I'm frustrated.

Joost is down, apparently. I haven't had a working laptop at home for the past three weeks since Compaq hasn't shipped mine back on a warranty repair. I was able to get Joost (thanks for the invite, Todd!) on my work laptop, but since it's a video-streaming program, I wasn't able to actually enjoy it; just start it up a few times.

So, I've basically been counting the days until I could get the beta client at home and try it. I was really waiting for my Compaq to come back, but alas.

With a lot of luck, I was able to get the other laptop up and working again, long enough to install Windows XP. We have no idea how long it'll actually remain in service, but it's working for now. "All right," I thought, "I'll download Joost on it and maybe get to play with it a little."

Except for the fact that there's some major problem with the brand new (as of yesterday, 4/10/07) 0.9.2 version of the client doesn't connect to the network. There are something like 25 pages of posts on the Joost forums full of users with the same error.

I just remembered that I happened to YouSendIt off a version of the Joost client to myself earlier this week.. maybe it was the 0.9.1 client. I'm going to go grab it and try..

..but, I'm frustrated.

Turns out the previous entry were excerpts, random lines, really, from John Hollander's work. :) I've never heard of him before, but his poetry is beautiful.

Beautiful.

I love it. It makes me want to write.

I'll probably write something and throw it up here. :)

Poem, found in a spam email advertising pharmaceuticals:

To mark that square, perhaps: were Mère and Père
Between the vertex that the far-lit gray
As it sits there like an eventual
Some stubborn sprouts up through the stubble hay,
Of too much truth to do much more than lie
What I have in my hands, these flowers, these shadows,
Covering the land—
The snowflakes are swirling, blotting out
I draw near to one of them, the lowest,
Trampled snow is the only rose.
My soul lies cracked; and when, in its despair,
Unreadable from behind—they are well down

I. Further Exploration of Spitsbergen
The pain of being born into matter.
In Winter Haven, the ballplayers are stretching
Dreaming time has reversed—and you,
And trumpet at his lips; nor does he cast
Amid the gloom, there, on the pole, stands black
Sits at the limit of a kind of world