oh_aitch

uncle dead now, too, following a grandmother, a grandfather, another grandfather (about eighteen years ago), and my dreams. maybe my dreams are only deferred, but where the fuck does that leave these individuals? deference cannot last beyond tangible times, now, can it? yeah.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4ow0bA4H3BQ&feature=related

and it is all that ever occurs. there is no discernible difference in the pattern of events; sure, names change, and faces too.... but tell me all about the other night and it is forgettable. i regret ever beginning the beautiful process.

the music of animal collective, and smoking marijuana and drinking whisky: these things make me happy. as the weather yields politely to an autumn worth mentioning, i begin to yearn to write letters. the cessation of smoking cigarettes, however, is wretched. i wonder if it in fact helps anything. certainly my respiratory system appreciates the effort, but my everything else..., well, no.

let me say that two thousand and nine was wild. definitely the most crazy year of my existence. plenty of discoveries were made; i found out that i am unique to some unquantifiable degree; i think i told myself i could never love.

i've awoken on countless occasions recently and mentioned that i should quit smoking everything. it is impossible. you want an olympic event? the genuine concern of self implicit the act of quitting smoking! i have already determined that the people among us who have never tried are courageous, but weird (or weirdly oriented). it is definitely recommended. but then stop. and do it every so often, around cameras, or the "cool." good luck getting the bronze.

discovering new music is something immediately gratifying and i hope to continue, everyday, on a pathway leading to new and ever intriguing music. sometimes, the radio provides content. mostly, however, it is the internet these days, ofttimes leading us into a direction decidedly modern, amusing, interesting, and "creative."

the final word of that paragraph is quotation marked for the purpose of disclaiming that not all material is inherently creative, but that it is most certainly original--a feat, i suppose, these days, as the cosmos continue to shrink (while contemporaneously expanding), thanks to the very medium that today i am heralding: the internet.

i am not even truly heralding. let me put some fish sticks in the oven, so that you may simmer and glimmer over the prospect, though, that i might toot so majestic a horn one decade too late. perfectly seasoned, flaky, with a delightful lemon zest applied in the batter--mmm mmm.

it is the department of eagles, grizzly bear, animal collective, and others whose musings move something that clicks and hits synapses into the nighttime. a life force during the day, reminding one of the better things in life, the good stuff that people can and are on occasion able to produce. the sweet melodies never stop at this age; amen.

good god it never gets better, though the worsening is so grey a process that it is nearly immutable. they say it keeps getting better, all the time. maybe when the coffee is fresh this holds some truth. but when i take a sip of water, or a gulp, i get salubrious for a moment. fleeting senses tell me that the swallow has taken place, i can even feel it in my torso, if it is cold enough--if the coffee is hellacious enough.

i made my mark down the street one score and three nights ago when ms. anderson--of house 813, down on the left--needed help unloading furniture from her sport utility vehicle. she was shaping the couch of her concern to be something small and manageable, gesticulating on my front porch, obliging my services, smiling unnaturally large, with conspicuous duration and cloying intensity. as i remained largely non-responsive in between swigs of beer, she mentioned the weather and the recent road construction on a nearby thoroughfare, utilizing emphatic inflections that were meant to licit conversation, or simple syllabic structures. anything.

"lady, this is not mister rogers' neighborhood. i don't have the time of day, so far as you fucking know. this is ridiculous. i saw that damn thing; it's huge, and you're crazy. i am going back inside to drink my beer. thank you for your understanding, and best of luck."

realizing the season, i rather promptly added, "happy thanksgiving!" and as she walked away, i remained able to experience her perfume, as it ravaged my pulmonary system and stung my soft palate. that bitch.

no joke: it wasn't a week later that i would get anonymous, irregular retributive acts, gifts or other talismanic objects strewn about my property. being a neighborhood, do not imagine acreage. i mean directly, this woman would enter my home and leave figurines and pamphlets in highly visible locations throughout the main living areas, the garage, the shower, and eventually the six pack of beer itself.

seems she thinks that alcohol might have been the cause of my outburst. in fact, it was the reason, not the cause, for my outburst. my cause came organically through simple interpretation of neighborly etiquette, consideration for one's fellow man, and a respect for privacy. my reason was because she might have been treading more than lightly on my good time, on my night off at home. but seriously: the sun was down for the day. what do normal people do at night?

read, watch television, take a walk, sleep, drink a beer, &c. getting the gumption to go knocking on a nearby (if you're not next door, we're not familiar) neighbor's door to solicit favors? for what? why? don't you have friends you might call? how did you get it in there?

but this is just a simple checklist in my mind that automatically justified my statement in my brain, before being given the go ahead somewhere else in the cortex and being ejaculated with a tinge of defeat almost one month ago. the gifts she leaves i re-gift when i walk the dog. he doesn't like them anyway.

