The Yard

The rake and not the trough

Day 1, Part 2

There are now patches of dirt in the yard and Shirin is singing about how I invented pie -- "both the

eating and the mathematical term" -- as I sit here trying to write a post. So far, I've collapsed to the ground once and cried laughing twice. This girl is funny.

Anyway, its time for a visit to the doctor's office.

The Yard

The rake and not the trough...for the time being anyway

Note: I could have made that rhyme, be glad I didn't

Day 1, Part 1

I woke up this morning, drank Earl Gray and ate waffles with sugar-free syrup. The day was almost half

over and I still had to do so much before its conclusion...whenever that was. Take Shirin and her friend to lunch where ever they chose, rake the yard of all the dead grass, do my taxes, go to my endocrinologist for an appointment, and attend a Knuckleduster practice. It was quite a full day -- not really -- and I seemed ok with that.

The grass in our front yard has been under attack by some kind of grub for a few years and I remember,

sometime ago, my father and I having to tear up much of the grass, stray a kind of poison down to kill the little things and cover the dirt spots with sod. He told me that once we killed them they were dead. No more grubs. Well, they're back. Not as bad this time, I should add. There only being about two spots of deadness in the enter one side of the front yard. I want the grubs to go away. My dad can't keep taking care of them. Killing them whenever they come back to gnarl up the yard. He had a bad shoulder -- coupled with his bad rest of his body -- and couldn't attend to "repetitive and strenuous activities". That was fine by me. It was better to have him complaining to me about how I still needed to rake then about how much pain he was in and why his kids couldn't help out more. So, I took to the grass with a kind of gusto that just wanted to kill the little buggers. This way, if they're dead, I won't have to come back home so often to tend to the yard and other feats of shoulder pivoting action. Wouldn't bother me to come home however. I love my family, they're fun, and I'm sure living in an apartment would get annoying after a while anyway and I would pine for the times where I would cut the grass or help my father drill four holes with a two-person, gas powered auger.

So, my Spring Break has been interesting and is almost at a close. I've spent most of it playing computer games, reading, running errands for various people and driving -- and singing along. It hasn't been the best, but that's fine. Not always is it necessary for times off to be mountainous and spent "doing something". Nothing works equally well.

Fireside "Uomini D'Onore"

the last track

The ground has retained its overstated hardness, or perhaps my insoles have just worn out. I recognize

the lack of give from a few months ago and wonder if the ground is still frozen, despite the slightly warmer weather. Peaks at fifty degrees and we're all walking around with exposed knees and flip-flops. That's how it goes though. With ignored, unmoisturized fingers and a seemingly minute shred of hope for warmer weather the populous grabs hold of the day. I've done the same, to a lesser degree, and for a while I was regretting it. My sinuses caked every morning as I curse the heater directly next to my bed for drying out the air, the humidifier forgotten underneath, and the hall director, not thirty feet from my door, wakes up slightly more annoyed, her pillow now supplied with a rosiness before absent. She will report this to me later on in the day, as I tred on the slightly more forgiving economy carpeted floors of this dorm, returning from class.

This return to my room happens, on a normal Monday, three times: eleven, one and three. Today, I woke

up early for a meeting with my professor which would be canceled along with class as I walked into the Communication Department’s doors, a to-go bag with bacon, egg and cheese on a croissant toasted in my left hand, hot “Lemon Lift” tea in my right and an apple in my hoodie’s left pocket. The trek up the three flights wasn’t an easy one as I was helped through doors the whole way – a testament to the days where people at this university opened doors for the encumbered. I ate my croissant on a bench in front of the English Department Office, flakes drifting from my mouth onto the plate below, watching a few people move down the halls, telling me that they were already busy. I nodded and tried to swallow quickly to respond with a “yeah” or an “I hear ya” without the sputter of crumbs synonymous with hurried chewing.

I returned to this again on my walk back to my room, an hour early. The apple was beaten along with all

it’s siblings and I had to choose one from in the bin at the coffee shop. It tasted no different, although I’m sure it should have, happy that I had removed the round sticker and stem earlier. Discoloration presented itself to me as I removed the bite from my mouth. A kind of premature oxygenation that only bruising can provide. I studied it for a moment and was pulled away by the interaction between two homeless men. One of them pulled a cart that I’ve seen on sale at Kroger for five, ninety-nine, the other sat on a concrete bench on the side of the road. It reminded me of Chicago and of walks down Michigan Avenue. The ground would be retaining its overstated hardness, and new cracks would present themselves due to water which had seeped in, expanded in winter and relaxed in March. Even the cement and asphalt of Chicago seems more pleasant and yielding than the grass and dirt on my walk from my room to class each morning.

Then, I’m told by the cleaning lady that it will snow tonight, and I wish I could watch dissimilar, white

flakes fall from anywhere but my mouth in my parents house or an apartment in Chicago instead of from an obtuse cinderblock room.

What’s the reason for this entry? I haven’t written anything in a while. That’s about it.

Quick and slightly less painful then being mauled by a bear

Note to self: The next time I send a band out on tour, throw myself a party over in the MUCC folder.

Make it all about me. ME ME ME! Who cares about tact, respect or anything else. It's about me, DAMNIT!

The weather put a damper on the day. Blah.

I feel obligated, right now, to respond to some of the old posts on my former blog. That estranged little

station for wordage still floating remiss in the void of the internet. Sadliness.

I miss my old blog to be quite honest. It was my home, and I've moved away. I've always had strong

separation anxiety when it comes to moving. I feel guilty when I leave something. Like from my home to this soy infested wasteland. Now, many people who live here might defend this pile of crap city/town while those who have been transplanted know my plight. They hate it and long for home. Except, a big problem arises when I look back at home and really don't want to take that drive. Something can surely be said for my overall longing for my own personal area, and arena for the daft and David. With student loans piling up, who knows when I'll be flowing from my family's home to my abode. Not soon enough. Anyway, I'm sure that when I leave my parents and move into an apartment I'll create a new blog and experience some estrangement like I've never felt, but until then I'll forge on with this little ditty I'm trying to write in daily -- its not happening, but I'm trying; hey, I'm not made of money, leave me alone.

This is what you and I are left with though. A new blog, a crappy, misshapen dorm room, and a special

lady whom I care about an incredible amount. Who knows what will happen now? Not me. I suck. Poopie.

Bye.