Saving Grace

Monday, September 01, 2003. 8:04 A.M. 621 W. Lombard Street, Room 425. Somewhat bright. Quiet.

As it is Labor Day, I am going to abstain from labor, which entails not inputting an entry today.

[Smartass to the end. –K]

***

Well, this is going to be anticlimactic. The plan that I kept alluding to (if I hadn't told you outright) was to write fifty thousand words towards a novel in thirty days. The final tally, about thirty thousand words towards a novel in thirty days.

Fuck.

I was doing fine, keeping on track with about one thousand six hundred sixty seven words a day for about twenty days, give or take. Then, I started being social and doing stuff with other people. That really screwed up the plan. Not that I blame anyone but myself. It's just odd that, at least in my life, it seems like I've got to choose between doing my thing and doing stuff with others. Really, I could've gotten it all done, if I'd given up on sleep, but I do love my sleep (i.e. I can't stay up that late anymore, and I don't have a supply of modafinil, yet).

More and more, life as I live it is all about sacrifices. I have to pick and choose what I do, what I don't do. I don't have time enough for myself, much less everyone else. There aren't that many things that I want, but the things I do want out of life require so damned much effort. There's a reason why I gave up video games, because they weren't contributing towards helping me towards these end goals.

I'm a little sad (a sad-let?), but I'm also a little glad (glad-let?). Didn't get everything done that I wanted to this month, but I did do a lot, and what I do have in the novel (placeholder title of "Saving Grace" because I couldn't think of anything else) is pretty good, I think. It needs editing, much as every action I take needs editing, but the kernel of a story is there. And there's nothing keeping me from attempting the same thing next month. I've proven I can write 30k words in a month, so 60k over two months is not that bad.

OK, it's bittersweet. I really don't know if this novel is it, if it'll ever get published. I hope like hell it is. My day job has always been the thing I do to keep myself from starving, and the writing is what makes me me. But do I put so much emphasis on whether or not being published means I'm validated? If I just keep on writing for the rest of my life, never get published, and only manage to make my family and friends laugh through the little bits that they read, is that good enough? God only knows. I'm trying, and I'll keep on trying, because when you get down to it, this is all I've got. Take every other thing from me, go ahead. You can never take the writing, damnit. You can't take my stories from me, you can't take my imagination, you can't take my hopefulness.

I hope that's not another functional lie.

And I guess one of the questions that evolves from that whole spiel is whether or not I'm putting Writ on hiatus again. The answer, as always on this journey, is "Depends." Why diapers are so multifunctional, I don't know. I'm never going to keep a journal of my own anymore, because my journal writing always follows the same arc, one entry every three weeks of "wow this sucks." I've gone back through Writ every now and then and looked back at the stupid shit that I've gone through, that I've thought, and what have you. It's not a perfect journal, but it's a pseudo-memoir. Although, to be fair, I still self-edit a lot. Then again, I have to. I type what I'm thinking at any given moment, a lot of you would be pissed. Hell, I almost deleted that last sentence, but I think you all know, like thought crimes, a man cannot be held responsible for what he is thinking at any given moment, only what he acts upon.

Why am I so rambly all of a sudden? Because I'm approaching another crossroads, and I didn't get nearly enough sleep over the weekend. Sleep deprivation strips away all the self-imposed barriers and lets K.T. emerge from the calloused cocoon he stays hidden away in for the most part. Whether butterfly or moth depends on the day, but generally the sleep deprivation has treated me pretty well, except for treating me pretty shitty.

One Pitch

Friday, August 29, 2003. 8:15 P.M. 621 W. Lombard Street, room 425. Dark. Warm.

First week of classes finished. Why did it feel like a month had passed since Monday? Moving in seemed to have been forever and a day ago. I can barely remember how bitter I was then, compared to how exhausted I am now.

Part of the problem was a mix of fear and dread that I wouldn’t know anyone, and I’d not only be that guy who did work all the time and never talked to anyone, I’d be the guy who didn’t want to be here, yet did all the aforementioned work. At least I’ve started to talk to people in the class, and I’ve got my study group. We’re all afeard of this place, so I’m not alone.

Despite having taken a year off, I’m still one of the youngest people in the class. We’ve got married peoples, people with kids (or expecting their first born very soon). We’ve got people who’re world weary travelers, people with master’s degrees. Yes, there are also people fresh off the undergrad boat. There are also people who could probably build a boat from a log and an axe. So many people are living real lives concurrently with law school. It makes my dead on concentration on law school seem pitiful by comparison.

I’m still doing work, because class leaves me so burnt out, it seems rather difficult to get back to work after class. Plus, I don’t want to fall behind.

Might as well call this Womb 425. Aside from going home to do laundry and finding a Burger King, the most I’ve seen of Baltimore has been what lies between the law school and the parking garage. Somehow, I’m getting flashbacks of those nights in college, when I started to question why I was there. I’m not questioning why I’m here, because that would almost require an element of wanting to be here, and since I know I don’t want to be here, I don’t have to question my motivation for being here. Everyone else’s motivation is what got me through the door. Riding that torrential wave of support and expectation. And so we rise.

So much for trying to relate this journal to the world around me.

[This was law school. –K.]

***

I don't like baseball, and have no love for the Yankees. Still, when I read the following paragraph by Eric Neel, it touched something in me. I've never been particularly impressed by anything he's written before, and I probably won't again, but for one brief paragraph...

MARIANO RIVERA, RP, NEW YORK YANKEES
Here's what we'll tell our kids: He looked like an alien, and threw like a god. He had one pitch -- and with that one pitch, like David with one rock in a slingshot, he could fell any foe. With that one pitch he could escape any danger. With that one pitch he could intimidate any lineup. With that one pitch he won world titles. With that one pitch he pitched his way to the Hall of Fame. With that one pitch he performed surgery. With that one pitch he wrote poems. With that one pitch he sang songs. With that one pitch he saved souls and converted non-believers, and brought peace to the boroughs and joy to the masses. And we will not be exaggerating.

And it isn't like that paragraph is particularly complex. He uses the same sentence pattern nine or ten times, depending on how strictly you want to read it. Neel's just flat out exaggerating for the most part, a tall tale. But there's something about the earnestness with which he sells his description of Rivera, as well as the absolute belief in his pitch, whatever it may be. It reads so naturally, you can't help but believe it, so long as you can suspend your disbelief.

And that's the bitch of writing. The hardest thing is making it sound natural, almost as if you're conversing with someone, and they're just really, really quiet. The effortlessness is key. Think of those figures in our history we define as cool. What makes them cool is that they expend so little effort, that it's natural to them to do what they do. Think of athletes, making it so easy that it is almost natural. Think of any exemplar of a field, and what gets you is how natural they are, like they do what they were born to do.

Not to say that there isn't a lot of effort involved. Oh, the effort. My cousin, R.Y., is hands down a pimp. And he's worked hard to get as comfortable as he can around women. Lots of effort expended in wining and dining them. And now, it's like he's natural. He told me one day, while in the mall, he was chatting up some girls (I can't call them women because he told me their age), and people stopped because they were amazed at how natural he was at this. One person actually told him she'd never seen an Asian guy holla at girls the way he did. (A bit of a tangent, but I'm proud of R.Y., and even though he'll probably never read this, I still have to give him a shoutout.)

It's strange, making it so natural only after years of working your ass off, then pretending not to care that you put in all that time and effort. And I think, ultimately, that's what we're all attempting to head towards. We're all good at something, but we all also have to work at it. And is it enough to do that one thing as best you can, or to try to improve yourself with other things? I admire G.B.'s ability to develop code, tossed out with ease and flair. G.B. admires my ability to write a story, tossed out with ease and flair. We have plans to train each other (in almost diametrically opposed fields), but as much as I believe I can teach him to "find his voice" (a fucking misnomer of a phrase, and one that I despise, and probably fodder for another entry in the future), and he believes he can train me to understand "pointers" (another fucking misnomer), neither of us will become naturals, because there's no passion.

It's giving yourself up to something so wholly, because that thing grips you and won't let go, and you refuse to let it go, and you're locked in a simultaneous death grip, and you start laughing because you wouldn't be doing anything else in the world. And over time, because you work at it, it gets easier and easier, until it becomes a part of you, melds with your soul. You perform your task, and it seems so natural, until one day, you can no longer perform at that natural level for whatever reason. It happens to everyone, and everything. That's what really tasks you, whether or not you can let go gracefully. But no one ever thinks of that. They just do whatever they do, and do it naturally, for as long as they can.

Damn it, I swear I was trying to make this more inspirational and/or funny.

Early Memory

Tuesday, August 26, 2003. 621 W. Lombard Street, room 425. 8:10 A.M. Bright, presumably warm weather.

No doubt, this semester’s (and perhaps even this year’s) theme is going to be hope. No, not the beautiful Hope I met while working at the lab. Hope, the hope that keeps you moving even after everything else tells you to stop. The hope that enables others to persist months, years in prison, because when they’ve lost everything else, hope pushes them along.

[And I don’t know if this comes through, but I am such a big believer in hope. Always have been, apparently, and always will be. Hope sustains me, hope drives me, and it may not seem like it, but I have always hoped for a brighter day. Given that I made it out of law school, things are getting better. –K]

… If I’d known law school would be like this, I would’ve joined the Army.

[Relevant because I’m considering joining the Army to get my law school loans paid off. –K]

***

Filler is the greatest thing ever. Here's a smattering of memories from my days as a toddler.

