skatecat

Were the families.

2007-07-15T05:31:00.000-07:00

On the 14th of July the pines fell into the wind.
Tents blew.
Mud flicked.
Sun shone and shoes floated away.
Sleeping everywhere.

it ain't me babe

2007-05-19T22:11:00.000-07:00

Sunday the 20th of May, 2007

the boys are looking for a hole. It's not me.
the girls are looking for a husband. It's not me.

Conversation, spark in the eyes, a grin that knows, and something new. Something utterly new.

Not getting it from them, but they're not getting it from each other.
How can they predetermine their options, and limit their options, and be content with something so parched?
Can smile at life. What am I? I am not. I am the buddha.
O

String a string back: are they doing it in pursuit (smile, smile, smile) of identity, security, rote activity?
Where is the security in going back to home, with halfgrown progeny. To undertaking short courses on floristry, jewellery making, to enquiring of friends the prospects for immigrating in Argentina, New Zealand, the Netherlands?
In subsuming into the dualcomposed domestic career-unit, running the enterprise without overt acknowledgement. and stringent demands. Particular demands, and expectations, and finely-honed, specialist skill-sets that, quite frankly darling love, can be ridiculed from allcomers. And will be. Empty air in lands that are not yours. When the question is repeated, "When are you going home?"
And smiling and absorbing the insults under cover of impeccable manners, diplomacy, and the brazen delivery of them, mockery broadcasted to the onlookers.
Embodying the focus for all illthought out, deeply felt, ventable frustrations of inequality. And of viciousness which we shall not mention, see above.
Displaying the veneration of your partner, tu sartorial marker of attainment, ambition, and reward.
You, proxy for all emissions.
You, receptacle.

Another strand: are they doing it in concord with the release of physical tension? Walking dickhead.
As if the world entire was made for the better enjoyment of their dick?
Who indulges another in this, and why?
No stopping to ask. Must forge ahead. And forge other things as well. The difference might be but in form.
And then, to realize that it is not so.
By displacement of certain indicators that supported this previous article of faith. Now 'proved' (smile, smile, smile) to have been erroneous. Pride and potency, why now so dissimilar?
By decreased impotence.
By only advancing age, and by abandonment by formative enablers.
Realization?

To know it was the lucre, the association, the pantheon of myth that all had arranged themselves in dependence with your import.

To be hated by your children for never being there.

To realize.
To 'retire' somewhere coastal. To build your own house. To have a companion (are you cynical, feeble, discardful of emotions, responsabilities, or is it that you have attained great wisdom with age and see that exploit and exploited are simply illusions, why, the sum of all actions is the satisfaction of immediate, selfish, inexplicatble, unjustifiable whims, and don't even try to interject nonsensical "integrity" into the spleen of current rationalisations I am being so considerate as to spell out for you), 16, always 16, without education and with many blood relatives living nearby.
We all help each other.

Keep that knot.
String dissolves in wave and particle.
I'm looking for a conversation.

an instant

2007-05-19T02:49:00.000-07:00

Saturday the 19th of May, 2007

I look at the grass. I think, Why?
What the fuck? I think.
My dog died. She ate her puppies. Is there a difference in the effect, the change in her existence as it matters to me, from dying or from doing something that my dog doesn't? There isn't. You see that.
The grass is green. It spreads from the window. There is sweat on the desk. There is sweat on my arms. Also behind my knees. My t-shirt is damp. Being 40 degrees it just feels heavy. It doesn't flap like a cool shirt would in the breeze of an airconditioned room.
There is a lot of homework I'm not doing.
There is a lot of life I'm not living the same as. Next door, they are singing. They are burning what accumulated since the last time they burned stuff. They are leaving all the doors open, so the air can circulate. Our doors are open too.
There is no glass in the windows. A tunnel, voiding between entrances, encourages the channeling of temperature differential. The dogs stay outside, on the concrete, or laying against the fence.
Somebody is cooking. Somebody is shopping. Somebody is inside the back of the washing machine. Somebody is getting ready to have a tantrum. Somebody is driving home. Somebody is delivering the finished soda bottles. Somebody is brushing their hair. It is not me.
I go to find.s

You better be funny

2007-04-25T04:57:00.000-07:00

Wednesday, the 25th of April 2007

And then, she said, the other day, when the sky was any kind of smear that I hadn't looked at, because it was above the rise of the 3rd and 5th storeys, and the pall over the streets and dappled sunspots on the pavement were like the smear of a grimy eraser, and the premises behind the doors and the windows purposefully blank, not to take any account of the folded in people walking themselves in the way of the wasp, careful to not burn their fingerprints off on the element hot with life, she said, come and have a drink.
She ordered for us.
She said, it's always ok.
She said, what are you thinking about?
She said, what did you do yesterday?
She said, this drink warms you up from the inside.
She said, nothing stops, everything changes, you're good as you are, breathe.
She said, nobody knows anything.
She said, the universe is very good.
She said make your choices.
She said, a significant proprtion of women do not get married of their own free will.
She said, take that whichever way.
And her teeth flashed.
She asked, are you free to come to the house next weekend?

almanaical

2007-04-18T04:22:00.000-07:00

Wednesday, the 18th of April, 2007

The province of Typing, consisting, chiefly, of three main villages; Kra Ma, Spel Eung and Sintac, is auspiciously located on the lower bank of a tributary to the Convoluted Narrative, the river that winds its way through the plains of the country.
The decision making power is arranged in harmonious concert with the whole of the governing body, and is titularly held by the organisation of the Premise.
This is a democratic function, however, once installed, the figurehead of State is obliged to serve the duties and responsabilities of the post for life.
These acts and their protagonist are, from the date of their introduction, known simultaneously as the Recurring Motif.
The Recurring Motif may, or may not, be readily apparent, depending on what the Whole Point is.
The Whole Point is where we end up, and, even if we didn't grasp it at the outset, where it all starts from.
Which brings us to the Whole Point.
However, if there is none, the merits and achievements of the corpus vivendi are but simulacra which vacuousness is remedied by the cross-border intervention of Real Life.
Real Life is a humscrum Potentate with may emirs, none of whom make any claim to the equivalence of the status of the Premise.
It's chief value is in making you think things you had never thought before and in its constant manufacture of curious mirrors.

oh my opera

2007-03-22T20:49:00.000-07:00

Friday the 23rd of March, 2007

I love 300. It's an opera. I had to return several times. I saw it on a gigantic screen, variously buffered by and creeped out by the small groups dispersed over the cavernous auditorium. Held by the story, knowing that there were girls in the room, from seeing one then 3 then all of them on each return from shaking my head in the corridors to dislodge the roar from the speakers, let some of the paranoid bloodlust pressure off, while periodically refreshing my peripheral bearings. The timbre of the movie had that effect.
Afterwards, I felt incredibly soothed. I still do when considering the visuals, or the rejoinders, or the prominences of the distinct ethos'. I trace this back to the movie.
And I got it, in my heartbeat. I understand having a pure nugget of value on which all choices spring. I understand how the core trumps all vagaries of circumstance.
Even as I appreciate "random".
In one way (and I have jumped without spreading out the inferences, but it is directly connected) it is reflected in a view that belief (or professed belief) in an abstract absolute precludes against the abuses of very living, very temporal, bullies.

come on handshake

2007-03-21T05:19:00.000-07:00

Thursday the 21st of March, 2007

You are like light on the water, offsetting the spined bridge there far off in the gaps in the trees.
You are like my finger on the page, each day I blink back at you when we were part of a more inclusive present.
You are the murmurs and ripples that emanate from a historic that you were aware of as an instant.
You see, you don't know what it is you are to people who are not you. Which is everyone.
Maybe you are the upstanding thing that steadies another and so they go on. Which is why being upright, and breathing in the oxygen that being alive keeps you alive, and loving all that is there, is necessary.
Through this enunciation, a braillespeak on your skin, a morse across the clouds, a rhythmic memorefrain, you know you are, in ways you don't know, what you don't know you are.
Always keep faith to the figure in the image developed in your contemporaries roll. It is me as well.
Always be flexible.
It makes me laugh, when, later you are consistent and surprising too.
That you are unexpected and full of integrity.
It confirms.

projecting a concrete image.

2007-03-19T05:48:00.000-07:00

Riding in a compartment through pollination-active under sun, long grasses and poppy heads, copses, a leaden sky like an eye that has ceased to focus. Writing in this compartment, a gem that is human; and crafted, human, meet conversation summarise the themes, which I am happy to have identified, and propel the plot to a forseen conclusion, for it is an end-game excercise that my words are garnering their fellow syllables to progressively involve.

excellence of quiet being

2007-03-13T04:32:00.000-07:00

Tuesday the 13th of March, 2007

I met someone. And my life is suspended. Time apart hung from time together. When we're together it's solid.
I see fragments of anatomy. A tableau of poses. Truncated images. All of it is too much too take in.
I cannot remember what they look like.
I have run on the way to an assignation. I smile and think "nothing matters" and it seems like the most optimistic phrase ever. I think surprises and it's not yet May, when my inspiration is upcoming.

entirety and strings

2007-03-08T19:53:00.000-08:00

Friday the 9th of March, 2007

To wake by a,
to a,
with a
strung sentence of coherent thought.
everyone is born with an amount of anger to expend over their lifetime.
Should this ideal rate of attrition not find satisfaction, there is always next time.

And of how much I want to discuss with someone in the present moment, concepts of time. To throw it in the air between us, we enthused at the quirks. Amused at the soothing effects of linear time as a thinking model. The backward-forwardness of inadequate assumption, of limited horizons. Things that are very easy to grasp.
Units of occurances. Self-contained phenomena. Refractions of instances.
Anachronistic realities. Personal rhythms. Warped nets.

Acceleration. Graphs. Familiarity.

And illusions.

I was going to invite my brother to think about it. I have just emailed him another set of focii, though, and the last time he read my English, he said
"_____________ your writing puts me in a similar frame of mind to how I feel on the approach to a difficult hole on the golf course."

knowing you are happy

2007-03-07T04:10:00.000-08:00

Wednesday the 7th of March, 2007

responsibility.

because we can

2007-02-17T02:09:00.000-08:00

Saturday, a national holiday, the 17th of February, 2007

I slung my bag back over my shoulders, and marched beside my horse for the last five kilometres before reaching camp. The wind had a damp smell from the innards of the forests coating the hills beyond whose slopes another country lies.
The sky is a wondrous playground of entirety, and tonight, as I watched the development of the day, cloud by cloud, a piano went off in my head, well-tempered, playing on infinity and dimensions, baroquely disinclined to pauses.
I wake very early, when I sleep in cold conditions. For the length of rest that I physically need, my consciousness mutes the signals of distress, and my core organs are untaxed while I spend enough recuperation. Then at 4 am, before the birds, in the darkest of dark, I switch on.
It is cold, like petrified, and gentle.
And I coax my mind into my breathing and my skeleton, and then my body restarts behaving as if it has a purpose in this world.
This is how I don't contract a stomache ache from wrenching myself into motion.
We walk out of slumber, my horse and I, and when we are out of it, we eat breakfast, and then we contemplate the terrain on which to direct our first steps.

few and far between

2007-02-11T03:30:00.000-08:00

Sunday the 11th of February, 2007

"And who might that be?"

"That, Minister of Defence, is the Fabricator of the Exterior."

"What is their mandate, precisely?"

"Precisely so, Minister."

feel free

2007-02-06T03:04:00.000-08:00

What if you were to find you were living among people with no moral centre?
It is a great thuddering gap in the thought process of most transigents here. We spend the conscious parts of our time working to the requirements of a professional ethos, and graciously - as much as our personalities warrant this - giving the benefit of the doubt and treating expectations with decency, basically adapting to the censure deflected at us. And to a large extent, niggles aside, this is able to be discussed in bars and on the phone, among those in the know (a solidarity thing, cringe with embarassment maybe, but even then, you know how it is), and it's also able to be alluded to in various ways in describing the untranslatable quotidien quality of the days to the people we are apart from but who know us in a sense that has more to do with shared identity than shared experience.
It's regarded as a medical condition that we share. Something that we have picked up. An easily dissected foreign object residing on our person. Possibly we'll shake it off. And people can quarantine themselves from the carrier, should they determine that the mode of contraction is stigmatisable, or if it is obvious that the symptoms are those that provoke no sympathy, or if they are excerbating it unnecessarily.

Beyond that, the fabric of life here is not hidden, just not prominent, so if you were to come from a place that has outlawed smacking, you wouldn't be informed voluntarily, that it was not the case here, until you walked into a punishment ritual and for the time after, feeling as though some dizzy shadow had started up from inside. And everyone giggled when they saw you had seen. And now you know. But still, in the professional arena, you cannot get clarity on this. It is not blown into life with talk. They do not recall whichever incident and clear it up. They do not speak of this side of routine protocol. You do not speak of it.

And thoughts of Roald Dahl tauten.

And the excreta fixation.
What' s up with that?
I cannot find anything on the internet to say. Like that's out of order.

And the vestiges of unspeakable acts in the public spaces and recreation areas that remain in the daylight in suburban open buildings after a night where you find it easy to believe in the sensationalist exagerations of shadowland national psyche, red and black and with all the latest technology.

That in the daylight, you wake into a blue blue day, and the noises you heard, you can't drag into the new encounters, because maybe it's just you. And what you were doing in that place, becomes the primary question (a domestic place, a place you spend time in regularly, the vehicle screeching from the compound, the reminder in the lobby as you step out of the elevator). And why are you asking them?
And the fear is that it's widespread.
And there is some thought that it is not widespread; that it is extremely abnormal, peverse, and degenerate. But I didn't intervene, you say. Ever.
With prayer.

