This is NOT Over
Here is a life in desperate need of a rimshotSeptember 30, 2011
Saturday September 30, 1989 Come On
I got up at nine-fucking-thirty in the goddamn am to work at the goddamn fucking front desk.
At least it pays well.
Yesterday or last night, or earlier today was fantastic. I can’t believe what happened, happened. I can’t believe I think E`{` likes me. I can’t believe what a sap I am.
She’s smart, funny and dresses cool. She somehow looks cheery in black.
How do ya pull that off?
I went to Subway and made a pig out of myself. I actually think Mark and Susan might be getting something going. That’s good. That’s one problem solved for me.
Mark, I love you and I owe you one.
Bill’s home working on another script and that’s what I should be doing, or at least coming up with ideas or helping in some stupid way.
Of course, based on where my focus is right now…
On a pretty little red-haired girl…
Maybe I shouldn’t be coming up with ideas for our pile of killer bones that won’t die.
By doing nothing I am helping.
I worked on some stupid chord progressions that seemed to go nowhere. It makes you wonder if they could even be called progressions proper. There’s probably nothing proper about anything I write.
After coming home from work I spent today totally alone and that’s ok. I’m technically still recovering from the hangover from two nights ago. Part of the reason I didn’t try to kiss Miss E`{` last night is I didn’t want her to taste the cotton mouth.
Maybe they weren’t chord progressions but rather chord modulations that I was working on earlier today.
Yeah, “modulations” sounds more like jazz.
Jazz doesn’t have to make sense does it?
Listen to the notes I shouldn’t be playing.
Played Tecmo Bowl and stayed up way too late watching Headbanger’s Ball and being hungry. Russ came by and we went to Hardee’s to eat greasy loose meat.
Is there any other kind of loose meat?
When we got back I thought about calling E`{` but then decided I couldn’t because I didn’t have her number.
Is it possible that I could have spent all that time with her last night, having a wonderful walk, talk and breakfast and never ask for her number?
At least I remember where she lives, don’t I?
I got up at nine-fucking-thirty in the goddamn am to work at the goddamn fucking front desk.
At least it pays well.
Yesterday or last night, or earlier today was fantastic. I can’t believe what happened, happened. I can’t believe I think E`{` likes me. I can’t believe what a sap I am.
She’s smart, funny and dresses cool. She somehow looks cheery in black.
How do ya pull that off?
I went to Subway and made a pig out of myself. I actually think Mark and Susan might be getting something going. That’s good. That’s one problem solved for me.
Mark, I love you and I owe you one.
Bill’s home working on another script and that’s what I should be doing, or at least coming up with ideas or helping in some stupid way.
Of course, based on where my focus is right now…
On a pretty little red-haired girl…
Maybe I shouldn’t be coming up with ideas for our pile of killer bones that won’t die.
By doing nothing I am helping.
I worked on some stupid chord progressions that seemed to go nowhere. It makes you wonder if they could even be called progressions proper. There’s probably nothing proper about anything I write.
After coming home from work I spent today totally alone and that’s ok. I’m technically still recovering from the hangover from two nights ago. Part of the reason I didn’t try to kiss Miss E`{` last night is I didn’t want her to taste the cotton mouth.
Maybe they weren’t chord progressions but rather chord modulations that I was working on earlier today.
Yeah, “modulations” sounds more like jazz.
Jazz doesn’t have to make sense does it?
Listen to the notes I shouldn’t be playing.
Played Tecmo Bowl and stayed up way too late watching Headbanger’s Ball and being hungry. Russ came by and we went to Hardee’s to eat greasy loose meat.
Is there any other kind of loose meat?
When we got back I thought about calling E`{` but then decided I couldn’t because I didn’t have her number.
Is it possible that I could have spent all that time with her last night, having a wonderful walk, talk and breakfast and never ask for her number?
At least I remember where she lives, don’t I?
September 29, 2011
Friday September 29, 1989 Revolution, Romanticism and Romance?!?!
I did not experience a hangover this morning after drinking all that wine at Tradition. However, I believe that at some point during the night I died and was reincarnated as pain itself.
Participated in a “Revolution & Romanticism” discussion and Prof. L did not look at me like I was a fucking idiot.
I bet he doesn’t swear, even in his brain.
I wrote a song that would be a better title for a book, but I don’t write books. Hell, I don’t read enough books to write books and I don’t see that changing any time soon. Maybe I should be honest about this. I didn’t even buy my books for this semester. I photocopied some of the readings from friends because books cost money. One of my friends showed me that by inserting a copy card in one of the NIU copy machines, running the card down to one copy, unplugging the machine with the card still inside and then plugging it back in, you would have the same number of copies on your card as when you began the process. I’m sure glad that I didn’t buy any textbooks this semester that talk about entropy, how matter is neither created nor destroyed, or that we live in a world where must preserve our precious, limited resources.
I have free photocopies for life.
I was a waste of life most of the day. Went to Sgt. Pepper’s with Chris and Erica and then we had ice cream. It was like it was somebody’s birthday. That’s one of the things I love about college. It feels like it’s somebody’s birthday all the time.
Then we went to a party at Mike M’s and I don’t know if it was somebody’s birthday, but it felt that way. It was cool in spite of Jim and Ron’s artsy fartsy friends. I shouldn’t call them fartsy. I’m sure not one of them had ever farted in their entire life. By the way, even though I mock Jim and Ron’s artsy friends, I really like Jim and Ron.
There was a guitar player there. He was left handed and played a nylon string, classical acoustic dealy. These details are not as important as they sound. We played a song later that night asking Jesus to:
come back down here
and turn all our Tang to beer
don’t worry we won’t be astronauts
and find out how you ain’t up there
or anywhere
Maybe that’s why I’m not in a band right now.
Women were everywhere at this wing ding. Dee Ann, Sue C., Susan S., and like three other girls that I’m sure I have been in lust with since you know who busted my heart to pieces. I had a great time talking to all of them. I could actually talk since I only drank two beers and a glass of wine all night. See, when I’m hangover drinking I’m a lot more civilized.
I left w/ E`{` and that’s something I wanted to do for a long time. Out of all those girls, she’s the only one I was in lust with while I was still with you know who. See, I sound like I am pretty fucked up, and quite frankly I am very fucked up, but every so often I get it together enough to get it right.
Tonight was one of those nights. We left at 3AM because everyone who was being obnoxious was waiting for me to be obnoxious-er. Sadly I understand that is sort of an expectation I drag around.
Someone whispered to me that there was a tank of nitrous-O next door but I am always afraid those things are going to explode. I have nothing to base that on other than I am usually high as shit and paranoid when I am around them.
I was nice to the dedicated party goers but made an excuse and didn’t make it look like I was trying to leave to stick it to Miss E`{`. For some reason I care about her reputation even though I don’t give a good goddamn about my own.
I actually waited until she was almost gone until I made my excuse. I let her get going out the kitchen and down the back steps of Mike’s apt. before I hustled out of there and offered to walk her home.
We walked by the lagoon and there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. No room for clouds. There were too many stars.
The stars were too gorgeous to be believed. I was so into the stars and the night sky that I forgot who the hell I was. I gave E`{` my coat. I’m not sure I’ve ever done something like that before.
She was beautiful.
Nothing happened.
That’s not true. A crazy looking goose came out from behind a rock and hissed at us. I wanted to kill that piece of shit but I was with a lady of discriminating taste, or at least a lady that did not want to see an idiot kill a goose with his bare hands.
We talked about the legend of some guy on this campus who once hung a famous goose. We both understood how a person would come to hang a goose. They are miserable sons of bitches. Anyone who does not think so has never lived among them as we have.
Where was I?
She was beautiful.
Her red, curly/wirey hair poked my arm as I put my coat around her neck.
Ok, that doesn’t sound beautiful but it happened. It’s real, man.
Maybe Miss E`{` isn’t that beautiful. Her skin is kind of pale and she has a lot of freckles. Maybe E`{` has too many freckles for a 20 year old. But my life has sucked for some time now. I have been attracted to this girl for two years and she never paid me much notice until tonight.
This walk home past the water, saying bad things about geese has been in the works for some time now. It has been written in the stars or something like that. You could write War and Peace with all the fucking stars that were out on our romantic fucking walk.
I’m not sure you could call it romantic. We didn’t hold hands or kiss or anything. We didn’t even look at each other that much. I walked her back to her apartment on College Street and she invited me inside.
We talked and talked and talked. We talked about David Bowie, David Byrne and Peter David (the comic book writer). We agreed that we liked these Davids and that was swell.
We did not kiss.
I did not get boob.
I did not get to 1st Base, wherever that is. I still don't understand the whole baseball/sex thing. Is there an infield fly rule euphemism? How about one for the double-switch? Stupid National League. Anyway, I'll probably never know.
But I didn't even step in the batter's box of sex if you will.
I was just sort of talking to the hitting instructor. No need to rush anything. I’m sure I’ll be able to do it with someone soon enough if I want sex. That’s nice. Again, it’s college so its like someone’s birthday all the time with a 37% chance of sex no matter how many people you know in a given place. That’s a helluva lot better than high school was (for me anyways). I’ve had plenty of you know what with you know who over the past two years, or at least until she dumped me last summer.
Where did that get me?
It bought me a bucket full of self-loathing and a headache.
If E`{` wants to invite me over to her apartment in the wee hours of the morning and talk with me and then make me breakfast she deserves better than some guy trying to put it in her.
We ate breakfast and afterward I looked at the clock in the kitchen. I told her I had to work at the stupid front desk this morning and it was a long walk back. I asked her if she had one of those Air Force jet packs around. She said, “I’m not going to let you borrow it Ed. You’re a nice guy and if you crashed into the Student Center or the lagoon and killed yourself, I’d be heartbroken.”
I fought every instinct I had not to try and kiss her right there. I left.
I left at 8am!
