it is often very cold in the Fac the smurf lab especially they call it the smurf lab because it's a student microcomputer facility the acronym and its meaning both absurdly out of date. the computers are new and black the keys crunching crisply under my sore and tired fingers sore and tired from a 3 hour lab drawing three dimensional models in a computer, changing materials, trying to get travertine to stick to cool, airy software. a man comes in (a boy a man) and sits at the computer I usually use but couldn't because his stuff was there. he pulls a sandwich out of a bag, readjusts his hat, takes a slow bite of the sandwich and gets back to work chewing and biting calmly and contentedly as if preparing for a long night which will require nourishment of a complete sort. complete nourishment completed with a drink of some brownish liquid like all other brownish liquids we drink as humans nearly indiscriminately. 4 minutes four minutes of aching arms and hands nerve cells firing the table to my brain, the itch on my right cheek to my brain, the cool air of the place to my brain. I love to write. I love to think in written form, to read the words in my brain, to think nothing but print if I can manage it. Not just in a case like this as if I ever had a case like this - but in all of my life, my every day. My speaking to others has quotation marks around it, descriptive ways of describing what I describe. I always want to write discribe and I don't think I ever have until now because always my mind ( the silent one, the one that doesn't think in word sounds or print) my silent mind stops my hand and puts an e there because it's right, because I knew that from the beginning but the part of my brain that lives in kindergarten, brown bear brown bear what do you see? - tells me so. No it tells me iiiii iii aye aye aye eye eye eye but it's eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee. I live in an apartment on my own now I can barely get it out of my head because it was so beautiful when I moved in  bare clean white bright new and beautiful and I keep it so clean and I love that about the apartment and I love that about me. I love to keep it all perfect. any one in the world could walk in the door and other than my messy grammar of any one's and every thing's there would be nothing out of place. I could open the door to the world and there is nothing shameful lying about no dirty plates and cups no clothes on the floor no mess around the sink. It's all clean as I'd like my life to be and am so gradually making it. The separation of church and state - the separation of method and emotion. Somehow I now think of star trek - oh, vulcans. Those crazy vulcans. I loved the next generation but I could never stomach any of the other iterations- the other shows in the series. The next generation was so right - picard so venerable, so rarely stooping to kirks weaknesses or the others' stupidities. So french, so proud. they made this archae not anthropological finding of some skull of some ancient form of man (in real life, not star trek) and they goyt got some graduate student or artist or pro or whatever to make a cast and then cover it with skin and eyes and hair to recreate the face of ancient man and it accidently turned out to look like patrick stewart and everyone thought hey ancient man looked like patrick stewart and they said no it didn't it's just a mistake but it was a great funny mistake anyway. I think a lot about william and henry james. I just read portrait of a lady over the summer and then to read ab out william in the psych book was so great so great to think that brothers could accomplish noteriety in separate fields to think that greatness was inherited from their father but they still so outshone him. my father has a software company and employs a man named john stewart which I think of because of patrick. He (john) drives a brand new red car red what corvette that's it. a red corvette so new that at the corvette show they didn't have one and paid him to put it on display. did they pay him?  my ear itches. They used to say in elementary school if your ear itches someone is thinking about you who thinks about me. The boy in the chair I usually sit in is thinking about me because I see him glance up from time to time in the corner of my eye. He eats like a man watching football, chews with his mouth open swallows gulps too large to imagine. so close to done and I loved doing this because I never write anymore. s