-In day care, I broke down in tears because they were feeding me raisin bran. I hate raisin bran. It was all mushy and lukewarm.

-In day care, I was reading an article from the newspaper they would use to cover the table. One of the parents came in, saw me focused on the paper, and asked me what I was doing. I recall my response was something along the lines of "I don't know what all the words mean, but it has something to do with the army." Apparently this was shocking to said parent.

-In day care, I got stung by a bee. Leg swelled up like a baby cantaloupe. It hurt bad.

-In day care, I put a Matchbox car in my pocket before I left. I wasn't trying to steal it, I just forgot and thought it was mine. I felt so guilty I kept it in my pocket and refused to take my hand out of my pocket the entire night, until my parents checked it. Boy, I got a spanking for that. For some reason, I couldn't explain that it was an accident, and even stranger, they never made me return it to day care.

-In day care, I loved playing with the wooden blocks, but one block always frustrated me: the rectangular arch. Always kept on trying to put it on top of a pile, only to have it fall off.

-In day care, sometimes, they would have a tub filled with soapy water and boats. I also loved pushing the boats around in there until my hands turned all wrinkly and pruney.

-We took a group picture for day care, and I don't recall this, but I've seen the picture. I'm the little kid standing away from everyone else, a scared little frown on his face, almost trying to hide his way out of the frame. I also had the same haircut that I do now, except with uncombed hair, and the same face, except with less acne and fewer wrinkles.

-Right before A.C. moved away from next door, I remember we were on the see saw. I swore when we grew up, we were going to get married and play "Name That Tune" all day long. As I recall, I kept emphasizing that we would play the home version all the time. The marriage was almost an afterthought. (As for A.C., well, I had my chance. And even though I screwed it up afterwards, those ten days with A.C. were probably my finest moments as a human being. No matter what happens from here on out, I can say that for ten days, I Lived.)

-I would constantly make a fort out of the couch cushions. One Saturday, I woke up and ran straight to the couch, proclaiming to myself that it would be the greatest Saturday ever, then setting up my fort. Damned if I know what I did, but I do recall it was the greatest Saturday ever.

-I always drank milk out of a sippy cup right before I went to sleep, in the bed.

-One morning, my dad was holding me, shaving, and smoking. He burned me good on my chubby little right forearm. Nice welt, but no scar.

-My parents got an untrained German Shepherd. Every day that thing would jump up and put its forepaws on my shoulders. I think that is why I am still afraid of dogs today.

-My dad bought a pinball machine that I was barely tall enough to play. It went underneath the staircase. I think my mom made him get rid of it.

-On Sunday mornings, my dad would wrap me up in my security blanket, carry me around for a little while, then throw me on my mom while she was sleeping. I think it was one of those things that she hated for being woken up, but loved since it was me.

-My parents tried to enroll me in a parochial school for elementary school. I remember going into that blue, blue office with them, sitting on the sky blue carpet, and playing with some toy trains in the corner, away from the adults. (What I don't remember is that the bald man with glasses told my parents I was too stupid to be admitted. My mom was pissed. She saved a copy of my intelligence breakdown, and showed it to me many years later. I ranked about average on everything except attention span, which was pretty damn close to nonexistent. Good to see nothing's changed.)

-Wrote my life story in first or second grade. My goal was to complete my reading primer "Rainbow Day." Read it in front of the class (the life story, not the primer. I did read ahead, though, because some of those stories were interesting).

Bald Focus

Wednesday, August 20, 2003. 621 W. Lombard Street, Room 425. 9:00 P.M. Dark.

Really, talking about this becomes rather bittersweet. I accepted Maryland’s offer to join the two hundred forty-five other first year law students. Was it my decision? Yes, insofar as I signed the acceptance fees, the loans are all in my name, and I’m sitting here in the Baltimore Student Union, Room 425, talking about this. From here on out, whenever I lament this choice, know that the stress yells much louder than I can. Know also that I felt what I feel now at the beginning of elementary school, middle school, high school, and college. I’ll probably want to vomit on my first boss’ loafers, scream at my first wife while at the altar, and cry when my first child is born. Out of sorrow mind you, not joy.

If I wrote about my emotions, all you’d read would be post-teenage neo-angst. So, I’ll try to combine my isolated experiences with the world around. As such, this will more be my perspective of life while I am at law school, and not life within law school. This is not to say it will be sunshine and lollipops, just that if I’m angry, it will be beyond my tiny world.

Of course, if you ask me about life within law school, I will be more than happy to grunt non-commitally and gesture towards the nearest toilet.

[Told you I didn’t like it since day one. –K]

***

M.R. and W.C. are getting married in less than a month (and M.R.'s birthday is a few days before that. Someone remind me in case I forget). As such, I have to make sure not to do anything stupid to myself. Like back in college, when my cousin A.L. married his wife, she saw me with my orange hair (dyed of course), and said "Oh, no, you are not having that in my wedding pictures." I had to dye my hair black, and it looked a little off because it wasn't as dark as my night-black hair. This was also before the white hairs started to peek through.

Thus, my plan of shaving my head clean-bald will have to wait again.

Yeah, I'm flirting with the idea again. There are a few reasons for it. The saddest one is that I'm having trouble coming up with things to post about, due to the aforementioned difficulty in general with communicating. I could definitely mine my shaved head for a long time, starting with a pic of my shaved head. Then again, is it really worth it to do something just for the stories? (yes, I have done things before just for the story.)

I think I might look fairly fucking badass with a shaved head. No clue what shape my head, and how big the neglect spot really is, but I think, after a few days in the sun, that I could pull it off. Walking around, shorn scalp, slight frown on my face except when children and women walk by. Maybe add a little scar on my cheek (via makeup) to increase my badass look. Apply the deep waxes to give it that special gleaming.

Chemotherapy is one of those things that I want to understand, without having to first-hand experience. A shaved head (plus shaved eyebrows! Yes, I am off-kilter!) would at least give me the experience of people staring at me in confusion, or compassion, or fear, or hatred (grow your hair out and get a job, burnout). What other medical treatments attempt to rob you so blatantly of your humanity, just as they attempt to save your very humanity? Like a woman carved out of ice, cold yet peculiarly alluring.

Really, I'm just kind of bored. Most of my waking hours are now immolated in writing for whatever reason, and though it's fulfilling (well, not technical writing), I need something else to do. If that something else entails pretending to be a shaolin monk, so be it.

Random Sampler

Tuesday, June 10, 2003. 9:14 P.M. 31 Clinton Hill Court, my room. Somewhat warm, keeping in line with being Summertime and all.

I don’t know what to say. My one week hiatus from my story became two became three became maybe a month or more now? Still, I made a promise to myself that I’d finish it before law school started. Since orientation starts Aug. 20, that’s a little over two months to finish probably 60+ pages? And me not really feeling much of it. I guess the closer I get, the more tangible the feeling of not getting published. Too much hope placed on it to save me from law school. Once I finally accepted law school, the whole idealistic “Yes I can be a writer” mode faded into the night sky like a baby’s sneeze.

Fuck me in the goat-ass, I will get published some day. Probably, it will be because I self published, but that is a last resort. Goat ass, come hither.

[Of all that, I love the imagery of a baby’s sneeze fading into the night sky. The rest of it is just depressing. –K]

***

Oh, holy hell. Do not click it if you are a squeamish person, but M.C. sent me this link the other night. I couldn't stop staring at it, mostly because it stared back at me. Ugh. Pop it like it's hot.

***

Types of people I've passed while running:

Those that ignore you completely
Those that don't notice you because they're busy playing
Those that stop their conversation to say hello and continue moving
Those that flip out because I "snuck up on them"
Those that primp their hair and smile nervously
Those that primp their hair and smile nervously, but were actually out to run
Those that are training for a marathon
Those that I pass multiple times on a run and say hello each time
Those that I pass multiple times on a run and say hello only once
Those that have a bag full of dog crap in their hand
Those that are fishing
Those that are carrying fishing poles but not fishing

***

Know your roots. I never got into Starcraft, but I know a lot of people that did. Understand that in Korea, Starcraft tournaments are televised. This game could be the end of Korean civilization as we know it, and sorely impact the rest of society.

***

G.B. first sent me this link, but J.L. has developed an unhealthy love affair.

***

People find it odd that once in a while, I will get a hot dog from 7-11 for breakfast. Is it? Food is food (and yes, a hot dog may not be food in the traditional sense, but it is still edible, somewhat). What would be really bad is if I bought a beer with the hot dog, which is something disorienting about VA. Beer in 7-11?

***

I'm just trying to fill space at this point, so here's the first part of a short story I was working on.

Dane got up from his workbench and started walking around the tiny piles of copper shavings indecorously heaped on the floor. “I ain’t never worked with a tattoo machine, you know that, right?” He reached for the rubber hammer and iron spike on the bench. “This the closest I’ve come to a tattoo.” Dane strolled over to a copper sheet hanging from the wall. He positioned the spike point towards the right edge, using his right hand. Stepped back, eyed it, swung the hammer true. A quick thud, and he withdrew the spike, easing it out. A neatly punched hole, about half an inch in diameter, allowed Mitchell to see through to the foam rubber backing. “Your wife want that in her back?”

