Since I’m typing this on a computer, odds are it’s legible. I’m fairly confident it makes sense, too, so that’s a plus, but whether or not it expresses my thoughts accurately is another thing entirely.

And that, as they say, is the rub.

When I was in my twenties I first started hearing from people that I didn’t talk like everyone else, and I took some pride in that. Maybe even too much. Maybe part of it is a family thing since I also heard that my younger sister, who’s still older than me, and I talked alike. But I hoped it was something more than that.

In my schooling I was forced to learn to be specific and clear in my thoughts and how I presented them. That took time and effort, but I ended up thinking that it was something I was good at, unlike many sports, life outside of school, or having any idea what to do with my emotions. I could, when I made the effort, be specfic about things, could replace the way we commonly used speech with less ambiguous words and phrasing, and, I thought, let people know exactly what I was thinking.

I may or may not have been right then, but I’ve I don’t think it’s true any more.

Since that was one of the very few things I’ve ever been proud of, it only makes sense that it’s been removed. I never had much in the way of looks, maybe some boyhood cuteness in my face, but never the type of body that anyone gave more than a first glance at. And, then, only if they had to.

I wasn’t a great student, so I never really thought of myself as all that bright, but I was pretty sure I had a way of thinking that wasn’t ordinary. Just for the sake of argument, I called it “conceptual,” feeling that I was more comfortable thinking in terms of concepts instead of their individual instances, and being far more interested in the ideas of things than their concrete examples.

But that’s not the point, which is good because I doubt it’s very clear. Let’s just say, for example, that I’m more intrigued by talking about the proper role of government (which has no definite answer) than I am about arguing about whether or not our current U.S. president is a dictatorial, tyrannical, socialist Muslim communist or not, at least until they define what the hell it is they mean by all those adjectives.

Anyway, later in life I took up writing the usual kind of things: short stories and tried my hand at a couple novels. I enjoyed it immensely and for awhile, thought I was pretty good at it. When I had something I wanted to say, I thought I had the ability to say it and, more importantly, to let others know what I thinking without getting all confused.

It turns out, if I ever could do that, I can’t any more.

Without much in the way of physical attraction (I liked Edison’s comment along the lines of being concerned with his body only as a way of carrying his brain around), all I had was what was between my ears and behind my eyeballs. I’ve always been eager to be liked and developed a pretty good sense of humor. Sometimes I could actually be really funny, and I enjoyed that. Other times, pretty much no matter the subject, I liked to think that I could add something to the conversation, if only some tangentially related point.

Now, when you think in terms of concepts, you can relate concepts more than what is being talked about so that when people are talking about 1987 Ford pickups, it’s as easy to jump to boats, which also move people around on the planet, as the 1986 pickup. Everyone can do this, and does, but it was very comfortable for me.

None of which matters.

The one thing I was most proud of has been taken, perhaps because of my age and declining mental acuity. Instead of speaking or writing with clarity, everyone gets confused at what I say and this hurts me more than it should. I often have bad dreams where I end up yelling in an effort to be understood, but I feel no one gets what I’m trying to say.

I’m not sure what I should do about this. Yeah, it hurts to see myself as not as capable any more, to be less than I always thought I was. I never prepared for this and am worried that I may never be understood. I still want to be liked, but now I may have lost my best weapon in that fight.

I feel like just giving up. It’s too much to learn all over again, if I ever did know it, and to end up being so completely misunderstood should be a lesson. When all I ever had was words, when those fail me, I’m not sure where to turn.

In addition to the usual privacy concerns and distracting ads, I have some other problems with Facebook.

One of them, or maybe two, is of my own doing. Since I don't want the handful of people who follow me on Twitter to be left out, nearly every of my Facebook postings is a tweet that is also sent to Facebook, which means they're invariably very short and heavily edited to fit into the 140 character limit. Being me, I have much more to say than comfortably fits in that limit, but I try.

