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  • 1) "We've built a new Xanga Dashboard with Real-Time Feedback! more from marc..."
    How long do we have to put up with 'more' from marc?  Don't get me wrong: I love marc.  But I crave change, too. 
     If only in the headlines.


    2) "I know you better than you care to admit."   I do care.  Your proximity just leaves me practically speechless.

    3) I have two secret buttons embedded on my body.  One says "Erotic".  The other says    "Transform Me".  Which choose you, if you dare and care to choose?

    4) I've been, at times, categorized as a sweet-talker.  I see myself, rather, as a sweet-admitter.  Shit can spew from any mouth.  But only the heart comes from the heart.


    5) Lots of mining in the news.  West Virginia mine disasters.  NSA data-mining excesses.  It all sucks.  Which is more undermining of our cherished  holdings?  Rights as cheap as coal.


    6) Slush in the forecast.  Why can't the Air Force seed the clouds with cherry Crystal Lite?  Then we could slurp it up with straws.


    7) Hugs and kisses.  Hugs and kisses.  Hugs and kisses. Hugs and kisses. 
         Isn't it awesome?


    8) While running in Dreamland the other day, I passed a tree harboring a shoddy, abandoned bird's nest, exposed with the departure of leaves. It was lodged upon a very low-lying branch and I impulsively pulled and flung that branch.  The nest exploded and a folded, wet dollar bill fell out to ground.


    9) Yes, it was abandoned.  Don't dare question the astuteness of my nature observations.


    10) I've been invited at a TechFest to give a presentation on setting up a secure home wireless network.  Trouble is there is no such thing.  But that won't stop me.

  • 1) Down to Earth.  Lolling in wet leaves.  Stuffed 25 30-gallon compost bags full yesterday.


    2) Sore.  An hour of running after those two hours of leaf-picking.  A pretty girl smiled as I ran past her.  But she wasn't smiling for me.


    3) What's up with northern California?  Need a boat to get around anymore. Plains wildfires destroyed a Texas town called Ringgold...Johnny singing "A burning ring of fire".  And tornadp warnings around St Louis in January?  Someone wrmed that the "times are a'changin".


    4) Spies abound.  *looks around*  Oh, there's one!  No, that's a mirror.


    5) Got to love TV weather forecasts when they plaster a dozen Suns on the map.  Always makes me wonder what it would be like to live under the influence of multiple sultry stars.


    6) Got to love even more multiple Santas displayed on a lawn.  Once counted 18. To me as a kid, this was proof-positive there was no one real Santa.


    7) Spies rebound.  Online.  'Little girls' on Xanga who are actually U.S. Marshals, Cyber Crime division.  Damn you, stop trying to entrap me.  I don't need your stinking eprops.


    8) January 29, 2006.  Year of the Dog.  Woof woof.


    9) The sun rises?  Ah, no.  We turn under it, ever slow.


    10) Life's a short fuck.  Don't get caught watching (smiles).

  • 1) Angry.  Pissed.  Disconsolate.
        Without her.


    2) The year has begun without me.  Damn.
         Going to skip to 2007.


    3) *skips*


    4) Running's more fun.  More fun than skipping?  No, more fun than fantasizing an erotic involvement with Paris Hilton.


    5) Does money have a greater attraction than psychedelic dementia?  Depends who you are. But it's pretty much independent on whether you know who you are or not.


    6) There's nothing like raking leaves on New Year's Day.  Unless one has the opportunity to shovel snow on July 4th.


    7) Tease me, beguile me not.  Unless it's for profit.  Then cut me in, after the fact, and we'll have a good laugh as we get drunk together.


    8) Seeing the sun shine is like seeing the sun shine is like seeing the sun shine is like seeing the sun shine.


    9) We all breathe in, breathe out.  But which of us are pre-synchronized for 'in and out' together?


    10) Together?  The male perspective: to get her.

  • Having shined and risen, I'm now enjoying that other bottle of Singha.


    "Shockingly exotic color of transparent saffron; intensely cereal nose. A few lazy bubbles work their way to the surface, but a mouthful releases a nice explosion of carbonation that’s just downright refreshing. The slightly citrus attack is useful for cutting through larp (Thai minced meat salad with mint) and a bottle or two is absolutely de rigueur for extinguishing more incendiary chile-spiked foods. In my book, the best beer Asia sends our way."
    - David Gadd, Patterson's Beverage Journal, May 2005


    Will visit at my brother's log cabin midday to celebrate my daughter's birthday...









    Somewhere in central Ohio there is an actual log cabin on a forested hilltop, my brother's cabin, with a year's stock of supplies in the basement pantry.  When I first walked into it and saw the array of goods on the shelves, I thought I was in a grocery store and looked around for a shopping basket.  Shelf after shelf of non-perishables abound.



    Did somebody say *hideway* ?!


    My brother built, finished, and furnished the cabin by himself, beyond the basic assistance of having heavy equipment come in to excavate and lay the base foundation.



     


    After that, I'll return home and spend the remainder of the day (night) reading.


    Those of you partying, party real good.

  • I’m ending the year much in the same manner I spent quite a bit of it.


     


    Any guesses?


     


    Sleeping?


     


    Watching TV?


     


    Making love to irrepressible women?


     


    Naw.  I’ve just finished a 5 mile Dreamland cemetery run and it’s just about sunset.  All the snow of pre-Christmas has melted (it’s in the mid-30s) and I’m now perched on the ground upon a bed of fallen pine needles beneath a giant pine and I’m drinking  a beer.  But there’s a difference.  Instead of the ordinary and cheap Beast beer that I drank all summer, I’m treating myself to a Singha (“The Original Thai Beer”) and it’s very, very good.  Better yet, it (and another bottle) was part of a holiday gift from a new, most endearing friend and so is cherished even more in this moment of post-run solitude.


     


    Solitude : contemplating a seemingly so distant Sol at solset.


     


    Tomorrow?  Shine and rise.  Rise to drink that other Singha.


     


    -originally posted on Friday night

  • Who Really Gives a Leap Second?
    World Clocks to Pick Up Another Second Today




    I don't really celebrate End Year's Day/New Year's Day per se , though I 'observe' it as a member of society.  It is, after all, a pure invention, not even celebrating a deserving occasion of any astronomic or historic significance.  It is, at base, Trickster Time elevated to a stature divine.  And since Time, in the full course of life, serves variously as both a light and dark faerie (ultimately, consort of the faerie Death), I opt out as a full-fledged celebrant, preferring instead to watch a candle burn imprecisely rather than a ball drop with deadly precision.


    Time, after all, is a truly strange notion and the calendar is a quirky invention to try to manage it.  Yet in hopes of mastering the powers of prophecy and predictability provided by accurate synchronicity, people of all ages and cultures have seemed preoccupied with measuring and recording the passage of time.


     



    The earliest recorded year in history seems to be 4236 BC, 6239-6240 years ago.  The ancient Egyptians, like probably almost all ancients, observed cycles of things.  For instance, they realized that the yearly inundation of the Nile occurred while the ‘dog star’ Sirius danced close to the Sun.  They devised a 365-day year to 'capture' this cycle.  Problem was (and is): the cycle they were observing was closer to (but not precisely or constantly) 365.25 days.


     



    Contesting with this type of precision provided by solar events, remained the need of farmers to know when to plant.  The moon seemed more attuned as an indicator to them with 12 moon cycles between one planting season and the next.  Consequently, the Babylonians devised a lunar calendar based on alternating 29-day and 30-day months to furnish a 354-day year. 




    So, in the center ring circus of inventing the year, the Egyptian Sun (and Sunday) battled the Babylonian Moon (and Monday) for the hearts and minds of timekeepers.


     



    But there were, for the even more observant, a lot of other ‘time skirmishes’ preventing time from being pigeonholed precisely.  The Mayans, apparently high on drugs (my intuition), devised 17 concurrent cosmological calendars, to handle observed discrepancies.  Their calendar based on Venus (the ‘Sacred Year’) provided a 260-day year (4 ‘quarters’ of 65 ‘days’, subdivided into 5 groups of 13 days).  Yet their ‘solar’ calendar (the ‘Seasonal Year’), chained to cycles founded on their base-20 counting system, had 360 days (18 ‘months’ of 20 ‘days’ each) to which they added 5 ‘unlucky days’.  Both ‘years’ ran in tandem and started anew on the same day every repeating 52 years.


     



    Such complications in trying to make sense of time on Earth!


