20.10 I am a cute little rodent hiding under Jenicek’s couch. Soon I will emerge and throttle him with a pipe wrench. It is too bad his English is so fucking bad that he’ll never appreciate the sublime humor of the first two sentences.

Heil Fucksheep.Org.

20.12 I am sitting here contemplating finishing the drum machine part to “Work Song”, a Calvert piece I have been working on slowly for the last few days.

The chord progression is minimalist to an extreme, but the song has always had a compelling edge for me. I will attempt to mp3ify it before the end of the week. Well, that is, if I finish the bleeding thing.

21.16 It seems I must go to a meeting arranged initially by Jeníček because dickboy is out of town. Dammit. Maybe I’ll have some vodka before I go. That will make it more fun.

22.49 Dead evening. Vodka absolute. Viking babbling to no end in a language I can barely understand unless I am coherent in an adjacent room. Magma is too pertinent to the evening, bubbling into the air uncontrolled. Needed.

Why are womens’ voices so obtuse, abrasive? They should be silenced from birth with a scalpel. I would gladly do it myself.

Three yellows, one brown

Children kicking plastic balls

Screaming at pigeons

In Chris’s fingers

One strip of translucent tape

To muffle a child

The cooing flock lights

A blanched dead against the green

Chewing and staring

Plump as a pigeon

A child squeals in the distance

Ready for roasting

Bland, loud and selfish

Soulless husks bawling for bread

Which could feed them all

Fucking Australia, miles from Muenchen, from the Condor, 1 2 Snap, the summation of my past two months. A whirlwind has taken me from life to life, as if they have no connection at all besides my singular presence in both.

(Condor)

5.35pm – we board the bus of death.

KURAFE KON IS JETZ! The prostitute is with you.

KURAFE SOL KON SOLET JETZ. The prostitutes are with us.

SOLAN QIN KOLEPE NIS. They are inside the pigeon.

SOLET PELIS KASE SOL TOPEN. We go towards the houses.

Noun affixes:

• diminuative –> + otz
• superlative –> + uk
• derogatory –> + ax
• beautificatory –> + im –> ilm
• all –> + ek
• not –> + um
• interrogative –> + it
• indefinite (some) –> + ap
• masc / neut / fem –> + u + o + a
• definite (the) –> + (j)e

Plez … kiss.

Plezotz … little kiss.

Plezim … Very nice kiss.

Plezit … Which kiss?

Kerisax … disgusting rat.

kerisukax … big disgusting rat.

kerisukaxit … which big disgusting rat?

kerisotzek … all little rats.

kenikime … the wonderful book.

mezotzaje … the little female mouse.

Ordering: noun + dim / sup + der / beaut + all / inter / indef + gender + def.

Animate thing - ehol

Inanimate thing - ohol

Thing - hol (concept)

Place - mol

Time - nol

Way - zol

amount - sol

quality - fol

Some (indefiniteness) –> tap

Interoggative –> + it

Definite –> + e

Negative –> + um

Collective –> + ek

Eholit is? –> Which (animate thing) are you?

Holit an? –> What is it?

Et Fek mokife topen nolap. –> Sometime I (will) go to the pub.

Solet fek mokolep topen nolum. –> We never go to parks.

Solit kurafe? –> How much is the prostitute?

hmmmmm…. bad….

Solit kuraf? –> How many prostitutes?

Solum. –> None.

Is fek molit topen? –> To where do you go?

Et fek molum topen nolek. –> I always go nowhere.

Nokife nolek. –> The time to drink is always.

Et kon kolep sol jetz nolek.

Quality: fo- (english… -like)

lofez (sheep) –> folofez (sheeplike)

kuraf (prostitute) –> fokuraf (slutlike)

Ana fokuraf. –> she is like a prostitute.

Chris fek kosel topen folofez. –> Chris goes to church like a sheep.

Degree: so- (english … -ness)

Solofez –> sheeplike tendencies or sheepness.

Kuraf –> sokuraf … slutness.

Sokif –> Alcohol like tendencies.

Etc.

Place: mo-

Mokif –> The place to drink alcohol.

Mokuraf –> The place of prostitutes.

Moperital –> A friendly place.

Motormir –> Place of sleep.

Person: fe-

Fekif –> drunkard.

Fekuraf –> One who does prostitutes.

Fekosel –> Churchgoer.

Genetive case:

Liz. With sol, it agglutinates as -iz. With pronouns, it also agglutinates as -iz.

• etiz - mine. of me.
• isiz - of you. yours.
• aniza - hers. of her.
• solyziz - of us [but not you].

Kase kotze liz. The cat’s house.

Kase kotze soliz. The cats’ house.

Kase sol kotze soliz. The cats’ houses.

An kenik etiz. It is my book.

Ana kuraf Chris liz. She is Chris’s prostitute.

Mofek … at the place.

• Chris fek mokurafe topen. Mofek kurafe anizu.
• Chris goes to the bordel. There is his prostitute.

Nofek … at the time.

Zonuz … by this way or means.

• Solet qin suke topen. Zonuz fek zelol topen.
• We enter the train. By train (we go) to hell.

