today my fish is dead. He passed away sometime between the hours of 8 am and 11 am. Peacefully i hope. I came home from an early day at work and as i popped the cap of his fish food to place 4 tiny pellets gently on the surface of his home i discovered his lifeless body sunken to the bottom resting on the shiny mermaid stones. I flushed him away immediately after my greusome discovery and then emptied and cleaned his bowl. I feel no saddness for his untimely death and i wonder why there is this line between what creatures we feel for and the ones we dont. Who made this line and what does it say about us? Its just a fish. But a life indeed. A cat is just a cat but on the other side of this line. Why?

Here is my first Halloween pumpkin carving of 2008! I chose to do the Edible Arrangements logo and I should have sent these photos to the big guys at the corporate office but as usual I chickened out.

I used an Xacto knife kit and a regular kitchen paring knife to cut the rough edges and for the small holes (grapes) I used 4 inch wood screws. I used a screwdriver to screw them into the pumpkin and then with pliers I yanked them out which was very efficient in clearing a nice clean hole as the flesh grabbed onto the threads of the screw. I used a teaspoon to scrape out the top layers of flesh for the daisies thin enough to allow light from the candle to shine through.

I wasn't as pleased with this end result in the daytime but once night arrived and I could really see it as it should be- it was worth the 3 hours it took to create.

Here it is

Lake Wintergreen

I think you like me. Actually, I know you like me. You pretty much say you how much you like me. With your eyes- the ones that I don't see- the ones that I don't remember- the ones that mean nothing to me. You say it with your body- the one that I have no desire to hold- the one that I don't want next to mine. With your hands- the ones that don't interest me- the ones that I barely glance at- the ones that I don't want touching me. You like everything about me- the more I Act like myself- the person I usually withhold from those I want to impress- the more you like me. I think if it weren't for the fact that I nearly despise everything about you, we'd be perfect together.

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Sent from my Verizon Wireless mobile phone

The Facebooktubespacelist Virus

All this texting.. this facebook.. this myspace.. blogging.. googling.. hotmail.. yahoo.. gmail.. youtube.. itunes... All this nonsense. This makes no sense. I have lost my senses. When will I come to my senses?

I feel as though I have become devoured, taken over, owned, if you will, by all this nonsense.

Why do I feel the need to know what everyone is doing all the time? All the time. Five, six times a day. Sometimes compulsively every hour. Why am I glued to this chair? Why are my fingers always clenching my cell phone? Why am I always checking, then rechecking, then refreshing? Why is everyone else doing the same EXACT thing? All day long every day?

What happened to phone calls? I never talk to anyone anymore. I don't remember what my closest friends voices sound like unless I'm physically in front of them. I forgot what I used to do with the 4 hours, at least, spent in front of this very screen. I forgot what it was like to not know. Everything. Anything. Everyone. I can't think of a single soul I haven't searched or myspaced or facebooked or texted or IM'd- not a single soul I've ever met has gone unsearched. I have thought of every person I have ever known and then facebook searched them. Added them. But really do I ever even talk to them? No. Some yes but the majority no. So why must I add them to my little rapidly growing list. I look at these lists sometimes. My facebook friends. My myspace friends. My buddy list. I ask myself "Out of all these people, who do I REALLY want to talk to or be friends with?" and most of the time its less than 10 people. Seriously. What's the point of all this? Is it status? Is it just like high school? Yes. It really is. This facebook thing.. whats everyone doing where are they now how ugly have they gotten who has how many babies whos married whos divorced whos in prison who died who changed for better who changed for worse. Its like a high school reunion ALL DAY EVERY DAY FOR THE REST OF MY LIFE. I wish now that I could go back and really think about who I add, because it would be rude and silly of me to delete them now. I can't say "nah, I changed my mind.. dont really wanna be ur facebook friend anymore." but why lie? why pretend i even care what someone i went to nursery school with is doing with their life? its fun to hear that once in a while "oh wow thats neat. good to see he/she is doing well" and thats it. thats all i need. thats all anyone needs.

the point is, there are some people u just don't really need to know anymore. and some people u can say "ok, yea. this person i'd like to keep in contact with." and that's it.

why am i afraid to have only 30 friends maybe on my list. why do i look at my list and say 85 is not nearly enough. most of these people have at least 100 if not 3 or 400. its silly really. but i suppose they are the ones who lie. to themselves really. cus how can anyone really have that many honest friends? they can't. ever.

i am seriously entertaining the idea of just doing a facebook/myspace/buddylist cleanup. thorough. just buh-bye. nice to know ya. dont really need ya. maybe we'll run into eachother at the supermarket. that would be super. say hi to your mom for me. merry christmas. happy holidays. cheers to your life.

