Strange Handwriting

"That's how she writes."

I remember thinking this the first time I saw her handwriting. Which was ironic, because for a prolonged amount of time, the only communication we had was in text.

Fuck the digital-age.

We met on a website that I won't mention here(more) because I like it better when people automatically think "sex" or "fetish" sites. If our friendship can be a coffee table book for people, I'm down with that -- because I don't really give a fuck what they think anyway.

"It's bigger and loopier than I thought it would be. She doesn't seem loopy."

I always associate bigger and loopier text with girls. She's a girl, so I nailed that one. (I've never nailed "that one," freaks.) Sometimes that kind of writing reminds me of girls and unicorns. But the more I looked at it, the more I realized that it was the handwriting of a cool chick.

You know? The kind that does boy things. The kind that isn't afraid to get her hands dirty, talk about masturbation and evaluate the pros and cons of the super powers held by certain X-Men.

"It's got enough roughness to it. Jagged and short curves. I'm down with that."

I don't pick my friends from their handwriting, but if she had the same "killer's slant" that I have in mine --  I would be pretty fucking weary, is all I'm saying.

Even Though She Had A Seizure And Flopped Like A Fish -- The Ship Stayed On Course

I grew up in a restaurant. I mean, my family had a house, but we also had a restaurant, which doubled as a home. The slew of Hispanic, middle and teen - aged cashiers, and regular guests were easily comparable to one huge extended family.  This is how it was set up: It was a small take-out pizza joint. I don't get to say "joint" as much as I would like. We had a bar counter where you could eat if you'd like. There were two benches. There was the counter you ordered at.

Behind the counter was about four feet of width between the counter and the heat lamps that would keep the ordered food warm until the guests picked it up. Close by was the soda fountain machine where I spent the better half of my years gulping down Dr.Pepper.

I remember the first time I saw someone have a seizure. Her name was Agnes. Now that I think about it, the name itself sounds like the result of a seizure. Agnes was an employee that had worked for my parents on and off for as long as I could remember. She had acquired the role as a family friend over the years as well. She had a knack for being loud and goofy for an older woman, but nonetheless, she seemed to have a heart of gold and an apparent chronic neurological disorder that made her have seizures at the drop of a hat.

I remember she hit the floor like a fish out of water. Not a goldfish. Not a domestic pet. We're talking deep sea fishing fish. The kind that take real man power to get out of the water. The kind that could cause harm to an inattentive individual. That's the kind of fish she flopped around like.

As Agnes was flopping around, I stood there and watched her. Not the kind of watching that's associated with sociopaths. I wasn't comparable to Macauly Culkin in The Good Son. It was more of a genuine stare. I was maybe eight years old and the way Agnes was acting wasn't acceptable when throwing tantrums in a store, so it confused me greatly. My father was in the back making pizzas. My mother was at the cash register, ringing up tickets and manning the telephone lines like she was taking calls for a PBS Telethon. I was still standing there.

My mother turned around to see what I was staring at and had the kind of look on her face that comes with the "not again!" attitude that you sometimes can get. She told me to run to the back and get my father. I remember going back there and handing him a ticket for a new order and nonchalantly telling him that "Agnes is in the floor and Mom wants you."

"Shit," my father said, as he quickly finished making the pizza he was working on as if it were an art that couldn't be disturbed while being created. My father threw it in the oven that I'm sure we bought from a WWII relic museum because of its unnatural ability to overheat the entire building (especially in the summers). My father grabbed a spoon on the way to the front of the store. At the time, I remember being confused. We didn't have many spoons in the restaurant. It was a pizza and sandwich joint for the most part, so other than for cooking, there was no real need for spoons in the building. As he grabbed a spoon, I thought to myself that this was a horrible time for soup -- but a great time for ice cream.

My father bent down and shoved the spoon in her mouth and rolled Agnes on her side. My mother was stepping over them and still working. A few guests were looking over the counter to see what was going on and my mother gave them the "mind your own business" glare, as she practiced her preaching, and minded her business...and continued taking orders.

