Day 6

Oddly enough, I didn't take any photos today. I can offer you no explanation why. 

Critiques of the visible/invisible projects began today in Contemporary Seminar. For those of you just tuning in, this was the reason i decided to stop speaking for a week, now 6 days ago-- and today, for the first time, I got to see how other people interpreted this concept. Everyone produced some beautiful results, and I couldn't help but notice that they created really great work and still continued to talk. 

Class ended. Furious dash of writing and rewriting a paragraph outlining the dreaded presentation for Art History. Jessi-the-Super-Friend scanned and uploaded some readings for me. I drank three huge cups of coffee and burped a lot (burping doesn't count as speaking). With Jessi and Emily, I went to my three hour evening Art History seminar, which is entirely discussion based, and did not once break my pact. During a discussion about Paul Pfeiffer, however, I did write the following:

I wonder if its about these dichotomies that give the work its poignancy. This scene is played out in an arena where the stakes have been significantly raised. Certainly this is someone who 'may have just one a million dollars,' to quote Paul Pfeiffer. 

Does anyone else fins this piece intensely depressing?

It is disturbing. I don't know the name of this phenomenon, but it happens when you see something you instantly recognize as truth. I feel like this piece point to a truth of our culture that represents almost no progression from throwing Christians to lions. Sure we don't kill them, and we certainly pay them extremely well, however this work makes alarmingly clear (with very few elements) that we as consumers need to visually engage in people falling into roles, and setting up a system in which individuals aspire to be nothing more than fulfillment of spectacle.

It's sad :(

Even without speaking, I sound like such a god damn know-it-all.

I also mysteriously drew a kitten. Again, I can offer no explanation.  

During break, I had an extended conversation (if you could call it that) with Stuart, during which he spoke about matadors, stadia, spectacle and Hemingway. I listened, sincerely interested (I like Stuart), while he talked. he then concluded, in my presence that he "could get used to this kind of conversation." And that he actually loved the sound of his voice. 

I smiled and nodded. 

Afterwards, I wrote short note to Jessi. 

Pizza?

Which spoken aloud, probably would have sounded more like this:

"PIZZA?!"

She invited me over to her house, where we dined on Creole Shrimp, watched Kim and Chris make peanut butter, and I typed to her on her laptop while she sat next to me on the couch. After a couple hours, of this, I got up to go back to the studio, and she surprised me by saying, "Thank you so much for coming over. It's good to hang out with you, even when you're not talking."

One more day. Then I get my life back. 

Day 5

Slow, rough day. Freaked myself out greatly about the election as well as an abstract due tomorrow for a presentation on the sublime to be given, in my voice, next Monday. Woke up, went to school, didn't talk to or see anyone for most of the day, and generally looked like this. 

I spend way too much time here. It's almost like the school has given its full endorsement towards my silence, in giving me free internet, and a private room with a door. 
I'm taking my cues from the drawings lining the halls, which I've been looking at a lot lately. 


Why is it so difficult to concentrate? Why can't I sleep at night when I'm so obviously exhausted? Why can't I stay awake during the day?
I've said it before and I'll say it again -- don't do this. I feel cut off of not only from my friends,my family, the world at large, but my self, and my sense of self. Only two more days after this. 
Jessi came to see me. 


We hugged a lot (as you can see from the comments, she's a diligent blog-reader) and I wrote her a couple notes. She (like many people) expressed her amazement at the strength of my resolve. I smiled and nodded, and asked myself for the millionth time not how I've been able to do this (because honestly, that's easy, anyone could) but why. 
The funny thing is: later that night, I think I realized why. 

Day Four

Saturday. This is the midway point. I think can do this. 

More reading, this time at school in the studio. By Monday, I will most certainly have pinned down the nature of the Sublime. As usual, the folks at the coffee house were understanding of my not speaking, but alas, a cup of coffee is not a meal, and a man cannot live off of college-town sandwiches alone. It was unavoidable. 


