04/28/01       I know I've said it before, but Jane Austen rocks! I've just finished writing eight pages of an essay comparing Northanger Abbey, Pride and Prejudice, and Persuasion, with brief nods to some of her juvenilia and letters, and I have come to the definite conclusion that there is no better way to end this phase of my education in literature. She is without a doubt one of the most brilliant novelists I've ever read; she sticks to what she knows, and does it with the lightest hand possible. I want to read them all, but unfortunately that will have to wait because of this rhetoric business.

     I'll finish the thing up tomorrow; so as to not be a dull boy I think I have to go out tonight and get toasted. I haven't seen Toast in a while, and they always put a smile on my face. If you're curious what they sound like, their bass player, Marc Turner has a page on MP3.com. He just finished a master's in Rhetoric, oddly enough.

     I got a bunch of new Rhet theory books the other day; I haven't been reading much criticism or theory in the last six months, so I guess I have to get back to it. I do like theory sometimes, but what interests me the most about it is the application to specific examples, something that most writers don't feel is all that important. I like direct application to content; the stuff just makes no sense otherwise.

4/27/01       Lots of thoughts on web stuff lately, I can't help but carry over my thoughts on literature to my thoughts on everything else. I've always had a strong preference for poetry over prose, though I don't write poetry. One reason is the ratio of the time spent thinking about it versus the time spent reading it. It only takes a very short time to read a poem; it takes a long time to unpack it by reflecting on what it seeks to contain.

     Everything moves past you at breakneck speed on the net (if you have a fast connection that is). Bits of this and bits of that. From time to time something makes you pause and think. There are lots of factoids; The person writing doesn't usually spend many words to explain why the link they have included in their web page was worth their time, or why it might interest you.

     It's a devourers world, where bits of content are relayed around the globe. Is it just the voyeuristic side of us that makes us click through? The sites I pay the most attention to are run by people who reveal something about themselves, even if they attempt to cloak it behind the web aura of hipness. It's like those subtle clues in a poem; how can you construct a picture of the person behind the words, images, and tastes? The picture need not be a true one, only an interesting one. To extend the Blakean metaphor, what would be the role of the prolific— the creative— on the web? Most sites have no real content, only references to other content. And yet they depend on each other: one cannot exist without the other.

     Everyone can publish. What they choose to publish often consists only of a laundry list of tastes. When the site owner establishes a firm narrative voice, a personality that a reader likes, they are more successful in convincing people to return. Otherwise, they are just a momentary blip in the stream of constant input.

4/26/01       Some things I just don't buy about postmodern theory. Perhaps it's just that I don't understand it well enough, but this whole business about the fragmentation and death of narrative in particular seems just totally out to lunch. The web is taken by many to be postmodernism in action; but in little corners around the world, the drama still plays out in more "old school" terms. The web is constructed of clusters of communities, not just lone users staring at glowing screens. I received a really jarring e-mail a few minutes ago. Dramas like this play themselves out daily, depending on where you look.

     One of those communities I belong to is the Rain Dogs mailing list, dedicated to all things Tom Waits and many things that are not. Here's an example of the sort of bytes that pass my way sometimes. Though someone who is not a fan of Waits will miss some of the allusions, the message is real. People on the other side of the screen are real.

now I need - campfire and a can of beans-

she was 30years old, she was exactly 30years and 38day's old, she had the most beautiful voice in the universe, she killed her self last Saturday, her name was Kristín, her eyes was like Orion Nebula,she cared about people,she,,,,,,,
i loved her,i was madly in love with her for many years,i met her in Jan 92',in a rehab,i was walking in the hallway in some stupid bathrobe when i heard this wonderful voice, we used to take lot of drugs, together we went to hell, hand in hand, in 94' i lost her hand for 10mounth, i found her back,we tried to be sober, i was in rehab for 6 month, i didn't touch drug for some time,she was sober, my hero, my beautiful hero, i started to take drug again, once again i fucked everything up, she was still sober, my hero, i lost her, in some way i thought Copenhagen was a cool place to die in, i went there, with my Waits c.d.'s in one pocked and my drug tools in another ,licking the street of Istedgade for 13,14 or 15 month, i donīt know how many, how cares, why i didinīt die, i will never understand, but boy,, i tried, my present wife saved my so called live, her name is Elín ,my bighearted Elín, today i have being sober for 3 ― year's, after i came back to Iceland Kristín and Elín have become to be a very close friend, Kristín always sober,but she was dealing with tereble consequence's from her time in drug,i'm talking of the worst kind, last Frayday she send me and Elín a massage, -see you guys after the weekend,love you- she died 2 hours later,killed her self,my sick little girl, Waits you where wrong, it is 122 tears in a bottle not 121,,,,I should know, my house is full of them.

