My name is the evil one and I dislike you. I fear you’ll have to deal with this in a congenial manner because the fact will not change. Thank you very much.

And now back to our regular scheduled absurdity. Three of them, actually:

• Nuggets
• Plastic
• Origami

Die NOW

Or go look at the Daily Otter.

(Daily Otter)

Not suprisingly, I did not work at all on the Sheep Blog today. Why is that? Well, I went with my parents to the Casino an Hobbs, where I lost quite a bit of money. Well, one must have balance, right? Tuesday I came out way ahead and today, I cut my winnings in half, so, I suppose I should not complain. I am still ahead. Yeah. Exciting, isn’t it?

At the first machine I played at the Casino, I whipped out my pocketmod and wrote down an observation I made about my father during our trip from Seminole to Hobbs. Here is what I wrote (more or less):

My father always has a very strict frame for every event which surrounds him. This is my opinion, anyway. For example, as he is always trying to teach a lesson of some kind, when we were driving from Seminole to Hobbs today, he spotted a truck hauling which seemed at first glance to be a metal construction created for some unknown purpose. He latched on to it immediately. Now, my view here is that he had it in his brain (perhaps not consciously) to present a moralistic lesson. He stated that ‘that old boy’ is hauling something he built, implying (to me) by his tone of voice and general demeanor that it was a thing of value to build something with your hands and that the ‘old boy’ should be proud to have done so.

It turned out, however, that the ‘construction’ was just a number of metal frames, perhaps for beds, strapped together to keep them from tumbling from the trailer. My point is that he has certain constructs in his mind which I surmise he learned whilst growing up in Seminole and especially during his teen years and early 20s during which he worked hard using his hands. He bagged groceries for years. He also worked on top of an oil derrick for a long while. He expounds quite often about these years of his life to me when we are driving about Seminole on this errand or that (usually to the grocery store or post office or back, actually). Anyway, he finds value in this. I am not slighting his point of view, but I find it gets a bit tiring when he brings it into the moment sometimes subtly and sometimes not just on the spur of the moment time and time again. Using the ‘old boy’ with his trailer, no matter its real contents, is just one example. He is prone to this behaviour often.

I believe it was yesterday on our way back from the grocery store when he once again was talking about the time when he always had a job as a teenager and therefore always had ‘two quarters to rub together’. I let my imagination take over a bit at the time and wondered if I pursued a conversation with him (instead of being silent and just listening, as I was doing) on the topic if he’d come to the conclusion that all adolescents would be better adjusted were they to be subjected to the same sort of lifestyle. That is, learning to work with their hands by experience. His jobs were all after school and on the weekends, leaving little time for ‘extracurricular activities’. My imagination continued and visualized me saying I believe children and adolescents are better off if they are not subjected to work and have time to explore their creativity instead. I’d argue that a routine job would perhaps deaden their minds. I was silent, though. He dropped it after a while.

A few hours ago, after nearly two years, I began finishing the piece ‘Reprise’. I like the parts I wrote (with Lilypond). My plan (I have lots of those, don’t I?) is to put together the songs I constructed (all unfinished) two years ago as an ‘EP’. I suppose I was somewhat inspired by the ‘Ships EP’ by the Bearded Seals that I purchased from Amazon yesterday evening (created by Ashley). The sequence of songs on my EP will be like this:AYB

Intersection -> Untitled (the one with lots of looping and the 5/8 7/8 polyrythmic ostinato) -> (Maybe: She Ain’t My Girl Tony/Me improv) -> Union -> Reprise Introduction -> Reprise

I’ll ask Tony to contribute bass parts to most all of it. Well, maybe not Reprise because I have an old bass part he did for it lying around somewhere. If I can use it (modified with effects or whatever), then I shall not bother him. Union has no bassline, however. Nor does any of the rest, for that matter. :) That will most likely make up about 20 minutes. I look forward to it. I can bang out the sequenced parts of the pieces pretty easily. The sequenced part of Reprise will reappear in Union, and maybe in Untitled. Oouh, baby.

Now I shall munch on broccoli dipped in hummous and watch a film. Good evening to YOU.

