Dear Me

I'm submitting this for something so I revised it

Dear Me

She sometimes sends me emails in the middle of the night. She never has, set times on anything. They could be short one sentence pieces; they could be 5 miles long. Sometimes I never read them I just, like looking at the number 1 standing there by the word Inbox. And when I do read them I will think of too many too long multiple replies. I couldn't show her I was laughing; a

'hahahahaha'

sometimes just didn't cut it. The obstructive-ness of language; of writing to her and not speaking with her and talking to and her watching her react to me reacting to everything she says. I would think constantly of French philosophers; if I could find some way to make my

'hahahahaha'

come off the screen with the same tone I would use and all those 3 dimensional feelings I had would come through to. I tried so many different variations of smiley faces but this

:D

could never really simulate me laughing and smiling and acting how I do when I talk to her.

I sometimes think that maybe; I only love her because she loves me. I only love her because I am delusional and I will accept anyone who told me anything with the letter L in it. But then I’ll remember that she doesn’t love me that way; and I just imagined and wished; that she loved me that way. I must love her then I guess.

Come pull me closer to the walls so I can feel how you have an instant pull that flows through concrete. After all; there are no after all's in a world where you're gravity's everlasting.

How many times do I have to write things down until they lift themselves off the table? I don't think it could ever actually happen. Jump into me for god’s sake; jump into me the ability to fly to her or at least; to write to her a little more three dimensionally.

Sometimes we plot 3 dimensional graphs on our calculator because we have nothing better to do in maths class and we sit there in the sun seeping through the window and everything is warm and sleepy and she’s next to me and she’s warm and sleepy.

Television taught me how life could never be so wonderfully edited with the perfect soundtrack and perfect timing and the perfect punch lines over hovering sunsets; she taught me life does not have to be like that to be perfect.

Sometimes we listen to Chopin nocturne in C minor but then she says that it upsets her. It upsets me a little bit too. Should we be more impressed by Mozart the boy genies or Beethoven the deaf wonder god? It doesn't matter they are both dead; when I close my eyes and when I can't see the titles on the CD I cannot tell them apart. Except I know Beethoven made

tun tun tun tun TUN TUN TUN TUN

and Mozart didn't. I can't tell the difference between Italian and French either.

Dear You

There are no, actual borders, that separate countries from countries; your country from my country. And that disappoints me; there are no thick black lines between countries that might have, at least slowed down the Nazi's approach to Poland. There is no equator or Capricorn or Cancer and there is no compass that points North. I can't ever remember where North point is; let’s see if the sun rises; in the east; and sets; in the west then I should be able to pinpoint North but I look up and its midday. The sun is dead centre and my eyes hurt from looking. Sometimes you tie up your hair real tight in a bun cause it's so hot. And we walk around pretending like nobody else lives here and that its only you and me and the dead centre sun. My hair is always on my neck and there's nothing I can do about it I suffer. You walk in such a way that you stay in my shadow so you stay cool and I don’t know how you do it with the dead centre sun but if anyone can do it it’s you and anyone did do it and it was You.

Maybe I use my commas and semi colons in all the wrong ways.

'There is no wrong way it’s just grammar you're not in high school anymore'

But we are wrong grammar counts in every aspect of your life you can never shake of its importance. You can shake off the importance of drawing 3D graphs on your calculator but you can't shake off grammar. The only thing that is constant is change, one thing is certain in life and that is uncertainty; when I was younger my parents owned a Foucault book and I never read it.

Don't over analyse things you tell me. I'm not; I'm just stating what some bald gay philosopher said years ago. Is it certain then; that my love for you is uncertain? And; movable, changeable, unsteady? If the only certainty is uncertainty then the certainty that my love is uncertain must be uncertain itself. I don't want it to be though, I want certainty that this; this inner chest motion this contraction in my ribcage when I think about; that this will go away because it’s almost annoying like hiccups.

I feel like it’s been 500 days; and sometimes I have the feeling it’s been more. You are so infuriatingly spectacular in my mind; yet so modestly yet confidently amazing; so very contradictory in my head. You're so contradictory, that I feel like you are fragmented; I hate your giggle. That way that you giggle and you look at everyone and you tilt your head down with your eyes to the table, and at them you smile and with their jokes you laugh and I sit there shuffling my feet feeling terrible down in the depths of my gut. That is the most annoying giggle I've ever heard. But I remember that you don’t smile at me that way and you don’t laugh with me that way because with me you look up and you look right at me burning your eyes in my cornea and you laugh big cucumber triangle shaped sandwich laughs and you smile lemonade on a summer day. And you never say anything that I hate when you’re with me because with me you say everything that is you, everything that is you from its centre to its core everything that you emulate when you wake up in the morning and I could never hate anything that was so you in that way. And with them you say everything that you can just form with your tongue and you stare at the table and you shuffle your feet. Once you told me that you felt terrible down in the depths of your gut and we went walking around town pretending we were alone and you paced in my shadow in the noonday heat.