Also, I don't want to be one of those people with several dozen updates a day so I spend more time biting my tongue (and fingers) than is probably good for me. And, although I tell myself that I don't need to say it just this minute but can save it for later, I rarely do. This means much of my wisdom is known only to me, which is a tragedy.

Then there's the point of this entry: pictures.

I guess it's the nature of Facebook that what most people share are pictures, pictures of all sorts of things, nearly all of which are better than any pictures I take. A lot of those pictures are in fact cartoons, many are videos, and nearly all of them are fun to look at.

But I have little confidence in my ability to take photos and it's also sort of a pain for me to upload them. Just about everyone now has a smartphone or some such device that makes sharing photos easy, but not me. It's not that I'm necessarily cheap, but last time I checked, there's little to no coverage where I live. My old flip phone works okay, but 3G or 4G coverage is iffy, at best.

Also, I'm cheap and am saving myself some stress by my decision not to keep up with things. It's kind of refreshing, for a change, to be able to ignore a whole bunch of business and tech developments, just to look at them dispassionately and not feel bound to keep up or ashamed for not doing so.

But I'm not sure that's the point.

I'd be more than happy to share pictures of where I live and the places I visit except for a couple difficulties. One, I don't go out and visit very many places and even fewer of those could be considered interesting. I'm fairly certain just about everyone has seen what stores and supermarkets look like and the ones up here aren't any different than the ones everybody else goes to.

And, I live in the desert.

What that means, among other things, is not only is the landscape bleak and, to most people, uninteresting, but it only very rarely changes and even when it does, it almost always does so very slowly. Pictures of nature are always popular, but mostly if they're of something neat to see.

There may or may not be wildlife up here. Other than birds in the morning and evening, just about every creature that calls this place home has learned a valuable lesson: if you're exposed or can be seen, you die. If the desert sun doesn't get you, something else will.

So, while there may be many interesting creatures up here, I only very rarely see them. No flocks of rabbits, no epic migrations of turtles, not even any armies of snakes, rats, or other rodents. When I have managed to see something larger than my fist, it's an individual something and, most likely, soon to regret being so visible.

This area just doesn't support great or even noteworthy numbers of anything. Maybe it's a veritable hive of activity during the night, but that's when I'm usually inside with my dog, Minardi, whom I try to shield from scorpions and rattlesnakes.

I could conceivably take pictures of the birds I see every day, but not any good ones. For some reason, they flee as soon as I show up with my camera as well as not being anywhere I can see during most of the day. Besides, everyone has a pretty good idea of what crows look like and the Internet has much better pictures than I could dream of taking of mourning doves or roadrunners.

I do see plenty of ants, but again, they're not much different than the ones you see. I think sometimes a dragon fly buzzes around in the evening, but it may just be something that looks enough like one (a flying insect about as long as a finger) that I call it that.

So, everyone on Facebook wants pictures, not words, and not only do I feel more comfortable writing, but there's not all that much for me to take pictures of.

So, in the end, I don't have much worth sharing.

I think too highly of NaNoWriMo to make a mockery of it.

In years past I remember being thrilled by the prospect of writing a novel and simply amazed that I was able to do it. I looked forward to November with eager anticipation and traditionally wrote a page or so at the stroke of midnight on November first before settling off to bed.

When I got up the next morning, there it was: the start of my novel and it was as if fairies had started it for me while I slept!

I've finished enough novels during NaNoWriMo to know that I can do it. That's no longer a challenge. Now, none of them are what you'd call good by any stretch of the imagination, but they were all over fifty thousand words and most of them even had a hint of story or character development.

A few years ago, when I quit, it was because I was mocking NaNo, and that made me feel bad. The idea, and the wondrous joy I shared in when I first became aware of the project, was fading quickly as I realized all I was doing was a typing exercise. Instead of writing a story I needed to tell, to explore my writing abilities and strengthen them, all I was doing was writing for the sake of writing, just so I could say I won.