Why am I telling you story like that ???

Well you sure don't tell Phil fucking Collins fan that kind of a story.........

Somewhere in my bone i think if you understand Waits music then you understand the instability of life.

     There was an e-mail a year or so ago from Bosnia from a girl lamenting that her boyfriend was drafted. It was heart-ripping as well. These things are not the exception, they are the rule. When people feel comfortable, they tell stories. When you tune in to the pain and the joy that comes from every corner of the world it can make you feel the weight of what it is to be human. There really are people out there, and they hurt. How do we know? It isn't because of it's transmission through hypertext. It isn't the fracturing of meaning into infinite elements in freeplay. It's narrative.

     Language, and spelling, and rhetoric fall away in the face of real human stories. Theory, shmeery, I need a beer.

4/25/01       The beat goes on. I don't remember when I started getting headaches that lasted for days. Today, it seems a bit better, though I've tried a new technique. Usually, it's cappuccino and Advil. I switched to Excedrin Migraine, which is acetaminophen, aspirin and caffeine. Seems to be cutting the noise a bit. Oh, if you're a regular visitor, I should mention that my provider has notified me that they are doing some updates to fix the speed problems, so the site may be up and down over the next ten days.

     I read some interesting stuff on narrative and the web today. I hadn't thought about the fact that my preference for a framed interface to this site was in effect, forcing a narrative structure upon it. Really, I sort of like that. I would rather not have the type of visitor that comes in search of one thing, and then skips away into nothingness. While a user is free to choose which area interests them the most, they must at least see the available range of options. It is a sort of "splash screen", but it's a screen with options. I hope to extend the range of available start screens to at least one for each day of the month instead of the current weekly set up, but that will take time to implement. As for the difficulties with indexing by search engines, who gives a flyin' flip. Sites like this are really glorified time-wasters anyway. Should I encourage that?

     Anyway, the article is called The Narrative Web. There are some other interesting articles on this site about web logging, and the hazards of generating more trash in this truly democratic environment. Lots of food for though; it ties in with some of the thesis thoughts I'm having. Web logging is the web equivalent of e-mail.

     E-mail is what taught me how to write; more than any instructor, or book, the act of writing frequently in communication with others around the globe has shaped the way I think, and the way I write. More on this topic in a while, I'm sure, but for now I have to put together yet another portfolio...

4/24/01       Frozen drinks and headaches don't mix. I had a fairly positive sort of day, but the headache from yesterday just didn't stop. Decided to go out for Mexican food tonight, because that used to help. However, I forgot about the difference between California and Arkansas food. It was so bloody bland, that it couldn't sweat the poison out of a flea. Worst of all, a margarita sounded good, and I forgot about the synergism between frozen drinks and headaches. My brain froze so bad I could hardly walk home.

     I did the exit interview thing today with Dr. Marc Arnold and Dr. Karen Kuralt. It's so weird to get the sort of respect that I do now. You'd think I was talented, or smart, or something. Little do people know that I'm such an idiot.

     Normal people have lives, and friends, and better things to do than read all day. I'm so deathly afraid of being alone that becoming a teacher becomes such a central idea. To have a room full of people that actually have to listen to me seems like heaven. I'm not so deluded as to think that people might actually listen to me, but at least in a classroom situation those that want to get a good grade will at least feign interest.

     Dr. Arnold asked a question that I had seriously thought over: "How would you teach Comp II?" My answer was really the same method used in the Approaches to Literature class in the English Department (Dr. Yoder's version anyway): a bibliographic essay and emphasis on research techniques; a short paper subject to revision, and one long good final paper. He seemed to nod in agreement with the idea that a student in an intro class should write one good paper instead of three crappy ones.

4/23/01       The flames just don't want to go out. It's a beautiful day, but for most of it I've been pretty miserable— a nasty headache. I couldn't sleep last night. Even after the marathon of writing and puzzling, I lay awake until three AM reading Jane Eyre The silly thing was, everything reminds me of Blake. The constant shifts of person in Bronte's dialogue made me think about the pronouns in Jerusalem, and the difficulty of determining who is speaking. These issues are not important to the paper I am writing now. I came dangerously close to composing a paper about a poem that seldom addresses the words of the poem, but only addressed its visual aspect. That's not what I wanted to do. Both aspects are so rich, and so deep. In the case of Blake, words and images are inseparable. His work has to wash over you, in its totality. It is a sublime experience, in the eighteenth century sense— it stretches you past the limits of comprehensibility.

