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/ 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
2003-07-08, 4:26 a.m.

redemption is found in an empty glass of lemonade, in the powder at the bottom

��������� �����the samples provide the backbone for this largely invertebrate entry tonight. that, and coldplay's video on the TV behind me. the mix of music is not altogether ear-pleasing. i keep glancing over my shoulder to see what's on.

the days shift by normally. i'm getting a job tomorrow at movie gallery, sixsomething an hour. i'm glad for it. free rentals. rehearsal was cancelled tonight. i'm mildly annoyed with the degree of casual indifference around here. thinking about transferring. brought it up to a few people. got some desultory reply. shrugged it off. i probably won't end up doing that anyway, but it's a good thought. i guess it's my destiny to be stupid like that, stuck in ruts all the time and wallowing in the mud that my tires kick up.

asa and i headed out to the old port tonight, banging from bull moose music to videoport and to casco bay books. sitting crosslegged in the aisle of poetry books, making fun of the bad verse, reflecting and seething over how bad poetry is published. what makes a poem bad. how stupid and pretentious poetry has no place in this world. asa rebutted my argument (which was mostly heat and illogic and personal preference anyway) with a characteristically gentle "to each their own, i guess." in the corner there was a woman with black hair and dark red lips. one of her legs folded over the other. she was leafing through a magazine, one red-nailed finger perfectly poised on a smooth jawline. black shoes, black hair done up. black pants and shirt. eventually asa and i left.

walking up middle street, a commercial plane roared over as though entropy had made it a personal goal to rend the sky above us to pieces. i glanced around. everyone had suddenly looked up - it was eerie - in synchronous order. then back down. 'in a city,' i remarked wryly, 'everyone looks up.' we debated mildly over the outrages and good points of the newest harry potter book, i laid out a general idea of the streetmap i had in my head of the old port, and tried to point out the more interesting locales i'd visited. the movies on exchange. the nickelodeon, monument square, in relation to commercial ave. and market st.

'i'd like to see what this is like in the daytime,' asa remarked. 'all these galleries. i love art galleries.' i glanced at him, and noticed that he had a characteristic sense of genuine humour about his statement. you really listen to what asa has to say - he has one of those quiet voices that sometimes go lost in a din such as the city.

'i hate the daytime,' i said. 'much prefer the night. days are too ... bright, for me. too harsh.'

'maybe that's because you're not getting enough vitamin A,' asa suggested.

'...that could be. i hadn't thought of that, honestly.' the streets get thin with people as we continue back to where the car is parked. the back of it has four board games - all faded, now - scattergories, trivial pursuit, yahtzee, and another version of trivial pursuit. not to mention a small chinese lantern type thing. all manner of social detritus congregates under the seats.

meanwhile, back here, i'm once again at the trivia game on IRC. i'm still in first place, with near to a thousand wins since i began a week or so ago. which is impressive, i think. it's a great way to kill the time you don't want. i wish i didn't have to eat or sleep. intravenously would be great. although i suppose culinaria is just as much an art as anything. not that i'd know. i ordered a footlong sub from subway today and it was the best thing i'd ever eaten, besides the chicken salad i'd had at gorham house of pizza the other week.

'the streets in the rain' by the samples. the neon's too bright / and the world's too fast / the cities at night / and the stores behind glass / the streets in the rain / the streets in the rain / and the fields back home / they're never the same /

so now / i'm alone

and right now, i do feel that way. but it'll pass. i want some rain, some downpour, and some thunder. i want the weather to feel as vicious as i do right now, an inner sort of violence that chews and gnaws on my intestines.

back to writing.

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�SEH