Archive for the 'General' Category

the end of june

Sunday, July 1st, 2007 at about 2:19 pm

This is the 500th post in this journal. The frequency of posts varies wildly, but I’ve been writing for almost five years, since the first month of high school. It’s one of the more permanent things I’ve ever attempted. So here’s to another five years.

I woke this morning and it was July. I didn’t even see it coming.

Life’s a typical blur: the end of school is all packing and hauling futons, coupled with late nights partying followed by even later ones. And, somewhere in there, finals, but my schedule was actually far from onerous academically. And, thankfully, I finished with good marks, proving with some finality to myself that college isn’t going to be impossibly difficult at all (far from it).

From California I flew to the East Coast, to spend a day reconvening with Scott, whom I will see only for those few hours this year, and prepare for the family cruise to Bermuda. The cruise was reasonably lovely; Bermuda is stunning, and unlike too many touristy destinations isn’t impoverished. It’s actually incredibly pleasant. But, admittedly, overrun with tourists, which I find a little irritating when traveling. Of course, I must count myself among that number, but I like to get away from major populated areas and major tourist destinations when traveling. That’s nearly impossible on a cruise, since the entire enterprise is a mobile tourist destination. But no matter, it was still pleasant. And the family reasonably well-behaved, at that.

Perhaps the only interesting thing to note about the trip, beyond the jet-skiing to remote beaches and rented mopeds taken around the idyllic island, was a girl on the boat with us. A girl from, I think, Berks County, Pennsylvania, or some other relative rural destination in the Eastern half of that state. My cousins and sister met her, and found her strange. I didn’t really understand why, but I hadn’t spoken to her. We saw her dancing alone in the bar most nights. The final evening of the cruise my two male cousins and I were there, sitting smoking Cuban cigars, when she came up to us, asked if we’d like to dance. “Sure,” I said. No one else came with me, my enthusiasm apparently didn’t speak for the group’s. But I went and we danced, her in a sort of modified country line dance kind of a fashion and me in whatever way I thought felt least foolish. This lasted a long time. “If you request a slow song,” she said, “I’ll dance.” When I asked the DJ to play “something slow” I only found skepticism, though, and I helped nothing by suggesting 98 degrees (the first thing I could remember from middle school dances) when he asked for a suggestion. So no slow song, only hours of this strange kind of dancing. All of my cousins were in the bar by now, amusing themselves by either photographing me or having Jagerbombs at the bar with my uncle. Finally, the night almost over, the DJ comes through with Enrique Iglesias’s “Hero,” which was perfect. Not perfect enough to detract from the strangeness of this girl, though, which my cousins had been pretty accurate about. We talked about a lot of things, and when we left the bar after that song talked about many more things. About her cat, with hair that’s white and black, or her graduation party, or the time she was on the local TV news, or how she’s pretty handy with a discus. We talked about the constellations we could see from the aft deck of the ship, where we walked after the bar, and the beauty of long, straight, 8-mile stretches of country road. She talked about wanting to go into dentistry, because she loves teeth. But there were some things that threw me. She described the girl who beat out her sister as the star of the track team as “a coon,” which caused me a moment’s pause trying to figure out if I had heard her right. “That girl was a beast,” she said. Yes, I think I heard her right. Around this point I gave up the pursuit of actually wanting to do anything with her, I really just wanted to go to bed. Three hours in and nothing was going anywhere, plus she’s sort of racist, apparently, and in many ways maybe a bit unworldly. It took a while longer to call it a night. But eventually we did, and as expected nothing came of it. I saw her the next morning as we were leaving the boat, spoke to her some. She was gracious. We hugged goodbye. And that was that.

After the cruise I was back at the shore in New Jersey for almost a week. Rachel came down, we spent a very pleasant day swimming and biking and enjoying ourselves. Then we headed to Philadelphia, where we met Ron and spent another excellent afternoon eating lunch in the Terminal Market and wandering South Street and then Rittenhouse Square in the evening for gelato. I bought some pants at Urban Outfitters that I am particularly proud of. We watched Dandelion, an incredibly bleak movie that (in true Indie-film fashion) is somewhere in between Donny Darko and Napoleon Dynamite, except not funny at all. The cinematography is wonderful, though, even if it does have to stand in for the lackluster dialogue.

