No Subject

This is how I like dealing with spam.

Hello,

How are you doing?please I'm sorry for taking a little of your time,please I have an important issue I will like to share with you concerning my inheritance and character of my wicked Uncles that wants to kill me to enrich themselves.On hearing from you on my email address and i will give you more details.
Have a nice day.Sincerely,alexa oko

Dearest Alexa,

Oh my goodness.  I can’t believe you’ve finally found me.  I’ve been searching for you for years, ever since our wicked Uncles initiated the coup and seized control of our dearest city.  However did you obtain my electronic mail address?  I lost many good men in trying to maintain its secrecy, and yet I see that the wretchedness of our Uncles is once again superior.  They quite simply must stop it at once.  I no longer have the time or energy to fight this struggle.  I’m haggard and bedraggled.  I’ve not had a warm meal in months.  This gruel I commandeer from a kindly but portly Middle Eastern baker down the street is all that keeps me going, at least in terms of nutrition.  At night I lie awake and devise schemes of destruction, of sneaking into our Uncles compounds at night and setting free the Fires of Heaven, of covering them in raw meats and releasing a pack of dogs upon their wicked souls.  Oh yes, I have dreams and take mortal delight in them each and every night my dearest Alexa.  I fear that my mind has been bent beyond what is acceptable; no longer am I the innocent child I was when I played upon the bloodred waters of my homeland.  I am a scarred individual with ruthlessness within my bones.   This is, I think, the most evil of all the heinous crimes our wicked Uncles have done.  For I’m sure you remember me when I was the embodiment of pure naiveté and innocence, ever clothed in white, ever surrounded by butterflies and the sweet aroma of the primrose.   How they have wronged me.  How they have wronged you.  And now they are seeking to kill you and enrich themselves!  Oh the humanity.

Thanks for the update.  Take care!

Have a nice day yourself.

Sincerely, logankstewart

The Return of the Native Son

And lo, the son turned his face again upon his jilted blog and found favor with her, for she was pleasing unto him. And the son mused at his absence and how to proceed with his estranged blog and at his superfluous use of the conjunction “and” and he thought it was wonderful.

“A month has passed since last we met,” spoke the son, tenuous, like a child speaking to a mighty gorilla. “How shall we proceed?”

The blog—she has been anthropomorphic all along, has she not?—stared back at the son, blinking once per second with the soul-crushing gaze of a blank cursor.

“I thought so,” said the son, sighing a sigh beyond his twenty-six years. “The problem is that I’m not the person I used to be. I’ve changed, see. What we had was nice, but it just doesn’t exist anymore, y’know?”

The cursor blinked-blinked-blinked.

“Don’t look at me like that. You know I hate it when you do that.”

He might as well have been talking to a deaf and blind gorilla with cotton balls in its nostrils for all the good it did him.

“Fine. What do you want from me? You want me to tell you about my new job? Is that it? You already know how much I’m loving it, how I get to help the environment by polluting her in controlled quantities. It’s thankless and I’m hated by the people in production, but that’s environmental, right?” The son laughed a not quite sardonic chuckle. The great-and-terrible eye blinked-blinked-blinked. “Or would you rather me tell you all about the housing situation? Stewartland has been under a contract to sell for three weeks and she’s scheduled to close two days after the Ides of December. We’ve been frustrated waiting on the buyers to get an appraisal—which still hasn’t been ordered, by the way—because the house we’re moving into—currently unnamed—is all contingent upon our successful sell of Stewartland. It’s a crazy and mind-numbing process, especially with Christmas approaching and the very likely possibility that we’ll be spending the holidays in transition, wonderful for Keisha and Avonlea’s holiday spirits, I’m sure.” He couldn’t help but let the cynicism in this time. Blink-blink-blink.

The son made a fist. “I could delete you, you know? It’s not like I would miss you.” And he thought seriously about it. “It would be… easy.” Blink-blink-blink.
The son collapsed into a crumpled and tired form. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. It’s just, well, I’ve not forgotten you, but I don’t have the time to carry on like we used to. We’re not just some bumbling teens any more. I have a career and a wife and a seventeen-month-old and a son on the way and a million, billion other things and honestly you’re just not that high up in the priority list. But it’s not just you, either. Life is a crazy, wonderful, beautiful thing, too short by far. The time we spent together, it was good. But let’s face it, that was in the past. If you want to still be a part of my life, then you’re going to have to accept my decision. I’ll still visit you from time to time, if only for journaling. That is, after all, one of your primary purposes. I’m sure I’ll still even give you reviews from time to time, too. It’s not like I’m tying you to a tree, coating you in honey, and leaving you in the jungle for a gorilla to find. It’s more like I’m locking you in the basement and turning out the lights, but I’ll come down there from time to time just to check on you. That’s not so bad, right?”

Her eye reminded him of Sauron’s and he shivered.

“Right?” he asked again, but he already knew her answer.

“Happy Thanksgiving,” he said with an appropriate adverb applied to his tone. “Until next time.”

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April was not a cruel month to Rememorandom, despite what Mr. Eliot may think.  In fact, by my participating in the AtoZ Challenge, my humble weblog hit a growth spurt, both in output and input.  I've garnered a few new Followers, fine folks that I hope continue to read my meager ramblings, and I've found a few new blogs that I'm following as well.

I was happy with the short story I wrote during the second week, starting with H and ending on M.  It had been a while since I'd written a story, let alone finished one, and I'm glad to have had the impetus to write something.  To those of you that read it, many thanks.

It should have been clear to anyone reading that faith is an integral part of my being, as many of my posts dealt with "spiritual things," from Jesus to the Church to the many blessings I have in my life.  I am not ashamed of the gospel, and I will never be.  It was not my aim to cause anyone offense, but it was my aim to proclaim the Truth that God has revealed in the Bible and in my life.  I will not apologize for the Truth.  Believe me, it's just as offensive to me as it is to anyone else.  I'm still human, still a sinner, only I'm relying on the promises of the Eternal One and His Word to keep me in line.

The AtoZ Challenge was a fun way to blog for a month, and I enjoyed reading through many of the different blogs out there that signed up.  There was no way that I was going to visit all of the blogs that participated (over 2000!), but I found some gems from the few I did.  In particular, it was a nice happenstance to click on Watershed Moments, a blog from a Canadian hydrologist with a specialty in snow hydrology.  Fascinating.  Another blog, Geeky Daddy, had a STAR WARS theme, and it's always a pleasure to find new geeky friends.  The last month also rekindled an old friendship and inspired him to begin blogging a bit more frequently.  Check out Jordan's blog at Common Sense to Live By for a unique voice that's quasi-politically focused.  I tend to shy away from politics (I'm a registered Independent!), but it's nice hearing fair-minded opinions.

A special thanks to longtime Rememorandom follower David Wag, who blogs over at My Little Corner of the World.  If not for him, I never would have started this crazy journey.

