landscape architect

ROCKYROCKY HORRORSHOW

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bundles for special groups of muscles are not, as was formerly supposed,
arranged irregularly and fortuitously, but that on the contrary the nerve

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fibres to a particular group of muscles have a typical and practically
constant position within the nerve. In the large nerve-trunks of the
limbs he has worked out the exact position of the bundles for the various

trialisation trialism trialist
leap'd, and anxious thus bespoke the king: "Great perils, father! wait
the unequal fight These younger champions will oppress thy might. Thy

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veins no more with ancient vigour glow, Weak is thy servant, and thy
coursers slow. Then haste, ascend my seat, and from the car Observe the
steeds of Tros, renown'd in war. Practised alike to turn, to stop, to
chase, To dare the fight, or urge the rapid race: These late obey'd Æneas'

moodier moodiest moodily
Venus leave thee, every charm must fly, Fade from thy cheek, and languish
in thy eye. Cease to provoke me, lest I make thee more The world's

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engage, Than, the sad victim, of the public rage." At this, the fairest
of her sex obey'd, And veil'd her blushes in a silken shade Unseen, and
silent, from the train she moves, Led by the goddess of the Smiles and

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choice is free." Ulysses ceased: the great Achaian host, With sorrow
seized, in consternation lost, Attend the stern reply. Tydides broke The

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general silence, and undaunted spoke. "Why should we gifts to proud
Achilles send, Or strive with prayers his haughty soul to bend? His
country's woes he glories to deride, And prayers will burst that swelling
heart with pride. Be the fierce impulse of his rage obey'd, Our battles

CHEEKY BASTARDS!

burn your bridges

I had a hangnail.
“Stop biting your nails”, he said, “you’ll chew your fingers off”.
And I put my slender hand down, and kept my eyes on the floor of the car. He would drive fast. He liked the feeling of everything going by.
We went down the road to the center of the city to see the lights. It was a concrete city. Tall, and empty. Cold and dead. To get there you had to go by the factories and oil refinery that would spark fires in the sky when letting off gas. You could only see a glimpse of them from the car window. No one lived in the city anymore. Some of the elevators still worked and you could go up into the old apartments and offices with furniture in them. We would sit in the chairs and sofas that were splitting at the seams, and look at what the water damage had done to the ceilings. We would try to figure out which stain was what country. All the buildings we went to had sheets of papers littering the hallways. Sometimes you could find ripped letters and photographs. Time went slower in the city. The town halls’ clock tower had stopped, along with all the other clocks and you could never really know what time it was. My watch broke. We didnt really have time.
We were strangers before, and when it happened it went on for too long.
The left over smog gives you amazing sunsets in the city. Bold orange light that makes you feel warm.
It was our city. We killed afternoons there when nothing was on TV. Our city had a buzz. You could feel it. It had the noise of old florescent lights. Sometimes I could feel it flowing through me like an electric current from all the TV and radio signals. All the cell phone connections. It came through my body like a wave, echoing inside my chest cavity. Like a flapping bird in its cage.
There were times when I could feel it stronger and stronger until it was getting out of hand. I didn’t want to get rid of it and tried to hard to hold on to it. It was a feeling to strong to hold on to. You were a feeling to strong to hold on to. I remember everything.
We would walk in the middle of the empty roads and watch the stoplights change from red to green, and watch the brick buildings slowly crumble. We had all been waiting for something to happen and it finally did. We were left alone to revel in it.
“Its time to meet new people” he said. And I didn’t know what to say.

why not

Hi!
I've entered a contest to create a :30 clip around the dangers of bad credit. A winner will be chosen, based on votes received by 31 July. The winner needs at least 100 votes. The prize is $10,000. To add to the suspense, a pal of mine who's close to the process says than none of the other clips have anywhere near the 100 vote minimum.
With your help, I think I've got a decent shot at actually winning the prize.
So, I'd be grateful if you could log on, check it out and vote for my clip.
If I win, I promise to host you all to at magnficent party where the champagne will flow, beasts will be roasted and vegetarians accomodated with gourmet delicacies.
Here's the URL
http://www.whatsmyscore.org/contest/videos.php?displayVideo=92
My clip is called "Cube Farm" and is a typcially lighthearted piece based on still photography (it's not the one with the rapper).
The site is sponsored by Visa.
My contacts tell me that the information they ask for is just to assure the vote is honest, and you won't be spammed.
Thanks!
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'To lose a passport was the least
of one's worries. To lose a
notebook was a catastrophe.'
Bruce Chatwin
'I never travel without my notebook.
One should always have something
sensational to read in the train.'
Oscar Wilde

how soon we forget

three reasons why I stopped going to "peers building justice"

