Really, I just like typing “Pseudoweekly Photoroll.” It’s a lot of fun. Pseudoweekly Photoroll. Pseudoweekly Photoroll. Try it!

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(Workin’ on my prose, still. The fact that I had to say “In a Cafe” to let people know the last one was in a cafe kinda annoyed me, so I’m trying to set the scene a bit more this time, though if I continued or redid this I’d love to expound on the protagonist more. Also, this one’s not quite so pessimistic! Sorta. That’s always good. )

Even for a bar, The Long Leaf wasn’t exactly alluring. Sure, it had a certain… charm, I suppose. The dusty collection of fedoras lining the west wall next to the stage, the black metal chairs that deserved to be on a lawn (and probably were at some point, knowing Dustin, the owner), the fact that the bartender would always keep all of the TVs around the bar locked on an old western movie channel–Yeah, the place had charm, at least on paper. But even so, it was the sort of uniqueness that only lasted the first few times you spent a weary night at the place. To travelers, maybe some random family on a roadtrip to nowhere, it’d be “quaint.” But if you spent any more nights there–like me–you’d soon realize that this was all anyone living in this town had to escape the dust and weeds outside. Anyone who worked in Deskern came here at night, every night. And after five, ten, hundreds of weeks, no one gave any sort of a damn how many of the ash trays looked like cowboy hats.

Granted, at the point in my life when I walked into The Long Leaf that night, I didn’t really think about the bar itself much anymore. The bar had practically become an involuntary habit, like walking home from the gas station after work or hanging my keys on the hook as I walked into my house. Something that I just took as an inevitability.

But, that night, as I walked in, I heard–we all heard–a saxophone. A… tenor, I think. The saxist–“That’s what you call them, right?”, I asked myself in my head–was a gruff-looking guy in his fifties. His head was balding a bit, though you could see tufts of hair here and there. He seemed to have more hair under his chin, though, and more well-colored than the rest, too.

This was about all the detail I could manage to get into my head, though. After the initial shock of hearing someone playing music here, my first thought was, “No one has ever even used that stage before.” I asked Dustin later to make sure, and he said that sometimes his son Luke would come and play guitar, but only after hours in the early morning, well after everyone else had left. After this thought, though, I immediately sat down. Hearing such soft, sweet bellows growling from that instrument was a contract: Within ten seconds you were clearly informed that it would be necessary for you to sit down, required that you release your emotions into the air for the musician’s use, absolutely mandatory that you stay until the music ended, and even longer still after that. And the entirety of this contract felt like it was being spoken freshly off the silver tongue of the slickest con artist in town. Like anyone needed to convince me.

Quick Picture Story

July 14, 2009

Marie didn’t really get why I wanted to do it so much. She called it a waste–said it was me being pointlessly artsy, like I was trying to make my life out to be some crappy experimental film. She never really got me, anyway–we broke up the week after she walked outside that night. Which is maybe too bad, actually, since it was right then that I finally could put my feelings into words: I just wanted to make something beautiful, just for the sake of it. It’s how I make myself happy, I told her. Of course, she sighed, flipped her hair, and left. Ah, well… I’m lonely again for a while, I guess.

You might vaguely remember a guy from one of my Santa Fe entries who, among a lot of other things, told me about his friend who left his necklace outside in the full moon all night to make it a sort of talisman. After I heard about that, I wanted to try something like it, though something a bit more “me” and maybe a tad less cliche. I’m usually not that big on supernatural stuff, but I do believe that a lot of things can change if you’re very conscious of something you want (See: Placebos, that water bottle from Space Jam). So, I thought on it for a while, and eventually got the idea earlier today to use this bracelet I got in a Chicago craft market a while back as an as-of-yet-unnamed charm when I want to make things more eventful, insightful, or just plain strange in general–not so much a lucky charm as much of a luck-polarizing charm, where things go back and forth between extremely lucky and extremely unlucky.

And wouldn’t you know it, it worked! I think. Keep on Readin’ on?

July 10, 2009

Blehh. Sorry, guys, I think my stomach’s is in the middle of a mutiny and I really just don’t feel like cranking out anything creative today. I’ll try’n sneak in an extra update on the weekend to make up for it. In the meantime, some quick suggestions for what to do in the meantime:

Read this graphic novel. I just picked it up earlier today in an AMAZING book store in Decatur called “Little Shop of Stories,” and I pretty much gunned through it in a couple of hours. Not so much a speed read as much of staring at each page longingly for a minute and not stopping until I finished the entire thing. Such beautiful, dreamlike logic! (Also, some of the characters are almost scary in how much I can relate to them.) Way too recommended for it’s own good.

Watch this very pretty, thoughtful 3D animation.