Stupid work at stupid 10am.
I am in the process of abandoning all my previous obsessions in order to embrace this new and far more wonderful one.
We'll see where that gets me.
I did not experience a hangover this morning after drinking all that wine at Tradition. However, I believe that at some point during the night I died and was reincarnated as pain itself.
Participated in a “Revolution & Romanticism” discussion and Prof. L did not look at me like I was a fucking idiot.
I bet he doesn’t swear, even in his brain.
I wrote a song that would be a better title for a book, but I don’t write books. Hell, I don’t read enough books to write books and I don’t see that changing any time soon. Maybe I should be honest about this. I didn’t even buy my books for this semester. I photocopied some of the readings from friends because books cost money. One of my friends showed me that by inserting a copy card in one of the NIU copy machines, running the card down to one copy, unplugging the machine with the card still inside and then plugging it back in, you would have the same number of copies on your card as when you began the process. I’m sure glad that I didn’t buy any textbooks this semester that talk about entropy, how matter is neither created nor destroyed, or that we live in a world where must preserve our precious, limited resources.
I have free photocopies for life.
I was a waste of life most of the day. Went to Sgt. Pepper’s with Chris and Erica and then we had ice cream. It was like it was somebody’s birthday. That’s one of the things I love about college. It feels like it’s somebody’s birthday all the time.
Then we went to a party at Mike M’s and I don’t know if it was somebody’s birthday, but it felt that way. It was cool in spite of Jim and Ron’s artsy fartsy friends. I shouldn’t call them fartsy. I’m sure not one of them had ever farted in their entire life. By the way, even though I mock Jim and Ron’s artsy friends, I really like Jim and Ron.
There was a guitar player there. He was left handed and played a nylon string, classical acoustic dealy. These details are not as important as they sound. We played a song later that night asking Jesus to:
come back down here
and turn all our Tang to beer
don’t worry we won’t be astronauts
and find out how you ain’t up there
or anywhere
Maybe that’s why I’m not in a band right now.
Women were everywhere at this wing ding. Dee Ann, Sue C., Susan S., and like three other girls that I’m sure I have been in lust with since you know who busted my heart to pieces. I had a great time talking to all of them. I could actually talk since I only drank two beers and a glass of wine all night. See, when I’m hangover drinking I’m a lot more civilized.
I left w/ E`{` and that’s something I wanted to do for a long time. Out of all those girls, she’s the only one I was in lust with while I was still with you know who. See, I sound like I am pretty fucked up, and quite frankly I am very fucked up, but every so often I get it together enough to get it right.
Tonight was one of those nights. We left at 3AM because everyone who was being obnoxious was waiting for me to be obnoxious-er. Sadly I understand that is sort of an expectation I drag around.
Someone whispered to me that there was a tank of nitrous-O next door but I am always afraid those things are going to explode. I have nothing to base that on other than I am usually high as shit and paranoid when I am around them.
I was nice to the dedicated party goers but made an excuse and didn’t make it look like I was trying to leave to stick it to Miss E`{`. For some reason I care about her reputation even though I don’t give a good goddamn about my own.
I actually waited until she was almost gone until I made my excuse. I let her get going out the kitchen and down the back steps of Mike’s apt. before I hustled out of there and offered to walk her home.
We walked by the lagoon and there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. No room for clouds. There were too many stars.
The stars were too gorgeous to be believed. I was so into the stars and the night sky that I forgot who the hell I was. I gave E`{` my coat. I’m not sure I’ve ever done something like that before.
She was beautiful.
Nothing happened.
That’s not true. A crazy looking goose came out from behind a rock and hissed at us. I wanted to kill that piece of shit but I was with a lady of discriminating taste, or at least a lady that did not want to see an idiot kill a goose with his bare hands.
We talked about the legend of some guy on this campus who once hung a famous goose. We both understood how a person would come to hang a goose. They are miserable sons of bitches. Anyone who does not think so has never lived among them as we have.
Where was I?
She was beautiful.
Her red, curly/wirey hair poked my arm as I put my coat around her neck.
Ok, that doesn’t sound beautiful but it happened. It’s real, man.
Maybe Miss E`{` isn’t that beautiful. Her skin is kind of pale and she has a lot of freckles. Maybe E`{` has too many freckles for a 20 year old. But my life has sucked for some time now. I have been attracted to this girl for two years and she never paid me much notice until tonight.
This walk home past the water, saying bad things about geese has been in the works for some time now. It has been written in the stars or something like that. You could write War and Peace with all the fucking stars that were out on our romantic fucking walk.
I’m not sure you could call it romantic. We didn’t hold hands or kiss or anything. We didn’t even look at each other that much. I walked her back to her apartment on College Street and she invited me inside.
We talked and talked and talked. We talked about David Bowie, David Byrne and Peter David (the comic book writer). We agreed that we liked these Davids and that was swell.
We did not kiss.
I did not get boob.
I did not get to 1st Base, wherever that is. I still don't understand the whole baseball/sex thing. Is there an infield fly rule euphemism? How about one for the double-switch? Stupid National League. Anyway, I'll probably never know.
But I didn't even step in the batter's box of sex if you will.
I was just sort of talking to the hitting instructor. No need to rush anything. I’m sure I’ll be able to do it with someone soon enough if I want sex. That’s nice. Again, it’s college so its like someone’s birthday all the time with a 37% chance of sex no matter how many people you know in a given place. That’s a helluva lot better than high school was (for me anyways). I’ve had plenty of you know what with you know who over the past two years, or at least until she dumped me last summer.
Where did that get me?
It bought me a bucket full of self-loathing and a headache.
If E`{` wants to invite me over to her apartment in the wee hours of the morning and talk with me and then make me breakfast she deserves better than some guy trying to put it in her.
We ate breakfast and afterward I looked at the clock in the kitchen. I told her I had to work at the stupid front desk this morning and it was a long walk back. I asked her if she had one of those Air Force jet packs around. She said, “I’m not going to let you borrow it Ed. You’re a nice guy and if you crashed into the Student Center or the lagoon and killed yourself, I’d be heartbroken.”
I fought every instinct I had not to try and kiss her right there. I left.
I left at 8am!
Stupid work at stupid 10am.
I am in the process of abandoning all my previous obsessions in order to embrace this new and far more wonderful one.
We'll see where that gets me.
September 28, 2011
Thursday September 28, 1989 Drank Myself Colorblind
A day in the life of…nuthin’ some days, today possibly being one of those days. Didn’t I just have one of those days? Laying around. My one class was canceled. A mind is a terrible thing to waste. Possibly. Played a lot of Nintendo today so thank goodness I wasn’t wasting my terrible mind or it wasn’t a waste of terrible time or something like that.
Seriously? Not good. No music. No school. No teacher’s dirty looks, just me and time and when we get together with nothing else in between us, forget it.
Maybe I wasn’t wasting time today. Maybe I was resting, marshaling my forces for Thursday Night Tradition. When there are no other traditions left in the world and all that is left is booze and Thursdays, my friends and I will drink booze on Thursdays. Some things are so sacred that they must always be so long as the stuff there that helps their being continues to be.
Am I in the hospital yet?
Someday I may tell the story of how the host of Thursday Night Tradition got the booze we drink every Thursday. For now all anyone has to know is that John P has a bunch of dumbasses over to drink and watch bad 70’s porn. God Bless technology. They have to make all this garbage available on VHS. It’s like a rule or something.
As usual, I was early. Maybe I wanted to get the most inconspicuous college porn lap pillow. I plan ahead, at least for the important stuff.
Engles came with me and when we got there John said Susan called saying that she needed an escort. That’s true, a lady does not attend a drinking party where porn is shown without an escort.
I was to be that escort.
Walked down to Susan’s house and we decided to only split a bottle of wine from John’s not so super secret wine stash. She said “Let’s not get too drunk so we can do something or go somewhere else after the movies.”
I ended up drinking two bottles of wine myself (red and white) and part of a six of Red, White, and Blue that Engels and I brought. Big mistake. Susan was pissed. So pissed she left with Engles. He was smart and only drank the other part of the Red, White and Blue six pack. Stupid, semi-sober smart bastard!
I’m not sure how I got home. There were several ed sightings stretching into the early hours of Friday. I’ve heard a couple of different versions of ‘how ed got home after playing catch with bikes in John’s back yard’ and all the stories really scare me.
The one that I believe?
Hanna drove me home and left me on the steps of Douglass Hall. I believe that one because I woke up on the steps of Douglass Hall. I’d like to think I had the presence of mind to say ‘So this is what it’s like to be a wino’ – but as there were no witnesses I can’t claim that to be true.
I will remember not to drink that much wine in the future.
I will remember not to drink that much wine in the future.
I will remember not to drink that much wine in the future.
There, I’ve said it thrice. Now if only some scantily clad genie would come and cure this hangover…
A day in the life of…nuthin’ some days, today possibly being one of those days. Didn’t I just have one of those days? Laying around. My one class was canceled. A mind is a terrible thing to waste. Possibly. Played a lot of Nintendo today so thank goodness I wasn’t wasting my terrible mind or it wasn’t a waste of terrible time or something like that.
Seriously? Not good. No music. No school. No teacher’s dirty looks, just me and time and when we get together with nothing else in between us, forget it.
Maybe I wasn’t wasting time today. Maybe I was resting, marshaling my forces for Thursday Night Tradition. When there are no other traditions left in the world and all that is left is booze and Thursdays, my friends and I will drink booze on Thursdays. Some things are so sacred that they must always be so long as the stuff there that helps their being continues to be.
Am I in the hospital yet?
Someday I may tell the story of how the host of Thursday Night Tradition got the booze we drink every Thursday. For now all anyone has to know is that John P has a bunch of dumbasses over to drink and watch bad 70’s porn. God Bless technology. They have to make all this garbage available on VHS. It’s like a rule or something.