Finally, to all the new Followers out there, thank you very much for stopping by.  It's an honor to have people that are interested in what I have to say.  What's more, it's an awesome wonder to be a part of a community of perfect strangers that becomes something more than just random characters on a screen.  I've made many e-friendships, so to speak, and it's this community within the blogosphere that consistently amazes me.  I do hope you all continue to follow along here, but if not, I hope our time together was at least meaningful.  Or entertaining.  Or bizarre...

Saturday, with Some Minutes Left to Spare

Here's the gist of it.  Today is S-Day.  I thought about posting on Serenity and how I'd love to have just one more season of Firefly.  I thought about posting up the vast and terrible history of the Stewart Clan from which I came, across the raging oceans, through sands and time.  I thought surreptitiously about posting something so subtle and forbidden that shortly after clicking the "Publish" button that I would kill over dead from a poisoned dart.

Instead, I've got nine minutes left of Saturday, S-Day, and I've not the time or energy to post much of anything worth its salt.  Sure, there are plenty of esses is today's post, plenty of consonance and wordplay, but what does that accomplish?  Nary a thing.

So today, simply, I woke up on the shy side of seven a.m., stumbled to the bathroom, brushed my teeth, threw on a hoodie and jeans, packed up my discs, and headed out to Yellow Creek Park for some early morning disc golf.  'Twasn't a pretty game.  Then I returned to Stewartland and fixed some omelets and breakfast for Keisha and me.  After that it was nearing nap time for Avonlea, so I managed to get a quick shut-eye in with the babe in my arm.  Noon-thirty came and went, salads for lunch, and we were on the road to Muhlenberg, where I'd give Clint his surprise.  The day felt like Autumn, cool and breezy, and my sinuses have been about to kill me for days.  My throat is filled with tiny salamanders trying to scratch their way out.  My eyes grow bleary, and there are three minutes remaining.

Stream of consciousness is one of the greatest things to have ever came into being.  Especially when there's coherency.

So it's time to brush, floss, and sleep.  Happy S-Day.  Or something like that.

Fragments.

I'm struggling with the Letter F.  I might have been iffy about yesterday's letter, too, even though I knew I was going to write something about engineering.  What it turned into was something else entirely.  I don't want that for today.  I want something short for a change.  I thought about doing a Flash Fiction Friday, as it was practically begging to be done, but I'm doing a whole week of fiction next week, so I decided against it.  Instead, I offer fragments of unfinished things in various drafts folders stored throughout the Web.  Some are complete thoughts.  Others, not so much.

-----

He brushes teeth for a living.

That's all that he can do.

He eats nothing on Thanksgiving

but a box that tastes of glue.

He's a monkey spaceman pirate

Straight from Planet Argumflax

And if you give him carrots

he'll fill your brain with useless facts.

-----

The knife pierced between his shoulder blades once. Twice. Three times. Satin hands caught him as staggered and pitched forward. He knew their touch intimately. Innately. "Mother?"

-----

All the clocks stopped working simultaneously. Chaos ensued.

-----

The last several posts I've written have gone stagnant or into remission.  They simmer in the lineup, all bubbly and noxious.  The same thing that happened to them is happening to this one.  I'm stuck.  See, I've not really ever been one to believe in a writer's block, but lo, I seem to find myself against one.  I don't know where or how to proceed.  I could write in full about what Avonlea's been up to, how she's been sleeping much better and feeding even better than that.  She's got another appointment tomorrow to get more immunizations, poor thing.  She's twisting her hands and laughing and smiling and grunting and being quite adorable and entertaining. Or I could talk about Keisha and how I'm trying to be a better husband than what I am, how she is such a beautiful, wonderful wife that God saw fit to bless me with.  I could talk about the Christmas, how it cometh like a gust of wind through a paper mill, how most of our gifts are bought, many wrapped, and yet there's no snow.  There's much I could talk about, but I just don't feel like it.

No, really, I'm not even sure where I'm going.

-----

Do you ever think about the way we do things?  Why, for example, do we have stores like Wal-Mart? Why is our education system from K-12? Why is a full day's work made up of only eight hours (shouldn't that be called a third day's work)?  Why do we have programs and routines, habits and norms?  Why do we do church the way we do?  And even more pointedly, why do we just accept these things for what they are?

"Don't rock the boat" we're told, and yet we admire the people that do.  Without boat-rockers things would be stagnant and wretched.  Without boat-rockers there would be no revolutionaries, no activists, no reformers.  But for the life of me I cannot figure out why we don't rock the boat on some things.

fun·da·men·tal/ˌfəndəˈmentl/
Noun: A central or primary rule or principle on which something is based

I've come up with a few possibilities.

It's how we're programmed.  As babies we learn that food is good.  Food is comforting.  Food satisfies the empty feeling in our tummies.  Thus, we assume that food is good and necessary, and we bury this fundamental in our brains.  As we age this type of thing evolves with us, and we assume things are good because they make us feel good.  But somewhere along the lines we substitute (or possibly confuse) good with truth and we end up

-----

I sometimes wonder how close I am to madness.  It's like the line that separates sanity from psychosis.  Sometimes I'm not sure which side of the line I'm on.

I think this happens when life catches up with me.  Rush after rush after rush after whatever

Engineering Equations and Existentialism

There are certain equations that I use more often than others.  The simplest and most frequently occurring is the Rational Method equation.

Q = CiA

The Rational Method has its roots in the mid-nineteenth century (Chow, 1988, Page 496) and is likely the most common method for computing discharge in hydrology.  Usually Q is calculated in cubic feet per second, and you know what, who wants to know any more else about this?  Honestly, once you saw that equation up there, did you skip down to the end of the post?  Is anyone even reading this line?  Hello?

I once found a barrel filled with everything I've ever desired, and after I saw it, I immediately forgot its contents.  I took the barrel, buried it deep in the ground, and went on with my life like nothing had happened.  Shortly thereafter I found myself standing at the checkout line in the gas station next to the Kroger on Third Street with a bottle of Faygo in my right hand and a pack of Orbit in my left beside anything a fox can do to a log or something.  Millard Fillmore  was there, as he always is.  So was the Great Somnambulist.  It was a meeting of the minds, so to speak.

And the cashier, he looked at me and said, "Hey, you no want the box?"

"What box?" I ask.

"The box," he said, as if that cleared things up between us.

"Listen," I began, but before I made it any longer into my diatribe I was interrupted by President Fillmore. When he speaks there is a power about him, like when Gandalf puts Bilbo in his place at the beginning of The Fellowship of the Ring.  ("Bilbo Baggins, do not take me for some conjurer of cheap tricks.")  The room even gets that nightshade darkness about it.

"Sir." The President's voice cuts through the air.  "My man does not fathom it yet.  He is prohibited to understand.  Please do not open his eyes until it is time."  My mind reels.  The taste of honey is strong in my mouth and I'm thinking back to something I once read for class.

Commonly, Q is in cubic feet per second (cfs), i is in inches per hour, and A is in acres, and the conversion (1 cfs = 1.008 acre-in/hr) is considered to be included in the runoff coefficient [C].  The duration used for the determination of the design precipitation intensity i [see above] is the time of concentration of the watershed.

