Sunday, September 27, 2009

Transcriptions From The Trash Part 2

This was written on the back of a small white paper bag.  Found in July 05.

-- Do not socialize or otherwise foster a relationship with Tyler or Adam
-- Do not confess crushes to the people who you have crushes on.
-- Talk about everything - especially what scares you most to talk about.
-- No snuggling with people [crossed out] (or otherXXX intimate physical contact)
-- If something like this ever happens again, do not:
                 get back in bed with me
                 hide it from me
                 touch me
                 try to avoid your consequences
                 ask me to take you back
-- Don't drink in excess
-- If you ever "feel like getting drunk" again, discuss it, examine your motives, stay out of trouble or break up with me first.

-- Burn the red dress
     

Friday, September 25, 2009

Transcriptions From The Trash



Maybe you've always wondered what happens to the papers you lose. Well, I'm here to tell you that I find them, keep them, and paste them in a book. Granted, my finds have significantly decreased since leaving the recycling crew at Warren Wilson College, but I still do the best I can. So here, I offer to you some letters/notes/stories I have found throughout the years. Enjoy.


Found in Denver, written on yellow paper in cursive:

3 Cowboys, 2 King-Sized Beds, and 1 Queen

Benny??
died
@ Jan 87
-Jackson Hole
3 Cowboys Story
-energy bubble - now he has it!
travel over mts + Bahamas + above crowds

-- Ludie Mae pissing in boat
-- " " pushing T away from her when he
wanted to be held + hugged - in rocking chair,
always the symbol of rejection for him
-- Walking in woods + watching ferns grow and
creating private shrines for God
-- death a transformation + a new adventure!
-- early Sept 87 - nite w 20 yr old w 14 in schwing which
T played with /such all nite long on the nite before he
flew back to Denver bleary-eyed!


Found in the recycling at Warren Wilson in 2005, letter on a birthday card:

Dear Alex,
By now you have rightfully
surmised that I too hate
to write letters.
However I don't want
to lose touch with my
only grandson who I
think of often and love
dearly.
I do not want a
two line note thanking
me for the birthday gift.
I want you to call
me from time to time
at your convenience
so we can stay in
touch.
I will love you forever --
Bramma

List of pick up lines found at Warren Wilson, June 05:

- excuse me is that shirt felt would you like it to be

- do you know what winks + screws like a tiger

- does God know you escaped from heaven? Here come to my place you can stay there until he calls looking for you.

- Are you cold you look like you could use some hot chocolate

- I'm a love pirate I'm here for you booty

A favorite trash find from '05:

Orangey Orangey Face

I eat an orange everyday
and once I do I say hooray
It is sour it is sweet but
no matter what I eats bait.

More to come later...


Sunday, July 13, 2008

A Drive In The West




The truck disappears into a cluster of rock and tree and mountain. We wind around, overheat, question a 15% grade on a gravel road. A man in blue jeans saunters up to the truck. "Is that your brakes I smell?" We don't know. He nods knowingly, "Smells like brakes." He puts his hands in his jeans, looking in the distance. He spits on the ground and walks away with the same steady, languid gait. Nothing to do but just turn around and look for something beautiful.

We turn onto a long stretch of flat road with hopes to find a lake. Fields of unkempt grasses flash by, their tips silver in the setting sun. Every mile or so another ranch broadcasts its name, and then flaunts its thriving stock of horses and cattle. It all seems unending, open land for miles finally yielding to distant blue jagged mountains. Scattered birds fly overhead. I spot a magpie on a wooden fence.

A turn in the road, a shaky bridge, and then we're in the middle of an expansive farm. We pull over and spread out our lunch on a dry patch of grass. Everything seems so appropriate somehow--wind whipping across the plains, the soul-sucking heat, the quieted dirt road. I push my hair out of my face and spot a hole in the ground below me. "I bet a creature lives in here," I say. "What kind?" "Oh, I don't know. A cute rodent of some sort." We eat our cheese and squint at the expanse. I turn my back to reach for more olives and calmly rise. "There's a snake right there." Sam gets up too and spins around. "Where? A big one?" We both focus in on the party-crasher: four feet long maybe, brown and gold, its head in a permanent cock as if it may strike at any moment.

Just as I question whether or not it is poisonous, it benignly slithers away, clearly uninterested in any maleficence. Sam steals a few photographs, but none manage to expose how road weary he is. The potentially menacing cocked head, upon further inspection, seems to be stuck that way, and his mid-section looks as though it has been run over, all but escaping bifurcation. Any run-of-the-mill farm snake would snap into the defensive within a ten inch radius of a human, but this poor soul calmly skulks away without so much as a hiss.

We finish our picnic and pour ourselves back into the car; the sun has managed to steal any scrap of energy we may once have posessed. On the way home, fields and fences give way to tight knit city blocks lined with century-old brick homes. Cows and horses are replaced by bikers and herds of people waiting for the bus. Suddenly the city seems much more urban. Suddenly I realize the difference between bustle and silence.