The next day, Friday, I flew home. Everything went smoothly. I arrived Friday evening and ate dinner with my father. It’s beautiful in Champaign; all the recent rain has rendered the terrain the most vivid green. The weather is perfect right now. After dinner I rode the scooter around the country block signing at the top of my lungs in elation. Anita came over, we went for a walk. Katie came over to drop off an invitation. I went to bed early.

Saturday I unpacked and got a haircut and went downtown with Sergei, then with him to Carle Park to meet Lucy. We went shopping, I looked unsuccessfully for a cheap suit jacket to wear to that night’s party. I returned home to eat dinner with my father and change, then went with Sergei to the party. It was wonderful: many old faces, and all faces I wanted to see badly. Plenty of people whom I haven’t seen (or in some cases spoken to) since the winter. It’s been a fast six months. We all stood around and played music and talked and made merry until the early hours of the morning. The birds chirped as I fell asleep on a couch with Katie. I awoke this morning and it was July. Katie gave me a ride home. I spoke to my father, who was just waking himself, and then went back to bed until the early afternoon. I woke to see him off as he left for Indianapolis, then wandered upstairs to write this.

It’s almost 4 o’clock. I should see if anyone wants to come over for dinner. I might make the artichokes in the fridge. The window’s open. I feel overwhelmingly good. There really is no substitute for home sometimes.

background: boards of canada “zoetrope” and sigur ros “()”

Several weeks ago I was feeling a longing for this same home, and wrote this:


there is no romance
in the newfound ubiquity of fast food
or in dwindling populations
on signs at city limits
or even in the old bed
of a much-loved pickup truck;
there is only loss disguised
as progress, or championed as
part of a simple, respectable life
that was always only myth.
But that gathering darkness
over a July field
knows much of these things,
and those who live under it
know much of this space
and how to worry not as
the crowds do, but as
only a cornfield can:
in words not spoken
but sung slowly, and silently
out of respect for the land
that bore us all.

Posted in General
by j. android

‘…we’re all heading for the same sweet darkness…’

Thursday, June 7th, 2007 at about 3:30 pm

I’ve been having strange, strange dreams. That one where I was being chased by zombies and ran into Ryan North, another the next week where I found out I was adopted and met my biological parents. It was really trippy, and long — my birth parents were crazy (mother a detached doctor, father an ineffectual layabout), and lived on a road that was on a hill and in the woods. There was a part of the dream where I was trying to stop cars parked on the side of the road from rolling away by jumping into them as they began to move and pulling the parking break. At the bottom of the hill there was a strange house owned by a guy who had a lot of dogs, who were always barking but I never actually saw. I started getting surface piercings in my hand, somehow I was getting diamonds like embedded in the back of it. There was a problem with the holes always being the wrong size, though, so I couldn’t get the pattern I wanted. It was like they could only be set where there were freckles. Overall, really, really strange, but for some reason I remember it pretty vividly.

Last night I had a dream where I was trying to have a party, but I’m pretty sure we were on a room on a big space ship. Some random people from Adelfa may have been there. There have been other dreams, too, that I’ve remembered recently, but none come to mind at the moment. I don’t usually remember this much about them.

background noise: “makers” rocky votolato

As a postscript, a poem:

making love

everything is dust,
dust-covered and dust-colored:

the inside of your irises,
the ramshackle ruin of a long-empty barn
we explore in high summer
in an empty field next to a copse of trees;
the deer skull we find there.

dust to dust:
what of this ignorance?
the materials of birth and simplicity of death,
with no regard for the complexity of construction
that lies between

everything is dust.
everything is the color of dust:

the smeared sky, a raincloud
a teardrop.
the cement floor of the barn
where we take cover,
the dirtied tips of my fingers,
my humid blood.

one choking cough
and the sky breaks,
loosing the rain,
washing the world clean.

