The same thing we do every night pinky

Or not as much time?

2007-09-01T19:36:00.001-07:00

Have ten minutes?

2007-09-01T18:16:00.001-07:00

Keeping your skies safe

2007-07-09T17:09:00.000-07:00

Another excellent performance exam by those supernerds over at the TSA:

"In one test, TSA inspectors hid the components of a fake bomb in carry-on luggage that also contained a bottle of water. Passengers are prohibited from carrying containers holding more than three ounces of liquids, gels or aerosols through airport checkpoints.
The screeners at Albany International confiscated the water bottle but missed the bomb. "

Here

Oh, you want to know why?

2007-07-05T18:36:00.000-07:00

Why did I get the hell out of North Carolina? This is not an appropriate picnic sport.

Jaws 4: Attack of the Moon Pie

2007-06-24T14:14:00.000-07:00

More people are killed by vending machines than by sharks. Just thought you should know, you fat Americans.

4:00 weekdays, 11:30 weekends

2007-06-16T20:37:00.000-07:00

We tend to crash wherever we crash.

Soylent Green anyone?

2007-06-04T08:34:00.000-07:00

Mmm, tasty.

All you need to know for choosing your party

2007-05-11T15:17:00.000-07:00

Go here.

I knew there was something missing from the aadl

2007-05-09T08:41:00.000-07:00

53 cents a minute? That's just like a book being two days late - what a steal!

Ah, Vienna.

I report, you decide

2007-05-07T21:34:00.000-07:00

please make sure you catch the location and the father's name.

thanks, fox news.

Bah!

2007-04-18T18:35:00.000-07:00

Bah Blogger. Wordpress is so much cooler.

And I actually updated that one today! With real... content.

Back to the wild?http://www.blogger.com/img/gl.link.gif

2007-03-14T09:47:00.000-07:00

Perhaps we've taken this whole civilization thing too far. I feel like we preach to our children throughout the very extended nurturing period about the truth of survival of the fittest. And then...

this.

I'm in!

2007-02-12T11:01:00.000-08:00

Now gimme those loans!

More on volunteering

2007-02-08T20:50:00.000-08:00

Picture #1: Here, have an "age winner" football from the superbowl 5k! (Just about the only useful thing I did that day.)
Picture #2: Oh, was this your cell phone that someone turned in?

The 100th Millrose Games

2007-02-02T16:53:00.000-08:00

What can I say about the Millrose Games.

It's a commercial break right now. I've been watching for 52 minutes (which, unfortunately in TV terms means about five events) and I'm ready to shed a tear for the beauty of athletes achieving such purity through personal struggle.

Oh, did I mention that they have high school events at this meet? That's how we do it in track. High schoolers get a chance to run at the same meet as Carl Lewis, Jesse Owens, and my newest fave: Tirunesh Dibaba.

I'm also reminded to be extra thankful that Slate has recently become such a superstar runner. Runners are hot.

Turn it on tomorrow at 2 on NBC. C'mon, what are you doing at 2 on saturday.

The sacrifice of a volunteer

2007-02-01T16:05:00.000-08:00

Erika, Ryan, and Tim are volunteering at the "Super 5k" this sunday in novi.

link.

The projected temperature range for Sunday? high: 8. low: -1.
I made the case to Erika that we should volunteer at a few races each year as the duty of a community-focused runner. Now I'm thinking:

That better be one FINE t-shirt!

I've just now realized...

2007-01-25T15:08:00.000-08:00

This pain I've felt off and on in my foot *could* be a stress fracture. It's on top, just outside of the ankle. I can't find a spot that hurts when I press on it, but it hurts when I pull my foot up toward my shin.

Sigh.

In other running news, get yourself hyped for Steve's upcoming 4-part Boston Marathon podcast series! (Last year we heard him puke no less than six times while stealthily avoiding getting picked up by the EMT brigade)

Promo

The form of a runner

2007-01-18T05:50:00.000-08:00

So, I was trying really hard. This is essentially the fastest I can go at this point in my life.

Still, the way in which my foot is about to hit the ground is awfully wild.

And yes, somehow in that half-second it's on the ground, it rolls ALL the way in to my big toe.

I'm going to have to go back and listen to the pronation episode of Phedippidations and see what Steve says about MP, or 'massive pronation.' (I'd link it, but it's been bumped off the site by new episodes!)

We interrupt this broadcast

2007-01-16T05:24:00.000-08:00

Okay, first, I saw a semi-truck HANGING OFF A BRIDGE last night.

Second, this was too good to pass up.

"Skill without imagination is craftsmanship and gives us many useful objects such as wickerwork picnic baskets. Imagination without skill gives us modern art."

Tom Stoppard

After nearly a month

2007-01-15T09:28:00.000-08:00

I have determined that, for the time being, this pubiary shall become a Rog. Or better, a WOMTog. But probably mostly a running log for a while. Because running is, actually, What Occupies My Time (do expect many "filling out job applications sucks! posts, also). And after these splits from the "healthy start" indoor track meet on Saturday, I'm feeling like that's a somewhat valid thing to put my time into. I even have a swift new running buddy.

200 - 38
400 - 40 (1:19)
600 - 42 (2:01)
800 - 43 (2:45)
1000 - 43 (3:28)
1200 - 43 (4:12)
1400 - 42 (4:54)
1600 - 34 (5:28)

That was a great race not just because I had no clue I was still capable of running at a (fairly) fast mile pace, but because it was such a smart and controlled race (yes, that is, barely, a negative split from the half to the 16) - I felt in control the whole race, knew how far I could let the leaders get ahead of me, knew when I had to take the lead. And somehow had a great sprint left for the final 150m (of course, I had absolutely nothing left for the 800 an hour or so later).

Thought for the holidays

2006-12-22T18:32:00.000-08:00

Dear Old People,

Please GET OUT OF THE U-SCAN LINE! I appreciate your attempt to maintain a connection with the ever-changing world of technology, but YOU SUCK at the U-scan. Stick with talking to your little bluetooth ear-gnome and hitting pedestrians with your navigation-enabled, dvd-playing car.

You can't teach an old dog to check itself out of Kroger.

ps. Kroger, maybe we should start thinking about changing the express lane from 12 items or less to 30 *years* or less.

Thought on 12/21/06

2006-12-21T08:03:00.000-08:00

Two videos. Shipped from the same location. On the same day. One arrives today. One does not.

I knew our postman had a Battlestar Galactica addiction!

Thought on 12/18/06

2006-12-18T20:50:00.000-08:00

What kind of day has it been.

Thought on 12/17/06

2006-12-17T15:46:00.000-08:00

List of in-house, readily-consumable food:

30 or so mini-sugar cookies, fully iced and sprinkled.
3/4 of a bundt cake of "monkey-bread"
6-8 molasses cookies
(soon) 1 large pizza.

I love the holidays.

and ps, the correspondence over on midwest home is taken care of... I think. Sorry 'bout that.

Thought on 12/15/06

2006-12-15T19:35:00.000-08:00

Way to go, Mongolian herdsman Bao Xishun!!!

"World's tallest man saves dolphin"

Correspondence

2006-12-13T08:12:00.001-08:00

Here.

Thought on 12/13/06

2006-12-13T08:12:00.000-08:00

Darn you, ingrown toenail!

Thought on 12/12/06

2006-12-12T12:44:00.000-08:00

Even though I'm poor, it sure is nice to buy some gifts for the nice folks around me.

Thought on 12/11/06

2006-12-11T10:47:00.000-08:00

Listen, Michigan. I realize you think that one little year in North Carolina turned me into a pansy, but there's no point in this one step forward, two steps back approach. Fifty-one degrees. Come on now. I need a reason to buy a good sled.

