God, are you listening? Are you reading this, now? ever? Will you comment? Oh, please comment. No one comments anymore and it would mean so much, and I would know that you’ve read, and then I would know that you always read, and I think that would be good.

I have some questions, I’m looking for answers.

Does it matter what I order? What are the chances that someone will fuck up my order? What should I order? Ok, fine, what will I order? How unhealthy, exactly, is that? Let’s say I order one of everything—can I afford that? I can! super! Wait…that’s gonna make me fat huh? Fuck.

I have other questions, but those are the most pressing. I’ll check back in a few days—at which point, a revelation will occur and decisions will be made. Or not.

An older man than me

told me a story today. He often strikes me as a sad man—constantly under the weight of the things he knows, of himself and of others. He is excited by others—by what they do, what they say, what they write, how they feel, how they make him feel—but it is as if all the while he knows that he has chosen not to do those things. For that decision, perhaps he has never quite forgiven himself.

His story was about a woman who died and the people who gathered to honor her death. I don’t remember now the details of the woman, or the words used to describe the gathering. The tears that almost fell didn’t, and have since run dry. Likewise, the intensity of drive and determination and excitement has similarly faded. But I do remember a few things:

The woman had fought for rivers; specifically, rivers in Montana, and protecting the fish in them. She had lobbied and acted and written in an attempt to preserve what she thought needed preserving, and then suddenly, she had died. When her family and friends gathered, they did so beside a river, in Montana, and as they formed a circle and talked about the things that the woman (dead but not gone) had meant to them and done for them and done for others, a great number of salmon began to surface feed in the river next to gathered crowd. And the fish, and the people, were gathered in the same spot, and were all there because of this woman that had died.

The people were there because they had known her and were now mourning her passing beside the river near her brother-in-law’s cabin; and the fish were there because she, with the help of others, had saved them and their river.

There was more to the story, and there was more to the telling of it that made it good and powerful and true, but I can’t remember the details. All I am left with now is the knowledge that for a while today—it still lingers but fades fast—I knew that there were several paths through life that I did not want to follow, and they were those paths toward which I have recently been most strongly leaning. I desperately wanted to give up money and ease and comfort and success and normalcy to be standing there beside the river, listening to the throngs of salmon feeding at the surface of the water and then, like the 40 others who came and who understood why they were there, I, too, wanted to take a long pull from the bottle of Irish whiskey before adding my stone, from my river and my place, to the humble monument we had constructed.

I don’t know if I will still want this when I wake up tomorrow morning, and more importantly I don’t know if I will want it when I make those decisions which will begin to steer my course either toward or away from that monument-making. It may take another woman and another gathering and another story to bring back what, for a moment, I knew.

I am left with knowing only that the things I feel the most are, for now, at irreconcilable odds with the things I feel the most passionately. Which is the more easily forgivable? Not sure.

a man down.

There’s something about playing a man down. It quickens the pulse, lifts the chin, and the tightens the veins—today we were down two. The five of us, the seven of them, and a story-book victory in the making.

When you play with a handicap, you can’t lose. It’s like test-taking without studying and dating without showering. With all the odds against, you, everyone wants you to win, and if you don’t win, “at least you had heart.”

And guts. It takes guts to play a man down doesn’t it…or does it? It doesn’t take any guts to play a game you can’t lose. No cajones needed for being the underdog. Some kids float through life, not trying but getting by, and they (dare I say we?) feel pretty good about it. Hey, they’re doing ok—for not really trying very hard, maybe they’re doing great. It takes brains to be adequate with abysmal effort. Thank god I’m not an “adequate” overachiever.

But it doesn’t take guts. Playing a man down, living without trying, trying without really trying—its really all just to get by and play it safe. No one blames you for not having something if you say you don’t really want it. But don’t you want it? Sure, it’s hard to be the favorite. Hard to expect something. Even hard to want something. But that’s where the players are. They are the one’s on the teams that are supposed to win, making the plays they are supposed to make, knowing that if they don’t, no one is going to say “ah, well, at least he had heart” because no one gives a shit how hard you try when you are on top—just so long as you win. Trying, not trying, heart, no heart, doesn’t matter when you’ve got a full team. And in the end, isn’t that what counts? Are you ever going to win anything if you don’t lose the handicap, sack up, and just win with no excuses?

