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.

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 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 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.

Day Thirty Two/Three: Master of Ceremonies

I've been developing film at Rite Aid, my little oasis here. There's a nice girl at the counter named Kaitlyn, who has a tongue piercing and perfect plucked eyebrows. She's ringing up a guy who's wrapped in bandages. He tells me he got real drunk and instead of jumping over a fire, he fell in it. He lifts the bandages and shows me a sick white blister that covers his entire wrist, running up his thumb. He's buying more bandages, of course and some of that Neosporin stuff.

I'm beginning to think that these kids, these poor rebels are the real citizens of New Hampshire. The old people who are stuck in 1950-esque rituals and beliefs are not gonna be here much longer. Twenty years and 90% will be dead. They don't matter. The ones that count are the girls with pink hair and tattoos that are running the registers and answering phones. The guys with lip piercings like fish hooks in their mouths. One day they'll inherit this place, and maybe change it for better. Maybe for worse.

So I went to a party today and yeah, it sucked. I mean, it was a bunch of teenage girls. I was with the fat girl who thought everyone hated her because she was fat. She kept making negative comments about herself and I wanted to smack her and tell her to grow a pair. People will like anyone who likes themselves, unless they like themselves too much.

I was really bored, so I unconsciously decided to liven things up. Matthew and I looked up the rules for fencing and had a tournament with Mark in the front yard. It was worth the bruises. I took pictures with a 35mm camera I found at the church. The thing cranked like an old airplane, the sound of retro. I developed some pictures I found inside the camera and they came out nice. Well, by my standards anyway, which are low.

Then a lot older people show up. I meet a guy named Maxwell, and the first thing he asks me is if I'm gay. "Uh, no." He starts to walk off and I ask him if he wanted to know anything about me besides my sexual orientation. He frowns. "Nah."

Most of the night, I was talking music. It turns out, Jerry likes Natalie Portman's Shaved Head. I didn't think anyone but me and a couple friends ever heard of them! What a nice surprise. Two girls, Kelsey and Christie are arguing over the Strokes while playing a game of Pokémon cards. "They sound like blah," Kelsey says. "No, they sound like amazing."

We go to the lake to swim. It's a nice, perfect little beach, and it looks beautiful. Because they forgot to bring bathing suits, some of the girls are sitting out. But not Kelsey. She strips to just her underwear and dives in. She says, "Has there ever been a party where I haven't taken off my pants?"

I find a boat sitting on the rocks and I take it into the water. Sarah tells me to stop stealing. I say, I'm not stealing, I'm borrowing without permission. Maxwell shouts, "I like him! He ain't no Godfearing type." I corrected him, but well, what could I say? I felt kind of sad to hear that.

I floated out on the lake, but without paddles I didn't get far. I leapt off and swam as far as I could, until I felt I was gonna drown from exhaustion. Skipped mussels as far as I could. Stupid little things.

On the way back from the lake, I met a girl named Sadie Paradise. No lie, that's her name. She's wearing a shirt that says, "Single & Fabulous". I tell her, with a name like that, one day she's gonna be famous. She says, "I know, huh. I already know what my bootlegged sex tape is gonna be. 'A Night in Paradise'. Kind of like Paris Hilton's."

I change the stereo to Rage Against the Machine. Sadie says, "This music makes me want to dropkick babies."
"Really?" I say. "Cuz I kinda enjoy that kind of thing."
She says, "I'm guessing no one here like Lil Wayne."
I grimace and try to justify my reaction. "Um, he doesn't write his own songs and . . . "
"Yeah, I know, but he's so hot I'd have 30 of his babies. In one month. That's thirty babies a day."
I nod.
"And you know what? All that child support would make me fuckin' rich."

Sadie says I look like someone named Kgell, pronounced Shell, some kid they know. "But you're not a man-whore. . . Are you?" I just smile. Then she says I also look like "That, that Shaggy dude!" I laugh and write this down. I tell Sadie and all the girls that I've been compiling a list of famous people I've been compared to. Like Connor O'Berst of Bright Eyes. Edward Norton. Eddie Vedder.

