a prayer. (you'll like this one because you're in it).

This is all possible.
It is possible that this rather tight knit group of bloggers that has been together for a few months now, that they don’t really exist. That one person is writing all these blogs, downloading and scanning a few pics to make them more realistic. To suggest real human beings, when in fact they are just stolen faces.
It is possible.
That there is no Larry, Melissa, Holly, or Jilleyn. No Radio Humper. No Odd Child No Leva Malone or Kung Pow/Adrain. No JEricMiller. No Cersten or Kriwki Girl.
It is not unequivocally impossible.

It is possible that:
There is some savant kid writing all of this from his parents’ basement.
Or:
One of these bloggers is real, and the inventor of the rest.

Made up people commenting on other made up peoples' made up blogs, having programmed interactions.
It is possible that this little blogger world is the creation of one mind and that mind gods it all.

Maybe it’s Holly or Jilleyn, who know each other like, well, sisters, but maybe one of them or the other, maybe she’s behind it. She’s created all the rest of us, and the other, she doesn’t even know it. She believes in Larry and JEricMiller and Melissa.
Or maybe it IS Melissa, whose blog suffered a martyr’s death but about which we hear whisperings of resurrection. Maybe she’s behind it.
Or maybe it is Larry (notmyrealname) Jones, and all the rest, they are just facets he sees of himself.
Cersten? Kwirki? Odd Child?
Who?

In any case, it can’t be J Eric Miller.
I told you from the start I was made up.
What I want to know is: which one of you did it?
I woke up at five this morning and I want to know who wrote that into my existence. Couldn't you let me sleep?
The truth is, I’m not one hundred percent happy with how you’ve been blogging me.
The truth is, I’d like you to fix some things.
All right? Do I need to say please?
Start with this: make my brain well.
I want an easy mind. And I don’t want to have to go through a lot of work to get there. Don’t write me into counseling. Just fix it. Snap your fingers. Give me an epiphany. Blog it. Type it out.
Ok?
Give me that entry.
Ok?

And I want a soul that’s clean.
I don’t want you to write me through the myth of baptism or something like that. Just do it, wash me. Give me that entry. Type: I know I am good. Blog that for me.
And hurry up with that one, would you?

And add three inches to my height and, say, twenty five pounds to my weight. We’re talking about muscle, here, ok? And don’t make me go to the gym to maintain it. Just freeze me in that body. I’ve got other physical complaints. So what I’m asking, is that you be my surgeon. Can this please be my extreme makeover day, but without all the blood and stuff?
Just write it.
Just blog it.
It’s just a fucking entry. It’s just words. Would you do that?There’s so much I want.
And it is so easy for you.
Whoever you are. That kid in the basement writing me up. Or Radio Humper. Or Leva Malone.
Whoever you are, listen to me.
Please.
I want other things.
Listen.
All right, here’s what I want. I’m going to give you five days from Sunday to fix it.
I want:
I want the Garden.
I want the Eve.
I want the Vegetarian Paradise.
The wolf and the lamb.
My own heart at ease.

Am I asking for much?

life is crazy candy baby

ok, so i'm proud of myself.
in my office, ready for my graduate seminar, and what i want, it's sugar.
swedish fish.
cinnamon bears.
something like that. a kick of some kind.
my job, it sounds easy, and maybe it is, but you're drained after a class. all that emmotional energy. maybe it's just from trying to take yourself seriously.
(my little addiction to my little instant audience).
you need something to start with.
mike and ikes.
dots.
laughy taffys.
you know, a rush.
thursday and i'm always tired by this time.
but i'm trying not to do that.
you know, sometimes i go all the way. i've been a fruition for a few months and that's tough. try it: only uncooked foods, raw vegetables, nuts, fruit.
but what i play with with a lot more frequency is the no refined sugars, few processed foods type thing. you ask yourself, what do you want. and you don't know.
(body fat 3%.)
(optimal health)
(the feeling of having defeated yourself, your worldy hungers [right, try giving up kissing then, fucking])
i'll hit it hard for a few months and then eat a fucking bear.
or fish.
a friend of mine, m, who is hiding out in mexico, literally, he has all kinds of habits.
i knew him in beirut where he was on the outs with his wife, a professor who hated him and probably still does.
he sweated bourbon and he was the kind of guy that could get you in real trouble.
of course, a tree doesn't fall when someone pushes on it. it's got to be ready to go. i saw him lean once against another friend and the trouble that resulted when that tree fell was tremendous.
anyway, trouble in beirut, if you can get to it, that can be hardcore. in a place where you americaness buys you everything, there are certain lines that if you cross, you'll never recross. you're done.
specail treatment, like love, can so quickly turn into its opposite.
anyway, m, he only does heroin once a year, on his birthday.
(is there any such thing as clean?
sure, being dead.)
so, i walk over to the bookstore as i've done the last few weeks. get out my card so i can buy a bag of candy. a handful of sugar.
standing there, foot to foot. every decision a hard one, and the counter girl, she's used to me.
candy candy i can't let you go. candy candy i love you so.
hot tamales.
lollipops.
and then: fuck it. it's not my birthday.
fuck it. walk away.
now i know this doesn't seem like that big of deal, but you know, for me, in this one day at a time sort of way, i like it.
winning like that, it gives me a kick.
not as much of a kick as sugar, but still.

