Archive for April, 2010

Things That Were Said (Vol. 4)

Tuesday, April 27th, 2010

“How ’bout you come home with your own fucking panties on, aye?”

“It doesn’t matter.  And it doesn’t matter that it doesn’t matter.”

“If I was going on a date with Miss America I might have my balls waxed.”

“I don’t have any healthy relationship reference.”

“Sometimes I think you kiss me back because you’re just too nice to not kiss me.”

“Rivaling labia.  Rwar.”

“I think I’m going to open a strip club and call it No Expectations.”

“I want to be a stripper and carry the no-tip gong.”

“Low quality hip-hop is like mother’s milk.”

“I pooped an Applebee.”

“I hope [she] doesn’t get drunk and go home with [him] because that would be like giving a puppy a treat when it poops on your floor.”

“Monuments never change.”

“I hope I’m fucking a goat.”

“You rocketed me right up there.”

“Try and fist me.  I’ll probably fucking flinch.”

“If I like beat boxing, does that mean I’m a lesbian?”

“I can’t stop thinking about that pee that I took.”

“Eric Clapton’s son fell out of a window?  What an idiot.”

“I just don’t want to navigate all those folds of skin.”

“That’s good camel toe.”

“I feel like slobbery people are slobbery.”

“Be a good friend and graze it.  Smell my armpit.”

“Are you guys playing a game or something?”
“No, we’re looking at Jesus’s twitter.”

“You need to stop banging yourself with a wroughty piece of wood that will give you slivers in your vagina.  And by wroughty piece of wood, I mean men that are emotionally unavailable.”

“I still only travel by foot, and by foot it’s a slow climb.”

Friday, April 23rd, 2010

(Dissection 2)

I love walking slowly, ambling.  If I find myself in a group with a quick stride, I often fall behind willingly.  When I’m with someone, I try to conform that person to my pace.

Therefore, I’ve decided to write about walking slowing and the ways in which one can increase the already incredible enjoyment in this activity.

  1. Hold someone’s hand. This usually works best when only two individuals are leisurely strolling together.  The sign of affection can provide feelings of safety and comfort.  And when you truly care about your hand-holding partner, it’s even more delightful.
  2. Look around. Appreciate everything conventionally beautiful, and find the beauty in things normally seen as unattractive.
  3. Be grateful for amazing weather. This does not only mean sunshine.  It applies to every soft breeze and all balmy nights.  Welcome each warm rainfall and delicate snowfall.  Take the time to acknowledge the seasons.
  4. Eat ice cream. Ice cream is delicious, and it has the ability to make any pursuit more pleasurable.  If there is not an ice cream shop or truck in the vicinity of your adventure, purchasing some from a corner store is perfectly acceptable.
  5. Listen. At times when an iPod is unavailable, remember that birds make music, too.  When the streets are desolate and you have no audio device, listen to the sounds silence makes while meandering.
  6. Stop someplace. Take a break from your saunter to search through junk at a random flea market or sit on a park bench and watch people.  Notice the children and admire the puppies.

On Sunday evening, I was walking slowly to Dora’s.  Unfortunately, my slow pace was not out of enjoyment, but necessity.  I was still hungover from Saturday.  I had the shakes.  The hood of my jacket was covering my head, and I drank Gatorade as I smoked a Camel light.

I turned onto McKibbin Street.  “You are beautiful.  So beautiful,” a man said to me.

His comment reminded me how lovely the world is.  I savored the rest of my walk.

The Malocchio (& the blog I just can’t seem to post)

Wednesday, April 21st, 2010

“Um, what’s up with Keep My Words?” Rona asked me this afternoon.

I told her I wrote something that I’ve been sitting on for the past few days.  I don’t know if  I’m going to post it.  I’ve never not posted something that I’ve written, and I don’t know why I would do it now… or maybe deep-down I do know why.  (I have a few theories.)

So, I decided to dissect it, and use different parts in various new posts, but always keep a copy of the original in tact.  Once certain sections had been sliced away, maybe I could compose something out of what remained.

With that in mind, yesterday I began writing a new entry using a segment from the first.  But.

I don’t know.

I just can’t finish it right now.

Currently, this unfamiliar situation with my writing has me just as confused as my professional and romantic life, which is troubling.  The writing is usually what saves me (momentarily).

