Short-haired kid

Remember the pale kid with the short hair I was going to write about? Yeah, in the works for tomorrow, dear readers.

Motivational speaker

I have nothing against you, really.

But when I have five papers to write, a research project to complete, interviews to transcribe, and a CD to review, along with working as a guy laying out copy this weekend, the last thing I want is for you to tell me how I can be a better leader.

Seriously, trying to engage me tonight is like engaging a rock with a TV show. Stop trying.

And yet, you're persistent. You don't give up, convinced that you can entertain and educate me. I don't care. I don't think you can. I don't know how you found this gig (maybe just by talking to someone, and finding a funder that thought you were cool because he was in a good mood that day), but don't bring it to me.

All I care about is having some free time to do what I need to do. There's a time an a place to motivate me, and it's not now.

Homework

There's a person I'm thinking of, but I have to write a paper for class first, unfortunately. Will post soon about a short, constantly smiling, younger guy. He's got really pale skin, awkward facial hair, and a really short haircut that's jet black. Stay tuned.

Post 70

Wow...lots of posts. Unfortunately, no one new today. We'll see who shows up tomorrow.

Waitress

There are very few Italian-looking waitresses at this restaurant. You're one of them

Slender, tallish, with a braid of dark brown hair tossed across one shoulder, a face defined by a distinctly sloped and pointed nose, the epitome of a fashion model.

You dreamed of posing in new shoes, fancy evening gowns with lace in places unseen, avant garde clothes not designed for humans.

Instead you plate up hot lasagna and salads with special, homemade dressings. Your hands are scarred from placing them on broken dishes, bumping against burning ovens. There's no feeling left in your fingertips.

But maybe, soon, the runway will come to you. Perhaps after that next photo shoot for the local bridal shop you'll get noticed. You cross your fingers every night and run home to live life your way, after living it for others all day.

You'll still be here when luck rolls around.

Kid at aquarium store

"Hi there, how are you?"

"Good"

"Alright, let me know if you need anything,"

... and that was the extent of our conversation.

Quiet guy, didn't know much about fish, or aquariums. It's clear that this is a college job, a way to pay the bills this semester. A way to get by.

The owners trust him enough to have him run the place singlehandedly. That's not hard to do on a nasty, misty Thursday afternoon. In fact, it looks fun to walk around and stare at all the aquariums filled with all sorts of fish: big ones, small ones, ones with blue and white speckles, shaped like a dinner plates, others brown and striped, built like a stone tip tied to an acient spear.

No customers. Nothing to do. But stare at fish.

Sometimes he imagines he's one of them, running around carelessly in a glass box, moving in three dimensions. He doesn't realize he's locked in and trapped. He enjoys the scenery--bizarre, spiny plants on the left. Sideways terra cotta pot on the right. Anemones beneath that he avoids, unless he's a clown fish that day.

Some days, he's an eel, slithering around like an underwater viper, waiting for victims to come near him. An underwater thug, he doesn't care that he's ugly. He gets his way by force and impression.

Other days, he's a golden-yellow apple snail, lounging around, looking startlingly perfect for lazily eating up chunks of algae. The supermodel of the aquarium world--there's no need to run around, keep moving, just to stay alive. It's easier to sit there, look pretty, and enjoy life.

Each day he locks up the doors behind him, leaving this daydream behind. There's no picking and choosing now. He has to make his own fate.

Elderly couple at Brandywine

It's two minutes after ten-thirty. She sits down across from our booth, one over. I don't notice when she comes in, but in hindsight, I can piece times together.

10:34. Waitress comes up, asks what she'd like to drink, if she's ready to order. She points to the breakfast specials, the ones that run to 10:30. The waitress starts apologizing, but seeing the look of concern on the womans face, she says she'll still have it made for her. The woman simply agrees, still carrying that same, concerned look: eyes wide, thin-lipped, with wrinkles around the mouth and a small, twitchy note in her voice.

Then again, that look might've just been age. It fit with her outfit: beige slacks, pressed neatly, with a baby blue windbreaker. Blonde-ish hair, wispy from the windy day and the years.

