Self-Analytical

Occasionally, someone brings it up, "Any prospects?" "No," and it goes on from there for a while. I don't elaborate on reasons or get into the real minutia of how things have panned out in my history with women. But really, it hasn't been good, mostly. Generally attracting the complicated or struggling. I've packed my bags and accepted that, right now, there aren't any whom I've met that break that mold. Who aren't looking for some encouragement or a shrink, I'm neither, but an equal. Someone to grow and progress with. To move through the worlds of God. To share with.

The funny thing is that I've written this exact entry before, perhaps more than twice, and the results turn out the same. This time, however, it stems from my sitting here on the train listening to a young woman complain to her boyfriend as he stares back vacantly and the guy across from her, while his own girlfriend, checks her out. Or the group of three, complaining about 'guys,' preparing to land at a party. It's an exercise in supposed gender roles. More aptly, a celebration. They act as their generation and gender is supposed to. It's likely that they question these thoughts. Think about them, briefly, at moments when their alone only to snap back to norms in a single erasing stroke. It's actually difficult to think of anyone who doesn't. I'm sure it happens in samples in places, and they're gleeful ignorance fills them with a fabricated feeling of displacement, of vacuousness. They'll never say so, of course. Keeping to themselves, they don't think it's apt to mention, like the already established mores dictate.

As males we're supposed to keep feelings, thoughts, and emotions in check; never revealing ones true self for fear of being called a sissy and being dejected. And as women, they're supposed to bramble directionless, and never show any real intelligence. That's not, of course, to say this is universal. Simply, that it is accepted; perhaps even expected.

Maybe this is just the world that I see, the world that "talks most and says least" as my high school had and continues to nominate and vote on. Maybe those of merit, the women I'm actually interested in are among those who "speak least and say most." But how does one find this person? Are they happened upon? I hope so. I'm tired of hearing silly things from people who only have my happiness on their minds. Silly things without ever trying to understand what it is that might make a person happy.

No offense, friends.

When a stumbler needs a push

Over the three weeks I've been full time again I've focused on watching movies I've missed and reading and saving the writing, if at all, for the train rides; hunched over, my Moleskine in my lap, anticipating the bumps. A lot of the things I know I need to be working on have been pushed back and "prioritized". I'll write the script this weekend, revise that short story tomorrow night, or meet with Henry about the new comic project next week, when we're less busy. There's a lot of that. Much more then actually getting things done. The thoughts are there, I mean, they come up, I just don't act on them. Pages 1 and 2 of the script are done, revised to death, but the rest remains in a pre-production writer's strike like the real guys. Except they feel comfortable calling themselves "writers" and cashing pay checks and not having to think about such things as "is my blood sugar too high?" "Too low?" Is the dryness in my throat from a 200+ sugar level or general dehydration? The headache? It's tough to tell them apart a lot of the time. They probably have their own things though, and they probably do question themselves as I've been doing. they probably have projects where they have to push themselves to make sure they don't die in a limbo.

And then I look back at the passed - think back to the moods, the inescapable feelings - and remember that it's depression. That fair weather friend. The one I smile at through the mesh screen of the front door out of courtesy and finds it's way in regardless. That grin, that pang that it understands by looking at it's crows feet. Really, that's how it gets hold. How when you turn from the door it's right there, in a rocking chair, waiting for you to just sit down and do nothing with it for a while. And you do. And it aches.

Things I love about riding the train:

or something...
1) Wanting to pull the headphones/headphones out of someone's ears or pulling the CD Player/mp3 player from their coat and smashing them;
2) Listening to an old Russian man extrapolate, in broke English, on his belief that we could solve all our energy problems if only we could utilize the power of donkey technology [the Saudis are getting 8 mpg (miles per goat) while we here in the U.S. are only getting 4], and then switching to Russian as you see the Russian woman sitting across from growing increasingly angry as he's obviously saying something offensive in Russian;
3) Hearing an African-American woman who's either a really fantastic actor or a paranoid schizophrenic mumble to herself about how 'black africans' are scum and should have 'accepted the whiteman's handouts'...whatever that means. She was so worked up she was spitting and nearly knocked me over as she made her way to the exit.

Not a lot of writing...

So, I've been doing a lot of reading and watching of movies over the last week. Catching up has been something I've needed to do for quite some time and I couldn't be happier than sitting here, as my room fills with heat that is beginning to make me sweat, and watching movie after movie and reading comic after book.

...that is all. FOR NOW!

Avoiding over-punctuating

The heater turns on and melts my imagination. That's to say, I feel things slip. Now, I could very easily crack the window, level the room, but that won't last long as the room would grow cold and the heater wouldn't turn back on until I'd added blanket then comforter to my pile. Circuitous again, it would be. The worst of it is that rest comes similarly, shifting. I’m usually unable to just lie down and zonk out. Things require a certain level of attempt, of concentration or contemplated and exacted plans. And regardless, I’d walk up again at around three. So, I don’t lie down at all for a long time, until the balance is a little closer to bearable, until around now-ish.

My first thought to that end is simple: won’t this leave disruptive clouds under my eyes? Won’t it cause a disconnect from the text I’m reading on the el as all I can do to remind my eyes that they should stay open is watch others on the train. Usually, there’s at least one gentleman asleep, leaned over with his mouth a trap and his mustache growing passed his lips. I never hear him snore or sleeping, just know that he is; his breathing is indicative. Those around him, including the night waitress whose day is spent at Roosevelt or Truman not hardly bundled enough, seem concerned, like they’re his children and they know he needs the sleep. So, they block the door and mutter curses to the driver about keeping the door open or the train itself for the ill-temperate air pumping through the vents.

But what if I do fall asleep now? …no. Doesn’t help, really. The mornings will be slow, and I’ll read too much knowing that I could just wait until arriving at my desk, after pressing my jacket against my mesh chair. This, of course, will yield exhausted or bored or simply uninspired hours with the screen, or walking the hall to hold conversation that holds no prompting and the shifts in chairs and raises of eyebrows that tell me that they “actually have work to do.” I don’t, really. The piles could be executed in the time it used to take: 6 hours. None of this pacing oneself. Taking moments to jog in place and splash single-serve cups into my face and shake the beads off.

The floor could be pushed down, my eyes together and bent. I could work on the back muscles I’m supposed to, to best support the growth necessary back there, but I don’t. I mean, wouldn’t that just keep me up even longer, sweat even more with all the windows up, beginning to fog from the furnace and the steam that might come off me if I were in snow and a monk somewhere in Tibet; or so I’ve read somewhere. No. …nope. Allow the mind to wander seems to make more sense. This junction would seem more palatable if only my imagination and brain would work in this heat. Defiance, they heat lest often comes.

This all just came right out...

At some point, over the last couple weeks, I felt my mind slipping. Every once in a while a spike on the right side of my head, all the way down to the back of my eye or a stomach issue that that ends with a collapsible body. And I've been just confused. Looking and analyzing as much of what is happening in my life as possible and not seeing a discernible pattern. Well, maybe that's speaking a little too soon. There are things that do make sense, possibly. The stomach aches like I used to have in elementary and middle school are a singular example of that. ...well, actually, maybe some of the ache, the ones all over, are consistent with spiritual difficulties. A lack of teaching, prayer, specific, positive thoughts. The things that generally keep my going. It's just not that simple. It can't be. As I attempt to move passed those things I realize more. That I really miss Lindsey. Miss sitting around, feeling uneffected by the world and catching up on episodes of Lost while talking about our spiritual, emotional, and physical states. That her chiropractor believes she needs to eat more foods with trace minerals and after my session with Julie (the intuitive) something similar was brought up. There would be a level of release. Not completely unlike the gentleman who was just in the washroom and his gross moans of urination, but above all a feeling of connection, one that I don't necessarily feel with most people. A conversation of unrelenting truths and love and self reflective analysis.

So, I sit here, several hours after beginning to write this, wondering, still, how I might be able to avail myself of the stresses, and I remember that not long ago I wrote about the futility of focusing, stressing about the things we cannot change. Then, reality snaps back and I realize that those things aren't what are the real issue. Not even close, in fact. My problem rests in those issues, those problems that I do have, but refuse to make attempts on correcting. Those I've created for myself. Tombs or crypts for my head to live. But, dammit, I ain't dead yet.