In the first year I participated there was some guy who finished the first day or so and did so by copying and pasting one word 50,000 times. I hated that then, but my last couple efforts weren't really any different and I hated myself for that. I was taking something wonderful, something that everyone else was excited about, and crapping on it by just tossing words onto the page and calling it a novel.

This year I still don't have the sense of adventure and excitement I felt those first couple of years, but I hope to make the best out of what I have. I don't know if I'll win or not, but NaNo has never been about winning or bragging rights. I hope to be strong enough to put aside any silly sense of obligation and come up with a draft of a novel during November, one that meets the threshold.

What I won't be doing is demeaning the project I hold so dear by showing I can type enough words to win.

I've signed up to join the NaNoWriMo effort again this year, mostly just to see what direction my writing will take this time around. Last time I got an unexpected and somewhat frightening insight into my creative process, but I'm not sure how concerned I should be.

I was lying in bed, it was late at night, and that's a traditional time for me to plan things that I will never actually get around to writing (such as blog entries or witty responses to something I read on some message board hours earlier). Last night I was thinking a little about my upcoming novel, and I realized I was recoiling from the very thought of constructing a plot.

It occurred to me, I almost always do that when faced with a story.

Instead of coming up with a story in my head and then putting it down on paper like most people, good writers, do, I limit my thinking to things about the characters, other people with whom she or he may engage, and tiny scenes that interest me. Oh, I come up with snippets of conversation, but those are quickly forgotten. Mostly what I do is imagine quirks that character might have, how I might show them off, and scenes where they would be exploited.

What I don't do, hardly ever, is develop the story. In fact, I conciously avoid doing that, and part of the reason may be that I want to be as surprised as I hope anyone reading the story will be about what happens. I guess I don't see my role as writer as telling the story so much as describing it as it unfolds.

I don't think is a good way to write at all, but it usually keeps me interested enough to finish. I find I'm not all that excited about transcribing events I know about, but I'm pretty much interested in seeing what happens next or how something plays out. I don't know how most people plan for NaNoWriMo, but from what I've read on the boards there, it seems there's lots of outlining (mental or otherwise) involved. I know I could never match the impressive results of those who write 10,000 words in one sitting (whom I guess know what they're gonna say), but that's because my way of writing is mentally and creatively draining. I just can't think for five to ten hours straight!

I'm not much of a fan of omens, but that doesn't prevent me from looking for them and celebrating when I stumble over one. Not all omens are good, however, and when I run across one that I can take as evidence of something negative, I gravitate towards it.

This morning I shaved and, while that's not unusual, I couldn't help but notice how smooth my face was afterwards. Well, that's the purpose of shaving, so that didn't surprise me. What did surprise me, though, was that this morning's shaving was accomplished with the aid of a two-blade razor.

These two-blade razors are so 1980.

It's no news that razors are now up to five blades, and one brand has six, but it's on the rear and not part of the typical shaving face. The insidious progress of time, even in my short life, has taken us from one to five blades, with the promise of more to come. For the past few weeks I've been using my "travel" razor, one with three blades that I bought as an emergency replacement, and all I could think of was the baseball strike.

During that strike one player brought up to fill in for a striking major league player mentioned that the clubhouse was littered with expensive, name brand razors that he couldn't afford. That, alone, showed him the difference between the haves and have-nots, the men and the boys as it were.

Anyway, this morning I discovered that my beard (such as it is) doesn't really need any more than two blades to be removed. It may be that each generation produces a denser, thicker, and tougher beard than the preceeding one, and that would explain why people need an ever-increasing number of blades to achieve the smoothness of their ancestors, but I doubt it.

I think I'm just one of those who don't have the beard-growing ability of the more manly men. Any blade beyond two is wasted on me, but I predict that within five years I won't be able to buy any razor that only has that number.

It's progress, you see, but not any progress that I need.

[This page intentionally left blank]

I'm nearly done with my time watching two houses, or to be precise, one house and half if one duplex, only they're both technically duplexes. The house, where I've been before, actually has a unit on the bottom, but that's where the man of the house has his office and work space, so there's no tenant.