     



    Even the current western world’s pope-prodded calendar (Gregorian—Gregory XIII) employs a system of ‘leap years’ ( 1 ‘leap day’ added every 4 years, ...like in a couple of years,).  Except... years that are evenly divisible by 100 are excluded as leap years, unless they are also evenly divisible by 400, in which case, they are re-included as leap years.


     



    And, in a tenaciously-clinging attempt to maintain this pope-prodded calendar (devised essentially to make church ‘holy days’ eternally repetitive, even if, like Easter, some of them would end up ‘floating’), the current scientific/money-based ("Time is money, money time.") western world needs to tweak the calendar even further by inclusion of either positive or negative ‘leap seconds’ about every 500 days.


     



    It’s like this:  'Current time', as you and I know it, is measured with the precision of the ‘atomic second’, that is, the length of time required for 9,192,631,770 cycles of the Cesium atom at zero magnetic field.  (We've a carbon-based life system, but a cesium-based time system!).  This ‘atomic second’ when first devised in 1956 was then ‘back-linked’ to the Earth’s 'rotational second' in the year 1900.  The atomic second thus defined was equivalent to the interval defined by the fraction 1 / 31,556,925.9747 of the year 1900.


     



    Complicated enough for you yet?  Don’t groan.  For the sake of scientific precision, what’s a few more manipulations?


     



    So here’s the clincher: the year 1900 is no longer equivalent in length to the year 2006 or any year hereafter.  Tidal braking, core fluctuations, even atmospheric anomalies (and scientists aren’t even really sure what else) slows the Earth’s rotation constantly.  Hence, the ‘cesium second’, post-anchored to the length of the year in 1900, would soon become imprecise unless those ‘leap seconds’ were added on, now and then, to ‘match’ the earth’s rotation to time.


     



    What’s the point of all these man-invented time-synthesized adjustments?   Precision.  What’s the cost?  A truer harmonic relationship with the naturalness of the cosmos.  As a society, we love time.  Yet isn't true love, backgrounded by the unfolding of cosmic processes, timeless ?


     



    Indeed, we become in the image of the gods we worship, and Time, aka Chronos, currently sits atop the pantheon.  Hence, are we ever so precise a people unto ourselves.  But ever increasingly out of synch with much of everything else.  If Love, aka Eros, instead sat atop our pantheon,  I think we would see our years lengthen without leaps and we would allow time to ‘slow down’  in tune with the cosmos as mandated by the slowing rotation of the Earth.  Chronos, dear Chronos forbid!


     



    Still, the rotation of the Earth is slowing (days are getting longer by leap seconds at the rate of 2 ms per day, or .7 seconds per year) and will continue to slow until, just as now one face of the Moon always faces the Earth, someday one face of the Earth will always face the Moon, too.  And, then, apparently unmoving vis-à-vis one another, the Earth and Moon will have a stare-off for forever more.  Now that’s true cosmic love for you. (If you care not to reflect poetically, but seek more of the science behind this, go here.)




    Until then?  We leap and pretend that not a damn thing's changing.

  • I'm 95% certain that of all the bloggers posting on Xanga this morning 73% are female (plus or minus 10%),  n=100.


    - leftover legacy insight from my days as a univerisity grad school statistics prof


    Also, many of the males I encountered seemed angry.


    Go figure.

  • 1)  After scrutinizing, on the whole, all that’s going on in Xanga these days, I’ve concluded that Nostradamus, in three quatrains, predicted the 21st Century explosion of this, our Blogging phenomenon:

    Quatrains - Century I

    14
    From the enslaved populace, songs, chants and demands,
    while Princes and Lords are held captive in prisons.
    These will in the future by headless idiots
    be received as divine prayers.
     45
    A founder of sects, much trouble for the accuser:
    A beast in the theater prepares the scene and plot.
    The author ennobled by acts of older times;
    the world is confused by schismatic sects.
     64
    At night they will think they have seen the sun,
    when they see the half pig man:
    Noise, screams, battles seen fought in the skies.
    The brute beasts will be heard to speak.

    2)  I was just drifting deeper and deeper off into daydreams at work when I was startled to catch myself openly (in my dream context) professing “It’s not my happiness I’m worried about.  It’s yours.”   I then abruptly jumped back into my conscious frame of mind (more or less, the current one) and got the distinct impression that I had been  ‘psychically blogging’ on the Psychicnet (Psychonet?!).    Anyone out here happen to intercept my communiqué?   


     


    3)  Experimenting again.  Soon time for a social experiment, Xanga permitting…

  • Time presses us. Sometimes softly.  But ever toward  an ultimacy: and/or hard and/or brutal but always mortal.


    Sometimes we press back.  Wise men, women have warned that we'll forever lose that battle.  No doubt. 


    But when I go, at least I'm going to rip into Time, take a chunk of it with me, make it pay for wanting to fuck.


    As Crazy Horse (see profile pic) daily proclaimed: "Today is a good day to die."


    He knew well.  Lived well.  Loved well.  And died well.


    ...just my prelude to a Happy 2006 New Year. 


    (if this seems harsh, I'm just trying to shake off the Christmas mush)


  • In the balance, always darkness with light.

  • I celebrated the beginning of winter today ( the darkest day of the year) by running 5 miles in one of the darkest places (a cemetery—of course, those who know me aren’t surprised) in less than clement conditions (chill temp 10 with a total overcast and slight flurries) just before sunset. 


     


    With sunglasses on. 


     


    I cherish sunlight and the Sun, but on a day like today, I thought, why not to darkness succumb?  And so I began to run.  And as I began to run, I found myself thinking cold, dark thoughts and contemplating cold dark deeds.  Feelings of being taken advantaged of, insensitively teased, and abandoned overwhelmed me.  Damn the opportunists, teasers and abandoners.  Damn them all to hell, my heart pouted.


     


    But after the 2nd of 7 laps, I found myself reflecting and asking myself if those feelings were really mine.  I wasn’t summarily dismissing them, but I didn’t entirely own them either.  Instead, I made a conscious self-kill decision to suspend belief altogether—not to really trust such thinking and feeling—but simply to permit their play as my entry participation into the shadowy flow of the world around me.


     


    Interestingly enough, as my metabolism perked up (3rd mile-4th lap), this mental and emotional coldness—that had at first gripped me and then continued to play with me—was concomitantly transformed into a more vibrant, energetic outlook.  I started thinking about those people who need me (well, both those I know who do and others who seem to) and what I might next do to respond.  I began considering other activities I might engage in tonight, besides running, to build me up and make me stronger—blogging, not strangely, being one.  I had found the fire within. Again.  And with sunglasses on, I was all aglow. 


     


    "Be ye lamps unto yourselves," advised the Buddha during his final sermon.  The solution exists within the inherent nature of all of us.  "Be your own confidence," he continued.  "Hold to the truth within yourselves as to the only lamp." 


     


    (written/posted from a wifi coffeeshop on the Case Western campus, a mile from the cemetery)

  • It’s been 5 years here today.  Five effervescent years.  And I’ve never (though always) been gone.


     


    The feeling’s real.  I love you and you and you and you and…


     


    Oh  hell.  I might as well admit it. 


     


    It ain’t a writer’s love. 


     


    It’s purely blog lust.


     


    It’s the must of oozing, the cost of schmoozing, the reason I’m boozing.


     


    Words.


     


    And beyond those words, images.


     


    And beyond those images, real people with real bodies.


     


    If I could only get my real hands on you.  Again.


     


    All of you whom I crave so have a key on my laptop’s keypad ( except ‘i’ which is reserved for me) dedicated to you.  And as I type ‘your letter’, I feel ‘the touch’.  You may have noticed that I repeat certain letters more than others.  Take the letter ‘u’ for instance.  I am always fondling ‘u’, pressing against ‘u’, remotely succumbing to ‘u’.  It’s fate.  Look at your keypad.  ‘u’ and  ‘i’ are forever together.  Even when ‘u’ (every so often as ‘u’ do) turn away from me and ask ‘ y’ it is so,  ‘i’  merely shuffle in place, cast my look aside and admit ‘o, o, o, o,’.  ‘o’ is all 'i' can say, until, entirely dejected by your temporary flight from intimacy, 'i' cast my head downwards and realize it’s ‘o’ ‘k’.   ‘u’ are ‘u’ and ‘i’ am ‘i’ , together we’re the ‘ui’ in suite (the we in sweet) and our eternal constellation’s no lie.


     


    So to the extent that my blog is an orgy, my laptop’s the lovebed and we’re all key-cuddled forever together.


     


     Blog lust.  Comment to comment, dust to dust.

  • A letter to Admin John...


    John,


    Are you guys aware of a purported worm/hack on Xanga called 'exodus'?