1. second semester I got 8th period off. on block thursdays (the same day as meetings are held) i get out of school at one thirty. this is slightly inconvenient.

2. Jared Guy

3. emails like this:
Coverage of 'School Shootings' Avoids the Central Issue
by Jackson Katz



In the many hours devoted to analyzing the recent school shootings, once again we see that as a society we seem constitutionally unable, or unwilling, to acknowledge a simple but disturbing fact: these shootings are an extreme manifestation of one of contemporary American society’s biggest problems -- the ongoing crisis of men’s violence against women.

WHAT?!

my fat friend

are you anyones favorite person?

ttp://www.youtube.com/watch?v=asyWVtoCjNM

i hope you actually look at the links i post, otherwise i'd feel stupid.

http://noonebelongsheremorethanyou.com/

THINGS i find annoying (a list)

"pet peeve"
Popsicle biters
long toe nails
dirt under fingernails
people trying to imitate english accents
rich starving artists
fall out boy
slow internet
bread crust
being sticky
using textural allusions incorrectly
interpreting things incorrectly
the illusion of safety
people at my school
buffalo aaron
people at the mall
malls
american idol
people at the tridant
old people
girls
boys
people in general
"time magazine"
socratic seminars
math
my LA class
my film lit class
school
fashion for compassion
my art teacher
the family
not having bus fare
missing the bus
homework
french
chemistry
asthma
allergies
weeding
dusting
Darfur
iraq
politics
the panic attacks i get when i think about(in this order):
A) college
B) global warming
C) going deaf/blind
D) car crashes resulting in death/ permanent dis figuration
E) the SATs
denver
the news
rap, country
neo hippies
republicans (Reagan and bush, respectively)
teenagers
bad writers
the davinci code


no respect!


this list could go on for a while so i'll stop now.

"life is an optical illusion, like other optical illusions".

every time there is a death from suicide or drunk driving the students of East Wood high have group therapy sessions in their English classes. the school councilors think that this will help students cope, and the smokers in the parking lot think that its a big joke.
"i remember that she liked to go swimming and her hair would always smell like chlorine" Suzy says, clutching the wrist of the nervous girl with highlights next to her. the new age teachers make their students sit in large circles on the floor and hold hands, sometimes there are even scented candles in the middle.
"good, good". says Mrs. Randy, trying to encourage the students who role their eyes. Mrs. Randy is menopausal and in her "goddess phase". she often recommends yoga and wears big beaded necklaces.
this has been the third suicide of the school year, and many think that it was a copycat of the first two. it was only October, and the parents and teachers were wondering what had gotten into their precious sons and daughters.
by now the students had become accustomed to death, and there was no longer that heavy feeling in the halls during passing period.
she had mostly gone unnoticed by the student body, she had transferred from ohio at the start of september.
"i guess she just felt like her life was in shreds". one of the boys said.
in truth no one knew her well enough to really be upset about it. sure it was tragic and all that, but the students didnt feel guilty for being secretly happy that they werent going to check the math homework they blew off the night before.


she was just a trick of the light.

