Extreme Running, Extreme Dictionary, Extreme Anchor

This morning I woke to a bird singing instead of to my alarm. The light in my two windows was bright. At least in the world of regular work-week, that is peace.

Earlier my boyfriend’s dad appeared at my office door with a basket of red carnations, yellow and white daisies, set in bright green leaves, and a dictionary: The Highly Selective Dictionary for the Extraordinarily Literate. With these ingredients I will compose an elaborate cherry tree.

On the radio Terri Schiavo’s mother spoke at Schiavo’s husband: The two of you have kids. Please let us have our daughter back. These words represent the self-centeredness that snips short multi-faceted understanding in general and in specific. I’m human too but why not make an honest effort to learn why someone might do or say something before judging, and try accepting that while a thing might not initially sit well with you it might nevertheless be a beneficial thing. Possibly Schiavo’s husband doesn’t think of the situation as taking a daughter from her parents; possibly he’s feeling the craggy pit of it, too, of losing his wife; possibly their daughter wouldn’t want to "live" so damaged; possibly she would. Possibly they have all talked and are still at odds. I don’t know enough detail to be sure. This scenario aside, the self-centeredness and narrow-sightedness people consistently deliver frustrates me. The human condition is a shady condition. A cave is also comical.

Last night as I was sifting into sleep I watched the special features for Charlie Chaplin’s Gold Rush. He incites in me a rare excitement. At my ultimate dinner table he will sit across from me and we will tangle our feet together in the shaded underneath.

In conclusion, somnambulism fogs the streets. Write what carves grooves in your mind and then you can rest. The sleep fellow insists.