Yet never converged

The station platform is crowded with travelers, commuters. The occasional student, two’s and three’s of them, small groups separated from other small groups by choice. The formation and disruption of naive allegiances, perceived betrayals. We each await the arrival, aligned loosely along the station platform. 

The train pulls into the station slowly, coming to a stop with a comforting exactness. The mighty string of machines releases their hydraulics, sending a whistling announcement of the completed task. The passengers de-board with uniform purpose, all turning towards the terminal, beginning their walk down the platform, then apart. A few stragglers grappling with overstuffed bags, broken wheels - accumulations and their fractured vessels.

The conductor lazily announces that boarding will resume shortly, time vanishes. The station clock spirals upon itself without descent or climb, only loss, seconds gone in an unending arc. Several minutes later the conductor’s bored promise is complete. We each gather our bags and quietly form several lines, two at each car, two in tandem where every car meets another.

Once on board there is much shuffling, some mild grumbling. Lovers agreeing on where to best seat their love, views considered then rejected, the exertion of nearly mutual wills, space. I pick an eastern seat, placing my newspaper next to me, hoping it will dissuade the lonely, and discourage crowding or conversation. I stare out the window at the emptying stage, the recently unused benches, the maps, the advertisements.

A woman enters the car, mid-thirties, tall, dressed in almost sharp lines. Her bag packed lightly and held across her shoulder.  Her ash blonde hair falling to both sides along the back, very loosely curled, pulled behind her ears, held in place away from her face by an unseen mystery.  She approaches, scanning for an open seat. 

I pick up my newspaper and pretend to read. The arts and entertainment section. She passes. I keep the paper up past half of my face, not covering my eyes, deciding against abject falseness yet barely pretending to read. I return the remainder of the paper to its position. I stare at the printed words in front of me, the images, unsure of the arts, certain of the entertainment.

The doors close, seconds pass. The train bumps forward with much metallic effort. Slowly, the platform begins to slide away, the empty benches recede from sight. We enter an unlit tunnel at a crawl. The lights stay down for several moments as we join a near complete darkness. The train’s lights flicker on and then off again. There is the pull of increased speed. What little can be seen passes in secret abbreviation, blurred by motion and darkness. The rattling increases, sending us all into the dimness.

As we approach the end of the tunnel each passing instance becomes less of a mystery. There is the growing of light. We emerge into daylight, objects distant become determined though not fixed in the mind. Articles settle into moving place, returning with secure positions, the need. The early morning sun illuminates the east. Once past the brush near the outer station the shadows of trees breaks the world into an almost cinematic shutter. The substantial morning backlight slicing the world into alternating portions of brilliance and shade.

April. Overcast days are coming to a close. Spring has committed to its opening. The sky stretches from horizon to horizon, unbroken by cloud. Only the hill line speaks of further distances, unseen efforts. The train rocks from side to side mildly, advancing with a mechanical gallop, its steady pull, the feeling of increase. Up close the world shuffles by in blurred, unexpected fragments, the distance shifts as a holographic postcard, held far past hand’s length. 

As we are pulled from the station the passengers settle in more fully. Seats barely recline, an insult to comfort. I opt for the new book in my bag, reaching in and retrieving it while stuffing the newspaper in the pocket of the seat in front of me. The page is held with a worn ticket. A broken paragraph at the top gives no memory as to where the story is in its telling. The previous page becomes vaguely more familiar. It is about a love cracking slowly, across several cities, then again at home. I remember it all now.

.

Living with Tattoos

(Katrin Korfman)

Again, I go into the city, early tomorrow, I will not be able to write. It would be nice if I could sleep all the way to my desk at work. Yes, they keep a desk for me. They are like The French Lieutenant's Woman. Is that reference too dated? Probably.

It was Margaret Thatcher, somewhere around Kramer vs. Kramer and Sophie's Choice. 

I forgot why I titled this post Living with Tattoos. I feel like I had a reason when I started. Isn't that always the case?

Fuck it. I'll try to finish this piece in the morning.


Nope, that's what I wrote last night, now I'm at my desk.

There is even less to report this morning than there was last night. Work has piled up around me overnight. I caused it all, of curse.

Ha, I meant to write "course."

That's something, I guess.


Here is something else for you:


The Tragedy of the Leaves

I awakened to dryness and the ferns were dead,
the potted plants yellow as corn;
my woman was gone
and the empty bottles like bled corpses
surrounded me with their uselessness;
the sun was still good, though,
and my landlady's note cracked in fine and
undemanding yellowness; what was needed now
was a good comedian, ancient style, a jester
with jokes upon absurd pain; pain is absurd
because it exists, nothing more;
I shaved carefully with an old razor
the man who had once been young and
said to have genius; but
that's the tragedy of the leaves,
the dead ferns, the dead plants;
and I walked into a dark hall
where the landlady stood
execrating and final,
sending me to hell,
waving her fat, sweaty arms
and screaming
screaming for rent
because the world has failed us
both

-Charles Bukowski

.

Update 4/8/13

(Cato and James)

Things change. Rhys is no longer the child he was a month ago. Barely perceptible traits have emerged simultaneously. But they are there, and growing fast. Words form, attempts at others are made.

