slipstreameroperator

...and so, having failed to elicit an electronic response either through self-disclosure of calendrical confusion, or by means of an in-church guiltification trip, and finding himself with a few brief and purple moments amidst his mindboggleshufflestudy, our hero resigned to plant his tonguey tongue firmly in his cheek and post a pathetically posty posting, so that all the kingdom might reflectorate and throttlethink as he melodramatically, verbosely, and yet somewhat sheepishly threw in the proverbial towel, concluding with a sigh that he would, in fact, not succeed in his attempts to show up on our heroine's friendly gmail radar, nor perhaps, ever to get his pulpit-stumbling foot in the door of her attention, no matter how long and bizarre his run-on sentences may have been.

oh, the humanity. oh, the commas. oh, fishy-fishy.

hmm. once again, it appears that i'm incapable of writing anything normal.
please take this weird wordiness with a grain of salt.

today's dedications:
"from a distance" midlers out to jill and steve, who look blue and green.
and may "grandma's feather bed" cushion all three snow sisters, my favorite "gals down the road."
hardy har hardigan cartigan.

...but wait!
mere minutes elapsing, the walters collapsing, our heroine mail to our hero doth send!
so coincidental, like trans-continental, and doubt with the spangle and spark must contend.

an odd little poem, yes.
but my mind was just blown, and i must pause to watch the fireworks in my braindom.

relapseofluxury

the world gets tilted at a 45. is it my inner ear, or my outer innerness? no one knows for shoreline.

scott and i just spent far too long reading our old gmail conversations as if they were dramatic stage plays. we lol-ed. others in the roomly room were not as amused as we.
i wish i could say it's because they are heathen philistines. but alaska. rebellionaire.

happy halloween

even i get kinda creeped out when i watch this. but then i remember that i filmed it in our bathroom , which is (usually) not too scary a place. and then i can't help but laugh.

(and no, scott. i wasn't "going.")

cromagnesiumptuous

remember this thing from when you were a kid? i do. though mine was the old version with the wooden stick and base. this looks like the new-fangled futuristic version. it's probably safer and lighter and all that jazz, but just as freaking awesome to kids and as freaking annoying to their parents.

anyway, i woke up this morning thinking that my head is one of these popper machines. and sometimes i don't know who's pushing me around and making all my thoughts ricochet around in the old dome.

dedications: "impossible germany" by wilco belongs in the ears of josh and george.

"isn't it a pity" by george harrison belongs in your ears and in mine.

protectorattentional

i remember my dreams every morning. in them i crawl. out of them i slide. i hit snooze 1,678 times a minute. time goes forward and will be was back. you were there. and you. and you were there too. not you. but you. and you. i interpret them to myself and shake my head and prescribe more plutonium, dorothy.

at school, my brainbroadcast is a crutch and a cradle and a sword and a shield and a liability. i clap my little monkey cymbals. "okay," i say.

fad blog of phoneliness

after more than two years, here i am again. in the blog.
thanks to the many millions (i.e., scott) who brought me out of hiding (i.e., diligence in my studies) with your tireless (i.e., infrequent and indifferent) requests for more stereolympicalities (i.e., brainscramble). your wishes are granted and your fishes are slanted.

probably overly cryptic thoughts:
in the last little while, i've uprooted, overturned, and otherwise disrupted my own existence. the beforemath found me OCD-d in two, hurting someone i dearly loved, fighting a horrible feeling of being outside myself, clamboring to get back in, overwhelmed and at the end of a reckless road where i rolled through a stop sign and got my second-ever ticket. like an octagonal cherry on topple. things gave because they had to, but it muchsucked. and i'm the "where were you when i was burned and broken." what gilmour can i say? i hate that i own it, but i own it and that helps. anyway, i was offered a sort of floydian olive branch today. feeling crayola blue-green.
calm and sad and hopeful and more settled and hoping for exceptions to seemingly cosmic rules.

tribute: on October 17th, the world lost an all-star: Emerson Parkin. you know how time stops when you get news like this? crazy. here's what i wrote with the clocks stopped:
growing up in the bountiful 3rd ward, i was a scrawny wee lad, nowhere near cool enough to hang with the older Parkin boys. but Emerson either didn't have his Cool-O-Meter turned on, or he was just a good guy, because he always treated me like one of the gang. he imparted words of protective wisdom (e.g., "if a car circles the block more than 3 times, it's a kidnapper. let's go inside..."), showed me how to dress (and climb trees) like tarzan, kept me apprised of noteworthy neighborhood happenings (e.g., "there's a rat in the thomas's driveway!"), and generally helped me create the sort of imaginitive, adventurous, magical, and wonderful childhood every kid should have. i really looked up to him, and he never looked down on me. a lot like an older brother. when I ran into him years later, i was almost star-struck to be conversing with someone who'd achieved such legendary status in my mind. but Emerson put me right at ease, the way he always could.
Love to the Parkins.

dedications: "coming back to life" by the gilmour-led floyd goes out to Gina, so she can hold up a mirror and reflect it back at me like the shining sun.
"comeback" by prince breezes out to Emerson. you will be missed.