On a train in-between San Luis Obispo and Oakland, reading "The Emperor's Children" by Claire Messud that I had wanted to read for awhile and then not at all, and then suddenly again this afternoon while at the book store, looking for something for the train. Jen wrote a brief review of the book, and to paraphrase, "what a disappointment," but I'm only on page ninety three so I can't confirm or deny this.

The book is about people in their early thirties who went to Brown as undergraduates and aren't finding their way exactly, living in New York. The conversation between Marina and her father, the expression of parental disappointment when Marina confesses that she is lost and her father's thoughts of entitlement and a spoiled child. The bit about Julius wondering what it is that successful people posses and setting his sights on a relationship with his boss.

The conversation from a week ago, the unabashed yes, I want to be involved with a person who outwardly pursues what I find attractive so that I don't have to. The excerpt from "Alive in Necropolis" in the book review about the yuppie party full of two types of people, and to paraphrase again, those who are living their parent's lives and those still living their college lives, a false dichotomy but it makes me think.

The day I turned in the summer grades I ran into Katie and Jim and we had lunch at a small breakfast place in a not too bad at two in the afternoon block of the Tenderloin, happy to finally spontaneously go out with people who I didn't feel any obligation to sleep with. Back to the book, another hundred pages in, themes so far about privilege and disappointment, and like me on a foggy day, a group of people who feel their only choices are to try for eight gold medals or smoke hashish.

The question of what we want or at least the question of admitting this insecurity as the question: do we admit these times of doubt or wait until they pass? Do I keep posting through the muddled time or leave a record of where I am? In Portland, my roommate Craig had a nervous breakdown during his first year teaching high school. He told everybody about what was going on immediately: his family, his roommates, his bosses, his co-workers; took a week off and got himself together enough to finish the year. I attributed his quick recovery to the fact that he was comfortable enough where he was to ask for help.

This could keep going, these paragraphs, but I'm going to stop now. The last two weeks have been vacation like, seeing friends Johnathan and Anna and Bill, entertaining and day tripping around San Francisco. The past weekend was in San Luis Obispo helping paint Joel and Jesse's house. I have a week of intentional grounding here at the apartment on Valencia and then I'm doing a tiny house sit in Palo Alto, followed by Buddyfest up in Portland. Then school starts. Let me know if you have any questions. See you later.

today was the last day of the summer semester a full class of presentations of proposal arguments that i will attempt to topically summarize in the following story: walking through an alley on my way to class today i noticed a stray cat unable to defend itself because it was missing its claws so i stopped to take it to the animal shelter but realized the shelter will most likely euthinize this cat or sell it to the animal circus where the circus trainers will negatively reenforce it to learn tricks like carry the babies of other cats for money or smoke cigarettes or force it to take standardized tests that obviously it will not pass because cats can't read so i took a picture of it with my digital camera, adjusting the colors to give it that 'natural light look' and brought the picture home to my roommate who is always stoned from pot he buys illegally from people who buy legally from cannabis clubs but it's his choice so i don't say much and instead focus on the vast knowledge and many opportunities he gained from his global education and he looks at me and says dude, why are you so concerned about a cat when we've passed peak oil and our institutions are deeply discriminatory against women and by the way, this picture looks like shit. and i so i said how would you like to walk around on your knuckles? or be forced to walk on your hands because your feet are too burnt? if we had a symbol for this cat crisis or the environmental crisis like a man on the moon or two buildings collapsing in the middle of new york would we take it more seriously? urgently? just because the streets of san francisco have an open enrollment policy doesn't mean they're a lesser institution than a gated community. and with that, i returned to the alley, found the cat, and enrolled it in a chinese cooperative institution after a lengthy and frustrating financial aid application process. currently, this cat is being positively reinforced and rehabilitated with snacks.

Fin

by the same token (conversation with self continued), this two o two class has almost single handedly restored my faith that this teaching is a job worth doing. seeing the proposal arguments come together and having some students genuinely engaging with research, reading, and putting it all together reminds me of the enthusiasm i had when i was an undergraduate studying sociology with professor peterson, his enthusiasm and passion for trying to make sense of the world, its structure and abstraction and why people make the choices they make. that is to say, some of these papers are really good and wow, i actually helped teach someone! so, not to project that it's all doom and gloom but after next week, the end of the semester, i will be looking for other work while living off the government dole (adjunct teachers are entitled to unemployment). ideally i'd like to find a part time research/writing job and combine it with teaching part-time. the academy pays for shit, but sometimes it's almost sort of worth it. welcome to august.

(from today's three twelve class) I'm totally and absolutely flustered, coming in from supporting Rene's class once again, trying to pull my thoughts and myself...in. Not that it's dramatic, or too dramatic, but this morning I focused my breathing for a good length of time, trying to locate the big white ball of stress caught up in the in the middle of my diaphragm. I actually got somewhere and it would be a mistake to say things have gotten out of control. Vibrating phone and world comes back. If there was a way into the chapter, I could play the location game with confidence. Instead it's the grind, as the say, another day another dollar. The beatings will continue until moral improves. I entered Rene's class in a good spot, but after all this pushing and shoving about trying to understand the student's final projects, I've ended up back inside my chest. No location or locution. An awkward position and coming in late, men with no conscience and the women who love them. Tonight at eleven. I'm looking forward to doing some gardening on Saturday.

Two on the War

i.
Perhaps the way to implode radical Islamic militants is to legitimize their authority and presence. Give them something to lose. As an organization or bureaucracy grows so does its ineffectiveness on the street; the strength and seeming root of fundamentalist belief. Fat cat unioneering and giving everybody what they want. The middle class: some thing to love.

ii.
Insects hatch while they can, all at once. Red ants and flying ones, within hours they were all gone. I would've liked to have told you. I would've liked for you to have seen it. They were swarming up the banister out of the concrete, thick and of one mind. Why did I forget to to tell you? Why is the answer to the question always the same? A semi-circle of mushrooms grows undisturbed. If only I had thought to bring this up, the beginnings of a radical script.

