So far this weekend:

I visited a fort on the gulf with artillery and mortar batteries that never really killed anybody, the fort never saw action.

I saw an alligator go after a bird.

I spent a couple of hours in dangerous surf - wading, swimming and floating.

I stared at some orchids.

I tried reconciliation through minimal word count.

I figured something out: Certain car wash tunnels swallow up bad people.


People at work call me Robert. That’s my official name - like on my birth certificate and diploma and license and all. It’s on all the paperwork - applications for employment and so on. Usually though, people eventually ask me, “Do you go by Robert all the time? Or is it Robby? Rob? Bob?”

“Bobby,” I say. Nobody at my current job has asked me about this yet. I’ve been there ten months now. I don’t care enough to bring it up. They don’t care enough to be curious about it. It was awkward anyway - in my previous jobs - it took everybody a while to catch on . . . only the people closest to me would start calling me Bobby. Everybody else wondered who the hell Bobby was and continued to call me Robert.

There isn’t really anybody around to call me Bobby. My sisters and nephews and niece and old friends in other states call me Bobby, and Keri calls me Bobby. My bloggin friends call me Bobby. But I don’t have any friends in fuckin Florida, so there’s nobody but Keri to call me Bobby down here. At the few little poetry readings I was going to here they called me Bobby. At Panera and other restaurants they ask for your first name when you order. I tell them Bobby - only because I miss being called by my cool name. Kind of sad, huh? It’s not just that I’m getting older (Robert sounds more mature than Bobby), it’s that there’s nobody around who cares enough to call me by my cool name - Bobby. Is this what happens to you?


Sometimes you’re lucky enough to read the right thing at the right time.

I was reading this gigantic history book in the bookstore yesterday. It renewed my understanding and perspective. Europe was just a transient kind of a place where numerous tribes wandered all over the place - like on the fringes of the Roman empire, there were these nomadic tribes bumping into each other and warring and forming alliances and trying to settle but getting run off this spot and that spot and so on. Nobody could claim any spot for very long - and finally Alaric and his Visigoth people stormed Rome and kicked the Romans' asses all over Rome.

* * *

I still do not feel at home here in Florida. I have been here a year now. With all the people down here complaining about transplants (newly arrived people like me) and all the people talking about old Florida and all the people complaining about restructuring districts or whatever to make voting a little more fair and all the dudes in huge trucks with their rebel flags, and with all people who won’t even talk to you or look you in the eye if they think you’re new . . . I don’t know (you just want to scream at these people, "Hey asshole, do you realize the population of this planet is growing faster than they can even calculate it? So you gotta make room whether you want to or not!"). These people can’t hold their land. So many of these ranchers down here are selling off and moving away - they just can’t compete with the mighty developer dollar. And I know for a fact that this ‘right’ that they think they have - this ‘right’ that they think I do not have - to be here, it’s all bogus. Bogus in a big way. (Before I started reading the European history book I was reading a book about native Americans, so don't even - I won't even . . . )

I guess the best I can do is to just try to feel at home in my own skin. Even that is difficult sometimes. But if I can’t feel at home, I can at least feel like I am progressing... progressing toward condition where I got a head full of knowledge - and I can zap people with factiods if they try to tell me somethin about somethin . . . and that is not even the reason I stuff my head full of everything I can - and I don’t even think I gorge on knowledge for knowledge’s sake or for gorging’s sake - I do it because I am compelled to do it by some force I can not understand - and that’s okay with me.


soul failure Tao Te Ching


Hitting the 'Next blog' button all day . . . I've taken in a lot of blogs that way, and I notice patterns - recurrent age demographics or recurrent themes or topics or whatever. Sometimes I think I'm too old to have a blog. Sometimes I think I'm too young - I've noticed a ton of retiree 'hittin the road in our RV' type blogs lately. Also, many people try to start businesses off of a blog. A lot of people create a blog just to chronicle one particular trip, or one particular pregnancy or one particular bout with one particular disease.


waiter, not stalker


. . . tried to rip me off at Pepboys . . .


my word count
my pulse


I’m forced to finally consider this: When it seems like I am surrounded by assholes, everybody else around me is an asshole, it could be possible that I am the one who is an asshole. I have to at least consider this possibility.