Friday isn’t my writing day, but it’s almost Saturday, which isn’t anyone’s writing day, so I think I’m covered. 

Hello, Creeter Readers (if any of you still happen to be lurking around these corners). I’m not certain what I wanted to say here when I decided to log on for the first time in years. I DO know that I should be sleeping, as I work dreadfully early tomorrow, but all I can manage to do is ponder furniture movements as I await tardy Zs. Z’s? Zees. Zzzzs. Whatever it is, they’re late. 

I think my day is Thursday. 

-Erin Creeter


I Promise to Commit No Acts of Violence…


or: “The Way I Grow Up”

Since the last post was from January, I don’t think that anyone will mind at all that I am posting out of turn.  I doubt, also, that anyone reads this blog anymore, if ever they did.

The last two months are a little hazy.  I lost two people very dear to me.  It is funny to me to say TWO people dear to me, although I really do mean it to each of them in their own way.

Jenni and I split.  It was ugly.  We were both right to be angry, we both fucked up pretty bad.  Some of her things are still here waiting to be moved out.  It makes it harder, just because I know it will all be gone soon.  I pretty much know what is hers and I am trying to get the table outside cleaned off so that when she comes, she won’t have to be here that much longer.  I told her I didn’t want to be here when she got the rest of it; it’s hard for both of us, but mostly I’m thinking about me.  I don’t want to see her.  I get too angry and I’m trying to lose that part of myself.

I have been using my time not working to do a lot of soul searching.  I am broke.  I’m using my brother’s computer.  A lot of my time is spent gardening, hiking, cooking, playing with my dog, and sometimes just sitting in the sun, closing my eyes, and thinking.  A lot of thinking.

When my dad died everything changed for me.  It has just become embedded in every thought I have.  It makes me sad often, and every once in a while i break down and sob uncontrollably.  I have avoided doing it in front of other people so far; it’s rather unbecoming.  It has made my mood a little more erratic, but it could have also to do with everything else that is going on.  Little by little I am losing my mind, but each instance convinces me that little by little I am just becoming the person I was always meant to be.

Make eye contact with a solitary pickle

The main university in the city where I live is renowned (among students, at least) not for its professors or its courses or its research space, but for the unconnectedness of the university population.

I don’t know anyone in my courses.
There’s no discussion during class.
Nobody makes eye contact in the hallways.
Everyone avoids eye contact in the hallways.

The building where I work is renowned (in my opinion, at least) for its friendliness. I have never worked in a building where people are so welcoming, even if I have never seen them before in my life…  even if it’s a Monday morning!

Good morning.
Having a busy day today?
Let me get that door for you.

From the lovely cleaning lady who greets me every time she sees me with a Goot mahning!
to the head computer technician who always offers to trade jobs with me to avoid the headaches of his;
to the maintenance guy who tells me about his motorcycle adventures every weekend;
to the scientific director of the other lab who teaches me about Chinese New Year folktales;
to the very cute contractor who smiles and holds the door open for me;
people in this building go out of their way to make eye contact, hold eye contact, and connect with you (whether you really want to or not).

And even if I am busy, even when I do have someplace else to be, that connection with another human makes that moment the most valuable place to exist in. Because that is the power of eye contact: the reminder that in the end, relationships with other people are the only thing that will last.

It’s alarming that of all the things they’re teaching at an institute of higher learning, they’ve not only neglected to teach that most important lesson, but are instead propagating the very opposite. So, what they are teaching is higher than what, exactly?

“This One’s For My Brother…”

~The Devil Makes Three

or: “The WABAC Machine”

Some people believe that only the things that are imagined or conceived can truly exist.  Modern philosophy will decidedly state that a tree fallen without witness to bear does, in fact, make no sound at all.  And why should it?  Save the curtain-call for the populated theater.  This would, however, equally mean that such things do not exist at all prior to their (most likely) abrupt cogitation.  Imagine the powerlessness of it.  Where does thought come from? What dictates what you will think?  What is the driving force of consideration?  The problem with “I think, therefore I am” is that that particular thought never occurred before.  One thinks such things because the thoughts simply come to them.  How do I know I exist? Oh, obviously since that thought came to me, I must.  Without knowing where the thought came from, the answer is quite meaningless.

The question “why can’t i get this song out of my head?” seems just as important to answer as “how do i know i exist?”  Why do I have to listen to “Gypsies, Tramps and Thieves” play through my head instead of “All along the Watchtower”??  Why do the random firing of my synapses find the patter that causes this to happen to fall into for a short period of time?  Because I can’t help it?  Then what, if anything, can I help?

Unfortunately, all of this questioning, and the answers, inevitably lead to a set of giant wrought iron doors behind which the omni-puppeteering force that makes me not believe in it sits.  It leads to a crystal ball where Zephora the Seer can look into the future this force has created for me.  Or, at least, the one it lets me believe I chose for myself.  It leads to us walking around with hourglasses in our hearts.  It seems to me (a phrase i both love and hate) that from thought follows action.  Or inaction, as the situation may dictate.  And from the combination of the two, existence is derived.

There is nothing but static.  Nothing but everything.  And it is only a byproduct of its own being from nothing.  Not Deus ex machina, but simply Machina.  A self-sustaining anti-progressive, anti-regressive, anti-existing, nothing.  This is singularity.  This is the beginning, the end.  This is.

Unfortunately, all of this leads to nothingness.  No actions, no consequences.  No gravity, earth or oxygen.  We are the result of dormancy.

Ama, et fac quod vis.