Of the seven muses of ancient Greece it seems fitting that the singing goddess Melpomene would become known as the muse of tragedy. Even so long ago it was obvious that the inspiration of song, dance, and literature stems from this same fountain. I see no reason for it to be different for me, or for anyone.

My inspired moments most often have their roots in a sort of melancholy which alternates between the preponderously mundane and the factitiously contrived. Regardless of earnestness or pretense, the resultant state of interminable woe regularly leads toward a steady stream of artistic creation galvanized into being by what Twain refers to as a "storm-swept desolation". Some nights, like tonight, I find it difficult to rest, not because of any particular dysphoria or anguish, but rather in response to my own reverberation to this state. The muse strikes with such force, such potency, that I am exhausted of any inclination towards any real production. Instead I am left with something akin to a metacognative rambling on the nature of my own... nature. Perhaps it's simply a contradiction of my own fatigue and obstinacy.

Whatever the rationale, it's clear that I am not alone in this consideration. It was, indeed, just such a time when Twain's character finally heard the muse clear enough to let go of her clouded countenance and put the last remnants of her old life to the flame. Melpomene's song is, after all, quite intoxicating.

What line separates the personal me from the public me? Is it even a line? Does it move around? I say so much on here but even that is in vague riddles half the time. And why? Other people ask me why, I ask myself as well, but there is no real answer. I'm not comfortable. I don't like other people to know things. They can use that knowledge then. They could tell more people I don't want to know and everything could spread. Am I hiding something? Sure, I'm hiding lots, but nothing specific. I don't have a secret book in my closet of all my dirty history or anything. It's everything all at once.

Some people are so happy to tell your their life stories in five minutes. Others claim no secrets at all and say that everything they do they wear on their shoulder. But most of us hide. We are wary to share our pasts because of the hurt they caused us or others, or the fears we have about how others will perceive us. I'm a little of all of that, and a little of something different. I enjoy the mystery. I enjoy the private life, knowing that others don't know me. It makes me smile when I'm in bed at night and I think about all those secrets bottled up inside. Is that a secret in itself?

I was at a wake yesterday. A lot of things run through your mind when standing in front of a coffin, looking at the deceased body of someone you once knew alive. I like to imagine that they are all the same thoughts. That everyone thinks the same few things. Maybe something like:

• What will I look like when I'm gone
• Will I even care?
• Will other people think the same thing when they look at me?
• How will they remember me at my wake?

The list isn't really that large. There is, of course, a good deal of memory of the deceased. Thoughts, wishes, prayers to that person. And the rest, I feel, must be very self-centered. Perhaps it's just me and my selfish ways. But maybe it's all of us, like I imagine.

I don't fear my secrets after death. Letting them die with me will be just fine with me. All those people who entrusted things to me, all of those moments in my life, all gone. It's a beautiful things, really. How much can people really remember about you, anyway? I'd much rather take things to the grave then let the world digest upon scraps, taking only the barest of interests. Does that make sense? Selfish again. They're mine, my secrets, and I'll keep them forever.

But the end will decide. We'll see what I do, how I fare, and who I tell. It's a short list so far.

"There are two kinds of people in Alaska: those who were born here and those who come here to escape something."

Sometimes the past comes back, not in a hurtful way, not in a manner of sublime sadness, or even in a way of longing. It just comes back when you don't expect it and says hello. I imagine myself opening the door to my apartment looking outside and seeing my old house in Maryland or a sandy trail in Jersey, or a frozen bridge in tabernacle. It's not that it's surprising necessarily. just definitely unexpected.

How can I explain some people in my life? Years go by and rather than get less important, some individuals seem to get bigger, more full of meaning and relevancy. Old yearnings transform into complex criteria for future relationships and the most painful moments become the most valued. In this, still, there are fires burning deep inside that warm me to my core where once they burned me deeply. Is it the same when a beaten child finds a sense of comfort in it?

So the past wrote me, as it was. Soft underbelly... When I think back, I can't remember more than two times that I ever found weakness in those eyes. Perhaps that was one of my early faults. I've become a much stronger person since, but even so, it's nice to be offered a sign of weakness. It's comforting.

So I'm an addict born of my early pains. I'd like to think we all are, but that's wishful thinking and I'm anything but an optimist. I will talk to her, and she will lose something for that. Maybe I will help her and she will get something from it, or maybe life will take a direction I don't foresee. I'd like to believe that can happen in a good way.

The crux of it is that my life is defined by people. A very short list of people. And at the top of that list is one person who, through no fault of her own, I find both intoxicating and nauseating. The best mental image in my mind is of her smile, and yet I've never known such pain as that very same moment. It is these complex feelings that make up me, as James at least. As for the rest of me, well... that's a whole different post altogether, and one I don't expect will come out anytime soon.

I smiled sadly for a love long lost
to tears and wishes and dried up wells
and inside felt a great wall crack
splitting side to farthest side
a dam flooded with torrent anew.
From wellspring to memory, I
lost inside the downpour
left dry, cracked and empty
now inside filling with brackish delight

Breaking away the docks washed by
hurled in a sea of storms and
tore from me those lingering dreams
and anchors to the past.
Set adrift the touching the breathing
and perfumed hair of long gone winds
pulled along amidst the waves
to endless sky and endless sea.
On this shore buried deeply
my feet and legs and torso drought
with fear or pain or numbness parched
for any small piece of rain to fall
of waves to splash or sweat to rise.
Waiting in vain for tears to fall
when all had washed love long away.

New York was finally destroyed in a miraculous blast. It was like the buildings were suddenly candle flames blown into nothing but ash and memory. The whole moment was over in a flash of an eye and all that was left was the grey of loss. The city, once filled with vibrant colors, lights, ambition and power was now an empty shell, like the creature who lived there had stepped out, leaving behind only this floating husk upon the earth.

I remember sitting in a pub, days before, after the first wave hit. A few blocks to the East had taken the brunt of the damage, but even here, in the heart of the city the signs of the water were clear. Debris filled the streets. People didn't drive anymore, the abandoned cars filling the roads made it impossible. Inside the pub, I went to order my usual, but the waiter made excuses. Glancing around, the place was bustling with people in every corner. Where they didn't have enough seats, the management had put up collapsible tables and folding chairs. Everywhere people came out to eat. Whether it was an escape from the memory of what had happened, or perhaps they had lost the ability to cook at home, whatever the reason, from here to Chelsea every restaurant was filled with people. The waiter looked anxiously at me, ordering a meal that took long preparation time. "Just a Guinness, then."

The hours were getting closer, I knew. I could feel the pre-tremors of the next warning, of the next sign. People were oblivious, walking in fear of another tidal wave, more of what had already happened. I knew, however, that it was only the beginning. It was a precursor to what would come. Soon, everyone would see the end.

I didn't say anything to anyone. Perhaps it was part of the unspoken arrangement that let me knew what was to come. I couldn't tell, and I couldn't leave. I was tied to this place until the end. I would feel the pain of a city dying. Of a city already dead. The faces in the crowd were masks upon masks. No one talked about the wave. No one talked about the damage. They talked of theatre, of bands and music, of dancing, of drinking and dirty jokes. The eyes of the room saw nothing. Emptiness filled them like a void threatening to engulf the world before it had time to turn on itself. Everyone was a piece of this death. It was their arrogance, their blindness, their lack of faith. They thought the world was theirs, but it would show them otherwise.

The days were filled with omens. Earthquakes, insects, heat waves and hail in the same afternoon. When the fog settled over the city, so thick it stuck to your skin, clung to you like it was trying to suffocate you, to hold you embraced and touch your lips, to draw out that last bit of life left inside, the city called it a relief. Though they must have felt it inside by then, they were already empty. It was too late to change, too late to admit they were wrong. The twinge each person felt that day was a subtle remorse, and echo of God's sadness, perhaps. The earth held itself huddled by the fire of the sun, trying to warm away the unbearable cold, too ethereal to be felt by these people, yet somehow present in each of them. It was as if they were the cold itself, chilling the earth, God, the very spirit of life.

When the moment came every knew. They stopped, in their cabs, in the schools, restaurants, clubs, bars, bedrooms and bathtubs. They stopped and looked up, whether inside or out, and they saw. No ceiling, rooftop or subway could block their vision. No mortal structure had the power to block out that light. It fell slowly, unbearably slowly, and caused such anticipation that more than one New Yorker felt the familiar tingle of watching the new year's ball drop. They cried out, silently, for the light to touch them, forgetting for that last instant their insolence, pettiness, sarcasm and scorn. They cried out, silently, and were forever silent.

A young man walking in the airport cried a single tear, thinking of his sister across the sea. An old woman, too pained from arthritis to crane her neck, sobbed without sound as she thought of her grandchildren a few blocks away. A lawyer sitting on stone steps with a sandwich and her briefcase let her livelihood fall to the ground and lowered her face. In an instant it was done.

Squeezing through tight spaces in life drags things out of you that you never knew you had. The same can be said for floating through those great open stretches that demand nothing. It's a different type of discovery, of challenges, but that's what life is about. The differences from situation to situation make us who we are, or at least determine how we deal with the world. Some people can fly through the tough times and drag listlessly in the freebie moments. Others are the opposite, of course. I think I deal moderately well with each. I get very stressed when workloads get beyond me, but I think I get equally stressed (in a different way) when I have nothing at all to do but wonder.

