Time to try to fill this rectangle of white again. Present fills the air with sweet, ordered madness. Tomorrow brings yet another unknown: Vesna and Bosnia. To those avid readers who do not know, Vesna is a Bosnian girl that I “met” during my stint at 12Snap in Muenchen. She is now nervously chatting with me on ICQ, feeling uncertain about her decision to accompany me to Tuzla, Bosnia - her home town. It is not because she dislikes me or anything of the sort, but that she is married and her husband knows not of my existence.

I first met her on ICQ while avoiding doing some much more intellectually satisfying (surely) things at my windowside desk in the sweatshop-style office for the programmers of that abomination which was/is 12Snap. Procrastinating making progress on the abortive payment server, I checked the ICQ whitepages to see if there were any German sheep worth molesting, particularly any in Muenchen. So I found Vesna. Unbeknownst to me at the time, however, she was there before her computer with three friends, all poised to strike back at my eloquent attempts to befuddle them. After some haggling, we decided to “meet” during the next week (consequently, the night before I left for Prague, ending my stay in Germany), a meeting that I failed to attend because of another interesting story involving the receptionist at our hotel, Jenicek, Vanja, and the alcoholic Lebanese princess, Maria.

The next time I “spoke” to Vesna on ICQ was after the big fun in Australia with Bender-boy. And for three months, a strange but intriguing “relationship” has culminated to what will be the adventure beginning tomorrow - the trip to Bosnia with her.

She is naturally a trembling sack of nerves at this moment. Afraid that Alex (her husband) will find out. Afraid that her father (who is in Tuzla) will see her with me. Afraid that she will get caught up in something she won’t know how to get out of. I leave on the train at 6.59 tomorrow morning, armed with three apples, two bananas, a thinghie of salami, a small cellophane of bread, and my as yet unpacked sundries. Adri claims to want to see me off at the station. I doubt, however, her ability to rise at such an hour and take the lumbering, lugubrious trams from faraway Branik to the grease pit of Hlavni Nadrazi. We shall see.

18.07 Astronomy. It is 6pm and the day is only beginning. My goal is to complete Work Song tonight. After thedismal experience a few days ago mixing and obliteratingthe bass part, I have redone the whole thing. The guitar parts and vocals remain now. This version is superior, methinks, so the mixing disaster was not necessarily such a horrific thing. Maybe it was Satan’s way of telling me that the old version sucked.

Adri called from London and it was pleasant to hear her voice and about her ridiculous business adventures in the land of plenty. She shall go to Hungary in a few days and return here mayhap next Tuseday or Wednesday.

Now to my gueeetar.

18.11 Jeníček is a smelly peasant.

The new Present CD is a very impressive piece of work. Remind me, my avid reader, to rip it soon so you, too, can enjoy its relentless desperation.

Adri leaves for England tonight after the Daryl Green show, a band I am both eager and nervous to see, being that they want to jam with me. Heh. I doubt my abilities though others do not see exactly why. My fingers freeze in attempt to poise on the proper chord. Listening to No 6 makes me wonder why I don’t just give up music for good though the notes which reel, gasping, from vibrating strings plucked by my not near as deft as I would like pick play plaintively on my senses, tinged with some bit of emotion, a residue of my intent. Maybe I should be practising rather than writing this chunk of hovno.

I have just received email from Petr about the abortive Java project I spent many hours on during the weekend, all of Sunday night and most of Monday. He wants code which can be compiled. Tough luck for him because he told me to cease my efforts before the SeriesFrame class was completely rewritten. Jeníček and I have a meeting with him in one hour, going nowhere, going nowhere. Typical.

I think I will have no time for music today, excepting letting it charge into my defenseless ears. It is the final day with Adri, the concert tonight, some drinks mayhap, then the airport. I will be on the brink of collapse at that point.

Erm.

8.32

Kevin Gilbert and another sleepless morning.

