The tearing of tender flesh

I've discovered something far worse than my own insomnia: Rhys's.

I have somehow learned to make my way through the night in whatever isolated and disfigured state that I can find. I lie very still, like a pile of laundry.

The new guy is having little teeth come in, way in the back. "Come in" makes it sounds as if they are guests that are stopping by. They are ripping through his gums.

So, it is not just sleeplessness but also confusing pain and misery. There is much midnight wailing.

Rachel is angelic in this time. These nights pass with her walking about the house holding his sobbing body; a merciful vision, an apparition announced by howls, and shrieks, and many tears.

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As vulgar, slang

This morning, I return to the gym. It has been a few weeks. Three of them, and then some change. I am psychologically preparing myself now; coffee on an empty stomach. It is the only way: two cups every morning. It causes me to dream of rats each night but what is one to do? The goal is to remain strong. Anybody that doesn't dream of rats is a pussy.

Are we allowed to use the pejorative pussy? A friend used the abbreviation "p.c." this morning instead of an actual derogatory term denoting male tenderness or sensitivity. He was referring to himself, so maybe that's what makes it okay. It is Personal Correctness.

Does this mean that I'm a pussy? Oh dear, I do hope not. 

It's a silly word - over my lifetime, since puberty, it has become psychically connected to the actual thing, the vulva. The mere mention of it will make me stop, turn, and look and look. There is always a sensation of where, where...? It is the reaction of a dog when a squirrel enters his periphery vision. The limbic brain awakens, the core tightens, the stance changes - the tail wags, lifts, and stiffens.

Pussy. It is not uncommon to hear men accuse one another of it, as an adjective on its way towards becoming a noun. It requires no conceptual power at all to understand the deeply homo-erotic nature of such a presumed abuse. To claim that one of your male friends is transforming into this thing that you affirm a deep sexual attraction to, and fascination with... This inverted magic is meant to be an insult rather than an invitation. 

It is more rare to hear a man express to a friend, "You look good today, man, like a really strong pussy. You been working out, bro?"

It can also be used as a condemning threat of sorts, "Come on, you fucking pussy!" Impossible to determine the intended meaning of the word 'fucking' in that sentence, or 'come' for that matter.... an invitation to very suggestive violence.

I'm trying to remember if I've ever heard a gay friend refer to anybody else also gay and male as a "pussy." I don't think that I have but I have heard a lot of things and remember so few. Being a nightclub dj gives you insight into rare incident, hilarity that will not come again. The idea does make me giggle. 

I feel as if I could reconstruct its happening and then have it become real. 

I used to have this friend, a girl, who I would regularly and jokingly call a "dick," whenever she was being one. She did not seem to mind and even thought it was funny, that I was being so candid with her, and intentionally awkward. The opposite of being forced.

There is another story to tell of her one day, though perhaps not today, perhaps never. I don't mind relaying harmless, anonymous stories, but this one is borderline cruel. Cruelty is one of the unforgivable sins. I know. I was cruel to this kid once. I've never let myself forget it, nor he. 

So, with no options left I just continue to treat him cruelly whenever the opportunity arises.  I should be outgrowing all of that, soon, but... ah well. He has grown very sanctimonious over the whole thing, which only raises my ire and dulls my wit.

Sadism is fascinating. It's just so difficult to find the right crowd for it. They are either all far too intense or they're all just a bunch of fucking masochists. 

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Power Outage

Strangeness everywhere, silence. The power went out around midnight. It is still off. I write this with what's left of my phone battery. 

It was a perfect night for it. The first night of Autumn, the coming darkness. The trees in the back yard have begun to disintegrate. 

Yesterday several birds circled above as I stepped out of the house, many more than this picture shows. I smelled nothing. I saw nothing. But I was certain. Something was dead, or dying. 

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Sunflowers

Internet traffic is strange. I shouldn't note it as I do but it is difficult to avert the eyes, particularly when I've clicked that page for the very purpose of looking. There are some days when this site will get hundreds of pageviews, then other days when it will barely crack a hundred. It rarely has to do with the writing of a single post, though it's hard for me not to feel as if it does. The numbers tell a different story. 

By the next day I have already forgotten the post from the day before, forgotten much of what I've said. When I see people out and about in *real life* they will reference something that I've written and I look at them as if I've come straight from a Flowers for Algernon experiment.

Life can be seen as a fluctuation between intellect and emotion, but that doesn't make the observation accurate, or meaningful, or even useful. Assuming opposites in nature does not mean that they are actually there. It says as much about the mind of the viewer as it does about the nature of reality. If intellect is opposition-based inquiry then it's no surprise that opposites are then discovered and codified by that intellect.

Then, it follows that if no true opposites exist in nature then they share no unity in opposition. People are not bi-polar, they are merely dynamic in varying directions and to varying degrees; unexpectedly eccentric, difficult to pin down, best to strap...

Opposites are easy to assert and establish mathematically but not even in fundamental interactions do we truly find them. Gravity is always attractive and the other three known forces are of the discreet quanta kind. 

That's my observation for the day. I was told by a friend that perhaps I see life as a continuum where others might see it as stages.

But, since we have lately begun to question the continuum, and we've known since Shakespeare that all the world's some stages...

... I just might be in trouble.

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A dangerous nonsense

The struggle is to be magnanimous when you don't want to be, when no one is expressing much, or any, forgiveness towards you. That is the challenge. 

