Obsolete Mania

I am in Brixton, where for some reason it seems warmer and maybe even a little sunnier than other parts I have been in. I suppose the city is always a couple of degrees warmer, with exhaust, concrete, and general heat and energy more concentrated and retained than say in the middle of a field or something.

Finding a job isn't that difficult. It's the NHS number that's hard to come by. One of the peculiar situations where being Croatian is advantageous in comparison to having been assigned a North American nationality, and the corresponding documentation.

Today I am happy with a conversation held with Manuel, a regular hustler and street person of the Brixton tube station. He's got something about him. A tranquility, maybe, or a kind of intendedness. I can't trust him, you know, but almost. Born in Angola. Don't repeat that.

I'm really confused about what is going on with U.S. vs. Iraq. It seems that I see so many articles that Bush and fiends are mounting up and basically in the process of launching an attack as we speak. Then I read another decree attributed to GWBush along the lines of imminent attack, in just a second. Gives me the feeling I get when vying for the upper hand in rock paper scissors, and go for 2 outta 3, 3 outta 5, etc. Are they waiting for a more optimal time in re-election strategy to press the button? Spike in popularity, compulsory patriotism to alleviate misgivings or feelings that something isn't right about the gunboat diplomacy, maybe even guilt? I know it's boring to hear the same old rants, poorly phrased a different way, never thought all the way through, and actually a bit derogative of myself since I am not doing more to counter-act what I believe is going wrong.

Wish me luck, anyway. I am trying to be responsible and adult. Have to start all over.

I dream of warm tones of parchment and my own loving and attentive strokes of script.

Welcome, step right up, have a go, see the most bizarre spectacle known to man. I have momentum and I can't stop now. Slingshots and long underwear, forgo the convention of armour. Eastern European crime syndicates, lost north European youth, auto-destructive grime, devoid of any archaic romance. I dream of warm tones of parchment and my own loving and attentive strokes of script. Really. Beige and textured oceans of perfectly flat paper, and my own ceremonial efforts to make as humanly perfect and accurate, geometrically, of pure intention, those characters which will mark truth for precarious posterity. I understand why writing, as I understand the writing of ancient Hebrew script to be for example, was and sometimes still is regarded as a ritual intertwined with human efforts to achieve perfection, or some approximation of divinity.

Ryan makes a point, I miss it and then go collect background to see exactly what he was saying, not sure if I myself am thinking the thoughts myself or just coming to understand what he was trying to tell me. . . peace. ChElvChaPolRo. London. Paris. United States. The Turks always seem to be up to something. Triads. Russian, Albanian, Bulgarian. Czech. Kajikebleckistanislanabadkarthoum. North Africans trying to find their place in the world. Egyptians. Retired Nigerian diplomats. Royal families. Antwerp. Please don't let them get involved. I suppose it's too late. I don't fully understand what's happening behind millions of closed doors. We never have. Maybe some glimpses.

I smell a million rats. Glazed almond pastries. I-community starched collars. For loyalty, in desperation. What am I doing with my life? I am trying to get a decent picture of what the fuck is going on in humanity. In a broad and comprehensive sense. With specific imagery, accuracy, what -really- goes on her or there and in between. Should I try to be a journalist? Nope, that would close doors. I smell death. I see corpses. I feel money rumbling under the ground like a subway train, axles made of human bones, wheels tyred with cured flesh. Constellations of butterfly nets, six gun satellites that can shoot an old bean can out of the air with the lag of less than 10 seconds. No, these are not fact, these are sensed. Moscow, Washington, Durbin (sp?), South of Shanghai, container ports around the globe, Mexico City, Sydney, Havana? not that I know of. Montreal most certainly. Dehli. Jakarta? hmm. Ceylon, Sri Lanka, Laos, Burma, PR, DR, Td&To..? Whats up in San Diego? XXXFleet. BLAHCOM, a bunch of old Romanians. Young ones too. Dark hills in Wales. Learn Welsh in a Week. Hermetic China. Amman, *cough*shreal*cough*aluh*cough*ine*cough*stay*cough*pay..

If only I could just say fuckit and have that be that. Instead I need to build again. Have the means, have the feeling, have the button down motherfucking shirt. Know how to get the wrinkles out. Cut my hair and shine my boots. Give me information. Not for anyone else. Just fucking me for now. Las Vegas is a place to blend in. for a few days. Paper trails, electronic trails, "databases" dummy talk. Information is a lot of things.

