Sunday, January 31, 2010
Saturday, January 30, 2010
Curt
Today, Curt stepped outside himself and looked at himself. He woke up fairly early because of a mild allergic reaction to the carrot almond butter he'd made the night before. He drank green tea, infused with lavender, and slipped back into a deep sleep. He did not dream. However, he did feel much better when he awoke, for the second time. He took his dog, Warden, on a brief walk, on account of the weather. It was sinisterly cold. The sun was out. But the cold mocked the sun, calling it a ludicrous temptation. Curt disagreed. He liked the sun. He did not like the cold. Warden liked the dead deer by the railroad tracks. He did not know about the sun or the cold because he recognized only what he wanted to recognize. He recognized the dead deer. And he liked it. Especially by the railroad tracks. It reminded him of.
Because Curt's sleep was interrupted, he was a bit grouchier than usual. He called his friend, Bailey, to see what Bailey was up to. Bailey said he was up to nothing, except laundry. Curt invited him over to play chess. Bailey said, "Sure." When Bailey arrived, Curt had had a cup of strong coffee, and his disposition was friendly enough and.
Bailey lost the first game of chess. But he won the second game. The two men were quiet throughout much of the games. Curt's brow was furrowed. Bailey's eyes were closed. Then, Bailey asked: "Are you happy, Curt?" And Curt said, "
After Bailey left, Curt walked around his house. He did not say anything. The furniture waited. But nothing. He sighed. He rubbed his chin. He wasn't feeling right. He wasn't sick. He wasn't angry. Maybe, he thought, he wasn't feeling right because he wasn't feeling at all. He washed a single dish for twenty minutes and tried counting his teeth with his tongue. He lost track when he reached the
Sometimes, Curt is happy. Sometimes, he is sad. He likes to believe that this is how everyone feels. Sometimes, he likes to stand in the corner of a room and watch. Just watch. He doesn't know what he watches. But he does. Sometimes, he forgets that he hasn't spoken a single word in a long time, and that people might think that there is something wrong. Sometimes, he wishes he could go back in time and do everything that he's done without ever having opened his mouth, except for eating and breathing through his mouth whenever he's gotten a cold. Sometimes, he wishes he didn't know anyone. Sometimes, he thinks that he will leave one day, like he always does everyday, but really leave. Sometimes, when he looks at you, you think there is someone in there, but he is looking at you and not you. Sometimes, he thinks someone will understand what he means when he says,
But they always say, "What?"
And he says something else.
Curt steps inside himself again and he sleeps.
Because Curt's sleep was interrupted, he was a bit grouchier than usual. He called his friend, Bailey, to see what Bailey was up to. Bailey said he was up to nothing, except laundry. Curt invited him over to play chess. Bailey said, "Sure." When Bailey arrived, Curt had had a cup of strong coffee, and his disposition was friendly enough and.
Bailey lost the first game of chess. But he won the second game. The two men were quiet throughout much of the games. Curt's brow was furrowed. Bailey's eyes were closed. Then, Bailey asked: "Are you happy, Curt?" And Curt said, "
After Bailey left, Curt walked around his house. He did not say anything. The furniture waited. But nothing. He sighed. He rubbed his chin. He wasn't feeling right. He wasn't sick. He wasn't angry. Maybe, he thought, he wasn't feeling right because he wasn't feeling at all. He washed a single dish for twenty minutes and tried counting his teeth with his tongue. He lost track when he reached the
Sometimes, Curt is happy. Sometimes, he is sad. He likes to believe that this is how everyone feels. Sometimes, he likes to stand in the corner of a room and watch. Just watch. He doesn't know what he watches. But he does. Sometimes, he forgets that he hasn't spoken a single word in a long time, and that people might think that there is something wrong. Sometimes, he wishes he could go back in time and do everything that he's done without ever having opened his mouth, except for eating and breathing through his mouth whenever he's gotten a cold. Sometimes, he wishes he didn't know anyone. Sometimes, he thinks that he will leave one day, like he always does everyday, but really leave. Sometimes, when he looks at you, you think there is someone in there, but he is looking at you and not you. Sometimes, he thinks someone will understand what he means when he says,
But they always say, "What?"
And he says something else.
Curt steps inside himself again and he sleeps.
Friday, January 29, 2010
Analysis.
It's been a weird week. I've been creative this week in my blogs, if perhaps a little cvryptic at times. It's funny to think about literary theory with respect to blogging. Homes got ahead of us in his classes sometimes, talking about author's intent and stuff like that. It was always very interesting, but most of the time I'm not really sure I processed it fully. Can you imagine analyzing the Better Butter Blog? i.e.:"What do you think Mr. Jimenez meant when he postulated the existence of the 'Happenstance Lie'? ; 'Does Mr. Jimenez' fascination with lying undercut any subsequent claim to the truth?' It's fun to think about your audience when you're pretty confident you have none! :) I need to do some theoretical analysis of this post, I think! What a weirdo!
But, I am sad about JD Salinger. A while ago, I remember blogging about how we feel sad when someone famous dies, even though we never met that person, and maybe haven't thought about him or her for months and years even. And then he or she dies, and then you are sad. JD Salinger has been dead in a way for a long time. But words, and books, live in a way that is hard to fathom. People connected with Catcher in the Rye, and because it was so alive, Mr. Salinger was too. Can you imagine creating Holden Caulfield? I know people who have named their pets after him! That guy is like a real person in my head! Now, JD Salinger is dead, and for all but three or four people in the world, things are exactly the same. But we remember.
You know who is sad? Warden. A few nights, he has woken me up in the middle of the night barking at nothing, just a sad, lonely bark at the wall, at the emptiness he feels now that Stella is gone. I understand, but I don't. I think we need a puppy. Maybe after the vision quest.
I need to get a new food processor. I need to get a nice one that will stand up to the butter making that killed the cheap one I got at Wal-mart. I hand shook a small batch of butter with chopped almonds and raw carrots this afternoon. It took a lot out of me, but it was kind of delicious.
But, I am sad about JD Salinger. A while ago, I remember blogging about how we feel sad when someone famous dies, even though we never met that person, and maybe haven't thought about him or her for months and years even. And then he or she dies, and then you are sad. JD Salinger has been dead in a way for a long time. But words, and books, live in a way that is hard to fathom. People connected with Catcher in the Rye, and because it was so alive, Mr. Salinger was too. Can you imagine creating Holden Caulfield? I know people who have named their pets after him! That guy is like a real person in my head! Now, JD Salinger is dead, and for all but three or four people in the world, things are exactly the same. But we remember.
You know who is sad? Warden. A few nights, he has woken me up in the middle of the night barking at nothing, just a sad, lonely bark at the wall, at the emptiness he feels now that Stella is gone. I understand, but I don't. I think we need a puppy. Maybe after the vision quest.
I need to get a new food processor. I need to get a nice one that will stand up to the butter making that killed the cheap one I got at Wal-mart. I hand shook a small batch of butter with chopped almonds and raw carrots this afternoon. It took a lot out of me, but it was kind of delicious.
Thursday, January 28, 2010
Nine Stories
For J.D. Salinger
I.
When I was nine, my best friend and I went fishing with his father. It was the first and only time I'd gone fishing and his father showed us how to cast. He bought a can of worms at the corner mart. He drank his beers and smoked a cigar, telling us, "Good job." And when my line fell into the water, and I said, "I think I got something," he wrapped his hands around mine, and together, we brought the fish from the water. He tossed it into a bucket and grabbed my shoulders and said, "You got one Curt." He laughed and guzzled the rest of his beer and his son, my best friend, looked away, pretending to spot something across the lake. When we left the lake, we forgot about the fish in the bucket. Alone, in a tiny, tiny lake. Waiting. For something.