I need some time to myself. Not this moment, but in the near future. A few days maybe, a month, a year. Something. I need to shut myself away in my bedroom, read a few books, listen to good music, and not speak. Meditative, regenerative... just a break. There's been too much thinking going on and not enough growth.

Somewhere between busy and empty is a place where I exist, "be", and accomplish dreams. It won't be found on a computer, or in a school, or at a job, or in a cup of coffee. It could be found in a garden, a subway car, or a bathhouse in Rome. Or on a trail, with a dead leaf in one hand, a sigh ready in pocket, or a steak-knife in hand. Zen is such an odd idea, but it fits what I mean sometimes.

The other night, a piano practice room was open on the third floor of the IT building. I was in there for a bit with a few people. I played a lot of fun things on that piano. Well tuned is nice. When I was alone, in those moments between visitations, I played things I didn't think I'd play ever again. A song I wrote a long time ago. Not very good or anything, but a very meaningful tune. It was a song of leaving, of endings and changes. Like the hanged man it dangles with a force of both dread and anticipation. I played it on the verge of tears, remembering those feelings I've lost since I wrote it. Hoe much love did I have bottled in me that created that piece. How is it that it's remained inside so tightly, so deeply buried, that it can burst forth again with the same vigor yet be completely dormant for so long? What does that mean for love? What does it mean about me?

The slow days bring on memories or fears. Worry drowns out the relaxation, saturates it, and leaves a swampland where green fields were imagined. One day there will be a happy medium between the dirty city gutters of crunch-time and the spoiled earth of this wasteland. It's already there... buried deep, silent, powerful and anonymous.

In a little bit of time, I'll have finished my undergraduate degree and with it, all of the expectations of schooling anyone has ever had for me. In essence, this means I will be free to do whatever I please without any pressure from family or friends. Of course, that isn't completely accurate. I'm a smart guy, I've done well here, and so people do expect me to go to graduate school. It's not like I don't want to, either. I think graduate school could be really fun and give me a lot of time to do projects I would like to do. I have scripts I'd like to write. I'd like to work on publication in some academic journals. I'd like to do all those things that make you respectable in the academic community. All of that really intrigues me.

So why am I bitching about where I am going to be next. Why do I still feel the itch to move on if I'm happy here. Well, happy isn't the best word. I'm satisfied here, certainly. I can breathe a bit. Life isn't too fast like in other places. I am no overwhelmed by anything at the moment. In fact, I'm doing better than a lot of people. But satisfaction does not make me want to stay. I fear that even if I were incredibly satisfied by what I was doing I would still feel the urge to go.

I am a Gypsy. I have Romani blood coursing through my veins and I've given a lot of thought to what that means for me. I'm a very spiritual person and I take into consideration mystical meanings and consequences for nearly everything I come into touch with. Speaking along these terms for that blood I spoke of, I feel that it is inherent in me spiritually as well as genetically to desire a nomadic existence. We are creatures of tendency and routine. When we do something often, it becomes ingrained with us us. If it is something important to our survival, that imprint is often passed to our children and to their children. It becomes part of the living spirit of a people to follow these methods. It could be theorized it may have some part in evolution as well, but the science of a thing is less important to me than the spirit of it. I can explain the spirit, justify it in my mind, without expensive equipment and years of research. So when I say that I am a Gypsy, I don't mean that as a simple metaphor.

Josh has his theories on people, their paths and success in life. It's not an uncommon view, that we each have a path we should be on, and if we work along that path, or near it, we will be happier/do better/be successful/be awesome. He thinks my path is a very random one, where I made odd decisions and move from place to place all the time. I'm inclined to agree. I am not happy "here". I don't mean Indiana. I'm just not happy where I am. I can be for a little while, but I need to move on. Can I justify graduate school to myself as moving on? Maybe for a few weeks I'll be able to, but certainly not for the entire year and a half. So what after that? Will I fold and move to Alaska?

My friends have left me a lot of great responses on my last journal entry about this very topic. All of them seem to feel it's most important to do what makes me happiest, which I can't argue with. Does the adage apply to me, though? Does it apply to a life of constant change? It's hard to justify throwing away good opportunities over and over again to jump off a cliff.

But that is me. That is what I do. I jump again and again, even when I try hard not to.

I remember years ago, I was in a club, Haven, or Asylum, or one of those Philly clubs that was around briefly that I used to hit pretty often. I ran into a friend there I hadn't seen in a long time. She and I kept looking at each other all night from far away. We looked so familiar to each other, but when you haven't seen someone in a long time, seeing them in a completely new setting makes it difficult to put together faces and names. Towards the end of the night, she came over to me. I was sitting on a red velvet couch in this heavily smokey red room trimmed by chrome, mirrors and hanging strips of black velvet. It was the inspiration, decor-wise, for my bedroom. She stood near me for a minute and then she sat down near me in a chair. She started fanning herself with this advertisement for a local DJ. Her dress was long, a style which I enjoyed that lasted only a month or so at the clubs. She looked away from me deliberately, perhaps waiting for me to recognize her. I didn't, of course. My memory was terrible even then. She talked to me later that night as we were both leaving. She said she was scared to talk to me because she wasn't sure I was there. In the red light at the club, she said I tended to fade into the light a bit too much. She was on drugs, of course, but it made me smile.

That moment we shared was enough for me to trigger a desire. I got a feeling in my head, an itch, an opportunity. We drove to New York that night. Her car. Her room was bathed in red too. That's when I first discovered that a woman's skin is most beautiful in red light.

It's hard to know what the right thing is when the right thing for so many people is different than yours. My life is a string of random incidents, events strewn together haphazardly. I see each moment like an impressionists painting, more the feeling of the moment than the moment itself. It wears on me. "It wears, sir, as it grows."

I am staring out of my own portrait these days. My world is becoming so saturated with the same things day in and day out that I'm ready to burst. It is new media, it is working on projects I don't feel more than a passing interest in, it is surrounding myself by people whose interests fulfil only one of my own. Most of all, it is this place.

I hate being stagnant more than almost anything else. It get this itch, perhaps my gypsy itch, that propels me to leave, to walk away and change to a new life. Every day it gets harder. Every day I feel like I've sunk into the mud a bit more.

So now I am looking beyond. Not in the excited way of expectation. Not in the interested way of philosophy. I'm looking ahead in the yearning way, the way that nearly brings me to tears, the way that is so frustrated, so amazingly antagonized that I can do nothing but sit and stare. It's like I've already given up.

Tonight I was quiet. Less talkative than normal. I was made to notice because of what a friend of mine told me. I can't keep up the energy to talk most of the time. I am way to tired. Like now. I am exhausted, utterly, waiting for something to change. Bed tonight will bring no comfort in the grand scheme of my life, but at least I wont be yawning.

Someone tell me why I didn't study religion and mysticism in college? Someone tell me why I, a person who values his individuality, his freedoms, and his sense of being alone more than anything... someone tell me why I feel like I want someone to lay against at night. It doesn't make sense. People never do.

When I drive late at night, I tend to retreat into my head. I guess I retreat into my head just about all the time, but it is especially true when I drive at night. On the way back from my parents house tonight, I was driving Josh back with me, but we didn't say much at all. I was looking at the stars above the treetops and the strange lights of the moon cast across the urban settings. It made the whole thing seem really out of wack. I felt like I was way out of the world, far back in my head in some place where nothing would ever touch me again. It was comforting and disturbing, at the same time. Not at all like normal meditation for me.

The last time I remember this disconnection, the one that wasn't completely pleasant, is from late October my junior year of high school. It was the time when I worked at the haunted hayride with Colleen and Stephanie. Come to think of it, that might have been my sophomore year. Who knows. The point is, I was walking through the woods and completely out of my head, out of control, out of my mind. I was dancing around campfires one minute, crouching in the cold wet grass the next and for some reason that was the entire world for me. There was nothing outside of that camp, outside of the hayride. Such an odd place to find yourself, as the final haunting grounds. I wonder if it might be some manner of afterlife for someone.

I guess it's normal to have moments like that. Maybe the turkey overload did something to me tonight. Maybe all the triptofan was flowing in my blood and made me a little too lucid. That's what it felt like, a lucid dream. Not quite real, but real enough to claim it is. I should have shrunk myself or started flying when I had the chance. Instead, I am blindfolded with earplugs typing this entry. I'll go back and format it in a minute and correct my spelling. I can't stand when I do a sloppy job these days. Gah... what horrible rambling.

To the point? I swear sometimes that life is too complex for its now good. I wonder if I am meant to really do it like other people. I don't think I want to, and sometimes I doubt if I really can. It's depressing. I want to get a house-husband job or something on occasion so I wont have to worry about the hustle and bustle. I want to focus on one thing at a time, on loving and being loved (I just listened to Nature Boy as performed by Nat King Cole), or just being. I want to rest my eyes, meditate away the hours, and feel that my life was spent doing more than following suit. I don't think people are suited for this job. For this illegitimate spirit-drain. Ugh. I want to retreat sometimes from it all. I want to retreat most times.