Now rests the need to find motivation. to reuncover modes of recognition, acceptance, and conquering; also, to ease myself down as my penmanship is disintegrating as I write, like I'm running out of time, but I'm not; I'm free. Then, I can do something beneficial and worth while and awesome.

Here's looking for the push! Also, for my cellphone to call Dad and Lindsey, and vomit out rainbows of joy (eww) and frustration (also, eww).

Cataloguing has never been so exciting...or something

Finals are fast approaching, and thus comes stress. I've avoided it so far by trying to get work done early so as to fight off the inevitable backlash of too much sugar being produced by my liver, but I'm no longer hopeful that it'll maintain. Tonight I had a spike and ended up falling asleep for several hours missing my night class. Now, while this may have to do with a possible excess of food, it may have more to do with the growing feeling that I'm losing control of my stress levels. And, like most things, it doesn't stop at spikes in blood sugar and the possibility of landing myself in the hospital or on a gurney in an ambulance with the opposite problem I had three years ago. And while this time I would have fabulous insurance so as to lower the payment from $400 something to around $50 its still something that shakes me. The problem could octopus out (spiders suck) and latch onto the overwhelming stomach issues, the attempt to wipe out all parasites in my gut and "cure" my diabetes entirely, and the general disarray of joints and sockets. I mean, this is about as good a time as any for another dislocation, hyperextension, or loud popping or cracking from my shoulders.

I've just realized that I'm not to good blogging without writing it down somewhere first. there's something about permanence that dwells on these keys. the idea that once its typed its there forever and can nary be removed or changed. Hmm...I need to go say some prayers.

Next time: preparation writing first!

"Is there any remover of difficulties, save God..."

Difficulties abound and that prevents me from writing. I don't like to write angry, frustrated, or in any negative state as it manipulations what I write. Things tend to gravitate toward the unhappiness or difficulties I face instead of the positive aspects of the story or issue. I prefer to write happy or content. That way I'm able to convey the positive message thusly. I could continue rambling on about this, but instead get some finality. I pray. Throw it all into Lake Michigan or ask God to sort out all the things I have no control over. Liberation then occurs and I'm able to focus on the things that need to be addressed and thrive.

As-Salāmu `Alaykum?

There have been several situations where I felt the desire to speak up or say something but didn't. Walking to class, sitting in the lobby of the English/Modern Languages building and hearing a conversations, or in class as my professor lectured on Constantine imposing Christianity in Europe, North Africa, and parts of Asia Minor in the early to mid-forth century. Why can't I say anything? Is it simply a situation of my not knowing enough and therefore resisting for fear of humiliation or misinformation? Am I just shy?

It could be both and more than likely is, but this leads me to wonder what I can do to remedy the situation? Can I push myself to learn more, or invest some time speaking up? Seeing someone as I walk and opening my mouth to say 'Salaam'. Would this be misunderstood? Would they think I was mocking them? That I was a Muslim too? That might open with glee over a connection and end with them calling me an infidel, a heretic. This hasn't been the case before, but who's to say that those previous examples weren't flukes?

No, I couldn't open myself to such a think. Can't reasonably invite it to happen. Instead, I'll remain as shy and quiet as I normally am until a situation of ignorance or intolerance presents itself. Then, I'll stand up. Inform them of the beauty, peace, and love that are the pinnacles of Islam. Try my best to be that voice Baha'is are supposed to be: protectors of Islam. Defenders of the faith that preceded our own, that continued the message God was revealing for humankind, that brought some of the most important discoveries and things of beauty ever understood or created on this earth; all for the love of God (Allah) and His Profit, Muhammad. I'll do that, be that, but never reveal myself to any Muslims as attacks would follow, a misunderstanding would ensue, the breaking down of the love I have for their Faith as it is revealed from god that therefore should be. Until then, I'll see them, smile, with love and respect, and hope that eventually the misunderstood comments will dissipate or disappear completely, have Muslims to despise and loathe us by way of a different kind of misunderstanding. And the cycle will continue but not forever...as God has deemed it so.

To my Philosophy professor

I wrote this quickly and did no proofread before sending it off...so there were a lot of typos that I've since corrected.

Professor "Person",

I have a few questions and comments regarding what we were talking about in class on Tuesday, and wanted to clarify a few things.

First, in 345 A.D. a primary faith of Europe was non-existant. As far as history suggests, there was a collection of ideas that people appropriated to create a belief structure that, as far as I recall, was not uniform (save Paganism; which wasn't entirely without its branches and offshoots). Historically they had no Profits of God, no messengers to proclaim a message, and it was not until Rome's force of Christianity that they began to conform. As well, when Rome decided to impose their beliefs those people were killed or converted, yes; however, they also moved east and began a nomadic life as "gypsies" or in hiding as Pagans. Most of the people were accepting of Christianity as Christians adopted their holidays into the Christian Faith, making it easier for people to make the transition.
As well, you had mentioned that Muslims, Buddhists, and Hindus were spread out through the land the Romans would convert. This, as far as I can recall, is incorrect. Muhammad did not reveal His mission until 610 A. D., so it would be impossible for His Faith to exist in Europe at the time. Going along with that, Buddha and Krishna's Faith's began before Christianity yet within the far east of Asia, and didn't spread themselves very far at all. While there may have been pockets somewhere in Europe and Asia Minor, the likelihood is low.
Lastly, Spain was taken by the Muslims for quite some time. "The religion was dominant in the south of Spain from 711 AD until 1492 AD under the rule of the Arabs and Moors of al-Andalus." (Wikipedia article on the 'Timeline of the Muslim presence in the Iberian peninsula') During this time, Muslims made many of the discoveries that would later be credited to Angelo-, Spanish-, French-, or Portuguese-Christians as some of the most glaringly biased and ignorant maneuverings ever (in my opinion). The Faith prospered in the fields of science, medicine, engineering, creating architecture, etc during the "Dark Ages" as many Christians squabbled amongst themselves and attempted to cure diseases they thought were brought on by the devil by using leeches, often times killed people for no reason other than a cold.

I don't mean this as a lecture, history lesson, a showing you up, or anything like that. If that were my intent, I would have made mention of this during class; which would have been counterproductive and disruptive as the purpose of the comments seemed to be based on illustrating a point about the force of Christianity by the Romans on Europe in the mid-4th century. I just feel very strongly that Islam not be misrepresented in any way shape or form. Based solely on conversations I've heard on DePaul's campus and in the workplace, most people don't know anything of Islam passed the words Islam, Muslim, Allah, and, possibly, Quran, and this is a grave under-sight for such a beautiful, loving, and proud Faith of God to be ignored, misrepresented, or slandered in anyway shape or form.
Please also note that I would have done the same in regards to Christianity, Buddhism, Judaism, or any of the other Revealed Religions of God.
I do hope you understand, again, that this is not meant as a slight to you. I think you're a wonderful professor and are doing a fantastic job dealing with a class where many of the students refuse to open their mouths or the few who are, perhaps, overly eager to answer as often as we possibly can.

After my next class with him he informed me that he wanted to print the ramble off and show it to the class, not giving an answer why. It felt kind of weird to have him say that since I was writing something private. Regardless...now it is public.

Changes

Both her shirt and shorts are tight. His eyes seem trained, chaste, ignoring the obvious. She seems flirtatious, an Anthropology major, she says. Again, he's uninterested. This is my kind of dude. The kind who ignores the short guy who just walked out calling him 'bro'. He asks if I've been helped. I have, and I tell him so. I suppose this is the kind of situation people are starting to understand as "bromance" or "manlove" or "mancrush" - a straight man's attraction to another man. The finding of similar characteristics, qualities, or disposition. This is what I have right now.

Its my first day on this campus, my first day in this area. My first time exiting the station at Fullerton instead of transferring to the brown. Its disorienting. There are a lot of young people in flip-flops and dressed down demeanor, walking with the kind of cockiness yet confusion indicative of a college campus. Its disorienting. As if my life, attitude, and segmented world has progressed over the last four years but these bubbles reign unchanged - only the details change. The fundamental stuff, that's what doesn't. The students filter in and out. And I'm sitting here with a moleskine in my lap, scribbling notes.

