Carte Blanche

On my list of annoyances, shopping carts rate on a par with things like houseflies, cancer, and Al Gore. Now before you write me off as a bigot, I will admit that shopping carts, like nuclear weapons, have their uses. I grew up in a family of six, and I know how much work it is to lug a week's worth of food around a grocery store. It wouldn't be possible if not for shopping carts. I also know how much fun it can be to accelerate a cart up to 50mph or so with your car and then send it speeding off into the night. Nevertheless, I think that shopping carts are the spawn of Satan, and I'm going to rant about it.

First of all, shopping carts never work properly. This could be due to the fact that some people spend hours in dark parking lots pushing them with their cars, but regardless, it is a proven fact that most shopping carts are defective. I could go to a brand new store with brand new carts and I would still have to spend 5 minutes sorting through the wasteland of the cart garage thing to find one that doesn't insist on turning left. Something I've never understood is how cart wheels often seem to get clogged with hair. I could understand if they were entwined with plastic bags or something, but hair? Where does the hair come from? From the shoppers? Of course the one cart I might find with functioning wheels will also have a fresh coat of some unidentifiable sticky substance lining the bottom. I usually pretend that some shopper must have just forgotten a bag containing a quart of icecream. That must be it.

Another thing I've noticed is that it seems that shopping carts have gotten continually larger since I was a kid. Usually things get smaller as you get bigger, but this hasn't been the case with shopping carts. I don't remember it being possible to block an entire isle with one cart when I was younger. It never fails to happen now though. In the same way that a soldier surveys the carnage around them, looks down at the blood on their hands and then abandons their weapon to wander forlornly in the world, their eyes forever asking 'why?,' the shopper abandons their cart mid isle, losing themselves in a hypnotic trance, disappearing forever in the the vast evil that is Walmart. Couldn't they at least take the darn thing with them? And how does one manage to turn a cart perpendicular to the isle you're in anyway? That takes some serious effort. Is it also necessary that everyone in the store take a cart with them when they shop? I can't count the number of times I'll see a single person pushing a cart through the checkout stand with two small items in the basket. Now Hummers are unnecessary and wasteful vehicles, and I've heard all sorts of people rant and rave about excess and frivolity in conversations that center around Hummers, but if the average person can't make a modest choice when entering a supermarket, can one really expect them to do better with something major like a vehicle purchase?

Lastly, you can tell a lot about a person's general sense of respect for humanity by watching to see what they do when they've finished unloading their cart. They have those spaces that are cordoned off with concrete bumpers for shoppers to put their carts when they're finished, but roughly half of the population prefers to leave their carts in or next to one of those parking lot planters. I'm not quite sure I understand the logic behind this. Maybe these people think that it's nicer for the cart. I mean, it's nicer to leave a dog tied up in the shade, so shopping cart will probably appreciate it more as well. Or maybe these people can't tell the difference between the concrete perimeter of the planter, and the concrete perimeter of the cart return. There is nothing so frustrating than when one has been driving around looking for a parking space, only to find the last one has been rendered unusable, and that it actually bears a striking resemblance to the crash site of a derailed freight train. I don't understand why stores don't require a $2 deposit to use a cart, and then refund that deposit when the cart is returned to the rack...but of course then some grocery store workers would be out of a job...

Paint the Town - Part I

 
In our never ending effort to bring light and color to this desert town, and ultimately the world, my friends and I have undertaken a new project. We've amassed a large amount of canvas, sewn together, making a screen which stretches about 3 meters by 3 meters. One of my friends used his Photoshop skills (which I'm very jealous of) and combined some photos to make a model of what our painting will look like.

The next step was to project the photoshoped image onto the canvas, and trace the lines.

Our final plan is to cut the painting vertically into three sections. The first pane will display the poppies in the foreground, the second pane will show the setting sun, and the third will contain a Joshua tree. After we've finished and mounted the paintings, we're hoping to sneak out at night and hang it up in some very public place, and see how long it takes for someone to notice and remove it. An anonymous tip to the local paper might also be in order...

Wayward

Yesterday I took the CSET- or two sections of it at least. This is just another one of those meanders in the trial; a vista overlooking a possible future. Yet I'm stuck here with my indecisiveness, my uncertainties and discontent. You know that feeling you get when all of your friends are off doing something exciting and for whatever reason, you're missing it? That's me. Life is happening, and I'm stuck here. I'm stuck here and I don't even know where 'here' is in relationship to 'there,' or why 'there' is so much better than 'here,' or why I need to be 'there' in the first place. But nevertheless, the feeling remains that there is someplace else I'm supposed to be and something else I'm supposed to be doing there.