What psychoses possesses another person to begin cleaning up the ‘mess’ which is inevitable during a meal before the remaining diners have finished eating? Furthermore, what possesses them to complain, afterwards, using the ubiquitous language of emotional blackmail, that no one else does anything to keep the kitchen and dining area tidy? The other diners are surely not at fault. When dining, isn’t it best to relax and enjoy oneself? As opposed to rushing and having the mind elsewhere (like on cleaning up the inevitable mess)? I would include this behaviour in a list of psychoses, for sure. Perhaps it sprouts from insecurity. If one can accuse others of not playing their part in household chores, one can look at oneself as somehow better than others. Or, it could sprout from the incessant need to teach.

It irritates! My father always, no matter what he is doing when he is involved with someone else in an activity, has to attempt to teach some sort of lesson (at times moral in nature). Even when we play Cribbage, every hand is not just fun and games, but has a teacher-student atmosphere. Though I love playing cards (and my father is one of the only ones I have to play cards with), it is hard for me to keep quiet at times. I want to point out what he is doing time and time again. He probably doesn’t even realize his ‘teacher’ attitude. It is most likely an ingrained habit.

I’m currently working on the sidebar of the Sheep Blog. It’s pure JQuery at this point and being that I don’t do JQuery very much, I am learning gobs which will soon be forgotten if I do not continue to dabble in JavaScript on a regular basis. Searching through documentation is big fun, I can tell ya, especially if part of your brain kicks you once you are on a certain page and you realize you were looking the same thing up a few months back. That brings me to Mnemosyne. I began creating entries for Rails/RSpec ‘flashcards’ so I do not forget small things which are used seldom but at important junctures and have to look them up every time. So, I say to myself as I type this, ‘why don’t you do it now, Bob?’ Ok, so I’m creating another file called ‘JQuery’ and filling in some flashcards. Oouh, baby.

This is a rather choppy entry into this ‘journal’. I don’t think I’ll ever get used to the word ‘blog’. I wonder what the etymology of it? I believe I shall look that up at this very instant. Ah, I should have known! (Well, perhaps not.) It is short for ‘weblog’, though, according to the Online Etymology Dictionary, it was not originally used for ‘online journal’ at first (1994), but was instead a contraction of World Wide Web + Log. I can imagine it indicating expansive log outputs from over-zealous cron jobs, for example. Heh. I first began writing an online journal in late spring of 2000. It was a very refreshing, fruitful experience for me, though often I typed when in some manner modified. Jenicek and I drank a hell of a lot back then. When modified, however, I wrote whatever was on my mind with absolutely no censorship. My friends (Jenicek, Viking, etc) were amused and entertained by my entries, which ran the gamut from musings on networking, python/zope programming and work positives/negatives to in depth analysis of my relationships including sometimes scathing rants about the female(s) with which I was involved. While my friends read and encouraged me, some of the other people I wrote about were angered and alienated. That was good. I enjoyed that.

That brings me to the last month or so on Facebook and my conflict with Christian about completely open writing on that forum. He loves to rule his little community and control it to the best of his ability and was time and time again aggravated when I wrote something on his ‘wall’ which contradicted his ideas, or when I delved into the absurdity that I am so known for loving. Well, I am now banned from commenting on anything he posts or from writing directly onto his ‘wall’. At first I was irritated at his anal-retentiveness and his need to be in control of every aspect of his very small universe. Now I smile about it. Let him enjoy his despotism.

Forums such as this and the Sheep Blog, which I am still working on… yes, yes… I know I should have finished by now, deny any censorship.

Oi! That is it for today… I think.

I’ve been listening to Carla Kihlstedt’s ‘2 Foot Yard’ for the past week and it is quickly becoming one of the best albums I have been obsessed with in about six months. So, anyone who is reading this should go out right at this moment and purchase it.

I also finally procured the book ‘The Black Swan - The Impact of the Highly Improbable’. I have only gotten through the first 12 pages or so, but already it has made an impression on me. Succumbing to my own Confirmation Bias, I was delighted at his exposition on the superficiality and unfairness of our species in not acknowledging the uncelebrated heroes who actually make the greatest marks on history. Well, perhaps they do not leave the greatest marks, but prevent black marks our species might leave on history. Because events are prevented by these heroes actions, they are naturally not celebrated. I’ve thought about this concept many times in the past and probably written about it, as well. I’ll have to search through old journals for such dribble if I ever find the time.

