There is a set-em-up and take-em-down amusement fair (like the one in North Dekalb mall parking lot). It will be up for a week.
At 2:30 in the afternoon a small fire breaks-out in the top right hand corner of the abandon warehouse. The fire truck comes, parks in the alley between the warehouse and the bar. Stays for about two hours. Water runs down the sidewalk, around the street.
There is a fly-by-night carnival which is set-up behind the run-down five and dime, library and the theater. It has a ferris wheel, bumper cars, haunted house, various cheap rides and attractions in a rather small parking lot space. There is also a fortune telling booth. It remains for two weeks. Every other day, it rains. There are no animals that travel with this tawdry side show, only a couple of trailers that may or may not be filled with freaks and oddities. The managing director of this dismissal excuse of a nostalgic past is Mr. Raymond.
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
Mr. Takuya (1)
Mr. Takuya
Mr. Takuya left today. There was no reason why Mr. Takuya decided to leave, he just felt like wandering. Down the road he wandered toward an unknown destination, pushing his three wheeled rickety cart. The red umbrella had faded and lost much of its color. Swaying in the wind, the umbrella that had once demanded attention was now an aging, worn out sight, just like its driver. Along with Mr. Takuya trailed Tanuki, the Japanese badger who had mysteriously ended up as Mr. Takuya's companion. Tanuki resembled both a raccoon and a fox; he had short stiff fur and the familiar white and black pattern around his face, and sturdy legs which helped him kept in stride with Mr. Takuya. Tanuki really hated walking, he wished Mr. Takuya wouldn't wander like this. But he continued to follow, he had to follow.
Mr. Takuya was quite used to getting these urges to wander. He never got very comfortable, there was no point in getting comfortable because sooner or later the urge to move would come back. Mr. Takuya had been all over, in hopes of recovering his memory. He had completely lost his memory leading up to the accident. The accident had rid him of his long term memory. His mother and father, where he was born, what his last name was, all these memories were lost during the accident. Every new memory he acquired would be filed into his brain, replacing the oldest existing memories. For Mr. Takuya, remembering people, events and places was similar to the red bean cakes he sold in his cart. The first batch would be put on and baked, warming up on the stove top for a while. However once they were finished baking and sold, they were gone forever. The new batch of dough was like a new memory. Some memories would stay longer than others, but eventually a new batch would take over.
Mr. Takuya and Tanuki had walked through many towns and small cities. Their feet clocking each mile, continually adding up the total mileage. Although they had no destination, Mr. Takuya would know when to stop. It happened every time he went somewhere. After a certain point, he would stop, absorb his surroundings and know he had reached the end. During this particular trek, Mr. Takuya began to get a little worried. He had been walking for hours without stopping and had yet to find his next stop. He could tell Tanuki was also getting tired, which would mean breaking for a snack rather soon. Mr. Takuya looked up into the sun and guessed it was about five o clock as the sun cast a fiery orange glow across the road. They were approaching an overpass through which Mr. Takuya could see a small and rundown city. A tall tower stood out between smaller shabby buildings; the entire atmosphere seemed dirtier on the other side of the overpass. This, Mr. Takuya announced to no one in particular, is where we will stop. Although Mr. Takuya could not read Tanuki's thoughts, he knew Tanuki agreed. The feeling they had been waiting for started to overwhelm them both, this rundown town was their destination. Stopping under the overpass, Mr. Takuya parked his cart and opened the beaten umbrella and unfolded a small chair. Together they each enjoyed a nourishing snack of red bean cakes and baked sweet potatoes, observing what they had stumbled upon from their perch on the outskirts of town.
Mr. Takuya left today. There was no reason why Mr. Takuya decided to leave, he just felt like wandering. Down the road he wandered toward an unknown destination, pushing his three wheeled rickety cart. The red umbrella had faded and lost much of its color. Swaying in the wind, the umbrella that had once demanded attention was now an aging, worn out sight, just like its driver. Along with Mr. Takuya trailed Tanuki, the Japanese badger who had mysteriously ended up as Mr. Takuya's companion. Tanuki resembled both a raccoon and a fox; he had short stiff fur and the familiar white and black pattern around his face, and sturdy legs which helped him kept in stride with Mr. Takuya. Tanuki really hated walking, he wished Mr. Takuya wouldn't wander like this. But he continued to follow, he had to follow.
