waiting for the other shoe to drop
i took a hammer to the head
wound up back here instead
thinking of the ways we use to flop
take a roll in the hay
that futon never strayed
and so I say
take another shot today
spread myself thin
wise crack a jolly grin
I wrap my arms around your neck
in dreams and daytime memories
so please
come to me
I slip my heart out of my chest
present it to your beating breast
and free
the love in me
I held back for so long
the waves crest with this song
so come to me
tonight I plead
I wait for you with yearning needs
My skin desires your breathes breaze
come to me
come to please
me
Monday, August 6, 2012
Saturday, August 4, 2012
Letter to my brother I don't have to courage to send
Dear Brother:
I composed this letter in part in my head riding the route 1A from the Downtown mall to my apartment complex, and in part upon my arrival. I feel I should preface this by telling you I have always and will always hold you dear, both as a brother and as a friend.
That being said, I am constantly filled with worry for you, both for your sanity and your safety. The people you are associating with claim to be peaceful, but no peaceful man threatens violence however perturbed he becomes. Your constant talk of race wars, the illuminati, and your paranoia about being spied on both in the safety of your home from your computer and on the streets from the roaming eyes of police and pedestrians has me scared for you and your sanity. That being said: the threats you have voiced towards me have ME scared for MYSELF.
You seemed to be trying so hard to find peace, but I believe you have been lead astray. You voice so much hate towards people these days, even strangers you've never had so much as a passing word with. You are constantly preoccupied with people being racist, even though you know nothing of them or their beliefs. I know this because every conversation we have centers around it. You tell me of the people I surround myself with being racist. Rebecca is racist because she associates with gothic people, and THEY are racist because they listen to gothic and industrial music, and IT is racist because you say its all from Germany, and GERMANS are racist because of WWII. Gabe is racist because you believe he is a homosexual, and all homosexuals are sexual deviants and out to take advantage of people. Of course they are also racist, because somehow their fight for the right to marry infringes upon an African Americans fight to free himself from prejudice and poverty. You believe Rachael is racist because she is southern, and of course, all southern people are racist. The overwhelming theme is this: they are ALL white, and all white people are racist. You even believe I am racist, because I dress like a pirate and practice Wicca. Wiccans are racist because they have Celtic heritage, and Celts are all Aryans which are all racist. And as for my pirate clothes? Pirates, you say, brought African Americans over in ships to be sold into slavery.
All the peoples I have listed: the races, creeds, sexual orientations, and spiritual paths you hate on sight. You hate people who have money and an education because they are "yuppies" and of course, racist. You even now hate people that have TATTOOS regardless of the fact that you yourself are covered with them because, as you say, tattoos are expensive and only people with money can afford them, and people with money are racist.
My point is this: you hate them all, regardless of their personal merits or even knowledge of their actions or deeds. You don't know them, but you hate them just by looking at them. This is the very definition of prejudice and bias. You have become just as bad as someone who actually IS racist. The only people you seem comfortable with are African Americans, and even some of them you dislike on sight, because they are "thugs" and thugs? Totally racist. I'm afraid to even say this to you, but YOU have become racist, prejudice, and bias towards the entire world. You have become the very thing you so despise.
I don't blame you for what you feel right now, and in order to explain that I have to explain my feelings towards both hatred and violence. I myself have always been and will always be a pacifist. I have never been in a serious physical altercation, and have no intention of ever being in a fight. I have been struck, by you and by others, and I did not raise a hand in return. It is my belief that violence and hatred, even in retaliation, solves nothing and only makes matters worse. It exacerbates already bad situations and causes even more of the same.
Hatred is like a disease. People that vent, that inflict violence, that verbally abuse, are infected with it. Either by experiences they have been through or by simple genetics they turn PAIN and FEAR outwards and inflict it upon others, either in retaliation or to innocent bystanders to whatever situation ails them. My belief is that the main cause of this disease is simple exposure. Violent and aggressive and hateful people simply experienced far too much hate in there lives and became jaded, and thus: infected. The disease spreads as follows: hateful people inflict there inner pain on others, and those who go through this too much often become, as there aggressors, hateful themselves.
I'm sorry to say that at this time you have become afflicted with this disease, which IS a disease, just as much as alcoholism and addiction are diseases. They way you treat others isn't your fault, you were simply exposed to far too much of the same over the long sordid course of your life, and now it is all you know. The only way you know how to respond by feeling hurt or sadness or fear is to lash out. I love you brother, I love you dearly, but this has to stop.