Messages from Frank originating at Dasa's mobile keep me curiously occupied. Viking soon leaves for work. Poor soul. What are my plans for the day? A healthy shine radiates from the diffused morning, chilly but compelling. My feet smell. I don't care. Since I stopped my alcohol binging, I have awakened at 7.30am each day, unable to catch any more snoozums, insomniac, somehow able to face the blank page of a new day. But that is what I have always wanted -> this absurd freedom which fills this summer, so obscenely contrasting the previous summer during which I was chained, bound, watched like a naughty puppy.
So today will be occupied by the completion of 'Work Song' and mayhap even the beginning of work on Renata's piece. She needs to bite into something in 7/8. It would torment her already tortured soul. Poor girl. I keep getting ridiculous messages from Frank accusing me of not helping Dasa with her Java project. What a doof.

13.20

Well, I fixed the error where the thinghie displayed the previous month with a 'hack'. I say hack because I believe there is some bug in php. For example, this code:

if($vars["rok"] == $y) {
  $m = substr($f,4,2);
  if($m != $l_m) {
    echo "   <a href=\"muse.php?rok=$y\" . ($vars["mesic"] == $m ? "" : "&mesic=$m") . "\">" . date("M",mktime(0,0,0,$m + 1,0,0)) . "<br>";
  } ....

should display the NEXT month because of the fucking $m+1, but it displays the correct month, despite the documentation on the mktime function:

mktime() is useful for doing date arithmetic and validation, as it will automatically calculate the correct value for out-of-range input. For example, each of the following lines produces the string Jan-01-1998.

Example 1. mktime() example
echo date( \"M-d-Y\", mktime(0,0,0,12,32,1997) );
echo date( \"M-d-Y\", mktime(0,0,0,13,1,1997) );
echo date( \"M-d-Y\", mktime(0,0,0,1,1,1998) );

Bastards.

Work on the statistics-related project has come to a temporary cessation as I search for JClass hovno on the web. I consider thttpd and php support. I see that php4.01 has an option. Hm. Compilation. This must be the most exciting journal entry I have ever made.

20.10 I am a cute little rodent hiding under Jenicek’s couch. Soon I will emerge and throttle him with a pipe wrench. It is too bad his English is so fucking bad that he’ll never appreciate the sublime humor of the first two sentences.

Heil Fucksheep.Org.

20.12 I am sitting here contemplating finishing the drum machine part to “Work Song”, a Calvert piece I have been working on slowly for the last few days.

The chord progression is minimalist to an extreme, but the song has always had a compelling edge for me. I will attempt to mp3ify it before the end of the week. Well, that is, if I finish the bleeding thing.

21.16 It seems I must go to a meeting arranged initially by Jeníček because dickboy is out of town. Dammit. Maybe I’ll have some vodka before I go. That will make it more fun.

22.49 Dead evening. Vodka absolute. Viking babbling to no end in a language I can barely understand unless I am coherent in an adjacent room. Magma is too pertinent to the evening, bubbling into the air uncontrolled. Needed.

Why are womens’ voices so obtuse, abrasive? They should be silenced from birth with a scalpel. I would gladly do it myself.

Three yellows, one brown

Children kicking plastic balls

Screaming at pigeons

In Chris’s fingers

One strip of translucent tape

To muffle a child

The cooing flock lights

A blanched dead against the green

Chewing and staring

Plump as a pigeon

A child squeals in the distance

Ready for roasting

Bland, loud and selfish

Soulless husks bawling for bread

Which could feed them all

Fucking Australia, miles from Muenchen, from the Condor, 1 2 Snap, the summation of my past two months. A whirlwind has taken me from life to life, as if they have no connection at all besides my singular presence in both.

(Condor)

5.35pm – we board the bus of death.

KURAFE KON IS JETZ! The prostitute is with you.

KURAFE SOL KON SOLET JETZ. The prostitutes are with us.

