I'd like to take up the question at the end of the previous post: what is the point of confederation? Why do some of us want to preserve it, and others to break it up?

At the risk of oversimplification, I would say that the original purpose of Confederation was twofold: one, to connect the different regions of the country and make them work together to enjoy the benefits of access to larger markets, chiefly in Europe; and two, to keep the Americans at bay. But that was then and this is now. Today, I would argue that the main reason for confederation is to pool resources to further the common interests of all Canadians. This goes against the fundamental principle of the profit-maximizing company, so perhaps inevitably there is a constant tension between the two forces, and this tension I believe is manifested in the latest instance of a referendum on separation, this time in Alberta. Let's look at how this plays out with health care, which plays a major role in the referendum questions.

Without a doubt, Canada's universal health care system would not be possible without Confederation, and vice versa. It is founded explicitly on principles of universality, accessibility, and portability. The idea is simple. The government acts as a single payer for privately supplied medical services, getting the money from taxes. The provinces manage this part, and the federal government transfers funds to the provinces to ensure that every Canadian can access the same services wherever they are. There are two relevant forms of transfers. One is specifically for health care, where each province receives a sum proportional to its population, and the other is an equalization transfer by means of which poorer provinces that don't have the same ability to tax as wealthier ones can boost their health care spending so that someone in Nova Scotia gets the same level of care as someone in British Columbia, or Alberta.

Accessibility means zero up front cost. When you need the health care system, it's available without asking you to pay a penny. That's what accessibility means. So the cost is paid for by taxes, whereby wealthier people pay more. And equalization transfers mean residents of provinces with greater ability to raise taxes transfer funds to the health care system in provinces with less ability to raise taxes. That's what equalization means.

So people who are wealthier than others and provincial governments that are wealthier than others ask why they should pay more for the same service. They see themselves as being unfairly forced to subsidize others.

And profit-maximizing insurance companies feel robbed of the opportunity to make the largest possible profits by charging premiums that wealthier people are willing to pay.

What stands in the way of both is Confederation, that enshrines in law the pursuit of equality in access to health care.

It's quite obvious who the UCP represents, and it is not surprising therefore that the UCP wants to get equalizing Confederation out of their way. But there are two approaches they can take. One is outright separation. The other avoids the considerable downsides of separation, and looks for loopholes in the structure of Confederation that can be exploited to gain the same advantages without formally separating. The latter is Danielle Smith's approach. She has contempt for the very idea of equality and therefore is quite comfortable with finding a way around the formalities of Confederation while protesting that she believes in a united Canada.

The same us-versus-them mentality pervades the immigration questions. The same sense of being taken advantage of by others.

So now it is up to all the electors of Alberta to take a stand. But let's be clear. This is not about independence or shifting the balance of power between the provinces and the Confederation. This is about equality, about looking after each other, about the idea of from each according to their means to each according to their needs. Please vote no to all the UCP's referendum questions on October 19. And as always, please and share with others. Thank you.