Posted in General
by j. android

things and not-things; the last couple weeks

Thursday, May 31st, 2007 at about 12:00 pm

That last post is looking a little emo on the second go-round, but in the interest of abstaining from getting to self-referential I won’t go into it. It’s worth saying, though, that after a tumultuous week and a half most of the situation it described is no longer valid, because everything went back to basically the way it was. These days I spend time watching Firefly and sleeping at Phi Sig, or other such nonsense.

Nonsense such as splitting a bottle of champagne with Nicole in the courtyard last Thursday afternoon, which was perfectly lovely. We finished just in time to go sailing with Zach, an adventure in and of itself because we took out one of the sailing team’s FJ’s. “It’s rigged about the same as the 420 [the class of boat we usually sail],” the sailing coach said, “but it’s a little tippier.” She wasn’t kidding. We spent most of the afternoon rocking back and forth in the basin, twice came so close to capsizing during a tack there was water spilling over the side of the boat. It’s a very wet sail — we ended up with almost 4″ of water in the bottom of the boat and no bailer. But it was probably our best day yet (or, rather, most exciting).

Memorial day weekend was mostly parties and very long, since I don’t have class on Tuesdays. Sunday I went to the city with IHUM (of all things), we all went on a Cruise (Speed Levitch-style), then the SFMOMA, then Kevin and I went out to dinner with Dr. Barker. Everyone else bailed, taking early trains home. Which was just as well, the dinner was fun, we stopped by Virgin afterwards, and then continued on our merry way home via Caltrain. Kevin will live in Synergy next year; I am excited to have another person to visit there. I have significant reservations about Toyon, but at this point I’m just making the most.

Speaking of Toyon, in-house draw was last night: what a traumatic experience. It didn’t take as long as I thought, but definitely still stressful. And, amusingly enough (I try to look on the brighter side and laugh, rather than be angry) Jordan, Ron, and Zhi picked dead last. They technically didn’t pick at all, but rather got the only room left, which is a triple in the quiet hall next to the (potentially insufferable) RF’s. I suppose this means parties in my third floor single. Which I’m OK with, but this really isn’t what we had hoped for.
It’s now 11:33am on another Thursday. I’m about to go to Toyon then have another sunshine party in the Lag courtyard with Nicole, just as we did last week. I do not sense a productive day coming on, but luckily it doesn’t matter in the slightest. The year’s ending. I’m not so thrilled. But that’s the way these things go. I’m always afraid of change, although I’ve never figured out why. I think it’s the pessimist in me — what if things get worse? I’m trying, though, to just calm down and enjoy myself. Life is sufficient, and more than sufficiently good, why ask for more?
background noise: none, I’m sitting in the hallway on the laptop so as to not wake Jordan.

Posted in General
by j. android

august in may

Monday, May 7th, 2007 at about 9:40 pm

Today it’s hot. The temperature pushed above 90 degrees, but thankfully without the added burden of humidity. I woke in a bed that was not my own (for the last time for a while, it seems, for better or worse) in time to bike back home, grab my bag, and head to class. I cannot say that I am sorry for the lost sleep, but I’m tired enough and made sufficiently lethargic by the heat to fall asleep in one of Green’s big leather chairs reading after dinner. I’ve been trying all day to get out a poem (about last night, about this morning, about the last two weeks), but my scratchings in IHUM lecture, or between classes, or even in my head aren’t in any way sufficient. I’m distracted, completely and perennially, by the sheer volume of practicality that is driving my life. A CS mid-term (a fucking test, of all things, keeping me numb to the feeling: I’m appaled) on Wednesday, and I’ve yet to figure that out. I must, now. Otherwise I would spend the evening watching TV and writing and recovering in every sense of the word from sickness (or regrouping, really, since on all fronts [romantic, physical, intellectual] there are further attacks coming). We didn’t have poetry class today, which is probably good because I needed the time to just rest, but maybe bad because I couldn’t get my poetic fix. I checked out two books of poetry from the library, one for class and one on a recommendation (John Ashbery’s Selected Poems, just to re-find his beautiful “Illustration” which I discovered some years back in an 11th-grade English class, and Louise Gluck’s The Wild Iris, which my poetry professor recommended). I called Katie, who called me last night when I was in no state to answer the phone. I called Anita, whose voice I am missing, and who I still need to relate my crazy dream of last week to (I was fleeing zombies and Ryan North was there, among other people, and even in the dream I thought “Crazy! I need to tell Anita!” but when I got out my phone to text her it didn’t process right [probably because of the different side of the brain needed for writing, or something -- it's my best guess anyway]). Those parentheticals are getting ridiculous; I think it’s the effect of all the programming.