The boy is in love with strawberries. He would point at them and call them "Apple" when he wanted one, at first. After a few times of Rachel and I saying, "Strawberry" sure enough he'd try that word next. Three syllables of emulation.

Give me what I love, he insists. 

I am doing a similar thing with the Fuji X100S, though my charms are not those of his. Rachel is being pragmatic. It sits in my Amazon cart, waiting. It is all pre-sales so it might be sitting there for some time. 

I got to see one while in SF, before I was so drunk that my friend was taking me to get coffee and a sandwich. Before I was in any danger of harming it. I'm too old for that life any more, drinking far away from home. I never want to be further than a few minutes from my bed ever again. 

But the camera is a marvel. It is everything I want, for now. It left me with no questions. I could pretend to be something with that camera, like a tourist. 

Cato looks like a victim of SF homelessness. It's the style here, life on lease. I think Burning Man fucked him up a little bit. He'll be a Christian in another couple years. 

I don't want to work today. I can honestly say that most days I don't mind it, at all. I enjoy the complexity of the job. But I feel like I lost a full weekend on Saturday. That is the other thing about drinking heavily. Time. It is all we have. Time, and memory.

Drinking destroys both.

I want to lounge and read, listen to music that I can't when Rachel and Rhys are around: Captain Beefheart, The Jon Spencer Blues Explosion, The "electric" Miles, Joni Mitchell...

Rachel hates Joni Mitchell. She wants to challenge her to a UFC cage fight. I have tried and tried - perhaps too much. There are types of music that her ear will not allow her to enjoy. She hears it as chaotic whimsy, nothing else. If by the second verse she can't reasonably predict what is supposed to happen then her mind revolts. Jazz deprives her of the pleasure of consistency. That is its very charm, for me. 

Jesus... This post is so boring I can't even go back and proof-read it. If I get inspired later maybe I'll post again with a minute-by-minute account of what sleeping is like.

.

Rigor Mortis Man

If you ever find yourself curious about what it's like to be poisoned... just drink moderately, or not at all, for a few weeks. 

Then, drink as much as you'd like one day. You'll see.

Yesterday I went into SF to try and "help" celebrate Cato's birthday. Within an hour or two I was reduced to a hideously macabre burlesque of self.

If you've ever felt sorry for circus sideshow freaks then you have some small glimpse of what I became. Just a bundle of babbling neuroses, caged and taunted by my own behavior. It felt like I was being poked with a stick. I would occasionally jump and scare everybody, proving that I was still alive. 

It defies science, folks. It wasn't born this way. It took this shape slowly, over time. By the time most kids were going to college and getting married he was living under some loose slats in the basement of his uncle's barn... 

At one point I was chatting with a black dude that I had never met before. Within seconds I was discussing slavery and "The South." 

Nobody is certain why, I just was.

And if what was coming out of my mouth wasn't hideous enough, every now and then I'd fart. It smelled like somebody had wheeled their dead grandfather into the room.

Awful. 

I'm still checking myself to make sure I haven't shit my pants. 

.

DIY, "Fuck Your Morals!"... mine prefer foreplay

(Amina Tyler, cultural prisoner)

I just left my first "seller feedback" with Amazon. I bought a book about punk/indie rock in the 80's and the book was described as being in "Good" condition. It was not.

Is it stupid to complain about the condition of a book chronicling indie rock? Maybe. Am I getting old? Most certainly. But I buy a fair amount of used books from Amazon, this one was misrepresented. Fuck the man!

It was Goodwill Industries that sold me the book, by the way. Those fuckers. I have to admit that I felt a little bit odd about leaving a bad seller rating for an organization dedicated to improving people's lives. But, that's probably why they think they can get away with it. I trust no organization that claims to be helping people. It's too close to the claim that governments make when they're about to strike. 

I stayed up last night and read about Husker Du. I have to be honest, I was not really that into hardcore when I was young, when these albums were coming out. I liked some punk and post-punk, some indie stuff and college art-rock, and little bits of hardcore. But as I got older, strangely, it all turned around. I started liking it more and more.  Now I'm 45 and really into Mission Of Burma. 

Am I experiencing an age crisis? Maybe, but if so it seems to be happening in very slow motion. 

I have nobody to share this music with, nobody to listen to it with. Even at the local pub -  which has one of those monstrous jukeboxes that is connected to the internet and can play anything - I'll try to play what I think is some harmless punk rock (Meat Puppets II), thinking that they'll recognize the more famous covers done by Nirvana and they'll get into it. 

Nope.

Old rockers in their 40's and 50's, and even younger ones, do not want to listen to punk rock with me. I can't really blame them, I guess. It can be challenging music, and I scare people.

Only a very small handful of my friends can listen to jazz fusion with me. All of them are musicians, etc. I have often felt that the distinction between certain types of jazz and the best examples of punk rock is merely a distinction of discipline and practice. There are punk bands that no jazz musicians could replicate, or it would take them almost as long as it would for the reverse. 

That being said, my near total loss of feeling in the furthest left two fingers on my left hand has not impeded my dream of becoming a punk rock guitar player at all. 

I blame the drugs, and Pere Ubu.

My buddy over at bunkerblog pointed to a site that pointed to a story about feminist protests against Islam. It's worth looking at. 