Relevant Employment

Free Lance Painting, WI, WA, OR, RI, NY.................................................2000-Present
Painter, Four Square Painting and Home Repair, Madison, WI........................Fall 2005 & 2006
Maintenance, The Perry Center for Children, Portland, OR.................................2002-2003
Painter, River Bend Youth Center, Oregon City, OR........................................2002-2003
Tom Naue Painting, Madison, WI.........................................................Summer 1999
Factory Work, American Pine, Prineville, OR...........................................Summer 1998
Landscaper/Laborer, Midland Builders, Madison, WI............................Summers 1995, 1996
Laborer, Merry Christmas Tree Farm, Mineral Point, WI (family business) .............1985-2000

Relevant Skills

Painting
Oil Painting
Faux Painting
Removing Paint
Prepping Walls for Painting
Plastering
Sanding
Taping
Drywalling
Basic Carpentry including knowledge of tools, and ability to read blueprints
Wall Paper Removal
Water Damage Repair
Driving heavy machinery including tractors and Bobcats
Lawn maintenance
Construction site maintenance
Putting up Barbwire Fencing
Using a chainsaw
Brush Burning (Fire Safety)
Wood Staining
Rock Work
Hay Bailing
Weed Wacking
Tree Trimming
Tree Planting
Field Mowing
Vehicle maintenance
Sewing

consumption as a break from desking, i went out to amoeba records yesterday afternoon, riding the thirty three over and down the hill to the upper haight. i had a list of records i was interested in, and found most of them, took them over to the listening station, previewed and picked a few, went back to the stacks, founds some more etc. but in the end, unable to decided amongst the multitude of options, i put them all down and got back on the thirty three. i'm not made out of money you know. today's sunday paper had yet another five articles about how we're all headed for economic/spiritual doom once the lenders come calling for their money, and by lenders i mean foreign countries who are invested in these big (morally) bankrupt companies such as fannie mae. apparently the only way that we can save our selves is to keep spending money. but if we are using all our money to pay off debt, we don't have much to spend on ipods, or rims or whatever. um, (say something smart say something smart,) i think it would be best if we all got some rest. this morning i woke in a panic prompted by dreams of class (school class, not economic). it's been quite busy lately. my mind is a ball of mud.

on the bright side, today i went to burger king and felt extremely lethargic for about two hours afterwords. it was totally worth it, but you would think a wax paper cup full of ice cold coca cola would burn through that bloated salty feeling. there was something wrong with the straw. when i was ordering i almost (almost) said to the cashier as she told me my total of six dollars and seventy something cents, you know, when i was in high school, whoppers were only ninety nine cents. for two dollars you could feel totally bloated and blob through your fifth period psychology class, repressing farts while listening to the funny psychology teacher talk about pavlov's dogs while waving around a diet coke. or that time cole and i thought it would be a good idea, while we were living in prineville and working at a lumber mill during some weirdo summer between our sophomore and junior year of college, to buy a bag full of thirty nine cent hamburgers from mcdonalds to take advantage of their sunday special, and eat them all throughout the week. that lasted three days maybe. the hamburgers began to not taste so good after awhile. it's possible that they never tasted good. god is good. it's a beautiful night.

(notes from class today)

Today is muddled. Today the barometric pressure has dropped. Today not all that many students came to class. Today is cloudy. Today is a mud ball. Today is a plate of beans. Today is the color green leaking slowly from low hanging clouds. Today is the expression on my face. Today is not my first language. Today is a grease trap. Today is a pound of bacon. Today is a glass of water sitting on the counter collecting dust. Today is a wide mouth pop top. Today is a wool sweater. Today is a low quality sausage with just enough pepper for it to taste good. Today is a clown snack. Today is an extremely large glass eye.

What is this arguing for? The world in a minute? The world is a vampire? The world is a cold and barren place? Damn I need a sandwich. Damn. Damn I'm hungry. Damn you're hungry. Damn. Damn. Damn.

There's a poet named Vernonica Forrest-Thomson, or, rather, there was a poet named Veronica Forrest-Thomson, who published a book of literary criticism named Poetic Artifice posthumously, following her suicide at the age of twenty-eight. Bummer. I woke up thinking of this, not her exactly but one of the ideas from this book, a book that I read while living in Brooklyn a book that was at the New York Public library and is considered a rare book because not many were published, thus you can't usually just order one on-line. You have to find it in a University collection (if you're lucky. Anyway...). The idea that as readers we have a tendency for "external naturalization" when we read a story or a poem; a tendency to try to create a comparable meaning outside of the writing that we can compare the two with, for example "this poem is about the writer's relationship with his father" or "this story is about living in Israel as a Palestinian"... something like that. We do it all the time: remove whatever it is from its context and put it into a context that is easier to understand and explain. Think 'soundbite', or your friends in the avant-garde explaining how a particular piece of dissonant music was made.

This isn't a bad thing, our tendency to relate, and in fact it's why we're able to make sense of things: because in our readings or listenings we relate what is being said to ourselves and our own experiences. In reading a poem or listening to a song, we'll go back and forth between paying rapt attention to the thing, and rattling around in our own minds. Like a pop song, think verse chorus verse, and the chorus is when our ears take a break and we sing along, or inhabit the persona of the hip-hopper, or whatever. She writes:

"Our reading must work through the level of meaning into the external world and then, via the non-semantic levels of artifice, back into the poem, enriched by the external contexts of reference in which it found itself momentarily merged. This is what continuity in poetic language means."

