Reading about another blow to reproductive freedom, I realized that the word unborn is really creepy.

Blogger is back up! Hurrah!

Welcome back from ExamLand, Rocketo. Oooh, stuff to read! Yay!

And happy birthday, Mommy. Faith sends her regards, as well, from arctic Boston. (It's been in the 70s here. But rainy.)

I heard one of these phrases (I like to think they're pretty much interchangable) used to describe a friend's teaching job.
You pick the one you like, and just run with it!

No, really, there's a tie-in, I swear.

Hee hee, Fred.

Playing catch-up.

Faith set up a future post, in case Dave wasn't able to post a topic. I'm going to publish it now. We can always have two topics today.

Fake Down. Sheesh. See what I live with?

Love you, Jon. Mean it.

Thank you, Sharon.

I didn't write anything yesterday, since most everything I wanted to say about frustration is job-related, and I can pretty much sum that all up with Arrrrrrrrrrrgggghhhh!!! I promise, though, I'll try to write something today.

Fred, Abbott and Costello would be so proud. Nicely done.

...Oh, hee. I made my comment before I hovered over your link. Right, then.

Me too.

Added a late typo post.

Taking my own turn, just for grins, at Brenda Starr dialog in a justice post.

Oh, shoot. I tried to write a nice story, I really did.

I mean, I deliberately didn't write the scene with someone being drowned in Elmer's while the bottle is gleefully weilded by a jilted lover. I tried to be nice. Oh, well.

Write what you know, eh?

Hi, Shawn. I'm out of touch, too. I hate to think how much spam my invisible-city account has accumulated while I wasn't looking at it.

It's Faith who has the 8'x10' drawing. It was a birthday gift from her sweetie, a prize on a city-wide, puzzle-solving scavenger hunt. (It's like MYST, but you actually go outside. Crazy talk, I know.)

Jeff's on Friday = I don't know. I have thoroughly lost my ability to keep track of my calendar, and I'm also under the gun on a lot of projects. So, uh... Maybe? If they're getting together, I'll try to make it work. I'm very tired.

*blink blink* I'm using a blog to keep in touch with friends who live in town? This is pathetic.

I never promised I'd be coherent, only that I'd write.

"He was God, and his name was Allen." I love it. That's so intriguing. I want more of that story.

Oh, damn! It needs one more sentence, at the end:

The line shuffled, and Naya stepped forward.

The point being, they all know it's fleeting, and even more painful after it has passed, but still, they hunger for it. I wonder if I should go add that sentence.

A Scanner Darkly sure isn't a warm-fuzzy book. It seems to be Dick expressing his anger at an establishment that perpetuates a drug culture while claiming to eradicate it, consuming and destroying so many bright individuals, himself included. (I think it was liver damage that killed him, and he knew it was killing him when he wrote the book.)

Faith, I agree, it's nice to see you back here. Sorry to hear what you've been going through. I can only imagine what that must have been like, and I hope you're able to put it behind you.

And, Sharon, after reading your post here, I was a little tempted to dig out my own copy of A Scanner Darkly last night and finally finish (or restart and then finish) reading it, but I think, after re-reading your initial post, I was a little scared to do so. That's an interesting interpretation of happiness, I'll say that much...

Blame the cyberpunk I read, Mom. I read A Scanner Darkly by Philip K. Dick just a bit ago; drug culture in the information age. Dark, indeed. Also, that girl from Minority Report (Heh. Also by Philip K. Dick.) just sticks in my head, with her peach-fuzz hair and stark blue eyes. She keeps showing up in my fiction, like the character I'm creating for a dark fantasy role-playing game. Shaved head, tenuous grasp on reality, pretty nuts--it intrigues me. So anyway, blame Philip K. Dick.

I mean, if it were Dell, everything in the story would be beige instead of gray.

*Sigh*

Sharon - your last post seemed so DARK. Scary!

Faith - it's good to hear from you and I'm so sorry that you've been having a rough time. Let us know how you make out.

Hey, Shawn, Mr. Artist Man, how would you mount, frame, and protect an 8-foot by 10-foot pencil drawing? Just wondering.

Added a fog post.

Well, shucks, thank you. That means a lot. I was genuinely surprised when Sharon linked the poem here. I mean, I'm proud enough of it, but I've never considered it anything special, and I'm quite sure Frostian isn't the first word I'd use to describe it. But I'm glad you liked it. I've certainly been enjoying your 600 seconds contributions...even if I can't think of anything to write for fog...

Fred, Sharon directed me to your autumn poem and I listened to you reading it. Awesome!

Ooh, Ben, I got *goosebumps*. Hee hee.

My life is one long Floyd song.

Hey, Mom, you've probably noticed that Fred is a poet. Last year he wrote a very Frostian poem about autumn, and this year, he recorded it. I point it out because I think it is the kind of thing you'd enjoy.

audio (needs an mp3 player, like Windows Media Player) | future archive location of commentary (the archive page needs to republish itself; the post isn't currently there.) | Fred's blog, where the post is the first one for October 2.

Gaah! I turned up the volume a lot in order to hear the poem. I still have my earphones in. I just GOT MAIL! Oof, I think I'm deaf.

You've been sober for ten years, Mom? It seems like ancient history, and it also seems like it couldn't possibly have been a whole decade ago. Congratulations, and I love you. I'm glad you found the courage.

Dave, thanks for getting a topic up nice and early. Lunch time is the best writing time for me, so I appreciated the opportunity.