Well Jesus Christ, I'm alone again. So what did you do those three days you were dead? 'Cause this problem's gonna last more than the weekend.
Slowing pains, growing pains. Miss, miss. I'm trying to quell the familiar melodrama sharkcircling in the dark, peachpit spots in my heart. You know, the poisonous ones. It's been a long time since I've been so emotional day-in day-out. We all know why I'm listening to so much A Wilhelm Scream; to so much Brand New. Why I keep trying to write poetry. Why the novel's on hold again. Why I hang too close to the wrong couples.
Et après un moment de silence—le déluge. Now give me a second to choose between a sweater and a dorky raincoat. Think, think.
Sunday, August 16, 2009
Sunday, July 12, 2009
July 12th. Thought like a wire.
"I was happier then. Or was that I? Or am I now I? Twentyeight I was. She twentythree when we left Lombard street west something changed. Could never like it again after Rudy. Can't bring back time. Like holding water in your hand. Would you go back to then? Just beginning then. Would you? Are you not happy in your home, you poor little naughty boy? Wants to sew on buttons for me. I must answer. Write it in the library."
How do you argue with this? How is it possible to say so much in so few words? Out of context this barely even makes sense. Reading it in the context of the story to that point, it made me want to cry. Two words—"Rudy" and "naughty"—and you're done for. Some things are nobody's fault. Little tragedies. We move on like so.
How do you argue with this? How is it possible to say so much in so few words? Out of context this barely even makes sense. Reading it in the context of the story to that point, it made me want to cry. Two words—"Rudy" and "naughty"—and you're done for. Some things are nobody's fault. Little tragedies. We move on like so.
Sunday, July 05, 2009
July 5th. Asleep in your thought.
Writing Windswept has taught me a thing or two about novelry. It's amazing how working on a 2-years-plus project will erect a framework for interpreting the world around the parts of you that collect and analyze sense data. What I mean to say is, stuff that might previously have occurred to you as a charming, if quaint, curiosity, can, under the influence of a novel, suddenly become the seed for something enormous without any warning whatsoever. Case in point, this little segment from one of the chapters near the end, which grew from a play on words on a strange two-word combo—"carrion dawn"—I stumbled across in Mark Z. Danielewski's mind-eatingly good House of Leaves into a paragraph about certain beautiful aspects of nature, and then into a bit about the early stages of hard drug use; sort of a Requiem for a Dream split-second montage in word form. Lemme think what you know.
~~~~
He let the heroin, the miracle drug of it, into him. It was ice cream childhoods all over again. He was on another plane, another plane of mind, he was crossing state lines, he whipped through insanity and unconsciousness and Florida and grace and landed in play, in playful dreams of artless theatre, in lines of dialogue he had memorized in the womb, all those summer moons ago. All the universe's thoughts were laid bare to him, stripped without tease, naked without shame, clear and plain as all the faces he knew in the floating darknesses he was privy to when he closed his eyes to blink. He had the floor-plans, the blue-print, the key-ring to everything.
He smiled, lunar landing, in celebration of things; he gloried the way the guitar's six-stringed theory made madmen and madwomen of us audience all. The way every atom waited for the fall of Troy, for the rise of day. The way we kept inculcating the buzzes we felt in our veins not to stop. The way the highest starkest snows were fragmented yet unimpeachable. The way we loved. The way water ran and jumped when it was asked politely. The way the sky opened up like a breaking origami at the first fold of sun.
So carry on, dawn. Carry on.
~~~~
He let the heroin, the miracle drug of it, into him. It was ice cream childhoods all over again. He was on another plane, another plane of mind, he was crossing state lines, he whipped through insanity and unconsciousness and Florida and grace and landed in play, in playful dreams of artless theatre, in lines of dialogue he had memorized in the womb, all those summer moons ago. All the universe's thoughts were laid bare to him, stripped without tease, naked without shame, clear and plain as all the faces he knew in the floating darknesses he was privy to when he closed his eyes to blink. He had the floor-plans, the blue-print, the key-ring to everything.
He smiled, lunar landing, in celebration of things; he gloried the way the guitar's six-stringed theory made madmen and madwomen of us audience all. The way every atom waited for the fall of Troy, for the rise of day. The way we kept inculcating the buzzes we felt in our veins not to stop. The way the highest starkest snows were fragmented yet unimpeachable. The way we loved. The way water ran and jumped when it was asked politely. The way the sky opened up like a breaking origami at the first fold of sun.
So carry on, dawn. Carry on.
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
June 23rd. Thought in the head.
I guess I have, in the ocean-sized great elephant graveyard of my weaknesses, lying among the ancient ivories, perched on the most bleached and dry of gigantic rib-cages, a weakness for beautiful things.
These three paintings are by a New York-based tattoo artist and painter named Regino Gonzales, and they are making me right stupid au moment. Never before have I wanted a tattoo involving a black snake on my body as fervently as I want one right now. And the multimedia aspect, juxtaposing senses of real space and non-real space, is pretty genius.
Those mice are block-tan-coloured! Whole parts of that snake are smudged! The rabbit, tree, birds and random strings are perfectly centered in an empty field of whiteness! But the detail is so good, the mock-nature painting aspect is so spot-on, that it feels almost real enough to transcend the fuzziness, hot pink birds, and strangely contrived situations back into the genre/realm of a still life or something.
I wish I was an international playboy. I wouldn't need to work, I could spend my days writing and drawing, and I could solve all my problems by buying and commissioning art, and wearing sunglasses 83% of the time. True fax.
These three paintings are by a New York-based tattoo artist and painter named Regino Gonzales, and they are making me right stupid au moment. Never before have I wanted a tattoo involving a black snake on my body as fervently as I want one right now. And the multimedia aspect, juxtaposing senses of real space and non-real space, is pretty genius.
Those mice are block-tan-coloured! Whole parts of that snake are smudged! The rabbit, tree, birds and random strings are perfectly centered in an empty field of whiteness! But the detail is so good, the mock-nature painting aspect is so spot-on, that it feels almost real enough to transcend the fuzziness, hot pink birds, and strangely contrived situations back into the genre/realm of a still life or something.
I wish I was an international playboy. I wouldn't need to work, I could spend my days writing and drawing, and I could solve all my problems by buying and commissioning art, and wearing sunglasses 83% of the time. True fax.
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
May 12th. A whole thought of walking to do.