My mother then dialed a number on the phone and informed Agnes' husband that she was having another seizure. This routine felt oddly routine. Everyone just knew how to deal with it. I had a problem with this. I could hear her mumbling. I could see her eyes rolling around like a drunken uncle at a family reunion. It was unnerving for the most part to see such a chaotic scene be completely under control. Literally -- When I say "everything," -- everything was working out like a perfect machine. Even though a cog fell off it's rotation and hit the floor, the machine was still operating according to plan.

Guests coming in. My mother greeted them. Took their orders. Answered the phones and manned the register simultaneously. I continued to run tickets back to my father, stepping over Agnes' body when needed. My father would come check to make sure the spoon was in her mouth. I swear, my mother could have been rocking Agnes with her free foot and gently soothing her while working like an octopus with her remaining appendages, and I wouldn't have been surprised.

This order of operations continued itself until Agnes' husband showed up. I don't remember what happened really after that, but I remember she got better and went home with him. I think that lately, people have forgotten the meaning of wading through shit. I mean, our generation is so easy to throw up their hands and call it quits that it really makes me worry about the upcoming years. I'm not implying that 2012 was John Cusack's best work to date (I'm not even implying I saw the film because -- yeah...no), I just think that even if nothing happens, the onslaught of fear will still be in the air, and that's enough to make people give up.

When people give up, they do horrible things. Things that I honestly don't want to be a part of. I'm not really built for prison, but I think a holding cell would be the safest place to be during that time. Giving up really isn't an option if you want things to come to you. You can't just give up and expect to succeed or make things happen the way you want them. You can't just give up when your cashier hits the floor and starts flopping around, because then you couldn't make profit for the day. Remember that.

You Have To Die First -- At Least That's What We Were Taught.

I played sports when I was younger. But I was never really good at them. One time, while playing basketball, I remember shooting a basket for the other team by shooting at my team's goal.

I missed.

Just because you're tall for your age doesn't mean you should try out for the basketball team. It also doesn't mean they should pick you. Fairness is way over-rated. It breeds weak children. You should get to be on a team because you earned it. Not because you were tall.

I was good at other things. Like reading. My elementary school's playground had a train cart on it for some odd reason. A rusty blue train cart that sat on a piece of railroad track. It was there to throw rocks at. It was there for shelter. I used to read under the train cart.

They would play tag. I would turn my page. They would play something called tether-ball, a sport to this day I genuinely don't understand. I would turn my page.

It wasn't until about the third grade that I picked up a new habit. I did that from time to time. I would pick up small habits. I still do it. The one I picked up that year that followed me for a long while was the habit of painting. I remember why I had an interest in it too. My teacher at the time was really big into art. Some teachers have their points of interests. His was art. So when it came down to anything art related, he didn't just hand us a piece of paper and some coloring tools, he explained things to us. He informed us on the history. He told us the artist's dark secrets.

That's not something you get with athletic stars. You don't learn about their troubled times in between pee-breaks and peanut butter sandwiches. Mainly because they're still alive. It's hard to be respected as an artist until you're dead, but that, he informed us, was the reason why artists were artists. They weren't in it for the gratification and attention. They were in it simply because it was in them, and if they wanted to do what made them happy, then they made art.

I remember wanting to die. I had just sketched something great in my notebook and I really wanted someone to point it out and say: "This is some good shit," but probably not in those words. I wasn't that talkative so I wouldn't go to someone and be like: "Look at this cool shit I drew!" So I figured if I died, someone would flip through my notebook. It wasn't until he started telling us about Vincent van Gogh and Salvador Dali that I really got interested.

I started taking art lessons. I don't want to toot my own horn, but for a beginner, I was really good. I compare it to the times of learning things like baseball. I picked up a bat for the first time and accidentally knocked my sister out, who was clearly in my line of swing, as the catcher should be directly behind the batter...and the batter should have proper motor skills. So, in comparison, I was a fucking bad ass with a brush. It made complete sense. I knew what to do for some reason. Mixing paints, brush stroke patterns, blending, and shading all made complete sense to me. So, I started painting.

