Bananafish

J.D. Salinger's Death

"Boy, when you're dead, they really fix you up. I hope to hell when I do die somebody has sense enough to just dump me in the river or something. Anything except sticking me in a goddam cemetery. People coming and putting a bunch of flowers on your stomach on Sunday, and all that crap. Who wants flowers when you're dead? Nobody. ~J.D. Salinger, Chapter 20, The Catcher in the Rye

That's right. J.D. Salinger kicked it.

And now the battle begins: who gets to hold on to Holden? What the hell will his family do with all the nonsensical writings Salinger has been hiding away for all these years? Are there even any writings to discover and will they be any good?

I can't wait to find out, because the intellectual property of Sir Salinger is now wildly at stake. I keep waiting to hear about shootings and insane public reactions, mass hysteria and madcap folks running about in the streets. Or not. John Lennon isn't walking around pretending to be Jesus anymore. And everybody knows where the ducks go in winter. I mean really.

But back to what I wanted to say:

For most of my college career I've wanted to write about Salinger. Hell, I wanted to write about Holden and Salinger even before I knew I wanted to write, or what it meant to write. Last year I submitted a proposal to complete a master's thesis on J.D. Salinger and Holden Caulfield, specifically concerning the future and evolution of Holden Caulfield: what is essential Holden within the eyes of Salinger, what has happened to Salinger's creation, and what will the future be for Holden--what will he morph into within the public sphere, within the pop culture masses? My thesis will (with ensuing halirity and hysteria) be finished this May. This is all in specific relation to that Swedish fellow Fredrik Colting's banned book 60 Years Later: Coming through the Rye, and what it means to pick up a piece of writing 60 years later and metafictionally twist it into something entirely other. Surely there will be more interpertations. There already are. And even I will be writing about them in a probably not so scholarly manner.

And now because I'm hiding out in the computer lab on campus writing about Salinger like a crazy person in between classes, I will leave you for the moment. Later I can explain the dramatic and confusing day I've had explaining to EVERY PERSON I SEE about Salinger.

Some Creature Fear

The older I get the more I'm slowly starting to realize how vulnerable I am. Part of me wants to ignore, and continues to ignore how fragile I've become. Like a fool, I think I'm some indestructible thing, a little statue of stone braving all forms of violent weather. Imperishable. Untouchable. In my little bubble of thoughts and feelings. I keep thinking that I'll be okay and recover from whatever small disaster I may encounter like I did when I was 19. Granted, I do to an extent. I always do don't I? And even now I'm denying it.

And yet.

Some part of me just doesn't revive even after the tiniest undoing.

You'd think that after almost dying (age 20) and battling my way through a four year kaput relationship (age 23) I'd be able to take these little stabs and letdowns with grace and ease. It should be natural by now.

And yet. There is no grace to my disappointment.

I have no clear answer for why I am continually unable to ignore the things that happen to me.

And as my drunken neighbors scream and yell at each other over blaring car alarms and ambulance sirens this early morning, I have to realize that as much as I desire to remain unscathed in this strange world, it isn't possible.

That being said, I'll leave you with some Neutral Milk Hotel lyrics floating around in my head, from In the Aeroplane over the Sea

What a beautiful face

I have found in this place

That is circling all around the sun

And when we meet on a cloud

I'll be laughing out loud

I'll be laughing with everyone I see

Can't believe how strange it is to be anything at all

curled next to the warmth of a pile of books

Besides bingeing on Iron and Wine like some sad fuck, I've become slightly obsessed with The History of Love by Nicole Krauss. It's my second read of the novel, and I've found myself thinking about it everyday, at the oddest times. It's one of those books that makes you want to endlessly write about everything and nothing, even if you're a lousy writer. I'll leave you with some quotes from the book:

"If at large gatherings or parties, or around people with whom you feel distant, your hands sometimes hang awkwardly at the ends of your arms--if you find yourself at a loss for what to do with them, overcome with sadness that comes when you recognize the foreignness of your own body--it's because your hands remember a time when the division between mind and body, brain and heart, what's inside and what's outside, was so much less."