My only hope is that through bettering yourself by doing good deeds, surrounding yourself with positive people, and with what might turn out to be a LIFETIME of therapy, you can conquer this horrible affliction you have found yourself being burdened with. Please know that I WILL always be there for you, as brother and friend, but I no longer know how close I can remain to you. Your pain turned to hate is starting to have an affect on my wellbeing, and I can't afford to become jaded. I'm niave yes, innocent, sure, but I still have hope, and I won't risk that hope for anything. I'm afraid I'm going to have to keep my distance for a while, until you can get yourself under control. I love you brother, but that's how it is.
Please take care of yourself, and be safe,
your loving brother,
Zak
I composed this letter in part in my head riding the route 1A from the Downtown mall to my apartment complex, and in part upon my arrival. I feel I should preface this by telling you I have always and will always hold you dear, both as a brother and as a friend.
That being said, I am constantly filled with worry for you, both for your sanity and your safety. The people you are associating with claim to be peaceful, but no peaceful man threatens violence however perturbed he becomes. Your constant talk of race wars, the illuminati, and your paranoia about being spied on both in the safety of your home from your computer and on the streets from the roaming eyes of police and pedestrians has me scared for you and your sanity. That being said: the threats you have voiced towards me have ME scared for MYSELF.
You seemed to be trying so hard to find peace, but I believe you have been lead astray. You voice so much hate towards people these days, even strangers you've never had so much as a passing word with. You are constantly preoccupied with people being racist, even though you know nothing of them or their beliefs. I know this because every conversation we have centers around it. You tell me of the people I surround myself with being racist. Rebecca is racist because she associates with gothic people, and THEY are racist because they listen to gothic and industrial music, and IT is racist because you say its all from Germany, and GERMANS are racist because of WWII. Gabe is racist because you believe he is a homosexual, and all homosexuals are sexual deviants and out to take advantage of people. Of course they are also racist, because somehow their fight for the right to marry infringes upon an African Americans fight to free himself from prejudice and poverty. You believe Rachael is racist because she is southern, and of course, all southern people are racist. The overwhelming theme is this: they are ALL white, and all white people are racist. You even believe I am racist, because I dress like a pirate and practice Wicca. Wiccans are racist because they have Celtic heritage, and Celts are all Aryans which are all racist. And as for my pirate clothes? Pirates, you say, brought African Americans over in ships to be sold into slavery.
All the peoples I have listed: the races, creeds, sexual orientations, and spiritual paths you hate on sight. You hate people who have money and an education because they are "yuppies" and of course, racist. You even now hate people that have TATTOOS regardless of the fact that you yourself are covered with them because, as you say, tattoos are expensive and only people with money can afford them, and people with money are racist.
My point is this: you hate them all, regardless of their personal merits or even knowledge of their actions or deeds. You don't know them, but you hate them just by looking at them. This is the very definition of prejudice and bias. You have become just as bad as someone who actually IS racist. The only people you seem comfortable with are African Americans, and even some of them you dislike on sight, because they are "thugs" and thugs? Totally racist. I'm afraid to even say this to you, but YOU have become racist, prejudice, and bias towards the entire world. You have become the very thing you so despise.
I don't blame you for what you feel right now, and in order to explain that I have to explain my feelings towards both hatred and violence. I myself have always been and will always be a pacifist. I have never been in a serious physical altercation, and have no intention of ever being in a fight. I have been struck, by you and by others, and I did not raise a hand in return. It is my belief that violence and hatred, even in retaliation, solves nothing and only makes matters worse. It exacerbates already bad situations and causes even more of the same.
Hatred is like a disease. People that vent, that inflict violence, that verbally abuse, are infected with it. Either by experiences they have been through or by simple genetics they turn PAIN and FEAR outwards and inflict it upon others, either in retaliation or to innocent bystanders to whatever situation ails them. My belief is that the main cause of this disease is simple exposure. Violent and aggressive and hateful people simply experienced far too much hate in there lives and became jaded, and thus: infected. The disease spreads as follows: hateful people inflict there inner pain on others, and those who go through this too much often become, as there aggressors, hateful themselves.
