All right, before I being my weekly journal entry, I thought I'd share with you two videoes by a couple of bands I've discovered over the past week or two. Something about them stirs the Wisconsinite in me

First, we have Loituma's "Levan Polka"



Yes, in case you are wondering, this is EXACTLY how clubing is back home

Now Atomik Harmonik's "Turbo Polka". Those crazy Slovenes!



Now there's some Bubblegum Pop that I don't mind listening too!

All right, now that thats taken care of and you're done dancing (seriously, how can you listen to those and NOW spontanously break into dance?), I can get into my journal proper here.

It has, by and large, been a fairly good week. I've become serious about, once again, quiting smoking; a habit which I picked up roughly three or four weeks ago for the third time. So far I've been able to restrain myself to only two a day, and with the help of my handy nicotine gum, I hopefully will be able to kick the habit once again.
I seriously don't understand how I started again. I'd been going strong for months without the urge, and suddenly the cravings started to hit me like a Mac truck. To make matters even worse, the weather began to get bitterly cold, I remember several several days of -30 with windchills, and I wasn't able to fall back upon old standby of cigars. There simply was no way in which I was going to be standing outside for half an hour in that type of weather in order to smoke a cigar.
Obviously, something was (is?) bothering me, although I don't really know what it is. I'm coming to suspect that I either have yet to fully heal from my experiences in Alaska or, to carry the metaphor further than it should go, I've finally healed and the scabs are coming off. What ever the case, I've been more sensative than usual lately, and very tense to boot.
You know, I can say with all honesty that things have certainly improved for me over the past 6 months or so. I'm no longer in as bad of a position as I was at this point last year, and I have ever reasom to believe that, if I keep my nerve, things will continue to improve.
However, I think its time to come to grips with the fact that these 20-something years suck! The last time I've felt this generally confused about what it is I'm doing, what the expectations are for me, and what I want out of life, was when puberty hit me in Middle School. I seem to be surviving it all a lot better than I did when I was 12, but I'm honestly not sure which was less pleasent!

Now, before I go on to writing my next installation of "The Tree-Splitters" (which I will 'spoiler' for the sake of those who don't want to read a 15 + page journal!) I want to recount a dream that I had last night. Part of it makes a suprisingly large amount of sense, but other parts are much less so.

The Dream: Of Alaska, War and Make Believe Cars

The dream starts out with me back in Alaska. Its night time outside, and I'm back in my old school. There seems to be a party going on at the school; there is cake laid out in the staff lounge and all of the teachers are milling around, talking to one another very excitedly.
I'm making my way around and am talking to the other teachers. I see my old Principle (a woman who was a mentor to me in real life) and we exchange some words in the hallway. She seems very happy to see me, and asks me to do some work at the school. I tell her that I'd love to, but I don't work there anymore.
Two thoughts strike me at this point: 1) I'm not sure if people realize that I don't work at the school anymore. 2) I'm really not sure how I got up there in the first place. The later seems to confuse me the most; it seems as if this is a day trip for me, but it certainly takes longer than that to get up there. Also, if I'm visiting, where am I staying? Someone else lives in my old house, and its not like there is a hotel in the village. I seem to remember that this has all been taken care of, but I don't know how.
I go back to the party and begin to tour the school. I go to my old classroom which is lit up very nicely and it seems as if most of my stuff is still there. I think I even run into some of my old students who are there. So far, everything is going very well, and the only emotion I'm feeling is a happiness at seeing my old co-workers and visiting the village.
At one point I meet some of the new teachers and keep asking them if they "Know what happened to me here?" Part of it is my concern that the same thing doesn't happen to them, but I think a larger part is that I just want others to know what happened. This seems very important to me.
The dream buzzes along, and I'm not sure of much of what happens in the middle. Ther might have been a dance or a presentation for the students that I'm helping out with. Things get clearer (and much Stranger!) as it goes on.
Eventually all of the teachers and staff are together and we decide to make War(!!!!!) on another village. This seems like great fun, but some people are worried that we won't be able to do it well. I tell them not to worry, I have something which can help: I pull out what I think of as a "relic". What ever it is, I tell them it has special powers and can become one of three things. I forget what the other two are, but eventually we decide to turn it into some kind of large truck so we can get over to the battle quicker.
They all take off in the vechicle and I go off in my own, alone. I'm driving the car over icy roads (and how roads suddenly appeared in the Alaskan Bush, I do not know!) when I come to a Stop Sign. I try to put on the brakes, but I skid right on through. I skid through the next one as well. In fact the car seems to be picking up speed by itself, and the brakes aren't working because of the icy roads. Although I don't panic, I'm getting upset.
At that point I look at the shadow of my car, being given off by the moon. I look at the shadow and, instead of seeing a car's outline, I just see the outline of myself, running very fast! I suddenly realize that there IS no car, its just an illusion. Since there is no car, and I'm only running, I'm actually in control after all; I decide to jump into the air and land in a snow bank on the side of the road.

Thats when I wake up.

Now _THAT_ is a weird dream.


And now for the next episode of "The Tree Splitters"


The Tree Splitters: Episode 8

I'd be lying if I told you I wasn't drunk. I am. But, I ssure you, I'm feeling much more coherent than I was at this point last week. I doubt that I'll have a huge hang over tomorrow; at least I hope so, that damned thing threw me off all week. Coupled with the frigid cold temperatures of -20 degrees, I largely spent the beginnigns of last week in my house and was feeling the usual feelings which bubble up when I'm isoalted from others. In other words, I felt pretty shitty for most of the week.
Oh, what a difference a few days makes! I went out to a bar tonight for a Rockabilly show in Fargo. I ended up running into I'd met at a similiar show back in September or October. Suffice to say, I bought her a few drinks and we ended up spending the entire night dancing and having a great time. I can't remember the last ime, if ever, I was kissed that much in a single night. I still have the lipstick smears across my face, and I ain't complaining.
I even got the girl, who is utterly breath taking,'s phone number. I'm going to give her a call on Monday, I think. Even if nothing comes from it, I haven't had a girl all over me like that in years (it must have been the beer; I ain't THAT good looking ). Great night! I even met a local DJ who plays drums and was excited by my idea of forming a Rockabilly band.
The only problem was that I smoked way too much; a band thing for a guy who is doing his damndest to quit after relapsing about a month ago following the death of his cat (poor Scourge ) and some financial issues which have since been resolved.
Anyway, despite the lack of responses to my lat journal, I've decided to continue my prose versiuon of the epic I wrote. I've got a fire in m y head that needs to be fed and, truth be told, there is a lot of strength in this story. Carl Jung often wrote about trying to fid his perosnal mythology; the stories which he based his life off of. It resulted in his writing "Answers to Job" a fascinatingly unorthodox take on Christian theology. For me, the Tree Splitters is my own Mythology and it gives me a lot of strength when I'm down.


The Tree Splitters: Part 7 (prose edition)

Sigismund pined for the beautiful coleen, Winona, the daughter of wise Cheif Buffalo of the Chippewa. His heart yearned for her every moment of the day and, combined with the great sickness which ad enveloped him following the death of his Father, he became even sicker in the heart. The only thing which sustained him in those dark days was the thought of Winona and her promise to wed him.
He and his band lived with the Chippewa for many months, until Spring got the better of Winter and slayed the ice demons which had covered the land of Wisconsin in a deep frost. All the while he thought of his fair maid and prayed that he would soon be able to meet with the great medicine land which dwelled on La Pointe so that he might fight the demon Wendigo and marry his lass.
Finally, the spring sun began to rise on the horion and vanquish the frost which held the land in thrall. Sigismund blessed the gods for this blessing and ordered his camp to prepare for the trip to Madaline Island, otherwise known as La Pointe.
The day came when the great birch barks were launched into the waters of Gitchi-Gumi. Sigismund and his crew sailed for amny hours, and the goddess, who is the lake, blessed him and gave good weather for the travlers. For many hours they paddled, but eventually they reached the soft pebbled beaches of the isle where Sigismund was told he could finally be cured from the dread sickness which held his soul in thrall.
The waves lapped blissfully upon the shore when the Lumbermen's canoes first sailed onto the shore, scrapping the sands. The great Lumber lord jumed from his canoe and embraced the surf, and sang a song to the breeze which kissed his cheeks.
As the crews were unloading and preapring their encampment, he found Cheif Buffalo; "Where is this great medicine man", he inquired, "I am in haste to meet with him that he might finally cure me."
The Cheif smiled kindly, as was his way with the King of the Pines. "Do you see that trail which leads into the birch and pines? When you have set up camp, you must take to that trail alone. After a long day's march you will come to a cabin where the great man waits for you. Then you will be cured and preapred for your battle."

