the poetry of madness
Name: Lord Malinov
driven by curiousity and an intense need for understanding, I strive to learn and express in every step of the marvelous journey that life is providing
anita
bluematrix
Brainwave Generator
catdancer
duckpower
Euclid's Elements
geekgirl
indigo4963
jackal
Journal of Desire
Malinov's Romances
moonglow
no one tell my dad
Potentials Unlimited
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I carry a purple twenty-sided dice, a token of membership in the Gaming Clan. You never know when you might need to roll for initiative.
At the register of my local bookstore, a young woman wears a purple twenty-sided dice wrapped in silver as a necklace. We exchanged secret handshakes and had a good laugh. Our clan is not particularly social, so we are always glad to find one another. She won the roll for initiative with an 18.
I stumbled upon a paper providing clinical studies to show that men and women are equally unfaithful. I'm still trying to figure out an analysis that could suggest otherwise - the only scenario providing an unbalanced conclusion between marriage partners would require single women to have many more partners than single men, against the grain of common wisdom.
My blood pressure, which has been consistently low, is suddenly off the charts. Damn.
enjoy,
DC
Despite my steady diet of amphetamines, I have normal blood pressure. My susceptibility to vertigo is severe. I have learned, the hard way, that the principle danger comes from falling. I try to move slowly on the vertical. In some ways, I enjoy the brain-cleansing action of a bloodless moment. Wiped, I get a fresh start.
Clinton has an IQ of 182. Carter has an IQ of 176. GWB has an IQ of 91.
Anger is nipping at my heels. I am at home in the stupidities of bureaucracy, but enduring so many years of high-level idiocy has left me incapable of mindless submission to authority. After the infernal fiascos of the divorce, I have sworn to defiantly oppose any attack on my decisions. I was nearly destroyed by my own kindness, my willingness to give in expectation of resolution. I was hammered mercilessly for my soft nature. Never again. I'll be damned before I take another drug test. I am what I am and they can take me or leave me, but I won't pretend to be what they want for the sake of ease. Bite my shiny metal ass.
Yet I know full well that fighting a foreign bureaucracy will have as much effect as screaming at the wind. I am left with no recourse but to writhe in furious frustration.
I would rather destroy myself than allow others to destroy me. Keep your filthy paws off my silky drawers.
Of course, I am alone in my righteous indignation, which makes me even more indignant.
I'm going to go back into my mind and forget it all. Hell with them.
enjoy,
DC
"There's just this little matter of the science being a bit... bleep."
from an australian discussion of why "What the bleep do we know?" is mostly full of crapola.
www.abc.net.au/science/features/bleep/
It is virtually meaningless to discuss modern physics without the math. Almost anything can be asserted on the basis of high-level analysis of subtle effects.
enjoy,
DC
According to Jungian personality types (Briggs-Meyer made the standard test - Jung did the hard part) I am one of those rare male INFPs. Copied from some website, this is as on-point as we can get, when it comes to talking to me.
~~~
Many INFPs prefer talking with people on a one-to-one basis, with an emphasis on human values, and with someone with whom they have established trust. They usually like the personal touch, so spend time getting to know them and what they find important. Other INFPs really enjoy and spend a great deal of effort writing long e-mails. INFPs generally want to be appreciated as individuals, someone unique, working for harmony and understanding. They want people to provide positive reinforcement as well as gentle criticism. INFPs like inspiring personal stories about how others have overcome adversity, as well as stories that have meaning. They usually want autonomy, and the freedom to choose goals they agree with. As with many Feeler types, they like to know how the information or plan will help people develop and reach their potential.
Areas to avoid when communicating with INFPs include being too logical, harsh, or critical. This can be an issue, since "too harsh" for an INFP might be "normal" conversation for other types. INFPs generally do not do well with rigid structures, hierarchy, or inflexible timelines. If you focus exclusively on what's "practical" or "obvious," you're sure to alienate most INFPs. It takes time to establish trust with them, particularly if you're highly task-oriented. INFPs react poorly when others try to control them. Conformity is rarely an INFP trait. Ignoring the personal or human side of an issue will also tend to aggravate INFPs. Likewise, they are unlikely to enjoy long, detailed discussions about routine matters, standard procedures, or minutiae. Another common error is to assume you understand the INFP's position on a subject without taking the time to listen to him or her.
enjoy,
DC
I parked in the visitors lot outside building one of the Nokian campus. Gathering my instructions and a bottle of water, I began to walk slowly along a line of cars to a central sidewalk area. I took my time, wanting to keep myself calm in the face of new surroundings by building familiarity with sensory awareness.
I soon realized there was a vehicle moving slowly behind me, but I paid them no mind, although there was a plethora of open parking spaces.
I remembered that I had reminded myself to grab the pen that had fallen out of my binder when I checked the map while I was driving. I turned to return to my car and found myself staring into the windsheild of a red SUV. Two women averted their staring eyes in sudden shock, quickly blushing deeply.
They had been following me, watching my butt as I walked in my new black slacks.
Objectified again. Will the indignity ever end?
The Nokians want to give me everything I want to do exactly what I would most enjoy doing.
I'm trying to come up with a reason not to accept the job. Oh, yeah. I wouldn't get off the six weeks of summer usually accorded to the Finnish employees. Even if you go work in the Finnish office, they make you work. You need citizenship or something. So unfair to me.
Okay, that was a pretty stupid reason. I could complain about the commute, but they'll pay for the entirety of my relocation across town. Umm. Unfortunate pay that isn't very unfortunate at all.
Diamond encrusted cell-phone, except that they're not cell phones, they're intelligent mobile devices or something like that. Phone is just a function of these magical boxes that will . . .
I won't even guess where tomorrow goes.
enjoy,
DC
What does it means to like and what are the implications of liking an artist?
During my many years of penning, I have had a long association with a critic named Celeste. One of the first stories I published was the subject of one of her first reviews and we've been running a parallel course ever since. She has long been among the first people I send my stories. She is usually too kind to me and always has some valid criticisms for me to chew on. She's also an English school teacher in Virginia. I love her, even though she is a critic. I think she likes me, more or less.
We have argued, debated and mutually explored almost every aspect of literature. But there is one thing we will absolutely never agree on. Celeste hates Milton. Despite thousands of pages of Miltonian defenses, gaining numerous admissions about the importance and power of his poetry, she refuses to relent. She can't tell me why and I can't tell her how and we've agreed to disagree.
In an artist, we have three realms - more or less - to consider - the person, the work and the context.
For me, the artist is irrelevant unless I am engaged cross-cocktail with them.
