War is a force that gives us meaning

Will you miss the days of the occupation?

I know *I* surely will. You see, it was a time when everything - at least on *our* side of the social equation - was pure and just and right. And I could see the gleaming-white outlines of a most glorious future, as it was set against the blackest-of-black circumstance of oppression. The in's and the out's of the world were *so* clear to me that I could have navigated through a sea of them with my eyes closed and my sails at half-mast. In this way, our long-lost and deep-sea(ded) fortunes were just around the corner (yet still, as always, out of reach).

Yes! Oh-my-god, it hurts just to think about it; why can't we go back?:

The rear seats of the dusty white sedan were tight with passionate bodies (some bloodied), and in such a grimy and restrictive space - physically AND philosophically - instinct kicks in more powerfully than you've ever known. The primal rush is on, and, as a result, I will push you, and I will punch you; my lust for overpowering my wicked opponent - again, you - is insatiable. The cameras were on (they are always on these days) during this otherwise hidden fracas, so I thrust a peace-sign through an open window for the benefit of posterity; the world has a right to know how we toil for legitimacy of cause (and for effect).

I look back, and while it didn't occur to me at the time (there is no room for real-time reflection when blood is boiling), I know it now, and I will know it forevermore: I am defined by who I am not. OH, oh-I-know-it from the top of my manic crown, down to the bottom of my boots (quaking), so it's worth saying again: I am defined by who I am NOT.

So here, in this time and place of struggle.. of *personal* struggle, I am surrounded by those who would restrain me, by those who would keep me here in this purgatory of political engagement until the end of our republic (if such a time hasn't arrived already). And this, THIS.. IS.. UNACCEPTABLE!

My conscience is clear;
There is no other way.
I am destined for a life of
(Pure) action and certitude,
Onwards and onwards..

We will march ourselves, willingly, into a great white light - as the ultimate expression of our hope for a better life; never mind the violence required - it is besides the point (of execution). Yes, it is an act of *love* and the world will understand from where it rose up in due time; it *must* understand! And as such, my path was (and is) preordained.. and unequivocal in constitution: escape by any means necessary. I cannot be held from my date with destiny.

Or, at least, that is how I felt at the time; years have passed "in peace".

Life now, as order is restored in town and country (or so we're told), doesn't seem to have the same urgency as before, and the crisp lines of purpose have bled into a gray mess as I go about my daily - and frighteningly mundane - business. And in such an environment, how can we find solid direction (for living) again? During the uprising, I was a virtuous and enthusiastic mechanism for revolution: things needed to change - we *all* knew it; and I was there to be part this brave new world order. This much was obvious and, again, this much was pure and just and right. Let me fade into nostalgia one last time..

The mise en scène was set as such; I knew my part, and I did not - I could not! - doubt the director for a moment. It did not even matter that I did not know who was running the shadowy production; the show must go on! My god, I will always believe in the myth of war and in the myth of success (through violence); what else do we have to believe in?

I wish I was the first one to say it because it's so true: we are a people lost; and war is a force that gives us meaning. It's obviously true as I look back through wistful gaze into the past, and I *know* it will continue to be true forward into eternity. God help us as we wish, again, for days so strong, so horrible.. and so wonderful.

It was a construction site after all

Ask yourself: have you ever seen anything so magnificent?

So magnificent! And, so friendly to your sense of aesthetics! All you can *really* do is stand there; your vast world has collapsed into this narrow inlet of experience - welcome to the here-and-now; it's been waiting for you (to pay attention). Really, what else is there to do besides breathing in the sights and sounds before you?! No wonder that you wish it could be this way forever, tethered to this time and place.. but, still - somehow - feeling light as an amnesiatic feather.

Whip!
Whip; whap!
Crumplecrack!

The massive blue tarp - the source of our audio and visual adventure today - can't help itself; it is caught between the whimsy of the strong easterly winds and the placement of the steel anchors at its edges. The scene is surely an exercise in Drawing Restraint, albeit without an human operator; and, therefore, the flow of howeverwhichway is the order of the day. As a result of that latter fact, the day is all the better.

You see, it's funny when the theoretically-simple strikes you as something much greater than the sum of its parts. In this case, a building-not-yet-complete provided the playground; and a tarp-you've-never-seen-a-tarp-so-large provided a medium for attention-getting (and personal engagement). It was a raging cubist masterpiece come to life!

Still, this anthropomorphic recipe was not yet perfected. Blustery puffs needed to assert themselves, spawned from a sky in all its gray-so-gray glory (and butterfly wings); and they did (bring their A game), in stratospheric amounts. You see, the day was on the cusp of indulging in promiscuous atmospheric play (and I surely was not going to stop it!), and as such, it provided a mystic-from-my-position spice-so-delicious in the form of experiential chaos. Yes, I really do mean *chaos* in the most hell-bent (and pleasing) manner possible; I mean it in the way that seeds submitted to the winds by the promise of a new generation is an intrinsic ideal to aspire to. We know - deep within our DNA - that we must all thrive in an environment of randomness.

In short, the scene before me was really quite hypnotic and charming (again, in a way that connected me to antiquity.. and the ways of the universe at large); it was a construction site after all.