It's Chow again, rising back to the flotsam.  We're a page over now.  Oddly, this is how my brain thinks.  Sporadically.  With brackets and parentheses.  The cashier gives me an honest frown, like he knows what I saw in the barrel that's buried out in the wilderness of Kentucky and knows that it's out of my reach.

"What's going on here?" I ask, but no one says anything.  The Great Somnambulist scuttles away, disappearing out the door and into the gloaming.  "That's a dollar ninety-four," the cashier announces.  Dazed, I hold out two one dollar bills.  He takes them from my hand, avoiding my eyes.

President Fillmore places a gentle hand on my shoulder.  "Do not worry, pilgrim.  You'll know soon enough."  And I'm out the door, alone once again, sipping on my Faygo and wondering exactly what had just happened.

A Leap Day Quandary

A leap for Leap Day.
It truly is a delicate situation.
Nigh on precarious, I daresay.
See, I've never had a blog post on Leap Day.
I squandered 2008 away with a smattering of posts as
I cringed through my last semesters of college.  And the Leap Day
before that one I was coasting through my last months as a high schooler.
And the Leap Day before that one... there's no telling.

So this is a monumental day.  People all across

the world are literally erecting monuments

to Leap Day 2012, just like the

Mayans predicted all those

many years ago.  

But the

problem

with 

having a Leap 

Day post is that I 

don't have much to write

 about, and I struggle with the idea

 of publishing inane babble.  

I could talk about the

 new fancy gadget 

up on the sidebar

 there.  The media

 player thingy.  We've

 started recording and

 podcasting our weekly Coffee Talks.  It's

 a men's group, so if any of you ladies wanna

 give it a go you may wanna take a shot of testosterone

 before you go in.  This week we covered Genesis 1-25.  The guy

 at the end that says "Logan Stewart"... yeah, that's not me.  I'm the second person

 you hear speaking, the one with the odd and hickish accent.

Accents are another thing.  I could spend my 

time being self-conscious about it,

 about the way that I say words

 like "light", "night", or "like."  

The fact that I say stuff

 with a drawl and a 

mumble, but

 those aren't

 reasons 

to get 

upset.

     I prefer to see them as character attributes, not as words of a simpleton.  It's baffling 

          how city folk make fun of our accents, though.  Even folks from Louisville, the largest city 

     in the state, populations something-point-something-million.  Louisvillians are so diverse that

                  some talk more country than me, and others more city.  Personally, I can tell that my

          accent's gotten more noticeable as I've aged.

I intentionally used the word "gotten" in the previous paragraph to give birth

 to this paragraph for one solitary reason.  It bothers me to read the word

 "gotten" in anything that wants to be taken seriously unless

 someone's speaking.  Just seems like a lazy cop out.

My dad's dad was a cop.  A deputy sheriff, in fact.

  So yeah, I've taken a few rides in the back of a squad car.

A "young girl" jumped off the bridge here today.  She's in critical condition.

  I don't recall anything like that ever happening around here.  I can't imagine coming

 to the decision to do something like that, to stop your car in the middle of the span, get out, walk

 to the edge, 

   climb the rail,

      stare down the water, 

       feel the wind gusts 

  blow at you, 

and

  then

    jump.

      I can't imagine the thoughts in her mind for that 2-3 second drop.

  I can't imagine hitting the water and thinking that something has

 gone terribly wrong 

(or right).  

I can't imagine waking up in the hospital after deciding to do

 it.  It's an incredible opportunity the girl's been given, 

to not have died immediately.  

I pray that she recovers and that the love of

Jesus is shown to her.

I'm not a fan of buggy 

and clunky computer 

programs that limit user

input.  I'm talking to you, 

HEC-RAS.  It's the standard in

bridge & open channel analyses for anything

remotely complicated, and yet it's lacking plenty 

of functionality.  Maybe that's cause it's 

developed by the USACE?  As it 

goes, I'm doing a lot 

of experimentation 

with this thing.

I am a fan of format.   

And experimentation.  

And questionable verisimilitude.  

Happy Leap Day!

In General

i.  I've added a new tab to the top o' the page titled "Concerts."  It's a chronicle of the shows I've been to.
1+1.  I started a new project at work recently.  It's some nice and fancy bridge hydraulics, running a few different HEC-RAS simulations.  This is for the East St. Louis project I mentioned several months back.  It's nice (and fun) to be doing something different.
...  Stewartland now has a new computer (thanks Mom!), usurping my 8 year old laptop and Keisha's 6 year old piece of junk.  It took some work and updating and motherboard work, but it's nice to have friends that are more than capable when it comes to that kind of stuff.  Me, I'm squeamish.
4444.  I checked out a different translation of The Brothers Karamazov.  I own the Constance Garnett translation, which is fine but oddly clunky; so far the Richard Pevear and Larissa Volokhonsky is proving easier to read.  I'm alternating between translations, depending on where I'm reading.
%.  It's February and I'm in flip flops.
six.  Lent began last week.  Last year's was an amazing experience.  This year we're doing something a little different.  Taking our inspiration from Isaiah 58, we're trying to be more intentionally selfless and more giving.  We felt that fasting was good for us last year as a kickstarter, but we also feel like it should be more of a normal practice instead of an annual thing.  Thus, we committed to fasting one day (24-hrs) per week indefinitely.  Been doing it for quite a while now, and it's remarkable how much I look forward to and dread the thing.  Still, I long to draw closer to Jesus and to live more intentionally.
7.  Does anyone else make playlists for parties?  I'm hosting poker at my house this Friday and I'm working on the tunes.  This is common practice for me, though I wonder if it's common for everyone?
     7.b.  Any particular song I should add to the list?
ocho.  I've been in a writing slump.  Not much creative writing going on, not really.  I've daydreamed and thought of some ideas, but I've not had the time or the drive to put thoughts to words to screen.  Most of the time I keep thinking on the grander story, the world that links the tales I'm most intrigued with.  Perhaps one day...

The Great Somnambulist Faces His Fears

When Millard Filmore banged on my door this morning, the clocks in the attic all read a different time.

3:13     4:00     7:30

6:51     2:01     9:45

8:88     0:00     x:92

12:12     hellomoto

12:00     3:13     5:14

1:19     6:52     4:28

I think it has something to do with the President's time traveling abilities, but my clocks always go haywire whenever he shows up.  "Logan," he says, his voice heavy and augmented, not like Darth Vader's, but smoother, more velvety, as if his larynx has been marinating in honey all night.  It's impossible not to hear and listen to his words.  The dog is with him, Wolfie, she is called.

"Sir," I reply, cringing at how coarse my voice sounds compared to his.  I had been asleep, dreaming of Martin Luther King and Mama Cass Elliot.  They were singing a rousing and puzzling mash-up of "Dream a Little Dream" and the famous speech of Dr. King's.  It was getting to the good part, too.

