Turns out this was in the wrong blog! Whoops!

Moving boxes

They must weigh as much as I do

those boxes of photographs

glistening out with colors

so much less vibrant than memory

but better than forgetting.

Washed out smiles and poses

more awkward in retrospect,

not at all jaunty or casual,

but proof nonetheless

of proud presence

at pristine points of interest.

Boxes and albums are bulky,

seldom opened, flipped through

only during a rare relocation

to a less obtrusive locale,

gradually stowed in less

accessible places

until they are only uncovered

in an all-out unearthing.

Disposable cameras

wound up and carried everywhere

clicks converted into

disposable memories

with no convenient hours to waste

in recollection.

Poem:

I was moving some stuff around in the basement trying to get my computer set up and came across hundreds of photographs. They were surprisingly heavy. What struck me immediately was how awkward all the smiles and postures were. The scenes were all nice in that they provoked the memories of the places, but disappointing in how little of the color and ambiance actually wound up on paper. What the photos mostly succeeded in doing was making me want to go back to those places. And I was surprised how easy it is to get caught up in looking at the past, even if the color vibrancy isn't up to snuff.

Observation:

Sunday at my bike race we were parked next to a Toyota Corolla. But this wasn't just any Toyota Corolla. This was the Toyota Corolla S. You know, the sports edition. It's a Corolla, for Pete's sake! The engine is a 1.8 liter, four-cylinder piece of mediocrity that generates a whopping 132 horsepower. This is good enough for a 0-60 time of over nine seconds. I have no idea what would prompt someone to purchase this car. It even had a spoiler on the back. Because when you're topping out at its electronically limited 110 mph, you really need that extra downforce on the back wheels to improve handling. Nothing about this car is sporty, and with the sports package, it just looks ridiculous. It loses the only good quality it has going for it (modest reliability) and only serves to show off the poor decision-making of the owner. The fact that it was at a bike race was peculiar, since the person probably used their really slow “sports” car to transport an actually fast bike.

Exercise:

“Put an athlete, artist, and a fitness instructor in a museum. Add in a broken window and a crooked painting. One of the three panics. Write out the scene.”

Bob rarely frequented museums. They just weren't his thing, but when an exhibit about the human body went on display at the local museum of science, he figured he could at least check it out. Unfortunately, that particular exhibit only took about thirty minutes to comprehend fully. As it turns out, once you've seen one or two skinless bodies, you've pretty much seen them all. So here he was looking at some sort of odd coloring on a canvas, and the perplexity it was inducing was disconcerting. The painting wasn't even hung on the wall properly, hanging significantly askew, but only slightly, as though hung poorly. Bob, being the concerned man that he was, casually reached out and made the slight adjustment to bring it to a level plane. This naturally set off the alarms, and within a few seconds Bob found himself underneath a rather large man in sweats. Being tackled by a football player hurt a lot more than he thought it would. He looked up as the stars cleared and the alarm abated to see a crowd of people gathering above him. Even the artist doing an imitation work of a painting in the next room was peeking around the corner. The black guy glared at him as he got up, saying he had just sprung into action in case Bob was trying to do something more serious. Bob got up and brushed himself off, apologizing profusely. He bade a hasty retreat, only to see the aforementioned artist smiling at him. "I like it better that way anyway." Bob grinned and kept walking, trying to appear casual. Unfortunately, in the process, he walked into a glass door, the kind with handles attached somewhat mysteriously to the door. It shattered, and he did the only thing he could think of: he ran.

Me:

I was at a little race yesterday, but before the event got going, I was in need of a bathroom stop. Much to my disappointment, the closest accommodation came without a door to the stall. The stall divider thing wasn't even long enough to cover my whole body. So I was sitting there with my head poking around the corner and hoping nobody else decided they needed to use that particular bathroom at that particular time. Luckily, the whole thing became less of a problem due to the fact I had diarrhea at the time. So I was done practically within seconds and back on my way to the bike race, which went unremarkably. Naturally, I shall remark on it anyway: I got dropped in the first race, being unprepared for the pace and proximity of racing against good cyclists. The next race was a points race, and I did what I always do, attacking after an intermediate sprint and going solo for a couple of laps. Apparently I even got some points, though I had no idea at the time due to poor announcement on the part of the race organizers. And speaking of the race organizers, the announcer was incredibly disappointing. The highlight was probably when he said the three women in my mom's race that finished in front of her won because they had the most experience. Apparently having just come out of the juniors categories or racing a couple of years counts more than five US records. The announcer alternated between incorrect things and inanely obvious ones. Which, in turn, alternated between humorous and irritating, though the two didn't necessarily line up with the incorrect or obvious. Some obvious things were humorous (it's usually one decisive move that decides the race), while others were not. But the inanity was generally irritating. The prime example was attention being drawn to the way a number was pinned to a girl's jersey. For multiple laps. It was unbearable enough to make me uneager to return.

The last race was structured so that the last two riders of every lap were pulled until they got to five. I stayed in until there were nine of us before suddenly realizing I was quite tired. So I got today off (though the rain would have assured that anyway), and hopefully all of the training I did this week will pay off next weekend, the biggest weekend of racing for the year.

Motorpacing ants in 3D

I've decided my post titles will be much more entertaining if I just combine what I'm talking about into a crazy amalgam of an idea. More entertaining for me, perhaps more intriguing for you?

Motorpacing

I don't know whether physics is confusing
Or just preposterous
As drops of sweat fall horizontal
And bend upward again
Only to stop suddenly
Waiting for my face
To catch up instantly
And stinging my eyes
As they end their journey
Just two inches from the 
Brow where they originated
Dribbling down my chin
Coating my lips
With caked-on whiteness
As I suffer behind the car
At thirty-five miles per hour

The brief vacuum behind
The red bumper
snatches salty drops
And sucks them in
toward the open hatch
The trunk ajar
And the interior hovering
Inches in front
An odd constant scenery
As the pavement cracks
whip past underneath
And bumps in the road
prove the only reminders
That we're making rapid progress
Since the cupholder between the chairs
Remains perfectly still

Poem:
I went motorpacing and couldn't for the life of my figure out how I was getting drops of water splashed on my constantly. Then I saw a drop of sweat leap off my cheek, fly forward faster than I was, loop around, and hit me in the shoulder. I was fascinated. There didn't seem to be any way to predict how they would behave. Some would drop down to the ground, some would shoot off to the side, and some changed directions twice before I lost sight of them. I don't think I've done too great a job getting the description right, but the experience is so brief I have trouble slowing it down in my mind to do it justice.

Observation:
There have been a lot of technology things happening recently, so I thought I'd talk about some of the cool things I've been hearing about. The first is that the three-dimensional television screens are cool for a way different reason than I was thinking about. Because the 3D technology works by sending slightly different images to each eye (forcing them to combine the two into a perspective with depth) it's possible to get two people to see different images on the same screen. The way this is accomplished is by giving one person the equivalent of two "right-eyed" lenses from a pair of glasses, and the other person two for the "left eye." because they block out the image the other person sees, they will wind up with a two-dimensional image of completely different pictures. So one person can be watching something else happen. This is mostly interesting for video games, where shared sounds make a bit more sense, but if you had headphones, you could each watch completely different things. Of course, at that point there's no good reason not to get two televisions. The technology is pretty awesome though.
Another cool little thing is the case I just got for my phone. It has a battery built in, and I let my phone run out of battery and it's been charging off the case for the past four hours, bringing it all the way back up to full charge. I'm thoroughly impressed. It's a bit bulkier than other cases, but doubling my battery life is worth it for sure, especially since I'm going on a vacation soon-ish.

Exercise:
Use all these words in a story: priest, ring, garden, magnifying glass

As the priest pronounced them man and wife, all the ring bearer could see were the ants. The beaming smiles and all-too-modest kiss drew applause from the grown ups, which released his hand briefly. That was all he needed. Sam ducked into unobtrusiveness and hunched his way over to the trail of little figures. They were single file but for one rogue, which branched off from the scent trail. Sam followed the line backwards until it departed from the main walk, diverted onto a side path of loosely set brick. There, in the middle of the garden, he sat surrounded by all the classic wedding flowers. Lilies, daisies, and tulips all lined the bricks, some potted for easy setting manipulation, ready to be shuttled to the reception area or the church entrance should the need arise.
Sam reached into his pockets one by one, starting with his pants. By the time he checked his little tux coat, his search had become a bit frantic, and he patted himself all over before reaching in to the inside breast pocket and removing a little multi-tool, the kind given to kids at science centers to inspire enthusiasm with education. He flipped open it's cheap plastic magnifying glass, found a patch of sun, and with the ease brought on by long practice, directed a concentrated beam of light at the shell of one unfortunate drone. It sizzled briefly, threw off a spark, and the ants behind just continued by unfazed. Even at that age, that was what Sam found remarkable. He had just watched two people vow to care for one another as long as they both should live, and yet here, only fifteen yards away, the ants marched by affected. Sam knew people were like ants in some places. He had been to the city, seen the homeless being ignored, seen the suits stroll past in line. But he had also had an ant farm, and knew that while some people were like ants, there were no ants like people. There were no secluded church gardens, no wedding vows, no pauses in the march. He considered this as he absentmindedly torched another ant, it's thorax bursting in a miniature testament to apathy.

Me:
I didn't bike yesterday due to the weather, and the day off apparently made me quite ready to ride today. My dad said it was the fastest ride he's been on in a long time, and we averaged 22.1 mph for the whole thing, including the in-town stuff. Which means out on-road average was somewhere around 25? I guess. That's pretty good for me. I just hope my legs feel good for my race tomorrow. It's a perfectly flat course, so I'm not thrilled, but I did well there two years ago, so we'll see.
In a good news/break from complaining section, my fingers have finally stopped hurting. It's taken like three months, but the two I dislocated playing handball are now almost entirely pain free. They don't have quite a normal range of flexibiliy yet, but I noticed the last two or three times I've been on a handball court that they're not affecting my shots any more. Nw if I could get my feet moving how I want, I'd be back up to snuff. A combination of tired legs and overconfidence has resulted in me focusing less on the mechanics I know I could be improving. But my left hand has kept improving, so at least some progress continues to be made.