I'm sorry to say that at this time you have become afflicted with this disease, which IS a disease, just as much as alcoholism and addiction are diseases. They way you treat others isn't your fault, you were simply exposed to far too much of the same over the long sordid course of your life, and now it is all you know. The only way you know how to respond by feeling hurt or sadness or fear is to lash out. I love you brother, I love you dearly, but this has to stop.
My only hope is that through bettering yourself by doing good deeds, surrounding yourself with positive people, and with what might turn out to be a LIFETIME of therapy, you can conquer this horrible affliction you have found yourself being burdened with. Please know that I WILL always be there for you, as brother and friend, but I no longer know how close I can remain to you. Your pain turned to hate is starting to have an affect on my wellbeing, and I can't afford to become jaded. I'm niave yes, innocent, sure, but I still have hope, and I won't risk that hope for anything. I'm afraid I'm going to have to keep my distance for a while, until you can get yourself under control. I love you brother, but that's how it is.
Please take care of yourself, and be safe,
your loving brother,
Zak
Wednesday, July 18, 2012
Mojo: Chapter Two: Brethren
My worker bee picked me up early in the morning and brought me down to the spca adoption center with the hopes of picking out a pet....
"You wont be taking one home today, today is just to look, to shop..."
As if picking a friend could be that easy, just go in and shop around for a while, get a FEEL for them.
My heart twisted in knots as I stepped through the door, animals all of them, caged and wild eyed with anxiety or docile with jaded acceptance. Every one of them desperately needing a home, some one to take them into there arms and love them and care for them.
I don't know why I put myself through this... Going into animal shelters and pet stores and even going as far as to peruse the pet section of craigslist. Kills me EVERY TIME.
Towards the back there sat a squat cage on a small platform, and inside where four young cats, all of them solid black. Most of them came up to the cage walls and peered out, but far in the back one simply rested, the runt of the little with a small paper tag like a hospital bracelet reading "Mopsy". As I approached her side of the cage she lifted her eyes to mine and what I saw melted me to the core. Mopsy was not only the runt, but one of a litter of kittens that had come under horrible abuse. She had gotten the worse of it, patches of hair had had to be shaved off around her under arms, her ears with thick with black gunk from ear-mites, and her left eye shone solid white with cataract.
"From an injury" the young female staff member said, and wouldn't tell me any more.
When I extended my fingers to the cage she rubbed the side of her face lovingly against them and looked out at me, squinting and staring with that one good eye. She had seen the wars, been through the ringer, been through hell and back, took a licken and kept on ticken. Mopsy was world weary at the tender age of two, young even for a cat. But something in the way she looked at me prompted me to ask that she be removed from her cage and brought to a small adjacent room for me to socialize with her.
As she was lifted from her cage, she did not protest, simply went limp and allowed herself to be carried, though her eyes told a different story. The good eye bloomed wide with terror and distrust of the woman who now held her and carried her along. Her claws gripped her shirt as if expecting any moment to be tossed at the nearest wall.
One in the room Mopsy was placed on the floor and saw me enter. She starred up and me with that single eye and again her lids drifted into a mellow and relaxed squint. A moment latter she rolled onto her back exposing her belly to me. I got down on my haunches and stroked the fur there. It was soft, like the inside of expensive slippers. She purred with reckless abandon and again rubbed her face along my wrist and hand, marking me with her scent. I decided right then and there that Mopsy would be my kitty, that the following day I would return for her, to take her home and into my humble home, and far more humble life...
"You wont be taking one home today, today is just to look, to shop..."
As if picking a friend could be that easy, just go in and shop around for a while, get a FEEL for them.
My heart twisted in knots as I stepped through the door, animals all of them, caged and wild eyed with anxiety or docile with jaded acceptance. Every one of them desperately needing a home, some one to take them into there arms and love them and care for them.
I don't know why I put myself through this... Going into animal shelters and pet stores and even going as far as to peruse the pet section of craigslist. Kills me EVERY TIME.
Towards the back there sat a squat cage on a small platform, and inside where four young cats, all of them solid black. Most of them came up to the cage walls and peered out, but far in the back one simply rested, the runt of the little with a small paper tag like a hospital bracelet reading "Mopsy". As I approached her side of the cage she lifted her eyes to mine and what I saw melted me to the core. Mopsy was not only the runt, but one of a litter of kittens that had come under horrible abuse. She had gotten the worse of it, patches of hair had had to be shaved off around her under arms, her ears with thick with black gunk from ear-mites, and her left eye shone solid white with cataract.
