Making up for lost time posting uber amounts of verbage

070508
Last sunset in the country. I'm sitting in a farmer's field, the green grass gently woven with the dead. Rows which run parallel to the road at my back. The sun is setting over the moutains in Freyburg ME. I've seen the family in an environment which complements their natures: Woods Pond, Boothby's Cabin. Bugs float around me, but are unsure of where to strike.
Clouds hang wispy over the moutains, the sun before, seemed like a gathering of trickles, leading to a drop which hung from the bottom of an ice waterfall. The drop is forming a stalagmite with the moutain, which is only a short distance away, but the two aren't in contact, save only for the temperature of the ice waterfall being conveyed to the stalagmite by the drop. A sort of proof of life for the stalagmite, which may or may not be replenished by a drop from above. It's like the letter received from a long lost, unreachable friend, and it brings that same solace to the receiver.
I'm preparing for a show of backlights. I have two cans of redbull tucked away in the mesh portion on the lateral backpack fabric. I with Redbulls as an unnecessary backup, will deliver myself to 22 Talcott Mt Rd safely to see my babies for the last time. I miss them already. I'll be extremely sad to see them stay. But it is quite complicated and I must be settled before I am to receive them properly.
Just wrote out a running plan for Wiggs. He was excited to receive it and may purchase a GPS watch similar to mine for easier quantification of his exercise.
The backlighting of the clouds has begun! There is are a few small wisps of clouds which are white and lighted, like the plume of an electric turkey. Its head hides sheepishly behind the ridge, but its gaudy plume shows off its position to me well. I have no patience for its shyness, for I only intend to admire it.
My new camera is working out with a flourish I would only hope would be brought by 200 dollars worth of electronics (I realize it's less than that, but the cost to me is 200 smackers).
To the left of the turkey plume is what appears to be a projector, casting forth a movie to some ginormous screen behind me. I care not what it shows, for I am captivated by the way it brightens the air by its passing.
Time to hit the road. I've had a good dinner. I've spent time with those closest to me, and now is the perfect time to begin a journey which will place me across the planet from them.
Giddyup...

070708
On the drive home from Maine through the White Mountains, I turned a corner and encountered a white orb, or specter. I'm not a deity fearing man, in fact I don't even believe that I have anything to fear, but there are times in one's life when something out of the ordinary could be given some lofty description and explanation, or I could just have realize that I had a very near brush with the ass end of a Moose.
There were actually two, and they were thankfully in the other lane, standing parallel to the centerline. The first one's head was swung like a boom crane over the double yellow lines, but luckily I was driving the truck, and as a testament to the sheer size of these beasts, I cleared under its chin. The other was closer to the shoulder.
I did the only thing a pertinent character would do: I pulled a yoo-ey and headed back with camera extended in video mode. No problem shooing them off to the safety of the woods, or should I say, it was no problem shooing them off to make it safer for the drivers that would inevitably take that same turn at speed, just as I had, but in the opposite direction. I'm glad Heir Bull decided to have the duo in the opposite lane because, true to the Mythbuster's conclusion, no amount of acceleration or deceleration would have caused a happy outcome for either the structure of the cab, or the stability of my skull.
Home and I nabbed the Kids. They were scattered in the woods, but had been eating their food and were happy to see a familiar face. Tigger ambled up like a tiger, meowing a sort of "marco-polo" (he Marcoing, I poloing) the entire way. Besa loped up with the vibrato, whiney meow I've come to love so much. The comfort at seeing the two other massive. They had provided a point of sustenance for my psyche down in Alabama, as I lived alone in a cave with a tiny window. Having someone else to take care of is a special experiece when things get confusing in one's life. I'm told that their purr is a way to evoke healing within their bodies, but the purring of their chords, and the rubbing up against my leg was like the strongest purr of all.
I packed the night away, and went for a walk up and down the hill (.96 miles according to my GPS watch) in an old swimsuit and tight elementary graduation T-shirt. Having no clothes that I wanted to get sweaty and then check through, I used the old suit then garbaged it. And the shirt I folded neatly back to hide under my bed.
Diane Bailey came to pick me up in a sleek outfit and car, headed off to church after she dropped me off. We chatted about how fun learning is, and how excited I was to travel. Then the 80 dollar charge I was doomed to for having an overweight duffle, and I was on a plane to Atlanta.
I arrived and got lost at the correct baggage claim and then re-checked my red-apple duffle for the International Flight. The seats were ample, and I sat next to an Airforce NCO, a single mom whom I will call Startle. We were like two pieces of bread, sandwiching an open seach which was used for staging of empty food containers and magazines. She was a single mom with a 10 and a 13 year-old, the latter having it "together," the former actually voicing her feelings about the social riggors a service brat is doomed to live. Startle was very excited that her child had given her the courtesy of voicing her opinion about her feelings rather than taking them out negatively on Startle. All in all, she noted, they were a happy family triumvirate.
I watched 3 movies in a row, stopping every half hour or so to get up and deliver the contents of my bladder into the receptacle for that purpose. It was good to stretch my legs, and to glimpse the other people joining me on this trans-Atlantic journey. There was this Mother-Father-Daughter family trio seated behind me. And it was from listening to the little girl that I realize an important linguistic point: from the sound of German, even spoken through the precious lips of a young girl, it sounded as if even she would have no problem kicking my ass. If Spanish were a gentle massage, German would be Japanese massage. If Spanish were a flowing brook, German would be the coins flowing down a sorting slide. Both sounds beautiful, one requiring a little more force from the vocal chords to produce.
There was this woman with a swimmer's body from Alpha Kie Omega in Montgomery. I chatted with her at the baggage claim about how her sorority didn't have a House because more than 6 women in one place is deemed a brothel, when recognized by an institution. So she and her Sorority Sisters lived in apartments, in which the number of inhabitants need not be specified on the contract. Sadly she left, for the aesthetic of the room was significantly improved with her in it, and I was left to wait for my sponsors, Yodel 1 and Yodel 2. I ambled around the airport, realizing that I should have emailed him to hold a sign, or given him a picture of me to make the meeting easier. But as it was, I actually got to guess if this or that person looked like a "Yodel 1." I guessed correctly when I noticed a North Face fleece. He intro'd me to Yodel 2, his lovely wife of one and a half years. Destroying the lovely arrangement of bags balance in one chair, I hefted my duffle, while he took the Black Backpack and she the green satchel.
We went to sign in and promptly got lost on our way to finding the car, Yodel 1 sighting construction on Frankfurt Airport. Most things, aside from the people, could have been in the US. And my first truely we're-not-in-Kansas-no-more experience occured in the parking garage. Firstly, the cars are all small, and the parking spaces nearer than would allow an obeise body, a derth of which are here, a concentration of which are sadly across the ocean. Secondly, the telltale euro, skyscraper license plates, just large enough to accommodate black bold numbers and a vertical blue strip on the left side. They are a trim relief from our sack-of-potatoes license plates with comparatively anorexic letters.
A GPS as guide, Yodel 2 was sweet enough to allow me the front seat for the views that were to flash by at Autobahn speeds. I saw wind mills like the one Mike Rowe worked on in Dirty Jobs. I saw beautiful architecture, some dating back to the 12th century. There were winding roads, and cobblestones, and fountains with animals spitting streams. I couldn't even begin to describe it all, except for to say that I was glad that Yodel 1 was driving: I would have stopped every 13.5 feet to capture an image on my new Cannon.
My head was splitting from lack of food and water, so we stopped at a rest-stop to refil my vessel, snag some sustenance, and purchase some caffeine to kick the migraine. The Redbull cans have this stylish blue pull tab with a single bull stamped in the end which gets all the action from the finger. I suppose, depending on the pressure applied to the tab during the opening, one could have a small stamp of a bull on the finger until the blood re-perfused and the skin adjusted back to baseline taught-ness. There is a substantial fee associated with the purchase of a Redbull can. This is not news to me. But there is an added "deposit," as described by Yodel 1, which makes you more likely to recycle as you would be reimbursed when you do. Everything is recycled here, even, as Yodel 2 explained, "the plastic that your chicken comes in." They only sell smaller trashcans, which a. are picked up twice per month, and b. have a volume which encourages more recycling and less trashing just to prevent inevitable overflow onto the floor! How Eco.
Katterbach Airfield is itsy and feels so un-american so as to be comforting. (just slapped my first Bavarian mosquito, he fell like a stone) It has the traditional PX, and some overflow they've put in some retail space across and down the road called the PXtra. Whoever thought that up should be very proud of themselves. I would be.
Checking into my hotel, I found my reserved room to be adequate and efficently arranged. The shower delivers volume with adequate pressure, which I prefer. The lights are on toggle switches large enough so that any tipsy inhabitant is sure to survive at least the crossing of the room to drop onto the bed therein. The plugs require adaptors (courtesy of PXtra), themselves resembling thick stools that would not stand on only their two legs.
I layed on my bed, napped and rested for the next few hours, and caught the Tour de France live. Invigorated by so much sweat, I headed out to do the same in my Asics. 5.63 miles later I had glimpsed architecture, people, stores, fountains, etc which wetted my appetite for more and more and more. I confess that I was turned around, reorienting myself with the (Second Bavarian mosquito greased!) compass needle pointing toward the hotel waypoint. (Never admit to being lost, it doesn't instill confidence in others, and is one of the many Man-traits specific to my testosterone-heavy gender) Luckily I was .93 miles SE of it.
Stretch and shower, and collation of clothes later, I find myself on a cobblestoned walkway, pink and purple roses to my back, green shutters on the windows: happy to be alive and in Deutschland.