I painted with the idea that one day soon, I would die and someone would think I was genius. But then I figured out you have to cut your ear off to be a genius. I figured out you had to be batshit crazy to be considered an all-star in the world of artists. I was content in that matter. I knew I was already different from a lot of the other kids my age. I was content with being batshit crazy and not only for someone to discover an artist in me, but because it was the right thing to do (as an artist).

I think that everyone has their own particular special talent. I'm not supporting this because I'm some spiritual guru that thinks everyone has a chance. Wait. I take that back-- I think that everyone does have a chance, I just think that some peoples' chances come easier than others. I think that everyone is dealt a hand and how they play that hand determines what chances they take. But then again, not all hands are the same. Some make sense. Some don't.

I loved the underdog for the most part. I was always a fan of the individuals who had no chance at all. The kids who would get pounded into lockers, the teacher who never had enough confidence to stand up to anyone, the guy who wants to ask out the hot girl. I knew all these people because I have a habit of living through their eyes. Sometimes that gets me into trouble because it's nothing I like to show. Showing that trait can be awkward. Showing that trait can be fucking weird. It can come with restraining orders in most major cities.

So I read, and I painted, and I started writing-- because those are the people who end up making a difference in a weird way. I can think of about two or three people who have saved my life. I'm not talking about pushing me out of the way of a moving train, although if I lived in a city that offered underground transportation, I would totally hang around the subway platforms on the off chance that someone would need to be saved. I've seen too many episodes of Law & Order for my reality to make sense. Anyway, those two or three people who I can credit saving my life, and not even in a melodramatic way where I was on the edge of a bridge and thought the traffic needed some scattered appendages to accent the weather--I'm talking about "saved," in a sense where they totally have a hand in making me who I am as a person.

None of these people I keep in contact with. None of these people are even in my contacts list. It's not to say that the people I interact with currently aren't making impressions, I'm just saying that some impressions need to be made by people you only know for a handful of minutes, days, months, or years. Or at least that tends to be the case for me.

So I started writing because it wasn't as messy. It was easier to handle. It could be done pretty much at any moment that I was willing to make it happen. I couldn't do that with painting. So I guess the paper was the next best thing, and the precision in which I put my words together were comparable to the strokes that used to touch the canvas. It's a beautiful site, really. To see a writer in their natural state. Stark-raving mad in their underwear hoping they can get out what they need in order to catch one full R.E.M. cycle-- in hopes that someone figures out about them before they croak. Or send their bloody ear to someone. Writers are too pretentious. They wouldn't Twitter it. They would Fed-Ex it.

The Praying Bag Lady

I saw her sitting by the street asking for rides. She looked harmless. She didn't look like she would stick a gun to my throat. Show me on this ketchup bottle where the bad lady touched you. None of those scenarios seemed to pertain to her.

"We should pick her up," I said to my friend as we walked out of the Arby's from our pathetic lunch break.

"No, we shouldn't." She said to me, holding her drink in one hand and the sack of unfinished food in the other.

We waved goodbye to some of our friends and started to get in the car to head back to school and work.

"But it's Valentine's Day," I said to her, "It's fucking Valentine's." Not to change the subject or anything, but I hate when people say Valen-times day. It shows their true colors. The technicolor trash that's reminiscent of trailer parks and buck teeth.

"Yeah, but it being a holiday doesn't justify picking up a stranger."
"But, it's Valentine's Day," I said, stressing the holiday with more importance, "Nothing bad happens on Valentine's Day."

Bad things do happen on Valentine's Day. It's actually a day that marks a horrible massacre that took place between two crime gangs in the late 1920's. Capone rings a bell (and pulls a trigger).

"OK, whatever. But hurry up, I need to get back to class."
"I have to be at work in 30 minutes anyway," I said, balancing the situation.

