"What would you think of a man who not only kept an arsenal in his home, but was collecting at enormous financial sacrifice a second arsenal to protect the first one? What would you say if this man so frightened his neighbors that they in turn were collecting weapons to protect themselves from him? What if this man spent ten times as much money on his expensive weapons as he did on the education of his children? What if one of his children criticized his hobby and he called that child a traitor and a bum and disowned it? And he took another child who has obeyed him faithfully and armed that child and sent it out into the world to attack neighbors? What would you say about a man who introduces poisons into the water he drinks and the air he breathes? What if this man not only is feuding with the people on his block but involves himself in the quarrels of others in distant parts of the city and even in the suburbs? Such a man would clearly be a paranoid schizophrenic, Mr. Flanagan, with homicidal tendencies. This is the man who should be on trial, though under our modern, enlightened systems of jurisprudence we would attempt to cure and rehabilitate him rather than merely punish.

"Speaking as a judge," he continued, "I dismiss this case on several grounds. The State is clinically insane as a corporate entity and is absolutely unfit to arrest, try and incarcerate those who disagree with its policies. But I doubt that this judgment, though obvious to any man of common sense, quite fits into the rules of our American jurisprudential game. I also rule, therefore, that the right to destroy government property is protected by the First Amendment to the U.S. Constitution and therefore the crime with which these people are charged is not a crime under the Constitution. Government property belongs to all the people, and the right of any of the people to express displeasure with their government by destroying government property is precious and shall not be infringed." This doctrine had come to Judge Bushman suddenly while he was speaking without his robe. It startled him, but he had noticed that his mind was working better and fast this afternoon.

Of course, he knew his decision would be overturned; but the judge business already bored him. It would be interesting to get into mathematics, really deep.

-Robert Shea & Robter Anton Wilson; The Illuminatus! Trilogy

I can honestly say there is something about the books that are sold in airport book stores that just depresses me.

Really, when you get right down to it, it's the change that's exciting. Not even the travel itself, but the concept of what it represents. Else. The grass is always greener. That sort of thing.

Cheeky squirrel followed me about half a block today. He either wanted my granola bar, the tiger balm I had on, or my sweet, sweet lovin'.

Dream about birdies (the light) last night. I was a black kid in a scholastic environment. Felt very much like high school some how. Or I felt as if I was in high school. And my birdies had been damaged, and one lost, and I was very distraught. And angry. And appealing to the assistant principal.

Did I just put tiger balm on my balls? Yes I did. Oh that hurts.

Dancing today. That's right, you heard me. Bar Night tonight. Also good times. Magic after, that's right, you heard me. Fuckin' awsome.

Sadly, no matter how you look at it, this meal I just made for myself is kinda gross.

Dream last night. Chris as a Christ figure (WTF?). Starts going down, hanging out with a couple of friends at a place that seems to be my grandparent's farmhouse. There are four of us, for sure. Two of them start roughing Chris up for some reason (ironically, it has nothing to do with money). Not so ironically, I feel like they have a certain justifiable claim. So they do a little bit of roughing up, but then the larger fellow (who happens to be black, which I'm sure says rather negative things about my subconscious) starts to get a little out of hand. I try to intervene, but my physical strength is really nothing compared to his and Chris himself seems rather passive about the whole ordeal. I retreat to another room to obtain my newly purchased 35mm camera (actually obtained in real life) which comes equipped with a flash. It is post evening and rather dark inside. So as fists are connecting to cheekbones and jaws and so fourth I am flashing photographs and this rather large fellow seems uninterested in this. I suppose, to him, some things are worth the consequences.

This all rather quickly takes a rather macabre turn as Chris is wrapped (glued?) to a sheet, which is then stapled to the wall, al la staple gun. I believe my mind kept going back and fourth as to whether or not these two fellows actually stapled him, personally, to the wall. The main reason being, the kind of staple gun they were using, while strong enough, I'm sure, to puncture flesh, could not puncture bone, nor were the staples long enough to actually hold any part of the body solo to the wall. I am still taking photos of this. I am somewhat worried because I have never developed a role of film on this camera with the flash, and I need these to come out to make sure there is jail time involved in this event and so on.

