The Statues

"What have you done with yourself? What is your major?" Mr. Green asked. And I assumed he only wanted a word for an answer.
"English" I replied.
"English?" His question dripped with a sarcastic jibe. He had pulled himself up to the circulation desk and met my eyes as if to study me. "What good is English?" he continued in his line. "What accomplishment could come from studying English?"
It was at this point of our "conversation" that I realized that Mr. Green did not want an answer from me. He was using his questions as an argument to change my interests toward his own. I was puzzled and my face showed a question that I refused to ask, mainly out of respect. That was: "Who do you think you are?"
Seeing me in a state of silent questioning, he bridged the gap. "I own Aunt Jamima"

He was a statue man.

स्तातुए में

Accidental Hindu? I pressed a button that I should never have touched. I only did it out of the fancy that some day there would come a use of that transliteration. But that use was just a fantasy and I became trapped inside Hindu fonts that would not go away. Somehow I saved the above title into my blog before I was able to turn the Hindu off. Another small reminder of my uncertain reality as seen through the true reality.

mist and rivers

A soft, thick mist hangs between the towers like a web blanket slowly lifting off the riverbanks. The sky is turned on like a bulb covered by a translucent screen. Light dosn't stream through, but is caught, dampened, clouded, and released with trimmed edges.

Pulled away from the just waking ground below, and lifted as it bunched together and suddenly was transformed into water that fell back down, that blanket became a process. The rain fell an entire day. There was no sun.

Called, disolved, not an one to be dismayed. That king went pop with pills in his head, money, frills, dead. That king went dead, slow suicide paper red. Today, away yesterday's freak, how now holy speak. That king went pop in public space, no more that face. Changing asthetic life that puked on top. Wretched on top. Molested sainity beyond extreme, never to dream land. No more dead ever land, Peter pan is sick. Children to bed fairy-tales are twisted, media insisted. Alone seperated individual are our rights. Vomitous nights. Queer sickly fights. Is this what left the den of theives to shame on? No more gate beautiful to lame on? Just porceline plastic and salesmen sheets. None left retreats, Play boy, play and get your game on. Into this scene let heaven stare. Aware. Alive, awake, sovergn, controlling. Will it to be your son in fullness be applied, this world's air ruler denied. Peace on earth.

bedbugs

Bedbugs…
It all began when Xin just couldn’t stop scratching her bug bites. Mosquitoes love her, so we thought she was just scratching the normal mosquito bites. These bites were different though. They were in a line on her arms and back. A little research showed they were bedbug bites.
First we spread a powder over every part of her room. We covered the bed, the walls, and the carpeted floor. The powder was supposed to dehydrate any bug that touched it. The problem was it didn’t work; Xin was still being attacked nightly. We were going mad.
The next step was to cover every inch of the bed with sealed plastic. That will get them. We washed the bed with a steam vacuum and sealed it with thick plastic and duct tape. That didn’t work either. The next day Xin got bitten twice. I tried to convince Xin that it wasn’t bedbugs. That was a bad idea, she had already caught one.
As soon as I had thoroughly convinced myself that it was not bedbugs, a bedbug ran across the top of the bed between Xin and me, in plain sight. We had them running, that was good. It was filled with blood, which was bad.
I began to research bedbugs. I wanted to know everything about them. How and what they ate, what they liked, where they lived, what they dreamed about. One thing was sure; they didn’t like 106 degrees Fahrenheit. They are like us; they felt feverish at over 98 degrees. They drink our blood; they become prone to our own disadvantages. Blood doesn’t like heat.
It was over 90 degrees outside already, so I figured we only had to turn up the heat by about 20 degrees to kill them off. We sealed the room and turned on four space heaters. The temp in the room reached 120 degrees. Our sample bug died as the blood inside it dried like a scab.
A few days later, a bedbug was discovered running in the bathroom. That was good, we had them running and confused. Even better, it was empty of blood. We chemical bombed all three floors of the house and went out to eat. While we dined they were chemically destroyed.
It has been three days since the bombing. There are no signs of bedbug life.