Or in other words, every time we go into our heads we bring back something new to the poem or piece that we're interacting with, and with that new information or memory, we go back into the poem's structure, thereby setting up new and fresh comparisons until we are once again sent out into our own heads...back and forth back and forth etc. I write all this because I woke up thinking of what we were going to do for today's 'freewrite', where at the start of every class we spend about ten minutes writing and then sharing what we wrote. My question (or topic) is not who was Veronica Forrest-Thomson, but does everything we write or say or do have a comparable external meaning?

friend cole emailed a particular youtube clip that i want to share with you all. it is truly amazing. while i'm at it, here is another one. have a good weekend if you have weekends.

It's weird: the more I write in the blog the more comments come back. Not that I'm trying to write anymore, but anyway, I've been listening to the self titled crystal castles album and really enjoying it in a kind of dance floor disco kind of way, like when certain songs come on I can't help but walk by placing one foot in front of the other in a slightly aggressive manner, like the way I imagine models do, which is embarrassing so I stop. It also makes me think of a particular ex and imagine she would be into it, the music, because it feels like its made for/by people just a little bit cooler than me, the dance punk wave that began just as the warp era electronic music that i so dearly love petered out and with it my need to keep up on what's new. Cole wrote a couple comments ago that sometimes I blog like I'm on cocaine and wasn't sure if this was good or bad. The magazine Casey brought back from work has an article on David Berman where the subheading speaks of his "path to usefulness." That sounds nice. Before bed I've been reading the The Inner Chapters by Chuang Tzu, he writes: "A mole drinking at the river needs but a single bellyful. Go home and rule through idleness." Clearly I have more work to do.

Last night I dreamt that there were two bees living in my shoes, a pair of Reeboks my brother had given me, with 'Hexalite' webbing in the heel. The window was on the inside of the right shoe, but it was damaged somehow, so the two bees could come in and out. I was worried about getting stung on my heel. I tried to squash the bees with a chisel like tool but the bees had already flown away. I woke up and opened the curtain, and sat in the window letting the sun onto my shoulders. They say it's going to be "a hot one" today.

I consider myself to be a relatively lucky person, though I’m not sure what this means. It’s one of those latent ideas or feelings that operates underneath, and ties to some large, mysterious mass of psychology if we want to think of it that way.

Or, that luck is more of the power of attraction, the secret and other self help remedies that fail to hold weight when pressed. I guess that’s why luck isn’t considered a religion, because it’s random: the alligator makes its move but snaps a twig. A bird flies away.

Somehow this makes the most sense; that things happen, but it’s easy to stray from chance to fate, as if some thing is in control. We make notes of all this to keep track. But what is it? Circumstance? If I run into my friend at the grocery store should I be surprised?

Luck seems to me like a perspective, that how we look at something determines if it’s lucky. I think this is an idea that’s easy to understand:

A moon was found in the sky, entire and singular.

I believe this is the perspective required for luck. On the other hand, sixteen year old, my friend Aric and his string of crashed cars: I think it’s bad luck, he said. I believed him.

tuesday yep and class starts at twelve but i got done a little early preparing for the incredibly awesome and awe inspiring day where we look at and talk about the nuts and bolts of argument which is kind of funny since i'm probably the last person you'd want teaching you how to argue but after teaching this class five times previous i've learned a few things but my point is i got done early because i woke up early somewhere around six for some unknown reason the orange light of the sunrise coming in to my feng shui situated head pointed north as i sleep and woke up thinking of yesterday's class, to be there and wondering why i was in charge and forgetting to have fun or at least follow one's own agenda rather than the imaginary expectations of the imaginary masses reminding myself it was just a mood left over from the weekend the party on saturday where i met a person who worked at a sandwhich shop that i would occasionaly frequent growing up which he informed me was a place where people dealt cocaine he was from milwaukee curse word curse word etc. etc. and after this story he proceeded to the bathroom to do cocaine which made me thank my dorky shirts for not being cool enough to be invited to backrooms and bathrooms to talk frantically to strangers i turned to joel thinking the guy was just quirky and was informed otherwise that no those were the drugs talking

the eye of my mini-disc shut itself today. it was tired. tired of playing songs so that i might take a break from the racket, or abridge the gap in my head, or listen. it happened on the train, hanging from two steel poles on the rush hour train. nobody knew. my headphones stayed in but the music stopped. the music came back. i fiddled with it. ejected the disc, put it back in, skipped tracks, came back to the one i wanted...my mini-disc is tired. i'm tired. every time a student tells me a i look tired i feel tired. my mini-disc has a laser beam for an eye, whereas, i have brown. they take in whatever is in front of them, though recently bright lights have been hurting i'm glancing at the white apartment building across the street. it makes blinky spots whenever i look at it. resolution: don't look. nap time.

saturday in the middle of the afternoon i set out to play basketball a couple hours ago but my body wasn't up to more than a few trips up and down the court and after one sour game where the proverbial team leader clearly frowned at my lack of mojo my man on man defense of let's call him "tim" not quite working out i left to come back rehydrate take a shower and return to full bore lizard position i had plans to go the gay pride parade today (post-script: it was actually sunday and i made it wowie i've never seen anything like that in wisconsin) but forget it i'm beat it was a really full week and i'm not saying that because yours was or wasn't but because its just a lot of talking and 'teaching' if that's what they call it and it wears me out so that by the time my last hour of pronuncation workshop came late on friday evening i asked the students if i could go home my person in front of me brain so tired and pretty much kaput but its saturday and later i'll finally get a chance to read people's poems that have been building up while i've been working the rough drafts of the memoirs from the other class thank the god of syllabuses for writing late work will not receive feedback because that's the only way i possibly could of gotten everything done but next week it will begin to taper off the friday the fourth of july a non-school day and the three twelve all class workshop getting into gear but i'm excited still mostly about the semester two good groups of students in my opinion last thursday we talked about haiku about basho and sent them out to do a narrow road to the interior type journey i'm excited to see how it comes out and translate a poem from the chinese wang wei deer-park hermitage that too i'm excited about but its time to rest now i'll try to do that without hurting myself