For some reason, when reading Nino Ricci's very good the Origin of Species this past weekend, the quote "April is the cruelest month"—tossed off in passing by a minor character, and not sourced—stuck in my head as being from Chaucer. That was "April with her showers sweet," though. I guess the cruelty-accusation came from Eliot. Anyway, it hasn't been April for a minute now, so maybe he was wrong.
Last night I dreamt—in my fucked up way of things, and as well as Dan Yemin saying "Hey Alexander!" at the corner of René-Levesque and Greene, and having shampoo-covered sex with some woman who thought my toes were disgusting—that I got an A+ in English Montreal Lit. I'd managed to convince myself, over the past couple days, staring at the blank space where the letter grade was to show up on the My Grades page at My Concordia, that I deserved an A-, maybe—à la limite—an A.
When I got on my computer to check this morning, I remembered the dreamt A+ and the heady glory of it and I realized that it was never going to happen. I cursed my brain. And lo and behold, there, lying in wait for me, was a B+. I really hate myself right now. This is a fucking bird course; 31 people got an A or A-, and I was part of the 20 or so who didn't. English is my fucking thing, man. And the worst of it is that that god-awful B+ in that class I should have been able to ace with my eyes closed was the best fucking grade I've gotten in an English class yet. Basically what I'm saying is that I don't know what the fuck is wrong with me.
Hastie asked me a few weeks ago why I cared so much about marks and all that shit. I didn't give him a very convincing answer. I don't even know if it's something I can rationalize, anymore. I just care. I care so fucking much, and I'm so fucking useless anyway. And that little difference between an A- and a B+ is the difference between a 3.33 and a 3.47 on the semester. It's not like a 3.47 is even respectable, but it's... it's getting there.
I really, really have to get my shit together for next year. Finally I have a bunch of courses I actually want to be in, I'm on top of things, I know how university works. It's gonna have to be a fucking shower of As. I am going to need to bathe in them to be happy. Fuck me. Fuck my life—or at least, the mess I'm making of it. And this is really too melodramatic for me to want to leave here; I feel like I haven't matured a bit since I was sixteen, but I need it to remind me that I need to start fucking trying harder.
Last night I dreamt—in my fucked up way of things, and as well as Dan Yemin saying "Hey Alexander!" at the corner of René-Levesque and Greene, and having shampoo-covered sex with some woman who thought my toes were disgusting—that I got an A+ in English Montreal Lit. I'd managed to convince myself, over the past couple days, staring at the blank space where the letter grade was to show up on the My Grades page at My Concordia, that I deserved an A-, maybe—à la limite—an A.
When I got on my computer to check this morning, I remembered the dreamt A+ and the heady glory of it and I realized that it was never going to happen. I cursed my brain. And lo and behold, there, lying in wait for me, was a B+. I really hate myself right now. This is a fucking bird course; 31 people got an A or A-, and I was part of the 20 or so who didn't. English is my fucking thing, man. And the worst of it is that that god-awful B+ in that class I should have been able to ace with my eyes closed was the best fucking grade I've gotten in an English class yet. Basically what I'm saying is that I don't know what the fuck is wrong with me.
Hastie asked me a few weeks ago why I cared so much about marks and all that shit. I didn't give him a very convincing answer. I don't even know if it's something I can rationalize, anymore. I just care. I care so fucking much, and I'm so fucking useless anyway. And that little difference between an A- and a B+ is the difference between a 3.33 and a 3.47 on the semester. It's not like a 3.47 is even respectable, but it's... it's getting there.
I really, really have to get my shit together for next year. Finally I have a bunch of courses I actually want to be in, I'm on top of things, I know how university works. It's gonna have to be a fucking shower of As. I am going to need to bathe in them to be happy. Fuck me. Fuck my life—or at least, the mess I'm making of it. And this is really too melodramatic for me to want to leave here; I feel like I haven't matured a bit since I was sixteen, but I need it to remind me that I need to start fucking trying harder.
Saturday, April 18, 2009
April 18th. Thought twists.
I am coming apart at the seam. Am I? I am. Compound and compound again, re-tread, overdub, loop back and thread through. I am just a maze of mistakes. A haze of mistakes. You could get lost in them (I frequently do). I remember back in mid-January when Will thought I was going to pieces again. I laughed then, but if I had a job and/or a girlfriend today I wouldn't tomorrow morning.
I'm going to bed. Maybe the next few hours will be a cleansing salve, an opening salvo, a saving grace-period. Until then I'll keep my win-some, lose-some smile on. Nights like these I am all teeth.
Cheers.
I'm going to bed. Maybe the next few hours will be a cleansing salve, an opening salvo, a saving grace-period. Until then I'll keep my win-some, lose-some smile on. Nights like these I am all teeth.
Cheers.
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
March 25th. Thought with peril.
A little past midnight, maybe, as I was walking home from Will's place—the usual route, down Northcliffe to Cote St-Antoine and along it to Sherbrooke and along it to St-Marc—I was crossing Metcalfe when I saw a car, a white Chevy Aveo, I think, coming north. It's a stop-sign intersection, but the guy wasn't slowing down, so I stopped around the halfway point to let him pass. As he came closer, without slowing down, he swerved toward me. I only had a second or so to jump backwards, out of the way. I was listening to Wavering Radiant, the new ISIS record, and the volume was a little higher than it usually is because I'd been taking the Metro earlier. The aural disconnect the music provided made it a really strange experience. I didn't get much of a look at him as he whipped past me, other than to see that it was a guy with dark hair, and that he was alone in the car. If I'd been a little slower, or he'd been going a little faster, he would have hit me for sure. I don't think it would have killed me, but I'm not really an expert on car accidents. I had my cell with me, anyway, and I knew enough about the area to have told the operator where to send the ambulance, assuming I'd retained consciousness. I say this because I can't imagine the guy would have stuck around. As it was, I could tell despite the music that he didn't even honk. It was really surreal. I turned around and caught a glimpse of the car as it turned north at the next cross street, which is Forden. I don't think he slowed down at all.
A block or two later I passed the police station I visited when I was in kindergarten. I still remember venturing into a cell with a few other kids and having the cop jokingly lock us in. I can't remember whether or not I got a chance to grip the bars, though. I wondered to myself whether, had I not been recently arrested, I would have ventured over to the parked police car at the corner and talked to the cop inside about it. It's strange how little things affect our perceptions.
I wrote a sort-of will before going to the demonstration. At the time, it was in case I got hit in the head with a rubber bullet, but I guess it would work just as well for noiseless car accidents, too. Maybe when the semester's over I'll look into making it legal. I don't know why then; it just seems like a better time.
