My father demonstrates the "hold-two-grandchildren-without-spilling-a-drop" technique that I assume made raising myself and my siblings almost bearable.

* * * *

I signed up for a couple of writing classes to take this summer. Neither will bring me closer to graduation but there is the possibility I will learn something. Seems worthwhile.

There is a fire outside my bedroom window. My window blinds are flaring flickering orange. It's pleasant and I will continue to think so as long as it remains confined to the fire pit.

In preparation for the classes, I am mining old journals for discarded ideas. Er, useful discarded ideas. These papers would provide a gold rush for impractical discarded ideas:

Mexicans will go to NASCAR as soon as someone invents the burrito helmet. They just have to solve the problem of keeping it safe from hungry passers-by and errant nibblers.

I don't think I could stretch that one out to ten pages.

A man gathers sufficient courage and peers into his soul expecting to uncover a repressed tempest of emotion stirring a writhing sea of genius and finds instead a partly-filled glass of tepid quinine in which a dead housefly makes slow, lazy circles.

Eh, if there's an assignment on poetry I can throw some erratic spacing in there and call it a night.

My books have taken me to harsh deserts and unforgiving tundras [Desert Solitaire][Arctic Dreams]. The terrains' voices echo through me. I believe I know these things. Years ago, as a child exploring South Mountain and as a teenager fleeing the machina duties of my government's military. To learn, to forget, to learn of forgetting. How many times has this occurred? How do I stop it?

I delighted in finding this pen. Younger me's/my old selves hide them in nooks to squirrel out later. I know the best way to keep things safe is to forget them for a little while.


Idunno.

We three, Jenna, Brian, me, crawled through ancient lava flows and neglected cell phones. I struck my head. There is delight to be taken beneath the earth where it is always cool now that the lava has passed on.

This one might have a shot. Someone could get lost, I could pass out for a while, the lava could come back for revenge. The possibilities are as endless as that cave, whose end we found 40 yards in.

I'm watching a Damien Rice video. If he gained enough weight he would look a lotta bit like Jack Black.

















They also make a lot of the same facial expressions when they sing although I assume Jack Black exaggerates for comic effect while perhaps Damien Rice exaggerates for melancholy effect. Either way, it's hilarious.

* * * *

After all the corporate strife with my newest former editors, I've put Otter Of Despair on hold while I develop a spin-off based on a minor character from OOD 3: Disillusionment Delta. It's called The Pug That Never Was. Once I overcome the unique illustrating hurdles that arise from having a main character who is neither, I expect to be able to retire off this one.

* * * *

I should rest. I haven't been sleeping terribly well. Especially not at work because every time I let my guard down the nephews find some way to hit me in the groin.

They better be careful. They act like Guillermo won't shake a baby.