Shakespearian amounts of compression begin happening. These fellows want to use my wrench. Which, of course, I have in my back pocket. And I tell them no. And them seem to acquiesce. We seem to be chums, these fellows and I, as they have little to no fear about these photos I am taking, and seem to find them rather amusing. Post my denial of the use of the wrench members of my family start arriving. Which I don't remember clearly. Also, I know that they do not become actual recognizable members of my family until later. There are just more people and the concept of 'family.' Photos at this point are prohibited.

I find myself in the basement. The actual basement of my grandparent's place that I remember well. I have a cell phone with me, and, even in the dream this seems odd. The time that I spend in that basement in life was long before cell phone entered my life. And I'm trying to make a call. To the police. But my grandfather (who is not my grandfather, but rather, again, this impression of 'grandfather') is following me. In a pseudo-threatening way. So I go outside. And I'm biking. Or something. I get behind the grain shed and I make my call. "Crazy shit going down. Send someone. Now." I seem to know the address, which I don't, actually, and never have. A light appears, small, bright. I look up, it's a helicopter. I guess they've GPSed my call? They never needed me to say where I was. Somehow, they also believed me.

About this time everyone is leaving the party. And I'm shouting into the phone, "Now, move. Round these bastards up." Hesitation. I'm running towards the house. I get there, I recognize people now, my actual grandfather, a couple of my uncles. So on. They've all leaving. The police seem to have disappeared. So I snap a couple of pictures of their faces as they leave. Shouting obscenities. I seem to no longer be a part of the family after this event. One cousin ('cousin') stays. Shows me a tattoo on his shoulder. I remember distinctly saying, "Maybe you should get a swastika next time." It seems a impotent thing to say.

Inside Chris is still nailed to the wall. Other than that, I have no understanding of his physical condition. I know he is alive and still very placcid. On the table I remember a red rose, a bend stemed wine glass that may or may not have been bleeding, and a knife.

I know that this kind of goes without saying, but I guess I tell stories rather loudly.

If I could give one piece of advice to anyone living in this city it would be this: Buy a bicycle.

I've never been sick in the summer time before. This sucks.

Happy Birthday, Matt Buckles!

Happy Birthday, Josh Preston!

Happy Birthday, Mary Ann Simblian!

Had a couple of dreams last night. One with Chirs another about torturing someone. Not Chris though, if you can believe that. The Chris dream came first, I think. Confrantition style. Redemption style. A lot of yelling and crying and hugging. A pipe dream, if you will. That sort of thing requires him to give a damn. Luckily, I suppose, cyninicism is something I suffer from waking, at least not yet while I am asleep. The other, about the torture, Josh (Kentuck) and I, with three other accomplises (two female and one male) were holded up in this house. Gun, ransom, that sort of thing. Maybe it was a bank, there were hostages. They had an innercom system. So this guy, Buyers is his name, comes to take us out. And Josh gets in a shotting fight with him and we don't shoot him but we take him hostage. And we're there, and I forget what we want him to say, but I keep telling Josh, "Shoot him. Shoot him!" And Josh keeps not shooting him. And somehow I end up inside, and I come back with a huge knife. The kind of knife that has a cap like a two leter of Coke. I don't know why. And I stab the guy lightly in this voodoo paper doll we have. In the hip. The fucker makes fun of me, though I know it hurts a bit. Because I'm pushing down really hard, but this cap is on the knife and there's all this pressure. So I push hard enough to release the pressure, and I take of the cap to the knife. Buyers is still saying something about how it doesn't really hurt, so I go to town on the voodoo leg. Chop, chop, chop. And now the screaming starts. And now there's blood everywhere. And now he realizes that we mean bussiness. Post this, somehow, he shames us. Telling us that he allowed us to be captured, that he could have killed us all and this, this is how we repay him. So on. What are we to do? The dream fades. There is no more.

My relationship with you is a rebellion against everything I've ever known. Though I wouldn't take it personally, it has nothing to do with you, really. Because if you were more than an idea I could not be with you, and if you were less than an idea I could not feel the way I do about you. Also, logically (and necessarily) it implies that this is the best sex that I will ever have (and it is, I might add, in functional reality, not just in theory). But, also logically and also necessarily, it is the most meaningless and trivial romance I will know. Therefore I am able to throw myself into it fully and completely, without regard for the consequences. In actual reality, there are no consequences. There will be no wedding bells, no babies, no any of this. Just you and I, together, in this moment and no other. And, because of this, I will be able to think back on this fondly for the rest of my days.

