Rough sex with the corpse of Linus Pauling

Pillow talk about vitamin C and peace. This will be my last post of your year-mine will end only next tuesday, on my 31st birthday. My calendar trumps Gregor's, anyday.

I'll be out tonight, wandering the streets and playing with my knife-of-the-mind. Good to keep sharp, but given blades' recent betrayal, it wouldn't be surprising to find my closest edge blunted-or broken-by tonight's attempt to whet it newly sharp. Been years since I did this. I'm all old friends and nadirs lately.

There are any number of you I hope to see tonight-I'll say hi, really. Those of you I don't...I miss you, and I'll miss you more come midnight. Happy New Year.

Wintermute

I have vivid memories of my youth in Idaho and Eastern Washington-deep snow, parka-d up. The sunlight bright against the snow covered hills. Sledding, ice, snow days. Real cold. The frozen creek behind my house when I was 6 and the kid down the street fell through, even as we were all so careful to step where it was thick.

I remember the clear, moonless night in Ohio. Empty sky filled with stars. Almost naked, and alone in my head, I sat and spoke only to her. 'Till my lips went blue.

I never complained, for years. Everyone else hated it, all grey and cold and wet. I loved it with its quiet and its clean and the clear streets. We had a comfortable relationship.

Last year, after night after night of rides in the cold, cold night, I stared up at the moon(which was bright and blue against my rodsandcones exactly the way the cold air was against my skin), and broke up with winter. I don't remember what I said, but it was final, and not friendly.

I never used to get cold. I feel bad about that, but I suppose that's how it goes.

This morning, I woke to a break in the sky and a half-moon (philodox) like a grin. I rode in the sunrise, and it began to rain only as soon as I got to work. She did me a favor. I'd like to think that while we're not close anymore, maybe we're back on speaking terms, the winter and I.

If Eyebrows were Werewolves...

I don't know how it would turn out. On the one hand, Preston's have youth on their side, and a certain razor-sharp grace(like a slicer). This guy's, though, are altogether more weathered, more seasoned-salt and pepper, don't you know. Be tough to call, I reckon.

Up in the dark, home in the dark. This is a silly way to make a living. Fun though, regardless. There's nothing quite so satisfying as my friend's dulcet tones as she curses me out for waking her. It snowed this morning.

Snapshots

I had a fine 24 hours post-solstice. Lots of company and companions, family and friends. Two sets of cousins, both out of California and passing through. Given that my extended family's one-sided, like a poorly counterfeited coin, that much family talk's about 75% of my Recommended Yearly Allowance.

Lots of coworkers out for one's musical ambitions (quoth verthandi-is there anyone in the deli who's not in a band?) and I got to see more of them (you) out in public than I have in a long time. Good.

Had a long, hard conversation with the last person I expected, and took away that warm feeling I get when I listen well. Set my face to "bake", and soon I'll take that one last deep breath before making bread bread bread bread...and maybe some cookies. I like to bake, don't like being a baker. Can't trust bakers, I always say. They can't even get a dozen right.

Merry Fucking Christmas.

My couch, sans hobo

I just watched the Mclaughlin Group...I know, I know, it's ridiculous. But I am topical, political, attentive. And let's face it, ridiculous can be entertaining. But so I'm watching it, and for god's sake, John Mclaughlin was wearing a PLAID SUIT, and they were doing their year-end show, and when Pat Fucking Buchanan called Mclaughlin out on global warming by quoting Pope Benedict, the rest of the panel cracked up like he'd quoted the Tooth Fairy. I swear, seeing uptight, middle-american ordinary people so obviously irreverent about religion is...odd, to say the least. I's speaking to Dave, as he's the most irreligious person I know and has been a window into the burgeoning atheist movement I see all the time online. Plus, he's out at the moment, and this provides me the most convenient method of communication. AND...if you ever thought, Dawid, that you didn't fit in in Eugene, check this out. 'Night.

Condiments on the walls

I was prepping limes for guacamole, a confection for which I am renowned in certain circles...anyway, the lime in question had a weak wall and my trust in it's rind's strength was misplaced in that particular wall...as it was weak, you understand. The wall was.

So my knife, my shank, which I do keep quite sharp but is in fact, pointless, penetrated the aforementioned weak wall, and sliced deep into the meat of my thumb. Not the pad, and not the ball, which to me always seemed a bit like the meat of a chicken leg, should we ever resort to cannibalism and we become cuisine. The bit between those parts, the space between knuckle and palm...only perhaps an inch across I sliced, but deep enough to see muscle and artery and sacs of glistening fat like grapes. I felt it immediately, not pain but a sensation of tearing and damage that was...intense, to say the least. I flung my hand instinctively away from the food I was preparing (showering the rest of the area with dram after dram of my blood. Oops.) and over the hand sink in the corner. I put pressure on it, looked at it (ew) and told my boss that I felt as though my day was over.

Trip to the hospital, trip to the Care that's Urgent. Quick too, less than an hour in and out...which for Urgent Care is a tiny miracle, 'specially that time of day. I've always said, I lead a charmed life. Only 4 stitches, not much to look at...but it was harrowing, in its own weird way, and was a surprise. I like surprises. The kind I can walk away from.

Surprises

Used to be, knots and their tying were and integral part of daily life. Cities like Manila traded on the quality and value of their cordage, and even ordinary people had a familiarity and facility with knots that has long since become obsolete. This is what I thought about, as the doctor stitched up my hand with practiced, almost bored efficiency, and I gave thanks for the strange skills that persist long after we've abandoned them.

My ancestors, side by side with yours, spent centuries honing long dead skills, constructing notion by notion and stone by stone the safe, comfortable, modern world that gives me the luxury of my own selfishness. My petulant, childish moods and my arrogant navel-gazing uniqueitude. It's thanks to them that the World that doesn't owe me anything consists not of the ravages of the elements, beasts of the earth, or the horrors of plague. My World is instead the artifacts and machinations of you, Everybody Else. And you are just as implacable and inevitable as storms and leopards, and I'd do well to remember that. Started thinking the World owed me something...had to remember how to get around that.

The sky was beautiful today, and if I haven't said it lately, I do love you all.

Freedom Toast

What I had for dinner tonight...

French Toast (free challah from the Capella)
Bacon
Sauteed apples
Fried egg
Manchego Cheese, grated fine on top of all of the above, and broiled to a melty crust.

Offensive Hat Trick

I pay a lot of attention to ads. Between working in market research and a certain proprietary interest in storytelling, I find myself deconstructing all sorts of tv spots and web ads-who they're aimed at, what they're trying to say, and so forth. And ads are one of the few popular creative outlets left at this point, a place for people who are imaginative to make money and get their ideas seen. So, despite the corrosive nature of marketing, I read some ad blogs, watch some ad sites, I like a little ad report card on the Slate. You know, it's one of my things.

That being said, last night I caught what has got to be one of the vilest ads I can remember. From the abovetheinfluence people (link's to their ad page, since I couldn't link directly to the ad in question-the one called "Sent". Goes to show douchebaggery can be expressed through web design as well), folks from the govt. looking to cut down on the drug use. Now, this is all well and good, and I can understand their motivation-but come on, this commercial is racist, sexist, and totally dishonest, all at the same time. Stuff like this doesn't win the drug war folks, it just makes its authors look more and more like assholes...which, one imagines, they are. Christ, this made me mad. These people, and the asslanterns over at truth as well. Can't lie and be good at the same time, just doesn't work. My rant for the day.

Oh and...

Watch this space tomorrow, as I'll be liveblogging the youtube debate.