Eh, maybe, who am I to know? Today we played two men down.

…and lost.

Golf shots.

There’s two kinds of shots in golf—the safe shot, and the not-so-safe shot.

There I am, lining up my third stroke of the par 5 number 8, nothing between me and the green but a surmountable distance…and a tree. I’m not going to lie, it was a big tree, but I was feeling like a big shot, and Christ, a golf ball is pretty damn small, and there is all kinds of open space up in that tree, just begging for a golf ball to weave a path through. Thus, the two choices: safe or not-so-safe.

Oh, unsolvable riddle, who am I to solve thee?

This is bigger than a tree. This is about me, and you, and everyone else, and who I want to be and who I’m going to be and what we are going to do and who you want to become. It’s about law and literature and love and life. It’s about speeding and drinking and wearing a helmet and studying for tests and taking tests without studying and doing drugs and doing laundry and wearing off-color clothes and taking clothes off. Is it the golf ball that will suffer from my poor decision, or is it me? Could it be you?

The golf ball, quite small; the tree, quite big; the golfer, quite bad. Perhaps I am indeed the golfer, carefully deciding the direction in which to drive my life. The ball is then my life, the tree those obstacles in my way: tests and loans and rejection letters and rejections.

Or is it different? Maybe I am not the golfer at all. Maybe I am the ball! And the golfer is fate, or God, or god, or my parents on the phone or the television or the man or maybe the golfer is even you. But what is the tree?

I know. The tree is you. Yes, the tree is most certainly and definitely you. The tree is you and I am both the golfer and the ball and the course would be so interminably obvious and clear if you weren’t there—but would it also be flat, lonely, dull, boring, “safe,” and awful? Maybe, but dammit, it sure would be easier to get to the green.

What is the green? Is the green where I want to go? Is it a great job and a happy family and great wife and dog and a house enough free time to ride my back and maybe play tennis or golf but not so much free time that I get bored, or is the green just where we all wind up? Perhaps the green is old age, the cup—death.

No, I don’t like that version. I’ve changed my mind. The green is now you. You are no longer the tree, you are now the green. The tree is fear and nervousness and a lack of confidence and mumbled words and forgotten facts and everything between me and you. But what am I? Am I the golfer, who has a choice? A choice of going around the tree? Taking an extra shot, but making sure I get there sooner or later, without injury and without fear of losing the ball.

Losing the ball!

Surely losing the ball is death. Surely. Yes, losing the ball is death and if I hurry to get through the tree to you I run the risk of dying a horrible and awful death at the hands of a pond or long weeds or worse yet—a spot of lonely ground that simply gets overlooked.

I don’t much like that scenario, I think that in fact, I would rather not be the golfer, driving my life through all the perils of its fearsome course, aiming for the green, but winding up in the rough.

In my world, I would like to be the ball. The ball makes no choices and cannot be blamed. Yes, it runs a risk, of being lost and never found, and at times, it can take a beating, but it does so with much endurance and rarely, if ever, does the ball break. It gets dirty, and gets lost, and sometimes hits things and sometimes goes the wrong direction, but these are no faults of its own, and it can usually recover…or at least, be dropped back into play. The truth is, I don’t want to decide. I’m afraid of going through the tree, but I’m also afraid of losing strokes and losing time. I’m ready to do either, but I need someone to hit me.

I know it doesn’t work like that. I know that I am the golfer, and no matter how many trees and bunkers and weeds foul things up, I’ll still be the one hitting the ball, though it may be harder at times than at others. At some point, I have to stop thinking about it, have to stop taking practice swings, and hit the ball. In the end, it’s about a being firm but relaxed, graceful but committed. It’s about a good back-swing and a good follow-through. It’s about sacking up, hitting the damn ball, and being prepared to follow it, wherever it happens to go.

Oh, for what it’s worth, on the course today I went for gold, hit the tree, lost sight of the ball, and wandered around aimlessly looking for it until the fellows on the other fairway whistled and pointed to the middle of the fairway—30 yards behind where I started.