Taos is for artists

http://www.coolhunting.com/archives/2007/03/jonathan_harris.php

afterthought

it isnt important how, or where, or when, just that it happened, and every time i smell bubble gum or talcum powder i see your feet after a bath and the bubbles you popped too loudly in the movie theater. how you bit your nails with that silly expression on your face, your eyebrows in a knot looking as serious as a politician. you bit pens to, leaving tiny teeth marks, little dents that reminded me of the dime-sized ones ladies pumps left in linolium tiled floors. i try not to think of you then, when teen age girls laugh and smell the way you did-your shampoo and too sweet bubble gum. your breaths that would go in and out of being light and heavy. sighing, like you did, when Marlon Brando came on screen, and grabbing my hand with a sweaty palm underneath the velvet seat that was rough with all the other bodies. you were a feeling too strong to hold on to, dream-like, and i'm forgetting you. the places where freckles were, or the long slow line of your colar bone. soon you'll be a cancelled tv show, fuzzy images i'll only remember when reminded by something else. again your laugh. whether fast or slow, loud or soft, it always came from deep inside and you'd open your red mouth big and wide, we'd catch glimpses of your silver capped molar at dinner parties.

inspired by recent events

Every Thursday during lunch we would watch them from the library windows as they went to smoke pot in the trees down by the lake.
Even on the day of the arrest.
Even in the winter, which caused them to develop 3 month long coughs that started from the bottoms of their chests and ripped through their lungs. They would come back just in time for science shaking there unwashed hair (which was the waxy texture of a bar of soap) and stomping the snow off their shoes with hazy looks in their eyes (that were not their eyes).
We sometimes talked to the less intimidating ones in our math classes, gathering details that would latter be pieced together as clues.
The nicer one, Laura, we had all seen her out smoking cigarettes in the morning and during breaks, had dark red hair. We had all read the headlines of the day before, the mystery of her mothers death and how her stoner boyfriend was arrested.it was on one of those Thursdays when they arrested her, took her into custody just after history. The local paper made it clear that no one really knew about anything that was going on. The state bureau of investigation had gotten involved, and clips of their interviews with the neighbors had been leaked, saying that neither Mrs. Roberts or Mr. Sawer had seen the mother for weeks, and the cigarette butts kept gathering on the front lawn. The paper made Laura and her steady boyfriend of five months to be rowdy and disconcerted youth.
Laura never particularly interested us, we just talked to her in a futile attempt to understand why her and her friends were so determined to distract themselves. we knew and had experienced their desperate attempt to escape suburban reality, but the excess of their apathy for one another always made us wonder if we were the same way but didn't know it yet.
we watched them, jaded and emotionally detached, like a television show. our friends were not our friends, and the ups and downs of their reality tv never really affected us. we only realized our lack of empathy after the murder. as the news articles became smaller and moved from the front page slowly to the back, and then disappeared completely, so did our interest in the girl who laughed heavily at Mr. Lawson, the English teachers, bad jokes.

renewed

jacket weather

they walked home the same way but tried not to make eye contact. she would stop every now and then to crack the ice in the gutters and he had to slow himself down to keep behind her.
sometimes she got a ride to school with her friends. they would pass him walking through the park crushing frost covered grass.

she was shy like bruised knees from slipping on the ice [violet and ash]. the chill of winter wind pulled back her scarf and therw her hair in her face, stricking it limply. to get to school she had to walk through a group of snow dead trees with long and crooked limbs exposed without their leaves.

everyday after school she would fall asleep on the vinyl couch with missing buttons to a patric swayze movie. she stretched on the couch and changed the channel until she found "dirty dancing". she would play with her unwashed hair and try to bite the dirt out from underneath her fingernails. picking at her dry skin and biting her cheek. when she would wake up the screen flickered out as she left to take advil.
occasionally they would be on the same bus going downtown. she would watch his reflection in the window. he would run his hand over his chin and tuge slightly on the skin above his adams apple, feeling his acne and ingrown stubble.
other days when she took the bus alone, when the only other people were homeless and old women with grocery bags, she would watch blue light hit flat buildings.

they pretended not to notice each other and became interested in minor personal flaws when crossing paths. they understood the pain of winter, and how it felt when it hit your bones. how that cough comes in november and stayes in the hollows of your ribs until march.














Disclamer:
i realize i could (and have) done better. but i need a story for ellipses and this is the only idea i have. frustrating, i know. believe me, i would ditch it if i had something better. maybe in march?

it was his deep voice that did her in. we watched her rise and fall like a breath in a yoga pose.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Hm0g5trWV9c&eurl=

air

"We knew the pain of winter wind rushing up your skirt, and the ache of keeping your knees together in class, and how drab and infuriating it was to jump rope while the boys played baseball...We felt the imprisonment of being a girl, the way it made your mind active and dreamy, and how you ended up knowing which colors went together." --The Virgin Suicides

comptine d'un autre ete: l'apres midi

as of now you have lost me to apathy.

i live in constant fear of having a double chin.