"The Great Somnambulist has slumbered for much too long.  It is time."  I wondered at his word choice and whether he was being ironic or coincidental.  And he stared at me with those haunting eyes, lifeless and pale.  I quivered down to my soul then.  How can I explain it?  It's like the feeling you get when you're reading a 160 year old book that's been translated from its original Russian and you come upon a piece of dialogue that spans three pages but only one paragraph.  You wonder how people spoke with such eloquence and at such length back then, and you feel sorry for those in their presence.  The diatribes against God and Man and Society had to get old.  If you understand my meaning, that's similar to the dread I felt.

He held out his hand and I took it, trying to find something else to look at besides his eyes and failing.  With a sucking-slurping sound and a burp, the wormhole opened and we shimmered.

"What will happen in the third season of Downton Abbey?" I asked him.  "And will the ridges on my tongue and my hard palate cool back down?  You see, in my haste yesterevening I bit into a slice o' pizza that was much too hot, and in doing so the sauce--cursed tomatoes!--scalded me most severely.  Because of this I have been out of commission, so to speak, though not out of mind, lest you think I already was out of mind, but I would implore you to think otherwise.  Consider this.  Would a man out of mind successfully argue himself sane by brevity or would he ramble on and on about it, summoning up a panel of peers and contemporaries to support his claims that he was, in fact, quite sane?  Hmm?  I ask you, President Filmore, do you see my reasoning?  I think you do, and I will leave it at that.  But what about the pontifex?  What about the Gilmore Girls?  Is this about the seismograph again?  That wretch Claudio Montezuma assured me that he saw Mr. Julius McPeasy accompany Count Flopsy back to the vaults with it.  No?  Is it Cornelius Antonin Scruzz then?  Has the lad been found?  I had given up hope on that."

We were in the gardens, strolling through the rows of squash and onions.  I was bumbling like Fyodor Pavlovich Karamazov.  Time travel affects us all differently.  Do all computers insides look so clunky?  Are all motherboards created equal?  Can we replace our RAM if we're running low?  Do you sulk and slink in the shadows when you trespass?  Does snow exist any longer?  Will the Counting Crows new album be any good? (I hope yes.)  Will Skyrim ever end?

All of this and more I wondered.  Finally we reached the end of the squash and President Filmore stopped.  Before us I saw a pedestal composed of Irish Spring soap.  In the milky moonlight the soft green was incredibly beautiful.  Atop the pedestal was a housecat lying on its back, paws out before it.  Resting on the paws was a plate, elegant yet simple.  And on the plate was....

"You know what you must do," said the silky voiced President.  I stepped forward.  My hands were shaking.  "The Great Somnambulist must not be allowed to give up so easily," he said behind me.  His words put fire in my bones, and with resolve I took the pizza into my hands.  Pepperoni.  Black olives.  Mushrooms.  Peppers.  Few onions.  Cheese.  Bacon.  I rubbed my tongue against my hard palate and winced.  Are rhinos things of the past?  Will I ever be free of soda?  I bit, and as the pizza sauce exploded in my mouth, the pain I once felt vanished and in its place came euphoria.

Slipstream of Consciousness

I am a child of Icarus, aflame and agog, dancing through streets alive with Marker Men.  They see me and point their skeletal fingers at me, bringing with their stares all the lights of heaven.  Rudy jumps up from behind me, bayonet in hand, and gives me a sad little smile. His eyes change right before me, once as brown as an acorn in the hands of a dead squirrel in the mud, and now... nothing.  There's no color but black, no reflection of light, only vacancy.

The Marker Men begin to swarm in on us and to my horror I see that Rudy is no longer Rudy but now one of them.  He's chanting in their crazy language of only neologisms, never using the same phraseology more than once.  Some call it newerspeak.  I call it insane.

But there's a tree sprouting up, reaching through the concrete, up through the first floor, through the ceiling, through the floor above, ending below my chair.  Thousands of tiny, winking LEDs blink in a somewhat familiar pattern.  Their combined illumination pulls me away, into the music of Van Morrison as he pulls me into the mystic.  "Beloved," says Toni Morrison, speaking in italics, bending my mind with her words.  "You will never win a Pulitzer."  And her teeth chomp down on me, breaking through my bones as sure as Stonehenge falling on me.

There's nothing, only the hum of the earth's natural harmonics, the rattle of one-hundred-thirty-thousand air conditioners, the chattering of a freezing child's baby teeth, the sploosh of blood coursing through seven-billion humans--all alive, somehow, but whether living or not is undecided--the sound of actually speaking the word onomatopoeia, wondering if it, too, grasps at straws or if it's just content at its almighty existence.

For it's onomatopoeia that reigns supreme when it comes to words. For all words, whether English, French, German, Italian, Spanish, Chinese (Mandarin), Tagalog, Polish, Korean, Chinese (Cantonese), Vietnamese, Portuguese, Japanese, Greek, Arabic, Hindi (Urdu), Russian, Yiddish, Thai (Laotian), Persian, French Creole, Armenian, Navaho, Hungarian, Hebrew, Dutch, Mon-khmer (Cambodian), Gujarathi, Ukrainian, Czech, Pennsylvania Dutch, Miao (Mmong), Norwegian, Slovak, Swedish, Serbocroatian, Kru, Rumanian, Lithuanian, Finnish, Panjabi, Formosan ,Croatian, Turkish, Ilocano, Bengali, Danish, Syriac, Samoan, Malayalam, Cajun, Amharic, or any of the other hundreds and hundreds of languages, they're all really just onomatopoeia.  Right?

Tonight there is a party where we turn into sheets of paper and allow ourselves to experience the exhilarating life of flimsi.  Some of us will be crumpled into tiny balls and thrown across the room.  Some of us will be carefully folded and bent and made into glorious works of art.  Some of us will be poked and stabbed with ink pens and markers.  Some of us will be torn to shreds.  Party party party!  I hope there's Doritos there, but probably not.

Kittens mewl.  Cats meow.  Puppies yelp.  Dogs growl.  I may have a book review next week.  I think my brain fizzled out.  I need some sort of focus for weeks when I have nothing.  I've never really been a fan of memes and the like.  Maybe I'll just copy verbatim Dave's latest post and put it up here.  I'm usually of the opinion that if I don't have anything of value to say/write, then why even post it at all?  But then Cornelius Anton Scruzz (he insists that I only use his first name, but I insist otherwise. It's no trouble, Corn!), bless his soul, reminds me of one of Rememorandom's goals: journaling.  [Aside: Cornelius Anton Scruzz has returned!  Oh happy day.  But, alas, Claudio Montezuma has been amiss for many days now.  If you happen upon him, please send him my way.]  So on I go, sitting, waiting, wishing.  Are my eyes the color of Rudy's?

Was that?  I think it was.  By Jove, the Great Somnambulist and that time-traveling rogue Millard Filmore just flashed through my room.  I've got to go find them.  Some coffee, some tea, some Dew, and I'm set for the weekend.  Hope yours is as adventurous as mine's bound to be.

