children have a passion for gambling too.

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...