Tales of Woe

I’m posting to a dead site in the night time.  It makes me want to cry.

Nobody has written on this site since 2005.   Once Six Mile Village was a popular site with hundreds of hits per day.  People would write poetry and stories.  Rodney would complain about any and every thing he came across (but allowed the content to be posted on the site as an administrator).  Steph would show up bi-annually.  People I respect wrote opinions.  The site was doing great without me.

Now it’s really dead.  This old content sits here and occasionally attracts a hit from random search engines.

I thought that once we got the site up again some people would come back.  But somehow the glue is gone.  Maybe it’s the format.  Because this is a blogging website.  Maybe.  Yet it’s just as easy to write here, and you don’t have to wait for approval.  It’s up.  Maybe it’s me.  Maybe the old site was Rodney’s and when it died and he didn’t come back nobody else did either.  And I’m not exactly provocative when I write.  I’m too main-stream.

So now it’s a site that has about 2 writers, 6 readers, and 5 or 6 search engine hits per day.

So much for village.

And so I go off and mourn melodramatically to a site that feels as empty as an old warehouse.  And the only people who will read this are the hopelessly addicted websurfer, and the person who unwittingly signed up for this site’s RSS feed and haven’t got anything from it in months.


And if you do read this, and you do get to the end, and you feel like writing something that would fit on this page, or the new one, please write.  I’ll be happy to add you as an author on this page.  I don’t care who you are.  I almost don’t even care what you write.

Anyway, this is my late night rant against abandoned electronic real estate.



Original article posted by gandhi2:

I have been drawn towards news of the Sumatra tsunami of late. As some of you know, I have spent some time in Thailand. Most of this was spent in Bangkok, ostensibly going to school. Before this, however, I was vacation, mostly in South Thailand. In two seconds of footage, I was able to recognize one of the places that I visited, the Phi Phi islands, nested about halfway up the leg of Thailand by a small bay of land. The island that I stayed on the most, Phi Phi Don, is about 2-3km across, and about 3-5km north to south. From the footage, I could see the exact bungalow I slept in for 3 nights, the place that I had some tasty fish, the boats that taxied visitors in 50 miles from dry land, the dozens of outdoor dining areas. When I went there a couple years ago, I guessed around 500-1000 tourists/natives workers were on the island at any given time. Nearly the entire thing was covered by more than 50ft of water.
The other major place to get hit was Phuket, another small island but big tourist site. I remember distinctly visiting Patong Beach, on the west side of the island. There was some really good sushi, lots of fake Armani suit vendors, and British guys hitting on the local transexuals. There was a strip of beach more than two miles long where vendors would go to sell some ripoff cheapass product for 1/10 the American price to tourists. You could walk to the beach from the open-air market in less than 20 paces. I’m guessing conservatively that over 750 natives made a living on that 2 mile+ long strip of land, and considering the time of day, were there when the waves came rolling over.
Fortunately, the two main places I was originally concerned about were not hit so hard. I stayed with a friend’s family in the small, mostly Muslim town(I can’t remember the name) near Patanni, in the far south of the leg of Thailand. Her grandmother was really funny and, I kicked her tubby little brother’s butt and DDR, and her mother’s Arabic coffee that was served every morning for the 3 days we were there… I’ve yet to find a worthy substitute in the States.
The other place that I was worried about was Bangkok. Again, this area was sheltered from the waves by the leg of Thailand. Most of the deaths are on the west coast. I haven’t heard much from the friend whose family took me in and supported my freeloading American ass for six months. Apparently his mom, dad, and little brother are OK.
Anyways, I know that Greg is pretty far away from the direct effects of the quake, but it’d ease my mind to hear he is OK.

P.S. It appears that I’ll have to keep up on this site if I want to hear the latest in people’s life. Sometimes I get quite caught up in the routine dull drudgery of life, parenthood, school, work, etc. MOST of you(who would care) have my phone number. Consider this an invitation to call and let me know personally how you are doing.

Orginal comments:

Nickname: Cornelius
Re: When Something Hits Close to Home
Greg is fine, just so you know.

