the elders

Originally uploaded by rswells.

grandpa and mr. wilson relax after a long day on the hacienda.

comes a time

i started to muse on my own mortality yesterday afternoon when a sudden pain surged in my chest, leaving me inexplicably unable to breathe deeply. i didn't know what a heart attack felt like, but i considered that i was suffering from one at the age of 23. my roommate drove me over to the university health center, where i explained my condition, along with the family history of heart complications, to a nice doctor. all heart signs looked fine--they even gave me an ekg--and she diagnosed me with some sort of acid reflux disorder. she said that the best part of my outlook is that i do not smoke. the prescription: a few pills that won't work right away and a change in diet. i could not sleep last night, however, and sat upright on the edge of my bed shortly after 6am, my airways constricted, cursing, clutching the left part of my chest, and musing once again. indeed, the pills were not working yet. my temporary condition has forced me to postpone my plans to drive home this weekend with what would have been friendly stops in chicago and milwaukee along the way. this afternoon i bought a neil young record, "comes a time," to try and help expedite the recuperation process.

manifest destiny, no doubt

Originally uploaded by rswells.

ASSOCIATED PRESS
11:24 a.m. April 27, 2005

PIKESVILLE, Md. – A herd of buffalo that got loose and wandered around a well-to-do neighborhood won't be causing any more trouble: Their annoyed owner plans to pack them off to the slaughterhouse.

The 10 or so beasts disrupted traffic and alarmed homeowners Tuesday before officers managed to corral them on a tennis court. More than a dozen police cars and a police helicopter were used to herd the animals.

"The way I feel right now, I'm giving them all away," owner Gerald "Buzz" Berg told The (Baltimore) Sun. "They're going to the slaughterhouse."

Officers using outdoor lounge chairs as shields formed a human chain to corral the beasts, but one buffalo was seen leaping over a net on the tennis court to evade capture.

Berg, who owns a Baltimore demolition business, has raised bison on his 40-acre farm for about 10 years, mostly for meat.

Police spokesman Shawn Vinson said Wednesday that no charges were being pursued against Berg, who said he did not know how the animals escaped. A week earlier three bison got out through an unlocked gate but stayed close to the farm, Berg said.

of montreal and the nba playoffs

oh, man. was last friday night the best night out of the year? oh, yes. a great group got together to catch of montreal here in ann arbor at the blind pig. we did not let the squares that surrounded us deter us from dancing to that 21st century electro-pop. plus, i drank, like, 100 beers (including a pacífico, which i drank in the shower before i left), and i met a hip, new girl. at one point, the girl told me that i smelled nice, so the shower before was fully vindicated. and let's just say that this is not the first time that a girl has told me that i smell good. my secret, you ask? soap. indeed, like kermit the frog says in THE MUPPETS TAKE MANHATTAN after he gets hit by a taxi, and then decides that his hame is philip phil and joins an NY ad agency full of other frogs named, jill, gil, and bill, all while suffering from temporary amnesia: "soap: for people who wish to be clean." since then, it's been all nba, a snowstorm in the middle of april, a few new jams, and an end of the semester paper writing: the rockets look rad and the pistons look like they can repeat, the snow has already melted, "love's so far away" by d. byrd is proto-disco, and i'm on page 14 out of i don't know how many. yet, i can only try to be gracefully grandiloquent for so long.

a final stanza

“Labour is blossoming or dancing where
The body is not bruised to pleasure soul.
Nor beauty born out of its own despair,
Nor blear-eyed wisdom out of midnight oil.
O chestnut-tree, great-rooted blossomer,
Are you the leaf, the blossom or the bole?
O body swayed to music, O brightening glance,
How can we know the dancer from the dance?

W.B. Yeats “Among School Children"

Un relato

La Srta. Vegas

Cuando yo era niño, el mundo era como un sueño—un sueño de bicicletas, papalotes, caramelos, y la Señorita Vegas. Vivía con mis padres y mi hermanito en Sevilla. Durante el año escolar tenía que ir a la escuela, por supuesto. La verdad es que no me molestaba tanto ir a la escuela, porque estaba enamorado de mi maestra: la incomparable Srta. Vegas. Ella era tan bonita, tan simpática. Le escribía cartas de amor describiendo la profundidad de mis sentimientos, pero nunca se las di. No sé por qué. Tal vez porque sabía que ella no estaba preparada para recibir mi amor. Tal vez porque estaba avergonzado. De todos modos, pasaba mis días en la clase, admirando a ella y su letra perfecta. Una letra tan precisa como las matemáticas, pero tan expresiva como la poesía.

