Recently I’ve been thinking about the importance of community and the pointlessness of an isolated practice in anything. This is the short version. The long version begins with The Grand Piano, a series of “collective autobiography” books by the Language Poets about their experiences together in the late seventies. The books have been enjoyable, learning about their lives and the movement, but only yesterday, reading Barrett Watten’s passage in the 5^th book of the series, did their ‘thing’ being to clearly emerge. That is, a stress on group dynamics and honesty rather then on an individual aesthetic or the craft of a poem; coming up together or all boats will rise. Watten mentions the modernist movement as cementing the artist as individual, and in thinking about some of my favorite poets, like Wallace Stevens; the awe one feels when reading a Stevens’ poem seems built in, and results in a distancing effect. Never am I inspired to write after reading a Stevens poem, and if I try I fail, discouraged by the perfection of his words and ways in my mind.

Then again, other favorites like George Oppen harp on the notion that we live amongst each other by choice, and in reading him I feel as if I am gaining know how of what’s going on, akin to reading a newspaper or an essay that resonates. His form inspires me but his clarity of thought seems singular, though I’ve had more success after reading him than Stevens. I’m coming to realize that the emptiness that is showcased at the center of a lot of my writing (and myself), is not just a thing that happens to be there, but a result of the method by which I choose to write and live. I’m talking about the immensely competitive ‘best-writer-in-the-room’ mentality that I’ve been developing since college. Its affect, though helpful for producing fine tuned pieces of art and gaining individual recognition, is unsustainable as a way of life in a world where frequent if short interruptions/communications/events (think email, text messages) determine the rhythms of our lives, for better or for worse.

In a way, what I’m trying to say is that my mode of being is outdated. More importantly, I’m trying to say that living right as an everyday process and the value of living immediately and without compromise sustains people in the long run. That accord, though subtle and anything but spectacle, is a preferable way to live; the life as art kind of thing rather than the other way around. In terms of my past practices, I’ve willingly alienated myself in name of ‘art’. This seems wrong, not in the sense of an individual choice, but in a communal this needs to change if we want to keep on living, persevering.

To me this is what the language poets were suggesting, at least in The Grand Piano. In practice, who knows if that’s how it turned out. But I imagine that this is how the language poets could be read: that ultimately a book is credited to a single author and in this context, talk of community seems like lip service to an idea that ultimately showcases the individual: the individual as our most basic unit of our humanness, our dasien, our being; that can’t be transcended. How to co-exist as an individual and a member of a community seems to me, one of the more immediate questions that they raise.

Or, what’s more helpful and less Californicated to me, is the realization that 20^th century poetry is full of tragic stories and craziness. The idea that poetry must somehow trace the border of mental illness to be authentic has, despite our best intentions, stayed with us and our culture. Kurt Cobain, Nietzsche, Karl Marx, whatever infinity; the life of self/other-destruction. Instead, maybe it would be more helpful to look towards the long term model and use this as a basis for value. That the measure of an artist should not only be gauged by the work but by the artists ability to “be there”, or simply, to persevere and adapt. Robert Creeley, though some people say he did his best work when he was young, lived on and taught and was available: a model that changes and knows that there are other ways to be.

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.

the last day of the year and i spent it working with j and damien on an old victorian on the east side of madison mixed sand in with primer and prepared new walls to match the old walls while they installed a floor where a bathtub will one day sit it was exhausting having not done a day like that for a while afterwords i napped had a cup of tea and will go out and have dinner with an old friend and some new ones at a sushi restaurant but may not go out with the crew for the gigantic count down not because its a bummer but because of todays work and have secretly been hoping to not celebrate new years waiting for an excuse for a number of years which is funny as it used to be my favorite holiday going out with friends and most certainly getting drunk and doing funny drunk things but those guys aren't here tonight and really what else is there to do once all that has been done not that there's a reason to move on but i just don't feel like it and that will have to be okay and i'll see what it feels like to not celebrate new years in grand fashion and then we can compare draw up some charts take notes and consult the experts i mean stars for how next year will turn out if next year will turn out not to rub anything in but i did see that movie i am legend and that movie no country for old men and that movie blade runner on the other hand i did see that movie juno and somebody asked me what i do for fun the other day and i answered that i watch movies which makes my answer half true more like something to do and when noticing this and then in choosing not to noticing a thud like a sack of old letters falling to the bottom of an elevator shaft, listening, and then reporting back

It's awesome: sitting in the guestroom of my parents' house, reading and writing under the warmth of a wool blanket. It snowed all day yesterday but today its just overcast. It. The weather. Things happening. Last night I went out with some old friends and a new one, and drank more than I meant to. It wasn't bad, but the same thing happened two night previous. Today I got a pair of shoes with my brother and a friend, and we ate lunch near the shoe store and talked about things German, a few movies, and sort of watched the Badger game on television. They won. Hooray. There is a month and a couple weeks between classes and I'll be here until the 15th, working with my step-dad and crew on an old Victorian house on the east side. I'll start Monday, and then New Years and then a couple weeks work and then back to Oakland. I'm thinking too much about what is okay to write and what isn't. Sticking to one topic or writing tangentially. Forgetting how to write, or how I wrote previously for this blog. What worked. Have been writing a lot in notebooks, but maybe that is a different kind of writing. Forgetting. Always a beginning. Tomorrow I'll drive up to Menasha to see and old friend and his new baby. Yesterday I dropped Amy off at the bus station.

Sitting at work is this work I'm thinking speaking lab speaking lab speaking lab where the students come and sit and we talk maybe work on pronunciation issues or simply work on fluency or work hardly at all just talk just practice talking and this is helpful we think they think somebody thinks this is helpful who keeps coming here but nobody thinks this is helpful right now as I am here alone not lonely because I have you but am alone no appointment: a ticking clock that reads 3:58. A Korean fan pinned on the wall. A hot room, an open door, a hallway. A restroom door that people come and go from. We are on the first floor but there are no windows. In a half hour a student will come give me a presentation and I will give them feedback. I received a note on my door today. It reads: Hi Tyler. This is A____ who used to attend your conversation group 6:30 on Monday! I just wanted to say Thank you and Merry Christmas!! (I can't come today group cause I have an appointment). End of note.

