My Four Inches Of The World

My new site

2010-09-12T09:00:00.005-04:00

Please visit my new site at:

http://www.waycoolkid.com/

AS SEEN OUTSIDE OF TONIGHT'S RESTAURANT

2008-07-30T22:16:00.001-04:00

A CONCESSION

2008-07-24T07:13:00.003-04:00

Alas, dear reader, things are growing increasingly hectic at the moment -- the impending though not yet occurring arrival of the Aquababy, the ongoing saga of my also not yet occurring medical diagnosis, and the stream of friends and relations coming to visit the soon to be Terrababy. Thus, dear reader, I must concede that I shall probably not be posting in the very near future.

I shall continue to write and supply images as time permits, and hopefully in the near future I will be able to return to a more regular addressing of my writerly duties.

Alas.

TWENTY-FOUR WIRES, TWENTY-ONE BERRIESAND A LARGE GREEN SOFA

2008-07-14T22:15:00.005-04:00

I am sorry, dear reader, that I have not been posting as of late; we -- that is the wife and I -- have been overtaken by a great flurry of pre-Aquababy-arrival nesting [painting, furnishing, rearranging, sub-contracting, etc.]. Thus I shall quickly present a few of the highlights and return to the redeployment of household components.

[N.B.: Berries are from the new blueberry patch in the back yard; the sofa is now in our living room.]

THIS WEEK

2008-06-24T08:11:00.005-04:00

This, dear reader, is a strange week, medically speaking that is. The wife, with the wee baby progressively growing in her midst, is inexorably moving toward completion, at least of this phase of things, while I seem only further mired in a limbo of perpetual appointments and reappointments. While today the wife crossed a heretofore unknown threshold, having reached her seventh visit to the OBGYN, she need no longer hand over the obligatory co-pay, I continue to look ahead, or so it appears, to an unending exchange of eighteen dollars across the rails of the sliding-glass window in the reception areas of countless doctors in all shapes, varieties, and specializations.

Even as the preadmission paperwork was being filled our and the birth plan was being completed the MRI came back, following the example of all of my previous tests, with no results. I suppose I should be thankful that this particular test found nothing, but the wife and I, in a moderately perverse twist of logic, had actually been hoping for a tumor, as a pituitary tumor would at least explain the odd array of symptoms I am experiencing and is almost universally treatable.

Certainly I do not wish to begrudge the wife the recent smoothness of her transition towards completion of this phase of things; we are pleased as punch and are counting our blessings, to use only a couple of clichés. I must admit, though, that it feels odd to be moving so quickly to fruition on one front of my life while simultaneously performing the role of Josef K in another.

Indeed, this week I shall have an appointment with my psychiatrist with no other aim in mind than to request a piece of paper with the word *SANE* stamped upon it, perhaps in large, red letters, to present to the growing cadre of doctors, hopefully returning their diagnostic powers to the realm of the organic.

[Note: Everyone must say a hearty huzzah for the healthy progress of both the wife and the aquababy!]

COOKIES

2008-06-21T16:16:00.005-04:00

Today, dear reader, I made Cindy McCain's Oatmeal-Butterscotch Cookies.

They are good.

Should I feel traitorous?

BOOTSTRAP SYMPTOMATOLOGY

2008-06-20T18:37:00.008-04:00

Hadrons are composites; hadrons are constituents of hadrons; and hadrons are a binding force between hadrons (based on the conception of a force between two particles as an exchange of other particles; in this case the exchanged particles are conceived to be hadrons); the name "bootstrap" is derived from this picture of a set of hadrons which generates itself, that is, "pulls itself up by the bootstrap."

-Sal Restivo
The Social Relations of Physics, Mysticism, and Mathematics

Over the course of this week I have officially entered a nebulous realm of the medical world; I, for the time being, defy diagnosis, though remain subject to easy hypothesis. On Wednesday I at last had my appointment with an endocrinologist, and once again the test results thus far do not, as we had been hoping, point to a particular explanation – though more tests have been ordered, more blood drawn. All of this is to be expected I suppose; intellectually I know, by this point, that it is unlikely that some diagnostic white knight shall be riding in through the doorway of exam room #2. The problem is, at least for me at the moment, that each doctor I have encountered thus far has, at some point or another suggested to me – usually right after we discuss my current medication list – that my symptoms may be being caused by depression and anxiety, things, dear reader, I don't mind confessing that I have been under treatment for – on and off – for the past fifteen years. Actually, the previous statement is not entirely true; not every doctor has suggested this. The one hold-out is my psychiatrist who resolutely contends that this is not depression, that the symptoms do not in any way correlate to my historic manifestations, that, seeing as I have not felt particularly depressed or anxious – especially not before the onset of these symptoms – it seems exceptionally unlikely. But this, dear reader is the problem: each and every other doctor, once they find that I have a history of depression and anxiety disorder, and lacking any immediately evident organic explanation, are quite willing to slough off my symptoms as psychological manifestations – though Bridget, at least, seems to have largely moved past this phase. Thus, my growing medical team leaves me with a conundrum to contemplate: that my symptoms may indeed be stemming from depression and anxiety that has only recently come up – just a little – as a result of the symptoms that the depression and anxiety are purportedly causing. Put another way, the anxiety that my continuing illness is causing is the cause of the illness that preceded it. Hence, I have moved on to hadronic illness and may need to make a choice between the Institute of Advanced Study or the Mayo Clinic some number of months down the line.

THE BEST CONCERT I HAVE BEEN TO IN YEARS

2008-06-12T13:47:00.006-04:00

Yesterday morning, at the ungodly hour of six forty-five ante meridiem, the wife and I walked through the automatic doors of the local hospital, through an excessive maze of twists and turns demarcated by poorly photocopied signage, past the storage room where all of the broken wheelchairs apparently go to die, and finally arrived, hand in hand, at the specified waiting room where we stood and stared at the empty desks where the receptionists might normally be expected to be found. This was followed by more staring, and then a little more. This did not bode well, we thought.

Yes, dear reader, Tuesday was my day to go have my brain looked at by an unknown series of people in laboratory coats. And no, you need not point out that today is Friday and I am several days late in completing this bit of writing, but this time I have a decent excuse: I have been battling salmonella, or so my doctor thinks. I know, it seems a bit like piling it on, but that is the way life goes at times and I shan't complain, but I digress...

So, the wife and I stood there in the reception area of that obscure corner of the hospital dedicated to scanning our collective and my individual innards. The particular innard in question on this bleary, early morning was my pituitary gland, though they would be imaging my entire head/brain area in order to look at the little – perhaps malfunctioning – bugger. But, back to the reception area...

We stood there for a while; did a bit of whistling, perhaps a little swaying, and eventually we sat down. After a few minutes, which included a couple of mildly quizzical looks at each other followed by shrugs, someone finally entered the room and made his way over to one of the aforementioned desks and took a seat. I was quickly called over and the paperwork began.

I shall now fast-forward through this section of the morning, dear reader, in order to spare you the redundancy of describing the paperwork portion of the show, a process you all, undoubtedly, know all to well. I got the clipboard; I filled in lines and boxes; I circled yeses and nos; I returned the clipboard with papers and pen attached, which led to further queries. I sat back down and waited.

Eventually the technician came out from behind the double-door emblazoned with the large DO NOT ENTER sticker and took me, along with the wife, back through the double-doors to a small dressing room where I was divested of all metal – which was all quickly dispatched, except the wedding ring which no longer fits over my knuckle, as I had removed the piercing at home. A few more questions and off we went, the wife sent back to the waiting room because they don't let pregnant women hang out with the scannee, a fact that, I must admit, did little to inspire confidence. The last question that was asked, as we entered the chamber of secrets, was "Are you claustrophobic?" Luckily, no.

If you have never had an MRI before – not the new-fangled, friendly open kind, but the old-fashioned, slide-you-in-a-tube kind – I shall now give a brief overview. You lie down on a padded slab, head on a small, not-entirely-uncomfortable pillow. On either side of the pillow are large clips to which is then attached a plastic cage which is adjusted to hold your head in place. Another pillow is then placed under your knees entirely without irony for your comfort. Finally, as you now realize that you should have itched your nose beforehand, you are offered music – which should be refused unless you really like Enya or Steely Dan, god forbid – or earplugs – which, in my not-so-humble opinion should, too, be refused as they would obscure the best part of the show. Thus prepared, the slab slides, unceremoniously, into the large, medical-beige tube behind you and begin your half-hour long stare-down with the curved wall four inches from the end of your nose. A disembodied voice clicks on – the technician in the adjacent room – and asks after your well-being, instructs you to wave your arms – I don't see how, seeing as you are in a rather small tube – if you become distressed, and, finally, informs you that the scan is about to begin.

I thought I was prepared for this, dear reader. I had, in the past, accompanied the wife to her open MRI and assumed it would be about the same, but just a little more cramped. I was, in fact, wrong. Little did I know I was in for such a sonic delight. For a moment or so there was just a little, repetitive clicking from somewhere deep in the machine, and then, all of a sudden, without the slightest of warning or build-up, I was surrounded by a phenomenal WHHOM WHHOM WHHOM WHHOM. Whereas I might have been expected to have been startled, indeed, no, an enormous grin immediately spread across my face, and it was all I could do to not thrust a fist in the air – which would not have worked, obviously, because of the already discussed wall four inches from the tip of my nose. It was absolutely symphonic, which I suppose I should have expected as I was indeed deep inside a machine known as the Magnetom Symphony. I have been to this concert, several times, back in my high school and college years. I have stood in cramped, dank, sweaty spaces and watched ensembles of disaffected youth perform these very sounds. This was better. Thus I laid back – figuratively speaking, as I was already quite supine and caged – and prepared to enjoy the show, which, I must say, I did.

