February, I think a video month

Foolishly Seeking True Love from Jarrett Lee Conaway on Vimeo.

Siphon Coffee and Espresso

Espresso, Intelligentsia from Department of the 4th Dimension on Vimeo.

Syphon, Intelligentsia from Department of the 4th Dimension on Vimeo.

Remember why?

I can still sort of recall when I first put the bicycle gadget up on my blog. I was actually, pretty excited to know that we were nearing a sort of, big day since it was a couple days until it would be 1200 days since any new bike lanes were installed. I thought: Yes. Change will happen. New bike lanes will be installed... etc, etc. Now, it's been 1310 days since. I'm still hopeful, but much more rather doubtful.

400th Post: New Years Resolution:

New Years

I've got a golf game tomorrow. Well, today at eleven with Marc. I haven't seen him in awhile. I still dont really know what I plan on doing for the festivities tomorrow.

I'm still trying to figure out what's going to happen.

Beat the Calendar

Yes folks, remember how awhile ago I mentioned that I was nearing 400 posts? And at some time in the past year, that's when I had hit three hundred. That was about a year and four months ago. It's kinda died down, but i'm making up for that really bad last year.

So my goal. This will be the 398th post. 400 By New Years. It shouldn't be hard you say? Well, i'll have to clear and finish all the drafts left in my entries box.

Flights of Freedom

I stood only dressed in a pair of warm ups, and a tshirt. The dark, and the cold had no meaning to me as I stood, breathing in the crisp cold air. My eyes shut for a moment, and my ears focused on the sounds of the world. The ringing in my ears from years of exposure to loud noises, the low whir and hum of the cars rushing home from Christmas celebrations and the whistle of the BART trains, speeding on their last trains for the night. Today is boxing day.

For a second, I hear, the sounds of a flock of Canadian Geese. The systematic honking, the berating of their wings and beaks. A smile pursed over my lips and I recalled when I was younger, wanting to be reincarnated as a duck. The thought teased me as I watched the silhouetted V fly above me. Darking out the stars as it passed, then the star reappearing as it passed. I thought, of all the things, the places those geese have been. Canada, the wild mountains of Montana, the rainforests of Washington, all the way to the southern climates of Southern California. I longed to fly with them, and to be free from the monotony of life on land.

I wanted to be mingling with Canadians, dancing over the Rockies, lounging on the fields of Los Angeles. My head jerked back and my eyes opened again. Slowly, my family's garden came into view, the tomato plants caressing the cages, the trees, barren and bereft of leaves and the flat tones of the flagstones beneath my feet. I was not a duck, but a man. Standing warm in out of the cold, and inspired.

I am, a wandering bird.

Morris, the Midget Moose

Merry Christmas to All

And to all, A good night.

May your yule log burn bright,

and your inlaws run with fright.

From the turkey that's undercooked,

and hotels that are overbooked.

Merry Christmas from Alameda, Burlingame, San Francisco, Victoria B.C. & My little desk in my room.

Ticket Stub

I was pawing through my things, and harmlessly pulled out my magic drawing slate. Yeah, a 20 year old with a magic slate. Big deal. But moving it around, a ticket stub fell out. Castro theater, April 18, 2009. It doesn't say the date, I just remember that date.

It was the day I threw myself upon my senses, making sure to associate every memory I can hang onto with some sense. Sight, sound, smell, taste & feel. That's a great feeling, one I dont want to leave. It's too beautiful to let go.

Moped Diaries: Day 8 part one

I struggled to fall asleep that night at the YMCA. Here's a synopsis of what happened that night:

10pm: German hiking group returns from wherever drunken and singing some nationalist song
11pm: Germans proceed to start dancing in hiking boots
12pm: The vomit chorus proceeds in the hallway
12:01am: Sounds of mirth and hilarity as the others start laughing at the unfortuntate fellow.
12:30am: Finally fall asleep
1:29am: Awoken by loud arguing between a Quebecois & German traveller
1:40am: Still trying to fall asleep to nationalist argument
2am: Finally fall asleep, again.
6am: Woken by sound of the Korean guy's alarm clock next door.
6:02am: Swear to take a hit on Korean guy's loved ones
6:15am: fall back asleep
10:12am: Wake up on own accord. Notices one of the Germans in the room is totally naked
10:15am: Wait for German to leave because of an erection
10:40am: Plans to take contract hits on Korean guy & German man's loved ones
11am: Ashton wakes up. Walks around with stiffy.