Bigness

I finished Moby Dick, for the first time, moments ago, but in truth I have only just opened its cover. For the first time, now, after having read the final page, have I seen the scope of the thing that lays before me--seen how massive, how deep, and how big it is. I want to reduce it, and learn it, and know it, but one cannot reduce and learn and know life--could one possibly reduce and learn and know this? Or will the attempt, the attempt to know, be the end of both known and knower?

Perhaps. I am tired and full of energy. I finished and opened a big thing. And like a child whose toy comes with many parts and many things to look at and play with and figure out, I failt to start the process for how greatly it intimidates and awes me. Who art thou Ahab? Who art thou Ishmael? Who art though Scribbs? Who art though Moby Dick?

What a night. "What's that he said--Ahab beware of Ahab--there's something there!"

Where does the time go?

Sometimes you gotta run. There are times when walking just no longer cuts it. Like when you are late, or when you are angry. I am running, but I’m not sure if I’m running towards something or away from something. To be perfectly honest, I think I would like to stop, but I’m not sure if that’s an option. Anyone want to run with me? I don’t know where we’re going, but maybe we can get some fast food or something along the way.

Losing things

I just wrote an irate post. Not just irate, livid. Not just livid, mad. Where is it? Lost. Lost in gobbledygargon of the internet, lost into a moment in time that already happened but wont happen again. Lost like hat, or even a sandwich, that falls overboard from a boat that doesn’t stop moving, and though its back there all the time, still floating and getting soggy and maybe getting eaten, you can no sooner turn around and get it than you can go back and not drop it in the first place.

I’m not livid anymore. The moment passed—like I said. For a while though, I was going to punch a man—rather, a boy, trying to act like a man because he couldn’t handle the fact that no one cares who he is or what he does or what he has to say about why he is better than you. Fist clenched but fingers relaxed, I was ready. Instead, I wrote a livid post that then disappeared.

Just like that my physical fury melted into rhetorical rage and dissipated into unreachable 1s and 0s without any emotion at all. Maybe it’s better that way. Maybe it would be better if it always happened that way.

This time, however, I’m writing in word; no more lower case “i”s for me—it does it for me (it doesn’t like semicolons and dashes and parentheses all in once sentence though). I guess all I’m trying to say is that if people want to fight the man, I wish they would just do it—rather than just settling for fighting those at hand, whom they think they can beat.

If they don’t owe you anything, then you cant say they aren’t good enough. Good enough for what? They don’t need to be good enough for you. I know that is difficult to stomach, but its true. You’re just going to have to stop berating people for not being you and not being what you want them to be and not wanting to be what you want to be. There, maybe the anger came back, just for a bit. Not all, or even a part, but a smell of its taste, or a feeling its sound.

thefacebook.com

school got added to thefacebook.com. whoopdifucking doo.

i mean, sure, im signed up already, fervently waiting for others to sign up so i can "poke" them...but whatever, who doenst love wholesome online fun.

Lots to say, not time to say it, pretend i said it and you read it and then comment about it. im out.

ps. all posts will be in e-grammar from now on

or not.

All i want to do is sail...

i am fine.

Spring Break

Finished the last day of classes today and what did I do? Head for cancun? tahiti? palm springs? TJ? hell, even home? nope. Two weeks staying at school, writing.

Fortunately, I will be writing brilliance. Far more brilliant than this, and even more brilliant than that last post, which i think, was quite brilliant. But, I'm writing about that all day, so no writing about that now.

I dont really have anything to say. Personal things are a bit too personal and impersonal things are for other people. Blah Blah Blah. ...

The blognazi (remember him?) thinks he's a high roller. Thinks his blog has made it big and everyone thinks its hot shit. Gives his bloody address when he's hobnobbing with the real journalists and whatnot. Outrageous. Slobnobbing some guy who decided he ought to publish some of his old blog posts in a book. Seriously, write something worth publishing, or stick to web. Why would i buy your shitty book when i could jsut read the posts online? Lame. Oh, and about getting a lot of hits and all that jazz, I say, traffic is traffic -- on the web or on the road -- bad.

That doesnt make a whole lot of sense, but then again, neither does your face.

Heminway told a story once. It was about a guy he knew, a great boxer. He asked the great boxer how he did so well in fights against another great boxer, and the guy responded, "that other guy, hes a great boxer, a real smart one. All the time that he's boxing, he's thinking. And all the time that he's thinking, I'm hitting him."

