Upon Viewing "End of Suburbia"

August 11, 2006

The second semester I taught Composition II, which was
my first year as a real, professional teacher, I taught my
students Global Oil Peak Production, and the Hubbert predictions.
I asked them, during some minor diatribe of their Webquest,
(which few, if any read)
“Can our local economies support $6.00/gal of gas?”
It is now August, less than three years from that writing, and we
have seen $3.20 here in the upper Midwest, where our corn
is combined through tongs and our tongues subsidize sentiments,
a sloppy, steady slurping-up of the oil and the blood of our conscience.This land, the dirt I walk on and lay my head upon four floors from the ground, grouped and gathered in by the concrete and brick constructs splintered only by wood, is still the land of the whisperers.
Whispering while willow boughs bow before there presence, all that is still sighs in the silence of their grief.
Shit, we’re burning them up in our tanks right now;
shit, compacted way down there, dead dinosaur guts are but land lovers laid waste by some great flood or meteorite—
we’ve stirred your grave.
We stuck our big sticks, thick and phallic, into you; pumped and pile-dived your hive; your nest, full of sting and symmetry we stuck our sticks into your honey— pulled out gooey and oozing, gushed all over your tombstone.

They fucked up the Brits flight plans with liquid explosives. From what I hear, you had to taste baby food in front of the guards if you wanted to bring your kid and its food on the gazguzlin plane.
“They” want to fuck us up.
“They” want to bring us down.
“They” know it’s a matter of time before we suck all we can out of
this shriveled carcass (Car Gas = Carcass) and we move along…
Manifest Destiny. We’re sucking up everything in sight—we slaughter with mighty hands in the morning and
profess our soliloquies to the moon.
And if we listen to the resonant hum of eighteen wheelers and the gritty screech of break pads on rotors at intersections while smoking cigarettes above the city when all are asleep, we hear the echo of the soliloquies of millionsfrom thousands of years ago, only now making its return.
And under the hum, and in the whispers an epitaph for our era:
“Slowly moves the tortoise into her century and wisdom; a nation of dust beneath her feet.”

Fireside

August 7, 2006

Had yet another beautiful time with the woman.
I kept picturing our children running around up here,
as we stayed for weeks on end;
I pictured teaching the boys to wear their camouflage,
so as to avoid tick and spider bites, to provide protection from
poison oak and ivy. She will be gorgeous pregnant.
I think of when to kneel, and the list of things to accomplish first
continue to rise in the frontal regions of my mind: I’m unemployed
and work at home on my knowledge—this will change soon.

Being up here, in the woods on the lake, where the fire
hushes a slow burning wet sigh, and where mosquitoes hatch
and find flight for the first time, the city seems so squalid.
And yet, or still, the city is the dwelling in which the accomplishments
of my knowledge will allow the children in the bush,
unhooking sunfish and admiring the cuteness of baby snapping turtles.

There is no “pornucopia” television out here; in fact,
there is no television out here at all.
And, I find myself wondering if in the last fifty years, we stopped seeing dragons because of the media leviathan. Up here, the gaping maw of Gap has no reach,
and the taloned grip of News Corp. finds only clumps of dirt and browned grasses after its lofty dive for prey.
Dragons inhabit so much of our myth, are even mentioned as the “Behemoth”
in Song of Solomon, or is it Lamentations: at any rate, it was written by Solomon. Fire came out its nose.
Doesn’t every culture have a vision of some flying monster in the sky?
And yet, we don’t believe in them anymore, because our brains have been so bashed
in the creative hemisphere, that there is no more any
imagination that requires genuine exercise.
The bashing tells us there is no such thing as "dragon"; and yet, in the air, silently and invisible, machinations and calculations
and consuming algorithms centered on profit and persuasion penetrate the chainmail of our quiet desires.

8/1/2006

8/1/2006

Been burn’n code images into my head.
When I picked E up from the airport, I saw his words in code,
and was wondering where the php began and the html ended.
His interview went well; all’s well that starts well with crazy surfing
on a hunch on the Web; position/s posted over Ethernet: we’re all connected.
Inspected, erected, imbedded into the time of change, sum= the sum of all
there is/was/will “be” ;
echo “A great divide lies beside” ;
echo “A greatness inside the outer rim.”
And I have these goals, which, utterly have not
yet quite, not nearly so materialized as I think in code and
postulate the formalities of: who I am, where I’m going.What I’ll write in this script of being.

