Tao

I went to a theme park yesterday. I hate the plasticity and forced fun of theme parks. Being strapped into a contraption that moves too fast or too slow doesn't scare me and it doesn't make me sick. I almost wish it did, because then waiting four hours to ride the Big Fat Whatever would actually be fun. The most fun I had the whole day was carving my name into the fiberglass seats I chained myself into.

When we left the park, my family and I went to Concord for dinner at some place called Margaritas. It was Mexican food, in the sense of deaf people singing and the restaurant used to be a jailhouse, so some of the booths were jail cells.

Anyway, I promptly ditched my family to take a walk around Concord, the capital of New Hampshire. I started taking pictures of street art that was everywhere. Behind a fancy restaurant, a waiter was smoking. He watched me bound, literally bounce, up to a wall of sticker graffiti.

Graffiti turns me on. I mean, when I was watching the Departed, I noticed graffiti and wanted to travel to Boston just to see it for myself, if it's even not still there. It doesn't matter if it's just scribbles or an entire mural or just a sticker, I love it.

I one day realized I was just getting excited about art, nothing more. That made me happier. Graffiti is just different from what's hanging in a gallery. It's free, in multiple senses of the word. It's not following some curator's rules and it is done by people just like me. More importantly, it is done by people nothing like me. I experience so much and take in so much from it. It's far from an eyesore, it's eye candy.

It is the most pure and amazing type of art.

Anyway, as I was snapping this picture, the waiter asked what I was up to. I told him about my obsession with street art and he smiled. Said he used to be into that kind of shit too. He said he personally hated the sticker variety because it was so easy to do. I wanted to refute that the message is more important than the medium, but I bit my tongue.

He told me the best place to find some street art. I grinned and shook his hand and before I ran off, I asked his name. Tao, he said.

I found the place he was talking about. I climbed up onto the roof of an abandoned thrift store to get the shot I wanted. I was expecting beautiful, colorful murals, but what I discovered wasn't much. It's entirely possible that Tao did them himself, but they weren't bad. Still, I was loving many of the stickers I found. I adored exploring the city. Getting lost. Becoming one with the pavement and surrounded by people.

I still appreciated Tao's directions. I like strangers. They can be wonderful.

I returned to my family and ate crappy Hispanic food, but didn't tell them where I went. It was my secret.

Oded Ezer

The Finger by Oded Ezer from www.odedezer.com on Vimeo.

Day Fifty Five: ETC

Things have been passing quickly and no without excitement since my whining on day 52.

Last night, saw the Batman movie and can't get over how well put together Heath Ledger's character was.

Today, I went golfing with my relatives. I don't like the sport anyway, and felt kind of like a dick playing it and hitting the ball into the woods on purpose. Then a thunderstorm (or squall as they call it) soaked us. I was quite pissed.

I went to the ETC shop, a place I've visited maybe twice before. It brought back a few meaningless memories. Glad to have them again.

My cousin Mark, who is a musician is recording a song with me. You'll see, you'll see.

We shot each other up with air-soft guns in the dark, hunting each other in a field. It was really fun and intense.

I have another surprise maybe. It's the thought that counts. You'll see, you'll see.

Day Fifty Three: Soothsayer

Cutter, the reporter that left, is a curse to the paper, but a blessing to me. The other reporters have to pick up his slack but that means I get to do stories no one else has time for.

Today I spent my shift writing a feature story on the blueberry economy of New Hampshire. As boring as it was to write, I loved every moment. I had to make a dozen phone calls and quickly got used to calling strangers. The finished product probably blows, is probably worse than the most hideous of my feature stories, but I don't care. I liked the feeling so much. I wasn't just typing up press releases, like I have been.

I was so excited I made myself some coffee and poured in chocolate sprinkles and a maraschino cherry. It tasted amazing, especially that cherry which stews in the coffee and absorbs all the creamer and sugar and chocolate. Best taste ever.

