I found my copy of Tom Waits' Rain Dogs this morning, which made me incredibally happy. I thought I'd completely lost the thing! Now if I can only find Alice . . .

This morning, I also overheard a conversation between my grandmother and five-year-old cousin that made me cringe:

Apparently he'd tricked her into thinking he'd taken some of her pills she'd left out. When he revealed he'd only been kidding, she sternly told him that it wasn't something to joke about. If he'd taken the pills, he might've had to go to the hospital. He informed her that he was going to live forever and that nothing could kill him.

The part that made me cringe; "No one lives forever," she told him in a voice of phoney brevity, "Always remember that."

Something . . . something about her tone of voice, and the fact that the kid obviously wasn't listening to her (evidenced by the fact that he kept speaking while she was speaking, "I have the power of pokopooku! I'll live forever!"), gave me the impression that she was sort of seeing this like a movie she was starring in. I could almost hear in her mind the Richard Dryfuss voiceover; "And that day, although I didn't appreciate it then, my grandmother said something that I've always remembered . . . a little lesson about life and what it means to be alive . . . meanwhile all I could think about was meeting Joe-Joe and Slappy Bill at the swimming hole where we were gonna set up a tire swing . . ."

Made me wanna retch.

I wanted to start singing "No one lives forever! Let's have a party, there's a full moon in the sky, it's the hour of the wolf and I don't wanna die!" (that's an Oingo Boingo song).

...

I was also having a journey into nostalgia this morning as I was going through old files. I found that, incredibally, my old guestbook from my old website seems to still be working. That company apparently just has more file space than it knows what to do with.

I'm starting to think I have a connexion with Lauren Bacall:


You are Lauren Bacall. You started off as very shy
but with a little help, your roots come out.
You're an honest person and your values,
beliefs and convictions are very clear. You
love a good time, and you want security at
heart but you're ready for anything that comes
your way. You may also have an air of grace
about you, and more beauty than you'll ever
realize. But others will see it.


Which vintage movie star are you most like?(For girls)
brought to you by Quizilla


(got the quiz from Mel's Live Journal.)

I made an appearance in Marty's movie to-day, blindfolding people and leading them ominiously down a narrow hallway. It was fun.

This was shortly after having just woken up, too. I hadn't shaved for several days, and in spite of the heat I was wearing a black turtleneck with faded black pants, due to the fact that I'm behind on my laundry, so I wasn't looking my best. Hopefully that'll just come off as "sinister".

Hung out with Trisa yesterday, and I purchased a copy of The Others for only eight dollars. And that's for the two disk special edition set-thingy. I gotta stop making these good finds.

Marty lended me Akira Kurosawa's Throne of Blood, which is apparently a version of Shakespeare's Macbeth. Needless to say, I'm tremendously excited about watching it.

I sure wish I didn't have to go to work at TJ Maxx this evening.

I still hate Thursdays.

Augh. Maybe they'll let me curl up on a bench and sleep at the mall . . . I suppose I should do something useful with the fact that I have to be up early to-day. Maybe I'll see a movie.

Wish I'd remembered to do my laundry yesterday.

Watched Mulholland Drive last night and had the DVD freeze up on me near the end. I looked at the bottom of the disk and saw it had a whole weird circle of scraches. It was a pretty cruel thing. Guess I'll need to buy another copy. Frell.

First word as I awoke this morning; frell.

Did I mention I want to go back to sleep?

Currently listening to Elvis Costello's "High Fidelity".

It turns out I can generate a lot of ideas by lying on my back, naked on the bathroom floor. Something about the cold tile, I think, discouraged my brain from lethargic meanderings and had me getting to the point on several issues. Most of these issues, I'm happy to say, having to do with my novel, and I believe I've finally gotten over some of the major stumbling blocks that'd prevented me from continuing with chapter sixty six. Which is well as I've decided a lot of my current unhappiness has come from lack of attention to my writing, causing my focus to wander to more confused, less healthy things.

I'm feeling a great deal better now, by the way. Thanks for the e-mail, Cryptess.

...

I should also note that on Tuesday I purchased Farewell My Concubine at Tower Records for just fifteen dollars. Between that, Miller's Crossing, and Artificial Intellegence, I've certainly been getting my share of great, great movies for peculiarly low prices. I hope this trend doesn't make me broke.

I guess this is one advantage to this fucking job. Money. But is it enough? Methinks . . . not.

But I don't wanna think about that place right now. I don't have to go back there until Thursday night, so I think I'll just try and forget it exists.