As I leave, I give each of the girls a hug, even the fat one without any self-confidence. All the girls call out goodbye to me, each a different celebrity I'm supposed to be. "Goodbye, goodbye, goodbye!"

I think there's a lesson to be learned here, but you'd be bored with it.

Day Thirty One: BadSeed

I feel so good right now.

I feel like I should give you some background on my family, because I've written most of my adventures without context.

My grandfather, Robert Paul Farah had three sons, in this order: Scott, Paul and Dan. My father is Paul Robert* Farah, the middle child and the weird one, who moved from New Hampshire to live in Phoenix, where I was born. I am the oldest of eight cousin, two to Scott, three to Dan and three to my father, which really doesn't make them cousins. Also, I am not counting my adopted brothers and sisters, because my grandparents do not, which is really quite sad.

Anyway, being the oldest, I am a positively bad influence on them, because they look up to me. I love that feeling, but it also kind of worries me that I am doing damage to them. I've been discussing my anarchist/libertarian views with my cousin Matthew. He claims he will never do any illegal drugs because it's illegal. I told him I'm not going to allow the state to decide what is healthy for me. I'm seeding little thoughts like this into him. I let him read the Catcher in the Rye, which is way worse than the M-Rated games his mom won't let him play.

My cousin Joshua, lives in North Carolina and is the son of my uncle Dan. Today, I learned he is coming to live with my grandparents for a while. He flies in tomorrow night and I will go to pick him up. He's 14, and you know how influenced kids are at his age. So I'm going to really change him around, for better or worse. I'm really excited. We're sharing a room. We need to get him a cane, so off to Laconia!

Tomorrow my cousins Matthew and Mark return from Africa. We are really gonna have chaos on Friday. It's gonna be so awesome.

I feel peace. So at the top is a weird picture of me. I was riding a kids bike while wearing a Darth Vader mask. Why not.

*Notice that my father and grandfather have switched names. Aren't they clever? I was supposed to be Robert Paul too. Then I was supposed to be Heath. Instead, I am me.

Day Twenty Eight: My List

A friend said he has an addictive personality, and I wondered if I did too. A study by Florida State University, and reported by the New York Times finds that there are several ''significant personality factors'' that can contribute to addiction:

- Impulsive behavior, difficulty in delaying gratification, an antisocial personality and a disposition toward sensation seeking.

- A high value on nonconformity combined with a weak commitment to the goals for achievement valued by the society.

- A sense of social alienation and a general tolerance for deviance.

- A sense of heightened stress. This may help explain why adolescence and other stressful transition periods are often associated with the most severe drug and alcohol problems.

Let me put it in my own way. All I care about anymore is new experiences, new flavors, meeting new people, smelling new blood. A new kind of purity.

I'm not worried or upset and I'm not gonna bat an eye. It's almost as if the study proposes this kind of attitude is a bad thing. I'm happy with who I am. Who knows, maybe I'll even grow out of it. Maybe being me is just a "phase".

I was reading Hitler quotes yesterday. Why not. My favorite quote from him (besides the "kill everybody" one) is "Anyone who sees and paints a sky green and fields blue ought to be sterilized." So if you know me, you know what I did. I painted a landscape according to this color scheme. Many people believe Hitler to be the most evil man in history, and maybe, but doesn't it feel great to break whatever rules he makes. A new kind of purity.

I'm excited for school. Not the school parts tho. Those are far from my mind. I'm excited for all the amazing things I will be doing this year. I'm really happy about it. Nothing's gonna stop me.

I explored a thunderstorm today and met the girl my grandma is trying to hook me up with. We'll be good friends, sure. But nothing more.

Day Twenty Six: Mold, Dust, Promises, Memories

Two promises fulfilled. First, I mostly only took black and white photographs today.