070808
Today was an early start, so I headed downstairs to the continental breakfast, orange crocks cushioning my tootsies as I ambled. There was lots of food, in small healthy portions. The mostly hardboiled eggs nestled in hot sand in a covered hotplate, their counterparts scrambled and mixed with sausage in the hotplate next door (sans sand). I had yogurt, some flat bread crackers, scrambled/mostly-hardboiled eggs, frosted flakes (not as much sugar as the name brand I usually ate in the states, so it could be something similar but not that exact brand...), a glass of milk, another of orange juice, and a scrumptious roll. There were extras like granola, and other stuff that I either a. could not identify, or b. just didn't feel like munching.
Into personnel office, and I was taken aback by the woman behind the desk. She was, to put it in boxing terms, rather a knockout. I quickly refocused and handed over the pertinent paperwork. The next stop was a bubbly older woman who had the same last name as me, and had a plastic pig for her "black money" (money not taxed) collection for the candy clients were sure to munch at the pig's hooves. Her office had four taller, thinner windows which preached the variability I've only seen in the latches on German windows. Allow me to explain.
Most of the windows I've seen have a 3-position handle. This handle may go to the twelve, nine (or three depending on the direction the window swings open), and six position. Turn the handle to the six, and the door is latched closed near its four corners. At 12, the window hinges from the bottom. At nine (or three), the window hinges from the side, swinging outwards. My room has a loose screen-like shade which works adequately to keep those things out which fly and buzz. Most rad.
More offices, more novelty. I ran into a German who's had the worst thing to say about this country of anyone I'd met. He called this "truly a hardship tour." When queried, he responded that 25 years ago in a private college in the states, while studying theology and history, he received culture shock upon returning to his native Deutschland. He pointed to his head and heart while telling me that he is no longer German but American. Why is he still here then? Well, he came back from college to get a quick job for the summer and 20 years later still holds a similar position. He punches my Social Security number into the computer with a matter of fact determination to take out his lost hopes on the keyboard, only to realize that the number-lock is not activated and will therefore leave his cursor lonely for accompanying numbers on the prompt line.
Before the gym with Yodel 1 and 2, I visited their house which blew my mind. It contains a stair case which sparked their imagination, but not their eyes for dimensions as their tactic for furnituring the upstairs is to "see whatever can be broken down to fit up there," as described by Yodel 2.
Having lived in a wee studio apartment for the last two years, my mind rolled with the possibility of both seeing the sun through a window without the world's largest eaves above, and the thought of compartmentalizing my junk into different rooms! Let there be freaking light!
I came home to take a sit on the toilette, which is flushed by pushing a rather large blunt button that unleashes a fury of water with complementary bubbles the size of marbles into the unsuspecting bowl. For those of you who kayak (Wiggs), I'd propose a class of 5 for the churning and boiling fury which easily wooshes down anything which isn't attached to the bowl sides with 24-hour cured epoxy. Even then, I shudder to think of the havoc a second flush would inevitably wreak. The high quality wooshage combines with the German's impeccable attention to the cleanliness of all bathrooms, at least public, and those private ones I've seen.
Following the torrent, I attended to getting my swell on in a Gym with as many rooms as I've ever seen in one. It's like the difference between sitting in the middle of the restaurant floor, and taking on the intimacy of a booth. But the feeling of closeness quickly resolves when one notices that tattoos and shirts proclaim a mindset of vigor and exertion: "genetic freak," "hunter-killer, "crusher." I felt like the skinny guy getting pushed around by the bullies, and wondered if I should paint "incredible hulk" somewhere visible on my body, just to blend with these heathens.
Tomorrow night is spin class, and my hotel shower is the most ergonomically designed I've found for the shaving of lower extremities. In the biking spirit, aided by the fact that live coverage of the tour is on channel 11 each day, I settle in to study the gazillion road signs for the written driving test tomorrow at 7:45a. At 9:51 in the evening, I look out my window to glimpse dusk and the five identically-square windows set into the roof of the house across the way, pondering the glorious light which will surely bathe the rooms of my own rented house.

