Below are the 20 most recent journal entries recorded in emmett_reiland's LiveJournal:

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Monday, April 23rd, 2007
10:19 am	The day after Earth Day is in many ways like a hangover. (Comment on this)
Thursday, February 8th, 2007
10:08 am	Go here, Natural Webstore. (Comment on this)
Wednesday, January 24th, 2007
1:05 am	Theoretically, if God exists, and if God exists outside of the universe or along the perimeter of it, it would take billions of years for our prayers to be answered if they travelled at the speed of light. If, indeed, prayers are answered and a response is given within a period of time, that is proof that God and possibly heaven are both nearer than we imagined. (1 Comment |Comment on this)
Friday, December 15th, 2006
4:19 pm	WISPIRG email asking people to send letters Dear FCC:  Please prevent big media from getting any bigger and instead encourage a more diverse, independent and minority ownership. The media is in many ways the lifeblood of a culture--i.e. entertainment, news, music, etc. Though the state of Newspapers and other media outlets seems sickly and weak, they are some of the last remaining bastions of reference and identity. Many people fear that this sense of local identity will be watered down or completely lost when certain outlets of local information no longer remain local. It's a difficult thing to imagine--big media taking over the local media outlets--because it is impossible overlook events such as these as forlorn augurs of future drift, the things to come. Give us some promising bellwether.   How are we to look to giant buildings to tell us what's happening under our feet? To ask far off companies to give us coverage and information that isn't far off? To vest our communities without vested interests? Please weigh carefully what you may never be able to take back. Sincerely, Matthew Reiland (Comment on this)
10:12 am	Loog Oldman came across the Tundra in a mixture of Moss and Moses with a painting of pride and poses Hoisted his wage To trick old age Went home to a penniless pint Ain't no small amount to allow An even obsession A dangling digression Counted and caucused conversation Two knightly Stalwarts riding Flinging flints of orange rinds And spitting the wind, A leathery shadow A scratched pommel Unmanned saddle Unheard hoofs Unforested trees With unforested leaves And unsheltered roofs A hobo's hand shake on steel Track earth quake chug long Mountains to desert abound Asking between steam Have you seen all your dreams Is your fountain yet to be found? (Comment on this)
Monday, December 4th, 2006
4:38 pm	Question I didn't receive an e-mail confirmation stating that I successfully purchased the file. How do I know that the transaction went through? Answer At times, the email server we use to correspond with customers is temporarily unavaible. In such cases, we rely on an out of house customer contact service provider to supply a necessary amount of highly trained pigeons. If you have not received an order confirmation, we ask that you call us and provide us your order id number. This way we can locate your order and tassle it to one of our Musicnotes Pigeons. Depending upon both the weather and from where you have placed the order, you should receive your order confirmation within 1-2 weeks. If you do not receive your confirmation within this timespan please contact customer service at 1-800-944-4667 (Monday through Friday, 9:00 a.m. to 5:00 p.m. Central time. Outside U.S. and Canada, call 608/662-1686). When you receive your order confirmation, we ask that you please feed your Pigeon and check it for any damage. We do not pay the pigeons, and through negotiations with PETA have reached this form of commission. Musicnotes.com cannot be held accountable for and in no way supports Avian Bird Flu. (2 Comments |Comment on this)
Wednesday, November 22nd, 2006
4:06 pm	This time of year is a strangely fascinating one. People go through the motions of an age-old joke and never realize it. This time of the year feigns forward motion, but doesn't really move us anywhere--just tells us the glass is half-full and then see-saws an tells us it's half empty First we become aware of our blessings (Thanksgiving); then we become aware of our desires (Christmas); then we become aware of our grievances (New Year's eve). It's a fuzzy math that seems to cancel itself out in a way. Then we start a new year. (4 Comments |Comment on this)
Saturday, November 4th, 2006
2:47 am	Lost thougts in St. Louis "Or else you could tape five joints to my dick" "What!!" Hans swiveled in his chair, a big grin on his face. "Yeah, you know what I mean. All these corporations and guatemalan tortilla chip makers. They're all over there on some government bond, working with columbia decaf coffee, carting around a mule and speaking spanish." "Well, I believe you've gone completely off the point here Hans... I thought we were talking about old memories in old Missouri. Crossing giant metal monolith steel treads over into ol miss. And seeing that red beacon in the arch...You were talking about flying in an airplane over the arch. Said you could see the thing from the sky, like you can see the great wall of China from som hubble out in the atmosphere." "Yeah, well...I was." He took a drag from the cigarette and played with a stick in the fire. Ashes kicked up and sparks flew across Hans' face. "Yeah. But soon people will be talking about another great wall....you know." He rose from his chair and circled the fire to the steps. "The great wall of tacos...burritos, queso, sombrero. Soon you'll see the fine black line we've erected between us and the old west...you know, when it was the real frontier. That big line that cuts off Mexico at the neck. That great, big, boarder." He pitched his cigarette into the fire. (Comment on this)
