In this dream, I was with a friend, JP. JP loves to read E2, but he is not himself a noder. Apparently, we had acquired corporate offices for E2 and JP and I were going to see them.

JP and I were in the lobby of a big office complex. A lot of my dreams wind up in these kinds of places now—I have no idea why this is. I don’t work in one, and haven’t in many years. They seem to have replaced malls as my dream spot of choice.

So JP asked me "Since I’m not a noder, how often do I need to fill out the log paperwork?" This made sense in the dream, and I told him that management just wants him to fill out a log sheet once a week, for troubleshooting purposes. As I say, it all made sense in the dream.

My friend and I arrived at a stairwell. There was a box on the wall, about the size and shape of a fuse box. I opened it and there were small, thin Post-it stickers in there. I knew I was supposed to write my name on one, but I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to put my real name or my noder name. I saw that the most recent one was signed "Heisenberg" so I put my noder name, stuck it inside the box and headed up the stairs. JP was getting ahead of me.

The suite of offices was pretty darned nice! Not opulent, but cozy and clean, fairly spacious. There was an office with the words "Linux Development" on the door. A big bearded guy hugged me affectionately and told me that it was good to see me (he did not seem all that familiar, maybe this was some sort of modified version of WiccanPiper, I know he’s one of those open source guys!). I did not have much time to be bewildered about his identity, as I was moving on.

Further down the corridor turned to the right; a thin, handsome blond man was coming out of an office. He shook my hand and told me it is good that I’m here. I asked him if I have an office and he told me that I share a "Junior Editor Suite" with Walter and Andrew Aguecheek. I remember thinking that it might be cool to meet those guys in person. I also remember, at about that point, thinking (for no reason I can discern) how I’m hoping that kthejoker and TheDeadGuy are there, so I can get some time to talk with them if possible.

I noticed a thing on the wall, framed and glassed, it says "We miss..." and a bunch of names I don’t recognize. Among them are a few I do, Sensei and Hermetic... possibly a couple of others, but the rest are gibberish. I looked for the name of a couple of friends who have left and couldn’t find them. This made me unaccountably angry.

There was a snack bar at the elbow of the corridor. There was a middle-aged woman running it. I remember wondering if she is a noder or if she wondered what the hell we do here.

At the end of the hall, there was a long table, like one might see in a boardroom. A big group is crowded around. I recognized kthejoker, Jack and several other estimable noders. I think Apatrix was there as well.I squeezed in to see what they are doing. Someone with a German accent was talking about how we are close to meeting our financial goals. I thought it was Heisenberg speaking, but I was not sure. Joker said we were within a couple of hundred dollars a month of making ends meet.

In this (purely fabricated) life, I apparently had some scratch. I spoke up and said that I could probably chip in 50 bucks or so toward the shortfall. I hoped no one would think I was flaunting my new-found money around, but people seemed heartened by this. Jack said that this would bring it close. The blond guy asked Jack if they could do something technical to the "server room."

I could vaguely remember seeing a bunch of computer-y equipment bolted to a wall in banks. I’m not very knowledgeable about such things in real life, so the dream did not make much sense.

Jack said that it shouldn’t be a problem to do whatever to these servers, but they’d have to be ... I don’t know, calibrated or adjusted. Some darn thing! So, I thought I’d go and find my friend. As I got up, I caught the gaze of a cute young woman. She smiled at me and slapped palms. I think she was supposed to be Savpixie.

One of my favourite high school teachers, the English teacher who encouraged me to write, had an office on this floor. It was a big office, spacious and filled with a jungle of tropical flowers—it was absolutely beautiful. I went in and saw that he was spraying them with water to keep them fresh. I was absolutely blown away by the office. I could actually smell all the flowers.

I woke up soon after that.

Tomer Falk, known here and in IRC as enwhysea, died last friday night and was interred yesterday afternoon. I intended to attend the funeral but woke up late and it was too hot.