Sometimes when you ask me to let you listen to my MP3 with me then I give you one earphone for the left ear and I keep one for my right. And I hate how the right ear is so overexposed and I start to get annoyed at you for asking. But you never complain no matter what song I put on you never tell me to change to something else; and you also bought me these headphones when I dropped mine in the fish pond. You watched me drop them in the fishpond, you helped me pull them out, you took me to the repair shop and you bought me new ones, handed them to me and you didn’t say anything, you never wanted anything back for them. And sometimes when we go out you ask me do you have your MP3 player with you? Then I go back to the restaurant because I check at your request and find it not there. And when I get back you look and me and you smile like Lemonade and you day lets go and you don’t say anything that I don’t like to talk about.

When we sat together and we shuffled our feet tired of walking and the sun was moving down the hill we would watch ants swarming around things, food, leaves, and other dead ants. What do they do at night? I don’t know I guess they just sleep. Ants don’t sleep. Oh, well then I don’t know. It’s actually starting to feel cold. Isn’t that funny how that works.

The different parts of you; are so split apart so completely un-whole that I have to split you up in my head; to try and fully understand you; to try and fully understand this. And then there you are all over in ever segment in every sphere of my mind. I fail at trying to understand this; this chest ache this Inbox Impatience; but I want to dive into you and discover you.

Dear Everything

Sometimes I go out and buy a Winnie the Pooh book; I like looking at the original illustrations I like reading the book. If there are never ever any tomorrows, then that must mean by default there must never ever be any today’s. Dear You; sometimes I love you and sometimes I don't love loving you. Often I don't love loving you; but even more often I forget that I do; because I feel like this hiccup annoying but fantastic splendid far from annoying feeling I get; is perfectly natural. Is perfectly expected; by anyone who hangs around you because you have a force that flows through concrete. But the point is I love you all the time whether I notice it or not whether I like it or not. If the only certainty is uncertainty then I'm fine; then you are fine but remember you are better than fine you are beyond expectations you are an A++; because what I feel is so very uncertain in the way it rises and falls. Because you are so very uncertain you have predictable -only predictable to me- wonderful, perfect, broken but perfect, characteristics but when you choose to assert them is random. And if you are so uncertain and if the things you invoke in others- not only me because you have a force that doesn't just flow through concrete it flows through oceans it flows through seas- if you are so uncertain in a definite certain way; it is undeniable your force but when and where it catches me I can never tell; then you are forever. Dear You; I sometimes write to you about my cat I sometimes write to you about my fictitious dog; I sometimes write to you about my friends and I sometimes write to you about MacDonald’s. But dear you I always seem to write to you about you; and I always seem to write to you about me. Dear You, Dear Me; Dear Everything: I love you like some chasm has opened inside me and its all your fault and I love you like some chasm was deep inside me and its all filled up and stuffed and its all your fault. I love you in such a way that my words come out 3 dimensional from the screen. I love you like oh; it is such a relief.

My Wishy Washy Love Affair

Another one of those ones that I wrote a while ago but I never finished. I remember how this go's but it be wrong to finish it. Its quite a good ending for a short story anyway.

Other then my other loves, I loved it when she made decisions for me; honestly I loved it when most anyone would make decisions for me; but she did it best. She would say to me Look What Do You Wanna Do? And - if I just shrugged my shoulders she'd get mad- I'd tell her a few things I'd like to do then she'd say Probably Best You Do This. She didn't make decisions for anyone but me, everyone was grown up to make up their own minds; and sometimes she let others make her mind for her. But she knew what I was like, my absolute irreputable unseparatable love affair with indecisiveness, and she was nice enough to access situations to find the best option -my least favourite part fo decision making- and nice enough to let everyone else think she was bossy.

The Start of My Indecisive Adventure:

She initally decided it would be morally obscure for her to pick which university to go to. I knew what I wanted to do; I wanted to do the subjects I was best at and the subjects I liked more; I just didn't know where to do them. Best one in the country this, most suitable for your corse that; please make the decision for me. She thought it be wrong because for the whole week she'd had people arrange and set her mind for her. Whenever this happened I would be in a state of freefall trying to figure out which way to go; towards the electrons or the protons; towards the North pole or the South. I thought maybe I'd go to the Uni with the big farm on campus, what a trivial reason to base one's future on. I thought maybe I'd go to the Uni with the highest entry requirements; what a nerdy reason to base one's future one. I called her everyday to find her in the same state of decided undecided prearranged despair.

I decided not to tell her when I left; because she was already arranged enough as it was. If I told her, she would just arrange herself more. Best not tell her; best let her figure it out for herself; realize I'm not around anymore; and then come to her own conclusions on what to do. If I told her she'd have no thrill in figuring it out on her own and hence would take no initiative in making her own mind. I knew her well enough to make a few decisions for her benefit; I didn't think I knew myself well enough to make my own decisions when on the road. But there I was on the road. I took a few usefull useless essentials; put it all in a very large very old van I bought. I, with my P liscense went out on the road, a huge decision, to avoid having to stay home, and make other smaller decisions. I brought my ladder with me.