071008

Yesterday's Driving Class: Two people were in it with me. It was taught by a woman who's been an army wife, in Germany, for the last 23 years. Her mannerisms were entirely too engaging and the three hour explanation of the gazillion signs, and right-of-way descriptions went by quite likety-split. During break, someone was racing a time trial in the Tour.

Yesterday's Spin Class: The bikes were yellow, the saddles where equipped with gel covers which provide an individual bump for each cheek to be buoyed by. I had no water, which was a mistake, as the only fans in the room pointed towards the ceiling. The Spin Instructor counted down to different positions we were to assume over the bike: locking, hover, and standing. It wasn't periodized, and had no specific structure but the whims of the teacher, but there was this cool video of St Croix's streets on a big screen in front of the class. The speed of travel along the streets on the video was entirely too constant, but the vistas were nice; and the left and right bottom of the TV had a one-quarter bulls-eye reflection off the screen which kept expanding and contracting as I bounced up and down on my bike. Between the video, the "3-2-1...", and the bull's-eye , I was distracted enough to complete the hour. Then I managed one front and two side planks with Yodel 2 and MadCardio.

Dream: Last night's dream was a kick in the direction which leads to insanity and confusion. Hence the designation "dream." It started with me as a part of a threesome of men who would violate this beautiful woman. I remember myself excited about upsetting the whole idea, and I bounded down the brown steps of one building up onto the red and pink ones of another.
I met her as she came out of a hanging basket full of fluffy fabrics, and she descended naked, beautiful, and absolutely uncaring of her vulnerable sumptuous body displayed. She descended, and I bowed, and she headed off up the stairs to the elevators, which were woven square baskets with 3 foot walls and huge handles which arced overhead when one entered the fluffly fabric interior, similar to that of the basket she originally descended from. I remember admiring her, walking in front of me up the spiral stairs to the elevators atop a tower, like the top of a slide. I recognized someone in the other elevator, but it was just this woman and me. No words passed between us as we entered the basket, and I was able to glimpse the beginning of the love-making, but not the entire, nor the end.
Again we arrived in a huge cave, where two warriors made out of black present boxes where casting an army of knights into the air, and against the walls, to their deaths. I remember seeing from the uppermost roof, and a night twisted towards me at a terrible rate, then slow-motion gripped the scene. He spun towards me, but his rotation slogged on as his face opposed mine. He knew he was to die from the sudden stop at the end of the fall, and took his sword and sawed through his metal helmet into his head, and sawed down to the nose on his face. He seemed determined to be in charge of the way his neurons would fire last.
That's all I can ring from the cloth of this dream.

Day: Last night I performed the death-like sleep state brought on as a byproduct of the urge to do stuff in a new place, the jet lag associated with a 6 hour timezone change, and the inability to fall asleep without a fan as I've always done.
This morning, Yodel 1 drove me the housing office. Once I dealt gently, but firmly, with the extreme inefficiency of the GermanHatingGerman, I toured a single house. It offered two garages (bad idea, will clarify later...) and the entire upper floor, which was nothing but two bathrooms, a balcony, 4 or 5 other rooms, and a humongous backyard. The owner said that I could have two cats, no problem, but mentioned that he wanted me to keep them indoors as his 5 were out. I was worried about my cats fighting with his until I glimpsed the sheer girth of his favorite, a behemoth which could be safely taunted with no recourse from a distance of 3 feet, for it probably couldn't move its roundness. I need only remind my cats not to get below him/her on a slope, while its spine was perpendicular, and things would be alright.
The more I think about it, the more I want it. It's well within my price range.
Next we went to the office in which my electric orange Crocs caused a small stir. I've already found two who ride road bikes (the pedaling kind). I'm learning more about everything from the unit, to favorite restaurants, to the number of languages a Specialist studies while her little one is watching TV on the weekends.
From there I headed to the Yellow Ribbon Room to utilize the free internet. I answered emails and found that my little boy had come down from the tree he raced up. Mama told him not to go up into the tall ones if he couldn't manage the descent, but I'm sure he'll disregard that. My little girl fell into the sun roof of Ma's car, again. Ma says that the sunroof will now be closed permanently to prevent any more kitty head-dives to the upholstery below. I thought I trained her better...
In the internet room, I met BlondandBlueEye. Her Husband is here for some training, and works with Jag. She mentioned that she was from Pheonix and had chaperoned some foreign children into the Havasu Falls area of the Grand Canyon. How rad! I had been there and could discuss just such grand cascades of Earth's perspiration. She mentioned that her knees have never been the same, and when questioned about it, I figured it was the problem Aunt B and I had suffered at one point or another: a patellar tracking problem. I told her the steps to rehab it and told her it couldn't hurt to try. She asked what I did, and excitedly told me that her husband talks of nothing else but his desire to fly. He even makes bunches of little model helicopters and places them all over their house back in the states. I gave her some ideas of where to get information for pre-learning some of the information I had before I trained, pending his acceptance into WOCS of course.
Then back to the office to talk about cars, see CliffTwo, and hitch a ride back to the Zur Windmuhle (The Windmill, a hotel with a large one out front) where I'm staying for the time being.
At 7p I walked downtown as the sun was still in the process of setting (it's light until very late here). Saw a bike shop and took a picture for Grute. Saw some rides and buildings for the purpose of a carnival.
I also learned that there is a Wii version of the game Cranium. OOOOOOhhh!
When things seem to shift around like they have in the last few months, I enjoy the constant of something. I have chosen the movie: The Island. I watch it when something major occurs in my life. I have successfully begun my assimilation and acceptance of my new job/lifestyle, and have therefore granted myself a viewing.
They've just escaped from the living silos at Merrick institute.
Fav Pics 583, 589.

071208
Last night, after a day of cell phone comparisons, in two languages, I managed a fine purchase of a phone. The masculinity of it (and, perhaps by association, Me) has been called into question as the description "cute" has been applied by more than one Fraulein of Caucasian persuasion. This is unacceptable. I have attempted in vain to describe such manly characteristics, but the joke still holds. Sadly I already signed a monetarily spicy contract and cannot easily get out of it. But the phone works for what I need, and the ladies will hopefully give up their jesting.
We went to some restaurant inside a walled-in city. Beautiful in its ancient architecture, ringing went the bells, we meandered by people on bikes and on foot who labored with this cart, or stood to crank up some incline.
I had cooked chicken smothered in Currey, topped with indian rice and a salad on the side. I feel I will get fat in this country.
Next it was back to the Yodel's for a chance to let the belt-lines loosen, and to enjoy what became a heated, gender-divided game of Cranium. The dudes came from behind to come within one of winning, while the chics took every opportunity to rub this in our faces. But these people will all be here for a while, and further finals will inevitably be played. I am not concerned.