[this section is concerning the subject of angels, when they are alone or wanting to be alone]:

BEING ALONE. Like the living, angels sometimes get tired of each other and want to be alone. Because the houses they live in are crowded, and there's nowhere to go, the only thing an angel can do at such moments is shut his eyes and put his head down on his arms. When an angel does this, the others understand that he is trying to fool himself into feeling alone, and they tiptoe around him. To help things along, they might talk about him as if he weren't there. If they happen to bump into him by accident, they whisper: 'it wasn't me.'

"I remember the first time I realized I could make myself see something that wasn't there. I was ten years old, walking home from school. Some boys from my class ran by shouting and laughing. I wanted to be like them. And yet. I didn't know how. I'd always felt different from the others, and the difference hurt. And then I turned the corner and saw it. A huge elephant, standing alone in the square. I knew I was imagining it.

And yet. I wanted to believe.

So I tried.

And I found I could."

Radio Slience

So I forgot about this poem that I found. But last night, or the other night or something I re-found it again. This time I wanted to post it all here so I wouldn't forget about it again. It's by Wislawa Szymborska, and translated from Polish. Because sometimes I tend to forget that poetry exists.


Perspective

They passed like strangers,
without a word or gesture,
her off to the store,
him heading for the car.

Perhaps startled
or distracted,
or forgetting
that for a short while
they'd been in love forever.

Still, there's no guarantee
that it was them.
Maybe yes from a distance,
but not close up.

I watched them from the window,
and those who observe from above
are often mistaken.

She vanished beyond the glass door.
He got in behind the wheel
and took off.
As if nothing had happened,
if it had.

And I, sure for just a moment
that I'd seen it,
strive to convince you, O Readers,
with this accidental little poem
that it was sad.


I'm writing a new story. Non fiction, I guess. Don't be offended if you one day appear in one of my stories.

More soon.

Something To Read

I'm posting a non-fiction story/play that I wrote. It might need a new title. Or it might not. It's pretty silly, so be prepared.

Clusterfuck

A Play (of sorts) In Three Acts

Act I. Scene I: Party Number One

Streetlights flicker to reveal a tall, slim girl, aged 21 or so. Her hair is a curly mess pushed back out of her makeup-less face. Dark circles under her eyes are visible from lack of sleep. She’s wearing a blue herringbone jacket, her favorite owl earrings, a yellow and grey scarf, and a look of distaste. Her hands are in her pockets, keeping warm. She is outside, and her face is flushed with the cold. She narrates:

I’m staring at Monkey Beans, a small brown and black mutt I just met. His hair is soft and wiry and he wears a green nylon collar, with a leash of the same color dragging the floor. He keeps trying to escape whenever a beautiful drunk girl opens the apartment door. Suddenly the door opens again, the girl exits with a new beer, and a momentary thought flashes on Monkey Bean’s face: freedom. The door shuts. I stare at the chipped white paint on the aluminum door, picturing his disappointed face behind it. I’m trying to figure out how to say his name in Spanish…Mono Frijoles, I think? I don’t know. All I ever do with the knowledge of a different language is think up funny names for things and people.

Scene II: Party Number One Continues…

This is a dance party, of sorts. When the door swings open, I catch a glimpse of two people drunkenly dancing in the center of a dim room, to loud-happy music. Everyone else is outside the apartment with me, offering cigarettes, stories, and alcohol. I shake my head no, and look to my right in the direction of the parking lot. Solid sheets of ice are illuminated by the harsh, buzzing streetlights. For a moment it seems like an untouched, pristine ice-skating rink. The streetlight is reflected on the ice, and an ethereal glow appears, giving the parking lot an otherworldly feel. I think the ice looks quite nice like that, and I wonder why can’t it always be like that. I keep staring. A short girl with dreadlocks and a pretty face appears stage right. She is riding her bike on the ice, carrying a backpack, but her wobbly rubber wheels do not withstand the slippery ice. She crashes and her body is splayed out in a heap on the cold, frozen surface. I picture bones cracking, bruises forming, and embarrassment rising to her cheeks. She lays on her back, calm and staring at the heavens. She is stunned, like a bird crashing into a clear, clean window. I watch and wait to see what she will do. She slowly sits up, and reaches for her backpack. She carefully pulls out pieces of glass from two broken 40s and sighs. Still searching in her backpack, she pulls out a third 40, still intact. All is not lost. By now two dashing young lads have come to her rescue, and she is lifted like a feather to her feet. She smiles gratefully as they pick up her bike, and lead her in my direction, toward this party.