Earlier this year I met a Marine and we talked about weakness. That the boot camp instructors’ job is not to teach specifics, but to weed the weak out of the group, those who can’t be counted on when the situation intensifies. It made me think if I would be weeded out, and just now, it makes me think of teaching: how a portion of students will decide a given subject is not for them, and the teacher might decide a given student isn’t going to make it. No hard feelings. One of the loneliest things I’ve ever heard were the long-distance phone conversations of an old roommate, a Marine, speaking in loud, halting English to a Filipino woman he hoped to marry. She couldn’t understand a word he was saying.

On my way back from the corner store a man stopped me to say that hands in pockets are a sign of sexual frustration. I took my hands out of my pockets and continued walking down the street. He walked with me, telling me that despite the fact that we was in his late thirties, young girls were still attracted to him. And he was tired of it. I looked at him. A clean dark sweater and some jeans. His eyes were yellowed and his breath stank. He asked to see my hands. “Yep,” he said, “stay off the…”

“drugs?” I suggested. “The Internet.” he finished, and we parted.

border="0", is what it says every time I open a window for a new post. I've been deleting it but I wanted to show you, my friend, that it says border= "0" and what this feels like exactly. Do you have the feeling? Good. It's a sunny but kind of a chilly day in Oakland, and I say that knowing that California has made me weak. I no longer understand what cold means. I was working on things I found in my notebook this morning and had posted a couple but then removed them because it didn't feel quite right. Plus, the person who commented anonymously three postings ago kind of freaked me out due to my inability to receive compliments and my trouble with the word 'genius' so instead of rising to that challenge I'll just ramble on to fill the space so that posting gets far away from the first thing as possible. These are the kinds of problems that come up once the empire gets established: maintaining its borders. Of course I could just erase the compliment but that seems unfair. "One confides in what has no concealed creator" writes Wallace Stevens, and that seems like a reasonable policy to me. In other news I had a good if unusual weekend hanging out with two factions of friends, and spending most of Sunday doing absolutely nothing. It was different and feel like I'm in some kind of alternative head space in that it doesn't feel muddled like it usually does on Monday. I'm thinking of eating a can of chili. This is the kind clarity that comes with striking out of the usual. Also, we got a Christmas tree that is still alive I mean growing in a pot. It's nice and small. A fir but I'm not sure what kind of fir. Maybe its a spruce and they lied to us, but I think its a fir. I'm coming to realize that its a good idea to set aside time to do what I want to do, and sticking to that schedule. In the past I've believed myself to be enormously flexible and okay with whatever. Unfortunately this wasn't true at all. Amy compared my lack of plant watering to a boy who got bored with his pet turtle. Charles Schultz is quoted as saying "It took me a long time to become a human being."

One day lighting off bottle rockets with my brother, we went back inside to watch to TV to be alerted by our baby sitter that the field behind the house was on fire. Luckily she knew what to do, and equipped us with wet rags and a bucket filled with water. We ran out and wapped the flames down. This was one time. Another time we lit a field on fire on accident and scorched fifteen feet of fence. Another time we accidentally burnt down the large hollow tree adjacent to our house. Fireworks are wasted in the day.

I am consciously shutting off my mechanisms of openness because I find it difficult to depend on others to support me. That, and it’s not working, especially now when I’ve lost my rudder and am starting to notice real world manifestations of my own passivity.

I worry that some person who I used to be is dying, some sweet open guy having a difficult time finding his way. Maybe if his luck had been better he would have found the necessary community to embrace him and take care of him in a meaningful way.

Instead we get bitterness the outcome of failed expectations but there is more to it than that, that a construct of some aspect of personality, once uncovered, must be changed in order to avoid excessive self-consciousness; in the name of perseverance and adaptation.

If what is really there is unchanging, some idea of movement or the sudden stillness that attention brings, ideas of who and what don’t matter. That willful naivete is actually harmful past a certain point, and though we like to be reminded of children

and the unspoiled mind, it’s important to consider that time goes on. In eastern philosophy this seems to be one aspect of life that is portrayed much more successfully than in western philosophy; the spring pond and the moon rising, the long winter in a single sentence.

Can you believe I spend my time doing this stuff? It's hard to believe November anything. A true voice like a true conviction calling and maybe calling back when I get a moment can you hold this please? Tomorrow is Thanksgiving and this is hardly bearable with the turkey and all that stuff. If everybody had a Thanksgiving could we change the world one thanksgiving at a household per capita millions? Tomorrow we'll go down to Joel's down there in San Luis I'm afraid to spell Obispo wrong but will go ahead. Amy is making some kind of c/kale? dish and I'm making a key lime pie. Maybe two. They're good. My mom makes them. Yesterday I bought plane tickets to go to Wisconsin for my/our families central holiday. It's a big deal. Sometimes I think I'd like to get out of it but know if that happened I'd regret it. Something Cheer. But its been a busy semester and am glad for the break, even if it's just a couple days. Finally we are done with the argumentative essay so we can move on to less judgmental kinds of works. If the glove doesn't fit you must acquit. These kinds of messages. But instead we move on to the "feature story" which is a little bit more wide open to interpretation as long as its interesting to read. Who am I to be the judge of that. In other news, the cats are laid out by the radiator. Kitty Girl is sick with something (keeps throwing up, coughing) and I'm going to take her in to the vet today. Plagued by guilt, the other one has been acting strangely, barging onto our pillows at ungodly hours and meowing loudly. I've been waking up really early for some reason. Had a dream about the cat eating a cockroach two nights ago. Etc. Etc. Etc.

Lotus Rhizome

I look for an authority and find none. A true conviction, as if writing is your middle name, contentment, and leaving behind old habits. Still, we insist that I work. Floating just above the water, above the unpotable murk; lotus seeds, or nuts, can be eaten raw or popped like corn, boiled down in a paste and when combined with sugar made into delicious pastries.

Canada

Where is your family? On the porch
talking.
The neighbors, they said
it’ll rain tonight. We
sat and had drinks, all of us
free.

On the edge of the bed
the day is getting on. It hasn’t yet
rained, but it will
I believe, and soon it will be
time for dinner.

Since the days of my middle life
I was deeply devoted to Tao.
Recently I came to live
in the mountains of Chung-nan.
Oftentimes--with joy in my heart--
Alone, I roam here and there.
It is a wonderful thing
That I am aware of myself.
When the streamlet ends my trip
I settle down and catch
The moment of rising mists.
Now and then I meet
A furrowed dweller of the woods.
We chat and laugh;
Never do we want to go home.

