I've been thinking a little bit lately about why I decided to start a blog and why I like blggng and why it matters to me if more or fewer people are reading my blog, and I haven't come up with any good answers. Why blog? I was thinking of writing a long piece about my views on what's going on in Israel and Palestine and how unfair the situation is and write about our biases, but who cares? Probably none of you reading this could care less what my views are on the conflict. And what even does me holding an opinion mean? The best I can tell it is meaningless. Entirely devoid of any weight, certainly my opinions hold no chance of changing anything. The truth is no one's opinions hold that hope save for a select few men (and now woman) in a tightly controlled community of political and (more importantly) military power. So, so what? This blog can't provide news on any topic better than 100 other blogs that specialize in that. It is really just an ego driven microphone. So in the spirit of not really being able to provide anything as well as anyone else, I'm going to post today something I wrote, which I can provide better than any other blog in the interuniverse:
On Interconnectedness
The house was full of people talking and walking around and drinking cheap beer. Groups had formed in various parts of the house. One of these groups congregated around Telemachus, who was firmly planted on the sofa, regaling about his past year spent on the farm. Another, smaller group was upstairs in the bedroom, which consisted of Quentin and the girl he was talking to. A third group was up on the roof, looking at the stars and the moon and talking about how small they felt, and other drunkenly heavy handed topics. The person doing most of the talking was Tomyris, who was also, coincidentally, the drunkest of the group.
Telemachus came from a progressive minded family. His dad was a freelance writer who wrote about “environmental issues.” His older brother lived in Japan and taught English at a grade school and had married a Japanese girl and would probably stay there for the rest of his life, coming home every couple of years for Christmas or Thanksgiving. Telemachus was of average height and slightly overweight in that way that the person would never be described as fat but was soft in the stomach and a little extra flesh on the upper arms and under the chin. He was aware of this, and specifically about the chin line and sported a beard of good length partially for this reason. He wore softly rectangular glasses. Telemachus had three people fanned out around him listening and asking questions. He wore khaki cargo pants with large, empty pockets.
“So you were on a farm this year?”
“Yeah, I lived on a farm in New Hampshire.”
“What was it like? Was it hard work?”
“No I mean it’s physical and tiring but you get used to it. I thought I would have a lot of time to read and stuff, but when you work all day you just want to sleep. Like, literally I looked forward to going to bed from about lunchtime on.”
“That sounds like it sucks.”
“No…”
“Did you get to read though?”
“I mean, some. There was no electricity so it was by lamplight, which felt old fashioned. I was alone a lot. That was nice being alone. I had time to think, and not care about other people.”
“Didn’t other people work on the farm?”
“Yeah there were a couple but I didn’t interact with them often.”
“Was it very lonely? I feel like I would get very lonely.”
“Sometimes. But feeling alone, like really alone, and then dealing with that is productive. I feel like that helped me grow as a person. There was the couple whose farm it was, and they were nice, but when the day was over they would go back to the house. You feel self reliant. I tried to write, but nothing ever turned out, so I stopped.”
The group sat in silence for awhile. Then one person asked,
“And it was…it was a socialist…or…”
“Yeah so it was a ‘socialist farm’ in that the couple shared everything with the workers and sold the surplus for what we couldn’t grow.”
“Did you get paid?”
“Mmhmm, but like not a lot. It was mostly that they provided a house and food.”
“Well if you got paid it doesn’t sound that socialist…haha, I mean,”
“Heh, well I guess it depends to what degree of socialism it was. I really wanted the experience, and I heard about it through my parents’ socialist friends so…”
Upstairs, Quentin was talking to a pretty girl he had been interested in for awhile. He mostly saw her at parties like these. One blurry night they had wetly kissed each other and ended up sleeping the night on the same leather recliner chair, she on his lap. At this time he was sitting on the edge of the bed, his hands crossed over his legs, she was sitting in the big comfy chair, curled with her feet up on the edge and her knees pulled to her chest. They were both smoking cigarettes.
“I’ve been a vegetarian since I was 14.”
“Oh, wow, I could never do that. I love meat too much. Like I love meat. Steak. Mmm. Hamburgers. Oh yeah. No but that’s totally sweet though. I admire that. Why did you start?”
“I actually started just to be different. Although all my friends also did it, so it wasn’t that different.” She laughs.
“But you’ve stuck with it? That’s commendable.”
