douggity thinks.

my morning walk with mr. death

noreply@blogger.com (Douggity) — Thu, 20 Sep 2012 20:20:00 +0000

I was wearing sneakers and walking. The soft pads of my worn out shoes transferred the feeling of rough pavement to my hard feet. The ground was dry. My shoes were dry. The air was dry.
I looked to my left, looking out toward the lake and saw cars driving on narrow, one way roads. To the north, far to the north, I could see little specs of cars driving among the green hills.
No noise from cars. No noise from the wind. The only noise to be heard came from my shoes. Soft, rhythmic, treble-less noise.
I walked with a weakness in my chest; the same feeling I've felt many a night when the day has worn me thin. A thin that no amount of food and no multiple cups of coffee could combat. Not just a tired, but a tired of being. I walked with this tired in my chest.
My lips were dry. I licked them with a very dry tongue that offered a fleeting moment of relief. I licked again and again, but all hints of moisture were lost to the northeastern, dry wind.
Dry wind. Dry lips. Dry tongue.
I stopped and looked around. There were no people. There were cars, but, they were to far away to prove they had occupants; they could have been, and were most likely driven by the dry wind.
I licked my lips, again, and they found no relief. I thought to myself, this is what death must feel like.
Dry.
Then I realized how dry my hands were. How dry and frail my hair was. How perfectly dry my clothes were. And for a moment, I was convinced I was walking death.
"Of course," I thought. "Of course death is dry. What could be worse? It's all the feelings of a dessert, but instead of being surrounded by sands, you're surrounded by normal things. Trees and grass and buildings and cars going by. But if you touched any of those things, any normal thing, they'd crumble as though they were built of beautifully, colored dust.
What can be had of love when everything is dry? I cannot feel love in a dry kiss. I cannot feel the love in a sweat-less romance. What love can I feel when the only feeling is dry skin flaking against drier skin, when dry hands are grasping drier hands scraping along the driest patch of her naked back.
I cannot taste her. I cannot smell her. There is no glisten in her dry, glass-less eye."
The wind blew, and its dryness, its dark flattery, persuaded a single tear from my eye.
Hello. I'm a wet man who walks a wet earth. I shed a tear and proved my own existence.

i miss the jews of yehupetz.

noreply@blogger.com (Douggity) — Sun, 12 Aug 2012 03:59:00 +0000

My room is mostly empty. Walls are mostly bare. Lights mostly removed.

I pre-apologize for any typos. I packed up my computer and am typing on a laptop who's dimensions mostly resemble those of a U.S. Dollar Bill.

Steaks for dinner. A 'bon voyage' message in the culinary vein.

You see, my car is mostly packed and I'm mostly ready to leave. So eager to go and complete my extended schooling. So excited about what lies beyond the cap and gown and the piece of paper that bears my name and an emblem of some sorts securing its authenticity.

I'm mostly ready to leave.

Post consumption of the bos primigenius, my father, stepmother, and myself sat about talking. At first, the main focus of conversation was mostly on the day's happenings. But then the conversation shifted.

Talks of candidates and vp's, gun control and consequences, the effects of Red Bull and 5 Hour Energy, and newly learned facts surrounding my father, a shotgun, and a hoard of troublesome skunks.

The little hand made it to the dime and it was down to me and my dad. Talks were still heated, as most political conversations are (especially nowadays), but they cooled off as the time of day caused heavy lids and I could tell the end of this volley was near. So rare are such engaging conversations. So mostly fun. So mostly intriguing. I miss these conversations that are now mostly lost to shorthand communications.

I had a tickle. No. Not a tickle. A bubble. A bubble that I used to feel when my dad would reach the end of a night's chapter from The Magician's Nephew or from a better know book from the same series, The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe.

A bubble in my chest that didn't want him to leave. Didn't want to miss the comfort in his voice.

A decade and four years later, that bubble came back.

I'm sitting in a mostly empty room.

I'm looking around and seeing all of my things in boxes. But the one thing I could never box, could never hide away, are the memories that hide in every corner of this now vacant room. The memories that made me. The memories that haunted me. So I sit and stare, searching and sifting through the shadows I've seen caress my walls. And to memory come those who cast them: the mother and father, the brother, the mates and lovers.

I'm mostly ready to leave, but mostly is not all.

You see the tears in my eyes, Pan Sholem Aleichem, and you must be thinking, how Tevye misses his horse! But what makes you think it's just my horse? I miss everything, there's not one thing it doesn't grive me to think of. I miss my horse, I miss my village, I miss it's elder, I miss it's policemen, I miss the Dachas of Boiberik, I miss the rich Jews of Yehupetz, I even miss Efrayim the Matchmaker, may the cholera carry him off! When you get right down to it, he's nothing but a miserably poor Jew himself who's out to make a living like the rest of us. Don't ask me what I'll do if I get to the Land of Israel safely, God willing, but I do know one thing for sure, and that's that right off I plan to visit Mother Rachel in her grave. I'll pray there for the daughters I'll probably never see again, and I'll think of him, too--I mean Efrayim the Matchmaker, --and of you, and of Jews everywhere. Here, let's shake on that! Be well, and have a good trip, and give my very best to any of our friends you may happen to meet on your way.

- Shalom Aleichem

ryterz blahck.

noreply@blogger.com (Douggity) — Mon, 25 Jun 2012 03:11:00 +0000

ryterz blahck.

~~snippet un~~

And you will see, as you approach the place where the grass turns to gravel and the gravel turns to air and you step to the edge of the cliff, an edge where no man has stood but you, you will see.

You have a choice. You have several. The first of which, the most important of which, is the choice to acknowledge the several.

If you ignore the first, go back to your home that is too small and your car that is too old and your crooked staircase and your loud-mouthed washing machine that "swishes" too hard and continue as always: grumpy. Grumpy like an over weight dog being yanked about by a heavy, purple leash held by an impatient owner who is wearing pink crocs and a yellow speedo and thick, white rimmed sunglasses, who is gabbing on his phone so loudly that each syllable rings like an thunder and dynamite, all on the hottest day of summer that Sebastian, Florida has ever seen.

I digress.

You have several choices: the aforementioned (which I beg forgiveness for on account of it's piercing visuals). You can fly. You can fall. You can slide, roll, tumble, or run down the cliffside.

Or.

Or you can build a bridge. Mind you, you cannot see across to any other terra or permanent mass. All you see is cloud and blue.

But you may build and build and build. And as the people begin to gather and gawk and make bawdy comments about the silly man with the hammer and nail and wood who built the bridge to no where, laugh.

Look over your shoulder, down the wooden path you've paved over open air, and look at the little people. The further you build, the smaller they become, and as time passes, as it always has and will, they all will begin to look very similar in their small stature. And their indecent cries will be lost to the winds you hear, out on your bridge, that have never been heard before.

I do not promise you'll find anything, my friend. There may be nothing for you to land on; no soft soil or coarse sand.

But I will wish you well on whatever journey you start and will shed a tear as I watch you cross the sky.

I cry because I have loved you.

I cry because your courage is beautiful.

beneath the layers. a true dream i happened upon.

noreply@blogger.com (Douggity) — Fri, 15 Jun 2012 06:02:00 +0000

The dream I dreamt last night.

The story of a boy whose dreams were unmatched in any journal or any paper or any book bound with old leather whose cracks and minimal valleys matched those of the aging boy's face.

I was with certain members of my family, and extended family.

We happened upon the lake. A small lake with clear, blue water that reflected the sun in its full intensity. Green grass grew all around the lake, and on the opposite side of which we stood grew tall, green evergreen trees who rocked gently as the slow, tidal wind rolled in from the east.

We began walking, all of us. I should mention that some of these people I did not know, and many exceeded my years by a half century's time. We began walking the small dirt path that rounded the eastern side of the lake.

As we walked, the lake grew in size in all directions. This is a vital piece of information. You see, we had to round the lake by dawn. But with an ever-growing lake, rounding it seemed to be a feudal task with no profitable end.

We walked and walked and walked. I came to a small hill encrusted with gray boulders. I climbed it and though nothing of the minor obstruction, but the gentlemen behing, the gray haired man who lacked a shirt or sweater, called to me and asked, "Boy, I cannot climb these rock on my own. Please lend me your hand for I am too weak."

I turned and my coarse hand met an even coarser surface. I pulled and the man met me on even ground. I looked into his eye. His left eye. Stone gray.

We kept walking and walking, and climbing and climbing since the terrain kept rising and rising and rising.

As the sun began to set, and we were still climbing, we happened upon a door. A wooden-maroon color with a creme colored outline against a soft blue exterior wall.

I opened the door and found a series of three doors behind it. All uneven in symmetry and relation. But all identical in and of themselves. I looked from left to right and scanned the three doors for any singular hint in argument for which would be the most promising choice.