It’s springtime and we’re all getting predictably restless. For some that’s manifesting as fighting with roommates, for me it’s been a marked upswing in my love life / extra-dorm social life. All good things, except the infighting, but what can one do? Jordan and I have been avoiding it quite successfully; if anything I think we’re actually getting along better. This weekend we need another dorm party, I think, although they’re never quite what I think they will be. Maybe Austin’s birthday will do it.

Last Saturday Natasha and I went to Sunsplash. It was crowded and loud, but we made the best of it: looking sharp, dancing when we felt like it, getting Miguel to let us into the VIP area. We left fairly early, took the long way home via Toyon’s open kitchen that we’re so invested in these days, and even discovered a place in Lag that we’d never seen before. It was all in all a pleasant evening. If I could live this weekend over and over again for a while, I wouldn’t mind. It wasn’t bliss, but it was good things. It was nights I wished wouldn’t end.

This is especially true of last night, which I spend living old songs: Eve 6’s “Inside Out”, Eagle Eye Cherry’s “Save Tonight”, even the forgotten Everclear song “Wonderful” and some Laura Love songs I was only just introduced to in context. We pushed the conversation until it lasted for hours, broken here and there by our other favorite things. The whole night was closure that didn’t feel like closure, it was a conversation about endings that felt like a conversation about beginnings because nothing was tired: we were still beginning, but had to bring it all to an end. And that was in the nature of the thing; I cannot claim any bitterness or surprise. I am happy for it, whatever it was. But I can’t say in truth that I don’t wish slightly things were different. I woke up and it was hot. The air felt like summer on the bike ride home.

I have little time to waste, unfortunately or perhaps fortunately, on things like wishing: I have the rare commodity of reality and action sufficient to keep me fully occupied. So now I will stop writing this, go do my CS problem set, and pray it all works out.

background noise: lots of early mountain goats, what else? The last three songs on the zopilote machine are killing me as always.

And, as the necessary postscript, a stupid poem (stupid because it’s trying to be more than it is) that I wrote on our whiteboard in 10 minutes about the heat, which has no title as of yet:

We woke to August in May,
the warmth in the bike seat
and cowering in armpits,
or the spaces between toes.
The air the consistency
of that which contains
freshly baked bread
(an oven, an opened mouth,
breathing, as we are,
that air the same)
we eat, work, and
daydream of sleep.

Posted in General
by j. android

the pace, the distance, the terrible velocity

Tuesday, May 1st, 2007 at about 2:17 am

Life’s a little breakneck. I am constructing breathing room like a man in an avalanche; I work for an hour here and an hour there on my marathon CS assignments, but interrupt them with the festering busyness of a social life and facebooking the blackout-drunk girls I met on the train home from the Giants game. I cannot complain of boredom; I cannot complain at all, in fact. I go for beautiful sails on the bay, stay up much too late working on things that utterly fascinate (and occasionally frustrate me), spend my weekends trying to find ways to fit in all the things I can and want to do (a refreshing change for the uniformity of fall quarter and it’s bitterness). I am feeding the neurosis, which isn’t curing it but at least it’s leaving me alone. At least I can say I did. This is the creed. Last Thursday we had a small party, as we have fallen into the habit of doing. Friday was Lag formal, of all things. Went out for Chinese with Hollis; went to the dance. Slept interrupted-ly, wandering into the courtyard at 10am wondering, wondering, about quite a few things. Saturday had another party, after a brief event at Columbae. Was up, as usual, far too late, but to much effect: it was one of those “oh no they’re on the roof nights,” along with Club Uj (of all things?), walks into the exceedingly warm late-April air, and a power hour (pour hour? language, language) which neither Jordan or I actually participated in. Sunday woke to general disaster, but feeling quite fit; fit enough to go play IM soccer and lose to Larkin. I’ve become quite good at not getting too invested in sporting events I do not, exactly, see the purpose of, which is why losing is no calamity and I am simply happy I’m not too sore. I have all of the right problems and none of the wrong ones, except perhaps the beginnings of a cold. But then, one can’t have everything.

