add dull
in the sad-sad saddle.
Dullen, dullen
the sullen saddlement
addled in, end
addlin’ sad, sad
saddle.

[oh rig an all]
Blacken the Sad
-sad saddle
thus:
add dullen-dullen
sullen, sad,
addled in dull
addlin’ sad sad saddle
ugh in.

Always marked and remarked that the people are tough in South Car. If 24 hours are sufficient sampling, the opposite is true of El Norte. Danmbhg, people have shown me a right good time here (with minor exception of cat-gotten Chiapans).

Let me pause for tradition, get back to form—proppa form. The Cop Chronology is thus:
+4
+20
+3 (for which I paid $40 because I didn’t have change and the guy was necio-ing)
+4
+4
————-
Gran T-totaler: 35
(They do tell you to act your age, now.)

I sat here in my nice hotel (for interweb) mired blissfully in technical administrati. ‘Round 3:30A I was ready to try my luck again. And wouldn’t you know…

Man on the street, with a lady, had them get in the rental, she looked out, said, “Hey, you know him? Do you know this man?” Sure, I get it, thanks, but I’m full-bore no-can-stop comewhatmay. I complained later when I saw the amount. We nego’d and she said she could do better. He got he went I asked her to stay. She did. Nice woman.

Came back to hotel after another cop for lack of another ambiente. I fuddled with this damn machine. This, that. Suddenly, a Girls Gone Wild infomercial comes on and I get very suddenly horny. (Didn’t cross before.) Suggest we get some clothes off and she’s nonchalently game. So we do some fucking. She moves that little ass tip-toppy. Maybe even seeturvy. Of course then, in the way way afterglow, she hits me up for payment. Fine. But that’s the Cubana way and a little sneaky. She did seem, in a moment of lower member encounter, genuinely taken by some size, and when I dropped her off, her last comment was “Don’t let a lady tell you you got a Vienna sausage, now.”

Before that we swung by her son’s house…to cop one last time.

[The Poorhouse Players together with The Smokehouse Sayers present a “Curtain Mini”™]

“Hey! Surprise!”
“Oh, my land’s sakes alive! What on God’s green earth brought you here?”
“Old friends…”
“Look at you, you haven’t changed a bit!”

So smoothly the day’s desperate dream came to pass. And I have a funka-stem-ica to show for it.

Auhhmm, that flavor!

Flambe-ish, s’pose. Better than smoked salmon, chipotle, and/or mesquite flavor barbeque sauce; better than hickory dickory dock.

I defy all of France’s chefs to top that waltz on the tongue, that tapdance down the throat.

Even Boy Ardee himself can’t match.

[I watched Iron Chef in 1993. I’m on Chemical Chef now.]

LOOKING FOR: A woman.

FOR: Romance.

MEMBER SINCE: May 2005

AGE: 35

GENDER: Male

LOCATION: New York, NY, USA

HOMETOWN: Phoenix

FAVORITE BANDS: Neutral Milk Hotel

FAVORITE BOOKS: Stories In The Worst Way

FAVORITE ARTISTS: Goya

VICES: crack

CURRENT CRUSH: PJ Harvey

MAKES ME HAPPY: generosity

MAKES ME SAD: US myopia

GETS ME HOT: Smiles, interest, enthusiasm, confidence

I LOST MY VIRGINITY: To a lesbian who had decided it was time she tried sex with a man.

[[In-dust-re:-us] insect]]-[opposite yang] [againST]-Sn-you’d./…

[[[In-us-k-ream]]] (@ special cr y y co

a pe rio d the re)

+10, R., …

2:35AM, Monday 22 August 2005
“You gonna come by in the morning before you take off?”

“Naw, I think that’ll do it.”

- -

Now I’ll have to do it.

+12, running shirtless man with crescent ridged scars swooping through arcs round his back, arm around my shoulders, laundr-O(h my God, they’re gay!)-mat bathroom

[Of course I need my RDA.]

Call R., “Yo! What’s up my nigger! I was going to call you see if you arrived safely, dog.”

Pull-ups-on-the-traffic-signal runs to me. Takes me to the cleaners.

‘n still I need the Corningwares, the Pyrex.

Down the block, Sp. kitty-corners to me with arm raised to sum-up the facts that I’m on the block and he didn’t get a call. Premptin’ a talk about the loyalty of men, and a friend too truly good to leave stabbed, I ry-itr8 the precons my side, esp/namely the existence of my boy and an arainjmint wit same, crinjing(jing) at the necesity of a clear, tough-breaks reminder (/slight exaggeration): I had & have “boy;” I come to you when he ain’t around.

“Who?”

“R.” … “I don’t know if he gave me a bullshit name at first.”

“He got mad hair on his face.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“I got the same shit.”

But I already had …

“I understand…first…”

Rest of the moneychangers slobbering on the corner. Latest hooker calls, “Hey, can we get this out of the street?”

Everybody wants a peace.

Crack has really helped me to focus on my life and truly live in-the moment, as they say. Fact, I live in fractional seconds. Frequently I must inform or remind those around me that with the speed of my light, I neither plan anything more than an hour ahead nor remember anything more than an hour ago (I must borrow from the collective nostalgia for my unremebered ’80s). That level of precision with which I have conducted my daily activities has been a blessing in my life as it has kept me in touch with my purpose upon this big, round, sloppy wet and soiled thing we call Earth. It is as if a portal into the depths of my own soul has opened up, and the years of my heart’s welling is finally loosed to run over and become visible to me and my loved ones around me. Like you all!

So, I’m sure you’ll all understand and know what I’m talking about and believe me when I say that I wasn’t meant to leave the crack fold today. It wasn’t my day to go, to make that long and ardous journey, and Mother universe in her expansive benevolence—and/or the Holy Trinity in their forward-thinking (albeit trippy)TO/CC/BCC format, or, perhaps, Mu/ohammad the great Bedouin popularizer of post-bath wear and beyond, or, however you choose to define my higher-voltage power—had the wisdom to see that and put forth an intercessionary hand in my path. Had I actually seen said hand—and provided I wasn’t too freaked out—My God! I hope! I only hope I would have had some vitamin E lotion on-hand to offer!

As it turned out, the hand worked in mysterious ways, causing the month to be mid-August (who knew?), the high-high (and for some of us even higher) travel season in which last minute phone queries after an economy rental are turned away time after time again with one of two late-mid August autoanswers:

- “We have nothing availble”

or

- “Uhmm, let me see here—it gets so busy the computer gets bogged down….”

Oh, I hate that.

“Actually, I love it. We’re all working so much overtime, you have no idea. It’s nice to just stop a minute, and not have fourteen customers yelling at me for an upgrade, God. Just not have to think. Like a mini-break. I haven’t gotten a full eight hours of sleep since Tuesday!”

What day is it today?

“Friday.”

The second?…Friday?…uhhv…the week?…

“Oh! Okay, here it is. Okay: without the extra insurance, and assuming you drop it off by 2PM with a full tank and that the inspector doesn’t mind any nicks, dings, or dents, of course—the standard stuff; you’ve heard it all before—that would run you just a litle over $1600 dollars before taxes and surcharges. You going to go with the full coverage? Just in case.”†

†Alright, alright, I’ll admit the conversation did not occur outside of the (loose) bounds of my head or this electric publication, but the gist of it holds the truth of my life in those car-searching moments, and the $1600 price tag is in no way a fabrication. At least not fabricated by this fabricante.

So. Bus was off the list early on, being among the nation’s worst possible venues for withdrawals. TrapperKoopered next to a stinkrag with a puking predilection and the conversational drive of…say…an egoist on either coke or crack! Horrors! The Twenty-Hour Torture.

Conversely, one—a one like this one me, anyway—can go well beyond a bland rationalization supporting the monetary throw down to borrow a motorized vehicle, and find in the open road—and one’s hitting of it (especially out of a clostyferbotic big city), and the very volition and control that weak-ass drivetrain under your far weaker ass both gives and requires of you, but never without the promise of a trade wind to tickles your eyelashes and hushabye your sting. The tired, nonsensical Eagles song on the radio is pure gravy, and it gives you four happier minutes than you ever remember hearing strung together. Even the exit-eager fast food familiars are generous; you finally have something to which you can honest-and-truly feel far superior.

You see? Exactly. Part of the curative concoction.

But a window seat on a jumbo jet bound for bayou will do, too, dude. So, long story short, I rustled-up a fairly fair last-minute fare, and I’m oftenout high noon tomarra. Break a leg!, I tell myself.

My one thing…

I intend to do it today.

Wish me luck. Or wish me strength.

If the tags (Say! You know how ‘taxonomies’ in the hands of laypersons became ‘folksonomies’? What about tags? … Ahem …) yes, I mean, if the cloud is to be trusted, us crackheads walk alone across the landscape of our grapples with the chalk chips. Compare:
1 person wants to do this…
get off the crack
to
SMOKING CRACK IS GOOD FOR YOU
YES I WOULD LIKE TO HAVE MORE MONEY SO I CAN DO NOTHING OTHER THAN SMOKE CRACK NAD MASTURBATE 7 DAYS A WEEK.

Everybody’s got their goals, I guess, uemhm. Right now I just want to get a shower under my belt (perhaps better me under the shower without my belt but…you know). I may grab one more 8-ball for the road. Hard to resist while it’s here, resistible. Once I’m out and don’t have that decision to make for a little while…you know. Just let me hit the road here in a little bit. (While you wait and watch with bated breath, here’s these—the whole list (as of today) of goals involving (a) crack (however you choose to define that). Enjoy me.

Search results
“crack”
Goals matching “crack”

1. stop cracking my knuckles 9 people
2. smoke crack 6 people
3. crack an egg with one hand 2 people
4. quit smoking crack 1 person
5. smoke more crack 1 person
6. crack cat 1 person
7. stop cracking my neck 1 person
8. get my back cracked 1 person
9. get off the crack 1 person
10. stop cracking my nuckles 1 person
11. kick my crack habit 1 person
12. quick cracking my knuckles 1 person
13. deal crack 1 person
14. stop cracking my joints!! 1 person
15. absolutely crack up every day 1 person
16. be able to crack an egg neatly 1 person
17. stop cracking me neck so damn much 1 person
18. crack a walnut between my butt cheeks 1 person
19. Crack the CATs 1 person
20. Get cracking with genealogical research 1 person
21. learn to crack an egg with one hand 1 person
22. smoke crack with jack kerouac 1 person
23. smoke crack and worship satan 1 person
24. be able to crack an egg with one hand 0 people
25. have my crack and sack waxed 0 people
26. get rich, even if i have to slang fake crack 1 person
27. Crack microsoft windows and make it desappear from the know universe (its ok if it keeps on bugging in the unknown universe!) 1 person
28. stop: picking my nose, biting my nails, farting, burping, cracking my knuckles, being gross in general 1 person
29. open a combination crack-cocaine/diet/liposuction/soap establishment(why has nobody thought of this before?!?) 1 person
30. finish reading books 2-5 of Harry Potter so that I can crack open this beautiful first edition of book 6 1 person
31. grind a roll of Smarties into a fine dust, which I will then snort to obtain a colorific high unlike any ever seen by those pitiful crack users 1 person
32. move forward into the future because “lost” is like crack. without it for 3 months i might do something crazy 1 person
33. transform the low-rent housing project down the road into a high-tech crack factory a la Nino Brown in New Jack City 0 people
34. eat lobster: crack it open yourself style and make a mess 0 people

But it is dark now.

“Every junkie’s like the setting sun,” sayeth Neil Young, Book of Canada Horse, II:3-4.

+15, M, in Cosbivell

After all that commotion and freaking out—and posting it all so that I didn’t get my shit together to rent a car before closing—I’m here tonight and getting off |God and a good GPS system willing| earliny in the more-more-more-ning. And I will at that point: will want more, more, more, and will get my funkskank assbooty out of here come hell or Vitamin Water.

So I phoned and rang my feller #823 of Odd Fellows Local #215-c002 and him come out of the hood to a place where the sticker price on the baseline model and that on the fully-loaded model is so a jumpin price that nobody can go without the load, especially when you consider the flagstone’s aging propensity to tilt toward the sun. But don’t worry, he was and is bling enough to handle it. He was excited to go to his blockparty.

Way home ran into a good friend who is ostensibly part of the operative>operational world, the one I’ve been holed-up, bunkered-down, and hiding-out from. I was afraid I’d get caught.

“Still in town?”

“Just got back.”

“Should come to this thing.”

“Think I’ll turn in early tonight. Big day tomorrow.”

I’d say a good 97+% of my days are a good bit (97+%?) bigger than the average bear’s.

More importantly, I really hate lying like that. Really, I do. Crack can usher in it’s good pals depravity and moral bankruptcy, sure. But, man, I just like to get high. I don’t like to lie. (To their “Hugs Not Drugs” slowgun I say “Highs Not Lies!” Viva la revolucion.

But the crack’s here (thoh Macksinquaye forgot a glass again, perhaps owing to my forgottion to remind him) and it’s good. Delicious. Good home cooking, this batch. My compliments to the chef, or Aunt Bernie or Grandma Jackson, of whoever.

So, sorry self for the head-fake, sorry ‘bout the blogsploitation of the blog citizens of this big, green world of grea(tness). I’ve got a teardrop of dirty electric pum throttling the backs of my corny-a’s. The lids above have taken on a thickness that could be considered advantageous should the beholder be in maintenance of a classic Bogart aesthetic. Blahg blahg, you get the picture of imperfection glowing about my life, but lord the tranquility the rock my savior will bring, the peace, the comfort…it permeates my soul. (And occasionally makes me hot for St. Therese of Lisieux, Jesus’ little paintbrush of love.)

Tomorrow’s the day. I promise. No, really. I mean it this time. I do. I do. I do to you, too. Forever and ever, Amen Brother.

I said:
“I love Lou Reed! I’ll fuck him in his heroin holes.”

[an hour did pass]

“If you’re going to do your lifelong goal of climbing El Cap…I’m going to have to fuck my nephew-in-law.”
:said she

[[Maan, some wackass shit come out mi boca raton…well, regardless of the state of my personal temple nation, but (again: the obvious::) souped-upped-ly when I’m stretched on this c-rack, and I’m kind of fearing that blessed(, annoying) gift from g/God will leave me with the bath water. Baby come back to me; whatever will be will be. O, the tautology!]]

Hoover-Thru so many crumbs on the futon, you’re liable to smoke a dog’s hair.

[If you’ve never pleasured at the pingueant spice aromatics of a fine Australian synj’d pupelt, a lifejoy and a lovetoy—yes, oriental pupelt behaves aphrodisiaxicadically no matter your preferred preparation—have been denied you too long. The Majik Of An Ozpel™®© (as the locals fondly labiate it) emanates well beyond the tanninique nose whose approached anticipates rugged walnut and warm black pepper notes balanced across the palate with hints of the winter garden vegetables so famous above the Northwest coves and brought to a smooth and satisfying finish brought on by deep, wild cherry and white-petal Mexican vanilla bouquets made exclusively for Ozpel Associates LTD by Coca-Cola Queensland Brands. Take an Ozpelt with you and enjoy world-class luxury wherever you are!]

The stunts you see on The Propa are performed by trained professionals.

Do not try this at home.

Do not try it anywhere.

^{“I’m going off the rails…”}

You hate the laydy to see it, though she fully understands, floats you genwin empathy, and couldn’t be more accomodating, encouraging, helpful, or giving.

Hell, it could be Satan on the row, front and center, feet propped up4a good ol’ time, and you’d be embarrassed before him, thinking how bad a person you are, how unworthy of his presence (quite poss’bly true regarless your current sin status).

But—if you’re like me—you will never quite find it inappropriate (or such thatly enough), never lack the heart, nevermuch be able to keep a lidonit when it comes to the application of humor, preferably the direct, un touchedly irreverant, and self-effacing kind. I’m hammin it a bit. To get by and to entertainishly maybe—-maybenot,maybe,may. It is Hamma Time, right now, after all, if ever therewere or will.be such said time aloud. [shrugshurg] The Reader’s Digest says that laughter is the bessie medicine!*

^{* Maybe they just ain’t never smoked crack, could be.**}

^{**Oh, relax. I’m given it as hot.}

When 15 for the road just doesn’t make the road…

CALL MAD MY MAN MAX!

Holler at yer boy.
He come through for you.

(very fine printing)
And though you’ll know he’s ever so happy to get another fat sack of money, that no matter how many times you “bug” or “bother” him he’ll be Johnny On The Spot—or Jamel Over Your Way—you’ll be ashamed that you two are back again in each other’s company, saying your third or fourth goodbye, the last one—last night’s—including the fateful “This one’s definitely it, the last time for sure. I’ve got my ticket; I’m going.”

Parta me really doesn’t want to go through this next bit, the comedown, armageddon, hellfirehellhell detox, not a bit, or even, for that matter, quit smoking the great white hope at all.

Utter par of me is so looking forward to an end to what has become a tedious, hasslin’ hurtful possessive bitch of a burden.

She said, “Oh come on, you know Medea.”

I said, “Oh, I don’t even know my ass’s name.”

Then God blessed me with a perfect ring of tubacka smoke, level, into the back rest.

I’ll end on the beach.
I expect to find one set of footprints there.
I get carried away.

This is it; I’m quitting. Crackrock bottom. Out.

And I’m going JapToo’R’Us styree (sorry, sorry, sorry; proven lack of self-control, demonstrated need for lightening humor), not lovin’ it, stuck behind the recording device.

Just now she said, “It’s getting dark; it’s going to rain. Rain on our parade.” She wasn’t whistling dixie.

This is realtime.

The only reel with me.

I feel like I’m in a race.

Got to get out of here, gaw to be today, no no no more.

But I’ve got dreadlocks on the coming, the evac, just get me on the right HIghway.

But got to get me far enough along right here, got to get too the righty place.

Damned if I go Nike and just do it/\damned if I go DARE and just say no, stay wherewhat I know.

She’ll be riding six white horses when she comes
bare back
I hope
this is boring…

I blurt popsqwaks and sing gayly everything—2tap off-press.

Cuttin’ Pastework Kwill: Sosage

I’m between a crack rock and a rock hard place.

It hurts.

I tell you I’m a Spanish Galleon sailing and bouying about, dropping pieces of Hate AshBury, flying the skull and crossbones.

K-So! eNuffin of that gooby jablab, timer for some that Gibralter accent.

Plenty, in times and hazes like these, goes trickled away, lost. Gems gems. And perhaps chief among them of late have been the sudden move (of my own accord) from my apartment, the staying with one friend and another, the quitting the job (no! I wasn’t fired, you assumpterers!), and other—even the rest of the—as-suchlies. Or, even if a bit seeped through and got picked up, the missing ingreedys have been the plans and the planning, the boymanchild’s volition ‘n’ position, and how it came true or failed to realize.

The German nougat-filled nutshell verseyowneh:
I need all the following at least: to quit smoking crack for all-time and forever, and not substitute alcohol in its place, which points to an addressing of the fundamental problem which may have tie-ins with figuring out my next steps lifewise. So there’s some quittin’, diggin’, & figurin’ out to do while I get healthy exercising and eating well. That’s important crucial stuff, honey. And I’m about as far removed from every bit of that as a white hot sexy pink easy lover can be.

Moreover, I like to write, as anybody short of full blindness with asigmatism can see. This stuff is vomit; I know that. It’s fun vomit, though. Fun for me. When I’m smoking-out, anyway. And that’s the intended loyalty for this one. Not the smoking, the one before; the me. Part of the program, the project, the processing. See the metas, bro. I’m repeating myself. And trying to get to the point that I needed needed wanted to write write. Right?

Put it all together and you’ve got another whitey in self-assumptive crisis (depression the luxury epidemic of our day, she says, but I wasn’t/amn’t so depressed as far as I can ass sir tane, but one should have difficulties pinning an objective bead on that same one’s damned self, and barring that, my neurdons, cranially speaking, have suffered just shy a half decimation, so who am I to say if I’m depressed or not? But I’m quite sure and know factually that I am not. There was a test online.), quitting his flash ‘n’ dash day job (no, for the last time, not fired), up ‘n’ outting my apartment in all of a pair of sweat de-equity hours one two-fer-Tuesday evening (no, damn it, I was not kicked out), living at one friend’s and then another, and then rustling up a magically deliciously charmingly lucky mealdeal in a welcomedly rednecking southern beach town for which I only have to pay utilities and once in an occasional while lift a heavy object for the old-time sweety bird owners in the other unit. Dream me up, I’m screaming. Oh my god, Tracy.

I’m a sick kid.

Broke out into the world yesterday to run the only errand still clipped to my utility belt, and limping back thought on this time caved-in. A wispy wave of wonderfullity unassailably; a warm, suede cupseat set offcenter the womb’s deep interior. Medium-rare that high comfortability in a managed thicket. .-.-.> ”’I’d moved in with her, but hadn’t lived with her.”’ No life like that, but alive in a dwelling, hunkered over a circuitry, an electric zipplezatn board, and ascertained the numbers I needed. God the goodness. The worthy for the un.

The eponymous shrill of my firing rises over the chilling hoosh of the wall-through unit. Nervousing me that she’ll wake.

+15, M, blawk up from the jail—convenient in such case as we are seen and aprehensible

I gave him the corner of the ocean and the last name of an intern poker ‘n’ smoker player. Turnered out 2b2. But we rectified.

I cough a sharp, quick, decibled hucker that could have been mistaken for a meatbeefer sneeze. I felt the thump on the redridge behind my rabbit teeth as has not been uncommon to one degree or another over these past times now. I had just divulged the scale of my economy and the economy of my scale in response to the woman meeting my needsr asking if I could just get a nickel instead of a dime—which was in response to my sudden discovery I’d forgotten that my last arrangement came 5x20 instead of the 10x10 predominantly encountered on that block, and resultingly had just run dry o my dry goods, and conseqly entered statepark mild panic, barometer dropping, a thick layer of conmonkdrum clouds overhed about how to hand el, men chunning smart eye had not wanted to buy again but peter out crutched on CRumbee rum (Flor D’ Cana spoiled and reweened as I am) and a/effecting a start freshly on my bonjour nee in the mourn. It was in answer to that middlin’ ambition her knick-knacker came offered.

I picked up one of the many small, translucent articles comprising the detritus on the couch-my-perch and said, “This is a dime,” paused for not-to-come acknowledgement, then mathadded, “Just one of these little thangs—” Gown two check the face for a sign of a put-together, but mid-up I dubeltake back: “No this is a dub…mmh, oh, the Barbie candies?” “Yeah…” “So, half that…. You know how many of these I go through a night?” “No,” she says. “All those things on the couch?” “I’ve tried not to know that.” “Should I tell you now?” “Yes.” “Well,” prop chin on palmine, elbow on forearm and furrow. I hez a mome. I chortle uneasIness. I say, “It’s embarrassing.” … “And I’m at the end of the line here. Where it’s at now….” . . “In the past 24 hours…. You know when I went out last night? I spent $200.” She went into a shallow half-bent, rolling her shoulders over as her waist clicked forward a notch. She looked like 5:08PM. She mouthed words inaudible.

[Let’s up the pace of this stor-e-counting:]
She sat. I paced a tight diam. I urged the cawf. Felt the soft thub. Thumbed it out. Saw what I’ve seen for some time: a glob (you will) of lung dung, hue-ing toward a grainy gray, lonly this one of the frequentering generation, a touch more solid and shadowy.

Thematically we’d only be gun sever ity. Be sides ide fleeted some concernlings about those old sacks, those tough guys in there—real troopers. Forward on.

“What’s grosser than gross,” I ref the kidshit. Her fingers tumble down the keyboard grade and fluidfall into her lap in her halfturn back tward me. “I don’t know; what’s crosser than gross?”

“You sure?”

“Sure.”

“Turn on your light.” I’d known what I was looking for at my inspection; just a routine examination, ma’am; I assure you there is no cause for alarm. She’s got a trust to drive obedients [stetsic]. Light comes up, decothumb goes under. Yam!,—a delivery of a re-act,-a-shunning! My work: dunn.

I move to ratantom from witch the feelings of undue screen bullets for moisture levs. Pick my mos rees, marveling misel at its mini-, markable heft, and offer it—the hands-on learning experience of it—to…—let’s give this womaning an arguably overdue name, shall we then?alright, wear going with Tracikel Milynda.No.Aggie?Notoo sunfarmponytail. Ow. How bowt Savie Grace?Set telled then…—Savie sayien the culpa mea my my hurryen sCRumblin. Can I get at it in there like that? comes the questyun.

“UaYeah,” eyes do a carriage return. “Snot ass ice butt tits um thin.” I pinch the crispend, dusblacked sCReam tip. “In its super minty,” theen king V.Ace hadn’t a door to that real tase. “End do star gedding
metle thrwo.”

“Ehuahl.” A nutter rants, a squintence. I Ketchumfrum cornerize, scrape ping uh pape clip unwounding lass.

“Owun…” Nigh hole dug lass uh pen now. “This thing’s narrow.” I thought I heard myself say, “This sings.” I turn gay with the mental anguish of my mis take. “Yeah?” she plead send snores.

“Ugawt a jagged end lie kiss, you can’t helput touch it, and, you can hardly see ‘embut, a bittle chiptip of glassle fawlin’. Solong with th e molten met all par tick you let dust ewe get thuh sharpies,” eim Shaken Ed.

Ears what eim gettien gat:]]
“Sheiz,u’re! a superfund sight!”

You know how sometimes you struggle with the pipery? The screen’s clogged or stuck, an end breaks and chips at the drop of a hat…that kind of thing. In the course of my idle chitchit to myself and that woman with the creamy white filling, I mumbled that “as soon as I tell her she’s been a good girl, she thinks she has license to act out, just like your dog.”

“What’s that, your pipe?”

“Yeah.”

“Does she have a name?”

“Elizabeth,” I said. It came right off the cufflinks. And then with half a beat I added, “Browning.” A quarter, “Jr.”

I smoke all the time now. [“all the time” in this context is not a colloquial way of conveying ‘frequently.’ It is meant literally. A pipe is never not in my hand or hot in my pocket. I sometimes type with it between my fingers. A lighter between the fingers of my other.

Used to be that once embarked upon a jag, I wouldn’t eat. Didn’t want to, couldn’t, except maybe one of those tiny 25 cent bags of chips on the fourth or fifth day or something. Now, when I get around to eating—and it’s still too little too late—I have to smoke up before to enable myself. To make the whole process tolerable.

I wake—on the rare occasion that my body, unable to take any more, collapsed into late sleep—and immediately reach for that glass. It rubs the sleep from my eyes for me. But it doesn’t work as well as it used to. It’s getting old. I cough. My chest hurts.

Poor people, I feel bad making them worry (and I mean that in no egotistical way; it [worry-over] happens to the worst of us). I’ve been a recluse, holed-up and hiding, out of reach and contact collecting voicemails, emails, and paper-based mails.

- An indulgence of one’s own over-eager-ity and skipping prudent preparations and good faith groundworks in a headlong diving-in will result in a later biting of the ass.

- An insistence that you trust the insister is it’s own evidence of ill-advisability.

+10,Roots “R.O.O.T.S., like the TV show.”, 2 symmetrical 50 pieces, 9pm, 18 Awg

- D [while we waited]: “Yeah, you do stick out.”
- “Where’s that white dude?”
- “You got me in here under Amado*!” [*Mispronun of “llamando.” 2nd person to say.]

- “What’e need? Weed?”
- “That’s grimy.”

The hostess cupcake, at the sight of a handful of pink-packetted dimes: “Barbie candy!”

From: [friend’s email address]
Date: Wed, 17 Aug 2005 23:36:19 EDT
Subject: [friend’s name]: “You know who’d love this? [my name].”
To: [my email address]
[body of email]
[name of friend’s girlfriend]: “Yeah, where the hell is he?”

Older woman. A writer to the extent of Oprah and CNN appearances. A bonding to the extent of a couple weeks. I’m at her place in the heights. I’m here for the connection. I’m smoking always, I’m working through. She’s leaving for an appointment, leaving me here, gathering herself in a static, digging up a spare set of keys for me and ticking the things that care for my needs, wrapping with a rustling through the knickyknack receptics on the thick, blond wallshelves—a faceted crystal globe, maybe an earthenware, tooled leather geometrics—saying, “Now, here are the pearls, and the charms should be worth something. As much as anything in the house, anyway; I really don’t have much.” Tarnishings in the shapes of spaniels and shoes, windmills and tennis rackets, tinkle through her fingers and back down upon themselves again held. “I’m out of cash at the moment so I won’t show you that…” She’s impressive.

+10, M, I walked and he drove; we met.

Where we met—not where we’d arranged; I lagged—turned out to be between the court building and the jail. Packaging: Chase envelope. Stage directions have us walking and chatting a length:
“Marlboro Lights, [customer’s name]?”
“You don’t want one, do you?”
“They too light.”
“That’s funny because, for me, Newports are too light. The menthol, like, cools the smoke.”
“It’s the nicotine taste,” he said.

Along the lines, I was stopped by my older African American couple’s place. We get to cooking and in from the other room comes a cousin. “Oh, let me get my glass,” he says. The woman begins to introduce us and I cut in, “Oh, we go way back.” He plays along. I love it. He’s funny. He did that classic Black-stand-up-comic-immitating-a-White-guy voice (ref. Eddie Murphy if a refresher is needed), talking about “soady pop” and whatnot. I got a kick out of it. I like a little good natured racial ribbing as a sort of acknowledgement of our shit and as tension relief or preemption. I do it when I think my companions will get it and not jerk their knees in offensive. Anyway, further along in the session, he brings up the subject that will come up in a group of smokers about once every five weeks: DIY crack making. He said, “I like to use beer instead of water.” [Okay, you researchers, the basic recipe is cocaine, baking soda, and water on the stove, got it?] “The yeast in there makes it rise up a little more.” [researchers: yeast—among other constraints in such a context—is not active in a simmer situation.] “Don’t use malt liquor, though; you can’t use malt liquor,” he continues. “It’s the alcohol. It kills the yeast.” [researchers: leaving aside the other obvious yeast-killing factors {remember, we’re simmering here…}, beer contains alcohol, too.] I was like, “I don’t know about that, but pour a little St. Ides in a warm bath, and your skin will come out so soft. Maybe not yours, I don’t know about that, but it works on white skin like mine. But you have to add it after the epsom salts; you can’t do it before.” …Okay, no, I didn’t say that. I made that part up. But the rest is honest-to-God.

You said I’d wake up dead drunk
Alone in the park
I called you a liar
But how right you were
Air conditioned TV land, 20 grand
Walk to the bank
With shakes from the night before
Staring at the tiki floor…

—“Jed’s Other Poem (Beautiful Ground),” Software Slump, Grandaddy

Always looking for the perfect tool. Last night…or before?; damn I can’t even rememberstraight a 24-48 hour period…I thought a fancy chopstick—the paintied kind with a printed section or some shit—would pushitrealgood…

**Now, for those of you who land on this site after putting in a search request looking for crack how-to’s and techniques (and you know who you are; and I do too, or at least your IP addresses…), I’m going to give you a tip: the Leatherman equiv for the smokah is any straight object with a flat end, longer than the pipe, and just a hair less diametered. You’ll use that to push your screen from one end of la pipa to la otra should you want or need or it prove expedient.**

And that is exactly what I had. I thought. Got part way, paused to reposition grip, and that was long enough for resin to cool and dry and lock that chopstick in there, rendering all apparati in operable. I pulled and yanked, pulling faces, too. Nothing. I got grip aides—textured cloth works well—but nothing. I got pliers. No.

**Now, for the highschoolers landing among us researching chemistry and physics papers, I’m going to lay down some science and model the efficacy of finesse over brutitude, brains over brawn. You see, I pulled and pulled; it was such a sight. And then I reached for the lighter. Ran it under the tube like you do when you need a preheat, and voila! (French, you high schoolers!) Slipped out like a pre-pub penis from a prostitute’s pootie.

Let that be a lesson to ya’.

[[***I have no qualms putting that kind of practical information out there. Kids and everybody else will best be kept from drugs’ harm not through the superficial slapsticking of prohibitions that don’t get at the root of any problem, but through the dissuasion of honest education and the redress of social conditions that inspire such destructive distractions. Besides, I’ve enthusiastically fostered and single-handedly built a not insignificant consumptive system for crack and have done that without outside encouragement or help, the scant information gleaned hard-won. And a friend of mine burned many costly bags of coke over a lonely kitchen stove trying to trial-and-error his way through the learning curve of crack production. So, if a kid wants to do drugs, a kid will do drugs, with or without me, you, the next gal, or our leaky infors. There. My policy.]]]

Dropped off last items at the storage space today. Put it up in that little paint-chippy, over-priced, plywood-chic loft there and then, naturally, paused for a toke, which, naturally, I took, and then crossed my arms over my Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle T-shirted gut, got all pensive, and reflected on my departure and how many times I’ve smoked in that little rabbit hutch up there at the foot of the bridge, the timered lights going out on me while I wondered how much of what kind of smoke it would take to get those detectors in the ceiling—so close I could almost touch, and connected to the the sprinkler system I could—to go off. How quickly we settled into patterns and routines in our lives. The things that give us structure give us meaning as well, and make our lives worth living, I believe. I held that flame up again—held it there a while—then threw the hot glass in my back pocket on the other side of my folded to-do list so that I wouldn’t burn my ass to the second degree while holding my hit down hard and causing trauma to the little ciliated sacs in my long-suffering lungs as I scrambled back down that ladder on out.

+15, R, (price-wise; got the 8-ball; 1 main crystalline stalagmite, another vice-mitek, a couple at least dub-size: it was one of the prettiest things I’ve ever seen)

It was really cute. R is embedded. He moves in a very limited radius most of the time most of his life—aside from the occasional to D.C. [see the way-the-fuck-relatively-earlier post on the topic] or the Brooklyn Navy Yard to retrieve the impounded vehicle of his babyMama, he’s pretty much on the block, maybe a street, possibly two off (but only on the western side]. He’s very nice. He’s strict about his hands-off Hebrewism FriNights-SatSundowns. He’s fair. He’s etc., and yet he’s not one you can break through the exterior crust with and get beyond a low, curt and gravelled grumb. It is an even keel, if nothing else. We see each other plenty and there’s none of the chit-joke M and I spin for a moment or two each visit. So—getting to my point—we do the deal and I say, “Well, that’s the last one,” and we do a 2-stage special extended goodbye-mix handshake (I’m terrible at fancy hand jive communication rituals so two’s about my limit.) which that right there was enough for me. I mean, I was all emotional and choking back the tears, feeling sad as hell and empty inside at the thought of how I would miss seeing R everyday/night, but I was also scared shitless at what kind of cruel, sustained ridicule on the low end and severe beating, scarring, and violation I would suffer on the high end should I get caught crying, that it really helped me compose myself and choke back—way back—the tears. “I gotta to get out of here,” I say and he’s like, “Alright,” and we separate. I get a good clip going on so that the cops leaning over the subway railing at the end of the block would get the impression that I was on business, and as I hit my sidewalk stride I hear a call from behind me and I turn. And there’s Mr. Rough Exterior with his corn-rowed beard making his face look like a mask, and his arm stretched way up toward the clouds, waving as he says, “Have a safe trip down!” Then the hang-loose hand comes to the mask, “Call me…” he trails off, and I smile and raise a hand back his way. Awww. I turned back to my course with just a shade more glow. I was touched. Even if maybe the part I didn’t hear was, “…when you get back in town, you know, if you need anything.”

(“Goodness for strength!”tm)

Eeech dey, I picked another offhergram envelop from the jampac’t box for the divine holiness of our grace we plead with the mother of all gaudy promptings and improperto’s and…ewww…

I used them to hold my para gear, my sUPlies all lies, e.g. thin gnarly bent metal stick to push (around…those stick figures are easi pyckens), my extrydubble laer of plast, the bahgs ‘selves. simple. baysicks, nada mass. I’m a simple guy. And crackhead with not a lot of needs beyond the obvious biguns. Just more tasty bags (and only tasty!) and a broadband byespeed bonection. But I frigress. These is a sampling of the envies I reapropriated. I fear others , the one or the two I’ve lost track of, must surely be in the wrong hands by now but you never never never…

envelop pouch examples (not complete):
Black And Indian Mission Office
Easter Offering For Support Of Senior Priests
My Easter Gift To My Church

On 10 AUGUST 2005 in VOLUME 41 ISSUE 32, AMERICA’S FINEST NEWS SOURCE, The Onion, ran the following under News In Brief with the headline [and I quote], “Podcast A Cry For Help”:

BOZEMAN, MT—The few people close to Mitch Delomme say that he doesn’t realize the implications of his new podcast, an agonizingly personal 40-minute digitally recorded capsule of news, information, and trivia about the chronically lonely pizza-delivery man. “I wanted to share something about myself,” said Delomme, 48, who in the course of his life has been heavily involved in ham and CB radio, personal home-page construction, and participation in late-night community-access cable. Delomme’s podcast is currently available on all major subscription links, where it has attracted no attention.

+10

{Omaan brotherboy!, out of the blue [and into the red],, that remind me of that steam rising up from the jungle mud with the rhythm of the yhum-um-m.m.m of the 24hr cardamom drier…

Kant se more; I do have limits—damn you for assuming one bottomless morass* and the whole donkey’s uselass.}

* Howken exist a thing both without bottom and possessive of a label meaning additional bottom (in some white China circles, anyway)?

+21

(((
10 R
+ 10 paid, S, plus last 1 he owed me = …
11 [on “Sterlin’” &, get this, only like an hour maybe hr&1/2 later!]
=
^^!C a buv, crackass!^^
)))

*Yo,!, See those brack’s up there? That shit’s a personal record. But I ain’t proud of it (affectin’ this ghetto talk slackcent to boot! but I tell you, it’s more for the utility in it than frontin’ ‘cuz some dees niggers ain’t never talked to a white man & asareezult don’t understand one same as I don’t understand their accent or diction or syntax from thyme to timb, ain’t nutin’ wrong wiffat. . . Anyho (heave-ho!), I was just trigoin to say a thing I’b mos liking sed beefo, and that’s that tho I kno my boy R—oR any boy fo dat matta—woodbee happy to see me as often as I care to PAY him a vizit, I’m too embarrased (enfront ov the deelr!4G’sake!) to go back so so sew soon, and choose the lesser quality instead, knowing it will flunk my ebenen up den.

Ann, it did! Don’t know why exac. Good shit to bad, $200 in less than 2 hours, reality of leaving, not getting shit done, mah mama calling and tho chose not to expressiv was clearly quite concerned over my lack of contact (atypical fuhchuh), the MS.c. at Trinity in Dublin I was bustin arse to aple fer (okcutitout.okay) before digging deeper and realizing it probably wasn’t what I was after, wanted, or kneydead (waisted work, disappointed plans), or what, what, what, but I could get no effect, no even even keel, not keep from fall, from that shitshitassshit second batch I deperately pulled on all night until I went for another 100 in the fresh, dewey decimal system morn, oh what a mourn! And I was moody and freaky all night, morose, agitated, my F’ie worried and chillcool as everforever.

The night felt like I turned a corner. I was unable to do what I do. I was terrible to be around. Ridiculous. Repeating myself (more in my mind to my mindself than out). Just a little, but measurably nonetheless, crazier, and cellesser. Frighteneder.

[Now I had bad shit mos def, but aisle feal summ thin. And seam like a market/big bust in the distribution lines or some shit like that cause everybody on the blocks been selling shitfuckforall. It’s fucking shitfuckforall! Except my dog R up out of the fray. —and he asked me about his the other day and I gave props, said always good, and that those niggers on the block be selling shit for shit shitty shit, and he said yeah, he used to go there/them to get his wares but people were complaining so he switched. Those guys out there for the desperate po fucks, the white fucks and the welfare fucks, the nickel and dimers (punfy) I’m beginin to tharerereys. Well, for a long time and it’s obvious, but I don’t have the time, evergy, patience, legalrisktolerance (asastronomi as it sure as garlic fart is) to seek and cultivate a step up. R gets it for me, my little runnergirl…and that’s just find by meemememeee.]

+0

[In the old days, if there was no entry a plus-zero was assumed. Not now. The news has gone daily. A day without buying is notable, indeed. —It does not, however, mean a day without smoking. (Thus the absence in the Branching.)]

the time has come…

I will now go through a classick blahger’s rite of passage:

“I’m sorry I haven’t written for so long. The white-out (so to speak) can be ATRIButed for the most part to two unusual and concurrent phenomena:
1) I have no internet access (nor a home, for that matter), and,
2) I have managed to take the addiction to a new personal high (STS^), but in doing so, I have found myself so busy procurring, preparing, and partaking of the product itself, that there is left little to know thyme for pondering my patheticness. “

Not to worry, though; I have kept scratchnotes and numbers. The latest for the accountants is yesterday’s by::
+10, r, d.livery to the iceburg dead house (more on this and the rest later)

Things is happenin’. I’ll see to it that they do here as well. (Blawwwger Rite of Passage/Cliche #253: The Ol’ Promise To Do Better.)
[The corollary BRoP/C #X is, I’d guess: The unfounded arrogant assumption that anybody in the wide, flat world gives a fuck about your or my webFlog.]

fPeace.

My ass is getting shagged! (Once again NeckID (no Ego) on the car pet.
chain smokier—just sub cocaine for the main ingredient (toeback-Oh oh oh oh please…)
every 2-4 seconds my head starts to dip; im so tire
my normally nominally zitty and pinkish ass (I’ve been told) is particularly zitty and I’ve reached

I shake my body, now up on fours like awaiting an exquisitely large strapon to reach a point of no return. And hurry back to the screen and stare, unable to remember what I was doing or was supposed to do, or was going to do, or unable to focus, in which case I was lid-lifting and directing the balls toward the lumin in front of me. Typ ‘rack B Hayve Your patterns are in force but taken up to eleven and then eleven-er and elevenerer and so ON. I tug the cock maybe more than mom or the doctor would recUMmend or judge prudent but it’s not a micro-fraction as masturbatory as my activities at the lapto’. More idle fidget than nervous tic especially when treatment cannot p

or, like ‘twiddling your thumbs,…and while I imagin that kind of activity to turnout in the end to not worth the haslll or expense of the added laundry caused by sticky clean-up___________ ultimately, Tweadle Dee Down There will inevitably be disproportionate to the girls—Rosie Palmer’s Famous Five Sisters— that duck down into the alley there for their First Furtive Fumblings and then later to bitch and whincha

It’s more like an informal, extended massage with some unconventional techniques, that’s all.

uh…

o… yeah… i guess that’s all anything that happens in that randy region really is.

You’re thinking about htis all wrong. think “an invigorated handholding workout” instead. See? It’s simple., isn’t it?

a cupping, a support, like a jock strap, it’s called self-dependence, and self-reassurance.

if idle hands are the devil’s playground, does that mean my penis—enjoying as it did and does some low-level, out-drawer movement and activity resulting, in part, in personal growth and strengthening—the kind of universally vaguely desired in oments of less thingssooky conferences like that like to offer their participants. Mine ver

… 5:11’M [second winding give up its afectations again. How does that hapen? I should only be more tired later. Right? Where did the enrgy come from while I fought eye closures and topple-backs and in coherence.Oh, I just got an idea. The crack cocain, perhaps? But—and this brings up one of my points: I’m smoking like a maniac now. Pretty much chain-style, supplies always at the ready, out in my workspace, or clutched and sweat-lodged in my hand in my pocket.]

Talking to F about J and then C and I think D back there in between (I never remember who I tell what to and have taken to prefacing most remarks with that admissionconfession). I realized that I’m a bit of a fag hag. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a boy like that. Or it talked about. Only girls and a few women. What does that mean? Does it mean something? Should it mean something?

I resist the Grate Expectations and inadeQUIT connection b
ut I open to the possibiuility and to the other’s ; that things are cingularly traceback abdle

fag mag
guy at the bar
playing along, humoring/accomodating,, practicing, not at all phobsicking…

underwear and sock to push screan through white chocolately fudge fludge

spit on that shag when bits of carbonated screen flew to paste upon the tongue

confessional with f—every ugliness

It’s quite a show and I’m watching it.

[i’m roking back and forth, yes closed, after just hitting big on new Pebbles(/)Beache(s), and was totally falling into serious sleep. if somnambulism is sleep walking, what’s the word for (sleep-preventative) sleep ass-rocking? Sompendulassin’? Sompendubut… (too easily mistake able for a coming out of some sort, or as the French put it, a “debut.” someassquake! No, that sounds more like what an enthusiastic, excitable big booty afficionado in early adulthood would say sidelong to his giggle-ready (and otherwise generally accomodating of his friend’s needs for subconscious fear that one day the friend would real eyes he has nothing else to offer besides his Stand-In Ed McMahan and as a result feel an instant and thourough decathecting from his steady, affirming nurture and ever-believing support, and that said seismickey shift would be accompanied by the suddenly rimming and brimming sense that and a back-mouth bitter twinge, and that—that—he could not take. ‘Fine, you know?’ he thought when he imagined how it would play-out, ‘Whatever. If he doesn’t want to be friends anymore that’s his decsion. He could respect that, or whatever. ‘Let him go if he didn’t need a sidekick or if they’d move apart and it was time to move on

No, he was not the type of person to bitter his own butterscotch just because his buddy

And then, as if with a final, coffin-sealing nail, he set his eyes conspiratorially on their reversals in the mirror on the heart & just couldn’t bring himself to ever hurt him one bit.

and while thumb rolling, or twiddling as it’s commonly refered to, is an actual ‘medical treatment used by physical therapists to help patients in those jobs where you use your thumbs a lot—you hang by them, they’ll tell you. Ask, them. You’ll see I’m right!-but, yeah, aside from its truly, important ‘official’, let’s call it, role in that field, most people engage in the activity as a sort of whiling away as the thumbs dance around each other in a coordinated, non-contact fashion, the mind falls in behind and follows suit in a sort of almost effort-less numbing; it’s like going back to the basics. to the simplicity of repetitive motion. it’s primeval, it’s pure, and for that alone it’s calming, it’s soothing, something that goes on in the back ground as if it weren’t even there, silently doing it’s job, whereas your thing, whatever you call it, it’s bound to get a young man, even somebody with a few more years (but not too many, heheh) aroused, do it long enough. pull hard enough. people like painful sex, you know! and it becomes a thing where one part—or one part of an entity, I should say—has actually turned on another part of the same organism, and it’s detrimental to the health of the overall organization. It’s reallly dangerous, I’m serious. One way or another people hear about this new fad, this new buzz about town —sure, ideally, you shouldn’t be spending time at the kind of place where that goes on, but I know what’s out there, and, hell, some people just don’t stop to think that maybe not every person in the world is exatcly like

they are.’ Either it just never occurs to these poor saps and we don’t want their bra and wheter they like the idea or not—let’s say it not as an agression with yankees, and balls, for Christ’s sake, and pop-flys, pretty soon your going to be talking about sliding into home base and scoring another one for your macho fucking team, right? Am I right?.

ghost cat stepping off the small oldalog TV on the floor in the other room and walked towards me, and losing me for a brief p;asing through the sharp triangular shadow cast by the door frame interrupting the light to approach and pass by disap

just now [6:11amxactlee] pulled the drunk stunt: lit the wrong end. put the warmy, minty end in

various anthropromorphing lumps and a woman in mid-lengh, white dress—a synthetic blend, you know? something perhaps a micron or two thicker than polycloths, but less dense so it’s prety much impossible brightish, lightish

dog shoes

spinal infusion

11:41am
the call. still clothesless. having to pull wrinkleds out of pack, pulling boxers up to nose for snifftest and having no doubt they were not to be worn again before a good washing-to. cobbling together minus shoes. get good sharp rocks. not this humid shake the boys on the block have been dumping. all is good again in the world. but less surely than it was before. I’m a chain smoker these days. it makes for long and sketchy train and cab rides. and i have to go into the city to my box to pick up my ira cash out.

(disCoveR that the ol’ [quite young, actruely] iPod took a dive in the move. Best guess would be it’s packed-position [pole, as a matter of fac, at the top of the pac] directly over the radio and its speaker-backing magnet

11:04am
smokin down the screen for any muddy goop that will burn but not affect me except perhhhaps in the least. just put in another $100 order. in a pretty regular $100/day rhythm now. I’ve got to get out of here.watching phonew. nKED.

I sit here with my limptitude hanging out of my metrostilish ([ad?v]lee?) too short black puma drawrs having just learned these (fall, oh, wing) things from a looney thangle called iTunes:
- that right this very (Carnation) instant I’m listening to “Les Nuits,” track 1 off the Carboot Soul album blessedly conjured into this confabulatarianism by Nightmares on Wax to hold hop steady the distinksheon-e of being 1 (yes, numero uno) of my very favorite songs. That last bit part I did not learn from any machine, least of all Stever Jobs, as much respect as I do in fact old for him. [You, too, know of your own-a-chord not to judge a thing by its jewel case; don’t forget it—not with crackheads either, I advocate specifically.] But Steviedream & his grannysmith gang have kindly provided quantification of that dis; the song is numbertoo in my “Top 25 Most Played [songs] list. Sage Francis—that werd[up!][[white]]smith, him—has the lion’s share of the other 25, with Sea Lion taking top dawgone. Alien Sex Fiend make it with several entries, and Radiohead with, too. He tells me also, by virtue of mere list-inclusion—that Kid Loco (hey, speaking of kids, before I forget: I was sure I saw Kid 606 leave Botanica tonight. We’ll get to that in a minute; just hold on.) is certifiably ’90s music. As is Django Reinhardt but I don’t believe it; DJ Hardheart is timeless… And I’m not positive it’s itune’s culpalarity but sometimes after I fire that chromy bitch up I notice there’s suddenly a new (nEmpty) folder in my folder named Jim Morrison - American Prayer. I’m not sure what my prayer says. I hope it’s not American like that dream is, or that one ethos, you know? That one? The one that’s as seemingly impossible a mongrel as one of my two best baby bitches ever. She was a Beagle-Doberman mix—a lot prettier than a paranoid-arrogant mix. Or, would that be arrogant-paranoid?

Yesterday I spent time with a beut not mine. A class-y/-ic goldielocks labbygirl. She barks an unwelcome while I’m still on the other side of the class door waiting for her partner, my friend, to open me in, and then humps me her own doggy style with a twist hump when I’m gettin at the apt-art door to leave. She’s got a wicked side-angle approach; all she lacks is a cane-eyen-ly ergoDnomic strap on.

saw a book at f’s most prepostrously claiming titled thusly .prayer for every ocasion. that’s prepostrous.

at f.’s I happened to notice that I was typing with a stem between fings on left and bigRedBic in the left. that’s so prepostrouser?

