3/29/01       I couldn't sleep until 5am, again. This gets pretty tedious. Read more of Persuasion and wondered how I would ever get my cycles straightened out to make it over to my parents. I've got to go tommorrow. Larry D. posted a link to a Weegee site to Raindogs. Though the photos are great, the site design is maddening. I'll add it to my links soon anyway. The best part for me is the RA clips of his photographic advice: "What I did, anyone could do." Weegee the punk? DIY aesthetics?

     Jerry VanDyke has a theatre down in Benton, just to the south of here. I'd like to pay it a visit sometime, but I'm sure many people would prefer it if I stayed out of that town. The chances of me running into anyone troublesome are slight. It's weird thinking that around here, the number of people who would like to see me and the number who would duck and hide if they saw me coming is nearly equal. I had virtually no enemies in California. Maybe that's why I had to move. Acceptance leads to complacence. I grew so sick of doing the same things, over and over. But I really miss walking into bars like Santa Claus, giving away photographs. I tried that around here, and no one really seemed to want them. They kept trying to give them back.

3/28/01       Luke asked if he could link here today. I'm flattered, considering how slight my daily nonsense is. His circle is rather large; I don't have much of one. Perhaps it's the Groucho Marx thing, I don't want to belong to any club that would have me as a member. Finally worked on the Keepsakes site a little. Web coding is so freaking tedious.

     Spent part of the afternoon listening to Reactor by Neil Young, while taping it for the visit I owe to my parents. I don't know why I keep putting that off; I suppose it's the fear of spilling my insides about a bunch of literature that they know nothing about while feeling guilty that they have helped pay for this obsession of mine. But it wasn't the first time this has happened. I still remember how they would look concerned, when I was a kid, when I spent every last dime of my allowance on music.

     I think that "Southern Pacific," on Reactor, is one of the best train songs ever written. A few weeks ago, I was listening to some MP3's of Henry Rollins A Rollins in the Wry where he made some outstanding observations about turning 40. He said the hardest part was that you aren't allowed to lust after 25-year-old women without being thought of as a pedophile. And they don't become suddenly uglier, once you cross that mark into "adulthood," so the prospect is indeed an odd one. According to Rollins, you're supposed to fuck old women. I've been described as "ineffable" on the Raindogs list several times in the past few weeks. Why do I always read that as un-f-able?

Roll on.
Southern Pacific.
On your silver rails
Through the moonlight.

I put in my time.
I put in my time.
Now I'm left to roll
Down the long decline.

I ain't no brake man.
Ain't no conductor.
But I would be though
If I was younger.

3/27/01       Today, it's been fun with cascading style sheets. Just when I coded the prospectus page to get rid of one of the applets, changing the guestbook to " the link that nobody visits," Amy confirms Dr. Yoder's observation that I look like an ogre. In case you ever make it back to read this, Amy, I'm sorry you got downsized, but I'm glad you're coming back to school.

     The whole MP3 thing changes the character of music; I find myself collecting tons of them. My DVD player plays them directly, so I can put on a disk and not have to change it all day. As a matter of fact, its nearly impossible to listen to them all even if you take all day. E-music has a deal where you get unlimited music every month. I don't do the napster thing, because I like to see musicians get paid. However, I like snagging bootlegs off of usenet. Today, I listened to a Bomp compilation, Straight Out of Burbank, a Frontier records comp., and a bunch of Giant Sand, Dead Kennedys, Built to Spill, geez, I can't even remember them all. I do miss having an object to fondle, though, and there is no art or lyrics or anything— Just electrons in the wire.

     It's sort of like an unlimited sampler at your fingertips. It's easy to gorge yourself and almost get a "music stomache ache" from too much candy. I really want to buy Freedom Is by The John Doe Thing. I just can't get enough of that one, and though the MP3's sound pretty good, I want to place it on the shelf next to his first.

     I still remember shaking John Doe's hand, and running around the camera store telling people about it when he showed up one day with a broken camera in Baketown. Nobody had heard of him, so it didn't mean much to them, but it meant a lot to me. It's not a "celebrity" thing; I feel the same way when I meet someone who isn't famous, who touches me through their craft. It's just always nice to feel not so alone, knowing that there are driven people out there who do things because they love it instead of just to make a buck. I will never forget the day that Russell Murphy got upset in class because a student assumed that his time outside the classroom was "time off." Talking after class, he told me that even if he wasn't paid to teach, he'd be standing on a streetcorner somewhere doing it. I believe that. I'm really glad to share the planet with people like him, and John Doe.

3/26/01       Made some additions and changes over the weekend. I extended the "cheese" section; it now has an annex called " more cheese." I also added some links to the "Sites I like" section of the prospectus. Numerous changes had to be made to make the site more Netscape friendly. No matter how hard I try, I just can't seem to get things to look right in Netscape. If you are using Netscape instead of Internet Explorer, you are missing about half the site.