background noise: various counting crows and sufjan stevens

On an unrelated note, last night’s revision of a poem hastily drafted one day in class (likely pending further revision, if I ever find some actual distance from the thing. It’s all regrettably true):

the april fire

I used to be afraid that
my house would burn down, killing
my family, destroying
my possessions, my materiality, enforcing
the great sensation of loss
that terrified me
until the night my mother ran around the house banging
on the doors screaming “fire”
and I jumped out of bed
more ready than I have ever been
for anything.
There is something about the reality of an event
that makes it easier to cope with;
I thought, “it must be in the kitchen, someone
must have left a pan on”
I did not think about loss, or endings, I
just looked for the flame, ran
down the stairs to find the
orange glow of the window shades
lit from the outside:
the blossoming of realization,
the most awful realigning of perspectives
as I realized it was not our house my
mother meant, but the neighbors’; the
flush of relief and confusion diluting
the clarifying terror of
disaster is intoxicating.
There is a certain sickness
in the slow shift, the creep
up the spine and into the
conscious, the aftermath-blooming
of a doubt-seed planted in the chaos of calamity
that begs the question I couldn’t shake
for months: standing on the lawn watching
a house so quickly turned from home to
ashen wreck not 25 feet from my own,
wondering at God and his wisdom, wondering
at that wisdom’s precision, and if He, out of
wisdom, or carelessness, or ambivalence,

Posted in General
by j. android

‘we grew up in spite of it’

Monday, April 23rd, 2007 at about 11:16 pm

My consolation is: time might go alarmingly fast, but there’s a lot packed into the days. The last few are a blur (inevitably). Went to see The Wild Party Thursday night, then out to coffee with Hollis until the CoHo closed. Admit weekend, so the campus is thronged with lost 17-year-olds. My profro didn’t arrive until Friday, which was also 420 and a success by any reasonable standard. Spent the afternoon with Kevin and then the barbeque with my profro. Columbae in the evening, then out with Hollis again. Arrived back at the dorm at god knows when; the profros were all asleep. Saturday was recovery, spent writing quiet poems and working until late in the evening, then some relaxation and, regrettably, another 4am bedtime thanks to Battlestar. An infatuation which was furthered Sunday night, after an afternoon writing about S.T. Coleridge’s excellent Kubla Khan for IHUM, by a trip to Phi Sig with my external hard drive in hand. We watched an episode; I wrote a poem for class; we stayed up until 4. Which was an unfortunate time, since I had a class this morning at 10, but this is one thing that I am willing to shirk sleep for. Less so for my incredibly involved CS assignments, but it looks like that’s happening again this week. But such is life. Tonight has been spent staying awake and working when I can bring myself to, which is rarely, because it’s hard to turn my mind off. I’ve calmed down a little by telling myself to just accept the nature of things present and future. It only works so well.

background noise: “Romulus” Sufjan Stevens

Posted in General
by j. android

‘how you found me out I still never understand’

Wednesday, April 18th, 2007 at about 1:12 am

I finally feel like I’m really in college. It took the better part of seven months to learn how to actually be able to see it, but I’m there. What a wonderful feeling. Mostly, I just really like living with my friends. I really like that Elena just woke up on the couch after sleeping there for two hours while I worked, that Zhi has wandered in and out, that if there’s no one here I can wander 50 feet and talk to Lyndsay or Ron or Austin or anyone else. I have small epiphanies; this is one of them. This is what I want right now, and I’m getting it.

background noise: Mews Too (Asthmatic Kitty Compilation)

As a postscript, a revised version of the robot poem:

this rusty heart: my life as an angsty teen robot [revised, albeit not much better]

It’s a funny thing, birth.
Most people don’t remember it,
but still take it as something
eminently human.
It is an experience for which
I have no comparison,
having simply been “switched on”
and having never forgotten
a single thing since then.