It was more of a bike of shame. Given the time of day, and the slightly tipsy, hungover, unreal look of everything. Lacking though, very notably, in the shame aspect.

I am having one of those good old fashioned barbeques. Full of backyard games and everything. Just when I had been giving up hope.

What I mean by 'Lucky Boxers' is not so much that they imbue me with luck, but rather that I am hoping to get lucky wearing them. Meaning, I wear them to be seen.

Happy Birthday, Jen (Hot) Guglielmi!

It's such a weird thing to be the one shutting the door. To say, "Have a good day, a safe trip" while watching them walk down the stairs. I'm so used to being the one saying, "Thank you" while I watch the door close behind me. The deep breath, the long exhale, the turning and facing the road ahead. The suddenly looming and now empty place in which I live is a whole other experience.

Kelli O'Toole, I am spreading your legacy to Chicagoland.

I do just love it when the DeKalb dancers come and visit me. It is such a great time. End up having a great conversation and a bit of booze sometimes followed with a touch of dancing. The abstract kind. The meaningless kind that can, if you let it, be your everything.

Nothing is good simply because it is new.

You're damn right that's my drill. Yes, I have become a man since the last time you saw me.

Happy Birthday, Sammi Dawson!

It's totally fun biking around Chicago.

Funny, but I'm not used to being tired when I start my day.

Redmoon is a village of idiots.

Green, so it seems, is a winter color for me.

As it turns out, I don't think I really know how to be a friend anymore.

So I am about to engage in the longest sustained partying of my life. Wish me luck.

Expectations are a bitch.

"A is not A," Hagbard explained with that tiresome patience of his. "Once you accept that A is A, you�re hooked. Literally hooked, addicted to the System."

I caught the references to Aristotle, the old man of the tribe with his unfortunate epistemological paresis, and also to that feisty little lady I always imagine is really the lost Anastasia, but I still didn�t grok. "What do you mean?" I asked, grabbing a wet handkerchief as some of the teargas started to drift to our end of the park.

"Chairman Mao didn't say half of it," Hagbard replied holding a handkerchief to his own face. His words came through muffled: "It isn't only political power that grows out of the barrel of a gun. So does a whole definition of reality. A set. And the action that has to happen on that particular set and on no other."

"Don't be so bloody patronizing," I objected, looking around a corner in time realizing this was the night I would be Maced. "That's just Marx: the [sic] ideology of the ruling class becomes the ideology of the whole society."

"Not the ideology. The reality." He lowered his handkerchief. "This was a public park until they changed the definition. Now, the guns have changed the Reality. It isn't a public park. There's more than one kind of magic."

"Just like the Enclosure Acts," I said hollowly. "One day the land belonged to the people. The next day it belonged to the landlords."

"And the Narcotics Acts," he added. "A hundred thousand harmless junkies became criminals overnight, by Act of Congress, in nineteen twenty-seven. Ten years later, in thirty-seven, all the pot-heads in the country became criminals overnight, by Act of Congress. And they really were criminals, when the papers were signed. The guns prove it. Walk away from those guns, waving a joint, and refused to halt when they tell you. Their Imagination will become your Reality in a second."

And I had my answer to Dad, finally, just as a cop jumped out of the darkness screaming something about freaking motherfucking fag commies and Maced me, as was certain to happen (I knew it as I crumbled in pain) on that set.

-Robert Shea & Robter Anton Wilson; The Illuminatus! Trilogy

I think that I could talk all night, really. Until I was raw in the throat, until all of the booze had been drunk and all of the poetry read. I do love these nights, and these moments, and you people.

I got to use my GAMCheck today.

I feel way better about my life now that I spent fourteen hours of it working today.

Despite my normal mode of communication in this forum, I feel that the only way in which I can pour over yesterday is with a rather straight forward narrative. The reason for this is twofold. First being that on my first night on my trip here to Milwaukee I broke my crappy Walgreens camera that I had purchased oh so long ago with Phil and Alison (of Coldwater fame) when I was in Chicago on holiday. The second is that I wanted to use the term twofold.

