Posts Tagged ‘daily droppings’

Throwing away old files today, receipts and paystubs to start. Medical bills I’m not sure I ever paid. Expired certifications. Cleaning out old character sheets from the DnD folder. Next, I’m lead to my external hard drive to see if I stored anything there. It’s mostly fruitless, but I’m in a mood. Just took my first happy pill, you see. And I get to pictures, mostly deleting copies and junk. Shot of signs or houses, visual inside jokes sent to friends. Sorting things into more cohesive folders.

Somewhere there’s a fold I renamed “Old Life”, pictures and videos that span about a year. A year pushed out my mind. The videos are the strangest part. They’re all these short candids. One of us holding the camera, sometimes denying it is on, filming something ordinary and the other sees.

—Are you filming me?

—No of course not!

—Yes you are! I can see the light’s on!

None of them are longer than a minute. Sometimes there is a question or a kiss.

If this was cinemasins you’d hear “protagonist looking at home movies of dead/ex girlfriend cliché”.

I can’t for the life of me remember these being filmed. I can, all these years later remember so clear the reasons we got together and the ways we fell apart, but I don’t remember this in between time — that year we were so desperate to pretend we were grown-ups — simple moments of happiness that I can see on our faces. The blanket pulled over our heads, wrestling on the futon, her standing over a pain splattered drop cloth or me crouched over that side table I used as a desk in our attic apartment built for one, passing notes or glances at the Well because it was too loud, but staying because the drinks were cheap. Crowded, naked in the bedroom, the ceiling too low to stand, waving, blurs of intertwined limbs and LPs and clothes on the living room floors and how ever did we do this?

Pen and ink and squid.

Our past selves are sometimes strangers on the streets possessing secrets we will never shake out of them.


Christmas 2015

I almost wrote 2016. There is so much talking in the news not just the past week or so, but the past six months of the 2016 election it’s hard to remember the year hasn’t even started yet. Amid the horse race politicking soul sucking poll fucking noise I am the most relieved I have ever been for a delayed flight. The security line ran four snaking rows deep in length of the terminal front before even reaching the stretched blue nylon barriers which ran another six rows. It seems security is a convenience issue as we are told bins are unnecessary. We keep on our shoes and coats, no need to remove laptops not using scanners, just metal detectors and sniffer dogs walking the lines making me worry briefly that I forgot to ditch the film canister of narcotics at home, but I know I took out the trash and turned off the Christmas lights so the tree won’t catch fire I did leave the heat on… oh well
We don’t pay for electric.
I am surprisingly awake for this hour of the day and this far into the flight. Overlooking a river that makes me think of spiky tentacles or maybe the thorned horns of a devil. And ponds. Thousands and thousands of ponds.
Maybe it’s turbulence, maybe it’s the man sitting next to me.
He’s wearing this skull cap. Not like a wool knit type. It’s red, non-stretchy denim. It’s dirty, covered in black splotches of what looks like engine grease, but it could be something of black paint. Medium length beard, from where I sit, I can see through it in parts, meaning the hair is thin and has been grown out for some time deliberately to give the impression of being fuller and thicker.
No cloud cover clear to the horizon.
His jeans are the same, dirt hardened through, covered in more black splotches. He’s got thick forearms and a gut. The build of a mechanic or carpenter. Someone who uses their hands but doesn’t move around much. His shirt is the one clean thing. Something out for a special occasion. First wear, by the lack of wrinkles and vibrant never washed colours. Pearl snaps.
The thing that’s bothersome about him though, is his lack of activity. Since I sat down, he hasn’t moved. Hasn’t spoken. No headphones on his ears, no phone in his hand. He’s not sleeping. Not even looking out the window. He just stares at the seat in front of him. Straight and a touch down at the tray table. He doesn’t lean back. In fact, he sits up, almost straight.
When the flight attendant comes by with the drink cart he breaks the statuism to order a double jack daniels and coke. It puts at ease. I’ve always thought of jack and coke as an everyman American drink. He dumps the two bottles in the plastic cup of ice and gives them back to the air hostess before they’re done with our row. He pours in the coke, drinks half, refills it with more coke, finishes it.
While waiting for the hostess to return, well, not waiting really, in the meantime he goes back to his stoic stare. Only now his hands move. He pulls off the tab of the coke can and begins to shred it.
His eyes are still ahead which is why I can write about him so close by. He shreds the tin till it’s a jagged crumpled heap then holds it as though it were a bird’s nest.
The hostess comes back and we drop our cups into the plastic trash bag.
He goes back to staring.



Earliest I’ve been up at in a while in my attempt to be a more approachable member of society.

We’re throwing a party tonight, my first as an official resident at the Academy, and there’s hope throughout the place that it’ll be a night or weirdness to remember.


I should start writing earlier in the day. I had better stuff in my head while still hard with the sunrise. I guess there’s a choice of getting off or getting to work.