SOLAN QIN KOLEPE NIS. They are inside the pigeon.

SOLET PELIS KASE SOL TOPEN. We go towards the houses.

Noun affixes:

• diminuative –> + otz
• superlative –> + uk
• derogatory –> + ax
• beautificatory –> + im –> ilm
• all –> + ek
• not –> + um
• interrogative –> + it
• indefinite (some) –> + ap
• masc / neut / fem –> + u + o + a
• definite (the) –> + (j)e

Plez … kiss.

Plezotz … little kiss.

Plezim … Very nice kiss.

Plezit … Which kiss?

Kerisax … disgusting rat.

kerisukax … big disgusting rat.

kerisukaxit … which big disgusting rat?

kerisotzek … all little rats.

kenikime … the wonderful book.

mezotzaje … the little female mouse.

Ordering: noun + dim / sup + der / beaut + all / inter / indef + gender + def.

Animate thing - ehol

Inanimate thing - ohol

Thing - hol (concept)

Place - mol

Time - nol

Way - zol

amount - sol

quality - fol

Some (indefiniteness) –> tap

Interoggative –> + it

Definite –> + e

Negative –> + um

Collective –> + ek

Eholit is? –> Which (animate thing) are you?

Holit an? –> What is it?

Et Fek mokife topen nolap. –> Sometime I (will) go to the pub.

Solet fek mokolep topen nolum. –> We never go to parks.

Solit kurafe? –> How much is the prostitute?

hmmmmm…. bad….

Solit kuraf? –> How many prostitutes?

Solum. –> None.

Is fek molit topen? –> To where do you go?

Et fek molum topen nolek. –> I always go nowhere.

Nokife nolek. –> The time to drink is always.

Et kon kolep sol jetz nolek.

Quality: fo- (english… -like)

lofez (sheep) –> folofez (sheeplike)

kuraf (prostitute) –> fokuraf (slutlike)

Ana fokuraf. –> she is like a prostitute.

Chris fek kosel topen folofez. –> Chris goes to church like a sheep.

Degree: so- (english … -ness)

Solofez –> sheeplike tendencies or sheepness.

Kuraf –> sokuraf … slutness.

Sokif –> Alcohol like tendencies.

Etc.

Place: mo-

Mokif –> The place to drink alcohol.

Mokuraf –> The place of prostitutes.

Moperital –> A friendly place.

Motormir –> Place of sleep.

Person: fe-

Fekif –> drunkard.

Fekuraf –> One who does prostitutes.

Fekosel –> Churchgoer.

Genetive case:

Liz. With sol, it agglutinates as -iz. With pronouns, it also agglutinates as -iz.

• etiz - mine. of me.
• isiz - of you. yours.
• aniza - hers. of her.
• solyziz - of us [but not you].

Kase kotze liz. The cat’s house.

Kase kotze soliz. The cats’ house.

Kase sol kotze soliz. The cats’ houses.

An kenik etiz. It is my book.

Ana kuraf Chris liz. She is Chris’s prostitute.

Mofek … at the place.

• Chris fek mokurafe topen. Mofek kurafe anizu.
• Chris goes to the bordel. There is his prostitute.

Nofek … at the time.

Zonuz … by this way or means.

• Solet qin suke topen. Zonuz fek zelol topen.
• We enter the train. By train (we go) to hell.

I fucking hate Jeníček. He is a sheep. He is worse than a sheep because he wants to go home and shag his laptop instead of doing things that people who are NOT sheep do, like drinking lots of beer until they vomit for seven days. I fucking also hate waiting for the DAMN metro with this smelly kurva sitting behind me. I must hold my breath and shag with a large black man. Jeníček is addicted to his laptop. He does nothing but shag it all day. Jeníček is so fucking stupid that he would rather sit on the wrong metro train than have a beer at the kurva bar where they sell little, brown kurvy for 22DM a piece.