Second, I went exploring in my grandparents attic like I promised someone. I found an old phonograph and a trumpet, but I can't get either to work. My grandma can't operate a damn computer and I think she's ignorant, but I really find myself against the wall this time. I'm hoping that the items are broken, not my brain, but I want them to work so I can have some musickal fun. I think I'd have more fun smashing them up. Tossing them down the stairs and watching them float away in the lake. I don't think they'd even float.

I also found an old video camera, the kind you hold with one hand and aim like a sub-machine gun. It still takes film, not tape. The batteries were so old they were oozing acid and it melted the paint on the back. Maybe it will work one day. Maybe I will discover some family memories I never knew I had. They had.

That record player squeaks and grinds against some mint condition Boston Pops album. The volume doesn't go up very high, so it's barely a whisper as the poor record is scratched to death. The sound is hideous and distorted but it makes the best mood music I've ever heard.

More Goals:
Make myself a slingshot and shoot out advertisements. Or buy one from Wal-Mart.

Read advice columns, but just the questions, not the answers. My life is so much better than theirs.

Rip out pages of old books and put them on walls.

Make a new shirt.

Make more oblique goals.

Look up the word oblique.

Day Twenty Four: Love Keeps

Got my photos back, the expired film ones. They didn't turn out as exciting as I imagined, but some of them did become really surreal and cool.

The one at the top I chose because, look at that sky. Look at the house and how creepy it looks, yet the colors aren't dark. It may look realistic, but this photo is very, very fake and not on purpose. It tried to be real.

The house has been there as long as I can remember. It used to belong to a woman named Connie Strand who tried to turn her house into a community center, but no one supported her idea. She lost half a million dollars and her house was taken by the bank.

When I was ten, my father was reading Ayn Rand. He explained the arguments to me, and for the most part, I agreed with them. I asked my dad if I could read the books, and he said to wait until I was 18. When my friend Aaron gave me a copy of Anthem in May, I knew it couldn't have been better timing. Exactly eight years ago, I'm fulfilling my own prophecies.

But I can't read it. I can't get past the first five pages. It tortures me. I like fiction about dystopia, sure, but I can't stand the type where individuality is crushed. I hated the Giver and I couldn't start 1984 for the same reason. But I adore V for Vendetta and similar stories, where individuality is not, and cannot be sacrificed.

Part of the reason is I already feel like we exist under a totalitarian regime. I mean, the U.S. government is the most powerful and expensive government in history. It's bigger than the Nazis and it's bigger than the USSR. We spy on our citizens and have concentration camps and we build walls just like they did. How is this different? Oh yeah, we're the good guys.

So I did not and will not completely fulfill my goal, but I learned some things about myself in the process, so all is well. I've been reading poetic, sad, fantastic surrealism and my heart is at peace.

I read an entire archive of arguments between a young man and his girlfriend. It's one sided, so whether she is a bitch or not, the guy's faults are a footnote. My first thought was, I totally understand. Wasn't one or two of my ex's exactly like that? My second thought was, Love keeps no record of wrongs.

One step forward. . .

I've been dreaming, about stupid things. Anyone I respect would think I was making a mistake. I wonder if they can appreciate the beauty in a dream, even one I don't plan on acting on. There's two. The first, is I want to buy a car and drive back to Phoenix. It's about 3,000 miles and would cost a fortune and it would take forever and people already miss me, so it probably won't happen. I'll take that return ticket home. But can't you imagine?

The other, I told to enough people and I don't feel like sharing anymore.

Day Seventeen: Inversed Reflections

Maybe you’ve heard about this whole salmonella-tomato bullshit. No other word for it. A bunch of people get a bellyache and the FDA destroys an entire industry. A few people die, but no one knows if the connection is between the bacteria or not. What a moronic country we live in. I can’t wait to leave.

The problem to me isn’t that I can’t get tomatoes on a Big ‘n Nasty, the problem is this perpetual state of fear we live in. Americans are like children afraid of the dark, except they are fat and unimaginative.

