September 2, 2003 Okay. Back reluctantly from the Hills. Not knowing exactly what to do to myself, therefore drinking. Smoking. Watched a little TV, including “That 70’s Show” about whose characters for some bizarre reason I frequently dream. Typing in white on black just now, because I can, because I might as well, because it doesn’t matter, because my life will be home soon and even though I am a pirate, I cannot bring myself to sail away. SO in other words (please see Paul Ford’s essay on the elegantization of the Web, archived, hopefully still, on the same volume as the volume this silly journal is on, namely <sprezzatura (ftrain.com).html>), I’m a toddler. And also, SOCIOLIFEDRAMA-wise, my bro is like the only one who understands what I’m doing. Literally, what I am doing RIGHT NOW of course is frying bacon and eggs. But it’s so much more than that. It’s so much more. Over. September 3, 2003 I want to go back to school (one way or another) in Computer Science. As I have been for most of my life, I’m a day late & a dollar short for this, but I should still be able to have some fun, maybe make a buck on the side. The interest is there. All that’s left is to follow. * Richard P. Gabriel just reminded me that “creative writing is risky business.” Have I simply become afraid to take risks? The antidote, man! the antidote!!! * Okay. So I went to Capoeira tonight because it’s Wednesday & that’s what I do on Wednesdays. That’s my Rule, my Method, and my Data. It’s part of my Contents. Call it what you like. Now I’m sitting in a cafe, and even though technically I earned the privelege--no wait. I did earn it. Fuck it. I’m not going to whine tonight. I’m not going to bemoan. I’m not even going to wail. Unless it’s the wail of the hot trumpeter up on the sun-dusty stage. After all, I drummed in the dirt next to Harrison. Tesoura, I mean. Treasure-boy [i found out “tesouro” is treasure which confused me until i learned “tesoura” is scissors, the move harrison reportedly was named after]. My punk kid idol. Bare chested, baby fat, friendly sneer. Tonight he brought four machetes and a teddy bear. So I played in the Roda a coupla times. I’m a little static. I need practice. I need to practice things I think I already know how to do. Because I don’t. I haven’t burned off my gawk yet. At least I play; I give myself mucho credits for that. I’m cool enough to be in the Roda. Let others loom. I am INSIDE that particular circle, at least for now. At least until I die this time again. One more time again because it IS Fall and we ARE falling and it feels fast and fast and good. I need to practice things I think I already know how to do. I typed that again, I didn’t paste it. And I’m going to do it again, in a different way. I forgot to smoke my cigarette. The girl beside me studying infectious diseases of the dog and cat asked me for a pen. Internally prolonging this moment of anonymous intimacy, I forgot to smoke my cigarette. What is a poem? I mean, compared to just words. It’s an obvious question, but one I need to answer freshly for myself, even if intuitively, if I am going to write one every day. And I am. So, is this one? I take a quick survey of the animals in my little kingdom, and the answer is, NO. So, how do I get from here to one? Where is the one? Feel it. Then play it. Then feel it. Then play it. Then feel & play it. One. One. One. One. * New answer: A poem is whatever you turn in to the invisible teacher as that day’s poem. She’s not going to give you an “F” if you turn something in. She might lose a little respect for you if you just start turning in scraps of paper with a couple of loose words hastily scritched in purple ink from your stepsister’s gaudy glitter pen (or she may gain a little!). You were at the mall. You thought, SHIT! I have to write a poem still tonight! Hey, sis, give me your pen quick. She gives you a folded-open gum wrapper; you can write, tho skippingly, on the non-foil side. You are at the mall. You look around. You look around. You sit on the faux-brick fountain wall in the center of everything. Everyone goes by. Not looking at you. Not looking at you. You look at them. What do you see? The invisible teacher is the Fish. Gargor the gull still collects his worms and shit. Esriel is on vacation but we can visit her if we want, maybe in a geranium-flooded ruin, washed by the ancient sea. Vitality is her breakfast. She calls; bless her! She says she’s thinking about us. She’s so glad she got through. She says when she gets back you’ll have to get together, go for coffee. [the television child in you “knows” this is “not a good idea.” But of course the “real” you is already picking