I spend a lot of time wondering what it would be like to be another person; sometimes a certain person, often just another person per se. I'm happy to be who I am, but all the same, I'd like to know what it means that there are all these other people. Why do they have habits and tastes that are different from mine? What are their thoughts, and how do they think them? Why do other people consider something to be good when I don't, and is there any ultimate meaning in this difference? I think my anxiety and constant confusion about the creative process has the same source as these questions. What is the state of an artist in the moment of creation? What makes another person say things I don't say, and do things I don't do?

This thought often turns into an attempt to understand personality. Laying aside the question of the origin of different personalities, which is enough trouble, I want to know what a personality even is, and just how they differ from one another. Do people with different personalities have different feelings and thoughts? Is the bearer of a different personality really different from me, or similar in some crucial way? Do they have a different consciousness? What experiences of life do other people have, and would I recognize them if they could somehow be presented to me?

More than I want to get to know other people in the convntional sense of that phrase, I want to know other people absolutely, the same way I know myself. I don't want to use this knowledge, as is implyed to me by the phrase "get into someone else's head", although I often use the urge as an impetus in fiction writing. The conception doesn't appeal to me for the purpose of greater compassion for others, although I am often lacking in compassion. I just want to know. I feel as though this knowledge would bring me a sense of completion and satisfaction beyond anything else I have experienced. When I dream, I think I get something of it, and that may be one of the reasons I like sleeping as much as I do.

I don't know if what I'm describing is unique, or even uncommon. I have rarely seen this feeling expressed, and yet I doubt that it is special in me. If anyone would like to join me, please let me know. I'm open to a meeting of minds.

WATCH OUT, SCOOTER

Tonight a man came up to the desk, stood in my peripheral vision and called out, "engarde". From his voice and a brief glance, I knew it was him, so I ducked behind the desk and grabbed a pair of scissors. He disarmed me by saying, "hey, none of that, now." I stood up. Blake greeted me with a firm handshake one-arm embrace combo, and said, "you stole my job."

He was wearing a thin, grey wool two-piece suit, with a tucked-in shirt and leather shoes, all well fitted. He's growing a beard, which has come in thinly but fully, and is closely groomed. His hair was controlled, parted in the middle, of medium length. He has glasses with light-colored frames. He is small, trim, and erect. He comes off as a handsome young scholar, which I suppose he is. He's just moved in with a girl named Chelsea who graduated last year, and whom I know only from my precept on Willa Cather. She's about his size, also blonde, thoughtful and sharp; she stayed rather quiet in class, and seemed like an interesting personality.

Blake invited me to a dinner he was planning for all the members of our class who were still around, and we exchanged phone numbers. Upon his request, I gave him Scott's phone number as well. Then he described how he got mugged back in March, ending with the words, "I've been thinking about it a lot. Next time I'm going to tackle the guy, even with the heavy back pack, and then kick his ass." After that, he showed me how to use a credit card to pick a lock. As he was leaving, he saw an LP of Kind of Blue and asked me to check it out t0 him. "Put on a little music as I put some moves on my lady," he said, walking away.

In Maryland I was oppressed by the looming presence of my parents and the constant reminder of my own childhood. Their tastes hang over the whole house, and you can see them even from the outside.

My mother's failed sense of presentation is apparent: the inaptly placed flower garden and the small gnome at the end of the driveway.

There's Jeff's lingering embarrassment: that red Honda on the edge of their curb, parked nearly all the time.

You can see my father's distance from people: the pathway leading to the front door, which is obstructed by propane tanks.

Inside the house are floral-patterned living room furniture often covered during the day by baskets of clothes taken out of the dryer, in tribute to my father's militant wash schedule; and at night by my prostrate mother, generally with Mulder on her stomach. A vacuum cleaner sits in front of the hearth (which they call a fireplace) on most days, and the table against the wall is taken up by detritus from my mother's job.

The dining room has fruit wallpaper and a flimsy dinner table they've had as far back as I can remember. Jeff always sat against the wall at dinner, and my mother often said to him, "you look good against that wallpaper." She took his picture there many times. In every picture, he's crumpling his face to try to get a laugh. I wouldn't say that he looks especially good against the wallpaper.

The kitchen recently received a Thing in the middle of it, a hundred-pound wooden piece with a large cutting-board surface and numerous small drawers along the sides. The oven and range-hood are a deep black, the counters are white and have a faded color pattern, and the refridgerator is gigantic.

In all three of these rooms, the reigning decorative style might be termed Cluttered Ugly Things.

My mother's bedroom used to be Eric's bedroom, and the mix of their decorations was confusing for me, psychically. My father's bedroom is more austere, and even has a small feeling of solemnity aided by dim lighting and copious dark wooden furniture. The basement is centered around technology: the computer, the television, and the washing machine. Off to one side is the room Jess dubbed the "Bourgeois Bunker"; on the other is Jeff's childhood room, where twenty-six-year-old Jeff still lives, a child.

I felt at home here, but never free. Every room was a reminder of my parents and my childhood. Worst was my own room, so small, full of everything I had accumulated. I tried to re-arrange the room every season, and it never felt right, whether my bed was against the side wall or by the window, a nightstand present or not, my CDs displayed or in binders. I had a television that I rarely used anymore, but whose blank face stared at me all night. My shades were usually drawn, and when they weren't, I had a fine view of the overgrown bushes in front of the house. My bookshelf contained a small library that I found always unsatisfying. My closet opens into the attic.

I could never fully become an adult in this house. I was always reminded of myself as a teenager, all my old habits and thoughts. My parents treated me kindly, for the most part, but their earnest instructiveness and constant attention drained me. The fact that they paid for everything meant that I didn't have to figure out how to do it for myself. Their too practical minds often clashed with my speculative thoughts, and made it so that their advice was always questionable.

My mood in Maryland was winter: my passions were cooled, my habits frozen in place. I could produce no new shoots, and the old dead ones stayed around to mock me.

Here, everything is new and under my control. Anne and I can order our lives and our house as we wish. I have enough time to read, write, and learn German. My job has considerable variety and autonomy, and very little supervision. New Mexico has elaborate skies, rolling land, intricate plants and insects, and beauty. I am working on making my life.

The owner of the guest house we are soon to be subletting called me on Monday night to say that his plans of moving out by Tuesday morning had been postponed because of a flat tire and an unexpected amount of work. He said he'd reimburse us the 20 or so dollars we paid him for that particular day, and told me we could move in on Wednesday. This took him about ten minutes to get out, and it seemed after every sentence that he wanted some prompting. Whenever I said anything, however, it seemed like there was a note of distress in his voice, as though I had made a faux pas. This has been the nature of our conversations since the first time I spoke to him in early August. When we met him, we saw his even more unsettling face, the gray skin of which looked stretched and bony, with deep pools for eyes and compact, off-color lips, all under dry looking, short black hair. As Kay aptly pointed out, he is a David Lynch character.

After he was done telling me that we couldn't move in yet, his partner came on and, in a slightly less creepy but even mroe rambling manner, gave me a quick tutorial on the gas heater. "Good evening. How are you doing? Good. First, I wanted to tell you that I'm leaving a phone number for the plumber on the table here. Also, I wanted to tell you about the gas heater in case you never used one before. There's a spigot on the wall next to the heater, and it has to be turned either perpendicular to the wall to turn on the gas, or . . . have you ever used a gas heater? There's something called a pilot light that you have to light to engage the gas, and it needs to be lit before you turn the spigot. But you turn the spigot and it allows . . . it allows the gas to flow through the pipes and into the heater, and then if the pilot is lit, it engages the gas and the flow of gas heats the house. So, you turn this spigot ninety degrees, until it's perpendicular to the wall, and that turns it on. And, have you ever used a gas heater before? Probably it would be best to ask someone who has previously turned one on to come over and help you when you decide to turn on the heater. So, when you start having chilly days and you say to yourself, 'Hmm, I'd like to have the heater on,' you can know how to turn it on, rather than waiting and suddenly it's December and you don't know what to do. We leave it off during the summer months because even the pilot produces some heat, you'd be surprised, so we turn that off and it isn't on right now. And because there is some flow of gas, when the pilot light is on, it needs some gas to be flowing to stay lit, which is of course a nominal expense, but it is an expense. So, actually, I've never turned this particular heater on, and it isn't easy to describe the process over the phone, so maybe you can get someone who knows how to do it. Or you could even call the plumber, because I'm leaving his number on the table for you in case you need it. But, I hope you enjoy your stay here. We've had some marvelous summers here, and it's very nice, and off the street, and quit. The only time it isn't is when the neighbors sometimes have parties, just occasionally. But I hope you enjoy it here, and have a nice year."

We camped out in the library last night, with the library director's permission. She said that we couldn't turn on lights after dark except with the shadess drawn in the office of the Circulation Librarian, Laura Cooley, where we were to sleep; also, we could not have guests. We took two cushions from the couches, two pillows, and a blanket, and slept beneath Laura's beautiful ceiling with its endless expanse of stars and galaxies. Today, finally, we should be able to move in.

I see that I never wrote that description of Promissor. I should write that description of Promissor.

Anne and I finally saw the place we're subletting, and it looks wonderful: set back from the road, cozy and furnished, with a tree it's our duty to water and walls we can lock to repel intruders. We're still staying in the hotel, because the owner doesn't move out until Tuesday.

I write this from the Santa Fe campus library, where I once again work. I think I'll be very happy here. I always wanted the knowledge and responsibilities that I now have as a supervisor, and the position will give me a chance to figure out what it means to have moved out.

I've been given the first task of making sure that all the students who graduated or withdrew have been removed from the database. It's a good way to catch up to the school since I've left, to see everyone who has already left and those who have registered as alumni borrowers and whom I thus run the risk of seeing again. I especially like being able to see what books everybody has checked out. I could do this as a student as well, but now I can also add or remove fines or delete accounts. Oh, the power.

