Hide & Seek/ How to Sneeze

Hide and seek was an endearing game. In the summer we spent most of our time near the shores of the Mississippi, in the sun, listening to whatever story dad was telling. I remember one occasion when we were at the boat dock, me and my sisters and the other kids. It was hot as usual, and we thought it would be a good idea to play some hide and seek to pass the time.

Typically at the harbor we made paper airplanes or watched the adults drink until they were drunk. But today was different, we decided to play hide and seek instead. Things went off smoothly at first. Someone counted, the others went hiding. Us kids, we hid in various places; some hid in the parking lot between cars, others hid below the front deck in view of the gas pumps, and the smart ones hid in the gendered bathrooms.

It was as so: No boy could go into the girl’s bathroom! Accordingly, no girl could go in the boy’s bathroom! These were the life rules which everyone abided by, no question… This was younger times…

The bathroom was what started it all. I pretty much fucked myself because of ignorance; I was caught unawares of my surroundings. See, it was my turn to do the seeking, and I hated this. I liked better to be found. Being the tenth round or so, everyone was figuring elaborate hiding spots. I had not found anyone—time was ticking, but I could hear laughs and giggles coming from the ladies’ room.

Next to the bathroom were barrels just high enough for me to stand on and glimpse in through the window. I thought, perfect, I’ll be able to catch these fucks hiding in the ladies bathroom without going inside—a place a young boy was not allowed…

So, I jumped up on the blue 55-gallon drums and started peering, hands at my peripherals to block the sun. It was at this moment that I heard something which caused me a great deal of shock. In the time I had jumped onto the barrel, and started to view inside the coveted room, a squad car had pulled up, and two policemen stepped out. I heard the words and almost jumped, I was probably red as a tomato… they sound like, “Hey, boy, come here!”

I walked over to the officers in uniform. I was caught red-handed, I could feel the eyes of my peers and the drunks watching as I spoke with the authorities. I prayed no one saw this. They did. The cops asked me if I wanted to get arrested for being a peeping-tom. I could not explain to them the events which led me to this out of sheer embarrassment. I said nothing of the lame excuse of hide and seek.

That being said, they let me off with a warning and I walked back through the harbor shop and onto the deck. The game was over for me. I had a clear view of the river shining south. I wanted to not be there, be out of it. I felt almost sick at the ideas, or implications of my action. I sat there alone, away from my friends.

A man came up to me, a local proprietor of boat rentals, and called me “Erv the Perv”, I was probably 10 or 12 years-old, he was old and wrinkled, he was the perv! I felt like a criminal, ashamed, even by accident. I was innocent, yet pegged for guilty. To this day I fear playing hide and seek, and I always avoid women’s restrooms.


I don’t know the proper etiquette for catching a sneeze… I mean, do you do it in your hands, or in your shirt, or on your elbow? Sometimes I have this issue, and can’t remember. The sneeze comes on and it’s a split-second thought. Where does it go???

This morning while getting ready for work I sneezed into my shirt. As a child my father made a point of giving me certain misinformation as fact, I think to test me. He told me to cover my sneeze with my shirt, always—you don’t want to spread germs. Recently, I have been questioning this idea.

In school at times I will sneeze into my shirt. It happens so fast it appears as though the spray is caught by my hands, but this is just an illusion. I felt that my father’s misinformation about sneezing may have led me to not one, but many of my chest hairs becoming stuck—almost naturally glued to my shirt more than a couple times… It’s almost as cum down the leg, stuck in hairs. It’s been bad…

So, today, I was getting ready. I took a shower. I made coffee. I boiled water and made oatmeal. I was in the kitchen listening to jazz, when all of a sudden I felt it coming. I knew I had to sneeze. I was wearing my favorite blue v-neck t-shirt, the one with red stripes. I braced myself on the counter, pulled the neck of the shirt out and put my head down. Five gasping sneezes later—of the common cold variety, I finished.