The creation if the Sheep Blog is taking longer than I surmised that it would. Mostly, it is because of the authentication method. Yeah, I could avoid it, but then there is the slight chance that anyone could find the page which would allow them to make a post. So, well, the authentication has to be there. Also, there is my unlucky bane of being unable to recall procedures which were natural a very short time ago (just a few weeks!). I can lay the blame at my newness to the Sinatra/Datamapper/Blueprint trifecta, but I think it is in reality my lackadaisical mental skills. I am attempting to hone them as quickly as possible, but my years of ruination came with quite a price. At least I am a big believer in neuroplasticity. Yeah.

I just talked to Hope at Hope For Wildlife in Nova Scotia and am apparently going to be in charge of their website starting very soon. My plans are to automate the whole thing. :) I hope (pun intended) that is a reasonable idea. Step one is to find a hosting site which has ruby, shell access, and a bit of storage space. Again, Sinatra will be my choice of hosting servers. Nice. Bluehost.com appears, from a cursory inspection, to be just what I am looking for. For $6.95 a month, I’d get shell access and Ruby! Yeah. I shall have to ask them whether I can install my own gems, but I don’t see why it’d be a problem. On mustela-ermina, local gems go in ~/.gem. Still, I need to investigate the workings of this mechanism. Damn my fickle brain.

I’ve been working on the Sheep Blog for the last few hours (well, on and off between small snacks). Authentication is working. Signup is not needed (the only user will be me), so it does not exist. Fantastic. I am very happy with Sinatra and its quick development ‘iterations’. I should be ashamed that I am not writing tests, however. I plan to do so when I set off into the task which is Hope For Wildlife. I hope that plan comes to fruition.

I took a walk through the only park (that I know of) in Seminole earlier. I attempt to do this every day. Yesterday I did not, however, because of our late arrival from the casino. My Mother is paranoid about me being out after dark. I find this exceptionally paranoid, but I don’t worry her when I don’t have reason to. If there is one thing I have learned from spending time with my parents is that they cannot be changed. They are set in their ways. That rock will not erode. As I wrote before, they are submerged in Confirmation Bias. They have drowned in it and been born again so as to be unable to live without it. I propose a challenge to myself - never become so set in stone. I flow like liquid. Perhaps I should also evaporate.

As I walked, I listened to music on my small Samsung mp3 player on random. The machine only possesses a 4GB capacity, so diversity is limited. I have swapped albums out only rarely since this tradition has begun, though, so I suspect that many of the tunes I hear on these walks will soak into my memory and be always associated with my cyclical journey on that wavy sidewalk. Many of the tunes seem to appear more than others, or, perhaps, they are the more ‘catchy’ ones and I recall them better.

The first order of the morning is to comment on the negative atmosphere in which I have chosen to write. My mother and father argue constantly and consistently with voices which rip apart any concentration on the beings around them. Well, I assume their bickering affects everyone in the same way it affects me, but I can, of course, not be sure.

I fell asleep sorely disappointed in myself. I had a list of things I wished to accomplish and only one even came close. Still, it was also not completed. I wake up refreshed and tell myself it will be a far more fruitful day. Perhaps. We shall go to Hobbs and meander around doing little, however. I’ll take a novel which Christopher sent me weeks ago. I’ll begin it since it seems to call to me, lying limply on the night stand. In case we go to the casino, which I assure everyone that we shall, I shall fold a new pocketmod so that any thoughts which spill from my beta-mind will not be lost in the noise, smoke and passing minutes.

Another goal will be to create a simple blog which will do pretty much the same thing as 750words.com. I’ll put it up on fucksheep where blog.fucksheep.org once resided. I know the code for that is still up, but it is ragged and unfinished (though functional). All I really need is a simple blog. I’ll dump the entries table from the database and create a new table which will fuel the simple blog. I’ve decided on sinatra for a web framework, so I must update Ruby and its various gems. Perhaps I’ll compile Ruby 1.9.2 on fucksheep. Oh, boy. That will be fun. I wonder if it will even work. If not, I’ll stick with 1.8.7.

One of the failed goals from yesterday was to begin writing about cognitive biases and evaluate myself in light of each one. There is an extensive list on wikipedia. Of course, I shall not go through all of them, but I’ll guess my goal encompasses about 74%. Christopher, in our conversation two nights previous, and I decided to write about each other in the light of the cognitive biases, as well. He thought that getting an outside perspective would also be fecund. I thought the idea was splendid, but the more I imagine it, the more I believe it will be exceedingly difficult. He claims that our fundamental personality does not really change. I am worried that since we have not actually spent time in each others’ presence in a consistent fashion in many years, that the evaluation will be skewed by fragments of memories we have of each other from years ago. Well, it’s still an interesting experiment. Yah?