That's all i got for now. time for bed- but i gotta check my facebook first to see if anyone changed their moods or added a new friend i possibly overlooked myself.

some people are incapable of

some people are incapable of loving. some people are incapable of being loved. but i've yet to know someone incapable of love at all.

I Think It's Chronic

I'm pretty sure I have chronic swimmer's ear.

I had it first almost two years ago I think. A relentless itch, deep inside my brain. Juicy yellow dripping out while I slept.

In the mornings, I'd find little stains on my pillow, and dried crust inside and around my ear canals. I'd spend the entire drive to work, about twenty minutes, picking and flaking away at the dried golden crust until they were all clean and clear.

The rest of the days, I'd try to avoid shoving my fingers inside to relieve the relentless itch.

Seriously, this is the most obnoxious itch you can imagine.

I'd twitch all day until I'd find myself alone to scratch my itch, or itch my scratch, however you put it.

Some days, I'd shove the q-tips too far inside, and cause an air pocket, which would leave me deaf in that ear the rest of the day. For months I remember going around and telling people to speak up since I was deaf in one ear.

I finally wound up with a slight infection and decided to go have it checked out.

The doctor gave me some oily drops to use twice a day to cure the swimmer's ear. Swimmer's ear is what it's called, even though I haven't been swimming since I was a teenager. I wound up with it just by taking showers. The water just stayed in there for some reason.

Anyway, I followed Dr. Kagan's orders and used these oily drops twice a day, sometimes three, and eventually the itch subsided. Temporarily, of course. Until the next shower.

This went on for a year or so. I started getting lazy and forgetting to use the drops and got used to just always having an inner ear itch, and some subtle deafness from time to time. I'd just wait for it to go away on it's own.

One time, I had to go back and Dr. Kagan performed this irrigation thing on me.

He used this stainless steel plunger that looked like a giant syringe.

He made me hold this plastic bucket under my ears while he flushed warm water in each ear about a dozen times. This plunger caused the water to shoot out at least 100mph into my skull, which left me squirming on that spinning doctor's stool. It didn't hurt so much as it felt like a fire hose was shoved into my brain and turned on full blast.

That sure put out the fire.

Afterwards, I lifted the bucket up to the light and the Dr. and I examined the floating bits and pieces of infected golden yellow ear wax. This was an excellent remedy for my simmer's ear.

For a few months, I was cured.

Now, randomly, I will feel that itch creep up on me again, and I still can't help but to dig inside with my q-tips.

These amazing cotton- tipped sticks.

I take them to my room by the handfulls, and gently twist them back and forth deep inside each ear. I pull them out and I always check to see what color. Sometimes yellow. Sometimes brownish. Sometimes even a pink yellowish, which means I've gone too deep and caused irritation to the point of bleeding. The feeling of this twisting is utterly incredible.

I have even done this in the mirror to see my facial expressions. The faces are much like a dog's when you stick your finger in their ear to scratch and they tilt their heads and their eyes roll back and they twitch a little with relief. Then you remove your finger and stick it at their face and they always smell it. Sometimes they even lick it after they smell it.

I do this same thing in the mirror. The faces. The head tilting.

I always look at the cotton tips to see what I've pulled out, and I always smell them too.