As a teen, one of my favorite artists was Elton John, although in truth my real respect was Bernie Taupin's. I love a good singable lyric. When in the late seventies, our boy Elton revealed his sexual preferences, one of my friends thought I should discontinue any liking of Sir John. To me the idea was completely ridiculous. The artist is not my problem. I enjoy the art regardless of the artist.
I have always questioned that approach - is it really possible to separate the artist from the art? I've heard that John Gacy painted while he was on death row. Can we look at the Gacy paintings without considering the dangerous psychopath who created them? Should we? Would it matter if they were really pretty, or really disturbing, or really ugly?
Even in the art itself, we have realms. Beauty is significantly different than meaning. Post modern art has definitely adopted the idea that beauty is a veil that disguises art, that true art cannot be beautiful on the sensory level but should derive its power from spiritual and mental realms. There are pieces I hate to look upon yet understand the incredible beauty beneath the surfaces.
It reminds me of my experience with Reznor's downward spiral. The first dozen listenings were intriguing but disturbing, noise that violated my sensibilities relentlessly. Soon, I lost my focus on the cacophony and discovered a place where NIN is as lovely as music can be.
I have long described Liasons as a tapestry of beauty woven with threads of evil. Art must trancend the surface to be art.
Finally, we have the context of the work to consider. There is a painting at the Hirschorn in DC that consists of a blank canvas cut with a single stroke. This is artistry with almost no surface content - the only aesthetic coming from the shadows of the broken weave. In the context of developing modern art, the power of the work is incredible, a statement surrounded by subject.
Working in negative space. Ahh, Bach.
I don't know much about Picasso as a man. Nor do I care. Late in his life, I am told, he would pay for dinner by doodling on a napkin and I love that. I have several Picasso's on my walls and continually admire the stroke of his brush. I like the art as art. In context, however, no one has ever changed our perceptions so radically. I definitely like that.
Milton certainly wasn't that important but I like him too. It is better to rule in hell than to serve in heaven.
In truth, I suspect that Celeste's distaste for Milton is a pose - as a school marm she wanted to impress upon the youths that it was all right not to like any particular purveyor of classical writing, that one person's Picasso was another person's Warhol. She loves literature and hates Milton and that's okay. And doggone it, people like me.
That's right, Celeste. I called you a poser.
Let's put that in our pipe and smoke it. Meet me at the hideout. I have some beautiful buds blooming.
enjoy,
DC
The pressure mounts.
Today I will speak to the Nokians, find out what kind of future they can promise me. Do I really want to take a crack at the corporate game? I was raised in corporate America, a beneficiary of people who cared enough to send the very best. I'll surely be spitting nails with frustration, but from a position of simple security.
The idea of security offends me. Why would I want to be secure? Secure from what?
Hiding in a hole until death relieves any need for security. This is living. This is life.
Oh, the posh, posh, travelling life, the travelling life for me. I was born under a wandering star.
Wheels are made for rolling
Hills are made to pack
I've never seen a sight that didn't look better looking back.
I'm also being encouraged to take further steps toward joining the firm. Here, there is little security but opportunity of the first order. I would be flying under the power of my own wings rather than jumping aboard the luxury jet to Finland. Perhaps my wings are too powerful to sit idly on a plane. Perhaps I can give new levels of potential to such a powerful organization.
I have no question that I can do the firm thing. I'm just not sure I know the route to Shangri-La without the help of experienced navigators. Perhaps the time has come to learn the route. Maybe I should jump aboard a plane and note the landmarks that we pass.
The future is a haze of questions and possiblities.
Miles to go before I sleep. Miles. Miles.
enjoy,
DC
One of the things that Warhol taught is an appreciation of temporal context - his Marilyns are made after her death, his Liz's just as Cleopatra flopped and his Jackie O's. If we neglect to consider the timing of their creation, we lose essential elements in the works, fail to appreciate the subtle human expressions in their frozen, yet metamorphic images. As an artist chronicles the time they exist within, they become emblematic of the time, contributing as they capture to our impressions.
Art speaks in the moving context of creation and appreciation. The artistry of the impressionists is enhanced when we realize that the artists were rejected because the paintings were pretty. Their sensory beauty was considered their flaw, like a camera with a bad lens. As though Renoir took an out of focus picture and tried to convince the other photographers that pictures were better this way, no really, isn't it pretty?
Hey, Aug, maybe you should buy a new camera, they taunted.
I oversimplify, but I always oversimply. How could I begin to express all the complexity at once without being really confusing and somewhat confused?
Picasso changed the way we see the world. It sounds trite, but it wasn't at the time. He changed art more than Einstein changed physics. Big Al knocked my boys on their asses, so this is no minor accomplishment.
One day, perhaps soon, they will say that I have changed everything. Hopefully I'll avoid Vincent's trap and get some renumerations before success catches up with me.
Don't listen to them. They're a bunch of liars.
enjoy,
DC
http://www.break.com/movies/no_arms_tom_petty.html
What can't you do?
Is it harder than playing guitar with no arms?
I thought not.
enjoy,
DC
I went dancing Saturday night. I have been going out primarily to engage myself with humanity, but once the music entered me, I was fairly oblivious to everything around me, the rhythms reverberating through my body, arms, legs, hands, feet, flailing in the intricate tempos and counter-tempos of time, space and energy.
Billy was a mountain
Ethel was a tree standing on his shoulder
Some older woman informed my dance partner that my hair was unfashionable. The club caters to mature crowds, a change from the usual twenty-somethings I usually encounter on my late-night wanderings, so the very existence of hair on a male head might be considered rather uncommon. Older people often have much more to offer than the young, but mixed in with the offerings may be strong doses of rigidity and bitterness. Youth are easily impressed but unless the amazed gaze of admiration is your bag, their perspectives are limited by the limits of their experience.
My mother never liked Andy Warhol's work. He formed an oblique angle to the mainstream directions of modern art and she had been trained as a classical modern artist. Klee was her bag, baby. I had early Rothko leanings, but had no shackles of the past to toss in my encounters with Andy.
I must say that Warhol made some of the worst movies ever. Art isn't always entertaining.
Influentially, no one since Picasso has had such an effect on culture as a whole.
The Velvet Underground surpasses almost everything of the era in so many ways. It is, perhaps, unfortunate that the VU didn't have more of an influence on the progress of music.
"In the future, everyone will be famous for fifteen minutes."
I have been exercising excessively, working my upper body and abdomen into something akin to strong. When it comes to making muscles, being a man rocks. Very litte effort is needed to show progress. The best part is that the regular release of muscular tensions provides enhanced physical sensitivity, making the world a sexier place.
Andy had absolutely no talent for narrative, so he lived an artistic story, substituting reality for art where art could not suffice.
I grew up near a boy named Andy Cohen. He played the drums and every time I see a young Keith Moon, I think of Andy, a little guy going nuts behind the drum set. I desperately want to play the drums, but the time has not arrived. My list of desperate desires is very, very long.