"From an injury" the young female staff member said, and wouldn't tell me any more.
When I extended my fingers to the cage she rubbed the side of her face lovingly against them and looked out at me, squinting and staring with that one good eye. She had seen the wars, been through the ringer, been through hell and back, took a licken and kept on ticken. Mopsy was world weary at the tender age of two, young even for a cat. But something in the way she looked at me prompted me to ask that she be removed from her cage and brought to a small adjacent room for me to socialize with her.
As she was lifted from her cage, she did not protest, simply went limp and allowed herself to be carried, though her eyes told a different story. The good eye bloomed wide with terror and distrust of the woman who now held her and carried her along. Her claws gripped her shirt as if expecting any moment to be tossed at the nearest wall.
One in the room Mopsy was placed on the floor and saw me enter. She starred up and me with that single eye and again her lids drifted into a mellow and relaxed squint. A moment latter she rolled onto her back exposing her belly to me. I got down on my haunches and stroked the fur there. It was soft, like the inside of expensive slippers. She purred with reckless abandon and again rubbed her face along my wrist and hand, marking me with her scent. I decided right then and there that Mopsy would be my kitty, that the following day I would return for her, to take her home and into my humble home, and far more humble life...
Day of a Thousand Nights: Part Three: High Fashion
I arrived at fashion square mall to find gabe sitting quite awkwardly sandwiched between to people waiting for the bus near the smokers outpost in front of fashion square mall. I could see him from the window as we made our approached and upon recognizing my handsome, rugged, and epically bearded face peering down at him he cracked a smile and waved. Exiting the bus I met him half way between the ring of smokers and the stop, and immediately explained my plight.
"We need to GO IN, Gabe, I need to get change for you to ride back to my place."
You see, Gabe does NOT have a super convenient and super easy ada para-transit card as I do, allowing me to ride any bus in Charlottesville free of fair, and is still required to pay a pittance of seventy five cents for a single ride and a dollar fifty for a day pass.
This required us to enter the archipelago of shops, high ceilings, skylights, and cheap chinese food that is... FASHION SQUARE MALL. We of course bee-lined towards Gamestop and proceeded to browse, using the familiar atmosphere of cellophane wrapped video games as a cocoon protecting us from the surrounding hordes of mindless brain-dead slaves to consumerism that flock to fashion square on a daily basis, seeking the ever elusive "deal".
"We need to GO IN, Gabe, I need to get change for you to ride back to my place."
You see, Gabe does NOT have a super convenient and super easy ada para-transit card as I do, allowing me to ride any bus in Charlottesville free of fair, and is still required to pay a pittance of seventy five cents for a single ride and a dollar fifty for a day pass.
This required us to enter the archipelago of shops, high ceilings, skylights, and cheap chinese food that is... FASHION SQUARE MALL. We of course bee-lined towards Gamestop and proceeded to browse, using the familiar atmosphere of cellophane wrapped video games as a cocoon protecting us from the surrounding hordes of mindless brain-dead slaves to consumerism that flock to fashion square on a daily basis, seeking the ever elusive "deal".
Stream of Consciousness July 18th, 2012
Days are drifting in and out of each other like erotic clouds. the company of my friend gabe has become near stifling as he has found in necessary to be here far more often than I care for... and every day moves one belt notch closer to August 27th, where my classes begin and the long summer of my young adult life ends.
I memorized the lyrics to popular and not-so-popular comercials, not intentionally just by sheer exposure. you shouldn't let your money go out the window, on that we can all agree. call 1-800-Next Window, and you will clearly see. We are the window authority, we've got the best prices and design (for example...) any size white double hung window installed for $189. Window World, simply the best for less...
I guess this might come in handy one day, say if I even need new windows.
She cut the umbilicus, for a while at least, again with dates... EXACT dates, august 27th. prom...
I spout ellipses like and epileptic typewriter...
She sells sea shells down by the sea shore. I needed help, and now I have none, thanks to one nights worth of drunken "indiscretion". Every day around five thirty, six o-clock, i wonder why I didn't call the financial aide office, wonder why I'm neither excited nor scared of whats going to happen next month, wonder in an almost detached way if anyone will even notice when the time comes and I log into my psyche class for the first time.
Black witches robes made out of fleece, colleen asked me a pretty decent question: why fleece?
Its comfortable, I told her, It's like wearing a big yummy sock.
She asked me how it is that I've survived this long...