For some reason, I was able to find a Subway that had a different piece of paper taped to the register, stating that their tomatoes were not affected and so I ordered extra tomatoes on my sandwich. They were delicious.

Other than that, I went to work at Financial Resources. I don’t start at the Citizen until next week. The people there really don’t respect my office. They put all the furniture and supplies they don’t want in there, basically using my office as a storage facility. They took my desk and replaced it with a table. Someone stole the batteries from my mouse. Two guys walked into my office when I was out to use it for a private conversation. I opened the door and just looked at them and they glared at me and told me to give them a moment. The secretary thought my name was Toby.

Anyway, you know that Dust Off, Canned Air crap? I found a can of it in my office and so I used it on my clothes. Blows the dust right off. I will never have to wash my clothes again, not that I do anyway.

Other than that, I’m just the little office slave. I get all the jobs no one wants. File this, shred this. My uncle made me program his cell phone for him. It’s ironic, because my uncle reads more sci-fi than anyone I know, but couldn’t work a microwave. Maybe he doesn’t realize we already live in the future and it’s kinda real. Maybe this time he won’t vote for someone who will bomb innocent civilians halfway across the planet. And no, I don’t mean Obama.

Excuse the unprovoked political commentary. Maybe it’s because I haven’t been writing for the Lumberjack in a while. Maybe it has more to do with the fact that I’ve been watching the news. Not on purpose, but nonetheless. I can’t stand how maliciously stupid the media can be, yet I want to work for them.

I’ve kinda done some rethinking. Being anti-consumerist is not the same as being anti-capitalist. And the goal of a corporation is not really to control the masses, to oppress the poor. Their goal is to make money. But the road to Hell is paved with good intentions.

Did I work today? No, not really. Just like when I was in my accelerated high school, I spent most of the day researching topics on Wikipedia. I’m reading about more of the counter-culture of the ‘60s, Timothy Leary, Ken Kesey and the Merry Pranksters. I wish I had known all of this when I was younger. Now I just sit here and feel stupid, like I missed the wave. Even if I could ride the next one, it doesn’t seem like it would make a difference.

I’m just feeling that suck of air in the back of my skull when you realize the more you know, the less you know. Kinda the same feeling you get when you’re in an airplane. . . free falling into the Mariana Trench.

---x

I’m a little embarrassed to admit this. But it was a real experience, and it was important to me.
I got home late at night, and walked down to the lake. Half a moon glided through the dark ripples. I looked up at the night sky and remembered how I used to think of water as a metaphor for how deep God is. It just gets better and better. Maybe that’s lame, but I was thirteen. Still, the ideal carried with me through high school.
I’d forgotten that. So I had a moment. I removed my hat, joking with the almighty that I was on holy ground. Removed my shoes, too.
And we just talked. I sang and I felt for the first time that whole bridal connection thing. It wasn’t weird or awkward like I’d feared. It was really nice in fact.
I prayed for peace and realized I’m in my head a little too much. I think that’s a cause for stress and torment.
I just wanted to live a little while. I cried, and maybe that seems weak and pointless. I was feeling really distant. It wasn’t shame, it was longing.

Day Sixteen: Showoff

Note: I was unable to post last night because of a thunderstorm power outage. Actually, my grandparents just unplugged the internet router.

I woke up in one of my token hate-the-world moods. I don't know why, but I'm blaming you.

I went to the interview early. Thirty minutes, giving me time to wander around downtown Laconia and take snapshots. I took 189 pictures today, most of which I deleted and not all from downtown either. I haven't uploaded even a quarter of the total I've taken here, averaging about 50 pictures a day.

The interview went well. He was pretending to be nice to me, I was pretending to be a hard-worker. Showing off. I am already very familiar with how a newspaper works and all, so I kept spouting off random jargon. AP Stylebook. Feature story. Word-count. They seem to want to baby me, which I'm fine with. But still, I want them to know I can write the news. They asked if I could sometime do an online feature with a less professional, more personal spin. "You mean a blog?" I do that in my free-time, for fun!

