May 30, 2009

May 28, 2009

36:2:28: track bicycle racing

It's been creeping through my brains lately, it has controlled, regrown my ideas and thoughts on biking. Dont get me wrong, I love my 14 speed Raleigh to death. But the fascination, the idea of riding the simple, single speed bicycle. Its the way to race apparently. Plus, I think it'd be a great and good summer project. Since last year's project was getting the Raleigh running again. Turns out, the parts on my Raleigh may be worth more than the track bike i'm putting together!

I set out for some cool ideas and places to further the usage of track/fixed gear bicycles for that fixed gear purpose, rather than tricks. The polo grounds in Golden Gate Park is one of my absolutely, most favorite places in the entire park. Just the thought of people actually playing polo in America, let alone San Francisco still amuses me. But until 1963, I assume, the San Francisco Wheelmen (now the San Francisco Bicycle Coalition) used to host races. Track races, not touring and distance races. So apparently, that track, probably not the original track, but hopefully graded the same, was used for bike races from the 1880s until 1963 when the competition was last held. I really would like to see that come back.

Consider Hellyer Park Velodrome in San Jose. Strange place for a bike velodrome, but hey, apparently the city used to be pretty big on bicycles. The velodrome track there runs three hundred and thirty-three meters. That's about 1000 feet. The smalles velodrome in the world is in Canada at close to 158 meters. That's a distance of 465 feet. But wait, take into account the banking and the curvature of the track, that's a pretty steep bank there to make sure you dont fly into a wall. I cant imagine the curves at the polo ground being too big or too small. The entire track is approximately 1100 meters or 3300 feet. That's just about two thirds of a mile. Pretty intense. I'm pretty sure the ground there has been regraded several times, with ill regard to the curvature, but the turns are so big, and the long stretches are at least 1050 feet. So that's 2100 feet of straight, flat track and two turns that add up to 1200 feet in circumference. That will mean a 200 foot radius turn. You really dont need too much of a bank, but there is a chain link fence that surrounds the grass. That might be a bit of a cheese grater if you rub against it. Yuck.

Another perfect place to put a Velodrome. There is a cinder track and field on top of the Clark Kerr campus in Berkeley. The entire field is little used, and I know the track is just used by afternoon joggers and morning walkers. But I'd say it would be a pretty smart investment for UC Berkeley to build an outdoor velodrome there. People love using their track/fixie bikes in Berkeely and in the surrounding area, I dont see why the university cant capitalize on it. Make it similar to Hellyer Park. Charge five dollars per day per person, hold competitions, speed trials, regulate everything to make it legitimate. If they even felt like it, put a roof over it to prevent vandals from sneaking in at night to take advantage free rides. It could make up for failure to purchase the Berkeley Iceland. The cinder track surrounds the field, its about 400 meters.

Or even putting it in Iceland itself. That would produce a 200 meter track, not regulation, but hey, who's keeping track. I've however had hopes of seeing Iceland used for its original purpose. Ice Skating. Even an aircraft hangar at the Alameda Base, that'd be cool. I'm studying to be an architect, but I really love bicycles. I have this dream, a personal goal to be realized. I've often noted, the lack and difficulty to find a place to work on bicycles to have all the necessary tools on hand, and the expertise to help out. I want to design a place that would create a communal bike repair shop, rather than putting it completely in the hands of the experienced, getting the user involved rather than being a user. Going from User to utilizer.

One thing I think I ought to learn is the really cool way to get off a fixed gear:

"As the bicycle slows to near walking speed, disengage your left foot, then wait for the right pedal to get to the bottom of its circle. As the right pedal starts to rise, straighten your right leg and let the motion of the pedal lift you up. Let go of the handlebars, let the saddle move forward between your legs, and put your left foot on the ground. As the bike goes ahead, grab it by the saddle. It takes a bit of courage to try this, but it is actually very easy to do. It is also extremely impressive to watch. When executed properly, it is very smooth, and you can go from riding to walking in a single fluid motion, without ever coming to a stop"

I've gotten derision for my decision. I want to build to race, not to be foppish or hipstery. It's an experience I believe that should be taken to its fullest. Plus, I have friends and people who are always willing to help. Lucky me.

The Beer's Prayer

Our lager,
Which art in barrels,
Hallowed be thy drink.

Thy will be drunk,
(I will be drunk)
At home as in the tavern.