By now we were an easy one-thousand feet above the cool blue lake bed.

I chose the door all the way to the left.

It opened with no great force and we all proceeded. Behind the door was a wrap-around porch. Very uneven. Creaking floorboards seemed to make the height of the situation triple. At the end of the aged floor boards was another door with a light above it. This one, green in color.

I opened the door and found a set of uneven stairs rising to what looked like a dusty attic.

We all climbed the stairs.

I looked to my left and found another set of three doors. These ones were all maroon. A deep, dark maroon. Like the color of blood before it completely dries and become a red-toned black.

Before I know it, one of the members of my family yelled, "We cannot climb anymore! The old are getting older and the young are riding the heels of the old and gaining on their ground quick!"

With that, she lept toward the middle door.

The door opened and behind it blared the dawn-sun. Brilliant oranges and reds and yellows and purple filled the room. The clouds, perfect. The feint hints of blue, tranquil.

But beyond the door, there was no room. There was no porch. There were no stairs or a room for us to place our feet. Beyond the door was sky and air. Below the door, many a thousand feet below was small looking lake.

In the middle of the lake was a clump of clothes without a body, without a passenger, without an owner.

They belonged to my unnamed relative.

Around the blouse and pants was a ring of oil.

Someone remarked, someone I didn't know nor held any relation too remarked, "The oil.. She hit so hard it was ripped from her skin as she passed through the lake.. But look how it shines against the sun. Such a pretty end to a long day. Forever remembered in the tiny waves of a blue lake surrounded by tall evergreens that ride the eastern wind."

what a name. what a place.

noreply@blogger.com (Douggity) — Thu, 07 Jun 2012 16:36:00 +0000

Would you read the book your life has written?

Today is thursday, June the "something" in the year "who knows."

Diggory Carit sits idly by sipping his black coffee, relaxed back into a crooked chair whose legs are as feeble as his own. He has woken. He has risen. He has seen the light that seeped through his drawstring curtains and painted its way up his dark, shaded walls.

Diggory Carit sits idly by starring into the corner of his bedroom where the western and northern walls meet. A bubble of hunger moves about his stomach, but Diggory doesn't move. The song birds sing outside his window, the window on the northern wall, but Diggory doesn't hear their call.

Diggory Carit sits idly by thinking, all the while ignoring the "hummmm" of flying machines and driving machines that traverse his neighbors land leaving dirt trails and smoke trails and burnt, smoking rubber on hot, leveled stone as they cough and cough and cough their sharp scented breath into Diggory Carit's world.

Diggory Carit lived in a town surrounded by dirt colored mountain covered with green colored trees. To the north, just outside of the mountains, was a city. He didn't know the name of the city. Diggory had never been so it's name was never of any use to him. To the far south, passed the wild hills of red apple orchards and orange pumpkin patches, passed the brown coops of chickens and the white and green herds of goats, passed Shortshore stream whose water runs south to north on Mondays, Tuesdays and Thursdays, and north to south on the remainder, outside of the comfort of Douglas Fir Range, the southern mountain range, lies miles and miles and miles of open field with six foot tall golden wheat where ghosts and whispers live.

The mountains to the east are the tallest. They're not meant for climbing. They're not meant for wandering. Even looking at them is dangerous as many who have suffered the sight develop a sudden case of vertigo and will fall off their feet and lie confused on whatever floor-surface will host them.

To the west, again, like every other direction, to the west, just outside of the mountains lives the greater river who carries tens of boats carrying hundreds of people in and out of Diggory Carit's town.

Diggory Carit sits idly by wondering how..

To be or not to be continued.

you may play between the hours of kudzu and candy wrappers.

noreply@blogger.com (Douggity) — Tue, 29 May 2012 18:37:00 +0000

Grab the coffee filter. Shovel out 4 tablespoons or 8 generous teaspoons of Folger's. Forgot the dash of salt. Brew. Wait.

Coffee cup #1.

Then the pangs of childhood summers passed come flooding back out of know where and hit me so hard I want to scream because I miss them so.

I don't scream. I stare at the coffee maker afraid to look at anything else in my house that will drum up another intense volley of memorative shadows.

I close my eyes. I smell the coffee.

But it's too late.

I see my brother and myself and an assortment of cousins playing on the floor of the family room atop the old sea-green carpet that has since been replaced with a red-gold-brown-tan shag. The candy wrappers amongst the pillows and blankets amongst the VHS tapes amongst the damp towels all strewn about while our imaginations ran like gentle, hungry wolves.

How the office, which was an office back then but with a different desk and a quasi ancient computer, was the epicenter for creation: SimTower and SimPark. Two video games that were formatted for the 1.44mb floppy disks.

And there we would be. Five, six, or seven of us crowded around one computer monitor. A collaborative effort to make the best digital summer getaway.

"No no! We'll put the benches here next to the Carousel.."

"That's a Colorado Blue Spruce, not a Douglas Fir."

"How should we destroy it?! With fire of Kudzu?"

I can hear the repetitive sound bites from both video game. SimTower's constant stream of muffled office jargon, the sound of elevators dinging, the sounds of the crows in the morning that symbolized another business day had passed. And, of course, the sound of money "chinging" when Santa would "Visit your tower" once ever fiscal year and give you a bag of money. And SimPark's growling of animals and.. Well that's the only specific sound I can remember.

And Microsoft Paint. If Photoshop is today's Homosapien, Microsoft Paint was the first creature to bear the name Homoerectus.

That aside, I have the fondest memories of spending hours and hours making 16-bit images. My brother, an all around artist and abstract, would make digital paintings of airport terminals. The precision was beyond impressive. And I, being the younger brother, always sought to mimic his artistry but always seemed to fall a few feet short.

He was Picasso. I was a kid with 64 Crayola Crayons. Some with teeth marks.

Call it advancing, call it growing, call it conditioning: the simultaneous actions of fragmentizing, complicating, compartmentalizing. In layman's terms: being an adult.

Call it the reason I was awake from 11am Sunday morning till 9pm last night.

Call it anxiety.

Call it preoccupation.

I miss the park. I miss the smooth, steel slide that metamorphosed into a scaly dragon's tail.

I miss the steel pole that transitioned into the tallest mast on the pirate ship.

I miss manhunt.

Coffee cup #2.

I originally sat down at my computer to make a to-do list. So.

Latte`

To do list:

-gym

-jog

-go to the grocery store

-cook

-read

-clean

-transport Latte` to Cornwall

-detail car

-press clothes for work

Coffee cup #3.

..The paradox being, that now, "advanced, grown, conditioned," if I'm not entrenched in work, in complication, I'm not happy. There is no sense of accomplishment.

And this isn't who I want to be.

I love to work. I love feeling accomplished. But I don't love that needing to feel accomplished invades my downtime. I don't allow myself to whimsically play. Everything I do needs to have forward progression.

But all I want, if only for a couple of hours a week, is a joyful regression to the thirteen year old me. Who plays a video game. Who watches a movie and eats candy. Who paints.

And it happens every so often. I press the "Shut down" button and let go. It's never by myself though. When I'm alone, I'm too focused. Too goal oriented.

But when I'm with my brother, all bets are off. All rules are gone. He begins to paint a masterpiece and I doodle cubes and airplanes in Asparagus and Burnt Orange.

And I try my damnedest to debase him to my temporary juvenility.

Coffee cup #4.

But, now it is 2:19 in the afternoon. I have places to be and "many different fish to fry." So I will spend the rest of my day working, and thinking about the mindlessly "wasted" hours of childhood summers.

And I think about the words I would speak to my former shadow and the things he would tell me in return.

Coffee cup #5.

cc1-10/4, cc1-36/4+5, cc1-3/1. cc3-2/1, cc3-16/5, cc3-2/2, cc3-19/5, cc3-3/3, cc3-3/4, cc3-7/1.

i don't mean to sound like a broken record. so i'll stop my words with 40 winks. goodnight.

noreply@blogger.com (Douggity) — Wed, 18 Apr 2012 00:16:00 +0000

The story of a boy who fell sleep beneath the willow and woke to find the roots and branches had caged him in a wooden cradle, and below him gathered the hierarchy of woodland rodents and pests who gossiped about the silliness of the bi-pedal, and proceeded to cast the boy's fate to the wishes of the wind, then left in a single party to smoke long cigarettes and swill lemon-garnished gin.

"How long has it been?" asked the boy

"How long has what been, Grandfather Clock?" remarked the deep voiced red fox, who puffed a long cigarette who's smoke flitted around the boys toes. The fox had named the boy 'Grandfather Clock' after an article he'd read that had floated down the stream and onto the shore where he soaks and drinks and cools. It talked of a majestic piece of wood that made noises and sang like the song birds to inform any listener of the sun's position.