-Wang Wei

**

When it was dark, I reached the village of Shih-hao.
Late at night an officer came to recruit men.
The old man in the house climbed over the wall and fled.
The old woman opened the door.
How the angry officer was raging!
How bitterly the woman was crying!
I heard what the old woman said:
"I had three sons for the defense of the City of Yeh.
Only one of them sent me a letter.
The other two boys were killed in battle.
The one who remained may not live long.
The dead are gone forever.
There are no more men in the house
Except my grandson who is still fed on milk.
Because of him his mother stays with us.
However, she has no whole skirt to go out.
Although I am old and have no strength,
Let me go with you, officer,
To immediately answer the urgent call from Ho-yang.
At least I can do some cooking for the soldiers."
Later in the night their conversation stopped.
What I heard was something like sobbing.
At daybreak I started out again on my journey.
I could only say "Good-bye" to the old man.

-Tu Fu


**
These poems were taken from "Creativity and Taoism" by Chang Chung-yuan

earlier in the day cats recognized dogs as heroic figures matter put into their own hands like chefs at a rodeo wandering between fences and dirt ball clowns trying to pull one over the bull riders and friends of the bull riders otherwise known as the blue riders in german expressionist talk the wiggle puppies or the fun buddies a lamp with no light bulb as good as a grey goose a hedge fund prepaid and ready to matriculate and ten other way to name your baby circa field 1937 the plains spread out before the paupers and home rehabilitation projects as seen on tv the teeth puncturing an already raw wound no money to brittney spears commercial clad all wheel drive muck a luck tee pee wendigo tank track but a rolled out new line of far superior soap stone products a massive surge of energy building and bludgeoning the work release program circa cricket teams massively over wrought metal sculptures and our dreams yes our dreams to be corporate sculptors making large aluminum waste products for us to walk around and seemingly to bother us not to make sense but pulmonary fibrosis circumstantial message to god reads if he did it hello of course he hates me hats off to the victor and motorolla deluxe reference book editions of limited leather bound tooth detectors and detective wandering between missile silos looking for monographed copies of not one weasel court but four seventy three hoboken avenue nobody saw us pick a new renegade cop blaster give it some time he'll come around said the most of the hosts brain wave usually after so much blah blah i'll come around and say something some clarification of perspective and where the meteorite originated from but instead halle bop i waited on the roof for aliens in the summer of eighty three barely old enough to talk or formulate thoughts like mostly we've lost our nerve and other barely legible wanton plus weight hold overs um yeah i'm just tired barely keeping me eyes open but will sit up a little for a drink water

Today I got a text message asking "why no blog, dog?" and I replied "time and materials" which maybe seems like a very text messagey kind of exchange but I think the question is a good one and not that I'm going to attempt to explain anything because that would be a strike against our good judgment but for the last fifteen minutes my thumb has been twitching. Have you ever had a twitching thumb? I don't know what it means but I'll proceed to diagram my day spent morning early got up at seven put on shirt/shoes/packed bag and went to get into the car pool which worked it's quite remarkable I think the carpool system here in the bay area where strangers will drive you free of charge over the bridge which is faster and cheaper than any other form of transportation and they do it because it's much much faster like today where the highway was backed up for miles and the carpool lane was kind of backed up but not nearly as bad as the rest of the lanes regardless we got there alright and was dropped off at the curb of 1st and Harrison from an Audi A5 the man was listening to some kind of christian music which wasn't as bad as it sounds, probably, regardless I went and spent the next three hours in the speaking lab helping some international students mostly Koreans mind their upcoming presentations and talked about cats and dogs and then took a break where I ate a bag of chips then onto the writing lab where I helped more international students with some writing issues, two essays and an autobiography three hours later I waited an hour then met with the philosophy study group where I helped one student from Jordan work on his essay and then that was it I came home. It's been a while since I've touched the blog because I like to think I've been so busy but I'm not sure that's it. After all those little story posts I sort of got confused as to why I was writing thinking that my job was to write little stories and when I didn't have any little stories to tell I didn't have a job to do but that's not true I'll just post whatever no pressure but really I've been quite stressed out with school that is teaching this semester which is strange because you'd think that after a couple semesters it would get easier and maybe it has but instead it feels harder the ties that bind solidifying and this is what is difficult for me staying on one thing and instead of expanding horizontally from place to place getting a little bit of everything instead its concentrating on one thing and sticking with it that is difficult I think that is maybe what has happened this semester the long term possibility manifesting itself in the form of relationships with co-workers and students that necessarily move past the passing through stage and the conversations need to progress I mean you can only ask someone where they're from a couple times before its necessary to talk about something else like the increasingly complex web of expectations built up from repeated interactions and alarmingly enough the possibility that people can know you.

I helped out at my neighbor’s financial seminar the other month. During a portion of it the speaker discussed “givers” and “takers”, their qualities and traits, how they make you feel when in action. At one point, he clarified: we are not givers or takers, but giving and taking, constantly becoming or being, we are not static or set.

I might go outside and feel cold, wish the weather were warmer. I might visualize myself being comfortable in a T-shirt. In the summer I might visualize the fall or winter. Cole pointed out that the problem with The Secret, the self-help phenomenon based on positive visualization is that the complexity of a given situation can get lost in the push of what a situation could be (rather than what it is).

I’ve been sitting on a bus for the last four hours. There was an interesting conversation in the back of the bus about racism, between an attractive Puerto Rican woman, an African American man and a Caucasian man. It made me think of the kid I’m sitting next to, afraid to speak to me and maybe vice versa, but our hips are pressed up against each other. The smell of a black boy.

When I graduated from college my father gave me a small gold coin, stamped with an Indian head and the date ‘1853’. He said his dad had given it to him when he graduated from college. I kept it in a safe place. Last year I looked it up on-line, and found out that it was a reproduction made sometime in the fifties or sixties, having little “numismatic value”. His dad ran off when he was a kid. I affixed the coin to the wall of my office with a bit of blue putty.

To its right is a picture of a Barry Bonds cut out from a newspaper about three years ago, beginning to yellow. In it, all eyes look in the same direction: the catcher just risen from a crouch, the umpire taking off his mask, and Barry Bonds looking at what is probably a home run. The bat floats an arms length in front of Barry, captured in mid flight almost perpendicular to the ground. You get the sense that the blurry crowd in the background are all watching the ball as well, ten of thousands of people looking in the exact same direction.