Original article posted by AnaNg:

I used to think pregnant women were taking advantage of being pregnant by not doing as much as they used to, by sitting down and resting all the time, by asking for help doing regular every-day tasks. I realize now that it’s not because they want to rest or ask for help – they truly can not do as much. It’s like suddenly becoming retarded (in the literal sense) after being whole and working hard your whole life. I thought my body was being weak. I thought I should be able to do more, so I ignored the screams of this temporal frame and pushed it harder. Work for 8 hours plus rush hour traffic for two, then home to make dinner, clean up and unpack a couple of boxes, spend time with my husband and then bed at 11:30 to wake up at 6 and start all over again. Add this to being 8 and 9 months pregnant. I realize now that I was running on reserve energy. I had no idea that pushing myself so hard for so long would cause toxemia. Luckily my doctor caught it at the very beginning and ordered immediate bed rest. He also sent me to the hospital for tests and threatened to induce labor. I’ll get the results on the fifth and find out then whether I will need to be induced early. If I do, I’m going to see if I can wait until the 10th, as it’s Joseph’s birthday. If not, I’ll see if the 5th will work, as it’s Greg’s birthday. The timing for my work schedule could be no worse. The lady who is supposed to cover for me had a death in her immediate family the same day I went for my check up so she won’t be in for a few weeks. I am not allowed to go to work and I am the only one who knows my job. Poor Jesus in the copy center is rather new and now has to do my job and his by himself. At least he knows his job. And he can email me the reports so that I can do them and email them back on time. Plus, we have just finished negotiations on a new Xerox contract for the Bureau of Reclamation and are going to install new copier/printers in a couple of weeks. Guess who knows most about networking and configuring the copiers? My boss is not a happy camper. I am glad, rather extremely grateful, that I do have a medical reason for not going to work and for getting to rest so much. It is a much needed break. And I thought I was a wimp. Sadly, my physical limitations do not change my desires. I still want to do everything. I lay in bed and think – the laundry needs to be done, What should we have for dinner?, I should be emptying boxes and organizing the house and getting the baby’s room ready. I need to vacuum, why haven’t I received the reports from work, they need to be emailed to the billing consultant in Chicago by 1:00. I get a headache just thinking about this. Even sadder still, I get up to unpack one box, and all I can do is walk down the hall and look at it before I get dizzy and naseaus and exhausted. I even have to type slowly and just sitting at the computer or riding in the car exhausts me. If nothing else, this exhaustion and not being able (not unwilling – just literally very unable) to do anything except rest and get bedsores will kill me. Even for all my gratefulness at being forced to rest I still feel slothful, and I hate it. I’m hoping that it will all go away after I have the baby and that I’ll be able to do everything again. I guess even Wonder Woman needs a break every now and then, but she doesn’t have to like it.

Orginal comments:

Nickname: Edward_Nigma
Re: Wonder Woman Has Fallen
Just wonder about your name, are you 1) A They Might Be Giants fan like myself. or 2) is it some language like togolog?

Nickname: AnaNg
Re: Wonder Woman Has Fallen
TMBG fan. Also I love the name Ana. So I couldn’t help it.

Original article posted by Minty:

I should know better than to share such things with you people. But I get the feeling that this, this sense of falling only gets worse with silence.

So I’ve been having panic attacks since December. And up until two days ago they were mild or triggered by something I could easily avoid if not shun. I did not think it was some kind of of physical healthy problem, just a ravingly intense fear that was caused by one bad experienced and heightened by others.

This Sunday evening I layed down to sleep at a friends house in Salt Lake and found I could hear my heart beating, once more I could not breath properly, my breath seemed too shallow and my chest hurt when I did manage to breath. Even now I have some pain but I suspect this has to do more with the onions I had for dinner…ah I’m getting off topic…damn…

Yes, back to the scary, err, panic stricken state of things.

I woke up my friend and proceded to pace and rant until she convinced me a warm shower would help.

It didn’t.

Once again I woke her up so we both went to her living room and sat in recliners until I asked for some asprin and around 4:30 am, fell asleep. I woke up the next morning feeling better but I still felt like I could topple into that abyss of panic at every moment.

The feeling gets better with the passing of days and I feel it is something that will most likely disapear by next weak. Still I’m scared a little even now and I dont know what’s going on. With my mind or my body. Rationaly theres no reason for this.

I am healthier now, I have lost weight, I don’t smoke, I don’t drink, and I don’t consume large amounts of stimulants.

So yes, thats about it all in a nutshell. Oh yeah, I skipped French becuase I finally got some decent sleep. Uhm, woot?

Also I shant be there tommorow either, I have an apointment.

And thats all the rant I have rave for.

Blessed Be and Such Things.