Luckily, if you're like me, when you go to the grocery store, you're on a mission and don't speak to anyone even under normal circumstances. I grabbed some staples for the next few days (this is going to be a big week for tamales) and headed straight for the self-checkout line, which I always use; as a matter of fact, I could probably teach workshops for people who want to get through it as fast as possible. I got out of the store in record time, no problem. Even quiet people need to eat. 
Unfortunately, I saw one of the Print professors in the parking lot, who I guess has not been informed of what I'm doing. She smiled and waved as a half-walked/half-jogged by, and said to the woman she was speaking to, "Hey look! It's Brian! The gang's all here!"
Seeing as how she was talking to a complete stranger (to me anyway) and both of them were armed with young children, I thought it best to (surprise!) smile, wave, and keep making a b-line for my truck, rather than explain my social experiment in silence. 
I'll have to let her know what was up after Wednesday. 
I dropped off my food at school and made my over to Darin's house to see what he was up to. 


As it turned out, I had excellent timing. Having just got off from work, he was about to take Dash on a long walk, and asked me to join him. I wrote that I would. 
We walked for about 45 minutes around our beautiful and wacky neighborhood, stepping on train tracks, him talking and my listening, and me not taking pictures. I was reminded sharply again how understanding and wonderful this man is, that he's able to put up with my bizarre needs to make both my, and the lives of my friends, a source of consistent irritation with my projects. What a keeper. 


Dash, however, has not taken well to my performance at all. True, my and Dash's relationship has always been somewhat strained (I have, of course, substantially moved in on his territory), but we've since buried the hatchet, and taken up a new era in which as soon as I show my face in the kitchen window, he immediately tries to jump through it in an overzealous greeting. The first 15 minutes of each and every one of my visits to Darin's house are characterized with one or both of us interrupting our speech to each other, addressing the dog to "Get down! No jumping! Sit! Stay! Get down! NO JUMPING! NO!"
Oddly enough, my being silent has only increased this behavior. Dash will now actually not stop, at any point, whenever I am in the presence of his master any of the following: pawing at my face, sniffing at my crotch, putting his paws on my butt, thorough and noisy sniffing, humping my leg (or Darin's leg, for that matter), barking (and *whining*!), or a specialized combination of any of the above, as he perceives is necessary. 
It's as if if he's trying to irritate me into speech, and into chastising him. A glutton for punishment who's found himself with a castrated punisher. Joke's on you, cur! 
So we sat for about an hour or so on he porch, having wine, writing notes back and forth, and fighting the dog off our crotches. Pleasant. 
Then, print time.


I got back to school around 10pm, pulled everything out, and went at it. Again, I can't stress this enough, although I've felt a significant level of frustration, and sadness since taking this project on, my ability to generate ideas has shot through the roof. I've come up with more projects (too many to realistically do, in fact). If there was a manner to isolate all the negativity from this process, the depression, and frustration and the constant, "Why am I doing this to myself?" from this process, I seriously think it's something I would do on a regular basis just for the payoff of ideas. 
But that is far from being a reality, and right now, it mostly remains very difficult. 




Seeing as how it was daylight savings last night, I started speaking at 10 as opposed to 11 -- not that there was anyone around. I stayed at school printing until 3, went home and fell into bed. 
I'm over the hump. 
3 days left. 

Day Three

I woke up this morning at 9:30. Already and hour and a half into my third day of silence. I did not want to get out of bed-- not because I was tired, but because this is only getting more and more difficult. 

Darin greeted me at my house and drove me to get a cup of coffee -- sweet man. When he asked how I was doing, I wrote this:

It's surprising how depressed I'm becoming. 

He understood. But he reminded me that this was my project, and of course, I could stop at any time. He's right. 

Being Halloween, and the day before a huge football game of the Dawgs vs. the Florida Gators, school was cancelled. I decided that today would probably be my best chance to vote. 

I grabbed a fresh notebook,  photo ID, my stack of "I'm sorry" cards, and Baudrillard's The Vital Illusion (because really, why not?) and headed over to the Classic Center where I took my place in line, and remained there for two hours. 

It's amazing, really. I had suspected prior to my starting this that a young man who shows up to place a vote and refuses to speak would be regarded as highly suspect. I had written out all kinds of explanations on my book, including (for the first time) a full disclosure of the fact that this was an art piece, that I was an artist, explaining my motives, etc. I was trying to be prepared for any kind of conflict. 

Would you believe that I stood in a line to vote, for two hours, and at no point, was even required to speak to anyone?

All the forms, the showing of IDs, the standing behind blue lines on the floor: nothing. Not one word. I read the entire Baudrillard book, saw no one I knew, voted, got a sticker, and left without speaking to anyone at all. 