I fucking hate Jeníček. He is a sheep. He is worse than a sheep because he wants to go home and shag his laptop instead of doing things that people who are NOT sheep do, like drinking lots of beer until they vomit for seven days. I fucking also hate waiting for the DAMN metro with this smelly kurva sitting behind me. I must hold my breath and shag with a large black man. Jeníček is addicted to his laptop. He does nothing but shag it all day. Jeníček is so fucking stupid that he would rather sit on the wrong metro train than have a beer at the kurva bar where they sell little, brown kurvy for 22DM a piece.

Now it’s working, says Jeníček. It’s the thinghie with the thinghie, he continues dynamically… Soon the metro will arrive and we’ll be swiftly deployed to the beer place, despite my troubled meanderings on the opposite page. Au voir.

The heat here is intense. I wipe the back of my neck with my naked palm and pull away a swath of sweat. German humans babble to one another in German. Marcie, far away in both time and space, is on my mind, burning moment after moment in my cluttered brain with her youth, her perfect smile dotted with an excruciatingly well placed dimple. EVERYONE LOVES ME AND MY DIMPLE! she shouted (my inference) via email in 1992. 19 fucking 92. Nineteen fucking ninety two. That evening is so distant. Well, not that, but the one that suffuses my thoughts at present.

I met her somewhere near the A&M thinghie around which it is unheard of to walk upon the grass and in which it is decreed as punishable to wear a hat and we strolled, spoke, gazed into one anothers’ eyes, ending up at Bright (as usual). I recall sitting in the back left row of computers in room 209 and feeling the smooth skin of her ankles and calves, pulling up the denim of her jeans to allow my hands to caress her flesh. We spoke, of what I cannot exactly recall, but I can guess. Most likely the avid reader of my so-called novels can, as well. Then there was the day (was it the same day? I think not because my memory shows blurrily she and I sitting at another computer in the dim twilight of room 209, facing the back wall, not the front whiteboards on which Raun drew that pernicious creature I so would love to glimpse again) when it came as an obstreperous cry to me that her parents were going to force herto move back to Hosuton - back to her father - back to DOUG BUMP. The emotion of that day is unnerving even in this distant time-space locale.

Craziness!

What happened, oh Marcie, what ever happened to the life we were founding - the abortive grope into a future fecund and proud? Now where are you whilst I sit alone at nigh 2am in a crowded, horiffic pub in Muenchen?

WHERE?

Change change change, AN ABSURDLY SELF ABSORBED VICTIM.

I have swallowed a double vodka and most of a Helles Bier … What kind of crack was I smoking when I scribed the opposite page? IRONY indeed … misplaced emotions that belong in another time-space intrude on this lonely evening (morning?). But is that not the definitive definition of nostalgia, anyhow?

HUMANS INTERACT

I INTERACT WITH THIS BOOK

BLANK … like Marcie, like the girl I took, taught, destroyed.

So many songs sing of alcohol as a cleanser. Look! It washes away the sorrow until the next morning arrives… so to paraphrase. But no! It intensifies to an extreme for me. The obviousness of this truth is plain for every bleeding cunt to see.

I refuse to die a sad, unknowing man!

But my destiny demands it! My freedom frees me from commitment but also from any other sentient soul who might care about my scribbling, my music, my jaded efforts at true communication. At 80, I shall be sitting huddled, writing words that shall be discarded, destroyed - unread by any but myself ––> *Who will be the RECIPIENT?

Jayson’s childrens’ children? Loyal’s childrens’ children? Tony’s childrens’ children?

The time? 2.00 … GMT + 1.

HEY - MA MA MA - HEY - YA YA YA - (LIFE IN A NORTHERN TOWN)…

Miguel - that pool hall at the university in Snyder, Texas - where Shawna was from - one penny a minute for pool. I recall concretely, though my handwriting is stobbornly refusing to show it. The college crowd, a few boys, a few OVCE, placed a jam box near the pool table and whilst Miguel and I played, we listened to Another Brick in the Wall Part Two and In Jeopordy (the former by the illustrious Pink Floyd and the latter by the hopefully forgotten Greg Kihn Band (our love’s in jeopordy, BABY, indeed)).

After that (or before - I remember not - hence - this was my freshman year in high school - district in UIL Calculator, Number Sense, Nonsense, whatever) the song, aforementioned, played on the loudspeakers: The Dream Academy Life in a Northern Town. Now, Miguel, a devotee of heavy metal and the like (if it wasn’t Judas Priest / Iron Maiden / Metallica / etc, it was shit) told me I like this song. I like it a lot. I do not know why, but I do - I cannot explain it.

Last I heard (8 years ago?), Miguel was working driving 18 wheelers out of Cayanosa. CAYANOSA. Ty vole. Out of my mundane, drunken world into the universe of work each day in a rig, driving miles upon miles and resign to a homestead unwanted, least treaded upon. I think of Dave and that my handwriting is becoming too affected by alcohol. Pause - pause. PAUSE. Let me write that more clearly: PAUSE. Ok, my rychlé was the most prominent problem. Jsem idiot - heh: sometimes. Marcie would concur.

SADLY THESE ARE THINGS I SHALL ALWAYS RECALL —–

It is for my progeny! Jayson’s childrens’ children. Loyal’s childrens’ children. Tony’s childrens’ children.

So what is there to say after all has been said, after handwriting is annihilated, after mind is replaced by a vociferous animal? Something toils inside, keeps me alive during these subtly dismal evenings.

Jayson’s childrens’ children.

