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illiteratis
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Interests: Fake wordsmithing. We're all geniuses.


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Member Since: 3/21/2005

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Tuesday, May 24, 2005

Currently Playing
This Is a Long Drive for Someone With Nothing to Think About
By Modest Mouse
"Dog Paddle"
see related

 

Mile Marker Fifteen

 

St. Louis, spider-web overpasses

long behind.

Ahead, far around,

fields of Illinois

glow nightlight dim

from a low red sun,

the one making pumpkin faces

in the rear-view mirror.

 

Sixty mile an hour imagery

captured between blinks

appear as highway Monets.

 

Sleeping rusty combines paper-

weight the fields, barn-

silouettes patch the dusk-

violet horizon.

 

Perhaps destinations are irrelevent

at this point, mile marker fifteen,

where in a state of perpetual motion

 

the car traces painted pavements

until tail lights ring the silent chimes

in harmony with stellar bodies.

 

Or perhaps merely a vague notion

maintains eastward trajectory,

pressing heavy feet steady,

 

intermittent yellow lines firing

across synaptic gaps.


Thursday, April 07, 2005

by J. Lugger
this is the first chapter to a story I have in my head that I decided to write down.  the story has no title, but the chapter is titled The First Thursday

The First Thursday

I could have flipped through one of those 365 day desktop calendars, closed my eyes, stuck my finger inside and picked out some random day with about as much certainty and forethought as whomever created the cosmos put into picking that specific Thursday for me to wake up at 8:47 in the morning, after only four hours of sleep.  Four hours is barely a nap.  At least for me.  For whatever reason, I didn’t roll back over and go back to sleep.  I got up.  I put a hoodie on and decided to hit the cafeteria for breakfast.  Before it closed at 9.

 I was hard into four years of college.  I had something like 2 semesters or 3 semesters to go when the damn school dropped me for having poor attendance.  Now, I don’t know a single student who does not absolutely hate attendance policies.  Its like having a teacher who makes up a seating schedule before the year even begins, and you’re last name is Anderson or Brown and you always have to sit in the damn front rows while York and Ziffner always get the god damn back rows.  I had no classes, and no financial aid, but somehow I still had a meal plan so I regularly ate at the cafeteria on money I’m sure I’ll have to pay back someday. 

The cafeteria was thin, maybe 40 people in 400 seats.  They all seemed to be packed into groups of 2 or 3, I was alone.  I never go to breakfast.  In four years I’ve been to breakfast twice, and both of them were in my first year, first semester and first week of school.  I don’t know why I was here today, but here I was.  I found a table off in the corner where I could enjoy my biscuits, gravy, sausage, eggs, hashed browns, bowl of lucky charms with the special stars that turn the milk blue, and tall glass of Dr. Pepper.  I’m not gonna lie, breakfast is easily my favorite meal.  It’s a shame that I so rarely get to enjoy a good one.  It would be nice if I could have breakfast at night in place of my dinner time.  I could push dinner up to lunch time and lunch to breakfast time.  I’d never eat lunch but then again I really don’t care.  I get dinner and breakfast and that is all that matters.

Now I was fully enjoying enjoying my meal by myself.  I do like socializing and eating with my friends but its way too damn early for me to talk to anyone, which is why I am so enjoying eating my meal alone.  That, however, was when the absolute best looking girl I had ever seen in my 4 long years here in college sat down by herself, at the table directly across from my table, on the opposite side of the table as me, so that I had no choice but to either be looking directly at her or directly down at my nearly empty bowl of lucky charms.  I couldn’t decide if I was mad or ecstatic about this.  She was gorgeous.  Not in that Maxim supermodel hot skinny actress with large tits way but like the kind of good looking that hurts even worse because you actually think that you could have a chance with someone like this.  Someone real with real lips and a real smile when she glanced up at me and saw me staring and real tits and a real ass that looked really good in pajama pants.  Technically all women look good in pajama pants.  I don’t know what it is, maybe the idea that they are probably not wearing much underneath, or the fact that any guy could see a girl in PJ’s walking around his bedroom in those pants any morning.  It’s just sickeningly believable.

I had to go.  I didn’t want to.  I wanted so badly to stay there, right there, at that table.  Not to continue eating, I was full, or even to stare at that girl.  I just wanted to be there within her proximity.  Maybe in hopes that she would start playing with her hair, or the minute possibility that war could break out and that world would destroy itself with nuclear weapons and only our two table would survive and we would have to continue on as the next Adam and Eve, or maybe just that she might occasionally glance up at me and smile.  Just a smile.  I could live for that.  An occasional smile just to prove her awareness of my existence in the world.  I could live for that.  But no, I got up and left because I’m pathetic.



Tuesday, March 29, 2005

Currently Playing
O God the Aftermath
By Norma Jean
"Disconnecktie: The Faithful Vampire"
see related

Law of Averages

Something so great
it grates,  this is dichotomy.
Yes.  Is this dichotomy?  Yes.
No.  Again.  Let's make
it redundant  again.  Paradoxically:
advancement, regression,
stretching, contrary direction,
reducing all to a stasis.  Constant
motion, consistantly nothing.


Tuesday, March 22, 2005

Currently Playing
The Moon & Antarctica
By Modest Mouse
"Dark Center of the Universe"
see related

I wrote this while sitting at Boston Pizza bar in Vancouver.  In front of me were two big screens with post-season baseball games on them.  Also in front of me was a tapped Fosters and a notebook.  The pencil was in my pocket until I decided to use it.  I quickly grew bored, and here in its entirety are the brief results.


      He's not particularly good at anything, though everybody has one or two areas of expertise, be it juggling or setting digital clocks.  Or juggling digital clocks.  Edsun Bower can, in fact, juggle while setting digital clocks.  He just doesn't know it.  What he does know is his belt is a notch too tight and the bar is a bit too noisy.  There's nothing he can do for the noise, and if he adjusted his belt then it'd be a notch too loose.  He's always told himself he'd buy a new belt, tomorrow perhaps.  But like most things filed away into the "tomorrow" cabinet, it would forever be saved for tomorrow.
      It was to Edsun's advantage then that he wasn't in charge of determining when the game was, because there'd be a pretty good chance that he'd schedule it for tomorrow.  But major league baseball made it clear that the game was going to start at 7pm, Central Standard.  Five Pacific.  And five is never too early for beer and baseball.


Monday, March 21, 2005

Currently Playing
Useless Pt.2
By Depeche Mode
"Useless"
see related

site name: illiteratis
password: syntax

(i think i'm clever)

que es?: open grazing land for narrative or poetry compositions.
purpose: to encourage creative writing and to have fun doing it
sub-purpose: empty this flood of random thoughts that frequent my mind at any given time

feel free to:
compose completely brilliant pieces of fiction (or non-)
complete others' unfinished work
critique
suggest
not make a donkey of yourself

okay,
go.