in two? Will they cover me in caramel and call me Da-doo?

When aliens come to caramel Da-doo, my finacee won’t worry what happens to you. Will they conk her small noggin? Will they tickle her pits? Will they stick her in the freezer and serve her to kids?

When aliens come to freeze my fiancée, I hope they are quicker than prayer time on Thursday.

But I like her well warmer and eager to play, but frozen and eaten, I’ll take her that way.

Subway Dogs

I, personally, would be terrified if all the rats in the New York City Subway system were replaced with wild dogs. If that happened, I’d move away. Just imagine being surprised by a dirt-black crazy-eyed dog staring up at you, head slightly tilted as if asking for permission to jump up onto the platform next to you. Then a train comes rolling through and he disappears into a dog-sized hole in the wall. That would be something I could not get used to.

Every so often you’d be taking the train home late at night and you feel a thump, thump, thump and then howls and cries trailing off behind the train car. Oh yeah, that happens sometimes, I’d tell the horrified tourists. Just a pack of wild subway dogs we surprised. I guess a few made it under the wheels. We can expect they’ll be leaping maniacally at the windows and snapping ferociously at the your children when we stop soon. Yep, there they go.

All of it wouldn’t be bad though: no more gross rat tails trailing behind subway animals; a lot more random old people being dragged screaming into the depths of the subway; system; greater emphasis placed on carrying raw meat with you at all times, perhaps.

Letter to My Screaming Neighbor and her Rotten Child

Dear Neighbor,

Why do you persist in screaming at your dumb kid outside of my apartment door? It happens every day and it makes me mad at you and when I get mad I don’t feel as good as I could be feeling. It compounds with my negative feelings towards the barking dogs and unemployment and family members and makes me want to close the window and put a towel under the door. Well I don’t want to close the window because it’s not hot enough for the air conditioning and your 4-year-old really doesn’t need to be scolded for asking questions about the tile in the hallway. Really. Yeah, he’s a piece of crap kid and he’s got red hair but give him a break when he cries for his dad on the way out the door: you are a raging, ludicrous, failure of a mother, after all.

Have some respect for others when you leave your ridiculous apartment and walk your scummy child down the stairs. Everyone’s hears you and hates you when you don’t.

Your Neighbor,

Eric

Michael Jackson Shamone

I once had a car that had both a cd player and a tape player. It was fortunate because my cd player was sketch and quit playing all the time. That was when I switched over to the old school tapes. Never bought a one; just wrote home about it and in my mailbox the next week were old school tapes galore from my parents’ house care of Mom.

Among gems like John Denver and the Fugees was a smattering of Michael Jackson and this has made all the difference. I got intimately acquainted with Thriller and along with it one of the most moving and emotional chains of music that I have ever experienced. I don’t know music. I don’t know albums. What I do know is a well-crafted progression of songs that you can sing to driving late at night and remember the next day. I do know artistry and I do know how hard it is to create something beautiful.

Among the many notorious events concerning Michael Jackson, in the press and among the public, I am happy to remember his music, along with those wheel-pounding, screaming shamone sessions above all else. What a great gift to give. What a crazy life we all got to watch.

Sad Dog Story, Piteous Really.

I hate it when dogs start whining and barking and crying. I hate it so much I could kill those stupid dogs. Why don’t they understand that people just want to sleep? Or that they could be happier if they just stop crying and go to sleep? Or that they won’t get shook if they just shut the hell up.

Once I ruined a dog because it was crying for a few hours in her cage and on the way out the door at 3 in the morning to find some 24-hour drug store to buy some ear plugs, I shook the junk out of the cage this dumb old dog was sitting in. Now it hates that cage. Won’t go near the thing so I hear. I feel really bad about it now but I don’t think I could have not done it that day. It sounded like a real baby and that made me more mad.

I would now like to deflect your criticism with a con-is-really-a-pro observation, as one might use in an interview in response to the question, “What is one of your biggest faults?”: The only reason I couldn’t stomach the tough love, training whatever we were doing for this new dog was because I feel too much for the pain in this tiny creature. It was torturous to sit and listen to and so my only option was to lash out. At the dog?