Wednesday, October 18th, 2006
9:47 pm	Group Writing on a Typewriter in St. Louis a wednesday night second page He slide through the revolving. his shoes squeeked and his hair wet, hanging in front of his eyes. his brow dripped like icicles. I came to from some where far off. "what time is it?" "it's close to six and we're on the south side" "why is it dark out already?" "that's how it always is in the winter. there's nothing strange about it. what do you mean? it's been dark at six for the last two weeks..." I put my hand slowly down my crochet and watched the winklers struggling across the stage with blue note coloring books and boycott dreams lodged irreproachably in their hands hearts and minds. as if they were so noble. as if they were so kind. as if they weren't the scalliwags we all knew them to be. "I wish it were dawn." street lamps casting shifting shadows across my lap. Tupelo honey johnny cash carried into the room through the kitchen, the halls. "i don't like the smell of it ya know?" "yeh, isupos." he tilted the can and felt it go down. "is it some old thing or something?" "no. i just don't like the smell. like you're sleeping in old smokey, rollin out of bed to a big bear in a khaki hat." "what about s'mores?" "man," he flicked the can into the corner. it rimmed and fell with clink clank. "man, I got a microwave." For all you theologians, i am accessing the dark side of my emotions when you talk at my face. After the baseboard broke, we knew the chandelier would be soon to fall. the cord slipped, the crystal shattered, and the fuse shrieked sparks. so much for pretensed elegance. Swiftly, the sparrows gathered force and struck against the cement barrier. the first wave produced only modest cracks, yet upon further waves, they began to spread. Michael took down another tray and tearing open the package of seeds, scattered the fetal pumpkins across the soil. Work was scarce these days and travelling across the country with no secure income was testing his moral endurance. the full-sizer's time would come shortly. n their natural advantage could survive some evening... If i had a lance... "where is pedro?!" a shout emerged from the cellar. if i had a lance i would lance your pants. The Fish hour had been in the back cobs and now it was coming into its full swing.   full visuals, clear swank. (3 Comments |Comment on this)
11:16 am	Group Writing on a Typewriter in St. Louis a wednesday night Time had ceased to exist, or at least it had turned to slosh and seemed more to be oozing along at a snail's pace than flowing smoothly as time would usual usually tend to do. if i had found a raft, hhuck finn would have furned a cheek to his hanky. He picked his pocket and felt for a buck. the light flickered in red and blue holiness. the mufflers on third blurred in and out of his ears. "ain't too far to lou's." he pinched the cotton fuss in his levi's. "well, it ain't too late." I'm sorry, i'm getting quite ahead of myself. i suppose this story (if you would even call it that, because stories tend to have some sort of discernable linear plot, whereas this,...well, i can't make any sense of it myself, at least not the linear story type of snese you might expect, and if i did, or told it like i did, and by did i mean xxxx being avle to discern some sort of linear sense out of life, but more truthfully, I find that any sort of linear sense we make out of this life is just a product of our own imaginations, attributing sense and fairy tale hollywood stories to a life that is otherwise...well i'm going off the deep end now and i don't actually think that, the point is that i'm getting ahead of myself, but really that isn't a point at all, so let me go back to the beginning. time had ceased to exist. He bushwhacked the fir and brushed the sappy bristles off his chest. the car turned and faded out of sight down prospect. "joey, joey...wher--" at the top of  the street a puse studebaker pulled sluggishly. it squeeked and rattled tinny, like it was pulling wedding cans. "mug, keep me waiting all this time" the studebaker slowed down alongside the curb and he pulled open the door and got inside. "joey, whatook you so long? i been here a halfa hour for you. prest jus drove by an i was hiding in the trees next to" "hey. hey. i'm here ain i?" Oh man, that reminds me of veggie burgers at cominsky park. although, last time, it gave me a stomach ache and the sox lost. (3 Comments |Comment on this)
Tuesday, September 19th, 2006