Give us this day, our foamy head,
and forgive us of our spillages,
as we forgive those who spill against us.

And lead us not into incarceration,
but deliver us from hangovers.

For thine is the beer,
the bitter and the lager,
for ever, and ever.

36:17:18: Paper Moon

Say, its only a paper moon
Sailing over a cardboard sea
But it wouldn't be make-believe
If you believed in me

Yes, it's only a canvas sky
Hanging over a muslin tree
But it wouldn't be make-believe
If you believed in me

Without your love
It's a honky-tonk parade
Without your love
It's a melody played in a penny arcade

It's a Barnum and Bailey world
Just as phony as it can be
But it wouldn't be make-believe
If you believed in me

May 26, 2009

38 days, 10 hours, 20 minutes: Polka Dots and Moonbeams

A country dance was being held in a garden
I felt a bump and heard an "Oh, beg your pardon"
Suddenly I saw polka dots and moonbeams
All around a pug-nosed dream

The music started and was I the perplexed one
I held my breath and said "May I have the next one?"
In my frightened arms, polka dots and moonbeams
Sparkled on a pug-nosed dream

There were questions in the eyes of other dancers
As we floated over the floor
There were questions but my heart knew all the answers
And perhaps a few things more

Now in a cottage built of lilacs and laughter
I know the meaning of the words "Ever after"
And I'll always see polka dots and moonbeams
When I kiss the pug-nosed dream

May 25, 2009

Thirty Nine Days, One hour, fifty minutes: Ain't Misbehavin'

No one to talk with
All by myself
No one to walk with
But I'm happy on the shelf
Ain't misbehavin'
I'm savin' my love for you
I know for certain
The one I love
I'm through with flirtin'
It's just you I'm thinkin' of
Ain't misbehavin'
I'm savin' my love for you

Like Jack Horner
In the corner
Don't go nowhere
What do I care?
Your kisses are worth waitin' for
Believe me

I don't stay out late
Don't care to go
I'm home about eight
Just me and my radio
Ain't misbehavin'
Savin' my love for you

Like Jack Horner
In the corner
Don't go nowhere
What do I care?
Your kisses are worth waitin' for
Believe me

I don't stay out late
Don't care to go
I'm home about eight
Just me and my radio
Ain't misbehavin'
Savin' my love for you
Ain't misbehavin'
Savin' my love for you

Moped Diaries: Day Six

Seattle at last.

It seemed like a luxury all of a sudden, to have slept in beds two nights in a row, rather than in my amazingly small sleeping bag and tent. I woke up at noon, while Ashton still slept. I sat up and nudged him a little and he only let out a fart. I laughed at his response and proceeded to the bathroom to take a look at myself. I looked at my beard. It didn't hang out like Ashton's did. It just sort of clung to my face, the way Hipsters used to grow their beards back in the late 2000's. It didn't seem epic, but this was the most facial hair I had ever had. I brushed my teeth and returned to the room to see Ashton spooning a pillow. Jokingly, I spoke in falsetto "Oh Ashiepoo, you know how to make a girl happy." With that, I saw a smile stretch over his face. In our iteneraries, we had decided to take the day we got to Seattle to visit everything we could before we would cross the border the next day. So far, a third of the day was over and we still were inside the hotel.

I pulled the pillow out from his claw like grip and his arms snapped around him like a bear trap. He shuddered awake instantly. He stared at me and went to the bathroom and shut the door. By the time he came out, it was two. But I laughed when I saw him. He shaved his epic beard to resemble the clingy hipster like beard I was sporting now.

"Nothing. I thought your beard was epic."
"It still is."
"C'mon, we got stuff to see in Seattle."
"Like what?"
I clawed the back of my head for things to do in Seattle. I could only muster a few, "We could see the world's first Starbucks, and go to the Pike's Market, and see the needle, and of course R.E.M. Koolhaus' library." I hoped that was sufficient.

This time, the cycles were lighter, not loaded with panniers, leathery oilskins and plastic cases. This time, just two riders and their cameras. We saw the sites, we ate the food, we did this and we did that, but we wanted a drink. The last beer we had was on our third day, a bottle of Moosehead lager I bought at the convience store. We found a pub, walked down into the basement and it almost felt like walking into Cheers.

We stumbled home, walking our Mopeds, and singing a song. We locked the bikes to the chain post and to the rain gutter, and to a vending machine for some reason unknown. We retired to our room, took off our heavy outer wear, and plopped down and fell asleep.

