Category: Uncategorized

Feeling a bit groggy this morning. Here at OSKA,
bright and early. Saw a couple of wicked cool bands
last night: Vagabond Opera and Circus Contraption.
Loads of fun, they were, in spite of the sour mood.

Oh and let’s not forget the cat.
The poopy poopy cat.
She’s newly gotten from the shelter and I’m inclined
to ascribe it to a case of the nerves. The
alternatives are far less attractive. (Parasites? I
don’t even know what sorts of digestive difficulties
afflict cats these days. Peruvian lament?) To the vet
with us! Otherwise, she’s the very sweetest of cats
and reminds me a little of Ned, now that she’s been
all cleaned up and groomed. Otherwise known as The
Hairy Beast until a proper name is found.

I’ve been in the depths of recreational reading
these days. I picked up a copy of A GAME OF THRONES
(based on the maybe recommendation of C. maybe,
because I may have misremembered what book he was
recommending, it was so long ago), then borrowed the
sequel, A CLASH OF KINGS–I sense a theme–from a
friend of mine. In the meantime, I read another
jaunt into fantasticality with THE DARKNESS THAT
COMES BEFORE–this time recommended by H’s husband
upon their visit. That was a good one. Centers
around a character who can plot out probabilities on
the fly and has an uncanny ability to read people,
playing them like an orchestra. It reminds me quite
a bit of the Paul Muad’dib character from DUNE.
Although, in that case, his powers were drug-induced.

Also, read THE PIRATES: IN AN ADVENTURE WITH
SCIENTISTS! Complete with Evil Bishop Action! Fun.
Entirely fun. How can you not love a book with Mr.
Bobo the Man-panzee?

[metanote: not so much linky action here, because
I’m writing this up in notepad. The internet is
verboten, apparently. Also, it’s a little too early
in the morning to type up a bunch of html, methinks.]

It’s amazing how much a mindless reception job can
get the old writerly juices flowing. When in the
rush of school, I just can’t seem to make the time
for writing. Which is really a cop-out, because I
do actually have the time. Sheer laziness I suppose.
Maybe the trick to get me writing is to become so
bored that I gravitate towards it simply to relieve
the sheer mental numbness of the day.

Feeling a bit groggy this morning. Here at OSKA,
bright and early. Saw a couple of wicked cool bands
last night: Vagabond Opera and Circus Contraption.
Loads of fun, they were, in spite of the sour mood.

Oh and let’s not forget the cat.
The poopy poopy cat.
She’s newly gotten from the shelter and I’m inclined
to ascribe it to a case of the nerves. The
alternatives are far less attractive. (Parasites? I
don’t even know what sorts of digestive difficulties
afflict cats these days. Peruvian lament?) To the vet
with us! Otherwise, she’s the very sweetest of cats
and reminds me a little of Ned, now that she’s been
all cleaned up and groomed. Otherwise known as The
Hairy Beast until a proper name is found.

I’ve been in the depths of recreational reading
these days. I picked up a copy of A GAME OF THRONES
(based on the maybe recommendation of C. maybe,
because I may have misremembered what book he was
recommending, it was so long ago), then borrowed the
sequel, A CLASH OF KINGS–I sense a theme–from a
friend of mine. In the meantime, I read another
jaunt into fantasticality with THE DARKNESS THAT
COMES BEFORE–this time recommended by H’s husband
upon their visit. That was a good one. Centers
around a character who can plot out probabilities on
the fly and has an uncanny ability to read people,
playing them like an orchestra. It reminds me quite
a bit of the Paul Muad’dib character from DUNE.
Although, in that case, his powers were drug-induced.

Also, read THE PIRATES: IN AN ADVENTURE WITH
SCIENTISTS! Complete with Evil Bishop Action! Fun.
Entirely fun. How can you not love a book with Mr.
Bobo the Man-panzee?

[metanote: not so much linky action here, because
I’m writing this up in notepad. The internet is
verboten, apparently. Also, it’s a little too early
in the morning to type up a bunch of html, methinks.]