“Girlfriend, actually. And I’m not proposing you cripple her for life, heavens no.” Mitchell removed a rolling paper and started spreading a thin line of tobacco from a purple velvet pouch. He fumbled with the pouch. “May I offer you a cigarette? The tobacco has been aged in brandy for three years. Unconventional, but the flavors are exquisite.” Dane shook his head and waved his arm. Mitchell lined the tobacco up, using clean, polished fingernails to smooth the lines. “Much as I am an aficionado of tobacco, her love for unconventional art is unsurpassed in the five boroughs.” Mitchell strode to the smog-smeared window, and with some straining, managed to attract Dane’s attention. The larger man covered the distance in four steps and squeaked the window open with his right arm.

“Ah, thank you. I haven’t fully recovered from the regatta this past weekend. Hoisting the mainsail and all that.” He removed a gold plated lighter. The butane ignited sharp blue with a snap-hiss. It ignited the thick cigarette with a short puff. “As I was explaining, Marian is utterly enamored with your metalwork. I take it you will not blush if I tell you that we have rutted beneath your ‘Dog and Wolf #3’?” Mitchell blew a smoke ring within another smoke ring out the window. Dane looked at the left hand holding the cigarette with a nonchalance borne of years of practice. Soft, smooth, probably moisturized, and all-too-pale skin ringing the base of his fourth finger. “Ever since I purchased your masterpiece, it has watched over us every time we make the beast with two backs.” He smirked, then chuckled, then laughed, as if this constituted the most hilarious joke in his world. “Your metalwork, it excites Marian. Lights a fire deep within her. Displaying it is one thing, but to combine it and her, well. I don’t think I need to explain that to you.”

"Nope.” Dane clomped back to the workbench, dropping his hammer and chisel with a muffled thud. He ran a hand through his ginger hair; flakes of either copper shavings or his own keratin puffed outward. “How come Mary Anne ain’t here?” He picked up a flattened copper sheet, one he’d hammered out a few hours previous. A few irregular indentations pockmarked the surface. Dane forewent the ultra-machined look in favor of a more natural, hand-worked flavor to his pieces. Not so much a conscious decision, as a need to feel what he was working with, from start to finish. Warm metal, all he had ever dealt with. How would cold flesh react? He ran his fingers over the sheet, pressing them over the hillies and nooks, trying to imagine the small of a woman’s back shivering. How was she going to stay still when the needle plunged deep into her?

“Marian. And it’s a surprise. Her birthday is in eight weeks. That should be more than enough time for you to plan out the design and acclimate yourself to the tattoo machine.” Mitchell flicked the stub through the open window. “Pity, it burns so bright, so quick, but tastes so exquisite. Combining vice upon vice only heightens the experience.” Strolling through the workshop, he started talking to himself more than Dane. “We can set up the autoclave here, though I do not suppose it will be required for a one-off. We can replace the central table with a padded seat.” Stopping near the door, he tapped some copper residue from his polished shoes, the leather so taut and shiny it was as if the shoes were crafted around lasts cast from Mitchell’s feet. “I have the equipment waiting in a moving truck. Shall we commence moving it in in two hours? Or will you need more time to move your equipment? I can have the movers help you.”

Dane stepped between Mitchell and his central workspace. “Didn’t say I’d do this. You want to come in and ruin my space, have me tattoo someone don’t even know they gonna get it.” He crossed his arms across his blue flannel shirt, covering the duct taped hole on the breast pocket. “Order me ‘round, treat me like I work for you. Tell you what, I don’t. I haven’t heard nothing make me want to help you.” With quick strides, he strode to the door. “So you go on ahead and you have yourself a nice day. I’ll have another show in a couple of weeks, feel free to buy what you want then.” He swung the gate open. It fell off the bottom hinge (the pin had long since disappeared into the numerous cracks on the floor) and rusted itself into an open position. Both men shuddered at the squeal.

“Ah, yes, compensation. I always forget about these things.” Mitchell strolled over to the table, removed a leather-bound memo pad and a gold-plated pen. His right hand flashed across the paper. He tore the script from the pad, walked back to Dane, handed it to him. “I trust you’ll find this amount more than a fair compensation for your time and efforts?” Dane held the piece of paper, the torn bits dangling towards the ground. He licked his lips, and with both fists, neatly split the offer in two. The halves tumbled to the floor. “I see. Well.” Mitchell dashed off another note, handed it to Dane. Dane tore this also. “Well, that’s all right. I keep forgetting people can’t read,” and as he said this, Dane picked Mitchell up by the lapels and slammed him onto the table. Mitchell felt the hot breath through Dane’s flared nostrils, saw the bare teeth gleaming with saliva.

“Can’t read my handwriting.” Pinned down like an entomological specimen, Mitchell couldn’t back up any further. This did not stop him from attempting to spread his flesh out across the table and somehow gain distance. Dane’s lips closed over his teeth, let go of Mitchell, and helped him back up. With several rough brushes, Dane swept the copper shavings from Mitchell’s hair and peacoat.

“Sorry.” Both men looked down, to their right, staring deeply into the warped wooden floor. “Mistake.” Dane reached down from the waist, picked up all four scraps, and tried smoothing them out against the edge of the worktable. As nicks and ruts decorated the perimeter of the table, this only succeeded in shredding the bits. He then tried smoothing against his jeans, but it was already too late. By this point, his palms were so sweaty, the rubbing action left tiny paper twirls on his hands and his pants. He then handed back what was left to Mitchell, a semi-pulped mess of smeared ink and unread words.

“Well.” Mitchell held his jacket lapels with his hands, thumbs pointed towards the heavens. He tugged down towards the ground twice. “Two hundred thousand dollars was the second offer, but I think we can change that to one hundred thousand, and my guarantee to not bring a tort action against you for battery and assault.” Still clasping the coat, he left through the unhinged door. “I will bring the appropriate contracts and the movers in four hours. Oh, and if you would, remove the bed. If we're going to do this, we’re going to do it right.” Mitchell tromped out of the workspace like a victorious king leaving the battleground. As the service elevator thrummed, Dane sat at the table, elbows covered in red dust. He got up and started chucking his hand tools into a cardboard box, then placed it on his futon mattress.

***

At lunch one day:

R.B.: You know, I've never seen an African-Chinese person.

J.T.: Yeah, that's got to be really rare.

K.T.: I'm working on it.

***

There's a fair possibility that I may miss a post, due to being tired (lame!). Deal with it.

Imagined Drought

Tuesday, April 22, 2003. 8:37 P.M. 31 Clinton Hill Court. My room. Dark.

Due to a typo, I have learned Clinton can be relettered as Non Clit. Given what we know about Ex-Pres. Clinton’s sexual habits, that seems about right.

In the Art library, the cute librarian smiled at me, and I smiled back. Gotta work on this whole being social thing.

[You don’t know how long it took me to learn how to be able to smile at strangers. Most of the time (and sometimes even now), I will look away or frown at them, unsure how to react. –K]

***

You know, it’s finally happened. I’m starting to reach the limits of my imagination/output. Because of my concerted efforts to apply my imaginative efforts elsewhere, the rest of my writing suffers, as well as daily conversation. Thankfully, this does not affect my work output, as the amount of imagination required to craft technical documentation is on par with that required to walk in a straight line downhill. However, I do find myself at a loss for words more often when speaking to people, or when typing emails, or even in trying to come up with five entries for Writ.

I’d always assumed that my imagination was some bottomless fount, fueled by some inner wellspring of boundless creativity. Given the incessant daydreams that populated my days and kept me semi-amused, I was hoping that I’d forever and ever be living with one foot in the world as is, and the world as it could be. Alas, though it replenish (fort-?)nightly, it is like a rubber band, stretching only so far.

I’m not sure if it’s a good thing or a bad thing. That strangling feeling I would get after not being able to express myself, whether through speaking or writing, has gone away (good). I’m putting all my eggs into one basket here, essentially (bad). For the most part, these “eggs” are coming out bright and worthwhile (good). I find myself getting bored much, much easier, as there is a lot more downtime inside my head; the voices, my voices, no longer ramble (bad?). Think of a film reel, slowed down to a near stop, until you can see each frame pass by the reflector.

It’s odd, because it also has a calming effect on me. I’m not happy, I’m not sad, I’m just caught in a pseudo-serenity, slightly wistful at times. I’ve entered this state before, brief periods of lucidity whilst writing before, but it’s not been this sustained for this long. If I weren’t so pseudo-serene, it would be child’s play to break bricks with my bare fist. The problem is, I’m not sure I want to break the brick. What did it ever do to me?

Networked Coffee

April 2, 2003. Wednesday. McKeldin Library, floor 1. 6:09 P.M. Warm, moreso inside this hothouse.

The other day, I was driving, and behind me was this beautiful redhead. Since no one was watching her, she was throwing her hair back, stretching, all the personal intimate moments you do in public when no one watches. The light turned green, and I drove off. When I look back in the mirror, she’s gone. She had to have been there. Realistically, I know she made a turn, but still, for those few moments, her sole purpose was to utterly enchant me.

If I read this in the future, it’s probably going to really embarrass me.

[Yeah, it does embarrass me. –K]

***

I was having a bad day at L.M. The technical writing was technically annoying, the worst kind. So, when V.M. asked me if I wanted to go get some coffee, I leapt at the excuse to get out of the office. Seriously, my chair spun a little when I bolted away. Now, I should have learned by now that whenever someone asks me if I want to go off with them alone, only one of two things is possible. Either they're trying to kill me, or they need to talk. Even at work. Especially at work. This is the pattern of my life. Why I refuse to acknowledge it is beyond me.

