Friday, 31 May 2002
Do you have any pictures in the paper this week? No, not
this week. I had a couple in there last week. How'd they turn out?
Fine, except they actually added sky to the picture, and it
looks pretty bad; but they remembered to give me credit this time.
They added sky to your picture? Yes, that's right. Kind
of like when I added the blue charcoal to your artwork? What's
that? Don't you remember? You'd made this charcoal drawing of flowers
in a vase, and when I was framing it (years later), I went
behind you and drew a blue line along the edge of the vase. Ha.
I'd totally forgotten about that. Yeah, that vase was supposed to
be clear, Mom. I you did that. That's funny. Yeah, I don't know what
I was thinking. ...Maybe I shouldn't have reminded you.
Thursday, 30 May 2002
Today got an email with the subject line: "Hi,lisa,let's be
friends." It was from my resume (resume@lisawhiteman.com)
to me (lisa@lisawhiteman.com).
It was 126K, but there was nothing in it. What do you think my resume
was trying to tell me?
Wednesday, 29 May 2002
Breakfast. I finally went to the proper dentist, the quick appointment
helped along by a girl in high school who's now a dental hygenist.
It was entirely uneventful, except for the fact that the dentist
(whom I never saw) had nearly the as my cat, and that the form I was asked to fill out
included the question: Do you plan to keep your teeth? Circle YES
or NO.
Lunch. I took pictures of the political opponent of this
man. Politicians are funny creatures to observe, always so careful
and unnatural, so stiff and "sincere." They remember your
name and shake your hand and give you red, white, and blue stickers
bearing their name, and they always like you. It was fun, though,
escaping the flourescent grid of office and standing in the sun
while it was still directly overhead.
Dinner. I put some vegetables and pasta in an old grocery bag and
chopped it all on a foreign cutting board with foreign knife. I
cooked, for one, using unusual pots and pans on an alarmingly hot
stove, without any cat claws piercing my thigh.
***
Disturbing.
Tuesday, 28 May 2002
Trying on eyeglasses at lunch, by yourself, taking the word
of a stranger working on commission. Careful not to offend him when
he hands you a pair you hate, not really trusting him when you slide
on a pair he says he likes. You think to yourself, the light seems
awfully bad; are you sure you're this pale? Try putting your hair
up, but that has little effect on the shape of your face. Perhaps
you should've worn something neutral, black, anything but lime green.
He hands you something that matches the two colors in your hair.
Um, no.
Later, at the end of the day, you run into a store twice the size
of the first store ten minutes before it closes and announce: I
know you're closing, but do you mind if I quickly try on a few pair
of frames on my own? and proceed to make your way through the rows
and rows of supplemental eyes—scanning, unfolding arms, balancing
lenses on your nose, refolding arms—at the speed that the Griswolds
visit the Louvre. By the time you leave, you've only digested a
small portion of what you'd tried to take in.
***
Food, sleep, music, and talking have not helped my incurable-mystery-unusual-bad
mood today. I am prescribing myself more sleep.
Monday, 27 May 2002
Last night was split in half and was therefore unusually long.
After getting home from a cookout that survived past midnight, I
collapsed on the bed, promising myself only two minutes of sleep
before getting up so that I could lie back down again, half-blind
and with fresh breath. I don't know why I still believe the two-minute
lie; perhaps I just want to believe it. I imagine that when I go
to sleep for "two minutes," the hands on the clock circle
hurriedly, like they do in the movies to indicate elapsed time.
The clock said 4:50 when I woke up, and my eyes were angry and red.
After three hours of procrastination, it only took five minutes
before the room was dark and I was under the covers. A minute later
I was up again, grabbing the empty glass by my head and feeling
my way through the dark to fill it up with water in the bathroom
sink. Light on with my right hand, glass in my left, I saw a blurry
roach making its way over the rim of my glass. Without thinking,
I threw the glass into the porcelain basin and watched as it broke
apart, as the little brown body climbed over the newly jagged shape,
unharmed. I finished him off with water.