Writing of cognitive biases: The first one I was to expound on is Anchoring. My mother just demonstrated an interesting example of it. She asked me from the small breakfast bar who I was talking to last night before going to sleep. She then quickly added ‘Tony?’ Though I answered loudly and clearly ‘I was talking to Jana,’ and she was looking at me, obviously paying attention, she replied asking me if he was doing fine, obviously still having Tony locked in her mind. Of course, she could have misheard me, but I don’t think so. I am pretty sure my parents both exhibit anchoring to an extreme. I am not sure if it is their age or just a trait of their personality. She locked onto Tony because she was expecting him to be my answer. It’s truth before proof. I could also assume this is a Confirmation Bias on a short term. That is, her belief that I was talking to Tony was not swayed in the least by contradicting evidence.

I have been informed that we are going to the casino. Well, I shall enjoy myself. I have a small shittypie full of music, so I shall be happy in that. I should snag a novel now. They are calling me to come. More later.

I have returned after winning about $450. I find that I do better when I am listening to very abstract music. I especially noticed the coincidental powers of ‘Blemish’ by David Sylvian.

Looking through the Rspec/Sinatra pages I have discovered, I believe it will take only about 4 hours of work to put everything together I wish for the small blog. Getting up and running on fucksheep is another matter, of course, and will look into that after I have completed a working replica on mustela-ermina. I shall first write here (this is my plan) every day, then retype into the blog, revising a BIT. We’ll see how it goes. Most likely, I’ll eventually abandon 750words.com and put my ‘morning (which are not wholly morning and most likely never will be) pages’ directly into the blog. I have dubbed it, even before its birth, but certainly after its conception, ‘sheepblog’, for obvious reasons.

Porcupine Tree - The Incident Disc 2. The Porc Tree gurgles and jams from the tiny speakers of the Blackberry I have named FRENATA after the creature Mustela Frenata that is probably better known as a long tailed weasel.

I need to tape a tail onto Frenata so she appears to most to more resemble a small, cute, furry animal. The construction of this tail would be a chore! I could just lop off Chico’s tail and tape it to Frenata. Or I could purchase a length of string and begin collecting stray hair from around the house. There is plenty, believe me. Ernestine leaves copious mounds in the bathroom. My challenge would be to retrieve it before Yvonne sponges it up and delivers it to the monster’s maw in the laundry room that digests all waste from the house.

When I say digest, what I really mean is mixes together arbitrarily. I don’t want bits of hair intermingled with partial parts of butter or clothes filled or partially filled with menstrual blood for Frenata’s tail. It need be only fur.

FUR!

Now to pour the water, still hot enough, over the bag of black tea which will infuse it with tasty essence. Yeah. I achieved yesterday’s goal of purchasing a new pen. It slides gleefully over this page, peppering it will this stream of consciousness. I did not read further in The Artist’s Way včera, but shall read through this week’s task / lesson / destiny / trial / whatnot after breakfast. It is my first goal.

The reading will provide me with further goals throughout the week. Those shall intermingle with HASKELL and learning how to employ ODESK to my advantage. I really much do the latter eventually or I’ll be ever dependent on outside means for cash.

NO! NO! NO!

It is too limiting to my independence.

The Haskell studies, despite setbacks, left me satisfied. Before falling asleep, I read through descriptions and outlines of Monads, which are, as well as useful, essential to the understanding and wielding of the language as a tool. The problem concerning the first prime below a million that is the sum of the most consecutive primes still plagued me as I tried to drift away. I still don’t completely comprehend the implementiation - that is all.

I’ll take a look at it - the implementiation I was most impressed with on the forum - again after my morning reading. Now to begin the creation of the bagel sandwich.

Now, that hakiu came simply from the desire. I realize that it means very little. To tacitly boast! What a concept! I want it to be never tacitly boast or somesuch, but the syllabic structure sucked the will from me (or was it my Censor?). Let’s see now!

TACIT

1 - expressed or carried on without words or speech.

2 - implied or indicated (as by an actor by silence) byt not actually expressed.

So it does make sense since the bagel did not actually express the boast. It did it with an act! By popping forth from the toaster, it tacitly told me it’d had pleasure from the crusting and singing of its squishy exterior. My tea also, as it has stopped steaming, has tacitly made its thoughts known. Those thoughts are that it wishes no longer to reside in the mug before me, but instead in my innards.

