I am tired. I am true of heart!

My shoulders are throbbing, but vaccinated. 

Big Oil execs are bipolar, desperately in need of medication or prison.

Can I do school forever? Please?

Documentaries are good for the soul, even ones about Iraq that drive me into a frenzy.

The human back, the sloping field where the trapezius swells against the teres and infraspinatus and weaves itself into the long, firm strands of the latissimus dorsi, is the most beautiful part of the human body.

I don't want to die. Being a body is confusing.

What to do?

extinction, pt. 2

I poisoned Joy and myself last night on... well... kind of on accident.

I was making a gourmet flatbread/pizza-type creation. I used a bit of alfredo sauce. It appeared to be a teensy bit curdled as it spread onto the crust with a consistency like semi-dry latex paint. I scraped off the largest offending curds, and spread the more liquidy portions over the dough. Aaaand.... we were sick all night.

extinction

There are like two people from my old xanga days who still use the damn thing.

Should I stay or should I go?

I'm not sure it'll have the same pizzazz it did back when it was a community of sorts. I mean, it's still a community, I guess. Possesses potential, anyway. But I'll have to work to ingratiate myself to a new community, and if I have to do that, I might as well take my blogging elsewhere, right? I feel like a traitor.

Xanga gods, forgive my blaspheming thoughts.

On the other hand, gods, no, you suck. You don't own me. For one thing, you're always reminding me, every time I sign in, how long I've "been with you," as if I owe you some great debt. Are you serious? What kind of grudge-holding bastards are you? I'm not going to pay you to write half-assed thoughts on an obscure web site nobody reads anyway. Get real. And another thing, what the hell does "Xanga" even mean? I don't know, guys. I just don't know.

This is terrible.

WTF.

I just wrote a long post and somehow it disappeared. I am thoroughly pissed. I'm not going to try to rewrite it. These were the high points:

1. I'm home, twirling my lovely wife's hair between my fingers.

2. I was on planes all day.

3. I had a conversation on a plane for the first time ever. (This is a big deal. I produce a surplus of awkward, so striking up random conversations with strangers is not my forte. Standing in line to board, she began asking me about the book I was reading [The Misunderstood Jew], and we ended up talking for like two hours. Not being naturally gregarious, I attribute my sudden burst of loquaciousness and urbanity to my utter lack of sleep the past few days, but nonetheless, it was really great. We talked about Christianity and Judaism, Joseph Smith [she was a Mormon], marriage, interfaith dialogue, the ability to justify faith systems, hope, etc. and so on. I may write more on this later, but I'm still processing. Suffice it to say it was fabulous.)

4. I cried watching an old episode of The Office tonight. I won't say which one. It might be my period.

I don't know what's gotten into me. I guess I just don't need sleep anymore.

Tomorrow, I fly back to Ohio. I've been in Seattle for 3 days now after a 4 day trans-American U-Haul trek to move Bryce out here. It was a good way to part, I think. I'm glad I was able to be a part of it.

And now, my fingers are clogged.

I have a lot on my mind. On my heart, maybe. I don't know. There is a great deal of indiscernable something applying pressure to some vital organ in my body.

Life.

I'll shut up. Here's Gluck.

I couldn’t do it again,
I can hardly bear to look at it—

in the garden, in light rain
the young couple planting
a row of peas, as though
no one has ever done this before,
the great difficulties have never as yet
been faced and solved—

They cannot see themselves,
in fresh dirt, starting up
without perspective,
the hills behind them pale green,
clouded with flowers—

She wants to stop;
he wants to get to the end,
to stay with the thing—

Look at her, touching his cheek
to make a truce, her fingers
cool with spring rain;
in thin grass, bursts of purple crocus—

even here, even at the beginning of love,
her hand leaving his face makes
an image of departure

and they think
they are free to overlook
this sadness.

It might be on my liver.