I would've believed it had been a dream, had I not seen the evidence
this morning, the sink filled with the clear peaks and shards of
my irrational accomplishment.
Saturday, 25 May 2002
Hot. The air, the metal strip along my car window that brands
my arm with a stripe, the back of my neck underneath a curtain of
hair. Running errands, I open my car door and watch the heat scramble
over the seat and diffuse into the cooler heat; strange, actually
being able to see heat.
Store number 1. Belatedly using up a gift certificate in a store
that's going out of business, near-empty shelves scattered with
rejects.
Store number 2. The hardest one, looking for new eyeglasses. Seeing
my flush face framed and reframed; no, too round, too much like
my current pair, too thick, too shiny, too dark. A pair that I want,
but why are they purple? Later, trying to find other available colors
on an impossible website, almost giving up.
Store number 3. Told that if I spend $30 today, I will get this
free average-looking straw bag to take home. Make mental note to
spend less than $30.
Store number 4. Visual assault in a building breathing on electricity,
rows and rows of TVs all showing the same face silently talking,
but with nuances in color, brightness, and contrast. Video cameras
that put customers onscreen. If you look at the screen to see yourself,
you see yourself looking away. I slip in, buy some blank CDs, and
slip out again, smacked again by the heat on my way out the door.
Store number 5. Arrive on my bicycle, carrying stuff I don't need
to carry but like to carry anyway. Find a remarkable little bag
that attaches to my bike and carries my stuff for me. Remarkable
because of its plainness. No label anywhere, no tag or washing instructions,
no advertisement. No price tag, even. Perfect.
Friday, 24 May 2002
The grad student dental exam went smoothly,
except that I misunderstood what they were going to be doing; instead
of cleaning my teeth and assessing whether anything was wrong with
them, they just assessed. They gave me x-rays and clinked around
my mouth with metal chopsticks, noticed my remaining baby tooth,
and showed me how to detect it on my copy of the x-rays.
I cannot be their patient for their final exam, though, because
nothing's wrong, other than the fact that I have made my teeth even
smaller than they already are by grinding them together like sandpaper
during my sleep. I'm a little surprised I don't wake up every morning
with a mouth full of white sand, from the way they made it sound.
Getting was fun, actually. It was nice, for once, to not have
a clue where I was going, to follow a scrap of paper with my handwriting
on it and experience moments of recognition upon seeing a landmark
I heard described, or finding my way back a different route. I miss
getting to know a city, that point between when you know barely
anything about it and when it's so familiar you don't even see it
anymore. I feel like I've slowly taken Raleigh apart like giant
toy, one piece at a time, and now it's just sitting there in front
of me, completely exposed.
Thursday, 23 May 2002
Wednesday, 22 May 2002
His name is , I found out yesterday. Lawrence stole
my bag, met my dad, took
pictures with my camera, and then sold
it to a pawn shop. And, then, apparently, Lawrence was arrested.
I wonder how that went—whether he was surprised, slammed up
against a shiny white car or quietly handcuffed. Maybe he even turned
himself in, though I doubt it. I wonder if he was mad at himself
for his missteps, or whether he was mad at me for canceling my debit
card and turning in my camera's serial number, making it easier
for him to get caught.
Rat.
I know it doesn't make much sense, but I'm not mad at him anymore,
though I'm sure I'd feel differently had I not gotten most of my
things back. I've always been more of a mercy person than a justice
person, though admittedly not across the board. (I can't see myself
taking the same forgiving approach to the people behind the Enron
scandal, for example.) Right, and it's difficult for me to hold
a grudge for very long, especially when the offending party convinces
me it's sorry. Not that Lawrence has apologized. Sometimes that's
not even necessary.
Sucker.