This is a true story that I would rather didn’t get around.

Bear Coat Invention

Live Bear Fur Coat, genetically engineered to live docilely as an outer garment. With hollow tubes for arms, you can slip right in and cozy on up. Just don’t forget the muzzle!

Ever get spray-paint on your fine fur things? Does it seem like everywhere you go, you’re getting blood thrown on you? Why not try a Bear Skin Coat, complete with live bear! Real organs pumping blood throughout the coat will keep you warm through the toughest winter and also give you a friend for company. When you’re in from the cold, just set the bear-coat on the ground and watch it pull itself around with its teeth! How adorable. These bear coats are also thick enough to keep you warm but not make you look fat.

Live bear coats. The answer to all the critics!

I Went Fishing

If I were a fish and I got caught, I would sit in my bucket and think on life. Probably about all the other fish I had eaten and about those times I swam past a rock and didn’t look closer. Maybe other things but those two would take precedence.

Before the death rattle, I would be happy I was no longer able to vampire my way through the ocean. No more mama fish without a baby fish coming home because of me. No more upset stomach because of fish guts and fish tears. I suffered along with you small fish and this is a fitting end. Glob, glob.

As I suffocated slowly I would also consider the many rocks gone unexplored. Adventures in floating and swimming that could have taken place. Rocks perhaps hiding female fish that knew how to have fun but also be serious and help with my issues and baggage. And, oh. Oh, the fish eggs that might have been fertilized. Hidden yes, and now forever hidden, the little Eric fish that would have looked hard through fish eyes and not made the mistakes of their father fish.

To be a fish on this day and to die in a bucket. Sweet irony of the fish world. Funny, sad fish gods! There’s fish blood on your hands humans! And fish in your fish stomachs!

No Title

The eyes, they burn.

Running

When a run comes to take my breath and spill my fluids, I stretch my body and hope for the best. The run takes me out into the neighborhood, past places I don’t want to be, but farther than legs would go otherwise. I appreciate that about the run. The legs, they pitter patter and bend and curl around pavement and torture and pull apart muscles and send pain to my head. The run tells me to keep going even when I’m done. Sleepy task master of my thoughts and body she is.

Air Creatures

A billion little creatures slip silently through the air. They hover through the air as a fish in water only they cannot be contained by glass. No glass has ever stopped these creatures.

The creatures have knives and chains and float around spoiling for a fight. They have heavy boots and creature eyes. With creature swiftness they form a fighting triangle and attack desk lamp light bulbs and trash cans ruining their contents and taking their casualties.

Creatures unlike what you’re thinking about with rotten, hanging arms and ten-gallon hats roam the air. We breathe when they want us to.

Letter to my Teeth, on the Day of their Hurting

Dear Teeth,

Oh teeth, are you listening? Why are you hurting me? I have cleaned you with paste and brush for many, many years. I birthed you from the womb of my gums and now you reject me. Steal my thoughts from precious food. How cold and disgusting you are. How disloyal. How spiteful. Why don’t you just curl up and blacken like dead things. Why couldn’t you just chomp and cut food without shooting, stabbing messages of hurt through my body. You make me hate teeth. You make me eager for old age when I can gum food, my beloved food friends, without you in the way. You make me want an ice skate and a rock.

Teeth, if you had tears, I would like tears to be coming from your eyes if you had eyes.

Your friend,

Eric

Trashy Tuesdays

I went on a run and then a stroll on this Tuesday evening and happened upon some choice trash that I feel like sharing.  First, I found two card tables, only slightly water logged, that I noticed between clutching at my heart and spitting up lung.  I made it a point to come back and check them out before I finished my run and decided that one trashy dirty collapsible table was enough for me.  It’s now drying in my hallway.

Another fun thing I found was a little dead mouse at the end of a driveway.  It made me think of how small dead things at the ends of driveways like the one I was passing by were.  And how sad.

