> KMJ@ kDjbjbq"q" "Rk>l\\\\\\\$Z@(hhhhh.fhhhhhh, # f"\hh"\\hh@\h\hfpJJ\\\\fZ\\Z4z[ZfZ f Yes, yes. This is the thing. 8/3/04 The stink of shame lies thick upon me. Mom's giving me $ out of her IRA so we can pay the rent this month. Kerouac thought this sort of thing was cool? Ouch, you are making my dinc hurt. Why are you making my dinc huts? It never to yo. Ha ha ha ha ha ha! That's my poste for today. Kill our. You can't see how far I've devolved, becuz you're not here. Smoking pawt with me. Which I'm not, by the way. I kind of wish I were. Far away on the silty bank of a little river. Some fish in there. About 4 or 5 inches long, just twirling lazily under the refractions on my side. The old 1200 still fucks up #10's, and now Smoky is starting to moan again. I'm so sick of this crap. I'm starting to get that old bad feeling. The one I get when I'm sitting here at work, limply post-work, futzing wastingly on the Internet (on the Internet; god I hate that phrase. You're not on the fucking Internet, you fuck!), afraid to go home because I want to be free and on my own for a while, but with nowhere in particular to go and no drive sufficiently passionate enough to overcome the pressure of the feeling that I should just go home to my responsibilities anyway. So I hang in this clumpy spider web of inept uncertainty, not a thing, an unthing, some matter. It sucks. PS: still pleasantly horny after a good foot worshipping of Cholula last night. Some cock would be good, some women's affectionate remove; it's all good. 8/4/04 Theres nothing on the Internet (On the Internet, on the Internet--bah!) about Rachel. Whatever happened to Rachel? God how I loved her. So last night the sniping and snotty comments thinly disguised as smart-assed humor finally came to a head. She huffed off to the darkened guest room, I huffed off to the downstairs computer. When I came back up, I lay beside her. She said, "Everything I say lately is wrong." I said I felt the same way. "It's just because we're stressed," I offered, then I finally admitted I was scared about the financial situation. I guess the snafu with all the bounced checks gave me a hard reality check regarding the fragility of our monetary security. It made me feel really vulnerable. I wouldn't even care so much, except of course the kids, the kids! Christ, if they had to suffer I don't know if I could take it! I don't doubt Ann's ability to earn later, but right now we want her to be able to go to school, so I'm going to have to: a) make more where I am, b) find something else to do where I make more, or c) add another job. Whichever it ends up being, I felt better having talked about it like a real husband and wife. Lust is founded on inequity. So weird how Capoeira has become my number one drug. Nothing else makes my chest so fast and high these days! Anticipating the open Roda at the lake tonight, fatigue fades amazingly. And no, Past Me, for your information, if in the course of your petulant research you've found this record, it's not because I'm awesome and kick-ass at it (I'm not (although I can do a back-handspring, ha-ha)), not because I've attained the mystical Next Level (there still isn't one). It's just because I try, and I don't give up, and I let my hips go. 8/7/04 I still like my old iBook. The more I whatever, whatever. You know, it's so silly, getting sucked in by the Company. Invented need, invented greed. Fuck it. For all I really do, I could be using a 1400 or a 5300 or just about any old hunka Mac. When you really think about it. (Obviously, I could do without any computer at all, but then that's just not such a fun idea, is it?) I like how Panther looks with smoothing on "Strong" and colour cranked up to "Millions," even if the latter supposedly does slow things down. I tried "Thousands" for a few days; it wasn't any faster to my perception. And it's just so pretty with all those delectable shades. BusyBox is the son of Whoopin-and-Blinkin, after all, and in acknowledgement of that I must recall the words of the Avocat: "You never know--maybe some of your most creative moments will occur while your computer is whoopin' and blinkin'!" (I chose the faster processor at the time anyway (ah, the nostalgic, quaint days of choosing between an '030 and an '040!), but the point is still valid.) Also: outmoded typographical convention be damned, I prefer nesting parenthesis to alternating with brackets, even if I'm not, technically speaking, writing code. 8/10/04 I can already smell Fall in the air. It makes me want to decay, to not use instruments, to fail in the accomplishment of projects, to celebrate with candles and futility the void, around whose fringes all our lifelong colours twirl and fizz. IF I want to "get back" to this "business" of "writing," it's obvious I'm going to have to get through my fears of reading and writing. 8/12/04 Once again, kudos for lil' Annie: I said, "The system is getting in the way!" and she said, "So don't have a system for now. Just make a shirt for it to wear." And I did, and (at least today, this blessed morning) it's working. GOD DAMN Smoky John and his $moky $pecial$! Now he has a fat coupon for a free carton of Am. Sp's. It's so hard not to smoke right now! Fuck! I thought I was past the hard part. All I want to do in this space of idleness we have right now is SMOKE SMOKE SMOKE. If only a man could do it just a little. 