I’ve never been hesitant to admit that I am crazy, but these past few days have really solidified the self-diagnosis in my subconscious.  And then I think the more I tell myself I am insane, the more deranged I will become.  It’s like the dam in my mind that’s holding everything back has got cracks in it.  The embankment is sure to give way, and the flood is going to saturate me, drowning my ability to feign normalcy.  Sometimes I think I just need the repairman to patch up the cracks and hold me in his arms, but I keep getting his voicemail and he’s not returning my calls.  He must be distracted.  Happens to the best of us.

But back to this afternoon.

I figured the only reasonable thing for a maniacal person (like myself) to do in times like these would be to see a psychic.  Rona and I had lunch off Bedford, and towards the end of our meal I search “psychic” on Google maps.  The search returned nothing.

“I know there are some around here,” I told her.  “I remember months ago wandering around drunk by Trash Bar, and one of them approached me.  I liked her.  I guess we just walk and leave it up to fate?”

She agreed.

I guided us through the streets towards the train.  On Bedford and North 6th, someone called my name.  It was my friend Drew.  He was outside smoking with another guy.  We chatted for a minute, and then I asked if they knew of any psychics in the area.

“Yeah totally,” Drew’s friend replied.  “That girl right across the street, sitting outside the funeral home.  She usually has a sign.  She does readings, and she’s completely nuts.  Go to her, but keep your wallet close.  Just walk by and she’ll tell you she sees your future.”

I looked at Rona.  “Should we?”  We decided we should.

We crossed the street.  “Palm reading for $5,” she said as she handed us a business card.

“I actually want my tarot read,” I told her.  “Can you do that?”

She said she could.

Now, just because I’m crazy doesn’t mean I’m not skeptical.  But still I listened, and I was honest when she had inquiries about my life.

To paraphrase, the psychic told me that an old Italian woman wanted to bestow a curse upon my mother, but instead the curse went into me when my mother was pregnant.  She said this old woman did not want my mother to be happy, but that wish transferred to me.  The psychic called it the Malocchio, or the Italian evil eye.  She said it has deterred me from my path that would have led to love and happiness, and that the path I am on now as a result of this Malocchio leads only to sadness and solitude.  She claimed it was the old Italian woman’s will for the recipient of the evil eye to die wrinkled-up and alone, never acquiring any of the love that the recipient so desired.  She said this was the recent pain in my stomach, the reason I have been finding it hard to eat food, and why my back has been hurting.

Bummer.  The goddamn Malocchio.

As one would imagine, the psychic offered to help not only cure me but also discover who is responsible for my curse, all for a hefty fee.  I kindly said no.

When I got home, I did what any (in?)sane person would do – I googled Malocchio.  The only test and unassisted cure I could find is below.

Put three drops of olive oil, one on top of the other in a bowl of water. If they stay together, it is not Malocchio. If they separate or become smeared, it is.

To break the spell, insert the tip of a needle into the eye of another needle while chanting, “Occhi e contro e perticelli agli occhi, crepa la invida e schiattono gli occhi,” which means “Eyes against eyes and the holes of the eyes, envy cracks and eyes burst.” Drop the needles on top of the oil and sprinkle three pinches of salt into the water. Jab scissors into the water through the oil three times. Cut the air above the bowl thrice. The spell is broken.

Be right back.

One thing I certainly learned is the difficulty involved in producing only three drops of olive oil.  My first try resulted in a tad more than three drops flowing from the pourer, so I got a new bowl of water and tried again.  The second time, the oil drops seemed to stay separate, though at best I thought the text inconclusive.  So, I figured there couldn’t be any harm in attempting the cure.

In conclusion, I hope to reach some resolution about the unpublished and unfinished blogs.  Additionally, I hope that I am cured, or that the psychic was incorrect in the telling of my misfortune.  I’ve got too much love to give for things to never work out.

Playing Pool (The Definition of Insane)

Friday, April 9th, 2010

I missed.

It was a tough shot for me – a bank shot.  The cue ball repositioned itself, and our opponents took their turn.  They missed too, and the cue ball rolled to the same position it was in on the shot I had just missed.  We were playing doubles, and it was time for Elliot to take his shot.  None of our balls had been disturbed.

“Try that shot that I missed,” I suggested to him.

“That’s insane,” he said.  “Isn’t that the definition of insane?  When you do the same thing over and over again and expect a different outcome?”

Because of ongoing attempts to ascertain the level of sanity present in my personal decision making, I immediately considered Elliot’s statement in connection to my life.  After mulling it over for a few days, I decided to look to Dictionary.com for an accurate definition of insane.

insane – (adjective) not sane; not of sound mind; mentally deranged.  utterly senseless.