Being as it rained about 6 inches this morning, I felt like I shouldn’t touch the fabric love seats and baby toys with rainwater dirt splashes all over them so I went home after a quick loop.

Now, the only things left on my list of “what I want from the trash” are a big shelf for my back yard, tools of any kind, shampoo bottles with a little bit left, old magazines, drywall and a grill.  I need that grill!

Idea for a Film

A spider is crawling onto a desk just as a young woman sits down.  Her reaction upon seeing the spider is to cry out and run away.  Using a slow motion effect, one can see that spit flies from the girl’s mouth, along with a scream, coating the spider’s eyes and back area.  Limping away, the spider finds a hole and crawls into it.  We follow the girl back to where she is standing on a chair telling her boyfriend to that he must go kill the spider that she assumes is still waiting to scare her on her desk.  The girl is wearing socks with ruffles, like a little girl.  The boyfriend takes off his shoe and disappears into the room.  The camera zooms in on a file that reads “Human Essence Half-life Toxic Testing Study” along with another pair of ruffled socks on top.

The spider wakes up from a fevered sleep and stretches its legs.  Upon inspection, he learns that his legs have turned into bones and are covered with skin!  He lets out an audible noise that no spider has ever produced and realizes he has a voice.  He finds on the ends of his leg, he has smaller legs that he can move individually.

The Man/Spider has a sudden urge to harm all humans and sets off to bite and strike fear into them as only a small naked talking man/spider is able.

Valkerie Dream

I’ve never seen the movie Valkerie or however you spell it but I had a dream I was going to kill Hitler and it was as action-packed or more action-packed than what I think the movie might be.  The farthest I got on my missions was a frontier town looking place where I had to run up a ramp and light some Germans on fire with my blow torch.  Before that, I had to organize my Army bag, which was very similar to the backpack I carry now.  I hate Hitler.

Thoughts One Could Think On and Not Be Wasting Time

My sinews are aching with the small tears of exertion. 

From the hallway comes immigrant-lungs-meeting-cleaning-supplies coughs. 

Ingested onion taste coats my slimy food breach and clouds my blog thoughts. 

Birds, they peep and then get out of my strangle range.

Magnificent force, the force of gravity…the force of the grave.

Communion Cracker Down!

If anyone doesn’t know what intinction is, it’s when you dip the cracker representation of Jesus’ body into the grape juice representation of Jesus’ blood and then eat the drippy bread-ish cracker.  It is done at church to remind people of Jesus.  It’s not like at Catholic Church where the priest lays the bread into your mouth and then pours a little wine into your mouth from a communal cup; it relies a lot more on the rememberer: his skill, his basic motor functions.  It’s a lot of pressure.

Yesterday, I dropped the cracker into the grape juice.

It started well.  I reached into the little wooden bowl and went for the big piece like I always do but then it ended up being an illusion of a big piece and I unsteadily came up with just the tiniest bit pinched sideways between my fingers.  People were behind me so I made for the juice quickly as the cracker wiggled back and forth like a guy climbing a sideways rope ladder toward a carnival prize.  Right when I thought I had it, post-dip and pre-rocket toward my mouth, it slips out and sinks to an unseen depth.

I’m like “dammit” under my breath, already assuring my spot in hell but then I just make the move like everything’s all right.  Empty hand up to lips and furious chewing of nothingness, feigned composure.   I turn quickly and walk back to my seat staring at the floor. 

I imagined the people playing pop-Christian music-to-commune-by up front looking at me to the side of their microphones, creasing their foreheads.  They hold themselves back from stopping the music, exposing me to the congregants and forcing me to fish out my sacramental failure, demanding an explanation, attempting an exorcism, hitting my forehead with their open palms. 

In my chair, I stare at the back of my eyelids pretending to feel the benefits of a successful communion and trying to guide my harried thoughts to a prayer.  After a few minutes, I give up and settle on the hope that God’s enjoyment of representations doesn’t extend to my empty mouth. 