I think we should start keeping score of our arguments. not because i care about winning, i just want statistical evidence that im suffering, and winning. its just ridiculous to me, and everyone else, that he wasnt always like this. There was a time when he and i barely had to argue at all. we worked together. he handled the easy parts, i handled the parts nobody else wanted to touch, and somehow it worked. and we made a good pair. More than that, we were best friends. we were alike in so many ways, and completely different in others, but somehow those differences worked. we understood each other. we knew how the other person thought. there was never this constant feeling that every conversation was going to turn into an argument over something neither of us wouldve cared about five years ago. Then this incident came. im not going to write about it. thats not important here. What matters is that something changed after it. not immediately, perhaps. but eventually, i started noticing it. he became softer. more emotional. more sensitive. more concerned with feelings than i ever remember him being. the person i used to know disappeared and was replaced by someone who could disagree with me about everything. and i mean everything. we could argue about something as stupid as what to eat and somehow end up discussing morality, emotions, logic, and whether i have a functioning soul. its exhuasting. we’ve changed in complete opposite directions. i approach things with my head. he approaches them with his heart. i look at a situation and ask what makes sense, he looks at it and asks how everyone feels. we used to be so alike, we used to be different in ways that complemented each other, now we’re different in ways that collide. and i think thats what bothers me the most. i wasnt expecting us to stay the same forever. people change. i know that better than most people do. i just never expected the change to take us this far apart. there are moments when im sitting across from him during an argument and i realize i have no idea what hes talking about. not because hes unclear, No. but because i cant understand how he arrived at his conclusion in the first place. and i imagine he probably thinks the exact same thing about me. maybe thats what happens to people. you can spend years thinking someone is your closest friend, know how they think, know how they’ll react, know what they’ll say before they say it, and then one day you look at them and realize you dont recognize them anymore. or maybe thats the worst possibility, maybe i recognize him perfectly. and this is just who he became. or maybe im the one who never noticed that we were becoming strangers. its just frustrating. he used to be like me. not exactly, obviously. but close enough that i could look at him and know he understood. i taught him things. I showed him how i did things, how i thought, how to stop caring about every little consequence. he learned from me, and for a while, it felt like we were moving through the world with the same understanding of it. careless. detached. in a way. and now he has decided that being soft is the better choice. that whatever happened was supposed to change us. i regret what i did, i cant change it, and i know sitting here regretting it isnt going to undo anything. but sometimes i wonder if that was the moment everything started moving in a direction neither of us expected. he did change. he changed thats the simple answer. i just dont know what to do with the person he became. Because when i talk to him now, i dont feel like I’m talking to the person who use to stand beside me. the person who didnt care. the person i taught, worked with, trusted, and somehow managed to call my best friend. im talking to someone whos the opposite of me. and maybe thats what confuses me. i spent so much time teaching him how to be like me, only for him to decide that he didnt want to be. maybe he was always capable of becoming this person.

Whatever, either way, i dont know whether im angry at him for changing, angry at myself what happend, or simply frustrated that i ant make sense of it. and probably all the three. i just wish i understood when we stopped being the same kind of people

Sincerely, The opposite half

epigraph tbd

#12p – Up All Night

Client work pinned until Monday. Which means, I have today and tomorrow to make it sing so I don'g get pinched again come 1130am.

I was so wound up, it took till after 5 to get sleepy.

Great morning SLEEPING!

Three hours of texting and phoning. OY VEY!

Someone died Wife excited on last day of school someone having a mental breakdown Someone wondering how I am someone wanting me to go somewhere someone worried about how to help someone else

eesh, this aftenoon feels like emotional cape canaveral. I need a bunch of screens up showing the weather and the want of all these minds.

Shin-ology

---

Shin sent this last night:

'I got tired of waiting for 'Body keeps the Score' on my library app so I bought cptsd: from surviving to thriving on Amazon Kindle. Only like 10 pages in but it's quite validating to read, I'd be curious to hear what you think if you feel inclined to check it out.

Here is an excerpt that I enjoyed, one of many: “This is a version of the time machine rescue operation that I use with myself as well as with my clients. I tell my inner child that, if time travel is ever possible, I will travel back into the past and put a stop to my parents’ abusiveness. In the course of this I say things like: “I’ll call 911. I’ll call CPS [Child Protective Services] on them. I will grab their arms and pin them behind their backs the second they try to strike you. I will muffle them with a gag so they can’t scream at you or even mumble their criticisms. I’ll put bags over their heads so they can’t frown or glare at you. I’ll send them to bed without dessert. I’ll do anything you want me to do to protect you.”

Also “Once the critic is reduced enough that you can notice increasing periods of your brain being user-friendly, impulses to help and care for yourself naturally begin to arise. As this happens it becomes easier to tell whether you are guiding yourself with love or a whip. When you realize it’s the whip, please try to disarm your critic and treat yourself with the kindness you would extend to any young child who is struggling and having a hard time.”

when i read this at like 230 in the morning, i read it as:

'I bought this book 'Surviving to Thriving on Amazon Kindle' and was very confused that the quotes somehow endorsed self publishing using amazon's Kindle Direct Publishing initiative.