I've become friends with everyone in the office, I make jokes and I love it. Vickie Guay, who sits behind me, is such a pleasure to work with. She has a great sense of humor and often makes me laugh. She was a great help on the blueberry coverage.

Gail, who sits in front of me, is pretty ballsy. She calls the mayor of some town and swears like a sailor at him, in a joking way. Gail has a voice like someone chewing gum and different syllables pop and snap, and I can't listen to her without amusement. She also reads Hunter S. Thompson, which surprises me and also doesn't.

She shared Hells Angels with Geoff, a kid with greasy blond hair and a sense of humor that instantly reminds me of Beck and my old friend Waid. Geoff was the one that covered the stolen snake story two weeks ago.

But then there is the Soothsayer. She is an old police scanner who sits in the corner and we get every single bit of chaos that is happening in this state. Sometimes, she has a sense of humor but today, she is a harbinger of doom and decay. Today, she tells the story of a man who was working under his car, when the jack slipped out and crushed him. Crushed his ribcage and possibly his heart.

Gail perked up at the news and said the address aloud. "That's just around the corner. Alright, who's going?" Someone, probably an editor said, "Take the rookie." Gail looked at me and said, "No. You do not want to go." She says, "You'll have to do this kind of traumatic work eventually. Put it off as long as possible."

Geoff ended up covering the story and took pictures on his digital camera. He was told to get back and was nearly arrested but got the scoop. The victim was dead on arrival and still, staring at those images didn't phase me as much as my sick fascination with the story itself.

Tomorrow it will be front page news.

Day Fifty Two

By now, I'm pretty sure I lost count. I may be close, but I don't think this is Day Fifty Two. I don't care enough to double check.

I'm wondering if I can make it these next few days. Somehow, being here has really been tough on me. Even my job is beginning to lose its luster, but that was expected. At least I can find myself doing it til I die, or whatever, but I don't want to get on a tangent. My point is, today I was sulking in my cubicle, really truly wondering what it was going to take to face 15 more days of this.

I've never felt a longing like this before. I couldn't get the image of a thick black oil burning away at my ribcage and exposing a violet glowing inside. I don't know what it means, but I couldn't shake the thought.

I had a dream last night that I tagged the word BLIND in bright green block letters on a wall. I turned the corner and saw some of the most beautiful paintings I had ever seen on the far wall. Then I woke up.

Again, I don't know what it means, but I'm hoping something.

Day Fifty One: The Tourists

I'm learning a newspaper is really just a business. I knew that, but I was thinking it was less business and more writing. Maybe some newspapers are like that, but not the Citizen. I'm okay with it being all about money and subscriptions and advertisements because it's still a weird job with weird liberal people that I love being around. The only republican, far as I know, in the whole office left today. He got a job offer in South Carolina.

His name is Cutter and most of his stuff is front paged. He even did a few breaking stories, really investigating whatever exciting things were left in Laconia. He uncovered that hazardous materials called "coal tar" were buried in a mountain several years ago starting this intense environmental investigation. And he's leaving in the middle of it.

Then there's John Koziol. He's a short guy with a growing bald spot and a beard that's growing gray. He speaks softly, so I have to pay attention. That's the way it is with anyone who has a worthwhile perspective; they're soft-spoken, so you perk up. In the office, John is a different person. He's got a weird sense of humor and he's got a solid head, so we get along great. He often gives me a thumbs up or a "rock-on" fist, tells me I'm working hard, jokes like he's serious. Calls me rookie. Calls me grasshopper

John took me out to lunch. We bought three bottles of this disgusting soda called Moxie that Cutter really likes. I tried it, tastes like puke. He bought me a sandwich, chips and while they were being made we took a walk around downtown Laconia. I've explored the little city a dozen times, but he gave me a tour. He pointed out the same buildings I took snapshots of, but gave them names and history and meaning. We walked by the river I've kicked things into and he told me how and where it flows into the ocean, the names of all the lakes in the Lakes Region. On top of a parking garage he showed me everything that I had missed.

