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And so, Laura.

It’s strange how this girl has become a connecting thread through most of my daylogs.

So she came over to my house last night to watch Cube and do a bullshit interview assignment for a class of hers. I have to admit that I’ve secretly had a thing for her since the day we met, and since she finally confessed that she feels the same way about me things have managed to feel simultaneously more enjoyable and more awkward between us considering that we pretty much can’t be together.

But what blew my mind last night was the intense physical attraction that I suddenly felt towards her. I had to do everything in my power to stop myself from jumping her bones. The strange thing is, if you asked me what my preferred body-type is for a woman, Laura really doesn’t fit the type at all. I kinda like my women, umm, soft, if you know what I’m saying. The word “grabable” was settled upon between me and a previous girl as being an accurate term. I mean, I don’t extend it out to the point that Spider Robinson does, but I think that every man likes a little extra meat on there.

Anyway, Laura, on the other hand, is very slim and relatively small-breasted, but is still hot as shit. I've always had a thing for girls with glasses, but I think Laura looks better without hers (she feels the same way about me, so we had a “No Glasses Party”). I find short hair sexy, but last night hers was the longest I’ve ever seen it and it looks gorgeous. I’ve also become completely enamored with her stomach (an area of the body that I usually find myself drawn to in the first place). She insists on calling it a paunch, but it’s perfect.

So we sat on my couch and watched Cube, then did her little interview. She put her legs on top of me and I kept my hands on her thighs, the only physical contact that I would allow myself to act on. But as we talked I felt even more entranced by her by her laugh, her smile, the mannerisms and movements her hands make, the little inflections she adds to certain phrases (oooooo, juicy!!). So I slowly moved down toward her and she slid over and made room for me. I put my arms around her with my head on her shoulder and my face in her neck. She put her head down on mine.

She smelled wonderful. I’ve always found that certain girls just have a specific scent for me. Call it pheromones or some leftover animalistic remnant, but it’s not perfume or something artificial. And I can smell it on Laura now. Past experiences have shown that it usually takes me a while to truly fall for someone, sometimes bordering on years. Last night something was switched on inside of me.

Laura asked me to write about last night in a daylog.

I’m going to be stuck at school all day Friday and I need something juicy to read

You get what you ask for.

again--a day late...

something in the air and i'm not sure never sure
if it's too much or not enough.

i'm holding things near to me like wind and promises...
wondering, with great concern if either ever shows its face.

there are four lockets and i need five,
a center, just one more with nothing in it
but air that i haven't breathed before.

and no. no no no no no to you.
because i want a story and i want it to rhyme and then i want to sleep, dreaming of red pears in a wooden bowl...

because i have a dream that keeps coming back with her and i living in the tiniest apartment in new york--wind from the open window behind me kissing my neck, tea & remember whens and always, in every dream, a large wooden bowl~lopsided and old~filled with pears. with fat red bottoms and dark golden tops, pears haunt my dreams.

yes, there are pears, though neither of us cares for them.
but i can remember the scent of them when i wake up.
and i am searching for that bowl...

So it's come. I'm two years old today.

I think the best thing about being two is that I get to sleep in a big boy bed (no more cot!) The bed was a birthday present from Mama and Dada, but they gave it to me early. I've been sleeping in it for a few weeks now, since that magical day when Pepa Foley and Mark came with us to pick it out at the big blue shop. It took me some time to get used to, but I love it now.

I've learned a lot in the last six months. I can walk for a long, long ways (though Mama and Dada still carry me in the backpack sometimes). I talk a lot more, too. I can name red, orange, yellow, green, blue, purple, brown, and black. (I still don't know what the word "colour" means, though.) I can name taxis, cars, vans, busses and bicycles. I love planes, which means living in the approach path for the local airport is a good thing. I even say number words when counting, though not always in the right order!

One of my favourite games is "animal noises". I know the sounds for a cow, a chicken, a horsie, a doggie, a cat, a sheep, a duck and a pig. I'm still a bit baffled that bunnies don't say anything (apart from me, of course).

I love going to the play park. Actually, we're going there today! Mama thinks we're going to the shop to buy milk, but I plan to sidetrack her to the swings and see-saw. Of course, getting milk would be good, because then we can bake a chocolate cake for the party tomorrow.

Yes, there's a birthday party tomorrow. Mama and Dada have asked my Pepa and Granda who live nearby, my aunt and uncle, and my dear Mark to come help me eat mycake . I don't need the help, but they're welcome anyway. I just wish my other Pepa and Grandpa could come. And you, of course.

Love, The EasterBunny

Previous daylogs: the day I was born, being six months old, my first birthday, and when I was 18 months old.