A form I need to fill out, sitting here beside me, asking about
the property loss (does that apply, now that I have it back?), personal
injury, and the emotional effect. Hm. I learned something about
my parents; where do I indicate that? The enclosed envelope doesn't
include postage, which reminds me, Lawrence stole my stamps. If
I don't mail it off today, I'm expected to appear in court on Friday,
which would be bad for everyone. I don't want to know what I would
really think of him, whether I'd hate him or like him, and I don't
want to be the enemy. Victim's Name: Lisa Whiteman. Would you like
to be present for the final outcome of this case if your testimony
is not necessary? No. Would you like to be notified of the final
outcome of this case? I don't know.
Victim.
In cheerier news, it looks like I won't have to take a vacation
day and a four-hour round trip to get my
teeth cleaned, because I'm going to let some new grad student do
that for free.
Guinea pig.
Tuesday, 21 May 2002
I was going to tell you all about the Bright
Eyes show I went to tonight, about the girl who stood directly
in front of me, hair, shoulders, striped shirt, tattooed arm wrapped
around her, the girl who knew all the words and sang softly along
behind me, almost in my ear, the girl who played the flute on stage
with a burning cigarette tucked under one of the keys of her instrument,
the perfect-faced nineteen-year-olds wearing worn-in clothing and
metal here and there, the songs I liked and the ones that made my
mind wander, and how I didn't really feel part of it but rarely
ever do, but it's late. Ich muß jetzt schlafen.
Monday, 20 May 2002
in the ring fighting
. While Kronos is on
the offensive, I can't hear Welk & team wailing, though I can
make out the deep sounds of their footwork on the hollow floor.
But sometimes Kronos has to take a breather, you know, sit in their
corner and get the wet sponge squeezed over their heads and wash
the blood off their gloves, and that's when Welk takes over, demanding
the attention of everyone in the arena, squealing in its upbeat
tempo, paced and senior-friendly, and unbearably loud. The announcer
tries to get Welk to take a seat, to quiet down, but he is obstinate.
I was sadly mistaken when I thought my downstairs neighbors had
moved out. Apparently that is not the case, and they are armed with
new, unexpected ammunition.
***
"You
look like a damn zebra."
Sunday, 19 May 2002
Ever since I bought my mom a bike
in February, my dad has been interested in getting one for himself.
Sometimes he rides her bike around town (which is small and flat
and without much traffic, ideal for a-to-b sort of bike riding),
but they can't ride together, and they don't ride much. Two weeks ago, my dad finally
asked me if I could find a bike for him to buy, and yesterday I
found one.
I went to the same pawn shop where I bought my bike, to the same
salesman with the slicked-back hair and the too-short tie and
the suspicious moustache. This time he was less serious, actually
openly mocking himself, the stereotypical pawn shop clerk. "You
know a new one of these costs $220, and it comes with a year of
free tune-ups." "Oh, we do that. She comes over to your
house and fixes your bike for you, whenever you need it," he
said smiling, gesturing to an employee standing beside him.
He went down to 170. I said 150. "I'll meet you halfway. I'll
go 160," he conceded. "You know, the water bottle holder
is also missing, so I'll have to get one of those." "Oh,
yeah, that's why I went down ten bucks," he responded, still
grinning. After test-driving the bike around the parking lot and
being secretly encouraged by the "repair-woman" employee
that I talk him down, I convinced him to sell it to me for $150.
Moments later, busy stuffing the bike in the back seat of my car,
I didn't notice that less than ten feet away a man ran out of the
pawn shop with his arms full of merchandise, and that the salesman
and another man ran out after him, chasing him behind the strip
mall. The only reason I know about it at all is because I stepped
back inside for a moment and witnessed the reconstruction by the
customers and the remaining employee: was he wearing a red shirt?
I think it was orange.
***
I know it's gone downhill, but I'm sad anyway that tonight is the
last night for the X-Files. It's the only show I watch with any
regularity and has been for years. In Berlin, even, where it was
a season behind, and Scully and Mulder knew how to speak German
but used the wrong voices.