We redressed in our motorcycle clothes. With our bags in the main dining room, we sat for a quiet morning breakfast of sausages, carrots, mashed potatoes and couscous. We looked at each other in the hall, it seemed to just go on forever. Our faces showed signs of growth again, each of us sporting a bit of tussle under and above the lips. My fork scratched lightly against the porcelain plate. The brown ring around the edge spoke to me. I tried to imagine a time when the color brown was a popular color, let alone fashionable. The last time I could recall was either in the seventies or in the early nineties when the whole nature thing was popular again, pushing out that artificial era called the eighties.
Ashton was pushing the food around as well, except he was using a spoon. I watched lazily as he shaped his potatoes into a small mound and dropped a pile of peas into it. Then, he pressed the back of his spoon into them. The mound of potatoes looked like a beach ball covered in pimples or something. He snapped and looked up at me looking at him. Caught by surprise, my fork fell to a clatter on the plate.
Our bikes were reloaded with the canvas saddle bags, jerry cans and bags. Ashton took off first and then I followed him. The city of Vancouver was sleek and beautiful around us. The sun gleamed off the sky scrapers and we looped around several times through the downtown part of the city. Steam issued from the grates, the road was crisp and the white scarf trailing from ashton's helmet made the world feel carefree and senseless. I leaned over the gas tank, I could feel it rumbling below my chest as the engine chugged away. After several laps around the town, we drove south through Richmond, then finally arrived at Tsawassen.

The lanes at Tsawassen stretch for a mile out. Long columns of cars sit idle waiting for the next ferry and their contents mill about either going to the small kiosk for coffee or stood around chatting with one another. Ashton and I pulled behind a small minivan, the family inside was standing outside of it talking. The ticketer walked up to us and handed us two tickets as we exchanged with him twenty dollars.
The Spirit of British Columbia blew its horn, a loud shockwave resounded over the parked cars. Everyone piled into their vehicles. Ashton and I packed away our little hackey sack and remounted the bikes. The ship drew close, the doors opened and cars began to come out of the open doors. And once they were out, the cars slowly began to pull into the ships. Other ships followed after and slowly, all the lanes emptied out. We pulled into the ship and doors closed.

Living the Life of Lindsay

This entry is dedicated to a very good friend of mine, she is a really amazing, wonderful and beautiful person and late one night on an IM client, she inspired me to write this little short story for you all to enjoy.