I want to be a father one day. I want to raise children and teach them what I've learned and set them off to make their own mistakes. I want all that stuff, but not work, not dancing at clubs or buying sheek clothes, a new car, or daycare. I don't want to worry about flossing, or flavored ice-cream. I most certainly don't want to worry about "work". I think I'd be happy doing what Lemieux is doing sometimes. It may be a lot of so-called work, but it's honest. It's doing physical movements, exploring, guiding, teaching. I don't want my life to be constrained to this chair and this machine. I feel like to do so would make all my time here pointless. I think I'm just repeating Markus' complaints, but I feel them very strongly too.

I guess I just want to make the decision soon. Do I really do this stuff? Or just use the education and do something simple. I know what my guidelines say. I hope I can listen to them.

When I was a little boy, I was scared of the basement. I was terrified of nothing in particular. I didn't fear people under the stairs or aliens or a boogey-man. I feared the basement itself.

I wasn't alone, though. I had a stuffed camel that protected me. His name is camel and he still lives up on the top shelf in my room. Camel didn't have a personality attached to him or anything. He didn't talk to me. He was just a stuffed animal that for some reason made it okay to go in the basement.

So, one day I got a plan to stop fearing the basement. It wasn't a brilliant plan, since I was still very young, but it did work. I decided instead of being scared of the basement, I'd make it scared of me. So I made myself frightening, dangerous, deadly. It was all in my head, of course, but it changed everything. I could go into the basement without any fear at all. The whole basement would hold its breath as I passed by, hoping not to draw my wrath.

But the idea didn't end there. It became natural for me. When I would be afraid of anything, inside I would change to become frightening to it instead.

Tonight, a old acquaintance IM'ed me quite out of the blue. We talked, much more freely than usual. She asked, "Why did you like to hurt people in relationships?" And I told her, "I didn't want to be afraid of the basement."

I suppose it's too late to find people online much anymore. The ones I am talking to are either too tired or too enraged in their own affairs to care much for philosophy, eternity, or peace. That's alright with me, though. I'm too far inside my own head to be of much use in that interpersonal ether anyway. There is a story of a monk fresh in my mind that is distracting me from the real world. Perhaps it is the real world breaking through that false busy-bee drama.

There was a monk, long ago, who was loved by all the other monks for his happiness. From waking till sleep this monk would smile and laugh. When others were sad or angry, he would still smile and laugh. In fact, none of the other monks had ever seen him sad or upset. So one day, when the monk was dying, laying in his bed and still laughing all the while, a young monk asked him, "How is it that you are so happy? Especially now, when we are so sad to be losing you?" And the old happy monk looked at the young boy and smiled his warm smile and said to him, "When I was a very young boy, I was sad. And when I saw an old monk smiling and laughing and going on, I asked him how it was that he was so happy all the time, and he told me, 'I choose to be'. From that day I understood. When I wake up each morning, before I am sad or happy or angry, I decide at that moment how I want today to be. Will I be angry, upset, melancholy? Or will I choose to be happy that day. And so, I choose to be happy, every day." With those words, the old monk died, a smile still on his face.

Sometimes, most of the time, I wish I could be that old monk. I wish I had that sense of self awareness in the mornings, that I could make a decision like that. I wish I knew when I was becoming sad that if I wanted to, I could choose to be happy. I wish I was that smiling, loving monk. I love my melancholy too much, however. I revel in that sadness. I find the dreary dream-state to be a comfort, like an old blanket. And it triggers such wonderful ideas in my mind, such creativity that I find fruition in it as well. If sadness had nothing for me, if it were always unwanted, perhaps it would be easier to choose a happy path.

When I broke up with Jen, long long ago, I didn't have a good reason for doing it. I had thought earlier that perhaps I hadn't meant to date her. I thought that perhaps it was to be closer to Colleen. Was that such a horrible idea? I think I felt guilty that it was. Did I love Jen, certainly. Did that justify why I initially started dating her? The guilt said nothing could justify that, no matter how I felt. So I ended things with her, without real reason, completely out of the blue. I found solace soon after with another, and the matter was lost to the past. It was over before I had to worry about whether I was right or wrong. She was no longer my problem. Others took her place. But since then, I have looked back. The smoke long cleared, the way is easy to see the mistakes and to judge them. I was not justified to end things, but nor was I to start them. The problems I caused with that selfishness were large and came back to bite me often and painfully, but there were good things as well. So many good things. The other night I found a book of poetry of hers that she gave me towards the end of our relationship. I read each of the poems, loved them, and let them go.

But I fell...
Deeper and deeper into the folds,
Further into the flame.
You love fire better than I,
I wish I had your eyes again.

I wish I had a great many things,
Things fashioned of oceans and air,
That I could wrap these moments in
So I could remember I was there.
Oh the colors, All the colors,
That tempt my weary mind
To the place beneath your glaciers
That you would never find.
I long to be its queen once more;
A rank yet to be touched,
Until I step down from my throne
In dreams of forever and such.
And these dreams refuse to leave me,
Threatening a thaw,
Allowing you to see me
In springtime's hungry maw.
Regard me as a statue,
Abhor my seething cold,
Just don't forget I dreamed of you,
Though I'm too hard to hold.

Deeper and deeper into the folds,
Farther into the flame.
You love fire better than I,
I wish I had your eyes again.
    → Jen Kennedy (March 16, 1997)

I really do wish there were someone around to talk to in these late night hours. It's traditionally been the role of my girlfriend through my years. Perhaps that is a special requirement I have, late night conversationist. I could certainly use it these days. Maybe journals are filling that role. I think it might be nice to hear back from her sometime, though. Is that a feature to request on their boards? Anyway, these curtains are pulled back, or drawn forward, whichever way you look at it. I am vividly here, yet distant and aware. Meditative is the real name for it, but I don't think this state was meant for what I do in it. Somewhere, an old monk is rolling over in his grave. That is just my way, though. I love the melancholy feelings. I choose them far too often. I prefer to relive my mistakes than to let go of them. I take pleasure in revisiting those painful moments. They are the fragments of my scrapbook surrounded by stars and stickers. Is it so wrong? Perhaps. I'd rather not forget.

I wish I had your eyes again.

I've had many opportunities to be cruel. I've taken most of them and proven my lack of "good" on many occasions. Betrayals, deceits, the whole lot. Someone told me once that I am wonderful to my friends, terrible to my girlfriends, and horrific to those I'm indifferent to. I understand I can be despicable at times, annoying constantly, and mean with regularity. I don't mind these things too much. My friends still enjoy my company. However, I can look back and feel guilt for those people whom I've slighted wrongly. Those who might have become my closest of friends had I given them the opportunity. People who may have even loved me.

I have very animalistic concerns when it comes to partners; concerns which I've tried to overlook with many of my girlfriends, and which I can subjugate given enough time and energy. Even so, they are built into me deeply, and come into my mind often when appropriate. I'm sure it is based upon a care that my children will be as healthy as possible, and that should be a positive thing, but I have a nagging feeling that to voice my care for the unblemished health of my partner to others would seem taboo. When I meet a girl who has a family history of cancer, or heart disease, or short lifespan, headaches, bone disorders, skin ailments, or any other problem which may have a root in genetics I get standoffish. I worry about adding more problems into my bloodline that I already have.

She was one of the reasons I went to Rowan, though I suppose you could say it was for her ideals. Her group, her friends, the whole lot, seemed like the perfect place for me to seek out next. By the time I got there, though, I had all but forgotten. We found each other later, in many ways. In ways that neither of us had expected, or even desired, in the past. We were growing closer, something which is often considered a good sign, but there were problems.

She had problems, as I said. She wasn't an immaculate specimen by any stretch of the word. In fact, she may have been the single most unhealthy woman I'd ever been with. Had modern technologies and medicines not been present, she surely wouldn't have been living and interacting with me at that moment. And so, with those worries in mind, I severed the problem before it arrived. I ended things before they were started, no matter how good they could have been. A compatible match psychologically, personally, and emotionally we were, but physically, the worry was too great for me.

Did I tell her this? Did I share my very real concern with her and let her know that I had reasons for not wanting things to go farther? Of course not. Somewhere inside I justified myself by thinking that she wouldn't want to hear so honest a comment from me, knowing that she would always live with her health, and having to fear that there were others out there like myself who would turn away from a good thing simply for that reason. I just vanished. I said nothing and that was the end of the story. Guilt built up, of course. But I have never contacted her since, nor will I. When I make a mistake, I like to live with it forever. A bit of masochism perhaps. Maybe like the whip of a monk, it is a bit of pain I keep around to remind myself of my sins.

I think, sometimes, that the reason I fought so hard to accept other girlfriend's health issues was because of that girl. I didn't want to give up another opportunity for my selfishness. I'm not sure how I stand on the issue now, though. Perhaps I'll meet someone really healthy and I wont have to worry about it anymore.

Here's hoping for that impeccable luck of mine to pan out a few more times.

Atonement is an act of reparation made for the goal of reconciliation. I've had more than my share of things to ask forgiveness for.

Every year for the past ten years I've toyed with the idea of finishing my novel. My poor plot outline has changed so many times, been scraped and begun anew, that I never seemed to be making any forward progress. My characters gained a little more depth, my world became a little more colorful and full of history, but the story always hovered around chapter one.

I sat down and wrote out chapter one a few times, sharing it with a few people, taking criticism and editing away. My biggest problem was that I'm not a from-the-hip author. I need planning, careful outlining, character sketches and biographies, country histories and cultural overviews. I need to know the staple products in the region and justify the existence of rivers with the rainfall and terrain in the area. I need to draw up charts of flood cycles, crop infestations, wind directions and migratory patterns. I need to know everything before I can do anything.