Saturday, 18 May 2002
Do
you believe Bush?
Friday, 17 May 2002
I have a tape of a tape of Depeche Mode's Music for the Masses,
half of which plays backward. Apparently I recorded it like that,
a twisted tape onto a healthy tape, though I don't think it was
intentional. I've heard it enough times that I can anticipate exactly
where on the tape it happens, when the synthesizers and voices turn
satanic and get sucked out of the speakers like a soprano vacuum
cleaner, over and over again, sweep, sweep, sweep. Today in the
car, on my way home from work, I left it playing after the transition,
as I sometimes do, wondering where I could go besides home. I didn't
think of any place. Sucked out of the speakers and out of my open
windows, along with my hair.
Thursday, 16 May 2002
Two things. Collecting cat urine is more difficult than I'd
imagined. I'm trying to do it myself so that I don't have to subject
my cat to spending the day at the vet, listening to mysterious howling
through the walls, shaking in a cage, smelling the onslaught of
scents creatures emit to claim legs of chairs and edges of doorways.
Either she isn't thirsty or she refuses the box with the meager
ten pebbles of litter and opts to hold it. Finally, tonight, after days
of waiting, I recovered a couple of drops in a small plastic cup
that I will humbly deliver to the vet.
Totally unrelated. I've put together a photography portfolio, which
is located here
(as well as via the photos page, where
there's a short summary). Many of the pictures are repeated elsewhere
on the site, so you may recognize a few of them. Feedback is appreciated.
Wednesday, 15 May 2002
I discovered why that cop wished me luck.
It's because the ticket he gave me has turned into a giant hassle,
one that will require me to take a day off work and drive to the
capital of nowhere (obeying the speed limit, of course) and plead
guilty to "faulty equipment" before the judge. According
to a lawyer in that area, that's how things work. It's a strange
concept to me, that the judge would assume that my speedometer works
perfectly fine (and it does), but that we would both pretend for
a moment that it didn't, and then s/he would slam down a gavel and
proclaim that I am free from the insurance burden that would otherwise
haunt me for years. Then I would write a check, climb back into
my car in my uncomfortable clothing, and it would be over.
Naturally, my court date is the same week as my visit to the dentist,
which will also require a vacation day.
Did you know that getting an appointment with a new dentist takes
six months? Right, if I want to get my teeth cleaned in this town
I won't be able to do it until November. Both receptionists I spoke
with acted as if that were completely normal. Okay, so I'll put
you down for 10 a.m. on November 28th. Does that work for you?
So instead I'm going back to my childhood dentist in the town where
I haven't lived since I was 12, which is only a slightly longer
drive (2 hours) than the one I'll have to make for my court appearance.
Actually, that's the only dentist I've ever been to, mainly because
I rarely ever go. My last visit was in January 1998, and the one
before that, 1993. I don't need any work done, but it's probably
a good idea to check in at least as often as I do.
The reason I go so seldom is that I've never had a cavity or wisdom
teeth pulled or braces or anything but teeth cleanings. The most
abnormal thing about my teeth is that I have at least one baby tooth
that was never kicked out, as I was missing the permanent tooth
that would've come behind it. (All of the above is also true for
my brother, who was apparently given the same freak genes as I was.)
Of course I didn't appreciate any of that when I was younger. In
fifth grade I actually wore a bent paper clip in my mouth because
I was so desperate to wear a retainer. It tasted like (surprise!)
metal and rattled around in front of my teeth, only a mildly convincing
testament to my faux-jumbled mouth. I can't tell you why I did that,
because I don't know. I think it has something to do with wanting
experience.
Tuesday, 14 May 2002
Monday, 13 May 2002
Without being told, I could tell he was a politician. He insisted
on wearing his suit jacket for the photographs, he sat bolt upright
in his chair, his expressions and gestures were controlled and predetermined,
and every hair was in place. Sometimes when I look at people, I
try to imagine what they looked like when they were younger. But
this man had no younger. He has always been in his early 40s, he
has never scraped his knee from falling off his bicycle, he's never
worn a shirt that hasn't been starched and pressed.