State of the Ration:no high, but high maintenance

actually tired now. about to trans-ny into sleeptyping from the mad corresp. days.

took photos yest

feel-ing/t tired, inexplicably miraculous, but also a touch melancholy, not sure why

runninround snappin’ fots of the old ladee’s life. profaning yhr plsvr. tanuyting her to haunt my ass. set me strait and v. disappointed that it’s not happening. I’mean if ever…I’ve been paitent for this for neigh on the second score. i’s my turn. I fart deep into her vari-toned, vari-rivultted gold shag for CRiminy sakes, man! then my stems so minty, when i leave and come back in this rest room homenurse habitrayle it smells like the wholdamn place is minty. at least it’s not plugged from overheat lick whiff vacation!. wouldnt’ be able to get in the door. breath. ah, damn. took shts of xray w huge tu,m or ni found…. fashioning scraperpushercombos (i’m crackhead efficient! [and that’s something, boy]) from her pliers and wire hangers.

then the blinds. uugie water, cabbies, “hope yoru day goes better” sef-richessness on (grand, o.c.) Brooklyn Heights exit.

so dogdog, and layladylay, witwhom at a pt I shoder my porntraption and my purse. hilites. coo.

later back in the badburg, my ol boy almost raped me. He was bitch-bitch bitch. not like the good kind I was talking about befer. so himmy, the soupster, and the ultramate and good to go. noty the candidates, my picks. (hto htese eople rea so guuud so mieai py pls) I stink, besides. I mean it like I’ve meant anything.

dertineces:::
crackbits in the keyboard, crackbits in the shag
ash everywhere
meltquid - like cum stain on my pantalones,

helltheeneces:::
speck of blood on the thumb
bad productive (if you value flegim) cough—what was once a once in a whattle chack-up has become an over and over repeated whole upper body crap up of blackish brackish chunks

hafta hit and hit and have no high, no high. just to keep me dealin’. copin’. not cryin’ & winin’:
all night trying not to slip off to the bathroom too much, walkin’ that card-countin county line
hittin’ up in the street every block
round the corner to beegdoby old housk
couple cops with not a sec too soon timing

+10, R, now R in the Whipsybergertowntowndown!

Finally, good crap! (odd. that good crap, crap though it be).

He was interested to know details about the move, not just missing the money. wowcoolkind.

Now I’m sucking to back of throat tiny bits of glass from the bragged edge. Forgot to ask ‘im to bring a stem for my stem cell research. My shits is mintorific, emF on the -orific.

And I SOSO want the lady’s ghost to come bitch me out. She should. I deserve. I make her Catholic duty house unto MaryMare a crackhouse delooocks. rumage and take, profrane, beat off and clean up with the nearest needlepoint. Hey, it was store-bought needlepoint. she didn’t make it. A machine did. What does that mean? my point.

4:30AM +7, S (6 wanted to pei + the 2 oh’d but S only had 1 X)

5:30PM +10, M! My pretty boy blue brought down into the ‘burg. I thought it was cute. We were able to connect abonut location deets when I cited one of the two cross=streets his healthcare provider sits on, “Oh yeah, I know where that is. That’s where I go to my doctor.” Good boy, M to the M.

Last night standing outside the new bar with my new gay jokesters and pickerupperoners, I immediately, in the dark from a decent distance in the approach, recognized the Ms. crackhead right off and imm. took on sweet help of symp and love voice. Tried to help her out. Asked if she had place to stay. Gave cash. Bought her a beer at her request. Gave her food. Obliged her request to sit on stoop in highly visible and traffick’ed by coppers spot (me with pipe and American Baguettes, though the very proximity to her kind might’ve been sufficient—I have realized, by the way, how lucky I am and how differently I get treated, ie. with less suspicion in general, but it goes both ways; up on the block I stick out like a sordid white boy in a dark, dark world where I am the obvious target of suspicion and can’t get away with the hanging and slangin my fellas do.), and invited her to come look for the good stuff with me, my dime,so to speak. “You smoke?” “Of course I smoke, what’d you think?” This entertains me. I only eat a few spanish chick wings and am done, go give rest—by far most, still piping hot—to old man pushing cart with a rummage bent. “Ask him, ask him,” she calls and runs over. Oh before I get too far, long story short, she’s high maintenance and bugs about every detail in not sane way, but I’m patient so far and tell her to relax and to stop asking this or that and that she simply must calm down , but my tone is matter of fact, not threatening. Measured. Good. We get the lowdown and set off. She wants to take the money and buy. I pretty much trust her (you can never be sure) but am finally reflexing with my “rule” I don’t give money to no one. Never. Don’t even ask. won’t happen. And I play it that way. And I short and stern her into an immediate submissal (not ‘sion). White boy Albono is on street and we’ve hurried to get there before 4:30AM, his closing time. He gives me audience enough to say, “nobody knows you around here.” Not so nicely as they do. I know I say, expecting it, and like it’s a curse, and it is, and tell him I have some on me now and a stem, if I show him that will it make a difference. “No.” Of course not. Woman (two months pregnant, by the way, which I had alrady forgotten by then despite her making my touch and push before and insisting there was kicking going on, but in retro, she’s smoking anyway. That, I highly doubt, would have been the first or last cookout in those nine months. Sadsad.) wants to work it out, she can hand the money, etc.,which I know will likely work but I got some and I got my peoples (which I do inform him of in that nonchalent I don’t care way as I walk off) And I mean it. Course she’s screwed and follows me. Yap yap blable. Where yo ugoing , where you going. I answer and she asks again. Finally, I say more or less, if you stop with that I’ll hook you up. We go around corner. Burn a dime in a toke each between cars. Then I say I’m going home, see you. And she follows. Where you going? etc etc. and I say goddamn it or holy hell or fuckin a’ (never. what’s that mean?) and she says, you’ve waited, here it is, she says she says she says, “Don’t curse at me, please,” (all hurt puppy), “you’re a very fine looking gentleman, you don’t need to curse at a lady like that”. You’re right, I agree and apologize. Half a block later, I explain it was nice meeting her and I’m going home alone I can’t do anymore than what I’ve done which includes such things as x, y, z. Take care. and she says just like this, “Gimme a hit!” Demanding, rude. I have to carefully explain the ways in which she, like me, doesn’t need to talk like that (leaving out the fine looking part). These lifetime/career crHeads can get a bit ugly but it’s not just the drug it’s the poverty, etc., too, but still, it does give a young budding crackhead pause like little else does.

+10, fam face - I think from the house across, all white with red trim and always accomodating a craseeker…

There was a cop standing and scanning on the corner kitty catty corner. Boy came in after. And did his prology invite that I sometimes’m not sure about cause I don’t hear or don’t get exactly the mean of the slang but pretty shurguard and doublemintup with You got something for me? Yeah, what you got? 10, gimme 10. ?You want ten? hyea. I’m taking a big risk here. Yeah. (corse i didn’t ask him nut). The stuff was shitty moyst. It all ben.

lately wander(lusting). Time flew at J’s. Stayed way longer than ment. Hit up my albs for houseing in first NY hoodieo, completing the circle, facing the demonics.

First night in. Place is legally contested, not supposed to be entered or occupied for 90 days. So here I am. Old woman lived there 70 years. Died bout 2.5 months ago after leaving for care. Fam came and ransacked taking what they wanted, leaving strewns and piles of treasure and diapers. A funk. Iconographygaloria! Prime ghosting. (and ghostbusting..)

+10, “TREE” —> the tall fellaguy I been hittin’ up afterhours and such, finally gave me his name, or handle, shall we say. Think it was motivated by fact that S came in store as I’m buying my glass after the cop. Tree hooked me up right there in at the counter. I tell S I’m good, and where was he the other night he was s’posed to show on Sterlin’, me sittin’ on the rectory steps like a poor orphan andy all night. I was cutting him off despite his owning me 2. not worth it. and you gotta push back, show ‘em once in a here ‘n’ ther-ile. ..etsofarth.. He said he had babygirl problems (he do have a little girl to be responsible for.) Merjensee. But I say he didn’t call. I think with S all worried and scramblin’ like a Denny’s breakfast steal over a Big Boy Western Omelet, he realized I was comin’ around more often and shunting myself off to this nigahboy and that phone subscriber and who knows who else so he makes arrangements with the habibabber crew (Allah bless ‘em, they’re good boys, checkin win ith heach oter if it’stear first time with me, to see that it’s cool ‘n’ kosh to sell me suppleyes byes.) Tree scribs on a waxy box top, “Yo, take my number I’m tired of walkin; up the street looking for yo ass.” And did I mention a few days back he let me cook up quickly in the whee! howers in that entrystare well he mans scanning bent over out the little winder? He threw me one that daynighteve too. ‘Course I asked what he’d do for a hund.

An imperfect Perfect 10 (+), mAXE, miss hooks

Oh, man. [no]…

Oh, boy. [no]…

Oh, pathaddict.

Got notebook scribblin’s to add layder & no time n/h/ow//ou/ch. But got to get in hear. Just the damnage.:.

+8, m, tac bhell (bell hooks), 20050804
+8, ” ” ” ” ” 20050803

and so forth on backwards ass.

+4, tallboy, cook in entry

j talk, j come clean, see j

“Hey *****, it’s me, *******!

I wanted to call to see why you were leaving, ‘cuz my mom told me that you weren’t going to be in New York when we got back and it’s been taking up, like, all my days thinking about it. I just haven’t been able to sleep, I’ve been sleepless, because I’ve been thinking, “Why is ***** leaving?”

My mom would’ve called you and asked you but she says she gets too emotional, so we don’t want to have that.

So, call me back and I promise I won’t cry.

Okay, bye!”

voicemail left Saturday July 30th, 2005 1:39pm

Mr. Lou Reed knew me and knows me:

I have never been more behinder; I am such an ass ! (<- heaw ho a pun or so). I got to venture out for a fluidy thing of some sort. This won’t happen now, probably never. Just stoppinin’ sufficient for the numbers. Like you’ve heard me say a dime or two be fore, it’s a damn shame that the times most interesting to record, perhaps, because most extrememe—or not that exactly, but unusual, and showing of limits/extents/boundaries, most dramatic maybe—anyway, at those time’s i’m least capable of recording. And thus have passed my recent days. I’ll get back for a bit of it, skeletore style.

+8, +2free =10Rickh threw me one for the wait. (‘splained to spark the pecking ord., he cool)
+6 +4 =10 in coordinated effort between the ass chump I hate fore so over the top hassle back when, and my soft spoken, chill, always friendly tall guy. was a little sketched out when I ducked int he building stair well after him, as instructed by his boys. making some repetetive whisper word sound, then warned me to watch out for a certain color car—blut and dust or something.
+10, Max’s boy, came by

Look at that! $300 in 30 hours. Second weekend I’ve tracked a dime an hour and sustained it over time. Only on first night without sleep though )+_) and already my clothes over against the wall there look like they got rats in them. I watch knowing it’s not true but hardly believeing anyway. Nothing, ever, no time gave me hallucinations this realistic. Oka. Gotta fluidrate.

The hard pack was invented in South America, I just read on a Home Office (augh, the cozzyosity of Britty Gov’nin’…) website as way to test the purity of cocaine.

I’ll be damned.

Naow, I’m already damned.

Ok! We know how strong it is now. Can we put this stuff away now? It’s not a toy!

Again, these fine distinctions that I harp on interminably and tediously are, obviously, interesting and important to me but that’s not the driver behind the repetition, it’s the esotericity [[[[[similar to the way onomatopoeia sounds like what it means, I—on the fly, there, buddy—tweak my word for better custom performance. The base word ‘esoteric’ gives my base meaning, but I want more, more, more than this bare minimum performance language consistently puts in and we let it get by with. So, considering that a fundamental problem for the running up against is the fact that what I want to identify and bring into clearer focus looks so much like the normal, standard, typical thing people automatically jump to as they are chicking along your Sephomeme {}Semiotic-Phonemic-and-Memonic, possibly grouped as 4EG, a significantible meme-pair unit, and so yawn.{} train that any distinction you work at is always-already opted out of, you left never having a chance to give cause for their own investment, beyond contituent-level )to personal. I give a front end of that recognition, base establishing process and chunt it off before the word can even end so that reader is swept along in the process, off gthe track and into the ditches where the conveyance is rich. All that rush and the head-over-heels bumping over the earth——soily. soil love—-is an unavoidablely less mediated running into ‘reality.’ So, it’s a suffix. It’s a suffix with a shape, a horizon, and a profile in two dimensions usually. That’s key. We’re at the primal level here, which is almost useless on the take home level, it does some heavy lifting prep work that s don’t even see or realize. Okay; lines, curves, heights, densities, flow, and intersections. Then a true and bonafide acceptibly acceptable suffix (or enough of a part of one that this next work gets completed: a first-instinct, relexcstive response with/by facility with word part itself or the array of ready words most often their host (sweeping in as they do to metropolitan vacuums. Eventually, both actions filter through. Followed by the dawning or snap realization—doesn’t matter—that they don’t work according to our memography and memographical novel. The unexpected disruption—we’d found ourselves in new territory but so far so navigable—until now and the bit of blindside is a disruption that destablizes (disorients at the very least)—also a dual—do-age as it shakes off the imitators and non-can-handle-ables and their absence opens up space in the coneyance capacity (for an infinite world in which exists an infinte world is a never ending hiccup of a world. So there’re limits and us like passens on the subway. We’re under ground. We’re graffitti’d. Bumpy, noisy, cheap—we
ve got coverage, we do. So the bimini bumperoo throw a couple and bum into their baskets, now the racial profile is different, there’s a diffderent aggregate color effct, smell, too, and an emotioinal spark fly and flower,us taking it and taking it in, the leavers, the the exisizing is ultim & lately a thing that gives you something—anger, relief, new view angle, essestraallal, by & as it takes away. This is the the irrefutable existent to that. The Lord giveth and the lord taketh away. That is a mysterious way there right there not tomentions the application of mrcsISts masonand maveikc.s First-stage understanding of that proverb is chronologically, and if you’re drunk enough,k you can talk about meanings and philodotconn, but it doesn’t take long to figure out/realize that it’s a more interesting drunk drooling on [here I sit…]…….. on and on and off;’dgpo;wemasp09aw e scents and wisps in mounding curtrails and jagMath tailings a stictch in the crusted eartfh and when it’s all over and the dust is glimmered to a settlement place, you realize that you got something, and bam bam bam thank you mam that you were swatting at, connecting with, whiffing just a sniffling, but respectably close enough for sure so it should all be here, but it’s the raging bull of caontainment as been kept at a 62-66% fill level, the rest taken by a slipperynexxus or inaccessioning blehsllseps, and there’s where the new thing seeped in—otherwise you would have had no room for it, no openness for itk, and would never come to understand your missunderstanding and take that for a respect that can only arise out of understanding. THAT is my proposed visual counerpart of the onomatopoeia that I may not be able to spell.

is most often overwhelmingly achieved the distinction

They’re getting damn vivid and really. Again, none of the monstrous animations. Just a waving in the wind, a slow steady crawl of all things, a good percentage of which lacking the wherewithal. It’s weird. Auditory, too. Sharp. I didn’t leave the ironed up courtyard where I’d been rused until I ducked into one of the doors and loaded a d, and fired up the smelting operation. In process, I could have sworn to a merry Magdelene mama and her mindful maiden molly that someone said in tones appropriate for someone sitting perp at the nookish breakfast table, “Someone’s pullin’! Yaho†, somebody’s pulling!”

† that indiscriminate taffy pull on the yo, everybody’s a little or highly diferent, like a finger print. more like shoes. or a tattoo, especially those on the foremar or or slope between should.s & back-side of neck (yes, specifically there, winkly wink, he) a personal statement of style.

+4 Tote
—————
+2, beat for ‘nother 6 with throw down ruse should have known beter than, but folks do employ the winder to sidewalk drop, cust below, and I hadn’t had trouble for so long so consistently my guard was way way the mufuck down. But new situ, white guy, 6 am….all ripe for the pickins.
This on other side cuz two cruises, round big black block and no b ody emerged.

+2 friendly face
After the beat down a boy was out though and ask why didn’t call. Man, eveybody got to lay off. they all give numbs. I can’t keep track of th numbs leta long the faces or name or myself for godsake I’ve let myself go. but he does that kind of convesational lecture you shoulda with concern *& love nobody here gonna beat you. you know i’mn the type to take the touching without troubleing over the econ of it too much.

Ah, the ol’ haunched over porcelain, shit in exit, stage Ass, hitting the fann -yClipsed water just as, at the other end, the crack pipe—on hand holding, the other hand heating—gives up the ghost and rushing in to take the place of the outgoing shit is th enew shit on the block.

Must be one of the classic fived images of man at lowest. Not that it’s all that bad an action, but it’s so overloaded and determinded wiht association…

Wasn’t the first time.

[edno: it just occurred to me 8:15a Wed when should be in shower, that this is/could be/may be/in some ways/kind of/one of… my counterpart to, my version of Pam’s OCD pressing, fingers tap and then push a little harder. But she does seem to be more carried away, having more fun, getting more highdee heidi hide ee hie ho ho ho…]

Aand How!
Convictions Were Won in the CradleOr
Held Tight by the Guardians
Who Bossommed them through
,,hot-swapping diapers, ll and all
without ever geting
The Con cordance listing
Nigger but no-no
no reverved[stet] no space, no booed authorty,
no inkling of the circuit’s Green (!I tell you) ecoSan(it) appdog back to work ANAlog with the baby, the baby knowing stick, baby an organ pipe.

Then garbage, garbage out.

Now, garbage in, we’l fix the rest

It’s chose for you! a big sselling point /invent.

(ds*fg&^h%$#@!
onedge, the, tghe,,,,thesse rapet rapper wireframes mvermuch unstill not
uexposedmuch , ugh fected.l again, so: not human, not raied by mo’s uuman or otheress nh9tnanwy8Nice expose locktnex0o9set9neither reperved

The Housing and serial inside now subject. The softs now subjecgt, pronoe to god-lature,

chooisec

pppppp
Had thta, didn’t need that, for the we h’ve ogn to- space
their spitting up, and uncertainy toward the Development of
Bosoming the Developement
it was Guardians of the Development of
m came out of what actually opointed next”

more ebben flow so o reajl

+6 from #1
ran into #3 right after
luckily he confesssed
right away to not having his phone on.

Damn, I even thought about explaining to him my heirarchy—he has no idea!—but I chickened. But won’t in front of you! Just in case anybody asks:

The Highly Anticipated Summer Rankings, brought to you by TGIF’s!
#1 - Rich. First and still best in quality.
#2 - Max. Sweet kid. Very accomodating (within reason) coming when I want. Hell, he delivers! Everytime!
#3 - Spark. Sure I’ll give it to him. He’s come to deliver when I’ve needed it. He’s met me early. He’s meat me away from block. He’s nice, if quiet. Plus, he’s expecting something!

[Crosslating this just sent email to a friend because it outlines my current (work/write, most in-particular,) situ and scheming—which I don’t think I’ve adequately outlined here at all—in addition to, I think, the first mention of the companionante corollary progey, which I’m still very much wanting to work in, that I began to detail through thoughtfully a couple few weeks ago and (I think, again; therefore, I am, again.) sketchilated on TO. Plus, it’s got a dillop or two pertaining to the Longstrongsman disease suffered socially here and now, and most likely, everywhere and -when…]
# . # . # . # . # . # . # . # .
“Inaugurating Postum’s sponsoring of the email port pracice.”
# . # . # . # . # . # . # . # .
Oh, where to start? How ‘bout the very beginning, a very good place to start…

- Got the disc in now. You guys are just retro enough—what, with the here-and-there popping up of tazer-laser pulse-blips that recall a mid-century blooming of Sci-Fi Scinema—that you’re a head of your time.

- I did stop by the office one Friday afternoon several weeks ago and no one, but no one!—no, I don’t mean no one I know, but quite literally no single one human entity, was in that office that day.

- More recently, as I’m sure you’ve heard, I ran into JD in the yupyup neighborhood he uncomplainingly now shares with me (or, un-to-my-face-complainingly, at least). Think I’ll stop in this weekend to pay him and his boyfriend a visit.

- He may also have given you the gossip that I’m not long for RXXXXX [Insert here Asian Dub Foundation paying that one last check in the free world.] I’ve had chronic fatigue for most the time I’ve been back and I need to get it taken care of. The prescription? Rest. Which I view excitedly as a double opportunity to write for a bit, which is really what I’ve wanted to do all along anyway. I didn’t because I didn’t have money. I still don’t, so…

- JD approached me about MXXXX client which seems to be needy again. Man, I would do that in a Heartbeat! Happily! and even in Hollywood! (or wherever) If not for the premise underwhich I leave my current job.

- That leaves a last minute scramble to figure out a way to live (and write!) for a good while without income. I know, everybody’s dream, but really, I have a couple very compelling (to me at least), unique, viable projects in my hand along with a personal imperative to figure out my long-term business and life tRejectORy. So I’m asking people for ideas. Here amy formultaged-just-for-you questions: Do you know [think outside the box now, inspired as you are by my very inner-box, cliched clichellable cliching clause up there…) anyone needing a housesitter, anyone with a shack remotely situated, anyone with an elderly relative needing company and, perhaps, a little lite maintaining (read: ass-wiping…No! I am neither looking nor qualified to attend to ass aged 200% of my own.)

- Or, any job—at whatever pay—requiring the employed to answer 5-7 calls over the course of an 8 hour shift in which said employed sits comfortably in front of a computer? Or, how ‘bout a wealthy-ish patron of unique and risky art projects by penniless phame-bound phophets, or who likes to give or loan for nothing more than the sake of giving or loaning, or for public and tireless receiving of credit-due, or a good dick sucking. Or you may very well have an in with some very generous (and capably so) Japanese men and women who so desperately need a great corporate editor to run their shits thorough the spell checker, that they will send to prospectives the same things college sports recuiteers do: a conscripted gaggle of geisha girls they auditioned during the lunch hours of a thousand days…

…Oops. I ramble on and on like this when I really tired. Sorry. I just noticed.

- Oops2. I just thought: I curl up on your Westchester shag and wait for you to complete your homeward commute so that we can build conceptual writing machines while your lovely lady stands on the carpet reading James Joyce.

Maybe a little weird that in addition to writing, I want to build writing machines (increasing my competiton in already impossible landscapes!) I think that three WMs hobbled together at different points along my huge, throbbingly broad range of ideas (if I do say so myself) would make a good set upon which to go for endless proliferatioin, and that such a little modern musketeering in a gallery or showing of some kind or other somewhere and time.

That’s it, only without the details that would surely excite even the most reticentand dour prospective partner

And you?
[mySign]

(Hope you didn’t mind my windyness here. Got bad thee.)

# . # . # . # . # . # . # . # .
[End of post-haste post-paste. (Of course, no, in long term]
# . # . # . # . # . # . # . # .

The poor kid that today put this
“high school + swimimming + rankings”
into Yahoo! search and got
this. …No,this-this. This site
on crack.

And the unlikely coincidence of our mis-spelling
the word ‘swimming’ exactly the same way.

Just goes to show you how important a high school-level education, at a minimum, is. Yes, spelling counts.

Was def def planning on sleeping last night. Even limit to four, here I am. sweat dog, stunk ass. that’s roughly about that I’m aware of around say 6-7 hours (actually can only think of one five hour nap on sunday, and a couple noddings off on the subway, couldn’t be more than 10-15 minutes here y/o there. so pad it a touch to safe side it. 7 hours? 8? that’s total total grand ass total, mu’fucker. one night’s sleep in 9. This is day nine.

oh, and I didn’t mark the quad max brought me ayer.
+4

have to push live a site today. fuck. want to stop now. they’re not letting me off easy. and they can see I’m sufferin. no, not their fault. but damn. houw impo is it.?

From a tasteless jokes board, frequented by a corrections officer! who with the following correction to a joke containing drugs told wrongly, let me know that I was upscale! Like being held back in school, you become the smartest in your class!

“Crack cocaine is smoked using a ‘stem’ which does not contain a water chamber, and may be constructed of glass (for fancy upscale users) or the largest piece of a telescoping antenna (your basic, average, crack stole my life users). I have confiscated more antennas, although the cleverest version I saw came from a prisoner who had fashioned a combination shiv, potato peeler & crack stem in his spare time at the county correctional facility.”

driveshaft(length),styleComBoze,…commins, communs

Bubble Gum by the Bum

Plus I love a girl that a) wouldn’t shy from the project concept, b) understands how crucial, valuable, needed & necessary, and good such work is for humanitykindslings, but that’s all in theory, consc-level, so moreover c) will wade right in, then beyond, d) go to the ends of it. [ConsVerseLy: Equal and opposite the femine douring at reference to their own known partologies (partings? naw…). ‘dVent ure it’s as offputting—their saying, “Ew, I hate that word,”—as the very word is, professedly(/fashionably), to them. Also as off-putting as is a guy’s talking like this.

And so simple, but so-I-love-it, the comment that guy makes.

Finally, the lunging wide open smile. She’s adorable.

The adoooooooooorrrrrrrrrrrrrrrable [I hate when people write like that, emphasize like that, almost as much as I hate emoticons] dog at the place I’ve been coming [for a variety of thingreasons] and smoking gets curious about what I’m doing but a whiff sends her back to the other futon. Do dogs not dope because they’re too dumb?

I once medicated (at the vet’s suggest) a dog of mine for a flight. Fixed her up two golf balls of Wonderbread wrapped around a smooth, rich
peanut-buttery nougat with a power-packing sedative core. She was still high at baggage claim, her tail between her peach Jell-O legs (feeling lucky, for once, to have four, I’m sure), brows furrowed, and regularly giving me looks of wonder and betrayal. But in the end, probably little more than a long, hard,scary, confusing, tiring day of travel.

[& divide the great spankers, too, so that everybody gets a chance.]

{What I’m about to paste below I paste for the feat it was to write so much so relatively (I have no illusions) well in another languidyLarceny while on the ON. Also also, the sentimiento it conveighs, Timothy McDonalds’ed. And the ways I sometimes operbait.}

P to R>
Ahhh, Paris! He pasado tiempos buenisimos alla. Que bella la ciudad (y los ciudadanos), no? Pero no me pasa tan buena la vida ahorra. Me encanta Neuva York tambien, pero puede ser peligroso (y no hablo de la violencia, ya que es un ciudad mas o menos segura en ese sentido). Quiero escapar a un lugar bien retirado, y simple, y un poco solitario, pero, lastimosamente, no tengo dinero, solo deudas. Pero, si, he pensaba de volver a la tierra Nica, que me encanta igual que Francia, y Nueva York, cada lugar con su aspecto espantoso…

Bueno, ya le di al director de la agencia aviso de mi salida. Voy a quedarme hasta que encontremos y capacitar un reemplazo (no se…2-4 semanas? Por lo maximo maximo! Estoy bien listo de irme.). Y entonces…? No se que voy hacer…

Y tu? Hablas el Frances? Y, de vez en cuando (por lo menos), la “lengua” internacional—la que habla de la empujon y la prisa del sangre y su flujo temoroso, tambien? O, no te importa eso—moviendo y formando los labios alrededor significaciones? Solo alrededor otros labios que hacen la significacion? Aye, lo olvides. Dimos nada mas que el hecho obvio: que hay chicos simpaticos en La Marais.

Bueno, me discupes la danino a tu idioma (mi compu no tiene las letras y los simbolos necesario, y no he tenido mucha practica). Por favor, corrigirme para que podia mejorar y, algun dia, estar capaz trabajar con el nombre mas famoso en comercio nacional y internacional Nicaraguense, la gran familia Lxxxxx. Y me perdones, por favor, mi drama. He gustado pasar el tiemp contigo, hacer algo distinto.

Ultima cosa: no se si la quieres, pero tengo mucho informacion de Paris. Trabajaba alla por tres meses construyendo la pagina web de Rxxxxxx, ya hace cuatro anos? (No lo creyo!) Y las recomendaciones de amigos siempre son mejores que las en una guia. Te mandolas (las te mando? te las mando? man do te las so?) en otra correo, para que puedas imprimirlas (si quieras) sin los sentimientos extranos y la poesia horrible de un chele perdido en Nueva York.

Hasta cuando?
[mySign]

—- xxxxxxx xxxxxxx xxxxxx xxxxxxx wrote:

> hola que pasa con tu vida no tengo noticias tu yas
> espero que estes bien
> deseguro con mucho trabajo bueno yo estoy en paris
> en agosto recreso a
> nicaragua y tu cuando volveras a nicaragua espero
> que pronto amor bueno
> espero que me conteste algun dia un beso y cuidate
> sienpre te recuerdo
>
> _________________________________________________________________
> Charla con tus amigos en línea mediante MSN
> Messenger:
> http://messenger.latam.msn.com/
>
>

‡It occurs to me now that we’ve reached a point chronostorically-situated (but not quite yet diagorphonibly-speaking) where the combination of these four (or five, depending on the speaker’s employativity rating for contracts serving nothing more than human slothishry and short-sigtedly ur-sympathic accomodation of deliberate (no, not a whit of careless negligence in it) substandardization of a demogroph’s or region’s collective & atomized utterance with framing intentionalia banding and bowing back inward, toward targetivindualized self-ID in class-setmentated starches and starch applications…

!AIIN!cgfuh…

I mean: looks like the intro claws ‘What I am about to-’ cannot escape its many and moreward years with favored status among (commodifored) buy-in building with audiences.

And, it’s an empty staking with relay. Simple reference a future you could instantiate, even in your own private imagination. The teasingly delay until what is dilvered no longer belongs to the predicatedive like the soldiers of Guam and a ‘grapher brazen enough to be…

I.fuckingE.: ‘What I am about’ = Show Man Ship (period)

Was resolved, or more like at the end of Benji’s leash, tired of being tired, to not police this eventide. And even though I was happy about that, I felt those “there’s nothing to live for” thoughts—not in a suicidal or even depressed way, but in a very blase, ho hum, who cares way at the feeling that, well, alright, but not fun, not interesting, almost like chores, going home, going to bed. Thought I’d get a tastee-freeze, though, a nightcap, with a little brown baking before bed. I hit it so hard and steady over the weakend that I had 5 Minty Stems to mine, in a range of fairly fresh and clean tasting to sludgic-age LaBrea tar taste-sensation. [Some irony in the mintys being the not fresh tastings.] I left them in my beautifully restored (if I do say so myself) bedside prized possession & sole piece of furniture table, under two concealing copies of “The Daily Word.” Layor Lays there! (Ok, stoopid: 1. The Godly used profanely, 2. The Godly covering one’s sins (i.e. redemption, salvation, forgiveness, etc.), 3. The perfected encapsulation: Yo, crack everyday. Word. —> The Daily Werd. And so on… So, I’ve exhaled the white light of disappearing dust and felt more than anything the irrestible force of the compulsion to call. Maxaid.

Yeah, I hit that thing.

I’ve lost numbers.
Think I’ve got all the coppings in my head, just not sure I remember one of the quantities correctly. I think it was a 10. Could have been an 8.
[
Another example of…
Our Staff Lament:

The most writable is least writed.

]

*UPDATE: I solved the 8-or-10 conun (though I really wasn’t that worried about it, honest. You people all think I’m unnecessarily obsessing/-ive…[Could the exisitence of a necessary obsession [i.e. not a particular example, but the possibility that an obsession bear the the status/condition/quality of necesity] be argued? Seems the more an obsession is viewed positively, the more it begins to slip out of the wrapper—that particular configuration of letters—and into another, such as ‘dedication.’ )!>
^^ As he was on his way, I prepared two stashes of cashes—one of $80 (4x20) set-aside for Max so that it wouldn’t need to be conspicuously counted outside at the car, neighbors on the stoop watching and realizing that car stops but never parks like that almost every day, and the other a stash of petty cash to pull from at the candy story for smokes, VitaminWaters, lighters, etc. Cashes stashes separated, pocketed and placement-noted, I did my business at the bodega. Sat on the stoop to wait for Max a million. Then he came. Then I made my purchase, and a joke about dressing up for the party that night, what time was he coming to pick me up? 1:00. As soon as I got back up to my room, Max was on the telephone. Yo, you gave me $4! Oh, sorry. I’ll be right down. At the winder, I say, “What, have prices gone up?” then, “Damn, I thought I pulled it off.” So, $4 dollars, four bills, could only have been $80.

Da’ Digitalia, annotated*
[*anecdotal appendages added as area-appropriate only]:
+6, R., Fri 15 Jul early pw [‘post-work,’ duh]
(tried to put together an 8-ball deal but R’s connect in the Bronx or something)
+8, M., Fri 15 Jul late eve
+10, “One” of the house boys on the block, Sat 16 midnightish,
(He took me upstairs just in hallway where his stash in some vacuum filter thingie type object on floor. I’m not type to wheel and deal much, and much less in illegal transactions in insecure locations. I get ‘n’ go. But we were off street and I figured 80or90 might get me 10. He said he couldn’t. Punched his phone number into my phone, into the phone number acceptance area of the phone, using the numbers of the phone located in the keypad below the phone number acceptance area displayed in the phone display [hehe]. Said his name was One. On way out, he said next time he could do the deal.)
+6, Spark, Sat Jul 16 midnightisher
(Planning a short stop-by and smoke session at Pam and Snook’s and anticipating that as I headed to Habib’s for my glassware, it hit me that I could buy more than one stem. Hey! What a world we live in! So obvious. Why hadn’t I ever thought of it before? Thought of it this time as a nice evening of the playing (smoking) field; they’re sometimes digging out broke to the nub (ok, once) or gone-through-a-clean-or-two piece. But I could have bought bulk before to a. have mid-night freshness, b. avoid the stop-off on the block (at least a few decent reasons for that), c. breakage, bodega closed, or other eventuality backup. So, I’m buying one for each of us tonight and an extra for me for home when Spark comes in and greets me (I kind of like the idea or sound of a crack dealer giving some one a ‘greeting.’ Has the word become that Hallmark saturated or is there another, dated quality that it carries?). “What’s good?” (Aw, crap. I could see what was coming, though I did not expect—despite a reference or 2 to it—the extent to which it came.) “Yo, Spark. S’up.” “What you need?” “Auah, I copped. I’m good.” “When?” “Just now.” “Why you didn’t call me?” [‘White lie prudent here, man. Come up with something! At least soften it a little!’ I heard my Assigned Angelic Advisor intone (because that’s what guardian angels {the old term, used until deemed non-PC} do—they intone].
[[fill this in little cracker, fill it in with rest of story]]
+6, Max, Sun 17 July 9ish?

[[still think i’m missing one because i at one point did the math at was mildly bemused that it had been 36 bags in 36 hours, a dime an hour, and that was well before sun eve get. was sat am. but possible that was a miscalc.]]

feel like I’m going to puke

sweat is rolling off my body

…. [‘intermission’ in the theater/-re, ‘brb’ in the chat app] …

had to sit down for a while in the other room
(the one with all the water features)
line one above now dampened
think I’ll go back in a bit for another round
that should clear rest of nausea…
it just seems a little out of place considering
all i’ve eaten in last couple days has been 3 of the really small bags
of chips

Food Solids Ingested Monday - Friday Last Week:
8ate8
- lunch each day
- bagel a couple mornings
- two samosas one evening

I’ve felt fine (well…) with that, as in not hungry and not feeling that particular kind of listless energy shortage that foodlessness brings.

But I knew it was a behind the scenes player in probably a lot of problems. That, and/with the sleeplessness. The hallicinatory vision, for example, won’t come no matter how high I get if I’m not at the end of a bingey run. At the end of a bingey-binge, it’s there when I’m not even high, just maintaining, or between bags or whatever. But, so, anyway, I had that in mind, and I keep running up running up against lesser highs, shorter highs, no highs at all, and guessing I’d built a tolerance, but thinking at times it was really quite a fucking tolerance I had there, steep onset, and strong! …sometimes…so qualities were getting factored in [—a tricky practice with so many variables and unknowables and interdependencies to sliding degrees, etc. all weighted-in in a snappish 1.4 second judgement made under the influence of a hard hard drug.] and even my state of depletion—the completeness of my transformation into a Raggedy Andy doll—was considered. But never specifically the amount of food in my stomach. Maybe I should have.>
>>Because hanging out at P-girl’s Frynight night, somehow the subject of eating came up—I was far more than likely to have complained in almost mumbled dramatic resignation after she had a mild-mellow episode of the touchy-feelies (previously referred to as “the devil’s handjive” or some such nom de evility) and I asked her to teach me how to do that, that I never even get high anymore. That turned on the triage-to-treatment-tactics talk with the first examination question pertained to my food consumption. I confessed. (Almost went on to include the total lack of flossing, decreased brushing, increased smoking, and sticking the occasional booger on the least-accessible spot of the bed sheet within a leaning arm’s reach, but I checked myself in time.)>

>>Shaid:
“Oh, you gotta eat!” Her chin was lowered chin and swaying in a slow waggle. Her voice was a deep grave. “You GOTTA eat.” I don’t remember exactly how many times she told me that.

And then this shexplained:
“This stuff [raising dry-frosted tube] feeds on your nerves [pointing to head] and [fingers churning in circle above her fine fine ass abs] your stomach. If you don’t got nothing in here, it has to feed off itself.”

Further details were passed on, such as the need for the food to have grease, or be greasy,
“…you know, like skins.”

And then:
“Gotta eat,,gotta eat.”

I may not buy the process outlined in her theorum there, but the basic premise::
—>No fuel for the body, no fuel for the crack.

I’m a titchytoo disappointed that it the wise folk wisdom of the people doesn’t fit more neatly with the others like it, like:
—>Feed a cold, AND a crack binge, starve a fever.

A(s) a member of the exi-gente ((((demanding ((of)/(and)) (de-)meaning))) ((+)(/)) the people outside)))),
the more I learn of the ways,means,degrees,outcomes of the failure (+)(/) deception [alt.: powerlessness/absolute sovereignty]
of language,, the
more desireous/desperate/(working,digging,trying,experimenting,deviant) I/
I become.
_______________________________________
*Note work/significance of parens above:
-indecisive
-believing in both
-doubting and disbelieving both
-seeing different yet both valid (possibly but not necessarily equally{a missing key/tip/cue to readers in these examples:2proffered as possible, presented equally on same line with same weight and stature and adornment so that author’s valuingOf/weightingOf/oddsakingFor (possibly in terms of percents assigned/divided as disparately as 90 and 10, postulated from/by/outOf context or dependencies, etc.) is >/ beyond obsfucated: absent/lost/never existent (con)textually] …>>>
^^^—-(The) (e)X-((Y/(Vicept/Consion)):I want expression of all possibilities; available singly, in pairs and/or other group(ing)s and/or as whole; in presentations sufficiently capacious and capable of clear (to extent the nublation gives itself), concise, non-containing conveyance of complete catalog of con cada configuration (whether confluence, complication, congregation, confrontation, conflicture, coordination, collaboration, contradiction, calibration, cooperative, concensus, consignment, conscription, concatenation, correlation, counterbalance, contraption, conspiracy, corporation, council, conservancy, colation, conclusion, confounding, constant, calculation, chaos, conceit conuring, colocating, compilation, contraintmentcolony coalition, condition, commission, condemnation, condition, comprising, consisting, conivance (conniving), concordance, coincidence, calcification, consternation, coping, confirmation,catalyst, contrivance, concoction, creation, counteraction, confounding, coercio, — conceiva le , combination, consternation, congratulations,comunique, codification, coherence, caption, cartoon, confederacy, corrosion, control, connoitering, caprice, committment—-combinations consideration, coronation, cohabitation, coining,a certain and contatnt counting of conceived combinations and conceptions combine, cododdled coexistence, certitude or certifiction, consummation, conjuring, caring, crowning, capping, comprehension, conflation, correction, coercion, conversaton, calcifying, contention, condemnation

but never a conclusion,

coddled, concentrationThe core concentration

A certain and constant coddling concentration

There are things very
things quite
[interesting] or+/butthenalso
-seemingly incongruous>>(personally?) irreconcilable/unlocatable/impossible to hold in harmony {within |my/a kind of/some subjectivity’s ordering framework|
?!y/o?!
-perfect/fitting/appropriate
- [additional codes lost in gap between ent.begin() and ent.complete()]

in the fact
that the guy who invented the classic-y popular-ish (more so antes?) game
Scruples
(if you are not familiar, it’s a “parlor”/”party” (neither) game based on moral questions/ethical dilemmas. Check it at scruplesgame.com. Orig’ly put out by Hasbro, hasbeen edition put upon us by, get this, High Game Enterprises. High… But don’t get me wrong, I think it’s a cool game pretty much.)

is the same guy who wrote the book entitled
A Long Way To Go For A Date
(which details “…his courtship and marriage to a young Filipina…”)

and is the same guy who maintains the website
savethemales.ca
which includes his articles entitled
Feminism Deprives Girls of Father’s Love (June 18, 2005)
Is the New World Order “Jewish”? (February 12, 2005)
How UFOs Relate to the New World Order (February 05, 2005)
Heterosexuals are the New Jews (December 11, 2004)
Is the US the Next Mexico? (December 04, 2004)
Lesbian Muslim Reformer is a New World Orderly (October 16, 2004)
Food Giant Fosters Lesbian Chic (October 03, 2004)
Frigid Women Are Usually Feminists (May 23, 2004)
Zionism: A Conspiracy Against Jews (June 27, 2004)
Hitler Didn’t Want World War (March 21, 2004)
Is the Pope a Catholic? (February 22, 2004) [Solved below!*]
Betty Friedan: “Mommy” was a Commie (July 27, 2003)
Conspiracy Too Monstrous To Conceive (June 08, 2003)
Satanic TV Saturday Night (December 30, 2002)
Banking Cartel is the Cause of Humanity’s Woes (June 26, 2002)
Why I am Proud to be Homophobic (November 2, 2001)
Reclaiming Male power in the Viagra Age (October 25, 2001)
Tennessee Williams’ “A Streetcar Named Straight Bashing” (August 29, 2001)
How I became a Mensch: After Feminism Stole my Identity (August 8, 2001)
Freemasonry is the Common Denominator (September 30, 2002)
[I was going to list only 2 or 3 but how can you pick? I under-represented the New World Order-Illuminati-Rothchilds Conspiracy stuff because their titles just weren’t as funny as often.]

and the same guy whose bio reads (in-part)
“He has a Ph.D in English Literature from the University of Toronto and teaches about gender.”

Mmm, hmmm.

That skeeves me.

But we have something fundamental in common:
he too is a crackpot, and a confesional one at that!
[I am not sure … nevermind.]

* Answer to (“trick,” you say?) question above:
“He is a part of the Luciferian conspiracy to create a totalitarian world government.”

[18 July 2005: This was abandoned before base idea completed. Fleshing of the what of it was there was done today. The the rest…?]

Having flamed into thin (or thick and hot as the case may be and , in fact, is) air substantially more than intended (though only somewhat more than expected) I went back to Rich to spend last 20 on last dub. Before leaving I break, not the ice cuz we don’t have colness or barrier, or distortion of that flavor, but some level of social discourse and exchange that we’ve stagnated on and asked him the kind of jocul(ar?) question usually reserved for max: yo, when you gonna hook me up with one of your fine african sisters? they’d like a white man [could I have used that word ‘man’, impossible! but so, too, ‘boy’ and ‘guy’! mystery.[[dying even now.]

He gets all big mouth smiles and laughs and eyes to the heavens and foot shufflin’ foot rockin exccitement as he tells me that’s what HE’S trying to do for himself, too, and that I gotta holler at them. but I confess that on the rockety rocket science my laziness outmatches my need, my love, my lust, my desire, “I’m like, ‘you wanna come over hear and suck my dick that’d be cool but…” and he interupts my dramatazation to advise a strip club. strippers are the way to go. Seems his way and type of choice. ‘expensive’ i note. It’s betterb ecause they KNOW you got mean and that you ill/ spend it. and that in long run (the other kind end up costing more, to which I concur before telling him my freshest anecdote, just a couple hours aged, in fact, happening as it did when i was walking up from habib’s to my new name-forgotten friends on the other, dark side (of the pkwy), and a probably inappropriately young (no, not intrinsically, but vis a viz myself) (16?) girl was walking the oppossite way (toward me) and said with raised voice over to peeled off riend or irritant “…kiss my ass@” and I—I’m proud of this, yes—without the missing of a single beat, repled at just the not-in-your(her)-face/as if more self-dialogue re outside (than anything ((accessible at that ae00)/not go unheard, “I’ll kiss it. Matter of friendly fact, not creep dreep. just at moment of passing. but some confidence. her ‘s is also confident and sure but more like aw, you stuoopid, I’ll play your verbal game/invasion.

I liked the interaction. I laughed, felt laughfull and layful, and I was kind of happy to get any kind of non-special response/interaction in that neighborhood, that activity, that demographic at all! actually, to be honest with you. thta first rge cd has been made. done. but boy was thta an out from left fileld while hearing both ((oplaying oth!) felt a bit empowered, oprah, really, I’m not lying, isnt’ that cool?
OPRAH: for intimitating a young woman of lower economic class thann your bad white hetero, male middleclassness? Does that do it for you? Cause if so, you’re always do in i? what Is it?
I: Ah, hell no! untless you count “disinteresting” as a doin No, I’mnot so doinbut I unserd from then on a little better

What’s the ‘doing’? okay, I’m flailing again and it’s totally all the tired ness. Can’t stay awake. don’t feel high (ut can see some . I stil think something can be done on ???We’re picthing always? Or considering osmetimes? Now?…

just was going to finish by adding original point that gained some understanding of/appreciation for piropos and cat-calling culutre in lat.am.—don’t get me wrong! i still think on the whole and in so so many ways on so many diverse levels (some you might be surprised by but can’t surprise you now. later, baby) it’s so super lame (wrong, but also just stupid). all of it. but I’m open to learning /and lfeeling the feeling of it. The learning, the realization was that look, I look all the time everywhere to not —other—avail than the satisfaction of being myself and enjoying the doing of my desires (some!). I also almost always think / have in y head a comment, remark, a compliment, a vulgafism perhaps (private, personal!)—the hole nine yuard range spectrum—to no other avail. Why not, knowing that nothing’s going to happen any/eiher wauy, justsay what domes to migh because it feels nice to not have to weird and parse them. wonder & stragezy.

yo dog i’m out to less rambly endeavors

[as always, a surely-bound-for-failure plan to jot a couple skeletals for later muscling up]

+14, Richie Richer Than Ever, threw me one dub

Went back for a brief social call with my olderish black couple new friends (surely, populating a previous entry down there somewhere should you want more background, introduction to the caste[stet] of characters) in 1C over on the other side of the Parkway.

A crazy (no, really crazy) thing happened that made me a touch nervous (quite a rarity for me) and actually ready to believe a real Satan entity entered our company.

These folks are old hands, fond to the very of crackin’ up.

I had been divvying out at my rate, splitting dubs between the three of us. I knew they had their “House First” customs but I resisted a little knowing and assuring them that I’d be generous and fair for the hosting. But we explored it a little and I admitted my fish-out-of-water ignorance. No (or little) exposure to the subcult. They made it clear that all donations were customarily provided up front.

I was finishing up (not even planning to go through another three dubs) but I happily handed out to each of us our last one. And they dived in and hit it hard. I smoke a lot. Go too aggressive and you just waste a lot of activated product (ie. smoke/steam/or whatever) curling out of the pipe and sitting in your throat no place to go or get absorbed, etc. So I’m pretty steady & consistent, but sometimes I yearn and such it up, burn it hot, press it down, and the most it ever does is give me a momentary dizzy headrush that inspires me to sit down for a 3 or 4 second recovery-aimed pause. That’s it.

Note: Another example of one of my long-running pet themes> Belying the hard drug rep and fear clung upon crack, I don’t—even CANNOT—get very fucked up from it. Yes, for sure, its cup of negativity and danger runneth over, no denying, and yes, it definitely does make me feel good and affect me strongly in the sense of keeping me up for days, and, sometimes has me spouting a spew of silly semi-self-serious and stilted running-off of the keyboard (well showcased and easy to find here), BUT, it never makes me lose my association with reality or really get out of my mind or feel any of the extreme, indescribable sensations I’ve felt on other drugs (especially PCP and Ketamine). Not at all. So, sure, it’s hard but hard for other reasons. FOR ME. And for me, maryJewAnna, that non-addictive, soft, medical use, peace and lovin’ gateway drug, really does render me less- to in-capacitated. For me, pot is way harsher, in terms of high/immeidate effect. So don’t accept without qualification the flat public perception of things, these or those.

Note 2: See what happens? Every skeletal start-out either goes immediately into verbose logging or stays cryptically skeletal once and for all, never (hardly ever, so far) to be revisitd as promised, dad…

We now continue our regular…
So these two pros take big gulps and Pam stands and goes into this glazed-eye, speechless state, her body moving slow to the dresser where she—her arm still steady and deliberate while her hands and fingers move toward a pitch, touching things. Very OCD like in it’s exhaustiveness, her out of the driver’s seat-ness, and the repetitiveness, but NOT at all for the it’s aimlessness. She isn’t straightening or looking for something. It’s pure movement and maybe tip-tactile—she even touches her purse and a plastic tub until they fall off the dresser and she, if acknowleding it at all, appears maybe bothered only to the degree that she momentarily has no fixation and has to be bothered to find the next, closest object. EVERY next object. 3 or 4 times.

I ran through all the possibilities: her illness comes out from time to time or is triggered, that it’ll be brief, thatshe took something else, that there’s some major mental illness that I was priviously unaware of, that (yes! serious) Satan’s little helpers had taken a foothold in our midst, that she was possessed by a demon all along and I was trapped, that she was just now becomeing beborndemonically, that Satan had won her heart (or given her relatively handsome sums), that she was having a stroke, and loopingly on. She had to get all up in myt face, leaning over my lap to get to the items at the end of the big dresser.

All along I tried rotating tactics (it went on for a long time—not surper but way more than you’d expect, want, or beable to to cope with: leave her alone let it run its course, don’t let her fixate on me as deliverer mother. I asked her what she was doing and if I could help, etc.l in soft tones, ghetto tones, Park Slope tones, more aggressive tones, light comedic tones, etc. I thried all those varietys of reassurance: it’s okay, etc. etc.

Same with suggestions/soft caring commands that she sit down. And so on, but instead she went on to the table we were sitting around. Is there anything I can do. Are you already. Can I call somebody? You don’t need that. Why don’t you go where I push you in those rendered handicapabled in those moments.

I also asked Frank what she was doing but he was choreographying his own St. Vitus Dance.! At that point the prevailing theory was that they were really much bigger drug heads than I eer imagined, They duped me and had tapped some potent and exotic substance into their veins and thyroid gland all day and it was just combining and catching up, or sticking dop in around in the entry way away from view so expertly it they never broke the superficial thrymys in the very brief moments they were away from my view. Was I not paying attention? Naw. Pills! taken to up the action (covertly due to only having the two doses) upon arrival and just now dissolving through the muck and getting plucked up through and by the muus membrane

went thorugn them all with touches and .

Anyway, homeboy—I saw a bit of this the first/last time, but not as much—did a couple nervous dashes back and forth between the TV ad dresser and his bed; put something up into his the med scrubs with giant flay tha enable s this kind of behavior, or adjusted a package there, or hid something , or removedsomething, or was playing with himself or teching ability. No biggie.

