tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-55380252012-01-29T11:52:16.117-05:00<b>vagrant mental activity</b> <br> <br> <i>Probe, delve, explore, search, unravel, examine, dive, descend, belly-flop, disappear, fall, headfirst, jump, nose-dive, <b>plumb</b>, plummet, plunge, submerge, vanish, absolutely, alone, altogether, fully, uniquely, utterly, wholly, appreciate, apprehend, catch, dig, discern, divine, estimate, grok, follow, gauge, grasp, interpret, know, measure, penetrate, perceive, pinpoint, plumb, probe, recognize, unravel, adapt, adjust, assess, dope-out.</i>Not A Keepernoreply@blogger.comBlogger1171100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5538025.post-1167938228714237922007-01-04T14:04:00.000-05:002007-01-04T14:21:16.450-05:00

"We're old, not retarded."--Anonymous Female Resident, Jewish Senior ApartmentsThere's a lot of sludge masquerading as my swimming surface in writing. All the resistance I feel when I want to write; it's a reaction to the sludge. I am itchy and reactionary in the polluted waters, and blame my own skin. Instead, I need to see what is there, and dive down deep enough to feel myself come alive

Not A Keepernoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5538025.post-1137214787160437752006-01-13T23:49:00.000-05:002006-01-14T00:02:36.423-05:00

Well here it is, January 13 (Friday!), 2006. By way of update, I'm in my first week of classes back at good ol' WSU, this time with a full-steam-ahead plan for an MSW in April of 2009. Good lord, that sound so "future." So be it. In the meantime, I'm working on my PMP (Project Management Professional) certification in the realm of Day Job. It's a busy time. I am reminded this week of

Not A Keepernoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5538025.post-1112606348193740032005-04-04T05:10:00.000-04:002005-04-04T05:19:08.193-04:00

I am at this precise moment gagging inwardly from the effort to suck enough oxygen molecules for survivial out of the cloud of Newport smoke that passes for actual air in this car.I should not be complaining, because at least I am finally on the road. The night at Roy's was horrible--his mom ended up finding me out down there in the basement; apparently Roy throwing in a load of laundry is

Not A Keepernoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5538025.post-1112367303651256942005-04-01T09:41:00.000-05:002005-04-01T09:59:41.733-05:00

Happy stuff is boring; that is the problem.I've spent two nights this week sleeping on my porch. Or balcony. What do you call a balcony that is just an inch off the ground? I haven't figured this matter out. My barely-balcony is quite large, and has the novelty of being completely screened in. On it, I have a comfy sofa-type thing that is not too indoorsy to look right out there. Both

Not A Keepernoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5538025.post-1112213160532122882005-03-30T14:56:00.000-05:002005-03-30T15:06:00.533-05:00

I had a great thought on my way in to work this morning, and I've let it get far enough away that I can only see its shape. But it had to do with writing positive things, as in 'happy' things, as opposed to the sadder and more easily attainable things. I think what I was thinking is something along the lines of my having psychological/subconscious difficulties with feeling or being or certainly

Not A Keepernoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5538025.post-1112148767647919592005-03-29T20:56:00.000-05:002005-03-29T21:14:32.946-05:00

This entry is powered by Dove dark chocolate Easter eggs.I did not go to the family Easter this year. I had decided ahead of time I wasn't going, because I'm in that side of my circular cycle of family relationships. The side that makes me feel mentally handicapped for voluntarily spending time with a stepfather who monstered sanity right out of me for eight years. And my aunt's husband who

Not A Keepernoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5538025.post-1111933571743004852005-03-27T09:25:00.000-05:002005-03-27T09:26:11.746-05:00

"A friend is one before whom I may think aloud."---Ralph Waldo Emerson

Not A Keepernoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5538025.post-1111594273495287872005-03-23T11:10:00.000-05:002005-03-23T11:11:13.496-05:00

"tuple" -- ha ha.

Not A Keepernoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5538025.post-1111586828517163432005-03-23T09:05:00.000-05:002005-03-23T09:07:08.516-05:00

"As we grow older, we have fewer reasons for hope or happiness;but fewer of those which do remain to us will turn out to be illusory."-- G. Adair

Not A Keepernoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5538025.post-1111245809454692512005-03-19T10:22:00.000-05:002005-03-19T10:23:29.453-05:00

Not A Keepernoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5538025.post-1110976594001983172005-03-16T07:33:00.000-05:002006-08-03T12:25:59.810-04:00

Is there another way to live than day-by-day starting over with a mentality of 'moving on' from what's been before? It sure gets old. And a lifetime of new starts certainly is a downer. I hope I get to stop one day. Stop and smell the continuity. I know it's there for other people. Is there, period; I am just not in the groove. I am not attached. Ironic, I guess Alanis would say, that I am so

Not A Keepernoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5538025.post-1110814738425172272005-03-14T10:38:00.000-05:002005-03-14T10:38:58.426-05:00

"Surely all art is the result of one's having been in danger, of having gone through an experience all the way to the end, where no one can go any further. "--Rainer Maria Rilke

Not A Keepernoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5538025.post-1110309467169279792005-03-08T13:41:00.000-05:002005-03-08T14:22:24.993-05:00

Once upon a scary time,Where monsters put a bit of limeInside the babies they did eat,A little grub found her feet.Grubs have no feet, as you know.Except for her, little Flo.She ran and ran and ran some more.Up hills, 'cross town, and out the door.The countryside could not contain her,Flo the grub became a small blur.In France and Louse and Turkey, too,Where one boy heard a fast "boo-hoo."Because

Not A Keepernoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5538025.post-1110027761992711202005-03-05T07:58:00.000-05:002005-03-05T08:07:57.266-05:00

HABITATThe Hip Faux Lodge----------It’s a bar that is wasted on regulars. To the neighborhood regulars, the lodgy mooseheads, authentic tin ceiling, and chunky memorabilia covering the walls go unnoticed. The atmosphere is a warm nostalgia that only twentieth century money can create. Have a margarita in a bucket with your Jack Daniels rib-eye, or a mountain of spicy onion rings with salsa ranch.