Thought on 12/8/06

2006-12-08T12:01:00.000-08:00

Yay! 5 miles at 7:17/m. I'm definitely back.

Thought on 12/7/06: iTunes customer support via... telephone?!!

2006-12-07T05:02:00.000-08:00

I constantly criticize Apple for their recent iTunes releases - they fail so much in the usability department and they simply fail too often to resemble anything other than software produced by Microsoft. Also in that category is their seeming-determination to keep you from telling them how to fix it next time. In order to provide feedback - that is, *after* you find the feedback form, which I think you must get through by some desideratic combination of the apple website and iTunes' help, which often doesn't respond - you have to create an account. After which, iTunes seems to "forget" that you were trying to leave feedback and take you back to the store or something. So you have to find the magic combination again. And - before today - you couldn't event *think* of simply calling up customer service to discuss your issues with iTunes. They don't provide you with a phone number.

That is why today is a special day. Through Slate.com, I provide you, verbatim, with their instructions for calling iTunes customer support. The only unfortunate part, still on a Microsoftian-"we shall rule the world" attitude, is that you must have an iPod and give it's serial number. Perhaps, as a favor to the general public, the owners of these lost iPods wouldn't mind if you borrowed their serial numbers (please note the possibility that Apple could say "hey, that iPod is reported as stolen." Then the police would come. Then they would search your house. Then they would hold you until you told them where you were keeping the iPod. Then you would die, old and brittle, in jail for borrowing a serial number).

And now:

"1.) Telephone the following number: 800-275-2273 (only available between 8am and 5pm CT). This is the Apple Care Service and Support Line.
2.) When you hear the recorded greeting, enter 70. The recording will very likely reject that entry at first. If so, try again.
3.) When you're prompted to say the product that you need tech support for, say "iTunes."
4.) When you're prompted to say what type of computer you're using, say "a Windows machine" or "Macintosh."
5.) When you're prompted to say whether you're calling on behalf of a school, answer "yes" or "no."
6.) This will get you a live person. Please note: You will need to state the serial number of your iPod before you can proceed."

And if you have time after talking with Apple, head on over to Slate.com and thank Timothy Noah for his removing of the sword from a very puckered stone.

R.I.P. on 12/6/06

2006-12-06T09:39:00.000-08:00

R.I.P. doorbell label. Slate made you, the cold wind took you away. At least I hope it was the wind. If it was the mailman or our neighbor...that *is* a lot of tape to just disappear... grrr.... you will be missed, doorbell label!

Thought on 12/4/06

2006-12-04T22:26:00.000-08:00

Who knew being a Trivia Master (note the relation to Dungeon Master) could be such a precarious position? Game night at the Drousen household!

New Correspondence

2006-12-02T07:49:00.000-08:00

available over at my other home.

Thought on 12/1and2/06

2006-12-02T06:34:00.000-08:00

Whirlwind trip to Chicago (and I do mean whirlwind - we drove a few hours to a slim parking lot, got out, and heard the horn as the South Shore came through Michigan City Indiana, slow and down the center of the street... hopped on and took off - backwards - to a city that now towers above us, dropping licorice-sticks of ice from the overhangs of buildings. I had to take most of yesterday to reconcile this magical arrival to such a different environment, not helped in any way by the fact that the "Club" - that being the Union League Club of Chicago - whose "Clubhouse" we were staying in had a dress code, required coat check, and prohibition of outside alcohol. I do believe I was only able to get friendly with this city due to Slate's company and a 1/2 lb burger with saurkraut, onions, peppers, and stone-ground mustard paired with at least 1/2lb of chili cheese fries. Who said cities are expensive? Anyother day I could've fed three Timmy D's at that meal). An arrest at Interlochen for (what else?) child porn. Another friend bites the dust (marriage).
This is one crazy world I've got myself into.

To top it all off, I'm writing this from a Panera (not sure the Union League Club takes its wireless too seriously - expecting, instead, for members to attend the Library or the floor devoted to temporary offices). I've redeemed my free bagel pack, but have not been back in one of these stores since the dread managerial days... This one, on State and... Thatroadsignistoosmalltoreadfromhere, is actually kind of nice. Chicago has been uncompromising for us this time, with trying to find food downtown at 11pm, the Club, the weather. But this Panera, it seems, has less morning business than the one in Durham, is fine with my small coffee-copout for their internet and shelter (while Slate's attending final conference wrap-up), has these strange club chairs with wobbly round 'table' attached to arm, probably more appropriate for a library. Which reminds me, the public library (across the street!) opens soon. Which reminds me, everyone should watch "The Librarian Returns"! tomorrow night - I think it's on TNT. Stay warm!

Thought on 11/30/06

2006-11-29T20:59:00.000-08:00

Tim's strange television-show-watching pattern:

Sports Night.
first saw: on comedy central (wth!) as reruns.
became addicted: later.
currently: own DVD box set (on loan to Amandarama)
one of the stars: Peter Krause

Dead Like Me.
first saw: on DVD (thanks Netflix, you actually made a good recommendation!)
became addicted: immediately.
currently: have seen entire run. wish there was more. Just like Sports Night.

Six Feet Under.
first saw: as rerun on Bravo (is it Bravo that they're showing it on?)
became addicted: not yet.
currently: freaked out that there is another show that appears to be pretty intelligent, witty, centered around death and Peter Krause, and being run on cable tv while available on DVD that I enjoy.

I think the universe is about to explode. Or, alternatively, I'm going to marry Peter Krause and die at the reception.

Thought on 11/29/06

2006-11-29T12:57:00.000-08:00

Just about one more month of freedom from the world of personal economics... I guess I have two options:

a) Sleep for 30 days.
b) Make a grand discovery.

I'm not sure which may be more valid...

Thought on 11/27/06

2006-11-27T14:19:00.000-08:00

Nothing new here yet, but I'm just about ready to start throwing you on over...

New Home, Old Home.

Pinky will most likely remain in service as my daily journal, something that makes me think about what's going on and makes me type every day. Correspondence may or may not be posted here.

The new site is intended to collect and format my correspondence into a more workable project, something I can see in-form and get a sense for the curvature of its space. Thanks for coming along for the ride!

Thought on 11.26.06

2006-11-26T17:53:00.000-08:00

150 points of light. Thus far. In our humble window and on our very humble tree. 'Tis the holiday season.

Thought on 11/24/06

2006-11-24T23:36:00.000-08:00

Target had the stuff they advertised, but we decided not to get it.

Circuit City did not have the stuff they advertised. Poo on you, CC.

And, as always, the Christmas tree farm had exactly what we wanted. Good pick, Slate.

Home sure does make me sleepy.

And unable to sleep, at the same time.

All these memories buzzing around, knocking into my head.

I've realized just how many photos I own. I'm unsure what they all mean to me.

I'm sore. Goodnight, moon. Goodnight, people I imagine to be looking in the windows, wondering what they'd say to me after all these years.

Fizz for 11/21/06

2006-11-21T12:24:00.000-08:00

New to the Jones Soda holiday 5-pack this year will be...

Green Pea!

Yes, after the failure of "fish taco" and "curried chicken" flavors, 'green pea' is what they've decided to mass market. I assume the "turkey and gravy" flavor will remain the main course of the pack.

Also look for antacid flavor, sweet potato, and my personal favorite, dinner roll soda!

I'm not kidding. Really. It benefits Toys for Tots. For some reason.