Mr. Takuya was quite used to getting these urges to wander. He never got very comfortable, there was no point in getting comfortable because sooner or later the urge to move would come back. Mr. Takuya had been all over, in hopes of recovering his memory. He had completely lost his memory leading up to the accident. The accident had rid him of his long term memory. His mother and father, where he was born, what his last name was, all these memories were lost during the accident. Every new memory he acquired would be filed into his brain, replacing the oldest existing memories. For Mr. Takuya, remembering people, events and places was similar to the red bean cakes he sold in his cart. The first batch would be put on and baked, warming up on the stove top for a while. However once they were finished baking and sold, they were gone forever. The new batch of dough was like a new memory. Some memories would stay longer than others, but eventually a new batch would take over.
Mr. Takuya and Tanuki had walked through many towns and small cities. Their feet clocking each mile, continually adding up the total mileage. Although they had no destination, Mr. Takuya would know when to stop. It happened every time he went somewhere. After a certain point, he would stop, absorb his surroundings and know he had reached the end. During this particular trek, Mr. Takuya began to get a little worried. He had been walking for hours without stopping and had yet to find his next stop. He could tell Tanuki was also getting tired, which would mean breaking for a snack rather soon. Mr. Takuya looked up into the sun and guessed it was about five o clock as the sun cast a fiery orange glow across the road. They were approaching an overpass through which Mr. Takuya could see a small and rundown city. A tall tower stood out between smaller shabby buildings; the entire atmosphere seemed dirtier on the other side of the overpass. This, Mr. Takuya announced to no one in particular, is where we will stop. Although Mr. Takuya could not read Tanuki's thoughts, he knew Tanuki agreed. The feeling they had been waiting for started to overwhelm them both, this rundown town was their destination. Stopping under the overpass, Mr. Takuya parked his cart and opened the beaten umbrella and unfolded a small chair. Together they each enjoyed a nourishing snack of red bean cakes and baked sweet potatoes, observing what they had stumbled upon from their perch on the outskirts of town.
Jebbermeister (1)
Jebbermeister
I've been living in apartment 87 of Wilshire for 5 months now. I still don't know anyone in this building. This place, this town is so scary giving me second thoughts about leaving my abode. All I've done so far everyday is eat and watch TV. That lifestyle has caused me to put on at least 20 pounds.
Today I'm going to change it all though. I'm going to start looking for a job while I'm at it. It's time to brave it all. And to lose some weight while I'm at it too. That last part is a bonus.
Ahh light so bright! The glare is on my glasses and is burnin' my eyes!....Ahh I'm used to it now. In that case, it's time to get my jog on.
*Pant Pant Pant*
Twelve feet and I'm exhausted already....a new record...
I don't recognize my surroundings though...D&D....No way, a Dungeons & Dragons apparel store! I have been needing to upgrade my 87th level Javelin Elf!
I've been living in apartment 87 of Wilshire for 5 months now. I still don't know anyone in this building. This place, this town is so scary giving me second thoughts about leaving my abode. All I've done so far everyday is eat and watch TV. That lifestyle has caused me to put on at least 20 pounds.
Today I'm going to change it all though. I'm going to start looking for a job while I'm at it. It's time to brave it all. And to lose some weight while I'm at it too. That last part is a bonus.
Ahh light so bright! The glare is on my glasses and is burnin' my eyes!....Ahh I'm used to it now. In that case, it's time to get my jog on.
*Pant Pant Pant*
Twelve feet and I'm exhausted already....a new record...
I don't recognize my surroundings though...D&D....No way, a Dungeons & Dragons apparel store! I have been needing to upgrade my 87th level Javelin Elf!
Welcome-- Dave Gorlomi (1)
Blood. Blood on my hands, blood under my nails, blood in my hair. I haven't had a drink all day and I'm starting to get the shakes. My name is Dave Gorlomi, I own Styx Meats and I'm an alcoholic.
I've owned this little corner shop for years now, since way back when this neighborhood was, well, still a total shithole. I think this part of town exists outside of time; it's always been a shithole and it always will be. Anyways, I'm the butcher around here. People need cheap meat and that's what I'm able to give them. I buy a lot of low grade meat or cuts that sat around too long at the supermarket. Don't worry though, nobody dies from food poisoning around here, you usually get shot.
The place next door to me is an "antique store," haha. That place has been a whorehouse front for so long that it used to just be a furniture store. Next door to that there's a bar; they serve crappy, greasy food, there are some crappy, greasy women, and the beer is warm. That's all that this town really is, dead meat, live meat, and alcohol.