Anne and I went for a walk in the foothills yesterday, and I remembered what it's like to be in the high desert. My perspective has improved since I was here last. I more fully appreciate the beauty of the landscape, the variety of plants in their weird shapes and colors, the ever-changing sky, and the solitude. Everything seems familiar, and yet I notice now that I come back how it all has more depth than I thought when I was a student here.

This is the first time in a month and a half that I've been separated from Anne for more than twenty minutes. I feel like something critical is missing, like my glasses; or perhaps as though I forgot to wake up. She's looking around town to apply for jobs, and she has no phone. I wish she were still here.

Life is not fixed. None of it is solid at all, and the slightest wind can blow anything away. I learned this more every day as we travelled west, through lush eastern forest to rolling hills and farmlands of Tennessee, to the broken roads and dirt piles of Arkansas, the imposing sky and flatness of Oklahoma, and finally the desert nothingness of the Texas panhandle and the mountains and dust of New Mexico. Now that I'm here, I see that more even than I thought at first is transient and fluid. And yet there are patterns in the chaos, and principles to which a strong personality can hold.

Anne and I both got the same job through AppleOne, at a call center for a company called Promissor (rawr! Promisaur!). They administer and schedule exams, mainly for state licenses in real estate, insurance, barbershops, and mortgages. The call center schedules most of the exams over the telephone, and some others are scheduled by the test-takers online. When our training is over, we will answer phones all day and either answer questions or schedule exams. We have now had five training days. Each one has brought something special. Here are the highlights:

Monday: We meet our training supervisor, whose name is Dorissa, as well as the seven other people in our class. We discover that whites are in a small minority at this office. Systematic problems with the company's system result in a woman named Grace lecturing us for nearly an hour about the finer points of computer programs we haven't seen yet and know nothing about. Then we each observe one representative for a few hours. The rain, flooding, mud and accidents cause Routes 95 and 50 crawl along. The drive home takes two hours.

Tuesday: At lunch, I speak to Juan from the Spanish line. He's a totally nice guy, and confirms that there are no paper towels, napkins, plates or utensils in either of the two kitchens. We observe another representative for a few hours. My representative gets a call from a Vietnamese woman in Minnesota. He asks her for her town of birth in order to fill out a field he doesn't know is not required, and when she says Vietnam, he writes it in. I inform him that Vietnam is a country, and he scrambles to get the correct information.

Wednesday: We sit with a third representative for about half an hour until everyone realized that its their phones that are staticky and cutting in and out, and not the callers. All representatives are told to ask everyone to call back in two hours. We sit in the classroom for the rest of the day talking with Dorissa about an information packet. Anne and I look at the posted schedule and see that we share only one shift. Dorissa tells us that the schedule is not final, and we request that we be placed on the same shift.

Thursday: We're told that the schedule is real. Bruce, the office manager and one of the few white people, comes into the training room to discuss the schedules, fifteen minutes before our shifts are supposed to begin. When people show up on time, he says, "For those of you coming in late I was just talking about how to change your schedule if you're dissatisfied. If you can find someone to switch with you, then we'll look at the change and decide if we want to approve it. You can write on this form what kind of schedule you want." We finally begin training on a computer, and discover that the programs are exceedingly simple. I switch with one of the other trainees, who has Anne's schedule (shifts beginning at eight in the morning).

Friday: We both find people who have 2 p.m.-11 p.m. shifts and want morning shifts. Our schedule request is approved, just before we leave for the long weekend.

I'll describe more about the office later.

Real Baltimore Sun headline yesterday: "Rain Not Done Here Yet"

Anne and I wonder how this could have happened. I imagine a board meeting of Sun editors and reporters in a windowless conference room with cheesy wood paneling and a long plastic table. A reporter says he has a huge story. "Did you guys know it's been raining? A lot! And It might rain again, too."

Three editors comment: "Wow, damn! Really?"
"Is that so?"
"You don't say."

Silence.

Another reporter says, "Did you guys know it's been raining?"
Says one of the editors, "You know, I just heard about that! How long is it going to last? Is it done yet?"
The reporter: "Here? No, not yet."

Silence.

One of the editors: "Well, we need a headline today. Does anybody have a headline today?"
Reporter 1: "Well, it's been raining a lot."
Editor 1: "Where? Here?"
Reporter 1: "Yes. Yes, it's been raining quite a lot. And it's not done yet. Someone should write a story."
Editor 1: "So it's been raining? And it's not done here yet?"
Reporter 1: "Yeah, that's what I heard. I have a couple sources, anyway. Should I write a story?"
Editor 1: "Well, is it done here yet? You know, we need a headline and I think I might have one. When can you have this story done by? Can it be done in five minutes? I want a doughnut."
Reporter: "I can do that." He scribbles a few lines of the story. "Did you say doughnut?"
Editor 2 : "doughnuts? Are we getting doughnuts?"
Reporter 2: "I want doughnuts. Are we getting doughnuts?"
Editor 1: "Doughnuts! Get us some doughnuts! Is that story done here yet? I want doughnuts!"
Reporter 1: "Well, I have a weather report. Maybe we can print that as our top story."
Editor 1: "Still need a headline. And some doughnuts, goddammit!"
Editor 2: "How about 'Rain Not Done Here Yet'?"
Editor 1: "It's raining?"
Editor 2: "I guess so. And it's not done yet. I just thought, you know, we might want to tell people it's not done here yet. And where are those doughnuts? I want doughnuts!"
Editor 1: "We're getting doughnuts?"
Reporter 2: "Can I have a jelly doughnut?"

I'd kind of like to work at the Sun.

I just went to the Double T Diner with Jeff. I wish I could explain this better than I can, but I don't really understand it. He asked me last night if I wanted to go to the diner, and when I asked him why, he said, "Because I'm hungry." I didn't go, because I had things to do. Tonight he asked me again if I wanted to go to the diner, or more properly went through his routine. I was listening to music and chatting with Anne when he tapped my shoulder. I looked over at him standing there in the black button down shirt I helped him pick out, twisting his back so that his chest was concave, perhaps because he thinks this looks somehow impressive, and smiling as though we had a shared secret, but he knew a bit more of the secret than I. "I'm hungry," he said. I told him to wait, because I was talking to Anne, and because Eric was supposed to call from New York and I wanted to be here to answer it. Anne went to bed, and it became so late that I could reasonably expect that Eric wouldn't call, so I went over to the couch, where Jeff was stretched out lazily, watching The Colbert Report. I told him I would go if he still wanted to, but since going to the Double T is generally such a bad experience, I asked him why he wanted to go.

"I'm hungry."
"And there's nothing to eat in the house?"
"Is there anything to eat in the house?"
"Would I know?"
"--."
"--."
"Well, do you want to go?"
"I'll go, but I don't see why you want to go to the diner."

Then he went into his room to put on his socks. I followed him and said, "If there's nothing in the house, why don't you go to the grocery store?"
"The grocery store, eh? What should I get at the grocery store?"
"Something to eat. I don't care. But the diner is expensive, and the food isn't any good. Why do you want to go?"
"I like the diner." Then he asked, "do you want to go to the diner?"
"Not particularly, but I'll go with you if you want to go."
"Should I go to the grocery store?"
"Do whatever you want."

We went upstairs, and I put my shoes on. Then we walked up the driveway. The sky was black and vast. The humidity and insect noise made the world feel like a movie set. We got to the street and Jeff asked, "which car are we taking?"
"Make a decision!" I cried at him. We took his car, and he drove to the end of the street and turned left, toward 40 East and the Double T. "I just don't see why you don't get food at a grocery store, but if you want to go to the diner, that's fine."
"Should I go to the grocery store? I could still go to the grocery store." He pulled up to the light and got into the middle lane, which would allow him to turn left toward the supermarket and not right toward the diner.
"It's up to you! I have no part in this decision. I'm just going with you because you want company."
He thought for a few seconds and said happily, "I'm going to the diner." Then he made a right turn from a left turning lane (at 10:50 in Ellicott City, so there weren't any other cars on the road), and drove to the Double T.

I took the opportunity to preach to him, which is usually what I do when I go with him to the diner. I explained how he's lazy, and can only live the way he does because our parents take care of his needs even though he doesn't at all appreciate it. I talked about how video games for him are an escape from his meaningless life. I suggested that he go to a career counselor, and that he think about himself and his situation more.

We got to the diner and sat in the non-smoking section, in a booth across from a silent black man and behind a table of three fat people. The fat person facing me was dressed in a red and black checkered shirt and a wide-brimmed straw hat. I think he wanted to look like a riverboat gambler. We ordered, and I continued to preach to Jeff until the waitress brought our food. By the time it came, I ran out of things to say, so mostly I ate my egg and cheese sandwich and watched him in consternation. I don't understand how my brother turned out so differently from me. I see nothing of myself in him. I see no way of explaining to him the basic truths of his life, of all life. We exist randomly, and have to find our own purpose. We are each alone, and without interaction we are blank things. We exist in time, and if that time is under our own control, we would do best to figure out how to use it well.

He ate a chicken salad sandwich and french fries, and when he was done, he paid his bill with money he has saved up for no purpose. Looking around the diner, he said to me, "Why do you think it is that I don't like other people?"

In Carroll County there is a woman named Wendy who converted one of her basement rooms into a barbershop. She lives in rural Maryland, where the highways have two lanes and cows still graze in the field. The driveway by Wendy's house faces an acre of cornfield. Wendy is in her fifties, has a long, slightly poofy hair style popular in the eighties, dresses very simply in big shorts, t-shirts and sandals, and speaks with that lazy Maryland accent that took the worst of Eastern shore mariners and southern sharecropers and melded them into verbal sludge.