Correspondence 11/20/06: 'reason statement' through correspondence (rough)

2006-11-20T10:21:00.000-08:00

My Dear Friend,

What you’ve heard is true. After all this time plodding around half of the country exploring such different jobs and communities, it’s time to return to an educational community. I do believe I’ve figured out what more I want from my formal education. It’s what I’ve been exploring most of my life, but under different titles: teacher, professor, manager, counselor, facilitator, supervisor... It’s simple, really. Resource.
For four years at The College of Wooster, I received Wooster’s College Scholar award and an Abbot Labs scholarship through the National Merit Scholarship program. It was quite freeing; those awards gave me the chance to attend a small liberal arts school in a way that few people do, without too many worries about money or expectation. They were resources for me to become a well-rounded student. Only these three years later, it seems, do I fully appreciate how that exploratory attitude I was able to embrace has shaped my future. It’s one I’m constantly thankful for.
Don’t get me wrong, it hasn’t always been easy. Running a team of eight to fifteen associates at Panera through holiday lunch rushes didn’t happen without a few exploding plumbing fixtures and midday bakes of hundreds of bagels. And certainly, being a 24/7 mentor, parent, guidance counselor, coach, punching bag, cheerleader, and taxi service for roughly twenty-five high school boys had some hitches (including, again, exploding plumbing).
I understand now that both communities gained the most from me when I was able to successfully show them the road to their destination, even if that destination was different from the one they thought they’d set out to, and even if the road took them a long, scenic route. Those jobs, like the tutoring I did at Wooster and the University of Kentucky, and like the teaching and professorial careers I dreamed of when I was younger, were mostly about being a reliable guide for people who depended on me.
I have a - possibly naive - idea of libraries as the last great bastians of public knowledge. Higher education prices continue to rise, community colleges offer a limited selection of topics. Libraries generally require an envelope with a stamp and your name on it. With some fortitude you can learn to fix your own car, base your business dealings on successful peace treaties or Sun Tzu’s treatise, become an expert on fourteenth century Chinese poetry, keep your plumbing from exploding. I describe the best possible scenario, I realize, but that seems to be the only thing to strive for.
So I’d like to try. I volunteered at the public library for four or five months down in Durham before we had the chance to get back to home, the midwest. Nancy Grace, our dear very first Wooster English professor, and Michael Beery, my hall director and general Renaissance man, have agreed - it seems - that this is a valid path for me. They’re working on letters of recommendation, perhaps at the very moment I write these words to you. They’re continuing to act as resources to me, which, I’m apparently starting to figure out, is what the world’s all about.
I have yet to determine whether the purity of my ‘naive fantasy’ rests in a public library, or the public library that might be forming in an online way. I see the reality, most likely, as a combination of the two, and I see that fantasy of mine as a seamless melding of their strengths over their weaknesses. Most importantly, I see the necessity for guides in both places, and I see myself as one.
I hope this letter finds you well, and if there’s anything I can do for you... well, you know.

As ever,

T

Thought on 11/20/06

2006-11-20T05:00:00.000-08:00

Today was an old Interlochen Sunday morning, the cold itself, without the accompaniment of wind or dark, being no reason to change out of flip-flops, no reason to walk back to the room for a coat. My driver's side car door frozen solid. Perfect.

Thought on 11/18/06

2006-11-18T21:16:00.000-08:00

Game day=Quiet run? Who woulda thought.

I swear these'll be interesting real soon.

Today, 11/17/06

2006-11-17T10:56:00.000-08:00

Most of my time during the past 48 hours has been spent dealing with Comcast-contracted service techs for our internet connection. I have a feeling there will be another phone call to 1-888-Comcast tonight.

The other six minutes I had were spent playing the Genesis and playing around with WordPress (while awaiting Thursday Night Literature Forum). I'm thinking my correspondence may end up with its own little home there. Watch for it!

Thought for 11/16/06

2006-11-16T11:11:00.000-08:00

AT&T, I'm looking forward to a beautiful relationship.

(More today, hopefully, after Thursday Night Literature Forum)

OhMyGodFact for 11/15/06

2006-11-15T10:04:00.000-08:00

I would've *liked* history if they taught us this!

"In the 1920s, Soviet dictator Joseph Stalin sent an animal-breeding expert to Africa in hopes of creating an army of half-man, half-monkey soldiers."

(from Slate.com)

and further info here

Thought on 11/14/06

2006-11-14T14:15:00.000-08:00

Everyone's in a rush to get home before the winter night swallows the roads. Here be cocoa, dear friend!

Thought on 11/13/06

2006-11-13T20:57:00.000-08:00

Why is my training run time as fast as my race time? Hm.

Thought on 11/12/06

2006-11-12T11:19:00.000-08:00

My girlfriend likes Street Fighter II. My girlfriend likes Street Fighter II.

This could be serious.

Correspondence 11/11/06: going the distance

2006-11-11T13:13:00.000-08:00

Dearest Po,

I have this sneaking suspicion I missed your call on Thursday (you:Friday). I’m fairly positive we did come to the conclusion that Thursday Night Literature Forum would indeed be on Thursday again, for me, although I’m not sure when the calls were meant to take place. In any case I should explain why I was not hanging out with Carlo Rossi waiting for your call (a cherished and rare thing from, what the world time clock calculates to be about 9,000 miles away) most of the night - I’d just received Slate back from whichever midwestern locale she’d been at all week. And I haven’t had her around that much the past few months. We’ve even missed two trivia nights in a row. In any case my apologies. I hope you’ll phone with the same faith this coming week - if you’re available - as you hopefully had this week.
Now on to business. This little story of yours. I *do* in fact, remember its basic outline, now that we’ve bumped into each other again, and I remember all of the questions I had for you which you’ve still managed to skirt your way around answering.
I’m not sure that you’ve got the time or resources to do it, but my first instinct is to pile on yet another assignment to your 70-hour work weeks and weekly Antarctic writing group, and that is to do one of two things:

a) write a letter to your young self. warn yourself not to jump off the swing in fourth grade or not to dump your sixth grade boyfriend for stealing your ice cream or yes, apply for the internship in Vegas, or just something more general like “hey you, stop worrying so much, you’re going to make it to at least your mid twenties, so appreciate all of these days and everything in them. because you’re going to want to write about all of it someday.” Something like that. Have a little talk with the younger, naive Popo.

or

b) go back and peruse letters you’ve received and written. Think about what you know now about what was discussed then. Would you have talked in a different way if you knew...? Would you have foregone parts of the conversation all together? Would you be *able* to be the same person, if you knew all the secrets already?

This is *not* to ward you off of writing the time-traveling change the history story. I see two immediate benefits, and I imagine there are many more to be enjoyed if you come by them. First, you’ll simply get in touch with your own past by specifically devoting time to commiserating with it. You might get to explore how this time thing works... is it working? (all those physics questions, y’know? time is the fourth dimension, so are all these dimensions already out there, so can you travel between them, and would that mean that everything’s already happened and yet to happen and nothing can actually be changed, and on, and on, and on). And, since I suspect parts of your story to be directly related to your own personal history, you might find some things there, too.
But also you’ll have a chance to explore conversation more. It’s the “go out to a public place and listen in on somebody else’s conversation” assignment, but you’ll have words already written down, and they will be yours, and you can see how *you* have a conversation. And in a letter, the cues for changes in topic can be obvious or hidden, and the hidden ones, I think, could be very intriguing in some of the stories of yours I’ve read. I know the ‘young adult’ crowd may not have the wholly masochistic desire for a lack of total understanding that I do, but a little bit - in inkling - could be enticing. Especially in stories which are going to deal with the supernatural.
That’s my case. Don’t be so friendly and informative to your reader. Or, maybe just leave a trail of rose petals and let them come to their warm bath on their own.
I’m looking forward to the next time I hear from you. I hope it’ll be next week.
This letter may have a part two, by the way, but the Saturday sun is calling. I hope you’ve had a great week. I hope you’re doing wonderfully. Let me know how the writing group is working, how your attitude is working, how bingo has been going. When you’re getting your pool down there.