Not A Keepernoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5538025.post-1109960795000925622005-03-04T13:22:00.000-05:002005-03-04T13:27:46.423-05:00

Name: Timothy Walden HartmanBirthdate: 08/19/1954Social Security #: 365-64-9487Last Known Address: 23271 Oneida St., Oak Park, MichiganLast Known Occupation: Blue-green Algae DistributorPurpose: Daughter is in foster care; needs her dad.Contact: lonelybrain@gmail.com

Not A Keepernoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5538025.post-1109855588713828102005-03-03T08:12:00.000-05:002005-03-03T08:13:08.713-05:00

Once upon a time there sat a fat and grubby girl of twelve, making tiny cars from matchbooks. The matchbooks said “Bob’s Goodtime Bar” on the covers, and were so old that the phone number included letters in its prefix. Time and time again, she peeled apart the layered paper of matches, bending them back in tiny handlebar fashion, and pumping her feet as she steered the mini mock go-carts like

Not A Keepernoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5538025.post-1109176909129317262005-02-23T11:30:00.000-05:002005-02-23T11:43:37.163-05:00

"In The Closet "I am not going to breathe no matter how bad my lungs are sucking at me. My dad is still out there, and I will not give him the satisfaction of finding me. I can hold my breath as long as it takes for him to go the hell back to his hole in the basement. Or his smelly chair already by the front door. God I hate that chair. My last teacher could smell it the day she dropped off

Not A Keepernoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5538025.post-1109028848210727922005-02-21T18:30:00.000-05:002005-02-21T18:34:08.210-05:00

The Numa Numa DanceI don't care if everyone in the world is loving it, too --- I can't get enough of this! It's my new Hamster Dance (which brought me through the pits of depression many-a-time). Click the link; let's go.

Not A Keepernoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5538025.post-1109001222424688612005-02-21T10:14:00.000-05:002005-02-21T11:18:46.886-05:00

Once upon a time, there lived a little girl who grew up under big trees, next to rusted cars, and on top of cracked pavement. Through the pavement, weeds grew, and trees and sometimes flowers. "I, too, shall grow up through the pavement of my blue collar environs, and be something special!" she thought. Though she did love the feel of coarse, aging sidewalk bumps against her barefeet as she ran

Not A Keepernoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5538025.post-1108671518383524532005-02-17T15:10:00.000-05:002005-02-17T15:18:38.390-05:00

Once upon a time, there was a young girl inside an old woman. The girl was ageless, having stuck like a broken record at the ages of 15, 12, 10, 8, and 5. The body that housed her, however, continued on through timespace, until one day the young girl found herself stuck in a chair with extreme, high-voltage pain in the small of her very back."Ouch!" she cried, though no one was near.Sitting was

Not A Keepernoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5538025.post-1080099440485577542004-03-23T22:37:00.000-05:002005-03-17T20:01:01.170-05:00

It's March 23, 2004. Yo. Tomorrow morning I leave for Chicago, with my dog. We're attending the AWP conference, then visiting with some songbird friends.I lost my enthusiasm for this project, I'm afraid. I'm just not secure enough to write unabashed when people are reading it. Ha ha ha. That, or I just don't konw what I want to write, and that is a shame.Here's a story for you:Once upon a

Not A Keepernoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5538025.post-1070216942969238722003-11-30T13:29:00.000-05:002003-11-30T13:29:38.513-05:00

www.themeatrix.com

Not A Keepernoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5538025.post-1068837408483461392003-11-14T14:16:00.000-05:002003-11-14T14:40:22.826-05:00

I'm listening to an NPR program about suicide; specifically, the families of people who commit suicide. According to the doctor citing research, there is clearly a genetic component to suicide. Not just to the depression, which was previously thought, but to suicide. Depression with and without suicide runs in families, along those veins. Does one suicide in a family lower the barrier for

Not A Keepernoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5538025.post-1067886084889332152003-11-03T14:01:00.000-05:002003-11-03T14:01:48.933-05:00

Chris was a quiet boy. Unfettered by the usual social concerns associated with humanness, he was uncompelled to assimilate into society, in general; or his fifth grade class, in particular. Chris was free to be alone with his thoughts. Free to think or say whatever pleased him. Free not to say whatever might please anyone else. Or to participate in what is normally considered appropriate

Not A Keepernoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5538025.post-1067526831686187802003-10-30T10:13:00.000-05:002003-10-30T10:15:04.063-05:00

The relative purposelessness of the 9:35 hour is now a wistful memory. I've been assigned to a new project and I'm worried that it assumes skills I don't have (yet). We meet this afternoon. I will be "writing script" and designing a "flashy tour" through our software, marketing its usefulness to users. Dreamweaver I can do, and editing code is getting common, but what exactly does "writing

Not A Keepernoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5538025.post-1067524528330176432003-10-30T09:35:00.000-05:002003-10-30T09:35:17.670-05:00

I can't figure out why I'm here.