I thought we were just going next door to get some coffee, but V.M. offered to drive to Starbucks. Fine, whatever, I just need to clear my head. Almost as soon as we reach the elevators, V.M. starts describing his project to me. This would be all well and good, if I were assigned to it, but I am not, so as of right now, there is no need for me to know what he is describing about networking. Eventually, when they do assign me to create some documentation, then I will need to know the subject matter.

V.M. goes into great detail about his difficulties and the main issue with the project. Then, he turns to me and asks for my opinion on how he should proceed. I'm sorry, half the words you just used, I've never encountered before. And I read random old school literature, so I'm fairly well-versed in obscure words. In addition, there's a department filled with software developers, and you chose likely one of the three least helpful people on the floor to ask your questions to? I have no grounding in networking, I plead to him. I couldn't even install a wireless router with a Macintosh. V.M. assures me that it's ok, he couldn't do it either.

Confronted as I am, all I can do is try to abstract the situation and draw parallels to other fields, other disciplines. And it's pretty sad, really. since it was V.M., I fell into my defense mechanism of not paying attention to what he was saying in the first place. Thus, I had even less of a clue when he described the situation, and laid it out in what I can only assume was a clear manner, that I might first understand his issue, then be able to provide my unique perspective.

As it stood, every single idea I'd had, he'd already come up with and shot down previously. And I understand that he'd merely wanted a sounding board, and it wasn't really on me to come up with the perfect solution to his perfect problem. Still, you come to the technical writer? Come on, V.M. I come in once the data's been collated, or help to collate the data, not figure it all out in the first place.

Museum Tripping

Sunday, March 09, 2003. 2:28 P.M. Kuhn Library, 5^th floor. Clear sky, breezy, but not chilly.

Once again, a mishmash of what’s happened over the past few weeks.

The neighbor (elderly Asian woman who smokes heavily)’s granddaughter came over to use the internet while the snow was melting, thereby taking out her internet connect. After some initial follies, my mom had the brilliant idea of me using my internet account to email her professor, rather than just go through her pine account, ftp’ing her homework to the servers, etc. Turns out that she thought I was really cute, as this was the first time we’d ever talked. Polite also. I think I walked taller for a few days after that.

[Yeah, I’m recalling and bragging, just because I don’t have much to brag about these days. She got married a little while after that, if you're wondering. –K]

***

You know that feeling when you step out of the shower, towel off, and step into some freshly laundered underwear, shorts, and a cotton t-shirt? It's had just enough time to cool off so it doesn't burn, but not so much that's it's foreign? It's like a five minute hug all over. Mmm.

***

Z.M. and I rushed down some museums, because they certainly weren't going to rush us down. They're edifices of stone and steel, not living, breathing creatures. Of course, if they were going to uproot from their foundations and rush us, well, wouldn't that make for a hell of a story. I've got my mini-crowbar, I'm ready for a fight.

Now, what I'd discovered about Virginia on Sunday morning, and forgotten, is that the Virginians take religion very seriously. You do not point to an icon of Jesus and say "His father is Allah." You do not call yourself Buddhist in public. And you certainly do not speed on a Sunday morning, because the local constables are out in force, with their lime green vests and their lights flashing, ready to pull you over and charge you with speeding. This is probably a good idea, as little kids are going to go to church, and be in the car. This is not good if you're trying to go somewhere that is not church. This caused me to be late, and has earned the constabulary my undying resentment. You made me late! When I called Z.M. to inform her, of course, I had to be the smart ass and say "I blame it all on religion."

Thereafter, we had a nice sequence where Z.M. got in the car, started the ignition, popped some keys off her chain to run back in to get her sunglasses, ran back because she had the wrong keys, popped the keys out of the ignition, closed the door, ran back in, and walked back out with her sunglasses. I just stared blankly forward, uncomprehending (as is my tendency these days).

We get to Washington, D.C. just fine, park, and start clomping towards the National Museum of the American Indian and the Smithsonian National Air and Space Museum, conveniently located right next to each other. For some unknown reason, Z.M. hops out in front of traffic right when the walk light counts down to zero. I flip out for no discernable reason, except that it's funny to flip out on people. Seeing as how I lived in Baltimore for so long, I'd gotten to the point where I'd jump into traffic and start dancing.

On the way, Scientologists (warning: May contain trace amounts of religious material) set up a raincoat-yellow tent and were offering free stress tests. They'd also set up massage tables. This sets me off also, and I start flipping out about Hubbard and Co. Apparently, walking makes me flip out these days, not a good sign if you have to work in an office with me, or you pass me on the street.

On the mall proper, there's a gigormous ceremony taking place, with giant television screens posted all over, a stage up front, and so many chairs it would put Carnegie Hall to shame. I ask Z.M. if they have mass every Sunday this big, because if so, it is the greatest assemblage of religious followers I have ever seen. The man on the screen, he has the wispy hair of a wizened celebrant, and the robe to match. Then, I wonder out loud if the Sunday is some special occasion. As it turned out, it was the George Washington University graduation, the man was wearing a graduation gown and hood, and I am a jackass.

At the National Air and Space Museum, I am about one thousand times as excited as Z.M. I have a touch of what you might term "the Nerd" in me. She does not, and this shows in my barely contained excitement, and her barely suppressed yawning. However, she is excited to see Dorothy Gale's original red slippers from "The Wizard of Oz." I wonder why the National Air and Space Museum would display something that let Dorothy fly from Oz to Kansas, rather than celebrate actual aeronautical accomplishments. Turned out they were just renovating another museum, and placed the shoes therein.

Just beyond the metal detectors, they've exposed an isoceles triangle of blackened, smoothed moon rock for the hoi polloi to touch. Naturally, I've got to touch it, and it turns out that the rock feels like any other polished rock. I don't feel any deep spiritual connection, as we're all composed of the same matter floating through the universe. Still, any excuse to touch something.

Really, I could've spent a day inside, and hidden inside a rocket to stay there all night, but Z.M. has a more upbeat style. At least we linger in the pop culture relocated section. And, wonder of wonders, they've display R2-D2 and C3PO, the droids from "Star Wars." In a nod to my past (present) as a fool, I tell Z.M. there's something I have to do. She steps away as I start busting out "The Robot." I do believe I ended up in the background of several pictures. Also, they encased in lucite the first ever artificial heart (Can a fake heart still feel?).

When we roll out, I rush over to the space rock and cop another quick feel.

Outside, the graduation has disbanded, and one new graduate, still clad in gown and mortarboard, cradles a small Yorkshire Terrier in his arm, also clad in gown and mortarboard. What drives people to dress dogs up? I don't know. I pointed this out to Z.M., and she called me out on it, saying that I would probably recall this for Writ. Yeah, I owe Z.M. a dollar (Offer only valid in Maryland).

Next, the National Museum of the American Indian. There's a bronzed statue up front with an archer pointing his bow and arrow straight up to the sky, missing the bowstring, and I have unfortunately forgot the story behind it. He was aiming at the heavens to shoot down the sun? I don't know; I suck. I wished some wag would have hung something just above his arrow. It also reminded me of how all the female nude bronze sculptures in the Louvre had burnished nipples. Yeah, I've nipples on the mind, and on my chest, oddly enough. However, mine are not shiny. I forgot to wax them this morning.

For lunch, Z.M. grabs a bean/corn/mango mix, a vegetable medley, and some potato/bean mix in a leaf of some sort (a tamal?). I grab a buffalo burger, because it's buffalo. And I always feel weird eating meat around Z.M. and J.R. (they abstain), but hell's bells, I've got unresolved desires to eat buffalo. Markedly underwhelming, just like a regular burger.

After lunch, I go to the bathroom. A queue formed while I was doing my business, and the rotund man, fourth or fifth in line, starts to undo his belt. While waiting. Dude, what the flip? Are you going to piss on the man in front of you? You can hold it, damn.

On the fourth floor, there are several bowls of fake maize. I try to pick up some kernels out of the yellow and black, and hold off on the blue. Of course, Z.M. is watching and laughing at this sequence, as I make several grabs out of each bowl. "Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on you. Fool me three or more times, shame on me."

The third floor has an extensive clothing exhibit, and there are beads, beads, beads everywhere. Seriously, it's like they were going out of fashion, and the clothing makers had huts full of the beads. There was also an elk tooth dress, where the man would give his betrothed the teeth that he collected, and the woman would then sew them into clothing. What this immediately made me think of, and I dared not tell Z.M. this because it's pretty geeky, even for me, is World of Warcraft, and all the quests which required gathering X amount of items and combining them to create a piece of armor or clothing. Specifically, Atiesh, Greatstaff of the Guardian requires 40 splinters to create.

On the way out, we almost step into the outdoor arena. I say "Well, they already absolved themselves of liability," as there was a sign outside warning people not to play on the fountain outside. Right then and there, I stumble on the stairs, nearly busting my ass in two. Why does it not surprise me that Z.M. started cracking up?

Another Step

Sunday, February 23, 2003. 2:00 P.M. McKeldin Library, 3^rd floor. Cold, somewhat rainy.

Maybe I’ve mentioned this before, but they did a survey of athletes somewhere; a majority would have traded all but five years of their remaining life in exchange for being the best at what they did. Maybe that’s some sort of acid test to see if you really love what you’re doing, or at the very least, if you’re crazy enough to try to go somewhere with what you’re doing. I know I’d trade my whole life save one year in exchange for writing like some sort of literary god on earth. One year would probably be one book, but to write the greatest book ever, I’d make that trade.

