110403 What the fuck. 110503 I mean, what the fuck. as a reader, writer & browser, i think i'm becoming more comfortable with a certain kind of noise than without. So-called Big Hat at Moonpennies doesn't amount to much. AND NEITHER DO I. Word Cowboy doesn't respond to leitmotifs. Okay, he does, but he has to vamoose first. If there's even a little ambient sound, you won't be annoyed by the DINGUS BRAIN! It's hard to concentrate when you're AFFILIATED. But it's hard not to be affiliated when your BLOOD SCREAMS for BLOOD! I will go fishing now. I will bring back a TROUT: (you have to be honest with yourself about where the interesting bits lie. And you have to be honest with yourself about personal responsibility. And you don't HAVE to be either of these.) I am not getting a damn thing dun. But I'm having a little fone. So fuck my ass til it hertz. Please. Cholulie's upstairs folding cloes. The dryer's going CLAK SCRAT CLAK. I'm down here with the CINDER BLOCK blues. You know, as dumb and cheesy and lame and, well, GAY as the columnists who write for gay newspapers and websites often are, I gots to admit I really like reading them sometimes. It's like a shaft of ridiculous sunlight hitting a bowl of pretzels on the bar some afternoon when for once you're not tired and cynical. And you know what else? Who was that one guy? That guy who writes the travel books. Bryson? Yeah, him. I liked wandering around eating and drinking wine and being politely bemused with him. Made me not so effete and priveleged if I read it instead of doing it. I'm not exactly quitting smoking, I'm just not smoking right now. So? Who fucking cares? Bitch. Doo dahHhhh! doo dah DEE da dah DOOOO dahHHhh! 110703 How strange, didsarming, warming, and slightly discomfort-causing to read on Low End Mac about this: "I'm a geek, an introvert, a hardware guy, not terribly expressive of emotions or good at relationships. I don't take very good care of myself, and over the past few months I realized that I'd fallen deep, deep, deep into depression -- " and so on. I mean, a Mac website is always so blue-and-white-lego, so shiny and hard-edged, so devoid of murk or snot! It's cool; I feel weirdly, if distantly, honored, and yet, it's just, I don't know. I guess it's this: you go to a computer geek site to avoid your own darkness and uncertainties. You want something plastic you can define in bits, that doesn't really matter that much anyway. And then you go there and dirty, shitty, mammalian, kampground-lite-on LIFE is there where you least expected it, and it's good, it wakes something up a little, it makes you breathe something in that sometimes you forget to breathe in. Overall, the gift is appreciated more than the betrayal is resented. god damn! It sure seems as if a lot of people out there (as seen thru the puter screen anyway) are depressed, or at least think they are, and taking medication for it. It's like watercooler talk, or pillow talk even--"oh, I'm off my meds, and my head hurts...." 110803 Waiting for the women and girls. Wife at work, in-law women with baby daughter shopping. Waiting. Waiting to wear a skirt. Waiting to wait, serve, clean Waiting to service Waiting to suck, lick. Waiting to be humiliated for real for once. Waiting to be hypnotized, feminized, and ultimately castrated. 111103 Honesty and dishonesty both sources of (different kinds of) pain. Non-contact only is non-pain. I am too selfish to grant her that. "It's her fault for having those tits & smile & stuff like that." Right. My brother today is past the halfway point of the decade of highest expectations. I guess I'd better call him. Hazel: I've seen you in evening finery, looking richer than you and I would ever be. * Okay. Fuck it. I'm going to smoke in this the basement. The orange orange basement. If you can't make a rime you can suck it any time and throw it in the basement. 111203 I didn't call my brother. I sent him a cheesy e-mail card instead. What the fuck happened? What's the fucking number? I can't even ask him that these days. I'm not (however) going to assault myself any longer for trying to read poems I don't understand. It's a relatively innocuous habit. For example, take "Sailing to Byzantium." There's something really sad about that poem, and of course beautiful. I have to find out what "perne" means. And now, having said that, and read that, I may just sit here and look at Hazypix until it's time to go to class. Except, oh yeah, this: I was driving down Oakland in the early dark, on route to Rochambo even though I (fortunately) forgot my tobacco. The wind tried hard to roll the tiny Tracker. I said, "Oh shit!" Then: a silent concussion of darkness--apparently followed, oddly, rather than preceded by a burgeoning instant of cloud-mottled white. All the houses and apartments on the left side of the street had lost power. I drove on through the creepy coolness to Brady Street. Rochambo was among those establishments blackened. People were standing around, curious, disjointed, many still holding their coffee mugs. Can this sort of thing ever happen these days without engendering thoughts of the End? How long will our paltry batteries last? I may have to find a way to cum