9:16 pm	Prues asked for a letter              I feel that I really benefited from the Writing internship class. From it, I saw how the English skills I learned in school transitioned into certain careers in which writing was a key component. It is difficult for me to outline why I found the writing internship so helpful...it outlined and answered some confusions and questions I had about the whole field of English: what I could do with this degree, where I could look to apply these skills. Physically, from my internship I was able to acquire a great recommendation from my boss (something which is a bit more immediate and practical than an ambiguous letter grade). Additionally, this internship has helped establish a network to which I can refer back if I ever am looking for work in Cincinnati.             I've had a lot of thoughts throughout the day, pertaining to this letter Don asked me to write, the writing internship class, college, and the English major in general. In my experience, many students who decide to major in English leave without a clue as to how they can apply these skills in some sort of career. If you stop and think about this, a lot does not make sense. I hear from many people, many bosses (even my boss at the internship) that today's college graduates are entering the workforce with an ever increasing incompetence in regard to written word. They don't know how to spell; they don't know how to string together sentences; they have terrible grammar.             In reality, I don't think these complaints are very far off. It would be interesting for the English professors to poll their classes, ask them what the hell a semicolon is, or to identify a dangling modifier. In this case, I don't think one needs to probe very far to see that things can be bleak.             Now here is what hits me: so many of my English major friends (some with better writing skills than others) take up and stick with a career that is not related to English in any sense, and to a large extent isn't satisfying. It's funny...strange...a damn shame (take your pick) that many business majors establish connections with major corporations throughout their time in college, and have something set up by the time they graduate. Nobody hears of this happening in the case of any English major. Instead, what one often hears, is that a college graduate who majored in English is currently working as a teller at a bank--and that they aren't very happy, just confused and maybe frustrated. I will hear something like this in the next month. I will also hear from someone that this college business grad just recently hired at some firm lacks basic writing skills.             None of this should be news--this big void in a person's post-undergraduate life (especially if they are an English major). My brother, who recently left for NYU to study dance, pointed out to me not too long ago a song in the Broadway musical Avenue Q entitled ""What Do You Do With a B.A. in English?" There's humor in all of it...but in many regards, the song really bites and grabs at the head an uncomfortable little truth dangling in the back of all our minds.             This isn't an unfamiliar question. Neither is it a well kept secret that many college grads lack proper writing skills. What is a secret--or maybe just a large neglect that doesn't rouse many into action--is that many colleges do little to tie together these two loose ends. It doesn't make any sense--that professors do not hammer home that the writing skills english majors acquire in the course of their four years are of practical use...or that any writing, any article a student may publish--even in the school newspaper--can be included in a resume, and be of use down the line.             Most of us pick English as a major because we find it interesting. We may love poetry, or rhetoric, or just love creative writing. Whatever it is, the initial die is born usually out of interest--and what I mean by interest is passion. Not interest in the sense of a person's "Best interest", but interest in the sense of passion. Because, if we really had a mind for our own "best interest," most of us would never have chosen English as a major.              I think everyone can agree that is a primary responsibility of the professor to further students' interest. Nobody needs to argue that. However, it is my opinion (forged through experience and common sense) that professors need to thread this interest, show how it can truly be one of the most valuable assets with which you leave college. The many practical uses it has, where you can apply this: these are things that should be inherently discussed in this major. For an English professor has just as much professional responsibility to examine these areas--to unbind the book and connect to it the other world (the practical world) that exists on the other sides of its covers.             The writing internship is the world on the other side of the covers. It opened my eyes to the many paths I can take with a bachelor's degree in English. It was the most useful class I took at Xavier. Between it and my experience with the Newswire, I left with something very valuable--something also which many of my English major friends didn't seem to possess.              In a few days, I'll be sending out an application to the Milwaukee Journal Sentinel. If it weren't for the internship, I don't even know if I'd bother to apply.             The internship provides a great opportunity that should be afforded to every english major. -Matthew Reiland (2 Comments |Comment on this)
Wednesday, June 21st, 2006
6:45 pm	please refer here  (1 Comment |Comment on this)
Tuesday, June 13th, 2006