I question the power of sloganeering, though one must admit that it sometimes translates powerfully into photography. I don't think the protesters go far enough in fighting Islam, though. Get your pussies out too, and spread your legs wide if you really want to fight the fundamentals of fear. Try to show the true horrors of freedom to them. Force them to acknowledge your liberties. The moist murkiness from whence we all arrive. Breasts are all fine and well when fighting fundamentalism, but chaos and fear of life must be forced into the eyes and minds of the believers, with complete and absolute freedom. It is the best way forward. Only a careful public examination and exaltation of the vagina can accomplish cultural spiritual growth. Ask any earth-mother: Goddesses have real power, granted to them by their own bodies, by their right to choose....

It's like being afraid of the dark, right? One must learn to walk in it and not fear. Only when one is submerged in the thing one fears can the need to control be relinquished. 

Holy Imam, we are surrounded by a group of very angry titties....

I see. What are their demands?

I, of course, partially kid. I am on the side of freedom. In the war of ideologies, if one must choose, I am firmly on the side of equality. That is, if genuine equality can even have a "side." Some would argue that equality is not an ideology at all. Have them describe it to you and you will see. It almost immediately involves the exclusive advancement of one group against another. Attacking a mosque with partial nakedness and slogans is a tactic among so many other tactics. 

They are in solidarity with a cultural prisoner, Amina Tyler. 

Some take liberty for granted. Not these protesters. 

Men everywhere should get their cocks out and force them upon nuns, attack the convents...!!! They could write slogans on their members, as space allows, showing their support for feminism. Then, and only then, will we be free of the type of indignities that inequality brings. I'd like to get naked and confess my sins to a nun as if she was priest. 

Wait, perhaps that form of protest could be misunderstood. I'm getting tired of all the nun scandals anyway.

The term "Freedom Fighters" can be read many ways.

Essay idea: How best to show support for those who do not want it: act likewise, or act differently? Compare/Contrast. 2500 words. Due immediately.

My opine:

I question people who encourage others to have respect for religions, wrongfully believing that respect for such a thing will make the world a more harmonious place. When has that ever worked? 

Granting respect to a religion will not make it act respectfully towards others, the opposite has been historically true. Religions act somewhat collectively, whether the individual believers care to or not, and the result is (almost) always the same. Few religions now argue for equality, they only start out that way. They speak mostly of the supremacy of faith, principles.

My advice would be to avoid all of them, but particularly avoid the ones with a central doctrine. This goes far beyond situatedness and titties, not even "categorical thinking" explains it entirely. The term fails in the second half, implying a type of thought. It is instead a form of categorical action.

What literate human would elevate one book from their library above all others? Even demanding the destruction of all others, if necessary, upon any disagreement of ideas? Insisting on the ruination of entire libraries elsewhere, and then forcing the conversion of individuals to an unread book, at pain of death. No true god can be happy with the existence of other gods. It is enshrined in the first commandment, you know. 

I know my God gets jealous sometimes, but He really loves me. 

He just gets so angry when I look at other, younger gods sulking around the bazaar.

.

The morning has escaped

No time to write today. It's too bad, for me. I had some craziness I wanted to work out, some guided enthusiasm to establish, to make fact.

.

Bad Brains

(Gregg Greenwood)

Look at that. I asked the photographer from today's image if I could use it for the site and he replied right away: Sure, thanks for asking. Perhaps I'm finally growing up. One day I'll look back and credit Bad Brains and Gregg Greenwood for all the positive changes in my life.

I had done a search because I had just listened to their debut album at the gym. By the fifth song in, "Banned in D.C." when the guitar takes off.... well, it's as great as anything I've ever heard before. I've fallen in love with punk rock again.

It really makes me feel something, a sort of purging rage. It is exhausting, and meant to be. The thing about punk rock is that thumping in my heart. The fear, and desperate want.

I sat and looked through Greenwood's site for about a half hour. Swans (without Jarboe, of course). I tried to play a Swans' side project for Rachel the other morning, World of Skin. She was having none of it. Suicide music, she wordlessly suggested with the roll of her eyes, followed by the look of concern. Wait 'till she gets a heartful of Jandek, I thought.

Rock and Roll looks great in Black and White. The picture above seems as if it is going to jump onto the floor.



That is what I wrote last night.

More NyQuil and a long night's sleep through the rain. I dreamed of oceans, of dropping lights into the depths while already submerged, watching them disappear. It is dark here and the sound of the rain falling is pleasant. The house is still, with only a few quiet moments left before it comes to life. The coffee machine starting informs the specific moment. The dreams from last night already resemble themselves, disappearing into the darkness.

To my friend that accused me yesterday of not properly documenting Spring: It is 48 degrees and raining.

Another buddy, writing at an undisclosed location, a bunker site, mentioned James Salter's new book. I had pre-ordered it, but something went wrong. I checked Amazon this morning and the order had been cancelled, the credit had been used on other books.

I am experiencing premature senility. It seems unfair. I had to wait longer than most for puberty, and now this.... Stolen boxes of books that turn out to have been inadvertently thrown out by me (One final note on that: how in the fuck did Frank Herbert's "Dune" series survive while Moby Dick didn't? What sick fevers possess me.).

My own thoughts are all the mystery that I will ever need in life. I am perplexed by the simple enigma of self. Who needs horoscopes when you are adrift within your own life?

So, I thought I had ordered the James Salter book. Oh, well.