And so for the past ten years I've struggled to get anywhere in my novel because I can't get everywhere. This year, though, I'm done. My outline is nearing completion and my world is in a clear enough state that I'm comfortable guessing my way through the rest. I know that the natives of the Monastiraki mountain range subside on staple crops of olives and wheat, and use the two together in a olive liquor that will take the hair off an ox. And I know about the various tides of the Ioma river that spans a distance that would run from Moscow to Johanasburg. All of this I know and it will have to be enough.

Next month is the tenth anniversary of NaNoWriMo. That's the National Novel Writing Month, for those not in the know. The goal of the event is to write 50,000 words in 30 days. That's 1667 words a day, or about 3 pages in Word. The timeline is agressive because that's what authors really need. I know as well as the next writer how easy it is to get wrapped up in editing as you go. You write a sentence, then rewrite it for hours until it's perfect. With NaNoWriMo, that's just not an option.

No time for distractions, for checking e-mail, reading blogs, learning to speak Portugese, or how to tame wild ferrets. No time for procrastination, saying, "I'll work on this tomorrow, or this weekend." No time for excuses.

50,000 words won't finish my book. It will get me a good chunk of the way there, though, and that's what's important. Whether I finish or not, at the end of November, I'll have crossed that difficult chapter two mark and I wont look back.

If any other aspiring authors are out there and want to join me, you can add me as a buddy on the NaNoWriMo site. My username is "jamestomasino". Good luck, and pray for me!

Tomorrow I set sail for Brighton, UK, to attend an Adobe Flash conference called Flash on the Beach. My wonderful company has a program called Professional Development in which employees are given a percentage of their base salary as a bonus to be used on conferences, seminars, training, books, or any other activity that contributes to their growth in their field. What this means for me is that I get to attend one of the premiere Flash events on the company dime. There's no better way to travel than free.

I'm so looking forward to the conference not only for the sessions, but also for the networking and the time I'll be spending touring around Brighton and London. See, I've decided to extend the trip an extra few days and pop over to the capital for some sight-seeing and maybe a game. In typical Tomasino fashion, I've got nothing at all planned for those extra days, not even a hotel in mind. Depending on my mood, I may try to take in a show in the West End, or I may throw it all to the wind and pop over to Paris. We'll see how it goes.

I wish every job had opportunities like this. I hope I get to see some churches.

Back as the millenium came to a close, my friends and I had a lot of good humored conversations about the end of the world as we know it. We talked about what it would be like, all the great things, all the terrible things, and what we would do if we survived. It wasn't uncommon then, or even now, to talk about these things, but most of the time it's done with an air of jest while we hold firm to the belief that our society is impregnable, and that we cannot fall back to the dark times that came before.

But the fact is, our civilization can fall. History has proven this again and again, and we would be wise not to let our pride convince us otherwise. While most people take the path of blissful self-deception, fate favors the prepared.

The possible causes of such a future are numerous, diverse, and lead to different potential problems. While fifty years ago it may have seemed likely that a large scale nuclear war would be the end of us all, today the cause seems much more likely to be economic. Terrorism is still a potential, but a new depression would do the job just as thoroughly and leave the cities untouched. So how do you prepare for anything?

For me, the answer was to prepare for the worst physical destruction possible. The plan for an attack of that magnitude would be simple: get away from largely populated areas to an area of little strategic or political value, but one that would serve a small community well. My solution: Devil's Tower, Wyoming.

In the worst possible situation, the majority of this country would be uninhabitable, but select pockets of land would manage to stay untouched. Devil's Tower is one of these places. Located in north-eastern Wyoming, America's first national monument is outside of the nuclear blast zones and sits comfortably out of the path of the fallout. Obviously, the remote location would also serve well as protection from biological attacks, or even from hording riots in an economic crisis. Most importantly, the land is fertile and accessible with plenty of publicly available maps, trails, and roads, but it is not a highly sought after resource.

Besides the location itself, the most important issue that would confront survival in a post-apocalyptic world is the ill-preparedness of the survivors. Most of us haven't grown up in a world where we are responsible for our own basic needs. Food is easily accessible without knowing how to grow it, hunt it, or trap it. Shelters are built for us. How many people in 10 can honestly say they know how to build a fire in the woods without a lighter or a match? How many people in 10 can make rope from grass, weeds, or bark? How many people know what plants in their area are edible? The answers are fairly depressing. We've become incapable of maintaining our own basic survival.

So in that vein, I invite all of you, my few readers, to join me at the tower in this "just in case" situation. Together, with our skills and knowledge combined, we stand a much better chance of survival than we would alone.

Though it may seem unnecessary or silly right now, talk with your family and friends. Mention that there is a plan, just in case. Let everyone know, if things fall apart, you have a place to go. Don't waste time trying to search around other cities for each other. Just grab your emergency supplies (you have these set aside, right?) and head to the tower.

Here's a few resources to toss in your emergency kit to get it started. Good luck, and I hope I never have to see the monument in person.

• Devils Tower Relief Map
• Devils Tower Area Map
• Devils Tower Trail Map
• North-eastern Wyoming Map

Each place is rarely one extreme or the other. For the most part, every city or town has its mix. In Boston, for instance, I was struck at once by the beauty and life of the place, but it was overshadowed by a frightening sense of entitlement and, dare I say it, snobbery. Most of the others have that type of balance as well.

It's a rare city that makes me feel either totally welcomed or totally alienated, though recently Atlanta has been threatening to fall into the later category. Each day I find myself acting a little more cynacal or a little more angry. This next year will definitely be the last one here.

Luckily, there are some good people here to keep me distracted from the overwhelming amount of filth and degredation. Good people are worth an extra year, I think.

What surprised me most about my fransiciscan endeavor wasn't the difficulty in cutting the strings, but the way my mind and body were at ease the moment each piece went away. Obviously it's hard to give away that picture given to you by your father, or the dresser you've used since you were three years old, but once they are gone and out of sight, there isn't an overwhemling sense of guilt like I suspected would fill the void. Perhaps it was the constant intercession of my interior dialogue reminding me that these things are not the love I feel for those close to me, they are only reflections, signs, stuff. You can't take any of it with you anyway. The mantra was helpful, for sure, but I think the clean feeling has more to do with my own desire for a clean slate (read: conscience) than more free space.

Let me diverge for a moment:

When people asked me why I was giving things away, I had a number of answers. "I'm planning on moving to Europe soon, so I want to minimize what I have to put in storage," was my most popular response. It fit that nitch of both truthful and incomplete while seeming to satifsy the curiosity of whoever had confronted me. You see, questions are complex things. When someone asks me, "What did you do last night?" I hear, "I want to know what interesting things you are willing to share with me about your activities last night." They look similar, but they are certainly not the same. For one thing, my answer is totally dependant on who is asking the question. Do I know you? Are we friends? Can I confide in you confidently and openly? Then, of course, there's a matter of what you would find interesting. Do I tell you all about the time I spent practicing typing to keep my speed up, or maybe about the time spent petting my cat? Unless you're into that sort of thing, I'd probably keep it to myself. So what do I share then? I could tell you that I watched some obscure 80's drama online and that you should watch it too. I could tell you that I daydreamed about writing things for my book or that I spent a few minutes planning out a board game idea I'm working on. Or I could tell you that my mind wandered back to a moment in my life that I'm totally ashamed of and that makes me fearful of my own redemption. There's so much in every question. It's never black and white... unless it's a geometry test. Then I'm pretty sure it's black and white.

Anyway, now that summer has come to a close, I'll be jumping back into my winter hobbies. No, not cross-country skiing; as much as I love it, there's no snow here! I'll go back to working on my book or other stories. I'll write more in this blog too. Winter is my season of introspection, I suppose. What better time to be writing.

At first, the thought was that I would simplify by getting rid of a few highly annoying items, things that are big, combersome, and meaningless to me. So, I made a list. It's hard to describe all your possessions in that way, expendible or essential. If you get nothing else out of this post, I would recommend making that list. You'll be amazed at the results.

Once I had my list in hand, I realized right away that it wasn't enough. I really want to cut down on the clutter, but the things I most want to shed were gifts or heirlooms, sure-in's for the essential list. Not a good start.

So I tried again, this time choosing to ignore the meaning of the item, and instead picking things purely by function. I kept my bed - I like a good night's sleep - the large metal rack, my laptop, my kindle, my keyboard, and my kitchen junk. Everything else is truely expendible. But I digress.

At the core of all of this is a simple assertion, that the accumulation of possesions is not only unnecessary, it's harmful to how I want to live. The reasons are simple. I'm nomadic, and as such, I move fairly often. The more stuff, the more expensive it is to move. Also, it requires me to find bigger and bigger apartments, to fit all my extra stuff. I haven't gotten any bigger - not too much, anyway - so it doesn't make a lot of sense why I need a bigger place. Thirdly, when my possessions clutter my life, there is a large psychological cost (there's a lot more that could be said on this point, but I'll save it for another time). And finally, I get wrapped up in these emotional attatchments to certain items because of their history. The result is a bit of a three-way Catch-22, where I'm unhappy that my apartment is too small for all my clutter, I'm unhappy that I have so much useless stuff, and I'm unhappy because I can't get rid of sentimental things and new ones keep appearing.