You know, I don’t mind going back to school, but the thing that inevitably happens when I am around other people, younger more vulnerable people—who carry sickness and disease, is I get sick. I don’t mind being this kind of sick, though I do feel a bit like Typhoid Mary—Common Cold Terry (it has a ring), but it just gets to become a nuisance. Last night my throat was scratchy, I was grumpy, and I had a persistent dry cough…

The sneeze from breakfast was the last thing on my mind when I looked into the mirror during final preparation. I thought to myself, did I fucking spill coffee on the front of you! There in the middle of my shirt was a Rorschach test design spelled out in slime. I pondered how this had happened. Ten minutes later when the spots would not fade, or dissipate in anyway, I realized that my father had been playing a sick game on me when it came to catching sneezes.

Realizing this I tore my favorite shirt off and brushed my teeth topless, thinking about what I would put on as a backup shirt… I kept telling myself today wouldn’t be bad… I never think about what I will have to wear during the day, but I did want to wear this shirt—this now stained shirt, dried sneeze on the front, as cum. Alas, that’s how she goes… I need to start watching Trailer Park Boys again. I must say, thanks dad. You made this morning interesting.

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Sleeping to Death

Going to class does not necessarily make you any smarter than anyone else in the world. What people fail to realize is that in order to gain something of quality, to progress as a person beneficially, to actually learn, they have to pay attention, care, be interested, and try. Not just show up and play the part of a cardboard cut-out. You/they have to try.

Even if you fail trying it is important. Yeah, sure, everyone says this same shit—the ol’ college try, but how often do they actually try? Maybe if they tried they would suck at something for years—thought still care about it, though still put the time and effort into doing it. Then some day it would happen. The general aspirations they were going for would come to fruition. Exactly what they wanted to happen would happen, and exactly nothing would happen…

And this happening does not have to be a paradigm shift–an awakening(!), or some sort of righteous epiphany. It could just be the idea that people actually care about something you have created or done. It could be that you actually enjoy what you did/do. It could be that that idea makes you truly happy, and have nothing to do with anyone else but you. This happened to me while biking the other day. I love what I’ve been doing (failing or not), I almost cried…

But, you say, there aren’t quotes around any words, and all of this stuff carries ideology, and some of it doesn’t make sense, like the part where nothing happens at the end… Well, it does and it doesn’t.

Being successful has nothing to do with money, or other people’s or institution’s opinions, and everything to do with how you feel inside.

Do you feel good? Did you try and fail? Great! You are one step ahead, one step closer to achieving your goals than the lot of people who are too scared to step in front of an audience and try at words into a microphone, or paint on canvas with a brush, or print words in a book, or place the best line in a joke.

By failing miserably you are better than those same people who could talk for hours about what they will do and not spend one second doing it.

I’ll quote myself and say, “Talking about an action does not perform said action.”

To get back to it, going to class does not make you any smarter, or better, or wiser than anyone else. You have to try. You have to fail. You have to actually be a part of life, this life—not the life in your cellphone, not your life on the internet, not your life stuck in what the media tells you you should be sticking your life in to.

It’s all about now, but that is cliché–you can’t say that enough, but Vonnegut said through Reddit today to do it, to me. He begged me to write something I care about, simply. So I did.

I care about doing things and taking something away from that act. I don’t care about acting like I will do something. Whether it be standing in front of a crowd of people, or in front of a mirror, or at the supper table, and completely failing, or having those around me think I am crazy. What matters is that I take something away from it.

So, instead of talking shit about how something is horrible, or how you are going to do something when you get the time, next time(!), to do something, or you are going to make that hard decision later, or tomorrow, just get up and do it now.

(I just thought of Shia LaBeouf.)

If you don’t like where you are right now, fucking walk out! Because when you die in your sleep tonight you won’t have tomorrow to achieve your goals, or the scholar status you feign to achieve by appearing in class and not saying a goddamn word while you try not to get busted texting your BFF. That is more fact than fiction. I care.

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How Moodle is Excrement

The most confusing thing to me is when people try to fix things that aren’t broken.  Sure, things could be a bit better.  Sure, it might make the situation easier.  

But now, it’s as if huge corporations have forgotten the saying, essentially, the grass is always greener on the other side.

This time Moodle, the University of Minnesota’s database, has completely fucked up, and the grass has turned brown.  

The interface for the U’s site has taken a step back.  The user-friendly experience is non-existent, and there are more “glitches”–or more so called “problems”, than what journalists have to talk about on CNN.