"Work to live" they say, but it's really the other way around. We are defined by our work, not by the living that goes on in between. A friend of mine recently pointed out that even Adam had to work in paradise. He was both gardener and steward. Perhaps the difference then was that his work didn't justify his existence.

I got to San Gabriel High School at 1:20pm, and followed the paper signs to the waiting area. There were maybe 100 other people there. Many of them already had the look of teachers, that poise which comes with authority. Ten minutes later they confiscated our cell phones and led us into our assigned classrooms. I was informed that my ball cap was in violation of the "rules," and would either have to be removed or turned around backwards. This made me immediately curious as to whether they had a high incidence of cheating by ball cap. I turned my cap around and took my seat. I glanced around at the other testees, and realized that nearly all of them were taking the math section of the CSET. Ironically, the classroom must have belonged to a math teacher. The walls were plastered with charts displaying mathematical processes and equations. Typical. I suppose I shouldn't complain though. I was the only English major in there. The only help I got was from the alphabet border circling the room just below the ceiling.

I drove back toward the mountains under a line of palmtrees. The sun was sinking toward the coast and the restlessness I felt had become too much. I had to get it out of my system... The little church was bustling with activity when I arrived. I traded my flipflops for the pair of sneakers I kept behind the seat in my truck- the souls covered in duct tape. I payed at the door, just as the band was finishing their warm up. A crowd of people lined the walls, waiting. The music started and I asked the first girl I could find. We took to the floor and the rest of the world melted away. Two hours later I was taking a break near the stage, when the girl who played the tennor sax jumped down and asked me to dance. I noticed that one of her pupils was dialated, and realized that she must be blind in that eye. Even lacking depth perception she wasn't reluctant. I led her in a lindy circle, then a double outside turn, whip, and sweethart. We switched to charlston and back to lindy. The song was fast, and the band was fantastic. The song kept playing, building momentum. My cares and concerns were mixed with sweat and music, all evaporating up into the night.

The moon was full, and the evening was cool. I took the mountain road home. I rounded curves and sped along cliff sides which emptied off into the night. The headlights lit the road only a few feet ahead. This is where so many young people play their game. They drive these roads as fast as they can, often losing control and flying off in darkness. They die young.

Breath Into

It's been awhile since I've blogged. It seems like so much has happened in the past month or so, but in reality it hasn't been much at all. I finished up the last of my BA and walked across the stage to receive the little roll of paper which symbolized all that I've accomplished over the past few years. And now I'm free. I'm free to choose my next form of incarceration. And to be honest I'm feeling quite uninspired. This is a statement summing my life in general, not merely my educational pursuits. There are high points and lows. There are those times when inspiration flows in and out like dental floss, or those beaming solar flares shooting out and back through the sun's corona. And then there are times when you float like a leaf on a placid pond, without even a ripple. Here I am, waiting for the wind to blow me. I know from whence my inspiration flows. Sometimes he is there like a pillar of fire, and other times he is the faintest whisper. I'm waiting for that sweet breath of air. My sails are empty.

To Finish

Ascending the heights he hangs, his movements fluid, graceful and delicate, his hands and feet fitting into cracks and crevices. With the alacrity and finesse of a dancer he works his way up the cliff. He reaches a point and pauses, assessing his route, determining his next movement. The final section is more difficult than anything he has encountered yet. His forearms burn with fatigue and he leans back, straitening his arms and allowing his biceps to rest. He gathers strength for the next move and pushes upward, muscles screaming. A solid hold for his right hand, and a shallow stub of rock slightly supports two fingers of his left. He presses his toe into the smooth slab, his special shoes gripping the sheer surface and giving him traction. With a burst of strength he rises, his left hand shoots up toward the next uncertain hold. His angle is precarious. He jabs for the hold and misses, his left foot breaks loose. He hangs on by his right hand and regains his former footing. His strength is failing. For a brief second doubt enters his mind. It's too difficult and he is too tired. "No!", he tells himself. He must finish! He has the strength to hang on and therefore he has the strength to try. He is roped, making the consequences of failure purely mental, yet he carries on as if the stakes were mortal. His body is racked with pain and exhaustion, but he perseveres, his mind overcoming his physical anguish. His battle is between mind and body.