I look back to the door, and it opens again. A boy with piercings stands in the doorway, and I stare inside. Glowing red lights line the white walls of the room, and for a moment it feels like a darkroom with no pictures. People are huddled on a couch, in the kitchen drinking beer, and in the hallway near the bathroom. Some are chattering, some are moving their upper bodies to the music’s melody, and others are passed out on the shoulders of friends. There’s so much energy concentrated in one single space, and I wonder if I’m a part of it too. How many other people are doing the same thing as I am tonight? Are they happy? Am I? I glance over to Monkey Beans and find his sad eyes staring back into mine.

Scene III: Party Number One, Later in the Night…

I don’t even know why I’m at another one of these parties. I keep telling myself that every party makes the pathetic attempt to strengthen the human connections between people, right? Somehow, I always seem to miss that connection. If anything, parties give me a chance to observe human nature. But it’s cold out here underneath these rusty metal stairs, and my breath is a small cloud in the air. It mixes with the puff of cigarette fumes and other hot breath, besieging us partygoers in a swirl of hazy white fog. A boy with red hair has introduced himself to me four times. His name is Steve. I’m aware, Steve-four-times-over, that you are indeed the entity called Steve. Go away. The pulse of music agitates my growing headache, my fingers feel funny and numb, and I’m thinking horrible thoughts about these seemingly nice people. I need to get out of here, but I find myself unable to move. Why? What would happen if I just left, and an empty spot were to remain where I once was? The bodies in the cigarette circle would shift, and a new person would be left in my absence. Perhaps that presence would be more enjoyable and lively than mine. Where would I go if I left? What would I do? I’m having fun, aren’t I? No. But I’m enjoying the meaninglessness of it all: The fake compliments, the feigned interest in majors, and the conversation starters. And then something like this happens:

Conversation Option A:

Them: “Do you want a cigarette?”

Me: “No.”

Them: “Want a beer?”

Me: (This answer varies. Depending on how I arrived to the location, or how crappy I feel. Usually I reply:) “Sure. Do you have wine?”

Them: (Bypassing the wine question, they immediately jump into:)“Gosh, you’re tall. How tall are you?”

Me: ( I hate it when they ask this.) “Oh. Uh…somewhere around 5’11.”

Them: (They hand me a beer.) “Wow, that’s so tall. So I heard you say earlier that you’re an English major. That’s neat. What are you going to do with that?”

Me: (I don’t even know how to answer this.) “Oh you know, read. I love reading. Read. Read. Read! I’ll probably teach.”

Them: “Say, what’s your name again?”

Me: (Here it comes.) “Er…Ryan.”

Them: “What an awesome name! I’ve never heard that for a girl before, have you? Those are cute shoes.”

Me: What do you say to this? Well, you don’t. But you do end up staring at your shoes, as if maybe they are somehow to blame for this whole incident. I should have lied about my name, or maybe I should have not worn shoes at all. I could have ditched the shoes on the way to the party, I could have thrown them haphazardly in the backseat, or out the window even, and shown up sans shoes. Upon my arrival to the party, I would burst in the door, shouting, “I’ve got no shoes, ladies and gentlemen! How cute are they?” Okay, maybe that’s a bad thing to do. Don’t do that.

Act II, Scene I: Party Number Two

Our main character, Ryan, is at a different party on a different night. She can still be wearing the same thing, or not. It doesn’t matter. The important thing to remember, is that she is wearing different shoes. Watch those shoes, dear reader. Again, she narrates:

I’m sitting on a sunken futon in a tiny apartment, wedged in-between two girls. They are petite, and beautiful; they wear glamorous eye makeup, dresses, and their eyes glow with excitement. I learn later that it’s probably just the cocaine that makes them so glamorous, so giddy, and so untouchable. I pour myself a glass of wine that I brought, and then the girls start chattering. They turn to me with bloodshot, watery eyes. It goes like this:

Conversation Option B:

Girls: (Taking a swig of beer) “So, Ryan how did you end up here?”

Me: (Taking a sip of wine) “Oh, I told someone I would drop by and say hello for a bit.”

Girls: (Eyeing my wine, and then pointing.) “Can I try some of that?”

Me: (The two girls exchange looks with each other.) “Sure, go ahead.”

