A week in the hospital.

This metal piece fell on my right hand today. It hurts reeeaall bad. It hurt so bad I decided to leave work. But I couldn't just leave them short handed, without anyone to count the drawers and answer calls. So I snuck onto the roof and in 5 minutes made myself out of roof parts. I threw the roof-me down the roof-hole and jumped off the roof. So now I get to spend my vacation with a hurt hand and two broken legs. woh is me.

bubble bath

The show in Lancaster was very good, but not amazing. Although I was very pleased the entire time. Being in the back, as opposed to us being in the front in Cleveland, has that effect on you. Beth drove the entire way home and we all pretty much stayed up the whole time talking, except for my little Em, who slept for about 30 minutes to relieve hand-pain. We all had some great conversations. We talked about perfect albums (Braid Frame and Canvas, Songs:Ohia Hecla and Griper, etc.), movies that 'click' or feel conclusive and complete and what that means, and Beth and I talked about feminism, which lead to post-modernism, and sang mxpx when iPod let us. And there was more. It was lovely.

Tomorrow begins my vacation and I am going to love life for a week. My first sunday off in years. I have to do something crazy, like go for a jog or something. But that is sunday and today I work. At 1. Au revoir mes freres.

I woke up around 6:30 or 7 this morning. Instead of a hangover I wake up early and feel refreshed the mornings after I drink. Its not a bad thing at all - only a little odd. I finished watching The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy this morning and so decided to wear my bathrobe, which I am wearing right now, as I wait for my water to boil. I want instant coffee for some reason. I really enjoy bad coffee. I can't figure it out. I've decided that instant coffee:India::instant chai:America. It makes sense. They love that nescafe shit over there. Well this is 'Maxwell House Instant' and its worse than bad. I think I am going out to get coffee. In my bathrobe. Ha! That would be sweet.

Before that I will remind you that Sufjan is playing in Lancaster and I am going. So is Beth and Emily. Before I begin my story I will tell you the color of my eyes. My eyes are blue and resplendent. Now I will begin my story. And go out for Sanka. To drink in my white Sanka mug.

all day fun

9-9. That's what I work today. But afterwards I will be at Rosecliffe and all will be well. I made myself a tuna sandwich this morning for lunch and drank some Airborne. Em is sick and so are some people at work, so I figured I should take that stuff. It was invented by a school teacher, so it's gotta be good. Nico is an idiot today. He thinks tearing around the room is the next best thing. Just yesterday it was incessant meowing.

Tomorrow is Sufjan. It's part of the act. I am still plowing my way through Anna but it's getting difficult because I only read it just before bed. So I'm not really retaining the information. Seeing as how it is 8:55, I should probably g-o.

fuckabees

I am currently reading about Oblonsky in Anna Karenin. I am really enjoying this book. It's a long one though - I mean 892 pp long. But there are longer ones. The bible might be longer. Maybe the Qua' Ran. Oh, and New York City's Yellow Pages. But have no fear, I will read it all. Are you still worried? Well let me just tell you a scary story that will make the idea of me not finishing Anna Karenin pall in comparison. Nico is going to see Em and I's new apartment for the first time tonight. Yikes! Nico won't shut up about it.

Do you have your extracare card?

The most difficult question I have ever been confronted with: "What do you want to do?" Even on any given night that's a hard enough question, but it is especially hard when it is my life we're talking about. I don't think I will ever know. That's the truth. And I don't know how to accept that. I cannot allow my life to float by, to sink and sink as I attempt to pretend I'm breathing. I guess I should be thankful that I'm married and therefore have someone by my side. Be thankful that I have a job at all, that I, I don't know - have the privilege to pay bills? Jesus. I'm not thankful, I'm depressed. And that's the truth. If only I could tell the truth for the rest of my life, get paid well for that, and have benefits - with a 401k package and two months vacation. This is boring.

EMBETH

Miss Honey, from Matilda, goes by the name of Embeth Davidtz. Embeth!