Orginal comments:

Nickname: badboyposer
Re: My Heart Betrays
Being involved with someone who has had panic attacks for the past 3 years, i feel I am not an expert but have some advice. Her panic attacks were brought on by certain things that happened to her when she was little, that she had suppressed, and then finally in her college years she started to remember that she had been sexually molested as a child by a male babysitter. She would have these panic attacks and would curl up in a fetal position and would wake up not knowing what happened. Since then she had learned to overcome this by going to therapy, not by taking drugs. She can talk herself out of them and they don’t occur anymore. She overcame them without the use of drugs and whoever takes drugs to overcome there so called mental illness needs to come and talk to me so that I can set them in the right way.

Nickname: arylaina
Yes, there is a reason for it
I’ve been down a similar path. I was going to just do a short reply, outlining my own adventure, as some sort of extended hand of comradeship, but I felt it deserved its own post. Please read; should be up sometime soon.

Original article posted by -soma-:

I feel old.
I didn’t feel old when I woke up this morning, after all, it only takes me fifteen minutes to get from my bed to British Lit every morning; it’s my youthful agility, thank you.

And I certainly don’t feel old in British Lit. I supply a substantial number of the useful comments in that class.

An hour in a room full of energetic, bright-eyed high school kids makes me feel old.

I benevolently volunteered to help out with the high school German competitions today. Woo wee… (Translation: I volunteered to stand in a room for an hour and pass out tokens to the first kid to yell out the correct answer to questions like “which of the following is not a traditional German food?” Hmmm… was I stuck in the room with all the kids who failed their language tests?)

It’s only been four years since I was in high school. I’m not supposed to feel old until I’m at least thirty (Sorry Hastings). I’m not supposed to notice signs of physical decay yet. Hell, I stay out of the sun. I don’t do that silly fake tanning stuff. Damn it.

Anway, so after my hour with the high school students, I glance in the mirror and realize that I am aging. (Yes Ryan, I Know. Everyone is Always aging). But I’m not supposed to realize it for another decade at least.

Well, I’m out of time. The writing center is now closed and I’m going home.

Original article posted by Chellee:

I have been sitting in this computer lab for the last ten minutes staring at the main page of sixmilevillage.com. I felt an incredible urge to write, and I suppressed it as long as I could. People across the table from me began to give me strange looks. I hadn’t moved at all, except for to blink or smooth my hair. I hadn’t touched the keyboard or mouse that rest in front of me.

I just had a terrible voice lesson. My teacher pissed me off, and I’m still on the verge of ripping his head off. Which is why I’m not in class right now. He also happens to conduct concert choir.

My mom calls to ask me if I’m okay, and I just want to snap. I know she really does care how I feel, but the main reason she calls is to make sure I will get good grades and therefore be able to maintain my scholarship.

But the thing that brought me to the point of needing to write something was triggered when I read Wendy’s writing about Anson. Although I didn’t know Anson, I still cried when I read about his murder. I’m the type of person who cries at a sad story. I can’t help it. I weep with those that weep, even if I don’t know who is weeping or why. I can directly relate almost every story to something that has happened or is happening to me. It kind of sucks, although it makes me very empathetic.

You see, I recently lost the best friend I’ve ever had. The one person who knows everything about me. The person from whom I’ve kept nothing. The first boy I ever loved, the first guy to break my heart, and the first person to comepletely break my shell. And now he is gone. And the worst part of it is that he’s not dead. Not his body, anyway. The spirit of him, his true self, died some time ago. I’m not sure exactly when.

At some point, he turned into the person who would lie to me about where he was last night, turn things on me and make me feel like a horrible person, lie to my family, his friends, his family; steal my car to have sex in it. A person who would try to tell me that he lied for my own good, lie to himself about the things he had done, and then thank me from the bottom of his heart for being his friend.

And what did I do? I let him go. I had to. He was killing me. He was bringing me down. I was lost. I didn’t realize that the person I thought was my best friend would be the one person whose attack would be most effective. I suppose it makes sense, though. Once I finally let someone inside the fortress, he broke it down. Broke me. And then he ran away. Because he knew exactly what he had done. He knew precisely whom he had made his foe. And a formidable foe she is. For now the weak spots have been rebuilt, and the walls of the fortress are higher than ever. Walls of anger, barricades of pain.

And yet, somewhere inside this fortress there is still the little girl who chased him out of her backyard, found him asleep underneath her kitchen table when his parents thought he had been kidnapped, defended him against bullies from preschool to college.