As it was no about 1 o'clock, I went by a pita deli to get a sandwich. I handed over the card, wrote down my order, and gave it to the woman who was helping me. Surprisingly, she says:

"Is this temporary? I sure hope you're not sick."

I flipped back through my book and handed over the explanation of the project to her. She smiled and said,

"Now that is something I can respect. What restraint you must have."

And she proceeded to assemble my lunch. I ate it in a minute and a half-- restraint? Me? 

I found out yesterday that on top of a critique on Tuesday with my print class (which I will be having in silence- should be interesting), I'm also expected to have an expanded abstract, as well as readings for a presentation I'll be giving on the 10th in my Art History class by this coming Monday.  

I decided I better spend the day reading. 

This seemed like a good idea, as I clearly couldn't talk to anyone. I couldn't have been more wrong. Here's why:

Under normal circumstances, I'm an extremely talkative and social person. It's just part of my nature-- for quite a long time, I've always assumed I rose to the occasion in situations in which I'm around other people. It seemed easier to be friendly and talkative than not. On Friday afternoon, when I was reading in isolation at my house, I heard my internal dialogue getting louder and louder, to the point where it was almost impossible to concentrate on what was in front of me (which happened to be Kant's Critique of Judgement, certainly not the most riveting reading out there). It's becoming clearer and clearer that I am  person who has an intense need to interact with others. Not speaking has made these interaction incredibly frustrating and exhausting, so I have been putting myself into situations of isolation more than I normally would, so as not to deal with these exhaustive encounters. 

But this only furthers the problem. The need is there, and stronger, when denied. I'm going through withdrawl. I'm losing my mind. I have to get out of my house. 

In an effort to quell my anxiety, I went to where most quiet people in college go when the want to read: the Library. I was there for exactly one hour, not really faring much better, when a bell went off and informed us that the Library was closing for the day at 6pm, which is right now, and could you get out, please. 
I walked back to my truck, threw all the books inside, and drove to my studio at the Art Building, the one place I knew I really wanted to avoid. 


There wasn't a single other person there. I had checked the wrong book out from the library in the rush to leave. None of my conclusions make any sense. I still have 4 more days of not speaking after this. I'm wasting time. I haven't made any progress on anything all day. I want to cry. 
I got in my chair and tried to sleep instead, which worked, for a while anyway. 
I woke up depressed again, and decided to go and get dinner. I wanted to see someone, even if I couldn't speak to them. 


Darin was just getting off work when I walked into his restaurant. He gave me Tootsie roll. we stood outside and watched a man dressed in a bikini with an Abraham Lincoln beard walk by. I wrote this.
This is really messing with me. I don't even know how to put it into writing.
Initially, I thought this would be an empowering experience. Don't ask me why I thought that-- I don't know. But, as it turns out, everyday is harder, I feel more and more puny. Weak.
Darin asked what I did after 11 last night, if I was able to speak to anyone. I told him that when that time came, I was alone, and not being able to talk on the phone or receive phone calls, I didn't know where to go, I stayed by myself and wrote this blog. 
He brought up the notion that I should saturate myself with social contact at the end of everyday, as a remedy to what's been happening.
I told I thought that was a good idea.



He told me all my friends had just left and were next door, in costumes, at a bar. He left to go take care of the dog, I went to go meet them, with 40 minutes of not speaking left for the day. 



It sort of worked. Of course, I was now surrounded by people, none of whom I could talk to. I probably wrote over a hundred pages at the bar, trying to carry on conversations with my friends. Ordering drinks in writing. Letting other people read what I'd written. Watching someone dressed like Klaus Nomi walk down Washington Street. 


My alarm sounded, and I breathed a sigh of relief. I said hello to my friends, ordered another drink with my voice, and stayed out until 2 in the morning. Again. 
4 more to go. 

Day Two

Definitely had a rocky start this morning. I was so excited to be done with my first day of not speaking, that I stayed up until 2 in the morning blogging about it -- certainly nothing inherently wrong with this, unless of course, you teach a Beginning drawing class for 17 eager young minds the following morning at 8 am. 

After cursing at myself in the shower (it was before 8 am, and therefore I was able to do this), I stumbled into my clothes, and into the car, and booked it all the way to school, characteristically hitting every red light between my house and the Visual Arts Building at UGA. 