8/13/04 I remember when I used to have a feeble brain. Hey, at least it was a brain. BACK BEFORE COMPUTERS WERE SO POWERFUL! Complacency has become my biggest American dragon. I've been doing this printing thing for quite a little number of years now, and I'm getting half-assed about it, but I don't want to leave because I'm comfortable, more or less, except for the times when my soul aches. Pesky motherfucking inventions, those souls. Somehow, cigarettes are indispensible to a you are in Paris. And to a lesser extent, coffee. But conversation, somehow, indispensible to you are the turn of the century. Some other, more found, lost other generation. A bare light bulb swings. Fuck it. I'm smoking. Maybe. Brethren of 50's oversized ashtray autumn planks. Stupid love. 8/14/04 Oh yeah, I had some thing I was supposed to say to the plankton. It was like, "Claim your space," or something. It was all about how the problem isn't whether to use index cards, or OS9, or OSX, or sit in the car, or sit in the basement, or sit in a caf, or write sonnets, or write plays, or deny that you're even "writing" at all--none of this matters. (Duh. Could you get a little more obvious?) What matters, or so I was going to explain to the plankton, is claiming a space. Space is the only thing left you can own, and the only space is inside your skin. Got it? Love it, rub it, good. Now back to the art gallery. I go to the art gallery to unwind. A young girl of about, oh, I'd say 8 years old or so just walked over to me, boldly and shyly as only a young girl can be. I said, "Hi." She smiled toothily, a little sideways, and said, "Hi" back, but the way she said it made it seem as if there were a funny secret behind it. Then she walked away and her mom escorted her to the restroom. The thing I love about the art gallery is the overwhelming lack of words. By words I mean explanations. I love how all the images and objects, and all the spaces among them, just sit there (well, some of them move around, but anyway--) without needing to tell you anything, or mean anything. You know what I mean? Actually, I feel cheated, or at least bored, when a piece seems to try to take advantage of cultural flags and icons to suggest a discernable theme or, god forbid, a moral. When I see one of those I feel polluted. I feel as though some jack-ass has brought a loud jam-box to my pristine, primitive campsite, has cranked it up loud and begun throwing Pepsi cans and cigarette butts all over the place. You know? No thanks. Moving right along--. I have cancer. There is a dark weight in my belly. Ah, that breeze feels awesome. Behind: the path curls away like a long tail into the moist, green darkness. Through a confusion of roots, trunks, and branches, along with some crazily uprooted entire trees, you see and smell the river, wending brownly back the way you have come. Crows weave chaotic patterns overhead. Patches of sun dapple your toes. You taste like iron. You are made of rust dripping. I just want to do my part. God, please let me have the courage to do my part. And God says, "Take it." God says, "I double dog dare you." I might be willing to take on the responsibility of decoding the fake art in the gallery. By decoding, I don't mean "solving the puzzle of." I mean "un-encoding." I mean I will detach the social wires, defuse the topical charges, scramble the murderous replications of over-educated expectations. I'm going to set the mother fuckers free. Free to be energy again, like me. Presumptuous? You bet. Instead of my whole life flashing before my eyes, I'm getting certain charged particles of my life waving through my fingers, falling like crispy leaves onto the yellow linoleum of my consciousness. There's the one about the pussy. There's the one about the pizza. On and on they go, towards the end of the world. Ah, the end of the world. Vacation destination extraordinaire! Let me see if I can clarify a little bit for you, fish. When I say claim a space, what I really mean is reclaim a space. Cuz you had it, you've had it since before you can remember. Remember? The smell of ribbons and oil? Yeah, I thought so. Particle board in the slanting sun. Wrinkly windows. The mark of a question. I could go on. Anything "good" I ever "wrote" has been an accident. But an accident on purpose! Those kinds of accidents only happen in a certain space. Which you own. Already. No matter who you are, where you go, what you have to do to pay the bills and protect the family, etcetera etcetera. Got it? Lick it, suck it, spit it, good. Passion's not dead; it's sitting very, very still. Screaming at the silent phone. I don't mean the silent phone, I mean the "Silent Phone." The phone that operates on silent waveforms. The phone I lust toward, to pick up and call Bnabe. Bnabe's not dead, but passion is. Until the next long season On the radio this morning (god bless morning; I'm still alive if I still have mornings; mornings are the only green!) I heard someone say Napoleon said (in so many words), "Accept the mantle of power." (If he actually said that, I'm sure it was in Frainch, and would have had one of those awesome ez-ending imperatives they use, but anyway--.) And supposedly what he meant by this was that you (an