Above are a few pictures taken by my friends. Upon return I plan to have a camera, and to make some pictures of my own. 

I have never seen such an impressive concentration of perfect blocs. The particularities of the movements are demanding, requiring a brilliant utilization of mind and body. Creativity is a must.

Street Fighter 2 was one of my favorite videos games growing up. While each character has a soft spot in my heart, Guile was the first one that I "beat the game" with.


A) He's 'Merican
2) wicked bad-ass, and his name rhymes with mine.
C) USA.



The video below is one of many examples on the inter-web showing how and why Guile's bad-ass-ness transcends time and space. I am guessing Guile is not a family man.



I don't think even Guile could dance this well.

time to go.

Wallace Stevens, a noteworthy American poet, wrote "The Man Whose Pharynx Was Bad".  It was first published in 1921 in his first collection of poems Harmonium. During the past months the poem has become increasingly relevant. It correlates not only with my immediate plans of domestic travel, but concomitantly aligns with the general coming of winter. The season's droll monotony is captured with near perfection via Stevens' metre and word scheme. He is at once able to be consonantally alliterative and yet avoid that Dr. Suess feel (at this point it should be noted that Dr. Suess is, to say the least, the man).

When reading the poem, do so a few times, and do it aloud.

The Man Whose Pharynx Was Bad

 The time of year has grown indifferent.

 Mildew of summer and the deepening snow

 Are both alike in the routine I know:

 I am too dumbly in my being pent.

 The wind attendant on the solstices

 Blows on the shutters of the metropoles,

 Stirring no poet in his sleep, and tolls

 The grand ideas of the villages.

 The malady of the quotidian . . .

 Perhaps if summer ever came to rest

 And lengthened, deepened, comforted, caressed

 Through days like oceans in obsidian

 Horizons, full of night's midsummer blaze;

 Perhaps, if winter once could penetrate

 Through all its purples to the final slate,

 Persisting bleakly in an icy haze;

 One might in turn become less diffident,

 Out of such mildew plucking neater mould

 And spouting new orations of the cold.

 One might. One might. But time will not relent.