April 2007

Friday the Thirteenth
After I made it through a Wednesday without any drama, chaos or nonsense I figured that I broke the curse much like Reagan broke that curse back in 1980.

Of course I realized that April and July have a Friday the Thirteenth

Here's hoping it remains an uneventful day despite the topic of conversation on everyone's lips is snow. Forecasts say three to six inches of the white stuff between Thursday night and Friday. Sunday is supposed to get warm, up in the fifties.

the old ones are beat

Nick Mamatas wrote a wonderful pastiche of Jack Kerouac involving the creations of H.P. Lovecraft. The novel is called Move Under Ground. I burned through the book and found it to be delightful even though it is a short read (fewer than 200 pages). In short Kerouac is witness to the rising of R'lyeh from the depths of the Pacific and begins a cross-country journey. Only beats, weirdos and other folks who have fallen to the wayside are witness to the ensuing chaos while the straights and normals are turning into mugwumps.

I've never read any of Kerouac's work but I've seen random quotes and I reckon Mamatas has him down pat. Burroughs steals the show in the book, he and Kerouac become Hope and Crosby as they visit old haunts and watch everything change as the stars align themselves overhead. Plus the dork in me is awfully pleased that it's a first edition and a limited edition. Yet it's not the edition which also includes a poem follow-up piece.

description

Sometime this month, maybe in May, perhaps next year I plan on performing a writing exercise here at heptapod.org. In short, write an evocative, 100 word description of an object or an event. If I can find my notebook I'll bring it to work and write shit down in anticipation.

body art

Okay it's one thing to get stupid tattoos all over one's body. Yeah you're defacing yourself in hopes that the magical ink will imbue the soul with personality.

Yet today I discovered one of my co-workers has a corporate logo tattooed on her. No, I did not ask nor was I expecting to see her Tijuana license plate. You know, the jizz-target. A tramp stamp. There's this stylized outline of a fox that I've seen once or twice on the internet. She has it on her lower back.

At least I can accept someone who has a swastika or some Bible quote tattooed because it represents an individual's ideology but a corporate logo as a tattoo? OH LAWD.

and so

Hopefully next week I'll get a visit from the insurance adjuster and see what happens from there. Today I got the accident report number.

On Tuesday I was not in a good way. Work had enervated me. On the ride over to Cassius's place for our training session Jaybird was effusive about having recently acquired his dream job and all its perks. In my head I could only hear that he wouldn't want to be my friend anymore because he's making more money and that being magnified by the fact that when I reflect upon myself I'm just white trash.

Yet he called me his best friend on his LiveJournal.

Shit like that doesn't get bandied about by a self-diagnosed autist.

In Yer Dreams

There is dreaming and then there is dreaming. Most dreams happen while the entire consciousness lay dormant. It's only when the subconscious is roused that a story will begin for the night.

As usual I was experiencing my dreaming life. Boring, basic and uneventful as I spoke with shadowed acquaintances, ran unremarkable and unremembered yet necessary errands. True dreaming began at the edge of my community which was in the middle of a great, green meadow surrounded by distant mountains whose color faded into the sky.

I was sitting at a sturdy picnic table when I noticed there was a red headed girl wearing a black tube top running at full tilt towards me. Unsurprisingly with each stride her top worked itself loose until her generous breasts were bouncing out. Her nipples were pierced and sparkled in the sunlight. By the time she reached my location she was tugging up her top and giving me the evil eye.

She accused me of lechery, robbing her of her will and forcing her to engage in such exhibitionist sport simply because I had roused from my usual dissociative state. My thought was simple and dared accuse her of being complicit for these things never work unless it does not go against the subject's desires.

My new friend stormed past me as I stood up and things began to fade out. When the dream focused back in I was having a long discussion about how all prey have a secret desire to be eaten and perpetuated by the stronger predator. Upon realization that I was truly dreaming once again I sought out the young woman.

No luck. Bad or otherwise so why should I complain?