Tai's Psychology Blog: How to ask Favors Successfully: The Door-in-the-Face Technique →

psychology2010:

To get people to say ‘yes’ to a favor you ask where the chances of the favor being rejected is very high, you can use what social psychologists call ‘Door-in-the-Face,’ ‘Reciprocity’ or ‘Foot-in-the-Door’ technique.

In this article I will briefly talk about the Door-in-the-Face technique and…

A Bitter Weakness.

hershey’s dark

chocolate with almonds.

frozen.

concentrated bitters-

weetness

in a moment of weakness,

on the kitchen barstool,

three tin-foil husks, shelled before me

open the door. just an arms reach from the freezer

if want one more-

this time, with more peanut-butter,

followed. by a thimble of milk

 just a prick of peantubutter,

followed by more milk.

pocketed in my cheek

that was good.

i am full? i shouldn’t i feel contentment?

im not sure, im getting stuffed.

yes- or at least i could know for sure

with just one more

let me check, see if one more wont tip the bucket,

just to be sure.

id hate to undercut myself,

when i could

have one, even more

bittersweet loaf broken bureaucratically,

just one,

      one,

             one,

more

      time.

…….

         ugh.    :\

Rite of Way?

how does a sparrow know which way to fly
by what guide, by what insight?
and what am i supposed to do-
with the cold on my heels, with only one chance to try?
Oh what am i supposed to do when there’s no getting it right?
should i live with,  shall i live with-out you?

Petrichor →

bestofwikipedia:

Petrichor (from Greek petra “stone” + ichor the fluid that flows in the veins of the gods in Greek mythology) is the name of the scent of rain on dry earth. (via elalmavieja)

…God. i’ve been looking for this word for so long.

Placemats.

We’re all nomads. Its all about us trying to find a sense of place, a home. No matter how settled we are. Were homeless. If the the spirit knows home, a heaven, the body has no home. The body belongs to the world if the body has a home, while the needs of the spirit are easily suppressed. There is also finding our sense of place in someone else. Finding our shelter in another should be an open door policy, hour hearts an open birdcage for the thrushes of our migratory love to flit in and out as they please. Its all about the fundamental need to belong. I need you to like me, you need me to like you- and I’d rather not have to not like you. -This is the basis of the rules dictating the game of all human interactions. How does this influence what \motivates you? How do you want to be liked by me? How do I want to be liked by you?

Yesterday, my home was sitting on a grate-metal loft overlooking the secret of a Victorian garden and a tarnished conservatory right off of Franklin street. Today Cari texted me to dinner at 5. -Don’t get your hopes up too soon boy, but perhaps we shall have something to see where this goes. Make it fun. Build a blanket-fort for before you build a house. Things will get serious quickly- the hard part is keeping it fun. Its almost counter intuitive. But keep the children alive in your friendships. Flirt like children. Romance and love naively like children. Fantasize and dream about the future like children. Over look the garden of your secrets. This is the special place you have brought her to. Let your imaginations mate in the cool evening summer air.

And so, To dinner…

“to be a writer, you first have to stick your neck out and take a chance and be willing to make a fool of yourself and give yourself away.” -Jasmine West.

“Write honestly. Risk Nakedness.

Originality equals vulnerability.”

- Bryant

…There are no new ideas- only new perceptions. Trust yours.

what are my HATES??

Courting His Muse.

     Thunder makes empty threats from just afar, to the secrets of a small Victorian garden sheltered by a giant Mag. tree and a short brick wall. He sits outstretched on a loft, just pigeon-height above the yard. A retired accordion wheezes below in long-winded conversation with a golden setting sun.

     Were she here, they’dve flitted pale secrets, whispered close, like moths cupped in hands about the ears- guarded from the prying, eavesdropping ivy nearby.

Forrest.

no. i mean. everyone forms…

they played spin the bottle..

a few girls managed to take their shirts off.

um. its was dark. but one of them was smoking hot.

…she was one of the people i managed to shove out of the way when i was trying to make my way to leave.

………..silence…  ..  …

i mean i guess i was really hoping to catch up with Cassandra.

she left and i left shortly after. but i didnt see her on the street. she mustve been in a hurry to get away.

Well, i wouldnt say im really interested. shes not giving me any signs to suggest thats she’s. that she would be interested.

…………       ..     …

you know whats funny?

(he plays a festively quirky- caribbean-influenced default ringer)

i could play that alarm and every time get up at the grand total of eleven thrity.

you know i said i dont feel like listening to that though.

so i changed it. but its all by association.

so there’s this guy i added to my phone.

because he was in my group.

but i think ill delete him because its totally unnecessary to have him in my phone.

-from Economics. that class is over anyways.

anyways im not proud of it, but he managed to convince us that he was the owner of a computer company.

i mean he seemed to have evidence to back it up..

he was the first person to comment to wish me a happy birthday just a few minutes after midnight. i was like really? so i removed the comment and deleted him from my facebook as a birthday gift to myself and now im deleting him from my list of “drunken idiots.”

he was gay. i kinda got that vibe from him before he told us, but he was pretty creepy.

and then there’s this other guy. deleting him too.

and i have this contact listed as “SD payphone” im deleting too.