Hanging from the trunk of wires that runs from floor to ceiling in my office is a half-inch think piece of blue and white rope. My step-brother asked me what I wanted for Christmas and I told him rope, which I didn’t really want, but liked the sound of saying; a kind of test to see if anyone’s listening. I’ll ask for things like a tooth brush or a bowl of cereal and end up with a wallet and a nice pen. I’m not complaining, I think it’s funny. It’s a nice piece of rope.

all of a sudden back in oakland went to molly and barnaby's wedding over the weekend just outside of portland and enjoyed it communally good time slept in bunk beds with groups of others it was different quiet like whispering couples at eight in the morning do you want to get up etc. those kinds of things got back late last night slept a long time school started last week taught two classes on friday and tomorrow i'm due in the writing lab the classes seemed invested one very tiny the other average size no action just the first day played extended ice breakers and talked about reasoning kind of loosely getting ready for the memoir then on to research like projects but anyway a monday simply updating with no periods or commas feeling somewhat on fire with things to do mostly to just maintain my empire been thinking too much about what goes into this blog so maybe its time to give it a rest in terms of thinking about what goes into this blog met people at the wedding told them to find me here and maybe they will hey on the way to the wedding the cab driver was drunk on the way back home met up with aric for twenty minutes hung out in the cell phone waiting area the plane rides were mostly smooth but unworry some these are the light weight happenings during yet another sunny day in oakland now on to next messages revamping an old manuscript feeding cats and returning student work

hi. the following excerpt is from a George Oppen essay written in the Spring of 1962 titled "The Mind's Own Place" and can be found in his "Selected Poems" published by New Directions Press.
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Modern American poetry begins with the determination to find the image, the thing encountered, the thing seen each day whose meaning has become the meaning and color of our lives. Verse, which had become a rhetoric of exaggeration, of inflation, was to the modernists a skill of accuracy, of precision, a test of truth. Such an art has always to be defended against a furious and bitter Bohemia whose passion it is to assist, in the highest of spirits, at the razing of that art which is the last intrusion on an onanism which they believe to be artistic. In these circles is elaborated a mock-admiration of the artist as a sort of superannuated infant, and it is the nightmare of the poet or the artist to find himself wandering between the grim grey lines of the Philistines and the ramshackle emplacements of Bohemia. If he ceases to believe in the validity of his insights--the truth of what he is saying--he becomes the casualty, the only possible casualty, of that engagement. Philistia and Bohemia, never endangered by the contest, remain precisely what they were. This is the Bohemia that churns and worries the idea of the poet-not-of-this-world, the dissociated poet, the ghostly bard. If the poet is an island, this is the sea which most lovingly and intimately grinds him to sand.

in order to get to the wedding in east hampton from our hotel in montauk we relied on Lindy's Transportation

Briefly about Larry E. Craig, the Senator who recently resigned due to a sex scandal (his suspected homosexuality), I find it disheartening that the Minneapolis Police department spends its time battling public sex in airport bathrooms. That, and the fact that this guy resigned in about a week, whereas the former Attorney General Gonzales lasted about seven months. I guess I’m just confused as to why sex amongst consenting adults is a more serious crime than lying under oath about one’s unchecked tinkering with the American legal system.

"Maybe the grass is the mirror," Erika said in response to my comment that it was different to be brushing my teeth in a bathroom without a mirror, not seeing yourself first thing in the morning. Instead I looked out the window, the sun risen just below the tree line and shining a muddled light on the rural lawn.

Speak and Spell

Say newspaper.
Newspaper.
Good. Now try angel.
Angel.
Good.

came accross some notes (written on pink paper) on the weather in Providence while going through boxes today in Oakland

*

Today is a strange weather day. Quick alternations between sunny warm skies and a forceful wind, along with a diagonal rain. Right now is the wind part, a day that hasn't been able to make up its mind.

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To say that I've been overwhelmed would be a true statement. Any color looks good, writing on pink paper. Not so much fun as different...fun as difference? The chimney clicks with its usual sounds.

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Dreamed last night but don't know what. Laid awake for a while trying to resolve the meeting F. and I had, walking away due to time constraints, or lack of anything to talk about asides from gossip, a billion other people to talk about.

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But I'm not interested in my own thoughts. I met with F. and read a list of things that bothered me, in the past tense, as there was nothing bothering me at that moment. Met G. for pool last night.

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Questions asked, brief synopsis shared. Now it seems like it could snow. Rory asked how it was outside and I responded "nice". F. asked what I had read and recently loved. I responded that I "don't generally love reading". A poor thing to say to the director of a writing program. Have been completely self-absorbed last few months and know it.

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Now it is snowing. Large white flakes going in all directions, confusing and chaotic but full of possibilities like a hat blowing off your head and landing on somebody else's head. Or snow blowing in your ear.

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Things were also said. He spoke of his recent difficulties of not having written for the last couple years. I wonder why? Time, it seems doesn't limit writing, just changes it. There must be something else going on, I think and would like to ask him.

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Phone call. The large snow wads are now blowing horizontally. I've realized that no one will ever read these notebooks. But still the hand writing remains consistent, the sounds of a mid-sized city just outside my window.

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Read from a chapbook by Liz yesterday and it moved me a in good way, how occasionally we find the right thing, or poem or person at the right moment and things make sense. I for one believe in misunderstanding until a certain point in time where understanding comes suddenly and without warning.

Back in Oakland getting ready for the coming semester but mostly cleaning house and hanging pictures. Another shipment of my things, the last shipment, came courtesy of my sister's friend who brought the boxes and bags in exchange for my sister agreeing to take care of her snakes, which are now living in my sister's house in D.C. Last Tuesday I finally made it to D.C. and witnessed Knight, my sister's husband, dethawing a frozen rat (hot water) and feeding to one of the snakes, who lunged at it and then took its time trying to fit it into its mouth. But to recap the trip: flew from Oakland to Chicago, met up with Cole stayed at his place for the night then to Indiana for a nights camping and then up to Madison where to most significant event was getting a chance to read the last Harry Potter book which was exciting enough to keep me up very late most nights and then the train to Kentucky where I stayed at my Uncle's for a couple days with brother and sister and Knight and then to Virginia where I was able to see Erika and John's work in progress house, had a day and two nights and then to D.C. for one night and then home. Those are just the facts. It's good to travel and see my people, but also I read and write a lot when I'm moving for some reason. This is also good, to take a break from daily happenings. I feel like I've been neglecting the blog so I'll stop writing this update and post something a little more interesting. Oakland is quiet.

