Saturday, April 30, 2005

Time to Burn

In an hour I will be watching The Hitchikers Guide to The Galaxy. Always fun to go see sci-fi movies on opening day. Until then I'll burn some time. Two things that hurt my brain today:

1. Bananas are a very strange food. Perhaps I am so out-of-touch with eating anything resembling "real" or natural food, that the site of an actual fruit produced an error in my hard drive. I caught myself staring at a banana today and thinking: I've never really looked at a banana before. You know, looked, really seen a banana. Sure I have peeled yellow squishy things and then shoved the soft innards in my mouth, but up until this point I had never really looked at one. How many things out there in the world am I not completely captivated by because I fail to look at it freshly--differently each time.

2. Our entire daily routines depend on what time we set our alarm clocks to go off. I randomly set my alarm clock for 7:27 a couple weeks ago and it hasn't failed, I see the same people at the same place each day. What really got me spooked was when I decided to hit the snooze button the other day and it threw my whole routine out of wack. I passed pedestrian A near the park instead of in front of the bus stop. Pedestrian B had already disappeared. It was upsetting.

On every street across our country, this same dynamic is played out, people bumping into one another each day. Some friendly, others grumpy; those in their own cell phone or iPod world. All the people I know in my life are classified in a category. Family, friends, co-workers, acquaintances. But then there are all those other people. The skinny caricature of a geek that marches down the street each afternoon with his man purse. The crotchety old fat guy that waddles past me on the way home from the gym. The checker girl at Fred Meyer. I smile at these people, I see them everyday, more than I see my own friends and family. Or the people who's blogs I read? How do I categorize these people. Our villiages are not what they used to be.

Thursday, April 28, 2005

Must See Video

Hollywooders have forgotten how to tell a good story but the Japanese sure haven't. The Blind Swordsman: Zatoichi is well worth seeing.

Captin Picard Spanking Westly Crusher

To clear my head of negative thoughts before I head out the door for the day, let me puke out a few mini rants.

1. How could our government even think about not spending the money to fix the aging Hubble telescope? Compared to all the money we spend on blowing things up, a few million to fix Hubble seems small. Images of heaven are important to who we are as a race. Even though we disagree with and hate each other over trivial things like property, religion, and skin color, we can always look up and be humbled. I am a space baby, all of us young people are. We have grown up looking at deep field shots of galaxies, nebula, and today even planets. When ever I feel uninspired or down, there is always space--all those unexplored worlds that someday our children's children will touch. We might not be able to go there today, but the dream of going there is important...dreams are important, necesary, human. I can not imagine a world without a deep field space telescope!

2. (Sorry, college rant) I have noticed something troubling on campus this year, my fourth year on campus. Freshman are gangly, awkward, and immature...out of the house for the first time and trying to make sense out of the world through the code of laws handed to them in high school. In years past freshman were pretty googily at first but by winter quarter had adapted and become pretty cool.

When I first came to campus everyone was a hippy. Now don't get me wrong, hippies are nauseating on multiple levels, but at least hippies, even if they are fooling themselves, aspire to be better people, to live by the ideals of love and possibly inteligence (even if it only goes as deep as questioning authority). So, hippies are gross but I can live with 'em. This year however I am noticing something different. There are no more "hippies" the hippies turned into commercial hippies. Now you can go to Holstister or some other surf store and buy hippy clothes. Commercialism isn't even questioned by the younger generation...these guys are walking billboard zombies.

The first time I remember logging onto the internet was in my senior year of high school. I don't even think cell phones became popular until after I graduated high school.
This new generation of college kids, the 19 year olds, they have been talking on cell phones since middle school, watching high pace television since middle school, being bombarded with hyper aggressive advertising since middle school.

Red Square,, has always been a place of meaningful dialogue. The radical anti-war protesters would clash with the young republicans. The radical "christians" would preach with signs warning that homosexuals were going to burn in hell. Poets would write thier lyrics in chalk on the red bricks. What ever was going on, it forced passer bys to look at it and then try and make sense out of it, to see someone elses perspective and possibly engage in conversation.