Just some stuff

spilt milk

I was always sure
Hers would be the next call
Delayed with some excuse
Errands, car trouble,
Dead phone

I was always hers
Until that last call
The one that meant no more
Calls were coming,
The one that ripped
The bowl of cereal
From my hands
And slammed it
On the laminated floor
Cornflakes floating
Like life rafts
On the spreading sea of milk
Blueberry islands
And porcelain-piece
Prominences projecting
Into the whiteness
As it made its way
Under the refrigerator

And I sank down and sat
Right in it
My slippered feet sliding
A bit as I splotched down
The wave of milk rolled
Blueberry islands in arcs
As the drips landed
Clear salt water
Homogenizing quickly
As it rippled into spilt milk.

Poem:
I decided to try mentally putting myself in other situations in an effort to think about how I would react to various things. I seem to be lacking most of the traumatic experiences that form staples in the lives of many writers, so this was my attempt at imagination. I was watching tv and saw a girl whose fiancé was killed in a car crash, and I wondered what I would do with a phone call of that magnitude. I thought of not hearing from someone you were expecting to, only to receive that sort of news. And this is what I came up with as an in-the-moment sort of scene. I'm still completely unsure how I would actually react. I think it would take quite a bit longer for it to actually sink in, though. But this just seemed fitting.

Observation:
You know how movies are always predictable? The good guys win, happily ever after, that sort of stuff? Well I watched "The English Patient" and "Biutiful" on consecutive nights, and that was about enough to dispel that notion for a while. Oh boy were those movies depressing. At least the former had a plot and a story to it, though. Biutiful was just an exercise in futility. Watching some guy try to do what he can with what he has, only to have it all fall apart as he is ripped to pieces by cancer was not what I was hoping for when I sat down to watch. Maybe it had something to do with the fact that it was a foreign film, but I just wasn't ready for any of it. Of course, the fact that it was all subtitled made it a bit easier to ignore the emotions that were going on, so at least it didn't hit me with quite the force of a movie in English.
I don't usually get sucked in to movies. I guess I have a hard time imagining what the characters might be thinking or experiencing, or maybe it's just too easy to remember it's all just a movie, but for some reason that didn't happen with "The English Patient." I don't think the acting was all that incredible, really, but for some reason, I just couldn't prevent myself from feeling a crazy amount of emotion during that movie. I guess it's designed to do that, but hey, it succeeded. I'm sure glad the whole tragedy as a popular Hollywood genre hasn't gained more momentum. Especially because it's not always easy to tell that a movie is going to be sad. Based on the descriptions I received for these movies, I had an idea they weren't cheerful, but nothing prepared me for the all-out depression they conveyed. So if more movies hit theaters with trailers that left the whole tragedy thing ambiguous, I'm sure I would wind up mistakenly going to one when I wasn't prepared for it, and who knows what that might lead to. Ice cream could vanish from the Ames area, a chocolate shortage could strike, and my snores from excessive nap times could prove most annoying.

Exercise:
Let me preface this prompt by saying I have no idea what I was thinking when I chose it other than, "that's odd."

In 250 words, write from the point of view of a strand of hair

Today was not a good hair day. Oh sure, the guy with the scissors didn't seem to mind the outcome, but as far as Claudio was concerned, today was a disaster. Not only had he been forced to watch as some of his closest friends we hacked to bits, but, even having avoided the scissors (at least for now, though the first post-haircut shower might reveal his rebellion), there was nothing he could do about the gel. It wasn't so bad at first. Certainly it was no worse than the normal pain of being forcibly separated from his family and friends by a long-toothed comb. But then it started to set in. The wind rushing past ceased to have any effect, and Claudio, suddenly deprived of his swaying, felt the true meaning of loneliness. His friends were beneath him, almost too short to notice, and rather than leaving him free to feel the full measure of the glorious wind, the guy had deprived him of movement, locking him in a layer of clear solidity to watch as his compatriots floundered below. Obviously there was nothing he could do. Any sort of rebellion took thousands of allies, and usually an entire night of planning. Oh sure, there was the sudden uprising they had pulled off with only an hour's prep time, but that had been aided by a shower and an untimely nap. Claudio was helpless.

Me:
As is probably evident, I made time to blog today. I also had a great conversation with my mom at work about quite a variety of things. As a result, I think I have come to the conclusion that it's worth pursuing writing a bit further. It occurred to me that between the two blogs I've written, I have enough words to have turned out a book. And while I've been rejected from all the writing schools I've applied to, I think it's still worth a shot. And I think having this time away from writing has been a good thing. I've started thinking "creatively" again recently, and while college classes were really interesting and a great way to force myself to write, the break I have had has been welcome too. So I'll start carrying around my notebook again, and we'll see what comes of it. The exercise section of my blog might be commandeered for brief sections of pieces, but in all likelihood, I'll wait until something is completed before letting anyone know. The only impact this might have as far as this blog is concerned is that I might update a bit less frequently, or if not, I might just include whatever I've written that day, which would depart from the whole four-section thing I have going.

Tired

Me:
Golly gee willikers. I've been doing a rather poor job of getting this updated. I was sure my schedule was going to be stabilizing, and then I had to go to work on a consistent basis. Who'd have thought a job would require time? And it wouldn't be so bad, but I biked in the morning the past two days, and then went off to other activities in the afternoon. Monday was lawn mowing and frisbee day, which lasted long enough to exhaust me to the point where all I could really bring myself to do was watch a movie, and today I biked for a second time in the afternoon, and then was off to handball until 10:00. So now it's late, I'm really tired, but do want to update. I plan on getting to it tomorrow, but I'm working again, and have a long bike ride in the evening, so I can't quite promise it will occur.

In which schedules are tricky

Titans clash on mars-red earth
A world white-outlined
Yet theirs to define
As a past greatness
Meets a meets a present surge
Independent from
Unaware of
The waiting breath
The hands held inches apart
Waiting for collapse.

Clouds kicked into the sky
As earth is knocked out
Of sluggish sliding shoes
Combining opposites
Entwining brick
With once-clear air
A construction site
Where greatness is built
At the horizon
Of the high-flying
And the pounding ground.

Poem:
I'm watching the French Open during my first bout of free time in quite a while. It's Djokovic and Federer, and it's incredible what these guys can do. I really believe Federer is the greatest player of all time, with the most complete game, the most class, and the most elegance on and off the court. But Djokovic is undefeated this year, and Federer is almost thirty years old. So it's sort of a clash between the ages. The clay surface is an interesting dynamic, and it has detrimental effects on both players. The sliding, the awkwardness it causes, serve to make it interesting on multiple levels, and the mental dynamic results in streaks of brilliance and comfortability alternating with frustration and seeming impotence. My poem is a bit obscure because I guess a poem saying tennis is fun to watch and clay makes it interesting too was just a little too basic. But maybe the obscurity of poetry is a bit gratuitous at times, so I'm sorry if it seems that way.

Observation:
I biked across the country a few years ago, and had quite a few people follow me on a blog then. I thought that was awesome, and it was a bit of a motivation for starting this one. But I never thought I would encounter someone who had followed that other blog, let alone have them come up to me years later on the street and talk to me a bit out of the blue. I had just finished a bike race this weekend when this lady came up from behind me and asked if I was Ryan. When I responded in the affirmative, she said she had followed my blog as I rode across the country and enjoyed my commentary. Especially the bits about Nutella. In fact, she had tried it for the first time and had one of her friends try it all because of my recommendations (read: unbridled adorations). The experience totally made my day. Unfortunately, I have stopped eating Nutella for the most part, which has made me a bit less consistent in my promotion. I just haven't been active enough recently to warrant consuming that many calories. That might be changing, though. I'll be sure to let you know.

Exercise:
Why would an antiques dealer leave town?

He was an antique himself by the time he finally left his shop behind. The sun of a Sunday afternoon glinted off the storefront windows, barely letting the stuff inside peek out. The yellow tinge on his skin might be called by those in the business a "fantastic patina indicating authenticity." His hands were both callused from years spent moving furniture and nimble from exploring the intricacies of delicate curiosities. A pocket watch reluctantly exposed its inner workings, and with a few knowledgeable manipulations, resumed ticking, though the loud acknowledgment of seconds passing bore a rather heavy reminder that time was always of the essence. So as he locked the glass door behind him, he didn't bother peering through the window at the world of objects he was leaving behind. He put the ticking watch into his pocket and strode to his decidedly new car. He took off his tweed jacket and immediately his persona seemed to shift from the archaic expert in antiquities to that of an eccentric with just a little more money than he knew how to spend. His car hummed open, the door thudded shut behind him, and with an ambitious rev, he started on his way. He had enjoyed his role as the local old humdrum with too much time and too many stories, but it was finally time to get away. He tossed his fedora out the window, put on some sunglasses, and headed for parts unknown.