That is, until I was so rudely interrupted. After about twenty minutes, as calculated afterwards, the concert came to an abrupt halt and I slid again unceremoniously from my sonic chamber. The nurse who ended the waiting game in the reception area swiftly crossed the room and requested an arm, stating, "Now I have to inject the dye." Quick shrug and my right arm was extended, swabbed, poked, pricked, and filled with some cool dye that will, undoubtedly, appear in extraordinary patterns if and when I ever see the images of my brain. Mission accomplished the disembodied voice returned to announce that I would have ten more minutes in the tube and off I went, again to my great sonic delight.

More WHHOM WHHOM WHHOM, and then out I came again. The technician returned to uncage me, and a moment later I was off the rejoin the wife in the waiting room where I was assured, by said wife, that most people do not have the same response to an MRI.

Back down the labyrinth, out the automatic doors, back home with that scene from Kindergarten Cop implanted in my head. Cue Schwarzenegger. "It's not a tumor."

Though it might be.

TODAY I SAW MY FUTURE

2008-06-06T17:44:00.003-04:00

[I do not believe more need be said...]

I LIKE BRIDGET

2008-06-04T14:41:00.003-04:00

This post is, perhaps, long overdue. You see, dear reader, I like Bridget.

Yes, I still like the wife, rather a lot, and no, I do not like Bridget in that way. I should probably explain...

About a month ago I finally switched doctors, after being told that my somewhat mysterious symptomatology was all probably just in my head. Thus, eventually, I finally ended up in Bridget's office.

Now let us flash forward a wee bit, skipping over Thor, an awkward experience, and Thor once again...

This past Thursday – again, I apologize for the inexcusable belatedness of this post – I went in, accompanied by the wife, to see Bridget once again. Readied for further confusion and uncertainty we sat down in our assigned examination room at about nine forty-five. We briefly reviewed the conclusions offered by Thor, and returned, once again, to the question, "What the hell is wrong with you?"

This, dear reader, is not quite why I like Bridget, but it is getting there. I am rather pleased that I, at long last, have a doctor who, when confronted with the quandary that is me asks this question rather than declaring that there cannot, indeed, be anything wrong with me since he or she does not immediately know what it might be.

At first Bridget started us along one track of thought as we talked about specifics of my symptoms. She asked questions; I answered. I asked questions; she answered. The wife asked questions; Bridget answered. Bridget wrote things down and began to order tests. Then it happened. Bridget stood up, excused herself, and left the room. I must admit we were momentarily befuddled, but when she returned a moment later, both my and the wife's eyes lit up. We smiled – or at least I think we did; we did so in my recollection thereof. Bridget sat back down in her little rolly, spinny stool with a right large medical text.

If you know me, or the wife, at all you will recognize the source of our pleasure. We both love a researcher, and firmly believe that the source of, well pretty much everything, is books. I love that I have a doctor that will bust out the ole textbooks right in front of me, who has no fear of admitting she doesn't have the answer, who is willing to roll up the old sleeves and stare at the fine print right in front of the patient instead of offering some platitude and double-checking under the cover of dark.

So, Bridget started flipping through the pages, eyes following her index finger as she scanned down diagnosis trees and lists of symptoms and correlations. After a few more minutes she popped up once again and departed again only to return once more with a thicker, larger book packed with yet longer lists of, to me, inscrutable words. More questions, answers, and occasional banter followed until, a further forty-five minutes later, the wife and I left the office with a trip to the endocrinologist in the works, another battery of blood tests scheduled, and an MRI of my itty-bitty pituitary gland in the offing at some god-awful early hour in the morning one day next week [and not the friendly open kind, but the sort in which they slide you into the exceedingly narrow tube for an hour and bombard you with whatever rays it is they cultivate from outer space to actually see inside of your brain].

I still may not know the answer to the now age-old question – "What the hell is wrong with you [me]" – but I do, at least like Bridget.

FLOWERS FOR THE AQUABABY

2008-06-02T10:57:00.008-04:00

At last, the wife and I have completed the modifications of the back garden in preparation for the arrival of the dear Aquababy, thus providing her with a small world of colors and smells -- along with tastes I might add -- though she shan't really be aware of it until her next summer.

After ten days of nearly perpetual digging and planting our back garden has been transformed from this:

to this:

For this summer it shall be a -- hopefully -- a wonderful garden in which to sit with the Aquababy, and hopefully it shall be productive of delectable fruits and vegetables, but what I am really looking forward to is next spring and summer when it blooms with new delights daily for the wee one.

NAMING A CHILD IS A VERY SERIOUS MATTER

2008-06-01T21:06:00.006-04:00

I DIG

2008-05-27T21:24:00.003-04:00

For the past week the wife and I have been performing heroic transformations upon both the front and back gardens at the ole familial manse. Normally, as you may know dear reader, this is not the kind of activity I would involve myself in, as I fear bugs, grass, dirt, being sticky, being dirty, and touching things in general. But, as this will soon be the Aquababy's home it seems important to make it special for her.

This is the part of the post where I was intending to detail the aforementioned transformations, but seeing that I am once again exhausted from an afternoon of ripping up sod to produce serpentine tulip beds, and I feel the inescapable grip of sleep surrounding me, I shall leave you with this image of the Swiss Chard** that was planted in the vegetable garden.

**I hope you are as impressed as I was by the fact that Swiss Chard has remarkably multicolored roots.

THOR [REDUX]

2008-05-23T19:10:00.005-04:00

Thor called.

Thor said my heart is fine.

Thor was reassuring.

It was 6:30 on a Friday when Thor called.

That was nice of Thor.

I like Thor.

[Now I just have to go back to the other doctor and start all over again.]

But, nevertheless, I like Thor.

WHEN A STRANGER SHAVES YOUR ABDOMINAL REGION

2008-05-22T19:16:00.001-04:00

Today I am strapped to a device; this device:

It is an odd device. In fact mine has ten electrodes rather than the pictured three or four. I could offer you a picture of my particular model, but I am far too fond of these moderately creepy illustrations to replace them for the sake of accuracy.

Any way, I am going about for the next twenty-four hours strapped -- as I said -- to this device, though I suppose, strictly speaking, it is strapped to me. It's in a right handy little fanny-pack at the moment with its myriad tentacles wending their way up my torso.

Thor gave me this device -- or rather, ordered it to be put upon me, and when Thor makes an order one does not ignore it.

But do not get too worried, dear reader, the device is to rule something out that seems right near to ruled-out-ness.

At the moment I am a bit of an anomaly, or perhaps an enigma. I have an unknown something, an obscure condition perhaps, an unexpected reaction, a hidden something-or-another, a certain thing that is not quite proper, but that likes to play hide and seek with every test run so for.

[Pause for brief tirade: The American medical system has seemingly become largely dependent upon the concept that it is all in the patient's head; that and the concept that if the patient is not, indeed, dying right before their very eyes it can't be so bad. Hmmph!]

I haven't mentioned this before, dear reader, because I was not quite sure if it was appropriate for this forum, and because I would much rather celebrate the dear Aquababy and her impending emergence, but I am realizing that I do rather need to vent, at times, my frustration over the snail's pace that diagnosis seems to be traveling.

Thus, since this is my blog, after all, I shall do what I want -- I hope you do not mind. So, once in a while, a shall pass a few hours of waiting with you, dear reader, as I go from waiting room to waiting room.

IF LEONARDO OF PISA ONLY KNEW

2008-05-21T08:36:00.006-04:00

In 1202 good Leonardo of Pisa introduced these numbers to us [well, not us per se, as we would now be inordinately old] in his Liber Abaci. Some eight hundred and six years later I shall introduce them to the Aquababy -- or at least design the book that will do so.

Thus, the first page of Some Sums, the third of the Aquababy's books:

AT THE DOCTOR'S OFFICE

2008-05-19T19:36:00.011-04:00

    Today I met Thor.

    Not the Thor, but a Thor.

    Thor asked questions.

    Thor wrote notes.

    Thor was reassuring.

  Hence Thor was confusing.

All in all, I liked Thor.

PROPS AND SUMS

2008-05-17T13:23:00.002-04:00

I don't normally shill for other people, but I beg your indulgence, dear reader, for a couple of media moments over this past week have brought me great joy, have fostered a modicum of respect for the media itself -- or at least a couple of its practitioners.

First up is Keith Olbermann. For this rant I must give unto him mad props. Partially for the content; it is a righteous demand for words to mean what they mean, an enraged plea for the word sacrifice to be given it just due rather than be reduced -- like so many other words -- to a facile meaninglessness. But further, I must bow my head to his superior ranting skills. I have always considered myself a top-tier producer of outraged diatribes, but this, dear reader, puts me to shame. Thus, I doff my cap...

And secondly there is this moment on Hardball. Little need be said about it; Chris Matthews finally just reaches his limit and demands that the word "appeasement" be used properly. While Matthews undoubtedly leans Democrat, I actually believe he had just had enough -- pardon that cliché -- and just had to stand up for -- and that cliché -- linguistic decency. The fact that the recipient of Matthews' tongue-lashing was a right-wing wack-job is just the icing on the cake.

This linguistic decency -- pardon the repetition -- seems to be a recurring motif as of late, not just here on the blog, but in the larger realm of 4IOE. Perhaps I must think more specifically about this.

Oh... On a lighter note, I have determined the title of the next book I shall design for the Aquababy -- as I continue working on "Some Rather Long Words Every Child Should Know." The next one shall be called "Some Sums," so if you have any particular sums that you have particularly liked, I am open to suggestions. I have always loved the fact that every number divisible by nine ultimately adds up to nine [i.e. 1953: 1+9+5+3=18; 1+8=9 1953/9=217]. Or perhaps I shall do the entire book by playing with the Fibonacci sequence -- undoubtedly, at the very least, it will be involved somehow. And, seeing that I love numbers -- as well as the letters and words I have been making for the wee one thus far -- it seems only appropriate that she get a book of sums.