This is how I feel right now. There is no giving up. I have to press on.

Weekend At Last

Work, class, appointments and deadlines, soaring gas prices and the plummeting value of the dollar. All of the stress that lie has to offer. The week is over now. People everywhere are winding down so they can gear up for another week of the same. In the last of the failing light I took my bike and headed for the aqueduct bridge on Gotte Hill. It was an evening of Spring's perfection. It's evenings like this which cry out in inspiration to poets and mere mortals alike.
It was late in the twilight hour. The stars were out and the sky was colored from a dark aqua in the west through lavender to midnight blue in the east. I followed the path along the water on my bike. It's course wound around the foothills halfway between the stars and the valley floor. The horizon was a straight line running infinitely off ahead of me, and giving way to the city below. I rode through still pockets of air, some warm and some cool. Each one carrying with it its own unique smells. There was the musky smell of moss and moisture which rises off of bodies of water and carries with it the scent of life and renewal. A second later my face was filled with the breath of the evening, a breeze fell off and away from the curving valleys to the south, and I was surrounded by the aroma of a million flowers, jasmine and primrose, each variation bringing to the surface vivid memories of unseen blossoms, hikes and hills long forgotten. Accompanying the smells were the sounds of crickets and frogs, the world transitioning between light and dark. Mixed with the natural were the sounds of distant neighborhoods. A family laughing, a car door closing, a dog barking. Slowly the streetlights came on in the world below and the weekend was underway.

Tales from the Bedridden

So today has been an interesting day. Not that everyday isn't interesting, but I just feel like writing about today. I've had the flu now for the past three days. I've been doing a lot of sleeping and watching movies and youtube. There isn't much else to do when you have a fever of 103 and you can barely stand. Yesterday was grad-fair, and I had to go to that to get my cap and gown for graduation. Going out when you're very sick comes highly unrecommended. My only alternative was to make the 100mile drive to Bakersfield and buy one from the school bookstore there at a later date. With the price of gas as high as it is I opted to attend the grad-fair. I learned that driving with a high fever is probably not all that different than driving drunk. I also learned that when you stand in line for an hour on the verge of passing out only to find that they don't have any gowns for people over 6', you'll find out that you could have just ordered the dern thing online anyway. But I'm digressing, I'd only intended to talk about today. So today I had a term paper due for my Ethnic Literature class. The assignment was about as vague as the purpose statement for the class. I think when delving into controversial realms too deeply, you become immersed in a quagmire of PC lingo that makes it nearly impossible to communicate intelligibly. If a language is a set of sounds that have mutually agreed meaning, making the terms you use to define something as far from being a representation of what you're actually defining as possible, has the potential to cause quite a bit of confusion. And here I was worried that my paper would be unintelligible because I'm running a fever.

I also ruined a pair of shoes today, which is rather amazing considering I've barely stepped outside. My amazing urban pipelines, the preppiest shoes I own, which I got for $10.99 at Kolhs are pretty much kaput. I blame the outrageous price of rent in Southern California, or possibly the fact that I'm feverish (you can blame everything on that one). So due to the high price of rent in California I'm forced to live in a little run down pink hotel room. Yes, it's very gay. It's also only slightly larger than your standard walk-in closet. What little space I do have is taken up by books, my bed, my bike, and my clothes (living in a closet does have its perks). I have no room for furniture. This makes it difficult to eat meals. I resort to eating most of my meals while sitting on my bed. Needless to say I've become very ingenuitive. I discovered a long time ago that shoes make great cup holders. You can put a 20oz soda in a shoe, and it will sit there through a veritable earthquake. This discovery is something I've been very proud of for the past couple of years. Well, today when I got back from dropping off my paper, with a package subway lunch, I kicked off my flipflops, dropped my lunch on the bed, plugged in "Whitesquall" on DVD (great movie by the way) and set up my cup holder shoe and enjoyed my lunch and my movie. Two hours later, in the midst of the storm which the movie is named for, I noticed half an inch of liquid sloshing back and forth in the bottom of my shoe. There was a hole in the cup, dad gum it! I tried to wash the shoe out, but I don't have much hope that it can be salvaged. I can only imagine what it's going to be like walking around in sticky shoes. On the bright side, I learned that canvas shoes don't leak.

