The Intellectual Scourge of Earth.
......
“indeed, we both continue to present this image, though useage of our superb nomenclature. Pehaps we'll have intreging conversation on nothing,”
-Jackson Parker (MSN racket)
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The reason I am writing this article is to help us become more aware of the world we live in. It has come to many people’s attention that the Internet community, Facebook, has been selling all our information to third party recipients. The people running the site were able to make a large amount of money by tricking people into voluntarily handing over information as personal as friendships to corporate giants.
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It is a simple exercise in rewording a well-established book that is defeating our human minds. That is to say, we are wasting our time reading intellectual garbage that is impossible to dissect and even more difficult to translate into understandable terms. We all have read these documents, whether it is some terms of use agreement hiding a third party informational sales agreement or simply an inbred Bourgeoisie hiding his lack of motivation and skills behind troubling words. This form of writing has been around for as long as literature itself. For as long as there have been class structures to maintain, self-righteous, overeducated professors have been reiterating common themes and ideas in difficult to understand ways.
So, I was thinking aloud and stomping about my flat, debating the merits of the nature of my existence. I tend to understand this sort of writing by filtering out the useless, pointless and redundant phrases. This makes me an intellectual sophisticate in training, I assume, but I will not go down without a fight. I’ve tried to ignore my self righteous garble about the erroneous use of enormous words and find myself mixing another cup of black coffee. An album I do not enjoy was spinning around the turntable, but as Fleetwood Mac runs quickly out of steam I decide to finally write this piece.
Intellectualism is the curse of the upper echelons of urban society. Education is a wonderful thing; it allows one to regurgitate cumbersome variations of simplified, basic philosophical ideas. It is the idea I acquired from Noam Chomsky on a blissful summer day at a music festival. Paraphrased, Chomsky wrote that one does not need to know anything or break new ground to be a highly respected intellectual thinker. Academic writing is simply an exercise in redundancy, an assignment in which you find who the audience is and state their opinions in a difficult to read manor. We have all seen documents that prove this form of writing is transparent.
It is those writers who attempt to be respected through this uninspired work that should be addressed with this simple theory: If you are writing by using words only useful for confusing the reader, you have nothing to say. You are trying to weasel your way into respectability by alluding to your wisdom and educational track-marks by using phrases and thoughts that you do not understand. If you understood what it is that you were attempting to write you could do so in plain English, without the extensive thesaurus hopping.
I have found a simple formula to find if an article, book or essay is useless. If I cannot understand it I attempt to translate the words into readable English. This is done with the use of a brain or a thesaurus. Words such as “Erroneous” can be translated simply as “Wrong.” This use of language is an easy way to confuse a simpler reader enough to scare him from the passage and place the writer on a pedestal above his assumed grasp of literature. It is a simple way to sound smart, when nothing is being said. Many have read this as the language of the learned, but it is the polar opposite.
This mockery of insecure socialite rhetoric serves very little purpose besides allowing the few able literate fellows another topic to argue. The reason for pursuing a topic as broad as this is to pull away those who are misfortunate enough to believe that redundant overuse of superfluous adjectives is another word for being smart. It is a mockery of language to use these phrases and draw from unnecessary philosophical questions in relation to simple, every day ideas.
This is a common trend when the writer is generally unaware of what the writing assignment is or is genuinely apathetic about the quality of the piece. This is the work of a writer who knows very little besides previously declared ideas and is working at filling space on a page, not a breakthrough in thought provoking material. Even though this style of writing is frowned upon and we are taught to avoid it at all costs it is far too simple to slip through the school system with obscure ramblings unchecked.
One can say more in simple terms than in obscure phrases and therefore we should be aware of these devices. Confusing terms are often intentionally placed in documents for less than noble reasons, whether it is to sound wiser or to confuse a reader into signing his bank information over to a wolf-like businessman.
26.4.07
a month old article that was hacked to bits for the school paper...
We were drinking red wine at a small yellow restaurant and discussing the finer points of art and literature, or perhaps an odor, until we walked in a stupor down the road to the finest bar in town. A central location and lakeshore hotel kept the clients high grade. The music hutch was two blocks from the bar on the water, but they seemed worlds apart. There was a lot of money in the latter, and a lot of cocaine.
It would be safe to assume the drugs tonight had been provided by a group of three Red and Whites. I remember the three of them as loud, powerful and hate filled. The drinks were flowing and there was a pile of cash on the table. I remember a small man of large stature with beady eyes and a broken nose becoming very upset as three women left his table. The leader of their pack swung down upon my friend and I and offered her a drink. She politely declined, on account of my reservations about their personalities, which led to an angry burst from the man’s nose as he stormed away.
A few minutes later I was relieving myself in the men’s room the beady-eyed man stormed in on me, smiled and punched me. This leads to a small confrontation of words, in which I somehow managed to outwit the monster. He raises his fist again and smiled as I washed my hands in the sink. He mumbled something about how I was about to “get it” and storms out before I do. I follow behind him and join my friend, who is chatting up some real estate agent.
The large man stomps over and sternly invites me to join his table, and I obliged. My new best friend sat me down and showed a large stack of money he was very proud of to have. The bouncer is near by as his friend shouted, about the money, his car, his gang banging lifestyle and how “he don’t need to drug a hoe’s drink,” due to the money. My pal from the restroom has a white rock on his left nose hair, but I didn’t mention it. He finishes his part of the conversation with a fist swinging towards my head, which I narrowly escaped.