Now it’s working, says Jeníček. It’s the thinghie with the thinghie, he continues dynamically… Soon the metro will arrive and we’ll be swiftly deployed to the beer place, despite my troubled meanderings on the opposite page. Au voir.

The heat here is intense. I wipe the back of my neck with my naked palm and pull away a swath of sweat. German humans babble to one another in German. Marcie, far away in both time and space, is on my mind, burning moment after moment in my cluttered brain with her youth, her perfect smile dotted with an excruciatingly well placed dimple. EVERYONE LOVES ME AND MY DIMPLE! she shouted (my inference) via email in 1992. 19 fucking 92. Nineteen fucking ninety two. That evening is so distant. Well, not that, but the one that suffuses my thoughts at present.

I met her somewhere near the A&M thinghie around which it is unheard of to walk upon the grass and in which it is decreed as punishable to wear a hat and we strolled, spoke, gazed into one anothers’ eyes, ending up at Bright (as usual). I recall sitting in the back left row of computers in room 209 and feeling the smooth skin of her ankles and calves, pulling up the denim of her jeans to allow my hands to caress her flesh. We spoke, of what I cannot exactly recall, but I can guess. Most likely the avid reader of my so-called novels can, as well. Then there was the day (was it the same day? I think not because my memory shows blurrily she and I sitting at another computer in the dim twilight of room 209, facing the back wall, not the front whiteboards on which Raun drew that pernicious creature I so would love to glimpse again) when it came as an obstreperous cry to me that her parents were going to force herto move back to Hosuton - back to her father - back to DOUG BUMP. The emotion of that day is unnerving even in this distant time-space locale.

Craziness!

What happened, oh Marcie, what ever happened to the life we were founding - the abortive grope into a future fecund and proud? Now where are you whilst I sit alone at nigh 2am in a crowded, horiffic pub in Muenchen?

WHERE?

Change change change, AN ABSURDLY SELF ABSORBED VICTIM.

I have swallowed a double vodka and most of a Helles Bier … What kind of crack was I smoking when I scribed the opposite page? IRONY indeed … misplaced emotions that belong in another time-space intrude on this lonely evening (morning?). But is that not the definitive definition of nostalgia, anyhow?

HUMANS INTERACT

I INTERACT WITH THIS BOOK

BLANK … like Marcie, like the girl I took, taught, destroyed.

So many songs sing of alcohol as a cleanser. Look! It washes away the sorrow until the next morning arrives… so to paraphrase. But no! It intensifies to an extreme for me. The obviousness of this truth is plain for every bleeding cunt to see.

I refuse to die a sad, unknowing man!

But my destiny demands it! My freedom frees me from commitment but also from any other sentient soul who might care about my scribbling, my music, my jaded efforts at true communication. At 80, I shall be sitting huddled, writing words that shall be discarded, destroyed - unread by any but myself ––> *Who will be the RECIPIENT?

Jayson’s childrens’ children? Loyal’s childrens’ children? Tony’s childrens’ children?

The time? 2.00 … GMT + 1.

HEY - MA MA MA - HEY - YA YA YA - (LIFE IN A NORTHERN TOWN)…

Miguel - that pool hall at the university in Snyder, Texas - where Shawna was from - one penny a minute for pool. I recall concretely, though my handwriting is stobbornly refusing to show it. The college crowd, a few boys, a few OVCE, placed a jam box near the pool table and whilst Miguel and I played, we listened to Another Brick in the Wall Part Two and In Jeopordy (the former by the illustrious Pink Floyd and the latter by the hopefully forgotten Greg Kihn Band (our love’s in jeopordy, BABY, indeed)).

After that (or before - I remember not - hence - this was my freshman year in high school - district in UIL Calculator, Number Sense, Nonsense, whatever) the song, aforementioned, played on the loudspeakers: The Dream Academy Life in a Northern Town. Now, Miguel, a devotee of heavy metal and the like (if it wasn’t Judas Priest / Iron Maiden / Metallica / etc, it was shit) told me I like this song. I like it a lot. I do not know why, but I do - I cannot explain it.