A Wife

Maybe if I had a wife she'd make all my decisions for me. Back home my friend would make all the decisions for me and she knew me well enough to make the best ones. So a wife should, a wife would do the same thing. I wondered where I could find a wife; as if they wandered around wearing veils and holding bouquets. I gave my friend a phonecall

"I think I wanna get married"

"Big life choice there"

"My wife could make all my decisions for me you see"

"Try a bar?"

I drove but didn'd find any bars that looked like they had women in them . It was getting dark. Other then fieldtrips for school, I'd never spent a night away from my matress with my two pillows and digital alarm clock with taped down snooze button. I had a matress in the back; not my mattress but a mattress from one of the guests room. If my friend found my matress missing she'd catch on to early and the thrill would be lost. I left the house at 9am it was 7. I wondered how long I could keep driving.

Breakfast Lunch and Dinner

I brought a hotplate but I didn't have any plugs in my van so its relevance seemed futile to me. I brought boxes of bread; that would expire in a few days. And so much peanut butter. I never understood how well of I was until I saw how much peanutbutter I managed to get. Only a rich kid could get so much peanutbutter. I forgot to bring a knife. I didn't want to stop driving, the closer I got to; the pointed end of the road sitting on the horizon; the better I would feel. How long can a person go without food? A week without water a month without food; I had brought lots of water. More water then peanutbutter. I didn't need any kitchen utensils to drink water. I very often needed to stop and piss. When I pissed in the wind I constantly feared the wind would blow it back onto my jeans. I'd forgotten to pack more jeans. I packed 12 pairs of boxers and two more shirts but no jeans. I tried pissing when there was no wind; but there was always wind. I learned to pee with my back to the wind; so the wind would help blow my piss further and further away from my solitary jeans. I wondered if anybody would pass by and stare at me taking a leak; but nobody passed by. I ate bread and sometimes crammed my fingers in the peanutbutter jars and licked them clean. I saw lots of stores as I drove by; but I refused to stop. I had to take shits in the bushes but it was ok. The sight of the sun rising and the wind rustlng through made it; a relaxing experience. I didn't see any hitchhikers so far and I wondered whether; if I did; should I pick them up. A hitch hiker might have a knife for my peanutbutter. As a guy old enough to get a P Liscencse for a manual car I didn't have to worry about a knife wielding hitch hikers. What if the hitchiker was a girl? Are hitch hikers marrying material. My friend called me as I was pulling over somewhere to sleep.

"Did you try a bar?" She started listing local bars in our neighbourhood; that we sometimes went to to get chocolate milk.

"No. Hey"

"?"

"Are hitch hikers marrying material?"

"Did you see one today?"

"No"

"They can be. But girls don't hitch hike"

"Rapists?"

"Rapists. Rapists are the reason we don't do anything anymore. There were loads of rapists in the old days but; back then a stranger was just as likely to rape you as your uncle was. It was better to be away from home back then."

"Lots of Oedipus complexes"

No More Bush Shitting

Early in the morning; around 9. Driving I wondered if eating peanutbutter of the same hands that I used to touch the steering wheel and clutch of this mysterious old van was the alriight thing to do. I saw a few people walking by and pulled over to ask them if they had butter knifes they could give me. Nobody ever did. Did nobody leave the house with butter knifes anymore; how many people now compared to the amount of people back then had Oedipus complexes. I knew I didn't have one but those aren't the things that are very obvious; it might rise up from the dark suddenly. All the better I was leaving home. I was taking a piss in the sand and just as I was zipping up my jeans somebody approached the van. I saw the person from a distance; had to run all the way back to the van; back to the main road. Luckily that person hadn't seen me taking a leak. It was a girl; she was wearing sunglasses eventhough It wasn't particularly sunny. She looked at me and it was if she didn't see me; she had to take of her sunglasses and put on a pair of ridicolously large almost Dumbledore glasses from her pocket. When she did; and when she looked at me; then I finally felt recognized; ah she see's me now. I did the only thing I could think to do; I pulled out my hand stretched it towards her big framed face. She grasped it firmly; we shook hands, one shake looking each other in the eye.

"Is this your van" She was absolutely casual as if the handshake had elminated the formailty required in the conversation. That was the objective of the handshake.

"Yeah; hey do you..."

"?"

"Have a knife?"

She pulled out from her pocket a very small cracked here and there plactic knife that you get from fast food joints as well as a napkin. I liked her instantly.

Too Short Maybe

I felt like writing something with no interpretations necessary, sometime it can be so fun to

write things like that. Its an absolute relief for the writer sometimes. I kept changing my mind

mid way about where the whole thing was headed. It was fun writing something that didn't

need very much thinking I could just type away uninterrupted. I know writing is supposed

to be a heavy editing real trial and error thing but its a real joy to sit down and let something light

and crisp; something salad-y and light winded come out.