9:14 pm	Thoughts in a room--May 26, 2006 I’m in my room right now. It’s raining outside and I opened the window in the room. Once you unlatch the little metal concave holder latch, the window shoots right open. Open onto the roof over the porch. I’ve been out on that roof a few times—when Justin’s been over. And I told him to come out. And Pepe with hesitant weight problems weighed the structural thresholds of the roof, stayed inside on the furnace, and peered his head out the window, eddy in the slipstream of loud Rolling Stones or Neil Young, blaring out my speakers—out through the window past me and Justin into the night. It was loud then. I can remember it all. Me drinking heavily and lighting a pipe out there on the roof. Justin by me, telling me it’s time to go, and me telling him to hold on.             My grandmother died sometime shortly after that. I spent a long night in my room, drinking because that felt like a reason. Like the movies where people go haywire drunk, bottom bottling long nights. I didn’t even know my grandmother that well. But things just told me I should lament for a time on it. I wrote some songs or sketched ideas of them that night, never fully satisfied with any of them or with anything else—waiting in the meantime for my father to call. Tell me to jump on a flight to go to a funeral, and help carry some casket that contained someone I couldn’t tell you much about.             I’m in my room though, right now on the second floor of 922 Marion Avenue. Everything has been carried out to my car. I just put some things in there a while ago—an excuse to put on my rain jacket and do something. I’m back now, slouched against a bare wall in the room that faces the window…writing in this journal. The room is practically empty, spare an inflatable mattress and a few shoeboxes of knick knacks I’ll take down to the car tomorrow.             It’s the last night here in Cincinnati: the city I’ve grown to develop a strange liking for—for its filth, backwardness, and the awkward years I’ve had here. I’m glad it’s raining the night before I leave. I don’t know what it means but it makes me feel good—it’s a good closure to something. I can’t put my finger yet on just what it is. But something tells me I’ll miss it. And I’ve been feeling that feeling this whole last year.             We went to Bar Louie tonight. One last time, Kateri, Chad, Curtis, Justin, and myself. We got burgers. The talk was usual, but at the end—after everyone was finished w/ their meal—Justin spoke up and said that this was our last time at Bar Louie together. That thought had been on my mind all night.             He said that someone should say something—something for some sort of closure.             It was strange: I’m one for those moments, but I didn’t know what to say and at first passed on the thing for myself. No one said anything; it got back to the usual fabric sort of talk about jokes and hearsay sort of things. I spoke up then. I gave maybe a five-minute sort of talk. It was funny: we were all finished with our four years at Xavier, and the only thing anyone could talk about was the college they wish they went to. That thought—going to a different college—has shaded my mind these whole four years. It’s cast an invisible drape across every experience of mine, every experience to the point where I was thinking: “Going here is like living with this drape in front of you: you are only seeing, living the silhouettes—what you could have done if you went to another school.” It’s been hard sometimes.             I started out remarking on how everyone was talking about other colleges—how that was funny in a way. But these four years at Xavier…well they’ve been good and shitty. We’ve really seen a lot, I think. I told them that I really think we played it right; that there’s not much I regret doing these four years here—given the foundation that Xavier provides. I said that we’ve never really adhered to that stupid image that Xavier is. That we’ve all seen and know so well—that we all resent.             I talked about Chili Company, about Anna’s crazy parties like the red light district, about the bridge, about the subway, about everything. “We’ve really lived here,” I said. “And typical Xavier students I don’t think can fully realize that yet. We didn’t do that dorm-to-dorm drinking thing. We grew out of that freshman year, and I am so thankful for that.             “I don’t know if we are prepared, but I think we’ve had a very good experience these past four years. I think that we have been very genuine—that we have been real… I couldn’t ever say otherwise.” We left Bar Louie shortly after. Justin dropped off Curtis and Chad at Amber’s. Chad drove Curtis home. We dropped off Kateri then, and Justin drove me home. He said that the little speech I gave was very good. I don’t know how I feel about it. I wasn’t prepared, but what I can say about it was that it was honest. I really did mean everything I said.   In my room right now the window’s open and the fan on the windowsill is blowing the air about the room. The fan sounds louder as it moves across me; it deflates to a gentle hum as it pans to the sides of the room. In these gaps, I can hear the cars outside spittle up angles of rain from the ground, leaving little light tire tracks to reflect in the glow of the streetlamps on Reading. You see? Things do make sense. Isn’t that how time is? Like tire tracks on a road with treads that fade in the night rain, dry next day? It is. I want my tracks though a bit more permanent. A bit more deep and longer lasting. I gotta do something with my life, and every day past graduation is screaming that at me. That I have so much potential. That I am very intelligent. That I can accomplish something in this goddamn world. I know all of that. I just don’t know what—what it is I will do. It’s a confusing time right now.               The air from the fan blows across the room. There’s a breeze outside the window and the blades catch the cold air and shoot it into a corner next to me. The fan rotates a bit further and then idles. It makes a clicking sound and begins to pan the other way. The air from the fan reaches me; it gets louder. It catches the edge of my journal and causes the pages to flutter in a rapid whiplash across my lap, furiously skipping to blank pages I’ve yet to write. (2 Comments |Comment on this)