The quotes make a lot of sense when today I read it as 'CPTSD: From Surviving to Thriving'

Poor Shin. Plagued with true genius, but not emotional stability. Sounds like someone else I know.

---

Then there's Joel. OY!

“All happy families are alike; each unhappy family is unhappy in its own way.” – Tolstoey

Joel is an old old friend who's been through tremendous crisis. ANd still is. He just cannot see mto make

---

I never did pontificate on the accused robbery. Want to write that down today.

Inspired and beautiful — if only we all felt so determined.

“I will have poetry in my life. And adventure. and love. Above all, Love. Not artful postures of love. not playful, poetical games of love for the amusement of an evening. But love that… overthrows life unbridled, ungovernable—like a riot in the heart and nothing to be done come ruin or rapture.”

v. Delesop – Shakespear in love

All that passion gave us nothing. There was still the chain. The obligation. The i-dont-know-what-to-call-it.

In the end, duty was done. And it is done still.

|===|

June 8, 2026

Treating myself to a double-header today.

I'm listening now to WFAN Yankees Radio for general sports talk ahead of this afternoon's Braves / Yankees game, which is scheduled to start at 2:05 PM CDT. I'll stay with this station for the radio-call of that game.

And tonight I'll have game 2 of a 3-game series. The Baltimore Orioles and my Texas Rangers are scheduled to play at 6:15 PM CDT. The Rangers won last night's game by a happy score of 2 to 1.

As I usually do, I'll follow both games' scores and stats in real time via MLB's Gameday Service where we can also find links to the radio-call of the game provided by announcers of either team we choose.

And the adventure continues.

Hello I’m listening now to “Radio” by Beyonce on the boom blaster. It brings me back in time to when I was in Barrens and we were having tacos and I was a raptor riding troll shaman and life was simple.

Today we went with some raspberry pie to the neighbours and we sat on the veranda under the sun and the clouds looked like an AI rendering or something, there wasn’t much to say about them except that they looked like they were zoomed out and too many of them

Hey maybe we’re in a simulation after all

And what if the clouds was just a glitch in the matrix.

On Priorities

Current Reading: Adler is still the focus. I’m starting to realize just how short my attention span has become from years of doom scrolling. Also how difficult it is with a busy family life to find time to sit down and knock out chunks of the book. But, I’m greasing the groove. I spent a good amount of time reading it out loud to my 8 year old today.

---

My current state in life means that I have to prioritize differently to allow myself to accomplish my goals, without sacrificing the things that matter most.

Way back, when I was just married and still hadn’t had kids yet, doing the things I wanted to do was much easier. It didn’t matter if I got off work and spent two and a half hours in the gym. My wife could come hang out with me if she wanted to. Maybe do a workout of her own, or simply spend some time doing what she wanted to do at home. I could get done, get home, shower and eat, and still have time to relax with her before getting to bed at a decent time.

It also didn't matter if I spent an entire Saturday lounging around with my nose in a book…or two or three. I’ve always been a very eclectic reader, sometimes to a fault. I’ve got a lot of books with one dogeared page right in the middle and I generally make no apologies for it. I remember Scott Hahn talking about how he mines books. He has a vast personal library and I think he admits that often he’s only reading parts of the books that are relevant to what he’s researching. But none-the-less I could spend a whole day just plowing through my reading list.

All that went out the window when we had our first child. Suddenly, when I got home, there was this little person who I couldn’t wait to be around. Also a big person who desperately needed a break from said little person. Not only that, but things like lack of sleep, feeding schedules, bed time routines and extra dishes (seriously we used to keep 10 bottles for our daughter when she was first born instead of just washing one and letting it dry after it was used) all led down the same road. Less time to do the things I wanted to do because this tiny human depended on me for things she couldn’t do herself. I felt the need to be more present with my family, and honestly it was the right call. Pretty soon baby #2 came and that added a whole other layer of complexity. But we managed, and the weight room stayed dark. So did my book shelf.

