On the left is my left thumb, newly diagnosed as a fracture. You can see a little tip pointing pointing to the center of the ball? That is part of the fracture and it divides the bone on the way to the finger nail. On the right is my right thumb, which, as you can see, is smooth. My new doctor said it will take a year for the swelling to completely subside. He also said said that the FPL tendon attaches at the volar lip of the distal phalanx. The volar lip of the distal phalanx. The volar lip of the distal phalanx...

The people who park their cars around Lake Merritt have always been strange to me. Usually on the east side of the lake, when I walk around or run around, or decide to go sit and read or whatever, I see them. They sit in their cars, usually with the windows rolled down, sometimes napping, sometimes reading, sometimes smoking or chatting, texting, or hanging out with their girl, behind tinted windows or in trucks, or in an Acura Legend with the windows cracked and sometimes there's music, gospel or classical or the quiet boom of dampened bass. I think, why would a person want to sit in a car? When they could get out, sit on the grass or a bench, and everybody can see them just sitting there. Why would a person go out of their way, to drive here to sit in their car?

So yesterday, now that I have a car I like to sit in, on my way back from buying cat food, with a back pack full of papers to grade (A-, D, B-, D+, B+ etc.) I pulled into a spot and cracked the windows, pushed back my seat, and sat by the lake in my car. A breeze came through. The sounds of sea gulls and pairs of a walkers chatting, walking through the frame and disappearing. I could see the wind blowing in on the lake, the rowers rowing and across the water, the boat house and the over priced restaurant, and behind that, the skyline of downtown Oakland. The sun was high enough to shine but the piece of metal and plastic that separates the windshield from the driver side door blocked the glare. Nobody paid me any attention at all.

People watching. Though not really, a couple hours trying to get work done. Did I mention it was quiet? Maybe home is not so much and it's hard to catch a nap at work. But you'll see that all the time in certain neighborhoods. On Dara's street, the one that lines the creek she sees them too. Sitting, mostly napping or texting. California. With a car I feel that I'm entering the main stream of Oakland. Merging like a blood cell into a major artery, swept up and moving toward the center. The center of what I don't know. The man who pulled in next to me gave me a nod. My neighbor offered to help me parallel park. The guy at the gas station helped me figure out why the door kept sticking. California. Cars. People, and what we do.

Hi. How are you? Is conversation a lost art? I don't know but have read a lot in the last week about how lonely, shallow, and isolated we are. In the New Yorker, one about Couch Surfing . com and the other about that book about living alone. I gave the magazine away so can't quote from either article at the moment, but they both keep pointing to our strong desire to surround ourselves with people like ourselves. On the radio this morning a man spoke about the isolating properties of Facebook and the Sunday paper lead off with this article, about the fact that we don't talk to each other anymore. Talking about ourselves, talking about talking about ourselves. So, yesterday, I went for a hike instead. It was warm out and I got sweaty and there were pretty little blue flowers through the valley and up onto the ridge.

The good news is that my left thumb is much better. I took the slint/splint/sling off on Saturday, put it back on Sunday and am wearing it now. But it doesn't hurt like it did. On the road to recovery, though I won't be able to play basketball for some time, and the other thing, from the last knuckle up, my finger is rotated about five degrees counter-clockwise and I can't bend it more than a little. It's still quite swollen and looks like a prosthetic appendage, devoid of life attached to my hand. I should make another appointment but insuranceless, am hesitant. Watching the basketball game the other day, the announcer said, in reference to the player formerly known as Ron Artest, "Metta World Peace is going to do some damage in the playoffs."

Last, an excerpt from the introduction to Uncreative Writing, a book of essays by Kenneth Goldsmith about approaches to writing that involve anything but generating new material, from reappropriation to collage to sampling. I'm jealous of this assignment. He writes,

Each semester, for their final paper, I have them purchase a term paper from an online paper mill and sign their name to it, surely the most forbidden action in all of academia. Each student then must get up and present the paper to the class as if they wrote it themselves, defending it from attacks by the other students.

He sometimes holds classes entirely in Second Life, and when in a real classroom, encourages students to open their computers and plug in. I'm not sure if any of this is "good" but it's interesting. Hope all is well. It's overcast in Oakland today. Or better yet, check this out.