    It's described here:
    http://www.xanga.com/wutuwaitn4/409355933/item.html


    and the purported perpetrator is :
    http://www.xanga.com/exodus223
    (wutuwaitn4 warns not to go there when logged in or you'll get infected)

    It looks like these two sites may have been defaced:


    http://www.xanga.com/vs_thekeystolife
    http://www.xanga.com/luckylucy
    (not sure if they are safe to visit when logged in, either)


    I hope this helps!


    Steve


    update: John has responded in a comment. 


    Also, Xanga has officially reacted/replied to this here:
    http://www.xanga.com/updates

  • It deals with a series of adventures of a very low grade of morality; it is couched in the language of a rough dialect, and all through its pages there is a systemic use of bad grammar and an employment of rough, coarse, inelegant expressions. It is also very irreverent. . . . The whole book is of a class that is more profitable for the slums than it is for respectable people.
    -St. Louis Globe-Democrat review of the Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, March 17, 1885


    ***


    Have you ever shut down a Xanga site?  I hadn't but got interested in what is involved when that 'Schwelgien' site turned up "shut down by its owner..." (Actually, I have some reason to believe that it was shut down by one of the Xangagods and not its owner - but that's another matter).


    First thing I discovered is that it's final - there's no return.  And in order to assure that you know it, Xanga has you take a series of tests.  Yes, tests.  If you can't pass the tests, you can't shut down your site.  This is  hilarious...


    Before you shut down your site, please take our three-step training quiz!


    That's correct! Just two more steps before you can shut down your site...


    That's correct! Just one more step before you can shut down your site...


    Congratulations, you've successfully completed our three-step training quiz! For added security, please sign in - then, you'll be asked to confirm the shut down.


    To confirm that you want to shut down your site, click "Yes - Shut Down Site"  


    ***
    I found my cell phone in the snow.  In the photo below (last post) you can see a reflection of myself, a chapel, snow, and a street in addition to a back-lit projection of stained glass emanating from within the crypt I'm photgraphing.   The phone had fallen from my hip into the snow near the street as I hurried to take this photo before the lighting changed.  And so it lives to beep another day.



  •  


    she didn’t call.
    looks like i’ll never know the adventure


    of sushi and birthday cake, after all.


     


    full moon, instead.


     


    make it special, after dark.


    scale the wall of the cemetery,


    run laps amidst a hundred thousand faded lives,


    and listen to roomya whisper


    me colorfully living stories


    about the dead.


     


    leave tracks in the snow.


    and wait for winter melt


    to refresh the world again.


     


    Update, Sat. 7 am: I followed my recipe above.  My cell phone ended up, I believe, leaving its track in the snow since I had it with me while running, but after leaving the cemetery I found it missing.  I was tempted to return and search for it in the dark, but since the cemetery usually goes unvisited at night anyway, I have decided to wait till morning's first light to return and scout about for it.  Throughout the night, I called it several times to make sure it was still on, and not in use, and that nobody had found it (or if found, answered).  Not sure what I would have done if a phantom voice answered hurling curses at me for running on sacred grounds.  Though my instinct would have been to return immediately, with camera in hand, to retrieve it from said phantom.

  • Extreme Blogging


     


    Yesterday’s post was the first blog post ever (spanning 5 years now) that I composed without a PC.  I was in a bar, drinking beer, and writing by bar candlelight.  There wasn’t enough light to see what I wrote, merely enough to see the blank space remaining on the paper.  Now for many, this might not be so unusual.  But I never (well, almost never, except for yesterday’s foray) write longhand anymore other than to scribble on post-it notes at work. So for me, blogging so was highly unusual.  Yet given others’ predilections to do so readily, it can hardly be characterized as extreme.


     


    Is there such a thing as “extreme blogging” in the sense that as ‘extreme sports’ is to ‘sports’ :: ‘extreme blogging’ is to ‘blogging’ ?  And, if so, what might constitute it?


     


    I’ve blogged wirelessly from a cemetery on Halloween night.  Is that extreme?


     


    I’ve blogged wirelessly exchanging blog comments with toreibjo while driving down Interstate 90 as he watched my wireless webcam broadcast shots of the highway live to Norway.  Is that extreme?


     


    I don’t know.  I’m asking your help in possibly defining a new genre of blogging—extreme blogging.


     


    If there’s ever to be such a thing as extreme blogging, should the “extreme” refer to:  What else you’re doing while you blog (while flying a plane upside down, while at the altar getting married to two soon-to-be spouses, while holding up a bank that you work at )?  Where you blog from (the top of Mt Everest during a storm, the center of the Bermuda Triangle just above the vortex, just outside the perimeter of a secret terrorist training camp that’s about to get bombed )?  Or what you blog about (any and everything taboo, something that qualifies in the annals of “Believe It or Not”, your visions while imbibing ayahuasca—which would probably constitute both a ‘what else you're doing’ and a ‘what you blog about’)?  Any of these?  All of these?  Or is there some better criteria?


     


    Have you ever blogged in the extreme?  If so, what qualified it as such?  Or if you haven't but could, what form would it take?



    Is this a good idea to pursue?  And/or am I just nuts?


  • I simply can't believe it.  Someone on Xanga seemingly cares enough about me to assume a highly suggestive identity-trapping of mine (my last name, Schwelgien) and go on a mission directed from God, or as least, the Blues Brothers' Mother Superior, on my behalf.


    What mission you ask?


    Well, take sonotcool's read on this:









    Xanga

    Just an FYI:

    Someone subscribed to me, under what I think is your last name, and is trying to let everyone know that you are married. Of course, that is no surprise to me; I knew that already. A few of your other readers are commenting there. The person doesn't claim to be you, but seems to want you to "come clean" about your marital status because you write as if you are single and looking.

    Posted 12/12/2005 at 4:39 PM by soNOTcool


    What can I say?

     

    1) I deny nothing.

    2) I admit nothing.

    3) Those who have ever had a need to know, always knew firsthand from me personally.

    4) Those who never had a real need to know...

       a) knew anyways because they were either

           i) psychic, or

           ii) attuningly ever-so female (same thing)

       b) didn't know, but probably didn't (and don't) care anyway.

     

    What constitutes 'a need to know'?  Ha!  You might better ask: Is life better served or enslaved in being bound to the exigent continuum?  Or:  If a beautiful question doesn't have a beautiful answer, is a better-than-a-bad-boy-answer an appropriate improvisation?

     

    But, regardless. Here's  now the exciting particpatory challenge to you:

     

    Who else amongst you are aware of these shenanigans of "Schwelgien"?  Let's together find out who this stalker-type he or she really is.  Not because it really matters to the fundamental unravelling of the core of the golden eternity.  Nor because it's key to anticpating the next increment of the yet incomplete table of the periodic elements.  But just because, apparently by sonotcool's FYI, it's a living Xanga mystery.

     

    A Xanga mystery!  Well, since "Schwelgien" has never had the genuineness to confront me in this matter personally and sincerely, I must rely upon you.

     

    So, here's what you can do to help solve this so important  Xanga mystery:

     

    1) Let me know if  this "Schwelgien" has ever subscribed or commented on your blog.  Or not.

     

    2) If she/he has subscribed or commented, and you have a Xanga tracker of some sort, provide, if you can, his/her IP address trace.  If she/he has visited but left no tracks on your tracker, let me know that, too.  Going 'trackless'  is an indication of sophistication that, in and of itself, would limit the suspect list.

     

    3) Include any comment that he/she might have left for you here.  Perhaps the wording the he or she may use will key me into her/his identity.  Or perhaps the 'revelations' shared with you may betray this busybody to me (and, of course, I'd, in turn, share the news with you)  since a singular detail could theoretically have been shared with only a special somebody.  And should I hear it again from you at large, then that would indicate that that special somebody's lips somehow got unsealed. 

     

    Should I learn nothing from any of you, I will not be disappointed.

     

    Should I stumble upon some discovery with the assistance of one or all of you, I'd more than likely find myself shocked with a grin.

     

    Always a beautiful answer who asks a more beautiful question.  Ya think?

  • I was riding to work today and imagined no signs or signals anywhere ever again upon the road.  The road became significantly more visually pristine.  It was a joyful, chaotic, anarchic vision.



    I sat in the cemetery yesterday at sunset, after running, and nurtured myself in the frigid zone.  O clear cold stream of air.  O shadows of bones strewn into the darkness of infinity.  Give me icy bitter wintry more.  Make me forget the sultry summer sun that I adore.