This morning we head to Nuremburg to see, among other sights, the location of the trials for lethal and infamous crimes. I awoke to check the weather and visually inquire as to the grub situation downstairs where the Continental Breakfast is usually arranged. B said we were going to wait for Dee-fence-drive. Dee-fence-drive has something both B and I covet: a car. Ours is still in shipment, and mine will apparently arrive some late day in August!
I grabbed a loaf of round bread, no larger than a Dunkin' Doughnut, cereal, yogurt, butter, two glasses of OJ and Milk. They no longer inquire as to my desire for either Coffee or Tea. I've turned them down continually, and will continue to do so, until I have a desire to try the tea. Coffee has too bitter a taste for me, and I need no more electricity in my system.
There was a group of Italians sitting at a table Northwest of where my breakfast things were piled. The server, an older woman who works hard and delivers coffee or tea on the fly, asked her usual question. I ended up translating into Spanish, from her broken English, for the Italians to order 3 coffees, 2 with cold milk, one with hot milk. Next I translated from their Italian (similar enough to Spanish) to English which I pronounced clearly and slowly (two conditions of the language I rarely seem to adopt anyway). She understood, they thanked me and received what they wanted. I was then amazed by how the room quickly filled with people entering the room with a "Bongiorno."
I'm extremely psyched to learn German. And I'd like to manage my time to learn a few other languages. I feel Italian is close enough to Spanish, with which I have some familiarity. French requires a rolling of the inner tongue I have yet to manage, but that will come.
***
I'm not really sure what happened, but I'm not sure the font Courier New still holds the same grip and place in my heart. I'm just running over some limits, and I practice them by furiously typing them onto the computer screen. This action allows me to think of them, say them as I type them, and of course see them on the screen. But I just had a paradigm shift of affection for the aesthetic of Calibri (Body). I'm going to try it for a while to see if its sleek simple design appeals to me for the long term. If not, I will endeavor to find the perfect font for me.

One of the best responses I heard yet in Germany: it was yesterday while conferring with the T mobile rep.
"do you follow the Tour?"
"oh, you know, fractionally."

071308

There is an even and frosty layer of fungus on the crust of the bread I removed in order to construct a sandwich. Needless to say a loaf change is in order...

I was mistaken. I mentioned that I figured there would be nothing that could put up against the onslaught of sloshing caused by pushing the button above the toilette. But a layer of baby powder took the first stress-fest like a pro, and only after three more flushes did it diappear entirely from the side of the bowl. How did the baby powder get there? That, my friends, requires a story.

I awaited Quiet's call, and once it came, headed down and hopped into the back seat of Dee-fence-drive's car. We were whisked to the Bahnhof at which we bought 21 Euro tickets to catch the express train to Nurnberg (Nuremburg). I was introduced to ticket purchasing at the kiosk, and could probably manage it again if I needed to now.
The train rocketed us through a scenic country to arrive late 16 min late for the Cooco-clock's showy performance at noon. Our goal was to get off the train and meander into the old town encircled by city walls, cut the diameter to cross the River Pegnitz, and then move laterally as our eyes attracted us to shiny things for us to investigate. The moat around the old town was prodigious, and I wondered about the optimum width and depth of such a moat. Is there a template or equation describing relationships to widths and depths? The relationship of a circle's circumference to its diameter can be described as Pi. What is taken into account when deciding on the width and depth of the moat if your walls are y tall and x thick?
Small shops immediately enticed us with their novelties and clever use of space. Most of the people inside these shops spoke transactional English. But to my detriment, I still speak 3 or 4 words of German. Crash-course and follow-on German classes will begin next week for me. I CANNOT WAIT!
The walls of an art building loomed in front of us and dazzled us with its architecture. Further moseying lead us past a slew of sex-related stores. Upon investigation, I found it to be exactly the same as those in the states. Some things never change.
Churches loomed over the skyline in most directions. Huge dark spaces with stained glass windows. I'm totally done writing for now. For some reason, writing for me is difficult. And I think of how much an attempt at describing something weakens it true first-hand experience. Now, I love to pass on experience and knowledge whenever I can, but right now I feel selfish and hope to continue this tale later.

Saw a man STOP running. The amount of time that one spends running, it's hard to spot someone who has come to the end of a jog or a saunter. But I saw one.





I am continually amazed by the attention to detail in the Water Management of German towns. Granite ditches, grating, culverts are only a few of the tactics they apply.

071408
Just got back from a car ride with Bo Diddly and Mr Morphine to an unpronounceable (until I've taken more German) hamlet to retrieve my hotel key from a Water Closet. I'd been keenly in need of one on a run Sunday evening. I sat down, had a glorious depressurization of the organs, and then gotten up to close up shop and run home. Suffice it say, I ran back about 4 miles and realized only then that I had no key.
The hotel manager told me I had to find it. I couldn't really explain to his German satisfaction what faux pas I had perpetrated. He saw me again this morning and asked if I had found the key. I told him no, that I would try to reacquire it today. He said it was "necessary," and I agreed, as he was not privy to my lack of personal transportation. This is where Bo and Mr Morphine entered the picture.
I have just turned in the spare keys (much smaller and more comfortable on a run then the monstrous bauble on the usual set), as well as a statement of non-availability to the kid at the desk with nice cheek bones. From it they can sift that I will be here for another 10 days and not to worry about being paid, as they SHALL be reimbursed at a later date by Uncle Sam.
I plan to read a chapter outside, study (probably inside), then do some pushups and abdominal action, then whatever.

071708
I've been thinking about writing for the last little while, and the flood gates seem to be held back by the phrase: look, it's not like I care what other dudes do.
Truth be told, the common theme or tactic of other men is to pursue women with intellectual upper handedness, assuming that their rescue is the best for the woman at hand. Where as I manage to find things out when I ask them intellectual questions. But for some reason, I feel less apt and/or willing to engage in any questioning.
Holy shit, I feel really alone.
Ahh. just threw on some queen and eased the shit out of my spastic mind! Life is good.
I just need reminding.
So I get burned out by OTHERS and their METHODS. I know this shouldn't happen, and probably reflects some sort of lack on my part (lack of self respect, lack of attention to forwarding my life and experience...). Now I'm just bitching.
I'm totally missing my cats. Last night (anoche) I constructed a conglomerate file of their images. I must view it now. Truth be told, I'm ecstatic to move into the new house, and all I can think about is making it habitable for two little babies. And I'll have to train them to stay away from certain parts of the yard, etc. But I really miss them that badly.
Sometimes I hate on myself (I'm sure I do that too often) for not writing. But really, it's not like everything I miss is a show-stopper. Frankly, my life is full of things to be done and seen, and I've taken that to heart and attempted breadth of experience. So even if I write once every six months when the moment grabs my fingers to the keys. The things I write about passionately are just as good if not superior to those things which I experience and feel not the urge to write about.
I keep studying a bit and then going out for the entire night. I really must buckle down to it. But I don't want to burn out. There is no reason. This is the real thing now.