In the beginning there was a sex procedure

Well, it's been awhile, but I guess it's a symptom of the turn in weather here in SF.. I rocked a nosebleed Tuesday (at work), and a residual one yesterday (at El Castillito). And, beyond pointing out the appropriateness of a little blood on Halloween (or at El Castillito.. I know, yuk!), I will say that it does remind me of a little story from 2001 (heavily updated, of course - you know the drill):

~~~~~~~~~~~~

What?

No really, what?! I'm just another guy watching warm blood drip down his unshaven face and onto the floor on another Tuesday night at his apartment in the city, a guy dreaming of his ancestors - bygone and obsolete - and if this is what they would have wanted for him one thousand, two thousand, three-thousand-I-can't-stop-the-years into the future. The living red color sequence contrasts nicely with the fairness of the skin of my upper lip, but looks downright primal as it navigates a path downwards, towards my jawline, through the dark, coarse hair of my beard.

Of course I didn't see all of this coming; the current situation was spawned from the mysteries of evolution at work, I suppose. More immediately, the light of occupation must have stimulated my optic cells, but by the time the signal that would tell me to *do something* traveled nerves and nerves for miles and miles, there was no buffer for action. It is a simple calculation to figure where the operation went wrong: Start with the pure propagation time for shine-y photons to space-time converge at my eyes, then add the same for spark-ly electrons to dart through my ganglion pathmarks - from my photron transmutors to my visual nervosa cortextion - hahaha, that reminds me of a funny story, but I will digress..

Anyway, there's plenty of time for me to react now, although the reactions are involuntarily: tearing, bruising and, ultimately, allowing fluids on the "inside" of my body to escape to the "outside". And here (always, in fact), I thought I had an agreement with alllll the cells in my body: those that would mutiny would die (and leave those left over - inside! sil vous plait - a little more vulnerable). This much is true, but there are apparently more powerful forces at work.. a mystical alchemy of osmosis and diffusion and keeping up with the Jones. It makes you think that you're NOT the center of the universe; what's up with that? SOo short-sighted, it seems, that we could all perish back into the elemental materials of such a place.

Back in the here-and-now, nodding my head is the first sentient (and symbolic) thing that I do with my much-evolved body; it is ritual designed to assure myself that I'm going to be ok, and I've got *at least* five more minutes of life in me (and, then, well.. no guarantees in nature, my friend). However, the nod doesn't stop the river of molten copper from flowing upward, then downward, through the internal channels of my head (surely creating small, horror-film, eddies as this outpouring hits the wrinkles on the inside of my throat). Surely! But why do I think my blood tastes like copper? Just one of those things that I made up a long time ago and still believe, I guess. No matter.. maybe I meant iron (the result is the same, and no less tasty).

It's hours later, and I'm thinking about how it feels to bleed while I'm safe, back in my apartment, and, in the shower of all places - hooked up to the periphery of my life support system (yours too!) - and washing the old blood and sweat from my body. The earlier blow must have knocked something loose from my usual safety-minded protocol of existence because I want to *feel* again, regardless of the consequences. So, with one hand holding the bridge of my nose, I blow hard - what a minor chance I'm taking here - and open the shower door to stare my naked body in the mirror above the sink. Thus the story starts again: a small trickle of red soon becomes a river (and I'm beginning to feel sleepy).

Superseding the animal instinct for life - even in such a minor capacity - once again exposes genetic flaws; sex not a perfect procedure, you know?

Sorta complicated, I guess

I was writing some other, "more meaningful" entry, but what I really mean to say (always and forever, it seems) is that I'm a little bitch, the details of which - this time - are only sorta complicated. Oh man.. hahahahaha.. I guess.

It seems the extent of my night - before my voice went out, that is - brought me to two parties and NO Chromeo; where are my priorities? And, really, I shouldn't be on a computer right now (it's only a shade past the midnight).. but c'est la vie..

Complain, complain, complain. ;)

ps. I wasn't a pirate tonight; not that I'm retiring that costume forever, but two years (and last weekend) is enough for now!

Cut was my consanguinity with humanity

Compost thyself!

To what do we owe this order of anarchy, this exclamation of frustration? Well, it was a sentiment - nice or not - overheard (by yours tru*ish*ly) a fortnight ago from a flock of frightening ruffians, a set of men and women discussing the ins-and-outs of a fabulous new pastiche-ology.. one of their own mishmashed and crooked construction; it was a difficult operation, for sure.

You see, I was required to overextended my senses, five and then some, in an attempt to follow relation-making between two, then four, and, after a while and a while, a score or more of literary devices in their collective mental possession. By that point, I was ready for their collective disposal (i.e. words and structure and bathwater be gone!); stuffing a bag of trash never sounded so good. And my comprehension of the situation was, for sure, poor, and, during the episode, my thought processes were stretched far beyond that which is needed for a normal tour of daily duty.. but who am *I* to say NO to such a set of thought experiments; this was surely science of the highest thespian order.

In fact, to the outside observer, I became a man with a 1000-yard stare, the dials of my regular binocular vision twisted so tight that my focus extended X-RAYS straight through the walls of the here-and-now and into the realm of a dark and personal singularity; cut was my consanguinity with humanity. In this way, I looked deep into the froth of my creamy drink, and before I knew it I was daydreaming of a man wishing for the power of phrenological flight; and that man was me, a man whose name escapes and escapes. Whose duty is it to remember these frantic things anyway; it's time for the loosely caped to walk the plank.

BANG!
BANG!BANG!BANG!

It seems that those within earshot - save me - shot themselves in a manner most deadly, indeed; and, at once, a morbid dance began synchronically: several separate and organic entities criss-crossed 'round the room and grew into a pile of spongy and pungent mulch. The directive of the day seemed to be, "Find your match made so-close-to-heaven; you may have already arrived into an ecstatic eternity (and a wet version at that)!" The BANGS I could not ignore, of course; so, my focus withdrew from my glass and returned to the floor. I know now, and I'll know it forevermore, that I've never seen reds so red and blues so foolish. And the insane make me uncomfortable, my truest thought of the day.