Me:
I raced my bike four days last weekend, so I guess I'll start there. Friday was a 52 mile road race, and I was up against category threes and fours. Since I am a four, I was a little nervous, but it turned out that there were no strenuous parts of the race to worry about. The only people that weren't there at the finish line were the ones with flat tires or other issues unrelated to fitness. And when it comes to a forty person field sprint, I am not the person to be betting on, so I finished in the middle of the pack.
Saturday was Snake Alley. I've been looking forward to this race for a while, as it has one of the most well-known hills in the region. Unfortunately, the hill is well-known for a variety of reasons, not just for its difficulty. One of these reasons is the narrowness of the winding hill. This didn't seem to be an issue for the other races I watched on the course, so I was mostly concerned about the downhill. And then my race started, and the first time into the alley there was a crash that forced me off my bike. I got back on, almost a minute behind the leaders, and started trying to catch up. The second time up the hill, another person crashed right in front of me. I thought about giving up at that point and saving myself for my next races, but the course seemed to suit me and I just wanted to keep going. So I did, and then I ran into a curb on my fourth time up. So I stopped a total of three times. And then with three laps to go it started raining pretty hard. Nobody had traction on the brick for the climb, and I was terrified of descending aggressively in the rain, so I gave up a couple of positions and couldn't catch the leaders. But I finished tenth, which was pretty decent considering what I went through. I heard someone say at the top of the hill I was in the mid-forties as far as placing was concerned in the early going. Making up thirty places after all that silly stuff was good enough for me. My dad said I was turning out the fastest lap times of anyone on the course, so I was content.
Sunday I attacked to bridge up to a strong rider off the front. Travis Jass is a well-known powerhouse in the Iowa area, and I thought we could make the break stick. I hesitated to give it my all, though, and we got caught with two to go. Luckily, I had a little energy left, and on the last lap I was moving up the outside on the hill before the finish when another crash happened. How someone managed to crash on a straight section of uphill I have no idea, but it took me out of contention. I had tried something ambitious, though, so at least I had that good experience under my belt.
Monday I got caught behind two more crashes, bringing my weekend to a disappointing end. I guess I'm lucky to have stayed upright throughout all the flying people and bicycles I encountered, but I'm more frustrated than anything. It was, however, really cool to watch Kevin Severs ride with the pros on Monday. He did a great job, and when I talked to him after he had this to say: "It didn't feel like it was all that hard, but when I looked at my computer readout, my average heart rate was 193." It had been awesome to watch him go from a new rider to a category two, and I can't wait to see if he is able to make it at the highest levels.
So I got back late Monday, spent most of the rest of the week either at work, on the bike, or asleep, and am back at it now with some time to write. Nothing important going on this weekend though, so things should be back on schedule for next week. The whole Monday being a holiday thing just messed things up a bit, since I still had to work two days and rode my bike enough to leave me too exhausted to try any late-night catchup on blogging.

Normal post, a day late

Today is just another
Day he spent dying,
Which is what every wasted
Minute felt like.
Every wasted night
Every hungover morning
When the sheets clung,
Clutched, stuck to skin
And tried to trail
Into the bathroom
A mocking cape of mediocrity.

Joints creaked
Every step a jolt,
Cartilage long gone
Bone on bone,
Back to the grindstone.

Poem:
A bit depressing I suppose, but it's just where my train of thought wound up going. I sort of wrote this line by line, with whatever sounded like it would follow the line before it well.

Observation:
So the world is still intact as far as I can tell. This is good news. It's probably good news every day, but with the threat of rapture having passed last weekend, it's a bit more of a relief than usual. So I was having a good time making fun of the fact that the prediction was wrong and looking at rapture bomb photos (google it; it's funny), when it occurred to me: maybe the rapture did happen. Maybe all of the deserving people did go to heaven. And when somebody says "but everyone's still here" I'll just say "exactly."

Exercise:
Write a fictional news story about an adoption agency selling shaved apes as babies.

A new scam has been cropping up recently in many major cities as environmentalists begin to realize how little people really understand about primates. The movement reportedly began as a joke, with one ape baby substituted for a human child just for humor's sake. However, when the mother hardly seemed to notice the problem, conservationists everywhere saw an opportunity. They underwent the process of infiltrating many major organizations and gradually distributed the apes to foster parents. Apparently there plan was to reveal the identities of the "children" in order to garner sympathy and attention for the plight of their species. This plan backfired, however, when it turned out the apes were better liked and more intelligent than the babies they replaced. When the trick was tried in reverse, though, the apes would have none of it, resulting in numerous infants being hurled a remarkable distance.

Me:
I meant to have this up yesterday but fell asleep instead. But it turns out I'm leaving for bike races in the morning on Friday, so I probably won't update then, making this a good delay. It sort of fills in for both days. I have four races in four days this weekend, which could be a disaster. The biggest weekend of the season by far, so hopefully I stay upright. Not a lot else to say. I'll give a bit of a report either during the weekend or after it's all over. Stay tuned for news, I suppose. Thanks as always for reading!

John Barney of the Ames Police Department is Bad at his Job and a Disgrace to Law Enforcement

I am not in the mood to write nice things like poetry today. This is because of what occurred yesterday on my way back from a frisbee scrimmage. I rolled up to an intersection devoid of cars, hit my brakes, looked around to make sure nobody was coming, and continued on my way, only to be pulled over for a rolling stop violation. I was thinking that would probably be a warning, since the car in front of me and the car behind me did the exact same thing, and there was no chance I had put anyone at risk. It certainly wasn't as though I intentionally ran the stop sign. I just made sure there wasn't any traffic coming and did what most people do when confronted with an empty intersection.
To make things worse, my driver's license was in a different bag. I gave the officer my name and birthday, as well as my registration and insurance information, and he came back with a ticket. At this point, I knew there wasn't anything I could do to avoid paying a fine, so I decided to enter into some dialogue. What followed was this:

He said he just sits at that corner to catch people. He mentioned that he had been there for quite some time. Perhaps he saw the disapproval in my expressions, because he went on to try to justify this use of time by saying there had been a fatality recently from someone running a stop sign. Now, I live in this town. I hear about fatalities. The only fatality that has happened occurred when a person stole a tank of gas and fled the scene, pursued by police. Yes, he disregarded traffic laws, and yes, a person was killed in the ensuing accident, but in no way is a police car sitting hidden at a corner preventing that from happening. So really, his proffered justification was nothing of the sort. He is basically wasting taxpayer money sitting around doing nothing. I said none of this. Instead, I inquired why he had chosen me specifically, when the car in front of me and the car behind me did the same things at the same intersection. My motivation behind this was mostly one of curiosity. If there was something I obviously did differently that could prevent this from happening again, of course I would like to know.

He responded by avoiding the question completely. He said he turned his video camera on, and that he had evidence of me performing a rolling stop. I deferred, acknowledging that I had no problem with this occurrence, but reiterated my question, still hoping for a response. He repeated his response, again avoiding the question.

What happened next was where things became a little more interesting. He gave me my citation, saying it would be $195, but that he knew I had a driver's license, and wouldn't give me a ticket for driving without it. He said that would be an additional $200 fine. He said this in such a way as to indicate he was being a very nice person for not giving me this fine. I said, "That's not actually true, is it? I can just provide proof of my license within twenty-four hours and avoid the fine, right?"
He said I didn't have to pay, because he wasn't citing me. I pressed the issue, saying "I wouldn't have to pay it either way, though, right?"

He said I could "probably" avoid paying the fine, but that it would mean extra driving and take up some of my time.

I said I understood that, but that I didn't like being misinformed by the police. This did not sit well with him. His voice elevated instantly. He yelled, asking whether or not I could do his job. I said no, and broke eye contact, looking at my lap to show I wasn't trying for direct confrontation or trying to be threatening. Then he said he didn't like my attitude, and that I had better not interrupt an officer. This seemed rather threatening. I said, "That's not really true either, is it? Because of the first amendment?"

At this point he calmed down noticeably. His voice returned to a normal volume, and he said "We're done here." I said okay, and he repeated himself, "We're done here." After he said it a third time, I drove off.

The whole encounter left me in a terrible mood, as I'm sure it does with everyone in that sort of situation. I'm not even that mad about getting a ticket. What I do have a problem with is the way the officer was spending his time. And furthermore, the way he deliberately mislead me to make it seem as though he was doing  me a favor. I'm sure many people without a decent head on their shoulders would just crumble in that situation, and actually thank the officer for his generosity. That's what happens when a person is put in such an incredible imbalance of power. But I at least know my rights, and I've been told it's always to my benefit to enter into a dialogue with the police. This was ridiculous.

I wonder now whether there might have been some other motivation behind choosing me as the person to pull over. Perhaps, as he is a young officer (of the same age and gender as me, approximately), he feels most comfortable pulling over people with little risk of a bumpy interaction. I know for a fact I was leaving a practice where there were mostly women leaving, and it seems reasonable to assume that a man of his demographic would hesitate to pull over women, as they might be seen as more prone to make a scene or something. Also, I know a driver behind me was Asian, and in Ames there are a lot of Asians who don't speak English well, which could account for his targeting me. In absence of an adequate explanation, even after I asked twice, I can only assume there was something about me in particular that made me a more appealing target.

In conclusion, I am upset with the officer. His name was on the ticket he issued me. It is John Barney. If you know him or encounter him, please remember that he does his job poorly. I have no idea what sort of person he is, but I am disgusted with the way this particular situation was handled. I put nobody at risk, and it seems like a cowardly way to go about the job of being a police officer. To delude oneself into thinking sitting on a corner and pulling over people who only come to a 98% stop is saving lives is stupid. And to deliberately mislead the citizen afterward is unforgivable.

Update 10/10/2014: This post has been read four times as much as any other post I've written. I was going to re-title it to avoid attracting undue attention, as it was written a long time ago and it is quite likely the same officer is no longer as frustrating to deal with. I actually encountered him again when my friend's dad died and the police were called to her home. I doubt he remembered me. (I noticed right away, as my interactions with police officers are undoubtedly much less frequent than his reactions with random people who don't like police officers.) I wish I could say the interaction completely redeemed him, but really he just stood around and said he was sorry a couple of times. Not that there was much for him to do.