Why don't you get out?
And give that, as a reason?
They would laugh at me. Or maybe, I would have to sit on the floor, in order to not be taken to a very small room.

In these days, I articulate the good. I keep the wellbeing of those in my day as the basis for our relationship. I try to live all the things that I have faith in. Light and nourishment and peace.

irrationality is not a thing to be reckoned with

2007-02-02T03:50:00.000-08:00

Friday the second of February, 2007

Do you think that dissimilarity is all that wounding to a sense of propriety or balance?

Well, we all digest the fruits of the Earth differently. Think of it as an ongoing meditation with the breadth and the depth of human intelligence and conviction. In considering family ties, it's possible to approach a way of identifying enmity without claiming any of the why fors. Here's a tema I've been working on - "You shackle your response to my presence by your codes of conduct" and in parentheses, "(by which blindness I amply profit)".

What's the difference between people?

Their level of satisfaction.

Oh. Their terms of debate? "I spurn your terms of debate" case, terms of debate? Sense of humour? Intelligence?

I think that's more of a variable than a difference. A detail, a degree.

Taste?

My ocular facilities, my critical sensibilities. My eyes, my taste - a quirk of timing wouldn't you say? Of timing making the individual.

What about disabilities?

Well, you cannot possess knowledge of full capability and of restricted motion/ reach simultaneously, so such a comparative intelligence is academic. A nonsense.

Money?

What is money?

Ability to influence the thoughts and behaviour of others?

Isn't that an unprovable extrapolation inferred from empiric observation? It is a mock-question. It falls short of assuming the probe of enquiry. Be sincere.

Questions are sincere, then?

Let's go off topic, then. Yes, a question is a modus operandi of sincerity. It is the sincere in inquisitive employment. When you let sincerity play in your encounters with others - in the dark, or less - then the interaction is of quest. Sort of a square quest. Interest in cubes which domino in spontaneous sincerity.
I believe it to be a contributing sense of satisfaction.

When was the last choice you took that felt good?

That is a calendar I do not possess.
I am now going to html some formative whimsy that was eloquently linearised in ink from an afternoon walk along smoky fields.
I did enjoy considering your words. If you drift off, that's fine, but should you return, think on this, that too.

What is discipline?
working in this environment extends my appreciation of the ways language defines and shapes what is taken for knowledge and of what knowledge is taken to be.
Recieved opinion.
Consensus.
Of convention reached
That results in conventions
Resulting from convention - ways of doing things - ways of thinking
I find it easier to be original in societies where holding/displaying views that vary from the mainstream, or that proliferate according to creeds and experience can, at worst, be met with a benign ostracism.
This could be a monumental consequence if a major indicator of your life satisfaction is hosting and participating in dinner parties, or going for coffee, or any social action that fosters harmonious confirmation and accord.
However, in the wide world of relationships, the health and confidence quotient of people who can foster and absorb incompatible, unrelated and competitive approaches to corporeal issues, simultaneously and cumulatively, is far more optimal.

For one thing, it extends humanity to everyone.
It is inclusive without prescription.

Acceptance is contigent on avoiding transgression and there are conditions that have to be met.
Set phrases that have to be memorised.
Set phrases that have to be recalled to fit the relevant moment.
A script of acceptability.
Imposed opinion
Dictated responses
Assimilated dictatorship
Assimilated hierarchical responsibility and authority
Diluted delegated authority and responsibility
Participatory censorship
Slogan-ism

Peversion - strategic employ of - mottos
lip service to to avoid unattractive consequences

Effective bullying of individual minds ---> influencing the national psyche.

I thought you weren't convinced there was such a thing as the nation.

Ha! Let's go find something to do.

flight of the arctic geese in son et lumiere

2007-01-27T21:26:00.000-08:00

It's in the north, isn't it, where the accordian is fetched from beside the cabinet, or unhung from the wall, played after dinner, put on stage, taught to semi-autonomous preteens by hardworked, wellfed, mature people, with squat fingers in semi-autonomous regions.
The squatter the fingers, the further north? Or is it the hard work and the weather and the leisure in accordian enclaves, the squatter the fingers? Or is it just that dancing fingers in the light of the fire look truncated?
I watched a program of recently migrated girl-relatives, who maintained their music and spirits by practicing and performing on the instrument they brought with them, don't ask me on what - a train, a series of buses traducing the desert, in one of their backpacks, I like to imagine several ways of passage, that wasn't in that segment of the documentary, and prefer to have it hazy and replete with possibility - and they weaved with the music, twitched their necks, bent their knees as they moved for the camera in the small room swept clear of furnishings, with a full length mirror on the wardrobe door. They were very young and very proud and their mother had made them up with green eyeshadow and vaseline on the fine hair that doesn't reach to a ponytail. They did a sort of mimetic dumshow of the emotions the lyrics were to elicit from their audience. That got me.
Blatant fakery, is still something that another way of seeing, a rephrasing, is still unable to be acceptable to me. But they were real enough, and the music is old, and it's necessary to many people, over a great stretch of tundra.
The accordian in itself, as it appeared to me as a child, is in the radio family, small people, orchestras, chairs and changing rooms inside.

myopic and blinkered reiterate "...as I thought" to each other, And those with a more certain gift for comedy exclaim, "Further proof!"

2007-01-22T04:19:00.000-08:00

Monday the 22nd of January, 2007

In the days after - the shape of things resettled into their contours - when his gaze alighted on some assortment, it was as though millions of butterfly wings came to rest in one breath.
Indoors, it gave his thought-heart a gasp of ghost pain.
Outdoors, the light that suffused everything seemed to bang against itself in the resolutely independent hues of the multicoloured decoupage of downtown.
Shadows chronologically surpassed their neverending illusions of geometry.
Cans and corners, heights and slopes came into a solid undercurrent that let him stand as though on an entirely new and unconceived of planet.
Flimsy as the past now proved itself, the unarguable solidity of the present kept him guessing at the unfamiliar centre of gravity now located within him.

the day dawned bright and clear

2007-01-20T20:26:00.000-08:00

Sunday the 21st of January, 2007
last night, my apartment shuddered.
I ran outside. There was one light window on the ground floor.
The lady inside asked if I meant the shaking, she didn't feel anything.
I went upstairs, with my heart like a schooner sail in a squall.
I went upstairs with the complete and immediate collapse of large structures in a rotating panorama before my eyes.
I went upstairs knowing that I would sit on the ground rather than walk myself toward perdition.
I went upstairs to the third floor, which, incidently, is where my belongings, those I would take in both hands and those I would be relieved at sudden removal from my possession, are arranged in current ergonomy.
I went upstairs, and knocked on neighbour first and neighbour on the block-end of the building. Villa. We live in a villa.
The end door opened and the waft of industrial volume fishpaste that came out stayed with me all the way back to the eerily undisturbed interior of my apartment.
The machine in her living room groaned in rust grating cycles. It hadn't been in operation for the last couple of weeks.
I slept through the night for the last couple of weeks.
She didn't know about the shaking.
I thought about moving the bed frame with the mattress on it directly under the central light.
It is large and Soviet/1930s functional, frosted glass suctioned onto the papered ceiling.
I didn't.

Fado

2007-01-10T05:15:00.000-08:00

Wednesday the 10th of January, 2006

Should be of all proportions.
Until it changes, it can be no other way.
That is, the present, and my current perspective are sufficient for sustainability of the life partative to the nodes on this and that plane as they interfere in the communicative sphere.
The urge to make lyrics is stymied by my lack of projection at the moment. If there is no ideal state to allude to, no history to eulogize, sparse nostalgia, to whom can I address my yearning?
Perhaps a hymn to the felicity in my life?
I'd rather hang out with the people I like, than wind strings around my emotional response to their impact on me, or to the effect they bring to the colours of life.
A rhythmic meditation on the recurring words of my semiotic environs?
It is until it changes.
Come on, a patter that is easily wrought, that makes you laugh because words so easily assemble into seemingly realistic phrases that bear nothing veritable?
Could. Won't. I remember clearly what I was really thinking when I wrote them but others don't and can't say when or if one would supersede the other.
Who cares?
Is it important?
To me, here, now, yes.

crisscross

2007-01-06T22:10:00.000-08:00

Sunday the seventh of January, 2007

The things we know, we know them well. The thrill of the new, the cast of the old, the words which herald ourselves to ourselves. Symbolic, incantatory, familiar.

In the family of language, we grow up. From the sense that bursts forth in a tongue, a calendar begins that lets us say, perhaps, "In the beginning..."

yes I'm laughing, but persevere throughout -

for now, look within language - there is always always to regard the ex- and ante-lingual - to consider, gently,

when thoughts are stripped of words, quick liquid through my brain, where do you find your place, where do you make your place, crouched, and when words pry you from your refuge, then my thoughts stand akimbo, unformed and articulate. I am more dense, now, and purposeful and idling missile.

CCXLVI Ozymandias of Egypt Percy Bysshe Shelley

I met a traveller from an antique land

Who said:—Two vast and trunkless legs of stone

Stand in the desert. Near them on the sand,

Half sunk, a shatter'd visage lies, whose frown

And wrinkled lip and sneer of cold command

Tell that its sculptor well those passions read

Which yet survive, stamp'd on these lifeless things,

The hand that mock'd them and the heart that fed.

And on the pedestal these words appear:

"My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:

Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair!"

Nothing beside remains: round the decay

Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare,

The lone and level sands stretch far away.

c'est une question du validite

2006-12-09T03:14:00.000-08:00

Saturday the 9th of December, 2006

And now, The Name of The Rose, querying the licitness of laughter.
Delight.
Mutually-syncratic idio-facilities, expression-found in the corporal world and through it's transcedence.
That's what I've got to say about that.
I have no basis. I have no limits. I cannot claim. I am not certain.
Is this an admission possessing, in any sense, validity?

as are superlatives

2006-12-06T18:53:00.000-08:00

Thursday the 7th of December, 2006

The ridiculous transports us both.
I found it the first time by sharing it. This is one of the ways the divine is present, every day, and in my life, and in the communion with others.
There was an articulate suggestion on the tragedy of being sensitive, susceptible to beauty, attuned to the sublime in existence, and comfortable with forms of perfection, which was offered as an explanation on the Japanese moral character and the effects that were being noted on the Japanese as an entity -in the article preceding the commentary- as the vagaries of global parity brought to bear on the country as a whole.
Explanations are ridiculous.
I am globally mobile, perhaps you remarked.
Freedom, air, water.
Everywhere, in every place, we have much to learn from one another. It's dealing with it.
Dealing with what's there when you find it.
The familiar feeling of reverting to an inner certitude within the domed air in places of worship, only to perform spastic acts of road rage in negotiating the exit from the congregational carpark, to feel intense desire to negate the existence of the people around, to non-confront them, to have Tourettes in spades immediately following from affirming the infinite's capacity for magnanimity.
Managing the equilibrium in the midst of the swirling ravages of every day, everywhere. This is what I think life is worth going through life doing.
I am thinking quicker than this, and it is unbearable to maintain communicative contact at this perambule, however, I am finding joy in it. By what we do, we can be happy. So what is not my inclination in terms of action, can be the arena in which I develop my inclinations in terms of emotion and values. As if anyone directs the course of affairs, while simultaneously, of course everyone mediates the course of affairs.
Slowly now, and back to a time before, if you commit suicide, how will you know what happens tomorrow?
The circular logic of expectations. Logic in quotation marks.
Craving and lust are 2 manifestations of desire. Each influencing different cultures to different degrees. Leading to different experiences of satisfaction. And by so influencing responses to life, also providing each culture with a definitive quality of life.
Desire.
Desire is ridiculous.
I stop being identity-relevant in the presence of the ridiculous. It's something we share.
Further gloriousness in being human that you live to know are compassion, appreciation of music, pattern recognition.
More to come.

waiting

2006-11-16T04:02:00.000-08:00

Thursday the 16th of November, 2006
Waiting for - - - -
Thoughts on the state of - - - -
What are you waiting for?
An examination of the easily assumed support structure of the question - - - -
Waiting for the catastrophe that will make sense of everything, the everything that has happened and is recalled, that has happened before.
Some people give the distinct impression, from a distance (across airport carpets, within the tv as they read the script-prompter, insulated by their uniform either physical insignia or mental adherence to protocol) that they are monumentally pressed by their notion of existing on the tracery of the cliff drop. As if some original state of freefall has been arrested, they transmit a quality of vigilance from their globulous selves.
This is funny.
And then I write words I had not previously thought I had thought, and on topics that had not formed any intrarelevance in my mind, as though having decided to write and not finding myself bereft of words or intention once the page is opened before me, extraneous expressions seep in curlicues, improvisation, while the nut I place and replace upon the page, as the piece reshapes and bends, and I review whether the one or the other can be deleted and then decide whether the collation is acceptable.

funniness

2006-11-14T19:34:00.000-08:00

Wednesday the 15th of November, 2006

Much of the intentions employers have toward the members of their workforce who are guests in the country can accurately be summed up "to make benefit glorious nation of" ________.
Now, Borat is many things, one, not insignificant, illumination - the precision instrument to measure/ and the precision measurement of the contemporary, global pulse; and another, the device is a love letter to freedom.
In countries where repression is the norm, outsiders are engaged with in circumstances designed to extract usable information without reciprocating. Communication is essentially oneway, which is, do you agree, not communication? Stonewalling another human being isolates an inquirer with their thoughts. When you deny an exchange oxygen, it suffocates. This is repression.
In "Make Benefit of_____", all the disturbing, unquestioned, reinforced normalities that have been encouraged in the various localities, are shared openly. None of the segments of the populations bear any resemblence to the other ones more strikingly than in their attitudes to disclosure, inclusion, and confidence in their beliefs and behaviours.
It's good to be aware of what you would not like to be included in, and good to know what you are expected to do to be included. Some activities have an extracurricular scope that I hope you always have the choice to refuse.
But Borat never can say I love you in this way in this place. Because, a conceit such as saying "I want to be like you, show me how...." is too far advanced in being able to assume that the intruder is engaged with as an individual.

make click

2006-11-14T04:53:00.000-08:00

Tuesday the 14th of November

riddim ridden

http://www.pandora.com/

eloquence in extempore

2006-11-09T05:36:00.001-08:00

Thursday the 9th of November, 2006

When the dragon licks the sky, the tang of the sweetness of the time before, comes to rest, brought along down the arrow-tip of an illusory tail.
By having a love affair, you become prone to love affairs.
Being prone to love affairs, luck is what spikes your drinks hereafter.
And if you're lucky, you know when the dragon licks the sky.
You look up and memory and novelty make a blanket, an army, horse-hair, hardware of the care your life is wrapped in.
Be happy, you lucky, loved, living choicetwitch. Infinity from nought, a loquacity of significance.

the town planners cough

2006-10-29T04:56:00.000-08:00

Sunday the 29th of October, 2006

You saw the low white wall. The cloven tiles scattered on top and the glinting sun on the glazing.
What did you think of the green doors, emphatically chained, martial twins guarding the house? guarding the people. Keeping the people in or out. Keeping the out people out and the in people in.
Did you feel like you wanted to keep a step away from the twiglets on remand from the hedge? A step away and you can focus better, in the gaps, on the foliage beyond.
You just know that the gates are creaky in that place.
Entrances that are diminutive, the step in sunken so you don't catch your head. The earth is different here, it's ours, that's what that lets you know. The hours in here are ours, and bending to come though is the way to do it.