I woke at some point, I believe around ten or so a touch hung over I got a note from Katie explaining she'd be back around noon. I started drafting The Oresteia for Rogue Theatre. Sometime during this process I spoke to Monica who was on guard duty (as far as I could tell) and could not bring me any shampoo. So I sat, unshowered, in my boxers happily drafting away. Until around one when I meet Katie's friend Jen. She wants to use the shower in the suite in which I'm sitting. Fine by me. I can't use it without any cleaning products. In fact, I'd love to borrow her shampoo when she is done. She acquiesces. I finish drafting at Monica arrives on the scene, Katie has already split to Bastille Days, and I leave Monica on the bed while I joyfully shower. I return to find Monica somewhat emotionally unstable, owing to her lack of sleep in the past three days. We chat a bit and then head to lunch.

Some noodles place where I end up getting steak mushroom stroganoff, in which I think I was comfortable without the steak. However, upon eating it, turns out that the steak was a good addition. Tits. Monica and I talk at length about the meaning of college life and drunken debauchery without coming to any serious conclusions. A conversation I find immensely satisfying despite this.

I drop Monica off at these dorms where she is going to take a nap, call Katie, hop on a bus and make it to Bastille Days myself. It is a mix between the Taste of Chicago and the Sugar Creek Arts Festival. So, all in all, pretty awesome. I am unable to stay long because Katie and crew are their due to work things. It appears they are chaperoning a lot of young dancers here. Alrighty. I take the bus back with them, have some hand delivered pasta for dinner. Katie and I set out.

We're walking. Nothing to do and nowhere to go. And I feel young. I know that I am young now, but younger. Twelve or so. Those lazy summer days that seemed to go on forever. These days are going on forever. Hip hip. We stop at a couple of places, I pick up some poetry books and I start reading it to her as we are walking down by the lake. She is unimpressed. We return to Bastille Days! Triumphant! I'd like to say it was sixty miles up hill both ways, but I don't think that is the case. There are four stages at this eight block fest, which is amazing, and a whole shitload of people. We walk around and we buy Katie these hair things. Hair stickers? They are sharp points with decorative ends on the opposite side. Pretty. Two for sixteen dollars. I also buy a wine rack, of which I am most pleased.

We take the bus back, get some mixers and drink vodka near volleyball courts. Odd enough thing. I suppose that's what you do when your summer job is baby sitting little ballerinas. I can't say I blame them. I sleep a touch, I wake up this morning, shower. That pretty much brings us up to date. I am now Chicago bound. Back to that same old place.

Finished my reread of The Eye of the World just now. Feeling a bit under the weather (sick like). Loading in tomorrow.

Woke up in Milwaukee. Naked and surprisingly cool. I had enough to drink last night. Enough that I'm feeling it right now. But, really, more so, I just had enough. And not in the way in people say, "I've had enough," meaning that they can't eat any more or to admonish their children or even to say they can't take it anymore. But rather I had enough to say that it was appropriate, as opposed to having less than enough, which had been my fear to begin. It was enough, and that is beautifully and wonderfully good. Enough that I'm feeling it right now.

This might be an odd thing to say, but, I was just looking at my scrotum. I'm sitting here drafting, naked (you know, like you do) and I glance down and the whole works is pulsing and moving, very much like a blob or some such from a movie. I don't know that I've ever experienced something of this nature before. In all my limited twenty some years.

Happy Birthday, Lyndsey Ogle!

I was watching Back to the Future tonight. Appearently it's been so long since either Erin or I had seen it, because when Marty is about to go back to 1985 Doc is telling him that he's sending him back to the exact moment that he left. Both of us are saying, "Hey, why the hell don't you go back a little sooner and tell Doc to get the hell out of there? You know, like ten mintues or something. So Marty's in the time machine and he's saying, "Hey, I've got a time machine. Ten mintues ought to do it." Woah, the movie was listening to us.

Kristin was right. It was way easier to live in places like this. There's something feral about living in the city. Something that puts the hairs on the back of my neck on end. There is something here that allows my ice cream maker to sit in the back of my truck, unlocked and unattended.