So I shall sip it.

One thing my Censor has been very successful at over the last 10 years is inspriring fear deep within me at the thought of expressing my thoughts as I used to during my 20s. When I was slathering hummus on the bottom half of my toasted bagel, I had the thought to post this tidbit on Facebook for all to see as my status. Now, lately I hae only done such spontaneous gouts of semi extroversion in the throes of drunkeness. But, previously in my existence, I did it frequently (sometimes to the chagrin of others).

I am afraid - trapped!

And this is the main reason my creative output has decreased significantly over the past 10 years. The Censor is a real cunt. It imbues within my gut the fear of what anyone else will think if I simply express myself. Others get past this barrier. It is a fact that criticism will inevitably careen down onto anyone who expresses themselves with abandon. But it is really the only way. This is what an artistic and creative reawakening is concerned with at its core. It goes back to my childhood, surely.

At times, they tolerated my odd behaviour, but mostly I was pushed towards a conservative attitude. My rebellion did not improve matters. As I grew into adolescence, friction was the norm in the household. I was encouraged at some points, but stifled either by the atmosphere of the place in which I was raised or the people therein.

Of course, my parents were firmly religious. They still are. Narrow, even. They call themselves Democrats and I believe it. Presbetarians. Could be worse.

I was blessed with loving parents, at least. That, I must assuage myself with. Though at times I’ve thought it’d have been better for my psyche, growing up with the Metcalfs would’ve been tantamount to nightmare. I love communal structure between friends, but their way seems to tight knit for me and I’d never have been encouraged to use my brain in the ways I was by my parents.

Such contrast!

But there is not just these two points of destiny (one real, one supposed) for you, Bobbus! It is on a line. It is axis thinking, as Eno would say (not to fault him), but there is more than the simple axis between the Sheltons and Metcalfs for the Pine Marten who is the cute little Bobbus.

Much of this movement on the imaginary axis lies in my future. Much of my past may have been a struggle between point S and point M, though perhaps I did not know it at the time.

My mind is much more alive after these morning writings. Contentment and a sense of presence of the TODAY swells. Yes, mister (or miss) Censor, I dare say it though you may find it cheese. The spiritual intensity of these pages is great. They are powerful. Just like a magically satisfying defecation.

I am in the midst of reading the first week’s chapter in The Artist’s Way. The topic is commonly held negative beliefs that block people from letting out their creativity. # 4 is I will abandon my friends and family.

Well, actually, the fear I’ve always held, consciously or not, is that my friends and family will abandon me. This is insecurity beaten into me originally by my parents. They were / are so concerned with the reactions of others that any of what they might term as outlandish behaviour was / is not permitted. I recall both of their horror at a poem I wrote in High School that concerned death (if I recall correctly) that found itself somehow into the hands of the school counselor.

Now, a part of this is directly related to the conservativeness and narrow minded nature of the town we lived in. Some of it was just ingrained in them. They, also, after all, grew up in a similar small town. They live in it now. It is called Seminole. Different in location, slightly different in mentality, but on an abstract level once removed, much the same for a confused and creative teenager attempting to find his / her way, I am sure.

My thoughts and expression of them in the past has often been outlandish in some points of view. This never stopped me in my 20s, however, as it blocks me now to sometimes imagine disapproving faces. I must work past this particular clog. It is an especially resistant clog when it comes to people extremely close. I’m writing of the Smaller One. Her disapproval frightens me. It has been an intense beast in the past. I fear to reawaken it. This clog must be dissolved.

Heh… On the same note - # 7 is It will upset my mother / father. # 14 is I will get self-destructive and drink, drug or sex myself to death.

What an amusing fear? I began my alcoholism, which has lasted throughout my 30s, to supplant my creative eruptions. At first, it seemed a stimulant and I’d be able to write for hours (there is that, but making any music or performing actual discursive thought was another thurk altogether), but slowly it took over everything.

Gradually, alcohol created a zombie of the once creative ghoul inside of me. I’d scribble an inane haiku occasionally (even that was better than nothing), but most of the time lackadaisically flop about mentally, fumbling at dreams seemingly just out of reach, but in reality in another universe altogether.

Hah! The bleariness has not yet overtaken me! My success at warding it off is the result of it not being there in the first place. THAT, my persistent reader, is the epitome of effort. Yes!