Rachel and I have one of our bi-annual anniversaries coming up. Maybe she'll take me to a Bad Brains show.

.

"Apple!"

(Winter's sky, retreating)

Fuck. Sick again. It is true what they say about having kids: you will get sick more often. Kids are like miniature sailors, delivering germs from ports afar. It's as if we are living in a subway car. I escaped the last round of illness, somehow. It is a mystery that nobody can quite fathom. Everybody in the world was unwell with the dreaded vomit flu. Not me.

Not this time. Rachel and Rhys are also both sick. I look forward to nothing but recovery. It has even robbed me of healthy people to whine to.

NyQuil failed me last night. The magical wonder potion helped perhaps but did not heal. I tossed and turned all night, fighting my way free from its murky haze, as a slow-motion dreamer escaping a cherry whirlpool.

Rhys has a few words in his arsenal now. "Apple" being one of his favorites. He has nearly perfected it. Funny, that. He seems to make no silly connections with the fruit to immortality, sin, or The Fall of Man. 

But man, he sure does like them. They are only "forbidden" for brief seconds at a time, through the limitations of proximity, once he has affixed his interest on one. Those moments must stretch out towards eternity for him, as his arms reach and grasp to close to gap.

"Apple!" he says. 

Spring is here. There is nothing useful to say about it. 

It is nice, much better than winter. It always is.

I've said this before, but winter here lasts much longer than it should, almost six months. I suppose when you endure the terribleness of a winter in the north-east any signs of spring are welcomed joyously and by all. Here, the season is not nearly as terrible so it stretches out further. 

Death does not like to be forgotten.

.

Never Trust a Fart

"Never trust a fart!"

This was my advice to a friend who traveled to India. Turns out that I am much wiser, and yet still more practical, than many. Ascetics, swamis and wandering charlatans be damned. Their advice is not, and never has been, nearly so useful as mine. 

She got a case of what is commonly known as "Delhi Belly" and is currently taking a 44 hour train ride to try and cure it.

All of us here at seanq6.blogspot wish her well, of course.  

Sorry, I just watched The Colbert Report early this morning. That last line was facetious.

I am on the verge of finishing "Rome" by Robert Hughes. It's quite a story: The Eternal City. Hughes just covered the dual-era of D'Annunzio and Mussolini, Fellini should just about wrap things up. Then I'll be back to a work of fiction, literature. I've decided that I like Jack London much more than I had originally thought. I was just being uselessly contrarian when I moved here. I keep picking up a collection of his and reading bits and pieces. He has his moments. 

I recommend the "Rome" book. Like Oprah, I have made these little golden stickers for the books in my library that get my approval. It is only a matter of time before Amazon sends their spies.

Speaking of Oprah... the scale at the gym is finally cooperating, after much negotiation, argument and effort. I am well past the halfway point to shaving. Did I mention that here? As a device to remind myself not to eat and drink so much I decided that I would not shave until I lost at least 10 pounds. I've dropped about 5 since then. It took me three weeks before I really even started changing my habits, but I got serious about it last Sunday, sort of. 

I have limited myself to two glasses of wine (or pints of beer) a day, no fried foods, no dairy products, and no soda. I've also been working out, cardio and weights, about 4-5 times a week. When I tell you that there's a miniature sadofascist lurking inside of me, I do not lie. But do not worry, he is only a thinner version of me. It is the source of all of my spiritual wisdom (referenced above). 

I have a full beard now, like all great and trustworthy religious leaders.

If the sun comes up before I'm done writing this then I'll take a picture. 

Here is me, approximately, before the diet, slightly after a shave:

(photo by W. Schmidt)

Keep in mind that this picture was taken in a studio with lighting that is meant to be, if not at least flattering, not harsh to the eyes. It hides some of the unpleasantness of excess fat. 

Do you know what's great to work out to? Punk Rock! (and post-punk).... I have been re-discovering a lost era of my life: Stiff Little Fingers, Television Personalities, The Pop Group (admittedly a bit weird for working out, but animalistic), Meat Puppets, The Fall, The Mekons, even Siouxsie and The Banshees (the early albums). Normally when I listen to this music it makes me animatedly self-destructive but on The Nordic Track, well... it's a whole different story. I want to be drug skinny again.

Okay, as usual I have nothing to really write about this morning. When I'm not feeling sorry for myself I have nothing left to say.

Oh yeah, the current picture. I almost forgot. Let me wait until the sun comes up. I'll be back.

Well, I have a few minutes before the gym opens. Let me try some random thoughts out:

The crusades were less than a thousand years ago.

Less is more, but in LA less is a little bit too much more.

I'm working on a new line of open-toed panties. 

Unsuccessful men often look like overgrown, shaved hobbits. 

People with disabilities really aren't like everybody else, are they?

Public toilets: I don't want to live in a world that makes me beg, or fight, for toilet paper.  

Why don't germaphobes talk more?

Jesus, he seemed like a self-involved fellow.

Okay, that's it for now. 10 minutes before the gym opens. I must get ready.

Okay, I'm back.

It occurred to me that I burn 420 calories on the exercise machine in 20 minutes. I like to keep my vices aligned, etc.

And here is today's beard, the one that brings the wisdom:

(Ever trust a beard...)