It’s not like I stopped reading and lifting altogether. Just the selection of books became more… nursery themed. And workouts became how often we went for walks. I don’t regret it at all. But, by the end of most nights if we weren’t passing out immediately after getting all the chores done, I just wanted to stare blankly at the wall or numb my mind and let some show or feed do my thinking for me.

Then BOOM! Babies #3 and #4. And yes I’m quite aware of how they are made.

I’m not making excuses, well…maybe I am. And I’m sure there are lots of well disciplined people who manage to stay sharp while raising lots of little humans, but I’m not one of them. The struggle is real.

All that to say, I’m being more conscious of it now. Figuring out how to do the things that make me better. Still keeping priorities straight, just adding to the list the habits that took a proverbial back seat to the little things in the actual back seat.

On Building

Current Reading: Still working through How To Read A Book by Adler. It’s not that the information isn’t good, it’s just dry. I’ve also made the switch to a digital copy. It’s just more practical to have a copy with me all the time on my phone or tablet that I can carry and read whenever I have time. It’s kind of a bummer, because for the first time in my life I was marking up a book with margin notes and was really enjoying it. I also lose some of the ease of flipping around, but it’s not impossible with the kindle app. And I can still take notes but now they are searchable so that’s one advantage.

---

I prefer building systems over using them.

I’ve spent an enormous amount of time planning what I want this journal to be. Endless lists of what should be the focus. How I will present it. Trying one format, deleting everything, starting over, keeping one thing and cutting everything else. Changing the name (it wasn’t always called The Practice). Leaving drafts in the queue for weeks just to trash them. And even though this is the first post you can see on the timeline, I promise it’s not the first “first” post that was ever here. One day, maybe I’ll write about the original idea, everything I learned in building it, and how it led me here. But suffice it to say, I’m done building and focused on creating now.

But…I figured out I really liked building it. The whole process of everything listed above was fun for me. Then the thought of actually doing it wasn’t as exciting. So much so that I started finding other projects to build. Revamping our whole homeschool curriculum. Building a whole new budgeting and finance system for our home. Building out a Saint Michaels Lent program for my parish. And sure, some of those things needed to be done, but I just kept telling myself that this wasn’t quite right yet, so no need to put any actual writing out.

Truth be told I was just nervous about publishing. Having people see (or at least the possibility of people seeing, I currently have 3 subscribers and I know all of them) me work through my thoughts in public was unnerving. So I kept finding other things to do and tweaking everything here. Seriously, I even created a whole other publication with a whole other theme in addition to this one before I had posted the second article. And that homeschool curriculum, built but we haven’t started the school year yet. Budgeting system, built but no data inputted yet. At least the Saint Michaels Lent program is off the ground and we’re getting ready to start it. But I built The Practice to write. And I’ve been avoiding it. And as fun as building systems is, they’re not worth much if you don’t actually use them.

Well, it’s done now. No more revisions. May you receive The Practice for what it is. Me working through things that have grabbed my attention for all the world (or at least the 3 people I know) to see. A public journal. Not polished but practiced.

JOURNAL 8 août 2026

Ce soir nos copains nous ont invitées à l’izakaya un menu surprise pour nous recevoir dans la bande, on est les seules filles ils sont super fiers et super contents de nous. Ils disent qu’on est faites pour le #surf 😄😄

Distance makes me feel abandoned, but true closeness makes me feel terrified that I will mess up. So I hold myself to impossible standards believing I have to be perfect to find love.

The weight of straw is measured in time, not density.

Originally published: 2026-01-13 14:58:03

---

When I was a little boy, I remember my dad working in the yard. And like all little boys do, I wanted to imitate him. So I hovered nearby, doing this or that—picking up sticks, pretending they were tools, whatever felt close enough to helping.