Monday, May 29th, 2006
12:37 am	From Ryan here is a conversation I just had on the internet with some guy that I thought was the Buffalo, but wasn't. Maybe you'll get a kick out of it:     Mmaguirerep:  hows the new doggy?  beloitbuc44:  what  Mmaguirerep:  didnt you get a new dog?  beloitbuc44:  who is this  Mmaguirerep:  ryan you fool, dont you know my last name by now, my goodness (shaking head back and forth), what a disgrace  beloitbuc44:  i think u got the wrong person, who do u think this is  Mmaguirerep:  buffalo  beloitbuc44:  naw, sorry bro  Mmaguirerep:  who is this then?  Mmaguirerep:  i go to beloit and if you go to beloit then perhaps i know who you are...  beloitbuc44:  i dont go to beloit  beloitbuc44:  i did  Mmaguirerep:  when?  beloitbuc44:  a long time ago  Mmaguirerep:  do you know anyone that goes there now?  Mmaguirerep:  such as emily yates?  (no response)  Mmaguirerep:  senor, i am with the FBI and the jig is up, this is a computer raid, turn over the money and the hostages now or we will put a freeze on your bank accounts and poison your water supply, and none of us wants that, but the law is the law, comprende senor?  Mmaguirerep:  senor this is not a funny ha ha joke sort of a situation, this is a very serious matter. we know you have the hostages in your basement, we know you have the money, and we know all about the kittens. yes senor, i can tell by your reaction that you did not expect us to know about the kittens. you know this is a very serious matter and you could be facing a lot of time locked away in a very unfriendly place if we don't start making progress here...  Mmaguirerep:  that's it...do i need to get zabrinski over here? is that what this has come to? oh senor...i pity the error of your ways...    beloitbuc44:  shut the fuck up dude  Mmaguirerep:  OHKAY SCUMBUCKET, this is Zabrinski, and i dont like to bullshit...where are the kittens?  beloitbuc44:  in my ass getting out the gerbles  Mmaguirerep:  GODDAMNIT MAN! WHERE ARE THE KITTENS?  Mmaguirerep:  oh FUCK!  Mmaguirerep:  okay, you bastard, its me again, Zabrinski lost his lunch because of you...this has got to stop, those innocent kittens, they did nothing...  Mmaguirerep:  and Zabrinski, our best man, reduced to a vomiting pansy curled over a trash bin...  Mmaguirerep:  you're a lost cause. i'm sorry to say it, but enjoy that bedtime glass of water tonite, and have sweet dreams... sweet sweet magical dreams...  Mmaguirerep:  poisonously magical!   and then the guy got off the internet immediately after that. I thought it was funny, I guess he didn't. oh well.   -Ryan (1 Comment |Comment on this)
Tuesday, May 9th, 2006
3:35 am	Jack walked past the shops of Fleet Street. All their doors were closed for the night, but the neon signs along the inside surface of the windows were still aglow. Their wiry bends of blues and reds flickered and jumped in the dull blueness of the night. Jack looked up the street to a yellow and blue glow that caught his eye. It was a sign for Stroh’s beer, hanging at a crooked angle along the side window of a corner convenience store. The first “S” letter was burnt out so the sign read “troh’s.” Jack kept his eyes on the sign, and when he passed the window he saw that the letter was cracked along the top. The unlit tube looked like dull ash against the blue and yellow ember of the other letters. He dug his hands into the pockets of his coat, and bent his head in the direction he was going.             God, I’m walking within a broken constellation, he thought. Some fixture of pale shop window stars, back to the hostel.             He turned his head and looked behind him. The two huge hands of Big Ben almost lay atop one another, ready to ring and let the city know it should be in bed. Jack turned back to the pavement in front of him.             Almost eleven o’clock, he thought. Almost eleven o’clock and not a sound.             The top button of his coat came loose and he drew his hands from his pockets to clasp it. He folded his arms and pulled them close to his chest.             Chicago is just like this, he thought, and recalled how strange silence always seemed to him in cities. A lot of cities are like this though: dead at night.             He pressed his arms hard against his chest and continued down the street. In the distance behind him, he heard Big Ben strike eleven. He reached St. Paul’s cathedral and turned down a side street to his hostel.             Well, I’ll just get up earlier tomorrow, he thought.             He came to the door of his hostel and pressed the buzzer along the inside of the frame. He listened for the bolt to click and unlock.             Yeah, I’ll just get up earlier.             He heard the bolt click.             I’ve just been sleeping too late.             He pushed open the door and walked up the stairs to the landing. “Bright lights, big city,” he sang under his breath. “Gone to my baby’s head.”          He heard the door close behind him. (2 Comments |Comment on this)
Saturday, April 22nd, 2006
