if only such things could fit on construction paper
2002-03-18 - 4:49 p.m.
Sir#2: So, how was yer vaCa?
Sir#1: Pink elephants.
Sir#2: Now, being you, I know that when I say �pink elephants� it�s an euphemism for the feeling one would get if one were being stabbed in the eye with a ball-point pen by the hand of a cotton-filled pink elephant, but for the viewers that are not aware, perhaps it is best for you to illiterate in a manner such that-
Sir#1: Like a blenderful of human feces, served with a side of skin milk.
Sir#2: That was hardly creative, my dear Sir.
Sir#1: But Sir, if I were creative, there would be no reason for bad weeks to occur, for creativity is the canceller of all evils, and the forgetter of those evils that cannot be conquered. And thus, by saying such an illy-begotten-of-negative-creativity statement, I am further pronouncing that I have had a not-good week.
Sir#2: But one might argue that this argument, this interlude into the dancers of one man�s spine, *is* creativity. Hence, we have been creative.
Sir#1: Then, I might say, I�ve had a very good week, all in all...thankyouverymuch, my siC and twisted Sir.
Sir#2: Anytime...I know you would do the same for me.
Sir#1: In the end, I geuss I�m not sure how my week was; I�ll tell you about it, and then you can draw up what emotion you would have drawn up, had it been your week, eh?
Sir#2: Agreed, although agreed with an attachment of �empathy is funni stuff�.
Got to RPI without much of a hassle...only got on one wrong bus, and was corrected to the proper bus at just the right time.
�An obvious similie is an ugly similie, but each new metaphor, obvious or no, goes down in neuron history.� �Nemo
I wrote an essay concerning a photograph of a house that never really existed, which everyone agreed was surprisingly �sensative� (or some word other, that was fairly close to it...on the emotional side of �sentimental�) and there�s this guy named Clayton. This man [in my creative writing class] must be in his mid-forties, so maybe I should just blame myself for not being able to connect with what happened to him to make his brain the way it is. Published poet, but published low. So he makes a remark about my story: �it should be the guy who moves into the house, because I can�t imagine a woman going out and buying a house all by herself...usually the man chooses the house to live in, and the woman gets in the kitchen and keeps the place clean [slightly paraphrased, of coarse, I had lost my pen at the time].� The following was not my response, but it would�ve been more interesting than a blatent �no�: �Clayton, there isn�t even a guy in the story...I sorta suggested that she�s single...not that I�ve said anything about this character except that she�s a female writer...and I�m sure that she could handle moving into a new house without the help of a man...jesus, just pretend that she�s Silvia Plaith�. [note the punctuation outside the period, just the way I like it.]
Revelation: Drinking [alcohol] makes me really appreciate the day I wake up into. The problem being that I loose all appreciation for the night prior. Overly clumsy this morning, but it�s funny to *bump*.
Social reservations. I noticed that the people at my college have the generally accepted view that the front seat of the shuttle is reserved for handicapped persons. So I got thinking about why we really need special parking spaces for the handicapped...socially, I would like to think that people would step up and leave those parking spaces open closest to stores out of their own good will...and for communities without a high rate of handicapped individuals, the �normal� residents wouldn�t be toed for parking in these areas for emergencies and quick stops...but some would argue that humans are more selfish than I would be suggesting.
�wishes are like tattoos, �cept you can�t get �em removed.� -Nemo
Went shopping for a nighty for my grandmother because that�s what she wanted to be buried in. Somehow, it seemed that I was more related to my cousin Katie than was previously thought...not by blood, but as far as thinking thoughts goes. She got into an accident a short while ago, I might have mentioned...went into a coma and came out after reconstructive surgery...she was pretty close to beating Grandma to the stairway. After a short period of nighty-shopping and family togetherness with my Father, cousin, and aunt, we went to Ruby Tuesdays...and this time I didn�t even swipe the coasters. Saw family at the wake that I didn�t even know I had. And no one woke up. Just a square vertical corner perfection-cut poplar casket with an extended swing bar. Optional tips included. Nothing on the inner panel; just a rosary in her hands and a tiny black and white picture on her tummy. Not a bad funeral, considering no one knew exactly when to sit and stand and kneel, Grandma being the last Catholic of the family [this also meant that everyone crossed their arms for mass]. Never been a pallbearer before, so...that was fun [�fun� with an Ed Izzard Cynical Grin (TM)]. And the funeral director pulled me aside for special funeral-director talks, and to show me all the back rooms of his work. He was really pleased with me, I was fairly pleased with him, and he might have offered me some sort of summer internship if he hadn�t made the boo-boo of hiring a half a person too much already. Ah, the business of facilitation.
