*

I wrote a few words in my sketchbook, was it yesterday? I thought I felt the heat of a stranger's eyes burning a gaping hole into the top right side of my head. I thought I smelled the rank odor of singed hair. This particular smell calls to mind the slaughtering of goats against a hot and dusty high desert backdrop (Science declares smell & memory to be linked by blood). Boys backed away, turned, and in their imaginations ran for dear life. But in spite of this discomfort, I tried to complete the phrase. Poems don't just materialize from the flower garden's bulbs, from a bank of sun lined clouds, from frothy sea or mossy forest. They appear at your door beaten down and cripple. They hunger for nourishment. They crawl into your life selfishly. It might be that some days the desire rests on your lap or lands on your shoulder. You want to brush away the crumbs, you want to rise from that place, to sweep or kick away. But if you wait long enough, making that extraordinary effort to block out what is immaterial so as to bring the essence of that Thing into sharp focus, perhaps understanding will settle into your mind.

summer

My lord, I do not want to be at work today. The reason is that summer has returned to San Francisco, California. I biked to downtown this afternoon and quickly realized that absolutely everyone is outdoors. There's traffic on narrow side streets, traffic on wide streets in the park. Pedestrian traffic all over Union Square. Bike traffic on the bike paths through the panhandle. I almost crashed into a small boy pedalling furiously on training wheels. The sun cam down from the cerulean sky and saved that child by casting a tree's shadow over my eyes a split second before impact. I had just enough time to take evasive action and narrowly avoid murdering a minor by way of bicycle.

The city must be full of revelers and bridge and tunnel people. Feels like tourist season again out there. On open grassy spaces in Golden Gate park, groups and individuals are reclining or laying on blankets, sunning themselves and picnicing. Volleyball nets are stretched tight, people are running and bicycling, dogs smile happily, their ears flopping about over their hairy heads. Here at work it's air conditioned and quiet. No one that can help it must be at work in the building. I am not one of them. I wouldn't be, given the choice. And yet, quite frankly, the choice was mine. As it was, I rolled in nearly thirty minutes late. I was proud of that. Nearly a record. Now what? I think I'll make myself a mug of coffee. That should do to wire me up to the network port linking my brain to the hard drive on which important blog-worthy events of this past week are automatically saved. The kinds of elements that "make my tail wag," as I occasionally say to myself, half jokingly, half jokingly.

I had dinner Monday evening with Mike Gorski, a friend from Wyoming that I know through my sister Sheila and brother in law Jeff. He was in town arranging for French residency with his new wife of two months Valerie, A French woman from Martinique. They're currently living in Lille, in northwestern France, but had to travel to San Francisco to deal with immigration, since the consulate here covers Wyoming. We had a pleasant but very short time catching up over Thai food at the Embarcadero. Mike met Valerie in Morocco during a short trip from Granada, Spain, where he's been living for I think a year and a half and learning Spanish and Arabic. They must have fallen in love very quickly, for six months later, they married. Some people either just know in their heart and mind, or they don't really know, but they're bold enough to take the risk, relinquish control over the situation, and go on faith-faith in love, I conclude. Can't be anything but that, can it? I know it can. So many other factors within the circumstance play a part. The main thing is to act on the will by giving up your will. Perhaps that's what love is all about - surrendering.

olives

I haven't quite mastered the photo editing tool for this blog, but stay tuned. Mastery draws nigh. Where these words will eventually fall in relation to the two jpgs I dropped into the field earlier today I know not. I shall now perform a test, by way of the "PUBLISH POST" button.

Aha. I now have a clear visual roadmap of how things will sort themselves out. A comfort. One thing that annoys me is the inability here to indent new paragraphs. When I make a full paragraph, for example, with the last sentence flushed to the right margin, the reader will never know that a new paragraph has begun. Instead the read page becomes a dense, heavy brick of words, making it more tedious to read due to the absence of visual pauses. So there's that. Now for some coffee.

I've posted two pictures today. The left hand image is of a view from my seat on the Muni bus looking through the front window early on my morning commute downtown. I love riding buses here in San Francisco, and for that matter in other parts of the world, too. Public transportation fascinates and entertains me. There is so much aesthetic material to be found on the bus. These are some of the most democratic of public spaces most anywhere in the world. Here, in Manhattan, in Stockholm or London, even in Japan, although there it's a bit more homogeneous, visually at least. I enjoy looking at people, strangers, the masses, the other, call it what you like, use your own semantic marker. Strangers fascinate me. When some visual phenomena catches my eye, I become a child: I want to just stare forever. Of course I don't. As a grownup, I've become both more self aware and also aware of the self awareness of others. Indeed, social convention leans on my psyche, almost commanding me to modify my behavior and follow the rules. Don't stare. If an individual notices you staring, quickly avert your glance. Look over their head or below their chin, look through the window at passing objects.