John has the perspective of New Hampshire I wish I had captured in my short time here, but I missed it. He knows exactly what this place is and was and will be. I'm not mad at myself; frankly I don't mind, I just have respect for him. His judgment softens my scorn and I can feel at peace even in the midst of "swamp vampire Yankee hicks", as he puts it.

We gave Cutter a goodbye party. Everyone in the break room and a card that was signed by everyone that knew him and a cake. The cake was covered in little images of things that Cutter had covered over the years. Things like Baby Googly Eyes Elmo, which I didn't understand, but it was an inside joke no one felt like explaining.

John has pictures on his desk of when he was younger. A wedding photo. He looks so different now.

Maybe a newspaper is a business, but I think I love the people element of it.

Day Fifty: Gravity Always Wins

My last day in Virginia was like this:

I went to my cousin's house to see the trees that were struck by lightning and nearly killed his dog. The dog is fine, but one tree is going to topple over and crush the house. My relatives are trying to tie it off, and pull it so it doesn't fall on the house. My cousin's wife is close to tears that she's gonna lose her roof, holding her 22 month old kid, just frantic.

I'm scrambling around taking picture after picture of the house, hoping that if it does fall on it, I get a great before and after shoot.

We leave and go visit my other cousin, who hasn't been married a year yet and already has a two story house. 100 years ago, they'd call a building like this a mansion, but now it's just a house. It's a perfect building, in every facet of the sense but something about me makes me hate it. When I was landing in Virginia I viewed a neighborhood like this from the plane and every house is the same. I think that's what made me despise it. Nothing special about it. Furthermore, a house is not a home and I'd rather have that quality than clean carpets and high ceilings.

We got a phonecall from my other cousin and the tree fell and it just barely missed the house.

Day Forty Nine: Virga Impacta

Church, an old man stood and interrupted the service to say to my uncle, the pastor, "Duane, I just had a vision. It was like nothing else I've ever seen. All the righteous people were dancing and praising God in a field of green under blue skies. Then, these black column-like clouds came out of the sky and the people allowed them in. And they shrouded the people in darkness. Let's cast out all the clouds in our lives!"
The slide changed and without skipping a beat, the service went on, as if nothing had happened.

Today, humidity 100 percent, 90 degrees. Somehow, in the evening it starts raining. Raining like crazy. Four inches crazy. We were driving and it was so torrential it felt like the car was underwater. My family ate at a pizza restaurant, nothing special. Creepy paintings of vegetables dotted the walls. The best part was when the power flickered and the crappy music shorted out.

Beckie was telling me about "Pickle Bob's", an ice cream shoppe that will give you a free pickle if you are pregnant. She tells me, she wanted a pickle so she 'pooched' out her stomach and got one. The way she says 'pooched' makes me laugh.

My cousin's dog was hit by lightning, kind of. He was outside, underneath a hammock, lightning struck one tree and traveled to the other through the chain. The electrical discharge was enough to heat the dog and scare the hell out of it. The thing survived but when I told a friend about it he asked, are you jealous?

A little bit, but the rain was already drifting away.

Day Forty Eight: Virginity

Think Virginia, think "imperialism", please. Don't think "close to D.C." and don't think "for lovers". Think "Jamestown", think "slavery plantation". For God's sake, don't think "virgin queen".

I'm in the country, even further away from civilization than I was in Center Harbor. The people I am staying with are Duane and Joyce W. They are my father's cousins, and their children are my second cousins. Beckie, age 22, is my favorite. She's a lot like me and a lot like Ashley K. and we get along well.

Duane often says things about evil spirits and Satan. Other weird things such as The Beatles being heathen music. He called Marvin Gaye 'the original queer' because of his last name. It's hard to tell if he's joking or not.

Duane owns his own business, a mechanic shop for Mercedes-Benz cars only. So every single relative has one of these sports cars, to the point that I've gotten sick of them.