Sigismund bellowed orders to his lumbermen to make camp. When they had finished, he smiled waxly. "Now comes the time for me to travel alone into those benighted woods. Wait for me my friends, until I return, cured of those wasting illness and the curse which sets upon us all. Only then, he will travel South and prepare to give battle to the evilcreature which cruelly slayed our kin and friends."
The Lumbermen raised a glass of beer in his honor and wished him luck on his journey.
"Fear not", their lord called, "For I will return; better than new. And then we will begin our quest which will see the father-slayer drowned in his own blood!"
The men cheered as their cheif threw a turkey sakc over his shoulder and began to march into those dark and dangerous woods.
He kept to the path as had been ordered but, after only a few hours, SIgismund began to feel a great weight pressing upon his shoulders. He trudged onwards, attempting ot gie it no heed, but that did no good. Soon the pressure had grown so great that he fell into a crouch and struggled to breath.
"What curse has fallen upon me", he cried in dismay, "that i should fall so near by goal!"
But it was to no avail, the weight grew so heavy that he fell to hte ofrest floor, his cheeks rested in the dirt below him and he slipped from this world into the next.

When next he came too, Sigimsund was laying in a bed of fresh thath, bound by the ankle of wrist. He screamed and bellowed againsth is bounds, but to no avail, he coudl barely move a muscle, let alone free his blinds from their prison.
"Who is the man who strugges to free himself from a bed of wrest", a voice called out.
Sigismund sturglged ot lift his head and realized he was confined to a bed in a small hut. A wizened onld man stood above a culdron which boiled and bubblee,d supsended over a hearth. So taken a back was he that he fail,ed to answer the question put to him.
:"So ruide!" trhe little man cried, "for a guest o not respond to a well wishing host! But, so be it; I know your name and your quest. Sigismund Deitrichson who wishes to slay the Wendigo who slew his Father many months ago! Here, drink this and it will resotre your health". The old man handed SIgismund a cup of boiling borht to drink.
Sigismund sipped the Soma. "I thank you for your kindness, old man., Surely you be the man that I wwas sent to seek."
"Yes, I be he" the old man said with a laugh, "The great healer of La Pointe. Now rest and relax, allow your muscles to grow lax and the blanket of sleep to fall upon you. TOmorrow you being your journey, but for now you must sleep."
Sigisnund said no other words, for a great drowsiness fell upon him and he found himself drifting into a deep slumber.
When next he awoke, golden life giver shone in through the windows of the small hut and he founhd his limbs unbound. He roused himself from slumber and saw the old man standing above him and smiling.
"Ah! So the great warrior finally awakes. I'd grown worried that he would never stir from the slumber of the soma I gave him."
"I am awake", said SIgimsund, "now tell me how I am to be healed from the curse which saps the strength of my soul."
"So hasy, so hasty. Just liek you white men to persue a goal to your own demise. Many of your kind I have seen pass from these walls; never had I seen a people more driven to destrion than your own. But, fair enough, it is not in me to deny help to a man in need, so I will tell you how to continue your quest." the old man said.
"Rouse fro myour bed and dress youreself in your best flannels. Take no provisions but exist this hut and follow the trail to the North. Continue with no food to give you strength. By the time night falls you will find a palce to rest. Sit there and wait, and the cure will find you Sigismund. Now go, my fine young man, and heal yourself; it pains me to see one such as you in such dire straights!"
Sigimsund did as he was told and dressed. He took a cup of broth to steady his nerves and then passed from the hut onto the Northward trail. He traveled all night until the sun set in the west and a deep darkness fell upon the land. As the sun set he found a tree with symbols carved into its trunk. Waery from his travlees, Sigismund collapsed benough the tree's boughs and waited for what ever might seek him out that night.
Hours passed, and his soul doors dropped to the flood of the wood. he flety as if sleep was coming upon him. Just as the dreams began to overtake his mind, he spied a figure moving through the woods. His ears perked like a wolf's in the hunt, and he instantly recognized the shade walking towards him.
"Sigismund, my son", the shadow called forth, "what brings you to this point of sorrow/"
Tears began to fill the warrior's eyes ad he fell upon his knees. "Father", he cried, "You have come for me!"
"Yes", the ghost of Deitrich said to his son, "i have come for oyu, but not to take you away. Answer me, son, why do you sit below this mighty maple tree, waiting for me? What troubles you're soul so much that you'd seek to discuss with the dead?"
"Father", the son called out again as tears streamed from his eyes, "Father. Why did you leave me? Why did you send me out so that I wouldn't meet my fate standingat your side?"
"Sigismund. I sent you from camp to spare you from the Wendigo which I knew was coming. I wished to eae your suffering eased, so that you wouldn't join me in the grave."
"Foul Father! You sent me away and I was denied blessing you and wishing you well in your travels. The Wendigo slew you, and now I am forced to slay it no matter the cost. I hate that creature with all my hear, I wish to see it drown in its own blood. TO beg for forgiveness before I send its spirit to hell!"
The Shade sighed in deep sorrow. "Sigismund, I never wished this pain upon you. I wanted to save you from it, as best I could. Fate waves as it will, there was nothing more that I could do., It was the decree of the gods that I should die that date. I hold no ill spite against that spirit that sent me from this worlkd to the next."
"Now listen. I have heard your cries and have come here to absolve you of your debvt to me. Do no seek death in the maw of the Wendigo. Do not seek it out. The hate which growsin your heart shall kill you and all that you loeve, if you are not careful."
Sigismund sobbed at the words of his Father. "Father, I jsut don't know how to go on any longer. It hurts. It hurts so badly that i can not even describe it. The hole that you left in my heart will not heal, as much as I want it to. I only wish to do right in your eyes, to punish your killer and avenge you as best I can."
Tears streamed from the ghost's eyes. "My son. Forget your quest of vengeance, it will do little to bring me back. Know only that I love you and must now go. Just promise me you will nto allow this hatred to consume you and destroy your land and crew. You are a good son, better than I deserve, and I only want you to be happy."

A breeze bvlew across the land and caught the hade of Deitrich in its maw. The ghost slowly dissovled, carriedon that wind to the next realm, while SIgismund begged his Father to stay with him. His heart was heavy, it hammered in his chest and the grief of losing his Father a second time.
Time lapsed as he wept bitter tears. Suddenly he discerned a maniac music; the drumming of the damned echoed through the forest. he looked up and spied a second figure movign towards him; a great wolf with only one eyes, his hea d moved in rythem to the death drums ,adn its tongue lolled in its mouth.
"Foul creature, don't bedevil me now", the hero cried at the wolf.
"Oh, will your whinign never cease", the wolf called out, a laugh hanging on its words. "The son of mighty deitrich, weeping and whining like a new born pup. I have never soon so sad a figure in all my many days!"
"Go!", SIgimsund cried, "leave me now. I know now that my quest is for naught, my own Father wishes that I give it up, lest the fires of passion consume me."
"You Father is a fool; brave though he may be", the wolf howled. "Give up the fight? You know not how to do it! And even if you did, so what then? Le me tell you of that future. Wild Winona., and her wonderous Father, call victums to that vile beast which stalks the wood. Their bones broken, their flesh fed upon by the Wendigo, because you failed to act! Would you do so? I suppose so; a weakling and coward yo uwhere in birth and so you are now!"
"Be GONE", the hero screamed. But he saw the truth in the wolf's words. "Why do you haunt me so? Drive me to my own doom"
"Because you are a hero, caught in the webs of weid as I am. You have no right to speak ill of me; I who have had the mead of Mimor coat my throat, enliven my speech. You knnw nothing of doom! Know this then, Sigimsund the 'brave'. This world is doomed to deathj and destructuon; all will die in due time, including the gods themselves. Who are we to weep at death? A hero rises to fight 'gaint evil as he sees it, sacrifices all so that he might fight by the side of the gods when that fateful day comes."
"So, you would have me go against the Wendio, at the sake of my own soul, cruel beast/"
"No. I would have you do what it is nyour soul; fight against the beast and spare this northenr wood from the ravishing hunger of that beast. Slay it, kill it, scatter its bones to the wind. Save the life of wild Winona, her Father and people; for, mark my words, they will die in you do not act!"
Sigimsund roused himself and stood to face Old One Eye. "So be it!", he cried. "I shall fight as you ask, for I would rather die a thousand deaths than see my beloved broken by the wind demon. But know this; I shall not hate the creatue, for my own Father, wiser than you, begged me not to give in to that all consuming flame."
The Wolf laughed, as a parent does at a child's boast. "So be it, as you say. Know only that you must kill it for the good of all. Now retun to yorur slumbe,r tihs conversation tires me and your whining grates upon my ears. Sleep!"
Sigmisund felt his eyes grow heaby and, againsth is will, drifted into a deep and fitfull sleep.