At no time did I turn fully towards the limp blossom of bodies; it seemed unnecessary and, even, uncouth, to do so. And as such, it was only appropriate to look down upon them at an obtuse angle and with an obtuse sense of justice. The optic engines of periphery ran the show, and they were overjoyed by the rustic opportunity; they provided me with the visual framework of everything I needed to know, and my starburst and ever-indecent sense of decency filled in the everything-I-WANTED-to-know details. Ultimately, I thought, "Congratulations are in order; you've bent to the will of the people!", and shrugged upwards at an unprecedented pace - how brave and bold of me - and with a force of several uncaring atmospheres.

In short, I saw that the original meme took on a life of its own - irony is a friend of the fierce - and I knew it was the right thing to do.

My use case is amiss

My cell phone has been on the fritz for a few weeks now, turning off whenever it felt the electronic need - even during a call. Not dropping calls, mind you, but turning totally off, like a sleepy shepherd after his animals are packed in their pens for the night; but, here, even the break of dawn (or wolf attack) could not rouse my phone for a full day of activity. You see, I could turn it back on immediately (or, at least, when I realized it was off) - the battery indicator icon still showing me full strength - and proceed on, but it sure was becoming a hassle; it would turn off again at least once before the day was done. I mean, this sort of technology is just supposed to work; it is supposed to enable me to participate in the norms of social interaction and information gathering (and exploitation).

But, as of Friday night, the phone does not turn on at all; the technology has failed me fully. And, actually, it's a little bit uncomfortable. haha. I should clarify:

I'm not someone who's on the phone all day. I'm more likely to be walking around the city looking up at the forgotten tops of buildings than chitchatting (fyi: even many of the shitty shops downtown on Market Street are actually in some interesting old buildings.. you just need to train your eye above the first couple of floors). And unless there is a good reason (i.e. anticipating a call to do some sort of coordination), I am probably one of the few people that doesn't answer their cell phone if I'm in someone else's company.. which is a behavior that is, for the most part, appreciated, but I've also been called out on it (by jilted callers). haha. I guess the norms around cell phone use aren't set in stone, and vary with the players involved (or not involved, as the case may be).

So the issue of (my) uncomfortability does not stem from a need for constant contact, but, rather, from a need for instant access to people (and visa versa) when I do want it; I've become used to this ability (and so have you). And with no real house phone (save for skype), I'm feeling a little isolated. haha. It's funny how fast we get used to something so relatively new as ubiquitous communication, but I guess that points to how useful or, at least, desirous, the ability is.

For example, I got a bit ancy this past Saturday night, waiting for a friend in front of The Fillmore (to see Girl Talk and Dan Deacon - be sure to check these guys out in your town); you see, the plan - via email - was to meet there at 8:45pm, but my friend didn't make it until 9:15pm or so. Usually this sort of thing is not a big deal; a quick txt or phone call would let me know my friend was running late. But without the means to receive such a message, my imagination got going and thought about him not being able to show up at all, or missing him, or whatever; he had my ticket. Yeah, so even though I knew that it was all good - folks run late all the time, myself included - I'm used to getting some sort of heads-up when plans change.

At this point, we're used to the fact that *everyone* has a cell phone, and, as such, this infrastructure has enabled new modes of social operation; last minute planning or changes in plan can be accommodated much more easily then they used to be. Our days can be optimized in terms of time management therein. So whatever you've scheduled for yourself - last minute or not - it's at least easier to "fit it all in".

I could expand the discussion to include economic or sociological theory with respect to our information society - the more the better (if you know what to do with it) - but I'll digress. Well, I got the clearance from work today to order a replacement phone and should have it by the end of the week. And at that point, I'll have forgotten anything was amiss; the technology - and its fabulous use cases - will be back in place (for me). Until then, feel free to send me an email, or, if you're feeling the need for something more physical (or nostalgic), send me a postcard of handwritten origins (yours). And if you catch me in the street (I may not see you; I may be looking up), say hello; I'll be sure to give you a hardy handshake; it's been so long since we've talked.

The Mondays, redux

The Mondays,

Ever wish for a dumptruck of heaviest music imaginable - dense enough to pierce mountain bunkers - to fall on top of your cracked cranium, and seep into the dark gray crevasses of the brain sculpture you keep there? Feel your body submit to gravity, most gorgeously!

It's the kind of experience that disrupts the simple electrical signals between your most-loved axons and neurons, leaving you with only enough desire (and some would say ability) to laugh a crazy cackle - to noone and everyone - as you twist down a dark street, skipping off the walls. Yes, experience the laugh of those who know too much or too little! haha. hahahaha..

I highly recommend it.

Babies, you don't know what you're missing

Babies, you - those of you under 1 year of age, anyway - don't know what you're missing. Sure, there are a lot of things you can't do: drive, vote, breakdance (at least until you're two), drink fabulous beer; you can't even ride a bike for christ's sake! And you've probably written these things off as activities you'll grow into (maybe - or maybe you've written them off altogether); you feel you can wait a few months, years or whatever to participate in these rituals so important to our culture (and personal well-being). While an understandable outlook, it *is* somewhat naive; it's like your nervous system isn't totally developed or something.

And if that's the case, then that totally sucks for you. What else can I say?

But if you do have any sense - and I hope that you do; stars be not crossed! - you would sink into proto-depression upon realization of the worst of it.. forget the drinking and driving (or drinking and landlording), the true horror is that you cannot eat the most delicious and biblical (and I mean that in every sense of the word) of foods: honey, in any incarnation. Wow, it almost - almost - pains me to think about it (i.e. your stunted life), but then I take another bite of my peanut butter, banana and honey sandwich, a device positively dripping with the most delightfully-hued and edible goodness, and I snap back into an existence filled with hedonist (and gooey) bliss.