Frost Killed the Nightshade

But my life's filled with belladonna enough already, both literal and figurative. Translated and not. Poisonous all, but fine nonetheless. And one of them is newly named...Aliza Three-ovaries. Happy bindle, neighbor.

Like the Illiad

Here's to absent friends, lost loves, old gods, and the season of mists. And let each and every one of us always give the devil his due.

Fucking epic, was my Dia de Las Gracias. I'd tell you, but it would only make you sad.

Scoop of Chocolate, Scoop of Vanilla, Don't Waste My Time

I've been up since 3AM, seen the sunrise and jockeyed with traffic. Been to the mall, Wal-Mart, WINCO (Washington, Idaho, Nevada, California, and Oregon. You're welcome), Capella, and all points in between. Seen terrible, ugly, corpulent people and wished them all dead in a swell of nuclear fire. Cursed and sang and been strung out...I missed being strung out. Cradled a frankenbird baby in my arms and cooed. Manwhispered both professionally and as a talented amateur. I've cooked and cleaned and discovered...things. And I'm back. Really.

Day of the Walking Bird

It's coming up, so I may be head down for the next week or so. I'm having orphans for Thanksgiving-feeding them, not eating them. Though, to be fair, the three birds that will have constituted my turducken were raised in a factory-camp (a nice one though, more Manzanar than Dachau) and their parents, I imagine, slaughtered for the same reason they were...well, the turducken's probably made of orphans too.

Planned dishes include...
Turducken
Stuffing
Huckleberry Pie
Mashed Potatoes, Sweet and Not
Winter Squash
Homemade Bread
Cranberry Relish, courtesy of NPR
Homemade Eggnog
and whatever people plan on bringing themselves.

Problems with vicodin

Oh there are so many, not the least of which is this apparent inability to talk about anything else. I do have other interests, I swear. Just that this novel addiction has moved into my day-to-day like my lower bowel cozied up in my scrotum-both useless roommates camped out on the couch, taking up space and contributing nothing*.

More than anything else, though, is this odd living in the now that comes with being constantly stoned...not that that's that new (I love that I just wrote "that" thrice, and still made sense. That's post-grad writing there, yes it is). Every moment, and every day is new, with less of the previous weighing it down and little of the future looming on the horizon...I don't think of the latter, and can't freaking remember the former, so I'm just doing my two-step here in the moment. This isn't necessarily unpleasant, but is, I think, likely to have some larger consequences down the road. Even now, I think I've had at least three or four conversations that I can't remember, other than to know they were very odd for the other person. Well, what are you gonna do?

But day-to-day, still, day-to-day is not so good. I'm kind of moody to begin with, and when those moods have no relationship to each other through the fog of my fugue, well, lets just say I'm all over the fucking place. I'm losing perspective, which is one of the few things I have going for me at this point.

*This is a purely abstract reference, and should in no way be construed as referring to anyone living or dead...or undead.

Taking Benedictation

Blunch today, and what a blunch it was. I went all out-pies, both sweet potato and huckleberry; eggnog, homemade; apple crisp; and eggs benedict, with homemade hollandaise and English Muffins. Damn, but I can cook. So many fine people, new and old. Thanks to those that came, and sympathy for those that missed both the food and the company. Your lives are diminished by your absence. But then, so are ours.

So that's fine, good to be excellent from time to time. Took a meeting in produce, pressed some flesh and reacquainted myself. The sun shines, and I rode my bike. A good day. Would that you all have days as fine as mine.

I love airports

I do-they're wonderful, bustling public spaces, all light and air and magical flying phalluses. Really, when confronted by the naked eye, passenger planes look fantastical. "No, of course that big metal cylinder isn't going to fly...wait, there it goes! Huh."

Good times with old friends in pretty places yesterday. Even close and comfortable with my opinions of most of you, it has never ceased to amaze me how my heart sings when confronted with one of you I haven't seen in a while. Thanks again, Michael and Melissa, and give my love to Aiden, who we missed.
Angst down, then up up up! Grand. I think I've got it nailed down though, and I'm working it through. Also, fucking grand. One more thing on my plate. I imagine myself (in my own self-absorbed way) as different from the rest of you in that I spend so much time exhaustively analyzing my life's moral dimensions. It's like a fucking hobby, at this point. And while the sentence before the last troubles me, I feel comforted that at least my solipsism encompasses the rest of you. Wish me luck.

Atmosphere

Living in the same place for a long period of time means noticing the little things, the seasonal things. The air is different here in my neighborhood, the temperature, the smells and the weather. At night, when it's cold enough, even if the rest of Eugene is clear, the residual heat in the river leftover from the daylight makes fog. Great massive clouds of it that can swell to cover the whole Whit, or that hang only just above the river itself. Some nights, I'll be riding back from Capella, and every little neighborhood will be a few degrees warmer, the air will start to be more damp. And when I round 3rd and I'm almost home, I'll be greeted by a great wall of cloud on the near horizon. The river unbound by the strange physics of it, unbound and taken to the air.

Moebius Turing Test

I've had any number of people tell me I should try internet dating...I feel bad, but I can't help but hear "I think you should try and attract someone in a setting that doesn't involve them having to look at you." That's not fair, but to deny it would be entirely about protecting one of the very few holes in my self-esteem. Can't go being forthcoming about everything except one's vulnerabilities.

And to be honest, having dipped my toe ever-so-slightly, I find the process sort of gruesome. I'm all for being forthcoming, and for using the New Media as a vehicle for making myself known to the rest of you...here we are, aren't we? But the colors and the fonts and the half-witted, half-assed questions designed be revealing of one's personality...1/3 questions about sex, 1/3 about marriage, and the remainder split between drugs, religion, pop culture and sex again. Meh. All the charm of MySpace mixed with all the dignity and class of the Eugene Weekly's personal section...and you should all know what I think of the Weekly.

AND...since we haven't had this conversation before (and folks, I'm high enough on vicodin, pot, lack of food and sleep, ellipses, and self-satisfaction to think of this as a conversation, rather than a monologue. Ask me about my auditory hallucinations.) I should point out that much of dating, internet or otherwise, counts against my own peculiar, perpendicular sense of morality. Flirting and politesse and chivalry and artifice and care and tradition and inertia and sexism and and and and.

...

My fondest and finest friend told me yesterday (or the day before, one can't really remember) that I was obscure. This is not the first time he's said this. And that's fucked, bad, not good. Because, my friends, that's the exact opposite of what I'm doing. With everything. Really. I set out at the onset of my newly-acquired adulthood in the belief that if I'm not saying something, if I'm lying, if I'm trying to conceal or control or manipulate the image I project to the outside world-then that's bad. It's a barrier to my happiness, an obstacle to knowing and being known and trusting and being trusted by...other people. And folks, I've long since decided that it's you motherfucking other people that are the only really worthwhile things out there. And the engines of all my stress and unhappiness too. Christ, but don't I hate symmetry.

So you can see my dilemma, though I've gone straight through on a tangent to get here. Set out to be serious, look you in the eye. No lies, of commission or omission. No polishing myself up or trying to be anything but true to the rest of you. Not because it's "good" or "right" or because you deserve it (who am I to decide what anyone else deserves?) and not because I want to be liked...even if I do. Not acting out of wanting, not trying to create the consequences of a given conversation or certain circumstance. I just want to stand here, and burn bright and clear enough to see. And apparently...it's not working. Still cryptic, still obscure. That's where I'm at, folks, right now in the last few hours before the sabbath. I think I'll post this before I sober up enough to realize that it's a bad idea.