Ok, Poindexter. I am not the type to want to get to know you, but how in heaven and hell did you get onto this one? Jimbo, Peter Pan, Co, what the hell are you up to? Some are good, some are bad, but I'm just not down with this latest Fad. Hollywood.

Dark corners of the planet. It isn't that big after all. you can pretty much ride your bike.

Let's go back to Eastern Europe. Whose responsibility? Vacuums like that will be filled. Where the fuck is the old colonial spirit when it counts? Ok, enough rambling.

Will find a place. Will find a job. Momentarily. Must go catch a train I can't pay for. What will they do? Kick me off? it ain't Siberia. clean as a whistle, fit as a fiddle, sound as a pound, head in the clouds and feet on the ground.

Le Mazel, Ardeche

From myaddress@ductape.net Wed Nov 6 18:17:30 2002
Date: Tue, 15 Oct 2002 15:11:39 -0500 (CDT)
From: joshua
To: chealsea
Subject: le mazel, ardeche

I mention this because I'd like to dump out the events of the past weeks
in great detail, but I've lost a lot. There are things that I experienced
or thought that I wanted to save, and was certain that I'd remember them
when I got to a computer but was very wrong. Writing with pen and paper is
sort of annoying for me. It seems like maybe a better way to write, and
probably is the most convenient way to record dreams, little lyrical
thoughts or something on the train, in (just out of) the shower, etc.

In Paris, Boxer John decided to head to the Netherlands, and I went to Le
Mazel. I took a train to Montelimar, where I arrived at around 10 at night
and there were no more buses to Les Vans. I stayed at some dingy hotel,
where I watched some strange French movie called The Mystery at Scotland
Yard or something on the little TV in the room that you had to push the
volume buttons several times rather than the power button to turn on. I
paid extra for the remote, but it didn't work, and I didn't care enough to
go back downstairs and sound annoying. The next morning I got the bus to
Les Vans and was now within 7 km of the very small villa of Le Mazel.

It was sort of afternoon, and the town is very small. I saw a few bars and
the post office and little stores that were all closed. One place was sort
of open, called Le Homard Americain. The 'Americain' suggested maybe they
would maybe speak a little English. They did, but just that. The "Homard
Americain" is a movie, they say. Anyway, I ask the bartender if he knows
where Le Mazel is. Nope. I show him the map that Ryan had drawn for me.
Nope. He shows it to the coroner courier/ambulance driver/taxi of the
area. This guy is eating some sausage, and has a gander. There is really
no reason for him to help me, but he offers a ride anyway. I had been
trying to reach someone named Heidi, who lives nearby to arrange for a
ride up the mountains to the villa. She wasn't answering. I accept the
ride, and order a beer, but he says that we have to go now and someone
translated that he had to go play Father Christmas in like 30 min. I drank
the beer very quickly and hopped in the ambulance/taxi with an ununiformed
Santa.

When I get to Le Mazel, the sky is blue and the rocks (slate?) are this
strange light grey. It's amazing, the ride is amazing. No one is there,
except for 4 French construction workers that knew nothing of me coming
and had very little to do with the house. We had funny little
conversations in poor spanish/english/french/pantomime. They laughed that
I was in Le Mazel. There was no public phone around, and I had no key. I
had this bag of potato chips. They pointed to the next villa, which wasn't
more than a kilometer through the woods, but it was like around mountains
and down a valley and there's trees and stuff. I found a path and started
dropping potato chips as I went along, a little trick picked up from
Hansel and Gretal.

This well marked and old stone paved trail led me in no time to Banne.
There I found a pay phone, situated under the ruins of an old castle and
some houses. Not like a big castle up on a hill, but kind of like right
there. No one was around, really, and when cars drove past the people
seemed to look at me. I guess that's not abnormal. No answer from Heidi,
so I went back to Le Mazel and found an unlocked door to Ryan's studio. I
climbed up some really scary old metal ladder and then was on a second
level. I tried a window that had curtains, assuming that that would be
lived-in, but it was locked. I popped up from this balcony when I heard
Heidi calling Helllooooo. She asked if I was Joshua and blah blah blah.
She was very cool. She let me in, showed me around, and then we went on
some errands. Went to the garage to get a chainsaw fixed, but while they
were working on that, we ran over to a nursery to get a little tannenbaum
(she's German) and then to the farmer-woman's house to get the dinde
(turkey). Heidi was telling me how she had met the turkey and he was a
good one. It was like some arranged marriage, her and the turkey.