THE WRITING ON THE WALL[OR RATHER, ON THE SIGN ABOVE THE WALL]

2008-05-15T16:01:00.007-04:00

This has, at times, been a common theme here at 4IOE, but perhaps for good reason: the world scares me, and not just for the big reasons, the ones you might expect. You know, the president, West Virginia, Lori Drew, etc., etc... But today it is for a much simpler reason [you see, I am easing my way back into writerly activity, thus I shall start off gently]. This afternoon, as I was deleting past images from the ol' camera, I ran across this classic, one I had forgotten I had even taken:

I know I should be accustomed to this by now, the endless capacity of the human brain to produce monstrous ideas, to reach into the wonder that is language and pervert it so horribly, to again and again produce such affronts to my intelligence, but I am not.

Now, you may say that I am too easily frightened, too quick to be outraged, and you may be right, but I think not. Standards must be upheld, quality assured, civilization preserved. You, dear reader, may think that I am overreacting, that surely something as innocuous as the Prints Charles Photo Studio cannot cause us, those who abide by basic standards of decency, any harm, but you would be wrong. It is a slippery slope, dear reader, one that starts with a simple pun, but that ends, inevitably, with the appreciation of the poetry – and I use that term loosely – of Charles Osgood.

Think of it, and I mean think carefully. Imagine your son or your daughter sitting beneath a dogwood tree on a beautiful spring afternoon wrapped up in the linguistic horrors of Mr. Osgood. Imagine the shame, the horror, the familial disgrace. I am not outraged on my own behalf; I can withstand the terrors of the world. I am concerned for the young children of the world who are not yet safely insulated from such attacks. I am thinking of the wee Aquababy for, after all, isn't it about the children?

Thus I beseech you, dear reader, to boycott these abuses, to turn away from such reckless signage, to reject and denounce the perpetrators of such production, and, of course, to send along any examples you might find; I am always on the lookout for more signage.

SOME RATHER LONG WORDS EVERY CHILD SHOULD KNOWGONE PUBLIC

2008-05-14T15:41:00.005-04:00

Well, dear reader, at the suggestion of one of the dearest of readers I have finally opened my own Etsy account: first up, the limited edition prints of Some Rather Long Words Every Child Should Know.

Huzzah!

Perhaps I shall start writing again for a while; I am feeling a bit of a design slow-down coming on.

Oh, and the Aquababy is now thirty and a half weeks old. It is beginning to get extraordinarily exciting!!!

Hmmm... perhaps I should go have a snack.

I am a bit rambly and scattered today; I will wrtie something of value -- perhaps -- tomorrow.

THOUGH I WOULD NEVER ADVOCATE LITTERING...

2008-05-13T16:24:00.002-04:00

GREAT WORDS THINK ALIKE*

2008-05-09T11:01:00.007-04:00

*Poetic output provided by E.A.Poe

WHY MY BABY SHALL BE COOLER THAN YOURS[PART TWO]

2008-05-01T12:14:00.001-04:00

WHY MY BABY SHALL BE COOLER THAN YOURS

2008-04-30T20:59:00.003-04:00

[enough said... though more is inevitably inevitable]

SHHH...

2008-04-29T00:16:00.012-04:00

[This one, as well as being for the dear, wee Aquababy, is for the Wife. Can't say I don't take your suggestions any longer; tee hee...]

I GROW ADDICTED TO COMPLICATED PATTERNS

2008-04-28T17:22:00.003-04:00

[Just so you know, I must have the best gig ever. This all, hopefully, will count as professional practice...]

IF YOUR FAVORITE CHARACTER ON SESAME STREET WAS THE COUNT...

2008-04-27T01:35:00.001-04:00

[nine long words and counting...]

FOR THE WEE BUNDLE

2008-04-25T13:34:00.003-04:00

[words, words, words...]

MEET THE AQUABABY[AGE 27 1/2 WEEKS]

2008-04-23T17:17:00.000-04:00

Well, dear reader, the wife and I are having a little girl. We just had another ultrasound and this time the wee Aquababy was not as secretive. Also, for your listening pleasure, I offer to you the Aquababy's heartbeat [just click the play button above].

Also, for all you friends and family, and you dear reader if you so desire, just click here to download a picture of the wee girl's profile at 27 1/2 weeks.

All I can say is huzzah!!!

MY NEW FAVORITE WORD

2008-04-22T22:50:00.004-04:00

Yet again I find myself in need of more words to design for the impending daughter.

Yes, indeed, the wife and I just found out we are going to have a wee daughter.

Huzzah!!!

Picture to follow shortly...

NOTHING UP MY SLEEVE

2008-04-21T13:25:00.005-04:00

[more long words to come...]

P.S. I am, as always, soliciting more wonderful long-words.

OF BUTTERFLIES THAT FLUTTER BY...

2008-04-17T17:24:00.003-04:00

[now looking for more rather long words...]

SPEAKING OF LONG WORDS

2008-04-15T17:36:00.003-04:00

Again, thanks for the suggestion Dr. S.

[up next: lepidoptery...]

TRANSMOGRIFICATION:AQUABABY'S LONGEST WORD YET

2008-04-13T21:33:00.004-04:00

[up next: sesquipedalian...]

IGNIVIMOUS:THANK YOU DR. S

2008-04-12T00:43:00.003-04:00

[here we go again...]

CIRCUMAMBULATION:A NEW PROJECT FOR THE AQUABABY

2008-04-11T18:49:00.003-04:00

With the Aquababy's alphabet closing in on completion, I have determined to start yet another project. One of these days I will write about this recent trend in my work, dear reader, let you inside the old head, if you will, but for the moment I feel more compelled to take a wee nap, ten perhaps make a little something to eat, and get a bit of work done for the impending week on campus.

Though, now that I think of it, if you have any suggestions for some rather long words that every child should know, dear reader, please do send them along.

FROM THE MIDDLE ENGLISH APPENDIX:THE Þ [THE THORN]

2008-04-10T11:48:00.003-04:00

These are a few of my favorite þings.

[more bonus featurettes to follow...]

FROM THE MIDDLE ENGLISH APPENDIX:THE Æ [THE ASH]

2008-04-05T16:30:00.003-04:00

[stay tuned for more bonus featurettes...]

ALL DOORS SHOULD BE LIKE THIS

2008-04-02T00:17:00.000-04:00

Perhaps someday soon I will begin to write again on this blog, but for the moment I shall share with you this image of the door to the wife's library carrel:

FUN WITH PANGRAMS

2008-04-01T18:15:00.003-04:00

[more bonus featurettes to come...]

Z [BUT IT IS NOT YET THE END]

2008-03-29T18:29:00.002-04:00

[super golden bonus features to follow...]

Y? BECAUSE. Y? BECAUSE...WELCOME TO MY FUTURE

2008-03-28T21:55:00.002-04:00

[hmmmm... Z. So many options]

X IS NOT FOR XYLOPHONE:RESIST THE HEGEMONY OF THE XYLOPHONIC MASTER NARRATIVE

2008-03-26T12:59:00.005-04:00

[are you getting ready for the big finish???]

IF WALDO WERE COOL HE WOULD BE HERE...

2008-03-25T11:29:00.006-04:00

[three to go...]

VICTORY SHALL BE MINE

2008-03-23T01:21:00.002-04:00

[only four letters left, alas...]

I KNOW U

2008-03-22T01:26:00.001-04:00

[more for the Aquababy...]

BLUM, BLUM, STEGOSAURUS

2008-03-21T00:06:00.001-04:00

[more...]

R [AS IN (G)RRRRRRRR...]

2008-03-20T00:32:00.001-04:00

[more to come, but I'm running out of letters...]

Q [THAT'S ALL I'M SAYING]

2008-03-19T12:10:00.003-04:00

[more...]

PARTICULAR PEOPLE PREFER POPPYCOCK

2008-03-18T16:49:00.005-04:00

[I'll just keep making them, and then perhaps numbers...]

O BABY

2008-03-17T13:19:00.002-04:00

[more and more and more...]

NICERAS NIGNE [OR OTHER THINGS N]

2008-03-16T16:32:00.004-04:00

[more to follow...]

AS BON JOVI MIGHT SAY, I'M HALFWAY THERE...

2008-03-15T17:30:00.002-04:00

[second half to come...]

L IS FOR LETTER

2008-03-14T09:47:00.003-04:00

[more later...]

I GROW TIRED OF COMING UP WITH TITLES FOR POSTS THAT CONTAIN NEW LETTERS IN AQUABABY'S ALPHABET, SO I SHALL JUST GETON WITH IT ALREADY...

2008-03-12T21:51:00.005-04:00

[more soon...]

THESE LETTERS JUST KEEP ON COMING, DON'T THEY?

2008-03-10T22:20:00.003-04:00

[and, indeed, they shall keep coming...]

ME, MYSELF, [AQUABABY] AND...

2008-03-09T20:14:00.001-04:00

[As usual, more to come...]

H IS FOR AQUABABY[NOT IN THE ALPHABET BOOK WAY, BUT IN THE QUITE LITERAL SENSE BECAUSE THIS LETTER H REALLY IS FOR THE AQUABABY...]

2008-03-04T21:00:00.005-05:00

[yet again, more to come...]

MORE LETTERS FOR THE AQUABABY

2008-03-03T00:54:00.007-05:00

[yet again, more to come...]

AQUABABY [AT TWENTY WEEKS]

2008-03-02T13:45:00.004-05:00

So, dear reader, it really is happening. The wife and I are having a baby. Out twenty week ultrasound has confirmed that it definitively is a baby growing within the wife; not a puppy or teapot or some other thing. What we do not know, though, is its sex. Apparently the wee Aquababy rather closely guards its privacy. Though we twice tried jiggling him/her around in there, Aquababy would have none of it.

But, the Aquababy, happily seems healthy and sound, and has begun flipping a squirming around. The wife has been feeling it for a bit, and, finally, a few days ago so did I, which, I must say, is quite a remarkable thing.

Thus, I present to you, dear reader, the newest pictures of the Aquababy:

[Is that an elegant profile, or is that an elegant profile? And, of course, the wee fist is again up in the air.]

[And, as the Aquababy is a wee punk rocker, we have the requisite audition for becoming cover art for a Misfits compilation. Yes, that is the Aquababy's skull.]

LEARNING TO SPELL WITH THE AQUABABY

2008-03-01T15:46:00.004-05:00

[again, more to come...]