My god, when I think of honey, I wish it would waterfall down my walls; I wish honey would *become* my walls, ever-flowing and golden. Can you imagine any greater pleasure than to slip into a shiny porcelain tub of the stuff, to feel its heavy viscosity all about you, and in the process, become a hungry bear's delight (or, a languid bear's envy). Yes, let's enjoy the life's work of a million busy bees; a decadent dip to heal thy wounds! Afterwards, you realize you've never been so fresh, so clean; you're a preservative-free treat, and I'm wishing to shake your hand.

It seems the science behind the baby ban lies in your low-acid digestion system; it cannot handle a certain type of living organism found in honey, even processed honey (and other sweeteners, actually). I don't know: I think it could be worth the small chance of paralysis (or death) to be able to kiss the pollen-dusted and sun-drenched hand of Melisseus before that first birthday (when, apparently, your digestive system wises up). Now, I'm not telling you what to do, but I am saying "think about it"; you've got to grow up sooner or later, and - I can assure you - any experience with honey will make you a hit at the playground.

They left me rambling and corybantic

The rumblings left me left and right, they left me rambling and corybantic. To that (the situation, not her), I said, "how could she have left me?" I mean, I thought I had things under control; I *had* the situation under control.. I know I did (but I guess that reality went the way of my lady). She's gone. And, appropriately and frantically enough, I said - again, I ended up saying this out loud and upon absent ears: "I thought I had things under control!"

Alas, but such was not the case (and I was alone).

In situations comparable, one wonders - and one keeps wondering at all times forever, sometimes via parable - what makes the neglected (like me) tick and tock; and how can I *not* be more conscientious of others lost among the multitudes (again, like me); and perhaps there *is* a place for a derelict-to-be (like me, three times repeated)? For these, I wish for a trinity of positive responses to be winked most immodestly vis-à-vis her carefully groomed eyelashes (they pop!). Say it with me now: "yes, yes, yes!" You see, the ess's slip off *my* tongue so easily, and I can't get enough of that steaming-kettle sound (or, at least, that is how I dream it to be).

Alas, but such was not the case (and I was alone).

People on both sides of the equation are, paradoxically, in favor of a better life, even when they can't agree on the specifics of the definition. So even with - or perhaps because of - these bestest of intentions, caustic splits begin; idyllic designs for the future never come to fruition. And it seems the wicked means of these intrinsic games-in-play are reasonably unintentional, but still, they reverberate internally as confusing conflicts of flippant interest. Finally, when these sorts of thoughts are snagged within your grasp, one wonders - here, via exclamation! - silently and, yeah, to no one in particular: "It does not have to be this way!"

Alas, but such *is* the case; so, let it be..

An act that blossoms two days a week

At first, the act crossed my mind as a practical matter; I would tie it tight.. but not too tight. You see, my hair is getting longer and longer by the day, and now intersects the plane of my eyes; my hair has arrived at a crossroads of fashion and inconvenience (I know, I know: a common affliction for the fairer sex). The white and tastefully-bepatterned fabric would keep the situation manageable and, therefore, on the side of the former, for now (I think).

In short, the carefullyish-folded bandanna just felt right; I bought it in Japan for god's sake.

It's been awhile since I've wore a bandanna seriously (well, as seriously as it gets, pre-Red-Queen), but I'd like you all to think back to high school: we could probably dig up some pictures that would make us *all* guilty of some swish transgression (cultural or otherwise). And here, while I wear a new - and particular - object (pressed first to my forehead, and, as part of the practical process, drawn around to the back), it is one that echoes the past and, furthermore, it echoes another version of me. The bandanna connects me to a former self; and, I like it.

You see, I am running.

And running.
And running.
And running.
And, well, it's an act that blossoms two days a week (for now).
And, well, I won't say no (to two days a week; there are worse punishments).

Again, the object and the acts (of folding) (and running) connect me to the past; these acts connect the present to a former life. And it feels right. So, regardless of the fashion-sense (or lack thereof) - I shampooed and conditioned today; I shaved - I will take the fabulously limp fabric and fold it upon itself four times (¡no más!); it must end up a certain width before it becomes accessible to my intention and appropriate for my purposes. The (my) hair and the (my) sweat never reach gravity's final destination; physics be damned. In the meantime, I'll keep running.

And running.
And running.
And running.
And, well, it's an act that blossoms two days a week (for now).
And, well, I won't say no (to two days a week; there are worse punishments).

Perfect Lineage; I Couldn't Have Done It Better

Work from the past (2002 risen!), updated heavily for the here-and-now. Enjoy:

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Man, oh-man-oh-man,

I can't believe how much I'm entranced with my own smell. Quite primitive, huh? Well, it's a fact that is less characterizing than opiating, really. No, really! So, let's take this fun informatsia at face value and explore the inner workings and forget-me-nevers of time and space, of a nice place for seasoned desire; we'll find reasoning yet! So close your eyes and breathe deep(ly) on this journey, breathe deeply s'il vous plait..

It seems like only yesterday I took a small mammal and threw it in the fire for warmth, later for food. The smell of burnt fur excites me! Bones - the tiniest of bones - are all around, stand-ins for my evolutionary compatriots; they are dead and broken (and teeth-riddled). Still, it's so nice for all of you to stay, laying here and there and everywhere; I can't say no. Lo, the light is going out; the sun is, of course, the one and only constant source (of radiance). And in this moment of shining, I am alive and mating (or, at least, mate-able): I have met the one, the two and the three; we all, eventually, go the way of the cold abyss. Shiver!

Later - so much later to this frisky business - the gardens rang. I awoke, and yet still - at this point - I had no clue this Babylon scene would be a wonder in the future; I simply rose and walked through the garden, wine glass in hand. Drink and be merry, I said (and lived). Nevermind the masses; they are of a different stock and weight; so light and jaded, they've ended up a vague framework for the lives of the elite (I hardly know ye). And who am I to judge? Bang!