So square, so solid. A cubic metre of explanation.

2006-10-21T06:16:00.000-07:00

Saturday the 21st of October, 2006

We prefer the family.
First.
Over and above all.
Really.
And, just so you understand, the accepted rhetoric is better for all concerned in the circumstances.
Because it answers all the acceptable questions.
It is as it is.
It was better before.
Which is, but of course, why we carry on in the same spirit today.
With innovations, in which we specialize and excel, that promote the feeling of wellbeing that our custom has perfected and which was enjoyed and is documented by generations long before.
Oh to be warm, inert and wellfed.
Nurtured.
Group happiness, mass somnambulant activity, and a capricious, anxious titular head, to whom we can demonstrate obseqious gestures that, at times, can undermine or promote that individual while having no impact on the ceremonial value of the act, and to whom physical expression is easier than verbal to come by, and is the just response to all provocations of circumstance, for you can see and understand that unexpected violence is the constant.

a richly veined passive aggressive bedrock

2006-10-04T03:10:00.000-07:00

Monday the fourth of October, 2006

I saw a snake escape the afternoon, the other day. It crossed into the grass and morning closed with a flick of its tail.
People know their behaviour has crossed norms when they feel the urge to justify, and they seek the complicity of others when they couch their presentation in terms the other can understand. The victimhood of the ancestors has a ring to it, polyphanous. Where the narrator places the onus, to whom the narrator would have it befall the wound, the failure, the responsability or the shirking of it. Who is seen as the betrayer, the betrayed, the perpetrator. To whom were the consequences kind.

They were competitive.
He was struck by the competitiveness of individuals in the highly conformist society.
They didn't want to be most like the other, he thought.
They wanted to be most like the ideal societal unit; fulfilling the mosaic of categories
of age and position and image.
More like the ideal than the next person.
This conundrum had a force.
The almost murderous desire to surpass their peers, and the necessity of peer-group comparison,
parity and pressure.
It was a bedrock.

I live in a place where altruism is a non-idea. Where everybody's motives are suspect. Where acting in your own self-interest is the basso profundo. It makes for intense competition, and open jostling for power and resources. There is no pretence even at solidarity.
I make no comment as to whether there is a right or a wrong switch to this, only that it has been some time since I heard innocent laughter, and I miss it.
I miss knowing that someone is happy.

Below is some version of an assessment of a tradition. It has merits.
Competitve hospitality. Arms-length hospitality. Ostentatious hospitality. Arranging situations to leave the guest in a position of scrutiny, when scrutiny can only mean vulnerability. Hospitality as a glittering mirror, behind which moves the secret.
Hospitality as a concert of exclusion.

Another is to say take us as we are and we take you as you are. One says come in, the other keeps silent.

fierce, winged cat

2006-09-30T20:43:00.000-07:00

Sunday the first of October, 2006

He draws attention to the news interests, to the state of the world. He reverberates the myths. Enervates the thinking people. Abhors the shoddy veneration that is resurrected to the unconscionable hijinks of previous bands of brothers by historically-grouped and nationally-collective. Uneducted - to give it an apologetic, possibly useful in today's climate - or the descendents, those vesting their beneficence in the continuing hallowing of certain tilts of human relationships under the name of "tradition".
His subjects are not funny. His technique is comic. His command is inspired, deft, clinical.

A warrior holding a falcon on the back of a fierce winged cat.

If you can do nothing but laugh at the funny presentation, then pay for the laughs. The revenue will go to alleviate the conditions, in the long run. As the jokes, themselves, are not funny. At present, the stream will continue the research, production and performance of readjusting the main-frame of a population less-aware of their comparative relevance than they are of the diminishing effect of their marginality as exotic.

The roman alphabet is exotic in form but who cares what it says. Semiotically irrelevant.

Irreverently semiotic.

swaying in the breeze

2006-09-17T03:59:00.000-07:00

Sunday, the 17th of September

A bird fell from the sky. Plop.
It was dead.
Its tail twitched, leg wiped, as the instructions from the neural cord concluded transmission.
At what moment, it was dead to the purposes of the world, its life was definitely at an end after it hit. Direct brain injury, beak turned sideways, undamaged. Bird with no wings on a long drop down. Was it a heart attack from above? A swift paralysis? A fit? A sudden loss of balance?
A deliberate death early in the day.
A day that this life was not intended to see.

Ah, you are taking the view that this state of affairs is informed by linear time. Well, if you believe that time is linear, or solely linear, such an assumption will preclude you from more than...

spatially elastic

2006-09-09T19:52:00.000-07:00

Sunday, the 10th of September, 2006

Unless you've taken a trip to somewhere unpronounceable - even if it's extended - with full intentions to come back, you have never seen anything as colossal as this palace we saw out the back of the tourbus windows, as palatial as the colusseum we skirted on our way through the forest-scented pines barricading the rocky inlet after spending the morning at an exquisitely appointed mausoleum.

the span of sound

2006-09-05T06:01:00.000-07:00

Tuesday, the 5th of September, 2006

It had rained steadily, in the lead up to this evening, and the light was low on the misty, twilit air, ducking just below the eyeline of every living thing. You had to strain to make out some proof that there did exist a physical world of any clarity, and then the effort would overtake you, before you had even realised, and the nullification of a dream thus begins it's own birth, an insistant progeny, delivered, ab-conception, of itself.The rain altered its presence, and the volume, saturation, coverage, visited on the earth the way an at-home guest might rearrange itself on the sofa, never once glancing out the window, to the streets below the balcony, only gazing at the tv screen as the tired hosts excuse themselves on occasion to replenish the hot water, or make a telephone call, or reassure themselves that the spare room is still occupied.The mornings of abrasive, hairy-cheeked, estival joviality, almost proclaim themselves a lamentation, overly protested. The nights that began to dodder from 2 pm in the afternoon, cold within the cold that hibernated in the caves of sultry buffets that boxed at the outgrowings of seedlinged things and convenient creations, prompted one to think of the icicles that in the conditions were not thinkable, or able to be dreamed of by a climate possessed of abstrusion.In the lead up to this soft evening, with wet awnings, more yellow in the dusk than they are in the pale light of day, it seemed to have been raining forever.

aria

2006-09-01T20:26:00.000-07:00

Saturday, September the 2nd, 2006

To hear Pedro tell it, I'm a beautiful beast, with a sleek sleek coat and beautiful feet.
Pedro is a liar at the best of times and in the present mayhem, put it down to verbal hyperbole of the fantasist stripe.
These days are fast approaching from the left and from the right, they suddenly arrived and replaced the shapeless night, making lenses that picked up on what was previously unclear, and sounding out vibrations of normally inaudible frequencies.
It's the days , it's the days, and the time containing meanings. It's the moments, and in the moments, in the panic that ensues, I think Pedro's having visions, seeing things that are not there, being kissed by the poetry bruising the air.

Chernobl has deviated production of chlorophyll

2006-07-14T20:48:00.000-07:00

Saturday the 15th of July, 2006

The direction of the path was out. From St. David, Portuguese Foundation, Canterbury quad. The noise sent people quicker in their destination. The buzzing in the sky swept the open spaces clear of the students and visitors under the trees they went and in through the doors..
Helicopters appeared, looking rectangular and cardboard. They flew making right-angles until they were in position. A group formation with a purpose. Uniformed figures approached from behind distant buildings.
A ladder hung toward the earth.
I went inside. I passed heavy red curtains into an annexe with a couple of sofettes in an L against the corner on the right. I pulled the opposite one, so that a triangle space could accommodate, but this was not a hiding place. It was not a hiding time. The guard came in and flicked a finger at me - tallying the collateral of his purview.
I walked into the seated assembly of others in the foyer.
There was a smell of premature stale sweat, of fear that was swirling in currents of minimizing and encouraging. No one knew what was going on. No one wanted to provoke a scenario that was inevitable. No one wanted to venture a query, to presume and be wrong.
It was cold. My heart beat. To stop my eyes from getting small, I thought ahead. I saw the lieutenant.
"Did you come in the helicopters?" He smiled because I could be killed now or later.
"Are they yours?" "Yes. I am captain."
"They are awe-inspiring." "They are far beyond anything that came before. There is nothing to touch them."
"The noise they make, that knocks everything out, how can they make that effect?" "We can go everywhere."
I didn't suggest anything more, and watched to see it unfold.

At times I feel like a witness to the trials of those in a routine and indignity that each urban morning wakes them up to. And what use am I?

2006-07-03T02:16:00.000-07:00

Monday the third of July, 2006

I could be otherwise engaged.
As if I should be doing something else.
With the time. With my skills.
To my potential.
As per instructions. For a higher cause. In case I was mistaken. If my efforts were futile.
If my efforts were inconsequential because I had missed, misinterpreted or forgone the pertinent signals.
A fear that by every step I invalidated myself
- rephrase -
A possibility entertained in all spheres of my activity that I invalidated the conditions upon which I was understood previously.
As if I was consigned to make and remake the doorway through which I entered to start my whole life.
As if my life was excluded - by my own actions, my own lack of a grasp, a tentative grasp, on the codes of relevance - from wholeness.
As if I raked into a farfelu semblance, the approach to wholeness.

Then I think, grow up, this is where you are and you're enjoying the rich stability
the stimulus
the opportunity
the perpetuum mobile
of this era.

And part of me wonders how long to give it, or to pick up and move on.
But what it am I thinking of?
There is no it, except the wonderful, opportune opportunity that happens in the course of my travels, where I'm supposed to be absorbed in immersion and discovery.

It's a stay/go consideration.
And dealing with the things I find.
Dealing with what's there when it's there.

a story

2006-05-12T04:38:00.000-07:00

Friday the twelfth of May, 2006

It was a long high afternoon on the goat plain. Imported goats from the hills of the Camargue and the indiginous breeds. Grass itched at the collar of the herder. Soft fleece collar, a deep blue that was moistureguarded by some spray from Switzerland over the natural resistance of karakul suede. This was a million times better than being in a polluted, humanly overbuilt, seething morass of commerce. This was where he was actually seeing. This had no culture, in the gilded sense of a historical discipline. Not in the sense of a national company. Not in the sense of a system of trust and foundation. In the twisted strands of antique money.
This had at it's core, him. His soul. Himself, which he was coming to realise was not a nothing. He was capable of generating psychic sense. A fear had not been realised that he was of no substance. He was more than an acceptance that he looked inwards and dissolved under an inability to merit focus. What a rejoicing sentiment came over him, when he realised that he was vibrant, that he blossomed under scrutiny.
Fuck was he happy to be here. The day was washed in triumph, that he had got a plane ticket and train ticket and taxi and coffee at the side of the road before heading into the horizon that ate the highway. That he had put his money to work. That he hadn't touched money - that old finger-worn, pocket-secreted supply-chain that constituted his fellow citizens closest of relationships - in all of the time he had since had time to lose track of.
That here and now he had no cause to justify himself to anyone. Had no doubts, and no expectations, beyond that the pasture and the yield of the herd would be sufficient to see what would happen next. Barring attack. Intruders in the night. And pissing off the neighbours.
And neccessitating bureaucracy by invitation only.

exhale exalting

2006-05-10T11:59:00.000-07:00

Wednesday the 10th of May, 2006

for freedom
for the desire to accept the moment
for the voices of all those who are most dear to me
reinvigorating my spirits, making me laugh, lights among lights
for the opportunities taken to add to the good when others ask
for the stillness
for faith
for constant flux
for not understanding
for stopping
for the long days at sea, when you feel inutile, and the period interminable, that once on land you long for as the time when you were engaged, and useful and effective
for discernment and scorn when it comes to "make work"
for giving myself dignity and extending my understanding of vulnerablity to the point of view of others
for taking it easy
for laughing

they were together

2006-05-06T12:34:00.000-07:00

Friday the 5th of May, 2006

They were on the sort of date where they tell each other irrefutable facts about life.
They may or may not forgo the movie.

