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.
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