Let's all give a big hand to Neal Stephenson for forecasting Reverand Wayne's Pearly Gates Franchaise.

I want you all to come to the Moon Festival. Saturday I thought I had rehearsal, but instead of explaining how to safely set fire to things, I ended up arranging and directing the choreography, making it my own show.

I have another class to teach today, (they've put me in charge of a team of maybe twenty people), which is something I appreciate saying. It feels right. I'm trying to get ahold of myself, like I'm calling through lines that have been torn down in a wind storm. The power lines outside look dead and brown and organic. (Leftover's from a childhood memory of nightmare). Something this appropriate is grounding. I start to feel like I understand all the people who try to tell me that one day I'll be famous.

Saturday morning was strange for me. The clouds erased any city farther away than three blocks, emphasizing the Twilight Zone feeling of disconnectedness that I woke with. The only sounds were those I made and the traffic two blocks away. If I closed my eyes, I wasn't around to talk to, like a crumpled piece of paper thrown into a fire, the same interpretation of the world that led me to try and walk off the edge of the city when I was younger, out into the dark of nothing in particular. I think of once where I meant to go to work and found myself in Victoria instead. Taking busses at random brought me to the ferry terminal and then in a line-up, then on another bus. My wings were too small to fly, I guess, so I skimmed above the ground, going where other people were going, losing individuality in Brownian motion. Not one person said a word to me that entire day. I was cut off, a few hundred miles didn't matter. The temporal world had nothing to do with me. Postal service lyrics: "I was the one worth leaving."

Listen to the The Culprits.