There is a window on the seventh floor where a writer sits and stares. His seat is sidled up close to the wall, where he can rest his arm and his coffee on the windowsill. Beside his hand is a simple black pen which sits quietly as he smokes his cigarette, waiting patiently to be picked back up. He is staring slightly downwards, towards the building across the street.
The Price of a Soul
The Price of a Soul
He sold his soul in china
and then again in France;
bought back from a child sailor girl
for the price of just one dance.
He sold his soul in china
and then again in France;
bought back from a child sailor girl
for the price of just one dance.
Caffeine Romance
To the coffee connoisseur, the quest for a cup is the beginning of a romance. Across the street he scans the eyes of all the pretty girls, pausing on a particularly promising profile. She's just his type, and the sign proclaiming "Open" is her smile back. He picks up conversation at the counter, mixing his sweet talk with her sarcasm. At one point a silence settles over top them, and the veil of personal distance is peeled away, as he leans in to bridge the distance between their lips.
Our particular not-yet-caffeinated cognoscente can feel the heat of her tongue on his nose when the bodega door bursts open. His outstretched lips recoil as the pretty thing in his hand coughs up all over his shirt.
To be fair it wasn’t her fault.
Our particular not-yet-caffeinated cognoscente can feel the heat of her tongue on his nose when the bodega door bursts open. His outstretched lips recoil as the pretty thing in his hand coughs up all over his shirt.
To be fair it wasn’t her fault.
People Ignoring People
Recently New York City introduced a ride share program for taxis, sort of a halfway point between taking the subway and paying in full for a taxi. I can't tell you exactly why they introduced this program because, alongside the article, in bold bullet points, is a rather more interesting sidebar. It's a list of tips on how to deal with fellow riders (because of course, living in New York, we readers obviously have no clue on how to interact with other human beings).
Tip number one is fine; don't talk on your cell phone. I personally think that cell phones should operate under the same rules as cigarettes, but a shared automobile is a start at least.
However, tip number two is far more sinister.
Tip number one is fine; don't talk on your cell phone. I personally think that cell phones should operate under the same rules as cigarettes, but a shared automobile is a start at least.
However, tip number two is far more sinister.
I've Never Heard Them Called 'Analog' Before...
When the unassuming flat-rate envelope arrives you already know what it is. Inside are two black boxes; one a compact cube, holding 5 cartons. Your eyes skim the five slim packs fit inside with frustrating precision. Though the tiny boxes hold for you their own secret allure, you set aside the small set of symmetry and approach the larger of the two.
The black box opens like a book; charger and adapter slipped snug into separate plastic sleeves. Like the adventuring archaeologist, who brushes away dirt and debris from an ancient tome, you place them alongside their instructions.
Nestled in the bottom of the packaging is a black
pack, cut-off corners suspiciously similar to the most infamous gimmick in cigarette history; the Camel Crush. Vaguely the thought passes that you may be partaking in the patterns of part time and premature smokers, but this pause is hardly enough to compete with that new-toy anticipation.
The black box opens like a book; charger and adapter slipped snug into separate plastic sleeves. Like the adventuring archaeologist, who brushes away dirt and debris from an ancient tome, you place them alongside their instructions.
Nestled in the bottom of the packaging is a black
pack, cut-off corners suspiciously similar to the most infamous gimmick in cigarette history; the Camel Crush. Vaguely the thought passes that you may be partaking in the patterns of part time and premature smokers, but this pause is hardly enough to compete with that new-toy anticipation.
'Publicized Ruminations'
"How much respect would you lose for me If I started blogging?"
"I see why it makes sense for you, but is there something else we could call it? I have no respect for verbs that have only existed for 5 years... So I guess only a tiny bit of it would be lost."
"Let's call it 'Publicized Ruminations' so I can keep the little respect you have for me intact."
"That's a good one. And a successful preservation of what's left."
So I did it.
And I still feel sort of guilty. For a lot of reasons really, but the hardest hurdle for me to vault is the popular term for it (originally "web log", it has been abbreviated in a manner stunningly characteristic of internet pop culture). The very sound of the word conjures images similar to the kind of writing that it usually exhibits. Blog. Blah. Blah blah blah. Dull strings of inanities; long, hastily-built thought-trains hurdling into the abyss of the incomprehensible. Where 'web log' sounds punctual and precise, blog sounds erratic and mindless. Neither term has any tact and both are equally unattractive to an artist.