So once I decided that I was going to get rid of my stuff, the question became, how much should I keep. My religious aspirations aside, in living my life for the day-to-day, I put a value on what it was I really needed to keep me mentally, physically, and spiritually happy. The result was an overwhelming, "Less is more."

The best decision I made on this front in Alaska was to get rid of my internet access. I let that slide when I moved to Atlanta due to some pressures from distant friends, but the result has made it all the more clear that I can't be trusted to budget my time properly as long as I have this persistent connection. In a similar vein, there are lots of other habits I have around my apartment that lead to time-wasting, messiness, and generally bad living conditions. I'm going to need to take care of all of these.

The next step for me was to evaluate certain special collections or objects. What do I do with all my books, for instance? At first, I thought I would just do the same process of identifying the books I wanted to keep and shedding the rest, but I'm a pack rat. The behavior was passed down from my Dad, and it's alive and well in me. The only way to shed the books is all or nothing. The same goes for lots of other things: records, DVDs, CDs, etc. To go from having a lot to having a little, you must purge.

I won't lie. It's emotional. It's frightening to think of the amount of money I've poured into all these things, and to think that I'm going to give them away or sell them for next to nothing. In the end, I believe it's worth the cost to simplify. The lesson having been learned, I'll hope to avoid this same problem in the future.

So, to reiterate, I'm getting rid of all my stuff. If there are any of you out there who want something I have, please let me know. I'm terrible about shipping things, and it's an extra expense I'd like to avoid, but if you can pick things up and take them away, they're yours.

Here's a brief list of items that will be going: books, movies, music, game systems, clothes, instruments, accessories, computers and other hardware, random electronics, and much more. Give me a call if you want something.

Last night I read paragraph 7 of Pope Benedict's encyclical several times, catching new insights each time and repeatedly kicking myself for missing so much. People have called the current Pope bookish, but I don't think that quite covers it. A year or so ago, I picked up a few of his books written in his Cardinal days, one of which was Many Religions, One Covenant: Israel, the Church, and the World. I remember clearly that night which I read the chapter titled, "The Christian Faith and the Mystical Religions." Afterwards, putting the book down, I felt a great connection to the Pope through his acceptance and his support of a metaphysical study of God. I learned from that short chapter that the Pope is more than bookish, he is deeply mystical and philosophical.

In the above quote from "Spe Salvi," he chooses carefully to leave the word "hypostasis" untranslated, commenting briefly on the trouble it has caused biblical exegetes over the years. Indeed, in comparing the translations of that same passage by Martin Luther and by Thomas Aquinas, we see two very different interpretations. It was fitting that he would choose such a contentious passage for the organizing statement of his second encyclical. Not only does he bring it the fruit of his years of study and inspection, but he draws out of it a wealth of meaning beyond the points brought up by biblical scholars of the past. His evaluations go beyond literal translations and comparisons of grammatical structures. For Pope Benedict, the topic of Faith is not a question of semantics, it's a question of metaphysics.

As I've mentioned previously, for St. Aquinas, the spiritual realm of faith as a virtue was a habitual and abiding disposition, granted to us through God's grace, and practiced through repetition and the power of our will. Martin Luther, on the other hand, who was admittedly never a big fan of the Letter to the Hebrews, read the words to say that faith was "standing firm in what one hopes, being convinced of what one does not see." (ibid.)

While both ideas are insightful and helpful towards spiritual understanding, they are quite different. Two differing lessons taken from the same sentence. What is it then, that makes up faith? Is it a habitual disposition, granted by grace? Is it the will's power to stand firm to things we hope? Benedict explains that they each have a part of the truth.

Hope, as he explains, implies the desire for something to come. It is a focus on the future. Obviously, it makes no sense for us to hope things will happen in the past. Our hopes are undeniably focused forward, but faith brings something more to the equation. "Hypostasis," a word meaning "substance" and so much more, leads the translation to suggest that faith is not a disposition of the subject, as Martin Luther suggests, nor is it simply a property of our disposition as Aquinas put forth. Faith is a wholly unique substance that replies to the concept of hope and provides a proof for things which we cannot see.

Faith, then, is a response to hope--granted by Grace, yes--that allows us to live our lives of hope today, rather than just for the future. We do not close our eyes to the world around us and say things like, "Judgement day will come, and God's plan will be completed, so we can just sit on our butts until it happens." We understand through faith that the things to come are already here, in part, through our faith. Christians understand that it is not the possessions we have in this profane life that define us, but the possessions we claim in our sacred lives, reflections of that everlasting life to come. It sounds simple when you word it that way, but metaphysically speaking, it is profound.

As I re-read this paragraph again and again, I get more and more out of it. That is quite a legacy for a bookish mystic, after-all.

For us who contemplate these figures, their way of acting and living is de facto a "proof" that the things to come, the promise of Christ, are not only a reality that we await, but a real presence: he is truly the "philosopher" and the "shepherd" who shows us what life is and where it is to be found.
    → Ibid.

Long before hyper-modern forms of travel enabled us to escape to a new life or a new world in the blink of an eye, the overwhelming desire to leave, to travel, to explore, boiled the blood of many men. Passion du voyage, reislust, mehetnék, λαχτάρα για ταξίδια, страсть к путешествиям, wanderlust; the words carry the same feeling in every language, but I believe it is the German word 'fernweh' that speaks most linguistically true. As heimweh is the word for 'homesick', so fernweh, then, is that same longing feeling for another, unknown place. It is a farsickness.

Perhaps the why's of wanderlust aren't as important as they once were to me. I've come to know the feeling as a part of me. At times it is quiet, waiting, letting me enjoy a place or people. At times it grows restless and I know it's time to go. Even in those quiet times, though, I am aware of it like I am aware of the gasoline in my car. I know one day the tank will run dry and I must be ready. That readiness is something that's grown over time.

As a child, the choice to stay or go was never mine. I remember times when my parents' jobs would force us to pick up and head to a new city, and it was frightening. I didn't want to leave my friends, my home, my school. I don't know if the lust wasn't in me yet, if I hadn't come to understand it, or if I was blissfully ignorant because of my lack of control. Whatever the reason, those times ended with high school.

In college I took drives, many drives. The need to get away grew stronger all the time and I didn't know what else to do. I packed up the car with snacks, if I had that much forethought, and started driving. The roads took me where they willed.

Once, I remember crossing the endlessly flat, barren terrain of Nebraska. A rail-road ran along side of my car. Slowly I passed by a train, only to stop and fill up my tank and watch the train pass me by again. I think that is when I understood.

Every now and then we throw an old schoolmate over the stern with a string of thought tied to him, and look--I am afraid with a kind of luxurious and sanctimonious compassion--to see the rate at which the string reels off, while he lies there bobbing up and down, poor fellow! and we are dashing along with the white foam and bright sparkle at our bows;--the ruffled bosom of prosperity and progress, with a sprig of diamonds stuck in it! But this is only the sentimental side of the matter; for grow we must, if we outgrow all that we love.

    → Ibid.

Over the years, I've grown better at moving on. I've learned how to pick up any stray roots I've lain, organize my life and possessions, plot a course and set sail. It's never been a sad thing, for me at least, to leave a place. I know I take so much from each stop on my journey, from each person I've met and story I've heard. The experiences fill me with joy and strengthen my faith, not only in God, but in human beings. It's allowed me the distinct opportunity to share in the lives of hundreds of fine people, some of whom I will not see again. Regardless, they are a part of me now.

At times I look back on those people and compare myself, judging whether I've made any real progress or not. Like Mr. Holmes says, "...we cannot help instituting comparisons between our present and former selves by the aid of those who were what we were, but are not what we are." It is not a point of pride, or a means of looking down on the others. The true comparison is against our former selves. When the wind changes, am I a better person than I was?

Wanderlust is not the why. It is not the how or even the what. It is a spark inside that calls for change, but it is the change itself that is the message. What do we want from our new place and people? Who does it serve? What can we do to make it better, make ourselves better? In all my travelling, that is the most important lesson I've learned. I know of no better way to prepare for the journey.

At the suggestion of a close friend, I've been reading The Case for Faith: A Journalist Investigates the Toughest Objections to Christianity, by Lee Strobel. In one chapter, an interviewee makes an excellent point about people who have doubts that keep them from embracing their faith. The claim was that for many people, doubts are a way of justifying an underlying desire not to believe, because the cost associated with faith is so high.

Now, I should say right away that the statement was made in a setting of appropriate context and sounds much harsher taken on its own. I'll also say, as it is said in the book, that it is not necessarily the case for everyone. I wanted to bring it up, not as a way of creating argument, but as a way of shining some light on my own situation.

Personally, I used to find it very hard to accept my faith completely because of a few fundamental questions that still lingered in the back of my mind. These days, I see those lingering questions as being more and more helpful towards me solidly moving forward with my discernment, but it wasn't always so. For a very long time, the questions of faith were a barrier keeping me from everything, even from sitting in a church. But as I look back upon those times and truly evaluate what I was feeling, I have to agree with the book. I was scared to let go of my comfortable life, free from the demands that faith brings with it.

You see, Aquinas was right about virtues being a habitual state, but he also teaches the same about vice. My life, especially my teen years, had grown deeply in vice; so much so that the very foundation of my thought processes and even dreams were centered in them. I fell very low for a time, if not in a material sense, then certainly in a spiritual one. I was a habitually drawn to make the bad decision. It was easier and required less and less internal deliberation. And faith, poor self-effacing faith, was a powerful threat to that way of living.