Blanky Title!

Long have I...wait..I'm going to start over, that sounded way too ridiculous. I've been riding the train sporadically for a few months now. Watching cloud forms get on and of at each stop, legs crossed as I jotted down my longing to join them, to flow like them. And now, I begin that transformation.

Today is my first day, as I walk slowly, too slowly, from the front door of my new apartment to the gentleman handing out copies of the Red Eye and opening doors for restockers of processed and preserved, packaged foods next door to the Sheridan Redline Stop. I sniffled as I walked by, adding a dollar to my car, wishing I hadn't spent as much money but more time cleaning out the dust caked to the ceiling fan as it circulated air above me.

Its going to be a good day, I think, at this exact moment, trying to ignore the pile of nicotine gum blister packs in the seat next to me. After work I'll have my back adjusted and spend about half hour cleaning out and ferrying the last bits of my left over "stuff" in Shane's SUV to the new place, only to wash more dishes and spend more time making my first real meal at the "coming together" apartment. Or I'll watch some TV and crash at about seven-thirty like I've needed to do the last four nights. Dreaming of a class schedule and the uncomfortable seating in a lecture hall.

Stored in my Neck

Early today I signed my new lease and handed over my security deposit just a block from the apartment I'll be moving into on Sunday. As I sat there, anxious pen hovering, my grip on the heft of what I was about to sign up for evaporated. The gentleman at the desk was incredibly kind, cheerful, and funny. I was drawn in by his candor and stayed for a story about his college career.
Then, my spirit was lifted up, I felt comfortable as closure on the "is this the right move for me" question was given, and the reason became clear: a glut of receptive souls in a new neighborhood whom I would teach by either opening or not opening my mouth. I was refreshed. Confident. And then found that I had signed everything and it was done.

Untitiled

Roughly two months before I would have started fifth grade my parent's began enrolling me in a Catholic school some distance away. It was a change, a possible restart for me, but most importantly, it was to save me.


The irony behind having a name like Mrs. Joy wasn't that she made all the children happy and joyful (wouldn't be ironic that way), it was that she had, by the middle of my third grade year, already caused enough damage to see one of her student's, Justin, parents relocate to Seattle. This sounds like an exaggeration, a tale from a movie in the 90's where all the kids thought their teacher was a monster or an alien or an ax murderer but it wasn't. She made Justin feel worthless, alone, and like a bad kid. His behavior at home started to change, and his parent's took notice. It wasn't long after that they knew something was up and began asking questions. "What's wrong?" "NOTHING! LEAVE ME ALONG!" he shouted back as he stomped up the stairs in tears.

After a few of these outbursts, they started analyzing where this could have come from. This lead them to his third-grade teacher. They took their complaints to the principal, nothing; to Mrs. Joy herself, an irritating and consistent nothing; to the school board, nothing - she had tenure, and had taught at the school for over ten years, so there was no touching her. Justin's parents were forced to turn toward other avenues to resolve the problem. Now, this was the mid-90's, the thought of kids going to see a therapist to "talk out their problems" really hadn't hit the mainstream yet and left them with very few options, but his mother had been offered a job in Seattle. So, in order to save their son's emotional health, they moved their life to Seattle. To escape.

Directly before the move, Justin's mother spoke with mine. They knew each other, not well, from school functions and my birthday sleep over party or something, but she confided in my mother with the warning to watch out for David. That, with Justin gone, she could turn her attention on the other kid who talked in class, who might not fit in as well with the rest of the class. My mother accepted the advice but wasn't entirely sure what to make of it. She hadn't heard anything about their being a problem with Mrs. Joy before. Hadn't heard any chatter from any of the other mothers from school. So, she didn't put the utmost credence in her warning.

Months later I wasn't just talkative, a little disruptive, I was an shouting, violent, and volatile. My parents weren't sure what was going on. I certainly wasn't the best behaved kid, but things were never this bad. My mother began poking around about Mrs. Joy, asking questions of some of the other parents and found that this woman had a list of students whom she humiliated regularly. I'm not talking about molestation or violence but a very obvious emotional and mental attacking of a kid; which can really screw someone up. As time progressed my parents were sheepish. My mother, at one point, tried to speak with her about what was going on and was easily ignored by her intimidating demeanor. She would question what Mrs. Joy was doing and Mrs. Joy would dismiss her as she dismissed me and everyone else. My parents were at a loss. They contacted the principal and school board only to find that her case had come before them several times and had been shot down by Mrs. Joy's domineering attitude. She had tenure, she owed them nothing, she was untouchable. By the end of the year I bottled it all up. Thought about others more than I thought of myself. Their well-being, their whim always seemed far more important than my own. I lost my personality and become an enabler. She had destroyed me

Then came fifth grade. Right after the school year ended my parents got word that Mrs. Joy would, again, be my teacher. They dropped everything, and thought about alternatives. What other schools could I go to, were they any good, would it be a good environment for me? Their search lead them to St. James, a Catholic School a few miles away, where my sister and I would transition to for a year. After that, I would move to middle school and my sister could go back to our previous school. I had no say in the matter, there was no consultation on the strategy. Just like my disastrous time in the third grade.

A little frustrated

So, as of September 1st I'm homeless. Shane, understandably worried about money issues, has backed out, and we lost our lease. I'm not sure what to do at this. So I'm freaking out a bit.

Reviewerish

We entered through a side entrance that was hidden from the rest of the building, like the mystery doors on busy city streets that lead to shoddy apartment or equally, if not worse, shoddy injury attorney’s offices. “Did you want to walk or take the elevator?” Joan asks. The faux marble flooring was noisy under our work shoes; wooden heels echoing throughout the short hallway. Taking the stairs, “its only one floor up? That’s good. If it were further we should have taken the elevator,” Soheila chirped turning the corner to see a new-looking door with decorative, angled glass framed by a soft wood. It looked like the door to a home, only cheaper; so as to say, the door itself would probably be knocked down with a single, quick shoulder or kicked through with a steel-toed boot to the base. Walking in, I realized this would not be a normal restaurant experience.

The door entered to a waiting room with knick-knacks hanging from clear, plastic hooks and signs about “wellness” and the “realignment of the spirit”, leading to a receptionist behind a table with expensive, polished rock jewelry. Just behind the receptionist, beyond the load baring wall and Chinese screen was our party, seated around a table, in a room with very little depth. Itself, the room was large enough for three small, circular tables that had been pushed together to accommodate our size, and to ensure that anyone else who wanted to eat would be forced to sit on the couch in the “waiting room”.

Turns out, the “café” was actually affiliated with a spa that surrounded it like a nest. It became clear that the kitchen was no larger than that of an inexpensive one-bedroom or studio apartment in Chicago; which would explain why we were required to phone in our order the day before to make sure our food was there, and wouldn’t take a substantial amount of time to prepare. Displayed above us was a variety, meaning five or six, pieces of art either created by the people who worked there or replicates of more well-known pieces. This information was pridefully advertised as you walk in the door as their “gallery”

After our meal, we were given a tour of the “spa”, which was buzzing like a dead air conditioning unit as the manicure and pedicure specialists sat about talking about their families and slothfully grunted and nodded their heads when we came past.

All in all, it was a very weird experience. The food was great, but the actual environment was less of a café or restaurant and more of a…private kitchen catering to clients of a spa.

Dragonflies and softballs

Last night the humidity drowned our lungs. As my teammates fielded grounders and pop ups and, later, I followed the bike path from Northwestern down to the lake and beyond gnats and other bunched together bugs got stuck to beads of sweat and facial hair. They would become attached and picked or brushed off with irritated sounds; like the sounds I'm sure they made, only inaudibly, when they got stuck. We would all just continue on, thinking very little of it afterwards.
I stood behind, as a catcher, offering advice to pitcher and hitter alike. As they swung and missed, swung and missed, then connected on the only good pitch to them so far. Some got discouraged as they dropped their bats and headed out into the field to swing at the dragonflies who gathered to feast. Scores zip, hovered, and dove through the encroaching swarms of bugs.
At several moments I became concerned about not wearing glasses. I thought the gnats and friends would meet my path, and become glued to my corneas; I would lose control, and hit the ground like being splashed by scalding oil. Soon there after I thought about other orifices, and decided to go home, stopping for a while to admire the hunting bi-planes as they maneuvered the air, perfect examples of how to use a three-dimensional space. And being smart enough to know when to dive in, right in front of us, and when to lay back and let them come to them.