As ever,

T

Thought on 11/10/06

2006-11-11T06:55:00.000-08:00

More craptastic service from comcast! Thought on 11/11 will just have to be twice as good...

Correspondence 11/9/06: growing out

2006-11-09T18:42:00.000-08:00

11/6/06

Dear H,

So I’ve thought for nearly a full minute on the topics I started to grill you about at Cobie’s party last week. This whole wanderlust you’re saying must be acted upon before another year passes. And there’s the Johann thing to discuss, too. Apparently I broke some code of ethics at the party, so it seems my side is (temporarily) chosen and I’ve earned the right to have a little commentary.
But, first. The Coast. Either one.
Well, you’re young. That sounds a little patronizing. But it’s not. It means I agree with you. I did a lot of traveling in the midwest: Mansfield, Wooster, Lexington, Columbus, Interlochen, Toledo, Chicago, then a few trips to New York and other, less impressive destination spots. And then my long-term stride increased just a few inches down to Carolina, and I found my home. Realized I’d been in it for most of my life, and that being out of it was chilly and alien and scraping. My plugs didn’t fit in the Carolina sockets, if you will. But I did find my home. Thankfully, I’ve made my way back. There are good people here. They do things in a way that makes sense, is a tad more honest than you find in most places. They invite you back to their apartment when the bar’s closing and you’re too loud and too hungry to go home and to sleep. Euchre is a valid form of entertainment for several hours, but a penis flute just might show up at halftime.
Those memories, I promise, are not to make you feel guilty, but rather to say thanks. And maybe that you’ll always be a midwestern friend to me. Now that I’ve found my home, I want it to maintain its status quo. That’s in direct opposition to your responsibility to get to know your country a little better. To be sure where, when you’re no longer young and so energetic, you want to be stuck. Roots and all that blather. Spread your bad influence to other young girlfriends of latenight secret sermon writers.
Come to think of it, if I do give my blessing to this great journey you’re to undertake, we won’t have to discuss the Johann issue at all. That could be very nice, considering the main problem I have in talking about that: the fact that there’s so little to talk about. What excuse would I have to wait on line at the post office if not for an overweight letter to my friend who lives five blocks away? Listen. Johann is a very... clean-cut man. You are not. That one needs no more encouragement when it comes to taking wrong routes home, if you know what I mean. The further you run downhill, the further you’ll run up. Etc.
And if you’re just thinking about using him for his pitching skills, remember: he may have studied and practiced pitching every day for years, but you’re not going to throw a no-hitter if your heart’s not in the game. I suppose it wouldn’t hurt as long as you only send him in for pre-season games, and get him back on the bench as soon as the ones that count come around. (Of course then the question becomes does your team have to adjust to a new pace when that happens, but this metaphor’s getting a little too much pine tar on it currently)
And why the letter at all, if I consider this extended vacation your right? Real answer: I like to think on paper. Answer we should agree on: because with my great gypsy past, I can teach you, prepare you, encourage the proper growth.
I spent half of high school and most of the following foggy four years in, respectively, a pontiac LeMans and a kia sephia, leaving my bed empty and taking a place on the floors of tea-offerers across Ohio and Kentucky. After the four years it was on to three or four short jobs full of pathos and sodium in various locales. I can tell you: you’re certainly on a path to discover. I *could* tell you exactly what, but there’s a fair chance I’d be wrong, and a certainty I’d be full of myself. So, I charge you with the task of a book report. But I can tell you to keep your ears open. Say ‘sure’ a lot more often. Be still + accepting. Write me a book report. Not only because I want to continue to hear from you, to know where you’re finding your newest lesson, but because, when you do start to slow down, it’ll be a lot easier to pull that report out of a file somewhere deep in a desk drawer than to take a four-to-six month rest period for the sole purpose of recovery aimed at remembrance.
Accept the bad. It’s out there. Waiting for you to come to it. And you will. Take it into your home, let it have its shower or brunch or let it shed all over your couch, then send it on its way. If you fight with it, it will believe there’s something worth fighting for, and it’ll stick around. It’ll clean you out, and you’ll have to move back to the midwest for to start over. (Not necessarily a bad thing. But I’m going all in on that one.)
And just stop for a moment. There is *not* anything worth fighting for. There’s not one thing that you could possibly be forced to relinquish to the bad that would signal the end of value or learning or character or the magic THE in your life. Let it all go. If you’re really going to send yourself up into the domain of the winds, don’t try to bring along the baggage. (You will, of course. Even if you go into it with no suitcase packed, you’ll soon realize your pockets were inadvertantly stuffed full of marbles and chocolate and peanut butter and banana sandwiches. When the wind asks, allow it to take all of that away.) If you really mean it, if you want to get to the absolute, you have to drop it all down into that vortex you’ll end up swirling above. It’s okay. You will be able to find the things you need later on. The birds do not worry about clothing, and they are provided for. If you get to the place where you are going to go, and you can’t find a thing that you had before you left, chances are good that you and that thing are better off where you’ve landed.
It all sounds like cliche (maybe that’s how cliche got to be cliche, dja ever think of that?). But I’ll commit: if you get to the place where you’re going to go, and you can’t find me, chances are... after a slim volume of book reports, you and me will be better off where we’ve landed.
I’m not so willing to drop you off at school and not walk you in. But nostalgia does have to have a reason to exist. Nostalgia is pain for home. Many dictionaries use ‘bittersweet,’ but as adults now we often consider a bitter taste to be a good thing. Complex, too, and the complex part is valid, but the good is only true in the times when we are conscious, presently aware of the fact that there is a greater world than the one under our gaze out there. At all other times missing you will be a thing subconsciously necessary and subconsciously painful. When brought to the front of thought, both aspects will ring true at once... bittersweet.
So as this emotional correspondent I can say you’ll be the perfect writer’s friend: a 5’8” ball of yin and yang at typewriter’s length. But no one’s a writer 100% of the time. Damned we are for that whole companionship thing. I suppose it becomes a matter of my endurance and your subjection.
None of which is your responsibility. You are for discovery and a kick in the pants. You are for living out the dream, which, despite every attempt by our popular culture to monetize it, still relies on vast stretches of cracked pavement, innocent bystanders willing to act accordingly, and little else. The only other piece of advice is a recycled one: eat plenty of pie, with ice cream if necessary.
And cherish forgiveness in all its manifest forms.

As ever,

T

Thought on 11/08/06

2006-11-08T20:33:00.000-08:00

When does one clock out from their job as an unemployed writer?