I googled "John Barney Ames" and my blog entry was the second search result. The ones surrounding it talk about his valiant effort saving a girl in a frozen river. Like I said, I was tempted to change my stance so as to avoid future attention. Then I re-read this post and remembered how frustrating it was (both the interaction itself, and the ensuing comments). I still genuinely believe that was not a good use of an officer's time, and still genuinely believe he handled things poorly. If he has gotten better at his job, that is fantastic to hear, and I certainly hold no grudge. The fact remains that this is an experience I had (the whole point of the blog), and I don't want to compromise myself by altering it now, even though I feel awkward that the title might be too harsh. It's how I felt at the time, and that's worth preserving, if only to me.

Finally a real post

Bird eat bird world

A train roared overhead
Legs dead
As a crow picked over a pigeon
It looked at me with a bloody beak
Arms weak
As my feet stopped spinning
Wheel clicking
Coasting and wondering
If crows are frowned upon
For almost-cannibalism
Societal schism
As my back tightens up
With the end of descent
Last uphill battle
Before turning home

Poem:
Pretty much what it sounds like, yesterday I was biking in from my morning ride and saw a crow eating a dead pigeon under the railroad bridge. And because I'm having a bit of trouble coming up with interesting ideas for poetry, I thought I'd just write about that image and try some stuff with sound and form

Observation:
I haven't had a computer for the last couple of weeks, and to be honest, I've missed it less than I thought I would. With my phone and iPad, all I haven't really been able to do is waste time, which I haven't had much time for anyway. This isn't to say I haven't missed it at all, but now that I can put everything I really want on my iPad, other computers really only serve as a base station to store things I don't have room for. I think this is probably going to be where computing goes. People will have ultra-portable computers (phones, tablets, thin laptops) to carry with them, and a base station of large storage capacity linked to the Internet so they can access whatever they want. I'd be doing this already, but remote desktop stuff requires a steadier Internet connection than what I have currently. It's getting to the point that I actually prefer having my movies on my iPad than on a television. The portability is fantastic, and the size difference doesn't matter because if you hold an eight inch screen. a foot away from your head, it's remarkably similar to staring at a large screen across the room. And my iPad goes in every room, which is way better than thinking about which room you want as your tv room. It used to be a sign of luxury if you had a tv in lots of rooms. Well, with my iPad, I can watch all that stuff not only in every room in the house, but outside, on campus, and wherever else I can find wireless. With my phone, it's literally anywhere, though that screen is much less ideal. So there's no need for multiple tv's, no need for bulky laptops, and much less need for desktops. All we need is storage and good Internet.

Exercise:
In 500 words or less, write about "a plate of sunshine."

It reflected almost perfectly, the blue sky brought to earth on the polished silver surface. It couldn't help but stand out from its surroundings. The dish gleamed on the table, a brilliant skyscape amid tarnished teacups and dull cutlery. When a small child picked it up, the shifting colors of clouds, played across his face, forcing a squint and a smile before it was snatched from his hands. He knew "we look with our eyes, not with our hands," but stayed within reach, unable to divert his attention from that silver-sheened chunk of sky. His mother moved to a different table, less interested in dishware than self-help books and the occasional romance novel. She occasionally bought pieces of furniture, proclaiming them all antiques before coming to her senses and selling them (but only for a small loss).
She thumbed a book open, forgetting completely about the child still enthralled by the finely worked silver. He broke his gaze just long enough to ascertain the whereabouts of all relevant adults before approaching once more. He resisted picking it up, extending one finger to trace the etched rim. He applied pressure to the edge, just enough to shift the balance and alter the picture of the sky. Clouds spilled from the center to the far side, as though defying gravity, flowing uphill and threatening to spill onto the table. He took his finger away, and they pooled again in the middle, no longer in danger of flowing out into the teacups and silverware. He backed up until the horizon shown in the mirrored surface, the sky contained on one side by etched rim and on the other by rooftops. He stood there until his mother came and grabbed his hand with the one not full of pink-covered books, pulling him behind to the car. And as they drove away he looked out the rear window, one last flash of sunlight emanating out from the worthless pieces surrounding it.

Me:
I left off my last post before talking about my handball tournament, which was disappointing, but not too bad really. On Friday I played against jonathon hingey, a very talented guy from Missouri. I lost, but hit some good shots and got into some good rallies, and since it was in the open division, I wasn't heartbroken by the loss, which dropped my into the "a" category. Also on Friday I played an easy game of doubles with a random guy from Kansas city, which was kind of a routine victory. Saturday I played an easy singles match against a guy I knew from Des Moines, which gave me the chance to watch Jon hingey play against Dave chapman, the best player in the world. He came close to winning the first game, which made me think I might not have done too badly the day before. Then my doubles partner and I played against a really good team, losing the first game 21-1. I got a bit more into the rhythm of things the next game, and hit some good shots to make things less embarrassing as we lost 21-10 or so. After the game, Tommy little (the second seeded open player) told me I hit some good shots, which was nice.
I played again in the a division later that day, and took the first game before my opponent started hitting some really good serves. So I lost 21-2 in the second and was down 10-0 in the eleven point tie-breaker. And then I came back to win 11-10, which was fantastic for me.
Then I lost in the finals to take second. I would say more, but I'm still a bit sore about not playing my best. I can't decide whether to keep practicing or start focusing even more on biking.
Speaking of biking, I did a race right after that match on Sunday. It had the most brutal hill of the year on it, which I would have loved any other day. But not after an entire weekend of handball. I did what I could, and apparently just barely hung on for fourth place, getting my entry back. It turned into a time trial, really, since drafting doesn't really matter when the only thing that makes a difference is how fast you can climb a hill 18 times. So I survived, and then rode almost forty miles on Monday instead of taking it as easy as I should have. Which brings us to yesterday. In the morning I did hill repeats, and then my parents and I drove to cedar rapids to race at a half-mile car track. I hung in there with the fast guys, and felt good, even attacking hard enough to drop some cat 2 riders. I ran out of gas in the last race, but I felt justified since I had done the workout that morning. All in all, a fun time.
And I think that's it as far as major events. It should be less daunting to update now. My schedule looks like I'll have time to write Monday, Wednesday, and Friday so hopefully updates will appear by Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday mornings. If nothing else interesting happens, I will try to write more about the races yesterday, but I've been typing for three hours now, so I'm gong to call it quits.

I'm baaaaaaAAAAAAAck

I have a lot of stuff to write about. Since my last update I have raced three weekends, played a handball tournament, and done two smaller bike races. So this post will just be to get events in my life a bit more up to date, hopefully followed soon by a post back in the normal format.

Observation:
I am confused what sort of body type a biker is supposed to have. All of the professional bikers are little more than skeletons. Even the "big" guys are incredibly thin. I am not incredibly thin. But then before my race in iowa city I put my (dad's) arm warmers on, and quickly realized I was too thin for that. Or rather, my left arm was too thin. That's a funny realization to have. The right arm warmer was fine, but the left just kept gradually slipping down, betraying my lopsidedness as it became a bracelet. So now I know I'm severly right-handed.


Me:
Well here's a long section. About three weeks ago I entered a three-event weekend series in Iowa City, with a road race and time trial saturday and a criterium Sunday. So the road race gets underway and I quickly realize nobody's that interested in attacking. And since this is my first race, I am too cautious to try anything, and decide to spend the first half of the race getting the hang of the course, which actually has some decent hills. The first
lap makes it clear that everyone is interested in using one particular hill as the staging point for attacks. So I barely hung on the first time up the hill, and things get strung out single file for quite a while. I gradually make my way back into the thick of things, and there is no mystery what's going to happen the next lap (the race is three laps long at thirteen miles a lap). So I wait around with everyone for the part where things are going to get hard again, and just at the bottom is a corner. I take an inside line and get cut off, slam my brakes on, and have to start from a rather disadvantageous position momentum-wise. So I chased for a mile or so, realized I didn't have what it took to catch on, and finished poorly. And then I did really poorly in the time trial. So my confidence wasn't really at its highest at the end of the day.
The next day dawned bright and chilly, leading to the aforementioned arm warmer dilemma. They called us to the line for the criterium based on order of registration, placing yours truly at the very back. So I got to spend the first six or seven laps working my way gradually to the front of the pack. The good news was that there was a pretty sizable hill, and we were doing twenty laps, so I had both the time and occasion to make my way up there. I got to the spot I wanted and sat in the field for a couple of laps getting my breath back, and then climbed the hill hard with about half the race left. I was alone at the top, but wasn't that interested in trying a solo break, so when nobody bridged up, I sat up and rejoined the field. I stayed in good position, and climbed hard every few laps to make sure the going wasn't too easy for the rest of the riders. With two laps to go, a single rider attacked into the downhill, and I wasn't in a good spot to chase, so he got away. I thought he might die out and get caught, especially on the hill on the last lap, which was sure to be a site of difficulty. At the top of the hill a rider slid out on the corner. I got around the crash to the inside and did what my parents always told me to do: go as hard as you can. The gap caused by the crash meant there were about five of us with a gap on those caught behind, and with one lap to go, I was in good position. One of the guys in the group attacked hard across the line, and I let him take a bit of a gap, knowing I should save myself for the hill. I climbed hard, and was only a few bike lengths behind him at the top, putting me in a great spot to sprint from. I came around him on the home stretch and nobody caught me. I only wound up a few seconds behind the guy who went with two laps to go, but as it turned out, some guy had attacked by himself in the first few laps (when I had no hope of seeing the front of the pack, due to starting position and focusing on gradually improving my position), so I wound up with third place. But the best part was realizing that I could actually race at a decent level after all, dispelling my bad feeling from Saturday.
The next weekend was an eight lap race of a medium distance. My dad was officiating, so my mom and I went to race. She was up first, and hung in with the open women and beat one of them to steal third and get back her entry fee plus five bucks for her trouble. It was fun to watch her stick right in with the youthful women and climb well. Then it was my turn. As expected, every time up the hill (another course with a hill, lucky me) the going got a bit tough, with a period of recovery time at the top before resuming racing. So the second time up the hill, I attack, get caught as expected, and then my teammate Gavin attacks just like he is supposed to. Gavin stays away until the top of the hill the next time. So with six laps to go, we've made it slightly hard. I attack again as Gavin is caught, but don't stay away long at all. As I'm caught, William Rekemeyer says we should attack at the hill. I agree in principle, but am not sure my legs are going to be up for it the next lap. So he goes, and I catch the wheel of the break. We have a gap, with four of us a bit ahead of the rest, but nobody comes around William to help make it stick and it all comes back together. We now have three or four to go, and everyone is a bit slow at the top of the hill the next time, so I put in a hard acceleration over the top just to see if I can get away. And I did. So I have a sizeable gap when on the descent my bike makes a horrific noise and I slam on the brakes. I get caught, my bike seems to continue functioning somehow, and I rejoin the group. We all sit in, and on the second to last time up the hill, William has a go at the bottom of the hill. Now, I've attacked almost every time up the hill, and I know I can't take the entire climb at top speed, so I let him go. Gavin attacks to bridge up and I see him catch on, so I breathe a sigh of relief. I catch wheels as they come by and don't contribute at all to the chase, since I like Gavin's chances in a sprint and want to do whatever I can to make sure he has that one on one situation. So I sit in behind a couple of guys who chase for a while, and as we climb the hill for the last time (finish line at the top) I make sure Gavin can't be caught before putting in my sprint. I take the field sprint for third, and sure enough, Gavin got first. Having a teammate to work with was great.
That Thursday was a time trial, at which I set a new personal best time of 17:39 for twelve kilometers. I had my mom's computer, so I got to see my heart rate around 180 the entire race, and access to cadence helped a lot. Then it was time for handball. I think I'll deal with that in my next post. Thanks for reading.

