Irish Hard Fate

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Today I sit in the dining room of flat 43. This flat is on the fifth floor of an apartment complex in the middle of Dublin. I look outside at the city. I see buildings, birds, and double-decker buses; painted doors, redbrick buildings, and domes of parliamentary offices. The River Liffey is just down the way, a block or so. The television is on, speaking to me with thick Irish accents. My phone charges, cords trail to the wall outlet, to switches, and the laundry buzzes in a room down the hall. It is my last day in the city of Dublin proper.

An Aside, morning conversation: I can’t go. I am waiting for my underwear to dry. –Go commando! If I go commando I will literally shit my pants… Fin. How weird is that actuality?

After a shower and granola to chew on, I thought of how I got to this spot. I never had a plan. I thought as I washed in the shower, in the mirror; lathering my underarms, observing my tattoos shining wet. I thought to myself, yes, I might have traveler’s sickness, but I have done everything allotted; I gave speeches and presentations, sat on endless cross-country bus tours, and hiked near the ocean in the snow. I learned how to sleep sitting up. The majority of the time a constant malaise was in my bones, and in the pit of my stomach, and still is. I was never at ease. It never really mattered. Though, I have learned a new phrase: I can’t complain.

I guess I should say it was fate to not complain. It was fate to walk out of two dead-end jobs without notice. These jobs gave me insight: don’t take shit from those who need you more than you need them. Take the wind out of their sails and put it into your own. It was fate to split my tooth in half while biting into a buffalo chicken pretzel I impulse bought at Lund’s. Yes, it was stupid, but it changed my life. I called my mother the next morning and she told me to find a dentist, get the root canal, and to think about insurance. It was fate to choose one day in early summer 2013 to A.) Search for a job that offers insurance, or B.) Apply to college because they offer insurance to students. That was all fate, and I sit here. I tongue the metal part of the aftermath of a root canal.

Before all this, the tooth incident, the insurance, the no place to go, the Dean’s list, the honor society, the shit jobs, the bosses who couldn’t care less, the I who couldn’t careless, the passport, the three weeks abroad (Ireland; Dublin, Galway; UK, Belfast), I was told that I couldn’t, I would never, it was impossible. That was fate. Telling people they can’t is fate. You are a part of their life by only not believing. 

So here, I would like to take a moment to thank the people who told me I couldn’t do a thing, anything. I want to thank the people who sit at home and think about how it is impossible for others to do things because they don’t believe in themselves, those who “know”. Thank you. I want to thank the therapists and psychiatrists I was made to visit when I was younger and problematic, (the drug tests and antidepressants of which I didn’t need), the ones who told me I was not University material, -not possible. I want to thank the councilors at high school who told me that with a GPA of 1.5 I would NEVER, capital whole fucking word, go to the University of Minnesota, never. I better try again. Apparently never is now.

I have nothing but thanks for the people who challenge(d) me, who ask(ed) me where I am(was) going, what I have(had) planned next, because I can easily give them the same answer: I don’t know, does it matter? Do you “know”? I don’t know because there is no reason or way to know exactly what will happen next. My dad used to give me the same answer when I would ask him what he was going to do next. He would say: I could walk across the street and get hit by a car right now and die. Because of this I don’t know what I am going to do next. Never have, never will. Because one day I could walk across the street and that would change my plans, -you know. Now I sit here.

The point of this piece is to let people know that it is okay to not know what to do next, and that negativity can be turned into positivity, and that fate is like god, and other religions. I assume “fate” will take care of that, fate happens. Now, I don’t necessarily think everything is up to that, but being linear is just as unrealistic. Go with it. If you feel like shit today just forget about it and walk down the street. You could die, you could discover the love of your life, or you could normal everything. Open your eyes. Forget about fear, fear is an excuse. Never is just a word, as important as the word bullshit. Fear is a disease of the mind. My mother always tells me, when it is your time to go, it is your time to go. So go! I live by that. If I don’t do this right here, right now, then I will never do it. I was never supposed to go to the U, or abroad, or write to people, or express myself, or think deep thoughts, I was told I couldn’t, but I do. I think about that. All those people had it planned out for me, and look where it got them, they told me I couldn’t and I did. I wonder if that skewed their beliefs, maybe it helped dial in the accuracy of labeling system, or prove its worth.