Do you know that feeling? The one where you wake up, the sun is streaming through the windows and the first thing you do is smile, squint your eyes a little and then raise your arms over your head to stretch? That's what my life is like every morning now. I graduated from Berkeley just a couple months ago and I found this job working in Paris as a researcher for some big professor at the Ecole de Beaux Arts. So I spend my mornings combing through the libraries looking at folios filled with drawings of buildings and paintings. I really couldn't get an even more cultured look into French life than this. After spending my mornings sifting, I stop by the school, present my findings for an hour or so then I have the rest of the day off. Normally, if I was still back home I would go straight back to all the libraries. But after the first few weeks of doing so, I'd forgotten about the world outside of the library and that I was in, of all places, Paris!
So that's what it's like to wake up in my life. Following my usual ritual of morning research, I made the presentation and was out at two. I returned to the little flat in the suburb of Belleville to drop my things off. Around me, people in the building were artists, writers, the poor and the thinkers. The first day, I made friends with most everyone in the building and the building certainly is a bit safer knowing who's who. On the ground floor, there is a small little grocers and every night, I would buy all my meal ingredients there. The man who runs it is a nice old chinese man who lives by himself in the back.
Up at the flat, I picked up the receiver of the telephone on my desk and called a taxi company. I felt like exploring some of the other suburbs of Paris today. Or maybe one by one. Within a few minutes, a small Citroen taxi was shaking underneath my window with the horn bleating, begging for my presence. I hopped in and the driver stared at me. "Montmarte, merci si vous plait." The cab sped through the narrow streets, passing street cafes and parks, by artists painting on canvases, musicians playing in circles. The narrow alleyways of Belleville were behind us soon and we entered Menilmontant, the steep part of town, and soon, the wide avenues of Montmarte became our raceway. The driver stopped in front of the Moulin Rouge and I paid him and he sped off looking for the next venerable fare.
Feeling a little hungry, I found a cafe and ordered a light salad. I placed my little side bag on the chair beside me and pulled out a copy of Fitzgerald. I started to read as the coffee was placed on the table with a jug of ice water and a warm glass, still steaming from a hot bath. As I continued, the world I sat in seemed to swirl in with the Paris in Fitzgerald's books. I was lost in a smile, and I didn't really notice the boy at the table across staring at me. It must have taken awhile for me to notice him because when I finally did look at him, his coffee cup fell from his hand onto his saucer. Snapping out of it, he realized his lap was full of cold coffee and rushed to grab the table linens to start blotting his lap. I laughed, as he did, he looked up at me again. His hair was greased back, his jaw firm and prominent and covered in stubble. His green eyes were hidden behind a pair of rimless glasses. Well dressed with the exception of the coffee stain, he stood, all six feet two of him and sat in the chair opposite mine. Somewhat shocked, I tried to compose myself and look further into the text. He sat there, then leaned forward, putting his chin on his hands.
The salad arrived, I put the book away and looked at him. I raised a finger, at him. He looked confused, he looked around, his locks of hair bouncing back. He then pointed at himself with a look of bewilderment. I shook the coco-nut. He didn't get I wanted him to go back to his seat. Finally, in French, «Please, go back to your seat, you're not going to find anything here.» Dejected, he sat down back at his table, now stained with coffee. I finished the salad, and left. But not without noticing him following me.
I stopped at every famous landmark, the Moulin de la Galette, The famous Moulin Rouge as well as Le Chat Noir. By now, the evening dusk was starting to envelope the city. I hailed a cab, and as I entered, he entered as well. He immediately ushered the cab driver to the VIII^e arrondissement. As we sped down the thoroughfares, I wondered if this man was going to kill me, or worse, take advantage of me. I tapped the driver to let him know I was going somewhere different. He realized the mistake and let me off. I merely waved the hand as he stared in surprise through the back window. I hailed another cab and this time, it went back to Belleville.
Living my life, I wouldn't know how to describe it for you. The boys are nice, but there are some days, I have to beat them away with a stick. Even if they're a handsome Parisian boy. As I got out, I saw another cab pull behind mine, and somehow, it was him. The cabs drove off, and as I tried to get the key in the lock, he swooned up to me. «You know, i've been following you all day. I think you are a gorgeous girl, please. I would like to get to know you.» I merely stared at him, and doing the typical American thing, I said no and walked through the door. I opened my windows to the street and he still stood there. I looked at him. «Go Away!»«At least tell me your name.» I finally caved in. "Lindsay." I saw him mouth the word in the streetlight. His heart seemed to just flutter.
I went to bed that night flustered.
Remember how I described mornings to you? Waking up with a smile, with the sun streaming through the shutters, and the birds chirping and pidgeons cooing on the gutters? Well, imagine that, but finding the room had been opened while I was asleep and then suddenly filled with flowers of ever kind. I frumpled my face and only could start to imagine what Ashley would do if she found out I was turning down a European man.

Tenner

Nearly a half year ago, I remarked on the notion that I would be able to make it to four hundred posts by the end of this calendar year. And as I've just last checked, that's almost a reality. With irregular posting since that post, I have brought myself into the threshold of reality. I am a mere ten posts away. So readers, keep me motivated. Then again, I do believe I have only one or two of you left. I think I may have scared you off with my emotion, bad poetry that utilized the word refrigerator constantly.

So here's a new short story, and on the home mile stretch, look forward to another installment of the moped diaries as well as no more terrible haikus and lonely, depressing poetry. I intend, to make these next ten posts, the most upbeat, and wonderful things you'll have ever read. Apart from Peter Cottontail.