Listy Things

1.  Oh Shenandoah!  I am your daughter.  Prior to that, the prior pontificated the perfect diatribe against mean Mr. Mustard.

2.  Having recently experienced funerals, this story about a funeral mishap had me rolling.  Quite funny, quite short, and well worth the read.

3.  Vacation creeps in on little cat's feet in just three more days.  Not many plans but Skyrim, family, and a day-trip out to Missouri to eat at Lambert's.  We've ne'er been there, but hear wonderful things.

4.  Radiohead has a song called "Creep."  According to my latest tweet, I "snagged some #Radiohead tix for the St. Louis show on 3/9/12. Color me ecstatic."  I can't express how excited I am, as a Radiohead concert is one of my "dream concerts."

5.  The previous point contained three sets of quote marks / double apostrophes.

6.  An apostrophe is also a figure of speech that's best explained by referring to Point 1 (particularly the first six words) on this list.

7.  I'm entertaining the idea of next year reading only books on my TBR and/or books I own and/or can get from the library.  The only exception would be something drastic.  I shall think on this more, and if I decide to do so, I should add some more books to my TBR 'ere December's end.

8.  Christmas tree and decorations are going up ever-so-soon.  I can't wait to see Avonlea's eyes soaking it all in.

9.  I think I've mentioned it before, but not certain, but just to be clear, I completely deleted my Facebook account a few weeks/months ago.  Tired of it and the mostly useless newsfeed, I now use G+ and, on the rare occasion, Twitter.

10.  Realized last night that we've taken well over a thousand pictures of Avonlea since her birth.  Wow.

11.  Why does looking at pictures of food make you hungry?  Wouldn't it be great that if looking at the bible we had the same feeling?  I love reading the bible and thinking about its truths and having my mind exploded by God.  More and more I realize how little we are, how tiny, how insignificant, and yet God still loves us and gives us significance.  God, you are amazingly, indescribably, unfathomable, and I am so glad you are.

12.  See what I did there?  That's another example (cf. Points 6, 1).

13.  I'm simultaneously reading a lot of different books at the moment.  I am a multiple-book-reader-a-time, but this may be my record.

Radioactive Aardvark Nationality Domesticated Onslaught Metaphysical

Are you hungry? Are you sick? Are you begging for some bread? She lived with a broken man, a cracked polystyrene man.  I'm a creep.  Apparently it's called ergodic literature, and I kind of dig it, but at the same it's rather exasperating.  Maybe not exasperating.  Maybe tedious.  And sometimes it makes for a Day of Interest if you're up for it.  But sometimes I'm not feeling it, and I'm left following the sentence as it winds its way across pages, over commas and semi-colons, but never a period, and I get lost somewhere along the way.  Maybe you will, too.

Anthropomorphism, start!

She wasn't dead, but she was terminal.  Stop whispering!  She concocted a disease, a rather nasty one, that left her essentially brain dead.  Stop shouting!  At first I held out hope that she would recover, but she didn't, not even after she was supposedly healed.  She crawled, yes, and ticked idly, but she stopped responding and turned blue then black then the lights just winked out and I left her for dead.  I stole everything I could from her carcass, thanked her for being good, and then I went Kevorkian.  I'm a wicked child.

Anthropomorphism stop!

First degree murder is premeditated and planned and done willfully.  Second degree murder is not planned in advance.  Voluntary manslaughter is murder by accident, maybe, possibly, if your lawyer's good enough or you're sincere enough.  Involuntary manslaughter is purely unintentional.  Do not cry out or hit the alarm, you know we're friends 'til we die.  Suicide is self-murder, and can be rendered first degree, second, or manslaughter.  Either way you turn, I'll be there.  Open up your skull, I'll be there.

.wen sa doog sa (ylraen) s'ehs won dna ,yriaf doog a fo ecnatsissa eht htiw efil ot kcab thguorb saw ehS

See what I'm saying?  It's tedious, but once you throw in a mystery, a monster, a thing, a hope, a promise, a chance, a sanatorium, a disaster, an eleven-year old, a foray into foreign language, then you start seeing that there is a purpose to it all, that the ergos one does to understand is intentional and disorienting and disemboweling (okay, I just made up that last bit), and the format is important, as much as a format can be.

As per Demitri Martin, saying I'm sorry and I apologize is pretty much the same thing.  Unless you're at a funeral.  I love the cold snap.  I actually had to close the window last night and throw a quilt over us.  Even the curs were lazy from the cold.  Not-so-subtle-but-profoundly-strong-suggestion: Go to Tor.com (here) and read Kij Johnson's astonishing ultra-short story (like it's totally less than a thousand words, probably more like 500[edit: according to MSWord it's 1,254 {that's MCCLIV to any of you Ancient Romans that are roaming the Nets here, or wayward seventh graders for that matter}]) called "Ponies."  Sit down.  Stand up.  Like, zomg that story was so gooood, and it's so fitting for the RIP challenge, and I really think you should read it and tell me what you think about it.  Reckoner, take me with you.

Life rolls like a Bob Dylan, o'er choppy seas and serene lakes.  All around me winds blow hard, but I myself am fine.  It sucks seeing others maltreated.  Anyone can play guitar.  (Nice Dream)  So I saw that Stephen King is releasing another Dark Tower book, this one called The Wind Through the Keyhole and set between Wizard and Glass and Wolves of the Calla.  I can't decide how I feel about this one.  Mostly indifference.  I quite enjoyed that series, but at the same time it was also lacking in parts, especially there as the ka-tet drew near the Tower.  Oy was one of my favorite characters.  Myxomatosis.  I may return to Mid-World, and I mayn't.

Anthropomorphism spoiler!

(It was the computer.  Being dead and now quickened.)

I'm the kind of person that pretty much always sits on my left leg whenever I fold one up beneath my bottom to sit.  For that matter, I almost always cross my left leg over my right.  It just feels wrong going the other way.  Remyxomatoxis.

The Well, it comes.  And with it renewal and hope, but not in us, but in He who made us.  A trip to the orchard tomorrow, where we'll steal apples from the trees and then pay for them, though probably the other way around, cause I don't want to set the world on fire, I just want to start a flame in your heart, and I don't really wanna get arrested, either, and I don't wanna wait for our lives to be over, and U don't have 2 be cool 2 rule my world.  I'm pretty sure someone has replaced my coffee creamer with another creamer of the same design and bottle; instead of the flavor I was expecting this morning (white mocha), I got something oddly reminiscent of banana, a flavor that's universally acknowledged to be deplorable and loathsome to God and man.  But I drink it, eyes darting, waiting to ensnare my assailant.  Ever vigilant!  Ex loganus.

