Our assignment for Art class, due on Wednesday, is to draw another self-portrait, this time in a distortive, reflective surface. This doesn't thrill me, because, were I to make a list of twenty-seven things I was interested in drawing, I wouldn't be on the list anywhere.

But that's the assignment, so that's what I must do. Of course, tomorrow night is D&D, so I have to do the bulk of the assignment tonight.

I have found that there are surprisingly few reflective surfaces in my house. There are mirrors in the bathrooms, and one in the larger bedroom. Mirrors, however, have a minimum of distortion, which was the other requirement of the assignment.

I'm thinking about using my sword blade. It's only a narrow strip, only enough to see my eyes, really, but that should be enough, since she was fussing at us for using a symbol of eyes, rather than what our eyes actually looked like.

She also says that I don't get enough variation in my color palatte, not enough depths of grey. So I need to see what I can do about that.

Part of my problem is that I'm supposed to be working with charcoal, and I end up making smudgies all over... it's not a very neat material, and it's very hard to keep the color where I want it to be, in the proportions I want it.

Bugger all for a lark.

I've decided that, rather than considering dropping the class, I'll see if I can take it pass / fail. That way, a poor grade (and yes, I consider a C to be a poor grade) won't hurt me terribly.

As I was on the bus today, going back to work after class, I was thinking about Alfred Bester. Not the PsiCop from Babylon 5, but the science fiction author for whom that character was named.

He wrote a number of interesting books, including The Stars, My Destination and Demolished Man. Both of those books deal with psychic abilities... the first, primarily with teleportation; the second, primarily with telepathy.

As a Star Wars fan and a player of fantasy role playing games such as Dungeons and Dragons, I've spent a fair amount of time thinking about psychic powers.

When I was younger, I was very open minded about such things. I hoped that they existed, hoped that I would see evidence of them in my life. I had dreams of being a Jedi Knight, of having those powers for myself.

Of course, I also dreamed of having Green Lantern's power ring, and Spiderman's ability to crawl walls.

As I've grown, gotten older, I've come to realize that psychic powers are about as common in the real world as Green Lantern's rings. And, honestly, I now think this is a good thing.

The other night at D&D we were joking about some of the uses the Jedi Mind Trick and a Jedi's telekenisis could be put to. (vague waving motion) "You want to have sex with me." (vague waving motion) "It was the best sex you've ever had." (vague waving motion) "You want to have sex with me again as soon as you can."

I am glad that no one has that power. No one can plant suggestions in my mind. No one can move things without touching them. No one can read my lecherous thoughts about her while I'm discussing films... or whatever.

In The Stars, My Destination there's a character who is a telepath, but no one wants to be around her... because she has a flaw... she broadcasts, only. Everything. Every stray thought, every doubt, every everything, picked up by everyone around her, all the time.

I imagine that a society of telepaths would be like that. It wouldn't be a case of universal acceptance, I don't think, but of universal disguist, as all our polite social masks were stripped away.

(vague waving motion). You read this entry. It was the best you've ever read.

When I was a child, my heros wore distinctive outfits... spandex, or steel.

In the first class were Green Lantern, Batman and, of course, Spiderman. A friend and I invented our own superheros, loosely based on Lightning Lad from the Legion of Superheros.

In the second class were Lancelot du Lac, Don Quixhote de la Mancha, and Hercule Savien de Cyrano de Bergerac. (Later, I took to calling myself Cyrano de Tucson, but that's a digression).

The two classes of men are remarkably similar. Both are exceptional individuals, who believe that, with great power, comes great responsiblity. Wether striving to be the perfect Paladin or just beating up evildoers in a Gotham night, they believed, and acted upon the belief, that because they had the might, they must act in defense of right.

Robert "Uncle Bob" Heinlein was an advocate of this same idea. If you read Space Cadet or Starship Troopers, you will understand that he believed strongly that it was the responsiblity of the citizen to defend the society... and more, that it was the responsiblity of exceptional citizens to take exceptional roles in that defense.

These thoughts, this basic belief, played a big part in my joining the Navy, in choosing to spend years behind the mast. I served in Desert Storm, and finally got out when that was over. (If any conflict in the middle east can ever be truly said to be over).