But then, most/bigest odity for me] he’s jittery jitteringlyrippig up a ciaretc, putting bit jaged at both ends, nicely colored (ad did I mentionlame tobacco in esh end of his tiney tiney, micro

[egtch, getting long and longer there!…speed it up billy boy!] (did I ad that I quit my job yesterday? Then heore and pel…..
….whoa i’m losing it to exhaust stage again with makes everything take way way longer than should, give crappy crappy, is more expensive, dif to manage, etc.]

then tearthen tears the ciggie butt off, unpeals it, slides and slip pushes all ability. I get it I think. Looks like house happens by the roofs sticking up (?huh? I’m driofting) I think I subconciusly remembered boydawg making statement that just because there’s snow ont he roof doesn’t hean there aint a firer in tthe furnace (in backup, confirmation of the whoring/joking ways of his de fact dtep. Anywy

earlier I saw him hold a long plastic beat straw but to the cool end while trying to light the other, or miss, I’m sure based on his unappreciatng of burns on his lips but his finger had to hold it together. So, then, back to the dual, dueling druggy duet doing duo! He doesn’t allow it but he’s cool about it. It looks like

[…see how ineffective I can be sometimes? I’m trying to spit this out!]

Ok. Post-piss, where am I? I think stroaw. Atl last in my mind we are. So it looks like I catch a glmpse of hims very quickly and strongly shove the whole long straw into his mouth at once, doubling and redoubling the straw to get it to fit. Then he chew slow, mouth widened, lips still pursed. We go back to the giant fly, hand up or hand down into the leg of the scrubs, not for more than a coupla three sex seconds.

He , too, haad dull eyes but steady. No talking. I’m all alone as two late forties half spent (sorry) poor mutha fuker crackheads flip out unspeakingly to me.

They move about a little. I get touched. Soon they emerge. She briefly with a pretty good smile and animated eyes but quietly and still wrapped in a warm blanket of sorts explains (to my making sure repeated, rephrased questions) that she was “nice”—that’s the word they use for ‘high’ and I like that a lot—wil adopt if can Roger-Wilco AM! She felt good, comfortable (my word asked), it had happend before but not always or even frequently(?), she enjoyed it, she took a big hit she explained, which doesn’t ring true to my experience but I belive (could be result of lonterm use, could be different biology race-based or dna family genetics, or technique or come combo of mental chemical synergistic mutation. who knows or cares all that much.

Oh, to further prolong, I justwanted to better explain the kind of touching: sometimes as if making sure it’s there, sometimes for the tactile specifics, sometimes not feeling just more like targeted epelipsis, blee blah….but at this point Mr. Mister is still futzing and she’s all worried about it and scolding and trying to get him to stop, which he is little responsive to, me nicely reassuring her that he’s fine, I gave him the smokes, encouraged him to go ahead, and will continue to do so, and that he’s okay, not harming anyone, and that he let you have your time without interference, but also asking what’s the concern: suddenly is the people playing slap-it-down-hard domminoes on the sidewalk. The porn and our talking and collective smoke didn’t bother her before. She’s busying around throwing awa cgarbad I thinkand before I know it, she’s telling him then me to put things away as she’s policing for and picking up bag knots, etc. And that morphs into shushed commands to he and I that we put things away, with a little increasing urgency.

Why is someone coming? I ask. Yeah, and she seems to nod window-ward. seems like this bust gives them ample warning and time to straighten up and prepare. I’ll probably want to have cookies out for our guest, that’s how we crackers (!pun intended!guilty as charged!) Oops, I’m not moving us toward the end….again…

I put neear molten glass into my front pocket and nearly scar over my ni, and then quick piss. When I’m back, it’s pretty much normal. though she stays in her what apppeares to be normal, default mode of busybody, puttering around, not sitting down and relaxing and having conversation as I’d like to do. he’s cool but not especially taconversation oriented. the Quick pithy’s if you want baby names.

Soon as I know everybody’s going to be okay (medically, basic needs met, for now, short-term, relative-kind of way at least anyway) and after it won’t look too suspiciously like a scare-off runaway, I make my exit, turning down his invite to play poker and her (earlier) invite to pay her for sex. And it’s all friendly and normal and nice as I leave, though he does ask me for a dollar, which I’m happy to donate but I only have a 10 and a 20 and I stand by my belief that I’ve been more than rminimally generous. She says I can come and get it tomorrow. Sorry I need it.

[^like the childish slogan/game ?dubiously??elevated?? here in what at this very natal nanopoch I hear-ye-ly dub (and drub?>) for all time and purposes the thingamajig thhere of equaly variable contents and general ballpark usage as the epigram but differentiating itself at least in it’s more demanding and specific sidalong position vis a viz the title, perhaps tweaking the how and wow (rationale) behind it a bit…Yeah, that one!, I’m herebyingly granting it the nomenclative nom de bebe lategram…Naw, I’m just being bombastic for the silly of it. I wold never want to propagate such a shit for sound shit of conception space waste in the modern never post-contempoary clutter of the world. And neither would I like to actually post what I pilgramaged her to post. A comparatively trivial occurrences of slight substance alongside the famed alongsider, I ust admit….]the lategram, Born! Now enough of that time wasting bullhonk that will look even sillier to people not me, and me not now. k.

1) a belated ++++++++++++++6!, hunky dubs with an asiany hue like r. specialityizes in.

2) A lyrSaic observation made pre-purchase:
— {The more skeletal and soul-less become my usage patterns,{/}
—— so to my the content and manner of my life,} †
——— so too the content and manner of my posts here.
———— (Perhaps inconsistently so to whatever extent it’s so.)
————— † originally conceived with current first two clauses housed collectively (in detail) as singular unit (conceptually) / phenomenological process acting in tandem with the other….Ah, hell, probably just a wack version of the life-art mockery…

complimentary pore-cleansing(,) peel to follow

I’ve traipsed, trampled, and trundled over the terrain so much that the mask’s cheeky cling done sunken
a sag
flapping winded past
Spanishand Jews up to
my jowls, scales molted
down around my ankles
brace
let
my feed finaling
made of me a hollow
claymation with no life
but the
ever-reiterating stopmotion struggle to connect
zip tiny passing
each moment with a gesture made
miniature and smoothed over to
the point of inarticularity
and trial subscriptions
t(w)o hopes I may cancel at any time or choose
2. continue
2. be
automatically billed

Conversion
* Calling on the expository power of bsfucation, my dithering can reify the contours of full-spectrum radiography in a store-bought radiOREo.

The post-mystical milleu is left with ambivilance for the work
of tokenizing wisdom: the sappy is tapped-out and dripping(—)a drop in the bucket you’ll eventually kick, spilling the (cor-e)rosion running every where, producing a new (Superbowl) ring each
year.

Just one letter, u; give me the sludgehammer forged up
against meta(l, )irony(,) drizzled into the mold mill stacked
2.) Linger. Loiter.
The gravy mark still floating
high over
affectation
I may or may not share
the noncommittal nod
I smothered

+6, stoop sale

“All my bags is like that: 12-12, not that 58-58 shit,” he wanted me to know.
———————————***———————————***———————————
R just past the end of a batch when I called from outside his front door.

no works, he says. can take what you got there and put something together.

how long that take

half hour

aww, i don’t got that patience

[later, ring]

yo

you good?

yeah, i copped on the block.

(ebonic cellular disruption)

sorry. couldn’t wait around…

you coulda rolled with me, dog.

oah, you didn’t tell me that, i woulda gone witc you.

(mumbles, cut-outs)

next time.
———————————***——————————-***——————————-
after sloppy absense, back last night in procedural executes:
-packing and prepping,
and the new entry:
- the straw-load
(sucking it up in rather than
the palm shovel)
———————————***——————————-***——————————-
very unnerved in very cool way by an emailed response to this very rough not-even-draft of a very rough terrain…

And the most apropos a single line of lyrics could ever possibly be to this time for me: “The good times are killing me” by Modest Mouse.

‘Course, the whole song is pretty apropositing (if I’m allowed):

As maudlin and overwrought as it is, I love that Depeche Mode song that sings,

But right now I’m listening to Nina Simone sing “I’ve got it bad (and that ain’t good).”

already late for work

thinking of running away, will I give notice today?

prob: 4k in debt

did good work on this thingie

made some desperate email pleas. hard to judge how they sounded.

i like color

+6, made that kid happy, grinin

+8, spark, 9:30 off block (production), ran into the dude my host, I’m so name bad!, holding much incense and claiming to be off to call mother in law and not wanting to hear her mouth goin off, though just where he was headed, i don’t know

off all more perfect and easy times to let it go. broke the fri night, weekend cycle. but needing to get the review out, and feeling otherwise incapable, the sleepaway weekend became enabling: rested, not strung, better positioned…

speaking of rev. : . somewhat remarkable that I wrote a review of a photography book 100% on cr. it’s good actually. I’m confident. It took forever. I mean, I always take forever, but this was doubly triply forever, working non-stop from at least 7:30pm sun (1st recorded save) til now 3p mon on a 9 paragraph thingie. But over and over the point is driven home regarding people that claim to not be able to write. I’ll grant some differentiation in native ability but 88% of my polish comes from a willingness to put in inordinate amounts of time. my times are always ridiculous. add cr and it’s only worrse, but don’t think it’s all cr. most isn’t. okay. defensive! fuck!…

stepping down into train station I’m just like no, call in sick, why go in and suffer, you’re not going to impress anybody…blah blah, and I did. Glad I did. but this has to end end end end end

thinking of some radical new move. up and off to kansas city, manual labor job. no reason not to. long as money comes in, only stip. bummed on the be limb. bbed me off. gon test jr but that way longshot given situ there now. pre situ,,,or between situ…I think it would have been a snap, maybe, proly. not now, but that’s really what I want (after the be), really want it, and little else but a life worth living…

+6, m

spent 90% on my book review, until decent draft arrived at, then break with the color play, my latest dabbling w. pro.,

saving chunk for final latemorn edit push

be got back w/ no, unmasking destiny or…something./…

+6, r, bedford

slept fri 5:30p to sun 3:30p minus 2.5 food runs

Oh, and, finally (advisably?), sent query to friend re having a sleepover at his place while I work on this. But the back content and the system and publishing, etc. (Not a plan to drug away in some little permissive hideout and jobless haven. feel a little stupid asking or having to ask at all, then plus asking him who is especially busy, then three in anticipation of his wanting to know more about the project (I just said “project” nothing else). and more stuff probably.

Also, it’s pretty lame to come back here after a day like today and a day like yesterday. (but then, of course, you know, that’s the kind of day afterwhich you want to relax, forget, treat yourself, and so on.

It’s also days like today that make me want to pull the plug on this whole exercise in utter honesty and full exposure. I don’t mind too much telling somebody that some things are because I’ve been sick. There is a basic truth to that. I do believe that I’m sick. 1. the physical effects cause me health problems and to not feel good, 2. the mental issues that are at the root for this kind of behavior are, considering the beyond “normal” degree of behavior, are beyond the range of “normal” and labelable sick, but also, like the physical aspect, the effects of the drug are exasperating those things, causing others, etc., I’m sure. and 3) addiction (separate from previous) is itself a disease. so, the truth. But, granted, a little misleading in a way. still, for people (the majority) whose business it isn’t, in situations not major or majorly damaged, that’s the extent of the truth they’re privy to. And at first in at the office, I felt okay offering that immediately and then fixing/changing so that it wouldn’t come up again and be okay. but it’s gotten more and more elaborate, been acted out extensively for this friend that has gone to bat for me (betrayal!), and has been, I don’t know, maybe used to get more leeway than deserve. Not sure about that. but when one makes up supporting details, including prescription meds by name, I don’t feel so good… but what do I do? quit smoking crack for sure. want to, try to, will do. but in the mean time? be honest? ideally. and I’d like to do that too, in a way. but boss boy won’t understand. won’t not be super pissed for ever and ever. and the woman? she’ll be less lame about, not sure if she’ll fully understand or sympathize with the necessity (again, it’s the proactive, elaboration directed at her that even I cringe about a little when making a test objective assessment but that was necessary not strictly but in the sense of a short term unfortunate casualty to win the war for myself, my life, to buy me time while I fix things, etc.), but might forgive? might not. she’s loyal. but also, well, if you cross her, or do something major that she disagrees with majorly, she will be the oppossite whatever that mean. basically, she could go the way of boss boy. the many other friends I’ve used this on? etc. the longer it goes, the harder to pull off, the more of a lie, the more it will be difficult, and awkward, and hurtful when/if ever come to light, admitted, faced up to, discovered, whatever.

[It is a very unfortunate irony of the project that the times and things that are most relevant, revelatory, interesting, et al, are those most likely lost to forgetting, recovery, shame, and its et al. Such is the case here. The last 2-3 days contained the unprecedented, new extremes, new ances, and theads/sagas picked up again and carried on. Much of it is already lost, and unfortunately, I don’t have the time, energy, interest, or proper priority for this item on tonight’s to-do list to fill in everything that’s left right now. I’m going to take basic notes and hope to come back. But I know two things: I never come back, and “basic” almost always turns into much more. Let’s see now how it works.]

Pluses Remembered, working back:
+5 evening Thurs, 7 July, Max
+2 late morning (8:30-9ish?) Wed, 6 July, w/ crazy tall white girl, “comin’ 7 years”, bitchin about when have money all over you but fuckers blah blah niggers won’t help you out otherwise, agreed to take me part way home but friend paranoid of everything and then me, bought from short Latino from hassle a bit back, already forgot name again
+4 6:30???, sent host friend, forgot name already
+5 5ish???, with host friend on block
+4 4ish?, on block, afterwhich hoster enters (below)
+6? 11ish, Tues 5 July, on block (maaaybe four, but probably not)

Outline of Notable Events, working back forward again [(back forward?)]:
Tues 5 July
- smoke til go to work, in shit-shit shape, make good re-use of the dizzy spell, have four (4!) still possessive of productive residue pipes in pocket all day, slow morn, about to beg off to go home sick round 2:30, get client call, wants status, gets pissed over small trivial thing more boss’s fault than mine, also wants stuff done, I’m bugged and have to work until 9:30-10, pipes come out on desk afterhours
- doing my compu thing but waves of exhuation, sleep typing, lost 3hr email to Prayery, then she mails with news of drowning of friend’s baby, v. upset, I have to get outside, go to bar, wait for P’s call (at invite), no call, not liking bar, bail to buy
- trafficker (I think they’re called) is walking around block, working to bring customers, every four people (or four dimes bought) gets him one free, he walks ahead, loooks back, doesn’t know me, pretends to hand me over near block, after, away, asks if have place to smoke, he and his lady could host, he’s age and nice demeanor of old FG old sometime smoke pals, I’m into company for change,
- on other side of pkwy where has been hostile couple times, woman is cool, security for a high school, he put on porno, she gets old stems from envelop in drawer, they call them stems like the FG folks, must be older crowd lingo (he is 50, she about same), also use “minty” like rock & them do to mean old stanky pipe
- they want me to get it on and I’m not sure. in mean time he bugs her being kinda igant, nothing is working for me, so I start shelling out for more, second time he goes by self and I’m ready and she and I go (which he wanted and expected, don’t worry), fun but dangerous, but she seemed clean. Oh! had ass for stomach! She was biggish and stomach had a crack (so to speak)! heh.
- stay too late esp. knowing had to meet sister and two sons at aiport to hang during 3 hr. layover, want last chill bit at home against judgment and, really, need. ritty asks how much, I only want a couple but only have 20 anyway, he says no, just curious. sends me to “pacer’s” down block, don’t see him, circle ‘round and ask as turn corner where tall white woman yelling on phone, I hear someone say “yo get her off the phone,” ritty tells me to go to pacer’s house, where?, you know where he lives, no i don’t, and I keep going. I might know where he lived if I knew everybody’s name and remembered them. woman comes up behind and calls a couple times before I know she means me, asks for pacer’s, says they told her i knew, then launches into vitriol about how they won’t help if you don’t have enough money. sure. part of it. she been coming 7 years. we notice the chaparro (one who asked if I was cop, who I asked if he from around here, but then later said hello to) come out door, she calls, we hook up, me & chap friendly and exchange names, in process he swabbing rubbing alcohol on hand and arm but I didn’t see needle tracks and tattoo nearby but not everywhere he swabbed. also I make convo, chick is goin’ off still, says something in whisper about dirty lazy niggers or something. lame. so lame. she buying drugs, they working. fuck that. and that she had to get her zanax (xanax?) today etc. and friend in car she paid to come over is super paranoid. I ask if maybe could ride the part way back to my place. she into it. but he says “we’re taking the subway”, she and I both buy pipes and she explains but also gives me loc of hood place for pipes. so helpful. 3 blks away.
- home. so tired. want to sleep, hard not to sleep, need to sleep before sister meet, but want to play with this proj (color palette shift badly overdue) and other thises ‘n’ thatses. can’t pull away even as getting late. end up at airport way late.
- by then the exhaustion at point that standing, moving, shaking out, concetrating, etc. none of it helps and I’m falling asleep (so close to missing two train stops on way: subway and commuter train!) and I’m not super coherent verbally. sis clearly concerned but assumes it’s bug from tropics I brought back. i pants the youngest but he don’t think its funny. I think sis lets me off early but maybe it’s time for security check. I’m woozy at this point, she has bad look. I’m woken at end of line.
- grab food, eat in bed, fall asleep shortly into it around 6:45p?
- Thurs, work. while day off, minor pt from client status came back to boss as well as a proj that’s been fuckied but not by me I swear you (not to say I couldn’t have done better but I didn’t originate probs, took steps to ameliorate, and they continued to be diff for many reasons so they complain). talk with boss and other guy on project to plan next steps but included some shouldas, I’m frustrated and pissed, but, OH!, I sent big tons of stuff tues night, much of it expected by clients in the proj, went to bathroom, came back & shut down machine but due to attachments (I assume), it didn’t finish going out, but I didn’t think to check it, not sure most would, (though I will now), and I shut down. then took day off. then came in today, turned on and it went out behind the scenes. so fuck! that adds to the bad. normally understandable but imagine all the things stacking up coincidentally: 1. I’m already on probation, 2. project is a bit of shambles through very little fault of my own, 3. email has to go out, has attachments, still not done after quick piss, 4. take the next day off, 5. main point of contact already pissy over super trivial thing (my not knowing status of small bit project that I never knew much about and that boss guy was handling himself and NOT informing me off on an IMPROMPTU status call in which we discuss like 12 other things going on, 80% much more important). damn collusion.?…, so I’m frustrated, talk to another stake holder in germany (not about issue but moving forward normal info stuff) and find out basic deliverables planned not what wanted (they want much LESS), and this is after he and others approved SOW specifying deliverables! besides those deliverables added to project based on emails, etc.! so I’m irritated! I put things in clearly in most important doc, they give verbal over it, wrriten approval, and signing was okayed and just in queue—so they didn’t read it, it’s my fault proj communication is bad (one of major issues was their simply not responding to my repeated requests for info, so I moved ahead on best gueses anyway since they were very worried about time, making major euro financial conference with print collateral. Look, lots of crazy shit on their part and they and my people look at me? I start to compile all this evidence but stop realizing it’s stupid and tedious and instead, briefly verbally point out sow thing to boss. he has bad look on face “weird…It’s never happened to us before…” clear implication that it’s still me! So then I talk to other partner who brought me in and outlined that and larger issues and said was partly of mind to quit but want to suceed, etc. (oh, didn’t mention here that I did think a lot about it and almost just gave notice then and there but didn’t want to act to hasty) so want to know if they want somebody else, we should do that, that I would be happy to leave, etc. she said, I think they do want somebody else (she has defended me, but not totally because clearly my sickness and tardiness and such has been a problem that needs to be dealt with etc. she’s told me that things need to be changed, and has been pissed at times, but overall seen bigger fairer picture than these myopic, sometimes hypocritical, some-of-them assholes) & that boss was thinking/about to suggest/ask that I take medical leave. So I go and craft what she later called incredibly elogquent email addressing greivances while aknowledging my own faults and suggest reeval and saying i’m happy to leave today or whenever we find replacement and transition. so boss and I talk in park. he’s pretty cool and I keep more level headed and articulate than normal in such situs, but he doesn’t acknowledge or cede some basic points (doesn’t disagree either, just harps again on how sometimes I’m great and he feels good and other times he doesn’t have confidence, so consistency, but in his mind there was a month of good work. In my mind, I”ve had good days maybe even relatively good week, but always back and forth. weird.) anyway, he proposes half proj mangr, half developer, which I’m not sure about, but accept because don’t want to leave this with bad taste, or bad terms, nor do I have any desire to do another job search, plus need money, & can’t even afford brief lapse in pay. and it might be good. partners discuss and the one worst (to everybody but esp. to me) same one who slammed down phone on client call I was leading (due to client, not me) so is hypocrit, he reluctant, maybe other one too, this briefly & vaguely from the one that is friend & I didn’t want to pry. But also, I’m not sure. now thinking I’ll suggest freelance dev role instead.

Look, I did go beyond basics. But good. Not too late. Have to move on down to do list.

408am

still haven’t worked on the article due yesterday.

can’t believe how fast I’m voraciously sucking down these dimes—remeberng, too, how I used to load p little chips one at a time and space out through a must longer, relatively, periodof time—and how still have to be every viggy about fighting off the nod off, and how the drowse that ever doggs me, is more power full, wining many a blank out and lid closing and need fo r a jerky sitting shake out just to keep the blood moving and avoid system autho shutdown , thiking it was a period of inactivy.

brings up another point I wanted to revisit: it’s been long and consistent enough of a struggle to really get and stay high that I’m convnced I’ve hit a noticable acquisition of otolerance. chase chase chaste.

…have become my internal, biorhythmic alarm clock.

Another indication that it’s bad is when you’re too embarrassed to call your man again, the guy who loves to hear from you, and even calls with friendly reminders when he doesn’t. And as much as I’ve come to adore Max for all he stands for and doesn’t (I forgot to mention that a couple times back while we’re transacting I ask him what he’s up to that day and his plans were to get some quality reading time in for school.—what a good boy! Showin’ up his customer with a Masters in Lit.) I was a little bashful about showing my face to him again so soon and so expensively. So Sparkles came through for me, though he could get the glass. Man, my tubularity is so stankified! Funny how the layers of acceptibility, both in regards to a usable set of screens and to my life in general, peel away in tandom. What was previously unacceptable in the absolute—untenable, unthinkable—falls right in with the conforming contourity of a glove to become the new status quo, the yawning reality. Baseline, check.

I.E. I got another 888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888

Is it really 11:15pm Monday night July 4th?

Have I really sat here for three days straight (questionabl word choice there at the end)?

Have I really not even started yet the book review that I was supposed to have completed and submitted by today?

Did I really not even step outside for a moment’s peek at the firework,s over the city, remaining cooped and happily annoyed at the noise in the back back waybackground (machine)?

Does the color and odor of my urine really genuinely frighten or simply surprise and maybe shock me?

Does it really smell like slow brased pork enlivened with a little tacked on pineapple (industrial rings please, they look prettyiest) and a dashing of dapper decembery nutmeg?

Or, was that a barbecue out back wafting up through the bathroom window?

Have my teeth ever felt grimier?

Or been neglected this long, out of sheer preoccupation cinched and clinched by a helping of cocommittant laziness.

Have I really failed to even email my sister and her family to tell them that yes, I would be thrilled and delighted and eagerly anticipating my meeting up with them at newark day afer tomorow as they while away a few hours of layover?

Did I really finish that second, wait, not, third weekend roung of 8, or no…? I mean, I’m sure I’m out again (as impossibleas it seems, as difficult as it is to wrap my head around that, I’m sure it’s true; nobody else here is smokin’ em. but the tilly tally, who can keep track? Hell I actually have a problem remebering where Iput my pipe down just a few minutes earlier. Oh, ti happens with alarming frequency, I’d venture regularity, that I mispolace a pipe in my immediate vicinty—an arm’s radius out around my cross-legged sitting posture. This can be Paritally explained bymy need to have everything hidden for when my precious roommate ujp and barges in for another bumming of my cigerettes. no, he usually \calls out and then doesn’t enter when I give the clearance for some reason unknown to me. but he has come in a coiuple times when I was asleep (waking me up int he process) to get a cigerateet thinking he couold sneak one by,k so given that he gets uncontrollable urges to smoke at unpredictable times and I am always in the room well armed and surrounded by paraphernalia, including hours ungodly for wakefulness, ti makes sense that I keep vikgilent about squirling away the immplements and iknstruments immediately following eacnh use, go cover us in all congtinencies.

Does he really instruct me on the basics of living?

Do I really dread his home time that much, findin myself wishing to powers for good and humanlike embodiments of same but without validated user accounts, that he leave or that it not be him cominb in the door down stgairs?

Have I really let his Nightmares on
Wax songb les nuits, off carb oot soul, as bood as it is, repeat continusoulsy for I don’t know how lonvg ug ungamedd or domesticatged speculatgion has me saying 45 minutrwa.

really?

[insert utterance appropriate to the linguistik kulture operationally predominant at the most granular level]
+
” our ” [still tentative based on currently debated certitude regarding the relationship being invoked, but subbed-in for the traditional ‘my’ toward incremental improvement]
+
? [still no term sufficiently PC or otherwise up to the dauntible task of seating comfortably and compatibly even (potentially shape-shifted/-ing in process of taking on physicality, i.e. their clicking through the user’s agreement appended formulaically to the metaphorical download and autoinstall of their voluntary-though-work-related subjection to the antiquatedly inflexible (to them, likely laughably so) and arcane ((a compulsorily admissible descriptor for even the more ardently nostalgic and adorating adherents of the venerated mechanical workhorse ((some would say ‘trojan horse,’ still others, ‘sawhorse’)))among operative systematics known and persistently extant in the universe)) laws of Physics.) strawperson-level reps for the animal, mineral, vegetable, force, construct—whatever—let alone their exponential versioning as tweaked and tailored at cultural, national, organizational, familial, social, and personal levels—that is uniquely ever-sympathetic, ever-comprehending, and ever-present (e.g. of above: “…or, simply locationally unfettered?, i.e. its presence is not required because, as my personal belief system posits (unfoundedly, hence here after hours), it is an existential formation for whom and/or which physical geography is irrelevant and therefore non-utilized and misundertood in home domain). Or, another example, might have diety (dietetic?) functions handled by the spin-spawning, at incomprehensible rates and in incomprehensible varieties, momentary and immediate instances of miraculous divinity, macrosmically instantiated and harmonious, yet self-derivatively omnipotent (organically speaking) due to its hyper-situational and super-suited “made-to-orderness,” which comes from a “beckonCall”-based protocol which “requests” or makes visible/known the id:/relative locatenator (enabling interaction with the roving or non-spacially bound for the stationed or static) of the universal gap and desiring, along with pronosticated forecastings of the specs for its remediation (redemption, incarnation, a low-pro subject-carry on a sandy beach, water-to-wine, impersonation of deceased family members, streaming of PGP encrypted disconnected and floating artefacts of the constant retrofitting of the universal knowledge store, or maybe just the supernaturally harmless nudge that gets that kid out of getting the ticket his father would kill him for!) as speculatively interpolated at triage, itself triggered by lacky listeners (prayer becomes less boggling!). Because the hallmark efficiency and effectiveness is the birthright of every disposable dietylet. Because the whole, entire operation “commonly referred to as The Big Picture” before that paint-by-numbers dude on TV ruined the good name of oil-based fine arts everywhere) Duties, as well as risks, are distributed, fault-tolerant, and hot-swappable thanks to

because the enormity expansive application and warehousing operation went through a behind-the-scenes redesign that was successfully and totally hidden and seamless for logged on and living users of the information age even as it was kept trancendentally transparent internally (in-house, in heaven) with usability testing and rounds of QA handled in a policy-perfect cooperative manner, with divs divvied out to divisions according to the haute ‘n’ hallowed heavenly hierarchy. These minor efficiency gains specially combined for synergism, were ultimately enough to buy the wiggle room for the drilling of disaster- and doomsday-contingency plans the board of directors was dandering up over at the time. The Rapid Development and Deployment Model subscription, because of it’s pure committment to modularity and non-flowcharty nature notable for backtracking and abandon(ment) more frequently than basic branching. This meant floor-up creationism technology would be used—none of that lovably quirky evolutionary model—practical for it’s adaptibility and intriguing in it’s mysteriousness. The new models would be made with
new habitat
can’t put new wine (sweet ‘n’ kosher) in old bottles
object oriented programming and materialsm now a grinding friction on the mother board to be phased out according to their native event handlers (ie evolute or die, baby!)
redesign and retrofit
retrofitting
informed by revelations
whose logic stipulated a reverse engineering that (true to formly) nonintuitively structured the nanology and biologistics and neurologs on error, normalizing in routines its handling, and
nuclear kernal
registry keys
in the throne the throwing and threading of exceptions (now considered expecteds)
exception throwing
(rather than aspirational, egolaic wastage of non-fated or destiny-confirmed initializings
always already prepared rather than breathless waiting, hurry up and wait, queing, and constant resource intensive vigilance over garbage collection
bootstrapping bits, with booleans of absolute truths. scaleable, never paying for the sins of another’s asocially acceptable intangling memory pagination.
cache is freed. and reality is flush again.

my inclusive, diversity embracing transcription of the pervasive supplication cum perjorating exclamative, that no longer neither pretends to invoke “excetional” higher(-tension) powerlines or even to perform communicative work at all with any targeted reception beyond the setting of tone and flagging for (usually relativized) demands on regarding the timeing and response-output (effort), the setting of expectations as well as the staking of airspace and time travel claims as well as your own eurekaish relationship to the forthcoming responsible party for the holy head fake. each instance is a periferal but persistently personal partner. no onesize fits all, a one size fits one. it doesn’t there fore matter if the introductive verbal engine starting is for a non-phoneme (or aircraft) carrying vessel. a non-b reaking space. a timem-territoral pissing. faulty false alarms

the degree defining call on high was, before the digressive genetifantasy recess, meant to impart the alrm and anxiety I was feeling at that time—now just about 2 hours and twenty minutes ago (have I really done nothing else but this desquey dilly dally?—over the fact of my not having spent one second of this three day weekend on the the article that is due today. it looms even loomier now. I was going to then follow that little lead with a ledgering:
the other 8 (another, again) I just (had, then) bought from max, as well as the
+5 I scored on the block from a new guy or a rare guy, little latino, I think, actually looked pretty guidific, and who quizzed me over my occupation in law enforcement of the patrolling and prison populating varety. so stupid. amnd actually, I should ahvebeen the one interviewing and proofing him, him eing the change, the suspect, and matter of facting looking more like a copy than anyone else on that corner not in a blue suit;. damn, prodigious intake with the repurposing of the holiday. out there it’s the fourth of july. in here, it’s the day of reckoning, nay, the final hour, of my procrastination. o ye of procrastinating way, and the procrastinators, even the procastration nation, and the poor peoplle poor in productivity…and I am cracked out! i mean, in keeping with priors and all, i’m nothing like the image of heroiny rock stars in the hotel overstuff, eyes a slinted, speech a little stilted. I’m function at near full-speed , on time, and service satisfying—for most tasks (required of me home alone on a holiday…no, really. For example, and in honor of the holy day of overwrought nationalism, I used the Macromedia Fireworks image editing program, which I am not familiar with, which of course is not impressive ((I have nothing else, believe me!)) but taken with the preconcepted image editing software and storage database and memory (your brain), it doesn’t go. incompatible driver. you can’t be keith richards and operate a logorific toolbar that interacts with a number of palletes with terse (non0descriptive) terkms as labels) and expect to get anything done. I did some cool stuff too. but that wil have to wait for another post another day andother distraction), buit unfortunately, of all the horrible and horribly timed luck!—that, “most tasks”, doesn’t include writing an article on photography, a form I’m un informed about. this articlwe is fixing up to be areal expose. of my drug (‘)diction and disease, as well as my poseur posturing and positon as a photo player.

sighenology, not scientology…

oh, and the title? now that im getting to it? a wrapper reference to to the book I should be reviewin this very instant (every hour that goes by in New York City, another 47bniilionyific kazillion protoatypical, plasmatroic personal and ephemeral powers are instantiated and subseqwuently terminated (with honor) (unless by the task manager or the involvement of the ctrol alt delte key sequence). anyway, reify my resistane to writing. the classical nature of this natural essental phenom in my wooded areas. the learning involeved instensely her and now and indefinitely… Rippley. Believe it or not.

Mmmm-mmm, finger-lickin’ good, with that rub and the sauce, and the smoking and the sizzlin’ heat…just makes that tender, juicy meat like melted butter seeping down into the dark cleave of your ass…

…yeah, I was ‘spearminting there to see how suavely salacious and sneakily shocking I could be…let’s saunter on…

PLUS ATE you fucking math nerds and you slacks-sporting statisticians scoring with the stealthly sub-radar sex purr. Maxinque came through with my Eighteraid, chock full of the Electro-Lights my body needs. I’m barbecuing the bags like bitsy-baby beef burgers, burning my way through bull, bun, and buffet. .I’m sorry, this carried-away tendency I have the the aliteration. I don’t think it’s cute or anything. It’s just a game for me. Crazy that “C”ra”c”k “C”o”c”aine causes that cacophony.

Anyway, anyway, I got on to log that accounting and more summer juicingly, to relate the little anecdote that gave birth to all that briar bramble. Just that Macks asked me at the car window what I was doing for the fourth. Hard to explain in a sound—heheh, quick interruption, a just clicked on a song I didn’t recognize, something I dragged off somebody’s drive one day because it looked interesting, and it turned out to be a song entitled and enchorused “Drugs work.” Over( )time.—bite that I have this big, blubbery project on which I love withering whole weekends. He told me he had a couple BBQs (one in Bed Stuy and the other on the block, by the way). So when I called again Saturday (that was FRYde), I acted like I was calling to get the time of the event and an indication of how I should dress and some little minor insecurities assuaged with reassurances that he would, as I put it, “hook me up with one of your fine African sisters.” Hee haw.

I’ve heckled him a couple times about inviting me out to bro around or whatever and he always seems amenable to it. Sure he’s playing along, joking back—to some degree—but there’s a decent measure of ‘yeah, I’m game.’ We do get along. Today I made the abbreviated version of the joke in front of his friend in the front seat, and he fast and enthusiastically came back with, aoh, D, you know I’ll hook you up, I gotcha. Cool. I’m kind of tempted to push it a little and see, and then also, if I’m lucky, to meet some hot ass bitches, yo! I’m sure to be the White Wonder at the social outing, so baked in attention. But I’m in no shape now for such shenanigans.

So, kind of still on a roll with that going into the afternoon, Rich called. “I haven’t heard from your ass all week, muthafucka! Yao, what up?” I had noticed that both he and Max had called a few times over the work week. Without going into spiritual detail or self-actualization plans, I summarized that I need to chill out on that shit for a bit. That I was working (no need to jealousificate him re: Max), and that I was good but maybe I’d call him later tonight. Then he responded like it was a sure thing. Well, you never know with me, sweetheart.

Op, but I see I’ve swerved astray a second time. I was gonna say that following my minor success with the ‘cue quips, I tried the same out on Rich. Soon as I picked up, I was asking if he was calling to invite me to his 4th of July barbecue and beery, boistrous ho-down. He was like “I don’t celebrate that shit!” I knew where this was going: to that dreamy, hazy, heady, confounding nether world of the Black Hebraic roots reggae ritual and religion. But I wanted to egg him on, hear him say it, or, on the off-off-Broadway chance that he’d honor me with some half-baked anti-patriot rational for me to thrill to and file away for later social tellings. So I asked why not, and he said, “I celebrate Jewish holidays.” “Alright, then, let’s do some passover, then?” “Passover? Heh. That’s over!” “Fine, then we’ll have Rosh Hoshanna…nah, or whatever you call it. That’d be cool!” Being a typically fairly humorless, down-to-business kind of guy, he went ahead and moved right into the wherhe-have-you-been query, punctuated with a far-more-than-four-letter matriarchal perjorative, from which I actually took a touch of in-crowd satisfaction, but the game in my mind freewheeled, like a popped and errant hubcap, off into a better conversation in which I riffed convincingly on, how, hell, if he was going to use that kind of language with me, the white-slice bread and butter benefactor of his babygirl, then we’d better make it a last supper, him with his raggedly nappy beard could play Jesus (the Morrissey of the Meso-Sandalstocks Period, by the way), while I take on the bastardly Iscariat role of blindsiding, backstabbing betrayal with a beso (blog?), handing his Jew ass over to the blackhearted authorities on a TV tray, to die and belabor his death, only I’d have mono, motherfucker-sayer, so my bad-breath beso will not only get you nailed, in a very literal bone breaking way, but it will also get you sick, so on top of all that pain, and the burden of the the blasphemous buggering sins of the world, but your black ass is going to be draggin’ like a dog’s, boy. You bet it will. And all you’ll want is a bed and your blankie, but you’ll be stuck up there until you take your final breath. How does that sound? Does that sound good to you. You want to do that? Because it sounds like that’s exactly what you want, the way your talking. So, let’s do it! Let’s find out how Babylon badass you really are. Either that, or we could get a coupla bagels and treat each other with the respect that we both deserve. Have a nice little boring conversation, and then go back to our respective barrios. Does that work for you chief? You like Option B a bit more? Okay, then. I don’t want to hear anymore bad words come out of your mouth. What,were you born in a barn? What, next you going to tell me you rode a burro to Bethlehem and all you could get was a couple bales of hay beside the beasts? Yeah, I know The Bible, bitch! Don’t fuck with me. [And that’s when, with precision military-muster synchronotimized timing, I hang up, and not without an inescapable, handsomely hardass flair tipped with pistachio panache.]

I’m really not angry, and I like Rich. These alternate elaborations, doused in a dickering dramaturgy of drag-queen dimension, are my own little auto-performative absurdist—therefore hilumorous—theater pieces in one act and boasting a track record of delivering happy endings with a reliability-rate approaching that of a veteran Chinese masseuse! And those are outcomes over which I retain unique and private ownership, buddy. It’s hilarity husbandry, is what it is, and it’s habit forming in a healthy way. AND…it comes without hidden charges of selfishness or tack-on expectations of baleful benevolence on my part; free from the burden of dingle-dangle lingerberry breakup or bad-boyfriend baggage; no bedfellow blackmail, pussy politicking, linen lobbying, blowjob bartering or blanket banking; no tit-for-tat/clit-for-clap equality; no mattress manipulation, mismanaged mothering impulses, or mathematics mania as you try to multiply the square root of her per-minute rate of reciprocal motion by the degree of difficulty and favoring factor of your position to date, in order to determine how much longer at this station and to which station your calculations direct you next; no faked fantasmorgasms or fainthearted, feeble, phallus-fear fellatio; no post-conjugal replay, rehash, regretment, or refereeance; no begging, blocking, badgering, bullying, bitching, bragging, or ballyhoo of any build, brand, or bent—I don’t even have to stay awake ‘til the bitter end if I’m beat, bushed, or bored. A bellhop in a bordello couldn’t do better.

[^I couldn’t keep it up, stick-out the seriousness; I slipped. And when I don’t slip I slide. I’m like a nineteenth-century Bavarian carpentery craftsman specializing in ornamental and flauntive d’objets d’ornamentia hutches for grand dining and pass-way halls, a court certified (and sanctified) cabnetrist dabbling, when done with his daily duties, in a delectable dual-dedivotion to designer deskery demonstrative of degree of Deutschelander designation or dubious-by-deleterious distinction for diligent dilinquency and direction thereof, demonic disregard for all that’s held dear, or the dispassionate dealing of death, dispossesion of dames their damsel daughters in his dastardly daily distribution of distress, duress, damage, and damnation to his dark, dungeon, depending on the duke or don that commandeered the helm of a desk whose decorations and decoration’s decorations are decorated with diamond-dazzling details that simply defy description. … Doagh, there I go doddering again…my desist is disabled…the drugs have deactivated, dismantled, and destroyed dozens of dopamine-dependent depots, distribution hubs, and dojos, as well as decommissioned, disappeared, or otherwise discharged and decapacitated their respective and disrespected directors and direct delivery drones, decisevely depriving [neighme] of the dominant and determinative dynamics of decision-rendering, dedication, discipline, and other default doables and defenses. …

Damn, it! It’s devious. Okay, so I said it was a game above, but sometimes I just can’t get out of the looptrack, I get stuck, trapped, and keep thinking for hours (on end?) that I’ll just finish the run-on (and on and on) sentence. Dang-darned dumbing down and distractions of the dadgum dope and my debilitating dedication to druggery! Ok, Done.!.

Did not register an awareness of my degreed attachment to the by-now-grimer’d-up-and-made-mucky-from-mad-marathon-molotov-cocktailing, until immediacy turned the corner on the block in that way she does—almost exactly like a schedule-harried split-toe sloth with a signature lumin’-it swagger, always running late and damn near usually arriving too soon—and I remarked to myself that there I was with a dick (mine, shriveled as if under the spell of a green-faced, wart-wearing witch) in one hand and a crack pipe in the other hand, notably my right hand (making the activity at, uhum, hand—overdue urination—clumsier and more fruaght with negative potential than nature intended. Then my eye was caught by another crossing of nature’s impeccable intentions: arc’ed before me and terminating in a pot of gold was a tangerine stream contemplating the border of a butterscotch pudding made neony by any imprudent utilization of food (-grade) coloring (i.e. dye). That’s a color—a taint, I dare say—that everybody knows…only too well! And here I was the perp, pipe in red hand. And then I pondered the plus: tangerines are easy to peel, and I coud sure use a good peeling right about now. Right after I wax off the apple of my eye.

What’s the word/phrase for when you’re still going, still at it, plowing ahead, but you’re not at all still going strong. And yet, you’re not about to stop. Not in a position to, shall we say. No capabilitied that way, but less inclined. Hyper-inclined, though, toward tinkerating tirelessly with things like, oh, say, minisculely effecating but majorly, vexalatingly complicated and tediously reticent to cooperate CSS inter-relations. It’s freaking ridiculous how overly complicated a thing can get. But I eventually abandoned a few of those prickers (after getting them to some acceptable but still annoying level, of course) and moved on, turning the long holiday weekend (which was supposed to be spent on this article I’ve gotten a second chance on) into a very productive, across-the-board attending to and improving upon my silly little Webelo web work-wanks. There has indeed been exciting progress, but that won’t be detailed here. I just got on to say that I am *massiviously* dehydrated.

))during humility-fostering soul-sanctifying focus-harping retreat at religous ranch slash faith farm faking and feigning sacred-simplitude and redemptive rusticity((

IOW: toppled right off the vaagOn. . >

mathematically, it looks like this:
+6
+6
+8

I’d love to tell y’all (ghosts) about it, but I have an article to write. Just that the 8ballbagbasket…it’s nice to get good doodle-dong.;’f

I’ll admit I was sippin’ just a bit on my sippy cup of lemon-lime hatorade regarding the blogging scene up until recentness. Of course, now that I’m jumping on the band wangon and one of them, I’ll have to change my tune (tune my change) (in order to avoid cognitive dissonance interiorly and disfavorment excreriormentallly, see?). but it’s really not just that convenient. I still do hate on the hoards just bloggin in to blah blah blah their (and our) brains out. Boring. Bad. Bullbladder blowout is what is be. so there are critiSuperCizable things about it, but the more I get involved and learn (or course of course) the more I think about the way it’s changing the way people write, collaborate, share information, validate, participate, socialize, etc. It’s fascinating. And I think, again, like I did with about Narcademia, about the prospect of there fomenting a scholarly focus on the scene (I’m sure stuff’s being noticed, nodded over, and noted), a real nascent discipline, and the playout were I to be running with that bannerFlag. But then I think/remember, that I’m really not all that good (i.e. smart, or, okay, smarty THAT way [if at all..ouch!]) at synthing or devving a theory (or, likely, theories!), not so hot wit the analytic tip, sharpening the razor. but I’m great at musing, rambling, throwing out, connecting, dreaming, speculating, resashenating. I like to geek n’ think. Or think in geek, not greek (despite the greeking below). can i do that? just geek out? trick enough people up front and the rest will fight for the right to pay you to do it.

and that’s just what I’ll do!

This is going to sound sarcastic or, for the more earnest and doe-eyed out there among you my phantom menace readers!!!oh, I just remembered: checking my sitemeter server log stats, I saw that somebody from a teaching class at Brigham Young University visited this site today. cool! wonder what they thought! Also, somebody from a rubberstamp making enterprise’s website came and spent something like 28 minutes. Wait, hold on, I’ll get the full and real deal…[hold music: the whimpering, lashingly scandalous cries of pain, confusion, and joy as the pious piper Kenny G enters the ring with a female WWF champ (as narrated over the radio by geraldo Ferrari, previously known as Gerald Sands, a behind the scenes worker, mos def with a spade and a hoe…sans ‘e’, scratch that, and add a 10 of spades while you’re at it]

[meanwhile I actually scrape the hard gray organic/thorny looking pipe-originating appendages from the scraper metal stickstick, use the deep “PanaMano Canal”(tmR) [as I’ve branded that part of my body in order to park the domain hassle-free] and it’s long natural grooves to channel the dirty piecelets back into the blackend cajun and still open (true to form::that glass is really a gas) mouth of my pippylongsmoking pipe. I can’t say the recycle wasn’t well worth it, either, and not for price savying , experimental (just to see”“), or eccentric creds—the autumnal leaving was like a raking to bonbonfire experience, delivering a thick and heavy, sweet and numby, precipitate to inhale load ratiograpny.]]] okay, i got the data’s datums…

Married Mormons, discovering the joys of the world wide web’s blogWorld, made easy and accessible to working, practicing, time-strapped Christians the (first-)world over by providing the reassuring tagline “push button publishing” (we all like to push buttons, don’t we? especially each others)at http://wymount37.blogspot.com/ . Hope they weren’t too truamatized by the exposure (to the light that the lampshades over thieir bangs usually dampens and distances for them. Not quite sure how to reconcile the 2 page views over 0:00 time duration stats provided. One way we’re good. other wa we’re better.

I was just clicking through my other visitors referring URLs and ended up reading an LCD Soundsystem review on Pitchfork. I LOVE his “I’m losing my edge” trackhitwondermonster. and I love this just-discovered assessment of what he does “LCD makes substance from style, content from form, something from nothing.” In part, that’s my method, and maybe even, in parter, my agenda here with this divergent degenerative dishwatering. Most tippedly, using form to inform content, relying on style to help resurrect a trodden to death demon(ized)trope-iary. And if you want to go deeper/further with the reviewer, “That’s a rockist attitude, of course, but then LCD Soundsystem is a rockist fantasy: full command of the history with none of the high-caloric obligation to “meaning” or purity. Murphy even puts together a live show that out-pummels the noise bands a borough over.” I like the idea of this being more rockist than literary approach. More devoted / in service of the rhythm, the beat, the fun and the fuck all, the meander evocative, the invisible defycating (on) language, than an organized frontal nudist assault with ideals and schemas and programmatic filter tests for associative meaning makering. the maker being the elevated object by the meaning he conjures or imaging and sculpt-structures into being through the strategies and machinations of print layout conventions, convention conventions, distributive faddom channels, and a strict hocusypocahontus calling that limits one to loss and sentient sedentary seditious sediments. …I’m twirling again… no, to finish a thought, I know people have been over this territory before. so waht. I want to traverse it again. this time with some new year’s noise makers’. that’s my angle. I’ll out do’em this time is MY fantasy. Flip fantasia.

I didn’t let the fact that, given the short timespell we were stationed within the bar’s confines, two times was noticeably freakish (not to mention juvenilely and efeminator-like) frequency to use the bathroom, stop me from smoking up in the doorless not-even-half partitioned stall there.

At home I pushed the raggedy andy screen and the clay-flake resin stuck to the crook/ed metal making it look like a branch with leaves when I pulled it out. Far out! I pulled it really far out…dude!

Making the pants to shorts switch, I did the pocket check that responsible unslovenly folk do before casting to awaiting-washing status to make sure no crucial phone numbers, large bills, or inkladen items go through the washer & drier 1-2 punch. but instead of lint and the other usual suspectds, I pull out a dime bag. Yay! NOt that it waas totally unexpected. It’s just a nice brightener to that dreary, Mr. Rodgers’ part of the day.

I tried—almost unsuccessfully, and with much time usage—to explain to s. there on the hiply vintage couches before a baroque coffee table that i was working on a project for ME (not my company, not freelance—or “on my part time”, but just for me, not for money, just for me…foreign concept), and in the process and/or upon request for clarification (for once! break thru to U!) described the undertaking (I’m the undertaker, yes. No, The Undertaker, grrrr!) as a combo (value pak/meal) of programming and writing. Hmm. .…

Well, I’m on a roll now…

He asked me at the bar “Tell me about your culture.” ahhUh, what do you want to know? “What’s normal?” …Like what. “how you do things here in this country.” How long have you been here? “Six years.” You know as much as I can tell you. “Oah, okay.”

This morning he came into my room in his tight white underwear patted his chest (with an open hand, not a cupped fist Tarzan style as OUR [chest-beating] culture would have it) and asked me if he didn’t look good. His exercises were paying off, he informed.

Ahhh, it’s precious, really. Again, for all the bitching (and this is a first, really. When it does come up in conv. among friend, I just divert to “hard to really describe” imply sense of interesting tolerable (I’m noble) challenge and let it lie), I really do feel blessed and lucky to be able to experience first hand such a cliche. But it’s a cliche made cartoonish for exaggerating and simplifhying the cliched. It’s hot cliche on cliche action, with the unlikely underdog out clicheing the cliche. and that rules.

Looks like for once (or for once and for all), finally, it will be a relatively eased on in on smooth tranny (-sition) (into Monday and the work week and the R. life and the r.esponsibile[stet] life). I really do hope to make this the end all biyall. turn my life over to God. The (techno-twentyith cent) idol of sobriety.