Accordingly, I found out last night that one of the classes I am taking overlaps with another class I am taking.  

It is necessary for me to take both of these classes in order to graduate at the end of fall semester.

The University’s registration system, which is basically the new MyU site, which is foundationally linked to Moodle–and whoever the fuck makes that, completely missed this err.

Now on a Tuesday night I fret over my schedule like a dope fiend over a spoon.  

I write emails, I explain myself, though I find it sort of ironic that the class that overlaps is a Career Planning course…

I wonder if they will factor this in and allow, or if they will tell me to fuck off and get in line…  

The never ending saga of college.  It will never end as long as it’s not free.  I wait for that green grass.

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Bugs and Bother (La Crescent Weekend)

As comfortable

as black gnats on light wind,

in healthy sun

with moving clouds,

of a hard morning broken,

on this busy weekend of deals,

held up by metal & canvas lawn chairs,

in dewed green grass,

of a small community;

weather talk & Minnesota Goodbyes;

we are signaling and buzzing,

as comfortable as black gnats,

pulling out money to buy wares and stares,

life held on to the air,

flying, fanning, coming, going,

and free.

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Why your cereal tastes like shit

Usually, when a bunch of people walk through where I am located (mostly at the library), I wonder to myself, why? I wonder why they are here in front of me, why I am here inside of me, and then I start to wonder about poisoned food and diluted water and why the world is flat and why people blow things up with kindness and bomb other countries with hugs and start race wars over color crayons and argue about fictional religions, and science fiction, and generalize and disagree about things that are merely fabricated by good fabricators… Also, oscillating fans… WTF… then I realize I am happy because my cereal didn’t taste like shit.

I stand at the desk like a pinball machine, blinking lights—my eyes, or like a mirror giving you what you want, or like a rigid robot: I just answer questions, I don’t think on those (my answer just has to sound good. It doesn’t actually have to be good). I give people basic advice about certain issues and inquiries. I usually don’t mind, because it really doesn’t matter. I care though. My existence is about the same as everyone else’s—unless I am yelling aloud, or stopping traffic because I think it will change my position in society, or making a scene to get desperately noticed; but I really don’t matter, which is great. But, I really do care, which sucks. Though, at times, I’d rather live in the woods and never deal with other people, ever…

So, I love Grape Nuts… And I love bananas. I had the privilege of eating both of these amenities for breakfast at a table which I acquired—and carried home from an estate sale… Neither of the things I ate for breakfast spoke to me, which was great… The table also never talks to me… meh. I thought about things though, in my head… Essentially someone died so I could eat at this table. I did not know the person, yet their yellow table is pretty neat, and rather inexpensive! Onward, I am sure Post cereal has some skeletons in its closet as well—the dead. And I am sure that banana farms in other countries oppress the local citizens with guns, and kill and steal and terrorize… I want to start a movement—something-something bananas! Something-something Post!

Today I called a book a “bastard”, and I got a ride into work on petrol in a rattling truck. Perhaps that sentence was an example of a comma splice? I yell at a book, “GET OUT OF MY FACE, BOOK!” I put it on a cart, and it was hauled away to a dark box where it is kept for 3 days, on the third day it is taken out and lined up with other books to be labeled, opened up, studied, assessed, interrogated, tortured, and then dropped off again, who knows when. You know, dropped off! I think about the interaction I had with this book. Like, get out of my “face” and “book”, two words respectively, not the social media site: Facebook. That is entirely different, much more of a problem… I wonder: do these books have rights? Either way it’s a hack.