As usual, I was early. Maybe I wanted to get the most inconspicuous college porn lap pillow. I plan ahead, at least for the important stuff.
Engles came with me and when we got there John said Susan called saying that she needed an escort. That’s true, a lady does not attend a drinking party where porn is shown without an escort.
I was to be that escort.
Walked down to Susan’s house and we decided to only split a bottle of wine from John’s not so super secret wine stash. She said “Let’s not get too drunk so we can do something or go somewhere else after the movies.”
I ended up drinking two bottles of wine myself (red and white) and part of a six of Red, White, and Blue that Engels and I brought. Big mistake. Susan was pissed. So pissed she left with Engles. He was smart and only drank the other part of the Red, White and Blue six pack. Stupid, semi-sober smart bastard!
I’m not sure how I got home. There were several ed sightings stretching into the early hours of Friday. I’ve heard a couple of different versions of ‘how ed got home after playing catch with bikes in John’s back yard’ and all the stories really scare me.
The one that I believe?
Hanna drove me home and left me on the steps of Douglass Hall. I believe that one because I woke up on the steps of Douglass Hall. I’d like to think I had the presence of mind to say ‘So this is what it’s like to be a wino’ – but as there were no witnesses I can’t claim that to be true.
I will remember not to drink that much wine in the future.
I will remember not to drink that much wine in the future.
I will remember not to drink that much wine in the future.
There, I’ve said it thrice. Now if only some scantily clad genie would come and cure this hangover…
September 27, 2011
Wednesday September 27, 1989 A Drunkard’s Dream
Got my work assignment (or a big part of it) from the judicial people. It’s basically going to be a bunch of Saturdays in October and it could stretch into November, depending on how long I decide to work (beyond my designated shifts). I might want to do extra hours early on so things are easier as the end of my sentence nears. Listen to me, I've become a regular Gary Dotson or whoever the hell he was.
Went to the Honors House and begged Joanne to let me use her computer to type my fucking English paper. She said "Yes" and I’m glad she did. I ran into a female who shall remain unnamed (for now) there and she really doted on me, or it was something like doting. That’s the kind of attention I can live with, but it better not be the kind of attention I live for. Get it? Can't entrust my happiness to the doting of other people ever again because that's the fucking end of the world.
She told me I smelled good. Something’s got to be wrong with her nose. Maybe there’s a gas leak in the Honors House.
Talked to Dick for a while. I miss hanging out with him. Told Joe Honors I learned something the Dine in Disgust w/ Mark Nelson and it takes a lot to get me to learn something.
After hauling my already tired ass to my boring night class I found out it was canceled. That should make me happy – but the walk, you know, the walk! Ooooh, I’m pissed.
Still fuming about the fight w/ what’s her name the other day/night…whenever. I’m too lazy to go back and check when it was. Sadly, I can’t remember whether our fight was day or night without checking.
Went to Susan’s after not having to sit through Greek history. We had fun. Got goofy. Drank brandy. Played with the cats. That’s not code. Incidentally, about the brandy, I think we’re drinking too much of that stuff lately. I don’t think it’s cold enough to be drinking brandy all the time. Maybe it’s just from growing up and associating blackberry brandy with Christmas. Just another way my youth has scarred me. Man, whatever happened it sure made me a big fucking crybaby.
Bought Buttweasel a sub on my way back to the dorms. Now we’re even. Now we’re good.
Got my work assignment (or a big part of it) from the judicial people. It’s basically going to be a bunch of Saturdays in October and it could stretch into November, depending on how long I decide to work (beyond my designated shifts). I might want to do extra hours early on so things are easier as the end of my sentence nears. Listen to me, I've become a regular Gary Dotson or whoever the hell he was.
Went to the Honors House and begged Joanne to let me use her computer to type my fucking English paper. She said "Yes" and I’m glad she did. I ran into a female who shall remain unnamed (for now) there and she really doted on me, or it was something like doting. That’s the kind of attention I can live with, but it better not be the kind of attention I live for. Get it? Can't entrust my happiness to the doting of other people ever again because that's the fucking end of the world.
She told me I smelled good. Something’s got to be wrong with her nose. Maybe there’s a gas leak in the Honors House.
Talked to Dick for a while. I miss hanging out with him. Told Joe Honors I learned something the Dine in Disgust w/ Mark Nelson and it takes a lot to get me to learn something.
After hauling my already tired ass to my boring night class I found out it was canceled. That should make me happy – but the walk, you know, the walk! Ooooh, I’m pissed.
Still fuming about the fight w/ what’s her name the other day/night…whenever. I’m too lazy to go back and check when it was. Sadly, I can’t remember whether our fight was day or night without checking.
Went to Susan’s after not having to sit through Greek history. We had fun. Got goofy. Drank brandy. Played with the cats. That’s not code. Incidentally, about the brandy, I think we’re drinking too much of that stuff lately. I don’t think it’s cold enough to be drinking brandy all the time. Maybe it’s just from growing up and associating blackberry brandy with Christmas. Just another way my youth has scarred me. Man, whatever happened it sure made me a big fucking crybaby.
Bought Buttweasel a sub on my way back to the dorms. Now we’re even. Now we’re good.
September 26, 2011
Tuesday September 26, 1989 When I Get Offa This
Played Up on Cripple Creek and a coupla other the Band tunes with Shawn OG today. I love the Band. Someday I’m going to go to that big pink house in Woodstock. I don’t care how many hippies I have to go through. Yeah, there’s a fine attitude.
Napped over at Marks place and we convinced someone to take off their shirt.
Other than that it was an unproductive day.
Played Up on Cripple Creek and a coupla other the Band tunes with Shawn OG today. I love the Band. Someday I’m going to go to that big pink house in Woodstock. I don’t care how many hippies I have to go through. Yeah, there’s a fine attitude.
Napped over at Marks place and we convinced someone to take off their shirt.
Other than that it was an unproductive day.
September 25, 2011
Monday September 25, 1989 Shit City
Had my judicial meeting today. This crap is almost over, I think. Larry Bolles threatened me with a ‘forced residence hall transfer’ (I’m pretty sure that’s the language that he used). I pleaded guilty and talked my way out of the residence hall transfer and into a 20hr work assignment with an agreement to pay restitution (how much can two pissed on shirts and a pair of pissed on pants be?) and three alcohol abuse meetings. Maybe I should have shut up and taken the ‘forced residence hall transfer’. The guy whose clothes I pissed on could still file criminal charges. Hell, the clothes could still file criminal charges. ASSAULT WITH INTENT TO…soil? Fuckit (with apologies to Herbie Hancock).
To Mr. Bolles’ credit he is letting me keep the clothes once I’ve paid all the money. That’s justice. Is it Bolles’ or Bolles’s? Here’s a guy that offers me justice with just a touch of absurdity, everything someone like me could want, and here I am wondering about the possessive form of his last name. That sounds about right.
After that meeting I was through with authority for the day so I blew off seeing people in the POLS Dept. God love Jen-O for giving a damn about my schedule, but if I don’t give a fuck no one else should either. Maybe I should take more English classes. That last sentence was Shit City.
I’ve been thinking about my sister. I wonder if she likes college. I wonder if she is dating a guy who is a drunk. No reference to whatever or whoever I am doing. Is it “whoever” or “whomever”? I guess at this level of crudity grammar cannot and should not matter. That’s life here in Shit City. Get used to it or get the fuck out.
They’re the same age indecently – uh, incidentally. Who am I talking to? Hey, they’ve got their lives, I’ve got mine. So let’s get on with them and get ‘em over with…shall we????
Had a huge fight with what’s her name in the lobby tonight – in front of everyone – and I DO NOT CARE! She lives in a fucking dream world where I am some sniveling worm who always fucks everything up. Ok, that’s pretty close to the actual world, but who is she to keep reminding me of that? Once you break up with me, you lose all berating privileges. Period. She’s a twatty jerk – I flew off the handle (again, in front of a lot of people) and I don’t think that girl will be talking to me any time soon. That’s a very good thing. Aw, why make myself crazy over this?
I left a message for Susan but she never got back to me. Bill ‘n I blew off the radio show to watch Breakfast at Tiffany’s. He brought this girl, Ruth (I think I’ve mentioned her before) and I called Little Miss D. We all fell asleep so nobody knows how it turned out. We all got up (at about the same time, pretty amazing) and went to breakfast AT DOUGLASS HALL.
Had my judicial meeting today. This crap is almost over, I think. Larry Bolles threatened me with a ‘forced residence hall transfer’ (I’m pretty sure that’s the language that he used). I pleaded guilty and talked my way out of the residence hall transfer and into a 20hr work assignment with an agreement to pay restitution (how much can two pissed on shirts and a pair of pissed on pants be?) and three alcohol abuse meetings. Maybe I should have shut up and taken the ‘forced residence hall transfer’. The guy whose clothes I pissed on could still file criminal charges. Hell, the clothes could still file criminal charges. ASSAULT WITH INTENT TO…soil? Fuckit (with apologies to Herbie Hancock).
To Mr. Bolles’ credit he is letting me keep the clothes once I’ve paid all the money. That’s justice. Is it Bolles’ or Bolles’s? Here’s a guy that offers me justice with just a touch of absurdity, everything someone like me could want, and here I am wondering about the possessive form of his last name. That sounds about right.
After that meeting I was through with authority for the day so I blew off seeing people in the POLS Dept. God love Jen-O for giving a damn about my schedule, but if I don’t give a fuck no one else should either. Maybe I should take more English classes. That last sentence was Shit City.
I’ve been thinking about my sister. I wonder if she likes college. I wonder if she is dating a guy who is a drunk. No reference to whatever or whoever I am doing. Is it “whoever” or “whomever”? I guess at this level of crudity grammar cannot and should not matter. That’s life here in Shit City. Get used to it or get the fuck out.