They were on the sort of date where they view their daughter and approximate companionship through the glow of sharing an infant.

They were on the sort of date where neither dressed up, they both watch the tv shorts with interjected prolongversation and he forgets to eat so it's a slow hang and then she toucjes his eyebrow and indicates a line running across his forhead and he twitches his legs from his toes then they turn back to the tv, talking.

They are on the sort of date where they alternate who is buying the next snack and one goes to the bathroom for as long as it takes the other to answer their phone.

immediate

2006-03-21T15:36:00.000-08:00

Wednesday the twenty second of March, 2006

I like travelling - to see infirm people & on occasion, mad ones. Seeing how their compatriots treat them is generally how I form opinions about all sorts of things about foreignness.
There are quite a few instances of infirmity around the place; sort of exacerbations of social vulnerability, unwashed or overscrubbed, louse ridden, painfully shy, aggressive and wary - hey, I guess that's what inequality means - unforgiving, unheeded people.
They offer nothing that is wanted by the robust individuals of functioning units and yet ignoring them does not diminish them. It has an obverse effect, it diminishes the sum total of the particular societies value. To itself and that's the funniest thing. It's as ever present an evocation of what's "real" in a place as the filthy railway box I'm alive in.
The mad are another matter. These angry birds who have yet to form a coalition, who, (in the whole wide world and throughout millennia), are the most highly cohesive amalgam to combine penetrating thought, exemplary existential investigation with persistant voice.
Mad people are international. Mad people are very scary when they try to be friendly. Mad people are not affected to an overwhelming extent by, for example, their circumstances. This sets them apart from the infirm, whose existence, (and experience of their existence), is in large part, a product of their surroundings.
Mad people are relatively untouched by the normalcy which surrounds them - invarious forms, regional & national. But they are not unhinged, they are plugged in to some "higher", more insistant reality which is pressing on them. Thus, mad people are not placeless, and I like watching them, when I find one, watching those around them navigate around each other and doing their best to provide guidance.

everybody looked fulfilled

2006-03-20T20:30:00.000-08:00

Tuesday the twenty first of March, 2006

The most striking examples of the city's character stemmed from the serene complacency of all those wearing the funny items.
Pristine lines of sculptured bikes, that, as they transversed the metropolis, reflected the hypodermic rays of morning light and played on my eyes like a symphony of silences whose intentions were to spread whimsy and a practicality associated with Finnish housemothers who provide tomato sandwiches for break.
Footwear with philosophical ramifications. Made with materials that referenced the past of other peoples. Molded with total appreciation of the pedal ligaments or with total disregard for the anatomical alignment of either foot.
People who wore their uniforms to the letter and people who wore the emblems of occupations they did not pursue, to the letter, were winking at me, saying that this was their city that I was in, and that this was them.
The peace and electricity hummed along nicely, while I spent the time looking into the eyes of the place and saw openness and curiousity, which was what was looking back at me.
I very much liked this place for it's expressiveness, for it's lightness and steadfastness. Everybody looked fulfilled.

shabat

2006-02-12T04:12:00.000-08:00

Sunday February 12th, 2006

there is no sun in the night, as a statement of fact and no definable importance, other than that it is an empiric observation that could be suggested as a necessary condition for the purposes of describing "not day".
we are all creatures of the mind, said the little one, interjecting another thought into the handful that had words attached, an opposable thumb, a whimsical thought that was strong enough to divert what you minded, strong enough to return to for giggles.

Sometimes I am ridiculously happy and calm, and things seem secondary to my experiencing them. And at others, it's as though my tail is easier to chase than attempting to ride through the multiple situations that various groupings of people are lassoing me with based on my position among them. Baseless, shifting sands, hello tail, and neurotica, and self-assuming the qualities that I feel from outside myself.
I feel (totally subjective, could be my madness - there I go again) unloved - ergo I say: I am unlovable. I feel taken for granted - I say: I give too easily for this situation, I misjudged. I feel out of the loop - I say: I am insufficiently social.
And it's not true.
I'm telling you now, it's absolutely indupitably contrary to how things are.
So I reassure myself, put my vocabulary back on fair and square (no sliding, inferences, warping for trauma).
And where does that leave me, undermining my own naive enjoyment of all my friends, coworkers, and family?
It's impossible to tell everybody everything. And why would you?
But still it's impossible, and the gaps make it hard to navigate. How to know in advance what is relevant. And how it changes. The trajectory is one thing, the curvature of the arc determines that the points of intersection will be significantly different. That's significant, little one.
We are all creatures of the mind.
Sometimes I feel the equilibrium that comes, like it did today, from all of us acting out of our own initiatives, small gestures that addeed up together, quiet consideration, a low-key syncronised comfort, because I am leaving and it somehow takes the pressure off, to have an end-date, and the moments were appreciated, as they came and flowed into others.
I appreciate the people who got in a taxi and made the trip, who dressed for the occasion, who provided surprises, who extended themselves only as far as, who asked for what they needed, who made new jokes, included the new people, and told new stories, who behaved as one should when it's goodbye but not really good bye.
The new ones displayed evidence of their idiosyncracies about food, responsability, social silence. That was funny. And the old ones, we know what ours are.

"Come with me, come with me", said the night. "Leave the dark to itself." And he ground my hand to dust.

Choix de Vivre

2006-01-21T04:58:00.000-08:00

Saturday 21st January 2006
Striding the asphalt of the avenue, a madness not of his choosing took hold of him. He parsed beneath the tree branches, jacarandas all of them.
He could not find his comfort in the company of anyone he knew. There was a restless pause between his emotions these few weeks and what his friends offered in their interactions. He knew he existed apart from the relationships he had. And had had, although, they weren't dead or invisible or irrelevant, they were before and elusive, and they were still just as accessible as the relationships he was in now.
He wasn't disappointed, not even close. He always dove in, fully present, unaware of asking for anything other than what the others were extending, and madder than hell when at those times people shied away, asking for a prenup before a simple smile. A precursor. A guarantee of fidelity and for the other person - him - to extend an indicator of trust. Things he would never percieve at the start of startings, smiling and such. Saying hello, making eyecontact. Giving a lift. Asking what he could do, far over how he could help.
Was it bending over backwards? Hardly.
Or was it?
Did they look and think, that man tries, and laugh?
Not his question. Not his concern. It was a disservice to his understanding of humanity to single out the gladhanders.
But damn, the cheek, the gall and the presumption of the semiretards who withhold their potential for fulfillment. Who refuse to say yes.
They scared or what?
Fear from where? He, this man under the jacarandas, did not know of a fear that would cripple so mindlessly and needlessly. He hated it.
By not comprehending it, it didn't really occur to him in any clear sense.
He could not attack it and have done with it. He still wanted to be friends with the world, but not the ones who turned their heads to the walls, who looked down and practised being shy. Who snubbed and deprecated, according to conventions that brought them a diminished account of being alive and in their bodies. He was persistently disturbed by the unsatisfactory restricted prescriptive silence.
I choose, he said. I choose.

Supplying your own demands

2006-01-19T03:51:00.000-08:00

Thursday January 19th, 2006

Sometimes I love taste so much, it occurs to me that it might be the one thing I live for. Or the one thing I know to declare so. The reaction that my system has to the essence of a substance upon it being ingested, when it is positive, is all-encompassing. A complete satisfaction fulfillment. When that happens, what I am wanting to smell, or hold or see, or be around, or drink or hold in my hand and inhale the steam of, or put in my mouth, appears with clarity to my consciousness. No matter what else I might have been consumed by or uninvolved over, the presence of the thing to which my desire has alighted me, brings a pleasure in its certainty and an enjoyment as much out of myself, as it is a part of me connecting my abstract and material experiences.

Chocolate. The smell of apple gummi bears. The idea of figs. The smell of the sun at the mouth of a plane that has just landed, infused with the flora and whitewash and wild life of the existing structures.

I think it must be history, the build-up of sensory expectation. It is satisfied by the available history.

and now, about the other one

2006-01-07T23:51:00.000-08:00

Sunday the eighth of January, 2006

The creases alternated between shadowing her face with the whispers of memories previous - Things that were even memories in the time before we met - and revealing another face to be included in all the other faces her face had to reveal. She had lived a long time. She had lived a lot in the time she had begun to count. She had more living accumulated in her features than one life could reveal, and she was revealed as wondrous and never-ending as time itself; she occupied the present in such intensity that it was matched and kept constant only in her abdication of any contemporary ties, that balanced the immediacy of her presence with an absoluteness that bespoke her longevity and her connection to the things I recognised as having meaning.
She was a human, breathing scales of eternity as far as it could find scope in the experience of a homosapiens of no broadcasted reknown.
How do we come to know these ones when we come across them? I neither know this or many other questions, similar and disparate.
About the treatment of time on her face, from careful, undisturbed glances on her skin as her mind is occupied with conversation, arithmetic, joke sharing, arranging food, preparing the properties of comfort for another person, the refining process that it has enacted is peerless. She is both here and wholly, not-enough for the present.
I don't think that the world is enough for her. She is certainly meet for the world. She has accompanied it in faith, long enough, and will continue to do so in the future that is not a guarantee.

The present moment

2005-12-30T19:31:00.000-08:00

December 31st, Saturday, 2006

We are taking forever.

"Before. That was a memory, all memories being a linguistically-fuelled device used to (that we use to) refashion the present."
"Our present."
"Ours, yes. We make a before to buffer an awareness of a 'now' and to give ourselves space to breathe an 'us'"
"Oh
they did say "oh"
" community."

Quite prayerful. Amused, uncomprehending, scornful and bargaining. As I beseach you....I wish they had said " beseach you" but they didn't. Perhaps it will come to pass in future memory this phrase, with this invocation.
When we come together, it has the strands of the moment's impulses, the ways we accommodate each other, a historicism that we both seek out; and so it feels like we invoke a drawing out of something that is both independant and fundamental. We do do that, and the effect of so doing is felt by me.

"Community."

echoes in sand

2005-11-13T01:16:00.000-08:00

Sunday the 13th of November, 2005

She carves in touch on her palm, hiding the curves and sensuality from the sight of her addressee even as the sounding out of counting falls from her lips.
Five, fifteen plus a half, nineteen seventeen, how much for each banana. As if the transaction must be logged from the left hand to the right, the right to the left. Voiced all the while, her voice a wall, obscuring the effective incantation.
It is this much she says, in spite of the the other prices it could be.
It is this much and no more, on account of my left hand has audited my mental calculations by way of my right.
She is accounting for so much more, one would assume from her sleight of hand, than the mere calibration of numbers.
She is keeping a tally of the bruises on the air, as we talk, as we walk, as we cast things aside without a second glance. She picks them out, guitarist of the things we don't make manifest, and reassures her self before any money has passed over her palm, of what has amounted and what it has amounted to.
I want her to grab my hand and imprint the truth into my self, make her ramblings a path over the mountains. I don't think she can tell me anything, but what she tells herself, I want to know.

Several cameras

2005-11-09T06:12:00.000-08:00

Wednesday the ninth of November, 2005

What did I reveal when I showed you something? What did you see when I spoke my mind? Where did you take me, that walk in that light afternoon?
We stayed indoors and I played the piano. I always play the piano, I'm boring like that. I don't rise to your expectations. And I'm flatter than a book.
Which part of me glinted, in your eye, what dust was there that knew to be irritated? Which are the bits that I have the other bits of, that I don't get and didn't see? When I say we had a good time and the glow is the glow of a distinct constellation, is it anything like a galaxy for you, or a gap between sandwiches?
We
Why do you do this?
See you when I see you.
Yes.
What if I am not who you think I am. Who is flummoxed?
Of course you aren't who I think you are. Or you, you. Or you, me. Or me, me.
Being and showing and looking. Generally, I'm looking to the stars. Or just away. You know that, you're with me, I'm looking away when we're together. So are you. And then you tell me what you see, and show me what you know. That's how we know each other.
Together let's go on an expedition. We'll have to spend money and consider an itinerary and probably get joint provisions. And it will be in the future. Some kind of solid projection. We might even have to involve an intermediary. A travel agent or something. And know that when it comes to the pilot, it has nothing to do with trust. And develop pictures that show what happened that have nothing to do with what it was like.

Worn through

2005-11-04T22:47:00.000-08:00

Saturday, the 4th of November

Deep, dark, rich, scratchy neckwear. Woolen smoke and mulberry; knotted silk like cresting waves and guano; this cravat a rainbow of memories cold-pressed, photo-pristine, shabby and loved. Shabby but loved. LOVED. Did I yell that? It's the scarf, the warmth-giver, protecting my voice, my heart, blazening my intentions all over the show.

Flat skirts, box-stencilled, the order of heritage worn by girls, only girls, a garment that is a telescope into a fundamental aesthetic.

what there is to have

2005-10-22T06:17:00.000-07:00

saturday, october 21st

There is acid in the wind today. There is more phlegm in the spittle on the pavement. There is a heavy violet greasiness to the waft of product that remains like an unwanted hand on my shoulder from passing by the groups of haircutted yuppie-emulators. There is a wolvish honesty that the sharp drop in temperature has brought out from the practised protocol behind the smiles.
"Hello." You sound like a violin out of tune.
In summer, the new arrivals mistook it for a yodel of introduction.
Now it is yelp of that bastard inequality. We are all piano tuners under the skin, we've been pitched into unease.
Now is the time to refashion yourself into a Russian, what? English? it does not turn my head, does not resonate with me, I have no response, and you are left there, breathing your own air. How does that taste? While then, a ripple of reassessment mellifluates everybody; the terms of composure are dwelt upon.
Sometimes a non--answer makes you investigate the question. Warm your heart, cool your blood, come back from the frost, blink.

frame

2005-10-12T19:33:00.000-07:00

thursday, october 13th

"... is only one child and they keep getting born over and over and what makes different people is the lives and the conditions of living. So "different people" just means different versions of the person, of all what it can mean to be a person. Like the one child has split and is dealing with fractions of themselves. Or is dealing with themselves on a time-fractured basis. And the loop of population, no I mean demographics, ok, ok, no, both and also a general climate of social conditions, what if that looping is a self-referential and sensitive logarithm?"

