One last entry for the day

this is the transcript of an instant messaging conversation between my wife and me from tonight:

patrick: go sleep, sweetie
patrick: don’t stay awake on my account
patrick: because when you wake up
patrick: I’ll be one day closer to home
lmf: rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr

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Patrick Ferguson: sweetie

Patrick Ferguson: you are either starting a chainsaw

Patrick Ferguson: or you have fallen asleep with your hand on the keyboard.
lmf: fellasleep

lmf: i beeter close this

patrick: yes, sweetie. Close your laptop.

patrick: goodnight, babe.

12:05 AM
lmf has gone offline.

Accidental Poetry entry number…. whatever…

There’s an ongoing topic on a bulletin board at the Electrical Studios site.  The topic is “Little Details from Your Day.”  I only started reading it an hour ago, and this jumped out at me instantly.

I got home about midnight and parked my car down the block. Just in front of where I parked is a distinctive two-story apartment building which I have often admired for its fine late-60s sensibilities.

Tonight, in the big living room windows on each floor, behind nearly identical curtains, a deep red light was flickering, in time, each window synchronized. It took me a moment to realize that both apartments were watching the same channel on tv.

I sat in my car for a minute watching the pleasing, pulsing glow. Then a wave of incredible sadness washed over me.

I lived in Chicago for a year, and so does the fellow who posted this.  I love the way he subtly captures the sadness of people living on top of each other and still not actually sharing their experiences in any meaningful way.  Urban life almost drove me crazy.  I think that’s why.  I was so LONELY.  I am much less lonely living in the country.

Conversation with a British Person today

Transcript of an instant messaging conversation today:

Patrick: god, people and their ringtones!
Patrick: someone’s phone is out there playing one of the songs from an American Idol winner
Patrick: and instead of answering it, she’s singing along!!!!
Patrick: and your country doesn’t allow firearms!
vick: Technically, we don’t really allow American Idol either.
vick: meeting – back later

a brief translation:

“Are you a Bill Clinton Democrat or an Al Sharpton Democrat?”

translation:
“Are you a nigger-lover or aren’t you?”

Seems pretty plain to me. Feel free to correct me if I am wrong…

Accidental Poetry

I love the way that Instant Messaging sometimes creates accidental poetry. For example, an IM conversation between eponymous and me from earlier today:

12:10 PM

eponymous: lunch plans?
patrick: hang on… beating my head against a wall just now
eponymous: so…the usual?

Then, there’s this scrap of Mrs. Dog telling me about a dream she had last night (I have taken out my comments because they don’t add anything interesting to what she was saying):

mrs. d: so… very strange dreams
mrs. d: i was an african man taking a train to escape a dangerous city, escaping to protect someone from our city who had gotten to the outside.
mrs. d: i had never been on the train before, i wasn’t allowed.
mrs. d: as i rode by, i could see thousands of middle eastern orphans walking next to the train
mrs. d: looking at me
mrs. d: one in particular, a little boy was carrying a white blanket
mrs. d: he would stop and sleep for awhile and then begin again
mrs. d: cute little guy
mrs. d: right before i woke up he forgot his blanket and was just a few feet away but was too tired to turn back around to get it
mrs. d: wish i could get it for him

I was still thinking about that when I found this photo on the Found Magazine site:

farawaysleep.jpg

accidental poem #3

My brother IMed me this earlier:

okay

I gotta move it
Before I end up strung out on information
with an empty stomach and nothing accomplished
stumbling into the radio station
like animated papier-mache

Cheers

Donald Rumsfeld- Modern Poet

I bet you had no idea that guy was so well rounded- Here are some excerpts from briefings given at the Department of Defense. I wish that I had noticed the Post Modern genius of Mr. Rumsfeld first, but I can’t take credit for it- Slate Magazine carried this first. Seriously, as muddleheaded as these make him sound, they really work as poetry. I’m kinda touched *sniff*:

The Unknown

As we know,
There are known knowns.
There are things we know we know.
We also know
There are known unknowns.
That is to say
We know there are some things
We do not know.
But there are also unknown unknowns,
The ones we don’t know
We don’t know.

�Feb. 12, 2002, Department of Defense news briefing

Glass Box

You know, it’s the old glass box at the�
At the gas station,
Where you’re using those little things
Trying to pick up the prize,
And you can’t find it.
It’s�

And it’s all these arms are going down in there,
And so you keep dropping it
And picking it up again and moving it,
But�

Some of you are probably too young to remember those�
Those glass boxes,
But�

But they used to have them
At all the gas stations
When I was a kid.

�Dec. 6, 2001, Department of Defense news briefing
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