Quick write about the things that occured earlier in the day

A friend of mine has asked the question: how does one rib shift over top of another?  This came up after I returned from a chiropractic adjustment to repair such a situation.  If anyone knows, by all means.

In the mean time, to explain what all has occurred, I was playing softball, made a play from the outfield and chucked the ball in to second.  Upon the third throw, sometimes to home, I felt a pull in my lower back.  So, I asked to move in to play second, afraid that I might have ended up damaging something.  Fast forward to two weeks later, after I sat out playing to "heal up" and get my health back in line.  I was playing second, before that I threw and warmed up my arm and felt pretty great.  After the forth or fifth play, I felt a pop in my back.  It was worse than before.  I tested the arm, just to make sure, and it was like an instant collapse.  I would feel a painful, extreme pull from my lower back to my rotator cuff.  So, I sat out again.

Fast forward, again, a week, my back wakes me up in the middle of the night, it hurts to sit at my desk and do work, so I set up an appointment with my friend and massage therapist, Ben Brown.  At that appointment, he told me there wasn't much he could do.  Pressed on some things, stretched somethings, but nothing felt better; it felt worse even.  So, I biked home.  Pain got worse.  Woke up in the middle of the night, downed four ibuprofens, passed out in a pool of sweat.  Woke up, biked to our retreat (feeling every turn of my body and bump of the road), and sat there unable to keep myself from wincing.  Soon there after, I couldn't take it anymore, called the chiropractor I heard about, and set up an "emergency appointment" (its called that because the doctor wasn't supposed to be in the office today, and made the appointment out of the kindness of his heart).  Cut to his office, his large, brown, spotted tongued dog scratching on the door to the office he/she was locked up in while the doctor took care of me.  The doctor looked down at me, standing at about 6'6" or so, asking questions about my back, about the injury, and told me that he was going to Lalapoloosa this weekend and only knew of two of the bands playing, "That's when you know you're old".

This just in!

We're here on the scene where, not three days ago, David Precht started to worry about the outcome of a script for the comic book he has volunteered to write, 'Above & Beyond'.

The book, a publication of the Treasurer's Office's Young Believers Department is an education tool, teaching and exploring the Baha'i Funds and young people's involvement. Stories generally center around between five and six Baha'i Youth and their non-Baha'i friends in a nondescript suburb at a nondescript high school.

The target age group for the book seems to be "junior youth" or those impressionable young people between 12 and 15, and work toward creating as positive, although, fictional, a role models as possible.

As this story is being written the issues for David Precht's first script continue to unfold. A once simple storyline has been scrapped and re-imagined several times. Even the lesson has been changed more times than the writer washes his cloths.

Right now, however, Mr. Precht has expressed that while the story has been solidified he doesn't "feel confident that the presentation and execution will be well received" by his target audience.

We will continue to monitor the situation as it unfolds.

My ultra-sensitive ways

Some comments are to be ignored, others are given their credence, and still others are taken to heart. They all blend together, at times, for me. There's no way to say, definitively, that every comment made by people will cause a jumbling of gray-area but there are certain times when someone's comment too closely mirror the thoughts in my head. In these moments I close up, I slow down (generally, I'm worked up about whatever it is we're talking about), and I start to process the thoughts and comments. Attempt to really figure out how much is real and can and should be adjusted. I wonder about how much an effect this will have on the view of myself and spend too much time pondering what others will think or how they will (re)act. The thoughts, like roots, grow and branch off to infinity. How much of is true? How much would it effect my life if were excluded? Will this diminish who I am? And then the real question is arrived upon: Where does this action stem from? I pause, I figure it out, cross the street with people I've been walking to lunch with, and become more conscious of how I speak. Add the change to the inbox, opened and viewed, and strive to implement it.

Anti-Climactic? You bet!

I had my regularly scheduled, once a month phone visit with the woman, Dolores, who heads up the inhaled insulin study I'm part of - that took a long time to say. It was a little nerve-racking as this was the first time I'm giving her results since my insulin requirements have decreased by 2/3. The whole time I read them off to her I tried to gauge her response. Was she happy? As excited as I was, or frustrated, angry even that one of the members of her study may not be part of it much longer? I never got a straight answer, or indication one way or the other. At one point she gave me the whole "faux surprise" and "excitement"; I say faux because, over the last year, she's used that same tone and inflection only to find out that she was unimpressed, playing around. So, I sat there, at my desk, on the phone with this woman, unsure of her response. Trying to hold back the "booyah" that was building inside me. Swelling and letting out short jets of steam from my ears, brimming over, and then I thanked her. She told me she would call back with the results from the doctor in about an hour; which lacked any semblance of the excitement I had. I thanked her again, this time with more conviction, like a cocky hunter about to venture forth after some big game, and hung up.

Pause button struck

A quick look back on the last two weeks yields a lot of steps in the right direction. Hopefully I can continue in that direction. I mean, tests are necessary and great, but at this point I'm just thanking God for the break.

An unlawful maneuver

I waited outside for my roommate's sister's fiancé's friend to arrive, breathed heavy and saw my breath.

I saw my breath, in June. Early, very early, on June 30, in fact. Now, I should add to that by saying the visible breath was slight and I was breathing a little heavy, but still. Such a think should never happen. I shouldn't hear that it's warmer, in the winter, in Perth, Australia right now.

Oh yeah! Also!

You'll have a great time here in Decatur if you're a raincloud or a huge fan of show choir.

A text message from Lindsey

"I am so glad you found out about your ass parasites!"
My friends are supportive and awesome.

Oh, I have some things to write about, I just haven't. But I will soon...I hope. See, the issue here is that I've been really focused on relaxing and working on getting an A in this class I'm taking here at Millikin. When I get some time, which will probably take place on Sunday as I'll be done by the end of tomorrow, I'll be sure to write about my trip to Millikin and its parallels to the first time I ever came down here to visit, a conversation I overheard about politics and religion, the overwhelming and painful stomach aches that have plagued me since I got here, and the chef who was the answer to my dietary prayers. I look forward to writing it!

Running of the Bull...ish President

Here's a fantastic article about what goes on in the middle of the fourth inning at National games. Mount Rushmore! I call on thee!!
Love it.

The Effect

There are very few moments of blinding rage in my memory. I can search back, search for tags in the files of my mind and bring up rarely anything resembling a "rageful" moment or "losing it" because of something that happened or was said. Heck, moments of actual anger are so few and far between that the search results could fit on two, maybe three pages on Google. This is not, however, true of my reaction to ignorant racism. Ignorant racism is a term I'll use for a moment in which someone uses a racially insensitive or offensive term without understanding its true nature. A good example would be where, because the people around someone uses a term a person assumes it is okay to use that term themselves. Problem is: it's not okay.

This just came up just a few minutes ago as I was reading a friend's wall, and saw that someone used an insensitive word. Now, being as how this person is in Texas, specifically the DFW area (a place where students have shown up for Halloween in black face) it pulls me in to the personal knowledge that there are still places in the US, specifically the southern states, where the overt racism is still rampant and takes place without thought. It stems from a place of complete ignorance and devoid of the understanding that what they're saying may be wrong. Still, I can't say this is an excuse, simply a fact of what the world is comprised of at its current history. But I digress.

Moments where I see or hear someone using such words, being completely oblivious of the surrounding context of a word infuriate me to no end, and it’s only recently that I’ve been trying to quench the tendency to “lose it” or change that anger into something positive. Actually, this came about after a conversation with my roommate’s mother, after telling her the story of something that happened in, you guessed it, Texas. She explained that my anger is commendable, but ultimately doesn’t really help to diminish the likelihood of someone displaying ignorant racism. Channeling the anger through the understanding that what the person is doing is, generally, out of ignorance the best response one can give is by attempting to educate. After all, a Bahá’í it’s our understanding that living the life and embodying race unity is the best way to change the world view of race and other such injustices. It’s only through those actions, those positive attempts to just exist, that revolution can take place.

