http://my.excite.com/tv/prog.jsp?id=EP011839820013&sid=58623&sn=SYFYHD&st=201004091800&cn=676
excite
Stargate Universe (New)
676 SYFYHD: Friday, April 9 6:00 PM
Science fiction
Divided
Dr. Rush and Chloe suffer from nightmares following their ordeal on the alien vessel, and Rush suspects a tracking device may have been placed on the ship's hull.
Cast: Robert Carlyle, Louis Ferreira, David Blue, Brian J. Smith, Jamil Walker Smith, Elyse Levesque, Alaina Huffman, Ming-Na, Lou Diamond Phillips Executive Producer(s): Robert C. Cooper, Brad Wright
Original Air Date: Apr 09, 2010
}}}}} JOURNAL ARCHIVE: From: Kerry Burgess
To: Kerry Burgess
Sent: Thu, May 25, 2006 3:11:36 PM
Subject: Journal May 25, 2006
So much went wrong after returning from the Persian Gulf, in my memory. Among everything that went wrong, is something trivial that may actually mean something a lot more complicated than I realize. After we returned to homeport in Charleston, I couldn't drive my Nissan pickup because the license tags had expired. There is something more to that than I can explain. On the surface, it reminds me of a great desire to get out and drive to clear out my head, but it may represent something else as well that I can't remember. When I was writing about this in my notes last night, I was wondering if there is some similarity to the part in that movie Flight Of The Intruder, in that he was grounded for his rogue mission. Who knows, I sure don't. It seems too crazy to be true.
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}}}}} JOURNAL ARCHIVE: Saturday, September 03, 2005
So that just gave me more reason to keep driving and get this over with. This is insanity. I am nobody. Why does it feel like people know who I am? I feel like I have crashed on to The Planet of the Apes. Then something else happened. I had crossed the state line into Oregon and I was heading west along the interstate making my way to the Portland area where I would turn south. I was in Oregon, it was night, and I stopped at this convenience store. There were two people behind the counter and one made a strange comment to another that I initially dismissed but then it started gnawing on me as I was driving. One asked the other something about whether she wanted to help somebody or another. The other replied that she “didn’t care”. I thought about that a long time because something about it was nagging me. And then again I realized they knew who I was. I had no idea where I was, I had never even driven through that area, I couldn’t even pick it out again on a map, it was just a random stop I made at some store, but yet these people know who I am. It is staggeringly insane. I am Truman freakin’ Burbank. So I thought more about those comments. I realized that they knew who I was, they knew I was on my way to die, and in response to a question about giving me any help, the answer is “I don’t care.” That really hurt. Even after all this anguish I had been feeling, something new would come along and teach me another lesson about pain.
I would keep thinking about it more but I later reached a different conclusion. Maybe they didn’t actually know where I was going. Maybe they didn’t know my plans. They knew who I was but they didn’t know what I was planning to do. They thought I was just taking a road trip to try to clear my head or something. I was still a trivial person to them in the sense of leaving me alone, concern for my private life was just a triviality, but maybe what the other person meant was that she didn’t care about my private life. She was trying to express that she objected to the way I was being treated and she didn’t want to participate in it. Later, when I was near Portland and literally at another crossroads, going south meant death, turning north meant going back to my apartment to continue looking for clues that would steer me out of this tormenting experience, it was that alternative interpretation of her comments that made me turn north, along with another reason I will describe later. I had to give it a lot of deliberation because I was almost out of money and if I wanted to go south again, I would have to do it on foot.
That wasn’t the last time someone’s behavior influenced me into not jumping. Something like that happened early into my journey to Gas Works Park. But I’ll write about that later. There are some other details about that trip through Oregon that I want to describe, but I’ll save that for later too. This is exhausting. I have been fighting with this for years now. I just wish I could get back to work and feel again like I am making a difference. Only then can I get back into my Ironman triathlon pursuits. I was planning to complete at least one Ironman triathlon every year until I get too old to finish one. That is the good life for me. This, today, these past few years, is just torture. What have I become? Who am I? Is this all happening because I have become The Runaway Geek? When will I know what is going on? I don't care whether people stop doing what they were doing, giving me all those clues, it is too late for stopping to do any good. What I have to know is why they were doing it in the first place.
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}}}}} JOURNAL ARCHIVE: Saturday, September 03, 2005 5:59 PM
Maybe tomorrow.
Maybe I'll hear something from somebody tomorrow.
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}}}}} JOURNAL ARCHIVE: Saturday, September 03, 2005 6:54 PM
Henry laughed defiantly.
Literature Network>Jack London>White Fang>Chapter 2
Henry laughed defiantly. "I ain't been trailed this way by wolves before, but I've gone through a whole lot worse an' kept my health. Takes more'n a handful of them pesky critters to do for yours truly, Bill, my son."
Last summer, when I was feeling more confusion than despair, I put that excerpt into my journal to try to cheer myself up. The better part of my youth before the military was spent trekking through the wooded swamps of south Arkansas evading the cottonmouths and copperheads and other pesky critters in pursuit of adventure worthy of a Jack London novel. That was freedom out there despite the danger. My favorite story from London was To Build A Fire. I thought about that story a lot during my youth as I stood at my deer stand with frozen toes. White Fang is a close second and I remember admiring Henry in that story.
I was reminded of that journal entry I made last year when I was reading yesterday about the Google-Microsoft lawsuit over one of their suits. There is something in there about Google wanting to chase that guy "like wolves" and it just reminds of how much I wonder who was reading my journal. I've known it was happening for a long time, I just didn't know who was doing it. Eventually I would realize that I have the same level of privacy as Truman Burbank. And it just keeps getting worse. I can live through this I think, but damn, you spying bastards could at least do something to take the edge off all this. I can visualize you all out there scratching your heads saying to someone else "We've tried nothing and we're all out of ideas."
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}}}}} JOURNAL ARCHIVE: Saturday, September 03, 2005 7:30 PM
Chechaquo
This is an excerpt from To Build A Fire that made an impression with me early on and has felt especially relevant for the past few years:
But all this--the mysterious, far-reaching hairline trail, the absence of sun from the sky, the tremendous cold, and the strangeness and weirdness of it all--made no impression on the man. It was not because he was long used to it. He was a new-comer in the land, a chechaquo, and this was his first winter. The trouble with him was that he was without imagination. He was quick and alert in the things of life, but only in the things, and not in the significances. Fifty degrees below zero meant eighty odd degrees of frost. Such fact impressed him as being cold and uncomfortable, and that was all. It did not lead him to meditate upon his frailty as a creature of temperature, and upon man's frailty in general, able only to live within certain narrow limits of heat and cold; and from there on it did not lead him to the conjectural field of immortality and man's place in the universe. Fifty degrees below zero stood for a bite of frost that hurt and that must be guarded against by the use of mittens, ear-flaps, warm moccasins, and thick socks. Fifty degrees below zero was to him just precisely fifty degrees below zero. That there should be anything more to it than that was a thought that never entered his head.
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