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There’s nothing more to come out than a few lines of ‘there’s nothing more to talk about’ describing the back of dining halls, tennis courts, trucks that make that beeping sound as they go in reverse, and ducks on a pond eating bread together. Do you know what I mean?

Next year there’s a handful of us that scatter, you know, and this every instant now is what it is -- I can’t say it because the rules state that “discussions concerning matters of helices, rings, or metaphors are strictly prohibited” and so instead we all dance around words like ‘candles’ or ‘books’ or ‘telephones’. As if talking about what we have would keep anything latched together and not talking about what we have would change anything at all.

Most of all it’s that active emotion for the past that you feel in the present -- you know what I mean if you do. The pure present is an ungraspable advance of the past devouring the future. Statements like that which might be true but might not -- because to discuss things with the vessel that they lie in severely impairs our ability to find those things that lie across mediums with a living statement -- a living meaning.

Maybe it’s all coincidence -- you notice that that thing you said is in this book and what you felt and that, and maybe things fit together and mesh and maybe they don’t. Who are we to say? All I need are prayers that don’t work to be happy.

Still, someone bleeds from a cut with the kitchen knife and needs a band-aid, and that’s that. When you’re sick the sidewalk whirls and tumbles and everything is oh so immediate. I have twenty hours until the end of a chapter in a book somewhere. A single guitar chord strums out with that sound, and I’m before preschool looking up at green banana trees, watching wheat fields touch the horizon, first learning how to grin, first time on a subway (back when it was still 300 won). Mottled daubs of viscerality appearing unexpectedly, like that gas station off the highway to Denver selling gallons of antifreeze, where we stood and watched the sun rise.

I hope that the periods and the commas do what I want them to do, but there’s no guarantee. I can’t see what you see and we’re all in this dance -- but what I can’t do is attribute characteristics of what I’ve made that you give and pretend they’re my own. If it’s genuine it shouldn't be pretentious -- purchase these accompanying hand motions and maybe then I’ll tell you about the viscerality, the thick dark viscous barriers that prevent me from falling off the edge, you know? It’s not a metaphor? No. But it’s alright.

If I could translate this to music I would -- we all should. It’s out there somewhere, that sense of calm and loss and existence, that sense of loss of calm and calm of loss, that sense of loss of calm of loss of calm. He describes a scene that only he knows, or maybe that’s me, leaning against the inside of a bus in the rain, sodium yellow lights sliding by, red tail-lights fading in and out in that traffic jam over there. All that jazz. And then there’s only one thing that’s certain; we’re here to go, to leave, to move, and this is, yeah but also this will, and it’s simple as that, and it’s like lying on a patch of grass in the sunshine, and that’s it, but more, but none.

I recently had a bad day which I will tell you about in case you are interested in hearing about Behr's bad day. It all began with an important early morning business meeting regarding the Civil War Action Figures I sell and market with the assistance of working families sending an uncancellable check for $70,000 to my off-shore bank account. Although you can no longer get in on the ground floor, our company has yet to manufacture anything to sell to anyone and make any profit, so you can still invest if you are interested.

Following the meeting at which I watched an older woman in a plaid skirt drink more than one bloody mary while howling with laughter at recent profitability reports, I caught a cab to return to my home in Baltimore. There was something amiss with the cab driver who was possibility of being on drugs due to his erratic and shameful behavior, including a long monologue about his father making him behead chickens in his youth. The cab ride went on for many hours and I thought it might never end and finally he had to stop for a traffic light and I leaped out of the cab and ran for my life. The unfortunate thing about this was that one of my shoes came off, a lefty, in the cab and I was forced to run through the streets of rugged old Baltimore with only a sock on my left foot. In addition, because the sock elastic was not of top quality manufacturing, it flopped down and put me in a position where I had four to six inches of footless sock extending from beyond my large toe. This four to six inches of footless sock was able to gather a great deal of street dirt as well as accumulating a lot of wetness in the form of water and other, less palatable wetnesses.

After my wallet was stolen by someone visiting from the nation's capital and I tore my pants while sitting on a fire hydrant staring into the windows of a KFC wishing I still had my wallet, a station wagon pulled up next to the curb where I was standing. Inside was a nice American family asking if I needed some help. I told them I was very much in need of help and they put me in the car with them, whereas them includes a mother, a father and two sons of a young age. I gave them my sales pitch during the ensuing ride but they did not offer me a check. Instead they asked if I was hungry and if I wanted to have dinner with them. I hastily agreed because I was hungry and long for family style dining with a real American family. Sometimes I eat meals with my friend Dale and his wife, but that isn't like dining with a regular American family because Dale's wife comes on to me with her hand signals, lip movements and by playing games with our feet under the table.