Last I heard (8 years ago?), Miguel was working driving 18 wheelers out of Cayanosa. CAYANOSA. Ty vole. Out of my mundane, drunken world into the universe of work each day in a rig, driving miles upon miles and resign to a homestead unwanted, least treaded upon. I think of Dave and that my handwriting is becoming too affected by alcohol. Pause - pause. PAUSE. Let me write that more clearly: PAUSE. Ok, my rychlé was the most prominent problem. Jsem idiot - heh: sometimes. Marcie would concur.

SADLY THESE ARE THINGS I SHALL ALWAYS RECALL —–

It is for my progeny! Jayson’s childrens’ children. Loyal’s childrens’ children. Tony’s childrens’ children.

So what is there to say after all has been said, after handwriting is annihilated, after mind is replaced by a vociferous animal? Something toils inside, keeps me alive during these subtly dismal evenings.

Jayson’s childrens’ children.

Loyal’s childrens’ children.

Tony’s childrens’ children.

A sad ultimatum to my progeny - unfinished are all my thoughts. Forgive me, prosím.

There is a ridiculous fat girl (tlustá holka) sitting at a table near me singing absurdly along with the lyrics of this obviously DAFT piece of music - my words are PRETENTIOUS, demeaning, ignore the chaff and focus on the perpetual stupidity, absurdity, this species (us!) inherits from each unuseful person in its midst. DIE! DIE! DIE! Listen to my handwriting like you do to the popular alternitiva.

ALTERNITIVÁ.

< SPECTRUM >

The THING (The pervasive commerce:)

( [ * M A R K E T I N G ’ S * ] )

Listen and believe that these mundane, repetitive onuses will only lead you to the conclusion that music is nothing but a phase passing from minute to minute to minute, from year to year to year in a pointedly incoherent

MANNER.

AGAIN I AM OUT OF ALCOHOL. SADLY - MY ADDICTION C O N S

U

M E S

ME

I want to do another historical reiteration, but I refrain. A fight breaks out in the pub - people thrashing at each other - it is horrific - I am unsure how to react. A portrait, a picture would me more appropriate. I want to know the cause - the reason. I am denied.

I think that everything I scribe beyond this will be complete hovno, so what is, exactly, the point? Though, slowly, it seems a challenge to be to actually sit and write. I think of Stacy Shannon. Does anyone reading this recall her?

That day, early high school (9th grade? 10th?) looking in her eyes - oh - talking about The Wall in San Angelo - so many years ago - and her shagging her boyfriend in front of FSHS my sophomore year - Mario my comforter. It was the last time I saw her. C’est la vie.

I WILL BE DRUNK OUT OF MY MIND BEFORE I LEAVE THIS ESTABLISHMENT.

Now it is 2.50. A vodka I shall order.

A DOUBLE.

16.18

Well, most of the alcohol has at last left my system. I do not at all recall scribbling the end of last night’s entry. Heh. It has been, however, the most prolific day of writing in a long while - since last summer, surely. The pen is finally again becoming an instrumentI am comfortable with. The underground arrives and I board. I am sitting across from a mildly attractive female with slightly flushed cheeks. It is impossible to write because of the underground’s B U M P I N E S S. Farewell to the anonymous female and this entry.

16.50

I await. I await: The U - BAHN.

Strange songs have been parading unceasingly through my consciousness today. Why strange? Well, only in context, not in content. Walking towards my room from the elevator earlier (I was in the process of being frustrated because my laundry was not yet in a state even remotely resembling dryness) and found myself subconsciously fixated on Useless Begging by Todd Rundgren. That transformed into Izzat Love. These are songs I have not heard in several years.

I await, at LaimerPlatz, Maja. It should be an interesting encounter, though I may only be being optimistic.