Girl 1 to Girl 2: (They pass the glass between each other and begin to titter.) “So, I guess Ryan is making an appearance. She’s doing her social duty for this month. After this she won’t have to go out until April.”

Me to Girl 1: (I smile.) “Yep, just doing my duty. Say, where did you get that tattoo, it looks great. Is that a bird or something?”

Girl 1: (Blushes and turns to talk to someone else on the futon.) “Yeah, it is. Thanks.”

Girl 2: (Handing the wine glass back, empty, she stands and stares at my feet.) “I really like those shoes, I’ve never seen ones like those before. I’ll be right back.”

Me: “Kay.”

Scene II: Party Number Two Continues…

She doesn’t return. I lean back into the futon letting its uncomforting shape engulf me, as I stare out the large window to my right. The night looks cold and unfriendly. The wind is blowing, and occasionally you can feel gusts of wind sideswipe the building. I look around the room, and then pour myself another glass of wine. The apartment is warm and full of people and energy, and I’m thinking about seals. Big, fat, blubbery seals. I take a sip of wine, wondering if anyone can read my thoughts. Seals. I keep thinking of how the seals at Pier 39 in Fisherman’s Wharf just lie there all day in the harbor in a fat stupor, eyes squinted, and barking at the sea gulls baking in the sun. So many people flock to see the seals and massive crowds form at Pier 39, everyday. It’s easier to see them if you go around to the pier right beside of it, Pier 41 or something. There you can stand on the railings without the cluster of little children, and just stare at a hundred or more seals, for however long you like. When you’re standing there watching those seals, you feel as if you’re catching sight of something you shouldn’t. You feel as if you’ve stumbled upon some private, intimate moment, but you find yourself unable to look away. Like a car crash, or a gory horror movie. It just makes it worse that there are all these people around for this seal-gathering. The seals just happily lay there, and occasionally you will see a flipper rise up out of the fat masses. The seal will wave it around and start barking, and then put his flipper back down. Perhaps another will raise his flipper in response. Often you will catch sight of the king seal, the territorial leader of the pack. He continually barks and waddles in place, his flippers flailing about, like he’s having a seizure or something. He dives in and out of the water, barking to the others, commanding authority and respect. Taking a look around the apartment, I stare at my fellow seal-mates. They are content, at ease. I guess the wine is getting to me. I begin to try and identify the king seal. He approaches me before I have a chance to escape:

Conversation Option C

King: (Sitting down on the futon beside me) “Ryan…where have you been all night?”

Me: (Sipping wine) “Here.”

King: (Putting his hand on the back of the futon, close to my back) “Why didn’t you say hello?”

Me: (Sitting up, awkwardly) “I…don’t know.”

King: (Scooting closer, a hand moving near my leg) “What was I doing, Ryan?”

Me: (Looking into his eyes) “Snorting coke or something of the sort, perhaps?

King: (Standing, confused and offended) “Oh. Yes, well. Talk to me later, okay?”

Me: “Will do.”

Scene III: Still Party Number Two: Thoughts on a Futon

I’m a jerk, aren’t I? I’m sipping on my wine, being snobby and judging others by their lifestyle choices. Who am I to attack these innocent people? I’m no better than any of these people I have met. If anything I am either their equal, or worse. Is there a reason behind all of this nonsense? Possibly. I would say that these parties make me feel lonely, but that would be wrong. It’s not so much about being lonely, as it is about being disappointed in almost everyone I meet. They (them, these partygoers) are lackluster, uninteresting, and unquestioning. And I think it’s their lack of curiosity about the world that kills me. It is their complete lack of desire and passion to learn or discover anything new about themselves or each other.

Maybe this is selfish, bitter, and egotistical of me to try and expect that everyone I meet is going to have something to say—something real to say, something to say that I haven’t ever thought about. I am afraid that we are only allowed to exist within the confines of Conversation Options A, B, and C. Moreover, I worry that we have become trapped in the cyclical surface conversations, and have forgotten how to dig deeper and really interact with each other. Why has the heart of every conversation been ripped out, and left with nothing but entrails, mere fragments of a whole, which amount to nothing more than a conversation about shoes. These surface conversations make me feel dead inside, and I wonder if others feel like it too. Instead of digging deeper, we are covering each other up. Is this why we drink ourselves silly, and resort to drugs for escapism? Who knows. I have exhausted myself on themed parties and glitzy soirées; my reward is only to be let down by all of you. I have tried to find some human connection, only to be overwhelmed with the monstrosity of human nature. Maybe I have it all wrong. I hope so. But maybe the real answer is that we need to return to something, to nature—to something else. A return to the essence of life, perhaps? Because this isn’t working for me.