before class. Or else find a way to sneak around, or charge through, or negotiate away, or simply ignore and thereby invalidate my illusory belief that one needs weed to stone, so that I may change into goat form before I enter the snoke. When a goat I thoroughly enjoy that steamy environ. Mischeif lurks in those tendrils of teasing translucence, too coarsely musical for the likes of a bashful, sophomoric, tragically civilized human pedant. some silver-flute or write them, for that matter () Moonpennies. The kid smiles. The wind, it has been picking up since this afternoon. Now it is dark and wet outside, warm and complicitous in this den of slick mirage. A sudden gust pops the doors open. Papers fly. Impudent leaves riot chaotically in! Loud white noise! Disruption! The kid on the orange couch smiles. Her dad is over helping some people close doors and pick up papers. She smiles the smile of ennervation, the smile of the zap that hit the soup and dared to spawn the first kids ever. Before any of this. But now she puts her head down, the stormlet passed, not smiling. Her dad said, "We have to leave in Five Minutes. Let me read this." Deprived of his attention, impatient, she puts away her things and settles in for a brief eternity. My own daughter is going to have that look on her face sometimes, and I'm probably going to just sit there and let her have it. 111203 Oh yes. I remember when Hazy rocked me. I was too young and blind to know I should stick around at all costs. I don't know, it probably wouldn't have worked out that way. It's probably one of the great paradoxes that I had to leave to learn that I should have staid. But fuck. Remember the night at Uptowner? Playing pool with Bnabe and a couple other people? For some reason, I don't know, maybe she was irritated with some cosmetic or behavioral quirk of mine, but for some reason she was hanging all over Bnabe. I mean, really obviously. Everyone had to have seen it. I don't know which was worse--people we knew seeing it and wondering what the fuck? or strangers seeing it and just assuming she was his. was his. was his. She sat next to him on that hard wood pew. She put her arm around him. She was practically sitting in his lap. Their thighs were butting up against each other, plumply, the tightness of her jeans conterminous with his, most blatantly, most impossibly, most menacingly! I mean, she was my girlfriend! Hadn't she said so? So, what was she doing exchanging body heat with my best friend? It just didn't make any sense! And things that don't make sense make my blood boil. As it boils now, though in a different space, thinking back, thinking back.... Did she know what she was doing? Was she doing it for me? That's the great paradox again--either she wasn't doing it for me, not completely, maybe not remotely, or else she was just damn good at it. Either way, it was the ideal situation for a sissy boy cuckold. It made my jaw ring with frightened passion, and I long for that searing reality now. Cholula's so nice, she does everything for me. And that's the problem. Even when she's mean, it feels too much as though she's doing it for me. I don't want another blowjob, no matter how talented (and they are)! I want a mind fuck! Fuck! Hazel! Cholula says Bnabe said he hated Hazel for how she treated me. But he obviously wasn't repelled by that hatred away from her blushing bosom on that hard wood bench in that sinful pub. You know why? Because she was fucking hot! Too hot for me, and yet she always came back/comes back to offer me another go. Like Lucy and Charlie Brown. How I envy you, Charles. You never had to grow up. I did, of course, or so it seems, and yes, she made another offer, one she knew I couldn't accept. She held the stinking turd just out of reach of my depraved tongue. God damn her to hell. But only if I can go along for the long, hard, jerky ride. I just can't find anything on the Internet to compare with my fantasies of her. God that sounds pathetic. God, it is. I don't care. If I had done everything right, washed my feet when she wanted me to, would we have stayed together? Maybe, but remember, that's the whole point. It would have killed it. It did kill it. Sitting on the couch, the pre-TV couple as that one dumb roommate called us, drinking a moderate amount of whiskey and playing cards was good, but somehow the coziness was too much. It didn't last. What happened? Normal life didn't work for us. If only if only if only I had had the pussy to accept abnormality then, because it is what I continue to long for at this moment. Ah shit. I have a job, I have a life, it's good, and yet 111303 Okay. A little more and then I'll drop it for a while. Her lips are pictured right below this window as I type, making typing hard and cool resonance flare thru my respiratory system. Oh, shit, I am reduced to inarticulate want. Oh shit. There were plenty of times I climbed on top and fucked her hard. You can't just self-consciously assume the role of sissy for it to work. You have to be enough of a "real man" to have that reality undermined. You have to be at least a somewhat tall tree to enjoy the ripping sensation of being felled. She has to build you up in order to cut you down. And she did. And she always did. Oh shit. If someday I could succinctly express this one phenomenon, I should be satisfied as a writer. 