The Private Press
My livejournal is now a year old. (Or rather is in a minute.)
Have you learned anything?
Who's reading this thing, anyways?
Speak up!
Habits exist on a logarithmic graph.
I had to look that up. What I mean is a graph that starts slow, goes up really fast, and then slows down again.
What I mean is it's hard to make them, but once they're made, they don't get much more made.
Turning a ball of clay into pottery can't be done in one smoosh. It takes many pokes and twists.
A topiary labyrinth was designed with a way out. You can bust through the bushes if you can and want, but do that enough and all you'll have is a garden.
Canyons form because water gets stuck in a groove.
Who's reading this?! Ask me something! Say something! Start unrelated conversations in the commentary!
RANDOMLY COMPOSED MONOLOGUE #1
DALIK:
[wearing sunglasses and a baseball glove]
You're wondering about this. Am I a child? Playing catch with poppa? No. Is this a baseball story? Well, yes. Are there going to be baseballs coming out of... up there? Wish I knew... I mean, I doubt any will. My logical reasoning is pretty good according to all the people who, well, they like to test me. I am very good at determining the number of gumballs or marbles in a glass jar to win the prize, as well, in case you ever need a ringer. But the baseball glove. Logic doesn't apply to baseball, except in determining the acceleration and arc of the ball by the mathematics of physics, but who has time for that between the crack of the bat, and, you know. The ball goes flying, reflexes take over, bat, ball, the air. I see psychologists. Why? Man, I'd like to know. All this stuff I think, all the smart people in the big offices in the brick and stone buildings, I mean, I can get it, but I can't take this glove off. I can, I can't. It's tricky. I'm tellin' you, you all do the same, you in my position. I CAN take the glove off. But it's a bad idea. I might get... well, let me tell you the story. I don't want to beat around the so-called bush, though I always thought I wouldn't want much to go jumping into the bush, either. Are there thorns? Prickers? A skunk? I hate skunk. Got sprayed once. In my baseball uniform. Which brings me, yes, back to the story. Baseball uniform said the Riders. I think they were going for the Rough Riders, that Teddy Roosevelt regiment, but even if they weren't it was a dumb name for a Little League team. Cute uniforms, though. Wish I still had mine. Eh, it would complete the psycho look. Fella walks around with a baseball glove all the time, oiled up and everything, that's... weird. Walks around in full baseball gear? That's eccentric, man. That's even a little bit cool, to the right people, or mostly it's crazy, but anything is better than weird. Weird isn't logical. Weird is a feeling. It's revolting. ...But there are stronger feelings. Like, okay, love. Geez. Love of the game. I might have loved baseball, but I probably just liked it about the same as my bike or trips to the swimming pool in the seventh grade after I discovered the girls and they the bikini. Geez, I get so off track. I was out on the field, alright, Little League game, against the Tiger Sharks - much cooler name than the Riders - oh, sorry. Top of the fifth, I'm center field. Now, the field faces west, game is going into the afternoon. It's the sun. The sun in the air, man. Little Bobby whatever his name might-have-been hits a popper zoomin' up to the sun, and the ball becomes one with the sun, it melts into the light. The baseball becomes IN the sun. A nothing, and then a dot, it just becomes a little eclipse, a growing eclipse, and it is a telescoping eclipse, te-le-sco-ping, HEY!, and boom. The sun opens up into darkness and hits me between the eyes. Now you look at me, I'm wearing this glove, and this is fifteen some years later. Getting hit with a ball? Not traumatic. Going blind? Yeah. Until they invented some laser surgery? Blind for your entire youth? Everything dissapears at that moment in between needing your parents to give you the hugs and needing your first girlfriend. Video games go away and so does every single friend who isn't blind. Fuck baseball. This is why I wear the glove, now, too. It's baseball's fuckin' fault. No, not logically, but, cripes, man. Once my vision came back, yeah, happy time... but everytime the sun gets in my eyes, I have to go [he demonstrates getting into a scared outfielder's position to catch the fly ball]. Just like this. Reflex. It's going to hit me again. They try and condition it out of me, but I'm too smart. Plus, it only works with the sun. Psychologists don't like venturing out into the sun to perform deconditioning experiments. I say fuck em. I wear sunglasses. But when the sunglasses don't work, the sun is sneaky, he comes around the top, the sides, when I want to actually look people in the eye, it happens, and you know what I say? What I said? I said, fuck it, what if there is a baseball? One day? Christ, I don't even care, I put the glove on, at least that way I catch it if it's there. That's why. I don't care. So I'm weird. You know what, I don't want friends who won't be my friend, a girlfriend who can't see through the tic. The reflex, man. Cause everyone's got it. Yeah. Yes. It is true, I've been attuned to it, I'm into logic. Everybody loses their logic. Everybody jumps at baseballs in the sun. I seen you do it. You're just lucky there WASN’T one there. It was a bird. A bug in your eye. It’s nothing anybody would notice. That's what I wanted to say. ...or maybe I'm lucky, cause, hey, I'm goin, and, one day, maybe I catch a thousand-dollar fly ball without even trying. Or maybe I get hit by a car when I jump at the sun. ...Hey, that would be a logical consequence. That, that would make me happy. I hope it happens.
Twelveteen points to anyone who gets the post title.
My livejournal cheers itself to another year of obscurity, randomness, and irregularity! Cheers!