II.
We told her to go up into the tree house. Climb the ladder. Go into the tree house. There is something there, waiting. And after she'd climbed the ladder and crawled into the tree house, we took the ladder away and laughed. But she didn't say anything. She was in the tree house, silently drawing invisible circles on the plywood floor. We called out her name. We told her to say something, but she didn't. She would have stayed up there forever. She might have been happier. But we told her to come down. Come down from there already! She climbed down the ladder and said that it was nice up there. And you said, "Whatever."
III.
Once, Mom took a drawing class at the library. When Dad saw the charcoal set she bought, he told her to quit the class, that we didn't have that kind of money. She drew one picture. It was a self-portrait. She used all the charcoal. All nine sticks to spite Dad. She took a piece of paper and covered it in charcoal. I can still hear the sound. The scratch. Her hand moving back and forth. Forever.
IV.
The first time I read, Catcher in the Rye, I was in the eighth grade. When I finished the book, I started chain smoking. I told people to leave me alone. That's how I met my first girlfriend.
V.
Earl. Town drunk. Bought all the neighborhood kids 25 cent corn dogs from his favorite bar, The Coffee Grounds. His only stipulation: say, "Thank you very much."
VI.
In 1996, when Fran swept into Ohio and Pennsylvania, the prison flooded. The wardens told us to remain calm. To settle down! But some people were screaming, saying that we were going to die. But the only things to die were the rats. They floated like woolly driftwood. In and out of cells. When the water receded, everyone watched in silence as the janitors swept the rats into a pile and out the door. "Where did they come from?" someone asked. And everyone looked for a hole in his cell to escape from.
VII.
The first time I watched Harold and Maude, I asked Grandma to marry me. She said I wasn't her type. "You're not quite young enough," she said.
VIII.
No birds ever resided in my bird house. But it was beautiful nonetheless.
IX.
A story is a tricky thing. It starts before you even realize that its started. It ends after it has ended. When you tell it, it is not the same as when it was told to you. It is most powerful the first time. It is most powerful the last time. When you say that you are going to tell a story, there is a pause. Because a story is a tricky thing.
Rest in Peace
I.
When I was nine, my best friend and I went fishing with his father. It was the first and only time I'd gone fishing and his father showed us how to cast. He bought a can of worms at the corner mart. He drank his beers and smoked a cigar, telling us, "Good job." And when my line fell into the water, and I said, "I think I got something," he wrapped his hands around mine, and together, we brought the fish from the water. He tossed it into a bucket and grabbed my shoulders and said, "You got one Curt." He laughed and guzzled the rest of his beer and his son, my best friend, looked away, pretending to spot something across the lake. When we left the lake, we forgot about the fish in the bucket. Alone, in a tiny, tiny lake. Waiting. For something.
II.
We told her to go up into the tree house. Climb the ladder. Go into the tree house. There is something there, waiting. And after she'd climbed the ladder and crawled into the tree house, we took the ladder away and laughed. But she didn't say anything. She was in the tree house, silently drawing invisible circles on the plywood floor. We called out her name. We told her to say something, but she didn't. She would have stayed up there forever. She might have been happier. But we told her to come down. Come down from there already! She climbed down the ladder and said that it was nice up there. And you said, "Whatever."
III.
Once, Mom took a drawing class at the library. When Dad saw the charcoal set she bought, he told her to quit the class, that we didn't have that kind of money. She drew one picture. It was a self-portrait. She used all the charcoal. All nine sticks to spite Dad. She took a piece of paper and covered it in charcoal. I can still hear the sound. The scratch. Her hand moving back and forth. Forever.
IV.
The first time I read, Catcher in the Rye, I was in the eighth grade. When I finished the book, I started chain smoking. I told people to leave me alone. That's how I met my first girlfriend.
V.
Earl. Town drunk. Bought all the neighborhood kids 25 cent corn dogs from his favorite bar, The Coffee Grounds. His only stipulation: say, "Thank you very much."
VI.
In 1996, when Fran swept into Ohio and Pennsylvania, the prison flooded. The wardens told us to remain calm. To settle down! But some people were screaming, saying that we were going to die. But the only things to die were the rats. They floated like woolly driftwood. In and out of cells. When the water receded, everyone watched in silence as the janitors swept the rats into a pile and out the door. "Where did they come from?" someone asked. And everyone looked for a hole in his cell to escape from.
VII.
The first time I watched Harold and Maude, I asked Grandma to marry me. She said I wasn't her type. "You're not quite young enough," she said.
VIII.
No birds ever resided in my bird house. But it was beautiful nonetheless.
IX.
A story is a tricky thing. It starts before you even realize that its started. It ends after it has ended. When you tell it, it is not the same as when it was told to you. It is most powerful the first time. It is most powerful the last time. When you say that you are going to tell a story, there is a pause. Because a story is a tricky thing.
Rest in Peace
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
Psyche!
Today, I thought about the girl with the big sad eyes. I thought about Hume, too. I wonder why the girl had such sad eyes?
Stella always had sad eyes, even when I knew she was happy. Which makes me think--do I read sadness in people and things that aren't really sad at all? I think this is what I think: at the most basic level, people are just sadness, emptiness, loneliness. Happiness is not a natural experience and is longed for because it feels novel. Ask me tomorrow, though, and I will say that I think something different though, I bet! This is called the happenstance lie. Lie in this sense is not like a falsehood, but more like the lie of a green in golf. Which is the more destructive? I cannot, or will not, say. By doing so, I would be lying, without intention, but lying still.
This is something I've been doing lately, trying to articulate some philosophical ideas that pop into my head. I think I've been fairly clear. Ha! I guess I've been interested in the experience of lying--telling a lie, being told a lie--as of late. Maybe that's why I got so upset when Rick questioned this blog. Which is another interesting aspect of lying--being called-out as a liar when telling the truth.
Hume said, just because the sun has come up every morning for however long people have been there to observe it, doesn't mean we should assume it will come up tomorrow. It's a good example of what I'm trying to get across. Not really, but it is interesting. See, I just lied to you!
Stella always had sad eyes, even when I knew she was happy. Which makes me think--do I read sadness in people and things that aren't really sad at all? I think this is what I think: at the most basic level, people are just sadness, emptiness, loneliness. Happiness is not a natural experience and is longed for because it feels novel. Ask me tomorrow, though, and I will say that I think something different though, I bet! This is called the happenstance lie. Lie in this sense is not like a falsehood, but more like the lie of a green in golf. Which is the more destructive? I cannot, or will not, say. By doing so, I would be lying, without intention, but lying still.
This is something I've been doing lately, trying to articulate some philosophical ideas that pop into my head. I think I've been fairly clear. Ha! I guess I've been interested in the experience of lying--telling a lie, being told a lie--as of late. Maybe that's why I got so upset when Rick questioned this blog. Which is another interesting aspect of lying--being called-out as a liar when telling the truth.
Hume said, just because the sun has come up every morning for however long people have been there to observe it, doesn't mean we should assume it will come up tomorrow. It's a good example of what I'm trying to get across. Not really, but it is interesting. See, I just lied to you!
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
Surfaces
When I was a kid, I collected rocks and minerals. My favorite: Ulexite. Homes used to tell me that people were like rocks. There are many sides. You can observe and come to know one side of a rock and then turn it around and not recognize it at all. But Ulexite is different. You can place it on top of any surface and the surface appears on the face of the rock. It is everything. It is everyone.