AQUABABY'S FIRST LETTER

2008-02-29T23:18:00.003-05:00

[More to come...]

A WIFE, A JOB, A HOUSE [WITH MORTGAGE],AND NOW...

2008-01-05T06:38:00.000-05:00

A baby. My baby. Well, actually the wife's and my baby. We are currently calling him/her aquababy for she/he is a right swimmy, twisty little child.

Aquababy is apparently also right punk rock already; note the fist in the air at only twelve weeks.

Also note that extraordinary profile. According to the wife she/he already looks rather like me.

Again, the fist going up in the air. Power to the aquababy!!!

And no, I do not believe that the dear aquababy has a rhinoceros horn, but we are both quite sure that he/she would be lovely if she/he did.

I will undoubtedly be writing much more of these events as the weeks and months progress, but for the moment I must finish packing to return to the States tomorrow to commence the new job.

I am truly bourgeois.

WHAT I WANT TO HAPPEN TO MY BODYIF I SHOULD EVER HAPPEN TO DIE[SOME VIDEO FOR THE NEW YEAR]

2007-12-31T04:16:00.000-05:00

But, of course, dear reader, I shall never die; obviously I shall have all of my parts systematically replaced ad infinitum, thus living forever.

Happy New Year.

THE MATE WAS A MIGHTY SAILING MANTHE SKIPPER BRAVE AND SURE

2007-12-28T04:08:00.001-05:00

I have, dear reader, returned from my holiday in Venice, but worry not; I did not forget you. For along with the expected slew of tourist snaps of the city, its canals, and its churches [as well as dozens of pictures of the wife – who's face shall remain unseen in this location – looking radiant in the sunshine while riding the city's vaporetti]:

I kept my ever vigilant eye out for images for you, dear reader. I know your appetites, your lust for signage from everywhere I go, for those ephemeral bits of words and images that guide us safely through this life. So be not disappointed, dear reader; I would never let you down.

IRONY???

2007-12-19T17:12:00.000-05:00

DID YOU BLINK?THEN YOU MIGHT HAVE MISSED IT

2007-12-18T12:34:00.000-05:00

As the shortest day of the years draws closer, and the minutes of daylight wane, I thought I might share one last depiction of the light situation here in E________ before the wife and I jet of to Venice for the holidays, thus missing the Winter Solstice in Scotland, and trading up to an extra hour, forty-five minutes, and thirteen seconds of sunshine.

[12:14 PM: The sun barely peeking through the chimney-pots]

[3:57 PM: The Moon, high in the sky]

A BRIEF DETOUR TO ROSSLYN[WHICH IS IN ROSLIN, JUST SO YOU KNOW]

2007-12-15T03:55:00.000-05:00

Yesterday the wife, the mother-in-law, and I took a quick little jaunt out to Roslin to take a gander at Rosslyn Chapel. You know, the one of unfortunate DaVinci Code fame. Just in case you are wondering, Jesus' brain is not suspended in a jar of formaldehyde on an alter in the sub-basement; I checked. Twice.

Alas, these next images were taken in near-darkness, so please forgive the quality, dear reader.

And this is just a door I liked along the way. No reason; just there. If you are demanding some sort of ideal narratological continuity you are probably in the wrong place. So you can just like it, or lump it. Harrumph!

A PICTURE'S WORTH...ACTUALLY I HATE THAT PHRASE, BUT FUCK IT;I DON'T FEEL LIKE WRITING TODAY

2007-12-13T10:46:00.001-05:00

THE ART OF QUALIFICATION

2007-12-12T11:25:00.000-05:00

At last, after week upon week of ranging far and wide along the streets of E________ searching for scraps, slips, and the general detritus of daily human activity, my eye can return to its path leading to the signs of the city. And already this morning that eye has been rewarded:

"With all due respect, you are a royal arse."
"You can be such a total douche-nozzle. I'm just saying."
NO PARKING. polite notice.

I have always loved this subtle art of mitigation, of bluntness – and often crudeness itself – purportedly rendered gentile by a little attachment, a small phrase meant to reassure the listener that all is well, that no, I the speaker, am not really completely tactless; I have your own best interests at heart; it is not as bad as it sounds.

Have we – and by we I mean us, humans – really let the boundaries between, things, actions, and words become such a diaphanous veil, one that allows such fluid slippage? I know all the PostModerns – yes I used the word, dear reader – would say it is so. Heck, I'm normally right there with them, but somehow this one sticks in my craw; it needles me so.

Thus, I felt compelled to stand in front of this sign in the moderately frigid E________ morning air for about fifteen minutes imagining the car that is in my garage some 3,202 miles away parked right here in front of this very sign. There I stood, cup of coffee in hand, smiling to myself perhaps inanely – or at least in the eyes of the general passersby. Damn your polite notice; there's nothing polite about the threat to tow away my shiny blue car. Show some conviction and maybe I'll listen to you Mr. and/or Ms. SignMaker, but as is I laugh at your notice and it patently false attempt at civility...

I'm just saying.

A RAMBLE PERHAPS?

2007-12-05T09:56:00.001-05:00

Today I feel like writing; it has been a while hasn't it. I feel like writing, but I wish to defer what I want to write about. So, instead, I shall attempt to thread together some of the many things that have come to mind, and eye, as of late. A bit of a wander, if you will dear reader, through the rabble and rubble of my consciousness.

Hence we begin with Chickens. You may well ask, why chickens? Good question. Well a few days ago I was poking around for flights – a quick jaunt off to London later this month – and accidentally came across the airport code for one Chicken Airport [CKX]. Yes, it exists, and I am now rather enamored of it. I am unable to find an image of the airport itself – for this I apologize, dear reader – but have at least found this image of downtown Chicken, Alaska.

Just as my childhood vacation destination was Reykjavik [it is a long story for another time perhaps], I am now obsessed with going to Chicken, flying into it airport – whatever that might be, and having a coffee in the Chicken Creek Cafe in downtown Chicken. That would do it for me, for the vacation; that is all. Just fly in; have the coffee, perhaps a danish or something; fly out. My needs are simply, if you can consider traveling to Chicken, Alaska for a cup of joe simple.

But you see, I am rather fond of chickens, or at least the concept of them. I cannot quite tell you why; it is just there. But it must explain why I sometimes daydream of the nearby Chicken Cottage.

Not as it is; no, I don't particularly like the premise of a basement restaurant serving all manner of fried chickens. What I imagine is another, alter-Cottage, one that is a nice retreat for chickens visiting E_______ for the weekend. Something of a B&B for poultry. I imagine that hidden behind that frying oil façade resides a pleasant little inn with comfy armchairs complete with antimacassars, afternoon tea set out on silver trays, and well-appointed nests upstairs in the bedrooms. Perhaps I am a bit odd, but I rather think the Chicken King would approve.

Of course you remember the Chicken King, dear reader.

That odd little project – complete with paper-doll action figures – I did about five years ago. The series that was to be my splash at the my first Drake Faculty show; the things that said things are going to change a bit around here; this is not your father's – or mother's, or really anyone else's – graphic design. I grew rather fond of the Chicken King; he developed a bit of a following, His absurd authority has somewhat stuck with me, even across the years since his arrival. It is he that I channel when dreaming of charming settees in the Chicken Cottage, or when I consider a nice chat over coffee in Chicken, Alaska. I know it is perhaps slightly strange to channel a fictional character one has created, especially when it is a chicken, but, alas, it is far from the oddest thing my mind has done.

Speaking of the Chicken Cottage though, I just found what might just be a neighboring environ for the Cottage, maybe just a day-trip away. POTATOLAND.

I sure you can guess by now the types of things I envision: frolicking spuds of all types working and playing together to make a better world. Reds and Yams living in communal harminy with nary a worry over being peeled, eaten, or utilized in a physics-class air-gun to demonstrate the power of air pressure. Can't you picture it, dear reader. A wonderful place where all potato-kind can live free and be happy. But, unfortunately, POTATOLAND is far too similar to the real Chicken Cottage; here taters are baked, fried, or boiled for our consumption without a single thought for the potatoes' well-being.

But I do like the names of these places nonetheless, but not as much as this last entry in today's ramble: Thematic Evangelistic Literature

I am left, perhaps for the rest of the day, wondering just what athematic evangelistic literature might be, maybe some rambling general diatribe on all things Jesus. Or maybe it would be even further from any particular theme, spreading out being Christianity to a broad-based, widespread conversion effort pointing to something that is never quite defined. It is "evangelistic" after all, not strictly evangelical. Again, my mind's eye opens up; I see whole new literary forms being brought into existence. Passionate, zealous, but uncertain about what; arguments of Kantian precision concerning something that is just a bit over there so that you cannot quite see it, maybe if you walked a little further on you'd know. Possibly this new writing could be what gets done on a Saturday afternoon in the Chicken Cottage, or maybe it is already the magnum opus of the poet laureate of POTATOLAND.

Ah, the things I will never know.

ITS A BIRD; ITS A PLANE...

2007-12-01T10:51:00.000-05:00

It came as a relief, this morning, as I sat at my computer in front of the living room window. It seemed miraculous to look up – up I say – into the sky and see something there, something perched high in the sky overhead. It was a comfort, as though a bit of home had arrived to offer a longed for security.

Then I realized something; I looked at the clock and put the proverbial two and two together. That's the moon; what the hell is it doing there. It is half past nine in the morning; shouldn't you be the sun? Ach, no; that's way over there, down south, barely peeking over the building-tops.

I point it out to the wife; she wonders whether, then, someone in Japan is likewise looking out their window wondering just where their moon has gone. I can only reply, "Aye."

I suppose I should be grateful, though, for the small blessing of something up there at all, for the rare opportunity to look upward for something other than the crown moldings in our high-ceilinged flat, for the chance to actually stretch my underused neck muscles in that direction. I probably just ought to enjoy this moment, for in far too few hours this sky will inevitably return to its now seemingly native cloud-covered blackness of night.

Ah, the wonders of the E________ sky.