I was reading Erich Fromm. Don't ask me why. The book (The Art of Loving) is not nearly as good as I remember it being, though I would still recommend reading it. Funny, that. 

But he says that - I'm paraphrasing here - respect is the absence of exploitation. That phrase stuck with me. It is very easily understood. 

Exploitation is treating somebody unfairly, for gain. But what of when there is no gain, there is just the unfair treatment for loss, often mutual, often only an imagined gain. You lose respect and other things; vital components of love. You gain nothing by the behavior but are compelled by some inner force, some clenched knot of self that refuses to let go, the inner-poison that is somehow meant to affect others.

It is all a dangerous nonsense.

In love, nobody would consciously wish to treat someone unfairly. In love. But there it is. It is easy to recognize when you are the victim, more demanding to acknowledge self-wrongdoing. I know. How sudden the voice can interrupt the voice: No, no, no, not possible. 

But there it is.

It has lately been much on my mind: the need to forgive, to be fair. We know where it comes from. But then where does it go.

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Your Cthonic Objective

I don't understand how paychecks work. I mean, I do, but still they confound me. Paychecks in which I have worked more hours somehow magically provide less money. I'm told that the government will tax me more if I make more money, they wouldn't want an employer exploiting me, but still....

Yes, I am paid hourly. There are times when I greatly prefer it. It is simple: I work more, I make more. But that hasn't happened this time and it is far too early in the morning for me to do any comparative analysis of the previous paycheck and this one. I'm assuming this means that I will get more money back at the end of the year. The government is always looking out for me, or for me, or at me.

I have been working a lot lately, you see. That is supposed to convert into more money for me, not less. It is a rather simple arrangement and Marx described it pretty well. It is supposed to be a reasonably simple arrangement, one with agreed-upon terms. 

Okay, I took a look at it. I thought there might be something worth relaying there, something funny. It was actually quite simple: I made less money. There was a holiday day involved. So, even though the total "hours worked" were more I had worked more overtime the paycheck before. So, that settles that, I am lazy and and Labor Day has cheated me out of capital. Why don't they call it Capital Day?

It is a holiday to celebrate the social and economic advancement of American workers. It's now known as irony. 

I have many friends that work for a fixed salary. They seem to prefer this and sometimes I can understand why. They make more money than me. But they are forced into working more hours at times, against their wishes, with no extra compensation. I'm not mature enough for a relationship like that. I am still at the stage in life where work should directly equal compensation. I have yet to advance to the point where I can see things in a more yearly way. The "big" picture.

Enough about money, and work. The way to be happy about the situation is to do as little as possible for as much return as imaginable. It is my key to success. Lounge until someone offers you compensation to cease lounging, but always be prepared for success through lottery winnings.

Anthony Robbins taught me that. He is known as a self-help author and it is a title that certainly seems to apply. He is a motivated speaker. A living coach, of sorts. 

I wonder if he will make a career transition when he gets older and instruct people how to die with power and wealth. 

"When it comes to dying, setting goals is the only way to get there."

"If you don't like the way you're dying then you must change. Death is a choice. Make yours last."

"If you want to have the death that you want then you must first imagine it, then become it. Most people simply lack a clear death-goal."

"If you're serious about this, then enroll in my 10 month program 'Pull Yourself Together.'"

"If you enjoyed that one then try my extended death-seminar dvd set, 'True Mastery of Your Passing.'"

Fuck, I should do this for a living: teach people how to die with a few simple rules of self-empowerment. Just use good old fashioned christian values to guilt people into having better, happier deaths.

Tell them that if they want their deaths to last then they must be pro-active about them. 

You're not incapable. You just haven't decided on a clear goal. Only you can do this. 

My program is designed to help you form habits that will get you back on track.

I could give them focus, something to strive for, a way to give something back. I see people that are just lazy in death, too many really, just lying about, letting it happen. If you want a death that will bring you true inner-happiness then you must change your death habits, and then be prepared to follow through with them.

This is almost too easy. If anybody out there needs this then please reach out to me. I have a cassette package that I'd love to sell you. You sound as if you could really use it.

It's time!

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The Orb vs. David Letterman

(Orb fan)

Not much time to write today. I rush into the city to work all day, then tonight: The Orb.

There is much to say about the band but not enough time to do so today. They're the best at what they do, almost a Grateful Dead of electronic music, at least insomuch as they have carved out a niche for themselves, one which they occupy alone. I am a devoted fan. I don't mean that I write them lengthy letters telling them which camp I went to for the summer, or how my mother and I don't really get along, and that I awaken some nights with a confusing moistness between my legs that also excites me and I want them to know about it, but I do have all of their albums, all the re-releases, all the bootlegs, all the vinyl. All of it. 

I have their pictures on my bedroom wall. My father simply hates it. Paul's not my favorite. 

It is very rare that I'm not in the mood to listen to their music, and once started it's difficult to get me to stop. The video I posted the other day is one of their remixes. I once interviewed the "founder" of the band, Alex Patterson, for about an hour, thinking that I would convert it into a written piece. This is when I was writing for the .xpander.nl website out of Amsterdam, one now defunct, or sold off to industry. I'm not really sure what happened to it, though at the time it was one of the largest websites dedicated to electronic music in the world. I was their in-house court jester.