When I was a kid, I put Ulexite on top of the newspaper. I read the Sunday comics through the rock. Then, one day, I placed it on top of text and read: Died the 23rd of Tuesday, 1968. I put the rock away in a drawer. I closed the drawer. I heard the rock. It said, "Died the 23rd of Tuesday. 1968. 1968." It said, "NINETEEN SIXTEEEEEE EIGHT!" I stopped collecting rocks. I watched the clouds instead. I named them cirrus or nimbus or cumulonimbus. They did not say things to me. When I looked at the clouds, they did not spell out DEATH. Their surfaces changed too, quickly.
I don't know what I'm really trying to get across. I guess I miss thinking about rocks and clouds. Do you ever get tired of listening to people? Thinking about people? I do. I like to listen to other things. The things that never get listened to. I like to think about tiny things. Things that never get thought about. Sometimes, I don't want to talk. Sometimes, I want to talk to the wall because so few people have greeted it, but it is always there, waiting.
The vacuum cleaner is such a lonely thing. Have you ever looked at someone vacuuming the floor? It breaks my heart everytime. I mean, look next time, and you will see what I mean.
In prison, I used to think about many things. But mostly, I used to think about how free I'd feel. But I don't feel free. What does feeling free even feel like? I think it would be terrifying. I think it would be boring, really. I feel like a rock. I feel like a rock that's just been overturned. I feel like the clouds are above my surface, instead of dirt and worms. I guess it's all new to me still. But a rock has plenty of time.
The "Win for Life" wasn't disappointing. It was true.
It was fun though.
When I was a kid, I put Ulexite on top of the newspaper. I read the Sunday comics through the rock. Then, one day, I placed it on top of text and read: Died the 23rd of Tuesday, 1968. I put the rock away in a drawer. I closed the drawer. I heard the rock. It said, "Died the 23rd of Tuesday. 1968. 1968." It said, "NINETEEN SIXTEEEEEE EIGHT!" I stopped collecting rocks. I watched the clouds instead. I named them cirrus or nimbus or cumulonimbus. They did not say things to me. When I looked at the clouds, they did not spell out DEATH. Their surfaces changed too, quickly.
I don't know what I'm really trying to get across. I guess I miss thinking about rocks and clouds. Do you ever get tired of listening to people? Thinking about people? I do. I like to listen to other things. The things that never get listened to. I like to think about tiny things. Things that never get thought about. Sometimes, I don't want to talk. Sometimes, I want to talk to the wall because so few people have greeted it, but it is always there, waiting.
The vacuum cleaner is such a lonely thing. Have you ever looked at someone vacuuming the floor? It breaks my heart everytime. I mean, look next time, and you will see what I mean.
In prison, I used to think about many things. But mostly, I used to think about how free I'd feel. But I don't feel free. What does feeling free even feel like? I think it would be terrifying. I think it would be boring, really. I feel like a rock. I feel like a rock that's just been overturned. I feel like the clouds are above my surface, instead of dirt and worms. I guess it's all new to me still. But a rock has plenty of time.
The "Win for Life" wasn't disappointing. It was true.
It was fun though.
Monday, January 25, 2010
Betrayal?
I had tea with Rick this afternoon.
He said he'd been reading this blog. "Okay," I said.
"Is that stuff all true?"
I wasn't sure why we were having this discussion. Rick is my spiritual adviser! True? What was there to question? I said as much to him.
He asked me a lot of questions. I got a little upset. "Curt blogs for Curt," I said to him, defiantly, and I meant it. Blogging for me is a spiritual release, and I don't need my spiritual adviser giving me crap about it.
He apologized, and took me bowling. I hadn't been bowling since I was a little kid. Rick, who I always thought was pure balance and peace, is a real ass when he bowls. "I don't even consider you a man if you can't bowl over 90", he said. This, while I was in the process of bowling a 76. Was this a test of my emotional resolve? Something else? What is this relationship?
I suppose you're reading this Rick, and I suppose I "failed" your test. Well, I don't need you, and I'm as stable as I want to be.
I wasted a number of delicious butters on that guy.
If anyone else is interested in being my spiritual adviser, or knows a good one, let me know.
Tomorrow, I'm gonna scratch off that "Win For Life". We'll see what happens!
He said he'd been reading this blog. "Okay," I said.
"Is that stuff all true?"
I wasn't sure why we were having this discussion. Rick is my spiritual adviser! True? What was there to question? I said as much to him.
He asked me a lot of questions. I got a little upset. "Curt blogs for Curt," I said to him, defiantly, and I meant it. Blogging for me is a spiritual release, and I don't need my spiritual adviser giving me crap about it.
He apologized, and took me bowling. I hadn't been bowling since I was a little kid. Rick, who I always thought was pure balance and peace, is a real ass when he bowls. "I don't even consider you a man if you can't bowl over 90", he said. This, while I was in the process of bowling a 76. Was this a test of my emotional resolve? Something else? What is this relationship?
I suppose you're reading this Rick, and I suppose I "failed" your test. Well, I don't need you, and I'm as stable as I want to be.
I wasted a number of delicious butters on that guy.
If anyone else is interested in being my spiritual adviser, or knows a good one, let me know.
Tomorrow, I'm gonna scratch off that "Win For Life". We'll see what happens!
Sunday, January 24, 2010
Takeout
A rainy day, especially on a Sunday, makes me kind of emotional. Not in a bad way though. I guess it would be more accurate to say that a rainy day, especially on a Sunday, moves me.
I got plenty of sleep last night. When I woke up, I made a sweet vanilla butter and lathered it onto an English muffin and brewed some Earl Grey tea! A truly English meal!
After breakfast, I went out for a long walk with Warden. He's a good dog, but he likes to pull on the leash a bit hard, and every time we came across another dog, he started acting crazy, barking his head off and chasing his tail. I think he misses Stella. I miss Stella too.
I didn't realize it, but we'd been on a walk for almost 4 hours! We were both famished. I ordered takeout from Lo Mei's and fed Warden, who gobbled up his food in seconds!!! I ordered Kung Pao Chicken. I was feeling ambitious, so when the woman on the other end asked, "How spicy? One to ten?" I said, "Nine."
I was waiting for the deliveryman and looking out the window, being moved by the rain, on a Sunday, when I remembered a moment I'd had with Kung Pao Chicken, more than 25 years ago! Memories are strange. Sometimes a memory will pop up from who knows where!
Anyways, I remember driving with Mom up from Florida the summer I turned seventeen. We had the brilliant idea that we could manage an 18 hour drive in one shot. We were miserable, and tired, needless to say. And hungry. So we stopped at a Chinese restaurant in North Carolina, and I ordered Kung Pao Chicken. There was no one else in the restaurant. Mom asked if my food was good, and I said it was alright. Even though the memory seems trivial, I was sad when the memory resurfaced.
I guess there was sadness in all of Mom's motions. My sister says the same about me, although I don't see it, but then again, I don't stand in front of a mirror all day. Could you imagine? What a waste of time. Or, would it be the best use of time? Looking at yourself. Knowing what you look like when you're vulnerable. Knowing what you look like when you lie, or fall in love, or feel ashamed. Knowing what jealousy does to your face, how madness alters your stance, how boredom reads in the movement of your mouth, how pain tenses your muscles, how doubt weighs on the skin below your eyes, how fear knows the space between your eyes, how your eyes see you and you and you and you and you and you, until it's sick of you and you and you and you and you and you.