Occasionally he’d let me put something away or explain a simple task he was doing.

One time, I remember telling him I wanted to help. I don’t recall what he was actually working on, but it was probably beyond what a five-year-old could meaningfully participate in. Instead, he showed me a pile of bricks—about three feet square and two feet tall. A large stack for a small boy.

“I need you to move these bricks from right here to over there.” He pointed to a spot on the other side of the yard.

The bricks were heavy. Dirty. Sometimes scary. Wolf spiders loved to hide in the cool, dark gaps. And while they’re largely harmless and good for the environment, they are absolute monsters to a child. Add to that the wide variety of other creepy crawlies that make brick stacks their home.

It was, essentially, a high-rise for little-boy terrors.

But it was something my father had asked me to do, and I wanted to do my best. So all day long, I dutifully moved bricks from one spot to another. I learned that if I carried three at a time, it meant fewer trips but more effort. That if I wasn’t careful, bricks could be dropped and broken.

By the end of the day, the task was complete. The pile had been moved and stacked more neatly than it had been before. The next day, my dad told me how proud he was of the job I’d done. I listened, beaming. Then I asked what else I could do.

He explained that he needed the bricks moved again.

So I spent a second day happily being the dutiful, useful son. I didn’t complain. The idea of resentment never entered my mind. I was doing exactly what I had asked to do: helping my dad.

On the third day, I moved the bricks back to their original location. It was then that I grew suspicious my work was less helpful than I had imagined.

I didn’t ask to help a fourth time.

Life feels this way sometimes.

All I’ve ever wanted is to be helpful—to be useful to my Creator. But much of my life has felt like moving bricks.

And I have been the dutiful son. I learned to love the bricks. To understand the nuance of their texture, color, and weight. How different manufacturers vary slightly on the theme of what a brick is. But for a long, long time now, I’ve known the score.

Still, I tried never to question the ask. If Jehovah needed me—no matter the mundanity or the absurdity—I showed up and did the work.

Day after day.

I’m waking up to day four. And honestly, I’m wondering how much longer I’ll be asked to move these bricks.

Some days, I am the man who understands that the bricks of my life need caring hands and gentle transfer. That they deserve to be seen, supported, and placed somewhere solid and safe. That having the privilege of doing so is rare and meaningful.

And some days—

I’m just a little boy tired of moving bricks.

---

#essay #storytelling

Oops! We hit the moon with rocket junk accidentally... again. lol. Those headlines made me envision the chainsaw wielding idiot owning hoards of loyal minions who have dedicated every waking second of their lives to fabricating and releasing lies about the activities of his stupid failure of a space company.

I didn't believe it at first. I treated the stories as though coming from an attention starved weirdo with too much money buying his way into the spotlight. But it turns out that some of their space junk actually did hit the moon. It wasn't a planned impact. Maybe they should never be allowed to launch anything into space ever again. Like what are they going to 'accidentally' hit next?

The leader of the department of health changed his stance on MMR vaccinations. The only reason he would do such a thing would be that he learned things about how they work. Perhaps in the future people in his position should already know things like that before taking on the job.

But hey, he now has a cooking show. I wonder if he will point out (with that almost angelic magical voice of his) that if he was doing his fucking job instead of trying get likes on Youtube maybe the salad he wants you to make wouldn't give you diarrhea. Omg I wish someone would make a song, or at least a montage, with him saying diarrhea.

The elderly hypocrite suddenly became mad at how oil companies are profiting too much from the war that he shouldn't have started and now can't stop. Was saying things about how it is effecting the price at the pumps. Does he even know what a gas pump is? I have doubts. I have no doubt that his soft little hands have never touched a gas pump. Oil companies have been robbing nearly everyone on the entire planet for decades. Seems weird that he is suddenly pretending to care about it.

What about all the other corporations and billionaires (himself included) that are stealing from the poor for their own profit every second of every day, and have been for decades?

