Ode to the Two-Day Work Week

Tyr's heart was heavy one blustery day
for he had no source of merriment
the judge had ordered the war god pay
for six weeks of anger management.

Ever and always for battle he lusted
yet this was the world of well-fed
so lately his bow and sword, they had rusted,
all warriors he'd long since struck dead.

As he passed by a stall a voice cried out
a sound both ancient and clear
belonging to lips set in a full pout
and Tyr begrudgingly drew near.

Frijjo was spinning stories of lust
that she sold from her stall on the street
for the love-goddess knew that she must
pay the company to keep on her heat.

Tyr was awkward around her sex
for in ancient times they knew not war.
Women had always been able to perplex,
the war-god knew not what they were for.

"I see you also have had a bad fate,"
the woman said from her stall.
"The world is old and the hour is late,
and we no longer hold these people in thrall.

"The men battle pushing buttons in chairs
the genders stand in equality.
A god can succeed only if she dares
to sell her likeness for a royalty. "

"Times are hard all around," said Tyr,
"and I can't fault you for trying
but I cannot drown my sorrows in beer
and I produce nothing worth buying."

"My living is modest I will admit
and it's hardly a noble vocation
but I'm looking for help if you will submit
a valid employment application."

Tyr had no better idea that day
so he set down his sword and shield
and began to work for minimum pay
in a dead-end, hard-labor field.

But when Tyr does Frijjo's tasks
the week is almost through.
In that knowledge this poet can bask.
So a very Merry Christmas to you!

Counterbalances and the Dreams Resultant

It's come to my attention that I'm a counterbalance to the people around me. Whether this is just coincidence (the rational explanation) or whether there is some sort of karmic and/or psychic reasoning behind it is really up to interpretation. I'm not all that keen on believing there's a link myself, but I can't deny the apparent truths I see.

Let me illustrate it this way. I typically don't sleep. Well, I do, but it's not much and it's not very well. I'm okay with this. I'm actually attuned to not sleeping.

Lately, due to perhaps the pollen in the air or my general apathy (more on that later) or whatever-you-will, I've been sleeping more. Not just more, but lots lots more. As in, twelve hours at a time. No problem. Just drop for hours on end and wake up when you need to.

Odd, yes. But the odder (more odd?) thing is that the moment I started doing this, my friend Sarah and my father both started suffering sleeping troubles. In fact, it seems the more I slept, the less they did and the less restful it was when they finally were able to.

The conclusion: I was steeling their sleep from them to use for myself.

Now, I know that it sounds kind of ridiculous, but the more I think about it the more sense it makes. Because it doesn't just extend to sleep, but to other things in my life, as well.

I have two friends who write--Sarah and Angela. Both of them are fairly serious about their writing. And both of them are currently doing a good job writing. At the same time, I'm struck with extreme writing apathy. And back in the day when I was tearing it up, they struggled.

Conclusion: When my writing friends write, I cannot. Converse is also true.

And a final note. My mood is highly volatile, sure, but it seems as though in true psychic vampire fashion, my happiness and positive nature only comes at the expense of others. Those around me are frustrated? I am carefree. If they are angry, I am calm. It works both ways, too.

Conclusion: My emotions are inversely proportional to those around me.

These conclusions only point to one thing. If we are all linked together by the varied gossamer threads of experience, then I am diametrically opposed to those I am connected to. What they feel, I will lack. What they gain, I lose. One might draw this out and state that this can only end in either A) tragedy for all involved or B) my ascention to god-like status as they all die off.

Or ... y'know ... not. But it was a thought.

Anyway, in unrelated news, with all this sleeping I'm finally getting some dreams again. Anybody who knows me knows that I never ever remember my dreams. It's just ... not something I'm very good at. Never have been. But this weekend, with all my sleep, I've had some doozies. And they're odd, kind of prophetic sorts of dreams.

I've had a recurring dream twice now concerning a friend I've long since lost contact with. One of the shaping forces in my teen years, she just kind of drifted away. I know she's out there, somewhere, but hell if I know how to get a hold of her. I'm wondering why my subconscious thinks it would be a good idea, though.