I stayed in Le Mazel for Christmas and read some Italo Calvino. Heidi's
family and some of their friends came to stay too. They were very nice and
I ate Christmas dinner with them. There were young kids that liked when
read Pippi Longstocking aloud in German, even though I didn't really
understand what I was reading. There were some teenaged kids too, named
Milan and Mascha. I got along with the family and they kids would
translate to English for me if something seemed particularly interesting.
There was one Jackass though named Tomas. I like him, but I have to say
that he's a Jackass. Heidi's mom was probably 60 or something and was
riding around inside the house on one of those scooters like a kid. She
was also very nice and smiles and all that. She spoke English.

I rode Ryan's bike down the mountain and to Les Vans. It's only 7km or so,
and only one turn. There are curvy mountain roads with cliffs and no
railings and barely enough room for two little cars to slide by. I pretty
much held the brake the whole way down. I bought something down in town,
got a little money and rode the bike back up. I wasn't sure that I was
going to be able to make it all the way, since most of it was fairly steep
and I've been smoking. I did though, and on the way, I stopped at some
land that Ryan wants to buy. It too is amazing, with terraced vines and
beautiful ruins. I would like to make some money and buy some land there.
The land seems very clean and sane and divine.

The house used to belong to a Swedish actress named Mai Zetterling, and
some of her things are still there. She has a nice library, which was
really cool to hang out in.

After a week in France, I went to Barcelona to meet Boxer John again.
Unfortunately, I hadn't been able to communicate with him and he had left
Barcelona hours before I got there. I had fallen asleep on a train and
ended up in Irun. When I arrived in Barcelona, I couldn't find any open
hostels, since there was some strange holiday called New Year's or
something and I didn't have a reservation anywhere. I found a quiet
seemingly untraveled street with some little art galleries on it and slept
for a while in the threshold of a loading dock. So far, that has been the
only time I really, really needed a sleeping bag. I did need it then
though. I woke up a few times during the night when I heard footsteps, but
for the most part I slept fairly well. After checking my mail, I learned
that Boxer John would be in Ciudad Real and I agreed to meet him the next
day. We met and nothing was happening in Ciudad Real. We went to
Algeceiras and spent the night in a pretty clean double room for not much
money.

Alligators in the Psychic Sewers

there are alligators running around in these psychic sewers. i'm not where i think i am, and not even aware of whether or not this place is appealing or not. everyones got a gossamer accent, saying things that sound different than what would be written. i don't have strength to appease anything or anyone. i'm barely there to be selfish, and surely i should have plenty of motive for that. to speak negatively about someone else shows weakness. even if guised as assistance, advice, concern, caring, love, friendship, etc.

the pixies once again remedied a bout of The Malaise, but the next selection eased me back into alt.coffee contempt for new york nothingness. students just love their conversations. particularly the guys who have all night to say all sorts of things to some generous young femme willing to indulge academic borne freedom into obligation to benefactors and uttered ego full of insight.

without a young lady, i offer overpriced words. well, they're overpriced by my standards since i have to pay for them. if i don't get certain word, it seems like the best idea to go the wrong direction again.

not enough sleep to dream, and not enough solace to sleep. zhat's eating me,i wonder. it seems so unlikely that i actually get something that almost nobody else gets, but i believe i'm getting myself together even if my reference is the folks that don't get it. there are plenty of only living boys in new york i would bet you, if i had the money, which i do not. downtown is just no good with these fake haughty laugh at the joke to make it funny enterprises. don't get too worried, ladies, you'll find a man in no time. same thing goes for you dapper young fitchsters, you'll have a girl that fits right in, just right out of the catalogue.

we shall overcome? shall we then? am i a deserter? i couldn't finish the box of popsicles, so i _had_ to abandon them. i am not so much coward as i was too easily convinced to let it go, against my better judgment, too early in the morning i could excuse myself. i won't though. never a wasted frozen confection again, i will try.

AS GENUINE AS EVERY CIGARETTE I SMOKE

Never Pawn Your Astrolabe

08/25/02

(Drama, drama, everywhere. A comedy of absurd despair. I don't live for this.)