Had I feared the idea of not having a job to pay bills, fear of not having a direction or “goal”, I would have gone nowhere, but because I still was moving I’ve made it to right here. People spend so much time making goals and making plans, but think of the time wasted in that. I heard one time at my sister’s (Kelly Smelly’s) commencement speech, while I was unabashedly reading a book, to never stop reading, never stop doing. At that moment I put the book down and started listening, I stopped reading. The speaker said that if you aren’t going uphill you are coasting. It is not about the way or where, it is if you are going up or down. Don’t pick a point and go to it, go beyond. There is no destination without the travel; every fucking grassland and sheep and back of a bus driver’s head I will remember vividly throughout the years -I love Ireland. What we do along the way is up to us: complain, make excuses, or remain sedentary. I am not sedenTerry, I am Terry. Fate can be whatever: a label, a naysayer, a grade, a title, whatever you want, the important thing is you make it. What you do is what matters, even if you can’t answer everyone’s questions with the answer they so desire. It is all about you. Fuck them.

I believe: When people tell me I can’t do, make, or be, something it’s because they don’t believe they can do, make, or be something themselves.

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When in Ireland (pt. 1)

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Nothing is what it seems. You may think that two fingers in the air means: peace. You may think that it is the only interpreted meaning of the gesture. I would like to warn you that it is not. In Ireland the two-fingers, the peace sign, palm forward means two, as in the number 2. Palm backwards to you, not so much. This sign could be as offensive as the middle finger in America – it means fuck you! While walking around, while ordering drinks, while being conscious of norms of another society remember: It may mean peace to you but it could mean fuck off too.

Running Dublin in the morning with the buses, the Dole line, the seagulls cawing and swooping, the people walking past, and slow, and us running on the wrong side of the sidewalk (left), this is the kind of thing I think of. The River Liffey on both sides of me at one point. Running to through the dark to the dawn, speaking of the day to come and the day before which passed. Is it real to think we will not have a relaxing day today? The topic was: Had we both become homesick of a place we had lived in for less than a full week? I mean, five days, no less.

Dublin captures. Not to be cliché, but to be realistic. Dublin as a city is large enough to get stuck in for years and not see everything, yet be satisfied with what you’ve seen today. Riding the bus back in from the west, from Galway, I thought of how wonderful it would be to get back to the flat and take a shower, to relax and to read, to watch a movie we would be assigned to watch later. I thought of home, I kept referring to Dublin as “home”. It did not feel wrong, it felt sort of right. One misses loved ones and those closest, though a city of intrigue is just outside of the door, as it is in any town anywhere, even at home. What this trip has brought me so far is a sense to keep going- to keep exploring; no day is really finished. My head keeps spinning while I sleep in my bed. When the alarm goes off I know I have another one. It does feel good.

Black birds with big beaks and spotted seagulls swoop at the window in open sun. Ancient buildings and towers stand tall with the spire in a far off cityscape. Above the sidewalks, coffee pots, and finished breakfast plates remain stacked. Shoes hit the streets bringing their occupants ready for the day to come. A morning surprise; the bricks and mortar given life, hidden through the night, out now in open sight, and we digress on the River Liffey below. Honest tangents from different advantage, and we point out those in a line, those waiting for theirs. Each star was meant to shine until its time, then die. And then that vacant hole will spin, and consume, and be full again. And the black birds with big beaks and spotted seagulls will swoop at the window in the open sun.