071708
All I know is that there's a weak point to every room.
And while I'm not sketch, I have a point of fragility, a point which brings me to my knees when the wind from the alps blows up my sleeve and down my spine. It's this clock I've heard of, only I'm not sure that it really exists. But when you're on a downward turn from your last tank, you realize that there's no harm in believing something without any reason behind the believing. It's like all those fuckers who believe there's a god. It brings some to kill others, it brings others to help some, but in the end, it's the shred of meaning onto which these crabs are inclined to clasp.
Who knows what kinds of battles I must win. I find that these days, most of them are in me. But it's hard to have a battle with the kinds of demons which seem hard-wired to the system. There's always good with the bad, so I'm focused on a goal which finally gives me solace. Where I have to go to find this grand ticker isn't clear. Frankly I'm not sure if I read it in a book, ask a stranger on a street, or enter into some lethal limbo with a pair of horse thieves. But I'm determined, and that's all it takes nowadays. That's what most don't understand about their gods. Somehow we're being selected away from determined minds. It's those who hit it big that others can't imagine how they got there, and know from past genetic experience that they should want the same thing, but somehow can't. All we need is determination, and existence is a byproduct. I'm determined, and I want to center my being around this clock. Why the hell not?
I've seen worse done with more. So I wanted to pick through the seashells on the beach and say that this is what I'll do from here on in. On in to where? It doesn't really matter to me how I get to the clock, I just have to.


071808
You can't capture everything, every day, all the time...but you can sure as the deluge try.
Off to the south. Good luck wish me.

072208
It really sucks when a body cannot locate a cherished tool: the leatherman wave.
Fuck it, I used a key.
Bed now, shed those things which, today, gave you fresh strains, for tomorrow is another crack at it.

PLEASANT EYE OF THE SUN
There's nothing more sacred than a sunset over mountains,
With colors, it cuts like a knife.
But with its setting, it brings to life a monster looming.
The mountain enjoys the warmth of its own sun on the back,
And stands tall to measure the heights of hopes and the stars.
Whether it stands jagged, or whether it lounges curved,
Its size belies the gentle warmth of its gaze over the valley, when the sun rises for another time.
Who are those who seek the moutain?
They are the wandering human forms which incorporate a piece of some shard which crashed down from the same mountain.
Likes attract their similars.
Water brings them together.
And at the end of the day when the human mountain crumbles,
There will be anew the lights of sunrise on a distant developing being,
Bound to return to the mountain again,
All under the vigilant, pleasant eye of the sun...


Whether you wander with wonder or wander with anger is directly related to the breadth of your mind.

CONTINUALLY ON MY PENINSULA
The sloth crept up my feet, but still I held.
The cold slithered up to my groin, I grimaced but sat determined.
The shivers crept to my diaphragm, and then I dove.
Awake flashed my senses, a slight panic gripping my cerebellum.
A breath in cold is like a strong sneeze reversed.

Stroking powerfully, looking down into the green glimmering waters,
I sighted continually on my peninsula.
There held respite for the short moment until my swimming return.
The joy of laying and rolling in water prepared me to endure this.
I took each breath as if it was my last.

My head began to spin as the cold water replaced the air pocket insulating my eardrum.
But I knew my spine to be straight, and trusted its arrow-like guidance.
Pulling out, standing stupid, diving in, I returned the favor to the water I had pushed this way,
Hoping to leave it undisturbed when I slithered out on the rocky shore where I began.

My head spinning, I stumbled to the sun-soft towel.
Nothing ached but my diaphragm and the top layer of skin cells.
They would heal, the pain would subside,
And I'd lay to roll through the water another day...



When correcting a person, one must enter one's cognitive brain-child to reference mistakes made. Once one can be identified which, upon lightning inspection, resembles that of the perpetrator, one may enlighten that person to the point of quiet resolve, and a change is made. Of course this may not always work, for the mind is wont to return to old ways it knows well. That's when inspiration must be injected, for only in inspiration may a change of behavior be sustained. Duh.

GLADLY DROWNING WITH ANOTHER
Engaging in dance is like a waterfall tendered to another.
You do your best to slosh as they swish,
To spin as they twist,
And the best dancers know only too well that they are coming ever so close to being at peace with the other's body.
But on the psyche, this has the binding effect.
It's a visual you're not alone.
This weekend, my body was spoken to thusly,
And my bones have not forgotten her challenge.
I am now even more dexterous with my own waterfall,
And as I sweetly bathed another, she returned with a deluge of her own construction,
And we gladly drowned together.


blog or something: my travels with a hung. it would be novel. i would put the smallest things from how my cats reacted to its shape, to how it allowed me to be received in group situations.
called "hang time" an explanation of the name of the blog could be given in one of the opening publishes, but three of four down...



Tonight,
I saw bales of hay wrapped in plastic blue, the shape of the marshmallow my brother swallowed, the color his face turned when it lodged in his trachea. There were trails piercing thickets of green. A young man was posing for a picture; posing for his lady's love, posing with his own aesthetic in mind. Old couples rode their bikes slowly, and wrinkled in years of affection. I saw open doors, and a man whose lip quivered as he fabricated audible vibrations which answered my query about a local pool. I saw the telecommunications tower of Ansbach piercing the sky like a hypodermic needle. Legions of Aztec warriors with green feathers in headbands replaced the stalks in cornfields. A mammoth cylinder of wood, roughened with sandpaper and turned at regular intervals on a lathe, was then rolled into tan dirt replaced the swaths of grain. Cats scouted out hides for rodents. I wondered if this awe would last...


072408

I rather think a broken glass defers me to my dreams,
For when the glass had not a tear,
Its shiny edge did gleam.
But when it lay upon the floor, thus broken with the fall,
Who let it go? Who tried to catch?
Matters almost naught at all.

The thing which slices lemons to limes,
The thing which turns my head,
It isn't force, or men prosaic,
But the weaving of glass into a mosaic.


STUPID BUGGY
This bug had died, skin and all
Down in my backpack pocket
I didn't crush it, or maybe I did,
But there was no lock to lock it.

I remember last night, hearing buzzing,
Then naught.
As I walked into the parking lot.