3:22 pm	“Quiet lads.” Andrew leaned on the edge of the couch. He flicked the ash of his cigarette into the ashtray on the table in front of him. He grabbed the remote on the table and turned up the volume.             “Mind if I open the wendows Andrew?” Larry asked. “It’s a tad stuffy in here.”             “Noh, go ahead Lar.”             Larry stirred the chicken he was cooking at the back the room and weaved between the couches and the table to the windows. The gray smoke hung about the room. Larry drew the curtains and tilted open the vents above the casement windows.             “Ey’m telling you lads, it’s gonna be that Ratsinger fellow,” Andrew spoke, still keeping his eyes on the television set in the corner.             “Who’s he?” I asked and picked up my legs so Larry could get past.             “Who’s hee?!” Andrew repeated and turned in his seat.             “Willy, who’s Ratsinger?” Andrew asked.             “I doughn know,” Willy replied. He sat next to me on the couch and fingered his guitar. He looked up from the fret board. “Isn’t he a kerrdinal or someting?”             Andrew flicked the end of his cigarette in the ashtray.             “Yes Willy. He’s a kerrdinal.” He put his hands on his thighs. “And yer man’s been a kerrdinal far eh-ges. In’t he Lar?”             Larry Looked up from the stove. “Ohh, I spose so.”             “He’s a kerrdinal Emmett,” Andrew explained to me. “And he’s old as balls.” He laughed and sat back in the couch.             “Well, why are they electing him then?”             “Because Emmett,” he took a drag of his cigarette. “They’re a bunch of knackers. The whole lot of ‘em. They are all old and good people like.” He sat up.             “But they doughn kerr bout changing tings no mor. They can’t, watt wit yor Jarge Bushes and yer E-raq warrs.” He took another drag of his cigarette.             “It’s ballocks. There arnt many young kerrdinals any mahr either. They’re all old. And they doughn kerr bout changin’ a ting. So they elect yer man. Who int gonna change naughtin a tall.”             He turned and continued to watch the television. “Well,” I said. “That’s too bad.” “It tis.” He reached over and put out his cigarette. The smoke blew out the window. (5 Comments |Comment on this)
Wednesday, April 19th, 2006
8:24 pm	The shoelace dangled down past the bottom corner of the open locker. The cleats were of an old white leather, with wrinkled ridges along the front where the toe bends. The leather was cracking along the perforated siding. And the black swoosh on the left cleat was coming unstitched along its bottom. The bottoms of the shoes were pale black with dried dirt creviced around the plastic cleats at the heels, and the two large plastic teeth by the toes. Jared held the top edge of the metal locker door. He wasn’t swinging it back and forth, but held it still—open. He was tired and damp from practice outside. His red leggings were dusty from the bleached dirt of the diamond. His hair curled out under a damp sweat that was drying now after he took off his cap.                                                                                ***        “Come here Jarred.” His father motioned to him from atop the staircase. Jarred climbed the staircase and followed his father into his parents’ bedroom.         “I got something for you, let me see if I can remember where I put them.”         His father walked past the corner of the bed and opened up the mahogany door to the closet. He spread apart the suits and shirts to get to the back. Jarred listened to the wire hangers glide along the metal pole. His father pulled up the front of his khakis and kneeled down in the closet. He fumbled his hands about the back of the closet, and tossed back crumpled pieces of tissue wrapping paper, and socks that were separated from their other half, but were still held onto.         “Ah, here we go.” He stood up and turned to face his son.         “Jarred, do you know what these are?”          His father was holding a pair of old baseball cleats.         “Are those your old cleats?”          His father pushed back the ridge of his glasses with the back of his finger and carried the cleats over to the corner of the bed and sat down. Jarred sat down beside him.         “These are the cleats I wore when I played baseball in high school. They were something back then. These were the top of the line.” He held out the shoes and gazed at them with his head bowed.         “Yeah...Robin Yount used to wear these very same shoes. I saved my money all junior year so I could get them when baseball started up in the summer. I wore’em my whole last year in high school.” He sighed.         “And I wore them all the way to the state championship.” He brought the shoes back to his lap and rubbed the leather toes of one with his thumb.         “We didn’t win the championship.” He turned to his son with a faint smile.         “But that doesn’t matter. We at least got there.” His father’s eyes returned to the shoes in this lap. Jarred squeezed the blanket top along the edge of the bed.         “I want you to have these Jarred. They should fit you now and there’s still quite a bit of use in them.” His father turned and handed the cleats into his son’s hands. Jarred pulled them into his lap and gazed at them.          The tongues on each shoe were sunken down into the insides. The sides collapsed into the center hanging over a messy skein of laces, and the white paint on the eyelets was scrapped off in certain places into a faded metal.          Jarred tilted them back and forth in his lap. They didn’t smell like baseball cleats. They didn’t stink like Jarred’s old cleats or those of his friends. There was a settled cardboard smell to them—like an old photo album.         “Yep.” His father watched Jarred weigh the shoes in his hands. “There’s still a bit of use in them yet.”          He put his arm around his son’s shoulder.                                                                                   ***          Jarred drew his gaze from the cleats and looked around the locker room. One of his teammates was stuffing his uniform into his duffle bag; another was buttoning up his shirt in front of the sink, ready to leave.         Jarred turned back to his locker and sat down on the bench that ran along the row of lockers his was in. He reached down and picked up the shoelace that hung from the bottom of his locker and almost touched the floor. He rolled the shoelace between his fingers. It was limp and yellowed, with a light fuzz of cotton that felt smooth to his fingers.          He stuffed the shoelace back into the locker underneath the cleats. He sat back and rested his hands on his thighs for a moment. The cleats leaned against the side panel of the locker, like they had just been thrown in there.         He bent down and began to unlace the cleats he was wearing. (2 Comments |Comment on this)
Tuesday, April 18th, 2006
1:49 am	“Yeah, keep going on that until you see Hartland Avenue. Then you take a left and it’s the third house on the left.” She traced the end of her pen along the little map she had drawn in her notepad. “It has cream bricks and a vine growing all along the eastern side of it.” The word “east” was scrawled in capital letters underneath the diagram she had drawn. The directions slipped her mind earlier when she was talking to another one of Jim’s friends. She grew distracted during some of these calls. At times her mind wandered away from the voice on the other end of the line, and she stared through the screen windows in front of her desk out into the early evening street. “No, it’s about four blocks and then you’ll see Hartland... Yeah.” “Well Al will be home around six, so everybody should be here by five thirty.” She tapped the pen on her notepad. “A lot of Al’s friends and a few of... No she’s not going to be here.” “Well it’s sort of a long story, and I have to…” “I don’t know.” She sat back in the chair. “He hasn’t really talked about her for a long time.” “I’m not really sure Jim. Why do you care to know?” She looked down at her feet underneath the desk and rested the phone on her shoulder. After a while, she heard her name called through the receiver, and leaned forward onto the desk, raising the phone to her ear and her other hand to her temple. “Yeah. Yeah. Uh...You know Jim. I don’t think you should do that…Because Al’s not ready for that Jim.” She dropped her hand from her forehead onto the desk. “Jim. Jim.” She pushed herself up in the chair. “I don’t want to go into this right now. I have to call more people. But she is not invited.” She thought she heard another voice on the receiver, and leaned back onto the desk. “Jim? I am going to hang up now.” She lowered the phone from her ear and onto the base. She raised her hands to her mouth and looked outside. (Comment on this)
Friday, April 14th, 2006
4:47 pm	3/3/06 He pushed open the clinic doors with force to a sunny day. “Goddam,” he said, his hands at his sides. He heard the door close behind him. His body tingled. He gazed blank at the pebbly sidewalk a few feet in front of him. It hit him. “Hee-yahaaa!” he spread his arms in the air and looked up. “Goddam!.. I’m going to live!” He brought his hands down into his thick hair and ran them back. “Hah” He started walking towards his car a few blocks away. “Oh my God-dam God!” He clapped his hands and beat his fists on his thighs. He started to point left and right in step to his walk, firing imaginary six shooters from his hip. “God. Damn. Mother. Fucker. Gonna. Live. Don’t. Care. What you. Say.” He rambled off with each imagined shot. He drew his hands into his pockets. “Hah.” He bent forward. “Trying to keep ME down.” He pounded his fist into his chest, and raised his chin. “Man, I feel good!” He started to bounce in his step and swagger his shoulders back and forth. He jumped over a section of sidewalk in front of him landing on both feet. He spun around in a circle on the ball of his foot back into a rhythmic walk. “Ho-hoooo WAH!” he pointed both hands in front of him and brought them around behind the small of his back. He leaned back in his walk and nodded his head from side to side. “Uhh. {cleek}. Uhh.” He set a beat. “Uhh. {cleek}. Uhh.” He leaned forward and lowered in his walk, bending his knees and raising them high off the ground with each step. He began to flutter his fingers still behind the small of his back, at the same time puckering his lips and jabbing his head back and forth like a rooster. “Ladies and Gentlemen,” he faked an accent of what he thought Mick Jagger would sound like. He stood up in his walk and put his hands in his pockets. He leaned back and started to lead his walk with his hips, swaying them back and forth in an exaggerated manner. “Goddam,” he drew his hands from his pockets brought them together in front of him in a loud clap. He kept his hands together and pulled them back and above one shoulder and then the other, shaking them above each shoulder. “Thank You. Thank You.” He panned his head left and right at his imaginary audience. “MAN!” He brought his hands down. “I just feel like, I feel like dancing!” He skipped forward to the left side of the sidewalk and jumped up reaching his hands as high as he could. He landed and skipped to