Latchkey

I count the minutes in grains of rice, scrapping my fork across the ceramic plate slowly transfering the heaping dinner from one side of the china to the other, difusing its heat to the tune of my stomach growling. He's not coming back, 15 minutes of rice maneuving tells me, about two thirds of the pile sits neatly stacked on the northwest side as an homage to my nostalgia. I scoop disappointedly at my unfinished progress; a little strong on the disinterest Toto, and next time ease up on the salt.

What is it about the host father that creates such towering hopes? Ah, yes, i think, i'm comparing to the real thing. A man who never was coaxed into conversations by sports talk or menial fillers, but enjoys sports nonetheless and if i were to bring it up i'm sure he'd have plenty to teach me. The menial, that too is an expertise of my old man, taking his 124 pack of crayolas to the prestenciled conversation and colors it sea foam and robbin red, bottom-of-the-sneaker-brown and a spalsh of crimson cow meat for good measure (latter two found in the Argentine Crayola version). Now part of me is hungry, in fact most is shocked when i glance away from the glow of my computer screen to stare at my empty plate. There was just homage there a minute ago. Nevertheless, my ID takes control of my fingertips and sprays breadcrumbs all over the glass tabletop in a fit of sexual and/or agressive instincts.

I look up again, reminded that he took his dinner to the bedroom, to join the host mom (and our apparent host buffer) while she sleeps. It has yet to be tested, but i'm venturing to guess that if we spent just a little more time together time itself would start to regress. Or the minute hand continues pushing clockwise while the hour counters, and they'd start to spin so rapidly that they get entangled in one another until the entire clock collapses, concave, in on itself, through the olive green wallpaper and into a dimension that knows no such discomfort. Ah, take me with you.

I'm learning a lot about other people recently, reading blogs, facebooks, innuendos, body language. This is only and most appropriately the product of fine tuned stalling for the obligatories of life. Far too often i forget that what my fingertips punch out into this 2 by 6 inch blog box is read by others, and not just for reflecting's sake in deperate times such as these very ones i am doggypaddling through. But now, readers, if readers there be, ye be warned. Because i've hopped on board the reading rampage, facebook frenzies and fancy-free powered by one too many mates sipped and two too few papers finished. Ah, he returns to start cleaning up. I think i head the ominous backwards ticking of time. Seguir, hay que seguir.

blasé for a group of undifferentiated readers

I decided to slip on my blasé today, skimming through simmelean theory, lingering in parts that pertain not in the slightest to what i am meant to be writing. And i lifted it up and i let it fall over my head and slid my arms through it's silky lining, my body covered in its warm withdrawl. He writes,

"just as an immoderately sensuous life makes one blasé because it stimulates the nerves to their utmost reactivity until they finally can no longer produce any reaction at all, so, less harmful stimuli, through the rapidity and the contradictoriness of their shifts, force the nerves to make such violent responses, tear them about so brutally that they exhaust their last reserves of strength and, remaining in the smae milieu, don not have time for new reserves to form. This incapacity to react to new stimulations with the required amound of energy consitutes in fact that blasé attitude which every child of a large city evince when compared with the products of the more peaceful and more stable milieu"

and his words in webs lead to an intricate entanglement of blasé, letters like a spilled boggle game suspended in the air, woven with the bleached sand from the broken minute timer. and i think back to all that i've stored and i feel bloated, not in the selfconscious sense of the term, no. but i am a little nervous that if i get squeezed just hard enough, my skin with turn to sponge and out will pour all of everything i've been soaking up, keeping clean, storing away, on another's perfectly white blouse. what if blasé could be my plaster, hardening quickly to store thoughts in its disinterest. or blasé in aisle three of the downtown Sears, a kitchen sink drain that safely sucks whatever i seep down a route of pipes, dilluting and polluting the local watering hole. i think i'd order my blasé with two scoops of cherry garcia, or would it have to be vanilla, for blasé's sake? i'd peirce it's nose and eyebrow and tongue and scar it's body with Ed Hardy inspired tattoos and something just slightly less than offensive, i'd dye it's hair black and shave half of it's head, thread safety pins through pant legs and shirt sleeves and patch on "like i give a fuck" to the back of it's tattered jean jacket.

ohhh blasé on a day like today, it made sun denying all the easier, and computer staring a little more justified. i think of all the excuses i have gleened throughout my years of eduactional failures. they've been so very elaborate at times that the excuse itself earned me a B+, or perfectly tailored to the authorities vulnerability that they simply can't say no. i think i can i think i can, steam roaring from my hardrive, and all i can get is

"my blasé ate my homework".