The interview was boring. Alex is somebody who has been interviewed many, many times and very likely adopts a certain mind-set when engaged in one. I couldn't seem to get much more than perfunctory answers out of him, though that very well might have been the result of my inexperience. Writing is not talking, and talking is not interviewing. It is a special talent and like all talents must be practiced and developed. I have not taken the time to do so.

I admire a good interviewer though. David Letterman used to have his moments. When I try to talk to people now of what he was like in the 80's they just stare at me, nod and say, "Is that right?"

But it's true! Go look on youtube and see him 30 years ago. He invented a style of speaking that many people use today, but few give him credit for it. The post-modern approach to television, the only sensible approach there is. It was strange and exciting and peppered with awkward spaces. His choice of guests often matched his unique talent. All he had to do was sit there and fluctuate between vague encouragement and bemused silences.  He could do as much with a muted vowel sound response as Bill Murray can do by lifting his eyebrow. Or better, nothing at all.

Here is but one among many:

Who cares that Paul Reubens got caught engaged in self-spanking in a dirty theater. He's the victim there.

Or, this one:

Well, neither of those can come close to telling the whole story, one must have lived through it. I used to stay up late just to watch. It was part of my coming-of-age process. Letterman was a late-night god and for years felt like a secret. I separated the world into those who also understood his quirky interview tactics and humor and those who weren't worth talking to. It's hard to believe now. He's as safe as an old toaster.

Search out his interviews with Madonna. They are priceless.

Ok, I must run. There is a marathon leading over the bridge and into the city, and I the predicted champion.

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Par Avion

Coffee with milk. It just tastes like coffee. We ran out of half-and-half. I feel like a dirty, stinkin' peasant.

I am really starting to get excited about coming to New York. I guess it should be going to New York now that we live here, but a few of my friends asked me to put them on an email list for this site each day when I click the "Publish" button, so sometimes it feels as if I'm just writing to them. They rob me of page-views which deeply affects my daily vanity but what can one do? They're my friends.

I'm looking forward to seeing all of them: Darla, Jane, Froggy, Porky, Mary Ann, Stymie, Spanky, Alfalfa .... and who could forget the inscrutable Buckwheat. Our Gang. 

Petey, the pup.

We're going to have a massive party on the Saturday, and then on the Sunday too. Nope, wait, I just checked the dates. I think Darla might have gotten it wrong. We're there the week before her son's birthday. It was gonna be a big fiesta-fete; cake, punch, et al.

I wonder if I'll still recognize everybody. 

I hope they haven't all grown up, or signed contracts with different studios.

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Kids...

... change everything.

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Regatta from above

(This frog tried to lick my back)

I think I'm going to grille a steak for breakfast this morning. Why not? That is decadence at this age. At any age. I only wish I had a bottle of cabernet to go with it. Steak and wine Sundays, with maybe some jazz or blues. Nothing too heavy, or loud. Something inoffensive, pleasant even.

Two steaks would just be excessive. Both eaten at the same time, as if it was a steak after-party, a beef orgy.


I stopped by the new gym Friday. It recently moved locations. This means that I will have to start working-out again. I had given myself a break, time for my body to heal. But now too much time has passed and my body is relaxing, moving towards a different version of health. I look like a melted Play-Doh model of my former self. I pushed my thumb into my chest and it left an impression.


Yesterday, we went in to the city, to the park, the California Academy of Sciences. It is a pleasant diversion for the little guy. We like it also. It gives me the opportunity to use words like Lepidoptera and Salientia.

On the drive home we saw America's Cup occurring in the vast San Francisco Bay as we crossed the Golden Gate. The Oracle was gliding alone across the water towards us, making its eastern turn, surrounded by about 300-400 yachts and boats in a semi-circle, watching. I bet they're all eating steaks also this morning. Perhaps something even more decadent. Is such a thing even possible? It seems inconceivable. Maybe in Bangkok.

I tried to tell myself that watching a boat race at the race is boring. It is a sport better watched on television. But then was reminded that being on a yacht in the bay is much better than watching any television, particularly as many of those yachts would have that luxury also.

Ah, well. It's because I don't have a cool name like Jimmy Spithill or Floyd Mayweather Jr.

(The Brooklyn B-boy)

Yesterday I got a "new" collection of Bob Dylan b-sides and unreleased versions from 69-71. There is a traditional on it, Pretty Saro, below. It is for all of those who ever claimed that ol' Bob couldn't sing. An online friend tried to claim that, though this may be good for Dylan, it was still awful singing. I told him to record his version and I'd post them side by side. That shut him up, for now.

He is not the sort that stays shut up for long, though. He was singing the praises of Iron Maiden a few weeks ago - that sort, etc. - making wild claims about their "musicianship" and nobility. Nonsense.

"Boppy!"

(In hot pursuit of blackberries)

Ah, sweet weekend. I almost miss working already, and it's only Saturday morning. I'm that into it. I'm sitting here going through the www.codeacademy.com course in javascript. Man, it has been a long time since my mind has stretched. The most I normally ever ask of it is to calculate a tip, or tabulate caloric intake until my inner voice runs mutiny on me. The internal insurrection.

Rhys is freakin' adorable. I mean it. Every parent must feel that way, I'm sure, particularly about Rhys, because it's true. I want to know that other parents are jealous of him.