To be continued....

(this entry was interupted by Dan going to a bar wher an Irish bad, unexpectedly, was playing. Plese excuse an drunken type brought on by the 5.5 beers he drank and the Irish music)


Lately I've been looking back through the epic I finished several months back. Those of you who've been reading my journal for a while might well remember that I've spoken of that poem oft times before. In fact, a year or so ago I labored at writing a prose version which I posted in this forum in an effort to work through the story in my own head before I attempted it in verse.
The prose version petered out after several weeks, much to my own dissapointment. I can work on the same poem for three years running, but apparently I get bored and distracted if I concentrate on bloging about the same topic for too long.
In my defence there was a lot going on at that time (a quick look through my backlog will uncover roughly 4 or so 'missing' entries from October 2006. Said entries were removed because they delved into my feelings of teaching, perhaps, a bit too deeply and caused no small amount of embarrasment when they were uncovered by someone in the village I was teaching in). Suffice to say, it wasn't a good time and, as I poured more and more of myself into the poem, and neglected to keep ip on the prose version.
Where is this going? Well, as a treat to my long term readers, I've decided to finish the story over the course of the next couple of weeks.
However, I know for a fact that many people have begun to read my rambling entries since that time. So, being the nice guy I am, I'm going to include the links here to the previous instalations. Take a look at them, I think you might well like the tale (of course, I WOULD say that, wouldn't I?)
You'll have to excuse the stilted writing; the story itself is better told in poetry form where the formal speaking rings truer to the ear. But I'm not evil enough to post a 136 page poem to journal. Or, AM I?

The Tree Splitters: Episode One

The Tree Splitters: Episode Two

The Tree Splitters: Episode Three

The Tree Splitters: Episode Four

The Tree Splitters: Episode Five

There you go, you've done you're reading? Good. Now lets get ourselves into the right mood for the great tale you are about to hear. Sit down here around the fire and amongst your friends I tell those tale of tragedy and heroics. Of a hero who dared to battle against fate itself, and the beast which was to become his doom.

When we last left Sigismund and his band, they had sallied forth against the Wendigo, a giant beast which had killed his Father and many friends in an attack on the Lumber camp. Although the hero eventually tracks the monster down, he's unable to kill it; his Father's axe shattered on the Monster's head and he is only saved by a forest fire which developes and scares the Wendigo off.
The band finds him, barely alive. They take his body and flee blindly north until they come upon a small Chippewa village ruled by the kindly Cheif Buffalo (a real person, as a matter of fact) who welcomes them in and gives them shelter. Sigismund's body is cured, but his mind remains wounded by the battle. The Cheif convincs him to stay in the village until Summer when they can get him help on the island of La Pointe in Lake Superior.
Our hero agrees, and offers to help around the village as much as possible. He quickly becomes one of the best hunters. One day, while out hunting, he gives chase to a 30 Point Buck which appears to lead him to a young womand washing clothes by the River. Her name is Winona, the Cheif's daughter, and two instantly fall in love. even though she predicts that if he continues in his quest, he will one day cause her death. She eventually tells him to return to camp and ask her Father for advice; he knows more of the Wendigo than he's said so far.


The great Northwoods where our story takes place


Fall in the Nortenwald; winter stands ready to pounce and make war against the Summer. The Wendio prepares to share the woods with its howl.

The Tree Splitters: Episode Six (Prose Edition)

Sigismund, the great lumberman returned to the village in the daze of love; his skin burned hot and his eyes were vacant, a small smile was frozen upon his face. The other lumberman, his comrades and friends, saw this expression and were overjoyed; their poor cheif, so badly wounded in his battle against the demon Wendigo, had smiled little in past months.
"Brave Sigismund", one bold fellow called out, "I've seen that look upon the face of many. Our cheif has found love at last. Tell us, did you find a young deer out there in the woods? Did you have to chase off a rutting buck to get her?"
"A deer?", another man yelled. "Our brave lord here would never be interested in such a creature. Now a porcupine, thats more to his liking! Short, far and mean as hell. Besides, it takes skill to make love and avoid the stickers!"
Sigismund let out a bellowing laugh which echoed through the forest, "Oh shut you're mouths, you lazy whelps. The only thing you know of love, you learned from watching the cows on your father's farms. How many farmers found you in the barn with their sheep over the years?" The men all shared a great laugh, because they were pleased to see their lord back to his old self.
"We'll continue this another time", Sigismund said, "I have to have words with our host. Have you seen him?"
The men told him that their host, the cheif of the village, was in his lodge, waiting for the pine prince's return. Sigismund nodded at the news and walked off, the smile slowly dropping from his face and an unease coming over him as he did so. Even a brave man might quake at the thought of expressing his love of a girl to her Father, and the Cheif was no ordinary Father; though he had extended every hospitality to the Lumbermen, Sigismund worried about offending him.
He came to the Cheif's home and knocked on the wall, "Come in", a clear voice called out from within. Sigismund took a deep breath and walked inside.
"Ah! My young friend, come and sit down", the elder man said with a smile.
Sigismund nodded and sat down.
"What brings you to my home on a night like tonight?"
"I bear tidings from your Daughter, Winona [Note: Hurit in the last entry]. She told me to tell her that she loves you."
A twinkle lit up the Old Man's eyes, "Ah, she did, did she? I don't suppose she had anything else to say, by chance?"
Sigismund took several seconds to collect his thoughts. "As a matter of fact, she did; yes. She told me that she was aware of my journey, wished me well, and told me to ask you what you know of the creature that I chase."
A cloud fell over the Cheif's features and now it was his turn to sigh deeply. "You must understand", he said, "that I had every intention of telling you when the time was right. I had hoped that I might convince you and your friends to settle here with us in this village. We always have need of strong arms here, and already your people and mine have taken to one another."
Sigismund shook his head, "Nothing would please me more than to stay here with you; but we've pledged ourselves to killing the Wendio. The God's themselves have heard my vows. I could not turn back now, even if I wished to; the killer of my Father must pay with its own life. How many more must die before its cries are choked off once and for all."
"Truely, it suprises me. Your people are brave and strong, and yet none have ever struck out to kill this creature? Fear doesn't seem to rest in your hearts, and yet that demon continues to menace these woods!"
The Cheif bristled slightly, but refused to rise at the bait dangled before him, "Yes, many of our men have gone against the fiend that you track. None have returned. My own son sallied forth against it many years ago; his bones were found the next summer, still clutched his box in hand. All of the flesh had been stripped from them. There was little left."
Sigismund bowed his head; "I'm sorry; I spoke rashly and meant no disrespect. But this just proves why I have to kill the Wendigo; so no one else will have to suffer the death of a loved one. Now, tell me; what do you know of the creature?"