Arbitors and Abbatoirs

Well well. Pushing for a record in the month, as well as a century in the year. Plus, there's more of you all of a sudden (chatty motherfuckers too, aren't they?) and I'm compelled to mark the holiday.

So...nope, I got nothing. Which is not to say my days are smaller than normal-rather, they're markedly harder to describe. I might, for example, relate to you the story of my acquisition of a sort 0f creche-blanket, complete with a Negative Zone face. Or a short dialog betwixt myself and my favorite solipsist, or the brief bright moments I spent with some of my fairer coworkers today. Or something about vicodin. I might wax poetic about fucking vicodin. But to tell you the truth, I'm all worded out for the moment.

...

All Saints tomorrow, All Souls the next day. Come Saturday, I might need some looking after.

Good Karma

Lots of practice lately, perfecting my dance with the world. With the rest of you. And I should let you know, I am the Dean of Nomenclature. Also, President of Twelve Minutes from Now. Newly bespangled, spangled with the Word. And negative Jesus. So, updated for your nametag pleasure.

Spookypants Mcfavors
Chestnut McWhiskeyskirt
Captain Lowjack
Nice Marmot Camino
Silverback Danny
Poisonfinger Pickles
Noodles Pasta, the Hobo Ninja
Mr. Chartreuse
Living Language Aaron
Skeetster Latefee
Tiny Toast

Dear Diary

That's a nod to someone newly first-level in the green-grocery. This is a stopgap blog, a placeholder. A week is far too long to go sans posts. So here we are, you and I, one writing just to fill the white space and one reading, after, what is essentially filler. So thanks for your attention to my sawdust and packing peanuts-there will be more later.

By way of apology-an epistolary tradition too long gone by the wayside-let me say that my recent history has been peppered with the drama and pathos of others, and it is to those circumstances that my keen eye and verbal acumen has turned. Gazing at the navels of others, rather than my own. Sort of. So that's my excuse/toot-my-own-horn. And...my own adventures, while advancing at a steady rate, haven't seemed to warrant comment as of late. It might be the drugs I'm taking, it might be the terrible and constant pain. It might be something else entirely. Whatever, however, whoever...I'll be back later.

Toyotomi's Japan

Today is the 407th anniversary of the Battle of Sekigahara. We would be living in a very different world today if it were Toyotomi Hideyoshi's Japan, rather than Tokugawa Iyesu's. Not exactly relevant, but close and distant in a way I find comforting right now. Good night to you all.

Gibbering and Gibberish

Mine's getting worse. Less loquacious, less lucid. More skin-crawlingly awful. My head itches, my mind reflects my body more as both collapse in on themselves. I've got a candle, and I've long since learned "only one wick at a time", but christ I seem to be burning a third-even a fourth(!) I didn't know I had. Maybe if I didn't have to look them(you*) in the eye so regular, it wouldn't be so hard.

That's a lie, not even prettily told. That's how bad it's gotten.

I wasn't sure if the vicodin was amping my angst...and I considered that, as I am unhappy in a novel new way today. Not that I'm unprepared to dance w/ my unhappiness. But I decided that it's not the bad that's up, it's the good that's down. I didn't laugh for all of my AM today, and that's terrifying, to tell you the truth. If I can't find it in myself to slough it off through it's (everything's) absurdity...I don't know what I'm going to do. It's awful to have been sobered by something that's left me in every other possible way fucked up.

I feel like my choices are few-pain and discomfort at an intolerable level, or this ugly, dirty, frightening pharmeceutical phugue. And part of me embraces it as a kind of self-destruction I've not faced before, and I can almost see the beauty in it. Almost.






*There's several of you. Try and guess which ones you are.

God's Turing Test

God may be in everything, even in your eyeball, but He/She/It ain't on MySpace, of that I am quite sure. Like Lister says, I'm a pantheist, but I'm not a frying pantheist. Submit your questions now, oh marvelous clade of/for which I am the nexus, submit what questions you have that would detect the Divine on the other end of the keyboard. The sooner we have Neuromancer, the sooner we get Wintermute.

Note: those of you who catch any of the the above references get nerd cred. And Aaron cred. The two's Venn Diagram gets less circular all the time.

Can't talk, eating fajitas.

AHA!

Oh dear. A touch, I fear, a touch. And..."little"? Please.

...

Cross the continent, still toe to toe. Well met, Enita.

Acknowledgements

Top 5 Things I Glean From The Internet, In Descending Order of Value.

#5-Recipes
#4-Topical Information (News, Opinion, etc.)
#3-Personal/Perennial Information (Blogs, Email, Media)
#2-Shit That's Funny
#1-New Ways of Making A Nuisance of Myself (Watch Out!)

The bloated revivified corpse of Taft in '08!

Lest we forget, Taft was the only man in US history to be both President and Chief Justice of the Motherfucking Supreme Court. No, not at the same time. Only one guy big enough for both jobs. So I'm writing this to keep my wonk card current. Can't be letting oblique romance and verbose angst overtake this blog. Well-rounded, I am, like a D10. Politics and undead weirdness all in one post. And how the fuck is "undead" misspelled? My computer's spellcheck knows me not at all. Sad to be obscure even to one's well-used appliances.

The brood mother of 1.4 of my favorite people (Risa I don't know enough to count more than that 0.4, but I can extrapolate her greatness from her file and her genetic proximity) has come out, at least a little, for Hillary. I like Hillary, been liking her since '93 and her Health Care Harbinger-y. But I gotta tell you, I can't get past her A. voting for the war B. seemingly surrendering to the bloated, jowly white establishment of The Other Side of America (geographically, I mean. Seriously, fuck all you non-Pacificans at this point). The money and mercurial moral machinations of her recent senate stint leave me...disinterested, if nothing else. Don't get me wrong, come what may, I'll vote for her over any of the Republican zombies hungry for brains in November '08...'less it's Ron Paul. I'm just batshit crazy enough to qualify for voting for Ron Paul.

BUT...in the interests of actually trying to change the course my accidental country's taken, rather than turning down the current inertia-of-evil...I'm all for Edwards, Kucinich, Obama at this point. And sunsetter squads, I'm also for sunsetter squads.

Remeniscent of Something

So many bits down by the wayside, fallen away. Sloughed off for no reason better than entropy of the imagination. Better that than the alternative, I suppose.

There's all kinds of smart, but only one kind of stupid-failure of imagination. Aaron's pithy sayings #11.

Green Grocery.

Jesus. Fucking. Christ.

Man, I don't want to know the things that I know, seen the things that I've seen. Too many facts in my head-I'd like to take a drill to it, drain this shit out. Woke up in pain this morning, and where the physical has places to go, I got no Tylenol for the emotional.

Wow, no blog for a while, huh?

So yeah, here I sit, hours previous to my job (guacamole and mango salsa this week. I know, I'm a fucking magician) wary of what's lurking in the next few hours. Herman's driving me up the wall, like there's blood running down my leg. And still, the things in my head that I'd like out. On the plus side, none of it's mine. I'm just who everybody decides to talk to. Don't know how that happened.

Threescore

I'd thought I'd write a little back about the moon. And that it would dovetail nicely with some Gene Wolfe talk I've been having with my roommate. But Verthandi's red...Mars, I think. No luck there.

The moon is full and will have waxed itself out tomorrow and all my hoped-for juxtapositions have fallen apart.

It's still beautiful.

Rim jobs and animal crackers

Drunk. Drunk and blogging. Poor choices, but mine nonetheless. Some of this ends up being a surreptitious method of communication with the distant and the close-to-the-vest, but, well, so be it. So it goes, and fair enough. Spoken with my token frat boy, he of the faux-hawk and the arm's-length misogyny. I'll walk it around to the best of my ability, but it's not for me to make men out of boys. Other than myself, I mean.