The Clerkenwell Kid

Like snapshots of another world. A friend of mine recently linked me to this blog. The author’s short stories, while some are a bit melancholy, are really amazing reads. I meandered around the site trying to find out a bit more about him, and apparently he’s a musician, and if you look hard enough there is a link to his myspace where you can listen to some of his music. While it’s a bit too morose for my taste, it’s still quite beautiful and some of it hints at vintage 40s jazz. The stories are like the music. They’re rather surreal glimpses at a uchronian world that has a very 1940s feel. Short and sweet and beginning in medias res without any background or resolution, like the passing window into a life which one sometimes catches in a photograph of a stranger. The stories are just that. Short snippets. They give one the impression of looking at pictures of some life in a world that never was.

In a galaxy far, far away

Long ago...
Originally uploaded by empyrean_squire

You've got to love living in a place like this. We've got everything here. On the front page of the paper today was a story about a 62 year old man who was shot and killed while he was out for a walk. The sad thing is, that's hardly even news in the Antelope Valley these days. What's interesting about this particular murder was the fact that the man was shot through the chest with an arrow. Who shoots people with arrows in suburban neighborhoods in the middle of the night? Maybe it was some of the wiccan kids who hang out in front of Barns and Noble at night. Maybe they were acting out a live action D&D quest and the sexagenarian didn't make his saving roll. Or maybe one of the gang bangers on that side of town decided he needed some culture in his life and joined an SCA group. Oh the possibilities.

That's nothing though, about six months ago the mother of some thugs must have attended a PTA meeting or something and decided to take the advice about being more involved in her kids lives to heart. One night she loaded up the family sedan and drove her kids and some of their friends over to the house of a rival gang member so they could pop a cap in his ass. They shot up the house pretty good, and fortunately no one was injured. Apparently Mama neglected to teach her kids to shoot. For shame!

As if all of that weren't enough, now we've got some Lord of the Sith running around stealing IPODs.

Bumming Cigarettes

"Ah, so you've become a beggar" She said.
"Not necessarily," he replied, holding it loosely between his lips. "You see, the chief difference is in who is benefiting through the transaction- the receiver or his client."
"You mean the parasite or its host." She casually retorted, disinterested.
He lit the thing and drew deeply, causing the smoldering end to glow fiercely and retreat like some slow burning fuse, consuming itself. "Some parasites are beneficial to their hosts you know, in which cases the relationships are more symbiotic."
She rolled her eyes and waited for him to continue.
"If I were begging money, for instance, like that deplorable character over there, ultimately I'd be negotiating with a person to hand over their most precious commodity- Time. You've of course heard the phrase 'time is money.' Time is the only thing in the universe that has any significant value. Think about it, we are each alloted so much of it, and that's it. When you boil it down it's the only thing we have which we can't get more of. It's the 'reductio ad absurdum of all human experiences.' Then, to make matters worse, we sell it- by the hour no less. They call it 'a career' and in reality, all you are is a harlot. Prostituting your time away to the highest bidder. 'Here,' they say, 'is a week of your life in the tangible form of a green piece of paper.' And then these leaches come up and ask you if you can spare a dollar. Damn. Hardly live with myself I could, if I were making my living by stealing minutes and hours of a fellow's life."
"So explain to me how bumming cigarettes is any different. They cost money too. Just how do you propose the giver is any better off?"
"Oh that's easy" He said, taking another drag off the slender white cylinder held in his fingers. He exhaled the thick smoke like an old locomotive gathering momentum. "Cigarettes kill people. Lung cancer and all that. Every cigarette you smoke is equivalent to losing a couple hours of your life. I'm doing them a favor taking the things off their hands. Instead of asking people to give me time in paper form, I'm giving them time. I'm offering to extend their lives, and they don't even realize it."
"Brilliant," she said sarcastically, "Relativism at its best."
"Precisely," he said.
"Of course, wouldn't it be more beneficial for everyone involved if you threw those borrowed cigarettes away, instead of smoking them?"
"No" he said, tilting his head back and blowing smoke straight up in the air. It dissipated and became one with the dense fog surrounding them. "That would defeat the whole purpose."

D-day

Due date: March 12th. 15 days and counting.

