| Broke |
[Jun. 2nd, 2005|11:22 pm] |
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well, i haven't been this broke in quite sometime. the evacuation of students is good for morale, bad for my bank account. and being that i'm broke i've successfully slept the day(s) way this week to avoid eating and leaving the house--i.e.-spending any money i don't have. |
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| (no subject) |
[Mar. 31st, 2005|08:15 pm] |
i haven't sleep in what feels like days. last night i got about 2.5 hours and the night before that about 4. needless to say...i am spent. i only have to work a few hours tomorrow morning, so after that i'm free until sunday.
my agenda for the weekend is move my shit into my new place. other than that nothing. anyone have any suggestions? |
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| (no subject) |
[Mar. 11th, 2005|09:56 pm] |
There he is. Just standing there. You know the type—walking around, shaking—convulsing in an almost rhythmic dance. Talking about this and that—about his brother. about that car ride in ‘87 that almost finished him. About the month he left home, and how he hasn’t been back since.
Now he’s standing in the middle of the street.
Men in business suits walk past and ignore him with asymmetrical glances. They keep away. Keep to their own kind.
Fashioned for urban sprawl. For infidelity. Men in fedoras. Whistling. Men in pea coats and scarves—tailored in small shops in the stark streets of London.
Taxi driver yells, “hey, get outta the street”
People drive by and stare. They stare—wondering, and staring.
In the middle of the street—not at home, the home he left long ago. But he still doesn’t move. Starts going on and on about the men unloading trucks. Unloading and assembling into the streets, then into bars and restaurants, venues and concert halls.
Streets—named after dead presidents we learned about in grade school. The ones that look that same no matter what town the map says your in—streets.
The taxi stops. Three ladies pile out. Headbands and thick sunglasses—boots and wool skirts. Smoking cigarettes. Walking—living casual. One stops, turns—flicks her lifeless cigarette onto the cobblestone and watches it ash out to nothing.
The cops made their way over to crazy now. They’ve got him on the ground—handcuffed, billy clubbed—begging for mercy, or something like that. He’s yelling nonsense—screaming about Jacki-o. About women in sundresses. About the slight rain that’s hitting his forehead. A Chinese torture moment. More people take notice. Notice, but don’t move. Perplexed—drawn in by his sun burnt complexion—wiry hair and fish out of water movements. A perfectly normal anaomly. He is the most exciting thing they’ve seen all day.
A crowd has assembled to the lip of the sidewalk—men holding their drinks. Women their purses and cigarettes, their babies. Erasing history. Erasing Their own histories’ one drink at a time.
The crowds still there but most don’t even stop or notice. They are used to this kind of behavior. Because, after all, it’s the city. An urban plethora…a hyperbole of itself. Townies, locals, tourist, and by passers. Strangers, artists, and panhandlers. People and gods … |
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| (no subject) |
[Feb. 19th, 2005|12:41 am] |
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work is never ending. this week i had one day off, and that was only because we were overstocked on drivers that night. i get off tomorrow at seven, so i'm hoping to find some trouble to get into--it has been a while. i've been here a month today and no trouble has found its way near me--i'll have to ammend that soon. |
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| trying to find a job... |
[Dec. 13th, 2004|03:54 am] |
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early january i will be moving to athens. as of now i am jobless, but am hoping to find find delivering some type of food, as i have done for several years. any suggestions to which places would be my best bet? |
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iamkenny's journal