My mother started going to Wendy with a woman she met at work. The woman's name is Tanis, which rhymes with heinous, appropriately enough. Tanis has that ugly Maryland woman's bus-driver mullet, gray hair, and a lot of face. She and my mother got along reasonably well, perhaps because Tanis didn't talk about the need to castrate Clinton quite as loudly as the other women they used to work with. They often schedule their hair-cuts with Wendy at the same time, which is the only interaction they have now after my mother quit her old job. I guess it's possible to build a friendship around just about anything when you no longer have an interest in ideas.

I went with my parents tonight to get my hair cut. The three of us took turns as Wendy cut our hair and chatted with my mother about the trip my parents are taking in July to Alaska, her own son's job search, the wedding of her son's friend, Eric's travels, and other things middle-aged people can relate to each other about. My father went first, and left a fair-sized clump of salt-and-pepper hair on the floor, which Wendy swept toward the trash. Then I went, and left almost twice as much black hair as she fixed up my fluffy, unkempt head. I always prefer the way my hair looks before I get it cut, and don't like it again for about a month. My mother followed me, and left a thin pile of nearly white hair. While she was in the chair, Wendy's brown tabby came to investigate the couch I sat on with my father, and the floor by our feet, and then he jumped onto the windowsill and looked out at the dying light. Just his tail stuck out behind the curtain, and it waved jauntily. My father told me that the last time they were there, that cat had sat in my mother's lap while she waited on the couch, and when she got into the barber's chair, he had jumped onto her lap again, under the smock.

It is very weird to watch your parents get their hair cut. They look so vulnerable with their eyes closed and their hair lank and unstyled at the sides of their heads.

While I was in the barber chair, my father asked what color Anne's hair is naturally, and when Wendy heard that in the past it had been dyed red-red, she said, "Ohhhh, I had to dye this one girl's hair red-red before. She had hair about your color, and she wanted it red just underneath for highlights. I didn't say anything, but if I had been her mother, I would have been like, 'No way!' I mean, I don't knooow . . . it's a little out theeere . . .." Later she said that the only style of hair she couldn't understand is dred locks. "They look like rats' nests! My husband asked me once how to do that one and I said, 'hey, beats me!' I just don't get that at all. I mean, why would you want to do that?"

As we drove home, we saw two women by the side of the county road walking dogs. My father was about to comment on how one of the dogs was as big as a goat, and then we realized that the woman was walking a goat.

I have decided to start keeping some sort of day planner. I'll begin with a fairly primitive form--a notepad on my night table--and see where it takes me. That's a step above writing things on my hand, which I've also never done. Weird as it may sound, this is uncharted territory for me. I keep a notebook in my pocket all the time, but I rarely use it to keep track of worldly obligations. I have only recently realized that I am not a child anymore, and no one is going to take care of me.

I will also try to update this blog every day. This is really very basic. I was asleep for too long, and it's time to wake up.

Know Your Moon

There is a moon.

The moon circles around the earth, and both the moon and the earth orbit the sun.

The sun circles around the center of the Milky Way, and both the moon and the earth orbit the center of the Milky Way.

The Milky Way circles around the center of the universe, and the sun and the earth and the moon all orbit around the center of the universe.

We see more or less of the moon lit up with the sun's light, depending on where the side that faces us is in relation to the sun.

The moon rises and sets at different times depending on what phase the moon is in.

Look at the moon!

I quit my job last week. My emotions were getting to me, overwhelming my reason and sense. I was arguing with my supervisor almost all the time, and railing against the organization of the office and the indignity of being a permanent temporary worker. Everything that didn't go my way made me angry, and almost brought tears. I couldn't bear the sight of my two new co-workers cheerfully making DVDs, figuring out how to solve problems I'd encountered many times before, chatting with each other and laughing at their own mistakes, and listening respectfully to our supervisor. I knew the supervisor, Laura, much better than they did. I'd been on the project before Laura, who was transferred to it back in October when she herself was a temp. She got hired because there was an opening in another project, transferring grant applications to an electronic format and then putting them on CD; but before she went to the new position, she was placed on this DVD recording project until it ended. I naturally felt jealous, as she had gotten hired as a permanent worker (and in a management role) while I remained a temp indefinitely. Moreover, my job was horridly boring. I had to show up every day and repeat the simple actions I'd been doing since I first got the job in September. I spent a whole school year recording tapes for people who didn't even know me. This frustration had a vicious effect on my happiness in other ways, as well: whereas at first I was able to read novels and philosophy at work, toward the end I was finding it difficult even to get through the newspaper. When I got home, I might occasionally look at job sites and every so often apply to one, but I wouldn't say that I had dreams.

On Wednesday of last week, I spoke to Eric in Berlin. I told him about my frustration, and found myself using stodgy language ("the job market is dangerously tilted toward employers"; "it shouldn't be so difficult for me to advance my position"), and he told me looking for traditional work isn't something he or any of his friends have ever done so he didn't know what to say. He suggested that I visit Berlin. Since he's moved there, he's often told me about how it's a great place to live right now because it's cheap and has a hopping culture, and Americans can easily make enough money to live on by teaching English. I asked him if he has a lot of free time. He laughed and said, "I have a ridiculous amount of free time. Oh yeah."

I went in to work the next day, Thursday, and almost immediately got into a bitter spat with Laura about whether or not I had to record both copies of a particular assessment which we had on two different tapes, for whatever reason. I showed her that the two tapes had the same material, and she kept telling me slow down, not to talk so much, and to show her how I knew they were the same. It felt like she was babying me, demanding that I prove my point because my judgment alone was insufficient. Finally, she said that I could go ahead and record only one of the two tapes. On my first break, I called my temporary agency and told them that I wanted to quit. They said that Friday would be my last day.

After I told Laura that I had quit, we talked a bit more openly and she told me that she hadn't mistrusted my judgment, but had been occupied with writing an email and couldn't at first understand what I was saying, and then could tell that I was getting mad but didn't know what else to do. Then, very shortly, we again got into an emotional debate about the ethics of capitalism and specifically of our company, which is a small, family-helmed government contractor. She kept trying to divert the conversation toward my own character, and my tendency to be too sure of what I say, to not listen to other people, and to make too much of small injustices. It was rather maddening at the time, although even then I came to see that she had a point. Nevertheless, I still feel the same way about the company, and about capitalism. I'm very nearly a Marxist.

That night, Anne and I discussed saving up some money and then moving to Berlin to be writers. On Friday, I had one more day of work, and more arguing with Laura, and more bad feelings. I didn't even get past page five of the newspaper, but then I left the office for the last time. Berlin very quickly began to seem like a wonderful idea, better than any other option. Anne and I can both get jobs of any sort just in order to save a few thousand more dollars, get certified to teach English, and leave this country at least for three months, depending on visa renewal. This is our plan. Now we just need jobs.

I showed up the next day and set my bags on the floor next to my chair. Then I started a tape on each recorder, pressed record, and got a cup of tea from the kitchen. When I got back, one machine was on 3:00, and the second was on 3:23. I put a CD into the player, put on my headphones and pressed play. Then I picked up the newspaper and started reading the story in the top right. After two minutes, I removed the teabag and threw it away. The CD played. I read another newspaper story, and during it I stopped first one DVD player, then the other, and set up two new tapes. The CD played, and I read. Laura tapped me on the shoulder and said something to me, then I put the headphones back on and continued listening to music. I read another story.

Then I heard my name called over the intercom. It was time to meet the G-man.

I stopped the CD, put down the newspaper, and asked Laura to watch my clips. She took my seat, and I walked down the hall and turned toward the front desk, past a row of offices where stuffed shirts yell into phones all day. When I got to the reception area, I saw a tired-looking man with close-cut hair, wearing a full suit and a badge with his picture on it. "Mr. Green?" he said. "I'm Greg Delitros." It was the same voice from the phone. I scanned his face, and thought he looked about thirty-five, with something of a gee-whiz, guys, I'm an investigator! attitude. "Can we use this room? It won't take an hour," he said to the receptionist.

"Go right ahead," she said, and smiled. I looked to her for support, as though she could protect me from this weirdness, but she is Marie, the receptionist, and she had already turned her head down and was engrossed in her computer screen, unaware of my existence.

The investigator and I walked into the conference room, and I sat down in the middle chair in the row facing the entrance. He turned on the lights and shut the door behind him, and then sat down across from me. "I'm going to interview you as part of your investigation before you're granted clearance. It's a normal part of the process, so don't worry." He sounded like he was already reading from a script, but also as though the task really excited him. "Before we begin, do you have any questions? Once I start, I'll have to write down anything you say. I'm so used to these things now that I forget sometimes that you're probably a bit nervous. I always try to think of how I felt when I was first interviewed. So, do you have any questions?"

"Well, first, who do you work for, again?"

"Ah, of course. I'm with the Office of Personnel Management. I was going to show ID when we started." He flashed his badge, too quickly for me to examine it.

"OK, the OPM. And, I was never sure what end result would be. It's for a contracting position, and they told me it was some sort of contractor's clearance. You said it was for security clearance?"

"Yes. It's a national security investigation before you're granted security clearance."

"So, actual secuirty clearance? Does it transfer to any job? Like, if I apply to jobs with the federal government, I could say I have security clearance?"

"That's right. Do you have any other questions? I know you said that you're not interested in the job any more, but once the process has started, it has to continue. I checked with your company, and they said that they had requested it. It's being paid for by the taxpayers, so you might as well take advantage of it. Okay. So you don't have any more questions? Let's begin. I'll try to make it quick, so you can get back to work. So, first, do you have ID?"