One of his favorite words is Barkley's name. He calls him "Boppy." It drives me crazy. I want to call the pup "Boppy" also, but don't want to confuse the little boy. He's trying to imitate us. I'm not sure if it's a good idea that I meet him in the middle on the pronunciation of proper nouns. I'm looking for just about anything to share with him though. We'll just bring a tennis ball into the backyard for entertainment. 

Boppy, Momma, Baby Boy and I.

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The Tree of Leisure

~ 8.5 hours. That is how someone should sleep coming into a weekend. That is champion rest. All else is for the others, the awful others. I went to bed last night at 8pm. That's my trick. Go to bed early enough that I won't worry about the night being too short, the light creeping upon me before it is welcome. That is the fear: there will never be enough darkness, silence, peace. The mind needs to perceive nothing but leisurely night stretched out before it. I have to trick myself to sleep the way a teen coaxes a girl's young bra off. It must seem easy and the right thing to do at the time, destined. It must feel like velvet. Sleep must want me there, it must want my dream hands on it.

Yes means yes, sweet shadow falling.

Oh yes, I took a Xanax las night before I went to sleep. I had forgotten. Well, that explains that, in part. Xanax is a fucking miracle straight from the Garden, plucked from the tree of the life of slumber, the weeping willow along the river.

 Coffee is its murky morning antidote.

Why in the fuck did I ever become a coffee drinker? It was a vice I lived 40 years without, then I started working at Apple, the overnight shift.... Then later, the coffee shops in Soho were too tempting, the aroma called as it never had before. I would go there to sit and read, eat my lunch; solace from the madding crowds. I'll be smoking cigarettes by the time I get to NYC in late October. Why not? Once you have tasted of the tree of leisure - nothing will harm you, nothing will stand in your way - the occupied taste for more.

People tell me that addiction is ugly, but I miss mine, miss its roughnesses. The feeling of need and desire is so much fuller than the vague feeling of worry, the fear of future. Desiring drugs is a form of certainty, doing them gives an immediate sense of the present. When done well, and in excess, they reduce the world down to something centrally desirable, to the exclusion of all else, if only briefly. It is a nucleus of pleasant perversion. I could maybe use a little isolation right now. Just myself and my crystallized beloved.

People will say, "what a shame..." it all is - but shame is the pain felt by the consciousness of wrongdoing, the humiliation of knowledge of one's ignominious actions. That assessment need not always apply. It is not automatic. Getting caught masturbating is, or can be, temporarily shameful. Sure. But the feeling passes, becomes something different. The two acts can easily be related. I mean, who hasn't snorted drugs and then had the overwhelming urge to suddenly masturbate. Privacy becomes almost secondary at that point, a mere convenience, sometimes even a hindrance.

Am I right?

You, dear readers, really don't know what you're missing.


I suppose I could start telling stories here again, stop all this opining:

One time I found myself alone on a rooftop in Brooklyn, pants around my ankles, member vs. digits akimbo. An emergency with the clock ticking: bursting victory or shameful defeat. If there were a way to hold the phone in the one hand, trained on preferable pornography, while the other hand delivered generous key bumps into the nostrils, while yet even a third perhaps middle-hand was hitchhiking to the sky then all would be perfect in that strange, magical scenario.

What an odd journey home that was. It's no wonder so many people get arrested doing the devil's bidding on the subway. There should be cars dedicated to the special purpose. Why must everything always be so impersonal and dishonest.

(Editorial Note: today's post does not represent the opinions of this station. A colleague gave us some independent praise for the post from the other day , questioning decades of drug use through the eyes of being a father. We thought it only appropriate to act at least as responsibly as Fox News here and report in a "Fair and Balanced" manner. So, we booked an Interview with the Vampire for this morning's show.)

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"The enemy of my enemy..."

Well, I was able to fix my computer. I'm back on Google's Chrome, the web browser of all power-internet aficionados. Also, my computer is about three times as fast as it was before. It just needed an Autumn cleaning. Thousands of cached files got thrown out - preferences, and old keychains as well. All of it. I'll be cursing myself sometime very soon, when I reach a little-used site or app and can't remember my password or username. But oh well, what can one do in these abracadabra times...?

I received a private email about my gun post from a friend, letting me know that she is a gun owner and she harbors no fantasies as I described. She claims to have no desire to kill or harm anyone, and I believe her. I could have spent more space in that post clarifying that I do not think that everybody who owns a gun has perverted kill fantasies. But why? Where's the fun in that?

When I start writing for Slate I'll try to be more balanced. These are topsy-turvy times and they call for hocus-pocus claims.

I am pro-gun ownership. I've said it many times, but perhaps it is worth repeating here. There is no easy path back for America in this regard and I'm not sure I would embrace one. A post-apocalypse America just wouldn't be the same without assault weapons.

Moving on...

I'll try not to be as weepy as yesterday's post. It's not something that I talk about often, my family and my childhood. So, that makes it worthwhile, I hope. Guns, well, I can hopefully leave them alone for a while, etc.

So, what's good for today:

I raped a priest when I was a teenager; myself and several other kids. You should have heard him crying and begging, blubbering through the tears, offering wine and promises.

Don't worry, we were just using him to get to god.

No, no, no...

