I once had a friend.

He was an ex-boyfriend, actually, but we became and remained very close friends for more than a decade after our split.

Then he died.

I may be losing my mind, but at least I look good doing it.

But that’s not the story. The story is that for many years, he worked for the Swiss postal service (oh, he was Swiss, by the way), a duty he called ‘going postal.’ I could never fully discern if he understood what we meant by that, but it always amused me either way. You’d be talking to him on the phone, and he’d notice the time and announce, “I need to go postal.” or “Time for me to go postal.”

So anyway, I bring this up because originally, this was going to open with a quote from the artist Guagin, but I decide to cut instead to the chase with a full confession that THIS SOLITARY CONFINEMENT SH*T IS MAKING ME CRAZY.

You heard it here first: I am beginning to tilt in the direction of a Stephen King novel. And by that I mean my mental state, not what I myself am working on.

That tree behind me is one of the main desert finch stomping grounds. I may have to blow it up.

Seriously, how do people do this?

It’s a real double-edged sword.

I’m getting lots of work done.

But I’m starting to really wish someone else was here so I could chase them around with an axe through a snow maze.

At least it’d be a change of scenery.

Hell, I’d play Big Wheel with some evil dead twins or chat with the mildly intimidating Lloyd for hours if the opportunity arose.

Yeah. All work and no play make Vanessa go something something.

In other news, and to make use of what’s already been typed:

“Go on working freely and furiously and you will make progress.”

–Paul Gaugin

Note that progress does not mean that you will have ultimate success or that said product will be viable. That stated, I agree with Monsieur Gaugin wholeheartedly. I have made progress.

The accidental homewrecker upon the magic stairs.

I have not stopped to edit jack sh*t (despite my pledges to myself to the contrary), but as of today I will have written seventeen chapters. Out of 30. 57%. Heinz 57. (I don’t think I’ve ever tasted it, but how can there really be 57 flavors in that? What is it anyway? Some kind of ketchup? Barbeque sauce? Besides, who would even put 57 ingredients in something? That’s absurd. What, do they think we’re stupid?)

Anyway, as I mentioned, 17 chapters assuming I lather, rinse, repeat as usual today. So there’s that.

I think I saw a movie on Gaugin once. He was the one who went and lived in Central America and the Carribbean in kind of a strange and primitive manner when that was totally unheard of and super uncivilized for a European, right? And he may have looked like Keifer Sutherland?

Meanwhile, greetings from Day 18.

Out of 26 days.

Well, 26 complete complete days, if you’re counting only complete days.

Which I am.

Playing guitar, trying not to stare directly at the psychedelic sofa, and slowly turning the color of the walls in this joint.

The reasoning for doing so – as I barrel toward the end of this time – is the dawning realization that  30 chapters in 26 days is too much.

Especially as it seems that every weekend (last week being on Sunday, this week being on Saturday) my brain goes on strike, and I don’t even get a whole chapter done. And I have an increasing desire to at least see a little of the area (La Paz, Cabo beaches, etc.) before I’m gone. And not be here next Saturday night when the owners are around.

So I figure if my brain is going to be non-cooperative, it may as well have some fun.

To whit, the two lost days have sucked big time. Last Sunday I was in a total funk (hormonal, in hindsight), and on Saturday the interruption was caused by my landlord.

I’ve mentioned him before. And I’m pretty sure I mentioned that I wasn’t a big fan.

Beautiful ocean on a sunny day. I will say, the weather here kicks some serious ass.

Now I’m less of a fan.
Let’s just say it’s not worth the time to explain in detail, but in general it has to do with widespread inadequacies in the rental situation and rust stains and motor vehicle issues topped off with his coming over here Saturday to announce that he’s apparently getting a divorce and I – the woman renting this house who doesn’t particularly enjoy his presence and has spoken to him a collective 40 minutes in the nearly three weeks I’ve been here – is in some part the cause.

Yeah, you read that right.

He basically interrupted a short-term rental tenant on a Saturday morning to blame his impending divorce on her.

I mean…what???

Apparently the Mexican wife thinks it’s a ‘set up’ that I’m staying here and is upset, and has moved out, and left their two and ten-year old boys behind, and (he implied) thinks we’re having an affair.

I’m not even going to get into the last part of that sentence because, to be completely honest with you, it makes me feel ill, and it’s too early in the morning to be all nauseated.

One of those bastard birds.

However, if Senora Einstein wanted to check her facts, I would pose but one key question: “If it’s a set up, why in god’s name have I paid you guys all this money?”

Hell, I think I’m the one being set up.

Anyway, lame and unwelcome and unwelcoming and gets my mind wondering why is he telling me this? Is it to be like, “Hey baby, I’m single now.”(And note: I may be going The Shining crazy over here, but not that crazy), and if I have to hear one more word about it, I’m going to run out into the yard and bite the head off of one of these noisy ass desert finches Ozzy Osbourne style.

Actually, I might do that anyway.
Those f*ckers have ruined my sleep for weeks now.

They let out these blood curdling shrieks at all hours of the night that wake me from a deep slumber and scare the living crap out of me and they make this other noise like a jackhammer and they then launch into what I can only assume is a mating call at sunrise (roughly 6:30am) every morning, and I”m over it. They’re dead to me.

Done.

Fini.

Kaput.

Eating some banana bread I made (and without any way to measure and no baking pan and in a Celcius oven...but still it worked out. Must be the magic stairs) and totally matching the walls. You see it too, right???