For the summer me and my friend decided to get a job painting houses. Not the best idea we've ever had; we would arrive at houses fresh faced and lacking in paint splattered overalls; and no matter how little we charged nobody seemed to be into the ideas of two kids painting a house. We agreed that we wouldn't paint outsides only insides. Only rooms with air conditioning and possible lemonade; my friend bought $200 worth of painting equipment: paintbrushes, ladders, tarp all that stuff. I liked the determined look on his face when he got back from the hardware store. He put his hand on my shoulder looked me in the eyes and said: we can fucking do this. We never fucking did it.

We spent most of the summer; sitting around; waiting for calls. Sometimes an old lady would call us in and ask us to paint her dog house or maybe just touch up the smallest room in the house. We could never make enough to balance our $200 expenses. I would wake up every morning 8am sharp and walk to his house. A half an hour walk through the traffic and the grime and the squishing squashing heat; ignoring all the motorists passing by whistling at me cause I choose to wear shorts. He would buzzer me into the house; a huge house with fresh modern furniture and fixtures and panelings. It wasn't one of those modern charming -expensive- houses you'd see on TV. It was possible tacky but it most definitely would sweat this sort of I have a lot of fucking cash in my bank account feel. It was so hot; that I imagined the house sweating.

They had no maids or houseworkers; my friend did all the cleaning and he did all the cooking. Every month he would wake up at 7 to polish and mop the floors. Every 2 months he would wake up at 9 to clean all the shining stair railings. It was a Cinderella's step mothers house; tile and golden banisters. When I arrived he would always be cleaning something; I would make him breakfast. Then we would sit around in his room and wait for phone calls to come and they almost never did.

I loved his house because he would put the air con on full blast whenever I came over. There was always something in the pantry for us to cook. He had nutmegs and cardamom seeds a whole god damn spice rack that felt two feet tall. He would put nutmeg in his pancakes and I always felt it must be good to be able to eat so grandly. When we weren't eating we would sit around and read Peanuts comics. I would walk back home at 5 just before it would get dark. I wouldn't take any of the shortcuts through the bushes or parks; I would avoid all dark corners; I would constantly try and pull my shorts so they'd stretch across my legs more and pull my top up to show considerable less cleavage and wonder whether it was really that hot that I had to dress like a slut and get possible raped. I wonder whether women should really be this frightened. When I got home he would always call just to make sure I wasn't mugged shot kidnapped gang raped on the way back. Despite all his worrying he never walked me home. He was not much of a walker.

"Do you think we should go get a more; successful job? Waiter; fast food attendant; delivery"

"No I don't really care about getting money" I really didn't; I just wanted to spend the summer the best I could. And the best I could in a way that allowed me to stay cool refreshed lounging in a big bed in an air con room sipping lemonade in some sort of crystal cup with Indonesian sugar cane sugar and European Lemons. "What about you?"

"I just want to paint houses" I assumed that as a rich kid he always had someone else painting rooms for him; some professional hired from the South of France or something; hence driving his dire to do his own painting. I noticed that whenever he painted he would focus and focus like his mind would explode.

We painted a few more places; the inside of a small school cupboard that had spaghetti sauce dripping from the walls; somebody's large wooden Ikea table. I did not see him after that; I stopped going to his house for a few days- the newspaper reported a bank robbery with the suspects still at large and even though I wasn't sure what a bank robber would want with me I could not bring myself to leave the house- and when I went again I rang the doorbell to have nobody answer me. I tried a few times before guessing that he was out on vacation or something.

He did show up to my house two weeks later. I found him sitting on my bed playing with the curtains when I came back from a job interview ; I never locked my bedroom window and I could imagine him finally putting that shiny $70 ladder to use. I glanced out the window and could see the shine of its slime steel frame. He was very very tan all of a sudden I didn't like looking at him it was too much like looking at a carrot; a over sized carrot sitting on my bed. He looked at me not the least bit upset by his new carroty appearance

"Hey where have you been?"

"Job interview; you?"

"Camping. There I brought you a pine cone!"

There was a pine cone sitting on my table and a glossy plastic bag with pictures of trees on it. There were shorts and lumberjack button up cotton shirts in there "My family insisted I buy you something" There was also a rape alarm in there.

He left at around midnight so that I could finally fall asleep with being self conscious about drooling or saying strange names in my sleep. I assume he left the way he came in. I woke up again 3 hours later; restless restless restless; the ladder was gone. I tried on his gifts before dozing off to sleep again.

He kept going back and forth; first here then back camping then here then back camping then here then back camping. He always came back with the same tan carrot colored never darker or lighter; as if he had reached the point of no return. I would always get different things as souvenirs; a pile of rocks, a pile of leaves; vast amounts of lumberjack shirts and at one point sturdy hiking shoes. Every time he came back he would climb his way into my unlocked room and bring me my gifts; then we would put on the computer and on the PS2 and play Pacman all day. Honestly I was pissed I did not have the opportunity to try out my new rape alarm. I never left the house anymore except to buy nutmegs.