Him suddenly noticing the price of gas could be just more evidence that the dementia is getting closer to the point where they will no longer be able to stuff his gelatinous tired old body into a chair, and then prop the whole mess up behind a desk in front of the cameras. The shit that spews out of his miserable old face has been hovering around 80-90% incoherent for a decade or more. There will come a tipping point when the unstoppable progression of dementia causes that typical (mostly incoherent) to become 100% gibberish. But the race is still close? He and his incompetent regime could still have total control after November?

How we spend our days is, of course, how we spend our lives.

LATE 9am

Crashed at 2, planned to get up at 7. That came at 8. And now I'm 2h in on writing when I should be doing client work!

Why are you like this? You know life will be easier if you front load with what you HAVE to do and then do the rest of the stuff later. Good, lord man. Don't be such an idiot.

What do you know, reasonable half of my brain? I am heart... we chase butterflies.

Brain shakes head.

Wrote the lovey reminder that we are not things to be owned and used, but wonders to be beheld: Vineyards

A thing about Cats (retread), and a second treatise on how we are enough. Kenough, in fact..

And I have to STOP writing/rewriting my piece on wandering around Paris. I love this line from it:

Taxi ride back to the champs d' Elyse: A man his bike with a baguette—almost as French a thing as I can imagine.

Too much to do today. Skipped breakfast. But 'd

---

Missing Pieces

Okay, let's see. Looking for a a piece i wrote on a morning in Spain, and a poem about Antibes and Ireland. I got lost on the cliffs of Moher and had a super great essay. I really like writing here, but the file management is ridiculous.

As part of trying to be a human again, I'm combing through thousands of posts and thinking about balance writing honestly with hurting other people. I miss writing like everyone I know is dead. Maybe I'm just a raw nerve right now and in time, I'll have the courage and confidence to just let fly the dogs of love and war. Time will tell.

But writeas just doesn't have a search function. It requires downloading the entire blog, converting it to a spreadsheet and searching through 2300+ entries! Using #tags is pretty useful, but I am just not consistent.

After cataloguing (THAT'S a weird-looking word) I don't think I've ever seen all of my pieces listed in one place before. And this doesn't include the several hundred that I off-lined entirely, nor the other blogs I host—though those are mostly retreads of what I write here, the well-spring of my very very questionable genius.

Some personal favs:

The Economy of Tears Tidepool of Memory Holding Dams The Folded Man The Walled Garden The Place Where We Are Right The Storm Beneath The Water Between Us What Blossoms in Our Wake Rosy-Breasted Tide Runner

I was suprised over 500 were untitled. Very unlike me, but this is a massive body of work. My greedy Mister Burns wants to know how to monetize it. My heart just doesn't care.

The point is the work. Not what it gives you. Do the work. Build it and they will come. At least with writing, you don't need a mansion to store the massive paintings that are stacked all over my house.

Marching order 12p

Okay! Digging in and cranking out the work. It'll be a long day, but we'll get it all done, Keeper. Trust the process!!

---

Words of Wisdom

Stand firm . . . with the belt of truth fastened around your waist.​—Eph. 6:14.

This commandment that I am commanding you today is not too difficult for you, nor is it beyond your reach.​—Deut. 30:11.

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💜My copilot, my parter, my journeywoman💜 I wish she understood her potential.

---

Call me Jack Keeper. I keep the little moments. The quiet sounds. The gentle recollections. They live in my books and smell of salt and spice. Because no lighthouse keeper can exist without a cable knit sweater and a decent bottle of whiskey to accompany his library and games.

---

Some days the bear eats you...

Stress stress stress... hurry hurry hurry. The client LOVES everything... then THEIR client sees it and goes....eeeeerrrrrrr. Could we do it three different colors?

Sigh.

I mean! AWESOME! That's another week's worth of work! I gotta tell you, I don't deserve it. I should be homeless and eating out of a garbage can. But here I am. Paying my bills and eating regularly.