out a clean t-shirt.] Or something. You run your hands across her mental midriff and feel joy. Joy the ephemeral, joy the forgiving. This tiny life. A lifeboat. My eyes are burning & itching from the smoke in this god damned cage. But at least I did my homework. I can feel (now) the steel of the bars against my thighs, and in this utter vulnerability I feel strong! It’s time to go home now. Wherever that is. September 4, 2003 Writing as Contest of How Much Weirdness You’ve Seen or Initiated, or, “What I noticed with my eyes squeezed shut looking Inward” What makes a person “great” is the perception that that person has something personally to say to US. * Here I am again, beset. Rather be outside in the COOL! fresh Fall air. But I’m up the smoky trenches, waiting to get to work. Getting to work. Why? Because I am deceived. Because I am stubborn. Because I want to. Because I want to. Summit Springs is the best green at Ro. Just so you no. passed by a couple on the granite magnetic gaze on her twin ovals leaning toward each other-- her butt! walking waking whacking. dude, whatever. whacking whacking whacking off. MAKE NO PRETENSE OF ADVERSITY. Poetry is built not by situation but by bricks and quarks. [I changed atoms to quarks; another oblivious 21st century alchemist!] I’ve never been in prison. But I’ve been outdoors on a crystalline Fall day * Hey! It’s the second day of my apprenticeship with the Fish, and I did my homework again. I even have some time left over. Wow! FIVE OF HEARTS? OH, CRAP!!!!! Hey, I kind of liked today’s fish. It’s about cocksucking in prison. Though you don’t know that right from the top. It goes past halfway before it’s explicitly stated that it’s taking place in a prison. And even then, it’s oblique (but not obtuse). Now I can just look at girls & smoke if I want to. Like that girl: tall, fair, one shade of grace this side of awkward. Flat hair twenties style. Or guys, like the card player at the next table. Breezy open shirt and girlish grin with muscles. Nice. Smoke. Until I have to go. Can you imagine the riotous happiness of these two boys: not fags but lovers, unafraid to sing, to strut, to hawk & spit, drink beer, play chess, in short, be men! and lovers! Walking arm in arm in contradiction, they smile & say FUCK YOU to the narrow-waisted world of phony lifestyle. Bravo! Bravo! WILLINGNESS TO IMAGINE. That’s the risk that one guy was talking about. Gabriel. Richard Gabriel. And a holy host of others, of course. The balls to simply imagine. September 5, 2003 Taken down by a Mestre. Or at least a contre-Mestre. Reading PLOWING THE DARK (R Powers) about a character who exhibited a constant “burlesque of depression” that could only be born of real depression. I recognized it, felt that slap-caress of familiarity, and realized how superficial my earlier description of Tesoura’s “cheerful sneer” had been. [Even worse, I looked back and saw that I had typed “friendly” not “cheerful.” I can’t even recollect my own pieces of fluff!] Ah, well. That’s how you learn. One of the ways, anyway. PRISON IS IN THE MIND. That’s the biggest idea I personally harvested from reading about the Stanford Prison Experiment. seething core of iniquity wrapt in geniality with a veneer of aloofness. That’s the Café. Tits. Lots of tits, too. There are zillions of demon flies in here. It’s too fucking hot. And smoky. My farts smell like putrescence and sulfur. I must be in Hell. No, it’s just the Café. Maybe I should just go home or somewhere a little more civilized. I honestly don’t know if I can work here today. *Home. Fan on. Ahhhhh. Little snort of Holly’s leftover JB in my to-go Americano. Looking at dirty pix for inspir-tainment. God I love women. Their faces, their capacity for rapture that so dwarfs my own. I’m gonna hafta stroke myself & dream. 090903 Okay so like this dude in the Cawfy Shawp just said to some other dude in the Cawfy Shawp (who was asking him what time it pix up around here [why did he want to know, that’s what I want to know--he looks like he’s studying something but is that just a front for something else? like smoking? and?]) that there’s a 24 hour cawfy shawp on North ave right over there past the Citgo and the paperboard factory. That’s crazed, member! I bin livin over thair for put neah 8 years and I din no dat. But den, it wan dere bufo. Dat much ah no. I may haf ta go check it out. 9 September 2003 The date works now, because I fixed it with my tOys. What the f************uck are you talking of? If you don’t know, you wouldn’t have to ask! 10 September 2003 I’d have to listen to the song again, but I’m not sure if Dylan mentioned, when he said “she breaks just like a little girl,” that in so doing she’s got you by the balls. It’s a highly manipulative game, this hard-hard-hard-hard-soft. She’ll chastise, castigate, scold you & berate you, and then right before she hangs up the phone (she finally called you back!) she’ll make the feckless moue, the insouciant pout, and all your reserve turns to preserves! 