So, here, is a short story, entitled simply as, Tenner.
_______________________

What is life? Do things have life and do each and every little thing you interact with, do they think about you? I wondered that, my entire lifespan of several months to be exact. Who am I you may ask, well. I'll tell you simply. I come from Washington D.C. I'm flat, and covered in ink, and i'm worth exactly ten dollars. But you find me here right now, torn into little bits, on the sidewalk in the slush of winter, in the middle of Seattle, Washington.

My story begins at the mint. I dont remember which one, but It was warm, and I was surrounded by older and younger siblings. We all grew up on the same sheet of cotton paper, until we were separated by machine cutters and a bunch of my siblings and I, well, we found ourselves wrapped in paper, then bundled and then put into a bag. It was dark, but I was on top of the bunch and managed to peek through a small hole in the bag. I didn't see much else, other than other canvas bags. Some were marked "nickels $200" and "dimes $500". I didn't think much of it, no one else did. Maybe I am the only thing to have a mind of its own.

Finally, after several hours, we found ourselves opened and placed on a steel table, surrounded by rows upon rows of little drawer cabinets. Weird huh? What sort of place needs so many drawers? Suddenly, a well dressed man appeared and grabbed me and the rest of my bunch. We found ourselves broken apart, seperated into smaller stacks and I saw we entered some sort of banking hall. Now it made sense. We were in the safe deposits room and now, we're going on our own adventures! My brothers and I were eagerly slipped into a slot and then, the light of the world closed on us. But that was soon over. The drawer slipped open again and I was picked! Placed with a fifty and two twenties, I figured we were to make up one hundred dollars in cash. I glanced to my new owner. A little old lady with wizened features. Her little face held lines which could trace themselves far back in time, and her bony little hands shoveled us up carefully and placed us inside her purse. It smelled of hard candy.

It would be another while before I would see the light of day again. I and another twenty, were placed carefully on the old fashioned tabletop, then attached to a letter of sorts. Folded then shoved inside an envelope. Lady! You cant send money! Let us out! Ohhh, it's too late. I could, the entire time feel myself being mishandeled, roughly the entire. Light flashed before my eyes again and this time, a face that was not as creased with experience greeted me. A pair of sparkling blue eyes and golden locks of long blond hair bounced. This might be better than I thought. It spoke. "To Chelsea, be good, study hard and love yourself. Love, grandma. P.S. Fight on trojans!" It stared at me and the twenty with me. She plucked us out and we were shoved into a crowded wallet. Never have I felt so cramped being squashed between little squares of plastic and pictures of high school loves.

For the most of the time during this part of my life, I spent sitting in the wallet. The twenty who accompanied me was long spent on a double whip latte frappacino with soy cream and shots of torani. I did on occasions see her face again, but every time, it seemed to grow more fake, and covered in make up. The little squares of plastic certainly got good use, but not me. It seemed like there would be nothing in this world that seemed to cost less than ten dollars. Until one day...

Her usual routine of tossing her entire whore sack onto the bed after class, this time, the wallet scattered out. by now, I had made friends with the others. The visa, the mastercard, the chase card, the platinum card. We all stared in silence as to this "crude" so to say, throwing of us. Usually, we could tell she slung the bag over a bed post or something. A knock a the door. It was three silent rapts and one loud kick at the base. She answered it. Some large looking Hollister model, meat head wandered in. He planted himself in her office chair and she walked up to him. She wrapped her arms around his neck and proceeded to kiss. She said something in his ear, and she walked out. He looked as she walked out, and looked in our direction. He grabbed the wallet! That bastard! Not being able to take a card, he grabbed me, and I found myself wedged into his side pocket with... dear lord, a condom and a small pen knife.

At some point, the condom disappeared, but the pen knife had a fairly bad attitude to me. I could feel he was putting on the pants again, but now, I was separated from my sweet master. A couple other things would join the pen knife and I. A small little baggie of weed, more condoms and receipts. But suddenly, I heard a loud, thumping sound, and the most astringent smell ever. He must have entered, because the smell was everywhere and the sound was deafening. I found myself pulled out, and placed on the counter. To the next of me, a woven sweater, above me, a gigantic moose head. At least, I think that is what it was in the dim light. I looked about, everywhere, there were large posters of naked young people. Where was I? Suddenly, the sweater was put into a bag and I knew, I was somewhere called, Abercrombie and Fitch. Then th darkness happened again as I was swept and put into a drawer again. But like my bank story, I would be pulled out as change.