I awake every morning with an incredible eagerness to explore all the wonders I have discovered and have yet to discover. My ADD is still far from controlled, although worlds away from where I began. I leap happily from one joy to another, learning this and practicing that, organizing to create further chaos.
I appreciate organization but my first task is to mangle the organization and squeeze whatever creativity I can find in the morass. Genius comes from breaking rules. Patient cohorts reorganize in my wake, preparing the stage for my next chaotic pass.
I have a t-shirt with Warhol's Marilyn. Genuis meets genuis. Beauty prevails.
Beauty is its own form of genius - Wilde
The lovely waitress Callie celebrated her twenty-third birthday on Saturday. I told her that I would soon be forty-five and after a long look she said, "no way."
"Deal with the devil I made a few years back," I explained, "I have an aging portrait in the attic."
Invocation of devil dealings seemed to relax her, a strange response that I have often noticed in people of all types. My eX used to cringe every time I would make that joke, reversing the positive effect it often had. People just didn't joke about Satan where she came from. I'm not sure why it puts people at ease to blame the devil for my good looks, except perhaps that it undercuts my responsibility for my advantages.
I just like to invoke Wilde. He was a funny guy.
"His majesty is like a dose of the clap - a pleasure when arriving but soon a pain in the arse."
enjoy,
DC
A sopwith camel cannot ascend vertically for more than a few seconds without stalling. Even a mustang would struggle with that kind of climb. Stupid movie trailers. Someone should send a book to Hollywood, explain the concept of research and realism.
An all-too-familiar scream exploded through the cafeteria as my lovely daughter discovered the body of her employer with a knife protruding from his back. On the verge of being seduced by a ne'er-do-well playboy, her facade of innocence was fading with each passionate kiss.
One of my brother's childhood friends - Paul - is a famous, well, working hollywood actor. He was on screen for much of one of Bruce Willis' movies. My mother has a photograph of the boys in drag when they were about eight. Some biographer is going to enjoy that one. We were acting - genius - thank you. Yeah, doing a play, yeah, that's the ticket.
Paul changed his last name, so I forget what it is. Last I saw him, at Jack's wedding, he had a pretty LA girlfriend and a lust for Buk. Who hasn't? We exchanged a few letters and then he was off to make more films.
I'll watch Bruce Willis in a comedy, but anything else is just improbable, even if childhood friends appear on-screen. I'm not a big fan of movies, especially crappy ones. If something blows up at a plot point, I'm late for the door, although when a horse-drawn carriage crashed in Van Helsing and exploded like a Pinto, I fell and remained on the floor, in stitches.
I told you to be careful when transporting nitroglycerine through the old country. Stick to the hazmat roads, at least.
One of the longest fits of laughter I ever produced in response to a movie came in Back to School.
"What does he want?"
"He wants what every man wants."
"He wants you to dress up like Wonder Woman, tie him up with an invisible rope and make him tell the truth?"
It is still one of the funniest things I have ever heard. Exactly what every man wants, I must confess.
When Ulysses was acquitted of obscenity charges, Judge Woolsey noted that anyone who read the novel for the dirty parts deserved whatever thrills they found. Lolita proved even more difficult as it contained absolutely nothing salacious in the tale, excepting the plot. Nabokov laughed and laughed. Naked Lunch was a landmark as the jurists decided that literature can be as filthy as it dares because no one reads modern literature anyway.
I can think of at least two things wrong with that title. Burroughs was an incredible wordsmith and one sick puppy. Genius takes many forms. Go figure.
I hate to be the one to say so, but most people read really crappy books. Apoetic tripe. Butter-flavored lard. Mmmm.
enjoy,
DC
My theory of dyslexia is that when faced with a visual problem, like reading, and emotional stimuli, the dyslexic approaches the problem by unconsciously re-organizing the visual patterns in their interpretation of the visual data.
If a dyslexic looks at writing and doesn't understand at once, an impulsive tendency will begin to move the words and letters around, trying to make them make sense and generally rendering the writing meaningless.
This form of impulsive mental behavior could be very useful in solving visual problems - physical interaction, organization, space-relations. Lousy for reading.
enjoy,
DC
We - the allies - discovered atomic energy because we feared the Nazis, fearing their advantage because Otto Hans claimed to have discovered fission when actually it was Lise Meitner who had the brains. Lise, of course, was a jewess.
Of course, because the Universe loves a good story. If you truly desire to live forever, live a good story.
I avoid, as best I can, making the obvious mistakes. Same old song and dance. If I'm going to muck things up, it will be a unique experience. If I can help it. The Universe doesn't always ask my opinion.
If the scene is an old one, I'll do my best to play it a new way. I am creative, if nothing else.
Using high-level math - anything beyond differential equations - requires developing complex mental structures. I have a good notion of partial differentials, but just basic concepts beyond that.
Counter-intuitive means different things to different people. A physicist intuits the mass-energy equivalence in ways a person probably doesn't. Special relativity decimated the intuitive concept of time, creating a sub-set of humanity who intuit time relatively.
The very computer before you relies on the energy-mass equivalence as the probability of penetrating a wall with an object defies intuitive reason. Throw a baseball at the brick wall. What is the chance the baseball will go through the brick wall without doing anything to the wall? As a baseball, as we know it, intuitively, zero - there is no chance of the ball mysteriously penetrating the wall. As a baseball-wave, the probability is small but unquestionably not zero. It could happen. Monkeys could fly out of my butt.
Insane cowboy, but the computer doesn't work unless it is true. Most everything you use, everything with a chip in it, of any sort. Semiconductors. That's what it means. Non-zero probability manipulation. Electrons are going right through little electron brick walls.
Science is really just organized magic and many times weirder than the silliness on the occult shelf.
enjoy,
DC
Sometimes it is said that some think in pictures as opposed to words or some other medium.
Here we have demonstrated the complete inadequacy of language.
I associate thinking in pictures with dyslexia. Dyslexia is a skill that suffers from side-effects. Like any mutant power, dyslexics need to learn to control their abilities and compensate for the inherent weakness associated therewith. People who are not dyslexic need to practice dyslexia or they will be crushed by the ambi-mediacs.
If I am sequestered in a location where constant mental attention is required and visual images are a distraction, I typically identify a visual pattern - in tile, fabric, jewelry, whatever - and then manipulate the pattern in my mind. In a sense, I see the manipulations of pattern, but not the way I see the objects forming the pattern.
Emotional disturbances - the jump of adrenalin - create impulsive behavior. This is why we may attempt to jump a fence when a predator attacks that we would never rationally attempt to leap. The sudden search for improbable solutions in the face of danger was naturally selected. Social living gave advantage to centralizing the impulsiveness in a small fraction of the population.