This year however people seem to be brain dead from all the cell phone radiation. People are actually writing, for lack of a better term, "shout outs", to their popular class mates. Here are some quotes that I remebered while walking through the squrare this week (gag me with a spoon):

"We love Michelle more than a fat kid loves cake"
"Sarah is a cool kid"
"Happy 19th birthday bobby, we are gonna get drunk tonight"
"look out Canada, April is 19 and thirsty"
"Rachel + Miguel" with a heart around it.

It is spring, parent and thier soon to be college children are tourning the campus. How embarrasing to have this middle school bull shit graffitied on walls that are suppose to house higher learning.

Tuesday, April 26, 2005


My brother and I hopped on the spare Mountain bikes in my parents garage. The one I was on was painted red and white, an old but sturdy relic from the 1980's--my mom picked it up for only ten bucks at a garage sale. My brother was on my mom's bike. My parents both have nice mountain bikes, a way to stay young--ride around on titanium until hopefully one day your children procreate, then the mountain bikes become toys for the grandkids years later. If there are no grandkids the bikes can be sold at a G-sale and the circle of life continues.

My dad was filling the tires with air while Andy speculated on why there is a design difference between men's and women's bikes. Women don't wear skirts anymore. If anything the men's bike should be bar-less he says. We sort of agreed as the hiss of the air pump stoped abruptly. Tires filled with air, transportation machines inspected and sufficiently examined philosophically, lets go to Jennings Park!

We started out leisurely cruising, Andy and I asking questions about the neighborhood gossip, Dad filling us in. Didn't take long, the first open stretch of road, before we started racing. I remember: last one to the fence post is a rotten egg.

Part of being in your home community is recognizing your work in that community. And there we were three men pointing out our old jobs. See those down spouts dad? I painted those. And there is the junior high. I painted those walls. Oh I hit a homerun there in little league... Remember. I put in the landscape for that business park.

Andy showed us where he and his friends had etched their name into a steal beam at the middle school. "Andy Cory Pat" all rusted now.

My dad showed us the jobs he's done up in the air on the telephone poles, or on the ground in the cross connect box. How he transferred 1200 pairs from the CO to this new housing development or that new housing development. For the first time, I actually wanted to hear about this stuff. And my dad, a cable splicer, explained how the wires in the air are designed. The power company has the wires highest up. Then the phone company and 12 inches below that is the cable company. I asked how much longer we were going to have wires? Will they be gone with in fifty years? "fifty years? More like four or five," he said. "no my job will be obsolete with in ten years. We're going fiber optic. All underground." Dad just stared up at those wires with pride.

That is satisfaction. That is how successful men see the world. Through their work. The world of telephone poles and wire is pretty much invisible to me. When I walk down the street I don't even notice the wires hanging there, crackling above me. For dad the world is telephone poles and wires. Andy and I agreed his job is pretty cool.

After the lesson in phone wire at the cross connect box, we ended up at the new water front still under construction. We drove our bikes out to the edge of the slew and watched the sun fall behind the I-5 bridge that runs over the marshlands of south Marysville. Yellow light became violet, and all the cement reflected a dusty orange radiance. What a great bike ride with my male kin.

On the side face of the bridge behind us, in the rosy spot light of the setting sun, I noticed a phrase written in black spray paint. "Fuck Life."

The phrase seemed so sad and empty to me that it actually became funny. I see the world as a novel, as manicured lawns, painted school walls, and little league games on clear summer evenings. Dad sees Telephone poles and family: work well done. Andy sees life graphically--lines, typefaces, color.

What does life look like to someone who spray paints the slogan "fuck life" on a bridge down by the slew?

Saturday, April 23, 2005

You Know Your from Washington State When....

Came across this somewhere.... thought it was funny

You know the state flower (Mildew)
You feel guilty when you don't recycle.
You use the phrase "sun break" and know what it means.
You know more than 10 ways to order coffee.
to a nice restaurant.
You've stood on a deserted corner in the rain waiting for the "Walk" Signal.
You understand that if it has no snow or has not erupted, it is not a real mountain.
You can taste the difference between Starbuck's, Seattle's Best, Veneto's, Peet's, and Tully's. You know the difference between Chinook, Coho, and Sockeye salmon.
You consider swimming an indoor sport.
You are well versed in the difference between Japanese, Chinese and Thai food.
In winter, you go to work in the dark and come home in the dark -- while only working eight-hour days.
You never go camping without waterproof matches and a poncho.
You are not fazed by "Today's forecast: showers followed by rain," and "Tomorrow's forecast: rain followed by showers."
You have no concept of humidity without precipitation.
You can point to at least two volcanoes, even if you cannot see through the cloud cover.
You notice "the mountain is out" when it is a pretty day and you can actually see it.
You put on your shorts when the temperature gets above 50, but still wear your hiking boots and parka.
You switch to your sandals when it gets about 60, but keep the socks on.
You've actually used your mountain bike on a mountain.
You think people who use umbrellas are either wimps or tourists.
You knew immediately that the view out of Frasier's window was fake.
You actually get these jokes and pass them on to other friends from Washington.

