Time in the Woods

Ho hum. Life goes well at Alfred University. I'm not dead yet, in case you were wondering. It's Midterm Break, so there's not many people left, which is good for sleeping in and enjoying lazy days. Er, getting lots of work done. Yeah, work.

Bonfires will be a must this winter. Had marshmallows tonight with Mae and Steve. Good times.

On the subjeect, add Tentagon, also known as Birdhouse, or Gilligan's, to the list of sweet forts in the woods. Jim, Will, Jesse, Sodapop and I, along with a few others, have been building a giant (20' across, or so) hut. So far, we've got maybe a third of the flooring (nicely done, I might add,) a boss firepit, and roofing on the whole thing. Considering living there next year.



Also, on the subject of radio, Ghost Radio has aired successfully the past two Sundays at 12 AM. Streaming is fucked up currently, but should be fixed soon-ish, I think. Link here.

A Few Thoughts, Resounding

1. Ghost Radio premiers on WALF next Sunday night, 12:30 to 2:30 in the AM. Listen in if you're in the neighborhood, or I'm sure you can stream it somewhere.

2. One of the guys, Ted, from Irene's old apartment gave me a sweet pair of boots and a sick leather jacket today. Ted is the man, the shoes fit me perfectly.

3. Poetry is both incomprehensibility easy and impossibly hard. This week we have to write a poem dealing with food in some way. Last week was place, and the week before was kind of open ended. Here's the second one.

The Room at the Bottom of the Stairs

Cat piss and Vicks VaporRub
silently stew
behind tacked up curtain
and seep ever so slightly
past an unnamed computer, teeming with
noise, sending Danger Mouse beating
up past an ashtray, a mislaid shoe,
to where I lean-

unworried about the disabled
smoke alarm, the writing on the wall-

on a stranger's futon
laid with sheets from Bombay,
which no longer exists,
except in paycheck stubs strewn
about a box
at the foot
of the next flight of stairs

up which,
past the shotgun named Reason,
the yellow bass named Nixon
drips a cord down to the amp
two flights below and this
is where Adam, another unlisted,
sits free of lease, and we prostelitize
in a daze, and Thomas feathers the bass,
the notes resounding
all the way up.

Woosh

I've been drawing robots for a pretty involved comic strip the past few days. They're pretty sweet, if I do say so myself. As I'm supposed to photocopy my sketches, I'll probably post some soon.

In the past week or so, no fewer than seven various different structures have been found in the woods, ranging from sweet huts to sprawling tree forts. Tree Tree, Helter Shelter, and the Opium Den are righteous hangouts.

Downloaded the Grey Album. Danger Mouse is the tits.

Need food now, more later.

Sneaky Panda

Ho hum.

I've been at college a good week now, and things are shaping up pretty well, I think. My roommate, Miguel (or "The Cheech,") and I got hooked up with the biggest room in our dorm, which also happens to be the only room on the 1st floor. Tight.

Classes are good. The Making of Europe, Writing II, Poetry Workshop, and Globalization, Pop Culture, and The Media (which is every bit as awesome as it sounds.) Nothing earlier than 10 AM, either.

I'm looking to get a job DJing for the campus radio station, WALF, as well. Been working on art, playing bass, and working on mix CDs in my spare time, which will be cut down severely if I end up actually joining all the clubs I signed up for. (Militant
Illustrators Association, AU Swing Society, Medieval Club, Pirate Theater, and probably a few others.)

Woosh. That's all you get for now, shit to do.

Well, it's no Holy Quest.

Yesterday I began a journey. Physical, to be sure, maybe spiritual or some associated hoop-la. Yesterday I left my Louisville home, still trashed from the previous night's celebration, my mother in the driver's seat, for college.

Sunday involved a fair bit of driving, grabbing some pizza and catching a show in Cleveland. People Under The Stairs opened for Flobots. Goddamn, what a good show. Spent most of today driving up to Rochester, with a brief pause to get a new tape adapter at Target and nom-ing at Bob Evans. Fuck if it's for old people, I had a damn good pot roast. Rest of the evening was spent talking/eating with grandparents and secluding myself in front of the computer in the attic.

Tomorrow I get to hang around Rochester for a little bit, then head over to Syracuse to visit Bryan Crandall, my junior/senior year English teacher. Hopefully he'll set my head straight. The next day, a short drive to Alfred University, and who knows what from there.



It's a weird feeling, knowing that it'll be a good three months before I see any of my friends from Louisville again, but I put college off for a year, and it's time. We'll see where this takes me.

I think I'm writing a book.

Wafts of smoke drifted lazily around Mercy's bare feet, the yellowed grass puffing into nothing at the heat. The Archon cast his gaze about the wide, crumbling, courtyard, questing about for that familiar cold presence. Nothing moved save the damp breeze that spirited the smoke away and left a greasy feeling on Mercy's skin.

There was something unnatural about that wind, the Archon decided. Still warily scanning the ancient courtyard, he resigned himself to action. Words slipped from his lips like burning pitch, steaming as they grew in intensity. A thin red line was traced on the palm of his right hand, and a wavering golden light began to spill out, luminescence dripping like wax. Emerging from the widening gash was a jag, then a spike, then a long curved blade of shimmering bone, impossibly sharp. It shone wetly.

Something in the shadows at the north end of the court moved, a sinuous, pulsing motion.

There you are, thought Mercy, sword gripped loosely. The pools of golden blood mirrored his watching eyes. His silver wings rustled in the gathering wind, and the thing emerged.

I Blame Alice's Class

I blame Alice's class.

Slumped, pumping words
upon words
and even a few thoughts
onto reams
of dead plant matter.

Dumbfounded, with sleepglue in our eyes,
on those stained glass tinted 10 AM's,
maybe a few of those thoughts crept in.

Buried themselves in gray matter
that I'll one day use

to think my own thought.