So, what shall I do today?

• Scheme for 1 1/2 hours.
• Ecology for 1 hour.
• Radiant & Lakife for 2 hours.

Let’s see how it goes, even if my parents try to drag me into the quagmire of their negativity. Their plans and my plans have very few intersections.

That is just the way it is (baby).

I just watched part one of “Until the End of the World”. It is cheesy, backwards looking, thin but very enjoyable. Something about Wim Wender’s work appeals to me. The three negatives leading my description were purposeful, I am sure. True, however - the sheer length of the film is daunting. The weariness clasped to me still makes my mind stagger. This clattering wreck of a paragraph shows it well.

Perhaps it is the fact that I have been fed constantly since returning. I feel the weight press in my hara. I clumsily wander the house. Now I sit up in bed. It is 19.35 and I am considering remaining in the same place for the remainder of the evening.

I think to myself that soon I’ll have the experience of actually missing the feeling of hunger. It never occurs here. I am perpetually sated. Unhealthiness shall follow, for there is no opportunity to exercise. I need escape. Soon.

So, as my mind is muddled, unclear, unsharp - most likely from the same catalysts that begot my physical lackadaisicalness - I shall watch a film. Perhaps it will pull me in. Another world? Another time? Escape. Soon.

I sit up in bed in Seminole, Texas. I’m on the wrong side of the bed. Were I back in Praha, this is where the Smaller One would be whilst the other ‘half’ would belong to me.

I scurried not unlike a rodent from the aeroplane bound for Houston (in which i was misfortunately seated at the back) to a shuttle bus which whisked me, a southern lady muttering obscenities under her breath, and several others to Terminal B. The route it took did not seem to me to be very direct. I had about fifteen minutes to catch my flight to Midland. Terminal B is vast. However, a spritely lady in a cart bearing one other human bade me to hop aboard and careened through the terminal’s labyrinth towards my gate. So the joys of serendipity brought me to the plane.

Yesterday was the first full day with my parents. An immediate observation is that they have a problem with silence. On our drive to Hobbs to secure me a new social security card, they filled the silence with repeated observations of the surrounding landscape and its owners, uses, history, etc. I feel my father is very uncomfortable when no communication is present between him and people surrounding him. He also does his best to greet and meet anyone in the vicinity during visits to shops, the post office, and en-route from his vehicle to any location. Perhaps it is the requisite ‘West Texan Friendliness’ I was raised with to reject. Perhaps that is extreme, but I find the whole idea superficial. He, on our short drive to Wal Mart yesterday morning to purchase a wireless router, even came out and said it explicitly. The blacks call it ‘Jive Talk’ and the white locals call it ‘Bullshit’. Small talk is the common term. Locals do it with a casual vigor. Certainly it is not an inherited trait. Small town culture suffuses folk. As usual, I shall not partake. I hope my directness does not confuse or irritate any of my parents’ friends, but though I am a much more accepting and tolerant person than in my ‘youth’, I shall not let my brain grow torpid.

Aranis plays on last.fm radio. I wonder if they will remind me of these transitional times.

Laptop battery low! I shall seek breakfast now.

My buttocks ache against the padded seat whilst Eliza, or at least the curved part of her, presses to the dingy wall. Shittypie, my only constant friend, sucks power from the socket in the wall like a parasite. It is needed energy for us both. Boredom on the two and a half hour flight from Atlanta to Houston is the enemy.

Depending on delays that have so far plagued my journey incessantly, I may have something sucked from ME after my arrival. That thing being money. I shall have to stay the night in that dreaded city - in an overly expensive hotel near the aeroport, surely (going into the city would be asinine) - if I miss the connection to Midland. Perhaps it would be fitting for my first night in the dreaded homeland after a thirty-nine month absence, almost to the day. Whichever happens, I shall be sure to record it here to be stored away in the entries table of the polaris database on the stoat-shittypie.

Boarding will begin soon.

The Smaller One lies in bed, most likely sleeping. As I wandered the terminal approximately an hour ago and whilst I ate a feeble crispy chicken sandwich at an unnamed fast food joint, I felt displaced as I have not since surely the atrocious six months I spent in this country during the first half of 2003. I felt frightened of being in bed in Seminole and attempting to sleep. The dread faded as it was gradually supplanted by weariness. The latter is winning. I count it a blessing.

I am thinking of her. Our shibboleth chants its mantras in my mind.

Boarding has begun.