Darryl Dawkins played professional basketball from 1975 to 1996. One of the sport's more colorful personalities, he said he lived part-time on the planet Lovetron, a place where he perfected his interplanetary funkmanship. He also liked to give names to his slam dunks. The "Turbo Sexophonic Delight" was a favorite, but the best was his "Chocolate-Thunder-Flying, Teeth-Shaking, Glass-Breaking, Rump-Roasting, Bun-Toasting, Wham-Bam-I-Am Jam." I encourage you to try some Darryl Dawkins-like behavior in your own chosen field, Virgo. Give a name to your signature move or your special play. With playful flair, let people know how much you love what you do and how good you are at what you do.

I'm writing (in the cracks of time I can muster), longish stories (vignettes) of one woman knitted together with flashfictions of another. I'd blog them, but I'm not sure who they're for - sometimes it's you or for ghost-of-you, sometimes it's not, with the intention of giving it, intentions which I then abandon regardless. Sometimes I take one-line pieces of TJ-speak and actually send them to Tony, who is now a big fan of the dictums that TJ carves on stone tablets of air like Moses only different - if TJ had a facebook page called "Moses Only Different", Tony would 'like' it. Sometimes I wonder which of my friends would 'like' the one woman or the other woman, like last night when Ears was reading Chinquee and I realized he'd 'like' the woman of the flashes better than the more solid Etta. The woman of the flashes has no proper name, I just call her "She", like She Ra only different.

I write a little bit every day.

I'm rereading journals (in the attic, I even have an email stack from the Commune, along with a diary I kept in 5th grade). I've been rereading the years between the birth of Ears and when I left. I'm watching my former self go completely down the tubes, from thoughtfully distressed to numb to fragmented utterly writing things like "I am a ridiculous person" over and over and over like Bart Simpson on the blackboard. Just reading it feels again like someone has his hands around my throat and is squeezing a band of loathing into my skin all the way around. I put the journal down, and take deep breaths, visualizing the band being loosened and I smell FPH, as if he really is dead, the way I can smell my grandfather sometimes, that embedded oil smell of his craggy hands. Ghosts of men who smell(ed) like safe places. Maybe there will come a time when I am no longer remixing conscious memory mostly, when I am instead making it all up, and I then won't be tied to reality at all, dead or alive.