I've been dividing my time between the two places with the result that each are getting only about one-third of my attention. The remaining third is being syphoned off by the ether, and I keep thinking about kids and families. I'm told that when a second or third child is born the eldest doesn't lose any love but that the parents make some more and everyone gets their own flavor and equal share.

I've occasionally had multiple pets so I can attest to men being able to do this, but I have my doubts about women. It's been my experience that women can be quite generous about giving love, but not for very long. After anywhere from a couple months to a couple years they seem to have their fill of it and wander off to seek it elsewhere.

I've broken one heart in my life. It wasn't pretty.

Still, when it comes to love and all things relationshipy, I'm very immature and inexperienced. I guess I start well, can attract and momentarily capture someone's heart, but I don't have the legs or depth to make it last. Invariably, all my relationships end up the same "Let's move on," but I caution you not to think that (in my case, at least) that the destination is anyplace better or desirable.

I honestly don't think these women have wanted me to suffer, but they're all unified in wishing me to suffer the lack of them. It's the little things I end up missing the most, the small shared things. Her hand is as receptive to holding as it ever was long as it's not me doing the holding. Her playful gestures are still there, just not directed at me, and that's the part I hate.

You'd think I'd be used to it, but you'd be wrong.

Today, after some rewiring to get my phone and Internet services restored, I took a well-deserved nap. Surprisingly I had a pleasant dream, too, one involving chasing down an Asian girl at work.

As dismayed as I was to return to wakefulness before things could get really interesting, I was even more distressed when I felt a trickle from my nostril. Actually, I have two, but only one was "leaking."

After wiping it up with a napkin, it happened again, then several more times over the next few hours. This could only mean one thing, and I rushed to the bathroom to bring out my super-secret and special cold remedy: zinc.

Back when it was the rage a girl I knew took pity on me when I was suffering a cold and got me some zinc, which she delivered with a lecture. I had to admit then, as now, that the metallic elements only rarely found their way onto my dinner plate. Whatever the amounts needed, and I have no desire whatsoever to look these things up, I know I'm lacking.

So, I took my zinc lozenges as she insisted, and I still have the bottle but it's no longer full. I can't be bothered, either, with checking to see how many to take or how often, but whenever I feel a cold coming on I take one or two tables whenever I think of it and remember to do so.

The lozenges work as well as most placebos and, since there isn't another of me that doesn't take them, I have no idea if they have any beneficial effects at all. They don't taste bad, though, and I'm sure my stomach and digestive tract are always startled at receiving something other than coffee, so everyone wins.

It's my first cold of the year. So far, it's not even worth mentioning, but when you have a blog everything's a subject.

Well, maybe not my actual mother, more like a metaphorical one.

This happens to me sometimes: I regret my height. Because I'm mildly tall, just over six feet, people frequently mistake me for an adult. They ask me things, they expect things of me, they treat me as if I know what I'm doing. Most often the people doing this are me, but that's not the point.

I have very little idea how to live. I no longer have much of anything in the way of definitive answers. I used to, but not any more. I'd forgotten how much I wished for someone to tell me the answers until just lately when I was watching the US Senate debate those judge nominations.

These Senators, I realized, are mostly lawyers. Lawyers, by training and profession, are somewhat more lax with the truth than I'd prefer and instead rise to the top and get rich and famous by being able to argue effectively. Arguing effectively, I'd argue, isn't the same as telling the truth.

I don't know what's going on with Social Security, with Gitmo, with most anything any more. I don't hear answers, I hear slanted arguments, and it makes me sad. I don't have time to research all this shit, and I want someone, like my mom, to tell me what's going on.

Only my mom had her own agendas. Maybe it's just that I'm finally realizing that nothing can be summed up in an hour or even a day. Things honestly are complicated, and the best we can do is pick the less horrible option.

I wish life was simple, the way I remember it being.