But never a care did it drivel from me,
Il;ja;lkjsdl;kjasdf
gone
flow gone
shit
lk
A bug jus died and I can think of nothing well to say to mark its passing.
Uncool.
I do like it's multifaceted eyes. I wonder if that was a trait evolutionarily weeded out due to incompatibility. I've been brought to tears by beautiful sights, so powerful they made my breath stop in my lungs. I've seen vistas which made me feel so connected, but lost me in their vastness. But all I saw was the brain's construct of whatever my lens focused on the neurons in my eyes. There seems to be a direct relationship between complexity and the potential for overload. I'm sure the deluge handed off to my brain from the number of heart-stopping images focused by those multifaceted lenses would certainly cause a state of catatonic shutdown. Who knows, on some days, I would invite that.
It's like any other extreme. But the real question is: could I find my way back from the abyss? Who the freakin hell knows... I'm glad for evolution.

********************

I have to go set up my will, power of attorney. But I think it should be in two places, so I shall write some stipulations here. I want my remains incinerated and tossed into a can which is to be sunk into the Marianna Trench. And if a gravestone is to be erected in my worthless honour, it shall be in the shape of a Tupperware container. I've realize that the body can only perform with energy, provided by the breaking of bonds in the various forms of sustenance I munch. And while I've spent the majority of my time eating out in this fine country, I think it's time I stop craving food at the local market, and begin harboring a stash to munch upon a whim. I usually carry things with me in my travels, on my flights, and it needs to be compartmentalized, especially so as not to tarnish or debilitate the foods scrumdiddly-umptiousness. Therefore, a small choir assembled and sang a saintly note to honour my purchase of my first Tup in Germany. As such, I can revert back to the old ways. It is for this reason, and the part it has played in my life, that I nominate/command Tupperware as the structure of my gravestone. Hell, make it out of pink granite and polish it up so it gleams in the sunlight, to tell all passersby that here lies (or would have, had I not been burned to ashes, then crushed by PSI at depth) a lover of Tupperware. Grr.
Tonight I chatted with MTPman. He knows a lot, and I hope to sponge up most of that knowledge. I've taken him running once, and he has a fit pair of legs underneath him. But he lacks the periodization mentality I think quintessential to the fabrication of a fine training schedule.
Freakin a. Nurmberg manana. Some German studies tonight.
Peace
I have a wee cough that gives me frustrations and makes me feel feeble. OJ I say, OJ's the way to a healthier me.

072108
I've not really had the experience of what I would call an "off night" on the town. But there's a first for everything and I'm rather proud of how I handled it all. Tonight tanked for the dancing, but was kept up hopping with the number of women we chatted with.
I have little talent for the creating, but I must say that I've got a mad crush on a woman untouchable and more than perfect. This allows me to use her as a primer and to move on in search of the one for me!
Giddyup.
I feel so crappy about it that I must look at pictures to ease the frustration.
Rocking. I also SERIOUSLY miss my Kitties. I will gander pics of them before I turn in.
No. I'll be nice to my broken body and turn in now!
Night. it's 5:31 am

072708
I have no idea why, but I'm into the brand name buying right now. I'm trying to look more European, and the attempt has been laughingly looked down upon by a group of German woman we met at the club this past weekend in Nurnberg. One of them will take me shopping. I find that communication with her is really enjoyable. 1. I must speak slowly and clearly, which has an overall calming effect on me. 2. I watch her body-language intently, watching for the slightest hint of misunderstanding, at which point, I circumlocute, restate, etc. I am learning German slowly, so there are German words she puts in the conversation which she knows I know.
The best example of the process involved with learning a new language is in the movie "the 13th warrior."
Every night I go out, one thing I do is find someone who is willing to say German words or phrases so that I may repeat them. They usually find it funny, and the ones who take the time on a Saturday evening to instruct me in pronunciation are usually quite fun to hang with. I intersperse these lessons with dancing, drinking, etc, but my goal is to slide my tongue around this language.

When I listen to a powerful song, it paints shivers up my spine with a soft brush. It perks the animal in me to quickly consider killing or caressing. I find my weight supported if only I am standing, and lean back with arms outstretched. I close my eyes knowing full well that the sounds will hold me at a comfortable angle. That's how I feel when a powerful song lulls me into a calm.
But if a powerful song quietly rouses the strength in my being, it takes on a more wavelike shape. It still approaches from behind me, and breaks as a wave. The break gently bends me forward and cushions my tuck into a roll which bears me on a level path. I become the circular shape of a rolling tube of water. But the water is warm and has no bubbles or foam. My eyes close, my hands tuck in, and there is no stretching or straining, just rolling and rolling.

072808
At the Biergarten in Ansbach, I got pleasantly toasted off of 3 beers, ate two stakes, and managed another Coke/Sprite mix called Speitz. Bob got pissed at the number of yellow-jackets hovering traffic patters around the opening of his Speitz. He began to flick at them. I thought this humourous, until he actually hit one and it shot off on a trajectory spectacularly perpendicular to the table and parallel to the long axis of the bottle. Then I really started crying in laughter. We spent the rest of the evening chatting about women, flying, and hanging out in public places. I told him I should count down the next time he flicked one. He gave me a heads up before he roughly flicked the next one, and my stomach hurt. My cough intensified, but I didn't care: I had a few beers in me, and Bobby had just flicked a yellow-jacket towards the sky.