     


    allseasons 
                                 Cemetery Crazy Horse (see profile pic)

    I have lost my mind many times before.  But this very last time, well, I kind of felt like I was about to die.  In fact, an acquaintance aside me, (perhaps merely imagined, perhaps otherwise) mentioned  “Are you okay? You look like you’re having a heart attack or stroke or something.”  I suppose that indicates how highly I identify ‘self’ with ‘mind’.  But self won out.  Only my mind died.  I’ve got a new mind now.  It’s only 3 days old.




     


    July 3, 2001, I first coined the term ‘xangarelic’.  Now, 8 days short of 5 years here, I will still not concede that I resemble that remark.  No, no, no.  Birds shall turn out to dinosaurs before my blog ossifies into a historic xangament of any sort.  For truly…



    may my heart always be open to little
    birds who are the secrets of living
    whatever they sing is better than to know
    and if men should not hear them men are old


    —e.e.cummings

  • Bridge and Bridget


     


    There’s a winding bridge that traverses the once infamous burning Cuyahoga River.  Upon this bridge yesterday, as I came around one blind turn, I encountered a car stopped in the inner fast lane (my chosen lane, too) too very few feet ahead.  My immediate reaction: “Oh my God, no.”  And with the brakes instantly applied, I stopped and then got around it.


     


    Standing behind the car was a young woman alone talking on a cellphone. “What the hell,”  I pondered, “I might as well just join her.”  So I pulled over and parked in the fast lane, too.  And met Bridget, who had just run out of gas.


     


    “I came around the bend before I even saw you,”  I exclaimed.


     


    “I know, this is the worst possible place to get stranded,” she conceded.


     


    “Do you have help coming?”


     


    “Yes, my friend is bringing some gas.  She should be here in 5 or 10 minutes.”


     


    I got a couple or iridescent orange traffic cones out of the back of my SUV and positioned them uplane of her car.  If someone was going to plow into us, they’d have to take out the cones first—nice consolation, huh?


     


    Hold it right there.  This story isn’t going anywhere.  Yes, she was a gorgeous girl.  No, I didn’t get her number.  Yes, the gas arrived and Bridget spilled it all over me.  No, all the other cars that were surprised, as I was, didn’t crash into us creating a gory mess.  Yes, Bridget apologized profusely for spilling the gas on me and I then took over the refueling process.  No, she didn’t light up a cigarette to quell her nervousness.  Yes, we both agreed it was both an unusual and beautiful view from the bridge of the Cuyahoga River and Lake Erie and joked that we had both stopped just for the view and not because of trouble.  No, we didn’t linger any longer than necessary but got the hell off of the friggin’ freezing bridge probably never to meet up again.

  • Another stupid Xanga story: Twin girls thrown in jail for making death threats on Xanga.


    Although in itself this doesn't seem so glamorous now, the invention of a paper-thin foldable battery is bound to launch dozens of wearable computer innovations.  Prepare to log yourself into the human network.


    When it's right, falling out of love is a beautiful thing for the soul.

  • Here's some trivia that was sent to me in my workplace.  I'm lazy.  Does anyone know if any of this is merely urban legend material or otherwise not accurate?


    Many years ago in Scotland, a new game was invented. It was ruled "Gentlemen Only...Ladies Forbidden" and thus the word GOLF entered into the English language.


    In the 1400's a law was set forth that a man was not allowed to beat his wife with a stick no thicker than his thumb. Hence we have "the rule of thumb"


    The first couple to be shown in bed together on prime time TV were Fred and Wilma Flintstone.


    Every day more money is printed for Monopoly than the US Treasury.


    Men can read smaller print than women can; women can hear better.


    Coca-Cola was originally green.


    It is impossible to lick your elbow.


    The State with the highest percentage of people who walk to work: Alaska


    The percentage of Africa that is wilderness: 28% (now get this...)


    The percentage of North America that is wilderness: 38%


    The cost of raising a medium-size dog to the age of eleven: $6,400


    The average number of people airborne over the US any given hour: 61,000


    Intelligent people have more zinc and copper in their hair.


    The first novel ever written on a typewriter: Tom Sawyer.


    The San Francisco Cable cars are the only mobile National Monuments.


    Each king in a deck of playing cards represents a great king from history:


    Spades - King David
    Hearts - Charlemagne
    Clubs -Alexander, the Great
    Diamonds - Julius Caesar


    111,111,111 x 111,111,111 = 12,345,678,987,654,321


    If a statue in the park of a person on a horse has both front legs in the air, the person died in battle. If the horse has one front leg in the air the person died as a result of wounds received in battle. If the horse has all four legs on the ground, the person died of natural causes.


    Only two people signed the Declaration of Independence on July 4th, John Hancock and Charles Thomson. Most of the rest signed on August 2, but the last signature wasn't added until 5 years later.


    Q. Half of all Americans live within 50 miles of what?
    A. Their birthplace


    Q. Most boat owners name their boats. What is the most popular boat name requested?
    A. Obsession


    Q. If you were to spell out numbers, how far would you have to go until you would find the letter "A"?
    A. One thousand


    Q. What do bulletproof vests, fire escapes, windshield wipers, and laser printers all have in common?
    A. All invented by women.


    Q. What is the only food that doesn't spoil?
    A. Honey


    Q. Which day are there more collect calls than any other day of the year?
    A. Father's Day


    In Shakespeare's time, mattresses were secured on bed frames by ropes. When you pulled on the ropes the mattress tightened, making the bed firmer to sleep on. Hence the phrase......... "goodnight, sleep tight."


    It was the accepted practice in Babylon 4,000 years ago that for a month after the wedding, the bride's father would supply his son-in-law with all the mead he could drink. Mead is a honey beer and because their calendar was lunar based, this period was called the honey month . which we know today as the honeymoon.


    In English pubs, ale is ordered by pints and quarts... So in old England, when customers got unruly, the bartender would yell at them "Mind your pints and quarts, and settle down." It's where we get the phrase "mind your P's and Q's"


    Many years ago in England, pub frequenters had a whistle baked into the rim, or handle, of their ceramic cups. When they needed a refill, they used the whistle to get some service. "Wet your whistle" is the phrase inspired by this practice.


    ~~~~~~~~~~~AND FINALLY~~~~~~~~~~~~


    At least 75% of people who read this will try to lick their elbow


    ..............................................................


    Believe it or not, you can read this:


    I cdnuolt blveiee taht I cluod aulaclty uesdnatnrd waht I was rdgnieg.The phaonmneal pweor of the hmuan mnid Aoccdrnig to rscheearch at Cmabrigde Uinervtisy, it deosn't mttaer in waht oredr the ltteers in a wrod are, the olny iprmoatnt tihng is taht the frist and lsat ltteer be in the rghit pclae. The rset can be a taotl mses and you can sitll raed it wouthit a porbelm. Tihs is bcuseae the huamn mnid deos not raed ervey lteter by istlef, but the wrod as a wlohe. Amzanig huh?

  • As Iraqis embrace democracy, the U.S. is about to crush all remaining vestiges of Al Qaeda in Iraq.
    ( —ths blogline is paid for and is brought to you by the LincolnGroup, a PR firm hired by the Pentagon to plant favorable stories in the press.)

    I find it revolting that the U.S government through the agency of the Pentagon would hire a PR firm to pay Iraqi reporters to plant American-written propaganda in their media as if the stories were native portrayals of the current state of affairs.  Story here.

    We’re trying to convince Iraqis that democracy is good, right?

    And then we go and ‘buy’ their integrity and by doing so undermine the independence of their press.

    Is that the way democracy works in America? Or is it better not to answer that question?

    The Press in America is Free! And Democracy assures us it will ever be so.
    ( —ths blogline is paid for and is brought to you by the LincolnGroup, a PR firm hired by the Pentagon to plant favorable stories in the press.)

  • The 9/11 Commission has just released its Report Card assessing the federal government's response to its findings arising from the 9/11 catastrophe.  CNN summarizes the Report Card as U.S. gets 'more F's than A's' in post 9/11 preps


     


    Well, I suppose its always easy to be critical.  But how easy is it to be self -critical?  I decided to find out by comparatively assessing myself upon some made-up categories here on Xanga according to 'Then' (pre- and circa 9/11/2001) and 'Now'...


     


    Technically innovative blogging



    Then:  Immensely so.  Created many Xanga-specific scripts; sponsored the first mobile blog videocam  in the world; sponsored the first Xanga chat room (Blogchat); often took the lead on recommending new innovations for Xanga to implement.                  


    Now:  Little interest in further improvisations unless they are quick and painless. 