A QUESTION FROM ABOVE

2007-11-28T10:56:00.000-05:00

Walking home; post a particularly Scottish day of gloom.

The clouds either retreating after their day of control, or mounting in preparation for another assault.

How could such a glowing sky make me so happy?

RECENT ADOPTIONS

2007-11-26T17:11:00.001-05:00

And we just adopted two knit monkeys. Silly grin continues...

TIME TO THINK OUTSIDE THE BOX[OR A DISCUSSION OF BEING CLICHÉ]

2007-11-26T13:56:00.001-05:00

I feel so cliché. I should probably, to be grammatically precise, write that I feel like such a cliché, but that seems insufficient at the moment. Thus, I feel cliché.

You may ask, dear reader, why? Why such a sensation? This may perhaps seem an unusual sentiment here on these electronic pages, at least from your experiences in the past. Perhaps my past angst has verged on the ordinary, my concerns a mite traditional, but cliché I should hope not.

Nonetheless, there it is. You see, I don't really know what to write about; haven't for the past week or so. Do you know why? I am happy, content, pleased; everything is good. That is why I feel so cliché. It seems unforgivable to be unable to write from this position. It goes against everything I have worked so hard for as an artist, confirms all the stereotypes I have railed against. Must I lop off an ear in order to provide myself some grief, thus prompting the words that do not wish to come?

Obviously I shan't do that; extremes are unnecessary, and extremities are rather important. But I still feel ridiculous. Unless, of course, I can find a way of making work about skipping about gleefully and having a ludicrous grin on my face. Granted it is a lovely face, but I doubt MOMA shall come calling for a photo of it in the next several days.

Of course this is not such a big deal; that is what fiction is for. It is not like I am not accustomed to complete fabrications in my work. I don't particularly believe in strict autobiography, but there is usually at least a seed from somewhere in my reality. What's the germ of an idea in this goofy smile that just keeps spreading across my face?

Ah, we should all have such problems. I have to imagine that sometime between now and tenure-time I will have a whole truckload of new ideas. If you had ever been inside the whorling mess that is my head, you, too, would probably assume new projects would pop up at any time, but at the moment: nothing, followed by another goofy grin.

So, for now I should probably go sit in front of a mirror and enjoy the lack of unremitting anxiety.

AN UPDATE REGARDING MY WORLD AS THOUGH WRITTEN BY TARZAN

2007-11-21T10:08:00.001-05:00

Me.

Job.

Tenure-Track.

Near Home.

Good.

Huzzah!

[More about this and the world and the light in E________ and the Holidays celebrations in the city and whisky after a while. For now... a bit of rest after many thousands of miles of travel.]

A FEW THINGS FROM BUDAPEST

2007-11-12T07:47:00.000-05:00

Well, dear reader, I am back from Budapest. You may be asking yourself at the moment: Budapest? I thought he was in E________. Well, I am, but I was in Budapest. The wife and I spent five days behind the old Iron Curtain.

There is ever so much I could say about the trip, and probably will eventually. But, for the moment, time is a wee bit tight, so I shall have to be brief. Hence, as is my wont, I shall begin with signage. Don't complain, dear reader, you should be used to it by now.

A quick note about Hungarian signage, though. While there are many similarities to what I am used to here in the Western Europe, as well as back in the States, there were some wonderful, disturbing, and subtle differences that made me very happy. For the most part I shall leave them for you to discover, but I shall pause from my currently hectic schedule to pass on a few of my favorite points.

1] I love the upside-down pointing hand.

2] One really ought not drink jug-wine on the Metro, or at least so says the sign.

3] I want the puppy that the man is carrying.

4] The subways announcement tones on the Yellow Line are perhaps my favorite thing in all of Budapest. I am pretty sure that I burst out laughing – much to the amusement of fellow passengers – every time I heard them.

5] I think all the anonymous signage people in the States ought to wear hats like the bicycling men in Budapest.

Those things mentioned, I leave you to a small selection of my favorite signs, sounds, and bits of graffiti from Budapest.

TOMORROW I AM TIRED

2007-11-04T02:35:00.000-05:00

Tonight I am tired. Actually, I suppose it is morning now, so I shall revise. Tomorrow I am tired.

I know, dear reader, you are about to complain of my grammatical indecency there, my mixing of tense or whatnot, but believe me; I can tell. It is one of those nights that will inevitably continue into the wee hours of morning, lingering on through the rest of the day despite whatever efforts may be put forward.

I know these nights well enough at this point in my life that I am quite aware that forcing sleep is futile. If it will have me, it will come, otherwise there are always things to do.

I also know, am quite sure, that tomorrow I am tired. These nights, which used to be the cornerstone of both my academic and social lives back in the days of my youth with my vim and my vigour and my long-flowing mane of hair. They came two, three in a row, piece of cake, not a problem. Heck, that was what kept me going; sleep deprivation became its own little drug bringing along little endorphin rushes at the extremity of my fatigue. But this, dear reader, is now. The little pumps that pushed those hormones seem to have grown weak, or perhaps have taken a vacation from my aging body. Who knows?

It isn't that I don't want to sleep; of course I do. I am here in E________ with the lovely wife in the bedroom, safe, warm, comforting. But here I am with you, or rather with myself using you as a surrogate for talking to myself as the minutes tick by on the clock over there.

I don't know why I am awake, or to be more precise, why I cannot go to sleep. I am awake precisely because I can't sleep, but that still leaves me with why. I do not feel particularly anxious – no more than the usual baseline. I do not have any great problems looming over me. As odd as it may seem to hear this from me, but the world is good at the moment.

So, here I sit tonight, as it grows later and later. My brain remains in that same oddly humming fuzz it was in a couple of hours ago. I neither grow more tired, nor more awake. I simply jitter here in this odd state of in between: slightly droopy, slightly twitchy. At least I can be pretty sure that this shan't last for the days on end it used to, that tomorrow night I will gladly curl up in bed with a book and a duvet, the wife beside me, and I will sleep. Tomorrow night there will be cherubic slumber.

But tonight I cannot sleep. Therefore, I know, tomorrow I am tired.

ADDICTION ADDENDUM

2007-11-02T15:13:00.000-04:00

Remember, dear reader, the image I posted a few days ago. You know, that bit of signage I sent in to The Times Online. Well, that bit of signage, the one demanding that all children remain downtrodden, is a finalist in the Sign of The Times contest.

Thus, dear reader, you should go there and vote for said image. It is not that I will gain anything from it; it is simply a matter of feeding my addiction.

Feed Me!

Feed Me!

GREY

2007-11-02T11:52:00.000-04:00

I grow fond of grey. Not so much the color, but the sky, as a balm to the ever-decreasing ascension of the sun. Yes, that dense cover of clouds overhead today that dilutes the increasingly feeble sun, but also diffuses it, sets it glow into every corner of the firmament. More importantly it obscures just how low the sun's – perhaps overly ambitiously termed – rise is now. The grey masques the sun's meagre height in its shroud of uniformity. One need not look sideways to find the sun on days like today; it is enough to know that it is up there, somewhere, hidden, that the sky is grey.

I know the grey of winter will be oppressive, like a blanket too heavy to kick off, but this grey is not that. Not yet. It filters out the low-looming light, hiding from me the suns impending scarcity. This grey is a comfort, a shelter. It does not foreshadow storms, great deluges of rain, torrents of wind; it simply veils the sky, or perhaps it my eyes that are veiled.

I grow fond of grey, though I know soon I will bemoan it. But today it is grey, so I dance.

ADDICTION APPRECIATED

2007-10-29T13:04:00.000-04:00

At last, one of my addictions seems to be appreciated...

If you haven't noticed over the weeks, months, and years of visiting this blog, I have an extreme fondness for signage. All sorts, actually. Odd, ordinary, ugly, lovely. The whole lot of them. And, for better or worse, I photograph them; my archive of signage images is well into the thousands. [Don't get me started on scraps of paper and the like.]

Thus, you should visit the Times Online's Sign of the Times competition, where you will find my favorite sign form here in E________.

You see, addiction can, in fact, be good.*

* This claim has not been verified by any authorized medical personnel.

SLANTWISE

2007-10-27T12:13:00.000-04:00

Things are changing here in E________. I knew they would, but it is just happening so much sooner than I would have expected. I had prepared myself for the dark, had done my research into just how very short my days would become eventually, how few the hours in the presence of the sun would be, but I hadn't calculated for this.

I had not realized that, even now, the noon-time sun would barely peek out above the tops of the tenement buildings all around me, would be almost entirely obscured when looked for up even the slightest incline. I had not figured on residing, even at the height of the day, in a nearly perpetual early morning light, in a day not yet begun, in short, at eight A.M.

It is slightly disconcerting to live at eight A.M. for hours on end, even on the clearest, brightest of days, especially now as it is two in the afternoon on a gloriously clear October day. The day couldn't be lovelier, but even now, with my post-lunch pint in hand, it can't have begun. It must, surely, still be eight in the morning, otherwise deceptively late. Perhaps there were a few dropped, somehow missed, hours this afternoon.

I know, cerebrally, that the sun still is moving slowly from east to west, low in the southern sky; even my nascent understanding of the urban geography here in E________ confirms this, but somehow I cannot but believe that the sun is still low, waiting to rise yet higher, at some point, across the sky, eventually shining overhead in this miraculously cloudless sky. Of course it will; it must on a day like this, but no, it remains eight A.M. even now as I check my grandfather's pocket watch and confirm that time continues to go by and my eventual early evening approaches.

It is not so much that I am particularly bothered by this condition of the sun, its position being so low in the sky. It just makes an already unstructured day all the more confusing. I have become accustomed to living by those regular movements of the sun above: the sun is low so I should probably mow the lawn; the sun looks mighty bright, perhaps it's a good time to hide in the studio; sun's going down, I should probably be hungry or something. You know, those basic animal instincts, or at least those of a highly domesticated creature such as I. These, though, at least for the time being, seem to have gone haywire; I forget to eat, or leave the studio, all kinds of things, at least until I receive a clear astronomical sign – that would be the eventual dark, which comes sooner with each passing day.