111503 How do I tell Thursday that I remember her birthday only because i always forget Scorpio's? I'm so butch: wearing a dirty flannel and a fleece vest over my blouse and skirt. My new assignment: breathe clean air every day play capoeira every day connect with the mwnshi every day 111703 Truly the sexiest girl, and by that i mean the most dominant, is the one with the boots--even after you realize you didn't enter your current position of servitude (which is slowly becoming real, to your unremitting astonishment) thru the scantily clad gates of sexual adventure alone, nor even entirely according to your new master's conscious leadership. i didn't know the mwnshi were machines until today. that simple declaration of astonishment, mine that singular description of cutaneous sensation, hers I honestly think this relationship will work as long as i remain servile. Submissive. A good boy. Mama's little shit boy. Beautiful. Feminine. Powdered. Round. Spanked. Just the way I like it. Always working toward that final token of the flesh: Castrated. 111803 I'm not sure how to relate it to my own psychosexual proclivities, but it just occured to me with full epiphanic gentle-rain-storm force last night--my dad was a cuckold! "I've never been jealous...." "How could she leave me for him...!" "...and [so-&-so] said Don Dickerson was a silly, foolish man...." "I was completely bewildered...." "And I'm going to pin his ass to the wall, and let the people see...." "If you want to go live with your daddy, go ahead...." At any rate, it certainly provides fuel for...thought. One thing that's kinda funny about it: among everything else it makes me feel, I don't feel ashamed--of him or me. Or do I? 111903 Some gentle porn reminds me: to be cuckolded by Feather Woman was a high honor. It was the acid by which my sexuality was etched. love=curiosity my relationship with my wife is improved by her having a boyfriend. you gotta serve somebody, yes, and--you gotta want to serve somebody. 112003 he just kinda shrugged. . . . why, hello. yah, mister forest goat man what about that yeah, that's a nice one tap tap tap coltsfoot strafing my love with hot throat teakettle whistling & bitching in the kitchen at 11:39 pm Sept. 7, 1997 I've been waiting for this moment since the third grade the shit flies by here on its way to hell * Another way to say teh-dsa: very thick book with many small pages * Once connected, you keep coming back for the juice. That's life. Literally. TRINITY is CHASTITY, TRUDY, AND MIRANDA * Even the dumbest blogs have wee lodes of brilliance. 112203 We're staying together because of the kids. Not Megan and whoever, I'm talking about Roy and Zee. They're obviously in love. * So like, there was this guy, and he had a website of journals by improvisors, and all kinds of anonymous or strange people got on there and rambled on about all kinds of interesting things, and it fascinated in its beautiful striking chaos, and then the guy said, no, i want this to be more about The Art of Improv, and you have to be A Professional Improvisor to put your shit on my site, and if your journal doesn't sound right, you will be Contacted by a Moderator, and all of a sudden the guy's site was boring. It's funny how the Internet can be so inclusive, while what so many people seem to want out of it is exclusive community. * Kennedy was a good man, and he got shot. A lot of good people get shot. * Instead of just watching the game (while being affected by it) and pretending it's not the coolest thing you've ever seen, you could humble yourself enough to learn how to play the game. that's the martial arts in everything as soon as i inherit a substantial portion of control over the shop, i'm calling alkon to say, one way or another, hey, it's tyld, i've just inherited a substantial portion of control over the shop, i was hoping you'd come by sometime just to, shoot the shit or whatever. i'll be here. bye. when i make my peace with alkon, i'll be ready to move on maybe it's less about inheritance or substance, and more about my feeling confident showing the place to alkon * here then is my guiltiest confession, my thorniest secret: i think, at this moment, and i feel, that i would be generally happier right now had i become a gay single printer rather than a sissy married printer. i love my daughter and wife. me ask you something. okay. how is that guiltier and thornier than the one you make sometimes about wishing you were with hazel? i don't know. oh. why? oh, i don't know. just checking. okay. well? what? what do you think? i'd rather not think about that right now. okay. okay. fine. great. wonderful. listen are you going to sit here and argue with me all day? don't you have work to do? i likes the women but i aches for the boys. * but what DOES have to do with substance and inheritance: i will hire 00eri back if i can. * let me hope being a father who has something to teach but not all things to teach, and not even all the essential things, is still preferable to surrendering my children to blind chance or even