yesterday a student informed me that i used 'um' upwards of forty five times in yesterdays opening salvo lecture about sonnets the logic being that we start off talking about form before we get into content the idea that content will take care of itself as the writer one assumes has their own axe to grind or at least doesn't have the same axe as me but this is a matter of philosophy so we'll leave it open to the jury and other figures of speech to mark the day after the longest day of the year and yes its been a goofy long week and after this afternoon will mark the most teaching i've done in a week tweleve hours in a classroom and the connection between fatigue and the amount of times ones says um but in other news it was hot is still hot a haze wakes up the morning and traffic sounds go and go and go writes Witold Gombrowicz, "It is man who obliges man to work." and woman.

so saying 'um' or not actually has a lot to do with whether i'm tired or not or where exactly my motivation lies say the two o two class i taught yesterday the inevitable come down i felt in the transition from three twelve to the next day in a new building without the enthusiasm or at least not as much brings out signs of fatigue say 'um' but at least there is a santa claus virginia compounded with a study group for typography for which i embarrassingly had no answers to offer and instead offered aphorisms from the instructors mouth as a consolation but oh well we'll get them next time next life the half one or second one some kind of digital universe but to say the space in-between these places the morning as it shines my head to the north meets the sun rising from the east its all part of the wake up scheduale or its automatic when the sun begin to bake me laying in this small little box of a closet but also about school that the writing lab on tuesday will have to be cut because there was just nothing left absolutely nothing i can concentrate for a little while but in need to eat and eight hours straight of 'teaching' makes for mush mouth mealy mind today i'll plan class in the morning then take a trip to oakland to see my confidant if that's french the sun will be out all day if not we'll reconsider o lay

whell the semester started yesterday and it seems like it will be busy with a support class on noon a typography class where there's four panicking students thus far terrified of the instructors british accent that meets monday and thursday then after that its three twelve the creative writing class which also meets monday and thursday then today tuesday its 202 narrative documentary and also on friday but after today is writing lab and then the study group for the typography class and then wednesday will give me time to prepare for the upcoming classes don't ask me when i will be able to grade papers then friday afternoon its speaking lab all that to say that it will be a busy month and a half month but this is good because i've had a little too much time on my hands not in the form of the break but in the form of the last semester which was good but doing all kinds of support classes and having plenty of time for writing but it makes me think of that stephen king on writing book where he mentions that after his first big success he bought a gigantic oak desk and put it in the middle of his living space and it turned out that he didn't write anything after he did this the writing as the center of one's life metaphor that is to say its good to be busy and maybe the entirely polished lodestone of a writing practice that i've been fine tuning latey is good and dandy but it will be nice to take a break from worry about the relatively unimportant merits of what's happening inside my own head because i just won't have the time that is to say my new thing that i'm trying is to avoid saying 'um' and that requires that i just get it out before the whatever you call that has time to go back and filter through all my critical judgments and set the tone sort of say it don't spray it something like that to forget about tailoring one's speech to one's audience and instead to present oneself as one would have it it sounds simple but its not exactly a student i mentioned this to yesterday mentioned that they said cool a lot and i suggested we work on this together escaping our in-between thoughts and speak directly

You’re at your best when you believe or refuse to believe you or the idea of you, your self at your peak like your first kiss or paycheck. Your failings are your own, your problems to be dealt with by you, for you and nobody else. You mind your own business, you take care of yourself. You are healthy. You are clean as all get up. You feel good you feel proud of who you are, you are under your control, your watchful eye, your hands in your pockets fingering the money that you made on your merit, yours alone. Of course you don’t expect people to respect you immediately, but once they get to know you, the real deal, the real you, they’ll like you as you, your balloon says you, your clothes are so you. The you in you is the only you, unique and youthful, young and proud, brave and ready to move against weakness. You are a universal symbol of yourself. Your values are all you, no influence can corrupt you, the pure you, the unabridged entire you. Your smile radiates lakes and rivers and streams producing beautiful fish and insects on account of you. Your babies and your child, your children are you repeating as only you could. Adorable you you are adorable. Your hands mark your body, the beginning of your arms is in your finger tips. Your head is the size of your chest. Your grapefruit like eyes mark your vision as fresh as lemon juice. Your tight pecs and bi-lateral quadriceps make incisions of joy in your admirers, your friends are yours, buoyant because of you, the rock, your grit and steadfast ability to monitor greatness in others comes from your translucent you-ness, the essence in you is you. You know it. You make successful transitions from place to sea to shining waitress because you carry yourself well, your weight is your shadow and your shadow follows in your wake. You predict disaster for others because you know disaster, you devil you. Where you walk around, head full of ideas, your own thoughts like your dog or your clothes you take care of, wash meticulously and hang on the line in your back yard. Skip home you’re in love. Come home.

Writerly expressions with a big cursive bow on top of my head and music, softy playing while I casually massage a customer's shoulders and look up to see another come though the bell, a field of haze blowing my unholy mind into pieces: "Do you sell willful realizations?" and yes of course I jump up and destroy the distance between us, a thick gravy instead of legs transcending the space of a wallet's breath I show them a wall full of wrenches and screw drivers and tuck back into privacy to avoid saying "um" in between every breath and thought.

The customer wanes and I repeat myself in service, becoming the willow tree by the crystal river as a landmark of availability my watch says we're open for thirty more years and shoot lasers into the customer's Hepatitis B saddled liver or so I tell my doctor who doesn't believe me because I seem too "nice" to have dirty drug problems, but anyway, I lead them into the back room, cut off their hands and smear paint on their face and they thank me and I pocket a cool stack of appreciation notes.