May 24, 2009

Moped Diaries: Day Five

sorry it's been such a long time since the last post, but here goes!

A low rumble of thunder shook me awake. I sat, surprisingly upright, stiff in an old soccer jersey, groggy and trying to get a feel for my settings. The room was dark with the exception of a mottled, dirty brown rectangle of light to the side of me. This was a welcome change from the damp green tent we usually slept in. I rustled my naked legs under the sheets, feeling my leg hairs catch the threads. I rubbed my thin beard, still blinking unconciously, trying to fit the room and the things in it into focus and eventually it did. It smelled sterile, like a cleaned smoking room. The whole room seemed to blend into the sixties fairly nicely with the fabric wall paper, ceiling lamp suspended on a brass chain and decorative metal artwork. Shuffling to the bathroom, I faced the large mirror. My face was growing again since the first time I shaved outside of the Oregon coast. I brushed, washed and scrubbed, and performed two out of the three s's. I didn't shave.

I re-entered the room to find that the curtains now were drawn and Ashton was sitting in the pleather armchair by the radiator under the big window. He had the grimy looking coffee maker switched on to make some hot water. Another low rumble. This time, the window rattled a little. Curiously, I peered over to the clock by the bed and it said 7am. Ashton grabbed the remote and pointed it at the television set. It hummed to life and a faded out image of an Anchorperson showed up. The sound hadn't quite caught up just yet. Then, the sound crackled to life.

"Today's news forecast calls for thunder storms until one, and high winds starting at seven pm tonight. If you're going south, avoid the coast as we will be getting southerly winds mixing up with a cold front from Canada."
"That settles it," Ashton cried, "we'll have to stay here until two.
"We gotta check out though."
"Yeah, forgot about that. OK, new plan. We'll hang out at the market until two."

Packing up the mopeds, we loaded them up in silence, breaking it only once when I leand over to pass a fart. The clouds still mussled themselves overhead, playing like waves, breaking on an ocean, but above our heads. He rode out to the Portland market, sat and ate fried fish, picked out fresh fruit, a tomato here, an onion there. Closer to two, we would sit by the coffee trolley and sit and play backgammon. When two passed, we apparently decided it would be safe to go out. The bridge over the river seperating Portland and Vancouver in Washington state would be our final farewell to Oregon. We pedaled north, following the roads into the interior, and the clouds kept coming. We found a small little trap along side a lonely side road that we decided to stop and take a break at. Turns out the man sold beaver and otter pelts. Ashton was disgusted and walked out while I remaind inside touching the soft furs.

Washington is quite strange you could say with a grin. I read back in college that a large portion of the state was used to manufacture the materials necessary for nuclear research during the second world war. My how the values have changed within the past sixty years. We continued to ride, this time, rejoining the coast and following the road north. By nine in the evening, we reached the city of Seattle. Tired, cold and hungry, we parked at another motel, this time, one not from the sixties, and ate at the dive at the corner, plunked onto the beds, still in our jackets, helmets, goggles and boots.

At one, I shifted over, realizing I was still in full ride up gear, undressed, urinated in the bathroom and went to bed.

Like the boy who cried wolf...

I slept that night, feeling sad, crying on the inside. I didn't think she was too, so when I woke up, I sent an asshat text and went back to sleep. It hurt her. I knew it did, and I was afraid for when she would call. When she did, I pushed it too far. I didn't intend to, she's a delicately balanced person and i'm a stump on the ground, I thought, unfallable and unmovable. Turns out, I let my emotions all over the street. I cried in front of 40 people walking and 400 people driving down University when she called.

I'm going through lent again. This time, I'm not going to let her get in the way like last time.

Starting at Midnight, in One Hour, and forty minutes, my lent begins.

Forty Days and 0 hours, 0 minutes

May 22, 2009

Say it so, A Man Needs a Woman

Do you ever remember what life was like before you met her? I tried to remember, but it's starting to grow dim. These days, all I ever think about is her, and moving out, and my new fraternity, etc. etc. But just a couple days ago, I started to think about what was my life like before I met her? Before I became a sensual romantic. I certainly wasn't walking around in a flannel shirt chopping trees down and sticking my face on paper towels, but I was doing things that guys probably would do. I mean, yeah, I loved being there for someone, I loved the idea of waking up next to a great gal, and of course there are certain things a girl does for you that you yourself cannot do. Like cuddle.