So I easily got the internship. It pays. I didn't ask how much.

I took way too long to apply for this position. I wasn't really sure I wanted it. I wasn't really sure I wanted to even work as a writer anymore. For a couple months, I was having some serious doubt about where I wanted my life to lead. But today I was so excited and happy and at peace with myself for this minor accomplishment. I think I was right about this, at the very least.

I will be doing two primary things: data entry, which I am already doing for my uncle's company. Which I hate. Which is mind numbingly boring. But I'd much prefer doing it for the Citizen than the Man.

It's been hot and humid lately. My cousin Matt came over and we swam in the lake. It was still cold for me and gross as usual. Big oil spills of pollen were gushing everywhere and it got all over me. I poked at a dead fish. It looked cut up from a boat rudder, its guts unfolded, its eyes missing.

Later, my cousins and I took another bike ride. We set off firecrackers. For a Desert Child like me, where these toys are illegal, I was really excited. I love being destructive. We took our canes and hit them at each other, spraying sparks at our knees. We tried to make a few modified firecrackers, but they barely worked. Except when Mark taped a dozen sparklers together and lit them and it launched into their trashcan and set it on fire.

Most of these crackers were bells and whistles. Showing off. Nothing special. They make these things too safe nowadays.

I drove home, as the clouds were lighting up with a thunderstorm. Showing off. But not entirely. It's raining now, and there's that occasional clap, and this is the sound I will fall asleep to.

Day Ten: Lachrymose Sky

I dented the front of my grandpa's Prius. Last week, I backed into a hill and popped off some sort of fender. He wasn't mad either time. Said he has insurance. I asked him why he wasn't mad. He said, "Why should I be? Do you want me to yell at you?" Oh, the things I get away with. Everything, but that toilet in junior year. Can't do no wrong, not me. Yell at me? It would make me feel better. Just a little.

Down the street the police installed a little speed monitoring board. I think it was put there because of me, narcissitic as that is. What's the name of that emotion? Where you think things are for you because they are presented that way. When someone writes an angry, anonymous blog you automatically think it's about you. It's probably not, but can you ever help thinking that? What am I supposed to do, guess?

The board doesn't take your picture or anything. In fact, there are so few security cameras around here that it was a relief seeing them in a CVS. It would take me a thirty minute drive to find that particular pharmacy again, but going inside was the only breath of normal I've felt since leaving Sky Harbor. I really don't like that about myself. I'm so molded by consumerism, even though I'm mostly against it.

Took work off. I helped move furniture with my grandpa today. Some Keystone Cops moments. Busted a lamp or two. Paint spatters on clothing. He painted the living room for this old cat lady. Her house smells like cigarette smoke, not the good, fresh kind. Cheap cigs. Cat hair and kitty litter and old lady. The weirdness of it all. Why she tapes doors shut. Why she ties lighters to everything. Why she taped a letter about mammograms to the wall. Why she collects spent Dunkin' Donuts coffee cups and uses them as insulation. May I never be so old my brain rots inside my skull, like molded bananas. I've seen this happen to almost every old person I know. I would rather fall down a staircase like ol' whatshisname. Maybe he didn't fall anyway.

I went to Bible study. Me and Rhonda got sidetracked from discussing the existence of God to why and how America is a "Christian Nation" and whatnot. We started arguing over the concept of the Iraq Invasion. I was explaining simple economics to her. When there is more demand than supply, price goes up. When you invade a country that has oil, supply goes down, demand goes up, therefore high gas prices. When you are investing in oil companies, like Bush and co. are, you have damn good reason to invade, because you will make a profit (Exxon made more money in a single quarter than any other company in history). Rhonda asked for proof. Motive. The smoking gun.

In a way, I feel bad that the discussion sidetracked. I have a way of doing that. . . Rhonda said she had a headache and wasn't up to arguing with me because of it. But she complimented me, saying I go right for it. Relentless. I smiled. Whatever.