I'm not sure why I look skinnier and more rested before I started the diet and exercise. I will meditate upon it, and see what wisdom the whispering winds within me bring.

.

Fuji X100S

This is not a camera review. You have been warned.  

I'm ready for a new camera. The one pictured above is the one. I've thought about the higher-end models, the X-Pro1 and the X-E1, but this is it. I'm ready. The price and features are right. They have addressed most of the issues the were present in the X100. 

I think I actually like the idea of not being able to change lenses. It pleases me. 

It is more "Zen"...

I don't like always putting the period " . " inside the quotation marks. It feels wrong, always has. What if the portion quoted is not the end of the statement that is being quoted? 

Why should punctuation that assists the structure of a sentence be quoted in another, where it doesn't occur, or belong? 

Somebody tell me:

Do you use an ellipsis and end the sentence that way, like "this..."

Or, my example above, would it be more "Zen." (?)

It's not Zen, Inc. It's just "Zen"etc.

Where's David Foster Wallace when you need him?

Okay, one last thing about the lost books. I've unravelled the mystery. Once, a friend, a regular reader of this site, was helping me clean out my apartment. I was turning 40 and she decided what I needed was a sort of "queer eye for the straight guy" makeover. In this scenario she is a queer guy. 

She convinced me to throw out lots of stuff. She told me that I was getting to be an old guy, with too much crap piled up, that no woman who might come over would like what she saw. So, boxes and boxes went down to the street. At some point in her supervising of all of my manic energy she made herself comfortable, seated in the window frame, and began having a phone conversation with a mutual friend of ours while smoking pot and drinking up all of the wine. 

We were listening to The Cure's "Seventeen Seconds" album, if I remember correctly.

I was getting rid of stuff that made me look "old."  (See, the period feels right there but then do I put another period after this bracket: )

I threw out video cassettes (Who has a vcr any more? she queried), framed artwork that I was never going to hang on any wall, a table, clothes, an enormous box of old Apple t-shirts, junk. Lots and lots of junk.

While she was chatting I do remember filling a box or two with books. In my mania I remember thinking that nobody reads books from before the 20th century any more and that I should start reading more contemporary stuff (Don't try to agree or disagree with the logic. It is pointless). But now I remember. 

Out went Melville, Gide, Kant, Lewis, Nietzsche, etc.  All boxed up and taken down to the street, presumably to make way for more current and "hip" writers, like Murakami and Saramago. (Ignore the fact that not all of these writers satisfy the chronology of my manic purge.)

So, the mystery is settled. I did this to myself. 

Sunday, I went through thousands of old images as quickly as my eyes would allow. I had vaguely remembered taking some pictures of the interior of my old apartment in NYC. Sure enough, I found them, there were the bookshelves, but the missing books weren't there. I dug deeper through my history. The pictures became more sparse as I went back, back before the purchase of my first point-and-shoot.... Then it hit me. I saw a picture of the interior of the apartment before the makeover. That was it. There was junk everywhere, books piled up on the floor... Suddenly, a wave of memory and recognition washed over me, one after the other. 

Bertolt Brecht and Stephen Crane were gone for good (...)

.

He Is Riven!

(Ol' Gordon's)

Happy Easter everybody!

The wandering drunk seen above was twisted on gin and scaring all the kids in the park yesterday, demanding to have his picture taken, explaining that he 's currently out of work.

It was a little bit creepy for 10am.

We bounced from the first egg-hunt to another where everybody had the more civilized mimosas and the bunny was a little bit cuter. Though word did get to us that somebody, allegedly the bunny's mother, was gettin' heavy about when he was was gonna' get paid his $20. 

It took some of the magic out of the day for the kids, I hope.

I kept warning them, Stay away from him, Don't get too close!, He might have rabies. To the mothers that began to express concern:  You know that Christ doesn't approve of intercourse outside of marriage, right?

Be very careful, I warned. Once they start burrowing they're just like dangerous rats, maybe worse... don't let the cute fur fool you, they are rodents through and through. Right now his fangs are retracted but if you make him angry he's likely to go into a rape-frenzy, possibly mistaking anybody here for a female bunny, or even a male, they don't care. Chocolate eggs are worse than crack to these fuckers. If he gets 'a hold of one of those he'll ravish anything he can grab onto, faster than you can blink. Strongest grip I've ever known, claws like sabers. The man-sized ones can leap 30 yards from a dead stop when they need to escape, even when they've got hold of a victim. There's a whole husk of 'em just up in the hills.

Once they had corralled me away from the kids I was chatting amicably with the other fathers surrounding me. It's a big problem this time of year, I swear. But don't worry, I'm packin'...licensed carrier (glancing from horizon to horizon). You guys hunters too? (trying to make eye contact, feeling sleepy).

It's the only time, to my memory, that mimosas have ever made me act that way.

(he wants his $20)

.

Antediluvian

No stories from an abbreviated evening in SF. None worth telling.

It is Easter weekend here.  I believe that we're the only ones celebrating. I haven't checked my facts yet.  I don't care for the unfortunate way in which facts sometimes cause discord. There appears to be another flood on its way. It will rain all weekend. The famed deluge. 

I heard a good youtube clip the other day from Christopher Hitchens. I have never read his book, God Is Not Great, though I've felt that the title goes on one word too many to make its point. 