today

i've been productive.
i wonder, if i'd written reproductive, what would you imagine me doing?
on sunday, i'm going to dissapear for five days or so.
not like the invisible man.
i'm not going to be swept away by aliens.
or the government.
a quieter quiet than all that. there will be nothing really to talk about when i get back.
like the pictures cut out of your memory. the scenes on the editing floor.
i'm going to dissapear for five days or so and none of what happens then will seem essential.
but then again, none of any of this really does, does it?
perhaps this is why i've had a recent post frenzy.
i'll keep it up. look for me tomorrow. saturday.
anyway, it's been a productive day. the things i've gotten done. just sat down and gotten done. hmmm.

post op 

pluck me

the girl that waxes my eyebrows, she tells me she's half cuban.
i tell her all the girls i meet here seem to be half cuban.
i tell her i have personal space issues.
i tell her i don't like leaning back in the chair with someone hovering over me.
no offense, i say. it's not about you. and it's certainly not about the pain--does it hurt much?--but i just don't like having anybody in my space.
in that chair, i babble and babble. i’ll say anything when i’m not sure of myself.
this whole thing, it's worse than a haircut but not as bad as the dentist.

how i end up here is a bunch of different things. first, my ex wife, the good one, on my last visit to colorado, she told me i ought to get my eyebrows waxed. she's always trying to get me into some kind of condition where some poor girl will accidentally fall in love with me and remove some ill defined feeling of guilt from my ex wife's conscience.
anyway, she tells me this: get your eye brows waxed.

and i considered it before, with the second now ex wife, who was obsessed with hair removal, who used to visit (probably still does) a doctor with a laser, but since she took her clothes off professionally i guess you'd call that a business expense.

these ex's, they get hair on my brain.

and so i've meaning to do it. i don't know what for. some kind of preparation. maybe for the Apocalypse, Yeah, ok, he can come in--sharp eye brows, the rest of those untweezed bastards, send 'em to hell.

other girls try to convince me to get even balder. they want to see some serous shaving. me, i’m just procrastinating this little eyebrow thing.

but then i come home from getting my taxes done, and i see the car of the cleaning lady.
(yes, this too is not something i normally do; seriously, what am i preparing for?)
anyway, you know how uncomfortable that is, being in your house while somebody you’ve paid cleans it.

so what i do, i start driving. and i pass a salon with a sign in the window.
WAXING

it’s no done deal yet.
i hang out in front of the salon for awhile. not sure how i feel about going in. about actually telling somebody what i'm thinking about doing. when the lobby area is all clear of customers, i bite the bullet.
the truth is, if the girl behind the counter was my type, if i found her attractive, i’d still be bushy above my eyes, because i just wouldn’t be able to bring myself to even say the word “wax” to her.
but as it happens, she’s not my type.
the girl behind the counter, she and i stare at each others eyebrows for a few moments after i tell her in a quiet voice what i might be there for.

and then she starts hollering the name of another girl, calling her up front, V! V! and i know that i'm already committed.

of course V, she’s the kind of girl i’m attracted to.

so back there, in the little room with the nice lights, leaning back in the chair, still as hell, i am telling the girl all these things.
i’m telling her about my personal space issues and ex wives and all the half Cuban girls i know.
i'll say anything when i'm nervous.
and she's is applying and ripping and it all hurts a bit. like this burn.
i’m babbling and trying to keep my eyes closed and she is breathing on my face and what i feel for a few moments is that love we feel for those people who have us in absolute power.

then it’s over. red slashes below and above my eyes, like i’m wearing some pink eye shadow.

the house is clean, the day is pretty, my taxes are done, and whatever i think i ought prepare for, well, i have.

my son and me

last Colorado visit, pre-Karate class

Schiavo

My son, over the telephone, what he wants to know, if he goes “unconscious”, is it ok, or at least should it be ok to not feed him? I try to remember what I thought about when I was four. I try to remember what I was figuring out. I don’t know. I don’t have much to say. It just bothers me is all.