One-liners and whiskey bottles

There is a dive, nestled in the back streets of St. Paul that my best friend frequents: he has described it to me so that I can see the faded brick and smell the rich tobacco mixing with the stale odor of lives that have passed by. I can see the seats, with tears intimately known to all who frequent it, and I can see the low stage with its hot spotlights that has held everything from the worst of the Seattle scum to the surprisingly good jam bands that seem to appear every now and again.

I've been to plenty of dive bars in my day - from out of the way ones like Hangar 7 in Lake City, to Backstage Lounge and 1982 in Gainesville to this little one in downtown Orlando whose name perpetually escapes me. But there's a flavor about them that is different with each ones: Hangar 7 is the last gasping breath of inspiration for a dying town of backwoods hell, the rundown reminder of the mobsters who used to celebrate in the unpoliced roads and halls. Backstage Lounge is full of the pure musicians who don't mind out of the way bars full of rednecks and hooters' wings, not to mention the savory hicks who shoot pool and compete at the dartboards. 1982 is less dive and more dirt, and has the slickly raised eyebrows of any hardassed boozer exercising his right to drink his sorrows away, and maybe even pick up a pretty girl who wandered in off the street. I have fonder memories of the strange one in Orlando, mostly because I met a lover there for the first time, and when I think of it I smell his cologne and taste his lips while smooth jazz worthy of Armstrong plays in my ears.

And now, I sit here at my desk, lit by a single lamp as hot jazz is burning up my speakers, thinking of the dives that inspire me. For writing has grown difficult with the past months - brokenheartedness that left me uninspired and flagging at the dawn of each day. The only time when words even flicked near my fingers were late nights when the gin was cold and the rum warm, with the summer breeze flicking outside my walls and clouds scudding across the sky.
Now autumn has brought her gracious beauty to the land and soon winter shall follow, and in the death of the year I find new life in my writing, my dreams, and my heart. I love summer the most, but this past summer tried my love of life extremely, and only now does autumn's chill breath begin to revive me.

My life is not yet smooth: there are mortifications that stick in my throat and make the days hard to swallow, and I can only thank good fortune that there is some honey in each day to make the bitterness less objectionable. The ills are even worse for the fact it is my own weakness that wreaked them upon my life, but I shall continue to hope that I grow stronger from each healed wound, and that Fate shall not punish me for weakness in the face of beautifully cut lips, softly sworn lies and blue-gray eyes so full of deceit they should be put out and cast into the ocean for Poseidon alone to destroy.

So I return to my spiritual dive, and it is cluttered with gin and beer, the odd fragments of jaeger and vodka scattered on counters and other available surfaces. The chairs are all brown leather, the floor scraped with the passing of many stools and feet, the walls stained with sin and the remnants of wrathful folly. The band is playing away, reminding me of better days and so poignantly chording with my life I feel like Rick in Casablanca, wishing my forsaken love well away from my bloody joint.

But the day has grown old and though the night is young, the morrow is already fully appointed and I must consider the health of my body as well as of my mind. So I cast aside my crumpled papers filled with single lines and crossing-outs and I drain my last glass and ready myself for the shadowy land of nightmares with brief respite in solemn dreams.

Gute Nacht, meinen Freunden.

Burying the Hatchet?

Far from it; we resurrected our friendship, and I find it glorious that he is my Hatchet and we buried the old disagreement and rekindled the friendship we thought lost.

Dare I dream this is an omen of the next bend in the road?

Turlington notes part deux

So my studying skills aren't quite as strong as they ought be. I brought my calculus book along with me today and I managed to concentrate for a few minutes, but the lure of dreams proved too strong, and I put down my studying to take up my pen.

Although, last night I was, as Heyer might say, "exceeding virtuous" as I went grocery shopping as soon as I dropped off my books at the dorm. I came back, cooked, ate, and immediately began to work. At 11:40 pm I put my books away, leaving only some medieval poetry and archaeological texts unread, and my calculus practice problems undone. I will do all of that tonight for tomorrow I have only the archaeology volunteering and one lecture to prepare for.

My course load is heavy, but only calculus seems burdensome - and I am particularly frustrated that tutoring is now on Sundays, which frankly does me no good at all. I need to email my tutor about some missed notes. I'll complain about the time then.

We got back our tests in MEM3300 today - I received a 102 out of 100. Technically, I got a 97 but we all got a 5 point "bonus".
And, I got a 92 in my first archaeology exam, and a 94 on forensic anthropology. If only I understood calculus the same way.