My husband showed up last night. I knew he was on the way, but with him you just never know when he'll actually be there. I've been sleeping horribly for the last two nights, imagining every sound was him coming into the house (he has a penchant for showing up in the middle of the night).

He is on his way from Washington State, where he has been stationed for three years now, to Korea, where he will be for the next year. In effect, he'll be here for maybe 9 days. These 9 days will probably be some of the hardest days of my life (see October 29, 2002 for a partial explanation). I'm glad he came, because he has only visited his kids for a total of 8 days since he's been gone, and has sent them a grand total of one, count 'em, one card each, and no presents, not for birthdays, not for Christmas, nothing. But I'm also frightened, because I don't know what will happen. I want to divorce him, but 1) I'll have to wait until my insurance from my future job will cover 'preexisting conditions', and 2) I don't think it's right to send him of on what is generally considered to be a depressing tour anyway, especially now, with the possibility of the cease-fire being broken, with something else weighing on his mind. My husband has a horrible temper, and he has been verbally and emotionally abusive in the past, and I'm always afraid that he'll take that next step and hit me.

In addition, there is the problem that since I decided that our marriage was unfixable, I've started dating a really, really wonderful guy whom I love with all my heart (see August 2, 2002), and I hope I can stay strong not just for my sake but also for his (see August 9, 2002 for how I screwed up the last time). I hate my life right now, I hate the fact that I was stupid enough to marry him, I hate the fact that I didn't end this a long time ago, and I especially hate the fact that my kids are going to wind up being hurt out of this.

Well, time to go take care of sick people and be thankful for what I do have - 2 healthy kids who love me, a wonderful boyfriend, a home, food, school, a computer I can use to talk to all of you with, and best of all, the knowledge that one way or another, this cannot last longer than 9 more days...

August 2, 2002 August 9, 2002 October 29, 2002

Wow, hooray for not doing any work. I'm in class and I've got the Count from Sesame Street singing "One Bat Hanging In My Belfry" stuck in my head. Plus I'm hungry. Blar.

One bat hanging in my belfry
One bat flies in through the door
that makes two bats
In my belfry
But wait there's more...
Two bats hanging in my belfry...

"It never ends!"
(spoken as the angel from Dogma) (bwahahaha)

Well I'm heading back to Yahoo! Text Twist now... my new addiction. I've got the kid beside me addicted too and WHY DOESN'T THE SCHOOL CLEAN ITS DAMN COMPUTERS. They glue the mice shut; as if I'm going to steal the damn mouse bal.

Most of us are forced to study poetry from a relatively young age. I first encountered the idea of analysing poetry when I was about eleven; in my opinion, this is much too young anyway. Much like introducing children of a similar age to Shakespeare, it teaches them that such work is completely impenetrable and meaningless and that that what constitutes "good work" is completely unpredictable. Those of us who continue to study English realise that this perception is false, but for many it is too late.

This brings me to my own revelation. I know there are many people more highly-qualified to talk about such matters than me, but maybe that will help the mortals among us to follow what I'm saying.

I always assumed when reading poetry that the poet had a particular message intended. I assumed that when I read a piece, my job was to decipher what this single message was and sort it from all the other interpretations which were mistaken. I assumed that universities would be full of English scholars searching for that one true meaning within each poem. I was always on the look out for "The Book" written by Professor Horatio Very Intelligent that would finally end the debate on what Frost was on about.

Then something clicked. It was while reading Philip Larkin's brilliant 'Afternoons', a poem with many layers that are far from obvious. A few thoughts that had been circling in my head for a while all came together, in what alcoholics call a 'moment of clarity'. "Maybe," I thought, "Larkin actually intended all these different parallel meanings! The different connotations of each of these words interlock to give the meaning he really intended. The ambiguities are more than just deliberate; they're essential."

I no longer believe that even the poet himself necessarily knows everything he has put into the poem. Many writers liken the process of writing to words simply flowing into their heads. On the other hand, I know many of the writers who write for E2 find that writing is something they have to work hard at. "Earn your inspiration" was a phrase popular with an English teacher of mine, and my first encounter with "Earn your bullshit" reminded me of him. The poet's skill is to craft everything in his stream of conciousness into a consistent whole: a poem. Who knows what subconcious processes find themselves subtly mainfested in the final work?

I'm sure this all seems rather obvious to most of you now. It seems obvious to me too. But it was at that moment that most of the previous five years of English Literature classes made sense to me.

The regime of Saddam is done ...over ..kaput! He is probably buried beneath all that rubble in Baghdad, but it is just as likely that he is not, and we may never know. I do not think there was some "plot" or "deal" to allow him to escape; I do think he was a very resourceful man and it is as likely that he is still alive as it is that he is not.