New Schedule

Well, school's over, so my schedule went out the window. I still plan to update this, but it will be erratic until I get things more established.

Coming soon:
some poetry
a recollection of my weekend's racing
an observation about chess
a notable absence of a post about Osama bin Laden's death.

Until I have more blocks of time scheduled, this might be a bit less consistent. Sorry, but I assure you it's temporary.

Observation:
I was watching the NBA the other day during one of my sleepy stupor episodes. It happened to be a Spurs game, and as I watched the team with the best win/loss record for the regular season lose to the Memphis Grizzlies for a third time, something occurred to me. The Spurs are a good, consistent team. They've kind of always have been. They're known for putting up good results with their veteran lines, and doing so day in and day out. But the playoffs are another animal. When it comes to the big stage, there is a thing people like to talk about called shifting gears. This gets used all the time when announcers talk about individuals (especially in tennis, which I follow more closely than basketball). They'll say something like "things were going well until Roger Federer found another gear, and the other guy just didn't have a response." It seems like the Spurs are just always playing in a high gear. Which makes sense; they are old. They know how to play well on a day to day basis, and they know what it takes to win. But they don't have another gear to go to for the post season. The Grizzlies are a young team with tons of energy, and yeah, they'll lose to the Spurs when they can't find that gear. But they have it, and that's been the difference so far. They get pumped up and once they got rolling in game four, it was over. They blew the Spurs out. And it was fun to watch because I don't like the Spurs. This also highlights why it's getting to be depressing watching Federer. I keep waiting for that gear to kick in. But like the Spurs, he's getting old. He'll still consistently be in the final rounds of tournaments, but it seems like that gear is slipping beyond his reach.

Me:
You get half a post while I write my paper for tomorrow. Sorry about that.
I got on my bike the other day and put my headphones on to listen to some music, as I usually do. What I don't usually do is start pedaling without making sure I know where my headphone cord is. It took no time at all for the cord to be shredded by the chain of my bike, and now I am out my second pair of nice-ish headphones in as many months. But, as usual, this just inspired me to upgrade. My iPod got stolen so I got an iPhone. I broke my headphones, so I opened up some better headphones. Because nothing says "I'm responsible enough to have this" like having just destroyed it.
And now back to my paper.

Tired

Me:
My schedule got thrown off a bit. So the previous post will have to stand in for the Tuesday morning edition, and I'll try to be creative again soon. Right now I'm tired again.

I'm beginning to dislike titling these things

What to do with Leftovers

It takes a lot of confidence to reach into the drawer of Tupperware
knowing you'll come up with a lid to match the bowl.
I reach and rummage and curse in despair
while in one easy motion she slides in her hand and grabs my soul.
That's confidence, knowing a match is in there somewhere,
And with the first try her hand will find the pair ready for the cold.
So scoop your remnants in, fasten the lid tight
And know we fit, won't spoil, and when the door is closed
That we won't mind the disappearing light.

Poem:
Our leftover-container-drawer is a mess. I can only assume it's that way for many people. I know it was like that when I was kid. It would take fifteen minutes of searching to put away a serving of leftover noodles. So I used it as a metaphor. And I know it's cheesy. It's a first draft. I've gotten more into the idea of drafts, since I have to revise every one of the twenty poems I wrote this semester for my final portfolio. And because I've been too lazy to do things right the first time. So there you go.

Observation:
Did you know the fine for trespassing is a dollar? It's true. If you are sued for tresspassing that's the price. Of course, in many places, if you are trespassing the owners of the property can take other action against you. And if you have to do some extra work to gain access, like climb a wall or something, you'll probably get more than a dollar fine, but if you wander across a property line or refuse to stay off someone's lawn, be prepared to shell out a dollar. At least, that is what my law and politics professor said yesterday. Under the law of torts, which compensates people for damages incurred, that is the value of trespassing. Because who is really hurt by it? So it's mostly a symbolic decision. An acknowledgment of violation, but without real significance. And interestingly, you don't have to be the owner to sue for trespassing. You can be a person renting the property, since it's you the trespassers are "inconveniencing" somehow.

Exercise:
Below are 3 sets of words. Use all the words in each set to write mini stories in 300 words or less:
SET 1: paper clips, principal, lunchbox, swing, girl with a pink ribbon
SET 2: biology, class card, foreign student, leaf, blood sample
SET 3: typewriter, filing cabinet, puncher, clerk, carbon paper, janitor

The principle entered the elementary school amid a flurry of swinging lunchboxes. The opening of the heavy wood double doors and the excitement the children exuded never ceased to impress him. The girl with the pink ribbon in her hair, for example, bounding up the steps eager for class, was oblivious to the dread most secondary students felt at the onset of another academic year. For the kids, this was another year of exploration. Whether beginning their studies of biology or getting their first taste of fractions, the students all seemed eager to get on with things. No matter which name was chosen from the deck of class cards, a response was sure to be given enthusiastically (if not accurately). And to top it all off, this year's fourth graders had the novel experience of including a foreign student. The language barrier was no match for the universal concepts of recess, candy, and laughter.
The principle wondered for his fifth straight year when the excitement stopped. The secretary at her typewriter smiled only at the sight of break time. For the kids, recess meant the flood of energy could be released into the grassy field, the wooden play structure, the monkey bars, basketballs, and swings. The secretary left behind her filing cabinet, her stacks of carbon paper, her hole puncher and her paper clips for a few minutes of coffee designed to restore some of that energy so eagerly strewn about outside. The janitor took five minutes from scraping off gum, sweeping the remnants of leaves and grass, and waxing floors to marvel at the ingenuity required to get spitballs into particularly difficult positions. And the nurse felt guilty at holding children back from recess, sending some home, and occasionally taking a sample of blood to ensure nothing communicable made the rounds. And not one of these people knew when it was they stopped wanting so desperately to flood through the doors and into class. Bt they remained in close proximity, hoping to gather a faint reflection from the bright, flowing energy the kids released.

Me:
In the most predictable of ways, I am already conflicted between activities. This weekend I played handball in the mornings and biked forty to fifty miles in the afternoons. It left me worn out and with little time or energy for much else. Between preparing food to fuel my draining reserves and lying around in a half-asleep state, I was hard pressed to even open my eyes long enough to see the score of a basketball game, much less write anything worthwhile. And today I am incredibly stiff. My neck and back are far worse off than my legs, in fact. But enough complaining. I'm also faced with a decision about which activity to pursue this weekend. I have an important handball tournament in a few weeks and the opportunity to play against some quality players this weekend, but then again, there are two bike races in Iowa City. And it's hard to prioritize practice over racing, but I'd be making the trip to Iowa City solo, and I dislike criteriums. Apparently by "enough complaining" I meant "time to complain some more." Sorry. I guess I'll see what the weather forecast looks like.
I wish I had more news, but my weekend really just consisted of handball, biking, eating, and sleeping.

What a Disaster I Am

Super heroes

The depressed make the best super heroes
Let's send the suicidal out to fight crime
What bad could happen; they die?
Best case scenario: they catch bad guys
And realize there's a reason
To put on their capes in the morning

They will remain humble
Dressed in their spandex color
Contrasting crazily with hidden emotions
Apathy wins the day

Blazing red, bright blue, garish green
Tights hug close to fat juggling thighs
Able to leap tall curbs with a single bound

Poem:
I thought of the first line while going about my normal day to day stuff, and the rest progressed from there. It turns out I do have much more success writing creatively in the morning, so that's good to know. While I do have some rather crazy ideas come into my head under sleep deprived conditions, waiting until the morning rather than forcing something late at night might be a good idea in general.