When the food came, I ate it, and I cried.
It was too spicy.
I got plenty of sleep last night. When I woke up, I made a sweet vanilla butter and lathered it onto an English muffin and brewed some Earl Grey tea! A truly English meal!
After breakfast, I went out for a long walk with Warden. He's a good dog, but he likes to pull on the leash a bit hard, and every time we came across another dog, he started acting crazy, barking his head off and chasing his tail. I think he misses Stella. I miss Stella too.
I didn't realize it, but we'd been on a walk for almost 4 hours! We were both famished. I ordered takeout from Lo Mei's and fed Warden, who gobbled up his food in seconds!!! I ordered Kung Pao Chicken. I was feeling ambitious, so when the woman on the other end asked, "How spicy? One to ten?" I said, "Nine."
I was waiting for the deliveryman and looking out the window, being moved by the rain, on a Sunday, when I remembered a moment I'd had with Kung Pao Chicken, more than 25 years ago! Memories are strange. Sometimes a memory will pop up from who knows where!
Anyways, I remember driving with Mom up from Florida the summer I turned seventeen. We had the brilliant idea that we could manage an 18 hour drive in one shot. We were miserable, and tired, needless to say. And hungry. So we stopped at a Chinese restaurant in North Carolina, and I ordered Kung Pao Chicken. There was no one else in the restaurant. Mom asked if my food was good, and I said it was alright. Even though the memory seems trivial, I was sad when the memory resurfaced.
I guess there was sadness in all of Mom's motions. My sister says the same about me, although I don't see it, but then again, I don't stand in front of a mirror all day. Could you imagine? What a waste of time. Or, would it be the best use of time? Looking at yourself. Knowing what you look like when you're vulnerable. Knowing what you look like when you lie, or fall in love, or feel ashamed. Knowing what jealousy does to your face, how madness alters your stance, how boredom reads in the movement of your mouth, how pain tenses your muscles, how doubt weighs on the skin below your eyes, how fear knows the space between your eyes, how your eyes see you and you and you and you and you and you, until it's sick of you and you and you and you and you and you.
When the food came, I ate it, and I cried.
It was too spicy.
Saturday, January 23, 2010
Sleepy.
Whew. I've slept since I got home this afternoon, and I think I'm going to bed when I'm done with this. Too much action, not enough sleep. Warden isn't happy, but so be it. Tomorrow is Sunday, I'm off, I'm going to make some butter come hell or high water. Also, football tomorrow. I'm for the Jets, all the way. I like underdogs. And I imagine their coach might enjoy my butters. Goodnight!
Friday, January 22, 2010
Winners
I fell asleep on the couch. In the middle of the night, Warden climbed onto the couch and slept beside me. He stuck his wet nose on my cheek and sneezed. But I guess I didn't care. I dreamt of bowling alleys and 3 holed golf courses.
Before my early morning paper run, I scratched off 8 Lucky Dog Doublers. No Luck. After I finished my paper run, I grabbed a quick bite to eat and started my second, mid-morning run. It's been a bit tougher than I thought it'd be, but it just takes some getting used to. And I have to keep thinking about the vision quest. It's all for the vision quest. And the vision quest will be worth all the hard work.
When I got home, I wanted to take a nap, but instead, I walked to the library to return some books that were overdue. At the library, I stumbled upon a book on Polish movie posters. There were color images of surreal Polish movie posters throughout the book, and I'm a sucker for pictures. But these were freaking me out!
Before my early morning paper run, I scratched off 8 Lucky Dog Doublers. No Luck. After I finished my paper run, I grabbed a quick bite to eat and started my second, mid-morning run. It's been a bit tougher than I thought it'd be, but it just takes some getting used to. And I have to keep thinking about the vision quest. It's all for the vision quest. And the vision quest will be worth all the hard work.
When I got home, I wanted to take a nap, but instead, I walked to the library to return some books that were overdue. At the library, I stumbled upon a book on Polish movie posters. There were color images of surreal Polish movie posters throughout the book, and I'm a sucker for pictures. But these were freaking me out!
I mean...woah. This is how Tootsie is perceived in Poland?
This is The Shining?! I mean, granted, the novel was written by Stephen King and inspired Stanley Kubrick's film. But still...this poster is scarier than the movie!
I guess the artists don't necessarily care about what the movie is about. They're more interested in portraying how the movie makes them feel. I'm used to the facts. I shy away from how the facts make me feel. But I think that that's how most of us are, right?
When I got home, I invited Guy to come over for dinner, but he said that he needed to turn in early because he had a morning flight to Denver. So, I invited Bailey over for Indian food and a game of chess. It was a close game, but Bailey won. I thought it would be a good idea if I gave Bailey some lottery tickets to scratch off. So, I did. I gave him 8 Lucky Dog Doublers and I scratched off 7. None of mine were winners. I watched as Bailey methodically scratched the tickets I'd given him. He was on his last one, when he stopped, his eyes widened, and he started to shake. "Curt!" he screamed. "Curt! I think I won! I won!" He stood up and held the ticket in his hand. "I won $20,000!' he screamed.
"What?" I said. "That can't be..."
Then, he started to laugh. "Got you," he said. He sat down and put the ticket in a pile with the others.
I wasn't angry. I guess I was more sad than anything. And I think Bailey could tell because he apologized and everything was quiet, even Warden who was wagging his tail and barking while Bailey was shouting, was still. Bailey left shortly afterwards.
I don't win much. In fact, I lose a whole lot, but it doesn't upset me most of the time. I accept loss as a part of my life. But what if that ticket was a winning ticket? What if I could have won $20,000?
It would just be nice to win something...it would make things so much easier. But life isn't easy.
I still have one more ticket, the Win for Life. But I'm going to save that one for another day.
There's already been too much excitement.
Thursday, January 21, 2010
Fate.
I couldn't sleep last night, so I got up and did some impulsive (compulsive?) cleaning. What did I find? A lottery ticket. I don't play the lottery. This was part of a Christmas gift from somebody, maybe several years back. I remember as a kid, my dad would pick me up after school and we would stop at our little town's gas station. My Dad would buy 10 dollars worth of lottery tickets, every day. He never bought me a Pepsi. He never won. I don't play the lottery.
But this ticket was a winner. I remember scratching it off. "Free ticket" it said. I said to myself, I have a vision quest to fund, I should get my free ticket and see what happens. So early this morning, I filled the car with gas and went in to pay for it and grab my coffee. I struck up a conversation with Sayed the gas station guy. Sayed is painfully nice to me. He is a good man. I gave him my ticket to redeem. He said, "Curt this ticket is two years old! How have you had it for so long? I cannot take it. Expired!"
For some reason, I got really angry. But I don't handle anger like I used to. Maybe I was just tired. This is what I did, if you'll believe it: I pulled out a 50 dollar bill from my pocket, my grocery money for the week, and politely asked Sayed to give me 50 dollars worth of instant tickets. He seemed to want to talk me out of it, but he didn't. He asked me what I would like. "Give me 24 Lucky Dog Doublers and one Win For Life." This was also a spontaneous decision.
I took my tickets, and went to work. I'm not ready to scratch them.
After work, I took Warden to the park. Not being a particularly cold day, I sat down and enjoyed the sunshine. An adorable young woman with big sad eyes sat down next to me and started talking to me. "There is nothing worse than a broken heart," she said.
"It is better to have loved and lost, than never to have loved at all," I responded, without thinking. I am a poor casual conversationalist. Where was this going?