It is an interesting phenomenon. To even mildly suggest that you experienced any difficulties in childhood automatically brings out the proverbial victim-couch, the old one from Oprah. It's as if a person in America today is not real, not actually authentic, unless they have been abused somehow, and then publicly acknowledged or admitted to this. They seek validation through public admission of said abuse, and will often compound the issue of validity by manufacturing imaginary abuses. Nobody wants to feel left out. Then, if it is fabricated, at the very least they have constructed a framework of internal guilt to contend with, from which they can also claim pain and victimhood. One need only to feel victimized. Little matter that the sadist is lurking somewhere within the masochist, performing their evil bidding, doing their daring dance.

The world is populated by the phony among us, says Holden.

In high school I clearly remember the first girl who openly discussed her eating disorder, at least to me. We were sitting at the McDonald's near the Interstate on Hwy. 436 in Altamonte Springs. How bold and courageous, the other girls there must have thought. Because one by one they all developed mild disorders, some of them perhaps genuine, or genuine enough. 

Do not get me wrong. I am not taking eating disorders lightly. They can be very serious, that much is quite proven. These girls were not that sort, though. They were mostly simpering for dark attention; observation that need not be coquettishly begged. The boys among us were in the 14-16 year old range and we took everything they said and did quite seriously, with all the power-focus we had. There is no requirement, no signal to be given, nor expression needing to be noticed, faint enough sent by a girl at age that it will not be heard by every boy for miles. It is a county-wide cry.

Almost every boy. Young girls do not strike the heart and fancy of all. 

Perhaps one of the tiredest claims I've heard is that eating disorders are a product of the fashion industry and the unrealistic expectations that that industry places on women, for men. It may be a contributor, and there are some "male" factors to consider there, though not exclusively heterosexual ones. The claim assumes that fashion magazines are actually made for heterosexual men. What could be more absurd. 

A long neglected attribute of the feminist discourse is the submerged hatred that some homosexuals have for women, though this has been addressed more recently and more adequately. I forget the writer's name. I tried to search but could not find her. 

The feminist claim that they have suffered at historical maleness, - setting aside homosexuals in this allegation - has long and wrongly assumed that all gay males are and always have been on "their side" because they may have suffered likewise. One need only think of other civil liberties causes and groups that have also assumed solidarity to see the error and disaster in such thinking. Though the issue goes much deeper than just a cause, or a group. Those least capable of addressing their own impulse to subject others are those that believe themselves to be the greatest victims, and capable of the most insidious damage. Trust plays a huge part in this ongoing dynamic.  

Something to think about. 

I have been told by both women and gay men that I have no right to assume, or even talk, in this regard, that such a thing is not even possible. Those are warning words and should always be noted. Such a thing is quite possible. When somebody tells you that you are not qualified to think or speak upon a subject because of your gender or sexual orientation then it is important to notice what domain they are claiming dominion over, because it is you. 

Anywhere from 10-25% of all eating disorders are experienced by men, though many go unnoticed and unreported, similar to male rape. I mean men being raped by men, etc. The obsessiveness of gym culture is not just about mass, and bulking up. There is much more to that story. Body dysmorphia can take several forms. Any attempt to improve what is perceived as a less than perfect body can be seen as an unhealthy acknowledgement of imperfection. We can collectively laugh at these "meatheads" because it is a way of denying what can be sensed there, a sadness and possibly even a sickness. To deny their humanity is the first warning sign that should alert the self to what is happening. A yellow flag should arise in the mind at such a thing.

After my gun post I suppose I should qualify: I do not believe that every weightlifter suffers from an eating disorder, nor are all of them sad. Though they are often guilt-ridden, particularly after a "rage."

So, that is my wisdom for today, be gentle with it.

Be careful who you let do your thinking for you. 

When in doubt, you could always trust in me. 

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Familia

(Dad and Rhys, February 2012)

I don't know what I've done. I can't use Google Chrome with Google Blogger any more. That must have been me, right? I think it might be only from this computer. I don't know. Certainly they would not have broken such a fine product, for two days now? That is not how the world works. I'm using Safari again. 

Well, yesterday proves it. Even when given the time to write something I am too tired. I just hitch up an old subject to the mule and drag it along for a few. Shameful, and shameless.

A few lines came back to me later in the day yesterday and I giggled at the false equivalencies and other fallacious logic. But, tough times call for tough measures, and we're on the verge of very tough times. 

I try not to write much about what I do for a living but it is nearly all that is on my mind lately. I have begun taking online courses in javascript. I have become hungry to learn again.

No, nobody wants to hear about work. 

Hold on, I'll get some coffee and see if there are any reptiles left lurking in the darkness.

Politics, no. Music, no. Art, no. Literature, no.

Ah, I did chat with my brother for some time yesterday. It was quite an experience, listening. We don't speak often, when we do, not for very long. We talked for almost an hour as I drove home from work. It was oddly refreshing. I have tried to become more aware of others, more sensitive. I have been too wrapped up in myself, which makes me less capable of caring. It is an easy trap to fall into, the self, in tough times. 

We are not the closest of brothers, we never have been. He told me things that fascinated me about his life. Things I had only partly guessed at. We did not speak much of childhood but the years after, the distant years. I suppose I am not at liberty to relay his experiences but it was somehow comforting to hear that he has, after many years, come to terms with himself. Self is the struggle for many.... others always want to help.  They need to.

He described to me a near complete retreat from others.