Not A Keepernoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5538025.post-1067356253580794062003-10-28T10:50:00.000-05:002003-10-28T10:50:53.216-05:00

Masturbation 'like Ferrari in 1st gear' October 07 1999 at 04:45PM Vatican City - Masturbation is like owning a Ferrari and driving only in first gear, a senior Catholic theologian said in an article published Wednesday. "Driving only in first gear, not only do you prevent the Ferrari expressing its full power, but gradually you wear it out and thereby ruin a masterpiece of technology,"

Not A Keepernoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5538025.post-1067279935900243112003-10-27T13:38:00.000-05:002003-10-27T13:38:55.210-05:00

I am increasingly blown away by the number of actual banana peels I see lying on the ground these days.

Not A Keepernoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5538025.post-1066656819877729012003-10-20T09:33:00.000-04:002003-10-20T09:33:39.583-04:00

My favorite pornographic spam title to date arrived today. Pigs.

Not A Keepernoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5538025.post-1066324563738619072003-10-16T13:16:00.000-04:002003-10-16T13:16:16.910-04:00

CHAPTER 1 Twelve-year-old Tabby Mathews stopped at the box marked 27-B, in the apartment building in which she lived. As she walked up the stairs to the small apartment she shared with her mother, she browsed through the mail. Nothing for her, as usual; just bills, a letter in an orange envelope for her mom, and a check from her father. Her parents were divorced when she was two, and from

Not A Keepernoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5538025.post-1066147073117645592003-10-14T11:57:00.000-04:002003-10-14T11:57:52.440-04:00

Back from Austin, TX. A great time. Now to ramp up for Nano.

Not A Keepernoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5538025.post-1065027327320466422003-10-01T12:51:00.000-04:002003-10-01T13:01:14.260-04:00

I’m not proud of the way things finally went down, but neither do I hold myself entirely responsible for actions that I confess were solely my own; a lifetime of circumstance conspired with latent emotional pains to drive me toward the inevitable, unfortunate, events with my brother. Of course, it’s not as if I murdered him or anything--some would say my guilt is melodramatic, that I actually

Not A Keepernoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5538025.post-1065026842918638582003-10-01T12:40:00.000-04:002003-10-01T12:47:22.580-04:00

Once upon a time, there lived a dire frog in need of moisture. Always his skin was tacky and creaky from lack of water, and his personality matched it with furrowed brow and worry. "Oh, what will become of me?" he would croak. "My lips are dry and I cannot get even the juiciest of flies down my throat without choking and grimacing." "Please, Mr. Frog," Mrs. Frog would say, "get thee to the

Not A Keepernoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5538025.post-1064969311229386872003-09-30T20:48:00.000-04:002003-09-30T20:48:30.720-04:00

Anything I feel inclined to talk about, I feel more stifled by lack of privacy than I do impetus to write. I am reaching a blogging block

Not A Keepernoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5538025.post-1064502014777988872003-09-25T10:53:00.001-04:002003-09-25T11:12:49.613-04:00

[Click for a face-to-face.] What are extremophiles? Extremophiles are organisms that live in extreme conditions. The extreme-ness of these conditions are anthropocentrically derived, meaning they are extreme as compared to human life, and up until the 1960s we didn?t even imagine life of any kind could exist in some of the places extremophiles call home. Extremophiles are so cool that they

Not A Keepernoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5538025.post-1064501848753148552003-09-25T10:53:00.000-04:002003-09-25T10:57:28.110-04:00

What are extremophiles? Extremophiles are organisms that live in extreme conditions. The extreme-ness of these conditions are anthropocentrically derived, meaning they are extreme as compared to human life, and up until the 1960s we didn�t even imagine life of any kind could exist in some of the places extremophiles call home. Extremophiles are so cool that they have their own domain name:

Not A Keepernoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5538025.post-1064080451075484972003-09-20T13:54:00.000-04:002003-09-20T13:54:10.460-04:00

I am in Chicago. The weather is great. I had fruit and a bran muffin for breakfast. Always, my size is too big. Not always, just often. Progress toward shrinking down to me is slowly evident. Went to the Billy Goat Tavern yesterday. It's the place John Belushi spoofed in the "Cheeseborger, cheeseborger, cheeseborger, no Coke---Pepsi" sketches on Saturday Night Live. The cook is exactly

Not A Keepernoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5538025.post-1063722622131108892003-09-16T10:29:00.000-04:002003-09-16T10:30:21.983-04:00

Aoccdrnig to a rscheearch at an Elingsh uinervtisy, it deosn't mttaer in waht oredr the ltteers in a wrod are, the olny iprmoetnt tihng is taht frist and lsat ltteer is at the rghit pclae. The rset can be a toatl mses and you can sitll raed it wouthit porbelm. Tihs is bcuseae we do not raed ervey lteter by it slef but the wrod as a wlohe.