10 September 2003 If I’ve got electricity, I can rule the world. This little world, anyway. Well, actually maybe I can’t rule it, exactly. But at least I can have a summer home here. And I can come visit as often as I need to, in the other seasons. Tea. Cookie. Tabac. I don’t hardly even know where ta start! esquiva. negative (the other way). martella (knee up!). shapa. mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm.............. that’s good TEA! summit springs * You know what’s funny? It’s getting so I can recognize the difference between “Hey. What’s up?” when it’s someone talking to someone else in the room (for instance me, babe), and “Hey. What’s up?” when it’s someone talking on their gadget-y cool Star Trek Communicator Device. But it still takes a hesitation--a hiccup to stop myself from looking up with hope in my anonymous eyes.... That’s what’s funny. Can’t think. Cant thing. a b c d e f g h i j k l m n o p q r s t u v w x y z objectReport: a girl x’ed the St when I was driving home. those two commas of flesh between her thigh-high Boots & her thigh-high skirt! ah! my God! * This really happened: soft fuzzy beret man “hey, do you have a cigarette I can have?” me “Yeah, sure, do you want to roll it yourself or” soft “yes.” (he does, crouching by my table) then he takes miniscule care to put back the pouch just so-- me (finally) “It’s okay, dude. Just wherever is fine.” soft “okay. I’m just an artist.” (this makes me look up and smile) soft “what are you working on?” me (lamely) “Oh, just words.” soft “beautiful. I hope they come to you.” me “thank you!” soft “i’m doing a little research, myself.” me (too mumbly) “good luck with that.” soft “what’s that?” me (once more, with feeling) “Good luck with that.” soft “Thank you.” (a moment lingering. it feels good in the way that only the slightly uncomfortable can.) 12 September 2003 “Can I perform one illegal operation?” While she hesitates I kneel before her She makes a grunt as if I’d moved to strike her For a second I think it’s all over; she’s going to back away and leave my face in the dust. But I kiss her toes where they show thru the salty leather of her sandals I straighten “Well, can I?” She pretends to be more exasperated than //sheIs * I’m of course a kitty kat. 13 September 2003 Fucking with computer crampt in car while meg sleeps backseat. Just watched jowly scowly pizza guy with hollow eye deliver to our upstairs neighbor brats. Came back bitching to himself re lousy tip. Saw him memorizing the address. Hope we don’t get confused. 15 September 2003 “i have wasted most of my life” scene of Crouching Tiger Hidden Dragon is on again. I am aching for my love. her eyes those black holes with a faraway platinum scythe; “go to wudan mountain and show who awaits you there ...promise that whatever path you take in this life you will always be true to yourself” * Playing with my compyooter may be masturbation, but I still like it. Who thinks masturbation is bad anymore, anyway? Knot Mee. I guess it could be a problem if it’s all you ever do, like that Al guy at Ann’s work who plays with his shriveled old equipment so constantly it bleeds. But I don’t think I’m quite that bad yet. 16 September 2003 I am a lesbian. When I see a girl I like I get a guilty thrill. But it’s not sleazy. I like the fleshy more than the painted. The open more than the pinched. When I see her I don’t necessarily want to “fuck” her, although I may very well want her to fuck me. But what I really want goes beyond that simple objectivity. I’m not supposed to like girls this way. People like me are supposed to like men. Want to be mounted by them, suck them off, manipulate them, etc, etc. While I am sometimes mesmerized by the sight or thought of slick cock and sleek masculine muscles, nevertheless the secret girl thrill is almost always more electrifying. to touch her astonishing softness with my own! the ionic charge! what we might do behind the trees when no one suspects our innocence is only picture-deep! I’m not getting anything done up here in smokyville. I want to be in a room with my sisters, even those more elegant than i. Even those in whose gracile presence I find myself rough, unsure, doltish & heavy. I want to slip and slide in and among them, our smiles enlaced, our mischief subversive, the monkeys’ heirarchy