Thoughts of that night and the kindness of the old man slipped across the surface of Atlas’s mind as he dipped his hands into the rock. He was now nearly fourteen years old, and he was deep into his fourth year Earth Pushing. The cold grey surface of the slate before him sat begrudgingly against his palms. With a thought, the molecules shifted, and the surface wavered. First just his fingertips sank below the surface, and then his palms, and before long, his entire arms were gone below the slate’s gritty face.
Out of sight, his hands felt the fluidity of the rock around them. Though to most it appeared to be stagnant, static and still, it had a motion to it, an ebb and flow; if one could manipulate that ebb and flow, one could push it and control it. With training, you could do it from a distance, and it was said some could even manipulate rocks miles away, or metal, even, as it exists as a purification of many of the elements found in stone, but few believed the former, and fewer believed the latter. For Atlas, it was all irrelevant. The only thing that mattered was what was in front of him at that moment, and with that mentality he worked through the day.
With a breath he began pulling his arms from the ground, distorting the earth only slightly with the extraction. His sleeves, made from a combination of microfilm (developed at the turn of the millennium as an alternative to leather and other animal-based cloth) and sand, carried with it thousands of shards of slate. By fragmenting the brittle stone along the length of his arms, and clutching the newly formed rubble with the sand in his shirt, he was able to harvest a great deal more slate than what would be possible without such a system. Atlas released the pieces once they had broken from the main body of the rock, and let them fall into the heavy granite tub at his side. Having filled it, he stood, put his hand on the edge of the tub and lifted, a little with his muscle, but mostly with Earth Pushing.
The walk back to the Depository was a long one, and he could have easily traversed it in minutes, skating across the dirt like an ice-skater on a freshly frozen pond, but he enjoyed the sounds of the forest around him. The trees were healthy, and, though not without plenty of space for growth, remained fairly modest in both width and height. The canopy over-head was thick enough to shelter from the harsh sun of the Northern Continent, but sparse enough to allow one the pleasure of a sunlight-kissed stroll. A mild breeze that smelled like moss and leaves and dirt and life danced between the trees and over the short, bitter shrubs that clung tight to the ground. Atlas listened to their roots as the soil’s silent waves swayed them imperceptibly to and fro.
At the dull metal window affixed to the side of the Depository, Atlas exchanged the shale aggregate for his day’s pay and, after checking out his belongings, he turned towards the setting sun and starting walking. Bellvale Valley, the city in which he lived, was an hour walk from the Depository, and as he walked, he entertained himself by conversing with the rocks.

total read: 941 words
total written: 3970 words

So I'll keep this part of this update short: Life is pretty good. I'm sick, but enjoying myself. Dealing with some shit, but dealing with it well, and I finally got a chance to go to the movies yesterday. Awesome. And, and this is the part that sets up the rest of my posts for a bit, I'm doing National Write a Novel Month, in which you write a 50,000 word novel in one month. Obviously, this isn't something I've done, nor is it something that I think is possible.
But I am writing a story, and it's going to be fairly long. So, I'll be posting it here in chunks. Probably around 500 words at a time, maybe a bit less. Here's the first bit, and after you read it, if you have corrections or commentary, feel free. And have a nice day.

There once was a young man who smelled strongly of a South American spice that had been extinct for hundreds of years. His friends, few in number, called him Atlas, though he had no known name.
Atlas could, like hundreds of others, manipulate an element. For reasons modern science had yet to determine, each of these ‘Pushers’ could manipulate only one element, and, perhaps entirely randomly, Atlas had grown up with the ability to manipulate the dirt, rocks and earth.
When he was only an infant, an old man found him in the mountains, cooing quietly, laying on a pile of moss and leaves. Perhaps left for dead, the old man saw his finding the child as a sign from the Gods and took it upon himself to raise and nurture the young boy. The old man lived alone, and, over the decades spent without any consistent human contact, had long ago lost track of exactly what his own name was. The infant didn’t seem to prefer any particular title and, used to a life free of the weight of a forename, the old man saw no particular reason to bother endowing the child with such a superfluous item.
As the boy grew, his rapid physical and mental development surprised the old man. By age 3, young Atlas (though still unnamed) could fully articulate his feelings, and was beginning to consider the implications of morality, and the function of consciousness. His body developed on par, and though still small, as all 3-year-olds are wont to be, he harbored considerable strength. The old man, who had long passed his physical peak, tried his best to train the child’s strength, but soon found himself unable to keep up with the lad’s vigor.
Atlas was happy, in those early years, but as he grew, he witnessed the gradual decay of his makeshift-father. At times, he imagined the source of his growth was the old man’s destruction; as he grew stronger and more agile, the old man grew increasingly feeble and soon, was unable to stand. It was in Atlas’s sixth winter that the old man finally passed, and, as far as Atlas could remember, that was the coldest and most unforgiving night.

