Post Titled: Lost and Found in Transition.
Post Subtitled: (A post that probably only I care about, really)
My old friend Tim Cubbison recently emailed me every text I had sent him since 1998. All of this stuff I had completely lost (bue to dead computers or smashed/deteriorating floppy discs or damaged files!?!) So I was suprised to come across the email jam packed full of weird old writing scraps. Interesting to look back and see that stuff, almost more interesting than looking at old photos- actually. It isn't that the writing is any good really, but rather it is fascinating to observe what one thought was good and how one's Brain worked. Here is a exerpt from a piece I was calling "SALT." at the time, written while I was living in Frankfurt and der Oder (directly on the Polish border) - a great time because all I had was a room with a view of the river and Poland and - well- paper and pens. I don't even recall reading or using a computer the whole time I was there.
anyhow, here's the angsty text from a 19-year old me, errors not removed (and things of note: 1.I am referring to the woman I am currently married to, 2.This was written around the same time I was in Czech and I am heading there again today after work,) ...odd:

"Shall it be said that we are our own greatest distractions? I don't
think so. We are not directly to blame for our own distraction. it is the
us within that tries to him us along. As he walked and thought he pulled out
a small notepad and begin to scratch a small entry for the day's
occurrences, or rather- the nights lengthiness that would make him think
along the lines he happened to be thinking that day. Salt. the sour
addiction.
"Thursday, January 5th 2000
I can't sleeep, only dreeem. This is a bit satisfying and a bit distressing.
I wake, and the nights long revelations have left me exhausted, even more so
that before the "sleep." The apparent disappearance of the subconscious is
actually a mere withdrawal, a retreat to only bring on a new reinforced wave
of attacks that may last... who knows how long? Upon waking, I see the
words etched into the bedframe: save the last. Last what? When was it
written? The foreign earth and the view from the seventh story are
significantly different, but they aren't- it's only the way I am viewing
them. They don't change, only I. The desk, crowded with plenty of mundane
objects to choose from. This and that. A pair of glasses that are way too
strong, a fashion magazine full of beautiful people, a salt shaker, a Swiss
army knife. Their relations to me. They themselves are NOT, but mere
shapes and sizes in which the molecules follow temporary rules to keep these
shapes and sizes. I'd like to identify with each. I'd like to say I'm the
knife, the glass, the salt, but we are all one in the same: the atom.
What's really happening? This is not really happening. Or, so says the
underground observatory that is most me. I have been digging. I am on the
way. I want it, and it obviously wants me. The Underground Observatory.
The home of the "A" word that I won't mention. The horrific, terrible,
overrated "a" word. Please excuse the massacred mood. I try, I really do.
I woke up and thought, 'I'll dress nice today, to fool them.' Who am I
trying to fool. What's the purpose. Honestly, honesty is what's most
needed here. But if I can't define that for myself, then who can? She?
With her, who is my equal- so far away and sofar uncreated as I will know
her, she is the missing link, no doubt into becoming what I've always been
meant to be, which is a further thing I do not yet know. But now, I need
breakfast, lunch dinner, something to route and routine the day and bring
about some 'normalcy.' Off we go- to the table. The fork, knife, spoon,
Salt. Today I am the salt. Tomorrow, who knows? But someday I'll be the
Underground Observatory."
At this, he capped the pen, walked further, and worried fewer."