ReTaRdObLoG
This was a great idea, zombifying the dead blog. It's not like I had a lame first week, or that there appears to be no hope for a better second week, or third, or fourth. Why the HELL did I take down that "closed" message. Restarting and stalling out in five days is worse than stopping. Wow. I suck. But hey, there's always the links page! Have you checked out the links page? Oh good. Do that then. Because there's nothing to see here. (And is there anything more attractive than self-pity? Possibly vomiting. Possibly.)
August 15, 2003
I can't write lately. I don't know. I don't know. I think I'll remove the site meter thingie--I don't really want to know who visits and who doesn't. Do I? I sometimes obsess over it and that seems like a worthless thing to do. But taking it away is like saying, no don't tell me that I don't want to know something and I do want to know stuff but is this an important thing to know just because I can know it does it matter? No but yes but no but yes. Sandplay is an interesting thing to me but I've never done it not officially I mean sure at the beach as a kid but not with this stunning array of choices and my very own correctly-sized box and then polaroids after. I want to. I do it in my head and that's probably good enough. Like I picture digging a hole in the middle, and putting a dog or something in there lying on its side, and then two people, a man and a woman, at either side of the hole but more toward the corners of the box than toward the sides, lying face down in the sand, in whatever stupid clothes they're wearing, then a bunch of trees to the right-top of this, and a fairy-type person lying across the tops of the trees. Asleep, dead, plastic, whatever. And other animals dead, all around in patterns of their own but not surrounding anything. They're incidental to the center. So, tell me about my psyche. Anyway that's right now, in ten minutes something different. In conclusion, sandplay seems fun. This has been my entry about sandplay.August 13, 2003
So, like, hi. So, uhhhhhhhh. Is this one worth sharing? No, but I feel like I'm cleaning when I do this. I don't know why. It subtracts from the buildup in my mind. Uhhhhhhh. Somehow. This one is from 7/26/94, saved at 8:56 a.m. (Did I used to be a morning person? Was I at work? Puzzling.) I have no idea where I was going with it. If anywhere. --------- PLEASE TO KEEP WRITING Her denim jacket was pale and faded. Black paint coated the sleeves in thin spiky lines. She folded the front across her chest. The zipper was broken but it was too big anyway. Maybe it wasn't hers, she didn't know. She'd grabbed something off the pile and it had felt right. Just how drunk was she? Not stumbling, but definitely unfocused; a red light seemed more like a suggestion than anything and she crossed against it, marveling at the bright white lines that spread across the pavement at either side of her feet. She was inside the crosswalk in California, no one could hit her. It was the law. She giggled. What had Stevie said, something about dancing, dancing naked in the crosswalk? It had been so funny. Stevie wasn't really dead, although her cousins thought so. She knew he was in Mexico, or Alaska, maybe even Guam. But not dead. Where exactly was Guam? She sat down on the sidewalk. She was so tired, and now seemed like a good time to catch up on her sleep . . . "Hey!" Midgets were kicking her, pulling at her hair and fingers. She rolled over and heard a small yelp. "My dog, you bitch!" Midgets? Little kids, maybe, pig-nosed and mean, small eyes. She checked for her wallet and was kicked yet again, why didn't that hurt? Where the . . . damn, it was bright, and she was in the street, and children surrounded her like evil elves, rigid and snarling, brown lunch bags clutched in their hands. --------- Of course, if I were to write such a thing now and then forget about it for nine years, I would find (upon discovery of the file) that I'd typed "dwarf" instead of "midget" due to my recent edumacation. That's it. Yup. This was an entry. Hey, what, you want your money back? Your time, all 23 seconds of it? That's what I thought. Today is someone's birthday, and I remember this every August 11th. Who ARE you? Where are you now? How did I know you, and when did we lose touch? Well, in any case. Happy birthday.August 11, 2003
Well, hello. If you've been here before, then you know that I stopped this page in April. It ended. FINIS I TELLS YOU! Okay, changed my mind, but don't really know what to write, what to say. I think this time I will make it mostly fiction, but how to start? Attempt a series? Unrelated entries? Mood pieces, meaning three wispy paragraphs of bullshit? After MUCH thought I've decided to begin the simple way, with semi-stories that are already written. I don't want to jump in too soon, maybe get a sprain. Gotta ease into the thing, you know. You know? You know. Dug around in creaky folders from my first computer, and found a bunch of files I can't open because I used to love WordPerfect oh yes. How I did. But I just have the Word now, an old version, so I can only wonder at the purpose of each .wpd file and the marvels held within. This one I don't remember writing, and I really hope I didn't steal it from somewhere, because right now I'm claiming it as mine. (AND IT IS TOTALLY COPYRIGHTED! THAT'S RIGHT! BY ME!) It's no surprise that it comes to nothing, and does so by ending mid-sentence. It was saved on 7/19/94 at 7:55 a.m. I'm guessing I was trying something hard-boiled. That's, um, what I suspect. --------- Psycho City Raia Swarsky took the turn a little too sharp, and her face tells you so. What I remembered as sleek, curved, and smooth had been molded into something that resembled a face, vaguely, but it wasn't hers. I looked carefully at her eyes, her lips. Nothing was the same. She smiled and crossed the room. "Don't stare, Nick. I know it isn't pretty." "Come on, Raia." She'd caught me, as usual. "You're beautiful." "Alive, anyway. That's the main thing." "It always is." I pulled out my Zippo and lit her waiting cigarette. She took a drag and tilted back her head, let the smoke slide out above me. Her hip brushed mine and I felt her stockinged foot rub itself up my calf, inside my pants leg. She was looking more familiar. "Come on, Raia." I shook her off and stepped back. "Come on." I remembered her breath against my skin and the feel of her tongue carving a path down my stomach, her silky, filthy whispers as I came. I tried not to look at her face. She sighed and I heard her heel snap against the floor as she slipped on her shoe. "I'm here for a reason, Nicky. Nick? Can't you even--" She paused, then said, "Ah, hell. Never mind." She clicked away, closing the door behind her. I rolled the Zippo around in my hand. Raia Swarsky. She left me ten years ago, back when I was a kid. She took the diamond ring and hocked it in Reno, then called me three days later, broke, sobbing, sorry. When the rain stopped she left for good, and I hadn't heard from her until now, when she showed up in my office like a lunch delivery, her face wrecked, me an old man. Not that I loved her for her face. Hell. Maybe I didn't even love her. I grinned. That was a new thought. I walked over to the window. No sign of her. I stretched my arms to the wall and did a few quick pushes against it. Why'd I let her go, just walk out? Was she back in town, or just visiting? Well, I could find out that much, at least. I picked up the phone and did some checking. People don't tell you things like they used to, but eventually IAugust 10, 2003