you've read: 369 words
total written: 2805 words

I realized today that since I created my facebook account, I have yet to systematically clean out my inbox, and it's terrifying how many messages are stored; hundreds of documents detailing interactions with people from every corner of my life. Really nostalgic, and, as I'll explain in a moment, very upsetting in a quiet kind of way.

As I am now, I manage pretty well the avoidance of conflict. Not only do I dodge it, I deal with it, as well. In other words, I haven't simply started avoiding issues, I've figured out at some point, how to resolve them and move on. It should go without saying that it hasn't always been this way, and though I know it to be true, it's almost unfathomable, how much I've changed since the earlier messages in my inbox. So much has happened in the last three years that I hadn't remembered, and now it all comes rushing back. I got dumped by molly, was on bad terms with her, was flirting with six or seven different girls almost none of whom I can imagine liked me at all, and I feel as though I lead a few girls on. I practically promised to date one and then time passed and I completely forgot. Later I dated her best friend. Oops?

The first messages were before Mariah. For those of you who aren't familiar, that was my third relationship. I'm now in my eight. How does time move so quickly?
I've also had conflicts with people that I'd forgotten, and it makes me so sad, because we could still be friends had I only known then what I know now about diplomacy and not immediately burning bridges.

Also, another thing that pains me, looking at these messages, is how much of an asshole I was. I'm not saying I'm any better now, I've just changed, and you know how retrospection goes. Hindsight 20/20, right? Regardless, I was so full of myself, so cocky and arrogant. I was rude, thoughtless and I concerned myself too much with things that ended up being of no consequence. I can't claim now to have had the foresight back then to know that that would be the case, but it saddens me to know how blind I have been and how blind, in all likelihood, I am now.

Maybe this would be a good time to practice Tonglen.

Fuck yeah, you wish you knew what that was.
Fuck yeah, I wish I understood it as much as I'm going to pretend I do.

Hope I didn't bog you down too much,
let's end on a high note::

It's true. I was pretty awful a few years ago, and I wouldn't be surprised if you think you were pretty bad too, but if that's the case, think about this: Look how far we've come. I was shit terrible, and maybe I'm awful now, but I'm improving! If in three years I should be as much better as I am now in relation to how I was (convoluted), that'd be amazing. Let's all hope we're awful, so that we know, at least, that there's a way to get better, and to live happier, more fulfilled lives.

Cheers to the power of the Human Spirit,
Leo Wiggins

Story Idea::

Super Hero and Super Villain as old, good friends. They're both invincible, and incredibly powerful, but, being as such can never beat eachother once and for all. Even as a hero, the protagonist is feared by the public– they don't understand how it feels to be so powerful. The villain is the same way, clearly, and in that sense they remain forever friends– tied by that bond.

Think "X-Men", with professor X and magneto, except they have the same powers, are indestructible, and alone, with no other super-powered friends. Maybe all of the other ones died off long ago? Killed by eachother in combat, maybe a single war.

What do you think. If it gets solidified enough, I might draw it out, maybe write up a chapter or two.
-Leo

I think it's amazing that there are days that I go entirely without looking at the sky. Amazing, but sad, also. That life is so full of wonders that I can't appreciate all of them. As a favor to me, would you mind terribly taking a peak at the sky? I promise that, if you look for it,

you'll find something beautiful.