A little girl took a seat across from me this afternoon. Her mother sat down next to me. She was dressed in varying shades of pink- a hooded pink jacket, a pink dress with flowers, pink stocking with balloons or hearts printed on them, pink shoes. I guessed her age to be about seven or eight, but her face belied a very different story. She wore the face of a much older woman, someone in their thirties, but without lines and shrunken to the size of a little girl's. Her mother's face to me was rounder, chubbier, more girlish. Her daughter wore her mother's mother's face. She was aging in reverse. It struck me immediately as peculiar and extraordinary. I couldn't decide whether it was for her a blessing or a curse. I don't think it really mattered to her, to be perfectly honest, but I did see that her's was a somber, emotionless, almost unhappy expression.

Then I watched as she moved her hand slowly to her inside pocket and slowly, self consciously pull out a small square wrapped package of what appeared to be a post-it pad. Her long fingers slowly, deliberately unwrapped the package. She looked up and at her mom and reached out to give the wrapping to her mother. She then turned back to the small pad of paper and very methodically pulled off a single tab of colored paper. The way she moved through these actions held my attention. She was so meticulous with her hand movements, as though she held in her hand something fragile and delicate, like a crystal snowflake or a baby panda or kangaroo sleeping. I don't know how to explain the thing. I can only describe what I saw. I might try and speculate about this little pink hooded girl who seemed to be wearing the face of a much older woman to avoid being recognized-an adult hiding in a girl's body. Her vibe was of a much older and sadder, almost world weary soul. Her movements followed the pacing of a grandmother. She could be an actor when she grows up, I thought. Camera operators love slow, deliberate movements. What else does it call to mind? I know. A sloth in the Amazon, that slow moving creature up in the forest canopy, very slowly traveling from branch to branch, tree to tree, as though sleep climbing. Is that right? A sloth? A hairy beast whom someone can wake from the trance with a finger snap or clap of the hand.

palm

I saw a beautiful vision this morning while riding the 38 limited Muni bus downtown on Geary Blvd. toward Van Ness. I was listening to Teri Gross' interview of Charlie Kaufman, the screenwriter who created some of my recent favorite films, like Being John Malkovich and Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind. While listening to this man make repeated successful and semi futile attempts to express himself verbally (he reminded me of an old Volkswagon Beetle with transmission problems - sputters & coughs), I looked up and suddenly beheld an arrestingly beautiful phenomenon up in the sky. I saw Superman.

Up in the eastern sky above the San Francisco skyline and hovering over the east bay hung a blue gray cloud. Above it was blue sky. Behind this bank of cloud, the sun was rising, illuminating it from behind, so that below I could see a warm glow of soft yellow naples light. The tops of the clouds were brushed with light, making it look like I was beholding a huge blue gray cake with white frosting on top hovering over the entire city. It was arresting and pleasurable and kept my eyes riveted like a 2 year old child's when seeing something for the very first time. The great dark silhouette of a palm tree I sensed was looking at the same great warm morning cake and waving its fronds lightly in recognition. I felt like I might have been the only one on the bus seeing this vision. Everyone silently looked inward, noseward, impatient and groggy, anxious to be free of the crowded masses so they could get to work quickly and hole up in their cubicle until there smoking and coffee break rolls around. Not soon enough, I gather. Son tar livet i stor stan.