The Chief chose his words carefully. "There once was a Frenchman in these parts, many years ago. He was a trader; he bought furs from the tribes here and sold them to his people in Europe. His name, I believe, was Henri St. John and he was a good man; brave, kind to his friends, and honest. Much like someone else I know. He had one problem, however; an obsession in fact. He was in love with gold, and was always searching for ways to get more"
" One day he heard stories of a creature said to live in the midst of the Northwoods; the Hodag. It was a rare animal, as large as a moose, and covered in the scales of a snake with the teeth of a pike. The Trader came to believe that, if he could catch one, its hide would be worth a great deal of money in Quebec. He became obsessed with the notion, no matter how many times he was told that to search for the Hodag in winter would be suicide."
"Finally, a friend of his, a local guide, agreed to go out with him. Whether he thought his friend's plan was good, or if he only wished to keep him safe, I can not tell you. What we do know is that they left in the middle of a thaw in January in good spirits. They traveled towards the land where the city of Tomahawk is now. All was going well until suddenly a storm blew in upon them; one of the great blizzards we used to have in those days."
"The two took shelter in a cave, hoping to wait the storm out. Perhapse the storm wasn't naturaly, or maybe it was; but the snows fell upon them for five days. Soon they had run out of food, and the panic of starvation took ahold of both men. The trader, one night, woke to find a demon standing above him; it whispered advice in his ears, telling him to take a knife and slit the throat of his friend. That if he did so, he would have all the food he would ever need."
"The trader was in a trance, and did as the voice told him. With tears in his eyes, he watched his friend die, and then began to feed on the corpse. For two days he did nothing but eat the flesh of his friend; and then the storm stopped and he left to return to the village."
"When he came here, he told us that his friend had dissapeared while looking for food in the storm. We excepted the tale at first, but were supisious; the man looked too well fed to have been locked away for over a week in a cave. Many began to question the truth of the man's story, although none of us wanted to believe the worst."
"The next spring a hunter came upon the bones of the man; he noticed the gnaw marks on the bones and became terrified; he fled back here to camp and told the story. By that point, several local hunters had dissapeared and everyone had become frightened. The hunter's story was the final straw; a group confronted the trader and, with tears running down his face, he admitted to the deed and begged forgiveness."
The cheif shook his head, "There can be no cure for a man who has come under the curse of the Wendigo and tasted the flesh of another. We banished him from the village, chased him into the woods and prayed that the matter was sealed. But it was not the case; as years went on the trader lost more and more of his humanity; the more he ate, the larger he got, the more powers he developed. But, at the same time, the hungrier he got. He had become a Wendigo and has haunted these hills ever since."
Sigismund stood up and looked across at the Chief, "Your tale is a sad one, But the fire in my belly growes more ferious.as the words spill from your lips."
"As I feared", spoke the Chippewa cheif "know that I am proud of my future son for your burden. There are weapons I will give you; a cloak made from the hhie of a Wendio and two hatchets carved from its bones. But only after you have been healted by the wiraculous man who lives on la Pointe"
Then Sigisnund thought hot easy it would be to take these treasurees; but a small voice cautioned "no, the Chippewa Cheif has been an ally, and good to you. Only a theif would take by force what ios given." and the rage in his soul was quieted.
"I will be healed by the man of La Pointe, and then fight the dancingg demn as best i can. A foe I will not be to your tribe, for they have treated me as well as they could"
Then Cheif Buffalo perceived the struggle in Blond BVeard's mind and smiled "So iut shall be. I will give my gifts when you've grown strong again. You're a good man, the greatest of the land"

Top be continued ...

RIP
Scourge the Cat
June, 2006 - January 19, 2007

My cat died a week and a day ago today. It first noticed he was sick on Thursday, I'd woken up to find him sitting in the living room, breathing deeply and not responding when I called him. At the time, i thought it was sick with the flu or had an upper respitory infection; when he came into my bedroom and feel asleep I was assurured he'd be getting better soon.
I came home from work last Friday, and at first felt goot; he heard me coming and started crying like he always did when he heard me on the otherside of the front door. A few minutes later, however, I noticed that something was wrong; not only was he breathin hard, but his cries were cries of pain.
I got scared and called a 24-hour animal hospital which confirmed that cats breathing with an open mouth and crying in pain is NOT a good sign (I'd figured this out, by this point, but was hoping they wouldn't confirm my fears). I rushed him to the hospital where they confirmed my worst fears.
For months I'd noticed that the cat had been gaining weight, and I'd put him on a diet to combat it. The vet told me, however, that his large belly wasn't the result of over-eating, he was retaining bodily fluids which were pressing on his lungs making it hard to breath. Apparently, this was caused my a bad heart, something he had prob'ly been born with.
I decided to have him put down; it just didn't seem fair to keep him in misery, just because I'd developed a connection with the damn cat. It was the right decision, and I haven't second guessed myself in the past week; certainly, if I had a similiar condition and was in the same amount of pain, I wouldn't want to be kept around if nothing could be done to cure me.
I don't doubt myself, as I said, but I still miss that damn cat. He was the first animal I've actually allowed myself to give a damn about since my Mother had my favorite cat, Delenn, shot when I was in High School (apparently, after disapearing for a week after giving birth, she had returned home and tried to attack my sister. My Mother had her shot. I have still yet to forgive my Mum for this one. I loved that damn cat). MY apartment feels so empty, and I still half expect him to meet me at the door when I come inside after school.
Personally, I want to remember him in his prime, not in those last few days. To say he was a 'good cat' would be missing the point. He really wasn't; he was an utter pain in the ass most of the time. He demanded attention 24/7, shredded my bedroom carpet and chair, put holes in my 100 dollar leathern jacket, tried to bite my nose off as a kitten, and did countless other things to get on my nerves. He was an attention hound who would cry hysterically if you weren't paying attention to him every moment you were home.
But he liked me. He liked everyone, actually, but me in particular. If someone came over to visit me, he'd sit on their lap for a few minutes before jumping off to be by me. He woke me up several mornings by licking my face and, when he didn't do that, I'd often find him curled up by my face and puring loud enough to wake the devil. When I was on the computer, he'd be curled up in my dirty laundry, or on my jacket, because they smelled like me.
He may not have been a 'good cat', but he was my type of cat. Vicious at times, playful, cocky, arrogant, and loyal (in his own way). I really miss having that sonuvabitch around. He had a way with people; my Dad (who claims to hate all animals) became attached to him as well over Christmas break, as did my Mother. My poor Father sounded heart broken when I told him the news (and my Dad is even more emotionally reserved than I am!)

Yes, thats right. The guy who, at the age of six, was accused by his mother of having "no feelings, just like your father" , really misses his cat


In other news, my life isn't going all that terrible. I got offerend a graduate assistantship by my favorite Professor a few days ago, which comes with a tuition waiver. I've started the job, I'll be doing research and interviewing local artists for a project, and I utterly love it. Not only is the research fun (yah, I'm a dork), but, for the first time in years, I feel like I belong somewhere!
Thats no small thing, let me tell you! The professor invited me, along with another member of the department, to a bookreading in the town I'll be doing the interviews in. While there I realized that, although the two historians were not treating me like an equal, they were treating me like an intelligent adult who had something to offer the conversation.
The last time I felt like I belonged much of anywhere was my Senior year of college and, oh, how I've missed that feeling! It seems like, for the past three years, I've been wandering, lost, trying to find my way back home, but to no avail. My cousin Tom (who I sometimes refer to as my 'little brother') had jokingly taken to refering to me as Ulysseus. "You keep trying to get back home to Ithica, but never manage it", he stated.
I also may have a date in the coming days. There is a girl in my apartment who I've been talking to on-and-off ever since I moved in; we'd chat a bit when ever we saw one another. Taking the initiative, earlier this week, I asked her if she'd like to catch a movie and she said "sure!". I'm not getting my hopes up to much; she has a male friend, in Belfast, she'd going to visit in a few months and it could well be that they're an iteam. But, at the very least, I should have some good company for a while; at this point I could use friends just as well as a lover (although the later would be prefered )
All in all, I'm feeling much more confident and happier...you know, save for the cat

One final note: Have any of you ever heard PAtti Smith? I got the first season of SNL on DVD for Christmas this year and, on one of the episodes, she's performing "Gloria" and 'My Generation". I heard it and my jaw nearly hit the floor "My GOD" I whispered in shock. I just bought her album "Horses" and its utterly amazing; he was punk a few years before there WAS punk. Its a beautiful album.

[special service announcement] I want to begin this journal with a video of one of my favorite musicians; Hank Williams III. This song is from his new album, which should be out any time now; as soon as that damn fuck, Mike Curb, gets off his ass and actually releases the album. Enjoy!



[/special service announcement]


Here's to the New Year! May it be a grand one, filled with mirth, merriment, and another good thing that starts with 'M'! (Money? Eh, too materialistic. Motels? That just doesn't make any sense. Movies? A good idea, but doesn't fit the theme. Ah, fuck it, 'Major Successes'. And to think I used to write alliterative poetry.... *sighs*

Now, as we all know, New Years is the holiday, but the actual celebration, the time to look forward to, is New Years EVE. There are going to be those of you here who claim I'm being negative, but I have a confession to make. I hate New Years Eve. _HATE_ it! Hate it to the point that I nearly dread its coming each year.
"Why", I hear your, Mr. Hypothetical Reader, asking themselves. "How could anyone ever hate New Years Eve? Its the biggest party night of the year!" And, how true that is; it is, in fact, the biggest party night of the year. The time when normally sane and rational individuals indulge their carnal desires, throw caution to the wind, and indulge.indulge.INDULGE!
There is, however, one small problem. I never seem to be able to do it. Indulge that is. Its not that I don't WANT to, of course, I'd like nothing less, but somehow or other I always manage to screw it up. Lets take a look at the last several New Years Eves for me, just to give you the general idea:

2006: After 4 months of living in a dry Eskimo village, nearly getting killed, and not having a sip of alchohol in all that time, I went out with a former best-friend/love interest to Madison. We hadn't spoken much in a few years and both of us were looking forward to the night. Sadly, being who we both are, we ended up spending the night, and subsequent day, batching at one another. Some things never change.

