Re: Used

Another fine couple of years nicely flushed down the ol' crapper.

Review

The new issue of The Southeast Review is out with a story of mine in its pages. I submitted it while I was still in Michigan. Not sure if that means anything.
Story is called "Hadron".

A Not So Interesting Take On the Application Of Pressure

Once upon a time there were a group of people that I went to breakfast with every morning. Because we all worked second shift, we all had our mornings together, and therefore had breakfast... in the morning. Then one day, due to tragedy and poor decisions, they took first shift jobs, during our breakfast time...in the morning. When I said to them, "since you chose to work first shift, we can't have breakfast together," I said it because I was sad, and it was reality, not because I didn't want to have breakfast with them. Then, the end.

Climbing Stairs, Or Climbing a Ladder, I'll Take The Latter and Stare at My Climbing

Loft living day number...two? The ceilings are high, which is good because I'm now living in the ceiling. I have some books spread out, clothes spread out, bedspread spread out. Still feel lost and a bit dreamy, as in, I'm in a dream of some sort. Not a bad one, not a good one, but a strange one. And in the dreamscape world, "strange" means things are normal. There are no donkeys eating pineapple, or floating clouds of gummy bears, or burping spiders that quote Chaucer. It's the normal that make this dream weird. How my life has changed at the roots, the routines, the routes, facing a different direction. Then I realize, am realizing, will have realized, had realized, that this is not a dream, not the future, not the past, but is happening now. And then I feel lost again. Unable to see beyond those routines. It's the feeling that I expect to wake up soon, so I need not worry about the end of the day, or the end of the week, or this huge gaping hole in the center of me, or this emptiness, or these arms and legs and eyes and ears I'm missing. I need not worry about the thing that was lost, because when I awake it won't be lost, but then I will have had realized that "I" was the thing that was lost, lost in all the tenses, all the repeats. I should worry, though, because through worry comes dreaming. The type of dreaming where I'm at the finish line and I've won. The type of dreaming where everyone is clapping and I slow motion smile and nod and pump my fist at my victory. Without worry, I can't dream. The right kind of worry. I do worry, though. I'm weary from it, actually. I'm worried about the heaps of anger, heaped up in a corner, so heaping it's about to tumble and take me with it, until I'm swimming in mixed metaphors. I need that lofty dreaming to feel focused, because when I'm focused, I am living.

Moving Day Part Twenty Seven

Words and their reality weigh me down. I'm down town. I'm down. Extra down. I don't want to be down with the down. These are just words of reflection on an otherwise strange day. My whole world is something different now, and I feel half empty-- full of half empty. But the sun is out on a fantastic looking Oregon day. The sky is a different blue here than the blue everywhere else. The sun is a different sort of bright as well. Especially the early February sun. It's a different sun coming through different windows.

Blah Aug

I would dive into the details. But, what difference would that make? I could go into the ins and outs. But that would only confuse those on the outs and upset those on the ins. I could detail all the diving. But that would require a set of definitions and parameters to begin. I could start at the beginning. But the end is what's at the beginning.