Friday, April 22, 2005

Hippy Parade

The women of Western Washington University are taking back the night. Like every other cause in college, all that is required is joining a mob and screaming really loud so that people will look at you. The parade that marched past my apartment just now was a symbol that the women of this city will not be abused. I applaud non violence, especially violence directed at women.

There was so much energy in that crowd that I thought for a moment this old house would come tumbling down, like the walls of Jericho. Let me turn that parade into a box, a box filled with soap and sturdy enough for me to stand on.

Ok ladies you want to take back the night? Here are some helpful hints that will help you take back the night.

1. Quite dating wounded men. They need mothers not girlfriends.
2. Quite dating alcoholics. They fall into the wounded category except they are more pathetic when you take them out to dinner with your friends.
3. Try looking for a guy with more substance than a thick head of hair and new shiny cell phone. Hair and technology are both fleeting things.
4. Try finding men somewhere other than the damn bar. Only wounded, alcoholic, hair guys hang out at the bar and they are ussually on their cell phone. They are just trying to get you in bed anyway.
5. This goes not just for women but all members of the human species: work in some alone time. It is ok to be alone once in a while. If you are so scared to be alone that you have to date an abusive person then there is something wrong with you. Try marching down the street by yourself in an effort to take back your own sanity.
6. Quite watching TV. Especially dating shows or "reality shows". It is just fake. Reality is much different. There are no camera men following you around. Also, not all men in the real world have abdominal six packs.
7. Quite playing stupid. You think it is cute to pretend that your dumb? All you're doing is making yourself look foolish and allowing really dumb guys to feel better than you. I guarantee if you quite playing dumb you would attract a whole new crowd.
8. For the love of God pull up your pants and burn your G strings. If there was ever a cause to beat a woman it would be because she doesn't have enough pride in herself to cover up her ass crack.
9. I know it seems like a stretch here, but maybe you shouldn't dress up like a hooker and dance like a stripper when your out at the club. If you look like a whore there are plenty of guys with sick fantasies who will treat you like a whore.
10. If a man hits you, leave. "Not that simple." You might say, "Matt you need a PhD in psychology before you can make a list like this". Quit complicating the world. If a man hits you, leave.
11. Though this list might appear to be geared to ditsy bar chicks that date frat boy drunkards, let me point out that I can replace "G string" with "hemp string" and dancing "like a whore" to dancing like a "geisha" and you start to get the picture. For you feminist--quit dating intellectuals who get wine drunk, beat you, and then write poetry about the evils of capitalism.
12. It has to be said. Date me.

I am sure there are many more ways to avoid getting beat and raped... And let me say that I AM NOT blaming the victim, merely giving suggestions that might cut down on the risk of being a victim of violence. And my final suggestion would be this-- for all Fathers, Uncles, brothers and boyfriends. If a man lays a finger on a woman you love, go beat the shit out of him with a chain.

Now we have a workable agenda for preventing violence. Women: Be intelligent, dress intelligently. Men: Beat those men that beat up women. And for the love of Humanity turn off the televison.

If only we could make city walls rumble with an enthusiam for space travel OR maybe just for the hellovit. Living should be cause enough for making city walls tremble with creative passions!

Thursday, April 21, 2005

Coin Laundry

Linoleum desert ablaze in neon light.
A cowboy settlement of used slutty washing machines.
Lintball tumble weeds blow
Over checkered patterned floor.

Patrons sit bored, reading books,
Playing Mrs. PacMan, nodding off.
Primary colors painted on
Crusty, tar stained stucco walls.

The laundry mat, for those less fortunate.
Smokers, babysitters
Black lacy bras.