I know I oughtn't complain; soon the clocks tick back an hour and the darkness will fall at unheard of times of the day, but for the moment it is this lack of rise to the sunrise that I find so confounding, this perpetual slantwise that the sun seems set on providing.

THE NEW WORK JUST KEEPS ON COMING

2007-10-26T08:19:00.000-04:00

Hello again dear reader.

I had intended to write for you today, but the studio keeps drawing me back into the land of images, sound, and programming. Thus, I present to you some more new work; apparently when I rains it really may, indeed, pour. I had posted a preliminary version early, along with some faulty Latin. Now, I give to you, dear viewer, Contra Sublimitatem:: Nihilominus Momentum Parts one and two.

As usual, click on the image above to be taken to the work itself.

So, perhaps now I shall try to drag myself away and do that writing I have been planning do do for the past several days, or perhaps I shall once again wander the city searching for more bits of paper in the gutters.

A NEW PROJECT[AND A LITTLE HELP PLEASE]

2007-10-25T09:29:00.000-04:00

Well, dear reader, I am here, with proverbial hat in hand, to beg your assistance. I have this new project [click image below] and need some suggestions for short poems to use within it. I would especially like short poems with five letter titles, or prominently featuring a five letter word, though this may need to go by the wayside.

Thus I introduce to you "In the Vicinity of Five." It is the first in a volume of automatic writing projects to come, perhaps including the umbers six, seven, eight, or nine, along with, my favorite, thirteen.

So if you could kindly add your suggestions via the friendly comments feature below, I would be forever in your debt.

A LETTER OF MY OWN

2007-10-16T10:19:00.000-04:00

Dear Dr. S's rejected Fear,

Why have you come here? I mean, I know you had to go somewhere now that you have been sent away; you are hungry, I get it, but why here? I was sitting here minding my own business – whatever that was – making plans, preparing new things, and then you show up. You perch; I know it. You are somewhere in the far-left corner no matter where I turn or try to hide.

But still, wasn't the flight from C________ to E________ a bit of a bother just to find me. We all know that I have more than enough fears of my own: insects, crowds, heights, the grass. Was it really necessary to pile yourself on?

I suppose you feed on the already susceptible; it is easier that way, but really it just seems so impolite. I don't need your excuses for not trying right now; motivation is already difficult enough as it is. And earplugs don't work; they never really have for me [I prefer to work with noise], but somehow your insidious voice just keeps working its way in. You know what? You are simply a complete bastard.

There. I said it. I do not like you, but that doesn't seem to matter to you. You relish the lack of invitation, the intrusion into my progress, don't you? The more I resist, the quieter your whispers get, leaving my protestations sounding hollow, echoing over your reminders.

Obviously I don't want you to go back to where you came from; I applaud Dr. S for evicting you, but this place was supposed to help me get away from you. I did not travel three thousand, two hundred and thirty-seven miles just to end up with you, especially since I have previously known your cousins so well.

So, I am writing to you to ask a small favor. Find somewhere else to perch for a while; just give me these few months alone. I am sure you can figure out my address back home; hell you found me here. Just wait there until I get back; I'll meet you in February if I must.

Hopefully yours,
Me

TODAY I...

2007-10-15T17:05:00.000-04:00

Looked for scraps of paper on the ground; tomorrow I will write.

SIGNAGE?

2007-10-15T02:53:00.000-04:00

As the wife and I sat aboard the Maid of the Forth yesterday afternoon, sipping our respective whiskies -- I believe they were Highland Park and Jura, though our sadly departed friends on the outbound trip were Glenmorangie and Bunnahabhain -- returning from out visit to Inchcolm, the one time home of Walter Bower as he wrote the Scotichronicon, I looked out at the unfortunately present oil tanker being filled from a pipeline that traveled here from five-hundred miles away in the North Sea -- or so the informational audio recording told us -- whereupon I saw this sign painted in extraordinarily large letters and could not help but wonder for whom, exactly, this sign was intended.

THE PROCESS [REVISITED]

2007-10-13T09:57:00.000-04:00

About a year ago, dear reader, I began a piece of short fiction here on the blog. I ended that post with the message 'to be continued' with ever intention of promptly fulfilling that promise. Well, the world intervened, my writing went on hiatus, and I could no longer find those words to complete the piece. One of my goals, though, for this time in Edinburgh, was to return my attention to that writing, my first piece of fiction in nearly eighteen years.

Well, a draft, at least is complete, and, throwing caution to the wind, it is being promptly posted for your consideration, dear reader. Thus, to get straight to it, THE PROCESS.

PROLOGUE

The words don’t matter sometimes, when you’re two-thirds the way through your drink on your corner stool at whatever bar it is you happen to be in tonight. They could be an overheard snippet floated from across the room, a partial score of a game played in some distant city broadcast on one of the innumerable televisions, or an actual “Hello” from a newcomer near or far – the distance doesn’t really matter. They, for that moment, are your words. Though just a simple vocal manifestation, at that moment they are yours; they matter, and for that instant, perhaps, so do you. You briefly perk, listen for what might be an accompanying phrase, a second occurrence to string together into something more, some form of meaning to which you might attach yourself, an entrée, a way in. That is what you look for, you know, a way in. Every time you come here, wherever it is, you know that is what you are looking for. That literal way in through which you make your way every time before the sun even sets is easy to find; its that other one that seems to elude you tonight, as on those other nights before.

So you look up again, look up and out around the bar, pressing your eyes to the few or the many who are there with you on this particular evening. They may or may not notice it; they may sense the pressure of your gaze, that sad little exertion you effort as though by the force of your will to make more of the accidental co-occupation. They may or they may not, but if they do they make an excellent show of not letting on. It is not that they turn away, avert their eyes just as you do when you encounter the teenage girl asking for spare change on the street corner. No, they simply go about their business of social enjoyment or their own isolation that so closely parallels your own. Once again your eyes have failed at their task, have fallen short of reaching across that space, so you, once more, look back down at that drink you’re two-thirds the way through and wait to begin the cycle anew.

It isn’t very hard to stop coming here; of course – to borrow from some public service announcement or another – you could stop any day, right now, in fact. You could get up right now, walk back out through the entranceway, and go home, but you came here for something, and, anyway, that drink is only two-thirds the way through. So you sit there, feigning indifference, or at least solitude, while every moment that goes by you are keenly aware of your surroundings, of each body in the place, and, most especially, of your own and how you fit – or don’t – within the whole.

That is the problem, after all, your perpetual awareness of the whole. You see it; at times you are pretty sure you understand it; at some point, a while back, you were quite sure you were part of it – of course you still are, but that is an eventuality you would rather not ponder at the moment. But still it sits out there around you at this very moment, in the booths and on the stools, people outwardly and inwardly – whatever that might mean – just like you, but you simply cannot find your way in. In your more nostalgic moments you fancy yourself one of the Pevensies at the tail end of Lewis’ story. But when you fall along that thought-path you know the night’s search is futile and it is time to pack the expedition up, but it is not yet that time tonight, and that drink still remains only two-thirds the way through.

You have your book – you always have a book – and somehow that is a comfort. You always have something to do, or at least look at, or at the very least appear to look at, and isn’t that, in the end, what matters about your quest, not appear to be looking for anything, least of all a way in. And tonight, as always, as I have already said, you have your book. It is not that you don’t read; these evenings don’t go for nothing. You probably read more than anyone you know – and you travel in a circle of readers. And it isn’t that you just mail it in; you really do read during those times when that book hasn’t been reduced to a prop. You get your fair share of scholarly work done here on your corner stool, but, in the end, you know why that book is there, why you are there – or should I say here – and perhaps tonight’s selection will be just the key you are looking for. Perhaps, but you don’t really expect it. Thus, for the moment, you keep your eyes fixed upon that particular run of words beneath you while, of course, the rest of your body remains closely attuned to the movements of the constellations around you in case your eyes should be needed, once more, to be pressed into action.

At some point, obviously, you drink. The glasses must not remain perpetually two-thirds emptied – that would be a dead give-away. But, it should be known, two-thirds through is the optimal equilibrium for a beverage in this context: more and you ought to be drinking, less and you are obviously nursing, and, as we all know, the guy at the corner of the bar nursing his drink is just pathetic, and that is a label you are not yet willing to accept this early in the course of events. Nonetheless, it is a challenge, one of great intellectual difficulty, to maintain a drink at this optimal level without being too obvious. Certainly you have been known to order a drink, take it with you to the men’s room, tip off a bit into the sink or urinal, and return to your corner stool once again supplied with the ideal cover. But, inevitably, throughout the night, you must drink. Since it has been a while since any significant movement on the behalf of your current companion, you are obliged to partake, and as you fear the label of “nurser” more than just about anything else, you finish this one off with a minimum of fuss and set it back down slightly closer to the back edge of the counter top signaling to the expertise of tonight’s bartender that you are ready for another, and along with it another round of consideration as to how to best bring this fresh drink to the golden mean of two-thirds through.

So you read; you’re good at that; you’ve always been good at that, that and math, but that is a skill that fell away – along with other things – in high school. But, for now, you read. It isn’t just that somehow the words come easily to you, though they do; there is something more to the relationship. You would never be so crass as to suppose literary pretensions, nor do you offer yourself the out of a specific sensitivity; it is just that you read. Always have. You conscientiously deny the stereotype of books as a retreat, or worse an escape, but then here you are tonight, reading once more. It is just what you do, so, as the evening’s bartender returns with your recently refilled glass – the same one reused, you notice – you defer the question of why and read.

Unfortunately, you are not a sipper, never have been, probably never will be. In your more Freudian moments you trace it back to the size of your mother’s breasts, but then you know you are indulging yourself in an unhealthy dose of intellectual irony to make yourself feel better. Occasionally you wonder if sippy-cups had been invented by the time of your toddler-hood, but the Google search just seems silly, especially since you know you only drink to get to that point of being two-thirds through, the sooner the better.