Met a crazy man this weekend, 17th century numerology and freemasons. Did you know, my dearest clade of folks, did you know that on Jan 17th, 2007, Benjamin Franklin turned 301 years old. And on Christmas day, 2007, Isaac Newton turns 365...301+356=666...the seven seals of Revalation are the 7 perfect, immaculate colors of the spectrum which Isaac Newton discovered/revealed in 1642 with his initial experiments in optics and natural philosophy. Here's to Descarte and his frozen self, his coordinates and the whole 17th century. I may not be in the least part Baroque, but I'll fake it till I die in the snow.

Irony

There is some, I think, in coming back from two days of geographical solitude, only to enforce that same solitude on myself out of some sense of ennui, or something more substantial which I hesitate to more than hint at here. Sigh.

But I promised myself a story. Rather, I promised myself that I would tell you a story (and never think for one second whoever you might be who might be reading this, never think that that is an ihr. It is always du) and as I can't seem to go a day without storytelling in one way or another, let me tell you this one. Besides, it may save me telling it over and over again in the meat world.

I had decided to go on a trip. I needed a vacation, it's true, but I'd also felt the need to connect with my friends of Thunderday, the Firm, my nerds, my boys (and men, in all fairness). I'd wanted to go to the Columbia Gorge, a remarkable, heartbreakingly beautiful place that was much the playground of my childhood. Hood River, Crown Point, Larch Mountain, and above all, Maryhill, were the backdrops to some of my fondest, safest adventures and I hope still to share them with my closest of friends.

Now, there are any number of you with whom I spend far too little time. And any and all of you would be welcome in my home and at my table. My Firm, though, are perhaps the most forgiving of all my friends, and the most familiar with my long-term self. Kevin I have known for more than 5 years now, and he's seen me once a week (barring the occasional hiatus) for most of those years. That's saying something. And for all the adventures we've had on paper and betwixt the pips of dice, I feel as though I owe them a real, honest-to-goodness out-there-in-the-wide-world adventure.

So anyway, I set out to go, took the time off and arranged transportation (more on that in a moment), and in the week prior...well, I began to churn. Several times in the recent past, I've found myself so upset, so enraged and angry that I had to sit silent and speak only to myself. At work, too, which is terribly inconvenient, as my not speaking is noted even by the least observant of my colleagues. All of whom had only the most helpful and compassionate advice. Except Donna, who told me, roughly, to "get over it".

I love Donna.

In light of this shift in humors, sanguine to choleric, I felt like I needed to spend some time with myself, rather than in the company of others. Even when I was quiet at work, it was less because I was angry at anyone than because I really needed to figure out what I was thinking/feeling/doing. This is a theme for me, by the way. If you're just getting here. So I changed my plans, my destination, and set out for another, newer place in my heart.

Some years ago, while reading magazines professionally at night, I learned about a place called Crack-In-the-Ground. A fissure, a split in the volcanic bedrock of central Oregon (catch that for me, would you Josh) that was two miles long and as deep as seventy feet in some places. I was intrigued, and on a whim, I went. I had never been to this part of the state before, as it's in the middle of fucking nowhere. But now, for my purposes, there was nowhere better than nowhere.

Friday, the 14th I got ready. Took a train to Salem where I borrowed my mother's Ford Explorer, which I've named Doreen. I love this car-it was, you may remember, the vehicle that sheltered and transmitted David and I all the way to Yerba Buena and back at the beginning of this blog, and it served me in a similarly capable manner for this trip. Old as it is, my mother keeps it up, and I feel as though her nature has rubbed off on it (we're all just dancing with the world, and my mother's gavotte is a wonder of precision and efficiency. Thanks again, Doris Jean), for it is unfailingly reliable. I filled Doreen with all the supplies and accoutrements I thought I'd need. In order-

Food: Biscuits, two batches. One bacon and cheese, the other maple-date. Chocolate Zuchinni Cake, with chips and walnuts. One dozen boiled eggs. Four Bartlett pears, green as to ripen over the coming days in the warm of the desert. Pretzels, sourdough everything from Capella, both 'cause I like 'em and because they are the same when stale as when you first open the bag. A thermos of potato-leek soup. Two gallons of water, assuming I'd acquire more when I got there.

A bed in the car, an itinerary that went right out the window, (much to the disappointment of any potential ninjiferous search-party) and enough gas to go I don't/didn't know how far. Bushnell binocs courtesy of Lance, digital camera thanks to Michael, and a new knife that I chose as it was the first one that drew my blood. Can't really not buy something's got your blood on it now, can you?

Entertainment: My IPOD and it's plug for the car's tape deck. This was great...for the first day, until it ran out of batteries and my hope of finding a friendly USB port proved fruitless. Five books, which I consumed at just the right rate. Cigarettes, which are entertaining, and pot, which was less so for reasons that became evident when I realized that I hadn't brought a pipe...silly stoner. And...psilocybin.

Christ, my mother reads this. Sorry, Doris Jean. Gonna have to be accountable here. Forthcoming, I mean.

Clothes: any number of useless items designed to keep me warm in the cold desert nights. Seriously, I don't get cold. More on that later too. Several pairs of decent socks and my work shoes, which I only wear to work, but are also the only thing I could hike in. My regular day-to-day preference is A. nothing B. sandals. Wouldn't do, so I took my work shoes...and DESTROYED them. My roommate would disagree, speaking to the fine state of their materials. But David...I know when I've killed a shoe's soul.

I didn't bring a map. This wasn't deliberate, just stupid.

I left the morning of the 15th, early enough to be surprised at a reply to a message I'd thought would go unanswered. What are you doing up at 8:30 on a Saturday, Norn? And I drove...and drove, and drove. Took the highway through Goshen (bible names are silly) and up the mountains to Oakridge, where I bought coffee and felt despair. This is not uncommon in Oakridge. Then up a little more, down a lot. Traffic in the mountains, trucks and trailers like big complicated speed-bumps. Construction too-other people are a pain in my ass. But soon enough, I reached Hwy. 31 and a land of nothing. No people, no buildings, no rain, no cracks in the perfect, smooth roads. Truly, once past the axis of Hwy. 97, there's no traffic and hardly any locals. Just the forest and the birds and the three colors that paint everything in the desert: the hazy blues of the sky, the green/grey/blonde of the dust and the sage, and the rusty red of all the basalt. Like old blood. I was thrilled.

I set out in the general direction of Crack-In-the-Ground, but hadn't been sure where I would go. I figured on going south that first day, calculating my remaining gas, and staying the night wherever I could. On the second day, I reasoned, I'd park myself somewhere isolated and, well...do some mushrooms. Once I reached the valley, though, I saw Fort Rock looming up on the horizon like God's knuckle pushed up out of the ground, and I had to go. I'd wanted to climb it the last time I was there...didn't have the wherewithal. This time, I had nothing but, and time to spend. There are some pictures further down of my hike, but know that it began with the knot of the soon-to-be-dead that stands out. Swear to god, I stepped out of the car after three hours of driving in the bright sun and stepped into a square dancing seminar. In a parking lot. In a state park. In the desert. I stood there and ate an egg, transfixed. Gobsmacked, even, at the sheer absurdity of it, listening to this man sing along to canned and ancient instrumental county music, arcane phrases like "clover-leaf" and "butterfly twirl" drifting to me across the hot asphalt and the continents of my childhood memories (when I was in school, Oregon's curriculum mandated the teaching of square dancing. I'm completely serious).