08/05/02

Where is my astrolabe? Who waits for a ship to come in? Lonesome girls, often conspiring with the ocean to assuage their guilt. Longshoremen, figuring they have time to sober up. Those who report to some one or other.  They ask the same question every day with their perpetually concerned expression, which is answered day to day with an empty harbor.

One day their ships will come in. In the meantime, I am looking for one going out. One day a grey-beard loon I be.

One contradiction corrects another.

Time Passes, just like Space

Time moves slowly by.

The rain is perfect, and this month is extremely quiet. Everyone has left. Annoying crime is common, and the racaille have a buffet. That isn't just because of it being Aout, though. My suspicion is that one must live here for the fall and winter. Parisiennes know the world from Paris, like New Yorkers frame everything with their rivers, boroughs, and subway lines.

Not afraid, but sensing possible tragedy of deeply wounding experiences. Am I the hanged man? I am afraid of a dreamlike explanation of someone else's unwarranted divinations. Not really.

Again, I am minuscule in a vast and vacant universe. At night I wake up and can not sleep or find comfort on my metallic mattress. I try to read and eat when I am not hungry. Sometimes have to re-read the same page 5 times before i recognize that it's in french and the part i didn't understand is still not understood.

Never could figure out, there isn't a very easy way to determine if Prof was really just got bamboozled. Either way, he asks me for too many cigs and beers. I don't have the money for that kinda nonsense. Prof also sleeps in the catacomb subway platform at St. Michele, behind some utility cabinets, maybe with fuckloads of electricity coursing through for all I know. Lots of passenger loogies, dried on the wall, pigeon shit, feathers everything else.

Prof isn't the healthiest person I've ever met. Not the most sensible. He's not an idiot though. .. I like the way he speaks. His name, "prof" is, according to him, from his way of speaking. Also, the amount that he speaks. He's been in prison a few times. For some reason, I can't imagine having to do time with him.

Granted, he's pretty obviously an alcoholic and shoplifter, but if he had a job or something and a lot of rehabilitation, I bet he'd be great company. He's got that adolescent boy thing where he's always making a scene and annoying people by hitting them ion the back of the head. That would get old.

He tells stories of being in the alps and finding clean water. Some old hermit who owns the property of the source, the spring, chases him off and tells him to go downstream, but letsProf know that the water is still good. Prof lies in the sunshine and cleans himself with water. the old country man brings some meat and bread and prof is elated. They share some bond in polite respect, although in the cite Prof shows much different character. His last name is Gologol or Golgoli or some russian name. I forget his first name at the time, but i am not sure how important it is. Nickolas? Alexander?

I have no idea why Prof was way out in nowhere, or how he got back into the cities. I just hope that my life isn't like his.

Jay Tigabinowitz reports from Seattle. He seems to have a similar problem where he ends up going the opposite cardinal direction he plans on going when traveling. The phenom I speak of isn't being or becoming lost, and isn't meant on the smaller scale of local daily trips and explorations of a place, but is one strange curse where after deciding to go East across the US, one goes West. Similarly, then trying to go North, I have ended up South and so on.

No compass or GPS unit can prevail the bizarre currents of destiny. They only allow you to confirm that you are indeed going the opposite direction you expected to be going.

I miss all of those who tired of my antics, all those who I simply couldn't behave myself around. There are loads of people that I don't miss. People that have helped me spend money. People that have been very kind to me, but one way or another I have betrayed or failed. It all seems the same in some ways. To betray or be betrayed. But I miss more those relationships which are null because of misconception, in various forms. It passes.

Life continues. Even when it seems unbearable. Agoraphobia subsides with a tidal rebirth of some comfortable evening when the feeling of breathing air and the last of the sun are symbolically and actually amniotic and redemptive in giving the strength and peace to go on.

I honestly believe that automotive exhaust on city streets is enough to give one the feeling of being trapped and drowning in the ether of superreal or maybe sub-surreality of urban life. A deep breath leads me sometimes to pant for another.

If San Francisco hadn't been so vicious or maybe if San Diego wasn't turning into the turn of the century corporate culture sprawl of mundane pointlessness I could have kept breathing that air. Los Angeles is notorious for its poor air, and to be honest I think I have some fear of that city.

Show me purity, and tranquility in America. She's never promised that to me. I never promised anything to her, other than allegiance to her flag and the republic as one sovereignty situated under God with freedom and balance of interests for each and every person! That wasn't entirely my choice. She describes herself poorly.