It was his 8th time back from camping and this time he brought me 3 cotton t shirts and a large towel. The window was open and there was a breeze drifting through. A breeze is not as wonderful as an air con. A breeze keeps coming and going and there is nothing you can do to control it.

"Do you want to come on the next trip with me?"

I gave him an odd look; he never told me anything about his trips. He wasn't the type "Why?"

"I enjoy your company"

We put on Pacman on the PS2 again. On the 8th level I agreed. Finally, a place to go out and possible use my rape alarm. He said he would bring everything else; flashlights, first aid kit, sleeping bags, pillows, the whole set. He helped me put a few shirts and shorts into a small backpack; with my rape alarm and a fresh toothbrush. At 3am he stumbled out of the room climbing down the ladder; I envied his masculine confidence of the shadows and the alleys.

When we left he drove up in a small old car; there was a lot of crap crammed in the back. Half way along the journey he admitted that his parents would one out of the two nights. I did not care.

We didn't do anything romantic or inappropriate up there; I felt like I wanted too but at the same time I didn't. We took cold showers in the river and laid out to dry in the stony banks. We baked fish. We didn't talk as much as usual when we were there; he never looked like he wanted to talk. Not that he was, upset, or anything like that. He just always looked like he was out of words, like he was born a mute and this was crisp clear apple flavored silence was natural completely natural. There was no lemonade out there that was the furthest away I had ever been to any source of lemonade. There was no Indonesian sugar cane sugar out there. I loved how the water was clean and cold and how the stones were round and smooth; I kept wondering how rocks could be so round and smooth. I never touched my rape alarm; there were other campers around here and there; but I never felt I needed it. Maybe I could smash someone in the head with a smooth round rock if they tried anything. But I didn't worry about it. I spent hours sitting near the waters trying to trace the little streams that trickled from the forest into the rivers I would use the stones to block the stream; re route the stream; make a dam; make a waterfall. All sorts of things. I was like those little kids who can spend hours absorbed in elementary wooden blocks. I felt bad that, as an adult, I grew out of toys. But things can remain timeless; building sandcastles and rerouting little streams. Well, I hoped that those things were timeless. I liked dropping leaves and sticks into the currents; running to a meander barefoot and wet and then squatting on the shores waiting for the leaf or stick to blow past me so I could pick it up.

The middle of the last night; we had moved camp right by the rocky river so I could play all night long. I wasn't allowed to swim but I didn't need to. There was no moon out and we were a bit to close to the city to see many stars. It was still light for some reason; I could still see. I could spot my rocky towers and my rocky arches, caves and waterfalls. I would keep mounting them up so that they stuck up even more and were even more distinct. He couldn't sleep; he hadn't slept since we got here. After I had finished up my monuments; made them so perfect and so wonderfully complete; I walked up to him in his sleeping bag "Are you tired?"

He didn't answer. He hadn't talked much all day. Today less then yesterday "Why do you think we failed so badly at painting?"

"I don't know, too young I guess"

"Too short?"

"Maybe"

He didn't have the born mute born natural face on, he looked the same sort of troubled he looked back home when he couldn't find his mop or when he was too sick to make Pancakes. I got him to go back into the tent but it didn't make a difference. I could feel his worry stir up into the surrounding air; it made everything thick like yogurt and I couldn't sleep because of it. I twisted and turned in my sleeping bag because it was hot and uncomfortable; he didn't move like he was weighted down by a specially strong gravitational pull. Sometimes I felt he might sink into the ground and I would wake up and he would be in a 6 foot hole with the same sort of face and I would have to try and pull him out.

"I can't sleep"

"I'm sorry" he assumed insomnia was contagious at that moment. Insomnia is when you can't sleep. I was trapped in some sort of yogurt flavored insomnia. The last thing I wanted was for the sun to come up. I wanted to go out and play with my rocks but for the first time was too afraid to go outside. "I wandered lonely as a cloud,

That floats on high o'er vales and hills" I didn't know he was a poetry reciter

"I didn't know you were a poetry reciter" I pulled the sleeping bag as high up as I could; but I couldn't get it over my head.

"Are you scared of something?" I was scared he would sink into the ground; I was so scared of something, so very scared of not knowing what to be scared of. And I couldn't pull anything over my head; not like at home where I could pull a blanket over my head and be completely shielded in my vortex of cotton and polyester. That worried me even more; not having my polyester cotton shield.

