Hyperbole and hyperbola to marry.

Right now it is raining, which sets the mood allright, but is not lending itself to comfortably sitting in a parkesque scene and flipping through books. Instead I will borrow Matt's computer and type emails to acquaintances who have long since written me off.

Also I will write this blog post, because those are things we all need to do more often.

I have managed to steal nighttimes on the couch downstairs, without too many people noticing. It works like this: you pay for the drinks, then drive them home. Then you follow them through their front door, tell them goodnight as they walk upstairs, then mosey on over to the sofa and make yourself comfortable.

I have found that I've been in a sort of depressive phase, which I like to think is stoic and hip and due entirely to my brain chemistry rather than any sort of real circumstances, therefore I cannot feel pity for myself, which is always being in bad taste. But I have been having at least a little success by medicating with drunkenness, at least 5 out of the last 8 evenings, and sometimes afternoons. Anything to kick away the social inhibitions that form gargantuan piles, blockading the door of my muses.

I reckon that girls are not good for my state of being, but maybe not good for anything else either. Ha ha? Outside of my reckonings, it is just that the girls I like do not like me back, so it is a simple matter of dismantling idealisms, settling for much lower standards, and then disappearing when there comes to be too much shopping and make-up to stomach.

Oh, psychology.

It is a hard rain's, a-gonna fall. The sound of cat footsteps are being thoroughly drowned out by millions of drops upon the shingles, now.

All sorts of people have come out of the woodwork in a few days of wandering around town. There was Chelsea at the weird underground pub, there was Nora who was baffled as she glimpsed me as she drove by, there were Phil and Curt last night at Penny Lane, allowing this guy no dignity as he heroically rocked the open microphone. The cracking up laughter was certainly helped by the beers, but yes also by the embarrassing Jason Molina -like earnestness that becomes so comically overdone and out of place in such a setting. This is why I shall take all of my "art" to the grave, letting maybe a future generation get a good laugh of their own, between choking on fumes and dodging swarms of vehicles upon their asphalt planet.

There was a lyric I recognized as we were walking out of the joint last night, amidst the washes of inebriation, and it was "This Land Is Your Land, This Land Is My Land."

I am also reckoning (still in the midst of it) that having a very static home and very static places is probably the least healthy of all, for someone like me. I am only not stagnant when I am moving, in very literal ways. This makes me think that I should become a traveling engineer for the United Nations, or else quit careering altogether, sell my possessions and hit the road eternally. I will certainly never be content, so I may as well collect lots of displacement.

The jury is out. It is not likely that they will be back.

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In approximately two weeks, I will have yet another nephew. I am guessing that the frequency will become hyperbolic, and so by this time next year, there will be forty-three children, all nephews.