The next person who'd get me was another girl, she was blond, but nothing like that last girl. She was smiling, her hair in a bun and her eyes framed behind glasses. She had bought a little camisole and it seemed her boyfriend was with her. Promptly, I was shoved into a wallet and I could just make out a blue leather purse. Chic.

Drifting about, I'm spent at the Ice Hockey rink in Anaheim. It must be, there's a blurry of black and orange before my eyes. Lo and behold, I dont sit for long, being tendered as change for a tshirt. But I hardly leave the stadium again, when I'm used for sodas! It goes on for hours, passing about in the hands of vendors and customers. I think they won that game too. They beat the blue jackets. A teenager got ahold of me. His blue jackets cap suggested I might be going back to the east coast. Ohio!

------------------
Story endeth there, I've lost the will to write this one.

I'm going to push:

Like an advert from the fifties, I'm going to push for all of you, if and when you get a chance, to read one of my good friend's, as well as brother's blog of his escapades as he tears up the English countryside, (just as there's an englishman in Sigma Phi tearing up the American landscape).

http://durhamradiouk.blogspot.com/

Read it, I heartily recommend doing so in a large wood paneled library, with leather seats, and a glass of sherry. In fact, the Thorsen house is perfect for that.

Gryphon's End

Like a corpse rising from a copse, the matted Matt ran runningly along the wide walk.

My dumb friends

For several years, Billy, Kerry, Jimmy, Willy, and I used to meet up together and drink, play cards and laugh about things we did on a daily basis. We'd sit on a homemade bench which was made of several planks of two by fours on upturned buckets. We had one of those large manilla rope reels for a card table and an old bullhead lamp that we stole from one of the southern pacific owl cars. The ocean used to lap against a seawall that once stood here, the end of the road terminated in a half loop that would send cars around us. We never stayed out too late, the police tended to wander our direction late into the evening and depending on who was walking the beat, they would either join in on a beer and a hand of cards or we would have long disappeared.
By 1924, all five of us owned a house on the street that we lived in with our marital spouses. But although we didn't take dinner with each other anymore, we still met up afterwards to play cards, joke around and be jovial and drunk. Although prohibition changed the way we would supply the nightly supply of beer, the police still came to drink with us. When that law came around, the officers who used to crack down on us for public drinking softened up and even joined our little club. Within a few years, The membership went from five to twelve. Us, the originals, two of our neighbors who usually supplied better beers, and five police officers. We carried on in this way until the end of prohibition, when we no longer had to smuggle in our alcohol. But night after night, we sat on our rude benches watching the boats pass along in the evening tide.
In 1939, we celebrated Billy's 40th birthday, him being the youngest of our club. But within a few weeks, he caught a cold and died. This was a shock to us. He had long been a pillar of our club. In his memory, we erected a concrete chair. A simple one with low, sloped arms and his name and date of death inscribed in the front of the seat. We decided to elect a president and at our meetings, he would sit in the Billy chair. After the second world war, rationing had taken its toll when two of the officers had died as well as the two old neighbors who had died. So it was four out of the original five left and three of the old beat cops. In their memories, we extended the billy chair with similar looking chairs attached to the sides, but two wide, and a gentle arc of a semi-circle.
The fifties had proved fruitful with many G.I.s coming home, our club found three new members. PFC Egmont, Sgt. Willis and Captain Seneca. But we were oldies and less frequented the club, turning out only once a week and soon, we found ourselves in the funeral garb more than once before the end of 1954. Willy, Kerry and Jimmy passed away that year, the three cops and the three new members moved to Los Angeles. I was the only one left. Investments in IBM proved good and with a little bit of extra cash, I had a new bench built in memory of everyone. But I was 60, I couldn't even remember all their names being struck down with Alzheimers. The mason looked at me and asked. "Do you want me to put their names down? What should I put?" I only looked at him, and smiled and said: "My Dumb Friends"

My own story in dedication to the "My Dumb Friends" bench in Alameda.

again?

How many times have I
finished my short haikus with
refridgerator