And concentrate on things that don't exist instead.

Oh fuck. Oh fuck fuck fuck. I really don't want to be in the mood I'm in. Gods . . .

I'm pretty fucking low. Pausing to wait for the tears to move so I can see the screen and all that jazz.

It's been quite awhile since I last felt this terrible. I think I dimly believed there was a chance I'd never feel like this again. So much for that.

I don't want to go into details. One of the reasons I moved this thing from LJ to blogger is because I wanted to start fresh on not hashing out the details of the things in my life that make me feel this kind of terrible, as publishing these details in LJ almost invariably seemed to make things much, much worse. This blog is supposed to be about my work--my real work, not the retail purgatory. Inspired a bit by Caitlín R Kiernan's blog, although she's strayed a bit into the realm of personal lately, so I suppose it's, in a way, only natural that mine would follow.

But I think I'll try to stay away from saying things that'll hurt others. I don't want to get my catharsis at the expense of people I love, particularly as, as a mode of catharsis, this is very fleeting, if effective at all.

I remember once when I was feeling this kind of low I wanted to sell or give away everything I own. I had some vague idea of starting with nothing, and there was something oddly blissful about the idea of losing all my things. I think I'm starting to feel that way now, especially as I got my car back to-day, which brought home to me the conception of having the smother weight of vulnerability strapped to oneself in the form of large amounts of beloved stuff--in this case, my many possessions that I keep in my car.

Let's see, I feel . . . Gods, the words "alone" and "inadequate" really don't convey it. I feel sick; although I'm very hungry, I feel almost afraid to eat. As if my pizza hotpocket is going to turn out to be nothing other than a steaming pile of shit as I cram it into my throat.

My thoughts drift again through estimates on how many people in this world lead or have led happy, fulfilling lives, and it's my suspicion that less than five percent of all the humans living in the past couple centuries were happy and fulfilled in life. Think of all the ones who died slaves. Think of all the women who couldn't pursue their dreams because of social stigmas. Or the children in Africa right now, wasting away and dying before they're ten.

People seem to regard suffering as a natural part of life. For example, often when I complain about a particularly obnoxious customer to someone who has never worked in retail, I'm told, "Well that's your job security. Without them, you wouldn't have a job."

How boorish! The idea that if people simply practiced common courtesy I would find myself out of a job for it. I refuse to say I owe any of the better things in life to gross, pig-headed stupidity. To insufferable people and things. I refuse to accept that life would be worse without bad things.

Anyway, yeah, I'm feeling paramecium. In the face of all my contemplations about kids dying horribly in Africa, I also find the time to feel like I'm being denied something huge and fundamental. Ain't I a lovely human being? So lovely that many a time at TJ Maxx I obsessed with imagining a gun blowing my face open.

Thing is, if I were away from even the possibilities . . .

I did a new page of Doll Merchant.

...

I felt really bad for Vincent Gallo this morning. I mean, think I'm shedding some tears for him, even though I've never seen any of his movies, I could kind of imagine something of what he must have felt, and I'm certain he didn't deserve that humiliation. I felt bad for Chloe Sevigny, who I have seen and who I rather like.

As I slept through Saturday morning--or tried to sleep, as Victoria the cat awakened me every fifteen or twenty minutes--I had a dream that frightened me.

It's been awhile since a dream's frightened me, and I think it was a result of my decidedly gloomy lines of thought of late, the abrupt changes in my life's routine for the decidedly worse, and the decidedly imaginative creatures created by the Jim Henson company for Farscape.

I dreamt that Trisa lived upstairs. I "awakened" one morning to her unceremoniously entering my room because she needed to use the computer. She eyed me coldly only for a brief moment to tell me that she didn't like my underwear. Then she sat down at the computer--the urgent matter that had required her attention was some nude pictures of herself that she had put on her web site. She commenced to simply staring at these while I gathered my clothes and made for the bathroom.

It was an awkward situation (for me anyway), and I think I was trying to reassure myself, convince myself that I must acclimate myself to such mornings. When I switched on the bathroom light, I saw in the mirror that a small, pale red-orange crab-like creature was on my glasses. Exactly like the half-moment of shock one might expect to feel in real life when abruptly noticing a dangerous looking spider on one's arm, I was stuck motionless before, in my terror, swatting quickly at the thing, knocking it off of my face before its pinchers could do any damage.

Going back into my room, wanting to tell Trisa about it, I was startled to see a giant worm like creature with a circular mouth rimmed with rows of razor sharp teeth lying on my bed--this thing startled me so much that I think I actually spoke (outside the dream), saying something like, "God damn!"