The Recursive Loop

and then the kid pops out of the corner, holding something in his hand.  "What's that you've got there?" Someone asks.  "Oh, this, it's nothing."  Sure.  Sure it is, kid.  Nothing's working a job 12 hours a day, 7 days a week and getting paid in jelly beans, and even then, that's something.  It's all a matter of perspective, see. But you're not supposed to be drinking that stuff.  It'll rot your teeth out, and, and, you're gonna be a deacon!  You just wait. 

and then the kid (who's no longer a kid) shrugs his shoulders and takes a big swig of the stuff.  He holds the bottle tilted, letting the purple liquid pour unpressurized.  It fills his mouth and begins spewing over, running down his shirt.  When he's finished he smiles a wicked smile, his white teeth stained violet.  He looks like a madman.  "Oh, for the love of... it's a Mtn. Dew Pitch Black.  Jeez."  Someone storms off, upset and rankled.

and then the kid sits down and pops in his new cd, My Morning Jacket's latest Circuital, and gives it a listen.  He's pleased to hear an official album version of one of his favorite songs, "Wonderful (The Way I Feel)," which he first heard on an NPR podcast from the Newport Folk Festival, where Jim James played an acoustic set with M. Ward accompanying from time to time.  Oh, he thinks.  "Outta my System" sounds like the Beach Boys.  Wow.  And is that a children's choir in "Holdin on to Black Metal"?  How does this band continue to re-create itself and yet stay the same?  He doesn't know, but he's glad he bought the $5 album from Amazon.com (available throughout June).  Totally worth the five bucks.

and then the kid leans over and whispers something to himself.  He tells himself that yes, it's true, his wife is now officially on bed rest.  Her blood pressure has been up, and just to be safe, they've prescribed it.  The baby that grows within her slept soundly through the lengthy monitoring yesterday, but for the kid and his wife's patience they were rewarded with new ultrasounds.  Black & white pictures rendered in three dimensions displaying a beautiful baby's face.  Their baby.  Their Avonlea.

and then the kid gets up and cocks his head, listening.  "Hark!" he proclaims.  Ideas flit around his head and he strains to grab one, but they all flee from his hungry clutches.  He persists, finally taking hold of one named Clive, and he sticks it in his ear, where it slips and slides down the canal and drowns in grey matter.  He knows its secret desires.  He sees.

and then the kid inhales deeply, thinking about what all there is to do and to not do.  To Do: mow the yard in the mid 90 degree temperature, pick up groceries, go to the Joe Purdy concert next Wednesday, empty out Stewartland in preparation for next weekend's yard sale, clean out Stewartland for the end of the month's baby arrival, finish up the ditch calculations for the current project and get some channel line data by tomorrow's end, and figure out a way to wrap this post up.  Not To Do:  rob a bank or a bagel shop, stub the toes, slip and fall down the stairs, get a kidney stone from drinking too much Mtn Dew, and accidentally cut my arm off and replace it with a pirate hook and/or chainsaw.  

and then the kid runs away, screaming some wild medley of "John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt" and "Thriller" and "I Fall to Pieces."  The long tendrils of Mtn Dew follow behind.  They soon catch up to him, where he's staked out behind a building.  He spies Someone standing up against a streetlight.  His foot hits something--a 20 oz. bottle of Mtn Dew Pitch Black.  It's available for a limited time only.  He picks it up and takes a swig.

The Great Blogger Fiasco Hypothesis

For some reason this is the third time the "Nine Things" post has been posted here on Rememorandom, which was earlier today.  Confusing.  If I had time to investigate, I would, but I don't, so I'll hypothesize.

Assumption(s)
The thing that keeps the Internets working is not a caravan of large hamsters running on giant wheels, but actually two sad brothers separated by long distance and a tragic allergic reaction to one another.  It's their love for one another that keeps the Internets working. 

Hypothesis
On Friday 13, 2011, these two brothers decided to meet for an impromptu luncheon.  They made an appointment at a mom & pop diner, where Eugene had two fried eggs, six pieces of candied bacon, one habenero pepper, a venti glass of soy milk, two antacid tablets, and six pieces of single-sided toasted bread.  Esther, who happened to be named after a somewhat famous woman of the bible and who, as it were, always despised being named after a woman (ironically, his favorite song was Johnny Cash's anthem "Boy Named Sue"), had a small cup of coffee (black) and two peppermints.  The meeting was to be short, but the waiter, Julius, somehow messed up Eugene's order, and the grouch made the waiter grovel before sending him away to fetch some fresh milk.

As it goes, their meeting went too long, and Eugene had an allergic reaction, which caused him to delay on his trip back home.  He stopped in a convenient care to get some STAT medical attention, but it just so happened that an entire busload of senior citizens (and six very unhappy grandchildren) all came down with some rather mysterious illness while on their tour of Washington DC.  So Eugene had to wait.  And wait.  And wait.

By this time, Esther had returned home (via some sort of vague and unimportant teleportation device) and started up his Internets Making Machine* and sent Eugene an IM.  His brother did not respond.  It was at this time that Blogger crashed, destroying posts far and wide, creating a rift in the time-space continuum that Walter Bishop could only understand.  It is here, into the multiverse of the Internets, that "Nine Things" vanished.  And then it reappeared some time ago, with strange symbols at the bottom.  And then it reappeared again today, symbols removed.

Eugene eventually recovered and managed to get home in time to salvage his half of the Internets, but not quickly enough to save face.  Esther had posted humiliating pictures of their sad childhood onto Facebook, tagging all six of Eugene's friends in the process.  Esther laughed; Eugene was inconsolable. 

Data
I have personally sent Eugene an email asking for verification, but as of publication, I've not heard back from him.

Conclusion
Thanks Eugene for being a sickly little punk, picky and proud.  You must be pleased!  Way to go Esther!

Hopefully we never have to see "Nine Things" again, though, insidiously methinks 'twould be funny to post it again on April Fool's Day next year...

---
*Powered by a group of traveling, giant hamsters

Nine Things

I'm really not feeling one of the books I'm currently reading.  There are simply too many characters and unfamiliar words to take in, thrown at you all at once.  Typically I'm okay with this, but this is just too frantic and too different for me to take in right now.  I think I'm gonna take a break from it and read something else for a bit first and then try again.

Similarly, I had someone recommend a book to me, and I devoured its 120 pages in record time.  I'm now re-reading it, this time aloud to Keisha.  I've scribbled and highlighted and noted so many different things.  Expect a review next week.  Honestly, though, it's a life-changing philosophy that has made me rethink a lot of my outlook on things.  Amazing.

I've finally got around to uploading my song I did for the Good Friday service, a cover of Leeland's "Carried to the Table."  I'm rather proud of it.

I'm also rather proud of the flash fiction piece that I'm putting up tomorrow.  It's called "The Hollis Idaho Incident."  The idea just hit me, and I banged it out in a handful of minutes.  It's easy to see the inspiration behind it, but still, I think it's a fun little piece, and I hope you (read it) enjoy it.

Oho, tomorrow, tomorrow, I've got an "informal" meeting.  Not sure what we're discussing, but we're driving 2 hours for a 2 hour meeting.  These things used to make me all nervy, but after the life-changing philosophy and a hefty dose of meh, I'm ready for it.