Correspondence 11/7/06: prayer

2006-11-07T09:42:00.000-08:00

Dear C,

I am officially a runner. Again. I’m waking up sore and can’t wait to get outside. I missed my goal last week and was up late last night looking for another race, for another chance to be as good as I want to be. It’s a good feeling.
It may only be fair to explain that the past two or three days have been well over fifty degrees and although today is rainy, the sun’s an expected visitor for most of this week, too. A far cry from the fourteen degree wind chill and iced-over road last Thursday.
“Indian summer” is the obviously tempting term. But I find it hard to officially use because I don’t know the history of that term, whether it’s offensive; I don’t *actually* remember that it counts this early or late into the season. In any case the squirrels are back attacking my legs on runs this week, the trees are regretting their premature ejection of all that foliage (Something tells me they’ll be reassured come next week). But by all means it is a last warm blessing on our scrawny heads before we bow them down against the blustering winter.
Not to overexpose my inability to change focus, but let’s just graze on the idea that maybe that head-down stance of ours, in the silent presence of winter, like praying, is part of my respect for this season. The snow-bearing trees our chapel.
We celebrated Slate’s birthday this past Saturday, coming to a nice little underground jazz bar (though the band that night was playing more swing than true jazz) after the cider mill we’d thought about a hayride at never called us back. I don’t know what’s happening to “customer service” these days... though the van rental place (so I could drive all the drunkies home from said mill) was manned by a nice gentleman who we must’ve chatted with for a good half-hour - *me*, I remind you, chatting. (Don’t let the letters and our lack of physical presence in a few years make you start to think my infamous occupation of corners in rooms full of people has changed; I can type to you extensively because there’s no pressure. Snacks are available at any time. I can wear significantly less than my coattails. You don’t notice how much time passes while I think of items to unveil to you; you don’t start to think I’ve begun an out of body experience.) Anyway the party was grand - although, again, the manager at the bar failed at his job, leaving our tables unreserved - we had two rows of happy Michiganders sipping fruity drinks and consuming all forty cupcakes I baked for the occasion. Pink frosting and all. And yes, I did insist on lighting twenty-four candles and singing to the birthday girl. I think she had a good day. I think she'll let go of her guilt about enjoying adult beverages. She - now we - has some great friends. *They* know that alcohol is a right, a rite, and a proper thing to set one off on a brand new year. We still have three different types of cookies, somehow, to go through. Winter fattening.
There are going to be noises, now, to comment on when I write to you. That lively 3-year old (same birthday as Slate, in fact) living below us doesn’t have to go to daycare anymore. Our landlord will be home for a bit, and apparently he’s going to be riling her up more than ever. I’ve been here about four months now and I still smile and silently laugh whenever I hear them chasing each other around the house. I don’t think I want to be a father yet, but I certainly love hearing what joy it brings to that family downstairs. And I think I should learn a lesson from Katherine, and I should erupt with that joy a little more often (to be fair, the constant wrestling and tickling Slate and I are now engaged in is a close second). Who’s going to question my motives?
Oh, happy election day, by the way. I’ve been listening to this program about a 9/11 conspiracy involving Arnold Schwarzeneggar, David Copperfield, and Ronal Reagan’s still-living brain, and it’s got me thinking... if some strange miracle takes place and the folks who’ve been running our country into the ground stay in control, I may have to find the most midwest-resembling area of Scotland and purchase a flock of sheep. But for real, this time.

As ever,

T

Thought on 11/06/06

2006-11-06T14:06:00.000-08:00

Rule #1: Don't go to the grocery hungry.

Rule #2: Don't only eat cookies all day.

If cookies are the only food in your apartment, how do you go to the grocery?

Thought on 11/5/06

2006-11-05T09:21:00.000-08:00

Happy post-birthday Slate!

and blogger, quit this whole error thing. You know you can't get enough of the pubiary.

Thought on the Night of the Day of the Dead

2006-11-02T16:11:00.000-08:00

It was an interesting dynamic: have a race run solely for you and three of your friends (and some other guy), or save your ass from the incredibly (and suddenly) slippery
asphalt.

I've prepared all week for the run, so it was tough to agree with "maybe next week." But, as I understand it, the Day of the Dead is meant to be a celebration, not necessarily a joining, of the dead.

Well here's to you, seven-year old cross country spikes. I'll be with you tonight, when you came halfway back from the Other Side to visit. To say 'remember me always.'

Thought on 11/2/06

2006-11-02T08:56:00.000-08:00

It's snowing on race day. Shiiiiiiiiiiiiiiioooooooooooooooot.

I guess you're either crazy or you're not.

Time (to be under 21:30) posted later!

Thought on 11/1/06

2006-11-01T16:23:00.000-08:00

What.

Thought on Hallowe'en

2006-10-31T21:56:00.000-08:00

Not one trick-or-treater! And I went out there in my ninja outfi.... um, I have this feeling that the whole darn neighborhood is quiet! Don't ask me how I know... I just... sense it.

Thought on 10/31/06

2006-10-31T05:57:00.000-08:00

So.... I'd never seen "The Evil Dead" until last night... and I've been sitting here for roughly six minutes trying to figure out what to say about that first scene... with the vines... yeah, you know what I'm talking about. Wow. Eeee.

Thought on 10/30/06

2006-10-30T09:17:00.000-08:00

Our pumpkins survived their first night on the porch! Way to go little guys!

Thought on 10/28/06

2006-10-28T21:13:00.000-07:00

Pardon me, I've been completing secret birthday projects. They're so fun, I might have to post part of them here after the 4th.

10/26/06

2006-10-26T09:01:00.000-07:00

Edit: Another squirrel attack! Actually I think it was a chipmunk this time. What the heck!

________________________
Although I don't want to be political on here, and I only get uncomfortable when I *think* too long about politics, today will be an exception. Please hit "next blog" up top if, like me, you mind.

Bill Maher simplifies it for us:

"Bush decides that he can detain someone *forever.*
Bush decides what is cruel and unusual punishment.
Bush decides who violated the Geneva Convention and who didn't."

Every day it feels more and more preposterous and friggin scary to maintain a US citizenship.

And if you think that's crazy: Reagan's brain alive in.... who's body? Listen.

(I've got to get this in here, too:
"If you're someone from one of the think tanks that dreamed up the Iraq war, and predicted that we'd be greeted as liberators, and that we wouldn't need a lot of troops, and that iraqi oil would pay for the war, and the WMDs would be found, that the looting wasn't problematic, that the mission was accomplished, that the insurgency was in its last throes, that things would get better after the people voted, after the government was formed, after we got saddam, after we got his kids, after we got zarqawi, and that the whole bloody mess wouldn't turn into a civil war, you have to stop making predictions."

Emergency Clarification of Thought Process 10/25/06

2006-10-25T11:35:00.000-07:00

Pot pies are not permitted to attempt to post their own thoughts on this pubiary. Thank you.

Thought on 10/25/06

2006-10-25T10:56:00.000-07:00

If staying up until 330am always racks me with guilt and makes me super-productive the next day, maybe I should do it more often.

I'd miss the warm bed though.