So I asked myself, "Do I want to believe?" I asked, "Can I let myself believe?" And still, "Is belief worth it." A funny thing happened when I did that. I realized that by asking the question, I had admitted to myself that my faith existed already, that I was surpressing it, hiding away from the guilt. It wasn't pretty.

Even these days, as I know I've moved forward a great deal, I still see the sense of habitual vice in me. I'm a long way from the place where good decisions are easy and simple, but I have accepted that I want to be that way one day. Aquinas also said, if you lack a clear understanding of what should be done in a particular situation, look to the example of the virtuous person. Lucky for me, I have several of them as friends.

Most of the stores weren't very inviting; either selling kids clothes or personal electrolysis kits. We had a little fun in the EB Games, but as our game systems are mostly modded, we weren't really planning on buying anything.

Then we came to the Apple Store. It was a glorious, pearly haven of electronic goodness, bountiful in innovation and style. Behind the counter, the Apple Geniuses were hard at work training and explaining all the latest Mac concepts to the shoppers. Stepping inside, we could feel the excitement. Customers swarmed around iPod touches, MacBooks, new iMacs, and of course, the new MacBook Air.

It was our first time seeing the device in person. The commercials had been a big hit, showing how thing and elegant the design was, but I wasn't impressed. To me, thin meant fragile, stripped-down, even backwards. Then we touched it.

I knew I was wrong right away. As I lifted the unit, I was as impressed by how sturdy and solid it felt as I was by how little it weighed. Gone were the days where the screen wobbles as you walk the laptop around. The hinges held tightly as I closed and reopened it, noticing another nice surprise. Apple had also removed the annoying push-button to open the laptop. On my 12" PowerBook at home, that very switch has recently being giving me problems. On the Air, you just lift from the recessed notch and it's done.

With the outside examined, I wanted to put it to the real test. As I moved my hand to the touchpad, I paused. It had been enlargened to a big comfortable size. I could barely keep my excitement in. I'd been dying to try this out for a while. Opening safari, I went to the first webpage I could think of, this blog, and pinched my fingers together. Instantly, the text size shrunk. I spread my fingers out and the text grew. Multi-touch touch-pads may be the coolest thing since the hotdog was invented.

Plopping my thick fingers onto the keyboard, I was in for another surprise. The new keyboard design was fantastic! Rather than the shoddy loose keyboard faceplate of the old PowerBook models, the Air had a solid metal faceplate with large, unencumbered buttons rising up. No tapered sides or miniature footprint here; this keyboard was solid, easy to use, and comfortable.

I loved the keyboard so much, I wanted one right then and there. I couldn't afford the 1799$ pricetag of the Air, though, so I went the easy route. I picked up the Apple Wireless Keyboard for use on my PC at home.

Without going into too many details, let me just say it's amazing. The smallest footprint you can imagine, with the feel of a full-size keyboard. As I type this blog entry out on a big, clunky, monster of an HP keyboard, my fingers feel dirty. They crave the AWK even now.

Setup had a cost, though. While I'm certain that integrating with a Mac would have been simple, doing so with a PC had a few problems.

First, setting up the bluetooth connection was really problematic. I purchased the Kensington Bluetooth USB Adapter 2.0 from Best Buy on the way home. I followed the installation instructions, set up the Bluetooth device, and turned on the Keyboard. My Bluetooth configuration picked up the keyboard right away and knew exactly what it was, but when I went to handshake and share pass-key to connect, the problem was apparent. The screen told me to type in the PIN number on my keyboard and press Enter, but there was no PIN number on the screen. After some searching online, I found more information on this forum.

In the end, the solutions they presented helped lead me to my own solution, even if they didn't work as stated. I downloaded an old version of the Wildcomm Drivers (v. 1.4.2.10), as they suggested at one point in the forum. The order in which I installed things was important. After a few errors, I uninstalled everything and did the following. I installed the old Wildcomm Drivers. Then when it asked me to plug in my Bluetooth device, I plugged in the USB adapter. It popped up asking for a driver. At that point, I had Windows search the driver CD for the correct driver. When it finished installing, the Wildcomm install also finished. After a reboot, I turned on the Keyboard and told Windows to supply the PIN itself. Voila!

If that wasn't crazy enough, I had a new problem. The FN button wouldn't work. That made it very difficult to perform a CTRL-ALT-Delete. After a few more forums, I found the solution via the utility, AutoHotKey. I started with someone's prefabricated "Apple Wireless Keyboard" script, and edited it to make the eject button into a delete button, which was my preference. Now not only can I CTRL-ALT-Delete, but the keyboards media keys work with Winamp too!

All in all, I'd say the keyboard is downright fantastic. If you don't mind messing with firmware and drivers a bit, or installing and scripting some fancy hot-keys, this keyboard might be a good fit for you too.

For me, the hardest thing about ending a long relationship is not the physical separation or loss of intamacy, but the loss of a confidant and counselor. It is that special person above all others who you turn to with problems and complaints, joys and victories, and above all, heartache. So it is quite inevitaable that when that greatest loss comes, the sword is felt as strongly when striking as when it is pulled away, revealing the hole in its stead.

My first post addressed the confusion and lonliness I was feeling then. It was a pain that was unsharable, but not because there was any uniqueness to it. Most of my friends have felt it before and would certainly have sympathized with me, offering comfort and companionship. That very reaction, though, was why the feelings were unsharable for me. As I put it in that first post, "just let the damned compassion die away and give me someone who will wallow with me and tell me that they 'empathize' instead of 'sympathize'. It can't be that hard to find a person who would rather cry with me than console me."

Of course, that was only the half-truth that I could cry out in the pain of the moment. In truth, the real reason I didn't want a comforting friend was because of what it would mean for the relationship that had ended. To turn to another friend in that moment, away from the loving confidence of her in whom I had trusted for years, was as sure a sign of the end of things as anything could be. It was as simple as that. I wasn't ready to let it go.

So the fifteen entries went by, each darker than the last, each one seeking some new me on the other side of grief. In the two months I wrote, new friends and commentors gathered. I shared with them, the strangers, what I couldn't share with my friends. I poured out detail after detail, condemnation and prostration, and in the end I was empty. The pain was there, floating with me as fresh as ever, but the dispair had moved on.

There was no goodbye message in my last post. It, just like the others, was an empassioned tirade on the falicies of my actions and the entirety of sexuality in my being. But, in the last few words, there was a hint of a new beginning, or at least a new resolution as I continued the ongoing journey I had begun long before.

(The Last Post of that Journal)

In those few months I lived a secret life. I survived on the empathy of strangers and the bitter resentment of my own weaknesses. In those last moments, I fittingly closed a dark chapter in my life with dark, harsh words. It was not a time I am proud of, but it did bring me to some helpful discoveries.

A very dear friend once told me that I am an excellent friend, but a terrible boyfriend. It was never so true as it was with that one relationship. I had all the possibilities one could hope for, and none of the integrity to fight for it. Looking at those times and my other relationships that have fallen for similar reasons, it is hard to dispute the truth.

Some of us are called to lives of companionship, of marriage and family. Some of us are called to remain single, unattached, and free for service.

Were I able to treat those intimate relationships with the same love and affection that I have for my close friends, my calling would be far more difficult. Perhaps it is just another example of how God calls us to good things even through our faults.

The Ignatius House runs silent, reflective retreats on weekends throughout the year. Some of those weekends are themed, where every few hours a priest will give a brief talk about the faith as it relates to both the chosen theme and St. Ignatius' Spritual Exercises. The talks last thirty minutes or so, and then everyone is let loose to wander the grounds, both inside and out, in search of peaceful reflection on the topics. Sometimes that peace comes sitting in a fluffy chair in the library, while other times it strikes you suddenly in the middle of a trail leading down to the river. One thing I'm fairly confident about, though, is that it did strike all of us that were there.

Before the retreat kicks off, there is an informal gathering where people introduce themselves and share tidbits of their lives over cookies. It's a friendly meeting, but you can tell that most everyone is anxious to get on with the silence and enter their own mini-worlds. When the bell rang that signaled the beginning, there was a palpable weight that lifted and at the same time settled over everything. I remember clearly the reaction of a Methodist woman who was very unsure of the whole enterprise when that tiny ringing began. Her eyes widened and searched around the room, then, seeing everyone's eyes turning inward, she smiled a broad grin and closed hers.

I've described the first day's silence as a weight, like a foreign presence that sits on top of everything. You are keenly aware of it, careful not to disturb it, and anxious of the hows, whens, and whats of everything around you. The first few hours, my head raced with things I wanted to say, or ask, or mumble. I mentally ordered them, filed away for safe keeping until later when we could speak to each other again. It was daunting, thinking of how much I had to remember for the whole weekend. I even toyed with the idea of writing down all my thoughts and questions for later. And then we had our first lecture.

The topic was very apt, about Jesus' love for us, and welcoming of us. It was an excellent introduction to the weekend filled with as many questions as it was pleasantries. By the time the old Jesuit had finished his little talk, I had forgotten my questions from earlier. In their place was a warm fuzzy feeling, like I wasn't really there, in that place, in that chair, in the midst of strangers. I was on the first steps of a long journey and there was no one on the road but myself. I went to sleep early that night, dreamed heavily, and woke late. In the morning, things had changed already.

