I have about two hours a day to shower and eat dinner, the rest of the day i am at work or sleeping. (and no, i don't sleep all day, i sleep about six hours a night) Talking to my brother, Levi, yesterday night i told him that living at home in the summers and working is a lot like "working out of town" for a construction job. That made me sad, but it's true. Home is somewhere i can't remember, but as Dorothy always said, there's no place like it.

Gumball machine is starting to fill up. What should i buy with the money?

Going to Georgia for the weekend, campin' and hikin'. --Summer vacation's vacation

ramble ramble rant

I saw black rain today. I had heard about it before, raining down muck mud through a rolling black dust cloud.


It was quitting time, tired and sun-drained we had wound up the cords, put away the tools and equipment right when the wind started gusting from the south. I looked up as clouds swept over the early evening sun, turned to the left and saw a billowing black cloud charging over the fertile drained swamp farmland.

We ran for cover in the closest building, stood just inside the overhead door. I fumbled with a crinkled dollar and the Pepsi machine right outside as the blowing muck hit, driving into me like the waves of a sandblaster. I stepped inside as the dirt swept by. Minutes later without letting up the rain started to fall in piles, big coal black drops coated everything.

it's time to go home and work.



I filled my gumball machine with change.

Found this note written in what looks like a third grader's cursive:

I, _________ _______ ________, by my signature below, fully agree to spend quality time with my son, _______, during the summer of 2003, to the best of my ability. I will spend as much time with him as practicality and schedule permit, including buy not limited to, the following activities:

1) at least a dozen full-length games of Go
2) Weekly sessions of English vocabulary word study
3) At least one overnight outdoor excursion
4) Discussions on a regular basis concerning history, current events, faith, philosophy, or any other topic deemed appropriate

X_____________________, Mar 26,2003



It was folded up with the words "OFFICIAL DOCUMENT" and discarded in the parking lot just before it rained.

Eavesdropping's never been so hard:

he: I’m really sorry...that this is not an apology
she: I don't want one anyway, there's nothing you could say...
h: ...wanna get ice cream?
s: yeah
h: ok
s: but not that crappy melty stuff

(very long pause)

h: ...were you really that mad?
s: no, I had a napkin

Tower Light, Hillsdale's lit mag, came out last night. It's pretty good. I think. Even if it has two of my poems.

If/when TL gets online, I'll link to some of my favorite entries.

*edit* the two poems are posted on here, one on January 20th 'O3 and the other on March 30th '04

Gentle Hands VIII

I'll tell it again, but it's really about "curls on birthdays and being born to smile or bust." I slowly, painfully, climbed (or maybe it was descended) the creaking worn wooden stairs. (Yes it was climbed, "always go with your first impulse" because I was carrying a pail of water to flush the toilet) when I saw the scratch on the browned wallpaper from the time her neighbor carried that chair up for me and apologized up and down for the scratch. Why can't I remember his name? Or even his face? Then I felt it. The pain wasn't as bad as the tears, the tears stung. I dropped the bucket (yes, it was empty, so I must have been going down the stairs, but it doesn't matter anyway) and it spat the few drops left as it made the loudest horrible banging as she sobbed silently.