Could I have known any better that before long (what is a millennium anyway?) my progeny would be composing symphonies in the key of D minor, playing them in front of kings, queens who would fuck my composer genes if there weren't so many god damn aristocrats faking their love of the eighth note here, now, in an 18th century concert hall. At least these instruments render the electroheliogram of my consciousness perfectly and synchroniphenially, draining the listnessless from my brain stem.. for a brief while anyway. Roar!

Lest I forget, a century or so before, my RNA transcriptions painted the Sistine Chapel with brushes made from the most yielding of goat hair; Asia Minor, you *are* good for something. Each atom of each mechanistic cilium is ecclesiastically bonded to the next; I couldn't have constructed it better myself (though, sometimes, I wish I would have). Dream on: I could have smelled the animals' stables on an odoriferous holiday! Dank!

For now, there is work to be done: the open country awaits the wrangler and his compañeros. You see, a world of rope - tighter and tighter - is beguiling; this world is irresistible! So, regardless of the 10-gallon fashion sense - it is what it is, and everywhere - the herd circulates, the herd obeys without question, though occasionally eddies of aliment - that is, eddies of meat - form around diminutive bodies of water. And I think how quickly things have a'changed. I say: let's lead 'em straight up upon the griddle; my insides be a'rus'lin'. Sizzle!

Before long it was 2007 and clicks and swoons from alpha bit to zeta flit are the order of the day, though everything is less fleshed and carnally-satiating then I remember. But let me temper that thought with the fact that my senses are somewhat dulled; it's been awhile and awhile, and it's been awhile..

Time is a mysterious beast: time renders memories for the living, at times, too flippantly for my tastes, be-grilled or not. Still, there is a need to connect and reminisce, no matter what the outcome for humankind; it's always possible in a manner artificial (and I mean that in every sense of the word). So, when we all go the way of the cold abyss, God save the computer! Blip!

Still, all I want to do is smell my own balls. Good day!

Connections maybe not so tenuous after all

I wrote this little ditty a long time ago now, but, well, I still feel the same way. And it seems appropriate to post as I'm off on another journey:

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

So I just recently saw Lost In Translation, and yes, I can identify with the characters, their life and times in a foreign place.. one which only underscored how tenuous many of their (your) relationships - even those that they (you) thought *should* and *needed* to be strongest - were. In fact, I can relate on very superficial levels, as I've been to Tokyo, traveled extensively through the US and Europe, many times alone - for work or otherwise. But beyond that, I've felt their disillusionment with my social support system: our husbands, wives, family, friends.

Sometimes it's not so hard to be alone on a perfectly nice day in San Francisco.

That said, I've also experienced the pleasure of unexpectedly connecting with a stranger - sometimes for only five minutes as they get you on the proper bus in Stockholm or Kyoto, or for whole days, nights, passing time in a dimly lit bar in Austin or Berlin - even if the spoken language between us isn't totally in sync. "Please", "thank you", and a sense of humor get you farther than you might think.

Closer to home, it's a revelation to wake up and know friends, family, matter; you have made connections maybe not so tenuous after all. Yes, sometimes the sun shines so hard (I love it), and I can hear the birds singing.. I hope not just to me. So listen hard and smile..

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It's always a pleasure, and I hope to cross paths again with you soon..

What to do if not pack light?

One bag is off adventuring before me, spending the long weekend en-route to Brooklyn, where I'm sure, upon its arrival, it will have a fabulous 2.5 weeks of hipster summer during my time in Utah and then at my folks' in Alabama. We'll rejoin soon enough on the 13th - so lucky a date - and the gear-and-clothes-collected - I'll have my own sack of goodies - will play a massive and fabrical game of music chairs with me as puppet-master; I'm the only one who can hear the music. After all, and again, one bag will stay on in Brooklyn while I go on to explore the former Soviet Union with the second. We'll leapfrog back to San Francisco in a similar fashion; the bags will stay the same, but their insides will constantly change so-adaptable. I like this arrangement: no stranger as arranger; my own two hands are skilled..

I can do nothing if not pack light when required.

Living machines and food for thought

Thank you for the tip, Ms. Portman, but it was bread, not The Shins, that changed my life. Or, more specifically, it was the discovery and appreciation of (not to mention personal indulgence in) how to make bread that deepened my relationship to the food that I eat in general. And something like that can change your life; food is a necessity in every delectable sense of the word.

The basics of assembling, cooking or baking raw and disparate ingredients into a final and (hopefully) edible device is pretty straightforward; we learn these things in our youth, even if we do not participate in explicit "cooking lessons". Food is all around us in one form or another; most get to eat it every day. And from this large and sustained (and sustaining) sample set, we gain at least a superficial understanding of various preparation methods. That is, we see - if only a stylized version in our mind's eye - the chopping, the boiling, the frying or the baking, and we taste the final product. For most, just the consumption is enough to satiate both their body and mind (to what degree is arguable and depends on many factors); there is no curiosity about how this food came to be - in front of you, me, or the other.

Folks that actually do the cooking themselves are part of a smaller group, and those that cook well are smaller in number still. But I think the most exclusive club is made up of those that truly understand, or at least have a gut feel for, the intrinsic characteristics of each culinary constituent, and further, for the subtleties of how each will combine and, potentially, transform into something new and whole and delicious. I mean, you don't have to know details down to a molecular level to be an decent cook (like a certain Mr. Brown), but it seems like there is a positive relationship between the degree of sophistication and appreciation of the essence of a victual element and being able to produce uncommonly good meals.