So, I’m glad that I took this moment, this long moment to work through my own anger about racism and injustices that are dealt to those around me and transform that negativity into something overtly positive. I hope you’re able to take the time to think, as I did, more about how you can best embody racial unity and equality in your everyday life. And recognize that it’s not only a long, extremely difficult road it’s also an incredibly rewarding destination.

Lined in...

The rain follows me for a lot of reasons. I talk in my sleep which disrupts my roommate and just plain telegraphs it across the world. I make my grandparents angry because on my vacation I didn't spend enough time with them, my friends are disappointed because I didn't spend enough time with them on my vacation, and my fluid in my head has been replaced by tears from my brain which has depressed that I couldn't take a vacation. I'm relegated to my desk, which is the middle of the apartment; not private but exposed to everyone here and the neighbors who can see through the two large windows and one window with patched together diamonds of class with black caulk. To sit here, while someone walks by on the phone, talking joyfully as I attempt to spill. My room is dark with the blinds drawn instead of bright with them open like I need it, to feel like I'm not dead. The light is on in the closet, because my roommate continues to leave it on after he leaves or sits at his desk, in the room, boxing my bed with two walls and the door to make four sides. The person who reminded me, who had faith in me, who would text me with messages like, "You're David Precht, and you're loved," taking away from the three phone calls asking me if I forgot to make other phone calls or take care of other things is no longer visible. Or those others who simply question, like the room is an interrogation and detention center. Track lighting instead of the florescence strobing with energy saving effort. But mainly the rain follows me because while I love who I am, what I have planned for myself, the stupidity and narrow-mindedness of this society, of the culture that I am half part of immediately assumes that I'm not worth anything. That my path isn't going to provide for a family. That I could if only I went out and got my doctorate in something retarded field that I'm not passionate about at all, that I would depressed and hate myself for entering in the first place. That's what I need. What I should do. The path I should have taken. The rain falls on me because I'm ashamed that part of me can't accept the very nature of who I am, and who I have to be. Now, as those doombringing clouds begin to dissipate and the rain slows to a trickle, barely drowning out the thunder miles and miles away I take solace in the fact that I have, a long time ago, begun on the path Baha'u'llah established for me. Happy in the knowledge that my gift is the right one, my life will continue smile-filled, and the family I start will abolish the myths that my predecessors tried to orate from their Mercedes Benz's.

Ants and Micro Machines

My extended family is spread out around the world. Italy, Germany, Iran all have these invisible threads across the Atlantic to Texas, Minnesota, and Illinois. It doesn't happen often, save for weddings and the like, but when I was ten or so family came in from Köln. The most important site, for them, was downtown Chicago. Now, Germany is the "old country" for (me and) a lot of people, and there's a reason why it's called that; hundreds of years old houses and ruins and vestiges of the past rise up everywhere you look. Great monuments and memories of both fantastic and poorly conceived, even devastating ideals. In later years I realized that that sense of history is almost normal. Seeing a three hundred-year old church or park that has existed longer than any of the oldest buildings here in the U.S. happens as they're walking to the bank. My relatives wanted to see something new, something distinct to this country. Among those things was my second cousin nearly jumping through the roof of my parent's mini-van in excitement over seeing a Corvette and the Sears Tower.

It's pretty funny to think back to when you're a child and remember the wonder that existed as you looked down at the city, holding your wide-open hand up like you've just blocked out nearly half a large city. How small the ants (if you could see them at all) and Micromachines were moving about like they're part of some greater thing. Moving together. And then running over to tug on your dad's shirt, to point out the white, domed building rising up from the trees drawing everyone towards it, unifying ants from all over the world.

I ramble a lot!

Yes, Shirin is a Precht

My sister went to the State Science Fair today to present her project of which water is safest to drink (I can't recall the actual name, sadly) to a panel of judges. A week ago it became apparent to me that she wasn't all that interested in going and had been nervously and anxiously thinking her way to a ulcer (no, not literally). She would stand with her elbows to her stomach, slightly hunched over, white knuckles to her collar bones. She went anyway, as one of ten students from her school; six girls. She called with ten minutes left on the three hour drive back home to tell me that she received a gold medal in...some specific category. My mom chirped in the background, to which my sister responds, "I want to have a Viking funeral when we get home." My mother was obviously displeased, "Someone next to me said that she was going to burn hers when she got home," my sister responded with a chuckle.
Upon arriving home, or so my sister filled me in soon there after, she "stomped on it." I asked if she took pictures, and she responded with a 'no' but said that she "started yelling...and mom yelled at me and dad laughed." Of course mom would yell at her daughter stomping on the project she was sure she loved and felt no animus towards. Problem was, there was a lot. She then mentioned that she didn't think our mom would let her having her Viking Funeral, "but it would be cool". It was at this moment when I realized that this needed to take place. The project needed a proper destruction, and what better way than setting it out in some filthy water in some lake somewhere. I then asked "could we shoot a flaming arrow as it floated away?", and that she should keep it so we could give it the proper send off by ourselves. She would, of course, need to keep it quiet from mom as she would kill both of us if she found out.
This whole exchange of continuous laughter concluded with my sister saying "so I think that I'm just going to stomp on it and kick it and throw it in the mud until it DIES!!!!!!!!!!!!!!" Now, none of her text was changed from the IM conversation we had. That is actually what she typed and how she felt. Amazing. She had to go, I bid her "good luck with [her] destruction", and we concluded with a couple goodbye's and an 'I love you'. I cannot properly put into words how wonderful my little sister is, but I hope this produced some kind of feeling.

You know...

What's funny here is that I am writing every once in a while. It's just not finding its way from my moleskinne into my blog. Hmm...perhaps Wednesday will breed some time for writing, cleaning, and getting healthy. WOAH! CONCEPTS!!

South India

Lately, I've been watching a Discovery Channel series on the Mysteries of Asia, specifically The Lost Temples of India. The specials show the enormous temples that King Rajaraja built in an attempt to stave off being reincarnated as a worm "or worse". They show men whose lives are devoted to the adorning of the many gods they worship here. Their silence a mask of the ancient world, their devotion to piety and tranquility is inspiring though. We're shown a 58-year old man walking the streets, shirtless, in a white skirt-like loin cloth and white and red painted on his forehead with a basket full of flowers to used to adorn statues.
It's a pretty fascinating cultural study, not to mention the section talking about the training of elephants to move 40-ton slabs of granite to create Kind Rajaraja's temples. The trainers, riders seem to be connected to the animals, symbiotic in a way as they apply apply pressure on the stomachs to guide them while riding and different oscillations with their voice as they bathe them in the river. Scrubbing with hand-sized brushes. I'd like that to be me one day. Well...at least for a little while.

Happy Ridvan!!

"The Japanese are the most hardcore society in the world"

Those are Ray's words, and they're probably true based on what will be occurring tonight. So, the Boston Red Sox and the Seattle Mariners are playing at 6:05 CST. Daisuke Matsuzaka will be pitching for the Red Sox and I don't really care who will be up for the Mariners. Only thing that matters: Daisuke Matsuzaka vs. Ichiro Suzuki. Yeah. This is HUGE! It's been six or seven years, I can't remember which, since these two played against each other, but it didn't end great for Ichiro. In a recent interview about the match up, Ichiro said that he hopes the game will "ignite the fire in the very recesses of my soul." Umm, I love you, Ichiro. Please crush the Red Sox with your "awesome".

P.S. - Ichiro was 0-3 with a strikeout, and Daisuke Matsuzaka got the loss.

Drool, drool

I've been trying to think of something to write about all day long but have been hitting the giant wall that is "sleep depravation" and laziness. Sleep depravation stemming from how little I'm sleeping and how that's slowing down my ability to function, and laziness in that I haven't gone to the gym for over a week, am feeling weak, and my blood sugars are going nuts as a result. Not to mention the weirdnesss that's going on in my left knee and my ability to nearly pop my left shoulder out on a uppercut swing on Sunday. Lastly...I'm tired.