I walked up to the 60-something year old lady that was attempting to hitch a ride with whoever would help her out. I would be putting her in harm's way if I didn't pick her up. I know I'm not going to cut her up and stuff her in my trunk. I don't know that the man with two kids whom she was about to ask for a ride wouldn't do that. Crazies come in all shapes and sorts now a days.

"I'll give you a ride, ma'am," I said to her, saving her from her future doom that would (could) have taken place.

"Thank you, son," she said to me with a grin. Her dark and weathered skin was cracked from the wind and lack of shelter. Her small body was covered in layers of flannel and heavy coats. She smelled odd. Like when you leave clean clothes in the washer for too long. Then you have to re-wash them.

"So, where you headed?" I asked her as she hopped into the backseat of the car.

I'm an avid hitchhiker-picker-upper. I do this more than my friends and family approve of. There have been more than one instance where I would be talking on the phone and someone on the other end would start yelling at me: "Nick, don't pick them up...Nick, now listen!" I usually hang up as I'm telling them I'll call them back.

Something about picking up a stranger is mystifying to me. It's got nothing to do with that Joan Osbourne song. I just think that it makes for a good story. That, and if the shoe was on the other foot, I would want someone to stop and help me out.

"I just need to get to my sister's home," She said to me.
"And where is that?"
"Just head down Veterans," She instructed, "It's only like five minutes from here."

It's never how short they say it is. Five minutes in hitchhiker minutes is no less than ten or fifteen. I mean, it makes sense to fib a little. The general public is so quick to not go out of their way that when someone actually does show compassion, then someone like a hitchhiker doesn't want to lose that. So they soothe the driver. They make them think that they're not a burden.

They're never my burden. They don't know that. They'll never really know that. Society has taught them nothing less than that.

"Thank you so much, son," She said to me as she was fiddling in her purse.
"You're welcome," I told her, "It's really no problem."
"You two married?" She asked, pointing with her chin towards my friend in the passenger seat who was doing a good job at staying semi-silent.
"No," My friend responded.
"We're just friends," We said simultaneously.

Jinx.

"I'll give you some gas money," She said kindly, "I know I have to have something I can give you in here somewhere."
"Don't worry about it," I assured her, "It's really not a problem."

I saw my friend getting nervous as the bag lady was rummaging around in her bag that may as well have been her home. I don't get nervous at times like these.

"What's wrong, son?" She said to me.
"Excuse me?" I said.
"What's wrong? You sick?" She eyed the prescription bottle of pills I had resting in the pocket of the center console where the gear shift was.
"Oh, that," I said, "That's just my stomach medicine."

I always said "stomach medicine" because I felt too young to say "ulcer." Then I got comfortable saying "ulcer" so I later named him Uriah.

"You got problems?"
"Yeah," I said, avoiding the word, "Ulcer."
"You're too young to have an ulcer," She said to me.

I was too young to have an ulcer. She was right. My Mom was right too.

"What's wrong?" She asked again, this time asking more about why I had it. But she asked in a weird way. Kind of like she was asking what was wrong in a deeper meaning.
"I may or may not have caused it due to drinking," I said, embarrassingly.

I was 19. There was no reason to have a vodka-induced medical condition. I liked my poison.

"I'll pray for you," she said.
"Don't sweat it," I told her, knowing that it was a lost cause to pray.

I took some more directions from her and we ended up in a shifty area of town ten minutes after the five minutes she told us that it would have taken us to get to her sister's home. She kind of just pointed to a cluster of buildings and said that we could drop her off right where we were.

She could have easily been lying. In fact, I know that she just wanted to get to that end of town. I'm sure her sister didn't really live in those buildings. If she did, then she probably wouldn't have been living out of her bag. She probably would have been crashing on her sister's couch.

"Happy Valentine's Day," I told her.
"Thanks, son," she said again, "Here you go, I know it's not much--"

I cut her off.

"Happy Valentine's Day," I said again, reassuring her that there was no need to pay me in any form or fashion.
"I'll pray for you," she said as our eyes met in the rear-view mirror.
"Don't sweat it," I said, knowing that it wouldn't matter either way.

Don't Be a Sissy. Walk Into That Stranger's Home.