"What the frell is all this madness?" I asked Trisa (and yes, I clearly remember using the Farscape word "frell").

She told me distractedly that creatures were coming from a small gargoyle on a thin black rope that she'd given me as a present a while ago.

I then woke up.

“The sanest days are mad.” -Morrissey

I'm not half so angry as I was Friday morning. It's kind of melted away like heavy wax, and pooled at the bottom of my soul to make me feel sort of leaden.

I wanted to stay furious as I went into work. I'm still not sure what happened, by time kind of dulled me down in a special way and I got to thinking about . . . shitiness. And mermaids and scientists.

I watched former President Clinton talking to a classroom on C-Span after work. The most impressive thing he said was that Democrats and Republicans are generally more complicated than "Democrat" and "Republican" and that we'd be better off seeing them as complex individuals than as groups all sharing the same mindset. What a nice thought.

I got sad watching Clinton. He's still all charming and stuff. He had two terms as President, and really, he's gotten all he's ever could have wanted in his life, his life as an ambitious politician. What more could he want? And yet I wondered if he was really happy. Say what you want about him, but my theory is that he honestly cares about this country, whatever his faults. He claimed he did all he could do. But I think we can all agree that it wasn't enough. Some would say he did nothing. Others--rather few, though, even amongst his enemies--would say he's fucked things up. But he's now doomed to watch whatever shit hits the fan in the country and there's nothing he can do.

At work, I thought about my aunt who recently had her nose removed due to cancer. I thought about how, beyond the simple cosmetic issue, which is horrible enough, it probably makes one question one's mortality. Life was this, life was that, and now here I am without a nose. Is this the climax? Is this what we were leading up to? All that I hoped for, or that I hoped wouldn't happen, whatever desires . . . here reality is, and I'm literally falling apart. And it's hardly worth thinking about for most people.

She'd also lost her husband a few years ago. This newest development must seem like the latest chapter in a relentlessly morose book.

I can't think of anyone whose life would justify their death. Everyone I know needs to do more, needs to go further. That includes me.

I can't escape the feeling that there is never enough. Sometimes I think that death is a sign from the gods signifying that one has done enough, regardless of whether or not it seems that way. But what's the use of it if you don't feel it yourself? Perhaps life is principally about moulding one's own emotions and perceptions. You are fulfilled when you can make yourself believe you're fulfilled. Or go to a state where it doesn't matter to you what happens. Is there anything wrong with the life of a stone?

What is so wrong with nothing? Why do we all want something? Do we?

When I write I often taste something like a satisfaction with existence. When I write fiction (not this here. This is just moping), I feel something wonderful, and fuller than anything else I've ever experienced in my life.

So on the one hand I want to keep going after that, and one the other hand there's nothingness. It's only the thirst for the former that draws me away from the latter. And somewhere in between is the horrid realisation that I'll die without feeling like I've done enough.

...

I discovered a few hours ago that Trisa has written a very nice poem in her journal. I think it's a meant as a joyous rendering of spontaneous casual sex, but it really only made me feel kind of sad.

It also made me feel like I would like to do nothing but write and make art in all my freetime in the near future. I did a new page of Doll Merchant.

Currently listening to a piece from the Crouching Tiger Hidden Dragon soundtrack and it feels good.

I don't wanna go to work I don't wanna go to work I don't wanna go to work I don't wanna . . . dear gods I hope they fire me dear gods I hope they fire me dear gods I . . .

NO. No I shouldn't wish for that. No I shouldn't wish that they uncover some scandelous and devilishly deviant aspect of my personality or pants and make it so I can never ever work in retail in this country again.

Fuck that sounds too nice. I have to stop this. I need money, and it's easy work.

Moving myself around in that place, a lot of things are coming back to me about working in retail. Such as the extreme, inexplicable, and definitely disturbing hatred I feel for all of the customers. Such as the over the top fantasies of people's heads going explodo on the walls . . .

What's wrong with me? Am I spoiled? Or is it simpler? No. I think that regardless of my financial and/or social position, this bizarre hatred would still be there.

Usually I'm pretty serene in my acceptance of the fact that most people are obnoxious idiots. But this context makes me feel more than a little bitter about this state of affairs.

I know, I sound like an arrogant jerk. How I wish that really was the problem.

"I want to kill this killing wish." -Tori Amos

Gods, I hate Thursdays.

