2003-03-21 - 2:57 a.m.

Boy.. my diary is butt-ugly now. It's so hard to read and whatnot. :oP Oh well, if I cared more I would have fixed it by now, but that stunted effort at growth withered to a halt and fell off, a testament to the intransient ardence of my desires. Is that even a proper phrase? Do I even care? Yes, I dare to care.

It's 2:10 am. Just finished playing a mini-marathon bout of Natural Selection. I rocked, I socked, I got my head chomped off and I had loads of fun with friends. I'm drained, daze-brained and not nearly ready for sleep.

A description: stomach full-ish of jalapeno and cheese chips. Stopped myself from eating another powdered doughnut. Yes, I spell doughnut with a dough and not a do, because it is made of dough and I still .. and .. and. why? I mean really, who cares? Donut is shorter and everyone knows what it is.

Oooh.. feeling weird just writing that. Feeling that there are multitudinous types of people reading the sentence as it escapes my fingers tenuous grasps, rasping graspings graphing lexicographical ramblings. So many different people will read it and some will cheer at the exact moment (word, passage of thought in brain, comprehension of communication) that others will be booing. Gooo doughnut! Yay proper speller! I totally agree! What??!? Hiss! Donut! Noooo donut.. that's not right.. but at the exact same time, the opposite chorus is happening in another brain. Relatively the same time, I mean, not at the same moment in time. I mean relative to when they started reading the paragraph, say, as they are reading the words, one brain boos and another cheers. And all because I took a stand; created a balance point and fractured the universe into halves or dimensions if you will. The dimension of donut haters and doughnut lovers, adjacent to the dimension of anal grammaticians and both subordinate to a vastly larger universe of don't cares?

I can think and think and think, and think I can and think I can, but I can't. I can't know. There is no knowing these things, and that is why we are alive. We are alive to find out and to make the balances and fracture the universe. Take what was whole and discover the parts, take the unknown and make it our home. Terraform, trailblaze, ruminate, become jaded and sick and tired and slothful and unrestful and explorative and discoverative and terraforming and trailblazing and on and on again.

I love writing like this.

What a mood. I don't know.. it's like I don't care and yet I'm putting my utmost into the thoughts. Just like today when I was taking pictures. I was taking a special roll, specially for Shawna. At least that was the occasion, but the pictures.. they just came. At first slowly; some tracks in the muddy grass (or grassy mud), a leaf, some dock planks and poles, some ice blocks, some people, faint behind glass. It started slow and uncoordinated and swept up into a frenzy of examination, a discovery of society, a seeing through alien eyes. "Alien planet", I thought again. This strange cubic building with its strange antennae dish all pointing in the same direction. Vastly inefficient, is what my alien-pov mind thought. Silly, even. "They're beautiful" says Lilo. I see the underneath, the backside, the cautions and warnings and horrible clouds of electricity they sic on us from inside the green boxes. I see the tangle of nasty support mechanisms, bare and ugly, not even an attempt made to hide them. A ludicrous juxtaposition of the "you're supposed to think this looks good" with the "we didn't give a damn to make this look any better". The end of the roll came too early. Nature couldn't run its course. I couldn't etch the reaching branches that my mind's eye saw, standing under the tree, small buds shooting forth in clusters, the fractal bifurcative curve reaching out for sun and sky and blue and bark mingling in a luscious contrast to human ugliness. But I had no more film. I could never have had enough, it seemed.

"Black museum------>" went un-permanized, the tires of the transport truck, cool rims with weird oval holes asymmetrically places are now receding in the fog of my memories (mammaries) and the dimpled and dented hubs, chromed and inviting, willing to show me myself and my camera, had to be denied, rejected, this gift of fate to the boy with the camera around his neck because, alas, his roll had run out.

"Do you have any pictures of pretty girls on that roll?" I was asked. "No! haha.. not yet!" I said. Oh, that's perfect. Meanwhile, I'm epitomizing my feelings for souther Ontario by taking a picture of a flat pop can and squishy tire tracks in the mud. Under my breath, I give my real reply: "No, but lots of human ugliness".

I think it's safe to say I took a walk in myself today. I knew where I was and who I was. I knew that I was different. It wasn't a finding out of the difference, it was a basking in it, returning to it, accepting it. It was for once not caring if I stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, that very sidewalk made for purposeful striding, not dawdling.. not wondering if I had passed the parking lot I had parked in .. that stopping and getting bearings kind of motion that we all know doesn't belong on a sidewalk. Sidewalks are for people who are going places, they are not there for you to stop and look around, and maybe even turn around and walk back slowly, deciding that yes, you did park in the parking lot you just passed. I was finally able to shrug off that feeling that people would look at me funny since I'd just passed them. "He just passed me", they'd think. "What is he doing walking by again so soon? He's on the sidewalk.. you don't turn around on a sidewalk, you already know where you're going and you go there.. duh.. "

Think I'm crazy? I would, but I was reminded of my paranoia's all too real base when I heard a muffled "---th-- w--y AIRHEAD" and a revved car backed up suddenly at me as I finally finished my 5 second reversal of course and decision to backtrack to the right parking lot. What was I thinking, standing in the way of this guy backing up his car? This guy who obviously is so important and in such a hurry that 5 seconds of his time being wasted by a mere pedestrian is a serious imposition on his rights as an aggressive driver. What was I thinking to slow down, even stop, on a sidewalk? No.... you walk.. you don't stop. It is for purposeful striding. Thou shalt stride purposefully, and having stridden, thou shalt arrive at thy destination no later than the shortest amount of time in which thine journey could be made, capiche?