I hope that if I sing along with every bublé song that my roommate, Arvind, puts on, he'll stop playing Bublé. Bublé is great, but I listen to him a lot as it is. Maybe I should sing poorly?

There's something about rainy days that puts me in a thoughtful mood. Maybe it's that I'm also very tired . . . It's really hard to say. Correlation, not causation.

I had japanese this morning, as always. I woke up with my alarm first at 7:06, and again at 7:07. Quickly, I reset the alarm to go off at 7:16 and 7:17. Once it hit 7:17, I got out of bed and showered. Packing my bag, I headed out the door, only to find it grey and raining. I was immediately reminded, in a flash of forewarning, of my fall yesterday (my turn was too sharp and the pavement too slick from the rain–– tires slid out from under me and I fell to the curb. Not a terrible crash, but nothing pleasant), and so, especially on turns, I took it a bit slower than usual, and arrived at japanese a bit late (only a minute or two). I got my score back from the memorized dialogue I had yesterday, and I got a 17 out of 20. Not bad at all.

After japanese, me and david, who's taking french the floor above me at the same time, walked to peets where we drank heated beverages and talked about the world. It was very pleasant, and I appreciated the drink and the company. He and I split there and, after picking up a flat-rate box from the post office, I biked home talking to my mother about a possible trip to DC.
Seems my grandfather is fading into dementia pretty quickly, and this winter is probably going to be the last time I'll have a chance to interact with him as a mutually sentient being. I suppose I'm conflicted over it, partially because it's never fun, seeing the people you care for fade, and partially because it means time away from arkansas and, therefore, Kathleen, but I think I'll go. Granddad Jack is the reason I'm so tall, with big hands and huge feet– I should see the person who caused these traits one last time. He really adores me, too, so it'll be sweet, if nothing else. Also, I love my grandmother, so that'll be cool, to see her.

I'll post more later.

Dark rooms with yellow lights

Dust visible in the air

Making tea for a friend

Being told something nice

Finding out someone cares about you

A dog acting like a best friend

Food I love

No.

I don't know why, but for the last twenty hours or so, I've been in a pretty cruddy mood. As always, I can rationalize, but it feels, in this case, to be off the mark, somehow.

At the same time, I'm really getting into this musical artist "pogo", who's a superb mixer of ambient/electronica tracks. I find his music parallels my mood at the moment, but music has never made me sad, and so I see no reason to think that this is the case. Maybe it's that I feel like the people I care about are just out of reach these days, in as many was as I can think of.

Some friends, I'll try talking to online, but they always seem so busy, uninterested in carrying on any length of conversation, immediately whisking away to take care of some important chore, or to see some of their friends.
I look at the friends who are within a hundred miles of me. Many don't live near me, so to drive over to entertain my whims– not only do I think they wouldn't feel inclined to do so, I also find myself unable to ask them of such an effort. And some friends continue to confuse me. Why am I friends with them? Is it circumstance? Am I excusing their flaws in an attempt to be less judgmental? What if being with them, with all of their imperfections, is what's bothering me? It's happened before, it's not inconceivable that it'd happen again.
Furthermore, when I've tried, these last few days, to arrange for meetings with friends, they've all fallen through. At one friend's request, I was to meet up with her today, on sunday, for dinner. Sounds great, I thought. I wanted to check that she was still free to do so around thursday, so I posted on her wall a remember. She'd forgotten a meeting she had scheduled for sunday night, so instead we were to have tea at 2:30. Alright. No big deal. I suppose it'll still be nice to have some of her time. But then that fell through, because she's tired. "Some other day," she tells me, but I'm inclined now to think even that plan will fall through and we'll never see eachother again. It'd certain match the pattern.

An kathleen, who's probably reading this, is so far away. I'd never cheat on her, of course, but I still appreciate other girls' beauty, and that hurts me, a little, to think that I'd do that. "Does she do the same with other guys?" I think. I'm not really jealous, it's more of a curiosity, but I get the sense that she doesn't, and that is what makes me feel terribly guilty, worse than I would if I knew everybody does this. She's more like me than any other person that I know, and to think that I'm worse or better than her upsets me, a bit. I think it will continue to make me sad, being away from her, until thanksgiving, which, even as it draws closer, seems impossibly far away.
I know that I'll remain faithful– it's a strength I didn't know I have, but I can feel it now, and it's amazing. But the pain exists, as I knew it would. I just hadn't given it proper thought, is all, not that that would have changed anything. I'm talking in circles, maybe it's time for me to pick up my laundry.

