An Overture to An Overture to My Love Affair With Luck (Or Lunch)

First post in the states since I created the Lair. Since I became StealthWizard87, I suppose. Since I decided to put somethings on the internet. I suppose it's a coincidence that I am posting again and also listening to Tom Waits for the first time since the semester started, but then again, he always makes me feel like I need to respond to him in some way. Journal Entry #1 since no one will bother reading this anymore:

What has been odd is the gut-pain. The constipated thought life.  Staring at my beautiful pink scar tissue...I have a special case of loss right now. It’s something I’m not sure I know how to reconcile with. For now it is like overhearing someone insulting your artwork, only less personal, which may make it even more frustrating.

I might find out soon that you really don’t need me at all. That you don’t find in me anything you can’t get from anyone else. Or no…no that’s wrong. That is mostly what is so striking about missing so much. I could get anything that you give me from anyone else. It isn’t that you’re so unique that I simply must come to you to get what I cannot from others. That’s never true. It’s the worst kind of lover’s myth. It is that I can get it all from anyone. 

I just want you to want it from me.

The Great Ennui

I'm practicing my French. Ennui might be the extent of it. I don't think I know how to spell thank you, onomasticon, or any of the other single words I might pronounce barely adequately.

Yogurt gives me the chills in the morning. Bacteria. mmm.

10 days to change my life. It's funny to me that I have to be the one to do it. After four months of happening, I have to support myself. Bollocks, complete bollocks. Sherwood Anderson's Winesburg, Ohio is a bore and a half these days. Give me something, Sherwood! He won't, of course, which is why it's up to me to change it up. Blerg.

Brooks Bollinger. Who remembers him?

I'm not from Wisconsin, but I feel like I have something important to say and no one's listening. I keep looking at familiar faces and thinking "is it you? do i need to connect with you right now?" and for all of them it is yes yes yes and who wants to be that guy?

So I'm waiting? I don't know. I'm not really thinking about it. But I do know that when this happens I can't listen to music because I want to sing along, and how obnoxious of me! Just let somebody else get something off their chest. you have a tiny heart. it's poorly formed. work on that, then get back to everybody with an apology about all their time you've been wasting.

On a weirder note, I have been paying less and less attention to books lately, and that bothers me. It doesn't help the tiny heart situation.

Pink Panther Names Successor

I'm slowly running out of vigor. I have no choice. I like it on all of my salads, and I have no money left. My tutors think that I have bad breath, mostly, and when I inform them about my vigor problem, they say "Go to London! Fill up on portrait-wood. Scott, vigor is not the only thing that tastes good on salads." But I'm a habitual stubborn piece of cocktail, and besides I'm allergic to free museums.

I have a breakfast plum every morning now. I know nothing about the plum.

It is amazing that two months have not changed me at all.

Noodles

Dedication #1: Nicholas gets the spoils of my most recent foray into Mozambique's heavily guarded secret, "Cave of the punished Masses."

Dedication #2: Dennis can have my coins when I pull them from between my vertebrae.

Dedication #3: Mama can take all of my bottles and weld them down to make herself glass slippers.

Dedication #4: I will bring Kraig every vegetable leftover.

Dedication #5: Laura can have my thin jacket.

Dedication #6: I will bring Michael from San Francisco home for Aaron.

7-Ryan gets the pills I spilled, but rescued, from the sink.

8-Dennis gets my striped towell.

9-Tina can have whole leeks wrapped in vegetarian approved cheese.

10-T-bird can pick me up from the airport.

Art Garfunkle Goes to War

Mammals living on land understand the world through smell in the same way we understand the world through social restrictions. Not all of them, but many of them do. It's a complex language of scent.
Scientists are becoming more and more convinced of the need to understand the emotional life of an animal in order to understand behavior.
I don't think I have a favorite cereal. I recently told someone that when I mix golden grahams and life, i get a special sort of joy. I think its true, but, having been away from cereal for a month now, I don't think I can call that a favorite anymore. I genuinely dislike cereal at least 80% of the time. It's tedious and bland and by the end of the bowl you're only eating out of some sort of muscular reaction to the sight of a bowl of particles. Even when I finish a bowl and think "I want more" and so I go get more, I don't think "Man, this stuff is great." I just want more to put in my mouth...my muscles haven't gotten over the bowl to mouth motion.
10:47 is constantly 5:47 to me. Not because i'm not used to the time switch yet, but because I have met three people here who have enjoyed talking to me because I'm a human, and not because I'm an American without a brain. Two are librarians. One I met today at the bookstore, and she only thought I was kind and sort of cute, and when I didn't look her in the eyes when she handed me my receipt, I think she got ticked and if I went back she'd probably stop being so nice. The librarians are dynamite though. Jason and Anna. Great people.
If I read too much in one day I get depressed that I'm by myself inside the books. What fun is understanding the world better if you can't experience it with other people, even intermittently.
I've recently discovered that my chief goal with my newest friend is to start a group of gypsy folk, travel around the world, and convince people that peace will save us all.
I will spend the rest of my time in England as a smattering of dirty bread crumbs, a spilled plate, a tipped glass, and an untold group of stories. The tragedies of an American.

Air Force 1

Today only, I try to think about the world in terms of friends and enemies. Real medieval style settings with men on either side, one set in sheeny white, the other dark. The broken things are always due to this sort of thought. But today, since it is today, is a day for broken things.

A european is liberal, is hospitable, is concerned with his reputation. The englishman is reserved, is a control freak with alcohol, is softly looming over his own countenance. An American is raucous on the inside, is trained in 1st place, is able to step outside himself in ways Europeans think he can't.

The broken things cause me pain. Skin crawly, metabolism shifting, animal sound pain. Weep me down the street. Weep me to a new world. Weep me inside myself. The broken things haunt us all like dead infants, smelling of wasted effort. Weep me like a drum, a stoicism. Waste affords no time to those not dressed in white. Wasted they shall be or wasted we shall weep.

Today is a day to repent, to recant, to thrust my signature hand first into the fire. They will trade cobblestones for my ashes. Cats will scratch my charred and flaking feet. I will say prayers for the broken things as I burn, and scream a wretched mantra at my friends. There are no enemies here. There are no enemies here. There are no enemies here.

And if there are then we are all dressed in black. We are all learning to breathe deeply. We are all learning not to kill our brothers. We are all learning that loss is permanent, that the gross misinterpretations of our fathers must be rewritten and redistributed so that loss can be forgotten. The broken things must be fixed with all effort and stamina and cost, or we will fall for ourselves, and see only white in the mirror.