It’s amazing how much a mindless reception job can
get the old writerly juices flowing. When in the
rush of school, I just can’t seem to make the time
for writing. Which is really a cop-out, because I
do actually have the time. Sheer laziness I suppose.
Maybe the trick to get me writing is to become so
bored that I gravitate towards it simply to relieve
the sheer mental numbness of the day.

when the bullroarer steps from the rushes, he’s wearing some kind of mink or maybe the severed head of a boa constrictor. he’s not the kind of fellow you’d invite over for tea, that one.

there’s something slimy about the bullroarer. maybe it’s the way he drolls, occasionally, out of the left side of his mouth, casually catching escaped saliva with a battered tin cup he keeps for just that purpose. once full, he dips the gathered expectorant into a wheezy machine strapped to his back. when asked about it, he only smiles wetly and rubs his nose with one finger. the machine–more like a large bladder with straps–has a large red button, beneath which is written in scattered yellow script: “DONOTEVERPUSHTHIS BUTTON”. it hasn’t been pushed yet, but that may have more to do with the skink set above it in a sling. the skink, he’s bob.

when he’s sleepy, the bullroarer sighs, chews some food and just goes to sleep. he sleeps standing up, like a horse, the better to get a running start upon waking, or so he says. his frayed sandals give strong testimony to this statement.

not a one to mess with, our bullroarer eats live barracudas for breakfast, with his bare hands he pulls them out of the tankful that he wheels along behind. he says they’re quite tasty with a bit of salt and just a drop of lemon. failing an actual lemon, a lemondrop candy will do. no one knows anything at all about his origins, however, he just showed up one day on our front stoop, selling girl scout cookies. the uniform didn’t fit right, but the cookies sure were good. especially those samoas. mmmm.

we’re not sure what prompted his eventual meltdown. it happened one morning when we were scraping our burnt toast into the rubbish bin. of a sudden, he stood up, shrieked and dashed himself to pieces against the cuisinart.

funny old man.

A mercy how time flies, don’t you think?
Just sliding by like butter over toast on a warm day.

Don’t like what’s going on, just wait a little while.
A month or two will seem like drops of water. Drip
drop. Done. A second cousin of mine, who has since
passed on (drowned, he was), was convinced that time
was speeding up (also, that there were faces on the,
er, face of Mars, but that’s another story). He
cited, vaguely, a study done of prison inmates in
which they claimed that time was passing by more
quickly than it used to do. My cousin, a skinny man
who was on some kind of raw foods diet, was strangely
belligerent and there was a kind of seediness to his
weird paranoia–testimony to his years of smoking
out? or was it true that he was selling some kind of
drug?–and he made my father and I drink weird
concoctions out of his blender.

Oh, yeah. He had this thing about banks, too. He
stated that banks were nothing but a scam begun in
Italy in the 17th (16th?) century, continuing on to
this day. He thought they were quite the racket, and
I was not–still not–entirely unconvinced by his
arguments. His rapidity of speech and tangential
leaping from topic to topic made it hard to follow
the thrust and flow of his thought.

I’m sure there were other things too, that I have
completely forgotten since. Through some kind of
verbal jujitsu, and because of my father’s good
nature, he set us to work mowing and cleaning up his
yard, while he stood by and led us on.

Another anecdote I recall: he mentioned getting crabs
in Portland from trying on jeans at the Jean Machine
without wearing any underwear. I, of course, imagined
a giant machine from cogs and gears and… well,
jeans. The jeans functioned as a kind of belt to hold
the other bits of machinery together. I never got
around to imagining what the Jean Machine would
actually do. Something wonderful. Or something
rich with eldritch horror. In reality, I’m sure the
Jean Machine was a kind of skuzzy shack with lots of
used jeans to try on. Apparently, infested jeans.

It was one of those interminable afternoons that
seemed to drag on and on and on. Conversation was
decidedly one sided. My father has always been a
soft-spoken man, loathe to interrupt, more jazzed
about what others have to say than anything he might
have to offer and, I suspect, especially those with
mad rantings to get off their chest.I lean that way
myself, though not quite as far as my father. I
mean, I already know what I think about things. In
spite of that, I was utterly blown away by my dad’s
cousin. I had no idea how to respond to what he had
to say. It’s kind of awe-inspiring the way some
can turn their speech (rushing forth like a broken
water spout) on and off like a spigot.

Drowning in verbiage and lawn clippings.

catchall the funny mannerisms in a bucket, let them
loose when they wear their bowlers right side down
or when all’s said and done, just shoot
gregarious lolligaggers plummet like stone to the
crunchy underbellies of all that’s whole and recent
speaking of recent, there’s nots and then there’s
knots and some are fit for untying and some are only
fit for slicing.

these days, all the oncelers are buried under
cordwood. eating their hearts out in some forgotten
place. i once said, talloo tallay, but… well.
all that’s done now. these days, everyone sort of
chuckles and wipes the egg off to that sullen
vibrato: wanh wanh waaaaanh.