Lunch time: everybody's favorite state of mind the realized swim about, I breakfast table the ambiance of a cat calling Wilco, the milk toast leprechaun, Chani, or other characters in Dune come through the doors slowly one by one and sign in rainbow script the will to turn mean evaporates and it's give give give with the corporate self consciousness, the "Indiana" of preventative measures the Anne Bancroft of hilarious stock room follies walks in and I practically give away pairs of jeans that fit perfectly a diamond 'x' pattern on the back pocket and a little hole on the waist band to signify an incredible style in tune with the very buttons on your shirt

because this is energy leaping over small woolen academics no more are we understanding embodied the skeletal remains of mix and match grouping herds according to cow stress the farmer transcends the dawn, puts on make up and barks orders at the chickens to "start clucking and put out some mother fucking roly polys" and I turn the sign around and count up my stack of nothingness and take some off the top and pull the metal grate down hard to attract attention from onlookers and passer bys and go home to my one bedroom summer cottage and turn the light on seen from the street seeming peaceful like a stranger winding down and getting ready for bed goonight.

Rosei’s Dream

Single and unhappy with life in his native village, Rosei sets out for the capital in hopes of becoming one of the emperor’s councilors. Not long into a journey made difficult by his relative poverty, he comes across an immortal who after hearing his ambition gives him a magic pillow. That night while waiting for his millet to cook he falls asleep, dreaming that he married the emperor’s daughter. In turn he becomes the emperor himself, a fifty year saga that ends when his son drowns in the garden fountain. He wakes up crying, and eats his millet. The next day he returns home.

here are two music writings i did recently for friend and artist cole pierce and his recent mix cd project that he exhibited as part of the vega caucus art show in chicago on the 17th of May. truly it's an excellent mix, two cds. maybe he'll send you one if you ask...the first writing block is what he used for the liner notes and the second is a false start...

_
Cole is a good friend and I think this is one of his best mixes. Like a lot of ambient music, it fills a space with feeling rather than hooks and lyrics and meanings. I write this out of experience: sitting in the kitchen grading papers and listening to these CDs over and over again. Later I put them onto my mini-disc (no ipod) and started to walk around with them, but I have to admit they work better at filling a room than a mind. What's strange is that I've never heard most of the musicians on these mixes. That there's this much supremely excellent music out there that doesn't even approach popularity is a comforting thought of what's to come. Now that the world has been discovered, our job, instead of succumbing to cynicism is to connect the disparate pieces that lie on the ground, or pull them out of dumpsters. Our job is not to create but to connect. If you find it easy to say what's on your mind, practice restraint; and if you have a hard time getting comfortable, insist on what you want. We live in a golden age of music.
_
Ambience allows for change: the bells outside or a roommate coming home. Any smell could fill the kitchen but there is such a thing as choice. Riding the train with my headphones on I imagine my life as a movie: somebody sees and hears what I see and hear and puts it into context; the back story, but we know there's no one there. I was told once that the only kind of work harmful to a person is mediocre work, work that doesn't care enough to be good or bad. "What is the definition of mediocre?" asked Krishnamurti. Answer: Pushing a rock half-way up the hill. I get angry at people who don't think this is profound. A song can be skipped but let it play. Speak clearly, sit up straight and be ready. It's hard to be ready.

The Warning
(MP3 File)

Earlier today I spoke with my brother by accident, stationed at my sister’s house for spring break. He was building a boat in the backyard. What kind of boat? I asked. “A row boat.” he answered, for his upcoming wedding. Somehow the ceremony will take place on an island, and all to bear witness will cross water to do so.

He’s enlisted me as one of the rowers and I’ll row, but rowing is difficult because my right shoulder is double jointed. Meaning I can easily dislocate my upper arm (humerus) from its socket (the scapula). If my arms are held straight above my head, hands clasped at the top, I can rotate one-hundred and eighty degrees backward, so that my elbows touch the middle of my back. Wow! Having this flexibility since I was a kid, my left shoulder, although it doesn’t come out of its socket, is practiced enough to go along with the right.

What this means is that due to a lack of tension, it’s nearly impossible for me to beat anyone in arm wrestling with my right arm. I used to think it was some kind of psychological failure, when in fact, there’s nothing to be done about it. This transfers into rowing, or any kind of upper body oriented activity, where this surplus flexibility makes it difficult to focus torque in a constant direction. I’m totally lost.

Three News Stories

TARPON SPRINGS, Fla. - Florida authorities confirmed that Deborah Jeane Palfrey, convicted of running a high-end prostitution ring in Washington, is dead in a suspected suicide, NBC News reported.

obviously, she was killed by powerful people (politicians) who don't want their careers ruined by extra-marital affairs. furthermore

TOKYO - Japan's oldest giant panda, Ling Ling, a longtime star at Tokyo's largest zoo and a symbol of friendship with China, died Wednesday of heart failure, zookeepers said.

obviously, she was killed by powerful people (politicians) who don't want their careers ruined by symbols of friendship. Better yet, here is an editorial that appears in this week's San Francisco Bay Guardian regarding organized labor and today's protest of the war. Briefly,

Members of the International Longshore and Warehouse Union (ILWU) will lead the way by refusing to work their eight-hour morning shifts at ports in California, Oregon, and Washington. For them, it will be a "no peace, no work" holiday — in effect, a strike against the war.

Happy May Day. Workers of the world unite...now I'm off to work for a place with nothing even close to resembling a union and needing one desperately...get one's own house in order?