If I continue this melancholic mood, perhaps I'll post again today.
I'm sorry to complain so much.
It bothers me that things about me bother other people.

Stay strong, for me,
Leo Wiggins

Small words tumble into my head and land, softly, on a pile of thoughts. Soon, the room's ablaze, and all I can see is the wall in front of me. Feelings glitter about, bumping into one another, and nothing makes sense. Tears are knocking on the backs of my eyes with hammers, trying to get out, but it's okay, because everything is okay, and maybe, just maybe, that's why it's all a bit frightening. Cullum tells me not to drink eight pints, which I suppose is good advice. I sip my liquor. Sometimes I wear things to make myself feel better about my body, and I tell myself all along it's because I'm being polite to the people around me. Question mark? Period. Comma, comma, semicolon; This is an independent clause. No longer living with its parents, it's in college, making a name for itself. Justine will be its name– his name. Why? I feel like writing. I feel like winter. It begins to tell, round midnight, round midnight. I do pretty well, 'till after sundown. Suppertime, I'm feeling sad, but it really gets bad around midnight.

I want to write songs. I want whatever it takes to sit down at a musical instrument, pluck out a new, original melody, and I want to be able to write down the words that perfectly describe "How I feel".

Things that Give a Tickling Sensation
Giggles
Grass
Noticing that you rhymed unintentionally
The gaze of a stranger on your bare flesh
Doing something that you know you want to do– you're afraid of being caught doing it, but deep down you want to be, so you can shout "You want to do it to" into the dirt, and feel the freedom that comes with being a flower.

'Head and Shoulders' should make a body wash called 'Knees and Toes'.


Well, I'm all moved in to my apartment now, and I must say, it's pretty sweet. My roommate is a nice guy and, though I haven't met the other two, I have no reason to suspect any less from them. Somehow, when I was packing things for this year before I went to Arkansas, I packed three boxes too much stuff. That's about ninety pounds of unnecessary belongings. For instance, I brought both trombones. As if I even practice trombone these days. Anyway. I got my music set up, and my games and almost everything sorted and organized. I'm experiencing a bit of an ant problem, but it doesn't immediately seem like there's a nest anywhere near, there are just a bunch of foraging ants. I'll keep them from my kitchen and I'll keep my room clean of food. They should disappear before too long. In the meantime, I've been squishing the ones that draw too close to me. Half of me feels bad about killing them, but half of me recognizes that the ecological benefit of ants isn't applicable in my room, and, because I refuse to feed them deliberately, it could be considered a form of euthanasia, as instead of starving to death here, I'm granting them a quick passage to ant-heaven. Also. They're ants. No reason to get all worked up about, anyway.

I bought a bike yesterday, and it's pretty sweet. Let's see if I can keep this one from being stolen like the last bike I owned. Apparently if it is stolen because of a default in the kryptonite lock, I can get the bike replaced for free. Neat.

School is about to start, on thursday, and until then, I suppose I'll be tracking down coursebooks, singing on ring road with circle of fifths and taking care of a few pre-class tasks.

I want quesadillas. I'll post again at some point. Also. Cherry, by Ratatat. Check it out.

Snowleopard is neat. I like that the wifi menu has the signal strength reported right next to the names and whether or not they're locked. Useful. Still, I need to set up my own network. Three bars is not enough for TF2, I fear.

Cheers
-Leo

Ready to get onto the plane that'll carry me to my childhood home, dark clouds are growing on the horizon. I don't see it as foreboding as it seems dark clouds often are, I see it more as my Arkansas Summer giving me a proper sendoff. 'Goodbye!' the dark clouds cry, rushing towards the Little Rock National Airport.
"Goodbye," I think to myself in quiet response. It's been a blast, and though I'm going to miss some things about arkansas (some people (some person (KATHLEEN))) more than I've missed anything in my life, I can't deny my excitement to return to school, to singing, to Art and to Irvine. I'm ready to have a room in which I can really settle again, opposed to the temporary living conditions so common to summer vacations, though perhaps vacation is the wrong word.

