One quick addendum to my last post: unlike John, I cannot promise any kind of form. I am not much of a memoirist, mostly because I hate my personal history. Those of you in the know may recognize when I've revealed intimate details and events in my life, and when I've tossed down some bullshit or other.

Mostly, though, it will be a jumbled combination of the two, something rich and strange and mostly unfamiliar.

I plan to rise to John's challenge. I used to write something like five thousand words a day - back when I lived at the Lonely Motel and had five hours a morning to write and meditated a lot. That apartment was highly suspect, but those were some of the happiest days of my life. For those of you not in the know, flexing creative muscles consistently in a successful way is more physically rewarding than an orgasm.

The problem: I cannot write two thousand words at work. Just not possible. I'd lose my job in two days. But I've devised a strategy, that for mysterious, secretive effect, I will not reveal to any of you.


I have decided that East Lake Standard is my enemy. I will triumph over his ineptitude!!!

Was ich kann und was ich konnte
Weiss ich gar nicht mehr
Gib mir wieder etwas schones
Zieh mich aus dem meer

Regarding my earlier post, perhaps I've just been wandering in the desert for too long.

Though he had no watch with him in the bathroom stall, he estimated he'd been there for at least half an hour. Two people had come and gone since he went in there to hide, and one of them, the program assistant in Facilities, he recognized by the salt-stained brown leather shoes the guy always wore. And he usually took twenty minutes in the shitter. What mattered, though: no one had come looking for him yet, like they had two months earlier when he passed out sitting on the toilet seat, lips blue and chest heaving.

He would never use the restrooms at work, anyway, since he loathed the warm feeling he perceived from whoever had been in there last. There was no way to verify what his co-workers did in there, what they left there. Rather than share, he just sat and caught his breath whenever the panic hit.

Here's an interesting question: Is it possible to be passionate about nothing in particular yet still be a passionate person?

I've always thought of myself as a passionate person, and have been described that way in the past, but last night, when asked to name what I'm passionate about, I found myself unable to do so. For a couple of years I've skated by with this notion that I am passionate, and therefore of course I'm crazy about some thing or another. I used to get worked up about brewing, writing, films, words, good books, but it's been a long time since I've had this sensation.

Maybe I'm passionate about intentions. Bad or good, I have them.

These three years since I left college have taken a toll. Talking with Lee about these itches I used to have, failed to scratch for so long, and have since forgotten about, and then reading about Exchange City, I realize I've been suckered into that ridiculous adult world.

I've lost much of my individuality, I've joined the "working world", become a productive member of society, and turned in my counterculture badge. Where's the emergency exit?