Certainly a few rules of thumb can get you by very well in most conditions, but as your connoisseurship and appetite for experimentation increases, you'll either have to be lucky or good to continue to please and excite the palate beyond a stable of standards. Alternatively, you'll have be able to follow recipes very well - which is sometimes harder than you think, given that many implicitly-include assumptions about your kitchen environment and/or your experience level. That is, a recipe may not adequately describe the procedure exact enough to replicate the intended - and finest! - of results. Consequently, if you do not have the experience (or, again, the luck) to fill in the gaps, the end-product may end up a bit underwhelming.

Which brings me back to bread. Yikes! Through happenstance, I came across the following article on making bread in the NY Times Food section back in November 2006; it sparked my curiosity, promising a "novel" and "easy" technique:

The Secret of Great Bread: Let Time Do the Work
By Mark Bittman (aka The Minimalist)
Published: November 8, 2006

So I resolved to go home and try it out (I was at the airport at the time), regardless of never having made any sort of bread before (save for pancakes). Somehow its creation in my own kitchen now seemed possible, and, further, it seemed alchemical and exciting. However, my first couple of attempts were downright dismal, later attributed to, among another things, not understanding the nature of yeast and what their role was in the process. I did not treat them well; they treated me to a wheat-based brick; I could hear them laughing from beyond (the oven), from their dark single-celled netherworld.

Later experiments proved more fruitful, so to speak; I needed to read a bit more about the bread making processes in general, how all those simple ingredients interacted in such specific ways to produce something so-much-better than themselves. What synergy (given the right conditions)! It's like advanced management theory come to life, but better - because you can eat the team when the project is done.

The real kicker was that this was my first foray into the world of fermentation, although I didn't know it when I started. True bread making (i.e. not the "quick bread" type, which relies on the chemical reactions of baking soda or baking powder) depends on live organisms to break down complex organic molecules into tastier and more nutritious ones for our consumption. In fact, some of the most delicious things out there - bread, cheese, cured meats, yoghurt, chocolate, beer, wine and vinegar - are all products of fermentation. "Underground foodie hero", Sandor Katz, has written much about whys and the hows, as well as the history of, our symbiotic relationship - one just beginning to come back into modern focus - with the beneficial microflora in our environment. Really cool stuff! And you know if it's about beer, I'm all over it..

All this said, I'm not saying that *I* can cook well or *I* know about all the details of creating wonderful food, but I *am* starting to recognize the various phenomena of interaction between me and my elements of substance. So that is the part that is new (or at least refined), and it's made me feel even more connected to the world - most literally - as part of the constant ebb and flow of molecules and materials from one form, one concentration, or one location to another. In fact, the action of the yeast reminds me so much of the novel (and labor intensive) grass farming techniques I read about in Michael Pollan's "The Omnivore's Dilemma", albeit at a microscopic level. However ultimately complicated, the basic actions involved in fermentation or grass farming, I can get my head around. And the ideas contained therein are very pleasing; read up!

But beyond food - however entrancing - isn't it exciting to think about those ideas that really gave you a kick in the pants (or the head?), helping to spawn a positive modification - and evolution! - in your worldview? Some of the other heavyweight readings that really turned on some light bulbs for me are:

1. "Guns, Germs, and Steel" by Jared Diamond
2. "The Red Queen: Sex and the Evolution of Human Nature" by Matt Ridley

I am sure to discuss the above topics - sex and economics - at a future date, if only in passing, because those sorts of things color my every thought on levels sub-conscious. Yes, so they will be discussed again and again, even if you or I don't know we're talking about it; those things are hypnotic and applicable-always, eminently worthy of thoughtful conversation or drunken musings.

In the meantime, let me say that Ms. Portman does a hell of an interview, and for that, I will thank her again (but really mean it this time). And let me also say that *we* are all living machines, garbage in, garbage out, so let's get to that good eating (and drinking) - indulge in the microflora!

Jeans, make thyself a quilt

Not quite a quilt, but my jeans sure do need a patching. Too many times a phone or flask found tucked into the once-tight and faded-blue fabric has worn the stitching beyond softly and into the realm of shredded non-existence. The wind, or another so bold, could reach through, so wily, to my defenseless front right pocket and further to my front right thigh. The tempting opportunity is seemingly presented forevermore - blue jeans don't heal themselves, as entropy is the way of the world - until, that is, my jeans make like a quilt, transformed on their own, or, more likely, with help; they sure do need a patching.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

So if you come across any cool fabric patches, let me know. I got the thread and a bit of the know-how, but will always submit to good advice..

Lyrics lost, and nostalgia discovered

Song lyrics are 95% lost on me.

That's not to say I'm illiterate or a beat junkie; that's not to say I don't care or don't appreciate powerful words crafted and applied to a framework of beautiful music (or visa versa). It really just comes down to the fact that I have problems with lexical disambiguation. Who knew? That is, I *hear* the lyrics and I, I *hear* the way they are sung, in terms of tone and melody and overall character, but I really only end up with "the feeling" of how they play with the rest of the musical mix; I could never repeat for you a line-intelligible from any given song. And it's always been this way.

What this means is that I listen to so much music and I know so little lyrics. So, for example, when I sing in the shower - it's been known to happen - I basically have a catalog of 3.5 proto-songs, made up of pieces of maybe 11 real songs. Who cares? A common affliction, yes - I know.. and there are worse ones out there, I, umm, hear, but I did get thinking about all this Wednesday night as I experienced the exception that proves the rule..

Performing some of the few songs - in the world! - that I know the lyrics to, Dinosaur Jr drew forth from me a sing-along (or at least muddle-along) during their show at Slims in San Francisco; I could half-articulate about a quarter of their set, spread out throughout the night. Again, who knew, and who cares? But thank god no one can actually hear me mangling each song - each to a different degree, of course, but each mangled nonetheless; the speakers are large, turned up loud, and sonicly all-encompassing.