Hell, right now I’m basically giving up on everything else to try and get this to work, so I better get something out of it. Realistically, this book won’t get published, but I am learning a lot about the whole process of writing a book that I can take with me. Someday, Somewhere, Somewhen, I will manage to get a book published, even if it kills me. Which, at the rate I am going, is the most likely scenario. Me or the book. Me or the book.

Ah yes, almost forgot about the debilitating stomach virus I contracted in Atlantic City or soon thereafter. The most notable moment was vomiting up breakfast nearly totally undigested while I was on the toilet. Shades of alcohol poisoning.

Close second place to that would be vomiting up water because I had taken Pepto Bismol, which coated my stomach, thus irritating everything. That was really quite frightening.

[Good and bad times. –K]

***

D.C. and M.C. asked me if I wanted to go to K.'s house for a cookout. Seeing as how he lives in Virginia, and I happen to be stuck in Virginia, this would work out well. Not a fan of driving all over the tri-state area what with gas prices rocketing through the stratosphere. Right before we go in, D.C. and M.C. draw a diagram of their new house. Both of their sinister drawings do a fairly good job of conveying what I would be ill-equipped to define (and since sinister in the original Latin derives from "left-handed," I am correct in more than one definition here).

Of course, keeping in line with my tendency to do stupid things, one of the first things I do is grab a Miller Lite. Thankfully, it tasted just like stale water. Plus, I'd had a lot of pickles earlier in the day, when I went to Jerry's to write, and sat there for a couple of hours just grabbing free pickles and snacking on them after I had lunch. Yes, I know my behavior is questionable, but really, I can either be pretentious in a coffee house, or pretentious in a restaurant. At least I get my money's worth with the free refills, damnit.

As a result, my memory is fuzzed out for the next few hours, but here is what I do remember. At some point, I ask M.C. if it would be in poor taste if I were to relieve myself in the woods. The answer is an unqualified yes. Then, several people point me in the direction of the bathroom indoors, and instruct me not to go on any of the mattresses. I find it, close the door, pull down my zipper, and untuck myself. Of course, being slightly intoxicated, I forget to lock the door. I hear some rattling, and quickly tuck myself back in. A woman comes in, takes a step back, gets very flustered, and apologizes both before and after she closes the door.

The worst part is when I finish my business, she's waiting in the kitchen. I go up to her to tell her the bathroom is free, but when she sees me walk towards her, her face screws up and she looks like she's about ready to cry. When I talk to her, she stares down and to my left/her right. I feel kind of bad, but there's really nothing I can do. Of course, if I were a right bastard and not so intoxicated, I'm sure I could have made a really horrible comment, or tried to get her to feel even guiltier. But I'm not a right bastard. Well, not then.

I think at this point, M.C. is forcing me to get up and out of my chair on a regular basis to go get food to line my stomach. I start whining like a little bitch and give her a dirty look for making me get up. M.C. adopts the Metatron/Voice of God tone and tells me not to sass her. I apologize and turn away as quickly as I can. Later, I also find out that I'm going to go gamble with D.C., M.C., A.W., and the entire rogues' gallery of T.S. in July. At least I've been given enough notice to start saving money to lose immediately.

At some point, J.L. [Damn, this is not the J.L. that lives in Virginia, though this one lived in Virginia in his childhood. From here on out, the law student/nascent lawyer J.L. I refer to as J.L.H., and the networking J.L. in Virginia I refer to as J.L.J. -K] gives me a call. I haven't talked to him since his semester started. He's in Washington, D.C. for the summertime, and our brief conversation leads me to believe that there's going to be a fair amount of drunken debauchery, my favorite kind of debauchery. It should make the summertime a little more engaging.

At some point, the issue of my torrid love affair with L.M. comes up. Wait, did I say "torrid love affair?" I meant "cold-hearted bitch-fest." M.C. raised the possibility of selling out to pay off the law school bills by becoming a (dun-dun-dun) lawyer, then bumming around the world, meeting people, drinking and partying. Damned if I didn't almost go drop everything, empty my savings, leave behind all my responsibilities, fake my own death, and do that. Not that I thought about the plan too hard, driving off a bridge would also require me to find a bum about my size and do bad things which I'm not really ready to do. Yet.

D.C., once again, lunges into his spiel about working at T.S. Really, I don't know why I've been so resistant to the idea of working there. At first, I think I didn't want to move to Virginia, but exigencies forced me into that, so that's no longer an issue. Then, there was always the issue of travel, which a job at T.S. would require, but there's really nothing tying me to Virginia. I don't know. Home is where the heart is, and my heart is always on my sleeve, so I'm always home? I'm never home? It's not so much where I am, so long as I'm OK? Who knows? And maybe it was the beer, or maybe it was the fact that the job description doesn't quite match up with my current job responsibilities. Maybe I am a rock, and D.C. is the constant stream that has worn away at my (laughably infirm) resolve over the past couple of years.

When we leave K.'s place, I talk to him briefly. This helps if you imagine a man possessed by a male banshee on crack, recorded, then slowed down to 1/8 speed. His voice was that unnerving:

K.: Oh, yeah, your parents. "We have your balls, they are soft and squishy in our hands. You will not get them back until you are 39."
K.T.: If then. I might not get them back until they die.
K.: Yeah. I'm not serious, that's why I drink.

Funny, I'm serious, and that's why I drink.

After we roll, the talk continues, and it seems more and more alluring, like that woman in the corner of the bar after 3, 6, 17 beers. I'd sobered at this point, but the sober reality was hanging just behind me. Keep on languishing at L.M., or take yet another chance in life. And let's be honest, no one knows what will happen, and it really is just a job application, and it really is just a job. And I'm not that unhappy at L.M. And I love living in Virginia. And I don't miss my friends. And I lie a lot to get through the day.

I got home that night and sent my updated resume right on over to D.C. We'll keep you all posted with the hap(penstance)s.

***

The spacing problem is caused by me starting posts in a word document, then completing them in the posting window. I could remember to do everything in a word document and paste, but that reeks of effort, and I am lazy.

Past Imperfect

Wednesday, January 1, 2003. 31 Clinton Hill Court. Cold, very rainy. Dark.

First of the new year.

Right here, my New Year’s resolution is to finish a draft of my novel, NMWIT (no matter what it takes). I think I might be able to use that abbreviation somewhere? Nimwit?

Damned if I know how I’m going to pull it off, but I will find a way. Shouldn’t be that hard, per se, because I’m done roughly a third of it, right? Except, in it’s own taunting, I hate you way, it really is so damn hard, keeping everything straight, interesting, new, and what not.

[This was an untitled work about a man with multiple personality disorder attempting to start a community theater and keep his marriage from falling apart. I know where the hard drive that this is on is located, and have yet to go find it. -K]

***

I found my journal that I kept during law school, at least until roughly halfway through first semester of law school. The first entry is January 1, 2003, the January before I started law school. There are some sporadic entries until August/September, when I finally started law school. As near as I can tell, I stopped in late October, 2003, about the time when the work really started to crush me. I made one entry in late February, 2004.

Then, J.L. convinced me to start Writ in July of 2005. I converted to serial novel in January of 2006, only to drop it in April 2006, when finals were beginning. That summertime was spent studying for the bar exam, and eventually passing it, then going to work at N.C.I. I did pick it up around the time I was ready to leave N.C.I., and I guess my greatest regret of this journalizing/diarizing/bloggerizing is that I didn’t write more about my days at N.C.I. Ah well, some things are too precious to be shared, and even when I forget the specifics, I will still carry the love for the place.

For the next few weeks, I’m going to cut and paste some choice excerpts for each entry so you can see 1. what I was thinking back then, 2. how much I (have)n’t changed as a person, and 3. how far I have(n’t) come as a writer. It’s strange reading through this, because it wasn’t my life. I read the words, I know on some level that this was my life, but… it doesn’t seem like it really was. This is someone else’s life that I’m looking in on, a slightly horrified look frozen on my face.

***

Sunday, January 19, 2003. 8:36 P.M. 31 Clinton Hill Court. Cold, dark. Raiders v. Titans at halftime, 24-17 Raiders.

I’m afraid that I won’t do well on this novel. That is one of the two big sticky points (the other that I am not really sure about this middle part.). Maybe I’m spreading it too thin. Maybe I’m not spreading it thin enough (?). I’m sure if I ever re-read all of this, it’s going to seem very VERY disjointed, as if I were a druggie (which I’m not, but I could be if I tried hard).

Game’s back on. Maybe there’s a link between TV, evil TV, and me not wanting to write. TV is easy. Writing is not. Damnit. Plus, with 8+ months to go, I’m just being really really lazy. Should have set better deadline.

[I have always been lazy. –K]

Old Acquaintances

I’m hyper? Honestly, I did not realize this. Sitting here in my room, I’m not bouncing off the walls ready to blow something up, although I would not be averse to blowing something up right about now. For it is easier to destroy than create, and I am looking to get back to playing my life in easy mode. All-Madden difficulty is scary. Thinking back on the incidents in my life, I can see how it could be construed by outsiders that I am somewhat hyper. Still, I don’t entirely believe it.

On a grand Thursday, facing down the mighty all-day meeting, I drowned my guts with two cans of Coke, just to give me that little extra pick-me-up. At the same time, it din’t help. The system is starting to acclimate itself to caffeine, and I’m finding it more and more necessary to flood the system in even more of the good stuff. Well, there’s also the possibility of getting enough sleep, but the current plan does not allow for it (and what is that plan? If I haven’t told you, I’ll probably mention something at the end of the month, because I’m scared of it failing, or me failing, or both.).