Your Face is Red

My parents came up this past weekend. They wanted to go see a movie at the mall. We had a little time before the movie started so we strolled around. My dad and I following my mom who was walking briskly towards the cutesy, country, nik-nak store. I spent my entire childhood being dragged into stores like that. I've never understood nick-naks. What a complete waste of money. So anyway, my dad and I follow my mom in the store. Right away I start feeling anxious, some left over repression from childhood maybe. My dad loves to talk. He talks and talks, but never really says anything. People like people like that. He starts chit chatting with the woman running the store. I guess my parent go into that store all the time. I can't imagine being a regular at a country boutique.

There they are my dad and this woman, pleasantly stating the obvious, not saying much of anything but really bonding. My mom is looking at cow clocks and imitation Italian renaissance paintings. And I am standing in the middle of the store not knowing what to do.

Suddenly the woman notices me. Now, when I am with my parents I've noticed that I shrink back through the years and become a little boy again as far as the older generation sees it. My dad and the woman start talking about me and staring at me as if I am not there--merely a small talk conversation piece--a nik-nak. It was kind of funny really. She goes on and on and my dad is going on and on. I start to feel really uncomfortable, dizzy even. As if I am Ashton Kutcher's character in The Butterfly Effect. I feel a slight warmth coming over my face. Not a full blush but defiantly a warmth. Then the woman says "awe, he is turning red." Well that warmth is now a fiery furnace and my head is like a torch. I feel like I am in third grade again, when the health teacher was talking about sex. "Oh my, look how red he is," she says. Well at that point all my self respect was completely gone. I just stood there blushing--a twenty five year old man, blushing in the middle of the country nick-nak shop with my dad and some stranger grinning away, agreeing that I was really cute.

This couldn't have just happened. My manhood was completely ripped away and for the rest of the day I walked between my parents, holding their hands, eating ya-ya's (what I used to call raisins.)


There have to be more senses than five. I just can not explain the world through seeing, tasting, hearing, touching, and smelling.

What about a sense of time, how it seems to speed up and slow down? Or internal heat--not the touching sensation that comes from external stimuli but from inside the body. Or getting a vibe from somebody. Eurika moments. Dream states. There have to be countless others. I heard somewhere that the ancients believed in over 20 sensory states. I will have to look that up today.

I walked home through the forest last night after class. Down below me, to the west, past the harbor and beyond, the sun slowly fell in the sky, turning everything a rosy orange color. I was a machine constructed out of organic carbon I-beams, rotors, and pullies, walking through a living painting. My programing told me to feel wonder and record, on an invisible roll of film, all that I percieved. It got me thinking about what I have been taught, that God created everything for man's pleasure, that this world is a gift to us. Walking through those woods with all of my 20 senses lit up, I couldn't help but think that it is the opposite. That God created us as a gift for his creation, that we might be the voice and stewart of creation. That when it is all over, when the universe dies a heat death, somewhere, all of our recodings will be stored in a vast library.

Tuesday, April 19, 2005

An Absolutely Trivial Problem--And Also Man's Biggest

This is mine, that is yours. Division. Separation. Alignation. Suspicion.

If there are dishes in the sink. Clean em. Yeah a lot of them might be mine, but havn't you noticed all these years, I've cleaned your dirty dishes. Is a dirty plate worth argueing about?

I don't listen? Yeah ok, ok, ok, mmmhm, whatever you say. It's a god damn plate.

Where do you want to draw the line? No, now you listen to me. You can't just stop at the plate. If you want to divide things into mine and yours then we can't just stop at dirty dishes! The whole universe must be put into piles. My food. My movie rental. My globular cluster. Do you really want to go down that road? Just clean the plate, next time I'll clean the plate. It's called cooperation. Can't I get a little help from my friends?

I don't listen? I just got home. I want to eat my dinner. I'll clean up the mess afterward. Ok ok who isn't listening now. Listen, there are bigger problems in the world than this mess in the sink, we can drop this now or continue and be divided forever. Your call.

Give me the fuckin dish rag.

Monday, April 18, 2005


I bought an iPod shuffle today. It is the most amazing thing I have ever seen. I am dumbstruck by it. In my head I have two images. One is of a black guy dancin on the sidewalk holding a thirty 5 pound ghetto blaster on his shoulder. The other images is of this iPod: smaller than a cigarette lighter, white, simple, minamalist design perfected--hanging from my neck like a crusifix. A monolith. A pure white virgin monolith, a religious symbol in a technoligious culture.