Though, I have yet to lick them.

just checking

i check to see if their chests rise. I check to see if they breathe. I always look to see their bellies rise up and down to be sure they are still alive. I do this with grammy and dad. I dont do this with anyone else because no one else falls asleep at random times during the day. I occcasionally glance over at them in the green chair. That green chair that no one else sits in. Its one of those recliner chairs. The kind that makes all that noise when they yank that lever to open the leg rest. It pops out into mid air and your feet flop up and then down landing softly on the green fabric. Its that ugly forest green. We have this color because it was the only one in the furniture store that was on sale, probably because no one else wanted its ugly forest color. You sit in this chair and then before your feet hit the cushiony green fabric, your eyes are closed and you've corked off. I always check to see your chest rise. I look to see your diaphragm fill with air, and then out again. I check if youre still alive

On shit

These sewers run underground around the entire city. Cities upon cities all over the world with sewer systems. People shit and flush it down and with the gallon of water it travels farther than you'd ever imagine. Your shit, my shit, everyone's shit, has traveled everywhere. Anywhere. Public restrooms. Restaurant toilets. Hotels. Theme parks. Libraries. Hospitals.

If I could track all the shit I've flushed away at Dunkin Donuts across New England, that would be something incredible. Is my shit in Portland still? Or has it made it's way down to the Hamptons in New Hampshire? Is my shit soaking in a pile of other shit that maybe includes some famous person's shit too? Is my shit decomposing with Paris Hilton's shit? Does Paris Hilton even shit? I will assume it comes out covered in diamonds and fur.

The point is, shit is something we hardly think about past the bowl. Once it squeezes its way into that dark ceramic hole, we no longer think of it. Our only thoughts are "I have to shit" then "where can I shit?" and then "go down, go down.... ok good." and that's it then its gone forever. Into the sewer systems. This amazing other world underneath the grounds we walk and drive on. We all drive above our own shit. All day long. Unless, you live in the suburbs, where you have septic tanks.

This is where my thought came to me, sitting in my mother's window seat, reading my Chuck Palahniuk book. I stopped to take in the disturbing chapter I had just read, and as I gazed out into the back yard from the second floor window, I noticed the small round slab of concrete in my yard. This is the lid to our septic tank. This is where they stick that giant tube attatched to the huge tanker truck and suck the shit out of our overflowing pool of waste.

I play frisbee and catch in that yard. I lay out for a tan in that yard. I do all these things without even noticing I'm doing them on top of my own pile of shit. How crazy is that?

And.. who these people are- the ones who work for the septic tank cleaning business.. the ones who hold onto the giant suction hoses with those eagle-proof gloves on.. who are they? and what to they tell people who ask them at a cocktail party "So, Mark. What do you do for a living?"

Do they respond "I suck shit out of peoples back yards." or do they have some fancy code name for it? Like "waste management" or something? I wonder these things.. but I'm just too lazy to look them up.

Taking a different route.

You said "I'm not talking to you!" and when I replied "I'm sorry, I must have misread your mouth pointing at my face while sound was spilling from your lips." you simply raised one eyebrow- the left I think- and pursed your lips together and turned around- facing west I'm almost sure- leaving me stranded in the corner- completely out of the social loop, once again- trying my best not to appear as though I've just been left stranded in the corner- completely out of the social loop, once again.

And as I lingered there for what must have been about 20 seconds in silence, it hit me. You are the worst friend I've ever had, and as of last night, we are ex-friends.

And when I woke this morning, feeling betrayed for the umpteenth time, I decided I should take a different route this time.

This time I will keep you. I will keep you near, and dear, to my once warm but now bitter and cold heart, and I will use you. I will use you in all the ways you have used me. This time I will purse my lips. This time I will raise my eyebrow- the left one even.

This time you will linger in your corner, out of this loop.

my new game

I play this game. I play this game by myself. I can play whenever i want, but its best to play when the weather is warm, and preferably with little wind. If its too hot out, i can become sweaty and start to get tired and lazy. But if its too cold out, the chances of being able to play are pretty slim. This game requires one person. If two people attempt to play, confusion and possible injury may occur. This game involves running back and forth in a jerky motion that usually causes that squeaky sound from rubber souled shoes. This game involves sneakers. Arms. Feet. But most importantly... A tennis racquet. This game is a fuzzy yellow ball on a long rubber band tied to a weight. This game is for tennis doubles without a double. Or single. Just you and the rubber band. And lots of pavement.this game makes me look silly. Swinging at no one. My imaginary tennis opponent is really good. I need to practice.