A witch in yummy fleece robes, with a woman's romantic sentiments and a man's lack of hygiene.
I've taken up drinking with Gabe, when we can spare a little money for a cheap twelve pack. He drinks natural light, so that's whats been on the menu. Being drunk on cheap beer has its thrills I suppose...
I feel like a puppet in and old timey ye olden puppet show, like some one should be bopping me on the head with an over-sized plush club and shouting silly things at me. It tastes foul, its all I can do just to keep from gagging on it, but once I get a few in me my head floods with pleasant fogginess and everything goes a bit numb. my dad would be so proud...
I memorized the lyrics to popular and not-so-popular comercials, not intentionally just by sheer exposure. you shouldn't let your money go out the window, on that we can all agree. call 1-800-Next Window, and you will clearly see. We are the window authority, we've got the best prices and design (for example...) any size white double hung window installed for $189. Window World, simply the best for less...
I guess this might come in handy one day, say if I even need new windows.
She cut the umbilicus, for a while at least, again with dates... EXACT dates, august 27th. prom...
I spout ellipses like and epileptic typewriter...
She sells sea shells down by the sea shore. I needed help, and now I have none, thanks to one nights worth of drunken "indiscretion". Every day around five thirty, six o-clock, i wonder why I didn't call the financial aide office, wonder why I'm neither excited nor scared of whats going to happen next month, wonder in an almost detached way if anyone will even notice when the time comes and I log into my psyche class for the first time.
Black witches robes made out of fleece, colleen asked me a pretty decent question: why fleece?
Its comfortable, I told her, It's like wearing a big yummy sock.
She asked me how it is that I've survived this long...
A witch in yummy fleece robes, with a woman's romantic sentiments and a man's lack of hygiene.
I've taken up drinking with Gabe, when we can spare a little money for a cheap twelve pack. He drinks natural light, so that's whats been on the menu. Being drunk on cheap beer has its thrills I suppose...
I feel like a puppet in and old timey ye olden puppet show, like some one should be bopping me on the head with an over-sized plush club and shouting silly things at me. It tastes foul, its all I can do just to keep from gagging on it, but once I get a few in me my head floods with pleasant fogginess and everything goes a bit numb. my dad would be so proud...
Monday, May 28, 2012
Mojo: Chapter One: The Fuzz Factor
I would tell people that I always wanted a black cat named Mojo. In retrospect, I have no idea why. There just seemed some charm in the concept, in the name and the very idea. In my previous apartment I was not allowed to have pets, and through various circumstances I had ended up in the basement apartment on King Street, which did. Also: In this new environment, I was completely alone...
So used to rooming with my brother was I, that waking up to an empty apartment seemed pointless. I would sleep as long as I could and spent my waking hours either waiting for the phone to ring or sitting idle at my computer. In the time between, however, I had made a friend. Gabriel Richard was his name, a thirty something man that intermediately lived with his mother or in cramped section eight apartments and was strickened with nigh crippling obsessive compulsive disorder, had a love for queen and other classic rock bands bordering on obsession, and was blessed with a genuine attitude of kindness towards others that was refreshing in comparison to the bleak jaded voice of those who I had befriended in my past.
When things went south with Ben, Gabe was there to pick up the pieces. He helped me clean out the old apartment, separating me and Ben's belongings the way one would for a divorced couple. Then came the task of finding a place to stay. I had been terrified by the prospect of ending up in some sort of group home, and was gladdened when I found the spacious basement apartment on King Street. The eccentric landlord, an elderly man named Dallas Wayne Crickenburger, was one part WWII vet, one part geriatric cowboy, add a dash of dementia, mix well, serve warm and friendly.
It wasn't until after I had moved in that I realized the distance I had placed between myself and anyone who could offer me company. Gabe was my only friend at the time, as there was some distance between me and my long-time friend/ex-girlfiend Rebecca, but he lived clear across town in Belmont and had to ride several buses just to bridge the gap between us. He tried to be there for me, but nine out of ten days I sat alone in silence, silently begging for company that I was too afraid to seek out.
So there I was, keeping tract of time by the passing of Tuesdays and Thursdays that marked the bi-weekly appointment with my social worker, at the time a friendly former punk rocker-turned mental health professional named Senna Magill. It was she that reminded me of one of the major benefits to moving into that place, so far from removed any source of social interaction: Pets.
