I felt my age tonight.
It settled in amongst the ashes and empty beer bottles.
It cowered in the flickering light and bubble gum droning of Empty V.
It muttered definitions of words yet unwritten, drawing closure to a sentence left unsaid.
Behind the meaningless it spied prisoners, took comfort in the past, crawled deeper into silence and endless flickering.
Coughing in the haze of smoke it slid up my arm, scuddled across my face, and slid silently into the crevices of my forehead.
It pulled the flesh around it like a blanket, folding the skin around my eyes and resting it's head on the soft bags growing under my lids.
Age is a long word for loneliness.
That place we all must sit in one day and accept that no one else can fit in the chair with us.
Three letters to spell out one.
One lives in this skin, this mind, this existence.
One stumbles awkwardly from door to door, around tables and laughlines.
One leaves to forget, only to find it was temporary, that nothing can erase the past.
One hunts for an exit, knowing there is none.
Only an entrance.
One clings to others, collects them like trophies.
Hopes life can be improved through vicarious circumstances.
Age is the loneliest number, but in that solidarity lives solace.
Knowing you've been there and don't want to return.
Knowing thick skin can protect you from the elements.
Knowing there is an off button on the remote.
Knowing the entrance can serve as an exit.
Tuesday, August 29, 2006
Friday, August 25, 2006
Attention Email Marketers
According to my SPAM inbox there is a growing concern out there in the Internet Ether that I, J-J-Jimbo Ninny, am having a certain personal problem. Allow me to end this concern right here and now. I am not having a problem with my erection. Or any erections so far. Nor am I struggling with an erexction, irection, or any other clever mispelling used in a futile attempt to slide your message passed my Spamguard. I have not, in fact, had any erectile problems since Middle and High School, in which the problem was one of too many, as opposed to not enough. Perhaps you should start marketing math books to school boys, that's an erectile disfunction that can be just as upsetting as an older gentleman struggling to poke up for some play.
Thursday, August 24, 2006
Sleepin with a skeeza
I bought new sheets today. Ever since I was sick I've had this horrific dread of my bed. It's as though I hold my bed entirely responsible for the event and cannot forgive the atrocity. As a result I've been anxious to change my sleeping arrangement. I decided, being that I'm still gainfully unemployed, that the best course of action was a change of wardrobe for my sleeping apparatus. I have started a journey to a new bed via the wonders of linens. Today I purchased a set of black sheets. I've never owned black sheets before and found the decision to strike my conscience as being, well, bold. I chose the sheets, purchased them, and brought them home. When I opened the packaging and felt the cloth for the first time I actually said to myself: "ooooh, these are gonna be niiiice. Damn you is a skeeeza." The weeve of the fabric has a slight sheen to it that checkers in tiny squares across the surface. They do feel remarkably soft and absorb the light like an abyss. Tomorrow I'm venturing off to purchase a new spread for the bed that was my bane. Soon my new sleeping environment will be complete, and hopefully more welcoming. I held myself back from the purchase of a new mattress pad. I was very tempted to purchase a memory foam pad to place on my pathetic old queen. But I knew that, being my financial situation, the purchase would be overly frivolous (as though new sheets wasn't bad enough) and withheld. But just imagine. The firm support of memory foam under the luxurious rich black sheets... I can almost taste the debotchery that would flicker through my solitary slumbering mind. Well, there's always hope for the coming weeks. Perhaps something will change and I'll find myself buying that special pad and looking forward to, if not blatanly loafing about in, my bed.
At night
I'm always amazed at how drama seems to seep into everything at night. The contrast and shadows draw out the true nature of a thing. It's almost as though the unbidden vision, unhidden sights of daylight, detract from the essence of a thing. That is, a specific. Often the broader specturm can thrive with the sun exposing the cohesiveness of a landscape. But the intimacy that is bound in the shadows in unique, as though you are seeing a thing as its true self.