Before work last night I purchased The Chronicles of Narnia, and even though I'm not technically done reading Henry Miller's Tropic of Cancer, which is not a bad book, I think I'll probably read The Magician's Nephew to-day. Just because I've been so in the mood for fantasy literature lately. It'll be very much a comfort read.

Well. My clothes are on the bed, just waiting for me to get into them. I suppose I should go somewhere to eat . . .

"The movie sidesteps the happy ending Hollywood executives think lobotomized audiences need as an all-clear to leave the theater." -Roger Ebert from his review of Ghost World.

Well, well, well. Here's the naughty Mister Setsuled, skulking back to his blog. What have you been up to my boy? What have you been doing?

Monday was an eventful evening. Following a class session where a story I liked got voted down because people can be stubborn and angry at things casually fantastic, Trisa and I went for dinner at a very good place. Here, I ate a tastey breakfast burrito that I would never eat for breakfast while listening to Trisa talk about her new job at Starbucks and her new, very good friend Anthony, with whom she has formed a sort of bond that I find somehow mysterious. From the sound of things, he is one wild and crazy guy, and maybe it's because most people I've met who've been described that way tend to strike me as being tedious that I'm so confused and stuff. But I've come to realise several times over the past several days that I'm something of a snob.

Later in the evening, I had a very constructive conversation with Cryptess and Richard on IRC, and we were later joined by Mel. Three folks I've known for a long time, talking with 'em in the olde fashion. Ah, it was fun. I should do it again, if I have time.

At the moment, though, I'm broke. So I'm giving Tim my last four dollars to take me to pick up some mail . . . so . . . au revoir.

Ugh.

Feeling kinna shitty this morning. I guess pizza and orange juice really don't go together.

Last night I was feeling a lot nostalgic while watching a Mystery Science Theatre 3000 episode that'd been taped in 1993. I was eating at the same time so I didn't bother fast forwarding through the commercials. And I was struck by how much commercials have changed in ten years.

Gone, now, are the innocent "if you chew our gum/use our detergent/listen to our stereo you will feel happy and bouncy and super full of life" commercial jingles. It made me realise how much smart-ass sells these days. Every product has to have a 'tude. Even Snuggles has a hedgehog nemesis now. A googly eyed critter who is not about making clothes snuggly soft, but more about screwing up and taking snippy verbal abuse from the once ultra-gentle Snuggles.

Commercials still suck. But at least now they assume we can't be bothered with faux innocence, or anything that isn't extreme!. Even our stupid commercial jingles cannot afford to avoid cynicism.

Here's something that made me think about the death of innocence in the media.

...

Was gonna hang out with Trisa last night but she was to see a movie. It sucked because I've missed her. Especially after Saturday night when we came within a hairsbredth of hanging out, but I missed the page and when I called a few hours later, she'd already made alternate plans. We talked about hanging out on Sunday but, again, movie happened.

Oh well. We'll probably see eachother to-night.

So I ended up, last night, catching up with Tim instead. He, folks, had beaten Inu-Yasha.

It's not humanly possible to love someone forever unconditionally. The relationship would seem pointless if you didn't get something out of it--I do not necessarily mean anything as overt as sex or reciprocated love. But anything, even if it's nothing more than the target of affection's presence, or appearance of presence.

And if things were not this way, then things would go wrong.

That's partially the premise of A.I. Artificial Intelligence (the movie). Watching it last night, after having purchased a copy at Hollywood Video on the way home for only ten dollars, I was impressed by how very good a movie it actually is. I really don't remember being so impressed when I saw it at the cinema and I think this is probably another case of a movie viewer experience effectively being ruined by my fellow movie-goers.

Anyway. It's a movie that deserves more attention.

I watched a documentary on the Mall of America a few hours ago. I think it was definitely the inspiration I needed for the part of my novel I'm currently on.

You are Hannibal "the Cannibal" Lector.
Wowie.


Which famous film murderer are you?
brought to you by Quizilla

I've been hearing some real crappy covers of some real great Tom Waits songs lately.

At work a few nights ago, I heard for the first time Rod Stewart's cover of Waits's "Downtown Train". To say that the Waits version is better is an understatement of such astronomical proportions that the very idea of Rod Stewart being bmore commercially successful with the song makes me feel . . . well, it's another thing that makes me feel like my brain's from a different dimension.

I did hear an Elvis Costello song ("Veronica") at work the next night, so that kinna made up for it.

Anyway, I gotta go to work now, speaking of. I leave you with a new page of Doll Merchant.