I like it Ernie. The point is, is that people have taken H's admiration for boxers and bullfighters and whatnot all wrong. I mean, sure, he used it as a metaphor for writing when he called himself the "heavyweight champion of American Literature" and he was damn right. The point is, hes not saying that writing is a male-dominated profession with no room for women. I mean christ, didnt anyone see Million Dollar Baby? No, he was saying that writing is about hitting people, and practicing and using your skills and competinging and not about thinking too much, or using too big or too expensive words. That;s why Hemingway hated the critics, and also why he thought he had beat them. All the while that they were thinking about him and his work and his life and all of his private shit, he was writing simple, truthful, powerful, authentic novels and stories and with each one, was hitting them - the critics, the scholars, the readers, and anyone who bothered to read him. Maybe thats why he hates me, too. But he's dead, so im ok.

Spring break may mean more blogging. Hopefully things will improve.

I saw Billy Collins tonight. Saw him, heard him, whatever. He's a poet, he claims, a reasonably good one, it seems, and a remarkably popular one, im told. He tells sort of conversational, plain, transparent english and reads with a desert-dry sarcasm. Pretty funny, kinda thought provoking.

He reminded me of John Cale, in his plainsong voice. The Andy Warhol of poetry. Fantastic... John Cale reminds me that the trouble with reality is,

it's hard to tell what's real. We can't see reality, cant hear it, smell it, taste it, cant even motherfucking touch the motherfucker. I talk in riddles because if i didnt, i might tell the truth to myself and then i would get "a taste of reality" and that would probably suck. The point is, my mind plays tricks on me, i want it to stop.

Nevermind, i want to write. but not to you. its like im starting all over again. im not sure i want to. When i started this blog, it was fresh, exciting, undiscovered territory, and all the blog could think about was itself, and blogging, and everything was potential and nothing was past. I bloody want that again, but i dont have time.

I dont have the time, now isnt the time, cant make the time, time isnt there, time isnt now, no time, maybe some other time.

sure, some other time.

"You are more dumbly obstinate than the sea"

- Euripides, "Hippolytus". Trans. David Grene.

Am I still here? Alive?

Yes, I am. Just checking.

Because for a while there, it stopped making sense. Now I'll just go back and wait and see if it ever starts again.

Stuff you're never gonna read

This is the stuff you're never read. You're never gonna read it because you don't care, and you won't look, and I stopped writing, and if I stop writing, why should you keep reading? Well, you shouldn't, so by all means, don't read this.

Don't read it because you can't answer my questions, and don't read it because I can't answer yours. Don't read about my life, because it's not yours, and you only care about it as much as it is like yours, and my life isn't like yours, because you are confused and don't know what to do, and what you want, and where to go, and I know all of those things. I've got it all figured out. I've got all the answers. If I wanted to, I could write them all in a book, and the book would be called, "How To Do Everything Write and Never Make Mistakes", but I'm not going to, because that's not part of the plan. Writing books about living life isn't the right answer -- one down, eight jillion more to go -- figured it out yet?

So I know all the ansewrs. You don't know all the answers. Maybe you don't know any. But, if you read this, you would know one: "Don't write all the answers down in a book". But, no one reads this, so I was right -- you don't know any of the answers. Where does that leave us? Well, it leaves you with questions, and it's gonna leave me with a sick job, hot wife, a phatty sailboat to sail around the world...or is it? I can't tell you, because then I would be giving away too many answers, and I've already given away one.

I was going to reveal something else at the end of this post. Something big. A big secret, a trick I've learned. It doen't always work, but about 2 out of 3 times it will let you know what to do, and the other third, you will just have to use your judgement, which is what you should be using now. But, when I thought about it, I decided you might be happier without the trick. It will save you time, make you richer, happier, more productive, smarter, better looking, more confident and friendlier, but it's kind of like cheating, and if you do it, you'll have to live with that for the rest of your happy, perfect, successful, fulfilling life. As for me, I'm just going to keep chugging away, waiting and watching, not caring about a thing in the world, because I know all the answers and you don't know shit.

What the shit.

So, it's 9:42 in the morning on saturday and I;ve aready biked 12 miles. Unfortunately, it was in a 10 mile race. One goddam turn in the whole course and I missed it and rode 2 miles out of my way. Typical. Life's a bitch, and it's too early to deal with this kind of bullshit. Bitch, please.

