I’m reading about the development of NBA Jam and it reminded me that Chicago and the entire state of Indiana are tremendously cursed places.
Tag: personal
I’m reading about the development of NBA Jam and it reminded me that Chicago and the entire state of Indiana are tremendously cursed places.
Written tonight, Saturday.
There’s a cycle of settled and unsettled. Suppose it’s possible to sync up with someone else who lives in the same pattern, but that’s a tough find.
They do say it’s all about compromise. That’s too bad.
It’s a long list. I cross things off as the opportunity arises.
Become a pilot’s on the horizon.
Get outta there.
Away from the pack, I imagine.
No planning.
Sounds like heaven.
(Not actually, of course. But a nice fantasy).
More lessons to come.
Nothing to fight.
Too much stress.
A little control, a little delusion.
Written tonight, Saturday.
There’s a cycle of settled and unsettled. Suppose it’s possible to sync up with someone else who lives in the same pattern, but that’s a tough find.
They do say it’s all about compromise. That’s too bad.
It’s a long list. I cross things off as the opportunity arises.
Become a pilot’s on the horizon.
Get outta there.
Away from the pack, I imagine.
No planning.
Sounds like heaven.
(Not actually, of course. But a nice fantasy).
More lessons to come.
Nothing to fight.
Too much stress.
A little control, a little delusion.
The possible police.
It’s been seventeen years, it’s been ten, seven, three. Somebody asks me, “How do you fill the void?” I tell him a good vice and time.
What happened to President Muntu?
The words don’t come as easily as they once did. The ones that do are simple and ineffectual. When I sit, I jiggle a leg up and down on the ball of my foot. Two legs when I try to write. A frequency like low bass in the chest.
Linguo is dead.
Ulysses works as manager at the Jiffy Lube on Hesperian. A woman whose name I did not get works as a manager at the Subway on Bancroft. Ulysses was a professional and friendly person. The woman, who seemed Bengali, had nice wrinkles around her eyes, especially when she smiled.
The esoteric appeal is worth the beatings.
I own a computer in which I have installed the Ubuntu operating system. This O.S. is free and capable, but relatively unpopular. This prevents me from playing certain video games. There aren’t many interesting games in the world for me as it is.
This is where I come to cry.
The possible police.
It’s been seventeen years, it’s been ten, seven, three. Somebody asks me, “How do you fill the void?” I tell him a good vice and time.
What happened to President Muntu?
The words don’t come as easily as they once did. The ones that do are simple and ineffectual. When I sit, I jiggle a leg up and down on the ball of my foot. Two legs when I try to write. A frequency like low bass in the chest.
Linguo is dead.
Ulysses works as manager at the Jiffy Lube on Hesperian. A woman whose name I did not get works as a manager at the Subway on Bancroft. Ulysses was a professional and friendly person. The woman, who seemed Bengali, had nice wrinkles around her eyes, especially when she smiled.
The esoteric appeal is worth the beatings.
I own a computer in which I have installed the Ubuntu operating system. This O.S. is free and capable, but relatively unpopular. This prevents me from playing certain video games. There aren’t many interesting games in the world for me as it is.
This is where I come to cry.
Living in an XJ.
Getting closer. Moved into a bedroom for far less than I was paying in apartment rent, and I’ve reduced extra belongings to a 5 x 5 storage unit. Need to save up for proper window tinting, then install window blockers and curtains.
If all goes well, I’m living out of the XJ by December.
Current status of the cargo area. The platform is:
- a big piece of particle board
- scrap wood beams for support
- hardtop gaskets from my old TJ to prevent sliding and scratching up the sheet metal
- gray rustoleum
I made sure to leave that gap underneath the platform for ventilation. All essential tools, fluids, etc. sit underneath the area behind the seats. Wish I’d built an access door on the platform to make it easier, but it gets the job done. Holds up well.
Living in an XJ.
Getting closer. Moved into a bedroom for far less than I was paying in apartment rent, and I’ve reduced extra belongings to a 5 x 5 storage unit. Need to save up for proper window tinting, then install window blockers and curtains.
If all goes well, I’m living out of the XJ by December.
Current status of the cargo area. The platform is:
- a big piece of particle board
- scrap wood beams for support
- hardtop gaskets from my old TJ to prevent sliding and scratching up the sheet metal
- gray rustoleum
I made sure to leave that gap underneath the platform for ventilation. All essential tools, fluids, etc. sit underneath the area behind the seats. Wish I’d built an access door on the platform to make it easier, but it gets the job done. Holds up well.
What the road does.
Social obligation, that is the notion of being required to do anything more than have a nice talk over a granola bar or cup of coffee, doesn’t rear its ugly head. There’s no obligation. Just folks. Travelers, maybe, if some think of it in that conscious sort of way. Romantics might think it. But folks anyway, just going someplace in a car or on a bike, or hitching, though I don’t know anyone personally who’s done that. There’s no requirement in the social bits of travel. Nothing exchanged but stories, tips, simple greetings and goodbyes. Or nothing, as there might not be a thing to say. No scheduling to it or time to think too much. A moment’s come and gone.
Politeness. Politeness and kindness where one can give it. I’ve met with a lot of kindness that surprised me every time. Kindness of the moment’ll do a hell of a lot more than an expectation to keep in touch. Don’t expect that of no one and that’s that.
There’s intuition as funneled through the gut. The gut knows about people. Good people, not so good. Some part of getting out there is maybe knowing what’s bad and doing it anyway, but these days I don’t go in for that thinking. It’s not wise far as I can tell.
Quietness out there. It’s that, I think. A mostly quiet sort of experience, punctuated with the little talks, and little hellos and smiles, and then little partings. The kind of being with people that doesn’t break a man.
What the road does.
Social obligation, that is the notion of being required to do anything more than have a nice talk over a granola bar or cup of coffee, doesn’t rear its ugly head. There’s no obligation. Just folks. Travelers, maybe, if some think of it in that conscious sort of way. Romantics might think it. But folks anyway, just going someplace in a car or on a bike, or hitching, though I don’t know anyone personally who’s done that. There’s no requirement in the social bits of travel. Nothing exchanged but stories, tips, simple greetings and goodbyes. Or nothing, as there might not be a thing to say. No scheduling to it or time to think too much. A moment’s come and gone.
Politeness. Politeness and kindness where one can give it. I’ve met with a lot of kindness that surprised me every time. Kindness of the moment’ll do a hell of a lot more than an expectation to keep in touch. Don’t expect that of no one and that’s that.
There’s intuition as funneled through the gut. The gut knows about people. Good people, not so good. Some part of getting out there is maybe knowing what’s bad and doing it anyway, but these days I don’t go in for that thinking. It’s not wise far as I can tell.
Quietness out there. It’s that, I think. A mostly quiet sort of experience, punctuated with the little talks, and little hellos and smiles, and then little partings. The kind of being with people that doesn’t break a man.