Related Note: Woke up the next morning with pink watercolour on the back of my hand, and in my jacket I discovered a handful of Post-it (TM) sized abstract artwork from my 3-year-old cousin Tory. She kept calling me her Bud...when I said hello with my non-existent eyebrows at the wake, she latched onto my leg and I was sure that this kid thing wasn�t for me. I just didn�t know what to do but pet her head and make confuzzled faces. I thought I�d grown too serious to think like a child. Later that evening, I spent at least two hours with Tory on the floor of my aunt�s house, watercolouring and crayoncolouring. fingerpainting each other�s fingers. Such things make me think that I was wrong. About everything a man can be, and some things he really shouldn�t.
Misplaced metaphors, a Velcro pad stuck in goo. �oh yea, just a cold tile on a floor full of tiles.� While the direction/description of the metaphorical object may be proper in context, the known is out of place. �So he said he didn�t want to go out with you? That is so blue paint of him...� Especially good when someone is trying to tell you something that should be important, like directions to a place �these directions are a rat howling in the moonlight of the McDonald�s Playplace.� Misplaced modifiers, another new art form. That statue looks so...videotaped.� Finally, a combonation of the two. �So, you�re going out with this acidic guy, and you really like the basic guy, but you�re afraid that you don�t have the buffer capability to hold him for long?� Misplace away.
For all those exersize freaks out there, I�ve devised a new comparative system of finding out how much you�ve excerted yourself, relative to others: it doesn�t matter if you feel like you�re gonna puke, but how much you feel like you could puke. For example, a person might say �I feel like two buckets today�. Or similarly, they might say, �I exercised three buckets [of puke] worth�.
Pardon me for being concerned for a friend. Nikki and I were ramming heads before this vacation, about something I said about her taking off her jacket in the vicinity of this guy that she�s got a restraining order against. Not that I was telling her how to manage the small things in her life; it was just a suggestion (although it may not have come out that way, for she changed her story about my story several times). For me, it was all about the symbolism. Simon, the intuitionist* suggests that, quite simply, people are constantly participating in behaviors that are more symbolic than the actual behaviors that they manifest [see �Language�]. Otherwise, middle fingers wouldn�t mean anything...smiles wouldn�t be universal, or even necessary. In our daily lives, he hums, we participate in an uncountable number of �rituals�. What humans are built to do [although other animals do it too]. This, I think, is what some theorists call �culture�...a list of activities that an individual may partake in to add expression to everyday behaviors...Nikki goes on to complain to the other people in her suite that I�m a sexist (regardless of me pointing out that the symbolism would be the same if the gender roles had been reversed), because she has a need to be validated in her arguement. I, on the other hand, do not need anyone else to validate my theories. Hell, that�s what we uses this diary for.
Amendment: I sat with a spill of orange juice at lunch, and although it wasn�t very talkative (as more carbonated spills are apt to be), it was pretty entertaining (relatively speaking) as it rolled to the edge of the table. See? symbolic.
Saturday: Coal Chamber concert in Portland, stopped by Mum�s on the passing-by. The re-new bassist (Nadja Puelen) is a real cutie...gotta be a German thing. Something about not being able to tell if someone is a cutie until you see them out of the perfect lighting of studio photos. But not so cute as to exclude or top the opinion that the band just *kicks*, in several general directions. Musta been twice several hundred people at the concert, and one took the low road, removing her bra/shirt/dignity (in reverse order of course) for a shirt from the band. Not that the shirt was the most obvious primary reinforce of this behavior...and this type of exposure must bear some sort of psychological defense mechanism to it: either �look at me, I�m a deviant� or �I need to be validated that I�m actually good looking [enough]�; perhaps a combo of the two with a serving of coke at no extra charge. The jury is still out to lunch considering if it could also be called a �cry for help�, but really, what you call it is irreverent. I only saw her back, but really that�s all that a person needs to see, to See the results of a person�s situation[s]. What struck me is that I�ve known people in the same shoes. Not that the action itself is degrading, but the situation[s] leading up to this type of exposure are nearly always...and for that, I have pity.
Sidenote: I think I�ve gotten too old for mash pits.
Sidenote (continued): Sister got umph. She can beat the boys up...she got the Grrr. And she wants to be just like Nadja when she goes up [in fame].
Conceit: my style of writing. The type of writing in which the reader is lead to believe that something is something that it�s not. Makes you think in at least two different ways, and as many as seven [I wonder if Doug still reads this] although three of four is the highest I�ve managed so farr. Funstuff, great for short stories.
Monday: Neck stopped hurting from the headbanging and mashing, and ears have stopped ringing [noticeably/for the most part/by a power of ten]. Seem to have lost all my energy usually assigned to complete proper grammatical sentences, and other energies (including the energy assigned to measure losses of energy) are presumed to be faltering. For it is a cold day I�m having in Mynd.
*the branch of psychology that is not concerned with scientific data...the psychologists that make up their theories on what they have �put together� in their heads through their experiences. See �Groddeck�, �Freud�, �Rogers�, and/or �Jung�, et al.