Correspondence 10/24: milk carton photo

2006-10-24T12:11:00.000-07:00

Dearest Sal,

I’m making little adjustments. Our heat here is radiant; hot water pipes run around our apartment and do *not* circulate air... it’s gotten a little humid and foody in here. The window’s open. A candle’s burning due to my belief that it will help dry out the air a little. This belief may be one of myth.
I bought pot pies at the grocery yesterday. They didn’t have any face paint left, or at least I couldn’t find it, so I’m not sure how I’m going to turn my face into a skull for the “Night of the Day of the Dead 5k” that I’ll be running soon. Of course there’s also the problem of the ever-thickening beard. And the question of how much clothing I’ll be forced to wear (and whether that will cover most of the face anyway).
But that might be the most appropriate way to move my legs on that day anyway. Face given to the spirit (and spirits) of the day, concealed by a need for warmth and the ability to breathe. After all, the only skull I’ve got to trace, at this point, is the one I found you using in a picture a few years ago. You were a little closer to the border than I’ll be. A little less threatened by cold fronts and snow.
Anyway the little tweaks are ocurring. Slate’s got to leave for work even earlier this week, so I spent the middle part of the day integrating tiny pieces of the news into my dreams on the couch. I was on a ship, somehow stumbled into the captain’s quarters. One room bright and almost pastel, then, without a doorway, moving into the other room changed it all to night, dark wood, cigar-type feel. I felt obvious and in danger, as if getting caught would mean a lack of understanding on the cather’s part. But no monsters.
Which is to say that whole quiet thing - I’m led to believe - is working. I feel so in between worlds now. Sometimes good ways, sometimes not. My posture is still not the best; I haven’t really started sitting with my little Buddha yet. But I think my ears are growing back. I’m loving people I don’t know (not all of them, certainly. Certainly. But I see sweetness there). I carved a pumpkin and now he sits here on the desk, looking out the window with me. In his case, tradition feels like simplicity. Carving him and separating seeds and baking them and throwing goup in the trash doesn’t sound all that simple (why not let him sit full of his goup and fully round?), but it feels that way. Having these things be important to me. Does that mean letting someone else decide what’s important to me? Or seeing an educator in anyone who’s lived a day?
I’ve convinced Po, my Thursday Night Literature Forum buddy who I do wish you could’ve met for real, to acquire access to the means to chat with me online (this is the Antarctic scientist of fun). Before you know it, I’ll be staying up ‘til four in the morning, uncovering the secrets of our entire experiences contained in the open space in that pumpkin or the dishes which I still have so many of to wash. Or I may just uncover the fact that Carlo now makes me very, very sleepy.
But I’ll still be up. There’s something that bleeds out through the water pipes that late. It sings for supper and a place on these pages, missing, as I do, your vicious concern for its well-being and personal growth.

As ever,

T

Thought on 10/24/06

2006-10-24T06:22:00.000-07:00

Today while "chatting" with Slate I used the term 'lol.' At some point a few days ago, I said "did you read my blog?" without even thinking about it.

From now on, I'll be referring to this website as what it is. My public diary. Pubiary? Dialic? Maybe just diary.

Thought on 10/23/06

2006-10-23T13:12:00.000-07:00

Is it bad when your knees turn purple after being outside for fifteen minutes?

Thought on 10/22/06 postfact

2006-10-23T05:41:00.000-07:00

Remember how the world would've imploded if Marty McFly changed anything in the future or the past in the Back to the Future flics? The whole paradox thing. Well, dear reader, today I bring you our own little spooky paradox, not based on time travel, but instead a much simpler, more elegant paradox...

One of these pumpkins was carved by yours truly. One, by Slate.

Of course, we know that I have dedicated much of my life and a fair amount of my spare time to words (and yes, at times, even the looks of them), and that Slate is a fan of a certain company's cartoons and cute things in general. But wait! Dun-Duhhh! What about the fact that I have chosen to remain unemployed for several months while Slate, alternatively, has put quite a bit more effort into her work, using her Master's degree to aquire a 9-hour-a-day job (working mostly with government, nonetheless)? In my personal experience, one of these pumpkins certainly took more effort than the other. Ah, dear reader, if the world implodes when you read this, at least I'll have about two pounds of pumpkin seeds to eat on the way out.

Thought on 10/22/06

2006-10-22T19:48:00.000-07:00

Thoughts will be recorded locally until comcast's craptastic service gets back up to it's prior subpar levels.

Thought on 10/21/06

2006-10-21T10:48:00.000-07:00

Certainly, Timothy requires one day in ten of total laying-around blobness. (Being Richie is hard work!)

Thought on 10/20/06

2006-10-20T12:16:00.000-07:00

From A.R. Ammons' "Strip:"

if your forms aren't full of love it
doesn't matter what they're full of:

I do the best I can and god, I suspect,
does the same: his plans allow for

the emergence of the unexpected and
attempt amends for the consequences:

I am in this way made in his image:

_______________

For more on today, please visit W.S. Merwin at your local library.

Thought on 10/19/06

2006-10-19T10:07:00.000-07:00

How excited am I about this: NightoftheDay!

Autumn in Ann Arbor (ehem, "Tree Town")

2006-10-18T11:55:00.000-07:00

What, you think a few pretty leaves is what we get for living in tree town? Blarg!

This is six days ago.

And this? today.

Correspondence 10/18/06: a haunting and Hallow's coming

2006-10-18T08:09:00.000-07:00

Hey Sal,

Can’t sleep... I’ve been a bit under the weather (can I go a letter without mentioning it? doubtful) lately and ended up sleeping all day... meaning, of course, that I will most likely relive once again the Stevenson 318 cycle: awake until 5:30 or 6:00, asleep until noon or 1:00, unable to sleep again tomorrow night. Of course I’m missing that good Old español with prof. Palmer at whatever ungodly hour the Presbyterians think education begins.
Anyway here I am, 3 am, noticing there’s just a hint of red light outside. Surely some extra from downtown and not the sun. We’re still in our cozy little daylight savings bubble and it’s disappearing way before cute little Katherine downstairs is put to her bed. Still, I’ve never noticed that extra light, and *that* extra light has brought my eyes over to the neighborly lights shining through our windbreak of a stand of trees... living in an apartment and on a busy road, we haven’t really thought to walk over and introduce ourselves, but it’s nice to know someone else is up; it’s our one note of morse code. “Present.” Or, maybe just “yes.”
Every once in awhile, I hear Slate rustling the sheets back in the bedroom. That’s another ‘present’ that’s good to hear. No doubt she’s reclaiming my side of the bed. No doubt come 4 or 5 my guilt of leaving her alone on this chilly October night will get the best of me and I’ll be balancing on no more than eight inches of mattress. I know that, despite my knack for exclusively long-term relationships, we both thought I’d be the one settling down at 50 or 70. In fact, you specifically told me not to date your sister once, because I was meant to be the one who swooped in from Burma with little notice, bringing tea and scarves to the adults and paintings of strange animals to her children, before lifting off again to another unimaginable place.
I think when this letter finally reaches you it will be in Argentina. Not sure if you still have any responsibility or life in Vegas or not; my instinct tells me that that little vacation you were going to take ended up being something of a soul/heritage search.
So we’re both now in the second half of our twenties... and it seems all things are turned upside down. I can’t say I’m terribly surprised. I was always driving around the state visiting you and my crazy friends like you, yes, but it was always with the intention of locking myself in a room with you, pouring the Carlo like water, getting down to the business of ‘deep’ conversation and thought. You wanted to show me Rusty’s, you wanted to see McGaw and whatever coffee shop I was attached to at the moment.
Of course this cursed mind always works faster than my fingers will type (particularly as they now must be so careful with the deep impressions the Galaxie 12 makes in paper) so I’ve thought ahead to where this letter goes after I expose the early obviousness of our respective positions. Some of the possible ideas and topics got rather personal. They’ll stay where they are, for now - elephants trained gradually, first with chain bolted to deep pole, later with a simple length of string tied to a stick a few inches down in the earth - but we do have an important decision to make regarding their conversational merits. I’d rather not lead those elephants through the Alps; I learned my lesson the first eight or so times (he says, with a smile of bittersweet remembrance that in no way implies grudge or resentment). But if the weather’s clear and the land is flat, we could take a nice ride down the river, pointing out the flora and fauna to each other as we go.
I’m not sure it’s necessary. But the Officially Declared Starting-Off Point would be a nice agreement to come to. After all, someday you’ll swoop in from Argentina, strange poetry in hand, and I’ll have to know what color bath towel to hang in the guest room for you.

