here is a "play", circa 2004.

2004

Setting: A hotel room in the style of the Best Western or Holiday Inn. A queen size bed, a low dresser, and a television on top of the dresser for example.

A man in his 30’s dressed in causal garb (slacks, tennis shoes, polo shirt) opens the hotel room door, enters with his bags, set them down on the side of the bed closest the window, and sits down on the bed. He takes off his shoes. He looks around. He gets up and slides the window curtain apart and looks out, seeing nothing, then opens a few drawers on the dresser. Seeing nothing inside, he closes them. He sees the remote control sitting on the television and picks it up, and returns to the bed, this time propping himself up with pillows, his legs all the way on the bed. He turns on the television and watches it. He flips through the channels. This goes on for five minutes.

He turns and picks up the phone on the nightstand. He pauses briefly to look at the information posted on the phone and dials one number.

Man: Hey there, this is room 227. I’m calling for a wake up call at six o’clock.

The man listens to the voice on the phone

Man: Great, thanks. [hangs up the phone]

He leans back, continuing to watch the television. This goes on…

1^st Person in Audience: Boooooring

The man looks out at the audience with a confused/pained expression, then gets off the bed and leaves through the door.

The television remains on. Two minutes later, the hotel room door opens and person in a chicken costume enters, holding a silver platter on which a letter sits next to a letter opener. The chicken turns off the television and sits at the foot of the bed, opening the letter with the letter opener. He begins to read…

Voice Over: Dear chicken. I got your urgent message. I understand you.

Today is the first day of the new semester, which means my break is over and now I need to start thinking about how I can be of service. Can I help you? Things like that. I've arranged my schedule so that I'll have three to four mornings a week free to write. This is the first time ever that I've arranged my work schedule around writing, versus doing what work work calls for, and trying to fit myself around that. Hopefully the wealth of me time won't overwhelm any sense of purpose that I begin the day with and lead to an existential crisis centering on the gaping pit of nothingness that I seem to stumble into given too much time to myself. But on a brighter note, after raining hard the entire weekend it's cleared up today.

I'm teaching one class this semester (Narrative Documentary) and supporting three other classes, which means that I will sit in on them, take notes, and offer assistance to international students that may have lost something in translation. That, and also working with international students in the speaking and writing lab. I enjoy the smaller groups of students, and also the international students, the opportunity to be a stranger in a strange

Audience: Booooooring

Aric and I used to go to an Arcade in Madison named Tilt. One day, scrounging together nickels and dimes, we presented our wealth to Pete, the manager, and he complained: "Can't you guys go to a bank?" Later on around this time, after our relationship with Pete matured a little, he let us stay after and play for free. He took the glass off of the Jurassic Park pinball machine and let us flick the bells and targets, unlocking all the secret levels and bonuses without having to put in the work; learning what would happen if the game was played to its end. I never played the Jurassic Park pinball machine again.

Two weeks ago I told Ted about my plan to go to China and visit a friend, that I was done travelling around the United States, that is was all strip malls and parking lots. I take a drink of water and forget all of this, thinking only of how thirsty I am on a plane in between Salt Lake City and Oakland. Neither nor. Gradually, throughout the day of travel, I came to the conclusion that I am distracted from the fact (the proof) of being unable to concentrate on a book I'm interested in: Tree of Smoke, by Denis Johnson. Jerry liked it but mom didn't. Removed the dust jacket so it would travel better.

_

But all this about concentration, it takes me a while to realize that it's not happening. I feel that there is a significant delay between a feeling and the fact of my noticing it. And a feeling changes often, so I need to stay alert. The remedy is always to write. Not that this is what I always do, or need to do, but it always works if I 1) think to do it, and 2) do it. These days its not automatic, simply because I'm not in the habit. This is what discipline is for: keeping things even keeled or predictable. Then again over time, jaggedness becomes predictable and then who knows.

_

But I wanted to go back to an earlier point, that I'll spell out further. Not because I want to but because my mind has returned to it: that my perspective is very much dependent on what time of day it is: be it thirsty or tired, happy and silly, pretty much everything I say is bound to contradict itself sooner or later. I like to believe that the only true measure of reality (certainty) is based in doing, i.e. actions and presence. For example continuing this blog at predictably intermittent intervals speaks to my actual commitment regardless of what I write about it, the idea that every outcome is intentional. I forgot my keys: I meant to forget my keys.

_

But this doesn't explain anything. The engines and climate systems make for a rolling and droning ambient rumble that feels good to listen to. Is there any thing else? I'm sure there is but I'm going to go back to reading. Here is a quote from the book: "In order to be good, they just have to fight awhile and then leave."

Dreamt about my feelings but would rather write about my dreams: a settlement occupying most of Texas, underground, like a subway station and there are rooms modularly attached. No trouble, no demons or people out to get us but a meeting: a friend is coming in from somewhere else, maybe another dream, and needs instruction on how to get here. I give the phone to my brother. We learn they are coming from Los Gatos. It was much like a video game in that the world was simplified, grid like. The last thing I remember was controlling a little robot pet to earn experience points...Woke up with a dog splayed across the bed. She was like that throughout the night. A thick fog out the window makes the already white world look even white-er. Ghosty, like waking up inside of an angel food cake knowing there are only a few soft layers before day light. Kill Bill. Smashing a coffin with your fist. Fisting an old master. References to slavery and race relations while all I'm trying to do is wake up. Smell 2 coffee. Still got it. The dog was annoying and I would rather not sleep in the same bed but no one else was home she might of been lonely. Spent an entire evening on the bed before I was in it thus a sign of intention, getting in the car before its time to go. Writing from a place not grounded, careful not to make a mistake, defensive. The frantic jerky motion of trying to fill a page but now, infinate concentration: I feel as if I could stay on topic, stick to a topic like Gumby or Goompas Goomba need be or spin off into abstraction that automatic goodness that comes at the risk of two bags in the window resembling the world trade center before it fell. Last night I watched an interview with Beppe Severigni about the differences between Americans and the rest of the world...he seemed like a reasonable person.

New Year: New Dreams: Riding a large cruise ship with mother, brother, and jerry. We earned it. A student brings in a small monkey shaped bottle of cologne. Another student named clover, who in real life proclaimed the possibility of having genuine luck was consoled about her grade. Proud I was to be giving a passing grade. I too feel that I am lucky. Walking through the big city I come upon a milk crate sitting on a stool, items someone is throwing out because they are moving away. Sifting through, I take a bike innertube and a patching kit. A little jar of honey shaped like a bear. A small vial of sexually potent herb juice. A small monkey shaped bottle of what I don't know, but it was the same jar the student had shown me earlier. I was not surprised to find this container again in the dream. The gigantic boat was ours, though we were returning it to the government. Earlier, I found myself in a place like Esalen, the self-realization center institute on the California coast. Amy had signed me up for a class at the same time I was supposed to teach a class. I chose the class I was signed up for. No problems. During class I graded papers. Neither here nor there, but comfortable. Glad to see my students. Nervous to be one myself. Brother and I, scouting the water in a smaller boat, turned around to see parents in small boat as well. What happened? we asked, Where is the big boat? The government came and took it back. No hard feelings. Swiftly turning on the open water.