Take that copyright laws!!!

Will it blend?

I mean, wow!

Long Time Coming

Being afraid of change is natural.

My application to DePaul's BA/MA program is being processed. Now it's time to start looking at a class to take at Oakton Community College this summer to help lighten the load of my first semester. It's one of those "finally, I stopped procrastinating and just did it" moments. Things feel lighter in my head. Easier.

If only I could do the same and take care of my parking ticket; the selling of my computer, car, and drum kit; the starting of my first issue of Above and Beyond, a comic book put out for Junior Youth by the Treasurer's Office at the Baha'i National Center; and getting over the fact that my best friend is moving to LA in little over a month...by getting over, I mean accepting positively and not fostering the annoying "normal" feelings I get in these situations...like resent getting so attached that I get angry. Wow! I am a work in progress.

Application Question

Q: Think of a recent failure and achievement. What were they and what did you learn from them? Will these experiences change how you act in the future, and why?

A: Turning a negative into a positive isn’t an easy thing, especially when talking about failing out of school. For me, it was essential.

My biggest achievement will be getting back into school. Loving it as I did in my first year. Truth be told, I probably should have left Millikin long before I failed out. The environment wasn’t conducive to any kind of productivity or stability either emotionally or spiritually. Then again, finding an institution that fits, one that fulfills all or most of your requirements isn’t easy. Some float from institution to institution. Others, myself included, decided to be stubborn and wait to see if things got better. They didn’t, and that ostrich-in-the-sand mentality will forever be one of the biggest failures of my life; not listening to that voice that keeps telling you that someone isn’t good, it’s working, is doing you harm. I just wish I had left before my grades, emotional and spiritual state had been so effected. Then again, if it weren’t for that very obvious test, I might not be the man I am today. So, I’ll thank God for the good and the bad.

Holy Smart Mirror, Batman!

Here's to Frustration!

The score was 7-3 at the top of the 8th, and then 7-6 by the bottom. The sad part is that I expected them to win. After all, they one last night and tonight should be no different, right? They had a chance to flip that three-game sweep; to demolish the Yankees and get that boost of excitement and determination for the rest of the season. Many of us on the O's fan blog Camden Chat set up post after post about their elation at how well Steve Trachsel pitched, and how the bullpen was a sure thing. In fact, earlier I had been telling Carmel that if the O's had a good lead, it was going to be hard to beat them because of how good their bullpen was.

And then it was 10-7 on an Alex Rodriguez grand slam. And then...there was our uniform reaction of shock, disbelief, and swearing loudly, standing up on a chair in the middle of a busy TFI Fridays as a cloud of 10-year olds' eyes and ears couldn't be blocked soon enough.

I really don't like the Yankees.

Ooze

A month ago or so Mike Castelaz and I spent about an hour reminiscing about Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles and our feelings on the upcoming movie. In the process one of us did a google image search and found a website dedicated to cataloging all the toys they ever produced from 1988 to the present.

It was strange looking at a plastic screen at an object I remember, vividly, holding in my hands; feeling each ridge, groove, and smoothed green, plastic surface. It was even weirder exchanging stories about Mike's vast collection to my limited but my neighbors complete collection of Ghostbusters toys and accessories. Of course, each memory runs thick like an old film in a older theatre, with oil burning lamps lining the walls and a curtain to accent the drama instead of bright like a film projector running choppy in your living room on a hot summer day, butts on the carpeted ground. Regardless, my face is always illuminated again, washed over anytime I remember baseball cards and gloves, hours in the pool, Transformers at six in the morning, and hurky jerky periods in my room, reading and hiccuped arguments around the dinner table.

"Gotta take the bitter with the sweet."

It's like you're not my car anymore

The time has come for my car to face the facts: it's not doing so well. Poor car, possibly.

Futility

Anytime I say to someone that I'll be "really busy this weekend" or planning on "spending the weekend sleeping" just take it with a grain of salt...or a pound. There was a plan. A plan to take care of a slew of things that I had post-ited to my laptop, here. Only one of the four are completed; of course, there are several that exist as ideas or needs in my head that will forever float in the ether of gray matter.

I didn't get more sleep or even close to the amount of sleep, didn't get any of the reading and writing, or complete most of the errands that I had planned on getting. And I blame the ants. Forget recognizing that I have become sloth. Forget that I have bedsores from sitting here; which is not true. Even forgetting that my "brain hasn't been working quite right". These are real, but not as real as those ants. Those ants that even after spending three hours cleaning the kitchen, disinfecting everything, even thinking about utilizing the tactical, nuclear missile we keep in the basement appear to be unfazed.

This is a nonsensical post that is going nowhere and only proves how much sleep I need to get. BLAH!

"They look like dorks!"

We are at war

Today we planned and executed several tactical and disinfecting attacks on the invaders. They didn't know what hit them. This was, until we realized that they had grown in numbers. They have turned to guerrilla attacks on our HQ and spat upon our initial recommendation of peace accords. They are ruthless: executing attack patterns when our backs our turned, waiting for us to drop our guard. We've seen their capabilities: stealth, speed, strength, and the ability to climb on any surface, including walls. There may be a spy in our midst. Reporting all our movements utilizing a simple yet unrecognizable code language. Discussions on how to deal with an infiltrator have not been fruitful as two of our generals have suggested that they know our troops, they would know if one of them were here. They say its in the thorax. I say that's ridiculous. Even at night we can hear their handiwork. They're skilled and much smarter than the size of their heads would suggest. Our latest, large scale attack on their primary barracks has yielded many victories, yet even more anger as more continue to emerge after our acid bombings and heavy sweeping. Until we know more we should keep conversations to a minimum. At any moment they could be upon us. Swarming, clouding, consuming.


Soon we will claim our independence. Independence from the ants!

Nerds can only transform so far...

Brush your teeth

I want to thank Scott Heisel for the link.

The day promises newness for tomorrow

Tonight I'll take the 4:31 p.m. purple line express train to State/Van Buren and walk 0.1 mile to 1 E Jackson Blvd. The trip will be crowded, and I'll probably be without a seat and a change of clothes as I thought to myself, this morning, if I show up looking professional, it's more likely the head of admissions will see that I'm serious about going to and graduating from DePaul. At least, that's what I'm thinking. Yet, the rain stopped about an hour ago and the sidewalks will still slosh with small, medium, and large puddles from here to the train station, from the station to DePaul and back again, so it makes me rethink changing. Especially since these pants, technically, are a size or two too big, and bundle on the sides and back. All this and Lost at nine.

Expect more thoughts as the day slowly progresses and the sun is exposed and then quickly hidden again, spontaneously; with fists cursing the clouds.

"Old Jewish men play Chelsea Guitars"

Now that's an old Blues man at work.

Now with less sleep!

For the last few days I've found myself needing to sleep later both at night and in the morning. An example, I jumped on the exercise bike last night at ten thirty and didn't stop until quarter past eleven, then absolutely had to read until about...one. Then, I wake up at six thirty - well, I mean, that's when my alarm goes off; I actually don't get up until about seven - to start my morning routine.

The absolutely sad part is that I don't even remember hitting the snooze alarm the first two, possibly three times. Oi!

Posts will probably be a bit spacey today.

Through the looking glass...

A few months ago, I wrote about my love of riding the train and my longing to be among the masses of riders every morning and evening. Yet, despite my coming to a time when that will become a reality (back to school), the 'el' situation has, as I'm not privy to such things yet, become a black mark on the cities "spotless veneer" (shakes head, obviously). So much so that an article in the New York Times is talking about issues the CTA and it's riders are having with closures, a lack of communication about closures, an out of date rail system and cars, overcrowded trains (I've noticed this, and it's getting a really bad), decreasing funds, and a tardiness that is about as annoying as commercials for Fred Claus (seriously, why was this movie made?).

Thanks to Sara for pointing the article out to me.

Mercy

US vs Ecuador [a bloody nose, stretcher, and two quick goals in the first (US) and eleventh minutes (Ecuador)]
Chile vs Brazil (nil - nil in the thirteenth minute)

Oh my!