I showed him my driver's liscence. "OK, good." He glanced at it, and wrote the number down. Then he peered at the form sitting in front of him and said, "So you work for Nancy Adams Personnel? From oh nine oh five to the present?" He spoke quite quickly and formally, and asked the questions like television investigators conducting a lie detector test; somehow his tone and body language implyed disbelief and even mild scorn.

"Yes. At this job site, Quality Associates." He wrote down simply "yes". "And, does anyone here have reason to question your integrity?" I wasn't sure what that meant, but I said no. He wrote down "no". "Do you work with any state secrets, or any matters involving national security?" "No." "Do you discuss matters of national security with anyone at work?" "No." "And your supervisor is Laura Paul? And is she here?" "Yes." "Good. Okay. And the phone number, 443-525-9684?" "I don't . . . is that the number I put down? Then I guess it's right." "Okay. Moving right along. From nine oh three to five oh five you worked at the Meem Library? And did anyone there have any reason to question your integrity?"

This went on for several minutes, with these same questions about every job I have had. At one point, he said, "you look a bit distracted. Are you alright?"

"Yes," I told him, "I'm just trying to follow all the numbers."

He put his pen down and said, "it's ok if it's even, say, four months off. As long as the year is correct, really. So you don't have to worry about that."

"OK."

"So, from four oh oh to nine . . ." When he was done with jobs, he moved on to placed I'd lived. "613 Genessee Street, Annapolis, MD, 21401. You lived there from five oh two to seven oh two."

"Yes."

"While there, did you have any contact, personal or formal, with any foreign nationals?"

I goggled at that a bit, but said, "no." What is a foreign national, anyway? Anyone who isn't a U.S. citizen? Because, well, yeah, of course I had contact with foreign nationals. Everyone does. But, well, contact? I mean, Amanda's boss at the Fashnique had immigrated from India, and I spoke to her a few times. Was that contact? I didn't really care, so I answered "no" each time. "What were you doing there? I assume you were going to Anne Arrundel Community College?"

"No, to St. John's College."

". . ."

"Isn't that on the form?"

"I haven't heard of it." He looked. "Ah, yes, St. John's College, Santa Fe and Annapolis. So they're conjoined campuses?"

That made me think of siamese twins. "Sister campuses, yes."

"Okay."

When he got to Los Angeles, he asked who I lived with, and I told him I was living with my then-girlfriend. He asked for her name and wrote it down. Then he said, "Could anyone blackmail you becauese you lived with a girl outside of wedlock?"

"No."

"While at this address, did you have any contact, personal or formal, any kind of contact, I don't care, with any foreign nationals?"

I spoke to an Armenian dude while Tiffany was waiting in line to pay a fine in traffic court. Does that count? I said, "no."

"Good. OK." After all the addresses were done, he asked me for the names of people whom I see at least once a month, and I named Scott, Jess and Anne. He wrote your names down, but didn't ask for addresses or phone numbers. They're on his forms, of course, but he didn't know that, as far as I can tell. "Finally, if I ask around about you, no one's going to say, 'Ah, Mr. Green, yes, I get drunk with him all the time?'" "No." "Or, 'Yeah, he just bought some crack off me last week!' It's okay to smile, I'm only joking."

"I guess I've had a boring life."

"Not boring, just by the book." Then he thanked me and shook my hand, and he left. I went back to my chair, put on my headphones, pressed play, recorded more tapes, and read the newspaper until my ten o'clock break. Then I slipped across the Syrian border to discuss matters of national security with foreign nationals.

Back in late February, my supervisor told three of us that another project had two permanent jobs opening up within the month. She said that she had been told to ask the three temps who had been here the longest whether we would be interested. We (Matt, Billy and I) were all interested, Matt and I particularly. We had been here since September as "temporary" workers, and were starting to feel cheated. Laura told us that she had no details on the job, but said she would tell us more later.

The next week, Laura tapped me on the shoulder and said, "can I talk to you?" and then she ushered me into the hallway. She had done this many times with Matt so that she could go into detail about why something he had done was not work safe. This time, she gave me a stack of papers labelled as a Questionnaire for the Office of Personnel Management and told me that the new job would require a type of government security clearance for contractors. I asked her if she knew yet what kind of job it was, and she said it was "on the FDA project."

I repeated, "so what kind of job?"

"Scanning," she said. I felt a bit let down, and I let her know. I didn't go to college so I could one day operate a scanner. Still, it would almost certainly have a higher salary, so I told her I would still take it if offered.

I filled out the form, and as a result everyone I had named in the form as a reference (including many of you, Kay, Scott, Jess, Anne) got requests from the gov'mint for information about me. My father got one as well. I was a bit surprised to see it, since it doesn't seem that serious of a job. I mean seriously, scanning for an FDA-contracted project, which probably means forms requesting approval for new drugs, doesn't seem like it would pose a risk to the nation's security.

A bit later, as we kept asking Laura when the position would be open (she had told us in March, maybe April, and it was getting pretty close to April), she kept not knowing anything. I told her to ask someone who might know. She did, and told us that the position wasn't open for a while; maybe May. I can't really do justice to my reaction, since I'm on a lunch break, but know that it wasn't positive.

In April, Billy, Matt and I all got paid to be driven in a company van to the FDA headquarters in Bethesda, where we were briefly interviewed by a woman named Vickie Vandevender and then fingerprinted by an electronic scanning machine. Again, this seemed a bit excessive, but I didn't think too much of it. It's pretty common that government jobs require fingerprinting. I was a bit pissed off, however, by the fact that the FDA project head brought along his younger brother to be fingerprinted. Moreover, his younger brother hasn't yet graduated from High School.

A little while later, I found out that there isn't even an opening at the FDA project. Not even a scanning position. Instead, they might have one at some time. This is the result of bureaucracy. It's like a giant game of telephone. Laura had never known any details about the job, and now, she found out, there is no job.

Yesterday, I was sitting in front of my two televisions, where two fifteen-month-olds were crying as their mothers left the room, then five minutes later running up and hugging them as they returned, then crying agian as they left the room, then five minutes later being really confused as a research assistant entered the room to play with them, then crying, then one last time running up and hugging their mothers. It's kind of like a drawn-out game of peek-a-boo. The NIH named this assessment "Separation and Reunion". I wasn't paying any attention to the tapes, or, rather, just enough that I could stop the recorders when the assessments ended. Mainly I was reading Philip Roth and listening to music. Then Laura tapped me on the shoulder and said I had a phone call. This has never happened before. I've gotten calls on my cell phone, which I had to rush to hang up on, but no one's ever called the office.

I took the phone, and heard a scratchy, fast-talking voice tell me, "This is Greg Delitros. I'm an investigator with the OPM. This is about your security clearance process. I'll need to interview you."

"Well, ok. Actually, as far as I know, there isn't any job here, so do you really have to interview me?"

"The government told me to interview you. I can't just call it off." This guy sounded like he was from Dragnet. "So, I'll come in tomorrow between 8 and 10:30. I'll just come up to the front gate, or the desk, or whatever you have. We'll have it in a conference room? See you tomorrow."

Now, as a temporary employee, I don't use the conference rooms; at least, not unless someone has put candy in them. This investigator didn't seem to know this. I got one anyway, as Laura went to the receptionist and told her in what I imagine to be an uncertain voice, "could one of my temps have a conference room tomorrow?" The receptionist said that this happens all the time, so it wasn't a problem.

Next time I get a chance, I'll describe the interview.

This is the face of belligerence. Belligerence, thy name is "Papu".

Dude, it's just like Rashamon!

Josh. Yeah.

I usually find the A section of the Washington Post on the front seat of my car when I go to work in the morning. I made an agreement with certain night spirits that they would place the newspaper there if I made devotions to them. The paper wasn't there this morning, and I've contacted my spirit lawyer, but that's not my reason for writing this.

Without the newspaper, I felt unwell, so I asked my coworker if I could read the front page of The Baltimore Sun. He brings it in every day to do the puzzles and read the sports section. He handed me the A section, and it felt okay. It seemed like a real newspaper, felt like a real newspaper. I smelled it, and the smell was okay. I licked it, and it tasted fine. Comforted, I began reading, only to discover that I had been handed a cheap imitation of a newspaper, something like a Fischer Price stove set. It looked like it would work, but it didn't. Perhaps the CIA prepared it for me, as part of a plan to replace my office with a sophisticaed facimile while they searched the real one for terrorist suspects. I don't know. All I can say is that this newspaper had what looked to be articles about what, at first glance, looked to be significant news. Whenever I began reading them, however, they proved to be either minor stories about small-time issues in Maryland, or else badly written treatments of a random collection of world events. The former were almost unreadable, as they lacked coherence usually provided by background context, significant information about the actors involved, or an adequate and well-ordered description of the events being reported. The latter, the random collection of significant news, read like a summary of articles written for real newspapers, perhaps to be presented as a high school history class project. Sources were sparse, analysis was nonexistant, and the paragraphs might well have been the result of Microsoft Word's summary function.

I imagine that if I were to read this faux-newspaper every day, it wouldn't take too long for me to lose all memory of real news coverage. After a while, I would begin to lose my sense that anything important happens in the world; that my country's government is often accountable for major changes that affect real people; that this government has a two-party system fueled by debate between two sides of roughly equal strength; that things happenening in other countries aren't inexplicable and random events; that my own country's government studies these events and has a stake in them because the people of the country have a stake in them; that decisions of leaders in my government are often questionable and ought to be considered from many perspectives; that the changes in my own area are connected to the regional economy, which is part of the national economy, which is part of the world economy; that this sentence does not have to be indefinitely continued simply as an exercise in writing.

And indeed, the articles in this faux-newspaper seemed to be exactly that: exercises in writing. They give the impression that they exist only becasue the editor wanted his writers to generate a few articles about the events other newspapers were covering, in order to keep up the appearance that The Baltimore Sun has a staff devoted to activities other than publishing and revenue-generating.