It’s late: 12:43, but it’s all relative. Most often I’m finishing up the gleaming dusty baby powdery good crumbsion around 4:37-4:09. So this is good. It may owe something to the fab ironicyton that just after that last scathing grateful post, s. comes in and mentions the tea place a couple blocks down. I love tea and I love tea places but late at night, no. that’s hippytonsville, at least in vidraphonic headspace terms. anyway, I wanted to beg off, so I said I was going to the local bar. that I go sometimes on sunday nights and have gotten to know a few of the regular sunknighbt shugfight club crowd that way. and, well, i want/need/am expected to check in. so he says, ok, let’s break the rules [what rules? oh no! wow, whoopee, we’re crazy rebels!] and go! I’ll buy you a beer. [i remmber when that would have sounded great in a de rigour fashion. now, i can barely choke one down to mitigate a come down. in fact, i can’t choke one down to mitigate a come down. I take ‘em like i was taking a sippy cup out of mama’s purse and then throw an indeterminate fit of self-alienation and indeterminacy channeled in to bustling about a creaky floored room or indianing atop a boxsprings mattress wiht my wrists on compaq black, trying to avoid the metal through the indy (-ustrial) fabric gouging away at my ankle, a pixie having made a deal for the existence of breeders in this state, in this day and age, living, road raging. okay, that got versified into a koan of my own lobosity, my mindsphere whereupon no-share rights have been granted by the adietyministerator. sorry. wanky.

so i go to the bar with s. it’s miserable. especially because far way above and beyond—in/of a galaxy far far a …a way!—the other times, there are cute girls and hottish girls and lovable women and such in fem-centric pairs or groupings and not in focused shoptalk/psychobalk, but kind of distracted carrying on while looking around, but there’s only so much red ambiance tha tcan be absorbed or appreciated, rigt?> but I couldn’t operate with that kid talkiung about how his girlfriend in isreal, who he refused to have sex with when she was on her period, came inbto his apt at 2:30 am wiht a friend and gave him a “naked massage” until he was horny at which moment the friend skeedaddled (thanks to EPT testing, Standord, New Jersey) leaving him wiht no choice but to ride the red river. (did I just make that up?) I did, but maybe not the first to, it’s way too obvious. but I never remmber hearing it. It’s groundbreaking! No.

so I’m wanting to get my game, what little I never had gone, on. but opt to down another favorite brooklyn lager while he sips gingerly at his hieny. (he also said “I don’t like drunk women”) and then ask him if he wants to go home (with me, heh). horrible missed opps. horrible suffrage through convos about how israel bars are more like the european tradition. and how the israeli national basketball team won the euro league champion ship twice, two years after each other (that’s the eureopean league [oh really?]), imagine that! wow, that’s great….funny that the first (hope final?!?) time i “go out” (albeit around the corner for 45 mins) with s is right after my smei-public rant about him. cleansing. ethnic cleansing…no. sorry. i didn’t.id.

as much as I think about and complain to myself about how completely self-absorbed s. is—because it’s incredible just how much attention he demands while refusing to even listen to somebody else finish a sentence let alone pause for an exceptional moment that itself as well as I demand he take in (e.g.s: the night I worked through to finish a site for launch that day, he commented, I said—when he’s at computer browing the winterneb, mind you—here, I’ll show you what I did (intending just a quick glance at the home page, and considering he up to then had no idea what I did/do for a living despite my having to hear about his job daily)—he actually told me he didn’t have time! I was going to bullet point the time today actually when food and g. came up and I opened the photo (pro, cofeetable, not my album) book right there next to us to clarify the kind of people I was talking about (again, a subject he knows nothing about, and that, way more than a stupid job, should interest anybody!) and he craned head over to slightly peek at one photo before turning back to walk away. Then later he stood over me while I was at computer and spent significant time explaining to me why Mexicans come to the US and also why he says he traditional prayers “even though they might look funny to me” “it’s kinda like you exercise on your computer, this make me feel more balanced”….okay, whew, that turned into a rant, when actually what I was going to say at the outset was as lame and over the top as it is, I actually prefer it that way because 1, in generaly, I, ironically, despite my dutiful attention, thought ful comments, and help given where /when can, don’t really care all that much about him, and didn’t move in here to rent a friend but a room, so as much time as I sacrifice now, if he actually took an interest in me too, that might, heaven forbid, double that hemorrage. And more to the point, expecially lately, I can be in my room, he in his room next door, MAYbe forty feet away at most, door open, no music, and I can be puffikng away on my crack, making intermittent lighter noises—and if you’ve never been in a position to monitor decibel levels and piercing qualities of sounds, you may be surprised to learn that ligthers carry, they don’t blend, they’re relatively loud (enough, anyway), plus that acrid sweet smoke. and what the hell am I in here doing all the time at ever hour anyway? but no, it doesn’t occur to him. he’s sweetly oblivous. dropping grapes all over the floor. which makes it convenient for me. i just have to be alert for when he marches in to bum another smoke. he does it constantly. he smokes more of mysmokes than i do, coming into my room at like 5am when I’m asleep (until that moment anyway) to take a smoke from my pack. I have for a long time nwo, taken to leaving the pack on the edge of the mantel closets the door so they are convenient fo r him and least disruptive to me when he wants one. but the pay back is easy apartment crack smokin’! oh, and fresh rocks or pebble pieces make a very loud very distinctive wet sparkin sparkling sizzle sound (actually where the name/term crack comes from . the sound of crispin’ cringlin’ crack. maybe the ever 2-3 minute lighter sound could be a cigarette or a nervous tick and the smoke the cigarettes getting stale and mingling with my own filthy stink and body odor, but that sizzle sound, as if I’m cooking quick bacon right here on my bed ever 30 minutes…hmmm… that doesn’t arouse any curiosity if not outright suspicioun? but that’s good. you keep your youthful israeli innocense, forrest.

an inadvisable late ledger entry
+6, sparks, with an assist by roy rodgers, or whatever his name is

Max came through but I had fallen asleep for who knows how long, 20 mins?, 40? 15? 50?, I don’t know but he called three times from the curb out front while I was obliviously dozing up here. he was mad. damn. my dealer’s mad at me. sparks came through quick, though. that kid is no bullshit and down to earth. max is sweet, but he’s still got a nigger veneer that makes my hanging a little harder. but we’re friends. just that sparks doesn’t have that layer. he has an ease.

well, i can’t keep up this computer shit too much. my back has an off width sore spot and it’s getting teatious. may try to be social out at the bar tonight. …but not before transfering a to do list to the do do blowg. 10-4. over and out.

= drug use characterized with primary preoccupation located inward- and identically, rather than the more familiar universe gazing orientation hallmarked by the nineteen sixties.

it’s too early to call it, i’m not throwing in the towel yet, you know how I hate to jump the gun, but i just want to say, that this being the last hurrah, if it’s the last hurrah, be cause those last hurrahs seem by definite-shun to never be last, but it has to be and I feel like maybe I can and it will be, but then I’ve said all that beforee,this is why I never make any promises, but then maybe I nver get anywhere because I never make any promises. but then again, I do. to myself and god all the time, and to some friends on the inside explicity, and to may implicity, liek now when I’m suking at work and I talk about getting it together…so we’ll see, won’t we, but with that in mind, I’m going to miss these holing uip sessions in my room in a hotel in central america. as weird as it is, I couldn’t be happier than when I ahve a stock pile anbd privacy and things to do, espcecialy writing instruments (analog or electric), artistic stuff—paints, books—the computer, emails, internet, etc. oh god, it’s so great! like a giant hot tub of blondes on a ski slope ion sweden all to myself! unlimited time, on the house. ut that’s the trick. there is no free lunch. you end up payiing at some point. but I don’t want to go down that depressing line of thought path. I just want to say, damnb. good times. and productie too! no maater it takes me hours to complete one html template toward the end of it. when yuou work non stop, not even bathroom breaks for three days straight, you get a lot done no kmatter how inefficeint you are. and that rules too. damnb. gotta fill that hole. myabe I’ll fill that by filling other holes. Ohter peoples’s holes. the sweet glazed donut holes of the ladies. in truth, i have thought about focusing my attention there as a pleasurable replacement, distraction, toolto cure. like gum instead of a cigarette.!!!

as max is doling out my two twenties and two dimes at that last cop, The Last Cop, Jesus.(and my bed, where I’ve camped and figuratively messed myself, looks in a salvador dali way a lot like that long busy charactered cuspy table, lord. are you walking me a long the beach? are those your tevas in the freshly foamed surf? where were you when that 14 year old girl died of shark attack yesterday in florida? no, donb’t tell me, I don’t want to know your schedule, it’ll just suck me in deeper.
dejaring the tangenterine…
check’
k
as I was on the dole, hand out to the mouth that feeds, I’m lik,e this “ah, now, why you giving me that shake (two dubs single pieces, very shapely, rivally the breasts I’ve been gawking at on suicidegirls.com, great real, site). one dime not too bad, but one looks almost like coke (and coke like that sucks too, because you can’t crush it and lose shooting stars in the trying, and then the very embarrasing rock chunk falling back out your nose while your taking to someone).

and max says, all innocent like he can do, the kid that kiddo!, oh, you don’t like shake, d? oh, heow no! oah. he says, and trades me out. heh.do people shake? more than likely it’s from the same batch, but it’s harder to deal with, though breaking off a chunk of rock or trhying to shove a too big a bite into the end of your goblet can be a pain, too, but really cons clearly outweight the advants. but more than anything, it looks bad. ugly.

virtually the muddy tar pits of california on the outskirts of my screeny. I pull it out and then I don’t have to suck my lungs out (what little I have left of them). It was getting really clogged. but with a 50/50 method, my high sliming off like a stinky turd (sim consistency, color, and strenght of odor - though not quality of odeur) on my fingers trying to get the thing danglin’, you have to be careful not to get the flame too on for too long. ideally just close enough to whisper in the ear. courtin from afar and in a second the secreen gives up a clean cool tastey hitarooni (I don’t really talk like that. not even here.) jsut like it was a new dime in a new pipe. crazy

[[first an ed. note.:-a word from our sponsor, The Bill Payor:::]]
[speaking of old school style entries, it might be worth noting that where I used to record hours awake, that practice fell away as it became increasingly redundant. I noted not too long ago my making it a full week without sleep, and I think that was appropriate. There might be available, by looking at at post times and dates and gleaning from comments, enough data to roughly guessimate the probability or quantity of sleep for some days, but not most, as when I get to where it looks like I’ve gone to sleep, I’ve more than likely became too tired and ornery to communicate a thing. foul moods and exhuastion-inspired laziness masquerade as sleep. The fairly regular pattern now, if there could be such a thing in this personal RAdio Kaos, is up for 2-3 days at least, sleep a couple hours (no more), then another couple days I crash and go cold turkey. Or, vice versa. then, refreshed and rested, I stay up 4-5 days. and so on. Tehre.]] out with it boy, we don’t got all weekend1

So, my new twitch, glitch, habitual itch, is to take a puffy pufferoni and then look at, or examine briefly, the hot end of the pipe to see if there are any traces of whisps of trails of smoke escaping. this came from when the pipe gets clogged or at the end of a session when something deep in that mesh finally comes loose (and yuou have nothing else) tons a smoke suddenly pours out and then that’s it, you’ve lost your little mini motherlode, you have. precious cargo up in smoke as they say. but now I sort of do it all the time. useless.

bringin’ it on in, and at that point that it’s hard to tell if I’m just (being) stupid. aside from smoking crack and telling about it. and i know the reaction: of course you’re getting stupid, no food, no sleep and tons of hard drugs nonstop for days, of course. but this part of the interesting thing for me and one of the things I get defensive about: I feel pretty confident that I’m pretty straight thinking when I’m high. A little exuberant, but not dissacciative or Mr. Misjudgement—interesting for the irony that poses in the context of crack’s status as public enemy number one in the drug category. I’m way more out of control and stupid when I drink and way way more when I smoke mild, non-addictive marijuana. so I feel lucid, but all I want to do for hours is get the p. site to a very basic configuration, template tweak and content entyr. but these no table templates are a challenge and my html style is fairly trial and error anyway. I mean, I have expertise. I’ve worked on many a fortune 500 site. I’m a pro. but sometimes I’ll bang and bang my head against a wall to get the perfect pixel programming. I’m detail oriented that way. but html—along with browser quirks and standards requiresment—is stubborn that way as well. All this is well and good and normal. but then when I can’t get one template just the way (I anally) want it and seem to go in circles where as one things fixes another breaks and after a while I’m repairing the bug I already worked on. Hmm. frustrating. And in this state I am loathe ot gi9ve i up. I’d been thinking of posting an entry here for a good loing whle and finally forced myself with the trick propaganda that it would freshen myt eytes and I’d come back and kik ass all overf that template. {oh and if you look at these crazy whack spellings as evidence conclusive of my temporal stupidity, you’re wrong. imagine a guy take a wheelbarrow full of upper type whatever, and have an agenda to enjoy and accomplish before his sunday ends into a nother dreary work week. I’m beaitn this damn keyboard, fingers flying.

awh, yeah sure.

+6, max factor, my maxi pad
I called and left a question on his voice mail as to what time he planned to pay me
-a visit (he must have been planning it [to the extent of imagining it as part of his evening!]). He called back and said woudl 40 mins be alright (he knows I’m slightly impatient, waiting until the last minute as I am wont (either because I’m happy and engross, don’t want to stop the flow, interupt the traffic(king), or because I’m resisting or debabting/indeCISive) and then I sometimes squeak in a low key hurry up or how long because I might just go over to “The Block”, etc. (which is not a threat at all, just true reallity. True Crime TrueMan CapOtay style.) but I was sticky still with tan yellow brown streaks and speckles, some moistness (the best, in class anyway, not comparable to fresh rock sparking wild like it’s the fourth of Jew-Lie). Then he’s calling me that he’s out front like 5 or 10 minutes later. So I put shorts and chanklas on, get in the car and have him drive me up the block to the atm. before leaving I told him this was it for the weekend. I can’t be staying up all the way on through to monday morning work, I said. something about getting crazy. poor fella might be as conflicted as I am about my quitting. We’ve become 93% of the way to certified pals; he must, a chill clean cut pot smoking college CIS student, worry just a little when he see’s this poor white dude order day after day, weekend after weak End, hour after hour always alone up in his room with increasing 4am calls, increasing purchases, and amounts, but then, damn, i’m a good customer and business is bidness in these parts, especially dis bidness; one doesn’t enter it naively. one doesn’t/cannot care about such unfoldings of drama.

+6, one of my many “acquaintences” brokers something but not smoothly so guy comes out with sneering menacing what you want? over and over insisting. my boy vouches “he’s good”, I’m reaching in through door for last one while cop across street is hassling some hustler.

I smoke ‘em down—the whole dime sans resin—in one go now. still don’t do much. though I’m back to the tighter packed smaller colored bags of the block, which gave me some hope, has exclusive as I’ve been between max and rich and as unsatisfied (unhigh) as I’ve gotten.

so, i stretched it out, big surprise, big deal, it’s still the last one. and I realy don’t think it’l go on into tomorrow because besides the imperative growing andlooming of work, I had to practically talk myself into this second phase.

feel an obligation to write this, but don’t feel like it, a lot to write, not a lot of energy, or motivation, let alone inspiration, or non-encumbered respiration. bird by rock dove.

+6, Rich Wed night
+6, Rich, Fri
+4, Max
+4, Max
.snails & slugs where i sit on the retaining wall
.same guy who gave me talking to on way to m.’s gig in the city picked me up. he called a few things right. You maintainin, $50 a night?, smoke in bathroom at work?, they know by now, you don’t look like you smokin, you smiling, look like a weed high
.waste night away on little stuff, looked at a lot of porn —so much of that crap is crap—cleaned out computer deeperly (cache, old user files, tmp, etc.) , a lot of time upgrading my wireless card driver cause of problems, call max at 4, he’s done, offers to do osmething be fore work, 10:30?, 9:30, a remark,but that’s too late,putter, set alarm for 8:17a—lasatest I figure I can get up ang get to work on time. careful.
.closeeyese and next moment I turn head to look at phone for itme 1:10!
.unbelief, panic, sinking, ohall the worst worst feelings yet, what do i do, what do i do…. never use again to start, that’s it

.no way i was going in that late, no waysleep through alarm/didn’t go off aggain, no way, not going in, not dealing, sleeping more, could think of better plan iwth more time less pressure, calls from office & who knows came in to ignore.
. s. comes home & likethe jackass he is comes in room makes comment or question aout me sleeping, and tries to carriy on conversation, then whoops it up, yessll on phone
. i sleep iwth little interuption through to morning: a full 24 hours of lseep in end, and still do tired, any conscious moments are thinking up plausible excuses, aren’t any or decent

. i settle on this stupidity, this trap ultimately: go in to hospital for sudden severe dizziness, they ant to keepp or observation, do tests, my phone doesn’t get reception there, ask receptionist to leave msg for office, you didn’t get it? sympthathy etc.
.sent email before with thatmuch in case others are there when arrive, ubt make sure to leave earlyish, only j. bb. when arrive, so Italk, he not connecting dots with other stuff, so i do that, we talk frankly, i give him that symp, sucks for you—you need dependable person—sucks for me.
.can’t say he’s stoked on the world, but it’s seems to work, he’s not hating me fully, working iwth, giving leeway & even compliments about work imporving
.after 24 hrs. sleep, i’m still drag-assed all morning, bunch go to shake shack for lunch I go and then decide I can’t stand in line that long. literally. physically. lack of strength & energy. go to deli for capicola & brie sandwich. not so good.
.somewhere along way i make surprising decision to have just one more. swan song. say goodbye. & write it down.

.after work go to mailbox. flirt with cute affie girl. get lots of great stuff!::::writMaches book, Cr.Wars book, daily word, fam. ren invite (w/inv.to teach writing hist/journ class—think will do), misc, plus big box from prairie w/ big cool pillow for butt, mix cd, painting by her autistic charge, amnesia anthology, cool little moleskin notebks, her fictions to share (layed out in book style), what else? v. cool.
.drop off, get cash, meet rich. he comes out with his daughter, cute as hell. about 2 i guess, she’sthere with us for everything, not that she knew anything, not that it will affect her but something to think about, she pointed to red lights hanging in tree nearby, look!
.argue with cabbie when get back out at house. such a dick he was, trying to charge me 10 dollars when I told him I take the trip everyday for 7or8 he called me liar.
. I burn through all 60 worth in one hour (not counting the res).
.it doesn’t do much. i fart around again on web & etc.
.more tedious html tweeaks on this (part. because they change their output & added bullshit codes that fucked my shit up.

.have burnred through other 8 just now (8am) & just not high. was thinking stuff was not good, but rich’s in there, and for this long?, i think it’s exhaustion anad tolerance.
.sohobbling through this goodbye post.

+6, pre-Sab Rich
+5 Wed., prev. unrec., Rich (d.tails b.low..est.)

I come before thee to write this with

waning

waning excitement (now & gen)

itchy scalp & intermittant but regularly suddentocome drip from the left pit

the lonely sense
oven
answeradamant (singing goody two shoes, pain-ted) (now & gen)
burden (now & gen)

burning atar ate ins u stain able (now & gen)

*

Hey, at least I don’t drink anymore! And, on top of the steady respectability there, we’ve done and had ourselves some pretty heavy times of that biz, heavy like a lead shot duvet heavy.

+4 from the after-work drive-by
(I called and said to come by afterwork. minutes later he says he’s coming by after work. I said, “Man, I know your schedule.” he gaves a gaffaw.

later at the car I’m leaning in thru winder. we chat his cis edumacation. how it weighs against business. I advise cis. but business classes for roundyness, transitions, progressions..

+6, Rich

The Bad Plus playing on my lap

My skin, especially over the forearms sparsely forested of white arcing hairs (the sole locator of grace among my constituent), floats a delicate greenish hue over a translucent ashenness. I have two overworked crack pipes, one in each pocket. I’m embarrassed to get on the rushour 4 train, corpulent as I am with smoke fume. I took a couple back to back sessions in that cubby between hall and emergency stairwell like the low-walled pass atop the inner buttresses of Saint John the Divine. And that outside recess on the seventh floor overlooking the garment district has become my sanctuary. Smoking crack, my hand cupping around the pipe as if I’m lighting a cigarette in the wind, ragged bathroom tissue to keep me from burning myself hanging out my pocket, a freshly unfurled wave of key ring bobbled with cigarette and lighter and pipe and softpack of Winston lights. I take, hold, and then watch office women scuttle through their maze a floor down in the building across the street. I rest there for tobacco, too. I come out with the incense of my religion. Born again.

just finished the fucking web site due today. flugh. burnished. worked, though. that’s some balasty kind of action. got clearance for a late arrival. but gotta get it together and get in at some point. and it’s soonish.

still got the review to do. days late. not sure how she works, what that means, (if like me, e.g. and give way early deadlines knowing people will miss them or if, esp. because of her live/work situ, she sticks to tight deadlines), haven’t heard. Just emailed to see. don’t want to do it, not like this. otherwise, yes. that’s a price. a cost for the ledger there. when a good opportunity to do something like and is normally hard to come by, when that isn’t wanted or appreciated, something is sacrificed, lost.

Maybe i’ll work a bit on it now.

+6, max

homeboy (i don’t mean that, that’s cheesy, i can’t pull it off nor want to. i’ll tell you, though, what i would like to pull: “nigger” i can’t, and maybe, probly, shouldn’t. papi was an achievement and that was no where near as loaded. if at all. proprietary, territorial, guarded, doled, etc so forthly, but not a reappropriation, still identity politics fodder, but not as…oh you know all this, sorry, i just needed some variety. max this max that boring boring borning. headroom. bleh…) was working tonight at ups. he was doing that when i first started calling him/using him/dealing with him/working with …whatever the verb (hey, it is a question…but then stopped, i think. back on the chain gang, i guess. so i called a couple others. as is typ. with this crowd, some phones temporarily not in service or not taking calls or some such by recording. got spark, that big teddy bear. he came out, tried to get him again. said he didn’t have the car. i offered, with ‘don’t want to be pain in ass’ caveat/out, to pay for car round trip. but he explained he couldn’t leave, he was the only one workng the block, nobody else was out, but hey, some car materialized at some point and he could make a quick trip, he’d check me. perhaps a niceity, who knows, but, again, you don’t normally come by those here. he made it sound like he was punching the clock, was working off an obligation. which is plausible given the have sketched operation max told me about with the other guys around there. some system. intrigues me. part of my attraction, it’s not just the chem. or, v. plausibly a money making op he couldn’t pass up, a temporary monopoly. and cowering of the competition.

he called me when he got off and got here by 4a. i parted with $60. he mentioned his dirty shirt. I commisserated, told him i was working too. what? website. oh he studied that in school. !turns out he goes to college part time! good boy! he took beginning web design or web design 101. he mentioned visual basic but i tried to disposess him of such thoughts. told him if he ever needed help, let me know. nice little chat…

8:15 rich politely and earlily (earlyly?) (sp?) returned my call of late night desperation. no, i wasn’t desperate at all that/this ? damn.. time. calculating. had work. had morning off. go. i go girl.

called max and hour ago for refills. uncharacteristically absent. may move on to sparks and/or ritty and/or d for whom i was the big one that got away. wanting to place my order online. crackazon.com. or send an email to my dealer’s blackberry (the new millenium’s version of the pager).

right now the stuff is doing nothing but keeping me up. there’s no high. but that’s kinda cool. what i need right now.

(sang?) (wrote?) (observed?) (commanded?) (channeled Satan?)

“Burn out the day, burn out the night.”

+6, Rich, paid for 4, Rich threw in the other two for the mistaken overpay couple times back, what a sweetie, or sweetie enough plus bit of business safeside playin’

two habits:
- when smoking, especially at end of supply, it’s unreasonably important for me to see test what I’ve taken in by seeing what comes out in a small sample exhale. unreasonable because it’s much more important to me (not on purpose; i know it doesn’t make sense) what I sense physically, especially see (but also taste, feel [heat, weight, numb, movement, flavor/smell] in mouth, feel in throat and chest, lips, & hear, speed of the harvest), than how I feel…emotionally? physically?…well, the effects, how high, I guess, for lack of a better term. unreasonable because, especially at those time it matters most to me—at end when scrapin’—it’s a waste of valuable preciousness. unreasonable because detracts from experience, becomes preocuppation. etc. etc.
- 2nd, corollary habit. 2-part, i guess. first, generally but less interesting (not orig. point, but while I’m at it, some thoroughity)(because more practical, less freakish), is that to do that test, especially late, in dark, or broken contrasty light common inside late with one light and/or computer mon., i need to find just right background, direction, angle, etc. light can’t be in eyes, must be shining on exiting smoke but obliquely not directly or will drown/merge, not perp so much because that minimizes reflection along trajectory, but at 30-60 degrees on y axis and 30 to -30 on x (of course not that exact but ideally and cuz more interesting to think in those terms), and eyes through smoke as bisected by light must go through to dark background for contrast to smoke (e.g. my walls are a light beige, looking straight ahead smoke even in billow hard to see, camoflaged, blended, but floor is dark hard wood, old, perfect, so I work it that way). so those are basics, but here’s the quirk, the habit that made me think to record a habit in first place, then 2, then 3 or continuum: lately, and more in those extreme times (late, low, etc.) because crucial, and light weirder (maybe morningish, whatever) and also because by then my eyes are tired, glazed, dilated, fucked, I maximize, make-sure, etc. by exhaling slowly while nodding head up and down but and intervals, stop action, know what i mean? i blow a big up 5 degs continuing up 5, jerky, then down again, mabye once up and down or twice at most, wobblying also a little right and left to make sure i find the sweet spot of shedding light, to dial it in. it’s goofy. and doing it more. but helps to make sure get it in right light. sometimes is hard.

so after only couple hours sleep today, i went in and kicked ass at work. did well, had energy (helped by needing to be on, lots on plate, under pressure, fast paced env., etc., plus caffiene). stayed to finish site that’s to launch, or to be done today but at 9p, still a lot to go, so brought it home. of course now distracted, but going to get on it after this. really. going to try. need to. still no time for review. ugh. may take comp time tomorrow morn.

interestingly, only personal calls i got today were from my dealers. max at 739 returning my 5am call, then rich a couple times, checkin in. my social life. then on block after seeing rich, his little homie i see around corner, yaoh, he says, rich was looking for you. then later another guy, d, chased me down, i say i already copped, aw you already copped, that was going to be good, where, on lincoln, no on the parkway, ahao, his boy comes up, that was going to be good, i was going to go home with that, how much you get, 4?, no six, you never call my number, it’s under a stack of papers, etc etc. made it sound like my four was a lot, enough to fill quota for night. maybe so with that crowd, on the block workin’ the corner, for dime here and there for the ‘heads. diff. clientele than max’s.

here’s a funny link:
http://www.bettybowers.com/crackwhores.html

and this one definitely but because craigslist links expire (maybe not this best of but to be sure), I past the text as well. I appreciate it for many things, his reasonableness, but also his righteous anger and the bad picture it paints of my kind, my comrades. duly taken,:
http://www.craigslist.org/about/best/sfo/27499971.html

craigslist.org > rants & raves > Hey Crackhead
last modified:Mon Mar 29 08:19:01 2004

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Hey Crackhead
Reply to: anon-27499971@craigslist.org
Date: Sat Mar 27 15:36:01 2004

Yes, you. You sick fucker. On Wednesday morning I emerged from my girlfriend’s building by U.N. Plaza to find that you had sawed the tops off both the sparkplugs on my motorcycle. At the time, I had no idea why anyone would do that. Other than the sparkplugs, the bike was untouched. Some kind of bizarre vandalism? A fraternity prank gone awry? I had no idea. All I knew is that I looked like a huge douchebag riding the Muni to work in a padded motorcycle jacket and helmet.

Because the bike was immobilized I got a $35 street sweeping ticket that night. Thursday I had it towed to the shop ($45) where they replaced the sparkplugs and the boots ($50 including labor). They explained to me that “people” - I use the term loosely here - like you break off the tops of spark plugs and use the porcelain tubes to smoke crack. As an engineer and former MacGyver fan, in a way I think this is kind of cool. But then I remember that I just paid $100 for YOUR crackpipes, and I get angry again.

Crackhead, it was really good to have my bike back though. I rode home from the shop with a couple of spare sparkplugs and a smile on my face. I figured the next time I parked at my girlfriend’s place overnight I would have to buy some crackpipes and tape them to my bike as a peace offering. Overall, I wasn’t that upset. Despite having to ride the bus for three days and dropping a hundred bones at the shop, I had gained some fascinating knowledge, a new set of sparkplugs, and a pretty funny anecdote about how fucked up you are, and how our paths once crossed briefly in the night.

But you couldn’t just let sleeping dogs lie, could you Crackhead. You couldn’t just stay in on Friday, watch Letterman through the window of a home electronics store and then call it a night. You couldn’t rest on your laurels. Two porcelain sparkplug crackpipes just wasn’t enough for you, was it Crackhead? You just had to come back for more.

This morning, a scant fifteen hours after I rode it out of the shop, I found my motorcycle violated once again. This time you only took the right one - maybe you were having an off night. At least this time I had a spare sparkplug and the tools to fix it - or so I thought - having ordered a 73-piece toolset from SEARS.com last week. But no, the sparkplug socket in my new toolset was for American sparkplugs. So I had to go down to the neighborhood Ace hardware. They had an 18mm socket that would fit over my sparkplug, but it was for a 1/2” drive ratchet. My toolkit only has 1/4” and 3/8” ratchets. So I had to buy a 1/2” ratchet along with the socket. Even though the clerk took pity on me and gave me the senior citizen discount (I’m 25) it still cost me $22 all told. Now, you might say that I should have just gotten a 3/8”-to-1/2” drive adaptor instead of springing for the whole ratchet. And to that I say “Shut the hell up, Crackhead, I’m not finished. And besides, I was eventually going to buy a 1/2” ratchet anyway so it’s probably not worth it to take it back now.”

OK, now I’m rambling. But the point is, Crackhead, that you have done me wrong. Now, I get that you love crack. That is totally understandable. I’ve heard it is really fun, at first, and quite addictive. What I don’t understand is,

YOU ARE A CRACKHEAD. WHY DON’T YOU OWN A CRACKPIPE?

I am an engineer. Do you ever see me shaking down bums in the Loin for a calculator and sliderule? No, you don’t. Because engineering is the main thing I do, I went and bought myself a calculator. The main thing you do is crack. How do you get by without a crackpipe? The other crackheads must clown on you non-stop. I mean, the fucking saw you used to saw off my sparkplugs is probably worth five or ten bucks. Why not sell or trade it for a crackpipe? You really haven’t put much thought into this, have you?

Please, Crackhead, please don’t tell me you sold your crackpipe to buy crack. Even a stupid crackhead such as yourself couldn’t possibly be that stupid.

I’ve decided that taping crackpipes to my motorcycle would be tantamount to appeasement. You have crossed a line, Crackhead - specifically California Street. You have come onto my own street and you have desecrated that which I hold dear. You have stolen from me, and you have caused me to spend the last half hour writing this post instead of engineering shit, and it is concievable, if not likely, that my boss could find out about this and fire me. I am hella pissed at you dude.

Here are my options as I see them:

1. Write a note saying that I have coated both of my sparkplugs in rat poison and tape it to my bike at night. You can thank Tim for that one, it was his idea.

2. Don’t write a note, but just coat both sparkplugs in rat poison. This is probably closer to a punishment that would fit your despicable crime. I’m sure this is super illegal and shit, but it’s not like anyone is going to miss you, Crackhead. Don’t fool yourself.

3. Wait in an alley near my bike armed with my new stainless steel mirror-finish Ace Professional brand 1/2” drive socket wrench, my 18mm sparkplug socket, and my searing rage. It’s pretty heavy and well balanced. I am not a large man, but I am angry.

In conclusion, Crackhead, why don’t you just do both of us a favor and buy yourself a crackpipe? It will both enhance your crack smoking experience and save me a lot of time and felony assault charges. Think about it.

Sincerely,
Matt

*** If you are not the Crackhead that took my sparkplugs, please disregard this posting ***

it’s NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests

Copyright ? 2004 craigslist

Now I’m not THIS pathetic: (always something somebody worse…)
http://www.wweek.com/story.php?story=6352

And this is worth a quick read for charming adolescents[sic][sick]:
http://mindnumb.blogspot.com/2003/11/get-off-crack-theres-this-girl-who-ive.html

and i’ll post this one without comment for various reasons:
http://www.assatashakur.org/forums/upload/showthread.php?t=4885

just tried to call max. no answer of course

did a little on the review then wouldn’t you know fucked around with my files all night

fucker

+6, Rich

Met my boy front of his bldg. He only brings what I want, no more, but didn’t ask this time. I mix it up, but four is a pretty common default number for me. I told him I had sixty and he gave me three dubs. I said, so I gave you sixty last time. Yeah, he said, I got you; I got no more wares on me right now. Call me naive but I think he assumed the usual four and brought six (dimes-worth).

Then to the corner for fresh glass. Police were standing practically in the door. That’s like seven, eight feet from the counter. I kind of suck my teeth and shake my head at the oldish arab owner guy. He quietly mumbles, Want pipe? Yeah, I nod. He looks sideways, prepares it under the counter, holds it wrapped in his hand on the counter, I take it stealthily. Buying para behind the backs of NY’s Finest.

I walk down the street by the Botanic Gardens. Light up a load in front of folks. I can’t wait. Doesn’t seem to do much, and with Rich’s stuff, I’m now more inclined to think it’s me and not the goods so much. Maybe a little of both. R’s is slightly more moist than usual. But it’s not the same batch as what that corner posse moves.

Slept a good bit this weekend. Woke up at 9:30 last (Sat.) night. C. and my out of town friends already at dinner. I don’t want to meet up. I do want to see them but tired and feel obligated—pretty lame if I couldn’t make it out to see them when in town. I go. I’m kind of stupid all night with them. Inarticulate. Not funny, not interesting, just stupid and inarticulate. Damn. What was it? Having just woken up? Being out of practice socially? My confidence level with them (he one of the top 2 most brilliant people I’ve ever known by far and she an English professor, both witty) and in general (given my lifestyle). Or is it the mass genocide of brain cells I’ve been waging?

I’ve put off the one thing I’ve had to do this weekend, and a very important thing at that, and a thing takes time at thatter. A book review due to the editor tomorrow. Ugh. Starting now. ugh ugh

+4 Rich, then
+4 Max, del.

Done cooked it all up. Fucked around tagging my music files again and coloring my Windows folders a pretty blue. Meaningless, mindless stuff that I find not exciting or interesting but satisfying.

In car after leaving Rich, he called and asked how much I gave him. I said $40. Not sixty? I don’t think so, why, you think there was three 20s folded up together? I think so. S’ok, you get me next time. Alright. [He was proactively honest. Concerned. Sure, could make an argument for self-interest, but given situ not likely to be problem and if did come up, are other ways—obvious and easy and effective—to handle it well. E.g. Oh, I didn’t look. I’ll give it to you… etc.

+4, sparks
crappy ‘gain

j. bossboy said was doing good after 1 month mark! damn. surprise.

don’t think i have anything to notenote

+2
+4
Shittiest shit I ever copped

driven to it by lost keys. s. not coming soon. no other/better way to kill time. but then not coming at all, need to go pick up his copy in manhattan. may as well pick up mine from office. hell traffic on fdr. accident. i’m sneak-a-toking to little avail. at office, they say only super has keys. search for s. not easy but finally take keys. back to hood to quench. drown sorrows. car alone $60. s. eventually comes home afterall.

this week terrible. stop mon morning. remember setting alarm. sleep 415ish to 1030. fuck. when arrive j. says “that’s no. 2” w/ clear “strike” implications. Hellish time staying awake and concentrating. work (mine) goes slow, work (day) goes slow. home, scrape dribblin’s from trash bag, sleep before 9.

tues morning woke up in a pool of crushed peanut m&m’s, more tired than ever. always odd irony. once stop, & sleep, feel worse. dread day, count minutes. home, food, sleep before 9.

wed. still tired but better. back hurts. still not thinking so clearly which resulted in awkward comm. breakdown with boss obviously frustrating to him.

all week super stressed about all work, plus deadline for one client the production for which i comitted to do & never have had time. plus, article committment outside. plus appt. to rec. oral history of friend. rescheduled that, got help with work. will crank article out over weekend with extension.

bunch of crap dumped mixed in todo. will do quick sep now just to get it where belongs, so not left, never done, forgotten. can’t do org && expl. && flesh. never get caught up…

[beSatforeTeenth, Sadie Knowtes]

always “what you got” not “what you need” question. 1st thought what’s good another way to put it but now thinking it’s a whats up

differences b/w mineral and product/chemical interm of heat, ton-loc (ation), density/weight of cloud9, not just taste

ghostbusting: white specks ocd syndrome on floor & in pockets

ran into friend on a Son de ear. >noon: me last prone Fri morn; her: just finished teaching yoga, excerslicing, and on way sumpin wit her boyyy

didn’t even call mom on mom’s day. quite satisfied w/ non-payment excuse when before that would be shameful

leaving apt (after not all weknd) 1am mon for bar?
at bar, interested in everybody’s conversations, smoked outside

cent-sorry disturbances:
- VisYouEls, e.g. that green lip patch; the fire escape stalker; shadows of wind-rustled leaves over back window makes what later see are child seats look like stubby adults slug back and thoat cut
- Oddy-oh, e.g. constant chorus & hum of voices one intermittently calling out, cat fight, sure calling and calling
- tActile, e.g. 2 veces wen mi sell got really hot on my leg, 1st ‘epi’ was actually several
in a row, increasingly heated masomeno until in front of P. I jump up like a madman (well,
a white madm) to get it off me

trach abrasion/irrit/dizpin/cauf/so.on causes me heaves, I slam drink for wash (& longstnd hydro, o.c.), examin pipe, notice smoke streaming out unconsciously, feels sick like now smoke has become part/extension of body

shakes. get them. sometime

describe/clarify/flesh (in counterpart or follow-up post):
- was about to mention my starinig off ocacasions and asking mjyself waht I was doing, int he middle of, ge stuck for awhile..

- also some jerky tip, party conciously to jumpt me back up start to wake and deal. but once I realized that I was almost terking my head rather upruptly first to one side then to the other. a tic but not as cinematic as I’makng it sound. I think I was getting some whay in the periperhis and at first thought there was some one, or a spirt sentfrom headen above—i love you jesus! right on!!=so care and guard me, tak care k..I see myself going into that thing again. maybe sleep is coming. anyawy, I was just allittle spasti is all. Had the auralsa nd visues at imtes, thoughtou.

- just for ref, still should post the book purchase on amazon today. v. exciting. v. innotaviv associate of G. Ulmer, writes theoretically about the dru culture. ….mmore than I can do right now.

back already. just quickly. i was oing to say that new idea pos is in con fui with them…oop;s. was thinking of my own patters i’ve seen. can add tal can mark tose iwt own prp tales plus , a vis. cut te rader… i just focus ed back up; to the lcd…i dn’t kow ath I’d wet ,\my fingers fee weird llllllllllll

back up stairs now that the sony is pooped. i’m not but will make this quick regardless.

- was about to mention my starinig off ocacasions over weekend and asking mjyself waht I was doing, int he middle of, ge stuck for awhile..

- also some jerky tip, party conciously to jumpt me back up start to wake and deal. but once I realized that I was almost terking my head rather upruptly first to one side then to the other. a tic but not as cinematic as I’makng it sound. I think I was getting some whay in the periperhis and at first thought there was some one, or a spirt sentfrom headen above—i love you jesus! right on!!=so care and guard me, tak care k..I see myself going into that thing again. maybe sleep is coming. anyawy, I was just allittle spasti is all. Had the auralsa nd visues at imtes, thoughtou.

- just for ref, still should post the book purchase on amazon today. v. exciting. v. innotaviv associate of Ulmer’s, writes theoretically about the dru culture. ….mmore than I can do right now.

back already. just quickly. i was oing to say that new idea pos is in con fui with them…oop;s. was thinking of my own patters i’ve seen. can add tal can mark tose iwt own prp tales plus , a vis. cut te rader… i just focus ed back up; to the lcd…i dn’t kow ath I’d wet ,\my fingers fee weird llllllllllll

Don’t know even how to approach this post. Just got up off the bed where I passed a spell not one bit the long-awaited fall-into-a-downy-grave-of -a-1001-deaths. I was sweating mad profusely and panting a little.

See, how fucked up is it when you get, we”l where to start with the run up. Not too far back—okay. I was ((finally!!) starting to fall asleep and I wasn’t quit at the ready point yet, being in the middle of stuff. Well, and plus, I just got a couple dimes. Kind of felt bad about having Max come over for just twnety but it seemed convenient for him. I felt bad for my self as well. or as bad. or worse. And said as much. That I hoped it warth is coming out (that on the phone before hand) and that, well, it was kind of sad just hooking up for two, but that I really had to get some sleep. Couldn’t be going in after just a couple hourse—I down played it for me dealer! Sheesh.

And the thing is, this weekend needs documentation. Neeeds some posting about and I hadn’t got to it, partly for why this weekend needs posting about. Uhj. But I’ll get to that.

So the twenty was, more than ever, pretty pointedly meant to helfp facilitate that and it wasn’t working. Imagine. Fresh crack—I even dug out a (very) relatively clean pipe out of my trash heap—my weekend slog had my screens pretty clogged, building up with my laziness so, it was on top of clogged screenage and muddy glass walls, quite a Cajun catfish barbecue in it’s dying stages, there, the production of my cook out (in style). The short of it, even which a recyled works, it was nice. I don’t know what gets burned to what degree and mixes with what in which chemical reactions, but there is a wide range of odor that stage left and right, these wearing on increasingly putridly…

All this, and I’m nodding off the second I shake myself out and take a big deep breat, raise th eeeybrows to max head room and slog and carry on—or not. Imagine it. You take not just the one nice pull that used to do it, have you set for sometime (though this IS crack we’re talking about—the effects are notorisouly, pathetically shortlived)—you take a couple, reasonable load and drequency. And boom,the neck wobbles over. You’re a downed swan, a scavenged too-long ugly duckling. So I don’t hold back, I do it upright, and the flavor cystals shoot to my head like late in the eavening on the fourth of july. I get my dizzy on, And the waiting in the wings nausea all day kknocks a little lloude. Toed up ont he trhesh hold, threatening to throw should I not respect his/her authoritySo I liked down. Went prone.Sweat a bucket inunder t30 and was back here to get my mp3 id tags in line with my file names.

)))

Now I’m not “back here” as I (just) was there as it hit me that since I brought my laptop home from work this weekend to get stuf done (didn’t; part of what’sin store for you!) and to transvers some files quicker and easier, I set up a little wireless home network between the two, i was free to wonder whereever I please, in reason, of course, so I packed up quickly and brought the vaio down here to the stoop wher I am enjoying 77 degrees and little cool breezes (and a low lcd fto save batteries and night eyes!). so nice.

Andyway, I don’t know where I left off and don’t have the time, batteries (even without the bright big wide vaio flat planel), crack or baility probably tro do what I wa hell bent on doing: take thee rought jumpble drafts and bak a real post out of them, leaving aa at least slightloy more organized to do here. It’s past a quarter to three. Yes,a new week of wakefulweekx (sounds so deliberately calm and attuned to the earth, doesn’t it?)begins! I, more over the weeked than a dash off before bedtime, I wanted to begin a n outlines’/drafted kkkkkplan, objectives, etc. Yeah, actual lollateral for my stupid little project that I’m going to have a good hearty lagbu over wen this is all done.—make some real concrete progress rather just swimimming arou nd in yy head all the time wasping (allthe ) time.

I was excited about that , and other than the baby shwoer saturday night and maybe laundry sun, I had no palns, well, no social plans, becaue I had set awside this weekend to put a big fat dent in the stacker stuff, which I really needed to do. so I was torn between really giving the pro ventring’s of my wahcked outed ness (which would need a chunk even to begin, I think) or work responsib iltyes. Welll, of couse, I try to go for a contraolled middel toward work work strategy.

Such a thing would obviously (in my mind) start with a bream—wind down and gear up—on friday night. .eavintg freshing energy and focus, and plenty of wide open time with which to being the worky worky.

Course it didn
‘t workl out the way. but even wose than not that way—-OH FUCKY PUCKY! I’m just sitting here looking this way and that as I type because, hey, I can do that, and it’s nice out and interesting, but somewhere a long the way, my left hand fell off home row as they say (but inot one these mo fos!) and my palm swped and/oor smudvged the touch pad and man I get my hibernating ass up in the title b ar typig away until I leave. fuck.. Sorr for all that.

K, anyway, I don’t know where I was with all that but the long and shor t of it si that i SPENT AN entire weekend—the whole fucking thing—I didn’t een brush my teeth (let a long eat or drink anything, or shower, or get dreass ed or answer the phone or do a damn basilly thing, excdept hunch over my liittle opposite of ergonomic keyboard and, well lack of…set up, to the point fo fucking paint! for what? a nice looking c chrome around my widows, dont treatments for the menues, thopse extra touches, which is all great,, but how trivial, and how so completley welll did that little nothing of a nothingness, absorb the time available to it? it’s weird. I contented doing it. It was ocd but didn’t feel liek a thing I had to do. II do like to finshing things once started. band I did keep yelling at myself, but I was trudging forward, getting it out of the way. What a fuck
1

Shit, fine, knowck hourself out with tediuym, right, if that’s yhour thing, your fetish or what ever, but not when you have so mucyour ciurrent existence revolves around somethng else that is so much ore importaqnt, necessary, interesting, fun, and abundant? let it go, to get your data cleaned up nice.—that’s the thing, is a did more than the desktop, I went thorughb every program to uninstall it and it’s component f it it was unow ususeless or whatever.. And my 30 gig hard drive was currently up to 27, whichnot only makes thjings run slower, band now have room for thigs, but also it’s dancer. Makes windows more junstable;. Or, at least I think that; Probably talkng about my ass again. but then pretty much everytnhing makes windows unstable. it.s unstable to begin with.

Have smoked. Have smoked steady (rocked steady?). (Have smoked myself silly. Or sad.). No, just had to voince my assurance that this sludge and slugdy glass and wire is nasty
! I want freshness! A flavor seal!

I’m well past a full-seven day week of wakefulness! In a way it’s ricidulously nothing. But then it’s very much every thing. ev er y t
—

*** needs organizing, this is just to get it all down first, and then work on it ***

Dizzy from the dirs and from the curse. Wasted me, wasted days. Extreme so. God.

But gotta get it out how ever can. So this, unlease it comes under post-xpo-drafto, this sesh doesn’t promise to be in order, proportional, making sense of self, or any of the rest and beyond.

What seems more unlikely, smoking better part of a di in quick couple-three goes and few minutes-minutes later popping two No-Doz (caffiene pills) to keep from nodding right off, then again 15-20 minutes later, reuppping with two more No-Doz because none of it is doing jack.

OR

Being awake for a week straight? Yeh. I do well keeping track on pulp-based and magnetic media, put little effort to the nervous cellular medium and even if did, it doesn’t put much effort back, so short of consulting the expansive booklets, I’d have to say that *I’m pretty sure* I just reached a personal best (fell into deeper foxholes), and interestingly, it was relatively easy and trauma & drama minimal. That first epic mega spin in N. (primary in spawning all this archivo’ing) was, well, epic, and difficult, and crazy—impressive to and felt keenly by even me. Now, longer to new longitudes (admittedly with breaks scattered through the way work days do), but feeling fairly good, all things considered. More on the comeback re: the hallmarks this time, short blitzes here and there. It’s right now 30 minutes from Sunday. Last time I was asleep in a bed was last Sunday, ‘bout 3pm.

-

Financial worries are mounting (um, as, well, you know, financial irresponsibility mounts). Don’t know total debt, but last I was at the bank (Fri), the checking was sporting a big fat zero and the overdraft its limit of $2500, and thus refused to give me any more. So, too, right out one of the credit cards—there are three to choose from, each with some balance only God and Arthur Anderson have an inkling of—and swiped the bitch for a chunky cash advance. Now, that’s the kind of thing I don’t like to do, and thus don’t do. Or, didn’t…

Fairly acute sensitivity to that today didn’t stop me from buying a $65 hand-knitted (gorgeous!) sweater for M.’s baby shower. Keen on getting something good for all she’s done for me, and a little also for the difficulty I’ve been of late, and, too, I like to give nice gifts. Really enjoy shopping for gifts, but am really to some degree pathological about shopping for myself. Almost bought the $120 tiny mink blankey but it was classic baby blue, they’re surprizing themselves on the gender, and I didn’t know their degree of tradition-following in the gendered color-coding of infants.

-

Q: Who goes to a yuppy baby shower with lots of crack and not one, but two, crack pipes in his or her pocket?
A: I do.

-

Feeling kind of shitty, whatever I said about relative good shape earlier.

-

Sum Nums..
…
oh man i feel pukey and shaky and tired and determined to get core things down to flesh later before gthey lost…
…
Purchases made beween Friday evening and thisvery moemnt:
+4 on the bloc (, followd by a little linger chill with the boys—every se\cond counts.
)

-
Last two-three days, as often as not, it has feelt like I’ve been (physically, not some creatively obtuse metaphor, samit) wearing a hat.
-
Definitely nodding here, but ressisting and not wanting to give in (despite how exhausted and bad back hurts) for fear of not sleeping deep and steady enough to block my noticing while not entering these here (blocking some noticing).
…
And then as if on cue, I wake up 15???minutes later in same sitting-against headboard position. Still nauseated but less so. And can’t really complain, considering what I’ve put the ol’ body through. Why, the accelerated tooth decay along…
-

& was wondering, after all that, what finally did it, what made me suddenly feel so shitty? the baby shower snack food overconsumption? the rapid-fire four pills of caffience? the sleep-dep? the crack? all of it? none of it? It was getting worseyer and worserser and all I wanted was one or both of the things that always comfort me—tobacco and crack—but was afraid to have either one as they are also the things that make me feel shitty and both have triggered nasty naughty heave-alongs. but then I just did it. lifted the glass to glad lips. like it was nothing. and it wasn’t really. and, —here’s the sad punch line—it didn’t put me over the edge to throw-up land but just fixed me up good, made me feel all better again. my god, it’s one thing when it feels psycho, but that instant and dramatic a physical response? but i don’t think it has anything to do with physical addiction, actualy. I’m sure it doesn’t. just the physical effects. Calmed my stomach like novacaine.
-
just found this on my computer. it’s the contents of a file called “neoLogitCore.log” at the root. stumbled over it in my clean up. and for various foggy reasons almost feel like i may have written it in a channeling something-someone trance. but I don’t think that’s the case. it’s mysterious though, and funny. and don’t just see a few bits of computer-type gobley-google and not see what I’m talking about:
“20050604:071746:CORE:CORE:CORE:CORE:CAutoSemaphore:1:CAutoSemaphore::WaitSemaphore - No handle to wait for — bitch!:9a8610
20050604:071746:CORE:CORE:CORE:CORE:CVaultHandler:1:Constructor() - Failure calling WaitSemaphore() on regStartupSem(67006ad0).:9a8610”

Maybe a trojan or virus.
-
face numb at points fri (when resting, eyes, train, etc.)
pts sat when sudden uncontrollable fading out (literally, not way peple use it), at end sitting around table feeling a little tired j. says “Wow, you look raggedy.” R,siad “Yeah.” I said, “Yeah, I’m tired. Think I’ll go.”

-
sweatocious!
-
lend s. $200!
-
round 4am? max came through for me, gave last two for $10, owed him $10, then…
-
started nums didn’t finish:
fri: +4 on block
sat: +6 max del
sat 2p:+8 max del
Who smokes out then goes baby shopping? Me. Who takes bags and pipes in which him to way upscale boutique to touch mink blankets and rare wool new born sweaters? Me. Who walks through prospect park sneaking a couple tokes off crack pipe when coast clear enough? Me. And on side walk toward M&J’s? Me. That’s whol.
-
bits o’ infor fr. max:
people typicaly buying 8, 6
several cop from same guy & coord. that so go together at same time.
-
the speck game finally strikes it big: dime!
-
sense of game show
-
sense of ghost
-
really diggin sage francis
-
[[[worked on this post exactly 5 hours now (- some emails to pr.) and it’s only rough:::how much more and how much total when done?writing take s time, sonny.]]]