     I'll never forget the look on Dr. Ferganchick's face when I said I was writing on Blake. It was as if I'd just placed a burning bag of shit at her feet, and she knew better than to stomp it out. I suppose Blakean's tend to be a bit weird: you have to twist your ideas of what writing is up so bad when you read him, that you become a different person on the other side. But as I mentioned before, it's become almost a crusade with me. I needed to prove to myself that my perception and intuition have not faded; they have grown over the years. When I read him as a child, I just had no clue how intense it really was.

     The horrible part was that after I managed to quit thinking about Jane Eyre and Blake, I started thinking about ideas for a master's thesis in Rhetoric. My brain did not shut down until about 5 AM, and then it was up again and off to school just after 9. I need to pause from that project just long enough to revise the Keepsakes website and compose an 8-12 page paper about Austen. I have a topic in mind, so it shouldn't be too bad. The problem is, it's difficult to immerse yourself in two writers at the same time!

4/22/01       What a freaky weekend. Spent about 36 plus hours to hone and expand the Blake paper to 36 pages. I still have a ways to go, but right now I'm so sick of puzzling out the nature of the universe that I can't stand it anymore.

     The server started freaking out on Friday, so the entry for Friday didn't go up until Saturday, and my mail has been incredibly inconsistent; it fits, so is the essay I'm working on thus far. But eventually, things will come together. There's a reason why I was seized with the urge to place one of Blake's illustration to Gray's poem up the other day. I might as well quote it too.

To each his suff'rings: all are men,
Condemn'd alike to groan:
The tender for another's pain;
Th' unfeeling for his own.
Yet, ah! why should they know their fate!
Since sorrow never comes too late,
And happiness too swiftly flies.
Thought would destroy their paradise,
No more— where ignorance is bliss,
'Tis folly to be wise.

4/20/01       Got advised today for grad school. It took some convincing, but Dr. Ferganchick let me take four courses, including two theory classes. She really thought it was a bad idea, because theory courses take a lot of reading. Maybe I'm a glutton for punishment, but theory has been a big part of my life for the past couple of years. I'm not scared; I'm really looking forward to it. I want to plough through as much of the coursework as I can right away, so that I can get into teaching. If I can impress Dr. Crisp enough, I might be able to start that as soon as next Spring. I'm excited.

     I feel really bad about having to put literature down for a while though. But maybe I need to, to get some distance on it. I won't ever let it go completely though; I'm trying to figure out how I can incorporate narrative theory into a master's thesis. I certainly don't want to write a hundred page "who are you" essay. Dr. Ferganchick did seem to understand the difference between expository and self-exploratory writing better than most people I've talked to in the department. All writing is ultimately about the self, but there IS a difference between discovering yourself and communicating the truth of a scene, or a topic.

     I got a joke today that really cheered me up:

If you think life is bad...

How would you like to be an egg?
You only get laid once.
You only get eaten once.
It takes four minutes to get hard.
But only two minutes to get soft.
You share your box with eleven other guys.
But worst of all: The only chick that ever sat on your face was your mother.

So cheer up... Your life ain't that bad!

     This is an interesting alternative perspective. I think that the deciding factor in convincing them to let me take such a heavy load is that I have no life. I have grown to accept that whatever life I once had is utterly destroyed; when I subsumed everything that I once was in the name of being with someone else, it became a very complex matter to try to recover even the slightest trace of me. I feel like I have to deal with the prospect of starting over in the largest sense. I attempt from time to time to recover some of the bits by writing the sort of histories that have begun to populate this site. But the real healing will only happen when I find a new project to consume me, the way that some of these things have in the past. But that is far easier said than done. Literature comes pretty damn close though.

4/19/01       I've always found it difficult to explain why I have an obsession with William Blake. He is incredibly difficult; for years I read his poems without the slightest clue as to what they were all about. I only knew I liked them. I suppose the one work that made sense to me was The Marriage of Heaven and Hell. In every way, it radiated a rebellious energy against the oppression of dogma— for Blake, rebellion and energy were good things.

     I think The Marriage of Heaven and Hell. has finally been overthrown as my favorite book. Now, more than ever I feel like I have a sense of what he is saying in some of the more complex works, works that before only left me in awe, gasping at their beauty. Jerusalem has begun to make sense in a way that forces me to understand why it has become so important to me.