To the fox, the boy was much the same. His steady breath was the 'click-clock.' But the boy wasn't an every day clock. He was only useful in grander scales. Every winter, before the great sleep, the fox would measure the boy's hair to the length of his tail. However many lengths of his tail traced the boy's hair was the number of years the boy had been in the arms of the willow. And he'd mark this number down in the bark of a dead oak.

Last year's length was 11 tales.

"How long have I been here, in this tree, on this side of the Red River, where no one else like me walks?" asked the boy in a flat tone, much the way any animal talks when suddenly waking from a deep dream.

"Of what concern is that to you?" asked the fox.

"I wish to leave.. but.." The boy was cut off before he could utter another word.

"But? But! Grandfather Clock! What have you to stay for?" replied the chuckling, puffing fox.

"I've grown to like the walls of my cage. I've grown to like the smell of your cigarette. I've grown to love the sweet rush of flowery air that runs down the stream with the Spring's first rain. I've grown to love the silence of night. The watchful eyes of the owl. And I've grown to love you, fox," and the boy let out a tear that would help to water the blueberry bush beneath him.

"Grandfather Clock. What is it that you want? You cannot stay here forever, I'm sure you're quite aware of this. I do not wish to see you go, but as all creatures, you must leave certain things and places and friends behind," said the fox.

Fox had grown very fond of the boy over the years. Though he would not shed a tear in sight of Grandfather Clock.

The boy opened his mouth just as another tear was slipping down his cheek to the berries below and said, "All I want is-"

And I woke up the from the dream and ran to my computer. The tree was still alive in my mind. The smells of the fox's burning tobacco still ringing in my nose. Trying not to lose the dream I typed and typed and typed and typed and typed and finally squeezed out as much as I could before losing the dream. And this is what I typed and typed and typed and typed and typed:

The story of a boy who fell sleep beneath the willow and woke to find the roots and branches had caged him in a wooden cradle, and below him gathered the hierarchy of woodland rodents and pests who gossiped about the silliness of the bi-pedal, and proceeded to cast the boy's fate to the wishes of the wind, then left in a single party to smoke long cigarettes and swill lemon-garnished gin.

"How long has it been?" asked the boy

"How long has what been, Grandfather Clock?" remarked the deep voiced red fox, who puffed a long cigarette who's smoke flitted around the boys toes. The fox had named the boy 'Grandfather Clock' after an article he'd read that had floated down the stream and onto the shore where he soaks and drinks and cools. It talked of a majestic piece of wood that made noises and sang like the song birds to inform any listener of the sun's position.

To the fox, the boy was much the same. His steady breath was the 'click-clock.' But the boy wasn't an every day clock. He was only useful in grander scales. Every winter, before the great sleep, the fox would measure the boy's hair to the length of his tail. However many lengths of his tail traced the boy's hair was the number of years the boy had been in the arms of the willow.

Last year's length was 11 tales.

"How long have I been here, in this tree, on this side of the Red River, where no one else like me walks?" asked the boy in a flat tone, much the way any animal talks when suddenly waking from a deep dream.

"Of what concern is that to you?" asked the fox.

"I wish to leave but.." The boy was cut off before he could utter another word.

"But? But! Grandfather Clock! What have you to stay for?" replied the chuckling, puffing fox.

"I've grown to like the walls of my cage. I've grown to like the smell of your cigarette. I've grown to love the sweet rush of flowery air that runs down the stream with the Spring's first rain. I've grown to love the silence of night. The watchful eyes of the owl. And I've grown to love you, fox," and the boy let out a tear that would help to water the blueberry bush beneath him.

"Grandfather Clock. What is it that you want? You cannot stay here forever, I'm sure you're quite aware of this. I do not wish to see you go, but as all creatures, you must leave certain things and places and friends behind," said the fox.

Fox had grown very fond of the boy over the years. Though he would not shed a tear in sight of Grandfather Clock.

The boy opened his mouth just as another tear was slipping down his cheek to the berries below and said, "All I want is-"

And I woke up the from the dream and ran to my computer. The tree was still alive in my mind. The smells of the fox's burning tobacco still ringing in my nose. Trying not to lose the dream I typed and typed and typed and typed and typed and finally squeezed out as much as I could before losing the dream. And this is what I typed and typed and typed and typed and typed:

The story of a boy who fell sleep beneath the willow and woke to find the roots and branches had caged him in a wooden cradle, and below him gathered the hierarchy of woodland rodents and pests who gossiped about the silliness of the bi-pedal, and proceeded to cast the boy's fate to the wishes of the wind, then left in a single party to smoke long cigarettes and swill lemon-garnished gin.

"How long has it been?" asked the boy

"How long has what been, Grandfather Clock?" remarked the deep voiced red fox, who puffed a long cigarette who's smoke flitted around the boys toes. The fox had named the boy 'Grandfather Clock' after an article he'd read that had floated down the stream and onto the shore where he soaks and drinks and cools. It talked of a majestic piece of wood that made noises and sang like the song birds to inform any listener of the sun's position.

To the fox, the boy was much the same. His steady breath was the 'click-clock.' But the boy wasn't an every day clock. He was only useful in grander scales. Every winter, before the great sleep, the fox would measure the boy's hair to the length of his tail. However many lengths of his tail traced the boy's hair was the number of years the boy had been in the arms of the willow.

Last year's length was 11 tales.

"How long have I been here, in this tree, on this side of the Red River, where no one else like me walks?" asked the boy in a flat tone, much the way any animal talks when suddenly waking from a deep dream.

"Of what concern is that to you?" asked the fox.

"I wish to leave but.." The boy was cut off before he could utter another word.

"But? But! Grandfather Clock! What have you to stay for?" replied the chuckling, puffing fox.

"I've grown to like the walls of my cage. I've grown to like the smell of your cigarette. I've grown to love the sweet rush of flowery air that runs down the stream with the Spring's first rain. I've grown to love the silence of night. The watchful eyes of the owl. And I've grown to love you, fox," and the boy let out a tear that would help to water the blueberry bush beneath him.

"Grandfather Clock. What is it that you want? You cannot stay here forever, I'm sure you're quite aware of this. I do not wish to see you go, but as all creatures, you must leave certain things and places and friends behind," said the fox.

Fox had grown very fond of the boy over the years. Though he would not shed a tear in sight of Grandfather Clock.

The boy opened his mouth just as another tear was slipping down his cheek to the berries below and said, "All I want is-"

And I woke up the from the dream and ran to my computer. The tree was still alive in my mind. The smells of the fox's burning tobacco still ringing in my nose. Trying not to lose the dream I typed and typed and typed and typed and typed and finally squeezed out as much as I could before losing the dream. And this is what I typed and typed and typed and typed and typed:

The story of a boy who fell sleep beneath the willow and woke to find the roots and branches had caged him in a wooden cradle, and below him gathered the hierarchy of woodland rodents and pests who gossiped about the silliness of the bi-pedal, and proceeded to cast the boy's fate to the wishes of the wind, then left in a single party to smoke long cigarettes and swill lemon-garnished gin.

"How long has it been?" asked the boy

"How long has what been, Grandfather Clock?" remarked the deep voiced red fox, who puffed a long cigarette who's smoke flitted around the boys toes. The fox had named the boy 'Grandfather Clock' after an article he'd read that had floated down the stream and onto the shore where he soaks and drinks and cools. It talked of a majestic piece of wood that made noises and sang like the song birds to inform any listener of the sun's position.

To the fox, the boy was much the same. His steady breath was the 'click-clock.' But the boy wasn't an every day clock. He was only useful in grander scales. Every winter, before the great sleep, the fox would measure the boy's hair to the length of his tail. However many lengths of his tail traced the boy's hair was the number of years the boy had been in the arms of the willow.

Last year's length was 11 tales.

"How long have I been here, in this tree, on this side of the Red River, where no one else like me walks?" asked the boy in a flat tone, much the way any animal talks when suddenly waking from a deep dream.

"Of what concern is that to you?" asked the fox.

"I wish to leave but.." The boy was cut off before he could utter another word.

"But? But! Grandfather Clock! What have you to stay for?" replied the chuckling, puffing fox.

"I've grown to like the walls of my cage. I've grown to like the smell of your cigarette. I've grown to love the sweet rush of flowery air that runs down the stream with the Spring's first rain. I've grown to love the silence of night. The watchful eyes of the owl. And I've grown to love you, fox," and the boy let out a tear that would help to water the blueberry bush beneath him.

"Grandfather Clock. What is it that you want? You cannot stay here forever, I'm sure you're quite aware of this. I do not wish to see you go, but as all creatures, you must leave certain things and places and friends behind," said the fox.