(There are 6.) 

All the while, I'm thinking to myself, "How am I going to start the class?" My students had of course been informed that their beloved instructor would not be speaking during this class, or during class on Tuesday, but I had planned on recording myself speaking to them the night before-- I would have done it too, had I not fallen asleep instantly upon getting home last night. 

Luckily, I had 6 red lights in front of me, the heater on full blast, and the tape recorder in my lap. It went something like this:

"Good morning ladies! (all my students happen to be women, so I can say things like this) I'm speaking to you know with the last precious speaking minutes of my day, while quickly coming to meet you. I'm at a stop light. oh, now it's green. Anyway, we'll be having a critique of your beautiful drawings that you should have completed, and as you all know, I won't be saying a thing. Yes.... yes I won't be saying anything. Um, so what I'm going to do is... oh wait I'm in the wrong lane here... I'll be writing everything on the chalkboard to add to the dialogue... uh, not like I should have to, because you'll all be speaking about each other's work, um, won't you...?"

It pretty much went downhill from there. It was a bad idea to try and record myself in the car, on the run anyway. In fact, I think I was a little relieved when before entering the building, I rewound the tape to check it, and all I'd recorded was the sound of the heater. 

(Shit!)

Class was vigorous. 

I was pretty much writing non-stop. As usual, my students surprised me with their drawings, and again, as usual, surprised me with their willingness to give each other criticism. I felt certain that if I wasn't writing positive remarks, they might not necessarily be said, and no body wants that to happen. 

It's blurry because I'm writing like a mad man. 
My wonderful students took everything in stride. 



As physically exhausting as this experience was, it could have been a lot worse. Today, due to the nature of the critique,  everyone was waiting to see what I wrote. Certainly I was writing a lot, but they would all stop talking and patiently wait to read it out loud (or read it out loud to decipher my awful handwriting.)
All things considered, I think it was one of our better classes. Everyone was having to fill the 'blank space' that I normally fill with my non sequiturs, and mysteriously, I heard my own words coming out of their mouths. At several points, I would begin to write something on the board, only to erase it as I heard someone behind me say the same thing. Clearly, education was happening, and I didn't say a word. 
After class, all of them wished me good luck. I smiled and nodded. 
I had lunch alone in my studio, and quietly made my way down stairs to the print shop. I had some carving to do. 



If I had to make a general statement about this project, I would say that so far, it lends itself very well to working in the studio. 
So well in fact, that I think I've been able to accomplish more in the studio these past two days than I have in quite some time. Partially because not speaking throughout the days makes me for more contemplative than normal-- I find myself receding into myself more so than normal, and additionally, I don't lose time talking to anyone. It just makes sense to keep working, even during those moments when I want to stop. 
I do find that during these times, my internal dialogue is so strong, that if I am interrupted, I have to remind myself that I haven't been speaking aloud all day. So strong is this inner voice that it seems audible to me. 
I took a break to get some materials. 

These guys were pretty sympathetic. Rather than present them with one of the cards, I wrote out what I was doing on a sheet of my notebook, and let the woman running the register reading it (after she asked me a couple of times if I needed any help, and I just kept smiling). She asked me if it was hard. I nodded 'yes.'


Also had to stop by the office supply store to pick up some more notebooks, as I'm almost entirely through my first one (400 pages!) half-way through my second day. 

It's an odd feeling to have a little book that you carry around with you, holding in it everything you've said to other people. 
No problems at the office store -- when I gave the man at the register my "I'm sorry" card, he kept it -- most people have been giving it back to me after they read it. They must have some kind of corporate policy. 
Almost as soon as I got back to school, it was time for our evening critique in my Printmaking Class. I was scheduled to be critiqued today, but I was expected to be there. Critiques for this class are usually spirited, and never less than three hours. I really like the kind of dialogue that happens with this particular group, and was greatly looking forward to participating. 

As it turned out, it didn't quite work out that way. Once again, this was a collection of people who'd all been informed of this piece -- our professor, Margot Ecke, even made a point of announcing my non-speaking status beforehand to everyone. But once we got underway, I quickly realized there was no possible way I was going to be an active player. 
I might as well have been invisible. Every time I wrote something on a piece of paper, and asked someone near me to impart it to the class, I drew so much attention to myself, and the fact that I wasn't speaking, that I was becoming more and more embarrassed. Almost every time I tried to contribute, it caused everyone to start laughing at my "shenanigans." I felt like an idiot. I wanted to just talk so many times. I hate this stupid performance. I hate art. 