Yes, I did say Dinosaur Jr; and, yes, I mean *that* Dinosaur Jr, underground indie-rock icons of the 80's and therefore ripe for being-Dinosaur jokes in the 00's, another band arguably back together to make a buck off nostalgia-fueled ticket sales. But I have seen them on both their contemporary tours (2005 and 2007) and while I know it is in a different way than they would have rocked in, say, 1989, they still rock. The music is spot on (if not a little too-polished and controlled sometimes) and, most notably for me, my main man J Mascis still conjures up these phenomenally epic and melodically noisy guitar solos I can't get enough of. When I'm really in the mood - as I was at the show - I could have kept my eyes closed and let the notes, sometimes fighting their way through feedback, go on forever. And so it goes..

Part of the appeal is that their music does somehow evoke a feeling of "nostalgia" in me; Dinosaur Jr songs always do, but seeing them live pumps up that feeling much more; it's quicker to come on and boldly-vibrating in its intensity. And I remember - via beer-dipped brain - that I recognized these feelings coming on during the show and this got me wondering further if I knew what the idea of "nostalgia" really meant! I mean, I ask because I think I get wistful way too often. haha.

It's not a bad thing, per se, and maybe not such an odd thing, I know, but I attribute it to the fact that I've had a series of such different lives - or at least approaches to life - since, say, high school, and, while they are continuous in time, they are carved into definite periods, accessible neatly, in general, for internal recall (but only occasionally for discussion). And since some of these packaged scenescapes would actually overlap on a real timeline, it's probably more appropriate to call them quanta - quanta of nostalgia? - insofar that each is a collection of times and places and people and feelings (real or not) associated with some state of being from my past. There is a definite trend for collusion with and adherence to the lock-step flow of time, for sure, but that is not always the case as, with reflection, certain threads of mindset could have their origin, or at least a later-assigned origin, with times farther removed from the locus of real activity; the same reasoning also applies to threads reaching somewhere into the future (ex. where the locus is the origin and provides the spiritual underpinnings for something later on).

The current definition on Wiktionary for nostalgia is:

"A bittersweet yearning for the things of the past."

And so with this definition and the contemplation above in mind, I can ask myself again if I know what nostalgia means. And I would say "yes".. although I would admit I might be applying it a bit too liberally. That is, I do understand that the term, in general parlance, is applied to looking back towards the past as if it was better than what you have now. But that's not exactly how I feel when I'm applying it to myself..

The quanta that I mentioned are all constituent parts my psyche; they are stepping stones - upwards, I think - in the path of my personal growth and development; they could even be construed as a series of adolescences or subtle psychological evolutions. And I look back fondly..

But I know, I know for sure - FOR SURE! - I'll be adding these years now to the nostalgia reel soon enough (i.e. as in, the last 1 or 2, because I've already added everything up until then). Oh man, but haha!, and oh-man-oh-man-oh-man (in a good way). These are the times of our lives and it's nice to be able to recognize that now; it helps me to breathe in the sunshine of San Francisco and beyond; and I'm always looking to breathe better in general.

In short, the good times haven't stopped yet; I'm excited for the present and know there are many opportunities for me and mine in the future. And how can't I be preemptively nostalgic for that? haha. That said, I can be temperamental, privately at least, so know there will be ups and downs in my outlook on life; I say this if only to let you know my exuberance isn't irrational and without bound - but, still, I'll leave that discussion for another time. For now, let me say that there were and are and will be some very good people in my life, past and present and future, respectively, as well as combinatorially. And even though I know it doesn't always come through in real time, I do appreciate how everything has come together; you, collectively, have made me a better person. haha. And so, it seems, regardless of my steely exterior, I can lay on the cheese with the best of them..

In any case - and back to the glorious present - the only thing I would have asked of Dinosaur Jr to do differently on Wednesday night would be to have played their "Just Like Heaven" cover from The Cure. If you haven't heard me sing in the shower, it is, basically, my number one ditty (always battling with R Kelly and David Bowie); it's a cover of a cover of a cover; read into that what you will. ;)

High Fives All Around? Could be, if you ask..

The other night I went and updated the "High Fives All Around" bit of silliness (i.e. some random email story I wrote a few years ago) that you may or may not be familiar with to reflect, well, a different stage in my writing "career" - and this new version is sitting in the "Drafts" section of the blog right here. But shizz if I'll actually post it because I feel like it could be taken and be misconstrued by the powers-that-be as a sophomoric piece of adolescent pornography - which it is, at least on the surface - hahaha, but whooowee if it doesn't bring me back to 2001 or 2002 or whenever I first wrote it down. Such transitional times; it seems like a lifetime ago! And it was..

In any case, I may be bold one of these days and post it (as well as the original version for scholarly study), but, more likely, I'll end up going my tried-and-true (and more controlled) route of emailing it to the usual crew. In fact, I am truly tempted to click "Publish" now because the "High Fives" ditty has gotten the most effusive and positive reaction of any of my unsolicited email stories thus far.. probably because it's less pseudo-intellectual babble and more full-on goofy (albeit, sexual) fantasy. And you gotta like that - a distinct lack or pretense; for me, it's a zeitgeist that evokes simpler times; the symbols of sex and cartoon violence are an easy way to access that sort of thing.

Friends play the part of monkeys on (now: government-grade) PCP, and powerful and tuning-be-damned instruments never make it to chapter two.. actions all playing a supporting role to the main stage: oral satisfaction, an - ahem - hard act to follow at any age (yet always worth trying!).

The futon is dead! Long live the futon!

The sand, a reminder.

It's nice to read something again and find it still full of meaning:

++ +++++

The sand, a reminder. I am a lovely,
Lovely sinner!

Sometimes. And yet nothing changes.

++++++++++++++++++++ ++++++

And it's even better when new layers of understanding have developed, either to replace or be overlayed onto your previous ones; you have more experience from which to draw and make connections from "real-life" to an artistic vague-ery. Or connections visa versa.

