For the past week, I've been remembering the Ringworld trilogy, by Larry Niven. It'll be a week ago tomorrow that we saw The Matrix Reloaded (in its entirety). Is this a coincidence? I don't know.

Both the Ringworld books and the Matrix movies were about large, complex, manufactured worlds. Ringworld was basically about the discovery of Ringworld. The Ringworld Engineers was basically about how Ringworld worked. The Ringworld Throne was basically about the cultures of Ringworld.

The Matrix told us what The Matrix is. The Matrix Reloaded introduced us to The Architect and The Keymaker, and told us a little of how The Matrix works, and a little of the workings of Zion. What will The Matrix Revolutions tell us?

Am I out of my mind?

The rhythm this month from African Drumbeat is Fanga, and it's a tough one.

The first bar goes like this: BASS (rest) BASS BASS (rest) BASS OPEN OPEN. Then the second bar goes: BASS (2 rests) BASS BASS (rest) OPEN OPEN. That's Fanga, rhythm #1. (There's no copyright notice on the website, so I hope it's OK for me to be writing this.) It's tough for me, being so new to my djembe. It's tough to keep this one going. It's not a straightforward rhythm, like some others, that goes NOTE NOTE rest, NOTE NOTE rest, NOTE NOTE rest... No, this one, you see, is NOTE rest NOTE NOTE rest NOTE NOTE NOTE, then NOTE rest rest NOTE NOTE rest NOTE NOTE. One top of that, the hands used aren't straightforward, either. Instead of something easy like LEFT RIGHT - LEFT RIGHT - LEFT RIGHT... this one is RIGHT - RIGHT LEFT - LEFT RIGHT LEFT RIGHT - then it switches LEFT RIGHT - RIGHT LEFT. Yikes!

I do love a challenge, though.

Until today, I never knew that Leonard Cohen wrote about wabi-sabi.

I had a dream this morning in which I was happy because I'd finally earned my truck drivers' license in Kentucky.

Then I woke up with Elton John's "Tiny Dancer" stuck in my head. (Unfortunately, I know only two lines of the song.)

(continuing the thought from last night) I forgot to mention the possibility that it may not be me - maybe there just isn't anything worthwhile being played on mainstream radio these days.

I was thinking this morning, as I walked across campus, about moments when a song did pour out of the radio and grab me with its originality and boldness. These were songs that begin a long term devotion to the artists' works.

Late, late one night, when I was working alone in a donut shop, listening to KCMU, I first heard "Heaven Knows I'm Miserable Now" by The Smiths. It was truly like nothing I had ever heard before. It amazed me. It took a lot of searching through a lot of record stores to find that one. And, along the way, I discovered The Smiths.

There were songs that I thought were terrible the first time I heard them. Then after hearing them a few more times, I think they're not too bad. Then, after a few more encounters, I think - hey, it's actually a pretty good song. And then I begin buying up the artist's catalog of work. Such was the case with "Greetings To The New Brunette" by Billy Bragg, and it was the case with "Birthday" by The Sugarcubes.

I just don't listen to the radio much anymore.

I love music - all kinds of music (as long as it's honest). But it's been a long, long time since I've heard a song on the radio that thrilled me - that made me want to rush down to the store and buy the artist's CDs.

I figure this means that some combination of these statements is true:

a) I'm getting old.

b) I've lost touch with popular American culture.

c) I don't listen to enough radio.

d) I'm listening to the wrong radio stations.

Lately, I've been getting into early Bob Dylan, and I've been buying up the Putumayo World Music catalog.

Evening is turning into night. I'm listening to Jack Kerouac on the tape player. I'm trying to work up the courage to finish that story I started over two months ago - the story about a girl I once dated, the story I was too chicken to read to my writers' group. It's only 5600 words long, and it's almost done, except for the last, wrapup paragraph. Everything I write is from a personal perspective. No matter how much I fictionalize the details, the overal plotline is drawn from personal experience. But this story is somehow too personal. It was Phillip who encouraged me to write it, and I haven't even shown it to him.

This morning, our church debuted its new liturgy, written by our musical director, Bonnie. This is the first liturgy in the region written entirely in inclusive language. It felt exactly like I was a part of history.

On my way home from writers' group, I spent six dollars for a half-gallon of organic orange juice. For half the price, I could have bought orange juice containing preservatives and pesticides. But I happen to believe that there's more to money than saving it. Phillip feels similarly. I think that money, and its purchasing power, carries a certain amount of political responsability. I could spend seven bucks for a can of coffee and not care how it got there. But I would rather spend ten bucks for certified organic, shade-grown, fair trade coffee.

Kurt and the guy at the oil change shop had similar remarks about our new Prius. For almost half the price of a gasoline/electric hybrid, they pointed out, it's possible to buy a car that gets just a few miles per gallon less. But Phillip and I both chose our car for more than just how much money it'll save at the gas pump. (After all, we'll never save enough in gasoline to make up for the extra cost of the car.) We bought it because it's a Super Ultra Low Emission Vehicle. It still pollutes the air, but not nearly as mush as a car that burns gasoline whether it need to or not.

Besides, by spending more for a hybrid vehicle, we're doing our part to show the automobile manufacturers that there is a demand for "green cars." Then the car companies will produce more, the cost will go down, and someday cost won't be so much of an issue.