I wish I could say how it makes me feel, seeing these beautiful momentary glimpses of eternity. It's certainly pleasurable for my eyes, and even for my mind and "soul." Clearly, to describe my feelings, I find it nearly impossible to avoid religious terminology. Words like soul and spirit always come to mind, whether it be due to my upbringing or something else. Something simply unavoidable. In most cases, those words don't do much at revealing through language the sense of something so sublime and metaphysical. Better to just shut up, write nothing at all. But the impulse to express my experience drives me to make these feeble attempts. It seems to be an impulse that is somehow central to my existence. The effort at least gives my life a half baked sense of "meaning."

fuzzy rain

It's raining cats and dogs here, been raining all day. I biked in the rain to the swimming pool and got soaked. I hear the water puddling and can hear the racket caused by raindrops crashing into collected bodies of water. It's noisy this afternoon. What can i do? I should close that window there. I'm listening to Pandora this afternoon. I wolfed down some food after my swim, am always very hungry then. Had minestrone soup, peanuts, a poached egg, a glass of hard cider. Still, with all that I can't seem to get food out of my mind. Anticipating the prospect of eating a steak with a glass of red wine somehow wants me to blame the dreary weather. But it isn't all that dreary, for after all, here I am at home under a roof writing in the afternoon light. Other week-ends recently at this time have found me sitting around alone at work doing next to nothing. There I would plan to get a lot or reading and writing done, but never get around to it. The environment I feel prevents productive personal behaviour. Nothing can be referenced. Windows cannot be opened, it's a vacuum in that room. Too many hard surfaces and not enough fuzz, which I believe very effectively stimulates the imagination and makes one want to step outside of oneself. Fuzz and objectivity is dinner and dessert once and for all.

glitch

This afternoon, I listen to the Beatles. It's good, easy. Keeps my mind at ease, it's thoroughly familiar music. Comfort music to nurse hangovers and to fend off silence's accusations. Seargent Pepper's is one of my favorite albums, that and Pink Floyd's The Wall. They remind me of long essays.

I made a little list for myself. On my list is act of updating my blogs and journals. Then there is reading, and my shoulder Theraband exercises, which I am doing now. Later I might want to stretch my back in particular, which feels rather rigid and sore today.

Bit of a rough start this morning. I didn't climb out of bed until 10:30 late morning. Woke actually at about 5:30am but with a heavy hangover that drove me back to bed. Yesterday afternoon found me at the Ferry Building partaking of various wines & spirits at the Organic Beer & Wine Tasting, sponsored the California Organic Federation. Fun times. There was food, alcohol, music, and crowds of people. The Ferry Bldg is a prime place for this sort of event. The artisanal vendors and restaurants will also serve tapas style snack foods like grilled sausage on a stick, cheese melted on bread, mushroom crostini, and pizza slices. I enjoyed the sausage, mushroom crostini, which I got for free, and oysters & clams. Delicious. I enjoyed myself, talked to strangers, watched faces swarm by, got tipsy, listened to music. It was live and momentary. People were in high spirits of course, thanks to the drink as well as to it being Friday. A woman handed me a small shot of organic tequila. It was strong and clear. I also drank organic vodka that tasted like aqvavit in Scandinavia, organic sparkling wine, organic beer, and several organic red and white wines. Certainly the perfect storm for hangover creation it was, but who am I to turn away festive vibes. These occasions are beyond my capacity to resist, so instead of trying to turn my back on it I step forward and embrace the thing with open arms.

movie quote

"Today, my life feels like a string of near misses.
Women I was unable to love,
opportunities I failed to seize,
moments of happiness I let drift away.
A race whose result I knew beforehand
but failed to pick the winner.
Had I been blind and deaf,
or did the harsh light of disaster
make me find my true nature?"
- movie: The Diving Bell & the Butterfly

untitled

Here are my untitled thoughts:

Now: listening to the Rolling Stones album Let It Bleed on iTunes. "Don't u think u need a woman's touch to make u come alive?" I can relate. @Work at the moment down in the financial district. Eating peanut M&M's from a large blue plastic peanut m&m cartoon dispenser. You lift his arm up, then down, and one or two candies roll out of a hole in his side. Blue Jesus dispensing chocolate covered peanuts instead of diluted blood. Whichever you prefer, by the plumbing of your faith. Then I performed my Theraband shoulder exercises, to strengthen the ligaments supporting my rotator cuffs. It just isn't built to last, this body of mine. I thought about stretching. Don't know if I want to listen to this entire album. I should be reading. Currently reading "Alice Waters & Chez Panisse," a bio by Thomas McNamee,a journalist. Been trying to set aside myself so I can put in some solid reading. Trying to read at work, so I can claim to get well paid for reading biographies about gourmet restaurants and the gauche dramas and lush sociopolitical intrigues that swirled above its roof and chimneystack over the decades. What else have I to do here? Munch m&m's whilst I sip lemon rooibus tea, too cold now. Think about that orange. Twist and laugh with Jagger. Stretch my limbs, lie on orange rubber, spongy to the toes. That, and that.