Another image comes to mind. A king sitting on his thrown in his court ordering muscisians to play music. Armies at his call, treasures stored in vaults, the power to lop off someones head, and a skinny pimple faced harp player trembling with the fear of hitting the wrong note in the presence of his magisty. Only the powerful--the lordly--had the power of music so freely at their hands. Today we all have the power of kings (except poor people, those pagens, still worshiping those gods of old--the cd player, the 82 datsun hatchback).

Consumer democracy.

The girl who rung me up at the register believed the iPod was too small, that she would lose it. How many lighters have I lost in my life time? With all of my reading on nano technology lately it is kind of fun to own something so small that it can be lost. The day is close when invisibly small computer devices will be sold. And then we will have to all decide as a society... is the emperor wearing anyclothes?

Sunday, April 17, 2005

Good Morning

The first thing I heard when i woke up this morning was rain. tons of rain pouring from the gutters next door. No sun beams breaking through the curtains causing me to sneeze myself awake. Just rain. Rain falling on the roof is one of my favorite sounds, but there is a time for that kind of sound. Like on the porch in the late evening watching a summer thunderstorm--not on a saturday morning, not when all I wanted to do today was sit out in the yard and read. So I dismissed the day and came to my computer, checked my email--nothing--checked news--nothing. Played a few games of yahoo chess and slurped some left over boring. I am not living the virtuous life! Slothfulness is a vice. So with sculpting myself into a greek god in mind (been reading plato), I put on the sweat pants and grabbed the unbrella and charged up to the gym on campus. 9am on a saturday morning. All the boozers and partiers were sleeping heavily. I on the other hand have not have a cigarette or a drink in over a month and feel like a god. So I got on the treadmill and ran from the Grecian shores... all the way to marathon. Then I lifted weights, sculpting my guardian body into a death machine. I walked home in the rain feeling my muscules burning, trying to communicate telepathically with the birds by whistling in my head, it was a great walk home. Never felt better.

Get to my front door, my mailbox. A voice in my head, burned there forever by all those years on AOL said, "you've got mail". Bill. Bill. Credit offer. Important school document. Bills good, conservation seems to be paying off. So I open the school document and my jaw drops. The government is cutting off my finacial aid. Apparently going to school for 5 years with no certificate to show for it is cause for them to cut me off. Can't blame them really. So who knows how I am going to pay for college next year. only 3 quarters to go! I am not to worried. I probably just have to jump through a fiery hoop and then everything will be good. It is only in the last month that I have life has seemed to make sense and I am determined, focusued, and happy about my future. It is like Neo in the matrix going through all the shit he went through, not really believing he was the one, and then getting shot, comming back to life, seeing the world in computer code and then having morpheous saying, "hey neo, your enlightened now, cool you see the code, but you took to long. I am going to go have some malto meal with trinity on the ship. Take it easy. good luck with the agents." Well actually that analogy sucks, but it made me feel better because if i see the world in computer code then i should be flying into the deans chest and taking over the school.

Long story short. Wake up depressed... pull my head out of my ass and feel awsome... later discover that I am going to be homeless next year but am not to concerned becasuse I feel like a sculpted greek god.

Wednesday, April 13, 2005

Check Stand 3

Hey. How’s it goin’?

My God her fingernails are long. And bright. I didn’t know they still made neon pink nail polish. Girls don’t paint their fingernails anymore do they? And all that makeup she’s wearing. Maroon lipstick, blush, orange eye shadow. Those eye brows have to be drawn on. They are so thin. Friendly eyes though. Big green eyes.

Are you going to need a bag for this?

How’s she going to manage to eat her lunch with those fingernails. I wonder how she’ll manage to dip these carrot sticks in the salad dressing without loosing one of those press-on nails in the process. Are they real or fake? They are so long. They are starting to curl. Curly fingernails. I dig 'em. She probably hires someone with short nails to hand feed her. I have short fingernails... Naw, I bet she has a servant, maybe a butler or something that follows her around spoon feeding her and turning the pages in her fashion magazines. She’s probably got an Englishman for a butler. One of those really, severely British guys with a big pointy nose and stiff, thick accent. Not like Mr. Belvedere or Alfred, but Harrison Ford... if he were British. He’s Probably a spy type, with a chiseled body hidden under a black house suit and bow tie.