You wait

And you wait for us to pick u up. Someone to come and transport you where u need to go. You don't drive. You never learned how and you never will. I ask you once in a while if you want me to show you how. You laugh and joke "yea. Thats a good idea. Stupid bastard that i am...DONT GET OLD"... I wonder how it is someone who can go 89 years with no car. No form of transportation. No way to escape once in a while when you just need to be alone. I wonder maybe if you had that opportunity in your life.. That chance to just cruise around with the wind in your hair... Maybe you would have turned out to be a little different... A little less miserable. Maybe. Maybe you'd be telling me stories of when you went across country with your girlfriends. Maybe you'd be telling me when you got stranded with a flat tire in the middle of nowhere. Maybe. Instead you wait. You wait for us- someone to pick you up- anyone- only to be transported to another air conditioned cave to dwell in. Another hole to rot in. and thats it

MOBILE BLOGGIN

Since i got this wonderfully handy new phone, i figure i should make
use of its features, right? Well thats what I'm trying to do right
now. I'm on this new env2 that i just got for a steal on ebay
yesterday. Brand new. Still wrapped nicely in the unopened box...which
was probably stolen.

Two days ago a Cingular- er I should say at&t- store got their ass
robbed. Something like a hundred phones were stolen..and they'll all
end up on ebay by tomorrow without a doubt. People pay money for this
shit..lots of ridiculous money.. I didn't spend half as much as some
people would for a hunk of plastic.. That by next year will be
horribly out of date and i'll be browsing ebay once again for my
plastic piece of fittin in. Cus thats all it is really. I mean how
convenient does life really have to be? (she says from her mobile
phone while sitting in her car at the drive thru waiting for her
oversized iced coffee to bring with her to the tanning salon...)

Poor me.:-P

The House On Calamus Meadow

As I sit in front of this small flame, I am reminded of our trips to the lake house in Maine. The nights were much darker there, in the cabin burried forty pines deep on Calamus Meadow, and the only sound we'd hear were the crickets' symphonies and the crack and pop of the damp wick on the table candle, just like this one. Its wick is sunken deep into the jar. The once clean and clear glass is now blackened and each time I reach down inside to light the wick, my hand rubs the sides and I'm left with black knuckles. This particular candle is one of those fancy Yankee Candle candles, except it's an immitation, so the fragrance is weak and stale smelling, and the lable on the front has started to slide around now that the glue has softened from the heat inside the jar. Just picking it up once will result in sticky, smelly hands for the rest of the day. The flame jumps back and forth with the breeze of the ceiling fan in a wya that has begun to irritate me now. The light shoots in every direction so violently, it almost hurts my eyes to look directly at it. Instead of this being a warm and relaxing experience, it's rapidly changing shapes have gotten me so frustrated, I look away. This relentless flickering remains in my peripheral vision, so I decide I've had enough. I shove the poor cat off my lap and lunge at the candle from the couch. With one agressive breath, I huff out the flame and then smother the smoking wick with my spit-soaked fingers. I am satisfied now, and soon I'll fall asleep in the dark, and while this stale smell lingers through the night, I'll wake in the morning remembering a dream I've had of the house on Calamus Meadow.

The Feathered Fool

"I am the feathered fool who flew too close to the sun, and I shall plummet to my destiny."

What did she mean when she wrote this line? What led her to believe this? Perhaps an undying love? An obsession gone wrong?

She too, was self-involved and selfish, though she considered herself to be selfless.

All her life she was searching for her lost love. Her soul-mate. Her saviour. Something.

She was helpless. Lost. She only wanted someone for her own self-esteem.

So, she fabricated many. Turned ordinary people into these gods. These perfect mistakes she, herself, created. Misfortunes. And all the while knowing the outcomes of these tricky situations she always managed to find herself getting into. She may as well have intentionally gotten involved with emotionally unavailable people. Dead-end relationships from the very start. One, after another, after another. She knew these things would come in cycles. She was aware of her patterns. Her own habits. Her obsessions.

In knowing what was to come of these relationships, how she would fall so hard, give it all she had, only to be let down once again, she would then give herself the title-

The Feathered Fool

and fly too close to the sun. Eventually she'd get in too deep. So deep that she'd never manage to get out.

And that is when she would

plummet to her destiny.




What a fool. A fool, indeed.