What I can't figure out is why the CIA was able to replace every other aspect of my office perfectly, fumbling only on my newspaper. They're an information-gathering agency, aren't they? You'd think that they would excel at informing the public.

Pinstripe pants: does anyone really understand them? Are they classy, or is there, rather, something gaudy about them? Are they appropriate in some settings and not others? Do they communicate something specific about the wearer's style and taste? Are they considered to be affected, and if so, what are they affecting? Are they simply a variation on the solid pattern, or a synthesis of the solid/pattern dichotomy? I'm lost here. Does anyone have answers?

The desktop image on this public-access coputer at work is the Windows default picture of a rolling green prarie beneath a blue sky with whispy clouds. A couple distant mountains rim the right-side horizon. It seems somehow pathetic that Microsoft should choose this picture as their default, perhaps thinking that it will invite their users to connect with the coputer in a way that they cannot connect with the real landscape outside their buildings. Around this building, everything has been twisted to meet human needs. A few bushes grow in dirt patches between the parking lot and the walls, molded into brutal, low-cut rectangles. Some local birds and squirrels frequent a feeder placed outside the kitchen in the same way that residents frequent a cheap country bar. The ground itself has been formed with barricades to make flat land out of hills, and the surface is covered with straw, perhaps to save money on lawn maintenance. The sky is cut by buildings, and polluted with exhaust and flourescent lights. Could anyone possibly care to sit in this "office park" and gaze at this space like a romantic poet, trying to establish a connection with the universe? It feels more like a holding cell than "the outdoors." Without a landscape to connect with, office workers all over the country might gaze at this cheap pixellated replacement on their computer screens. Maybe they only look at it for half a minute every morning as they wait for Windows to load. Maybe some imagine themselves walking in these hills, over to the mountains to gather firewood and stream water. There could even be some among them who are inspired to believe they will take a vacation to a similar area. Who can say that there isn't at least one who wants to find the very field pictured in the default desktop image? There are a lot of people in the country. Were Bill Gates and his minions thinking about this when they chose the image? Maybe it was only on an unconscious, insidious business-sense level? Did they use focus groups? Was surveillance of Windows users involved? We want answers, Mr. Gates! Were you considering the impact of your actions on the national security? Did you stop to consider the dip in corporate productivity produced by endless office workers stuck gazing at their computer screens every morning when they could be using the time to make phone calls or respond to inter-office comminucation? Oh green field and blue sky! Come here to Columbia and save me! Take away this planned-city ugliness and squalor, this maze of suburban streets with names like "My Farts Smell Like Roses Boulevard" and "Dainty But Persuadable Milkmaid Lane"! Mountains in the distance, hurl yourselves toward the infidels! My faith commands it!

I have long known that I have more interest in experiencing the world mentally than physically, but until today I didn't realize how broadly this tendency has affected my life. First, I made the faux pas of asking at dinner if my mother knew why the roses she had set on the table weren't entirely red, and learned that they were in fact carnations. (If you know what carnations look like, as probably most everyone but me does, you will understand how ridiculous this error was.) The taunts which ensued led me to realize that I never developed an elementary knowledge of the natural world beyond what I was taught in nursery school through first grade. I don't know the names, attrubutes and functioning of pretty much anything that isn't man-made, from basic garden plants and insects to ecosystems and landscapes. Moreover, I often take it for granted that no one other than experts knows any more about biology and geography than I do. As a result, whenever I discover that my friends have wide-ranging knowledge of these things, I am shocked, and feel by turns confused, frightened, and inferior. I even feel this way when I discover that my friends have things like a field guide to wild mushrooms, as Geoff Hoffman does, or photos from the Mars rover, as Wes has on his computer. These compendiums of facts about the natural world strike me as too advanced and exotic to understand whenever I see them in bookstores and libraries, and so I avoid them. In this way, my ignorance lingers and unconsciously sustains itself. Today, for whatever reason, I became conscious of it.

The second realization came while reading The Geography of Nowhere, a $14 impulse purchase at Barnes & Noble which enriches my awareness of modern culture every time I read it. Tonight, that enrichment was of a different sort: in the middle of a chapter about the short-comings of suburban architecture, I realized that my knowledge of the man-made world is as severely limited as my elementary natural science. I have become increasingly aware recently that I have a poor-to-nonexistant mental picture of most colors beyond the simplest ones (red, blue, green, etc.); in addition, I now realize, I get almost no associations from any sort of word describing the building blocks of physical objects. While I was reading, words like "vinyl", "clapboard", "corrugated", "split-level", and "cupola" were very nearly meaningless to me until I looked them up. They served only as audial flourishes in sentences, like "la la la" in a song, the only difference being that I could tell they were nouns and adjectives intended to convey meaning. Somehow, it had never occured to me that I had a systematically dismal physical vocubulary. This extends to my memory of spaces and objects, even familiar ones. While reading, I was struggling to think of examples of the things Kunstler was describing. For example, while referencing common simplistic additions to cheap ranch houses, he mentioned "a fake portico à la Gone With the Wind, with skinny two-story white columns out of proportion with the mass of the house, and a cement slab too narrow to put a rocking chair on . . .." I couldn't think of any houses which met this description. Then, when I went for a walk to smoke a cigarette, I saw one: my own.

These two areas of ignorance combine very nicely with my atrocious sense of direction and my neuroses surrounding food and clothing. I am considering making a list of physical terminology and studying each term, first in a dicitonary, then an encyclopedia, and finally in technical manuals. Perhaps it is not too late for my unconscious mind to realize that I have a body, which exists in a three-dimensional world.

Flagg is restless. He circles the computer chair like a shark around a boat, making sure to rub his tail on the underside of my legs so that I cannot fail to notice his presence. Then he pads hurriedly to the back door, and when he reaches it, he scratches his paw on the galss a few times and then stares out into the barren field that is my back yard. Perhaps he wants to hunt all those little blades of grass bending in the wind. Maybe the fading light draped over the hills has caught his eye.

Now he turnes, takes a few steps toward me, and then arches his back while yawning. His jaw clicks shut, and he arches the other way, stretching his back legs. Then he walks over to the side of the chair, looks up at me with longing and angst, and sets in punishing the fabric. Then back to the window briefly, then over to me to look up and make a little "mrrgow!", then back over the window to scratch and imagine his freedom.

Back over to me, staring into my eyes as he scratches the back of the chair again, trying to communicate his pent-up and long-suffering whiney nature, to exercise his rightful power over me despite his inferior physique, his general shortness and his puniness. But he fails. I have no pity for this cat. He will get no dashing journey outside. He will eat no birds and field mice, nor become a dragon to things even smaller than him.

Hey gaiz, catzzz.

I've heard it said that March goes in like a lion, but I don't see it. Where are its paws? Where is the lion swagger, the boldness and confidence? What is it entering, anyway? All I see is a dead landscape continuing to be dead. Is it a dead lion? Might I expect some roaring from the next world?

I am coming to Santa Fe on March 31st. I will not be painting the town red, because it is already excessively red. Perhaps I will paint it silver.

Wow, I must not have been thinking about much for the last two months.

Today, someone came to the DVD recording room and told us that a truck had arrived at bay five and they wanted to know if we could help them unload. I went down there and found three-fourths of the men who work here walking onto the truck and lifting bright orange shelf sections, each one ten feet long, then placing them in a pile inside the storage room. I lifted a few myself until the group decided to form a line to pass the shelves down. Two of the men took it upon themselves to break from the line to do the piling, and every time we got one of the parts to them we had to wait as they set it down, three of us still holding the next piece of frigid metal in our rapidly reddening palms. There were probably sixty of these shelf parts. I don't know what QAI is plainning to store on them, but at this place, for all I know it could be in preparation for the predicted surge of warrant applications to the secret FISA courts. Guys, this is such a weird office, you have no idea.

When the orange shelf parts were done, we moved on to the eight massive bookend-like shelf holders, five feet tall and crossed with support bars. Each of them were so heavy and large that they took two men to carry, and we had to lift the next one progressively higher as they piled up, eventually to shoulder level. These parts were unloaded rather quickly, after which we all stood around and watched as two guys, one the son of the company owner and the other who looked like he came with the truck (work gloves, checkered white and black flannel jacket) moved yet more orange ten-foot shelf parts off of the truck and into the storage room. We were all wearing business clothes: dress pants, button-down shirts, a few ties. We took no precautions against injury; were we to keep this up, eighty percent of us would probably be taken out within a month. I wonder if I was the only one who felt absurd imagining the job of construction workers and moving men, thinking of the cheesy, metal guitar-filled music they listen to, the kind of food they eat, the way they probably interact with each other, the way they see the world. My arm muscles felt slightly sore, like after going to the gym, and my back ever so slightly strained. I could imagine the effects of time and repetition, causing the upper body muscles to grow taut, and eventually causing the back to go out. I imagined how, the next day I came in to a job like that, I would have my gloves, and shortly thereafter, upgrade to work gloves as I noticed tears in the leather of my more bougie ones. Maybe I'd even get a flannel jacket myself after awhile, though not black and white checks; and work boots and jeans.

When I came back inside, I went to the lunch room and couldn't help but classify the workers by age and strength. I, a pack a day smoker who works out maybe once a week, felt myself having scorn for the weak people I saw all around me, the results of sedentary work and automobile travel. I sat back and watched my psychology as it took masculine pride in a job well done, felt a love and attachement to the "foreman" son of the owner as he walked into the breakroom, wondered what the 'oomen thought.

And now I go to buy a pack of Camels and then return to my office chair and newspaper, perfectly happy to be doing so.

The Washington Post's top story continues to be the existence of an incredibly cute baby panda in the National Zoo. This time, it is on the front page. I have been unable to find the picture online, but trust me, it is very cute. Awww.