Registry Rant

Know what’s really getting to me?  Picking out expensive things to fill up a wedding registry.  I barely give a hoot about kitchen appliances.  I enjoy cooking but I have stuff to cook with.  How much better can new pots cook macaroni and cheese?  I want a hiking backpack and a jet boil.  Maybe a circular saw.  All the rest can sleep soundly beneath the shadow of my indifference.

Friday Nights

It’s Friday, nerds, and that means stay up late watching Letterman.  Or maybe Jerry Springer cause they only play it late at night where I come from.  All the crazies come out on Friday and that’s why I’m staying in.  If the phone rings, I’ll let my mom get it but before she does, I’ll get very scared that it’s for me.  If I do get summoned, sometimes I lie and say I have plans.  After this happens, I want to bury my face is a pillow and wheeze my last nasaly breath with my glasses pressed against my eyelids and no friends in the world.  It’s the aimlessness really.  What’s the point?  Maybe we’ll end up cruising Broadway scoping out a drag race or find some coffee shop and do headstands.  What else is there to do?  Is tv watching not just as pointless?  Just without other people?  That’s where logic fails me and I turn to Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves or something – something to burn my skull from the inside.  Oh Baseketball.  Oh sweet Panic Room.

Wedding Hijinks

The problem with throwing centerpiece fruit into the trees at your friends’ wedding reception is that it might get eaten by a horse.  Who the hell knows what happens after that?  Maybe the horse gets a stomachache and falls down dead.  Maybe fruit loving hyenas catch the scent from Africa and attack your friend’s horse, who is now sweating citrus.  Maybe a girl horse gets frightened by the bright colors and some well-meaning boyfriend horse sees the fear as a weakness and forces the other horse to eat the fruit as a means of overcoming her phobia thereby cementing what was once at most a wariness into a full blown experiential terror at the sight, smell or taste of papaya. 

I don’t know about any of this; it’s all just possibilities.  All I know is drop kicking a lemon is just about the worst way to not get your pants dirty.

Blog Blood?

Do blogs have feelings?  What if I were to not write on one for a while?  How would it feel?  Would it reformat my charts?  Would it unexpectedly quit many times over?  If you prick a blog, will it not eat your documents? Oh blog of mine, forgive a lowly blogger for his blogless blog blog.

Wedding Wondering

When you are unemployed, one day you will go visit some friends’ wedding for a weekend in Tennessee.  The mead will flow and by doing so, anoint your virgin petals with the sweet nectar of hearty re-acquaintance.  Brothers and Sisters from another life will climb the heights to greet you and through the lens of their life-moves will you judge worthy your endeavors and strike to achieve them once more.  All your demons will rear and retreat while the whispy and transient ghost of prospect will wholly substantiate. 

And so, while the oppressive palm of doubt may press slowly but strongly from the reaches of your mind, forcing questions and negating answers, you, heartened, are able to win fortitude and bravery by minding timeless memories and witnessing warmth in the genuine smiles on the faces of the dear and hopefully soon-to-be-near.

The New Spinning Bookshelf

Macker and I are the proud owners of a spinning bookshelf.  We bought it from the Virgin Megastore that’s going out of business on Union Square.  I haggled for it.  100 dollars to 75 dollars.  I picked it up with my Plymouth.  It required disassembly to fit in my backseat.  I had to scoot my seat way up like I imagine a Smart Car is normally situated.  There it sits beneath our clock.  I feel lucky we have a TIME magazine subscription.  It gives our room the feel of a bookstore.  Like a café in a bookstore because it’s so close to the kitchen.  There’s a slot for a plaquard on top that may soon exclaim, “Book Shelf.”  There are several slots for further signage that may soon describe, “Eric’s Books” or “Mackenzie’s Books” or “Our Books.”  It’s kindof blocking the door buzzer, a wall socket, and the thermostat but it’s a small price to pay for the benefits of a spinning bookshelf.

My Cousin's Graduation

If you did not know, a West Point cadet is not honor bound to snap your neck if you step onto the parade ground lawn unbidden.  This was just one of the things I learned when I went to share in the graduation celebrations of West Point’s class of 2009 yesterday.  My cousin is a member of this class and he took time out to help me and more of his family get acquainted with his life on base.

