Violins.

I saw her only that once but I wanted to see her again. I thought a little about her, only once as well. Just how she looked and how I imagined her to be. Couldn't have been older than 19. It wasn't that. She could have been 30 or 300 it wouldn't have meant a thing. Her hair was too dark to be natural, some kind of crazy black which could have looked so dark only because of the severity of her pale skin. It seems like a canvas to me now. Blue eyes i think, or green, or grey. Something that made her entire eye stand out against her impossible dark hair, as it dangled, covering half of her face.

I don't think she smiled.
She was with a friend.

Her knees were extremely knuckular. They looked way too gnarled and swollen to be on this person I hadn't met yet. It was definitely her first time here. And why don't I just go over to her and ask her a question, or humanize myself.

I was talking to Jeff, hardly a friend in the way that you traditionally think of a friend. Just a person that's come in enough that you feel relief that they've come in as opposed to a stranger, because you can follow up on old conversations. He was looking too, but we were both casual about it. It's hard with a friend-non-friend to non-overaggressively illustrate attraction and/or interest to a female or male in or outside the nearby area. So we said nothing to each other. Kept talking shop. I was genuinely interested, in one portion of my conscious brain, about what he was talking about (which I later followed up on and did get actually excited about), but some other fraction of my attention center was modulating and spinning around her, the bichromatic girl of silence with the bogus knees.

When she left, I tried to wll her back. Not in some active way, with magick or telepathy or reverse psychology but with deep internal thought and hope.

Although she did come back, I'm not a believer in some deep seeded undercurrent of the mind in which we are all recipients of mental callings from odd creepy strangers that saw us in their place of business weeks before they saw us. No, I assume she just lived in the area and was filling out applications everywhere in her proximity. So I see this application sitting on a desk in the back office and her name is her name and suddenly she's more than this girl who could only be described as physical features and who I thought she was.

Who did I think she was? Well. Probably a really shy but confident young lady who'd never been told that her art was incredible because it was just too abstract for the average male or female of her age outside of her demographic to fully grasp. And she had never seen anything outside of the surrounding two hour radius so she was anxious to get out, but never had anyone share that dream who would actually do it. And she loved to text.

But as I'm looking at this application, I'm thinking there is no other way to handle this situation than to move forward with it. So I called her cell phone and hung up when it asked me to leave a voice mail. And when she called back in 3 hours, I said I'd try to find out about setting up an interview.

She said that the next day she'd be busy and she'd definitely be okay to come back on Monday at 1030. That's fine, but my last day was two days prior to that, and oh well and oh no. She'll never be human now.

(you must be powerful;
for you have a more human face,
sad as the universe;
I abhor you with all my being;
and i would rather,
from the beginning of the centuries,
have had a serpent coiled around
my neck than look on your eyes.)

one clip.

Not getting enough sleep has always had the same effect on me. The distinct feeling that I am always forgetting something, or not retaining knowledge. Writing memoirs on some seismic etch-a-sketch. things going away, more things coming in. Some slide show.

Unrelated: I'm not sure if I'm just sad, or starting to give up.

Go-Getter.

I think while tearing through a taped box, I felt a vein or blood vessel erupt. It wasn't painful, but internally wet. Something thin and skin-soluble slowly gave way. Warm gave way to warmer. Some small flood engulfed by body.

But I'm almost positive this would have left a mark. I'm probably just elaborating.
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I finished reading a few books this week, since down time has been at a pretty soaring high while babysitting the store (see <a href="http://www.flickr.com/iamnoimpact">my flickr</a>).

Spook by Mary Roach was great. It was essentially 'science tackles the afterlife,' as stated in the subtitle, though it did have quite a bit more history than experiment. Or, history of experiments. Either way. I expected (my first mistake) more modern interface with the way the afterlife was perceived, but as it was it held up very well. The author did do a good amount of hands on stuyff, but most of the meat of the text was in going over how it was relevant that she carry out what it was she was carrying out as well as a pretty good recounting of the people and inventions that others had used to question the existence of a soul and to prove its presence. I emailed the author and she emailed back which is great as well. I never fully expect to hear back from the people I send words to, so when I do, it's always very exciting. My initial goal, at all times when sending "I-checked-out-yo'-stuff" correspondence is simply to let one human know that another human is listening. Crucial.

The Drunkard's Walk was a book that was meant to explore randomness and how it affected our daily lives. It completed its task. However, without any level of conversationalism or much human element. In an e-mail to carissa, I explained, "I thought I was on a train to humanity town, but ended up in robot city." This was a book which proved itself via probabiliy, statistics, and mathematical history. I should have expected as much from a man who had worked with Stephen Hawking on a book (A Briefer History of Time). It was enjoyable, but more like reading a text book or an essay than a standard read. While unexpected, still good. I actually used the phrase, 'all things eventually deviate towards the mean' yesterday to a customer. Zero social skills.

Today, I actually cracked, and finished Coma by Alex Garland as well. It was fine. A little amateurish, in that I think I could do better but maybe not. I'm not very good at gauging my own skill outside of my own perspective. I might have delusions of grandeur for all I know. But it was a quick read, and had some good imagery towards the end, though the ending itself was wet hot garbage. And come to think of it, too, the actual events of the story were kind of floppy too. I'm a bit of a fan of Alex Garland, but mostly in the way that I'm a fan of The Mars Volta. One of the things that they've put together really showed me this vast, limitless amount of potential, and while their subsequent works haven't floored me and haven't even entertained me as a whole, there are passages and tracks that have given me glimpses of the strength of their past work as well as promise for that taste which I grew fond of coming back at some point in time.
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I'm currently working on this premise; trying to prove it:

If I can not send images via email then I can not send images to flickr
AS OPPOSED TO/RATHER THAN
If I can not send images to flickr then I can not send images via email.
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Mike Knoll came in yesterday and got me thinking about checking out a couple of bands. Ride and Mogwai (specifically, their second album). I'll try that.
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