There was an unfair amount of one-way violence between my brother and myself, occurring in that order, when we were kids. I am still angry, sometimes, when I think too much about it. It was not abuse, I do not believe, though others have made me question that idea when I take the time to describe it in detail. But that is how others' experiences often seem; people are quick to judge, particularly when it comes to childhood experience. Nothing is too good, nothing is good enough. My childhood was not all bad. It seemed normal to me and I thought that all younger brothers suffered likewise, or much worse. I knew of some. I even encouraged it, at times, the fighting. But, it fucked me up. I can see it in the eyes of others now. 

Nobody wants to be from a dysfunctional family. Different people handle it in different ways. Families fuck you up, if you're not careful, and sometimes even more so when you are. I was a runaway, sort of. I just stopped caring, sort of. Now I wonder what was so terrible that I had to get away, sort of. It seems to have evaporated, even the need to escape. I adopted other families, and also others wandering like me in the intellibeam darkness. I embraced a place that believed itself to be a family, and felt healed there. In ways I was, in ways they were. Now, I look back at those years spent night-clubbing, through the fresh eyes of fatherhood, and I question what so many were doing there for so long also. It was not only the music that we were there for, though certainly that must have been a part of it.

Though no part can complete the whole. 

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Two Tickets to Paradise

Damn it. I fucked up something in Google Chrome. It won't let me use this site any more. Too much porn, possibly. This site has always been a thinly veiled diversion from my real interests. It is a way of me hiding from the NSA. It is called a subterfuge. 

Well, I'm up early enough today to write a little bit, I hope. 

George Zimmerman just can't seem to get a lucky break. 

I have an online friend who is a outspoken advocate of gun rights and he insisted the entire time upon George Zimmerman's innocence. It seemed far too implausible to him that GZ would call the police and then shoot the kid, if that had been his intention. 

I had a slightly different take on it. I thought that he seemed like the kind of guy who had thought all of this sort of thing out a few times in advance of the shooting and he very well might have done just that; called the police and then stalked the kid into a confrontation in which he would then seem justified in killing him.

You see, people who buy and own and carry guns regularly engage in shooting fantasies. Not all of them, I'm sure. It's just that I've never met one who didn't, and quite willingly. They will trot out endless scenarios that they have crafted - or been helped with through collective fantasy - in which they can discharge a firearm into the belly of a bad guy. They also have reasonably rigid ideas about populations of good and bad guys, specific neighborhoods, etc.

It's not that they're wrong, of course, but rather that they seem hyper-focused on their rightness, their justifiability.

Guns have a highly imaginative component to them. They are not "just tools" like a rake or a wrench, as has been suggested. They are, and have been, blasted into the American psyche in many ways, across many ranges. There is no getting rid of them and anybody who suggests such a thing is a fool, or worse. Guns seem to ignite something within certain people. At once they give the dreamer, the holder, a sense of power and justice, all in a personally owned, government sanctioned, handheld device that they (hopefully) control in the face of sudden danger. 

Conceal, control, cap, cap. 

Simple and elegant, really.

Try telling this to any of them. They will often launch into a scenario in which your wife and children are being raped by bad guys and wouldn't you want to own a gun then? It really is that easy to get them to fantasize about the most horrific scenarios. Just talk to them. They will lapse into fantastic imaginary anecdote and speculation, though when you point out to them that that is an important component in gun deaths also - the pre-imagining of usage - they will dismiss you as "liberal."

All the while ignoring the elephant gun.

It's a similar idea to amassing an army that never goes to war. It is a waste of money and misses the point, for many. A military is meant to be militancy in action. An unused gun gives an imaginative power to its owner but robs them of an actual power. Time prepares them to change all of that. They wish to convert the potential to the kinetic. So, they drive their cars and police the streets and target others. The bad guys. They will be sitting at a traffic light and a sudden noise from the car full of youths next to them will trigger an enactment reverie, their minds will spring into bolt-action. They practice reaching for their safely concealed gun over and over in their minds. They discuss during coffee the how and when and where and what of these incidences. I have heard them and engaged them often on this level.

I'm not saying that there is anything necessarily wrong with people who go have little paint-ball battles. I'm only saying that certain presumptions can be made concerning the nature of one's fancies, and the willingness to enact and engage in those fancies. When you are buying special clothes and accessories to pretend to shoot strangers in the woods then something inevitably must be thought about such a thing. The overdevelopment of this in a child would cause concern for some, pride in others.

For many of these people there really is nothing wrong in any of this. We live in a violent world and they do have the right to protect themselves, as well they should. They likewise have the right to practice protecting themselves. Even safety becomes part of the fantasy. For others, that would be like watching a porn where the guy is wearing a rubber, no fun. The saner among these people are able to stop themselves from enjoying these little whimsical shootouts too much. They recognize the danger of such mental masturbation and they will shift from a violent source of pleasure to a sexual one, a small leap when held so closely, and together.

But there are others, those that do not imagine caution in usage. They replay, over and over again, their favorite justice theatrics. They allow themselves many imaginary kills. All they lack is the orgasmic moment when that desire becomes a squeeze, a flash, and a deafening burst.

It is my opinion that GZ is one of these. Mildly obsessed with self, always prepared to prove, etc.