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Blueprint: Mag-Pan

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Top Secret: Mag-Pan; I need a Target Audience

The object that I have created is called Mag-Pan. Mag-Pan is a magnetic-esque device powered through precise logical inquiry, post-magnetism, and computer direction. It operates with only three components, respectively. Mag-Pan is unique in that rather than attracting metal exclusively, as magnets do, Mag-Pan attracts any, and all particular entities, organisms, and minerals, etc., that are typed into the search bar of a simple computer program. Depending on the power of the computer it runs on (mostly my Dell Optiplex 790 PC, hooked up to a *now unlimited electrical output generator), it can obtain vast quantities of material at any time, without limit; specifically, any amount of material at any time. Mag-Pan is not dissimilar to a reverse jet-engine with magnetic properties set up to detect and retrieve targeted particles, in that it is pulling instead of pushing, however, now, it is inexhaustible, indefatigable, and can track anything, anywhere. It may even be the world’s only perpetual motion machine in existence. Mag-Pan takes the most basic aspects of magnetism (in post-magnetism), computer technology, and human logic and transforms them into a usefully controllable machine.

Mag-Pan was discovered out of curiosity. Magnets had been used prevalently within the transportation community, in engineering, and for trivial things, such as holding bags closed, and postcards on my refrigerator. Humans had not used magnets to their full potential, though I was about to.

How I discovered Mag-Pan was through many hours of research, close reading, and experimentation. By crushing a magnet down to dust and recharging its particles with obscure electrons, one could create a magnet ten times stronger than the magnet one started with. This proved somewhat helpful, but it was mostly useless. I needed a way to control the magnet, to make it track things of importance, things of necessity, things I didn’t have. This last bit is not unlike the mindset of Bedford while he is on the moon, except I am on earth, in a shitty apartment. He wants the moon gold; he doesn’t care about getting to know the Selenites. We present similar theories. I’ll cite that there are millions of tons of precious metals, gems, and resources located within the earth’s crust, yet the human race could only dig so deep. I know the former now, the minerals and resources bit. We had barely scraped the surface. So, to solve the problem, I decided to bring the materials to me; right where I sit.

How I made a magnet, or magnet-esque machine, so powerful was through repurposing the magnetic properties with electrons, a process which creates post-magnetism. Through this I noted the power of the magnet had increased, however, by adding and displacing certain varieties of electrons manually, I found that the magnets attracted new and diverse targets, not just metal. It was unbelievable, at first I thought it was a flaw in my logic—or my eyes had gone bad, but when things started to move and shake, I could see this was no fluke.

After repurposing the magnets, and then putting them in the meta-transference room (in order to avoid the arduous task of manually placing the obscured electrons, which signal the track target of Mag-Pan), a curious and unfortunate event befell my progress. The magnet, or then Mag-Pan would not attract anything at all. No matter what I did, the particles attracted nothing.

This was a low point in the process; realizing that I would have to manually assemble the electrons in order for Mag-Pan to function properly, or at all, I sat and thought…

From being fully charged with electrons, moving some few particulars (not metal), and after being put through the meta-transference room, Mag-Pan became impotent. AH! NO! I was stumped… My creation went from super-magnet, with potential, possibly attracting foreign objects never before attracted, to attracting nothing at all. It was unable to attract metal, which it should attract anyway, always.

I thought for hours and hours, and like anything else that exists in the world, I came to a conclusion: these magnets (this post-magnetic structure) lacked one thing: a purpose.
Next off, I built a computer program that could shape these magnetic particles, a program that could place the electrons through the use of the meta-transference room, one that could give them guidance, meaning; a purpose.

I put my head to the computer screen and started typing away. I did not leave my lab for some days. And just as The Oregon Trail PC video game which entertained us all in elementary school became a thing, I had created a classic, Mag-Pan. Mag-Pan was officially ready to be driven off of the lot.