I wonder where that nutjob was going, anyway, and why he had to drive so fast to get there. Maybe it's a good thing that I don't have a license. I'm always running behind. God knows I would try to make up for it by speeding down quiet night streets every now and then.
A block or two later I passed the police station I visited when I was in kindergarten. I still remember venturing into a cell with a few other kids and having the cop jokingly lock us in. I can't remember whether or not I got a chance to grip the bars, though. I wondered to myself whether, had I not been recently arrested, I would have ventured over to the parked police car at the corner and talked to the cop inside about it. It's strange how little things affect our perceptions.
I wrote a sort-of will before going to the demonstration. At the time, it was in case I got hit in the head with a rubber bullet, but I guess it would work just as well for noiseless car accidents, too. Maybe when the semester's over I'll look into making it legal. I don't know why then; it just seems like a better time.
I wonder where that nutjob was going, anyway, and why he had to drive so fast to get there. Maybe it's a good thing that I don't have a license. I'm always running behind. God knows I would try to make up for it by speeding down quiet night streets every now and then.
Friday, February 27, 2009
February 27th. Thought the Sun.
I am all about the lyrics to 'Archers' by Brand New right now. Do I know what they are exactly? No. Vaguely? Yes. I am easily swayed by nice drums and harmonies and this and that. Musical terms I don't fully grasp and never will. I'm an aesthete. I know sonic beauty when I sees it.
My sister is 18 now. I think my non-living at home has done her a world of good, but a lot of that I'm sure was just time and friends and the little right decisions that come from seeing situations and knowing which move to make this time around. Anyway I am really happy about the person she's become and about the person she'll have become a year from now or two years from now. I am dreaming of being avuncular to the beautiful children she'll have. I was never named Hank, I never worked for the DEA, I will never live in Albuquerque, but what should go unsaid will go double for me. I can make good, just like that. Snap. I'm twenty, it's as good a time as any to have a mid-life crisis.
I had a good talk with Shirine about attraction and how my little stupidities are maybe sometimes not so stupid. It's nice to feel those hands on my mind's shoulders, the towel, and the reassuring voice in my ear. I can take 'im down in the next round and I can be suave in the round after that and maybe before long the judges decide it's a technical take-out. In the stands there are middle-aged men who have staked their hard earned dollar amounts on my wordplay and they are sweating and chanting my name inside of the caverns that are their skulls. And if I lose? Hey, we're men. We never get anything right on the first try.
I'll see you next time, though. And that's clean money; a tax write-off.
My sister is 18 now. I think my non-living at home has done her a world of good, but a lot of that I'm sure was just time and friends and the little right decisions that come from seeing situations and knowing which move to make this time around. Anyway I am really happy about the person she's become and about the person she'll have become a year from now or two years from now. I am dreaming of being avuncular to the beautiful children she'll have. I was never named Hank, I never worked for the DEA, I will never live in Albuquerque, but what should go unsaid will go double for me. I can make good, just like that. Snap. I'm twenty, it's as good a time as any to have a mid-life crisis.
I had a good talk with Shirine about attraction and how my little stupidities are maybe sometimes not so stupid. It's nice to feel those hands on my mind's shoulders, the towel, and the reassuring voice in my ear. I can take 'im down in the next round and I can be suave in the round after that and maybe before long the judges decide it's a technical take-out. In the stands there are middle-aged men who have staked their hard earned dollar amounts on my wordplay and they are sweating and chanting my name inside of the caverns that are their skulls. And if I lose? Hey, we're men. We never get anything right on the first try.
I'll see you next time, though. And that's clean money; a tax write-off.
Saturday, February 14, 2009
Thursday, February 12, 2009
a few true things:
it's warmish outside and i hate this weather. yesterday when i was going to pay my rent i heard (between the headphone-noises) one guy tell another "winter is always like this in vancouver." i'm glad i don't live there.
i just made guacamole for the first time. i added some salt + pepper and some cheddar and miked it for 22 seconds and ate it with some hella ghetto corn chips my dad sent me home with and it was really really delicious. simple pleasures +1.
i had my american history midterm this morning/afternoon. i think i did well; my studying served me well on the identify questions, but i might have flubbed one or three of the multiple choice. i still think i'll get at least an a-minus. i'm pretty happy.
i'm drinking apple cider right now. i realized i go through drinks too quickly because i buy 2-litre containers and just drink them straight without pouring them into glasses. without a framework to order my drinking i tend to consume them willy-nilly. i considered getting glasses and forcing myself to use them, but then i'd probably just end up with a couple of dirty glasses, no inclination to clean them, and i'd be back to drinking from the carton. i wonder if i will be less of a slob as i age.
i have downloaded a lot of new music in 2009. songs by a wilhelm scream (1), rusty horse band (5), radiohead (1), lykke li (13), bon iver (13), girl talk (14), titus andronicus (1), polar bear club (11), new mexican disaster squad (15), western addiction (4), kid dynamite (23), ninja high school (5), fucked up (11), thursday (11), propagandhi (12), vampire weekend (10), the loved ones (15), the sainte catherines (9) and the tragically hip (1). so... 175 songs. in 43 days. and that's not counting the crystal castles album i downloaded and deleted after deciding i didn't like it. at this pace i'll have 1310 more by the end of the year. and my three-year-old ipod wouldn't even be full yet. the future is crazy.
i need to be writing more. i've knocked off some poems lately but i need to be writing more. and reading more. i'm resolving to spend less time online. and i really want to start working on batroom. so. yuss. goodbye.
i just made guacamole for the first time. i added some salt + pepper and some cheddar and miked it for 22 seconds and ate it with some hella ghetto corn chips my dad sent me home with and it was really really delicious. simple pleasures +1.
i had my american history midterm this morning/afternoon. i think i did well; my studying served me well on the identify questions, but i might have flubbed one or three of the multiple choice. i still think i'll get at least an a-minus. i'm pretty happy.
i'm drinking apple cider right now. i realized i go through drinks too quickly because i buy 2-litre containers and just drink them straight without pouring them into glasses. without a framework to order my drinking i tend to consume them willy-nilly. i considered getting glasses and forcing myself to use them, but then i'd probably just end up with a couple of dirty glasses, no inclination to clean them, and i'd be back to drinking from the carton. i wonder if i will be less of a slob as i age.
i have downloaded a lot of new music in 2009. songs by a wilhelm scream (1), rusty horse band (5), radiohead (1), lykke li (13), bon iver (13), girl talk (14), titus andronicus (1), polar bear club (11), new mexican disaster squad (15), western addiction (4), kid dynamite (23), ninja high school (5), fucked up (11), thursday (11), propagandhi (12), vampire weekend (10), the loved ones (15), the sainte catherines (9) and the tragically hip (1). so... 175 songs. in 43 days. and that's not counting the crystal castles album i downloaded and deleted after deciding i didn't like it. at this pace i'll have 1310 more by the end of the year. and my three-year-old ipod wouldn't even be full yet. the future is crazy.
i need to be writing more. i've knocked off some poems lately but i need to be writing more. and reading more. i'm resolving to spend less time online. and i really want to start working on batroom. so. yuss. goodbye.