While I appreciate the odd more than most, I wasn't really prepared for this, so after I finished my egg, I plugged in my IPOD and set myself to climbing the rock. Took my camera, binocs and water and a little food. Crossed the field of sage quickly, and took to the climb. The route I took looked fairly easy, and brought me close to what must have been the nesting site of a pair of kestrels. They were completely uninterested in me, and spent to whole of my climb dancing on the wind and with each other. My affection for birds is well documented, and to see such a fine and beautiful thing boded well. The stone of Fort Rock is solid and knobbed by the action of long gone waves-Lake County is named for the lakes that were, ten-thousand years ago, rather than any preponderance of lakes in the now. Easy climbing, lots of handholds and shelves, but when I reached the top, all the crevices and vessels in the rocks were filled with a fine white gravel...the sun-bleached bones of small animals, left by the birds I was admiring. This too, was nothing but beautiful. I took my pictures, stole a stone for a chestnut, and lept down the rocks like a goat, too sure of my footing and careless with my well-being.

From here, I reasoned, I'd set off to Christmas Valley and the Crack, or perhaps the Lost Forest. Chrismas Valley is a strange area, irrigated into something other than itself. Greens where there should be none. More birds, and other wildlife. Stopped to take a picture of a twirling vortex of what I thought were raptors, turned out to be monstrously big crows. Climbing a thermal, sharing the heat and suddenly turning to dive over me. Big shadows in the sky, crossing mine in a way I found uncomfortable. Later, I watched something take off across the road, sloppily flapping and flopping it's wings. It was HUGE and I couldn't for the life of me identify it, and as I tried...I almost went off the road. When I came to a stop, the small herd of antelope that were grazing next to the road all looked at me like I was crazy. Antelope. Sure. Too many animals to stare at.

So...south. Decided to go and come back the next day, get as far as I could before I'd turn around. Seemed like...Paisley'd be a good destination. Driving on fine smooth swift roads that are so welcome and unfamiliar. Over a small pass, then down again into more lake country. It's like a platter, so flat for miles and then the edges rising at the horizon. All the lakes are dry, but some are drier than others, so marshes and cat-tails. And herons. All those birds, I swear. I saw blackbirds and robins and ducks and all kinds of raptors. My ornithomancy couldn't keep up with all the omens and portents. And I've given up on reading my fate, anyway. It was lovely, but only to look at, and I had my heart set on sleep at this point. When I reached the end of the road, there was, thankfully, a campground set next to a river and a spring. Tried trading an eye for wisdom at the spring, but apparently my proportions are all wrong, and they can't give change for all the extra aqueous and vitreous humors. Birds aplenty, but no ravens for me.

I'll say too, that for all the birds that I saw, even the most mundane were somehow more interesting than my usual Eugenean birds. I saw robins (robins!) pulling straight Blue-Angel bullshit. Goes to show. Something, I guess.

Slept, built a fire. Read. Woke up to stars. I'd not seen stars without the benefit of light pollution in a while, and they took my breath away. Stiff neck from craning it, dizzy from spinning to see. Up early in the morning, full of worry about gas, not knowing where I was going. Spent some time in Paisley on a Sunday morning. No stoplight, but a library and a town hall, old weathered homes and a really nice looking school. Streets full of cars, empty of people. North, now, but how far and where? Stopped at a wildlife refuge that seemed more geared toward the killing than the saving, but I suppose they do go together. Kept up to Christmas Valley again, and set out for the Lost Forest.

East of Christmas Valley there's a recreation area for OHVs...4-wheelers, ATVs, what have you. Trails and tracks and pull-offs and turnarounds. All in the dunes, like Florence. Except that this sand isn't sand-it's ash from Mt. Mazama and it provides a unique soil for a stand of ponderosa pine, out in the desert where they don't belong. I'd always wanted to go, but lacking proper transport and company, I'd not been. Once I got there, though, and all the yahoos on their OHVs had vanished for the work-week, it was perfect. Dunes and sage and junipers and weird old red pines...and no chance at all of being stumbled upon. Parked around noon, ate lunch, read another pair of books, and at about 3:30, ate some really fantastic mushrooms.

Now, I'm not looking to have some sort of hippy-dippy vision quest here. I have no illusions about either the theraputic or the transcendental power of drugs...but, as low as I've been it couldn't hurt. I think that I'm at my best when I remember how beautiful the world is, and under those circumstances, with the world turned up, it's hard to forget. The wind and the pillars of sunlight coming down. Walking in the ashes of a dead mountain, trees twisted by age and weather, thirsty and never to be really full. I kept hearing cars in the distance, old instinct from living next to the freeway. Not cars, but the hard sussurus of the aberrant trees that were my only neighbors. The wind picked up, brought in dark clouds that hid the sunset...I yelled at him about that-the sun, not the wind. I wandered around naked for a few hours(one of my goals), the ash cool on my feet and the wind less harsh that you might think. I felt sharp and nimble and formidable. I had a thoroughly marvelous time, and it's unfortunate that I carry only a little of that with me now. All the things I would wrangle are still here, unconfronted till tomorrow. But I have my story, and my pictures. And I am still sharp and nimble and formidable.

I slept and drove and...smelled bad. Forgot that happened. Came home and cleaned and ate and spoke to other people for the first time in days. And I came to a conclusion, an answer to a question I was asked last week. I don't know about favorites, be they things or otherwise. And I...dislike the idea of discharging a debt-you don't owe me anything, Norn. But if you'd give me a gift, share that with me, I'd like that. So if I could commission a painting, I'd ask for one of the moon, as I didn't see it at all while I was away. However you'd like, however you see it, I believe it will be well worth having. Thank you.

You were in my thoughts. All of you.

Awkward

The sea hangs in the sky

‬‭‮‪‫‬‭‮҉Waves crashing over hills and hours concurrently. Gotta make this quick, gotta vanish. I'm wearing garish silk and wishing for more food in my belly and in my future. Cooking requires of me cleaning, and I'm in no mood.

At all, really. No mood.

I'm so Christopher Cross right now.

Drinking and blogging...not so much. Lessons learned, and I am totally, stone-cold sober right now. Really.

Picture posts, mostly. Cleaning out the camera and sharing what I've seen. To start us out....coworkers.

Resa...surprisingly sheepish.

Andrea giving me what is an all too uncommon look. A look that says "Aaron...go do your job, and quit pissing me off. Seriously, some of us are trying to work. Put the camera down, and prep those melons." There are variations, of course, but like some fruits, and some vegetables, that look is perrenial.

These two...Daniel's one (Silverback Danny) and Connor's the other. Guess which is which.

And this...this is Christopher a.k.a. Smiles-like-a-knife, a.k.a. Skeetster Latefee. I like the perspective here, foreground and background, and a lid. Crystallized Christopher. And yes, I know he's sideways-y'all can rotate it yourselves, like civilized folks.

This too, is a surprisingly accurate picture of Hadley, who wears one glove and is blurry all the time.

And here's some shots from last night's birthday party...

I made...a very good cake. So did Dave, but fuck him, he has his own blog.

These two have the same birthday. That character lurking in the background is the author of those mumus.

One of these things is not like the others.









And finally, here's Tony. Again, a surprisingly accurate portrayal as Tony is, in fact, that badass.

verthandi

Nevermore and evermore. My blood in the fire and my teeth shining like the moon that isn't there. I'll be an angel, and more, and all at once if I like. The dark and the blonde like a broken confectionery tao. Golden and white. Too far from the tree.

Mesh

Parts of me intrude on other parts of me. Literally, I mean. Anatomically. There's got to be an upside to being corporeal at some point. It's eluding me at the moment.