I have a friend who often makes reference to being seen in the daylight as though it is a moment of revelation. I understand how the light of day can lend context, show how one reacts to their environment. But I also think this is masking. By placing a thing or person in a specific situation you can lose sight of the whole as it stands outside of being one of many parts. You lose the intimate knowledge of one in favor of how that one relates to many. Consequently you can lose the intimate knowledge of how one stands alone.
I have a friend who often makes reference to being seen in the daylight as though it is a moment of revelation. I understand how the light of day can lend context, show how one reacts to their environment. But I also think this is masking. By placing a thing or person in a specific situation you can lose sight of the whole as it stands outside of being one of many parts. You lose the intimate knowledge of one in favor of how that one relates to many. Consequently you can lose the intimate knowledge of how one stands alone.
Wednesday, August 23, 2006
Malcolmlives.com
Here is the first installment of a short story I've been thinking about. Not to worry, I haven't abandoned Bené Due. I just wanted to get this out.
When the idea first came to him, Malcolm was shocked he hadn't seen it before. In an erra of reality TV shows. In a world where voyeurism seemed valued versus abhorred, he thought surely someone might have done it. But all he could find were porn houses and the like. Nothing depicting the simple day-in day-out wandering of the average guy. Certainly he wasn't alone in his mundanity.
The equipment was easy enough to acquire. Cameras for the apartment and car, an extra phone with camera for when he was out, the most expensive part would be the constant service required to upload the live feed while being mobile, but his inheritance would more than cover that. Within a week Malcolmlives.com was up and running. Twenty Four hours of whatever he was doing was now available, free of charge, to whomever wished to see it. he knew it would only be a matter of time before the viewership grew. Then would come the endoresment requests and finally the realization that not everyone was so horribly screwed up.
He was right. Within a few months he had to upgrade servers to process all the hits Malcomlives was receiving. By this point he had stopped noticing the constant eye of the cameras. The spare phone seemed to find his hand whenever he left the house or car. His local haunts had come to expect the pan of his arm as he mindlessly revealed his location to the world at large. He enjoyed the ocassional recognition from strangers passing, "Hey Malcolm, how'd you like that laundry detergent you bought last Wednesday?" The world knew him and he found a certain comfort in this. He knew it would be soon that merchandizers would be lining up for him to exclusively use "SkidMark-Scourer" or whatever product they were pushing. He'd deny them all. His vision was of an honest depiction of his life. Not of a life bought by the market.
When the idea first came to him, Malcolm was shocked he hadn't seen it before. In an erra of reality TV shows. In a world where voyeurism seemed valued versus abhorred, he thought surely someone might have done it. But all he could find were porn houses and the like. Nothing depicting the simple day-in day-out wandering of the average guy. Certainly he wasn't alone in his mundanity.
The equipment was easy enough to acquire. Cameras for the apartment and car, an extra phone with camera for when he was out, the most expensive part would be the constant service required to upload the live feed while being mobile, but his inheritance would more than cover that. Within a week Malcolmlives.com was up and running. Twenty Four hours of whatever he was doing was now available, free of charge, to whomever wished to see it. he knew it would only be a matter of time before the viewership grew. Then would come the endoresment requests and finally the realization that not everyone was so horribly screwed up.
He was right. Within a few months he had to upgrade servers to process all the hits Malcomlives was receiving. By this point he had stopped noticing the constant eye of the cameras. The spare phone seemed to find his hand whenever he left the house or car. His local haunts had come to expect the pan of his arm as he mindlessly revealed his location to the world at large. He enjoyed the ocassional recognition from strangers passing, "Hey Malcolm, how'd you like that laundry detergent you bought last Wednesday?" The world knew him and he found a certain comfort in this. He knew it would be soon that merchandizers would be lining up for him to exclusively use "SkidMark-Scourer" or whatever product they were pushing. He'd deny them all. His vision was of an honest depiction of his life. Not of a life bought by the market.
Shorthand
I have a fascination with stenography. Specifically, courtroom stenography. What's up with that funny machine? I've decided I'm going to procure one. I want to experience the wonders that come from such a bizarrely cryptic device. Once I've obtained it, I'll write little stories on it and keep it in a glass case with lights shining on it. The stories will wallpaper the room it lives in to show the gradual change it causes to its environment.