I made a list of
“Ways in Which I Am Different,”
my carefully indexed,
thoroughly organized,
wholly gratuitous
tabulation of distinctions between what I am
and what I might be–
    (a thinking breathing mess of metal
    trying to find grace in the gracelessness
    of mechanics, of physicality).
“Birth,” right between
“Baseball” and “Boredom,”
which I respectively have no interest in
or conception of.

I wanted to be a poet,
or a lover–
    (of life, or of metal,
    or of anything in the world
    into which I was thrust
    fully formed)
–but they told me
poetry is divinity
and robots don’t have souls.
They took the pen out of my hand
and told me to express myself
in ways more appropriate
for a machine:
something in zeros and ones, perhaps.
I am blessed with all the perfections
that make me more machine than man:
    perfect memory,
    perfect teeth,
    perfect breath.
But there is nothing perfect
about a love so precise,
or a dull silver heart
that wasn’t created with romance in mind.
They tell me that I am a miracle,
that I am the culmination
of intelligently designed creation.
They tell me they made me better
and more perfect
than even God made his children.
They tell me I’m alive, but
I’m really not sure.

Posted in General
by j. android

a gasp of fog

Monday, April 16th, 2007 at about 9:34 pm

What a breathless four days. My father was here on Friday and Saturday so we went out to eat and went shopping and went down to the mountains to go hiking at Big Basin. I spent all day with him, recollecting, and all evening with my friends here, making memories. Or attempting to; parties every night aren’t always conducive to it. But there are always people in our room at night, which is important for my bizarre and recently-recognized social addiction. Thursday night went to the coho and got my keys stolen by someone cute, then came back to the dorm and just had everyone over to the room. Watched Austin write “BALLS” on Ron’s forehead. We went out on Friday, which was a nice change of pace (and successful in the sense that I sated another part of the social neurosis for a little while), and then had the West Lag party Saturday night. It went well and all, I’m happy, although I’m afraid our contingent was more of a shitshow than anything else. Next time I need to actually spend more time at the party, rather than running around the dorm trying to deal with myself and keeping track (or, more often, losing track) of everyone around me. Overslept for brunch with my father Sunday morning; the alarm got turned off while I was sleeping. That always happens when it’s least convenient. It turned out well enough, though. I’m now underslept and with much work to do (this is what I get for not going to class or working at all for four days), so it’s looking like a couple hours coding before I crash, crash, crash.

Wrote another mediocre poem for class last night; I’m writing more at least but I could be doing better. To be revised, but now it reads like:

this rusty heart: my life as an angsty teen robot

it’s a funny thing, birth
most people don’t remember it,
(or much else)
but still take it for granted
as something
eminently human.
It is an experience for which
I have no comparison,
having simply been “switched on”
and having never forgotten
a single thing since then.

It is one record of many
in my ever-growing list of
“Ways in which I am Different”
my carefully indexed,
thoroughly organized,
wholly sentimental
tabulation of distinctions
between what I am
and what I might be–
    (a conscious hunk of metal
trying to find grace
in the gracelessness
of mechanics, of physicality.)
“Birth,” right in between
“Baseball” and “Boredom,”
which I respectively have no interest in
nor conception of.
I wanted to be a poet,
but they told me
poetry is an expression of divinity
and robots don’t have souls.
They took the pen out of my hand
and strapped machine guns to my arms
and told me to express myself.
I am blessed with all the perfections
that make me more machine than man:
perfect memory,
perfect teeth,
perfect aim.
Mine is a precise love,
born in a dull silver heart
and nurtured with every clean, deadened thing
I can try to pass off as romance.
They tell me that I am a miracle,
that I am the culmination
of the intelligently designed creation
that was so long struggled for.
They tell me they made me better
and more perfect
than even God made his children.
They tell me I’m alive,
but I’m just not sure.