No, but I thrust as far back as I could muster and tried to relive that past for the past week. Working around finals of course. Monday night, I had a final the next evening so I decided to fool around. I was pretty confident in the class and when the final did come around, there was one question I couldn't answer, but not without some form of logical explanation. I went out for a bike ride, going up hills, down streets, stopping every so often to browse shops and gaze into windows. I stopped into an antique shop, browsed around and had a chat with the owner. Small world, the boss is a friend of the grandmother of a friend of my own.

I finished that ride with a close. What I call a Leighna Lap. One of my first friends at University is for her namesake, Leighna. This past semester, she showed me how to use the Ohlone trail and the bay trail. Much easier than city riding for sure, but I still like the streets every so often. A Leighna Lap consists of using the Ohlone trail and doubling back from point Richmond, following the exact same way you came down. Mixing it with my own laps and jargon, the path I followed earlier is a transbay lap, then splicing it with a Leighna Lap. I frequently just go into places I probably shouldn't at night on my bicycle. I'm sick sometimes of the eggshell white-yellow walls of the apartment, I just want to get the hell out sometimes.

So far, my Laps include the Leighna, the Transbay, the Temascal, the Solano, the Bay Lap, and the Bay Farm lap. That last one is a particular favorite, I've been riding it since I was oh well, about 12. That's when my dad first thought I would be able to manage it. When I go home in the evenings with my bicycle, I usually like to take my bike out for a ride. That's what i've been doing too. I've been trying my hand at bike repair and it's turning out beneficial. My Raleigh touring bicycle is set up so that I could just sit for hours. Then again, if you gotta go, I wouldn't suggest using the long nose, or the short nose brooks saddle.

I've been getting into bicycles lately. I'm getting another bike soon, provided that Rico calls me to help me get the darn thing setup. I traded in an old banjo for a bike. I feel music falling away from my life. Recently, I haven't looked at my music collection, played an instrument in months and I gave away, well traded, the last tie I have left here. Apart from my clarinets. I mean, before, I could tweak and setup a guitar so well, you'd have thought you were playing amongst the cloud. I wont even let myself touch one anymore unless someone's looked over it first. But i'm just as clumsy with bicycles as I am with instruments. The other day, I pulled out the locking pin to hold the stem to the fork, but I couldn't fit it back in. I panicked. Obviously. I fixed it a couple hours later.

I'm thinking of going Fixie. I've been a strong proponent against them for the longest time, but I felt change was necessary. Sheldon Brown's website turned me over. Dont blame me.

Alln├Ąchtlich im Traume

Nightly I see you in dreams - you speak,
With kindliness sincerest,
I throw myself, weeping aloud and weak
At your sweet feet, my dearest.
You look at me with wistful woe,
And shake your golden curls;
And stealing from your eyes there flow
The teardrops like to pearls.
You breathe in my ear a secret word,
A garland of cypress for token.
I wake; it is gone; the dream is blurred,
And forgotten the word that was spoken.
-Heinrich Heine 1827

May 21, 2009

Wild Yonder Calls Me Canada

I never imagined the day when I finished my last final, got my papers turned in, etc, etc, etc. But what is coming up became so readily, and frightfully apparent, I almost flinched. If I can get this trip in with my high school buddies, it'll definitely get my mind off her. Nothing spells reprieve than Canada. Legally, I'm not one, but by heart, I feel like one. Not one of those standard issue stereotypes that everyone associates with the country, but like the Californian Canadian. British Columbian to be exact.

I really should see what the rest of Canada is like. But then again, I dont know what the rest of America is like at times. Sure, I have been to places like Minnesota, New York, Chicago, Orlando. But I never saw the nitty gritty of it. Like how things work in the Nation's capital, or the refugees pulling onto the sand in Miami for the first time. But in a sense, I'm kinda trying to escape that nitty gritty. What ground me, and wore me down the most in this past relationship was the crying, the obsessing, the lonelyness and the downward spiral into my own personal dementia. But that's going to change now. I just gotta get on my feet.

