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23:52 - July 05, 2003
water shadows
8 minutes away from a new archive page. I realize I haven't listened to a full CD in over a week, that I haven't blasted the bass out of my subwoofer in longer than that even though my dad's been working downtown and wouldn't yell at me about it, about how he doesn't like boomy bass but that his speakers are better. I like notes low enough that you can't hear them except rumbling rumbling in your heart, like at concerts where everyone over thirty is whispering to the person next to them about the legend of that guy who was at that concert and the bass disrupted his heart pattern and he had a heart attack and died. The yellow poofs stick out from their ears, glowing. (When the rumbling gets to my throat, it's too much.)

Last night I took my water bottle and sprinkled it on the pavement and saw a dog in it with a fluffy tail looking at the sun, and a person and a baby and clouds (it feels, to me, like these dark spots are just shadows of us where we're sitting, me the person, Cam the baby, Nora the clouds). Funny how the only one of us who stays human in shadowland is me, I say, and Nora says, well, a baby is kind of like a human, laughing, and I say, oh, I forgot. But she is still clouds. Thinking about this now, I really want a glass of water.

23:31 - July 02, 2003
timothy part i've stopped counting, it's a parody of itself
It's almost like work is (we've said this before, but about Andrew's apartment) so ridiculous and so extreme that it's a parody of itself. Today, a whirlwind of employees rushing by, avoiding Mitch, who's trying to talk to them, and me especially, since I went to high school with them (he's at least 30) about some girls he met over the weekend. (:ring. ring.: 'wanna go runnin' with me tonight?' 'whah? why NOT? whatcha doin'? who with? why?' :click:) He doesn't understand what he's doing wrong (stalking!) and wants me to tell him what they were like in high school so he can fix it. Somehow. I escape out the back door and find Paul, who's smoking a cigarette and leaning against the store van. 'My catch phrase of the week is 'aphex',' he says, exhaling a plume of smoke, floating and blending with the warehouse smoke. He circles his hands, one hand keeping on the opposite end of the circle from the other hand. 'You have to have Bob-dar.'
'Mitch-dar,' I say, 'but that's easier.'

I put my headphones on, and phrases keep floating in, Vince's joke about the couple who don't have sex anymore.... 'So the woman, her name is Gertrude, she's really upset about it, right? And she asks her friend for advice, and the friend says, Gertrude, you should get some crotchless panties. Men go wild for crotchless panties. And Gertrude says, Well, OK, and gets some crotchless panties, and waits for the right time to show them to her husband, Manny. Well, the right time for her turns out to be when Manny is drinking beer and watching football. She puts on the crotchless panties and a bathrobe and goes downstairs and sits in the chair directly opposite, throws open her bathrobe, spreads her legs and says 'Hey, big boy, you want some of this?' and Manny says, 'Hell, no, woman. Look what it did to your underwear!' (ha ha! I dare him to tell it to Little Peter, but he's too chicken, and too afraid of a religious tirade)...

oh, I realize now... I've quit using pseudonyms, for a simple reason: I was going to finish this entry with another 'Timothy' anecdote, and Timothy's real name is Little Peter. Just Peter, really, but the other guy he works with is named Peter as well, and he was here first, and is bigger; hence: Big Peter. Timothy is Little Peter, also known as RePeter and Peter the Sweeter. Anyway, the reason I was going to use his real name is that he was telling me today he wants to be heard by the masses. And if masses to him means the people who read this, so be it...
he leans over the acid tub today while I'm scouring saxophone mouthpieces, water running full blast, and says something, his elbows getting spattered with soapy water. I can't hear him, so I turn off the faucet. It's not just that; he's talking quietly. 'You know what Mitch said to me?' he says. 'He said I need to have a closer relationship with Jesus.'
Mitch is cowering on my other side, clearly regretting opening his mouth. 'Ah dunno,' he mutters, and scuttles off into the corner.
'Peter,' I say to his...why?... earnest face, 'you are the last person I would expect anyone, even Mitch, to say that to.'
'No, he's right!' he exclaims emphatically, jabbing the air with his finger. 'I have been listening to people who claim they know God lately instead of God himself! I am the middleman! And I don't want to be!'
Quite honestly, I don't remember where the conversation goes from there. Peter's monologues have a lot of 'God's love's and 'original sin's and 'Bible says's sprinkles everywhere from time to time, and every subject bleeds into itself and everything around it with the fervor of someone who KNOWS he's right. At one point I tell him he just contradicted himself. 'Man contradicts,' he says. 'God never does. God is always sure, and God is always right.'
'So if you're sharing what you believe God says, do you straighten it out in your own head first, thereby tainting it with contradictions?'
'I don't know,' he says, sadly. His eyes are very very hazel; he is very very pale. 'I don't understand, I don't know, but I talk anyway.' For the first time, he looks confused. Big Peter comes up behind him. Big Peter is huge and loud and Greek, and harsh. 'Are you going to work or are you going to gab?' he snaps. 'C'mon.' And he leads little Peter away, but puts a soft hand on his shoulder as he does. 'C'mon,' he says, softer.

00:32 - July 1, 2003
go... go go go go
Ahhh, I have way too many books to read before the library due date, and too much of a full time job, and plans all the nights of this week, and ahhhhhhh.
The one kitten named Frog who lives in our backyard likes to climb into the clay pot that has no plants in it, or hasn't since three years ago, and play King of the Hill even when no-one's watching. At some point I'll post pictures of the kittens, when I figure out how to compress them from the 189,384,389,972,197,499 pixels per whatever that they're at right now (taking five minutes to load in Photoshop). Whenever we feed the mother and her three kittens, we hover by the bowl so we can pet them, which is the only time they'll allow themselves to be touched, save for one exception: the gray kitten, Max, is so stupid that if I'm sitting in a chair dangling my hand over the side with some food on it, she doesn't realize my hand is attached to the rest of my body because the connection is blocked by the chair, so she'll happily bound over and lick whatever it is away with none of the cautiousness she would normally display at such an action. The same goes for my feet, whose connection to my torso is obscured by my jeans. She happily licked them clean.

Since there have been kittens in my yard, living day-to-day is so much easier, because instead of sitting upstairs and blindly playing Snood or pinball, I sit blindly outside and watch kittens attack blades of grass, hanging plants, and each other.

Happy Deathday!
Your name:singingcamel
You will die on:Sunday, December 12, 2027
You will die of:Ritual Sacrifice
Username:
Created by Quill

00:05 - June 29, 2003
yay!
YAY!!... Mike fixed my synthesizer, and I can write music again without a huge array of knobs to turn and buttons to adjust, and levels to set, every single time I turn on the program. Proof here that the creative process is not at all independent of technology, and that nothing works alone.

 

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