My relatives asks me if I'm a libertarian like my father. They consider him kind of rebellious because he doesn't subscribe to the two-party charade. I told them I'm an Anarchist, just to piss them off, because I'm kind of tired of caring what they think. Well, it's true anyway.

A lot of people are commenting on my obsessive photography habits, especially since I alternate between 35mm and digital. They say, you're one of those artsy-fartsy types, aren't ya? I smile. They say, that's from God ya know. God is the original creator and He gave you your gifts. I say, yeah. I think, nice reminder. They say, how can you handle that?

The people who were married are Nick and Liz W., people I have barely met. They have never dated other people before. I don't know if that's incredibly romantic or incredibly naive. Either way, I don't think it matters so long as they stay together, generally happy. In fact, I think the lack of prior relationships helps.

The wedding was nothing special. To be honest, I expected a lot more. No alcohol, no cigars. I think the cake was even sugar-free. I was nursing a headache and trying not to be negative. I had to escape because I couldn't stand it. I walked to a convenience store, tempted to break my cigarette fast, but I prevailed.

I called my father and I felt better because we joked about how frustrating these people can be. We discussed advertising and politics and stupid shit. He told me to stop caring what they thought and so I did. I felt glad to be myself again, but I don't know why I let them dress me up. I don't know why I let them concern me.

When I returned to the scene, I helped them vandalize the bridal car. I drew artsy-fartsy hearts and a dove that looked more like an obese seagull. My cousin Eric thought it would be funny to emphasize that the couple waited for sex. The car has this sickening pro-life sticker that says, "dismembering unborn babies is wrong" and above it says, "Honk for virginity". Classy accentuation.

I guess, weddings don't really do anything for me. I've always been hoping they would, as gay as that sounds. I guess every charade I attended I hoped would be romantic and special and I would have a good time, like the movies. The only wedding that even came close was Ben and Megan's. It was short, sweet and I actually knew the people.

---x

In other news here, I'm often bored so I've been doing a lot of phonecalls. I don't get very good reception however. I called Gean and a tree fell on a Mercedes-Benz, which was kinda funny to me. My aunt ran over two snakes driving at night. Watching a lot of movies, taking a lot of pictures. I went into town to develop some film because my cousin Ben is very generous. We ate chinese and the owner kept asking us weird questions, like if my Monster energy drink was from Russia. We went shopping at a cheap thrift store and I bought many things, like a book on optimism. I haven't peeled it open, but I really want to start being happier.

I think I'm onto a good start, despite all the complaining I just did.

Chrysalis

Inspired by and for Gean.

Chimera, I think I'm outgrowing you. In honor, I present a list of twenty-three things that make my life purposeful and happy.

Worship,
painting,
walks in ditches,
smoking cloves,
long-drawn-out music,
caffeine drinks,
galleries that don't suck,
35mm film,
graffiti,
speeding,
indie record store browsing,
kissing,
thrift store salvaging,
trespassing,
complex movies without endings,
friends that I can say 'fuck' around,
certain nature trails,
chaos,
dark humor,
getting lost,
traveling,
piano,
and
great books.

Day Forty Six: Virginal

I kinda like Virginia.
My relatives are just as conservative as I'd feared. I don't know why I hoped otherwise and I almost feel stupid for it.
You know how I call everything fascist, like TSA and airports?
Most people here call everything communist. Like Barack Obama. My cousin Matt is reading that fasco-communist's book because he was bored. He's not old enough to vote, so no harm I guess. I've skimmed a few pages. It has made me hate him a lot more, if that was possible.
I was bored too, so I picked up Christopher Buckley's new book Boomsday. He wrote Thank You For Smoking and this issue is just as funny. It's about killing all the baby boomers and boy, would I love to.

I tried catching fireflies today. It is harder than it looks. My strained eyes, City Boy lost in the woods.