January is the cruelest month

i need to clear my head. i cant seem to get anything done.

the first thing i've written all year. kind of.

the lungs filled like air bags when the boy blew into them at the nine news health fair, showing the effects of smoking.
she had ditched gym and it was the only place to go. her socks had ridden down and the elastic was slack around her ankles, making her three year old sneakers uncomfortable.
she felt dumb in her dirty p.e shorts and avoided eye contact with him on the bleachers.
apparently he had skipped as well and decided against going to the library in sport clothes, just like her.
he came down anyway skipping every other step and took a written test on drunk driving next to her. they were both just doing it for the lolly pop.



he rubbed his eyes because his contacts were bothering him. he put his finger to the iris, trying to adjust it. she shivered and looked down at her chipping nail polish.
where the hell is this going? no where. lets try again.

can you tell how hard i am trying to be edgy yet?

"

anything on this earth is bound to have some evil mixed in with it. the white man isnt really together with his own people - to think so is overestimating his power. people who want freedom should consider the white mans weakness. he's insane! he rapes and kills his own, robs his own banks, cheats his own system, ignores his sick and helpless and old. they throw each other into ovens and make lampshades and upholstery from their own hides.

then they lie about these things to each other in their newspapers.


"

charles mingus 'beneath the underdog'

art brut (not the band)

http://www.artbrut.ch/index.cfm?Show=Oeuvres&ArtisteID=85

i dont want to think about it

http://www.exxonsecrets.org/


is there hope?
http://www.foe.co.uk/campaigns/climate/case_studies/index.html

denver in the summer

from august, honest

SHE CAN’T HARDLY WAIT

I was in the park at a quarter to one with my fingers wrapped around the chain link fence, watching them. There they were, dancing together on the blacktop beneath makeshift spotlight. It was silent, except for the passing cars. The cold went down my spine. I hadn’t seen him all summer, and now here I was, no better than a peeping tom. He always thought I talked too much.
I had to leave the party. I watched from the doorway as they were kissing on the futon, it was too much. I had excused myself politely saying I was going to the bathroom. The front door was open for the smokers; it just looked like I was looking for better conversation. But here I was in the park. I had run all the way down, in the middle of the street because asphalt is supposed to be better for your knees than pavement. On the way I had stopped and sat in a wet front lawn to catch my breath. The park wasn’t any help, I couldn’t forget things I wanted to and seeing the shadows of their dancing just reminded me of more things I didn’t want to remember.
So I went to the supermarket.
It was full of cardboard boxes for restocking. All the workers with kneepads were stoned. There were only four other shoppers. Once there I didn’t know what to do. I asked where the Fritos were. Seventh aisle, snacking goods. I bought them and sat outside on one of the concrete picnic tables trying to figure out my next move, and my future. At first I planed on going to Denny’s and staying there until it was late enough in the morning to go home. But I had spent my coffee money on the salty Fritos. Cursing myself for not getting a drink I decided I would go to college but only after a year off. Maybe I could sneak in through the window, but I had too much energy to sleep. I would live in a big city.
I considered if he wasn’t real while crumpling the bag, and looked down at my sneakers.
I spotted the meth couple from inside leaving and decided to follow them. They took the shopping cart all the way to their apartment complex two blocks away. I think their names were Reggie and Fred. Fred had a strong jaw and intimidating eyes and would be attractive if he didn’t have a mullet he pulled back into a ponytail. Reggie had big dyed red hair that was turning orange at the tips. I sat in the stairwell and listened to them bicker over the radio. ‘California Dreamin’ came on and all the arguing stopped, all I heard was the man say, “Shh…listen”. The song echoed down my staircase.
After that I walked home.
On the way I kicked a dumpster and saw the girl who flashed everyone at the football game. At home I peeled dried glue off my hand and thought about how he had ripped the cover off my favorite book.