"Do you believe in fate?" she asked me.
"Have you read Leibniz?" I responded. I have not read Leibniz, but I've heard he had some interesting things to say about predestination.
"Leibniz was a hack." I couldn't disagree, but I wanted to.
"A hack?"
"Hume, he had things to say." Hume? I had to go.
I gave her a Luck Dog Doubler, and wished her luck.
Then, I came home. What happened today?
But this ticket was a winner. I remember scratching it off. "Free ticket" it said. I said to myself, I have a vision quest to fund, I should get my free ticket and see what happens. So early this morning, I filled the car with gas and went in to pay for it and grab my coffee. I struck up a conversation with Sayed the gas station guy. Sayed is painfully nice to me. He is a good man. I gave him my ticket to redeem. He said, "Curt this ticket is two years old! How have you had it for so long? I cannot take it. Expired!"
For some reason, I got really angry. But I don't handle anger like I used to. Maybe I was just tired. This is what I did, if you'll believe it: I pulled out a 50 dollar bill from my pocket, my grocery money for the week, and politely asked Sayed to give me 50 dollars worth of instant tickets. He seemed to want to talk me out of it, but he didn't. He asked me what I would like. "Give me 24 Lucky Dog Doublers and one Win For Life." This was also a spontaneous decision.
I took my tickets, and went to work. I'm not ready to scratch them.
After work, I took Warden to the park. Not being a particularly cold day, I sat down and enjoyed the sunshine. An adorable young woman with big sad eyes sat down next to me and started talking to me. "There is nothing worse than a broken heart," she said.
"It is better to have loved and lost, than never to have loved at all," I responded, without thinking. I am a poor casual conversationalist. Where was this going?
"Do you believe in fate?" she asked me.
"Have you read Leibniz?" I responded. I have not read Leibniz, but I've heard he had some interesting things to say about predestination.
"Leibniz was a hack." I couldn't disagree, but I wanted to.
"A hack?"
"Hume, he had things to say." Hume? I had to go.
I gave her a Luck Dog Doubler, and wished her luck.
Then, I came home. What happened today?
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
Tomato, Tomato, Roof, Roof, Creek, Creek, Crayon, Crayon
Isn't it strange that people pronounce words differently? I guess it's not strange at all, I mean everyone has their own way of saying something, but it can lead to a lot of confusion if it's misinterpreted. Once, I met a man who was from England and when I asked him to imitate an American accent, he tried to speak with a southern drawl. I told him that that wasn't how all Americans spoke. He didn't believe me. Then, I told him that I didn't speak at all like that and he said he thought it was because I was from Canada! HA!
When I called Bailey and asked him if he was alright, he said, "Sure, why?" I told him that he called early in the morning, asking if I was alright because I wasn't at chess club. He said: "No, Curt, I didn't say that at all. I said, I've been up all night. Sorry I didn't realize that it was so late. Goodnight."
Well, we had a good laugh at that!!!
Words are fascinating. There are so many! I mean, can you imagine what the etymology of the word butter is??? I CAN only imagine. I also think it's amazing that certain words carry such weight. Let me give you a few "for instances": love, life, death, sin, and darkness.
I wonder...what kind of weight does my name carry. Curt G. Jimenez. What's in a name? Have you ever wondered what your name means to someone else? Sure, it's just a name. But, it's a name.
The other night, I watched Harold and Maude. It's one of my favorite movies. It makes me feel all kinds of things! There's a great scene where Harold tells Maude that he hasn't lived. And she says, "LIVE!" And it's the perfect word. It encapsulates every emotion that Harold needs to feel. And Harold understands. He hasn't lived, so he must start living, now!
Ahh! I've been blogging away like some mad man about words, of all things, and I haven't even got to what's happened today.
I asked the Ghost to give me an extra route so that I can save up some money for the vision quest.
I have to figure out what to do with Warden. Maybe Guy can watch him, if he's still here when I leave. If not, maybe I'll ask Bailey.
And finally, I made an eggplant butter. Yes, that's right, EGGPLANT, and it tasted...not so hot. Admittedly, the eggplant was a bit soft and brown on the inside, but I mean, I thought it wouldn't taste so...wrong...as a butter. You know what they say: "If it's soft on the outside and brown on the inside, it's probably going to be bad all over."
When I called Bailey and asked him if he was alright, he said, "Sure, why?" I told him that he called early in the morning, asking if I was alright because I wasn't at chess club. He said: "No, Curt, I didn't say that at all. I said, I've been up all night. Sorry I didn't realize that it was so late. Goodnight."
Well, we had a good laugh at that!!!
Words are fascinating. There are so many! I mean, can you imagine what the etymology of the word butter is??? I CAN only imagine. I also think it's amazing that certain words carry such weight. Let me give you a few "for instances": love, life, death, sin, and darkness.
I wonder...what kind of weight does my name carry. Curt G. Jimenez. What's in a name? Have you ever wondered what your name means to someone else? Sure, it's just a name. But, it's a name.
The other night, I watched Harold and Maude. It's one of my favorite movies. It makes me feel all kinds of things! There's a great scene where Harold tells Maude that he hasn't lived. And she says, "LIVE!" And it's the perfect word. It encapsulates every emotion that Harold needs to feel. And Harold understands. He hasn't lived, so he must start living, now!
Ahh! I've been blogging away like some mad man about words, of all things, and I haven't even got to what's happened today.
I asked the Ghost to give me an extra route so that I can save up some money for the vision quest.
I have to figure out what to do with Warden. Maybe Guy can watch him, if he's still here when I leave. If not, maybe I'll ask Bailey.
And finally, I made an eggplant butter. Yes, that's right, EGGPLANT, and it tasted...not so hot. Admittedly, the eggplant was a bit soft and brown on the inside, but I mean, I thought it wouldn't taste so...wrong...as a butter. You know what they say: "If it's soft on the outside and brown on the inside, it's probably going to be bad all over."
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
Daydreaming.
In prison, I daydreamed.
If you could pretend that you weren't there, it was easier to be there.
Curt G. Jimenez in his dreams, never stopped practicing the piano, never shot his best friend, had enormous hands, and became America's Vladimir Horowitz.
Curt G. Jimenez, in his dreams, once struck out 24 batters in a game for the Pittsburgh Pirates. His curveball was said to be headache inducing.
Curt G. Jimenez, the famed pitcher and concert pianist, had an intense sexually charged relationship with Veruschka von Lehndorff, in his dreams. They played chess together, in the nude.
Daydreaming reminds me of the Brain in a Vat. Hence the picture.
I am going on my vision quest. If I can get the money together, I'm going to take Stella's ashes to Bubbling Well Memorial Park. It's in California, but it is said to be very, very beautiful there. The Ghost told me about a movie about Bubbling Well called Gates of Heaven. I hope to watch it.
Anybody ever been to Tiger Mountain? How about Yuba City?
Monday, January 18, 2010
INTERCEPTION
I wonder if the eyes are really windows into the soul. Sometimes, I like to think so and stare intensely into someone else's eyes, but I don't really feel that I've seen their souls. It's funny, really, staring. Not even staring, because one could argue that that action suggests, or attaches itself to, some negative connotation, but eye contact. Eye contact can be a funny thing. If you think about it, it's kind of hard to make and maintain eye contact. I know it makes me uncomfortable! And I don't know why. Maybe it's because the eyes do reveal something about a person. In any case, it's complex and I don't really know why I'm caught up in the idea...