     


    Previous Grade: B+


    Current Grade:  D-


     


    Creative/conceptually innovative blogging


     


    Then:  Outbursts of uncontainable creativity interspersed with punctuations of corny gooffiness.


    Now:  I’d like to think the goofiness is gone.  I believe my greatest creative contributions lay yet ahead.


     


    Previous Grade: B+


    Current Grade:  A-  (pending developments)


     


    Frequency of updates to my blog


     


    Then:  Almost never missed a day.  Often posted multiple posts on a single day.  Actually at one point created an automated script that posted 'new' posts every 15 minutes (left it up only for about 40 hours.)


    Now:  Averaging perhaps 3-4 posts a week.  May sometimes go 3-4 days without a post.


     


    Previous Grade: A


    Current Grade:  C


     


    Overall frequency of commenting around on others’ blogs


     


    Then:  Hours and hours almost everyday. 


    Now:  Very infrequent.


     


    Previous Grade: B-


    Current Grade:  F


     


    Visiting/commenting-on/discovering  new users/sites


     


    Then:  Excitedly so—almost everyday.


    Now:   Rarely.


     


    Previous Grade: B


    Current Grade:  F 


     


    Blogging from work


     


    Then:  Excessively and dangerously often.


    Now:   Blue moon.


     


    Previous Grade: A


    Current Grade:  F


     


    Featured Content watching


     


    Then:  I used to lead  Featured Content.  Yep, I was indisputably ‘most popular’ for a time.  Watching was then incessant.
    Now:  Almost never.  I only occasionally check FC to see if anybody featured is posting nude profile pics of themselves.


     


    Previous Grade: A


    Current Grade:  F+


      


    Criticality of Xanga to my social life


     


    Then:  At times, Xanga and its extensions (email, chatting, messaging, etc.), were the entirety of my social.


    Now:  What social life?   J.K.  But not truly significant therein.  Hence, tangential—marginal.


     


    Previous Grade: B+


    Current Grade:  F- (is that a Freudian ‘F’? And does the '-' mean its minus from my life?)


      


    Criticality of Xanga  in inspiring my Muse


     


    Then:  Essential.


    Now:   As much, perhaps more, than ever.


     


    Previous Grade: A


    Current Grade:  A+


     


    Hey, I ended with an A+.  According to the rule of "what have you done for yourself lately" and restricting my short term memory to its shortest possible span, it looks like I'm doing OK.  In other words, my Muse may still be addicted, but I am not addicted to Xanga anymore.


     


    -end of profession of Xanga non-addiction (mostly)-

  • What creatures venture forth into the stark winter beauty of Dreamland?  Tracks do tell...



    Scampering nut crackers.


     



    Cats gone feral.


     



    Red fox prowling fight after sunset.


     


    onlythelonely


    URO


    Unidentified Running Object.

  • Being ‘here’ isn’t really possible.   For one thing, by time you read this, I’m already gone.  So I tell you I just ran 5 miles in Dreamland.  Just.  I’m still steamy in my sweatpants after the run and I’m obelisk-leaning as I stroke this.  No, not that ‘this’.  This very this.  ß (I took two sips from a beer between that last sentence and this one.)  Temp is 30 F. and conditions are calm.  There are wee birds off in some trees to my right chattering along…


     


    may my heart always be open to little
    birds who are the secrets of living
    whatever they sing is better than to know
    and if men should not hear them men are old
     -e.e.cummings


     


    But…


     


    Though I’m most likely still somewhere roaming this planet, I’ll probably be provocatively engaged in some other very different activity during your stopover (or flyby, whatever the case may be) here.  ß (Another couple of sips.)  There’s work to be done.  There’s a life to be led.  There’s a world to be won.  The heart that languishes is lost.  Hence, even though I often feel marginalized by our society and its constituent interacting members, I push intrepidly on.  Onwards.  Never stopping, if doomsday never comes.


     


    Okay. To hell with the intrigue.  Later, I’ll be updating Kim Gillilan’s SugarPineDesigns website to include her “Black & White Beauty” kit that is now featured in the current issue (Feb. 2006) of American Patchwork & Quilting magazine.  The kit sells for $30.  And since the the current issue came out, her web traffic has quadrupled.  So I better get busy.


     



  • A Beauty, no?


    Lee Yoon-hyung, age 26.


    Personal worth: $191 million.


    Upside: Heiress to the South Korean Samsung conglomerate which consititutes 1/6 of the South Korean Gross Domestic Product - approximately $131 billion.


    Downside: Strangled herself on electrical cord in her Manhattan apartment.


    I'm not as young or as cute as Yoon-hyung up there.  And I've got money problems.  And I'm an heir to nothing. 


    But I have the love of a daughter as, no - more beautiful than Yoon-hyung.  And I've got enough health and energy and some opportunity to work at my money problems.  And I've got the air that fills my lungs as I run streaming through Dreamland cemetery.


    Next time I run in Dreamland, I shall think of Yoon-hyung.  And again reflect upon how lucky I am.


  • A comment left on my previous post...

     

    Visit xXxAnthonys_GurlxXx's Xanga Site!


               OK ALL THE PLP ON DIZ SITE IS 2 OLD 2 HAV A XANGA UR KREEPY DUDE YOU COULD PROBABLY USE A GOOD F8N OR SUMTHIN

     

    My response left on her site...

     








    Visit notforprophet's Xanga Site!


    Baby, I was the FIRST blogger on Xanga and was instrumental in getting this thing going.  Without us "too old" bloggers, there would be no Xanga for anyone today, including you.  Oh yeah, it may be hard for you to believe, but this place ain't all about you.

     

    Ha.  Okay, so I wasn't the very, very first.   But I was here soon enough to nab God, Goddess, and fuck.  You know, the triad core of cosmic being.



     

    I find it funny that there's this genre of upstarts here, all like xXxAnthonys_GurlxXx up there, who believe that Xanga is age-specific, and moreover, are resentful of anyone not matching their projected qualifying profile.

     

    Do such comments anger me?  Hardly.  They are ephermal and inconsequential personally to me.  They are, however, symptomatic of a greater malaise magnifcently characterized by Robert Bly in his book, The Sibling Society...


    According to Bly, our age is an age that spawns societal flatness... "People don't bother to grow up, and we are all fish swimming in a tank of half-adults." [p. vii]   This is the  "sibling society," a herd defining itself as exempt from responsibilities to assume and long-term commitments to undertake.

    Bly laments the self-annihilation engendered in this society , "... with its fatherlessness, its openness to junk culture, its encouragement of early and shallow sexuality, its destruction of courtesy, and its economic uncertainty ...." [p. 115]


    The fundamental energy of the Sibling Society is to enforce leveling.  Our submission has proceeded so long and so far that we are now "... standing in the rubble of a destroyed literate society, looking at the ruins of education, family, and child protection. Technology has destroyed interrelations in the human community that have taken centuries to develop. The breaking of human beings' connection to land has harmed everyone. We are drowning in uncontrollable floods of information. We are living among dispirited and agonized teenagers who can't find any hope. Genuine work is disappearing, and we are becoming aware of a persistent infantilizing of men and women, a process already far advanced." [pp. 169-70]


    We are becoming a gigantic army of rival, envious siblings.  Xanga is but a microcosm of this larger macrocosm.





  •  


    By disposition, I am a creature of the the Summer and the Sun.  I flourish while running in 90 degree weather.  I lived/worked in the jungles of tropical Panama for 4 years and never found reason to complain.  My mind always melds psychic with the starkest dominations of the ever-powerful Heliosphere.



    But I own the Winter.



    I did not say I’m giddily over-enthused about Winter.  But I own it, nonetheless.



    Yesterday an Alberta Clipper came crashing into the North Coast (where I now find haven).  There was blowing snow, winds at 30 mph gusting to 40 mph, a barometric pressure of 29.5, and a temperature of 20 F. with a wind chill factor of 0.  It was Thanksgiving, so a great day to huddle indoors, no?



    Not I.  I own the Winter and must welcome its manifestations, even in late-Fall.  So yesterday I returned to a Dreamland cemetery in the grip of the Clipper and ran.  7.1 miles, if you must know.  And so I resumed the path of my vision, a vision I had about this very same time last year.



    What did I see then?