2005: Trapped in Dry village hub of Bethel, AK for New Years Eve. Drank a smuggled in shot of rum to ring in the New Years, in my hotel room, alone. Went to sleep due to jet lag and needing to be on an airplane at 8 the next morning.

2004: Went to see "The Increadibles". Alone. Great movie, not so great night.

2003: Went to Tennessee for the Music Bowl with my Dad. Had a great time at the game, but efforts to convince him to go see BR-459(a trad country band that I like) failed miserably due to his hatred of Country Music. Ended up going to a bar for two drinks where he was hit on more than I was (and he's married, I'd like to point out; he politely rebuffed said advances)

2002: Snuck into a local bar with my cousin. Sang "Folsom Prison Blues" for Kareokee. Went home early because tea-tottling cousin didn't feel comfortable in the dar which was 'too loud'.

You get the drift here. Every New Years Eve I approach it, fully believing it will be a great night of hard partying. Yet, each year I manage to go home pissed off at the world and generally convinced that there is written in God's great Book o'Rules the following words:

"And Let it Forever Be Known. Dan shall Never be Allowed to Party Hard; for Should this Come to Pass, the very Heavens Themselves Would BURN".

This year was slightly better, although not perfect. I should begin by saying that, after two years of teaching in Alaska, and a semester of Grad School (a semester which I am still struggling to figure out) I have become akin to a preasure cooker with the lid on too tight. Months of doing nothing but reading and writing in my apartment, with no social distractions, have not been good for my mind.
The need to let loose, to be wild, and to put several artists featured upon "Behind the Music" to shame, has been building up in me for some while. It has become a itch that I simply can not scratch, and which grows only more annoying and insesent every day. It is a constant presens within my mind and, not to give myself up to melodramatics, but I can feel it even sinking its claws down into my very soul.
That is why I was genuinely hopeful when I came home this break and began to talk to my cousin Tom; he just turned 21, knows a lot of people in Green Bay, and had invited me to his apartment to check out the town. I pointed out that New Years Eve would be a great time for such an adventure, and he initially agreed.
Trouble struck several days later. Although he turned 21, and enjoys a drink from time to time, he revealed he wouldn't feel 'comfortable' in a bar. It just wasn't his 'thing'.
"Jesus Christ", I snapped, showing great maturity. Restraining myself from pointing out that he'd feel even more uncomfortable with my boot shoved firmly up his ass, I calmly attempted to rationalize with him. "Do you think I've never felt uncomfrotable doing something new? Of course I have, we all do! The key to living is not to not feel afraid or uncomfortable, but not letting those things stopping you from experiencing new things."
This failed.
I became slightly more irritable.
"Listen, kiddo, you already said you were going. Its too late for me to make new plans now!"
He suggested renting movies and hanging out at his place.
I decided to fall back upon the one tool possessed by all Alpha Males of a group: refusing to budge an inch, coupled with brow beating if need be.
"I told you I'd pick you up at 3. I'll catch you then.
"Yah, but", he tried to interject.
"No. No 'yah buts.' I'm picking you up at three and thats all there is to it. I need this, and its about time you got over this irrational fear anyway. Cya later."

In other words; I became a total jerk. I can rationalize it how ever much I like (and I really DO think he needs to get over this irrational discomfort every time someone drags out a beer), but I was being a total jackass.

To make a long story short, he calls be back an hour later and reveals that he STILL does not want to hang out at the bars. However, he called up a friend of his who knows about a house party she and some others are going to, and we're all invited. He asked if that would be an all right compromise; "Yes", I calmy responded, apologized for being 'snippy' earlier, hung up the phone and danced a jig.
A HOUSE PARTY!
Good lord, I hadn't been to one of those since I had lived in Madison. Perfect! I was going to meet some nice (and maybe not-so-nice) girls, have a few drinks, shmooze a little. The New Years Eve curse had finally been lifted, I was going to have a good time, and maybe finally scratch that fuckin itch; even if I had to bleed my skin to do it.

Heheheheheheheheheheh

Yah right. (Remember that rule in God's great "Book o'Rules"?)

We left for the party at 5 or so; I was driving, my cousin Tom in the back seat, and his brother Matt riding shotgun. After several wrong turns, owing to the badly illuminated signs, and my own lack of familiarity with the country roads outside of Green Bay, but we finally got there an hour later to find......the party consisted of 10 people, including us. There were four girls in that group, two attached, one married and sone single, but not increadibly interesting. Only one person had a drink in there hand the entire night, excluding myself.

GGGAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

Ok, ok, I'll admit it: I'm not being fair. It was actually a nice get together and, by the end of the night I felt comfortable enough around the people to come out of my shell; the last hour or so of the part consisted of a round table 'joke telling' session which was a lot of fun. It was good, clean, wholesome, fun. (The jokes, themselves, were hardly clean, or wholesomeo f course; but then, jokes are not meant to be. They WERE, however, very good and also very funny!)

Which, sadly, is the problem. I do not want to be clean, I don't want to be wholesome, and I certainly did not desire to be 'good' that night. Its kind of the point of the Dionysian experiences is that you are supposed to 'let go'. *sighs*
One of my best friends hit the nail right on the head this past summer. I had just gotten back from Alaska and was moving to my next city for school; I told him that I planned on going wild over the summer, to make up for the past two years of having to hold back.
"Good", he said! "You should. You need to; I don't think you've been wild a day in your life."
Although I tried to defend myself by pointing to a record of mild delequency while a student in Ireland, I was forced to admit that the damn bastard was right! its not that I'm boring; its just that I'm very reserved in what I allow myself to do.
Now, there are a lot of people like this out there in the world, I am friends with many of them, but they always seem content; this is the way they want to be, and thats jus the way it is. Good for them! I have other friends, a fewer number, who enjoy being wild and know how to express that part of themselves. I fall down before those folk.
I seem stuck in the middle lately; I want to go crazy, NEED to do it in fact to let off some of this steam, and yet my record shows that I'm utterly incompitent at it.


I reall hate New Years Eve!

My tooth broke today.

Well, thats a lie, or at least an untruth. It wasn't my tooth that broke, it was a 900 dollar crown on one of my back molars. I was eating breakfast at work before clocking in when I suddenly felt something hard in the foor. "shit", I muttered and spit it out to find the crown laying in my hand.
A co-worker looked over to ask ask if I was okay, just in time to see the pseudo-tooth laying in my hand. "Crap", he yelled and suddenly went green in the face.
"Shit. Shit, shit, shit", I repeated as I ran out of the breakroom to find a phonebook to call a dentist (even in the closest thing I come to panic, I still maintain enough of my senses to know what needs to be done). I ran to the manager's office, and explained to one of my bosses what had happened and get the phone book.
There was a little boy in the office, the son of one of the managers. He looked up at me, smiled, and said "I lost TWO teeth this week!"
I smiled and told him that was very nice but, at my age, this isn't a good thing. He wanted to know why, so I explained it to him. Have I ever mentioned that I love kids? I do, and I've found over the years that they like me. Even in my near panick, I had no problems talking to the little guy who was, lets face it, only curious.
As I was on the phone with a dentist office, the boy's father came into the room; the kid ran to him and said "I love you". It melted my heart; its so nice to see Fathers and sons getting along so well at that age. My Father and I have always been very close, and it reminded me of when I was a child (Of course, _I_ never would have used the "L" word. Even as a kid it made me uncomfortable. I remember hurting my Mother's feelings when I refused to tell her I loved her for a long stretch of time, saying instead "I like you". It was nothing personal; I'd watched enough TV at that age to realize that when a character told another that s/he loved them, something bad always happened. I was, in my own mind, just trying to protect her from a horrid twist in the plot!)
Calling the dentists didn't matter; it was a Friday, and the one before Christmas to boot, and I was only able to find one that was open, and he was booked solid all day. Christ, it was horrible; for years not I've had a reoccuring nightmare where all of my teeth fall out while I desperately try to reattach them. This was coming far too close to that for comfort, and it made he irritable to say the least.