I was introduced to the couple as John and Mary and the children were named Bobby and Brickhead. They took me into their home, a modest Colonial style two story house on the outskirts of old Baltimore. We went inside and I had a cognac and some cheese and crackers with John while Mary busyied herself with cooking dinner in the kitchen. The boys played with Tinker Toys on the floor while we enjoyed cognac of questionable vintage and quality.

Then dinner was served. It was spaghetti with meatballs. The first thing I noticed was that I was only given spaghetti and sauce. There was not a meatball on my plate, but the other members of the family had three or four on theirs. I inquired about this and was given a stern look by Mary. Things got progressively worse when I asked if they could pass the parmesan cheese and they said, "No." It was a very plain and simple no and I did not ask again.

Before I could taste the first bite of spaghetti with sauce and no meatballs in sight, a handicapped or crippled man ambled into the dining room and swatted at me with his cane, which was cheap metal and not a nicely carved wooden number. After he struck me three times with his cane, I asked him what was the matter. Mary answered, telling me that I was sitting in Uncle Earl's chair. So, I got up. I waited for another place to be offered at the table, but John erected himself from his seat and got a folding card table from another room along with a plastic chair intended for children. He erected these things next to the dining room table and bade me to seat myself there. Please note that at this time my sock was still wet and dirty and extended four to six inches without foot in that part of the sock.

I waited for another plate of spaghetti, perhaps this time including at least one meatball for my trouble in evacuating to this poor table and seat intended for children, and I was hopeful when Mary went into the kitchen. She returned with a plate that did not match the plates on which food was being served at the main dining table, which was odd because there were five people at the table, all with matching dinnerware and no one sells dining sets in placings of five only. I was given a plate that had been through the mill. It had a piece missing from one side and hairline fractures in various places. It was also a tacky color.

Instead of spaghetti, with or without meatball or meatballs, there was something else on the plate. I was not sure what it was, but when I looked at it and then looked sheepishly up at Mary, she snarled, "Leftovers." It appeared to be some unfortunate, and normally not eaten, animal's intestinal track, but it was also severely discolored in many places and some parts of the intestinal track were softer than others. Much of it was very hard and had discolored bumps of the gray variety emenating from the hardness of those particular areas. A couple times I believe I spied hairs of an unknown type protruding from the bumps. There was also a pile of corn, which was hard and inedible and contained a quantity of mealworms.

I asked if I could have something else to eat. My question made Mary start to cry and she ran from the room. Uncle Earl received seven meatballs on his plate and when I inquired about his ability to share one of them, he swung his cane and opened a gash in my forehead. At this point I decided to make a break for it, but I wasn't sure I could battle my way past wily old Uncle Earl so I asked if I could go to the bathroom. I was forced to eat a chunk of the intestinal track and a forkful of corn before I could go, but I made as if my bladder were about to explode and they let me go to the bathroom, where I did not pee because I did not really have to. I waited in the bathroom for several moments and then threw open the door and ran pel mel towards the front door. Luckily, it was unlocked and we were on a bus line and the bus was just arriving.

Now I have to go buy a new pair of shoes.

My mom always told me to introduce myself when I met people so I feel obliged to honor her request that way. Now, that might seem a bit old fashioned to some of you folks but hey, who am I to say otherwise?

A lot of what I’m going to try and do here is going to consist of stories. I hope some of them bring a smile to your face or a tear to your eye depending on the intent. You might love some of them and hate the others or you might find it the other way around. Some are going to be as true as the day I was born, some are going to be enhanced with tinges of the truth and some are just pure bullshit. (Look at my user name for cryin; out loud!). That’s gonna be your call. I guess all those sorts of things might be called a series of “conflicting emotions” but to me, that’s what life is all about. The old “one day you’re up, the next your down” kind of syndrome. Nobody stays the same forever, imagine how boring that would be?

Given my penchant for trying to weave a tale out of what otherwise might be ordinary circumstances, well, I hope you’ll indulge me. I try and find even the most simplest of things interesting. It keeps me on my toes. I’m also going to try and keep the tone of my writing as conversational as I can. I don’t know about you fine folks but after a while, I get tired of being lectured to

The first one involves a girl and just like the song says “Lookin’ for love in all the wrong places”. (You probably knew that already didn’t you?)

She was a pretty little thing, blonde hair, blues eyes and outgoing as all get out. I guess back in the days of old she’d be called something akin to a real “head turner”. Yup, when she walked into (or out of) a room, you couldn’t help but notice. Only problem was, she was married.

Now get this, the fella she was married to just happened to have the same last name as her first one. (For privacy sake, I won’t reveal that here, you never know who’s watching and best to err on the side of caution.) I’d liken it to that if she was a guy her name would be something “William William” or “Raymond Raymond”. I can’t recall what her maiden name was but it must have been pretty bad else why in the hell would she want to be referred to as ‘XXXXX Squared?”?