The way, I think, to make new friends is to be just uncertain enough that you're willing to let new thoughts and new people in. The way to maintain friends, though, is to remain static, so that the things upon which you've built your friendship remain unshakeable.

Kellie Powell made me grilled cheese last night. Huged me while I gently wept. Before that I had breakfast with Steve and Faith Vittitoe, lunch with Matt Buckles. Some bubble tea (?) with Kathy Briggs and a touch of ice cream with Todd Presson. If you ask me what I want from life, that is it. Good company and good conversation. Catching up, looking forward. Living simply and quiet and slowly running all the way.

Tonight was, easily, one of the worst nights I've had in the theatre. Ever.

Happy Birthday, Phil Higgins!

I saw me The Kentucky Cycle this weekend. Say part one on Friday night with Phil and his friend Kate. Saw part two this evening. Alone. Both times I couldn't help but thinking I wanted Kentuck to be with me. All of this talk of land and of staying and of killing and all of that. And I wanted to say to him, "These are your people." And I wanted him to smile back and say to me, "They're your people, too." Though him know that was true. He's from that land, that Kentucky land. That name placed on it long before our world was even conceived. And passed down, like an heirloom, to us now. And what does it mean to me? It brings up images of this curly haired boy, of this brown eyed girl, of time moving slowly, of musical Shakespeare in the park. Then I see this show that bears the name (Kentucky) and I watch all six hours of it and I am taken away. And when I am brought back, I am so incredibly lonely. I will refrain from going into any major details of the show, as relaying all six hours of it here would be less than impressive and cohesive, I am sure. I will say the violence was fantastic. I got that blood that I've been looking for for so long. A lot of patricide. My favorite line being, "Don't you get to attached, we're gonna kill 'em all."

While it's true, that I don't know anyone that has read any of these books, including my evangelical parents, I feel like this is a really amazing thing for a publication to admit. To just straight up say, "We cater to the heaten crowd." I mean, I've heard of these books. I've seen them on the shelves (mostly at Wal-Mart, before I refused to set foot in one of those stores). I know there's a made-for-TV-movie staring Mike Sever from Growing Pains. But, still, The Reader was right on, I don't know anyone that's read them.

For the record: Burying something is the same damn thing as throwing it out. What the hell do you think happens when you throw something out?

The thing I like most about the theatre is the community. I mean, really, even if we aren't making the world a better place for everyone else (the public, as it were), even if it's a masturbatory art, long since dead, we're at least making the world a better place for ourselves, and, really, I think that's enough.

Wearing shoes (and, more importantly, socks) today. Blech.

I remember Ping's fan, either Freshman of Sophomore year, the one that sat up, to the right of her bed, slowly turning, slowly blowing, for nearly a year. Noble, in its own way.

I can't believe that I don't have any messages to deal with in my phone. You want to talk about living in the now?

Happy Birthday, Mark Elliot Retzer!

Thinking back on Steve's wedding reception, I wonder if there is anything else to say.

okki takun: HOLY SHIT. i'm cryin i'm laughin so hard. your face. your penis. HAHAHA.

This place heats up like an oven if you let it sit for a while.

It might just be me, but I think that fan is possessed by the devil.

Nice to know that, even in summer time, it can still get cold enough that we come inside to watch Aqua Teen.

It's a strange thing. I could say that I've been too busy living my life to be documenting it. But, at the same time, I'm not exactly creating a historical record here. And I find that I enjoy this sort of documentation and interaction with my own present. I consider it a part of living. A part of my life. The way that this hat is mine or the Stars and Stripes are America's ... er, uh, never mind.

Repaired is such a tough word. Such a surviving word. In this world in which everything is so delicate and fragile, it just is simpler and easier and more correct to replace it. Not repair it. Once something is damaged it is discarded. So to me, suddenly, the idea of repairing something, of actually returning it to use, is so foreign and miraculous.

Happy Birthday, Monica Cecilia Foskett!

Ditches are bad, m'kay?

Happy Birthday, Michelle Preston!

So Steve Vittitoe and Faith Waite (Vittitoe) got married today. If you can believe that. I alternate between complete acceptance and complete bafflement. No ground in-between. It seems natural, it seems impossible.