Update: Ronaldinho penalty kick in the fifteenth minute! Goalie almost had it.

Something borrowed, something chrome

There was an article in the New York Times today about a innovative subway car that was created in 1949 sitting in the Transit Museum that would have sped its way along the, long planned, Second Avenue line. Problem is, they never actually created a Second Avenue line due to . Each car was a piece of time's technological ingenuity; with a stainless steal shine, "high-tech air purification systems", "round porthole windows", et al. Turns out, the New York Board of Transportation is finally planning on digging the tunnels for such a line between 96th and 63rd Streets in Manhattan. Just a few years late.

How fascinating would it be to unearth a long buried line that had been dug out quite a while ago but never used? Possibly infested with ghosts...or Native American ghosts...or....you know, rats. Sounds like a story to me! Probably worthy of Warren Ellis. ...yeah, I'm still kickin' on his stuff around.

A tad lax in today's posting: A Summary

So, I've realized that it's the weekend...interestingly enough. But this weekend is the real kind. Not the mid-week kind that we had earlier that was distracting, confusing, and oddly made Tuesday a Friday and Thursday a Monday, but an actual, real to life weekend. So, I slept. Slept, drafted my fantasy baseball team (we look good, team!), stayed up reading and generally being lazy, watched the first half of the Discovery Channel's "The Lost Tomb of Jesus", slept, ate, and was even more lazy.

Highlight for the day: our landlord came out and I was quite rude to him. Not on purpose, but generally because he was two hours late and he very rarely actually comes out to fix what we request for him to fix and that he's agreed to fix. ...if that makes sense. As it stands I'm sore that I was so rude and really should work on trying not to skip the "firm yet still kind" gear of my personality.

Anyway, I'm currently reading up on ancient Egyptian religions, having just finished reading some things about Nikola Tesla, his place in popular culture, and his problems with people believing what he said he could accomplish. Good stuff! Some posts to follow.

P.S. - I now, very much, love Wikipedia even more.

Channel 101 all growed up

Well, it's been a "slow day" of catching up... Wait...let's try that again. It's been a slow day, so I've been surfing around, reading articles instead of catching up on the work I haven't done this week when Shannon alerted me to an article.

When you get the chance, you should check out the actual site for Acceptable.tv. It's passable-rific!

A minor distraction...

My roommate hadn't seen the picture of Kari Byron with Wolverine claws. This has been corrected, and all is good.
Check out the artwork on her page though, pretty impressive sculptures. Did I mention she's from Mythbusters and extremely intelligent/sassy/attractive/obviously talented.

Destroy All Humans

This is a ray gun.
Sure it's crazy and neat, but is it mad scientist, destroy all life crazy, neat?

Six innings of shut out ball

So, Trachsel ended up not allowing a run in six innings. This is good as the last few times he's gone out there he's been pretty awful.

Nick Markakis went 4 for 4 with two homers, a triple, and a single with four RBIs. And so, part of the offense woke up. 'bout time.

Have I told you the story of the hippo and the watermelon?

This is a story I just told Lindsey over IM:

One summer a bird - you know, an African one - was landing near a God-made lake in the middle of a blank area. The bird landed near the water and was greeted by scores of other birds - also, African ones - who chirped and moved over to allow the first bird access to the water. The bird appreciatively started sipping slowly while others bathed, played, and splashed about in the calm water. One of the other birds - a short one, you know the kind with the blue feathers - hopped over and asked, "Hello! Where are you from? What watering hole do you frequent? I ask because none of us have seen you before." To which the bird responded, "Oh, I've been traveling for several miles, migrating, because my land's were taken over for farming. We tried sharing the land, but the machinery's smoke columns and noise became too much. So, I left."

"Wow," exclaimed the tiny bird, "that's a horrible story. I'm sorry to hear that you had to abandon your family. Well, we'll gladly accept you into our collective, if you'd like." "I'd like that very much," cried the bird. The two birds hugged as birds do - you know, they nestled up next to one another; don't get all gross about it, ya jerk - and began to drink the water together.

Later that day, a rhino came to the lake to rest and drink.
It's hardened, gray skin like armor reflected the sun's rays and provided shade for some of the younger birds. The bird saw the rhino and instantly recognized it. The bird quickly flew overly and greeted it's old friend the rhino - animals don't have names, they're animals; this isn't the Lion King, come on! - with wild chirping and elated flapping. To which the rhino began stomping about in happiness, disrupting the younger birds around the rhino - I can't tell if the rhino's a male or female, and I'm not going down there to check; that's gross - until the rhino stopped and quickly began conversation. After a lengthy conversation about how the rhino and bird's families were - they're short because of a meeting you have to go to; thanks - the bird noticed that the tip of the rhino's horn had been chipped off asked what had happened. The rhino sank into the folds of it's neck and bashfully said, "I don't want to talk about it" - which translates to, "thanks for reminding me, jerk." "Oh, come on. I hope nothing hurt you," said the bird dripping with care and concern. The rhino, reluctantly, explained that the other day, when walking by a lake similar to this a hippo splashed out from the water, surprising the rhino, and threw a coconut at the rhino's head.

The bird was stunned that such a thing would happen, looking around to notice that the story had produced an audience of over fifty birds from all around the lake, listening intently. "I'm sorry. Is there anything I can do to make things better?" "Yes," said the rhino quietly, "you can all back away from the lake slowly. Act like there's nothing wrong. Just get about twenty feet from the edge." "Why?" asked the bird. "You want to help me or not?!" shouted the rhino, in a whisper.

Very quickly, all the birds who had been playing along the cusp of the lake receded well beyond the rhino. "Now," stated the rhino calmly, "BREAK YO'SELF!" shouted the rhino as it stood up on its hind legs, pulled a rocket launcher out from under it's left leg - dude, if I had looked back there I totally would have seen the thing, but that, still, would have been intrusive and gross - and fired it into the lake, blowing all of the water and a hippo up in the air.

The hippo, now very dead, landed about five feet from the rhino who had settled back on all fours and replaced the rocket launcher. The rhino, slowly pulled a watermelon out and began chomping down on it as it walked toward the corpse. "That's for stepping on my shoes," the rhino said quietly as it walked away. All the birds horrified, clumped together as the rhino walked passed.


So, I don't have a moral to this story. Give it a moral in comment form, or suggestions on how to make this story more ridiculous.

Trachsel will not fall apart...I hope

My O's are up 6-0 in the bottom of the 4th. Nick Markakis is 3 for 3 with two home runs, a triple, and four RBIs. Hit for the cycle, DAVID DEMANDS IT!

Join Hands Together!

National High Five Day
Thursday, April 19th, 2007

This has fulfilled all my dreams all at once. Well...some of them. I don't think they're willing to make a tasty, sugar-free chocolate or caramel pudding large enough for me to swim in. ...I will have taken a shower!

P.S. - Wonderful! "Bolly mustache, Thadeaus! Let us exchange five fingered hand slappings. Hoorah!" Send a high five, why not. Posted at 1:30, 03/22/2007

Looks like that pen thing has a light on the tip plugged into the base/holder. Please explain the clicker on the other end though.

The Droop

Every time I'm here I stare at this poster for longer than I should: "Understanding Allergies" by Schering. Descriptions of allergens and how the human body deals with them as well as images of those, reactions of, and the processes involved with those allergens. The poster is sticky taced to the slightly darker than robin's egg blue walls, continuing on until striking much darker blue cabinets and continuing on again. There's very little as far as instrumentation here save the blood pressure measurer, a "sharps collector" full of test strips and pink finger prickers, and a thick, pen-like device plugged into a green, then white base with a glowing green indicator on the front. Well, there are also the four boxes of differing sized Diamond Grip, powder-free latex examination gloves, but they don't seem like they count.

I write this inane and dull and pointless description in a vain attempt to stay awake. I was sitting in the lobby, watching Casino Royale with a group of people for over an hour, and have now been in this examination room for nearly another half hour. Words are slowed from my brain to page as my blood sugar continues to drop despite my lack of movement.

Then the doctor came in fro a moment, only to leave again...