I begin to speak and one of the men tries to call the bouncer over, but he stands in one place. The man on the far left appears sad in the deep of his blue eyes, but holds the money tight and interrupts me. He asks if that’s my girlfriend, and I answer no, and the large man asks “The why did you send back our drink?” I did not know the correct answer to this question. He again mentions the thirty thousand dollars on the table and his yellow Corvette.
I apologized for disrespected their way of life, and excuse myself for a cigarette. I am on the patio and it is mid winter, the waves are crashing but the heaters are on and a small man, like a young boy walks up to me and we begin talking. He explains he has my back, which eventually spins into “They are not allowed to be here.”
This was my first taste of organized crime. I knew it existed, I knew there were bad people in my neighborhood, but I did not know the extent of the crime. It seems years of preaching non-violence and D.A.R.E. kid campaigns have created an underbelly of twenty something’s that are elevated in the drug trafficking world. A contempt for others and racism only paralleled by their own hard drug use.
I remember when crystal meth took over this town. I remember the zombies, lost in their own delusions and the 30 year old drug dealers they looked up to. These speed addicts eventually become dealers and the money, prestige and power turn young boys in drug-addicted buffoons, with minds as narrow as their eyes. I suppose you would always be happy if you continued to do the things you enjoy. This theory makes sense logically, but I saw a very different story coming from the shallow blue eyes of the youngest of the three.
It is said that humans only hate others if they threaten them. I think this may go back to our primal territorial instincts and it is apparent nearly everywhere. I was sitting in a smoking room at a different club on a very different night, when a friend and I were served free drinks, I suppose because the bartender thought we were someone else. Offended by our presence and the women who were impressed by us, a twenty-one year old skinhead was set off, screaming and knocking tables over asking if we had a problem “here.” His territory was apparently the smoke room in this particular dive and he did not need two hippies stealing “his” women. I was told the next day the man had taken out whatever drug-filled rage was building inside him on a native man at about four in the morning, sending the man to the hospital.
This is the type of man who becomes a successful drug-dealer. It is a business built on intimidation and the suffering of others. These are the men that fill our high schools with wannabe gangsters and fill East Vancouver lunatic drug fiends. The person, who starts buying cocaine in eleventh grade to be the king of the smoke pit is the same man stumbling down the street at noon, pale, cut, bruised, hurt and only a fraction of who he could have been. The men who thrive on this pain are sitting in the best hotel in town on a pile of cash with the bouncers at their command.
On Sunday night my neighbor was kidnapped. A skinny white man, who stayed in the shadows, drove his obtrusive black truck behind my building and calmly took both people who lived there away. He had the help of a sedan who stayed in the lot across the alley. Whatever transpired, new people have replaced my neighbors. I have seen one wheeling around in my neighbors’ wheelchair as I pulled into my parking spot, but they quickly ran inside. It has been three days as I write this. I knew my neighbor had, at the very least, a drug problem, but I was unaware of the extent.
These things happen every day, and we can blame anything we want to. Their parents were not around. The TV and video games teach children this behavior is great. I enjoy blaming the “gangsta rap” music, the 50 Cent’s of the world, exposing how excellent the gangbanging, drug dealing, bitch slapping life is for everyone involved. But I know that Nancy may have lost her fingers, if not her life. She has a family. She had people who cared about her. She had peaceful eyes. But I suppose none of that matters if she owes you a few dollars. All this type of thinking is so primal, so thoughtless and so disturbing.
Dealers do hard drugs such as cocaine, ecstasy and speed. The world is their oyster, the speech impediments are real and the nights never end. It is a way of life, something I will never understand. The dive bars and abandoned factories used by these men have a certain stigma attached to them, through movies such as “Analyze This.” I believe this is why the underworld always intrigued me. I used to want to live in abandoned factories on large pillows with grassy fields outside. I’ve always wanted to be a hobo, riding the train cars through the mountains and over borders. The real world has turned my view upon this seedy underworld somewhat grimmer.
Families in our town get torn apart for a game of power and influence. It is similar to the board game Risk. Another man dies of gunfire in this town, the body is never found and the family does not hear for months. When money and drugs come together, death becomes involved. It is a blessing on the surface and that is how one is dragged in to the world. It is an attempt to be tough and respected, to have power over millions and women at hand, just because you have the needs for their night.
There is a bigger issue here than the personal need to self-indulge. Those who use are searching for something unattainable. I have worked at a large rave for the past two summers, and see about 10 000 seekers, dealers and very few decent, reasonable people. The grown men and women at this event eat and drink as much as they possibly can and dance all week. The peaceful ones stare blankly at black light stencils of religion and let their eyes play tricks on them. It is a wonderful time every year, with the right soul. But a failed seeker is the one that looks to PCP or MDMA for enlightenment. Not even Hunter S. Thompson felt the door to enlightenment could be found in drug use. An addict, he wrote extensively about the failed generation that was the sixties. To paraphrase him, one cannot sit around and just talk about change, in order to change the world one must act, and the only thing drug use truly does is make one inert. I digress.
The dealer is the man who sells heroin. This is the man bringing the ten-inch hunting knife and seven-inch diving knife “camping” at a music festival. This is the man doing large lines off toilets at 50. He is the man selling a starving father crack-cocaine. The youth get tied up in the image and the bad attitude to steal from the world. The flower turns into just a lower back tattoo or a green pill. I doubt these people are happy. Does the man smile righteously as he pulls away in his minivan?