"I'm bloody terrified"

He didn't ask me any questions he just kept on reciting

"I wandered lonely as a cloud

That floats on high o'er vales and hills

When all at once I saw a crowd

A host, of golden daffodils

Beside the lake beneath the trees,

Fluttering and dancing in the breeze"

I had to bury my head in his chest to make up for the lack of cotton polyester protection over my head. I was afraid I would wet his t-shirt so I tried to squeeze my eyes shut till they were sealed. "Continuous as the stars that shine" Continuous as the stars that shine. I sensed that he felt like a Romantic poet then and there; Byron Shelley Wordsworth were the only one's I knew. I sensed it through the yogurt filled air. Maybe then I could pretend to be Mary Shelley; but the I thought of Frankenstein's monster and got even more terrified. His orange-ness didn't glow in the dark as I had once assumed; I comforted myself thinking of his carrot color and all the other colors I knew. "And twinkle in the Milky Way" And twinkle in the Milky Way; how I wanted a candy bar. I clenched my fist keeping my thumbs tucked in; a terrible habit. I shoke my head a little side to side. "They stretch'd in never ending line along the margin of the bay."

In a never fucking ending line. I don't know how long I managed to keep my eyes and my fists clenched shut I was gonna squeeze the life out of my thumbs; I resisted putting them in my mouth so I could suck my thumb like an infant. He patted me on the back; with a determined voice "I'm not ever gonna sink into the ground no matter how much the earth's pushing me"

I had to think about what he had said 3 times before I understood it "Pulling"

"?"

"The earth would be pulling you"

"Right" He had a determined silence; a concentrated focused silence. He yawned, a good sign.

As if that was the end of the poem he recited the whole thing again

I wandered lonely as a cloud That floats on high o'er vales and hills When all at once I saw a crowd A host of golden Daffodils Beside the lake beneath the trees Fluttering and dancing in the breeze Continuous as the stars that shine And twinkle in the Milky Way The stretch'd in never ending line across the margin of the bay.

There are no such thing as perfect imperfect nights; if you were to look at it scientifically literally. In the same way it could be argued that you can't say that a perfectly imperfect night with your head buried in a poet singing chest can happen non romantically non inappropriately non in love. I wasn't in love with that boy no matter what is said; I loved him only in that way that people love people that friends love friends that pine cones love pines and that rocks love rivers.

"I feel like Mary Shelley" I told him

"I like Mary Shelley"

Eventhough there was no moon out and we were too close to the city to see stars; it was still light out.

Paul the Octopus or Aims and Ambition

Dedicated To Benioff and Paul

Having missed out on betting on the fucking octopus's predictions I wasn't sure who to be annoyed at; never again would the octopus grace me again with his predictions his money making predictions. He was apparently retired; and raking in 20g through sponsorship and shit. Instead of investing my $100 I let it lie in my wallet; sitting there brushing against the lint and faded reciepts that sat there with it.

I took the very last train out; if I took the very last train out nobody else from my neighborhood could call me "Hey you're out in the city? I'll catch the last train we'll hang out" I took the last train which gave me maybe a 3 hour interval before they started again into their early morning shift. I don't know who would be wandering at these times and what would open.

There was hardly anything going around. All the homeless people and streetwalkers retired somewhere dry. I had an umbrella; nights like these I always had an umbrella handy. Someone lanky walked ahead of me but he heard my footsteps and kept slowing down and trying to look back at me. Finally he turned around and stopped; surveyed me as I approached him.

"Hey did you miss the last train?"

"No I like being around at this hour"

The guy wore loafers and a tie; he looked all dolled up. You could tell he was a student he had that absolute EAGER face framed by wispy hair he probably spent hours on. He was maybe 10 years younger then me. He annoyed me cause when he looked at me he had this fascinated pleased look. Maybe he wanted to hang out with me for a social science project. I could imagine the clibboard and papers in his backpack with A STUDY ON THE BEHAVIOUR OF DRUGGIES PROSTITUTES AND OTHER UNSAVOURY CHARACTERS. I'm not sure if assignment would ever be that unsophisticated but what did I know.

"Me too; but I'm not as cool as all that; I was running running running trying to get to the station just in time but I missed it by a minute. Always happens to me. So I guess I've learned to relish this time of night"

It was more very very early morning but I didn't feel like contradicting him. He kept on talking; he was a talker which made me dislike him a little more

"Where are you going" he asked

I told him I wasn't going anywhere. He asked if I would like to follow him he knew a place to get a drink. I shrugged and followed him. If I really was his little social assignment then he'd probably pay for me. We, with both our umbrella's standing far apart from each other,walked past all the closed juice bars and chick little boutiques. We'd go down tons of streets; every street we went down he would suddenly turn towards a coffee shop or something and knock knock knock. Someone; always a girl who worked there; would open the door. They would have idle conversation.

-Hey you -(Playful wink) -What are you doing here shouldn't you be doing your homework (has a flirtatious 'naughty naughty boy' tone -(Smile) Can you offer me and my friend a bite or something?

And they would always oblige. We recived warm coffees and stale bagles and packs of smokes.He explained that they were all girls in his school whhose father owned the little stores we stopped by. He said they liked to stay in the stores overnight with some matresses and blankets from the storage room so they would be in quick and easy access to the night clubs and bars that they loved going to.