Well, maybe not my actual mother, more like a metaphorical one.

This happens to me sometimes: I regret my height. Because I'm mildly tall, just over six feet, people frequently mistake me for an adult. They ask me things, they expect things of me, they treat me as if I know what I'm doing. Most often the people doing this are me, but that's not the point.

I have very little idea how to live. I no longer have much of anything in the way of definitive answers. I used to, but not any more. I'd forgotten how much I wished for someone to tell me the answers until just lately when I was watching the US Senate debate those judge nominations.

These Senators, I realized, are mostly lawyers. Lawyers, by training and profession, are somewhat more lax with the truth than I'd prefer and instead rise to the top and get rich and famous by being able to argue effectively. Arguing effectively, I'd argue, isn't the same as telling the truth.

I don't know what's going on with Social Security, with Gitmo, with most anything any more. I don't hear answers, I hear slanted arguments, and it makes me sad. I don't have time to research all this shit, and I want someone, like my mom, to tell me what's going on.

Only my mom had her own agendas. Maybe it's just that I'm finally realizing that nothing can be summed up in an hour or even a day. Things honestly are complicated, and the best we can do is pick the less horrible option.

I wish life was simple, the way I remember it being.

(tooth out ... no complications .. Novocaine worn off)
(I'm hungry)

(tooth out ... no complications .. Novocaine worn off)
(I'm hungry)

Among my many other fine properties, you may add two more: I have a toothache and lots of dread. I'm projecting a long weekend.

I'm not a big fan of toothaches, at least not the throbbing kind that interrupt and prevent sleep. Whenever I get one I laugh derisively at the "Intelligent Design" folks; Having teeth is not a smart choice. Considering how tiny and vulnerable they are, they can still overwhelm my consciousness and become the focus of all my thoughts.

For the past twelve hours or so I tried to sleep. I'd manage an hour or hour and a half, then wake up and it would take close to that to return to sleep. My problem is with one of my lower teeth, one halfway back, and there's a lump under my jaw that hurts when I push it. I do that, just to see how much pain it can generate.

Normally I'd handle it this way: writing someone a check. The thing is, it's the start of a three day weekend (the beginning of Summer, 2005!) and my dentist is closed for the holiday. As are the university dental clinics. They'll be closed, out barbecuing no doubt, all day today, tomorrow, and Monday. They may even go surfing or looking at wildflowers, though it's a bit late in the season for that.

I've been in this position before. I'm hoping the pain gets excruciating, then the abscess or whatever it is breaks or pops or reaches its maximum level. It feels wonderful when that happens, but the relief is only temporary. Better, and about all I can think of now, is holding in my hand a yellow plastic vial of Penicillin. Nothing beats the relief that follows the reduction of the inflamation.

I've heard about the dangers of a toothache, how the poisin can enter my bloodstream and kill me, and I have little doubt that can happen. Still, that doesn't worry me, if only because I've never heard of that happening to anyone. I don't expect that to be common in the United States, not any more, but I don't see it listed as a very common manner of death anywhere on the planet. I'd expect a lot of it, especially in countries that don't have teeth whitening clinics.

I may be in for a weekend of torturing my stomach. I hope it's up to the task of digesting unmasticated food, even though about all I think it will get is mashed potatoes and scrambled eggs.

Oh, that and ice cream and sherbet.

Among my many other fine properties, you may add two more: I have a toothache and lots of dread. I'm projecting a long weekend.

I'm not a big fan of toothaches, at least not the throbbing kind that interrupt and prevent sleep. Whenever I get one I laugh derisively at the "Intelligent Design" folks; Having teeth is not a smart choice. Considering how tiny and vulnerable they are, they can still overwhelm my consciousness and become the focus of all my thoughts.

For the past twelve hours or so I tried to sleep. I'd manage an hour or hour and a half, then wake up and it would take close to that to return to sleep. My problem is with one of my lower teeth, one halfway back, and there's a lump under my jaw that hurts when I push it. I do that, just to see how much pain it can generate.

