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Thanks to one particularly unsubtle person, it has been brought to my attention that LoudTwitter has not only been making good on its motto of “delivering tweets by the dozen”, but has in fact decided to take it up a notch, and start redelivering tweets…if not by the dozen, then at least by the generous handful. I’ll try to keep an eye on it in future, but I like microblogging, so I’m not quite ready to give up on Twitter and LoudTwitter just yet. I am however shaking a cross finger at them.

As an aside, yes, I do intend to post that private post I alluded to. I really am sorry it’s late. Long-time followers of my blogging will no doubt recall, however, that I have historically struggled to make substantial posts when I am very happy and satisfied. And with the last week-plus being what it has…

This is probably the most charming thing I’ve seen all day. Is there an antithetical expression for “when it rains, it pours”?

Not so much during the day, really, so I guess it’s more accurate to say that I often dream of them. My Grandpa Erickson, for example…I dream of Grandpa probably about seven or eight times a year. My good friend Joe (aka Zonk E. Tonkman, Esquire, Newfie-at-Large) is another example. I hesitate to call these dreams “visits”, or anything that suggests it’s their spirits returning to offer counsel, remonstrance, or succor; I don’t believe that. What I do believe — do know — is that it’s usually during periods of intense and meaningful change, often immediately before or after some great catharsis, and I always feel a profound sense of comfort and rightness afterward.

Last night, when I dreamed of Joe, was no different.

Many of you will have heard me mention Joe, either here or elsewhere. Joe was…well, Joe was like static electricity: he seemed to sort of crackle when things were nearby, and stuff (people, stories, memories) just seemed to stick to him. I know that most of his friends think — and talk — of him often, and that he is sorely missed, even now, by probably hundreds of people.

Last night, I came upon Joe at the foot of the Smith Tower. He was wearing a really snazzy brown velvet suit, and was — I noticed with chagrin — carrying his motorcycle helmet. We embraced, and he gestured toward the elevator. After a short ride, we exited to the observation deck, and took in a view that was as once A.) astonishing and B.) patently not the view from the real Smith Tower. I could see nearly all of Seattle. I could see west, all the way back to Port Angeles and Victoria. I could see north to Vancouver and south to Portland. I could see east, across the mountains, back to Pullman. After a moment, Joe tapped my shoulder, laughed a very Joe laugh, and told me only, “You can’t see it from here, buddy. And come to think of it, you’re not even looking in the right spot.” We then had a very long, very relaxed talk.

The contents of that conversation are somewhat too private to share here, involving as they do such important bits as what exactly I couldn’t see, and just how I was looking in the wrong spot, but I woke up feeling warm, happy, content, and enlightened.

Joe, I love you. I miss you each and every day, and although I know that you can’t really see this, and that when I dream of you, it’s just a reflection of myself, but I take no small measure of solace in the fact that your impact on me was so great that echoes of you remain as strong and as vibrant a force as you yourself were in life.

Well, nearly.

I just realized that the Super Bowl is this Sunday, and I have NO PLANS for where to watch it. Damn! Someone reading this ought to help a brothah out, and let me know if there’s anything cool going on. Unlikely, given the folks that read this blog, but I have to try!

Damn!

Apparently I have “beautiful eyes”. More at 11.

I got some major news today, regarding my nascent book project. News, I must add, that I am somewhat conflicted about. *sigh*

I haven’t talked to many of you about the project, other than possibly to mention its title, The Highly Improbable Tale of Phoebe and the Pirates of the Merry Widow, and perhaps to explain that it’s young adult fantasy fiction. Those few of you who have heard more might have some perspective on my feelings behind today’s news.

After some recent revisions, I was hoping that we could move forward and — fingers crossed — get the thing, if not published, then at least well on the way to it. Now I left Phoebe, the main character (a-duhhh!), entirely as-is; most of the revisions had to do with the characters of the Gypsy Queen and the Narrator. In fact, the most important revision was simply the removal of a short interaction between those two characters, very near the end of the book itself. I felt that since the changes didn’t have a lot of bearing on the story, and didn’t really alter the timbre or the essence of either character, there wouldn’t be a problem with them. I especially felt this since it is fairly clear that the Narrator is a particularly brazen example of author insertion; diminishing or excising his part in the story could, I felt, only be a good thing, really. As it turns out, I was wrong. There’s an almost delicious sort of irony behind all this, and it’s definitely not lost on me. Also, I’m happy — and proud — that people feel it was solid as originally written. Even so, I’m not sure how I feel about progressing without the changes I made, which is kind of unfortunate.

Oh well. I didn’t really write it to get it published anyhow. I had an absolute blast writing it, and will probably write a follow-up, regardless of prospects for publishing.

In unmitigatedly cheerier news, I was on my way to work, yesterday, when a song came up on shuffle. Now, this is not a miracle in and of itself, but sometimes, just when it’s most needed, forces align to give you the perfect moment. As I sat on the bus, riding through a chilly, mostly sleeping downtown, with the sun just breaking in between the buildings, a 1/3281 occurrence took place, and Band of Horses’ “The Funeral” played. I beamed for the remainder of my commute. Given my feelings on this song, there really isn’t a situation that can’t be made better with its addition.

After Kate’s recent drama, and my own happenings over the last week, I feel justified — indeed obligated — to write a nice, long private post. It should be up either much later tonight, or tomorrow morning.

Basically what I’m saying is to dust off your secret decoder rings, kids.

Or, you know, request full reader status if you don’t already have it.

On my way back from Hattie’s (and my second consecutive morning with an eggs benedict breakfast), there came an ominous popping from underneath my car. Cap and Kate, both in the car at the time, exchanged startled glances, before asking — almost simultaneously — what the sound was.

“I think my tire just popped,” I half-groaned.

As it turns out, I was right. Air was rushing out of my front passenger-side tire so quickly that it was audible over the roar of the freeway under a block away. Shit. After letting Cap change the tire, I limped back to the Hill, unceremoniously dropping my two passengers off at the least inconvenient place I could think to.

A subpar ending to an otherwise fantastic weekend. Meh.

After an adventure involving a lost — and only very recently found — debit card, I went back to SSB’s place this morning. She threw together some truly amazing homemade eggs benedict…a first for me, and apparently so good that she managed to astonish even herself.

Back home, I’m now relaxing and preparing — mentally and physically — for a gathering that will more likely resemble the Kumite than an actual party.

I’m glad that Kate is only moving back here once.

Uggh. I think I’m constitutionally incapable of first dates that last more than 15 minutes, but less than, say, eight hours. Still, a good time was definitely had, even if my recollection of things toward the end of the night begins to get a little hazy. I know I remember an awesome tiki bar, watching great old VHS tapes of The Simpsons (including commercials!), munching on some spectacularly overcooked stuffed jalapenos, and being beaten at Guitar Hero.

Since I believe proper segues are for the weak, let me abruptly shift topics and tell you about my favorite short story, The Garden of Forking Paths, one of Borges’ masterworks. Appropriately, given its plot and timbre, it is not just “about” any one thing, but perhaps its greatest purpose is to serve as a sort of meditation on choice, possibility, and outcome.

Right now, a ferry is arriving at its destination. On that ferry, there is a seat. That seat, reserved with a voucher on a Monday several weeks ago, is empty. Tomorrow, that same ferry will make a return voyage, again with an empty seat. And two people’s paths diverge, forking toward separate futures.