and if i seem a little strange,

YOUTH KILLED BY MACK TRUCK AFTER MIDNIGHT

2009-08-05T05:02:36Z

Sleep doesn’t come easily to Franklin anymore. Now he’s got worries restricted to the realm of adulthood: bills, books, work, making friends. He’s even begun to write out to-do lists, and has to remind himself to include recreational activities. When he can’t think of anything on the Sunday afternoons he takes to write out these lists, stationed at his sunlit desk that overlooks absolutely nothing, he even writes that in – Recreation. This vaguely disgusts him. Such is life.

Lately, though, things have been off. His adult rhythm has been upset.

He argues with himself over the authoritative screeches of his alarm clock, vying against it for a taste of more sleep, though he hasn’t gone to bed any later than he normally does. This is unusual.

At work the next day he drops a blue manila folder stuffed with un-entered data, dribbles on his shirt during his biweekly 11:07 AM water break, and forgets to brush his teeth before he goes to bed. He remembers to do it before he falls asleep, of course, but that is only because he can’t sleep. This is also unusual.

The book he reads to help him sleep doesn’t hold his interest for a moment. It is a self-help book, recommended to him by someone – a girl. The girl he was interested in, but unfortunately, the feeling was not mutual. In fact, those were the words she used: She said, “I’m sorry, Franklin, but unfortunately…the feeling is not mutual.” Lying across his bed in his pajamas, he thinks now that maybe it was for the best.

He stands up: this restlessness will not be left unattended. He thinks about going to watch television, but decides against it. If he can’t sit still enough to sleep, how the hell is he going to be able to watch television? At least, that was the momentary connective logic.

Instead, he drinks. This action has no momentary connective logic, other than impulse and why not. He slides the last of a container of gin into glass tumbler and finishes it easily. Then, he opens the bottle of scotch that his father gave him on the day Franklin graduated college. It was given with a pat on the back and a small slab of marble upon which was engraved the words Live the life you have imagined.

Franklin thought the quote is cheesy, and kept the paperweight hidden under a pile of blank Post-Its on his desk. But now, as he tipsily leans on his desk, the marble is exposed and he reads the quote out loud, slowly, with reverence. Then he takes another drink, and another, before refilling his glass.

There’s a knock at the door. This doesn’t occur to Franklin until the knock becomes a more insistent pound, and sounds once more - rhythmically announcing the presence of a stranger directly outside a plywood and plaster barricade. Franklin wonders what time it is, and tries to recall everyone in the city who knows his address to assess who the person at the door may be.

He is slow to answer, but he makes it. The door opens like it’s heavier than it is, weighted by the dread knotting in Franklin’s arms. He’s in no position to defend himself against axe murderers or solicitors or slighted landlords tonight.

The person at the door is neither axe murderer nor solicitor nor angry landlord. He is a slight, notably damp frame of a man with a white slip of paper clamped tightly in his hand like a crucifix. The person is Maxwell Reed, someone who Franklin does not yet recognize.

“Uhh…yes?” Franklin inquires.

“Hello, uh, Franklin? My name is Maxwell Reed, I got this address from your father. We used to go to school together? I’m sorry to appear so late, it’s just –”

“Reed? Holy shit, Maxwell fuckin’ Reed!” Franklin engulfs the man in an embrace that binds his arms to his sides. He is aware of the affects of the alcohol on his tactility, but he doesn’t care. “I haven’t talked to you since - how long has it been, now? How the fuck’re you doing, Reed?”

Reed grins and looks down as Franklin concedes. “I’m, you know, around. What about you, what have you been up to?”

Franklin has very little to respond with, and he feels awful regurgitating the same ambiguous day-to-day nonsense to someone with whom he’d once been so close. But he is otherwise unarmed. He submits. “Oh, you know, work. A lot of work. A few projects here and there, just trying to figure everything out. You know how it is.”

Reeds eyes brighten. “Projects? Like what?”