Loyal’s childrens’ children.

Tony’s childrens’ children.

A sad ultimatum to my progeny - unfinished are all my thoughts. Forgive me, prosím.

There is a ridiculous fat girl (tlustá holka) sitting at a table near me singing absurdly along with the lyrics of this obviously DAFT piece of music - my words are PRETENTIOUS, demeaning, ignore the chaff and focus on the perpetual stupidity, absurdity, this species (us!) inherits from each unuseful person in its midst. DIE! DIE! DIE! Listen to my handwriting like you do to the popular alternitiva.

ALTERNITIVÁ.

< SPECTRUM >

The THING (The pervasive commerce:)

( [ * M A R K E T I N G ’ S * ] )

Listen and believe that these mundane, repetitive onuses will only lead you to the conclusion that music is nothing but a phase passing from minute to minute to minute, from year to year to year in a pointedly incoherent

MANNER.

AGAIN I AM OUT OF ALCOHOL. SADLY - MY ADDICTION C O N S

U

M E S

ME

I want to do another historical reiteration, but I refrain. A fight breaks out in the pub - people thrashing at each other - it is horrific - I am unsure how to react. A portrait, a picture would me more appropriate. I want to know the cause - the reason. I am denied.

I think that everything I scribe beyond this will be complete hovno, so what is, exactly, the point? Though, slowly, it seems a challenge to be to actually sit and write. I think of Stacy Shannon. Does anyone reading this recall her?

That day, early high school (9th grade? 10th?) looking in her eyes - oh - talking about The Wall in San Angelo - so many years ago - and her shagging her boyfriend in front of FSHS my sophomore year - Mario my comforter. It was the last time I saw her. C’est la vie.

I WILL BE DRUNK OUT OF MY MIND BEFORE I LEAVE THIS ESTABLISHMENT.

Now it is 2.50. A vodka I shall order.

A DOUBLE.

16.18

Well, most of the alcohol has at last left my system. I do not at all recall scribbling the end of last night’s entry. Heh. It has been, however, the most prolific day of writing in a long while - since last summer, surely. The pen is finally again becoming an instrumentI am comfortable with. The underground arrives and I board. I am sitting across from a mildly attractive female with slightly flushed cheeks. It is impossible to write because of the underground’s B U M P I N E S S. Farewell to the anonymous female and this entry.

16.50

I await. I await: The U - BAHN.

Strange songs have been parading unceasingly through my consciousness today. Why strange? Well, only in context, not in content. Walking towards my room from the elevator earlier (I was in the process of being frustrated because my laundry was not yet in a state even remotely resembling dryness) and found myself subconsciously fixated on Useless Begging by Todd Rundgren. That transformed into Izzat Love. These are songs I have not heard in several years.

I await, at LaimerPlatz, Maja. It should be an interesting encounter, though I may only be being optimistic.

So, as my avid reader can see: I got her phone number:

22.15, heading for HauptBahnHof.

22.44, sitting in the Greek-type-pub place near the hotel blízko

SilberhornStrasse, yonk-boy. My prolific writing day has not yet come to an uncanny close.

B E H O L D :

Cheers, the barman smiles. My drinks are before me: my new norm: ein bier und ein wodka. My resolve: I shall purchase some quaint text concerning the German language and familiarize myself with the tongue. Jazyk!

The deal with Maja is THIS: She is already my friend. I draw immediate comparisons to Tina and our first days in friendship - October of 1998 - one and a half freakin’ years ago. My mind wonders to the B-line ride from (or was it to?) Jinonice and her tears as the words she spoke about her family stung her.

Peter Blegvad sings

Until a woman’s intimite with grief, she’s just a little girl.

Maja fits within this lyric as if it were the tight red shirt she wore during the four hours in which I began to know her. But she is not an ovce, not one of the conformist masses, but despises it. Ona se stěžová o tom. Rather: Ona se stěžovala o tom. And I am sure she shall in the future, as well. We sat on swings and spoke, just as Christmas and I did in Austin in the early spring of 196, as Kelley Love and I did in December of 1991, as many of my friends and I did during that era. Nostalgia is overcoming me. sob.

She COOKED FOR ME A Simple Dinner of Eggs, Bread, Salad And APPLE JUICE.

I ate, we listened to Biohazard and all WAS quiet, relaxing to HER, but I could not show my tension, the revolting want to fuck her where she sat on the coloured couch in her parents’ flat. I am tainted by my stay in Prague, my conversations with Jeníček, and my dismally abortive relationship with ……. Dana. I must learn to love women again as friends, not as sex toys, objects of simple pleasure, to be tossed to the waste bin quicker than the semen can dry on the soiled sheets.

IT IS A GOOD CHALLENGE FOR ME

TO ENCOURAGE THIS FRIEN

D

SHIP!

She is Yugoslavian. I will go to Yugoslavia this SUMMER —> ––> ––> it is a plan!

POTŘEBUJÍ PIVO…..

A NEAR MISS, said the policeman, as his eye shattered from pressure, exuding a thick fluid that inched along his pale chee like a slug, leaving in its wake a reddish, pasty residue. He fell, as if in slow motion, to the sidewalk that appeared, cracked, as if built by an insane or arachnoid architect, to shatter the silence with a final cry from his forever afterwards mute throat.

S T O P ! ! TY VOLE, VOLE. IT IS TERRIBLE!!