I apologize for the long aside, and for the continuing of this note. But may this blessed continuance serve to protect us from a trailing awkward silence as well as proof that this letter actually did have a purpose before I started knocking so much dust off these keys.
Me. Settling down. (Of course not fully true or in fruition or whathaveyou yet because I actually *do* now plan on reattending an institution of expensive education) Today I found an instance where the idea of Halloween and all of our little traditions around it gave me the same quiet awe that Christmas does. Christmas, I think, has always been the only holiday I take seriously. Maybe it’s all these years of receiving gifts. And that it was the only night in the year (Christmas Eve, that is) we’d have a fire in the fireplace. And Dad would read T’was the Night Before Christmas. The family for dinner; all the things Christmas would be in a very generalized book about American life. But this thing with Halloween, and just that so many of us for absolutely no apparent pressing reason at all adhere to these nonsensical traditions - scooping pumpkin glop out and replacing it with a candle, ritual begging, costume, encouraging tooth decay among young children - I realize there *must* be some bigger reason we’re still willing to do it. Because we do still feel connected to the harvest (of sugar and corn syrup)? Because it is still a good idea to designate a night on which all of our demons (internal or not) get their chance to visit the playground? Yes. Light on, yes.
We’re going to our party this year as Margot and Richie Tenenbaum, but now I think I’m glad that party’s not on Halloween. I’m also going to need a chance to let the Trickster in and use this vessel to move about in the night. Maybe he just wants to hide and watch. But maybe he wants to restore some of the respect he’s lost in this age of electric lighting and modern science with some good old fashioned trickery.
Welcome, Trickster.

As ever,

T

Thought on 10/17/06

2006-10-17T08:03:00.000-07:00

It's so good to be spoiled.

Correspondence 10/16/06: slow current

2006-10-16T14:20:00.000-07:00

So Friend,

Here we are again. I don’t have much time: Slate will be home in a little more than an hour and the chain of Monday events will roll into place: couchtime, dinnertime, triviatime. But I wanted to let you know that there’s a little scratchy monster in the back of my throat, and while I’m fairly sure it’s leftover allergy blahs, we can hope it’s all this cold weather kicking me in my pants for the unrequited love I’ve slobbed all over it.

The itching’s also doing funny things to my day. I still don’t know where they’re going so fast, but I’m spending part of the moments I’ve got convincing myself that Milwaukee’s where it’s at. No, no, no, after all the grudging yielding to Slate’s and my burning desire for a dog, I’m not giving up this apartment that easily. A porch in Milwaukee? Hm. But I’m inching my way back to school. Likely, another distance relationship to add to my narrative.

Today I had conversational occasion to count the years I’ve been clutching onto this bachelor’s degree like a tabletop in the sea. It’s not much in terms of protection and it’s certainly not providing me with nourishment. (Needless to say, I actually did *not* count the years, and I still won’t. We don’t want to risk the little emotional downpour that might happen, do we? Not on trivia night. Not here in front of this nice window, storm panes pulled shut now.) It’s been several. Almost many. I think I’ve done the whole life experience thing.

But you’re very right - I do wonder if it’s just the protection of a schoolbook’s womb I want. Do I care about the education? In the very same conversation today, I discounted much of what I learned back there in the middle of the largest Amish community this side of the country. It was a great time. I’d never be the same without it. All the obvious statements. But I don’t remember what makes past participle different from past tense or even amo amas amat. I remember a lot of deciding what an author was trying to say. Is Seymour Jesus? Sure. Is he also a representation of JFK, Muhammed Ali, Everyman, and the problem of woman in the 1940s? Sure. There aren’t any answers. (Is that what I learned? If so, and if it was purposeful, it’s sure strange that school would be structured in a way to make you think you didn’t need school to learn that one particular lesson. I realize this is all English major specific stumbling- and mildly heart-guided English major stumbling at that... bear with me)

Honestly, I *do* value learning that there aren’t any answers. It’s essentially the only truth. (Aside: if I’d been a philosophy major, would I have learned that there are no answers *and* how to disguise the fact? And a psych major the same thing and how to deal with it? The thought that the English major gets plopped down in this barren wintry flatland and left alone without his knife and without his match makes me smile. Not because I think it’s noble like that little metaphor hints at, but because, I think, he was asking for it. You and me looked into the pool, saw that there was no water, and jumped anyway. Because surely a pool is a pool, water or not, and no hole exists without deeper meaning.) We’re just expert drifters, I think. That’s where the stand-alone knowledge of all things’ transparent nature gets us.

Let’s see where this year’s going to take us. Because my year is starting very soon. New Year’s really needs to be much more of a mobile feast. I’m predicting November 20th this year. But we’ll have to see what the moon does.

My new tea is very nice. I should send you a little, and we’ll have tea together next time.

As ever,

T

Thought on 10/16/06

2006-10-16T12:17:00.000-07:00

I have just determined the price to charge for the little tv I was going to simply give away: one box of little debbie treats.

I think I should write a letter today... for some reason it seems like that would be much easier if I could get my feet warm.

Thought on 10/15/06

2006-10-15T15:42:00.000-07:00

I had my very first flying dream last night!

Thought on 10/14/06

2006-10-14T11:08:00.000-07:00

I had no nightmares last night after watching Friday the Thirteenth VIII: Jason takes Manhatten.

Thought on 10/13/06

2006-10-13T10:27:00.000-07:00

Wow. It is cold. Wow.

Edit: we got heat!

correspondence 10/12/06: snow!

2006-10-12T12:03:00.000-07:00

Dear, Dear Friend,

Knowing my tendencies toward extended absences followed by extensive - exhaustive, probably - communiqués, you should understand how concerned I was about having *anything* at all to write about this soon after that last edition I sent you. This is your chance to quietly halt the proceedings and pretend you haven’t opened this letter yet; I’ve found plenty to write about this morning.

The drops of condensation are running in pairs down my front window now, so if I look through their streaks, or up to the top of the window, I’ve got a fair view of the snow stubbornly hanging on to our three tall pines. Snow. It’s not halfway through October and for a brief moment this morning it was blustering down for keeps. The sun’s back now, and it’s quickly sweeping up the dust, but snow!
And I know I’ll end up talking this to death. At least, maybe, come with me into November. Through Thanksgiving. Then, when I’ve got to wear four layers for my daily run, we can talk about my lunacy. Today I’ve got something important to admit.
I can’t get by the fact that I’ve come back to my home, and that my home is a frontier. Last year I realized I was a midwest boy, that I love having no a/c in my car, winter, girls bundled up in coats and boots, getting to March and thinking about how many crappy days I survived. This year I’m realizing what that means. That ‘midwest’ word.
I can’t stop thinking about why we here in Michigan and Ohio have gotten to keep that moniker. There’s that whole “aren’t all those square states west of the middle the midwest?” thing, but maybe no. These places, in what really should be thought of as the north, have kept their harshness. Their wild. Ohio was one big stretch of forest. (Michigan still is) Now we have much nicer cabins, but we still retreat for them every year at this time. Wild. Not all the time, and not lacking-electricity- or toilet-wild, but their bottom line of grave necessity for the company of others. And also long stretches of slowing-down, internal quiet. New England has winter too. I think of rocks and the sea and crabs and Boston-type things. Red. All those snowy mountains out west are light blue and fresh and yup. The midwest means dark grey, street slush, people who own snowmobiles as a viable means of transportation. Chin stubble.
And we’re all suffering through and damn do I become a blob when the sun hasn’t been out for six weeks. But there’s some deep animal recognition of that whole decay thing I was talking about, and it must give itself away by pheromones (seeing as how mosquitos can figure out who’s more or less stressed out and make their meal accordingly, I don’t see why there can’t be a specific winter-stress pheromone, too) because I think it’s the most communal time of year.
That’s why I love everyone all bundled up. It’s nudity of a different type: “here I am. I need this many clothes to stay alive today.” (Of course, I suspect there’s also something of an extension of the whole idea of lingerie - hey, the more clothes you’re wearing the more there is to take off, and the better the surprise will be when I get there! sort of thing, but let’s just keep this in general terms, okay?) We all get a swift kick come (apparently) mid-October and have no choice but to admit our remaining animal nature: we *do* have bodies, they’re *not* just decorative, I *won’t* be able to get a job, make friends, spend money, enjoy Carlo Rossi if I allow mine to become much less than 98.6 degrees.
The snow’s gone now, just an eyelid lifted at the still-dark morning, assuring itself that it’s day is coming soon and all is as expected, then closed again. For now. But the wind chill is 29 degrees and the bicyclists passing by today are wearing puffy winter coats. The mail was slow in coming. It’s getting quiet and yellow. And there’s more on the way this evening.

