Christmas 2003

Monday, 29 December 2003

Man did I rake it in this Christmas. I must ad­mit that I was spoiled this year. I got pretty much every­thing I asked for. Highlights in­clude a DVD home the­ater sys­tem, new mes­sen­ger bag, foun­tain pen ink, and books ga­lore [in­clud­ing cook­books]. The ex­tended week­end was quite tir­ing though. I ar­rived home Christmas Eve around 8, went to Midnight Mass at 11, got up at 6 for presents at home, drove to my aunt’s [ar­riv­ing at 9:30] for more presents, drove to Fort Wayne the next day to my uncle’s for yet more gift un­wrap­ping [and the pur­chase of my DVD home the­ater for 97 bucks] drove back to Noblesville the same day, home to Connersville the next morn­ing, and then back to Cleveland on Sunday. I put near one thou­sand miles on my trav­el­ing count this Christmas. It was all worth it though, I ate plenty of fudge, prime rib, sugar cook­ies, ap­ple pie, braised ham, but­ter cook­ies, vodka ton­ics, more fudge. I still havent gained any weight. In a few days time, at Stone’s New Years party I will con­tinue to eat things. I’m also go­ing to make a non-al­co­holic was­sail for the rev­el­ers.

I wrote this poem for my mom as a present.

The Last Samurai

Wednesday, 24 December 2003

I’d heard noth­ing but bad about The Last Samurai. I saw it last night and was en­ter­tained. What brought it down the most was Tom Cruise. The di­rec­tor, one Mr. Zwick, ended up putting a bit too much em­pha­sis on Cruise, in nar­ra­tion, diegetic di­a­logue, and photo-mon­tage. I got the dis­tinct im­pres­sion that the movie was mainly filmed as an­other chance for Tom Cruise to play dress-up and over­come his own per­sonal demons on the way to con­quer­ing some real life bad­dies. [just like Top Gun, Far and Away, Minority Report, etc.]

The bat­tle se­quences were sweet, al­though the fi­nal bat­tle wasn’t quit as epic as it was bor­ing. I can only watch peo­ple get mowed down by muz­zle-load­ers, Gatling guns, and how­itzers for so long be­fore I start to yawn. I was most im­pressed with the per­for­mances by the ac­tual Japanese who played samu­rai. Cruise did a poor job fak­ing an un­der­stand­ing of the Japanese world­view. In typ­i­cal Hollywood fash­ion, every­thing was a di­chotomy. This doesn’t work too well when cast into an Asian set­ting. The clash be­tween in­com­ing Western cul­ture and tra­di­tional Japanese way of life does not re­ally come through. Of course, you can see it por­trayed but I don’t buy it. Tokyo is mod­ern­ized but the vil­lage Cruise fights for look com­pletely un­changed.
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Separation [Study]

Friday, 19 December 2003

a man with
a cane
sits on a bus.
some dirty snow
at his feet
a gift.
it melts.
he limps
off the bus.
his knee hurts.

a woman with
wispy hair
in a bun
kneads dough.
she has sev­en­teen
pet cats — two
are preg­nant.
to­day is her birth­day.
she is bak­ing them a cake.

a young poet
has no TV
doesn’t an­swer
the phone and
won­ders why
he is alone. he
makes spaghetti
on Monday and
eats the left­overs
all week.

rat tracks in
Old Mother Hubbard’s
cup­board. no won­der
the dog left.

a tele­mar­keter
hung up all day
goes home to
con­densed soup.
the phone rings
but its not for her.

three chil­dren at play
two are cops.
i am the rob­ber.


a habit is some­thing that is con­sid­ered rather con­stant i think. if you do some­thing only once or once in a while then it is not a habit. a habit is some­thing you do all the time — like rub­bing a bal­loon on a cat or throw­ing toast­ers at things. my habits con­stantly change. or per­haps there­fore i have no habits. or maybe i only have quasi-habits. Nuns wear habits but i dont have one of those ei­ther.

so to make a short story long, when i am not surf­ing the in­ter­net on a reg­u­lar ba­sis, i cease to surf the in­ter­net at all. and when i need to use it, i just use it for vaguely com­mer­cial pur­poses, or for info of what­ever species it is that i am not in­formed of. or i’ll bring my lunch to work for a week and then not eat lunch at work the next week.

my morn­ing habits have been the same for years how­ever.
[ex­crete, shower, de­odor­ant, dress, drink, brush teeth, rub bal­loon on cat]
i am a ran­dom crazy dork­ish jack­ass son of a bitch [sorry mom] and i de­serve to be blud­geoned with a rub­ber chicken for the things i’ve said and done to those i love. but in the end, any guilt or re­morse is use­less for all such deeds, and in­deed, all deeds af­ter all end in death.

that was a bit mor­bid. i should go wan­der into things now.
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Return of the King

Wednesday, 17 December 2003

I saw Return of the King [RotK] last night at mid­night. I got to bed around 4ish and was at work at 7. I am writ­ing this at ap­prox­i­mately 20 past 9 a.m. on 17 December 2003. I am a zom­bie, so bear with if at times I sound a bit in­co­her­ent. There are also prob­a­bly spoil­ers ahead.

The movie was damn good. I am most glad that I saw the ex­tended Two Towers be­fore RotK, be­cause the ex­tra flesh­ing it pro­vided was quite help­ful. I won’t delve into the stan­dard huz­zahs for the cin­e­matog­ra­phy, CGI ren­der­ings, WETA cre­ations and all that. Everyone al­ready knows about how sweet that shit looks. Instead I’ll just touch on the high lows and in­stances of ‘I gotta think about that be­fore I make a de­ci­sion.’
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pig in shit

Monday, 15 December 2003

cleve­land has been good for the muse. in the ap­prox­i­mate month i have been here i have writ­ten around 5 po­ems and have jot­ted down a ridicu­lous amount of ran­dom things that sound cool. words have be­gun to lose their mean­ings for me again, and this is most def­i­nitely good, be­cause i’ve to re­mem­ber what i want them to mean. which doesnt make any sense and doesnt re­ally need to. ive also been o’erwhelmed with new mu­si­cal in­puts. i stream my al­ways and forever fa­vorite ra­dio sta­tion 97X WOXY from Oxford, Ohio and write down the ran­dom names of ran­dom bands that rok in ran­dom ways.

i have also dis­cov­ered sev­eral peo­ple who are great sources for said in­put. im wal­low­ing like a pig in shit.

un­ti­tled 19 [for mom]

Saturday, 13 December 2003

For years, you asked me to write you a poem.
You who gave me life ? I can­not say no any longer ?
but do you know how hard this is?

Try to re­mem­ber ex­actly how
I slept warm in your womb ? or the sim­ple way
I brought you tiny fist­fuls of wild­flow­ers.

How dif­fi­cult is it to re­call? You taught me
that life is worth liv­ing just be­cause it is.
How can I write to you who told me
All of the Things that Begin With M?

You built my char­ac­ter.
How many leaves raked and shov­els full of snow
make a big enough pile of Thank You?

The great­est poem I ever heard was your ?I love you.?
For years, you have asked me to write you a poem.
The only one I re­ally know is I love you.