premeditated potential mistakes. * the criterion for downloading or not women pix: could she dominate me? * sometimes the very awareness, even lingering faint, of the connection is a distraction. Capoeira=don't be afraid to be beautiful ^ oh i figured out the question about why the one confession's thornier: it's because the hazel one tends to arise in a cloud of lust, while the gay one tends to howl, far far away, a long lowing thru the lantern-gilded hollow valley. the entire countryside asleep, we sweep on invisible currents of that lonesome moaning on til morning. you know who i want to visit? HIM & ME & HER. Bye. 112303 Blogs. Today's literature, square-on, bang-o, no doubt about it. And just like any day's literature, 99 out of a hundred specimens are dull and unappetizing. But the ones that aren't: riveting. I forget to even wonder how much truth and how much fiction. It really doesn't matter. It's like not knowing sex, gender, sexuality either. A real, specific individual, a live person creates a magic giant bean stock, straight, fat and tall as hell, or tendrilly and weaving, inside which you may climb, with perfect grace, and where, once in, you grow. Hydroponically. And by the way, I split that infinitive up there on purpose. Just to show you what a whore I have become. Who are you again? Oh yeah. * To make a "fictional" blog would be an unnecessary contrivance. It would also be noticeable, like a narc's car in a ghetto. * blogosphere is like reality-tv gone supercomplex, minus the killing commercial dumbness. * on a personal level, you can reveal as much or as little as you want, and to some extent you can choose to reveal more to some, less to others I just heard our neighbors saying goodnight to each other like twenty times in a row. That, as they say, rocks. The only writers who are just doing it for the money are those who are more financially successful than you. if you haven't seen me here lately / it's did it? it did oh yes it did i see... Instant Messaging: finally, the typewriter will talk to you! 112603 tioktikttitktitktitktktiiskkititktiktitktlittkitsititktik! It's time to make more Pigeons and broadsides again! "my" "best" "stuff" "is" "given " "away" "or" "willfully " "disassembled." OH MY GOD, THESE are MAGIC CARDS!!! If my wife knew I had these, she'd throw a shit fit. Ever since she found my old ones and rendered them ... useless, I've been sort of striking out, cruising for a new deck and never finding one. I found one in the last place I had expected to look. My old filing cabinet. The ugly tan one, bottom drawer, wedged in downhill. A very thick book with many small pages. Outmoded, too-specific, semi-portable, vaguely embarassing, fuel-efficient, kind of glowing, kind of weird wood-and-pulp computer of some kind. There's no on/off switch. Parts are easily lost, found. You can peek and poke at will. Some of the moments make no sense, some make so much sense you wonder what you're doing. But you look on, you delve in, you get down in the mud. And you discover things, about yourself, yes, but more importantly, perhaps, about your dad. Your mom. Your dog and your wife and your lover's lover, the one you never had. You learn things about space travel, aliens, elves, how it is to wake up warm in a cold house. You learn how not to tie your shoes. You learn about a spider in a box. Are you getting my drift? It only comes on when it really, really wants to. You have to try to convince it to turn itself on. How you go about this is anyone's guess. Try a little tenderness. Take charge. Beg, whine, tear off all your clothes. Just do whatever it takes, because this little number is hot. You're not going to want to miss this! It's the up-cycle of the roller-coaster, hear those ratchets ratcheting, up, up, up, til you can't hardly stand it no more, you want to blink, you want to flinch, you want to crawl back down the pole to safety, slimey safety. But you can't. You can't close your eyes, you're held in thrall. The issuances from this squaroid cave mouth dryly blowing up your skirt have words for you, and only you, and you, and you, and you. But you gotta promise me one thing. What's that? Have fun. That's all? That's all. You can do anything else you want. Play the organ? Both keyboards, baby. All the stops? Bells and whistles. God I love my daughter so much it hurts. * Okay. I'm not saying this means anything, because it doesn't (a guy whose poetry I like said): If you feel a need to show it to your girlfriend or your wife, you're not ready. (Another sign I married the right one?) Although, occasionally I get the need to show it to each of those.... 112703 smelled the smith-corona, saw the coal-on-white, for just a moment. * Why I want to break the law: The nobles (microsoft) keep us safe for their own interests. I am a serg. Mittimn nit a serg/ 112903 The granter of wishes gives you exactly what you ask for when you run your code. The code is neutral. There are no secrets. Yet. 113003 Learned something about my in-laws today: the sifting through the department store ads at the kitchen table is a social ritual, not an ignorant or dull pawing for goods. My having overlooked this was both provincial and arrogant.