Not A Keepernoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5538025.post-1063643441671829242003-09-15T12:22:00.000-04:002003-09-15T12:30:41.690-04:00

Chapter 10: Kiddieland Used To Be There A small boy toddled up to the dusty play set. His chest pushed outward, and up his throat the hollowness crept. But he didn’t want to cry. His name was Billy, and he was small for his age. Small in all ways; a really tiny boy. His age was six years, but he could easily pass for three, and a tiny three at that. And contrary to what you’re probably

Not A Keepernoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5538025.post-1063371999604166152003-09-12T09:03:00.000-04:002003-09-12T09:06:39.633-04:00

Until today, I didn’t think I qualified to talk about faith. Certainly not my own faith, and I would’ve argued convincingly against there even being such a discrete thing as faith; seemed to me nothing more than hope without worry, aggrandized by women who frequent angel shops to distance themselves from guilty pasts. Valuing logic and facing truths, I wasn’t able to elevate hope in my own life

Not A Keepernoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5538025.post-1063295318903128132003-09-11T11:47:00.000-04:002003-09-11T11:50:25.060-04:00

Statistics at work... WARNING: Bread! 1. More than 98 percent of convicted felons are bread users. 2. Fully HALF of all children who grow up in bread-consuming households score below average on standardized tests. 3. In the 18th century, when virtually all bread was baked in the home, the average life expectancy was less than 50 years; infant mortality rates were unacceptably high; many

Not A Keepernoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5538025.post-1063042541662170242003-09-08T13:35:00.000-04:002003-09-08T13:35:41.603-04:00

----Original Message Follows---- From: "#1 Adoper Candidate Who Didn't Show Up" To: "Sandy's Foster Mom" Subject: Re: Sandy Date: Mon, 08 Sep 2003 Hi PLUMB: I want you to know that I enjoyed the e-mails from you, and I was really looking forward to having a new friend for me and a new friend for Belle. I hope that you got a lot of interest in Sandy on Saturday. I just couldn't put myself

Not A Keepernoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5538025.post-1062887824494984422003-09-06T18:37:00.000-04:002003-09-06T18:37:04.536-04:00

My uterus is shedding its monthly lining, ripping away in chunks that have me drinking Advil. My black pants and shirt have tiny white hairs from Sandy, where she shed as I turned her over to a stranger, and her big eyes looked at me for reassurance. My heart is shedding in evil chunks from self hatred and grief.

Not A Keepernoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5538025.post-1062801280694341902003-09-05T18:34:00.000-04:002003-09-05T19:00:29.886-04:00

I meet with a local alternative weekly next Tuesday to talk about writing a weekly column for them. I'm working around some kind of idea where each column would feature a photograph I've taken for the week, and commentary/conversation about it. The photos might be faces, events, whatever interests me. And the writing a kind of introspective musing about whatever it sparks off in me. Kind of a

Not A Keepernoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5538025.post-1062799402264063242003-09-05T18:03:00.000-04:002003-09-05T18:04:45.013-04:00

Girl in the Backyard.

Not A Keepernoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5538025.post-1062778162843753682003-09-05T12:09:00.000-04:002003-09-05T12:09:22.953-04:00

Go for it.

Not A Keepernoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5538025.post-1062599229389529142003-09-03T10:27:00.000-04:002003-09-03T10:27:09.450-04:00

So on the 29th, I find this little dog. Life since then has been batting away the stress and bogue feelings that come with fostering, and trying frantically to find her home. And in the meantime, for good measure, a backed up sewer, getting writing group critique for the first time, a pissed off friend, a festival I thought I was going to relax into, feeding and medicating my sister's two dogs

Not A Keepernoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5538025.post-1062108291357416482003-08-28T18:04:00.000-04:002003-08-28T18:06:12.220-04:00

I just sold the Bronco. For $800. I am feeling many words I struggle to spell, like desolate and inconsolable. The Bronco was part of a big move for me, a move of letting me control my life out of desire instead of fear. I've always wanted a Bronco, and so screw it, I went ahead and bought one. And I loved every minute of it. I still love it. I wish I hadn't sold it, I think.

Not A Keepernoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5538025.post-1061944005610387402003-08-26T20:26:00.000-04:002003-08-26T20:29:22.303-04:00

STEPFATHER: She looks like a little slut! GIRL: Mom! MOTHER: (Sighs heavily and turns to dry dishes.) STEPFATHER: Don't raise your voice to your mother! GIRL: I wasn't! (Turns to Mother, pleading.) Mom! You heard what he said! Are you going to just let him call me a slut? MOTHER: Look, I'm tired of being in the middle of you two! Can't you just go play or something? STEPFATHER: She's

Not A Keepernoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5538025.post-1061835691338094752003-08-25T14:21:00.000-04:002003-08-25T14:21:31.356-04:00

You should go see Spellbound today.

Not A Keepernoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5538025.post-1061834622486123342003-08-25T14:03:00.000-04:002003-08-25T14:15:39.926-04:00

In an office building in Farmington Hills, Michigan---an otherwise ordinary office building---are two signs: In the lobby, "No handbills or soliciting, and no playing accordians outside of building;" and in the restroom, "Do Not Flush Toilet With Foot." Who is the accordian player that neccesitated the first sign? I want to meet him. Or her. A simple musician looking share his gift, perhaps?

Not A Keepernoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5538025.post-1061563952784334552003-08-22T10:52:00.000-04:002003-08-22T10:55:42.323-04:00

-- By Stephany Aulenback (re-printed from here) You may write about what you now see, and what you saw. You may not write about what you think you see, or what you thought you saw. You may not write about what you plan, or hope, to see in the future. You may not write about what you imagine you might have seen in the past, what you imagine you might now see, or what you imagine you might see in

Not A Keepernoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5538025.post-1061431963283416232003-08-20T22:12:00.000-04:002003-08-20T22:12:43.333-04:00

I pick up my new Jeep tomorrow! It's a 2000 Wrangler Sport, and I am in love.