So, as my avid reader can see: I got her phone number:

22.15, heading for HauptBahnHof.

22.44, sitting in the Greek-type-pub place near the hotel blízko

SilberhornStrasse, yonk-boy. My prolific writing day has not yet come to an uncanny close.

B E H O L D :

Cheers, the barman smiles. My drinks are before me: my new norm: ein bier und ein wodka. My resolve: I shall purchase some quaint text concerning the German language and familiarize myself with the tongue. Jazyk!

The deal with Maja is THIS: She is already my friend. I draw immediate comparisons to Tina and our first days in friendship - October of 1998 - one and a half freakin’ years ago. My mind wonders to the B-line ride from (or was it to?) Jinonice and her tears as the words she spoke about her family stung her.

Peter Blegvad sings

Until a woman’s intimite with grief, she’s just a little girl.

Maja fits within this lyric as if it were the tight red shirt she wore during the four hours in which I began to know her. But she is not an ovce, not one of the conformist masses, but despises it. Ona se stěžová o tom. Rather: Ona se stěžovala o tom. And I am sure she shall in the future, as well. We sat on swings and spoke, just as Christmas and I did in Austin in the early spring of 196, as Kelley Love and I did in December of 1991, as many of my friends and I did during that era. Nostalgia is overcoming me. sob.

She COOKED FOR ME A Simple Dinner of Eggs, Bread, Salad And APPLE JUICE.

I ate, we listened to Biohazard and all WAS quiet, relaxing to HER, but I could not show my tension, the revolting want to fuck her where she sat on the coloured couch in her parents’ flat. I am tainted by my stay in Prague, my conversations with Jeníček, and my dismally abortive relationship with ……. Dana. I must learn to love women again as friends, not as sex toys, objects of simple pleasure, to be tossed to the waste bin quicker than the semen can dry on the soiled sheets.

IT IS A GOOD CHALLENGE FOR ME

TO ENCOURAGE THIS FRIEN

D

SHIP!

She is Yugoslavian. I will go to Yugoslavia this SUMMER —> ––> ––> it is a plan!

POTŘEBUJÍ PIVO…..

A NEAR MISS, said the policeman, as his eye shattered from pressure, exuding a thick fluid that inched along his pale chee like a slug, leaving in its wake a reddish, pasty residue. He fell, as if in slow motion, to the sidewalk that appeared, cracked, as if built by an insane or arachnoid architect, to shatter the silence with a final cry from his forever afterwards mute throat.

S T O P ! ! TY VOLE, VOLE. IT IS TERRIBLE!!

PLAN TWO: Make tapes for both Maja and Puhutes. The former of harder edged progressive material and the latter of primarily Univers Zero. On that note, listening to La Faulx tonight should provide an excellent conclusion to the evening.

ICH BIN SCHWEINEHUND.

I drink too much. I drink too fast. I prefer a bottle to a glass. -Peter Blegvad

FUCKING AMERIČANS ————————>

(I envy them. I hate them.)

Maybe I am finally finished with my absurd desire to be a social creature. Illusion? What are all these IRC and ICQ escapades, then? Someone wonders. Is it you? Eh?

———–> Alcoholism is raging. Five vodkas, three beers - spát!

SPÁT!!!!

Last night I considered this: Find Kierstinn. Do it! Why not? She has my son, after all. Well, that is not an excuse, of course, because I did nothing but biologically spawn the hund, did not put my money / effort into raising him: I AM NOT HIS FATHER, just an eidolon he may conjure of an evil, deralict young man shagging his mother in a dorm room in College Station, Texas.

I recall that night well, despite the alcohol. It was the same night of Dave’s sickness, of Roger and I’s Southern Comfort liaison and vomiting ’neath the underpass on University, near Dudley’s Draw. It was the same night I planted my seed in Kierstinn, the same night my relationship with her was simultaneously began and finished.