That is, when I'm not having my recurring dream where I have to retake my senior year of high school, for some reason. And I'm always coming back after being gone and have piles of work to catch up on right before the end of the year. I suppose it's my own special recurring 'failure' dream. Though this time it involved a teacher that it never involves. Once again spitting up flotsam for me to figure out.

It's worth noting that no matter how many times I forget it in my dreams, I can never ever remember my locker combination (and half the time its location). But then, this was a very real fear in high school. I never KNEW my locker combination, in like a "I can rattle this off the top of my head" way. I had to stand there and spin it, and the right combo would just come to me.

Deep seated fear of uncertainty, or general boring "I forgot to wear pants" dream?

I won't psychoanalyze too hard. It's still early.

Off the Cuff

At work. I should keep my mouth shut.

me:Gary Gygax is dead. Who gets the exp?

Anthony: OMG
that is by far the single most...
i dont have a word for it
what happens when your jaw drops in shock but you have the overwhelming urge to roflmao at the same time, so you just end up breaking even?

me: Haha. I don't know, but I'm pleased.

Anthony: seriously, there needs to be a word
i've never been blasted into emotional neutrality so succinctly

me: Flabbergasted.

Anthony: that's probably it

me: We could make up a word.
Dumbfounded
Stupified.

Anthony: those aren't made up

me: No, those were real suggestions.

Anthony: quelligied

me: Quelligied?

Anthony: quell-ig-eed
quell-IG-eed
that's the new adjective

me: Okay.

Anthony: "Man, that joke quelligied his mom!"

me: That's what she said.

Anywho. I give you quelligied.

Nuh-uh, I was there, she didn't say that!

So tomorrow is apparently International “That’s What She Said” Day. If you don’t know what I’m referring to, please look towards the later part of the US section of THIS handy dandy wikipedia article.

Now while I’m not a huge supporter of silly holidays, tomorrow I’ll be riddled with hunger madness due to my second monthly Fasting Day, which gives me all sorts of excuses to engage in Holidays on the 15th of each month.

If you care about the holiday, play along and please post your best phrase that would be made hilarious with a ‘that’s what she said’ or tell me a story about a time when you actually said ‘that’s what she said’ that’s both humorous and pertinent. Taste is not an issue; I assure you I have none.

Winner will receive my undying admiration, and if they’re local I’ll even give them a small prize. Oh, and +15 points. What are the points? Can’t tell you. It’s a secret.

I’m sorry for everyone who talks to me tomorrow and has to endure my deprivation-induced seasonal fervor.

What can I say, I love forcing uncomfortable and unwieldy double entendres.

… that’s what she said.

I, Podius

I have an iPod. He's been a lovely companion for me. I call it by the pronoun 'he' only because of his personality. I named him MusicBob, which might imply male, but he is quick to remind me that I chose MusicBob as a the bob of the phrase 'thing-a-ma-bob' not the Bob that's derivative of Robert.

MusicBob has been with me a couple months now. Since April. He was my gift from the federal government. They sent me a piece of paper for paying them money, and that piece of paper was worth a certain amount, and I walked into a nice shiny Apple store. I handed the overly effeminite man a good share of the amount on that paper from my distant Uncle Sam, and he handed me a beautiful shiny box that held the unawakened thing that is now MusicBob.

MusicBob holds 80 GB. At the time, he was the biggest and the bestest. They've made the iPods hold more, but those new ones strike me as kind of … flimsy. Just the construction. So I'm pleased. And okay that I paid $100 than I would for something as big as MusicBob today.

MusicBob doesn't wear any sort of armor. He's exposed to the elements. His screen is still nice, and his white surface is beautiful. His metal back, however, is scratched and pitted and will never even remotely be reflective ever again. MusicBob is okay with that. MusicBob is hardcore.