the other side of the sidewalk and jumped again. “God." He pulled back his hair hard. "I can’t wait to tell Maggie!” He lifted his knees high in a march, stomping his feet back on the ground and sliding them backwards along the sidewalk when he lifted up his other knee. He brought his fists into his chest and started flapping his bent elbows up and down at his side. “Aww haww!” He said. “Hill. Yeah. Hill. Yeah. Aww. Huhh. Aww. Huhh.” He spoke in beat to his march, whacking his elbows into his sides with every word. “Goddam!” He turned around and started to slide his feet along the sidewalk in a backwards walk. He brought his hands back and forth at his sides to make it look like he was walking normally. “Man. They must use sand or something.” He kept sliding his feet backwards on the sidewalk looking more rigid as he concentrated on trying to make things look easy. He focused his eyes down at his feet, watching the sidewalk start and stop in motion with his stiff steps. He was concentrating hard on this dance. The heel of his left foot slide back and felt nothing under it. His body began to fall backward. He felt his left foot touch pavement and roll underneath the weight of his frame. His leg went loose from the shock and he fell backwards into the street hitting his head on the blacktop and fracturing his cranium. He woke up in a hospital paralyzed from the waist down. He can no longer dance. (Comment on this)
Tuesday, April 11th, 2006
1:01 am	The tall yellowed grass blurred outside the station wagon. Evan ran with it, his eyes concentrating on each blade, trying to sort each thin strand into its entirety in the minute part of a second that it passed before his eyes. He stared out the window with the intent look that children have—that intent look like confusion or frustration, that hardens into a seriousness with age. A practiced adult look on twelve year old face. Evan let his eyes rest and followed the grass deep out into the yellow field where he could make out things. The field began to grow barer as the car went along, with patches of mustard seed and deep tire tracks in the earth. There was a bend in the road ahead, and Evan felt the momentum from the turn pull him closer to the glass. He pressed his forehead against the window. The bend straightened, and Evan looked out and watched a wire fence slide into view, breaking off the yellow plain into a jagged green of thick brush and slim tree trunks. He pulled his head from the glass and turned to his father who was guiding the car along the stretch. “How we doing kid?” he asked, keeping both eyes on the road. “Fine.” Evan looked away from his father and out straight at the road in front of the car. “Look, I don’t think we’re going to get home in time for dinner.” He looked down at his son sitting back in the large seat. “Was there anything you felt like having?” “No.” He glimpsed briefly at the road and back to his son. “Well, keep your eyes open.” He looked out the window and raised his thumbs up off the steering wheel and repositioned his grip along its treads. The sun grew lower with thirty miles. The father looked to the side of the steering wheel and turned on the car’s lights. He looked at his son. His face was raised a bit, leaning back in the seat. His hands rested flat atop his bare knees, just below the cuff of his green streaked shorts, and just above his scabby green knees. His hair ran into his eyebrows, curling into a slight bend at the sides and back. The father turned his gaze again to the road. “Jesus kid, you sure got one head of hair. You got that from your mother.” He turned to his son. Evan remained unmoved. He turned back towards the road. They passed a marker. It told them that Tomah was four miles away, that Baraboo was 58, and that Madison was 101. They were going to Madison. “You’re going to fall asleep Evan. Are you getting tired?” “I’m not tired.” “We should get some food in you, so you can keep up. There’s a McDonald’s up at this next exit. Does that sound good to you?” “Sure.” “Alright.” He tapped the wheel with his thumbs. “Mc-a-Dee’s,” he said to himself. He waited until they came upon the exit, then turned on his blinker and rode up the off ramp. The McDonald’s was across the street from an old Amoco. The gas station was pushed back from the street, behind two gray gas pumps with the older gauges that scrolled and ticked away. Evan stared at the pumps as the car turned into the McDonald’s lot. His father circled the car round the restaurant and came back to the spot where he entered. He slowed the car and scratched his head. “Huh...It looks like the McDonalds’ in Tomah don have any drive-thrus.” He looked at his son and smiled. “Where are we, huh?” Evan looked down at his knees and didn't say anything. The father steered the car into a spot and put it in park. He unbuckled his seat belt and placed his feet outside the door. “Evan.” He sat turned in his seat. “Are you coming inside?” Evan sat unmoved; his hands in his lap across the seat belt still around his waist. “Evan.” He reached over and placed his hand atop his son’s knee, and rocked it back and forth. “Come on kid. Let’s go inside and get something to eat. Whattaya say?” Evan glimpsed out the window, then turned his head and drew his gaze below his father’s eyes. “Sure.” He unbuckled his seat belt and opened the door. They closed the doors behind them. “Get whatever you want Evan.” His father pushed open the restaurant door, and Evan walked in underneath his father’s extended arm. (2 Comments |Comment on this)