They’re the same age indecently – uh, incidentally. Who am I talking to? Hey, they’ve got their lives, I’ve got mine. So let’s get on with them and get ‘em over with…shall we????
Had a huge fight with what’s her name in the lobby tonight – in front of everyone – and I DO NOT CARE! She lives in a fucking dream world where I am some sniveling worm who always fucks everything up. Ok, that’s pretty close to the actual world, but who is she to keep reminding me of that? Once you break up with me, you lose all berating privileges. Period. She’s a twatty jerk – I flew off the handle (again, in front of a lot of people) and I don’t think that girl will be talking to me any time soon. That’s a very good thing. Aw, why make myself crazy over this?
I left a message for Susan but she never got back to me. Bill ‘n I blew off the radio show to watch Breakfast at Tiffany’s. He brought this girl, Ruth (I think I’ve mentioned her before) and I called Little Miss D. We all fell asleep so nobody knows how it turned out. We all got up (at about the same time, pretty amazing) and went to breakfast AT DOUGLASS HALL.
September 24, 2011
Sunday Sept 24, 1989 The Sun is Up
Got up about an hour before the Bears game. Scratched out some letters to friends during the pre-game ESPN junk. Yeah, I'm the great fucking communicator. Take that Reagan. Who am I kidding? Deavers probably wrote all that guy's letters.
Steve came over to watch the game with us. I still can't believe he and Chris are twins. I say that every 50th entry so I was overdue.
Little Miss D called and asked if she could come up and watch the game. At first I thought it was weird. Normally girls don't want to watch the game and they don't want me to watch the game. But this kid called and wants to watch the game. I reminded myself to not be a jerk and not screw up and say something mean or stupid. She just wants to watch a football game with me and my friends. Share the niceness.
The Bears creamed the Lions and I was pleased. Yes, they did all that just to please me.
Susan's foot was feeling better. She called me to say she felt bad that her mom stood me up the other night. She took me to Subway. We brought the sandwiches back to John St., ate and watched the cats run around the kitchen.
It was more fun than it sounds.
Showed up just in time to bowl like shit in Chris & I's Sunday night handicap league. I'm going to blame the poor effort on too much food and not enough booze.
Note in my mailbox from Jen O reminding me to contact Professor Frisch this week. She also managed to shove a cigarette in there. I should be grateful but I have three problems...
1.) Who does she think she is reminding me to do something with my life, my mom?
2.) She swiped two cigarettes from me and only shoved one crumpled-assed one in my box.
3.) She swiped two, high quality Chesterfield Kings that I got from Zupec's at home (they are not always available at the White fucking Hen up here so I always buy at least two cartons from the gas station by my grandma's before coming back to school) and left one crumpled, and slightly wet Old Gold.
Fucking Old Golds.
I shouldn't act like I am too good for OGs as they are what I will be smoking once the Chesterfields run out.
Got up about an hour before the Bears game. Scratched out some letters to friends during the pre-game ESPN junk. Yeah, I'm the great fucking communicator. Take that Reagan. Who am I kidding? Deavers probably wrote all that guy's letters.
Steve came over to watch the game with us. I still can't believe he and Chris are twins. I say that every 50th entry so I was overdue.
Little Miss D called and asked if she could come up and watch the game. At first I thought it was weird. Normally girls don't want to watch the game and they don't want me to watch the game. But this kid called and wants to watch the game. I reminded myself to not be a jerk and not screw up and say something mean or stupid. She just wants to watch a football game with me and my friends. Share the niceness.
The Bears creamed the Lions and I was pleased. Yes, they did all that just to please me.
Susan's foot was feeling better. She called me to say she felt bad that her mom stood me up the other night. She took me to Subway. We brought the sandwiches back to John St., ate and watched the cats run around the kitchen.
It was more fun than it sounds.
Showed up just in time to bowl like shit in Chris & I's Sunday night handicap league. I'm going to blame the poor effort on too much food and not enough booze.
Note in my mailbox from Jen O reminding me to contact Professor Frisch this week. She also managed to shove a cigarette in there. I should be grateful but I have three problems...
1.) Who does she think she is reminding me to do something with my life, my mom?
2.) She swiped two cigarettes from me and only shoved one crumpled-assed one in my box.
3.) She swiped two, high quality Chesterfield Kings that I got from Zupec's at home (they are not always available at the White fucking Hen up here so I always buy at least two cartons from the gas station by my grandma's before coming back to school) and left one crumpled, and slightly wet Old Gold.
Fucking Old Golds.
I shouldn't act like I am too good for OGs as they are what I will be smoking once the Chesterfields run out.
September 23, 2011
Saturday September 23, 1989 Moms, Geeky Girls and Me
Up with Miss D until 7am. That’s not right, and I sure as hell ought to know what wrong feels like by now.
In theory, I should be able to handle at least that, hanging out and not being a jag…with intermittent smooching. That’s my goal here. There is hope for me being a real person, and trying to be a decent fellow (not boyfriend) and be honest. Treat people with respect, have fun, be clear about what we’re doing, and end things with a friendly, heartfelt…uh, handshake. What the hell am I talking about?
Today was unproductive. Got up at 2pm. I watched the Cubs win. Why am I watching the Cubs? I don’t even like the Cubs. Some of my friends like the Cubs and those friends have beer. I didn’t go to support the Cubs. I went to drink the beer. Oh shit, I’m starting to sound like a Cubs fan. What is happening to me?
After the game went over to Nap at Mark’s. Anne Marie’s little baby was there. Sarah is here name. She is beautiful, and her mother isn’t so bad either. Yup. Can’t get into a bar legally and already into moms.
The kid stole everybody’s heart. Goofed off and got ready to go to some sort of thing on Harrison with Shawn and Tom. This girl from one of Tom’s computer science classes came with us. Tom thought I was hitting on her so he got kinda pissed at me. Tom is always a little pissed at me. That’s part of his charm. Tom may have been on to something because his friend was super geeky and I go for geeky in a big way. Can’t get into bars legally and into geeky girls. That’s me all over.
I sat next to the keg the whole night so I was no real threat to Tom or his little friend. There was a band called D.A….uh, I mean Shake the Cage there. They sounded like the songs they played. I’m not sure why they needed to do the Jeff Healey tune, as far as I could tell, no one in the band was blind. Sometimes I think Jeff Healy isn’t blind, he just likes to play sitting down. Lazy-ass, fake-blind bastard. I wish I thought of it first.
Got loaded and left early. Yakked on the way home. Called Little Miss D. I scared the shit out of her. What was I saying about there being hope for me?
Up with Miss D until 7am. That’s not right, and I sure as hell ought to know what wrong feels like by now.
In theory, I should be able to handle at least that, hanging out and not being a jag…with intermittent smooching. That’s my goal here. There is hope for me being a real person, and trying to be a decent fellow (not boyfriend) and be honest. Treat people with respect, have fun, be clear about what we’re doing, and end things with a friendly, heartfelt…uh, handshake. What the hell am I talking about?
Today was unproductive. Got up at 2pm. I watched the Cubs win. Why am I watching the Cubs? I don’t even like the Cubs. Some of my friends like the Cubs and those friends have beer. I didn’t go to support the Cubs. I went to drink the beer. Oh shit, I’m starting to sound like a Cubs fan. What is happening to me?
After the game went over to Nap at Mark’s. Anne Marie’s little baby was there. Sarah is here name. She is beautiful, and her mother isn’t so bad either. Yup. Can’t get into a bar legally and already into moms.
The kid stole everybody’s heart. Goofed off and got ready to go to some sort of thing on Harrison with Shawn and Tom. This girl from one of Tom’s computer science classes came with us. Tom thought I was hitting on her so he got kinda pissed at me. Tom is always a little pissed at me. That’s part of his charm. Tom may have been on to something because his friend was super geeky and I go for geeky in a big way. Can’t get into bars legally and into geeky girls. That’s me all over.
I sat next to the keg the whole night so I was no real threat to Tom or his little friend. There was a band called D.A….uh, I mean Shake the Cage there. They sounded like the songs they played. I’m not sure why they needed to do the Jeff Healey tune, as far as I could tell, no one in the band was blind. Sometimes I think Jeff Healy isn’t blind, he just likes to play sitting down. Lazy-ass, fake-blind bastard. I wish I thought of it first.
Got loaded and left early. Yakked on the way home. Called Little Miss D. I scared the shit out of her. What was I saying about there being hope for me?
September 22, 2011
Friday September 22, 1989 The Importance of Smoking Correctly
Took my numbers test at 9:00am *****eek. But I kicked its ass. It is always fun to have a positive testing experience. Had breakfast w/ C-1ers this morning. Whoa. George helped me get ready for my POLS test. I needed the help, and it led to the successful ass kicking described above….
Saw D at breakfast. I like her but nothing’s gonna happen. Nothing better happen. She’s like two years younger than me. When I’m ninety-eight, she’ll only be…oh, you’ve heard that joke before.
I was in a good mood for most of today even though I was dead tired. I need some peaceful nap time. New comics today. Do I dare drag my tired ass to Northern Lights? I do – and I did.
Started a new thing with WTG today. Stopped not long after starting. This is beginning to look like another one of those exercises meant to remind me that I’m not a real writer. Whether it is lack of talent, discipline or inspiration I’m not sure but one thing I am sure of is that there is a distance between me and the ability to write anything worth a damn. Maybe that’s the beginning of something but I’m not in a position to know…yet.
I’ve been sloth-like for most of the day. Went to all my classes. That’s how sad of a day it was. Did I just say I was in a good mood? Finally getting some ideas for the expanded fB thing but I don’t think it’s gonna happen. Ideas roaring through my skull. No one wants to play with me. I guess Cousin Mike and I still have our “band”. I miss Cousin Mike. Miss Cousin Mike? What? Did he go to Sweden?