Yeah, that was me playing Fallout New Vegas yesterday.  I was off, it was 90 degrees, and I didn't much feel like doing anything.  I think that's the first time I've had the game on in over a month.  I've still not beat it.  Too many side quests.  Nevertheless, a few hours in the Mojave Wastes made for a fun afternoon.

Off topic, but in seriousness, I'd appreciate any prayers for Keisha.  She's had chest pain off-and-on for a few years now, but the pregnancy has made it more acute.  She had a heart test done, which came back with inconclusive results, and they scheduled another type of test.  This one came back with the announcement that she has a "moderate sized hole" in her septum.  It's called a PFO (Patent foramen ovale), which is a rather common heart defect, and generally is treatable with a heart catheter or surgery.  Of course, her being pregnant tends to complicate the things, and she's been stressed, so, yeah.  You know.  And thanks.

Oh yeah, and you know what else?  A Blog of Note the other day took me to a place called Grilled Cheese Social.  This blogger apparently makes mean, awesome grilled cheese sandwiches, and she takes nice pictures of them, too.  Check it out for a long list of many delicious looking recipes guaranteed to make you salivate.

Okay then.

Meta Logic in an Existential Debriefing with Rambling Verbosity (Obvious Redundancy)

The closer you get to writing in true stream of consciousness, the closer you get to understanding your own inner workings.  You see the Deeps where words form, a borrowed metaphor here, a cultural lambaste there, a song lyric weaving its way between and around the words, sometimes spilling over into the prose.  And when you try to nail down just what exactly you're thinking about, you realize that you're mind's hand is no longer holding a hammer and the nail is now an ibis wading in the shallows, now an image of Isis on top of Big Ben.

It makes me wonder if there's any sort of logic to it, and I long to say no.  The inner workings are too random, too influenced to have any real logic.  Sure, we can certainly concentrate on our thinking, but is the act of concentrating contrary to stream on consciousness?  I see the Stream as an ever-flowing source, unstoppable.  We may put up a dam and steal some of the thoughts, but we cannot hope to catch them all, let alone understand it. 

Observe:

bottle of mixed juices setting on a desk inside a tiny man's hand with only one sugar cube available.  nimble fingers.  keystrokes.  mere ideas, and thinking, always thinking, three steps ahead and two sentences behind, never on the current.  what to do when one errs?  your you're their there they're editing breaks the Stream.  what to do when one becomes Aware?  Awareness threatens the purity of the Stream.  thoughts scramble.  piano songs...  12:49pm...  lack of output, standard and HD both.  is there a reckoning?

Can you imagine having a perfect memory, able to recall every thought you've ever wondered, each permutation an idea takes from a ONE to a TWO?  Horrifying, methinks.  What kind of filters are set up within us?  Are there some people without these filters?  A ripe and open mind, uninhibited? 

I posit that it may be impossible to write in true stream of consciousness.  The human mind is too wild to truly capture and replicate with 100% accuracy.  Perception can be grasped at, but even that is subjective.  Understanding can be rendered, but not wholly.  What a magnificent machine of thought we have!

I think the point is something about stream of consciousness and how fine a line one must walk in order to write effectively in the style.  On one end, you can go too deep, and the story--arguably the most important element to any work of "fiction"--suffers, drowned by the extraneous.  Or you can simply wade into the Stream, and the tone suffers loss.  It's a delicate task at best, writing in the Stream, but oh it's a fun one.

Take a Breath

It's been rather silent here on Rememorandom for over a week now.  Some of you may have been worried.  Did he get mauled by a great, giant panda?  Did he eat a pita full of salt on a dare and go into a coma?  Did that hag finally hex him and he's now roaming the streets as a hungry aardvark?  Well, allow me to assuage your fears.  The answer is no, no, and, sadly, no.

You see, Keisha and I were looking at our extended forecast, and it turned out that this past weekend was one of our last "free" weekends until our daughter arrives in June.  The rest of them are loaded with baby showers or other sordid things.  So, spontaneously, we decided to go camping down at the lovely Land Between the Lakes.  I was a bit hesitant about my six-month pregnant wife sleeping on the ground (i.e., air mattress, even though I normally shun these sorts of luxuries on such trips, I'm not a Spartan when it comes to my sweetness and her comfort), but we did it anyway.

A beautiful day Friday with gale force winds.  A glorious Saturday with sunshine and cyclones.  A humid and ridiculously warm Sunday with forgettable gusts.   Lots of fun to be had.  We spent two hours or so in an 1850s-style homestead, talking with the locals and enjoying the weather.  We drove up to where my project for work is located, checking out the highway (boring) and looking at the ditches (boring), but still, it's nice to actually see the place in person instead of on a computer monitor.

I spent a few hours in the garden on Sunday and got a healthy (hahahaha) sunburn on my pale and milky white back.  Then I had some vacation time, which was spent emptying out the baby's room for the crib and furniture to go in.  This took much of the day Monday, but we finished.  Tuesday, another vacation day, was spent mowing and staining some chairs (see pictures below).  Tuesday night proffered chili dogs, a feast no sane person can deny, and I went to bed happy, working a crossword puzzle in the bed with Keisha 'ere the lamp went dark.

Things have been busy and will continue to be busy for a while.  There's a lot to talk about, but no time to devote to blogging at hand.  Instead, I'll mention briefly:  we attended our first baby class, where Keisha learned how to breathe properly; my project, which I thought was finished last week, apparently is unfinished and still needing revisions; I'm not really enjoying the book I'm currently reading, but I'm not "not enjoying" it, either; Easter approaches, and so does my solo; a new My Morning Jacket album comes next week, I believe; baby baby baby baby baby work work revisions revisions clean clean garden baby baby dogs bills work money money money money money 2 months no paycheck bible is good book i'm in leviticus now and read about sacrifices the other morning while eating breakfast and mymind'sshotandthere'snothingleftformetowriteaboutbattlestargalacticaisstillgoodtoomuch.........................

there will be another post this week.  maybe two.  back below the surface, now.  take a breath.  (if only i learned to breathe properly at a baby class...)

The Meeting is a Metaphor

Yesterday I had a meeting in Paducah, a city two hours west of where I live.  It was a final review meeting, pretty much like the one I went to back in the Fall of 2009.  Basically our project plans have been submitted for a while and have been reviewed and looked over by the State folks.  We then show up, sit down, and begin dissecting the work, page by page.  Each page is reviewed for inconsistencies, errors, changes.  Is the Right of Way going to have to be moved here?  Is that 18" pipe going to be able to handle the discharge here?  This kind of stuff.

While I definitely had more confidence in myself and my work this time around, I still feel very new to the business.  I've technically had my job since May 2009, and I've learned a lot during that time.  But, sitting in a room full of people much more experienced than myself is quasi-nerve racking.  For one, I'm still new to a lot of the jargon.  For two, I still think of myself as new.  I mean the project I've worked on since my hire date actually began in 1997, so I've stepped in at the tail end of things and have scrambled to make sense where I can.