PLAN TWO: Make tapes for both Maja and Puhutes. The former of harder edged progressive material and the latter of primarily Univers Zero. On that note, listening to La Faulx tonight should provide an excellent conclusion to the evening.

ICH BIN SCHWEINEHUND.

I drink too much. I drink too fast. I prefer a bottle to a glass. -Peter Blegvad

FUCKING AMERIČANS ————————>

(I envy them. I hate them.)

Maybe I am finally finished with my absurd desire to be a social creature. Illusion? What are all these IRC and ICQ escapades, then? Someone wonders. Is it you? Eh?

———–> Alcoholism is raging. Five vodkas, three beers - spát!

SPÁT!!!!

Last night I considered this: Find Kierstinn. Do it! Why not? She has my son, after all. Well, that is not an excuse, of course, because I did nothing but biologically spawn the hund, did not put my money / effort into raising him: I AM NOT HIS FATHER, just an eidolon he may conjure of an evil, deralict young man shagging his mother in a dorm room in College Station, Texas.

I recall that night well, despite the alcohol. It was the same night of Dave’s sickness, of Roger and I’s Southern Comfort liaison and vomiting ’neath the underpass on University, near Dudley’s Draw. It was the same night I planted my seed in Kierstinn, the same night my relationship with her was simultaneously began and finished.

ENVY == HATE

She was sitting in my lap, young, full of life, energy - vitality. Her head smashed into my temple, destroying the joint ’tween the arm of my glasses and the holder of the lens-type-apparati. Years passed before I fixed them. Heh - those glasses finally broke one year prior. I still have them. At times like this, my brain drowning in alcohol, I still love her.

Write! Write!

FILL THE PAGE!!!

FILL THE PAGE!!!

But what shall I write about? The stupidness of my current predicament? The chatter ’round me that diffuses into the same blather experienced year after tenuous year? Could I fuck and not care? Eh? Is it an option? Somehow, it is not and never will be an option for me. I believe it still may be for Tony, who lusts still after ex-girlfriends of old, but, as he disbelieves, I am not like him, for my sexual misapproriations have only led to dispair, to self-loathing and nigh suicide.

NOT AN OPTION, VOLE

In 7 minutes, it shall be zítra. Zítra! Shall I conclude? I must, drunk though I am in this desolate town so far away from the ones I love. For future reference:

5 vodkas and three Biers FUCK ME UP.

Vole.

Plan three: Stop saying vole. Ty vole. I wrote 11 pages today. I believe it is a record.

It is wacky Tuesday. In two days it shall be Acy day. Imagine that (imagine that)! How well has bob (in all of his slothful grandeur) progressed with his chat application? Hm? Well, not really any at all, if the truth need be known. The initial item in my two entry list circa two days prior has been completed, but the second not even touched. A new problem has cropped up, as well, and I shall enumerate it here:

The ImageButtons cannot load their images because the images can only be loaded by the applet class itself (fucking security). So I must load all of the images using the applet class (which results in horrific object-orientedness) and pass them to the ImageButtonPannel object which will feed each ImageButton with its image/text pair. Good fun, eh? Meanwhile, I infuriate people on Průvodce, amusingly.

And so I shall follow that larger bit of a problem with a seznam of smaller ‘improvements’. Yipeee!

I am concerned about the Chat application that I was so eager to take on. It is not as though i cannot handle the coding aspect, but instead have a pronounced lack of assertiveness in production. What shall I do to curb this incessant desire to dawdle in sloth? Well, first of all, I need to run the application and list the things which should be APPARENTLY improved/fixed/added. Here goes.

• An applet parameter or a command line argument must specify whether the chat instance is in ‘operator’ mode or not. This mainly consists of enclosing the QuickMessageList and ChannelUserList (and the happy quartet of buttons) in a conditional thurk.
• The QuickMessageList should not appear until a channel has been entered. It follows that the channel itself should provide the messages, or, more specifically, the channel will be related to a group of messages in a database. Andrew and I spoke of ‘performer’ messages and ‘room’ messages. So, contradicting myself and clarifying a tad better, performer-specific messages will appear as soon as the operator logs in, while room-specific messages will appear as soon as the operator enters/creates a channel. So the rooms which demand room-specific messages for the operator(s) must have entries in the database associated with the messages AND the channels an operator joins to purloin these messages must have names identical to the database entries.

I will tend to the first of the two initially since I need to get some semblance of a sex site working by 10 tomorrow rano. Here I go.

Scott’s gaze to me is exceedingly curious, as if he is expecting me at any moment to be pummelled. I wonder what Melanie’s words were preceeding the snapping of this photograph. I look very much as if it was not expected. That is, there is no poise or silliness in my demenor, a facet of my personality that manifests itself when some human being who is psychologically associated with me begins to aim the camera (and I am noticing their actions, of course).

The drink I quaff (not in the photograph, but surely within the immediate vacinity of the time at which it was taken) is (I assume) Dr. Pepper, as is Melanie’s. Scott’s is not to be seen. The props of the scene belong to Kerby Lane North and I’d like to think this was my reunion night with Scott.

The exact date escapes me, but I am sure I can dredge it up in my expansive archive of emails – mayhap I shall tomorrow evening.