We saw train ups, boot camps, beast teams and salutations from many summer cadets.  We took cookies from an event we weren’t invited to.  We joked about snipers on the roofs and argued about whether the big chain that was once stretched across the Hudson was meant to keep the British out of Manhattan or keep them in.  Six plaques dedicated to this chain could not grant us a winner.

Also, skipping rocks on an army lake is almost as easy as anywhere else, but skipping bark here is nearly impossible.

After reading The Lords of Discipline, I was surprised to learn that West Point upper-classmen are not allowed to put broomsticks behind your knees and make you squat until you pass out.  They are allowed to make you paint many wrought iron things however.

The blocky, masculine buildings stand out in my mind as different from any I’ve seen before.  This “West Point” of the Hudson River is indeed worth the hour and a half trip from NYC if you get a chance.  And if you get a chance with your family and a West Point graduate, then you’re in for a real treat.

All-State Commercial Guy

I guess the biggest turn around for me is the All-State guy.  He used to play the bad mo fo president on 24 but now he is on about 50 All-State Insurance commercials.  I never see the same one twice.  It’s amazing.  Way back when, Jack Bauer had this guy’s back and he didn’t get scared of puss filled, boily hands or nukes and always admitted Jack Bauer’s calls but now he’s forever pattering on about very serious, somber and ‘I don’t care about’ stuff.  He makes me sad.  And the soft music.  And the tag line.  He’s like, “You know what” - big dramatic build up…it’s revelation time…something smart…anything cool…a gun perhaps? – “You’re in good hands with All-State.”  Looks into the camera as it fades out.  AHHH!  I hate you ex-President 24 All-State guy.  You make me wish I were in TV so I could write you out of the plot line of those commercials.

Rug

Ahh, the luxury of a fine Persian area rug.  Shades of green and tan and black.  Octagonal in shape.  Small enough to rest your feet on and hold your rock band drum set in place but not so large as to rest under the furniture.  Carpet is so easily cleaned it mocks the hard wood floor by picking up its dust and holding it on display.  It is the envy of the room.  Its swirly, vaguely Chinese designs and its symmetrical splendor delight.  It’s borders are always open.  A constant companion for the apartment.  For what more could we hope in the world?

Late Mother's Day Love

When I think about my mother, I think about more than just smelly diapers and college graduation. I think about all the personal touches she adds to my life. Like when I visit home and reminisce about the 15 boxes of cereal we got to choose from as kids. Immediately, she wants to recreate this memory and offers to be back in 15 minutes if I just say the words, Lucky Charms. “Mom, I don’t need any, I was just remembering.” With a pouty face, feigned playfulness and hidden regret, she laughs along with her family. Of course, coming upstairs the next morning I find a box of you-know-what on the counter, evidence of a special trip to the store before work.

I also think about how she makes herself available by phone every hour of every work day no matter what she’s doing. In fact, the only time I’ve ever been hurried to finish a conversation or speed up the babble has been when one of my siblings was on the other line. Yes, she gets called down by her boss. Yes, she has work for which she’s responsible and that she enjoys. Yes, she doesn’t care. Priorities?

The most thoughtful replies to the goofiest thoughts? You ain’t seen nothin’. The person who remembers all your friends’ names and who they are to you? Meet the master. That supermarket line stranger who shares a laugh just to spread some of her joy? Yeah, you learned that from my mom, right? Right.

A mother is a sacred thing. One who braves messes of mind, spirit and digestion and comes out clean on the other side. All I know is she looks good doing it and makes us all better for it.

I know I’m a little biased but my mom is the best of all moms.

Bed Bugs

I think there are bugs in my bed and they bite me at night.  I’ve found two.  One looked like a cricket and the other I looked up on the internet and learned it is called a house centipede.  They have 15 sets of legs and an overall scary-ass appearance (see picture).