I don't post much anymore - it's because i just dont care about you.

scribbs is out. way out.

no time for blogging

My world is spinning. Last night, my head was spinning, but today, my world is spinning. There is too much to do, and too little time, and there isn't enough time to blog, and there isn't enough time to watch tv, or movies, or read silly books. There is only time for reading big books, and smart books, and writing papers, and thinking about hemingway, and there's barely time for that. I hope there is time to think about hemingway, at least there will be that. There's no time for eating, and certainly no time for cooking, and im worried that there wont even be time for tennis. There's no time for apostrophes, or capitalisations, or grammar, or spell-check. i almost feel like there's no time for life. my world is spinning, spinning around and around, up and down. somewhere in the blur is life, and in ways, when i spin really fast, life gets bigger, and longer, and all spread out. the problem is, life really just gets distorted when i spin too fast, and i cant see it clearly and i dont know what life is, and i dont know what living is, and i dont know anything other than that i have no time, and i certainly dont have time to be writing this, at work, right before i lock up, and arm the alarm, and walk back, at midnight, in the moderate cold of a september night in the middle of the wheatfields.

The blog is upside down

Someone turned my blog upside down, or inside out, or maybe just turned it around, because it doesn't look the same. This blog has been my outlet from the basement. The outlet from where I spent so much time, rarely venturing out, living a pleasant, quiet, thoughtful life. I stayed in the basement, reading, leaving to bike, or eat. Sure, I occasionaly went to the city, or the bar, or the store, or blocksucker, but mainly, I just thought and blogged and read in the basement. Well, I'm not in the basement anymore, and there is no one in the basement to put what comes out of there onto the internet. So now, all you have is me - not exactly scribbs, but more of, what scribbs changed into, or even, what scribbs used to be before he went into the basement. Now I am still in a basement, but its not my basement. Actually, the basement doesn't have internet, not yet, fucking slow ass cable company, so I'm in the maxey lab. No, not maxey pad. Maxey lab. The point is, I don't know what to tell you, too much has happened, too much of nothing, and I can't tell you what it all is, and probably, you don't care. I'm in a new place, that is old, seeing the old people, who all look new. The LTLF isn't here, but she will be soon. All I want to do is jam, but no one here knows my songs... Maybe I'll be back, maybe I won't. Getting internet will help a lot, but that won't happen for a couple weeks. For now, take it easy, and keep reading. I've started The Mill on the Floss, by Georg Eliot. I'm also reading the world, but the words are too big to understand.

Gardening

People have been bitching about The Success Blog. Well, they are just going to have to keep bitching because this blog is for me, not you, and if you don't like it, then you just must not be smart enough to understand how brilliant it is. Or, you could just go see something more brilliant, like Garden State, which I saw tonight, and made me happy to be in love. Zach Braff is still the man...and I am still the reddleman. Until next time, keep on with your bitching, but don't ride in that goofy motorcycle sidecar.

The Reddleman

This post is about the reddleman, and it starts out slow; but--as is so with life--hard work and a bit of luck will hopefully churn out a worthwhile ending. The reddleman has come to me from Thomas Hardy, and from him, through me, he comes to you:

When he drew nearer he perceived it to be a spring van, ordinary in shape, but singular in colour, this being a lurid red. The driver walked beside it; and, like his van, he was completely red. One dye of that tincture covered his clothes, the cap upon his head, his boots, his face, and his hands. He was not temporarily overlaid with the colour; it permeated him.
The old man knew the meaning of this. The traveler with the cart was a reddleman--a person whose vocation it was to supply farmers with redding for their sheep. He was one of a class rapidly becoming extinct in Wessex, filling at present in the rural world the place which, during the last century, the dodo occupied in the world of animals. He is a curious, interesting, and nearly perished link between obsolete forms of life and those which generally prevail.

This is the reddleman.