Two Political Paragraphs Ending in Cynicism

i.
Politics: Hillary Clinton and Barak Obama are both excellent choices (Obama more so) for the Democratic nomination. Either one appears to be capable of beating John McCain and hopefully changing the direction of this countries’ leadership. This in mind, both candidates should be careful not to mistake each other for the enemy. The only way that Democrats could lose the 2008 election is by political infighting and the disorganization it leads to. I suspect one tactic of those who do not wish to see either candidate win is to play up the divide between these candidates a la Brad and Jen, Paris and Nicole, Mary-Kate and Ashley Olson, etc. One wins and the other loses while in reality both lose as the media sets the tone, writes the story, and solutions to our current political situation gets lost in the hype. God bless the hype. After all, how could we avoid ourselves without it?

ii.
Equality leads to competition and competition inevitably leads to conflict. After spending a year in Japan, a place where homogeneity is generally a positive cultural norm, I came to appreciate the peace of sameness, a peace all but impossible in the United States, seemingly. Then again, if all the same mass produced products are available to us throughout the entire country, the same stores and the same streets, couldn’t we achieve a peace (at the economic expense of small countries) through intensive homogenization? That globalization will actually lead us one step closer to communism in the sense that Marx’s vision prescribes all industry to come under state control (corporations) before they be turned over to the people. That a massive consolidation and single mindedness is the first step towards moving away from the short comings of capitalism, thus the ugliness of a Home Depot just outside of Baltimore, is actually a harbinger of communist revolution. Thank god for all the craft makers living in Brooklyn so that we may preserve our human souls!

Last night at the corner store I found a box of cereal and a half gallon of milk and paid for it with a ten dollar bill. The clerk gave me change but too much, he gave back thirteen dollars and some change net gain three dollars a half gallon of milk and a box of cereal. In the past I've always said, sir, you've given me the wrong amount of change and tried to feel good about my morality something something good but this time, a little tired from my day and not really wanting to rock any boat, do any good or bad, acknowledged the fact that he gave me the wrong change and walked out, wondering why exactly I didn't say anything. I asked my roommate what this meant and she responded that maybe this was a reflection of a more intuitive way of living but maybe it was just so I could write about it assumption of the common good it was yesterday I went up to the headlands above is not the only thing I saw today is another week of classes I slept well last night.

To react and respond. To keep going or not at all. This kind of writing as a form a meditation, to watch thoughts come and go, to be able to shift between perspectives a sign of health; thus it becomes necessary to write through patches of doubt. Last Tuesday, almost half the class didn’t show and I found this…discouraging.

The goal is to respond, to not be caught up in a premeditated program or meaning but it comes back to this: what I would say to my class about last week, about anxieties about being too soft or permissive. Anxieties about not being a good teacher; about not being good. It’s almost as if my frustration with trying to solve for x is the problem, my relationship to “problems”.

There is a rhythm to my thoughts a particular length of the line. The other day I was talking with a friend about Nietzsche, this idea that tragedy is actually comedy if we distance ourselves. Instead, to push forward with our will “to power”, the thing in front of our mind but what N. doesn’t speak of is the clarity needed to realize this will.

For example the misguided push of the Nazis, a mistake in thinking one wants to rule the world; caught up in false images the tip of their tongue layered in neurosis and dirt, failed reconstruction and low self-esteem. That clarity does not come from a supreme vision but from the everyday, finally, testing and adjusting.

A seagull stretches its wings in the air, flaps twice and disappears from view. The brooding woman has now shifted into the sun a jacket over her head headphones in her ears. Now I’m thinking about the weekend, schoolwork and Sunday, going up to the headlands to visit a friend and the beach. I don’t know what else to say this seems like a good place to stop.

Geometric Haircut

Liu Hai was said to posses a three-legged frog that could transport him anywhere he wished, but on occasion this frog would slip out of his pocket and jump into the nearest well. To retrieve the magic frog, Liu Hai would dangle a fishing line baited with a single gold coin, feeling for contrast. The same angle from a different side.

there was the man on the street i gave ten dollars a brand new ten dollar bill the story of a car crash a racist policeman and the need for a tow truck the promise of tickets to go see david letterman where cold play was playing i guess i looked the type and gave him my number to get the money back to get his car back in brooklyn on the way to my brother's to watch lost in my dream last night he jumped and didn't make it i woke up crying

and then another tow truck a kid talking frantically on a cell phone outside a bar a scam a set up and approach an idea premeditated a graduate school and a static flock of sameness as a known constant he asked I sympathized he gave me the deed to his car for collateral forty bucks later a couple phone calls to what may have been his parents to no fruition i threw the deed away in want of putting it away

i reached across his desk and broke his pencil both times in the middle of something both times in service to an abstract idea of good to quote again from 'tree of smoke' "I was dating Darlene Taylor until this hippie named Michael took her to a party and gave her drugs and fucked her and turned her into a hippie and if michael the evil hippie is against the war, than I am goddamn for it. That's all I know."

Sonnet

The town is empty because I have my headphones on.
Sitting in the cafe window two men with glasses eat breakfast.
Intellectuals need their space.
The stoplight was green but there were no cars
to go. I walked across the intersection.
I reached into my pocket
and found finger nail clippers. I put them there
to remind myself. John
handed me a pear blessed by Buddha.
Surrounded by statues of the Buddha.
I had been feeling kind of disconnected, and thought the pear
might help. By setting it on the counter at night
I remember to eat it the next morning.
My face is sweet like a teenager.

Holy Cow! This is even better than Richard Nixon's resignation speech to the cabinet...Barak Obama speaks on race amongst other things...

Found Poem

I saw a small parrot
yesterday in a restaurant. He had
soft blue and purple gray
feathers . I got a chance to touch him and to
play with him. I named him
“little blue.” No one knows.