Today Will and I hiked around Devil's Lake, about forty five minutes north of Madison, climbing up the large granite boulders to the ridge trail around the lake. Will asked if I would write about it in my blog and I said probably not. I asked Will if he read any blogs and he said he read a couple political blogs (Talking Points Memo and The Washington Monthly). More happened but right now I feel more tired than smart, and its a good feeling. Tomorrow I'm getting on a train that will drop me in Ashville Kentucky, where I'll meet up with my brother and sister enroute from D.C., and we'll continue on to my Uncle Jim's in Mt. Sterling Kentucky.

After dinner I borrowed my mom's car and drove down town. It was the second part of my three part shopping expedition in Madison. The first part consisted of going to Capital City Comics where I browsed around and asked about a comic named "Y: the last man", but was also there to ask if they wanted to buy my old Transformer comic books, that I figured had high resale value due to the Transformers movie. The man, a white haired man who seemed kind said he might be if they were in good condition, that people who played with Transformers as kids might be interested in them. I asked how much he would give me for them and he handed me a comic price guide. After looking at the guide and handing it back the man asked me if I got what I was looking for.

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This seemed like strange question until now that I write it out it makes me think of the antique road home show or whatever it's called and some article I read about "value porn", where you start with a dusty old item, listen to the expert talk about its history maybe how special it is building to the climax of assigning a dollar amount how much its worth, being disappointed or surprised, and then you start again with the old dusty thing, build to the pay off, etc. Over and over. Like looking up old things on Ebay, a short high preceded by research. Raising worth through things you mostly forget about, as if some mysterious force is taking care of us, lucky, or lottery winners our virtue comes naturally. After sharing his excitement about Y: the last man, the store keep seemed disappointed that my real reason for being there wasn't about comics.

_

After that I went to the CD store next door. Flipped through some used CDs and listened to the new M.I.A. Huh, so that's what she sounds like. Made a note to find the first M.I.A. at a used store. But I want to go back to the Transformer comic story: I don't need a bunch of old comic books that I won't read. Regardless of the time I put into collecting them as a kid, the only reason I can think of not to sell them is sentimental, or, their value as proof that I was a kid. I would like to think that past attachments can and should be thrown away when they are no longer useful. That a build up of junk to be hauled around and taken care of, limits our possibilities. Then again maybe this idea is an example of junk that I haul around. I decided not to sell them but only because I couldn't come to a decision. I'll put them back in my mother's basement.

Am in Wisconsin now. Fresh off the bus. Five hours. Traffic delay. Went camping with Cole last night at the Indiana Dunes. Climbed Mt. Baldy. Sat in the sand. Earlier in Chicago met the new one, Adele, and woke up to Ethan sitting in the lotus position completely naked, bright blonde hair. Flew from Oakland supposedly non-stop but instead Las Vegas and St. Louis. Nine hours. Too long. It's storming as I write this. Lightning and Thunder. I'll be here for about five days and then to Kentucky to see uncle and cousins and second cousins. Then to Virginia hopefully to see Erika and John. Then to DC to see Abby. Just the facts.

Today was the last day of school for the summer semester. This means that until September 6th I am master of my own time. Master and Commander. Tomorrow Amy and I are going camping. No specific destination in mind but we were going to head out early and try and find a good spot along the northern coast. We'll eat sausages and walk around, hopefully swimming and get our rental car back in time. Pontiac Sunfire? Only time will tell.

Insects as the kind that waddle, I know the future because I let it bother me, hoping for alternative methods of prayer: listening carefully and hearing a marching bands pass. An elderly woman moves out of her apartment. No action, appalling heights or those who conquer them. Other havens, the mother’s apartment and noticing the dialect, the story has been related as we trust one another to tell us the truth. We may trust our advisors, those without time, and then there are those around us.

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Setting or sitting I entertained myself and preformed as I might in public, slightly confident and talkative, loud and able to hold and answer all questions relevant. And we see what we’re looking for, what we’re told we see. As children, our conversations run against measure. Tonight the cat ate a mound of used up garlic, cooked in olive oil so the olive oil would retain some garlic flavor. I’m not sure if it worked out but the tomatoes were good in the salad and it’s hard to know what happens when what happens won’t speak up.

The cat ran out the door and up the stairs to the apartment above. “It’s the same fucking apartment dude, it’s empty too.” As if something different is out there. Raw raw pessimism. Alive with the purpose of flexing muscle, doing the duties we’ve been requested to do. Malcontent. Pessimism. Or something like that. Autobiography of the general surgeon, or the surgeon's general views on life cycles, the cat is licking its fur. This cat? Undecided in terms of grooming. We’re grooming absolute measurements. Cyclical. Or cycle through the list of accomplishments. Tanks and warheads later.

All systems go. Go fishing in the bay. Working up to the last pail of water, to feel as if we’ve done something evil, or provocative. This circle of fluff is hairy fur. Tweeter got knocked by smelly. Tool got bent. These observations mark the seventh anniversary of marking things down. If it makes you feel better you may proceed. The real penchant is training grounds for excitement, the excitable allies of the gravel truck. Yuck. Politics manifest as production towards procreation. The subtleties of production marked by manufactured homes and the products within these homes. Loosely based on a true story, the truck is filled with kinetic passengers. A hobby is more like a flotation device, and floats to the surface.

Looking for direction the pig takes its cue from the farmer’s schedule. Rent a car and submit to fines induced. We all pale Friday, finally. Cats will continue licking their fur, cleaning by and for the most acceptable of weevils. We evil. Recharge the booty call. Displace depth, diaphragms, pregnant axles and gums of steel. Release all agents marked “toxic.” Worry. This is the story of the day. Dreaming this morning of a train on a schedule away from the base, we might ask what the water flows to, but, ah well.