***
I got a ticket yesterday, on the way back from my parents' house,
on a stretch between a pair of dots on the map, the part colored
in with tobacco fields. I wasn't aware of my speed. The cop was
nice enough, aside from giving me a ticket, and even wished me luck,
though I wasn't sure what I needed the luck for. Not getting pulled
again? Five minutes after I got back on the road, just after I'd
finished playing the event over in my head, I watched him pull another
one, hidden in his stealthy, undercover car.
Sunday, 12 May 2002
We had only driven twenty miles or so before it felt like we
were in another state. Down Hwy 1, past tiny churches with enormous
electric signs, past Confederate graffiti, past old, well-kept wooden
houses with fixed shutters, porches, and green, shaded lawns, through
tightly strung downtowns, filled with brick sidewalks and buildings,
built before architecture favored thriftiness.
On the way to Hamlet, our first stop, Todd drove, Martin sat in
the passenger's seat in Todd's peanut debris, CD player on his knee,
and I sat in the back, reading excerpts from books and papers out
loud and passing CDs to the front. Whenever someone spotted something
potentially worth photographing, we'd point it out, make a split-second
decision, and Todd would pull over, maybe slowly driving backward
down the breakdown lane or making a quick U-turn in the road.
We didn't go there to see the
chicken plant. In fact, we didn't see it, though I was half-hoping
we would. We went to visit and photograph John Coltrane's birthplace,
part interest-motivated, park work. Hamlet was run-down, the money
long sucked out of it. But it was easy to imagine—looking at
the shop windows, the train station, an abandoned gas station—how
it used to be alive once, and quite pretty.
An old black barber with a white beard stepped out of his building,
underneath the swirling white-red-and-blue signature pole. "If
ya'll lookin for John Coltrane's, it's right there," he said,
gesturing across the street. We must've been obvious. A young guy
on a four-wheeler, riding through the heart of downtown, stopped
and asked a few questions, and gave us information we needed, as
well as we didn't.
We walked along the tracks and peered in vacant store windows, shot
out by BBs and roofs plunged in by time. An old man in a stiff baseball
cap sat on the bank of the train tracks, chain smoking, next to
a homemade aluminum ashtray filled with butts.
We continued onto Cheraw, South Carolina, to see where Dizzy Gillespie
was born. There was a substantial seam marking the degredation of
the road at the NC-SC border, and a fireworks shop just over the
line. Cheraw was kept in better shape than Hamlet. Dizzy's house
was no longer standing, and we could see little evidence that this
was his hometown until we were let into a small museum crowded with
tributes. It was getting late; after walking through the museum
and visiting a graveyard, we got some dinner and turned around,
making the 3-hour drive back. This time we were more subdued; no
more leaps from the car to get pictures, and the music was almost
inaudible.
Ten minutes after I got home, I left again, to take my cat to the emergency room. Stuck in a waiting room with large
stacks of People magazine and a moth beating its wings against the
floor. That was Saturday.
Friday, 10 May 2002
Thursday, 09 May 2002
So, to bring you up to date:
1. My bag was stolen, along with
my camera.
2. I got my camera back.
Today, I had my pictures developed. Guess what? Sandwiched between
pictures I remember taking were four mystery pictures, taken by
my thief friends. They already stand out, since, of course, I don't
recognize anything in them, but on top of that, these four pictures
are the only panoramic pictures on the roll, so they quite literally
stand out. Unfortunately (or perhaps fortunately), there is nothing
interesting about the pictures, other than the fact that the thieves
who stole my camera are the photographers. Let me see exhibit
A, detective.