Fox had grown very fond of the boy over the years. Though he would not shed a tear in sight of Grandfather Clock.

The boy opened his mouth just as another tear was slipping down his cheek to the berries below and said, "All I want is-"

And I woke up the from the dream and ran to my computer. The tree was still alive in my mind. The smells of the fox's burning tobacco still ringing in my nose. Trying not to lose the dream I typed and typed and typed and typed and typed and finally squeezed out as much as I could before losing the dream. And this is what I typed and typed and typed and typed and typed:

The story of a boy who fell sleep beneath the willow and woke to find the roots and branches had caged him in a wooden cradle, and below him gathered the hierarchy of woodland rodents and pests who gossiped about the silliness of the bi-pedal, and proceeded to cast the boy's fate to the wishes of the wind, then left in a single party to smoke long cigarettes and swill lemon-garnished gin.

"How long has it been?" asked the boy

"How long has what been, Grandfather Clock?" remarked the deep voiced red fox, who puffed a long cigarette who's smoke flitted around the boys toes. The fox had named the boy 'Grandfather Clock' after an article he'd read that had floated down the stream and onto the shore where he soaks and drinks and cools. It talked of a majestic piece of wood that made noises and sang like the song birds to inform any listener of the sun's position.

To the fox, the boy was much the same. His steady breath was the 'click-clock.' But the boy wasn't an every day clock. He was only useful in grander scales. Every winter, before the great sleep, the fox would measure the boy's hair to the length of his tail. However many lengths of his tail traced the boy's hair was the number of years the boy had been in the arms of the willow.

Last year's length was 11 tales.

"How long have I been here, in this tree, on this side of the Red River, where no one else like me walks?" asked the boy in a flat tone, much the way any animal talks when suddenly waking from a deep dream.

"Of what concern is that to you?" asked the fox.

"I wish to leave but.." The boy was cut off before he could utter another word.

"But? But! Grandfather Clock! What have you to stay for?" replied the chuckling, puffing fox.

"I've grown to like the walls of my cage. I've grown to like the smell of your cigarette. I've grown to love the sweet rush of flowery air that runs down the stream with the Spring's first rain. I've grown to love the silence of night. The watchful eyes of the owl. And I've grown to love you, fox," and the boy let out a tear that would help to water the blueberry bush beneath him.

"Grandfather Clock. What is it that you want? You cannot stay here forever, I'm sure you're quite aware of this. I do not wish to see you go, but as all creatures, you must leave certain things and places and friends behind," said the fox.

Fox had grown very fond of the boy over the years. Though he would not shed a tear in sight of Grandfather Clock.

The boy opened his mouth just as another tear was slipping down his cheek to the berries below and said, "All I want is-"

And I woke up the from the dream and ran to my computer. The tree was still alive in my mind. The smells of the fox's burning tobacco still ringing in my nose. Trying not to lose the dream I typed and typed and typed and typed and typed and finally squeezed out as much as I could before losing the dream. And this is what I typed and typed and typed and typed and typed:

idon'twanttolivefor2billionyears.com/argh/morningthoughts/dontpointthatthingatme

noreply@blogger.com (Douggity) — Thu, 12 Apr 2012 18:23:00 +0000

A ponderous account of the end of days, a simple photo, and the internet, all held together by queer musings of a 22 year old male who may care more about human achievement than he cares about human existence, all the while contemplating his own 2 billion year ovation after having skipped his morning coffee and replaced it with luke-warm water.

2 billion years from now: our sun goes into it's red giant phase. A series of four or five blasts will allow the sun to grow bigger and bigger all the while turning the Earth's surface into a crispy, potatochip-like membrane that carries much resemblance to a regular Dorito. Life, you ask? What life?

I took a photo in Times Square on my brother's 25th birthday: March 31st, 2012.

The Photo

It's a harmless photo. People walking about. People thinking. People snapping their own photos much as I did. There are words visible, like, "Maryland," and "Kansas State," and "8/7c." These groups of letters, most of us know what they are and the meaning behind them.

In the distance is a blurred Corona billboard and the familiar lines of a Coco-Cola commercial. The yellow streak on the left side of the photo is a "The Lion King" marquee.

The bicyclist on the right. The gentleman donning the "A's" cap, hands in pockets with his head down.

Immortal.

Well. At least for 2 billion years, give or take x years.

In short, the interent will archive these images until whatever mainframe-cybernetwork-interweb-globalsociety-Edatabase is destroyed. These images can be found, and will be found, hundreds or thousands, or millions, or even possibly a couple billion years from now.

See. I had this thought. This 'immortal via internet' thought. And it puzzled me and sent my head into a tizzy.

I had questions and answers and a tyrannical torrent of light-speed thoughts crossing my mind.

And then it was like my mind..

Silent.

And then:

www.2billionyearstilltheend.com/lifeends/allinformationdestroyed/everybeautifulandawfulhumanachievementgone/nomoreshakespeare

Now, I don't believe in the after life. I don't fear my own death, per-say. I don't believe in puffy clouds with Krispy Kremes surrounding me on every side, or an eternal inferno with unreachable Krispy Kremes surrounding me on every side.

Or the virgin thing.

But this idea of the world ending... Sorry, INFORMATION ending.

Shakespeare ending.

How sad it makes me to think, "The time will come when no one will know or hear or see the words of Shakespeare."

And this to me, this is tragedy.

I know the end of days, albeit by a hungry sun, an angry asteroid, human-made nuclear weapons, alien-made nuclear weapons, or the four horsemen... I was ok with the idea of "The end of humanity."

But I'm not ok with the end of information.

And If someone told me that all of the greatest works of man, The Colosseum, Mozart's 9th, the blueprints of the Titanic, The Complete Works of Shakespeare, the 1980 Trans-Am firebird with black exterior, gold interior and gold honeycomb rims with the stock 301, 4.9 L, Turbo V8, would some how be preserved and sent to some foreign galaxy to another solar system with human like being or completely alien beings... So it could be recognized. Not even appreciated, just acknowledged.

It would be a comfort somehow.

hello, again. good morning. good night. hello, again.

noreply@blogger.com (Douggity) — Thu, 05 Apr 2012 06:45:00 +0000

A truthful dialogue embellished by 2 o'clock fever on a Thursday morning somewhere north of Manhattan where the semi-trucks and song birds talk at the same time:

How irresponsible it would be to lie to myself, to try to convince myself, to effort and push and pull myself into believing my dreams were erratic, fleeting wisps of background-nonsense.

Repetitive happenstance? A moronic idea.

I'll not walk around saying, "It's coincidence, it's coincidence, it's coincidence, it's coincidence, it's coincidence, it's coincidence, and tomorrow it will still just be coincidence."

I've often looked at myself in a mirror, made point of looking at myself in a mirror, so as to only hold a conversation with myself.

It's not for a dose of tasteful, self-affirmation, or any display of vanity.

Compartmentalizing.

Verbally sorting out thoughts with the one person with whom those thoughts concern.

I consider this normal. Stop reading if you feel otherwise.

Three weeks have passed. Three normal, normal, normal weeks have passed.

Three weeks have passed. During these last three weeks, something changed. The change wasn't in my activities, my work, my play, my day-to-day and certainly not in my aversion to sleep. I've come to loathe sleep. So boring. So perfectly non-productive.

But.

Three weeks have passed. Three weeks of dreams. Dreams I remember. Dreams I could touch. Dreams I could feel. Dreams more specific and interesting and wonderful and horrific and beautiful and painful and..

I've stopped talking to myself in mirrors. Stopped talking with cups of coffee. Stopped reasoning with roasted almonds.

The clarity I've always wanted, every second of every day, has been found in the mid of night.

In sleep.

Answers.

I see you. Night, after night, after night, after night, after night.

What does this mean, you ask?

Tush.

It's like a scene from those old films, from inside the projection booth of an old theatre.

On the screen, in technicolor, is my dream.

People come and go. I walk through doors. I dive into the water. I examine the wound. I hold her hand. I feel the oak.

And of course, you are there.

I'm getting ready to load reel two, in perplexed, anticipatory awe of what I, the "I" on the screen, will do next.

Cue marks. Go reel two.

And there I am in the booth. Watching my subconscious twist and morph elastic images.

He shot me. Eight inches up from the knee on the outside of my right leg. I feel my middle finger teeter on the edge of the puncture; I feel the mark of the snub nose. I look down, tear my jeans open and look. First drops of blood haven't arrived yet.

The pain has, though.

I woke this morning.

Hand gripping my right leg. My middle finger prodding, trembling. Afraid of what it might find.

The other morning I woke.

Breathing deeply. I woke breathing slowly and deeply. Searching for that sweet air that was somewhere on reel three.

All the while, there you are. Reel, after reel, after reel, after reel, after reel, after reel, after re...

