WASP

Drowned a wasp yesterday. I'm not really sure why. I'll say that it was because it scared me, and I didn't know how to get it out of the house without making it angry. I got it to the ground with some lysol, caught it in a cup, and covered the top with a paper towel. The sad part is that the poor thing probably just wanted to be free, and I couldn't let it, based on my own belief that the sting would hurt me more than it. Looking back, I remember that once a wasp stings, it dies. If I had just let it get me, then it wouldn't have been slow. I watched it struggle in the water, too afraid of paying it a disservice in its last minutes. I will remember you. I am sorry that I couldn't suffer you.

Went laser tagging. My heart is still pounding, and my legs still hurt. My legs are on fire. It rained all the way there and back. So it goes. Went to the pizza place again. I think that I need a break.

Pained Regards,

Caleb

P.S. phlegmatic - self-posessed, calm

A general note: after doing this for a few days, (this is post seven, it would seem), I've decided to change the way things are done a bit. I figure that for my own ease, and for consistency's sake, I'll post the day after, and will begin to use the past tense. It is, after all, stronger. Also, I won't be flopping down on my bed at midnight, pulling Elizabeth (my laptop) in front of me, cracking my fingers, and pounding away until goodness knows when.

Fire and Water

My eyes itch with sleep, or is that the pollen? I'm not sure. I'm not sure. I feel like slinking into hibernation. I would if time stopped passing. Mom always says "don't wish time away, because one day you'll want more." I don't disagree, I just want to sleep forever, with someone. I fear for the day that I get what I want. I won't know what to do. Not out of shock or awe, just general ignorance. There are many proverbs that dictate the difference between wants and needs, but I don't remember listening.

Today was a day for swimming in the creek, or freezing as it were. After a week of chilly weather it can only be expected. In my mind now I slow down the moments before jump off of the dock. (Well, all except for those few choice words I said - those can be skipped over.) I can feel my feet padding along the dry boards, thinking to myself just how dry I was, that is, not completely owing to the slight heat. Duhmp, duhmp, duhmp, I'm running now. Spring with a squeak to get me over the branches on the shore, and I'm not in the air long enough for falling to register, as when you're on a rope swing, or the lead up leaves you scared of the deed. Shit, it was cold. That's the first thought after resurfacing. Oddly enough, it wasn't breathing that bothered me, it was getting out. Then, from the water, I shout to my buddies, and one by one they succumb, hating me instantly when they hit the creek with a splash.

Some time after the water came fire, a nice touch. I like to watch the flame's burlesque show, how it slowly strips the log, leaving nothing but hot smoldering embers in the basin of the rusty pit. I'd like to say that I joined in the conversation over cold pretzel dogs, but the dance and my own thoughts held me captive. It's not like anything important was said. Apparently, none of us have important things to say. Sometimes I believe that I would talk more if it meant something, but much of the time it seems that it doesn't. I open my mouth to speak, and I say something I believe witty, something that people will remember me by, but somehow my banter isn't meant for such circles. It's fine, the flames were captivating, and I had stuff running through my mind.

Thoughtful Regards,

Caleb

P.S. suspire - to utter with long, sighing breaths

Cologne

The week of rough mornings is batting a thousand. The dirty clothing, which I thew on this morning after finding out with a certain jolt that I hadn't started the dryer the previous night, smelled like old cologne. To its credit, it had been sprayed with cologne weeks ago, much to my professional discredit. I can still smell it on me now, early Friday morning. It was a welcome change. It made me feel like a man, instead of just a kid. That's a hard concept to wrap my brain around, my being a man, though I know it to be all too true.

Summer is here for a day or so. Today was meant for just sitting in the heat and sweating after the fifty degree weather, and I was very happy to oblige. After bumming around in my nice clothing, some friends and I went to that new pizza place, barbecue chicken this time. If you're in the area, I implore you to go - one slice, one soda, one ice cream: three dollars. It's the best in town, and I'd hate to see it go now that I've conversed with the kindly owner.

Please be advised: jumping in freezing water because you were hot an hour or so prior isn't a good idea. The creek was a sort of hazel green. When I remember it now, its up past the shore, swollen with rain. It asks me nicely to splash, then it calls me mean names. It pushes me in. That is how the story will be told. I've learned as of late that the most refreshing things are foolhardy at times.

Borders for mom. I swear, the woman buys books to make herself cry. I bought a Creative Non-Fiction and Short Story periodicals for myself, along with another collection of what Garrison Keillor calls "Good Poems." The usual diner was after borders. Now, bed.

Regards,

Caleb

P.S. fifth column - a group of insurgents, traitors, or spies

Poor Kneecap

Riding a bike, you often take motion for granted. Even when you ball your hands, and squeeze into a stop, it is for the purpose of moving in the future. Wobble, slip, crash, pavement, slide. Balance can be as hard as blacktop. Luckily, I have always wanted a pair of grungy tan pants with holes and scuffed up bits. It would have been nice if such things were of my own volition. I might've worn a helmet.

With a reminiscent clack, (I say reminiscent, because "clack" is the sound my gears make now.) the cue ball hits the racked bright yellow one. With the semi-recent ban on smoking indoors, pool halls aren't like they are in the movies. I've done my time at our hall of preference, and am a little disappointed that no one has smashed their bottle and come at me with it. There isn't a trough in the boys' bathroom. I reckon my imagination will have to be enough.

Our place is furnished with pew benches. Some like to joke that god is on their side when they make a great shot, or at least I like to think that they do. Then, I think a lot of things, it would seem, that aren't real. I reckon my imagination is tricky like that. I can have a brawl in my head for my own amusement so long as I'll let myself be lead on. If that is the trade off, I don't mind.