"Come on," someone said (it could have easily been me, my sister, or our childhood friend), "it's not like anyone's home."

"I don't know how I feel about this," that one was probably me.

It didn't take much convincing before the three neighborhood sleuths were breaking and entering. It's not really breaking and entering if you don't break anything. That's right around the time where a window broke. We didn't throw anything at it. We didn't take a brick to it. We had no intention on breaking it. In fact, I don't even remember how it broke. I just remember that it broke.

There were houses going up in our neighborhood at a steady pace around the time I was that age (and I don't really know what age "that" age is, but I know it's substantially younger than "this" age), and as bored youngsters, we would, at times, take it upon ourselves to check out the homes in construction. I mean, it was our neighborhood first, right?

On this one particular inspection, we were interrupted by the occupants of the home-in-progress. It would be a way better story if we ran into squatters or some junkie with a needle sticking out of his or her arm, but we were in Georgia (which, now when I think about it, I feel a little let down that we didn't see squatters or a junkie with a needle sticking out of his or her arm) and in a good part of town. One of us went around back and that's where we saw him.

His name doesn't really matter for the story. It doesn't matter that he became a good neighbor or that he was as dangerous as a gnat. What matters is the fear that was embedded into our bodies. No matter how "bad ass" you are, or pretend to be, especially at "that" age, when a grown up catches you doing something you know you shouldn't probably be doing (trespassing), then you automatically clam up.

"Hey, can I help you guys?" He said to us.
Of course, we didn't really know what to say. We kind of looked at one another because we thought that whoever spoke up would get it first. Whoever gave the reasoning on why we were about to enter this man's house would be the one who was at fault. They would be the one to sacrifice their well-being because we knew that he couldn't catch all three of us. As always, I spoke up.
"We're just looking" I stammered. There was nothing to really look at.
"You want to come in? My wife and I are just cleaning some things up" He told us.

This is where real fear sets in. This is where you don't know what to do. To decline would be rude because obviously we were looking for something (we were looking for nothing). To accept would be dumb because this is the exact situation our parents warned us about.

I remember looking up the road and seeing my house. I remember being able to see the sun start to go down. I remember thinking of how this man was going to more than likely slash my throat to make an example out of me. But he was so nice.

"Sure," someone said.

We all walked close to one another as if the three of us were bigger when stuck together. It seemed logical at the time, but then again, we were three minors walking into an empty house with a man whose name we didn't even know who claimed to have a wife who we had never seen. It is the prime example of a stranger patrolling the park and telling a kid to get in the car because their parents were in a wreck and they were sent to pick them up.

We walked in behind the man and heard someone upstairs. We heard thuds. We heard things being dropped. I heard a broom. This made me feel better. The sound of bristles on the ground made me think that yes, there was a wife up there. Wives clean. She's cleaning. But what if they were a fucked up couple? My mom instilled fear into me at a young age. No one is worth trusting unless they're in your family tree, and things like that.

Nonetheless, everything was OK. He had a wife. She was sweeping up saw dust, not bones or bodies. She was cleaning the walls. She wasn't bleaching blood stains. That late afternoon we all saw the worst case scenario but still went along with it because it was easier to comply than to stand on our own two feet.

What happens when you're "this" age and you still run into these conflicts? I'm not implying that I've been invited into a stranger's home and had internal conflicts about it, because if that were to happen today, I would probably bring a bottle of wine with me and call it a night. I love strangers. I always have.

Seeing the worst case scenario is something I think we're all prone to doing. This used to happen to me more than now, but I think it's because as you get older, you realize that you can actually take care of yourself. As things in life unravel, you learn that you can handle pretty much more than God is willing to dish out, and once you overcome things, you'll be able to not see the bad in things as much as you see the good or the unseen.

A lot of people call that being gullible. You're naive. You're a complete moron.