I went to an FBI recruiting seminar, shortly after I got out, only to find that my hearing problem made me an unacceptable candidate.

Tonight, childofsnow and I are going to see the Spiderman movie. For me, it's again; for her, the first time.

I know what Spiderman represents to me... I'll be interested in discussing with her, after the movie, what he represents to her.

---

We had lunch today with the new candidate for our department's post-doc position. He's taller than I am (which is somewhat rare... I'm on the right side of the bell curve), he's blonde, young, and well-muscled. He has a Ph.D.

He's also a really nice guy, and a great conversationalist. I hope he gets the job... but I'm making a note not to introduce him to auophir.

Last Monday, I was on a city bus, coming home from work. I often ride the bus to and from work... it keeps me from getting uptight about being run over during rush hour by some idiot who would claim he never saw my bright blue motorcycle. Plus, I get to read.

Anyway, I was on the bus, coming home from work. The bus stopped outside one of the local malls, and a really pretty woman got on. I glanced up long enough to notice her, then went back to my reading.

She settled in, and after a moment, asked me where I'd gotten my T-shirt.

I looked to see what shirt I was wearing. It was from a comic book, Dawn, Return of the Goddess. I'd bought it in a comic book shop in New York City, and said so.

She expressed disappointment, and we talked a little about comics and so forth, and she mentioned that she worked as a manager in a store in the mall where she'd gotten on the bus.

She got off the bus not far from my neighborhood.

Yesterday, Friday, I went over to the mall. I had every intention of asking her out. I walked into her store.

She was at the counter, selling stuff to people. I wandered around. It was kind of busy. I looked at stuff on the shelves, waited for things to calm down some, for her to get a chance to come out from behind the counter.

It didn't calm down. I listened to her talking to people, dealing with people, and was impressed.

Eventually, I left. Without talking to her.

I thought that cornering her at work and asking her out was way too... stalkerish. She's pretty much stuck there, after all.

And I wouldn't want me hitting on me at work. I'm not sure I'd want me hitting on me anywhere.

I came home, puttered about for a while, went to bed. I had a dream, sort of a montage of the crap that has happned to me in past 'romantic' relationships, and remembered all the reasons why I'm single.

I'm only lonely when I'm riding in my car. I'm only lonely when I watch my TV. I'm only lonely occasionally.

When Cowboy R (that would be me, but it sounds far more chic to talk about yourself in third person, doesn't it?) was in his early twenties, he fell in love.

Rebecca was an amazing woman, full of laughter and wit. She was also full of something which rhymes with wit, but Cowboy R didn't notice that until after she used him to get what she wanted from her frat-boy boyfriend, and left Our Hero with a broken heart.

The point is, I was in love. (Okay, I'm done with the literary pretention of talking about myself in the third person... adjust). I think that, had I asked Rebecca to marry me on the night I realized I was in love, and, of course, had she accepted, we might still be married, because I loved her, and I had faith in that love.

Now, in my early thirties, I don't seem to have much faith in anything enduring.

For another example... I used to have a friend who wrote a comic strip for a college paper. The art was perhaps not perfectly polished, but the strip itself was damn funny... biting, insightful, it said something.

The friend changed names, genders, and locations. Dropped out of touch. Kept writing the strip, though, having graduated from college, the publishing venue changed.

The strip got boring. It's not about anything anymore. It's not insightful. It's not funny.

The ancient Greek philosophers had their own version of entropy. They believed that everything started with a Golden Age, in which all things were fine and perfect, then degraded into a silver age, when things were pretty good, and then degraded into... well, you get the idea.

When I was a boy, comic books cost a quarter. The stories weren't much, and the art wasn't anything special, but I was enthralled. Spiderman and the Green Lanteren were special favorites of mine.

Now, the comic books are much better in terms of production values. They're well written, on the whole; they're well drawn, well published. And they cost ten times more.

In those days, I walked down to Circle K to buy them. Now, I ride to a specialized comic shop.

In those days, I had a no-name, second hand bicycle that I was proud of. Today, I have a Suzuki Bandit motorcycle that I'm always worrying will break down when I can't afford to fix it.

Life changes.

Not always for the better.