nice paper

If writing a paper based on the mathematical nature of Finnegans Wake is any indication of how things are and have been going, then I have succeeded in turning my life into a machine.

This machine loads itself up every morning around the crack of dawn. Somewhere in the night the steady diet of beans and rice and coffee has turned into unabated fuel for the next 24 hours which will in turn fuel a greater portion of my working life ... right?

I have begun recording the phone messages my father leaves for me. In his last one, recorded in short in the blog entry previous to this one, he alluded to apple fritters. In this latest conversation, my father has cracked his ribs after falling, without leg stability, off the escalator at the Seattle Airport. Apparently, a lady and her pink suitcase swiped my father’s feet out from under him and never knew the difference. She wandered away while my father was splayed on the floor near the baggage claim. I laughed so hard I snorted, but he couldn’t laugh. His ribs hurt.