Observation:
I made a recent observation at work. It occurred in the likeliest of places for epiphanies: the bathroom. Specifically, the handicapped stall. (It's more spacious, and I'm like 99% sure there are no handicapped people in my building.) So I finish the task I went in there to do, and reach for the toilet paper. Now, I have grown accustomed to shoddy toilet paper. You know, the paper-thin stuff you have to reel off by the yard in order to fold over enough times to feel confident you won't wind up with a terrible situation on your hands (haha, joke). But much to my surprise, there were two types of toilet paper available. There was the normal, tracing paper-style stuff, and next to it, practically glowing in all its glory, was a roll of some variety of quilted toilet paper. It was luxurious. Which gave me a great idea. What if, instead of spending money on television advertisements, a major toilet paper company just went around to all the portable toilets, cheap office buildings, and schools and such, and put a roll of toilet paper next to the crappy stuff (the jokes are just writing themselves today). They could put a label over it or something to make people notice not only the superior option they have available, but also the brand which is so far above what they are used to. I know if I had known what kind was in the stall the other day, I at least would have remembered it. And let's be honest: who goes into a stall and doesn't look around for something to distract their attention? Talk about a captive audience! There's no way someone would leave without at least being aware of the product, and the whole point of a commercial is to make sure that the next time the consumer is at the store, a particular brand comes to mind. Mission accomplished.

Exercise:"The Squid, the Lampshade, and the Smell of Burning Tortillas"
Write something that incorporates a squid, a lampshade and the smell of burning tortillas.

The paper lampshades in the tapas bar were losing color. The afternoon sun had bleached them all from their vibrant red to a blushing of pink, and Carlos was sure it wouldn't be long until they joined the rest of the town in fading from attention. It was rare that anyone new showed up. The locals all knew things were on the decline. They extended their siestas into late afternoon, returning to work for an hour before calling it quitting time. And the few regulars to the tapas bar didn't notice when the things they never ordered began to disappear from the menu. If it hadn't been for Pedro, calamari wouldn't even be an option these days. Nobody else liked eating it, and the preparation was a pain. Not to mention the hassle of acquiring (semi) fresh squid. But Pedro was willing to pay for it, and still willing after the price went up with an explanation from Carlos of "supply and demand, brother. You're the only demand, and the supplying it sucks." It got so bad that one of his cooks returned from siesta, only to resume while at the stove. How a man could fall asleep in front of a gas range, Carlos couldn't figure out, but when the smell of burning tortillas meandered its way out the door, it was all to evident that the town was running out of spirit in general.

Me:
I am already starting to feel a bit like I'm in limbo, and school hasn't even ended yet. This doesn't bode well for the next year of my life. I hope I can set a schedule and keep to it, but I'm afraid it just isn't possible to schedule all the things I want to do. I keep telling myself I'll have time to do such and such once school gets out. I'll have time to pick up programming, I'll have time to build computers, I'll have time to ride my bike, time to play handball, time to write, time to submit to law publications, time to study for the LSAT, time to play some frisbee, time to submit fiction, nonfiction, and poetry, time to work a bit, and time for relaxing. Obviously these are not all compatible. The worst part is, to commit to any of these would be a nearly full-time thing. I guess I could probably do the LSAT, law publications, and handball all while working, but biking is supposed to be four hours a day, handball is usually two or three hours, it takes three hours to go from parts to a fully tested computer, and that's only a few of the things I have in mind. What a disaster.
I haven't been feeling very poetic recently. I'm sure it has shown in my poetry, so I'm sorry for that. I listened to Ben Percy give a reading in the library today, and it seems like every time I interact with that guy I am motivated to go out and write. And then as soon as I leave the motivation fades in light of all the other things I have to do. And now I am unable to find it again. He says his goal is to write two pages a day, or 14 a week. I know I could do that. I know I'm good enough at putting words together, bringing stories to life, and keeping things straight. I'm just not good enough at getting it done. I'm beginning to think that's all that separates writers from non-writers. It's not hard to come up with words. The hard part is doing it every day, and to have the passion to go back to it even when your cat dies, your legs hurt, you fail a test, you get rejected, or you realize one of your characters needs to be cut and a re-write is needed. And it's that I'm afraid I'll never acquire. I'm too flighty. Maybe that will change. Maybe I could change it right now if I really wanted to, but I'm too interested in everything. Or not interested enough in one thing. Either way, I'm backing myself into a corner where options start eliminating themselves because I'm too indecisive. Hence, the title of this post.

Getting Up to Speed

Texas

Nothing useful came from Texas,
all their exports as beneficial
as the tumbleweed blown north
and into the path of the Lincoln Navigator.

Swerving made as much sense
as protesting innocence
to a white jury
who knew a cop had been killed
who knew they had caught someone
who knew enough.

And as the Navigator tumbled
and stood still eventually
still shouting directions
"in 100 feet, turn yourself rightside-up
and a mile after that,
pretend nothing happened at all"

Poem:
I still can't believe the stuff in the movie "A Thin Blue Line" actually happened. The way everyone went about that case was disgraceful. So I wrote a poem that is sort of about that. but is mostly about the fact that it's really late and I want to go to sleep, and that's something easy to write about. Sorry for the cop-out. I'll be back at it again soon.

Observation:
I think I have something to continue talking about. Oh yup. Miranda Rights. You know, those things that are yelled at the bad people as they're being arrested. I don't know what I found most interesting about our discussion. I thought it was interesting that the Miranda case freed Miranda and the other cases currently being considered at the time, but didn't have any effect on cases which had already been decided. This was because it is assumed by the courts that had any previous cases fallen under the same category, they would have been the ones to appear before the supreme court and set precedent. So since Miranda was the first case to consider these rights, it must have been the first case during which they were violated. Obviously that is probably incorrect, but it makes sense as a way of justifying not having to reconsider every previous case ever. After all, if their rights had been violated that badly, they would have brought it to the attention of the court and the Miranda case would have fallen into their category.
Another interesting thing about the Miranda case is that it was stressed that the reading of rights might not be necessary if everyone weren't so ignorant of the law. But it does make sense that people who otherwise might be smart enough not to self-incriminate could panic when placed in a jail cell and told to confess or things would get bad for them real fast. In fact, when presented with the evidence that would be brought against them in court, even an innocent man might think it in his best interest to plead guilty to something to receive a shorter sentence. So it makes sense to tell them they can ask for a lawyer whenever, and to stop questioning them until one is present.



Exercise:
It's spring. Your character is walking out of doors and sees the burgeoning trees and flowers, hears the birdsong. But the character's reaction to all this newness and freshness is not what you would expect...

Stupid birds. Loud, noisy, and stupid. Also, loud. They sounded alright for the first five or ten minutes, sure, but after Franz had spent a half hour on his doctor-recommended walk, he was ready to learn how to shoot a gun. He briefly wondered how much a shotgun cost. He liked the branches better when they were bare. At least then you could see what the tree was really up to. All the leaves turned individual trees with character into a solid green mass, indistinguishable from their brethren, and all just waiting for a couple of months before littering their refuse all over his lawn. He could already imagine himself raking. And the worst part was, he only had one measly tree on his property. But that didn't stop the leaves from showing up in full force. His maple dropped quite a few leaves, certainly, but sometimes he'd rake for minutes and not see a single maple leaf. Ridiculous.
Franz wondered how high a wall would be required to effectively prevent unauthorized leaves from gaining entrance. He guessed it might require a dome.

Me:
Up to speed in fragments: rode the windiest time trial ever, played handball in Des Moines (won bet for people betting on me), built a sweet computer, built a less-than-sweet computer, played handball in Ames, exuded pride for girlfriend's athletic accomplishments (team #1 seed in region), declared independence from my parents (at least as far as taxes are concerned) while preparing to move back home to avoid vagrancy, filled out a million rebates, yelled at the rain while secretly not minding so much, rode bike short and hard, attended nostalgia-prompting meeting about moving out of apartment.
In more detail: The past few days have been full of success stories as far as food is concerned. It all began with my usual stop at Tasty Tacos after playing handball in Des Moines on Sunday. The tacos, needless to say, were tasty. The next morning my mom said she was out of the muffin mix she wanted to make and was considering trying to make bran muffins. I fondly recalled the deliciously-glazed bran muffins of my freshman and sophomore years (oh the days of student meal plans), and looked up a recipe for some glaze. An hour later I was supposed to be playing handball, but was having almost no success due to the fact that I was too full to move around the court. I would sort of waddle my way over to one side and hit, then waddle the other direction and hope for the best. And to top it off, it turned out the bran we used in the muffins was almost as old as I am. Delicious. Later that day I made a pizza (okay, put a pizza together, since nothing was made from scratch). I topped the dough with sauce, a solid layer of pizza-blend cheese, an even more solid layer of pepperoni, and then sprinkled that with black olives, green pepper, onions, and sunflower seeds, all followed by another solid layer of mozzarella cheese. While impossible to pick up and eat, the result was quite tasty. And then today I tried my hand for the first time at cooking burgers. I took a pound of ground beef, an egg, onions, green peppers, and (again) sunflower seeds, combined it all, and hoped for the best. If I weren't so shy of meat I could have done a much better job forming the patties, but it all turned out okay in the end. In case you noticed a trend, if you ever eat food that I've made and wonder if I have a secret ingredient, chances are pretty good it's sunflower seeds. So good. On everything. And tomorrow (Tuesday) I can go on campus and get a free breakfast because I'm graduating. We'll see if I'm awake.

In Which I Adhere to My Schedule Despite Bad Scheduling

Alone in the Woods

A man can only wander so much in a camper.
The floor plan puts dinner one step away
from slumber, and worried pacing
takes him from bedroom to steering wheel
with no time for thinking before the next about-face.

Rain traps him with ambitions of contemplation,
no release of decision or destination
possibilities bouncing off a kettle-topped stove
and occasionally seeping out windows cracked for air
to echo out into the tree trunks.

The applause of rain on the roof a backdrop
to building tension, clouded sky yellowed
through foliage and tinging everything
with unhealthy anemia, white tile glancing
guiltily, and eyes broadcasting despair
with a glance through the wall at the life outside.