I understand that there will always be crime. As long as heroin is illegal and junkies are willing to pay top dollar for their apathy, there will be increasing numbers of vigilante businessmen who sell the drugs to their welcoming users. I do feel that the police may waste far too much time arresting Rastafari for growing personal pot, and letting the true criminals free on bail. There should be nobody above the law and no man should have the right to destroy families, minds and respectable people.
I have seen the effects of drug addiction in my short life. I have many former friends who have been wrapped up in the high life of crime. I have a very good friend who has battled with crack-cocaine for 2 years, going to Narcotics Anonymous weekly and only finding that it was a great place to get his next hook-up. I have sat in a room with another man who was unable to buy crack and who punched me in the face, head butted me, attempted to stab me and finally held the small knife to my throat. By kicking the wall I was able to wake our mutual friend’s roommate who helped me escape.
Drug addiction leads to mental collapse. The delusions of power I experienced at the Barking Parrot that strange Tuesday night are a common thread throughout all heavy drug use. This is something I’ve always thought interesting, but have never been able to submit myself into being a part of. It is a thread of dreaming lucidly, never sleeping in order to achieve steady waking REM states. These lead to horrible delusions, which are acted upon. Megalomania and delusions of grandeur are common. Yet these men are above the law of whatever scale they exist at. Whether it is the bouncer slipped a gram of coke as an entrance fee or the politician paid off due to the current depression and war in the country growing the raw product, these men have complete power and control over a situation. It is what the men lust for. It is what the women lust after. If you had the opportunity do make yourself that man, would you?
Take a long deep breathe and look at the small guy in the room, jibteking in a corner while his ex-wife is screaming obscenities about how he should be killed and their daughter is in a crack head’s care. I never have, and never will feel the need to be responsible for this. The men are responsible for these scenes and that is a horrid shame. The money is made on making people feel miserable, whatever the cost. I know this article will most likely not change people’s minds about this issue. People will always want to do this; the fantasy of wearing the most expensive suit in a palace with a thousand friends and women will always be there. The mentalities of human beings will never change, but things will always be better than before.
It would be safe to assume the drugs tonight had been provided by a group of three Red and Whites. I remember the three of them as loud, powerful and hate filled. The drinks were flowing and there was a pile of cash on the table. I remember a small man of large stature with beady eyes and a broken nose becoming very upset as three women left his table. The leader of their pack swung down upon my friend and I and offered her a drink. She politely declined, on account of my reservations about their personalities, which led to an angry burst from the man’s nose as he stormed away.
A few minutes later I was relieving myself in the men’s room the beady-eyed man stormed in on me, smiled and punched me. This leads to a small confrontation of words, in which I somehow managed to outwit the monster. He raises his fist again and smiled as I washed my hands in the sink. He mumbled something about how I was about to “get it” and storms out before I do. I follow behind him and join my friend, who is chatting up some real estate agent.
The large man stomps over and sternly invites me to join his table, and I obliged. My new best friend sat me down and showed a large stack of money he was very proud of to have. The bouncer is near by as his friend shouted, about the money, his car, his gang banging lifestyle and how “he don’t need to drug a hoe’s drink,” due to the money. My pal from the restroom has a white rock on his left nose hair, but I didn’t mention it. He finishes his part of the conversation with a fist swinging towards my head, which I narrowly escaped.
I begin to speak and one of the men tries to call the bouncer over, but he stands in one place. The man on the far left appears sad in the deep of his blue eyes, but holds the money tight and interrupts me. He asks if that’s my girlfriend, and I answer no, and the large man asks “The why did you send back our drink?” I did not know the correct answer to this question. He again mentions the thirty thousand dollars on the table and his yellow Corvette.
I apologized for disrespected their way of life, and excuse myself for a cigarette. I am on the patio and it is mid winter, the waves are crashing but the heaters are on and a small man, like a young boy walks up to me and we begin talking. He explains he has my back, which eventually spins into “They are not allowed to be here.”
This was my first taste of organized crime. I knew it existed, I knew there were bad people in my neighborhood, but I did not know the extent of the crime. It seems years of preaching non-violence and D.A.R.E. kid campaigns have created an underbelly of twenty something’s that are elevated in the drug trafficking world. A contempt for others and racism only paralleled by their own hard drug use.
I remember when crystal meth took over this town. I remember the zombies, lost in their own delusions and the 30 year old drug dealers they looked up to. These speed addicts eventually become dealers and the money, prestige and power turn young boys in drug-addicted buffoons, with minds as narrow as their eyes. I suppose you would always be happy if you continued to do the things you enjoy. This theory makes sense logically, but I saw a very different story coming from the shallow blue eyes of the youngest of the three.
It is said that humans only hate others if they threaten them. I think this may go back to our primal territorial instincts and it is apparent nearly everywhere. I was sitting in a smoking room at a different club on a very different night, when a friend and I were served free drinks, I suppose because the bartender thought we were someone else. Offended by our presence and the women who were impressed by us, a twenty-one year old skinhead was set off, screaming and knocking tables over asking if we had a problem “here.” His territory was apparently the smoke room in this particular dive and he did not need two hippies stealing “his” women. I was told the next day the man had taken out whatever drug-filled rage was building inside him on a native man at about four in the morning, sending the man to the hospital.