Hello, again. Good morning. Good night. Hello, again.

brothers hansen

noreply@blogger.com (Douggity) — Tue, 27 Dec 2011 00:54:00 +0000

my brother and i atop a burning coal mine

the fun we have.

fire side.

noreply@blogger.com (Douggity) — Sun, 11 Dec 2011 17:33:00 +0000

Every year, my mother and her boyfriend and his kids, my brother and myself go upstate to our 40.9 acre piece of land and go Christmas Tree hunting.

So, yesterday, I woke up, rolled out of bed, donned several layers of my warmest clothes, grabbed my camera and headed out the door.

Quick stop at Wegman's for food.

Quick stop at Tops for gas.

2 1/2 hour car ride loaded with coffee and my 'I'll be home for Christmas' station on Pandora.

Digression:

My brother and I have this weird ability. We both leave from two entirely different places at different
times, both headed to the same destination. Somehow, we always pull into the end point at the same time, or within a few seconds of each other.

'Find my Friends' app on the iPhone lets you pinpoint someone's location on your phone. It shows you their location on a very detailed map. Incredibly creepy.

So, I'm about five minutes away from our property and I pull out my iPhone and use the 'Find my Friends' app to see where my brother is.

He was thirty seconds behind me. He had left from Manhattan and I, from Ithaca.

This makes me laugh.

End Digression.

Anyway, so we all arrive. Many hugs exchanged.

After we all debate on where the bonfire should be placed, everybody starts collecting wood for the fire. A few attempts were made at starting a fire with gasoline. Didn't work.. Just smelled..

I got it going with soggy cardboard and my lung power. Booyah.

Fire going, my mom starts pulling out all of the food she's made.

A cheese Christmas tree with a layer of roasted red peppers and a layer of pesto built in.

Her "Cheese Bird's Nest," which was actually so perfect looking no one ate it.

Pumpkin Bread muffins.

Corn bread Muffins.

Pulled pork and coleslaw on hard rolls.

And rum.

After eating and drinking our fill for a couple hours, the kids needed to go get their Charlie Brown sized Christmas Trees.

My brother and I decided we needed to get some more wood.

Now, my brother and I also have a history, when in the woods, of becoming quite eccentric.

Check it out:

Any who, after we knocked down half the forest we constructed our bon-type fire.

I get a kick out of what happens when people sit around a fire.

My father, brother, and I used to make fires all the time. After school, after dinner, mid morning fires.

I think it started in 6th grade. I remember stuffing my puffy winter coat into my locker and it smelling like smoke when I opened it at the end of the day. I was worried that someone would think I was an arsonist.

A word I probably didn't know back then.

I remember coming home from school one day and seeing a mountain of split wood in my father's driveway.

The pile lasted quite a few years.

What is it about fire that is so...communal?

Maybe its the tie to our primitive ancestors.

Or maybe it's the smell. Or the sensation. The stark contrast between the below freezing air and the boiling heat.

I told my father that all I want for Christmas is a kielbasa and some fire wood.

Nothing beats seared kielbasa cooked in an iron skillet over a campfire.

Home in a week and a half.

Yeah, I'm counting.

Bon nuit.

morning.

noreply@blogger.com (Douggity) — Thu, 08 Dec 2011 13:00:00 +0000

It's funny that I was out of bed at 6:30 and this was waking up "late."

So I tear out of my room, half dressed and press the 'down' button.

I think sometimes God, or Mother Nature or the mystical force that is 'coincidence' actually try to work in your favor.

Ding.

Elevator has arrived. Doors open.

I laugh.

I was feeling stressed and hurried, and of all the things I can feel, feeling 'hurried' is one of my least favorite. So, I sat down on the chair and put my coffee mug on the coffee table and enjoyed my seven floor journey.

I felt quite at home, relaxed.

Add the fact that I was listening to the Charlie Brown Christmas album made the entire experience that much more enjoyable.

But the icing on the cake was that Ithaca College Dining Services, in all of their glory, have started stocking Green Mountain Coffee's "Gingerbread" flavor.

If you've never, get a cup.

Happy Thursday!

season to season. laugh. be kind.

noreply@blogger.com (Douggity) — Mon, 05 Dec 2011 04:07:00 +0000

doug and mama

Thanksgiving was as I hoped it would be, and better than I anticipated.

Pennsylvania was great. The laughs. The welcoming. The uncle with a knack for pouring the perfect Whiskey Sour. All was in place.

And on the home front. Mother's house was the same. That creaking floorboard that I was looking for still creaks. The fireplace was more inviting than ever. And, Latte', who is growing old in her years, gave me one of the largest receptions I've ever received and hardly ever left my side.

Man's best friend. Amen.

latte'

The friday after Thanksgiving, my mother and I drove back from Pennsylvania and met up with my brother and his girlfriend (who is awesome). They cooked a salmon and artichoke dish that was beyond the realm of accurate description, as it's perfection is indescribable. Mother made her go-to apple tart. Always a treat.

tree house

Father's house. The tree house lists just as I remember. Somehow this imperfection gives this inanimate object a dose of personality. Relatable, I guess. Like me, as I age, so does this tree house.

Then there was my father's filet mignon. Rumor has it that even cows have tried to steal his recipe. This steak...Nay, this ambrosia is possibly the best piece of beef to ever have graced my tongue. And yet, somehow, I know the next time he makes it (which should be about two and a half weeks from now..not that I'm counting) it will taste even better.

dad prepares the beef

 And in 1 1/4 fortnights, I'll be returning back home. To the laughs. To the dog. To the food.

To the laughs.

But now I'm back in Ithaca. 200 miles away from the laughs.

And it's now December. Coats are getting thicker. Starbucks has wrapped all of their gift mugs in green and red ribbon. Cakes of little Santas and christmas trees for sale.

My Pandora playlist is playing all of the Classics of Christmas: The Billie Holiday tracks, the Frank Sinatra 'I'll Be Home for Christmas.' 

I start to remember all of the ornaments and decorations that surface at this time of year. The snowman ornament my dad bought me at Madison Square Garden when we saw A Christmas Carol. The Rudolph figurine that plays 'Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer' when you push it's tale. The Santa ornaments that were gifted to me.

But here in Ithaca, it's all work and little play.

My boss called me on Wednesday morning and told me he had a mission for me. So we met in the middle of campus. He puffed on his cigarette and said, "Don't let me down." He then handed me a box that said "christmas ornaments."

So I went back to the office (which is the size of a small shoebox) and opened the box with my co-worker. Inside, was nothing but garland. Miles and miles of garland.

So here are two guys, college aged guys, who have been given the task of decorating the company office.

Me: "Let's pretend this is 'The Office' and try to make these decorations as tacky and 'in your face' as possible.

Co-Worker: "Yes."

This is what we came up with:

Our goal was to show our boss that we were wholly unfit for the job of decorating the office.

Our boss loved it.

Happy December, everyone, and a happy holiday season.

Give thanks and enjoy the merriment.

Did I mention I miss the laughs?

on thanksgiving. a recipe. a quote.

noreply@blogger.com (Douggity) — Tue, 22 Nov 2011 14:38:00 +0000

It's funny. My own habitualness.

Here at 12 Sunshine Lane, Hopewell Junction, NY, I can't make a pot of coffee without putting a pinch of salt in the coffee grounds before brewing. I started doing it a couple years ago. My father informed me that it takes some of the bitterness out of the coffee and that he learned it from his father.

It's morphed into superstition, though. I get a pit in my stomach if I forget the salt. Almost as though my forgetting will cause some astronomical phenomena that will cause worldly destruction.

I said, 'Almost.'

The legacy of 'Hansen Coffee Brewing' will live on forever.

(Mariska Hargitay is rockin' this episode of SVU)

I had a conversation with my father a week ago. I expressed my thoughts about Thanksgiving in comparison to Christmas.

"Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday. With Christmas, there's the pressure of buying the perfect gift, giving and giving and giving usually with the expectation of getting as much in return. I feel like Charlie Brown. 'Oh, the commercialism!' Thanksgiving is just about the food and family and possibly football. It's about the people you're with."

Tomorrow evening, I'll be driving out to Pennsylvania. Not sure what town or city I'll be driving too, but I know what will be waiting when I get there. The people.

It's a split ranch sort of house. Couple of cats. And good people.

The house is, in my opinion, in the middle of nowhere. This is good.

This is where I will be on Thanksgiving. At my mother's boyfriend's mother's house. A jovial bunch. And even though they're not 'blood,' I know that I'll feel welcomed and thankful to be in the company of these good people.

I went there a couple of years ago, either for Thanksgiving or Christmas, honestly I can't remember which. My not remembering may have something to do with my mother's boyfriend's uncle (I avoid using real names to help protect the guilty) who suggested we watch Inglorious Basterds, which throughout the duration of the film (all 2 hours and 13 minutes), the unnamed uncle provided my brother and I with a constant stream of Whiskey Sours.