The first thing I had Mag-Pan target was a keg of beer, naturally… I plugged in the code on my computer and flipped a switch, and next thing I knew I had an ice cold keg of Hacker-Pschorr beer sitting in my lab, ready to drink, mostly. Now I could change the world. Obviously, I was astounded, but not astounded enough to stop at just a keg of beer. I needed one more thing. So, I plugged in the code and waited, and: BOOM—there it lay on the floor! Glistening under the lights of the room, I said it to myself out-loud, cocksure proud, “Folks, we have a tapper… Let the party begin.”

The particulars of Mag-Pan worked as such; I had to be discreet with wording my search, still do. [Some things I targeted didn’t work out; Marilyn Monroe… came back as a dried-up corpse, unfortunately. I had some other instances of outliers which are too difficult to explain, but I will tell you to never target: a rhino, Putin, or Honeybees. The ride with Mag-Pan appears to be a bumpy one, though I don’t speak Russian] I found that if I wanted a party it had to come in parts, discreet parts; the third thing I targeted with Mag-Pan was a bunch of cups, cheers.

The importance of the Mag-Pan cannot be over-stated. Although it is fun to mess around with such a machine, it is highly important for the survival of the human race.

Take for instance in the spring of 2021 when the water on earth had turned undrinkable, depleted, and full of salt via the rise of the oceans due to global warming. The one thing human beings desired most was something they had treated poorly in the past. They had taken it entirely for granted, water. I took it upon myself to create a tank for Mag-Pan, which held pure water. I used Mag-Pan to target and attract water (sans salt, imperfections etc.) into the tank, and by doing so solved the world’s water problem. After that, eventually things went back to normal.

Even before The Water Solution, I was rich beyond my wildest dreams. I had targeted gold, I had targeted oil, and I had targeted gemstones. Why did I do this, because I was greedy? NO! I knew that if people had nothing to possess then they would have nothing to defend, guard, or kill for. Mag-Pan would end all violence around the world. There would be no wars over nothing. If we all had everything we wanted, or we (others) could not obtain it… but I could, I could take it all away… so that no one would want or need it. This action eventually led to inevitable world peace due to the lack of things to fight for.

Throughout history the world needed something to own, to obtain, property, to claim. I had the sole machine that could get me anything I wanted, and everything everyone else wanted, too. There was no need or want, there was only have… I took it all and gave them everything, the whole world. The water, the oil, the gem-stones… They went through me and I didn’t charge anything because I had it all. The water crisis was solved even before it happened, after some deep thought.

Mag-Pan and its components (most of which I won’t share, for fear of others attempting to build such a machine), are made of everyday parts. You see them daily, you just haven’t thought of putting them together. They were merely collaborated in a different way, from a different angle. Thinking different affords many advantages. We have all of the answers at our finger tips, staring us in the face. The same keyboard I am typing this paper on, I found the most glorious treasures in the world with, and the necessities of life, a way to save the world and her inhabitants. I found that all by asking questions, making something different the wrong way.

Mag-Pan is now locked away in a very safe location, one targeted and located by Mag-Pan proper. Mag-Pan is safer out of the limelight, behind a wall where no one can find her, save for me, when a crisis arises.

And they’ll never find me anyway. I know this for certain. Taking extra precaution… The last thing I typed in Mag-Pan for a target was: Memory.

*You will understand the now after reading, and now…

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Forgotten Logic

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One wonders,
Have I missed a step?
Am I still asleep?
Has the logic left?

I look up at that dull computer screen while that thought flashes through my mind… Why buy these things? Who even reads the book? Has mysticism taken over? Can this be real? Now my mind and my eyes hurt, acutely. I can’t believe it: a camp, a cult, this ideology shifted on “believing”, everything in the present tense labeled as “forgettable”. This religion has taken over. If you explain it different you are singled out a pariah, if you agree you are one of the sheep. I spoke of words/actions, they told me in blatant words: “we do”, “we have”, and “we are” “…ha, ha” (with an ironic laugh), but I don’t see. I wonder if they do, though…