Dyslexia is a visual manifestation of ADD. ADHD is a physical manifestation.
So saith the David. Clinical studies are being imagined as we speak.
I have lived for forty four years almost entirely within my mind, fed by the words of six thousand years.
The words echoing the minds of humanity.
Someone who makes up a dream tells more about themselves than someone who relates a dreamed dream. The dream itself tells us nothing. It is the telling of the dream that tells. Tell it twice and note the differences in the telling. The feelings lie within what disappeared.
Imagination is more importan than knowledge, saith the Einstein.
In truth, I am paid because of my ability to dance between the rational and the irrational without losing my way. It is not what I know - I cannot know more than anyone my age and necessarily less than many who are older - but rather what I can do with what I know.
The second law of thermodynamics was counter-intuitive when it was proposed, because the Earth is not a closed system and gravity acts unidirectionally on all things on the planet. The laws of gravity were counter-intuitive because air is omnipresent and affects forces. Newtons laws of motion, as well, had to eliminate the omnipresent effect of atmosphere.
Aristotle was probably the last scientist who had the opportunity to observe intuitive physics.
The equivalence of mass and energy is perfectly counter-intuitive. Mass doesn't exist except as a quantity of energy.
We are nothing but a field pattern, a galaxy of mass-singularities of large quanta energies.
It is rather easy to realize that we hardly exist at all. It just doesn't do much good to dwell on the idea.
We are voices in the eternal symphony, whirls in the illumination of being.
enjoy,
DC
The last time I faced a judge, I told him I didn't know my attorney hadn't been informed of the hearing, but that I would defend myself as best I could and go to jail, should he so decide.
He declined to do so. Gratis Deo. That was the end of the era of disputes between the eX and me. I am glad beyond words.
I have spent many, many mornings sitting in court, watching the dispensation of local justice. What amazes me the most is the incredible idiocy of most people who face jurisprudence. Some of the lawyers know exactly what they are doing. They are a rare exception. People say the stupidest things to judges. Strategically stupid. Like arguing with the man. Making excuses. Attacking the other side. Wow. You did not just say that. Bailiff, show this man his new digs.
Once, trying to calm down as I awaited my turn, I closed my eyes. The bailiff came right over to me. "Don't sleep in here, man," he advised me. "I was just . . ." "Yeah, just don't."
Judges hardly need a reason. If they happen to be feeling strict and you aren't on your toes, you can spend your night in jail.
I don't actually believe I would tempt a judge to incarcerate me. I mostly don't like being judged. Who needs that kind of stress?
The mother of a friend of my daughter - did you get that - went to school with Jimmie Vaughn. How cool is that. He played all their dances. She had heard he had a brother who was even better before we'd heard of Stevie Ray. Too cool.
Cats is medically over-educated, so all our ailments are well tended. Even the eX calls for her advice. I am in more danger of over-treatment than being neglected in this regard.
I have been remarkably healthy over the past few years. I think we can credit Cats. I certainly don't do much to maintain my health. Quite the opposite.
enjoy,
DC
One of the humors of aging is understanding the full scope of nonsense that may be found in a typical resume. At one point in my career, I was the leader of a group of attorneys. Armed with all the details of my three year tenure, I eventually settled on wording to reflect my actual role, carefully balanced between aggrandizement and modesty.
When I left that post, it was taken over by one of the attorneys for a period of two months before he left the firm for another. At his new firm, a brief resume highlights his career with two entries. One makes an unabashed and unqualified claim reflecting his role as leader.
Not a lie, but definitely not exactly what one might think upon reading the entry.
Russ told me that the two most important qualities in hiring patent professionals are technical competence and the ability to "play nice in the sandbox," where playing nice was probably more important than the technical parts.
"You can teach technical competence," I quipped.
The single most important element in the hiring process is personality. Other than the terminally dim, some of whom I have known and loved, most people can learn most anything in time. Nasty, negative, petty, whiny, annoying, uncontrolled, disingenuous, etc. people are unbearable or quickly become so.
When I interview someone, my primary question is how annoyed am I to have them sitting there, hoping to determine how annoyed I will eventually become.
Once we hired a woman, an IP litigator. She was nice enough and mostly I didn't care because she was a chemist and had no interest in prosecution.
Patent prosecution is the process of obtaining patents from the USPTO. It has nothing to do with crimes or courts. Apparently people had no interest, historically, in making sure that our language was understandable to others. Or people had an interest in fostering confusion.
Litigators can be contentious, ready to argue with anyone about anything.
One of my better working analogy is taking a car ride to reach a destination. I have three regions of concern - the road, the car and my passengers. If I can ignore the car and passengers and focus on the road, we will reach our destination in minimum time. If the car breaks, it must be dealt with. If the passengers mutiny, I must deal with them. In either of those cases, my attention is distracted from the road and we must either slow or stop and increase our travel time.
The more time you spend arguing with your passengers, the less progress you make on the road.
Get the struggle out of the car and back to the road.
The litigator was hired to help a specific group of attorneys who were in the midst of a case. Unfortunately and without much thought, our litigator was conflicted from working on the case and barred from talking to those attorneys. So our litigator had no work to do.
One by one over the course of six months, she succeeded in alienating every single attorney in the firm, including many who were eager to see her succeed when they met her. She could argue with anything and had a way of insisting that not only was her colleague wrong but probably in criminal contempt for even thinking so.
I had lunch with her several times. Her conversation would invariably become an expose of sexual harassment she had encountered at her previous firm, a topic that certainly kept me from even briefly entertaining the idea of talking personally with the woman. Comparing notes with other attorneys in the firm, I have learned that I was her sole sexual harassment confidante. I don't know why. I suppose she wanted to harass me.
I have learned that lawyers hate adultery more than most people. Nothing destroys a firm faster than affairs.
Women have the weird idea that men approve of sexual promiscuity in other men. In my experience, nothing could be further than the truth. Men don't trust men who cheat, not only because they are liars, but because adultery tends to become explosive, and the explosion takes out innocent bystanders with frightening regularity.
Men don't approve, they mostly don't care who anyone is dalliancing as long as they aren't cooing their bird.
Possessive, controlling people should be avoided at all costs and run away from when the symptoms arise. Failure to do so is your own damn fault. Should you become possessive or controlling, you are suffering from excesses of fear and should seek help immediately and then take advantage of that help before you interact with anyone on a personal level.
If we could smell fear, some people would reek horribly. Maybe they do and the aroma industries do us a serious disservice, allowing fear to hide in the scents of roses and pines.
enjoy,
DC
The most universally recognized English word is okay, which is a phonetic representation of the abbreviation OK, which has no accepted root words. It is commonly believed that the letters stand for Oll Korrect, a deliberate mispelling for humor's sake. There are other explanations of the terms origin, but most of them are just plain stupid and do not account for universal acceptance. People have a penchant, generally, for perpetuating humor.