     Driven into one of the darkest corners of my life, I find it very hard to forgive myself and others for the mistakes that brought me here. It has been assumed by many people that the core theme of Jerusalem is forgiveness. The word is easily spoken, and it could also be described as the central tenent of Christianity. But I'm not a Christian, and I suspect that no book will ever convert me. My feelings toward spirtuality are complex, and I have learned to put those feelings aside when considering any text. I agree with Percy Shelley that faith is involuntary, and a person should not be judged by the presence or lack of faith. I suppose I have always treated Blake's faith as a footnote; he diverges from the normal understanding of Christianity, though I do not belive him to be heretical to the core teachings. Understanding his interpretation of the faith was more important to me than understanding the faith itself. I appreciated his engagement of issues, actively and with energy, in The Marriage of Heaven and Hell to throw off the restraints of church and state. But Jerusalem is different.

     It is possibly one of the most difficult and complex texts ever written because forgiveness is that difficult. A simple "come to Jesus" won't suffice. I think I have my thoughts finally together enough to write intelligently about the rhetorical choices he made to set the scene in Jerusalem and I hope to have the time in the future to keep going, and grasp the text in my own unique way. It could take a lifetime to unravel; but I feel very confident now that it was his way of dealing with a life that had not been kind, with friends that turned out to be enemies, and his own personal resolution of the problem of forgiveness. Faith and forgiveness are more than just words, and they aren't easy. Faith for most people is a form of submission, but not for Blake. He sees our life and earth, and in heaven, as one of mental fight.

     To say "I forgive" is submission to the idea that there are things outside our control. I have always chalked it up to chance, and got on with life. But Blake was faced with a larger dilemma. With all these facuilties of imagination and reason, why should things remain outside our control? Freedom to chose, to do what we want, means that we might find a better way to control our own world. That's why liberty is such a difficult concept to reconcile with faith. To submit is to be inferior; if we are "as god is" then why should we be forced to submit? Perhaps we never submit, really— we pretend, in the name of faith, but in the end the only thing we can really do is forgive. I never thought about it as a form of submission before today, or of faith. I am beginning to think that the key to "Blake's system" is that systems don't work. It all comes down to faith and forgiveness.

4/18/01       I went to a good lecture by Sharon Harris from TCU tonight on the emergence of the woman doctor in 19th century American culture. It raised some interesting possible areas of research about women in the Native American tribes; I would be quite curious about the effects of assimilation vs. tribal custom as professional employment became possible for women. So many topics, so little time.

     I was watching Remains of the Day this afternoon before I left, wondering why I've suddenly developed a thing for Emma Thompson. Oh well, a person's got to fantasize about something and I suppose she's as good of an object for fantasy as anyone; it beats thinking about supermodels I suppose.

     I don't know why I feel so compelled to dissect everything, but there is a "scholar" on the Nassr-L mailing list who refers to himself as an "autodidact." Taking the word apart, it reduces to self-taught; however, it is so dangerously close to autoerotic as to make me uneasy. A learned person who has not learned from anyone else, except through books? It seems dangerously close to masturbation. Why would someone find this to be a badge of honor? I'm puzzled.

     However, the alternative isn't very pleasing either. Online collections of syllabi are collected on pages labeled " pedagogy." I've never been comfortable with calling educators "pedagogues." By definition it means dogmatic, inflexible, and other assorted negatives. It's also dangerously close to pedophile. Why do we have such unflattering terms for people who are in search of knowledge? Dr. Yoder once suggested that I might become an "independent scholar." That is a far more appealing choice of words; maybe I'm just picky.

4/17/01       My first real book arrived today. While I only wrote a couple of stories, I did edit and design the whole thing. It was a better day, sort of. I managed to make some headway on the Blake paper, but I overslept and missed my exit interview in Rhetoric. I just plain forgot about it; I don't have any sort of excuse. It makes me feel really bad, because a bunch of professors with better things to do sat around waiting for me and I stood them up. That sucks.

     The publication turned out really nice. The parchment style paper was chosen by Frankie; I didn't see it until today. She did a really great job of second-guessing me; it's what I would have chosen myself. It doesn't detract from the pictures, which would have been the only thing that I would have worried about. The originals weren't all that hi-fi to begin with, so the slight added texture just adds to the effect of age.

     So now there are 150 or so copies around of a book with my name on it. Hopefully, it won't be the last time this happens. That was one of my main aims in coming to Arkansas anyway, to make books. I suppose I'm a little closer now. I'm feeling much more prepared to stretch out and do something. It's too bad I had to "grow up" to do it.

     That's a part of it I wish I hadn't happened. I wish I could still believe in dreams, and in love, and all those other assorted fairy-tales. Part of me still does; but the problem is that now I know that sometimes the price is just too much to pay. I never thought about that before. There is a constant strain of idealism in me that wants to believe that some things are worth any price. They are, I guess, if you always win. It's the losing that tests your "resolve" and makes you second guess if it was worth it at all. As always, that remains to be seen.