Wednesday, January 07, 2009
jenwery sebbin. this car iz thought.
im perennially perpetually fucked
and only yesterday and earlier today i was glorying in it
but the snow shits on my parade like in ways it shouldn't
i guess i don't know where i am going
let alone where i am right now. i guess i am big pictures as pauses, two frames as camera pans, i guess i am always laughing at my other selves. and staring at the others, delving in little fits into all the cracks in my walls.
fuck. i need so much godamn shit. i can't function with any semblance of normalcy. i'm too high-minded for the little tasks and it makes the big ones so much harder when you're living in garbage,
my clohes aren't the only things coming apart at the seams. only tonight it'll be all better. until the rnagers score the first goal. right? or do we sixtoo them again? who knows.
even my robin glasses are no good for seeing the future.
anyway. i guess. elevatoro.
and only yesterday and earlier today i was glorying in it
but the snow shits on my parade like in ways it shouldn't
i guess i don't know where i am going
let alone where i am right now. i guess i am big pictures as pauses, two frames as camera pans, i guess i am always laughing at my other selves. and staring at the others, delving in little fits into all the cracks in my walls.
fuck. i need so much godamn shit. i can't function with any semblance of normalcy. i'm too high-minded for the little tasks and it makes the big ones so much harder when you're living in garbage,
my clohes aren't the only things coming apart at the seams. only tonight it'll be all better. until the rnagers score the first goal. right? or do we sixtoo them again? who knows.
even my robin glasses are no good for seeing the future.
anyway. i guess. elevatoro.
Friday, December 12, 2008
December 12th. Thoughts in my stomach.
It's 5 am. I've been up for the last hour, wasting time, because nothing seems immediate yet. I'm listening to Bobcaygeon on repeat. I know you're not crazy about it but it fucks me up something special; I always thought stuff like "in the middle of that riot / couldn't get you off my mind" was kind of the epitome of love. Well, here I am. So much for the closet; it can have my coat but not my status as romantic.
It's weird how my aptitude for putting off work has worsened as I've grown older. There was always this sense, when I was in high school, that putting things off was okay, because I always got them done somehow on time in the end. "It's okay," I'd tell my mom, "it's not going to not get done." And it always did. But every little instance of pushing it too far sets a precedent, and pretty soon you think nothing of staying up until 7 or 8, just waiting for the urge to strike, and you fall asleep with all the bright lights in your apartment on, steadfastly convinced that you'll start working on your paper any minute now. I guess something in my brain/fingers just lacks that killer instinct.
I guess this is why I prefer exams to papers. There's less leeway. The difference between handing a paper in a day late and not doing an exam is too much for me to blow off showing up at a certain time to a certain place with a handful of pens and a stomach full of knots, ready to fill up this booklet or that booklet with all my empty, stupid thoughts. I miss simplicity, I guess. I remember Grade 10 was all about straight-up facts. That was my jam. I know what chattel means, I know what the tallest peak in Antarctica is, and so on, and so on. I guess it's just a learning process.
"And it was in Bobcaygeon / that I saw the constellations / reveal themselves / one star at a time."
I can't wait until you wake up, light in the curtains, tired smile on your lips, all things shining. We won't have much time together but every moment feels exciting in ways I won't bother trying to explain here. I love you.
It's weird how my aptitude for putting off work has worsened as I've grown older. There was always this sense, when I was in high school, that putting things off was okay, because I always got them done somehow on time in the end. "It's okay," I'd tell my mom, "it's not going to not get done." And it always did. But every little instance of pushing it too far sets a precedent, and pretty soon you think nothing of staying up until 7 or 8, just waiting for the urge to strike, and you fall asleep with all the bright lights in your apartment on, steadfastly convinced that you'll start working on your paper any minute now. I guess something in my brain/fingers just lacks that killer instinct.
I guess this is why I prefer exams to papers. There's less leeway. The difference between handing a paper in a day late and not doing an exam is too much for me to blow off showing up at a certain time to a certain place with a handful of pens and a stomach full of knots, ready to fill up this booklet or that booklet with all my empty, stupid thoughts. I miss simplicity, I guess. I remember Grade 10 was all about straight-up facts. That was my jam. I know what chattel means, I know what the tallest peak in Antarctica is, and so on, and so on. I guess it's just a learning process.
"And it was in Bobcaygeon / that I saw the constellations / reveal themselves / one star at a time."
I can't wait until you wake up, light in the curtains, tired smile on your lips, all things shining. We won't have much time together but every moment feels exciting in ways I won't bother trying to explain here. I love you.
Thursday, December 04, 2008
December 4th. The thought thickens.
It's 7:26 ante-meridian. Blood is thicker than water; and I'd want you all around even if you had cancers. But it ain't all jugs of orange juice, apple-cider, suicide doors. There's more to it than they act.
Stuck here where I sit with the violins and the silence, blotting my ears against the sheet-sirens and the violence of the ink-blood final fantasy mental images, I get nothing done except two (2) times myself. A doppelgänger, if you will.
And the noel-halo? It's over an A this time. But I don't believe in angels, only angles, and from this one the three-point-whatever buzzer-beater's fading fast. Maybe I just have the wrong haircut. I've seen leakings of the future through the seams in my fingers. It's not pretty, three times fast.
Forward, we (I) march, though, then. Forward, onwards, upwards. The fence is up, my tongue is loaded, six-shooter style, with offensive ways to make a mark, and in nets: a scary price to pay for my missed deeds.
So I'll go then, for my refrigerator's sake, and buy off a monster or two; but not more. These days my wallet's as thick as my torso. Which is understandable, maybe; I just might have a rib missing.