And she looks a little like Emily and Beth. That's great!

TERRA INCOGNITA

I just read an article in the New Yorker, "The Lost City of Z," which completely fascinated me. This larger-than-life explorer, Colonel Percy Harrison Fawcett (see above), entered the Amazon jungle in 1927 to find a somewhat mythological city, which he deemed Z. He was never heard from again. Countless failed search expeditions followed his disappearance. What is so fascinating about all of this is that while Z may have been a myth - an illusion based on nothing other than our need for transcendence, or gold, or scientific knowledge - the idea that a vast and highly advanced city once existed deep within the Mato Grosso region of Brazil is somewhat undoubtedly true.

There are these circular moats or ditches that enclose parts of Mato Grosso. In these moats, which are very noticeable even after 700 years of jungle wear and tear, are these funnel shapes. One of the obvious conclusions is that a fence once surrounded these areas, some call it the 'paradise wall.' When looked at aerially, these circular moats form a pattern, when taken together with the roads and canals and causeways, not to mention the evidence of bridges, suggest that a culture much like the mythological city of Z, as advanced as Europe, did once exist in Mato Grosso.

The problem so many explorers like Fawcett had was they were overlooking, literally overstepping, the evidence. The jungle spreads. It spreads so much that if not macheted or simply lived in, it will engulf anything it touches, bringing all into itself. The jungle vows to make everything a jungle. So you have this vast city within the Mato Grosso, with elaborate road systems and highly decorative cultural traditions, with it's own creation story and sense of right and wrong and what happens? How does it just disappear? First you take into consideration what these buildings would have been made with - the earth. Pick any patch of soil in the Mato Grosso region and, if you dig deep enough, you will find broken pottery; broken pottery that bears an unmistakable resemblance to the pottery adorning the huts of those who lives in the region today. Culture begets culture. Some of this pottery, some of the black dirt, are the remnants of the buildings that made up this paradisiacal city, now overwrought with jungle-trees. But where did the large population of people go? What made them leave or die off, so that the jungle could have its epidemical way, leaving a people in its wake with little knowledge of the origin of their own culture? The problem is vast populations of Brazilians were wiped out by what was basically a holocaust from European contact - diseases or war. That would explain why the first European explorers of the Amazon described such vast settlements that, later - especially today - no one could ever find. Fascinating.

Three books I plan to get from the library today: David H. Childress' Lost Cities and Ancient Mysteries of South America, Micheal Heckenberger's The Ecology of Power, and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's The Lost World.

For the rest of us, cheers!

The surprise-you-no-longer-have-braces party went rather well. I like to think of myself as a good host, able to pull off a party when desired, and last night was no exception. I can't even imagine how it would have gone at my parent's house, which, along with the Chiarizio's, was in the running for a 'venue'. But the small apartment had a nice feel: very personal and seemed to spark a lot of good conversations. It was something of a milestone for this group of friends. We've never all gotten together for a party with alcohol, where everyone drank a little (or a lot, not naming any names). And I think the alcohol helped ease the awkwardness of not seeing each other as much as once before. It seemed to bring everyone to a happy medium; to a place we'd all want to be anyway. To those of you who are naturally un-awkward (natural naturals), I salute you. For the rest of us, cheers! Part of me wants to add 'sadly' to all of this - sadly, alcohol helped eased the awkwardness; everyone seemed to hit it off like old times - sadly, alcohol had a lot to do with this, etc. But I don't really think it is sad. Alcohol's got to be good for something, right? Anyway, thank you one and all for making Emily's great day - she found us an apartment! - even better.

delete me to life

I woke up today with an idea and a purpose. I decided I'd delete anything that was best left unseen and unknown. So I deleted myself around 10:30 and had some breakfast. As I was sitting down to eat my cereal, which consisted of erased and gone, full of vitamin good-bye, I realized that I wasn't deleted, only relatively unknown. Deleting yourself isn't as easy as you'd think. I ended in the recycle bin waiting for some higher me to come and click me to death. The meta-me. Now I'm here awaiting my demies. This is all to say that I woke up feeling strange today, but only a little. I guess I also woke up feeling melodramatic.