4/15/01       Resurrection day. Unfortunately, a good mood just won't cooperate. I keep trying though; The Completion Backward Principle stayed on the turntable all morning trying to generate some sort of positive blood flow. The Tubes provided a soundtrack for a lot of happy times, as the snap crackle pop of the old vinyl testifies. Switched to Easter by Patti Smith in the afternoon, as it was the most fitting album I could think of for the day.

     Drove around for a while; all the shops were closed. Last night was filled with thunder, and severe storm warnings. Today was shining and beautiful. Just when I was getting over my allergy to Keats, E! television has now adopted the "truth beauty" thing as a marketing slogan for their daily skin-fests. Not that I have anything against skin; it's just the equation that bothers me. I really don't think the two things have anything to do with each other, but that's just my opinion. Considering myself part of the ugly majority, I suppose it's not too dificult to see why I must think that way. If I spent too much time exalting all the things that I am not, I'd never get anything done.

     There are always constant reminders that the state of my existence isn't normal. When I bought the books at Barnes and Noble, I let them sucker me into a discount card. The diligent woman who sold me the thing told me that I could get an extra card for my "household." When I told her I didn't have one, she said "Since they don't ask for a social security number, you could always get an extra card for your pets!" Of course, I had to say that I didn't have any pets either. She seemed very surprised. I suppose my holding out against getting any pets has to do with not knowing where I will be in the next few years, and the closet hope that maybe one day I'll have another relationship. Women seem to come complete with pets; having one would only complicate things. I don't care for dogs, and cats don't adapt well to new animals. It's as if I harbor the fear that if I get another cat, I'll never have another woman. Vain conjecture; I've already spent too many hours whining to my pets. Now I whine on the Internet instead, and thankfully, not many people ever take the time to read it.

4/13/01       Good Friday the 13^th has fallen, complete with a black cat rummaging around the garbage bin. Spent the day cleaning out my outer storage closet, listening to Todd Rundgren's A Wizard A True Star, and trying to be more positive. It's not working.

     Driving home yesterday, the clouds were heavy and lightning cut sideways across the sky. It's so beautiful around here. I was going to stop by and get some lumber; I'm not sure why, I guess that every guy needs some lumber every now and again. Bought some 1x4 s4s clear pine, hoping that maybe a project idea would come to me so I could shore-up the leaning towers of books, and my low self-esteem. Building things usually helps; making something out of nothing. Of course, as I walked out of the place it broke down and poured rain, and the lightning lit the sky. With the rain hitting the ground so hard, it rises like a mist up to your knees; I briefly considered building an ark.

     Now I can at least find what's left of my tools. I went out in my usual frenzy to buy more books, although I don't have a place to put them. I broke down and bought the second edition of Disfarmer's work. I missed it the first time around, and now it all seems far too close to home. It's expensive at 75$, but a very handsome book. If you're at all interested in photography, or people, I'd recommend it because even this printing is only 2500 copies. It won't be around that long. It's the only book I can recall with completely black pages which neatly highlight the precious contact prints. I really must go by Peter Miller's office sometime to see some more prints in person. Reading Scully's essay on Disfarmer, things snap into focus. He was an outsider, with no real friends though he always hung out on Main St. in Heber Springs to talk to people. I'm headed that way, too. I enjoy people too much to be a shut-in, so even if I never find a home again, I'll still be looking for someone to talk to.

     Wit triggered a sudden interest in John Donne, so I've been reading him a bit tonight. A very wise fellow, it seems. There are lots of issues that I will probably write about, if I continue this public amusement, and Donne's poem "The Triple Fool" makes me wonder about the sanity of it all.

I am two fools, I know,
For loving, and for saying so
In whining poetry;
But where's the wiseman, that would not be I,
If she would not deny?
Then as th'earth's inward narrow crooked lanes
Do purge sea water's fretful salt away,
I thought, if I could draw my pains
Through rhyme's vexation, I should them allay,
Grief brought to numbers cannot be so fierce,
For, he tames it, that fetters it in verse.

But when I have done so,
Some man, his art and voice to show,
Doth set and sing my pain,
And, by delighting many, frees again
Grief, which verse did restrain.
To love and grief tribute of verse belongs,
But not of such as pleases when 'tis read,
Both are increased by such songs:
For both such triumphs so are published,
And I, which has two fools, do so grow three;
Who are a little wise, the best fools be.