for the while obsolete! so i sip another cigarette instead It’s true I was in love with a boy once (maybe more than once, but just the one time really stands up erect & defiant in my memory). He was a strange boy. Invisible to many. Many thought he was gay. He was kind of scruffy faced. He died a virgin, despite my wide-eyed girlish urges. If I could go back would I try to force the issue, try to make him make love to me? yes. yes i think i would. The myth of macho is so pervasive, even lesbians among each other often feel a need to “man it up.” Act more inconspicuously butch than we really are. The body carriage, the pronunciation, the way you shake someone’s hand. A pack of lies having outlived its survival utility. Some of course appropriate it, externalize/internalize it for its erotic or political power. I personally have tired of that--or, to be honest, maybe I never really could get into it enough even to tire of it. I just don’t want to do it. The initial resistance to macho’s despotic reign, for me, consisted of posing as a girl. A sad saggy costume I had to wear, wrapt in double layers of contradiction, just for the sake of impersonating myself. How ridiculous. And yet, and yet, the fall air unstill ssssssssss’s in the window & brightens my cherry blood (* WE ARE APPROACHING {THE EPHEMERAL AGE} IS APPROACHING US *) Just read this from 2002’s journal: <<Remember all those years ago when Anne told us a little story about her & me, getting together again years later, sitting down with our respective families to have dinner, the hub-bub and the kids and the food and the lights, and she said she & I would smile at each other through the middle of all this, a smile known only between us, or at least the depths known only to us though maybe the surface and what it glimmers of spied by one of our other ones, and the smile would be a little sad? And remember how we both cried when she told us that story?>> and so now I understand (maybe) why she hasn’t called me or written me or emailed me or anything since her visit here when I cracked up & said it wasn’t my problem any more how much of a pain in the ass she can be. 18 September 2003 woke dreaming of reading the poem to C_______, hoping it would be good enough, hoping i would have enough goodness in it. He said it would probably be good enough if I kept it at the right temperature, recieved it--probably at about 50 degrees I would guess, but-- 19 September 2003 Dunny how after all those years of wishing I had noncontiguous selection in a text processor, when I got it I hardly ever used it. Sometimes I just like to know I COULD. 20 September 2003 welcome back to esrielsCafe. “place where” (enabled of ([co]exist of fragment[s])) = TRUE more info? CHARACTERS HAVE access to condiments, napkins, sundries¬ (unlimited (within reason of course)) CAN sit by themselves OR intermingle ARE coercible among classes TARIFFS ARE different “here” IS OPEN all night AND all day EXCEPT when it is NOT * GOOD CODE (writing) is a function of simplicity (as simple as it needs to be and not any simpler) and clarity (how real the vision or hologram or interface or what-have-you becomes). These may not be absolute values because they depend on the reader. In the same way that an application written in a programming language will be used in many different ways by users, the written piece will be read in many different ways by readers (thus completing the artistic or scientific process). This is not to say that success can be measured by how many people find a successful use for an application/piece; some items are only intended for a very small audience, perhaps even an audience of one. 24 September 2003 I am so ridiculous. a big tank of lime vodka water dogshit french cigarettes pictures of beautiful nude women smiling in various ways i want that one to be my mama that one to fuck me up the ass that one to shit in my mouth, make me suck it like a cock that one to torment me, make me kneel and beg but never let me.... that one to cuckold me, leave me home to sweat and pout and in my impotence rage sweet the drive has just spun down quiet at last nonverbal music as raw feeling! amazing! think of little mozart twinkle twinkle little star how i wonder what he was feeling as he laid those harmonies down, and down, and down, and down.... 24 September 2003 * Is there a word for the words one utters during the process of lighting the cigarette? The muffled lip, the relaxed remove, the leaning easily to the left, or right, to facilitate digging in the pocket for the lighter...? It is an inbetween moment, a smoker’s favorite kind of moment. * Is there a word for the particular