Sent off the first application to [XXXX] yesterday, another goes off today. We’ll see what happens.

Got to make cider and get the house in order. I always think I’m gonna come up with something different and special, but it’s always the same:

Fancy unfiltered cider from TJs or Whole foods or whatever.

Clove, allspice, nutmeg, cinnamon (all things whole)


Liquor (used to be brandy, last year it was bourbon, this year it’s blackstrap rum [3 bottles] and a dash of a few other things.

This year I’m going CRAZY! By adding some pineapple juice.

[3 days later]

Holy spoot, I just took my first shit since the part started on Friday. It was about 7 feet long and felt glorious. I’m measurably lighter I’m sure.

Though I had to excuse myself from a meeting with a friend which made for an awkward return to the table. The person at the table next gave a useless, gratuitous little motion as I got up to leave as if they were actually moving out of the way. On the way they give me one of those glances to indicate you were gone too long for you to be doing anything else. Now you have to sit here while we politely ignore each other.

One of the few great things about air travel is the drinking. In an environment which (even to a drunk like me) seems one of the most unpleasant places to drink. It is almost mandatory.

Airports seem to have the longest open hours for bars. Every time I roll through a terminal I see people bound for somewhere having a cocktail with a business associate or reading a paper. I’m often there at 7 or 10 in the morning and there they are, grabbing a quick McDonald’s breakfast then popping over for a glass of champagne at Bubbles, the O’Hare wine bar.

It’s strange. And no matter what time my flight is the air hostess always walks past and asks if you like a beer or a glass of wine.

Because we all pretend we’re drinking for different time zones and every other drink you get is served by a different person. So no one is judging.

I land in Atlantic time, but I got an hour and a half to kill before the rest of my party arrives and we’re sharing a ride, so I might as well grab a breakfast beer, no one will notice. I’ll be done before they even arrive and then it will be about right for lunch and I’ll see if anyone else wants one.

Look I know they haven’t started serving lunch yet, but I’m on my way to Zürich and I need to get my drinking schedule in sync with corporate now. And show stole my john girsham paperback.

One thing first,

So my place already has a name.

The Stockholm Academy for Wayward Girls

Because that is both a handful and also a little weird to keep saying about on the internet, I will be referring to it in the future as The Academy.





This woman at the supermarket has it in for me. I swear.

Mariano’s has a sample stand. Well, it has a bunch of them. What I found weird when I started going regularly is that each of them has a fairly consistent attendant and serves the same kind of food each time, one is always a kind of juice, another a kind of cheese, or muffins, you get the idea.

This is where the sausage stand comes in. equidistant from the seafood and fancy snacks (figs and soft cheeses or cured meat type stuff). Not sure what kind exactly. It smells good, but every time I pass by, something is wrong. The attendant (let’s call her Amanda*, cause that’s what it says on her name tag), is so often in need of something and about to leave. Sometimes she’ll be in the middle of cooking and it’s all

—sorry, no more tooth picks, be back in bit.

But when I swing by on my way out she says, —sorry, just ran out. I’ll have some more in a few minutes.

Half the time she’s not even at her station at all. Dozens of weekend trips to the grocery and somehow that one stand has always evaded me.

It must be personal.


*that’s not really her name, I don’t want horde of people coming to her stand and telling her she’s a bad person or anything. I’ve read stories about that [I was gonna post a link to something Amanda Palmer had written, but I can’t find it].


I like walking along the side of the road. Not on the sidewalk, but on the grass of the tree lawn that separates one concrete surface from another.

It is a wonderful thing to walk on grass. Or dirt. It feels better on the feet. Especially if they are bare, but under booted heel, it too feels softer. There is texture and topography. There are the occasional ups and downs of the tiny walls that separate gardens and trees. There are roots to trip over and branches to duck under.

It is a wonderful thing, to walk on grass.

Unless you step in dog shit.

So as I ponder on the loveliness of urban cogitation and scrape out the rubber crevices of my docs with what appears to be a shard of glass from a broken bottle of trendy vodka, I’d like to say

Clean up your dog shit

You asshole

Have a lovely fall.

I need to stop talking to myself. I need to stop talking to myself.

I need to stop talking to myself. For serious, it is probably the single activity I spend the most time doing and it is not as productive as you might think.

It’s one of those days. Where the soup comes out of the microwave a bit too cool, the porcelain of the bowl is a bit too hot to carry. So I stand over it at the counter, hunched, slurping it up while my flatmate’s dog does the same thing a few feet away.

I am harried lately. I am moving. Have I mentioned that I’m moving? I am moving for now the tenth time in four years. The frequency is declining so that is something I suppose. And I will take it.

Closer to Delphi, should help with work too.So as I said a year ago, I’m pretty sure this one will last at the minimum, two years.