ENVY == HATE

She was sitting in my lap, young, full of life, energy - vitality. Her head smashed into my temple, destroying the joint ’tween the arm of my glasses and the holder of the lens-type-apparati. Years passed before I fixed them. Heh - those glasses finally broke one year prior. I still have them. At times like this, my brain drowning in alcohol, I still love her.

Write! Write!

FILL THE PAGE!!!

FILL THE PAGE!!!

But what shall I write about? The stupidness of my current predicament? The chatter ’round me that diffuses into the same blather experienced year after tenuous year? Could I fuck and not care? Eh? Is it an option? Somehow, it is not and never will be an option for me. I believe it still may be for Tony, who lusts still after ex-girlfriends of old, but, as he disbelieves, I am not like him, for my sexual misapproriations have only led to dispair, to self-loathing and nigh suicide.

NOT AN OPTION, VOLE

In 7 minutes, it shall be zítra. Zítra! Shall I conclude? I must, drunk though I am in this desolate town so far away from the ones I love. For future reference:

5 vodkas and three Biers FUCK ME UP.

Vole.

Plan three: Stop saying vole. Ty vole. I wrote 11 pages today. I believe it is a record.

It is wacky Tuesday. In two days it shall be Acy day. Imagine that (imagine that)! How well has bob (in all of his slothful grandeur) progressed with his chat application? Hm? Well, not really any at all, if the truth need be known. The initial item in my two entry list circa two days prior has been completed, but the second not even touched. A new problem has cropped up, as well, and I shall enumerate it here:

The ImageButtons cannot load their images because the images can only be loaded by the applet class itself (fucking security). So I must load all of the images using the applet class (which results in horrific object-orientedness) and pass them to the ImageButtonPannel object which will feed each ImageButton with its image/text pair. Good fun, eh? Meanwhile, I infuriate people on Průvodce, amusingly.

And so I shall follow that larger bit of a problem with a seznam of smaller ‘improvements’. Yipeee!

I am concerned about the Chat application that I was so eager to take on. It is not as though i cannot handle the coding aspect, but instead have a pronounced lack of assertiveness in production. What shall I do to curb this incessant desire to dawdle in sloth? Well, first of all, I need to run the application and list the things which should be APPARENTLY improved/fixed/added. Here goes.

• An applet parameter or a command line argument must specify whether the chat instance is in ‘operator’ mode or not. This mainly consists of enclosing the QuickMessageList and ChannelUserList (and the happy quartet of buttons) in a conditional thurk.
• The QuickMessageList should not appear until a channel has been entered. It follows that the channel itself should provide the messages, or, more specifically, the channel will be related to a group of messages in a database. Andrew and I spoke of ‘performer’ messages and ‘room’ messages. So, contradicting myself and clarifying a tad better, performer-specific messages will appear as soon as the operator logs in, while room-specific messages will appear as soon as the operator enters/creates a channel. So the rooms which demand room-specific messages for the operator(s) must have entries in the database associated with the messages AND the channels an operator joins to purloin these messages must have names identical to the database entries.

I will tend to the first of the two initially since I need to get some semblance of a sex site working by 10 tomorrow rano. Here I go.

Scott’s gaze to me is exceedingly curious, as if he is expecting me at any moment to be pummelled. I wonder what Melanie’s words were preceeding the snapping of this photograph. I look very much as if it was not expected. That is, there is no poise or silliness in my demenor, a facet of my personality that manifests itself when some human being who is psychologically associated with me begins to aim the camera (and I am noticing their actions, of course).

The drink I quaff (not in the photograph, but surely within the immediate vacinity of the time at which it was taken) is (I assume) Dr. Pepper, as is Melanie’s. Scott’s is not to be seen. The props of the scene belong to Kerby Lane North and I’d like to think this was my reunion night with Scott.

The exact date escapes me, but I am sure I can dredge it up in my expansive archive of emails – mayhap I shall tomorrow evening.