Why do I have to be held back by the maths teacher and be the last one on the bus and have to sit next to Max?
Why today?
And I'm certainly not going to put a why question to Max.
I mean, it's interesting talking when it's summer and we're on the trampoline and the universe is really big and it's easy to think and talk like this. That's one thing. But dude not here and now.
I'm on the bus going home and your clothes are stateless, they are refugee clothes, man, you really should be a little more aware.

and I look out of the window and am confronted by squares. Everywhere man, just like every shape of thing I see out there is a collection of squares and, if not square, a whole damn lot of right angles.
I've been doing that a lot lately, feeling smacked over the head with squares every time I open my eyes and the teachers at school got a snitch, like pack mentality, about where my eyes are. I mean, they say, about me not paying attention. In class. But I can hear and think and look just fine justthe same on separate tracks.
I'm kind of noticeable to teachers, or they have radar for when my eyes are either not on them or the board. Or on my desk.
I like being in lessons and it's kind of soothing hearing an adult's voice making continuous connections for like, thirty minutes, even when they repeat themselves. And as more and more arrangements of squares keep coming into view, I have additional draws to my attention and the thing is they're on a grid, so moving your head, it's like all the crystals get redrawn. And the teachers don't like it. They start holding you after class and blaming things on things. Now, that, I don't know why. If it was last summer I would ask Max and he might talk it through like he knew.
But what with all the squares in sight at the moment, what am I going to do, not notice them?

From The Talking Horse and the Sad Girl and the Village Under the Sea by Mark Haddon

2005-09-30T18:50:00.000-07:00

This Poem is Certificate 18
When you open a collection of poetry or attend a reading you need to know that the poems you choose to read or hear are suitable for the audience.
To help you understand what a poem is like you can look at the certificate it has been given. This poem has been classified as 18. That means this poem is unsuitable for anyone younger than 18.
A poem with an 18 certificate may contain scenes of a violent nature. Carlos de Sessa burning at the stake, for example, his hot fat bubbling like porridge. Or Erymas, stabbed in the mouth, the blade smashing clean through to the brain so that teeth, bone and blood spray from his ruptured face. The slow death of a parent, often from cancer, is particularly common.
There may be sex, too. A man may be sucked off in a McDonald's en route to the airport, a babysitter may masturbate on the kiln-fired tiles of her employers' bathroom and an arsehole may be described in more detail than is necessary. The word "cunt" may be used.
In a poem with an 18 certificate the syntax may be knottier and the meaning more opaque than in light, narrative or straightforward lyric verse. A phrase may have as many as four different interpretations, all intended for more or less simultaneous comprehension. Conversely, when the hedged sun draws into itself for self-quenching and these modalities stoop to re-enter the subterrane of faith, the intention may simply be to confuse the less intelligent reader. Sometimes a line or phrase is used simply because "it sounded right".
A poem with an 18 certificate may be written according to occult rules which are not made available to the reader. A parallel universe may be assumed wherein the expanded inkling undergoes an allusion and, at the climax of frogging, binges in the Bermuda. Some 18 certificate poems purport to be translations of work by Finnish and Romanian poets who do not, in fact, exist. In others a lightbulb may be granted sentience.
Like plumbers and dentists, poets are fallible, and the possibility of genuine nonsense cannot be ruled out. Unlike plumbing and dentistry, however, poetry is slow, frustrating and poorly rewarded work which fails more often than it succeeds and is therefore embarked upon largely by men and women labouring under a sense of almost religious vocation, grandiose self-delusion or some combination of both. As a result, many poems with an 18 certificate are written by people whose minds you may not wish to enter.
The language of a poem with an 18 certificate may be denser and more powerful than the language you are used to dealing with. And though it makes nothing happen it may, like a piece of ice on a hot stove, ride its own melting into your soul and bring you face to face with the madness of space.
It is an offence to read or supply a poem classified as 18 to anyone below that age.
Poetry certificates are there to help you make the right choice.

servitude

2005-09-17T03:01:00.000-07:00

Saturday, September 17th, 2005
might I suggest she said i love you and leave it at that
well that was how she poured coffee, that waitress whose collar was creased so sharp you knew she was wearing the shirt for the duration - but it was early only Tuesday - sprayed wet and ironed in the important places.
Funny, these outlines of people, "waitress", her attire a line-drawing of a coffee pourer, taking notes on floppy paper. Dark hair.
leaving and returning, that was what she did and how she did it, pouring coffee we didn't want into our stained cups
when she spoke, we looked at her, and suddenly she blurred into the haze of cosy ambience, less outlined than imprinted against the circus poster prints, the dragonfly lighting
and Carlos couldn't disagree.
His MO like his DNA was impervious to her guile. He was the one dealing with the object of his affections, and he was it had to be said, by me, who had been listening to an everbuilding code of versions and episodes as they worked their way through his emotions and psyche, my hardworking friend who could only take so much, being dealt to by a master operator.
so anybody could suggest anything, because advice is only offered. It's a very light thing, comparably, wrapped up in sparkly paper. But you know, and Carlos I think felt it, because it occupied a lot of his time this relationship, that the material form of a thing has no bearing on it's use in any situation, it is not an all-purpose measurement, the dimensions of a thing.
Carlos had to fit his intentions to the will of another human being (mentioned earlier I do believe).
As sensible as those words were, as perfectly formed a statement as it was, Carlos could not simply say truth in as loose afashion as that. By all accounts, it would be a betrayal of the web they spun together, and here he was just trying to give a little struggle free of the stickiness of the relationship to a sympathetic, that is to say, silent, ear (me). So he just smiled and we ordered moccacinos to walk out into the night with.

what is water asked the child

2005-09-13T06:16:00.000-07:00

tuesday, the thirteenth of September

water is what makes everything work. It runs between and keeps everything running. Water is the clearest of evidences on the capacity of boundary, as a theoretical term, and it is resplendent in it's permeability.
Impermeable is an example of vanity. Isn't everything permeable?
The degrees to which things are unitary, are 'not-the-other'; the quality of the persuasion which will resonate with their structures; what are these if not instances, faceted through sensory perception: reductions from the entity of life: a formulaic partiality?
These are what they are and highly dissolvable, increasingly submerged. They are what they are and absorbed or exposed, they come from the genesis of water.

attenuating circumstances

2005-09-03T04:11:00.000-07:00

Saturday, the 3rd of September

how many people are going to be awake like they are the only ones, moving like they are a minority within a routinely sleeping group?
what are the dimensions of this solidarity?
worldwide, between the ones who feel their solitude acutely and come socket-to-blade keen in connivance with the boundaries of their impulses and the ghostly framework of solitary agitation?
how even when it's happening it has the quality of memory and how your feelings whisper into the atolls of the nerves of feeling which are tenuous at this time because even while they are as clear as they are, in this ante-time they are liable to become something else as you squint or swing it.

lifts you up

2005-08-23T00:10:00.000-07:00

Tuesday, August the 23rd

perched before the tide, on fine sand, blonde like the mats whose strings hoisted them lightly concordant with the sun in the South China Sea, on this afternoon and this island where it was happening, the barbeque began to rustle, the air rose, the concrete kept its amusement to itself, flat beneath the chef's weight, strewn with cotton about its pillars, our pavillion accomodated the light breaths that remained with all the people who had flown to be here.

being here and being able

2005-07-30T01:23:00.000-07:00

saturday, the 30th of July

The feeling was as though the blood at the tops of her legs was on spin-cycle. She stopped just before apartments, where the parking space flattened out the tarmac, and the white-blindness came on. Blank flakes beyond which the world escaped its pictures. Her own hands appeared to be insubstantial. And yet she recognised this feeling as being alive, her blood being rediverted along all the routes that kept her alive, operating on such a precise level of efficiency that she experienced the dips in availability fully and visceral. The warmth of the sun on her skin came justly, into her fingers even, and it was welcome. She seemed to be running a slight temperature these days that cooperated pleasingly with the outside weather conditions. Her heartbeat sped up to a count of 5 for each in breath and decreased markedly to 2 for every out. It was like running a tap through a sensitive hose and being able to monitor all manner of readjustments the intelligent liquid within the casing was making. Yes, indeed it was, she thought, it was like being able to do both these things simultaneously. The pounding behind her ears, where her neck became her skull bucket, would soon subside, swoosh into a resting frequency, she would think it had stopped. The general faintness would pass into a lightness of being and she could set off down the dry-cleaning street feeling happier and happier at being here and being able. There is a trick of letting the optimum time evolve so that she can walk the length of the apartments in the sunshine having had the more insistently mechanical preparations of her body dissipate prior to turning left into the oncoming at full stride. No counting, just breathe through it.

light fantastic

2005-07-25T04:18:00.000-07:00

Monday the 25th of July

the pudgy hands from under the computer console, jerking the other one off, in the cartel of childhood, always must playact, complete with the mock authority voice, the brusque ineffectual smacking away, well aimed slaps, but the legs remain, the legs are out of combat, you know we know you know where the fidelity lies.
and it makes me an anger of sorts, because the deflective sensationalism that makes up most of the reportage on this subject, has groomed indignation to be the first reponse, and in a process of misnaming and batting all the little cruxes that build the symmetry of encroachment and complicity and release and relief away, makes it a vortex of common sense hermetically sealed.
look at me, the kids are screaming. they shriek it. there is a vein of laughter within it, you know the cunning laughter that is closely tempered to cleverness as it winds itself around revelation upon revelation. look at us , we are hurting the other, look at our bad behaviour, you are not invited to our bad behaviour, this is private, this is our choice, look at us. this is private, look at us.
ha, got you there. but nobody has been got, the conventions of respect, autonomy, expression, and protection have got themselves into a tangle in the uncertain terrain of responsability.
to be frank, i am not interested, i know this memory of shadowy anger to be a fake.
i remember maths lessons with clarity here, and water polo, and ballet classes before the teacher arrived, and scavenger animals caught by children beside the club kitchens, and the coldness in my eyes wanting to scream at the white fuck up by the blackboard. Don't be ludicrous. abstract thought and general principals, are an odd screen for an immediate education in neglect and blindness.
So much is a product of bad behaviour. The conditions of today are the product of an earlier set of circumstances. Something happened to somebody once, sort of thing. Things like this will keep on happening, to you, by you, by me, for me, for the ancestors, because it's good for you, because you deserve it, because this is who you are, because this is who we are, for no reason, why are you asking so many questions, why are you asking such stupid questions.

Mothers who cannot protect their children for one - who are mothers today because they were unprotected and who receive no societal fortification today, cut down and endlessly self-justifying. Subscribing to rationalisations for their own inferiority, invented by the people whose existence they support.

2005-07-10T04:41:00.000-07:00

Share your food.

mechanical wings and solider things

2005-07-05T20:06:00.000-07:00

agate husked beetle
animate
on red granite
the tiny resolution of rock crumbling the slab cut in heat and water
as impartial as each other

Which brings me to "Sah

2005-07-02T05:42:00.000-07:00

saturday the 1st of July
Blatant
is hollywood as selfdestructuve as to advertise it's own crapness in the tidal wave of crapness currently washing over the neon plastic cinema houses, in crap areas of the world where the people are supposedly sub-optimal and thus receptive to cinematic representations of themselves as disposable sidewatchers, invisable, unwarranted until they are patronised.
Blatant
the abscess of a hero (what, you thought i was going to say absence?) coupled to anthemic music to which the lyrics "Make Way for the Idiot" are too easily fitted might actually be by design.
The storytellers-elect are embarked on increasingly bloody and violent creation myths. Bang an empty oildrum 'why don't you?' for all the hollow resonance they provide. If you are accustomed to recognising the stirrings of a redemptive heart at the existential cavity of human endeavours, the redundant premise of soulless mirth (yes i think i bled that phrase from somewhere else) is faintly disturbung and highly destructive and as insulting as it is possible to be - as the bigot castigates the seagull.
Repulsive crapulous crapsousity, crapscular extrapolations from a mind unsatisfied by it's inability to relate to the social space in which it's physical body receives information on which meanings are ascribed to it. And so whole fake epics are knocked up whose only message is to herald the haggard ego of somebody's child who cannot fathom his relationship to his penis. Skin-numbingly arrogant aggressive spiels of all things under the sun as manipulated by a one-eyed belief in them as functions of an appendage. And fanaticata, ad nauseum, a scary appendage.
I have never met an American who didn't seem normal, but yet there seems to be an institutional obstacle so that the experience of empathy eludes them. Maybe, in addition to not hearing the voices of those in the conversation with them, their own voices and words are deafened by the din of their ideology. They do seem to have a ideology that blocks out the actual living realities and subtleties and delights and sensitivities and the possibilities of diverse and responsive proclivities to keenness. One that kind of pfluffs like a fat yellow cushion inside their minds and callously invalidates independant expression and meta-systemic organisation.
Yes, it is true that I never want to go to America for this reason; that from the pallor of their skin and the quality of their eyes (dull, it seems to me and that is a cause for concern), and from the arrangement of their skeletons (the girth of their bones perceptibly augmented), their food sources are acting upon the population an experiment, or several ill-thought-through experiments on biodiversity, on behaviour. A commercially readjusted pseudo-controlled reality.
It makes my skin numb with the aggressive arrogance of it all, and I am disconcerted by the obtuseness of Americans that I know.
Ponder the attempts some people make to respect and give respect to those who do not respect them.