Speaking of dreams, mine have been haunted as of late; and I mean that literally. The past several nights I've dreamt that I somehow came into contact with ghosts in a haunted house, or that I've been being stalked by a serial killer out of a slasher movie. I've even found myself pitted against hordes of zombies in a rickety old house. None of thse I would classify as nightmares, as I haven't woken up in terror, but they've been unpleasent to say the least.
I think it deals with my anxieties over grad school. You see, I was allowed into the History program here on probation, meaning that I needed to receive a B in all of my first three classes to stay in the program. Well, I managed to pull A's in two of my classes (one with a very difficult grader, even; the type of man who goes semesters without giving an A) but in my most important class I bombed and got a 'C'.
I've been frantacly talking to people in the department, trying to get n exception made for me due to my strong standings in other classes, but I still haven't been able to figure out if its all for naught or not. I had a meeting with my advisor this morning (and one of the profs who gave me an A, to boot) and he refused to waive the requirements for me, but did give me several suggestions that I plan on following through.
Although I've been staying very calm and collected in waking life, refusing to become hysterical or even angry (and whats to get angry about? The professor who gave me the bad grade didn't do it as a personal slight. I highly doubt he was 'out to get me') my dreams seem to be telling another story entirely; one of anxieties literally haunting and bedeviling me. This seems all the more evident as, eventually, nearly all of the dreams have shifted to taking place in Alaska, usually in my old classroom: the sight of some of my greatest struggles of the past few years.

Last night's dream was the oddest one:

I was taking a shower when one of my best friend's appeared at my door and let herself in. This friend, let's call her 'Glenda' has been one of my closest friends since High School. There was a while when I seriously wanted to date her; and, although thats since passed, I still hit on her constantly. She's a damn good looking gal, and knows me better than almost anyone!
So 'Glenda' comes into my house just as I leave the shower, stark naked. I see her and quickly try to cover up, my hands darting in frotn of my crotch as I embarrasingly tell her that I'm naked and she can't see me right now. This doesn't seem to bother her in the least, as she makes herself at home.
The next thing of the dream that I remember (save for an odd change of scenery to a Star Trek-like spaceship!) is I'm sitting in a bar with my parents. Glenda is there and begins to sing; her voice is beautiful and seems to be coming from everywhere at once. I don't even see her at this point, but I can hear her everywhere.
My Mother comments that she didn't know that Glen could sing so well, and I tell her that she's always enjoyed it.
We step outside and I find myself on the top of a mountain. Down below the mountain you can see a great mass of people. I'm standing on the mountain with my parents when I look around and see a group of people which I quickly determine are zombies! Unlike in past dreams, however, they mean me no harm. In fact, THESE undead had formed themselves into a band and just want to play music, which they soon begin to do. The music, once again, is beautiful and they sing to the crowd below the mountain. The landscape that I'm looking out on looks a lot like Mars, with an orange sky and rocky bluffs all over the place.

I'm not really sure what this one means; although I was reading some Jung today and come upon a passage which suggests that singing usually has some relation to emotions. This would fit into 'Glenda' rather well, as she's a deeply emotional person; often given to fits of it from time to time. She also, for that matter, is an accomplished musician; she sings, dances, and plays two instruments (The Sax and the Concertena).

The dream got me thinking more of her lately. She's currently living over seas while going to grad school in Europe and so we've only been talking on-line lately. I realized that I haven't told her about my current problems in grad school and that, furthermore, I've been avoiding doing it because I'm horribly embarrassed about it all. One of my best friends, and I'm too scared to let her know when the road has gotten a bit rocky for me (again).
The more I thought about it, I realized that this was a pattern in my young-adult life. When ever things go badly, I've very hesitant to tell people that I'm close to about it; at least those who know me well enough to know my feelings about it. I remember, last year, during the horrid "Student trying to kill me" incident, it was only with great reluctance that I told people about it; I was terrified that the entire incident might make me look weak in their eyes.
And there inlies the true problem. When the hell did I become convinced that my family and friends' love and respect for me entirely hinged on how successful I was? My reoccuring thought upon hearing about the bad class was not "Lord, this sucks for me; I need to work this out so that I can continue on the path I've chosen." It wasn't even "I don't have a clue how this happened; I had three people look over that paper for me!". It was "How am I going to be able to show my face back home again!?"
Of course, when I told my Father, he was fine and we had a nice conversation plotting out what my courses of action could be (And this, mind you, is one of the reasons why my Dad is still one of my closest confidents; not only does he have a way of calming me down, he is always able to help me figure out what my options are, and the best way to go about fixing the problem). But then again, it almost always turns out all right; I've yet to be disowned when I made mistakes, and I've never lost a friend over it either. If anything, they give me the support I need to move onward.
The only exception here, lately, is my Mother. I make her nervous, as she told me this morning; she's always nervous about me, especially when I'm in school. Every conversation I've had with her lately usually devolves into a quasi-hysterical lecture on her part, as he bravely attempts to tell me things that I already know. "I'm not lecturing you", she told me today, "but this is your Future! This is your LIFE! I know you work hard, but you need to work HARDER!"
Thanks Mom. I honestly wasn't aware of that at all. Never mind the fact that if I worked any harder this semester, I'd have died of a heart attack. My daily schedule involved going to class, doing school work for several hours, taking a hour or two off, and then staying up until 2 in the morning doing more school work. The only exceptions was when I was at work; then I only did school work on my breaks/lunches and for an hour or two after I got home and before I collapsed into bed. Also on Wednesday; I took a few hours off to read a few comic books and watch "Ghost Hunters" that day. Everyone deserves a FEW hours off. Hell; I only went out to the local shows once over two-to-three weeks this semester.
Obviously, I've been slacking off!

Anyway, Christmas is coming up and I'm looking forward to going home and seeing my friends and family. I just wish that this entire thing wasn't hanging over my head like the sword over the thrown of a certain Greek-King. Christ, why can't things ever be easy for me? I look at my friends and know I'm just as smart as they are, but they've all thrown themselves into their careers or grad school and things seem to move so smoothly for them. It seems like the pst three years I've been taking every wrong direction I could, and struggling to get to where I'm going. Someone once told me that this was all to make me stronger; but I can't help but think "how much stronger do I have to be? My God, what am I being prepared for!?"
I've already spent three years wandering in the wilderness (both figuritvely and literally), and had one year where I seriously wasn't even sure if I'd be alive by the end of it (Damn death threats!). My cousin Tom summed it all up nicely, "You're Ulysseus", he said, "always searching for home, but fated not to get there." I can';t help but think he's right.


So, I'm going to end this on a GOOD note;. Merry Christmas to all of you on SG, I hope you have a great holiday and spend it with those you care about most. I plan on doing that, at the very least, myself!

Also, here's a song that sums up my philosophy towards life perfelct; sung by the immortal Dewey Cox!

Its been far too long since my last post on this blog and, I suppose, I have no real good excuse as to why that is. Part of me, I think, was waiting until I had some definite good news to post as to my position in Grad School but, so far, I have no real resolution. I should know within a week or so as to whether or not my grades were good enough this semester to warrent my staying in the History program. *crosses fingers*
I am feeling a good deal more confident lately, however. I know I should get an 'A' in one of my classes, which leaves only two to worry about. I sent an e-mail to the professor of one of those two remaining courses and told him that, no matter the grade I get, I learned a lot and had fun in the class (all of which was true). He responded with a letter of his own saying that he enjoyed having me in the group and also hopes that I'll stick around. This calmed my fears even more as, I figured, anyone who said that to me isn't going to fail me in his class (I hope )
That just leaves class number 3, the one that has worried me all semester. 2/3rds of the final grade for that class comes from our final paper, and I worked my butt off on it; having handed in my rough draft I took the professor's comments to heart when I revised it for the final and I feel much better about it than I did before. Hopefully my final score on it will be good enough that I'll scrape by with the required 'B', at least.
Seriously, I need to do well and stay in the program. Although its been a lot of work, I've had more fun in the past few months than at any other time since I graduated from college the first time. I really don't know what I'd do if they don't allow me to stay at the school; after the past three years it seems like I've done nothing but fail at pretty much everything I try to do. Even more than that, I can't go back to teaching High School; I'd tried submit myself to a slow-painful death than go back into that profession (and, with my undergrad degree, its all I can do!)
Despite the pressure I've been under, waiting for my grades, I've been doing my best to just relax and enjoy myself. With all of the work handed in, there's nothing else I can do to change the grades, so I might as well just lay back and wait.
Have I mentioned before that I'm an inherently impatient person? Yup; this is driving me crazy Its also resulted in some crazy-ass dreams lately that I can't really decipher.