Watch/listen to my favorite (favourite?) band! And be happier as a result, probably. I mean, they just kinda do that to you.

Look at “Pretty Loaded” for ten minutes or so. It’s kind of amazing how entertaining this is, considering the subject matter.

Hmm. I’m beginning to get annoyed with the lack of formatting on this thing–I wanted to do something weird with it for this poem but it’s fairly fickle. I’ll figure something out. In the meantime, a rough poem. A little poseur, maybe. Needs some work. And weird indents.

Prologue:

THERE IS A WORLD. There is a world behind your shoulder. a World. Find it and you find endless, endless, endless. But always behind you.

Act I:

I NEVER KNEW YOU but I remembered your name. Your name. Back. Back to that world. If I had, if I had just, just turned, just turned, just turned a bit more and walked through your path, clear cut through, would I know you now? Why can’t we run into other people more often? I could always hold myself back but I could never. Could never. Could never keep going. Agility disrupts happenstance disrupts time disrupts love. Why can’t we know other people more often? Why can’t we see other people more often? Disrupts your heart. Isn’t life. Rhythmic?

Musical Interlude:

To find yourself in perfect rhyme in time in time but not a line to seem you lost but what you found in time in time but not a line to leave what’s gone to leave it dry no time no time but stronger lives in fact we do not see behind in time in time but not a line.

Act II:

Wherein we forget ourselves, in hopes of forgetting others. You can’t decide in hindsight, so don’t bother trying, kid. Look alive, you’re moving. Trains, trains, I always loved trains as a kid. There’s something to be said for never stopping unless there’s something to be found. Pennies on a track won’t derail the train, but don’t worry, it’s human nature to try. To stop a line from being endless, one must find the beginning.

Epilogue:

How do lines cross if you never turn?

Just one from Santa Fe this time, amazingly–you can probably guess which one. (Hint: Not the ones with water.)

July 6, 2009

Oh, hey! I got to work today and found out that apparently Wifi now makes my computer explode immediately. So, not sure how this week is going to work out as far as regular posts go, since I now only have decent internet at work. I apologize in advance if a couple of nights this week go unposted because I’m still working out the situation, but I promise I’ll doublepost/triplepost after the empty space to make up for it! (The fates, they conspire against my blog!) So, tonight, just a quick poem: this is hopefully going to be part of a chapbook (short, self published book of creative writing, for those of you who understandably don’t know what it is) that I want to write this summer, called “Incommunicado.” Beautiful word, am I right? Anyway, this is a work in progress. I’ll keep you updated on the chapbook front–got some work for it now in a rough state, and hoping to finish it by summer’s end. This one’s unnamed for now–might be the intro poem for the book.

Incommunicado

You meet this poem on the side of the road.
You pass it–think it looks at you. Maybe.
It’s lying down. Looks a bit uncomfortable, you think.
You pass by again, later, on a whim–
It’s dead.

You see this poem every day–
On your way to work.
One of these days you will speak to it.

This poem is your brother.

You dream of this poem.
In your subconciousness, it knows you–
Even talks to you–
You grow up together.
As you sit on your roof with it,
Recalling memories of the forest behind your house, together,
The poem gently puts its hand on your knee,
And says it loves you.
As you embrace, you suddenly wake up.

You cry for this poem.
It is the only time you have ever cried in your life.

Do you remember this poem?
I wonder what happened to it…?

July 5, 2009

Ohh, this one’s good. Not many people know about this story, but it’s one of my favorites, despite not being the most fun to actually go through. So, yeahh, there was this one time when I got interrogated and was the prime suspect for a 200$ theft…

I was playing soccer in a gym in a P. E. class, back in tenth grade. There was this pretty big guy, Hispanic, a year ahead of me, and actually a pretty cool cat after I got to know him later on in the year. He was wearing pocketless gym shorts but for some reason didn’t want to leave the wallet in his gym locker, so he placed it on a bench in the corner of the gym and asked the goalie (read: me) to watch it for him during the game. I sorta passively said yes, not really thinking about it, and kept playing the game on through. The game eventually ended–didn’t really keep score, but for one guy guarding a giant wall as the goal, I think I did pretty okay–and people started heading back to the locker room. I looked over to the bench where the wallet was supposed to be sitting… Keep on Readin’ on?

#1: I walked into a custom hat shop one day in Santa Fe, hoping to find a crazy shop that made tons of different kinds of hats (hopefully with optional pom-poms on top?). Instead, I found shelves upon shelves of mesmerizingly beauitufl ten gallon hats. There was a guy there in one such hat with a magnificent southern drawl and a fantastic blonde ‘stache. Keep on Readin’ on?