:: This section removed to assauge the sensibilities of others ::

Just as our understanding of the place of religion in the lives of Moslems falls short, so does our understanding of the extreme tribalism that existed among the people in the Mid-East, long before Mohammed came on the scene. The tribes still exist but now they are divided upon religious as well as territorial lines. The British saw this in the time of Lawrence, and we ...and them... are going to get to see it again ...now.

We Shot the Sheriff!

For all his evil, Saddam did have control of a large mass of these people. They were terrified of him, but they walked the straight and narrow, stayed low, didn't attract attention to themselves, and generally behaved in a manner that we would consider to be civilized. However, although their "civilization" is ancient, it cannot be said that it has ever "matured." I have the impression that living in a Saddam-free Iraq will be much like living in the American west in the early 1800's... the only security... the only protection for yourself, family and property was what you had strapped to your hip. You were just as likely to be shot down on the streets of Denver, as sprouting arrows in a property dispute with the Native Americans.

Iraq is the old west, and we need the Earp boys to ride into Baghdad about now.

Common Enemy Theory

Islam is a highly segmented life philosophy... for those who believe in this fashion, their religion is their life ...not only as individuals, but as a group -- tribe -- as a community, as a civilization. It dictates every moment of their lives. Its differences from tribe to tribe are cause for war; these are ideological differences as large as those that existed between the United States and Soviet Union. Cultural differences as large as those between ourselves and the Chinese ...only they do not want to isolate themselves, they want to convert all the other tribes ...hundreds?.. or eliminate them before they are eliminated themselves.

However... in the United States, all these tribes who call themselves Moslem, have found a Common Enemy. The CE is the one they fight against as a united group. We threaten to disallow their ability to fight amongst themselves so we must be eliminated according to their understanding of jihad ...protect the faith from unbelievers, then convert those who have strayed from the righteous path.

My brother's enemy is my enemy. My brother is my enemy.

The "Arab" world is already showing that they are not interested in a stable Iraq. The "believer-by-convenience" Saddam has been removed and now the "infidels" who accomplished that should "get, while the getting is good." Iraq is no longer "controlled" by the evil dictator, so now we should leave and let them return to deciding whose Islam ...whose tribe?.. is correct.

:: This section removed to assauge the sensibilities of others ::

Human life as we understand it, migrated to and expanded from the Mid-East. It is the center of all of our beliefs and histories. And for a very long time in that history ...recorded and otherwise... that area has been the battle ground for the Arabic / Turkish / Moslem tribes. We may all trace ourselves back to there, but these are the people who stayed. And they will never accept the stewardship of any of their lands by a "non-believing" entity.

:: This section removed to assauge the sensibilities of others ::

:: This section removed to assauge the sensibilities of others ::

During the year 2001 a total of 42,116 innocent civilians were killed and over 2,000,000 injured on the road of the United States of America. Of these 2,588 were children under the age of 16. In addition to which another 36,000 suffered incapacitating injuries including the loss of limbs, eyesight and mental faculties some of whom woke up to find their family dead and their dreams shattered.

This carnage must stop now. How anyone can tolerate this number of innocent lives being maimed and killed every year merely for the convenience of being able to jump into a car and drive accross town to the nearest Walmart is quite beyond me.

So if any of you car-driving people can look me in the eye and tell me, with a straight face, that 42,116 innocent American lives, including 2,588 children and 12 year old Andy's arms, family and dreams are a price worth paying for a transportation system, then you, sir or madam, are a heartless fuckpig, and no better than the nastiest person imaginable.

We should all be suitably ashamed of being whatever we think we are and wallow in our sense of collective guilt.

And God forbid that anyone should be required to make real choices in a real world.


Statistics sourced from: US Department of Transport Traffic Safety Facts 2001


Across the world as a whole more than a million people die each year in road crashes and twenty million people around the world are injured or disabled each year by road-traffic injuries.

Memoir of an exceedingly hectic day

Bear with me, folks, this is going to be long-winded.

As some of you will know, Lone and I have been expecting our third son for some time now. In fact, we'd been told to expect him over a week ago - so we were sort of waiting for things to start occurring in the natural way.

This morning, Nature decided to oblige us. Before dawn, Lone felt the first pangs of labour, and woke me. According to our carefully-laid plans, we prepared the older kids for school and kindergarten, the intention being for me to deliver them and return, to take Lone to the hospital's maternity ward. The plan was then for the kids to be picked up from school and kindergarten by their maternal grandparents, who would take care of them over the weekend, so Lone and I could handle the arrival of Son Number Three.

I don't remember exactly, but I believe it was Dwight D. Eisenhower who said that no plan of battle survives contact with the enemy...