I miss Vancouver, and I miss Victoria. I really would like to see my Grand-Aunt one last time before she Passes. Same with Grand Uncle Leo in Los Angeles, but I dont know him too well. I remember pouring tea into his Son's pocket at my cousin's wedding once. We were fooling that he'd steal a teapot. I didn't realize it was still full of cold tea. But why Victoria? Why Vancouver you ask? A question I still ask myself. Its still close to the Pacific ocean, so the temperatures dont get to crazy. Last time I was there, I was walking around in a tshirt and shorts. I didn't expect it to be so nice. I'd just would like to get out of the Bay for a week, then i'd be golden.

Just once, before I graduate, I'd love to get that college road trip in. I had talked about it with Jeff Stallman once, but that kinda faded off when he went to the my second choice of school. But I was talking with some of my younger friends, and they seemed really into the idea of going to Canada for the heck of it. Maybe what i'm looking for sits around what you'd expect from movies like Harold and Kumar go to white castle, Road trip, Animal House. All that good stuff. But I guess to say in the least, we just want to have fun in another country, not ours.

Here's to goals, and here's to dreams.

May 19, 2009

Music of Your Life

Using only song names from ONE ARTIST, cleverly answer these questions. Pass it on to a gazillion people and include me. Try not to repeat a song title. It's harder than you think...

Pick Your Artist: The Decemberists

Are you male or female:
California one Youth and Beauty

Describe yourself:
Billy Liar

How do you feel about yourself:
A Cautionary Song

Describe where you currently live:
On the Bus Mall

If you could go anywhere, where would you go:

Your best friend is:
Eli, The Barrow Boy

Your favorite color is:
Red Right Ankle

What's the weather like:
July, July!

If your life was a tv show, what would it be called?:
The Perfect Crime

What is life to you:
Of Angels and Angles

What is the best advice you have to give:
Los Angeles, I'm Yours

If you could change your name, what would it be:
The Infanta

Your favorite food is:

Your Profession:
Here I dreamt I was an Architect

May 16, 2009

counting down the days

Hello all, Hejhej, and Welcome back

CP110 paper - 1 day, 13 hours

Architecture 170B - 2 days, 19 hours

Moving out - 8 days

Going back to school, 10 days

Canada - unknown.


I sat quietly, listening to the voices outside the window. They were a modge-podge of boys and girls voices, all clambering over each other, trying to gain a dominance of some sort. Some were yelling, others were just drunken slur, and others were giggles, floating over the fields of dead grass, strewn with empty natty cans. But somehow, they always seem to find their way right into my window. I sat, still, listening intently, like I was spying on someone's life, listening to every single intent and personal remark.

I closed the windows, leaving the world to itself, and sat back at the desk, facing the wall. I stared at the tan colored typewriter, scowling at me with its alfalfa-like paper back sticking out and mocking me. I grabbed a sheet of paper, stuck it in, and began to write. It didn't matter what, I just wrote. I now created my own world, away from the world.
(Customer walks up and beings speaking in Spanish.)

Me: “Umm, I don’t speak Spanish.”

Customer: “Oh, ah…” *continues speaking Spanish*

Me: “I don’t understand.”

Customer: *speaks Spanish*

Me, in Swedish: “Jag pratar inte Spanska sa jag!”

*customer runs away*

May 11, 2009


American customer: “Your flag is just so pretty. I love maple leaves. Does it come in blue?”

Me: “Um, no, sorry, only red.”

American customer: “That’s a shame. My kitchen is blue, and it would look so pretty on the wall. You should make them in other colours.”

Me: “…”

Canadian customer behind her: “That’s a good point. I’ve always thought the stars-and-stripes would look great in earth tones.”

American customer: “Our flag is ALWAYS red, white and blue! Honestly, Canadians are so stupid sometimes.”

May 10, 2009

On the tip of my frontal lobe

What am I thinking about? There's certainly something that's been scratching at the back of my head the entire time, I've been thinking and there's really one thing I can think of.

Sex. Sex sex sex sex sex. No matter how you put it, it's still sex. That and Bri. I just keep thinking of her. Waking up in the mornings, cold and alone, brushing my teeth, walking to class in the morning, it's all a painful slap in the face. I wish I had done something differently. She just came out with it on my birthday, we didn't even really attempt to try to fix the relationship. It just went *phut* She gave me two options, those two options were just as bad, and I didn't know what to pick. In a moment of blindness, I chose for us to break it off. I wish I hadn't. I hate my birthday. Each day, I look with less and less enthauism to turning the next age. Even though I turn twenty one in 10 months, I dont want to. I'm still hung up on twenty.