4/11/01       It's been another bad one. Sit down for a while, and the emotions start to well up for no reason at all. Sometimes I think the Vulcans have it going on. Since my brain wouldn't focus, I tried to fix some stuff up. Two shelves came crashing down from the wall from the weight of the books. The living room, and bedroom really look like a disaster area now. I've got only about three weeks to go before I'm done with my BA, and I'm working on home improvements. Go figure.

     Listening to a Neil Young boot I'm extracting from SHN files from Usenet provided some explanation. I have the "Fuck-Up" gene. Anytime it seems like I'm actually doing well, I've got to fuck it up somehow. Like a little troll in my pocket, it kicks in and says "just who do you think you're kidding anyway?"

     Took my bike out for a ride; it felt really good; sometimes I feel so lethargic. It sprinkled a little today, turning the piss-yellow pollen into a goo which reminded me of that god-awful observation from a few days back. I wish I could get the "wired" feeling I used to get. It's not a drug thing; it's a connectedness to things. I suppose that's why photography will always be my biggest jones of all— it's the only consistent way I've found to get that high.

     Sitting in class today was weird. There was a great oral report going on about Charlotte Bronte, and for some reason I had some of the sources of that report open on the table in front of me. It was is if I knew what was going to be said, before it came out. I don't understand how this happens; it makes people think that I'm smarter than I really am. One of these days, people will really find out how dumb I am.

4/10/01       I never seem to do anything small. I was curious today, so I checked the stats on this site thus far— 133 pages, 281 images (Don't be too surprised, many of them are duplicates because I'm trying to be friendly at multiple resolutions) and only 4.5 megabytes. Lots of room to grow.

     Its been a bad day. I keep rumaging through boxes and remembering stuff. Found some really odd things, like a birthday card (for my 21st) from Lisa's sister. But the worst part was the letters from people. There was a time when I used to get a few; those tangible scraps that you lug around from house to house, knowing that the flood of memory will sweep over you if you ever find them again.

     The new "firsts" thing has been on my mind. It could turn into a massive hypertext. Pictures always remind me of people and places; too much information for a single page. I wrote some about Dan today; but the dense web of association made me scramble to find pictures that I don't have anymore. I know where a few are, but they are impractical to retrieve.

     Found that the last great stake through the heart I experienced now has a gallery of doll faces on the net that she has repainted. It seems fitting somehow; so fragile, so delicate— and so cold, so concerned about appearances. Thankfully, I haven't stumbled on that last venomous letter. I know it's around here somewhere, but I don't have a clue. I'm not looking for it— it's not an experience I want to re-live.

     After class, it dawned on me how appropriate the metaphor I used was. My life as a vampire ended when I moved to Arkansas. Unfortunately, I didn't burst into flame, turn into dust, or just plain die. Nope, not me. Reflecting on the experiences of the past, I suppose I should have expected to spend five or six years wandering around by myself. It wasn't the first time I'd been utterly destroyed, though I hope it was the last. Maybe not; I'd rather play the game than sit it out, hiding in the corner so I don't rumple my party dress.

4/09/01       It's been a weird day. I've been listening to the Kinks album Word of Mouth a lot lately. It all started with a Sopranos episode last week that used "Living on a Thin Line" several times in the soundtrack. Besides being a particularly poignent episode about a stripper, it made me remember just how powerful of a songwriter Ray Davies is. The song is so broad, so general. I walked out the door with "Today, it's gonna be a good day..." running through my head.

     Spring has such prominent stages around here. Right now, it's pollen time. My car was yellow, and I sneezed several times before I made it inside. When I got to campus, I looked around and as far as the eye could see there were other yellow cars. Dr. Yoder was overcome by allergies as he lectured. Walking back from class, it landed in my head. Pollen is sperm. Nature, in its own flamboyant orgasm had proceded to jizz all over the whole town. File under thoughts I wish I never had.

"The business of a poet," said Imlac, "is to examine, not the individual, but the species; to remark general properties and large appearances, he does not number the streaks of the tulip, or describe the different shades in the verdure of the forest."

Samuel Johnson, Rasselas.

4/08/01       When I was buying the whiskey last night, I pondered briefly about trying some Irish whiskey, in honor of the listserve-god on Raindogs, Conor. Many of those who know him, through his words anyway, have been quite concerned lately over the health of his daughter who recently underwent some very scary surgery. I bought Kentucky bourbon anyway, because I hate Scotch and was afraid of an unpleasant reaction. Across the ocean came the news— Caoimhe is okay. God bless her crooked little heart. If you don't know the story thus far, it can be found here.