I need a prescription for sasss caplets

Somehow it seems like a sleepy day, the city turned into a sleepy place; I may take a nap, in fact. The sun can't hide from my eyes, nor its rays from my scantily-clad skin; cloud cover is non-existent. I AM NOT COMPLAINING; bring on any and all repercussions (global warming notwithstanding) from these delicate doses of summertime that I only know from far away places (New England, ya heard). In fact, I would say to you, SUN, do not break out that tiny, 2oz medicinal measuring cap maybe taped behind the moon for our next photon-filled appointment. Pour that ooey-goodness directly from that bright yellow and tastefully sun-spotted bottle and we'll both be happy. Yes, it's a 70-something degree day in San Francisco - in San Francisco! - and what have you done to me?

Or, it could just be the hummus talking: I just chowed down on half a loaf of fresh-from-the-oven whole-wheat bread (yes, my oven!), with homemade hummus (yes, my home!). The secret is out and the secret is delicious; reservations open at noon and I take them daily, although you might have to bring your own ingredients. What do I do for work exactly?

Regardless of the reason, I laid down on my right side not too long ago and curled convexly and ever-so-slightly, in a position very similar to one I make when I *actually* sleep, but my Protestant ethic prevented me from submitting to the allures of dreamland for now. I mean, I have real problems trying to sleep at any time before 10pm, except, of course, if I'm operating on borrowed time from the night before (usually a chemical fueled decision, alcohol or otherwise), or under true physical duress (5 hour bikeride anyone, or a dance-a-thon?).

And although I did get some good drinking in (Booneville Beerfest) and a bit of outdoor activity (Pomo Canyon) this past weekend, they weren't in the type or quantity for me to let myself go (to bed) right now. Don't ask me about the exact nature of this logic - I would need a whiteboard, several doses of sasss (did you hear: they put sasss in caplets now), and everyone's bullshit detectors off (and cell phones while we're at it). But I can't imagine this proposed class actually happening; I could think of better ways to spend that time, especially if I've got a pocket full of sasss.

Do you remember your first time?

There is something in the air, momnocles and popsicles!
How appropriate?, I mean. It's a full moon and all..

Like the magic of stars giving birth (so cute!), the voodoo of Vic Chesnutt has somehow accelerated the gravity factors in my room to ten times the norm, or sometimes to twenty or more - variable on the chord in play and the amount of swoon in his voice at any given moment. The exact formula is complicated, with archaic and squiggly symbols portending a life without feathers-as-we-know-them, but, for now, creating an aggregate environs of squishy warmth and flowering nostalgia, worthy of the most gracious of grandmas and, by association, the most loving of how-are-ya's. Don't ask me where is which! Or do you dare as much?

Doing - and remembering - your first time: I'd like to ask you about it.

Yes I've got a hankering; my head - IS - SO - HEAvy. I find it resting in the soft nest of my sweatshirt-covered arms: on the desk, on the bed, so-low; sometimes I end up fainted, and flat-out on the floor. I could, or rather, I would, let my chest do the same, if I was a bit more ambitious. Or flexible, next to a good woman (it's worth it!); my hair gets so lopsided in this position. Do you care, ma soeur? Or, again, do you dare?

Do you remember the snowballs rapping at your window?

Later (or earlier?): Find yourself bare and bounding through warm and well-groomed fields of the softest of grasses (please! - otherwise, ouch!) with full-frontal and inspired flair.. and there we go (again) - imagining these pleasant pictographs could illustrate an interesting storybook for the masses; regardless, get on in this crackerjack bandwagon. And please allow me to extend my capricious felicitous-ness; the full moon makes me do craaazy things. But it IS your well-being I'm concerned with and about! That's right, I know my intentions are betrayed by my prepositional choices, so never mind the voices echoing blasphemous and cantankerous phrases; these words - again, forget any lack-of-gravity (which is impossible - it's 10 times the norm!) - these SPECIFIC words become maniac-ical weapons of the wannabe elite. It's a hard and biting life (to think about the other), but it's immediate, and it's right, and it's just.

And oh-so-doable - yes; it could be so very YEs! Well, at the least, it is just so.. very.. very.. something.

So where does that leave us? If you must, buy into the frisky business of all-natural trust and musk - both are RAINING DOWN from above - and soaking the sheer fabric of our dear and tightly-wound existence with a nomad's idea of tough love: it's all wet. What's my NAME? What's my NAME? What's my name?

Still, it's a fine mess to find this coincidence of intention - and LUST - rolling around my mind and - it's escaping! - towards yours through capillary action (and, of course, through electronic media transmission). But that's not so bad, is it? Although - yes, still further - I can imagine it IS frustrating to find yourself surrounded by the applied arrogance and flagrant fragrance of another planet: a foreign scent - YES! - but somehow it is appealing - IT IS APPEALING - and you can make a meal of it, despite it's (non-intentional) high-flalootin' and mouth-shootin'-off nature. In short, I'm not trying to sell you something. Maybe my linguistics are imperfectly applied, inciting blind riots of confusion and restoring the original gravity of my room, despite the intelligent pull of the full moon that should implicate otherwise. Could be. But, really, I'm jus' sayin' how-you-doin', be it in more words and bombastic proclamations than truly sufficient to please the wanton senses of the average human person.

But - HEY - heyheyhey: you're not average (yo).

In other words, the concern and redolence is real.. breathe it IN! Breathe; and breathe. Breathe; and breathe. Breathe; and breathe. Breathe; and breathe. Breathe; and breathe. Breathe; and breathe. Breathe; and breathe. Breathe; and breathe. Breathe; and breathe. Breathe; and breathe. Breathe; and breathe. Breathe; and breathe. Breathe; and breathe. Breathe; and breathe. Breathe; and breathe. Breathe; and breathe. Breathe; and breathe. Breathe; and breathe. Breathe; and breathe. Breathe; and breathe. Breathe; and breathe. Breathe; and breathe. Breathe; and breathe. Breathe; and breathe. Breathe; and breathe. Breathe; and breathe. Breathe; and breathe. Breathe; and breathe. Breathe; and breathe. Breathe; and breathe. Breathe; and breathe. Breathe; and breathe. Breathe; and breathe. Breathe; and breathe. Breathe; and breathe. Breathe; and breathe. Breathe; and breathe. Breathe; and breathe. Breathe; and breathe. Breathe; and breathe. Breathe; and breathe. Breathe; do it, ad infinitum. For reals. But don't just take my word for it; a million trillion wouldn't have it any other way.

So how was it? I'm still left wondering..