5 Stuff Thing Doodads

1. My apologies for the lengthy absence. I’ve been a little preoccupied this week with working 12 hours a day. And all my free time has consisted of icing sore limbs, and checking practical necessities off the to do list.

2. Speaking of the to do list, I’m presently working on a post which consists of what I’ve been thinking about lately. Someone asked me what had been rolling around upstairs, and found in answering them, that I was incapable of articulating it. I may or may not post it here, as I expect its unpopularity, but I’ll be glad to at least have it worked out in my own head.

3. Stuff This Week:

I’ve learned, or rather, solidified my suspicions that I like to teach.

Monday is a big day, November a big month, and the future inevitable.

I, uh, turn 24 on Nov 13, and I, uh, don’t know how I feel about that.

Five Guys Burgers and Fries.Hereafter is a mediocre film.

I have a newly found love: hummus; it’s delicious and healthy.

4. I was told that hormonal traffic was most sever in the latter teen years of male growth. Somewhere around 18 and 19. Bullocks. I’m inching toward a quarter of a century over here, and balls—literally.

5. Quote of the day: I can remember how when I was young I believed death to be a phenomenon of the body; now I know it to be merely a function of the mind — and that of the minds who suffer the bereavement. The nihilists say it is the end; the fundamentalists, the beginning; when in reality it is no more than a single tenant or family moving out of a tenement or a town.—Faulkner

You Know When

1. You know the moment just before you take off a smelly shoe? How you’ve already mapped out an exit strategy? And how, once it’s off, you begin the dash out of the hazard zone only to discover through your peripheral that you’ve left your phone on the counter? And you know, then, about that moment of indecision and hesitation where you stop suddenly, and your momentum lifts all your weight onto one leg, your arms extend awkwardly in front of you for balance while your back and neck twist around to look at your miscalculation? How the choice between you’re nose and a phone call from a friend have each settled themselves in two opposing corners of your body, one pushing the other pulling? And you know how you choose your friends, because, well, who wouldn’t, so you take a breath before you take the plunge, but you take it too late, and now you have smelly shoe in your mouth? And you know how you can’t tolerate the old, leathery flavor, so you exhale, and breath through your nose instead, but now you’re breathing in your own bad leathery breath? And you know how you’re breathing heavier because of all the excitement, and you get in more smelly nose-breaths per capita than you would have had you just taken your shoes off, calmly grabbed your phone, and proceeded out the door?

the K.H.

Ode To Flicking Off

I sometimes quote poems i'm trying to memorize while driving. Usually, i bob my head or tap my fingers so as to give the illusion i'm singing along with the radio. No need to make public my private habits. On this unfortunate ride, however, i was either too tired or too indifferent to pretend, and made the mistake of looking over to the car across me at a stop light. Stanza five of John Keats' Ode to a Nightengale made its way from my lips as i stared unconsciously at the two gentlemen seated in a white pickup truck.

Now, either they have a serious distaste for Romantic poetry, or they took my mumbled words and vacant expression to mean i harbored some undeserved contempt toward them. I take it, and i trust this is an educated guess, they assumed the latter. Before i could look back, a horn honked, and the sweet music of Keats vanished into the background. Foremost in my thoughts, not to mention my visual field, was raised a stout middle finger.

You can imagine my shock. One moment i am in a forest of "white hawthorn...fast fading violets covered up in leaves," and the next confronted with the trunk and stem of a finger belonging to an angry African-American man. It didn't register at first. I gazed blankly at the figure, trying to remember my geometry. Then it hit me. "Yep," i thought "he's flicking me off."

"But why?" my thoughts continued "What is this? What did i do?" I was too confused to react in kind (another habit of mine i should probably keep in the private sphere), and too tired to labor for an answer. I simply continued to stare and quote John Keats. Not one ounce of emotion escaped me; not one twitch of my cheek muscles. This went on for nearly 10 seconds before the light turned green, and i turned my head to watch the road.

Off we went, the two angry black men and i. The passenger shuffled in his seat to be sure i still noticed his gesturing, and i kept on with my poem. One mile and many obscenities later, their need for McDonalds outweighed their need for retribution, and they dropped into the turning lane. By now i was finishing up the last few lines "Fled is that music-Do i wake or sleep."

Only now do i realize the irony. I got flipped a bird for quoting a poem about a bird, half asleep, and failing to pretend i was listening to fleeting music.

the K. H.