M y h an d is injured. The left thumb knuckle is HYPEREXTENSION INJURY/CONTUSION L THUMB AT DIP with a cast. So the good news is that I can write with the right hand but can't type with both so forget it. Here's one new song on the other blog.

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When the cats come and sleep on my legs I don't dream about cats. And when I eat late at night I don't dream about food. When I wake up I sometimes remember what I have dreamt because I mean to remember it. It's no secret: math is best explained by more math. The meaning of graffiti is to have somebody graffiti over it. The meaning of Sunday is Monday. The meaning of my dream is the meaning I give, a horoscope or asking a friend for guidance. Or asking an old man for forgiveness. Or when he's blind, in the dream, he asks me to ferry him across the street. The Earth is round and filled with oily water. The fact of fear reeks and hatred abounds.

It's Spring Break. Day three. Tomorrow I'm headed to DC and will be back Monday. Please excuse this temporary extraneous break in the action. It's been very busy outside of the regular routine. Saturday Sunday hang out events, and then Monday down to Santa Cruz, to visit friends and look at a car. Planning my move, and needing a car in Indiana, I bought one. Dara's driving it to work right now but it's somewhere around here. It's a real car, a little scary to own something that large, but I'm real excited to own a car again. As my mom said, "You like driving."

___________

Much to my surprise, I received this email earlier today.

Church Reminder:

Reminder: You, Reed Huff, and Michel Richmond are assigned to clean the church today.

Thanks!

Bishop Bumbaugh

So I wrote back, "I think you have the wrong email address." I think because it's possible that this is a message from god, somehow, and in fact, I should be sweeping the church today. Or it's possible that the right guy might not get this email, so who is going to sweep the church now? Reed and Michael? Again, even if this isn't a message from god, it seems like the right thing to do is to make sure the church gets cleaned. All that said, I can't go right now. If the Bishop had asked me ahead of time I could be there right now, getting things ready. But I'm not, and won't be there, and it's such a nice day in Oakland. Warm. I go to DC on Thursday, and until then, I'm going to try and relax. Spring.

At noon today, instead of attending a talk by Jay Rubin and J. Philip Gabriel, the translators of 1Q84 and many other Haruki Murakami books, something I've been looking forward to since last week, I opted to play basketball. Weird.

____________

In 2005 I participated in a study that had something to what parts of the brain were affected by certain sounds. The scientists put me in an MRI machine and gave me headphones, and two buttons, one for my right hand and one for my left. Depending on which side I heard the sound on (left or right), I was supposed to press the button. I don't know what they did with this knowledge but they gave me some pictures of my brain.

The sly interplay between the old fox, Red Ivy, and Beth Szabo, the Forest Management Team Supervisor, part of the 1999 ad campaign for the Ford F-150 Supercrew. Larry Broadway is the fixer. He can fix any machine you put in front of him. He's not always the best company but he's awfully handy to have around. Mack FairCloth is the driver, him and Rick Rozar take turns. Of course when they're driving "with that full back seat, your knees aren't touching your chin." Bobby Boutwell and Rick play poker on the weekend but the rest of the crew don't always get an invite.

What kinds of words get passed between Rick and Larry in back seat, Red barking orders while Beth hunches over a map. What do they talk about? Bobby's thinking about buying a new motorcycle and Mack mostly keeps to himself. So much can go unsaid on your way to work, but when you've got somebody like Red to stir the drink, ribbing Rick about his losing habits, or sparring with Mack about the best way to get over West River Ridge, the silence doesn't last long.

"Fuck Larry Broadway. Fuck Red Ivy. Fuck Mack FairCloth. Fuck our fucking names" Bobby muttered.

"What's that?" yelled Red over the wind, sitting on Bobby's left. Ears like a field mouse.

"Nothing." said Bobby, picking his head up and going back to what he was doing.

"You're going to want to take the left fork up ahead." Beth said from the back, knees not touching her chin, "We can pass around the base and come up the other side. It's a little less intense."

"Alright," said Mack, "I understand." He gives it a little more gas and the truck bounds out of sight down the left fork. In the empty forest, an owl turns it's head and hoots directly into the wall, and every wood pecker, grub, chipmunk and elk within three hundred yards looked up, and then went back to what they were doing.