A Sunday the 4th of August, 2002

The last of my Skenan 100mg
Morphine Sulphate, rough going in
Enough to worry me until it subsides
And the Morphine sets in, washing
Through me like a tide of hope
It reminds me that I can live on
Through every devastating tragedy
Life is neither short nor long
When you aren't afraid of death
And don't know your fate.

The Unemployed

Griffins and lovely silver airplanes. Smooth ass train rides. Brief and well ventilated buses, particularly on exhausted afternoons. Half empty subway cars. Driving spans of large countries, before you even are old enough to have a license. Listening to music that you usually can't realize you like while in a car. Scrolling highway. Summarized cities. Walking through the barrio, not giving a fuck about not being able to afford anything on Madison, and going in and telling them that you want, 'pants' without any further description. If they ask more, you explain that you'd like them to fit. Realizing that you have stumbled into the late night rush hour on St. Denis, and that explains all of the available real estate in such a convenient place as the 2nd. Sleeping outside in Barcelona, comfortable because you have nothing to steal, and look hurt enough that a villain would certainly choose a better prospective victim or at least have a little compassion. Not being able to stand being dirty, but taking messy showers without curtains and having water in the bathroom for stepping in in your socks for the next 24 hours. Early morning olive oil fires while you fry potatoes or make your special fried flour flatbreads with flour you have convinced the boulanger, who is a lovely Italian girl and adorably nervous but a compelled conspirator. The first fire you ever lost control of happened in a pan, and took care of itself more or less. You tried to discretely fan the house out, while concerned about missing class because you would be late dealing with your kitchen fire. Your mother showed infinite tolerance. You dared her to show less. Someone has needed to smack that grin off your face for your entire existence, but for some reason it always comes back, no matter what.

Thinking you lost your passport one wrathfully hungover morning, you giggle to yourself knowing how wonderful an excuse it is to become a farmhand. Think of all the bureaucracy you can reasonably evade. You miss drinking pitchers of sangria, but know that you can only ever drink too much. Drinking too much is bad. Proven so.

You read in some newspaper about a guy that knows people that have been featured in the lenses of bancs, shot themselves, believe for real as far as can be determined that they have been abducted by aliens, old money, dirty laundry, cuban mages who work the cuchifritos counters, gentlemen who are very careful with the straight razor, a woman that is just impossible to please, coots, kooks, docs, dock workers, and omelet cookers.

Yesterday you took a walk and ended up in the ghetto, again. Always the ghetto it seems. Hopped on a perimeter bus and hoped that you would find an escape route from this lukewarm city. Found a nice suburb, previously neglected but being industrialised, with old buildings. You notice a perfectly commandeerable one, but notice also that it seems inhabited even though the front door is masoned up quite sloppily. A man asks you in really rapid language you don't understand what you think of this building when you see it and no one lives there. You tell him you think that it is sad, and he proceeds to explain that three months ago its inhabitants were 'evicted' by the police because the city began to reinforce it's summertime and I suppose perpetuated policy against the adoption of homeless houses. You wonder why this is so bad since it looks like the city will allow the perfectly sound building to deteriorate otherwise until it will be destroyed. If I only had a camera.

He tells you that he's looking for a house too, but he appears to have the resources and intention to buy or rent one. You say goodbye and he asks you where you are going, and you explain that you will find a new house. You don't trust him anymore.

***

Where can I get a boat? Where can I get some cash to pay my rent. Where can I get a boat again? Nothing fabulous, just a bit better than a Gargantuan AirStream Jiffy Pop style trailer. Silver will do. Maps, a satellite net connection, a month supply of salted fresh pistachios. No pink or red shit though.

Better yet, a job.

How can so many people not have jobs?

Pate pur Canard

Relishing ancient memories. Makes me almost want to eat those cheeses which are far too expensive for me to buy and that I'm afraid of anyway. Sad about eating pate pur canard because it seems perverse to relish flesh in a form so mangled. Like you're not really appreciating it, you're making mush out of a part of a creature that could be honored with a little more recognition than a little duck icon.

Amazed at the altitude of mausoleums, wondering how long they will really last, and what happens when they fall. Tempted by the idea of finding ancient chambers run through by subways. Curious about how outdoor plumbing with the lye, or whatever it is, works.

Where is my vineyard and how should I find it? Some would probably say that it is impossible to grow garlic and grapes on the same land, but to them I say, "we shall see." They haven't said this yet, and I have not said it either, so it is sort of insignificant. Feel free to IM me your suggestions at "scrapplelove", my omage to meat products that have been wrought through the griffin fingers of our culinary conventions.