Stupa

Cirrus clouds rolling in, cooling the neighborhood (and the city, I imagine, but here's where I am) and bringing a cool, comforting breeze. Laundry and lazy today, before I head into the kitchen...the seat of my power.

I love my stoop, the sky and the skyline, angles on the neighbors roofs, the tower and the butte and the trees I'm too lazy to name. Soon, it'll all be grey and I'll have to come back to the winter I broke up with last year. But for now I'll enjoy the last of the blue.

Too much catharsis

I'm not getting any-I think my neighbor's hogging it all. Good for her.

Nothing on TV
Nothing to read
I think I'll slit my wrists
And watch them bleed

Note: this is not a cry for help. Blood's good as a metaphor, ends up all over here and in my daily life. But then I have cultivated a vocabulary steeped in creepy. Today, I had a conversation about elephant vampires. What else could elephant garlic possibly be good for?

So yeah, strong moods to be had in my head lately, and their vicissitudes (waiting all week for that word) have left me wondering again about my sanity...I draw a pretty clear distinction betwixt my feelings and my actions, and while the former leave me concerned, I been real proud of the latter lately. Positively ninjiferous (as opposed to ninjiferrous, which would be like an iron ninja. Dave and I just came to this conclusion. Let that be one big pane in your window on my world) and while my pride at that has not been occluded, it isn't seeming to help with the angst. Well, what are you gonna do but blog about it, I suppose.

Notes from the party-a woman, now catheterized, dancing with an adorable baby in the moonlight, music and joy in the background and a baby-eating grin on her face. Truer and purer happiness I've not seen in a long time, and that will be my touchstone for the night. Also, there were so many people on my bedspread that it still smells like ass...and dog. Gotta do something about that. Lots of antiques showed up, and they get points for that. Lots of guest stars too, recurring characters not seen for several seasons. It was sweeps at my house, I guess, and my promos seem to have brought me a larger audience. I got called on my pretensions to godhood by a stranger...there's a reason they call them that. Good for her though. And while the boy had a rough night, he came out all right in the end, and that by the grace of no less than six of my friends. Benevolent and kind are the people I know, and that in itself makes my heart sing. Here's to us all, and the axis about which we rotate. Not you, Josh.

I'll raise a dust storm like you won't believe

Chestnut McWhiskeyskirt
Poisonfinger Pickles
Noodles Pasta, the Hobo Ninja
Spookypants McFavors
Silverback Danny
Captain Lowjack
Living Language Aaron

Waiting for my moment of golden light.

This is a necessity, as nothing as perfect and vivid as what happened to me yesterday can go by the wayside (Nothing has really happened until it's been described-Virginia Woolf) but please forgive my brevity and my inadequacy. To all those of you who were guests in my home, thank you. Together we manufactured many a fine moment and bushel after bushel of raw, uncut happiness. It totally makes my top 5 nights of all time. To those of you who were in on it, helped out, or co-hosted...I hope you share my pride and joy at having so many bright and brilliant people in our corner of the Whit. And to those of you who could not make it...you have my sympathy.


The moon turned blood red, and I imagined it was all for my benefit.



More later.

Untitled

No, it's good. It is. Gives me something to bite down on. I can still twist my own knife.

My +2 dagger of time machine

Ia! Ia! Nyarlathotep! Ia! Yog-Sothoth! Ia! The Black Goat of the Woods! Shub-Niggurath!

In a week, the stars will have been right for only a day

You know, regardless...I don't care whether the revolution will be televised or not. People on my TV, saying it will or it won't-or there'll be a podcast. "The revolution will be via RSS feed. Fuck it, I just hope it happens soon. I watched a commercial for Saturn that was aimed squarely at my demographic (ideologically, I mean. Not economically). Asking people to question consumption...by buying the right product. I used to think that as we became more savvy and jaded as a society, we'd begin to eliminate marketing. Now, it just seems like marketing's going to eat itself, and we won't even notice.
Cooking, in the absence of other expressions of personal excellence, is what I'm doing. Making bread, experimental shoggoth bread. I'll let you know how it goes. Also, there were huckleberries and a trip.

Oh, and

Fucking Herman's back.

Flip

In dreamland, Ken, I am scion of the sun and nephew of the dawn. I can destroy the world, and wear a hat that says "wake up". Raccoons got nothing on me, nature's ninjas or no.

Squirrel Fight

Noisy little bastards, only visible in the effect they're having on the trees in my backyard. Whatever beef they've got with each other, it's serious. They woke me up early today after going at it for almost half an hour.

Not enough here lately, feeling blunted and worn. But the days are bland and beautiful, and despite my recent trough, life's still well and good. One more day, then the sabbath.

Backwards and Forwards

Been intense around here lately. Not just that my roommate's been wound too tight. Like, clocktower tight. Or that my mood swings have left me to wonder at the state of my brain and my potential for things like schizophrenia or a tumor...a wacky tumor. Or the constant parade of strange, wonderful...strange people that end up in my living room, eating my food and breathing air that, while not technically mine, still likes me better. Or the desperate poverty that's kept me from these interwebs for over a week. Or that it's the end of the ju-months.

Or the crushing loneliness, it's not that either.

And, to be fair, know that from my perspective, none of the events above counts as bad. They're just puissant.

No, I think it's just the juggling of it all, the terrible antagonism of those things together. I couldn't be a hermit, but I envy them something terrible. And to a period marked by the arrival and departure of a finite but unknowable number of women, all of them extraordinary (seriously, how many beautiful women do I know? I could start a softball league), let me take a moment to blame your corrosive yin energies for interfering with my life. Come on, don't you know that it's men whose powerful, generative yang makes the world go round?

Kwizatz Hatrack

I may get a hat. I've never been a hat person (a headband person, yes. Ask me later) but I think perhaps a panama hat would go well. I met a man recently wearing a panama hat, and commented on it. "Oh no", he said, "it's not a real panama hat. It's an ersatz panama hat from Sebastapol." It was the prettiest sentence I'd heard in a while, and I told him so.
One more story, and then head down for a week or so behind the arrival of many women, or un-men. I have a good friend who recently hung up his apron at Capella for the busy, glamorous lifestyle of an instrument salesman. When I spoke to him last week on the phone, he remarked to me that he'd hurt his back. "Lifting a tuba?" I said. "No," he said, "not lifting a tuba." So I've told everyone I know that he hurt his back lifting a tuba. Just after spreading this story around at work the other day, I passed a customer with a tattoo. A tattoo of what, you might ask? A tattoo of a faceless man, bending over, to pick up a tuba. Swear to fucking god.

Epiphany Elmo

Lay your hand on the ground between your feet. The point on the far side of the world, deep in the antipodal sky, is your nadir. Look for me there, as I am filled with woe and far from my joy.

Intricate

My heart sings out at the wonder and the breadth of the people that I know. Like stones in the river, they rub up against me, whether I want them to or not. And by them I am shaped, and smoothed, and cracked. And it's all so beautiful.


...


It's enough. It really, really is.

Bill Hicks, thank god.