I didn't feel like writing, but did anyway.
Here is whatever:

inside out, it was eating itself.

hummingbird feeder, the ants crawled inside,

floating, drowning alive in an eternal bath of sweet

Day Forty Three: Shit List

I am officially a journalist*. I want to carve the word into my arm and then everyone will know. They will also know I am self-destructive and that could be good or bad, but at least it's honest.
(*I don't count the Lumberjack work I did as journalism. I don't know why, besides the obvious. It really only got me this internship with the Citizen.)

This is one step toward one dream. The biggest question my internship is supposed to answer is "DO I REALLY WANT TO DO THIS WITH MY LIFE?" I don't want to answer early, because this has only been one day, but so far, yes. Get back to me when I've had a really tough day and we'll see if I want to work through this til I retire.

Anyway, this work is pretty easy and fun. I work from 11AM to 6PM, meaning I get to sleep in a little and work less. I get paid the same and all I did today was write. I did about 7 or 8 feature stories. At Financial Resources, I was given all the shit jobs that no one there wanted. It's the same here, only I don't mind doing them. I'm trying to be Mr. Brightside, I guess, or maybe really, I just don't know what's real anymore.

I sat at some ancient computer that has Windows '98 on it and sent the files to a server far, far away. No spell-check. I was sitting next to a poster that said "IS THIS GOOD FOR THE COMPANY?" My co-workers are vulgar, dirty, realistic, genuine people. And because I'm the intern, they're shedding all this career wisdom on me. I like everyone I work with.

Most of the stories I wrote seemed kind of boring and . . . old. For example, I wrote up a piece celebrating of some random couple's sixtieth wedding anniversary that was in May. If the feature I wrote goes to press tomorrow, it's still two months late.

I also got to write up the DWI (Driving With Influence, instead of 'Under' like it should be) shit list. A police record of everyone who was arrested for drunk driving gets published in the paper so as to embarrass and ruin the reputations of hundreds of people. Wrong or right, what did I care? It's a job. I don't know anyone around here. So I got to put my name under it. And under my name is the label, CITIZEN INTERN.

I like that. Citizen Intern automatically makes me think of Citizen Kane which automatically makes me think of Jimmy Kane and then I think of Citizen Insane and I just feel really rebellious inside, when really it's two separate words. I'm making a big deal outta nothing.

I also got to write the crime log, which is somehow separate. NAU's paper 'The Lumberjack' has a crimelog and it's written so badly it's tragic. Altho not the worst, here is an awful example. Read the line that says, "It is suspected the suspect. . ." Almost as classic as "Today's News TODAY!"

Writing the crimelog for myself was refreshingly the most boring part of the job, but many of the 'crimes' were hysterical. People were hitting bears, deer and moose with their cars. Someone stole gas, a motorcycle, even a headstone. Unfortunately, I forgot most of the others.

I get a free paper everyday, so I can save all my precious clippings and move up this demented media ladder. I'm trying to think of some newspapers I would one day want to work for that don't suck. Maybe someplace in Chicago or Portland or wherever the Washington Post is.

I feel filthy and tired and sick.

I'm mailing you a body.

Day Forty Two: Book Idea

I've wanted to publish a collection of my short stories for a while. Today, I thought to publish an anthology including several stories by me AND my friends. I'd want them to be above or at my personal standard for writing. But a couple of my friends have talent, so that would be fine. I would take them, edit them, have some other people edit them and in the final copy of everyone's story, put them in a PDF and email it to a publisher. We share royalties equally.

I'm not sure I have enough friends that really take their writing seriously. I'm not sure the material would have to be fiction. It could be a collection of essays, poems, etc. It would need a common theme however.

Now I request feedback.

Parasites

For some reason, my grandma once gave my family a Discovery channel video called Parasites: Eating Us Alive. I must have been eight. I remember feeling very disturbed by the film, as I watched all this stock footage of people dying from the sickest things. My sister seemed very fascinated with it and watched it often.

Sure enough, the whole ordeal is on Youtube. Come, share in a memory that I wish I didn't have.