I don't know if I've succeeded in making myself invisible yet. If anything, within the context of my education (re: 'business as usual'), I've only made myself more visible - as a wack-job, and a joke. 
So why do I feel like I could evaporate at any time?
Critique ended at 9. I left immediately, and got in the car. 

My truck has become my safe place. I know that when I'm inside, I'm in between dealing with this situation, and having to deal with another. It's not surprising this is the place that I spoke to myself yesterday -- anywhere else, I'm unable to forget that I can't speak. Here, it makes no difference. 
I drove straight to the bar and ordered some drinks (speaking to the bartender, as it was after 11 at this point). 


Drinking alone on a Thursday night? Nothing normal about that. I'm exhausted at the end of every day. Can you blame me?

Day One- pt. 2

Darin had been expecting me. The first thing he asked was "How many times did you screw up?" I admit it, at one point, when driving, out of no where I uttered the word 'what.' That was all. 

I wrote him that I didn't screw up at all. He'll never know. 

I took his picture. 

Then he took mine. 


We sat down and had a couple of beers on his cold front porch, and proceeded to have a nice, long conversation, in which I wrote everything I said. 
I noticed, while doing so, that these were the longest pages I'd written all day, and that they were going fast. Mental note: buy more notebooks. 
He asked me more specifically about how the piece had been going. Here's some things that I wrote:
"I don't think I realized how much I relied on conversation to be happy. I feel like no matter what I write, I can't make myself understood. I can only write so fast, and conversation moves so quickly. Multiple times, I just gave up."
"I had a question about a slide in class, and by the time I wrote it, gave it to the person sitting next to me, and convinced them to read it out loud, we were already past the point where the question made any sense."
"I have been noticing a lot of things I wouldn't have noticed regularly. What the fuck is that music?"
"Looks on people's faces, light coming through windows, the way people look when they speak. Even my friends who I know very well."
Conversation continued in this one-sided manner for a little while, until I mentioned that i shoudl probably be getting back to my studio to start writing this blog.  Out of no where, Darin asked me how many keys were on my keychain. I being, being a fool, pulled it out to count them, at which point he took them from me, and informed me I couldn't leave until I said something. Out loud. 


I quickly wrote on my pad that I thought he was being a sadist, to give me back my keys, how could he torture me like this, etc.  
(Although I should mention, at this point, it was 17 minutes until 11:00 pm, at which point I could 'legally' start speaking again-- I was just worried about getting everything done, which is of course, par for norm.)
This exchange of insults surprisingly lasted 17 minutes, until a magical little alarm went off in my pocket, signaling the toll of the bell. I opened my mouth, for the first time al day, and asked him politely to give me my keys back. 
Speaking, after not having spoke all day, was a very strange experience. My voice felt bizarre in my own mouth, and I had the sensation that I was listening to my own voice being recorded on tape. It echoed inside my head, which apparently is an echo chamber for the voice. The sensation lasted for about 20 minutes, and then it was back to normal. 
One day down. 6 more to go.  

Day One - pt. one

I don't know what I was thinking. This is impossible. How am I going to do this for 6 more days?

Let me tell you about my day. 

This morning, at 10 am, I met with my Seminar in Contemporary Art class, like I do every Wednesday. Having informed her beforehand, I asked our professor, Ms. Didi Dunphy, to read aloud for the assembled group my contract, outlining the parameters of this project (a complete copy of this contract is in the last post-- I needed it to be announced publicly to properly begin the silence). 


Upon her conclusion of this reading, it had started, and immediately I felt my tongue swell to three times its normal size. Of course, as soon as you are not permitted to do something, you immediately want to do it more. This is something I had anticipated. Let me tell you about what I didn't. 
This is of course, a class, as I am, if you weren't already aware, a student. Lecture classes mandate someone speaking to you continuously, while you take notes, pay attention, and ask questions when appropriate. 
Now imagine you have to write your questions down, and gesture for the person next to you to ask them for you. by the time everyone is clear on what's happening, what you're asking doesn't even make any sense. 
Whoops. 
I refrained from asking any other questions (something I am frequent to do) for the remainder of class. I was acutely aware that everyone in this room now knew what was going on, and that in a way, much of the pressure of dealing with real life was removed within this context. 