During the course of Return of the Native, the reddleman is in constant motion, yet, he is unquestionably the most constant of the characters in the novel. He is a traveler and a wanderer by trade, homeless by choice. Nevertheless, he is a good man, with good morals, good intentions, good loves, and a good head. He sells reddle because he chooses to, and as soon as he chooses not to, he will cease to sell reddle and put his skills to another trade. He loves a woman, and remains in love with her throughout the novel - as he courts her, as she refuses him, as she marries another, and finally again, as she, once a widow, marries him. His love is not one of lust or greed; his allegiance is to her. His goal - her happiness. His actions - selfless. The reddleman is free. He travels where he wishes, he does what he wishes. He doesn't let other people's ideas and judgments limit his possibilities. He walks his own path, and finds it well. Parents sometimes tell their children that if they do not mind their elders, the reddleman will come to get them while they sleep, but this reddleman, despite his devilish appearance, harbors nothing at all to fear and brings nothing but help to anyone he can. The reddleman is good, admirable, strong, and smart.

Can I be like the reddleman?

But wait. There is more. The reddleman ceases to sell reddle. He becomes, slowly, white, once again. His reddle fades, but does his freedom fade with it? Can he remain the reddleman that I so admire without selling reddle? He has changed greatly, it would seem, he tells me, "You mustn't judge by folks in general...Still I dont know much what feelings are now-a-days. I have got so mixed up with business of one sort and t'other that my soft sentiments are gone off in vapor like. Yes, I am given up body and soul to the making of money. Money is all my dream." No reddleman, how wicked! But, he teases. Yes, the reddleman has dawned clean white, and fine clothes, and has endeavored to take up an "honorable" profession which yields great income, but has he truly changed? No. He has not. He tell me, "What a man has been he may be again." I think I know what he means.

What does the reddleman mean?

The reddleman tells me this, just as he tells the woman he has loved this, after her times of difficulty, after she has gained a baby and lost a husband, and would now, once more, make a perfect bride for the reddleman. He has made these changes because, while he does not care what society things, he cares for society, and society's thought is not so easy to bend as one's pursuits, which are, and ought to be, flexible, fresh, and changing. The reddleman ceases to sell reddle because it just wouldn't do to be unable to touch his bride on her wedding day for fear of smearing her wedding gown with red ochre. It simply wouldn't do for a child to be reared by a thoroughly red father. And primarily, it just wouldn't do for a family’s house to be made inside of a reddle-van. So, the reddleman takes up another trade. Yes, he has 'devoted himself to making money', but his devotion is not to money, but to love. One can hardly think that he will seek more money than such as his other devotion requires; and, because she is such a woman who, like the reddleman, lives most merrily when living modestly, the requirement is unlikely to be much. The reddleman teaches us that we are our own and do not belong to a profession. Rather, our profession belongs to us, or, at least, is one which we may possess for as long as it suits us.

Can I be a reddleman?

This may all be a bit obtuse, and, to be honest, if it is a bit difficult to follow and extract my meaning, it is because I am not entirely sure what meaning I am meaning to follow. But, something tells me there may be something the reddleman can teach me.

I am the reddleman.

A few days ago, I decided to put aside intentions of mainstream success, financial security, and the promise of something I could quite likely manage at reasonably well for something I am afraid of, both because I worry that I cannot do what it demands and because failure seems so easy and so costly. Today, NW asked me if I was still thinking about law school. I told him no. I told him I didn't want to be the person that would turn me into. But is that fair? Is that true? The reddleman is the reddleman, reddle or no. Can I not be the reddleman too, regardless of the which direction I head? Is this an option I should discount? Or is every option one worth considering? A few days ago, I was ready to put everything into learning English literature and then teaching it, and that is a commitment made without a great deal of confidence at all in my ability to succeed in such a calling. Today, I am reconsidering going to law school. I don't know why. My only comfort is that I think, if I remember him, the reddleman's lesson is that there is no trade that is inescapable, and no professional who cannot put himself above his profession. Does the reddleman deceive me? Am I deceiving myself? I promised a worthwhile ending, and hopefully, I won't disappoint, but, you will have to wait for that ending, because I don't know where it is, nor when it will come. I am without the reddleman's constancy, and I am without his confidence, but I may share a bit of his situation, I imagine that we all do.

Where is the reddleman?

I am lost. I can't very well hide it at this point, all I can do is call for help. So, from Postal Service:

Will someone please call a surgeon,
you can crack my ribs and repair this broken heart,
that you're deserting
for better company.