In the highest tower, there is a teenager who told him he was a fool for being heart broken over his first girlfriend, laughed when he said his first swearword, scolded him when he took his first drink, and told him again that he was a fool; this time for being broken-hearted about his first boyfriend.

And somewhere, past hidden passages, drifting doorways, and ancient crypts, locked away in the deepest dungeon, lies the young woman who dreamed of his happiness, hoped for his future, treated him like a brother, and will love him to the end.

Orginal comments:

Nickname: arylaina
Re: Saying Goodbye…
I know what you mean, and I can empathize. It’s like you run a spy organization, with all sorts of secret information and passwords and codes and things. The higher up in the organization you are, the higher the information you have access to. Not many people are allowed in; it’s fairly exlusive, and takes awhile to make it to the top.

And then your top agent, the one you’d trust with your life, turns out to be a double agent. They’re not necessarily working for the enemy (whoever that may be), but they’re not necessarily working for you, either. They’re working for themselves, and you can’t ever fully trust them again. You don’t know whether to let them go and hope they won’t betray you, or shoot them. “If I told you, I’d have to kill you.” How can you go on, knowing that pieces of information vital to the spy organization are running loose, and you don’t even know what pieces they took, or when they’ll emerge?

I admire you for your strength in knowing when to cut something off. All I can say is cherish the memories of the past, and know that that person will never die, as long as you keep them alive, whether it be in the dungeon, the tower, or the hidden linen closet in the servants’ quarters. Keep it locked up for a good long while, but don’t forget it’s in there. Things have a nasty habit of changing and mutating when left alone in musty closets. I know, I have a metaphorical house full of locked closets with who knows what lurking behind them.

Nickname: Stephanie
Re: Saying Goodbye…
And I cried reading this. Sometimes it’s harder to lose someone you love, but have them be alive somewhere in the world and not being that same person.
I feel your sadness in your words. And I hurt for you

Nickname: Chellee
Thank you
Thanks, girls, for feeling my pain. I really appreciate your comments and understanding!

Original article posted by thewendy:

Sunday night.
Formerly Blue Katz Coffee shop- the only place I seem to be able to write well in the city.
Typical Crazy.
Brook he calls himself.
Babbeling Brook.
First indication of crazy: He came up behind me and began to whisper a poem by Yeats in my ear in this smoker’s raspy voice.
-I am restraining myself from spraying my mace that I am clutching under the table as the skin on my neck is going into creepy vibe convulsions.
-I am loving cell phones as the one my mother insists I carry, rings.
Monday Night
-I am loving my little sister for providing me with the distraction of a phone call that allows me to leave the coffee shop tonight before the crazy who has just entered the shop talks to me.
CREEEEEPY. And no writing done tonight.
Sunday- by the time he was done ranting to me about poetry and the public education system and the hot springs I should go to with him where we could swim naked- I am feeling so violated that I ask friend who works at the shop to walk me to my truck. Just in case.

Orginal comments:

Nickname: ravenpaine
Re: I need a sign
You know that Rowsdower and Myself will wipe the floor with these people. Maybe I should take a trip up there and hang around with you in public places and glare menacingly at all males. I’ll get in a fake fight with Rowsdower and defeat him utterly and then shoot more glares at guys in that oh so masculine “She’s mine you fucks” way.
But I don’t think that you will appreiciate that much.

Nickname: gandhi2
the thing about chivalry is…
chivalry was probably invented so that there would be a socially accepted method for beating the shit out of guys who didn’t understand when to leave girls alone. there’d be a few words bantered about defending m’lady’s honor, blah, blah, everybody would suit up in metal cans, then the good guys would give the bad guys a good thrashing, with ironic smiles hidden all the while behind visors. ivanhoe–classic example. the bad guys won’t leave the fair jewish maiden alone, she’s a witch, burn her, and etc. the good guy comes in and wipes the floor with them, knowing that he’s allowed himself to be brandished by her like a billy club. (feminists can make whatever remarks are needed here, but i retort with “does a kick to the junk demean the kicker, making her weak because she’s playing on her assailant’s weakness? or is it just an effective use of resources….”)

the problem with being such a good person that you represent an ideal is that people either want to protect you or destroy you…

Nickname: Olorle
Re: I need a sign
There’s always at least all of us down here ready to charge off galantly to someone’s rescue if we need to. Or there’s a vague possibility that we might need to. Remember that.

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