An entity that made sense Unexpected and unsurprising

2005-06-27T06:41:00.000-07:00

monday, the 27th of June
She is more than herself in so many ways. Her household
and the considerations of the offspring who make report to her in the circuits of their own timetables
and the employees who know that there is an invisible weight that is brought to bear - in excess of her face which smiles upon them as they make their schedule. She marks the passing of multiple man-hour days. And more insistently, unspoken, many people meld their conscious activity to her, she who lives not in her own life, but in theirs as their cash-flow incarnate
and the logisticians
the merchants
and the entrepreneurs
the clients
and the restaurant lunches
The priest who makes his mark and the importance of the authority in whom he brings to vast avenues of society some humanity and sense and succour
As she turns in her own life, the visage that is turned to her is the workable guise of an understanding deity
she is always welcome in this house
the people who are with her who know who she was before she took on the lacquer of tangental generation's perceptions
the people who know her beyond knowledge and the details that provide that knowledge

She came in a car with me and she did something unutterably kind. So kind that a great store of magnanimity radiates from the mantle of the Earth and through the torque of its spin. The world is very good
and it is more than human
Tomorrow and the next day it will keep on being and she will
and so will all the things that rely on her likeness a little less permanently.

much of

2005-06-23T22:32:00.000-07:00

which things define the way you understand the style of life you live?
how much is supported- exclusively- for the pleasure of old men?
really?

do a little dance

2005-06-11T06:03:00.000-07:00

Saturday, June 11th
like the consistency of pond-weed saturated H2O, like Zurich, remember? the sky is murky and it's dark, too, so the buildings avoid notice.

They are all high-rise here, more spaced out than in comic books.

and the lights in the windows look like eyes with glaucoma.

"By your own logic...", the accomplice took leave

2005-06-07T06:13:00.000-07:00

Tuesday, the 7th of June

Television. People over a certain age thought it had stopped. They remembered it as a distinct characteristic of an earlier time, a time when people were still open to the idea that everything was being reduced, and indeed, could be reduced. This was years ago.
But its uses and the urge to represent forged a panoply of mediums, variously as popular as tv.
And there still was tv. Sound, movement and colour. The simplicity of its information, so suited to the anthropological predilection for recognition, delivered a visceral comfort and those who chose could always make it available.

It was lifestyle. A lot of lifestyle was going around though. All of them different, and in different lots, but generally around, no changes there.
One thing was different now. Something from before had stopped.
The overfed old, white men, podging obtuseness as they touched the young, other people's children, dropping words like education, poverty, opportunity.
The images of scrub and anthill and the non-transmission of the dust and the smells.
The silent young and the incredible import instructing and canvassing, canvassing.

A pandemic susceptibility, noted here, in some observations on a condition, known as "rice butt" that afflicts the local population.
Despite its negligible taste and consistency, it is cooked over and over again in the course of millions of lifetimes, and people choose to have a rice dish. I reckon rice has an addictive component.
I don't believe that the body is equipped to process rice, not in these quantities anyway, and while they are being saturated with rice, there is a toll exacted on human bodies by deficiencies in nutrients and valuable minerals.
And by the age of 30, the ablebodied adult population (which is what 30 years old is here - the pinnacle and pivot upon which to hinge and swing the sum-total of understanding in the net of society) are built like tanks.
With every mouthful of excess rice consumption they wage a war on their genetics and physiognomy. In the lifelong process this takes, bone and flesh are inexorably compounded and eventually they look like a sack - smooth-skinned bundles of compromise, mounds of pointless muscle. Boys of 16 to 28 have rice breasts, rice pecs. Girls have puffy forearms and glutinous legs. Like jelly in gladwrap. Everyone has inflated fingers. The skinny ones do not eat.

but a mere invectory

2005-06-02T05:58:00.000-07:00

What if there is no difference between anybody? What if we are all fundamentally part of the same creation and contan identical potentiality to anyone else and all that differentiates us is timing?
What if the long long pattern of the equations and permutations that are encounters over the period of human life on earth is non-repeat, with the pertinent question - does your mind lead you to this point? this is where i get interested in the possibilities of this "unknown" - what manner of things have occured and what entity has been brought into being and then to it's close, and how does this leave us?
If there is no more us, then is there any "what next?" to ask?
Some people think that there are things to attain, or things to jump over, or things to fulfill. Some people march forward in their minds with the invocations of another person's voice keeping them mindful of this prophecy or that.
Some people hoard the milestones that their predecessors have set up and meter out their days through a heraldic calendar of solid futures, each to be sought in the footsteps of their individual totem.
Some people have a lack of faith and rote their experience of light and air to a dogma of projection

of all things for God's sake! (an anachronistic injection from my appreciation of sense)

values imperfectly mediated and faultily voiced by idiots with loudspeakers.
Projection is a lie that covers nothing, it is an unnecessary lie at that. What if the lies of the projectionists were openly regarded as aural fabric that ennable said projectionists to be clothed for the duration of their life on this planet in regalia and insignia that dissemble the abject exploitation they require? What if that was all that stood between us and our own happiness and widespread generosity?
Is that all? Or what more can be said? What more can I say? All the other thoughts that I've been having while I was typing this, which shall be expanded over the next moments and through moments on other time scales, what other things/something elses shall come?
What if there is no such thing as an ending?

There is no such thing as an ending (from my appreciation of sense)

I am elated to ask the question.

with all the clarity of dust in the glass air of the approaching dusk this is knowledge that a satellite could not extract

2005-05-27T05:43:00.000-07:00

friday, the 27th of May

The man had his back curved between us and the window. His elbows were handling the bar in a familiar way, which you do if you are a glass or an elbow, so the effect is total.
And so to begin to hear in their own speech, the words that call up an acknowledgement of the initiations and inductions that scoop a communities humanity as they chronicle the progress of 2 centuries of settlement.
We settle in and listen, made possible because in this place we are acceptable. The way for there to be a way, is to be acceptable. The printed word and all the faded photographs, such things are bandages for the illiterate. Call it "pride", call it "sacrifice", but it is just blood that has been let. The first senses - to be and, now, to listen - these accompany the recogniser in their path for truth, and we know that some combination of forces has extracted from an autonomous life some holy thing. I do not know what word to give it, I think to name it would take from it anyway.
Depletion of the natural resources, I keep quiet and hear it from your mouth. Fabric of history, obvious, continuous, now in these calm hours as you converse it, in this conducive environment, the acceptance makes ease and it can be transmitted, it can grow into record. Such things that are not transmitted, appear in the chronicles as glaring omissions that analytical, quick minds stare blankly at, unable to access. You need to have somebody whose eyes become their own as they talk to you, who speak in their own pace of the things that required certain calibrations made to the actions and capacities of others, always others, in the past that is a faroff country and know why these buildings were built. You need to have somebody whose hands make the most sense out of anything, this day, yesterday on a plane, these hands with a million ancestors.
And eventhough he has not said it, nor come anywhere close to saying it, if I wrote a book in the momentum of this encounter, and he was the sensitive protagonist, this much is what I know he knows:
As of yet, I still believe in unknown things.

This morning

2005-05-26T06:57:00.000-07:00

thursday, May the 25th

Come this way, across the bridge, look left at all the lotuses. A bird on one, see, it quivers like life, like cotton on silk, and all around is buzzing - intermittant amplifications. Things with different numbers of legs keep chirruping. So deep down in the nutritious polluted lake the slow big fish track the slow big momentum, little scraps of fishes yap at the skin of the water, a clear slap noise. Stop and look, stop and look more innerly, stop and let the scene scan for you as you breathe the early morning lake air, bounce on the suspension bridge and hear the determined encounters of unhuman things. If it snaps, if the bridge should bend too far, it is only a short swim to the bank. Only that, not an eternity in rotten liquid, an intrusion into the quiet priorities of aquatic order, just a quickness to think about before sleep, that will happen then so will a shower and dettol, and that's the end of those clothes.
Come this way across the stones. They have laid them out along the curve of the trees, and straight from each bench, it is possible to wear stilettos, highly possible to wear stilettos in the moonlight poised in the open air observatory, a rat, look a mouse, a one with a commendable tail has just run by the scraggly mangrove bushes.
There's a coffee shop across the crossing, we passed it on the way when we didn't know where we were.

arcing from a moving car

2005-05-24T06:38:00.000-07:00

Tuesday, the 24th of May
the hills against the underside of the sky. the road quite disappeared and out of sight.

the phoenix system

2005-05-21T00:02:00.000-07:00

saturday, the 21st of may

I may not have freedom of choice, but I do have the freedom to say yes or no to the choices presented to me. I have the flexibility to confirm or deny, to accept, to recognise and to appropriate, or not.
I have the foresight to seek out my sense, what sense is to me, what sense there is according to my own inclinations.
I have the freedom to exercise my senses. I have the space to flex my muscles and I have the space to not be constricted.
Rhythm is my singular 'sense'- my making of sense, this world; and making into sense, me.
Rhythm is the map of the way that has been, at one instance, chosen. A link in sense.
The inherent sense of audio.
The vibrational thoroughfare. By which we make our way.
Through sense, to live and see the world. By sense, to seek and learn the world.

Perhaps proof is the epitome of the misled creed.
That something occured is proof of exactly zilch, not even of its' own components.
That something happened can be taken to neither preclude or predict any other thing or series of things.
Consequence is the moniker placed on, in everyday parlance, antequence. That which is, at a singular point, seen to have come before - and, making a wholly erroneous link (erroneously linking), is thus seen to directly influence or to create the specific conditions an individual might be aware that they are experienceing.
This has as much to do with the quality of an individuals' faculties and comes down to that individuals' consideration for some concept of "self" and their unique appreciation of their person as a self.

Do

2005-05-19T05:36:00.000-07:00

Thursday, May 19th

I wonder if it's possible to train myself to process separate information transmitted in the same medium simultaneously. For instance, 2 novels, one printed, the other audio.
Taxi drivers here have satellite tv beside the central aircon, so I do not think think that this thought can be solely attributed to my mental hormones. Four lane highways, roundabouts, traffic lights, pedestrians, the river, over-passes, cellphones.

i keep meeting people who want to be my friend, quietly, consistently hesitant and expectant, were there a person born into maturity as of yesterday, this arrangement would be ideal, however i know my ignorance of the specifics of the lives of all those in contact with me and of all those whose lives and mine brush past each other, and my acknowledgement of them stays in the moment. if you assume, it is tantamount to resuming, ad infinitum, a boredom unclearly perceived. take the leap, trust yourself, make your choice in joy, in confidence.
i feel as though i am running on top of other people's excuses, because it is the only way i can be a part of this beautiful world, and negotiate my social capabilities, and respect a place in which to develop my faculties. Whereas, free of other people's awkward jigsaw placement, stuff would actually happen.
It's curious how there are some who find it easy to think that they are the centre of other people's lives, because they are a numerous minority. Perhaps it is a brain thing.

I am mad that someone emailed me a vague apology.
What is it?
I keep asking myself, and I can't ask them because it is a piece of stupidity to not encourage.
And in an etiquette instilled in my values, it is insulting. It's on a par with a vague invitation.
Is it ignorance, bad manners, self doubt/self complacency. Well mannered; do more, be more, care less.

amateur collection

2005-05-12T07:13:00.000-07:00

thursday, the 12th of may

jars within jars contain beautiful things
beautiful things are loosed within clay
shards lie discarded, unchosen and ugly, in the build up of storm residue, from last night and the night before then, come in to the restaurant, inside we have such domestic brilliance, a cup of water
a cup of water is always very lovely, (he is outside and very happy)
the moon has begun again, outside there are flies, alive, outside, with a moon, somewhere there is water in all of this
he is among people who make jars

passagiata

2005-05-06T21:08:00.000-07:00

saturday, may the 7th

civic art
on top of manhole covers

out from the casual service of bells

2005-05-06T05:54:00.000-07:00

friday, the 6th of may
confectionary from a heavily industrialized country being sold in another part of the world where the investment in infrastructure is at odds with the cultural norms that define worth and personal upstanding.
indupitably a social paradox, albeit one that is but a loop strained from the mesh that this piece is testing, the point is, the links of sugar, manufacturing concentrations, wage labour, child vulnerability, nutritional vagaries, the tenuous state of that thing known 20 years ago back into the stretches of time as the staple diet, are blatantly displayed, in all their glorious optimism in the intercontinental behemoth, the duka, for which we give thanks and tarnished currency, taking sugar, nodding a little kickback to the dairy merchants who have hijacked the enterprise of sucrose, or evading them and selecting glucose on a stick, and we all take it and we all run on it, yup you see, we are all one in this, this is how we function as a together, we come together in the pursuit of curious gems in the one room emporium
it seeps out of you and the ingredients list is long, so long like the obituary of a particularly powerful man
it's one of the things you can say to yourself, if you really want some, you say to yourself at 5 in the early evening, tomorrow you can have some as you walk past the school on the way out of the front gates around 9 am
and because my arm has fully formed bone in it you understand that i am taller than the people with dancing expert eyes, attuned to the summons of the bell, in uniform, and can you see the grace after the motion, in the still, as synthetic emulsion flavoured with the essence of peanut becomes mine from all the places it has comes from and things it has been and whose existence means other things to other people in their lives, as the silver i had held in lieu rejoins the perpetual exodus of minted need and lowest common denomination.