This is the type of man who becomes a successful drug-dealer. It is a business built on intimidation and the suffering of others. These are the men that fill our high schools with wannabe gangsters and fill East Vancouver lunatic drug fiends. The person, who starts buying cocaine in eleventh grade to be the king of the smoke pit is the same man stumbling down the street at noon, pale, cut, bruised, hurt and only a fraction of who he could have been. The men who thrive on this pain are sitting in the best hotel in town on a pile of cash with the bouncers at their command.
On Sunday night my neighbor was kidnapped. A skinny white man, who stayed in the shadows, drove his obtrusive black truck behind my building and calmly took both people who lived there away. He had the help of a sedan who stayed in the lot across the alley. Whatever transpired, new people have replaced my neighbors. I have seen one wheeling around in my neighbors’ wheelchair as I pulled into my parking spot, but they quickly ran inside. It has been three days as I write this. I knew my neighbor had, at the very least, a drug problem, but I was unaware of the extent.
These things happen every day, and we can blame anything we want to. Their parents were not around. The TV and video games teach children this behavior is great. I enjoy blaming the “gangsta rap” music, the 50 Cent’s of the world, exposing how excellent the gangbanging, drug dealing, bitch slapping life is for everyone involved. But I know that Nancy may have lost her fingers, if not her life. She has a family. She had people who cared about her. She had peaceful eyes. But I suppose none of that matters if she owes you a few dollars. All this type of thinking is so primal, so thoughtless and so disturbing.
Dealers do hard drugs such as cocaine, ecstasy and speed. The world is their oyster, the speech impediments are real and the nights never end. It is a way of life, something I will never understand. The dive bars and abandoned factories used by these men have a certain stigma attached to them, through movies such as “Analyze This.” I believe this is why the underworld always intrigued me. I used to want to live in abandoned factories on large pillows with grassy fields outside. I’ve always wanted to be a hobo, riding the train cars through the mountains and over borders. The real world has turned my view upon this seedy underworld somewhat grimmer.
Families in our town get torn apart for a game of power and influence. It is similar to the board game Risk. Another man dies of gunfire in this town, the body is never found and the family does not hear for months. When money and drugs come together, death becomes involved. It is a blessing on the surface and that is how one is dragged in to the world. It is an attempt to be tough and respected, to have power over millions and women at hand, just because you have the needs for their night.
There is a bigger issue here than the personal need to self-indulge. Those who use are searching for something unattainable. I have worked at a large rave for the past two summers, and see about 10 000 seekers, dealers and very few decent, reasonable people. The grown men and women at this event eat and drink as much as they possibly can and dance all week. The peaceful ones stare blankly at black light stencils of religion and let their eyes play tricks on them. It is a wonderful time every year, with the right soul. But a failed seeker is the one that looks to PCP or MDMA for enlightenment. Not even Hunter S. Thompson felt the door to enlightenment could be found in drug use. An addict, he wrote extensively about the failed generation that was the sixties. To paraphrase him, one cannot sit around and just talk about change, in order to change the world one must act, and the only thing drug use truly does is make one inert. I digress.
The dealer is the man who sells heroin. This is the man bringing the ten-inch hunting knife and seven-inch diving knife “camping” at a music festival. This is the man doing large lines off toilets at 50. He is the man selling a starving father crack-cocaine. The youth get tied up in the image and the bad attitude to steal from the world. The flower turns into just a lower back tattoo or a green pill. I doubt these people are happy. Does the man smile righteously as he pulls away in his minivan?
I understand that there will always be crime. As long as heroin is illegal and junkies are willing to pay top dollar for their apathy, there will be increasing numbers of vigilante businessmen who sell the drugs to their welcoming users. I do feel that the police may waste far too much time arresting Rastafari for growing personal pot, and letting the true criminals free on bail. There should be nobody above the law and no man should have the right to destroy families, minds and respectable people.
I have seen the effects of drug addiction in my short life. I have many former friends who have been wrapped up in the high life of crime. I have a very good friend who has battled with crack-cocaine for 2 years, going to Narcotics Anonymous weekly and only finding that it was a great place to get his next hook-up. I have sat in a room with another man who was unable to buy crack and who punched me in the face, head butted me, attempted to stab me and finally held the small knife to my throat. By kicking the wall I was able to wake our mutual friend’s roommate who helped me escape.
Drug addiction leads to mental collapse. The delusions of power I experienced at the Barking Parrot that strange Tuesday night are a common thread throughout all heavy drug use. This is something I’ve always thought interesting, but have never been able to submit myself into being a part of. It is a thread of dreaming lucidly, never sleeping in order to achieve steady waking REM states. These lead to horrible delusions, which are acted upon. Megalomania and delusions of grandeur are common. Yet these men are above the law of whatever scale they exist at. Whether it is the bouncer slipped a gram of coke as an entrance fee or the politician paid off due to the current depression and war in the country growing the raw product, these men have complete power and control over a situation. It is what the men lust for. It is what the women lust after. If you had the opportunity do make yourself that man, would you?
Take a long deep breathe and look at the small guy in the room, jibteking in a corner while his ex-wife is screaming obscenities about how he should be killed and their daughter is in a crack head’s care. I never have, and never will feel the need to be responsible for this. The men are responsible for these scenes and that is a horrid shame. The money is made on making people feel miserable, whatever the cost. I know this article will most likely not change people’s minds about this issue. People will always want to do this; the fantasy of wearing the most expensive suit in a palace with a thousand friends and women will always be there. The mentalities of human beings will never change, but things will always be better than before.