Not sane.

sane – (adjective) free from mental derangement; having a sound, healthy mind.  having or showing reason, sound judgment, or good sense.

Whether or not good sense played a part in me recommending that pool shot to Elliot is debatable.  I’m not the best pool player, but I am confident that there was no other shot on the table, so that may illustrate sound judgment.

Rather I am curious if good sense plays a part in the choices I make that I know will have a direct effect on my heart.  These matters tend to be a bit more complicated than billiards.  Considering the constant changes within my own self in addition to the evolution of people I hold dear (not to mention those people’s undeniable differences in relation to each other), I can never really try for the same shot.

But does this truth do anything to confirm my sanity (or lack thereof)?  I suppose not.

The pool game was on Monday evening, and on Wednesday the wheels were still turning in my head.  I had a lot to drink, as was evident in the final moments of the night.  Around 3 a.m., I drunk-texted Rona.

“I can’t tell if I’m crazy or right,” I told her.

In her reply the next day, she made one thing clear.  “No apologies,” she responded.

Still I can’t help but think that every word I say moves the balls and slants the table, even slightly.  And I always wonder what I’ll do when it’s my turn again.

The Feet, An Extremity

Monday, April 5th, 2010

On August 20, 2007, a 12-year old girl from Washington was vacationing with her family at Jedediah Island Park in British Columbia.  As she walked along the water, the young girl made a startling discovery.  It was the right foot of a human.  The male body part was still dressed in its size 12 Adidas shoe and a sock.

Six days later, a couple visiting Gabriola Island in British Columbia made a similar discovery.  They also found the severed right foot of a man, wearing a size 12 sneaker.

Because feet go through a process called adipocere, where ocean waters turn the fat into a soap-like substance over a period of weeks and months, it is extremely difficult for forensic analysts to gather clues.

So the feet remained a mystery, and months went by before on February 8, 2008, a third foot was found washed up on Valdes Island in B.C.  Again, it was a man’s right foot wearing a sneaker and sock.

Forensic entomologist Gail Anderson studied the cases.  “A body in the ocean will first sink, and then, depending on the depth, float back to the surface as it becomes bloated with gas,” she noted.  “It is common for hands, feet and the head to detach as a body decomposes, but generally those limbs do not float.”

However, tennis shoes do float.

The fourth right foot was found on May 22, 2008 on Kirkland Island in B.C., but this time it belonged to a woman.  The foot donned a sock and a New Balance sneaker.

Less then a month later, two hikers exploring Westham Island, B.C., came across a man’s left foot floating in the water.  They called the police, and further investigation concluded that the foot came from the same victim as the February 8th finding.

But there were still more feet to be found.

On August 1, 2008, a camper on a beach near Pysht, Washington, found a size 11 athletic shoe covered in seaweed.  Inside of the shoe contained bones and flesh, and testing confirmed it was that of a human.  Canadian police and the Sheriff’s Department in Washington agreed that the foot could have been carried from Canadian waters.

Then, on November 11, 2008, a married couple walking their dog spotted a shoe floating in the Fraser River off Richmond, B.C.  The man fished it out.  It was from a pair of New Balance, and inside was a woman’s left foot.  A forensic DNA profiling analysis indicated that it was a genetic match to the foot discovered on May 22 on Kirkland Island.

The final foot was discovered on October 8, 2009 by two men walking along the Pacific Ocean in Richmond, B.C.  It was a man’s right foot in a white size 8.5 Nike running shoe.

No other body parts connected to these feet have been found.  The discoveries have caused speculation that the feet may be those of people who died in a boating accident or a plane crash in the ocean.  Foul play has also been suggested, although none of the first four feet contained evidence of tool marks.  Yet this does not rule out foul play.  It is possible that the bodies could have been weighted down and disposed of, and the feet may have separated due to natural decay.

Under optimal conditions, a human body may survive in water for as long as three decades, meaning that the feet may have been floating around for years.

Finding human remains on a beach is not uncommon, however, finding feet and not the rest of the bodies has been deemed unusual.  “Finding one foot is like a million-to-one odds,” said Garry Cox from the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, “but to find two is crazy.”

In related news, I once got a fortune cookie that said “If the shoes fits, it’s probably your size.”

Also, the weather is getting warmer in New York.  I painted my toenails the other day.