Those babies’ days are numbered. I’m taking them out Mexican drug lord style, whatever that means.

Anyway, that reminds me, the other day I was talking to Grady, and I was trying to figure out how long he’d been staying at the casita and he was like, ‘I’m not staying in the casita, you live in the casita.”

And I was like, “No, I don’t live here. I’m just visiting for a few weeks while I write this book.”

And he’s all, “”You have always lived in the casita.  I should know. I’ve always been here.”

And then I looked at some pictures of myself and noted that I have started to match the walls of the casita in an apparent concrete Mexican shack/human chameleon spooky-ass oneness, and I realized that Grady was right.

Ah, those crazy kids. What will they think of next?

Apparently the unstable portion of the population that isn’t shooting up schools and Christmas parties or quietly beating their head against the padded wall have taken an foreboding interest in science:

Amateurs are trying genetic engineering at home

SAN FRANCISCO – The Apple computer was invented in a garage. Same with the Google search engine. Now, tinkerers are working at home with the basic building blocks of life itself.

Using homemade lab equipment and the wealth of scientific knowledge available online, these hobbyists are trying to create new life forms through genetic engineering — a field long dominated by Ph.D.s toiling in university and corporate laboratories.

In her San Francisco dining room lab, for example, 31-year-old computer programmer Meredith L. Patterson is trying to develop genetically altered yogurt bacteria that will glow green to signal the presence of melamine, the chemical that turned Chinese-made baby formula and pet food deadly.

“People can really work on projects for the good of humanity while learning about something they want to learn about in the process,” she said.

So far, no major gene-splicing discoveries have come out anybody’s kitchen or garage.

But critics of the movement worry that these amateurs could one day unleash an environmental or medical disaster. Defenders say the future Bill Gates of biotech could be developing a cure for cancer in the garage.

Many of these amateurs may have studied biology in college but have no advanced degrees and are not earning a living in the biotechnology field. Some proudly call themselves “biohackers” — innovators who push technological boundaries and put the spread of knowledge before profits.

In Cambridge, Mass., a group called DIYbio is setting up a community lab where the public could use chemicals and lab equipment, including a used freezer, scored for free off Craigslist, that drops to 80 degrees below zero, the temperature needed to keep many kinds of bacteria alive.

Co-founder Mackenzie Cowell, a 24-year-old who majored in biology in college, said amateurs will probably pursue serious work such as new vaccines and super-efficient biofuels, but they might also try, for example, to use squid genes to create tattoos that glow.

Cowell said such unfettered creativity could produce important discoveries.

“We should try to make science more sexy and more fun and more like a game,” he said.

Patterson, the computer programmer, wants to insert the gene for fluorescence into yogurt bacteria, applying techniques developed in the 1970s.

She learned about genetic engineering by reading scientific papers and getting tips from online forums. She ordered jellyfish DNA for a green fluorescent protein from a biological supply company for less than $100. And she built her own lab equipment, including a gel electrophoresis chamber, or DNA analyzer, which she constructed for less than $25, versus more than $200 for a low-end off-the-shelf model.

Jim Thomas of ETC Group, a biotechnology watchdog organization, warned that synthetic organisms in the hands of amateurs could escape and cause outbreaks of incurable diseases or unpredictable environmental damage.

“Once you move to people working in their garage or other informal location, there’s no safety process in place,” he said.

Some also fear that terrorists might attempt do-it-yourself genetic engineering. But Patterson said: “A terrorist doesn’t need to go to the DIYbio community. They can just enroll in their local community college.”

Okay, people. Let’s review the facts here.

Conducting genetic engineering in your basement never ends well.  Science is neither sexy nor fun nor a game. Sure, it’s exciting when the green phosphorescent protein arrives in the mail and you have visions of winning a Nobel Prize. But I implore you, put down the test tube and reflect on what history has taught us:

1. The Island of Dr. Moreau – Didn’t you see this? Admittedly, it’s borderline unbearable…but it also serves as a nice, firm warning against messing with Mother Nature.
2. I Am Legend – A much better movie than the above, but a good reminder that viruses are not playthings.
3. Spider Man – where did the radioactive spider come from? That’s right. Some jerk was probably cooked it up in a basement somewhere.
4. Austin Powers II: The Spy Who Shagged Me – Need I remind you that Mini Me is a botched attempt to clone Dr. Evil? Probably done in Frau Farbissina’s backyard shed.
5. Silence of the Lambs - A serial killer raises moths in his basement so that he can stuff the cocoons down his victims’ throats. Admittedly, this wasn’t genetic engineering, but I think it proposes an alarming chicken and the egg dilemma. Did he start raising the moths because he decided to serial kill and figured this would be a super gross little extra OR was he raising moths and realized he needed to start killing because he had too many cocoons lying around and needed a clever way to get rid of some of them? It’s a slippery slope… (and yes, I realize this is the second time in two days I’ve mentioned Silence of the Lambs.)
6. Jurassic Park I, II, and III – I rest my case.

Look, if this cinematic morality play isn’t enough to convince you, let me give it to you straight: I have no desire to try the new vaccine you whipped up in your coat closet, and I will not be eating any phosporescent yogurt. I can read the expiration date just as well as the next guy. I am a tiny bit interested in the tattoos that glow in the dark, but not enough to spend the last years of my life fighting off undead, flesh eating Dark Seekers. Please, I beg of you: Take that money and invest it in something useful. Like a Bedazzler.