As ever,

T

Status 10/12/06

2006-10-12T10:14:00.000-07:00

It snowed this morning. More on that later.

40 degrees. Wind chill? 29.

I have a curious bump on my tibia.

Dishes left to wash? 28.

Furnace on? Not sure.

Number of squirrels expected to run at my legs on 1-mile run today: zero.

Thought on 10/11/06

2006-10-11T12:03:00.000-07:00

Today, on my run, I had to jump over a squirrel. It wasn't road kill, it wasn't asleep. It saw me coming, and ran a few feet off the road. Then, it turned. It looked at me. And, I suppose, it decided that I wasn't that big after all. It fricking dove at my leg!

Toothpaste for dinner, this is your next cartoon.

Thought today

2006-10-10T12:39:00.000-07:00

Dear Friend,

In the future these generalized correspondences will be hand-typed out on my beautiful blue Smith Corona Galaxie Twelve. She does not have a name yet, but I suppose that's because I haven't taken her on too many dates. She can get a little excited when we start talking, and before we know it we're causing quite a ruckus. (Truth be told, she's a bit heavy, too...)
Anyway today I do it electronically. I'm making dinner arrangements that were meant to be made days ago and playing, of all things, an album of moody Christmas music. Perhaps I look too far ahead to the looming difference between here and that place I came here from (namely, the happening of winter, winter weather, winter clothing, winter runny noses, etc.), but to be honest, it's the place where nearly all of my hope resides. As my "four to six months" of rest are nearly passed, and income as a consideration toward my well-being slowly accumulates on my beard, we'll soon find out whether that Hope has a cozy fire built near the couch, or if it ends up freezing its poor (ha), skinny ass off on the uncluttered porch.
But at least there's another 405 grams of tea in the back of some USPS semi-trailer heading west from Connecticut toward Jackson Ave., so I'll be sure to have a good half hour, rich or poor, fed or not, every morning (jasmine oolong, chun mee green, and a sample each of sencha and lotus, Not that briefly-named 'tea' that ann arbor is better known for).
And what happened during those four to six months. Well. I'm figuring that out. (Thus, the letter.) All that time of ickiness, I think, makes me now wonder if I've lost the things I was before the ickiness. I don't feel as forgiving, most of the time, now. Or perhaps just as passive. Or quiet. Definitely quiet. That may be why so much of the rest period went by with so little writing getting done... I'm having to reassure myself that sitting is valid. I'm scared that everyone will let me down. It would do me some good to stop listening to the news every morning.
I'm seeing details and feeling informed but missing texture and not feeling those little miracles of decay and rebirth.
Yesterday, though, I sent the fall leaves Erin asked for off to the Antarctic ice. And realized the ones lined up along the curbs are, for their trust in decay as investment in creative potential, all individual romantics. All in love with that whole dust to dust thing.
Alright, a bit sap. But no deleting. The Galaxie Twelve will not have it, nor will I. (And besides, it works for me, and who did you think this letter was for, anyway? I don't think it'd be healthy for me to enable any more of your whimsical illusions: they haven't named any flowers after me yet, but I do spend an awful lot of my spare time concerned with the reflection - just not the eyebrow-plucking one) First thought, best thought. Ah! I think it's official; I've forgotten the three rules (out of twenty-six, I think)I used to have emblazoned in my writer's brain from Kerouac's list. I'm no longer a Beat! Well, beat lover. BLeat no more! I'm pretty sure that started in Kentucky and is *not* a result of losing my mind on sadness in Inty and NC... the sensuality revolution of listening to the smallest of accents envelope itself in personal history. And Ammons, yes indeed. Small poetry. No need to overwhelm, just softly lay that feather down in the pond and let us all marvel at whether it's actually touching the water at all or floating above it.
Small poetry. Long ass letters. I'm going to go on feeling comfortable doing so with the reasoning that, it's a letter, we're just talking, no need to create some grand scheme by which to tell the tale of my Tuesday, but you and the other part of me can both secretly suspect that really it's about not creating a grand scheme by which to hope you get the point while simultaneously *not* getting that thing we just talked about: that young boy falling into the river. You'll be right.
Perhaps that's next letter's topic; besides the jug or two of Independent Study Carlo Rossi I spent on the idea, I've yet to just let go on the whole writing-as-excrement deal. Maybe because the only conclusion I can come to is to stop writing. Maybe not. Don't worry, I'll keep it in terms that are dinner-appropriate. Mostly.

Dinner tonight with Slate's mom. Oh, to be that smooth-talking track star again.

Stay warm,

T

Thought on 10/10/06

2006-10-10T04:22:00.000-07:00

That's what happens when you start getting me up before 10 am.

Thought on 10/8/08

2006-10-09T14:00:00.000-07:00

Yes, I know what year it is.

Thought on 10/7/07

2006-10-07T21:05:00.000-07:00

Tim's advice for picking out a couch: your significant other should take up no more than one third of any couch you consider. (Please see image for optimal couch fit)

Thought on 10/6/06

2006-10-06T13:37:00.000-07:00

Is it illegal to send dormant plantlife to antarctica via post?

Thought on 10/5/06

2006-10-05T13:13:00.000-07:00

Two miles is SO much easier to run than three! Now, is that 33% easier... or 66... or do we have to take into account the lactic acid buildup as increasingly difficult and thus, each mile is more difficult by the power of a number dependent on my cardiac fitness, muscle length, lung size, wind resistance, and caloric intake from the previous day? Then there's the fact that the third mile is almost always uphill...

Thought on 10/4/06

2006-10-04T10:33:00.000-07:00

I can always count on home to bring about the much-needed Night of Eleven Sleeping Hours.

Thought on 10/3/06

2006-10-03T15:07:00.000-07:00

Hi Mom and Dad!

Thought on 10/2/06

2006-10-02T11:02:00.000-07:00

I hope I remember how to drive... and that my old Ohio home is okay with having me dawdling in its sleepy fields for a few days.

Thought for 10/1/06

2006-10-01T14:28:00.000-07:00

Michiganders sure do love their Quaker quick oats on Sunday! Sheeeeeeeeiiiiiit!

Thought for 9/30/06

2006-09-30T10:00:00.000-07:00

One thing that's remained true for more than twenty years now: mail is one of the best things ever.

Thought for 9/29/06

2006-09-29T09:35:00.000-07:00

In order to make good doughnuts, you need a wine glass, bottle cap, and someone handy with a slotted spoon (or, in a pinch, a fork).

This morning 9/28/06

2006-09-28T05:29:00.000-07:00

The shower I took last night is hanging out on our windows this morning.

Thought for 9/27/06

2006-09-27T07:54:00.000-07:00

The leaves are blowing carelessly across the road, putting our commutes into perspective.