     I've been thinking a lot about Karen today. I'm not sure exactly why, but I just can't get the image of her with her eyes closed, swaying back and forth, singing along with music. It occurs to me that the amount of music I'm listening to is probably the best measure of my mental health. I start to worry when I stop being excited by it. I watched a number of concert videos over the weekend. In an old favorite David Gilmour video, there is an interview where he says that the whole point of music is to move people. When you stop being moved, I suppose it's a big step toward the grave. I don't want to be dead yet.

     I'm listening to Sandy Denny right now, singing in French. It's really beautiful. I don't know why, but I keep getting more and more into female voices. I suppose it's because there aren't any in my life anymore. I was listening to The John Doe Thing's album Freedom Is earlier, and in it he muses over a goodbye letter. He wonders if the close of the letter "goodbye, Love . . ." means goodbye to him, or goodbye to love. I suppose it's a fair question. I wonder about that myself sometimes. Each time it happens, you wonder if it's the last. I suppose I have no choice but to remain a hopeful romantic; the alternative is just too bleak. I wish I would have gotten a goodbye letter instead of a "go away kid, you bother me" letter the last time. I really could have done without the insults. They still sting, even six years later. I haven't been called a liar before, or since. I suppose it's just the sting of guilt that remains about the horrible mistake I made. Listening to a Neil Young rarities tape in the car, he closes "The Old Laughing Lady" with "Guilty train, don't whistle my way again..."

     Surfing around some of the diary type sites with web-cams and such I really have to wonder about the ones that sell tickets, either in the form of subscriptions or site advertising. With millions of souls, bare and on display, what makes these people think that it's a good way to make a buck? I suppose it's fine, if money is what you really care about, but nothing makes me tune out faster.

3/24/01       Went to an interesting reading by the poet/writer Ha Jin yesterday. He's an excellent writer who has only been writing in English seriously for eight years. He already has a very impressive list of awards. When quizzed about the difference between writing in English and Chinese, he responded that he thought English was the universal language. It is able to absorb pieces of world culture and remain constantly interesting. One of the most notable things he mentioned was the cultural difference in the Western perception of the past; in the West, many writers propose that we must ignore the past in order to move forward. "Drive your carts over the bones of the dead," written by Blake, immediately leaped into my head. Ha Jin has a problem with the concept and so do I.

     He was so quiet and well spoken; he hasn't had an easy path to follow. It was encouraging and depressing at the same time. He couldn't find a job after he got his PhD in literature. Everyone tells me I should go for that right away, but I'm really afraid of it. Not because I think I'd have any problem getting one, but because I think I would have a big problem paying for it. Ha Jin finally got a job as a writing teacher. As much as I hate the concept of "business and technical writing," it seems the only practical way to become a teacher. I've got time to think about it; I'm fairly certain I'll get into the tech-writing MA program. The skills are the same as Library Science, for the most part, so if I decide to go that route it can only help. But I love literature damn it! I just don't want end up stuffed on the mantle for mooning economic certainty.

3/22/01       What I miss most about the old life came into sharp focus today. It's the smiles. Most days, I'm surrounded by people who don't seem very happy to be where they are. I try to smile, at least when I think anyone might be looking. The damn things are infectious. Unfortunately, those heavy looks of woe are too. That's the great thing about kids. They are usually smiling. People under the influence of music often break-out in spontaneous smiles too. I keep trying to force myself to lighten up the tone of my writing. As Neil Young was saying, on a tape I was listening to in my car, "Things aren't as bad as they seem, folks!" It's just that I'd be lying if I said all was well in the electronic cave. And I'm a horrible liar. It's all this damn solitude, and it seems like every time I get out I don't find may smiles. At least Adam understood the language around him.

What call'st thou solitude? Is not the earth
With various living creatures, and the air,
Replenished, and all these at thy command
To come and play before thee? Knowst thou not
Their language and their ways?

     The path to class today was paved with spring blooms that had been blown off the trees. It was really quite a beautiful day, but no one seemed very happy about it.

3/21/01       A long time ago, I stole this ashtray from my ex-wife. At the time, I thought I had quit smoking for good and my plan was to use it to make photograms with. Things never work out the way you plan. I was cleaning up in the kitchen, and found it broken behind the microwave. It seems to mean more than its metaphoric significance. Another broken heart. While I could put it back together with PhotoShop, it's just not quite the same.

     Sometimes my responses, and the responses of others just seem too reflexive. There is always the suggestion that I have too much spare time, and should get a life. Another big one, which I think I've mentioned here before is: "What are you doing here?" Everyone seems to have a different idea of where I actually belong, but the common thread is "Anywhere but here!" Today, someone suggested Purdue. That's a new one. I hadn't thought of that before. I moved back here thinking that I belonged in a little house buried in the hills.

      There was a story in a Playboy that I read many years ago about the back-to-nature movement called "Thoreau Never Mentioned the Goddamned Bugs!" For some reason, that phrase has never left my memory. While the mosquito is the state bird around here, there's more. My disillusionment with "Southern hospitality" seems to grow each day. There is always something sinister lurking just under the surface. People are quite connected with each other; it's only the outsiders they can't seem to take. My problem might be reduced by some into "improper style." I suppose I never figured out how to be an adult. I started reading Persuasion tonight. As always, something ripped off the page and grabbed me by the throat: "To be claimed as good, though in an improper style, is at least better than being rejected as no good at all." No one writes like Jane Austen.