Author's Note: "New Place", a new chapbook is now available via mail or email via five dollars via the Pierce Press website. See the link in the "OTHER" column or click on "New Place" in the "CHAPBOOKS" column. Expect the cover of "New Place" to look slightly different than the picture. Expect another brief but well made book from Pierce Press this winter. Expect it to be written by Matt Turner. Expect more from your loved ones: when they track mud across the floor make sure they clean it up.

I was staying at my brother’s apartment in the interim but it was already three days past our move in date. As Adam, the previous tenant, and I sat in the mostly empty apartment, she repeated that she was doing us a favor by making it easy for us to move in, that she saved us a significant sum of money by not having to get a broker, that we actually owe her. During a pause in the argument I offered that you do things because you want to, not because of their exchange value. That if you expect to get something back, you’ll be disappointed. Brooklyn, New York.

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The space was rented and Adam was amassing books. I started the work of getting the walls into paintable shape, and with the keys, would let myself in by nine. Adam was mostly absent during this part and all of a sudden I felt like an employee. That, but I was also personally invested in the store as poem or process. There is a line on the ceiling, where the purple tin meets the white plaster. The paint follows the curve of heavily layered caulk, letting the brush settle into the contours of aged plastic through the slow and steady press of attention.
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My brother sketched some designs and measurements on the unpainted walls with a pencil. Adam wanted the shelves to run the entire length of the three walls, and we figured the height of each section as a length of a pine board. I had lobbied for used bookshelves, to spare the construction labor and wood. I didn’t consider myself a motivated carpenter and worried that Adam would abandon the project in the middle. Who would do the work? Adam insisted and we built the shelves with a short tutorial from my brother. It took about a week. Staining them took another week, but I cut out in the middle.

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Adam and I were having a drink after the bookstore had closed for the night. At that time I had other work, and with him running the store by himself we didn’t spend much time together. We started talking, then arguing about placing a foot mat at the entrance. The conversation shifted into a discussion of limits. Adam’s insistence that the facilities are relatively low on the priority list and my insistence that the space is as important as the books. Dogs pay little attention to birds. Men to bugs. In terms of poetry, the bookstore as an extension of the imagination.

One turns over
We hold ourselves responsible
“feeling sorry,” feelings
We
The gutters and the buildings
The message
The dampness attached to this story
I wouldn’t like to write
A narrative is a word
But this is a collection of instances
Interested souls, the measuring cup the length of a stick
Sickness and in good health
Absorption, a pleasant space
Rains here in May
Letters to friends and then there are the friends, Saturday I arrive into Canada
Sunday
Trace copy, insert a space, turning the page my concentration
Bends, grateful.

The dogs got wilder and wilder until one day nobody looked after them. They could tell that something was wrong with my father and Susan wasn't usually home. He paid them no attention and they knew he was no longer the one to feed them. He who wasn't there. Andy stared at me as I loaded the truck to return to Seattle. After Sterling was neutered he became easier to hold. The sweet one was eaten by coyotes.
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Tuck, the new one, wasn't properly house trained. I had never been in charge of training the dogs and didn't realize that neither my father nor Susan were handling it. Tuck peed on the carpet even after she was old enough to have puppies. Sitting on the lawn we let her puppies fall over each other in the grass as Andy and Sterling looked on. We took pictures. These pictures, that day, my father's hair blown out in the wind. One by one the puppies were sold and I cleaned up the kennel and Tuck ran back out to play.

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I feel like I haven't been sad enough, or that it's too late, or that I don't feel about my father's sickness. There was a time in Seattle, after I had come back from the farm, jobless and isolated in a moldy apartment, when I thought about it constantly. In retrospect I think this would of been considered mourning, but I had nothing to show for it, no funeral or confirmation that anything had actually happened. At that time, the only people who had any idea of the damage were those that were there in Mineral Point: Susan, Ted, and a few other good friends of my father, the ones who come to visit even when he can no longer remember their names. It's a beautiful day in Oakland. I need to get ready for class.

When I get scared on an airplane it feels like the plane were made out of paper and could be blown apart at any moment. It shakes because the wind is smashing against it and we are trapped in the tube and there is nothing to do about it. I grip the armrests tightly when it dips and when the gravity pulls on my stomach I lower my body in hopes that bending with these forces somehow wills them to straighten up. A kind of solidarity. I look around and most people are sleeping or reading.

Flying used to be exciting, full confidence in the machine and the people who fly them. I would fly to Oakland from Seattle to see Amy, and every time I stepped off in Oakland I was struck by her presence not one to remember faces and I never had pictures. Every time it was new and I would think all I have to do is sit here for the next hour and fifteen minutes, no necessary alertness to keep us in the sky.

It helps if I look out the window, amazed by perspective and engaged in trying to connect the shapes and colors of the fields and cities with the fields and cities I know. Maybe it’s a distraction or simply trying to remember what it was not to be scared.

Hi. The reading went well. Blogger flagged my blog as a spam blog so they stopped me from posting anything. But I was gone anyway. Today I was doing some school work and catching up. Tonight I'll try and put up some more posts that have been marinating in my computer as well as put up the Pierce Press website. Through it you can find true happiness. Like a gorilla eating ice cream. Or a gorilla communicating to another gorilla with forceful sign language, the other gorilla not understanding because he too is trying to forcibly communicate with sign language. Mike Conley Jr., the number four pick in the NBA draft was quoted as saying "I'm part of my own collection." Firmin Didot, a French printer and type founder coined the word stereotype, which in printing refers to the metal plate that prints the page, reducing the cost of printing by considerable amounts. Save money save time. There are workshops all around the world devoted to these topics and there are workshops all around the world devoted to saving yourself from these topics. Acculturate. My neighbor invited me to a workshop this weekend regarding financial empowerment through an understanding of your own relationship with money, your purpose and the connection between the two. It's more complicated or less complicated than that but I was interested in going. It seems helpful.

There are days when nobody sees you. Nobody shows up and you’re not needed. You spend the hour talking to your co-worker about comic books because the personal questions get too close to the hotel he’s trying to move out of, and how do you like that drawing of bees posted with a green thumb tack to the bulletin board. One option is to push against the hard spots. Like leaning against a lone tree in a wide open field, the comfort of its shade keeps things fixed perspective.

Hear Ye Hear Ye

Announcing: A reading, this Sunday, the 29th of July at Unnameable Books (456 Bergen Street,Brooklyn NY)w/ the poet, Erika Howsare. 3 PM. I will be selling a new chapbook ("New Place") that will also be available through the Pierce Press site (not yet up and running). Amy and I are in town for a wedding so I wrote Adam an email and he said what the heck why not? Thus, the reading.

