A Million Miles Packed In Inches

Recently I attended a large event, somewhat against my will, and pretty much everybody I knew was there.

Yes, it was one of THOSE. Opportunity for endless fun, right?

Well, I'm me.

I was standing in a line, sandwiched between most of the people who have ever mattered to me, and I was alone. I've never felt anything like it, never felt that kind of disconnect from so many familiar and often friendly faces.

Well, alone in the crowd is a common feeling, but alone in the PEERS? The event lasted pretty much the whole day and most of the night into the morning, and I could not shake the feeling that I was watching everybody else on television from a bunker fifty miles below the surface. Or on Titan.

It's frustrating to try to describe, and maybe the blog isn't the place psychoanalyze, but dammit, nobody over here is listening, and nobody on the internet is either, but the internet is invisible, and it stings a little more to see a face turn away than an empty comment box.


Aren't you glad I'm back?



Yarr

Happy Birthday to ME!

Wooooooooo!

Sorry about the drought. I'll come around soon enough.


Yarr

Yeah Yeah

It isn't that long, I know! I'm still really tired FROM NOT SLEEPING AT ALL.

I'm going to get right down to it when I've had some rest.



Yarr

The Next (Short) Part Of The Beginning

"I hope so." he said. "I'm looking for a book."

The pages in the clerk's head stopped flipping for a split second. Of all the times he'd heard those words, those inane, stupid words, out of thousands of different mouths, they'd never once phased him even slightly. With this man, this man with his dim and helpless question that came out of his limping and helpless mouth, with this man his careful training stumbled upon itself .

He allowed himself an evil thought. What an asshole. Then the pages of the manual fluttered for his attention, and he was back.

"Well, I think I can help you there." The joke was a careful one, the playful sarcasm tuned such to soothe the the man's unease like a fussy baby in a crib being given a familiar blanket.

The man gave a nod.

A Bit Of Commentary On The Beginning, I Suppose

So hey, I actually wrote something. It isn't great. It isn't MAGICAL. But it's something.

I have the next part of whatever this is pretty well thought up, and I'm going to post it sometime this week when I don't have to work (probably Thursday).

If anybody reads this post, ANYBODY, please comment. I guess if I wanted to be a comment-whore I'd go back to Lit.org but I'm really just looking for constructive criticism.

That's about it. I'm not going back to edit out the stuff that's bugging me about the beginning, because I would spend forever chopping and trimming that one little part and never get on with the rest of it. I'll be back, Beginning, so rest easy... for now.




Yarr

A Bit Of A Beginning, I Suppose

The little bell above the door ding-a-linged, happily announcing that a customer had perhaps not entered the store, but had at least come to the milestone of opening the door. The bell made no distinction. The clerk finished scratching a letter into his crossword puzzle (the "R" in "Forestry") and looked up, his smooth face automatically stretching into the welcoming smile the store manual had instructed him to practice, ad nauseum, until any customer could be welcomed warmly like an old friend, the very second he or she set foot in the store. The manual compared this to heroes in old Westerns, who could shoot dead any outlaw faster than he could blink. The clerk, having no reason to not trust the manual, did his time in front the mirror in his bathroom until he, he felt, could make someone feel at home at a concentration camp. He expected the customer to return his end of the bargain, return his smile and be served without complication.

The customer hadn't noticed at all, and was instead nervously scanning left and right, pale eyes lingering on each carefully placed table and each precisely positioned tome upon them. If a book was on a table, said the store manual, and if it was a hard cover, it or its stack must be precisely three and a half inches on any side from any other book or stack of books. This gave a sense of neatness and order, and allowed the customer an uncluttered view. Paperbacks, however, could be stacked right next to each other. The manual offered no explanation for the difference, which put it out of the clerks mind. There were many more things to learn about, like what to do with books on shelves (there were two sections devoted to this), and what to do with customers who did this and that or had such and such demeanor. He examined his new arrival carefully, racking the remembered pages and piecing together a plan of action.

The examine was a shortish man, not a regular, mid-forties perhaps (could steer him to the WWII or True Crime sections?) and appeared well-to-do (Hobby and Lifestyle?). He scratched idly at his armpit, looked for somewhere to place his hands and settled on his pockets, where they lay uncomfortably. The look of worried searching that furrowed his high brow was, of course, familiar to the clerk. It meant one of two things; it could mean "I am looking for a birthday present and would like you to lead me to something expensive and bland", or it could be the dreaded "I have no idea why I came in here and will spend a half hour wandering around, messing things up, and leave without buying anything or saying a word."

Given the customer's silence, the clerk figured, with annoyance, that it was the latter. He decided to scuttle this chain of events (that would eventually have him out with a ruler, re-adjusting the books on the tables) before it could progress.

"Can I help you?" The words were like the ringing of the small bell above the door, charming, calming. The customer turned towards him, wiggled his nose slightly. His pale eyes searched the clerk's.

"I hope so." He said. "I'm looking for a book."

Never Was Much For Real Work

For most of my brief life, I've wanted to write for a living.

I've never been really all that keen on other kinds of work. Physical labour makes me grumpy and office work makes me sick. God forbid I do any heavy lifting inside an office.

I made the mistake, though, of thinking writing for a living is easy. You have the talent, so you do it, said my brain, no big deal.

Yes big deal, Brain.

I can sit in front of a desk and rattle off a page of shitty poetry or craptacular prose easy enough, but even that requires a Herculean effort (see? Look at that cliche I just used! Shame!)

So I dunno. I guess if I can't be a writer, I'll have to settle for being the world's sexiest diamond smuggler.

If I must, I must.



Yarr

WHORE PRESENTS AND THE MOLESTING NURSERY

http://easywebbers.com/2006/12/10/top-ten-worst-domain-names/

There are some other zingers there, too. Have a chuckle, readers!





Yarr

June!

The month I was born! Not much else! It gets kind of hot!

Bo Diddley died, too. His beat will live on, the voodoo will throb in the booties of many for years to come.

Shave and a haircut, two bits. Listen for that rhythm around, you'll be surprised about how often it pops up. Panic In Detroit by David Bowie is a good example.

I always liked his square guitar, me and maybe one other guy I know. I always planned to get one made at some point, so maybe now I'll be motivated.

Money money money, of course.

Anyways, that's about it. Celebrate the history of American music by Torrenting some Bo Diddley and prepare to BOMP.


Tell me, honey, who do you love?



Yarr