Wednesday, August 16, 2006
It's Official
I'M CREDENTIALED!!!! I received notice that the California Commission on Teacher Credentialing is officially issuing my preliminary credential. Yeeeeeee Haaaaaaaaw!!!!!
Tuesday, August 15, 2006
Dried Up
Apparently, in the midst of all that is my existence at the moment my creative juices have actually dried up. I'm unable to hold a conversation let alone share any fascinating observations. So instead, I have decided to hand the reigns of creativity to others. I have created (are you ready?) "Ninny Knows." An ask Ninny blog. Bring Ninny your questions and he will provide answers. Never mind the sort of answers they will be. Answers you will get and you will like them! So bring yourselves to Ninnyknows, and let the wonders begin!
Monday, August 14, 2006
Graves and Gravity
I went today to the local Forest Lawn Mortuary. I've been meaning to go for awhile. I often tell myself I should go to cemeteries more often, then when I finally do get to one, I remind myself again to go to cemeteries more often. It's odd that I have such an affinity for the places. It's not exactly a practice that I endorse, burying the dead in really expensive elaborate boxes after flushing the corpse with noxious liquid so that they won't decompose properly. I find the whole process odd and counterintuitive. However, the places where people choose to remember the ones they love who have died, I appreciate. I think of them as large tranquil parks. Parks not filled with screaming children, drunk homeless people, and thugs looking to assert some sense of domain. Instead they are sanctuaries. Places to go and appreciate beauty and calm, to reflect on life and what we can create. Odd that I find this in a place reserved for those who are no longer alive and creating.
The place was all these things. Tranquil, with the exception of the buzzing blower from the man providing landscape maintenance. The grounds themselves were unassuming, quite Southern California with a wide expanse of manicured grass with the occasional palm tree, and even more rarely, a branching leafy tree of some form. We didn't spend much time wandering the grounds, just what it took for us to traverse the distance to the main mausoleum. Once we managed to make it inside I found what I had hoped I would. The interior of the space was as inspiring as the exterior has always struck me. Ornate and elaborate in an old-world manner. We stumbled into a Foucault Pendulum when first entering the building. The ceiling was severely ornate and golden. The building provided seemingly endless halls of the dead lined in marble and busts of significant minds (or at least significant white male minds) from throughout the ages. Once outside the sound of the gardening apparatuses the space proved to be exactly as its purpose makes it, a silent home of memories. Stuck against the marble and gilt are deflated balloons and wilting flowers dieing in their own way: a surreal and frighteningly apt symbol of the lost hopes those who left the trinkets there are experiencing.
The place was all these things. Tranquil, with the exception of the buzzing blower from the man providing landscape maintenance. The grounds themselves were unassuming, quite Southern California with a wide expanse of manicured grass with the occasional palm tree, and even more rarely, a branching leafy tree of some form. We didn't spend much time wandering the grounds, just what it took for us to traverse the distance to the main mausoleum. Once we managed to make it inside I found what I had hoped I would. The interior of the space was as inspiring as the exterior has always struck me. Ornate and elaborate in an old-world manner. We stumbled into a Foucault Pendulum when first entering the building. The ceiling was severely ornate and golden. The building provided seemingly endless halls of the dead lined in marble and busts of significant minds (or at least significant white male minds) from throughout the ages. Once outside the sound of the gardening apparatuses the space proved to be exactly as its purpose makes it, a silent home of memories. Stuck against the marble and gilt are deflated balloons and wilting flowers dieing in their own way: a surreal and frighteningly apt symbol of the lost hopes those who left the trinkets there are experiencing.