With 14 response papers, 1 term paper, an annotated bibliography, a portfolio, and 50 sentences left to diagram, I am busy doing what any sensible person in my situation would be doing...namely, making lists of things I would rather be doing. I've never been one to make New Years resolutions, but I lately I've unconsciously been making "end of quarter" resolutions, and the list of things I've resolved to do after this quarter ends has gotten so big I think it might help to write it down.

Things I would be doing if I weren't in the process of committing suicide by academics, and things I am resolved to do after I am finished committing suicide by academics:
1. Read a novel. For fun.
2. Subscribe to a photo-assignment group on Flickr and maybe sync the escapade with my blog.
3. Write a short story. Or, better yet, write and actually finish a short story.
4. Visit the Grand Canyon (it's been years since I've been there and it's more than time to visit it again)
5. Drive to Moro bay. With my bike.
6. Visit Cal Poly San Louis Obispo. Probably while doing the above.
7. Camp on the beach. See the two above.
8. Make a frisbee golf course at Lane Park and not get arrested for it.
9. Become more artistic.
10. Visit the Huntington.
11. Go skiing again
12. Clean my apartment. (...yeah)
13. Swing dance...alot.
14. Win the lotto.......................
15. Finish filling out my grad-school apps.
16. Finish filling out my passport app.

There are more that will come to me as soon as my head hits the pillow...or as soon as I resolve to write those response papers.

Nocturnal Oblique

10pm, I'm at Denny's again. Breakfast for dinner. There has to be a better place to study. I can't wait to move someplace that has a little more respect for itself - I hate it when I sound young and naive. I know there is more to life than pie at 1am and pretty waitresses, but is it too much to ask for some place that can accommodate me some of the time? I've got to quit reading stream-of-consciousness novels.

Two eggs, bacon, hashbrowns and toast - $7.99. I could get the same at Alice's for $3.50, and it would taste better too, but they aren't open this late, and if they were I doubt they'd be serving breakfast.

Sometimes you get tired of being alone in the same apartment, listening to the same music and staring at the same walls, and you just have to get out. You pick a secluded booth in the back- or the region of the restaurant farthest from where you came in. You haven't been there five minutes before a young couple lurches in, clinging to each other like Siamese twins. They too seek out the alleged "back" of the restaurant, and as luck would have it, they take the booth in front of you. At first glance you might think they're just out for a casual date, but the girl plops down on the guy's lap and they begin to put on a display that could make any trollop blush. In fact, you're not entirely convinced that they aren't in the midst of some nefarious act of harlotry, and that money won't be changing hands afterwards. Apparently a booth at Denny's is cheaper than a hotel room. On the wall to the right is a black and white photo of a navy sailor kissing a girl. For some reason the photo seems romantic, while what is taking place in front of you is nauseating. As you attempt to focus on the books in front of you, two very portly fellows also find their way to the back. They take the booth behind you. They sit down heavily with a disturbance that is undoubtedly recorded by seismometers across the county. For some reason just sitting down isn't good enough for the guy on the opposite side of your bench and he seems to sit down several times and even then he can't sit still. The other one decides that now is the most opportune time to phone his deaf mother and very noisily discuss his various gastro-intestinal conditions. Between the constant, wave-like motion of the bench beneath you, -instigated by the avoirdupois beta noire behind you- and the frivolous fornication unfolding in front of you, you're not able to get much done.You watch the rain out the window. Your stomach churns to the tune of "Your Body is a Wonderland" by John Meyer and you look to the sailor and his girl for sympathy, but you don't really get any. Maybe you were better off at home, but after all, you're diagramming sentences, so what difference does it really make?

