Old School Microwave

Ashtray/Natalie Portman (Star Wars version 2.0)

The notorious green couch: I found this couch within the first week of living in the house. As I was driving to work, I noticed the glint of the sun off of its plush green exterior, and a cardboard sign denoting its value; “free.” This piece of furniture spoke immediacy; it was a “must have.” Currently, it is located in the conversation room. It is positioned immediately below an art piece entitled “martial arts.” Noticing the bland nature of the freshly painted walls, I decided that I would take it upon myself to construct something to correspond with the long nature of this piece of furniture. Approximately a week later, I found found five pvc pipes of various lengths and decided to place them at different angles to one another. In this way, it is evident that the couch influenced the art piece. Correspondingly, the art work determines the position of the couch on this wall. I find that I orient much of my work in spatial relationship to the furniture which adorns each room.

The trends/patterns initially develop without much personal intelligence. It is not as though I decide to start collecting furniture, or old recording equipment. Rather, I collect that which is available at the moment. Eventually, I find that the choices I have made, the streets that I have driven down, etc., have encouraged, rather unconciously, the development of a particular collection. It seems that the items I collect become more significant at the point of realization; the point at which I survey the used equipment within my room, and decide or realize that I possess a collection.

Current Collections/Sets:

Obscure paintings/prints of old urban thoroughfares.

Late seventies/early eighties Teac recording equipment (including mixer boards and reel to reel).

Lighting equipment – lamps, flourescent bulbs, hanging lights, paper boxed bulbs

Tables of various assortments and sizes.

Tape/Vinyl

Once I realize the potential for a substantial collection, I initiate the process of developing and refining each collection. I begin searching for items that will fit within the categories/trends that have been identified and established. I listen to the music I collect, and read the books under the various lighted fixtures. These items propel a particular way of living, or at the very least, an idea about how I should proceed in life. The trends have encouraged me to seriously consider how that which I have collected has begun to effect my personal life, social interactions, and the way that I live.

Essentially, my collections have developed into a framework for proceeding. This is not simply involved in the way that I proceed on garbage collection nights, but more generally. Reading over a copy of Zen Mind, Beginner’s Mind, I can not help acknowledging the loss of ”beginner’s mind.” To paraphrase, the beginner’s mind is full of possibilities whereas the expert’s mind has few. It seems that conformity is one of the most significant issues to consider at this junction. Inevitably, I have developed what can be considered an “expert’s mind,” in relationship to the process of collecting trash. The choices I make conform to the choices that have already been made; to the collections that I realize. Zen Mind, Beginner’s Mind emphasizes the importance of retaining a beginner’s stance. This is intimately related to the amount of effort/passion that one that begins is willing to devote. Expert’s mind is both self affirming and debilitating. The concept of expert’s mind suggests something entirely comfortable/controllable.

Simply, in conforming to the standards/trends that have already been established, I refuse the opportunities which may arise. Undoubtedly, giving up this framework is a process that I will struggle with immensely. This is not only the result of the shear difficult of living with a beginner’s mind. The difficulty also results from how intimately each collection is connected to what I claim as Identity. Perhaps it is time that I sell or dispose of some of the items that I possess.

The receiver is astir with information as pertanant as nothing

She was what she is and will become

                Fingers trace the dials and strike a chord. Now he’s imagining fingers on the other end. A VOICE. “Hello.” KEEP STEADY. REMEMBER THE PREPLANNED STATEMENTS, THE IMPENDING PHRASES, THE EMOTION. REMINISCENT AS IF OVER A GLASS OF WINE.

“So, what did you call for?” WATCH YOUR PAUSES. STOP PAUSING. ACT FRANTIC. FIEND NERVOUSNESS. Wait. You are entirely nervous. She knows this already. She knows it all. She is as the prophets that we read, and dream of being. She is intricately knowing. Will she still delight in the control that she has forged?

“Levin, I’m hanging up if you don’t say anything…these calls are really starting to creep me THE FUCK out.”

“THESE CALLS,” as if horribly frequent; as if burdening. Is it that simplistic? Have I become redundant? The great repeating machine repeats himself to absurdity. Or at least to the point where intimate calls are severed, as they are entitled “these calls.”

“Hi…Leah.” YOU SOUR FOOL. YOU ARE NOTHING WITH THAT RESPONSE. Make her drink every last word from smooth plastic. “I thought that I would call you.” OVERLY EVIDENT. BRIGHT NEON LIGHTS.

“I know.”

“I know that you know.”

“Well then, what?”

“Will you come over soon…sometime soon…TONIGHT” But you didn’t shout it did you. You just let it hang there, as if to be plucked away by a careless child, with nothing but careless thoughts. RATHER, NO THOUGHTS AT ALL. Where is the passion? The excitement? Why have you buried it? Why does it burden you as you try to sleep at night? It is as boisterous gas bubbles within the chest. It is a heavy woolen breath, disturbed…saturated with engine lubricant.

“If you want me to?” YOU DID IT YOU SOUR FOOL. YOU FINALLY DID IT. NOW, DON’T FUCK THIS UP…DON’T…

“Well, I mean, you are probably tired, considering that you just got off of work…why don’t you come over some other time.” WHY ARE YOU REFUTING YOURSELF? WHY HAVE YOU CLIPPED THE WINGS YOUNG STARLING?

Inevitably confused, “Well…I’m hanging up now.”

INEVITABLY, THE REFUTATION. How does one express silence [edit] mortification, in Spanish?

One moves quickly, hesitating only briefly to purchase the appropriate charts and statistics. Then, it is up the escalator and out for the main floor stroll. The television monitors flash incessantly. There are statistics, times, pictures of thoroughbreds, photo opportunities, track conditions, and a plethora of other sensory stimuli that roll over the eyes as an overwhelming tide of what if’s…what race is it? who’s in the lead? I took too long in the parking lot. Race three is already over. Race three would have been my race. It should have been my race. I should have picked another track. The results are official. I refuse to acknowledge them. It is on to race four. Horse racing is driven by this anxiety. We all attempt to calculate the seemingly incalculatable. We question ourselves and the various conditions to absurdity.

The situation is entirely cramped/confined. We sit elbow to elbow, scanning the sheets, handicapping on scrap pieces of paper. We wait until the last possible moment, when the odds have been calculated most efficiently, we move. To the windows we migrate, shouting out track names, horse numbers, wager amounts, and wager types. Delta Downs. Race Seven. Horse Six. Ten Dollars to win.

The choice are numerous. Trifecta. Perfecta. Show. Place. Win. and every corresponding combination of the preceeding bet types.

Then, it is back to the tables, back to the loose cigarettes, back to the television screens. The race begins, the shouts bellow forth from the seething tide, and the horses dance their dance. We breath a collective breath, and release it as the horses cross the line. Some win, and wait impatiently for the stats to be verified. Most lose. With horse racing, there is not enough time to sulk in the monetary expenditure which horse four failed to back. There are more charts to read, more figures, more phone calls to be made, more side discussions to start, more alcohol to drink, more counters to visit, more losing tickets to discard, more cigarettes to smoke. Eventually, you walk out broke, not knowing how you got there.

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

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.”

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