Today is going to be a BIG day. I have the day off and I think I'm going to invite Guy over to play a game of chess. He's a good man and I don't see him as much as I'd like to anymore, now that he's given serious thought to operating a skidder out in Wyoming, logging for a living. He's been taking more and more trips out there, trying to decide if that's what he really wants to do, and he's always talking to people about trees and making stellar tree jokes, which is fine. It's kind of endearing to hear a grown man with a beard say: "What did the tree say to the dog? Stop barking!" Ha! Ha! Ha!
I'm also going to make some butter. I want to make a ginger pinenut butter, minus the pinenuts. It's going to be an interesting butter...ginger is tough. It's surprisingly fibrous. You start chopping and you wonder if you're chopping a threadbare rug! I butter do some research before I make this butter. Which reminds me...
I need to give Bailey a call. I wonder what was up with the phone call yesterday morning. I hope he's alright. Maybe he was just drunk?
Finally, I want to leave you with this brief video. Pay special attention around the 40 sec. mark. Incredible interception. I want everyone to check it out. GO JETS!
Happy Martin Luther King Jr. Day!
Sunday, January 17, 2010
Masculine cry.
"There are two kinds of people in the world," my mother always used to say. "There are people who run to a sound they're unfamiliar with when they hear it and there are those that run away from this sound." I think I finally understand what she meant. I run away from the sound but the sound always has a way of finding me.
This morning, the sound was a masculine cry. At first, I thought it was my stomach. I thought it could be Warden. But it was my cell phone vibrating on the nightstand and I couldn't believe who was calling. Bailey. I never gave him my number. I answered, suspiciously. He asked me if I was alright because I was late for chess club. It was 5:30 am--what the heck was going on? When I asked him if he was alright, he hung up.
I'm struggling with what to do. I don't really know Bailey, but I can't help but feel worried about his phone call.
Is this what Mom would call an "unfamiliar sound"? I know it is to me. What kind of person am I? I want to care and I don't want to care. In prison, Curt only had to worry about Curt. But this is not prison...
Saturday, January 16, 2010
Missing Most
It was my day off, so I went out for brunch. I like eating alone. I also like eating with other people, but sometimes, it's nice to eat alone. Conversation and chewing and chewing and conversation. Sometimes, it's hard. I was eating alone and looking out the window at the people passing by, and I thought, In 50 years, most of these people will be gone. Dead. We're all different, but we all have to die.
This thought got me thinking. What would I miss the most when I die?
I was sipping my coffee. I like the smell of coffee. There's nothing like it. I'll miss the smell of coffee when I die. But I won't miss it the most...
Then, I walked home. I like walking. It's my time to think. I'll miss it when I die. But I won't miss it the most...
Would I miss butter the most? I don't think so.
I'm curious. What do you think you'll miss the most when you die?
This thought got me thinking. What would I miss the most when I die?
I was sipping my coffee. I like the smell of coffee. There's nothing like it. I'll miss the smell of coffee when I die. But I won't miss it the most...
Then, I walked home. I like walking. It's my time to think. I'll miss it when I die. But I won't miss it the most...
Would I miss butter the most? I don't think so.
I'm curious. What do you think you'll miss the most when you die?
Friday, January 15, 2010
Thursday, January 14, 2010
Normal. Calm. Restive.
I am free. Finally. It's hard to explain, I guess. But since being released from prison, I've still sort of felt imprisoned. And then today. Any normal day. But the weight is gone. There is space in my head. I see things clearly. They are sharp. And soft. I haven't felt this way in a long time. Normal. Calm. Restive.
Normal. Calm. Restive.
Normal. Calm. Restive.
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
Oh! That I was where I would be!
So, Bailey and I started a chess game last night. 3 hours later, chess club was over, but we were still playing. We copied the board down and agreed to continue the game today.
Bailey is funny. He's competitive, but in a nice way. You can tell he hates to lose, but never wants to be a jerk about it. He wrote this on a piece of paper and folded it up and handed it to me:
Oh that I was where I would be,
Then I would be where I am not,
Here I am where I must be,
Go where I would, I can not.
So I went over to Bailey's today. He introduced me to Public Enemy today. I think I have a new favorite song:
I've never really listened to hip hop, other than coming out of people's cars.
Bailey had a lot to drink while I was at his apartment. I guess I did too. He talked a lot about pragmatism. I never heard of pragmatism before. Pragmatism, Bailey kept saying, is the difference between what is useful and what is true. This is a "for instance", I came up with, based on how he was explaining it: when I was at my lowest in prison, contemplating suicide, and the only thing that kept me going was thinking that the man I shot was in heaven and that I was forgiven by him, even if heaven doesn't exist objectively, it is useful for me to believe it, because it kept me alive, and therefore it doesn't really matter if it is really true or not. Bailey said that example was on the right track. I don't think he understands pragmatism either.
When I got home, I thought about this singer, Vic Chesnutt. He killed himself on Christmas day. He was in a bad accident when he was 18. He was driving drunk. The rest of his life he was a partial quadriplegic. He had just a little bit of control over his limbs. I wonder how he felt about pragmatism. He was Guy's favorite singer. I liked him too.
Bailey beat me. He was in my head.
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
After delivering the papers this morning, I decided to walk to the library. It was cold outside, but after a few minutes, I forgot that it was cold, and the walk was enjoyable. I didn't want to sit at home all day, sulking.
Homes used to tell me about J.S. Bach all the time. He said that he felt much smarter each time he listened to Bach's music. I decided to check him out and give him a listen. As I was looking through the Cds, I found a folded piece of paper. I don't know why, but I reached down and grabbed it and unfolded it. There was a call number scrawled in pencil across it and after I grabbed a few Cds, I went to find the book on the piece of paper. It led me to a collection of short stories by a woman named Lydia Davis. Even though they were short stories, some stories were just a few sentences! For example:
They Take Turns Using a Word They Like
A brief conversation
"It's extraordinary," says one woman.
"It is extraordinary," says the other.
That's it. That's the whole story!
Then, I flipped through the collection, and read one of the longer stories, entitled "Glenn Gould" and I was surprised to find that Glenn Gould played Bach on several of the Cds that I was checking out. What a coincidence! I don't believe in coincidences, but this was...weird.
I called Rick from the library payphone and I explained to him what happened. He told me that I was meant to be at library and that the note was meant for me and that I had allowed myself to find the note and that I had allowed myself to be led to Lydia Davis' book. He said: "Curt, you've turned on your faucet. Keep it up!"
When I got home, I felt like there were butterflies in my stomach and I made a large batch of cinnamon candied lemon peel butter. And I felt strangely happy. I listened to Bach and I did feel smarter! It was like listening to a giant puzzle being formed and broken and formed again. It made perfect sense. Thousands of notes, with purpose!
I pulled out the road atlas and tried to figure out where I might like to go on my vision quest. Upstate New York is beautiful. West Virginia could be wild. Even though Michigan is a little bit of a hike, I bet it would be worthwhile.
I'll have to give an update tomorrow.
Now, I have to get going to chess club.
Monday, January 11, 2010
Looking
Delivered papers this morning and
afterwards, bought a road atlas.
Cities keeps expanding. Some manage
to disappear, but no one notices.
Borrowed a compass from Guy and
looked at the icicles outside my window.
Picked up Stella's ashes.
Placed the urn on my kitchen table.
Looked at the urn.
When something is cremated, it is
brittle bone, pulverized into powder.
Picked up Stella's powdered bones.
Placed the urn on my kitchen table.
Looked at the urn.