alphabets

Absolutely amazing, brilliant, crazy, dramatic, excellent, fantastic, goofy and gleeful, hilarious, incredible, jason liked it, killer-good, lovely, momentous, not bad at all, on time (if 's' was after 'o' I'd say sarcasm), pretty awesome, quasi-church-like, romantic (at least according to the couple to my right, who yawned at the encore), sweet dude, touching, unbelievable, vigorous (cheers can be very tiring), wonderful, xylophones, yesterday it happened, zany. Those are the words I'd use to describe Sufjan. But we need another alphabet to truly capture what I felt, something close to Moses on the Mount, or the disciples in the upper room, or getting a bike on your 7th birthday, or discovering electricity, or simply having a good day, or, well, it was just amazing.

tonight in ohio

Do they not know, or just not care?

dos libros

Last week I finished reading A Handbook of American Prayer by Lucius Shepherd. I enjoyed this book the whole way through. I've always been fascinated by religious-manipulation and evangelicalism, and the intertwining of the two. This book deals with both head-on. Shepherd's novel tracts the spiritual course of Wardlin Stuart, from his bartending-sexist-murderous days, to his prison-i'll-write-you-a-prayer-for-a-pack-of-cigarettes days, to his world-wide-success-Wardlinites-days, to, well you should just read the book. Shepherd likes to mix fantasy with reality to refreshing effects, and he's well worth your time.

This morning I finished Love Me by Garrison Keillor. I did enjoy this book, but felt myself rushing to get done with it. Not sure exactly why. Very funny at times, occasionally heartfelt, other times somewhat wincingly corny, but overall a good and wise book. This was the first book I had read by Keillor and certainly not the last. So that may say something. The protagonist is a writer who is married to a liberal saint - a steadfast woman with a heart of gold, who I guess Niel Young was looking for - and is trying for the first quarter of the book to write the Great American Novel. He succeeds with "Spacious Skies" and heads off to work at the New Yorker - how I envied him. Keillor does a wonderful job of creating a fantastical New Yorker, where magically JD Salinger is still hard at work. (Keillor makes the publisher a mofia-goon, for example). The scenes with 'Mr Shawn', the man-about-town editor, are a good time, as are the scenes with Tony Crossandotti, the afore-mentioned mafia-goon. Wyler, the protagonist, writes a sequeal to "Spacious Skies," "Amber Waves of Grain" which bombs and spends 8 years at the New Yorker, away from his unimaginably loving wife, with writer's block. Wyler becomes Mr. Blue, an advice-columnist, and the rest is for you to figure out my friends - or friend as the case may be (and is!). Give it a chance - it won't change your life, but it may change your hairstyle, or at least it could, conceivably.

Credit where credit's due

Nearly all of these photos were taken by Emily, my beautiful, little wife. I meant to do this awhile ago. This is the only picture I have of her on here, so I need to get on the ball!

What's goin' on

There's nothing new to follow. Just a warning. I dont know what I am doing. Now, after 2 years of saying "I can't do Philosophy, I can't do Philososphy", I am considering it again. What is wrong with me? I just refuse to be idle: work at CVS and be satisfied. I love English. But what I love about it is completely passive. I like to read stories and think about them. Sometimes I enjoy hearing stories, and hearing people talk about them. Occasionally, just every so often, I take part in a discussion. But the thought of writing about a novel, or a short story, or a poem - that just doesn't do it for me. I don't really get it on an 'active' level, only passively. I'm a reader of books, not a writer of, or about, books. But with Philosophy it's the opposite. I don't really enjoy reading a critique or an essay. But talking about it, writing about it, thinking about it - that I love, that I truly enjoy. So bomb's away, I guess. A PhD bomb that is. A 5-6 year hell-load, where I learn 2 languages, write endlessly, teach shakingly, and pay for nothing. (They pay me! - That is, if I get in). One obstacle awaits me: the GRE. Jesus have mercy on us.