073008
I got no words, but I DO have a serious cough.
Watched CLOSER.
Felt no closer...

073008
This morning I woke up having dreamt about my current favorite sport: triathlon. But it was a bizarre triathlon. Allow me to explain...
I arrived late and tried to find a place to put my bike in transition, on a peninsula of bike racks. The area was sandy and pock-marked with holes, and I was nervous that I'd run too far in T1 to find my bike, and then would have to backtrack. I had to borrow another competitor's pump, and quickly ran over to the swim start, only to find that they were far ahead of me. Just before I was about to jump in and lay a line of chase which would jut to the school of swimmers, I realized that they were coming back in. I whirled on a spectator, confused, and this person directed me to the other end of the transition at which the actual swim start was. Before I was about to jump in, I noticed a bunch of people who were bobbing towards the shore. I watched them get out and noticed that they all had some metal attachment around their necks, like a spring with studs. Further above that, in their mouths, they had two metal bars clenched in their teeth. They showed me that if they rocked their heads back and forth, to twang the metal bars at the right angle, the bars would deeply resonate through the clenched teeth, up the cheek bones, and administer a calming set of vibrations to the user. But they only wanted the vibrations to be concentrated in their heads, and a very specific vibration at that, and they mentioned that the salinity and temperature of this water would yield the desired effect. When queried about the name of such a thing, they mentioned that it was called "Kora." I woke up then, and was annoyed that I hadn't dreamt of swimming, for I felt it would have been quite a beautiful dream. But then I remembered circumstantial dreams which, when I had them, would result in me wetting the bed. They always involved me floating in the warm waters of a chlorinated pool.
Speaking of a pool, MTP and I were driven down to the Aquela where I poked a Usedtoswim. There were hundreds of people, and attempting laps was a study in sighting, as I had to pop up every few feet to check out the situation in front of me. Despite this, I only had ONE head-on collision with another swimmer.
Upon exit from the pool, MTP noticed that Usedtowswim had a book in English. I asked about it, and it was written in 2003, and made into a motion picture in 2007 starring A. Jolie. Along into the conversation, she complained about being unable to understand a word, and then missing the meaning of the entire sentence. I asked if she wanted help with their definitions. She held a finger under "outrageous," "devoured," among others. Devoured, in this context, meant to pervade a space. She then asked about "palpable," so I used a previous word "philosophical" to describe a concept which was un-touchable. Then I poked her, and told her she WAS palpable, and slightly further expounded. Major cackling from both MTP and Usedtoswim could be heard following my finger-thrusting, but she understood the meaning. Next I had two hemispheres of white rice and bottled coke, and MTP devoured a duck, rice, and vegetable dish.
When I open a two liter soda bottle, I don't cross radius over ulna to loosen the cap to remove it. I place my index and other fingers parallel to my thumb, and hold my hand, index and thumb on top. Then I use a sawing action to turn the bottle cap couterclockwise with a push along the length of my index finger, and pull along the length of my thumb. Tonight, I used the same motion for the purpose of turning something, but this something wasn't a bottle cap, but an entire glass coke bottle. If you hold a bottle within a specific mini-acute angle range (measured from the perpendicular to the flat surface), and the CG isn't too far out, upon release the bottle should rock to vertical. It is this feel for the CG, coupled with that same sawing motion that I combined to allow the bottle to quietly roll around on its edge for minutes while I kept the angle and sawing motion as a force on the bottle. It was way mesmerizing and therapeutic.

Today, but gents in the car refrained from shoving shit into my mouth while I slept leaning back against the rear seat in the van. Alright! I get it...I look like a retard when I sleep.

073108
Tonight I went tanning with Bo Diddly. We spent a bit figuring out which of the machines I should get into.

IF I WERE A TIMELINE, WOULD I BE KNOTTED?
To speak about the future,
Is a game to most, not few.
To plan without the future,
'Tis the lot of those who knew.

But knowing what the future is,
And being unable to tell?
Is the lot of a woman Cassandra,
And her individual hell.

I know not of the past,
I care not for its siren's call.
I drink in what's been passed,
Having never known I'd lived at all.

And when I level my body for rest,
I simply ask this one request.
It's to be heeded, not so repressed:
I wish this known to all the rest;

That when I lay me down to die,
My heart it holds one hope:
To know that I, not when, or why,
Had climbed life's beautiful, knotted rope.



080108
get "everybody's changing"
These are the names of my landlordess and lord: alferia, udo
Capitalize on what I know. Learn what I don't.

Last night MTP and I moved ourselves, via car, to Nϋrnberg, for a night at El Focόn for a night of Salsa and Meringue. It was more than I expected, and I learned from some sexy looking women. The others I watched, were as beautiful as watching a great painting that moved.

I've heard of paintings, scenes in time,
Which evoke the strongest emotions.
They rock the heart, they roll the mind.
They effect like an explosion.

But take a painting, melt it down,
And look at what you see:
A group of people dancing 'round,
Their feet move swift; lively.

I can't take credit for the above lines of crap. I wrote them while listening to beautiful music. It was the music which allowed me to write down such emotions. Plus it really is shit. I don't feel any of it today.
Hopefully I'll head to IKEA to find out what they can do for the spaces in my house. I'm waiting for some to come down from their hangovers. Nothing like a good poisoning to waste the day.

IKEA eluded our consumerist hands, and the directions I received began to seem more like heresy than actual pinpoint intentions. Just before throwing in the towel and returning on Autobahn 6, we halted to ask some gas station personnel in Nϋrnberg. The teller spoke no English, and my prononciation for IKEA had nothing she could draw a similarity to in Deutch. I managed to wrest the name of the town from here brains, and then managed to locate it cardinally by remembering the lyrics of the first and only German song gay college roomy taught me. She said it was in the east of Nϋrnberg, and the dude behind me expounded by giving me directions down the road, to the third light. The blond next to him told him she was going that way. So I took the keys and chased after them in a hurry. And that's when it happened.
There happened to be five in the small car in front of us. At once, the blond stamped the breaks, and came to a stop behind a massive bus, but far enough from the curb to indicate that she only intended to sojourn. Being my guide, I followed her every move, including this one, like a toddler following a mother. Then all of a sudden, the dude hopped out of the front seat of the car with a coke bottle in his hand. This he set on the ground, but he had no such gentle intentions for its red cap, which he drop kicked. The flash of red sailed in a bow-curve toward the grass on the other side of the paved sidewalk. Almost before it came to settle, he was back in the car with the bottle snatched up in his right hand, and the blond was back in traffic. I gave pursuit.
At a stoplight, their volume was high enough to be noticed, so I mimed my best Travolta to make a musical connection with them. These kind of connections are hard to make, but can draw a feeling of intimacy between total strangers if conveyed correctly. The back-seated boy turned and laughed at my seated hand motions, and the front-seater casually jabbed at the turn we were supposed to make. Like that, we separated, and we became lost again almost as quickly. Well, perhaps not lost, but with no reference or comfort that we were gaining on IKEA, it was as good as thrown.
My groin has reached the itchy healing stage from the burn it received courtesy of the UV lights cocooned around me in the tanning bed this past Thursday. I plan to instigate the production of melanin again this week, but at less duration in a beginners' bed.
The ebb and flow of Matthew Good Band washes over me and sloshes me into a calm evening.
I just had the desire to munch frost flakes. Tearing open the box top yielded something smuggled just on the top of the bag of flakes, which probably cost more to make and package than the flakes underneath. Upon opening, I found it to be an Indiana Jones emblazoned, plastic spoon, complete with stamped spider on the concave of the spoon, and red LED in the handle to illuminate those sugary flakes for consumption. Then handle is a small version of some Sought American column, complete with large, robot-featured faces. This is cause for celebration.