Dream 1: "A Wedding, Two Deaths, and a Mission"

The dream begin with a son telling his Father that he plans on going into the peace corp. The Father becomes enraged and attacks the son, as well as the son's younger brother; apparently killing them both.
At the same time one of my best friends is getting married back home. For what ever reason, this is major news and is getting world wide attention; all of the major news networks show up at the church (its one of those beautiful early-summer days to boot; a beautiful day for the wedding). The wedding is going off without a hitch when....
We switch back to the first son who is explaining to a friend that he wants to get someone a book as a gift. The son's friend says, "Well, you can do that if you'd luck, but I doubt it'll do any good. He's not the learning type."

At this point I wake up; I'd left the window open and the temperature outside and plummeted into the below zero range. Despite the fact that I'm freezing and concerned that I'd given myself hypothermia due to the idiot decision to leave that window open, I can't help but wonder at the signifirance of the Murder/Wedding image from the dream.


Dream # 2 "The final episdoe of Frazier"

In this one I'm apparently everyone's favorite TV-Psychologist "Frazier" Except, I'm dead; well, Frazier is dead, or supposed to be. He'd been killed by an unidentified man, and no one knows who the killer is.
As the dream moves on, I realize that the priest presiding over my funeral isn't a priest after all! He's a black man(Not sure WHY thats important; but I remember that part) who, in fact, is the guy who 'killed' me. He might also have killed the real priest to steal his clothes!
Apparently I'm not really dead, because I attack my 'killer' and begin to beat him badly. By the end I'm kicking his body on the floor and have become convinced that I've killed him, myself. Although this is just, and it seems to have been in self defence, I feel somewhat guilty about this.
I'm very old by this point and begin to confess to my friends and family (those that are there; this is part of a TV show, after all, and I realize that its the final episode; almost everyone has left) that I was an arrogant man, cocky, and hurt people; but I feel horribly about it, because all I ever wanted to do was the right thing.
I also recall an image at one point of looking down at my left hand and seeing a hole in it; I'd tried to catch a bullet and it went through the hand. The wound, however, is partially healed and the partial-hole the remains intrigues me.
I go over to the body of my 'killer' and think about how I'd killed him. Then I see the body begin to twitch somehwat, and I realize he isn't dead. I think that maybe he will NEVER die, and I can't possibly kill him for good, but he can't kill me either.
By the end of the dream, the room of the funeral has changed into my old classroom in Alaska; I've returned to the school to visit some of my old students and am asking them how things are going. They tell me I should stay, but I laugh and say "no"; if I stuck around they'd start disliking me as much as they had before. Its better to just visit.

Dream # 3: "Lost Homework"

Its the end of classes at the university and I'm waiting, as in real life, to see if my grades are good enough to stay in the program. I'm back in my old dorm room at NMU, my undergraduate school (Ah, how I love that place! The school, not the dorm room ) I'm cleaning up at the end of the year when I suddenly find a yellow notebook which contains journal entries.
I suddenly realize that I needed to turn these in for my class; without them I'll fail, but the deadline has passed a long time ago! I begin to panic, it seems like my entire future has just flown out the window. I call up my Professor to see if I can still turn them in.
There is a knock on my door and its my Professor. He explains that I didn't really need to turn the journals in, everything is all right. To add even more weirdness to the scene, he's brought with him a huge bunch of furniture for my apartment if I want it. I leave the room and go into the hallway where he is, and see some old chairs, lamps and even a bike. I tell him I don't really want anything, but thanks for the offer.

In the case of dreams 2 and 3 I woke up feeling GREAT, as if a huge weight had been lifted off my shoulders (I didn't notice this from dream one; but I was too worried about my supposed case of hypothermia in that case).

Common themes:

In both the first and second dream there is a common theme of a church. In the first, my friend is getting married to her boyfriend from Germany (and don't marriages in dreams usually represent a mergin of two parts of yourself?) I also remember seeing a priest and he seemed friends. In the second dream, however, the 'priest' was an imposter who tried to kill me!
Anxiety and Murder: Not suprisingly anxiety plays a huge part in these dreams, as does the idea of 'murder. In the first a father kills his two sons, in the second I am 'killed' and then 'kill' my attacker. The third dream seems to be a take on the usual theme of the 'missing class' (I'd had a similiar one a few nights back); in those dreams I realize on the final day of school that there are several classes I've forgotten about all semester and a test I need to take in them to still pass. THIS time, however, everything turns out all right.

Not sure what to make of these all. Anyone have any ideas?

"Well I don't need a doctor/ I don't need a nurse/ anything you give me/ will only make me worse/ I need a rock, a rock, a rock, therapy/ A rock, a rock, a rock therapy/ oh give it me, oh give it to me, oh give it to me/"

So god damned true! I've had a rough week, which I'll get into later, and came home tonight in a bad mood. I had school work, as always, and was ready to just throw myself at the books once again, even though melloncholly had snuck up on me once again. It was at this point that I remembered that a band my sister had raved about was playing in my town tonight. Despite my lack of money and work to so, I decided to head down to the local venue and check them out.
I am so glad I did.
Fat Maw Rooney is a jam band from Plattville Wisconsin, and not usually my type of music (I'm not a huge fan of the Jam bands; I'm a greaser/hellbilly not a hippi after all). But, more for my sister's sake than my own, I decided to head down and give them a listen. Great band!
Most Jam Bands have their share of classic rock and bluegrass inspiration, borrowed through the Greatful Dead of course; but this group added to that mixture a love of the blues and funk. I showed up to the show and immediately found myself jiving along to the tunes and loving every second of it. Even better, I ended up running into my Tattoo Artist and hitting it off with him once again.
It was just a great time; I drank, I danced, I smoked a cigar. The only downside was when I realized that, although my quiting smokign had been successful, I am powerless against the invasion presence against Tobacco after I've had a few years. It went a long way towards curing what ails me.

And what does ail me? A good question! You see, as a new grad student, I need to acquire Bs in all of my classes this semester in order to stay in the program. In two of my three classes this isn't a problem; my profs think well of me, I add useful discussion to class, and I've managed to do well on all of the assignments. I'd be lying if I said they all considered me the second-coming of Grad Students, but I wouldn't be too far off to say that they think I'll be very successful.
And then there is the OTHER class; my Historical Methodology and Research course which was, I firmly believe, devised by Satan! I have never, since High School, had a class which routinely made me feel stupid and inadaquit; a course which, upon leaving it each week, I want nothing more than to punch my first through the nearest wall. HS 701, however, manages to do this to me every time.
Presiding over this course of pain, is a Professor determined to find each and every fault with a work and, should be find none, create a few of hiwn own to knock down your score. This is the type of man who circles individual commas, leaves statements along the lines of "review comma usage" and then docks you points for the supposed infracture (I saw supposed because I routinely run a grammar check on my own and have my Father look it over as well; a grammar Nazi in his own right).
I need to obtain a B in this course in order to stay in the program and, I can't help but feel, the the Professor takes some sick satisfaction out of failing students.
Now, I have been a teacher myself, and the intellectual part of my brain knows that teachers rarely go out of their way to 'get' students. It takes too much effort, and most don't care enough to put that amount of energy into ruining a student's life. Why bother? I know this. And yet, the other side of me is convinced that this professor has taking a disliking to me and is hellbent on making sure that I don't stay with the program!
The other day I left class and, seriously, was using all of my energy not to put my fist through a wall. I can't remember the last time I was that angry with a teacher; possibly not since Freshman gym in High School where I had a gym teacher who routinely mocked me in front of the class.
I called my Father up that night, raging beating against my brow and told him the story. He laughed and said every student has at least one of those professors and told me the story of the time when he was getting his Masters degree, and ended up in a shouting match with one of his professors, on the street outside the building. This made me feel better; not only to know that my Father (who I admittingly idolozie) had the same situatiion, but also that I managed to control my temper better than him!
I'm going home for Thanksgiving and I think that having two days off of not thinking about that devil-class will help a great deal. I've noticed over they ears that, evne when you don't think about something, part of your brain still mauls it over. Hopefully this will happen and the ansewers will all come to me in the next few days. Even if they don't, I desperately want to see my family and friends again; I've been lonely lately and I need to spend some time with them. It will help me on this paper, I'm sure.
I WILL get on A on this final paper, I WILL pass this class and, upon getting my degree in a few years, I am going to shove this paper up my prof's ass! I don't give up easy; I'm a stubborn someuvabitch. If I didn't run crying from the village when one of my students tried to kill me, I certainly ain't going to run know. My heros include Theodore Roosevelt, Robert LaFollette and Robert Kennedy; three men who never ran from a good fight, and I'll be damned if I do anything they wouldn't do! I will succeed, though I sweat blood in the meantime. But I.WILL.CONQUER!