Smoked 50 fucking thousand cigs with Jen-O and Jeanz in the lobby. They laughed as I told them about the “butter churners” conversation from the other day. Then Jen got serious and asked if I was going to find another class or just fuck around and take nine hours again.
I’m sort of leaning towards the latter option. She left for some talk on the POLS floor but as she was going she told me I should try to get into her favorite professor’s class.
I asked her how many books were required. She said there was only one book, then helped herself to not one but two of my Chesterfields.
I said, “What the fuck?”
She said, “You don’t even smoke them correctly.”
I said, “That may be true but they are mine.”
…and she was gone.
Took my numbers test at 9:00am *****eek. But I kicked its ass. It is always fun to have a positive testing experience. Had breakfast w/ C-1ers this morning. Whoa. George helped me get ready for my POLS test. I needed the help, and it led to the successful ass kicking described above….
Saw D at breakfast. I like her but nothing’s gonna happen. Nothing better happen. She’s like two years younger than me. When I’m ninety-eight, she’ll only be…oh, you’ve heard that joke before.
I was in a good mood for most of today even though I was dead tired. I need some peaceful nap time. New comics today. Do I dare drag my tired ass to Northern Lights? I do – and I did.
Started a new thing with WTG today. Stopped not long after starting. This is beginning to look like another one of those exercises meant to remind me that I’m not a real writer. Whether it is lack of talent, discipline or inspiration I’m not sure but one thing I am sure of is that there is a distance between me and the ability to write anything worth a damn. Maybe that’s the beginning of something but I’m not in a position to know…yet.
I’ve been sloth-like for most of the day. Went to all my classes. That’s how sad of a day it was. Did I just say I was in a good mood? Finally getting some ideas for the expanded fB thing but I don’t think it’s gonna happen. Ideas roaring through my skull. No one wants to play with me. I guess Cousin Mike and I still have our “band”. I miss Cousin Mike. Miss Cousin Mike? What? Did he go to Sweden?
Smoked 50 fucking thousand cigs with Jen-O and Jeanz in the lobby. They laughed as I told them about the “butter churners” conversation from the other day. Then Jen got serious and asked if I was going to find another class or just fuck around and take nine hours again.
I’m sort of leaning towards the latter option. She left for some talk on the POLS floor but as she was going she told me I should try to get into her favorite professor’s class.
I asked her how many books were required. She said there was only one book, then helped herself to not one but two of my Chesterfields.
I said, “What the fuck?”
She said, “You don’t even smoke them correctly.”
I said, “That may be true but they are mine.”
…and she was gone.
September 21, 2011
Thursday September 21, 1989 Treat Me Like a Fool
Today’s the first day of fall(caps?). Today would’ve been my second anniversary(caps?) w/ what’s her name (no caps). Probably could’ve been a sad day if it hadn’t been for Engles. I went to “Nap Time” at his room. I never really cared for any of Mark’s games, but this was fun. It sounded like fun from the first time I heard about it. Who doesn’t like sleeping? Anyway, I’m not the “who” who doesn’t. Or is it the “who” that doesn’t? It’s not me, that’s the fucking point.
I spent most of the day lounging around on the floor of the C-1 RA’s room w/ Marky, Bill Garver, and little Dawn. I do not know how to act when girls pay attention to me. But that’s what makes me me…a real loser. Everybody is pretty rough on her, making fun of her naïve, trusting nature. I should treat her better. She kinda deserves it. We all kinda do.
Saw Dizzy Gillespie(sp?) tonight. I was supposed to see the show w/ Susan but a bee stung her foot. Yeeesh, she could’ve had the decency to say she was washing her hair. Actually, I saw her foot. It looked stung or fucked up in some way that wasn’t going to get better any time soon. Her mom came up to take care of her, and I was supposed to see the show with her mom. But her mom had to go home early. Yeeesh, SHE could’ve had the decency to say she was washing her hair. Susan gave me her extra ticket so I took this girl Kelly. She’s cool. She shouldn’t have cut her hair. We have the same birthday. I used to run around with a girl in high school who had the same birthday as me…uh, let’s hope this night out seeing jazz goes better than that.
It did. Great show. I don’t know shit about jazz, but I like guys who look like they have basketballs shoved in their cheeks. Yeah, culture isn’t my thing. Saw Dick there. Hadn’t seen him in a while. He’s a god. I should go over to the Honors House to hang out with him. Saw Mike and his girlfriend there. They’re nice, they seem happy. My dance teacher from last spring – Millie Olson was there. She was impressed by how dressed up I was. I wore a tie for chrissakes.
Studied POLS till way fucking late. Good thing Kelly and I only drank a few black Russians(caps?) after the show. POLS, too many numbers!
Noooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo.
Today’s the first day of fall(caps?). Today would’ve been my second anniversary(caps?) w/ what’s her name (no caps). Probably could’ve been a sad day if it hadn’t been for Engles. I went to “Nap Time” at his room. I never really cared for any of Mark’s games, but this was fun. It sounded like fun from the first time I heard about it. Who doesn’t like sleeping? Anyway, I’m not the “who” who doesn’t. Or is it the “who” that doesn’t? It’s not me, that’s the fucking point.
I spent most of the day lounging around on the floor of the C-1 RA’s room w/ Marky, Bill Garver, and little Dawn. I do not know how to act when girls pay attention to me. But that’s what makes me me…a real loser. Everybody is pretty rough on her, making fun of her naïve, trusting nature. I should treat her better. She kinda deserves it. We all kinda do.
Saw Dizzy Gillespie(sp?) tonight. I was supposed to see the show w/ Susan but a bee stung her foot. Yeeesh, she could’ve had the decency to say she was washing her hair. Actually, I saw her foot. It looked stung or fucked up in some way that wasn’t going to get better any time soon. Her mom came up to take care of her, and I was supposed to see the show with her mom. But her mom had to go home early. Yeeesh, SHE could’ve had the decency to say she was washing her hair. Susan gave me her extra ticket so I took this girl Kelly. She’s cool. She shouldn’t have cut her hair. We have the same birthday. I used to run around with a girl in high school who had the same birthday as me…uh, let’s hope this night out seeing jazz goes better than that.
It did. Great show. I don’t know shit about jazz, but I like guys who look like they have basketballs shoved in their cheeks. Yeah, culture isn’t my thing. Saw Dick there. Hadn’t seen him in a while. He’s a god. I should go over to the Honors House to hang out with him. Saw Mike and his girlfriend there. They’re nice, they seem happy. My dance teacher from last spring – Millie Olson was there. She was impressed by how dressed up I was. I wore a tie for chrissakes.
Studied POLS till way fucking late. Good thing Kelly and I only drank a few black Russians(caps?) after the show. POLS, too many numbers!
Noooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo.
September 20, 2011
Wednesday September 20 1989 – As the Butter Churns
SOX beat the Royals and Fisk hits a meaningless home run to the seal the deal in the 9th. Can a 9th inning home run be at once meaningless and seal the deal? It can if you have followed that team this year the way I have. Weird game. They hung six runs on KC in the 2nd and did nothing until Pudge’s dong right at the end. That just sounds dirty. Sheesh. I gotta find something better to do with my life.
…and it certainly isn’t going to Prof. Creamer’s American Urban History II. Somewhere during a Shopkeeper’s Millennium I lost all use for that guy (the teacher, not the shopkeeper).
His t.a. (Paul Hanrahan, who does not like to be referred to as Don Creamer’s Tits and Ass) saw me at the Candlelight the other day and asked me about skipping so much class so early in the semester…
Me: I don’t think there’s anything worthwhile going on here at this point.
PH: You don’t think we’re learning anything?
Me: What could we possibly learn from these post-modern butter churners that all the previous generations of butter churners couldn’t teach us?
PH: Well, what did you learn from the “butter churners” we studied in Don’s class over the summer?
Me: I’m glad that I don’t have to churn butter.
Yeah. I’m gonna have to find a different class to fill that part of my schedule. Shouldn’t be too hard. Absolutely anything else would be more worth my time.
More later.
SOX beat the Royals and Fisk hits a meaningless home run to the seal the deal in the 9th. Can a 9th inning home run be at once meaningless and seal the deal? It can if you have followed that team this year the way I have. Weird game. They hung six runs on KC in the 2nd and did nothing until Pudge’s dong right at the end. That just sounds dirty. Sheesh. I gotta find something better to do with my life.
…and it certainly isn’t going to Prof. Creamer’s American Urban History II. Somewhere during a Shopkeeper’s Millennium I lost all use for that guy (the teacher, not the shopkeeper).
His t.a. (Paul Hanrahan, who does not like to be referred to as Don Creamer’s Tits and Ass) saw me at the Candlelight the other day and asked me about skipping so much class so early in the semester…
Me: I don’t think there’s anything worthwhile going on here at this point.
PH: You don’t think we’re learning anything?
Me: What could we possibly learn from these post-modern butter churners that all the previous generations of butter churners couldn’t teach us?
PH: Well, what did you learn from the “butter churners” we studied in Don’s class over the summer?
Me: I’m glad that I don’t have to churn butter.
Yeah. I’m gonna have to find a different class to fill that part of my schedule. Shouldn’t be too hard. Absolutely anything else would be more worth my time.
More later.
September 19, 2011
Tuesday September 19, 1989 – I Once Was Found
…but now I’m down. Jesus Christ blows my mind. Every time a big ball of shit rolls down the hill into my life I just sit back and think, ‘Man…or, Son of Man, he dealt with way more fuckupedness than I ever will.’ His mom made him use his superpowers at some wedding (probably in front of people he didn’t even know that well). In Mark’s third chapter, the scribes (Bob Greene may have been among them) said he was possessed by Beetlejuice and his family tried to put him away. He was almost killed several times in all four gospels...um, before he was actually killed in all four gospels. Crowds threatened to crush him just to touch the robes or whatever he wore. Another group of disgruntled temple-goers wanted to beat the crap out of him right there in the temple. He saw his own death coming and went ahead with the mission anyway. They hung him on a tree next to common criminals and he told one of them they’d meet again later that day in paradise. That also can be translated as “park” from the Greek. That means cemetery.