When the meeting started, I went about ten minutes before starting to yawn. Granted, part of it may have been because I find the information dull as safety scissors. Looked off to the back of the conference room, and there sat the mighty carafe. It started to shimmer in the fluorescence, and I knew it was time to return home, falling back into the warm embrace of Lady Coffee.

I took a sip, and it was like upshifting to seventh gear. Though we were all just sitting there talking about… Heaven only knows, everything around me started zooming into the foreground, motion-blur starting to dance across everything. I was flying in my seat, scorching into a forgotten realm of tomorrow. Sounds fell far behind, as did the meeting participants.

Before I knew it, I’d downed four cups of the black slurry. At this point, I’d started to levitate above my seat. My fingers clattered across the keyboard with a fervor I’d not seen since the early days of learning how to type. I could actually identify everyone around me by their smell, if only I closed my eyes and breathed. The hazy fog that clenched my mind cleared away in the cleansing breeze. I was so close to Nirvana (oneness with the universe, not the famed grunge band of the nineties).

And then we recessed for lunch.

During the break, I knew that there was so much coffee in my system, it would probably be a good idea to balance it with a copious amount of fresh water. I glommed onto the water cooler and threw back six plastic cups’ worth of Deer Park.

Can’t you see where this is going? Don’t you know I love the scatological humor?

Around 1430, the twinge started. We only had a couple more topics, so I thought I could wait it out. Around 1445, not so much, but I didn’t want to leave. What I learned from way back when, the full feeling in your bladder will go away if you’re aroused. So, to take my mind off of things, I started daydreaming about Zhang Ziyi and Scarlett Johansson. And it worked, until I realized I was daydreaming about Zhang Ziyi and Scarlett Johansson in the middle of a (semi-) serious meeting. So I stopped, and soon enough, the bladder raged on. This on/off dreaming continued for an hour, and made a mess of my psyche for years to come.

When we came to the “Miscellaneous issues” part of the meeting, the table was opened up for questions, and W.J. had one. I actually rose out of my seat, my fists clenched in his direction, and cried out. “NO!” Everyone was kind of surprised. Not me. Keep in mind that W.J. always makes good points, and always requires 15 minutes to make his good points. Argh.

When he finished and I asked if there was anything else, you could not have stopped me as I ran down the hall in a stiff-legged motion, to keep my bladder from exploding all over the place. If you recall the scene in “Austin Powers,” where he comes out of the cryo-preservation and urinates for over a minute, I proved that day that it is not outside of the realm of possibility to do so, from 1532 to 1534.

Skin Peel

By far, the most amusing moment of my life (in my opinion) took about a month to set up, but the payoff/punchline was worth it. If only it hadn’t happened to me, I would have laughed my ass off.

About four weeks before I was set to go on a road trip to Europe, I went outside on a sunny day to read one of the Harry Potter books. It was such a nice day, I took a towel with me to lie outside and read. Wouldn’t you know it, after about fifteen minutes in the midmorning sun, I put the book down and fell asleep. For four hours. That was the first time I had ever sunburned. Normally, I just tan. I had never spent that much direct contact in the bright sun for four hours. My chest looked irradiated, red, raw. As a testament to my melanin stores, it actually faded back to normal after two days. I forgot all about it.

Flash forward to my trip to Europe. I was sleep-deprived the entire time (which in and of itself led to another series of great misadventures with A.C.). You think I don’t think and act coherently normally? I was a tour-de-force of mirth and confusion then, but mostly confusion. I didn’t know what the hell was going on.

Somewhere in France, in a hotel, I was taking a shower in a stand-up booth. I took my travel soap in, and noticed a pullchain with a red handle on the inside. There was a sign, in English, which warned me that pulling the chain was for emergencies only. Lord only knew what constituted an emergency. I turned on the water, and it rushed out. Felt pretty good, nice and warm against my tired skin. I remember the soap was a tiny bottle with amber soap, and I squeezed some out onto my left hand, lathered up, and started soaping my chest.

And then a sheet of skin just sloughed off my chest.

I looked down at the soap suds surrounding this giant white skin flap, hanging away from me, my hands slowly retreating from it. Holy shit, I thought to myself. I’ve gone and contracted an incurable disease. I don’t remember if I’d yet tasted Venetian canal water (because in Venice, I tasted the canal water. This was before A.C. told me that raw sewage drains into the canals), but I do remember thinking that there was something in the shower water that was killing me.

I turned around and stared at the pullchain. Incurable disease, this seems like a big emergency. Had my hand on the handle, cool and metal, ready to pull, when I stopped to think. For once in my life, I spared myself even more embarrassment by thinking. Now, what the hell could have caused my skin to spontaneously slough off? It didn’t hurt, it just came off. And then it hit me. The sunburn. I was just peeling.

Thereafter, I had the most fun I’ve ever had in a shower, peeling away giant hunks of skin from my chest, down to my belly, up to near my shoulders. And that’s the skin-ny on that story. (I apologize, but that pun had to be taken; what is done cannot be undone.)

[You know, I was sleeping face up without a shirt on. Thank goodness I had pants, though. I don't know why my face didn't peel. I must have fallen asleep with the book on my face? -K]

Tragedian

“Comedy is when you fall in a manhole and die. Tragedy is when I cut my finger.” –Mel Brooks

***

We all know how comedians occupy a cultural niche, but why don’t tragedians enjoy (suffer) similar acclaim? Yes, I know that they adopt titles different from “tragedian,” such as dramatist or ambulance chaser. Still, I’ve been contemplating a career change, and I think I might make a real cracking tragedian. The only issue is what type of tragedian I would become. Let’s contemplate the options.

Deadpan tragedian: Keeping a straight face while making tragic statements. I used to be great with keeping a straight face, and then I started buying into my own hype. Damnation. At the same time, I think I can return to the halcyon days of deadened facial nerves. Botox works wonders, as I understand it.

Pros: Following in the footsteps of Buster Keaton. Emotion is a failing I must shed.
Cons: Botox makes you look younger. Why would I want to look like an eight-year old?

Slapstick tragedian: Crazy violence plus tragedy. Scene: K.T. is walking down the street, and sees an open manhole cover. K.T. steps around it, and a tiny piano falls on his head. It so disoriented him that he takes three steps and falls down the manhole.

Pros: Amazing overlap with slapstick comedy.
Cons: The term “manhole” has an entirely new connotation these days.

Situation-tragedian (Sit-trag): Either writer or actor. Probably a lot of “very special episodes” with a comedy every once in a while to spare the characters from their constant sorry lives. For example, winning the lottery only to lose it all in an ill-advised plan to invest in a flying fish fishing farm, or getting addicted to snorting dirt.

Pros: Can mine my past for episode ideas. At least 4 seasons worth, maybe 5 depending on if it gets picked up after the 4^th season cliff-hanger involving the bomb, the faulty timer, and the broken nail clippers.
Cons: Margaret Cho single-handedly guaranteed no Asian-American will ever get time on a half-hour television show as anything other than a second banana.

Stand-up tragedian: We all laugh, we all cry. People pay to laugh, people should pay to cry (or laugh at someone else’s suffering). I guess, rather than jokes and quips, I trade sorrows and sadness? Would require a lot of work.

Pros: The act of tragedizing (trapeziusing?) before an audience is tragic in and of itself.
Cons: Getting hit with rotten tomatoes and heckled is also tragic, though not the right kind of tragedy I’m aiming for.

Improv tragedian: With suggestions from the audience, my troupe and I would craft random tragic scenarios. Game names would include: “World’s Saddest Professions,” “Funeral Dirge,” and “Prison Inmates.”

Pros: Could set up in cities without a strong humor-base, like Detroit or Green Bay.
Cons: In a way, all tragedy is improvised, so it sort of defeats the purpose.

It’s going to take some work. I’m going to go back to the lab and spill some more acid on my hands.

Flag Football

How appropriate that my 150th post was this one: http://writblog.blogspot.com/2007/05/highlow.html.

***

Generally, I can’t write about anything when I 1. drink alcohol, or 2. run like mad. Not enough blood in the brain to remember coherently what’s going on. However, we’ve started playing flag football after work at L.M., and there are some events that stand out.

W.J. decided to punt for us on the very first play of the game. Had the ball poised between his hands, dropped it, and punted it true. The arc curved across the sky, we ran down, and relieved … someone … of their flag. Meanwhile, W.J. stayed back on our side of the field. He’d injured his groin on the kick. The rest of the day saw him holding himself like a pervert, hobbling around the field like a man twice his age. The next day, during the dreaded all-day meeting, W.J. remained quite laconic, speaking only when spoken to, volunteering nothing. I think we got out a little early because he had nothing to say.

An errant punt rolled towards the volleyball fields. One of the volleyballers, a female, picked it up, apologized for the impending throw, then spiraled it 30 yards directly to one of our players. Prettiest throw we’d seen all day. Prettiest thrower we’d seen all day. Of course, my dumb ass was the first to speak up. “Can she be our new quarterback?”

R.B. decided to play, but had no clothing. Thus, he went shoeless and shirtless (and we gave him no service). Both E.B. and myself offered him a shirt to wear, but he turned down our offers, stating that he would be just fine. We were not. He sweated like a mint julep on a southern plantation in June. After a bit, the ball got so slippery, because he was catching the ball against his sweaty chest. Going in for the flag was also a dicey proposition, as the sweat dripped onto his flags.