I'm beginning to feel slightly shipwrecked. Work, by the way, sucked last night. No, it wasn't particularly difficult, it was just tedious and, above all, a lot of time spent doing things I didn't wanna do and I was unclear with myself about the reasons for my doing it.

I remind myself now: it's because Trisa and Cryptess and I have been talking about getting a place together.

Oh, gods I wanna find another way of making money . . .

Anyway, yes, I'm shipwrecked. My car's still not working (I noticed last night that the dome light doesn't even come on anymore. Methinks battery be dead) and my hours mean I pretty much can't hang out with Tim or Trisa. I guess it just dawned on me this morning what a tight and constricted routine my life is likely to be for . . . well, indefinately.

On the bright side, part 3 of "Look at the Princess" is on Farscape to-night and I'm ravenously looking forward to it. I had planned, last night, to do some writing after I'd watched Farscape, but I think the show intimidated me or something. I gotta realign my brain into my own worlds.

Now I'm hungry and I have to leave.

To-day it begins again. I will be shackled.

Against my better wishes, perhaps caving into the desires of those around me more than I care to admit, I got job. And to-day is my first day--from 5pm to 9:50pm, I am an employee at T.J. Maxx.

My aunt asked me if I wasn't even a little excited. And I told her no. I'm not even a little excited. I'm only dreading it.

Anyway. I guess I should go now as there're some things I wanna do first.

sigh

Imagine being in a classroom and seeing someone walk in and set down a beach ball in the middle of the room. Now imagine everyone else in the class falling over themselves in awe at the very sight of this beach ball. Now imagine yourself not having any idea what is so special about a beach ball. Imagine all this, and you'll have a pretty good idea of how I felt in class last night.

Truly, I'm beginning to feel I'm missing something fundamental about life and art and everything. I almost wanted to plead with the others, go on my knees and tug at their shirts or skirts, and beg, "Please, please show me the secret! Show me why this stupid story about a little girl living on a farm that sees her father killing a chicken is as brilliant as you all seem to think it is! Tell me how you can be fulfilled by it, while I am left wanting!"

It wasn't just that story but also many others and some poems. When I said one poem was a cheap knock-off of H.P. Lovecraft, no one knew who I was talking about.

I am alone.

I am alien.

I am freak.

Yes, I felt pretty damned isolated. Am I gonna need to have such a low opinion of everyone in my class, or am I really, and truly missing something? "Yes I am blind!" as Morrissey says.

I wish, reader, I could share with you the mediocrity of some of the "best works" we've reviewed in the Acorn Review class.

I am snob. Regardless of whether or not I'm right.

It didn't help that I had to walk home last night. Of course, it's totally unfair of me to expect a ride from Trisa. She's under no obligation, and she can't run her schedule around me. But I was angry at everything at first--I was wearing completely the wrong socks. I was wearing the blister making socks. But towards the end of the walk, I was just really, really hungry. No, not particularly tired. Just extremely hungry.

I was triumphant and overjoyed, though, when I found, upon my return, that I had managed to get back in under two hours.

I didn't miss Farscape.

And what a great episode it was. For those of you who're fans, it was the one where everyone switched bodies. Crichton in Aeryn's body and Rygel in Crichton's were hilarious. I loved when Crichton/Aeryn had to explain to Rygel/Crichton how to take a piss as a human. Great stuff.

I did a new page of Doll Merchant.

Now I go elsewhere!

Hey folks. Didja miss me? I've been a little distracted . . . Something got my full attention without me even asking it to. But that's done (for now) so . . .

Last night was filled with a diversity of entertainments.

I ate ramen and was standing up, watching a bit of MST3k, when I noticed something like a hummingbird bouncing around the room, crashing into walls, drapes, and especially light bulbs (turned out to be a moth).

In less than half a second, the keepers of the peace, aka, the cats, were on the case. First Lucky hounded the thing through the kitchen and into the living room, actually managing to pin the thing down. But apparently Lucky wasn't interested in using his claws just yet as the moth seemed right as rain (or as right as can be repeatedly ramming into the walls) when Lucky released him. Then, as things moved up the stairs and back down again, Victoria appeared. I gotta say, it was kinna beautiful watching those two cooperate on something for once.

But it was at last left to me to capture the thing. I meant to toss it outside, but it was so hard opening the front door while similtaneously holding the guy that I think I accidentally tore off one of his antennae. Oh well.

I also watched The Big Sleep starring Humphrey Bogart and Lauren Bacall. Having much enjoyed the book I was generally pleased with the movie. I was a little surprised to learn that the screenplay was written by William Faulkner and Leigh Brackett.