Across the way there's a little Jewish deli that doubles as a synagogue on weekends, and as though this town wasn't already about to blow, there's a mosque right across the street. Anyways, at the corner of Katz and Mercy is where everything usually goes down, at the apartment building. You can find anything you need there; girls, drugs, guns, it all depends on how lonely you really are.
There's some more to this town, but all I really know is the liquor store and the blur that happens after it. People come and people go but it's all the same; they all have the same stories and they all sound the same crying. There isn't a sky over this town, just an airtight dome that somebody decorated with a box of crayons, and every time someone takes a breath, the pressure inside increases; it's all ready to blow. The rain in this town wouldn't pass a piss test; the chimneys here would blow over the legal limit. This is the edge of the world and I am Dave the butcher.
I've owned this little corner shop for years now, since way back when this neighborhood was, well, still a total shithole. I think this part of town exists outside of time; it's always been a shithole and it always will be. Anyways, I'm the butcher around here. People need cheap meat and that's what I'm able to give them. I buy a lot of low grade meat or cuts that sat around too long at the supermarket. Don't worry though, nobody dies from food poisoning around here, you usually get shot.
The place next door to me is an "antique store," haha. That place has been a whorehouse front for so long that it used to just be a furniture store. Next door to that there's a bar; they serve crappy, greasy food, there are some crappy, greasy women, and the beer is warm. That's all that this town really is, dead meat, live meat, and alcohol.
Across the way there's a little Jewish deli that doubles as a synagogue on weekends, and as though this town wasn't already about to blow, there's a mosque right across the street. Anyways, at the corner of Katz and Mercy is where everything usually goes down, at the apartment building. You can find anything you need there; girls, drugs, guns, it all depends on how lonely you really are.
There's some more to this town, but all I really know is the liquor store and the blur that happens after it. People come and people go but it's all the same; they all have the same stories and they all sound the same crying. There isn't a sky over this town, just an airtight dome that somebody decorated with a box of crayons, and every time someone takes a breath, the pressure inside increases; it's all ready to blow. The rain in this town wouldn't pass a piss test; the chimneys here would blow over the legal limit. This is the edge of the world and I am Dave the butcher.
Consider Fibonacci (1)
Consider Fibonacci
Jack Alwyn
"His soul swooned slowly as he heard the snow falling faintly through the universe and faintly falling, like the descent of their last end, upon all the living and the dead."
- James Joyce, The Dead
I asked the doorman if he knew that the apartment number was the first four digits of the Fibonacci Sequence. He nodded, and politely asked me who Fibonacci was. I told him I didn't know him personally, that he was an ancient mathematician, long dead now. He asked me why I cared about his sequence if I didn't know who he was. Then he left my boxes by the door.
It's funny to see all my possessions contained in four cardboard boxes. All my notes and equipment. There's my life, encased in mashed up trees. No furniture though. Maybe I can get some at a yard sale.
The apartment is cramped, but it's good enough. After all, this is only temporary. I'm not sure if the heater is working: I tried a few knobs and nothing happened, but they might have been the wrong ones. I was planning on keeping it pretty cold anyway.
I'm writing this blog post from the local library, since another missing amenity in the apartment is internet access. Marie and Emilie, I told your mother to give you my blog address. If she did, and you're reading this just leave a post to let me know you are there. I miss you both already. Also, you can let your mother know that I'm settling in just fine, and while it may not have all the comforts of home, the apartment does have one useful feature. There are no distractions.
Jack Alwyn
"His soul swooned slowly as he heard the snow falling faintly through the universe and faintly falling, like the descent of their last end, upon all the living and the dead."
- James Joyce, The Dead
I asked the doorman if he knew that the apartment number was the first four digits of the Fibonacci Sequence. He nodded, and politely asked me who Fibonacci was. I told him I didn't know him personally, that he was an ancient mathematician, long dead now. He asked me why I cared about his sequence if I didn't know who he was. Then he left my boxes by the door.
It's funny to see all my possessions contained in four cardboard boxes. All my notes and equipment. There's my life, encased in mashed up trees. No furniture though. Maybe I can get some at a yard sale.
The apartment is cramped, but it's good enough. After all, this is only temporary. I'm not sure if the heater is working: I tried a few knobs and nothing happened, but they might have been the wrong ones. I was planning on keeping it pretty cold anyway.