I like to think that bad shit will happen if it's meant to happen. Or I like to think that when it actually happens, is when I'll take care of it. I lived too many of my "that" age years living in constant fear of the unknown. It was pathetic. Sure, it kept me out of harm's way as much as it could, but you're never really safe from everything. You're not safe from things that are inevitably going to happen regardless of how bad you don't want them to happen.

Shit happens.

Especially now. We're in an economical crisis. "A crisis will make a normal man do crazy things." That's what my Dad said. That's not really what my Dad said, but he's said something along those lines. Probably in Greek. But it all translated to something similar (I'm sure).

Living for your future rather than in fear of your future is something that I've been trying to get together. It's just odd to think about. A lot of people fear the unknown but still go head first into unstable situations. That, to me, is a little respectable. It's when you fear the unknown, then label the unknown with the association of everything that could potentially go bad, which in turn, hinders you from actually living life, is when I think that something needs to be evaluated.

Don't walk into a stranger's home. Don't take candy from them. Don't end up on the 9 o'clock news. But you shouldn't potentially "not" make news for yourself by sitting around and fearing what life will throw at you next. Take baseball lessons. Become the catcher. Catch that shit and and send life back to the dugout until it comes back with more shit. It might be on steroids, but you'll manage. I swear.

and a "hallelujah" for the win

it's been a minute since i took the time to write for me. don't take me wrong. i write.

see: audioholic media

but i wanted to write for me tonight. i'm in that mood that settles with the tapping of the keyboard rather than with the flipping of pages, glasses of wine, or bright shine on the wall behind me from the television while watching a movie, alone and naked, in the dark.

if that's not melodramatic, i really don't know what is.

it's funny that my friend brought up jeff buckley the other day. everyone turns to certain things when they're down and out. my kind of people usually turn to their own type of religion.

my type of people usually turn to music.

i'm not bashing your virgin mary.
i'm not doubting your almighty god.
i'm not knocking on christ.

i'm just saying that, at times, melodies can fill a void that praying won't fill.
it's easier to find comfort in something you can feel.

i feel music.
i'm sure i'll feel god (again) one day.

i'm not saying he isn't there. i'm saying that perspective is put into concrete forms for me when i have something to sway my head to. that concrete perspective is solidified for me when i can feel the lyrics from the internal speakers of my computer. i can feel better when i'm in the shower and the stereo speakers muffle out the scolding water hitting me and covering my body. i can feel better when the steam rises and coats the mirror and the better part of my contact lenses.

that's when i feel.
that's when things make more sense.

maybe music is my god.
maybe god knows this.
maybe god snuck into my itunes.

that would make sense. that would make me feel better about things that i don't have the answers to. shuffle and repeat.

i got off track--my friend brought up jeff buckley the other day.
"hallelujah" was the song that came up in retrospect.

"do you like jeff buckley?"
"yeah."

and that's where it stared. sometimes, when something as strong as a song means something stronger than the average person's faith to someone--it's better to leave some things unexplained.

i get this.

you wouldn't go up to someone and ask them what they just spilled in their confessional. if they willingly tell you--that's a different story. some things are better left un-pried.

i used to listen to this song a lot. i mean "a lot" in the truest form.
i'm kind of glad it made its way into my friend's life. maybe not in the same way that it came into mine--but regardless, it's something to share with someone.

"hallelujah"



i knew the song before the movie the edukators. but it kind of came into perspective when i watched the film one night. it's one of those films that watch better when alone. it's a foreign film, so you'll have to do some reading. but the beauty in the film is in the message. and the message wraps itself up really well. you almost don't need to read the subtitles.

i mean--you do--but you don't.

it all came crashing into me when this song played in its entirety. this was surreal to me for some reason because like i said, the song played in its entirety, which i thought was really cool.

i remember feeling empty and full all at the same time.
i remember feeling like i had a heart and like someone broke it.
i remember feeling like no one could mend a heart.

i remember feeling like if there was one thing throughout the rest of my life that i could count on to mend something that was broken--that it had to be music.

i'm not saying that i don't have family or friends. i'm not implying that someone couldn't fix a broken problem. i'm simply saying that they would simply be a catalyst. they would be the spark. but the music would be the patch.

