When I lived in DC, as I’ve probably written here before, I used to put up stickers all over the place. I’d print these mailing labels with weird sentences and paragraphs on them. I’d stick them on the commuter trains, on the backs of signs, on newspaper boxes... just about anywhere. Sometimes I’d be in a neighborhood after a long absence, and I’d see one of my stickers still there - six months later, a year. It was such a thrill. There’s one sticker I put up on the escalator outside of my job. I had seen other stickers stuck there, but they never lasted in that particular spot. The cleaning crew was very thorough. Mine lasted in that spot for some reason - they never scraped it off - all the way through my last day at that job. I saw it as I went down that escalator for the last time. I bet it’s still there.

I guess it lasted there because it was kind of official looking. No art work. Just words. It looked like a warning label or instructions or something. Small print. It was from an old blog post, it said roughly the following:

What if they forced you to sit there and type up every single memory you could recall from your entire life? Eventually your typed account would reach the present time, and the words you would type at this confluence would be these: I was forced to sit here. I was forced to type. I was typing. I was typing. I was typing. Now I continue to type. I'm typing. I'm typing.


1. Astronauts as high school mascots? They’re not fearsome enough. Astronauts come in peace.

2. At the beach there was a small swarm of dragon flies hovering and darting around us, visiting - not really bothering anybody - looking here, hovering there, circling, zig zagging. Then a gust of wind came, and they were all gone . . . further down the beach, I guess... checking in on other people. I like dragon flies.

3. Even with your back turned on somebody, you can tell they’re looking at you - if they’re talking, that is. You can tell that their head is turned your way by the directness of their sound waves -- it’s like sonar.

4. A box of fresh AMMO in the microwave oven set on high -- no running start, obviously

5. Sometimes: You first hear about a particular school - one of those little old high schools three counties over in the boonies - when a kid from the school drives drunk and wrecks.

6. Space tourism. She laughed. And her veil floated away.


Crying? No, yawning. Yawning makes my eyes water sometimes. But you could change the radio away from that song if you really wanted to be helpful.


Some random thoughts:

I’m allowed to write even if nobody reads what I write.
I like blogs that aren’t about anything in particular - just people writing about their lives. People are at least experts on their own lives.
Sometimes I have a hard time writing comments under blog postings that are poems.
Sometimes I have a hard time writing comments under blog postings that are very sad.
Blog postings that are poems and blog postings that are very sad are the two most important types of blog postings.
I sleep poorly on Sunday nights because I dread Monday so much.
Monday’s go by quicker for me - I’m so busy and tired it’s just a blur, a lucky blur where I don’t track time, and before I know it it’s over with.
I should enjoy every minute of my life - even 9:01am Monday morning.
Yesterday I stepped outside to try and spot the space shuttle ascending into space, the launch wasn't that far from here, I saw the last one go up, but this time it was too cloudy.
Other people had stepped outside too, but since it was too cloudy, we just looked across the parking lot at each other shrugging.
Last time a space shuttle re-entered the atmosphere, it made a loud double pop: POP POP - like double thunder - louder than thunder.
What if you could find your place in life early, and establish yourself there, and then, with the whole rest of your life - dedicate it to enlightenment . . .

I am okay if I earn at least this much money: $__ per __.
I am okay if I live in a neighborhood with this much safety: __.
I am okay if I have a car that runs or some reasonable means of transportation.
I am okay if I have enough to eat.
Beyond this, I don’t need anymore stuff. I don’t need anymore money. Give it to somebody else. With my critical needs met, I am now free to think . . . about . . . whatever . . . WHATEVER I DECIDE IS IMPORTANT TO ME. Religion? Philosophy? Sociology? Literature? News? A combination of all of these that I COMBINE WITH MY OWN THINKING

I just want a bit of time to think. I think I can earn enough money to live on, and still have a lot of time to think. A lot of quality time to think. I can even do some of my own thinking as I work. Some. But I can get out that door at a reasonable time and get home and think. I can turn on the TV and ignore it and just think. I can turn on the radio, I can play some tunes, and I can think. I can read, and I can think. I can make guesses about whether there’s an after life, about whether ghosts exist. About justice - whether it exists. About what truly matters. Whether it matters only to me. Whether I should be trying to convince others. Whether I should let them be. Unless they ask.
Go into a bar with two brand new pens and an empty notebook. Go at the beginning of happy hour. Go alone. Sit right at the bar. Start drinking. Start writing. Stay there as long as you can. Keep writing. Drink drink after drink. Fill page after page. Draw pictures too if necessary. Don’t say anything at all except when you have to order another drink. As you get drunker and drunker, and your handwriting gets bigger and wilder, and the things that you’re writing become wilder and wilder, and more and more people have peeked at what you are doing - what you are writing - and more and more people begin to point at you and whisper - including the staff - especially the staff - then, my friends . . . then! That’s when.