    There, in my mind’s eye, were a pair of rugged warriors, two brothers, both Norsemen, running the very same cemetery ground as I was upon.  They were ancient yet alive, shaggily-clothed and running in a wicked blizzard.  Intrepid they were and disregarding of all comfort.  And then I came to realize: they were running through the winter.  I mean literally that: I discerned their intent to ‘run through’ the cold and darkness of the grisly winter season unstoppingly.  Suddenly, I had a shift of vision.  I lost track of one of the ancient ones.  And I became the other one that remained.  I saw myself as I ran as the lone brother that was left.  Left behind.  Left afar.  Left to run.  Through the winter.  And then the feeling of being a genuine king flooded my consciousness.  And an enlightenment followed: I, in visionary embodiment of that ancient Norse warrior king, have been left, alone, to own the Winter and to seek.  Simply seek.  And since I own the Winter, I must lead, lead the way to Spring.



    So when Spring 2006 re-appears in your neighborhood, you may thank me.  Until then, thank you, I’ll be too busy running to take any complaints.

  • Thank God for happiness.  Share it, if you've got it.


    There are a couple of videos here.  The last for awhile.  They're low quality since they are made with a Sanyo 8300 cellphone camcorder in low light.  I bought the phone to replace a lost one, didn't really want the camcorder feature, but was told the particular model would accomodate my laptop-to-internet Dreamland wireless connection.  But the damn thing doesn't.  So I ended up last night switching the 8300 with my daughter's 8200 which doesn't do videos but will act as a wireless modem.


    The first autostarts.  The second is set for manual start to avoid audio conflicts.







    Free video hosting, video codes at www.vidiLife.com

    This, above, was shot just after a six mile run.  Often after I run, I'll take a perch against one of many huge obelisks, unpack my blogging gear (laptop, cables, cellphone-modem), possibly pop a top of a brew can, and allow inspiration to find me.  I've probably written 300 or 400 posts, a third of them poems, from this (or a proximate) very spot.


     








    Free video hosting, video codes at www.vidiLife.com


    Running in Dreamland.  When I took this, I unknowingly ended running up on a girl who was behind one of the obelisks and I scared the hell out of her.  I guess pretty young girls alone in a cemetary at sunset tend to get a bit unnerved at, first the sound, and then the sudden sight of a strange man streaking directly toward them.

  • Damn the Man.


    I've never nor will I ever play with various writing styles on my blog.  I've invented some, tortured others, seduced a couple, teased many, succumbed to one.  But play?  No, I do not play with words or their styling.  The matter is much too serious.


    Words are like little kisses that I trail up along a hot bitch's reddening thigh.  She thinks the kisses are for herbut they are not.  Nor are they for me, that is, primarily for my own satisfaction.  Rather, they are word-kisses  born in-and-for-themselvesparasitical little bastards using both her and me for their own maniacal self-exhibition.  Like a virus uses a host to thrive, so these word-kisses use my lips and her thighs to find their own meaning, their own life.  So, in this analogy, the bitch is the blog and my styled words inch ever toward her cauldron core of passion.  And when it really gets good, the voyeur props amass as I'm just about to fixate orally orgasmic with a flurry of hot-tongued, lashing noospheric nibbles upon the numinousity of my seething bitch-blog beauty.


    O, don't ever play with words or their styling, my friend.  And remember: only you can prevent forest fires.

  • Just Googled myself (the real not-notforprophet me).  And realized, quite startlingly, that the world—through Google goggles—sees me pretty strictly as a scientist:


     


    Found co-featured on a Goddard Space Flight Center page…


    Found co-featured on a National Aquatic Nuisance Species Clearinghouse page…


    Found listed as a contributor to Kirtlandia, a publication of the Cleveland Museum of Natural History…


    Found listed as a reference for a Waterfowl and Wetlands of Long Point Bay and Old Norfolk County publication


    Referenced as sources in two Google book searches:


     


    Metal Contaminated Aquatic Sediments
    edited by Herbert E Allen - Science - 1996 - 350 pages


     


    Soil and Water Quality: An Agenda for Agriculture
    by National Research Council - Technology - 1993 - 542 pages


     


    Found listed as a scientist supporting scientific integrity and opposing government abuse of science on the Union of Concerned Scientists site


     


    Found listed on several Norwegian Statistics curriculum pages as a reference for Introduction to SPSS, the stats package…


     


    Anything about being an eruptive neologist with a scathing tongue?  No.  Anything about being a doomnistic artist fixated upon a vision of one day short of forever?  No.  Anything about being a pulsingly romantic lover ever-whelmed by the compellingness of feminity?   No.  Anything about being a mystic looming on the psychic edge of sanity?  No.


     


    Google is evil, I tell you.  Evil and unbalanced.   I wish it would go away.






  • Free video hosting, video codes at www.vidiLife.com

  • Ever wonder how the Xangagods do administration?


     


    Can they read your Protected Postings?  You know, the romantically intimate ones you maintain with your special cyber-squeeze?


     


    Do their standard accounts (like John, Marc, Janet, etc.) have superpowers?  Or do they have a SuperXangaGod account that can glide over your pages undetected like a stealth aircraft flying over your house?


     


    Do they do remote admin over the internet?  If so, given that the standard user login uses http:// (passwords in the ‘clear’) and not https:// (secure http—passwords are encrypted), aren’t their admin passwords sniffable (capturable) at the ISP? 


     


    What if I hacked a Xangagod password?  What, o what, might I see and be able to do?


     


    If you delete something because it’s become embarrassing or personally compromising, do you think it’s really expunged forever?  Or is it just sitting out there on offline archived media—one (advertant or inadvertent) click away from being made public again?


     


    Ever wonder… ?


     




  • So this 18 year-old David Ludwig creep apparently has (had) a blog on Xanga.  Clyde to 14 year-old Kara Beth Borden's Bonnie?  Kara had a Xanga site, too.  But it's been shut down by its "owner".


    I suppose with about 12 million member blogs that it shouldn't be a surprise to find  scoundrels of every sort represented here.  Pedophile priests.  Child-stealing stalkers. Murderous moms.  Raving soon-to-be terrorists. 


    And victims?  Those amongst us who are bound to become victims due, partially at least, to a trusting presence here?


    I swear.  It's time to get radical.   Hence...


    My blog will be going PROTECTED soon and you will need to SUBMIT for acceptance to read it. (Ain't this what all the coolest xangans are doing???)


     


    Only the first 250,000 worthy applicants will be accepted.  Thereafter, I will become INVISIBLE to all the remaining unfortunates.


     


    You know who the HATERS of NOTFORPROPHET are!  After I go protected, I will post a list of all my haters! (which, by coincidence, will turn out to be everyone except the first 250,000 to beg me for inclusion.)


     


    Within a month of my blog going protected, it will be obligatory that those of you accepted also go protected-only on your own blogs AND ADMIT ONLY THOSE CONCURRENTLY ON MY MASTER PROTECTED LIST.  Any deviants will be dropped from the master list and added to the list of HATERS.


     


    Once we are all PROTECTED together, I will unleash a scourge (scripted BLOG BOMB) upon Xanga that will destroy all blogs not in the fold.  This will ‘plow the highway', so to speak, allowing the CHOSEN to go UNPROTECTED once again to reinvent Xanga in my image and likeness.   ALL HAIL!


     


     


    "ONCE YOU HAVE ACCESS TO MY PAGE AND THE PROTECTED POST, THE LIST OF THE HATERS, INCLUDING SOME OF THE BIGGER FEATURED CONTENT WRITERS, WHO HAVE SUPPORTED THE HATERS WILL BE REVEALED, INCLUDING THEIR ADDRESSES"


         -blackcat69


     


    hahaha


     


    I think Xanga needs a spanking.

  • Still my favorite Dreamland take on Autumn...


    firetree


                                                a Japanese Maple.

  • 5-minute stream-of-consciousness good-to-be-alive blog (cause Dreamland Cemetery is closing in 10 minutes and I don’t want to spend the night)


     


    Yes it is.  Good to be alive, that is.  Even without any sex for ages.  Sex for the Ages?  Now there’s a notion for ya. 


     


    I just ran 5.  Encountered a cute girl with a wagging pony-tail running the other way.   That’s my story.  Oh yes, she waved.  That’s my thrill for the day.


     


    It’s getting dark out here already.  So much so that if I stare at the laptop monitor too long I’ll ruin my night vision.  Then I’ll be unable to see things sneaking up on me.  Don’t even try.


     


    So this is about done.  Now I have to conjure up the internet via cellphone broadband and post. 


     


    See: I, too, can write banal posts!  There’s hope for the least of you.  (No, I didn’t mean you specifically—him or her of course.


     


    Ever wonder why no one else can fathom the mysterious depth and expanse of your most precious desires?  Me too.  That makes all of us.