Poem:
I saw a video clip of a camper and was feeling a bit nostalgic regarding camping, and this is what resulted. Of course (as is probably obvious), I have a definite preference for tents. Something about a camper just makes things a bit less authentic.

Observation:
We are talking a lot about the justice system in my law classes. Imagine that. But today was particularly interesting because in one class we talked about what it takes for someone to be considered negligent, and in the other we talked about Miranda rights. The first topic was discussed in the context of situations where someone did something wrong, but the extent of the damage seemed out of proportion to the action. Like a person crashed their car, but it just so happened that hidden under the spot their car hit was a bomb and they blew up a house. It doesn't seem right to consider them responsible for the damage done to the house, even though it was their accident (probably negligent) that caused it. So we talked about the types of causation before getting around to the idea I liked, which is that you are responsible for any damages caused by you being in a position of privilege not shared by those you damage. So if anyone could have crashed their car there, it's not like it was your particular privileged state that made it happen, so it's not really your fault. But then I wondered about cases where someone is privileged, but not negligent. The case we discussed in class concerned a man docking his boat at another guy's dock because there was a bad storm coming, which boat then damaged the dock during the storm, and it was ruled that he should pay for the damages despite the fact that the decision he made was completely warranted. Now, I agree that he should pay for the dock he damaged, even though he had no other choice, since it was his own risk for being in a boat to begin with. But going back to the car example, imagine the bomb was only able to be triggered by a really nice sports car. So only someone in a position of privilege could set it off. Does that mean the guy who sets it off is really responsible for the whole outcome, simply because it occurred due to privilege? Our discussion was cut short. I plan to ask on Friday when we have class again. Miranda rights will have to wait for some other time, unless I have something more interesting to talk about by then. Let's just say I'm not sure they should be necessary, though I have no problem with them being there, and I'll elaborate if I have time at some other point.

Exercise:
One of the important things in good prose writing is to have more than one thing happening at once. In this exercise, describe a kiss, taking your time and trying to visualize the action clearly and precisely. However-- have something else going on at the same time. Maybe one person is thinking of a different boyfriend, or perhaps someone's leg is falling asleep, or maybe one person is worried about the garlic pizza he had for dinner.....

Their lips drew closer, their eyes fluttering tentatively closed, but Jordan still wasn't quite sure it was going to happen. It was only last month he had been told by his doctor he would never walk again. He sat on the pale leather couch and wondered what to do with his hands. The things he could still move, though at the moment any movement he felt could lead to an interruption. And he knew he didn't want that. So they remained by his side as he tried to focus on the present. On the feel of her breath on his cheek. On the fact that she had had the presence of mind to put her arms around his neck first before leaning in. On the fact that her hair was suspiciously odor-free after all the romantic scenes of men sensuously inhaling the perfect scent from their lady's tresses. He could feel all of these things, but he held off believing in it all until the very end, until the smoothness of her lips departed and the slight stick of her lip gloss meant she had pulled away. His eyes opened. Hers were open already. Had he been sitting there, eyes closed, for too long? Did she think him silly? But before he could think too hard, she leaned forward once more.

Me:
I have a time trial to ride tomorrow potentially. Although the weather looks terrible, and I'm always looking for an excuse to avoid a chance at embarrassment. But I am excited to put together the nicest computer I've had the pleasure of designing this weekend. It has four one-terabyte hard drives in RAID10, an SSD for the operating system, eight gigs of memory, and a pretty fast (and easily overclocked) quad-core processor. (Trust me, I did my research. More memory than that is overkill, and programs aren't designed to utilize six cored unless you're planning on doing some crazy multitasking.) And it has a pretty awesome blu-ray burner, a better-than-decent graphics card, and just great specifications in general. Maybe I'm strange for enjoying this process so much, but finding good deals has it's own appeal, and then putting it all together to form a working machine? Well that's pretty cool, even if it is easier than most people realize. And with this build I get to mess around with extra connector cards because I had a request for it to be firewire compatible, as well as ready for high speed wifi.

A post as scheduled. Excitement ensues.

A Windy Workout

The snake overlapped the white line
the hoop it formed not quite closed
a pinched-off U, head to tail
tongue out perpetually tasting
the smells of asphalt
and dried blood.

Up the road a distance
of thirty pedal strokes
or so, a robin's crushed breast
lay accompanied by its wings
in contrast to the dead, grey grass.

I passed by the first time
thinking the yellow-striped
dark green scales
and flattened tongue
belonged to an extension cord
cast out a window
to fend for itself.

The next five times I knew what to look for.
compressed form ahead
not raised and dry
like the other snake
an overlapping knot
folded back on itself
as it arched from the ground
and twisted like a loosening shoelace
gradually working itself free.

I slowly labored past again
struggling into the wind
distracting myself with death
as it slid by in still frame
looped until my legs drained
and limply spun their circles
in ineffective retreat.

Poem:
I did a repetition-based workout on my bike, and the dead wildlife on the side of the road was depressing to bike past every time I was getting ready for another rep. It got so I was looking up the road to pick out the carcasses approaching. And I thought it was interesting that the snake's tongue was sticking out, forked and almost touching the tail. The first dead snake I've seen this year. I guess its a good sign that winter is over. I should work that symbolism into my poem! Especially because it's usually the robin who i s associated with the coming of spring. Interesting. I'll have to play around with that.

Observation:
Oh goodness it was windy today. We did 1-kilometer and 2-kilometer repeats today, and it was fun going with the wind, but the trek back to the starting point was more taxing than a recovery should be. And the fact that we did them to the south of town meant that we had to bike back into the headwind. Which wouldn't have been a problem had I been able to convince my legs to do anything more than just stomp downward. But I got back eventually. And the only good thing about the wind was that I got to bike a good part of the way with the smell of pasta in my nose, since this time the wind was so strong the Barilla pasta plant miles away was making itself known. So I guess the only real observation I made today was that it was too windy for any practical purposes. Unless you consider being able to smell pasta a practical purpose. I don't know.

Exercise:
Happy endings can sometimes be, well...boring. No zing. So predictable. So...happy. Write your ending to the Cinderella story -- but this time, make it so that the shoe fit one of the icky sisters. What does Prince Charming do? How does Cinderella cope with it? And what about the Fairy Godmother? Start your story here.

Prince Charming beamed up at the girl he was sure was the love of his life. "Drizella, my darling, it's you after all. I'm so glad I've found you."
From the basement came a muffled squeak, followed by a thump. Drizella's mother glanced around before smiling thinly. "I'm afraid our maid is a bit clumsy, always falling off things or down stairs. I'll go see what she's done this time." She swept out of the room, her crimson dress whisking behind her. The prince noted that the maid must not be so bad. An exit like that would have been accompanied by a small cloud of dust even at the castle. Then he noticed a mouse bidding a hasty retreat around the corner and reevaluated. The mother entered again, an expression of concern pulling her eyebrows together.
"So you've decided then? You're to marry Drizella? This is wonderful news. I'll start packing our things immediately. There is room at the castle for all of us, yes? I mean, it's such a big place."
He honestly hadn't ever thought about this contingency. His parents had always told him he'd find a girl from a neighboring kingdom, and no other king and queen would have cause to leave their castle to move to his place of residence with their daughter. But it was only natural that Drizella's mother would wish to accompany her daughter. There were so many arrangements to be made. He sighed. Who would have known that finding his true love was only the beginning of the work?

Me:
I found a blue steak knife on the road the other day coming back from a bike ride. That's not really all that relevant; it's just something that happened. Oh, and my thoughtful girlfriend bought lactose free milk yesterday so that I could enjoy cookies more thoroughly/less uncomfortably. I think it's important to state that people who criticize this stuff are probably justified. If you expect it to taste just like milk, you may be disappointed. It's not too far off, but milk is a pretty well-known substance, and small differences stand out. But it doesn't taste bad to me. It's not quite milk, but it's not bad either. And it goes with the same things milk does. And most importantly, my stomach hasn't attempted to expel my entire interior as a result of my drinking it. So it's all good.

Brief, but I might not have time tomorrow, so I need to get this posted.

The Disappearance of a Knife

My breath came in blood
and blood came out
and redness was everywhere
As the sky blurred into shadow
A face appeared.

The tan skin and scars
and squinted eyes
made me flinch
Face in profile
and then eyes again
growing closer
until the sky was his eyes

My leg moved
instead of my entire body
the thrash I had planned
manifested in a twitching
of quadricep, and a curled big toe

A flicker in the eyes
diverted attention
a tug at my belt
and the eyes rose away
faded to red


Poem:
I had a note written that I wanted to write a poem about a dying war victim having his knife taken by someone who didn't even care enough to kill him as he lay on the battlefield. This is a poor attempt. I can do better. I like the bit about the attempted violent thrashing only resulting in a toe curling. But I want to get a bit more character into it. I don't really think it has anything going for it as far as emotion is concerned.

Observation:
There's something that's been bothering me since I moved in to this apartment two years ago. It's my light fixture. The one in my bedroom. It's not unattractive, actually. It's just a sort of section of a sphere. I guess the term is a sconce. It's a sconce. A round wall sconce. And it sucks. It's a sucky round wall sconce. It wouldn't be so bad if it weren't OPAQUE. I don't know who's idea this was, but someone should have told them that opaque things are bad at letting light into the room. Or maybe it's the fact that they put it less than eight inches from the ceiling. Here's a picture:

So all of the light appears on my ceiling, which is really not the place I want it. I can't see well enough to even find things on the floor in my room. I need a flashlight to locate the clothes I want in my closet. It's ridiculous. None of the other rooms are lit this poorly. I guess I'm just confused as much as anything.