An urn can have a spigot for serving.
But everyone knows not to drink too
quickly. That is how the Maker lost
his vision.
Tomorrow, chess, and afterwards
more butter making. Perhaps a long
walk.
But today, is looking.
Sunday, January 10, 2010
Seams, falling apart at the
Okay, I'm not really.
But I am.
I watched Terms of Endearment today for the first time since we screened it in prison. What a freaking tearjerker. Dying young. 1983.
But I am.
I watched Terms of Endearment today for the first time since we screened it in prison. What a freaking tearjerker. Dying young. 1983.
"I must look forward."-Curt Jimenez, 1/10/2010Not really looking forward. Watching sad movies. Crying. A lot.
Saturday, January 9, 2010
Beginnings
I can't believe Stella's gone.
Even though I didn't think I was up for writing today, I know that Stella would have wanted me to and so here I am, typing away. I don't really know what to write about. Things have been overwhelming since the New Year, and I haven't had a chance to breathe. My heart hurts. Even my hurt hurts.
Stella, I miss you. You were a beautiful dog. Your mischievous deeds were endearing--the way you barked at school buses and birds, or snagged Warden's milk bones, the dexterity in which you finagled into the cupboard and ate all the chocolate bars (I thought you were going to die then!). There will never be another dog quite like you. I remember the first day I brought you home. You chewed through all the new window blinds and marred the kitchen floor with your paws, and I thought: "What did I get myself into?" You were one of the best things that happened to me. Warden misses you too. He's been licking the tears from my face all morning, keeping me company.
I must look forward. Even though sadness has overtaken me, I know that I can't let it consume and destroy my being. In prison, I witnessed several men allow their selves to die because they believed they were perpetually helpless. I've come too far to let that happen!
I decided, earlier today, to have Stella's body cremated. I want to take her ashes with me on my vision quest.
The vision quest. I have to start planning this expedition soon, which will be nice because I have to keep my mind busy.
I know I will feel this sadness for a while yet. But, I also feel the beginnings of something else-excitement? hope?
Friday, January 8, 2010
Round and Round.
It's done.
Here's an elegiac song I picked for her, from Neil Young. I don't have the energy to say anything else, really.
I don't know what it's about, but it makes me feel sad, and I'm happy to feel sad right now.
I've said this before. Maybe I believe it this time. Better days ahead, god willing.
Thursday, January 7, 2010
Careful
I wonder.
What is feeling, exactly? I don't mean touch. I mean that something inside you, that makes you happy or sad. Sometimes, it's a terrible thing, a terrible something that can really make a man sick, and I wish I could live without it.
It's like, I attach all these great "feelings" to Stella, but then, as she lays dying, these "feelings" are made terrible because I know that I'll miss them and I'll miss her. What I feel is nostalgia. Nostalgia doesn't get anyone anywhere. It is a dark space. Nostalgia is another way of saying, "I wish..."
I can't make butter today. I can't do anything, except hold Stella. Warden knows that something's wrong. He's been unusually quiet. He hasn't even touched his food, which is a first, and his nose is dry.
Sometimes, you think you're close to figuring it out. You're given the key. The door is waiting. You open the door, and there's another door, and you need to find another key all over again.
"Listen!" Stella says with her eyes.
"Tell me!" I say.
"Careful."
"What?"
"If not now. Then later."
What is feeling, exactly? I don't mean touch. I mean that something inside you, that makes you happy or sad. Sometimes, it's a terrible thing, a terrible something that can really make a man sick, and I wish I could live without it.
It's like, I attach all these great "feelings" to Stella, but then, as she lays dying, these "feelings" are made terrible because I know that I'll miss them and I'll miss her. What I feel is nostalgia. Nostalgia doesn't get anyone anywhere. It is a dark space. Nostalgia is another way of saying, "I wish..."
I can't make butter today. I can't do anything, except hold Stella. Warden knows that something's wrong. He's been unusually quiet. He hasn't even touched his food, which is a first, and his nose is dry.
Sometimes, you think you're close to figuring it out. You're given the key. The door is waiting. You open the door, and there's another door, and you need to find another key all over again.
"Listen!" Stella says with her eyes.
"Tell me!" I say.
"Careful."
"What?"
"If not now. Then later."
Wednesday, January 6, 2010
Stalling.
I tried to keep my mind occupied today. I made some plain butter this morning (sometimes purity is the way to go) and drank so much coffee I couldn't walk straight. I started reading Dangling Man by Saul Bellow. Homes has been telling me to read it for a while now. It's not picking me up.
I had to go see my probation officer. She kept asking me why I was shaking so much. Too much coffee, I said. I think that's why I was shaking. I'm sure she could tell I'm not in a good way. I felt bad. I don't think I ever come across as a very happy person, even when I'm happy. I can only imagine what people think about me when I've got the heavy stuff on my mind.
I got home and watched a few of my favorite movies. I watched Life is Beautiful. I watched The Seventh Seal. I watched Live Free or Die Hard. I wrote a poem. I threw the poem away. I wrote another.
I can't tell if it is painful for Stella to go out or not. I hate that. If these are to be her final days, I'd like her to be happy, but I'm afraid that everything I try to do for her might just bring her more pain. For the first time in her life, I'm not sure that she knows what she wants, either. I'm going to go watch The Last Temptation of Christ. That'll get me going:( Remember, Jesus was a Cross Maker.
Tuesday, January 5, 2010
and how you looked after it
Your Dog Dies
it gets run over by a van.
you find it at the side of the road
and bury it.
you feel bad about it.
you feel bad personally,
but you feel bad for your daughter
because it was her pet,
and she loved it so.
she used to croon to it
and let it sleep in her bed.
you write a poem about it.
you call it a poem for your daughter,
about the dog getting run over by a van
and how you looked after it,
took it out into the woods
and buried it deep, deep,
and that poem turns out so good
you're almost glad the little dog
was run over, or else you'd never
have written that good poem.
then you sit down to write
a poem about writing a poem
about the death of that dog,
but while you're writing you
hear a woman scream
your name, your first name,
both syllables,
and your heart stops.
after a minute, you continue writing.
she screams again.
you wonder how long this can go on.
Raymond Carver
I will have to decide, shortly, what to do about Stella.
After a full morning of tests, the vet found that Stella has GDV, or gastric dilation volvulus. Although Stella can undergo surgery, the vet says that the surgery is tricky and that there is a 1 in 3 chance that Stella could die. Should I have Stella undergo surgery and possibly die? Or should I have the vet put her down, peacefully? My head feels like it's going to explode.
The poem above was written by Raymond Carver, a 20th century American writer who wrote about real people in real places with real problems. I completely understand what Carver's conveying in this poem. Life is pain. Things happen. Terrible things. And we reform ourselves accordingly, and for a brief moment, we trick ourselves into believing that pain is necessary in order for positive change to occur. And just when we believe this, we are haunted by pain, marred by its ugly revelation, and thrown into the spectral void of darkness.
I'm tired of this cycle.
Everywhere I go, I am surrounded by death. It waits for me to make itself a joke and I'm never in the mood for laughing. Even though Stella is a dog, she is part of my family and I love her. She is not my significant other, but she is one of my companions, and if she dies, she will take with her a part of my being.
I called Guy after I spoke with the vet and he told me that maybe it's not as serious as it sounds. Then, he told me that I should pray. I haven't prayed in a long time, not since my sentencing. Why should I start now? If God was God, would he listen to my pleas? I would ignore me if I was God.
What does Stella want me to do? Has she given up?