The next day, our trio applied at MCI for telemarketing positions. Scott and I were hired and melanie spurned (it was good for her). My mind refuses to recall any other details of the evening, sadly, but Kerby Lane itself has a rich and varied history with me beginning in the summer (June?) of 1990 when I was introduced to the Kerby Lane Kerby Lane one by Neil and a few other humans I do not remember. I have not seen Neil in eight years. The only detail of my first Kerby Lane experience I can recall is Neil (or was it his brother?) letting me and everyone else taste his food as he raved madly about how magnificent it was. I believe the pick of the evening was enchiladas - mayhap California Enchiladas, one of my preferred foodstuffs.

So quicklyy I divert from the original subject in my shallow, daft, bland, superficial recount of a mostly forgotten evening. So I stop.

I now notice the age in my face. The smooth visage of youth is becoming creased by time’s unbridled clip. Experience, like the sand of a desert storm, weathers and erodes my skin. Every moment of my life has somehow left a stain on me. It is as if my sort putty-like youth has slowly hardened into the complex and moulded cast of a man, the slow but sure hands of time, my shaper.

Who is 0603323917???

Time is relentless. It will never stop, not even after my molecules are again in thedust of a nebula. The lines show clearly, standing out poignantly on Kevin Tritt’s forehead.

I wonder now if he has ever fixed the ducttaped window or if the rustle of Alaska’s autumn leaves still seeps through those imperfectly sealed cracks and into the kitchen where kevin stands. I think I purchased the teapot sitting on the stove ready to warm in its innards a tasty beverage for the inhabitants of that house on Lois Drive in Spenard.

I remember the night Theo, Brian and I sat on the counter the stove graces speaking of subsersive ways to destroy the pulp mill near Ketchikan. Bohužel, these things never came to any real fruition. Or is the whole fecundity of the event in the amusement of those involved at the moment? It drifts, like all others, into a haze, a blurring dust storm, just stinging sand which erodes the skin, withers the senses, eventually kills. And, of course, these moments are most likely not the ones others would pen into leatherbound books, but only for me.

A strange sensation has flooded into my consciousness, is slowly receding again. This is a reason to have children, after all. Magdalena! I take it back! I want beautiful children with you! They and possibly they alone would sit in wonder as they perused these pages. My concerned reader, perhaps you are not in solitude, after all. Everyone has made pretty radically horrific mistakes in life, surely, but I doubt many as bad as my choice to have a vasectomy. Now the complications involved in getting it reversed are immense, indeed.

I am trying to imagine Magdalena’s thoughts if she ever read this – especially concerning the reversal of my feelings involving so many things – most notibly children. Do you, my avid reader, think it would satisfy me? Or would it wear my mind into a malaise of stagnation like so many other things? I DO know that cutting this rope of peregrine that binds me is an appealing thought at the moment, the problem being that I also cut away, foolishly, the relationship that made me the most satisfied. Her. Magdalena. Damn you, Bob.

Isn’t this journal a facility I employ to further understand myself? Indeed. So I should heed my own advice instead of fogetting the many plaintive moments I spend talking to myself in a searing frenzy of loss and isolation. The familiarity that I crave spawns in the filling well of my mind, a spring of creativity and productiveness. Sadly, this recalls the song Back Door by Kansas wherein Steve Walsh describes succinctly the desire to share a number of beautiful things in life, events, thoughts, words, future – and then, in contrast, closes each verse with the line But are you leaving? Leaving by my back door? This terrifying sense of loss stabs another sabre of pain through my chest. The Back Door signifies to me escape, surreptitious disappearance. This you Steve talks about is dissing his dream of a beautiful life just about as much as humanly (or godly) possible. And guess what, my spellbound reader? I feel the exact same way about the situation with Magdalena. Sigh – repeated history. The lesson? Never fall in love? Have a hemispherectomy? Blah.

Black is in my head, annoying my restless neurons with how it relates to my situation. The craziness of last night haunts me like a receeding dream at which I try to clutch but recall only snatches that blur even further into grew forgetfulness. Another person with whom I was very close is gone and no amount of insolent kicking of my legs or wailing like a forsaken ghoul into the night will make her come back.

Two weeks ago today I told her goodbye and two days prior to now she said she cannot return to me. My tears have been in vain. All of the thoughts and words and smiles will fade into obscurity. Like with Melanie, Marcie or Kierstinn. The pain is fantastically intense like the cracking of my aorta that steals my life.

She cried for Pavla and Jeníček last night as I nearly choaked to death in our bed. She held me tight and kissed me again and again on my forehead and neck, much like a mother to a deleriously feverish child. We slept as close as we had when we were first in love, on fire with unquenchable passion. The fading flame that killed our love. That prompted me to foolishly kill our love. And now my mind cannot see my rationale, my list of reasons for departing because my emotional energy floods cross my corpus collosum, drowning all logic in its way indiscriminately.

It is much too terrifying to think of what I am losing, of the history that will atrophy, from the smiles she shown that at the moments they appeared, seemed like they could never die or pass inconsiderately into time.

Messages…

Where are you? Talk to me or I will evaporate. I am going to make pancakes tonight and have them with Univers Zero. -Hela.