"You have to implement something I call the Fuzz Factor." She told me in an official manner, with eyes barely concealing there loosely hidden mirth.
I took the bait.
"What is 'The Fuzz Factor'?" I Replied, "I'm dying to hear this one."
She looked at me for a moment and her good humor finally broke loose and she cracked a wise-ass smile.
"I'm glad you asked!" Was her sarcastic reply, "The 'Fuzz Factor' is a human beings innate love for all things fuzzy and cute used to combat mental illness or depression, kinda like a service animal for a blind person, only more fuzzy and with less responsibilities save for just being there and being loved upon."
It clicked in my head like the hammer of a gun, ready to fire and finally accomplish SOMETHING towards feeling better, something about being less of a mopey bastard and more of a whole human being. The Fuzz Factor, it made sense in the simplest of ways, I had always shown affection towards animals, especially cats, and I was now in a unique position to both own and provide for one. I had the new apartment, the restrictions on my finances were being loosened and readied for me to handle my own money, and I desperately needed both the company and the affection.
AND I already had a named picked out...
I would call this little ball of fuzz that I would take in, care for, and ultimately befriend MOJO.
And the stories we would live through would be GRAND indeed...
So used to rooming with my brother was I, that waking up to an empty apartment seemed pointless. I would sleep as long as I could and spent my waking hours either waiting for the phone to ring or sitting idle at my computer. In the time between, however, I had made a friend. Gabriel Richard was his name, a thirty something man that intermediately lived with his mother or in cramped section eight apartments and was strickened with nigh crippling obsessive compulsive disorder, had a love for queen and other classic rock bands bordering on obsession, and was blessed with a genuine attitude of kindness towards others that was refreshing in comparison to the bleak jaded voice of those who I had befriended in my past.
When things went south with Ben, Gabe was there to pick up the pieces. He helped me clean out the old apartment, separating me and Ben's belongings the way one would for a divorced couple. Then came the task of finding a place to stay. I had been terrified by the prospect of ending up in some sort of group home, and was gladdened when I found the spacious basement apartment on King Street. The eccentric landlord, an elderly man named Dallas Wayne Crickenburger, was one part WWII vet, one part geriatric cowboy, add a dash of dementia, mix well, serve warm and friendly.
It wasn't until after I had moved in that I realized the distance I had placed between myself and anyone who could offer me company. Gabe was my only friend at the time, as there was some distance between me and my long-time friend/ex-girlfiend Rebecca, but he lived clear across town in Belmont and had to ride several buses just to bridge the gap between us. He tried to be there for me, but nine out of ten days I sat alone in silence, silently begging for company that I was too afraid to seek out.
So there I was, keeping tract of time by the passing of Tuesdays and Thursdays that marked the bi-weekly appointment with my social worker, at the time a friendly former punk rocker-turned mental health professional named Senna Magill. It was she that reminded me of one of the major benefits to moving into that place, so far from removed any source of social interaction: Pets.
"You have to implement something I call the Fuzz Factor." She told me in an official manner, with eyes barely concealing there loosely hidden mirth.
I took the bait.
"What is 'The Fuzz Factor'?" I Replied, "I'm dying to hear this one."
She looked at me for a moment and her good humor finally broke loose and she cracked a wise-ass smile.
"I'm glad you asked!" Was her sarcastic reply, "The 'Fuzz Factor' is a human beings innate love for all things fuzzy and cute used to combat mental illness or depression, kinda like a service animal for a blind person, only more fuzzy and with less responsibilities save for just being there and being loved upon."
It clicked in my head like the hammer of a gun, ready to fire and finally accomplish SOMETHING towards feeling better, something about being less of a mopey bastard and more of a whole human being. The Fuzz Factor, it made sense in the simplest of ways, I had always shown affection towards animals, especially cats, and I was now in a unique position to both own and provide for one. I had the new apartment, the restrictions on my finances were being loosened and readied for me to handle my own money, and I desperately needed both the company and the affection.
AND I already had a named picked out...
I would call this little ball of fuzz that I would take in, care for, and ultimately befriend MOJO.
Thursday, May 3, 2012
The Day of a Thousand Nights: Part Two: Anyway you want it, thats the way I need it...
Getting to fashion square mall is a two part journey, one short and one that seems to stretch on for hours. The same way they differ in elapsed time they differ in the company you will keep. The bus from my squat three to four story apartments to the transit station at the downtown mall is mercifully empty on most occasions. You sit as you we're MEANT to sit, free from the uncomfortably close confines of strangers. The bus FROM the downtown transit station to the eventual destination, however, is crowded and loud and oftentimes ripe with the odor of a good two dozen agitated and car-less passengers.