So the most recognized English word is a bad joke.
The second most recognized English word is Coca-Cola, if we count trademarks as words.
So the two most recognized English words are words that have been invented in the last 150 years. Of course, there are lots of other English words that have a longer heritage and enjoy some universal notariety, but those words all came from other languages. Almost all English words come from other languages.
English isn't really a language. It is an amalgamation of languages. Mutts.
I strained a muscle in my shoulder yesterday, moving office furniture about. It is astounding how disturbing such a simple problem can be. A bit of stretching, rubbing and electric shock have loosened the knot substantially.
I have been exercising fairly regularly lately, enjoying the embarrasment of muscle riches that quickly arise in an active male. I'm particularly interested in developing a chest worthy of the broad shoulders I have fostered. My abs are retreating rapidly to levels below rib-level.
The most powerful man in Texas should look good. Can't play the role if I don't look the part, n'cest pas?
where's the coffee?
enjoy,
DC
Several lovely ladies are employed at the firm. Three partners, three associates, four technical assistants and another eight in support, give or take. The dynamics will obviously be fascinating. One partner is an ancient litigator and the third is a chemical patent dude. Russ is primarily a litigator. Litigation requires a sense of teamwork that is unique in legal practice. I'm hoping to use this feeling of unity to build my team.
No court for me, though. I certainly won't be doing anything more than billing a few expensive hours to litigations. Not a good use of my time.
I'm very wary of going anywhere near judges. Any person who can incarcerate you for having a bad attitude is best kept at a distance. I'm opposed to being incarcerated, personally. Don't fence me in.
I was able to attend my meeting yesterday with complete confidence. I understand my own value and I know what I must do to exploit my skills. I understand the whole package, the process, the product and the business. I know what I can best do and I understand what I must delegate and what I must teach.
The money is surprisingly good and I will believe that when the check clears. If history is any measure, it will be not at all unfortunate. I will have to actually earn the money, which is somewhat unfortunate, but rather unrealistic to hope for at this level. So it goes.
I once had a job that mostly consisted of making myself pizza and playing video games for six hours a day. That was probably the best job ever.
Life is really cool. I wonder what happens next?
enjoy
DC
off to find out
As I approached the stage for the first time in a long time, clangs of self-doubt muddied my head. As I began to remember what I was singing, I told myself.
"You're an old man and you've been singing for decades. Show them how it is done."
Cocker is fun to sing because his style invites styling, genuine opportunities to improvise. The lyrics are relatively simple and the melody is energized, easing the burden on me to provide energy.
Once I tried to sing Queen. Freddy was a force unto himself. Queen demands preparation.
I usually don't even hear myself singing, my voice being ultimately familiar to me. When I sang Ziggy, however, I was very comfortable with the microphone. It was one am and four shiners gone, so I was almost too loose as the first riff came and started sloppy, but I know this song as well as anything and the words began to flow without prompting.
I listened to the voice coming from the speakers and didn't recognize the sound, but it sounded cool and I let myself go.
I am told that I sang to my sister when she was an infant and I was a toddler. I sang to my daughter endlessly as she refused to sleep some late night, variations on ABC-Twinkle. Panic prevented me from singing in public, other than in a choir. I used to sing full voice as I cut the lawn, my notes drowned in the two-stroke buzz.
People have long panicked me and the sound of applause would horribly terrify me as the attention of a crowd became a demanding noise. I have always avoided attention, afraid of the collapse that might occur in a panic. I don't invite my audience. I tolerate them.
Anxiety is fear of our response to fear. Self-feeding monster that cannot be tolerated. It is okay to be afraid. It is not okay to be afraid of being afraid.
do you hear what I hear?
enjoy,
DC
Feeling empowered by my career decision, I persuaded Cats to follow me to the Quarter Bar to whet my whistle and test my pipes.
And the crowd went wild, or so I am told.
I didn't want to attempt anything too difficult to start and found myself returning to Cocker's Letter. Oh lonely days are gone, I'm coming home. My baby, she wrote me a letter. I took a familiar path, singing Elise with barely a glance at the lyrics and then again with Ziggy playing guitar.
This ain't rock'n'roll - this is genocide.
My voice is sore, having provided bass lines for many other songs besides. We probably knew twenty people at the bar, some of the gang from the songfests at Absinthe, some of the Pit guys and the lovely wait staff at Quarter. None of the recent acquaintences had heard me sing before.
I enjoy being a suprise. Take that, expectations.
Now to find my first cup of coffee. Oh, beautiful.
enjoy,
DC
I'm perched to become a partner - a few more information exchanges and I can pull the cord to start the engine. I'll probably take the office next Monday. Unless something happens between now and then.
I'm going to continue interviewing because it is indistinguishable from marketing.
It is sad when people with a need to blame refuse to admit an obvious truth, especially when their need to blame only claims another victim.
Denial.
Anger makes people vindictive, without regards for reason. Somehow people attach themselves to the idea that causing pain will alleviate pain, even though every bit of evidence indicates that the opposite is true.
Anger becomes an echo of pain.
Believing is not the same as proving. We are the only ones who believe until proof allows everyone to believe.
I watched the recent expose on the time when Reno redecorated Waco, discovering further evidence that Koresh was a disgrace to David's everywhere. What really amazes me, however, is how a rather stupid kook attracts one hundred and thirty ready-to-die followers? Where do you shop for those kinds of minions?
One lady was impressed because he had memorized parts of the bible. Sorry, babe, but memorizing isn't that hard and you're revealing more about your lack than his stack. Thanks for playing anyways. What a nice lady. "He was my god," she proclaims later. "Sex with him was bound to be a religious experience."
I truly enjoyed the recording of DK spewing theology during a gunfight. And his constant threats that God his Father was going to beat up their dad, so they'd just better shut up and get off of my property.
It's my ball and I'm going home.
In Texas, we learned, you may have as many weapons as you can afford, but nothing automatic or otherwise of military grade. Shooting Federal agents is a bad idea, but once you take a shot at a Texas Ranger, well, you'll be glad to get to Oklahoma alive.
He told all the married couples that they were no longer married and that he was the only male who could enjoy naughtiness with the ladies. Dave - he must be a Dave - Dave-idians - that is.
Where do you get followers like this? God says that all you guys have to give me your wife. Okay. No kidding?