It is probably not a coincidence that that is your favorite place in a book. You often have pretensions of telling people that you have several stacks of novels at home all two-thirds finished, but as you cannot leave a book in that state, and to lie about such a thing seems a sacrilege, you never do. But there is something about two-thirds through that holds your interest at some peculiar peak that you are reluctant to let go. Like the drink that was before you a few minutes ago, that novel hovers on the edge of determination, you full of expectancy, which, also like that now replaced beverage, you inevitably polish it off in a single gulp.

You are in the infancy of your relationship with tonight’s book, which you, in a self-consciously reflective moment, equate to your fresh drink, only to chastise yourself for such a sophomoric parallelism, which, of course, induces a bout of outward discomfort in fear that someone else around the bar may have sensed this figurative transgression. You snap the book shut, perhaps drawing too much attention to yourself in the relative calm of the moment transpiring around you. Thus, to cover up the uncertainty of this moment, you finally lift the drink to your lips and attempt to hide behind the anonymity of a beverage.

You know it doesn’t work; you know that that snap will cost you for the rest of this night, at least until the congregation changes significantly. You know that you have, by means of that unthinking moment, violated a pact you already exist only at the edge of. Behind your glass you fume at yourself for the lack of restraint. Behind your glass you know you have condemned yourself to at least several more hours in your corner before any of the words will make their way over to your well established partition. You look at the drink in your hand and bemoan its status far from two-thirds through, but realizing the time you shall have to put into this night, now, you hold back and return it to its bar coaster cradle barely altered and go back, once more, to the source of your newly re-enforced position. At least, no matter the state of your drink or your night, you read.

For a while, though you can’t exactly remember when, you thought this was something to be sad about, this process you go through – and it is a process. Others, those few who know about it, have tried to convince you it is some form of ritual, but you know better. This process is important, it must be leading somewhere, otherwise why would you be so dedicated to it. You learned some time ago that it is not sad, is not something to be pitied – you hate when they pity you. It is important. It is leading you somewhere important – again those Pevensies come to mind. It is here on your stool at the corner of the bar – whichever one it is – that you will find the way in. You don’t know why you know this to be true, but you just do. At times you think there is something important about the vantage point, other times you are convinced it is simply a matter of your being in this here at this now that will make the difference, but you know that what you are doing, this process, is important. The details don’t matter so much, which where, what when, but you know that at some time that synchronicity of being two-thirds the way through some evening’s novel will come together with a certain drink two-thirds complete to bring this process to fruition. That is why you are here. Each time you remind yourself that it has nothing to do with any individual member of the set at hand – you are not awaiting the right person, whatever that might mean – you are involved in a larger process, one which will lead, once more, to that elusive whole.

You remind yourself that you are not so deluded that you are looking to make yourself whole with this process, nor awaiting some deus ex machina. You are well read enough in post-modern literature and theory to know that that is a myth. You certainly could not live with yourself if that was what you were looking for. There is something larger than a twentieth century ego quest going on here, why else would you expend so much effort in pursuit of the drink two-thirds through? You obviously realize that you have a tendency to verge upon the metaphysical, but that is the risk of the process. You are here for something far more concrete, something, carefully, not to be confused with looking for someone else, but you are, in fact, looking for something. Unfortunately, at this precise moment, both the newly started book and the recently poured drink stand in the way of such considerations and demand some form of attention, one way or another, but, as usual, you are confronted by the problem of which way to direct your efforts.

This, as should be obvious, is a continual problem, straddling a fine equilibrium between what you do here and what they, the rest of them, are doing here. If you could simply sit on your corner stool, perched at attention for it to happen, and ignore the basic necessity of the drink, you would. But that, as any field researcher could tell you, would blow your cover. Thus you spend your time divided, precariously attempting to induce that ideal balance of things two-thirds through.

ONE

I remember, when I was three years old, being in an automobile accident. My mother was driving, I in the back seat awkwardly buckled in, in those days before the car seat. I remember turning the corner that immediately preceded my mother's scream and the brief moment of airless levitation as the crunching of the green station wagon sent a wave of impeded inertia through the interior, lifting me off the rear seat into the constriction of the nylon lap-belt. I remember my flushed and frightened mother looking down at me, feeling about my extremities checking for damage, eyes frantically searching to re-establish my security.

More Words. It is another evening, either the same barstool or not; you never worry about such details; the ancillary can only impede the process, you remind yourself. As it is early, you are the only one here, an unusual moment in the life of a bar in this place, and you somehow relish this. The words are simpler in times like this; they are purely external, from the television or jukebox, and do not require that peaked awareness of your body that grows so fatiguing.

The words come to you, reach to you, and you have a sense that they are, in fact, only for you – the day's bartender is currently somewhere hidden amidst the inner-workings of your chosen place. You almost believe you can sense a way in with these words you need share with no other, but then of course you are not so easily fooled by this guilty pleasure, by the emptiness of transmission. So, again, you sit and wait for those coming hours amidst those unknown others and turn your attention back to the drink before you.

You wait. You wait for the words, those invocations and invitations, the simple syllables. You wait. Another sip that verges on nursing without the eyes to notice, not even the bartender who remains absent, sensing the silence of the outer space you occupy. You sip to mark the time between now and a future marked for attention. You wait, and watch the glass before you, carefully planning for its progress towards two-thirds through, calculating the moments between now and the time those others will arrive, filling this space with their bodies and, more importantly, their words. You wait. You drink; you listen to the stream of language from the television above you and luxuriate in its continuity, one that is not yours. At a noise you look up, sidelong, at the door for arrival only to return to the glass before you at their absence, and wait.

TWO

I remember being scolded, not by my mother or father, but by a kindergarten teacher. It wasn't that I was acting out – I was far too self-conscious at that point for any form of overt misbehavior – I was reading. Somehow, during the general activity of playtime, I had wandered over to that all-important ring of chairs that comprised the story space. I made my way over to the one adult-sized chair, removed the book placed there for the teacher to read later that day, placed myself upon the adjacent miniature seat and began to read. I remember being asked what, exactly, I though I was doing and the laughter that followed my response, followed by the quick progress to the principal's office where phone calls and inexplicable accusations were made of my mother's interference with New Jersey's educational plan. I remember the battery of tests that ensued later on and my subsequent removal for the class of Miss. S_____. I remember first grade.

And of course you worry. It is not that you never have your moments of doubt, of crisis, when it comes to the process, you wouldn't be human if you didn't, but that, at least not primarily, is not what causes you worry. You worry about the other things; take tonight, for example. It is the person next to you, so close to your space, that little sanctuary you claim as your own, those few square feet circumscribed by the back-rest of this stool, the far corner of your current book on the left before you, and that drink, to your right, that is gradually making its way to two-thirds through.

It is not that the person next you concerns you, and it is usually only one person as you gravitate, carefully, to the corner stool or the last one in a row, but tonight, as occasionally occurs, it happens to be the case. The problem is that he is speaking, and you are excruciatingly aware of the irony that this is what causes concern. It is not that he speaks, in and of its self, but that he is trying to speak to you, but then again he is not. His words are not for you; you know this, can sense it, from experience. He is speaking at you, through you; his words are for their own sake; they bounce off of you, rebound to elsewhere, back to him. These are not the words; they offer no access; they are void.

You have never been interested in chatter, at least not here. It is not that you are incapable, or so remote as to miss the point – you can be quite good at it when required. It is simply that it lies outside the purview of why you, this night, and all those others like it, are here on this corner stool with that book and this drink which has too quickly slipped past its ideal of two-thirds through, due to worry you cannot help but feel. Thus, once more, there is nothing for it but to finish this one off and once again recommence the cycle by taking that last sip and sliding the glass those few inches forward to signal that another is required in hope that nothing so direct as words will be necessitated, hence causing further distraction.

You give hints, obviously, to this man next to you. You bury your head in your book; you stare off into the middle distance; you fail to respond – you your mind's eye quite pointedly – to his most pressing of queries, but he persists. So, you direct your attention to the drink that stands before you with perhaps overly-specific involvement; two-thirds through comes and goes; your attunement to those other words that you know are emerging across and throughout this space you have encamped within tonight falters and slowly reduces to nil. Your worry slides into discouragement and inevitably you pack up and depart, left ultimately wordless, wondering what you may have missed.

THREE

I remember, with an unnerving clarity, what I thought then to be my greatest moment of error. I stood before the three-person tribunal at the sixth-grade Olympics of Mathematics. I remember precisely being asked to explain, in all possible detail, how I would go about solving a certain algebraic problem set before me. I remember the answer coming to me, as if by instinct, and the excitement that flushed my young face as I blurted that answer out. I remember the reproach given to me by the center figure on the dais before me, explaining that the panel required my method of obtaining an answer, not, as had been requested in the paper-based preliminaries, the answer itself. I remember the incomprehension, my grasping for understanding, and my stammering attempt to put into words how it was that I saw the numbers shifting and slipping, sliding around each other, ultimately finding their natural and necessary relative positions. I remember my desperate effort to offer to these three before me the words that would make clear, apparent to all, just how these numbers worked. I remember the third-place trophy that sat in my lap, in the back seat of my mother's car, the one that signified last place among the finalists. I remember the acute meaning of the word third.

From your corner, or end of the row, you crave a crowd. You wait for it, watch for its arrival even as you deplore that moment; you are torn. You look for, listen for the explosion of words that invariably stems from that mass of people at the same time you fully comprehend the difficulty it entails, the obstruction that wealth of words creates for you. You listen, at the edge of the multiplicity, working to separate the individual voice, those unique words that might come to you, offering that elusive way in. You wait, trying to maintain patience, as the proliferation of conversations fills the space you occupy on this occasion; you look to find the drops amidst the tide.

It is when there is a crowd that you most require your book, whichever it might be; you find it focuses you, reminds you of the individuality of words. There is something reassuring about that minimal typographic space between the last character of the preceding word and the first of the following. You find it helps you see the words, and those connections between them, instead of being caught up in the tangled mass they approach. You find that it helps, works as a balm perhaps, but you know, ultimately, that it does not work.