So, why your cereal tastes like shit… Well, I don’t know… Do you think your cereal tastes like shit? Do you go to sleep at night and think about it tasting this way, or that way? I know other people I am around daily think about what they will wear to work—that may be more important than cereal, which is cool—to each their own. I am more of a food guy. Clothes come in second for me, unless I am naked and it’s cold—unless that. So, do you wake up after fantasizing about how your cereal tastes? I don’t. But it’s good. Your cereal probably doesn’t taste like shit… It doesn’t matter…

I guess it doesn’t matter what your cereal tastes like, it’s all subjective for the most part anyway. Unless you are eating dog shit, or sour grapes, or old kale, and washing it down with laundry detergent, or motor oil, or ranch dressing… See, writing that last sentence left a bad taste in my mouth, and hopefully yours. But, taste doesn’t matter, it’s all opinion, and that doesn’t matter, it’s all about facts, and who writes those anyway? I have no clue, but my stomach turned my brain on this morning by processing Grape Nuts and bananas. My cereal tasted pretty forgetful…

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The Modern Ill-Informed

“In the year 1877, the signals were given for the rest of the century: the blacks would be put back; the strikes of white workers would not be tolerated; the industrial and political elites of North and South would take hold of the country and organize the greatest march of economic growth in human history. They would do it with the aid of, and at the expense of, black labor, white labor, Chinese labor, European immigrant labor, female labor, rewarding them differently by race, sex, national origin, and social class, in such a way as to create separate levels of oppression-a skillful terracing to stabilize the pyramid of wealth.”

–A People’s History of the United States, Howard Zinn-

Well, after reading a few books before summer’s ends, I have come to realize that a lot of people don’t actually read—or presume to read, and actually don’t, and go around strutting like professional intellectuals, when they are more akin to foolish children.

The reason for this, I am not sure, but I will keep this post short, and the form precise as well…

I think the general public—or people I come into mild modern-contact with on a daily basis—particularly (especially!) through social media, seem to lack the ability to understand, in general, the most basic concepts.


I will talk about the books I have read first, and then tie that into my thesis on this ubiquitous (though, proxy) misunderstanding—dipshit nationalism, or just lack of substantive quality intake being consumed, or generated by all (me included)…

I must say, this is merely an opinion—my opinion, and it may not be absolutely true anywhere at any time—though it may be subjectively appealing, perhaps. I will use the words “true” and “false” somewhat objectively throughout…

Ah, The Revenant—it means something like a ghost, it is a book—a tale of revenge set in the 1820s. It will soon be a major motion picture starring some celebrities.

The plot and compact prose is something to envy. (I am breaking the mold on form here by going beyond two sentence paragraphs, which are required of modern article writers (as to not bore the reader): that is all the modern world can handle.)


While you are worrying about politics and inequality, I am worried about the health of the minds of other people, how they assess things—and where they get their ideas… I imagine a garbage dump on Friday evening, where all the trash goes after it is gathered throughout the day (metaphor). This is my week viewing social media status updates…


After putting that book down, and raving about it for a few days, more than a couple—and then begging everyone in my vicinity, with my death-stare red eyes, to read it, I have come to the conclusion that I enjoy reading stories on history—this thing that is written only by the winners most of the time, or those with the loudest voice, or the boldest pens, and that I hate reading what people write about on their Facebook walls, idiots posing as savants.

Basically, what people assume is history—or fact, or relevant, or injuries to groups, and then what they write about history, as objective, on Facebook based on these ill-informed assumptions, and poorly interpreted language, causes me, and the rest of everyone that is friends with me/them on Facebook great distress, unawares or conscious, and peace of mind at their incorrect scribing.

I mean, other people read this and think: wow, that is real, I am pissed.

Amateur readers and thinkers attempt to tackle issues of race, when they have not read any elementary history from the 1490s on; I will give you: in that time everyone was a slave—we still are all slaves to the rich… To think otherwise is an absolute tragedy, an a misguided opinion.

I dare you to read about that. Start at Page 219, and read on:

A People’s History of the United States:


Firstly, everyone is talking about race, or gender, or the election, or how offensive everything is. One thing you will notice is the media fuels this; they create a need for themselves. The media is controlled by the wealthy elite of this country; the rich want those of lower classes to in-fight against each other, as to take the spotlight off of the injustices they impose on the general public: you and me. And morons on Facebook propagate this ideas!

The main problem with America is the class system; the main problem with America is the hierarchy which controls the country and all of the classes within it (I am talking socio-economic classes): the banks, those who control the banks-debt, the insurance companies-money you give them, the lobbyists-creating laws, and the government itself-over extending itself, creating debt from infrastructure in foreign lands. If you don’t believe me go to your local library and check out: Confessions of an Economic Hitman, by John Perkins. (This is another title I read a few months back, I keep forgetting… So many…)

These entities want everyone to fight against one another, rather than them (the wealthy in control). They also want USD debt, specifically in that currency, in order for the United States to sustain itself as a power over global markets.