Normally I'd handle it this way: writing someone a check. The thing is, it's the start of a three day weekend (the beginning of Summer, 2005!) and my dentist is closed for the holiday. As are the university dental clinics. They'll be closed, out barbecuing no doubt, all day today, tomorrow, and Monday. They may even go surfing or looking at wildflowers, though it's a bit late in the season for that.

I've been in this position before. I'm hoping the pain gets excruciating, then the abscess or whatever it is breaks or pops or reaches its maximum level. It feels wonderful when that happens, but the relief is only temporary. Better, and about all I can think of now, is holding in my hand a yellow plastic vial of Penicillin. Nothing beats the relief that follows the reduction of the inflamation.

I've heard about the dangers of a toothache, how the poisin can enter my bloodstream and kill me, and I have little doubt that can happen. Still, that doesn't worry me, if only because I've never heard of that happening to anyone. I don't expect that to be common in the United States, not any more, but I don't see it listed as a very common manner of death anywhere on the planet. I'd expect a lot of it, especially in countries that don't have teeth whitening clinics.

I may be in for a weekend of torturing my stomach. I hope it's up to the task of digesting unmasticated food, even though about all I think it will get is mashed potatoes and scrambled eggs.

Oh, that and ice cream and sherbet.

In the furtherance of my art I watch TV. Only, now, it's all over.

The last episode of Deadwood just aired, at least for the season, and now I've regained some time that I can devote to writing instead of viewing. You see, I watch these TV shows to see how other writers deal with the intricacies of exposition, and I watch Deadwood to hear the word cocksucker a lot. Our ancestors, it seems, were potty mouths.

I would have survived poorly in the West. Not so much the gunslinging, but the journey alone and all the labor involved with merely surviving would have been a true test of the Russell mettle. I think about this often, how different life was when most of one's life was occupied with food, clothing, and shelter. I know one of Lewis and Clerk is famous for being depressed, but I wonder if it was as prevalent then as it seems to be now. I find it unlikely, but I may be engaging in a romantic past.

It's true, I think, now that many of our maladies, both individually and as a culture, may result from our simply having enough time to "enjoy" them. People on fire don't complain about splinters, and those engaged with guaranteeing enough food to make it through a bitter winter probably rarely worried if their ass looked big in their overalls. They may have struggled with much, but I think they were less pre-occupied in finding themselves than we are.

Time, leisure time, is a luxury. For millenia it was the province of the elite, the wealthy, the ruling class, and now we mostly have it in bucketfuls. This gives us time to produce and appreciate art, but it also gives us a chance to worry too much.

In the furtherance of my art I watch TV. Only, now, it's all over.

The last episode of Deadwood just aired, at least for the season, and now I've regained some time that I can devote to writing instead of viewing. You see, I watch these TV shows to see how other writers deal with the intricacies of exposition, and I watch Deadwood to hear the word cocksucker a lot. Our ancestors, it seems, were potty mouths.

I would have survived poorly in the West. Not so much the gunslinging, but the journey alone and all the labor involved with merely surviving would have been a true test of the Russell mettle. I think about this often, how different life was when most of one's life was occupied with food, clothing, and shelter. I know one of Lewis and Clerk is famous for being depressed, but I wonder if it was as prevalent then as it seems to be now. I find it unlikely, but I may be engaging in a romantic past.

It's true, I think, now that many of our maladies, both individually and as a culture, may result from our simply having enough time to "enjoy" them. People on fire don't complain about splinters, and those engaged with guaranteeing enough food to make it through a bitter winter probably rarely worried if their ass looked big in their overalls. They may have struggled with much, but I think they were less pre-occupied in finding themselves than we are.

Time, leisure time, is a luxury. For millenia it was the province of the elite, the wealthy, the ruling class, and now we mostly have it in bucketfuls. This gives us time to produce and appreciate art, but it also gives us a chance to worry too much.