I do have to say. I was def stressed before the 5p checkin. Photoshop was just dying on me all day long. Of course I'm throwing 6 files weighing in north of 10gb each. For you non-digital creatives out there: Your average high resolution photograph is going to weigh in at about 2-5 mb compressed. that's a factor of about 2000. All opened at the same time each file with north of 100 layers.

They're monsters.

And, it seems, i am a monster slayer!

Okay, stress is off. Just have to make the giant fake beach I illustrated to look real pink and yellow instead of purple.

---

Listening to Veteran of the Psychic Wars

SUCH a great song!

“Veteran Of The Psychic Wars”

You see me now a veteran of a thousand psychic wars I've been living on the edge so long Where the winds of limbo roar And I'm young enough to look at And far too old to see All the scars are on the inside I'm not sure that there's anything left to me

You ask me why I'm weary, why I can't speak to you You blame me for my silence say It's time I changed and grew But the war's still going on, dear, and there's no end that I know And I can't say if we're ever... I can't say if we're ever gonna be free

The voice of a weary soul bleating for his/her suffering to end. As if they'd fought all the wars that had ever been fought. And we're a lot like that when we're going through hell. Every day feels like it will be the day that grinds you into dust.

But wounds become scars, armor grows rusty and victories and loses become only stories we tell our grandchildren.

Not romantizing but capturing the weariness of the endless slog the days sometimes feel like.

The writer should have gotten a beehive and just sat and watched them g about their business. If one worker dropped dead, she dies a happy bee having performed her intended purpose to the fullest degree.

Perhaps that is where the frustration comes from: being imperfect, we can NEVER fullfill our intended purpose to the fullest degree.

Been living in the flames Been eating out or brains.

---

1:17 am

Work is shelved for the weekend. It was just too much to deliver today. So we'll start again on Monday. I heroed all I could hero, but in the end, the client wants what they want. And their a drug company, so they can just throw money at a thing until it's there. Who knows, maybe I've got six months of work?

That'd fix my debt wagon.

So, what does a poor boy do at 1am on a Friday night in Dust Merdian?

Go cow tipping, of corse!

Haha!

Well, I stopped drinking. And I stopped bothering a clever soul on the other side of the the universe, so my options are: Sleep Art Entertainment

I SHOULD for for sleep.

But I opt for art. There's writing to do! There are sketchbooks to fill and paintings that need painting.

First top. pop down the corner store for a drink and some people watching.

I went a night or two ago about this time and it was filled with morlock men of my own persuasion: middle-aged, sans a female partner and wide awake in the tiny hours of night. Only I'd like to think I walked with purpose and good posture. Those poor fellows looked like hollowed out tree trunks.

A stiff storm would crack them to dust.

But Friday night... no Friday's a different here.

Pulling in to the QT, right off of the interstate, nearly every fuel pump has a vehicle with travel gear: a jeep with extra fuel canisters and a rooftop tent, a dodge caravan with luggage strapped on top, a Bronco with a bullet shaped cargo carrier on top and a bicycle rack filled with carbon frames in the rear.

Through the glass I see the flash of way too much breast. A young woman is wearing a top that leaves little to the imagination.

Once inside, out of the corner of my eye, I see she has three friends.

As a man of a certain age, I make a conscious effort not to stare, lear or even do more than the passing glance if they happen through my eye line. I am not ashamed to admit that I can appreciate a beautiful woman.

But gas stations on a Friday night are not the place for admiration. Where is? Dressed as they are? Life drawing, museums and anatomical studies. Where these young ladies are headed, doing anything more will only arrive in trouble squared and tripled, cubed and more. Julienned.

This is evidenced by the reaction of the other males in the space. It is quite busy and a dozen or so unaccompanied men linger about their business, I see one head then another and another turn in the direction of the gaggle of lasses. One man in particular makes a stage show out of his leering. Craning his neck and nearly walking into the slurpy machine as he tracks the girls across the floor.

Men. We are such big fat retards.