My plane is boarding soon, so I'll be leaving it at this. Maybe I'll write again soon. I have a reason, now.

Much Love,
Leo

Hello friends. As the day ends, I've chosen now to reflect on the recent past using little but generalities.

In case you're not up-to-date on my status as a romantically active individual, on the 12th of August, 2009, I officially began dating Lauren Kathleen Airola. She's beautiful, sexy, smart, and fun to be with. She's turning 21 soon, and is majoring at the University of Arkansas: Fayetteville in Horticulture. As this implies, she lives in Fayetteville at least 9 months of the year, and, in fact, it's more likely year-round. While it's wonderful that I've found such an amazing person, it is–– understandably, I hope–– tragic that we live so far apart. "What does this mean for me, Leo?" you might ask. Well, if you are one who lives in either Berkeley or Irvine, you'll be seeing less of me during breaks of four days or longer, i.e. thanksgiving, christmas etc. If you're one of the few who lives in Arkansas, rejoice! Or cry! Because I'll be back as often as possible.

Nevertheless, I'm incredibly happy these days, and my desire for romance is being quenched, and then some, so whatever misfortune may exist, it doesn't phase me. Let's see what the world can throw at me, I feel as though I can take it, no matter what it is.


I finished working on the ranch, and am now relaxing in Little Rock, Arkansas, splitting my time between games, working out, music, art, reading, sleeping and eating. I'm now on steam, my gamertag is, no surprise, faustzanuff, so hit me up if you have an account.

I'll be flying back to berkeley on the 15th, and driving down to irvine on the 18th, so if you're in berkeley, I implore you to be available, if not only a little, so I can say "hi" in passing. It's looking like it'll be a while before I'm back in berkeley, and that may be equally short-lived. I don't want to lose touch with some of you. You're too special.

On that note, I'm actually rather sleepy. Long drive, earlier today. Goodnight and goodluck. If you have any questions, comments or prompts for further narrative, comment away, and I'll post again addressing whatever it is.

Cheers.

Something beautiful happened. Something so wonderful, it makes me shudder to think it was actually real, but it was. It, however, in all of its glory, occurred within a situation that is inherently awful. It's okay, though. The situation was there regardless, and this has only made things better.

The luckiest man in the world is looking at me, whispering under his fortunate breath "lucky son-of-a-bitch...". And, across the street, the unluckiest man in the world is looking at me, whispering under his dismally unfortunate breath "you poor fool. I would hate to be you." Such is the state of my life these days, if not only in one regard.

I've lost weight, gained muscle, my foot hurts, I'm better at frisbee, I love life, humans and boats, and I'm looking forward to the next two days, if not only in one regard. They'll be wonderful and terrible, if not only in one regard. Time for work.


Goodmorning.

Arkansas is so . . . full of life. I bike two miles to work every morning, and back home every evening, and I pass by remnants of the night-life. Literally. The remnants of the night-life. Squished squirrels, walloped armadillos, pummeled skunks, and a variety of other animals I cannot name. One one drive along a single street, one may see upwards of five or six different animals. This says less about the recklessness of arkansan drivers than it does about the bounty of life present in and around civilization. During my long days of work on the ranch, every step through waist-high plants is celebrated by hundreds of tiny grass bugs, which flutter up and around you. I see thousands of dragonflies, and hundreds of butterflies on a daily basis. In fact, every breath and step is so infused with a feeling of life, it wouldn't surprise me one bit if the very water from the sky has its own life, here in Arkansas.

There are places here that remind me of Miyazaki's movies. There's one road that I pass every time I bike to town that positively reeks of Miyazaki's sensibilities, and every time I pass it, I get a new painting come to life– a view so beautiful, that if someone drew it or photographed it, I would think them dishonest. "That can't be real," I'd say to myself, "surely, they're making it up, or making it better." This state has a lot to offer.