individual or a nation?) should not try to hide your desire for power. Drop the hypocritical faade, and just go out and build your nations the way you want to. I like that idea (to a certain extent, and in a certain way), and I think it applies to what I'm trying to say regarding reclaiming your space. When I go on my conquering tour, it will be false authority I will be smashing. With my bayonet I shall prick the balloon heads of every invented idol to whom I have allowed myself to be beholden. There is absolutely no need to get miserable about the responsibility of writing. I have a life of letters. A life of letters vanguarded by my own personal guns and cannons and vats of boiling oil; now that's what I call green! Actually his wagon is ramshackle, his gun is a rusty musket, and his oil is scented love. But marches on he still, into the flaming spokes of history's sun. I just don't want to read or know anything more about computers for a while. Not because they are poisonous (they are) but because I have other toadstools to fry. I have to go rape some old ladies with Eric Owens. We have to get a Domino's blowjob. If you don't know what I'm talking about, fuckyou. I have cancer so I can say that. Don't believe me? Neither do I. It's time, time, time that you loved. And it's time, time, time. I'm not pretending to be young and stupid. I'm not pretending. Let's go dancing tonight; it's gonna be a full moon and it's gonna smell like the wampish, fishy lake has come on up onto the land and fucked up all our basements. Let's fuck under the stairs by the riverwalk, even if we don't really feel like it, just so we can say we did. 8/17/04 The mistake: holding back until you find just the right paradigm. The preferable alternative: try all kinds of things, enjoy, get visceral, go see famous buildings, tune up a dusty organ, eat squid, rant, type it all down! "In the terms of Kuzin's article, we must ask, what entity is doing the interpreting of the "meaning" of a human being?" HYPERLINK "http://humane.sourceforge.net/published/anthropic_principle.html" http://humane.sourceforge.net/published/anthropic_principle.html We are data! The stars are data! Woo hoo! 8/18/04 Yes, yes. I am (after all) a hacker. Because of about six parts laziness and one part ideology, I remain a largely low-tech, hardware-independent hacker. But a hacker nonetheless. 8/24/04 Just sitting here having dinner and Megan is in her chair eating some grapes. She's finished her clam chowder, of which she was quite fond. Anyway, the way she looks at me sparks something--for a moment she is the girl from the dream, the Megan in the woods. It's her, with her amused / faraway / sad eyes. We look straight at each other for a little bit, and it's as if we're trying to remember where we know each other from. In what distant city, during what great war did we meet? A few minutes later she starts swinging her legs and singing Winnie the Pooh, smiling mischievously / guilelessly. 8/26/04 "Old typewriters" used to be an oxymoron; now it's redundant. Well, "old computers" is somewhere in transition. And it is in that transitional space that I half-reluctantly admit I am most comfortable working. I do care what Raskin says, and with OS's it is all about the little things. Maybe. 8/28/04 Should I smoke [some of] this little bud tonite? Nah, I'll save it. 8/30/04 I need to stop apologizing for digging fragments. It sure would be nice if MS Word dox showed text previews in Finder. What ahhh, Nahpiddywan ahhh, celebrates is, uh. Dyer, ahhh, I donno ahfergohhhht! DUHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!! I AM SOFA KING WE TODD ED!!!!!!!!!! Hey. I gotta tell you something. Last night when I gave Cholula her card, and she read it and started crying, saying "I love you. You bring so many blessings into my life," that was powerful. I don't care who you are. Sometimes you look back at what you've been doing and you didn't even realize how much it rocks, and it happened while you were kinda looking the other way, but still passionately in attendance. Just cuz some things get left out of one layer don't mean they aren't valid on another I may be a little in trouble for being out here tonight. Whether for personal pleasure or from a need to cope, I eroticize that spectre. People fear the tough guy and the fag: one might tear up the caf, the other might tear apart society. 8/31/04 I sent Si a link to poem, then pretty much forgot about it. Today she replied >Thank you. Much. So I looked back at what I had sent her, and it was this: Choosing a Stone The tide pulls back, leaving its cargo of stones on the broad counter of sand. A boy takes only black stones halved with a white thread, like a parcel too private to open. His mother gathers stones that mimic food: two quartz eggs and a granite potato and a loaf of bread with a cold crust. This man hunts the white stones, smooth as unblemished fruit made, he feels, for his hand alone. He picks one up, fingers a hairline crack. Throws it back. This woman saves stones on the verge of extinction. Thin as a cat's ear, they shine like coins rubbed faceless for luck, for safe crossing. HYPERLINK "http://www.poems.com/saltmwil.htm"Nancy Willard Why am I reluctant to be a teacher? 1: I'm still afraid of kids, and 2: everybody's expecting me to. ?