extended tangerine guilt trip

the class was a dreary beige painted cinder block brick-walled boredom sanctuary populated by fast fixed eyed strangers. i sat with my pencil in hand awaiting direction with a panging nervousness creeping through my chest, like it was the first day of kindergarten all over again and i was abandoned to try and find my way alone, but this time was different. i knew i was in poetry class despite its disguise of strange scenery. i knew that the source of my nervousness was my lack of preparation. i had no poem to share so i bore my burden of shame quietly behind the rows of anxious students until someone passed me a squeegee. yes a squeegee, like the ones at the gas station where you pull in after hours of insect splatter has baptised your windsheild to the point of vainly looking through the fog of death you bestowed upon the bug brethren only to find the road ahead a hazy visage of what it was before you departed. yes a squeegee, only this one had a razorblade edge in place of its normally rubber counterpart. so i was twirling my new-found toy about in the air, spinning it propellar-like in my hands; jabbing and poking at invisible foes, when my eyes caught the neon tangerine orange extensions of the young ebony sister sitting in the desk directly in front of me. her hair was amazing; wound in and out and around; swirling and spiraling; weaving ropelike through itself like wellcrafted boy scout knots in the throws of orgy. i became infatuated with her hair. i wanted to touch it but somehow couldn't bring myself to, like by reaching out to it i would somehow spoil it, rotting it like the beautiful fruit it borrowed it's color from. suddenly the razor squeegee began gliding toward the hair, my arm attached to its handle, me an innocent bystander to its intentions. as the thin edge of the blade combed through the twines of orange they began to fall lightly to the floor. the entire motion of the blade was effortless, so much so that the young sister felt none of its misplaced wrath. i sat in glassy eyed awe of the scene. it was like watching beautiful and horrible wrapped in a blanket writhing in and out of one another in the throes of lust. one after another the tangerine strings floated to the floor until the back of her head was covered in her natural kinky black curls sparsely populated by the fragmented remnants of neon. looking at the back of her head i felt the instant guilt indicative of the aftermath of climax. as if she could smell this she slowly turned around and faced me. in her eyes was a look of pure violation. voluptuous tears inched down her round face. "you cut off all my hair" she said through her mask of wetness. "i know. i'm sorry. i didn't..." i knew it was hopeless to try and explain, or even attempt to apologize. there was a dark black bowling ball nestled in the pit of my stomach, pinning me to my seat behind the aftermath of my actions. steeping in guilt i looked up to the blackboard and saw a man, middle-aged with gold rimmed glasses ; a chalk-stained white-with-blue-pinstripes dress shirt and navy blue slacks. he was scrawling on the board something, at first blurred, but then mildly perceptible through the glaring fluorescent lights. they were math equations. quantum physics more precisely; and i could not understand what any of them meant, nor why this was no longer my poetry class.

who i am not

in searching for my identity on the internet i stumbled across some people who i am not:

these are their stories:

The Life and Work of Erik M. P. Widmark.
American Journal of Forensic Medicine & Pathology. 17(3):177-190, September 1996.
Andreasson, Rune B.Sc, M.D.hc; Jones, A. Wayne Ph.D., D.Sc.

Abstract:
Erik M. P. Widmark (1889-1945) was among the first researchers to study in a systematic way the absorption, distribution, and elimination of ethanol in the body; in addition, he formulated his results in mathematical terms. Widmark's research during the first decades of this century paved the way for innovative traffic safety legislation that stipulated punishable limits of alcohol in the blood of a person driving a car. The 50th anniversary of Widmark's death was commemorated in 1995. His contributions have gained enormous respect and are still widely cited in forensic science, especially in connection with the crime of driving under the influence of alcohol. The Widmark equations and the factors [beta] and r are now part of the vocabulary of all those trained in forensic alcohol analysis and toxicology.

(C) Lippincott-Raven Publishers

Erik M.P. Widmark

Check out this guy: http://www.gcsg.org/aboutus/staff.html

i do not partake in extreme sports either: http://www.recordonline.com/archive/2003/07/20/esgcolum.htm

i am related to this guy, though i don't know exactly how, i will look into it, more to follow: richard widmark

this shit is just scary (go to this link and do an Adobe search on erik widmark:
http://www.stategames.org/site/newsroom/pdf/vol_10_num_3_nl.pdf

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analog dreams

last night i dreamt i was in the backroom of a small private web hosting business. it was a barren walled, concrete floored room with a plaid type lime green garage sale couch and shitty wooden coffe table setup. there was an end table too. and a friend had died, but i don't know who, and she was laid out across my lap, all long blonde hair and naked body. rigomortis had already set in. she was stiff like a manican, and her head had removable sections like a science class dummy. somehow i knew she had already undergone an autopsy. calmly at first, i was trying to splice back together her insides, but they weren't the standard guts of human, but rather guts of analog tape. fumbling around with countless feet of magnetic strip i began to get frustrated, further negating my efforts at successfully piecing her back together until my hands were hopelessly intertwined in her magnetic insides. all the while my computer genius friend, this one living, was diligently trying to fix this business' poor internet connection. and a bowl of pot was being passed around by some other people in the room, but they weren't there before, until it came round to me. but there was no more drug to be had and as i cashed it out in the ashtray the cherry bounced to the floor. swiftly my girlfriend snatched it up and deftly placed in the ashen recepticle. and as i watched it fizzle out my eyes burst open to the sun filtered through emerald curtains.

gun shy

i heard this song and it maybe remember that i don't think guns are necessary. we don't need to shoot things anymore. no guns/bombs/weapons of mass distinction no war no war no unnecessary dead, save random accident. if we's a gonna war lets stab each other. it's much more personal. dirty hands. people don't need to hunt neither. hunting is not supposed to be fun. hunting was necessary when there were only a few people on earth. we are past a few now. eaters go to the store. its all there for you. the murder done been done. all collected and happy wrapped blood and all. guns are an artery blockage in in clogged society. its a diluted notion believing guns protect. they endanger. violence is so vile it should only be engaged eye to eye. not eye for eye. then we would see what damage is really done.

a thought

sometimes when i'm sleeping these dreams come that seem random but then they all start to make sense and when i piece it all together i realize that they are the most miniscule elements of maybe a series of days that i had and they just manifest themselves into this sort of milkshake of memory loosely built around some foggy fantasy. the wierd thing is that i used to be able to control this. i had completely lucid dreams. i was the master of my subconscous realm, but then that power was lost. i can't pinpoint where why or when but i just sort of stopped remembering my dreams for a bit and then it was just like loose flashback stuff. i at least now can often remember them but i still long for that control. i miss flying.

no this is my face 

this is a blog

hello my blog how are you? today is a day in chcago where i am setting up this here blog in order to see if it is a place to dump my seeping brain onto. this will be a post and as such should contain some sort of useful knowledge therefore here is a factoid:
when volcanoes erupt the ash cast into the air is comprised of minute flecks of rock which when inhaled collect in the lungs and combine with the bodies water which then creates cement
this is how people suffocate from ash infhalation around volcanoes:
it is sad