Let's assume for a brief moment that the ladies are all down with the plan. Maybe. From what I hear, he was a religious experience in the sack. But the guys? Like thirty adult males who can obviously overpower the dude and who are simply bound to need some good loving eventually. How long is this going to last? After three months without sex, a typical man will have sex with anything or everything. I have clinical studies to back this up. Permanent insanity and disfigurement results from repression that lasts longer than five months. Years and years? Did somebody castrate somebody during a ceremony?
Sorry, brother. You put that thing away and say a prayer. I'm going to go snuggle your woman while the Feds launch rockets at your ass. Praise the Lord and help yourself to ammunition.
and then you die for the dude
I could really use an army of minions. This kind of loyalty would do just fine.
Maybe the wives were, shall we say, not attractive to men and the minor dave-idians were glad to be free of the burdens imposed by the loving-quotas. Television cannot be trusted on this point, for there is little ugliness in television land. I always enjoy how attractive people are in recreations for television, except the evil people who are never quite so good looking.
I've postulated the existence of another world that I call "sitcom land." People walk around making wry comments and acting like morons. That's just the way things are in sitcom land.
Cartoon land has an anything goes quality. Adventure land has frequent gunfire. Fantasy land is hosted by Ricardo Montalban.
KAHN!!!!!
enjoy,
DC
"Word on the street is that you were after him."
"I wasn't."
"Rarely do the streets lie. Rarely."
The best poetry in the world comes from life. You just have to listen for the poetic phrasings."
Most of these poetics are not spontaneous, but the fruit of repetition. Say something often enough and eventually the way you say it becomes expressive and then you begin to fit the expression to the situation.
Patience and Repetition.
You are what you do. What you think and feel are only relevant insofar as they affect what you do. Existentialism. Hell is other people because they deny our subjective reality with their subjective reality.
Tess wanted to go see a friend on Saturday but was concerned that I might take offense to her constant absences. I told her that she never needs to worry about my affection for her, that I understood her needs and knew I was connected to her.
"Angie says she love you," Tess interjected, relaying a message from her friend, waiting on the other end of the phone. I have to smile at this bit of applause. Being a good father affects more than my children.
I hate to say so, but I have heard tell of terrible parents. Childish parents. Insane parents. Weird shit.
Its one thing to read stories of terrible parents. It is another thing entirely to know them and their kids. Everything exploding into a huge mess and not a thing we can do to help but hang around and be strong.
I have realized that upon entering flirtatious negotiations with a woman, an initial rejection is almost obligatory. The woman must ascertain that I can control myself in the face of rejection and assure herself that she will be able to exercise control over herself. A test of control is a good plan before we tempt someone to lose control.
After the rejection, a continued presence is almost always ecstatic, so delighted to be attractive even when no delights are contemplated. Patience usually provides opportunity and the ecstasy becomes mutual. Nudge, nudge, wink, wink.
enjoy,
DC
I succumbed to dark curiousity and have been reading the semi-confessions of Ted Bundy. Unfortunately for romantics, the boy wasn't up to the evil genius reputation the media painted. He's certainly brighter than your average serial killer, but not much brighter. Emotionally, he was a petulant twelve-year-old who harbored an anger than consumed him. Definitely manic-depressive, in the worst ways.
I like the descriptive term manic-depression. People think something is gained by excising the poetic qualities of terminology. Bah, humbug.
Ted taught people to fear handsome quiet men. Damn him. I think I understand why Ellis wrote American Psycho. Bundy implies a good story, even if he was too stunted to really play the role. It would be simple to cut away the dumb elements and cast a sinister tale. Ellis is a good writer. I hope he did a good job. I'll get around to reading the novel eventually.
"Pay attention to me." Almost every bit of misery that befalls the human race has roots in this craving. Aristotle was on to something. We are social animals.
How large a cat could you fight with confidence that you would not suffer death or mortal injuries? Most of us could take on a house cat, but even a bobcat would be a dangerous foe. Cheetah's don't count unless we include a running component to the battle. Even the house cat could mess you up.
Bundy was disturbing because there is no evidence of severe childhood trauma, not at the level that would normally account for a bashing penchant. I suspect we have to intersect his experiences with a bad case of untreated bipolar to get the kind of response he developed.
The idea of someone being born broken is disturbing. I prefer to think that monsters are developed rather than simply created, to allow intervention. Gene therapy could be used if the problem is intrinsic. If we can diminish the monster genes and decouple the monster experiences, we stand a chance of eliminating the monsters before they happen. Not likely, but a nice dream.
I'm furthering talks with Russ about joining the partnership. I'm not certain how to manage the consulting work I intend to dovetail with the IP practice, but I like the plan more and more every day.
enjoy,
DC
busted
down on Bourbon Street
set up
like a bowling pin
sometimes
you just can't win
they just won't let you be
Several thousand interesting things have happened since Thursday morning. Where do I begin to tell the story of a love that never ends? Smolensk. I can't believe I'm still in Smolensk.
I had a long, fascinating discussion with my daughter yesterday about narrative techniques and the use of perspective in story telling. I told her about narrative problems I had with several stories. Most interesting to me, she began to propose alternate solutions to my perspective issues.
The idea of doing something for applause amuses me - it is a completely foreign concept - of course, I am not given to applauding, either. Doing something well is its own reward. Impressing other people is rather unimpressive as a goal, for people are all-too-easily impressed. Impressing millions, I suppose, is rather more difficult, but remains an uninteresting standard, for the path to the masses is bound to be the least common denominator.
One of the best novels of the last twenty years is Infinite Jest by Wallace. Not in the sense of let's give a big round of clapping, but in the sense of can't get it out of my head. I am infected by the ideas and styles of DFW. I don't applaud the infection. I act upon it. His ideas spawn my ideas. Growth through interaction.
As far as I can discern, I write for two reasons - to practice writing and to communicate and to better understand myself - three reasons - and a fantatical devotion to the pope - among our weaponry are suprise, fear . . .
No one expects the Inquisition. Bring on the nuns!
I met a diminuitive rapper with an incredible sense of vocal rhythm. After she played her demo, I began to discuss the poetic artistry of her song, an interest and depth that fascinated her until she shivered. Some girls need to be rubbed. Some girls need to be understood. Some girls take the shirt off my back and leave me with a lethal dose.
I told her that I was wary of attempting poetic improvisation, realizing as I spoke the truth of her response, that improvisation is the fruit of massive preparation.
I have been playing the guitar riff that opens Zeppelin's Going to California for the past week. F#AGAF#EADAF#C#D I added the C#D to complete the phrase without going into the first verse. My left pinky is in a perpetual state of spasm, playing the A and E at full stretch, over and over and over and over.
Once the riff is deeply burned into muscle memory, mistakes give rise to variation giving rise to new phrasings. Repetition is the heart of creativity.
I dropped by a club that night, hoping to see the rapper perform at a talent show. The small girl had become intoxicated beyond repair before her chance came, so bad that she would not remember a moment of the evening the next day. So it goes.