Act III, Scene I: Again, Party Number Two: A Flicker Of Life

Ryan has decided to get up and dance, because sometimes Party Number Two, or any party for that matter, has the ability to morph into something entirely different, and unexpected. She narrates:

A little drunk, I wobble over to the group of dancing people. Everyone is in their own little world, seemingly happy and intoxicated by the alcohol and pulsating rhythm of music. Here your energy and thoughts can get lost in the dim rope lights near the window, the shadows of moving bodies reflected on the walls, and the upbeat music that vibrates and resonates in tiny apartments. While dancing we all come together and share a mutual moment, lost in the excitement and innocence of a song. We create a feeling, and for a split second, we might even be happy. I look up from my dance entrancement, and find a friend sitting near the window, by himself. I walk over to him, panting and out of breath, but smiling. He motions for me to sit down beside him, I do, and then this happens:

Conversation Option D:

Him: (Looking into my eyes) “This is fun, you know?”

Me: (Staring back, grinning and full of energy) “Yeah, it is. This dancing, this loosing ourselves. I wish it were always this simple.”

Him: (A shift in mood. He looks down at the floor, perhaps staring at our shoes) “But it isn’t, is it?

Me: (Lost in the pattern of my shoes. They are green and suede and ruined by rain.) “No. Things complicate things. People complicate things. We loose meaning, we loose passion. We loose desire. (Looking up.) I have to ask you something.”

Him: (Staring at my face, searching) “Yeah, go ahead.”

Me: (Meeting his eyes, then focusing a gaze at the people dancing) “Do you love her?”

Him: (He sighs, pauses before answering, and stares at my face, confused. My gaze remains fixed on the dancers. I can see him in my peripheral vision, and his brow is wrinkled.) “No. I don’t. And I can’t pretend anymore. There’s just no spark, there’s no real connection that drives me. There isn’t any love with her, and when there isn’t, you feel that absence. It’s horrible.”

Me: (Looking to him.) “I know that feeling. And it’s the worst. It consumes you—that knowing, that feeling that won’t go away. It’s that dark possibility that you are utterly incapable of loving someone else, besides yourself. (Turning away, staring at the dancers) You start to wonder if you will ever truly love someone, or even just be passionate about the circumstances you’re in.”

Him: (Concerned, staring at the ground) “Do you love him?”

Me: (Biting a cuticle, joking.) “I can’t answer that. I’m too afraid to. Ask me later.”

Him: (Laughing) “That’s fair. You’re right though.”

Me: (Staring into his eyes, searching) “About what?”

Him: (Returning my stare, then looking away.) “About everything.”

Scene II: Party Number Two, Later That Night

Ryan is still sitting on the futon, but will leave soon. She has not remained on the futon the entire night, only most of it. If you aren’t entirely drunk, and if you manage to catch her face in just the right light, you will notice that she is a bit sad. Again, she narrates:

My wine has worn off, the music has slowed to a mellow beat—a harmonious acoustic something or other, and I am left watching the last of the party people chatter quietly. By this time of night, we are all left in an introspective trance. Nothing has happened, and nothing will happen. What has been said, or not said tonight? Maybe it’s the aftermath of the wine, maybe not, but I feel smothered and I have to get out of here.

Scene III: Party Number Two, The End of the Hall

Ryan walks down the narrow hallway, and the lights begin to dim as she moves farther away from the remaining partygoers. As she reaches for the doorknob leading to the exit, in almost complete darkness, she thinks:

Sometimes within the cluster of plump seals at Pier 39, you will see one or two seals away from the rest of the group. They are isolated and on a different plank of wood. At first glance these seals are unnoticeable, but looking closer you realize that they are a different type of seal. They are smaller, and with a few spots. Sometimes they bare scars, manmade or seal-born, I do not know. These seals aren’t lying down, but rather they have propped themselves up, with one flipper transfixed in the air. When the weight becomes too much, they trade flippers. The odd seals continue this pattern until a larger seal, perhaps the king seal, comes along and pushes them off. They are then given a choice: they can either repeat the entire process over again by fighting for their plank of wood, or just swim away, in search of a new place.