farts and crafts

black swan II - ending

Black swan
They thought he was a real psycho, the kind that would go postal and shoot up the school; and even though he had held a knife to my throat and told me I was beautiful, I didn’t believe him because it was a dull blade. Of coarse we knew better and that his crazy eyes were just an act, and the way he went off on people was just his way of blowing off steam. They kept an eye on him though, and after one of the copycat bomb threats they got even more suspicious.
He was a runner, that’s for sure. And he ran fast. We all knew what he was running from. Technically we were all running from the same thing. His friends would sit on the sides of the tracks smoking cigarettes and clocking him, usually as far away from the flimsy bleachers as possible. He probably would’ve shot us all if he didn’t have his running. Everyday in the late afternoon he would go out and run. Afterwards he’d come off the tracks panting with his head down like a dog and go to the showers, not looking at anyone. The one time he wouldn’t look you directly in the eye. He moved here from Ohio in his second year of high school and didn’t seem to have a problem fitting in. I think that surprised his teachers the most. I had no idea whether he was a good student or not, all I knew was that he could run. Everyone knew, even the track coaches who were constantly trying to get him to join, even with his reputation. Somehow the librarians seemed to hate him the most; it was like he went there just to get kicked out. I think it was them, with their black beady eyes and tight buns that "tipped them off". I don’t think he was particularly close to anyone but he had a lot of friends. The way he ran you knew something more was going on in his head.
I sat with his friends that I didn’t know to well and listened to the quiet thumping and slapping of his sneakers on the Astroturf that must’ve matched his heartbeat. It would get louder and quieter each time he came around. And even though his chuck taylors would slowly get looser and unlaced, he didn’t stop. The focus he had made you think he really was insane. Everyone secretly wondered about him, although no one besides the teachers ever said anything.
He hated school. You could tell he was trying to out run everything. Early morning, late at night, whenever anything started to get to him he’d go running. Thinking: “I can’t make myself believe the next ones any better. Is the next one better?”
He lasted until April. In the afternoon we went to see him run, as usual. And he didn’t stop, he didn’t even slow down. He just kept going around the track, beating out the lub dubs in his chest. We waited for him to collapse from dehydration, but even that didn’t stop him. This confirmed our suspicions that he was sub-human, or on steroids. After sundown someone had turned on their headlights so he could see the track lines.
Soon enough everybody just got bored and went home to watch TV.
It wasn’t ‘till a month later when we realized no one had seen him out on the tracks since then. Eventually we just figured he ran away. I guess he never stopped running.
You just can’t forget something like that.

vif

posts from years of yore

Thursday, December 01, 2005

i swear, my hair tangles every chance it gets. its so cold it goes straight to your bone. i'm not giong to be warm again until may. i hate waking up when its dark outside. my skin is so dry its like its been frozen and is cracking like ice does when you step on it. even my lips are dry, but i love the dead skin on your lips you peel off with your teeth when your bored and biting your lip in class. i just wish it would finally snow.

Sunday, January 08, 2006

I know every nook and krany of boulder city. This, sadly, is not a feat of any kind. I feel shellshocked, horrified, and culture clashed all at the same time. Boulder sucks, Colorado sucks. The first Saturday since I got back I felt bored, for the first time in 3 weeks, within three hours of waking. There is nothing to do, nothing to see, nothing to experience that hasn't been done a hundred times before. The monotony of school as dribbled into the weekend. Everything is the same and systematic. I want something new! Something fresh! This happened to me around the same time last year and I regretted every choice I made to make it exciting again, so I am a little hesitant to do anything about it, but I cant go on like this for much longer!



interesting that i feel exactly the same way now. stupid small towns.

No Shadows

potential continuation of story?

Winter was cold and blue, with amazing sunsets made by the condensed pollution. Even though he could see his breath and the cold air stung his lungs he kept running. Everyday after school. He would still take showers afterwards, letting his damp hair dry while he waited for the bus, threatening pneumonia. With his grades slipping it was obvious that few things mattered to him. We had kissed that day I was at his house at September, and he had just become another person who I would only think about in passing. Somehow we continued to gravitate towards each other, and the familiar feeling wouldn’t go away.The winter gave me chapped lips, and reminded me of Picassos blue period.


nevermind. i dont think i like the direction its taking.