Why am I not savoring my moments with her instead of pining over things already eroding? I am so caught up and fascinated with loss and the ensuing despair that I forget the moment and later regret the times I wasted. A very good example of this is Spring of 1996, my pain and emptiness wrought from Melanie’s absence, and the ridiculous events I drug myself and my friends through because I could not let go. So must I let go of Magdalena? If I do not, I shall drive her away for good, but I wonder what is the difference when she is now pursuing a life perpendicular to everything our relationship concerned.

This fact is the knife that twists in my heart.

It is scarily similar to Melanie’s actions (though certainly not as extremist): to discard all that related to our relationship. Gladly, Magdalena will not go to thisextreme end since much of what she has now in her life was the both of ours and she gladly still receives gifts from me with a genuine smile.

More messages from Hela…

Vesele Vanoce … Love, peace and poison for all.

Let me lick your fishy LAP TOP.

The greatest tragedy concerning Magdalena is the fact she is pushing deliberately her feelings for me away – that or supressing them with active (refusing to kiss me on the lips) and passive (not spending much time in our flat) actions.

I feel last night was the final one I shall spend in her arms. It is time for grieving and ultimately catharsis. In a way, these words are my catharsis whilst hers may be discarding her feelings for me or submerging herself in other people to help her forget. Diametrically opposite, baby. I am looking up at the surface of the water knowing I have not breath or the strength to make it there.

It has always been my method of dealing.

I have not changed. So, I must leave her alone or watch her be gone for good. What a silly paradox it is. Fuck. My fire in her eye has flickered and died. Soon another wil rekindle that flame. I want not to write of the ills we suffered as a couple. Here is where I clean my memories. No longer do I with THE HIGH VOLTAGE POWER SUPPLY. Trains encourage me to pen my ideas. I am saddened that I missed the train to Magdalena’s home. Now I may never see it.

Messages to Jeníček from me, now…

Letna, crying, thinking, writing and healing. Where are you?

Thank you, my friend, but I think I should be alone because of my pain :/

I am writing about Magda, of course.

I am writing words to a song for her. It will be the second song for her.

They are mostly the truth. Soon, I’ll be sitting in a café drinking tequila sunrises - a drink that will one day be nostalgic of yet another woman. Yet another, indeed.

My backslide into the relentless sycophant-like behaviour will ultimately alienate Magdalena. I must nip it in the buttock so to preserve and chance for reconcilliation. The sad truth, however, is that I am not sure I can unless I disappear for a while. The emotional flood overwhelms any sort of logical decision maing ability I have in this atrophying brain of mine.

My goal is to visit Katrin on my way to seeing Peter Hammill in Strasbourg 15 May. It is not far away, is it, silly penstroke? There is no reason to call my leg shaven if each pitiful pore exudes a thin strand of useles protein that captures small globules of dirt and sweat to stink up the interior of each of my three pairs of jeans. Extrapolating, I recall Magdalena telling me last night that she would go with me for new jeans today, but, when I spoke to her on the telephone, her resounding NO in reply to my dinner suggestion shows the hallmark of logic over emotions. Sure, the yesterday evening was tumultuous to an extreme degree for her, and the backlash is retreat into her cavern of non-bobitude, dismissing all thoughts of a tentative rendezvous even though in contradistinction, she is obviously in a state of bliss when we banter whilst strolling about Prague.

So what, my dear reader may ask, was the purpose of tagging that bit of prattle with extrapolating? Well, my resulting extrapolation from her actions is this: she will drift further and further until she is over me and it is safe to give me her time again. But then what would be the point since we are not again in passionate thrall? You see, it will depressingly just become what mine and Draža’s relationship is: two people living separate lives who see each other mayhap every two weeks for a cup of java and semi-interesting conversation. There seems to me, then, three sets of friendship or relationship types.

• Committed, which involves this capricious beast called love. In this sort, two people see each other constantly, share time and experiences.
• Folk with whom you go out for a beer every few evenings, to a cabin or camping on the weekends, etc. I always blurred quite convincingly the boundary between this and the first type.
• Friends who are considered (suprisingly) good, but who are only seen mayhap once in two weeks or less often. It is the most dismal of the trio, methinks. I want to run from it.

Fuck this.

Sunday night, Draža said something of great interest to me. I mentioned to her that I hope she and I can still be going on our cynical, scurrilous shindigs even after 30 more years! She replied that we can talk about our problems concerning whomever we happen to be with, about children, job, etc, and why we had never been to gether. Obviously, it was this last bit that hit me not quite unlike a rubber mallet to the testicles.

Poignant.

Not really even thinking about my initial attraction to her back in October, I plaintively overviewed the sad irony of such a future situation. Resigned to age and commitment, I wonder if we would have the nerve to simply run away with each other if our lives were both in a sad state of disrepair. Would it be a possibility to touch once again the spontaneous, impulsive irrationality of youth and tap its vein regardless of consequence? It is the story of my life, is it not? The second tequila sunrise is being slurped affectionately into my tum-tum here in the café that haunts none of my thoughts or dreams (yet).

It is time for Chapter “Bared Dogma” to come to a close before my chest cracks open from the pain in my heart, both physical and emotional. Oouh!

Left without a clever word to say. There is nothing but čekat now for Sweet Entropy to decide the fate of Magdalena and me. The putrescent past bubbles like bile up the esophogas of my mind and I recll my must too spotless (excepting for the smashed and well placed ZZ Top tape destroyed after Brandi left me) bedroom in Fort Stockton, Texas.

