Talking+Tom

Philosphy: Life, this thing we live, is not really an easy thing to deal with. It pretty much comes down to a series of episodic events that make little to no sense and have little to no meaning, but we keep going anyway and eventually something's going to happen. I'm not really sure what it is, but something.

Quote: to speak or write (a passage) from another usually with creditacknowledgment b : to repeat a passage from especially in substantiation or illustration.

The tide rises, the tide falls The sky was clouding over to the east and one after another the stars he knew were gone. He canonicity of his existence as a [|tesseract] This is an adventure.



I'm going to find it and I'm going to destroy it. I don't know how yet, maybe dynamite. There is an hour to come when all of us shall cast aside our veils. A long overdue opportunity for everyone so inclined to express publicly his guilt and sins. But with a little sex. To make one half of the world fools, and the other half hypocrites. It isn't fair, it isn't right.



Tolerate no uncleanliness in body, clothes or habitation. A turtle's heart will beat for hours after he has been cut and butchred. So it Goes. This too shouldn't take long. That’s what she said. We snered at each other across the desk for a moment. He sneered better than I did.



Oh, pity me, miserable wretch that I am! I used to be with it, but then they changed what //it // was. I believe that people believe what they believe they believe. Now what I'm //with // isn't //it //, and what's //it // seems weird and scary to me Jag förlorade mig på en tom gata med förfallna hus Why a four-year-old child could understand this. Run out and find me a four-year-old child.



We saw a long strand of iron-gray hair. Oh my God Am I here all alone? Aaah, I can't remember this joke. But it's good.

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Back Seat Liveing Crash! Boom! Clablamp! The car swerves. It break right through the off ramp on this lonely mountain high way. Down we go! I clutch onto the back of the front passenger seat trying to stay put as our 1993 Subaru Legacy hurtles through unsuspended air off a high way cliff. It makes sense it should happen here in the back seat. In this place the world has passed me by from behind the clear, cold window that doesn't open all the way. The dull engine roar, the smell of fake, card board pine trees are embedded in the nether regions of my conscience. This is the place. The place I'm going to write about. I know it might not seem like a place which would have a great deal to write about, but I'm going to do this place.

Vividly I remember pressing my face against the soft fabric that reveals the tastes of my adventures when licked. Adventure actually tastes remarkably similar to cherry. The sounds of endless ABC games heard in the back ground, "A: America." "B: um, Belarus," "C: uh, Czechoslovakia." "Ha, Czechoslovakia isn't a country any more. It disbanded in 1993. I believe you lose." "You didn't say we could only do current countries." "It's implied." "It wasn't implied." "Look, do I have to go over the entire rules to the ABC country game. It's not like they aren't universally. I shouldn't have to go over all the rules for you." "Fine, I retract it. Czech Republic." "No, it's too late. You've already lost." "That's not fair." "It's the rules, moron." "Don't call me moron, idiot." "Imbecile." "Dunce." "Stooge." "Claude." "Cretin." "Play nice, kids." I'm not sure if you're familiar with the ABC game, but I don't think I'd have to explain that its current countries only. If we always had to explain obvious rules like that we'd accomplish nothing. These are the sort of calamities I'd run into in the back seat. It's much harder not driving than people think. All the sitting, plus there's also that thing that happens when the seat belt is jammed and I can't get it out. Not that it was all bad times. Looking at the gray ceilings adorned with pencil stick figures is like my own personal Sistine Chapel. Through all the rides the warm circulated air from the front seat blowing into the back embraces me. Holding me like some insolated yourt. Wait. What's a yourt?

I'm reminded of all these objects as well as events as I free fall into a deep quarry filled with jagged rocks. The noises of Herb Albert and the Tijuana Brass blaring, "Spanish Flea," out of the broken back speaker. The dark blue felt on the back of the front seats are the last senses I felt before the car came crashing down ending in a explosion seen two counties over. Now forever I'll be in cased in the back seat. Which is in reality not that bad of place. You know when I first started this I tried to make it an essay that wasn't, say, completely self conscience. Instead it's just diverged into whatever this is. I don't even know. It's not a descriptive piece, or any sort of narrative. It's not even a stream of thought. That would be far overstating what it is. It's mostly just self conscience lies. Just like everything else in my life.

I realize that this may be a shock but “There’s a cure to male pattern baldness,” Is false, and “Baldness is a permanent condition” So at age 30 I will tell my head There will be no hair there My wife/girlfriend/life partner/significant other/pet will know that I have lost my greatest asset because Hair Is more important than Anything else I give you this knowledge When I was young I had a lot of hair But this will not be true for my late early middle age on This is a hairy situation Scalp specialists tell me 30 years from now I’ll be completely hairless I do not think that I will be attractive On my future head Baldness will be the norm No longer can it be said that People will like me It will be apparent that My hair is all gone It is idiotic to think that There is hair.

And all of this will come true unless I massage my scalp twice a day. This one

Where I'm From I am from TV sets, From empty boxes and Dylan albums. I am from that weird wall paper (The previous owners had put up, That we never took down). I am from dry to the touch, withering plants. The mismatched, soft furniture, Which have holes in them, And we probably should replace.

I'm from the upper lower middle class, College educated white collardom, From Bob and Kelly, I'm from the insecurities and self loathing, From, "Ahh what are you going to do?" I'm from mutual appreciation And suppressing and/or repressing.

I'm from unknown grandparents from unknown orgin, Sugary breakfast cereals and day old falafels. All the uneven, homemade hair cuts, And all the unnecessary doctor visits. Card board New Balance shoe boxes, Filled with photographed memeories and baseball cards.

I am these moments, And each year adds another ring, Until the lumber jack of life cuts me down. none

I, Too, Sing America

I, too, sing America.

I am the boring older step brother. I eat spaghetti without sauce and spices With my family, But we talk, “Tom.” “Uh.” “Tom.” “What? “So how was school?” “It’s not time for school.” “I know that. I asked how school was?” “It was all right.” “What did you do?” “Nothing really.” “Nothing?” “No, nothing worth mentioning.” “What classes did you have?” “Same as always.” “Which classes are those? “Oh you know math, English, science. All the good ones.” “That’s it?” “Yep.”

Tomorrow, We’ll be at the table With the company. Eating the same sauceless spaghetti We’ll all say, “So Tom, what are you up to these days.” “Not much.” “Any clubs or sports or something.” “Nope.” “So any big plans for the summer?” “Nah, none that I know of yet.” “Well you have to do something.” “Yeah, maybe.” “Are you driving yet?” “No, not yet.” “Do you have a girl friend?” “Mmmmm, no. Not really.” “Do you have any sort of friends in general?” “No, I wouldn’t really call anyone my friend.” “So you don’t do anything?” “I guess you could say that.”

Besides, They’ll see how boring I am And assumedly not be interested.

I, too, am America.

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