Perpetual Notion

The hour is after bar close. But none I know were there tonight. Instead we followed enticement to bonfire and communal painting. The evening goes beyond that. I steal the use of a computer unit as music happens. I am not one to jump on the mess of instruments adding to the room’s decor. instead I take my inspired movement to these keys. And click click click. Ready to leave better of an hour ago. But a roomate was taken to the drums and has since been swayed to hold his stool seat. I am not to deny art. Nor will I soon pass it by. No. I sit click listen hear am ready and there as it goes and comes but I will be here and it continues to happen. The roomie who sees not fit to tap our skins of the ever available home set has found himself quite the comfortable one upon the garbage pail contraption of a beat kit kept here. As much as five but the moment hosts three in count of musician. If or not they are separate song or just pauses of breath and praise between the solitary work of the night’s show. In and out spectators make way. To the fire, to the tunes. We get slow. Take it down two notches. Take it up. Let us be on with the loud. In sax drums piano, three very different things are happening. Three very different things are agreeing in an argument that none but all have the edge. the additional urgency of 1.5 drummers takes presence. A stick, a single one, into the hand of the audience is taken up into the cluster of right now. And it goes heard. Broke. We lull. Slow. Finish. The cellulars climb from pockets to press their faces against thumbs to swallow numbers that will ensure such encores of more and more to come. And the set is reassemled to whatever the pile that it was. And he talks to me. And we go…

They gave a holler,
“We need us a art teachur”
said the Southern school.

The move makes some sense.
Heading South with gravity,
saves gas driving down.

He offered me work
as a full time cat nanny.
Share that Southern wealth.

Tonight I go North.
Tomorrow we dine German.
What better send off?!

I need to make the world aware of what I want. Recently I was given this advice. The wording was different, but it is the message that I received. I can no longer sit upon my hands with indifference. The gesture not of apathy, but out of straining to hear other voices. And to that end, my own voice falls silent. I am at a point where I will be carried less and less, until no more. Where I go, I take myself. Sitting in silence, my disposition emits neutrality. And that finds relation in nothing.

This is not an exercise in futility, but a self inflicted challenge to participate. For the goings on of day in and out, I am better served to stand up. To lift my head, it will be seen. To raise my voice, it shall be heard. To meet your eyes, we are engaged.

If they will not strain to hear my whisper,
then I must shout to cover their ears.

We have split up. Coffee is seeing other people while I am seeing other warm beverages. Within two days of separation I was already hitting the shops. I have been out with a few different teas. Five to be exact. Nothing too serious at this point.

Today I am seeing Ginger Peach for the second time. Until now, there have only been first meetings. This is the first follow up. Something about her called me back. Some of the other tea leaves had a decent flavor, but our interactions would grow stale as the night moved on. They began to seem more and more watered down. This is not the case with Ginger. Through our whole time together, she always has interesting and strong tastes.

Right away it was evident that Ginger Peach was a fast steeper. I do not usually get hung up on such qualities, though the immediate gratification is rather nice. I just hope that people do not think I am concerned with how soon she is ready. I am willing to wait for it. Also, Ginger is a green tea. I do not care where we come from, but Asian seems pretty cool. Perhaps she will open my eyes to new cultural experiences. It is difficult to say what happens next. I am curious as to what else is out there.

I still think about coffee. Sometimes when I enter a room, I feel as though coffee had just been there. It is almost as if I can smell his presence. I dig through my wardrobe and find the stains he left upon my clothing. Ginger, or any other tea could never stain me like that. There are times when I lay awake at night remembering how coffee would keep me awake at night. Then, in the morning before everyone else was awake. We would go to the kitchen and grind.

I had no idea how serious it was. Every time I picked him up, coffee left a ring on the counter. I was a fool to just leave it there. Ginger Peach is a great tea and all, but… I, I am confused. I am thirsty. I do not know what I want.

Mormons are outside.
I can see them from right here.
No sudden movement.

There are three of them.
Oh crap, they just came indoors.
Eyes scanning the room.

I too, have a tie.
Do they think that I belong?
Back outside they go.

Thank you to the gods,
sending your people away
was a miracle.

I was just looking at the title of an entry in a friend’s blog. He used an exclamation point. I thought maybe I would have gone with the trailing off three periods. Are they called something? Then I started to think about how we as different people utilize different punctuation.

Now at some point or another we all use the variety of available standard punctuation marks, and our selection really depends upon the context. But beyond that there is a favoritism. Certain markings are used by some more than others. The decision can be a conscious one, where the person really wants to create a particular mood or emphasis for the sentence. And other times, the selected punctuation may just be what comes naturally. I do go both ways, but there are moments when I tend to spend more time dwelling over the placement of a comma than I should. I do like commas.

I very rarely use an exclamation point. Sometimes in emails I will if there is something truly deserving of such excitement. Mostly I do not. There are folks that I know who just love exclamation. At least every other sentence must end in an exclamation point, and sometimes three. This carries over to their spoken life as well. Every story is the best story ever told. It might only be about waiting in line at the library, but it was an amazing wait! Everything happened! So great! Do these people stop to breath? Do they ever come down from such elation? Is it real? I respect and admire the ability to share one’s passion with others, but in some of these cases I question their sincerity.