Stuck here where I sit with the violins and the silence, blotting my ears against the sheet-sirens and the violence of the ink-blood final fantasy mental images, I get nothing done except two (2) times myself. A doppelgänger, if you will.
And the noel-halo? It's over an A this time. But I don't believe in angels, only angles, and from this one the three-point-whatever buzzer-beater's fading fast. Maybe I just have the wrong haircut. I've seen leakings of the future through the seams in my fingers. It's not pretty, three times fast.
Forward, we (I) march, though, then. Forward, onwards, upwards. The fence is up, my tongue is loaded, six-shooter style, with offensive ways to make a mark, and in nets: a scary price to pay for my missed deeds.
So I'll go then, for my refrigerator's sake, and buy off a monster or two; but not more. These days my wallet's as thick as my torso. Which is understandable, maybe; I just might have a rib missing.
Friday, November 14, 2008
November 14th. Thought in a Trap.
Theme for the week: I don't know. Everything keeps slip-sliding. Even the little successes get washed up in the current, eddies, eddies, eddies. I wish eagle-like I could fly above it all. I wish I knew where to put in the right amount of work, the right amount of fear.
The new music—Ninja High School, Inside Out, more Trap Them—has been nice. I only feel like I'm always hungry. More, more. I'm a glutton of the worst kind. It doesn't show on my body—at least, not yet, of course—but I can't stop consuming. I want to read everything, to write everything, to do everything. I want everyone to love me, to want me. I can't stop. I can't.
At least I made a step towards keeping myself linked in. Neon colourchrome giant chain pictures across a swath of black. We're having a party. You're invited. It's going to fuck your bones until you cry out 'rhythm!' and bruise your fucking brain black. This, in my head, is how everyone lives, outside, at night. And tonight: more games, more toying, more eyeing and shying and dying. Maybe Sunday I'll tell my parents. I don't think it would matter. Maybe.
At least I'm too busy to care about the stumblebums in red jerseys and the wrong end of highlight reels. The baby-face beat-down. Let the rest of the city have 'em. I've got too much on my plate to eat my score-words every couple of nights. Besides, I'm always at work, almost, anyway.
I guess that's the real theme of the week. Work. And next week? Less work. Maybe more play? Maybe. Maybe I'll taste the sweet love of victory, and fuck defeat.
Could work.
The new music—Ninja High School, Inside Out, more Trap Them—has been nice. I only feel like I'm always hungry. More, more. I'm a glutton of the worst kind. It doesn't show on my body—at least, not yet, of course—but I can't stop consuming. I want to read everything, to write everything, to do everything. I want everyone to love me, to want me. I can't stop. I can't.
At least I made a step towards keeping myself linked in. Neon colourchrome giant chain pictures across a swath of black. We're having a party. You're invited. It's going to fuck your bones until you cry out 'rhythm!' and bruise your fucking brain black. This, in my head, is how everyone lives, outside, at night. And tonight: more games, more toying, more eyeing and shying and dying. Maybe Sunday I'll tell my parents. I don't think it would matter. Maybe.
At least I'm too busy to care about the stumblebums in red jerseys and the wrong end of highlight reels. The baby-face beat-down. Let the rest of the city have 'em. I've got too much on my plate to eat my score-words every couple of nights. Besides, I'm always at work, almost, anyway.
I guess that's the real theme of the week. Work. And next week? Less work. Maybe more play? Maybe. Maybe I'll taste the sweet love of victory, and fuck defeat.
Could work.
Friday, November 07, 2008
November 7th. Blood Thoughts.
I was working yesterday (first full real cash shift in over a year) and a bunch of people I vaguely know came by. Shirine's Paul, Will's Antoine. I was grateful to certain degrees that they saw me as a cashier and not as a bagger. Makes me feel all accomplished-like, sort of.
The main bit, though, was this one instance. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught this girl in line at my cash kissing her boyfriend. She was tall and had that—that—hair and in just that one second (maybe less) I was just so fucking angry. It wasn't her, obviously. Lots of girls in Montreal probably look like that from out the corner of my eye. It just scared me how emotional I was able to get about it so quickly. I guess I'm still not unbroken again yet. I need to keep working on stuff like that.
I keep toying with the idea of dropping ENGL-227.
We'll see, I guess.
The main bit, though, was this one instance. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught this girl in line at my cash kissing her boyfriend. She was tall and had that—that—hair and in just that one second (maybe less) I was just so fucking angry. It wasn't her, obviously. Lots of girls in Montreal probably look like that from out the corner of my eye. It just scared me how emotional I was able to get about it so quickly. I guess I'm still not unbroken again yet. I need to keep working on stuff like that.
I keep toying with the idea of dropping ENGL-227.
We'll see, I guess.
Tuesday, November 04, 2008
November 4th. Thought Your Makeup On.
Fuck. I have the worst love/hate relationship with other people's blogs. I guess, with representations of other people on the internet, period, if my dalliances with MySpace back in the day are anything to go on. Everything just comes out so perfect and enviable. I told Shirine last night my purest loves were ones gone unnoticed. It scared me how true it sounded. And all these—tumblr, wordpress, blogspot, whatever—just kill me. There's a word that fits perfectly but I'll never (redolent) remember what it is.
Note: It was not redolent, after all. Maybe there wasn't a word. Who knows.
I wonder how much of this is that I'm a guy. I got my new copy of the Atlantic in the mail today. They still think I'm Alexander Hanley. The main article so far as I can tell (at least the first of the main ones, pagination-wise) was about gender dysphoria in children. It was a real pleasure to read. Obviously, my problem is not even remotely on the level of a seven-year old boy saying, "Look, Mommy, I'm a girl!" with his penis tucked between his legs. But there's an issue, obviously. I guess at the heart of it it might just be my "grass is greener" fetishization of the Other. If I was a girl I would envy the shit out of guys. It's funny how things work, like that, in my head. God knows there's a lot more separating me from Ian MacKaye than 26 years of age.
Another part of it, though, is my constant envy. Ugh. I'm such a head case. I wish I could just be content as me. I wish I could be a better me in order to be content. At the end of the day, I just wish I was someone else. I told myself I'd go to bed at 10. Then 11, then 12, then 1, then 2. It's almost 3. I have shit I need to do and no inclination to do it. It's murderous.