I don't want to rely on prayer.
I don't want pain to take me by surprise.
Stella will sleep, peacefully.
it gets run over by a van.
you find it at the side of the road
and bury it.
you feel bad about it.
you feel bad personally,
but you feel bad for your daughter
because it was her pet,
and she loved it so.
she used to croon to it
and let it sleep in her bed.
you write a poem about it.
you call it a poem for your daughter,
about the dog getting run over by a van
and how you looked after it,
took it out into the woods
and buried it deep, deep,
and that poem turns out so good
you're almost glad the little dog
was run over, or else you'd never
have written that good poem.
then you sit down to write
a poem about writing a poem
about the death of that dog,
but while you're writing you
hear a woman scream
your name, your first name,
both syllables,
and your heart stops.
after a minute, you continue writing.
she screams again.
you wonder how long this can go on.
Raymond Carver
I will have to decide, shortly, what to do about Stella.
After a full morning of tests, the vet found that Stella has GDV, or gastric dilation volvulus. Although Stella can undergo surgery, the vet says that the surgery is tricky and that there is a 1 in 3 chance that Stella could die. Should I have Stella undergo surgery and possibly die? Or should I have the vet put her down, peacefully? My head feels like it's going to explode.
The poem above was written by Raymond Carver, a 20th century American writer who wrote about real people in real places with real problems. I completely understand what Carver's conveying in this poem. Life is pain. Things happen. Terrible things. And we reform ourselves accordingly, and for a brief moment, we trick ourselves into believing that pain is necessary in order for positive change to occur. And just when we believe this, we are haunted by pain, marred by its ugly revelation, and thrown into the spectral void of darkness.
I'm tired of this cycle.
Everywhere I go, I am surrounded by death. It waits for me to make itself a joke and I'm never in the mood for laughing. Even though Stella is a dog, she is part of my family and I love her. She is not my significant other, but she is one of my companions, and if she dies, she will take with her a part of my being.
I called Guy after I spoke with the vet and he told me that maybe it's not as serious as it sounds. Then, he told me that I should pray. I haven't prayed in a long time, not since my sentencing. Why should I start now? If God was God, would he listen to my pleas? I would ignore me if I was God.
What does Stella want me to do? Has she given up?
I don't want to rely on prayer.
I don't want pain to take me by surprise.
Stella will sleep, peacefully.
Monday, January 4, 2010
Stella
Guy thinks Stella has an abdominal tumor. She has had some bathroom issues lately, and this morning she was throwing up blood. I have a vet appointment tomorrow afternoon. She's six years old; this doesn't seem fair.
The Ghost approved my vacation, but I'm not sure whether I should even take it now.
I think God hates me.
Sunday, January 3, 2010
Vision quest!
Well, I made up my mind today. I'm going to talk to the ghost tomorrow about getting a week off sometime in early spring to go on a vision quest. I have some seeking to do. Anybody know any good places to get away from it all? Guy will be happy to take care of the dogs, so I don't have to worry about that. Do you run into a lot of people hiking on the Appalachian Trail? Maybe I'll go on a canoe trip up the Youghiogheny River. So many choices! God will help me figure out what to do. Something to look forward to, for sure.
My Dad's great grandfather was an American Indian. So I'm part Indian. He grew up in upstate New York. I wonder if he went on a vision quest?
I was off today, and it was a good day. I made some cilantro lime butter and tried to make some homemade tortillas. They don't look so good, but they taste alright. I like Mexican food. I watched The Bridge on the River Kwai for like the hundredth time this afternoon. I know it's a good movie, but I don't know why I like it so much. A bunch of captured British soldiers, building a bridge for their Japanese captors. Building it better than even the Japanese were trying to make them, just out of pride. If you're going to do something, do it right, I guess is the moral of that part of the story. Then Alec Guinness (the leader of the British soldiers) has to decide whether to help destroy it to help out the Allies, or save it because he and his men worked so hard on it. It always makes me emotional for some reason. When I cry, Warden won't stop licking my face.
I finished a bottle of Kentucky Gentleman Bourbon my Grandpa gave me, and took the dogs for a long walk. They deserved it.
Saturday, January 2, 2010
Vision
Do you ever get the feeling that you have an overwhelming amount of things to do first thing in the morning? There's no time for coffee. Your heart is already racing. You are propelled out the door, time is moving too quickly, things are breaking that should not break, the weather is not cooperating, you've got something caught in your eye, you can't find a parking spot, you've stapled the wrong pages together, your handwriting has changed, your fingers smell like pennies, the bathroom is closed for cleaning, the water in the water fountain is warm.
I don't. I never feel this way.
I wake up and deliver papers. I make butter. Sometimes, I play chess. Sometimes, I call Rick. Once in a while, Guy will stop by to say hi and if I'm feeling ambitious, I'll drive to Steubenville to visit Dad.
My heart hasn't raced in a long time. I always have time for coffee.
I don't want to be stressed or overwhelmed, but I want to have a sense of purpose. Sometimes, I think purpose is an empty concept.
"There is a fundamental human need for guiding ideals that give meaning to our actions"-Roger Fisher.
I guess I'm trying to figure out what my actions are exactly. If there is no meaning to what I do, does that mean that I do not act? Have I died, figuratively? Is this all a crock?
Homes once told me about his vision quest. If you don't know what a vision quest is, check it out here.
Homes said that he wandered for two days through forests, mountains, and valleys, until he finally entered into a field and sat in this field for two days. Then, Homes said he had a vision that was very special to him and would remain so and that I had trust him, that his vision led him to be the person he is today.
I think I need to go on a vision quest.
Something must mean something.
I don't. I never feel this way.
I wake up and deliver papers. I make butter. Sometimes, I play chess. Sometimes, I call Rick. Once in a while, Guy will stop by to say hi and if I'm feeling ambitious, I'll drive to Steubenville to visit Dad.
My heart hasn't raced in a long time. I always have time for coffee.
I don't want to be stressed or overwhelmed, but I want to have a sense of purpose. Sometimes, I think purpose is an empty concept.
"There is a fundamental human need for guiding ideals that give meaning to our actions"-Roger Fisher.
I guess I'm trying to figure out what my actions are exactly. If there is no meaning to what I do, does that mean that I do not act? Have I died, figuratively? Is this all a crock?
Homes once told me about his vision quest. If you don't know what a vision quest is, check it out here.
Homes said that he wandered for two days through forests, mountains, and valleys, until he finally entered into a field and sat in this field for two days. Then, Homes said he had a vision that was very special to him and would remain so and that I had trust him, that his vision led him to be the person he is today.
I think I need to go on a vision quest.
Something must mean something.
Friday, January 1, 2010
1.1.10
"Action is character", Homes used to tell me over and over.
Today, I worked, and then came home and did nothing. Or, I meditated. I stewed in my own juices. Today, I am a balloon filling full of air. Tomorrow, I burst.
Judee Sill said, "the further down you go to get your momentum, the further it will propel you."
So, today, I am recharging. I am digging deep, and tomorrow, a new Curt G. Jimenez. A renaissance.
Judge me by what I do. Action is character.
Happy new year.
Today, I worked, and then came home and did nothing. Or, I meditated. I stewed in my own juices. Today, I am a balloon filling full of air. Tomorrow, I burst.
Judee Sill said, "the further down you go to get your momentum, the further it will propel you."
So, today, I am recharging. I am digging deep, and tomorrow, a new Curt G. Jimenez. A renaissance.
Judge me by what I do. Action is character.
Happy new year.
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