Business as usual. 
After seminar, I decided to sit with some of my fellow graduate students while they ate lunch at a table in our shared studio. 


Initially, I felt the need to participate in conversation (through quick writing), but eventually, it shifted to such a point that I could listen in. 
At this time, not speaking, I became aware of something unexpected happening: I was extremely aware of individual facial expressions of of those around-- people who I knew very well, my friends, whom I see and talk to everyday- having forcibly put myself in a position in which I can only listen, and not actively participate, I was watching a conversation quite unexceptional in terms of any other conversation we had ever had, in a completely different manner. 
Also, I couldn't help but notice the light flooding through the windows behind them all. Really, it was quite beautiful. 

Notice that no one is looking at me in these pictures? Get used to that. I don't think it's goiing to change anytime soon. 




But don't get me wrong: these are the people who are on "my side." These are the folks who've been with me since I initially though of doing this. These are the guys it's supposed to be easy with -- I learned today that there's no 'easy' with anyone, because whether or not they perceive me as being invisible, that is the way in which I will perceive myself.
How much of our existence, of our feeling of belonging in this word, is predicated on speech, on interaction with other people? Apparently, for me, a lot. 
I decided to work in my studio, in isolation (an entirely normal activity) for a while. 




But "a while" turned into almost 6 hours. Again, not at all an unusual turn of events, but I did find myself venturing out less and less than I normally do, cutting down on my frequent trips to the computer lab to check emails (something I do roughly 200 times any given day). 
At one point, after I'd measured out some wood to build a stretcher for a painting, I carried everything downstairs to the woodshop to cut it up, and encountered a woman I'd never seen before, who asked me where someone was. While reaching into my pocket to produce a card for her, she then says to me:
"Are you the one that can't talk?"
I blinked my eyes a couple of times.
"My teacher Jon was telling me about how one of the graduate students wasn't going to talk for a week. Was that you?"
I nodded yes, wrote a brief note thanking her for her enthusiasm, and gave her a card, letting her know that she could keep it if she liked (note: she did!).
Another hour and a half in the studio, and it's unavoidable: I'm starving, and I have no food.


Luckily, there was no one at Subway but me and my new best friend, who assembled my supper. I stood outside briefly, writing out what would I wanted to order on my notepad, and entered into the fine establishment with a card in hand. I give it to her. She says:
"'I'm sorry, but I am unable to speak.'"
(looking at notebook)
"'May I please have a 12 inch meatball sub with White American cheese on Honey Oat, please?'"
(Looking up at my smiling hungry mouth, she says:
"Well this is fantastic. I just think this is fantastic! This is the best thing that has happened to me all day!"
I smile and nod (two things I did quite a bit of today). 
"Well OK! I'm going to point, and just nod when you want something!"
Working together, we assembled my ideal sandwich, which I consumed in full in the restaurant. Also, I was fortunate enough to watch as other patrons came in, and my new friend pointed me out to the hungry sub-seekers, saying loudly, "See him? He can't talk!" 


I think it's fair to say that dinner went well. 
Following that, I noticed that I was running dangerously low on cigarettes. 


This is a gas station that I frequent, although I didn't recognize the woman working behind the counter tonight. Still riding high from my success at ordering dinner, I wrote in my notebook "One pack of Camel Lights, Please" before entering. I presented the attendant with a card, and showed her my request on the notebook. She smiled, and to my horror says "Oh, I understand sign language! My momma was deaf too!" All the while signing every word, or so I can only assume, because I do not now nor have I ever understood sign language. 
Now, to be fair, when discussing this project with my colleagues beforehand, several people asked me, "What will you do if someone starts signing to you?" to which I repeatedly replied, "It doesn't say on the card that I'm deaf, only that I can't speak."
Well. 
I shrugged my shoulders, and (surprise!) smiled and nodded. Instantly, it became insanely important to me that this woman not realize that I actually was physically able to speak, that for reason I could not at the time accurately articulate, I was simply not speaking. 
Crisis averted. I got my cigarettes (thank god thank god), signed "Thank You" (the one and only sign I know, other than the letters 'A' and 'B') and got the hell out of dodge. 
At which point, I decided to swing by Darin's house, seeing as he was in the neighborhood.