Not A Keepernoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5538025.post-1061336713017580952003-08-19T19:45:00.000-04:002003-08-19T19:54:00.433-04:00

Today finds our heroine inching closer toward the purchase of a Jeep Wrangler, previously owned, but under 40,000 miles. Financing is in place, and only the Jeep needs to be secured. Hardtop is required, due to my frequenting areas of the city with character, including my house. Other than that and air conditioning, pretty open. Black is preferred, and white a possibility. Had a breakthrough

Not A Keepernoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5538025.post-1061234296888887762003-08-18T15:18:00.000-04:002003-08-18T15:26:57.703-04:00

So here is what happens in a Detroit neighborhood, in 2003, when there's no electricity. 8:15 a.m. You have no water, for one thing. Losing water is way worse than losing power, it turns out. I would've assumed otherwise, I think. But the power feeds creature comforts and mental needs, while the water takes care of basic health and life. I can't wash anything, even my hands if I get

Not A Keepernoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5538025.post-1060866955514644612003-08-14T09:15:00.000-04:002005-03-17T15:00:49.156-05:00

I have a side project where I'm typing up some of the stacks of notebooks I've filled with writing over the past several years. These are being typed into a separate, loner blog to free me up completely from censorship, and I can just get all the writing into type. Here's one I transcribed this morning.Harry's Apartment | Troy, MI | A Sunday in July, 2000 The whole thing about originality is

Not A Keepernoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5538025.post-1060832137007806192003-08-13T23:35:00.000-04:002005-03-17T15:01:50.323-05:00

Just returned from seeing Spellbound. Two thumbs up! Four stars! Whatever! Excellent movie. Very dramatic, funny, real, exciting. Just plain old good. Thanks, Harry. He carefully chose this one after the fallout from Capturing the Friedmans -- yeesh. :P Apparently I am the only person in the world who recognizes a pedophile when she sees one.I'm taking a few days off work to stay home

Not A Keepernoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5538025.post-1060737460019279222003-08-12T21:17:00.000-04:002003-08-12T21:25:48.780-04:00

And in the darkness, a beacon shines; a miracle we daren't dream of appears on Earth, and I have reason to hope for a brighter tomorrow. For today fantasy is reality: Nestle' created a fat-free chocolate milk. And it is good. And it is creamy. And eyes dewy with joy, I move into the future believing that, just maybe, all things are possible. I am almost moved to accept the Nesquik name...

Not A Keepernoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5538025.post-1060648310887646302003-08-11T20:31:00.000-04:002003-08-12T10:57:15.146-04:00

A lamp, green as the icy ocean depths, tucked itself quietly into bed, and turned out the night-light. The lamp's name was Lou, and he sighed deeply, feeling his gold base relax as he did so. It had been a long day. And tomorrow left little reason to hope for better. In twelve days he would marry, and tomorrow Lou was to meet his blushing bride for the first time. He rolled over in bed,

Not A Keepernoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5538025.post-1060632262532301202003-08-11T16:04:00.000-04:002003-08-11T16:04:22.526-04:00

Be sure to check out that post on Horackt the Cryptomas! And if you'd like to join the PLUMB mailing list, just drop an e-mail or comment note saying so. Join the club!

Not A Keepernoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5538025.post-1060612175718130242003-08-11T10:29:00.000-04:002003-08-22T09:31:03.543-04:00

Once upon a time, there lived a little single-celled germ whose name was Horackt. "What is the meaning of life?" young Horackt would ponder. "Where is the edge of All Things? How do I fit into the grand scheme?" Indeed, he wondered some dark nights whether there existed a grand scheme at all. Round and round he swam by day, cruising and darting until both his little flagella were sore and

Not A Keepernoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5538025.post-1060451891162426772003-08-09T13:58:00.000-04:002003-08-11T10:58:38.233-04:00

Riley and I walked down to Caniff & I-75, where we met Matt for a hand-off of the newly minted Ann Arbor Paper put out by Hoard & his Laura. The walk was nice. In front of Krot Funeral Home we chatted with an old Polish lady who has a 12-year-old Pekinese that is not allowed out of the house. They used to have a Cocker Spaniel, 18 years they had that dog, and then the tumors, they developed,

Not A Keepernoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5538025.post-1060439848008104982003-08-09T10:37:00.000-04:002005-03-17T15:02:41.026-05:00

My girl (Dawn) cannot see me today. She left a message, short and to the point, and sucking in crying. Not whining crying, but the hopeless torture chamber kind of crushing that I know her life is. I think it's happening now, her spirit is finally being crushed. I've been amazed over the years at how she stays so sane in the face of her life, the goons running her asylum, and now it's finally

Not A Keepernoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5538025.post-1060363864992418662003-08-08T13:31:00.000-04:002003-08-08T13:31:04.923-04:00

Tonight I am out on the town with my oldest friend, who dates back as early as the 3rd grade, to sing karaoke. Public reading on Tuesday, singing outloud in front of people today. I must make myself give this a go. Ahhhh! My buddy, Carrie, is a local karaoke superstar who goes by the name Keri O'Kee. Ha ha ha!