How hardcore? MusicBob flaunts death at every turn. Normally he rides quite comfortably in my pocket, but whenever I take him out? Unless I'm sitting still, he's going to fall from some height or be flung into some hard surface. I've dropped him onto concrete, asphalt, dirt, snow, and ice. I've flung him into televisions, walls, ceramic tiles, and computers. He leaps off beds and tables at the least provocation, no parachute or safety line. He's just that kind of guy. My little adrenaline junkie.

Hasn't broken a thing yet! Good thing, too, since he's so quick to find something to smash into. For a while, after a particularly hard fall where I forgot I was wearing headphones and flung him nearly 10 feet, his Hold switch was a little loose for a while, but he's healed (by magic or something) and he's fine now. He just gets a little scratched on the back, and carries on.

He's a wonderful companion because he knows me so well. Maybe I've just imbued him with my spirit, or perhaps Apple have build iPods to be magically all-knowing, but MusicBob is very skillful. When I put him on random, invariably he suits music perfect to my mood. It's pretty scary how expertly he'll throw things together. He can even follow conversations, sometimes, bringing in the right song at the right time to perfectly underline or counterpoint the discussion.

And he keeps me sane. I drag him around, making him perform, like my own travelling bard. But he never complains (save once or twice when I didn't feed him and he put up a pretty big fuss by refusing to even talk to me) and he's always reliable. Worth every penny. A pittance for the current-tasties, and considering he's working at least 6 hours a day, every day? I'm in the free and clear, so far as I'm concerned.

I'm writing this mostly because he's awesome. And he deserves the acknowledgement. He fights the good fight, and he does it beautifully. Nobody else is going to thank him, so I'll have to do it.

MusicBob, you're the greatest!

When the Weekend is Wintery

There was an interesting ice storm on Friday. The whole world covered in a quarter inch of frozen water. There was some absolutely wonderful sights. Grass that was individuated and sheltered from other grass by sheathes of ice. Branches that looked like crystal decorations. I even saw one person who left flowers out on a porch and they were things of glass and beauty. I wonder if it wasn't on purpose.

I was driving when it hit. I slid Adam home, and then stayed with him. The last time I slept in the same room as him was when we roomed together in college. So much time passes, and yet the body doesn't forget. We're crashed on his couches, tired and content. And the memories just burst back. We're a thousand miles from college (spiritually) and yet here it is again. That feeling. It was bittersweet. I had forgotten what it was like to feel sweet nostalgia. My nostalgia has been of the bitter, revelatory kind because of my novel.

Within a day all the ice was gone, which was fine by me. I even went out to breakfast last night. Old men falling apart, people who live in bars, college students drifting through their life. These people all converge at the late night Cecils. Anyone who is in Omaha owes it to themselves to go to Cecils on a weekend night. They're open from 11 until 4 AM on Friday and Saturday, and they're the best greasy spoon in the area. It's not just a meal, it's an experience.

When I was there this drunk shrew of a woman pulled a giant ziplock bag out of her purse and started handing everyone chinese finger traps. Amusing, sure, but I'm not sure what else I think about it, if anything. I'm not above (if you're arrogant enough to look at it that way) looking for signs and messages in life. And here comes a cheap wicker sign to me, sliding across the dirty counter like manna from heaven.

When we're stuck, when we're unhappy, the normal response is to fight it. To retreat, to flee, to turn whatever is bad around to 'something not-bad'. The trick is that often our reactions are more harmful than the natural course of events. The more you struggle, the tighter the trap becomes. It's only when we close in and allow ourselves to dive into our issues that we can find their solution. Enlightenment over animal instincts. I believe that I was told that key lesson last night for a reason.

Too bad I don't know what it is.

Current Reading Queue:
Just finished Heretics of Dune last night.
Started The Bell Jar today.

Novelling Status and Goals:
Words Written Last Week: 12,000
Days of Disappointment: 4
Words to Write This Week: 10,000 (and pull myself past this scene of hell I'm in)
Days I'm Allowed to Slack Off: Wednesday, Friday, and Saturday