You are torn; the words are there, but they do not find purchase. They belong to the crowd; they are precisely the flood to which you do not belong; that is precisely why you have this process; that is why you sit, within this precise configuration, sipping gently at this drink before you, carefully reading those words printed upon the collection of pages you have brought with you, expending this effort to bring about the perfect conditions. You know what you are doing; you know that you do. You have made this commitment, and that is not for nothing. It will work, eventually, so you sit, you drink, and you read. You listen, carefully positioned in just this place. You balance this book and this drink, this barstool and this building. You listen. For the words that you know will come, you listen.

RECENT IMAGES OF EDINBURGH[AND A VIEW FROM A CASTLE]

2007-10-12T06:19:00.000-04:00

[Roll over to pan]

THESE ARE A FEW OF MY FAVORITE THINGS:HIGHLANDS EDITION

2007-10-08T09:29:00.000-04:00

1. Whisky. Note that here in Scotland there is no E in whisky. [Perhaps it is a relative of the great, debatable E somewhere in the depths of Piers Plowman.] Anyway. I have now been to the holy land; I have been surrounded by a thousand barrels of whisky; I have felt the heat emanating from the birth of whisky. I have made my pilgrimage and have returned healed. You know, a real Genesis 1:3-4 moment.

[The Maltings at Balvenie]

2. Loch Lochy. This really is a truly beautiful, right magnificent place. A real stunner, but more than that, I have to love a place called Lake-y Lake. Perhaps later I may get to visit old City-ish City in the Czech Republic, or, if I am truly lucky... well you get the point; no reason to beat the proverbial dead horse. This picture certainly does not do Loch Lochy justice, but it was taken rapidly in order to escape getting caught behind a caravan for another half-hour on the A82.

[Loch Lochy from a Lay-by]

3. Sheep. Just watch the video; I do not believe more need be said.

[A cavalcade of sheep]

4. Castles, Beaches, Stanes, Oh My. This place packs so much into so little space that it is hardly believable. As I am used to the enormous distances involved in moving about the States, I find it remarkable the extremes that occur here. One moment we are at a beach [see panoramic vista] and another we are at a ruined castle hidden within a mountain glen. Oh, and don't forget the good old Neolithic population with their proclivity for piling, stacking, and generally ordering rocks into various and sundry organizational principles – especially at the seeming ends of the world.

[Beach: Northern Highlands Version]
Mouse over to pan.

[Ardvreck Castle]

[Hill of Many Stanes]

[Where the stanes are: End of the World-like]

5. Civilization. So, the wife and I are driving through the remote reaches of the North Highlands and what do we find but a clever little bookshop in a town that seemingly had no town. Technically I guess they are in the outskirts of InverKirkaig with a population of approximately 408 within a seven-mile radius. I do not know if words can express how much I love the fact that even in a small suburb of the middle of nowhere there is still a right good bookshop. In fact Ullapool [the town we stayed at in the North Highlands] has a lovely Bar/Restaurant/Bookstore/Hotel that I recommend everyone visit.

[Achins Bookshop]

6. Speaking of Ullapool, Golf. Yes the wife and I got in a little golf on our expedition. I have fulfilled yet another fantasy; I have played in the birthplace of Golf. And not just anywhere, but at the virtual end of the universe, I mean overlooking the North Sea with mountains all around, hitting a tee shot off of a cliff onto [or in the vicinity of] the green somewhere down there. Even better I played a beautiful shot out of authentic Scottish heather [onto the green from 140 yards I might add], and even carded a par. Please refer to the spectacular views from the Ullapool course below.

[Me putting, poorly]

[The third hole in Ullapool]

7. Loch Ness, which resolutely contains no monster, none of any sort. I mean it; it is not there. Just look for yourself. Look left; look right. No monster; nothing. Do you see a monster in this loch? But just do a Google search for Loch Ness Monster Tours and you shall receive a schmorgasboard of options. Oh wait, did something just move in the loch? Oh wait, just another tire someone threw off his and/or her pier last night.

[The loch from Urquhart Castle]
Mouse over to search for the non-existent monster.

8. And, of course, signage.

9. Plus, as a bonus, an extra sign from our friend in C_____bridge: Motorcyclists must perform daredevil stunts over all vehicular traffic. Except buses.

JUST NORTH OF CHAMBERSBURG, TURN RIGHT AND GO 3439 MILES EAST

2007-10-03T01:30:00.000-04:00

The wife and I are headed of to the Highlands for a few Days.

Aberlour, Balvenie, and perhaps a bit of the Highlands golf experience. Happy birthday to me!

More later...

THAT’S FASCINATING; LET’S EAT IT:OR FRACTALS IN CHEESE SAUCE

2007-10-02T17:07:00.000-04:00

Enter organic food store [more on this later] with the wife at my side. Look, look, look; shop, shop, shop. Stop. “Hey, that’s fascinating; let’s eat it.”

Thus begin last night’s dinner.

Let me just say that I love it here in Edinburgh; within a mere hop, skip, and proverbial jump there are such a plethora of places in which to either buy or consume delectable food-stuffs that I hardly know which way to turn. [Indeed I have found myself more than once spinning in the middle of a roundabout, eyes a-goggle.]

Which returns me, once more to last night’s dinner. [Though, at this point this blog post has been delayed by a day, so it was really the dinner of two nights ago, but that is just too much of a bother to write, so authenticity be damned, strain credulity along with me, and let us just buy into the collective myth that I am writing of last night’s dinner.]

As I was saying…

The wife and I went into the organic food store around the corner [I do not remember seeing a rabbi, a priest, or Dolly Parton, but who’s to know for sure]. We were looking for vegetables of the yummy sort when the phrase in question was uttered: “Hey, that’s fascinating; let’s eat it.”

You see, we had encountered a Cauliflower Romanesco, as seen below.

You can see why this was uttered. This is perhaps the coolest bit of produce I have ever encountered: a Mandelbrot Magnoliophyta to mint what I must image in a phrase entirely new to the English-speaking world. On the one hand I simply wanted to admire it, perhaps even adore it; build a shrine to it perhaps or preserve it in some kind of Lucite container a la Han Solo or something of that ilk. But, instead, since I am here with all these lovely food options all about I decided that the wife was indeed correct. Thus the vegetable in question was steamed and served with a lovely Isle of Mull cheese sauce [just melt a generous slab of butter; mix in a healthy (sic?) quantity of fresh cream; drop in a few medium chunks of this lovely cheese; salt and pepper to taste; melt.] Along side you will see a pair of vegetarian sausages and some roasted carrots, parsnips, and new potatoes.

Have I mentioned that I love Edinburgh?

A ROMANTIC INTERLUDE???

2007-09-28T04:00:00.001-04:00

[Try clicking the images; bigger is better]

DO YOU FEEL SAFE?

2007-09-27T05:44:00.000-04:00

[Of course, click images to enlarge]

EDINBURGH IN TYPE IV

2007-09-26T04:50:00.000-04:00

I think I am slowly working myself toward a new project; we shall see.

And perhaps in the near future I shall actually take a bit of time to sit down and write, but for the moment the camera and I are exploring.

[As always, click images to enlarge]

EDINBURGH IN TYPE III

2007-09-25T04:15:00.001-04:00

[click on images to enlarge]

EDINBURGH IN TYPE II

2007-09-24T06:09:00.000-04:00

[click on images to enlarge]

THE THEATRE IN MY BACK GARDEN

2007-09-23T06:29:00.000-04:00

As I looked out of our sitting-room window while sipping my coffee and nibbling at my Sainsbury's Sultana Scone, this was the scene I encountered: cat eyeing squirrel either hungrily or with territorial complaint, squirrel weighing the possibility of sheltering in the hole in the wall opened to allow the drainpipe through against the prospect of sharing the province with the cat below, all of this being played out around the doorway of my new neighbor at number 12.

[The squirrel is on the drainpipe. If you can't see him click on the image to enlarge it.]

This, I remind myself, is the experience of the tightly packed old city -- even in New Town. I have grown unaccustomed to such scenes through the relative seclusion of my own back yard with its fenced in pretense of privacy, and further back through the general expanse of the comparatively recent sprawl of cities like Des Moines where things tend to sit comfortably side-by-side rather than in the complex overlays of centuries and species that I found this morning.

Oh, perhaps you are still unaware that the wife and I have moved -- at least temporarily. Worry not, though, we have not left the ancestral manse for good, that hard-won home in upstate New York. For the time being, though, I reside in Edinburgh, right here in fact. [Just click the image below to zoom in.] It is in this location, these thousand or so square feet in the midst of Edinburgh, that I shall spend the next four months writing, reading, and renewing my studio life, surrounded by the oddly organic intertwining of slate roofs, squirrels, and security systems.

And with that, dear reader, I will depart -- the coffee completed and the last scone-crumb consumed -- to explore further my new neighborhood, and perhaps today a bit further afield.

EDINBURGH IN TYPE

2007-09-21T14:06:00.000-04:00

Well... the wife and I have made it to Edinburgh at last, and have begun to explore.

[What may be the most immediately striking thing that you, dear reader, are noticing right now is that I am in fact writing on the blog once again. I shall be trying to do this with some regularity for at least the remainder of my stay here in Scotland. Keep your collective, readerly fingers crossed...]

So today I offer to you the first day's images -- the typography of Edinburgh...

IN RESPONSE TO SOMETHING DR. S SAW...

2007-09-21T13:24:00.000-04:00

Following up on the dear Dr. S's post of September the Sixth, I offer these views of the signage from my recent trip to Wales...

Monoliths falling; run away.

Beware of old people.

Watch out. Alfred Hitchcock is chasing you.

Gloves are nice?

Watch out. Alfred Hitchcock may fall upon you from above.

This one is rather self-explanitory I suppose.

My favorite is the center one: Beware alien mind control. Though #1, #2, and #5 nicely proclaim that rectangles are profoundly dangerous.

Though, following on the above statement about rectangles, triangles are especially dangerous to one's head.

Circles explode!!!

Though this [see below] actually accompanies the exploding circles warning sign...