Not A Keepernoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5538025.post-1060358147397026822003-08-08T11:55:00.000-04:002003-08-08T11:58:23.196-04:00

So I've been using my neti pot for a few days, and this morning I think I overdid the salt, because I feel like I'm drowning off the coast of Florida today. (That's not me in the video, but what a hoot, eh!? Weirdo as it the neti seems, my sinuses have never been better.)

Not A Keepernoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5538025.post-1060285067372892922003-08-07T15:37:00.000-04:002003-08-07T15:56:09.483-04:00

Hello. And welcome to Thursday's edition. You will find an updated links section down to your right; let me provide you with a brief tour of today's offerings: vintage mobile homes This fine site treats the viewer and frequent link-clicker to photos of vintage mobile homes and their parks, as well as other exciting views of mobile home fun. Unfortunately, I have not found a match for my

Not A Keepernoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5538025.post-1060226371681114512003-08-06T23:19:00.000-04:002003-08-06T23:19:31.683-04:00

A million years ago I became a mentor to an incredible person named Dawn. She was 8 years old when we met, and this Fall she'll be a high school sophmore. The entire experience with Dawn has been filled with pain for me, because I love her so much and feel I can't be what she fully deserves, and because I re-live my own miserable experience through hers. After dropping her off after our visits

Not A Keepernoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5538025.post-1060192934113763302003-08-06T14:02:00.000-04:002003-08-06T14:04:08.206-04:00

I am depressed. I guess that's what it feels like; I never used to think I got depressed. I just thought the way I felt was my own private funk. It never occurred to me that I might be depressed. Frankly, I still don't think it really fits. Because Being Depressed sounds to me like it's a single state, a mono mood, a sole plane of experience. And I never have that kind of luxury, where I

Not A Keepernoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5538025.post-1060180115382491192003-08-06T10:28:00.000-04:002003-08-06T10:34:28.690-04:00

One of the more subconscious reasons I think my body fights to stay on the less-than-eye-candy end of the spectrum involves experiences like this morning, where driving to work I was ogled and hit-on by a grizzled 40-something dude in a flannel shirt riding his banana-seat bike (probably home) at 8:30 a.m.

Not A Keepernoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5538025.post-1060143735704774692003-08-06T00:22:00.000-04:002005-03-17T15:03:46.470-05:00

So, I read outloud. I read the story I-75 South tonight at Urban Break's open mic. That story is posted here somewhere, and is the true account of the first leg of my hitchhiking to Florida journey when I was 16. My reading did not, I am sorry to say, wow the crowd with my brilliance. I did go first, too, which Harry says is a killer. But, whatever. I am mostly okay that the applause was

Not A Keepernoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5538025.post-1060101505968271052003-08-05T12:38:00.000-04:002003-08-05T12:42:41.820-04:00

This morning has been productively spent adding the links to the right of this post, down under the archive links. I am feeling pretty stylin' at my developing Web prowess. If only I could find out how to get the archives to list in reverse order now. Today I made arrangements to start writing some pieces for motorcityrocks.com. I happened upon the site a few days ago and sent a fan letter to

Not A Keepernoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5538025.post-1060027767430261192003-08-04T16:09:00.000-04:002003-08-04T16:11:52.940-04:00

The Bronco, she still runs. My insurance doesn't cover anything, and the cop hasn't called back to buy her. I keep driving her, but better find out if the hood opens; an oil change is way overdue. My dad bought a house today in Skiatook, Oklahoma. This will be his 32nd move in 30 years. When I was 10 he left the state, and just moved back here last Spring; my stepmother wanted the family

Not A Keepernoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5538025.post-1059744718133739372003-08-01T09:31:00.000-04:002003-08-01T09:36:29.426-04:00

Driving north on Brush Wednesday, about 35 mph, a car appeared before me at an intersection and I had no alternative but to smash into it. I am fine, except for some neck and head soreness. My Bronco now has a permanent sneer and the hood won't open. If you need to sail into another vehicle at a fairly decent rate of speed, a 1991 Bronco is the place to be. With seatbelt on. The smash

Not A Keepernoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5538025.post-1059571948808483572003-07-30T09:32:00.000-04:002003-07-30T09:35:08.313-04:00

When I bought my house four years ago, I chose the city it's in because I could afford an actual house there, and not just a shack with flowers to disguise its categorical difference from the neighbors. The goal was just to Get A House, all of my own, that wasn't waiting for me to eventually pack up and leave it. A house where I could spend all day crying, when that was what was needed. Where

Not A Keepernoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5538025.post-1059398853031456342003-07-28T09:27:00.000-04:002003-07-28T09:29:49.343-04:00

Back in the land of cubicles and farting cubemates--or wait, is that me? Oh, no, that was at Omega; living on grains and soy stuffs can really do a number on the ol' system. More than one kind of music poured from our cabins. I worked on my Website yesterday and like the results. Not sure about the wisdom of linking my blog. I've already decided to pull my head out of the dark and dreary

Not A Keepernoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5538025.post-1059151325226910372003-07-25T12:42:00.000-04:002003-07-25T12:42:05.153-04:00

Just sent the girls off in the van. I think I've made some real friends with the bunch. Worth the wait all these years to get such a hearty dose all at once. Now, to find some in the same state... We surprised Lynda with a spontaneous song, one she taught as during the course, and she sobbed, we sobbed, and love was smeared around the place. I gotta tell ya, I have 19 minutes left on this