Some will read these words today and insist that what I am saying is that I only want criminals to have guns. Or, that I want the Constitution to be set ablaze. Or, that I want children to be raped while attending public schools, and as often as possible.

It saddens me that I feel that I have to say this, but: nobody wants any of those things. Well, there are some that might wish to do away with the C. Those that confuse capitalism with democracy, thinking them the same concept, unable to exist without one another.

Wanting greater regulations on guns, and checks on gun owners, does not equate to destroying democracy. If guns are what is keeping America safe from governmental tyranny then why are we not safe from governmental tyranny? 

I was chatting with Selavy the other day, we were discussing the NSA. There is so much more information coming out now about how they have compromised the safety and security of all electronic communications, and our governments have made it illegal to speak of their illegal activities.

He responded, "... it is hopeless to even think about anything like anonymity and security. But as always, the thing to do is live in the open, do only what you believe in, and prepare to be raped and beaten by anybody who disagrees with your life code. And they will do it, too, because there are not so many smart people as one would hope. But there are plenty of sick, twisted, and mean."

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Satellite Serenade

Okay. I'll have as much to say today about life as I have in the last few days: little.

Somehow, the time has disappeared. It ran off in a wild affair with the money, they even took the credit. They have been seen here and there, doing a lot of nightclubbing, we're told. The bills of the past keep rolling in.

I have begun reading Bangkok Days by Lawrence Osborne, The Insult by Rupert Thomson next. I spent most of the day reading yesterday, finishing Lucky Jim by Kingsley Amis, almost finishing The Art of Loving by Erich Fromm. It is all I want to do some days: read, lots. 

Everything goes wrong in books. The good ones, anyway. It is somehow restful, the damaged beauty of it.

Well, except for Fromm. He is very serious about Love. I read this book years ago in a series with a few others like it. I was more inclined to give a writer the benefit of the doubt then. I see that now. Perhaps my innocence is also off having a ménage a trois with the chrono-cash duo. They're all doing a lot of ecstasy, lounging about all day.

It won't last of course, the perpetual leisure. What's left of the innocence will find its way back, battered and bruised, telling proud but crazed tales; humbled though not disgraced. We will likely never see nor hear from the others again.

It is the way of memory, it saves only what it can.

10:25

(Selavy)

Some old pics that got sent through again. NYC, many years ago. I must have been in my mid-thirties, Rachel in her late twenties.

Next month I'll be 540 months old. Anybody can live another year, which is often just excessive and boastful.

I only need to make it to October. The 25th of every month I have a small party for myself. Twice every day at 10:25, also. Oh Lord, just carry me into one more season and I promise I'll stop counting.

Picasso and I, and the clock's tock-ticking.

(Selavy)

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SF via Oakland

I went into SF to work yesterday, then stayed for the night. Nothing good ever comes from that. We somehow ended up in Oakland, at one point. That also is a mystery. It had something to do with a bar, I remember that. My head is filled with fuzzy pain and a sausage sandwich from McDonald's actually tasted pretty good this morning on the drive home. That is always a bad sign.

Today is an unwritten country song.

Oakland really is a much nicer city than its reputation would have you believe. The part that we were in, anyway. The pictures that I took suggest that we were there shortly before sundown and then for some time after. I went back to my friend's house early and fell asleep, only to be awoken in the middle of the night with some crazed screaming coming from one of my friends. A bit of self induced derangement. That is what our investigation of the matter uncovered. 

These are pictures that made their way into my phone.

I call this one Oakland oblique:

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Little R.M.C.

Everybody says it: They grow up so fast.

They really don't, though. I've been staring at him the entire time and can't detect any growth at all. Only through pictures is it detectable. That, and when people haven't seen him in a while and they exclaim, Oh my goodness... don't they just grow up so fast....

Eighteen years before I can even legally ask him to move out; sixteen remaining, more or less. I would not call that growing up fast, at all. 

A friend reminded me this morning that he doesn't even start liking me until around the age of 2 and begins hating me around the age of 14, so there is a 12 year window where I can really try to enjoy it.

Rhys will be 20 months old tomorrow. Soon we will have to refer to his age in halves and quarters rather than months, then eventually just in full years.

Oh, where did all the little months go...

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Oh moon, what are you sinking about...?

(moonset)

Writing isn't as much fun in the morning since my buddy Selavy quit. I know it shouldn't matter. But there was something to read before I got started, sometimes a launching point. Now I just stare dumbly at NASA's apod website and hope for the best, wait for the coffee, take the garbage cans down to the street slowly.

Yesterday I couldn't remember the correct address of my old apartment in NYC. I had to look it up. I was off by two digits. It's a strange feeling, that. To recognize the slipping into forgetfulness, the sense that a fog is settling in at noon, or just after, before a nap. I have begun to argue less about facts, to embrace essences instead. I'll be praying to Jesus in no time. He'll be happier to have me back than if I had just pestered him with loving prayer this whole time. That is what he taught us: god loves a wanderer returned - as long as I make it home before apocalypse.

Ok, none of that.

I've had a rough emotional time in the last few days. Lack of sleep helps nothing, but neither does arguing with your mother-in-law. There is no victory, only a lingering sense of mutual loss.

I don't know why I don't just do what I tell myself I'm going to do: stay in my room and read. My participation is not required. Absence would be preferable to conflict. It provides less and that is precisely what should be emphasized.

Ok, none of that. 