The rain made me lethargic

This morning I woke up at eight. Stop! This morning I woke up at eight fifteen. Stop! This morning I woke up at eight thirty as I decided my snooze button had gotten enough abuse. I didn't exactly get up as rolled about for a few seconds until finally reaching for my laptop. A train from Noyes to Belmont, Belmont to Quincy seemed the best option at nine twenty-eight from my horizontal, non-bespectacled position. I sat up and began my now normalized surfing...only to head to the shower at ten 'til nine.
So far, so good!

Naw Ruz!

Happy New Year Everyone!

Do to the nature of the new year - people have concluded their Fasting, prepared for their reset button to be pushed to start a more spiritually based life, and partied to their heart's content - our office will be closed. So, I can sleep, right? Well, as you can see from this post, I've still not fallen asleep. As well, I have to wake up rather early tomorrow for a day off, eight a.m., to go to the doctor's office for a check up. This is both exciting (I really, enjoy riding the 'el' and writing) and irritating (I really should just sleep for...you know, the day) on a day like tomorrow. Where all the things we need to do during the week but are unable to, because of obvious obligations to stay in the office, become a reality. This opens doors for all kinds of errands and corpulence: post office excursions, a trip to the DMV, spending more than an hour wrapped up in a conversation sitting at a restaurant which has an ambiance that you can't quite put your finger on but adore. This is what I look forward to...but not really. My list doesn't necessitate leaving the house, save my trip to the doctor's on Wells and Congress, so I'll have to figure out a way to prop the windows up, open the shades, and admire the weather...kind of. This would all be much easier if it were eighty and sunny tomorrow.

A man is forced to dream of a junket to a state park instead of nondescript streets and people like trees.

Idol cleansing

Every August 7th, the Giant Buddha statue of the Tôdai-ji Temple in Japan is meticulously cleaned by a special group who climb all over the hands, arms, feet, and head of the great statue. However, to begin the process, a group in white prepare the statue by removing the spirit so as to allow trespass on it's sacred edifice.

What a fascinating ritual, no.

Making cellphones faxable

How brilliant would it be to create a cellphone which is created and used for singular messages alone? The articles are here and here, and here's what I'm thinking:

What if they're able to transmit a signal from one connection to another, a light pulse, that contained the blueprints for a receiver? So, there would be this printed out microchip processor, lines of electrodes, diodes, and the like. Just as you mass produce the insides of cellphones and calculators by the conveyor belt method of printing the electronics on a piece of plastic you could print out the insides to this phone using a type of plastic with a metallic ink to conduct electricity. You could print out the specific insides for a phone that are capable of conveying the specific message, attach the phone's face/buttons, and there's your disposable phone. One time use. One way calling.
This has probably been worked out or is exactly what the article that I'm pointing out is referring to, but whatever.

Thank you to Warren Ellis' blog for pointing out the articles.

Mandates from...

To the masses gathered here today

A self-imposed ban on my self-imposed lack of sleep has been issued. The sleepy rebels, whose homes near the back of the cranium, will be removed and relocated to a brighter, warmer, more accepting locality.

Secondly, an increase in prayerfulness will be address, evaluated, and put into effect as soon as proper language can be compiled and an aim assessed. At this stage in development, this governing body has decided that prayers for chastity, temperance, detachment, praise and thanksgiving, and the prayer for decisions will be uttered on a bi-daily schedule.

Next, surgery has been decided as the best course of action to remove “the body” from the sleep compartment that has gripped complacency. The pod will, from now on, only be used when horizontal or, more specifically, hips and shoulders stacked. An explanation as to why these measures are being taken center around the destruction of lethargy and sloth that seems to have layered, thick like a malaise.

Joy and happiness are required. It is a fundamental ingredient in a successfully satisfying and prosperous life. Therefore, this governing body has agreed upon, neigh, endorsed a bill to make it unlawful to not find joy in situations. As life is a mass of spidering experiences and emotions, it is paramount that we all refer ourselves to the “good times” that have existed, or, if this is difficult, a mandatory and insistent recognition of the “good” facets to situations must be stressed.

Lastly, a personal vacation would be requested sometime in the very near future. The purpose of which will be to reestablish bonds within this body, it’s spirit and emotional status. As well, to escape the impending, self-imposed stressors that have surrounded our society.

These are the edicts for the day, for the month, the year, possibly beyond. Thank you for your time.

Rethinking

Far too often I leave this blog for weeks, months even on end. It happens for some not so obvious reasons: depression, road/writer's blocks, sleeplessness, motivation, etc.

So, I've taken to re-recognizing the purpose of this blog. Taking a moment to evaluate what it is and what I'd like it to be. This has lead me to recognize that my personal thoughts, those posts that utterly expose the nature of my being shouldn't be presented in such an open-booked fashion. Instead, I'll be using a different page, where only I have access and viewing rights. Where I can divert my attention away from what people may think about what I've written, and focus on being as real and truthful to myself as I can possibly be. This page, on the other hand, will continue to exist. It will remain as it once was thought: a static representation of the thoughts, research, and fascinations I'm having at the time of me writing. Sure there will be shards of insight and personal prose but the majority of it will serve more to house thoughts, short-handed story lines, and half-formed fragments.

So, welcome to the new, rethought page. Enjoy!

Bucket Bathing

Current feelings of 'underwateredness' have been accented by my own over-sensitivity to my surroundings. This is to say that my head and countenance feel as though they're suspended in a jar on a high school science classes' counter with the lights off and the fresh smell of floor wax just now striking the room. The primary cause of this is a lack of sleep, but can be also be attributed to a feeling of boredom. Boredom with my current situation. Knowing that there are things to write and read, to create and produce but I'm unable to gird myself to the point where I'm proactive. Which leads me to an over-sensitivity to my surroundings; this tends to occur when I'm feeling as though I'm particularly unproductive, lethargic, or lacking in the 'stamina' or 'creativity' to get anything done and someone requests that someone else take care of or express something on a subject that I either have a background in or know an awful lot about. Over-sensitivity abounds as I sit there quiet, afraid to open my mouth from having others jump in or show me up despite of their obvious lack of an intention to do so. "These people aren't one to show others up," I present to myself in a series of slides from a loud projector in my head, "they're friends and, more than likely, suffer from a similar situational maladies that I do; fear of being unnoticed or something about them being unknown. The innate problem in this comes from me very rarely expressing any of the intricate details of my life or skills or stories that actually reflect my inner instead of outer being. So, this has far more to do with my own sabotage or unwillingness to be upfront about myself than anything else. I gently drip onto my bed as beads disrupted by myself instead of the outside world; which, is confusing to most those who are disrupted by comments, actions, and billboarded problems that line their external world.

Comfort Food

I find that ideas are coming to me and I write more when I'm not in charge of my surroundings. Thoughts spill out when sitting alone at secluded tables at the library, leaning against the tope, padded table, waiting for my doctor to return from downloading my insulin test information, or foot propped up, riding the 'el'. Of course, the other commonality would be general quiet or noises that are more easily blocked out, but I believe its has more to do with the former. That I'm far more adept at producing when the area around me doesn't need to be maintained by me. Now, there's a problem involved in this as all too often I turn where I am into another 'home' and therefore stop writing, stop feeling like I'm not the host or owner of the space, so I'll need to ensure that I don't get too comfortable or stagnant. I can't dub something 'my' table, chair at the doctor's office, stool, or train car. Ownership breaks the process down by making things more complex, if that makes sense. Things start and end with a lack of control with me: a release, a 'downward looking dog', or dark room full of meditation.

"...doors open on the right at Quincy..."

I'd like to join the culture of 'el' travelers;
workers downtown;
coffee/tea drinking from
white, recycled cups I picked up
at the Starbucks or Caribou Coffee at my stop,
which ever has the shortest line;
the flexible, the stand up
to let others sit down,
the observer
of scenes and passengers'
reading or blank stares or cat naps;
watch the students
at draft tables preparing for lessons
at Robert Morris;
counting the stops
between my start
and end at Wells;
ignore the screeching of the fast conductor;
enjoy being swallowed up
on both sides
at the Madison & Wells stop;
a stark breeze, hands tucked under thigh,
cramping my hands as we wait
for transfers at Howard;
and reveling in the Sears Tower
as I sip slowly.