Not A Keepernoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5538025.post-1059098891899900572003-07-24T22:08:00.000-04:002005-03-17T15:04:24.686-05:00

Going home tomorrow. Neko says the tour will lose momentum without me; I want to become a fulltime groupie. There's a great appeal to that, but it's a lie, I've discovered. I want the spotlight. It's true. But I love these others who command it with their talent and persons.I miss my dog, but try not to think about her until I see her. I can get too freaked out worrying about not being with

Not A Keepernoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5538025.post-1059084926795469502003-07-24T18:15:00.000-04:002003-07-24T18:15:26.900-04:00

Wow, people sure do want to belong to the pack. I do. No denying it, no intellectualizing otherwise, it is a fact. I feel gloomy whenever I feel, irrationally or not, that I've fallen out of the pack or was never one of their number to begin with. Thing is, I suspect that for the most part, the pack is largely a projection of any given person at any given time. In other words, what fucking

Not A Keepernoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5538025.post-1059068769345681012003-07-24T13:46:00.000-04:002005-03-17T15:05:23.930-05:00

I should provide links to each of the girls' music, but for now you can search the likes of Neko Cxxx , Kelly Hxxxx, and Carolyn Mxxx. No joshing, they're blow-you-away-beautiful voices and talent. It's really something. They are hoping I'll join them touring when we leave Omega. Man, I would love to. So tempted. But Harry has shows this weekend, and I have a little dog waiting for me, and

Not A Keepernoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5538025.post-1059001346481478252003-07-23T19:02:00.000-04:002003-07-23T19:12:22.660-04:00

Four of us drove into the tiny and charming town of Rhinbeck, New York this afternoon: me, Hogan, Neko, and the great Julie Wilson. I sat in a perfectly darkened tavern and drank draft beer and wrote some. It was great. Julie & Neko joined me near the end of our time, and Julie smoked Marlboro lights on the last day possible, maybe ever, inside a New York establishment. Historic smokes, and I

Not A Keepernoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5538025.post-105897922402205512003-07-23T12:53:00.000-04:002003-07-23T13:03:40.006-04:00

I had the weighty pleasure of letting Lynda know that she won an Eisner Award for for her latest book, "100 Demons." I learned of it via e-mail, and she hadn't even been aware she was nominated. Wow. I hope it didn't bum her out getting it from me, instead of her husband or some other more intimate party. Crazy. I don't know how to act sometimes.

Not A Keepernoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5538025.post-1058828624085055132003-07-21T19:03:00.000-04:002003-07-21T19:03:44.083-04:00

It's about to storm here in Rhinbeck, New York. THANK GOD, I say, because the humidity is breaking me. That, and the writing, have brought in a funk. I tried today to pretend myself out of it, but it's strong, and resistance is futile. Bring on da funk. Writing funks me. Because I am sick, sick, sick of writing about my stepdad. It sucked, I know that, we all know that, I've written about

Not A Keepernoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5538025.post-1058549790033814572003-07-18T13:36:00.000-04:002005-03-17T15:06:23.416-05:00

It is seeming to cheesy to create a title everytime I write something. Too much contrast when the content is far from grand.Final packing being done. Still want to put on two more coats of nail polish, and it's not looking good. Harry went to get Subway for lunch; my train leaves at 4:25 and it's 1:25. Harry is my ex-boyfriend and primary friend. One day we will move on, but for now we enjoy

Not A Keepernoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5538025.post-1058538399646858252003-07-18T10:26:00.000-04:002003-07-18T10:26:39.723-04:00

Makes you look tan -- really tan -- even when you're not. I'm enamored. And have a pretty fine Priscilla Presley look going on. For better, or for worse.

Not A Keepernoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5538025.post-1058490721866363262003-07-17T21:12:00.000-04:002003-07-17T21:23:00.953-04:00

So I'm not into writing essays about the political climate. And I don't have interesting and clever things to say about the heads of business and how they're fucking things up. Neither am I a true geek who can offer enlightening shortcuts to all things web and media. Even as a technical writer, I can't decide whether to capitalize 'web' or not (oh, how the debate rages on!). Lofty aspirations

Not A Keepernoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5538025.post-1058465992881045982003-07-17T14:19:00.000-04:002003-07-17T20:56:18.256-04:00

Test-running the new color scheme; I like the fleshiness of the tone. Not bad for the free Blogger, I'm thinking. Are you of one religious mind? Is it possible to be thoughtfully certain of all things religious? It seems to me that those of solid faith are solid precisely because they abandon certainty. A nice feeling, I'll bet. I realize that I've stopped writing what I am really thinking

Not A Keepernoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5538025.post-1058446154890810632003-07-17T08:49:00.000-04:002003-07-17T08:59:31.206-04:00

Last night I had a dream of the feature-film variety, where today it still seems made up of a kind of reality deeper and more real than this one. This guy was stalking me. I spotted him when I was walking across a parking toward a building that was a combination of the building I work in, the rollerskating rink from the pre-teen years, and a lofty artsy gallery where a party was going on. He

Not A Keepernoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5538025.post-1058369873494155112003-07-16T11:37:00.000-04:002003-07-16T11:37:53.420-04:00

eaves (eevz) noun: Overhanging edge of a roof. Wordsmith.org's word of the day. I'm surprised to see a word list in its plural--why not "eave?" Can one not have a single eave, but only eaves? The overhanging edge of a roof, in any case, is a scary place. There lives spiders, whole generations of spiders that live and die in their own eaved universe. Perhaps a hurricane passes through via a

Not A Keepernoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5538025.post-1058368773637468542003-07-16T11:19:00.000-04:002003-07-16T11:19:33.640-04:00

Pyrrhic victory \PIR-ik\, noun: A victory achieved at great or excessive cost; a ruinous victory. Dictionary.com's word of the day. My mental health is a Pyrrhic victory. Achieved by losing the guts of attachment to people I grew up loving. People I still love. Leaving a faulty system doesn't make those feelings go away; if only. Sometimes, the loneliness and heartbreak does feel ruinous.