I add the earlier coughing-out of a small, relatively flat and angular smooth white density into my palm. Actually wondered could it be a slipped-through chunka cracka hit the back of my throat like a scorched pot sticker, or a boog block gone south and saliva-logged for allergy season, or an actual chip off the ol’ lung (how right he was—having inexhaustably taken in so many bagfuls of the world to process its finer points despite his seclusive hermitty keeping to the body bunker in his unwavering hide-out from that thing—back when I was young and believed myself indestructible and best knowing, and knowing how to answerback the fearful conservatism and obsessive concern over protective boundaries and the blee blah blo…), or a gem of a lung-huck excavated and expelled despite its cut or its rare coloring and harditude…I’ve arrived to the point of sleeptyping again. Better stop. The indecipherable bio-mass may anyway signal the beginning of the end.

My Real-time Relative Relationship to Relationships:
- Get into it in a very TCP/IP way with Prairie over her husband
- Suckumbed into it in a very skidgreased agenda with S. regarding his wife
- Reached intoLerance of it in a sane and mutually merciful nonaccomodationing for S.

Not paisley, Rosemary, or Father Time.

Appreciating from crosswise angles:
- Werdsmithing
- Appropriatelines(s)
- Project & Process (parallels) [see kwoat]
- straightup quality, enjoyability, smArtness

THE Quote/-a:
“At home, I?ve got all these archives of material. That?s what I do; I?m just a packrat of life. I document my existence as it goes and keep everything that represents an aspect of my life that I thought was important. Eventually, it all makes it into my art.”
? Sage Francis from interview in URB #124, found at http://urb.com/feature/sage.shtml

The Lyricism:

Yesterday, I introduced J-boy to the wonders of Mr. Softee; perhaps I posted of it. I had to be stern to get him past his fears and uncertainty, and go through with it, and to ensure his first experience was appropriately planned, executed, and post-managed. He saw the light, he did.

So today I performed it again for M. She, too—uninitiated despite her New York years (but how could it have truly been New York without Mr. Softee?), innocent—her deflowering was a budding into the light, a reception of the abiding fulfillment. And, if I do say so myself, I was expert enough to guide her toward an advanced introduction: the Nutty Cone, my current pick—no, my current addiction.

My service is full; it includes provisions, i.e. the first one is free and on me. I paid for J.’s yesterday but was short a quarter without breaking a twenty so my man told me bring it next time. It was the first thing I did—hand him that quarter—as I approached the truck. Having well executed my duties the day before, J as up-to-speed and prepared to pay his way today. But I certainly got M.’s.

So, as we stood up against the bank in the rapturous sensual overload that comes from licking Mr. Softee while watching boobies pass by on the sidewalk—an enhancement to the outing facilitated by J. and engaged-in like all ordinariness by his wife M.—an retiremently African fellow in his passing asked who there was treating to ice cream. Without missing a beat, I gave the only honest answer: “I am,” followed equally rhythmically by, “Let’s go,” and supplemented with a waving on of the hand and a setting-off straight-away to the truck window framing the beatifick, underpaid middle eastern Santa of Sweet Summer Snow.

I got that old kid a cherry-dipped before rejoining my companions, at which rejoinder he gave thanks and a sacred wish that all be returned to me ten-fold.

—> Clocking and Block Rocking the Street Beat —>
+4

Bonus Stat!
from Point of Emotion on Street 1
{conduction of busi/yness, bumming of cigarettes, observations of not having seen in while, shouts & waves from across streets, asking if cool, following in and standing before and checking and exit, vouching to store owner of coolness (the owner concurring), brief touch/pat/rub of/n bull’s eye of chest from…}
*5 dealers in the space of 2.5 blocks*
That’s dense.
That’s 2 dealers deep per block (street not avenue).
And I remembered how hard it was in the beginning sometimes, felt the contrast betwen past and present.
They know me in the neighborhood even when I don’t know (remember, more likely) them.
Huh.

Point of Emotion on Street 2
Sometimes?you know it?the constituents (you will see that I hereby call on both major denotations: parts of (w)hole, and empowered electors and designators) of life snap-click to lockstep, in gay conspiracy. Every other second (represented by a dash) plumpens 40% slowing the whirling of the world by a composite of twenty per. This is when you are most fully and sensibly cinematic as an individual, playing as you do both star/subject and watcher/colorizer, opening channels for goo. And I got goo.

I got goo’ed between rising out of the train and earth, onto the hard path, paced-down and pointless—a value usable in dichotomy not placible here. And here’s what it was.[stet]

Bruce Springsteen’s “I’m On Fire” on the iPod. I love that song. And heard bits of my guts hurling its flume through. I saw the people. I felt the desperation of every motion, the casting about and resignation of every bite and breath. His inflect gave me a goose-bumpy tingle and chill. The world and me had a soundtrack on us. My eyeballs raised a mili in the float. And then that girly whooping it up part came and I chucked-up a grim grin. What cheese. I lost to rubble everyatmosfearicthing I just gained. Uh, Bruce, I like you better as Boss than no hollabackgirl. But I thought I might regain the string. And I did. I felt it up another time. And distracted on to other things. Let yourself go, darlin.

+6 (Sparks del - a new dev)

Again (yes, ad inf), a slow wander along merchant row from train toward house as I puzzle over how to do away with my evening. Getting tired (toward end of day those irresistible blankings began to come on) but don’t know why I can’t just go home and go to bed. I came so close. I kind of even liked the idea, but I think partly a stoppage feels like the start of another long, arduous and eventually failing prospect of quitting. Hard to want to do that embarcation. So Max got called and he said he was about to leave his girls, would arrive in 30-60 mins. I said okay and began to walk toward transpo to The Block but then, in a stunningly rare move, halted abrupted mid-crosswalk and told myself I could at least make one right decision, and I got a Jever instead. Two pts.: 1) says something maybe, I guess, that opting to drink a beer was a hard won right-decision triumph, and 2) I love that beer.

One was enough and I made it home unwilling/-able to stand any longer and fell with a sigh face forward into bed waking up in a blink an hour and a half later and way more sloggy croggy loggy. Then it would have been even easier to stay in bed; I was there, getting up was difficult, it was dark and respectably late enough to retire, Max wasn’t coming. But I wanted to investigate the Max deal, make sure I didn’t sleep through the ringer I turned all the way up and I wanted food maybe. And then the light flicked and burned out when I went to turn it on and I figured I’d better take care of that right away. So chores and snacks and eventually calls.

No answer from Max. Ritty’s phone “not taking calls at this time.” Message on Spark’s Godfather-intro’ed voicemail. He’s willing to deliver but was on errand to Kings Highway. Came soon though and he’s nice and accessible; not hard to understand and coolly distant like the most others to one degree or another. And I cook, having only a couple of objectives tonight and telling myself to set a deadline time for 2-3 hours sleep before another day at work finishing well past day four of no sleep save for the hour+ just blinked off. And then I tell myself I’m wasting my time, I won’t listen to me. And I just keep on going. Like always. And here I have, though I think the cut-off really could&might’ve happened had I not run into crazy bug while entering content into my other little texty web distraction. I was polishing and repurposing some stuff I liked that came out of couple emails in last couple days and then one wouldn’t take. Error sad page not on server. But it wasn’t consistent. Tediously narrowing and investigating and barking up wrong trees and neighboring trees etc and so on, I finally zeroed in on the culprit&#8212;and you’re going to think I’m high…and you’d be right…but so am I about what was causing this problem: the proximity and/or syntax (okay I don’t know exactly exactly; after spending so frustratingly long, I was happy enough to get it to go) of an em-dash with another one or two em-dashes. BUT it wasn’t croaking at the spot of the character! So, it was some combo effect, and it was such a pain, being all deceptive like that, throwin’ ventriloquy and shit…

Yes, crack and em-dashes: a great combination!

Worked on some techi-securi schtuff too. And blee blah…

And I only wanted two but got six to make home service agreeable to all involved…

And now, to cap off a black night of billowing blather and bilge, and more or less just because I like the homage, the highlight, the momentary reflective hiss, and as we’ve done it precedentedly and recurringly, it seems verged and in pose to become “just a thing we do here,” another one-a the bumpkin customs we carry on with ‘round these parts>>I box up and slide in here what I’ve been so lustily loving lyric-wise lately. From Radiohead (Amnesiac, who is so monsterly genius.

It’s amazing what I’ve gotten used to, what’s normal now, and then also, too, what I haven’t adapted to. Let’s start with that. It’s funny even as it happens, one separated self stepping back to provide cupped-chin commentary on the behavior, full of judgement, mockery, and making fun of. That’s the—much improved I’ll grant me—but still not yet erradicated predilective tendency/episodic giving-in to spy a white speck on the floor, pause over it with some scrutiny, then toe it, touch it, flick, pick, brush, or step over it in deciding it’s a derivative of the coca plant. They’re paint chips, paper scraps, bitty clumps of the baking soda that keeps my feet fragrantly fresh (bicarbonation at both ends), asbestos for all I know, but I do know they’re not errant factions of the supply. I know this, yet I just sometimes have to bend other anyway. I’m usually not doing anything better anyway as this only occurs at the end of the night/ripening of the morning when I’ve exhausted my purchase, and too tired or fried to do much of anything, and am just sort of pacing, picking and putting, as I prepare and power-up for a shower or something. It’s a persistent and pathetic tick.

On the other hand, I going 2-3 days without sleeping is old hat. I don’t bat an eye. It’s normal, and ceases to have much effect or fallout. That was really my point, here. That’s amazing enough, no?

To illustrate, and to follow yesterday’s I’m-An-Idiot post, I feel I did damn good work and a hell of a lot of it, too, today in the office. I was running on less sleep, less food, and after more work, yet stopped smoking early enough before starting work that I felt fine, functioned well, and so forth. That’s what the human body can do, boys and girls. And that just goes to show you that no matter the circumstances, regardless of how dire the set-up and lead-in is, you are never better off reasoning that a whole bunch of drugs bought and taken tactically just to get you through the day—to survive, not to fly. It’s not a good idea. It doesn’t work. Remember that next time. Yeah, right. Sure you will.

So, good, nice, that I was visibly productive today, except that it just puts in starker contrast my reserved, glassy-eyed, skittish, nervous, mumbley, own world with air about me performance yesterday. I spend too much time under both circumstances, but especially the drag-ass times, thinking of how one might possibly explain all this. What could capture all of the sysmptoms and handle the inconsistencies and trajectory of it all? I think of scenarios and the reverse of those scenarios. Nothing comes. I suspect nothing could.

Except one little vaguery. It’s perfect. It’s accurate, honest, and true, if a little misleading and incredibly vacant, devoid of meaningful information, as it presents itself as a complete and accepted & acceptable answer. Ready? :: “It’s the medication. If I don’t take it, I’m tired and don’t feel well. If I take it, I’m anxious and sick to my stomach.” Credible. Covering of bases. Delivering of a full explanation without divulging details (and carries a subtext in the undercarriage that says, “that’s all you need to know about it,” which must be respected by all regardless of relative rankings.) But nobody asks. What do they think? What do they say among themselves?

Another bit or bite/byte along the unexplained, demeanor swinging daily nut job lines and relevant to the project as this first that came up today when a couple front-end interviewees came in talking up the CSS takeover, tableless layout wave and way of the future. JR will cede some points but resist it’s use as a fit-all, cure-all approach/methodology. He’s old-school that way. Likes his tables. So I did a tidbit of quarter-assed defending of the CSS way and, sure enough, couldn’t resist establishing credibility and authority with citation of my experience, which are these two bloggies here. Learned a lot from ‘em.

Yeah, so I said “I do tableless layout for one of my sites.” Immediate red flag. M right away goes “one of your sites?” JR’s hot on getting a URL. So I say its for a friend. What, what? they clamor and dig. He’s a musician. Where? What’s the URL? I have nothing decent to say, no way to answer that. I mean, looking back I should have been honest from the get-go. Up front. Like I’ve done before: it’s a site whose function depends on it’s anonymity. Fine. No real big deal. Maybe a little weird to intriguing depending on the disposition of the audience, but that’s it. Now, I’ve made it weird. But also I bring it up because they both start googling around to find it, the not-bidness-mindin’ busybody bastards! And I got scared! A little. I was afraid they’d somehow find something. And then imagine the scene! The public unfolding. The incredulity, awkwardness, anger, my lack of words or any inkling of which emotion and/or countenance to put on: sorry, shruggy, funny, defensive, serious, denying, explaining, evading, blank and checked-out? Yeah, that one. I’m already on my way…

Well, I reminded myself of my precautions and the unlikelyhood, especially at this stage for there to be any linking info, but I did have to face the reality of it. I thought also about that issue, the full frontal honesty policy at work here and how it applies to the sex stuff that’s included. I think it’s part of the story. But it’s a little harder to own up to in some ways than the drug stuff, a little more embarrassing. The proj could be whole without it. But less richer. Thoughts. Concerns.

I have really, since arriving, been somewhat and increasingly (able to be) standoffish socially and remiss in my friendly duties, dissing close pals nonselectively, from all demographics. I’ve preferred to be solitary. Busy at that little endeavor, or this one. Perhaps not exposed, but I think more so it’s just been about, whether while smoking or not, building up a little sphere around myself. Maybe I’m creating for myself a sense of safety and control, manageability—to dip into the pop-psych speak-‘n’-vamp realm for a smidgin. If so what does that say about me? Yikes. Possible, but I think it’s really just about what’s fun for me when I’m smoking and about pounding on these little projecty things I got going on. But it’s out of hand. To the point that I have not only not gone to visit my poor puppy lil B. like I planned to do two and a half months ago, but when E. called on Saturday, I didn’t answer and didn’t return the call despite my really really wanting to see my little doggy. Really. But I just have no room for anything else. This quasi-productive dribbling diarrhea expands to fill all available space (time wise) and even that not available. Even the bills take back seat. Even even …

Speaking of calls, here’s an interesting factoid: my recent calls lists (received and made) are both comprised solely of drug peddlers, 411, voicemail, my roommate, and one call to a client I couldn’t handle making in front of everybody in the office while high as a kite Monday, i.e. not a single friend on either list. Oh, wait, I take that back—one call from S. Is she a friend? Maybe I don’t take it back. Either way she’s in a category unto herself:

My Small Solitary Sphere. In a way, I really do feel a bit of a bubble around me physically. Things are just a bit further removed. I’m a degree more distant.

(Damn dope dosing derailed my delinquency documentaton drone with downloads and other dumb and delightful distractions…)†

Well, fuck. I knew it. I mean, I did get some good house keeping kind of stuff done, mainly several crucial longlonglongoverdue emails to friends [now down to 285 emails in the ol’ inbox!] dashed off in between making impulse music purchases—Nightmares on Wax, Bruce Springsteen, JFA, Frankie Goes To Hollywood, Shudder To Think, and UNKLE—and putting together a completely useless “iMix” of my best cherished songs! Whee! I’ll try to catch up, but the sleep deprivation is definitely a major factor now.

†[At risk of repeating myself ‘cause I know I’ve wondered aloud on this subject before, what the hell is it about alliteration that draws me in and is loathe to let go when I smoke the salt lick? It’s weird, right? No, I know how fucking stupidly goofy it is. It’s like prelim OCD. OCD ticks for beginner’s. A training tick that I can grow into! But it’s the only real anomaly in the drug’s effects. All the rest is just degrees of existing tendencies or little tweaks in various directions. Not to say I’ve never been tempted into cheesy chains of annoying alliteration before, but shiite…Oh, well. ‘Cuz, hey! This is the forum for it guys! (hear my furtive hari-kari?) A place where we (i.e. I) can, as my late father would have said, “let it all hang out.” So let it be hung.]

Been in my own little world for a fair amount of time now—ever since I got back to the city. Ignore most contact from the outside world. Don’t return voicemails. Don’t email. And that—email—‘s my thing. Finally just on a spur of the moment whim broke down from the guilt of letting good friends flounder and decided to delete what needs deleting and then address some of the most pressing issues. Forgot how easy it can be (though I can make it hard and tedious, too). Between filing, deleting and responding, I’m already down from a starting inbox count of 360 attention-emaciated emails to 309 and I’m just getting started. Just had to post from all the excitement.

I believe I posted on this before but while I’m pasting in New York Times links—and because it’s so relevant here—let me reiterate that I am so envious of the participants in the just-ended Novel installation organized/put on by Flux Factory. The Times’s review overbills it thusly: Novelists Who Literally Lived Their Craft.

I keep thinking that I would like to sort of manually self-create similar conditions. I think I could and would if it weren’t for the financials. It’s a two-tiered issue: drug debt deep enough, and need the dough to do it.

Anyway, two of the options I think of are crashing in on writer friends.
- Option 1: Probably the best, call in a favor from a very accomplished (and often helpful with publishing and contacts) and single writer friend whose writing I admire and who (not unimportantly) has steady, decent Ivy League money coming in. He stayed at my place to finish a draft of a novel while I vaca’ed in Paris for a couple weeks a few years ago. Thus the calling-in, though I would hit him up for a lot more time, and would be a houseguest, which nobody really likes to have for more than a night or two, so I know it would be an inconvenience, but one that he may be willing to suffer if I sell it right. Ideally, I could make it a three month or so deal.

- Option 2: Go camp in the backyard of another writer friend who I very much admire. Drawbacks there are that he has a wife with cancer and a recently teenaged ghetto adoptee in the household and he mows lawns and such to get by. The mowing would be a time and energy distractant, but also is an attraction: good, simple honest hard manual labor to earn my keep and spend time with my buddy and get the blood moving and toxins sweated out. I know he’d love to have me at least for a bit, but me may have too much else on his plate, however ghostly transparent I keep.

A would-be writerlike crackhead’s daydreams.

:New York Times article headlined

Web Sites Celebrate a Deadly Thinness

…if I’m allowed to make (defensive?) distinctions…

+6/7 (was the 100th customer?)

Straight from work to the bar to chill and unwind a bit from the crazy fast-paced, multi-tasking, hi-demand, kickinlicious day I had and of course I begin to drunk dial.

Well, I don’t even think I was buzzed; I’d been debating the buy-or-not-buy dilemma all day. And as sometimes happens, I’m impatient and go on down the list and then a couple people come through at the same time and then I’ve been flaky, and demanding, and head-fakey, and an asshole, and pathetic. I told Rich I’d come over to the block (he said he already had the “work” for me, proactive as he is, you know) and was en route when Max said he’d “come through for [me]” within a half hour, he was coming from Queens and would come straight to my place. He got back soon enough and was putting me first, and well, any excuse’s as good as another so, I stuttered a stanza and then said sure, and continued on to Rich’s. I’d buy from both.

Walking up the block I run into Ritty who greets me like an old friend in front of his little possee. He wants to help me. I say I’m meeting my boy up on the corner. He’s quick with the “who?” (I want it to be conversational but it’s probably more competitive). Then he tells me cops is out on the corner, so I correct and say I go to his house, which is close enough. I can’t be getting into explanations.

I round the bend and hear Yo from behind. Rich is with a bulldog and a buddy leaning on the train railing. He calls me into “the chicken spot” right there and we trade he on one side of the threshhold and me the other. I see him ahead of me take the bags out of his mouth where he’d kept them for safe keeping. I don’t have them well concealed just quit yet as I turn around and see that there’s a cop in front of me—not in my face, but up like 20 yards—and he’s looking at me or us or damn close. Bits of shiny plasticized white was poking out but small enough—but the interaction couldn’t have looked natural or any more give away, really.

There was no slick, smooth way out so I opted for a course reveral back into the chicken shack, try to make it look like I stepped outside while waiting for my order, how ever briefly or skittishly. I even ordered some fries for added verisimilitude and to give me an opportunity to stuff the stem in my sock and stash the little fragile gems—hardly dry of Rich’s saliva—in my mouth. Such a thing—unthinkable among you civilians—might cause a split-second of recognition and regret, if that; it’s par for the course, part of the job. I was a bit nervous about what at that moment suddenly seemed the inevitable bust. But the copper turned out to be either indolent or inobservant or maybe unintelligent. I then go park myself around the corner in front of the other cop while I flag down livery cars to shuttle me back to where I once belonged.

I pulled up right behind Maxyboy with that, my, impeccable timing, and leaned up into the window from behind with a clipped, brusque greeting, and scared the living African shit out of both those brothers, each by his own heart-clutching admission.

I add those two to the previous four in my shirt pocket and once upstairs and desemboweling my pockets, discover an extra Max style micro-mini-Ziploc, though Rich gets work packed like that from time to time. It was a bonafide mystery to me there for a while, but now it doesn’t seem so pregnant with possibility (I was wondering if a packett made it through my end of night pathetic pat-down and pocket-policing procedure and on through the washing and drying and processing and workaday wearing just to happen to be there in the highly unlikely same spot as the others I stored today. Who cares? Bonus. I guess. Make it a +7 up there!

So having two different batches at the same time was fairly novel and gave me the exciting idea to do a taste test, again, following on from yesterday’s topics and temas. What was once the famouso Pepsi Challenge became the Coke Challenge. Results were not surprising. Richie’s, which I have always deemed of more noble and unsullied pedigree, had less taste, even less body, which I think is due at least in part to the numbing it effects more readily.

Considering my heightened interest level in nearly all things this world has to offer at the moment, and thus susceptibility to distraction, allow me to set a short-term agenda for this evening’s CrONCr interaction:
- cop crop, double duty, the focus group’s market research results
- sitings: pro consumption disords
- novelty act, react, & re-creact
- simple & soulful singley, call census population
- ad.apt and malad.apt, experimenting to get the meds right, HTML of the deranged
- lyrical lysurgy: i could be wrong; knives out

+ further sanitizing of keywords

+4

Spend crazy inordinate amounts of time putterin’ around over this HTML and the other HTML tweaking this and adjusting that which, in general is so much less important than posting, writing, and more so considering how sometimes I’m banging my head against the LCD panel to get another pixel or two. I’m ANAL. Is it unusual for a crackhead to be so detail oriented or is that an indicated personality trait—one prone to one is statistically prone to the other? Oh, it’s ridiculous. I’ll have to stop myself from time to time. Thing is I had it dialed in Firefox, that lovely little clever, svelt canvasser (-or?) of the wide wide whackadoo. Then I discovered that it was almost totally disfunctional in IE. Pissily—tired from working rock-steady insteady of sleeping log-zombied and tired of it, and needing to not be late for work ever ever ever again, not even a minute—I hurriedly wrote a little script to test for IE and if found/caught(!), pop an alert that says “This site only works in Firefox!”

Well, that’s a lame-ass thing to do, and I don’t like to be lame-ass. Furthermore, I’d like the thing to look good and be readable. And IE is still and forever (it seems) an http hog, a packett pig, a blustery buffoon of a browser with a commandingly, chasmatically dominant market share. Thus, tonight’s project: retrofit to cross-browseribility. Damn. I did it.

And in the process spent all energy I should have spent on jottin’ and typenatin’ the absurdities of my recent existence. Not that you can tell by this lead-in, but the wind-down windeth…and, um, downeth…and stuff. Let me see what crumbs I can shake out of my pocket and red hot out of the remaining fibers of my poor screen, and see if I can’t come back for a sum ‘em up session.

…

K. No crumbs, which is in the direction of shocking as you will understand if I make it that far, but there was hi-shine resin love and I’m nauseated again and good to go. So. Where to begin?…Perhaps where I left off. I’ll give that shot, see how it works out.

Sunight when I’m doing laundry and waiting for to buy me some hard drugs, Rich, the seller of said, calls and says, “I’ll be there in a minute. I had to stop by the health food store.” If this is not the first thing you’ve read here, you know I’m a sucker for those unexpectancies. There are some more sort of business approach takers in the dealing field for whom such a stop off might not seem so incongruent, but Rich ain’t one a them.

Now. Next item on the agenda. How indescribably stupid I am. Oh, yeah, I’m aware of it; I’ll admit it. So, if you’ve come here to laugh at me, or to point fingers, and feel superior, I’ve beat you to it. I thereby proclaimed you all Superiors about 25 minutes ago and oft ‘fore that in fits of mental anguish and self-beratement, all fully warranted because the layers are sea-deep.

It’s astounding. From the base level stupidity of ever doing this drug at all, to not quitting a million times over, to the physical stupizing effect it has on my brain (see?), to doing things I know will benefit me not at all and make me miserable quite a bit, to digging my hole deeper in the worst possible moments all the while knowing better but not really knowing better, eh.

E.G. going out to bar last night instead of going to bed when could have and should have, compounded by decision to buy, compounded by decision to buy not one, two, three, or four bags, but eight, at 3:30am, and then smoking up to leaving for work, and smoking on the way, and smoking when I get there, which makes my face flush brilliantly, and my eyes dilate widely, and my extremeties tremble and my voice creakle, and my behavior and body bumble. In close quarters, mind you. And because I’m cracked, jonesing for more, but up, and self-conscious, and anxious, and needing out of the pressure cooker, and needing into the the glass firing chamber in my pocket and so on, I’m getting up for ostensible bathroom breaks and/or smoke breaks but at numbers beyond any human norm. So I look like a fool. I’m not super sharp. I’m weird. It’s embarrassing.

Now despite my having smoked all night and remained sleepless, I’d be relatively fine if I’d just stop smoking. And thing is, when I escape to smoke it’s fraught with stress, worry, and fear of getting caught, time pressure to get back and not be missed, and not time to actually enjoy any high-like feelings I might get, though I don’t think I was really capable of getting high, having reached by duration and circumstances that treadmillish maintainance mode. So it wasn’t so much a good feeling as a delay—slight—of the yucky feelings that aren’t/weren’t all that bad anyway. And I walk back shaky-like all over, on high alert for best behavior (which just makes me more awkward). And so it progresses, with turboboosts by a couple of particular stressors.

Client D. wants a sudden conference call to “discuss the project” with her highers and mine. Such vague terms can only mean trouble. As PM, I should lead the call. So, what do I do? Kick the smoking into high gear, getting little enjoyment, and a lot of debility. Smart, huh. Oh,…etc. Other examples will only serve to beat the dead horse I aspire to become… Just let me skip ahead to the going home. I take a taxi. It’s much longer than the train and $25 more expensive when I’m pinched dollar-wise, and really just want to get home a soon as possible to be able to take a big long careless lung full of crackley vapor. Skip ahead now once again, it’s 4:11am, no sleep in sight, will thus return to work having worked all night, not rested, only killed brain cells by the docena. So stupid.

So the 8 I got from Max carried me through the evening (I came home with one rock). ‘Round 9 sumpin’ or other, I rung my Maximum man. I leaned through the car window for four with his assistant assisting, and told him, with a nod to the hard rain coming down, “You gotta be out working in this shit? Man, you work too much. You need a break.” They did some kind and quantity of laughing but I don’t think they were 100% sure what to make of that.

Now a little note I wanted to notify before:
Muslims don’t drink alcohol. S. my developer at the O-fis is muslim. Fresh out of college where he experimented with Western darkness and bachanalia as university attendees are wont to do. He’s back to charging up along the straight and narry, but of course he has friends that drink and want his company and, well, you see the hardships. He said something I think you don’t hear often but that I constantly deal with as Truth Everpresent in my life: “The longer I go without, the more I want to.” I think conventional wisdome has it that the longer you go, the easier it becomes. Not me. Not for me. Not with me. I can easily kickstart a strong offensive, and because of that, the defenses are not on guard when they’re needed. They’re riding the offensive lines coattails, and thus we get ambushed, caught off guard and by surprise, at the mercy of Satan and his little helpers. And the longer I go, the harder I fall.

Next blurbyblurb:
When I loaded up and fired the first of Rich’s Riches last-last night, I got that nostalgic sensation usually reserved for childhood foods and soaps and such. The taste of that batch was so closely reminiscent of my first few times that it brought it all back, the feeling, a few memories, but mostly recognition and indefinable emotion. Nostalgia for crack. Who’d a thought.

Yeah, well, so, all in all, I feel like a clown, and idiot, a weirdo, completely and just about utterly inept, a buffoony and a little cartoony. It’s really humbling. Not that I needed to feel any worse about myself. I don’t think I was all that arrogant. But…then…is it arrogant to say that?

One marker of all that—not that I fear anyone needs convincing, in fact, I wholly trust that many are far more judgemental than I, not knowing or even beginning to understand what it’s like or how easy it is to arrive there and how, not hard exactly, but maybe recalcitrant is the leaving, but the marker, the waterline, it—is a new one, another on the pile of micro-developments and gradations of sink: I’m ashamed to look or talk much to a person I always felt was my champion, my cheerleader, a believer in me beyond what I felt I deserved, and now is no more, is none of those, is also angry and probably bewildered. I sometimes wonder if they say to themselves, this crowd, and to each other, “What happened to him down there? Damn, Central America fucked that kid up. Did a number on him…” That’s not it at all, but due to the trajectory of it all, I sometimes think like that myself, feeling like Kurtz lost in the Heart Of Darkness. Taken over by the jungle, by the savagery and the mystery. And sometimes, too, like my own Marlowe, however doomed that expedition turns, and turns to mercy, a little mercy of deceit. Anyway…

+ 4 (Rich, del., 7PMish)
+ 8 (Max, del., 03:30AM)

New Fry Strat Obvi.us FARse:
8.5-9.5AMish -> “I hate every fucking little thing about my life.”

..but then slept by 10something [Good.]

Up 2:30PMish.
Got Shredded Chicken Szechuan Style, Multi-V Vitamin Water, chocolate roll.

Slept atleastby 4PMish.
‘Til Midnightly.
Bot BLT, Doritos, MV Vit H2O, B&J’s pint; ate in room.
Sleep by 2PMish.

Up Noonly.
Dizzy in tub, back to lie wet, sleep ‘til 3:10, up fast to GUAPA meeting
at Teany, LES.

Home 6:Ish. Laundry. Mopping. Call Rich. (The 2 Dubs).

CrackOn code clean & minor ENhancements.
[That’s all??? I mean, yes, I know some fixes/revisions buggers and not doing what want w/o kludging but really all that time on just code clean & tweaky bit-part improvements? DamnN.] Some on OFF.?.?

2AMish? Call Max. Says half hour.
Go bar.
Turkey on rocks.
Calls: Ritty, Spark, Rich, ???.
Palm read badly. Paid $5.
Tell Max to come now for $80. Comes by 3:30.
Smoke in bar bathroom.
Finish drink.

Home.
Code clean & mine. EnHanceMents OFF.
7:02AM Exact Now.
Dumbass, that I am.

+4

Caught taxi, had Spark meet me on corner while cab waited, back the way I came.

(Dis shit not so good but I opted for convenience. Too bad Max called while crime in progress. What a sweet boy he is.)

+4

New/Nother Number from a Narcotraffickin Nigga Named Spark

Just rocked-steady the DSL install & wireless home network setup! Whoopee!

Every time, in a way, easier, and, in a way, harder: old hat, long haul.

Amazing, Telling:
S.’s cluelesssness re: my constant use and abused state in front of him, and re: life, made all the funnier when he expounds and preaches his facile philosophy

Taken to drooling in pipe not because that whacked, but something to do with my adaptive tech.

It’s all chit chat.
new strat orcastR>
ok, accept. but lim it
kin da phase out or maintenance
contract approach: come home
eat dinner, get stuff out of way
and settle in. … then hard
bedtime, maybe pil

gentleman crack:
the less his presence is known felt
the sweeter, kinder>>more power
ful he is
he’ll have his way with you

o! So much and down to couple few hours before work after going whole 3-day weekend. Will try to do SUM post.
>More imply.> try to come back to fill in.

Numbs:(?)
+4 (the block)
+6 (Max, deliv.)
+6 (Ritty, deliv.)

Acts:
- networking nightmare (inst. nort, fxx S.’s, much gen wranglin, etc)
- update extemp. now &’s
(- miGoldBond)
- J. stopby
- bbq sun
- wrote & revised to ruf. beta draft a long [6pgs. in single-spaced block para form] flowy sketch tit’ed Voice, posted on Ex.
- bar for bit

[where does the time go?]

Blew Off:
- 1st j. date
- installation w/ C.
- coney films by/w self
- D./L. & store out on the island

Ents:
- code snippet proof from wknd
- plate stacks on sidewalk
- Cr a gentleman’s fancy in ways (soft touch need, variable ords.)
- “get rid of those shoes, they’re prison shower sandals”
- “cashed”: head to head termin. match-up analy. (sound, imp.s, etc.)
- now come up on Goog
- 2 eggs, wtf, public debut
- resulting realization re need to address pts., sanitize, etc.
- thos moments when people talk casually about crack
- aww, some class. s.
- wrecking back and teeth, some good vis stuff this round
- used to doos: crumbs, wake hour tallys, jones harder, get highr, stop at some point

Deb:
- on: http://www.smidgin.com/archive/2005_05_22_default.aspx

proof that crack is bad for you
this is better than those ads with the eggs: Crack On Crack
# posted by Automatt : 03:10 2 comments

Well, anyway, just
checking in with a Plus Four as I finish it off. Doin’ Dubs…

Everybody was all chatty. Really funny. I could see a stir, almost a frolic down on the block as I walked down Franklin. People out. Moving about. With some quickness and or lightness. Though the big paddywagon and the big generator-powered tower of lights were there and on respectively, there wasn’t a foot patroller/loiterer/spyer (sp? spier?) in sight, and folks were footloose and fancyfree.

One of my boys came on up to me and I handed off forty in the handshake, whatchu got?, I need four. Aoh (like let down), I only got dubs. Give me two, then. [This is a thing that happens with some regularity and a thing that I consistently fail to understand: you ask for a certain quantity, normally meansured in the standard dime units, and they gotta break the bad news to you that they only have double dimes, as if it’d be a deal-breaker or a difficult issue-if-not-impasse. Especially if you specified a multiple of two—four, six, eight—it’s easy as hair pie. And, regardless. I want a certain amount, give or take; the number of bags it comes in is immaterial. Why they don’t just do it automatic, not even say anything, is a little out of my reach of comprehension. But then, it belies—almost smacks of—customer service! They want you to be informed, involved, consenting, and, most of all, satisfied! They care about you! They’ll take that extra time. Defer to you on a seemingly trivial matter, because it might not be so trivial to you. That’s your money. Good money, too. And they know they need to acknowledge that. And they do!] And I sashay up on ahead around the corner. Lit a Winston as he canvased the real dealers. It varies. I’m pretty sure he isn’t just a runner all the time. I think he’s got his own shit, but what do I know. And what do I care?

He’s quick. Approaching. They good size? I inquire. They good size he reassures. Then starts talking about his number and about me calling him and I have to suddenly acknowledge my sudden recognition of the chap; it’s the guy who gave me his business card. I say, too, that when he gave me the thing I asked if he’d come out to P.S., and he’s all Yeah! ‘Splains that Not for two, you got 10, I’m out in the Slopes. Then backs off a bit. You know [worth while blah blah blah], 6, 7, in there.

Then Ritty calls out Yo from his passenger side car windo. He who I’ve called at quite unholy hours. But who haven’t I called at such times? He got his big woman, that skinny tall nigger, drivin’ him around again, what he think he special? No, joke. I’m just a titch touch abashed. And he hits it. You called me at what, 3:50. Yeah, you know how it is, I plan to be ending about that time, but sometimes [always?] you keep going. Sorry. That too late?/You can call me any time./I can call you anytime, you might not be ‘round, but I can call you?/You call me./Coo…I’ll see you later {drifting off along sidewalk}/You straight? [I bought right in front of him.]/Yeah, I’m good, man, thanks. [‘man’ gets employed way too often. Unintentionally. It’s my ghetto talk. Embarrassment verging.]

Another couple first downs up the sidewalk, a little man is buttin’ down on the rail that goes over the subway shuttle viaduct. I’m friendly. What’s up? He sounds good, though a little reserved and mumblish. I get a safe distance past him and he calls up, I got twenties. Oh, I’m good, man, thanks.

I call Marta from G.. Es usted Marta. Si. I need a car…one comes. It’s a man from G. We connect. He lives over in Fort Greene now. We connected on that too. That and peasants being assumed guerrillas. He tells me about how the quality of FG has ebbed and flowed with the drugs. Used to be more drugs. Back further, used to be less… I don’t ask if I can toke on the way…

Is it to be considered a milestone when your drug dealer calls you crazy?

^[look up there to see perhaps the one time i stopped myself from fixating on a maintaining some semblance of grammatical rectitude while using up the maximum possible words beginning with the same sound—such silly fixations…]

PLUghCE Tew / A Dos(ey) Do(h)
{and a way I go…}
Got those last two sometime Saturday, who knows when. Max actually did some push marketing. Called me up to see if I was good. Was in the neighborhood. I said “Mattera fak…” and went right now to meet him. Only had a twenty though. A rare small duece, Bruce! He had a friend with him. I leaned in to chat through the window, hand down below sill enough to drop the bill into the cupping black hand of the sidekick. I’m asking Max how it went last night at the party, did he get one’a’ those bitches he was gunnin’ for? He wasn’t as smooth and sly and sidekick and I. Maybe the talk of the bitches after 4am… He pulled out—not super high, but higher than necessary, way more visible than prudent—a large Ziplock of hundreds of the little tinies. Most I’d seen. He pulled my two. Asked me what I was up to. I said I was trying to fix my computer. Was hell. But then, I granted, maybe I was just being stupid—and as if to prove the point, said—after not having slept a week and a half, dropping a bagette on the sidewalk in the meantime. Uj, no, I mean a day and a half. D. you crazy, Max says. It’s your fault, I say. And the sidekick laughs, only noise he made whole time.

So. Yeah. Hours and hours today on fucking computers. A couple facets there to note:
- There’s been plenty of commentable stuff in the past few days, and especially, oh God of All Helioxenfreedominmatrixies, last night—Friday—and I’ve wanted to get it down, but I haven’t felt all that expressive. More busybodyish, productive, taskish, mindlessy, or something. [This began self-forcedly, but now I’ve caught a bit of the spirit.] Compu Tinkering has fit right in, there.
- And, besides-plus, wireless DSL will, I figure/ration-alize, only grease the skids for those priority projects.
- Was kicking bootay, getting both comps connected indiv’uly but all fell to shit in attempt to get ‘em networked wirelessly (to point that can’t connect at all now—back to AOhelL), was determined to figure out &conquer, wasted so much time getting no where.
- But also did some clean-up, maint on my machine, and major imps on S.’s (removing spyware, running utilities, etc.). So that putter-put paid.
- And also! and this one’s the beaut! wasted literally untold hours in between on this stupid, but kind of cool (in a stupid way, I should be ashamed of myself, and in fact am, for more reasons than that…) little “project” on my laptop’s desktop. Something I’d thought about doing as a little clevery bell-or-whistle kind of thing. Frivolous but fun, an idea, bearing…And I do kind of love it in the end, but thing is, I could have spent the time on so many muchly important things—in number of them! But, it was nice to blow that kind of productivity off (though was work, all of it, all day), &more imp’ly, do something visual (rather than, say, linguistic, or techy). And what it is, if that Gold Bond artwork I’ve had on my desktop so lovelying admired for awhile, the one with the bare-chested, surfboard holding, mouth covered Japanese woman in the middle. I cut out a photo of M. standing in the nude, sized it, etc. and lined it up perfectly with the painted Japanese woman, and then programed it so that if you click on her breasts, the real Japanese woman appears real naked. I also linked with imagemaps other parts of the painting to my music (on the horn) and other files (on the brain). I think there’s a concept in there. Plus fun. Plus sexyness. Plus utilitarian shortcuts. Good lord in hay-von it took a while!, though.
- The thing (big) that I won’t possibly be able to do justice, and won’t come close to trying, is S. woman: Look, for the record, I hate the way psycho is overused, and dismissive, and inexact, and exaggerated and often feminine and therefore undertoned of sexism, and the lot of it—besides, it’s not interesting or distinguishing diction; it sounds trashing and ever-full of the reverberating clang of a galvanize trash can classic struck with a 1945 drop-forged pipe wrench—and have therefore most hardly used it if ever deliberately. But today I applied the word, if only in my thinking, and I feel comfortable with the designation. There was the odd and intense meeting Sunday night, the sex, the fiesty, the food. [That, in itself, is so worthy a write-up; superessentially, I posted on Craigs for a bar partner, and she came all scared and deceivingly, and still we ended up in bed together, and walking toward subways and phone numbers, and eventually angry oddity.] Then her birthday week kept me waiting, in the meantime, my jets cooled as it were and the emails were more revealing, less appealing, she having a marked tendency toward drama, victimhood, anger, acusation, and inward-centered convenience. So, Fri when I was fried. I made the ol’ half-joke, this one about how crack would get me out with her for sure. Otherwise it might be bed. And then you know, when people reacted, I step up and allow it seriousness (where it would have could have been a dismissed lunacy in their mind, a secret irony in mine). So I owned up, and all holy helldom broke loose. She took it so seriously. It was if we had been married with children for 8 years and I’d hidden such thing from here all along. I didn’t understand that, try as I might. In her shoes, having only been off in my room for a few hours in totale, I’d write it right off as a mistake, good riddance, done, goodbye, o’ well. She couldn’t have been too attached to me! But no, she took it so personally, got so hurt, and so angry, and—above alllll—fully irrational. She went pretty quickly to making arrangements, on the phone that eve, for our last date. I met her for tea (chamomile for me, please), mostly just to placate…no, not even that…just oblige…do her the favor, because I already knew the little and larger things were doomed, best-wise/bestly speaking. But god, it was worse than I imagined. I think people have their talents, and specialties in faults, too. I mean, sure, everybody knows that everybody has their own faults, but I really mean it like skills. Like, I’m a big fucking pathetic loser fuck-up when it comes to engineering my moods, and that to her (and I don’t disagree) is a fucking-up I am doing exceptionally well, and as a result, she feels compelled, needy of, chastising me for it, all the while displaying her own—who knows how damaging comparatively but—equally extremely polished and practiced faultknack for contradicting herself, blurting false accusations and baseless labels of dishonesty, way-off mark assumptions, no, authoritative claims (by virture of her social work education and employment, and her growing up around plenty of addicts!) regarding how I feel, think, operate, and so on. Oh man, it was ridiculous, and she was so confused that I decided to just focus on one thing: asking her over and over and over again to not tell me I’m lying, that she had no reason to believe that, no evidence to present, and that it was simiply not true, and that if, as she claimed, she wanted to understand (which was total bullshit, at least for a while) she’d have to listen and take my word for it—no point in asking a question for which you will accept no answer. Ok, I’m writing this all out and don’t want to, can’t—already uneven…

I had to leave. Didn’t want to, never done that before, didn’t feel good about it, but I tried and it was just non-negotiable so against her protests and then pleading, I walked off.

Course she showed up at the house a few minutes after me. I graciously invite her in. She hesitated. Weird. Anyway, it calmed down. Conversation got a little more respectful and productive. But would get bad again later, but just temporarily.

Eventually, it’s all out anyway, I need to smoke. At first furtively, or/also trying to respect her deal. But eventually, as crack smoking goes, I’m just toking on it helplessly like the teat of my nursing mother. This of course makes me look more pathetic than generalizable (sure, I’m generally pathetic, but now she knows that pretty much 100% of her time with me, I’m cracked to the crack). It also gives her fodder for the cannon. But geez my Heloise, am I supposed to pass through that ordeal, having already started the smoking, without that soft support right there burning a hole as it were in my pocket? I should think not.

Eventually she wants hugs and kisses. A little petting happens too. But I help her out by about 3am before I get really ugly. She hugs me for forever on the corner where I walk her too. I try to pull away after 20 minutes tactfully so as not to get in trouble and prolong the whole thing. She saunters off, looking back every few steps while I stand there. God. Hmm.

Then I call Max. He’s at a loud bumpin’ party. He makes it around by about 4a, after I drink a liter of Becks and smolder my resin. Through the car window I tell him my feelings are hurt he didn’t invite me to the party. He hollers right back with Aww, D, I would’ve invited you, but I didn’t know you wanted to come, what you were doing [something like that, my memory be damned, less than 24 hours ago, and can’t keep it in stock]. Next time! Thanks for leaving the party, I say. Oaw, yeah, I look after you, D. You gonna go back, I wonder. Yes, he’s going to go get him one of those bitches over there, dancin’. I tell/tease him I thought he was married, after he came by with a girl and a baby in the backseat. Aw, no! That was such and such a situation which I didn’t catch, and then he tags on after just a half-beat, baugh even if I was married, I be out there getting me some.

And then began the compuOddisea.

pluh sate (+8)

+6

Driven to by women.

Yes, bullshit. Theirs. Mine.

Picking up thread Again:
->Lyrics born, transfer-or-med.
->Steal stolen, made molten.
->Liquid, lingual, luscious.

“Hallelujah”! Co- mPare/nTrast Ed.>>…
: Rufus vs. Leonard, Wainwright vs. Cohen
{Heavyweight/Contend/Bout/Face}

brill y ant

ic

V.RealARE:ly if ever do these ditch efforts get revisited

…for expansion let alone baseline explanation. Still something is better than a lively nothing. Having spent so much resource on new 4(?)th b.log (if, with new config curr.ly in works keeping Prop. & Branch. separate & independent while adding umbrella Tribology blog that mx&mtchs the2 for, poss.’bly/event.’ly, variable pushorpull(?) views [revisi”’st com”nat”’s/d’grees ‘f select.’n, org.’nzation, pres’nt”ion, etc.] into ag’r’g’t’ content, that cnts. as 3rd, then this dev.mentl fiction is fourth…

and Novl. Pro”” invest
[as last of my needs is another novel project, so firstly that which I couldn’t need more stands unsurpassed in neededness among my impressive, both in quantitative and qualitative terms, population of warrior necessities: the Novel Project.] that

, the budget lies now lately blown and
I’m left
to cobble to-
get…her a stunt
-ed, cop-/cryp-tic
tac—-toe dipping in wash
ing ton ian valley-forge sty
-le suff’ring, -king up terms
to ward off set of me
-m’/’ry/e
loss:

([That w-]/W-hich I will do now.)

func e {
  upfoo bard; //class.es as Low Nouveau
  shatalot.shook();
  bro(ugh)t S./A./S. to tears' edge;
  list=success>>inside(manner of speaking) +. datestamp(ed wom):
      toString(transform char entity, 
          com port.open,
          loop, for increment, 
          value of, 
          base ref, 
          join,
            setTimeout 
          concat, 
          end) ? if gemini type cap then select * where x == y;
  echo((
    else.else));
  elseif
  return void(0);
}

// written/coded/coated in C++

+4

+2
then almost immediately
+3

A bit back I posted a couple of my Craigslist postings. I’ve continued to romp around wide-eyed in that playground. It’s like a blackhole with the magnet vacuousnessof a million point two red and silver horseshoes. My time and interest there is part very serious and can be broken down into just plain horny flood, curiosity/interest in cheap shameless raunch & extremes, unusual stuff—both experiencing it and witnessing it, breaking into it to gaze and understand, feel something; find out and come to know what people do and how they do it… Part of it is simple humority. It’s funny. Another part is like the widely referenced ironic inability to look away from the gruesome, haunting, very unwanted horror of, say, a train wreck. Though it’s not a pleasant sight, you can’t not look—stare, actually—as you pass by. There is a very high degree and level of patheticness thereabouts.

And the venture from lurker to taunter began by kind of making fun of those people. Then, and also, to see if and how people would react to things. At the end, later, more sincerely, but deliberately differently. Here’s a quick list of my posts:

13ap
Seeking Chinese Restaurant Tales
Publishing project collecting real experiences that include in any way a Chinese restaurant. Can be any kind of story, any length, don’t have to be written, just have to be true and have some reference to a Chinese restaurant. Restaurant can be major or minor part, take-out or sit down, even just talked about or remembered in the story—whatever. Anecdote may have happened to you or someone your know personally. Published participants will be acknowledged, retain rights and recieve some small remuneration. If you or someone you know may have something, even if you’re not sure, contact the editor for additional details.

7ma
skiing solo, looking for anybody to chill with
have everything but company/conversation so if you want to hang out let me know

7ma
straight guy wanting a shemale to swing by asap - m4t
we can talk, smoke, suck, and/or fuck—whatever you want

14ma
looking for a crack ho - m4w
prefer to host in bklyn but will travel if convinced

14ma
why don’t we all just pitch in for an escort service? - mm4ww
and meet up somewhere and get this taken care of

21ma
cash reward - m4w
for coming over, hanging out, being sweet for an hour or two or whatever

22ma
So Fresh and So Clean - m4w
Just out of the shower, smelling good, feeling confident, ready to go, let’s do this!

23ma
seriously just a drink & early night - m4w
God, if someone came and hung out for a bit at a bar by my house that would rule. I’m too tired to venture much further but in need of fresh conversation. I buy first round, you buy second, we wave goodbye, and feel about as sane as a human being can. I don’t care what gender, age, race, or religion you are—that includes you Andy, you craigslist lurker, you.

If the laundry gets done and I still have the gumption and the fuel to set the gumption on wheels, then this will be the TOC of my near future entries:
-The Elegance Of Bowing Flame
-Don’t You Want To Taste It: What Crack Cocaine and Microbrews Have In Common
-I’m Stuck! That’s Why Sometime It Be Taken Me So Long To Get Here
-Amex, DSL, Software Purchase…The Usual Crack Time Activities
(or, Crack Makes Everything Funner!)
-Odd Mythologies: The Wills and Won’ts Get You Busted
(but Max, he told me he’d look out for me. aawww…)
-Love Those Laundry-Only Weekends!

Enterlove.

+5

Yo, I went from sixes to fives. Consistently buying consecutive blocks of five now; before that a run of 6-packs. I form habits within habits. They do say crack is habit-forming. I guess so! There’s a lot of churning and turn-over, though. But HEY! I’m cutting back! Whoohoo.

Thank you, Maximillian…

+6
(Of course it turned into this. Don’t know why I still don’t either just plan on it or do some serious self-intervention to prevent it. Instead, I look forward to a natural wind down that never comes, while the marathon keeps creepin’ along.)

Have car drop me at Classon and Lincoln as usual so doesn’t look bad and can canvas St. John’s on way to corner. Lots of bidness gets taken care of in that stretch. But it’s like 5:30a. Quiet. Round corn and next to bodega window is a tall helper type (not sure if officially—though like Cuban prostitutes, it seems more often opportunistic than official—but at least to me, historically). I hit him up, he’s like what you need, I’m like “Dimes” with slight “duh” in voice, like what he think? But he says “1?” And I shoot back almost like “you’ve got to be kidding me, I’m too tired for these kinds of games”—almost—“No, six,” I say.

Okay, maybe I was stupid for not hearing ‘how many’ in his original question but damn, 1? But here’s the thing with me and this scene. I have no idea what the norms are, what the extremes and averages are; I need some goddamn benchmarks here, people! I am pretty really curious to know whether that I go through in a night is typical or atypical. High or low. Maybe just middlin’ mediocre.