After returning home 2 days later, still sauced, I could only recall what an unexpected and wonderful time I had.

After the booze wore off, I was happy to find that I felt the same way.

There was no facade. No 'BS.' Just people having a good time enjoying the company of others.

Tomorrow, I'll be driving to Nowhere, Pennsylvania. I will be in the company of a jovial bunch. I will be in good company.

Linus Van Pelt: Those are good reasons. Christmas is not only getting too commercial, it's getting too dangerous.

From my e-mail archives:

Happy Thanksgiving!

ballybeg, here i come.

noreply@blogger.com (Douggity) — Fri, 11 Nov 2011 02:55:00 +0000

Seven days, nineteen hours and fifty minutes, and I'll be home.

The wood stove at my mother's house. The soft smell of smoke that lingers from lighting the fire. The candles burning.

The wood floors that creak.

The pine tree my brother and I gave our father for Father's day when we were round about three and five years of age. It was shorter than I was then. Now, it towers..giving my father's house a run for it's money.

The mini golf hole in back where my dad and I would work on our short games.

The tree house my brother, my father and I built. I don't think we built it as a place for my brother and I to run away to. It was a task shared by the three of us, the Hansen Boys. I look at that tree house (which has been influenced by the tree its built around and lists a bit to the left) and I smile.

It's funny what you miss about home.

It's not the tree house I miss, but the way it leans.

It's not the wood floors I miss, but the way they creak.

I miss the smell of smoke.

Thanksgiving. My favorite holiday.

No last minute trips to the mall to buy that gift you forgot to get your aunt. No last-minute, hand written cards.

Just family.

And food.

Lots and lots of food.

My mother makes butternut squash soup that could raise the dead. Sweet and salty and creamy and just the right amount of ginger root.

My father..crowned 'king of the mashed potatoes.' The sauteed garlic and onions and the 12 different types of butter and the cream cheese and milk and parmesan. The most important part being the skins.

Damned are those who make their mashed potatoes without the skins.

Subtle earthy tones amidst a plethora a rich flavors. Balanced.

So why do I leave? Why do I run out of the door and speed off without looking back?

And why after I leave, do I wish to return?

"Trying to get home. Anything you can do to help?"

This was written on a piece of cardboard in black ink. A gentlemen well into his late 60's or early 70's was holding it.

I saw the sign. My car idling in the background bounces into my consciousness and removes me from my daydream of my home.

I see the man. Salty looking. With skin like beaten leather.

I wanted to know why.

What does he have at home? What does he want to go back to? And if he wants to go back, why did he leave? What is waiting for him?

Why did I leave home?

I called my mother today.

"I miss you, Mom. I miss your soup. I miss the front porch. I miss the fire place."

I know the things I don't and won't ever miss.

Memories built into corners of walls.

Some memories make me grit my teeth in anger. My stomach trips.

I'm longing. For home. For soup.

For that hand to hold.

Burning memories. So bitter-sweet that they play my heart strings and make the most beautiful music, a song so perfect I'm moved to tears, and in turn, my heart strings tear and fall to pieces.

Cyclical, beautiful destruction.

to be continued.

i wish my life was more like the 'office.'

noreply@blogger.com (Douggity) — Wed, 02 Nov 2011 20:43:00 +0000

(presses pause)

I'm eight minutes and fifty-eight seconds into the last episode of "The Office."

I feel like I'm about to lose a friend.

Damn you Michael Scott.

Over the course of a week I've watched the entire 7th season of the office (with exception of course to the last twenty something minutes).

Even though there are always mini feuds and battles going on, everyone always seems to be happy and laughing or joking.

I wish my life was more like that. Pranks.

I work in a box. I'd take a picture of where I work, but my camera and I cannot both fit in my 'office' at the same time.

It's small.

7:30 am. Three mondays ago. I'm the first one to work. Bloodshot eyes, twenty ounces of coffee. Quiet office time.

In comes my boss.

"Did you see this?" he asked as he held up a little plastic monkey.

"Nope," I said.

My only care in the world at the time was..

..I actually was too tired to care about anything..

So my boss presses a button on the top of this little plastic monkey's head. It's eyes light up with two blue LED lights.

And it makes a noise.

Like nails on a blackboard. A sound so hideous, I'd have rather dragged my two front teeth on bumpy, rock filled concrete.

It was a laugh. A hideous laugh. A mad laugh.

This monkey was laughing.

I was not.

My boss laughed.

I didn't.

I tolerated this for two weeks.

"You don't like the monkey?" asked my boss, seeing the disdain and anger and swelling rage being expelled from my eyes.

"No. I don't..Like..The monkey.." I forced this through grating teeth.

My boss left the office.

After he left, I glared at the monkey. All two inches of him.

I snapped.

I crossed my shoebox sized office, scooped up the monkey and hid it.

I HID THE MONKEY.

my boss's text

When I got to work yesterday, my boss was muttering "monkey, monkey, monkey" for ten minutes in a quiet, somewhat sad voice.

This morning, he confronted me.

"Doug. Where is the monkey?"

In the most sarcastic, droll, "I-hid-the-monkey-and-you'll-never-find-it" voice I could muster, I replied, "I have no idea what you're talking about."

Boss leaves.

Plotting begins.

I started thinking.

How could I turn this into a fun 'office-like' scenario.

I down my coffee and get to work.

I got the monkey out of hiding.

I took his picture.

Then, I printed the picture and hung it in the office. Adressed to my boss.

My co-worker texted me and said they now know its me.

I couldn't be happier.

Happy Wednesday.

i was up in the woods. no bon iver to be found.

noreply@blogger.com (Douggity) — Mon, 24 Oct 2011 12:32:00 +0000

Fall break.

Starts off with a flat tire and a $130 repair bill.

An awful start, but by contrast, made the remainder seem infinitely better.

And it was.

It's funny how your projections, the ideas of how you think something will go, can be so drastically different than what actually happens.

I was planning on going on a road trip. To where? No idea. I was going to get in my car, start driving, and stop until I found something interesting: a restaurant, a landmark, a tree.

After my tussle with a tire iron, which proved more useful for prying open my wallet than removing lug nuts, the last thing I felt like doing was dumping more money into my car.

"Hello, Ithaca. I'm staying here for break. Let's not make this awkward."

Wegman's: The Disney World of food. The kingdom of condiments. 

I made a trip down to Wegman's each day of break. Novel in hand and $1.08 in quarters and pennies in my pocket, I made my way into the centerpiece of Ithaca (Yeah, I said centerpiece).

That awkward blast of lukewarmish air that hits you in the face when you first walk in...It's like a christening.

It's one of those things that you find a little annoying, but if it wasn't there, you'd miss it.

Over to the coffee counter by 2:05. I fork over $.54 for my happy hour priced coffee. Up the flight of stairs to the upper cafe.

Corner table over looking the parking lot.

Page 1.

And there I sat and read my carefully chosen novel.

I watched a Frenchman and his Americanized daughter interact.

"I can show you the world," he sang to her with a soft accent.

"Shinning, shimmering splendor!" His daughter shrieked in excitement.

I laughed.

Friday.

Up by 10:00. "Breakfast" on campus. Gym.

Back to the table overlooking the parking lot.

It's fascinating watching people enter and exit a grocery store. I think it's one of the few public places where people feel they can be themselves.

They don't feel the need to present themselves in any manner because everyone else is preoccupied with their hand scribbled grocery lists that always seem to push the folds of the paper they're written on.

Watch people shop. How they sneer at "vine-ripened" tomatoes. How they close there eyes when they smell a loaf of bread or pumpkin pie. How they determine which olives to buy from the variety offered at the Mediterranean Food Bar.

You'll see people for who they are.

Until they realized they're being watched, of course.

South hill. Walking with a friend. Talking every few minutes or so. But mostly walking.

Soggy paths. Radiant oranges and reds and yellows and waning greens.

We left the path and walked our own.

Stop. Stand still. Listen.

Leaves rustle. Follow the sound.

We walk. Find squirrels. Chipmunks. Crows.

Then we came to 23. I don't know what the post with the number "23" is supposed to be marking. But I induced it was marking a tree. Tree 23.

The tree is dead. Six feet of bark ripped from its lowest branch. No leaves at all.

Tree 23 is a good tree. It looks old. But strong. With good, clean branches. Some more fragile and brittle than others.

We climbed tree 23. We said nothing. We sat.

I Looked up. Looked down. Listened. Smelled. Observed. Reveled. Longed. Missed. Smiled. Wondered.

I saw a blue jay. Almost met him at eye level.

And back down to soggy soil.