If you decide to watch the video do so without watching it. The audio is better than the video.

I'm not in the mood this morning to discuss theism, or the lack thereof, with myself. There will already be too much of that to go around this weekend. He is risen yet again, unlike clockwork. Easter is a moveable feast, it seems to sneak around the month of April, occasionally rising in March.

I had looked forward to getting pictures of the little waddling Rhys, searching and hopefully finding a few colored Easter eggs. I have no desire to rob him of that experience, at all. Children should be safely exposed to the fantastical and improbable. A human sized bunny... what a thing that is.

I couldn't decide if I preferred the black and white version of the image or the color. Not wanting to be an unwavering fundamentalist I've published them both. 

I wonder how long I'll live. 

.

1001 posts you should read before you sleep

We did it!

I have to drive in to San Fran very early today, for work.

This means that I won't be writing much of a post today. But don't worry, you've got another 1000 posts almost as good as this one.....


If you think that I've run out of things to say that's because I have. My life is somewhat uneventful, which can give rise to dull and repetitive writing.

I had meant to write this morning about yet another interaction I had with a police officer online. Perhaps tomorrow. Or, who knows, maybe tonight will be eventful and I will have a few new stories to tell.

I'm going to try to write for the Laziest Nerd Ever again soon.

I was raised by the praise of a fan.

"Is it strange I should change? I don't know, why don't you ask her?"

.

Undreamed

(unknown)

Tomorrow, I go into the city. In the evening Rachel will come to meet me. We will see a play: Eugene Ionesco's "The Chairs." There was a time when I would jabber to the mainly uninterested about the Theater of the Absurd, Samuel Beckett, Antonin Artaud, Jean Genet, but not as much any more. There is little reservoir of nonsense left in reserve, except here. That age has disappeared for me. It is strange. I love literature, but I never openly discuss it. 

Rarely, I should say, not never.

When people find that I have an interest in reading and begin "discussing the beats" towards me... well, a mighty pair of eyes glaze over within, and then slowly roll. They exclusively discuss the lives of the beats because the writing was mostly poor. They are somehow trying to show that they are initiated with hip knowledge. It is tedious. 

Dada and Surrealism have vanished from me. They seem little more than silly distractions, though distractions from what I do not know. They should not be explained away so easily, particularly without the "explanation" component, but that is mostly how I feel about them, as dreams that are not worth considering.

A good friend, one of the few friends I have with whom I ever discuss literature, recently described house music as having been "birthed" from disco. He never liked disco, or so he has often claimed. His experience with house music, at least as far as the social dynamic of it goes, is derived mainly through mine. 

Perhaps I am becoming more like him, presumptuous and dismissive. There are those who will always doubt the truth of ecstasy... 

No, I kid. He claimed that his claim would likely anger me, so I'm playing along a little bit.

When I was younger I was intelligent, or so I was told. That quality has somehow given way to being opinionated, argumentative. I like to believe myself a contrarian, but the truth is probably closer to something less formal. It is rather lucky that I have never been put in the position of being responsible for anybody's economic growth through speculation in stock trading. The contrarian impulse is only revered in finance when it survives, or thrives. Otherwise, it is not recognized and revered as such. 

A woman asked me recently how I feel when people criticize my writing. It occurred to me that nobody does, or only very rarely. There is probably a reason for that. Cato will praise those posts which he likes. The silences must also speak, I guess.

When I worked at Apple, one of the yearly "reviews" I received claimed that I showed proficiency at incorporating correction into patterns of improvement, a willingness to share the lesson of mistakes with others. So, there is that. One of the mightiest corporations on earth values my ability to be criticized, or corrected. They compensated me financially, in part, for this very quality. So, there is that. When I think about how well I accept criticism, I will always think of Apple. 

So, there is that.

I woke at 3am. I had been dreaming. It was a sensual dream, tender though not explicitly sexual. There were caresses, quiet mumbling, proximity. Nudity, but no imaginary intercourse. It was warm. When I awoke I recognized the sensations and felt guilt, relieved that the experience was not "real" for others and chuckled at that. The woman involved was unknown to me, though somehow familiar, a dream amalgam. 

It is odd, that. The mind generates these apparitions in sleep, absurd and surreal, from unknown impulse. Out of the mind they leap, dancing across the heart fantastical. Dreams have the odd power to palliate the senses, to briefly remove the pains of life, they are as opiates unleashed on waves of memory. The internal fluctuations, from desire to fear, palatial to punitive, from chase to being chased (never chaste)... visions speaking their unique truths, pirouetting in the dark.  

Dreams rarely resolve the mysteries they generate. Instead, the dreamer only awakens, either eager to flee the menacing visions or to return to a barely requited love; never bored, though the dream may have already exhausted itself, fled from the forest upon awakening. Even apparitions must sometimes be seduced. A dream's self-replication constructs entire architectures of fantasy at sudden unknown whim.  Elaborate emanations effortlessly emerge.... 

Ha! Can you see now why I don't discuss literature?

The effect of certain dream-inducing drugs appealed to me greatly when I was younger. I would drift for hours, building many castles in Spain.

.

"...cats and rocking chairs"

To wonder, to begin again to yearn. Lately, I have been given to a vastness of spaces, by indeterminacies. The unknown seems everywhere. The ground in all directions climbs up and away, steeply becoming untouched above. Each way, it envelops me, rises, then gives way to open sky. Along the map there are hills and paths, giving way to other hills and other paths, other valleys.