Snow Day

DSC_2555
Originally uploaded by empyrean_squire

Last Thursday ten of us went up to Mountain High to go skiing. The trip had been planned for two weeks and we weren't going to be stopped by the stormy conditions we woke to. The snow levels had dropped to about 3,000ft the night before, and the white frosting nearly touched the valley floor. I checked the snow conditions online, and the resort's website reported that they'd received 18 inches of fresh powder the night before and were expecting another ten inches to fall during the day. Perfect. I arrived at the D's around 8am, and after testing out a pair of snow chains we loaded the fifteen passenger van and headed up the mountain. The drive up was absolutely amazing. The snow lay lightly in the branches of trees and delicately covered the other desert plants. The way the sun hit the embalmed plants made it seem like they were covered in tiny pieces of glass. About halfway up we had to stop and put the chains on the van, and before we reached the top the sky had clouded over and more snow was coming down in big thick flakes. The wind on top of the mountain was blowing about thirty miles per hour, making the 28 degree temperature feel more like 5. We were all dressed for it though. The wind whipped over the summit and carried the powder snow with it in thick clouds. In the mid afternoon Mario and I took the tram over to the East resort and found it all but abandoned. There were only half a dozen other skiers up there, which meant we had the 1.3 mile run all to ourselves. It was quite an experience, as the wind was blowing even harder up there, and sometimes the powder clouds would completely envelope everything, reducing visibility to about 5 feet. It also made it impossible to tell how fast I was going. There were a few times I was blasting along at almost the same speed as the flying snow, and watching the eddies swirl in slow motion around my feet like an affectionate house cat. All of a sudden a pinecone would appear on the ground some feet in front of me, and just as quickly it would be lost in the mist behind like it had been fired from a catapult. The brief reference point would give me an idea of how fast I was actually going. Fortunately no one got hurt. I was sitting at the lodge later that afternoon watching a tractor clear the snow away from the picnic area. Mario had gone inside to get a drink, and as I waited for him to come back out the deep resonating sound of the tractor suddenly made me think of the Discovery channel programs I'd watched on avalanches. I remembered the big avalanche that happened above Devil's Punchbowl a few years ago. I hiked up there with Jed and Levi a couple of weeks afterward, and we were all amazed at the field of rubble that lay all around us. Big chunks of snow and ice interspersed with tree branches and logs over forty feet deep and more than a half mile long. The whole mess was permeated with sawdust. A reminder of the trees that had been ground to pulp beneath the weight of it all. I reassured myself that if there ever had been avalanches at the resort I would have heard about it. It wasn't worth worrying about. The rest of the day was wonderful. The next day on the news they reported that there had been two avalanches up there and three people had been killed.

A New Year

I’m discovering just how much can be fit into a week. I’ll just hope this last week doesn’t characterize the year to come. School started again on the 2nd, and I’m already bogged down by upcoming due dates. Modern British Lit is going to kill me. Not only do I have more assigned reading than I’ve ever had in any one class, but it’s authors like Joyce and Woolf. 20 units this quarter, then burn-out.

Does the sentence “I ran a marathon” contain a transitive verb or is it prepositional? The proposition is implied. Where did you run? I ran in a marathon. Apparently “marathon” can be used to describe a distance as well. What did you run? I ran a marathon. Context. Stupid descriptive grammar.

Work has been slow, which is nice. The manager is out of town and there hasn’t really been anything to do anyway. We tested out the new projector system and laptop by watching I’m Reed Fish in its entirety. It seems to be working well, but I think we should watch a few more movies on it just to be sure. Meanwhile I’ve been spending most of my time in the back playing Jin and reading Crome Yellow. It’s difficult getting back into the 9-5 groove after the holidays.

I filed my grad app yesterday. I can’t believe I’ll actually be finished in June. It’s been too many years coming. Everything is lined up…well, except for grad school. It’s a little late in the year to be filling out grad school apps, but I think I’m going to try anyway. For the past month or so I’ve been thinking about what to do next- grad school aboard, grad school out of state, grad school at home- or no grad school at all. I’m entering another of those “major transitional periods.” Ironically, we’re reading The Road Not Taken in Modern American Lit this week.

A couple of days ago I built a lightbox for doing still life photography. Now I just need to find something to photograph other than Campbell’s soup cans.

Thanks to Kritter, Colby, the Jimminks and the Pedersons I’m steadily becoming not only more interested, but noticeably better at both Volleyball and Ping Pong- both games I’ve always been terrible at, and consequently, uninterested in playing.

Last night I received an anonymous comment on one of my entries, and so I logged into sitemeter to see who it might possibly have been. I was surprised to see that I’d already received nearly 50 hits that day. (I usually average around 2 or 3 per day) Looking at the referrals page it appears that almost every single viewer had been googleing the lyrics to Broken by Lifehouse and google had been sending them to the Broken Clock entry on my blog. It’s really nice to suddenly get so much traffic. It would be even nicer if more people stuck around and read some of the other entries. Thank you to those of you who do.

Let’s see, what else? Oh, a new word worth mentioning:

Widdershins – I believe is Scottish Gaelic for counterclockwise.

That’s all for now.