the music would be the "hallelujah" in my life.

nothing would be fixed until a song put something into perspective.
that would be my sign.

people find god in all sorts of weird places. i found him in the arizona sunrise once. i found him in a few of my favorite novels. i found him in the wind.

maybe that's what really matters at times--is that you can find your god in whatever you hold close to your heart. that means more to me than sunday mass. that means more to me than a title or designated religion.

i don't really know where the direction of this blog was meant to end up. i'm not sure where it started, where it led, or where it ended. but i know that playing this song again, and again, and again--just fixed something.

that crazy crow has my death certificate

so, for the last two mornings--i've been awakened by a constant thudding on the side of my house.

at first, i disregarded the noise because i thought it was one of the little kids next door.

they love to play, throw balls, and run ramped through my yard as well as through the street.
so, i figured--let them play. they're young, right? it won't be long until they're going to college, controlling their vices, and figuring out what it is they want to do with their life.

plus, 2012 is looming--hello, karma.



i lifted myself off of the couch, because apparently, that is my new bed.
i have totally disregarded my bedroom for the last month or so. i don't know why, but i just can't sleep in my room. the last time i was having these problems it took me forever to get back into the groove of things.

i dream in cotton t-shirt sheets and comfort under my lower back.



that's my ghetto bed. don't judge. i don't like bed frames.
i'm minimal.

so, i walked to the front door because that's where i was hearing all the racket.
what do i see?

not a small child running through the yard and playing racquetball off the side of my house, but instead, i see a black crow trying to get into the house



through the window on your right.

it just kept flying into it...over...and over.

my initial thought was:



this.

but then i started getting creeped out. i'm not a fan of birds to begin with. they are shifty little creatures and my second thought was:



this.

then, i wanted everything to simmer down just a little...so i redirected my attention to something with a lighter mood. everyone loves the beatles, right?



i sat there and watched this crow fly into the window for about a minute and a half. it was trying to get completely over the house...i think.

but, kept getting side tracked and detouring into the glass.

there has always been something creepy about birds flying into windows. i even wrote about it last year in the novel treatment i'm conjuring up. it's a really uncomfortable scene. it makes it even more uncomfortable when it's a crow.

when i was talking to my mother later that afternoon, i mentioned the creepy crow.



that's my mom.
she says, "happy new year."

my mom is extremely superstitious. i try not to be. when i was growing up though, that was a different story. this lady embedded scenarios into my head that i'll never get away from. they were all greek superstitions at that--which--any greek will tell you--always seem to be the worst kinds of superstitions.

the superstitions in greece are alive for the sole purpose of making you feel threatened by something as minimal as the glare that someone gives you...or even a damn compliment from someone.

my mother gasped at the crow story. she made that "tisk" sound that someone makes when they are way into their head, digging around through all the horrible shit that could go wrong.

she kept going on and on in greek about how that isn't good.
ultimately, in translation to her greek, it meant that it was a bad omen.



not that omen...this one.

today--it happened again.
i was awakened by the same bird.

i'm not a superstitious person. i mean, to some degree, i guess i am.

but i did some research above what my mom was telling me. because moms never tell the whole story. after reading through discussion boards and spiritual websites...this is what was constantly repeated, in some form or fashion:

"Many people believe that a bird tapping at the window is also an omen of impending death to one of the house's occupants. This belief, associating the entry or interest of a bird in the home or its occupants, stems from the ancient belief that birds are actually the messengers of departed souls, or the souls themselves, come back to guide those soon to die."

i'm the only occupant of this house.
and i've always told people that i have that feeling that i won't live long, hence the reason i live so much every day.

that bird is going to take me out, i'm sure of it. maybe i'll feel more threatened when he leaves a scroll tied with a red ribbon at the foot of my door. he always comes knocking around the same time of the day--maybe i'll skip my first class to see if swings by again.

after all, it would be rude to leave when you think you're expecting a visitor, right?
if i do skip class, i'll record it...it could be a fun experiment.

until next time
-nick