“You get used to not eating meat. I don’t want it anymore or think about it. Except sometimes. Like summer barbeques, oh my God that smell. But usually it’s not a big deal.” Laughs. “Actually I think I’m doing it now mostly just to not gain weight, I guess that’s really shallow.”
“Not really. I think we all think about that. Especially the people that seem to not think, not be shallow at all.”
“Yeah I guess so…sometimes.”
“It’s one thing I’m really trying to work on. Just not caring about my image, or the way people perceive me, you know? Like not doing or saying things for effect. Just trying to not care and say and dress the way I want to, for me.”
“But isn’t thinking about it sort of…”
“Like falling into it? Ha, yeah I think about that. I’m afraid it might be. But I think that’s better than not doing anything about it at all. Do you do that? Like say things for effect, or…?”
“Yeah definitely. I think everyone does. Like being vegetarian now. Or whatever else. How I told you about being anorexic when I was younger. I regretted that immediately after I said it, can we talk about something else?”
“Oh. Yeah, sure. Of course.”
Up another flight of stairs Tomyris was sitting on the slate tiles of the roof. Her friend Pat was sitting next to her and there were three people in chairs below them on the deck. Tomyris was a college student. She was short and had short dark hair swept over the side of her face, cutting across her forehead. She was wearing a loose tank top and skinny jeans and flip flops. That night she had had a drinking competition with one of the guys whose house it was and won; he was now in bed. She was basking.
“Yeah, I fucked that motherfucker up didn’t I? Am I right or am I right?”
“Yeah you right dog you right.”
“Amen, I’ll drink to that.” She raised a partially drunk 40 of Olde English to her lips and took a long, deep swallow.
“Ha, I can’t believe you are drinking Olde E.”
“Only the fucking best, Pat.”
“You know that Olde English has different levels of alcohol in different parts of the country?”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah, like on the east coast it’s 5.9% but in the rest of the country it’s like 7.5% and in Canada it’s 8.”
“Ha, how do you know that?”
“Oh you know, I’m something of an Olde E aficionado.”
“I respeck that Pat. I def respeck that.”
“Will you drink to that?”
“Hell yeah I’ll drink to that,” She takes another swig of the malt beverage. “Fuck, I’ll drink to anything. Name something.”
“Haha, no, no” Pat says, mumbling.
At this point Tomyris stands up, wobbling a little, she sticks out her arms as if she is about to fall back down, but manages to stay upright on the slanted roof. The people on the porch are making animal hand shadows on the wall against the yellow streetlight.
“Watch out there champ. You alright?”
“Yeah, no I’m fine,” she replies. “I’M FIIIIIIIIIIIINNNNNEEEEEEEEE,” she shouts into the night. The people on the deck look up. She waves. They return to making shadow puppets. One of them is very good and has quirky voices to go along with the animals he makes. Tomyris shouts to them.
“Guys. Yo guys. I’m an animal. Which one am I?” She raises one leg behind her and stretches both her arms out, chin up.
“You’re a moose!” One of the guys shouts.
“No you fucking moron, I’m a stork! Are you fucking retarded? A moose? Really?”
The guy mumbles to the group. “Looked like a moose. Did you see moose?”
“I saw alligator waiting to chomp on something, you know, like the arms being the jaw?” Said another one of the guys.
“Milking cows is a trip.”
“Why’s that?”
“Well first of all, the udders are surprisingly warm. You know that you are touching a living animal. Makes you understand what milk is rather than just pouring it out of a carton.”
“Do you think you got more perspective on food in general?”
“Oh absolutely. I look at food completely differently. Like I value it more. A chicken gave its life so that I can eat it, you know? When you think about it that’s really a serious thing.”
“Definitely.”
“At the same time I’m glad I don’t have to do it every morning anymore. Modern society is so comfortable. I kind of love it, and at the same time am disappointed in myself for feeling that way.”
“I understand that.”
“Yeah but, oh also, I feel like I have missed out on so much pop culture in this past year. I didn’t have internet or anything and I didn’t really read the newspaper. There was a war in Israel? The Phillies won? I’m like still singing ‘The Thong Song.’”
Quentin and the girl had reached a lull in the conversation. It wasn’t an uncomfortable lull, more like in a sailboat when there is wind but then there is calm but you know that there will be wind again soon. Quentin’s cigarette was finished. He stood up and walked over to the window, opened it, and threw the butt out.
“You want me to take that?” He asked the girl, looking at her cigarette butt.
“Yeah, thanks.”
He walked over to her chair, took hers, and threw it out the window as well. Then he took the beer cap he had been ashing in as well as hers and threw them out the window also.