Franklin feared this. “Nothing…special, or…big or anything. Just little things. Anyway, what are you doing in this corner of the world? I never thought I’d see anyone from our high school here.”

“I’ve…I’ve been going through some stuff. And. I really wanted to see how you were doing. I should’ve called first, I’m sorry.”

“No no no no no, you’re welcome here. I’m really psyched to see you. Come in, please.”

Franklin is surprised not to see any baggage in the hallway behind Reed, but he keeps it to himself.

“Can I get you something to drink?” He hates the stale, stereotypical taste that the words leave in his mouth, but the whiskey is open on the counter and it would be rude not to offer. At least, that is the momentary connective logic.

“No, no thanks, Frankie.” He looks down at the bag hanging from both of his hands, and at the white paper clutched between them. “I’m good. Say, thank you so much for letting me, you know, just show up here. That’s not something everyone would do.”

Franklin, in his altered state of sedation, wouldn’t hear it. “No, It’s fine. It’s nothing. I’m sure you’d do the same for anyone. Hey, why don’t you take a seat? Let me get you a coffee, at least. ”

Reed lowers himself onto the angular couch. Franklin takes the corresponding armchair just adjacent. Their coffees sit in clean white porcelain cups on the low table between them. Franklin still holds the whiskey in his hands; it’s mostly to keep busy.

“Hey, Reed. I’ve been wondering for a long time. How long has it been?”

Reed frowns, and without hesitance, replies, “It’s been eight years, Franklin.”

“Jesus. Eight years. I must have been wondering for nine, then. Where did you go, Reed? You just…left. No phone call, no address. You were gone. Senior year. I mean, I remember it, I know things were rough, but I don’t know. I had no idea what happened to you.” He laughs, a rough sound that falls from him like spit. “I thought you were dead, Reeds.”

Reed inspects the palms of his hands, as they lie limp in his lap. “I know. I wanted to tell you, I wanted to talk to you, but there wasn’t the time before. And afterward, you know, I never got the chance.”

This doesn’t make sense to Franklin, but he doesn’t say anything. He waits to collect more information so as to puzzle it out himself.

“Where’d you go, then?” It’s a feeble attempt to lighten up a murky situation. A lighted candle aimed underwater.

Reed speaks quietly, annunciating carefully. “My family and I moved to California. To Stockton, specifically. I was to go to Catholic school with my sister. They…they weren’t so fond of Illinois anymore. Not fond of the people in Illinois.”

Franklin’s insides ice over for a moment, and then flush with the heat of nervous blood. “Rough. Really rough. So, everyone just upped and left?”

Reed pushes his glasses further up the bridge of his nose. “Not exactly. It had sort of been in the works for a long time. They just, uh, kept it from me. I tried to run away, but.” He shakes his head, and absorbs the heat from the mug he holds between his hands solemnly.

“I’m sorry.” Franklin doesn’t know what to say. “Well, uh, what are you up to nowadays, then?”

Reed smiles inwardly. “Not a whole lot. But what about you? What’s changed since we last saw each other?”

Franklin doesn’t know how to tackle the question. “Well, I finished high school with okay grades, went to an okay school, and stayed in the city. I’ve got an okay job, and an okay place to live, and absolutely nothing to live for.”

It comes out one thousand percent harsher than Franklin had intended it to. It was meant in jest, a dark fleck of humor in all the nothingness he has to offer. Reed frowns.

“Of course you have, Frankie. Goddamnit, you’ve got everything. Can’t you see it? No shit, you can!”

It makes Franklin uncomfortable, the dim reflection of emotion in Reed’s eyes. It’s too raw, too bare to see. Like watching bloodshed, or sex.

“I’m sorry.” Reed puts the coffee down and puts his head in his hands. “I shouldn’t have come here. I’m sorry.”

