children have a passion for gambling too.

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.