Still giving my brain a vacation. It deserves a vacation. These are my fingers talking now. Hi! We're drunk, I think!

Tonight was cool. We built a fireplace thingy in the driveway, and we made a fire therein, and we drank some beer.

These are Dave's fingers, signing off for the night.

Once again, I'm simply letting my fingers twitch against the keyboard, giving my brain a rest. My poor brain, it's been so overworked lately. Trying to fix things or at least figure them out. Nothing to show for all that effort, though. Things are still just as broken and confusing as ever.

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Anyway, I totally want to go somewhere this weekend. I want to go to Indianapolis, but that would be weird. SassyGirl wants to go to Oregon, but that would be even weirder. Although, I guess if we went to Oregon, we could stop in Omaha and I could see some of my friends there. Like my old friend Mike, who I talked to the other night, for the first time since early 1994. Boy did he have some catching up to do.

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This week my phone's been ringing off the hook about job opportunities. None have panned-out yet, though. I'm still fairly hopeful. This morning I got a call about a job for which I'm not particularly qualified, but one of my former coworkers is qualified, so I forwarded the contact information around. That was my good deed for the day.

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Thanks to some informal surveys, I'm now even more convinced that I am not being weird about this. I already knew that I was acting reasonably given the fucked-up circumstances, but it's nice to have confirmation, especially when it's from people who are smarter than I am.

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I'm starving to death now. I'm always starving, but then I never eat much.

So, just sit and let my fingers type whatever they want, huh?

That seems like it should be easy. One might think that I'd be a little worried about the words that might spring forth, but I'm really not. I've pretty much said everything already. Dropped my pants, so to speak.

There is one more thing, actually. One more thing to say, and then I might be done. Not that I'd quit, mind you, but I'd have to start repeating myself over and over and over even more often than I already do.

Not an accusation, though that's how it would be interpreted. I'm not sure how I'd get around that. Denial ain't just a river in Egypt, after all. And this would be denied until the end of time, at least out-loud, when people were listening. There'd probably be umbrage. And outrage, even.

I'm also afraid that it would come off like a called marker. But that's absolutely not what it would be. This is not about something I've earned, and it's not about a favor owed; it's about an opportunity for honesty.

Would I get that honesty?

I seriously doubt it, and that makes me sad. Because if I've earned anything at all, if I'm owed anything at all, it's honesty.

I close my eyes, and I see it. It blinds me. In the stillness between heartbeats, I hear its defeaning roar. In the pause between breaths, I smell its intoxicating aroma. Between swallows, I taste its juices. And, every time I relax, I feel it. Caressing me. Massaging away the aches and the pains of living.

I stopped being overwhelmed a long time ago. Callouses formed. Strength developed. Resistance wilted and died.

Thoughts are stones. Feelings are rapids. Disturbing the tranquility of the stream, but not the flow. Never the flow. Take away the obstacles, and the stream will barely notice. It will flow as it always has. Try to dam the stream, and it will find a way. Nothing can stop it. Nothing.

I wonder what has happened to me. I wonder what is happening to me. I wonder what will happen to me.

(This is a repost from six months ago. I don't feel like saying anything new, because it would be pointless today, but I do feel like saying something.)

There's a place. It's not a physical place, though that's part of it. It's more of a spiritual place.

The place, it's where I belong. It's why I'm here, on this Earth, in this life. To be in the place. It's where I fit, and more than that, it's where the universe fits me.

Problem is, I can't get there. There's no navigable route, and even if there were, the place is already occupied, and even if it wasn't, I'm not allowed in the place.

I've come very close. I've stood next to the place and I've felt its pull so strongly that it's threatened to rip me apart atom by atom.

If I believed in God, I'd surely hate Him, for showing me the place.

I remember, but I wish I could remember more.

I remember Dad getting Dina and me out of bed, carrying her and half-dragging me to the living room.

I remember the TV, and the grainy pictures thereon. White-suited men bouncing around a white rock-strewn plain. An oddly-stiff flag neither waving nor sagging nor flapping. I remember Mom giggling about something or other, almost uncontrollably.

When they showed that flag, that was the first time I ever saw my dad cry. And it was the last time, for almost nineteen years. Until my mom's funeral.

I wish I could remember more about that night, forty years ago.

But I was just a little kid, after all.

Tonight I sat at Rich O's with a small group of people, and I noticed something. Before I say what I noticed, maybe you need some background.

I am smart.

Okay, that's enough background.

Anyway, tonight I sat in a group of five people, or to be more specific, I sat on the outskirts of that group, and I noticed that there was absolutely no way that I could consider myself to be one of the brightest members.

This was weird to me, but not unprecedented. It doesn't happen very often, but it does happen.

At least two members of the group were obviously and immensely more intelligent than I have ever been or will ever be. One other was probably tied with me on the old IQ-meter. The last member, while not quite as bright as the rest of us, was still far above average, even for Rich O's. So we didn't ridicule that person, too much, and not intentionally. Subtle sarcasm and even more subtle innuendo sufficed, as it always does.

Besides, my dad always said, "Don't make fun of retarded people," and that advice scales quite easily.

See, there's a difference between intelligence and knowledge. Some people don't get that. Some people are incapable of getting it. We pity those people, but not too openly, because we all know that we're only a few ounces of beer away from becoming just like them.

There. This should count as an entry, shouldn't it?

I've noticed. Of course I've noticed. I've just been waiting for others to notice.

I am no longer allowed to complain that I don't have anything about which to write.

It's all there. All those damn quickies that I write. Up to a dozen or so each day, perhaps. Each one is basically a topic sentence for an entry waiting to be written. Straining to be written.

I need to stop whining, and I need to start writing. Or maybe I should do both.

That's what people expect from me, after all.