Suzi was undamaged except cosmetically. A long strip of road-rash on the right pipe, and a slightly abraded crankcase cover. No levers, fins or anything else was bent or broken. I was lucky.

I still feel like crap, like incompetent, like stupid, and the second helmet and dreams of riding friends places is now pushed far into the background. At least until my knee heals up and I forget the vertical horizon and the cliff gaping under the rear wheel. Never ever ever take a street bike on a dirt road. They ain't like cars. Maybe you can offroad in a Crown Vic but you sure as hell can't offroad in a Suzuki GS1100.

The Air Force Thunderbirds are flying out at Point Mugu this afternoon; I'm going to try and make the show after Linux class (if there is Linux class)

I dumped Suzi into the gravel yesterday. Braked into a turn on a gravel road, hit a bump, the throttle jiggled, and suddenly the back tire was in front of the front tire and the horizon was vertical instead of horizontal and gas was spilling out of the tank and my knees hurt. Prodigious swearing and rapid examination of all body and motorcycle parts ensued while I tried to think what to do.

I don't have time right now to tell the rest of the story.

I'm sitting here in Jobu's apartment listening to the cheery patter of old friends known for four years. The newly-24 is chortling over her beer at the half-intentional antics of our gracious host.

Iron and Wine slides coolly along in the background; wafts of cinnamon float from the oven. Jelen is busy over the apple slices.

It's been a long, long time since I've been to such a chill party.

I love my friends, all of them, but especially the ones right here with me....

I have mixed feelings about motorcycle maintenance. I'm probably not really the person who ought to own a tired old motorcycle with lots of, well, needs. I own a screwdriver, a small vice-grips, a 10mm wrench and a 12mm wrench. While it is amazing how much mileage I can get out of these four tools, it is also amazing how fragile 25-year-old bits of metal are, and how easily their threads are stripped. I have to retrain my automobile-clumsy 15-lb-foot hands to a kinder, gentler, 5-lb-foot touch. I have to think, -Japanese- , and act accordingly.

25-year-old bits of metal are one thing, but 25-year-old bits of WIRE and PLASTIC are an entirely different thing. One can easily replace a nut by a trip to the hardware store; one does not so easily replace a crumbled lightbulb socket. Or disassemble said lightbulb socket without crumbling everything else in the vicinity.

The only reason I survive is the fact that I have access to a tolerably-well-equipped maintenance shop with a good array of tools, place for disposing oil, and availability of D whom I can ask annoying questions.

So, till August, I should be set, but before I leave I better think about investing in some tools...

Why does function follow form whenever I'm trying to figure out the function?

(there's got to be a basis function to start from; why-ever can't I get rid of the importunacy of the form. it blots out the function like a mercury-vapor light.)

the disorganism of which statement demonstrates my point. Disorganism is not a word, which further demonstrates my point.

clearly. Anyway.

Today, I finish organizing literature for my research project, named Anthony. Named after the Wonder-Worker of Padua in hopes that I find what I'm looking for....heh, real simple.

I am convinced that there are some unclear things that ought not to be unclear, and the teachings of the Catholic Church on its own teaching "magisterium" ought not to be unclear. But they are. I love Germans. They invent new languages and hence new heresies.

So it's back to the last point at which they were clear, which I'm judging was probably about 1870 or so, or whenever the first Vatican Council was paused (indefinitely). Here's to hoping I can actually arrive at clarity, and that I will finally conquer form in favor of function.

minutes slide by like years
magnetic fields stretch and grate
intertwining kissing folds
tapping a beer bottle against my knee
staccato touch of toe to toe
minutes buzzing by like insects
chair frames creak in patterned silence
drawling voices merging braking
red light green light changing lanes
shifting dripping steaming cold
minutes dripping on the pavement

It's a lazy spring day and I'm wondering what the clover looks like in the field at home. Probably a lot like the bush mallow looks like in the wastewater disposal field here at school. I feel the sun blanket me in warmth. It's a lot colder at home. But at home there's a smell in the air, a smell of spring - here spring doesn't smell...

Dr. McLean shouts to be heard over the roar of the mill. "Attention please!"
Silence settles over the packed room.

"All theses of the class of 2007 have been turned in to the Dean!"

YEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAHHHH!!!!

"Whatever happened to that Tasik dude? He used to publish on this thing every other day. Has he found something better to do, or what?"

"No way man. He's just not the kind of guy to find something better to do. Chances are there just isn't anything bloggable happening in his life, you know, and he's said before that he really hates publishing filler posts."

"Yeah, I don't know, dude. Seems weird."

"Seems weird. Hey did you hear Lonnie bowled a 200 last night?"