Not A Keepernoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5538025.post-1058280917889464942003-07-15T10:55:00.000-04:002003-07-15T11:00:07.230-04:00

Today I am title-less. This post, anyway. It's like being shirtless. Have you ever been shirtless, as a female, in a non-sexual way? It's a great feeling, and always made me resent that boys get to do it and I can't. Freud is so off-base about the kinds of things that make you jealous of males; trust me, it's not the penis. But riding a bike down the street with wind breezing against my

Not A Keepernoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5538025.post-1058208662554940972003-07-14T14:51:00.000-04:002003-07-15T11:39:29.923-04:00

How do other people handle the boredom? I don't get it. And it drives me crazy that nobody is e-mailing me, so they must not be bored, but then why don't they give me the secret? I am doomed to a mind exquisitely tuned to pick-up scraps of boredom. That is not really true. It's only in truly boring situations. Like this one. I am rarely bored when I can live without restrictions. Like on

Not A Keepernoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5538025.post-1058206367806774652003-07-14T14:12:00.000-04:002003-07-15T11:41:04.826-04:00

Have you ever heard of Omega, in upstate New York? Lynda Barry gives a week-long writing workshop there every year, called "Writing the Unthinkable". It's next week, and I'm going for my second time. I am so excited. I'll come home with a tremendous body of work, and have spent all those days basking in the nourishment that is Lynda. And the people who love her. And even the greatness of

Not A Keepernoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5538025.post-1058205339751439642003-07-14T13:55:00.000-04:002003-07-15T11:40:55.966-04:00

Because another thing is, I started this thing so I'd have something to do during the hours of mind-numbing training I have to sit through this month. I'm an excellent student, but in this case I'm part of the training end of things, and instructional designer here for support and eventual delivery. Here in this computer lab I sit with 30 employee-students. In around an hour I'll get up and

Not A Keepernoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5538025.post-1058204283190194662003-07-14T13:38:00.000-04:002003-07-15T11:48:30.210-04:00

I went and told a person or two that I had this blog going. Now I don't want to write anything, because my true literary-genius identity can be confused with this normal-person, 8th-grade, very girl-like electronic mumbling. Dang it all. All I can say is hang in there, the great stuff needs unclogging, which I'm doing via blogging, so if you don't want to read the clog, avoid the blog! This

Not A Keepernoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5538025.post-1058023760655453292003-07-12T11:29:00.000-04:002003-07-15T11:48:23.363-04:00

A few days past New Year's Eve, Liz and I are alone inside the Neys house. Neither of us live here, but I have been staying with them for a month or more, since running away from the mother and stepfather’s house. Liz is helping me make ham sandwiches, which we stuff into a duffel bag. Yesterday, we sold most of our clothes to a resale shop, and we have a little over sixty bucks. The cash,

Not A Keepernoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5538025.post-1058019826104717342003-07-12T10:23:00.000-04:002003-07-26T21:55:01.946-04:00

I just figured it out. Can you believe that? What great fortune! On a particularly magical Saturday morning, with crisp and windy fall-like air blowing through my house (which is currently stacked with boxes of old books from my grandma's house, now for sale) it just came to me: The Truth. That's the answer. All I have to do is say the truth about what I think and feel, and my work is done.

Not A Keepernoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5538025.post-1058017248880516292003-07-12T09:40:00.000-04:002003-07-15T11:48:00.563-04:00

As a kid, I had this idea going that if I did everything right, I would earn passage back to my home planet. I've always wanted to find my people. Not in some delusional, truly thought out way, but more as a feeling. Articulating it into regular words was never really attempted, but a feeling that I was very different from the people whose lives I'd been plopped into persisted, and I held out

Not A Keepernoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5538025.post-1058013516471273742003-07-12T08:38:00.000-04:002003-07-15T11:47:50.360-04:00

"Goodbye to you my trusted friend." Good grief, what a song to start out a perfectly weathered Saturday with. Seasons in the Sun was one of a handful of songs that shook me to my core when I was six or seven. Run Joey Run is another one. But I think Seasons in the Sun was the one most attached to my inner self. Weird, how I was intimate with some songs in a deeper more meaningful way than

Not A Keepernoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5538025.post-1057951495109591372003-07-11T15:24:00.001-04:002003-07-15T11:47:42.750-04:00

Today, at least.

Not A Keepernoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5538025.post-1057951441678151222003-07-11T15:24:00.000-04:002003-07-15T11:47:33.010-04:00

Or maybe like this? Need some text to get the full picture. The quick brown fox jumped over the lazy dogs. I earned a D- in high school typing. Loving my new Authentic Pigment hoodies. Okay, that's enough.

Not A Keepernoreply@blogger.com0