The event itself was very nice. Held in Hoopston, Illinois. Faith's hometown. Appropriate enough. I was in the wedding party, groomsman, as it were. Walked Faith's sister down the asile. Also did some candle lighting things before everything got started. All in all, I was nervous enough, which seems odd, considering my position in the situation, I can't imagine how Steve and Faith were doing. Though, if the sweat that kept appearing on Steve's brow is any indication, I figure he was feeling it pretty seriously.

A lot of interesting talking. God's will, two becoming one flesh. All of that. Rings coming out, vows being spoken. I don't know how to put down words, really. We know what weddings are about, and the ceremony isn't too terribly unique. And at the same time, so unique as to be beyond my meager ability.

The reception was at the American Legion there in Hoopston. We were introduced to the "The Throne Room," the final piece of music from Star Wars: Episode IV: A New Hope. Steve's little touch. Funny how the whole thing worked out. We got to eat first, that was nice. Matt came over, while I was half way though my food, said that I'd be done before he got his. True enough. Seth (best man) said some words, Rachel (maid of honor) said some words. I said some words. Faith's Dad, Kellie Powell, Jeff. Cake was cut. Party started. I kept losing Kirsten, I guess I'm kind of a rough sort of date, here and there and everywhere, social butterfly type.

Post reception we made our way to Seth's folk's place. I ended up licking Steve's scrotum and fell asleep in a chair on the porch.

Fucking awsome, Chris Wright, fucking awsome.

Happy Birthday, Margaret Nelson!

Four words: BJ's Pump - Gay Bar.

I remember sweeting through that shirt.

It's interesting that I always want people to come, but I never know what to do with them once their here. I am stuck in my ways. Boring, some might say.

Is anything scared? I know that the answer should be yes, but really, at the end of the day, it isn't.

I have one thing to say about today: Hot.

I seem to be fighting a losing battle here. With my feet.

I have developed a crush on an older woman. And, for the record, no, it's not Margaret Nelson.

I know there's a lot of talk about silence being golden. And, while that may be true, I have to say I think stillness resonastes more with me.

Eye Cycle: Arithmetic of Shadows opened tonight. Good show. Goddamn, good show.

Why have my relationships with men always been so odd?

Did you know that if you clean the contacts on your cell phone that's been having trouble charging for a while it'll work a lot better? I'm serious.

Got a lamp to read by. Hip hip.

Went to Steve's batchlor party last night. First and foremost I'd like to say that I'm a big fan of Steve and I'm glad that we're friends. Also, I'd like to state that I did have a good time, despite the doubt I am about to express.

Vice is an odd thing. We started out spending some time at this video game place, drinking and playing video games (which I was fully engaged in). Following we went to the Par-A-Dice Casino out there in Peoria. One of those riverboat deals that is allowed in Illinois. I watch Steve and Seth play some of these slot thingies here. And he says to me, "You don't get it, do you?" And I have to admit, I don't. You hit a button, you hit another button. It takes your money. It's like playing a video game without the game part. It says, "Hit A," you hit A. It says, "Hit B," you hit B. It says, "Give me all your money," you give it all your money. Seems like an odd way to enjoy yourself. Ended up at the roulette table sitting next to Steve. He was going one way or another. I watched for a bit, bet ten dollars on black. Won. Suddenly I had twenty. I felt the excitement. And it wasn't even the excitement about that new ten dollars, but what it represented. The tremendious possibility. The twenty becoming fourty and fourty becoming eighty, and so on. The ten dollars becoming a thousand. I'm sure it's a fever that most gamblers feel. So I bet my new found ten dollars. Lose it. Bet my original ten dollars. Lose that, too. Wait. Wait. Wait. Watch Steve start to lose the nearly two hundered he has sitting next to him. He's thinking about leaving, I throw ten more down on black. Lose. I'm done. Steve slowly goes broke. It's a rough sort of mistress. Much rougher than the theatre, I must say.