I cant listen to Abba anymore. That's ruined. I cant watch ballroom dancing. My parents insist on dancing now. That's all they talk about now. My life changed for her. Hers changed for mine. She wants to go back to who she was, before me, before Billy, before everyone else. It's not possible. You meet people along the way, and you either take them for the ride or you dont. I caught on, captivated by her. I loved every minute of it, but I saw she was sad, she was frustrated, she was getting sick. I tried, I didn't notice. Work was catching up with me and her, and she just had to shed something. The one thing that brought me joy, the one thing that seperated me from the rest of the guys, that was her. Now I'm just like every single one of my single friends. I liked having someone. There's that thing. That past tense. I just cant bring myself to let go.

She wrote on my wall once. "I believe in you". She still does, or at least she tells me, but I like to think she does. I've never known her to quit on anything except for us. That's the one thing. Maybe she isn't, maybe she is. I believed in her, I helped her through tough and through sadness. When we first started, she wrote, "I'm falling, will you be there to catch me?" I said I was. I still am. But when I fell, I fell onto the sharp shards, rocks sticking out of the ground, my body pounded into a grotesque shape and form. I just wish...

But that feeling, I hope is temporary. She taught me not to quit, I'm not quitting. I hope she sees, if anyone can be so dedicated, for a little glimmer of joy, to have faith and hope for those who need it most, I just hope she can see with open eyes. One summer isn't enough. It's going to be a fucking long 2 years at Berkeley.

I love her. I just cant seem to get through anymore. Its like i'm some other radio station. Everyone tells me its my fault, everyone points fingers, that's what leads to thoughts, that's what leads me to open the window looking over the 8th floor, that's what nearly pushed me. I came close to falling, with no one to catch me. I remain sitting on this branch.

I love you Zachary. You've got too much love, that's the scary bit. Keep hope, maybe she hasn't quit just quite yet. Maybe she hasn't completely given up on you. Keep that chin up, and give a flower time to bloom before you can pick it.

May 08, 2009

Is there any truth to this?

Rejection lines women use, plus translations.

10. I think of you as a brother. (You remind me of that inbred banjo-playing kid in 'Deliverance.')

9. There's a slight difference in our ages. (I don't want to do my dad.)

8. I'm not attracted to you in 'that' way. (You are the ugliest dork I've ever laid eyes on.)

7. My life is too complicated right now. (I don't want you spending the whole night or else you may hear phone calls from all the other guys I'm seeing.)

6. I've got a boyfriend. (I prefer my male cat and a half gallon of Ben and Jerry's.)

5. I don't date men where I work. (I wouldn't date you if you were in the same 'solar system', much less the same building.)

4. It's not you, it's me. (It's you.)

3. I'm concentrating on my career. (Even something as boring and unfulfilling as my job is better than dating you.)

2. I'm celibate. (I've sworn off only the men like you.)

1. Let's be friends. (I want you to stay around so I can tell you in excruciating detail about all the other men I meet and have sex with. It's the male perspective thing.)

May 03, 2009



The book Dracula by Bram Stoker begins today on May 3rd. Follow it live on this website which will "live feed"

350: Love Was...

I've spent a long time trying to get post 350 out...

You sit there, in the back of the Cafe, watching people come in and out, buying coffee and then going. Occasionally, there's a girl who walks in and sits with another and you look at them a little green. You look back to your bare table, covered only in rough knife marks and the dried rings staining the multicolored surface. You sit and you work, noticing everyone who walks in, and you note them. Build, hair, eyes, who they sit with, where they sit, stuff your analytical mind just cant shrink away from.

Then she enters. Your ex. With another man. He's tall, handsome, slightly scruffy around the face. Everything you tried to do, but you failed at. You drop your face into your hands, feeling absolutely crushed. You want to die right then and there. Then you realize, they sit seperately, they're not together! Your eyes wander over the tops of your fingers to see this, and you perk up. If there is one thing girls want to do, its to keep you as a friend, and tell you about their amazing sex life. But that's not what she does. She apparently left you, and went gallavanting off to some foreign clime. You race, try to look distracting to her. She doesn't see you, and you slink away, in complete failure. You work, occasionally watching her out of the corner of your eye. You grumble. It was a long time ago, but you still cant get over her. She ruined your birthday, she really did. You wanted to kill yourself on your own birthday, but you cried. She wanted to be friends, so you stayed that way. That's all it was, life just kept going downhill. You failed somewhere, you really did.