I bet she’s into working men though-- like a guy that knows how to build a deck. That’s why the butler isn’t here getting her lunch, he is too busy building her a redwood deck. He is probably sawing right now. This is probably his lunch. I need to learn how to build stuff. Maybe I could take some carpentry classes at the city college. Maybe ceramic.

Your total is…eight forty eight.

She’s got to be a rock star--or a celebrity hair stylist. What is she doing shopping here? I bet I would meet a lot of women like her if I went to the city college. The place is probably swarming with ‘em. I have to get out of this place.

Really though, if I had a butler of my own, I’d never leave my estate. I would start collecting swords. I would have a whole room for just my swords. And there would be cool lighting to showcase all the my expensive swords. Up-lighting, down-lighting. I’d even line the room with cabinets--ceramic sword racks. I’ll work on that as a school project . And my butler won’t be a man, I’ll hire a maid instead--a shield maiden. We’ll spend our afternoons fencing in the courtyard. Or maybe she can help me with my pottery.

Hey, this girl could bring her butler and we could have a double date. I’ll order my shield maid to search the butler though, can’t have him wearing a wire tap or something. I should ask her out. Yeah. Ask her. Ask her. Well, really I have so much going on now, I mean with my sculpting and sword hobbies. Maybe when I get settled at city college then I will have time for women. She’s sure got friendly green eyes though.

Thanks. Have a good one.

Tuesday, April 12, 2005


Good ol' Cookie Monster is going on a diet. A felt puppet pretending to eat cookies is sending the wrong message to kids about eating habits. Apparently there is no problem with big business selling those same kids coke and Pepsi products in school hallways. And wait a minute, since when did kids of the Sesame Street viewing age have the money or wit to independently buy cookies. Parents need their heads examined!

Is that what I wanted to write about, cookie monster?

I decided to take full advantage of a resource I have yet to exploit--the University Library's video room. I figure that since so many professors find it acceptable to show us videos in class, and I pay roughly fifty dollars per class session to watch a video, that I could get a few honorary degrees on my own time for free. This is a two part decision: I. I am boycotting Hollyfuckingwood. Not only is the content of Hollywood film morally repulsive and cliche, it is just plain boring. But I have been conditioned for 25 years to feel loved while watching TV, so if I can't watch cable TV or movies, then my only option besides porn is educational videos II. I really want to learn more about the huge world we live in.

I found a treasure chest on the dusty shelves of the philosophy section, a ten tape video history of philosophy, from ancient Greece and India right up to present day. One thing that made me kind of sad and yet totally excited is this: My math teachers in high school were douche bags, I was a douche bag, and here is the exciting part, Math is the language of God. It really is to bad that my math and science teachers never said, "hey guys, did you know that these equations here in this book, hint at a higher plane of existence. See, a2+b2=c2 is how you say, 'thank you', in God speak. And this rhombus here means, 'pass the squash'. Man if they would have said that, I would have torn my shirt, sold my possessions, and taken up apprenticeship with a mathematician. But instead, when asked what the point of geometry was, they had no good reason outside of billiards. Billiards! No wonder everyone fell asleep in math class and copied the odd answers out of the back of the book.

I was a foolish kid. They (I use the term "they" because I am on a conspiratorial rant) wanted me to be ignorant of a higher reality so I would go on to get a middle class job, doing my patriotic duty to support the economy and after a hard day of work at the office, feel pretty content about life while drinking beer and playing pool with my buddies. Now the US is falling behind in the sciences... Here is how I would turn our country around. Let kids know how awesome things really are, that learning is fun. That math is about more than balancing your credit card statements, it is about understanding one of the many languages of God. And dont outlaw cookie monster... ban pink belly shirts that say "sexy" across the chest from all middle schools in the country!

I am listening to music. I am whistling math equations.

Keeping an Inn on Ramandu

I am going to change my blog pretty soon. I wish I new more about computer code, I would design my own bitchin' blog with way more color! But at least this much is true--the title will change, for I am no longer a house keeper! I quit!