"U can't always get what u want,

But if u try sometime,

U get what u need."

Jagger and I, sometimes, we're on the same page. Now this song, "Under my Thumb" (listening to Aftermath now) rocks in a way that only the Stones can. Take it eeeeeasy, baby.

some excerpts from my notebook, written in an old church in Southwark, London:

- If I ever have a house, one room will be reserved for quiet (aesthetic) contemplation, with the only adornment either 1) a blank canvas, or 2) a candle

- the only churches I enter these days are those in foreign countries

- saw a 700 year old wooden sculpture of a dead knight

from a painting tag at the Francis Bacon retrospective:

"Birth, & copulation, & death.

That's all the facts when you

come to brass tacks.

Birth, & copulation, & death."

-T.S. Eliot

tgif

It is a ghost town in the financial district today. The sidewalks seem thinly populated, the anxiety that's descended on us palpable and viral. People leer at each other in fear and loathing, as if they see manifestations of disease on the skin and faces of those they pass. Their stares linger for a fraction of a second too long before they avert their gaze downward, always downward. So I cross the street, then cross back to the opposite side. I avoid squares, corners, heavy traffic. I imagine a string still attached to the top of my head, and myself pulling this string upward to maintain the illusion of great height. My horse, though top heavy, digs its hoofs down into the shifting sand. But what is that foul stench I smell? This gas, if ignited, could set the entire world in flames. Is that fool again attempting to create a spark with the heel of his shoe? If I close my eyes, all ceases to exist. I do remember this working the last time a feeling of terror found its way into my bloodstream. Why shouldn't it work again?

gobbeldygook

Watchword for the day. Concerning this word:

"Sam Maverick’s grandson, Fontaine Maury Maverick, was a two-term congressman and a mayor of San Antonio who lost his mayoral re-election bid when conservatives labeled him a Communist. He served in the Roosevelt administration on the Smaller War Plants Corporation and is best known for another coinage. He came up with the term “gobbledygook” in frustration at the convoluted language of bureaucrats." (excerpted from J. Schwartz's NYTimes article "Who you callin' a Maverick?" 10.14.08)

The word accurately abstracts my sentiments concerning yesterday evening's presidential debates. I've decided I may just have to bully my way through the festering political rhetoric/inspirational message language and shovel straight down to the cocaine of pure motives. The spelunk that illuminates my way: the System, Capitalism.

I shall sneeze out exactly five deep thoughts now, not two. The pointy corners and razor sharp edges of their more colored consonant's letters vex the tender walls of my sinuses. Reactions are not cerebral cortex oriented arise, resembling hair raisingly swift brain stem electrical impulses than rationality, to put a head on that shoulder.

Be that, I say.

On my bus ride to work, I was already composing essays and juxtaposing them directly over failed love sonnets. It seems the early morning breeze whipping in from the bus roof hatch didn't quite do the trick. My hat still rested wanly on my head, preventing my identifiable features from flying off and out into oncoming traffic, which at such a small hour can be fatal - you man find yourself dropped off in a foreign land populated by either heavily customed desert people or mordantly animated snowball tossing bed bugs. Fortunately for me, however, the deeply rutted trench that I've zealously carved into the concrete by virtue of years and years of repetitive ritual has pre-empted all balancing on a tether between the scales. Simply follow that peculiarly low gliding hat to find my naked lunch.

Sprightly soonly

My thoughts have chosen normality. I tried to read the thoughts of those I've lately seen and heard, but found I required the English Swedish Swedish English touch of index fingers. Buttons of crystalline understanding undyed and preschool become so much more difficult to hide these days. It just may be that music and apple juice is all the language I require.
I wonder how long it will last. The obvious advantages of beginning again elude me, so I'll just have to resort to default actions. If a smoothly flowing river could be found nearby, I would now go there and thoughtlessly jump in. Things take care of themselves once the sky can be seen filling up and around one's field from flowing places. I am tempted to sincerely believe this. Suffice it to say that I've spent the better part of the last few days since returning from Europe sucking up myriad errant fruit flies with my blue hepa filtered vacuum cleaner. They have become legion in my absence, and some of these gnatty pests have even grown to at least three times their size. These alaming mutations forced me to resort to an electronic home appliance for the purpose of fruit fly genocide. They won't mind, it's dark and airless in that bag, a perfect place for peace and quiet, which all multiplying things need every now and then.