Wednesday, 08 May 2002
A car drives by my open window blaring "Wind Beneath My
Wings." It rounds the corner—my house is on the corner—fades
in, fades out. A YMCA bus squeaks to a halt and surges as it heaves
over the intersection. A car is stalling in the parking lot, turning
over and over. Earlier I heard what I thought to be two men yelling,
but it was just one man yelling, while beating himself with a stick.
I'm not lying about that. The crickets are filling the background,
buzzing like a florescent light, making erratic pauses like one
that is dying. A train is clacking by, singing in a muffled G. A
faraway, throaty dog, barking at noise. Flip flops down the sidewalk.
A gentle (polite) tapping of a horn. Engines, brakes, jingling keys,
and slamming doors, all of it independently overlapping, forming
an unrehearsed concert. I can't count to five.
Tuesday, 07 May 2002
We used to completely cover our church bulletins with ink, sitting
in the back row of the balcony. We'd play hangman, or draw pictures,
but mostly we'd write notes. I always liked her handwriting. It
was round and just sloppy enough; the letters looped together, forming
pretty sentences that would tell me about what was going on three
grades above me, which, at that time, was significantly different.
We'd assess whether a boy named Troy (who also sat in the balcony)
had brought chewing tobacco to church that particular week, inspiring
quieting hisses from the row before us.
I remember one note in particular when Nancy had written the lyrics
to a song—White Horse?—that went something like this:
"If you wanna be rich, you've got to be a bitch!" She
wrote it just like that, with the exclamation mark, and underlined
the word "bitch" a few times. I didn't want to admit that
I didn't know what the word "bitch" meant, so later I
tried it out on my brother, reciting the line she'd written earlier
that day. I'd set off an alarm. "Mom! Lisa said a bad word!"
One day after church, she told me her brother had gotten a new car
and that I should sit in it. She opened the door for me, I climbed
in, and she ran away cackling, "That's not really my brother's
car!" Our parents are good friends, and in the summers, our
families would go camping together. We'd hike and stand under waterfalls
and go snipe hunting. Spending the night at her house, we'd lie
in her canopy bed with the pink flowered cover and tell jokes until
our sides hurt, made funnier by our efforts to be quiet. One evening
she convinced me to call Burger King and ask, "Are your buns
?" When I was eleven, she was the one who sat beside
me in the back seat of my parents' car in the parking lot of that
pizza place, just after my parents told me we were moving away.
We kept in touch sporadically, mainly through our parents. The last
time I saw her was at her wedding...three years ago? We've lived
in the same town for two years now, and, finally, tonight, we got
together for dinner. We ended up talking for three-and-a-half hours,
leaving long after our waitress.
Monday, 06 May 2002
Lately I've been looking around myself, eyeing my location and
trying to define it. I'm not looking for my GPS coordinates, or
even my place on a political map, though that has always fascinated
me. I'm looking at houses, old ones. The one Richard works in was
built in 1909, just down the street from mine, and I believe mine
must be from the same era, though it isn't as good. I've been looking
at how these buildings connect to each other, by grass and gravel
and pavement, by slopes in the earth and by other buildings, in
an arrangement that becomes familiar and expected.
Yesterday, while riding my bike to the fairgrounds, I noticed a
house I'd never seen before, wedged between a gas station and a
fast food restaurant on a road I've driven down a thousand times.
I like that about walking and biking, that I'm moving just slowly
enough to catch the details I miss in a car. I imagine that even
if I'd never noticed that house and it was suddenly torn down, I'd
suspect something, that there'd be a scratch in that glazed-over
familiarity and my eyes would skip over that spot like a needle
on an old record.
So I've been paying attention to the flat, spaced-out buildings,
the ones that have driven us to travel to Europe and marvel at elegant,
confined architecture. Scrutinizing the gas stations, the fire escapes,
the dusty, failed small businesses. I'm not being critical of it,
just observing it, as I do the people who move through it. Sometimes
I wonder what it's like to be one of those people and what it's
like to live here. Of course I should know, but I don't feel like
I do at all. When people ask me to describe the city I currently
live in, I feel unqualified. Perhaps it'll be easier once I distance
myself from it.