I don’t know if he says 1 because:
- that’s a common buying pattern based on consumption patterns
- that’s a common buying pattern based on economic limitations/hardships/realities
- I’m white and assummed a light-weight
- or…?

Sometimes I get a slight sense—maybe because I want to—that six is a decent buy, mostly when people want to give me their card/phone number after, or are extra chummy like I’m their boy, or they mine—the case three times with me today. Besides, based on appearances along (or mostly), sixty bucks I imagine to be a respectable, chunkable outlay for the ‘hoodites of Crown Heights.

Stretch says there was just a guy out, damn where he go? stepping out and craning neck. I buy the traditional Gatorade (Go Gators!) and ask during change phase, you think he’ll be back, but stretch slides out and onward mumbling something that might as well have been Navajo. This is a (yes, capital P) Phenomenon with the CH crew. I rarely understand them well. Often I understand them quite terribly to not at all. As I’m wrapping up and pullng away from bode, I ask if I should wait, but that was just rhetorical and self-directed wonderment.

I go up to Eastern Parkway and sit on a park bench, drinking my ‘ade and smoking a Winstonian light king filter tobacco cigarette. I look over longingly at the activity hub around the bodega across the way. So close and yet a whole other microcosm unto itself, and for me another world, more hostile. Same basic deal as the St. John’s Bod but they don’t know me over there and I havne’t had good luck breaking in. Once got beat. Other time was threatened,told to get the fuck out,etc. but that, i think, was mosty this young, fancy SUV driving, doin-business dude that I ran into super late /early at other corner then again at other other corner, and he was paranoid about it, as little sense as that made. I did, for first time, wonder if a gun might be pulled on me. I wouldn’t have been surprised. Maybe I wrote the full episode out, or outline of it, in a book somewhere. Look for it. Hey, do a search here when all that keyed in!

After I while I walk back down to SJ and slowy around corner. It’s ghost town. I despair, but check my self, feeling okay. All right. But just around corner there’s a nice, black SUV with motor running. Windows too tinted to see that anybody in there so lucky I caught a wisp of exhaust out the corner of… I look over meaningfully. Do a micronod, pull up into loiter position, as guy’s looking out window at me: this could go either way:: like night I just mentioned, where he doin his thang and don’t like nobody, especially dapper white boys with cherubic faces and rosy cheeks., watching him, and he was going to let me know in no uncertain terms (well, quite likely terms whose individual meaning individually would certainly be uncertain to me, but collectively, I would surely get the message; the bottom line would not escape me). It looked like that a little, but I nothing to fear. I was just a poor strung out sap wanting to do some shopping. Get it done early in the day while it’s still cool and the crowds are away.

He stepped out and walked over, all hip-hopped out in white and red. Yo, what’s up—the superficially innocuous and innocent sounding (and norming acting) phrase that gets pregnant in a hurry in particular situations, like an unstable woman desperate to keep her husband from leaving her and believes that news of a pending baby willl halt the course of their estrangement…or, not really like that at all, but more like something else…). heh Anyway, I say six, he repeats six, starts back for truck thing, waves me to follow, we go around to drivers side where sits a woman whom is presumably his bitch/ho/girl/woman/baby momma. He tells her to give him six, & as she does he asks me if I live up on the parkway. Damn. Cuz I don’t really recognize him, but then I always mix ‘em up, stressful and fleeting as our encounters are. Used to. Aowh, yeah, cuz i seen you before up there, and around here. Why don’t you take my number. I immediately think that I don’t need that. As in I have several numbers and hookups for one. But I’m supposed to be stopping for two, so I really don’t need that kind of enabling easifying shit in my life. But I want to call this nice man, maybe say hello to the little lady, use his name, which is Ritty, which is a great name, a name that he spelled out for me readily, automatically as if he’s been playing Speak ‘n’ Spell (does that spelling-specializing educational product really misspell ‘and’ in their brand like that? Bizarre.) in introductions all his life. And I would like to hear him use my name—“say my name, say my name” says Beyonce, irresistibly. I would like Ritty to say what up D. like Max does, that little pretty boy four-eyes bitch at my beckon call—because I gave my name to Mr. Ritty of the dark van so that he’d know who was calling when I called, and I believe strongly that he will remember it. He gives it—the num—to me as I punch it right in the mobile cellular device, name and all. He’s a nice guy—a little less aloof and stand-off-ish than your average hustler. A trusting chap. But rightly so, no? I’m a good kid, in my own right and fairly high to stand-outing on the trustability scale. I’m harmless. Shit, I may smoke a bargeload of crack, but I do it in my own home—in my own room, no farther—and sit around typing. That’s it. Maybe look at Casual Encounters on Craigslist. I’m a doormouse, babyhoney. No fighting. No fucking, even.

I walk back slopeward hoping to get a car/cab on the way. Like said, not feeling all that needy (more like why not?) but hell, then I was freshly flush with sparkle and fade, crunchables, a half dozen pouchettes of white diamond, crusty sweet pearls. So I pulled out and loaded up walking down the sidewalk in the morning daylight. A one point a guy came bounding out of a building just in front of where I had paused to light up and he looked over at me but what’s he going to do, call the cops? Even if he did, would they come? Even if they did, could they catch me? Still, we flinch at getting seen/caught like that. Or most people do. I have long held the belief—and acted on/by that belief as a preaching practitioner or practicing preacher or maybe just a parishoner possessing paltry levels of prudishness in the pantry of his person(ality)—that obviousness can be the least noticeable, most DL. And it was funny to me in a little way the voice I took on in self-chit-chat and secret smalltalk as soon as I pulled the first melter and held it past 3 or 4 seconds: why I feel on top of the world, I observed.

I finally get my Lincoln at the mouth of the park, chat in Spanish to the Dominican driving it, and well, here I am longwinded as ever. And not sure how to spend most wisely my remaining 4 baguettes. Laundry is crucial since never able to do during week and only have week’s worth of clothes. Dishes and trash disgusting. Think I’ll crack out on that. But really want to get broadband going here, look at options, sign up. Be nice to work a touch on Makiva’s story. Could & should work on MT migration but think I’ve done enough on the ol’ blogs today—will put aside when done here—but then again, that’s most important, & interesting thing on my proverbial plate (really more metaphorical than proverbial, isn’t it? my bad. but people don’t think about such distinctions much.) Should email family, and a million other people, such as hoffenatorman, euskeres, my once suicidal and still struggling friend, for her sake, lord. And should I download that new(est/to me) PJ Harvey? I was (knowingly) foolish enough to download the iTunes special sampler/greatest hits, only for the interstitial talking done by that godgodgoddes. I just really needed to hear her voice again. Only a couple of the songs I ddidn’t already have. Okay, well, in any case and whatever I do, I’ve got to get to it while I can.

Wel, gollygodamit, came across this interview with Karate man guy hitting on (with open fist and rigid straight fingers, of course) the very thing I was circling about. Let’s see…

As much as I love the music, I’ve always been fascinated by your lyrics in particular. I’ve had many conversations with musician friends about whether great lyrics can equally be considered poetry. Do you have any theories on that? Do you consider yourself a poet as much as a songwriter? [Ed. Okay, interesting question, but not especially rich or deep.]

I don’t know. Those are just names and don’t have much to do with my everyday experience making music. I have an abstract concept of what I’m trying to do, and whether or not it fits someone’s definition of “poet” isn’t really important to me. I guess I would never call myself a “poet” or and “artist”, and I think those terms get overused. [Ed. Right on; first part especially.]

Perhaps because of your phrasing and vocal style — and just your general deftness with words (vocabulary, symbolism, alliteration, etc.) — I’ve always thought of Karate lyrics as capable of standing on their own, even though that obviously isn’t your intention. Regardless of semantics, then, do your lyrics have their genesis on paper or are you sitting on the couch, coming up with lyrics with your guitar in hand? [Ed. Oh, shit, I vomit alliteration far too regularly, fouling up my work area and leaving pungentsity for others coming behind me and through; it is, as I say (to myself), the one visible change/behavioral effect that crack cocaine has on me.]

It’s kind of hard to answer these types of questions because it’s difficult to pinpoint the genesis. I often sit and write w/out a guitar, but I also sing when I play guitar, and sometimes bits and pieces of lyrics come out that way as well. I never really sit down and write the lyrics to a song or even a verse in one sitting. A lot of times I’ll even write dummy lyrics so I can work on the singing, and then after the vocal part sounds good, I’ll change the words. In general my writing process is constant, and it’s hard to pinpoint where a song started or came from. [Ed. Hmmm, maybe, when you put it that way, the majority of what I write is dummy text, working most of the time, as I do, on the singing, getting the voice nailed, making sure it sounds good, flows, have rhythm and music. Sometimes I’ll then go back and change some/the words but damn it all if it doesn’t just now occur to me that this is my problem: I’m leaving the dummy in there after the crash test, after the damage is done.]

So many of your lyrics demonstrate an incredible attention to detail — I’m thinking particularly of the pine needles in “Pines” (Pockets, 2004) and the “basketballs and black-top” of “Pordenone Plaster” from your solo work (Reverse Eclipse, 2000). Do those kinds of details arise from a particular mindset? In other words, do you tend to see things in that kind of abstract symbolism, or is it a conscious effort in the writing process? [Ed. Fair, if slightly off-putting.]

I think that details are the meaning of the song, not just the example of the meaning. [Hells fucking yes, that I can get behind and give a rousing, riotous-verging cheer, my hands all a-thrown in the air. That’s that I’m talking about ladies and gentleman! Well, the praise of detail and attending proclamations of their being the at least seasonal abode of our Higher Power for sure and certain aren’t anything new or, as they say, earthshattering {thank, HP}, but let’s now all take it one giant step for {hu}mankind further—a especiality of mine, I’m afraid—and say loudly and rhetorically, “Where in lies that supernaturality par excellance, that deity Story? In those damned details? No, I extrapolate: further afield, bannished hinterlandedly, to a Siberian cold appropriate to our frigid disdain for it {in it’s commonly conceptioned plotting form and sense}. Cutting to the fictional chase, then, I—no, We, please—inquire, “What story?” And leave it at that.] For example, I think there’s a huge difference between writing a song like “Tow Truck” that illustrates a specific character who is intolerant of a specific idea in a specific context, and writing a song that derides ignorant people for their intolerance of illegal immigrants. Even though they are seemingly about the same idea, one should be a song, and another should be a pamphlet or slogan. [Again, I’m there, fully and heartily, though, again, not so original an assertion. Bears repeating, however, for the ears of those that still want to write a point, a changing, ranting, supposedly voice-giving, eye-opening, heart-s0ftening as-well entertaining tome of a treatise. They’re die hards in a double-digited Die Hard formula sequel.] I’m not a politician, and it’s not my job to make general abstract statements, and I don’t think that those kinds of statements always belong in music, or at least in my music.

Do you have favorite songs in your repertoire, selections that you’re especially fond or proud of? If so, what are they and why do appreciate them so much?

Sure, I like different things about different songs. From Pockets, I am proud of the lyrics to “Pines” because I think there is some very effective imagery that helps convey the story, but I don’t particularly like the performance or recording of that song. I also like “Tow Truck” because it is very direct and concise both lyrically and musically. There are some old songs that we play a lot that still sound fresh to me, like “The Roots and the Ruins” and “If You Can Hold Your Breath”. I like those songs because they always sound like we just wrote them, and they seem to grow with us. [So, I searched up the lyrics for those songs, being selected as representational of personal artistic success word-wise, and, I am disappointedly disappointed. They’re goopy, they are. Still, it should be remembered (by me) that this whole thing began as an appreciation of the man’s lyrics. And that brings up another, very compelling to me, question: how do all those things that get taped and stapled onto the words when they are lyrics—melody, tone, timber, inflection, volume, rhythm, emotion, attitude, etc. and so forth quite lengthily if you want—affect the way we hear them, how we ascertain their aesthetic value, how we assign meaning and import, how we feel them. And, as has especially been the case with this black-belt musical wordster, how does our hear bits and pieces rather than every word in order and broken into discrete lines—how does that phrase here, turn of word there, that plucking and ducking, that happens when we listen to a song that we inevitably—either due to our own inattentivity or the singer’s inarticulation or any other reason in the myriad of plaus- and poss-ibles—won’t hear and understand completely. What kind of reading is that, what is it’s theory, how does it operate on our feeling for those words, our connection to or reception from them? I find lit-geeking along and across these multi-disc- lines pretty interesting.]

Been thinking today about good lyricists (Karate guy got me doing it) and, how freakin’ good the good ones are—to rival the well established, published, and respected lit-geek writers—who my favorites are, and how that short list is pretty much the same as my short list for artists/musicians in general, which may immediately strike you as an obvious, requisite, given but it’s not: Kiss fans can’t claim that kind of alignment, nor do they care, and it doesn’t mean they have poor taste or that Kiss doesn’t excell in other areas (sex, merchandising, image, and putting on the party fever to name four right off the top of my head). And it’s all the more amazing when you love the music and the lyrics as well, and realize that those are two separate talents and it’s incredible andmaybe not fair at all that they get so much of both all in one person at the same time. Could even break the music talent into two parts: the ear, the gift of writing a good song with hooks and catchy hit-making melodies, or moving melodies, or both, and then the technical skill, the mechanical ability to pick the guitar fast and accurate like that as the fingers on your other hand bend and contort over steel digging strings in unnatural and impressive ways, and then recording equipment, and so on. Sometimes the level of talent just blows me away.

Let’s list the lyricists we like not least:
- Jeff Mangum
- PJ Harvey
- Leonard Cohen
- Modest Mouse feller, whatever his name is

And now this Karate dude seems eligible, gonna go read some stuff right now and report back………Well, my verdict isn’t much of one: sometimes that cat hits high ghihs, lovely good stuff, but sufficiently other times, he sounds like one of those psuedo-intellectual trying too hard to not try poets that get all abstracky and dense and meaninglessy (and, yes, I’m talking about myself as much as anyone—I have been known). Yeah, anyway, he just doesn’t always pull it off, but sometimes he does.

And more as an honorable mention—because don’t know other stuff and this one is plain but wise, so not super artsy creative—is the John Legend. Like that Ordinary People business.

Good god of the digital age—it would be like the dude that pushes the big ball up the hill perpetually——that is SO exactly what the web is all about———a lot of grunt & strain that’s never done, never there, and good enough. But hell boy R.D., I just spent I don’t know how many fucking hours—pretty much all day as it’s suddenly ‘bout midnight somehow—just working on the presentation/design of my two (mostly the Off) blogs, which I’m now confused and feeling a little bad about. Confused because in with those bad feelings are really good feelings, and some of the bad are because it’s the nature of the beast, but a good bit of bad because I should have a) used the time more wisely, and b) been quicker and better with the HTML seein’ as how that’s been my profession for top notch high-payin (& falutin’) Global 500 (oh, yes I did) clients. And I’m that inefficient and sucky and having to—oh, this is great, embarrassing example/confession this one here—look up the order of margin&padding attributes. For the records they go top, right, bottom, left. Nice ‘n’ clockwise easy. After all the time of focused and dedicated work effort (and that’s definitely part of the good feelins, the detail, focus, don’t stop til it’s totally 100% done no matter how back aches, eyes glaze, et al—good job, man) I really didn’t get all that much done. No major redesign, new template, layout—no, nothing worthy of such a time suck as that—just minor tweaks, adjustments, additions, fixes, etc. And here we’ve arrived at the core/crux of my confusion, because all that’s even lamer when you consider the following two things (aka clinchers): 1) how much less important relatively the look—however pretty, snappy, artsy, reflective or augmenting of the content it is—is compared to the content, and that not only do I have some to write/record before it’s forgotten and lost but the mounds and reams of written content that I’d like to and should be entered—so, way more content work to do, and that work is also way more a priority, and 2) the fact that I’m doing all this on Blogger, after I’ve spent money on a domain, hosting, and software that goes unused as long as I continue to use blogger—wasting my money and a software package and set-up that is way better, more powerful & versatile, AND looks better (not having that little banner dealy at the top), PLUS, all this work will just make migrating that much harder and will have to be redone in that process. And if I’m not going to get content in, I could at least get MT configured and set-up, but I’m not only not doing that, I’m making that configure & set-up more complicated. Brilliant. And all for very little effect in the end.

But then again, design is muchly in the details. And, I’m really happy with the results—a lo-fi, textjam ala [neighme] Carson (no, not necessarily original, but I think pretty well done) with cool found snips of text from various sources. And the design needed to be done and refined at somepoint. And now I have a blueprint for what I want in MT, which will help that process and also inform some decisions re importing,etc. And I figure I’ll keep the blogger stuff where it is after move, with a ‘hey, we’ve moved, check us out at atribology.net’ notice/link, as way to make proj more accesible, gen more viewers, etc. so that work has to be done there. And Off went a long time with virtually no layout, treatment, etc. now both are up and going and looking good, which will help content be paid attention to (when/if anybody ever comes, but I’m not going to work on that till I’m ready—after move at least), cuz for all the content inthe world you could put on there, if it’s a shit hole, andlooks like a shithole, people will think it’s a shithole, and will treat it like a shithole. (to some degree, anyway). And content, is a never ending job. This I got done (phase I—still stuff to be done but at good point). Very satisfying.

But damn, so much time! I’d change a font and that would fuck everything up, then decide to do it differently, then couldn’t figure out why it was doing x or not y, jesus.

+5

Max finally came by and/to check/ed me. I invited him up which he was (seemingly contrarily) down with. When up said good because somebody down there watching & looking. That I’d thought of, and my lazy, and my weird and tiny interest in getting into people’s spaces or them into mine—what doesn’t belong fits well enough, is the triumph, I guess. I verb him back to the room with me while I look for money. How many you got, I ask as I blankly look from mantle, to bed, to jacket pockets and back. Lots, he ways. I chuckle like this, heh, whatever I want, eh—yuh, just like so. and with utmost breeze and levity I indicate that it’ll be 5, let’s make it 5, why not? He hands, asks if we’re straight, I affirm positively (that’s a popular but redundant coupling there, isn’t it?) and let him out. Then snap, crackle, and pop to high heaven.

My motivation wanes and changes when I don’t smoke. Not just when I’m not high, but when I’m not doing it, part of my life, not regular, whatever. This opposite conventional wisdom & expectations that would have the drucks making you unmotivated. Actually, does make me less concerned, interested, uptight, attentive whatever to less important stuff that i with my anal detail etc personality spend too much time and energy and care on. So that demotivation, decaring good. and conversely, stuff most interested in i become more interested, motivated, focused on, etc. e.g. writing. People. new explorations. etc. projects. Then I stop and start 1, not caring about or doing anything and it’s not just a withdrawal thing, i can feel difference, kind of thing it is (not to say withdrawal—not necessarily literal—doesn’t have any/some effect, but is more than that at least). Sucky. Then also another reason why sometimes feel that way us drugies do that it’s replaceing missing ingredient. Becaue that’s the person I want to be, really am more. So why that when high? aeihhhh

+6

Walkin’ up St.J like I do. Three guys 1/3 back off corner, hear the ksht deep of Nokia walkies. Seems like they’re (or one/a/the leader) is checking clearance, safety up around corner, i.e. no cops coming or looking). They glance up at me as approach, which in that ‘hood—where an innocent friendly how are you, good morning, even hey is often met with silence—means something. One turns, hey, what’s up, how you doin’? You got something for me? Yeah, what you need. Six. Sixty. (keep walking slow, to see how they want to do). Yo, roll up here. One interacting points to one of others who pulls out little zip bag of bags. Hands to me nonchalent, open (got the okay around corner). That six? Yeh. That sixty? Yeh. Interacter puts sly something in hand. Not sure at first but go with. It’s business card.

**1st: dealer’s business card! Love it! Says: “C.E.O. of G.M.E./Raw Roots/or/Mike/(718)-[stet]678-2***/(718)-598-2***”

My number he helpfully explains (somehow my detest for adverbial writing finds exception in crack copping anecdotes where adverbs—especially their wholesome pollyannan control—seem to be a prickly funny contrasting maple syrup grenade of irony) as I look down to the extra goodie passed to my cupped at my military side hand. Oh, yeah, good, —a response from my having just needed such a thing. You come to Park Slope? We’re all cashzj on the surface but these things are a little frantic underneath. White boys don’t chat with the local coloreds. (even were they to want such intercourse, it would likely be roundly rejected) so the whole thing ticks like a timebomb. in that he must think I’m confused or doubtful because he says You know me. You know my face. Lift his hat to prove it somehow/why, yeh, yeah, do you drive? yeah, yeah, cool. i leave.

corner for pipe. they’ve moved my lemon-lime gatorade. as I’m getting my para in a brown bag there’s a guy next to me fiddling with plastic in a newport box and the young (19?) arab boy attendent is telling him not in here, take it outside, and guy is complaining/grumbling that it’s empty. during this his friend, a guy i recognize, turns to me and lights up, throws eyebrows up to hairline and past to the ceiling, & says something like we’re tight, that handshake that you pull in to bump or almost bump shoulders almost like ghetto hug or like tipping of hat version of male too cool hug for the homie, then awkard fingers coming apart & search-wondering if we’re going for final lock, or no,

**1st: big happy phys ghetto greet

he wanders out, I’m choking in my gatorade, he pauses at door, i’m good i say but he’s already asking if I changed my clothes—ah, yes, of course, my new best friend from last night. no, i laugh self-effacingly (!, crack stories with [adverbial] self-effacement rule!). same clothes. different jacket he yells pointing at it/me. nope. something different,the hat or something. yes the hat. yeah. i leave he turns part & raises an expecting look. i’m good. you good? i’m still walking. yeah. he calls out something like I ain’t gonna help my dog, or i’m going to fuck my boy or something beastial or pedo. he’s smiling but bummed about lost business. if it was another situation (i.e. legal) I would have yelled back that he should’ve given me a number when I asked for it. I woulda called. & paid transpo (if asked). I shrug, smile,armsout. and head up and into livery lincoln.

(pertinent: paraphernalia by piece, not packaging or parts)

- 25 spent lighters, incl. 1 decorated w/ airbrush style dolphin in sunset scene, 1 w/ flames & ‘bikers’, 1 w/ US flag

- 21 overused glass tube pipes, 12 of which broken, 8 at one end, 4 at both, + various sized bits & pieces of glass

- 10 loose screen pairs

- 2 empty Winston lights boxes & foils

- 1 wire pusher/scraper made from key ring

- 1 pusher (paintbrush acting as)

- 1 half candle stick

- 1 empty tea light tin

- 1 herbal sleeping remedy in capsule form

- 1 Tylenol PM

- several ragged tissues used to conceal, cool, protect, hold, etc.

- many, many, many torn baggies of various sizes: some ziplock, some tied, some green, some blue, some clear

- lots of tobacco and crack crumbs of unusable size

[All from indeterminate date, not complete from that date, & date is small portion of time back & using. Wonder what the numbs would be if complete since NYC return?!]

The words I wanted to hear. Not I love you. Not how are you. Just I’ll check you. Max’s way of saying, I’ll come swing by your place with your medicine. I got your prescription on file. I know just what you need. I’ve got it in stock. Relief is on it’s way.

But he didn’t answer.

My other delivery guy’s number gives way to the recorded voice of a soulless woman who tells me over and over without a hint of irritation or impatience that the customer I am trying to reach is unavailable at this time…and that time…and this time… But she’s wrong. I am the customer.

Rich doesn’t answer.

I say I told you so about the guy who sold me earlier, said he should give his number, then when asked, said next time.

I want more because I feel like I got a little cheated out of my fun with it, working as I was through mostmostmost of it on the MT migration. Now I want fun.

And I don’t want to walk. I’m spoiled these days. Used to be I’d go and wander streets for hours to find a friendly face and a pain-in-the-ass hook-up. Now even a direct go-and-get is too much. I want it delivered. But now! Not so slowly, man. No dilly dallying. Can you come now. I’ll make it 80, tell me, ‘cuz if not, I’ll go to Crown Heights. But I don’t get that opportunity to be demanding bitchy joneser client.

I bide my time, tell myself I should sleep—that 9:30 is a great time to go to sleep, get to bed, still make my plans with C. later on (who I think may be feeling neglected, and whom I feel should be a more utilized friend), that more will just be first more, will get endless at least into tonight late—keep myself occupied with ridiculously pathetic new lows in futile desperation (this is not a trivial occupational achievement)::

It starts with the pulling of the mesh roll, putting it on the wire held in one hand, glass held in teeth and lips, lighter in other hand well below partially unraveled screen. This, as is sometimes the case, is effective in unleashing the last bunkered-down, clingy enclave of billowing goodness which I Hoover up detachedly, and which conventional methods fail to accomplish. But success depends on several factors, which I know, and which are not likely to exist in any significant way in present trash-heap potentials. I proceed regardless. Heedless, even.

What that means in real terms is my taking out of every old crapilicious pipe, extracating the already charcoaled nub(bin), pulling open same to release black dust upon fingers, pants, and bed at least, sometimes catching it on fire, sometimes respirating black brackish smoke, often getting nothing nowhere, couple times getting excitement and signals I can’t keep up with or get all, and ending up with a mess. All while, specks usually and previously poo-pooh pshawed are picked and loaded. This is a long enough process whose dividends barely, if not quite questionably, stand-up to the drain. (see relevant numbs in following post) As if

that wasn’t enough, I loosely rolled back against the grain, pinched, and twisted the crustiered among the grills, stuffed them back in the gummiered/chalkiered/residoodyered of the stems, and smoked again. This, as the story goes, most often produced harsh effects and feelings at the back of my throat, and G-Force coughs to raise the floorboards and Jericho the walls to a passed out prone around me. One brought a loogie-loafette to my mouth, and not wanting it there, I spit it on my bed. On my bed. My own bed. At the very foot, opposite end of my sitting, mind out—I thought it out split-secondy like—but still.

I smoke my shit down to beyond nothing in the first place. Here I double recycled. This is an extreme sport. (Sport as in psychosis. You know.) Finally it’s, as if never it was before, time to hit the sidewalk. Hail me a cab and maybe a Mary for good measure.

+6

[Either I’ve become immune, or this shit’s shit. Done burned through two dimes just like that (vizjh.you.all ade: raised hand, finger snapping gesture) lickety split, and all I got wud enough energy to putteringly attend to a little siberspacekeeping with minor mods/imps here & there…]

as in/s tex-mex refried beans>
am-per recooked leaves (american-peruvian)
am-col (-colombian)
cali-cali ’ ’ (state, city)
brook-ota ’ ’ (borough, city)
etc,

+4

Always interesting to me when (some-)thing/s so opposite [they’re] (almost) the same. E.g. found in how I wanted to begin this post: “Funny [(and/)/or whatever word means not at all funny] how earlier, before start of night night, I was going to post about how this is classic (for me) time (when gone good &straight for couple-3 days, have weekend ((esp. beginning/Friday)), need to catch up with writing or tasks/project related to important focus, etc.) for backsliding. And how almost wanted/would write that it’s all lost (though wasn’t yet at that point—& taking steps that were strong &unusual-to-unprecedented in small way to avoid—but knew probable outcome based on pattern). —so much of this is cliche/old hat, but cliches can repeat/play out to/in new levels of intensity— Felt secure because of new (again, again) low, newly threatening low (job), & neglect of other importances, + gen./extreme tiredness (phys &meta4ically), & because longest gone (&easiestly) without since this beginning/bout: Monday 7ish AM to Saturday 2ish Am = 4.75ish days clean which is longest in over two months (since Thursday March 18th—62ish days). . K, here I go getting Chief Long Windish again…so, quickerish: + other, newer (stronger) factor of feeling older, so not able/needing/liking as much to keep up, appropriateness, & ready/wanting/needing (saviorishly) to take up new lifestyle/stance of maturity/productivity/familiyty, etc. But then not only that feel more confident, also feel less black &white, less extreme, less crucial, more situational & dependent on amount, how, when, etc. e.g. so, classically, go from “never, ever again, no way, any way, no how” to “well, a little on weekend, occasionally, for right reasons, controlled, in moderation, okay—maybe even preferrable.”

Plus, oddly, after so much sleep all week (8+ hour bednights Mon-Thurs), tired today. Most all out of office, &despite new motivation to be worth pay, say job, etc. feeling unmotivated, sluggish, inefficient even when trying, but still stay past 6ish. & Just wanting to come home &go to bed. Did that. Nod off on train as ALWAYS do now from sleepless crack days through reform, sleep whole way even when not super tired. Walk in, &—here’s where I catch up to beginning—though wanting badly—&also having kind of post that this whole exercise/project set up for, the checking in, getting self-support, expressing to diffuse, etc.—to post & having plenty of time &enough (though not a lot) energy but lacking enough that I didn’t want to/do it—I just laid right down in bed with all clothes & jacket on, minus only shoes, to nap.

Was in love with LS, that red star, which is another story. Suffice nutshell chrono here/now: while still very w/ ex, found &admired design & location (CI), was going to gift to ex but didn’t somewhy, on list, checkin’ site occasionally, come back from N. at going-away shindig to G. &D./She comes, turns out friend of J., good convo, but coked, & leaving, 1 or 2 after emails, then back &today roller derby leads me back, she designs for, send ‘hello’, writes back enthusiastic reply w/ invites & j. said you’re back. Cute but not hot, but so respect tastes and strength and what does, &am desirous to in love based on little, & like fact that like looks but much more &always into aesthetic & business acumen &drive/initiative & who is from a far, separate, &believe that 1) that is what need to love/stay w/ woman (respect, respect, awe, etc.), plus, maybe 2) relationship like that (solid, demanding, interesting, place for me maybe somehow) could be type that will save (in sense not of outright jesusing, but giving new focus, direction, requiring, etc.). So thinking of going to see her at Burlesque Fest down street (love BKLYN) if/when rested.

But had all wrong. Buzzing of vibrating phone on mantel. Almost didn’t get it. Turns out R., & plans for roller derby not tomorrow as thought but tonight. Hafta get up &go.

Cool to be in Bronx.

Cool to be with R.

Cool to see rollerderby & live old school punk rock. V. nostalic.

Skates like beer goggles: make all ladies look lusciouser. Especially the so cute Rolletta Lynn. &Suzy Hot Rod, star jammer & leader/guitarist of Lady Unluck. Hot. (Then imag. working out again, perfect, respect, hot, &engaged not just drinking/drugging, but younger, wilder—not that have chance, but if did have opportunity, good for me or not? Puzzling.)

(Meantime, P. on mind: briefly—& acknowledgedly vague/mysteriously—odd, serendipitous/ub-conincidentalous,etc. result of flipuninvested cl ad for hang with strong, intelligent, independent latina. Ends up 1 response, G.-Am in G. working with unions, knows my peeps down there, cool, 28, sexy wild into trying strap-on fantasy action. finally get photo today. Thick as imagined, but pretty, unexpectedly indigenous features. Very. Cool also considering connection, &past attractions, & exoticness, but blow-away hot. Also to my joke responded with sharing okay. So, cool, satisfy some kink, some ethnic shit, no big—but won’t be here until Aug?)

So. Hit uptown on down after event, showing R. StoryCorps, &he’s into, agrees to do with me. Will make appt. after this. Hit Siberia, hit Bellevue, hit Sub-tonic, tired, anxious, want drugs more and more, make excuse, cab, call Max, msg., call other del guy nameless (immediate system msg not avail), redirect to CH, but don’t have money, walk past cop car open doors, four people on block—all—say “what’s up” but I need money, machine not working in stor (145 or so, would had to give card & pin but demand receipt to know not ripped off—sketchy), one guy like “My boy, don’t know me?” bookbag guy, goes with me to gas station, I get cash, we exchange, I livery back here. Anxious to catch-up (for her as much as anything) with P. Make this entry. Now do new Movable Type plat, see if can.

Disappointing, but fun. Taste already nostalgic. Should have seen me come in house. Beeline for pipes. Not even take off coat, nothing. Hit up & immediately, before exhaling, rigging up computer. Funny. Or not. Maybe opposite.

The story continues now on The Branching…

a great depeche mode song. and the one that should be my soundtrack theme song now. well, starting, i guess, when I leave for work, because for sure at that point I won’t still be trying to smoke a charred and mangleated shrunken head of a screen pair. fucky, i’m already missing and wanting and wishing , pining, dreaming of sixty-nining…what?

sometimes you just have to entertain yourself, the rest y’all be damned.

So, yeah, yippee, things are done and/or finished around here and elsewhere. Goals have been met. Crack has been smoked. In fact, the crack is one of the done and finished items, damn it. Am I ready? Well, I have resin do burn until I drag my burnt ass into the office in a few hours. Fucking 4:33am. I was so set and planning on a good night’s rest to get the week started off right there. I think I would have done it if I’d not moved into late after noon with laundry, install, and misc staring me in the face. And the install was more important than the sleep. I made that decision. Sure, it’s overblown, but you don’t know; the little piece of premium personal CMS ass just might save my life and make it worth living (again?). MmmNm…

So. Yes. Movabletype is installed nice and neatly on one of my hosting provider’s servers with DNS pointing to atribology.net. It’s nice to see it there without major install hassle as does happen. And it was significant really and symbolically a litte in that it got me all set up to try my blog away 24/7 project. Clean break, start, and all that.

Then what are you doing here? Well, I got to get it all set-up first and I have to learn the system, which I don’t think is super complicated and challenging but much more than this here.

But, yeah, it’s a little ironic to spend all that time getting MT in and going, and then immediately go back to read and post in the old freebie blog…I actually may keep it up for a while yet, depending how long the setup takes.

I really really wanted to get the Movable Type install done this weekend, before returning to work on Monday. Down the the wire, maybe even the wire’s core, a short-burning Edson filament…who knows…the point is, it looks like I just might make it. Barely. I made a goal. and am about to accomplish that goal. I haven’t had that feeling in quite a while, and perhaps never mixed with the loving good feeling of my baby crack, that little hard hearted whore, what did I expect? But I love her anyway. I will always love her, even if we can’t be together. (Hey, fuck you; it’s true. This thing is based on all honesty and won’t work with…what is it?…popsych’s favorite bandy-about?…denial. Yes, that’s it.

True to the carefully deliberate spirit of the CrackOnCrack blog as well as it’s prescribed method—that ALL activity from technical to creative to administrative, to editorial, and so on, be done while on crack—and actual execution, Moveable Type is now as I type (still as yet regrettably and embarrassingly fixedly, but not for long if I and WS_FTP have anything to do with it) being installed under my care and guidance in a quite “high-on-crack” state. Oooo, isn’t that dangerous? a lovely young girl in the audience hiccups out. I gurrgle back. Perfectly.

No, what I really do in lady-less situations such as the present, is I click some dirs and send them on their FTP way over to the server and then wait because once I know they made it there safely, I’m a gona CHMOD their little unsuspecting asses and see how they like that, huh? How does one (esp. a crackhead in his final hours of suchhood, if he is to be successful in his quitting endeavor) best pass time like that? The time between an FTP-powered gesture of generosity with the world, and the socially responsible sweeping and egalitarian granting of read and write privileges across the mother’f’in board, I tell you. What? By heating up a pebble, I say. That’s how! As long as it’s not after you decided to quite, what you do—the way I like to do it, anyway, and am rcommending you do , too, is, see, I Do a little thing, smoke a little thing. It makes perfect sense, and shimmers with wonderful, delightable symmetry—almost like a college student might were he or she good at both math AND English!

Back to my goals, you pithy distractor!

+3 (paid for two. M kept me waiting a long time.)

Themser the last, is the plan.

I’m suckingthem down, keeping

one for installation.

Little OT & Off Topic, but I just got to get this off my chest:

iTunes is suck-ass shit software.

It matters because it’s so not what I expect of Apple.

Let the others make the suck suck soup while you, Apple of/in my i,

stew

, baby, stew.

“Oh, why might it be different this time d-boy daddy-o?”

— A Deathtime Story by The Dange
N.B. I do deliver the data. Did you doubt?

1 - Precisely because it’s not a climactic-dramatic Down-Deep-In-The-Damaging-Dumps-Disaster-and Destruction-Deliver-The-Delinquent-From-Delerium-To-Dawn type situation.
[ed.note:I’ve said it gefore and I’ll say it again, just to be doubley-sure and thorough about not risking personal or professional embarrassment: this little alliterative tic, as daftly demonstrated above, hehe, just may be the sole way in which the drug conflicts/contradicts with this user’s personality, and forces him to do things he would not ordinarily or otherwise do, and for which he remains mindful, self-conscious, and duly silly for the next day and beyond, depending on the severity of that particular episode. In other words, yo, that’s the crack talkin’ man.]

I have a nascent (i.e./more like unproven) theory, previously broached paperwise, that those big motivating moments are cheating and artificial anyway. When they fade, the reasons to toe the squiggle fade, too. A guy’s gotta want to change the daily grind, the pattern, has to destain and desist even the relatively harmless soirees, the outings not so bad, the dilly-dally. When it ALL has to stop, it can all then stop. I’m there. Plus/But in a way that’s lower than I’ve ever been. Like that old grade school joke lead-in: What’s lower than low? Grosser than gross? Me. I have arrived. But in a continual, can’t just write off a bad night, or one bad choice kind of way. Take work as one benchmark. I’ve underperformed plenty. But never to the point of tension with the bosses and their having each other “keep an eye on me” (don’t think I had the energy to write that one up, just that it was kinda ugly at the end of last week). Financial troubles? I’ve got them. Before it was a hell of a lot of wasted dough, but never major debt. Never just not paid a bill and had a service shut off. Never before possessed continuously visible damage to my physical body (exterior) (thumb). Never pretty much went a work week without sleeping. Those were vacation days before. Never had a hard time getting high/smoked to feel normalish, interested, etc. And so on. and on and on and on. Time out! But with not catastrophic precipitating event. I think that’s key. And ironic key. And we are the Irony Gen/Gin.

2) document.write.this.rightHere == “The Other”;

A Quick Disclaimer: I kinda snottily disdain some/much of the blog phenom. They’re often better than the original version: Here Is My Home Page! Come to it. Look at it. Link to it forevermore…But there’s alot of boredom still, a lot of ego, a lot of reasonless uselessness, a lot of just plain simple general disregard for humanity (yeah, in blogging, man!), a lot of desperation and lostedness, and weak signals from the Identity Relay Tower, a lot of “hey, lemming do one too, can I do one? can I make it like yours? i like yours. and now i count too. count pagehits, unique visitors, transfer bytes, XML’ed bits of technocorporation. There’s sheer excess. There’s blunt sillyness….So, naturally I’d be reluctant, and then goofy feeling inside, and not more than a bit embarrassed. But it fits here and now, and it’s a good idea, my idea for how it might work and why. And, hey, I realized in the process of investigation that I’ve been rockin’ a (totally rockin’) DIY homebrew blog for over 3 years now? (I’m not good with these things, memories.) with a fancier concept and (if fancier minimalism computes) presentation scheme. So there. I’m a veteran. I’m OG. Or, not quite…

[Quick Drug Check-In: I totally just thought my phone was having an epileptic seizure. I mean, I keep it on vibrate and I figured somebody was calling, but it was a seizure (no, not a vibrating phone nor a sex toy nor a communitcative sex toy device with Bluetooth technology… that it recalled. At this point, this binge is not out of the ordinary. Aww shucks, I’d even go so far as to say it’s downright old hat. And I feel okay. But the visual disturbances are…well…disturbing. There’s little to no call for that kind of behavior, you eyes. That’s what I say anyway. But plead your case little necessary ones. I see a possible in on the cumulation tip.]

Harkening back to the earlier complication post, I feel like I could really nuance out a fanning of diferentially shaded reasons surrounding the blog-dive I’m taking but I’ll attempt instead to challenge myself with a simple, uncluttered line of logic. Basically? Two reasons for reason number 2: It’s an activity that I will enjoy for both it’s writing and techinical aspects, and maybe the marketing/promotional ones, too. And it’s and activity that is big. Quite big. So, it’ll take a lot of time and be fun—a good big crucial help, I think (and hopey Hopi hope with a hope’on for quit success, and a fear of returning to and miring in that touristy doubledeckered hop’on, hop’off the wagontrain cycle). A distraction. With goals (ends, things needing to be accomplished). That I enjoy and have fun with (and which has a variety of interesting aspects so don’t get bored). That needs a lot of work, so it’ll keep me busy. That will end with an accomplishment that I’m proud of, and a product that I’ve wanted anyway (I’ve long long planned to key-in the notebooks—for one, just to have them like that, two, the sort of forced structured review of that material to see the whole and better understand the experiences individually—as they relate or not, differ or resonate, with the others—and collectively as a whole, for the big picture, the large format, the panorama, the IMAX. But also, and probably more importantly (despite that folksy, meritously understanding-motivated rationale I just outlined, and the ego-y, superficiality, and externalized valuing involved in this next one…), in order to evaluate (after time, at a distance, and as a whole) it’s worth/quality/stand-alone-contextless value, and from there look to see if there might not be a book (or several) embedded in that material and, if (maybe) so, try to get a sense of what kinds of shapes, sizes, and angles might it lend/bend itself to, and from there I would be better equipped to make decisions and judgements—very crucially important to me—surrounding those issues and possibilities. I have really wanted to get started on that keying-in opportunity, as, another thing! once it’s electronic it affords you the opportunity to repurpose and organize the stuff in many overlapping, interconnected, and with a nhber of variances. (You can do that cumbersomly in Word and the like, but the better bloggers like Movable Type are CMS tools built for kind of flexible, scaleable content deployment—a not insignificant push behind the upgrading I’m in the midst of now.). And that maybe, just maybe, will lead toward or help me with or motivate me toward other opportunities for writing and publishing (no unrealistic, or even realistic, hopes pinned up there on that air-headed lofty naive showcasing of one thing; but, even if I continue on with that weak and fading thought that it, of publication that it could happen, that will also help drive and motivate me—yes, self-trikery is cool AND humble. This little extended self-assignment is, as well, something that I’ll learn from. That I can do at home. That doesn’t cost money. That doesn’t put me out on the streets or in a bar, or around people that might enable me or drive me to smoke. etc. etc.etc.

All of all that is all good, well, and fantastimongo, but it’s only the half of it at most and at best, and only on a good day. Because the partner component is that I’m writing about the problem, expressing myself, working through things (whatever in the world that could mean in real life), figuring out the stuff of it, thinking about it, spending time with it, getting it out, getting it in, pondering it or a bit of it or all the world and my life in it in the process, and all of that is all important, good, well, and healing definitely and just maybe the missing ingredient in previous attempts—the facing head on, the hitting up against it, the examination, the shaping and classifying, opinionating, just talking, talking, writing, writing, letting it move, giving it air, exposure, and sun.

I really resist the idea of writing as therapy (for me, it is and should be first and foremost art rather than therapy, though I do recognize certain legitimate ways that professionals and individuals an gain therapeutic value from it—that I do not deny. It’s when that’s the daily approach, the primary conception of writing, what it is, how it works, and their relationship to it—there, in all that and those realms…chirp) AND I have serious doubts about the value of professional counselling FOR ME. I’ve had a hard time finding someone who took me seriously, who was interested, who seemed to try, who didn’t make me almost bust out in a fit of loud laughter at his or her expense, who wasn’t a tad cliche and predictable. So. There. But then I think maybe I need some externally directed, and formally scheduled and blocked kind of thereapy. Not the ad hoc bar after work kind of therapy. And, well, if I need it I need it. Or could use it, I’m down with it. But who knows what I need? I certainly don’t. I do not claim to be any sort of an expert on myself. And so that’s another part of the problem. I can’t help them becaue I’m so continuously and unavoidable equivocal, and if I don’t understand me, is there anyway they have a spider’s jacket chance in hell? And there’s the search and the money and the stigma and the forms… But if I need it?… Isn’t it all worth it? Yeah, but who knows? I’m not a gambler like that or with that shit…[oops, sorry, i’m rambling]

Answer? Thera-blog! Cheap! Available! Perhaps just as annoying, at lest in the start up phase, possibilties thereafter. I think going through will help me understand my weakness, see my patterns more clearly, feel more intensively the cumulative loss from my using, get a better more accurate long-term balnce sheet and evaluate if necessary.

Less obviously, more subtley, and much more dificult for me to discribe, but the aspect/operation I think may be most impacting, transforming; This one is a real difference, I think. And it’s a bit sota weird so stay with me here: Little BKGRND 1st> My quit strategies and steps, generally fall into one of two totally opposite tactic sets/approaches:: either you do things to assist you, make it easier, help you resist temptation, decrease exposure, do positive healhty proactive things as substitues, etc. and I think that’s all good stuff, but some’s all the prevention does little more than keep my mind on my desire, my lack, my struggle, the effort, and difficulty and lack of fun woven in around all that, and it drives me crazy and I just HAVE to have a cigarette to the point of getting increasingly anxious until I do. It’s not always like that. Sometimes you can use all the help you can get. And it does help, even if only placebotically (yeah, I made that word up just now on the fly, heh). But it backfires (or simply does’ work,or I don’t…whatever) about as often.

The other tactic is the exact opposite and consists of just doing noting at all, don’t think about it, don’t make a big deal out of it, don’t talk aboutit, don’t change your routine, and if you get a craving or temptation simply kick it right out of your head, shoo fly, fshoo. YOu don’t make a big deal of it, so it does’t become a big deal, where as sometimes the more you resist and deal with the desire, the more you are aware of it and let it grow, becaaue, hey, you’re a real smoker and this is suposed to be damn hard, right? I want to earn my ssripes. I want people to know of my great suffering… So, yeah, simple, breezy, whatever. Don’t even give it a second (of) thought. But, then, the drawback to that is, well, a few: you don’t tell your frined so they not only cannot support you in your efforts but they can’t avoid risky behaviors like offering you one, or asking you to buy them a pack or whatever. Also, it might leave you unprepared and/or unpracticed at coping techniques in a crucial moment that caught you unawares and therefore defenseless. Also, and maybe the biggest factor, is that without ay sort of ceremoney, or documentation, or evidence of the war, it might not yet feel started or for real or if those, justnot a big deal. Something you can slip into and out of with inconspicuous ease. And since you have’t tried so much, losing that effort ot a slip is not an inhibiting factor. Okay, this is getting long, sorry…

The Tribology addresses both these pitfalls, by combinging the two extreme and seemingly incompatible tactics, and in a way tha doesn’t defusse them of their power but actually energies them on a new front. Because. Okay, I’m going to try to wrap this up succinctly now and bring it all together without dragging out the drugged out any further.: Tribology is a proactive technique, a simple one, and all-encompassing one, but not superficial, in fact, a root full-on fearless attack, or merely distracting. In other words, it is in all ways the ideal tool and technique. And yet, it has elements of the do nothing technique. Because to begin with, it’s something that you’ve wanted to do forever, for its own sake, and would have eventually done it whether you quit smoking or not. So, it’s actually not a smoking cessation device at all! (Oops, Ikeep saying smoking when I mean that, or crack, or in general, or as a mentaphor [stet].) And it’s not deployed or employed in certain moments of need, i.e. stratigically. It doesn’t consider or respond to temptation. It just always occupies your time,, which itself is a technique but it often fails because it’s constructed, artificial, and even in the beginnign before you’ve run out fo things to do, it felt like and effort. This no. And won’t run out, theoretically, ever! Don’t want to beat a dead horse or anything dead for that matter, so let me just say that the Tribology is a technique that workseffectively on all prevention levels, without dwelling on it, or being in direct (or indirect) conflict with anyting anybuddy. It hits all points, including price, without your ever even admittingyou’re quitting, or doing a damn other thing about the big event. We’ll see how it goes.

Hey, maybe just the mere fact of the massive time I’m guessing it will rquire, Iwill be so sick of the subject I will never want to touch it or be around it again, physically or metaphorically seaking.

At one point in the weekend, must have been this morning, my bedroom, especialy my bed, played host to quite a funny scene. I think I posted bits y/o ‘bouts of it this earlier; now I’d like to the the cubist version of it. But I feel like I got to hit on so many things, wrap up a couple, finish the install, fire one off to Prairie, pick-up my sweater, and generally stink up the place while I see my cell phone on the floor plugged into this charger cord and vibrate to my imaginary calls forward into the form of a snake just stuffed a mouse in it’s mouth, ribs still pokeing through the scales. Now we both, you and I, both of us know full damn well that it’s these freakin’ wordy asidey, tangential derailings that eat through all our time so that at the end of the writeday, the basic facts of my life lie etherly while this etherealish dog vomit thoroughly cranny-stains and nook-putrifies the reaches of all recordable media within my grasp. This could be good or bad. These episodes are (like?) Pelig’s Personal Cocaine-and-Cocaine-Derivatives K-Hole Equivalency which makes little sense to anybody outside of him, i.e. everybody but him and sometimes him too, and which to him are all swirly and beautiful. Could that really be such a bad thing? Could go either way. Gotta play my cards, right. Need the economy to cooperate. Need the children’s prayers. … Need to shut-up.

What I was going/trying to sa y wa/is that instead of the cubist mural of words for the bedplace like I’d like to do, I’ll just hit a couple notes here and move on.
- As stage seting, let me just say that belongings were EVERYwhere, and that anybody who knows me knows me knows that I got like a grid system set up for my shite so that it’s always neat and tidy. Fallout chic is not my chic. Beer spilled, ashes finding floor more often than trays, drawers hanging open and stuff hanign out of them, backpack…none of that is interesting exept insofar as you know how uncharacterisitkc it is een on the most hungover of days, or whatever would keep me from teat and nidying [sic]
- Okay, now we stick on up to the gleamy glints and the glinty gleams off the brushy rectangles of my (first-)(post-)Cubist rendering: The door 1/3 of the bed was stacked up and had the shet pulled back up over. Other 2.3, bare gray fitted sheets. That wide flat matte plain is important to me because everything else (of my gonzaGleams) are color contrasts::
* The Twin Milky Blasts (better than ‘splash’!): Not necessarily by design, but it was eventually apparrent that the plains were home to two major incursions/settlements. When the dust settles, so to speak, these were no more than two sizable radii of the speckley white micro-gravel
* The Sweet Suffocation Stations: In the outer rings of the above, in little satellite scatterings and junkyard piles, were the, surprising huge (well, relatively to their size and potency in the first place) to even me, trash heaps of little torn open micro ziplock bags. Beyond the impressive accumulation of them, their sheer numbers, were the colors in their combinations. Beautiful! There were pink bagetties, some in a darkish teal green, others were clear. Did I pile up a couple blues too? If any at all, not many, but they would have definitely made great accents, as did the speckle-splash sprinkles of the crack crumbs, some still embedded inside the plastic, making for interesting opacities. In the end, they were two nicely muted medical accumulations over the white starbursts, and with the gray behind. I might be overdoing it, but it did look good. Now, in between those in various angles and alignments and scatterbrains throughout the day, were the lighters. My new back the flame off the goods technique lately burns through a lighter even faster. I’d started with a few odds ‘n’ ends of them at various gas levels out and about on and in a variety of surfaces and locations. These were quickly rounded up and depleted, forcing me to turn to and rummage through my trashy junkie museum garbage bag collection for a handful of already burned to the bone disposables. I was just too damn lazy to walk the half a block for a new one. I know I wrote this already. Sorry. God! No. So, basically, I was rotating through 10 dead lighters, barely getting by. It was more difficult to hobble along crippled like that all day than it would have been to walk downstairs. but that wasn’t then, nor is now, the point. The point is the addition of bright and various colors of plastic, and, again, the sheer numbers. Who sits down and employs 10 Bic and generic lighters at a time. (It kind of works because after sitting for awhile, the flame will recharge just an itty bitty touch and then fall drastically again to a nubbin in about a second. It was kind of funny, and difficult to keep track of who or which was next, and frustrating when I picked up one that was still utterly useless, not having recharged that poquito yet, and then another like it, and another. Okay, this has gotten and ended up a tit longish so let me nutshell it (and leave instructions fior how you should interpret/read it all):

Funny/Impressive/Pretty/Pathetic:
Lots and lots and lots of a) crack crumbs, b) torn-open crack bags, and c) lighters, accented by four extremely used (Cajun blackend tips, with honey-brazed centers) crack pipes, my stretched key-ring scraper/pusher combo, and, of course, my beloved artist’s paint brush pusher. Quite a scene. I was going to take a photo. Thought of it at a few points, but never a juncture. Always mid-something. And now it’s all cleaned up! Hooray!