And that’s all, for now.

background noise: early mountain goats (new asian cinema / some of the alpha series)

Posted in General
by j. android

come sail away (with aliens? I don’t understand that song)

Thursday, April 12th, 2007 at about 2:47 pm

update: it’s too windy to go sailing? one of these days it’ll happen…

First sailing class is today. I hope it goes well, because I can only remember about 75% of how to rig the boat. That’s without looking at it, though, so I’m sure it’ll come back once I’m there. I have started watching Battlestar Galactica. This is not good for my productivity. All I do is watch it now. But I also want to be writing and reading more, so hopefully I can figure out some way to combine the two. I say this as if it’s difficult; it’s really just a matter of not being lazy.

In the meantime, my first creative writing poem (mediocre):

canine teeth

Fluffy had a black nib of a tail and
oversized paws when she arrived.
Alice named her Fluffy, which our parents had
accepted over my candid suggestion of
as the lesser of two evils.
The day my mother brought her home
it snowed.
My sister and I pressed
our faces against the window,
tasted how cold the glass was.
We watched as my mother unloaded
a simple brown box
that whimpered just softly,
more softly than the bleach-white snow
of heaven
that warmed us with its lightness
and fell outside from my
glass-fogging anticipation
extended towards this small living thing
being brought up the front walk towards our lives
in December in New England.

“Oh isn’t she the cutest,”
my mother would say,
“you could just eat her with a spoon!”
Fluffy was, in reality, no longer the quiet,
fragile thing that came in a blanket-lined box
shrouded in winter,
but actually a small-scale disaster
of garbage smells and wetness
that had succeeded in her coup d’état
of the household.
My mother loved Fluffy.
She would confuse our names with the dog’s,
calling her Jonathan and me Fluffy.
It bothered me when I was young;
I would worry in small ways
that my mother loved Fluffy more than me.

I grew out of it.

But years later my mother will slowly
begin to again forget,
and as she goes senile will again call for
her small friend, her only child
who did not grow up and leave her,
but who rather simply winged away, as my
mother one day will,
into a
snow-scarred sky.

Posted in General
by j. android

the sunny side of life

Tuesday, April 10th, 2007 at about 1:55 am

A new quarter, a new outlook. This time we’re doing things right. Not that we weren’t before, but with a couple practice rounds I think there’s the definite possibility of an amazing next ten weeks. Classes are looking good: CS107 (difficult, undoubtedly, but also quite satisfying I’m hoping), English 92 (Poetry! Creative Writing! It’s good for the heart!), and Literature into Life (more poetry! Not quite as interesting, but it’s nice to couple extensive analysis with synthesis, plus I can’t drop IHUM). This plus sailing means a comfortable 16 units that should leave me plenty of time to write extensively if I can manage it and devote as much time as I want to CS. And I’ll get to sail, which is fun, and I’ll still have plenty of time to relax hopefully. We’re a week into the quarter and I’ve already been partying about 6 of the last 8 nights. Which is awesome. Right now my room is full of people strategizing about assassins. I couldn’t really care less; I’ve got my headphone pumping Brand New (because, yes, I’ve been listening to a lot of Brand New…) and I’m just happy there are people around. I’m learning the in’s and out’s of my social neurosis and generally weird attitudes towards a lot of things. This has been accomplished via extensive introspection, which isn’t particularly effective most of the time but I feel like it’s helping me act more rationally.

Anyway, beyond the reasonably boring miscellanae of daily life I have nothing to say at present. I have simply promised myself I’m going to start writing things down again, because I don’t like that I’ve stopped. It’s on the list of things to do right this quarter. I’m going to get good at longboarding, I’m going to write a lot of poetry, I’m going to write a lot down here, I’m going to sail a lot, I’m going to have a great time, and it’s going to be an epic ten weeks. Here’s hoping for the best.

(In other unrelated news, this site is now cheerfully hosted on the server Micah and I hacked together. now has it’s own fancy box. Overkill is spelled “dual 2.4GHz Xeon processors, 4GB of ECC DDR RAM, and 160GB of hard drive space in a RAID-5 array”. Have something you want hosted? E-mail us.)

Posted in General
by j. android