embarrassment, coupled with unnerving awareness of mortality, the smoker feels when he hacks up a slug of lung snot, gagging as he spits it out, and then strolls away, taking another puff? 26 September 2003 Kate & I were taking refuge at mom’s house in Cape. Laurie Coburn was there, taking care of things, watering plants, offering occasional advice. Kate & went in my (den) room. We loved each other, but more than that we had decided to go with it. To hell with the consequences. I told her I couldn’t stay away from her any more. It was a free feeling, nagged only by the thought of how I was going to tell Ann, how I was going to deal with that. But in the foreground, Kate was saying, “I assume we’re going to have sex, but when?” And we did, then, I got on top of her and tried not to be too brutish. She got on top of me and said, “It’s time?” and came, a sudden thick warmth around my groin. I reached down, smiled, gathered some of the moisture on my fingers, tasted. It was sweet and I said so. “But you haven’t discharged yours yet!” she accused politely. I was about to get back on, but Laurie came in and said we had to go, my mom would be home soon. Later I was going to ask mom how I should leave my old life, if it was morally excusable in the slightest, what I should say to Ann. But she was occupied in the basement with a repairman--the back furnace kept hooshing out gallons of water all over the floor, so I held my tongue. Later I was going to ask my dad. We were in the car, a convertible, going somewhere. I guess I woke up before I got to ask him. 27 September 2003 You know what would be cool? If instead of applications’ windows wasting space on a title bar, the display itself would have a universal title bar sub-display (like up where the piece of tape is covering my “iBook” logo. The window metaphor in general is a waste of display space, a superfluous layer on the consciousness of the cyber-navigator. Its functionality could be incorporated more directly. * You know what’s funny as hell? When I look back at my old journals, at all the bits that go “I’m gay,” “I’m not gay,” “I’m both,” “It doesn’t matter,” and so on... the part that sings inside, a sea song full of longing and the faraway sweet harmonies of home, is still, most frequently, the “gay” part. Even if I feel it is but a romanticized notion. I dream I hear white horses sing / but maybe that’s a notion.... * Ideas are obsolete before we “have” them. “Being an artist” is collecting and / or celebrating moments of enjoyment. Perhaps merely recognizing and sharing. A “life story” is essentially a user preference file. * My fingers smell of onion. * My tits are sad. * One’s own ... ion can be * Sometimes ... too much 28 September 2003 Of course I (came) up to the attic to smoke and get away from the girls. Sometimes I have to reboot in OS 9 just for the sake of nostalgia. It usually doesn't last very long, though. Although it might. * Horny but not for wife. Why not? I don’ know. I want the fall air instead. I want the sycamore and the dying leaf. I want I want I want. I want to disappear for a while, and reappear where I am in my home or near it. Near enough to go in and out of it at will. Where is that? I’ll tell you. But you have to promise not to tell everybody. Only tell a few people. The sleek and purposeful women who live there. With me. We recognize each other’s smiles. It is a fantasy land. Lots of painful, horrendous things happen there every day but it is hard to remember those things, when you are away. You mostly remember the smell of the salt marsh grass. The knobs on the barnboard. The wizened river. The feel of quartz & agate & granite & limestone as the rocks wear away the softness of your newly bare feet. It’s getting cold; run faster, feel your heart gasp! as we make for the trail of cinammon smoke. How could I engineer my own disappearance? It is a selfish thing even to consider, and yet consider it I must, or else face the consequence of denying the dark side. Just ask anyone who died too soon what that means. Never thought I’d miss the loneliness. Wait. Yes I did. The biggest problem with OS X is all the bubbly drippy droppy cutesy-round design elements. I liked the sharp but not cold corners of 9. * I think maybe what I’m going to have to learn--simple survival--is simply how to cheat on my wife. It’s an art form, you know. Just ask any man with a clean, sad white T-shirt and an abundance of luxury. 29 September 2003 what do i know about art? bicycle pajamas screwdriver mouthache wish i had some weed Eleven days til I give up my dog wish I had some weed Eight years and twenty-nine days since I got him wish I had some weed