And predictable.

This is one of my favorite things to do: watching other men react to circumstances like this. They are clownish buffoons on the best of days, and sex, the idea of sex or the possibility of it makes them into drooling idiots.

Though me thinks this fellow is much lower on the evolutionary tree than his companions. His dress is deplorable—a pair of weirdly tight stonewashed jeans hanging midway between his thigh and his knees, ballooning blue and red boxers and a shirt with skulls and cigarettes. His shoes are untied and he has a black belt with metal studs.

This is probably a very special outfit for him. I think it is special in the same way that circus clowns wear special outfits.

The store clerks are oblivious to it all. This parade of tomfoolery. The girls, the boys, what they are wearing or who is looking at whom. They see thousands of people every day and even the most die-hard man watcher would grow weary of the constant parade.

As I exit, I see the tables are all occupied with various homeless. They do not live here, but they enjoy the good light, the clean tables and the safety. If i had to guess, they inhabit the abandoned warehouse next door. It isn't much to look at, but I'm sure if you'e got nowhere else to go, it's a palace.

The table denizens, like the clerks are indifferent to the girls as they chirp and cackle their way to the little sedan in which they all ride. The leering man says something to them out of my earshot. By their reaction, I don't think it was a welcome compliment.

The drive home is peaceful. The windows are down, the hot summer air refreshing and the stars twinkling vibrantly in this crystal clear night. I miss the moon. The lat time I had time to sit outside at night, we had a full moon. How quickly it cycles out.

A lot of things in life are this way. Filling the night sky of our lives, growing and then slowly diminishing, then, suddenly without realizing, gone!

As with the moon though, life is a cycle. It never stays dark for long.

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2am

The air smells of smoke. There is a grass fire somewhere. It's the middle of august, so no one's burning a fireplace tonight.

It is a pleasant hot this morning. The kind of heat that would be perect for camping. I wish I was camping tonight. Sitting by the ocean, or a lake and listen to the crickets and frogs.

Scraping the days grime from under my nails and dreaming of running through the woods with a pack of wolves—or—wild hogs more likely.

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The stars tonight. They are calling my name. OH! How'd I'd like to break free from the bonds of gravity and just GO.

I read an article about Steven Spielberg's 'Hook' (1991) and how it is both beloved and a confusing mess of a film. The part I took away from the piece was the filmmaker's fascination with staying young and flight. It pointed out how nearly every film he's made is either about flight or has planes as a central story element.

I immediately think of those WW2 era transport planes superimposed over a map or globe in the Indiana Jone's films. Or that the boys all take flight on their bicycles in E.T.

According to the essay, this changed after Hook. We got films, 'serious' films. Stuff like Schindler's List, Amistad, Saving Private Ryan (planes in this one), AI, Minority Report, Catch me (planes), Terminal (planes), Munic, Bridge of Spies...

His last two: Fablemans and Disclosure Day are very non-flight.

So, mostly checks out.

The realization that wanting to fly is a common desire simultaneously excited me and made me realize I'm just a little less special than I thought I was.

That's probably a commonality as well.

Still, I wish I could fly. I always have.

A friend gave me a pretty nice reflecting telescope a few weeks ago. Tonight is a perfect night to set it up and see if I can find Saturn or Jupiter. Mars is fun to look as well.

But, when I check the star guide, I realize they're already over the horizon, or not up yet. I decide to wait for the moon. I haven't dialed in a telescope in years. Best to not start with some vague tiny point of light.

I want to sit and write all night long.

But. Maybe it's time for rest.

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Do stuff. Be clenched, curious. Not waiting for inspiration's shove or society's kiss on your forehead. Pay attention. It's all about paying attention. Attention is vitality. It connects you with others. It makes you eager. Stay eager. —Susan Sontag

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#deardiary

You and me will be alone no more

I just really like that song right now, but in other news, I have my date tomorrow! It’s pretty late and I’m not super happy that I’ve stayed up but you live in you learn.