That song Endings comes to mind ruthlessly and, as always, I recall Sharon Weber’s visage along with the lyric endings are only places where all things begin. Ironic, because I really never had any beginning that was not imagined with Sharon Weber. Now it pertains in a much more telling capacity.

I left Magdalena.

Now I am hating paying the consequences of my act. Never before have I actually broken something off with a female without being extremist (cf. Marcie). I need another tequila. As Jeníček would say: It’s good for you. I am about as poetic as a moose in heat these days.

Find your muse, Bob! Find your muse! Where the fuck is that pesky muse, anyhow? Where the fuck, indeed.

Now I shall attempt to gleefully continue my work on James’s project, hopefully in a successful manner. Hawkwind spills out of the speakers and I am reminded of the particularly lengthy day during which I completed most all of the tournament management tool and left an imprint of the event in this elaborative mishmash of words. My mind is also on Magdalena, with whom I spent the majority of yesterday. I wonder if she will keep her resolve to leave Daryl. I hope. Why? Well, because I want her to be happy. Watching her play pool last night with that curious, bright smile and her shuffling feet made me laugh with pleasure despite myself.

It is time to actually perform the task I laid out for myself in the last entry, the construction of the whole page. Stay tuned, my ardent reader.

Well, quite a bit has changed since the last entry of “elaborations”. I shall probably fortunately not go into details, however. Morrissey croons above my head and struggles to raise my eyelids from their half-closed position, mostly unsuccessfully. My fingers are having quite a bit of trouble efficiently hitting the correct keys to form these tenuous words. No explanations necessary, I suppose. Mother I can feel the soil falling over my head. I must work on the software for James, the lines of broken perl code that he entrusted me to create. Responsibility is like a bane on my life right now and it is only because of my dreaded personality, the biting off of more than my rotten teeth can chew without dislodging themselves from my bleeding gums. So what must I do to finish these myriad of scripts for James? A list, I propose? First entry:

• Determine what has been done and what needs to be done.

The main fullview page consists of a backdrop and three floating frames. These frames are thus: the main navigation bar, which controls which major type of database “collection” becomes displayed in the content frame which lies below this navigation frame. to the right of the content frame is another navigation frame. its purpose is to switch between records in a certain database “collection”, to print a record, and perform a sundry of other record-specific duties. So my list becomes thus:

• Complete the layout and functionality of the main navigation frame.
• Complete the layout and functionality of the content frame.
• Complete the layout and functionality of the record navigation frame.

I shall now inspect the code I have written for the former, a script dubbed “menu.cgi”. And now I have inspected and, to the best of my abilities, made it work in a reasonable fashion. Now it is on to the second entry in my list, the content frame. For some bloody reason, this step seems like it shall be complex and annoying. My motivation is at the level of a squished slug baking in the noontime sun on one of the prestine sidewalks leading from building to building amid the Red West Microsoft campus. Oh, but is life not different now?

The content frame is in reletively good working order, though I have encountered a potential problem. James must change the pseudo-entries of the html created by the script to actual values taken cheerily from his database. So, I may have to modify this script to actually just write to a file, or have the navigation frame actually call a buttock which creates a file containing the html which would be directly interpolated into the content frame. Hmmmm… or something like that, surely. So, on to the record navigation thurk.

Nifty, the mechanism which writes to a file in /tmp when one clicks on one of the record navigation thurks is not working. You see, my dear and special reader, James must poll this file so as to know what the user wishes to do. When this file changes, a change to the content frame must be made. How the hell this will work I specifically know not, but I forsee nothing but complications and mayhap even failure. Damn bitchin’, honeybunch.

An aside. A new employee, Eva, is chatting with Kathy behind me. My desperate craziness is occluding my thoughts, coupled with a strangeness arising from sleep deprivation. I want to meet this new person, get to know her, show her the bizarre and beauteous world in which I live. I must restrain myself, however, because of the potential alienation factor. Actually, I should just take Chris’s potential advice and become obsessed with her. I’ve never been obsessed with someone named “Eva” before. Oh, wait.

Okay, now I must construct the whole of the page. ie, I must now add floating frames to the base page. It has just occured to me, though, that using real frames and complex tables may well be the best way to go, though redoing all of the html would be a pain the spleen and cause me to most likely whack the first person I see with a cubic light year of rubber cement. I shall attempt the floating frames option initially.

Actually, I am going to put this on pause for a bit of time whilst I thurk the Investor Insight rep file thinghie. Know, my thoughtful reader, that this is the best decision for the present.

What an amusing thing that i am doing at this moment! I am making a tape for Julie VanLoh, whom I have not seen nor heard from since October of 1996. I was the one who did not keep up the contact, however, and I am quite regretful of that. The one day we spent together meandering about Anchorage trying to find a church to attend stamped some sort of indelible impression on my mind. It keeps recurring in my dreams. Strange. What does her eidolon mean to me? “Tea for One” pours into my wax-laden ear sockets to bathe me with some semblance of a nostalgia which is mostly conjured from the neurotic tendencies in my bedraggled brain. It should have been “The Beating of the Bedraggled Brain”. Screw the heart. It’s just a workhorse with no more mind than Jeff’s ubiquitous pumpjack.