E.B. (also known as “The Pain Train”) caught the ball on a kickoff return and steamed his way towards the end zone. None of us could stop him, as he had that perfect mix of speed and strength. Right before the end zone, with no one near him, he takes a giant leap into the air and soars into the end zone. Granted, he did need the style points to unlock the gamebreaker, but damn.

J.E. and T.B. had been trash talking each other all day. J.E. wanted to tackle T.B. T.B. weighs around three hundred and thirty pounds. J.E. weighs significantly less. On one short pass, T.B. caught the ball near the sideline and “dodged” two flag takers. J.E. was the last person, and attempted to tackle T.B. In response, T.B. raised his arm above his head and brought it down on J.E., smacking him down, and “rumbling, bumbling, stumbling” into the end zone. J.E. stayed down for a little while, clutching his chest and mewling.

Because I’m so arrogant and have such great self-esteem, I’d like to brag. W.J., post groin-strain, took up quarterback duties. He lofted a pass to T.B., which was about three feet out of his reach. I had broken away from my coverage, and happened to be just close enough to snatch the ball out of the air two feet from the ground, and sauntered into the end zone, while everyone just stood there confused.

And, of course, because it’s me, I’d like to bring myself back down to earth. I volunteered for quarterback for a couple of series. The first series, I ran the Mark Brunell 5 feet and shorter passes offense. We took about eight plays to get within five yards of the end zone, and T.S. stated “Wow, even you can complete this.” Loft into the end zone, intercepted and returned to midfield.

Nightmare Shnightmare

The recurrent nightmare of my life involved tests, much as my waking live constantly involves tests. From the period when I received my Bachelor of Arts in English Language and Literature to the time when I entered L-School, the nightmare came about once a week. I was in the middle of finals, had an upcoming final for a class I hadn’t studied for, hadn’t attended, didn’t even know I was enrolled in. This extended to every credit I had, thereby denying me my diploma, and keeping me in school for another semester. Usually, when I woke up, there would be a good minute and a half of freaking out, running through all the possibilities in my mind. Where would I go for help? What classes would I have to take again? Would I take the same classes again? How the hell would I explain to everyone I failed an entire semester? Then, slowly, ignorance would drain from my mind, replaced with a slightly sobering realization that the diploma remained rolled up in a cardboard container underneath my bed.

After my first semester in L-school, on to maybe nine months ago, the basic scenario was the same, except now it was L-school classes. Despite not caring as much, somehow the situation seemed much more dread. All the same feelings, but a lot more shame at having failed L-school courses. Maybe it was because at least ninety-five percent of our final grades, if not the entire final grade, was based on the final exam. It was like drinking an adrenalin milkshake, then chained to a narcoleptic dog. I didn’t know when it would wake up and I would freak out, I didn’t know when it would fall asleep and I could get some rest.

Somewhere along the line, those nightmares stopped. I can’t pinpoint an exact date, because I would still have other nightmares wake me up sweating and disoriented. Now that I think back, it has been so long since I last dreamt of the rigors of L-school. The stress tic still tugs at my left eye, and strangely, migrated from my right eye. As of late, the tic has started rolling downward to my left nostril (why the hell is my left nostril twitching? How the hell is my left nostril twitching? I’m sure it looks like I’m flaring my nostrils and incredibly pissed off at whatever new task L.M. throws at me.). It is no longer the tic borne of hatred and fear of l-school.

My unconscious is starting to let go, something my conscious still cannot. I don’t know what it is that has given it the capability to relax a little. Could it be the continual sabotage of my legal career rendering me all but unable to find a job as a solicitor? Could it be that I live in a state in which I cannot render legal advice? Could it be finally burned out and no longer antipathetic towards L-School in nature? Could it be that I’m expressing myself more than I used to, and so it has no need to torment my dreams? I don’t know. Wish I did. Then maybe I could consciously let go and move on.

Holy Mole-y

To stretch this week’s medical theme, a while back, I was staring at my forearm. I do this a lot because for no discernable reason, I’m starting to grow hair there. Based on some research (i.e. hitting wikipedia), body hair can start growing long after puberty concludes. I don’t understand it, and you can’t really see the hair from a distance, but I’m just going to go with it. What really caught my attention were the three random moles that had popped up in an isosceles triangle formation. Brownish, just a slight shade lighter than my eyes, and merely elevated above the rest of my skin, so that you could identify the wrinkle pattern even more easily.

As we all (should) know, moles that appear for no reason can be awful heralds, precursors to skin cancer. Melanoma. Say it out loud. Melanoma. It actually rolls right off the tongue. Say it with a sultry voice, and it sounds seductive, alluring, erotic. Learn what it is, and you’re no longer quite as excited. Keep in mind that breast cancer runs on my mom’s side of the family, and I always wonder if/when I’ll have my cancer experience. Yeah, it turns out men can develop breast cancer. There is nothing like your mother telling you that you should check for breast cancer (I’m a male), just in case. I don’t. Honestly, if I’m going to get breast cancer, that’s just embarrassing from a masculinity standpoint. I’d actually rather it spread to other parts of the body, then pretend that it originated elsewhere, rather than admit to myself I had breast cancer. And now I’ve pretty much guaranteed that I’ll find a lump one day near my nipple. Damn it.

When I saw these moles, I started to get a little freaked out. Aside from the shape they would make if I connected the so-called dots, they presented more worry than wonder to me. I wondered if they were just scabs from insect bites at night, and would sit there while no one saw me and attempt to scratch off the scabs. Running my fingernail back and forth over them, almost to the point of drawing blood, but they never bled. Then I’d rub them with my fingerpads, but to no avail. There was also cryogenic wart remover that they sell over the counter, but that seemed like overkill, and if truly cancer, would remove a symptom, but probably not the underlying cause. Hell, they might have been warts, and I’d just been fondling frogs in my sleep for no good reason. Sleepwalk out to the lake, roll around for a few hours, just to get toady.

About a week later, they disappeared overnight. I looked at them while nodding off, and when I woke up, gone. My precious little visitors, dissipated into the ether. Maybe I breathed them in, and maybe they’re still a part of me. Maybe just another reminder of how random my body is.

Thrill Pill

C.S. wants me to go with him to pharmacy school. It isn’t enough that he can append B.A., J.D. to his name. Now he wants Pharm.D. I suppose the goal is to see if it is possible to unbalance a piece of paper by creating a signature so long, the weight of the ink undoes the precious balance, and rips it apart. I have to say, I’m not completely averse to the idea of going back into the educational realm. However, this is not quite the Ph.D. field I had in mind. Yes, there will be a lot of rote memorization of contraindicated medicines and efficacy and side-effects. Yes, there will likely be many more papers involving the minutiae of pharmaceuticals. Yes, this is nothing like I had in mind when considering pursuing the Ph.D.

He does make some good arguments for going to Ph-school. Further education never hurt anyone (except for spending 10-20 in the School of Hard Knocks for murder-one). It would be a great way to meet emotionally vulnerable women (and emotionally vulnerable homosexual men, though I don’t swing that way). Pharmacists make an inordinate amount for what they do (although the consequences if you screw up are much greater than if you forget to file a motion to dismiss and have to go to trial). We could also reconstitute the good-old C.K. Power Hour and muddle our way through the winding path of medicines. Plus, free drugs!

Unfortunately, I have yet to find a sugar-momma, and so would have to fund my own education, on top of my prior education. This would be an additional six years of schooling, taking me to the (un)tender age of 33, assuming I started next year, and did it full time. And really, little imagination is required to be a pharmacist (unless you do it wrong, in which case there are a lot of people out there still constipated, but getting great nights of sleep). It would be an excuse to move back to Maryland, though I’d probably have to move to Baltimore. In the end, I don’t think I can pull this off. Sorry, C.S.

In contrast, A.A. has told me about the wonders of becoming a physician’s assistant (think medical paralegal with more competence). Just a two year master’s, which is entirely doable. Maybe a year to get up to speed with the science info. Fairly high salaries, and stupid-crazy (is there any other kind of crazy?) job growth. Again, not really something I’m dreaming of (adidaf – All Day I Dream About Football). However, this may be something to tell C.S. to try. If he guns it with the night classes and works during the day, I may be more willing to give it a go. Could always use yet another career change. I need like eight more before I die, according to the statistics.

***

M.C. expressed fear that I was selling out to make money because of all the crazy links. I'm not quite sure what that means (someone's paying me to put in sponsored links?), but rest assured, I would never put in ads or the like onto this blog. There just aren't enough of you readers to sustain any meaningful amount of cash flow. Z.M just expressed an unfocused confusion about those links. Fair enough, when something changes, and the familiar becomes un-, you are forced to ask questions. The big reason I've been putting those links in is because I have (dun-dun-dun!) writer's block, and I need something to take my mind off of it. The links won't be a permanent addition, just when I have the writer's block and can't figure out anything else to do. I've got something big in the works, and I'm actually quite afraid that I'll fail. Not just the normal, "Oh, I probably won't do well" when I know deep down I will. This is a heart-strangling, unspeakable "Oh, fuck me, this is really bad, what was I thinking" fear. Hence, me not saying anything about it on Writ. I'll mention it at a later date, or you can just e-mail me and ask me if I haven't already told you.