I’m no stranger to bug bites at night as I’ve spent a combined year, maybe two, of my life sleeping in cabins or tents.  After most nights out there, I wake up, start scratching and then get really tingly, like the bug venom/bacteria is distilling with my blood and testing its defenses.  After a time, I calm down and get on with my life but I don’t think I’m the same person.  I’m part bug now.  And the bugs are part me.

Trash Digging Fun

I spent the last hour and a half walking around my neighborhood and looking in the garbage by the street.  It’s not the first time I’ve done it.  I hope it’s not the last.  In fact, I usually bring stuff home – that’s the whole point.  Here’s a list of the stuff I saw. 

I asterisked (*) the things I thought about bringing home.

I ampersanded (&) the things I touched.

I money symboled ($) the things I think are funny.

 

2 Baby Seats - no baby padding/dirty baby padding

*Latching Suitcase - full of Christmas décor

Zipping Suitcase - red

Blue Double Mattress - stained

*& 2 Filing Cabinets – Repainted glossy black/standard

*Dog Carrying Case – disassembled

4 Vacuum Cleaners – Various states of disassembly

Rolled-Up Carpets – 1 shag,  3 shortish Persianish

*$ Carpet Square – gray, muddied

*$ Barstool – no seat

Drawers – bottom drawer had no bottom

Wooden Chair – no seat

*& Grill - nasty

Futon Frame – black, no mattress

$ 5 TVs – various sizes 24-42 inches

3 Computer Monitors

*$ 1 Old Computer – Monitor CPU and keyboard as one – Apple IIE style

Cabinets

3 Bed Frames

2 Ironing Boards

2 Cot Springs

*$ Hose Wheel – in clear plastic reclycling bag

$ Undetermined metal object

3 Love Seats

1 sink and counter top – still assembled

*Baby Walker

Drying Rack

*Hat Rack?

1 Exercise Machine – horse-like

*Poster Frames – gold metal

*$ Gold picture frame pieces

Maybe I’ll do this some more.  I didn’t bring anything home today but don’t lose hope.  They do trash around here every Tuesday and Friday and the weather’s starting to get better.  Can you feel it?  Papa needs a new area rug.

Milk Beard

When you have no job, there will be a point when you will be eating cereal and you will drip milk in your beard.  Your fingers will not be enough to sop it up.  Your tongue is not long or porous enough to get at it and will in fact act like a watercolor brush, creating avenues through which the milk will spread.  As you no longer take showers daily, the offending liquid will wreak havoc on the life you’re leading, discouraging kisses from you fiancée and wasting hours searching for trash smell.  Dandruff and milk flakes will coat the childhood t-shirts you wear and that you think separate you as an individual but actually broadcast your inability to think of yourself as an adult.  (Wear a collar).  Alas your beard will go unshorn, unwashed and unkempt, though suspicion should lead you to it, and small colonies of utter-based bacteria will congregate and reproduce for all eternity.

Eric in the Army

If I were going to be in the Army, I’d appreciate an assignment like go watch this hill or stay still and don’t get noticed.  If I had a job to go clear out an enemy building or win a war, I wouldn’t probably get much done.  For the fear, you know?  The fear?  No?

Knowing me, the most likely job I’d have would be to either talk on the radio all day about coordinates and minutes and clicks and things or have to break people’s noses.  “You!  Go break this guy’s nose like we made you do before!”  My nickname would either be Jean Claude Van Radio or Ricky the Nose.  At some point I’d be asked to break a guy’s nose and then break the guy’s nose again.  It wouldn’t work unless there was about six months in between.  Nobody would understand.  I might be sent away.

I’d take pleasure in having my picture taken.  I’d wear my uniform and pose with a gun in front of flags.  I’d smoke cigarettes and drink whiskey from a heavy glass and think about all the latitude and longitude that could have been different.  All the cartilage.  All the muck.  All the grassland. 

Space Dream

My dream last night was a winner.  I had built a space ship out of I don’t know what and set it up in the backyard of my old house.  It looked a lot like a NASA shuttle but was not so sturdy or well designed.  Maybe it was just the matte paint on what looked like cardboard.  There was a big assembly of my family and friends there to watch me blast off and they were all standing much too close.  I didn’t say anything.  I was more concerned about the durability.  For instance, when my dad jumped in the strange sack-like compartment meant to hold a passenger and which trailed like a handkerchief at the end of a stick slung off a hobo’s back, I thought the thing might break off.  The ship lurched and moaned but it held up. 