I had a dream in which I was an artist. I didn't actually paint, or sculpt, but noticed and had cornered the market on a specific type of morbidly unique canvas, which had come under the desirous eye of those whose money is bottomless, but whose want for explosive novelty is never-ending. Currently my artwork was en vogue. They sold for five-hundred thousand dollars each, and NO two were alike.
My method was parasitic on a Don in Nicaragua who ran a prosperous trade in, and had vertical control of the production of, white haze powder which was shipped to the States in quarter ton "bales."
He ran a ruthless business, and had only attained his position through backstabbing and treachery until no one would stand in his way. Like any corporate engine, he had cogs which did not pull their weight, or had committed an unforgivable act against the machine in which they turned. The Don's henchmen carried out the investigation and detention of these persons, while the Don himself made sure he was present, and mentioned the final words to those who would be disposed of in a matter of seconds. That's where I came in.
My workers would have the unwitting job of setting out sturdy easels on which to affix white canvases, blank except for my signature in black indelible in the bottom right corner. The position of these easels was no mistake, and I operated in parallel with the Don's infrequent disposals, "cleansings" he called them. My workers would witness the Don's final words to the victim, and position him in front of his own individual canvas so that his brains and blood would be scattered, uniquely covering each canvas, after the bullet fulfilled its only purpose at point blank range.
The body would crumple lifeless to the ground, but my workers would ignore it, instead dash over to the easel and set it down flat, or at a slight angle so that the blood would only run a little, or not at all. Once having been dried in the sun, a sealant would be sprayed over, and it would processed for shipping to my wealthy consumers in the states, who would most likely be sniffing white powder, the price for which was untold thousands, and the life and brains of the victim on the canvas they admired so stupidly.

080408
Sometimes I write to pass a drizzling day. Sometimes it's because I'm feverish and expect my body to rend screaming if I don't let the pressure release. But it's usually for the purpose of the capture of a moment or a thing. Quick as a well placed arrow, clean as a hunter's blade. I expect nothing more from the act than time; time to dabble in something beautiful.
Above me a bird balances on a high tension wire, escaping the lethal shock because it forms no attachment to the ground. It must measure a quarter mile between towers, but none of the lines are populated except for the one with the lone bird.
At first I thought it was gazing at the sunset, but then I realized it was efficiently oriented aerodynamically into the wind. Turning around would cause a loss of easy balance, and perhaps a drop towards these shorn wheat fields. Even these fields I stand in are wavy with their plantings. The high tension lines stand out against the sky because they are so regular. Their lines hang in a flawless curve, connecting insulator to insulator.
The bird makes small adjustments of its tail for the maintenance of CG.
Here I lean against bales which edge me out with their diameters. The perfume of their damp, cleaved stalks is intoxicating. The clouds float as if the largest of smoke signals were being created by the most zeppelin of natives, with a moist swath of cloth.
I like the space here. The pink clouds peak over the red roofs of Bavaria. And I hate the mechanical giant which arranged these cylindrical bales in piles perpendicular to these slopes. I think it would be exceptional if I could dodge in and out of them as they all lumbered down this hill like a heard of Clydesdales. I would risk no goring if I mistakenly judged the distance, only a heavy thunk, followed by a crushing weight which would squish me into this soft earth. O what a depression it would make!
A hawk sits on the topmost bale across the field. He can have my bales and adjacent land to scan, having the superior acuity. Plus, even IF I managed to ensnare a rat in my talons, I would have the foggiest idea what to do with it.

I just had a thought, while reading about authenticating self in Psychology Today. It was a memory, actually, about a discussion at the table of a restaurant in Steinach, just a train ride from Ansbach with the Head Start class. I was seated at a table with The Moos and two chaplains. One the colour of deep coffee beans, the other the colour of warm mahogany. One catholic, the other protestant.
In conversations, I find it telling to adopt a neutral stance, whether I know something about the topic or not. I remember Meg laughing at me when I energetically questioned a dude we met at the Gillsum about climbing. He told it fresh and from a newcomer's perspective, but rather than mention my knowledge on the topic, I tried to wring more information about his experience with casual but thoughtful questions. The more I questioned, the brighter his eyes became in the telling. This is how I questioned the chaplains. I simply asked them to take the tougher stance as I questioned what they believed.
The Hispanic Chaplain told me that he wanted to fill, instead of the usual state-side niche, one in a country in which he could bring his protestant word to a population not privy to such tidings. He wanted to make a difference, and thought he could better serve god there.
To this end, he held weekly prayer meetings in which he would instruct Koreans on god's word, through the protestant strainer. I asked him about how lucky it must be to have a destination planned out after his death, like a vacation getaway after the work on this earth. He told me it was such a blessing, and then laughingly told me about a Hindu Monk he posed the after-death question to. His words were broken by further fits of laughter when he noted the monk pointed toward the flames of a fire nearby, and then the smoke above it. He said "how could he live like that?! Expecting to turn into smoke!? That's REDICULOUS." I was amazed at how strongly his mind was fixed to a set of rules by divine inspiration. How close minded? How mesmerizing to see a living being who honestly thought his unfounded beliefs were better than that of another, when neither had support, just lofty conjecture. It was amazing to watch him cackle next to me. And I realized that I must bask in this moment, for I love to watch a man caught in the gutter of his own belief. This man's gutter is fashioned from granite, which I had not the time to chip, but could only gaze at in wonder. I don't understand people like this, and have promised to attentively watch their ways to learn more about things I cannot fathom. If, in the human experience, PERSPECTIVE could be quantified as a single number at a point in time, it would be exactly equal to the number of human beings living on this planet at that given time.

080508
How are you sir?
Good. You?
Another day in paradise...
What do you like most about this paradise?
Oh, sorry. I wasn't sarcastic enough about the paradise part.

Malicious sarcasm never gives me a warm-fuzzy about the person who rolled it out of themselves.

I think of flicks of the brow, shifts of weight over the feat, which

"do you understand?" is like saying "have you reassembled a complete puzzle which, to be conveyed, I broke apart into discreet bundles forming vocal vibrations, without having to force a piece into a place that didn't fit smoothly and snugly?" That provides a two-dimensional structure for ideas. I actually think ideas are multidimensional. But that's my simplified, Flatlander view of them.

Neurons have negative synapse relationships to other neurons. Broken down into its most simplified form, neurons are conveyors of messages that say "not this." When a concept is perceived, neurons fire to say that it is "not this" piece of the past experience. By saying something is "not like" another thing, it strains out possibilities of what the first thing COULD be. It's like getting a patent. One has to show how one's invention is UNLIKE any previous thing, firstly describing how their invention has a portion of it which is like this one already in existence, but showing that it is indeed FUNDAMENTALLY different.
Somehow the mind can pear down bunches of "not this" to come up with an emergent property of what something IS. So the relationship of perception to the neuronal network is like that of an operator to the abacus.
This whole argument is not freestanding without the supporting beam of the mind having a vast database of previously experienced things to compare novelties to, which would require more than a finite mind can manage (??). So there must be discreet things which have many features for comparison that the memory holds on to so that a novelty can be evaluated through negative association by the neuronal pathways. So memory and the expanse of neurons act in unison to create conceptions for the mind to notice/fathom. It's like an encyclopedia laying next to a bin filled full with sea urchins.
Goddamit, I can't freakin convey the puzzle without y'all uncomfortably forcing a piece into a spot you think it would likely fit. So you're picture is different than mine. AND I broke the fourth wall! I totally should be studying.