Sunday, 05 May 2002
There were folding tables holding stacks of disposable food
containers, holding blinking lizards and coiled snakes and furry
tarantulas. Fish tanks, holding brightly colored chameleons and
moist, leaf-shaped frogs and startled-looking geckos. Cages, holding
young head-butting goats and Bengal cats and a desert fox with crazy
large ears. Five dollars if you want to get your picture taken by
the 14-foot-long python. Two dollars to get your picture taken on
the camel. Forty-five dollars to take home an exotic creature that
has very specific requirements for survival.
The arena was crowded, bright, and had a large echo. A woman stood
in front of a display with an owl perched on her shoulder, answering
questions and declining offers to be relieved of the bird. I heard
a vendor say, "You know you want one," referring to a
tower of snakes in front of him, and a man shook his head and replied,
"I'm gonna git somethin—I don't know what—but I'm
gonna git somethin."
People poked and squealed and released their flash bulbs, and the
animals responded by pawing at the glass, by cowering in a corner,
by closing their eyes and ignoring the steady commotion. Another
vendor spoke directly to me. "I have a camera like that. 'Cept
mine's an N90. I can't figure out how to work it. Actually I've
got two N90s, and an 8008, and I can't work any of them. I've read
all the manuals, but I still can't figure them out." I wonder
why he has so many of them.
I spent about two hours there, weaving between cages and tanks,
taking pictures, hearing myself say "hello," followed
by "poor thing." I had mixed feelings, seeing the fascinating
amount of life, seeing it kept in small plastic food containers.
I felt a little better about the event and the money that I'd contributed
to it when I stepped outside and listened to two women with a microphone
and a train of animals explain how some animals do not make good
pets. And it was worth it to pay a dollar to climb in a pen with
a pig named Jasmine and feed her a grape, a baby carrot, and an
animal cracker in the shape of a buffalo. I found out first-hand
that when her lower back is scratched, she falls on her side with
pleasure, exposing her belly for the same treatment.
Saturday, 04 May 2002
I'm not sick, but this weekend I've been rather reclusive, walking
around the house wrapped in a permanent blanket, sleeping, turning
vinyl into digital, watching movies, doing some work on my computer,
and eating soup. I think I only left the house once, and that was
to buy blank CDs and toothpaste. It's just as well, since there's
water coming out of the sky and my car is surrounded by a moat of
mud puddles.
When I returned from my lone outing, I happened to notice that the
downstairs (bass-playing) neighbors have moved out, as have the
neighbors next door, the ones who chronically park perpendicular
to my driveway, blocking me in and encouraging this kind of reclusive
behavior. Now I have no excuse.
Friday, 03 May 2002
Thursday, 02 May 2002
Standing in the bathroom getting ready for work this morning,
I caught a glimpse of a narrow wood-brown body dart and freeze,
its antennae feeling around in the air. First, I grabbed a wad of
toilet paper and held it up like I was about to throw a baseball.
Delicately moving objects on the shelves with the other hand, quickly
jumping back again, hoping to pounce on it with my paper baseball.
No good. I armed myself with the can of Raid from underneath the
kitchen sink, but, even though the can claims it is "outdoor
fresh," I decided not to spray it all over the toothbrushes
and toilet paper and into my lungs. Fifteen minutes I danced with
that roach, until I looked at the clock, gasped at the time, threw
my things together, and ran out the door. As far as I know, it's
still in there, clinging to the bottom of a shelf, waving its antennae
and procreating.
Hours later, same room, Martin caught a house fly in his bare hands
and set it free outside.
Wednesday, 01 May 2002
Colectivo
Dos is now online. I've got some pictures in this collection,
including a picture of that deceptive tree.
<<June
2002 | April 2002>>
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