All the senseless childish flirting I would have to listen to ticked me off abit more each time. But smokes helped.

"What next? A library? A student bar?" it was cold out; our breath would fog up as if we were blowing white ash

He laughed an annoying student laugh "No no I'll take you somewhere with people your age"

He took me to an old bar sitting in between two sad short office buildings. There was light and noise pouring emitting from the dark pane green windows of the place but the door was locked. He had a key. The place was filled with people -somewhat- my age. And a few young people as well. They immediately took to us and poured us more drinks then I could drink.

I asked him about this place; how he had come across here. He told me one of the owners was his previous step-mom. He told me he worked here every weekend; he didn't look old enough to have a liquor licence. He didn't look old enough for anything. He looked at his watch

"The trains are gonna start running soon"

Even though I was pretty plastered I felt confident I could hide my red eyes and blurry slurs; at least for the transit officers. He sprayed me over with cologne and gave me a suitcase from the back room; "It makes you look more like a salary man, transit officers don't bug drunk salary men" I asked him how he knew that and he said he sometimes watched the people pass in and out of the trains and had picked up a few tips. I knew it; he must be some sort of cultural studies kid. We left the bar; everyone patted us on the back and let us go offering us peanuts and chips for the ride home. "It's like Cheers!" I told him. "What the fuck is Cheers"

The rain stopped and the day was a soft gentle hazy grey; little drops of water leaked down from the jutting out roofs and balconies. They were thin sad puddles on the street. We arrived at the station; people were pushing past us already; the dedicated worker always on time at the office. They clutched their little paper train tickets in their hands. We bought two tickets for opposite directions and waited at the platforms; sitting on the silver freezing to the tough metallic chairs.

"Are you gonna ask me questions now?"

"What?" He's obviously confused

"Nothing. Anyway thanks for the beer and stuff"

"No problem"

When we get on each others separate we wave to each other and then the doors close and the trains pull into the dark hollow tunnels.

Burning Midnight

Dedicated to the creator of Jaws :D

Night 1

The lampposts flicker and burn, every 10 seconds they turn silently dim and their light looks like fatty yellow butter in deep puddles on the asphalt. Then they turn off for 30 seconds, burn back brightly for 10 seconds, deep intense white shallow light. From outside I don't know whether anyone can see me our not. See me sitting on the bed wrapped in two jackets hood pulled up track pants long socks thick blanket, because I'm right by the window I'm freezing my ass of but I don't really wanna move away. Burn burn flicker.

Night 2

The tiny portable heater is on and burring on a chair at the foot of the bed; there are many people here lightning cigarettes standing near the heater staring out the window. The room becomes filled with smoke but nobody wants to or knows how to open the windows. Someone fiddles with it but gives up. Most people fade out of my room to go to different parts of the very large house. Some people stay and sleep on the floor; someone opens the door for a while and all the smoke blows away except for a small cloud that blows in an out of my vision. The lights are kept on.

Night 3

There is only one person here tonight my friend. He is my only friend staying in the house he keeps moving in and out of the room. He finds the remote for the dual air conditioner, it starts blowing hot air. The portable heater sits in the corner. He comes in with a mattress, then later pillows, then later sheets and later two large blankets. He moves around the room tense for lack of nicotine. I offer him something to smoke and he lits up leaning his head out the window blowing out ash; teeth clattering every time he takes the cigarette out of his mouth. He moves through 1 and a half packs at one go. He shuts the window whens hes done and hides the second half finished box under his pillow. He turns the lights off and gets under the blanket. I leave the curtain slightly open so I can still look outside while lying down. I don't fall asleep until the sun starts to come up.

Night 4

My friend is here still. We have a hot plate here and plugged into the wall. There are, as usual, no cars on the street; there are no cars on the nearby highway. When I was a kid I used to count the time interval between passing cars on the freeway. The maximum it could get to was 10 seconds. The dual conditioner is still on and we are still wrapped up in thick clothes and thick blankets. He eats 12 peanut butter sandwiches and smokes 2 packs head out the window. There is a couple on the far side of the room on a very small mattress one of them is talking while the other one listens.

Night 5

My friend isn't here; but there are so many people here now. Just like the first night. We are all staring out the window now not just me. The heater has been on and has been always on ever since. Nobody is smoking, sometimes people leave the room to go smoke in the hall. The couple are staring out the round glass window in their section of the room, they're kneeling on their mattress their hair is ruffled. There are no cars on the highway same as always. The lights keep burning and flickering and when they turn off everyone holds their breath a little longer till they burn back on again; except me. I keep breathing small shallow breaths the whole time street lamps on or off.