That night we revisited tree 23. This time with two others. There we were. Four guys up a tree in the dark of night.

Listening.

Sensing.

"Hello, outdoors and trees and birds and things that crawl. You've not been forgotten by all."

I will damn the day when someone invents a video game called "Camping: The Real Wilderness Experience."

I did not travel. Never more than 5 miles from my bed.

It was exactly what I needed.

And gaining a few friends along the way..

And the sweet smell of tree bark ran my palms.

anger dwells only in the bosom of fools. einstein.

noreply@blogger.com (Douggity) — Thu, 20 Oct 2011 03:59:00 +0000

**If nothing else, skip to the bottom and read the quote**

A good, full day.

Lots of sarcasm behind the "good."

It's funny how "luck," whatever that may be, works.

How today went:

Bad morning.

No breakfast.

2.5 hours of work.

5 straight hours of class.

A little break.

4.5 hours work.

After sitting alone in the "closet" (the place where I work...its a shoebox minus the legroom) for 3 hours, I finally had reached the end of my day.

Hello Fall Break.

I close up the shoebox and walk to my car.

Key in the ignition, sputter, sputter, vroom.

Winning.

Even though it was a long, hellacious day, its now over. Time to relax. Time to unwind. Time to..

Rumble, rumble, rumble.

Flat tire.

I pull over on the side of the road, after having driven a whopping 40 feet. My tire is completely flat.

Pop the trunk, pull out the jack and tire iron. Lug nuts are to tight to turn.

10 miles per hour is so slow.

A 1/4 mile and 5 minutes later I make it to the closest gas station.

"Can I have four quarters?"

1, 2, 3, 4.

Unscrew the valve cap. Pump away.

Torrential downpour.

I feel like a wet dog.

Tire is so flat, I broke the bead (means no amount of air will fill the tire).

Now soaking wet and pretty damn cold, I get back in my car and drive back to campus at 10 mph.

Park. Lock. Walk through more rain back to my room.

It's funny how the rain always stops right when you reach your destination.

Up the elevator.

Open my door.

Strip off my soaked clothes.

I trip. I trip and bend my healing broken toe.

Pain. Pain. Pain.

Shower.

Hot, wonderful, burning, blazing shower.

: )

Although I'm upset that I'll have to wake up at 7:00, drive to Goodyear Auto Center at 10 mph, all down hill, and most likely have to shell out $130 for repair, I'm actually feeling ok.

It could have been worse. What's done is done and worrying and steaming serve me no just cause.

So, I'll wake up early, get my cup of coffee, grab my novel, go to Goodyear, sit and read.

This post was purely for me. Cathartic and therapeutic.

"Holding on to anger is like grasping a hot coal with the intent of throwing it at someone else; you are the one who gets burned."
- Buddha

Bon nuit :p

meshuga.

noreply@blogger.com (Douggity) — Mon, 17 Oct 2011 12:45:00 +0000

comics are a good way to start off monday mornings

Cinnamon Cream Swirl coffee.

At work. So tired my eyes are wiggling across every letter I type.

Like nystagmus.

Hour and a half left of this shift.

I told myself that I would study during work.

Ugh.

I have a midterm at 2:00.

Midterm? It's Monday.

Who gives a midterm on Monday?

I'm trying to convince myself that I shouldn't study on the principle of a midterm on Monday.

It's not right, therefore, I shouldn't have to study.

Right now, Frank Sinatra and the Barenaked Ladies are way more appealing than "Cultural Anthropology: An Applied Perspective. 7th Edition."

But nonetheless, it is Monday.

A beginning.

Meshuga means mad or idiotic.

emphasis on the "dict." i don't know why.

noreply@blogger.com (Douggity) — Mon, 17 Oct 2011 03:29:00 +0000

I've been sitting in my bed. Listening to rain drops. Gust of wind through naked trees.

Cigarette smoke makes its way up to my 6th floor window.

I'm listening.

The last of the crickets chirps.

A car drives by on wet pavement. Sounds sticky.

Murmurs of conversation.

Another wisp of smoke.

Cold air flows over my bed. Over me. The air smells sweet. Crisp.

The rain drops are small. They sound like. Like when you drop a steak on a hot grill.

Sizzle.

But quiet.

I'm thinking. Drifting between fantasy and daydream to reality and fact.

Too tired to sleep. Too tired to read.

Who will I be in fifty years?

I imagine I'll where a hat. A flat cap. Brown-grey. Worn.

I'll have a brown suede coat. Long. Everything bunched in my left pocket. My right one has a hole.

My face will be wrinkled. When I look in the mirror, I'll smile at my wrinkles. Recall the emotions that stretched my face when I was younger to create such a geography.

There were many laughs. Many tears. I'll be happy for everything I've felt.

(Another wisp of smoke)

Perhaps I'll smoke a pipe.

Perhaps not.

On a weathered leash will be a weathered dog with weathered eyes and worn-out fur.

A friend.

He climbs the wooden staircase much like myself. Slowly. Watching every step pass. Careful.

When I sit on the front porch, his nose nuzzles my hand. My weathered hands ruffles his bent ears, too tired to perk.

(A car passes. Horn honks).

I pick out a book from the shelf I built.

Sanded. Stained. Sealed.

I set it down on a the table I built.

Sealed. Stained. Sanded.

I notice the unfinished crossword puzzle.

I look at my friend.

He tilts his head.

He wants me to finish the crossword.

(Cricket)

Back to my room.

In the here and now.

Whistles come from behind my door.

Another Sunday night. Again, stalling off Monday.

Too tired to sleep. Too tired to read.

Another holiday season approaches.

Bittersweet.

"Nostalgia Disorder."

Longing.

How long can one wait?

Too tired to sleep.

I laugh. A white dinner jacket with a red bow-tie and red vest. Blacks slacks and shoes.

The walks.

I laugh again. Garlic knots.

"Frogs."

I don't know what to expect of this holiday season.

I long for good company.

Good conversation.

Heart to heart.

My mom's apple tarts and butternut squash soup. Nutmeg and ginger root.

My dad's "eggs benedict." Perfection atop a muffin.

my dad's eggs.

Family.

My brother.

Brilliantly maniacal. My best friend.

The pointless daily phone calls. So pointless we laugh and hang up without saying anything.

him and me.

We ge each other.

(A car starts)

Too tired.

The cold air has become colder.

My hands feel stiff.

Pershing Square across from Grand Central has great eggs benedict.

Whenever I say "benedict," I always put heavy emphasis on the "dict."

It sounds funny. Even to me.

Too tired?

will i ever be able to tell the truth again.

noreply@blogger.com (Douggity) — Sat, 15 Oct 2011 20:17:00 +0000

“A drunk man's words are a sober man's thoughts”

On July 15th, in the dark recesses of the Hopewell Inn (a janky bar in my hometown), I sat atop an uncomfortable, wooden bar stool across from my employer and had a Bug Light.

That was the last alcoholic drink I had.

3 months ago today.

Spring semester of my sophomore year was tough. In keeping with my masochistic ways, I decided it would be a good idea to take on 35 hours of work per week while enrolled in 18 credits.

Money makes us do dumb things. I wanted money.

To get this money, I was sacrificing down time, social time, eating time, workout time, and sleep time.

After the first two weeks of lunacy, I started drinking more than usual.

Typically I would drink at parties on the weekends. Maybe an occasional night during the week.

After two weeks of lunacy, I was drinking pretty regularly. Almost every night.

It started as a "I-need-to-sleep-now-night-cap" thing.

Then after a couple months it became "I need."

After abusing my liver for a semester, and spending my hard earned money on booze, booze which I wouldn't be buying if I wasn't working so hard, I took a step back and didn't like where I was heading.

Last final test. Packed my car. 205 miles to Summer. Hello Hopewell Junction.

During the first week of Summer, I drank too much.

After the first week, I decided I needed to stop.

I went to a family party the second week of Summer. I had two Landshark Lagers. I believe that was June 11th.

The next drink I had was somewhere around July 4th. Gin on the rocks with Julienned cucumber. Then a bottle of Saki.

Then the Bud Light on July 15th.

(I don't like the fact that I can remember the days and drinks)

I have no problem with those who drink.

Drinking to excess however...

...On a regular basis...

This isn't a path I want to go down.

I don't like slurred speech from me or anyone else.

Again, occasionally is fine.

I was walking through Wegman's yesterday and walked down the beer aisle.

Remember when you were six and you walked through Disney World?

That's what it felt like.

"The possibilities in each bottle. The beautiful boxes and labels. The names. Guinness. Dark. Loving. Warming."

Eye candy.

I was astonished at how much I wanted to buy 10 or 12 6 packs and explore.

I thought, "Maybe I could buy a six pack...for my birthday."