Sometimes—and this is not the first time I’ve picked up this thread—it’s simply the little seeming contradictions that are the high, the unexpectednesses, the unfamiliar combo meal, the image not yet worn and tready. Like what? Oh…I don’t know…like…a crackhead—yes, cracked out throughout, as the motto goes—doing his laundry. And then at home, hanging his shirts with snappy, deliberate concern. And then attending to the bed, shaking out the sheets over the mattress, smoothing out the wrinkles with an open palm, his lighter-torn and -discolored thumb catching on the nap. It’s kind of tender, isn’t it?

But really. That is certainly not why I smoke crack—to generate/fabricate/facilitate these odd mixes—okay, I probably do smoke for a complex nexus of reasons realized and subconscious, and this little fringe, if you’re taking every little thing into account, must surely be suffocating somewhere in that dog pile, sure. But I smoke first, always, and forever because I enjoy it. By ‘it,’ I mean that feeling.

However: the lovely little contradictions are, I think, a major reason why I’m writing, documenting, yea, even…uh…blo…g..g.i…..n.g…. Those contras, my little lovelies, and this whole whole enterprise, for their gracing it, tuck right in neatly with one of my major…tenets…beliefs…pet peeves…points of contrarianism…issues with people and the world, helpers toward understanding and accepting, preventing and educating, waging a global nuclear peace over oceans and ‘round again…. And that is, put simply, that the world is so black and white as you think. It’s such a complicated world. The norm is not as normal as you might think. The possibilities are more numerous than we had inventoried. And they are more eager to be recognized and taken than a puppy in the window. And that, above all else and in the final analysis, There but for the grace of God go I.

We can’t afford to be smug. Anything can happyen [stet] to anyone. Everyone is capable of everything. It’s titillating and frightening as hell. Because it applies not just to the person bumping shoulders with you on the trainm but it applies to you as well. And it applies not just to you, but it applies to the person Bumpy Bump as well. And your husband, your mother, you hero, your daughter, your barber, and the zookeeper that picked up the drippley Styrofoam hot chocolate cup you dropped after you in the Natural Recreated Riparian Zone, thus saving the frog-billed tufty the cup’s sure lodgement in her throat, subsequent death, and then, of course, the extinction of the species on your hands.

Okay, I don’t want to get carrieder awayer, and I definitely don’t want to lose you, dear. You get the point. And just in case, the point is stop being so sure, don’t be so quick to make a judgement, your well guarded opionions don’t deserve that so lofty a level of cherishment from you—cut them down to size! If you can’t always see both sides of the story, you’re not seeing the whole, big picture. It’s an earthstill that should rustle the bejeebies up from out of the oil pans shoe’ed up under our doily-draped souls, because the Earth is under a constant quake, a continual collective shiver-me-timbers, a tooth-to-toenail trembling at the terrifying truth. Do you see that here, long long ago, we decimated stereotypes, assumptions, cliches, and so on in the Hickory Farms beef and cheese sampler. Smashed. Not that I’m the first-ever white-collar crackhead, I know. Still.

I work to undercut always, always; it’s the asshole position on the team. But the flipside of that is that I’m always rooting, cheering, bet-making, and leering for the underdogs. Hmmm….Always the devil’s advocate, always root for the underdog. Interesting. Of course, the devil is the underdog in traditional Judeo-Christian faiths and, even if only to serve the purposes of myth and metaphor, theological conceptualization. Traditional thinking is always also traditionally challenged to scared by their successive generations, in whom the trad system places suficient power, autonomy and myopia, that the underdog, you devil you, might just could pull off a last minute (yea, midnight!) at-the-buzzer, tongue out and all a-swagger, some-nappy-headed-nigger-guard-all-up-in-your-business, all-sail-no-flail beauty toss, nuthin’-but-net three pointer upset. But then again, God is God, right? What skills he lacks, particularly those in the team player category, are erased. All-powerful? Is it just that he’s spending a lot of time in the batting cages, preparing himself for his minor league debut?

Whoops, slipped off the track up there a touchy tad. Here, I have a couple quick examples that I hope will illustrate a bit of the above.
Ex.1)Mother’sMisconceptions-I never expected crack to live up the the media’s, politicians, and educator’s hype and hysteria over it. Been around that block a few too many times, there. The public’s perception (general, received) is that a user will more likely than not by a long shot, will be come addicted after the first time smoking crack. Heh. The reaction to the word crack from my open, accepting, and very drug-experienced, especially coke experience as well as ecstasy, and guitless about it, too, is either a dismissive, scoffing laugh or an actual anxiety-tinged shrinking back at the horror. Considering their use and abuse, I find that hypocritical and almost comically, irritatingly absurd since crack IS coke. The only thing added to it is that pathetically inert (psychoactively: in this case, it plays a catalyst part) household staple and regular on Toll-House Chocolate Chip cookie ingredient lists the world-over. My mother’s misconceptions—though admittedly neer interviewingly culled—must be in a separate catagory altogether. I’d put decent money—and the Vegas bookmakers are surely with me on this one with an ungainly but surefire spread in my favor—on her harboring the notion that when a subject smokes crack, he (yes, he) wastes no time at all falling into a slumped, near comatose position in the ratty armchair, let’s his mouth drop open and his tongue wag out, and there remains for the better part of a couple evening hours enjoying the hell out of his own inactive stupidity.

And the falsity in all three of those demos, I resist. I couldn’t help it if I tried. I’m very knee jerk like that, but not unthinkingly so, because, look, there’s no way I’m going to defend the stuff, say it’s all the good, soul-n-body-nourishing mana sent by God to let us in on his dirty little secret: that heaven is psychedelic and you better come with a flower in your hair and love in your heart, and the understanding of gravity’s role in a deep space black hole that marijuana, and only marijuana, can give you. That’s the key. No, I don’t think any of that bullshit. Crack has fucked up my life in a lot of ways. And it’s highly addictive. But it’s not as addictive as people think. It’s not so different than other people’s beloved white buddy coke. (See previous discussion wiht Michelle on the subject in which I argued that the horrific problems found among crack abusers and in crack neighborhoods is more blameable on race and class-based structural inadequacies and injustices, that if coke was sold as cheaply and easily, she’d see the same problems or nearly.) AND, bringing it around full-circle to why I like to do this writing (besides the geeky pleasure I derive from it) is to show that, sure, maybe I write some goofy things and exhibit a little ADHD in these posts, these ramblings, but I’m far from the half-unconscious, totally uncomprehending of his surroundings like the subject in her drug den diorama. < Look, one of the most noticeable handicaps or mind-alerations< So,,,,,even though I know first hand quite well the problems it can cause one, my impulse (conviction-driven as they are….) is to defend the drug, or no, more liek debunk and dispel the mistruths (what an ugly word, dear GodLordJesus). and I guess that more than just segues us nicely into my other bullet point, which now that I’m here seems to turn out to be the or nearly the same thing. Which is
Ex.2)Bi-polarPersonalPosition-Yeah. Just to recap. Drugs are bad. Crack is especially dangerous. But it’s not so bad as you think. In fact, it’s sweet and good at it’s pure (chloride-free!) heart, and it’s just us imperfect and flawed humans that can’t handle its charity and simply (can do no more than) melt at its feet (after washing them with our hair, of course).

Kind of funny that Metallica’s “Master of Puppets” came on the radio while typing that post. It’s their super-duper harshly anti-coke song. Another incongruity as far as the likes of the PMRC are concerned. I like to point: “Hey, look! Hard rocker, long-hair, gravelly voice is telling your children how bad cocaine is, how it will control you, kill you. Not glamorizing in any way. Is it?” I like it. Even though it’s calling me out. But it’s not news to me. You learn to let that stuff just slide right off. Or, I don’t know if I even had to learn it. It just does. Funny.

+4

I got the rockefeller skank clothes awashin’ (long time acoming, that move) ‘round the corner, picked up a pernil sandwich and now my jaw aches, my boy Max hit me up on the street below, in front of the church, and now I’m back up, Autechre flitchin’ & glitchin’ out my puny JBL laptop speakers, and four gleaming white dimeonds staring me in the eye. Ahh…and did I mention how lovely the weather is?

Being a druggie can really get depressing sometimes. Then others, God. A good chill bliss. I’m gonna miss it, and maybe that’s not the right kind of attitude to have, maybe that’s the thing that dooms failures right from the start, but it’s true and, in fact, I’m going to try to make sure that I DO miss it. That I making fucking sure that I miss it like hell, and always miss it, and never forget it. Because I’m going to endeavor (to see to it) that that crack cocaine purchase was my last.

I’m not making any grand gestures or taking drastic tactics, making guarantees, or copping out (can’t cop [out] any more) with the previous. I just know there’s no telling. You can do everything and mean it way more than I mean it now and try try try and not do a dit of damage in the drug’s armor. It is time, though. Way time. Past due….And, there are a couple of differences in this round, with this go, surrounding this attempt, that just might and maybe be THE difference.

By the way, why don’t we ever talk about or believe in bag men? It’s always bag ladies. Not even a bag woman. Sexism in America today…used to be you could walk down the street and know what was what, who was who. We didn’t even has all these things yous have today, all these jisms and trysts… You meant ‘-isms’ and ‘-ists.’ Did I?…See, that’s exactly what I’m talking about right there. It’s a damn shame when a father has to learn the curses from his son. I suppose your buddies, those pals of yours…, and you have plans to carry me off to one of those places with the girls dancing. A real modern education that would be, wouldn’t it? Hoo. But look Donnie, I don’t want you going now and getting the wrong impression of your old man. I used to drink like a sailor, oh boy, I did. Really. They used to call me No Water No Wine. Now why do you suppose they did that, Donnie, eh? What do you think? It was because I never drank water and I never drank wine, do you believe that? It’s true. Lunch—every day of the week—I put back a big, cold glass of milk—that’s what you should be doing, Donnie. Keep up the regimen and you’ll be slappin’ oxen fanny, asking the poor boys where they manhood run off to, some other man’s soup? Isn’t that the problem they were having with those damn heffers of theirs? Heh. Well, anyway, ask your mother. When we went out nice and she wanted wine, I told her she was on her own and then I’d call the waiter over for a glass of beer. Yup, everytime like that. And if I was out with the boys kickin’ up dust off the dock, I was alway drinking Turkey them nights. We all drank like that Donnie! We didn’t know any better—from the time we were kids, Donnie! Like I say, it was a different country in those days. Little Frankie, let’s say, a black boy, lived on our block, we played with him. Nobody told us we weren’t supposed to. We ran free, we owned that street. Parents now, they won’t let the kid out of their sight. What kind of childhood is that? I couldn’t do it. Boy, I don’t know…if I was born today…I don’t know if I could do it.

Oh, dear doctor, the shit that is coming rickety-racket ricocheting up out of the septics of my pulmonaries! Cold a while back set the stage. My rate of Winston Lights consumption is/has been high. I’ve been high. Lot of that grayish sweet chemical incense being pulled in, probably—when that taste is sharp like that—right along with a few fumes from ignited, burning, glowing, melting mesh metal screens. And I’m a hold-it-in champion! And not only hold forever and a day, but—probably because I’m a child, a greedy child, and want just a bit more, a second longer [which I know is a counterproductive waste because that cokey steam never makes it down there to those cute soft little hard-workin’-for-me alvioli, standing room only, and spends the gripping minute just chillin in the larynx region or less, but stupid child that I am, I suck it all up anyway and then push and stuff it down there. That’s what I was saying’: on top off nature’s bounty, I pressurize it! Those little soft white tissues down there like it rough.

No, really, I’ve had nasty crap before. This is the nastiest. The darkest, but not even a relatively healthyish yellow—a flat slate gray. The hardest. I was going to put thickest, but thick isn’t the word. Not evocative of the sticky clumps of cement that come flying out when I really wind-up for a good scrape-out, and that’s when the body just goes spasmodic and the hand doesn’t always catch the goo. The breaks. But hte last cup o’ goo I fielded…I’m surprised I didn’t choke on it and go running to the stranger in the room over for a heimlich—anything for the touch of another human being, heheh.

The auditory and visual illusions have been a litle different and more pronounced in the last 24 or however many—in any case and regardless, it’s a lot less than the 6 day hallucinations. Stuff semmes to sway and breath. I look at the bedroom door and could swear, thought I know perfectly well it isn’t true, that the door is moving straight up in it’s frame. I watch it for a few seconds just to see what it will do. I know it can’t keep going. And so I’m calm. And interested in the mad science my brain is dropping in those moments.

My back hurts from haunching over the computer. The room is a messy. I have literally a pile of empty plastic bags. Looks like somebody spilled a bit of fruit salad made with those pastelish fruits….You know! The pastel fruits!!! hee So, yeah, bags everywhere, and a millino and four lighters. Last night I went back into my drug trash bag and pulled out lighters I threw out long ago, and I am tthe type to wear it down to the nubbin. You should see what I can do to a tube of tooth paste. So anyway, all day and night yesterday, I’m rotating through them. Strugglin’, man, strugglin’. but not enough to walk to the corner and buy a new one. No. Too much to do (on the computer), don’t want to leave the house…

So I don’t until I meet M. and C. after midnight down on 5th. Hoodie time! And even then, after being housebound (actually in the same fucking spot pretty much, the same 3 square feet) for 24 hours, I still don’t want to leave. I’m having fun. I spent a good most of the day researching blogware, purchasing Movable Type, downloading it, buying a domain name, looking at hosters and getting that set-up, plus the long and rapid fire emails to Prairie, plus the definite moments in the day/cycle/process when I’m just kind of damn slow and relatively inactive, clickin’ links around. But bed, hell no. Even though I’m pulling the seriously braindead sleeptyping,,,,,I’m a stubborn motherfucker! I spent like 2 hours writing Prairie an email. I’m telling you it wasn’t that long either. Not at all. I would stare and fidget and concentrate so hard and will my self to get through without knowing a damn thing about what just happened, what I read, where am I in the thing.

Anyway, between m&c,I swung home and didn’t waste time rationalizing the continuance. So I called one my boys and he comes out. He asks me for a piece of paper. I can see this. I get all pissed, “Aw, no, man, you’re gonna give it to me like that? All shaked up & shit? Taxi driver hands back a blank sheet as I’m grumbly. “Naw, man, I’m gonna give you that rock,” he says, as he pulls it out of the worn sandwich bag. “Ah, nice,” I said. And I was indeed pleased with and by it. But I think I showed satisfaction too soon, because he was like “That good?” (but a little like, “Yeah, she’s a beaut, all right! Do I treat you good or what? And you doubted me! [mock indignancy] Who treats you good? Huh? Who? I~as I’m imagining this play out right now this instant~glance as cornerward as possible at him. I do not want him pulling that Jerry McQuire bullshit on me. And he calms….Anyway, yeah. Um, that was just pretend. I take the rock look at it like a jewel for a sec on the dl, and put it in my pocket? I guess it makes sense to put it in a paper—I some people would. But that’s just extra garbage, harder to get to, and A) I’m not holding it long enough to gather a lint beard or urine dribble or anything like that, and B) I’m too uptight, anal, German, whatever, to not have a quarter mind dedicatedto it at all times, monitoring, caring for, asking if little rocki-poo needs help in the bathroom. … “No?”…”Well, why don’t’ YOU come with ME, then….Because, see, I DO need some help, especially from a cute and rugged little guy like you. Mind if I suck you off a little?” Ok, ok, sure, I’m feeling that absense in my life. Whatever. Hell, shit, I got my guy in the neighborhood. I can just walk down! No, I’m kidding.

Plus Four

(but that was around 3-3:30is, Bar4 after, dude crashing here.

[probably more to say about my evening {or, day, yesterday},
but I don’t have the energy.])

Wouldn’t it be neat and fun to independently conceive of an astoundingly (or at least relatively popular, demographically speaking), (use-)full(-text) language/symbol/phoneme/sign tool whose beloved cardinal strength lied not in the crowded and jammed marketplace of content management, as most, myself included, would have assumed—and not unreasonably, either, given the soft-product’s suitabilty for CMS application tasks as well as to-medium, medium-high scalability, given proper environmentals.

Oh, but a contender should be recognized on first sight, for s/he will spend much time locking and leaning over your shoulder, finding with a notation her/his own scent in the lotion s/he watched you apply to each side of your pivotless neck. And when off again, looking to see how deep s/he can bury her/his knife-blade gaze into the crooked crease of your face.

Lucky, the bartender had reckoned with fighters and stood recon-ready should he so should. He’d gotten older; rabbling no longer his style, though he wouldn’t admit even to the dishwasher. No, it wasn’t the bringing together in placement and space, the on-demand, on-the-fly completion.

No, what the thing, more than anything, is (he got it!): it’s in its crafty fomenting of multiple complex relationships; its quickly rendering, optionally themed, timed, key-selected, auto-selected, saved, multi-channel, multi-etc. deployment flexibility and prowess; and, because it’s easy if and because tissues follow plugins with inclusions of dissimilar type.

think i had some kind of writing in the digital age—at the very least have seen and heard of classes on electronic writing. whatever that is. i think i’m thinking of something different or something better. (those were always so vague and uninteresting) with just a few examples off the top of my head i got better:
-extemp (on freeing from audience, linearity, source: invention, found, participated in, etc.)
- hypertext (linking)
- web (multimedia, esp img & text) (also graphic & system text)
- word (edit abilities on generation and revision processes)
- blogs (public, everybody is town crier, fame/notoriety or lessor)
- old C activity of putting various exclamations, wonderings, etc. cleared dialogue buddle over afro keen comic jungle queen
- etc., bitch!

+6

Max, in addition to being a bit of a pretty boy in the face, is a really sweetheart. Called me back this morning to make sure I was alright since he missed my call last night. I told him I was good, but you know how these things can change in an instant. You get into that phase where you’re chain smoking just to keep your tummy from zinging you with that sinking rush of butterflies up to your throat. so he came by. my other delivery guy last night who also brought by six (+taxi, Max has a car) was looking out for me too. 5 minutes after pulling away called to ask if I’d left any keys in the cab (where I sat just to trade off). No, but thanks.

time-wise a good bit but space-wise? line-height-on-a-free-blog-wise, I haven’t missed a beat, and so: another

BI> book of Love Koans
thin, highly designed hardback, different koan each page, each with a nugget of nonsens(ical/-e and) insight

perfect (as long as it’s not sold at point-of-purchase or in the gift/novelty section)

BI>

Collection of stories, each a eulogy (or started as, or loosely, in form of, etc.)

or

- Hired gun to write and delivery eulogy at all kinds of funerals
- Ghostwriter for those wanting best, insecure with own ability, unable to deal, in those situations when no one actually liked deceased
etc

+6 (& 1/2 of car)
(delivery is devilivery…or devilery…or devilvery…)

newyork.craigslist.org > brooklyn > casual encounters > why don’t we all just pitch in for an escort service? - mm4ww
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73298813

Saw my boy b.e. in brochure for hippie school in Bowery Poets Cafe today and it hit me that teaching and teaching a lot and all over and being cool and generous etc etc is great great way for writers to build audiences. Marketing. Go.

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73286598

lots to catch up on. important new chinks. but just don’t feel like it. hate to be lazy. there’s so much. in case i don’t get to it, though, let me just say basic outline:

**5:30ish Thurs morning 1st time to bed since woke up prev fri 7ish! Four plus hrs later, woke up to 10something call from m @ work cause j @ work frantic about xyz. other j informs m nodding off. that gets a little ugly. all while friend p/s worried about my sleep typing. not that there’s not reason, but what in there so different, what tipped off? work late thurs & go straight to bed.
**thurs even first night/day not buy crack since…I don’t know…sleep for 8.5 hours!!1 still super tired at office, nodding in client meeting on wall street, co worker has to shake chair under table. shit there a little strianed, whicih bothers beyond my own sense of responsibility for two reasons: 1) new level of effect 2) this proj, and it (IF) coming out publically so much more comfortable/better if surprise/incongruous. now just another fuck up, plus reason for upset to those affected all along by decisions.

oh, good lord of all men and women, I love that Rufus Wainwright song “Halelujah,” especially especially the line:

“She tied you to a kitchen chair,
she broke your throat,
she cut your hair,
and from your lips
she drew a halelujah.”

BI>
on lyrics, in a shutnell
- why pop (defined superbroadly) lyrics the best verse/poetry
- examples as evidence (& compendium of my personal faves)
- look at how they work (work of music, etc.)
- why it matters, how it signals much hope
- and yet the sour grapes so far and yet yet to come
- the mash-up (appendix?) phenom taken to the words as well
(combine lyrics—just two songs, traditionally, and/or many from all over—to make new poem,
be the first LJ [lyric jockey])
- jumpstarts (appendix?) new original stuff by me started with phrase/image/etc. from song
(ex. of first published story from Morphine concert line)

+4

You know it is the sabbath for R. but opted for the CH scene anyway for reasons just not quite interesting enough for the time I have right now. St. John’s for glass and mess, up the St. John’s block and back with a couple “What’s up”s, one well targeted and ignored, but just about at the corner some guy greets me all cheery like. Looks familiar but like most times, I can’t connect to anything specific. I ask, he beckons me to follow (to be clear but also because I think it’s interesting point about me: ‘beckon’ there because so wrong there, and that’s fun…maybe superficial but I like it, and there’s my prob with writing. The play is great, but little depth, and if it’s fun for me, quite rarely is for others.). Tells me thought it was me across street but with bookbag…asking self is it my dog? or no? naw…I thought if it was you’d you’d recognize me across street & come over. Calls up to my last askee, “murder, why you don’t help my man out, why you pass him up like that?” [so, earlier entry (on paper still at this point) wrong about murder being slang for product, obviously. but…] my friend is explaining to murder that I’m good but people see the bookbag and be thinking he TNT. So, immediate replacement for my ghetto fabulary collection.

Smoked off my pipe in the elevator, bathroom, and stairwell today (yesterday) while at work.

“The Literati Bare Knuckles and Unroll Sleeves to Bring People.”
A Post-Irony Electronic Epistlary of Insecurity, Beratement, and The Ultimate Inaction

I know what happened, you escaped our (now, ‘my’) fiction club and ran off to The Escape Fiction Club to be clubbing with the mother tongue in our fiction fatherland, didn’t you?
[http://www.escapefiction.co.uk/]

Or, was it with the candied stiletto heel of Ms. SpikeQueen—Madame of the Wordsmithing Mistresses at “ILove2Write,” not to mention the All Time Top Poster there among her club of three—with which you pierced my heart? But, dude, just listen: We can totally get babes to join our club, too! We should think of something we can offer free to everyone who comes. We could totally join forces with that group, dude!, and then have a party at my brother’s frat house! http://groups-beta.google.com/group/ILove2Write

I mean, I understand that those were some late night, perhaps not so exciting posts I made, but I was just trying to do *something*…test the system, at least. Ironically, I guess that’s what broke the poor sucker after all. It’ll never work right as long as Sean’s not in it!

Or, is it that ol’ and only worthy standby about having children and jobs and church responsibilities and a doodle habit on the verge of taking over again? I’ll buy that one.

And, I’ll buy the one where you’re writing, and writing so fast and fabulously furious that you have not a white speck of time to pick from off the boards for use as a chipette of chalk with which to write lightly about writing (and, as likely as not, when lunching later, then attempt to talk heavy about it). That would RULE so HARD! X-Tra Hard forever! Times not quite a hundred. Why write about writing when you can write, you say to me with the inflection of accidental judge, and the tip-cocked eyebrow that gave away the fervently stubborn and moral confusion. I indulge the caveman theatrics and rhetorical drama, in the end, because that’s a tight character, right there, pat, pat.

And then to keep the world all up in balance, you and I cut in line in front of a couple of walking bikes that must’ve gotten tripped up by a gang of playing cards in an ambush behind the music portable. A few of their stiff bodies are still caught in the spokes, making a ticlick emanating with a thistle honey warmth that incubates ciracian dirkets, and the slather of thin metal sludge you get from playing tether ball too long. You take no backward glance the whole time my head screws and unscrews itself. You just walk right on back, with the same swagger you climbed into when you went to your mother’s salon to work her friends and customers for dollar bills toward your own book-based self education when she’d not at home but here every morning evening and Lord’s day to provide your you and make sure you won’t ever have to do it. The reproaching stories worked even better, the way you could turn it back around to mean that the better he got out and got on, the sooner he could save mother, rescue her from the cabbage steam. Genius how you came up with that; I’ve died more deaths than ever has been suffered by loyalists, to know where it came from. But you don’t take another man’s material. And that’s the problem, earth shrinking as populations explode and whee besides the Sahara, etc. etc., your fervent belief that every man, woman, and child should follow their dreams and live lifes based on their single greatest earhtly passion, as long as it’s legal, but how the trouble you’ve always had is have too many passions. You just simpliy loved the tranquility of mother nature blah blsah when you sat on her shores to fish—you were denied the unique pleasures a swim, with the leg you’ve been assigned by god to took after for him. And what was the other one someone alsywas said, you’d say nah it was sily and another oulw d make her fact into a tube to say noooo, and you’d shrug and air dug and mumled into making pure, primative contact with the pure mineral rich soil we havehere, thinking about how the simply thing of growing is, or our mothers would get sick of us. Someone will take the bait. He’s sitting on the edgeof the classorom, pole and worm in hand. nobody knows that mudpiees and sea fishin combine togther to make? He knew, too, how long to make the baleful beauties wait, too. Then, No, you don’t! because it’s new, brand new, I’m inventing it. A couple did it yonder and I’m tkaing it real world It’s the wave of the futer, feed kids, filling cupborads and making world peale.

I’d do it to, no doubts in my mind about it at all, if I could. If you could? why? Well, you expounded,america is a beautiful and noble country where if people were honest and owrked hard they’d get ahead just like everybody else. But he wasn’t america. At least not a luck americn. The rules apply to everybody else. why. the school. How he wanted to go and learn and suck but no, but that’s okay because he could just learn at home. People are going to need me and I want to help them by making farms on the bottom of the ocean, but mom worries, you know, and well, the leg is bad, as much as I’d like to do it, but things already grow down there and I have this feeling this feeling that I’m special, not becaue there’s a darn thign special about me but because somebody want s me to do smething for him and that I’ll be the firs to to it and that he’ll kill anybody who gets in the way and love, help, protect anybody who stands int he way or doesnt love, help or protec me. but i don’t need it.

{
You know, look, I’m beginning to bore myself, I hope that’s okay with you. In sum, what happens is, the kid expends great effort on his target group, enjoying their hair mussings along the way to their conviction which he wins; he convinces the wholehearted ladies to chip and pitch and kavetch in for his education, which of course he must go away for, in order to receive it most profitably, the far universities invariably being the better and best. They fall in love with him that way, and carry on their affair(s) communally, yet with each their own individual touches, a given they insist on by foggy interpretable implication in cagey, off-topic banter, especially in the week leading up to his much self-fan-fared visit, inter-semester visits during which he sees no old friends, just the ladies. He brings them books and papers, grades to show them, photos of the girls he is study partners with, gives them jerseys and sweat shirts in oversizes to wear around.

Good reasons arose—study abroad, internships, extra credits, field research, the like—to delay his graduation by a negligible-in-the-long-run two years, and in the meantime he’s thoroughly and spiritually pitched his vision of man’s nutritious salvation lying in the repurposing and scientific cultivation of expanisve kelp beds “there for the taking, just waiting to be plucked, and it’s a harsh, first come first served , finders keepers competitive ethic in this field, he’d lilt to them. We’ve got to move, weve got to prepare, jump at this (all the cliches, even the onces that don’t like each other and don’t usually get along publically), but I can’t do it alone. I need your help he scanned the room with his index, not too sharpely straight. We’re a team here. We’ve always been a team. And I don’t want this to ruin it. Money has a nasty habit of doing that. Especially at the sums we’re talking about here. It tears people—-family, friends, brotghers,—apart, but you are my family, more family to me than my family, and I don’t want that to ever happen. I won’t let it happen. we deserve to be rich as much as tghe next guy. I want this money for you. You shouldn’thave to worry about a thing of a thing in these golden years, you should be off in the caribean sun, you should be sending daily gifts and cards to yhour grandchildren, the ones your’re allowd to spoil, and now that you can get away with it, do you have the money? No, look at this. You guys don’t deserve this…” and so they funded his investments, too. They were the little old VC group. And they wanted to see the reports, demanding little sticklers, but he was always ready with them. He was always one to prepare ahead, work the occasional evening and weekend without complaining, reallu poring his heart into it, and this gave the ladies trust in him. They belly up and ante in. Each to her ability, recieving compable points, standing, status, and stocks in the company he named Bang & Bang, after Chitty Chitty Bang Bang, the car that could go in the water as well; he thought Chitty perhaps, in a non-juvenile context, give the wrong impression. They ladies had no idea there was so much involved in doing a business. They didn’t have many years left. They were eager and impatient, and hed’ chuckle at them shaking his head. Then squat down at the arm of one, the questioner, and tell them how it all worked, in a way that was interesting to them. These things take a long time, he said the ovious. There’s regulations, the government has to get involved, you got your lawyers, my secretary, of course, But the bulk of it is in patents, those will hold you up—I don’t think we should proceed with out a patent. Why, one asked, can you get in trouble? No! he was growing impatient himself. Worse. You can lose your whole idea, all your R&D, all your upfront costs, all your life! It’s not worth it. I won’t do it. My intellectual capital is worth too much for me to disrespcti it like that, resregard. But you knwk if youladies want to go on ahead and do it yourself—without me—you have my blessing. I would never want to stand in your way.

The ladies looked blank faced. Most of them nodded, a couple thrilling to the idea, some mulling raising alternate eyebrows and alternating intervals as kid scans the crowd. I just don’t want you to get hurt. a lot of asty people out there that would go so low to take advantage of an old grandmother. These men, you can see it in there eyes, they’d hurt their own mother. Maybe not kill her out right, but come pretty darn close. Over business. it’s ridiculous,m the petty greed that gets involved. I know you all aren’t like this but I’ve done a lot of busines in my day, i mean, even at my young age, I’ve been around the block and I see it time anditme again, something that starts harmless and friendly, like nothing mor than a good idea, and people start to see dollar signs, peole who ws neer like that before, good, church-going people, the sweetest people you ever want to meet, not like these men I see, or, not at first anywayk, and then eventually they all turn into those men. Like vampires and zombies or something. Everybody has their own pace—some turn right over. Had a heart for it all along. ruthless. and others manage to hold out for two maybe three yeats. but eventually it catchs up with them. eerybody falls. everybody. i seen it. so I just wanted to say before we parted that I really respect that about you guys, made me feel real comfortable, you know. Even though i’m just the kid here. But youknow I’m the kid with the idea. IK’m the idea man. if you didn’t have a good idea, you would neger have no business. That’s where they all start out from. Like us. And you know what, you ladies, I love you, you all so dear to my heart, you kow, just let me run over a few reminders for you so nothing falls thorugh the cdracks as i leave town and you get p to speed , maybe inthe summer, i don’t know. all depends on how much y’ll decided to allow each toher to wach tv. Heh, but you guys don’tneed that. Just ignore me, ignore me, I’ll shut up now. I’m just in a good mood now that don’t have to worry about all this stuff any more. It’s not easy, let me tell ya. So many things to remember, but you ladies, they say can remember and do like 25 things at once. But look, let me have yhou write down a few things for you to get started on memorizing and juggling, you know. the sooner the better. and he just launched right into do’s and don’t and dates for the banks, the steel that must be bought from japan—they’ll have to find and hire an interpreter, and down here around wall strtt they’re not cheap. but what am I talking about, you ladies have all done this before like a thousand tinmes haven’t you? But, you know, youre’all very smart women. You’ll figure it out. It doesn’t take that many embarrassments and lost cash on the books before you steoip up and learn real quick! So, look, if I was you’all I’d call the patent office at least once a week. They don’t know you over there yet, and it takes some wrangloing to get in with those biddies., especially if you’re a womank, which I think you all are (said iwth wink). They’re catty! Trust me! But tell kathy I sent you. There’s still a lott of legal hoops to jump through. If any of you are familiar with maritime law, maybe your husband before he died speciallyized in that or something, then you’ll have no problem. I went ahead and studied the books after I got home at 9om, but you gals go to bed beofre that don’t you? 7?…he gave them lists and numbers, dates and notes, until every one of those plowed and furrowed faces were overcome and filled with bewildermentl. I can see we’re all getting a little tired with all this technical old boring business offikce work. why dont’ I head out and if you need ahnything , have questions, whenever, day or night, please don’t hesitate. I’m rooting for you. You guys and this experience, gosh everhting! all these years! it will alswyas keep a special place in my heart. I mean that. You ladies are special. Okay? Good luck.

The ladies convened privately outside of the conference room. chitter chatter, bang and blather, pitter patter all night, dreaming consulting, reinging in with realisticism. a new spikey msyticism for them. a wall they hadn’t fogged through beofre. And they called him up at his mother’s house at 7:15 before he was to leave for the airport for his flight back to Milwakee to meet with a berrings manufacturer. The best in the world, he told the ladies. A little more expensive but worth it. If the bearing freeze the vehicle freezes, the whole operation freezes. And remember, finger raised and waging, this is salt water we’re talkkinga bout, full immersion for extended periods of time under god knows what pressure. Nobobodoy knows that they’re going to do. No body’s dong this before, he almsot shouted back thorugh the phne. We’re going to do it. Ladies! Now I still ahve to cathc my flight. Ther are contacts up there I think we may need to tap into. engineers, and I got to get a doctor start working on the food. You know, now, tha you’re—meaning your product, say a steak or something—your’r only as good as your team. It’s like, if you have bad people working for you, you will make bad food, you know. Oka, ajnyway, I’ve got to run. Call me with anything. otherwise I’ll reconnect with yall there in the home ij a couple three monghts. I’ll have the status reports ready. K?
We’ve got so much on our plates already, let’s not bite off more than we can chedw now. we don’t want to get burned out. we’ve got a long road ahead of us and we’re in it for the long haul. Thank you for your confidence in my ladies, I won’t let you down, I promise. You know it’s always been my life’s dream and ambition to be the world’s leading manufacturer of underwater farm machineery and equipment—or as we call ourselves, those of us now building this industry and making these kind of decisions that will stick and last for generations to come, hell, for hundreds of years? The Term is Aquaticulture. Did you know that? I bet you didn’t know that. did you? Well now youi do! you can tell your friends! They’ll be impressed. Tell them your head of business thunk it up. I’ve always been a dreamer, ladies, and that’s what it’s all about. How yo ever gonna get any where if you don’t dream of it. You don’t, I’ll tell you. And ladies, let me tell you something, honestly, there’s no other people I’d rather be dreaming with. You’re good people. We’re going to win this race, damn it. Now I got to go. I’ll be in touch regarding the annual report, if you want to offer this great inestment opportunity to your firends—only your closest now—we’re not quite ready to let the cat out of the bag just yet but, hey, there’s plenty to go around. Tell them to get in now while the gettin’s good. Okay? So, I’ll be in touch. I’m going to need you all’s opinion on some matters coming up in t he near term but I don’t have time now. got to go. Take care. bye.

And that was how he got his job back, and never had it jeopardized again. Was never questioned again. Not that he ever really had been but that signed, sealed, cemented, and delivered it. And the longer he was away coordinating, getting the factory stocked with materials, equipped, line workers trained, lobbying up on capital hill for more beneficial (mutally, he spun it) harvest regs, environmental kinks ironed out as to how they applied to thier concern, patent headaches all over again, it built up to the point that he thought any day now, they’d break sand, put the seeds down there.

But the kid was doing nothing. Nothing at all but maybe the travel he reported. He patented nothing, met no one who wasn’t in a bar or brothel, he had only bad neighborhood buddies. Was what one might refer to as a fuck-up. But he loved those ladies and they his dream, a dream that they adopted, and to which he stayed loyal, a dream of mothers and grandmothers, more than he knew what to do with. But he did know what to do with them. He kept his semesterly, holiday, and spring break schedule through till he was by the side of the last lady’s death bed.

They held hands. She shook. She looked at him as if he were about to do something bad to her, out of the end of her only eye not mucused shut. She wouldn’t run the dampened swab over it periodically like the nurses told her to. So he did it for her, for as long as he was there. That turned out to be 3 and a half days, a bit longer than either one of them expected. Nearing the end of the first day she asked him to swab the other eye, and as he did, and he was always very gentle, as if he’d had to do it for his own mother, for ten years, she kept the shift in her look toward him, not allowing her eye to fall back centered into the orb of her bone like anybody else with anyone would have done. What a normal person would do. An at-ease normal person, he allowed.

During the second day, she had a bit of fire come to her and she spent it disrespecting the male nurses. Said she they didn’t belong there, that she couldn’t trust them with a chamber pot. He winked at her when she said that, believing she must have pulled it out for his benefit, but she said later that as she approached death, her youth was coming, too. They were going together. They hadn’t for so long. She wasn’t the person she was when she was young. She’d cry over that person every long now and distant then, not too much, not a maudlin person she said, but now was the time if any to decide where those two peoople’s paths split. She didn’t know if she should have followed her young self. Were children more innocent, she asked him, giving him no moment to respond as she went right into the list of ways he reminded her of her own son. He died, too, she said, like you.

The kid thought about making a confession there. A slight one. A for the record one. Because he didn’t feel sorry. Bad a little, yes, but he’d have done it again , and again, for a hundred years. And it’d be a pure hundred years. It would be a hundred years of youth. Her hand fell from his and off over the edge of the bed.

He looked at her hand and thought he’d like to shake it and say nice to meet you. That’s how he felt, grateful that he’d ever met her long ago, and been able to put photos of beach front properties in it, travel brochure shots of potential test ranch. they’d have a corral of tractor subs, they’d let them out at night for moon and star swims, right good irresponsibly childish behavior—under the sight of no one. That’s the part he liked about their fantasy. But the women never wanted to get away. Shame most of them died in hospitals and home bathtubs.

And the kid felt like he’d just met this figure in his life. He wanted this new woman. She couldn’t be so old, he thought. She didn’t look old to him.

He hitched his hip up on the edge of the bed, took that baggy hand into the both of his, and said thank you, dear. And what can I do for you? Do you like stories? I’ll tell you a story.

}

And in my dream, you’re wearing these funny clothes, and I stop you with this question:”Do you know how to do it all?—surprisingly vague as I was thinking of taxidermy in particular, the stuffing back in, the fleshing out, the eye shining And then again I felt the outline of my soul, the crispy beveled border (around the rest of the fully opaque ) of it slice through the skin like the back of a robalo cresting through the rapids in an upstream struggle. I feel like if it just lift itself a little higher in the chair, my fishy robalo soul, and stretched and thought of itself a much lighter, more beacon, and outward, less dark rich goo of a substance, that there would be a re-piecing together taking place back into the womb which we reached, as ridiculous as it sounds, through a portal in a disused wardrobe.

—-

Sew,, IK’ve been dabbling a bit with the big toe in the wavy watery pond of Rilke’s letters to that early-enrolled poetry student, lately. Thought you should know. Be warned.

And I keep asking myself if I told you about emailing D. almost/about/a little over a month ago. I keep telling myself that yes, of course, so don’t embarrass usself with a rerun, but now I don’t think I ever did. (And I’m too lazy or bored to do a search on my emails. Heavens!)

Oh, hey, do you have S.’s phone number? I need to give him a call to invit…I mean,I need to ask him about something. Thanks.

[initials]

[EX: Flipped Form - the turning of art struts back in on selves for comment in new form and in the birthing itself of that new form, which as parent, really, must take responsibility for its success and propagation in the world. A tough, unglamorous job.]

[What’s the difference between a Theme Tree and a Theme Thread or a Theme Tee and how best applied here?]

As Al> my int. in tech./craft (love idea of “Crack Craft”):
- today locked in new better style.technique.tool, as with other trades, no one tool is best in all situations, so not always now-employed, but often as is a good gen standby. I run flame back and forth along underside of pipe bringing it to opening in the motion (perhaps not every) for direct, brief contact, while rolling pipe, and /or oscillating planed orbit of the light(er). That way prod doesn’t get too hot and scorch or blow up (&offaway), deeper cuts getting slow steady proected roast for prime release/relief, less precision, concentrating, holding so more nat, reqs less static patience as person is doing. I like it. In very varyable.
[also, amazing took so long, now more keened in & identifying that sweeter intense tainted screen smoke as just death metal and not good tiding of semi-great joy as once did.

B)
(iDea):

a - Names the single most influential factor/skill in the game, determinative of long term success, etc. thing and gives you how to acquire that technique.
b - Describes, illustrates, etch, + follow-onresources how to acquire, improve, the secret, etc. Brief, but enough to be really useful.

idea like worst case scenario. know a lot for when you need to know it, or even talk about it, help some one. strategic but…

also funn & exericsising fjor how to quantify effects & value over others (real dilemma so chapter on that & other philosphy types) & interesting & istructive how often & what way answers are suprizingk nonintuitive. gift works for everyone! okay for toilet, but really better suited for saturday afternoon reading.

Thing is ALWAYS lost always invisible, even when I just had it, even when I went no where, even when I thought to not let it happen…and it sucks, and yet I never lose it forever and I always care to keep it and worry that I won’t find the thing that doesn’t perform well, hurts, and wastes my time in Bermuda Triangle chases.

Like that perfect beautiful model couple. Same person really, wrapped tightly—a burrito, I say, a wrap, you and the stores say. Again, they equal. Consistency a plus.

Eighty of either is the site of the thone, not a rolls off the rise, not a torcher, a libertine red cross state, but the less expensive, more efficient liquid erection of one seventy six, and as such the heritage soul sponsor for the measure less red, less mercury rev. And, erections often-always better less efficient, and less efficient, less handy.A different expresion. A low-grade fever.

I’m well past halfway through my sixth day without sleep. I want to guarantee/announce/predict my not taking that trip, my throwing the terry adentro, my coming to my senses and returning to my mattress like a long-errant now contrite and appreciative lover. But it would be a formulaic rerun. Well, we’ll just have to wait and see, then, won’t we? And we’ll have to look up the N. Nativi data. [Getting that down, down well, and down while fresh was so important to me, and still is, and now with this thing, I’m even regretfuller.]

One thing that I have noticed nostalgically about this return to that—a thing that now seems to have taken the shape of ‘norm’ for that abnormality—now that there is, no, no preponderance but, a death over the derth…
…
…
………….a unique and beauiful hallicinatory state, ,b ut see I already don’t liek that, don’t wat to say that, as have alrady addressed I’m sorry—just mostly makeing the sleepless illegal bauty in both countries, epecila that detail, and brush it up, the description ,sense of it, ok, then, well, divide it that way:

- here’s the thing i like, it’s much more like —and I may actually believe this in real tru life just maybee—a hieghtened sensitivity to sound, improve aural performance, because it’s never one thing at one time, (like drunks, a pink elefant), is never inappropriate, never unrealistic, often so specific, and so familiar, is neer loud or not a din , eg. women’s office chat I heard distinctlyd (this needs to be continued and weeded etc.(

+4

[TS (Our {whoever} first shorthand, IM-modeled code for the b-Log(, yo). This one is an instruction, or heads-up, if you will Tthat idiom bugs, because the listeners will is not empowered as claim, nor even involved; I believe that quotes used there would also mislead and be inappropriate.[ —Always an opportunity!]), to the reader. Hint: its referent precedes the post’s byline. Yes, good. It tells the reader that the author, or postor, believes that noting the time at which the post was made before reading the post, is at least an auxilliary aid to the enjoyment and full appreciation of the significance of the text if not absolutely necessary to understanding the piece. Pay attention to Mr. D’s usage example, which opens this same post below.]

[TS] Were I to leave this instance I’d arrive an acceptable 10 minutes late. But I am finishing the last zippy and it must be done. It’s a complicated thing. It will, in this case, because I was so braindead and disposses of eye control, help me remedy those crucial work blockers and concentrate better in order to bust the shit out best I can. But that will not last and I’m not sure if the after, as it sure adds difficulties with mood and motor awk and such, will still be better or worse. Was about to vote that way but then thought the little added energy that lingers, though you feel beat, is usually enough to stave sleep, and that may be, considering yesterday’s utter non-production, be the most crucial factor. Considered a cop but the frequent bRoom and pupe dialtion will make me super self-conscious if miraculously not noted and suspicioned over. Computer pick up, then a setting/order in of supplies for the work at home would be best for productivity but I can’t think of how to justify that, the modem my be an issue with last minute larger doc transfer, and the quick questions back and forth will not be at mutual disposal. Gotta run!

[[Ed.’s warming up to stacking layers on himself for the winter of significance to come. I.E., Follows an email that explains itself to its recipient. You can read. This pretext only informs that the same—whether more, less, or otherly—applies as well below this.>]

[ed. note: The Editor swears(! “hee hee ha ha ha…”) to Holy Heaven(don’t fuck!)’s Head of State and Building Superintendent that what follows is not a fabrication, not a doctoreducaction, or anything but an uniquely authentic (unmediated, Real, multi-cult pride) record of a man severely sleep-deprived and desperate ly trying to write , then finish/end, start again, finish then (/) and give up and opt (.) 9 for short explanation, then give-up w// W/O with a goodbye and then : a guy he met earlier who hadn’t his house keys or a roommate at home called to take him up on the offer of a couch ‘“il morn” so hewent down to bring him up and install him there and in the meantime is awake enough to see the funny mess he’d made below as he as falling asleep at the keyboard, and so awake enough also to write this introductory explanation and send it off as is with hopes it’ll be as amusing to his originally intended audience as it was to his self-absorbed and self’s-comedy-(cap)ability interest. You will tell me. Or pretend to.

P.s. Finally! It’s a dream transcribed! It’s pure dreamland syntax the further it descends. And…

P.SS. It doesn’t stop when you see you’re own words. My hands somehow skipped ahead—eager as they get sometimes—and brushed the impedimentary matter away and waded into the fray.

P.SSS. Or, maybe you will see it as an interuption.

P.SSSS. But then it’s a trade-off. You share the (World)stage with Superstar (George) Bush!

]]]]]

A) you are NOT online right now

B) I came home much later than anticipated and even more much later than desperately needed, neemething ds soelse quick on something ththing some was going to make a st(heh) thing then something quick for/to you, then e otherquete.

ay around. Yes, this was an into but my thumb/hand wa swhile when playing and I hate/ie. don’t like. It was alla n innocent 2 on wit was C)Um, planned to do quick brief but cool work thing for bit. Neither. So why you tell?pand (outlide e’s up.ool.

M. is cDWeadHtppd;;forl,r.=-=-=—-=-=—0

s0l_P)(JT—I’km’)nwe nl00oi9jgnf0rnn00dethe diffee cool, but not all tnhey’ria or for recognition of genium. No anostthey ker bee it’s a writers saft and the othake his shaft becaus5 % would tds and the other 3 the woright forttacex

4(K,K I’m wiggling and fidgetting to finish a thought. Think I was going to do some eally really can’t do it upbut I’ll try one more hi when. netver.m with most imp: Sun a flaming,a d son’s a what, and me I r

I keep saying I was going to I never —- “friend”@”friend”.net wrote:

> I am online right now looking at airfare to dallas.
> Gotta do that soon.
> Funny, have you ever read a short story called ‘The
> Littlest Hitler’? I think it was in one of those
> Eggers anthos.
> It starts out “And then there was the time I was
> Hitler for Halloween…”
> And goes on to tell about how he and one other girl
> were the only historically costumed kids in class

> and the teacher made them both get up and explain
> who they were supposed to be.
> The girl was Anne Frank.
> The kid sitting in front of him was Mr. T.
> And when “Anne” got done with her speech, the kid
> turned to him and said, “I pity da fool who kills
> all the Jews”.
> It was funny. I cannot remember who wrote it. That
> is sad.

> And it is better read than retold by me.
> But since you brought Anne Frank and Mr. T to that
> email, I had to tell it.
>
> I keep trying to rehearsal pased on the ke…no,
that brief..9kay.

no, really, this’s never happened. last night
Icocldn’t see,barely thoguht, and did it.
> Purenfatiguek, baby, don’t ihfer moral superior it
of Geore Bush forthis pacifier. Le
himnwin,jmetnamnphisijetak,nh or this entry.
it’s the sired. or i’s a sue himself. Like father.
Mother, no. Good bu. without food coloring ther.

Jus hitme, if I knew which word I wanted, I’d get on
and Britihi, but other extrema I leaber. Joos comes my
way n

UGH

>
> >

> > From: “me”@”me”.com>
> > Date: 2005/05/09 Mon PM 12:22:01 EDT
> > To: “friend”@”friend”.net
> > Subject: Re:
> >
> > My dream and daily ambition is to make you the Mr.

> T
> > of emerald necklaces.
> >
> > Look at what I just happened to come across this
> > morning:
> > http://www.chaisemagazine.org/art/iamlistening/
> >

> > ds
> >
> > —- “friend”@”friend”.net wrote:
> > > I drank sake and slept deep and troubled, had a
> > > dream you got beaten up by some bad guy, then
> spent

> > > all day out, tasking, taking care of charges,
> > > sitting on my hands at moments of unrest because
> I
> > > knew there was another little emerald necklace
> > > waiting. Couldn?t find alone-time (having

> issues,
> > > real issues). Bits of a poem were forming and
> > > splintering and knocking from inside, jotted a
> bit
> > > of it down, while riding in the car. Still needs
> a

> > > spine and some fat, but you, my dear, are its
> heart.
> > >
> > >
> >
>
> l\

What I was saying, what I was planning, what., what, what…the years…the lives…the reinventions…It’s a musical. I’mn’ tplaying the race card, unless it pretendsand//or evens/and o blee blah blee blah feed me good prokes, you.

