Pneuma

the wind is my friend,
my lover,
my soul;
it fills me from the inside,
it moves me from without;
in it i
dance,
sing,
laugh,
run,
and,
sometimes,
fly;
the wind is my ocean
upon which i surf,
within which i swim,
it is my calm and my storm,
i know no other song
than its howl and whisper;
i know no other caress
than its breezes and gusts;
it is my spirit and my breath,
it is my life

Social Networking Confession

From the beginning, I hated the idea of social networking. MySpace seemed a stupid waste of time, and Facebook was its clean-cut, annoying kid brother. Pages were silly encyclopedia entries on persons who lacked reknown, and MySpace, let's be honest, was full of the most horrid page designs one can see outside of an acid trip.

Blogging was ok, in my book, because I'm an inveterate scribbler: recording the epic deeds of heroes on that green, large-lined paper from elementary school. True, most of those tales were never read by another living soul, much like this blog. But still, I wrote them back then, because, in some ways, I had no choice, and I'll continue to write now, in part for the same reasons. It's part of who I am (one of those parts I'll admit to in a mixed public forum like this; my kids can read my secret journals when I'm dead and learn about the other bits).

Having said all of that, I must confess that I have completely changed my judgment of social networking sites. The ability to casually and easily be in contact with friends both past and present (and the occasional stranger who becomes a future friend) is kinda nice, especially as the aging process robs me of the vitality of today and makes me nostalgic for bygone days (nostalgic, but not stupid; you can keep your time machines to yourself. I'll remain living in the present, even as a crusty old curmudgeon). I'm not saying these type of online services have changed my life, but by allowing me to catch a glimpse of names and faces from my youth, I feel a greater sense of... not exactly closure, but something between an ongoing closure and an expanding completeness. Does that make any sense?

As William Gibson famously pointed out, the Internet is the great waster of time. Social networking sites, doubly so. And, perhaps, contra to my earlier judgment, they are not so much "stupid" wastes of time as they are delightful flashes of retro-future connectivity: the present soul's brief nod and smile to a past that now is present somewhere besides the hazy photo album of memory. And maybe, just maybe, that is value enough.

Elementary Numbers for Breakfast

• 1967 is not a prime.
• 19 is a prime, so is 67.
• 1967 is sort of symmetrical, in binary (11110101111).
• 1967 in binary is 19 digits long.
• 19 is (still) a prime.
• 1+1+1+1+0+1+0+1+1+1+1=9.
• 9 is not prime (but it is the numerological value of both my name and my birthdate).
• 1967 has only two proper factors: 7 and 281.
• 7 and 281 are primes.
• 2+8+1=11.
• 11 is a prime.
• 1+1=2.
• 2 is a prime.
• 1+9+6+7=23.
• 23 is a prime.
• 2+3=5.
• 5 is a prime.
• I was born in 1967, and I like primes.
• The above statement is not universally true, but it is true of me.

Trek Prequel Haiku (lame)

no special effects,
gore, nor gratuitous sex,
just kirk, spock, and bones

from midwest farmland
to boldy go where no man
dreams of first command

counting beats per line,
once dead but once more alive,
"logic" makes this five

southern gentleman
gruff manner with healing hands
heart which understands

head, heart, will, these three
as one find their destiny:
lives entwined yet free...

Suddenly Midnight - (first sliver)

I'm still sitting here, even though I know I should have left hours ago. It doesn't seem right, what with what happened to Corn and all, but I can't bring myself to get off this stool and walk out into the empty night. I haven't even touched the drink, not since the first sip I took when I ordered it, what, four hours ago? Scotch, neat, and it tasted like nothing. It wouldn't matter how much I drank, it would still taste like nothing, and I would still feel like nothing. And Corn and the others would still be dead.

Yesterday was four lifetimes ago, at least as measured by the lives of my four best friends. Corn, Willie, Sam, and Dawn. Yesterday, we met for breakfast at the Kountry Kitchen. Corn had his usual farm-boy breakfast of everything (monster stack of pancakes, a mound of scrambled eggs, piles of sausage, bacon, and ham, a double order of biscuits and gravy, a large glass of whole milk, and some extremely sweet and wholly creamed coffee). Sam, still on her vegan kick, groused melodramatically at Corn's carnivorous ways while sipping her grapefruit juice and nibbling at her whole grain, no-egg pancakes. We've all been waiting for this phase to pass, as it always does for Sam. As it always did for Sam. I suppose if you die a vegetarian, then you're a vegetarian forever. The rest of us ate meals somewhere in between Sam and Corn's extremes.

It was a good morning, even if was a ridiculously early morning. We had arranged to meet at the Kitchen by six, and, strangely, we were all there on time (even Dawn, who rarely makes a Saturday appearance before eleven in the morning). Smiling Dave, the weather guy from Channel 10, had predicted a glorious spring day, and if the first few minutes after sunrise were any indication, he was going to be right on target. Five friends with a beautiful weekend before them, a just-like-homemade meal to feast on (literally, in Willie's case: his mom was the cook at the Kitchen), and not a care in our hearts. Well, ok, we had cares, but at that moment, they didn't seem to matter. Mine didn't, anyway. In hindsight, I suppose it would have been better if they had mattered.