23.4.07
funny joke
This use of language is an easy way to confuse a simpler reader enough to scare him from the passage and place the writer on a pedestal above his assumed grasp of literature. It is a simple way to sound smart, when nothing is really being said.
this is a blog and I failed at my attempt to write in serial, I went on a trip to Vancouver, and interesting on at that. Modest Mouse was a wonderful show, a space age jam that was second to none. I laughed as I heard people walked out because of the changes from the recorded versions of songs. I touted myself as Captain Sobriety the entire concert, declining all but one sip of wine. This may have been a foreshadowing to the rest of the week.
On Tuesday I found myself wandering around Commercial Drive in Vancouver and came across a wonderful little hole in the wall with incredible sausage meals for 5 dollars. The beer was a reasonably priced local Brewery, Granville Island Pale Ale and I found myself in graceful company. I wandered away to find jazz and wound up in the Libra Room listening to a jazz pianist accompanied by some great horn players. The music stopped. After enjoying their final song I was informed by the last few notes I was in the wrong bar. This fear was stamped and delivered by the two men gazing forlorn into my eyes. I left this bar.
I wandered aimlessly back to Falconetti's on 2nd and Commercial and listened to the Morgan Child Trio, who were accompanied by some young cat on Clarinet. This jazz was something truly west coast. The steady rhythms pulsed around the narrow bar effecting each of us separately. My friends arrived and I was infatuated by the saxophone, conducting below the table like a madman drinking alone. I had a smoke with a nice man from Turks, and rolled back in to Falconetti's. The drums powerful emotion dropped my eyes below my head and I drank happily with some new friends.
Toots and the Maytals was incredible. I drank far too much. I harassed bums and offered them help changing. I stumbled in circles to the Roots jam in a drunken smash, barely able to keep my drink afloat. I spilled a tables worth of somewhat free drinks over myself and the ground. The mayhem and sin and the clash against love created a foul dynamic with smiles all around. Its crescendo was the moment I found myself gushing to the lead guitarist "You hit them notes that don't even exist man.. The ones you stumble away from!" and turned away, took two steps and hit the bare dance floor. A friend reached to pick me up and a hopped to my feet.
I had a good time in Vancouver,
Good fun had by most.
this is a blog and I failed at my attempt to write in serial, I went on a trip to Vancouver, and interesting on at that. Modest Mouse was a wonderful show, a space age jam that was second to none. I laughed as I heard people walked out because of the changes from the recorded versions of songs. I touted myself as Captain Sobriety the entire concert, declining all but one sip of wine. This may have been a foreshadowing to the rest of the week.
On Tuesday I found myself wandering around Commercial Drive in Vancouver and came across a wonderful little hole in the wall with incredible sausage meals for 5 dollars. The beer was a reasonably priced local Brewery, Granville Island Pale Ale and I found myself in graceful company. I wandered away to find jazz and wound up in the Libra Room listening to a jazz pianist accompanied by some great horn players. The music stopped. After enjoying their final song I was informed by the last few notes I was in the wrong bar. This fear was stamped and delivered by the two men gazing forlorn into my eyes. I left this bar.
I wandered aimlessly back to Falconetti's on 2nd and Commercial and listened to the Morgan Child Trio, who were accompanied by some young cat on Clarinet. This jazz was something truly west coast. The steady rhythms pulsed around the narrow bar effecting each of us separately. My friends arrived and I was infatuated by the saxophone, conducting below the table like a madman drinking alone. I had a smoke with a nice man from Turks, and rolled back in to Falconetti's. The drums powerful emotion dropped my eyes below my head and I drank happily with some new friends.
Toots and the Maytals was incredible. I drank far too much. I harassed bums and offered them help changing. I stumbled in circles to the Roots jam in a drunken smash, barely able to keep my drink afloat. I spilled a tables worth of somewhat free drinks over myself and the ground. The mayhem and sin and the clash against love created a foul dynamic with smiles all around. Its crescendo was the moment I found myself gushing to the lead guitarist "You hit them notes that don't even exist man.. The ones you stumble away from!" and turned away, took two steps and hit the bare dance floor. A friend reached to pick me up and a hopped to my feet.
I had a good time in Vancouver,
Good fun had by most.
11.4.07
The Miles to Go
This here a quick post of that story i am attempting to write in serial.
Part Two: Bagel Shop Barter Faire
The taxi pulled around the corner, nearly knocking the paper-boy over. He jumped out of the way, and the driver had missed by inches. He yelled, “You fucking paki-pig terrorist son-of-a-bitch!” The cab stopped. The boy’s eyes opened wide, but he felt safe when a large white man got out of the car. His name was David Franklyn. He wore a black suit, with a white shirt. His tie was blue.
David walked up to the boy and said, “Eh, don’t worry kid, I didn’t tip him. I saw that too.” He threw the boy a quarter. The boy just looked at him, the quarter landing on the ground and rolling to the gutter. David walked into the bagel shop and sat at the bar.
The shop was like any other in this neighborhood. David was immediately given a coffee, and he watched the cream swirl in his cup as he threw the plastic cup to the side. “Bagel” he said. The young man behind the counter, tired and overworked, tossed a sesame bagel on a white plate and asked, “Butter?” David smiled, “Not today. I feel like staying healthy.” He handed the young man a five note, and had another in his hand. “Give this to the paper boy, and keep the change.”