I could grow garlic and even a few bales of cotton.

I was laying in bed, thinking about what I should do and fairly certain that would be to go to sleep. I ate more pasta than I actually had an appetite for. Thinking about how impossible it is to sleep in the city, and that I could grow garlic and even a few bales of cotton.

The truth is that I should have stayed in bed. My right hand is fully operational again. Been for a while. Heckling poets gets boring quickly. Should have made some phone calls. Did not. Wondering why it is that I always get ripped off in public transit systems. Not by the passengers, by the payment control systems.

What are we going to do on this planet? I don't think I am going to be able to get off of it. Who wants what? Why. Is it possible? How can the impossible be made more possible.

I feel like the level of my coherence has dropped below that of text on a bottle of Dr. Bronner's.

Where there are steps, and an amazing view. I play polite but vocal vigilante to discover I make more enemies than allies. Some kids did not get their belongings lifted, but then again who had my back when there was a knife and an angry man in the shadows. He would not have even been annoyed with me if I had not intervened with his operations, in interest of protecting the kids that had been nice to me. Battles will be chosen carefully.

He did not have the wherewithal to stab me first, and I was not in a position to explain myself to the amphibious police.

Ferlinghetti signs my transit penaltie, I am not going to buy his 18.00 book. Coca cola gets expensive, miss the old 5 cent days. Blanched and sometimes parched, I live in the right place for the time.

Painting furniture with the tea, it evaporates quickly and eventually gets lacquered. Difficult times call for breezy measures such as a pinch, a jigger, a taste, or a "little".

no, jigger is NOT that scientific

I feel like the level of my coherence has dropped below that of text on a bottle of Dr. Bronner's. At least compositionally. In dialogue I can stick to rhyme, reason.

What the shit! What. The. Shit. 5.15AM and a Brooklyn firetruck is driving down wide-ass 4th Ave towards the Brooklyn Tower of HSBC I believe it is, and making full use of the horns. What the shit. I can't sleep that well these days, I got to bed early sometimes and then wake up all cockeyed at some WhatTheShit hour.

My feet have sharp callouses and there is a war on in my shoes. The agents of aging for a young man's feet who tends to run and if walk, walk competitively even when there is no place to hurry to. I guess that's the result of being constantly tormented by people who are shit-free just freaking SLOW!

I never take the time out to make myself sane. I zip like a roach from under one canopy to the next. I am no longer sane or whole. My interactions at work are consistently steeped in contempt. With a sort of feeling that the future has been decided and that I will most certainly be leaving this present Park Slope and Work routine, I'm a lot less tolerant of all the bullshit. Oh, and it most certainly is bullshit. My life seems like it's so easy, that things should be so easy. It's like one of those trick challenges to eat six saltines in a minute or something. It SHOULD be cake, and I should be the happiest little fucker I know. I most certainly am not, though.

Trumpet

Further and further I push it along. I say what I feel lately, and it's been making people unhappy. Last night on the rooftop I met Stewart from across the hall. I was trying to get a good sound out of my trumpet. I have felt for a long time that I have lots of music in my head. If I can train myself to be able to extend that part of my psyche through an instrument, I will be able to learn something about myself. I will see parts of life from a different perspective, as well.. music is a very magical ritual that people conduct. Different cultures independently develop their own musical systems. It's a sort of communion of society. Isn't it strange though that it's almost instinctive? Depending on how you want to define music, I would suspect that some animals also use music in their experiences to communicate or do whatever it is that music does to a being.

Some say that Drum and Bass makes corn grow faster. I choose to believe that it has more to do with the heavy bass lines and vibration stimulating cellulose fibers and loosening them up to move and expand more easily rather than believe the notion that the corn is really into the syrupy matrices of percussion in good Drum and Bass.

Several times I have been struck with the curiosity to know what the oldest known written music in the world is. For some reason, I never remembered to find out. It seems there are some 3,400 year old tablets that some weirdo in Berkeley was playing with contain notation for music. I had a listen to the MIDI and have a feeling that it may not have sounded quite like the linked file.