So I went home and did some research. A lot of people claim Al-Qaeda had no reason to attack the U.S. but if you look back, we've been over in the Middle East since at least the '80s. Shooting down their civilian planes and trying to pay them off? Why wouldn't Muslim extremists be pissed and want retaliation?

It's a pretty disgusting part of history. Trench warfare, human waves and mustard gas. Never learned about this in high school. Wonder why. I got myself on a tangent about the mustard gas of course. The mutagenic, carcinogenic horror of it all. And my sick fascination with it.

It was rainy today, like yesterday, but I've been enjoying it. I love how the wet brings out all the color in everything. The road is black, real black. The trees, real green. Mud, real brown. The sky is the exception, some bleak gray slate, sometimes completely blank. The sky is oblivion. Like a wet water color portrait, every where I go, I track some of the bleeding colors with me. The light stretches out into nothing. No wonder Garbage is only happy when it rains. It's the only time life makes sense.

Day Eight: Scab

There was no picture that defined today, so I put one that makes me happy.
- - - x

Woke up. Something on my neck, like a scab. Peel it off, glance at it. It's a tick. The sight of this bloodsucker squirming makes me impulsively drop it. The shock of being awake and already bleeding.

Two minutes later, I find another or the same bastard sticking his head in my belly. You're supposed to burn them out, right? So I light match after match and hold it up to this vermin. I'm late for work and I'm just burning myself. The tick is still squirming in my gut. So I break the rules, pull the bugger out and decapitate it. A little white spinal cord is oozing out his neck. The head is still inside me, burrowing deeper, sucking me up. Toss the corpse in the toilet.

I could get Lyme disease, which doesn't seem that bad. Very treatable. I don't have the "bullseye" rash.I probably picked the tick up yesterday, when I was in the woods with my cousins finding scrap metal. It was drinking of me all night long.

Work was somehow more bearable than before, but not much. Watching the clock, like some office whore. Tick tock. I came home with a migraine and couldn't think clearly. I felt like I'd given blood.

The tick was still floating in the toilet, waiting for me.

Day Six: Rubberneck

A mist of rain descended in the night. Had some disturbing dream about indestructible aliens.

Drove. Drove drove drove drove. Trying to find the past. Traveled 130 miles, took 118 pictures. I am a horrible driver mostly because I rubberneck all the time. I just love exploring, it's what I'm used to. Kept looking for decaying barns and road fauna. I think I got some good shots, especially the one of the dead porcupine. Yech.

Bottle neck: Found someone's collection in the basement. Just a shoebox full of really old Coca-Cola memorabilia. Not sure any of it is worth money. More than anything, it scares me. What kind of person finds fascination in coupons and advertisements for Coke? Worship of this kind is disturbing.

I find collections like this all the time. I pick and choose what I like. Everything I own is a collaboration of a million collections I've found in dumpsters, thrift stores, the street. Of Coke guy's stuff I kept the baseball cards and the advertisements which I will scan and use for my artistic devices. Then I'll probably burn it.

I also found a bunch of postcards covered in "modern art" (circa 1970). They are beautiful and poignant. I want to write nasty messages on them and mail them to politicians. And also keep them. And also leave the here. Deliver me from clever art. Found some books on art galleries too.

Watched Bravehart. What a ridiculous film. It was good, but I could never take it seriously. My mind was elsewhere, couldn't escape from some harrowing thought. Damn that dream.

Day Three: Opium Eater

I've discovered quite a lot in that basement. I found Do-It-Yourself Strip Tease. I wonder if they have strip teases where you don't do it alone. I found an old Bible. Provocative Piano by Dick Hyman. No better name for that album. A collection of Gregorian chants.

A bunch of short stories, including Confessions of an English Opium Eater by Thomas De Quincey. It is such a dark, beautiful memoir. It is exactly how I want to write A Link to the Past, a short story I'm kicking around.

I want to read and and do nothing but educate myself. In college, I was too busy to learn. I researched Agent Orange. The pictures are horrifying but they fascinate me.