Then there are periods. A period seems so definitive. And that is the way it is. Period. Every sentence is final. We are no longer discussing this subject, the verb, or the adjectives. Case closed, let us move on. I see people talk this way. Sometimes it is even central to their personality. It can work for, or against you. One person could be regarded as a sage, always saying wise things with an absolute tone of finality. Another might come off as an argumentative jerk. The period is a mark of confidence. You stand unwavering beside your statement. It is the cold command of a supervisor as well as the warm instruction of a father. I have my claims that I may hold tight, though in general I stray from such a resolute stance as that of the period.

Ellipsis? Is that what the three periods are called? I would say that I use these more often than average… You find them at the end of a fairytale. It implies that the story does not end here. An ellipsis makes the sentence suggestive. What has been stated in the sentence is even up for deliberation. Speaking with ellipsis is a loose form of language. The exchange becomes less about the statement and more about the idea, with a possibility for more ideas. Instead of striving for the final say, as in many discussions, the goal is perpetual notions.* This direction can be less concise and well… less directed. Perhaps conceiving more and accomplishing less. I walk in line with this. A wandering mind and scattered vocalizations.

Three seperate ways to more or less end a sentence. A case study of conversation projected to the greater scale of everyday life and our interaction within it. Where do you suppose you fit in to this mix? Do you lean on any particular punctuation more than the rest? Does it shine out in your daily social exchange? Are we what we speak?

*The website’s name began here. I originally started writing this segment some months back. Though the post is only going up now, I was able to put the phrase to quicker use.

This evening I head to Milwaukee and I am not sure if they have the internet in Southern Wisconsin. So tomorrow’s post goes up today.

Roommate’s brother weds.
Tomorrow is all booked up,
the weekend as well.

List said “dancing shoes.”
But then what are “drinking shoes?”
Pack them anyway.

Wedding gift titled:
“Fish on Stand.” Is it not great?
Winner for best gift.

Jealousy welcomed,
when comparing our weekends.
Dig that Fish on Stand!

The other day I smirked. I do this occasionally when reason dictates. It is a natural reaction to the situation I find myself in. Usually not thought out, but more impromptu like a laugh. I do this expression around other people. It is an exchange that is telling without speaking. Though context may change, I usually take it to suggest some greater meaning, added humor, a facial acknowledgement that when seen by the other person, amplifies the content of the interaction.

The problem is, I smirk on the wrong side. In the last month I have begun to notice myself smirking on the side of my face opposite that of what is facing the other individual. A smirk is a quick moment and I am not about to readjust my face or stance just to flicker what should be so natural. Yet, I feel as if some humor is being lost. The joke is being setup, but I shoot the punch line into thin air.

Such misfires, though insignificant, get me to thinking about the larger state of humor. My humor. If I am falling short at something so simple as a lip twitch, then where else may I be doing the same? And not just physical, but verbal and mental. Could this be a telltale sign that my humor in general might just be a bit off? The things that I think, say, and do are not all hitting their marks in my social interaction. Communication breakdown.

I guess this just leaves me with the shotgun method. I shoot all I have in your general direction in hopes that a few things will penetrate. This is not so bleak as to suppose that we are operating on separate levels. I may just have to accept that a few gems may slide by on occasion. Such is your loss.

This last Saturday I retreated from the heat to the cool enticements of an air conditioned theatre. I saw Transformers…

There was a moment during the Transformers movie where I felt a kinship to my childhood of two decades past. I fused that space of then and now in tears as I watched that semi first transform into Optimus Prime. My body quaked in the tingles of expectance as the truck rolled up. And as the robot came out of his disguise, I too came out. Sitting in the theatre, I there and then felt my eyes wetting as I began to cry. I did not fight it back, but just accepted the outburst as proper.

Reliving a moment of my childhood far superior to how it originally went. A memory from the past made more perfect through clarity and quality. I saw it now not just as a twenty-six year old, nor a four year old, but as both and with new eyes. For any questions or concerns his modernized look could arise, the sound of his voice gave all the necessary reassurance. That voice is a father to me, and to many other children of the Eighties. Optimus Prime could tell me anything, and I would hear it.

I am not easy to tears, though such an event does happen. More often for the worse reasons, but a good one (a happy cry) may slide in on rare occasion. Rare, in that the degree of emotion must be quite severe to go beyond a smile, a laugh, and even the chills. The chills are customarily my benchmark for cinematic excitement, though I guess now I can go further.

I am at a loss to express the magical fusion between two eras of my life. For one moment I was a captivated child absorbing every sensation in the room indiscriminately as well as a reasoning adult awed at the technical achievement and execution playing out before me. We stride from our youth never to regain such innocence or such a beautiful account of the world. Memories can be sharp, but never with same emotive thrust of our earlier years. For one minute on a Saturday afternoon I was able to experience a childhood memory as even better than it originally was.

He called the cleaners.
His suit will be twelve dollars.
Ready on Wednesday.

Young cat with new hat
on the street finding the scene.
He walks like he knows.

New sandals bring itch.
But leather is so pretty.
Month long rash, two tops.

We blew up the dip,
and the bowl along with it.
Yeah America!