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Monday, June 2nd, 2008
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12:48 am
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| Wednesday, March 5th, 2008
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7:28 pm
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Posted the latest collection of stories from our upstate writer's bonanza to Rumor. Beautifully laid out by Gavin, with a revised version of the story I posted a while back, plus far better stories by other cats.
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(comment on this)
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| Sunday, March 2nd, 2008
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12:30 am
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| Saturday, March 1st, 2008
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11:50 pm
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| Tuesday, February 26th, 2008
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1:57 am - Story Draft
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(the rules to the drinking game john and I made up later are on Rumor)
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She was late. And that was familiar and reassuring.
Jason turned the coins idly in his pocket, wondering whether they were heads or tails and their denomination.
-heads or tails relative to what?
The wind kicked up his coat and, his other hand preoccupied with the luggage, he resigned himself to the whirlwind of wool.
Taxicabs were leaving taxistands, there were kisses goodbye, kisses hello, and amidst this every permutation of his current situation he felt strangely detached, as though he would not become the person waiting for her until she had arrived.
-heads. nickel.
He glanced down at the coin in his cupped hand. Five cents off and wrong by one hundred and eighty degrees. Damn.
This wait was good. He could recalibrate. Remember things like which side of the road was used for driving and how many miles he could drive over the limit before she took her hand off his thigh.
He took in his surroundings, reacclimating. He gave names to the things he saw, little nodes of familiarity. Terminals. Skycaps. That was the roar of engine noises. That was called the sky.
He fumbled with another coin.
-heads. Eisenhower
Dime. Tails.
Huh. Broke even.
Thus establishing himself in space, he moved on to time. History, to be accurate. It had been about thirteen months, and he struggled to conjure her outline up from memory. He started with her hands, wrapped firmly around the steering wheel, guiding her path to the airport. He began to work his way simultaneously up both arms to her elbows when his mind caught on an almost forgotten snag - a small scar on her forearm, from stealing apples through a barbed wire fence when she was twelve. It had bled for hours through her bandanna while she’d tried to hide the cut from her mother.
He tried again, starting from the feet up. Only to be thwarted again by a childhood of playground scratches located about the knees.
He stopped.
-quarter. tails.
Too easy.
Her scars were like town names on a map. He thought of where she’d been cut by the sprockets of her bicycle on a rainy trail in Oregon. He remembered cleaning the wound, gingerly wrapping her calf. He recalled gently unpinning her hair in the tent later that night...
He’d cast his eyes upon many maps in her absence, many towns and many names. She too, he assumed, had done her fair share of traveling, adding names, scars and memories.
He tried again, hands to elbows, feet to knees. Every inch of her body beyond these borders was impenetrable. Unimaginable.
When he’d left from this terminal months prior, the parts had been the same. But the individual pieces-the luggage, the jetplanes, the ticket agents-had all been different. His mind held the memory of an airport that no longer existed. In the same way, her body’s marks and memories were those of thirteen months past, inaccessible for want of existence.
-dime. tails.
Shit; wheat-penny.
Up ahead there was an aberrant spot in a long line of taxis: a steel-gray Ford, late and reassuring. The queue worked in pulses as the cars pulled up, let off, let in, and went out. The Ford advanced slowly and without rhythm. As it approached he counted the rust spots, let his eyes trace the scratch from the rivet of his jeans. There was an unfamiliar dent above the front right wheel. Nothing broken, just a change in topography.
The car slowed to a stop with a familiar sputter. She reached a long arm across the long bench of the front seat and let him in. She was wearing long sleeves and a turtleneck. He took his hand out of his pocket, finally patted down his coat, hoisted his suitcase. Where could he have gotten a wheat-penny?
He ducked his head down and got into the car.
She’d left her lanky arm laid out across the old car’s sagging seat.
He followed the sleeve up, up with his eyes to her face and said, “hello.”
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(3 comments | comment on this)
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| Thursday, February 14th, 2008
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3:27 pm
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1:09 pm
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This week on The Rumor About The True Things:
- Several ideas for projects that you can simply and easily tear apart by clicking "comment"!
- Poorly recorded mp3's!
- Probably more hating on triathletes!
- Send in 5 box tops, get a FREE DECODER RING!!
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(comment on this)
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| Wednesday, February 13th, 2008
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11:26 pm
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| Saturday, February 9th, 2008
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3:59 am
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| Tuesday, February 5th, 2008
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6:58 pm
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| Monday, January 28th, 2008
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11:36 pm
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 So lin broke up with me and all I could think of were these  from this post: ( http://piratehall.livejournal.com/17431.html )
I made these for lindsey ages ago. Summer after Frosh year. And a year ago (or less) she lost one of them. I kind of want to make a mate for her remaining one. But I know that I shouldn't.
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(1 comment | comment on this)
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10:11 am - Some brief updates
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1. I am moving the majority of my blogging activities toward http://rumoraboutthetruethings.blogspot.com
2. Lindsey broke up with me. It was messy. She is currently seeing somebody with muscles who is getting an MBA. I am thrilled.
3. My sense of sarcasm remains in tact.
4. I've decided to start training for bicycle racing.
5. I found an entire suitcase of old vacuum tubes on the street yesterday.
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(3 comments | comment on this)
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| Monday, December 24th, 2007
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12:55 am
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| Wednesday, December 19th, 2007
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10:57 am - Popular
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| Saturday, December 15th, 2007
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4:07 pm - yes yes y'all
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| Thursday, December 13th, 2007
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5:46 pm - And now for some good news
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| Wednesday, December 12th, 2007
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6:37 pm
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| Saturday, December 8th, 2007
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2:32 pm
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11:22 am
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If anyone's tried to reach me in the past few days I need to apologize--The past three days, for a number of reason, have involved very little sleep, and the fair amount of stress that comes with that. I just woke up from sleeping a lot, however, so, yeah. dig.
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(comment on this)
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| Wednesday, December 5th, 2007
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1:45 am - From the Writer's Retreat
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He was four beers into a two-beer night when he made us promise; just sober enough to convince us, just drunk enough to believe himself. So when, years later, we found it scrawled in the margins of his will, we were probably more surprised than we should have been. The arthritic tilt of the tiny letters, the bright ink against the yellowed paper, meant that he had recalled. Or decided. The addition, made in the last few months, as he sat surrounded by his books, listening to Bach, read only,
Remember: you promised.
And so we had. There were only three of us left at the time—fifteen years prior, Brenda has wrapped her Beemer around a tree, and a decade later Francis had been discovered at his computer desk, tranquilizers in hand, deleting old photos. So, we owed it to the guy, as the last ones left.
You’d be amazed how easy it is to get two-hundred and fifty quarts of used motor oil in Jersey City, free, no questions asked. The boat, surprisingly, was the tricky part, requiring some less-than-legal copies of Coast Guard papers Ralph “found”. Two mornings later, in violation of every health code in Hudson (and Bergen and Essex) county, we had him in the front seat, the tiny Volvo straining to pull the boat to its final launch. Dodging the police and red lights like clockwork, we sat in the car with a silence we had never shared. And as the condos parted to the warehouses that still survived, we took in the Passaic with peace that spoke the volumes we had wished to write.
Phil didn’t blow out the torch until the boat approached the horizon, the two lights thus vanishing as one. The fireboats had caught up by the time he’d passed under the Pulaski Skyway, but the motor oil was a stubborn burn, mimicking Newark, Elizabeth, Paterson, the Oranges…
They’d have it out by the time he reached the Kill van Kull. But by then they’d be smelling him in Bayonne.
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(5 comments | comment on this)
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