“A past that lives if only for the present,” croons Peter Hammill. Why am I so rife with nostalgia? What is that fleeting yet perpetual feeling which permeates my being when I am in contentment? Or is it this which is actually the source of contentment? Without it shall I be lost in a terrifying maze of meaninglessness? A tenet of mine has always been the search for meaning in my life, in others’ lives, in everything around me, to connect and construct from the scattered debris of sensory input a well woven tapestry, beautiful to the eye, satisfying to the mind. Mayhap nostalgia is my way of weaving the past into the present, gathering up all of the loose strings which hiss & strike at me like vipers. If that is who I am, then I believe, at this point in my life, I have chosen to live with it; moreover, I have encouraged it to flourish. Good for me. I finally accept at least a part of who I am. Is it true? I cannot escape from my personality any more than I can flee from my skin.

The Principle of Sufficient Reason states (quite matter of factly) that there must be an explanation for:

• the existence of any being.
• any positive fact.

A very spiffy point that Melanie made in her philosophy paper that I have just received via the ubiquitous postal service is that this principle is silly in that the first part generalizes out to the second. That is, the actual existence of a ‘being’ is, in fact (no pun intended), a ‘positive fact’. Perhaps they (it’s those ‘they’ again), when idea-fying this principle, had in mind to separate ‘beings’ from ‘ideas’. The first part of the principle would encapsule organic things, or, put better, things that are tangible. The second part speaks of ideas and/or theories created by sentient beings which are agreed on as ‘facts’. I suppose the first part would include things such as ‘cats’ and ‘dirt’ and the second, things such as ‘the theory of gravitation’ and ‘the recipe for broccoli-cheese quiche’. Personally, I prefer abstracting things out the way Melanie did and including the whole shabang in one big wallop… ie, making ‘beings’ part of the whole ‘positive fact’ clique.

The purpose of Melanie’s paper was to discuss and give her opinions and reasons for agreeing or disagreeing with the ‘cosmological argument for the existence of that God guy (or gal since I decided this last weekend that Jenn was quite a worthy God).’ The title of her paper is ‘The Failure of the Cosmological Argument through the Misapplication of the Principle of Sufficient Reason.’ I believe that from the title it is pointedly obvious which side she takes in relation to supporting or disparaging the argument.

The un-fun part of technical writing is upon me and, since it is a precursor to the fun part, I am only nigh-hesitant to plunge in. Strangely (well, okay, not ‘strangely’ at all, but I’ll just choose to call that word an expletive since I really do not wish to replace it with a large, black scribble), I want to skip this part and delve into my little nuances I scheme surronding the existence of dependent beings (just because it festers, frolicks, pushes its way to the forefront of my mind like a spoiled kid in the lunch line on the first day of kindergarden). BUT - I am meandering.

The cosmological argument consists of two premises and a very pretentious conclusion.

Premise Uno: Every being that exists or ever did exist is either a dependent being or a self-existent being.

Premise Zwei: Not every being can be a dependent being.

Therefore: There exists a self-existent being.

Okay… I’m really not here to re-elaborate the failing argument or to defend any particular point of view, but, instead, as always, to skip aside onto a path of my own and record the interesting tales my mind spun during and after perusing Melanie’s paper. The cosmological argument, in short, was garroted and drowned in its own blood by Melanie’s paper. She traipsed through a well constructed destruction of the argument then forged ahead on her own by redefining the principle of sufficient reason and then re-supporting the first premise of the argument. Basically, the argument is bullshit because it doesn’t consider a very important point of view. Or, it is not if you redefine the word ‘being’. Taking it for granted that the principle of sufficient reason is true (the new, happy, altered one Melanie came up with), we have this very large tree of things: the buds, highest branches, and leaves are the most current ‘positive facts’ or ‘beings’, all spawned in some way from the branches below them. The trunk that supports these myriad of facts is this ‘God’ that the cosmological argument deduces (self-existent being… same thing). Back to the important point of view that the argument discards… (actually, I have no way of knowing if this point of view was overlooked, discarded or whatnot since I do not know when the cosmological argument was created. If it was formulated before Darwin came along, then this elision may be understandable). Instead of a God, the trunk of this very large tree of beings [positive facts] could be, simply, the unknown beginning of the universe (I use ‘beginning’ loosely here since the current theories speculate on an endless cycle of previous universes which expand and contract over and over; so, I’ll specify to the inception of the universe in which I exist at this particular moment and hope there is no argument over semantics). Furthermore, the first branches could represent the swirling gasses that formed galaxies, then, splitting more and more into solar systems, planets, inorganic compounds that finally, by some act of chemical oddity, became organic, etc, etc. Amoeba to hydra to barnacle to mollusk … … to reptile to mammal to primate to human.

Everything that ‘is’ is dependent on something that has existed. By no means does this imply a supreme being, as Melanie states in her paper and I imply above. She concluded with some nice comments about humans and their ability to concoct scenarios that are almost always time and distance sensitive (well, she didn’t actually say that, but that is what I concocted from her statements of humans’ limited understanding and frightened flights from endlessness). Her last sentence rings very true and meshed nicely with much that I have written in this already yellowing journal. When understanding is paused and the wall is too high to breach, it is easier to create an explanation from nothing, no matter how silly or fanciful, than to admit, “wow, you know guys, I don’t think we have the ability, technology, or prowess to grasp this!” Okay… now it’s the right brain’s turn to belittle the left! Nah - maybe tomorrow.