High/Low

I’m sorry to disappoint you guys. Well, that’s not true at all. I’m not sorry to disappoint you guys. If anything, I feel sorry that I felt that I was disappointing all of you, and I feel sorry that I felt I had to apologize for that disappointment that wasn’t. I should feel sorry that I was going to take some steps to make myself feel less sorry in general, but I am not sorry that I didn’t take those steps. Although, I am a little sorry that I have the means to take those steps, and may end up taking those steps, not because I am feeling sorry about life, but because I need the experience. But I am not sorry to have not disappointed you guys, and I think I am sorry for wording that wrong. If you remove the negatives, it comes out “But I am sorry to have disappointed you.” And I am sorry I screwed that up.

I recently procured a supply of acetaminophen, for pain killing. I did not come by this supply under the most legal of pretexts. Hell, you might even say that my actions were illicit. And I got it because I was undergoing what (to me) was a crushing despair, like the weight of the world were sitting on my lungs, and each breath was a struggle against a vacuum. And I just wanted to feel better.

Now, in my altered state, I wanted to make sure that whenever I took the acetaminophen, I got the maximum effect. This I calculated at four hours duration, a number arrived at by pointing and guessing. Since I generally sleep at ten at the latest, this meant that I would have to try to alleviate the pain around six. Due to events within my control, but beyond my planning, I was never in a position where I’d have four straight hours to relax, because I was taking care of business or writing or working or something. And each day passed, and I felt a little better, until we come to now. Am I fully recovered? No. Am I a lot better, and only slightly bitter? Sure.

Much of my life, I’ve debated whether I might benefit from the use of medication to make me feel “happy.” Most of the time, one of two things happen. The sadness passes for whatever reason, or I hold onto it to fuel my writing. I know people aren’t supposed to be happy all the time, because it then loses meaning. And really, this past week has taught me to appreciate the good times all the more, and (hopefully) will spur me to make some changes in my life. (And yes, I am afraid of asking people for help, and I don’t know why. Is it because I think I have to do it all on my own? Maybe. At any rate, I’m going to start asking for help more, but don’t be surprised if it’s not what you think. Or maybe it is, because I’m just that transparent, like an apparition.)

At the same time, I fear medication. I’ve read about how mood elevators curtail creative drive. I have to publish a novel before I die. There is no debate on that point. If K.T. fails on that, K.T.’s life is wasted. Plain and simple. I think that is the main thrust of my existence, and that is why I’m never as happy with my life as I could be. The choices that have scattered through my life do not directly contribute to me achieving that goal. Some even take away from it. L-school taught me how to become a much better technical writer, at the expense of my freestyling, pinwheeling, paren-studded (and really, I only go overboard on the parens while blogging, not when writing fiction. There are still asides, but not as free and wild as there are here.) scribblings. If I use unnatural methods to get happy, and find that it makes me less of a writer, I think I’d go a little nuts (moreso than now).

Now, I’ve already done a not so good thing, and I can go one of two directions from here. One part of me says stop and cut your losses. The other says you’ve already done one thing wrong in getting it, and you may as well just take the other step. Sadly, it may come down to, as always, if I can find four straight hours to appreciate it. And I don’t think I can. So, for all of you that were hoping to read the ramblings of an altered K.T., well, I’ll work on becoming a laudanum (opium dissolved in alcohol) addict. Laudanum puts you to sleep, so I can just quaff a draught before nighty-night. At least that will send me tripping into such crazy dreams, there will really be something to write about.

Pain Relief

I needed some acetaminophen, and Z.M. had a surplus. She offered me a part of her supply. I was hurting, so I asked if I could drop by her place to pick it up that night. She said that was fine, and I could also meet her friend, P.P.O. This intrigued me. Up until that point, in my head, P.P.O. was just a stripper mannequin dressed in a police officer's uniform, and deathly afraid of fire.

Perhaps an explanation is in order. And if not, you're going to get it.

Z.M. had first described P.P.O. rather generously as "Hot Cop." For those of you that have watched "Arrested Development," hopefully you'll recall G.O.B.'s stripper group, dubbed the "Hot Cops." Thus, I had no choice but to picture the man as Will Arnett, clad in a too-tight police uniform top, booty shorts, and the hat. Needless to say, I died a little inside. When Z.M. moved on to dubbing him P.P.O., I lost the connection. Thus, the default; whenever confronted with an enigma masquerading as a person, I have no choice but to imagine them as a faceless mannequin in my mind. Any additional details are gravy. As a side effect, since mannequins are wooden, everyone that is unknown to me fears firelight, in my mind. (It's a good policy really, reminds me not to start fires around strangers.)

That was pretty much all I had to work with. In contrast, P.P.O. had accessed my blog, and had seen the quirks that power K.T. Not that I fear exposing my foibles to strangers; I'd almost rather they know it up front so they know what to expect. Still, never before had I felt quite so disadvantaged when meeting a stranger, as he'd had a leg up.

Still, the call of acetaminophen cries true to my soul. So it was that I found my way to Z.M.'s apartment, and resisted the urge to poke her newly-crafted retinas (retinae?). We talked for a bit, then P.P.O. called to announce his arrival. Talked a little more, and in the back of my head, I was starting to feel that nervous twinge. What if he doesn't like me? (Again, these failings fuel me.)

Knocking at the door, deep and sustained, like repeated mortar firings. Z.M. opened the door, and P.P.O. walked in. Finally, a real person to put to the name. Fairly tall (unfairly to me, since I'm short), P.P.O . had on a Frank Castle/Punisher skull baseball cap, well curved brim, a tight black t-shirt, and khaki shorts. I cannot hate anyone that appreciates the Punisher. I shook his hand and mentioned he seemed much less wooden than I'd imagined. He cocked his head, and I explained the story. I of course did not explain the stripper part, because if I have learned anything, it is to not compare someone to a stripper on first meeting. Unless, of course, they are a stripper and have stuck your glasses between their gluteal muscles (and that is a story for another day). Oh, he nearly crushed my hand, not to be an ass like some people, but just because that was his default strength.

What got me was when P.P.O. said he'd expected someone bigger, like Hemingway or Frost. I'd been wondering, if you took my blog, could you reconstruct me? What would you create, and would it bear any resemblance to me? We have our first preliminary answer: no. Not that I mind people thinking me a more imposing person based on my writing; hell, I would invite the comparison in and give it a beer if comparisons were anthropomorphic and I had beers. Just seemed a little crazy is all.

We sat down, and there were about three seconds of awkwardness before Z.M. asked me about where to find parking in Baltimore to get to the National Aquarium. Yes, a reason to close my eyes and/or stare at my hands. (One of my main defense mechanisms when meeting new people is to constantly look away and flail my hands about like I just don't care, when in reality, I do care a lot.) I started drawing out invisible maps on her coffee table and cursing the UMD L-school building, as it is within walking distance of the harbor. Also tried to give suggestions for how to amuse a fourteen-month old, but I am not the best person to ask. I was the kid ripping tissues out of the box for hours on end.

From there, P.P.O. starts discussing his job and the associated accoutrements. That's right, guns. Aw, yeah. P.P.O. is fluent in the language of projectile weaponry, trading models and upkeep as I might trade bad jokes and stutters. I also find out that P.P.O. was a marine (of the Corps, not the Mammalia family). At this point, it's just like "Damn, you've done more in your past ten years than I will do period." Then, he hands me his (unclipped) sidearm. I'm surprised at the heft, even more so when he places the clip back in (and I do my damnedest to avoid the trigger, even though the safety is active). Then, perhaps the most impressive feat of legerdemain, P.P.O. breaks down the weapon in 4.2 seconds, faster than most NFL wideouts run the 40-yard dash. He places the pieces before me on the table, as if to ask if I have been deceived. And really, the only question is why the recoil spring resembles half the screws that now sustain my Ikea furniture.

Of course, no person-to-person interaction with me is complete without at least one embarrassing moment. For whatever reason, I'd showed my keyring and mentioned despite the wealth of metals, I'd consolidated the keys I'd carried with me on a regular basis. For example, didn't carry the handcuff key anymore. Z.M. and P.P.O. both perk up at this; four eyebrows rising in unison. I have to explain that it's not a fetish thing. P.P.O. just smiles and nods his head. "Riiiight." No, really, it's not. Not that I'm knocking fetishes, we all have our own. (And the problem is not that I am dirty. We all are. It is that I keep talking far longer than I should.)

P.P.O. remains unconvinced. He tells me I do not need to lie about my perverse pleasures. I reply that I have many fetishes, but not handcuffs. Such as cherry pie, for example. Then, I turn my head to the side and whisper "And handcuffs." At this point, Z.M. and P.P.O. are just sort of amused, sort of horrified. I have to qualify that when you're handcuffed, you get tired, and if a cherry pie is right next to your head, it keeps you satiated. Unless, of course, it's near your feet, because that causes a whole new set of problems in trying to flip the pie up to your mouth, and then sucking on your own toes, yet another fetish I do not want to get into. I even casually mention the scars I bear from the last time this happened. P.P.O. recoils and states he does not want to see them. Nor do I wish to volunteer to show them.

Sadly, by this point, it's 45 minutes past my normal bedtime. I take my leave of their company (unwillingly, L.M. continues to burden my life). Shake P.P.O.'s hand again, and it's like sticking my hand into a vice grip. Good lord, man, eat some more Fritos, watch some more TV.

Final first impression? Likes the Punisher, hearty laugh, didn't attempt to punt me through the nearest window. Fast shipping, A+++++, would meet again.