I had a dream this morning where someone had given me, or I won, a two door pea green muscle car. I was so happy and parked it next to a small pond. When I came back, it had rolled backwards into the pond. And not only that, someone had built a basketball court over the pond. I was lifting the panels of the court one by one looking for the car when Amy woke me up. I told her that I had had an awful dream.

Jobless in Seattle, I frequented a coffee shop named Solistice, not because I liked their coffee but because of its front porch like sitting section, slightly elevated but exposed to the flow of traffic. One night while reading a Harper's Magazine an older man sat down at my table and asked me if I was an intellectual. We talked but he was hostile, taking me for someone I had no idea I was.

_

He told me he was a genius and a playwright, busy staging a major production in Seattle but stuck outside for the night, a day too early to start his residency. He told me about what it meant to be a writer, reading Shakespeare, and writing everyday. Hard work, and I asked questions. At one point, after passive-aggressively challenging his genius status, he snapped at me: "You're the one who wanted to play chess."

_

As it got late I offered him the couch of where I was living. I didn't like him, but enjoyed the attention and adventure of meeting a stranger at a coffee shop. We walked back and I asked him to read a chapbook that I had put together. Shaking his head, he said I needed a lot of work. He was tired and grumpy, and I suggested sleep. He let himself out in the morning.

I jumped onto the pier and tried to keep the boat's momentum from slamming into the concrete. It didn't work too well, but Brian and the other's got off okay. I was standing on the handle of a concrete fork of a pier, with a rusty and unused warehouse occupying the middle space. Two guys were laughing on an adjacent pier, and I guessed why: the pier I had just jumped onto was not connected to the shore in a friendly way. The wood was rotted on one side and the seagulls were swooping at my head. I asked the guys how to get off the dock and they gave me shitty advice, so I walked to the other side where another man, wearing a captain's hat, laughed at the situation. I could see a fence down at the end, and there I was met by a representative of the Coast Guard who also laughed at the situation. I asked him if I was doing anything illegal, and he said I was trespassing. There fence was high and unsuitable for climbing, but there was a way around the fence by going along the outer edge. I threw my back pack over the fence and climbed along the edge onto the wooden dock. I said thank you the Coast Guard and walked to the train.

This morning I got up at seven and went running. Near the end of my route, the route around the lake where I get off the path and run through the grassy area where the Canada Geese like to congregate and eat/poop, a man pulls up next to me in his van, driving slowly and shouts, do you agree with all those environmentalists? At first I thought maybe there was some mistake and continued to run but after he shouted his question a couple more times I asked him (still running) to clarify his question, which environmentalists did he mean exactly, and he rephrased it: do you agree with all those environmentalists claiming that the sky is falling. I took this to mean the climate change business and I said yes, but it depends. I said (still running, at this point, maybe a hundred yards he'd been driving along side me), I think they're right about climate change coming but we're not really going to feel the effects for another fifty years, that maybe he didn't have anything to worry about (he was older, maybe in his fifties) but I might, and ran behind his van across the street to make the final half block home. He shouted out his window, "You don't know how long I'm going to live, and you could die tomorrow. Only god knows that." I made a gesture of acknowledgment (hands together in a kind of prayer raised slightly over my head) and ran across the street.

this isn't the exact one year anniversary and what is a year anyway but the earth revolving around the sun a couple birthdays a wedding and a christmas party but it is close enough and on a lovely holiday day in july i thought that maybe this was the time to asses the state of this blog through a little free associative meandering forward that is to say writing forward and concentrating about the purpose of why i'm doing this which lately has become a chore in the sense of its been a while since i've posted anything why don't i post something and then remembering that i have other projects that i need to do such as the chapbook i'm putting together in time for the reading at unnameable and preparing for class and feeding the cat and thinking about seeing the transformer movie because the fireworks are supposedly canceled in jack london square but that's unconfirmed as yet and i don't feel like going into the city because this apartment is totally awesome and amy's gone away for the rest of the week and stuff and junk but all this is to say that the blog has at some times become semi serious in the sense of thought out and worked on postings mostly expanding my comfort level in terms of what i'm willing to show but anonymously and sometimes its this tippy tap writing including everything until a good resting point comes or the cat wakes up or whichever comes first but really truly it's something of a project one that goes on and the challenge of keeping it interesting to myself is foremost and i apologize for letting those down who are looking for something but just when those somethings begin to crystallize is when it becomes pointless to keep going they don't need us and maybe the lesson learned is a process and the refusal of abandonment i wish it was enough to say i try but we all know that's not enough we need results to make investments to make it worth it but the ideas keep coming see adam's and erika's and john's and cole's blogs they keep coming a commitment to testimony and new spaces for our memory to inhabit more later

My sister called me from JFK airport today. She was waiting for her flight to leave for Ireland, which was supposed to leave from O'hare, which was where she was going to meet my Mom, and they were going to fly together for their horse riding trip. She wanted to tell me that she loved me, because she was about to get on a fourteen hour international flight.

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I sat on the bed and sat on the bed. A little heavy from the frozen pizza I had eaten for dinner, I thought about what I could be doing, something active like shooting baskets or going for a bike ride. I continued to sit and my thoughts drifted to teaching, and the chapbook I have been working to assemble. I got up and smoked a cigarette and sat back down on the bed with Brian's "Before Starting Over", taking particular interest in his writing about Silliman's blog.

_

Adam had brought up the issue, seemingly in passing, that I "wanted to be a poet", during whatever conversation what were having. Which strikes a nerve in the sense that if this is my ambition, I'm sorry that my ambition is so naked. The assertion implying that I'm not one already, that I'm trying to become.