Coincidentally, I was watching the Twilight Zone while killing time yesterday, and there was a chapter where this guy, Joe C---- something.. well, he was a trumpet player and he had been playing for a long time. Things weren't going his way though, and he had begun drinking. He drank because he was a nobody and he lived in a one-room apt. with dirty walls and cracked pipes, and because he didn't have a girlfriend and because he was a nobody. He said that when he drank he didn't see the dirt on the walls, and that he didn't care about anything. He wanted to play with one of his old pals, but he was horrible when he was on the sauce, so they told him no way.

Joe went on about heaven and how Gabriel has a trumpet made out of gold, and how Joe would play the trumpet so that beauty came out of it, the smell of summer flowers, just absolute acoustic beauty. After that dialogue, Joe went to the pawn shop and sold his trumpet for 8 and a half dollars. (This was like 1960 I think) The pawnbroker put the trumpet in the window for 25 dollars, and Joe felt beat. Then he sort of died, walking away from the window he got hit by a truck. After establishing that he was dead, he met up with Gabriel, who let him have a play on his trumpet. I love the twilight zone. Then Gabriel sort of encouraged him to appreciate life and his music a bit more. Joe went back, and made it.. and bought his trumpet back. Then he was playing on a rooftop in NYC and somehow (I stopped paying attention for a minute) a girl ended up on the roof. He was getting excited about going to go see jazz somewhere.

Where do I live?

I don't know what neighborhood I live in. Could be Park Slope, could be Boerum Hill, could be "Gowanus"? What I do know, or at least think, is that I'm going to San Francisco tomorrow. Maybe more precisely I'm going to Berkeley. Then again, my contact suggested that we'll leaving right from the airport. Seems he hasn't given the old William Tell routine a shot yet. I wouldn't consider him an expert marksman, by ay means, so the W.T. seems to be a perfect remedy.

As this particular agent is assigned or has taken up the assignment of leading the way in the arts of auto-medicine, it seems the prescription of a benzodiazepine has been overlooked in his palate of self-treatment options.

We're looking for the Hot Springs I think. Hopefully we can steam the demons out.

Winter 2001

Tonight I see two immense columns of light in lower Manhattan as a tribute to the destroyed WTC. I've been doing nothing except wallowing in confusion and trying to go back to sleep for days on end. I'm looking forward to leaving this city and dedicating my complete energy to accumulating as much money as possible through as much work as necessary. I am fortunate to have people that care about me and have opened their doors to help me through what has been a particularly difficult time. In exchange I hope to offer a hand and my technology experience for a program dedicated to assisting people with successfully adjusting to life after incarceration. Whether or not I needed a favor, I realize the importance of this work and have wanted to participate but have been preoccupied with life in NYC.

I've had a look at classifieds on the internet at iAgora.com for rooms and apartments in Barcelona and found reassuring prices and evidence of viability in creating a life for myself in this city. I don't need or want to be here anymore and know that it is time to go. If I can pack my things tonight and take care of a few errands tomorrow, there is a great chance that I can be out of here by week's end.

As the most important function of keeping a record like this, I need to note the degree of despair and depression I'm suffocating in. While my dreams and plans that I'm holding on to like a piece of wood in the middle of the ocean are terrifyingly unsure, they are the only thing that I have to keep me going until I see relief. I forget how real life is when it's not going your way. When you're cruising along in a routine which doesn't require very intensive thought or feeling, the calendar can flip through years without any significant landmark or milestones. Life is so much more beautiful when I'm confused and confronted with all that goes with the reality that within a few days, minutes, or seconds, everything that is serving as the foundation for your existence can evaporate, shift, invert, or explode leaving you with what you have always had and the only thing you are fairly certain to have for your term of existence. Yourself. Most of your body.

Thank you NYC, thank you friends. Dear God, please stop the warring, please emphasize that we're all humans and that the solutions for our problems don't lie in weapons and force.

Thinking of those in US society which have committed acts which were examined by other humans in an office of the Judiciary system of our government and deemed to be wrong and punishable by moving the human into buildings with bars and disease, stale air and treated without dignity, I am drained of strength. Not many people know the way which people treat other people in the name of law. Police are sometimes the most cruel, diseased, and unjust people imaginable. It has become hard for me to feel sympathetic when I hear of an officer injured while upholding justice. These people often don't care about the citizens they take into custody or how they are treated. They are racist, sexist, they are bullies, they are cowards, and they wear an air of arrogant superiority that in my eyes practically awards them the deserve of any harm they encounter. I say practically because I would not want them to be harmed. It just twists me up when I see how they behave and seem to think.