The "must surely be better than the last post" post

Yes, the last post sucked. And yes, Villette still sucks. But today, a new, supreme level of suck is awarded to The Denver Post. I hope you agree.

Way back when, before all this presidential nonsense and stealing of Bradbury's titles, our buddy Michael Moore made a movie about a school shooting. But, it wasn't really about the school shooting, it was more about guns. But, it wasn't really about guns either, because it was most about fear. It was about fear and the media. And to that extent, it wasn't so dissimilar from his latest debacles. I don't want to talk politics though, this post is about the Post, so MM's ideas on the media more appropriately fit my bill. His point, more or less, was that the mainstream medias focus on violence and gore and tragedy in the news fosters an atmosphere of fear which plagues America and drives us to handgun ownership, and then, to handgun use, because we are constantly afraid of everyone else in our world. I'll leave you to judge my summary as accurate or not, and frankly, it doesn't matter, this post isn't about MM, it's about the Post.

This morning in the Post, I saw this article on the front page, with the big front page photo. Blah blah, more homicide criminals are getting away, blah blah. Typical fear-inducing shit. I didn't really get upset until I opened up to 6A, where the story continued, and found myself confronted with a massive inset. Taking up more or less the entire page was a two part graphic. On top, there was a street map of the city, with 61 numbered circles scattered about on it. The 61 circles represented the 61 homicides that have occurred in Denver since January 1st. About half the circles were dark, representing "cleared" homicides, whose cases have been closed, while the other half where white, representing homicides which were still under investigation. Then, below the map, and taking about twice as much space, was a very neat and orderly chart. The chart had 4 columns. In the far left was the light or dark numbered circle which corresponded to a similar circle on the map. Following it were columns labeled, "Date", "Weapon", and "Synopsis". For example, circle 1 is followed by:

1.(dark) Jan. 1 Handgun Victim shot after argument.

Or, there is number 10, a special Valentines day homicide.

10.(dark) Feb. 14 Lamp/Hands Victim beaten to death during an altercation.

Then, of course, there are the light circles, like number 27.

27. (light) April 25 Bludgeon/cutting tool Victim beaten and stabbed, then set on fire.

61 of these delightful rows, in beautiful, spread out, roomy, attractively glory occupied page 6A of the August 10th 2004 Denver Post, begging to be read, to be absorbed, to be shocked and wondered at. This, certainly, is journalism at its finest. 61 top stories, all put into one, with a graphic so I can see which numbers happened closest where I live, or where I work. Easy to read, easy to see, easy to understand. The perfect layout, to be sure.

Then, I thought more, and I began to see all of the wonderful things I could do with such an article! With ease I can county which weapons lead to a faster resolution of the case, and which have left police stumped. Which "synopses" are the most difficult for the police to sort out? Where ought I commit my homicide on the map? It is clear that some areas lead to arrests while others lead to mysteries. Surely I would rather be the latter. So many uses.

But so many fears! So many people killed? It is a miracle it has not been me! I should be more safe. Look at all the handguns used! I should have one, what else will prevent me from becoming like number 40?

40. (Light) June 17 Handgun Victim shot for no known reason.

How terrible! There are so many things to fear! According to this alone, there are 31 killers out there running the streets right now! They will surely come to kill me.

It's an imperfect world we live in, and there will always be darkness. I cannot make these homicides go away. We can all try, but they will never completely disappear. I thought for a moment about why this is so offensive, after all, I only just watched a movie about a prostitute serial killer, and recommended it as a great movie, though not a greatly enjoyable one. Is there a difference between that and this? Both are depictions of real events. Both make me feel uneasy, both show me things which probably make me afraid. But, I think, there is a difference. Where both subjects are dark, the film's outlook, presentation, and mood, are similarly dark, sad, and frustrated while the presentation of the Post's article is no different than if they had been listing dates and places for te fair. There was no depth to this chart. No thought. There was no understanding. There were no people. Only numbers, light or dark, dates, weapons, and synopses.