lesseee. unless they’ve changed their shoe size, the
clowns’ll never let that one down. seeing as how
their lassos (they’re rodeo clowns) and bullhorn
flower squirters are now defunct. even the bull’s
are feeling anxious and it shows. never have there
been more desultory chasings of clowns around the
ring. even when they roll out of their barrels or
tumble roll out of trouble, its just not the same.
there’s no joy in it anymore.

little bobby clinghorn can tell, and he’s never even
been before. alive, that is. they keep him going in a
jar filled with electrolytes and occult scientifickal
gears and hoozits (in the olden days, mr. horatio
von skelapogos happened to vision little bobby
clinghorn through his murky and bespectacled,
crying “great shoggoth!” before expiring in a heap)
which keep him feverfresh and buoyant, if slightly
greenish and slimy. not only that, his button eyes
are black and black, no white-around at all. nor any
other color. but, really, he’s so cute in his little
beanie, with prop-on-top, though in what slow current
it spins, no one can say.

the pickled boy, he’s called behind his back, far
behind and out of sight of his rusty dish. to be
sure, it wobbles as it spins, but no one can be sure
just how much he hear through that arcane mechanical
contraption. those who’ve underestimated, have paid
the price, some say, for their foolishness. “don’t
forget that snapping iron claw,” they say. it’s
strong enough to smash a wall and subtle enough to
spread butter on toast.

why, he even wears little sneakers in that damn bottle
of his, though why that is, no one can say. some have
pondered the difficulties of tying laces in that
murky goop, but not for long. those black eyes,
staring, staring, are enough to make loose sweat
pop out from palm and brow. no sane man can hold that
gaze for long.

it’s a shame. men weep when they think of pretty
sally clinghorn. how little bobby ended up her
gatekeeper, no one knows, though some would guess.
and some would be foolish enough to voice their guess,
even alone in the darkest grove of night.

when little bobby’s voice emerges, cracked and tinny,
a wax cylinder tone, from its single radioshack
speaker, pretty sally laughs prettily and her
shining teeth flash in the sun. how she lost her
teeth, no one can say, though they dangle from her
brother’s neck, strung together on a string. and
some would say that white gold’s a strange choice,
restricting her diet to jell-o and the very softest
of breads, fresh from the oven.

pretty…

ZORIKI!

such vehemence this one has…

Better brain stuff.

My old friend Joel, that merry old soul, has asked me some questions. I will try and answer them.

1) What is your quest?
Right now, it’s to get through this quarter of graduate school. Long term, I’ve been exploring this idea I have regarding libraries and their virtual spaces. Namely, how those spaces can be redeisgned to foster community and collaboration. It’s exciting stuff.

2) What are bellybuttons for?
Well, they’re holdovers from the womb. They’re also great reminders of where we came from: our mother’s womb. That’s a pretty radical thing that I certainly don’t think about everyday, but the bellybutton helps remind me.

3) Do the books ever speak to you? what do they say? do you talk back? what do you say?
Yes, but usually just one at a time. It’s a strange thing, how many books I’ve read, and sometimes I think: why do I keep doing this? The only answer I seem to come up with is something similar to what Machivelli (it surprises me too!) wrote about his library:

The evening being come, I return home and go to my study; at the entrance I pull off my peasant- clothes, covered with dust and dirt, and put on my noble court dress, and thus becomingly re-clothed I pass into the ancient courts of the men of old, where, being lovingly received by them, I am fed with that food which is mine alone; where I do not hesitate to speak with them, and to ask for the reason of their actions, and they in their benignity answer me; and for four hours I feel no weariness, I forget every trouble, poverty does not dismay, death does not terrify me; I am possessed entirely by those great men.

I don’t really think I can improve upon that statement.

4) Expound on the meaning of Love.
This gave me fits for a long time. Love. And not in a good way. For a long time, it seems that I thought of Love as simply Not Being Alone. I know now that it is so much more than that. Oh so much more. It beggars my ability to describe it, quite simply, with its multitudes and breadth and depth.

5) If you were an antiquated saying, what antiquated saying would you be?
There’s a quote from Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales in the Nun’s Priest’s Tale:

Taketh the fruyt, and lat the chaf be stille.

Or, loosely translated, separate the wheat from the chaff. Or, take what’s good and leave the rest. This goes along pretty well with my belief that value can be found in anything, if you only pursue the good bits in it. There’s so much of everything in this world, being able to separate out the good (useful) from the bad (not useful) seems like the most valuable skill there is.

Oh, and Chanticleer the Rooster? Not so good at separating the wheat from the chaff…

*****

Oh, and if you want me to ask you some questions (as the game seems to be played), feel free to leave a comment.