(SD?)

-Yeah, South Dakota payphone from where we stopped at a restaurant there and it had its number printed.

I never called it though…

tedaies write attempt? rouff.

 Jasper lives just pidgeon-height, three stories above his plot of sidewalk of Moument Avenue. Where he had hoped to put a park bench under the brightest window in his bedroom, he lies in a sopping wet antropamorphic heap sprawled out on bis bed on a towel. Most unnaturally, his broken body curves in an “S,” allowing his head to hang half-out of the open window to bathe in the light. If he were awake, the view afforded him would include the enviable face of two small gothic churches, a broad grass median, and the rim of a cobblestoned round-about- at the center of which sits the “Samuel (try STONEwall) Jackson” memorial on a horse). Below him, the “Cellar Door” sweeps its front steps as his head hangs out above the white-walled cinder and concrete of Stuart Court apartment building.

          At only 625 a month, Jasper and his brother chose this one-bedroom apartment (all utilities) for its cheap rate despite all its distinguishing characteristics. The building itself, red-capped and monumental in size appears Californian in style, stands in obvious juxtaposition to the drab Richmond cobblestone, standing squarely shoulders of a Santa-Fe mission-gone-castle planted squarely in the turf. Built in 1901, the old walls are plated by decades’ worth of layered lead paint and have an uncanny ear for spreading gossip from cinderblock to cinderblock, like old wives on Sunday. The old white walls amplify blips of passing conversation until tangled flecks of phonetics ring unintelligibly in his ears.

Though the outside looks young, Inside the buildings true age can be seen. In the core, the bathroom, streams of leaking water trace varicose veins in the thick paint. One of them hangs in a flaccid pouch where Jasper pinched one of the blisters at the bottom to watch the lymph drains out. ………………………

Today it is hot and arid, and he’ll be dry soon. Though he said he’d be out for about an hour, he’ll prolly wake in fifteen. Various stacks of finely-inked school notes are scattered neatly about the floor, each pile capped by weighted novellas, textbooks, and unlabeled bootleg Japanese dvds- almost becoming an artwork unto themselves. Occasionally, a gale wind comes trampling inconsiderately over him, streaking in, pale-arsed through the window to romp about his bedroom and to dishevel his zen-ful mini monuments of deliberation and to tease the integrity of his posters before immediately running out the adjacent window. Little harm is done though as (with the exception of his covered walls) there is little to destroy. So Japser stirs only from the sudden chill and settles back into sleep. Though this is to be expected, still. never will he shut his windows to the summer.

Jasper was a summer baby, born in the skillet of July 19 (along with his twin brother and his grandma- all on the same day, in fact). Where Jasper enjoys having long-winded conversations with the summer sun, to shut his window on such a day as this is to shut out a friend. Who about noon, the sun politely climbs in through the window, aware of his  taking off his hat and settles back at his kitchen table for a sweaty drink, a chat, and a siesta.

Jasper wakes to the same steady citysong that invited him to sleep. In the day it is the joggers, the dyads of hen-hipped push-stroller addia-mamas, and the headphones of the dog-walkers that create the reflexive acoustics that flitts erratically like a trapped bird in and about his kitchen. Jasper enjoys this, however by night it is the cackle of drunks gathered outside his window that interrupt his thoughts. In the darkness the voice of each glowing cigarette standing in the stairwell just below talk much too loudly, much too belligerently, until one of them ignites a punch much too quickly. The “Cellar Door” has only set up shop in the basement a couple months ago. This is the only occasional nussiance, but even so its not without its entertainment.

Japser sighs in surrender as he moves to the tiny bathroom where he stands to take a piss in the dark. This bathroom, little more than a walk-in closet is his sanctum, loved for two reasons. As the center of his 3 rooms, it is well fortified. In addition, its small size hugs his thoughts close to him. In the mornings Japser wakes 30 minutes early, just to sit on the open toilet with a tv stand to pen down his ideas, frustrations, ….Jasper stands, finding it hard to relax. Even after a year, the shrewd voices filter in so clearly from the well below that when you catch back a wantdering mind, carelessly urinating on their sports caps and cigarettes. Oh well, whats the difference anyways, right?

He cuts on the analog stereo, but just listens in the static white noise. It’s all about keeping your chin just above water. Age moves just below all things. It’s easy to get depressed in the feeling that you’re wasting time. Jasper molds his body pillow into a vaguely anthropomorphic form, hand around its reminiscent hips, his face sinking in against its reminiscently human cheek observing his now dormant plot of Monument Avenue through the still open window. Many friends and love interests come to visit, come to catch up, come to spend the night. but who will come to stay?

…bleh.

People are Prettier at Closing Time.

“The erotic lover is eager to get to know the beloved quickly, intensely -and undressed.” -Lee (1988, p.50)

Limerence- state of being in love.

Limerent Object- object targeted of the love.

Limerent objects are potential sexual partners, but are evaluated more thoroughly than just a mere sex partner. in Limerence, sex is not the main focus, however, if a sexual potential is not present then the state perceived is not limerence.