The screen barks, it beckons, this call to click, scroll, hit. I sit and stare. This chair is stiff, old, and it smells. I wonder who has sat here before. I wonder what they thought. If a friend had been going through an existential crisis, depression, (other problems by other names), if that crisis was not your friend’s, but yours… what would you do? I wonder more, there is no answer, as in Moby-Dick, just catalogues of categories; out of place and misshapen, to sound beautiful, to beg meanings, and those that don’t get it just don’t. There is nothing more, class dismissed. It is singularly their problem. And they spoke in millions of meditation, and vice versa. I spoke in drunken logic to fools who could relate, whisky to breath, in a way that seemed aggressive only to those with esoteric ambivalence (crutch), and those who play naïve. Don’t tell them that though.

People walk past me and stare. I’d hardly taken notice when I put the hot coffee to my lips. Ouch, but I realize that this is the hottest this coffee will ever be; its heat expires over time, such is life. The burn awoke my senses. I am here, I am bundled, my feet are on the floor, my fingers are clicking, there is much to do, but I ponder on a drunken bar scene. I think. I wonder. This… Does he do what he says he does? Is it for show, for make believe, for the audience? Does it matter? This ever personal, monomaniacal question of: Does. And it. And Matter. And I find nothing. There is no answer, no relief, even if there were pressure, pain, bother. It just comes and goes, like everything else; as trends are cool in Uptown, and Downtown, Minneapolis and La Crosse; as the ebb and flow of rivers and seas; the rise of the tide, and the bodies within it. There is a new crest on the horizon. My mind rides that wave, as they wave goodbye. And I wish there was an onomatopoeia for that.

The sun peaks through the shades as I scroll the page. I sort of do the same as the first paragraph, sort of. Nothing new, though I can’t believe what I read- I shouldn’t say I can’t believe, because I can. And most people do. -Unbelievable! Believing and objectively viewing something are not mutually exclusive; sometimes they happen apart from one another, at different times. In this case they happen exclusively. Again I must sip my coffee and think. I wonder. I go into the work that needs to be done, the Hausaufgaben (-e, pl), the reading, the text, the papers, the pages, and I think of the cold outside, the snow, the sun (which lies), and the people around me. I wonder. Then I must stop this procrastinating. And I think it is over.

***

If a man is determined to jump off of a bridge to prove his point, he will. And if he doesn’t jump he wasn’t passionate enough. And if he does jump he is crazy. But at least if he does jump it is proven fact that he believed without a doubt, -and possibly without logic… And in that sense, I believe in him.

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Standing on Ice while Floating down the Mississippi River

10384518_10205352588482474_6079525624499956765_nThe fact of the matter was we were floating on a sheet of ice just below the Cass Street Bridge, in the middle of the Mississippi. It was a new year in the 199?s, it was cold. We stood there next to jet skis in dry-suits, which are the cousin of wet-suits, minus the wet part. The machines lay tilted on the white speckled surface. The water was frigid, only our ankles, neck, and heads were exposed to the elements. The daytime wasn’t so bad, though under grey skies one could wish for sunlight. Seagulls flew, diving for fish, here and there; making way at whatever their talons could sink into. They screeched calls and flew.

We stood for a while after we bumped onto the slab, and throttled up to rest easy. The piece was floating relatively slow in a pack of its likeness, adrift, akin in shape to a chip. When we were on top it felt stable, though precarious. That flat sheet, brittle, 50 feet by maybe 40, these are later life guesses on angles which will nevermore be, or matter; anti-matter. As a child you don’t think in numbers, in exacts, rather just in activity; I did this, with this person –it was fun, I remember. This pastime was also dangerous, extremely. My dad and Dave and me, we stood watching the world go by as we floated on this –what I thought was an “iceberg”, down river.

Below the blue bridge, it loomed tall as we moved south with the current. We launched at Wild Cat Landing, we made it north in good time, dodging that which bobbed. Again measurements were flawed… A lot seemed to be coming down that day. Ice had broken off from lock and dam No. 7, on an early season thaw. We went in a line right with them, what remained sedentary came at and past us.