  • It was another mild fall day here on the North Coast.  So warm—63 F.—that I could still run Dreamland in shorts and tee-shirt.  Supposedly we already had our first hard freeze here compelling the end of the growing season.  But the dandelions still look hardy—they don’t know it.  And the butterfly flitting around certainly doesn’t seem to know it.  And I’d like to pretend that spring is in the offing and that this late fall warmth is a prelude to a year without a winter.  And though I suspect otherwise, my heart embraces the hope.  I will always be the fool embracing such hopes.  Yet some day, some day....    I will not be disappointed.

  • Now, an unreachable storm, I have become.
    Cast afar, constantly distancing, yet furious, nonetheless.


    "It’s a good day to die."
    I have known that since I was born.
    Still, knowing the truth is different from knowing of it.
    All is soon enough.


    I have done much good.  Some harm.  But much good.
    Yet still I seek to become more, unreachable though I am.
    But what is my destiny? 
    I’m destined for an odyssey.


    A journey of thousands of  miles is merely my first step.
    The world grows, odder, stranger, the more distant I become.
    Might I lose my humanity along the way?
    Morph into a form of intelligence unknown even to myself?


    Corso said it best:


    Ah, yet well I know that were a woman possible as I am possible
    then something would be possible -
    Like SHE in her lonely alien gaud waiting her Egyptian lover
    so i wait-bereft of 2,000 years and the bath of life.


    Well, he didn’t say exactly that.  But it's close enough.


  • I've been driven totally crazy.

    "No he hasn't," says one voice.

    "Of course he has," insists another.


    I listen detachedly, dispassionately.  There are other voices, other opinions-not all discernible, some more frighteningly so than others.


    "It's the hemoglobin."


    "No, he's a human goblin."


    Amazingly, this all has not impacted my ability to work.  Or appreciate beauty.   It has, however, impacted my desire to work and to embrace beauty. 


    Beastly me.


    Tender is the night that surrenders to great mystery.

  • Bellarina

    She rings her bells as she dances about,


    my bellarina glances at me and mimics a pout


    as if to say “Why so serious today?”


    i laugh.  “Be as weighty in your thoughts as you dare to ponder,”


    i remind myself, “But when it comes to living in the world, be light as a feather.”


    i laugh even more realizing that that , too, is mentation—still thinking.


    still dancing, she flashes a smile, then eases me down upon a couch,


    flings the bells, and plops atop—


    “Release, release, accept the elation,” 


    her eyes glisten with my captivation.


         (sighs oh-so whelmingly in my ear)


              (hovers with kisses—lips, tongues explored)


                   (tingles of touches, growing ever more near)


                        (till naked, and clasping, just bodies adored)

  • Modern Moments of Romance


     


    As we were enjoying a drink together last night in a local pub, the most gorgeous girl in the world whispered into my ear: "You know, I had a dream about you last night.”


     


    “Really?”  Fascinated by the notion of being in her dreams, I turned to face her and stared into her sparkling, beckoning eyes.

    ”Yes.  And it was so strange.  You were defending me against aliens!”


     


    “Defending you?  Of course!  Did I kill all of them?”


     


    “No, I don’t know—I woke up in the midst of the battle.”


     


    “Well,” I assured my drinking beauty, “you just continue that same dream tonight where you left it off. And I will either kill all of the aliens or die trying.  I’d die in your dreams for you!  That’s how much I really care.”

  • Happy Halloween from Dreamland (cemetery)...



    At dusk...



    Well after sunset, only my laptop (you know, to blog this from) illuminates the sacred grounds...



    I haven't yet run into any ghosts, zombies, or vampires.  I think they are all out on the streets now collecting free candy.  However, and I swear, I saw a totally black cat darting amongst the tombstones at dusk.  Oh well...  Hot damn, Roomya, my ghost-writer, just arrived to inspire me. 


    "Hi, baby."  *smooch*  


    Catch you all later.  Do have a safe one.

  • 1) Ever been to someone's blogsite and they force you to login to Xanga to see their page?


    2) Or you want to visit someone's blog and you know they have a Xanga tracker and you, for personal reasons, would rather stay under the radar?


    I once wrote (actually rewrote and improved) scripts that implemented both #1 and #2.  Used them for awhile.  Shared them with others.  Then abandoned their use for myself.


    The other side of the coin, which I now share with those of you not aware of it, is that you can avoid #1 and #2 quite easily.  One way: don't visit those sites.  Another way: use an "anonymizer" or "web proxy"" to avoid engaging the javascripts that bloggers load in their Look and Feel.  Doing the latter, you'll not only avoid #1s and 2#s, but all the other annoying, resource-hogging, time-consuming scripts that are rampant throughout Xanga.


    I occasionally use an SSL (Secure Socket Layer) VPN (Virtual Private Network) anti-script access called Megaproxy.  It's $10 for 3 months, but you can try it free here.  There are others, too, such as Anonymizer, with both paid and free (upper right hand corner) versions.  Of course, the free versions are limited (usually to the amount of free surfing you can do).  But then again, this may be something you only want to engage occassionally and then the free versions are just fine.


    And, in case your wondering, my Xanga tracker, which I hosted on my own domain and called the "cRacker-tracker", though not utterly sophisticated, had, and still has, a few distinct advantages over the many other trackers. 


    First, it's not detectable by Got'em's xanga-tracker Sniffer. 


    Secondly, the logs, in the latest version, are entirely non-public so that no one else can spy on you tracking on them.  For instance, the outsourced Xanga Anti-Stalker module which is in place on my blog but which I never look at, is viewable here.  If someone else has a Xanga Anti-Stalker module, you need only insert their username in the URL to see who they are tracking.  Even Got-Em's tracker, though seemingly password protected, can be circumvented by an unpublished alias URL.


    Third, the final version of my  script was refined so that it was not liable to "tracker poisoning".  What's that?  That's when some miscreant copies your script and places it on any number of numerous other sites that get hits.  Your log then reflects not only your actual hits but all the other noise the script is collecting.  Matters can then get down to being like a whore trying to figure out who the baby's daddy is.


    Though I work in Information Security, my best buddy has always said of me: "When it comes to information systens, he can break into things as well as he can guard them."


    Hey baby, I'm your handyman.  But please, no request for codes.  I'm not "into them" anymore and find them abhorent.  And, in the end, if you can't trust, you won't be trusted.

  • "The best way to honor the sacrifice of our fallen troops is to complete the mission and win the war on terror," the President said, speaking of the war in Iraq, in his weekly radio address yesterday.


    THE CONCEPT OF SUNK COST, well-established in the field of economics, means that the cost of past actions should not be considered in selecting the appropriate future path.  Specifically, sunk costs are irrelevant in decision making.  Again, the appropriate analysis requires a focus on the future, not past losses, and costs that differ among alternatives.  If you have poured $200 million into building a bridge and then suddenly realize the entire structure is sinking into previously undetected quicksand, you do not "honor" the bridge by spending additional resources to "complete" it.


    Would withdrawing now be a mistake?  Well, clearly "staying the course" will not defeat the insurgency.  In fact, there is strong evidence from past conflicts that when a regular foreign army assumes a protracted occupational status in a country with a raging insurgency, the insurgency grows stronger and more nationalistic as the occupiers grow older and more entrenched.


    Simply stated, the United States has no strategy for defeating the Iraqi insurgency.  Pres. Bush has said "Our strategy can be summed up this way: as the Iraqis stand up, we will stand down." 


    Sorry, George.  Any even barely competent student of military matters recognizes that as a "withdrawal plan" and not a strategy.


    We do not need a withdrawal plan or a timetable for withdrawal.  When you have sex, do you go at it with a withdrawal plan or timetable for such?  Of course not!  You'll know when it's time to decouple.  For sure.


    What we really need is a solid strategy based on the principles of counterinsurgency and counterguerrilla warfare. 


    Do not merely send regular troops out roaming in an attempt to hunt down and kill insurgents.  Sure, they will kill some.  But when the regular troops depart the countryside, the surviving insurgents return as heroes to the cause to kill, torture, and intimidate informants and suspected American sympathizers.  And they thus retain, even through bludgeoning tactics, the popular support they need.


    In Vietnam, U.S. strategy seized upon the expediency of killing insurgents via "search and destroy" tactics at the ultimate expense of winning the hearts and minds of the people.  Seem familiar?


    But why do we care about winning the hearts and minds of the people?  Because the people, in their houses and in the streetsand not the Iraqi politicians and policeknow who and where the insurgents are.  If we win their hearts and minds, we gain their intelligence.  End of lovemaking.


