Don't Do Drugs

Recently, for the purpose of seeming intelligent, I posted this to my Facebook wall:

"I found a better [than NASA's] construction graphic. It is fully clickable."

Link: USA Today

Later that day Bill Shears--Author of KiTE--sent me a private message. I'm guessing his purpose was to avoid causing me embarrassment.

Bill Shears at 2:41pm

"That's the same one as in the Kite page from April 12.

My reply:

David E. Vincent at 9:10am

I have conducted an analysis.


My records indicate that I was having a bad day.


The desperation protocol required that I send down a few too many pain killers. Now the usual lag-time estimate for dispersal of the chemical substance is 20 to 30 minutes. This lag-time correlates to the time of discovering the page; during which time, I was experiencing brainial dysfunction and intoxication while operating this equipment. (graph not included)


It's all here. The computer log and my paper logs: 'My Body Book' and my 'Daily Log' of what I do each hour, and the history of Firefox.


So then, my concluding report is titled: 'I'm Stupid.'


The page actually came from you. I was surprised when I went through the browser's history. I didn't bother to count but I went to hundreds of pages that day. What's interesting and everyone talks about is how each link takes them off on another bunny trail. A flow chart of one day would cover an entire wall.

I also keep a list of stuff I'm looking for but have not yet tracked down. Internet searching is a rather sophisticated process, since results are often less than good.

Hey, that's a pretty long excuse.

Hope you're having a good day.

Bill Shears at 2:35pm
Good enough. It's over.

Hey I figured it was something like that. What good drugs! But look at it from my angle. I couldn't very well say, 'Hey that's the same page, are you drugged?!"

In any case, sounds like a gutless blog post. Did you link that site up to the networked blogs app on FB yet?

David E. Vincent April 30 at 2:47

Next time, (it's one of them laws) you have my permission to post to my wall and ask, "Man, are you on drugs?" And, depending on the situation, you would be within your rights to end it with an interrobang.

I have not linked my blog site. I'm scared. It's like, getting caught with my pants down, while in that glass elevator at the mall....hey, bet that'd get me posted. Well, okay.


Here is a link to my wife's Myspace blog. My writing doesn't approach her skill in writing. The example I'll mention is her short blog titled, 'The Hypnotic Power of Motion'.

So now you can know that her and me both, are holding guns to each one's head.

Bill Shears at 2:50pm

Will do. Thanks.

First Memory

     My first memory is of pain. I was, I think, only two years old. I try to recall, but get only an impression of a blurred face, my nurse, injecting another heavy dose of some pain killer. She emptied the syringe into my bottom right cheek, unsheathed the metal knife, gave my sting a few pats, then secured the rail of my hospital crib. Only now, while I try to bring up this memory, I remember that she turned out the lights and closed the door behind her.
 
     Now whatever that drug was, it had no affect. The pain in my remaining intestines grew to such a extreme that in an attempt to escape the pain, I began to rock the crib and scream out knowing that the door was closed. After a while I thought my nurse was unable to hear my cries for help, and when no one came, I realized that the intent of closing my door had been to muffle the noise from their ears. Then I realized I was alone, that I was not able to depend on anyone.
 
     Still, the torture increased and my only comfort was not just to rock myself, but to throw myself back and forth with enough force to drag my crib across the room and into the corner.
In those moments and the hundreds of painful episodes to come, Jesus walked in with his loving presence. When you are two years old, you come with very few preconceived beliefs or ideas about anything. All I knew was pain and no one was coming to help. And without my asking, He walked in. I just knew he was there. I knew who he was. I don't know how I knew, but he was so real, so obvious, so loving, so comforting and so much better than any remedy. 

     After a time against the wall, it was over, and the pleasure of the absence of pain filled me. I looked out the window beside me, looked at the blue and the clouds of the sky, felt the quiet of the room.
 
     Sometime later, two nurses came running in. And when they found me in the corner of the room, they gloried in what I had done, having never before witnessed such a feat. And at the sound of their astonishment, I forgot about the pain and smiled with a certain pride in what I had accomplished. It quickly became the talk of the floor, and I couldn't wait to tell my dad and mom.

Of Roosters and Linux and Monster and Emptiness

     This morning, when the first wake came to my eyes and my Rose stirred for what to wear, when the coffee's brew rattled its grounds and the roosters of traffic crowed and the early whispers of the sun shown in, I awoke and reached out to my Rose in the room.

     This morning, when my hands held coffee and a Monster, when my son and I talked of Linux and php and AMD and security, and after, found failure, when I looked at the pages of Facebook and gmail and Matt Drudge and NPR, I began my climb down into my own crowded room of despair.

     The afternoon, when I read about writing down words and football and bloggers and finished my Monster and coffee and water, when discussions of cliché and syntax and God-Haters filled my thoughts, there was little room left for thoughts my own.

     This afternoon, when I turned open the shades and put on a new sweater, when picking up this page and pencil and how to, I then wandered from room to room to the back yard and in, in search of a place of belonging, some place to begin.

     This evening, when reaching the end of my wander, it has been found and the weariness of all else spins away from me; then it is when I find an emptiness, both needful and sad, I awake, here, and there is little to be said.