The last hike I took was to the top of Bald Mountain, almost 6 months ago. The winters here last longer than I would admit, longer than I would relay in conversation. Having a terrible sense of time hasn't exactly saved me from it.

This site helps lessen the loss. It makes possible a new sensing of time's passing, for me; an external memory, one that I can freely re-examine, rather than the other way. 

My day has begun again, and I must now go to it.

.

This Immortal Coil

(thinner days)

Yesterday's post was a joke. The science was impeccable, of course, as always. But all else, well... it was a special request from an old friend. Both the requester and the subject were quite pleased with it, each reportedly laughing out loud at work. I think that for my nut-hugger friend he was happy to just be talking about his condition openly again. He is a dentist, so his nut sack probably only comes up in conversation naturally on occasion, just as a patient is drifting off under the gas, etc. 

Another friend told me yesterday that I write often about being fat.  

Well, it consumes me. 

She sent a picture of us when we were both much younger and thinner, to torture me. I told her that youth is a cruel stratagem, one employed almost exclusively on the aging. 

That would be us ^ ^.

As for recurring subjects written here: It is difficult. I wake each day and try to sit down and write, rarely ever planning or knowing what I will write about, often with a child seeking my attention, or insisting upon my energies being elsewhere. You try it... After several years it becomes difficult, particularly when there is very little of significance occurring in your life. I mean, it is all significant, but it resembles the previous day, and the one before that, and on and on. 

I'll take requests. Honestly. If there is something that you'd like me to write about, then just say so. I'll become the blogging equivalent of a jukebox. 

Yet another old friend (I am getting to the age where that is all that I have) sent me a link yesterday morning. This was a story, and a name, that sounded vaguely familiar but I hadn't read much about it/her. I sat up in bed yesterday before the sun rose and read a few sites, with each I became more shocked and engrossed.

Henrietta Lacks. She died in 1951 from cancer. Cells that were taken out of her were used to form what is known as an immortalized cell line. The cells, through mutation, continue to divide in vitro, creating an important opportunity for cellular biologists and biochemists to research. These cells were used by Dr. Jonas Salk to study the polio vaccine, in addition to other studies on AIDS, the parvo virus, radiation, toxicity, etc.. There are about 300 papers written each month that concern the use of the HeLa cell line.

The dilemma, for a few, is that these genes were taken and used without her knowledge or permission, while she was alive. Her and her family received no compensation whatsoever for this. They only found out about it because researchers were harassing them, trying to get cell samples from them also. 

You've probably already figured out the next part: she was black.

There are so many that are willing and eager to assist science in its various pursuits. A common secular sacrifice being the claimed "donation of one's body to science" once the breath has fled. The advancement of scientific research, for some, being similar to that of a crusade. What, many might ask, could be more important for all of society? The infidel of sickness must be banished from the holy land, the temple. No moral consideration should stand in the way of saving lives, or so goes the argument. 

Most people are not aware that their genetic code, or as many isolated gene sequences as have been found to be useful in research and development, are already privately owned and protected by patents. The stuff that makes you you, and your children your children, all of us all of us, our genetic sequences, are privately owned by a handful of various groups who have claimed the patents.

There seems to be a disconnect between the fight for the rights of individuals and that of groups. The human race seems wholly unrepresented in a legal sense.

This mainly unquestioned biopiracy trucks right along while most seem more concerned with shutting down Monsanto offices, convinced that they have discovered the greatest source of potential corporate evil in our world. An important concern, to be sure, but little matter that the food you eat is wholly owned by a corporation when so are you, or soon will be.

There is big money in owning people. It would only appear evil if they asked us to work for our lives.

.

Emperor-Gaius-Julius-Caesar-Augustus-Germanicus

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

The old municipal wharf

I got about 8 rolls of film back yesterday, mostly black and white. Shooting film is, of course, more expensive. Some of the money that was lost was done so through drinking while shooting. What otherwise might have been a great or even usable image is slightly out of focus, framed poorly, or there were simply recurring shots of something that isn't worth looking at. Still, there were some corkers in there, though fewer than there might have been otherwise.

What struck me the most in these images is how unpleasantly fat I've become. I don't often step to the other side of the lens, but there was a series of me holding Rhys. We had taken a little mini-vacation and it didn't seem fair to deny Rachel a picture or two as the sun was setting at the pier. But I was wrong. I should have said, "No, not a chance..." and then gotten some other, younger man to hold Rhys while I took pictures. 

Wait, that can't be an adequate solution. It's only a matter of time in this scenario before this wandering model beach hobo is banging Rachel and has a great job in advertising. She never mentioned liking tattoos before.

I have to lose some weight, the only other option is to gain. I've been blossoming in slow motion for about 3 years now. It works out to approximately a pound each month. Even if I reverse this trend slowly it will take a very long time, too long.  I tend to function better in extremes. I can stick with extreme behavior longer. It gives me a new sense of identity and a different perspective from which to pretend. Somewhere just underneath the folds of my mind there lurks a light-hearted masochist that enjoys some healthy self-torture and ferocious bouts of masturbation.