Bronte is a Hussy

What have I been doing lately? Why have posts been so sparse? What will come of this post? Will it be a frivolous piece about some other odd movie I have seen, a worried, frightened, and uncomfortable post about my own life, or perhaps a new piece of work, a new song, or rhyme, or some other slight frivolty? As to the first, yes, it will likely include some mention of a recently viewed film. To the second, no, for now, my fears are somewhat lessoned, my faith somewhat restored, and my love still constant. And as for the third, perhaps a new bit of rock, I will only do as much as to direct you back here, from whence you can find a new recording if it suits you. Now, if the reader finds that my tone in this post has become unpalatable, perhaps too flitty, too pretentious, or too forced, my only advice is to weather the storm, as I am, until I finish my marathon reading of Villette. There is something in Bronte that strongly disagrees with me, and I would not be at all surprised if it finds similar discord with you. Nevertheless, it must be born, and I will do my best to bear it well.

A few nights past, I finally managed to work up the courage to watch Monster. I was not shocked, nor surprised, but, sadly, only affirmed in my expectation that watching a film in which so beautiful a woman is made to look so ugly could hardly be not both un-enjoyable and unsettling. Nevertheless, if Charlize Theron's performance can be measured by how thoroughly she replaced any glimmer of the self she has shown in other films with the persona of Aileen Wuornos, her performance was clearly one of brilliance. Due in large part to that, but also simply to the power of the true story which the movie follows as well as solid filmmaking, the movie was indeed moving, powerful, and engaging, if not pleasurable. Once all is said and done, I just want Charlize to be hot again.

At the beginning of this post, the reader surely assumed that some explanation or excuse for such sparse posts was on the way, and, as of yet, that thirst remained unquenched. Do not accuse me of misdirection and falsity, however, for the explanation and excuse is on it's way. I made a decision - or, not so much made a decision, but have come to a conclusion - or, not so much came to a conclusion as had a realization - as to what I should like to do with the next several years of the life, if all my wishes were granted. I've done some research, and a bit of thinking, and have set my sights on Graduate study after all. No law school, no work, no tech school, no China - well, maybe China, if my first intentions fail. No, I think I should be most content if I could secure a place as a doctoral student in a well-known and respected English Literature graduate program. The realization that if I can manage to be accepted into a reasonably reputable program, finances are likely, and in some cases, guaranteed to take care of themselves, in addition to the finally clear belief that I truly do want to spend the rest of my life in school, learning and teaching, have been heavy influences in this quest. I suppose, that in hindsight, such a path has been that which I have truly wished to follow since before I even began High School, and perhaps, all the other things I have contemplated have been mere distractions, enticing me with their ease, their wealth, and variety.

The point is, with this newfound direction comes newfound pressure. And reader, let me assure you, shit is hitting the fan. In the coming weeks, I need to read about a thousand pages of Victorian Lit, read a similar amount of 20th century American Lit, read a lesser amount of Medieval Lit, and decide upon, begin to research, and prepare a proposal for a Thesis which will need to be finished by September 20th. On top of that, I will need to find such programs as I want to be in and will possibly accept me as well as some that will want to accept me and I will possibly want to be in. Finally, I will have to switch gears from my very light studying for the LSAT, for which I was both excited and confident, to more vigorous studying for the GRE, but mainly, the GRE subject test in Literature, which seems surprisingly daunting, particularly given my inability to remember names for the life of me. Even more sickening that all of this, however, is that I am blogging about it, and surely, the reader would not give even a shilling for such dry and worthless commentary. Thus, I change direction to focus on a different, and similarly uninteresting aspect of myself.

I am a concept person, not a fact person. I remember ideas, explanations, moods, stories, whatnot, all fine. But names, numbers, dates, facts, titles, words, and any other manner of thing that I can't reason out, escapes me entirely. My mind is one chopstick short of an efficient utensil for retaining such knowledge. If I can stab the thing at hand, and pierce it's surface and thereby obtain a grip of its inner workings, I may manage to pick it up. But if I must rely on scooping and gleaning and thus, remembering, I am quite a failure.

While I am in the neighborhood of failures, I cannot help but mention Villette, which is yet more painful that Jane Eyre, and has had the awful effect of affecting my writing and making it as you have seen it. The entire matter leaves a bitter taste in my mouth and I can think of no suitable alternative than to simply put an end to the silly matter at once by thus concluding the most Victorian, and the most awful post ever. For such writing I will earn naught but a firm reprimand and the loss of what few readers my modest work presently has. Nevertheless, I take my wages to my pillow, will pass the night counting them.