2005-05-03T05:00:00.000-07:00

tuesday, the 3rd of may

a little girl said hi to me today by tickling my neck.
now i want to paint human contact
and express to have it felt,
Exuberance, light, inconsequence, the swerves and the smashes, collision orkester, the ordinary joy of violence.
it is well and truly summer, (the sun so high and far from our settlement, bleaching the furniture, an irritant to those who would be sleeping otherwise), one roof over, a glasshouse, on top of a renovated bank, takes it as if it doesn't even matter, as if it has a splendid isolation, as if we all reclaim the urban askance. The birds have started to sing, and in downtown, last weekend, a middleaged man and his wolfhound walked through the crowds and left the festival over the zebra crossing.

more time and more of it

2005-05-02T05:46:00.000-07:00

monday, the 2nd of may

social terror is my base proof for the reaffirmation that physics and biology are local to human physiology.
You can follow their own twists and entwine yourself in their chronology, but it's solid bonds all the way should you choose to walk back to the visceral gulp across which inspiration and selfknowledge realize the properties of all that is vital.
in a certain light, this supplements the rendition of gravity.
do not rend the gravity. the injunction is structurally unsound, while being fundamentally crucial, along a causative model, to much of our behavioural justification.
Thus a paradigm is good for jewelry but less so for sufficiency. And because such shifts are required, all the phenomena of tectonics excercise the physical and the emotional in an organic system.
think of gravity and the figure that flies above its tightrope.

this has been written to be forgotten

2005-04-28T05:20:00.000-07:00

I know an "us". I have known them for quite some time. The attempt to dissect them holds more interest than that which is naturally generated by the two of them. They are in the nicest of all possible formulations, boring. They also never split up. In person, they present themselves as a "we". On the telephone, the other is always invoked, unneccessarily, superfluous - like a layer of gauze lain across a vaselined lens. It is not that I don't like them, or either of them. I am struggling to see their appeal. They are prised together by bonds that I cannot see and this makes me hope that they are not a unit of negativity, imperceptibly poisoning the environment of those in their circle with their fear or dependence.
They never split up.
It is a she and a he. Who she sees in the mirror is not herself. She has never seen herself, marked the changes, imported her lineage into the phyical features reflected back to her eyes, never looked at herself and rethought "I see me and this me I see is thinking, seeing one thing which is myself, and thinking may things simultaneously, which is myself." Her fashion is robotic, she wears it like she borrowed it from a mannequin where it fit with greater ease into the mannequins active lifestyle.
He carries with him a regret that he is not something else. He is stopped at a date past which his ownership of him has never moved. He ascends on escalators as if there is something insistent against which he must procrastinate, he is stifled by unformed excuses.
They went to _____ and are planning to go again to see "another" mall. On the telephone she told me they had Starbucks.
I wish I could only ask "Why?" when I wanted to know the answer.
In this intstance, why is provoked out of inquiring mouth noises that form my claiming of space, some way clear of the befuddled march to nonexistence that their life seems to me to be.
Oh they are so friendly, it happens though, that once you get there, there is nothing remotely engaging about their presence.
They are not interested.
Simply, this means that they are not interesting. And they never split up.
They take forever to get to the point of what it is they introduce so portentously to say. Ay mi, there is no point. And she likes to tell me about the people I do not know to whom she has told "so much" about me. And then she lists my interests. I am still making eyecontact with her, thinking this is me, here with you, this is me thinking, you do not give any outward sign of being cauterized from reality and yet you cast burning arrows of ephemera from a loosened hot air balloon.
He is gazing, through some fine mental mist, into the panorama of mountains and the river below us, he nods - it is an outward sign of nothing - from a damp inward placidity.
Like many people from where they come from, conversation is an unexplored theory.
Unlike those I had met previously - ambassadors - who have forewarned me of their proclivity to statement and, in the unlikely event of a diplomatic extension of communication, or return of verbal, their reliance on aggressive habits and one up manship, these two are bereft of anything to state. It doesn't keep them from keeping silent, or paying more attention.
If they never split up, their antennae will fuse. They will hear nothing and as the dark room they will inhabit shrinks they will know with ironclad certainty the thing that they have "always" known, that this is as good as it is.

here there is always something that will bite you

2005-04-20T06:15:00.000-07:00

wednesday, april 20th

he picked his words like they were long stemmed irises of pure blue.
and the steam of fermenting citrus lay on the air beyond the wall, beyond the wall where there was a landtip.
mollusc selecters wrapped in salty cotton, cattlebirds in that way land habituees visit the water, deliberately and delicately spirographed around each other.
in this place i have counted many cigarettes and thought about why they were there
i have wondered why there are diverging opinions on what is clean
here is always where i feel life like crunched up cellophane in my stomache
here is where my feet don't touch the ground when i run
here is where there is always something that will bite you

in the before stages

2005-04-14T07:20:00.000-07:00

you can get by on being polite in a strange new place. anaesthetized with the novelty, which lets you not have to connect, only be regarded favourably, and that really is unchallenged because nobody is looking too hard, or asking normal from you. when you only have to deliver the superficial, it saves itself from being insulting because you are so consumed by the strangeness, that your behaviour as a stranger in the place serves all interests quite adequately. it is matter of time before someone gets too interested.

may peace be with you

2005-04-13T05:52:00.000-07:00

free of bonds, rattling at pace inside an accomodating doing-web, influencing lives light as an impressionist, absorbed like litmus, lasting as butterfly dust.

when will this stop being so?

i think i am starting to get bored, and at 12.35 i feel like there is no future and my brain is about to be pulled out through my nostrils and it's magnitude is real in that i will have no recollectable allotment of prescience, that it will be horrific and complete, and then at 1.47 it's all on and the afternoon quivers before us, and i am enthused, and i think little steps little steps, take everybody into the magic, look look look, what can you see? ask always, what can you see, and save for myself for a clear later, what i see.

it's that in the morning time it's fine, and i am doing apartment living, not the french apartment from memory, this one apparantly comes first, i cannot ask for anything in addition to what there currently is, and yet i can, depending on who is in the conversation and how we began to phrase our intentions to each other.
my ego is off kilter so i cannot be faulted, it is unnerving how decentralised i am, this is some version of health. without the 'me', there isn't at all the same possibility for neurosis, or ambition, what would you call it? i feel that i am walking sideways like the little prince, a book that pinches above the eyes, the soil here is also yellow.

and i don't have to take responsability for everything

All the people i love, they are with my thoughts. I am always with all those who love me.

I shall sit here, on and off, for days and days

2005-04-04T21:38:00.000-07:00

monday, 4th april

I speak in my capacity as the 4th most beautiful girl in a company of 38.
Why then, you needn't speak at all. Your radiance is eloquence enough. Should you speak, it may be dimmed.

and if you ask why they spoke thus, it was because they were more outspoken than their mothers and to speak so made their fathers proud and woul be remembered fondly in the silence of their future status.

ie. and this is for an illuminatory example My youthful exuberance is but the halcyon cloak cloaking circumstances reduced by minute encumbrances.
Needlework a case in point.

I write because if I were to dig a hole, they would shoot me.

I often go abroad I shall bring you back some tidbits.

and I see all the combative children here and I think how the girls feel a shadow on them, how they will be twisted, diverted into the suctions of inconsequence and greed, castigation making them willing, producing from their will, the volunteer. So that their bodies are their universe.

Which is so sick, but who has the guts to say where lies the affliction?

Sex and the city advertises estee lauder lip gloss.

time

2005-04-04T05:49:00.000-07:00

monday, 4th april
time is a product of geometry and energy.

"the sun is red"
"the sky is red"
"that's what i said"

"the beauty of this place is indescribable"
"that let's you off the hook then"
"that's what i said"

"habits are important"
"language is important"
"that's what i said"
"language is a habit"

"habits are the language you speak"
"and that michelangelo, is why i don't understand you"
"you don't understand because the language you speak is a practical impediment"
"to any encounters"
"to encounters that invite dialogue"
"are you saying we might struggle with communication because the two of us are fluent in confluent tongues"
"parallel idioms"
"closed circuit transmission"

"floxlepoff, i like talking to you"
"yes me too"

something sweet, sherlock

2005-03-23T02:00:00.000-08:00

you might have guessed that i use this space to insert some semblance of meaning into the reactions i have to the things that go on in my life, and that this is the only place i do so and it feels neccessary.
you might know that the clear moments i have are not social, you never overhear strangers in a group telling each other stories - their stories are not spherical narratives, their stories, the ones that can be overheard, are spiky and orbital and revolve around instants of recognition that they patch into relevance. so you know that the clear refractions of reality that i write are not social.
i listen to others in real life, and only in the "afterward" time do i catch up on myself. i take at face value - but, this is true, i am in these cases, a mirror that is relatively deep, and sees myriad other ways. i am self deprecating. and it sometimes twists in my mind that my writing is damning, or twisted, or ungenerous.
but this is as true - i write when the crystallisation is acheived; words are descriptive and strategic, not true in themselves, but an aftertaste of what has been true. When we are happy, we never write, we do other things called life. The dictionary is composed of words for misery, desire, and possession - (inertia, projection and doubt, and this i want to be incisive about).
the events in the day or over a period that disturb my state that begins with waking up happy, these are my project.
Perhaps i am selfish. i think this is a good thing, and it is neither in sync with or out of proportion to everyone on the earth's properties of being.
i know this: it is a mistake to think everyone else thinks the way you do. it is a mistake to think you are the only person to think the way you do. everything is a mistake. it is all a series of mistakes.

falling at the edges

2005-03-22T05:09:00.000-08:00

tuesday, 22nd of march

again, they changed the schedule ahead of time, and yet they didn't tell until after the magazines and confectionary were disbursed, after the lyrics were decoded, after the chitchat and vaguely accusatory tone to innocuous remarks.
again, they were demonic, these crazed chrysallii of the 1970's, nurtured in a web of selective philosophy, and cartoon attention.
one little totem with his bleached jagged strip, had a knife pack. One for killing the beast, and a miniature for what? severing the eyeballs? the bleached jagged strip which refabricates even his follicles - how can i see him? how can i see more than a nothing? in his eyes i can see hate and disdain, and there does not seem, at this time, to be the possibility of a moment by which i can see how to see him. fuck that looks like wank.
how can i understand the disregard he reflects on me, when myself, i cannot see him and so, regard him?
again, they say, oh they are so shy
shy like ice
they say, they are so self aware
yes, like small blinkered creatures with underutilised spacial perception
they say, it is a problem for us. it is hard for us.
but i think they like it that way, because they are comfortable in their declamatory petulence, and because physical dominance is both arbitrary and authoritative, and that is their box.
and the yelling.
so, let me think of something nice to write.

time

2005-03-20T05:12:00.000-08:00

sunday, 19th march

concurrent
instantaneous
perceived

abstract
composed
relative

a physical composition, whose definitions are wholly abstract, and which is experienced as an inverse of the subject acted upon.
intangible, fluttering heartbeat, remark upon the contours of this space.

this is how to put down, and not be told to

2005-03-12T01:41:00.000-08:00

saturday, 12th march

pick up another relic,

3 minutes tops

2005-03-01T01:25:00.000-08:00

i do not think i want you there
i do not think i even care
you do not want to even think
you were not absolutely right

you cannot even let it go
you will not let yourself believe
i so easily rethink and
you hold on to things and
sink

i think you think that 'or' is god
and that once that you have 2
then your certainty is 'true'
and your conviction is complete

i do not mind one little bit
that you like this little grid
you pay no mind to
any undefined
externals;
your world complete, dysfunctional, internal

your utmost, idiosyncratic skill
by which you fashion
your thinking cell
i like
it makes me smile
as you do
for a little while
and now and then
as i remember
remember - sometimes is just 'forever' , differently

and when you reach out to invite me
concentrating on the footholds
i take care because i'm me
and when i reach out and hold you
i see you through the keyhole
and my screaming is our heartbeat
no mxxg box you tell me is infinity

these little things that plug at my heart strings

2005-02-23T21:52:00.000-08:00

thursday, 24th february

So when you write is it like peeing or thought. Is it a bodily function that is traceable? Is it as natural, is it as unbidden, as unregulable as sweat in humid conditions? Why? This is the big question. In fact, why?, is the only question. “Why?” is question. Is as does. Raison d’etre. This is the germ of all human genius. The human genius is for explanation.
The human genius for explanation (requires to operate) the prerequisite “why?”. Why is writing so unsatisfactory. More than the inadequacy of words. The crafting of word to the truth of the thought. The gap in integrity between the transmission of and the impetus that motivates speech. To communicate in a learned matrix. The straightjacket of language. Flip the bird at grammar and make a futile escape a pretend escape from the clutches of permissible expression. A new language?An unrecognizing of language? Denial. Ignorance. Ridiculising.
When you write, it is an act of will, yours on the myriad of perceptivities in which you operate. Another’s will to whom you address your inclinations, to deliver a work of your own independence that they commissioned but did not commission. The commission is like the slipped sideways submission.So that you can always say, “I did not mean that” What is meant?This is where language gives a respite from the act of justification that it finds itself an affiliate to.…You can’t start with a hug. You can never start with a hug, it’s what is built up to. The hug isn’t a beginning.…What I keep being confronted with in life is the importance of not throwing yourself off a bridge. Just over and over. And the constant realization of how young you were.…So that’s the most perfect poem.…What?…Two people meeting. That’s the hug not being any sort of a beginning, any sort of a carry on. There must, in a story, be something for there to be carried on, yeah, so if something is carried on, then the sublime, the thing that gets the audiences rise out of their seats and their train of thought to some clear inspiration that’s when you introduce the two people meeting each other. You can set it up and it can be skillfully incorporated into the carry on, the train of thinking – oh yes, the narrative, and this can be honed, you can learn a multitude of genres, yeah, you know – but you see, the meeting, the physical act and the time it takes and the space it covers and the expectation and perspectives and emotions, it’s this meeting. The sublime is captured in the meeting, and in your story always, always keep the integrity of the meeting and you will have a little kernel of magic to infuse the exercise and your process, so even if you are having writing troubles, you know you have magic, and at your discretion you can implement it, always, always refer your sensitivity to the meeting.It’s the perfect poem. It’s the most perfect poem I know. What are we dealing with – form and impetus and humility and absolute tender honesty. There is no better representation of the humanity of humanity than the meeting of two people. Do you see? You see.…You can’t really interpret a meeting. You know. It’s essential. It is the essential.…Yeah, alrighty, I get you.