The young man walked out to the street. David’s eyes went back to his coffee cup, which was half full now. As the young man returned to his post behind the bar, David smiled through half his mouth and asked, “Say, kid. You know that janitor, Earl Stevlin?” “No, that’s not familiar.” The young man replied quickly. “Why’s that?” “Oh, he’s just an old friend, I heard he lived next door.”
Franklyn sat down to write. He opened his pad and took out his pen and watched the bugs flap around outside his window. He lit a cigarette and the smoke fell to the ceiling. He smiled and sipped for he was tired yet content. He stared blankly at his paper trying to reason with it.
The day was damp. The lights from down the road fell loosely around a painting on the wall. Mother Mary was holding Jesus, and tears of joy ran down her face. She looked at him and smiled. The rusty chains on the swing near the porch squeaked. He thought the street seemed loud. He squeezed his hands and threw his pen towards the coffee table.
Part Two: Bagel Shop Barter Faire
The taxi pulled around the corner, nearly knocking the paper-boy over. He jumped out of the way, and the driver had missed by inches. He yelled, “You fucking paki-pig terrorist son-of-a-bitch!” The cab stopped. The boy’s eyes opened wide, but he felt safe when a large white man got out of the car. His name was David Franklyn. He wore a black suit, with a white shirt. His tie was blue.
David walked up to the boy and said, “Eh, don’t worry kid, I didn’t tip him. I saw that too.” He threw the boy a quarter. The boy just looked at him, the quarter landing on the ground and rolling to the gutter. David walked into the bagel shop and sat at the bar.
The shop was like any other in this neighborhood. David was immediately given a coffee, and he watched the cream swirl in his cup as he threw the plastic cup to the side. “Bagel” he said. The young man behind the counter, tired and overworked, tossed a sesame bagel on a white plate and asked, “Butter?” David smiled, “Not today. I feel like staying healthy.” He handed the young man a five note, and had another in his hand. “Give this to the paper boy, and keep the change.”
The young man walked out to the street. David’s eyes went back to his coffee cup, which was half full now. As the young man returned to his post behind the bar, David smiled through half his mouth and asked, “Say, kid. You know that janitor, Earl Stevlin?” “No, that’s not familiar.” The young man replied quickly. “Why’s that?” “Oh, he’s just an old friend, I heard he lived next door.”
Franklyn sat down to write. He opened his pad and took out his pen and watched the bugs flap around outside his window. He lit a cigarette and the smoke fell to the ceiling. He smiled and sipped for he was tired yet content. He stared blankly at his paper trying to reason with it.
The day was damp. The lights from down the road fell loosely around a painting on the wall. Mother Mary was holding Jesus, and tears of joy ran down her face. She looked at him and smiled. The rusty chains on the swing near the porch squeaked. He thought the street seemed loud. He squeezed his hands and threw his pen towards the coffee table.
4.4.07
The Miles to Go
I was trying to figure out how to post this, whether to finish it and post it last section to first, or to post in in serial headed in the wrong direction.
I decided to post it in serial, every Wednesday. Sounds like a fun project, and I have too much time on my hands anyways. I find myself on a regular basis sitting at my computer at 2 in the morning, not sure what to do and rambling into the illiterate computer. He doesn't understand me but he sits diligently in his place, just as I left him, happy to take any and all input I find the inspiration to write.
Anywho, here is part one.
----------------------------------------
The Miles to Go
by Jon Pelletier
Part one: Morning Sun
He woke at 7 am that day, to the cold air flowing through the cracks in his window. His hair hung low around a tattered collar. He rolled over and sat on the side of the bed. He looked to his left and noticed the feet of a small woman, red toenails against the spilled wine on the sheets. He looked to his right, and a half bottle of Stilvanna vodka lay in the mirror. He picked it up and took a heavy pull. He coughed and reached for his cigarettes.
He stood up and looked outside. The sun was just barely over the horizon. The clothesline swung loose at one end. Free two stories down from him and scraping a window across the street. He thought he could hear it, but it may have been his tick. The girl rolled over, “How about a cigarette, dear.” She emphasized the “dear” in such a way that he just grunted. “The clothesline is loose.” He said, smiling, and tapping his finger on the window.
He felt like getting high. He hadn’t been high in ages, but today he needed something to settle his nerves. The grey sky looked down on him as he looked at the grey city below. Three cars drove in one direction, stopping at the light on the corner. A young man jumped out of the first one.
The young woman jumped out of bed. “What’s wrong?” she whispered in his right ear. He turned around, muttering. She looked at him, and stepped out of the room saying “Don’t worry, I’ll put the coffee on.”
In his reach, while sitting at the table, he had a teaspoon. It was about four and half inches long, with a shiny silver bowl, and a carving in the head of it. A sparrow. The man had always liked sparrows. So small. Had not seen them recently though, perhaps they were going south for the winter. He sipped his coffee. He turned on the radio, but soon turned it off after all he could hear was static. His eyes browsed around his dirty kitchen. The sink full, grime on the cupboards, which he had never noticed before. He looked at the pile of newspapers on the table. He picked up the top one and opened to the crossword. He then closed it when it reminded him of the morning he tried to solve it.
He had been up all night. He wanted to sleep but could barely close his eyes, so he walked down to the ground floor and to the twenty-four hour bagel shop. He wasn’t hungry, so he grabbed the paper and ran back to his home. Sitting there four hours, he mused, and only found 7 words.