. . . changing my name to a brief moment of silence, spelling it with underscores . . . the symptoms are there, but there's no condition. The symptoms: sleeplessness or fitful sleep, grinding my teeth during the few, short patches of sleep, waking and rehashing undesirable memories, sporadic irritability . .. but - everything seems to be happening at its proper time. I’m learning the new job - cramming so much stuff into my head - that’s all my brain has time and energy for - and this new knowledge - I know will not transfer to any other job, I’m useful here, but when this temp job is done I’m useless again.

Is my blog just for complaining? One day I’ll get on here and start out a post by saying, “WHATAGREATDAY!”

If you have free weekends and evenings, you should call one of these old things and just talk to whomever answers.


Sometimes when I’m driving to or from work, I see families just standing in weird spots beside the road. I wonder, did their car get stolen when they came on their big trip to Disney World? Or are they on foot and trying to decide where to go next. Disney World and the surrounding counties constitute a vast galaxy of points of sale. There are places to dump your money in all directions for miles: flea markets, bumper cars, airboat rides, helicopter rides, putt putt golf, bungie and other towering body sling shot type structures. But - It’s weird sometimes - I mean - they will be standing next to the highway and there’s nothing, they’re four or five exits from any of the attractions . . . standing there looking kind of bewildered. Have they decided to stake out these square feet of ‘paradise’ for themselves . . . as long as they are relatively close to Disney, it’s still paradise - and they're standing there - living it. I wonder if they are about to lose one of their family members to the allure of Disney - they’re trying to convince their dad or their son or their daughter not to wander off into the central Florida thicket - becoming a Disney homeless person. People come to Disney World to live homelessly - that is certain. I would. If I was going to be homeless, I’d do it in Florida.


TV’s Closed Caption Typists

You can tell when they get behind and start to panic
these strange characters appear - little squares, dots or spaces
question marks
TV’s Closed Caption Typists don’t apologize
TV’s Closed Caption Typist is not afraid to make a typing error
“Just spell what you hear,” they were instructed during training

I only use the ‘CC’ command on my remote when
I am playing music or just trying to be quiet out in the TV room

TV’s Closed Caption Typist must compete with the scrolling
news stories newscasters run at the same time they talk
I am taking in approximately four streams of information
five, if there are subtitles necessary
subtitle writers look down on monolingual TV Closed Caption Typists

TV’s Closed Caption Typist might have been a court reporter at one time
or just your average data entry person with bigger dreams
TV’s Closed Caption Typist has to do alpha and numeric
I would probably last approximately fifteen minutes
as a TV Closed Caption Typist
maybe TV’s Closed Caption Typist once tried to decide:
become a TV Closed Caption Typist
or read to the blind on an auxiliary NPR frequency

TV’s Closed Caption Typist will miss typing a phrase
to take a sip of coffee
sometimes the machine that the TV’s Closed Caption Typist
uses gets jammed, and it just leaves a weird splash of characters
on the screen all the way through the commercial break

sometimes TV’s Closed Caption Typist will type what is said in commercials
sometimes they do not - they spare us
I wonder how they decide.


I want to be a better person.

But not if it makes things dull.

(GODDAMMITT!! Isn't that terrible?!?!)


I will now post something to this blog every single day, no matter what. Even if it is only the ingredients for the Oats & Honey Crunchy Granola Bar I ate that day: rolled oats, sugar, canola oil, honey, brown sugar . . . . because my days are too few not to have blog postings on each one.


Half hour for lunch?!.?! You can’t do much in half an hour - I’ll tell you that. I take my lunch out in my car and listen to this ‘oldies’ radio show called the Nooner on O Rock 105.9. Of course, by oldies, they mean anything that came out before the year 2000. I guess if you’re fifteen, sixteen, whatever, pre-2000 is ancient in terms of music.

In the morning on the way to work I alternate between NPR news and this jazz station, WUCF. On the jazz station, at 7:30, DJ Alan Rock plays the Sinatra 3-Pack - three Frank Sinatra tunes right in a row, right when I am in the most intense moments of my morning commute. Maybe a more appropriate selection for the morning road wars would be Slayer or Agnostic Front or Bad Brains . . . but . . . you know . . . Franky Baby keeps it kind of cool like. Dig?

Work! They have a zero tolerance policy for internet usage at work. And that just plane sucks. That sucks and the seating situation sucks.

When you’re a temp, you have to take whatever seat is free. A worker is sick, or a worker is on vacation - you sit at their desk. It gives you the chance to tamper with all the stuff that they keep at their desk: if they have toys - play with them, if they have candy - eat it, if they have scented lotions - moisturize your entire body. I like to take their stack of sticky notes and flip about two thirds of the way into the stack, and then I write a weird message. They’ll find it in a month or so. Also, you can stare very intensely into their vacation photos and imagine what that shit must have been like.