Day Thirty Eight: Some What Damage d

So I don't think I hate animals as much as I thought.

I woke up and the first thing I could think to do is to shoot arrows again. By now, most of them are somewhat damaged from hitting rocks. Eventually they all got stuck in trees, so I prayed for rain to knock them down again.

I didn't go to work today because I had a meeting with the Citizen to get a work schedule. As I drove there, I nearly ran over this fuzz ball in the road. I pulled over to investigate. It was a kitten, but it didn't run away because it's eyes were so infect they were crusted over, leaving the animal blind.

I had to go or I would be late, so I shoved the animal in my cousin's arms and told him to wash it. When I returned, he had cleaned it, but it was such a bad infection it's eyes were mostly scabbed shut. Nothing to do about it. My grandma made grandpa take it back to the house where I found it. The owner who feeds the feral animals said all their eyes are like that.

If I hadn't have rescued the kitten it would have been mashed dead by me or another driver who speeds down that road. Then I would've stopped and taken pictures of its corpse. Viscera eyes. Maybe it will anyway, seeing as it's back where it started.

Anyway, the meeting went well. I start Monday. I met some really cool dudes who work there. They were talking about a guy who stole a snake by walking out of the pet store with it wrapped around his arm. They were going to go down and take photos of it and write up the news on it. They look fresh out of college, scruffy, young journalists like me. I'm very excited about my job.

After the meeting, I went to my other cousins house and played Wii while Mark's cockatiel sat on my shoulder. I really love that bird. Something about it makes me feel so comfortable. I'm thinking about getting one as a pet someday. He's been itchy and prying off his feathers in some weird, somewhat damaged self-destructive way.

It started raining, then it started hailing. It was exciting and I drove home in and all my cousins and I went swimming. I dove down deep and saw a fish floundering on the bottom. When I came back up for air, I told my cousins, "Fish." I dived down again to see it, and it was still there, so I grabbed it. I swam back up and yelled, "Fish!" It flopped in my hands, the stupid bass.

My cousins told me to throw it back in the water but I kept it. Turns out the fish was somewhat damaged, cut pretty deep on side for some reason. That doesn't make it any easier to catch. I wanted my grandma to cut it up and cook it, and she said she would, but later she changed her mind and left it out for the raccoons.

I'm sure that was pleasant.

Day Thirty Se7en: Happiness is Arrogance

I am sleeping in the cabin again. The tenants my grandparents had left because of all the rain, but they still paid in full. Once again, I have an entire house to myself.

I was kind of enjoying the rain. When I wasn't ignoring it.

Today, my cousin Josh found a bow and arrow set in the basement. When I came home from work, we shot it at this dead tree my grandfather turned into a giant birdfeeder. I want to kill animals and grandpa says it's fine to shoot raccoons or cats, but not chipmunks or squirrels. Oh well. . .

So tomorrow I have a meeting with the Citizen to arrange a schedule. Fuckin' finally.

Next week I will be in Virginia for a wedding for some relatives I've never heard of. It will be just me and my cousins - no adults. It's a roadtrip except by plane. I'm pretty damn excited. I hope it is as cool as the wedding my friend Kyle attended. It was quite lavish. Some dude rolled cigars right in front of you and there was a bar that didn't ID. I want that. I also want to take some really cool pictures of family members I couldn't care less about. Except my 2nd cousin Becky. She is awesome, from what I remember.

Speaking of Kyle, he is in Washington D.C. I told him to spit on all the monuments for me. So he did. What a pal.

I hope that offends you. Those statues don't mean freedom to anyone. In fact, what Kyle did was a much better example of freedom than a swimming pool for FDR or Lincoln staring down from his throne. In fact, all those monuments vaguely represent Greek architecture, which is very pagan. What I'm saying, is there if you think it's wrong to hawk lougies on rocks, you hold them sacred. You mine as well worship them.

Anyway, things for me are going pretty good. How nice.