I'm writing this blog post from the local library, since another missing amenity in the apartment is internet access. Marie and Emilie, I told your mother to give you my blog address. If she did, and you're reading this just leave a post to let me know you are there. I miss you both already. Also, you can let your mother know that I'm settling in just fine, and while it may not have all the comforts of home, the apartment does have one useful feature. There are no distractions.
Braxton Chambers (1)
Apt. 832
Braxton Chambers
Braxton sat alone on the kitchen floor. The sleeves of the oversized suit he wore engulfed his thin arms and the once crisp creases of the pants slowly unfolded. Sitting criss-cross-apple-sauce, Braxton contemplated his day to come over a styrofoam cup of hot chocolate. (He prefers hot chocolate to coffee.) He had very important matters to attend to this particular Saturday.
His to-do list was quite daunting, but with his excellent time management skills, Braxton was confident that he could handle his full day that lay ahead.
He first had to catch up on his morning cartoons. He had missed the previous two weeks due to the time he spent building and working his lemonade stand - which was his favorite way to spend time.
After hours on end of cartoon-watching, Braxton assumed his self proclaimed position as the Elevator Man for the apartment building. Occasionally, depending on which neighbor was riding the elevator, Braxton would continuously press the buttons to the wrong floor. Or better yet, he would sometimes run his hands over the buttons for all thirteen floors, which obviously irritated the other apartment dwellers.
But they always put up with Braxton's shenanigans as they felt sorry for the poor little fellow. You see, this is Braxton Jr. we're talking about. Braxton Sr., a widowed father, rarely spent anytime in the Wilshire building, as he was always away on "business".
Eleven-year-old Braxton Jr. was left free to roam the building and streets of the deceptively harsh surrounding neighborhood. But Braxton had street smarts. He knew that the folks at Jorri Rae's would take care of him and that there was something odd about the antique store across the street.
Anyhow, after Braxton's elevator adventures, he had pencilled in time to set up his lemonade stand for a while. Despite the either overly watery or overly lemony concoctions of "lemonade" Braxton created, the neighborhood's residents still loved Braxton's lemonade stand. There was just something so lovable about Braxton's quirky demeanor as he enthusiastically marketed his lemonade in his father's business suits that swallowed his skinny little body.
Braxton took to wearing his dad's suits as he aspires to be a business man one day, too. He hopes to work for Country Time lemonade.
Braxton Chambers
Braxton sat alone on the kitchen floor. The sleeves of the oversized suit he wore engulfed his thin arms and the once crisp creases of the pants slowly unfolded. Sitting criss-cross-apple-sauce, Braxton contemplated his day to come over a styrofoam cup of hot chocolate. (He prefers hot chocolate to coffee.) He had very important matters to attend to this particular Saturday.
His to-do list was quite daunting, but with his excellent time management skills, Braxton was confident that he could handle his full day that lay ahead.
He first had to catch up on his morning cartoons. He had missed the previous two weeks due to the time he spent building and working his lemonade stand - which was his favorite way to spend time.
After hours on end of cartoon-watching, Braxton assumed his self proclaimed position as the Elevator Man for the apartment building. Occasionally, depending on which neighbor was riding the elevator, Braxton would continuously press the buttons to the wrong floor. Or better yet, he would sometimes run his hands over the buttons for all thirteen floors, which obviously irritated the other apartment dwellers.
But they always put up with Braxton's shenanigans as they felt sorry for the poor little fellow. You see, this is Braxton Jr. we're talking about. Braxton Sr., a widowed father, rarely spent anytime in the Wilshire building, as he was always away on "business".
Eleven-year-old Braxton Jr. was left free to roam the building and streets of the deceptively harsh surrounding neighborhood. But Braxton had street smarts. He knew that the folks at Jorri Rae's would take care of him and that there was something odd about the antique store across the street.
Anyhow, after Braxton's elevator adventures, he had pencilled in time to set up his lemonade stand for a while. Despite the either overly watery or overly lemony concoctions of "lemonade" Braxton created, the neighborhood's residents still loved Braxton's lemonade stand. There was just something so lovable about Braxton's quirky demeanor as he enthusiastically marketed his lemonade in his father's business suits that swallowed his skinny little body.
Braxton took to wearing his dad's suits as he aspires to be a business man one day, too. He hopes to work for Country Time lemonade.
The Day - Blog #1
It is raining/sleeting on and off all day. The temp. remains a constant 32 degrees. There is a power outage for 1 hr. at 8 PM. Around midnight, a dark gray mini-van drives slowly through the neighborhood from Mercy Bvld. to Katz Ave. and heads toward the overpass.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)