On the river one must contend with many objects. These objects can come in from in front, behind, above, and below. There is no real safe place on the river, river rats know. One thing to look out for while navigating the Mississippi is buoys. Buoys are cylindrical floating metal markers, color coordinated to designate specific throughways along the river; they come in a variety of (shapes and) colors, but most prevalently red and green. Buoys also help to show captains and pilots where not to go, in hopes they don’t run aground on wing-dams, or sandbars.

Now that we know what a buoy is, imagine floating directly at one while standing on a sheet of ice.

It came up fast. It was green, old, dark, and dented, near sections of a docked barge. If a fixed object helps to determine speed, this buoy would suggest we were going fast. We saw it just before hearing a hollow sound, kerplunk. Water, splashing, and then just as fast as it had appeared it was gone, somewhere underneath where we stood. My dad and Dave screamed to get to the machines –quick pointing with gloved finger. I jumped on before the jet skis were even started, when at that very moment the buoy came through the ice. It shot up like a hammer through glass; a champion boxers glove to his adversaries face. The sheet of ice shattered to pieces, shards floating in the freezing brown water. We fell through the air for a moment, and dropping down into the river water sprayed us cold. We rocked back and forth for some time, and he hit the ignition.

My dad was in shock, but mostly laughing –his big toothed smile. I held him tight and we jetted away, in the cold wind, in the mist. I saw down below by my ankles, the duct-tape which held my water-shoes to the dry-suit had come loosed as it was saturated. Those seagulls flew away. You could hear the jet skis whining from far off in early springtime that year. And we were still moving down but faster, the same as the water and ice had been.

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Taking the Bus through Downtown (MPLS)

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***
We stood and waited. The bus stop was cooled by the New Year’s wind. January in the Midwest, in Minnesota, in Minneapolis, is somewhat of a farce. This comes off as a big joke on the locals. The words “New” and “Year”, together, give hope of something new, but the weather does not change. This cold remains. The sun hangs bright and attentive in the sky, though ice and snow cling below to the ground. Grooves formed from cars and bikes catch and turn those along the path, spinning round. These exist now, but sometime after June they slip away in the drainage holes just below the curbs. These bus stops are not heated…

The bus stop was cold, and the bus was running late –typical, usual, I hate. These occurrences are not mutually exclusive; accordingly, they are a tragedy when taking place at the same time. Looking at feet one notices where one has moved; not very far from where one stopped. Life was like this, now. It was a bit of slush, a bit of cold, and a bit of snow, all to go. We try at making it home. The glass fogged up in the bus shelter. Paper schedules held the time, held the wall, whether in the sticky summer heat or the frozen winter cold. Footprints formed below.

At this time my tooth was in the process of falling out. We stood in South. I required a root canal, which no boat could float through, and I lacked the insurance. A thousand things were going through my mind (cliché). Aroma from Bob’s Java Hut came along the sidewalk, and across the street, behind the stop sign and into open nostrils. What the cold did was sting the insides, what the coffee smell did was cause a nostalgic feeling in the same locale, both of these happenings carried consequence. We stood and watched for the lights of the bus. That dim orange-yellow made butterflies flutter.

When the bus came to our stop we were standing on snow mounds. These hard hills were formed from snowmelt and ice and dirt and chemicals. They held in -10 degree weather as pillars of old which erected government buildings. No remedy could transpire in such drastically low degrees. Though, these structures need to stand the test of time. The mounds were slick, pitted, and asymmetrical, shaded dark for the fodder. It was even with the threshold of the bus door. One could step off the cold onto the wet black rubber floors of the vehicle’s innards. It was easy, it was necessary, and being such a small delight it warmed in many ways.