The next day, our trio applied at MCI for telemarketing positions. Scott and I were hired and melanie spurned (it was good for her). My mind refuses to recall any other details of the evening, sadly, but Kerby Lane itself has a rich and varied history with me beginning in the summer (June?) of 1990 when I was introduced to the Kerby Lane Kerby Lane one by Neil and a few other humans I do not remember. I have not seen Neil in eight years. The only detail of my first Kerby Lane experience I can recall is Neil (or was it his brother?) letting me and everyone else taste his food as he raved madly about how magnificent it was. I believe the pick of the evening was enchiladas - mayhap California Enchiladas, one of my preferred foodstuffs.

So quicklyy I divert from the original subject in my shallow, daft, bland, superficial recount of a mostly forgotten evening. So I stop.

I now notice the age in my face. The smooth visage of youth is becoming creased by time’s unbridled clip. Experience, like the sand of a desert storm, weathers and erodes my skin. Every moment of my life has somehow left a stain on me. It is as if my sort putty-like youth has slowly hardened into the complex and moulded cast of a man, the slow but sure hands of time, my shaper.

Who is 0603323917???

Time is relentless. It will never stop, not even after my molecules are again in thedust of a nebula. The lines show clearly, standing out poignantly on Kevin Tritt’s forehead.

I wonder now if he has ever fixed the ducttaped window or if the rustle of Alaska’s autumn leaves still seeps through those imperfectly sealed cracks and into the kitchen where kevin stands. I think I purchased the teapot sitting on the stove ready to warm in its innards a tasty beverage for the inhabitants of that house on Lois Drive in Spenard.

I remember the night Theo, Brian and I sat on the counter the stove graces speaking of subsersive ways to destroy the pulp mill near Ketchikan. Bohužel, these things never came to any real fruition. Or is the whole fecundity of the event in the amusement of those involved at the moment? It drifts, like all others, into a haze, a blurring dust storm, just stinging sand which erodes the skin, withers the senses, eventually kills. And, of course, these moments are most likely not the ones others would pen into leatherbound books, but only for me.

A strange sensation has flooded into my consciousness, is slowly receding again. This is a reason to have children, after all. Magdalena! I take it back! I want beautiful children with you! They and possibly they alone would sit in wonder as they perused these pages. My concerned reader, perhaps you are not in solitude, after all. Everyone has made pretty radically horrific mistakes in life, surely, but I doubt many as bad as my choice to have a vasectomy. Now the complications involved in getting it reversed are immense, indeed.

I am trying to imagine Magdalena’s thoughts if she ever read this – especially concerning the reversal of my feelings involving so many things – most notibly children. Do you, my avid reader, think it would satisfy me? Or would it wear my mind into a malaise of stagnation like so many other things? I DO know that cutting this rope of peregrine that binds me is an appealing thought at the moment, the problem being that I also cut away, foolishly, the relationship that made me the most satisfied. Her. Magdalena. Damn you, Bob.

Isn’t this journal a facility I employ to further understand myself? Indeed. So I should heed my own advice instead of fogetting the many plaintive moments I spend talking to myself in a searing frenzy of loss and isolation. The familiarity that I crave spawns in the filling well of my mind, a spring of creativity and productiveness. Sadly, this recalls the song Back Door by Kansas wherein Steve Walsh describes succinctly the desire to share a number of beautiful things in life, events, thoughts, words, future – and then, in contrast, closes each verse with the line But are you leaving? Leaving by my back door? This terrifying sense of loss stabs another sabre of pain through my chest. The Back Door signifies to me escape, surreptitious disappearance. This you Steve talks about is dissing his dream of a beautiful life just about as much as humanly (or godly) possible. And guess what, my spellbound reader? I feel the exact same way about the situation with Magdalena. Sigh – repeated history. The lesson? Never fall in love? Have a hemispherectomy? Blah.