“You didn’t need to do that.”
“What?”
“You could have just thrown them in the trash.”
Quentin contemplated this and then responded, “Yeah, I suppose you are right.”
“Haha, you ‘suppose?’”
“Yeah…”
“Nothing, it’s just like…Ah yes, I suppose your hypothesis is sustained.”
The two smiled at each other.
“OK, OK, WHAT AM I NOW?” Tomyris stood on one leg, the other bent at her knee. She raised her fists to her elbows and puffed out her chest, the 40 pressing against her small breasts.
“A giraffe?”
“A hen?”
“A turkey!”
“A stork again…that actually looks more like a stork than the last one.”
“NO NO NO NO! I’M A FLAMINGO GUYS! YOU KNOW, WITH THE ONE LEG UP? GET IT? I’LL DRINK TO THAT.”
Tomyris started walking like a hen, pushing out her neck and clucking, across the roof. As she was turning to come back from the end, her foot pivoting on the slanted roof, her weight changed too quickly and she lost her balance. Her momentum was carrying her forward, she unconsciously kicked her feet out so that she would fall backwards, albeit, painfully. She did, and fell back onto her shoulder. The back of her head cracked against the roof, like whiplash from the change of the momentum forwards to falling backwards. This had the effect of giving her a concussion, leaving her temporarily unconscious. As she was on the very edge of the roof, the inertia of falling back on her shoulder caused her body to continue moving to the back and right. Unconsciously, she bumped and rolled off the roof, falling four stories and landing right on the top of her head, causing a sickening splitting crack sound that the people on the roof will in all likelihood never forget.
People walked back and forth through the living room from the stairs to the kitchen and back occasionally. The quieter people listening to Telemachus had dozed off.
“So what are you guys up to? I feel like I’ve talked about myself the whole time.”
“You know, just doing school. Did you drop out of Wesleyan for the farm?”
“Oh, no, I graduated and then didn’t have a job and then moved up there…Alright guys, I think it’s about time I head out of here. It was nice getting to meet you all.”
“Ok, it was really nice getting to meet you, Telemachus. Thanks for sharing your stories.”
“Oh anytime man.”
“One last thing, did you end up liking it?”
“Yes. I think I would like to do it again in the future. Or something like it, maybe start my own. I don’t know.”
Quentin was still talking to the girl.
“Well, it’s getting late, I think I should go. It was really nice talking to you.”
“Yeah, I have really enjoyed talking to you also,” Quentin responded. “I don’t think I’ve had a serious conversation like that in a long time. That was really nice.”
“Yeah, I felt the same way,” the girl said with a smile.
Quentin looked at the girl’s narrow wristwatch ticking. Then her feet. “So do you want to hang out sometime? Continue the conversation?”
“Um, yeah, I could do that. Like when? I’m free all the time, except like when I work.”
“One night this week maybe? We could get something to eat? I mean no big deal if you can’t.”
“No, no I can do that. Like when? I can’t make decisions at all.”
“Maybe Wednesday night?”
“Sure, just like text me later in the week to let me know when.”
“Ok, yeah, no problem.”
“Haha, ok see you then.”
“Ok. Bye.”
“Bye.”
The girl left the room. Quentin lay back on the bed and exhaled loudly. He thought about what they would do next Wednesday.
Congressman Joe Sestak announced his candidacy for The United States Senate yesterday, challenging Arlen Specter for the Democratic nomination in the spring. Could be an interesting race. Sestak is a young(er) candidate (I know, younger than Specter? But he's 57 so whatever) who is a progressive Democrat, as opposed to Specter who is not actually a Demorcrat at all. Could be interesting. Specter has every endorsement in the known expanse of the universe, Ed Rendell said, "I would tie my infant grandchild to the railroad tracks during peak hours if it meant the U.S.A. Senate would have six more years of Arlen Specter!" Barack Obama's endorsement was a little less excited, "Arlen is... I'll say he's one of the best Jews I know."
Ages they probably would have given me like an original tracheotomy and would've just sliced my gullet open so I could get air in my throat, but like I woulda died from bloodloss. If I lived in Africa I don't even know what they would have done. Probably like torn up some long-ass grass next to their hut and then boiled it with water and have me drink their "potion". They might've chanted over me, which tbh, might be worth it. In Canada the health care system is so bad that you can't see a doctor for 12-18 months, and that's only if it's super serious, it's a 3+ year wait normally. You get what you pay for Healthcare duh. 