Then I sit back and laugh at myself because even all the other perfect dolled up undolled up unextravagantly beautiful wreckful girls in the world could read this and not get the same feeling I get out of reading through a year or two of some other stranger's life, some whoever whatever chick who always never manages to mention me (especially when mentioning specifically not me, all the things right around me i couldashoulda been couldashoulda been a part of)
and it fucks me up something special
and to boot i'm not even nano-rhyming. fuckkkkkkkkkk.
(park that car, drop that bomb
sleep on the floor,
Note: It was not redolent, after all. Maybe there wasn't a word. Who knows.
I wonder how much of this is that I'm a guy. I got my new copy of the Atlantic in the mail today. They still think I'm Alexander Hanley. The main article so far as I can tell (at least the first of the main ones, pagination-wise) was about gender dysphoria in children. It was a real pleasure to read. Obviously, my problem is not even remotely on the level of a seven-year old boy saying, "Look, Mommy, I'm a girl!" with his penis tucked between his legs. But there's an issue, obviously. I guess at the heart of it it might just be my "grass is greener" fetishization of the Other. If I was a girl I would envy the shit out of guys. It's funny how things work, like that, in my head. God knows there's a lot more separating me from Ian MacKaye than 26 years of age.
Another part of it, though, is my constant envy. Ugh. I'm such a head case. I wish I could just be content as me. I wish I could be a better me in order to be content. At the end of the day, I just wish I was someone else. I told myself I'd go to bed at 10. Then 11, then 12, then 1, then 2. It's almost 3. I have shit I need to do and no inclination to do it. It's murderous.
Then I sit back and laugh at myself because even all the other perfect dolled up undolled up unextravagantly beautiful wreckful girls in the world could read this and not get the same feeling I get out of reading through a year or two of some other stranger's life, some whoever whatever chick who always never manages to mention me (especially when mentioning specifically not me, all the things right around me i couldashoulda been couldashoulda been a part of)
and it fucks me up something special
and to boot i'm not even nano-rhyming. fuckkkkkkkkkk.
(park that car, drop that bomb
sleep on the floor,
Tuesday, October 21, 2008
October 21st. Dot dot dot. Dash dash dash. Thought thought thought.
I've only cried two times since that fateful haircut in early August of 2001. The first time was December 29, 2005, a few hours after Kat broke up with me, lying in my parents' bed at 346, and realizing I'd never get to hold her side-blubber again. I guess even back then I was a slave to the little things.
The second time was September 17, 2007, two or so days after the first break up with Steph, when I finally watched Finding Nemo, sitting on the living room couch at Claremont, and the cover of Beyond the Sea came on over the closing credits and I just lost it.
Number three is right around the corner. I can feel it lurking in my head, waiting for the right moment. I don't think it'll take that much to set it off anymore. I don't even have anyone that can break up with me. I'm just really fucked up these days.
I have my first midterm of the semester in an hour. After that disaster of a Milton quiz who the hell knows how this'll go. In my head, everything's pretty clear, but.
I haven't done a word of Windswept in over a week now, I think. It's starting to gnaw at me. There's still a timidity to it, but it'll grow.
Days like these and suicide—no matter how distant how far down the line—feels increasingly the only option. Some life.
And in the background: phone calls from no one, and my throat's gagging full of neo-Platonism and
a chorus of voices singing together happy
"We could dance all night..."
The second time was September 17, 2007, two or so days after the first break up with Steph, when I finally watched Finding Nemo, sitting on the living room couch at Claremont, and the cover of Beyond the Sea came on over the closing credits and I just lost it.
Number three is right around the corner. I can feel it lurking in my head, waiting for the right moment. I don't think it'll take that much to set it off anymore. I don't even have anyone that can break up with me. I'm just really fucked up these days.
I have my first midterm of the semester in an hour. After that disaster of a Milton quiz who the hell knows how this'll go. In my head, everything's pretty clear, but.
I haven't done a word of Windswept in over a week now, I think. It's starting to gnaw at me. There's still a timidity to it, but it'll grow.
Days like these and suicide—no matter how distant how far down the line—feels increasingly the only option. Some life.
And in the background: phone calls from no one, and my throat's gagging full of neo-Platonism and
a chorus of voices singing together happy
"We could dance all night..."
Sunday, October 12, 2008
October 12th. Gordian Thoughts.
Time-taker-uppers keep keeping me down. The weeks are like a maze with no exit signs and hardly any landmarks. I've written myself a few notes on my arms. Keep writing. Don't skip classes. Don't be too late for work. Don't eat too much junk food. Don't make that jump. Keep waiting. Keep wading. We'll see where they get me.
The hockey season's started, which means I'm going to be spending way too much time caring about it. I guess all my cares are disproportionately important, though. The stupid facebook messages to no one, the attempts at decent comebacks (in French and in English), how to get yellow to stay on top of black. Whether anyone notices a grey ghost with his grey goose shuffle, day in day out. And let's not forget the endless perfectionism in the artistic medium of plastic bags and the food that's making its slow walk towards becoming shit in so many toilets all over the downtown area. So we go on, the new HNIC anthem extolling our virtues in lieu of a eulogy. Galvanised.
I wonder if beauty ever means anything, in the end. I wonder what processes lead people from being babies to being babies. I wonder at how I can be so serious, so unserious, so quick to retort and so thick-skinned, all at once. I wonder how deep the needle will have to go when I finish the semester and finally start Ulysses and finally finish it and finally get its cogs and screws and nuts and bolts tattooed all over my stupid body. I wonder about capstones, about headstones, about stone henges, and stone heads. I wonder, like Character, what I'll be like in my thirties (Ed.'s note: Notice here his life is imitating his writing, and not vice-versa. A sign of times changed? Or just a crippling addiction to binaries and paradoxes? Who knows.) Who will be left to read out my eulogy to a quiet church half-full of faces untearstained? Who will be left to collapse, nauseous, at the wake, wondering about what might've been?
I guess the solution is to not die. Thanks, Alexander.
The hockey season's started, which means I'm going to be spending way too much time caring about it. I guess all my cares are disproportionately important, though. The stupid facebook messages to no one, the attempts at decent comebacks (in French and in English), how to get yellow to stay on top of black. Whether anyone notices a grey ghost with his grey goose shuffle, day in day out. And let's not forget the endless perfectionism in the artistic medium of plastic bags and the food that's making its slow walk towards becoming shit in so many toilets all over the downtown area. So we go on, the new HNIC anthem extolling our virtues in lieu of a eulogy. Galvanised.