After the pool hall is the other diner again. This time I notice the pictures of trains on the wall, and smile softly to myself. Some friends are finally home from school, and they dine with us. I hate how you can never find the jelly that you want. Then, maybe that's for show, a quirk for my companions to remember me by some day. I'm not scared of being forgotten, just human. The trains didn't sing tonight, but that's all right. They've stopped for the purpose of moving in the future, I hope.

Regards,

Caleb

P.S. bats in the belfry - eccentric, insane

P.P.S The last two days these posts have come the night after the day in which they occurred. I plan on righting this as soon as I get into a groove with this stuff. Pictures, too, shall be at the end of every post, having been taken, just not uploaded. This too will be righted.

Colder

I'm terribly sorry, I wrote a post for you full of wonderful allusions, the phrase "balling the jack," and, in my opinion, some of my better writing. When I went to post, the cursed blogger told me to sign in, and those words were lost - to be replaced by these ones.

What I wanted to talk about was the power of words, of biking in the rain, and dimly lit rooms which tick and play off-versions of Edelweiss. It was quite pretty, I promise, but I suppose that sometimes words just escape you. So it goes.

Today was the end of something important, something not meant to end. It is really astonishing how mad you can get before you realize that it doesn't matter. Most times the worst days have the best nights. Mine started with a bike ride through the rain with slick breaks that refused to stop, and ended, for my purposes, in that room with pillows and blankets. I can still hear the clocks. They chime the hour - one, two three, and I am gone.

Regards,

Caleb

P.S. habitué - One who frequents a particular place, especially a place offering a specific pleasurable activity.

P.P.S. I am sincerely sorry those five paragraphs escaped me. I'd say that it won't happen again, but there is no wood to knock on or salt to throw over my shoulder.

Bound: Anywhere

Temp Agencies can be the scariest places, but often you may find on a desk of that sterile, off-white place a drop of happy, pink, strawberry ice cream, having dripped to its current location from the jowls of the foreboding “The [sic.] Man.” I may have a new job coming my way, and I'm happy of that. They tell me that it'll be working in a factory building motorcycles. I don't mind. Work me to death, I need it.

Today was rainy, the wet still clings to the sky and promises to stay for the next week or so. Days like these are so unlike Spring. You bundle up under jackets and sweaters, and wonder when the leaves will start to change colors. When will the birds flee from this hemisphere? Weather like this makes me cuddly. I wonder what my sisters would do if I held them close and popped in one of my black and white films.

Went to the other diner by the trains. There is a certain mysticism to the screeching of iron on iron. From a distance the locomotives sound like those nights that I've spent with the best possible people, just talking, making false resolutions, nothing mattering more than the early hours themselves, which wrap you in their dark comforter. Sit close on the back steps, pass a fag between the two of you. I don't smoke, but every now and then you feel the rattling intake of breath, only instead of nicotine, the night fills your lungs, courses through your veins, fills you full to a soft, quiet bursting, and then you do.

That is what the breaks and whistles and chugging sounded like, that hiss of releasing hydraulics. At night, you hear your own midnight revelations echoed in train song. If I could understand their language I wouldn't listen, because those conversations mean something more. They are sacred. As it stands, I was glad of the far off din while I waited with a friend to be remembered.

There is enough will to change in me now. I feel it growing every day. Before I explode with it and give everyone something to remember, the hope is to let it begin to trickle out, storing enough to keep the pressure up, but doing enough to be proud of. I'm going to start submitting my work to periodicals. My children don't have it in them to make it, but a simple no is the best motivator. I send out my hope in exchange for a respectable dashing.

Regards,

Caleb

P.S. tipple - To drink intoxicating liquor, esp. habitually or to some excess.

Yassou!

The beeping of my dying cellphone has finally left my room. It's strange, the silence that has fallen now. Whereas before, while I was setting up my profile and such, the noises drifting around my head were measured by the once every other minute bleat of Dad's old silver Motorola. The cars on the highway, the overhead fan, and the various chat program blips have no law about them now. I think that I liked it better when my thoughts were interrupted, and forced into segments.

I quit much of social networking two calendar days ago at the early Monday time of this posting. I don't miss it. I'm determined now more than ever to change my life for the better, and Saturday it was kicked off with the Greeks' "yassou!"

Greek pastries are delightful, how they sort of fall into your mouth. Gyros are kind of wieldy with or without their foil, like the little kids that I got to play with, brothers of a friend. They were nice little chaps, but I wouldn't trust them with the cleanliness of my shirt. I suppose getting onion all over myself was my fault, but that's that. Friends, movies, a decidedly good day.

Today, well, yesterday now, I rode my bike to a friend's. The gears worry me a bit. I don't like how they make sounds when I shift, but that's that. It was beautiful, and I imagine that I'm in that one old Disney cartoon, the one where a character is walking down a path whistling, and everything around him dances and has a smile. I can't for the life of me remember which character was in it, though I could whistle you the tune. I have spent the better part of an hour looking to no avail. There's a new pizza place on 3rd Street in New Cumberland, in that retail spot where pizza places go to die. I suggest stopping in before it goes too. Delicious and cheap.

I'm going to wake up early today, and go to a temp agency as a part of this whole renovation project on myself. It worries me, but a lot of things worry me - money, women etc. Let us hope for something better, some change, something new.

Regards,

Caleb

P.S. edetic - Marked by or involving extraordinarily accurate and exacting recall especially of visual images.