Tomer was a controversal persona in the IRC community of #israel, Efnet. He served as a senior channel operator at certain times, and was stripped of his power during others. He enjoyed ensnaring trolls into traps that let him throw the book at them and ban them from the channel. This was one of his favorite games. In general, debate was an occupation he developed into an art.

I, for one, grew to like him during the years I got to know him. He used to ask me questions on religious topics, me being one of the few in the channel that know this area. He himself showed quite a deep knowledge and understanding in these topics, and my chats with him offered me a never-ending challenge.

During the last few years, when his illness broke out, he did not surrender to it. He struggled against it and the health institution as best as he could, continuing meanwhile to travel, engage in routine activities and have fun as much as his illness allowed. Never was he known to grumble or give up, and it was always fun to have him in the channel.

Though he wasn't religious, he asked me and others in the channel to pray for him. I have no idea whether he actually believed in the power of prayer, or did that because he realized it would let us feel we were doing what we could for him, thus giving us satisfaction. He actually once told me that that was the reason; I can't tell whether he was joking or not.

I'll miss my chats with him, his teasing, his mischievousness and his brilliant mind. I'll try to keep reciting mishna and psalms for his soul's benefit, as I've endeavored till now to pray for his recovery. May he rest in peace.

Well, my car was stolen yesterday which is somewhat inconvenient. After trying to get a hold of the police for about two or three hours (their non-emergency numbers appear to be non-functional on Sundays) I finally got an officer to stop by to take a report.

According to him, I have about a fifty percent chance of having the car recovered, but I'd like to imagine that my little Honda Civic is on a great journey down to Mexico that will end sort of like those cars in the Brave Little Toaster. But I have an active imagination, it's more likely being chopped to bits in some garage across the river somewhere.

I'm almost relieved. Not only do I now not have to pay the insurance for it, but I don't have to worry about it being broken into in the middle of the night (something that has happened twice), and I don't have to pay the 3.50 or whatever absurd price gasoline is this week. I hope the thieves (I imagine there were two of them, this has nothing to do with reality, just my mind's attempt to make the scene more interesting) like the minimal amount of gas in the tank I left in the tank for them and I hope their first thought when seeing the clothing stained with fake blood in the trunk is that the blood is real (an old Halloween costume I never removed).

The only thing I'm really missing is my George Clinton CD. I had lent it to a friend ages ago and got it back just Friday, but because I forgot to take it out of the car I no longer have it. This means I didn't have a chance to listen to it because one of the previous break-ins stole the car CD player. That time they also rifled through the glove box. I might have been fine with that because the radio and other valuables stolen are just nonsense and maybe the thief was only trying to make a living, but they also took a stick of half used deodorant which says to me that they were just dicks.

With the car stolen everything in it is gone. There was nothing valuable and so I'm not all that shaken up. I didn't buy it, my parents did as a high school graduation gift, so I've not lost any money. But it is inconvenient and now I've got to search for a job within walking distance, which rules out the Hastings at the intersection of Tramway and Candelaria where I was going to go today. Or, I suppose, I could brave Albuquerque's hellish (or rather really unreliable) public transit system and try to get up there that way.

I'm not sure if all of this is a good thing or a bad thing. After all, I really hate driving.


Update June 28, 2007: They found my car yesterday and I'm going to go down to a tow yard to pick it up later today once one of my parents get off work. It looks like the cops are good at something other than violating citizens' fourth amendment rights.

Loving genealogy as I do, I was thrilled when my now-dead great uncle started sending me family photographs; excerpts from the family Bible in Pommern, a Prussian province; correspondence; etc. Included was a letter from 1923, sent from my great-grandfather Frederick to his wife, my great-grandmother Lucile. She’s been dead since ’69, and he since not long after that. It was so long ago, and yet they weren’t much older than I am now when they wrote it. I don’t know what he was doing in South Carolina, but he left his wife and two young children home in Ohio. They’re all dead now, except for my Grandpa, and he wasn’t born yet when this letter was written. And it’s the most beautiful, sincere love letter. It’s delicious, and makes my heart glad: [ All spelling and grammatical errors have been noted with a ‘sic.’ I want to preserve the integrity of Grandpa Juergens' letter to the best of my ability.].