I wonder if beauty ever means anything, in the end. I wonder what processes lead people from being babies to being babies. I wonder at how I can be so serious, so unserious, so quick to retort and so thick-skinned, all at once. I wonder how deep the needle will have to go when I finish the semester and finally start Ulysses and finally finish it and finally get its cogs and screws and nuts and bolts tattooed all over my stupid body. I wonder about capstones, about headstones, about stone henges, and stone heads. I wonder, like Character, what I'll be like in my thirties (Ed.'s note: Notice here his life is imitating his writing, and not vice-versa. A sign of times changed? Or just a crippling addiction to binaries and paradoxes? Who knows.) Who will be left to read out my eulogy to a quiet church half-full of faces untearstained? Who will be left to collapse, nauseous, at the wake, wondering about what might've been?
I guess the solution is to not die. Thanks, Alexander.
Saturday, October 04, 2008
October 4th. Marx's Grave is a Communist Thought.
Outside my front door the floorhallway smells like cherry popsicles childhood. It's strange and sad and stoically silent how they manage to bottle a perfection like that and use it to clean shit-tiles with in little apartment landfilldings tucked away into nowhere. I live on St. Marc. Nick and Norah were all around St. Mark's Place. St. Marx place. Swing with me, sixties. We're running away, running away into the night. We're never coming home.
I had almost forgotten how I can't deal with stress without slipping into suicidal ideation. Mmmm-hm. My bike got stolen. My spotlight never got turned on. Christ, I hate myself. All these thoughts—"crazy vs. talented, more sex than i've had since two months ago, i got what i wanted before it was what i wanted and back then i wanted something else anyway. sick, six, sick. metro cars. metro cars. fuck."—
and i'm always trying to recapture in words that image in my head (that imagine my head) of the old, broken men, arms crossed resting on rakes or shovels, staring at the clouds as they roll, roll, roll out. watching. waiting.
and it's beautiful to me in my head and the image imbues the words (for me) with something powerful but i think they're stilted outside of my skull. who knows. who the fuck knows.
i miss the idea, i miss it, i miss everything. i miss my stupid bike and worrying about it. i just need something to love, and someone to listen when i say "i had an epiphany today." i guess epiphanies are like dreams; they only mean anything to the person who had them. anyway, they're too ethereal to remember properly after a few hours. so fuck it.
i feel heavy. i'm weighed down by all the million-weights of the waiting, of the eternal waiting. beauty and the way it makes me smile only worsens the time in between. listen to me. someone needs to take me out back, shoot me in the head with a bolt-gun, and make glue of me. in death i could finally keep things together. kiss kiss, bang bang.
i could go on for as long as this window's capable of expanding. let's not and say we didn't. everyone has better things to do. if you'll excuse me, i have a date with a pencil and my memory of some coming mannerist attraction and a piece of paper where everything is nice in my brain and comes out all shitty. b+ eternal. i need to learn latin so i can be even more depressing. that or go back to reading emile zola.
i wonder if even one of any of my fleeting angry crushes ever caught their eyes on me, where i'd be. i'd have thrown it all away—i'd still throw it all away—for some hand-holding. maybe the beatles were right, after all. we all live in a yellow submarine.
I had almost forgotten how I can't deal with stress without slipping into suicidal ideation. Mmmm-hm. My bike got stolen. My spotlight never got turned on. Christ, I hate myself. All these thoughts—"crazy vs. talented, more sex than i've had since two months ago, i got what i wanted before it was what i wanted and back then i wanted something else anyway. sick, six, sick. metro cars. metro cars. fuck."—
and i'm always trying to recapture in words that image in my head (that imagine my head) of the old, broken men, arms crossed resting on rakes or shovels, staring at the clouds as they roll, roll, roll out. watching. waiting.
and it's beautiful to me in my head and the image imbues the words (for me) with something powerful but i think they're stilted outside of my skull. who knows. who the fuck knows.
i miss the idea, i miss it, i miss everything. i miss my stupid bike and worrying about it. i just need something to love, and someone to listen when i say "i had an epiphany today." i guess epiphanies are like dreams; they only mean anything to the person who had them. anyway, they're too ethereal to remember properly after a few hours. so fuck it.
i feel heavy. i'm weighed down by all the million-weights of the waiting, of the eternal waiting. beauty and the way it makes me smile only worsens the time in between. listen to me. someone needs to take me out back, shoot me in the head with a bolt-gun, and make glue of me. in death i could finally keep things together. kiss kiss, bang bang.
i could go on for as long as this window's capable of expanding. let's not and say we didn't. everyone has better things to do. if you'll excuse me, i have a date with a pencil and my memory of some coming mannerist attraction and a piece of paper where everything is nice in my brain and comes out all shitty. b+ eternal. i need to learn latin so i can be even more depressing. that or go back to reading emile zola.
i wonder if even one of any of my fleeting angry crushes ever caught their eyes on me, where i'd be. i'd have thrown it all away—i'd still throw it all away—for some hand-holding. maybe the beatles were right, after all. we all live in a yellow submarine.
Saturday, September 27, 2008
September 27th. Thought the hots for you?
It's funny how one forgets.
Admittedly, it's been a few months—May, June, July, August, and most of September—since last time. I mean, shit. I realized this morning that I barely even remember what sex feels like (Ed.'s note: This is not strictly true.), so this should hardly come as a surprise. The child-like grabs, the hurrying for cover, the cursory glance. The reddening inflaming Lisa Robinson anger. The following minutes of self-doubt and all-consuming frustration. Blah blah blah.
And lest we forget, there were also the conversations in my head: "You see, there are three types of students, upon getting marks back. Type 1 sees his mark, understands that it corresponds to what he handed in, and why, and is satisfied. Type 2 sees her mark, becomes frustrated because she thinks she deserves better, and shoots over to the teacher to complain. Type 3, me, thinks he deserves better, but instead of complaining, says nothing and fumes about it for weeks on end."
Well, maybe not. I've got a packed schedule, anyway. Maybe Provigo will see fit to do both of us a favour and give me a happy medium of hours... because I certainly don't know how many I want/need. I guess one of the pros of being of two minds about something is that regardless of the outcome you have something (if you're an optimist) to be happy about.
(This is where you point out that I'm a pessimist, but nobody reads this, so I win the argument on the basis of democracy.)
Speaking of which... I hate patriotism with an idiotic fervour, but damn if I don't prefer living in Canada to living in the U.S. based solely on the way our federal electoral system works. My goodness.
