Experimenting with my drawring tablet. A lot of tinkering went into this whale. Much like all whales.

Taking apart a dryer is relatively easy, entertaining, and educational.

Now what to do with all this wet clothing.

Weekend night. Work tomorrow. Stomach hurts back hurts head hurts. Perfect time for writing.

Necessary conditions, I suppose. It's difficult for me to do even the things I enjoy doing without the nagging assurance that I have far more reasonable things to be doing.

Take that, Reason! You're next, Causality! Yeah you better run as well Grammer1!1!one

The glorious hole of being a writer is that dreaming counts as research hours. (The length of time dreaming, mind you, not the dream-length. Since dreamtime can seem like years and events may happen simultaneously or you may "remember" events while dreaming that never happened. The accountants, man, they just hate it. And never piss off your accountants, real or otherwise.)

In a food-poisoning-related fever-dream (which can count as time-and-a-half (but don't push it)) I visited a massive interactive zoo. The zoo was interactive, you see, because swaths of land were converted into vastly different climates and biomes and habitats and were all stuck up next to each other. A visitor, such as I, would essentially mount an expedition and travel about for weeks at a time observing creatures that might not be encountered in a lifetime of travel.

But it wasn't entirely safe. Most of the animals weren't life-threatening. Mostly.

The sun was setting over a soupy green lake and dense growth of giant ferns were rustling gently at the water's edge. The ground was reddish, dusty, and hard as clay. This was the Komodo Dragon area. I hadn't seen any of the massive lizards yet, but night was falling and I did not intend to take any chances hanging around.

Throughout the park were these odd little way stations, areas designed to appear as part of their particular environment. The Komodo Dragon way station was large and red. It gave to mind an uneven lump of clay thumped down and gouged at with a spoon. Not terribly stylish, but I guess it matched the overall color scheme. The important feature was the steep sides with handholds that could be climbed by a human, but presumably not a massive reptile. Night was falling as I made my way up.

In a cavern I met another group of people. I had gone for days without running into anyone else but in this territory everyone seemed to prefer the way station. It was like that in the Arctic biomes. I don't think polar bears have ever had a fear of humans, and if they had they sure didn't anymore.

The group had built a fire and invited me to join them and swap stories. I smiled, shook my head no, and continued climbing up.

At the top I ran into a woman that looked like my old biology professor. She was just beginning her climb down to join the main group. When she noticed me, she called to me, "Hi Guillermo."

I was so surprised to see her there that I just stared at her.

"Well, goodbye," she said, starting to pick her way down again. "You know, I didn't think I'd see you back here. After your brother died about a year ago."

I just shrugged my shoulders. Then she was gone. I found a small hollow and laid down my sleeping bag. It was completely night now. The sky was clear. I lay there in my hollow looking up at the stars. I felt like I could see every single one of them.

Some time ago I purchased a fancy writing/drawring tablet. I seldom use it because my handwriting is still atrocious. I'm still at about monkey-with-a-charred-stick level. And not one of those smart monkeys that make tools; I'm talking the ones that you can catch with a single piece of food because they panic and won't let go of it.

My drawring is improving. As I've shown, I am moving beyond my usual "green" slug and moving into the "reds". I'm not sure why I just used quotation marks; it just seemed the right thing to do as an artist. As if my greens and reds were magically different than everyone else's. Some philosophers may argue this possibility, but those are the kind that no one likes because they waste your time and never offer to pick up the check just as a nice gesture.

Those kind of philosophers.

While drawring my ""red"" slug I was reminded of my Otter of Despair. This otter is forever working up the determination to crack open a clam on his belly. Forever lifting up his rock, only to watch it fall back like Sisyphus, except unlike Sisyphus, not even Camus can argue that the otter is happy. I planned it that way; the despair is in his name.

Sometimes I feel like the otter. Sometimes I feel like the clam, or the rock. At this exact moment I feel like his tummy, which has as much hair on a square inch as we do on our entire heads. Zounds!

The despairing otter's tummy has a front-row seat to the drama that fails to unfold.

I still haven't found a publisher for my children's stories about him. See, the otter is so despair that he doesn't bother to wrap himself up with kelp to sleep. That night, he drifts away to have magical, horrible, magical adventures. He also learns the true meaning of something. The true, horrible meaning.

Otters were considered pests for a time in the history of America, and thus the Otterhound was invented. A dog bred for the sole purpose of hunting otter. A dog who woke up every day knowing exactly what it wanted to do. I envy the breed.

When I awake, I am obligated as an artist to ponder the true meaning of all things. Generally this results in my frequent tardiness. On occasion it may also result in
that tingly feeling in my hock, like I was supposed to do something or be somewhere (other than the thing I was actually supposed to be doing or being on a given morning).

Hunt otter? No, that was the otterhound. Break open clams with a rock and eat the fleshy innards? I suppose for a time, but I don't feel a particular passion for it. Besides, there is tons of competition now that otter hunting, with hound or otherwise, is quite illegal here in the lower 48.

The root of my suffering is my comfortable life. As an artist, there is a modicum of suffering hours that must be put in or I get kicked out. I am quite behind. A job I mostly enjoy, a nice home, a sweet family, and a belly full of clams.

It's all wrong.

Maybe not the clams.

After a stunning victory at the Battle of Chimay, the great hero, Lieutenant Raphael Clittorii was quoted as saying, "There is no higher act of patriotism than robbery."

Such a man. Sadly, his regiment did not participate in the last half of the war, after his troops followed him to hell. They have yet to come back.

As I am a man of Married Years, this Fat Tuesday I settled into my reclino-chair device to watch The Simpsons Season 4 on my teletronic-viewing device.

But Wo, even in this day of Civilized Peoples I decided to have a beer, a Keystone Light that some poor chap had brought to one of my sister's gathering. The traditional way of enjoying that particular brewer's waste is to drink enough to impair the taste-buds.

Thus my attempt to enjoy a quiet evening resulted in failure.

I woke the next morning with a splitting headache, a series of bruises on my arms, several strands of beads and blinking lights, and the word "UNST" shaved into the back of my head. It was later explained to me that "UNST" represents the bass beat peculiar to those technotronic ballads that are played in the clubs of yore.

So Lo! and be wary! friends, that the heathen masses and their unwashed liquors do not lure you to the very same demise I have met at their cunning hands! I can only hope.

The world is no vampire. There is no heart. All the blood festers in its limbs and the scabs crust over the peeling lips screaming freedom freedom and the gunfire pops barely up through the ignorance. Cain needed no arms. While men have hands freedom has a voice.