Life is good right now.

I looked back on the last few years of deviant journal entries, and it's really shocking how much I've changed. What, exactly, changed, I ask myself. The major difference is how I choose to express my feelings, and how I seem to have been much happier back then, but maybe this is because I didn't know as much about myself or the world around me then, and, given the choice between ignorance with bliss and knowledge and sorrow, I will choose the latter as many times as I can handle. What's the point of life if we shelter ourselves from reality? We should just dream all day, if that's the only thing we accept into our arms.

As some of you may have noticed, my art has become as digital as the cast of the first season of Digimon: Digital Monsters. I only specify season because that was my favorite and the rest were decidedly downhill. I love my tablet, and layers in photoshop, and, heck, photoshop in general, allow for so much creativity with so little risk of ruining the process. Say you're drawing somethin on paper with graphite, and then you go to ink and color it. You ink it perfectly, and then the coloring begins. You're doing well and then BLAWCH!!!-- all over your paper. Black paint. and then your paper bursts into flames, and ninjas cut off your hands. Now imagine if you had command-z? and command-x. You could "cut" the ninjas to death, and then "undo" the ink on your paper. Wow! Sounds like magic to me. Sounds like magic... and photoshop.

Nevertheless. I'm taking and will be taking for a while Traditional Art Art Classes in college, so I won't stop with pencils and stuff, but because I can't paint and because colored pencils don't do it for me, and pens are moody, the only way I can effectively do colorful art is either collage (which I've done recently but can't post because I'm in transit) or digital.

So expect more art. If you have something you want to see drawn, let me know, and I'll apply my developing style to it. Did you see the Iron Giant picture?! That was suggested by Meta, i.e. my friend kevin. I was all like "yo dawg, wut shuld eye drah?" and he was all like "that big metal dood", except not, because we're both literate and we don't misspell things on purpose. He suggested the Iron Giant, so I did two pictures, and there they are. Surprise. Took me a couple hours, and his wishes were granted. THAT could happen to EWE! Er, I mean, YOU! Let me know

In the meantime, I'll try to post more often into this journal, and though I keep saying that I will every few months or so, and then don't, this time I will, and then I probably won't. So yeah. Cheers to repetition.

-L

ps.
All of Frank Sinatra's music is almost mine. Squeal. I'm definitely excited.

I dreamed I kissed a girl last night, a specific girl, and it didn't happen in actuality, but it certainly felt that way. It'll take me five or six more minutes to settle back into the constrains of the real world.

I went clubbing last night. It was a hellofalotta fun. My legs are sore, though, and on the way to this girls house before-hand (i met up with her, hung out for a bit, ate, and then drank with her friends, the club coming almost as an afterthought to the fun we had fighting the cold with bottle-shaped weapons) a dog bit me. I'll repeat that without the sub-statement. On the way to her house, a dog jumped up and bit my arm. Almost. I dodged, mostly, but its tooth nicked my arm, and, through my dress shirt, my blood slowly made its way to the outside world. Luckily, at her house I found hydrogen peroxide and a band-aid, but it didn't erase the experience.

Long story short, I was running down this street and a woman was walking her dog, which I later found out was a rescue dog (one adopted from less-than-fortunate circumstances), and, in running around them, I guess I startled the dog and it attacked me. As I ran away, I heard her scolding the dog. It's name was Nippy, I think. It continued barking until I was out of sight. It was all kind of frightening. Nevertheless, I yelled out to her that she should train her dog better while walking back the way I had come (I was going the wrong way– being bitten distracted me enough so that I didn't see the street I was supposed to turn on to). She yelled back that it was a rescue dog and that they were still working through some issues. Clearly. No apology though. Oh well.

That's my entry for the week. Or biweek. Whatever.

I'm decidedly intoxicated right now. At the party I just left, I had three beers, a weird lime-vodka bottle mix, and three glasses of a mix of beer, vodka, lemonade and a few other things. I don't know why, but I decided tonight is as good a night as ever to drink seriously, and though I'm not now nor was I ever tonight irresponsible in my actions (just imagine me, but a little bit more tipsy and maybe slurring my words a bit). In fact, I maintained proper pronunciation of almost all of the words I said, and though intoxicated, I sustained a certain accuracy in vocabulary and syntax.