took a nap, lost my life

hat am I going to do with myself tonight? I am completely exhausted, have already taken a nap, and feel like hanging out with someone other than Nico. If only he drank and could carry a story. If you fit that criteria, maybe you and I ought to meet at some loco-locale. I think instead of sitting on this bed, where I am doomed to repeat myself, I will walk out the door and into the world. The world will guide me by my cufflinks and take me on for a spell. At first I will be reluctant, a tad bit apprehensive, but eventually I will yield to her soft, seductive siren song. Sweet, sweltering smelly world, with your suave, sultry summoning. You have the world on your shoulder and up your sleeve, and I do believe I have a will to believe. I took a nap and I lost my brain. Ayudame!

An ambiguous message from your Monroeville streets. 

My day, more Whew!s

I am at the Carnegie Library at the moment. I worked until 8 am at Family House and then ate at Brueggers, read Love Me at a picnic table, went to the tenth floor of the Cathedral, etc. All of this because the Carnegie doesn't open until 10. People need to learn at 8 as well, not just at 10. What a load of crap. But I'm really not upset at all. An odd thing happened at the Hillman Library (Pitt's library). I was sitting there reading about Larry Wyler's sudden literary success when this idea came to me: it would be humorous to go up to the librarian and say, in a whisper, "I don't go to Pitt." I decided to do it, just to see his reaction. It wasn't as expected. He got on the intercom - did you know they have intercoms in librarys? They do at Hillman - and said, "Security is breached. Goddamnit, Security!". I turned around, frantically searching the room, and every student there held up their Pitt ID, yet kept reading or typing or talking. Through the corridor came three security guards, all pressing down their hats to their head, as they ran, I mean ran, straight for me. I turned around, the librarian, who was now wearing a little cap, pointed to the door. I took off running. Through the doors, through more doors, out onto the street over a fence up a tree, jumped into the sky, climbed on the backs of birdies, flipped for effect, landed on a Jetta, hopped for forty feet, etc. I turned around and they were on my ass. Once I reached the steps of the Carnegie Library, they stopped - as if they were actual cops and I had reached another state, and also as if that myth is even true. I headed into the Carnegie and the first thing I did was tell the librarian, out of breath at this point, that 'I don't go to Pitt'. She first let out a 'ha', that erupted from her chest, then I let out a 'haha'. Soon we were both rolling on the ground, and the rest of the library joined us. I left them laughing to post this. I can still here them, faintly.

Whew!

Today I walked to Africa and rode a giraffe-neck. They are specie-specific to the location-specific Africa, the continent. I saw a hundred tiger-tigers, two Lian's, and thirty-three or thirty-four wild doggies. I gave them all a biscuit. They were reeeaalll friendly. So besides coming with 135-136 biscuits, I also brought a gyspy-spy handbook. That's literature-specific to Lebanon. It was pretty useless. When I spotted the gypsies I wasn't prepared, and, as a sad result, failed to learn their customs and spy techniques. I did, however, get to see them from a new perspective: ala giraffe-neck. Eventually the giraffe-neck did a tossle spin down two gullies and cracked his ass on a hemoglobin-rock. I almost cracked my ass as a result, but remain unscathed. I tracked down a siren truck and left the giraffe-neck in the hands of ambulatorys. I walked, like Jesus wept, I walked. And after thirty-some thirsty hours I came across a copter. The regulator folded up his Africa-times newspaper and opened the door for me. I drank a Fij, and slept the whole way home.

Oi Brent!

(I've been watching The Office again) Last night we went to E. Claddagh to celebrate Mia's birthday. I had a good time, even though it was cut short when we had to leave and go to Family House - which is where I am right now. And I work at 1 today. And Sunday, and Monday, and Monday night. "Money don't make my world go round, I'm reaching out to a higher ground." Not much to say, I just wanted to have a Spetember post. And, of couse, my stomach hurts like hell.