We work to be with each other but are kept by the work. This is a description of loneliness but I am not lonely, worried about the future, the week off, the surplus of time and lack of things to do with myself. If I had an invitation to seize I would feel more settled and I do: Portland on the 20^th but until then everyday, get to know the city maybe travel to the grocery store and settle into this apartment. What I don’t want to do is worry about what I’m not doing or have to do or stay so busy that I run out of things to think and forget to relax to take my time, to ease into tomorrow its supposed to rain all day and I look forward to it, to be warm inside all day tippy tacking on my computer while the insects hide in their nests. I’m one of them I guess. But the strange thing about these fears is that they run deep and grounded in real life situations, because last night, I could not sleep. I tossed and turned. There were things on my mind marking an area to walk carefully around. What I really want is to lay in bed and smell the light streaming through the old barn window the fire high on the mountain unable to keep us warm so far away from home. We try to understand and engage this primitive mind without choices and try to quote from nature but end up with muddy things and rocks held between impossible straights the practice making us perfect and translation a result of our frustration it seems easy to reflect on the earth’s curve but there is motion to coming around.

When I was in 2^nd grade, we were given a crossword puzzle, and I sat at my desk and filled in the blank spaces to the best of my knowledge, unable to find the answer to a number of questions. My desk was in the front row and I could easily see into the basket where work was collected, completed crossword puzzles and all. Feeling a twinge of guilt, I filled in my missing answers with Kevin Gregg’s answers, and a couple days later when we got these puzzles back, mine was affixed with a bright sticker of a smiling bear and the words “Grin and Bear It” beneath the bear’s body. Confused by what this meant, Mrs. Rocco explained the word play and smiled at me.

the following is an email strain from the last couple days...

Subject: hello. please call me.

Tyler:

dear team: i've lost my cell phone. i think. i think it's turned off but am not sure. my worst fear is that somebody has found it and is making calls calls calls and i'll have to pay for it. if you get a chance to talk to this person please tell him that you are the police. the battery will be dead soon. if i don't find it in a day i'll get a new one. hopefully this loss will not tear me a new one. thank you to you and yours.

Aaron:

What is your current mailing address and if we speak to someone where should we tell them to return it to. Do you have a friend with a phone number that the person can call to coordinate a return? Did you call AT&T broadband and personal instant messaging service company to get your plan suspended?

Aric:

Did you fart into a paper bag?

Aaron:

I called your phone and left a fart message. It appears to still have
power and be somewhere. A trick I like to use is to go out on the
street and ask everyone you see if they've seen your phone. If they
say no don't just give up that easy. Sometimes you have to use a
little bit of "persuasion" to get info out of individuals.

Aaron:

Aric says it's at the Tempura House Restaurant in Coral Gables, FL. What the fuck were you doing in Coral Gables last night?

Cole:

Herons communicate by farting. I'm getting a new phone, do you want my
old one? its a little smelly.

Tyler:

thanks everybody. please give it a try later on tonight and tomorrow if you will. i'll get a new phone on saturday if it doesn't turn up.

Aaron:

Dude, go to the Tempura House Restaurant. That's where it is.

Aaron:

That doesn't ring a bell?

Aaron:

Hello? Anybody?

Aric:

Hello? Tempura House. Would you like to try our lunch special?

Aaron:

Uh, yeah, that sounds good. Can I have the vegetable tempura, and my
friends phone as well. Also, what types of beer do you have?

Aaron:

And I just want to double check...you're not the police, are you? I
would naturally be worried about an officer serving me lunch.

Aric:

No sir, I am not a police officer. But I just finished serving a police officer our lunch special. It's a grilled heron breast served with 2 quail eggs and a cell phone in a brown paper bag farted into by our top chef.

Aric:

Oh, and for beer we have Molson, Coors Light, and Woodchuck hard cider.

Aaron:

This police officer sounds familiar...did she have short brown hair,
about down to her shoulders? I think that might have been my wife.

In any case, was it my friend's cell phone that you served with the
grilled heron and then handed over to the officer?

And can you make a black and tan with Molson and Coors Light, with the
Coors Light on the top?

Or would you recommend a cider bomb with Molson and Woodchuck in a
sake glass suspended by chopsticks just seconds before I slam my fists
down on the table thinking about that Bitch and then plop! A nice
mixture of Molson and hard cider.

Aaron:

Oh, and Tyler...don't forget to check at the Tempura House Restaurant.
I think you might have left your phone there due to a recent visit.

Aric:

And as a reminder Tyler, if you've recently been inside of an Asian restaurant in the San Francisco area lately, particularly any restaurants specializing in tempura, they may have your cellular phone.

Cole:

is it an iPhone? those are pretty sweet.

Cole:

this cell phone mess is about as confusing as this story
http://www.kansas.com/news/updates/story/339011.html

Tyler:

you know, it's funny. the last place i ate was a tempura place. really. i'll go ask them tomorrow.

Aaron:

Now I think he's on the right track. Was it called the Tempura House
Restaurant?

Aaron:

Way back in this email session I wrote, "Aric says it's at the Tempura

House Restaurant in Coral Gables, FL. What the fuck were you doing in

Coral Gables last night?" I wrote that because Aric called me and
told me to tell you it was there. He must have had someone pick up on
the other end of your phone from the restaurant. He told me to tell
you presumably because he wasn't next to an Internet terminal. So, I
thought I would "tip you off" by mentioning the tempura thing.
Apparently it didn't ring a bell at the time. I added in Coral Gables
(the city that I work in), for comedic effect, but this may have
sidetracked you further. I think you should check at the restaurant
that you ate at recently that served tempura.