The day is gray and windy, and I like it so. The underlying restlessness suits me well, and it also fits the character of autumn - change.
And I have but to speak of that devil and the bell rings the half hour and I must go - farewell.

wrote on paper, transferred to teh netz

As I sit here in the polygon by Turlington, the sun keeps on dancing in and out of the clouds, his light growing bright and dim by turns. The wind is brisk, and though the walls shelter me, tree branches wave above me and I see the clouds racing each other across the sky.

For awhile I closed my eyes and pretended I was back in London - sitting against the pedestal of the Trafalgar Lions, the National Portrait Gallery to my right and the embassy behind me. Buses continually drive past, adding to the illusion, and skateboards over brick sound like British cars on the cobbles.
The chatter is plentiful and gay, and indistinct enough so that accents are irrelevant. Two smokers sit nearby, and the warm smell of tobacco mingles with petrol fumes in a truly English manner.

But it is merely an illusion, and when I open my eyes, I am still in America. I could easily be in worse places, but the paper folded at my side screams of bankrupt corporations, lying presidential candidates and murder.
I hear rumors and whispers as I walk, and I mark them down to investigate later.
Is Thabo Mbeki stepping down? I hope so, as long as the successor is not his own handpicked deputy degenerate.

The bell tolls the half, and I must go.
Until we meet again...

shaky foundations indeed

My head is spinning and I know by morning it will ache. My roommates have called a roommate meeting for 8pm tomorrow to sign the roommate contract, and I dread having the thermostat permanently stuck at 70. If it is, however, I have my parents' permission to search for new housing, because living sick is extremely detrimental to both my grades and my sanity.

I dread confrontation.

I haven't painted in days, nor sketched, nor written. A test looms on the morrow, and another the day after, and a quiz the day after that. On the horizon a blissful Saturday of football beckons, but the treacherous stretch I must endure on the way precludes me from anticipating it more than in a snatched moment of prayer.

My throat is already tightening. I should've brought sweats from home this weekend.

There are far too many St. Benedicts. There are far too many saints, and not enough time to study them all. So Benedict of Aniane was a favorite of the Carolingian and a key man in the sweeping Benedictine Reform of Charlemagne...and St. Benedict, the obscure Italian abbott wrote his Benedictine Rule based off of the Rule of the anonymous Master...but what did Benedictine Biscop do? I can't remember. Who was the great man of Jarrow? Wileth? I can't remember either.

I dread tomorrow.

There is still a horrid mark on the back of my leg from wearing my knee brace two weekends ago. I say that you grow used to pain, but when it shifts constantly, it becomes more difficult to ignore.

Bedtime - they say there is no rest for the weary, but if I can't sleep within the hour I'll resort to my trusty friend Tylenol PM to rest myself somewhat adequately.
Adieu...

I will remember you

RIP Paul Lazarowitz

I can't believe you're gone. You were fighting so hard...I believed that you could do it. You are the most positive person I've ever known and I will always remember you as you were before the cancer took over.

I wish I could say thank you for all the football advice you gave me over the years. I wish I could have gone back and visited you more, especially last Christmas when I only managed to see you once - although I went twice, and you'd just checked out early. You gave me such a scare, and I was so glad that you picked up your damn phone when I called. I swear, you were surgically attached to that thing.

I hope they have big screen tvs in heaven, and that you get to watch all the football you want. I hope that you watch UF forever, and celebrate when we get our next NC, whenever that may be.

I miss you...I will always miss you

shadow of a doubt

My first week here in Gainesville was both busy and exhilarating - I'm all signed up for the Real Big Deal Festival (volunteer) and I have my shifts. Saturday I finish at 2 am, and then I have to be there at 10 am Sunday. :sigh:

Classes have been...interesting. Yes, interesting is the best word. I'm really enjoying them all, with the notable exception of Calc II. All I can say is thank heaven for Tutoring Zone and engineering friends who are willing to tutor you!

I finally got a chance to paint the 34th St wall, an ad for the festival, and it was a bit messier than I expected. Still fun, especially when Bobbie started painting the sidewalk and bikers kept on riding through it and getting white tires...
Oh, and we put those car paint things on three of our cars yesterday, mine being one of them. They promised the stuff would come off my baby, the only reason I allowed to them to do it. I'm washing him ASAP...but that's not for two weeks when the festival is over.

UF-Hawai'i was fun, although I'm mad that Meyer let Tebow's streak of 1 rushing TD 1 passing TD die, especially when he had that stellar opportunity right there in front of him. Still, we won after playing a REALLY conservative game, so it was nice. The pouring rain before start time sucked though.

I can't wait to play Miami! Night game in the Swamp with the ESPN Gameday crew there...now THAT'S what I'm talking about!