Besides the nagging questions of faith I was having, and the amazing clarity and speed at which I was addressing them, there were other things floating through my mind; like a metacognative awareness of my own learning, and a recognition of the spirituality of the place as a whole, outside of the realm of the people, statues, and paths carved all around. I found a leaf hanging ten feet below a branch from a single thread of a spider's web. Plucking it free, I placed it into my journal with a smile. So much meaning comes from such little places when the silence is upon you.

That second day, the silence was a part of me. The stranger that had oppresessed my speech yesterday had settled into me in the night. When the third day came, and the bell rang again signalling the end of the silence, it was a long breath before anyone bothered to speak up. When the words came out, they were quiet, like they didn't want to break that tenative thread that held each of us in that place. We could feel ourselves suspended by a thread.

On the drive home, I left the radio turned off. I took long winding roads and several purposful wrong turns. I was scared that silence would be gone the instant I was back in my old world again.

This summer, I'll be taking a week-long retreat instead of the short weekend one. Instead of lectures every few hours, this retreat is individually guided, meaning I'll meet with my spritual director once a day and spend the rest of the time in silent meditation. My fear this time is not that I wont want to leave, but that I wont be able to.

My discernment is not an endless process. It leads somewhere tangible. Some day or another I'll take that step, and places like the Ignatius House make me feel that the moment is very close indeed.

To convey information in writing, that is the one plain duty, and the one most easily forgotten. It's the art that overwhelms us and distracts us from our responsibilities. It's the art that tempts our pride with possibilities of greatness, or happiness, or uniqueness. In the end, our simplest duties are forgotten and we are left feeling lost. The line, the shape, the curve, balance and contrast, division and surface: the possibilities are endless and distant. Each of us feels the limitations of our tools. We complain that they hold us back, that we aren't free to express ourselves, but we know that we are only part of a vast machine. We are a small part, putting our stamp where we can, marking our names here or there. The tools are our guides, to keep us close to the task at hand. The message would be lost in possibilities even faster were we free of those few remaining constraints.

Design is like the stars. The beauty is undeniable, but the distance is vast. A glint of light, barely understood, further than we can imagine from our beings, but with a poetry that pulls at us from all sides. The gravity can be felt in our dreams.

Oh why is heaven built so far,
    Oh why is earth set so remote?
I cannot reach the nearest star
    That hangs afloat.

I would not care to reach the moon,
    One round monotonous of change;
Yet even she repeats her tune
    Beyond my range.

I never watch the scatter'd fire
    Of stars, or sun's far-trailing train,
But all my heart is one desire,
    And all in vain:

For I am bound with fleshly bands,
    Joy, beauty, lie beyond my scope;
I strain my heart, I stretch my hands,
    And catch at hope.
    → Christina Rossetti - De Profundis (1890)

As our ships strive endlessly forward into darkness, we spare a passing thought that our engines may sparkle like stars for those we left behind.

In that brief moment when I ceased to be me, when I was empty and void as much physically as mentally, something changed in me. Some deep question that I had thought I would never answer was answered. It was like I found some tiny piece of a puzzle so large, I'd never be able to see it all at once. But just having the one piece proved there was a puzzle. And so, before I did jumping jacks, I was Agnostic, and after I did them, I was Catholic again.

It's a simple way to put it. It suggests that all in one moment, I was converted from not believing to believing; in the blink of an eye, I found God. That's not the way of it at all, though. In fact, my division already called me Reverend long before those jumping jacks. I led the nightly prayer just after lights out. I was the one people confided in.

So what changed, then? I didn't find God in that moment. I didn't recognize or necessariliy believe in the divinity of Christ, yet. I had always been interested in religions, especially in gnosticism, and metaphysics. This was different, though. Something changed the Sacred from an aspect of my intellectual desire, manifested through the numinous, and experienced through hierophany to a totally inhabited presence around and with me. And most importantly, I felt it very strongly.

It was strong enough, in fact, that I felt the need to explain to my old friends as soon as I talked to them. I told them I considered myself Christian again, setting it up before them like a sign they could either accept or walk away from. Despite all of my previous observations on converts and the rediculous over-zealous acceptance and implementation of their new faiths, I walked right into the same trappings. I am a little embarrased now about that time, but I think it's necessary for some people.

So this strong presence was upon me, and somehow I knew it was God, and I knew what the message was. It was as clear as day, but totally unexpressible in words. I was called to something, I had a vocation. I didn't know what it meant, precisely, and even now I still see only tiny pieces of the puzzle. I assume it will always be like that.

Part of me always expected that the Saints felt something overwhelming and precise when they had their revelatory moments. Something in them should have snapped and seperated the one day sinner to the new day saint. I always thought that was how things happened, quick and absolute, like in Bible stories. But even those stories didn't happen overnight. Long years of oral tradition may have made them seem that way, but things always seem to have taken their time.

As an example, though not Biblical, Saint Ignatius Loyola was a soldier in the army when on May 20th, 1521, in the citadel of Pampeluna, a cannon ball passed between his legs, crushing the bone and muscle. While he was recovering from his wounds (a process that nearly killed him) he read the stories of Christ. After a long time, the true message was finally revealed to him and he realized that he had been living for the things of this world, but he was being called to live for the eternal. From the story, it sounds like there and then he was a changed and holy person, destined to become a saint, but that's only the beginning. Just like me, Ignatius found his calling while he was injured in the military, and just like me, he had no idea what to do with the knowledge when he left. He travelled to Jeruselem and back again and to all manner of places for six years before he decided to seek formal education. During those years, he starved himself next to death in hope of finding revelation of God's intentions for him. He ran wherever he felt called and did whatever he could. In the end, time and prayer brought understanding. Later, St. Ignatius would organize that time of careful reflection and self examination into his Book of the Spiritual Exercises.

If God causes you to suffer much, it is a sign that He has great designs for you, and that He certainly intends to make you a saint. And if you wish to become a great saint, entreat Him yourself to give you much opportunity for suffering; for there is no wood better to kindle the fire of holy love than the wood of the cross, which Christ used for His own great sacrifice of boundless charity.
    → Saint Ignatius Loyola - The testament of Ignatius Loyola, being sundry acts of our Father Ignatius, under God, the first founder of the Society of Jesus, taken down from the Saint's own lips by Luis Gonzales (1900)

It's refreshing to be back in the South again. There are some quirks of speech and personality here that I find a little annoying, but on the whole the place is a sunshine filled break from my last rural stop. Alaska was definitely my favorite place to live so far, touting both an incredible wilderness, local culture, and a few diners, but there is something to be said for being connected to the rest of the world. It's nice to know that my best friends are only a drive away, rather than an all day flight.

My job here is also great. I learned a whole lot working at Pango Media about web design and development, and also about the process of working in a small consultancy with quick turn-around times and tight budgets. The experience at a large firm like Moxie Interactive is the exact opposite. I am protected from the wrath and flightiness of clients by my art directors and project managers. My tasks are well documented, and I have a support structure of peers and colleagues whose knowledge of flash and interactive design is on par with my own. When a problem arises, it's good to know I have someone to turn to.

In the grand scheme of my educational pursuits, Georgia looks like it's going to be a great resource, too. The path towards the first Tomasino doctorate seems to have revealed itself in two distinct options. I'm still debating which to take, or whether doing both is an option. I think it will probably involve a long talk with my family for some guidance in the near future.

That being said, my direction towards the Church has never been stronger. I've done some private writing for myself to flush out some ideas and issues I've been tossing around in my head. I feel much clearer these days than ever before. It's hard to believe that I've been discerning for seven years now. The time has just flown by, but I suppose all those years were necessary to take me from where I was to where I am now. It took a very long time before I could have a conversation about it with my parents or even Kristin. There are still friends that I haven't told directly, though I'm pretty sure nobody is really in the dark anymore.

Looking back, when I first felt a call, I thought I could follow it in my own way. It was silly, really, to think that I was in charge of any of it, but that is my way. Mankind's original and greatest sin is pride, and it is very strong in me. Little by little, I've come to the realization that I'm called to more than I want to give, but that's the way of God's call. I am not God, and it's not my will that is the most important thing. A few years ago, when I went to the seminary, I thought that I could follow the path of a diocesan priest where I could continue to make some money, save up, do some freelance work, maybe secure myself a comfortable living. But God gave me a wanderlust that is more powerful than even my own pride. He knew that I couldn't stay in one place long enough to join a diocese. He knew that the itch would prevent me from halfway following his call. The tingling I feel will take me all the way. I know holy orders are in my future, and now after seven years of trying to figure out just how I am going to deal with it, I can say with some measure of self-assuredness that it doesn't matter. My part in the whole thing is so tiny, so insignificant, that in the end it doesn't matter at all. God has set a path for me, and I'm going to follow it, whether I like it or not.

I have a whole lot more to say about all that, but I think I'll wait for another post.

If I do end up living in Georgia, I think the heat will be less of an issue than I worried about. With the plentiful air conditioning everywhere, the wonderful public transit system, and the close proximity of all the wonderful places that don't exist in Alaska, surviving in the city seems pretty easy.