I saw Cynthia on Friday night, talking to her briefly and allowing myself to drink in her image as she talked on the phone, waiting for my pizza. She didn't want me to leave.
I have discovered two great phrases. One I stole from Mindy on Animaniacs. "Pretty Lady." Not as slick as "Beautiful," but more assertive than "Darling," the strange words tickles women in incredible ways. The second is a closing - see you soon. The implication that I will be eager to return provides an ending that anticipates the next encounter, removing any lingering doubts over the present encounter. Ahh, Bach.
I ran into my second pizza girl on Saturday night. I hadn't seen her in weeks and had even decided that she had moved on to another retail outlet. Even before I spoke, it was clear she was glad to see me. When I greeted the pretty lady, a wave physically moved up her body. I don't know what it was, but it was visible. The promise to see her soon melted her. Gotta love a juicy girl.
After drawing some attention from the new season of soccer moms, I was severely spurned by one of them the next morning at the first game. I have no doubt that I have come to play a symbolic role in her marriage. I suspect the dude was caught cheating sometime during the last two years and that he used her attraction to me to dull his guilt.
That phase began when my son was spending the night at their house and I called at eight in the morning to arrange his pick-up. Apparently the only number I had was her cell phone and found them both in bed. Since he travels extensively, his fears were heightened by this innocent episode.
Several times in my life, everything has been turned up-side-down by a poorly timed phone call.
Candy is evil.
I have been writing in public since the late eighties. I tell most everyone where to find my words, mostly because it saves me the expense of writing letters. I want people to know who I am. I am, I said.
enjoy,
DC
racing recklessly down the road, burning rubber at a sizzling twenty-seven
recognizing the flashes of red and blue through the dust in my rear-view-mirror
busted
Doh!
So I was given the chance to show the boys the proper technique for dealing with a police officer.
speeding in a school zone should be a felony with perhaps a caning for good measure
Mea Culpa.
enjoy
DC
raising more hell before 9am than most people raise all day
A little research on presidential inhalations:
Did the Founding Fathers of the United States of America smoke cannabis? Some researchers think so. Dr. Burke, president of the American Historical Reference Society and a consultant for the Smithsonian Institute, counted seven early presidents as cannabis smokers: George Washington, Thomas Jefferson, James Madison, James Monroe, Andrew Jackson, Zachary Taylor and Franklin Pierce. 41 "Early letters from our founding fathers refer to the pleasures of hemp smoking," said Burke. Pierce, Taylor and Jackson, all military men, smoked it with their troops. Cannabis was twice as popular among American soldiers in the Mexican War as in Vietnam: Pierce wrote to his family that it was "about the only good thing" about that war.
Washington & Jefferson were said to exchange smoking blends as personal gifts. Washington reportedly preferred a pipe full of "the leaves of hemp" to alcohol, & wrote in his diaries that he enjoyed the fragrance of hemp flowers. Madison once remarked that hemp gave him insight to create a new & democratic nation. Monroe, creator of the Monroe Doctrine, began smoking it as Ambassador to France & continued to the age of 73.
Potheads rule.
enjoy
DC
Although I am an IP attorney, I am a copyright anarchist. I do not believe we should own rights of exclusivity with regard to creative expressions. Not on the basis of principle or economics, but as a matter of practicality.
Anything that can be copied costlessly cannot be owned. Plain and Simple. Copyright is dead! Long live the Net!
I feel fortunate in feeling no personal yearning for credit. My pride in my work is self-generated and self-contained.
I write entirely for my own amusement. I write so that I may read writings of quality, as I judge quality. If there is a measure of worldly success, to me, it is the infection of humanity by my memes. Go forth and be influenced.
I have known many, many copyright nazis. They make me laugh and laugh. "Unhand those words, you fiend. That sequence belongs to me!"
If you are accused of copyright infringement, simply alter the piece to mock it. Parody is one of the most seriously protected rights in the US and the first amendment freedom of speech trumps copyright. No matter what else happens, you have the right to make fun of people and their works. Mockery or Death!
That's how Public Enemy got back at Roy Orbison when he refused to let them use "Pretty Woman." They wrote "Hairy Woman." The Supreme Court gave Luke Skywalker a slap on the back and said "good show."
We will, we will mock you.
Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery. Mockery is the sincerest form of disdain.
Choose your weapon, but know this. I am a hard-mocker.
enjoy,
DC
There are lots of patent attorneys who know more than I do about being a patent attorney. Theoretically, anyway.
None of them, anywhere, know more than I do about the psychology of patent bureaucrats. I can make progress where they can't. Every patent prosecutor I know has paying disgruntled clients with stuck patents. Every action they take mucks it up more because they don't know what the examiner is thinking.
I don't need to waste my time telling clients how to protect their inventions. I can get paid to help patent attorneys get patents. When important patents get stuck at the PTO, important clients pressure them for immediate action. A rich client can turn into a rich enemy at the drop of a hat. So I step in and unclog the bureaucracy.
Three hundred for an initial consultation and five hundred an hour if they need my help. I'm like the guy in Pulp Fiction who cleans up the body. My help, my rules.
I won't let anyone go with me to the interview - keep my secrets secret. I'm sending letters to every patent prosecutor, everywhere. Send three hundred and the file wrapper. I'll have my recommendations when the check clears.
I'm not even acting as an attorney, so bar rules don't apply. I'm a consultant, consulting a patent attorney. If I go on an interview, I'm a patent agent. Still no bar. Lawyer stuff is actually a waste of my time. The only real advantage is being able to call myself a patent attorney when I feel like it.
And I can be a partner in a law firm, build a megalithic patent shop and make a large percentage of the work I attract by working these simple miracles.
I have found my niche. Let the fun begin.
enjoy,
DC
I was wearing a shirt when I shouted, not exactly naked, but it was probably still a good show.
I have finally written the sequence of words that will catapult me into unrelenting success.
And you thought it couldn't be done. Fie.
I am the lizard king.
enjoy,
DC
soon accepting authorized share-the-wealth cards
get-out-of-jail-free cards cannot be accepted at this time
beauty contest winner should contact mgt. for $15 prize
or was it $50
not valid in Tennessee
One of my favorite historical facts has always been that George Washington, our first commander in chief, president and all-around rather great guy, was a hemp farmer. Hemp was used for rope.
Today, I read that Washington's diaries include disccusions about sexing hemp plants to prevent pollination of the female plants. Nobody likes smoking seeds.