With Lone's labour pangs cresting faster than expected, we packed her into a taxi bound for the hospital, while I stuffed the kids in our bicycle and pedalled like a man pursued by demons. On a good day, I can handle delivery of the kids to their respective locations in less than an hour - this morning, it took me 32 minutes.

I arrived at the hospital around 8.30, just in time to take part in the actual delivery, which was over and done with by 9.40, a little less than 5 hours after the first twinge hit Lone. Makes me think of the slogan.

Anyway, there he was:

Herluf Elias Ravn Rasmussen Sewerin
Weight 3680 grams
Length 53 centimeters

...a strong, healthy, and unusually good-looking baby. He was active and aware from the very beginning (so much so that the midwife and nurse decided they didn't need to bother with determing an apgar score). He let out his first croaking yell while he was still in the process of emerging from his mother ("Uhh, he's not supposed to be able to do that yet," quoth the midwife).

Since the delivery was over so fast, we decided to change our plans. Instead, after a couple of hours of recovery time with Lone and Herluf, I went off to pick up the kids - and we arranged for the grandparents to meet us at the hospital instead.

All went well, including a whistletop visit from Lone's kid brother Anders (on his way to the airport to catch a plane to Budapest). Around 16.30, the kids' grandparents showed up, and we were enjoying ourselves very well, with cake and champagne and candy and stuff, when accident struck.

Excited and overtired, Son Number Two, Noah, had climbed up on a chair, which promptly tipped over. With nobody in a position to catch him, Noah collided headfirst with another chair. When we picked him up, he was bleeding profusely from his mouth, and crying buckets.

The hospital (Rigshospitalet in Copenhagen) is a teaching hospital, and as such has one of the very best emergency rooms in the kingdom. Unfortunately, it's a closed ER, with access only for serious trauma cases - all others go to the other hospitals, the nearest of which is across town.

Fortunately, there's an exception to the rule - hospital staff, and people who are already admitted to the hospital as patients, and their visitors, are allowed provisional access to the ER regardless of the seriousness of the injury. For us, this meant that we got instant access to an excellent surgical and dental-care staff.

Even more fortunately, Noah's injuries proved to be less severe than they immediately appeared. Nothing was broken, no teeth knocked out. The only real injury was to Noah's front tooth (a milk tooth, thank the benign Divine), which had been displaced upward into the gums, though without apparent damage to the tooth buds of the permanent teeth. Some dental surgery later, the tooth had been moved back into place, glued to its neighbours with fixative, and secured with sutures.

Throughout the operation, Noah endured everything with more calm and trust than any normal child might be expected to display. He's a plucky little fellow, to be sure.

After he'd been patched up, Noah and I went back upstairs to reassure his distraught mother and say goodnight to his new little brother. We then to a cab back to our apartment, where his grandparents and elder brother waited for more news. Likewise reassured, they took Lucas off for the weekeend, while I put Noah to bed in his parents' double bed.

Tonight, Noah sleeps in our bed (and when I sleep, later, I will cuddle him very carefully). Lucas, no doubt, sleeps with his grandparents, and Herluf sleeps with his mother.

A very hectic day indeed.

Let us hope that the rest of the weekend, and Easter, proceed in a less dramatic fashion.

The really unfair bit about writing--and I understand this is true of painting as well, and no doubt music--is that it never comes out as good on the page as it does in your head. We were sitting on the couch watching anime tonight when I suddenly had this fantastic idea for my long-awaited second novel. The main character has to find something his late grandfather hid before he died, and not being an analytical sort I've had a hard time coming up with clues for him to put together in order to get there. Then it hit me, this great way the grandfather could not only conceal the thing from everyone else but do so in a way that would tip off his grandson as to where it is.

I grabbed a notebook and scribbled down the essentials, and then when the show was over fired up my computer and wrote the scene it figures in as quickly as possible so I wouldn't lose it while it was still fresh in my mind. And while I still love the idea, the scene just SO falls short of how it seemed when it only existed in my imagination.

Bah. One of my biggest obstacles writing-wise is that I want everything to be perfect on the first try and I get dejected when it's not. It's annoying and stupid.

Anyway, last night I hammered on one chapter of Neon Blood, one of those (mercifully few) chapters that doesn't just need editing but a solid rewrite. It was very tough going but I'm almost finished with it and am pretty satisfied with how it turned out. I'll read it over again and see how it looks now. This would be chapter...fourteen, I think. Which leaves only seven left to go! Woo hoo! I've been immersed in it for a while now and am not relishing the idea of printing it out and proofreading the manuscript. For one thing, it's drudgery, and for another, I'm afraid I'll find something else I want to rewrite. I can picture a circle of Hell where damned writers obsessively toil away at the same book for eternity. "It's coming along great! Just a few small changes and it'll be done, I swear!"

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