Wednesday, August 09, 2006
Regression
Apparently all this fun and mood swings have caused a relapse. I woke up this morning, felt existence, went back to sleep. Woke up hours later feeling slightly better, somehow visualizing my flesh as an oversized ground beef patty being flattened out smoothly aided in my well being. I could envision the illness that is overtaking me as a noxious sulfuric gas swirling up from my bowls, forming a ball, and eruping from my mouth is gasps and coughs. I wandered the house aimlessly for a bit, then retired to my room to finish watching HP4 (my comfort filmage at the moment). Sadly, I did in fact finish it, so now I'm sitting, feeling ill, and pondering on my previous "sick tips" I used to prescribe to others. I think they shall be called in this evening. Masturbate often, shower, masturbate more, mix Theraflu with Brandy, sleep. I'm quite looking forward to this actually. That being said, I will share with you the true reason I chose to peek in on the 'ol Ninnyspot. I have nothing of real interest to share, as is usual. However, being the shriveled shell of a Ninny (seriously, I teared up a couple of times during Goblet of Fire today)I thought I'd share what is fascinating my deluded ill mind.
I came across a cardboard box-like thing in my room today. I suspect it was involved in the packaging of one of my recent purchases, perhaps my new clippers. It is not a complete box (hence the title box-like). It is open at both ends, and has a perfectly round hole cut into the mniddle of one of it's planes. I discovered that this white (did I mention it's white paper coated and thinly corrugated?)box-like thing opens to be a flat sheet of boredom. Not nearly as interesting as when the tab is inserted into the slot and the box-like form reappears.
I then discovered that stuck to my right foot was none other than a plastic quarter. A renegade manipulative that somehow found its way out of one of my student teaching classrooms, migrated to my bedroom, and adhered itself to my foot. Not to the bottom mind you, to the top right side, near the apex of the arch. It was nestled next to some of the short cropped hairs that reside on my foot at the same location. I plucked this plastic quarter, which looks remarkably like a real quarter, just a bit thicker and shiny in the wrong way, and held it up. "Hmmmm...." thought I, "this quarter, or plastic replica of a quarter, looks to be of a remarkably similar shape and size to that mysterious round hole in the white-box-like-thing of wonder. Perhaps the two should meet."
So I held the quasi-quarter up to the hole in the box-like-object, and low and behold, I was right. They are, in fact, made for one another. I carefully inserted the plastic money into the hole the box-like-object provided and it slid in snuggly. We homos do know about careful insertion afterall. Now the box-like-thing is even more appealing and mysterious. I peer at it occasionally pondering the meaning of the thing. "Why is there a white-cardboard-box-like-thing of mystery with fake money stuck into it?" I wonder. "It seems to be intentional there paring, but what purpose could they, or now it, serve?" These are questions the answers for which I probabaly will never know. Had I the energy and motivation, I would retrieve my camera from its cradle and take images to share with all of you. Alas, I'm ill and lazy, and wish nothing more than to bore you with my sick ravings and pathetic interests. Having accomplished this, I shall now go back to staring at the object I shall now christen: "Magical-white-cardboard-box-like-thing-with-plastic-quarter-inserted" You may all bow and make with the revelry.
I came across a cardboard box-like thing in my room today. I suspect it was involved in the packaging of one of my recent purchases, perhaps my new clippers. It is not a complete box (hence the title box-like). It is open at both ends, and has a perfectly round hole cut into the mniddle of one of it's planes. I discovered that this white (did I mention it's white paper coated and thinly corrugated?)box-like thing opens to be a flat sheet of boredom. Not nearly as interesting as when the tab is inserted into the slot and the box-like form reappears.
I then discovered that stuck to my right foot was none other than a plastic quarter. A renegade manipulative that somehow found its way out of one of my student teaching classrooms, migrated to my bedroom, and adhered itself to my foot. Not to the bottom mind you, to the top right side, near the apex of the arch. It was nestled next to some of the short cropped hairs that reside on my foot at the same location. I plucked this plastic quarter, which looks remarkably like a real quarter, just a bit thicker and shiny in the wrong way, and held it up. "Hmmmm...." thought I, "this quarter, or plastic replica of a quarter, looks to be of a remarkably similar shape and size to that mysterious round hole in the white-box-like-thing of wonder. Perhaps the two should meet."