I received judicial papers this afternoon for my Labor Day incident. I’ve been charged with possession of alcohol (presumably internal possession), harassment (even though I was the one who received a beating) and destruction of personal property (pissing on clothes, not my own).
…and that’s just page one. Actually there was only one page, but they issue a handbook when they give you the page listing the complaint(s). Lots more pages in the handbook. I’m not sure I take any comfort in the handbook since the people charging me are the authors of the handbook. But those folks run the dorms and work for NIU. Hippies have taken over University and made it a happy place since the 60's haven’t they? I have no reason to fear hippies, do I?
Michelle D is trying to help me make sense of it all. She doesn’t want to see me strung up for being drunk, stumbling into someone’s room and pissing on a pile of clothes. She’s cool but I don’t think I am easy to help. Tonight we argued. I still maintain that I was less drunk and more sleepwalking and it was the sleepwalking that led to the dreaded piss-harassment. I had several sleepwalking incidents as a kid. One night I almost went French-statue boy in my dear mother’s face. Sleepwalking seems plausible to me. Michelle doesn’t think it helps in this instance, but she hasn’t given up on me which is more than I can say for me.
What do I know? The other day the president comes on tv with a big bag of drugs that someone got at a park near the White House. I hope to God he had someone check it for glass.
Finished reading The Plague (my third time through the book) and once again, I am a total fucking idiot that deserves to die from plague. During all the subsequent readings I never bothered trying to learn anything about the narrator, the person who compiles all the info about Oran from Tarrou’s diary and various other sources. Why bother reading a book if no care is taken to wrestle with one of its great mysteries? Books are wasted on me.
Tried picking up the “Relative State Formulation of Quantum Mechanics” dis (also for the third time). Currently I am trying to decide which is more impenetrable, the writing or the mathematics. Man, I thought men in the 50’s were supposed to be wife-beating troglodytes, although it is entirely possible that I am stupider than a troglodyte. Legend has it they always knew where to piss.
Buttweasel’s lady walked in the room right as I was putting the old-timey quantum mechanics piece on top of a copy of the Bible. She laughed at me. She laughed, then asked a dumb-ass question about the reading material on my desk. I said something like, ‘If electrons and prophets can do a bunch of supernatural shit, why can’t I?’
WhiteSOX got beat today. Stupid fucking Angels. I guess the joke would’ve been on St. Petersburg if the team had actually moved. The St. Petersburgers (citizens of St. Pete have to be called something right?) would love to cheer for a team plumbing its way to the depths of the American League West…and yes, I think the St. Petersburg/Crampa Bay SOX would have still played in the American League West. The Phoenix Cardinals play in the NFC East right? See, I’m not the idiot. The fucks-for-brains that organize these sports leagues are the fools that don’t know squat about geography. I am only stupid because I care about such things.
Mom called. She says the Goo is writing her first psychology paper. My little sister is writing her first psychology paper on me. Sort of a hackneyed thing to do. I guess they were heavy on math and science at IMSA…heavy at the expense of original thought. Then there’s me. Plenty of original thought (or the thoughts are new to me) but I am still a total dumbass. Either way, on some level I’m flattered. The Goo cared enough to write…her psychology paper on me. Maybe I really fucked her up during our childhood…but no worse than the voices in my head fucked me up. So there. Even if Crissy determines that I am a borderline personality and her diagnosis is confirmed with a decent grade (and at Butler grades still mean something) I’ll still be flattered. And I’ll have a ready made excuse.
…but now I’m down. Jesus Christ blows my mind. Every time a big ball of shit rolls down the hill into my life I just sit back and think, ‘Man…or, Son of Man, he dealt with way more fuckupedness than I ever will.’ His mom made him use his superpowers at some wedding (probably in front of people he didn’t even know that well). In Mark’s third chapter, the scribes (Bob Greene may have been among them) said he was possessed by Beetlejuice and his family tried to put him away. He was almost killed several times in all four gospels...um, before he was actually killed in all four gospels. Crowds threatened to crush him just to touch the robes or whatever he wore. Another group of disgruntled temple-goers wanted to beat the crap out of him right there in the temple. He saw his own death coming and went ahead with the mission anyway. They hung him on a tree next to common criminals and he told one of them they’d meet again later that day in paradise. That also can be translated as “park” from the Greek. That means cemetery.
I received judicial papers this afternoon for my Labor Day incident. I’ve been charged with possession of alcohol (presumably internal possession), harassment (even though I was the one who received a beating) and destruction of personal property (pissing on clothes, not my own).
…and that’s just page one. Actually there was only one page, but they issue a handbook when they give you the page listing the complaint(s). Lots more pages in the handbook. I’m not sure I take any comfort in the handbook since the people charging me are the authors of the handbook. But those folks run the dorms and work for NIU. Hippies have taken over University and made it a happy place since the 60's haven’t they? I have no reason to fear hippies, do I?
Michelle D is trying to help me make sense of it all. She doesn’t want to see me strung up for being drunk, stumbling into someone’s room and pissing on a pile of clothes. She’s cool but I don’t think I am easy to help. Tonight we argued. I still maintain that I was less drunk and more sleepwalking and it was the sleepwalking that led to the dreaded piss-harassment. I had several sleepwalking incidents as a kid. One night I almost went French-statue boy in my dear mother’s face. Sleepwalking seems plausible to me. Michelle doesn’t think it helps in this instance, but she hasn’t given up on me which is more than I can say for me.
What do I know? The other day the president comes on tv with a big bag of drugs that someone got at a park near the White House. I hope to God he had someone check it for glass.
Finished reading The Plague (my third time through the book) and once again, I am a total fucking idiot that deserves to die from plague. During all the subsequent readings I never bothered trying to learn anything about the narrator, the person who compiles all the info about Oran from Tarrou’s diary and various other sources. Why bother reading a book if no care is taken to wrestle with one of its great mysteries? Books are wasted on me.
Tried picking up the “Relative State Formulation of Quantum Mechanics” dis (also for the third time). Currently I am trying to decide which is more impenetrable, the writing or the mathematics. Man, I thought men in the 50’s were supposed to be wife-beating troglodytes, although it is entirely possible that I am stupider than a troglodyte. Legend has it they always knew where to piss.
Buttweasel’s lady walked in the room right as I was putting the old-timey quantum mechanics piece on top of a copy of the Bible. She laughed at me. She laughed, then asked a dumb-ass question about the reading material on my desk. I said something like, ‘If electrons and prophets can do a bunch of supernatural shit, why can’t I?’
WhiteSOX got beat today. Stupid fucking Angels. I guess the joke would’ve been on St. Petersburg if the team had actually moved. The St. Petersburgers (citizens of St. Pete have to be called something right?) would love to cheer for a team plumbing its way to the depths of the American League West…and yes, I think the St. Petersburg/Crampa Bay SOX would have still played in the American League West. The Phoenix Cardinals play in the NFC East right? See, I’m not the idiot. The fucks-for-brains that organize these sports leagues are the fools that don’t know squat about geography. I am only stupid because I care about such things.
Mom called. She says the Goo is writing her first psychology paper. My little sister is writing her first psychology paper on me. Sort of a hackneyed thing to do. I guess they were heavy on math and science at IMSA…heavy at the expense of original thought. Then there’s me. Plenty of original thought (or the thoughts are new to me) but I am still a total dumbass. Either way, on some level I’m flattered. The Goo cared enough to write…her psychology paper on me. Maybe I really fucked her up during our childhood…but no worse than the voices in my head fucked me up. So there. Even if Crissy determines that I am a borderline personality and her diagnosis is confirmed with a decent grade (and at Butler grades still mean something) I’ll still be flattered. And I’ll have a ready made excuse.
September 17, 2011
True Confessions of an Honest Liar
My dad and I went to a party at a relative’s house. I was seventeen and my dad was however old he was at the time. This relative, who will remain anonymous for reasons that elude me, had a small pond at the bottom of a hill, a good distance away from the unnamed relative’s house. While it may sound like someone in my family lives on an estate or somewhere impressive because there is a house on a hill with enough property to have a pond, rest assured this land was worthless.
It was a typical extended-family party and at a certain point the boilermakers lost all meaning for me. Somebody told me that two large turtles resided in the small pond at the bottom of the hill, on the worthless property. I thought, ‘I’ll go down and meet some turtles.’
Slowly but eventually I made it to the bottom of the hill but saw only one of the two turtles. I didn’t feel ripped off because this turtle was huge. Impressive. He seemed friendly enough. Hands in my pockets, I approached the animal and said: ‘Hi turtle-wurtle.’ The turtle responded by slowly stretching out its neck and biting through my shoe, my sock and into my big toe - to which I responded: ‘Fuck! Motherfucker!!!’ I guess turtles hate it when you call them turtle-wurtle.
Minutes passed, and the turtle remained attached to my big toe. Now, I was still verbally expressing my displeasure with the thing but it was more like, ‘Ouch, ok you got me. This really hurts.’ I mean it hurt more than I let on but I wasn’t going to let the turtle know that, so I stopped screaming at it. Actually, I’m not sure if that’s why I stopped screaming. Maybe it hurt too much to scream. Maybe screaming was sapping me of the precious energy needed locked in battle with my determined foe. Maybe I was starting to go into shock. Now that I think about it, I’m not 100% sure that I stopped screaming.
Anyway, at this point in the story (as things usually do at such a point in such a story) it went from bad to worse to something else. I couldn’t escape the death grip of the turtle’s mouth and I certainly needed saving. However, there is one (and only one) person that I didn’t want to save me. As per usual (in stories of this type) that person came walking down the hill. That person? That person was my father. My dad is strong and smart and more than a match for any turtle. But my dad also loves to make fun of me. He walked down the hill, staring at my foot and did his best to control his laughter.