He sipped his coffee, sitting for a moment and achieving a peace. He then lit a cigarette. The young woman sat across for him, her red hair in a mess around her face. “What you thinking’ about?” she chirped. “You have to go, you get out of here. I’ll deal with this.” He was tired and dirty and anxious to get her out of his apartment. He tried to stifle the thought of his daughter while looking at this girl. She walked into the other room.
He got up and opened the fridge. He gave up after noticing three balloons floating by his window. He walked over and opened it. It creaked but gave way. He stuck his head out and looked left. He then jutted his head back to send his eyes straight up in the air. He couldn’t find the balloons.
When he turned on the shower it sputtered and then shot. It’ll be a minute, he thought. He went to the kitchen and turned off the light. When the steam started pouring into the room he sat and sipped his coffee. He got up and walked to the next room, shuffling out of his clothes, he went in to the shower headfirst. The soap fell off the side and he cussed.
He walked outside, the boy on the corner tried to peddle him another newspaper. He replied with a gruff no. He then checked his eye colour in the window of the next shop. An older lady saw this and smiled and the man looked down towards the cement. Counting the lines in the sidewalk, he clipped a parking meter. He ducked quickly into an office building.
Three seven six.
A monolith of a structure, he thought, 48 floors. He cleaned it all with one mop. He was proud of that.
He had originally gotten the job at seventeen years old. He had to pay his rent, eventually the child support was the only reason he kept it. He told himself that anyway. It helped him feel satisfied with the sandwich he had at noon. It helped him enjoy the cup of coffee he had at two. He enjoys the walk home; more so on the days where the wind threw him around and the frost burned his cheeks. He looked out the window and smiled for a second, but at the first glance he noticed in his direction he went back to sweeping the floor.
The young woman walked by 376 quickly, down to the corner and she turned left. She walked two blocks towards the bay and sat on the corner. She fixed her lipstick in her reflection on the window. She crossed the street and found her number. Five forty two. She looked at the menacing staircase triumphantly. She smiled as she opened the door and walked inside. Two minutes later she came to her floor.
She opened her door with a creak. She was tired, but only collapsed on the couch. She pulled off her skirt and stockings and began to unbutton her shirt. She got up abruptly and fixed her hair. She lit a cigarette, her lips puckered against the filter. She watched the smoke roll out of her mouth and against the broken window.
I decided to post it in serial, every Wednesday. Sounds like a fun project, and I have too much time on my hands anyways. I find myself on a regular basis sitting at my computer at 2 in the morning, not sure what to do and rambling into the illiterate computer. He doesn't understand me but he sits diligently in his place, just as I left him, happy to take any and all input I find the inspiration to write.
Anywho, here is part one.
----------------------------------------
The Miles to Go
by Jon Pelletier
Part one: Morning Sun
He woke at 7 am that day, to the cold air flowing through the cracks in his window. His hair hung low around a tattered collar. He rolled over and sat on the side of the bed. He looked to his left and noticed the feet of a small woman, red toenails against the spilled wine on the sheets. He looked to his right, and a half bottle of Stilvanna vodka lay in the mirror. He picked it up and took a heavy pull. He coughed and reached for his cigarettes.
He stood up and looked outside. The sun was just barely over the horizon. The clothesline swung loose at one end. Free two stories down from him and scraping a window across the street. He thought he could hear it, but it may have been his tick. The girl rolled over, “How about a cigarette, dear.” She emphasized the “dear” in such a way that he just grunted. “The clothesline is loose.” He said, smiling, and tapping his finger on the window.
He felt like getting high. He hadn’t been high in ages, but today he needed something to settle his nerves. The grey sky looked down on him as he looked at the grey city below. Three cars drove in one direction, stopping at the light on the corner. A young man jumped out of the first one.
The young woman jumped out of bed. “What’s wrong?” she whispered in his right ear. He turned around, muttering. She looked at him, and stepped out of the room saying “Don’t worry, I’ll put the coffee on.”
In his reach, while sitting at the table, he had a teaspoon. It was about four and half inches long, with a shiny silver bowl, and a carving in the head of it. A sparrow. The man had always liked sparrows. So small. Had not seen them recently though, perhaps they were going south for the winter. He sipped his coffee. He turned on the radio, but soon turned it off after all he could hear was static. His eyes browsed around his dirty kitchen. The sink full, grime on the cupboards, which he had never noticed before. He looked at the pile of newspapers on the table. He picked up the top one and opened to the crossword. He then closed it when it reminded him of the morning he tried to solve it.
He had been up all night. He wanted to sleep but could barely close his eyes, so he walked down to the ground floor and to the twenty-four hour bagel shop. He wasn’t hungry, so he grabbed the paper and ran back to his home. Sitting there four hours, he mused, and only found 7 words.
He sipped his coffee, sitting for a moment and achieving a peace. He then lit a cigarette. The young woman sat across for him, her red hair in a mess around her face. “What you thinking’ about?” she chirped. “You have to go, you get out of here. I’ll deal with this.” He was tired and dirty and anxious to get her out of his apartment. He tried to stifle the thought of his daughter while looking at this girl. She walked into the other room.
He got up and opened the fridge. He gave up after noticing three balloons floating by his window. He walked over and opened it. It creaked but gave way. He stuck his head out and looked left. He then jutted his head back to send his eyes straight up in the air. He couldn’t find the balloons.
