With exception of a site map which may or may not ever get made, the deepsicks overhaul is complete. As stated in prior posts, much of the content is the same, only arranged differently with a so-I-hope sharper feel. Pages with significantly altered content include the identity section, updated to reflect my current musings, and instrumental to change, which is now much closer to the original envisioning of the space. Please note that I reconstructed d6 with best viewing at 1024 x 768 (it had been 800 x 600); I tried best I could to make nothing look too out of whack for the smaller resolution, but some pages fall short—or rather, too large. The takeover took much longer than anticipated but I am pleased with the result—something I’m proud to display and okay with letting lie.

As I told Fake, I love deepsicks but often just want it to die. The redesign was done to leave a beautiful corpse behind. It is my intent to become post-Internet—use what is useful and kill what is not, the way postpunk is more than one-dimensional, postrock still rocks but not the radio, the way you could rip a hole through postmodernism if only it would recognize it. This is not yet another anti-Internet stage. This is the deliberate cutting of the firewire in my brain to cross it with my hopes, not my anxieties—to twist it to desire, not distraction. There may even be more d6 updates than usual in the future—hard to say. I look forward to wearing fully this ideal (which has been difficult, rebuilding a website and all). Since the new year I’ve felt much better, more positive about where I am and where I’m going, and severing past distractions and engaging in new activities has been a huge part of it.

For instance: I’m taking a hip hop dance class through community ed. Taught by a pale, skinny, ambiguously gay but for damn sure lilty guy with orange hair, it should’ve been called White Girls in Crosstrainers Get Slutty, Giggle Madly, and Complain about Crunches. It’s awesome. I’ve never done choreographed dance. T’ain’t easy, but I’m catching on—for the purpose of the class, of course. I doubt I’ll be introducing these skillz into my freestyle repertoire anytime soon, nor do I anticipate clubbing to the likes of J-Lo and Usher. But could anyone, seriously rightfully willfully, pass up the opportunity to practice her gangster walk and pelvic shim-shimmy in a Minneapolis miniature elementary school gym? Aw, hell no, dawg. Hell no.

I’m also taking a yoga class (gentle, beginning—none of that ninja Ashtanga power crap; I want to learn how to breathe, not instantly die). I was indecisive about whether to enroll, not keen on committing another evening. The day before the first class, still mulling the prospect, I paged through a newspaper at work and hit the horoscopes. I don’t read my horoscope. I mean… really. Come on. But I did that day, and it said, no lie, “Take a yoga class.” I wasn’t looking for a sign but could hardly argue with it. The class so far has been good. The best for me is it’s in the same place I do hip hop. One night I’m sweat-drip hip-sashaying, cross leg step spinning, and another, I’m silent tucked in child’s pose, my brow to the mat and my organs all over the floor.

In other news, a couple of weeks ago I cut my finger at work while trimming out a proof, carving out a flap I nearly sliced off with an X-acto. It bled monstrously, warranting a trip to urgent care (plus how else would I get a company-sponsored urine test to ensure I wasn’t drunk or high?). As the doc tested wound depth, I nearly passed out—up there with the oddest, most awful sensations I’ve experienced. My legs went numb then torso, arms, stupefied solid with supernatural weight, and it took a long time. The buddha said b r e a t h e and I heard myself heavy, separated, deep on the other side of the room suck the sterile air. The edges of the flap were too thin and dead-ready to stitch, so I got steri-stripped up, shot with anti-tetanus and sent home. I thought I’d be a smartass and work on d6 but after a couple hours nausea overtook me and I slept the rest of the sun.

In The Teaching Emotion, the fiend cuts the soles of the narrator’s feet with an X-acto. I was hesitant while writing this vis-à-vis accuracy. It was not something I wanted to workshop, but I couldn’t be sure, is an X-acto craft knife sharp enough, the blade itself strong enough, to slice without effort through skin?

Yes. Yes, it is.

Lastly, a hearty shoutout to Gmail. The conversation organization is stellar. I love it. Never shall I return to the tyranny of no search function. Anyone care to join me? I have six gmail invites—contact me and become a believer.