The seats on the bus would be above freezing, this seemed a benefit. I was only aware of how vile bus seats were after my (very close individual), who drives buses, told me about his experience with the bus seat. I asked him something like, “What is the craziest thing you have seen on a bus?” He answered with something like, “What haven’t I seen… Ha! I’ve seen everything…” I mean the list was unending; he had seen people shit their pants, piss their pants, throw up, drop food, spill drinks, throw both of the latter etc. I mean after the first three I was concerned about riding the bus from that day on. Now before I sit down I always pat the seat with my hand. One can never be too safe. Sure, think that wetness on the seat was someone’s wet boot, or shoe, but the likelihood of it being feces or urine is just as good. Keep your ass warm, and your thoughts on positive. Love that seat heat.

The inside of the bus gave us momentary reprieve from the elements. We passed lights and buildings and bars. The city was lit up. These giants became bigger as we came near downtown. It was a parade sorts’ night, as Nicollet Mall typically is come wintertime. This show of façade seemed glowing, welcoming, and friendly. As one gets within it they realize that everyone around is drunk, cold, looking to leave, superficially excited, or set on something else. It can be strange. When in downtown in the winter months, Minneapolis can appear abandoned. There are no regulars just people completely covered walking fast to get out of the cold. They walk shrouded in bundles, through establishment doors. The barren tundra, the looming skyscrapers, and the wind that blows between them are the only members playing a residency in Downtown… There are even fewer pigeons.

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Every Friday

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If one were to work on the slowest computer in the world, it would be this one. I am certain of it. I have never spent so much of my time spending so much of my time. It has happened today, and last week on the same day. So, I guess I have before, which negates the never.

My Friday is like this almost every week. I wake up, I commute to work, and then I deal with this slow fucking computer. There is no sense in it really. I can’t type a single sentence without a pause… bleep… bleep… fade… pause. This piece took me three hours (years) to complete.

I start to talk to it, through the monitor, to ask it questions. It never answers me back. I say in a low voice, “Do you have to do this to me right now?” and “Really, why the fuck are you doing this to me right now?” The cursor is just as confused as I am. It thinks, is this my job, to sit and wait all day? Now I do nothing! It sits and it waits, while I sit and I wait. I wonder, was dial up a faster option? I wish I was back in 1999. I could then party like it. And at least more of my family members would be alive.

Usually Fridays are fun. Usually. Today it was sort of like that except for the money I was investing into a truck I had recently purchased. You could say it is a money pit, or I am shoveling money into it, and you wouldn’t be lying -maybe. I like my truck though, appropriately dubbed “The THUNDERCLAP”. It gets me around. From place to place I travel now, not just on my bike, but in my truck. How fun is that!? I know… very exciting.

***

Cajoled is my new favorite word. It means something like fucked around with, or played, or tricked. I think, one of those three definitions works, perhaps. It is a real word. –Though I don’t know what a fake word is… It makes me think of westerns (old movies or books) and cowboys and country and Mexicans… It never makes me think of Native Americans, Indigenous People, though, but it should. I’m pretty sure colonists screwed them over the worst, -cajoled them, really. But no one mentions it anymore. The idea is in a name, in a place, rooted in history written by the same people that it glorifies. Those pages, only to be forgotten under dust and years of sunsets, effectively ineffective. That is what I think about the word cajoled.

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Lost and forgotten, it had many years sat. She said my prose didn’t work on the research paper. That would explain the 65% grade. My poetry did not explain the science. It clouded my ideas. I needed to attend to subject and verb, etc. And whatever else remains of English grammar. She can have it, all those proper things. Not since high school had I stooped so low on the grading scale. I know why though, it’s because things aren’t as clear as they seem. I would rather read Burroughs’ prose than a scientific journal, though that may be where the money is. You think? Sometimes I think too much empirical observation can fog the mind. Too many rules can just add to the boxy structure. So rigid, so orthodox, so formal, and it’s just ink on pulped trees. Black stains on dead plants. It’s what fills our pockets and proves our intelligence; money, degrees. How perfect do you have to be?

That is just how life is sometimes.

… I really don’t know.

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