The world is like a ride at an amusement park. And when you choose to go on it, you think it's real because that's how powerful our minds are. And the ride goes up and down and round and round. It has thrills and chills and it's very brightly coloured and it's very loud and it's fun, for a while. Some people have been on the ride for a long time, and they begin to question: Is this real, or is this just a ride? And other people have remembered, and they come back to us, they say, "Hey – don't worry, don't be afraid ever, because this is just a ride." And we … kill those people. "Shut him up. We have a lot invested in this ride. Shut him up. Look at my furrows of worry. Look at my big bank account and my family. This just has to be real." It's just a ride. But we always kill those good guys who try and tell us that, you ever notice that? And let the demons run amok. But it doesn't matter, because – it's just a ride. And we can change it anytime we want. It's only a choice. No effort, no work, no job, no savings and money. A choice, right now, between fear and love. The eyes of fear want you to put bigger locks on your doors, buy guns, close yourself off. The eyes of love instead see all of us as one. Here's what we can do to change the world, right now, to a better ride. Take all that money we spend on weapons and defenses each year and instead spend it feeding and clothing and educating the poor of the world, which it would pay for many times over, not one human being excluded, and we could explore space, together, both inner and outer, forever, in peace.

Naked in my living room.

My earliest childhood memories are of my incarceration. Until my 15th year, I was held in the Troutdale Asylum for the Criminally Delicious. I was released just after Flag Day, 1992, when the wardens discovered that I had for some time been injecting myself with a potent and zesty speedball composed of various spices-notably coriander, cumin, and nutmeg. (I had acquired said spices through various schemes and daring escapades. The coriander came from the courtyard garden, cultivated by a man who kept a cat who looked like Hitler. The cumin, I collected from the storm drains after the Vindaloo Rains of 1989. And the nutmeg I carefully rendered from Christmas breads-which were, of course, stolen.) This concoction had rendered me permanently unpalatable, and thus, unsuited for the asylum. The long-term effects are still unknown, though still, in the summer, I tan to a fine nutmeg.

Heat

It's killing me, sapping my strength and leaving me pink. Gestern, adventure and beauty, the dappled sun and the wind and the sea. Today, the heat and the regret of staring at the sun. I lay beneath it-in the summer, I tan to a fine nutmeg-and ended up with a radiation burn. Sunday.

Waffling

It's early in the morning, and the wafflemaker's hummed to life. Fresh, delicious waffles. Out of town today, flying down the road to the coast with a gelfling and a sociopath to a wedding. I like weddings, as variations from the norn (Verthandi) and as sort of homemade holidays. A friend, likewise, will be attending a funeral today, and I wish him well at his own strange holiday. I like funerals too, not for the death, obviously, but for the strangeness of it. And I've been to some delightful wakes in my day. Incidentally, should I die, I'd like a wake, and I'd like some Zevon played. Maybe later, there'll be pictures.

Bright future in the minefields

I'm not blogging enough-I lay that at the feet of my job, where I go to have my face eaten. Tired, so tired, and stuck in town on a day that should have meant a trip to Capitol City. Bittersweet, not having to go to Salem to see a dentist. But I'm sorry to miss out.

Lots of things, coming and going. Crazies and old friends and marriages and flirtations and the aforementioned face eating. I'm worn out. I just ate several things that looked like punctuation marks-periods and colons and ellipses.

My namesake, if not my doppleganger.

Slice of life

Things that stand out, lately.

My boss (5'0") and my new coworker (5'0") danced around me hooting and waving their fingers, like some sort of brownies/elves. Being big is unsettling enough, without some tiny people emphasizing the difference in proportion in the fucking weirdest possible way...I am not a maypole, that's all I'm saying.

Then, yesterday, went on the garden tour, a bourgeois, civilized, intrusive sort of way to spend a morning (morning; best time of day to go fuck yourself). Saw the most robotic bluegrass trio ever, watched the hoi-polloi getting massages in other people's backyards-come on, really? A harpist, of all things, and a 10 year-old entrepreneur screaming at strangers-"get over here! buy some raspberry lemonade!". The hard sell, I think that's called. But there were a few lovely gardens this year, and they were nicely contiguous, though inclined to be steep.

Ha.

And then blunch, always good is blunch. Good turnout this week, with Dananna and Capable Thunder. My mother-she made a pun. Good for her. New wafflemaker stepped up, delivered. Can't ask much more from a $3 appliance.

Today is quiet, as I am under the weather (aren't we all, save astronauts). Spent some time manufacturing vitamin D. Cirrus clouds like the damask on God's great blue blade. And seriously, fuck Paul McCartney and his Starbucks commercial. Evil, evil son of a bitch-I hope Ringo's last to go.

Punchy

After tonight, the nights will get longer.


...


Good.

New phonebook day

is like the blandest, most bureaucratic christmas ever. Some strange, magical man drops you off a package-no gifts, no coal, just this grey and yellow anachronism.

Lots to say...no words to say it. My tissues are deficient in something today. Dovetails.

Demon with a silver tongue

Christ, I'm worn out. Come on out, Christ. Bring on the nukes. Staring at the sky and waiting, waiting.

Blood from the stone, today, and this week in general. I'll carry my share of the water. Verthandi and Ares, Sundance and the neo-bloodless. And Blunch, always Blunch. My kitchen keeps it real, but it's a little too real in there right now, if you know what I mean. My karma (cough) can't bear the deaths of any more arthropods, anti-ant though I may be.

And...

Fucking Thursdays.

Mr. I'm too good for the dark

My life is full of Gifts. Joyous, intricate, and odd...some are terrible. But they're all Gifts. I'd will have, would have, sat here and listed them one by one. Day by day. But they're hard, like staring at the sun to think of, and I can't bring myself to share them. Just know, if you're reading this, you're probably one of them.

da da da-da da-da da da da DA

Somewhere along the way, I went from calling people "Hoss", like in Bonanza, to calling them "Hass", like the avocado.


It likely don't matter to the rest of you, but it's up there in my head every time.

Fur

I'm at that weird point where I don't want to sleep...but I can't think of many good reasons to be awake, either. I feel like I'm at a cusp, like I'm listening intently for the squeak of a hinge somewhere. My adventures (and I think of them like that-my days and the moments in them) have been many and varied in the last couple of days, but still, I'm unsatisfied. Troubled, maybe, but maybe not. Whatever it is, I hope it passes.

This is not me.

Taiwan won't be far behind

Motherfuckers...pray I never obtain a djinni.

"I'm not here, I'm somewhere else"

This week, my mother told me that I'm cryptic.


...


Pineapple.

The gibbous moon and my singed moustache

I've got no middle gears. Conversationally, I mean. I feel as though.

Like, I can patter and banter just fine-years of customer service work, I think.

Well, when choosing a melon, ma'am, you want to look at it's blush, of course. But it's got to have weight, that's the most important thing (actually, any of your spherical fruits and vegetables, good rule of thumb is weight. If it feels heavy, that's your good first sign.) And a lot of folks like the smell method-I have a right terrible sense of smell, so I've never had much truck with the smell method. But lots of folks swear by it, so...And certainly, ma'am, if you ever have any trouble with anything you acquire here in the produce department, please let us know and bring it back. We don't want you walking out of here with substandard produce. No ma'am, thank you. And have a good day.

I can do that all day.

And if you want to talk about politics and science and history and gender and race and communication...if you want to have it out with me or share yourself with me or cry on my shoulder or ask me for help-I can do that too. I have all kinds of time and energy and deft sunk into communicating in an honest, articulate, accountable respectful way. Those are my favorite conversations.

But when it comes down to small talk, that medium-depth introductory social niceties that make up a good portion of "normal" conversation...I'm at a loss. Sometimes I feel like I don't have anything to add, sometimes I'm just not sure what the other person(s) wants to hear. But mostly, I just don't fucking care. And that's a problem, since my not caring doesn't trump their need to talk about sports or the weather or some other passing bullshit. My conundrum for the night. It's not as cute as some of my others.

We all have bloody thoughts

Too long, I think, since I've written. But right now, blood surging in my veins, my skin slippery and hot from racing through the streets of Eugene-right now seems oddly appropriate.