Exercise:
Write a dialog in which two people are discussing something very ordinary--what movie to see, who is going to win the championship-- but underlying the quotidian discussion is some serious conflict between them. Show what is going on under the surface.

"So what do you want to eat, then?" he asked, sticking to the plan they had formulated earlier that day.
"What?" She paused on the stairs, looking down at him, confused. "You want to make food still?"
"Well, I need to eat before I leave, so I was wondering what you wanted." He rounded the corner into the kitchen, and sure enough, he could hear her feet on the stairs as she followed hesitantly. "Mexican food okay?"
"You don't want to talk?" She stood just outside the kitchen, not wanting to crowd him while he was busy.
"I don't have time right now. I need to get going again." He looked outside at the twilight, a bit of purple still bouncing off the clouds. He checked the clock. "I have forty-five minutes. Do you feel like Mexican food or not?"
"Yeah, that's fine."
"We can talk later if you still want. What would you like for vegetables today? I think we still have some mushrooms and peppers left." He opened the fridge a bit too suddenly and looked a bit too intently at its contents. The attention he devoted to the milk carton would have gone unnoticed to anyone else.
"I don't care, really. Whatever you're making will be fine." She hesitated. "Do you want me to leave?"
"You can do whatever you want. Obviously, you can do whatever you want." He started the oven. No eye contact. He heard her breath start to catch, but he just didn't have time right now.

Me:
My legs are tired. I'm struggling with how to interpret this. It could be that I'm training hard, or it could be that I'm just out of shape. I wish I could just train by biking across the country again. That was fun. And surprisingly effective. But I think a major component of its effectiveness was the fact that there are mountains, so going out around here for an equivalent amount of time wouldn't be an adequate substitute. And apparently mountains are far away from Ames, Iowa.

Me:
Well, I have some of a post done and saved, but ran out of time to actually get it finished. So you should know I'm at least sticking to my schedule, but that I'm still a bit rusty at time management. It will be up this afternoon. Sorry for the delay if anyone notices.

Look, Another Post

Dells

They have their piece of crap computers padlocked to the table.
If I were going to take something, it would be the lock.
It's more useful than any Dell,
their insides arranged to make upgrading more tangled
more inscrutable to the average consumer.

I beat the power supply out of the case with a hammer.
I ripped out the cords, scoffing at their dust-covered casing.
The memory I kept, because who doesn't want more memory
when it's so easy to snap out of its socket
and pretend it's always been in the right place?

Poem:
I've been spending quite a lot of time around computers and thinking about computers recently. This will assuredly not be the last poem about them. It's almost too easy to make the analogies, though, so I'll have to try harder in the future. This one was prompted by the fact I was sitting in front of a dell between classes (having forgotten my iPad at work), and had recently taken one apart to use the hard drive in upgrading a different unit. They suck.

Observation:
We were discussing the insanity defense in my philosophy of law class today. One of the working definitions of what excuses a crime on the basis of insanity is if the accused was sufficiently lacking in the will required to not commit the crime. This was intended for those cases where a mentally unstable person simply isn't capable of giving appropriate consideration to the law. Like if a kleptomaniac knows it's wrong to steal, but just can't help it. Or similar cases, as with OCD, etc. But I got to thinking that if all that's required for a person to not be responsible is the fact that they didn't have the willpower to resist, then doesn't that in some respect make every action blameless? In every case where an action occurs, isn't it true that their willpower to act otherwise was proven ineffective or insufficient? I think it holds that the willpower in opposition couldn't have overruled, and this is proven by the fact that it, in fact, DIDN'T overrule. How could it have overruled if it didn't? Now, this is a very deterministic way of looking at the situation, and unfortunately I have grown to endorse a rather deterministic way of looking at many things, though I can't help but hold out some hope for libertarianism simply for optimism's sake. But back to the insanity thing: If you do something, it seems completely reasonable to say that you did it because you couldn't will yourself to do otherwise. So nobody is really guilty, due to diminished capacity of will.

Exercise:

"Five Words"
We all know far more words than we actually use in our writing. Today's exercise is inspired by poet Deborah Ager She wrote:
"The other night, I sat down to write. I took a glass of water into my study -- with its orange walls glowing pink due to a sunset streaming through the western window -- and sat down at my desk. I'd recently RE-found my writing notebook and was pleased to find some notes I'd taken on various poems. I wasn't sure what I wanted to write. I decided to incorporate five words I've never used before in a poem. To do this, I quickly scanned the pages of a book I'm reading and came up with "true," "rice," "anecdote," "beam," and "gentle."
What are five words you know but have never used in your writing? Pick up whatever newspaper or book is handy and see what you can find. You may need the whole five minutes just to find these five words. That's OK.

I honestly can't think of any words I know but haven't used. I guess maybe words like porcine, kumquat, pillory, anabolic, and crumpet would be things I'm not sure I've ever used. It wouldn't be hard though.

Porcine children belong in pillories.
Their obsession with crumpets is maddening in the morning,
when any reasonable person grabs one and is on their way,
yet the greedy-cheeked, crumb-mouthed kids
meander their way back to the breakfast table
like we won't notice their back for their fifth one if they gaze in a different direction
as they make their approach
swooping in their greatest exertion of the day
muscles kicking into their anabolic threshold.
Yesterday I threw a kumquat at one
but he just ate it and smiled.

Okay, that was harder than I thought. I might have picked some pretty bad words. Whoops.

Me:
I'm officially not going to grad school next year, which is actually rather surprising. I guess my streak of never really trying and getting what I wanted had to end sometime. But I think that's all the more reason to keep this blog going. I haven't stopped writing. I've been busy with some rather interesting things recently, but I do plan on getting back to this, and right now my plan is to have a new post up by 9:30 every Tuesday and Thursday. And hopefully by Saturday night, but that will probably mean Sunday morning. So there you have it. A schedule. I've decided I need schedules. How grown-up of me. This means a bit of an end to the whole Friday-in-a-different-style thing, though I will certainly explain in the "poem" section that a poem was the result of that sort of thing. So if you've stopped checking regularly, you can start again. I expect to keep to this schedule for at least a couple of weeks. (I am, of course, planning on doing it indefinitely, but I've learned to have lowered expectations of myself.)

In which I find time to update, but ramble on and don't say much interesting.

Broken Elevator

"I'm breathing for two now"
Says the pregnant lady
Gasping on the stairs

The baby has stolen her body
Her breath, which used to come
And go so easily

Now catches at strange times
Like now on the stairs
Or at the thought of all those diapers

"Breathtaking" used to be reserved
For mountain sunsets
Or those times when all she needs

Are the two eyes just inches away
The flecks of hazel glinting
Kaleidoscoping out to trap her

Poem:
People always say "I'm eating for two now," and I wanted to investigate/think about other things which would be done for two. This sounded cool. That's about it.

Observation:
In what seems a bit too "meta," today's observation concerns our powers of observation. Specifically the senses. Now, we all seem to take for granted that our senses are approximately equal. That is, while we might use some more than others, they all relate to our experience in a similar way. But I was thinking about this randomly, and I'm less and less sure this is the case. Take sight, for example. While I suppose it's not certain that sight correlates to the external world, at least we can point to things (light's wavelength, reflection, etc.) that explain why the particular sensations our brain interprets come out the way they do. And a similar thing might be said of touch. Our ability to sense things like "sharpness" or "heat" can be linked with some verification to actual qualities in the world around us. Sound is obviously quite similar to sight in the way it deals with waves and their length, frequency, reflection, and whatnot. Which leaves those other two senses. Taste and smell. Interestingly enough, they are quite closely interlinked.
When we describe the way something smells or tastes, is there anything about that sensation that we are claiming corresponds to external qualities. Now, I know the way smell works is the receptors in the nose receive certain shapes of molecule and relay information to the brain, but is this sensation really that useful? On some evolutionary level, I guess, it probably helped in distinguishing between types of substances, which led to us having innate preferences in taste and smell, but when I smell something, it's not like I can tell you anything about the world from that sensation. I'm limited to describing it in terms of other smells, or using terms like "good" and "bad." On a base level, the thing that distinguished between different smells are the shapes of the molecules entering your nose. But nothing about smell tells you what these shapes are, where they originated, or really much useful at all when it comes to linking smell to external experience. And taste works the same way, so I won't go into that. But really, taste and smell are just rather specialized forms of touch. Now that I'm thinking about it, though, sound is picked up by the vibration of a membrane in our ear. I'm a bit foggy about how sight works beyond the whole "rods and cones do stuff" explanation. I just find it interesting that taste and smell are in large part arbitrary. They are not very informative, and calling them senses and putting them in the same category as sight and hearing might be inappropriate.

Exercise:
"Five Ingredients"
Write something--anything--that includes the following five words/ phrases:
~urged
~When the servant entered with the soup
~show him the way
~zeal
~dead flies

When the servant entered with the soup, I was urged, perhaps by the presence of so many dead flies on the ceiling, to show him the way to the table, a task I undertook with zeal. I mapped out a safe route in my head, weaving around other tables in what may have seemed sporadic fashion, though not once did my route cross beneath one of the deceased insects. The servant, while a bit quizzical, didn't protest, and by the time my circuitous route terminated at my table, I was sure I was going to have to tip a bit more to compensate for my disruption. Never mind that I had done his job for him, that he should have been aware of the perils lurking above. But it was a small price to pay for the knowledge that my food was safe.

Me:
Work, handball, and biking when I have time have been keeping me a bit busy. It's so hard to prioritize. Or rather, it's hard to prioritize consistently. One day I feel like devoting all of my time to handball, the next I am on my bike wondering how much I would have to do to become good at that. And then I realize none of those things matter if I don't have a career picked out. Oh boy. So rather than worry too much about any of that, I'm sort of just bending to my whims. Which will probably result in me being a rather good handball player, a moderate biker, and destitute. I guess we'll see how that goes.