Tyler:

yeah yeah i get it now. i'll pick the phone up today. you know, it's hard to take these emails at all seriously, but i should of put two and two together. the story: tuesday night i got some chicken donburi at a restaurant called the Tempura House Restaurant, right before class and I was in a hurry and only ate half my meal and then asked for a box and made a little to go package and in the process forgot my cell phone which I had set out on the table to remind myself how much time I had to eat...

reading this emails, at the first mention of the tempura house i thought about where i had eaten but didn't understand why the person from the tempura house had called one of you guys, which is a total failure of my imagination in the sense for some reason i couldn't imagine that you all had called and spoken to the guy who works there quickly enough...i think that was the thing: the rapidity of the response that threw me off, (and the fact that i wasn't in coral gables), because i sent the email and then ten minutes later you mentioned the tempura house and i thought it must be a conincidence. what finally did it was maybe the fifth blatent reminder, i think written by aric, that asked me to think about if i had eaten at a tempura restaurant in san francisco...that one hit. thanks for keeping the in formation coming. the funny thing is that i was actually going to get a new cell phone this weekend.

The void eternally generative. Wen Fu. It feels good to say that, to imagine myself saying that. Had a conversation with Shorewood following Chris’ lecture on Alberto Masferrer, an El Salvadorian writer; the lecture’s history leading to a memory, leading to a sense of place and closure. Always a beginning, I asked Shorewood, the man sitting next to me what he though gender normative is and he replied the societal standards enforced by our culture, manly men and those around us. One Big Self. Photographs of walls being built and children painting them.

He cited the example of his sister’s children being given things to play with based on gender, and encouraged. This an example of reinforcement, a virulent idea of ourselves. I responded that it seems like the same day for everyone in the terms of “getting over” ourselves as children; that regardless of where one comes from the necessity of self-actualization remains. Our conversation stopped. We looked away. I was self-conscious of the rapidity that I responded; the eagerness to disagree, at least rhetorically, and wondered if that was a bad habit or a brave one.

The lecture ended on a question, that of translating things for oneself, a theme of the evening, and an idea I can understand. The how more than the what the what the content of the lecture the how how we might make sense of it. Translation and talk of translation, to follow up on, to lecture and ask questions. That to become ourselves we must translate for ourselves we must make our own meanings from our own words as opposed to letting someone do it for us. Here is the link to Chris' lecture.

It's great to be back. Thank you. Thank you very much. This morning the sun burnt a hole in my head the sun came through the french doors and hit the guy this guy sleeping in the closet which might sound bad but its actually a large closet and the mattress fits perfectly so as just enough room to extend fully and wide enough to have a small stack of paper goods on one side without rolling into them throughout the night. All of the above frees up the rest of the room to form some kind of living/working area, two desks, a little couch, plants in the windows, the street outside filling with cars and people slightly asleep from the new style wake up time the sun in a new position the mailman chuckling with his mailman buddies and babies pushing daddies and strollers staffed by mommies and construction workers down the street come back to find their machines covered in graffiti and bikers and bikers and bikers and instead of a small window facing a yellow apartment building there is a entire panoramic view of Valencia which is different if noisy at night meet the artist meet the drunk college kids meet the surly punk rocker selling delicious pizza again the sun burning holes in my head it's time to make breakfast drink tea sit back down its Monday the last week of school before spring break.

A month ago I asked Amy if, when rescheduling our couples therapy appointment, she would “tell her” (Lesley, the therapist). Amy responded that she would tell Lesley that we were “broken up” and I responded that a better way to say it would be that I am “moving out”, and went on to justify this as a more accurate assessment of the situation; that “moving out” is literally what is happening, thus avoiding the dramatized “break up”; lives crumbling and tears flowing. I don’t think I could go through with moving out if I were to think in terms of finite separation, or terms that never made sense to me. I think it’s more complicated than that. And when complexity arises, I figure the best way to accurately represent a the situation is to explain only what one can see; to let the actions speak for themselves.

Two summers ago in New York, I went to Burning Deck’s 30 Year Anniversary reading. There I ran into Michael Gizzi, who I knew from graduate school, and he introduced me to an older poet whose name I don’t recall (sorry). I was telling this poet about my plan to move to California, to be with my long term love. Later in the conversation he asked when I found time to write, and I responded that I had so much free time living alone and working (painting) on my own schedule, writing came out of a kind of boredom. He pointed out that living with a woman would seriously hinder this kind of boredom. I laughed, unable to foresee the problem.

I remember my radio show in college, where at 1:45 AM Thom and I would stage the “1:45 Talkabout”, where instead of playing music we would talk to each other, take calls, play sound effects or what-ev; fill up the fifteen minutes until 2. Once, talking about a local scandal that neither of us knew anything about (the resignation of the student body president), a call came in telling us to quit talking about things we didn’t know about. The caller was angry and well spoken. We laughed and then changed the topic.

A Sunday when I was nine, my father laying on the bed watching 'This Old House', and the press of the impending parental switch in my mind: I walked into the room and declared "I am so bored" and laid down alongside my father and cried. He held me and this is all I remember.

I remember this feeling of emptiness, beyond nothing "to do" into feeling nothing inside of me: no direction or will, no 'spring' of life bubbling up from the platform of ourselves. I began to tell this story for the first time about three years ago to a therapist, randomly trying to get to the bottom of my relationship with my father.

The feeling could easily be confused with depression but I don't think a nine year old can be depressed, at least not in the way that I understand depression. But whatever this feeling was, it has stayed with with me. Psychologically (I think), what is at stake is not the feeling of emptiness but the fact of my perception regarding it. Inherently there is nothing wrong with nothing, right? I mean, how could "something" be wrong with "nothing"? Beyond semantics, nothingness seems to me the baseline for the universe and by universe I mean everything; that is, we return to it always hence the term "eternally generative void" (Wen Fu). That always, something emerges from nothing; our being being born and the silence at the end of a sentence, just beneath the surface of everything we do.

Psychologically, what is at steak for the science of, is the concern or direction and quality of my attention vs. this observation. In other words, why does this bother me? Why do I remember? What is the stress or what am I really talking about? George Oppen:

The self is no mystery, the mystery is
That there is something for us to stand on.

(from "World, World--" as found in the book This In Which)

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.