He stands to leave, but Franklin feels his gut twist. He’s been alone for so long, and he hadn’t remembered to think about it until just now. “No, wait. Reed. Stay. Please, just fucking stay. It was stupid, and I don’t know why I said it, I didn’t mean to –” He doesn’t know what he’s saying anymore. He’s forgotten why he’s apologizing. He needs Reed to stay. Reed needs to stay. “Just, please, don’t fucking leave me here. I’m sorry.”

Reed is halfway to the door, and stops. He looks down, admiring the parallel lines of the floor beneath his shoes. He takes an inward breath heavily and savors it, before exhaling as quietly as he can. “Franklin, I’m dead.”

“What? No you’re not, Reed, you’re just in a rough spot. So is the whole world. I mean, look at me.”

“No, Frankie.” He turns around, and something’s different. “I was killed on the way to California. I tried to run away because they were going to ‘beat the spirit into me,’ and I was afraid. So I snuck out of the motel we were sleeping in and ran down the highway in the middle of the night. As it turned out, that wasn’t such a good idea.”

Franklin is frozen. He wonders how drunk he is. “Wait, so, um. What?”

Reed meets his eyes fiercely. With a hint of annoyance, he repeats, “Once more - I’m dead. Not alive. No heart, no pulse. No blood. No heat. No change. I’m—dead.”

The delineation does nothing for Franklin’s confusion. “You. You’re. You’re, uh. Dead? Like. Dead?”

“I’ve been dead for eight years. I died maybe a week after we saw each other last.” He sighs, and returns to his seat. The weight he carries is phantom, as is the draft that follows. Or maybe Franklin is imagining things. “I made it into the paper.”

This is the only tinge of warmth, of almost pride in his demeanor. He continues “I was in the obituary of the town I died in. ‘Youth killed by mack truck after midnight.’ And that’s the most anyone thought of me since.”

The silence that falls between them is one Franklin will never forget. Drenched in surreality. Thick, like smoke. Lightheaded.

Then, quietly and thoughtfully and almost to himself, Franklin says, “I thought about you.”

streetchaser @ 2009-04-13T23:54:00

2009-04-14T06:54:34Z

Any compatibility between the two was imagined. His sensibility reflected the tastes of the time, the style, the mode – he only showed a shadow of a question of why, and only when he thought no one was looking. Hers was better hidden in glances; any acknowledgement of particularity or vulnerability was done with eyes closed.

Really, the only reconciliation was the music.

Music, which ironically reached between the two and bonded them, tied a neat bow between them with birthday ribbon and twine. This commonality shouldn’t have made sense, but such was the trick of music – the trick of all art. For one, it was recollection, and for the other, curiosity.

CDs, and text messages. A grotesque parody of communication, diluted by static and time. Groveling…almost groveling.

With time and the horrible contrast between anxiety attacks and the subsequent ennui, it became apparent. Any compatibility between the two had been imagined.

streetchaser @ 2009-04-13T23:53:00

2009-04-14T06:54:04Z

i've been keeping up, mostly. don't you worry.

streetchaser @ 2009-02-19T22:49:00

2009-02-20T06:54:12Z

19 february. so despite everything, i'm happy. even if it's for the wrong reasons.

streetchaser @ 2009-02-18T21:01:00

2009-02-19T05:03:56Z

to be read with the accompaniment of this. no exceptions.

look up. look up. look up, goddamnit. there’s a whole sky you’re missing. there are faces in the holes in the ceiling who would yell for your attention if you’d just look up.

look up. there are birds, the undersides of slow birds. they’re there for a reason. look up.

if you won’t, if you keep your eyes on the ground you’ll never know what you can’t see. please. please. look up.

or the alternative alternative – you can run around in circles without your eyes. buzzing, running, spiraling. hoping you run into someone, hoping you crash into something so you could just hold on. hold on to something for dear life. with your eyes closed.

look up.

streetchaser @ 2009-02-17T23:13:00

2009-02-18T07:21:17Z

massive make-up post.