If...

Even if our memories were erased, would we still find a way back to each other?

Cookie Eating Extremes and Other Nonsense

I have little to report on, but I'm going to babble on anyway and pretend everything I write here tonight is the most IMPORTANT THING EVER. If it seems like I'm screaming, it's probably because I AM all jacked up on all butter shortbread cookies with chocolate filling. And I am so hyper but confined to my room with all this energy. By the end of this post I will have suffered an immense sugar crash, so all will be well. I'm going to keep eating these as I write because they seem to have some secret motivation that keeps me going. Even if this is in the form of sugar-highs, I will take them anytime, thankyouverymuch.

I digress.

Actually have lots of news to report that is fairly exciting, as far as summertime things go:

I should start in the order that these things happened...

I went home for two weeks to visit family and friends in Albemarle and Asheville, North Carolina. While I had a nice trip, Asheville lacks the pizazz it once had. Or maybe it never had it. Or maybe my life was just that much more exciting a few years ago, and I'm constantly in this state of trying to find it again, only to be met with a resounding answer of: NEVER AGAIN WILL YOU HAVE FUN EVER. Yet I did manage to go swimming, discover a secret carnival full of angry carnies in the parking lot of a Barnes and Noble, drink myself silly on rum and make an alarm clock with a googly-eyed goose on it with my friend Parker, and discover the astounding fact that there are people in the world named Tooty. Yes, that's right: TOOTY.




(A side note, the snooze button on the goose-clock was superglued by none other than Parker. And yes that is an Army man on the goose's back, with complimenting googly-eyed horse stickers, and a shielding tiki umbrella)

Moving on, my festivities in my hometown of Albemarle, circa nowheresville, was actually more laid back, and in that respect, more fun. Whereas in Asheville I struggled in vain to figure out what to do with myself, Albemarle forces its inhabitants to face the fact that there is nothing to do. So I enjoyed myself immensely. I managed to meet up with a few friends from high school, and we wandered around together until my departure. I'm glad they haven't disowned me, because I do enjoy their company, and hope that someday they will come to visit.


The cookies are gone. I am awaiting a sugar crash. Anymomentnow.

While in Albemarle, I received news that I was nominated for a trip to go to the Oregon Shakespeare Festival for free. Myself and three other graduate students are headed to Oregon for a week. The trip is in July, and I'm taking my first California roadtrip. I'm pretty excited about this aspect of the journey. That and we get to see lots of plays for free, and go back stage, and talk about Shakespeare.

Since returning from Albemarle, I have been working just about every day on campus in the English office. It feels like zombies are walking around in some sort of sad stupor with no motivation to attack anyone. No one wants to be there, and yet there are these lifeless personas floating around, trying to finish up their college careers. The only non-zombie I encountered was a student (who shall remain unidentified except for his insane actions) who needed to register for a class that was closed. When informing him of this, he proceeded to slam his fist down on the counter, grunt in a primitive-cavemanish manner, and then chuck a gnarled and twisted paperclip at my head. Naturally, I assumed something like this would happen, so I managed to duck before it hit me. Standing up, my 5'11 frame was no match for his 5'5 stature, so he backed down when I told him politely to LEAVE NOW.

Moreover, in August I am hoping to move into my own place, my first apartment. A studio of some sort (I hope). I have decided rather rashly that I want and need to live by myself for at least a year, possibly longer. I found a place that was pretty much perfect last week, but like the big idiot that I am sometimes, I decided not to sign the lease. My only excuse is that I simply had a bad feeling about it. But, I suppose I need to start packing, if only a little. My current living situation is fairly complicated, and anyone that knows me probably realizes that it is far time for me to leave. I have already told my landlady, and that wasn't exactly easy, and she did go a little nutso, but I think things have calmed down. For now.

As for my thesis, I have it narrowed down to three ideas that are entirely different from one another. I figure this is my only time in graduate school, and probably the last time in my life that I will be in school, so why not write about something I am truly curious and passionate about. Who cares if everyone else thinks it's bullshit.

And lastly, this past Saturday, I made the extremely impulsive decision to attending an open casting call here in the city. I went all by myself and it was more than terrifying. I had a few pictures taken, a brief interview, and I had to successfully "walk" for two representatives of the company. I'll find out next week if they want to "represent" me. We'll see what happens. At least now I know what to expect.