She packs up, and she walks over. You sit back, aghast, and stunned. "Dont think I didn't see you over there. I just didn't want to bother you." You just shiver, and shake your head. "It wouldn't have been." "How have you been? Have you been taking care of yourself?" You shake your head. You pull up your right sleeve. She stares, and you can tell, her heart is twisting inside of her. Dried scabs, lines running across your arm, some still caked, fresh with blood. She starts to cry. You quickly roll up that sleeve and you try to comfort her. "Was life that hard afterwards?" You start to think, you can only mutter "yes." "I'm sorry then." She gets up, leaves and you sit back against the wall. Still dejected.

Grabbing your bag, you rush out, leaving the tip as well as your pen. You look left and right, she isn't around. You can only yell out something that can be best described as uncouth. You take your bag, punt it across the street and just collapse onto your knees and start to weep. It's all your fault. Again.

I dreamt of her

Last night, or this early morning, I made a pretty sleepy, dreamy post that was short and for some reason, fairly cryptic when I go back to read it. But I think I can explain. Last night, I was contemplating why I wanted to go back into a relationship with Bri. The more I thought about it, the more I tried to reason why I wanted to recess back to before my birthday. I guess the reasons are companionship, love, a feeling of security, and the hugs. I've been pretty horny the past 9 weeks since I broke up with her, but that's only passing. I've lived 19 years unsexed, now that i'm twenty, I need it for some reason.

But I dreamed last night, lying restless in bed at 5am. I dreamed I was lying next to her, we're both under the covers, and she's sad. I wrap my arms around her, and she starts to smile, and giggle and be happy. She hasn't been happy around me since my birthday. Its hard to since I keep bringing up the same topic over and over again. I shouldn't, I know. But it was so weird, this dream, we weren't even doing anything, but just being silly, happy and giggling. I woke up, alone in bed except for my moosie flip flop.

Reasoning Behind Why

Its been established, I hate being single. I miss the feeling of having someone to hold and to nuzzle and kiss. What is it that I want? Why do I pine after her?

So what if I get her? What do I want? I dont know. I'm so sappy.

May 02, 2009


The morning dew kissed its heavy breath over the country side. Leaves, blades of grass, crumpled sheets from an ancient newspaper, yellowed by the sun and the weather. A confusing jumble of Cyrillic characters covers the front page, the words blending and mashing into one another like a train of cars bumping into a barrier. A photograph of a pudgy official yelling into a podium microphone covers the rest of the yellow newsprint.

The figure of a man lays sprawled underneath a dying tree. His body is covered in a muddied, torn and stained mackintosh which looks as if it came out of a catalog from thirty years ago. His face is not covered in wrinkles, but there is a youthful bounce to his skin. His eyes remain shut, though they waver, restless against his dreams. Over the barren grassy plain, the first rays of the sun begin to reach his body. Still partially shaded in the tall grass, it first touch his side, then his midsection, then his entire body. He stirs, rubbing his eyes with grimy fists and sits up. Standing, he shakes off the coat of dew on his body. His name is Anton. Just Anton, no last name. The people in the village call him the dummy, and no one seems to know where he came from.

The local official in his reports state he first appeared in town on April 18, 1972. That was six years ago, his files are still locked in the tarnished steel cabinet in the local police station. No one wanted to adopt him, Khrushchev forbade any sort of adoption of local runaways. But one largehearted man decided to travel to Moscow to argue a case since no one knew if he was a runaway or not. He just emerged from nowhere. That man had never returned, his house still stands empty, the door locked, paint peeling from the front and the inside. Some local teenagers had broken into it once and in the village, it became notorious as a place to engage in bad activities. But one day, the Police chief entered, kicked people out, boarded up the windows and padlocked the door.

Anton didn't have a home. Or a family. Everyday, he did the same thing, he would wake up, eat a few leaves as well as a loaf of bread usually left outside the church. Then he would do exercises by running around the entire village two or three times. Then he would play along the railway tracks, nearly getting hit by a State Railways train carrying pig iron once, he was caught in the front fender then thrown aside. He didn't seem to sustain any injuries, but the villagers remarked not seeing him for a week or so, then he reappeared completely healed, no bruises or scratches.