_

It strikes the same kind of nerve as the nerve that gets struck when the issue of "working hard" comes up amongst my old group of friends. Inductively, again, the insecurity leads me to conclude that I'm not working hard enough. Jake had told me that I was the slowest and laziest painter he had ever worked with. I responded that that was

impossible.

i'm not kidding: here's an article by Frank Herbert, author of Dune, published in 1980: http://www.dunenovels.com/news/genesis.html

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these blog things are great, you can post whatever you want. here's a picture of a

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i waste no time

to kick my line

i said how you doing she said

hey i'm doing fine

steady as she goes who goes amy goes out of town i'm about to start back up teaching for the summer one creative writing class and then esl support for a screen writing class and then there are speaking and writing lab appointments but that's my summer who knows how it will be busy i hope and lucrative so that i can afford to move amongst the upper echelon of people's and place funny faces and dogs and cats and mice and men but wednesdays are off right now now work and its possible that i'll go crawling back to the buddha museum where i spent so many days writing the copy in my earlier east bay days but we'll see i need to talk to john in addition to calling kelly the therapist who i think i'm going to break ties off with i kind of feel drained after i leave like i'm the one who actually helping him and that's amore when the moon hits your eye and then there are the decisions should i stay or should i go right now i'm not particularly happy kind of lonely actually too much time off and not enough peeps to spend time with at least the cat is happy and aggressively so sitting in my lap with her paws on the computer its all very cute but there's more to life than being cute isn't there maybe clever maybe its time to go back to my studies preparing the syllabus and meditating on my first impressions this weekend i'm going canoe-ing up north with old friends and am very much looking forward to it nothing smells better than memory a ten foot man feeding me lunch

We found a place to drink, a small German themed pub not too far from the Shinjuku station, and sat at the bar. It was empty asides from a middle aged couple sitting at the corner table, and a gray haired man sitting at the bar. We each had a couple of beers and ate bar snacks out of the little glass dishes placed on the bar. We talked to the gray haired man, an architect, about cardboard houses. After not too long we decided to go and the bill came, something like one hundred twenty thousand yen, which was something like one hundred dollars at that time, and I said what? and the bartender explained she had to charge us extra for sitting at the bar and eating snacks.

_

This morning in the Travel section of the New York Times there is an article about the tiny, back alley bars becoming increasingly popular in Japan. The article quotes a bar owner in Japan named Mark Dykman: "If you are intruding on a close-knit scene, the proprietor will ignore you and maybe over charge you. You won't be asked to leave, but you will want to leave."

In my middle teens I asked my father, kind of tongue in cheek but interested in the answer: "what did you want to be when you grew up?", and he answered that he still didn't know what he wanted to be. One morning, post-college, when I came to stay at the farm to help Susantake care of him, he borrowed my truck to drive down to the mechanic and check on the status of his vehicle. It was early and I kept sleeping until the phone rang, the mechanic asking me to bring the fire chief's truck back. I said huh? and looked out the window to see my dad pulling up in tan ford truck. After returning the truck and bringing back my own, I scolded him and barred him from driving my truck again.

There is a trail of events within the dream, passing through many friends and places, uniforms and roles, but these didn’t stick in my mind. Instead it’s the falling through the sky, away from everyone, into a canyon; quarry like and filled with water so clear it did not distort the odd, almost fluorescent light that filled the canyon. I had no problems breathing, and in looking around I saw jagged rock outcroppings ascending high up the sides, in addition to smaller, six to eight foot high boulders. There were aquarium like plants, floaty leafy greens swaying, and I was standing on the white sandy bottom. Amazed that I was still upright after the fall I looked around and felt fear. Not at the rocks but what was behind them.

The most significant part of the dream was my reaction to the fear. I simply decided to wake up. In recognizing that my vision was completely unclouded in this place, I got the feeling I would see things I was not ready to see. Not because they would be horrible, but because seeing these things would bring a forced responsibility, one that I would have to take ownership for. To avoid this, I woke myself up, a knowing return to the comfortable muddle.

Recently I’ve been reading a kind of autobiography by Carl Jung (Memories, Dreams, Reflections), and in it he goes into intense depths of analysis within his own dreams, his interpretations almost acting as plot points within his story. In the prologue he writes:

“Outward circumstances are no substitute for inner experience. Therefore my life has been singularly poor in outward happenings. I cannot tell much about them, for it would strike me as hollow and insubstantial. I can understand myself only in the light of inner happenings. It is these that make up the singularity of my life, and with these my autobiography deals.”

My parents were divorced when I was four, and the arrangement made between them was to split the time, so that my sister, brother, and I would spend our weekends and summers with my father in Mineral Point, and the rest of the time we would go to school in Madison. Completely out of my control, it made it difficult to see school friends on the weekends, or develop relationships with small town friends without being in school with them. On the upside it enabled me to take credit for importing big city fashions into the small town, and get out of doing things I didn’t want to do with the city kids.
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One Sunday before Sunday school, I decided to wear one of my black Reebok high tops along with a white Reebok high top; a style that I had seen some kids wearing at Lincoln (Elementary School) around the time when Criss-Cross, the twin kid-rappers were popular, wearing their clothes backwards and all that. So I wore them and we sang, bided our time until we were let out. No one had said a word to me about the shoes, but that was not unusual as most Sundays I passed through as quietly as possible.
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Last fall I attended the wedding of an old friend from Mineral Point. At the wedding I talked to Troy, an acquaintance while growing up, about our shared experiences, and he mentioned the mismatched shoes as something that he had always wondered about. I explained myself in the same way that I had been prepared to explain myself back then, that I couldn’t find the other shoe. In writing this I realize I haven’t really earned much perspective on this phenomenon.

By neither acting nor choosing not to act, that knowing a situation is often enough and this process is action. How can I answer the question? Speaking what I know to be true, a meeting between the known and what is shown to be otherwise. Not to set up a dialectic, not to simplify things into two categories as inner and outer, but to use conflict as a stepping stone. That by standing up my lap vanishes.
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And I would be wrong if I thought this were true, these words. Surely someone or something disagrees, and even if they are not here to dispute it, consider it done. A cat snores. The question of meaning is the answer leading by example, by risking one’s own conventions. By risking more. There are many ways to fail and be unsure but pushing forward regardless is conviction, an acceptance of the inevitable uncertainties and the limits of dualism: that one or the other or the distance in-between; the location, is just a mark on a map, a bird’s eye view. Those eyes, the small ones, and why courage fails us to stay with ourselves.

Earlier this week I went swimming in a fifty meter pool in Pasadena California. The water was not warm but refractions of the sun covered the floor in flakes of light. Though originally a ball of burning gas, a man sings along to the radio and a dog barks. These kinds of energies. I got out of the pool and sat down on the concrete to stretch, touching my toes and flexing my groin. A tick bit into my arm and I spent the next forty five minutes dealing with the repercussions: why me?