The interesting thing is so obvious, people focus on racism, or gender inequality, rather than classism, rather than unify and create a solution.

I may be confused.

At this point I don’t care, because I listen to alternative news (www.noagendashow.com), and I don’t really believe in anything—or I look deeper and realize we are all fucked.

What people say just in everyday passing, if you can call that what a Facebook status update is, is unfounded and ridiculous, and propagates an subpar understanding of reality. Unfortunately this is unfortunate.

Call me a miser, or what you will. But the actual unfortunate part of the whole situation is that people do not read. They do not understand the past they live in-words they use, and might actually be surprised at what they take in as opinion and spit out as absolute fact. (Even words are founded in problems; people’s understanding of words different immensely, causing problematic understanding of very simple concepts.) Really, read a history book, read something other than your loud dumb friend’s Facebook wall, or Reddit, or the news, or me (I am just one person!)…

Try to find something different to read and see what happens to your mind. See if that helps us all.


I will end with something that I find incredibly important:

If you read a few sentences on social media about a topic you find interesting, it may seem insightful, or progressive, but it may not be entirely true—it may be an absolute fabrication, and by you interpreting this idea as clear and factual, it does not mean that you are an expert on said topic, or that it is such.

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Span of Observation

The Mississippi River

The Mississippi River

There is no freedom like under a bridge, especially one that is near a vast and famous flow of water. I have found throughout the years, that I—myself, love sitting next to the Mississippi river on abandoned train bridges, while enjoying conversation, natural beauty, midday summer sun, and a drink.

It’s a place where the rusted bolts and flaking metal panes hold paint as a fading canvass; new works by modern graffiti artists appear over the old, just overnight—as this this cryptic conversation take place, and make way for day. We see love drawn in deep red, contrasted with black, and a “this bridge doe…” in eggshell white, stuck yet dripping. The young night owls, I assume, come out in the depths of twilight darkness and etch their scrawl, bomb a span with shaken cans, and then leave on routed paths.

Sitting on damp uneven, yet smooth, stained stone in the cool shade can take you away while keeping you in one spot. The river flows on below with its flotsam, its debris, its speed—plastic and glass and trash; or wood, and leaves—unknown items that splash. What the vein carries and brings to one’s eyes only adds that much more to sight, now burned in your mind. That entity is part of me; I am also mostly water. How drenched seems the connection.

A person sitting under the massive cotton wood trees on those old fixed block steps can see thick power lines carrying their light, their energy, your computer screen—all of it happens on these bending wires which sway in the gusts of wind. You sit below, ice cold can from a canvass bag—in the middle of a Monday—and imagine those stuck inside, working. What more is there to it, to life? You get time and you should have it.

Under that bridge, hidden from crowds or peering eyes people can converse, explain, a place to feel relaxed and unmolested. Whole worlds can be discussed and dissolved over the time that others call lunch. Pedestrians would walk rustling rock and sand over head on an ill-placed square of plywood, on creosote covered lumber cut a lifetime ago, pretending to jump: look out below!—sticky, what protectant, what adhesive, what remnants on these planks.

Eyes would gleam down, those doing what society may deem illicit: a man smoked a rolled cigarette above, people skipped rocks loudly, others broke bottles (unfortunate); all with nothing to do, free, doing something—any other Monday away. And, here, the best kind of gatherings are ones without evidence—just relatable to recount, unobtrusive, nothing left that wasn’t there before found. Humans are mammals, not litter bugs. Free of that shit, clearing it back to Roanoke.

And the sun chased the edge of the old darkened bridge where angled lengths stuck out cutting a jagged grooved shadow on the spiraling brown currents below. There were cheap seats for a small afternoon audience to take, but only if they wanted to—privy. This motion picture had nature, had dialogue, had beverages, smokes, and snacks, had a national institution going below, churning, and a constant sky above, open, blue, and probably tomorrow’s reflection staring back. There was no freedom like this, nothing like lazing under a bridge.

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