I have "Jeff's iPod" (those words just look so wrong together) back in my pocket, where it belongs, so we can make the switch anytime you want, Scott. It's waiting for you with all its Fresh-Seam, Untroubled-Hardrive glory. Also, if you're reading this, Scott, why don't you sign in to your old blog and post something? Even just random keyboard strokes, or part of a Hypinion thread. Your fans are patient, but throw us a bone, here.

Today, one of my coworkers, a puzzling and nauseating rube named Billy, turned to the supervisor and said, "Okay, I want to test your acting ability. I'll give you an emotion and you try to--"

"What are you talking about?"

I turned to Billy and explained this normal human reaction, as I so often have to do. I chose to explain the simplest of the many reasons what he had just said was absurd. "It's considered polite to ask permission before making a request like that."

The other reasons for the absurdity are that even if he had posed this "test" as a request, it would be inexplicable, since he had given no introduction; that, as soon became clear, he was seriously looking for us to portray deep emotions as accurately as possible, which would erode the defensive wall between public self and work self; that his uninvited request, without reason or warning, disrupted whatever each of us had been doing; and that Billy is himself absurd.

He is the newest worker in the office, and ever since he came, there has been a noticable increase in the already present tension caused by cabin fever and bizarre activity. He is both a childlike simpleton and an extrovert, which leads him to break into every conversation in the most painfully awkward and uninformed manner possible, while at the same time being entirly unaware of why people don't like it when he does this. Example: two people were talking about politics yesterday, and how they think there is no difference between Republicans and Democrats (a harmful illusion which originated with the rhetoric of Ralph Nader and the Green Party, and from there made its way into the discourse of ignorant people everywhere). Cindy Sheehan came up, favorably as this is, thank god, at least a room full of Bush haters; Seun (yes, S-E-U-N "shawn", a black guy from New York and the smartest of my coworkers) asked if Bush ever talked to her, and Billy nitpicked that he had already met with her, along with other mothers who had lost children. "Come on," Seun called out, "they were prepped! They were probably telling them what they could ask for weeks!" This was met with astonishment. "I'm telling you, they were prepped, just like everyone else he talks to." Billy took this opportunity to steer the discussion toward whether he himself would be allowed to express his thoughts to Bush, asserting that surely he would be able to. He could just walk up to him and tell him how mad he was, and nothing would happen to him since we have free speech.

If this is hard to follow, it's because I'm finding it hard to recreate the situation. It was so absurd. Maybe you get some idea of it.

Another example of Billy's eerie annoyingness: three weeks ago, I was walking back to the office after buying cigarettes when a car drove by me and honked its horn. After I got back to the parking lot, I was standing on the sidewalk smoking when Billy walked up to me and said, "You didn't even jump!"

Another example: today he held up a sheet of paper and asked us each in turn, "do you think you could solve this?" I squinted to see what was on the paper. It was a maze. Billy had just created it and he wanted one of us to try it. He gave it to Matt (who has a highschool mentality and acts as though he's in a perpetual Will Farrell movie), and then told him, "and don't try starting from the finish, either. Start from the start."

Another example: At any given time, Billy is liable to look up from whatever he's reading and ask me (me specifically, because the room has decided that I'm a genius; no, really, they have said so many times and without irony, it's really embarrassing) to explain a concept, define a word, give a history, provide a fact. The questions are usually phrased in a manner so unclear that I can't tell exactly what he's asking.

"Can we see other galaxies?"

"What's so bad about marijuanna that they've made it illegal?"

"Is it better to buy a house and fix it up and then sell it, or to build a house and sell it?"

Another example: Billy has mainly read entertainment magazines since he's come, although recently he's started reading novels. I think he has a gay friend, who has been recommending stuff he can read to figure out what it means to be homosexual, because two of them were written with a gay narrator and, when asked, he said a friend had recommended them. I asked him what one of them was about, and he said, looking defensive and weary, "well, it's not necessarily work safe."

"What do you mean?"

"You have to be a . . . you have to have liberal views not to think it's offensive. It's about a gay kid."

I wish I were making all this stuff up, I really do. I don't think I could invent Billy if I tried.

I have finally set up a chair in front of Elliott. For those who don’t know, Elliott is a six-year-old blue iMac, which Anne gave to me after she got a Power Book. The placement of the chair was harder than it sounds. I have a rather sizeable room, at least comparatively--it’s bigger than any dorm room I’ve seen, anyway--but I’ve somehow managed to nearly fill it with stuff. The bed is rather meager, just a twin bed, and the only two areas that have to remain furniture-free are the closet and the door. The remaining sections of wall are covered by floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, both of which are overflowing with books. I haven’t read most of the books, and I’ve read even fewer of the books in the large box underneath my school-style desk. I’ve placed this desk behind what used to be the family’s kitchen table, until its ugliness and bulkiness caused my parents to put it in the basement. I took the table into my room when I got Elliott, so that he’d have somewhere to sit. Now tonight, as a result of a newfound desire to use Elliott for writing, I’ve placed one of the former kitchen chairs by the table. The head of my bed is right next to the smaller of the two bookshelves, and to the right of the bed is this window-schooldesk-table-chair setup. A few feet behind my chair, I have a dressing table which has been with my family since, well, since I was dressed on it as a baby. This leaves roughly three square feet of floorspace, and part of that is covered by notebooks, shoes, cords and such. I have all these things for two reasons. The first is that I am a compulsive buyer of books and CDs (which, like the books, have gone mostly unused since I got them), because they fill the hole. The second, and the reason that they’re all in my room, taking up living space, is that it is somehow more comfortable to have such restricted movement options. I suppose I have the opposite of claustrophobia, at least when it comes to my private rooms. The only time constricted spaces are a burden to me is when those spaces also contain other people. Then I begin to get antsy. That’s what it’s like at work, by the way: five people in an area only slightly larger than my room, along with eleven computers and desks along every part of the wall. What’s worse is that the people have gradually gotten more insistent about talking to me, even though I could never be real friends with any of them. When they aren’t talking to me, they’re talking to each other, which is slightly more comfortable and far more entertaining. They often discuss matters of some importance, only they’re all of average intelligence. It’s like watching people with severe cataracts compulsively running into each other in an art museum, talking about how beautiful they’ve heard the paintings are. As I write this, I'm slowly losing bloodflow to my feet, because the chair is rather high and the leaves of the kitchen table hang down rather low.

Scott White, I approve of you. I hereby affirm your existence and state my wish that it continues unchecked.

I am still in a state of disbelief that I woke up this morning and went to work. Not effectively--I know I am here, after all--but spiritually, I suppose. You know how I roll. I roll spiritual.

In four and a half hours, I've read only one and a half articles of WaPo. My coworkers appear more monsterous even than they usually do. Also, I really want to rise from this computer and go get some coffee, but my body is saying "no." I think it really means "yes."

The temp computers here sound like old lawnmower engines with sawdust in them. Also, I just heard a guy tell someone named Paul that he could just call his voicemail because "we're gonna jump into the Conference Room". I'm going to go check whether the Conference Room has been converted into a pool.

How many people has Bush called "a man of character and integrity"? Add one: Jerry Kilgore, who has been running for governor of Virginia almost exclusively on attack adds. Tangentially, to what kind of person does the word "character" mean "good repute"? To me, one would have to say "of good character" to have the meaning Bush intended to communicate.

Two Crocodiles on a Boat

Having finished the 36-month "3 Boxes" tapes, we are now recording "36-month Self Control". They are awesome. The setup is as follows: parent and child walk into a bland random standard-issue government room, decorated in early nineties style with ugly, rough carpet and light-toned wall with dark-toned paneling. The interviewer follows them in and tells the parent to sit down, take a load off and fill out these beurocratic forms. This is a government study, after all. What are the forms? I don't know. Maybe they're for declaring bankruptcy, or requesting to change their legal name to "Chuck(le)". Whatever. It seems to be a ploy to keep the parent occupied so as not to interrupt the awesome.

The interviewer then tells the child, "woo, chile, has I got a special toy for you! Why don't you jes' sit yoself down over yonder whiles I gets it out 'a this here shoe-bag." The child fidgets, or runs back to the parent, or sits down obediently, or whatever. This part is up to the child. Once the child is sitting, though, the same awesome thing happens each time: the interview pulls out the toy and says, "Look at my special toy! It's two crocodiles on a boat! Hot damn!"

Except for the "hot damn" part. That part is merely implied.

It's a small plastic boat on wheels with a blue crocodile steering and a green crocodile behind him. The interviewer pulls the green crocodile, which is attached to a string, and then the string pulls the crocodile back up onto the boat so it looks like it's climbing and then wheeeeeeeeeeeee! the boat jives its merry way across the room over to the child. "Now your turn!"

The children usually take a good minute to figure out the mechanics of the green crocodile, and how it has to be pulled back in the center like an arrow from a bow, and how the boat has to be on the ground to go anywhere, but then the boat jives on over to the interviewer. They trade the boat one more time, and then comes the self-control part. The interviewer says, "gee, I sure am glad you liked my toy, but hey guys, right now I have some work to finish up. Don't touch my toy until I'm done, okay?" The interviewer then places the two crocodiles on a boat inches from the child, and then sits down to fill out some more random beurocratic forms, perhaps filing taxes or sueing Philip Seymour Hoffman for indecent exposure. Anyway, it takes about three minutes to fill out these particular forms, and meanwhile the camera focuses on the child. Some immediately lean over and put the tips of their fingers to the two crocodiles on a boat. Some just pull the green crocodile and start 'er up. Some run over to their mother and stand under her dress. Some sit and wait patiently for a few minutes, then begin soundlessly crying at the immensity of the universe. That part is up to the child.

