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/ wasteland & further; waiting for a slaughter

/ november is a month of ghosts

a grey knive lurking on the corner of the bathroom counter, incongruously balanced on the edge - just about to fall - the light of day leaked into the room like dish detergent being squeezed gently out of a bottle, and over in the corner, rats rustled in a paper bag. he walked into the room to the sound of the ceiling fan slowly misunderstood. his left sneaker squeaked slightly. paper in his pocket crumpled up and a blue crayon behind one ear. a muddy cigarette in one hand and no lighter. his eyes are silently stained-glass windows inside a church with no congregation, waiting for the hollow bellpulls - the doorbell of the Almighty. he takes out a sharpie and marks an x on the wall. moments later a fly buzzes fatly in and lands on the ��������������������������������������������spot, preening and humming to itself. below, at the baseboard, an ant trundles in. he looks at the mirror. he looks away. outside, a bird hits the window, and all things still, in hushed������������������������������������������mourning. an ignorant cricket looses a selfish mating call and
2003-05-08, 3:53 a.m.

if it snowed, it couldn't be more appropriate - weathersky is down, kiddies, and the chalkboard is snapped in two

��������� �����summer housing, a minor bump in the road, now fixed mostly. the jobs horizon looms hulkish. crashing. staring. i feel hunkered down, making sure it'll all go the right way i've planned it out with sticks marking out Xs and Os in the sand, and arrows linking the two -

boxes and crates pile up in the corner. i accumulate shit. there is a separate pile of crap that will go to goodwill. in a bag, if i can scratch one up from somewhere. old things, too large, too - elastic? - for me. to go to someone who can use it. a book, "in the heart of the sea" that is horrendous, but i'm sure someone will love. everything is boxed, neatly and messily, or bagged, and the only thing remaining is the sheets on my bed, the electronics, and some clothing left in the drawers of the two-stack bureau. i have too many books, and i hate moving them. three paper-mill boxes full. books on top of books. i love them all. i don't want them to moulder in my parents' basement.

two coats to donate to the costume shop. something nice, something used. little errata floating around that i don't want to forget - power strips, mugs, bowls - clothing hung up and neatly set aside for the spa awards tomorrow night. the littered galaxy of multicoloured pushpins (the majority of which is white on the cork) spread out like the night-sky. bare white walls, pockmarked with acne where other posters hung. jason looked at me funny and stopped in his tracks when i mentioned (on our traditional route down the hill to 7-11 for chips and nachocheese)

"we have two days left."

a financial crunch. realizing how spendthrifty i am. how loose my wallet is, like a whore's mouth. "the summer is like a mouth ready to swallow me whole," i told my mother on the phone. a contemplative silence descended. they're going to lend me some money to make the first payment, which is due by friday. $360. such a round, full number, like a malevolent fat woman sitting on top of my checkbook. - the second payment due may 28th. although i don't know what happens if i don't make that dealine. third payment due june 30th. all increments of pain. wallet emptying like a drain. i refuse to rap tonight. i do a lot of that - too much, perhaps.

living in anderson with travis bellmere, who currently lives with fellow theater major wes cianchette. room ... 316. ext. 3989. downthehall, kristin and ashley. asa and jason. and such. gerry shannon somewhere in there. we should pool our resources and make a commune out of it. this room is bare and will be bare.

macbeth, the aforementioned fall show i am stage managing, has been cast, and my future roommate corey anderson has the title role, alongside a very talented actress karen ball, as lady m. this is a postapocalyptic version. amy of the quad is king (queen) duncan, jason is donalbain, macduff's son, and seyton, anna is one of the witches, casey is lady macduff, josie is ross, among many others. if i've neglected, i apologise.

i have been replacing many of my brit-spellings with amer-spellings lately. s to z. zsssz. the sound of a zipper undoing, the sound of a soft snore, the sound of a shuriken whizzing through the air, the sound of a bumblebee or a hornet, a car going by at a rapid pace -

on the television, it is "perfect strangers" and good old balki is being his goofy, crazy self. jason's posters are still up. i am scatterheart. time is a mortality for me. i am sick of sleep. sick of wasting time. society dictates if you do not have money you are not happy. kaylen told me she was worried that i would slip into being normal and slide away.

i, clean-cut, drugless, and only the occasional cigarette, advance with gleaming excalibur high and spit on the floor of all the neuroses. yes, i am a kleptomaniac. yes, i am incredibly jealous of mark friedlander. yes, i have issues with self-loathing and the emulation of other, more masculine men. yes, i do horrible things to myself in the sanctity of quietude. it is why the word "knock." is imprinted on the whiteboard some nights. those are bad nights, only shaken by bjork's tortured wailings or the rolling sound of johnny cash with the NIN song "hurt" -

[i hurt myself today]

but i don't cut anymore.

sun's not shining, it's 4am, and i don't care.

tomorrow should be a wonderful day.

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�SEH