there were blizzards outside and everyone hooted and hollered to a theme song from the eighties, perhaps it was a prime-time event every wednesday. but it was so cold you could not pay too much notice without conjuring images of frosty the snowmen and women dancing with carrots for noses, digging into the ground with the special softness that only snow exhibits, a kind friction that scoots sordidly out of the way whenever snowmen and women pass, offering exclusive peeks of symbiotic routine and made more interesting for the fact of hegemony. it was so cold i took off my robe because it simply was not doing anything. i sat frustrated instead, inches from the space heater, naked and alarmingly high, entranced by the spectacle from my bedroom window

there was no warning. they immediately drugged me and took me away. it was beautifully orchestrated, and i only acquiesced so that they might not break my nose. ouch.

i remember tugs of the collar, and i bit back. i had blood in my mouth that night, but i recall having forever a bleeding gum that was irritated whenever i would actually brush my teeth.

late night television was hell. but i stood (and sat) strong.

what you do is
you slip this line into your hands
it slips along the fingertips
it plays with your palms
it bristles outward on the outer reaches of fingerprint

how unique! you are!
and i love you every moment
the way that your hair smells
and the sometimes funny nature that is your harmonious,
synchronous laugh! i love your laugh!

i sleep sometimes, and awake &
i never, ever eat until i've smoked something
and thought of your earnest, honest face
jerking off into the sunset
my waterloo is so plaintive.

the kind of thrift i imagine is blanketed in pink negligees, and i cannot distinguish where economy and form/function coincide, and i cannot talk about frayed necklines, because i have not personally experienced the thrifty negligee phantasmagoria. it is safely the real estate of daydreams.

days that produce daydreams are oddly seasoned in that i cannot always settle on just one kind of content. there is this seeming need to always relocate, do something different and live in the present for a few moments. bike rides are best for this sort of thing. soon, my bicycle will be amazing. the addition of a new handlebar setup and change of saddle will make a world of difference--consider that these are two of the three contact areas you engage with while riding. it will make, now, time spent not typing, but biking, never content.

this friday has been different. but not in so many ways that it is disconcerting or anything.

for starters, i have the same socks, shirts, sweater, and pants that i wore last night and into this early morning. i awoke around nine thirty, but retired once more and woke up late for class. eleven o'clock is when we commence english class downtown, but i arrived a half an hour later. it was good that i went, though, as i was able to pick up our assignment and then find out that the fallacy presentations will occur monday. sunday, i will prepare my presentation.

my coffee consumption for the day: high. this is to cope mostly with the fact that the washer machine is dispensing water onto the ground in our utility room. not that much, but enough to be considerably inconvenient. and then there is the fact that i work tonight. the fifth day in a row of working, with one more to follow.

but because of the washer, i have cleaned the house today with the help of my roommate and she also re-arranged the living area as well as the porch. i like it. something about new arrangements that refresh one's residence--like a whole new dwelling. when your leisure time is almost entirely spent outside, it is drastic and defining when the way you conceive the ambience changes. the ambience, too, is bettered or made worse for similar though altogether unrelated ways. it is a mesh of perceptions. also, the work of cleaning and doing dishes makes it feel as though my capacity for laboring is being met. when the quota is nearly full, motivation declines. this is the reason for the coffee.

dependence is slighting, though freeing. and somewhere in between i find that i am so lucky to preserve my foibles. they are bettering.

is for me to head to the common grounds on second avenue every monday. i am already full of drink, and there is much to say, over ever more drink, at this establishment so frequented by the commonplace people and background of downtown gainesville. in florida, i think, we make more of the weather than needs to be made--and we never carry along the umbrellas when we can well expect the flood. the deluge tonight is only one example.

taking responsibility into my own hands, i soon graduate from a community college with an associate's degree in english. yippee.

thinking back, this is not the future. two thousand and nine, the year of many wars being waged, includes a personal triumph over finances. this coffeehouse career is something entirely pleasant and has been much fun, owing greatly to the community feel of my position behind the espresso bar. whenever i want to fuck it, i take a cigarette break and exhale my stresses as so many smokestacks polluting my father land; in doing so, i tighten further a connection loosely based on abstract paragraphs penned in commentaries made daily the center of our downtrodden environ: social, economic, and political.

it is for posterity that i maintain ever more rigid posture and an increased inclination to drink into the twilight, squinting for an evolving horizon somewhere beyond my sight.

the incredible urge to do something, feel accomplished. the incredible urge to not do a thing. it is collectively exacted from my inner-being. i am static.

my mind has read less and less with every passing year since senior year of high school. this is not to maintain sanity, but in an effort to mount an aspiration for normalcy and wealth. senseless. my combination falters with every passing week.

the dirt in the grout. the shit you wipe with toilet paper. never removed entirely. accruing incessantly.