Once the interviewer is done applying for permisison to build a really big tree house, or teach English to turnips, or wear chaps without pants underneath them in polite company, the interviewer and the child end the clip happily by playing with the two crocodiles on a boat and eating ice cream and pizza and singing Belle and Sebastian.

Last night was covered in fog. It had seeped in from the breath of wolves on the outskirts of town while I wasn't looking, and now I had to go 45 on the highway. All the trees by the side of Arrundel Mills, their grisly forms lit up by the mall lights the only thing showing through the gray, made it look like the set of Macbeth. I could only see ten feet of white lines to know when the road curved. My energy was entirely focused on what was in front of me, a situation so rare that Yugoslavia declared last night a holiday and Nature sent a bulletin to the AP. Fog-driving music was Scary Monsters.

After I got home, I went for a cigarette walk in the fog. The cigarette walk, by the way, is a distinct entity. It is different from, say, the two-cigarette walk, which is halfway up Patapsco River Road, or the is-the-world-still-there walk, which has no defined limit but is generally at least to the train tracks at the end of Main Street. You there in Santa Fe, you can look it up on mapquest if it interests you for some reason. I live on Chapel View Dr in Ellicott City. Anyway, one of the neighbors has a light trained on a tall tree in their front yard, a decoration strangely out of place and bourgeois in this middle class suburb. It is a little like the "beams of light" memorial to the World Trade Center, only with a tree. I thought of light pollution. I thought of how, if there were no light, I wouldn't have been able to tell that there was fog, unless it fogged my glasses. Then I realized that didn't cut it, for obvious reasons. Perhaps I would know if I stood in it long enough that it began to condense on my hair and clothing. Perhaps I would never know.

I went back inside, still not to sleep. There was still so much Bob Dylan to get onto iTunes. So very much Bob Dylan. By the time of the next cigarette, it was 7 a.m. and the fog had returned to the steam vents of The Block in Baltimore, or it was recaptured by the UFO from which it had escaped, or perhaps the light of the sun had evaporated the excess water in the lower atmosphere. Take your pick.

The disorientation of watching babies for eight hours a day has dissipated over the last four weeks as the actions involved in the job become increasingly habitual. Roughly every fifteen minutes I briefly have to pay attention to the VCR and the DVD recorder as a clip ends. Without looking up from my book, I push the stop button on the recorder and then the VCR, rewind the tape, remove it put it into its case, take the next tape out of its case, insert it into the VCR, briefly look up to preview the tape to make sure it's at the beginning, push record, push play . . . and then look down again and lose all touch with my surroundings. The disconnect between abstract analysis of human thought and the monkey work of this (admittedly fairly exotic) job could not be more complete. Right now I am reading After Virtue, given to me by Tha Unstoppable J-Nutz. I lose my physical form and stroll through mental space, pausing to take a closer look at a portrait of Kierkegaard and the deep neon of his literary genius, turning toward a portrait of Kant, who is colorless and magnificent, then briefly standing in awe at the feet of the statue of Cultural Structure, which is grimy and rusted but whose head soars in the clouds. Now, even when I do come back to my surroundings when the other workers talk to me (and one in particular is fully convinced that talking makes the time go by faster, whereas it most certainly does not), I am still caught up in abstract analysis. Every statement and gesture and inclination coming from others gets filtered into categories, associations, lines of thought. There are no particulars here. All is general.

It is rainy out there, and also cold and wet, and so cloudy that if the sky were always this way, only educated people would know of the existence of the sun. Gorgeous.

Kirillov, from Demons:

There are seconds, they come only five or six at a time, and you suddenly feel the presence of eternal harmony, fully achieved. It is nothing earthly; not that it's heavenly, but man cannot endure it in his earthly state. One must change physically or die. The feeling is clear and indisputable. As if you suddenly sense the whole of nature and suddenly say: yes, this is true. God, when he was creating the world, said at the end of each day of creation: 'Yes, this is true, this is good.' This . . . this is not tenderheartedness, but simply joy. You don't forgive anything, because there's no longer anything to forgive. You don't really love--oh, what is here is higher than love! What's most frightening is that it's so terribly clear, and there's such joy. If it were longer than five seconds--the soul couldn't endure it and would vanish. In those five seconds I live my life through, and for them I would give my whole life, because it's worth it. To endure ten seconds one would have to change physically.

From the ice age to the dole age, there is but one concern. I have just discovered: I have to remove the tinting from my car windows before I can get it registered. Damn.

Flagg is kvetching like he was born to whine. He goes from pressing his nose against the glass door and staring as if God Himself were descending from heaven into my back yard, to looking back at me imploringly with all the passion of a mother pleading for the life of her child, to calling out with a voice like that of a man who is dying of thirst, to rushing over to my chair and jumping on the back and pawing at my face and pointing at the door and saying, "let me out, let me out, let me out. Bee-yitch." He kvetches like he got a doctorate in the subject. Little user. Why couldn't he be more like his brother Mulder, Best Cat in World?

I'm almost certainly asking the wrong people, but has anyone who reads this seen the show Six Feet Under? And if so, do you happen to agree that it's an excellent drama, but that dramas make for bad television? By the way, if you read this, please comment "yes" or "no", just so I can tell for sure. It's important, goddamit.

For anyone who cares, the All Music Guide review of Bright Eyes' two 2005 albums is the first honest assesment of his carreer that I've seen. He's been getting a free ride so far: immediately placed on NPR's "All Songs Considered" list of best songs of 2005, glorified by critics both indie and mainstream, and eaten up by unthinking indie rock fans (Febbie Steve, Josh Kazmin, that chick Elise from Barnes and Noble who Scott met). And he isn't even . . . talented. It's a long review, and I give you permission to scan it or, hell, not read it; but one that made me feel deeply pleased at finally seeing an independent and intelligent reviewer say that it's reasonable to disdain the dude. Ah, nothing like a good hatchet job of someone I sense I don't like.

Rather than simply say he's no Dylan or Springsteen, the review says why: ". . . Oberst is as precious as Paul Simon, but without any sense of rhyme or meter or gift for imagery, puking out lines filled with cheap metaphors and clumsy words that don't scan." Ah, yes, lyrical vomit. In this instance, I think, it was the right choice to go with the puking image rather than fall back on the tired diarrhea metaphor. My favorite line, for its disdainful implication and astute cultural criticism: "He's leapfrogged over Chris Carrabba in Dashboard Confessional to be the figurehead for how certain strands of modern rock is judged solely on whether it's a personal emotional expression or not, never taking into account such niceties as craft, in either music or lyrics, or in the sheer impact of the music." Truth! Just look at all that truth. Craft is exactly what Bright Eyes lacks, and it would be ok if he were at least intelligent, but he isn't. The two star ratings might be excessively low, but then again, they might not. Would anyone be hearing these albums if Oberst weren't a master of marketing?

Last year I received an email from Paypal informing me that a class action lawsuit against Paypal had resulted in a damages payment and that I was eligible for a small portion of it by virtue of the fact that I had signed up for Paypal before the class action lawsuit was initiated. I have no idea what the case was about--I have a vague recollection that it had something to do with improper withholding of information from certain Paypal members, although I didn't understand it at the time, either--but I downloaded an affadavit that I had become a Paypal member before some date in 2003, sent it to the address they had given me, and forgot about it.

About a month ago, I got another email from Paypal telling me that the money had been distributed, and that my Paypal account now had an $8 positive balance. It had been in my account since then, essentially the only non-family money I'd gotten since the library job ended.

Tonight, after being alerted by a text message from Anne, I found an entry on Daily Kos reporting that, as a result of the Homeland Security Department, the Red Cross has had no presence in New Orleans. One of the reasons HSD gave for keeping the Red Cross away is that the presence of food, water and medical aid would discourage people from evacuating the city. (Fun game: can you spot the absurdity?)

Among the hundreds of comments to this post, some people questioned the appropriateness of an organization called Liberal Blogs for Hurricane Relief, whose goal is to raise $1,000,000 from the readers of liberal blogs and donate it to the Red Cross. Of course, the Red Cross may not be in New Orleans, but they are nevertheless providing relief to those who have made it out. It's frustrating in the extreme, but there don't seem to be organizations for whom it would be more appropriate to solicit donations than for the Red Cross. I don't think liberal bloggers would feel more comfortable donating to FEMA, for example.

You've probably figured out by now where my Paypal $8 went. I looked at the page I linked to above and saw that they were asking for donations through Paypal. I had wanted to donate to the Red Cross, but since I'm broke, anything I gave would essentially be my parents' money, and they're already planning to make a donation. I had forgotten about the Paypal money until I saw the page.

It's hard for me to express how my donation made me feel. Being broke, miles away from the crisis and unconnected with any people bringing help to the victims, I am limited to the following responses: I can either get as much information as I can about what is going on now and hope that the situation improves, or I can attempt to put my mind on other things. The one other action I was able to take was to give a paltry contribution with the only means at my disposal to an organization whose legitimacy I had just seen questioned.

It was an easy decision to make, but if anything, it reinforces my feelings of powerlessness.

I just got an email from Polewach in which he told me that he "think(s) everyone who likes learning and needs money should go to grad school and be a t.a. and study, as long as they're prepared for what it's going to be like and can combat the dangers of the system without getting kicked out of it." That's John, all right.

If I were Franz Kafka, it's true that I would hate myself, would not know Anne, would be consumptive, would fear that I was inadequte in my mid-level government position, would have awful creaking headaches all the time, and would never be able to sleep when I wanted to. But damn, would I be able to write! One short paragraph of his writing has the ability to control my mood for hours.

Then again, if I were Franz Kafka, I couldn't be Tim Kile.

I am about to check job listings in New York City. I can say this already: the NY posts on Craig's list are a hell of a lot more interesting than those for Baltimore.