Who's reading this thing, anyways?
Have you learned anything?
Who's reading this thing, anyways?
Speak up!
Habits exist on a logarithmic graph.
I had to look that up. What I mean is a graph that starts slow, goes up really fast, and then slows down again.
What I mean is it's hard to make them, but once they're made, they don't get much more made.
Turning a ball of clay into pottery can't be done in one smoosh. It takes many pokes and twists.
A topiary labyrinth was designed with a way out. You can bust through the bushes if you can and want, but do that enough and all you'll have is a garden.
Canyons form because water gets stuck in a groove.
Who's reading this?! Ask me something! Say something! Start unrelated conversations in the commentary!
RANDOMLY COMPOSED MONOLOGUE #1
DALIK:
[wearing sunglasses and a baseball glove]
You're wondering about this. Am I a child? Playing catch with poppa? No. Is this a baseball story? Well, yes. Are there going to be baseballs coming out of... up there? Wish I knew... I mean, I doubt any will. My logical reasoning is pretty good according to all the people who, well, they like to test me. I am very good at determining the number of gumballs or marbles in a glass jar to win the prize, as well, in case you ever need a ringer. But the baseball glove. Logic doesn't apply to baseball, except in determining the acceleration and arc of the ball by the mathematics of physics, but who has time for that between the crack of the bat, and, you know. The ball goes flying, reflexes take over, bat, ball, the air. I see psychologists. Why? Man, I'd like to know. All this stuff I think, all the smart people in the big offices in the brick and stone buildings, I mean, I can get it, but I can't take this glove off. I can, I can't. It's tricky. I'm tellin' you, you all do the same, you in my position. I CAN take the glove off. But it's a bad idea. I might get... well, let me tell you the story. I don't want to beat around the so-called bush, though I always thought I wouldn't want much to go jumping into the bush, either. Are there thorns? Prickers? A skunk? I hate skunk. Got sprayed once. In my baseball uniform. Which brings me, yes, back to the story. Baseball uniform said the Riders. I think they were going for the Rough Riders, that Teddy Roosevelt regiment, but even if they weren't it was a dumb name for a Little League team. Cute uniforms, though. Wish I still had mine. Eh, it would complete the psycho look. Fella walks around with a baseball glove all the time, oiled up and everything, that's... weird. Walks around in full baseball gear? That's eccentric, man. That's even a little bit cool, to the right people, or mostly it's crazy, but anything is better than weird. Weird isn't logical. Weird is a feeling. It's revolting. ...But there are stronger feelings. Like, okay, love. Geez. Love of the game. I might have loved baseball, but I probably just liked it about the same as my bike or trips to the swimming pool in the seventh grade after I discovered the girls and they the bikini. Geez, I get so off track. I was out on the field, alright, Little League game, against the Tiger Sharks - much cooler name than the Riders - oh, sorry. Top of the fifth, I'm center field. Now, the field faces west, game is going into the afternoon. It's the sun. The sun in the air, man. Little Bobby whatever his name might-have-been hits a popper zoomin' up to the sun, and the ball becomes one with the sun, it melts into the light. The baseball becomes IN the sun. A nothing, and then a dot, it just becomes a little eclipse, a growing eclipse, and it is a telescoping eclipse, te-le-sco-ping, HEY!, and boom. The sun opens up into darkness and hits me between the eyes. Now you look at me, I'm wearing this glove, and this is fifteen some years later. Getting hit with a ball? Not traumatic. Going blind? Yeah. Until they invented some laser surgery? Blind for your entire youth? Everything dissapears at that moment in between needing your parents to give you the hugs and needing your first girlfriend. Video games go away and so does every single friend who isn't blind. Fuck baseball. This is why I wear the glove, now, too. It's baseball's fuckin' fault. No, not logically, but, cripes, man. Once my vision came back, yeah, happy time... but everytime the sun gets in my eyes, I have to go [he demonstrates getting into a scared outfielder's position to catch the fly ball]. Just like this. Reflex. It's going to hit me again. They try and condition it out of me, but I'm too smart. Plus, it only works with the sun. Psychologists don't like venturing out into the sun to perform deconditioning experiments. I say fuck em. I wear sunglasses. But when the sunglasses don't work, the sun is sneaky, he comes around the top, the sides, when I want to actually look people in the eye, it happens, and you know what I say? What I said? I said, fuck it, what if there is a baseball? One day? Christ, I don't even care, I put the glove on, at least that way I catch it if it's there. That's why. I don't care. So I'm weird. You know what, I don't want friends who won't be my friend, a girlfriend who can't see through the tic. The reflex, man. Cause everyone's got it. Yeah. Yes. It is true, I've been attuned to it, I'm into logic. Everybody loses their logic. Everybody jumps at baseballs in the sun. I seen you do it. You're just lucky there WASN’T one there. It was a bird. A bug in your eye. It’s nothing anybody would notice. That's what I wanted to say. ...or maybe I'm lucky, cause, hey, I'm goin, and, one day, maybe I catch a thousand-dollar fly ball without even trying. Or maybe I get hit by a car when I jump at the sun. ...Hey, that would be a logical consequence. That, that would make me happy. I hope it happens.
Twelveteen points to anyone who gets the post title.
My livejournal cheers itself to another year of obscurity, randomness, and irregularity! Cheers!
Who's reading this thing, anyways?