children have a passion for gambling too.

You already saw it coming.

School and living in the 19th century keeps me distracted. As does the pursuit of happiness and round-nosed pliers.

I had the rug pulled out from under me today. The sky has fallen. The stiches have fallen away. My guts are on the table.

The details will be spared.

To limit your possible choices: I am not a)pregnant b)depressed c)sui/homicidal d)indicted.

I'm still with Matt. I'm still finishing school. I'm still building a house.

But I'm suddenly one friend short.

What happens to the Friendster profile of a dead girl?

Contemplate. I'll be back in February. If I stake a new claim on the digital frontier, I'll let you know.

Good luck.

"It's just...you two are so political."

Hmmm....

"It's the same as why I don't like some Christians: It's not the religion...it's forcing me to be something I'm not."

Oh god...

I've been experiencing a weeklong lump of panic in my gut. Will I be the preacher electrocuted during the baptism?

Howard Zinn whispers to me of the threat of the immediate. So, I've been lavishing in knowledge of the Spanish-American War and the Gilded Age. I think of my childhood fascination with swearing in my head, so that I might find some release without the threat of discipline. Still, I continued to feel guilty and cry.

My B.A. comes in January, and I've abandoned the workforce until then. I secretly have no plans to go back. I have to find something better than this to survive. I love work...but hate jobs. Okay then, now what? I'm exhausted by the very thought of theories regarding sustainable living.

But I have to try. Just as I spend hours in the trenches of World War I and drink cold beers with Hamlet. He likes to drunkenly rejoice, "Remember the Maine!"

How annoying.

Daniel Quinn instructs readers to be the message rather than attempt to spread it. Seems fair to me, but this still seems to pose a threat. I must bite my tongue as others query and scratch their balls: "Why are those kids in Paris rioting?"

I wince, and the thought slips away into the land of mental swearing.

I don't know. Shrug. ............ Blast.

For now, I must learn to make jewelry. It seems to be the ideal first step. If I wish hard enough, I may turn into a glass bead.

God, I wish.

I have speedy internet now, thanks to the recent addition of a hefty satellite dish. This should impress the border patrol helicopters that visit on a weekly basis.

This means I'll be posting more, and visiting more. I effing swear.

For the past month, I've been an intern of domestication. I've determined that Lincoln was a prick. I've developed calf muscles. I've knocked snow off of my boots. I've let the forest give me scars and bruises, undergoing the necessary rituals in order to earn her acceptance. I've wondered why my father never sings and why my mother never laughs.

I've lavished in the constructed Maine-scapes of the L.L. Bean catalog, comparing it to the tattoo'd post office employee who sends my mail...the flannel'd former farmers who comment on my choice of vegetables...the confrontational children with big sticks and forts of pick-up trucks.

Now, I watch various things VIA Google Video, including, though not limited to, crabs racing along shorelines, high school theatrical productions, and Tokyo subways. I've been listening to Nina Simone and Brad Mehldau, flabbergasted by the journeys they have taken me on. I've dreamt of salt and bird flu. I've read about rehabilitating blind elephants. I've felt weight upon my heart, and, subsequently, have been tearing apart the significance of car crashes.

I listen to Francophone radio. I can't bear to hear the news in English, preferring to interpret only 60% of the story. Marked with heavy accents and colloquialisms, it sometimes drops to 40%. All of which is soon followed by a Quebecois folk song, meaning I tend to only retain 5%. This works just fine, for now...

I quit the scanning job. C'est la pomme de terre. Aspiring to be a program assistant for the Farm Service Agency, glorified clericalism for a cause. In addition, I am back to the nerdy profession of selling used books, thanks to the warm graces of the Presque Isle Salvation Army. See pic.

Yes, that's "The Anita Bryant Story." Anything to take money away from fundamentalist/militant Christianity and put it toward energy-efficient housing...or running through a corn maze. I have no shame.

I cried while watching Canadian geese fly at dusk. I think this means I'm really happy and what not.

My mother is using organic beef broth. Nice.

I got drunk at a place called "Thumper's." Twice.

I'm reading a book entitled "Pine, Potatoes, and People."

I have a job scanning clippings for high profile companies and celebrities. For better or worse, their status is monitored with a two-week delay, carefully bundled and disposable.

In the meantime, I read handfuls of the thousands of magazines that have colonized this house. I silently practice my superior position in the future, mocking the May 1999 issue of Time by noting, "It doesn't matter anyway, because, in 6 years, he'll be dead."

In the meantime, I still think back to the palm reader near Jackson Square, who noted my past life as a Native American warrior who carried much sorrow...and the cumbersome matter of still carrying that sorrow.

In the meantime, I crumble into homesick sobs and various other self-inflicted floods as I try to make sense of things. Yet, I don't feel depressed, and take these sessions as vital signs. I listen to radio pieces about techniques of oral storytellers, where memory is constructed as a palace, with infinite rooms to showcase each piece. Lately, I can't seem to find the exit.

In the meantime, I meditate on what it means to be grateful. Humble. Modest. When are we truly entitled to something, whether it be reaching for help or a willingness to sacrifice self? When is it acceptable to explosively externalize emotions? And why is that so terrifying? In some cultures, an epileptic is seen as a social nuisance ; in others, they are seen as blessed shamans.

In the meantime, I listen to CDs purchased between 1998-2000, revelling in the promise of digitized global communities and cyborg immortality. I read essays on eugenics ; the confusion of the impossible ideal for the constructed normal.

Each morning, I break my heart in pieces. Each afternoon, I poke and examine the evidence. Each night, I carefully stitch it back together with found objects of experience. In time, it grows stronger.

I just talked to my dad. He's awaiting authorization to get sent to New Orleans to offer air traffic control support.

