Paper from the grave

I find a series of paper fragments in an old spiral bound notebook that I formerly lived in. Each is of a different size and of a varying character. Most are featured on the distinctive college ruled paper that lines Mead notebooks. Others are written on dirty flower-patterned napkins from second rate diners. One note is featured on the type of thick art paper that is designed to preserve works. Ironically, this note is the most illegible of them all.

As with many of the items that I have collected, these notes refuse the typical means of usage. Arguably, they serve a series of functions that I deny. They relay a message of noted brevity, and provide a means for future contact. They provide a forum for interaction. In addition, they could be used as an assertion of “manhood.” I am sure that my father would be satisfied with their acquisition. Yet, I have no desire to use these notes to satisfy these ends. Despite the uselessness of these notes, I am reluctant to get rid of them.

I feel as though they could potentially represent a trend. If I had appropriately documented the acquisition of each note, I am sure that I would be able to read my appeal in the form of a chart or graph. Hypothetically I would be able to document the level of attraction that I exude throughout varying months, and under diverse circumstances. These notes suggest the possibility of researching a more successful methodology of interaction. It is entirely possible that I am more attractive during the winter months (November and December), than in the summer (July or August). For unexplained reasons, I seem to receive more notes when I am burdened with education and self-development. I am left wondering whether stress, anxiety, and perpetual midnight encounters are not actually more appealing.

If I survey different locations and age ranges, I am sure that I could efficiently calculate a more effective means of approaching certain types of females. If I eat at Linda’s at night, I am sure to attract females of ages 19-20, but only if I am studying extensively, or working on an art project. I must go elsewhere to garner the attention of older crowds.

Inevitably, I am the control in this experiment. I am entirely consistent. When at Linda’s, I am generally involved in one of two acts. I either spend an extensive amount of time working on personal endeavors (writing, drawing, painting with watercolors) or, on the other hand, I drink coffee and converse with close friends. The actions vary little. I am inevitably a creature of habit. I don’t engage people at other tables in petty conversation. Simply, I mind my own business.

It is interesting to consider what the evidence suggests; that attraction is not necessarily spontaneous, as the movies, and other forms of popular culture suggest. The reception rates indicate a trend. There are ups, downs, and substantial lull periods. Attraction is somewhat predictable.

Disposed of on June 20, 2007

 

It hit me, like a ton of cigarette packs

I spend the morning collecting the numerous cigarette packs that adorn every facet of my existence; the car, my room, pant/shirt pockets, the green bag that I carry with me at all times, within immediate proximity of the computer, in the kitchen. I collect thirty-five empty paper form boxes, and realize my own disgust. This is not merely the disgust which I associate with the current status of my lungs, or nicotine dependence. It extends beyond that. In total, the boxes come to represent another detriment to existence. The expenditure denies longing.

When I look at the packs that now fill the bin, I am reminded of that which their combined cost has debilitated; the numerous adventures which have been severed by my dependence.

The estimated combined cost, at five dollars a pack, is totaled at $175. Reluctantly, I provide a list of twenty different purchases that this sum could have afforded me:

(1) 35 nighttime drives in Detroit, based on current gas prices.

(2) An all expense two day trip to Chicago (by car).

(3) A more thoughtful/extravagant gift for father’s day.

(4) Ten sets of the high-end water color pencils that I most enjoy using.

(5) Twenty full course meals at Linda’s Place.

(6) Twenty-two used vinyls from Car City Records.

(7) Ten new albums (CD), at discount price, from Record Time (Thanks Ray).

(8) The opportunity to thank Ray ten times for providing me a discounted price.

(9) A one-way ticket to California to visit a friend that is currently traveling there.

(10) Enough money to be stranded in California for a good period of time.

(11) 175 games of pool at Izzy’s.

(12) 27 showings at the Royal Oak Main Art Theatre.

(13) 6-7 dates, based on past dating averages.

(14) 1 used digital camera.

(15) 16 new canvases to fulfill my acryllic fantasies.

(16) A used projector with half the remaining bulb life.

(17) A web domain for 43.75 years.

(18) 87 shirts at Value World/Sunshine thrift store

(19) 176.76 cans of Arizona Raspberry Iced Tea

(20) 11-12 new books.

Disposed of on June 17, 2007

Note that I currently can not even afford to go to “Marlboro Country.”

 

Documenting Detachment

Through the window, I see the chair, paralyzed under its own weight. The wooden frame is in tatters, and the fabric is beside itself with grief. It fell, rather, was thrown, from the deck. Twenty feet of reprecussion pending. My mother left it there after its displacement. I refuse to move it in protest.

The chair scenario:

“Clean up your room…and get rid of that chair.” Mom, being motherly, of course.
“I’ll take care of it after work.”
“You’ll take care of it when I ask you to.”
“I don’t have time right now, and I am not getting rid of the chair.” You know it’s ominous when “a chair” becomes “the chair.”

My mother mutters a few unintelligible phrases. Presumably, concerning my “indecency” towards her and the family in general. I decide to risk going to work without making the subtle ammends that she desires.

I return from work to find my mother cleaning my room. I can still see her through the window violating every space within its dense confines.

“I found bugs in your room.”
“Bugs?”
“Yes, bugs Derek. God damnit, start cleaning up your room more often. You know…”
“Where is the chair?” I questioned, with admitted hesitance.
“There were bugs.”
“Don’t make me ask you again.” Idle threat.
“It had bugs all over it.” Funny, I don’t remember seeing any bugs when I was reading earlier.
“You threw it away?”
“I threw it over the balcony.”

The ancient floral print is soaked at this point. The sprinkler dances across the aged outer-surface. Undoubtedly, various bug species, from a variety of different subterranean departure zones, now inhabit its inner crevices. I fondly remember the day of its acquisition. Pulling abruptly off the road, I loaded the burdensome investment into the trunk, and tied it, quite unsteadily I might add, to the inside of the compartment with a pair of dirty work shirts.

It was the quinessential feature of the room. The print set off the rest of the enterprise. Now the room is obscure, uncoordinated, entirely uncomfortable. No distinguished reading chair. No Sunday afternoons curled up with a book. I am forced to use the unstable piano stool that I collected approximately a year ago. I have to sit upright, without a broad backing for additional support. I feel as though I have fallen in status. Each piece of uniquely ornamented trash that blankets the room, contributes.

Inventory:
(1) Piano
(12) Surfaces for different painting endeavors
(8) Visible, and obscure, pictures
Records, tapes
(4) Tape holders
(6) DVDs
(1) Bird cage (I am still waiting to find the appropriate bird)
Trinkets, furniture, ornaments (The list continues)

My collecting status points decline steadily with this loss. I have been subverted by my own family. I feel detached. My mother has banned me from collecting any further. I have been sneaking additional items in the house while she is at work. Inevitably, there will be another confrontation. Until then, I am a fugitive in my own house. I refuse to move the chair.

Date of disposal: still pending