About Doug*
[Doug* is pronounced Doog-ut** (** glottal stop with a click)]

    Most of the time I live in a secret cave complex. Sometimes I commute to a safe exit point, and take a taxi the rest of the way.
    I’m an outcast from many worlds (or is that renegade on a multiplex). My father was an Ovfibog and my mother was Ut’ishsih. When I write in standard English without any allusions to caveman culture, no one knows my hairy dispositions and Neanderthal-like false prides. The traditional Ut’ishsih speak the Utd’mbts language.
    My father was ashamed to teach me Utd’mbts, so I don’t know it that well. He was one of those aimless ones, the Ovfibogs, who wandered up and down, being neither Mekibota nor Ut’ishsih, uncomfortable everywhere and angry. I don’t think that any translations I could ever learn to do would ever bring any lightning bolts, even if I could ever understand the ancient knowledge, but Utcoozhoo seems to think that if I ever truly learned it that I could bring on the destruction of the up-top world. I’m caught between a rock and a hard poem.
    This modern era is very uncomfortable for me. Zawmb’yee says she sees interesting turmoil in the future — that sounds like that ancient Chinese curse, “May you live in interesting times.” Please, forgive a shy caveman his tentative introduction to the modern world. So maybe I should just be poetic with her, and talk about Cirrus clouds. I could say to her, “Deep is the puff of your word, the tuft of wispy breathless love, a dear cloud for my sky I use as pillow to sleep in; it’s your fluff without rain enveloping it.” “Cirrus-ly,” I’d say, “could we be cumulus?”

Nah, who cares about fluff pieces (Hey, is this colloquial enough — haven’t I mastered idiomatic English enough to pass as not caveman? I think it’s approaching conversational without affectation. I’ve gotten to use those careless redundancies and a few Y’know’s — right?)

OK, so I’m sort’a making a diary here. What do I do now?

I would have preferred to remain in the cave and woods, but with modern media, there’s no more hiding, and I probably should establish myself outside the cave where the Grand Council has no jurisdiction — Utcoozhoo seems to think their benevolent dictatorship is about to transform itself into a malignant evil that might even threaten the up-top world, but politics doesn’t interest me. I’ve been to the city, and I can see why they call the city a “concrete jungle”. But the women are beautiful and graceful like deer… and I am like a caveman lost in the forest. There would be uncertainty on the forest’s edge, my spear would seem not steady, a stone’s throw away from the missing red deer who’ve gone with the cattle, fenced by plank woods, and tamed. I, lost caveman, still feel frozen out. On edge, I’ve lost my säng-froid beyond the Ice Age.