7_29_2006

7_29_2006

We are leaving today.
Rained this morning and we had a wonderful time.
Our dinner on Thursday was phenomenal, and I can say
that it was one of the best nights I’ve had with her.
She is amazing and I love her.
It will be different tonight, back in the AC,
with neighbors and cars and sirens, not the beautiful ones
that lure you from the boat into the consuming waters,
but the sirens of people in trouble; maybe that’s why we call
them sirens to begin with.
It has been a pleasure writing again, and it is as though the simple
stir in me is the simplest of stirrings to agitate the fermentation
process. I missed yesterday, but that’s ok. I know that, for
the purpose of only keeping my voice at a whisper, I still
breath the words that stir in me.
It is amazing to think that whole families have come through this place—
entire generations. Perhaps first the Cherokee, but that’s an arrogant guess
because I really don’t quite know if the Cherokee lived in this region or no.
But white families have certainly been through here,
and there seems a peace in this land that is still quite real; as
if this place were smitten with a bit of stardust and from its ashes
bloomed this sanctuary. We are blessed to be here; even now whilethe bombs fall so far away in a land that engages in thick dialects and throaty tongues.

7/27/2006

7/27/2006

Just gone done screwing around on the Internet, looking up free scripts for e-business. I think this is going to be lucrative, but is going to take a lot of work and frustration to get the stuff up and running. As far as I can tell, I found a script that allows you to generate membership logins and such, ties into PayPal, and lets you protect html pages and electronic documents…it’s a shit tone of work, and I don’t even know if it’s possible for me to pull it off on my own.
~I need to learn how to set up tables in MYSQL: this is one thing I’m in the dark on.

It’s been a really great time here at the farm. It’s been hot, but no more than usual for July. Girl and I are taking a good ride tomorrow…can’t wait for that.
E is seemingly on his way out, in like three weeks here.
I just don’t know what to think about this mystery place, which has called to him for as long as I’ve known him—and now, here it is happening for him. There is no doubt that I want to know this man for the rest of my life; he is a special and dear friend. I no doubt want to visit this place, and do some research on the living and activities and climate and geography and flora and fauna make-ups of the place.

I go into TeacherMason today, and discover that this month, someone found a loophole into my old v-web php bulletin board. The old version wasn’t password protected, so the asshole went in and slapped a shit tone of bogus memberships into my members profile. Bastard. When you click the links, they take you to either already booted sites, or else to some shady company listed online. They created at least 100 members, and I’d like to get a hold of these companies that spammed my ass. Damn. That little attack is what started this mornings inquiry into the cgi stuff and the e-business questions.

Damn, I can’t believe E is leaving. I hope the best for him, really. I mean, he needs to follow his dreams and passions, and he’s damn good at what he does. Again, for as long as I’ve known him, I must say that this is certainly something he has always talked about. Furthermore, the way this whole thing has gone down has caused me to simply accept the fact that he is leaving. I’m going to miss him, dearly. it really makes me wonder if maybe I really shouldn’t consider what GJ has to offer.

Who knows…M.Ed is somehow getting nearer. I got one part down, that’s huge. I got data; that’s huge. I have steps to take, and papers to read and find, and here I am well on my way to being able to do whatever the fuck I want. Life is just weird. I mean, listen to this:
e-Blogger is totally in the consciousness right now; it makes me wonder because:
1. I just registered, out of nowhere, for the hell of it, just to log some of these ideas
2. I get spammed through my php bb, with garbled and incoherent bodies of text, with links to shit sites
3. I want to find an image of the head on the pike, AKA al zarchowi. And because I don’t know if that’s spelled right, my original Google search brought up some crazy dude’s blog on e-Blogger. First one I clicked on, not the first image—the first one I chose.

Shit dog. Girl and I are heading out to dinner. Fanfuckentastic.
Heading out to an old lodge about an hour away. Girls got it for us as a treat for staying here.