So I held the quasi-quarter up to the hole in the box-like-object, and low and behold, I was right. They are, in fact, made for one another. I carefully inserted the plastic money into the hole the box-like-object provided and it slid in snuggly. We homos do know about careful insertion afterall. Now the box-like-thing is even more appealing and mysterious. I peer at it occasionally pondering the meaning of the thing. "Why is there a white-cardboard-box-like-thing of mystery with fake money stuck into it?" I wonder. "It seems to be intentional there paring, but what purpose could they, or now it, serve?" These are questions the answers for which I probabaly will never know. Had I the energy and motivation, I would retrieve my camera from its cradle and take images to share with all of you. Alas, I'm ill and lazy, and wish nothing more than to bore you with my sick ravings and pathetic interests. Having accomplished this, I shall now go back to staring at the object I shall now christen: "Magical-white-cardboard-box-like-thing-with-plastic-quarter-inserted" You may all bow and make with the revelry.
Thursday, August 03, 2006
Broke-Broken-Broke down
After a month of scrambling my final paper for my masters is done. Graded and everything. Let me tell you what a thrill it is to have someone tell you that you have created a well written paper but you still suck because, no matter how many times you went over it, or your family and friends went over it, you still missed a bunch of formatting errors, there fore you are a first rate loser at a second rate school. I'm so pleased.
Following the completion of the paper that I would rather forget, I left on a journey with Mr. Frankus and Danger(space)kitty. We ventured back up to the City by the bay for Up Your Alley. A scangey leather festival (emphasis on scangey). On the second day of the trip I discovered that all the stress of my paper, coupled with no break after its completion had lead to a break down in my immune system and was in the midst of becoming ill while on vacation. This did not please me, so I bought dayquil and kept myself drugged for the remainder of our excursion. Part way through the trip, I also tripped on the power cable for my trusty (yet old) powerbook. As a result, my computer has been out of commission until today when I finally hauled my sick ass to Macmall to replace the fucking thing. Now I'm sitting mostly calmly on my little seat-of-love with my sorely missed computer and heaving a sigh of relief. I feel as though I finally have the tools to begin rebuilding. My credential is finally being applied for, my pseudo-piece-of-shit-thesis is complete, and all I have to do now is find employment and wait for November to come around so I can take my last class. I'm thinking I shall spend some quality time with Bene Due (in a bit) I haven't worked on it in...well...a month probably. This makes me sad. Though, in light of my final paper, I'm wondering if I'm wasting my time. C'est la vie. I've never stopped wasting my time before, why start now?
Soon I will offend you the trusty ninny-spot reader with images of SanFrancisco. Though not now. Now I'm tired and wish to watch more Battlestar Galactica while nursing the wounds that are my body and soul.
Oh, and I'm beginning to doubt your commitment to Sparkle Motion.
Following the completion of the paper that I would rather forget, I left on a journey with Mr. Frankus and Danger(space)kitty. We ventured back up to the City by the bay for Up Your Alley. A scangey leather festival (emphasis on scangey). On the second day of the trip I discovered that all the stress of my paper, coupled with no break after its completion had lead to a break down in my immune system and was in the midst of becoming ill while on vacation. This did not please me, so I bought dayquil and kept myself drugged for the remainder of our excursion. Part way through the trip, I also tripped on the power cable for my trusty (yet old) powerbook. As a result, my computer has been out of commission until today when I finally hauled my sick ass to Macmall to replace the fucking thing. Now I'm sitting mostly calmly on my little seat-of-love with my sorely missed computer and heaving a sigh of relief. I feel as though I finally have the tools to begin rebuilding. My credential is finally being applied for, my pseudo-piece-of-shit-thesis is complete, and all I have to do now is find employment and wait for November to come around so I can take my last class. I'm thinking I shall spend some quality time with Bene Due (in a bit) I haven't worked on it in...well...a month probably. This makes me sad. Though, in light of my final paper, I'm wondering if I'm wasting my time. C'est la vie. I've never stopped wasting my time before, why start now?
Soon I will offend you the trusty ninny-spot reader with images of SanFrancisco. Though not now. Now I'm tired and wish to watch more Battlestar Galactica while nursing the wounds that are my body and soul.
Oh, and I'm beginning to doubt your commitment to Sparkle Motion.
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