One thing I will miss about house keeping is the private eye aspect. I will miss the olfactory stimulation of the place. The stories I could make up about people with only smell information. It was getting to the point were I would know what kind of person stayed in the room just by opening up the door and taking a sniff. I have to say, I could always tell when a Candadian had stayed, thier scent was heavier and more garlicky. Smell is a wonderful and under appriciated gift.

Ramandu is the eastern star in Narnia if I remember right. He dinnes on an island at the edge of the sea. Seagulls, carry his breakfast to him each morning at sun rise and lay out a banquet on a long stone table. The water is clear, the sun is huge, bright, warm, and such a salty fresh smell in the air. Beyond Ramandu's island is the edge of the world and still further east, is Aslan's country.

That is the backstory of the title of my blog, which will soon be changed.

In The Begining

In my dream, there was nothing. No grass. No trees. No people. Nothing. Dream space is the only space where nothing is possible. I was assigned the job of building my own beatuiful world in the void. I manifested some of my favorite beautiful things there in the emptiness: A wicker basket, a vuluptious black mother wearing an apron, dough balls in various states of roundness, plastic GI JOE dolls from my childhood, and more wicker. My beautiful fortress floated around me, incapsulating me. These things seemed so lifeless as building materials, as bricks in my wall. The wicker basket didn't hold a pic-nic lunch. The Mother had no children to cook for. I have to admit that the dough balls were just as neat in the emptiness, but my creation was still pretty lame. Life was never breathed into it.

Friday, April 08, 2005


I have been trying to post something all day and The forces of God will not allow it. I am taking a break from blogger for a while. That is the message I gather from this devine gliche in Blogger.

Tuesday, April 05, 2005

Cleansing My Soul

I was in a wonderful mood today walking around in the sun and whistling. When Andy got home, we went and saw Sin City. I am seriously considering never going to see another movie again-- selling my TV and computer and becoming a monk. We get to the theater a bit early and have to watch "entertainment ignited", 20 minutes of commercials. The lights dim, curtains open, and then twenty minutes of previews. I swear every movie out these days is about serial killers and killer ghosts. I couldn't even watch the previews, they were too dark. I felt my mood slipping into that darkness and when I felt like I couldn't stomach one more murder preview, the main feature started. In the first 3 minutes of the film a woman was shot in the stomach and killed. The next two hours were filled to the absolute brim with violence. And not just violence, but unheard of evil, like raping little girls, beating women, ripping off genitals, cannibalism. I am not kidding it really made me sick.

Sad. When we were eating dinner tonight, I was rambling on about living in pure thought. That if humanity was interfaced with supercomputers all physical prejudices would disappear and we would be free to share in each others day dreams--like the Borg except happier. I had no idea people could be SO dark. I guess I have to reevaluate my entire idea of what humans are. I have always stood for freedom of expression, and artistic freedom, but then again the images in my head usually involve ripe fruit, river rafts, and cello players playing romantic classics high in the branches of swaying elm trees.

This goes back to my post a couple days ago about the magic of language--visual language as well. It has the power to lift the spirit or destroy it. I feel like I paid seven dollars to spar with a powerful dark sorcerer.

Saturday, April 02, 2005

Those Little White Lies

I am living in a black and white filmic world. Ella Fitzgerald is singing me those little white lies.

Gas Prices. They have raise seven cents--this week. Two dollars and forty seven cents now. This can't continue without total collapse of our economy. "Well", you might say, "I don't drive." I myself don't own a car, but gas prices are are still killing me. People's life styles have to change with gas prices this high. At two forty seven a gallon, the likelihood of people traveling up this way and lodging at the hotel, is much smaller than when gas prices were cheap. I am already feeling the effects.

My boss called me today, telling me not to come to work. There wasn't enough business to justify me coming in. Justify? This is my livilyhood we are talking about. I need to pay my rent. I need to EAT! With these outrageous gas prices, I am worried about my ability to pay the bills. I am making less money because of slow business and yet the price of food and utilities is going up! A brick of cheese has almost doubled in price since we invaded Iraq. Less hours at work, combined with higher prices--add a drought into the mix--I am worried.

The Boston tea party. Why don't we start something like that? Dump the oil into the harbors!

And another thing: according to a prophesy I heard somewhere, John Paul the II is the second to last pope before the anti-Christ initiates Armageddon.