w'happen

2005-02-23T00:23:00.000-08:00

wednesday 23rd february

call me what you hear in your nerves when you think of the breeze, in a park with fountains, over the ceremonial pebbles. call me like there is a green scarf wrapped around your neck. call me when you are walking and the scarf is yet to warm up to your own temperature, is new against the air, and you are quite warm.
because when i think of you, i think of you thinking, when i think of you, what it feels like is being called by you.
And you're probably not - in the infinite alternatives, some how that is even better. Man, you better keep your voice down, all the crows are scattering.

umbrellas are better for floating in

2005-02-06T23:11:00.000-08:00

When it rains, it rains, it rains and it rains.
That's what hits the pavement far below and that's what I see past my window. I'd been looking at the harbour, clocking the expression it was painting on the city, for 3 days now on account of it being so hot, and me being on the beach and so close to it, and walking on the track above the nearby suburbs and looking down toward the roofs of the business that churns the people here, seeing them coated in glutinous sun and the harbour glinting. The harbour was a mischief. Highstreet behaviour, like banking, warrant of fitness, running in for a drink, looking for metallic belts, was commonplacely one-eyed like always, and even through the impermeable, amateur focus of accumulation of hours in acts, the harbour managed to sweep itself into a peripheral dimension, so that every breath and awareness seemed to be happening on the edge of something.
And then it got hot, with a curious metallic lightness; then it got so light, the clouds were silver and if you were to find yourself inside one, you might have heard ringing; then the sky disappeared into silver and all of a sudden it was dark.
On the peninsula, the view of the city was munched up by globulous, fastmoving clouds, shapeshifting but motionless, an emulsion of water vapour and vaporized proofs of human life poised across the harbour, so few feet up.
And I was very happy that the lady behind me had 2 cans of tuna and 4 cans of salmon, because it looked like a habit and it's quite a nice feeling to believe you share a nutritional culture with a stranger in the same town, it feels like you live here.
It broke like saucepans and tambourines on patios without number. It broke like glass. The wind weaved through the raindrops falling straight straight, it felt like being kissed. Nobody left for 16 minutes, it just came down.
At the moment, the whole place is grey. If it is still raining it is doing it very quietly, at this point I can't see past the glass on the window, I can't see the harbour. Perhaps the harbour doesn't exist. Actually, there are lights on the peninsula, I can see those. Which means the harbour is still there, but it is incredibly cold.

excitement in lifesize increments

2005-02-02T01:23:00.000-08:00

put backing on picture
make phonecall to mobile
krisflyer
ask about hanging picture
go to rhubarb
clean room
starbucks
txt
120 min circuit
sauna

Dialogue

2005-01-30T03:54:00.000-08:00

this much is true and i want you to hear it from me. i know the weight of it and how it can be taken and i know what it is to me and how that much will not be understood by you. this much i open up like a bird released from cupped palms.

- mhmm. small smile and possibilities.
possibly circumstances have forced this crisis
circumstances really circumscribe my response and possibilities
your timing is quirky
and you're slow off the mark
next time go for it. and this one's in stars, lit up, urgent and teasing

series of pronouncements on personal mental state, perceptions, projections.
however, and this one's like a banner, no implications are extended, these truths are islands contained
series of generosity in continuous and reciprocal verve

i am a little bit in wonderment, a little bit in security, this is my ambiguity and this is what i know, my ambiguity is my pillar.

--Certainty is the one thing that to me is false. Truly it is. --

- well, you know that i am in a no-place
i have a job starting in 2 weeks in another country, the ticket has not been issued yet, the agent and i are sorting some vague dance,
why is everything so difficult, my negotiating skills, my greater desire, can i see my options, can i see clearly, and these are things that i do not include in THIS, which is going on right now, with US, these areas are the uninclusive nucleus of a more flatter sheaf of my life, i have stress which i am trying to defuse and diffuse, engaging my attitude and my perception and concentrating on my breathing

now i'm worried. what's that look on your face? what are you thinking? will i see you tonight? come back in half an hour. let's let this be what it is.

- let's let this be what it is
and it has been a part of my reflection in this persons eyes for a while since they began to construct an identity for me, i love freedom,
water, air, freedom

--i like them. i like that they see me. i like them because they see me. --

concern, wonderment, laughter,

i take the time of future dates and make a calendar. the future dates are significant to you, now they are centred on me. i take this period. and the last person you see will be me. and the last night here in another town. and a long car trip. just with me. and an introduction, a significant introduction, through me, for me, and your identity will be through me,

- and this will, what?, to YOUR identity, for YOUR identity?

and in this time period, this era, this bonsai relationship, a fantasy in 24 hours, carissimi, love in a house

- when did my anger, my disengagement, my horror, my disappointment, my incredulity, my nightmare, my selfcensureship, and kaleidoscope of reaction become known to me. as if this is relevant, WHEN!?! the deal is HOW, how to annul this delusion?

and let me lay out my reasons. i have an essay. i employ persuasion. i conclude within a cabal of selfishisity, some series of pronouncements on personal mental state, perceptions,

all of this projections that i want to smash at a wall smashily, not like this emotional bulldozing that is going on here, smash these lies don't polish them by resistance don't inhale them and participate in a fulfillment ritual that will subsume me as the weaker conjoined twin, attached at a point that is vulnerable for me and will considerably reduce my life options

- and it has been a part of my reflection in this persons eyes for a while since they began to construct an identity for me that i believe that when you apprehend choice, it signals that there is an out, it signals "not my preference"

At this point at 2 in the afternoon i call in unannounced to say "i am angry with you"
And i say why
in a nonconfrontational way that is very honest and unmisconstruable and unmodifiable
in the way that when you say "no", it is your body and you are allowed to and noone gave you permission, it's your body

and they say
you have hurt my feelings
and pronouncements on mental state and influence of you

and i say
feelings and doubts and imagination
i have them too
imagination, i touched on the other day, in some collaboration on identity, togetherness and the primacy of the present, in everyday language
containment is in the family of "was". here, now, this, us, this is "is" and this is truth, constant
not consistent - but i did not SAY that bit
let it be

let's let it be

And now here we are.

always already

2005-01-29T01:00:00.000-08:00

the music that goes straight to your brain, or wherever it goes, like the way that chocolate creates those pathways of physical memory that a chorus of inner smiles responds to (hello chocolate, hello, heyyyyy, mhmm, everything's fine, just got a whole lot better, you alright?), the recognition of instant and elemental all in one, this music carries my my heart, carries my little fidgety movements, and some days, carries my day, my waking and most recent sleep, the dream that will be later.
On these days, i feel like i am in a greater line of human discontents and supersedence and quirks, subliminally, subliminally, subliminally it is this and it carries me.
and i forget momentarily that i love boys more than blood, and that words are lies, and that electricity is untidy and that feet are the first part of the body. Music is flight.
pharaonic wings in the psyche,
and long strong sings from other people's voices, like a quality of soaring that is aquatic,
and apt lyrics that spit and pull you, yes you, up. These things that are real, know them, this music says (and makes),
and some version of the hyper-real, that ennables music like this, is carried clearly through it and carries me.
Life is so obvious. i love life. i love the everyfeeling, the nothingfeeling, the absolute, the transient, the core.
gayatri spivak wrote pure thought, upon reading it, the words that a reader-over-the-shoulder would have been able to see on the pages in my hands, existed merely as a convention, symbols of language on paper that seek to present thought and i think it is because her writing traversed the grammar and the nouns so very aptly and was already itself, needing no representation.
the last item in the end-of-year out-of-school music concert, was a 9 yr old on the drums, kayaiiiiiii, he flew! in himself, it was like a solitary tornado on the greenish gym matting, on the lines of future basketball courts and soccer fields, in front of knotted ropes and the stupid babyboom period bell, the double doors open and obscuring him somewhat in the light it let through - 11 am.

The Autograph Man Zadie Smith

wicka wicka check it!

2005-01-24T21:31:00.001-08:00

from 7th oct -

Mon Jan 24,12:10 PM ET

Science - AFP
ROME (AFP) - The northern Italian town of Vicenza has imposed a week-long total ban on cars at the beginning of February in a major bid to fight pollution, the city announced.
AFP/File Photo

Bye-Bye Beige Box Mod your PC and turn it into art. We explain a few simple tricks, and how to shop for what you need.

People in this community of 115,000 will have to use public transport between February 2 and 8, under a new city order.
Exceptions will be police, emergency services, taxis, disabled drivers, people going to weddings or funerals, cars on liquid gas, hybrids and electrically powered vehicles.
Citizens must also keep domestic heating to no more than 20 degrees Celsius (68 degrees Fahrenheit) during the period.
Several Italian cities including Rome and Milan have imposed similar temporary restrictions on cars when an absence of wind, rain or snow make pollution worse.
One-day restrictions were imposed last Sunday in Milan and about 100 other communities mainly in the north, including Bergamo, Mantua and Verona.
Rome and Milan have also been testing a measure banning cars with even- or odd-numbered license plates on alternate Thursdays.
Similar schemes are already in place in cities such as Venice, Turin and Verona. Florence, meanwhile, has decreed that on three days each week vehicles not equipped with catalytic converters on their exhaust systems are banned from its streets.
Before the centre-right government of Prime Minister Silvio Berlusconi came to power in May 2001, car-free Sundays were a regular feature, though not always very popular.
But Environment Minister Altero Matteoli doubts whether temporary traffic restrictions will resolve the smog problem.
"There must be structural reorganising," he said Monday. Last week the minister said alternative traffic was ineffective, suggesting instead offering premiums to drivers who give up older cars which caused more pollution.>

Everybody looks good in yellow

2005-01-21T01:01:00.000-08:00

yellow is a pleasing word. it is pleasing to the ear. it is easily and pleasingly voiced. yellow looks, sounds and feels like the colour of all the aussie open girl tennis players' outfits. And Anna Kournikova's bikini - great pictures. Feels like 32' in the blink of an eye. Crescently yellow is succour (horrible vampire word, sorry for the juxtaposition of inferences and connotations) lunar reamed to spiritual observance. I would even say our spiritual observance, but I'm not channeling Herbert tonight.
Everybody loooks good in yellow.

15th july 2002 - nothing has changed

2005-01-14T02:49:00.000-08:00

friday 13th january 2005
how much do you love me? she said and he laughed because it wasn’t true.
And this small joke was part of the bigger joke (and was the big joke) and people shared oh so easily in the spirit of the joke and it was the big joke and you didn’t need to understand it.
When people shut their eyes she hears that absent something of deaf laughter. When she is not in her body the unfathomable circus of humans and time brings her to a funnybone crux. But that wasn’t true because her body is all she is in.
And who is laughing now?
Listen.
And at the top of the tree all the small, near things.
The wind and the everything.

Skimboards and rock diving dogbites and torn ligaments septic cuts concussion a 24 pack burping and smiling looking for affection raw food dares and being a wuss.
eccentric and unmarked. stored for later, fuller reverence. and somebody will show you the way. nothing’s for free. good thing you’re paying.
The question is, what would, be done, without.
Bobbing along and not being stupid, not being like that.
One day.
Vomiting and running. (Because feet are the first part of the body).
But if she knows, she knows. and that’s the difference.
As if it’s true.

the elementality of zigzag-y peace

2005-01-06T19:59:00.000-08:00

hello.
thank you for the warmth you have, for pointing out the flowers behind railings, for smiling at plastic bags in the wind, re-inventing every situation with the laughter you bring with you. Thank you for telling me the history of the world. Thank you for meaning it. Thank you that you let me hold you. Thank you for all the and then's ... Thank you for clear glasses of coffee and of lime juice. Thank you for interminable silences. Thank you for letting me explain you back to your ears and letting the history of the world then sink back into mine.
i think you are more beautiful than a flute barcarolle.

how eliptical is the maze where process, cognition and framework paradigmate?

2004-11-29T01:44:00.000-08:00

monday 29 november
I am trying to figure out if guilt is a human invention.

this is

2004-11-27T02:02:00.000-08:00

The Half Brother
The Last Samurai

there's something to it

2004-11-27T01:28:00.000-08:00

Each key stroke that provokes a twinge in my spine, contributes to the overall narrative of my labour. How this is true. Even I am not entering any numbers, which are my labour and which narrative they course, the span of my contract and the little fish-bones of the project. I feel this work that I have done and I want to practise it more. However, I have an office and also, staff and a report to submit.
Kai is constructing a public baths. It is muscle-power, long-term and I think it is a good thing. My involvement is voluntary, naturally, but in myself, my will which is my own must converse with my engagement. I am single and rational but I am also a member of a partnership that is greater than myself and of which I, as a skilled functionary, recieve a salary for something which has ambiguous potential and ambivalent applications. The future is not assured. The future, if it may be phrased in so grandiose a fashion, is at stake.
I have the bruises to prove it.