Even now, I find myself undeniably affected by the alcohol coursing through my veins. When I lean forward, my eyes take a half-second longer to focus. This is a pretty big deal, if you've ever experienced it. It's like, every time you move your head, it feels as though someone pushed you a little bit. Kindof like being on something you know to be perfectly stationary when it starts moving. (something else that happened to me since I got here)

School is coming to an end. This is, in some ways, a terrible thing (27 units hits hard during finals week), but in other ways a very good thing (I'm looking forward to summer (Weird) and next quarter (fortunate, and not nearly as weird).

I'm not sure what else to write about. Does alcohol rob Leo of his urge to share every iota of his day-to-day life? Who knows.

I have a few things I want to write about though. Expect something within the next couple of weeks.

Cheers (still kindof drunk)

I've cried in my life, it's true. We all have, haven't we? But yesterday, I cried for the first time out of pure uncontainable joy. It arose out of a sinking feeling in my stomach and exploded through my heart and into my head. I bit my knuckle to keep from breaking into joyous sobs. Nevertheless, tears streamed down my face, and though I was in a room with two hundred people, I was not ashamed.

( What Happened, Leo? )

On September 8th, 2008 I wrote this entry in this Livejournal, and I read it again recently. I like it enough that I think you should read it, again if you've read it already and for the first time if you haven't.

Cheers.


The african-sounding man
Yesterday while eating lemon cake on shattuck killing time until my mom got out of her movie, I listened to an african-american sounding man tell his friend of an unknown ethnicity (i only turned to look once and it was after the other man had left. the african-american sounding man was african-america) about something that had happened to him a few days ago. The story was well told, and i enjoyed listening. I found, much to my amusement, that based on only facts, what he said he said, and what he said the person he was talking to said, i would have sided with the person he was talking to, and i know i would have concluded that he was wrong, or kind of crazy. maybe both. but, hearing not only the facts, which may have been skewed anyway, but also his thought process, which is something almost all of us include in stories, I agreed fully with him. It was funny, to me, because here I was, eating lemon cake in the chill of night listening to a view point i'd never considered before, and agreeing fully with its validity. I don't hear it often enough, and I'm not yet able to think like that in explanation for craziness, but maybe one day-- this'll lead to my understanding every viewpoint.

I pushed through the door and was immediately embraced by the smell of coffee and the heat of a dozen or so bodies, teaming together to fight off the cold. They had long ago allied with the heating systems, which lent their magnificent strength to the battle, and as I entered the war-zone, I knew for sure who was winning; on this front, at least.
I walked to the end of the line and wait my turn, eyeing the available cold cakes and cooked cookies. When asked what I wanted, I said something along the lines of "I'll have a slice of lemon cake". The total cost of this ejection was 1.95 (USD). She, the woman behind the counter, put the soft, though not as soft as I wanted it to be, cake slice into a small paper bag, which I took with me as I walked away. At first, I found myself insulted that she assumed that I had to leave the store, or that I wanted it to-go. Looking around, I felt sure that there'd be a seat for me, where I could sit and boast my presence to her. That'd surely get her goat, so to speak, and my goats milk was running out... so to speak, so getting her goat was pretty high on my to-do list.
I slowly scanned the small room. And again. Alas, no chair there was for me, so, goatless, and with my tail between my legs, my folly cradled in my arms, and the small paper bag carrying one slice of soft, though not as soft as I wanted it, lemon cake in my hand, I left the store, pushing again through the door and reentering the outside world. It was the outdoors' entrance.
I walked a few feet forward and stopped at the curb, keeping tabs on the cute girl far off to the left, who had made lengthy eye contact earlier with me in the night. I thought about the love advice I had heard on Youtube during the many hours I've spent perusing the vast networks, about moving slowly and confidently, so I did, eating the lemon cake in such a way as to entice and attract the young lady over to me. I'm not sure how that would ever work. Somehow, the lemon cake disappointed me. It was then I heard the tale of the African-sounding man.