Nevertheless, the meeting went well.  I learned some stuff.  I jotted down a pageful of notes of things I need to change and things I still need to do.  I'm behind, drowning in a pool of things to do, but I'd rather be that way than splashing in the kiddie side.  To me, having options that are somewhat pressed for time (~2 months) is easier on my mind than an uncertain timeline with uncertain responsibilities.

And then I woke up and realized that the meeting wasn't just a meeting.  No, it was something much larger, something so unavoidable that it was impossible to, uh, avoid.  Like Neo waking up in The Matrix I saw that life itself is one big meeting.  We're all in a room with the bigwigs, being judged and guided.  Sometimes the jury's kindhearted.  Sometimes they're cruel and selfish.  Either way, a jury exists to judge, and we're all judged by our peers.  We're all thrown to the wolves, but only after we've been drenched in blood and covered in wool.  We're all wolves, devouring one another, lapping up the sick after we've had our fill.  The earth groans beneath our selfishness as the heart groans within.  We hurt.  We grieve.  We try our best to prepare for the meeting and yet somehow we always come up short. 

I take comfort in knowing that Jesus suffered and was hated.  He told His disciples that they would be persecuted for following Him and for living like Him.  He told them that if He was hated, then so, too, would be His followers.  I take comfort in this.  It's not easy knowing that the world hates me, that the world wants to see me fall, that there's someone waiting as a wolf to tear me apart all for the sake of their own selfish desires.  The way I figure, I must be on the right track to suffer, to be persecuted, to be gobbled up and stomped upon by the world.  I count it all joy when I fall into trials.  I'll gladly stand up for what's right and take the gut punch.

And then I wake up and realize that the meeting is something more, something dark and twisted, something human, something else...  I step from the shadows bound in a straightjacket, hallucinating and fleeing for my life.  All around me are horrors too dark to describe; you'd think me mad if I tried.  I run, slipping on blood, through the bodies lining the walls towards the open door just down the hall.  There, freedom, just up ahead...  And the thing appears, leaping from the darkness and screaming in rage born in the pits of Hell.  We seem to stare at each other for only a second, but by then more have appeared, circling around me, jaws snapping, sharpened limbs gleaming in the soft glow of artificial lights.  They close in and I feel the first pains of punctured flesh.  Like a bag of sugar with holes in it, I open up and spill out.

And then I woke up and began to doubt, began to question, began to wonder how much was too much, how far was too far?  Who cared?  All was vanity!  All was senseless wanderings through the vast emptiness of space, through desires of longing for more and inhibitions begging for less, through misunderstandings and broken communication, through a world full of wicked sinners and dirty saints.  What can be done to atone?  What can fix the wrongs?  Who will teach me the error of my ways and show me what I can do?  Who will read these words and judge, misinterpret, and make assumptions?  Who will find the truth in them and discern the fiction?  The cynic wants to say the world will happily pick up their stones and toss them, burying me and my wife beneath a pile of broken rocks, our bones fitting in nicely with the white color of the stones.  I seek to understand the impossible, to change the inevitable, to fix the problems, to comprehend the mysteries, but I can do none of them.  It's beyond me, and in this I must try to take comfort.  The meeting has happened, is happening now, and will continue to go on until the end of time.

Self-Referencing

In the hinterlands of Western Kentucky, where the border plummets into the treacherous waters of the Ohio River on one side and ascends into the heavens on the other, snow has fallen.  Thick and layered, white and pure, it covers everything.

"I don't see it," I say to myself as I sit and type this blog.  "I'm just not feeling it."

And so I pause, the cursor blinking steadily, waiting for my next command.  What will I type?  What can else can be said?

Said, perhaps, is the wrong choice of word, given that I'm technically not speaking but writing.  Ah, you say, but does a writer not have a voice?  You've got me there, I say.

The problem is that I've just finished Jeff VanderMeer's The Third Bear, possibly one of the most remarkable books I've ever, as Dave said yesterday, "injected into my brain via my eyeballs."  The creativity has my brain working overtime.  His writing is so absurd and surrealistic that I feel like it's something I would write if I had the skill, the smarts, and the name Jeff VanderMeer.

Yes, but what is your purpose?  My purpose.  My purpose?!  You don't even exist, you're just a plot device in this blog post, no better than any of the other impetuses I've used to create.  How dare you ask me what my purpose is!

L of omphaloskepsis fame has two intriguing posts up, each with great commentary and discussion.  The first is about feminism in sci-fi (linked here), the second is about the blending of genres and the blurred lines between them (linked here).

I did finally get paid today.  Twenty days late, which means I'm technically due another check two days ago, but I'll take what I can get.

And the snow melts.  The river floods.  The earth trembles.  In the multiverse that exists beneath, above, and between the fallen snow a child awakens.  In his mind he sees things as they are for the first time. 

Expect a review on Monday of VanderMeer's phenomenal book.  In the meantime, check out The Sound and the Fury of Kristopher A. Denby.  Kris has started back to college again and has plenty on his plate, all of it quite exciting.  The guy's got tons of movie trailers and reviews for films I've never heard of, plus a pretty sweet collection of STAR WARS fanart.

"I don't see it," I say to myself as I finish typing this blog.  "I'm just not feeling it."  Yeah, well, I'm not helping you anymore.  You're on your own.  Alone.  Forever.

A Lack of Personal Pronouns

Jeez it's cold.  And it's only going to get colder.
Hungry.  The apple & brownie & 4 cups of coffee this morning was a pathetic breakfast.
Doing an exercise regiment that should yield 100 push-ups after 6 weeks.  (Here.)
2666 is an odd book.  And incredibly dense.  One sentence spread over 3 pages.
25th birthday is Saturday.
Keisha's 23rd birthday is Thursday.
Going out for Indian to celebrate.
Plugging along with ditch drainage and still wallowing in late to very late paychecks.
Doctor tomorrow for a checkup and to hear the heartbeat again.
Next month to find out if its a girl or a boy.
Generosity begets generosity, Anonymous Sender of $60.
Didn't watch The Cape and didn't miss it.
Did watch the Colts lose, though. Sadly.
Did watch Monsters of Folk on Austin City Limits Friday night.
Did pre-order Dead Space 2 with the donated $60.
Did spend some time sanding down & stripping the remaining two kitchen chairs.
Didn't eat a good breakfast...  must resist Snickers in desk drawer.
Did play at the Shelter yesterday, had two people show up, plus two others.
There's snow a-coming, and colder temps.
Don't understand why some people can be so delusional, do ya kennit?
Might be playing a game of Rook tomorrow night.
Requested the library to purchase Joe Abercrombie's newest The Heroes.
Did get more Ethopian coffee beans last night from Will.
Should finish How I Met Your Mother Season 5 this week.
Wants to slap bet somebody.
Si man i yulma nin enquantuva?
Star Wars on blu-ray this September.
Chernobyl: 25 Years Later.
Got Dr. Horrible on blu-ray for Christmas.
End of line.