L

His name was Mark and he was addicted to meth. He had a girlfriend with pale pasty skin who always reminded him that he was an asshole. Whenever she told him this, Mark would just scratch his shaved head and walk away, he knew she was just coming down. She had loved him once, if that was possible, but now all mystery had been stripped away and that was why she knew the truth about him, that he was just an asshole.
His brother was a construction worker and still had a life to live. He would leave early in the morning at an hour Mark was never awake, unless he was high. They all lived together, Mark, his brother Joe, and his girlfriend Suzie, in a small trailer. Joe got the bedroom (he paid rent) and Mark and Suzie would share a mattress on the floor that was splitting at the seams. It was a wonder Joe hadn’t kicked them out yet, all they’d do was bicker and get high. Joe and Mark barely talked anymore, Joe didn’t want to get roped in to Marks world, and Mark couldn’t face the shame in Joes eyes. They had never been particularly close as children.
Sometimes Joe would come “home” for lunch; the new mall he was working on was just a few blocks away. Mark and Suzie would still be passed out on the mattress, with the broken Venetian blinds spilling jagged light on their bodies. Suzie lay there, topless, sprawled out on her belly with her holey underwear riding up. Joe never stayed long, even though he found the scene peaceful.
Finally, after several months of Mark and Suzies fighting getting worse and worse, Joe just gave the damn thing to Mark and moved into an apartment complex with asbestos paint and thin walls. Mark never respected Joe, he knew all he did at work was whistle at young girls, and when Joe had tried to get him a job, Mark had rejected it knowing Joe had done it out of pity. Now, sitting shirtless on the end of the mattress with Suzies heavy breathing and the broken fan in the background, staring at the ripped screen door and smelling urine, all Mark wanted to do was get high.

Mark drove the shitty old ford down to Safeway. He sped there, and when he parked by the corner his breaks squealed. Mark had a headache and wiped his sweaty palms on his stained jeans. He walked towards the grocery store in a hurry. His slouching, heavy walk. Mark was thinking about Suzie.
He went in and bought a box of crayons and a large pad of paper. In line he asked Billy the bag boy where he could find some “L”.
“Out back,” Billy said, “from the Mexicans”.
Suzie was an acid freak. She would trip for hours, lying on her stomach in her underwear drawing what she saw with crayons. It was the only time she left Mark alone. This was when he would get high. While Suzie drew her multi-colored muscular figures on the floor of the trailer, Mark would sit in the corner with his fathers old typewriter and pound out letters. He would type a page, crumple it up, toss it to the side and type another page. When Suzie and Mark both came down they would hit the mattress and sleep for days. Marks crumpled paper would look like tissues from someone with a bad cold. Suzies drawing scared mark a little, he often wondered what she thought about and the things she saw. She could draw very well, but all she would do was doodle on diner napkins or when she was hallucinating.
Sometimes Suzie would wake up before Mark. She would quietly uncrumple the sheets and read what he wrote, then crumple them up again. His writing was mostly a blur but here and there there would be words or phrases that would make Suzie wonder about the asshole she spent every night next to.
Mark went behind Safeway. There were two Latino men next to the dumpsters, like Billy said, smoking cigarettes and spitting.
“Uh, Billy said you guys have some acid?” Mark said, shifting his weight.
The two men stood up straight and put their hands in their pockets. They pointed their chins out and looked down their noses.
“What are you? Narc?” one said through a thick accent.
Mark scratched his head and slouched a little.
In the end he got it, but it had been an uncomfortable interaction.
Around five am the next morning, Suzie had stabbed Mark to death, she had had a bad trip.