If I start to sound like a speed-freak on this site it's because I've resorted to a combination cocktail of diet pills, strawberry Jolly Ranchers, and Adderall.

Christ, there are toys everywhere I try to step, the boy is screaming wildly while trying to climb into the fireplace, Rachel just dropped his oatmeal on the kitchen floor with a percussive explosion, the dog is eating the disaster with desperate but joyful abandon. Our house has lost its collective mind. It's a few naked midgets shy of being a boring Fellini film. I'm sitting here pretending to write in this chaos. The problem is that I should be thinner, dark haired, with sunglasses on, and dressed in an Italian suit, vaguely suspicious of this new skate-boarding, tattooed beach guy.

.

Mac's Club Deuce

A handful of my friends are in Miami right now. There is a yearly Bacchanalian "music conference" in which there are many parties, all day and night for a week straight. Miami is a great place for it and has very little use otherwise. Fifty-One weeks out of the year it is the most mind-numbingly boring place on earth, and this week is for strictly pro mind-numbing. South Beach mainly attracts the illiterate wealthy. Up until a few years ago it had no book stores at all. I know, I once needed one. You can tell a thing about a place by the amount and quality of books stores that can be found there. By that single standard Miami has rendered itself nearly meaningless. Though this alone makes it a great place to have a music conference. Selah!

There is a dive bar on South Beach that becomes a frequent watering hole for conference attendees. It serves as a home-base for many, almost as a hotel for others. I have witnessed more than a few heartaches there, with a front row seat, even my own. The bar is arranged in an amorphous circle that consumes about 2/3rds of the inside space. It is very easy to interact, or watch, and nearly impossible to hide. The rest is just booths and a pool table, a charming jukebox and some less than charming bathrooms. I miss this bar more than just about anything else at the conference. I pine for it, truly. Sure, there are parties on the roof of the Sony building, pool parties, and restaurants galore, but this little throwback from the 30's is solitary consolation that the world is an older and better place than some will ever know.

It is both noir and pulp. The right place to have fun finding trouble. A place designed to celebrate deficiencies in character. Moral ambiguity being the standard and currency. There is no legal limit here, only loosely enforced guidelines. The best sandwich shop on the beach is located conveniently across the street, if you can brave direct sunlight for a few minutes, to bring some sustenance back to the liquor cave where it might be safe. 

Once inside it is difficult to believe that the exterior is getting any direct sunlight. It feels as if it is lit by shadows and neon, like the memory of a fetish. The bar is never quite dirty, though it seems to have not been cleaned in decades. It's not sticky, even though it looks as if it should be. There is no sleeping allowed, not even for a minute. This bar is impervious to insult. Its standards have slid so low as to make snark meaningless. 

I don't think I've ever even seen somebody drink a beer in there. Maybe once or twice, if they needed to sober up for some unspoken reason. 

I once saw a girl use an online arrest pic as photo ID, a victory for smart-phones.

Well, perhaps I have described it too crudely, though somehow not enough. 

.

Call Me Ahab, Ishmael

(dr. phoenix, no relation)

"... for there is no folly of the beast of the earth which is not infinitely outdone by the madness of men." - Herman Melville, Moby Dick

It was those filthy Russians that lost, or stole, my box of books. Okay, perhaps I'm being a touch nationalist, but they had the most disdainful attitude about moving our stuff. Those godless savages might have just tossed them in the garbage. Who can possibly know.

Let me go back... even though I'm certain everybody here is already sick of hearing about the lost box(es) of books: 

When we moved from NYC to Sonoma we had a series of movers assist us. One set, the Russians, helped us get our stuff out of the 3rd floor Easy Village apartment and into pods, which were then put on a cargo train and sent across the country. Another set unloaded them from those pods into an apartment. A third set moved them from the apartment to where we live now.

Everybody was friendly except the initial set, the foreigners. They were surly fuckers who grunted and nodded more than spoke. I wanted to commit them to cages where we could perform animal testing on them, even at the time. Nothing truly horrible, just an occasional squirting of deodorant in the eyes. Caffeine poisoning, or something like that. Necessary evils, etc.

Perhaps it's a cold war thing, but I believe it was the Russkies who lost, or more likely stole (though possibly just tossed out) the box or boxes of books... even though it makes much less sense to suspect them. They all arrived without a car and left likewise, mysteriously in plain view. 

Their hatred for the written or spoken word insisted upon itself. The absence of all signs of language informed the moment, as it still hauntingly does.

"Russkies" is also a 1987 film starring Joaquin Phoenix, which doesn't help their case any either. Anybody that's ever seen the documentary "Dr. Strangelove" will understand the very real and genuine threat.

It might have been a glimpse of Moby Dick - that American classic that competes with some of the lesser Russian novels - that really riled them, sent them into a book burning frenzy.

Well, wait... let's just hold on here. There's no evidence yet that they burned the books. That was a bit harsh, admittedly.

It could have been Kant as well - their 20th century hatred of Germans, bubbling up through the patronymic, and finding form in one final moment of larceny. Perhaps it sent them on a national crime spree. That's what I would like to believe. 

I can still see them all standing around once the pods were loaded, all shuffling of feet and unhappy grumbling in foreign languages, shifty-eyed, like they had done nothing at all wrong. 

As with most heathens and addicts: the love of truth is the first to go.

.