10:38. The woman sips her coffee, when her husband walks in from the bathroom. I hadn't seen him before. He slides into the booth, on her side. His oval face and pointed chin carry themselves stooped over his torso. His mouth, filled with small, white teeth, moves slowly as he talks to her, eyes magnified by the thick, round glasses perched on his nose, as he reaches next to him in slow motion and pulls out a newspaper.

10:40 They split it into sections, as she laughs at what he said, her face beaming into a sudden smile. For an instant, I can see them fifty years ago, when they first met. At a dance somehwere, maybe in one of the local bars across the street. I can see their eyes meet the same way they just did, ever so slightly, as he drops an off-handed sarcastic comment with a slight grin as he sips his drink and she blooms into a smile.

It's nice to know people still fall in love for the long haul.

I am not a bagpiper

Look, it's Kilt Guy who isn't a kilt guy. Bagpiper who doesn't play bagpipes. The Ceci n'est pas une pipe of humans. And proud member of the 99%.

Walking around in front of the library, most people would think he was crazy. His sweaty face, nearvous step, and loud, soapbox-preacher tone lend him that aura. But he doesn't think so. In fact, he's totally convinced he has a message to take to the world, in any way possible.

“I am not a bagpiper,” he claims, marching in front of the Art Museum. “But I am a member of the 99%!”

The elderly woman, sitting at a stainless steel table in the plaza out front, about ten feet away from the prosletyzing protester, looks at him in some sort of shock. It would seem he's speaking directly to her, as no one else stops to listen, or dares venture onto the plaza.

But it's clear he's shouting to the world around him.

“Question their looks,” he's saying.

Just because you wear jeans and flannel doesn't make you a country bumpkin, or a grunge guitarist. Just because you wear a suit and tie doesn't mean you earn hudreds of thousands of dollars a year. Just because you go to rave parties doesn't mean you don't have a family and a steady job. And just because you carry around bagpipes and wear a kilt, doesn't mean you're a folk musician.

Couple at Occupy GR

I'm guessing you're an item, the way you sit together, arms folded over one another in the grass. I wanted to talk to you, ask you questions like, “Why are you here?” “What do you want? “What's your purpose?”

But I couldn't let myself wander up and shatter your moment together.

You seemed in tune with one another. In love, but not the kind of love most know at this age. The kind of love where it's calm, and comfortable, like an old, leather armchair or a worn, warm sweater. The kind that you can count on to be there, and not to change from day to day with the weather, or after the next party.

I know that love. I've seen it, and felt it. I can't be unhappy knowing it exists.

Power's out

My laptop has an hour or so left, I'm typing. No internet, but Open Office still works.

It's still. No people. No one to write about. Cold and blustery outside, gale force winds, nast raindrops that cut into your face like tiny scalpel blades falling from the sky.

The brances on trees next door keep bending in one direction. Some end up snapping from the weather. I can't see them anymore, it's so dark out.

There are no lights, except for my screen and the candles I have around me. I can see the neighbor has one on her kitchen table, as well. There are no stars—the sky is black with angry clouds.

A fireplace would be really nice right now. Time to kick out some old ideas I've had sitting around, and never got around to posting on here.

Bartender

Your parents came from Japan.  You know what it's like to grow up first generation in a new place, watching your parents learn with you how it is.

(TBC)

Man in front of AB

I see you here often--bearded, shaggy, sunglassed.

I think your voice sounds gruff.  At least, I'd expect it to.

You live around here.  You have to.  You don't carry your belongings with you, or wander aimlessly with your back slumped.

You're scraggly but clean, showering every morning in your Eastown flat.  You always feel proud being one of the few people that actually lives above the bars and businesses, the hot dogs and cold beers that make up that part of town.

Creaky pipes wake you in the morning, now.  It's fall, the weather's colder.  Your window fogs up next to your double bed, occupied by your single figure.   You smile at the sunrise

State fans at the butcher

Buying meat as a family?  Stocking up on bosco sticks?  Wearing matching team sweaters for fun?

It's pretty clear you were all headed to your party, poiled up in two or three cars.  The game hadn't started yet, the keg hadn't been delivered yet.  Right?

Meh, walk down to the meat market and grab some snacks.  Good life choice.

No one new today

Just got into Bay city from Grand Rapids, spending some time with the family.  I saw no one eye catching.

I'll be out and about tomorrow, hopefully I'll find someone.