 

While I was preparing to leave, I was mighty worried about the fire situation too.  My paper mache-like craft seemed indeed strong but could it make it into space with the force needed to get through the atmosphere?  And not burn up by the fire it created or the heat it encountered?  I didn’t know.  That’s what worried me most.  I supposedly had built this thing there in my backyard but I didn’t remember building it at all.  The worst was when I finally got into the hanging hobo sack thing and couldn’t figure out how to close it.  No zipper or ziplock or buttons or rubber seal.  No nothing.  I fiddled with the uneven seams for a little and then just gave up on it.  They hung there flapping in the wind.  It didn’t stop me from wanting to take off though.  Either I didn’t think I’d make it into space or I wanted to save face in front of everybody and pretend I designed it that way. 

 

I guess this dream means I’m really determined?

Food Thoughts

Oh hello.  It’s me.  That carrot you just ate.  I’m digesting in your stomach.  I’m now you.  Parasitic little you taking what you can from what was once not you and making it you.  I don’t mind.  I’m a vegetable.  I’m orange.  You’re a vegetable.  You have things wrong with your stomach. I saw earlier. I guess I do too.  Now I’m in an intestine.  Is this anatomy description possible?  I do have eyes even though I’m a carrot.  Cause I’m also a human.  How tricky I am.

Bear Thoughts

Far away, many thousands of miles, there is the planet Mars.  It has bears on it much like the bears on Earth but these bears are as small and as numerous as Mackenzie’s sneezes.  Which is to say, they are very small and very numerous.  Mackenzie thinks that every time she sneezes a new bear pops into existence out there on Mars but I know that there are as many bears on mars as there ever was and ever will be.  They are immortal and should not be approached from behind.  Otherwise they will swarm like a plague and knaw your face through to your brains because that’s how the bears roll on Mars.  They ask questions later if you know what I mean.

Cleaning Things Thoughts

I enjoy cleaning when I can see a real result.  Viz. 

1.  I cleaned my hardwood floor and little carpet that sits in the middle of the floor yesterday and filled up my trashcan with rocks, dirt and dust bunnies. 

2.  Picking at my fingernails where, if I have not scratched under there recenty, little collections of crud come away, is a great pick me up.

3.  Flossing is much more satisfying if you get bits of food that taste like lemon juice out from between your teeth.  Swishing afterward and spitting out reddish, speckled water trumps spitting out bit-less, clear water any day, too.

Perhaps No Postcards

There’s a website called www.PerhapsPostcards.com where I make art, shrink it onto stationary of all kinds and then try to sell it.  I’m satisfied with it generally, despite its lack of sales or tangible results.  Yesterday, I had an idea about naming another website www.PerhapsNoPostcards.com where there would be no selling of anything but instead, general attempts at humiliation and put-downs about nobody ever buying anything from Perhaps Postcards.  I would enjoy pitting the two against each other (it would satisfy my need for balance) and then riding the tide of battle, sprung from my own conceit, out into the murky waters of the unknown. 

I would give control of the new website over to the evil genius side of my personality whose petty insults and unhappy terrorism would both oppress and disturb.  The bright and cheerful simpleton now running Perhaps Postcards would be hard pressed to respond, patiently enduring then finally erupting in a terrible and uncontrolled onslaught where nothing is sacred, postcard or otherwise, and where none could wish to escape unmarred.  There would be war between the two sides, yes war, and the small part of me that retained any notion of decency would sit uncomfortably, alone and lonely, in a cave of doubt and regret contemplating, waiting. 

Barbs of wrath would sing like shrapnel.  Shards of misery would fly unmercifully.  Destruction becomes self. 

