Notebook May 18th and 19th
May 18th, 2007
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I've fallen into the habit of going early to the Union Gospel Mission and sitting through the sermon prior to food. Everyone who is not homeless is very happy and boring. I always hesitate to use the word "boring", but you can only hear "praise Jesus" so many times (without any change in intonation) before it becomes decently trite. These people portray themselves as creatures of absolute fealty. I couldn't do that!
Today a man came in who I see around Old Town quite a bit. He is decently fat and his pudgy visage is topped with thinning black hair and wrapped in a suit-jacket. With his getup and rolling luggage he appears out of place from a distance, mayhaps someone who took a wrong turn from Union Station. When you close the gap he is obviously haggard, obviously homeless.
In our latest encounter he arrived midway through a sermon, clacking the wheels of his luggage violently across the tile floor, causing the speaker to louden. He proceeded to pull his chair next to the cafeteria window for no discernable reason. For the remainder of the proceedings he emanated odd gurgling noises. It sounded as if he was going through a slow, neverending vomit. The people who came to sign praises to Jesus seemed somewhat disconcerted.
May 19th, 2007
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A older woman at Julia West House talked to me today. Our discourse began normall enough when she offered a greeting. I passingly accepted and returned to my book. She proceeded to comment on how long my fingers were. I promptly corrected her, asmy fingers are actually quite short but deceptively slender and often mistakenly seen as lengthy at first appraisal. She then displayed her own hand, saying in a decently nonchalant manner, "Me too, but they cut mine off." I stared at her hand, noticing that though her pinky was abnormally short compared to her other fingers, she was still in possession of all of her fingernails. I stammered and flip-flopped my presented hand in some futile attempt to make the situation less surreal. She cut off my attempt, her voice raising in anger.
"They cut it off, those sons of bitches, and you will too!"
Her face compressed vertically in a dreadful grimace. It was already covered in horizontally running wrinkles, so this expression gave her the look of an overturned raisin. She stared and me intently, her tobacco-stained lips pursed tightly, and walked away.
I very much dislike the notion of a God that requires constant praise and attention. It may very well exist, but the fact that existence (as we know it) could have been brought about for such masturbatory purpose infuriates me. Are we here simply because God needed cheerleaders? Could our creator be so flawed?
Also, I seriously doubt Blake Schwarzenbach ever killed a fucking cop. He probably did have a big old boner for Kerouac.
The was a large gathering of some sort in the Foyer of the third floor of the library (I've been here for a few hours reading/writing). I'm assuming it was concerning the fellow who made all of the elaborate book sleeves on display here (Philip Smith), since afterwards the amassed people pored over them. I noticed upon taking a piss that the urinal cake had been handily eroded by the crowds, and its pink hue now stained the white plastic shield surrounding the drain.
Remember: World is happy, beautiful chaos
I'm not actually sure about this. I just had read 21 Love Poems by Adrienne Rich and I looked at the clouds and got all romantic.
Also, wherein the fuck did those bums get 180 cans of beer?
Two bums on the MAX had six 30 packs of Milwaukee's Best/Natural Ice. It was amazing.
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I've fallen into the habit of going early to the Union Gospel Mission and sitting through the sermon prior to food. Everyone who is not homeless is very happy and boring. I always hesitate to use the word "boring", but you can only hear "praise Jesus" so many times (without any change in intonation) before it becomes decently trite. These people portray themselves as creatures of absolute fealty. I couldn't do that!
Today a man came in who I see around Old Town quite a bit. He is decently fat and his pudgy visage is topped with thinning black hair and wrapped in a suit-jacket. With his getup and rolling luggage he appears out of place from a distance, mayhaps someone who took a wrong turn from Union Station. When you close the gap he is obviously haggard, obviously homeless.
In our latest encounter he arrived midway through a sermon, clacking the wheels of his luggage violently across the tile floor, causing the speaker to louden. He proceeded to pull his chair next to the cafeteria window for no discernable reason. For the remainder of the proceedings he emanated odd gurgling noises. It sounded as if he was going through a slow, neverending vomit. The people who came to sign praises to Jesus seemed somewhat disconcerted.
May 19th, 2007
--------
A older woman at Julia West House talked to me today. Our discourse began normall enough when she offered a greeting. I passingly accepted and returned to my book. She proceeded to comment on how long my fingers were. I promptly corrected her, asmy fingers are actually quite short but deceptively slender and often mistakenly seen as lengthy at first appraisal. She then displayed her own hand, saying in a decently nonchalant manner, "Me too, but they cut mine off." I stared at her hand, noticing that though her pinky was abnormally short compared to her other fingers, she was still in possession of all of her fingernails. I stammered and flip-flopped my presented hand in some futile attempt to make the situation less surreal. She cut off my attempt, her voice raising in anger.
"They cut it off, those sons of bitches, and you will too!"
Her face compressed vertically in a dreadful grimace. It was already covered in horizontally running wrinkles, so this expression gave her the look of an overturned raisin. She stared and me intently, her tobacco-stained lips pursed tightly, and walked away.
I very much dislike the notion of a God that requires constant praise and attention. It may very well exist, but the fact that existence (as we know it) could have been brought about for such masturbatory purpose infuriates me. Are we here simply because God needed cheerleaders? Could our creator be so flawed?
Also, I seriously doubt Blake Schwarzenbach ever killed a fucking cop. He probably did have a big old boner for Kerouac.
The was a large gathering of some sort in the Foyer of the third floor of the library (I've been here for a few hours reading/writing). I'm assuming it was concerning the fellow who made all of the elaborate book sleeves on display here (Philip Smith), since afterwards the amassed people pored over them. I noticed upon taking a piss that the urinal cake had been handily eroded by the crowds, and its pink hue now stained the white plastic shield surrounding the drain.
Remember: World is happy, beautiful chaos
I'm not actually sure about this. I just had read 21 Love Poems by Adrienne Rich and I looked at the clouds and got all romantic.
Also, wherein the fuck did those bums get 180 cans of beer?
Two bums on the MAX had six 30 packs of Milwaukee's Best/Natural Ice. It was amazing.