It is said that Washington Wacky was much better than Jeffersonian Ganja, but Franklin still preferred to party with Tom. George was always bogarting the smoke. That's the joke behind the monument, representing a joint crushed by Washington's interminable grip. The masonic memorial in Alexandria is a bong. Look at them - you'll see what I mean.
enjoy
DC
I stopped by one of the buildings downtown for a bite. My old firm hovered thirty-six floors above. Hundreds of people shuffled past me. I don't know if I saw anyone I know but I am certain that they saw me.
I am putting together a patent group that will soon dominate Texas. Texas will become the source of all invention. I have always had fantastic dreams. Now, I have the skills to make them real. Preparation pays off. Who would have thunk?
I am making a spectacle of myself, with a fuzzy mane and a naughty smile. Look at him. Who's he? I can't take over the city if no one knows who I am. I will be known and readily identifiable. I'm confident that every single person will recall the first time they saw my afro. It is quite unique in the greater Dallas area.
Part of taking over is managing publicity. To everyone who sees me, I'm obviously either a rock star or a genius. Who else would dare?
I don't dare idly. I have met humanity and I'm not that impressed. Many people have skills, but there are very few people who can out-know me on all fronts. I'm your equal in some arena - count on that.
First there were the ranchers and then the oil men. Ross Perot took over and then Mark Cuban went to the hoop. DC has just taken Dallas.
Big hair in the big D. It just seems right.
DC
We have a saying in Texas - you don't ask a rancher how many cattle he has. If he wants you to know, he'll tell you.
In other words, mind your own business.
What is he thinking? Why did he do that? What does he want? Where is he going?
None of your business. Not only for his sake, but for your sake. When we busy ourselves in other people's business, we are neglecting our own. Mind your own business. Don't try to remove the mote from your brother's eye until you have removed the beam from your own.
The other evening, I took Cats over to see Callie, curious to see what I had seen within the girl. As we approached the bar, I noticed two young women sitting at a table near the window. As they watched my approach through the glass, the blonde said to the brunnette, "there's that guy again." Lip reading can be quite easy in some cases. Titters, laughter and blushes.
After watching the band and talking to Callie, I changed seats with Cats, curious to see the girls who had been diligently paying attention to me since my arrival. If I moved to the music, they would soon be moving to the music. If I watched them for any time at all, they melted under my gaze. I amused myself for a long time with their reactive responses.
The guitarists in the band continually overplay - the exuberance of skill that makes players fast and flashy, showing off their skills without any regard for the song they are playing. Sometimes less is more.
I ran into Nathan - a bartender at the Pit - and called him "good old reliable Nathan." He looked at me as though I was deranged and I was disappointed to find out that a man named Nathan had never seen "Guys and Dolls." Assumptions make communication difficult.
I have grown accustomed the fact that about two-thirds of the people I talk to will give me a blank stare when I tell them I am a patent attorney. A lawyer who protects inventions. Ahh. I enjoy claiming my title, knowing that most patent dudes are exceedingly wealthy and comparatively happy. Only software engineers dislike us and that's because their view of reality is very myopic.
Most of the non-recognizers immediately tell me about their uncle, sister or friend who has invented the most remarkable things. I have helped many of these people, although mostly I have helped them to save their money. Most great ideas can be monetized without a patent. Patents are not a trophy, for they say nothing of the quality of an invention, speaking only to uniqueness.
One of the main reasons something has never been done before is because it proved to be a stupid idea. It is very easy to get a patent on a stupid invention. A worthless patent, but government certified.
As an examiner, I liked make up new standards. Not patentable because the invention is stupid. Not patentable because the invention represents a step backward in the art. Not patentable because I just don't feel like it.
Most patent attorneys are familiar with the last one, only suspecting the truth. Bureaucrats are not fueled by reason and a need to do right. A political element stands behind them. Arguing with a bureaucrat rarely, if ever, produces positive results. Bureaucrats must be befriended.
When a cop stops me, I thank them for enforcing the law and for holding me to the appropriate standard. I blame myself and encourage them to make me pay for my crimes. I become their ally, eager to help them help me by punishing me. I express remorse, shame and gratitude for being reminded of the importance of our laws. I never, ever, ever ask for any mercy.
I'll bet I get out of more tickets than you do.
enjoy,
DC
It occurs to me that I have known one other mexican girl. I have known scads of people of american dissent, but I don't know that any were of mexican descent although I'm sure some were.
Toward the end of my stint flipping burgers, we were joined by a young, timid and oh, so lovely girl with a pretty name that is perched on the tip of my tongue. Rosita. Rosalind. Hmm.
She was only fourteen, requiring our manager to do a great deal of extra paperwork and limiting her to weekend hours. Her smile was as sweet as she was timid. I had an enduring crush - I was seventeen - for the months she worked with us - enchanted and respectfully silent.
I have learned to enjoy the diversity of womanity. Cultural differences can create difficulties but they also lend excitement. Differences offer wonderful opportunities to learn. That's worth something.
I have always enjoyed the romance of Mexico.
enjoy,
DC
Discussing the state of my hair, my daughter pointed out that I look as though I might have an african ancestor or two.
While I was in DC, I once told a girlfriend that we believed my maternal grandfather was black. In truth, I didn't know anything about my mother's father until a few years ago - a gregarious germanic with no more than the basic hereditary variations. We still don't know where my coloring - and my mothers - derived from.
My black heritage was spread seriously among the staff by generations of clerks. Invariably, Tracci would tell a sister who would then doubt the truth. But Tracci had proof.
Watch him walk.
"Do you walk like a black man?" my daughter inquired.
"I guess," I replied. "I can't actually see myself walk, so I can only tell what I have been told.
According to a terse journal, my mother's father fought with my mother's mother in 1943 when my mother was two and my aunt was a newborn. "John and I fought. He left." Until ten years ago, this was the limit of our knowledge. For reasons we may never know, he enlisted and was sent to Europe to help stomp the Nazis. When he returned, my mother's family refused to let him see his daughters or even tell him where they were.
Until my mother was fifty-five, she believed her father had simply walked off and abandoned them. Shortly after he died, she found his family in California and learned he had spent many years travelling the plains, in search of his girls. Nothing she knew was true - her grandparents were the real culprits.
Weird world.
Perspective is always subject to sudden, drastic changes.
My step-grandfather survived Guadalcanal only to die with my grandmother in a hotel fire in Emporia, Kansas. Their tragic end forms the tableau of my earliest memories.
enjoy,
DC
I really hadn't known much about Selena until the other day when I caught a show on her murder. Incredibly lovely woman. I love it when the Universe briefs me before an encounter. These incidents have taught me to pay attention when the Universe seems intent on tutoring. To my uninformed eye, Cynthia looks very much like Selena in some very positive ways. I don't know if Cynthia sings or dances, but I would be glad to watch her do either.
Her skin has a sultry tanned smoothness. My thoughts dwell in indecency.
enjoy,
DC