14 Feb:

15 Feb:
Sang to cars on the way home. Radiohead, mostly.

16 February:
Made two mixtapes; album artwork (still finishing).

17 February:
Angry Sharpie'd common object art:

</a>

p.s. i am not a dyke, david kamins, and i have no respect for your anonymity.

streetchaser @ 2009-02-13T23:18:00

2009-02-14T07:20:03Z

played (sang) The New for K.

day: three
took: two minutes.
inspired by interpol, duh.

streetchaser @ 2009-02-12T22:37:00

2009-02-13T06:38:37Z

day: three
took: five minutes
inspired by depressing racial awareness and childhood lecture.

homework.

streetchaser @ 2009-02-11T22:46:00

2009-02-12T06:50:16Z

day: number two
took how long: fifteen minutes.
inspired by...can't find drawings, ugh. sorry. will edit in two years when i move out and happen upon them.

streetchaser @ 2009-02-10T23:03:00

2009-02-11T07:09:10Z

day: 1
made of: plastic wire thing i found at school last year.
took how long: half an hour, just about, what with hanging it up.
inspired by this. sorry i couldn't find a better version.

streetchaser @ 2009-02-10T19:13:00

2009-02-11T03:28:19Z

i have been so busy with school, or avoiding it, that i haven't had much opportunity to make things lately (by which i'm referring to a few months. September.) this has proven frustrating.

so i decided that this semester, i'm going to make something everyday. partially inspired by this, and partially inspired by the migraine i got today.

RUBRIC:

- it could be really cool. it could be really crappy. it could be a story, or a poem, or a song (okay, no), or a chewed-up toothpick i got to stand up on its own and obtained a picture of. whatever. i just have to make something.

- i have to make every effort to post it here (or somewhere else, with a link to here). well, no. okay. i just have to publish it somehow. i could write it down and give it to someone.

- it has to be mine. it can't just be, like, a letter i found and transcribed.

- extra points for: talking to someone i don't know, making a mess, being loud, having fun, destroying things, being illegal (productively), learning things.

- minus points for: neglecting responsibilities, losing an unreasonable amount of sleep, yelling, forgetting, not finishing.

- if i miss a day, i have to make it up. like missed homework.

- singing things count if it's out loud and someone can hear me.

- learning songs on guitar do not.

ready...steady...

streetchaser @ 2009-01-15T18:12:00

2009-01-16T02:18:19Z

M and i know far too many people named Max. so the natural to do is to create covers and adverts for a fictional magazine called Max Monthly.

This is just the advert. The actual 'cover,' while better, contained bits of information that i don't want falling into these various Maxes' hands - you know, the fact that i've fashioned the cover of a magazine about them.

my workmanship:

streetchaser @ 2009-01-15T12:19:00

2009-01-15T20:19:34Z

oh, yeah.

happy new year.

streetchaser @ 2008-12-27T01:12:00

2008-12-27T09:13:22Z

i miss M. she's in new york, previewing life.

-----Inline Attachment Follows-----

modern campfire music.

On Sat, Dec 27, 2008 at 1:44 AM, Noemi Rodriguez <streetchaser@rocketmail.com> wrote:

i wrote a song. it's not very good, and it involves falsetto. but it's a start. also, it originally started out seriously and this is kind of the 'fuck it' version.

as follows:

where do your SAT scores go when you die
do they follow your ashes into the sky
do we carve them next to your name
or burry them inside your grave
oh, where do your SAT scores go when you die______!

chords: D, Dm, A x3
D, Dm, A, Bm, C#m [i think], Bm, E!!!!

and that's what i've done today.

streetchaser @ 2008-12-26T16:43:00

2008-12-27T00:46:00Z

streetchaser @ 2008-12-24T00:01:00

2008-12-24T08:01:36Z

things i have investigated:

streetchaser @ 2008-12-12T23:09:00

2008-12-13T07:11:19Z

new guitar.

bloody fingertips.

i'm still dying.
i can't remember things.

think happy thoughts.

streetchaser @ 2008-12-09T19:02:00

2008-12-10T03:04:01Z

streetchaser @ 2008-12-08T19:28:00

2008-12-09T03:30:04Z

A is in my house.

