Four thirty in the morning. And it's a school night. Heh, this feels familiar.

Tomorrow I begin my first day at Arizona State University. I suppose there should be a certain element of suspense but I don't quite see it that way. This morning I will have a swim class. I presume that I'll do well as long as I don't drown. I also have this class on Wednesday morning. This is designed to get me out of bed at a decent hour on the days when my class load is the lightest.

Along with swimming in the morning will be chemistry class in the evening. I presume that I'll do well since, from what I understand, I am mostly chemicals.

My Tuesdays and Thursdays will be filled with a couple of biology classes, a creative writing class, a fire ecology class, and then the labs for the chemistry class. These days will be long. When winter comes I do not expect to see much of the sun.

Such will be my semester. Again, I'm not too worried. The next few months will be filled with writing, trying to figure out what life is exactly and how it's supposed to work, and, of course, not drowning.

In essence, all the things I thought I was doing anyway.

But at least now I'll have a towel handy.

School begins this Monday.

Not a moment too soon, I say. I don't think I can survive much more of summer vacation.

I'm hanging on by the final thread off the end of my rope. I'm ready to find a nice degree (ideally,one with a great body of knowledge,) settle down, and start a family of textbooks.

Well, maybe right after just one more drink...

Allison, my friend from San Diego whom I met at the Comic-Con, has been staying with us for a few days. She is an electrical engineer, works at a comic-book store, and she belly-dances.

Last night we played Shot Chess. The rules are the same chess rules, but when one of your pieces is captured you must take a shot in honor of the fallen piece.

Allison and I made it through two games. She won one, I won one, and we didn't make it through a third game because we kept forgetting which pieces were ours.

It's fun and educational.

Not so the morning after.

Work was a tad wild this evening.

Halfway through my shift, the only other delivery boy parks in a handicap spot and his car is towed in the five minutes it takes him to deliver the pizza.

It was all up to me.

Historically, that has never gone well.

At one point during my driving I noticed I was surrounded by cars filled with screaming girls in silver-colored plasic crowns.

At two points I found myself grill-to-grill with a vehicle headed down the street in the opposite direction.

At no point did I get pulled over by a cop, but it was close. I was being trailed by a squad car for a mile or so but then a couple of homeless guys tried to sprint through eight lanes of traffic. I avoided them by a wide margin, but the cop nearly hit one of them.

Eyes on the road, officer, not on the delivery boy who tries to manuever his car like a damaged TIE fighter. Even if you catch him in the act, he'll never learn.

Last Sunday, Kelly and I saw Little Shop of Horrors at Gammage Auditorium. I had never really seen the stage show before although I was part of our high school's production. I had no singing aspirations at the time so I had auditioned for the puppeteer of the largest version of the man-eating plant.

So last Sunday was the first time I saw the entire show while not crouched in a giant, hot, heavy, green, foam-and-rubber plant puppet.

It was almost as good.

I had a great time at the show. The experience left me with the feeling of seeing your best friend from elementary school after many years. Not exactly a sense of loss, but a quiet pride that they turned out so well and you were once a part of that.

I don't know. Theatre still brings that sense of nostalgia for me. Which is accurate, since I feel a sort of wistful longing for a time and place where everything was just so and I don't see how I can get back there from where I am now.

Not without a terrible haircut, glasses, and a complete disregard for fashion sense, anyway.

I think it's fair to say that I've completely mastered the art of being a pizza-boy. I am already considering trying my hand at other "-boy" careers to round out my experience. Like maybe a bag-boy at a hotel or even a pool boy. I'll bet there are tons of cabanas out there that are in desperate need of a good boy.

Although, it is tragic that all my "-boy" experience will not help me land my dream job. I've never told anyone this, but I've always wanted to be one of those girls that walk around seedy night clubs with a tray of cigarettes.

That's right. A cigarette-girl. Or a "smokes-dame" to those of you from 1920's gangster films.

But that's probably not ever going to happen. Sigh. A boy can dream.

A boy can dream.

I went to the Phoenix Art Museum this evening with Emma, Dana, John, and David.

I have never been familiar with Surrealism nor do I pretend to be so now. I did learn a few things, though.

I think perusing the exhibit helped me add to my definition of art. I think art is when you can keep getting closer and still find more to see.

That should be sufficiently un-helpful. Like my definition of good driving. Pick a side of the road, left, right; it doesn't really matter, and stick with it. Either you'll get where you're going or you'll be imprisoned and never have to worry about getting anywhere.

Speaking of driving, I changed my oil today. I also changed Molly's oil. I have a few new cuts, burns, and oilstains on my body but otherwise everything went as I'd hoped.

At least, I think so. I'll know for certain if my transmission drops out when I work tomorrow.

On Rails.



The clattering behemoth roared as it clawed a path along the earth-stained metal lane. The noise reached my ears but was just beyond my field of vision. What a thing, I wondered, to be in this world with your path already set and only an ancient furnace to guide you.

I hear your passage as you churn along. Your strength rattles us ever so slightly and with good manners we pretend not to notice.

I wonder about you; your rusted pieces of self. Constantly stopping, attaching, discarding. I imagine an army of boxcars, empty and spray-painted with the names of hopeful street gangs; all of them abandoned but still in sight of the weak wooden rail that descends to block the motor traffic. I hear the boxcars chuckle every time a horseless carriage approaches and hesitates before the railroad crossing as if in silent reverence, in tribute to the ancient boundaries.

The rusted iron tracks are a herald. They still proclaim to all driving in their cars and walking with their feet: "Don't be here when I am. Don't you dare be here when I am."