But it was winter in 1978, the area had not seen snow in several years since it was close to the Caspian. From the factories in Odessa trains would rumble by with cars filled with toys to be sold in Moscow, Leningrad, Stalingrad and Volgograd. On this day, Anton was sitting alongside the tracks when he felt the ground begin to shake. He understood this as a train coming and he sat on a discarded tie alongside. The steam engine rumbled by and wooshed steam into his face. He liked the warmth. But as the boxcars started passing by, there was one with an open door and several vagrants inside. They spotted him and threw something out at him. It landed with a clunk a few feet in front of him. He peered at the mysterious shape with curiosity and continued to watch the train rumble by with his eye. As soon as the red lamp was out of sight in the horizion, Anton stood up and walked over to it. He stood in front of it, dumbfounded. It was a wooden sled with iron runners and a iron back. He didn't know that though. He picked it up, it felt remarkably light. He took it back to his tree where he slept and placed it in the grass.

That night, he laid on the ground on his side, watching the thing with some mysticism as well as caution. But he only could compete in this contest for another hour before he fell asleep. The next morning, he did his usual routine, but cutting down his second lap short to run back to his tree. He squatted in front of the sled, poked it with curiosity, and he straddled it. Then he sat down in it. He leaned back in the iron railing seat back, suddenly, he imagined he was flying through the air. The little village was retreating fast behind as he soared in his magical machine. He sailed above the clouds, riding the pressure currents with the geese and then he reemerged below the clouds, this time, flying over a great vast ocean. He saw a beautiful red and yellow fishing boat with its sails full of wind. He zoomed by it, then circled it twice.

Night slid its blanket over the plains, he eagerly placed his new machine under the tree. He took his mackintosh and covered it up. The cold plains wind chilled him but he slept soundly. The morning came and he stood up, jumped around making a grunting sound. He whipped off the mackintosh and grabbed the sled and he ran to the train tracks. He had a rusted milk pail and he placed it on top of his like a helmet. The tracks stretched into infinity before him. He closed his eyes and he began fly again. The 12pm express to Volgograd materialized before him. His eyes still shut tight. He began to shake violently, if it was the train or him, it could not be determined. The steam engine's front grew, it started getting bigger and bigger. The earth subsided before him, the gravel falling away from the rails. The rusted cowcatcher smashed the sled, throwing Anton a few feet forward before the point of the catcher dragged his body along the rails. His body lay there for two days before the village people noticed he was gone. The men searched with their battery torches and found the smashed pieces of wood alongside the rails. They ran up and with their torches they scanned the immediate area. The circles of light converged onto a bloodied mass. They ran over and looked at the poor body of Anton.

Anton was given a burial, the coffin provided by the local carpenter. The priest led the ceremony, the ladies in the village were dressed in somber black, the men in town wore black, the teenagers didn't even show up. They didn't want to appear at the funeral for what they thought was a social retard. They lowered the pine coffin into the earth and everyone threw a splash of dirt into the hole. As the workmen filled in the hole, the priest read the last rites. As the hole was soon filled, they realized there was no headstone. The men who had found his body walked to the tracks and grabbed the largest plank that was still left from the remains of the sled. A policeman produced a marker from his pocket and wrote Anton above the company logo. He asked the villagers what his last name was. He looked around only to be rebutted with blank, vacant faces. He shrugged and stabbed the plank into the loose earth mound. He lived as Anton. He was remembered as Anton Spraktopina. After the wooden toy company.

The Mutt

You picked him out, or more like he picked you. You were at the puppy counter when you couldn't decide which one to get. All of them seemed so cute and fuzzy but this one, he looked at you. Right into your eyes while all the other ones didn't pay attention. You looked at him, slightly embarrassed to be gazing at puppies longingly but he still tries to grab your attention. You take him out to the play pen, he pulls you down on top of you and licks your face and you dont know how to respond.

Hesitantly, you buy him. You and him, you go through training and all sorts of things, there are certainly habits he has that you dont want him to continue. So you teach him new tricks and he does them. He loves you, he still is fascinated by you and you love him. You think. Then you think about a cat. You throw him out. He paws at the door, he whimpers, he cries, he howls. You sit alone in your place, you read a book, but he sits there at the window, watching with big puppy dog eyes but you close the curtains, he still tries. He makes effort to get back into your life. He misses the feeling of love. You dont know if you can handle the responsibility.

You brought him up, but you've left him, still growing.