     I went ahead and did the remodel on the Gallery section. I added the firsts, but I haven't written the stories to go along with the pictures yet. Listening to Here Come the Miracles today and having a bit of a paisley flashback. Steve Wynn has an uncanny ability to read my mind sometimes. If you're unfamiliar with his music, there are lots of free MP3 downloads available. My current favorite is "Sustain."

The more I see, the less I think I want to see
Which only makes me dare to see
More than I really should
I test myself to see what can endure
Beyond the point of anything that anyone
Has tried to suffer through before

And only the pain remains
(Sustain, Sustain, Sustain)
Nothing that time can explain away

Like a debt that I never tried to pay before
And no one's ever gonna take
The fee away from me
I try to clear the books with time
Instead of tangible artifacts
And elements and bits of me I cannot see

And only the pain remains
(Sustain, Sustain, Sustain)
Nothing that time can explain away
And on and on and on and on

4/07/01       It's been a memory kind of day. Finished most of the Keepsakes site, only three more pages to go. I put what I have up, so if you're curious, you can have a look. Then in the end, it becomes the effort to destroy memory— I bought a bottle of Maker's Mark to close out the evening, while I work on this. Even though I hardly ever drink, I still get the urge. It's like my friend Slim once said, "Once a Junkie, always a Junkie."

     I did the scans last night for a new gallery section; it started out innocent enough, and then it turned maudlin. I'm not sure why things ended up this way; it started as a meditation on history, and firsts. I'm still not sure how I want to present it; the photographs do need textual support, in this case.

4/06/01       I scanned this picture of Derek a few days ago, thinking I might preserve it here. The problem with Polaroids is that they are not incredibly permanent. Of course, my twisted brain has to come up with a way to connect everything.

     I was reviewing the first chapter of The Semiotic Challenge by Roland Barthes for no apparent reason— it contains the most incredibly concise summary of classical rhetoric I know of. I suppose I could say that I wanted to have a rhetorical vocabulary stuck in my head for my exit interview; but that would be a lie. Weird as it seems, I actually like the stuff. Anyway, it hit me how much rhetoric revolves around either getting or keeping property; that's the way the whole thing started, in Barthes' terms, as a metalanguage. This reminded me of Derek; he should be a prosecuting attorney by now. The last conversation we had was about the eloquently precise language necessary for crime reports. So there you go; it's all about language.

     But the mud gets deeper. Turning to read Jane Eyre, the book I'm supposed to be reading, I stumbled upon a passage that fit into the puzzle. In a conversation with Mr. Lloyd, after a rather bizzare and surreal course of events, Jane (age 10) relates:

"I am unhappy,— very unhappy, for other things."

"What other things? Can you tell me some of them?"

     How much I wished to reply fully to this question! How difficult it was to frame any answer. Children can feel, but they cannot analyse their feelings; and if the analysis is partly effected in thought, they know not how to express the result in the process of words. Fearful, however, of losing this first and only opportunity of relieving my grief by imparting it, I, after a disturbed pause, contrived to frame a meagre, though, as far as it went, true response.

"For one thing, I have no father or mother, brothers or sisters."

     Examined in this sense, "the process of words" is just another case of forensic rhetoric. It's all about the "have"; unhappiness is reduced to a lack of psychic property. Writing is a way to "win friends and influence people." Even as adults, the analysis of our feelings is most often reduced to these same sorts of property issues. Of course this is purely a western bias; the eastern point of view is less focused on the "winning." But then, maybe I just read too much— especially when I should be writing.

4/05/01       The storm continues. Finally got together some busted up fragments of the Blake essay. At 19 pages so far, I suppose it will take about 50 to complete. Received an e-mail notification that I have been accepted to graduate school in the writing department. I wish I could feel better about it; I really wanted to stretch into something more challenging. But the thing is, it's an employable skill. Somebody has to teach freshman comp. Besides, it may give me the chance to catch up on some other stuff while I'm at it. I just can't bring myself to move out of Little Rock just yet. As long as I'm reasonably sure I can get a job, I can endure almost anything for two more years.

     The Keepsakes Website deadline got moved back, thank god. Nice to know that his eraser still works. Driving home yesterday I saw the strangest thing: A midget sitting at a little desk at a freeway onramp evidently entering traffic figures into a small computer. Usually it's winos with signs; midgets with computers is a new twist.

      A big box of music in the mailbox today from Pat Thomas and the Innerstate folks; Steve Wynn's new one, Here Come the Miracles (really great packaging on this one!) Townes Van Zandt Documentary, Chris Cavacas Dwarf Star, and Matt Piucci Hellenes. So busy writing I didn't even get the chance to listen to any of them!