    But what, you might ask, does counterinsurgency warfare have to do with winning hearts and minds?  Without going into tactics, it's all about providing enduring security by staying with the people, among the people, almost as one of the people.  If people, long oppressed, finally come to feel genuinely secure and unthreatened by the possibility of insurgents returning after "search and destroy" forays move on, they will open their hearts, share intelligence, and the war will be won.  It will, however, provided even this strategy, likely take 10 years, hundreds of billions of more dollars, and thousands of more American lives to prevail.


    There is one other option.  One that I have pondered and perhaps alone (until now in this blog) entertained.  


    Make a strategy out of withdrawal.  Withdraw and allow civil war to ensue and take its course.  If the insurgent/terrorist forces gain the upper hand, they will transform themselves, as they must, into more easily targetable regular forces and established pockets of government.  Then reinvade, pound hard, and withdraw again.  Repeat and repeat until the insurgent/terrorist forces understand we will forever deny them legitimacy.


    The initial "invasion' of Iraq (till the point where Pres. Bush declared an "end" to the conflict) took the lives of only about 240 American troops.  Any subsequent "reinvasions" would probably be much less costly in terms of lives and resources since we would be encountering an already self-battered enemy.  This strategy, too, might take 10 years, but only tens of billions of dollars and hundreds of American lives.  Of course, we would be writing off the supply of oil from Iraq for the duration.  But this, after all, isn't about (Exxon $9.9 billion quarterly profit) oil, is it?


    Sunk costs, anyone?

  • I went shopping the other day at an Asian food mart with a friend and here's what we found:


    Give your man a Halloween treat he'll really appreciate...



    The culinary sequel to Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde by Robert Louis Stevenson...


  • And for lunch today…a 20 once bottle of Cool Blue Gatorade.


     


    No coffee/caffeine for over 2 weeks.  A beer yesterday.  A beer the day before.


     


    By the end of today, I project that I will have worked 33 hours since (and including) Sunday.


     


    This is a simple blog.  I’m purposefully refraining from getting deep.


     


    Since I never get what I want, I’ve decided not to want what I want.


     


    Ha!  That was easy!  Now, that leaves me free to go after what I need.


     


    That might be a run in the cool rain later. 


     


    Followed by even simpler reflections.


     


    Do dream.

  • "Every man dies.  Not every man really lives."


     - Braveheart

  • Shhh!  You’re reading too loudly.


     


    That’s better.


     


    I’m thinking, actually making plans, about going skydiving.  Again.  It’s been many, too many years.


     


    First time on the DZ (drop zone), I had gone there with a couple of work buddies (Wayne and Johnny) from UPS. Wayne was a hard-rocker party-type who liked to play practical jokes.  Johnny, on the other hand, was a macho sort of hillbilly guy, somewhat naïve but full of bravado.  Johnny was truly unique in his raw but amusing mannerisms.  One time while reading a book on break (I always did), Johnny grabbed the book out of my hands, flipped through all the pages, and sincerely remarked: “How can you read a book with no pictures in it?”  On other occasions, you could find Johnny during lunch break out in the parking lot doing stand-up motorcycle tricks on his bike—or sitting on his bike backwards and riding it—all to the applause of the crowd that would gather to watch his antics.  Johnny was also the one who sold me the compound bow that I was one day to master (and still have), warning me at the solemn moment of the transfer of ownership that “If you ever shoot anybody with this, shoot well and don’t leave him suffering.”  Anyway, we all decided on one off-day Saturday in the autumn to bike out to the Cleveland Parachuting Club and fall to Earth.  None of us had done it before so it was a communally virgin adventure.


     


    Of course, we all just wanted to just get there, hop on a plane, and jump.  But the club required first that an initiate undergo preliminary training and display a sense of responsibility about what was intended to occur.  Most of the training consisted of lectures and watching movies, but the most critical component of the training was practicing impacting the ground and rolling properly.  After demonstrating by jumping from a low platform (about 3 feet high) how to hit the ground with bent knees, roll and break one’s fall over five successive contact points (feet, knee , hip, shoulder, then other shoulder), the instructor had each of us do the same.


     


    Wayne and I did just fine.  But when it cam to Johnny’s turn, Johnny protested to the instructor that he couldn’t do it.


     


    “Why not?” the instructor inquired.


     


    “Because I’ll hurt myself,” said Johnny.


     


    “No you won’t,” the instructor assured. “Your buddies did it and they’re fine.  Just give it a try.”


     


    “You don’t understand,” explained Johnny, “I’m wearing things that will hurt me if I fall.”


     


    “What things?” asked the instructor.


     


    And of course, since Johnny was a demonstrative kind of guy, his response was both a tell-and-show. 


     


    “See here,” raising his left pants leg and revealing a bowie knife.  “And here,” pulling brass knuckles out of his pocket.  “And here,” pulling up his sleeve and disclosing a black jack strapped to his arm.


     


    The instructor was aghast. “What the hell are you intending to do with all these weapons?” he asked in a shaken voice.


     


    “Well,” Johnny responded, squaring off and looking directly into the instructor’s eyes, “when I get up there, if I don’t want to jump, you ain’t going to make me.”


     


    ha  ha  ha—Wayne and I just burst out laughing.  Even the instructor was chuckling while assuring Johnny that he wouldn’t need the weapons since no one was going to force him to jump.  Johnny did, with our encouragement, put his weapons aside and practice his fall.  And after he passed the exercise grandly, we all suited up in our parachutes, headed


    out, and boarded the plane.


     


    Johnny said nothing in the air, until the instructor gave us the signal to jump and I asked him if he was going. 


     


    “Well, I didn’t just come up here to fly around in the sky,” deadpanned Johnny.  “Besides, I don’t want to stay in this plane with this instructor one more minute than I have, too—I don’t trust him and I think he’s going to crash.”


     


    And so we all jumped.


     


    Breathtaking freedom!  Moments to never forget.


     


    Once back upon the ground, we were all kick-ass celebrant at having completed our first jump, but Johnny was the most excited of all.  Running up to me like a little kid all-aglitter with excitement he couldn’t contain, he rusticly exclaimed: “You know, I’ve never been on a plane that I haven’t jumped out of.”


     


    Wayne and I convulsed in belly laughter.  Johnny had said it all.

  • It’s the time of year here when some things just up and die.


     



     


    Oh, not me.    I’m a man of the seasons.  And though I slightly prefer the scorching luminance of summer, all of the cooling seduction of the fall and the darkening detraction of the winter and the flower-floating forgiveness of the spring are never-ever begrudged by me.  In fact, I’ve never really met anyone else quite like myself that loves all the seasons so participatingly (outdoors running, lounging, blogging all year long),


     



      


    so intractably (never looking back—only the faerie death beckons such and she I ignore),


     



     


     and so mystically (the seasons are a construct of man and merely a mental fuzz—climates live and grow with the likes of us.  If you truly love life, you’ll embrace all  the weather.).


     


     



     


    By the way, if Xanga really wanted to make the 'login' better encrypted (read the Xanga headlines), they'd enforce SSL (Secure Sockets Layer), otherwise known to most by the urls which begin 'https://' (http secure). That's the only way to insure a truly secure login.  Otherwise, your password goes out onto the internet 'in the clear.'  And if someone's in the right place at the right time, they could use a 'packet sniffer' product like Ethereal to retrieve your password in passage. 

  • It seems that fewer and fewer real men blog Xanga anymore.

    Perhaps, like many members of today's elite military forces who are increasingly leaving official duty to become soldiers of fortune for private military forces (PMFs - more than 60 firms are now providing more than 20,000 private soldiers to fight in Iraq, some making up to $1,000 a day), real men bloggers have, are, will move on to more momentous forms of personal expression than Xanga can afford.

    That's the Xanga-was-a-training-school-for-real-men theory of blog devolution. Emphasis on was.

    Xanga's always been demographically preponderantly female anyway. Two-thirds. Oh well, just a feeling and a theory!

    I quit smoking when I was 7 years old. First cigarette. True.

    I quit drinking coffee 9 days ago. Haven't had any caffeine substitutes like teas or colas either. My colleagues from work have observed over that span that I've become much more quiet and unagitated in the workplace. They don't like it - they'd rather watch a wild man in their midst. But a real man is not necessarily a wild man, is he now?

    I've been feeling the urge for the last couple days to take up the art of knife fighting. This after seeing the movie The Hunted for the first time the other night. Such appeals to instinct usually enthrall me.

    Just wondering: When walking alone down an urban downtown street, do any of you ever punch trees, slap buildings, knock on windows, or shake stop signs?

    I do. But not all the time.

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