Exhausted and encumbered from the toil of attack, my consciousness would look upon the strife, seeking no repose, and fight.  Unbidden, some small important part of myself would undoubtedly slip and a small spontaneous giggle would titter forth from some depth, some vein of disorder buried within, that would build to frenzy.  My body would involuntarily take up this mania and from my lips would spring a howl of laughter so saturated with wretchedness and rife with hatred that the last breath of life and promise I held within would be stolen away with it.  My empty and wrecked body would crumple down, near-silently, to the floor and lay solid, never again to feel the blows that killed it.

Mailman Ire

I just got the Netflix but we can’t get the mailman to deliver us the right adapter to fit my computer into my television.  We’re stuck watching the computer on a box on a chair from the couch.  The first time, he delivered the wrong adapter.  A week later, he delivered two wrong adapters.  The third time hasn’t happened yet but I’m hoping he doesn’t deliver me a toaster or some other wackiness.  I’ve been thinking about rewarding him with a movie to give him some positive reinforcement kind of thing, if he gets it right, but punishment might take precedence.

Kitten Story

I was walking down the street last night and I came across a kitten, mewing in the darkness.  I thought What a cute little thing and I put it in my backpack.   Next, I walked until I noticed a second kitten licking at a storm drain.  "There's no food in there, little one" I said aloud and put it in my backpack.   I walked a bit farther and found a third kitten rolled up in a carpet.   This third kitten went into my backpack and I was happy to be so rich with kittens. 

As my walk continued, I came across an apple core.  Someone must have enjoyed you, apple core, because the apple that was once you is gone.  I picked it up and threw it in a bush.  Next I found an orange rind and without a thought, passed it by with distain.  Finally, I noticed a banana peel after slipping and falling by its cruel design.  My collection of kittens was uninjured.

After walking heartily for a short while, I thought to let the kittens roam free, for they were being loud and scratching at my back.   I settled on making a kitten home after briefly considering loosing them in a building entryway.  I took off my long sleeved T-shirt, put a kitten in each sleeve, heads like hands and the third at the neck.  You look silly, I remarked to the scene and sprinted down the block.

Who's that creeping in the window?

Last night I was laying in bed, asleep and happy, though I was full of old eggs and onions, when what should happen but my doorbell rings.  What is it like 4 in the morning?  I was wide-awake in my indignation.  We have one of those screens that shows who’s trying to enter our building from our apartment and I just knew if I got up and looked it would be some jerk I don’t know who was going to go slamming into doors and tripping up stairs trying to get into the next locked door he could find if I let him it.   I just knew it so I didn’t go bleary-eyed philandering, I just lay. 

We have a very poor door lock on the outer door to our complex, the kind where the handle droops and the latch sometimes doesn’t close all the way.  If it were me, I would be like What a whack time for this door to work and I guess that was this guy’s idea because he started jerking at the door and pushing at it and making a loud time of his toiling altogether.  Here’s me though, just laying still while my head and heart are running full force feeling bad for him and mad at him and hatred toward him at once.  After about 3 rounds of ringing all the doors in the building he left for a while but I knew he’d be back.  Because where is a guy who wants in my building going to go at 4:30 in the morning.  It’s cold and the Dunkin Donuts is open but only to get donuts through a weird small window, not to sit and twiddle your straw wrappers.  And there I was laying. 

I guess he took a walk around the block, soul searching or making odds on scaling a balcony or whatever because he came back and got to work ringing one dude’s bell again, my neighbor’s, over and over.  I didn’t hear a buzz but somehow this keyless purveyor of jitters got in and stomped up the stairs and around an apartment above me.  He got in that door all right I guess.  That makes me think some of those apartments don’t have locks.

So this is what if feels like to clog.

The first blog.  Here's something I thought about this morning: blood sacks and putty.  All the littlest blood sacks ran around the room with their human shoes and RC racers.  They had their putty and it didn't make anyone laugh because it was serious and wouldn't pick up the print on a newspaper and it was thrown.  Some putty got pulled across the floor until one of the humans walked by and tripped on it.  The blood sack broke into a blood pool and made us all a little creeped out because this is the first blog and it's supposed to interest us.  The first blog.