I just deleted a screed, that last sentence was its launching point. It was going nowhere, or rather it was drifting somewhere too suddenly.

"Unconditional Love" does not mean that no condition can possibly satisfy it, but instead means the opposite. 

That sounds nice.

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The Levant

(Click for directions)

The pain has returned. I had slowed on doing precisely as the doctor told me. The malady struck back, quite specifically.

I have a conservative-minded friend that claims that conservatives are not racists, and that he resents the constant accusations. Can that be true? I found this interesting study, for those who care to read more about the subject. Now, that study was done in 1996, things surely must have changed some since then, for the better. Those were practically the dark ages with ol' Clinton in the White House. 

We are reminded often that blacks have only themselves to blame for the position that they're currently in: I mean, shit... the tables have turned so much now that it actually favors them, when a talented white guy can't even get a job any more. It's just not right. We've put all of that organizational hatred behind us, as a people. 

Well, we had, until Barack decided to speak out on a few matters racial. Those old hostile feelings sure did bubble back up quickly, for some. It was almost as if we had forgotten that angry whites are the ones who have suffered the most. 

I am always amused when I hear a middle-class white man pull the race-victim card. It's really something. I have seen many claim online that Barack is the most divisive president we've ever had because he had the temerity to speak about his experiences as a black man growing up in America. There were even some that began to question his blackness, again. Because who more to trust on matters of racial pedigree than dissatisfied whites, those who like to remind everyone that the president "works for them"... 

They sure like to get their money's worth.

Some have asked for my opinions on Syria. Well, here goes... Wouldn't Ron Paul have made a better president? I mean, except for how Obama has healed the nation's racial issues. 

It has reached a point in which we will use any flimsy excuse whatsoever to invade another nation, particularly if they are in any way hostile to our foreign policy. 

I mean, sure, who could possibly question the deeply humanitarian nature of our mission. Those facts are well established. We need another Colin Powell, someone willing to go in front of the U.N. and argue this case visually. Seems like John McCain is ponying up to the task. Who hasn't already thrown him under the bus? 

Putin has said that Russia could support a strike on Syria, with proof that Assad used chemical warfare against his own people. He cautiously has reminded that an attack on a sovereign nation without U.N. backing would violate international law. These are Reagan times, not Carter.

Remember, Dick Cheney did warn us that if we vote a democrat into the White House that the terrorists would strike again. How self-satisfied he must feel now, though he must be slightly disappointed about the city that was attacked. He's waited so long... on somebody else's used ticker. It must confuse and anger the right a little bit to have a democrat preparing to bash up other countries and rattling the national sabers. Black is one thing, democrat another. Though who can even really buy the left-right dichotomy on foreign policy issues any more. 

Let the lamp affix its beam...

Back to Syria: Does anybody believe that our interest there is anything other than self-motivated? We're told that to not invade Syria would send the wrong message to Iran, in terms of their nuclear program. So, we're back to the good old days of deterrence invasion. If we don't stop Syria then Iranian theocracy could spread through all of the middle east, on the tip of a warhead. Sound familiar?

Interesting that we're attacking Syria to stop Iran. With Israel on one side and Iraq on the other we had those fuckers surrounded. Perhaps it's just cheaper to strike while the iron's still faintly hot.

I read that most Americans can not find Syria on a map. I'd be curious if most Americans can find a map. 

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Better Days

I don't have anything useful to say today. I am exhausted past the point of language, have not slept in two nights. My spirit is cracking.

I have told Selavy that I'll post whatever he sends me, so here is his wisdom for the day:  "Life is holy like a bottle of whiskey, like an handful of 'ludes."

Take it or leave it.

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In Labor Day, Billy Beer

(El hermano de Presidente, Jimmy, pronounced "Heemy")

The whole world of America has the day off, except me. I even offered to work today, such is my new found love for my job. 

Okay, that's all I have to say - written from my phone, as I sip a glass of Rosé wine on the patio, awaiting the marching clock's cessation, or another call for help.

The lifeless Atlantis

(image: Bureau of Land Management)

My Esperanto/Haitian Creole experiment didn't work as well as I had hoped. Google translate has drastically improved, too much so. It's not as funny as it used to be.

Oh well.

I sit here dreading the idea of going to the gym. Maybe if I drink a few extra cups of coffee then I won't feel like it. I'll have a reason not to, the queasiness. Or, maybe if I don't drink enough. 

We had some friends that had to cancel their plans to go to Tahoe this weekend because of the fire. It has become the fourth largest in California's recorded history.

Online, the rigorous scientific surveys of the Facebook community would have you believe that Fukushima is already killing millions of people. Things are getting worse there, but TEPCO assures us that it's still only somewhere between 10-50% as bad as Chernobyl was. Currently there is 2.5 more times the amount of highly radioactive material still there that is waiting to meltdown if everything doesn't go as planned upon removal, perfectly as planned. 

Apparently, the rods all have to be removed manually as the reactors are damaged past the point where the automated process is still a viable solution. If anything at all goes wrong in that process it can trigger an irreversible chain reaction which could result in a complete and total nuclear meltdown. 

When California finally does its quake-slide into the atomic ocean, trying to desperately escape the wildfires, at least we'll have the comfort of knowing that the water there can no longer sustain life. Well, except for Godzilla and Jesus, everybody knows that.

(Al Golub)