black swan

They thought he was a real psycho, the kind that would go postal and shoot up the school; and even though he had held a knife to my throat and told me I was beautiful, I didn’t believe him because it was a dull blade. Of coarse we knew better and that his crazy eyes were just an act, and the way he went off on people was just his way of blowing off steam. They kept an eye on him though, and after one of the copycat bomb threats they got even more suspicious.
He was a runner, that’s for sure. And he ran fast. We all knew what he was running from. Technically we were all running from the same thing. His friends would sit on the sides of the tracks smoking cigarettes and clocking him, usually as far away from the flimsy bleachers as possible. He probably would’ve shot us all if he didn’t have his running. Everyday in the late afternoon he would go out and run. Afterwards he’d come off the tracks panting with his head down and go to the showers, not looking at anyone. The one time he wouldn’t look you directly in the eye. He moved here from Ohio in his second year of high school and didn’t seem to have a problem fitting in. I think that surprised his teachers the most. I had no idea whether he was a good student or not, all I knew was that he could run. Everyone knew, even the track coaches who were constantly trying to get him to join, even with his reputation. Somehow the librarians seemed to hate him the most; it was like he went there just to get kicked out. I think it was them, with their black beady eyes and tight buns who "tipped them off". I don’t think he was particularly close to anyone but he had a lot of friends. The way he ran you knew something more was going on in his head.
I sat with his friends that I didn’t know to well and listened to the quiet thumping and slapping of his sneakers on the Astroturf that must’ve matched his heartbeat. It would get louder and quieter each time he came around. And even though his chuck taylors would slowly get looser and unlaced, he didn’t stop. The focus he had made you think he really was insane. Everyone secretly wondered about him, although no one besides the teachers ever said anything.
I don’t know how he felt about girls, he never took them seriously.

I had gone over to his house once, a real shit hole with a broken screen door. The nubby beige carpet had stains that looked like continents. We sat in the kitchen; the walls were stained with his mothers cigarette smoke. We had a couple of cokes and just sat on the linoleum floor. I ran my fingers over the dents in the tiles from his mothers’ heels while he talked about something I didn’t listening to. He said there was nothing to do so he’d make trouble. It gave him things to run from. The aluminum from the coke can gave me a metallic aftertaste.

star wars

today i was wearing my target bought star wars t-shirt. at the end of french class, the geekboy just short of a rat tail caught my attention. he asked me "have you ever read any of the star wars books, or have you just seen the movies?"
i should probably mention his voice cracked.

a short term effect (lets base this on real life)

he did not recognize a single face when he walked into the room and sat down in the hard plastic chair. everyone was a stranger, and the feeling of never seeing so many people before was new to him. he was from a small town, and wherever he had gone he always recognized at least someone he had met at least once or twice at a party or something. thats when we shook hands and introduced ourselves. we became close once we realized we were both tired of talking about the weather.

we went to the back of the school and lay in the damp football field.
one year earlier a thirteen year old boy had died there. we had gone to the memorial even though we didnt know the kid. there were candles and flowers and crayon drawings. everything about it was morbidly fascinating and we shared the guilt of being there, somewhere we didnt belong. i remember the crying parents, and the girl with the words "we shall never forget" written with a pen on her thin wrist. i had made fun of it and he looked at me like i was a bitch, because all i am is a dumb bitch.
the damp had seeped into our clothes. we got in his car and drove past the hospital and up the mountain. i wasnt wearing my seatbelt and he was driving fast. i had flashes of us flying off the road, and it thrilled me. the music was to loud and filled the hollows of our bodies.





i give up.

lostnfound

Edie

kira.yells.

gang of four

factory setting

kaiandtristan

school + postmodernism = 5

i know what you're thinking

They sat in the dry grass with limbs tangled. Pollen was being carried in the air and she would sneeze occasionally, trying to hide as her face crinkled, giving a flash of the future, with her delicate hand. After teasing her she told him to get lost, and he did. He got up and went to the bus stop, and she did not go after him. She got up and rode her bike home. She could not explain her feelings rationally and as much as she hated him, daydreams of them together always snuck in. she rode her bike absentmindedly and almost got hit by a car. This did not bother her. At home she took some Claritin and rubbed her eyes. He called her later that night inviting her out, but she denied for whatever reason she gave herself. Instead she went to bed and pretended nothing was there. A couple days later at school he came up to her and her friend, but instead of acknowledging him she turned to her friend and became extremely interested in nail polish. He was neither ugly nor handsome, she felt she could do better. Her friend pointed out there was nothing wrong with him and nothing else had more potential. She took this into account and decided she was not ready for a "relationship" full of sweaty palms and awkward glances. this decision stopped nothing. it did not solve the glances he would give her, and the feeling she got from them.

i feel very cut off from humanity out here in the boonies of south boulder.