“My dear Wifey: I am at the Shandoz Hotel, York, S.C., the end of the rainbow but not any gold and the end of anything you might mention, but seein’ as how the O. Henry Hotel furnishes so much nicer stationery and further seein’ as how I am well supplied with said nice stationery I will proceed to slobber a smitherin’ bit of colored water over said nice stationery. Nice stationery and nice writing is food for the eyes. Well this is not intended for starving glimmers but from an aching heart and I believe my scribbling will partly relieve the heart pains that exist in the heart of the one receiving this, realizing that it will take embraces & kisses from the one who is writing this to soothe the craving in the heart of the reader.

My, what a terrible line (or lines) that is. Yet ‘tis true. York, S.C. does not appeal to me this much (.) and that represents a fly speck (sic). Andrews, N.C. may be worse, but it appealed to me ten times more than this place does, and you know I’ll be tickled to death to leave it. And ‘tis true that, sweet as my letters may be, they do not satisfy to the extreme. Only will my person do that.

I am awful sorry that I am not going to be home tomorrow. Tomorrow morning at 6:13 our second happiest moment in our life had passed begun? 3 years ago. The first had been four years ago next Friday. The third last Valentine day; even tho (sic) it turned out to be a boy, you were happy, weren’t you dear? And I am sure the noble little son is all that could be expected of any child his age. I hope he runs circles around your little second cousin of the Rubber City. I hardly expect it of him but it would more than please me if he does. Shirley is three tomorrow and I’ll think lots of her. What a little mite she was (and is yet) and what a time we had that Sunday! And how on 3 years ago this evening the Magsig’s set up the hand coal stove and I tried and tried to start a fire, suceeding (sic) finally. And I will think of you too, dear. How brave you were and how pleased you were when you knew it was a girl and was all okeh (sic).

I am a terrible moody husband am I not, always dissatisfied, always growling, always pouting. “Distance lends enchantment.” It does, does it? Regardless I just feel like pouring out my very heart to you tonight. I just feel like I (sic) 93 million miles from nowhere, in a stuffy P.& B. (pitcher & bowl) room of a little old two horse town hotel. I can’t get used to the way they serve meals down here. They stick a piece of chicken before you and then surround it with about eight side dishes. Not so at the O. Henry. Anyway dear, don’t worry about me starving or getting thin. I certainly am not. I don’t mean that I am getting fat. Just holding my own.

In a telegram from the office this morning they mentioned you were staying at Martin until I come home. I have sent a couple letters to you at our home and also a couple cards to the kiddies and a birthday card to Shirley. I hope you will get them somehow. I hope Bliss told you I was coming here so that you can write to me. Have had only two letters from you and not a line from the office. Of course, don’t take it that I am blaming you dear. You can’t send a letter to F.W. Juergens, Somewhere, N.C. or S.C. I might not get it. But if they’re sending me some other place from here they ought to tell you in time so that you can write.

The situation here is such that I can’t tell how long I’ll be here. It is a $2,000,000.00 road issue and is being contested by a few. They had an all day session today and will have another tomorrow. I don’t know whether it will close by the end of tomorrow or not. Anyway, I hope so. I’d like to catch the Royal Palm out of Atlanta Thursday morning. To catch it I must leave here tomorrow night. I ought to write to the office tonight but there isn’t much more I could tell them than what I died in my telegram to them tonight. After court session tomorrow I may know something.

I believe I have about spoken my piece tonight and my hand is getting heavy again. So I’ll close with this thought.

Oodles of love and kisses, until I arrive home. Birthday greetings to Shirley and a bump on the nose for our son:

Your Hubby. And Daddy.


It was all so long ago, and yet it doesn’t depress me. Lucile, “Hubby,” Shirley, and the bouncing baby boy, all dead now. It makes me feel incredibly lucky to hold a piece of my family’s past in my hands and read a letter from a loving young husband to his wife.

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