“What happened to your foot kid?”
“He bit me.”
“Don’t tell me you can’t outrun a turtle Eddie?”
“No. He didn’t chase me down Dad…he just…I don’t know, he outsmarted me.”
That was all it took. The old man was now laughing his ass off. He walked back toward the house and started calling our relatives and other partygoers down to the pond. Minutes later, everybody from the party and maybe a few of the neighbors were down there, looking at my foot and laughing. Sadly, I think this made me feel better. People took turns trying to pull the turtle off my toe, but that hurt much worse than the biting. They brought tools down from the garage and tried to pry its mouth open. No luck. We poured whiskey in the turtle’s eyes - my idea. The turtle seemed disturbed by this (not as disturbed as my dad was) but, disturbed as the turtle was, he didn’t let go. Somebody suggested that we might be able to scare the turtle by making loud noises. Some stomped their feet, some shouted “Boo!” One guy, my Great Uncle Sam (not the one you think), punched the turtle in the face and called it a “dirty motherfucker.” Eventually, the turtle fell asleep…
…with its mouth still clamped on my big toe.
My dad said, “Well, we’re just gonna have to shoot it.”
Someone else said, “Yeah.”
Someone else said, “Good idea.”
And at last, one of the someones, the someone who owned the house said, “I’ll get the .22.” Apparently they had anticipated one or more of the turtles getting out of line.
The last someone brought the gun down to the little pond and handed it to my dad. I saw my dad, God love him, sway a little bit as he took aim at the turtle’s head.
“Dad – how much have you had to drink?”
“Enough,” he said.
“You can’t shoot this fucking thing if you’ve been drinking!”
“Eddie, watch your mouth,” said my dad.
“I’m just saying you’re gonna shoot my foot – especially since you’re standing ten feet away from me. And, are you swaying?”
“Good point,” said my dad.
“Ok, just give me the gun. I’m going to shoot the turtle.”
I looked down at the turtle and asked it if it had any last words – secretly hoping it would open its mouth and I could run away. No such luck. Luck is not a big part of this story. I pushed the barrel of the gun along the turtle’s neck and into its shell. I thought this would be a safe distance from my toe. Some part of what was left of me thought ‘Well, even if I shoot my toe off, this’ll make one hell of a story’ – as if that is/was/or will be – worth anything. Once I felt that the barrel of the gun was secure, I closed my eyes, pulled the trigger, and…
Bang.
I was lucky as shit that when the top part of the shell exploded none of the turtle shrapnel tore into my leg, my eyes, my dick! Here’s where I wasn’t so lucky. I killed the turtle, but its last instinct was to bite down as hard as it could. I felt its turtle teeth scrape the bone of my toe…
…from Hell’s heart it, um?, bit my big toe.
I was also lucky that the gun I used WASN’T a pump 4-10 or any sort of actual (or almost) shotgun. In reality it was more like a Daisy or a power-pop pellet gun. The story is better without including this level of analysis…which, sort of, brings me to my dilemma.
I’ve told this story a million times. I hope more of it is true than I’m letting on here. I’m not sure if it matters at this point. What I am sure of is I’ve lost some of my perspective on this little misadventure in my life. In a more general sense, I have lost some perspective on other parts of my life and that has much to do with the retelling, or rewriting of the damned thing. Maybe the obvious image makes sense. I’ve painted/wrote myself into a corner. At some point I thought there was enough in me, or enough that has happened to me that is somehow worth writing down. Whether or not that was ever true is no longer the question. - For better or whatever, I’ve made myself into a writer and made me, what’s in me, and some of the shit that’s happened to me the stuff of that writing. I’ve written about me – ed nauseum. Much of what I know about my life, I seem to know second hand. That is meant to sound more stupid than shocking. I started re-re-telling these stories in parts of the book you are about to put down never to open again (if you’re smart). Here’s an excerpt from my personal journal on drafting the early chapters of this book:
“I’ve also started – officially – whatever the fuck that means – editing the earliest portions of this journal for the book – or whatever it is I am writing now. What have I noticed about reading my first efforts? Notice what I am doing right now. I’m writing about reading what I’ve written. How exciting is that?”
…by the way, I’m still doing it. The problem should be clear, but let me continue:
“In these earlier journal entries that I am editing now for the book thing, a lot of shit happened to me on a daily (well, usually nightly) basis. I wrote about what I was doing or what was happening to me and that’s it. Now, it’s not like nothing is happening to me now. If only I could’ve made that last sentence a palindrome, but if the word palindrome isn’t a palindrome how can anyone expect anything clever out of me. Oh, things are happening now. Trying to be a responsible dad and husband - raising a kid, these are certainly more exciting and productive/worthwhile things…definitely more worthwhile than drinking all the time while trying not to date three different girls who do not like me very much. So, at this stage in my life, things are actually happening to me – life changing shit – but what do I write about? I write about writing.
Ironically, I started this journal in the fall in 1989 to keep track of stuff I was writing because I was too messed up – almost all the time – my memory, well…”
what were we talking about?
“Oh, somewhere in my fuzzy head I thought keeping a journal would help me save the occasional songs I wrote (as if any of them were any good) from being forgotten…which might’ve been best for all concerned. As it turned out, I wrote little that was worth playing – forget reading about – so what filled up the pages? My life. I wrote about what I was doing, which – in theory, the songs were supposed to be about…But in the journal I wrote about my life, various activities, relationships (as fucked up as they were). I know I originally wanted to write about writing – but I wrote about living, which I thought I did much better at the time – or at least my living was more interesting than my writing…”
…it gets worse…
“Now, I’m sure that I am a better writer than I was then, although there is little proof of that here – but the bigger question is: Why write in the first place? In other words, what good is writing if it doesn’t help sort out living? But I don’t write as much about living anymore, and I think I’m even better at living NOW (relative to then) than I was at living then, or writing at any time. Anyhow 7000 pages later…”
…this was page 7004 of my journal…
“…I think I’m still doing the opposite of what I’m supposed to be doing – which is the opposite of what I was doing when I started putting this whole mess down 7000 pages ago – and to my dismay both opposites are wrong, both for their time and in general, which is to say neither of them were, are, or will ever be right. Write. Right? One thing is clear, now today more than ever…”
Any questions? It was at that point in rereading my journal reaction to the early drafts of this book that I realized I was in bigger trouble than I thought. Not only did I write myself into a corner, but I thought myself into a corner and may still be in the process of thinking myself into a corner. It should be clear that I don’t give a damn if anyone ever reads this; I need to continue the process until something makes sense to me. I thought I was helping myself in some way when I was writing. What does it mean that the subject of the matter at hand (me) can’t make sense out of its life on paper? In other words, I don’t recognize myself, I don’t even see how this activity helps anymore (or ever) and worst of all, I can’t stop. Maybe the ultimate intervention comes in the form of rejection letters from publishers.
I need to at least realize what I have become if I can’t make sense out of the process of writing and can no longer even trust the retelling of my life, as the turtle story above indicates. Restatement of the problem: I’ve had experiences. Writing about those experiences has distorted them. Now I’m not sure I trust the experiences. I was also supposed to express something (bigger?) by writing about the experiences, but at the end of the day (or at least now/currently, I hope this isn’t the “end of the day” with respect to my life) – but at the end of the day, whenever it is, I’m not even writing about the experiences anymore. I’m writing about the process of writing. Here, then, is why you should read this. I have become what Frederick Nietzsche calls “the extremist possible example” of the problem modern man is facing. This is from On the Uses and Disadvantages of History for Life. Consider:
"Imagine the extremist possible example of a man who did not possess the power of
forgetting at all and who was thus condemned to see everywhere a state of becoming:
such a man would no longer believe in his own being, would no longer believe in himself, would see everything flowing asunder in moving points and would lose himself in this stream of becoming: like a true pupil of Heraclitus, he would in the end hardly dare to raise his finger. Forgetting is essential to action of any kind…"
And that used to be me all over. It is my hope that in writing this thing I will recognize that “this” is no longer what I want to be. With a critical eye and some hard work, I will learn to live like the happy cow described at the beginning of the aforementioned work by FN. If I am successful and you see me walking down the street, please don’t ask me to explain why I am happy. In theory, the response is: ‘The reason is I always forget what I was going to say’ – but then I will forget this answer too and stay silent – leaving you in wonder.
Hopefully this is the responsible approach I am taking with this project and I will end up like one of Nietzsche’s happy cattle. Otherwise I run the risk of being the self-fulfilling prophecy of a different sort of historical man put forth by a philosopher even more famous than Frederick Nietzsche – Don Henley. Henley tells us that “some dance to remember, some dance to forget” – and it is precisely at this moment that I realize I am in way over my head.
Silas Maria, Oberengadin
August 1886 -
My dad and I went to a party at a relative’s house. I was seventeen and my dad was however old he was at the time. This relative, who will remain anonymous for reasons that elude me, had a small pond at the bottom of a hill, a good distance away from the unnamed relative’s house. While it may sound like someone in my family lives on an estate or somewhere impressive because there is a house on a hill with enough property to have a pond, rest assured this land was worthless.
It was a typical extended-family party and at a certain point the boilermakers lost all meaning for me. Somebody told me that two large turtles resided in the small pond at the bottom of the hill, on the worthless property. I thought, ‘I’ll go down and meet some turtles.’
Slowly but eventually I made it to the bottom of the hill but saw only one of the two turtles. I didn’t feel ripped off because this turtle was huge. Impressive. He seemed friendly enough. Hands in my pockets, I approached the animal and said: ‘Hi turtle-wurtle.’ The turtle responded by slowly stretching out its neck and biting through my shoe, my sock and into my big toe - to which I responded: ‘Fuck! Motherfucker!!!’ I guess turtles hate it when you call them turtle-wurtle.