So much to do: M. Ed./ E/ e-Business/career

Squirrel Wind

7/26/2006

Smoking a cigarette with the constant tickle of flies on my ankles and shins,
the sun sets in the West behind pine and sun-burnt grasses,
a thin layer of butter light spreads through the boughs.
The dogs run down a red squirrel at full speed, and with casual frustration it dances up the tree, tail twitching, its voice tauntingly fills the empty air,
the striped tail whipping in accompaniment to the crescendos of inflection.
As I type this, cigarette still burning as the smoke stings my eyes,
our red tailed friend has embarked on a chirping frenzy, that of which
one might expect of a finch on acid. And as I finish this line, he is still;
or maybe she. I don’t know its sex. And at this moment,
it is if its renewed chirping is incensed that I do not know its sex.
No. Still chirping. Almost, there…no. Not quite. It’s screeches and breaches
of silence have my attention. “Hey!” I yell.
“Who are you yelling at?” my lover asks me, looking around wonderingly from her book.
“The squirrel,” I reply. Chirp, chirpity bark barkity sqirtitly chirp.
“He’s Crazy Squirrel,” she toys. “Kingsford! Go get ‘em!” she orders the black pug who started the whole thing, and he dolls his eyes from droopy lids and graying brow.
In reply to this, and to my statement that he (or she) is marking “his” territory,
the chirping resides, the dogs still lie still, and
K. T. Tunstell hums along to the stride of acoustic guitar and the soft, gentler chirps of the birds, the whirring of mourning dove wings and neighing of horse far across the field, underneath it all, the slow long flowing hum of eighteen wheelers and their loads cruising along on rubber and concrete, the axels driving turn after turn towards their delivery. And the horse neighs, and far out in the field the horse neighs while the dogs lay chill and sequestered.

Hobby Farm: Day 2

Girl arrived yesterday, hurray!
We went into town and grabbed some Bobbie's grub; yummy milk shake...chocolate.
Brought home leftover fries because they were tasty.
We need to get out to the Turkey factory...that just doens't sound right, but I guess that's the way it's gotta be...factorizing the turkeys.
Havent' had any major thoughts lately; just that I need to finish the M.Ed.
Data collection write up is due Thursday, which is quite the goal.
Once I get that done, then I'm really on my way.
Yesterday we got some fresh veggies from a realtor's parking lot--six bucks for five onions, a bag of baby red potatoes, a small bag of peas and I think that's it...maybe a cucumber.
Girl picked fresh lettuce out of the garden out back, and grape tomatoes and a cucumber. Yummy. Reheated some venison from the other night's grill out, and reheated fries for dinner.
Watched DirectTV for far too long.
Kirby, the pig, knocked over the bird bath while trying to eat the flower garden around it. He makes the craziest noises. He's a blast.
Still need to feed the goats today.
Gotta get off so girl can call on a mini-crisis: need to cancel some timeshare scam thing and there's no way to do it.
* * *

Hobby Farm: Day 1

Dirk, Kinsford and Breaca are fed, watered, out of their cages and happy.
Kirby, Dominoe and the goats ('cause I know no names but Gernomino), are fed and happy.
Had Crazy Spider web his way up my shirt and I spilled Corona Extra in the dark,
half-over and down onto the ground. Washed bad beer away with dog water.
Girl gave me wrong directions; met a chode on the road who wouldn't let me pass...wanted to kick his ass but passssssssed on that, so I passed him furiously in my four banger.
Froot Loops, beef sticks, cheese curds and beer was dinner.
Much Ninja Gaiden was had.
Hot tub under a sugar bowl of stars until 3 AM.
* * *
This morning,
Dogs barked at deer 7:30 AM, thought the house was burning down.
Damn, then I had three dogs back in bed and it's a little bed. I enjoyed it for a while.
Neighbor kids stopped by; one of 'em reminds me of Gary, old stomping grounds friend. The Gary-looking neighbor kid looked like some man-eating insect had taken bites right out of his legs and ankles. He wore heavy cotton moccasins, like what you wear in winter; only now it's 90 degrees. Gary-looking neighbor kid has a brother--at least I believed he was brother--who has a mental impediment. It's not downs, but his tongue is thick and his attention moves mobily from object to object; from caribeaner clip to Hot Wheels cars. They are older in their teens, or so it seems, and Gary-looking neighbor kid told me stories, after he'd seem my smokes on the counter, that he chewed tobacco and that Red Man was good and I mentioned that I liked Beach Nutt (two "t's"?) and he told me of his uncle who had him put a huge pinch (not a chaw) of Copenhagen in his lip and then smacked him on the back and down went the juices well on their way to an upset stomach. I hadn't even had my coffee yet.
venison on the grill, two eggs sunny in the kick'nest skillet, and two red potatoes fried in a pan washed down with Cornoa was lunch.