4/03/01       A regular fecal storm around here lately. Meet one deadline, miss another. Finished an essay for my Spanish project. I kinda like it, so I added it to the Descriptive Catalogue. I ended up doing an oral report based on it tonight with no preparation. It went okay, because I just wrote the bloody thing this afternoon. At least that's over with. When I got home, I had to prepare the notes for an oral report on popular literature from 1790-1820. Unfortunately, it ended up being pretty broad because the climate of the eighteenth century takes a lot of explaining. It dawned on me that though I explained in the Spanish oral report that Oscar Zeta Acosta was the infamous "Samoan" attorney in Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, I didn't quite cover that part of the context in my mention of Revolt of the Cockroach People in the written essay. Just get the thing posted, and I'm already thinking of revising it.

     The Keepsakes Website was supposed to be ready to debut tommorrow. Somehow, I don't think I can code a dozen more pages tonight. I'm going to miss that deadline, but I don't think I'm going to be alone. And I've still got to schedule the damn GRE too! So much crap that I feel like a dummy about; maybe there's a manual somewhere?

4/02/01       Went by and picked up the snapshots I took of Ha Jin. They didn't turn out too badly, for photographs of an author reading from his books, that is. I didn't catch his name, but I was watching a black-listed writer describing Kazan's "On the Waterfront" as a movie about stool-pigeons, by stool-pigeons, for stool pigeons. I never thought of myself as a stool-pigeon before. I really liked that one, more for Karl Malden's performance than Brando's though.

     I watched about an hour of "Wit" last night. It was a very hard movie to watch, not because of the English Literature content, but because of the chemotherapy which closes it. Karen's mom died of complications from breast cancer just after we were married. I missed most of the sparkling wit and was left with only the tragedy of death, both in the movie and in real life. The movie is back on Thursday, and regardless of the difficulty in seeing it through, I feel like I need to see it. Emma Thompson is wonderful and I'm a sucker for her accent. But the timing is very strange; besides the heart-wrenching closeness of the subject matter— Karen's mother was a sparkling wit herself— it was a large blow yesterday to find that Karen's mother's mother was just diagnosed with cancer.

     They were having a big career fair thing at school today. I sat in on a couple of sessions, but I skipped the "how to write a resume" part. So far, that has been a section in four different classes for two different departments. And to think some people still have trouble with it. They used the last one I wrote as a near-perfect example in the last class I wrote one for. I may not be qualified to teach a full writing class yet, but one thing is certain: I could easily teach a class in writing resumes. The award for the most earth-shattering piece of knowledge though, was this: "If you just submit a resume without knowing anyone, it merely ends up in Human Resources hell. In order to get a job you have to know someone." DUH! How many years of school does it take to figure that one out?

     Why did I know, before I went, that all the companies currently hiring technical writers are all in the process of cut-backs and downsizing? Why did I know that when I was going to get out of school, we would have a republican idiot as a president and the economy would be suffering as it always does? Why is it that republicans are constantly campaigning about lowering taxes and improving the business outlook and then proceed to accomplish just the opposite the moment they take power?

4/01/01       Fools day. It's almost like a second birthday. I made it over to Ft. Smith for a visit with my parents. I really should have considered my wardrobe more; Mom was a bit dissapointed that I wouldn't let her take me out shopping for some new clothes as a late birthday present. Both of my shoes had holes in the bottoms. My pants were worn down to shreds, from walking on them. I suppose I looked a bit like a grunge-bum in my oversized flannel shirt. But it's only laziness; I actually do own clothes without holes. I feel so guilty sometimes for taking so much help from my parents, but every time I turn around they are offering more. I was going to keep pressing on into graduate school, but now I begin to think that I should take at least one semester off so that I can spend some more time with them.

     I clarified the identity of the woman to the left; she was not a part of the bootlegging side of the family. Grandma Hammer looks like she stepped off the pages of an Austen novel. It's the Douglass side of the family that produced all the great criminals. Obviously, my hair must come from Dad's side of the family tree.

     I just keep blocking-up on the Blake essay I need to write. He's just so, well, complicated! It's very hard to keep it all straight. I've read so many different approaches to the subject that I find myself taking forever to locate things that I remember reading, but just can't seem to lay my hands on. This stalls the writing, because there are things I want to cite, mostly to argue with. Yoder will skin me if I don't get him something soon.

     There were a few things I wanted to note that I saw along the roadside, but I've forgotten most of them. The only thing that sticks is a sign in front of a florist: "Our roses last longer than some relationships."