Anyway. Apart from my constant workings on Windswept, and the ways I keep managing to increase the scope of it without increasing the target wordcount... all I have to worry about is keeping my daydreaming in check. Keep reminding myself that she's a bitch, and too old for me, and everything else ever goddamn. Ugh. I prefer writing about Windswept. It depresses me so much less. I have to stop getting myself into TV interviews for it, though. It's not not not not not healthy. And that was five nots for emphasis, not to make you figure out that a quintuple-negative evens out to a single one. Odds out to a single one. A bunch of words that sort of describe me. WHATEVER. More ugh. Here's a passage that I wrote recently that won't see the light of lj (at least, non-private lj) for a while. You can thank me later. *wistful sigh*
~~~~
Character breathed out. They were at a fast food joint somewhere. His mind was blurry. It was always hard to concentrate when he was feeling overfull. The summer was going strangely. The move was fractioning up his mind as much as it was his apartment. Perhaps they were mostly the same thing, anyway. Perhaps they always had been. Anna-Leigh was talking to him about Harry. He had been having difficulty, lately, making conversation. He wasn't sure whether or not she had noticed. He felt less and less interested in intellectualisms, arguments. Whatever. Something, somewhere, was going. He worried, running his fingers through his hair, feeling for the hole, hoping somehow frailly to plug it. His eyelids fluttered unconsciously.
"Yeah, he was telling me this... stuff... something about this short story he's working on. He said... he said it was going to be all in dialogue?" She made the sentence, awkwardly, into a question, as though asking him whether or not it made any sense at the same time as she was stating it. He frowned, puzzling.
"Isn't that just a play?"
"Well, yeah..." She hadn't considered this, but landed on her feet. "But, I mean, it's all in the intent, right? Plus," gaining confidence, "what you call it, how you frame it... influences how the audience reads it." She was throwing herself against his intellect. He smiled wearily at her and dipped his head to his straw, sipping, sucking, and nodded as he came back up for air.
"I guess."
He wondered where this was going. Was this thecliché, the dulling, that he knew about? Little pieces of him infinitesimally rubbing into the void, a rain of high-school dandruff slowly, over the months, taking effect? He took his fingers out of his greasy hair and pressed them against the dying, firm sadness of the table, looking for solidity. She was lost in thought. He studied the curves of her face, her beauty. She hadn't changed, nor had his reaction. It was still electric, there was still a spark, a shock. He was worried, though, whether this could keep meaning anything, could hold up and stock up and dam up meaning inside itself like a sponge, a bear-trap, for so long. And if it could, was it not, in some way, dangerous? Was she too much? He stopped and wondered. Well, was she?
And he looked at her, offhand. And she was. But he didn't say anything, not yet. If they had found a way to make cars run on water, a perpetual motion machine, would we know? Would they tell us? I've seen Primer. Do we end up keeping the big discoveries to ourselves?
He wondered.
Admittedly, it's been a few months—May, June, July, August, and most of September—since last time. I mean, shit. I realized this morning that I barely even remember what sex feels like (Ed.'s note: This is not strictly true.), so this should hardly come as a surprise. The child-like grabs, the hurrying for cover, the cursory glance. The reddening inflaming Lisa Robinson anger. The following minutes of self-doubt and all-consuming frustration. Blah blah blah.
And lest we forget, there were also the conversations in my head: "You see, there are three types of students, upon getting marks back. Type 1 sees his mark, understands that it corresponds to what he handed in, and why, and is satisfied. Type 2 sees her mark, becomes frustrated because she thinks she deserves better, and shoots over to the teacher to complain. Type 3, me, thinks he deserves better, but instead of complaining, says nothing and fumes about it for weeks on end."
Well, maybe not. I've got a packed schedule, anyway. Maybe Provigo will see fit to do both of us a favour and give me a happy medium of hours... because I certainly don't know how many I want/need. I guess one of the pros of being of two minds about something is that regardless of the outcome you have something (if you're an optimist) to be happy about.
(This is where you point out that I'm a pessimist, but nobody reads this, so I win the argument on the basis of democracy.)
Speaking of which... I hate patriotism with an idiotic fervour, but damn if I don't prefer living in Canada to living in the U.S. based solely on the way our federal electoral system works. My goodness.
Anyway. Apart from my constant workings on Windswept, and the ways I keep managing to increase the scope of it without increasing the target wordcount... all I have to worry about is keeping my daydreaming in check. Keep reminding myself that she's a bitch, and too old for me, and everything else ever goddamn. Ugh. I prefer writing about Windswept. It depresses me so much less. I have to stop getting myself into TV interviews for it, though. It's not not not not not healthy. And that was five nots for emphasis, not to make you figure out that a quintuple-negative evens out to a single one. Odds out to a single one. A bunch of words that sort of describe me. WHATEVER. More ugh. Here's a passage that I wrote recently that won't see the light of lj (at least, non-private lj) for a while. You can thank me later. *wistful sigh*
Character breathed out. They were at a fast food joint somewhere. His mind was blurry. It was always hard to concentrate when he was feeling overfull. The summer was going strangely. The move was fractioning up his mind as much as it was his apartment. Perhaps they were mostly the same thing, anyway. Perhaps they always had been. Anna-Leigh was talking to him about Harry. He had been having difficulty, lately, making conversation. He wasn't sure whether or not she had noticed. He felt less and less interested in intellectualisms, arguments. Whatever. Something, somewhere, was going. He worried, running his fingers through his hair, feeling for the hole, hoping somehow frailly to plug it. His eyelids fluttered unconsciously.
"Yeah, he was telling me this... stuff... something about this short story he's working on. He said... he said it was going to be all in dialogue?" She made the sentence, awkwardly, into a question, as though asking him whether or not it made any sense at the same time as she was stating it. He frowned, puzzling.
"Isn't that just a play?"
"Well, yeah..." She hadn't considered this, but landed on her feet. "But, I mean, it's all in the intent, right? Plus," gaining confidence, "what you call it, how you frame it... influences how the audience reads it." She was throwing herself against his intellect. He smiled wearily at her and dipped his head to his straw, sipping, sucking, and nodded as he came back up for air.
"I guess."
He wondered where this was going. Was this the
And he looked at her, offhand. And she was. But he didn't say anything, not yet. If they had found a way to make cars run on water, a perpetual motion machine, would we know? Would they tell us? I've seen Primer. Do we end up keeping the big discoveries to ourselves?
He wondered.
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