The seating arrangement is just about the same on every bus, but if you're lucky you'll be on one with a scrolling sign that reads the date and time. These things are important when judging the time elapsed and good for estimating your time of arrival. Another perk of the slightly fancier buses is a protruding rectangular button on the posts the gleams red like rose petals preserved in acrylic. The button reads STOP and it saves you the slight trouble of having to crane your body around to reach and get a good hold on the many plastic coated wire pull chords the lumbering beasts of public transit offer.
The short ride bus, this day, was the fancier one... The long ride, however, was not...
Getting on as soon as it arrived, regardless of there tendency to wait until the official arrival time to play catch up with there schedules, the bus was still empty. As I walked through the folding glass doors I grasped the handholds but before pulling myself up took one final glance at the yellow score board like bus sign along the bus's side. It, of course, read "7:FASHION SQUARE", just as it had when I saw the bus approach. A tiny inkling of paranoia in me always fears getting on the wrong bus, so it behooves me to double check the sign (first brooding signs of OCD, perhaps?).
Once inside I lifted my Transit Card into view of the stoic and apathetic driver, who gave it no more than a sideways look before gesturing me onward. I took a seat dead center of the bus, just at the end of the front row, just before the "step up" that lead to the rear seats. I take this seat more often than not because it affords certain advantages over the others. For one: you always have a clear view of the upcoming stops, something the seats to the front and right doesn't provide due to being oriented directly behind the driver.
I took my seat and waited for the rest of the passengers to pile in. The bus was half full by the time the driver pulled out of the station, and as we drove parallel to the downtown mall we picked up more and more people at every stop along the way. Halfway between the the downtown mall and the corner the bus was a picture perfect example of the melting pot in action. Every minority present in Charlottesville was in attendance here, most speaking in there native tongues which turned the normal expected chatter into a veritable din of unfamiliar sounds from every range of language spectrum. If you listened closely you could discern the individual forms of speech. To my front: The subtle tweeting of the Indian couple, to my right the smooth enunciation of the Mexicans who sat across. Behind me I could barely make out deep African tones, and deeper still what had to be an Asiatic chattering. The sounds alone weren't unpleasant, but I still felt oddly out of place there.
And so I fell back on the number one fail-safe of awkward social situations: I pulled out my cellphone at tinkered with it intently, refusing to even acknowledge my surroundings. First order of business was to check the time and see if I had any messages, missed calls, texts, ect... Next was to send what I hoped would be a witty text to my friend Colleen. It read "Do you think Pirates are considered a minority?". I hoped, but didn't really expect, for a quick response. And last but certainly not least, I just sat there holding it absent mindedly going through the menus attempting to acquire an air of business, a "can't talk, on the cell phone" sort of look. High tech fidgeting at its finest, and to think, people used to twiddle their thumbs and bite there nails. When I had exhausted the admittedly poor reserves of the phone, I relinquished it to my pocket and stared out the window.
There is a certain mindset one must reach to successfully navigate public transportation unscathed, a sort of zen space where time slows and skips and thoughts bellow and bloom and obscure your surroundings with oh so distracting daydreams. Keep in mind, this has its own inherit danger. There is the risk of missing your stop altogether, but thankfully I always seem to "come to" at the exact moment I reach my destination. Its like seeing things in your peripheral vision, you see them, you REACT to them, but they aren't in focus and thus: unimportant as a whole until you need them to be. As such, just as I was pulling into the Fashion Square parking lot, reality jerked back into the forefront, and in an instant I could no longer even remember what stray thoughts I had been absorbed with moments before, and believe me, my mind LOVES to pick up strays. As the bus circled the parking lot I got a phone call on my cell, it was Gabe's mom....
"Hello?"
"Hi, its Zak?" I asked in the form of a question, JEOPARDY!
"Oh! Hi, yes, have you gotten there yet?"
"Just pulling into the parking lot, will be at the stop in a sec."
"Ok, is Gabe there?" She inquired, and internally I pondered 'where the hell else would he be, mad woman?'
"Ummm I don't know, but he SHOULD be."
"Ok, well have him give me a call when you run into him." As if this wasn't planned out from the get go.