3/19/01       Happy birthday to me and all that.  Yesterday, that is.   Today was still pretty weird.  It's like a storm wailing, howling, at the emptiness of my head. Mom called yesterday. Isn't it amazing how your mother never forgets your birthday? Maybe it has something to do with the pain involved.  Digging into Frankenstein again; discovered the 1818 version.  Just when you think you have a book wired, there is always a twist.

3/17/01       St. Patrick's day and all that.  I've spent the last few days scrambling, putting together portfolios and such.  Several things are bothering me at once.   It's hard to put into words.  

3/13/01       It's a really weird experience to have your web page placed on a big screen at the beginning of a class.  I felt positively naked.  Of course, the anxiety was a bit increased by hearing that my photograph of myself made me look like an ogre.  Really?  I thought I had a better sense of humor than the typical ogre.

     I went to a workshop on web accessibility today.  It was fun listening to software that reads crappy code aloud.  The entirety of the thing could be summed up in a handful of tags.   But validators really make the thing a mess, in my opinion.  They are pretty clueless about the real significance of things.

     Finally made it through the DVD of the BBC miniseries version of Pride and Prejudice.  It's quite fun, even if the entire female cast are wearing wonder-bras.  At 5:10, it's quite an undertaking.  The economy of Austen's prose makes reading the book faster, and even at that length it cuts some really significant parts.

     This whole web log thing seems really strange today. Ultimately, it's sort of an outlet for those conversational sort of things that I never get the chance to express.  Real humans seem to get enough of me soon enough; here, I can blather on at length.  Until today, I was fairly comfortable with the idea that no one would really read it.  Oh no!  I suppose I should try to make some sense in these scattered notes.

3/12/01       Saw a band on friday called "Old No. 8" It drove home a point that I have long suspected.  It is infinitely better to be offensive than it is to be boring.   That's a tall challenge indeed, and the band suceeded most of the time.  They recieved a total of 100 dollars for their opening spot.  Twenty bucks a head.  I was downright embarrased by the guitar-wankage of one of my favorite bands which followed them.  The crowd roared in approval; I cringed in dismay.  There should be a law about the number of guitar cliches that one is forced to endure.

     I put up a new gallery section.  I'm still wrestling with the scrollbar problem at 800x600.   I hate to make the images too small, but everytime I get it right on one monitor, the next shows the damn bars.

     I finished volume one of Pride and Prejudice over the weekend.   Jane Austen rocks!  I hadn't read a really great novel in a long time.  I keep wanting to read it slower and slower.  There is a really interesting thing going on with the concept of learning about human nature by observation.  Though Lizzy is really sharp, she keeps missing the obvious.  The contrast between learning from observation and learning from books is approached from an entirely different perspective than Northanger Abbey.  Besides crafting incredible dialogue, there are issues underneath this text that really make me want to linger.

3/07/01       I received an e-mail the other day to let me know that a link to my infrared photographs on the old site were being mailed out to a bunch of folks.  I suppose I should be flattered, but really I'm a little pissed off.  They are just listed as being a demonstration of the infrared "special effect."  I hate that.  It's part of the reason why I stopped making them.  It wasn't a trick.  It was merely a tool to explore a situation.   But people don't want to hear that.  Luke posted a nice link in his log about the nerve.com site photography exhibitions.  Some of Sylvia Plachy's red-light district work was there.  I've wanted to see it for a long time.  When I get the chance, I've got to put together the link section around here.   There are some interesting, and not so interesting, things out there on the web.  

     I'm not sure how I feel about the revelation that "Tequilla" was the number one song in the USA on my birthdate.  Karen sent me a note with the usual test regarding remembering her birthday or our wedding anniversary.  I don't have a clue.  I felt lucky today to remember that 1832 was the year that the first reform bill was passed in the UK.  I'm terrible with dates.  It seems as if each successive paper I turn in at school is labeled my best.  The paper on Northanger Abbey received a great response.   I couldn't ask for more— to be a little better each time through.

3/06/01       A rather odd thing happened today.  I walked into a nearby store, and was waiting for my turn while a woman in a tennis skirt kept glancing furtively at me.  After she left, the manager behind the counter motioned for me to move around to the side.  He told me that the woman had warned him that a strange looking person was headed for his store.  He laughed when he saw it was me; I'm a bit of a regular around the place.   It made me wonder, however.  Am I strange looking?  I decided to ask the folks at the health food store.  They laughed too, but I suppose that asking people filled with tattoos and facial piercings if you look strange isn't the best way to figure it out.  I asked a student in my Spanish class tonight the same question.  He looked at me rather incredulously; I'm not sure what that meant.

3/05/01       I skipped keeping up with this for a few days due to preparing my exit portfolio in the Rhetoric Department.  It was one of the hardest things I've written in a long time; I tried to tell them what I really thought of the program without pissing them off.  In a little while I'll try to catch up.  The problem with getting out of the habit is that I don't recall what I was thinking of before I was so rudely interupted by real work.