I went with my grandpa to take food to an invalid woman. Weird how all the invalids I've known smell the same. I like working with them tho.

Ate Syrian food. It's where I'm from and my grandparents cook it a lot. It was good.

They don't refrigerate their butter. Their jams are the best. Learned how to cook bacon.

Fell asleep in the car. Me and my apneas.

Got a callback from someone. We'll see if I get the job.

Met a woman named Rhonda. The first thing she said to me, "Do people often tell you you look like your father?"
"Anyone who knows us."
"Cuz you do." She chuckled. "Your father used to yell at me for not singing into the microphone."

She invited me to lead a Bible study with her next, for the youth. The kids are about my age. We're reading a book that questions how anyone knows God exists. I like it, but it's pretty elementary.

I would take more leadership opportunities, but no one offers them to me. I have a heart for service, but I won't pursue it. It's not laziness; it's fear. Who cares? It's probably for the best.

There are spiders in my house. They watch me shower and defecate. I won't kill them because they get the skeeters. They are my friends.

I went to a greenhouse to buy flowers. I found it really pretty.

This could be my diary. My personal journal has been neglected since I landed. I could write about my life like this all the time.

But I won't.

Day Two: Stranger in a Strange Land

I've been rocking out to Bing Crosby, driving that little Prius everywhere. The car of the future. But it won't stop global warming any. Tear.

I listened to some French radio station. Rudy Cayn sung a song about Guantanamo Bay. That's social commentary for you. Then some Mars Volta on full blast. Love driving that Prius.

The street signs are sporadic here. Can barely ever find the speed limit. I was confusing the route number with it and driving 25 down a 55 two-lane road. Pissed off a lot of drivers. Ha.

I usually keep the speed limit, but no one else does. Once I discovered that there are never any cops around, I began to really enjoy myself. Driving at night here is terrifying tho. No streetlights except on major roads. (There are no major roads).

The signs are also weird and unprofessional, compared to the authority of Phoenix. Blind Person. Beware! Pedestrians.

One of those tube-like ashtrays caught on fire. Some church employee tried extinguishing it with Lemon Flavored Fruit2O.

My grandpa had a meeting so he threw me the keys to his blue Chevy truck. It's Center Harbor. I have no place to go, not much money to spend. So I drove to a train station. For no reason other than unadulterated adventure.

I applied for a job working for this dismal little restaurant called Hart's. I hope I can find a better place to slave away.

I met Steve, a really overweight guy my dad has been friends with when he lived here. I think a lot of people have resentment or adoration for me just because of how well they knew my father. My father the Anarchist. The Smoker. The Rebel. It's interesting. It'll be more intense on Sunday, I'm sure.

My grandfather owns the church and he has a cellar filled with donated goods. There's a food bank and clothes, furniture, books and random bits of everything. It goes back out to the community. That includes me. Someone donated their collection of LP records. Most are boring classical music or gospel hymns, but I've found a few gems. Like Bing Crosby.

Someone donated an entire encyclopedia volume. Will people publish these in the future, with Wikipedia and About and the rest of the Internet? Wikipedia is just proving that knowledge is infinite, so I guess not. No point.

I flipped to the P's. Learned about the history of Mannerism painting. I've been reading up on the Siege of Sarajevo. Roses. Things I never learned about in school. Things I want to know.

I found a dream house. I didn't have one before. I'm not sure I'm serious about here. But this is a small town that isn't sucking me dry because it's not centered around trains or indoctrination. It's just nothing. I could live here and get things done. But I'm hesitant.

I don't fit in here at all. Not wearing my indie clothes, my fedora. My crooked haircut. Not my unfundemental anarchist value system. They give me stares. Some judgemental. Some vaguely familiar. Everyone knows me somewhere, somehow. Small town thing.

I haven't been this happy in a while. Probably since November. December. Most of January. Some Thing.

Nothing's superficial. Nothing really matters. Dreams and dreams and more dreams.