I don't think it would just be for my birthday.

I think I have a slightly addictive personality. I definitely have a habitual personality. Mix the two together. Uh-oh.

After I left the beer aisle, I asked myself "will I ever have another drink?"

I really don't know the answer.

Jekyll & Hyde comes to mind.

"I shouldn't I don't need it. I'm being smart."

"You're of age. You like it. It's fun."

Escapism through drink?

Frightening.

Loss of control.

So. Call me "sober sam."

how i met evelyn.

noreply@blogger.com (Douggity) — Fri, 14 Oct 2011 03:40:00 +0000

It's getting progressively cooler here in Ithaca. Short sleeves are growing and shorts and being tucked into the backs of drawers.

Yesterday, one of my classmates, in defense of the crisp air, was doning a sweater. Not just any sweater, but a giant, warm, sensuously delicious sweater. This sweater was so large, it had a guest room.

I asked her where she got this wondrous item.

"Salvation Army," she said.

Immediately, I knew that I needed to have a big, ridiculous sweater too. So after class, I raced down to the Salvation Army.

"Too large, too large, too large, way too large, way too small...Ooo!"

I picked out a dark, dark blue heavy knit sweater. A little too big, but the damn thing was heavy. So warm. I needed to try it on.

"Young man, I think this jacket would be perfect for you," I heard a voice of many years say.

I turned around and saw a woman of 70-something years holding up the most hideous orange and neon blue jacket.

"It is nice, but I have a jacket already. I just need a warm sweater," I replied.

This is how I met Evelyn.

Evelyn is a very nice, witty woman. Longwinded, though. So much so, that I'm going to list the things I remember from our conversation. A conversation so long that I had to say goodbye 5 times and shake hands 3 times to convey that I needed to leave (I was pressed for time).

the facts:

Her name is Evelyn.

She has a cat.

She is originally from California, an hour north of Sacramento.

She had a long cabin there that she bought on a suggestion before even seeing the house.

She loved California.

The property she was living on was seized by the government.

The previous tenant had some backed debts.

Evelyn moved here on a suggestion.

Evelyn doesn't like Ithaca.

She has to get water from outside of her house, which she doesn't mind in the summer and spring, but now its getting to cold.

Evelyn's taxes are too high.

She bought a space heater that smells like mildew.

She'd rather be cold that run the space heater.

She believes in her past life she was Irish.

At the end month she'll be going to Mexico.

She wants to be there for Halloween and witness Día de los Muertos, or the Day of the Dead.

This is a serious holiday where people pay their respects to those who have passed.

She hates the American "Halloween."

After informing her that my birthday is on Halloween, she told me I should research Día de los Muertos.

Her sister lived in Sarasota, Florida.

She passed away this past Summer.

Her brother-in-law still lives in Florida.

He has Evelyn's Mother's ashes.

Evelyn wants her mother's ashes back.

Her brother-in-law tried to ship them, but all major carriers refused for insurance and liability issues.

She called some mortuaries here and they said they'd be happy to put the ashes in a travel-worthy box.

She told her brother-in-law that he should have them put in a box like that.

She wants the ashes back so she can bring them to Mexico and spread them in the ocean so her mother will be at peace.

She suggest never staying in a two star hotel.

She suggests never go to Puerto Rico.

-breath-

She only stays at four or five star hotels.

There is a nice little restaurant in the town where her hotel is in Mexico.

She talked with the waitress there on her last visit.

Evelyn wonders if the waitress finally got married.

There were two beaches that she could go to.

One beach was a nudist beach.

(At this point I'm 20 minutes into this one-sided conversation)

She met a Buddhist on the other beach.

Evelyn doesn't like the nudist beach.

I say goodbye and shake her hand.

I politely tell Evelyn that I need to go and check out.

Evelyn says goodbye.

As I'm walking away, maybe five or six paces away, which amounted to about 40 feet of distance, (I was galloping away for fear that she would start talking again)when Evelyn said one of the funniest things I'd ever heard someone of her extensive years says.

"I WAS BETWEEN A NUDIST AND A BUDDHIST!"

I stop. I turn. I see Evelyn with the biggest grin on her face. I laugh. Everyone in Salvation Army stares. How could I care?

That is how I parted ways with Evelyn.

Although I couldn't leave the store fast enough, it's important to note that I had nothing against Evelyn.

It was a fantastical experience. Had I the time, I would have loved to have conversed further with her. Maybe even exchanged numbers and planned to meet up one day. And get coffee and talk.

Maybe I could have offered to watch her cats while she goes to Mexico.

The things you can learn by conversing with a stranger.

I wish I could meet a thousand more Evelyns.

p.s. the sweater I found is awesome.

fool. love.

noreply@blogger.com (Douggity) — Wed, 12 Oct 2011 06:26:00 +0000

That previous post, the post about being misunderstood, about playing the fool...

At the very center of me is a fool. Not a dumb fool, but a fool who loves to laugh. A goofy fool. A triumphantly witty character.

Next, moving outward from the fool is this layer of passion. Passion for love and art and things beautiful.

So deep is this level. At times it feels like a burden. In this layer is my love. My love of theatre. My desire to love and be loved.

As of late (and by late I mean half a year's time), this layer has felt stifled. Repressed. So strong are these feelings. The longer they lie dormant the stronger they grow. It builds and builds and stretches and gains mass and momentum and becomes this force. This force that I want to expel and express and share. There is so much I have to give. Need to give.

But I have no place to use this energy. This passion. This love.

No outlet.

I think on why.

I know I'm of the stranger vein of people. Being an eccentric artist "strange" is inevitable.

I've come to embrace my odd nature. Truly come to treasure what it is to be the fool. My bursting into accents and characters. My 180 degree turns from quiet, reserved to raging and accusatory (all in good fun).

But am I my own rub?

I've realized that it can get in the way. People may be deterred by the outlandish.

Crossroads.

Repress my fluidity of foolishness and become rigid, or, remain the fool. A jovial, jaunty love filled impassioned fool.

A fool I will stay.

A smiling, happy fool.

I've been rigid. I've repressed. But no more. I will not compromise myself, the self I've come to enjoy and enjoy living in, to meet someone else's standards.

I'm amebic. Shapeshifting. Afraid of boxes. Afraid of walls. Afraid of normality.

a fool and his brother

Those who lend you chance, who stick around to see through your own "fool" or "whatever-layer," they are the ones worth your while.

To bed.

i laugh because i play.

noreply@blogger.com (Douggity) — Wed, 12 Oct 2011 03:52:00 +0000

You have to put up with the risk of being misunderstood if you are going to try to communicate.
You have to put up with people projecting their own ideas, attitudes, misunderstanding you.
But it's worth being a public fool if that's all you can be in order to communicate yourself.

- Edie Sedgwick

someone please open me. ten years is too long.

noreply@blogger.com (Douggity) — Tue, 11 Oct 2011 05:43:00 +0000

It's 1:00am.

The first two hours of a 12oz. cup of coffee have passed.

Over the past three days I've spent 8 hours in the library trying to find the perfect book to read.

After 8 hours of deliberation, on the advice of a friend, I picked American Gods by Neil Gaiman.

I'm considering this a leep of faith.

Books are an investment. I'll only read one that immediately grabs my attention from the first sentence. Since I'm the worst offender of "judging a book by it's cover," I rarely make it to the first sentence of any book. I don't like books with yellow jackets. Nor forest green. Nor red. The red that is found on a pack of Skittles, not brick red or vlood red or crimson.

This copy of American Gods is blue. Not the blue found on an Almond Joy wrapper, nor sky blue, Robin's egg blue or periwinkle. It is the blue of the seats on Bluebird school busses.

I wasn't fond of the color or texture of this book. I found it among the stacks, and my immediate thought was, "Seriously. No pictures? Just blue."

I'm amazed that I even reached for the book. It felt cold. Forgotten.

Judging from its lack of dog-eared pages, it's relatively pristine cover and lack of a sign out card, I'm inclined to think this book has never been checked out nor read.

Open the cover. "Copyright © 2001."

Deduction. 10 years have passed since this book has been opened. A shelved decade.

I flip a few more pages.

CHAPTER ONE

"Shadow had done three years in prison. He was big enough and looked don't-fuck-with-me enough that his biggest problem was killing time. So he kept to himself in shape, and taught himself coin tricks, and thought a lot about how much he loved his wife."

Sold.

I walked backed to my room, with two books in hand. One being American Gods with it's hideous blue cover, and the other being Billy Shake's Taming of the Shrew, which dons a lighter shade of hideous blue.

I opened the door to room 602, West Tower, Ithaca College, flipped on the lights and looked across my room and stopped in the doorway. I laughed.

It has taken me 8,009 days to get in the habit of making my bed.

Goodnight moon.