The word is its own satire. To pronounce blog your mouth and throat actually begin to mimic the act of throwing up. The metaphorical bile is stopped in your esophagus by the equally gutteral consonant 'G'. The letter 'G' is a staple of germanic words; the ones Poe employed in the darkest corners of his writing. Ugly, agoraphobic, grotesque, ungainly, garish. Uggs. Ugh.
To its credit, blog belongs to a small sect of words that adequately describe their subjects through pronunciation alone; words like whimsical and grotesque. This, however, is its single redeeming quality.
So I'm doing my best not to call it a 'blog' to avoid associating myself with most 'bloggers'; uninspired individuals who puke-and-rally prose like college students spew their supper (luckily, we have yet to create a public space where partiers can proudly exhibit their insides).
Then comes the struggle of what to write. The simple act of using the first person feels frighteningly familiar to the aforementioned filth. When I feel my ego's engine running out of esteem I like to hit the "Random Blog" button once or twice. But this only gets me wondering; is my target audience ignoring blogs as hard as I am?
Possibly. I have no real idea. But this spot is a good reason to write, and a manageable exercise in completion.
Here you will find no answers to questions commonly asked, no catchy colors nor link-laden fonts. There are no tips or tricks or pics. There are no gizmos or gadgets or .gifs.
Enjoy,
-F
"Inessential insanities get one in trouble with oneself. Essential insanities get one in trouble with others. It's always preferable to be in trouble with others. In fact, it may be essential."
(Tom Robbins, Still Life with Woodpecker)
"I see why it makes sense for you, but is there something else we could call it? I have no respect for verbs that have only existed for 5 years... So I guess only a tiny bit of it would be lost."
"Let's call it 'Publicized Ruminations' so I can keep the little respect you have for me intact."
"That's a good one. And a successful preservation of what's left."
So I did it.
And I still feel sort of guilty. For a lot of reasons really, but the hardest hurdle for me to vault is the popular term for it (originally "web log", it has been abbreviated in a manner stunningly characteristic of internet pop culture). The very sound of the word conjures images similar to the kind of writing that it usually exhibits. Blog. Blah. Blah blah blah. Dull strings of inanities; long, hastily-built thought-trains hurdling into the abyss of the incomprehensible. Where 'web log' sounds punctual and precise, blog sounds erratic and mindless. Neither term has any tact and both are equally unattractive to an artist.
The word is its own satire. To pronounce blog your mouth and throat actually begin to mimic the act of throwing up. The metaphorical bile is stopped in your esophagus by the equally gutteral consonant 'G'. The letter 'G' is a staple of germanic words; the ones Poe employed in the darkest corners of his writing. Ugly, agoraphobic, grotesque, ungainly, garish. Uggs. Ugh.
To its credit, blog belongs to a small sect of words that adequately describe their subjects through pronunciation alone; words like whimsical and grotesque. This, however, is its single redeeming quality.
So I'm doing my best not to call it a 'blog' to avoid associating myself with most 'bloggers'; uninspired individuals who puke-and-rally prose like college students spew their supper (luckily, we have yet to create a public space where partiers can proudly exhibit their insides).
Then comes the struggle of what to write. The simple act of using the first person feels frighteningly familiar to the aforementioned filth. When I feel my ego's engine running out of esteem I like to hit the "Random Blog" button once or twice. But this only gets me wondering; is my target audience ignoring blogs as hard as I am?
Possibly. I have no real idea. But this spot is a good reason to write, and a manageable exercise in completion.
Here you will find no answers to questions commonly asked, no catchy colors nor link-laden fonts. There are no tips or tricks or pics. There are no gizmos or gadgets or .gifs.
Enjoy,
-F
"Inessential insanities get one in trouble with oneself. Essential insanities get one in trouble with others. It's always preferable to be in trouble with others. In fact, it may be essential."
(Tom Robbins, Still Life with Woodpecker)
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