Damn it, I miss the bush.

Trees never called me an airhead for stopping. Instead they kissed me with their shade, caressed me with their fronds and soothed me with their symbiotic gift of fresh oxygen. They dappled my days with captivating shadowscapes, mesmerizing and giving depth to the forest that will all too soon be replaced by human waste. The by-product of our desire to live unimposed upon, unrestricted to stride purposefully, untripped by roots without having to look where we're going, unheeding of just what's under our feet.

I remember the poem. I remember Pam's reaction was all the feedback I needed to make it complete forever. I remember planting a seedling self in the concrete spring and feeling it dying, feeling its roots dry on the heartless concrete, feeling the leaves wither and shrivel and the fruit pull back its attempted shoots and wait for another day. No, I would never live in Toronto. With all those glued-on strips where beauty used to beauty be. Now beauty is something else, something that has to be explained to you so you recognize it.

God I'm sick of it. Enh.. umm.. "I am sick of it". I suppose. I need an alternate word to replace the myth word of my elders. Jebus I like, born in the Simpsons perhaps.. at least for me.

But yeah, I'm really sick of it. It breaks my heart to sit on a path in a small children's playground and pick up bits of broken beer bottles. I mean what the fuck. What is wrong with you? And even worse, how the hell do I do anything about it? I can't swallow the pain.. the glass get's stuck. I can't escape it because it's everywhere they are, and we are they. I choose mostly to hide away, to find a place without them, or at least not their particular breed. But I know I'm the minority. I know I don't have rights. I know I'm repressed. I know I don't have the right to stop on a sidewalk.

God, (crap.. ) Jebus, could you imagine if I had stopped long enough on that sidewalk to pick up a broken beer bottle? Have you ever done that, a whole bottle? It takes a lot of time. Man, that guy would have grabbed his 9 and shot me. Come on, punk!! What the hell are you doing!?! I've been waiting a good 3 minutes to back up here! What the hell are you doing?? It's broken glass, leave it. Move along. Don't you have somewhere to be? Why are you stopped on the sidewalk. SideWALK, airhead, not sideSTOPANDPICKUPTHEBROKENGLASSWHILEMYPUERILESELFGETSPISSEDERBYTHESECONDATYOURAIRHEADASS.

It's a catch-22. I can't show them themselves without putting together the mirror, but they won't stop throwing rocks long enough for the pieces to get put back together. The earth doesn't get a pause for breath. The golf courses keep expanding across the landscape. They're going to make that bitch pay up.. they know she's got the goods, and they want their pile. Why shouldn't they get rich for owning the land? Ack I'm losing it.

2:45 AM. Not "quarter to three". 2:46 AM now. Tick tock. Don't you have somewhere to be? The meeting started 0:01 ago. Or whatever. Move along, get busy, tick tock. Why am I in windows 2000? Why would I choose this. Oh yeah, Valve. That explains why I hit the wrong key earlier while trying to get in my game and the whole screen went black. Oh.. wait, that's not the bad part. The bad part is having to restart the entire operating system to reset whatever screwed up when I hit that key. And I'm not a computer idiot. I'm not an airhead of the cybersidewalk. I'm a purposeful strider, fingers dancing across the keyboard. Still, all that knowledge and skill evaporates when I become the monkey, that trained savant. Press the key. Wait for the light to turn green. Wait for the cursor to appear. Good monkey. My coworkers understood the monkey, but I don't think you will. The concept needs to be demonstrated. But anyway, Valve.. windows 2000.. microsoft. All at the root is greed. Not "how much time should we spend on this to make it a good product" or "we should fix that bug even though the program works most of the time, because it could be annoying" or "if we spent a few extra hours doing the documentation over again, we could fix some of the inconsitencies" or "employee happiness _____/------" no, that's not it at all.. it's "what linear equation describes the max ROI in terms of hours for this project." "did the focus groups reach 85% goal completion on a first try, no apriori knowledge basis?" "can we claim 5 more megabytes of documentation if we throw in user manuals for a flight simulation game?" "employee productivity ______/--------".

No one has to know what the hell I am talking about, this is my life, this is my record, and I don't really give a damn any more. No one is reaching in here to this place and helping me out of the pit. No one is coming around asking for volunteers to fight for the cause. No one has talked to me about joining them in a struggle for good.

Bah.. strike that last paragraph. is there a strikeout html tag I can use? I think it's font face=strikeout or some such nonsense. Bah.. consider it struck out, I'm sure you can imagine it yourselves. I don't want to spend the effort. I want to be a whiny old bitch like Dr Bob, the Uncle of American Youth, Pastor of Arighteousnes and Nonunderstander of Execution Style. Hmm,, DBUAYPANES. Naw.. actually.. pretty close to "DUBYA PAINS" Muahahahhaha how portentious. It's useless for me to rant about things that actually matter, like war. I just let those slide by. How ... does that make me? Huh? Input. Output. Garbage in, garbage out.

Sleep? The Extremes. Maybe. But no powdered doughnuts though.

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