"Sure thing, will do. Bye."
"Ok, bye..." She said with a chuckle...
Overbearing mother may win this round yet...
The seating arrangement is just about the same on every bus, but if you're lucky you'll be on one with a scrolling sign that reads the date and time. These things are important when judging the time elapsed and good for estimating your time of arrival. Another perk of the slightly fancier buses is a protruding rectangular button on the posts the gleams red like rose petals preserved in acrylic. The button reads STOP and it saves you the slight trouble of having to crane your body around to reach and get a good hold on the many plastic coated wire pull chords the lumbering beasts of public transit offer.
The short ride bus, this day, was the fancier one... The long ride, however, was not...
Getting on as soon as it arrived, regardless of there tendency to wait until the official arrival time to play catch up with there schedules, the bus was still empty. As I walked through the folding glass doors I grasped the handholds but before pulling myself up took one final glance at the yellow score board like bus sign along the bus's side. It, of course, read "7:FASHION SQUARE", just as it had when I saw the bus approach. A tiny inkling of paranoia in me always fears getting on the wrong bus, so it behooves me to double check the sign (first brooding signs of OCD, perhaps?).
Once inside I lifted my Transit Card into view of the stoic and apathetic driver, who gave it no more than a sideways look before gesturing me onward. I took a seat dead center of the bus, just at the end of the front row, just before the "step up" that lead to the rear seats. I take this seat more often than not because it affords certain advantages over the others. For one: you always have a clear view of the upcoming stops, something the seats to the front and right doesn't provide due to being oriented directly behind the driver.
I took my seat and waited for the rest of the passengers to pile in. The bus was half full by the time the driver pulled out of the station, and as we drove parallel to the downtown mall we picked up more and more people at every stop along the way. Halfway between the the downtown mall and the corner the bus was a picture perfect example of the melting pot in action. Every minority present in Charlottesville was in attendance here, most speaking in there native tongues which turned the normal expected chatter into a veritable din of unfamiliar sounds from every range of language spectrum. If you listened closely you could discern the individual forms of speech. To my front: The subtle tweeting of the Indian couple, to my right the smooth enunciation of the Mexicans who sat across. Behind me I could barely make out deep African tones, and deeper still what had to be an Asiatic chattering. The sounds alone weren't unpleasant, but I still felt oddly out of place there.
And so I fell back on the number one fail-safe of awkward social situations: I pulled out my cellphone at tinkered with it intently, refusing to even acknowledge my surroundings. First order of business was to check the time and see if I had any messages, missed calls, texts, ect... Next was to send what I hoped would be a witty text to my friend Colleen. It read "Do you think Pirates are considered a minority?". I hoped, but didn't really expect, for a quick response. And last but certainly not least, I just sat there holding it absent mindedly going through the menus attempting to acquire an air of business, a "can't talk, on the cell phone" sort of look. High tech fidgeting at its finest, and to think, people used to twiddle their thumbs and bite there nails. When I had exhausted the admittedly poor reserves of the phone, I relinquished it to my pocket and stared out the window.
There is a certain mindset one must reach to successfully navigate public transportation unscathed, a sort of zen space where time slows and skips and thoughts bellow and bloom and obscure your surroundings with oh so distracting daydreams. Keep in mind, this has its own inherit danger. There is the risk of missing your stop altogether, but thankfully I always seem to "come to" at the exact moment I reach my destination. Its like seeing things in your peripheral vision, you see them, you REACT to them, but they aren't in focus and thus: unimportant as a whole until you need them to be. As such, just as I was pulling into the Fashion Square parking lot, reality jerked back into the forefront, and in an instant I could no longer even remember what stray thoughts I had been absorbed with moments before, and believe me, my mind LOVES to pick up strays. As the bus circled the parking lot I got a phone call on my cell, it was Gabe's mom....
"Hello?"
"Hi, its Zak?" I asked in the form of a question, JEOPARDY!
"Oh! Hi, yes, have you gotten there yet?"
"Just pulling into the parking lot, will be at the stop in a sec."
"Ok, is Gabe there?" She inquired, and internally I pondered 'where the hell else would he be, mad woman?'
"Ummm I don't know, but he SHOULD be."
"Ok, well have him give me a call when you run into him." As if this wasn't planned out from the get go.
"Sure thing, will do. Bye."
"Ok, bye..." She said with a chuckle...
Overbearing mother may win this round yet...
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