I love orange juice. I can't stop wanting it this morning.

And no, I don't have time for the Sin Osanap source book this morning. Three--count 'em, three--seperate things came up demanding my attention.

I long for a day of nothing and no-one . . .

Things would be much smoother if I wasn't sick as I'm beginning to suspect I am.

Whatever illness it is, it's new to me. It means basically a constant headache, a semi-constant queasy stomach, and general achy limbs. I wish it would go away. I wanna get back to a state where I can easily stay up all night working on things.

Work, work, work. Eventually.

Tuesday I was bullied into turning in an application for T.J. Max. I really don't wanna work there. Although my rational brain tells me it would probably be a good idea as it is in walking distance, and is similer to my previous job. Plus it has two things going for me; my grandmother's talked to the manager, and one of the people working there is one of my former managers from my last job. Two things going against me; I went in not-neatly-dressed and I neglected to ask for the manager. Probably because, as was once said of the makers of Attack of the the Eye Creatures, I just didn't care.

But.

Later in the evening, when I went to see X-Men 2 (a very good movie by the way. Loads of fun), I noticed they are hiring at the best cinema in the world, Madstone. So I picked up an application and shall be attending the hiring fair on Monday. Probably.

Looks like Trisa got a good chance of being hired by Starbucks to-day, which is good.

...

So how's the writing, Setsuled?

I kinna put the novel on hold for a little while until I've come up with the new edition of the Sin Osanap source book. I realised that I really must have one, or at least a write-up of all relevant material, before I proceed further.

I hope to at last have time for this in the morning.

Action! I must take it!

Sorry I've no time to say more (unlike Neil Gaiman who says he has only a moment and then proceeds to write a very long blog entry).

Shall I return? Shall I emerge . . . ?

At Tim's last night he and I watched one of the Urusei Yatsura movies that'd never been released in the U.S.

It felt quite a lot like a longer, better animated episode of the television series. It involved Ataru getting engaged to an alien named Lee who comes to retrieve him in an enormous space ship shaped like a rose. Of course, Lum's not happy about this, and neither is the Lum Defence Force.

It was an extremely rough translation that, for some reason, played wonky with people's names. Lum became "Lamo" and Ataru become "Dongue". Halfway through the movie, Dongue spontaneously became "Stan". Ten was called "Ivey" and several of the girls were named "James". Still not sure who "Mr. Gold" was. Strange stuff.

Yesterday also saw Trisa and I trying to carry out an assignment for her psych class involving us approaching people at Balboa park with a camera. Trisa then interviewed whilst I recorded--the idea being that as she asked the subject general questions about the war, cloning, or whatever, she would steadily move closer to them, invading their personal space. Unfortunately, the power hungry camera only allowed us to conduct two interviews before crapping out. Trisa did well enough though, I thought.

To-day I've mostly been kicking about with Victoria the cat. It's strange how a single cat can utterly absorb one's attention. And a new page of Doll Merchant somehow got done.

I spent most of last night working with tutorials for 3D Studio Max. I think I might actually end up being able to use this programme. It's funny, it's been a very long time since I've picked up any useful skills for real life. Kinna sad, huh?

I am wondering, though, what it'll mean to me to know how to properly use 3D Studio Max. Mostly I fear it'll be a distraction, as I'll prolly use mostly for making models for video games. I had some thought about making virtual sets for some of the locales in my writing, but I dunno how practical that would really be . . .

Yesterday, after I got kicked off the trolley at 32nd and Commercial for not having the proper ticket (how was I to know "One Way" only meant "To the next station"? I was only going one way, after all. One way to Downtown), I walked a few miles and stopped a Starbucks I'd never been in before. Before there commencing to read a bit of Henry Miller's The Tropic of Cancer (a book at first I thought good, but a sort of watered down Kerouac, that I now think--as I've learned it was probably written before Kerouac was published--is almost a prototype of Kerouac. Something that Kerouac took several steps further. It's good, though), I began working on some designs for some locations in my novel. I'd got myself in "source book" mode for the first time since high school, I think, because of another project I'm working on with a group of people. So info for me ought to be forthcoming, which is good and, I think, very overdue.

Trisa's on her way here now so I should go . . .

I wish had a better method of totting things than my backpack. I don't feel like having that big growth of a baby-thing on my back all day as all wander San Diego county on foot. But I guess it's just how it's going to be.

Anyway, folks, circumstances pull me into the world for now. Ta-ta!