and it's becoming more and more obvious that i simply know too many people whose names begin with the letter M.

streetchaser @ 2008-12-04T21:46:00

2008-12-05T05:49:33Z

streetchaser @ 2008-12-03T18:49:00

2008-12-04T02:51:30Z

in an obvious and desperate attempt to shirk responsibilities:

i have so much fucking homework to catch up on. this being sick thing was fun for two days but i think i'm going into a manic flurry of catching up. i mean, i didn't even finish all my weekend homework, not to mention the shit i have to sort through after i get kids to scan me shit.

fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.

streetchaser @ 2008-12-02T23:08:00

2008-12-03T07:21:58Z

today i had an elaborate daydream about having twelve months left to live.

it stems from this mystery illness, i know. i mean, i'm not worried about it or anything but doctor was pretty nonchalant about explaining that i'd just have to wait it out and see what happens. dizzy spells fatigue and fever are definite symptoms but they're also very vague.

anyway it turned into this story involving a character in circumstances very much like mine. she yells a lot and quits school and becomes a sound technician (told you; see above) and fucks everything up and i don't know how it ends (besides her dying. whether or not she's happy.)

then it turned around. what if whatever terminal condition she had put her in a hospitalization situation (catatonia?) that would really hinder her "fuck it all, carpe diem" attitude, wouldn't it? particularly if it advanced really rapidly and wasn't twelve months, but six. what if she didn't tell anyone and lived out the rest of her life as though nothing was happening? would she tell her teachers? would she tell her inevitably rugged boyfriend? why is this turning into "a walk to remember?!!" (terrible book and movie, i thought, but don't let our friendship be based on the strains of popular media we consume).

i thought it was noteworthy.

a few possible ailments i could be suffering from, according to web-md:
middle ear infection
labrynthitis (how poetic)
anemia (types I or II)
lyme disease
influenza
generalized anxiety disorder
aspirin poisoning
nearsightedness (now they're just fucking with me)

streetchaser @ 2008-12-02T12:23:00

2008-12-02T20:31:34Z

sick, day two. i still feel like i'm on a never-ending tilt-a-whirl.

i'm watching loads of MTV and reality tv. fucking. scrubs. ugh.

Made is reminding me of when i went backpacking. i miss it.

K and i have created/are in the process of creating a fake myspace. maybe that's illegal. anyway, we're trying to see how difficult it is to become 'myspace famous.' maybe we should have started before the decline of myspace. it's a lot like playing dress-up.

so, to whatever virus or bacteria that's fucking up my brain and circulatory system, fuck off. i have work to do.

oh, man, i want to see the bravery again. mostly the cool bass player with the skinny tie.

OH HELL NO, NO MATTER HOW SICK I AM, NO MATTER HOW CLOSE TO PASSING OUT I AM, I AM NOT WATCHING THE HILLS.

streetchaser @ 2008-12-01T20:17:00

2008-12-02T04:57:34Z

so i'm dying.

or at least, I have some sort of bacterial infection that's making me dizzy, giving me a fever, and making me sound like i smoke (more than i do).

so says the doctor.

streetchaser @ 2008-11-26T23:14:00

2008-11-27T07:19:50Z

In the spirit of Gaby:

Repo! was fucked up. No two ways about it. I was confused and creeped out and amused. Night well spent. Didn't want to negative things about it because Z was pretty into it. But really, sometimes it's okay to just say things and not sing them shrill, off key, and in weird incongruent non-melodies.

Listening to beirut, but not wearing flannel so i can still maintain individuality. I'll use my capslock when I damn well please.

i wish i were:
taller ("a baller, wish i had a girl, i would call her...")
able to sleep past eight am

oh, yeah. thanksgiving. whatever. ahh, howard zinn: a gift and a curse.

ALSO: no sign of balloon, but i did get in when it was storming and dark, so i forgot to look. will update soon.