Then we made our way to Big Al's. One of those clubs where women take their clothes off and that sort of thing. So I go in, I pay my cover, I sit. I'm a bit drunk, a bit past drunk. The passing out sort of stage. Tired. Either way, though, I was mostly uninterested. They come out, do a little dance, take their shirts off, rub their titties in someone's face, take their pants off, more tittie rubbing and leave. New girl. This isn't sex. This isn't even sexy. It's nudity trying very hard to push towards sexy. Nudity trying to make you think of sex. And was I thinking about sex? Not really. I was wondering what they do in their lives when they're not stripping. Exactly how much they pull in. If they go home feeling with the feeling of a job well done. How this effects their sex life, their view towards men. Do they even like men? Sex has something to do with someone being there for you, personally, and wanting you there, personally. These girls checking their watches doens't do it for me. Some random breasts in my face are just as much flesh.

Pretty good day today. Got a fair amount done. Hung out with Emily. The worst part being that tomorrow I'm sure I'm going to find out that there was something I've left undone.

X:	I think I know which ones I'll pick, but I can only look at them for so long before I stop knowing if I like them or hate them
A:	Yeah, I feel the same way about people.
X:	Really?
A:	Oh for sure. This is why I break every mirror I come into contact with.

Rumor has it Emily Jane is coming to town tomorrow.

That's hot shit. And I don't say that to be perverse or colloquial or anything, but mainly because that feces seems to be on fire.

Strange dream last night about a gienna pig. Bought him, he kept trying to escape. It all took place in real time, and I have this cage inside my truck, and he keeps getting out. And I'm thinking maybe I should take him back. But he can slip though the grid on the front of the cage. What the hell kind of cage is that? So I just put him in the truck and he punches (no joke. punches) the topper door open. So shit, I try a bunch of other things to keep him contained, I don't want him jumping out while I'm driving him back to the store. I don't want him to run wild for fear that he can't make it on his own, however strong and feisty he may be. Wake up before I got him back.

Meeting last night. Starting something new. Hopefully something big. Tired and excited: The mean state of living.

Formatted my desktop today. Hip hip. Now has XP on it. I'm how many years behind on that one? Four? Five?

Well, things almost turned out how I wanted them to. Though I'm told that only counts in horse shoes and hand grenades. And international politics.

Going this way and that. A couple of loose ends to tie up, I think summer may be coming.

Tired today, but what else is new?

Saw me the northern lights. Ye olde Aurora Borealis. Couldn't fuckin' believe it. Jason says, "Have you ever seen the nothern lights?" And I say, "No," and I dorp Ryan's cell phone and head for the door. It was gray and dim and all of that. But dancing and huge and larger than life. Jason's girlfriend says, "Now how do we put that on stage?" "We can't," I reply, "There are somethings that God can do that we cannot."

I came home for nothing, and I suppose that's what I got.

And I'm off to Columbia for a bit of drama. For about twenty mintues of work that has been two days coming. Then a two intermission act show. Again. And hopefully I am done. Done, done, done.

Slept in my bed last night. Hip hip.

This is a first. I leave the place after Chris leaves this morning and I get home before he does.

Well, I guess it's not awful.

These days aren't getting any shorter. Three theatres today.

Actually, really, the question is what the fuck am I doing this afternoon in this god-forsaken theatre doing this damn show? Nothing is the word, is the story, really, nothing. Nothing, nothing, nothing. I can't say that I've had experiences like this before, had moments like this before. Bright, brighter. Fuck you. No joke. Way to waste my time. A plague upon you. Curses. Curses and damnation.

I know I've said this before, and, at the risk of sounding borning or monotinous: It is a beautiful world.

Kelli O'Toole, where are you?

And my girl left, too. Because that's the story with boys like us, we always want what we can't have. When we wake up in the morning and you're there we feel trapped, but when you're gone all that remains is longing.

I just saw The Pillowman down here at Columbia College Chicago. Really, really, the only thing I can say is, "Wow." It was a good show. A good show. In all of its levels. Josh and Kay did a bang up job on lighting it, my only disappointment being the gun shot, I was expecting more, more, more, of that Dr. Pepper flavor I've been looking for. The axe event change, amazing. The color changes, I was impressed. Very impressed, almost changed my feelings about front light. It was good, I liked it. But the script, good god. I feel outclassed and terrified. It is wonderful. What more can you do? What prompts people to write? To create art? My claim is that it is that which we do not see, the striving towards the world that we do not behold everyday. But if it is there, right in front of us, close enough to reach out and touch, then what more do we need? Nothing. The rest is silence.