neurological dryer lint

my quest for the supreme beverage continues. at applebee's today after work i found another candidate - and it wasn't their cherry limeade (not as good as sonic's - too much lime, not enough cherry). indeed, it was their watermelon lemonade - like watermelon jolly ranchers melted into lemonade. absolutely delicious, although a little too sweet.

today was a wild ride... i don't get asked to come investigate infected PC's very often, usually we just develop a large-scale cleanup plan for a site. occasionally we get an interesting case like this - a single machine with no one logged onto it that creates an arp flood and then just randomly quits. it seems to be a damaged network card or driver that freaked out - not a worm as you might expect. it's been a busy week so far; although we are setting up the management-mandated game server to utilize when we need to decompress after hours. we're starting with old faithful counter strike.

so i heard this a few days ago on the writer's almanac and it struck me as poems rarely do. the clause, by c.k. williams:

This entity I call my mind, this hive of restlessness,
this wedge of want my mind calls self,
this self which doubts so much and which keeps reaching,
keeps referring, keeps aspiring, longing, towards some state
from which ambiguity would be banished, uncertainty expunged;

this implement my mind and self imagine they might make together,
which would have everything accessible to it,
all our doings and undoings all at once before it,
so it would have at last the right to bless, or blame,
for without everything before you, all at once, how bless, how blame?

this capacity imagination, self and mind conceive might be the "soul,"
which would be able to regard such matters as creation and destruction,
origin and extinction, of species, peoples, even families, even mine,
of equal consequence, and might finally solve the quandary
of this thing of being, and this other thing of not;

these layers, these divisions, these meanings or the lack thereof,
these fissures and abysses beside which I stumble, over which I reel:
is the place, the space, they constitute,
which I never satisfactorily experience but from which the fear
I might be torn away appalls me, me, or what might most be me?

Even mine, I say, as if I might ever believe such a thing;
bless and blame, I say, as though I could ever not.
This ramshackle, this unwieldy, this jerry-built assemblage,
this unfelt always felt disarray: is this the sum of me,
is this where I'm meant to end, exactly where I started out?