Cuando el verano empezó y mis clases terminaron, yo lloraba y lloraba por las horas y los días y los minutos que ya no pudo pasar con mi Srta. Vegas. Era tan triste que ya no parecía que nada podía consolarme. Mi madre pensaba que yo no quería ir a la playa—el lugar a donde siempre viajábamos durante los veranos—porque temía al agua. No temía al agua, sino que temía que nunca iba a ver a la Srta. Vegas de nuevo.

Sin embargo, ese verano en particular, el verano de ’96, el destino se me presentó. Ese verano, cuando estaba en la playa de Málaga con mi familia, vi a la misma Srta. Vegas tomando el sol en la misma playa. No podía creer que ella estaba allí, pero era cierto. Sabía lo que tenía que hacer. Yo ya tenía doce años; era una edad ideal para el primer beso. Hasta entonces, nunca había besado a nadie, salvo a mi madre, supongo. Pero nunca había tocado los labios de otra chica con los míos.

Estaba decidido. Ella estaba acostada, encima de su toalla con sus ojos cerrados, posiblemente dormida. Me acercaba lentamente hacia mi destino, hacia mi primer beso, hacia el resto de mi vida. La arena me quemaba los pies. Me faltaban diez pasos. Seis pasos. Cuatro pasos. Yo estaba allí, yo estaba listo.

De repente un hombre feo surgió de la nada y besó la mejilla de la Srta. Vegas—mi Srta. Vegas—al mismo tiempo que una nube gruesa cruzaba el sol.

Me escapé rápidamente de la escena. Me sentía como no podía controlar mi mente turbulenta. Corría hacia el mar, hacia lo frío, cuando un relámpago de lucidez me golpeó al entrar en el agua: el otro sólo había besado la mejilla de la Srta. Vegas, los labios todavía eran míos.

my first words

hello. it's almost 11.30pm on a fresh sunday night here in the eatern time zone. i just started this blog instead of reading whatever it is that i should be reading for tonight/tomorrow: to wit, THE FOLD: LEIBNIZ AND THE BAROQUE by gilles deleuze and EL ZORRO DE ARRIBA Y EL ZORRO DE ABAJO by josé maría arguedas. i tried to get through some of these earlier at a coffee shop, but i kept listening to this extremely angry boy two tables behind me. the girl accompanying him had just broken the bad news, and he took it poorly and loudly. it really didn't seem like the kind of conversation that should be going on in a public place. then i picked up on the chatterings of this attractive couple nearby. they sounded like they were speaking in spanish. i could not fully decipher what they went on about, though, and since their accent did not ring familiar, i thus concluded that they were not speaking spanish but, obviously, portuguese. which reminds me of one of the final scenes of LOVE ACTUALLY that i must admit that i watched the other afternoon with my roommate, alan. he cooked some pasta and i cooked some pizza in our little italian kitchen while i couldn't help but get sucked into that sweet black hole. plus, mom got the soundtrack a few christmases ago and watching the movie made me think of listening to that kelly clarkson song in the glory days of the hemi-powered durango (wadup, curtis!) as we drove around suburban kc in the snow. after i told alan about my memories, we both agreed that kelly clarkson comes off as being "totally down-to-earth." i watch lots of television these days--we've got hundreds of channels at my house. i felt like old dad today when i caught almost the entire final round of the masters while i ate popcorn popped on the stove and drank a wild cherry pepsi. i even took a little nap on the couch. unlike, dad, however, i did not snore. now i will see if i can find some sleep on a sunday night--a rarity these weeks. yet, before, i'll try and think through the "crepuscularity of being" that i plan to write a bit about for a paper. of course, i'll also wash my face with my dermatologist-recommended soap. you wouldn't believe the amount of anxious time i spent in front of the facial cleanser section today at the grocery store, though. i thought i could feel my face exploding as i failed to locate the liquid PURPOSE soap and had to settle for the NEUTRAGENA. i've always thought that the following sentence could be seen as a valid avatar of the bourgeosie boy: "no, sorry, but i can't make it to lunch today. i have an appointment with my dermatologist."