*takes a deep breath*

In other good news, I have over a half dozen women compliment by hair today I was at work and four girls came through my line and told me that both my Hair and I were 'Hot". When, at the club tonight, I had a few girls come up and ask to touch my hair and tell me how much they love it.
Yes, I admit it, I'm vain about my hair these days Although tis a bit embarrassing, I no longer care; I have good hair and I love it

Before I begin this journal, I want to point your eyes towards a video posted on youtube. Those of you who have been following my blog mind remember that a few weeks ago I had the pleasure of doing some restoration work on a old farm in Western North Dakota with a group from my class. This video is from that trip; pay attention to the short greaser stumbling around determiend to do just as much hard labor, if not more than everyone else. That's ME! (and yes, I KNOW I'm short; don't deny it!)



All right, now that that's taken care of I feel that I must write something in here that I never thought I'd never have the chance to say again: I'm bored.
God, I can't believe I just wrote that, but its the case. You see, for the past two weeks I've been pushing even harder than usual; I had two rough drafts due within that period, one last Wednesday and the other today. Both of these papers had to be, roughly, 20 pages long, and I've spent the past two months working nightly on gathering and reading the sources needed for those papers. Each night I'd come home from work or school and spent about three hours reading. And, in case you think I'm exagerating, I'm not; at least 3 hours a night went into research and reading.
And now, they're done. The rough drafts at least. That isn't to say that I've washed my hands of those papers; there are still a few sources I want to read through so I can expand the final copies a bit. I'm also sure that both of my professors will have futher suggestions in regards to both of them; these are, after all, the first two papers I've written in grad school, the first papers I've written in a number of years, come to think about it. I may be an arrogant man by nature, but I'm not so socky as to think that either of these is perfect.
Of course, they're better than they have any right to be. Now that I'm back in school, I fell back into my old habit of having my Father edit my papers for me. He's relatively impartial, a strickler for grammar and a genuinley good editor. After reading the first of my papers through, he handed it off to his boss; a man who had taught at my current univeristy for 20 + years, and who pushed strongly for me to apply here. Andy (the boss) has taken a bit of a liking to me over the past few years and, apparently, was quiet happy to look my work over; after reading it, he announced that despite a few small problems, it was a good paper. Much better than he had thought it was be, in fact; much better than he would have assumed the first paper of a first semester grad student could possibly be.
Apparently, when it coems to writing, I've still got it
Anyway, this is all a very round about way of saying that I've just finished the two biggest hurdles of the semester; a vast majority of my work is done and, for the first time in months, I find that I have free time!
Unfortunately, I've been working so hard for the past 8-10 weeks, that I suddenly don't know what to do with myself any longer! There are no papers to write, no long books to read through. I'm lost! I am, and this still shocks me to no end, bored out of my mind!

I know I've said this before; but I feel the sudden need to reiternate this point (if, more for myself than anyone else).

I.AM.BACK!!!!!






I'm currently sitting at my computer, its 1:44 in the morning, I've been working on school work since 10:30 and I feel amazing. Is this further evidence that my poor Irish head has gotten addled over the course of the past weekend? Quite possibly, but I don't care; I'm going to just sit here and enjoy the satisfaction that I currently feel.
You see; I wrote today. I wrote a lot, in fact; eight double-spaced pages, as well as a book review for a seperate class which was closer to a single page. I feel as if a great weight has been lifted from my shoulders; the sun has finally risen and begun to disperse the thick blackness of night and I can hear the birds begin to sing! (on second thought, that might just be the train passing by my window again; I often wake up, thinking I'm hearing music, only to find its that annoying trail. But I digress).
To undrestand the true importance of these words, I need to take you back to later 2003, early 2004. I was a senior at Northern Michigan University, living with a great, if volitile, roomate and stressed out of my mind. Writer's block. A horrid writer's block, in fact, which sung its claws deep into my brain during that year and made even the simpliest academic writing pure torture.
It was rebellion, I think. I had been in college for going on my fourth year, and the promise of 'the real world' beckoned me. Doing my school work had become a chore, there was nothing else left to learn, senioritis had struck and I was 'too cool for school'. I wanted out more than anything; and this all expressed itself in that very same writer's block that I described earlier.
"So", I can hear you asking, "why is he so happy about writing eight pages, now?" A good question, although the answer is a simple one; I was terrified that the writer's block was still with me. I hadn't done a great deal of writing so far this semester, and much of what I had written seemed to be harder in coming than I thought it should be. Could it have been possible that that horrid block had carried over from three years earlier and was haunting me to this very day?
Apparently not. I first say down today at 3 and wrote with little interuption until 5:15 when I decided to watch the news and then go to the gym. I returned to my task at 11 and kept at it until about 5 minutes before I began this entry. The sad thing was, I had to force myself to stop! Everything was flowing together, I could see the structure my paper was to take laid out before me like a well traveled road, and I desperately wanted to continue along that path until I reached the end. It was fun; I was excited and nearly giddy with the joy of putting together an argument once again.
Now, this isn't to say that I've laid out the greatest English prose since Steinbeck. Hardly. Most of the writing I've done over the past several years has been in fiction; academic writing is another horse entirely and I'm no longer used to riding it. I'm sure that this rough draft will need a good deal of polishing before I reach a successful final draft. But the point, as I see it, is that I got that old horse to move, and I didn't fall off; I may be sloppy, but I hadn't forgotten how to ride it after all!
This makes me exceptionally happy and hopeful; I have a 20 page paper due a week from Wednesday in addition to the one I'm currently writing. It's been hanging over me for months and I've finally gotten to the point where I think a majority of my research has been completed. But the thought of sitting down and writing it has been filling me full of dread. No more! If I can keep up this pace, I may have that draft done in two or three days.

In other news, adding to my joy, I had a wonderful weekend. I hadn't gone out in two weeks and was beginning to feel that slothful, yet frantic feeling I always seem to get when I've been denied human contact for too long. I decided to go out on Saturday night to a local show; the Kissers, a Celtic Punk band from Madison were playing in town. I'd seen then two summers earlier, liked their music, and decided that it would be a fun show to take in.
I ended up drinking too much. Far too much, as a matter of fact; not that it mattered. By the end of the night I was reduced to the laughing mad man I always become after imbibing in a pint or two too many. I ended up doing my best to hit on every pretty girl in the place, failed miserable, and didn't care in the least; I was having to much fun flirting. Who cares if there were no takers? It was great.
I eventually ended up falling in with a group, got invited to go bar hopping after the show ended (they paid as I was out of money), nearly got into a fight with a psychotic woman who took offence at my zombie-dressed companion banging on the front door of her apartment as we walked by, won four dollars in a bet that I wouldn't touch the bathroom plunger we'd found at the bar (I took it by the hilt, brandished it like a sword, and collected my cash) accidently knocked my final pint of beer over causing it to shatter over the bar, and wandered home in a blissful mood.
Of course, the bliss of drinking soon passed into the horror of the hand over the next day; and I had to work! Being my responsible self, I bravely arrived at the store the next morning and went about my day; keeping my streak of never calling into work sick because of a hangover (as my Grandfather once told my Mother; "You can't expect everyone where you work to suffer, because you were an idiot the night before')

Even better, I've begun to go to the gym on a regular basis once again; the first time I've done that since student teaching. Although I hurt it is, much like the kind I described in my last journal, that good kind of hurt that comes from working at something hard. I can already begin to feel my muscles tightening, and I think I'll be back to my peak fitness of my last year in college.

One last note: I keep getting compliments about my hair, and I can't eat it up fast enough Yes, I'm vain, but I can't care; a lot of people are vain about their hair and I particularly love mine. A very attractive redhead was admiring it while I was at work a few days ago, as were several people at the bar, and I even had several guys describe it as "totally badass!" Oh yes, I like. Now if only Wal-Mart didn't frown on its cashiers hitting on customers of the opposite sex

On a completely unrealted note; check out the new PG version of the trailer to 300