Lately my night walks have been punctuated by people calling out to me from passing cars. They always do this psychically, I suppose, as I myself idly wonder where pedestrians are going and what they are like. These calls are rather different, though, more akin to Jess's surreal "nice book, bitch." I just came back from one of the circular walks, hugging the increasingly limited forest that surrounds a new community in the area, and a passenger in a speeding car called out, "slut!" Last week, it was "hey, faggot!" I wonder what I would think if I were, in fact, a slutty faggot. I guess I'd have to conclude that these were some very perceptive and chatty people driving by me, who perhaps felt obligated to label the things they saw, much like Adam in the first days of Eden.

Along Main Street in Ellicott City, the trend is for drivers to throw trash at me. I haven't gotten anything of value yet, just some soda bottles and a bannana peel, but I still have hope. I may not get an iPod, but maybe someone will hurl, say, a usable air conditioning unit or a crate of avacados.

The dogs are barking and what's done is done.

If Ingmar Bergman were here right now, I would buy him a soda
I'd buy him a soda
I'd buy him a soda and then I'd molest him in the parking lot yep yep yep

You say I took the name in vain
I don't even know the name
But if I did, well really, what's it to you?
There's a blaze of light in every word
It doesn't matter which you heard
The holy or the broken Hallelujah

HA!

Hal-le-lu-jah,
(unh!)
Halle-luuu-jah
(oh, oh, oh)
Hal-le-lujah
(a-hooooooooooooooooo!)
Halle-luuuuuuuuuuuuu-jah

I'm really starting to doubt my analytical abilities. Today I finished Barry Miles's biography of Burroughs, in which he briefly lays out the essentials of narrative being driven by changes in consciousness. I had never quite pieced it together so fully. When the speaker's mood changes, the perspective changes to the extent that, in a more traditional book, it would be considered a different speaker altogether. Dedicated adherence to the narrator's consciousness produces nonlinear narrative; events are interpreted in such a way that there is no explanation of causes, if the narrator is not focused on these causes. This isn't the same as "stream of consciousness", which Burroughs defines as a transcript of subvocalization, the words and images that constantly pass through a person's mind without being spoken.

Burroughs's writing is rather different from earlier experiments in represententing consciousness. In the writing of Joyce, for example, the narrative is driven by the consciousness of a particular character, and is written as if the book is inside the character's head. In Woolf, it is less tied to a character, more of a disembodied third-person consciousness with occasional forays into one character or another. Burroughs is closer to Woolf, although the consciousness in question is more that of the author, and he allows himself considerably more room in the way of uncensored, total access to the mind in its full range of thoughts. He is much more open about sexual fantasies, in particular; in addition, he includes the tendency of the mind to combine reality with subconscious dream imagery. His books often include elements of science fiction and fantasy, more or less formally, and when informal, this is a result of combining his mind with the text to such an extent that it effectively manifests his subconscious.

Now, I could certainly analyze this further now that I have a basic model (already have), but the fact that I didn't already have this level of awareness distresses me somewhat. For a while, I've been idly considering a written project in which the consciousnesses of the characters come to the fore, and yet I was never clear what this would mean. Moreover, even after reading Hegel, Freud, etc., I never had a complete concept of the significance of their projects. Of course, I wouldn't say that I have this complete concept now, either. I can't tell how much of this is a failing on my part, and how much is simply a matter of not yet having taken the time to do much serious analysis.

Then, I had a further realization while reading Miles's bio of Kerouac: one could consider Kerouac's books to be early postmodern fiction, given that they make use of fiction, memoir, the occasional section of meaningless sounds, real conversations, etc. It is, of course, a hallmark of postmodern art to combine, and sometimes deconstruct, genres and mediums. The other half of postmodern art usually involves being aware of these actions, and allowing this awareness to influence the work. In this respect, Kerouac is completely removed from the postmoderns, as he's so caught up in himself and, ultimately, so adolescent that this doesn't seem to occur to him in the least. Nevertheless, even if I didn't think Kerouac's books had any other literary merit (and I think they do), they would be significant for this alone. They are one of the earliest examples of these important postmodern tendencies.

Yet, partially as a result of a biased introduction to Kerouac in my late teens, and partially because I never did much serious thinking about it, I had no awareness of this aspect of his work until seeing it suggested in Miles's bio. His book was the first serious analysis of Kerouac's work that I've read, the first that actually criticizes and analyzes. It's given me a rather intriguing avenue of inquiry, as well as a decent framework to use.

I spent the day sitting in an office in the lobby of a building on Charles St., reading Barthelme and the New York Times and writing prose sketches, catering to the needs of an obsessive, looming property owner. A one-off, extremely temporary job, just a few hours yesterday and 9-5 today, due to the anything-but-absentee property owner's odd-ball policy of ending all of his leases on July 31st. The leering, preening, grasping owner wanted people in the office and in the back watching the doors and preventing damage. As it happened, only two people moved out while I was there, and the most worthwhile thing I did all day (from the perspective of the paranoid, shiftless, nosy owner) was buying the peering, insectile owner a lemonade from a coffee shop a few blocks from the building. At the end of the day, the batty, prickly spook of an owner offered to recommend me to a friend of his, a vice president at Agora publishing, one of the places where I happen to have applied for a job. It's good to have base friends in high places.

And then, there it was. It had been right in front of me this whole time, and I just hadn't seen it. And it was so simple! That's what it meant when I washed my hands for hours on end, that's why I had to tie my shoelaces in a clockwise manner. Of course! I was acting out the suicide of my cat!

Thank you, Freudian analyst!

Here I don't want to move, and there Lance Armstrong goes showing me up yet again.

I have a new haircut, gotten with the intention of looking more professional so that job interviewers think that I am reliable. It will deliver the message that I take life and formal relationships seriously. Its composed follicles and layered structure will make such a strong impression that the most seasoned judger of qualifications will be powerless against it. My hair is my best spokesman. It will remain unflappable and relentlessly promote my cause, even if my face betrays me by grimacing, my hands turn traitor and attempt to strangle the armrests, or my aura chooses to switch from gentle to cagey. My hair will politely communicate to the interviewer and the world that the person it's decided to bedeck is worthy of trust. It will inspire people with confidence in me, will direct them to consider that I clearly have good taste, and also have the necessary agility and consideration to apply mousse and a rigorous combing. It will soothe the soul of everyone I encounter, even as it impresses them with the obvious signs of my excellence. Do not understimate my hair, for it is persuasive and it will overcome. It is both sexy and composed, strong and gentle, confident and inquisitive, bold and nuanced, firm and supple. My hair is better than you, and it knows it, but it isn't patronizing. The legacy of my hair will be as expansive and bright as the night sky. For generations to come, children will be told the story of my hair and its great deeds; historians will debate which of its accomplishments were the greatest; legions of imitators will desperately struggle to capture even a small fragment of my hair's magic; the fashion world will study every tuck and splendorous wave of my glorious locks; poets will sing my hair's beauty and bravery to all corners of the earth.

It's two years later and I'm finally ready to say it: Elephant is a godawful awesome album. Just a real knockout. At the time, I was terrifically underwhelmed. I basically thought it had no good qualities at all. I thought each song was poorly developed and leaning toward weak, and that the album had bad pacing as a whole. I thought that the copious overdubs killed the feeling that Jack's songs had had up to that point. I thought there were no original ideas, no real expansion as a band.

My God.

Every record critic seems to have a "What the hell was I thinking?" moment. As a critical listener of music, this was mine.

I take it all back. Sorry, Jack White.

A conversation held between two go players after I had left a game I won by over a hundred points (not that I'm boasting):

Nimphy [24k]: sukkel
Wiskid [12k]: heheh
Wiskid [12k]: heeft blijkbaar een ego-boost nodig of ze
Nimphy [24k]: ja lach maar
Wiskid [12k]: *zo
Nimphy [24k]: dag 23k
Wiskid [12k]: die ranking komt echt wel
Nimphy [24k]: denk dat ik maar naar bed ga
Wiskid [12k]: mag ik ff control?

I think this is Dutch. Babel fish doesn't know the word "sukkel", but I can guess. The rest is
Wiskid: "Apparantly he had to have an ego-boost."
Nimphy: "Well of course, ha ha."
Wiskid: "Indeed."
Nimphy: "23k day."
Wiskid: "The ranking really comes, however."
Nimphy: "I think I'm going to bed."
Wiskid: Something like "You think I can control it?"

I am requesting a transcript so that I can apply to work for the federal government. I am not at all sure that this is a good idea, but it causes anxiety, which can not be overstated in terms of awesomeness. If I were a religious man, I'd ask Jesus whether he likes hotdogs.

Time whistles by, its hands in its pockets, as leasurely as could be. We are nominally discussing The Descent of Man, although really we're just trying to make the next hour and twenty five minutes go by. With any luck, we think, the tutor will lose hope as he has many times before and let us leave early. No one was in the room at 10:35. One stutent actually came in a full twelve minutes late, and sat down unapologetically. Mr. Bayer allowed a ten minute discussion of Reality to begin the class, and then diligently asked an opening question. So began the play-acting. The conversation is punctuated by Tim Kile's facetious "seminar" comments, which spur half the class to laughter ("I'd like to bracket that question for a minute." "So what's on the table right now?" "Hmm. Yes. Interesting. Let's unpack that a bit." "Where are you when you ask that question?"). There are four students who are willing to be serious, but only contingently. As soon as there's a joke, they're on it. At one point, Dan Marshall pulls out a camera and snaps a flash picture in the middle of someone's sentence. The conversation doesn't even pause, as the tutor chooses to ignore the evidence. At noon, Tim holds up his hand, smacks his wrist twice, and says, "time." And we walk out into the nauseating sun of brief freedom.

Santa Fe is big, and ugly, and dusty, and smells bad, and, and, and I don't like it. Jess, you're out of your gourd.