According to those familiar with the situation

There are millions of Smiths out there. There are pages and pages of Smith very close to you, in your local telephone book. Can a Smith date a Smith? A certain surname?

It's a common name, says someone who'd like me to be happy. It's almost as bad a dating a co-worker, though. It sits in your mind every time you see, think, say something to her.

No. It's strange, says someone familiar with the situation. That's true. But is that the only reason? No. An excuse. It's something you say to yourself. She's four years younger. Age doesn't matter, according to someone familiar with the situation. So I think of other reasons. Can I kiss someone that I know has kissed someone that I know? I'm almost disgusted by it. Yes. But this isn't the real reason either.

You can't be with anyone right now because they are not on your mind at the time, say sources close to home. They don't have your attention. They aren't talking to me, but to someone staring off, looking out the window, contemplating the madness of the world. Or worse. This is unfair to others, assures someone who's been there before. You put yourself in these situations. Sometimes on purpose, I'm told by a by-stander. You make matters worse by making matters that don't really matter matter. I trust this person because of his proximity to me at this time.

Or maybe I'm just not attracted to this girl. Wouldn't come up with excuses, wouldn't look out the window if I was. But how do you tell someone that? Direct them to your blog, an immediate family member mentions.

Just let me know where

There's a ways to go yet.
Way to go, Champ.
There's still a way to go.
The Way? Which way? Stay.
That's something.
If anything says, 'do nothing,' it's stay.
So say, nothing does happen? As of today, which way?
I know. Which is what I'm doing.
Then go. If you say you're staying just to stay, go.
I can go. There are placenames.
Place a name: (here).
Yeah, I could do that.
Map 'em.
Well, we covered stay. That's here.
Plotted that point.
There's go...
North. To an Alaskan adventure.
Alaska, huh? End of the roads?
No. Anchorage. To live with a Keil.
O.K. Where else?
Home. I could always go home.
To Albuquerque? Already?
Yeah. Home is where I reset.
Regret is more like it. Regress. Retire.
There are more places. That's just an option. A point.
Other directions from here?
Not so far north, but north still, there is a Love.
I thought it was over? You said, 'It's over.'
We say a lot of things. It's what you feel.
Can we get on with this list?
Here's where the map goes gray. Denver's on the map... Some place in Cali... Idaho makes her mark... Santa Fe, maybe?
Gray? More like a light black.
There's no light black. There's Portland.
I see no difference.
There is. I'm looking on the map and see: Stay, Seattle, Anchorage, or Albuquerque.
You need a compass. And a geography refreshment course.
And there's a countdown.
And a clock.
I'll have to think. And work.
Time is of the Menace.
So, when will I know? You know, where you go?
As soon as I do.
Just let me know where.

I'll have some coffee and a potato please

Even when I'm in need of sleep -- well, after some coffee -- I get these sentences. Ideas. Lines. Sparks of light. Then, that's it. It's no idea, really. Nothing that would changes my life. Nothing big enough to form a story around. A spark that goes back to black. I can't complain. Their fun things usually. I Keep 'em for a while. Dwell. Spill. I forget them but not before thinking about what it all means. I guess, then, that they do mean something. They are little moments that change my life. When added up. When compiled into a log, I'll have something.

When I drink the coffee my hearts starts beating faster. When I think thoughts, my heart beats. I feel it and don't think it's that normal. I worry that it's working harder than it needs to be. That I'm pumping too much blood. And don't need to be doing that. I rest and try to breathe. Slow it down. Sometimes it works. Most times I worry about it, and that usually makes my heart start beating faster. Worry waits as I consider fate. Fuck it. Fate's no fun. So I start to think about things not-yet done. And I don't know what to do. So, like the environmentalist, when you don't know what to do, do nothing. I drink coffee to sharpen my mind. It works and I once thought of my conscious like a screw. Loose, it's tired and capable of going dark -- to sleep. Tighten, I'm bright. Have insight. Can type.

I can't think of it like that anymore. Because I've counteracted. I'm loosened on purpose. Tighten just to get back to where I was. So, now, I'm thinking of it this way:

My head is a potato. Seeking a rebirth, I unearth it. It's dirty, so I hold it under cool, running water. I rub it with my hands and feel it's character. I try it off and get the peeler. I go beneath the surface, open up the pores. It's bright. The skin is off. It's clean. It's white and alive. I look in the sink and see the skins. The catcher has trapped them, not allowing them down the sink.

There's regret. There's a past and mistakes. There are episodes in my head play and rerun. There are moments that I can't take back. Words that I've spoken too soon, with too little thought. There's time wasted and wishes worried. There are dark spots and depressing thoughts. But there's this:

These things, all of them, I can mash like a potato.