Until next time.

I Want To Scream

Because my landlady is snoring SO LOUD and I'm trying SO HARD to finish this MEANINGLESS paper that my BRAIN IS GOING TO DIE RIGHT NOW.

That is all.

The Dream-Like Wonder of Ducks Galore

Usually this time of year I am (1) sleep deprived, (2) unable to sleep or (3) procrastinating so much that sleep becomes oblivious, as do my urgent assignments.

These "assignments" will have to wait long enough for me to jabber on with nonsense for the time being.

My first year of graduate school is almost over and I feel okay with that feeling. More than anything I want to be finished, so I can feel like I have finally started something by finishing something. Although, moving across the country counts for something, I suppose. And yet, I have the nagging feeling that I've not yet begun anything. Whether this be papers, short stories, or just that small progress toward some imaginary accomplishment--I still feel that it hasn't yet started.

L
I
M
B
O

Down the page and through my messy life to (dot) (dot) (dot)

I cleaned my room tonight. That's an accomplishment of a sort. My library fees cancel that out, but hey, who's keeping count of THOSE motherfuckers?

I feel like sharing a mini-story of my restless night last night:

I wake up and the sky is still dark. I figure it must be around 4 a.m. ish. Correctly I discover this after stumbling into a pile of books, crashing back into my bed and into the safety of my warm covers. Too bad the heat is blasting and I can't breathe. The covers fly off. Fuck. My brain refuses to shut off. Instead of bickering to myself in the dark like an old grumpy lady, I turn to my iphone on and begin to read the entirety of the New York Times articles. Every last one of them online. Done. Accomplished. Wide Awake. I toss and turn. Fuck. I move on to the last resort, ahem, craigslist, naturally. I sort my way through the job ads, brousing for the off chance that one day I will stumble upon the perfect job that has no name, or description, but instead CALLS OUT TO ME FROM THE ABYSS THAT IS THE INTERNET, in only the way craigslist could muster, screaming in 12 point times font: I AM PERFECTION INCARNATE AND NO ONE BUT YOU DESERVES THIS JOB...WHATEVER THAT MAY BE.

I'll keep going, because I'm about to get to the good part and away from all this crap. I move on to the pets section. I'm staring at pictures of abandoned dogs and lost parrots, guinea pigs and hermit crabs without a cage or sand trap to call home. Pages of bunnies with clever names like Alfred and Seymour and Bogie the Bunny. Nobody wants those poopmachines. No one. A lost cat with a pink flashing collar, a lost lizard named Steve, and then lo and behold something entirely random and impossible happens. I stumble upon something like this in the glorious hour of 5:15 a.m.

Breed of ducks that don't make too much noise?

---

Reply to: comm-ccycr-1154763254@craigslist.org ^{[Errors when replying to ads?]}
Date: 2009-05-04, 6:00PM PDT


I live in San Francisco, but I have a big backyard and we are building a nice pond.

I wanted to get ducks, but I don't want loud ones so as to disturb neighbors. Is there such thing as quiet ducks? I am especially worried that they will be loud at night.

Is there by any chance some bizarre breed of quiet ducks? I know that is a stretch.

********************************************************************************

I feel like at this point, everyone should slow down and realize the absurdity of the situation here. Maybe, just maybe I'm beginning to sound like a whackjob, but honestly folks? I laughed so loud I think I woke everyone in the house up. I hid under the covers giggling like some kid at a slumber party. Non-quacking ducks? Fucking QUIET DUCKS? God what the hell.

Speaking of ducks, I hope everyone took note of the two ducks that somehow landed in front of my office window this morning while I was at work. Two mallards wandered into the grassy area in front of the Humanities building at SF State. I'm sure all my friends back in North Carolina are taking eager note of this great accomplishment for the water fowl species. The nerve of those fuckers to just come in and take over and do whatever it is that ducks do in front of English buildings. They just stayed there and waddled around. Later in class I began asking around to see how many observent English majors took note of this odd phenomenon, and only one responded in equal confusion and astoundment.

I have so many stories that are backlogged because of classes. Oh this summer will prove to be glorious for catching up and relaxing and just enjoying things again.

Until next time, keep tabs on quiet ducks.