A car finally pulls up on the street; a very old car that we all share. My friend walks out and looks up at the window of the very large house. But he can't see us; everyone sighs relieved and some people pat each other on the back and laugh. Somebody pulls out booze from the inner coat of his jacket, every other guy follows suit. The all pull the cigarette out of their pockets and a girl in trench coat walks around lighting them all. The couple lean back down on the mattress the boy kisses the girl on the nose; I pull the curtains closed and brush my pillow. Everyone enjoys themselves; I can hear my friend in the kitchen gathering food and drinks too bring in. Somebody turns to me; someone who went out too; who we all waited for once before; he puts his hand on my shoulder and gives me a cigarette and a lighter. Everyone looks at me as a lit up. First one everyone asks. Yes, I reply. I inhale eyes closed and I don't choke any of it out. I take second and third blows.

My friend comes in and looks at me; he gives me a nod cause I'm next. I look at him: yeah I know. He comes down to sit beside me and we never look out the window again.

On Waking Naps

A half hearted historic adventure written years ago, on napping. I'm so easily inspired.


Half awake and half asleep is like drifting slightly. I imagine it would be something like a person who has been floating around the sea crashed and thrashed by the slipping and slapping waves, then the person gets dragged towards the shore towards the foam and the curl. Half the body on the shore and the legs and feet and waist are being licked and flicked by the waves coming in. Then the person wakes up grogilly. Huh what the person mutters and stummers, but water slips into the persons mouth, sea water and sand. The person gets the sensation of being in between two different things. Top body, arms, neck, torso, face hair, lips, ears, are against the grit and sand, somewhat damp and drying. Then the person realises that the person's legs are being washed by the foam, it makes a soft sound when it breaks on you. Like a million tiny pebbles the size of ants being thrown on you.
But being asleep isn't exactly like drowning and being thrown around by waves. So to be more accuarate about it its like a mermaid being dragged to shore. Mermaids enjoy the sea right? Probably just a sleeping mermaid caught by an underwater current. When the mermaid wakes up it'll probably say, this is interesting and then dive right back.

Even if I open my eyes completely it would still take a while for things to get focused. For the moment that pillow looks like a cracker in negative tin tone. I turn around and close my eyes again, I don't even notice that I've fallen back asleep, when I wake up again I'm almost surprised. Eyes still closed it feels like a deepish grey colour has enveloped you and surrounded you completely. I realise after about two seconds the sound of a dog barking, it comes back muffled and filtered, like the surrounding colour has sort of absorbed the essence of a sound. This is the only time when a sound can actually lose substance. In a way it sounds distant and far away. But if you hear a phone ringing from the next house it still has substance, it penetrates the surroundings with complete clarity all it loses is its amplitude. When listening to a phone ringing all I can think is who the fuck is gonna answer that. Its just a matter of simple distance. And waiting for Who The Fuck to answer the phone.
The dog bark feels like it came from somewhere else, somewhere relatively nearby but this place has colour and clarity and canines. This place has only grey blank barks with no dog to bark it. I close my eyes again and slip into sleep again with anybody noticing, even I don't notice. I roll in and out again and again. I wake up again and the dog is still barking, I keep my mind focused on the dog and it becomes less and less far away and less and less empty. The sound of someone cooking comes into. I stay on the bed eyes closed stretching. I have to physically force myself to open up my eyes and sit up.

*
Everything is black, convinced that my dream is reality I sit up the phone rings. In my room Who The Fuck is me this time. I groan and huh in my own mind and after a few seconds of the slit eyed view the colour comes swimming and swirling in. Imagine yourself watching something. In front of you you can see a pipe and then the water pours and and it swoams and furls and curls and foams and floods and fills. Swish Swish Swash until your whole view becomes drenched. That is how the colour comes in, then I recognise things and for half a second I think: this is a dream. Then I realise you have a job, I pick up the phone. The person on the other line asks if I am okay. I say yes. I rub my eyes. Ah this is it then, I think, this is a sleeping hangover....
The person on the other lines continues the conversation. I grunt and say yes while nodding at the same time. A nap now? Yes.
*

Emperio Armani

So we have a black and white scene set out for us

Camera cuts to diamonds falling on the floor

Silhoutte of a chick standing by a mic

Then the lights flash on

Its Beyonce with a bid band behind her

Are they holding saxaphones or what or WHO CARES ITS BEYONCE! :D

So shes standing by the mic wearing this shinyyyy shinny mini dress

If it wasnt black and white, honestly al the sequins would hurt my eyes but thank god for the lack of colour

So her hairs flying everywhere and she grabs the mic 

''DIAMONDSS ARE A GIRLS BEST FRIENDSS''

Then they shift back to the diamonds falling down

Is that a bottle in the background? Oh wait they've cut back to Beyonce

''Diamonds'' TUN<> ''Are A'' ''Girls Best Friend!!!~~~~~~~~''

Then they cut to the chase emperio armani new diamond cologne blah blah blah

Then to cut it off Beyonce giving a kick ass smile to the camera

Better then Irreplacable. I from now on heart Emperio Armani.

And Beyonce. I'm taping that add next time I see it. Yeahhhh