Anyhoo, we must have worked together for five or six years before the storm clouds on her marriage finally broke and they wound up getting divorced. Finding myself under similar circumstances, well, lets just say that we wound up spending a lot of time commiserating over drinks and then going our separate ways. I think both of us wanted to avoid one of those “office romance’s where you wind up the subject of gossip and sometimes remorse.

So one day I get a call from a headhunter with a new job offer that put the meager wages I was presently making to shame. Needless to say, I jumped on it. I’m guessing that was somewhere in October of 199X because when I got to my new place of employment there was already plans underway this years office Christmas Party I called “XXXXX Squared” and asked her on our first official “date”.

I’ve been known to take a drink or two in my lifetime and all of the details of the Christmas party get kind of fuzzy but I do remember a couple of things.

The first is the way she looked when I picked her up. A pretty red dress that would’ve made Santa Claus himself reach into his bag of presents and give her something special. The second was the way she smelled. I’ve heard perfumes called “intoxicating” before but damn, she smelled like a fresh meadow with the early morning sunlight just peeking over the mountains and like the rain had scrubbed the air clean.

The third, and probably most important thing was giving her a ride home after the party. We were about a mile or two from her house and I just happened to blow past a cop car that was sitting there lurking in of those local speed traps. Sirens and flashing lights decorated my rear view mirror and I could feel the sweat on the palms of my hands as they gripped the steering wheel tighter and tighter. My pulse hammered and my brain fidgeted. If called upon, I was sure to “blow over”.

So I pull over and hand over my drivers license and registration to the cop and wait as he runs my plates for warrants or outstanding tickets or whatever else they got stashed away on that little machine.

I figure I’m clean but since I am after all, the “silver tongue devil”, all the while I’m formulating this plan to try and talk my out of whatever was going to happen. Big mistake.

As I’m running my mouth to the officer he just happens to mention that he has caught whiff of alcohol on my breath and would I please step out of the car. After standing on one foot and having that little pencil light shined in my eyes he starts asking me questions. I explain to him about the Christmas party and how I was just takin’ the girl home and we were only a mile or two away and so on and so on.

He listens politely and then asks my date to step out of the car. They talk quietly off to one side out of earshot. I guess he was trying to corroborate my story or something. After a little while they come back.

The cop says something along the lines that he probably shouldn’t let me go but this being Christmas and all, consider this a gift. He does have one provision though.

He says that the girl seems to have her wits about her and she’s going to drive the car. I breathe a little sigh of relief and say something to the effect of “Hey, no problem! Merry Christmas to you and yours!”

Then the real kicker comes. He says he’s going to follow us to make sure that we get where we’re going and if he drives by later in the evening and doesn’t see my car parked in front of her place until morning the shit is gonna hit the fan.

I think it’s one of the only times in my life that I felt like kissing another man. I’ll leave the rest up to your imagination but it was the best Christmas present I had gotten in quite a long time.

When I finally got around to asking her what she and the cop had talked about while I was there in peril of shitting my pants, she told me it didn’t matter. Something’s should just remain a mystery.

Damn I miss that girl…

“Buy you a drink sometime?”

Yesterday I stood up in front of my entire Abnormal Psychology class and talked. We had a test today so everyone was in class. I was nervous. I hate talking in front of large groups of people like that. I told them about me doing a marathon and raising money for The Leukemia and Lymphoma Society. I asked them to attend our fundraiser last night at Red Robin. Anyone who brought in a flyer with them helped the Society because 15% of their total food bill went to the organization. We don’t know yet how much money we made. We are doing a similar fundraiser at Baja Fresh on Friday.

This past Sunday we did a half-marathon and then a little more. Next Saturday we are walking 19 miles. Saturday before last we walked 17. I’m still sore from the half-marathon we did this week. I’m fine once I get moving around but every time I sit down I get stiff so I walk like an old granny when I first stand up.

My mentee, Harmony, finally noded again, which I was happy to see. Her husband also noded and is working on another. Neither of them wrote much of anything for quite a while and I’m happy to see them get back into it because I think it’s good for them to exercise their brains a bit.

I plan on noding more now that the semester is almost over and I’ll have the summer off. Lately all I’ve been doing is daylogs and song write-ups. I have a couple factual write-ups I’m working on I hope to post some time this week.

I feel exhausted today and I have no idea why I'm so tired.  I didn't even do much at the gym and we skipped our walk again today, this time because of the fundraiser.  I just made myself a cup of green tea but it's still too hot to drink.  Maybe that will wake me up enough to work on a node or two, or perhaps to start to study for my upcoming final.  I'm glad I only have one class this semester to worry about a final in and the final isn't cumulative. 

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