Rough day, fierce day. Striding purposefully and dire through the corridors of my place of employment, wrangling people and produce alike. I think my yen is making me bleed, but it's hard to tell with all the other blood on the walls. One way or another, I left today wanting to either kill something or fuck something. Neither of those options presenting itself, my lusts remain unsatisfied, but for the brief release of my ride.

Maybe I just have low blood sugar.

This was supposed to be a post about my name, artifact and artifice that it is. But my identity and the labels that are to it attached don't seem as relevant as they did last night, when I hatched this plan. So I'll tell you about my day, ramble on like I do. And then, once my blood's cooled and I've put some Nixon shoemaker down my piehole. Then, I'll help a boy make a woman who's an owl with silver tattoos.

Fuck, I'm tired and stressed and lonely and angry and fierce. My right eyelid's been fluttering all day. I think it's trying to escape.

White Bread

I'd like to think of days in Salem as wasted, but today was actually quite well spent. Trip to the capitol city on the amtrak train-listened to a book, got to watch the birds and the valley stream by. Lots of birds-I've spoken of my affinity for birds previously on this blog, but I can't help but come back to them. Hawks and owls and falcons and herons seem to pop up a lot in my life, and every weird little bird moment adds something...maybe that's why people take up birdwatching, but I feel like trying to make them happen loses the best part, the fateful part.

So Salem's still a pit, but it's like a pit trying to break free-walking along the mall today, with its manicured gardens and turrible statuary, there was still that lush, verdant smell in the air. And the trees were breeding-little puffs of seeds all over, like a snowstorm. It's hard to hate a place that ugly when it decides it's going to be beautiful, even for just a day. Also, I saw boxwood bushes, immaculately trimmed, with stones set on top of them. Rebellion flowers in the most unlikely places.

And I've got to hand it to my dentist, and to dentists the world over. Most doctors, you smoke, you drink, you're overweight, they give you a half-hearted lecture and that's it. Dentists man, dentists are hardcore. They must pull out all the true-believers in medical school and tell them "Look, you're too...intense...to be a doctor. How do you feel about teeth?"

And lastly, for my dear mother who I got to see today-those of you reading this who haven't had the pleasure of my mother's company, you're missing out. Next time she's in capella, say hello. She's friendly, just like her son.

Oh, I just remembered.

Along w/ the rest of my play-by-play, please accept these recommendations.

So anyway

Things I learned this week.

Blame is the DNA of the front end.
Bruce likes Cherry soda.
I'm worth more than I thought.
Everyone enjoys a "stool" pun.
Pizza...way easier than I thought.
Some people eat artichokes plain. I know, right?
There's a wikispecies.
It's wrong to blackmail anybody, not just the people who are wonderful.
A beetnik is beet juice and drambuie.

There's more, it just don't come to mind immediate. More later, perhaps on Cinco de Mayo.

To my own personal axis mundi

Joshua you bastard.

I am the finest turnip in all the land; some men call me arugula; I am Czar of all Mangos.

Unsurprising revelation #38 in this blog-I'm political. Not necessarily ideological, but I enjoy the political process both as entertainment (Molly Ivins called politics the best form of free entertainment ever invented) and a bit like a miner watches his canary. There are the occasional practical benefits.

At the same time, after years of paying attention, taking an interest, tuning in, holding forth, and otherwise immuring myself in this bullshit-I've find myself angry. I don't feel good about that, honestly. I think that even as a secular humanist left-wing ersatz democrat, I respect the rights of the right wing. I don't need to think my particular views are the correct ones, just mine. But there's a difference between disagreeing with someone else, and being disgusted with the sheer lack of imagination at the top. Something tells me these people aren't born...they're decanted.

Seriously-I watched the democratic debate and the closest we got to unusual were the two guys who we know aren't going to win. And last night, on 60 minutes (I got very little time for 60 minutes-between all that bloviating and Andy Rooney, I usually just change the channel. Lord please take Andy Rooney soon! Who am I kidding, Christ and the Devil'd both give him back.) George Tenet spent almost 40 of that precious 60 rationalizing his performance at the CIA.

"Are these people gonna have a nuclear capability? This confers superpower status on a networked organization that is not a state. Is it gonna happen?"(In reference to Al-Qaeda getting the bomb)

Anyone who could say the above with a straight face and believe...honest-to-god believe that words like "capability" or, god help me "superpower status" are even applicable in this particular situation...words fail me, they really do. I'm tired of old, rich, fat white guys running everything. I call for a moratorium-100 years of the poor, the female, and the off-white in charge. I'd relish the change of pace, if nothing else.

The Hippy High Holidays

I'm a big fan of WinCo, not just for the late hours and rock-bottom prices. Every trip to WinCo is a magical adventure to a strange land that's very well lit and devoid of joy. Late nights are the best, I think-no jockeying in the aisles, no children-and the folks with whom you share the store are always characters. Even the staff's all scraggly and angry and weird.

Brunch today (thanks again to everyone who came) Monte Cristos and a Dutch Baby. Cleaned my kitchen, blew off my gardening. Roses coming along, Rhododendron too. My rhubarb's struggling to breed. I know how he feels.

NOVA

A woman collapsed in one of our (Capella's) bathrooms today. Working next to the bathrooms as we do (I work in the produce department, otherwise known as "those people who work over by the bathrooms"), I noticed that we were having a sudden backup at the restrooms, and thought that one of the locks had malfunctioned-it wouldn't be the first time. So after knocking on the door and getting no response, I called for a manager. When they opened the door, she'd collapsed against it and they immediately called 911. The next 10 minutes were a blur of activity, as we blocked the thoroughfare and cleared the way for the paramedics. When they pulled her out and laid her on the floor, she was pale and had blood running from her mouth. We had two new people training today-they took it kinda hard. I took it kind of hard. It's not what you expect to deal with, not just working with fruits and vegetables all day.

I've been coming to something, working my way to something lately. Let's say it's complicated, and leave it at that, but I want to do something new. For years now, I've been spending two hours a week telling my stories, hearing the stories of other men, and talking about them. I"m good at it, both ways, and I think I want to do it regular. It's a hard thing to say-a treacherous thing, inside. I've been wary of it, working my way around it in my head, and I think I'm ready for it. But I'm scared, scared of myself. All I can have are the right reasons, I just have to figure out what they are.

Doing the dishes

So I'm doing the dishes, thinking about this-this thing, this artifact. This extension of my ego. This was initially, originally, ostensibly about a trip I was taking, but it's become something more than that. I held off on blogging for a long time, unable to see it as anything other than...masturbatory, let's say. But after doing it for a while, I find myself more and more able to see it as an extension of my regular life, the ways I communicate w/ y'all anyway.

(I don't care. I like "y'all". It's a handy pronoun. It also offers me the opportunity to use "y'all's", which has two different apostrophes in it. That's great.)

I'm very self-involved, in the sense that I spend a lot of time in my own head, thinking about myself. Lots of downsides to that, I realize, but I also mean "self-involved" in the sense of being introspective, trying to have a constant sense of self. How I interact with other people, what I want, what I'm trying to accomplish. Those of you who know me well might have some idea what I'm talking about.

I also like to tell stories. It's something that I've cultivated, something that's central part of my identity. A great deal of my perspective centers on the stories that people tell themselves. The story I tell myself. And it's that story I want to share, want to be able to communicate-both because it's a part of my own accountability, and because maybe if I talk to myself(and you) this way, it brings me closer to the truth of things, rather than the story. I don't know, but I've got nothing to lose.