All in all, it was great to see where Markus lives and to meet Natalie. She's really sweet and even leant me the use of her horrible nostril-washing device. Hanging out on rooftops, skipping around in high-class grocery stores, chowing down on apple-pie and installing useless gizmos on other people's laptops is how weekends are meant to be spent. And wherever life takes me, I hope it has a parks like Atlanta (ugly ducks and all).

Last night I was taking more notes on Rudolf Otto's book, The Idea of the Holy, when I came upon this quote from William James' work. It is the quote of a clergyman taken from the manuscripts of Edwin D. Starbuck, of Stanford University. It's quite the path leading back to the original quote, but it summed up so much that I wanted to say that I had to track it down. In all the researching I've been doing both for my book that I toy with endlessly and for my own personal discernment, I keep running into the same themes again and again; themes of heirophany that speak to me on a very personal level.

The root of my religious choices have been a series of experiences that I thought were unique for a very long time. When I was in Jr. High School, I found it hard to believe that other people could have similar feelings, or experience what I was experiencing. These days, I seem to have the opposite problem. Having found so many similar people in my life, I find it hard to comprehend those people who have never felt the feeling of religious ecstasy, witnessed the mysterium tremendum, or come face to face with the ineffible truth of their being, "I am nothing, YOU are everything."

The story is amazing in its detail of her tribulations. The author of the article put it well when he compared her trek to that of Hercules facing his twelve trials. Through her epic journey, she was tossed against the shores for hours at a time, hit by a car on her bike, forced up 18 degree inclines for miles on end, and forced to land to avoid the devastation from Hurricanes Rita and Katrina. The pitfalls seemed endless, but she persevered.

The most fascinating part for me was her reasoning, her driving force that made her get up and force herself forward. I was surprised to find that I had it backwards. The expedition wasn't an adventure, it was an escape; a long, painful escape from the pain of losing her fiancée and her brother.

I put myself in her shoes (or kayak) and wonder if that strength is in me. Could I do what she did? With training and time, maybe, maybe not. I think I give myself over to the world in different ways, though. Her technique to find herself was to go looking, to force herself forward, though the next wave, over the next mile, up the next hill. For me it is a matter of stripping away each piece until there is nothing left but me. When I am most alone and empty, I am most me.

Tonight I set myself a few specific tasks to accomplish. I thought I'd be done with everything by the early afternoon and I could go do something fun, or maybe just work out. Instead, I'm still sitting in my office at 10:15, writing a blog post as another print job inevitably fails. I am frustrated.

Sometimes it feels like part of growing up is running into more and more of those tough decisions that aren't automatic. For instance, each of the times I get that wanderlust itching me forward to a new city, the automatic choice is harder and harder. Do I go to Alaska? Do I go to Italy, to Toronto, to India? What about a Ph.D.? Is it time yet, or should I do more industry work. Or the more recent: Do I move back to Indiana and start teaching?

On some level, I feel all important decisions have a bias in them. Nature or God has a built in suggestion, but it gets harder and harder to just choose it and be done. Still, the decisions are all singular ones. Given time, you overcome. But what happens when the problems complicate one another, though?

Do I move forward in a relationship that is good, if a bit scary, because that is the way the choice is leaning? On the one hand, it involves a lot of other good things, such as teaching, moving back where I have already made friends (and enemies), finishing my Ph.D., and an assortment of other bonuses that are equally unrelated to the actual relationship. Things would change, but is it so bad? Well, my wanderlust would be hindered greatly–a problem that doesn't seem too bad now, but can cause big issues down the line. Also, the selfish track of life takes a big hit. Perhaps the oddest confict is the religous one, though.

I've basically put my seminary thoughts on pause while I've debated on this issue. The real complication comes from the way I ask the question: Do I give up the seminary for a relationship, or do I give up a relationship for the seminary? Each question, asked separately seems to lean towards yes. It is right to sacrifice.

I've been avoiding this conversation for a while as I've tried to figure things out on my own. Unfortunately, this decision isn't making itself. All of the choices I'm making here are in a path to put off the choice. I choose not to rent an apartment from my boss that, while nicer than my current one, would tie me to this state for six months to a year. That choice would force my hand in others, were I to make it. So I choose to stay where I am, giving myself more time to try and choose Indiana, to talk myself into it.

Is that really the best thing for me, for her? I know the choice should be automatic, and were it not for the questions of self, nature, and God, it truely would be. I could like that life I see for myself with her. I could get past the headaches and frustrations that will accompany it. I can ground myself in a place and plant roots. The choice of standing up and saying definitively "Yes!" is the problem.

So I bend the rules as best I can. I make choices that will make the big one easier. I send e-mails and resumes around, fishing for opportunity, for invitation. And if these things provide me with a way back there, with a job and an opportunity to better myself, then one of my blocks crumbles out of the way. If I convince her that I'll need to move around, that staying still in the same place for more than 6 years or so will crush my spirit, and if she understand and accepts this, that is another block crumbling.

There are many little choices I make because I'm not strong enough to just make the big one. I play the non-committal game because I am scared that if I choose too abruptly, or without comment, that I will regret, blame, or at worse, resent her for it. Time has been my friend in this, as is the distance of Alaska. I face these issues on my own as I need to, without interruption or distraction. I just wish things were easier.

I forget about more ideas than I remember, and those that get followed through to the end are unique indeed. It's not that I intend to let all these things slip through the cracks. Rather, I don't have a good way to track them all, invest balanced amounts of time, and see real progress made.

Until recently, the biggest blame for that has been the internet. I would come home from work and sit down in front of the laptop. Usually I'd get as far as opening up a website I was working on, or pulling up a google result on woodcarving. Perhaps, if I were really inspired, I would even code a few lines of a program before the inevitable sloth overtook me. The television would come on, and I would open up an instant messenger. Thirteen chat windows and an evening of television later, the clock would let me know in alarming terms that I'd wasted another opportunity.

A few days ago, I gave up my internet connection at home. I took back the modem in hopes of breaking my time-wasting addiction. I can only hope I can avoid the same pitfalls with television or whatever else catches my eye.

More than anything, I need some sort of repository to keep track of all of my hobbies, their statuses, and how much time I've invested recently. It's a project in itself, of course. Time will tell if I'm ever able to finish that one.

While working on my book tonight I fell back onto a popular theme of mine. My mind started rambling over the idea of the hero's journey, Joseph Campbell, and eventually (and inevitably) the Tarot.

It's been a really long time since I've done any Tarot readings of any note, but I suppose it's one of those things that will never leave me. Whenever a friend I know starts learning, a part of me wants to cry out, "That's what I used to do!" Or perhaps I want to just dig out a deck and show them what it's all about. More than likely I am feeling that deep urge within me to jump into the spotlight and show the world what I can do. That's not what I want to be like, though, and I quickly fight back the urge.

I imagine things like this happen for other people too. Sometimes I feel a deep guilt that underneath it all, I'm just a selfish person wanting attention. That's not why I learned what I learned. That's not why I practiced it. That's not even why I taught people. So why now, after all this time, is my only motivation showing off?

Perhaps it's a sign of growth that I'm aware of it now. Maybe I was like this before, but the guilt wasn't there to illuminate me. I doubt it, though.

Tonight, anyway, the motivation wasn't ego. I looked over the first few chapters of my book and realized that I had finally begun the story of the Major Arcana in a way that wasn't obvious or ostentatious. It was almost refreshing to look at my work and not feel completely inadequate or predictable. Of course, I can't say for certain that I'll feel the same way in the morning.

I hope that the Tarot helps me to add strength and clarity to the book. The story is about a fool's journey through the world of the occult, after all. It's fitting.

Yesterday was Ash Wednesday, a day of repentance before God. It marked the beginning of the Lenten season, which runs 40 days until the Easter Vigil. Traditionally, every day during this period was a ritual fasting day in which Catholics would abstain from eating meat. More recently, the practice is only held on Ash Wednesday, Good Friday, and all of the Fridays of the Lenten season.

As with all important days of repentance and fasting, the day is not without meaning. The ashes scored across foreheads around the world today harkens back to the bible when the early Jewish prophets would put on sackcloth and roll in the ashes (Jer 6:26, Is 58:5, Dn 9:3). The act was one of self-sacrifice as a way of atoning, or of penance. Today we don't wear sackcloth or roll around, but the ashes we wear on our forehead carry the same symbolism.

The most vital part of this day is not the act of wearing ashes, or sackcloth, or even of fasting. It is the inner repentance, which these things symbolize. The true abstinence comes from within us and is only externalized in part through our ritual and rite.

This season is a time of atonement. It is a time to thank God, and to look closely at ourselves and examine what we find there. To lay naked before Him, covering our sins with nothing but ash and sackcloth, prostrated and cleansed as we can be, we ask forgiveness. It is a powerful day.

I brought everything home and quickly put it all together. I was ready for a few configuration headaches, so I didn't sweat anything when nothing worked the first time. I tried again, and again, and again. Finally I gave up for the night. I spent most of that weekend and several software installs before the system was finally up and running.

The aftermath wasn't pretty. When I looked back at everything I did, I was left with three dead hard drives and not a single piece of hardware from the original system. At least I had a powerful and stable machine, right? Wrong.

Nearly immediately, the crashing began. It started during certain gaming sessions. I would be playing EVE, or City of Heroes, and then blam! The black screen would appear and my system would reboot. Of course I thought the problem was my video card. So the testing began.

Much time and effort was spent on forums and downl