When he turned on the shower it sputtered and then shot. It’ll be a minute, he thought. He went to the kitchen and turned off the light. When the steam started pouring into the room he sat and sipped his coffee. He got up and walked to the next room, shuffling out of his clothes, he went in to the shower headfirst. The soap fell off the side and he cussed.
He walked outside, the boy on the corner tried to peddle him another newspaper. He replied with a gruff no. He then checked his eye colour in the window of the next shop. An older lady saw this and smiled and the man looked down towards the cement. Counting the lines in the sidewalk, he clipped a parking meter. He ducked quickly into an office building.
Three seven six.
A monolith of a structure, he thought, 48 floors. He cleaned it all with one mop. He was proud of that.
He had originally gotten the job at seventeen years old. He had to pay his rent, eventually the child support was the only reason he kept it. He told himself that anyway. It helped him feel satisfied with the sandwich he had at noon. It helped him enjoy the cup of coffee he had at two. He enjoys the walk home; more so on the days where the wind threw him around and the frost burned his cheeks. He looked out the window and smiled for a second, but at the first glance he noticed in his direction he went back to sweeping the floor.
The young woman walked by 376 quickly, down to the corner and she turned left. She walked two blocks towards the bay and sat on the corner. She fixed her lipstick in her reflection on the window. She crossed the street and found her number. Five forty two. She looked at the menacing staircase triumphantly. She smiled as she opened the door and walked inside. Two minutes later she came to her floor.
She opened her door with a creak. She was tired, but only collapsed on the couch. She pulled off her skirt and stockings and began to unbutton her shirt. She got up abruptly and fixed her hair. She lit a cigarette, her lips puckered against the filter. She watched the smoke roll out of her mouth and against the broken window.
Tired, thoned and weak
My heart turns one meter of silver to an ounce of gold, and earth still revolves around the sun.
Poetic Nothingness.
My luck lately has been spectacular, but I am still bouncing between failing and passing my grades in college. I hope I do. I hope I pass all of them, learn some time management skills and am able to continue to better myself, because I have the opportunity to.
I heard one time, John F. Kennedy was misquoted in the way he spoke German with a Boston accent. Instead of the German form of "I am a Berliner," he told the crowd "I am a pickle."
I've attempted to swallow the brown pill, allow myself to sit and be complacent. I wrote a story about a man unable to get published, running around, typing of himself mocking himself. It was filled to the brim with absolutely nothing, some horrid writing and an art house feel. I describe it as a satire three times, once claiming it is a satire about writing a satire. I find it to be a random mess of words, segments from my life at that point. I find it to be a stab at nearly every self righteous intellectual. Them types, who spend their mind making a twisted, intellectual myspace, learning wise words from fellows and reusing the same garbage over and over. I enjoy watching them try and impress people, its like a twisted car wreck. I was very proud of my story, and I hope it wins the contest.
Blogging.
Another example of my luck is the number thirteen. From thirteens asking me to escape from "Ye Old Pit of Crime," Calgary to the numbers of pages in essays I've written for school. I failed horribly in both occasions, but made very nice art. The essay was my best work I feel. I had two extra days to do it after I thought it was done and I figured it was good enough, so I left two brilliant editorial mistakes, my mothers typed "(Really?)" and "(Maybe you should explain this better?)" right on the first page. There was one more on the second. I felt like a dumbass and now I must get a good grade on the final, in order to pass.
I found myself with a 26 song double album about a month and a half ago, and was dizzy for two weeks until I recorded two new songs.
This Friday the Thirteenth the Harlem Gospel Choir is making a stop in Penticton. I bought a ticket. I had to, it will be brilliant. All I hope is I hand in the report I am asked to do on it and pass my classes for the next few days.
Poetic Nothingness.
My luck lately has been spectacular, but I am still bouncing between failing and passing my grades in college. I hope I do. I hope I pass all of them, learn some time management skills and am able to continue to better myself, because I have the opportunity to.
I heard one time, John F. Kennedy was misquoted in the way he spoke German with a Boston accent. Instead of the German form of "I am a Berliner," he told the crowd "I am a pickle."
I've attempted to swallow the brown pill, allow myself to sit and be complacent. I wrote a story about a man unable to get published, running around, typing of himself mocking himself. It was filled to the brim with absolutely nothing, some horrid writing and an art house feel. I describe it as a satire three times, once claiming it is a satire about writing a satire. I find it to be a random mess of words, segments from my life at that point. I find it to be a stab at nearly every self righteous intellectual. Them types, who spend their mind making a twisted, intellectual myspace, learning wise words from fellows and reusing the same garbage over and over. I enjoy watching them try and impress people, its like a twisted car wreck. I was very proud of my story, and I hope it wins the contest.
Blogging.
Another example of my luck is the number thirteen. From thirteens asking me to escape from "Ye Old Pit of Crime," Calgary to the numbers of pages in essays I've written for school. I failed horribly in both occasions, but made very nice art. The essay was my best work I feel. I had two extra days to do it after I thought it was done and I figured it was good enough, so I left two brilliant editorial mistakes, my mothers typed "(Really?)" and "(Maybe you should explain this better?)" right on the first page. There was one more on the second. I felt like a dumbass and now I must get a good grade on the final, in order to pass.
I found myself with a 26 song double album about a month and a half ago, and was dizzy for two weeks until I recorded two new songs.
This Friday the Thirteenth the Harlem Gospel Choir is making a stop in Penticton. I bought a ticket. I had to, it will be brilliant. All I hope is I hand in the report I am asked to do on it and pass my classes for the next few days.
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