Of the 35 air traffic controllers working at New Orleans International Airport (Moisant, MSY), only 3 had known whereabouts as of yesterday. More have been found today, but home life isn't coming easy, so plans are being considered.

"Aren't you scared?"

"Aw, Di, you know me."

And I do, and I respect/support his spirit and capabilities, but...

And my Mom has been networking to help Matt's brother all week.

Just as my parents were beginning to seem like peers, they have turned into superheroes.

In other news, Augusta, Georgia is running out of gasoline...

Deep down inside, I'm optimistic.

I'm in Maine for real. The connection is slow, but I'll do my best to keep human contact maintained.

Federal financial aid does not consider me to be a dependent any longer.

Mars wasn't as big as the moon.

One of my hometowns is underwater. Wes Anderson includes an underwater shot in each of his films, but I don't think this is what my story is trying to say.

Pirate-looters. Washing away past sins and a few saints. Sharks on the motorway.

And Matt's brother is playing Noah with his girlfriend and a menagerie of pets in Mandeville [north shore of the Lake].

We want them to come to Maine, and it's hard to think of any other alternatives. Matt's parents' home will swell from two to six, and winter will be filled with Beatles tunes and course culture-babble. A family.

I cross my fingers for that region of my childhood tapestry and every soul struggling to keep it from unraveling in their hands.

Things work out well. Such as:

 

-Matt's car being in better shape than mine. Extra funds to go toward yurt [!!!] camping in Vermont or Mass.

-Amazing card playing skills in last night's family match. Impressive.

- 'B' in crappy Lit. course after refusing to turn in last assignment. I still don't know who wrote what, but [dammit] I can write a damn good criticism about it.

- Knowing answer ["What is Monticello?"] to Final Jeopardy. Downfall: it was Teen Jeopardy. Whatever.

- What seemed to be last Athens phone bill is actually credit. Dope.

- Etc. Etc. Etc.

Unlike previous streaks of good luck, I'm not going to be a bitch and sabotage any of this. No sir, I'm putting a little of it in my back pocket and yanking up my britches for the ride.  

In addition, I'll be in Maine by month's end [for curious minds]. Also, I know I've been neglectful in Buzznet society, but I haven't forgotten all the good folks and brilliant examples of prime photology [and now journalogy as well!!!].

I haven't taken many photos. I even forgot to take one of my Mom while in Jacksonville. :( Obviously, photojournalism is not in the cards for me, since I get too wrapped up in becoming involved and forgetful of documentation. So, here's a quick rundown of what we saw:

-Bridges with no beginning and no end.

- Mosquitoes.

-Towns based completely upon cycles of destruction and rebirth.

-My own destruction and rebirth.

-A city severely lacking in natural landmarks, although Krispy Kreme comes close.

-A stingray.

-The curious lives of hermit crabs.

-Throwing boiled peanut shells out of car windows.

-Charlie and the Chocolate Factory.

-Good Chinese Buffet.

-Matt's shedding skin.

-My niece eating my super fantastic salmon chowder.

-My little sister sitting up by herself.

-My grinning until my mouth hurts.

 

I'll try to take more pictures for the rest of the trip. Certain aspects are falling through to make things more streamlined, but these friends/places will be revisited in coming months. Next comes the quiet part, the seclusion of the middle journey, the link between past and future. My feet will get dirty, and may begin to smell a little.

 

This is not in direct relation to today's earlier post.

I think I'm going to attend a culinary institute after getting my B.A.

Last year, I couldn't cook for shit and had no real interest...but, now I'm completely obsessed.

When presented with cable television, I watch the Food Network. Constantly. Cookbooks are my junk food. Produce markets are my Disney World.

I could pledge allegiance to the Slow Food Movement. I could travel. I can write. And it's something that has such an incredibly basic, sensual, loving purpose.

I can teach my [future] kids.

It's like fixing cars. But tastier.

So, this is what having a purpose in life feels like.

It's online. And it's absurd. I'm not an English major, nor have I ever hoped to be. I hate literature courses, but adore literature.

Everyone in this class wants things to be pretty. We're reading poetry. I guess it's supposed to be pretty to them. This, of course, is complete bullshit.

But I'm a little biased. I make everything non-pretty. It's a talent of the nihilist post-9/11 twenty-something. Or something. Not really.

But I like labor unions.

I like redemption that causes one to rise like a battered phoenix from the rituals of abuse.

I like the term "cock and balls" combined with "endless."

I hate when morality gets in the way.

My professor says I'm too quick to interpret. Maybe I should take more time to think things through.

Maybe.

I guess I'm more glad about this than I initially realized.

Been thinking alot about the nature of "being myself" and the bullshit that tends to flow from these contemplations. Despite the risk of being rantish, I've thought about the following:

- Why aren't breast implants considered mutilation by some Leftish-types who cry out against genital mutilation in Africa? Breast implants=self-esteem?? Um...

- Why is not shaving my legs so threatening? In the grand scheme of things, does my adverse reaction toward nicked knees really mean anything? Doubtful.

- Why is it that "being happy with one's body" usually has to translate into exposure of hip bones and saturation of the color pink? Why can't it be realized that sometimes [God forbid!] jeans are practical for the avoidance of skeeter bites and mulch burn? Tits have their purpose, and I utilize them as I please. Sometimes, that means that others are not graced with their humble graces. Other times mean boobie parade. How selfish.

My treatment of self does not have to turn into a political agenda. My shins are not aligned to the femi-whatzit party U.S.A.

If beauty is pain, then give me a tat of Tony Millionaire's Drinky Crow wearing a Buster Keaton hat. The chemical burns can wait.

In other news, are free societies really really peaceful, Bushie-poo? Discuss.