Minutes passed, and the turtle remained attached to my big toe. Now, I was still verbally expressing my displeasure with the thing but it was more like, ‘Ouch, ok you got me. This really hurts.’ I mean it hurt more than I let on but I wasn’t going to let the turtle know that, so I stopped screaming at it. Actually, I’m not sure if that’s why I stopped screaming. Maybe it hurt too much to scream. Maybe screaming was sapping me of the precious energy needed locked in battle with my determined foe. Maybe I was starting to go into shock. Now that I think about it, I’m not 100% sure that I stopped screaming.
Anyway, at this point in the story (as things usually do at such a point in such a story) it went from bad to worse to something else. I couldn’t escape the death grip of the turtle’s mouth and I certainly needed saving. However, there is one (and only one) person that I didn’t want to save me. As per usual (in stories of this type) that person came walking down the hill. That person? That person was my father. My dad is strong and smart and more than a match for any turtle. But my dad also loves to make fun of me. He walked down the hill, staring at my foot and did his best to control his laughter.
“What happened to your foot kid?”
“He bit me.”
“Don’t tell me you can’t outrun a turtle Eddie?”
“No. He didn’t chase me down Dad…he just…I don’t know, he outsmarted me.”
That was all it took. The old man was now laughing his ass off. He walked back toward the house and started calling our relatives and other partygoers down to the pond. Minutes later, everybody from the party and maybe a few of the neighbors were down there, looking at my foot and laughing. Sadly, I think this made me feel better. People took turns trying to pull the turtle off my toe, but that hurt much worse than the biting. They brought tools down from the garage and tried to pry its mouth open. No luck. We poured whiskey in the turtle’s eyes - my idea. The turtle seemed disturbed by this (not as disturbed as my dad was) but, disturbed as the turtle was, he didn’t let go. Somebody suggested that we might be able to scare the turtle by making loud noises. Some stomped their feet, some shouted “Boo!” One guy, my Great Uncle Sam (not the one you think), punched the turtle in the face and called it a “dirty motherfucker.” Eventually, the turtle fell asleep…
…with its mouth still clamped on my big toe.
My dad said, “Well, we’re just gonna have to shoot it.”
Someone else said, “Yeah.”
Someone else said, “Good idea.”
And at last, one of the someones, the someone who owned the house said, “I’ll get the .22.” Apparently they had anticipated one or more of the turtles getting out of line.
The last someone brought the gun down to the little pond and handed it to my dad. I saw my dad, God love him, sway a little bit as he took aim at the turtle’s head.
“Dad – how much have you had to drink?”
“Enough,” he said.
“You can’t shoot this fucking thing if you’ve been drinking!”
“Eddie, watch your mouth,” said my dad.
“I’m just saying you’re gonna shoot my foot – especially since you’re standing ten feet away from me. And, are you swaying?”
“Good point,” said my dad.
“Ok, just give me the gun. I’m going to shoot the turtle.”
I looked down at the turtle and asked it if it had any last words – secretly hoping it would open its mouth and I could run away. No such luck. Luck is not a big part of this story. I pushed the barrel of the gun along the turtle’s neck and into its shell. I thought this would be a safe distance from my toe. Some part of what was left of me thought ‘Well, even if I shoot my toe off, this’ll make one hell of a story’ – as if that is/was/or will be – worth anything. Once I felt that the barrel of the gun was secure, I closed my eyes, pulled the trigger, and…
Bang.
I was lucky as shit that when the top part of the shell exploded none of the turtle shrapnel tore into my leg, my eyes, my dick! Here’s where I wasn’t so lucky. I killed the turtle, but its last instinct was to bite down as hard as it could. I felt its turtle teeth scrape the bone of my toe…
…from Hell’s heart it, um?, bit my big toe.
I was also lucky that the gun I used WASN’T a pump 4-10 or any sort of actual (or almost) shotgun. In reality it was more like a Daisy or a power-pop pellet gun. The story is better without including this level of analysis…which, sort of, brings me to my dilemma.
I’ve told this story a million times. I hope more of it is true than I’m letting on here. I’m not sure if it matters at this point. What I am sure of is I’ve lost some of my perspective on this little misadventure in my life. In a more general sense, I have lost some perspective on other parts of my life and that has much to do with the retelling, or rewriting of the damned thing. Maybe the obvious image makes sense. I’ve painted/wrote myself into a corner. At some point I thought there was enough in me, or enough that has happened to me that is somehow worth writing down. Whether or not that was ever true is no longer the question. - For better or whatever, I’ve made myself into a writer and made me, what’s in me, and some of the shit that’s happened to me the stuff of that writing. I’ve written about me – ed nauseum. Much of what I know about my life, I seem to know second hand. That is meant to sound more stupid than shocking. I started re-re-telling these stories in parts of the book you are about to put down never to open again (if you’re smart). Here’s an excerpt from my personal journal on drafting the early chapters of this book:
“I’ve also started – officially – whatever the fuck that means – editing the earliest portions of this journal for the book – or whatever it is I am writing now. What have I noticed about reading my first efforts? Notice what I am doing right now. I’m writing about reading what I’ve written. How exciting is that?”
…by the way, I’m still doing it. The problem should be clear, but let me continue:
“In these earlier journal entries that I am editing now for the book thing, a lot of shit happened to me on a daily (well, usually nightly) basis. I wrote about what I was doing or what was happening to me and that’s it. Now, it’s not like nothing is happening to me now. If only I could’ve made that last sentence a palindrome, but if the word palindrome isn’t a palindrome how can anyone expect anything clever out of me. Oh, things are happening now. Trying to be a responsible dad and husband - raising a kid, these are certainly more exciting and productive/worthwhile things…definitely more worthwhile than drinking all the time while trying not to date three different girls who do not like me very much. So, at this stage in my life, things are actually happening to me – life changing shit – but what do I write about? I write about writing.
Ironically, I started this journal in the fall in 1989 to keep track of stuff I was writing because I was too messed up – almost all the time – my memory, well…”
what were we talking about?
“Oh, somewhere in my fuzzy head I thought keeping a journal would help me save the occasional songs I wrote (as if any of them were any good) from being forgotten…which might’ve been best for all concerned. As it turned out, I wrote little that was worth playing – forget reading about – so what filled up the pages? My life. I wrote about what I was doing, which – in theory, the songs were supposed to be about…But in the journal I wrote about my life, various activities, relationships (as fucked up as they were). I know I originally wanted to write about writing – but I wrote about living, which I thought I did much better at the time – or at least my living was more interesting than my writing…”
…it gets worse…
“Now, I’m sure that I am a better writer than I was then, although there is little proof of that here – but the bigger question is: Why write in the first place? In other words, what good is writing if it doesn’t help sort out living? But I don’t write as much about living anymore, and I think I’m even better at living NOW (relative to then) than I was at living then, or writing at any time. Anyhow 7000 pages later…”
…this was page 7004 of my journal…
“…I think I’m still doing the opposite of what I’m supposed to be doing – which is the opposite of what I was doing when I started putting this whole mess down 7000 pages ago – and to my dismay both opposites are wrong, both for their time and in general, which is to say neither of them were, are, or will ever be right. Write. Right? One thing is clear, now today more than ever…”
Any questions? It was at that point in rereading my journal reaction to the early drafts of this book that I realized I was in bigger trouble than I thought. Not only did I write myself into a corner, but I thought myself into a corner and may still be in the process of thinking myself into a corner. It should be clear that I don’t give a damn if anyone ever reads this; I need to continue the process until something makes sense to me. I thought I was helping myself in some way when I was writing. What does it mean that the subject of the matter at hand (me) can’t make sense out of its life on paper? In other words, I don’t recognize myself, I don’t even see how this activity helps anymore (or ever) and worst of all, I can’t stop. Maybe the ultimate intervention comes in the form of rejection letters from publishers.
I need to at least realize what I have become if I can’t make sense out of the process of writing and can no longer even trust the retelling of my life, as the turtle story above indicates. Restatement of the problem: I’ve had experiences. Writing about those experiences has distorted them. Now I’m not sure I trust the experiences. I was also supposed to express something (bigger?) by writing about the experiences, but at the end of the day (or at least now/currently, I hope this isn’t the “end of the day” with respect to my life) – but at the end of the day, whenever it is, I’m not even writing about the experiences anymore. I’m writing about the process of writing. Here, then, is why you should read this. I have become what Frederick Nietzsche calls “the extremist possible example” of the problem modern man is facing. This is from On the Uses and Disadvantages of History for Life. Consider:
"Imagine the extremist possible example of a man who did not possess the power of
forgetting at all and who was thus condemned to see everywhere a state of becoming:
such a man would no longer believe in his own being, would no longer believe in himself, would see everything flowing asunder in moving points and would lose himself in this stream of becoming: like a true pupil of Heraclitus, he would in the end hardly dare to raise his finger. Forgetting is essential to action of any kind…"
And that used to be me all over. It is my hope that in writing this thing I will recognize that “this” is no longer what I want to be. With a critical eye and some hard work, I will learn to live like the happy cow described at the beginning of the aforementioned work by FN. If I am successful and you see me walking down the street, please don’t ask me to explain why I am happy. In theory, the response is: ‘The reason is I always forget what I was going to say’ – but then I will forget this answer too and stay silent – leaving you in wonder.
Hopefully this is the responsible approach I am taking with this project and I will end up like one of Nietzsche’s happy cattle. Otherwise I run the risk of being the self-fulfilling prophecy of a different sort of historical man put forth by a philosopher even more famous than Frederick Nietzsche – Don Henley. Henley tells us that “some dance to remember, some dance to forget” – and it is precisely at this moment that I realize I am in way over my head.
Silas Maria, Oberengadin
August 1886 -
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