Check in: Of course, I sincerely intended and fully believed I’d be crack free and bed chi by 10:30p. It’s 4am now. Horrible. 3 hours from completing day five. And with so much going on tomorrow plus the added crunch of everything I didn’t get done yesterday. But yet it feels optomistic. Yes, I copped again. Let me put that up.

… [off

They [whoever they are! No, seriously, ‘they’ is finally revlieled: Kate of the same lipstick and high prominent checkbones as every other madl

again the cheese-fest of the ill-timed interruption: I just wanted my valuable friends to be reminded of helpful and heart-on-target doo-doo-goodedness while slaughtering all the deer who are giving up their wild, nomadic, White Celebrity Houd that of all the peopel and things he could have pee’ed on and humped, it would have been, GTavk

—// Oh, yeh, we’re free-form and expressionists…We just forget where the paints are kept. Back there at the only large cabinet. The one in the room, she feeds hyou, penstoed…

….
..
.

Shit, I’m orbiting off in a spin that I think must *may* maybe maybe not would have been rare if you’d ever had the chance. Any left over pics…One from yo, 56,000 from them.

Was priviledged enough today to be blessed with my own private and impossible natural phenomenon/eleme nta linvig or(e: it rained inside the Union Square subway station.

The light’s not so good down there and without any closure or break for the last 4.5 days, my eyes aren’t so sharp, they’re subject to interference, and they’re prone to outright lying…well, okay, frequent misleading suggestion…I thought I was seeing rain over the tracks and I thought I could hear it too, but I had my iPod in, and one of those earphones is crackly, hissing, and poppy, and the station reverberates with exoskeletal rhythms and clank-echo orchestras. Doesn’t seem right and I can’t focus well enough to tell with just a peep outward, so I naturally look up to confirm but it’s dark up there, still the concrete arches were viewable. No.

But momentarily what I see or think I see is compelling enough to canvas it all again in case I missed or overlooked something or forgot to out-Columbo Columbo. I’m pretty much the skeptic the whole time—I mean, like “addict,” “hallucination” is probaly most often not what people expect or think of it they are. A) I didn’t see completly random and formed and animated things that interacted with flesh and blood, and B) I checked and rechecked but wasn’t ever bowled over, awe-struck, let alone f………………I’m done here………….fading, boy……………..for now, anyway…………..

+2

Today was a critical day for me at work (i.e. day job: the “real” work or the not “real” work?). Main things were to get three estimates, project plans, and SOWs done (one just revised) and come up with a consolidated status report format for a client with multiple concurrent projects and then populate the template with current data and send it off, and get those big, due-today tasks done between a comp review with another client and an internal IA review for yet another, and then all the little emails, phone calls, questions, answers, scheduling and so forth. Near herculean on my best, most prepared, energetic, and sharp day.

But today was the opposite of that. It was the beginning of my fifth day without sleep (which I am determined will not complete—I’m at about 4 days and 15 hours at the moment). Shortly after getting in, CD at the kitty korner kubicle gets my attention for a 3 second anecdote. I’m focused on him and without even being conscious of it, I narcolepsy off and back again, thinking I’d been with him and hearing everything (or, having no known reason not to believe that had I thought about it, but wondering if I’ve just dozed off is not something I typically do during conversations), but C says, “You just fell asleep while I was talking to you, didn’t you?” and I immediately realized I had. I felt rude. That completely beyond the realm of my control kind of nodding off would occur throughout the day.

I took the large format color printouts that a client had made of every single page of their commerce site, and took them to the conference table to look at them spread out—or, really, to escape the eyes of everybody while I got into the groove (something, you will see, I could never quite pull of). Off our little informal product packaging display on the book shelves, I pulled a 20-count blister pack of our client’s “extreme energy mints.” I think I mentioned abusing them yesterday. Remember, each mint equals about a cup of coffee. I ate every one of those mints, often chewing them or vigorously sucking two or three at a time until they were gone—the whole pack—in, what, an hour? as I stared at those marked for revisions pages to cost it, and not comprehending any of it, fighting off sleep the whole time. Fucking 20 cups of coffee worth of caffiene did almost nothing, unless that’s where the headache today came from. Also in the pain category: a couple of my toes are rubbed so raw that it’s pretty painful to walk.

My extremeties are all tore up, both hands and feet shedding shreds of skin. Hands with eczema, feet of an athelete—two things I’m prone to and victim of anyway, but sure exacerbated by the Cr: the hands for general lack of defense and hydration and nutrition and rest. Feet because way socks and shoes stay on all night, feet sweat extra, place stanks up, don’t have time and energy to care for/treat immediately, hell for hygiene and grooming in general up to my usual standards. Even the laundry doesn’t get done enough. So what might have been minor gets major ragin’. And then yesterday when I slept past my stop a few stops, I walked for a decent bit for before ducking into a livery. And yesterday I wore those super thick cotton sports socks in these already narrow Pumas—my pies were pinched. Today, painful.

I tried so hard—my very damnedest—to work today. I had to. But even without the crucial deadlines, I needed the diversion. But I couldn’t actually do it—proof that one of the US’s favorite notions—that if one just wants it bad enough it will happen—is not entirely true (if at all). I tried all day and was only successful in attending emails, sending a couple emails, have a couple calls. Nada mas.

After, I met Uncle D & Aunt K for BBQ in Times Square. I really like those two. They’re my age by the way (remarriage, after G-ma’s premature death by bathtub drowning). Lots of fun. Funny, I don’t even carry my smokes with me today so tha I don’t smell when I see them. I’m closeted about even those vices with my family. So, imagine how as soon as I leave them I beeline for CW to cop two dimes and in process having a phone number given to me by one of the corner boys, and another one walking in and teasing the other about fucking with HIS homie (i.e. me). Funny. Already out except for the rez of the glass roach. Went lite tonight. I need some fucking sleep. But I’ve already debated it out in my head a few times. Wanted to call for two more. etc. It’s irrational and hard, motherfucker.

(transcript of IM conversation with friend I fessed up to
and from whom I asked for help)

Session Start (me:her): Mon May 09
14:15:26 2005
[14:15] her: are you back from lunch?
[14:15] me: y
[14:15] her: so we never got to your weekend
[14:15] her: how was it?
[14:16] me: it was good
[14:17] me: went to lava gina saturday night
[14:17] her: what’s lava gina?
[14:17] me: a little e. village bar with a
great name
[14:17] her: indeed.
[14:17] me: i entertained the bulgarians
[14:17] her: never been there, but I like the
name.
[14:17] her: clients?
[14:18] me: i think it’s a legit portugese
word
[14:18] me: oh
[14:18] me: no
[14:18] me: some contingency at the bar
[14:18] her: ah
[14:19] her: and you entertained them how?
[14:19] me: with my good humor
[14:19] me: and sharp wit
[14:19] me: and deadpan delivery
[14:19] me: and sporty outfit
[14:19] me: and the removal of said
[14:20] me: on the street in front of the
establishment
[14:20] me: for public consumption
[14:20] me: no, that last part I made up
[14:20] her: good
[14:20] me: (it was for private consumption)
Session Close (her): Mon May 09 14:20:51 2005

Session Start (me:her): Mon May 09
14:23:38 2005
[14:23] her: and how’s it going with the other
consumption?
[14:23] me: fantastic!
[14:24] her: that’s great!
[14:24] her: how’s your lighter thumb?
[14:28] me: hurts
[14:28] me: looks pretty nasty, too
[14:28] her: because the callus is going away
or because it’s getting worse?
[14:29] me: worse
[14:29] her: you need to stop smoking
[14:29] me: you think so?
[14:29] me: you might be right
[14:30] her: so when you say “fabulous” are you
being sarcastic?
[14:31] her: or is it that you’ve replaced
crack with nicotine?
[14:33] me: it’s not fabulous, its fantastic.
fantastic consumption
[14:33] her: sorry.
[14:33] her: so what exactly does “fantastic”
mean, then?
[14:41] me: i pulled this off dictionary.com
for you: 5: exceedingly or unbelievably great; “the
bomb did fantastic damage”; “Samson is supposed to
have had fantastic strength”; “phenomenal feats of
memory” [syn: phenomenal]
[14:42] her: thanks.
[14:43] her: I meant, does “Fantastic” mean
that you’re laying off the pipe, or that you’re too
high to care?
[14:44] me: that’s what I was trying to
clarify
[14:44] me: but there’s some other good lit
associations that will help
[14:44] me: check this:
[14:44] me: The most typical type of
Fantastic story, one used many times, brings the Devil
to a contemporary setting.
[14:44] her: so you have Samson-like strength?
[14:45] me: yes i do
[14:45] me: and check this, too:
[14:45] me: The Fantastic is sometimes known
as the Grotesque, possibly because in the 19th century
its practitioners wrote stories set in poverty,
examined social problems, or featured strange
personalities.
[14:46] me: last one:
[14:46] me: In Elizabethan slang, a Fantastic
was a rake; an “improvident young gallant”.
[14:46] her: that’s certainly you
[14:46] me: words rule
[14:46] her: but you’re being very cagey about
actual usage.
[14:47] me: damn, I think I’m being quite
obvious and self-critical
[14:48] me: but I guess if you’re unfamiliar
with that sense of the word fantastic it would throw
you off
[14:48] her: yeah, but I’m think
[14:48] her: thick, I mean
[14:49] me: well, if you want stats: I
haven’t slept since I got out of bed Friday morning.
Since then I’ve spent $380.
[14:49] her: well, that is grotesque, I’ll give
you that.
[14:50] her: does your health care cover
counseling?
[14:50] me: i don’t know
[14:51] her: would you consider looking into
that?
[14:51] me: yes
Session Close (her): Mon May 09 14:54:21 2005

Session Start (me:her): Mon May 09
14:55:42 2005
[14:55] her: I’m sorry I’m not much help.
[14:56] me: it’s alright. I realized pretty
quickly you had more than enough going on in your own
life to deal with
[14:56] her: I didn’t expect things to escalate
on my end
[14:56] me: I know. don’t worry about it.
[14:57] her: It’s easy to say that, but I do
worry.
[14:59] me: I’m not going to die. I’m just
getting some good stories for my grandchildren.
[14:59] me: should I ever have them
[15:00] her: one way to ensure that is to get
some help now.
[15:02] me: i don’t think a counsellor—if
that is what you are implying by help—can ensure that
I have grandchildren
[15:02] her: fair enough
[15:02] me: that’s a little outside the scope
of their mission or mandate or whatever
[15:02] me: but, yeah, point taken
Session Close (her): Mon May 09 15:08:40 2005
…

[16:47] her: I just got another pile of work.
Pulling a late night again.
[16:47] her: I’m seriously about to lose it.
[16:48] me: funny, work is other slang for
crack and a pile of it would certainly cause a late
night again, and may push one to seriously lose it
[16:57] *** You have been disconnected. Mon May 09
16:57:56 2005.
[16:58] *** “her” signed on at Mon May 09
16:58:17 2005.

Transcripts (bar4) done. Entered. In. Whew.

But fuck I fucked myself royally (however the regal copulate) and assaninely unwisely, taking his on up into the fifth day, four whole and complete to chime in about two hours. How will I make it. Standing on the cramped toe to toe morning rush hour train without fainting like I came so so close to doing yesterday morning, with forty bucks less crack cocaine processed bodily and 24 hours less intense blogging performed. Conducting client meetings. Getting out three SOWs and a multi-project plan I don’t know how to do in short order, short term tensity? Considering that I just part of the workday yesterday I ate an entire pack of the “energy mints” that one of our clients manufactures—that’s equal to 21 cups of coffee—and I never felt it, only the hard and constant struggle to stay awake all day. Fickle fucky.

But hell, I did have fun—that productive kind—and am really stoked I got that useless crap in there. Really, I forget so often, lose sight of the high probability of the end product’s worthless or near worthlessness—the process provides it’s own faith—an earnest, generous, optimistic, positive undeterred and renewable anyway belief—it’s own shimmer and illusion, and does well to keep you tasked and cyclically developing, generating, organizing, concepting, and stockpiling, preparing, so that there is never any, or never much itme to stay on something til it’s completed, stick with it to polishing, let alone reviewing and evaluating, revising, and resting. You never have to face a sober(ing) look at what you really have and have done and how it feels and comes across after that heatof the moment has cooled into months.

But that’s the stage and I have the non-editor policy, embrace it all until it sorts self and all are super forever sure never will be useful for anything. Shit, how to make judgements of utility when don’t even know what for sure going to do or for hell damn sure not which direction to take it. So, we’ll soothe our pained soulages that pitiful way, and breath shallow in the meantimel

What I mean to say in this post was just that next I’m emailing or pasting the finds & creations from the Monday workday.

Who in the world, with a 9-5 weekday office job requiring thought, leaves their apartment at one am mon a monday morning to go to a bar? No, who?

I do.

At the bar I grew especially interested in everybody’s conversations, that interest growing to a peak with a conversation between to friends that included a lightening sudden and short and equally forceful burst of loud foul anger, mysterious, as it died right down in the same two half seconds. Guessed it was a mock-up, a dramatic forecast, plan practiced, sentiment vented maybe, but it kinda seemed withmy scant clues that there was drama and conflict brewing with another man or group in his circle of movement and that confrontation or just frontation was beng planned or fantasized over. It seem a little excited and self-serious, and flamboyant, a little like west side story with a location transplant to yuppieville. just to shake it up a little, freshify it, make a tired story seem new again.

And now especially today back on the bustling populated streets again after much solitary confinement in my apartment over the weekend and passing a decent deal of that time with an unsual, at least unusually indulged interst in porn, I find myself with a new and terrible tic, a revelation of my non-pc core filled with scorn for all women starting with my own mother whos call on monthers day I refused to answer, because what i’m doing or did through all public passage and byways was picture myself fucking missionary, knees up, same everytime, every girl I saw, or at a doable rate, but not selectively, or very, and finding a likeing of the thoughts of women I wouldn’t normally, not at all, nto by a long shot (but then qhen I went to test the suspected universality of it there was a definte shortcoming, a failure to be uniformly distributed). Hmm. Cool. Ugly. Obsessive. Maybe also a way out of this cagey trap. Replace the crack with another crack. A softer fleshier juicier more bed oriented crack. Really. Kind of an Atkins logic to it, and maybe crazy enough to untwine the fibery spell.

Worse even than not stopping myself from taking in all thirty little collaterals of my loan to a man in need and then continuing on to 42 and 4 full days of wake to the tune of four and half hundred bucks at least is my not calling my mother on mother’s day and, in fact, seeing her call come in and choosing not to take it. That’s just low. Shameful. Poor woman.

Thought to change my phone service disconnection a couple weeks ago for nonpayment up to this weekend in order to plausibly explain away my negligence and I was quite happy to have it, was satisfied with it’s innocense before much later realizing that it felt so innocent only in its contrast to everything else, especially the real cause of my ignoring her. And that not very long ago having my phone shut off would have been embarrasing and a little shameful because even if it’snot a big deal and it happens to people all the time, I’m not that kind of person. I pay all my bills when I get them and I had the money. And knew the bill was coming and would have had to leave my box unemptied unattended for a fucking long time before actually experiencing the shutoff. I wouldn’t have told anybody. Only vowed to be better. I’ve changed a little, my perspective anyway at least.

Sometimes I see, maybe even get to looking at and/or for, the white specks on the floor. I swear it’s a very odd, and matched coincidence and not flawed or disproportionate perception that these last two apartments have on the dark wood floors an inordinate number of small white specks from no immediately apparent source. I pick them up for a closer look, to see if they might be smokable, spilled and unnoticed product from this or another session, even though sometimes I know it was already id’ed as a paint chip and tossed back down, not worth carting out to the kitchen can, or realizing that the goods were never in that area, or that in general it’s ridiculous, even neurotic, and sometimes definitely OCD as well, such as the not too uncommon pulling of the jacket pockets inside out to pull apart the seams for the rugged bright tiny peas line up in a row there. These are in fact likely spaces in which to lose spillage so the prospecting is not a problem but it is exactly for the logic and likelihood that I get in trouble, why I will look repeatedly, despite being quite thorough the first time, and despite my telling the choir audience of my personhood calmly and convincingly how stupid futile pathetic and so on it is, and my audience self fully appreciating that reproaching analysis and disagreeing not one bit, decides to indulge a seeing it through, the achievement of completion, because, well, it’ll just make me feel better. A lot of times I’ll be able to find real bitty bits. Sometimes attempt to scoop ‘em up—difficult even with larger prey, impossible at this level and scale, and then not enough to even taste let alone feel anyway. Other times I let them go. Other times I poke my head up above the cloud line for a bit and tell myself that even if I found a whole other dime, it would not solve a single problem, only intensify the ones I already have, add more to the pile, and delay the resolution of and relief from them all. True it is my answering part says with unflagging undiluted sincerity. But it wouldn’t keep him from consuming any find he might be blessed with. Oh, God, Please.

Other people must get stuck there too. I’m sure I’ve seen it, in fact. I wonder if it’s been identified by medical science. What is it’s name?

The verbal exchange portions of transactions are a touch codified and scripted, of course with the permission of a wide range of options and mods in all registers, but what’s not approved is an unwavering beacon of constancy and sternly addressed. For ex, to determine and plan for quantity needs of the customer, the question is (almost) always, “What you got?” (see, now you the one holding, the one charged with possession, heh) and not “What you need?”

When I first got asked “What’s good?” I thought it functioned the same way, as another DL alternative to an explicit inquiry. But I don’t know, now I think it’s more akin and functionally equivalent to “What’s up?” But it’s that unique position I’m in again shunting my knowledge acquisition. Never in a larger group, always only with the asker, so never have heard the answer. No model, no example. No other context, always in the same place, doing same thing, in same one act play, another night. There’s simply no way to figure it, pick it. What do I do, say, Uh, what do you mean [are you hearing the classic AfAm comedic nerdy tight ass highpitched nasaled out depiction of the white male adult voice here?] when you say “what’s good” Rich?” A humbler man would do it and know there was nothing wrong with that, that it don’t make you stupid or uncool. But this man won’t. He’ll be a stubborn proud fool instead.

Felt: I hate it when I’m in visibly rough shape and I run into someone in notably good shape at a place and/or time least accomodating/appropriate/absorbant/compatible or forgiving. Like Sunay. Early afternoon. I’m unshowered, unshaven, eye-dilated, hair-nappied and askewed, and clothed in same dirty, smelly, super smokey clothes as day before. Multiply my motor awkwardity with my mental accelerating of it. It’s early afternoon perhaps, though time, huh, ceased to operate in it’s usual manner, and kept itself from me most of itself, I was not aware or affected by that so…anyway, a beautiful day in spring so I should be out doing parky walky bikey things. She’s bounding and snappy, just finished teaching yoga and going to run a highly productive errand before going back to teach another. I fessed right up immediately like I alwasy to do relieve the pressure of performance and offer explanation—it’s not natural!—okay, no, I didn’t fess all the way, just to drunkenduced hungedoverness. And she said he taught that way last week or sometime and thought she might puke. Hell, I’ve spent an all night to the mornign light skiing with her and her gay boys in shifting patterns of nudity and posturing. so i know there’s no judgment but I feel guilty and bad anyway. stupid. and maybe afraid of the real bust. the scandalous, secret second life uncovered.

Was last night and now again experiencing some visual disturbances. Began with the usual think you see a fleeting away-going movement out of the corner of your eye. Had a few of these involving the fire escape platform access to which is gained through my bedroom window, open all night and seemingly approached a couple times by a large dark form, presumably that of a man, presumably the one next door who shares the same fire escape. More strikingly, and later in the evening, there appeared a dark green patch upon my upper lip (due, eventually confirmed, to slow eye adjustment to the light and, I think, my brain processing slowly and maybe with a handicap—a misfire rate increase perhaps). In order of increasing notability, when I left the apartment and walked up the block, shadows of wind-rustled leaves over back windo makes what later see are child seats look like stubby adults slung back and throat-cut.

Aural irregularities, too. More constantly my accompaniment, in fact. And probably more honestly called non-existences that I perceived like a constant chorus and hum of voices, the kind that you get in a place with medium to medium-high crowd density and crisp but not sharp acoustics. A voice will occasionally rise to the surface and ride over the crests of the others, and then would come the more intermittent and stronger calling, the short snarling cat fight , followed by protracted calling to one of the fighters by a young woman coming to me in my front bedroom from beyond the our building’s back yard.

Other visceral sensual (sensitive, too?) phantoms floated through my bizarring experience, too. Like a brief span of moments when I felt my cell phone as a very warm spot pressing my leg.

Not rash causing but neither is it rational when the hipster kids whoop it up and then refer to their mental and/or bodily condition as in a “cracked out” state. Typical usage: “Oh, man, I was so cracked-out the next day when I ran into her.” Language is always irrevocably popularly held and controlled so it’s a bit sour grapes of me to whine and protest like this, not to mention totally futile and useless. And I really don’t want to make it an issue of limited, strictly defined, and exclusive rights/claim to ownership, which is in itself divisive, besides arrogant and unmasking of a certain insecurity and external and unstable basis of identification, isn’t it? I don’t either want to evoke Identity Politics theory in my argument, though I think there’s validity to be found there. And implied or thoughtless disrespect for the disease and suffering of addiction. Who’s earned the priviledge to bandy such words about in that robs their power, takes them back for reappropriation and self-deliverance. Mmm, yeah, but a little bloated and leaking of flatulence. Maybe it’s a simple question of accuracy and understanding. Not muddying a casted, employable term. Cracked-out is not the same as hungover or sleep-deficient or an unshowered, sweats wearing, pre-coffee grog.

Art’s and Artists’ Bedfellowing Substance:
(relationships with—and results of—the very stuff of life:/and drugs, alcohol, and other intoxicating/mind-altering things)
- overviewing historical round-up/survey
- study of, leading to
- analysis
- opinion?
- weigh-in of/testimonials by/position posturing by/etc. professionals, academics, SMEs, so on
- peppering of stats and facts
- sprinkling of oddities
- dash of tragedies
- folding in the championing of triumphant collabs
with the defusing of popular attributive associations ranging from exaggerated to demonstrably baseless
- interviews with artists, their peers, associated professionals, family, friends, and fans—including practitioners ex and continuing, pulpit-pounding protesters, ambivalent Amys and Andys, equivocators, complicators, observators, storytellers, and secretspillers

Craigslist is my new pasatiempo, one of the core Coke & Coke Derivatives(tm) favorite occupations. It’s taken painting’s place in the quiver.
[sidenote - Book Idea: anthology of CL posts]

My actual life a frightening echo of an Onion headline.

I’m a real trooper/trouper, ain’t I? Oh. …

+4

There.

Work on a come down without sleep for 72 hours during which your food intake consisted of nothing more than a plate of cheese and gravy smothered fries, beer, bourbon, and Vitamin Water(tm) is not easy. Don’t buy into the media-driven hype, don’t let anyone fool you or tell you otherwise: the life of a crackhead is not glamorous, not all fun and games, blowouts with blowjobs, not easy street. I take back what I said earlier; most people can’t handle it, they can’t hang. Sure, you got your career crackheads—that core of committed individuals that stick it out come hell or high water—but most people eventually throw-in the towel, look for other work. You get a lot of turn-over.

Incidentally, I’m in the 86th hour, out $420 not counting cabs or sundries. Fell asleep on the way-home train and ended up way the fuck out there, where I’ve never been before, some barrio called Ditmas Park or something like that. I still need socks. Mattera fact, I’m going to break right this instant to administer a quick handwashing to a deserving pair. Hold.

[pausing, pausing, pausing…]

K, a blue couple, draped in halves over the insert window screen. Now we can operate.

So, enough of the wanky Publisher’s Note. I’m going to now attempt the stunt that I attempted post-bar this early very morning: enter the notes I scribbled over IPAs, tried as I might to let it go, leave my work at the office. As then outlined, the strat was to just get the nougaty nugget so that at least they get there, and go back later to flesh and fill. But I have a hard time doing that. I mighta gotten a one/won in before getting increasingly masturbatory as consciousness grew turbid, taking on the gooped leather quality of a rind muddled sticky with cane and crushed ice. I had moments like that at work today, when every force, chi, and effort in my corporal person gathered and united could not keep my lids from grinding protraction and words lost their significant values and every course of action kept well hidden. I’d sit and stare, shake my head, adjust my position, hum, turn up the music, channel my stubborn reserves, and do nothing but spin. But I’m rambling again…

Onward now with strict transcription. Step 1.

Willikers! If I didn’t just get a stroke of something that told me why don’t I take the embedded screen all the way out—none of this half-assed shit—hook it on the end of my scraper, hold the empty hollow glass over between my lips and teeth, and wave the lit lighter below. Genius. That way you can home in on the little motherlodes, see ‘em when they pop open with smoke, chase it down and zero in with yer tube and get a lung full clear up to your bicuspids in a couple-three seconds.

It’s not a tough person who can do a lot of drugs, you know.

I think a lot of people think that.

I call it. My theory—not so much new as more fully cognizant and confident of—borne out wonderfully again in an opposite-end, second-stage confirmation trial just now conducted in the meantime of my decision-making.

This kind of thing excites me, you have surely by now noticed.

And as a bonus, it empowers me in the more efficient and successful execution of my craft of swift and certain pulmonary and financial ruin. Cool! Yay!

Try to sleep for an hour or go for keying in my bar notes, receding now on my horizon…

Or, the latter in combo with payment of a visit to Richard the III?

I just woke my Slope dog, my special delivery dealer. For two—I was going to hit 40, by God. He said, “Aow, I don’t think I can do it right now.”

A not insignificant chunk of the lure, I’m telling you, at least for my personality type, is the situationalist response system—if such a superficially-seeming inconsistent thing be called a system—to which the product clings. Half the fun is codifying down the mystique, Hardy-Boying the mystery. Like mapping the human genome. But flakier. For instance, the primary and cardinal rule of low, slow, and steady heat turns out to be way unexpectedly contraindicated when plunging for dregs with the screen halfway out and bereft of protection from the directly applied flame. There you want to go strong, hard, hot, and quick to release the wisp and not the wire. It’s not only contradictory but counter-intuitive as well, making it a hard discovery.

—in this case, conversely—how many people do you know whose price points fall with age? Pretty much everybody’s do.

How many people do you know keep track of holding- and pushing-hand positions, protective wear and drapery, and useful and/or attention-gettingly stylish accessories for glass tubes receiving a hot and royal, rim-busting, colon-corking, woody-metallica enema? As well as their situational advantages, faultlines, and algorithmic worth-it-ness?

of screen-prep may be to blame—for everything, and for the sake of ease. Before, it was the root of my whistlin’ dixie, but lately I smoke enough—the standard, good ol’ +2 days and evenings are long gone and in the ground now—and smoke it lazy-like—without pushing or scraping or pre-heating and taking long slow pulls on, sometimes, a partially retracted screen with an obliquely angled flame in order to patiently to reap the relatively thinner harvest found in the glass’s innerwall adherence/aderents, and in the process cleaning up the place, before moving again into a headlongingly ripping open and into the next gleaming, brimming, promising packet of peace and pleasure, and, with a marked glumse—a bumbleful, fidget-inflected gracelessness—reloading a chalky chunk into the gaping yawn like a silver bullet into the chamber and, with a chispa and oddly flourished chutzpah, broil and char the chip and the bale down into a top-layer of fudgy molten metal that swirls into something so like the charlatan, chagrinning challenge a long long line of solar-eyed alchemists have changelessly chased in finally not-bountiful bounty hunts for free-radical electrons, convincing dervish-ish compounds to cooperate with the cook and—just, please! this time—covalent with composted composites to achieve in the soul-less world a miracle to match the horticulturist’s crafty graft ‘n’ meld, the chief chef’s stewing and steamy winter soup—in my case: a metal-resin alloy cocktail (that Ghetto Cosmo) that, when sipped, is just as likely as not to send through the flue hot coals of molten ore flying straight to the back of the throat, leaving the sparked patient nothing to do but swallow hard from his large bottle of Multi-V Vitamin Water.

There is a difference between mineral & product/chemical in terms of heat, locatioin, density (the weight of cloud 9)—not just taste. Did you ever dream that one day you’d be able to breath metal?

The build so great after writer mouth boy that cooler artist man boy finally—because it didn’t pull through at all anyway—drilled a micro-hole down through, unrolled for a rub and rerolled the screen pair, and got us up to speed in no time.

Who ever heard of a fine art paint brush with the handle’s very tip very crack encrusted. Before I moved to P.S., I hadn’t.

My God, I just now came to the faultline of death. Had/have again that situation of resin comingling inseparably with a well over-used screen to the point that the two seem to release their toxins simultaneously, and if you’re stubborn enough—stubborn like me—you will push through the early metal sparkle pricks at the back of your throat to get to/enough of the good stuff, it’s that worth it or necessary. Earlier today/yesterday I did that and took it to the point of heaving, swallowing, holding, erupting in a fit of raging coughs. Same this time but exponentially worse. And more embarrassing, too, sharing a bedroom wall with an olderish couple and pounding out a succession of wild-eyed whole-saled bodily clearances. Would have been easier if I’d only valued that first good tasty hit a little less. Holding and coughing don’t mix. Meanwhile I stagger into S.’s room and cough into his comforter as a makeshit, tight-spot muffler, but something like a puke-cough combo happened like has never happened to me before and a roundof clear, clean bile issued forth (amazing considering I just polished off an order of “Brooklyn Fries” [cheese fries with gravy over] at the 24hr diner] along with chunks that I thought, and still think, eerily reminiscent of the dubs I been copping up. Either that or actually bits and pieces of my lung—and I do not exaggerate when I tell you that that latter thought was my first, and I leaned close to investigate, dispel my fears. But I continued to think that my next would be bloody, there being a quite peculiar yet familiar taste in my mouth. I did, yes, think I might be having a moment of self-recognition and cancer diagnosis. I did more rounds—coughing rounds—in the bathroom, spitting the chunks in the bowl to flush on exit. Illuminated morning rounding the bend as I’m looking at the wet spot that remains on shem’s down comforter after I’ve taken a couple folds of bathroom ass wipe to it, rubbed it over a couple times. I fear shem will soon return, before it has any chance to dry, and there’ll be no way around that one, and bad in so many ways. I have to remedy it some how. I begin my room scan procedure, thorough & contemplative mode and at about 9 degrees into the rotation land my peepers upon his iron. Plugged it, jammed up the heat, even gave it a lingering dose of steam for added cleaning (i.e. diluting) effect and then wait for the physics of evaporation to solve my problems. It did but I wasn’t as attentive as I might have been and witnessed the physics of heat on a flammable material. No, thank got it didn’t erupt in flames—that’s how it would’ve done in hollywood—but there left a little summer prep tanning. Noticeable if yer looking or happen to have let your gaze fall into a laze in that of all spots. Otherwise I’ll probably go undetected, unsuspected.

And then of all the goddamnedness conceivable if I didn’t learn my lesson and pulled it off—albeit in miniature—again. I branded my soft tissues with a sandstorm of glowing shooting star embers. I had puke heaves double me over for an instant or two but almost immediately reached for my rescue the vitamin water bottle and slam gulped it probably along with residual smoke in my mouth, I stand waiting and recovering, examening the pipe for I don’tknow what, just looking at it and then eventually noticing that smoke is steadily streaming out of my mouth without my making it do or knowing it do, it was unconsious or sub- and suddenly I got a little emotionally charged sick pit drop in the gut, like now the smoke has become part/extension of my body, integrated into the capacity and circuitry of my autonomic system. My original tight-grip on the short reins of mr. smoke now given over to an apparent free rein accord, a quit coup. put a scare in me.

Think going to enter shorthand with option to return and flesh. Otherwise, won’t stay interested. Otherwise, won’t get throught this Great-Lakes-sized list of obs and motions. And if not now, never. (Consider my first nonpayment of phone bill this month and subsequent cancellation of service; for the first time in my life I’m truly living in a [costly but liberating] moment-by-moment, stop-to-smell-the-shit-stain focus.) Go.

You always never want it to end, especially if the end means a quick return to work. Applies to the drug-free working stiffs of the world, if only in regards to their weekend. But this is different, and I’m not even having a bad come down. I just so so so want to keep going with this project and with other writings, including emails, including Prairie, including including including…

Damn it!

Fuck.

Shit.

Gol darn, man! It’s just not fair!

when it was Saturday and I felt it worth to say I was still going “strong” (again, as in ‘unstoppable,’ not as in ‘forcefully’ [nor ‘forcibly’])? Yeah. Those were the days. Those were the Fridays, Saturdays, Sundays, and now today is a quarter done with itself, ever sleepless, Monday.

I wrote (i.e. jotted) at the bar—as cheesy and lame as I perceive the practice (my drafting of “Pick-up Artist” in a Greenwich Village tavern and easy subsequent publication in the Denver Quarterly notwithstanding). I’ll post quickly and separately (as they contain no [nor inspire a] narrative), and a-chronologically (as they presented themselves, those rascally seedy children).Hold on…

Winding down with Karate. So good music. Think it was Lisa, that eyeing Berliner girlfriend in N., who turned me on to the beauty of Karate. What’s ugly? My having the shakes, swelling up with more energetic pronunciation from time to time. Far uglier is my lighting thumb. Swollen. Quite painful. Crusty, discolored, chunks of skin pocked out. Was just pushing the screen with that little key ring unfurled tool I made in a long-ago pinch and am still using. Pushing hard to get it past the gunk and ended up getting the one end in the skin of my index finger a little bit. Wearing now a little spot of blood. Gonna call this good and head up to the bar to dull the riding out of this odyssian performance I just pulled. Capped at 38 dimes, brother.

Hey! Look at me! Still here. Still in the middle of this epic. Well, more toward the end, God willing, listening to the chill, smooth-groove riddled house of St. Germain. No, not all of us degenerates pump the bling-ho-G-pop out the subwoofers we sold last week for lunch money. Crackheads can be continental, too! And?no, I’m serious?on top of?or, ‘cohabitational with,’ I should more appropriately say?such sophisticated tastes there may just lie fairly genuinely altruistic endeavoring (even!) that will occasionally peek out from behind the humble smokescreen of unkemptitude.

Why, I myself?as just one of the (theoretically and/or potentially, at least) numerous unlikely and surprising examples?I just sent off an email to the Program Director of a large international women’s human rights organization, on behalf of the small Latin American human rights organization with which I am voluntarily involved, seeking to build inroads towards ties for inter-organizational cooperation and collaboration.

That work, in the end and final analysis, really dovetails in nicely as a small but integral part of my larger life work and calling: to work tirelessly in the vital struggle against the dehumanizing, RE-disenfranchizing perjoratively one-dimensional view civilians harbor of those among us, myself included—I do not hold myself above the people who I serve (and buy from and for), but wade eagerly among them into the risk-fraught fray—regular, everyday people who suffer The Crack Affliction. Yes, ordinary Americans like me and you (especially me), as well as the gang-running wetbacks, the marginalized and self-martyrizing Thalidamide boomers, and the sporadic and fetid bursts of German tourists questing after true-grit experiences of the Hollywoodican states.

Anybody at anytime, I am here to bear witness to you, can become one of the millions of victims fallen prey to her powerful siren’s call—a melody that boasts of having every bit or more of the deceptive seduction (and additives) of a top-quality tranny (minus the stamina, of course). It’s not until you’re safely stowed in the sack and partially exposed that it dawns on you that this is “a package deal.” The chick has a dick. You’re in shemale territory now, buddy.

Not what you were after by any means, but, well, hell, you’ve come this far, there’s only so much farther you can go, you certainly don’t want to hurt the feelings of this poor, sweet girl,er,man…damn it! whatever she is…And, um, you were sold?signed, sealed, and delivered?back in the cab riding over the bridge as you fell captive and headlong into what you then convictedly considered and categorized an innocent, broadening dabbling. Mere dalliance. Way short of a detour. Impossible of becoming a defection. But they always say that men give the best head, that they know how to work the equipment, and God! it’s been so much fun so far! This is just a…uh…bump in the road. A dark, forbidden, dirty pothole that needs filling, if you will. You may as well see it through to the bittersweet chocolately end. What choice do you have, really?

Anyway, the point is (or was) that crackheads do indeed come in all shapes, sizes, colors, and degrees of personal and social responsibility as well as legal productivity, and the sooner all you conspiring bitches understand that, the sooner we will all just get along, see?

+ 4 (all 30 all gone)
(what’s that, a $170/day habit? and these dubs I just got from Richie Rich are kind of small and at this point—no sleep or food since 8am Friday [now a quata ta three pm Sunday], not even my antibiotics as that prescription was temporarily surplanted by another self-administered, and on the heels of a cold which, combined with non-stop 24 hr fume and hot toxic particulate inhalation, now rears its ugly head only in the occasional hauling forth of a very dense gray-green hunk of highly spittable flembe—the effects are nil to minimal. Little more than a staving off of the body trembling [though not the headache, which I am normally not susceptible to]. Max my delivery driver called just as I was getting home to see if somebody had come through. I said yeah but call me back, or I’ll call him, as I might need more…If only to get through the laundry—the one thing that can’t be put off for the weekend: my feet stink like the devil I’ve been dancing with and I’ve already helped myself surreptitiously to a pair of S.’s socks…Oh, lord.)

Now, where did I leave off? Like the night before I’m to meet friends for cultural and sophisticarty entertainment—this time the museum for Basquiat and Fab Freddy spinning old school—but I putter and while away the hours contentedly, always thinking I have only another 20 or 30 minutes worth of work (work I have a lot of fun doing) or porn viewing (since I’m now on a, surely short term, kick) left to do, but there’s rollover even to the point that I’m walking to the door already late and decide I have to write Prairie, Paste in the poem I wrote of her and I yesterday. Because it’s good and that’s not just the Cr talking because I do write some schlibble-schlopp when I’m cracked up. Here, I’ll paste it in here, now:

Odd, group disbands early. 11 or 30ish. I’m not ready to go home, just having let myself out of that hardwood cage with computer. C called earlier so I dialed him as M speeds us in designer girlie fashion down the FDR towards the Bklyn bridge, her Maltese falcon in the Jetta’s pass chair, me in a boisterous and, I’ll say, witty vein on the celly telling C to get out of his pajamas, but his boxers on, and meet me at Boat. If fucking Carroll Gardens neighborhood. S&M’s, too. But he’s not having it. Still not ready I opt for a Boat drop-off anyway, counting on good odds that one of that regulars that are also at least acquaintances of mine will be lurking about. Nope. But I ducked into the bathroom for a tokey toke, much needed after the convo on the way:

M was observatin’ that K seemed on something, E she guessed, or coke, but I said no, he was hitting me up for the c train so he didn’t have that and he wouldn’t want that if he had e. Oh, I thought you boys were lining up in the bathroom. Oh, no. Then what were you doing? Smoking crack. A hah haha! I’m serious. Chuckle, chuckle. Weed? I told you guys on the way in I don’t like that stuff. It fucks me up worse than any drug. Seriously. I can handle it but it’s not usually enjoyable unless it’s solo and accompanied by a big plate of nachos, a pint of Chubby Hubby, and overstuffed couch, and cable TV with TiVo. It’s not social for me. Anyway, oh, yeah, that’s right, you did say that. So what were you two doing in there? I already told you. You said you were smoking crack. Yes, I did. You weren’t smoking crack! I don’t know why you don’t take me seriously. You were smoking crack. Yeah. I don’t believe you. Okay. Okay, show me a pipe then. You want two? I had two but produced one. M reacts, and Sil’s like ‘baby, that’s the same kind of pipe you have [to smoke the trees in]” but the conversation morphs into her passing harsh judgment on the stuff. I always admit the damages, but I hate the hypocrisy. Her and I were up all night and gallivanting around Manhattan, refilling the nostrils in Grand Central bathrooms and cabs in the bright morning light for fuck’s sake. She cites the crackheads defecating and vomiting outside her apartment in SF. I have yet to see that kind of results or behavior and I have kicked it with the depraved of the down & out, but I can accept it, but, I say, you do coke all day every day and you’ll be in the same place. She keeps the “no, it’s different party line” and I move into expounding and defending my theory that while crack is bad stuff, the bad stuff you see in the crack hoods has more to do with structural issues than with any particular drug itself. If coke were as cheap and easy as crack it would be the same motherfuken scene, yo. Mas o menos. S piped in with a study to back me. M got a little defensive and went back to speculating about the state of K, but S and I disagreed on that, too.

So. I end up at Brooklyn Social. Nobody I know there either. At first. I get my smoov aloof on. I get my quirky flirt on. I get my funny on. I meet people. Then one of my other peoples—the one I expected to run into, actually—shows with a new lady friend, for whom I do the flattering soft shoe. She eats it up, laughs it out. Asks how we met. Funny, I say, ‘cause he hated me that day. The day I bought this Coney Island hat I’m wearing, actually. The Mermaid Parade. Years ago. (It all fees good to say.) He and I, having just met, are standing in the Nathan’s hot dog line. My boy cuts me off. No, no, let’s not talk about that. See? I tell her. It still makes him uncomfortable. What it was was that there in the noon day sun surrounded by hordes and mobs at every shoulder, I do a quick, discreet, casual, no-one-notices key bump off my bag. Freaked him out and pissed him off. But I’m master at the do it anywhere techniques. It was fine.

Around the pool table a damn fine hottie hot and her friend ask me about my hat (a theme!). Hers is Bud Light. Then at one point, something I don’t recall happens to evoke from her something like “You haven’t helped me yet. We’ll see what you can do for me.” Pretty suggestive, the tone and movement, eyes. Damn, I was a monk and now I’m saved. Frankly, I was a little surprised, but despite the lack of beauty rest, I was feeling debonair and chill last night. I kept it cool, as I’m not one to bring on my game real hard, especially if it’s competitive. Then her friend, cute-ish but way farther down the line in comparison then suddenly, as if she’d just broken from a huddle, starting coming on to me thick and blatant, the tomboyish dream right there with us. I don’t want to hurt any feelings or burn any bridges so I play along minimally, and somehow the exchange inspired tomboygirl to give me a titty twister, to which I complained about the pain. She gave me a hard time for whining so I gave her a titty twister, and she hung with it. That’s a cool chick. Then she’s off, and I’m alone with second string who wants to sit. Which I would have done but I was needing a bathroom toke and by then I’d started passing the fixin’s off to my new fella & pool partner so I had to go get the business to do the business. And I think that was it for her, which didn’t phase me until the end of the night when all the girls left at once. I told my new boy, I do it all the time. Hold out for what I really want, and lose out on what I’d be more than happy to get. A flaw not quite fatal.

I say to him while he’s chatting, “so can I swing by your place tonight to get that book, then?” what book? I pause with a steady look. The book. You know. Oh yeah. He caught on. And then maybe in a so not gay way it was as good or better hanging with him at his place ‘til all hours finishing up the goodie bag (save the fallback dime I always walk away with). His sculptures and circuit tinkering were astounding. And the music I haven’t heard for two years. And the book of death faces. And the conversation. And the similarities. I told him I was tired of wa

[we interrupt this program…]
+4 (II)
for the accountant in me, in you, in all of us, that’s 38 bags/$380 in less than 48 hours (and the help I’ve had has been minimal)
[no back to our regularly scheduled…]

tching him let such inspired creations go unnoticed, uncaught in the public eye. and that I was going to secure him a gallery show and take the standard 10% (rate on sales). He laughed. I said whether you like it or not. I’m serious. Hours and stuff later, walking out the door for final home, I paused, looked heaven-then-floor-ward, and said “I don’t think it’s the crack talking. I think you should really be in galleries. I’m going to do it. We’ll be hip and rich.” he said something to effect that it’d be really damn cool if I did. So I told him he had to reply to my email with the links to Leon’s dewanatron.com (that has so much in common with some of his dabblings) and my couple web showcase stories, of course—otherwise, I’d have no contact info. He said he would and I think he will. And I think I will, but even God wonders with what time, in what segment of what day behind what other ambition or responsibility or mild ought?

So, two things. The new kid—Damon—has all these tools and comes off as a pretty handy sort of fellow, but he manages to break both my lighters in the space of an hour. Or maybe he just drains the one, but the other he kept lit ‘til its innards melted and the top sprung apart—classic beginner mistake if you can generalize my own experience—isolated, loner smoker that I am. Tonight was the first time he’d smoked out of a genuine crack pipe. So, what did you smoke out of? I laughed when he listed a bong. Good lord, the vapor must have blended and bonded en route. What other choice did he have, he asked. Oh, a blunt or a Coke can, maybe. You know, the classics. The poorer-than-poor crackhead maneuver. Or, okay, also an in-a-pinch maneuver for the more classy and respectable among us. So, yeah, a real greenhorn. He saw me push the screen and asked what was going on.

But in other ways he’s totally pro. I’d pulled a couple thick clouds off a caked up stem and told him when I first handed it over that I thought he could too if he knew what he was doing and had technique because the screen was way in and up to it was pretty burned clean from my two. He assured me he was and could and would and then came back with assurances that he in fact did. Later I pick up a nuance from him that I’m surprised I didn’t figure out myself, the way I think about this scientific shit. I hold the lighter kind of askance and adjacent, or move it around, or on and off, or just touch the rock lightly and quickly, and/or all of the above to keep from heating too much too fast. But he actually sometimes holds the flame off. And it works nicely. Weird, too, because I do that when the screen gets stuck way in and crap like that. And, the capstone of his bringing his expertise to the table…get this…he cooks! I think he pretty much went to Google for a rough outline and then trial and errored it. My first crack buddies, the old AfAm couple Toya and Black, the one time I traveled out to their house in Flatbush, they explained to me the process, how to cook. But they, as many of their demographic, don’t communicate in ways that I am accustomed and adapted to, so my knowledge was spotty, then forgotten.

Anyway, he pulls out a mostly used bag of coke and plopped it in front of me as a thanks. I was kind of frightened of it. So little…so capable of downer…so disruptive—one reason I’m digging the Cr over the C is because the down is so much more mellow and sleeping, while not necessarily easy or sound, much more attainable. So I declined. And he didn’t want it either. So, hey, cook it! He rigged a square of tin foil as a little platform off the desk, spread the C out over it with equal part baking soda (which he later theorized was a touch much), sprayed it with water from a sprayer bottle until he could stir it with an unbent paperclip while he rotated a flame some distance below it. I don’t think any stirring was involved in the version I heard, And being thin only some was pulled off and into the glass chamber. For the rest, he rolled a piece of paper and pulled on it over the foil as, again, he held flame below. We swapped off. It was good! Amatuerly arrived at, perhaps…sure. But any sort of cooking is another level. Again, not being in the scene or smoking with friends, I don’t know the norms, how it works, the tricks of the trade. All that shit is hard won shit. So. The cooking.

The other thing was the fucking torch. After blowing through both lighters the only option left was his blow torch—and than the Lord above us watching down over that he had that or we’d a been all dressed up with nowhere to go. It was beautiful. He turned it on low and we kept it lit like that, on the table, handing it back and forth through the small hours and into Mother’s Day. It was hotter, of course, and I didn’t like that. But it was a little bad ass, at least a smidgen hardcore.

Finally made it out alive, livery carred home, and sucked on crumbs and beatin’ off here on this till it was time to hit Rich. Rinse. Repeat. Time to hit Max. A little “compare and contrast” (stupidest phrase ever since compare is not limited to similarities, and worse that it’s propagated by educators). Rich has a multi-braided beard. Is always in a hoodie. So forth. Max has a nice car, dresses in sharp hip hop streetwear, is nicely spoken (relatively), and pulls up today with what is presumably his baby moms in the pass and a carseat set up in back. A family man!

In among and between it all, I put off a call to my Mom (persistently, almost insistently, naive to think I’d be well capable in, say, the evening. I did send the trad thimble, though, and she called to thank me for that but I saw 480 and let it vibrate its way across the hardwood floor. Feel a little guilty, made worse by my driver over to Crown Heights to cop, going off about how you gotta love your mother while she’s around ‘cuz after they’re gone…you know…[and he’s 63 years old, by the way] yo moms is all you got, the only one that love you no matter what, the rest is bullshit. Somehow we also talk a lot about drugs. He’s been on a methadone program for three years now. Down to 30ml now, though. Fucking hardest thing you’ll ever do, he says.

Still going strong (in the sense that no end in sight, pipe coming to lip quite regularly, while quite feeble-bodied and -brained). That kid—I generously hand him a dub for while I jump in the shower pre-blow job quickly, and when I come back it’s totally gone. Fine. He doesn’t treasure and miser over it like I do. That’s good. And he doesn’t know how to efficiensize [stet]. Fair enough. Then later I’m trying to get the power up to head out with a freshly cracked open baggiette when I realize, not long into it, that he’s ready for me to go. So I basically pull it in two go’s, just to melt it into the screen for transport. And then with sheer volume…it’s been behaving/smoking oddly over the last 2-3 hours, getting clogged and impossible to pull. On top of that, all three lighters I started out with yesterday are on last legs. So just now, I’m sucking hard & keeping hard hot flame steady full-on the tip, which I never do, and one shouldn’t do, but now I need to, there’s no other way, and the same shit catches fucking fire, which I shake out like a thermometer, and into a billow of valuable fragrant smoke. Finally free…but not for me.

Yesterday afternoon went to meeting with large European financial institution client located on Wall street. 28th floor. From there to my man Rich. Rich called night before asking for help. Marshalls impounded his car for failure to pay stack of citations. Needed $300. I decide to help for the adventure of it, not naive to the ramifications. I insist on holding equivalent in work but receive payment in wares which he promises to give middle of next week if I don’t blow it all up (he says with sort of knowing tone). I want to look at what I get before I go but he says he can’t take me up, that’s his mama’s house, so we trade on sidewalk huddled up against Baptist church van. Done, we chat. He says he’d leave the car but it’s his baby mom’s. He wants to summer in DC where shit is for real. They gettin serious. Not these scraps he’s been handling but $30,000 at a time. He’s trying to get in there. I walk with 15 dubs and go do favorite thing. Smoke at home and fart around with fiction and emails, music, this and that. Kept meaning to get out and meet up with gang, one of ours in town from B-school. I don’t do it until 1:30. Ask driver if I can take a quick puff on my pipe. Wants to know what kind of pipe and won’t let me off hook. “Crack?” I hold it up, hand over black smudge as best I could. “Just this glass pipe.” No problem, go ahead. Then he tells me how he was on that for 8-9 years. I asked how he stopped and he said found something more important. I was ready for Jesus. It was a woman. Man, I want a woman like that! But I’m not sure I’m susceptible to that. He talks whole way about how bad it is, what it’ll do to you. I agree all along, taking pulls periodically. Even arrived, he parks and keeps talking. At club, bouncer says it’s only private parties. Calls go unanswered in noisy clubs. I try a couple bars. Usually have good luck meeting someone to chat with, but not last night, except outside smoking and talking Mayan ruins with some chap. Head home again, and talk education and stoic philosophy with smart, thoughtful oldish white guy. He lets me puff, too. Back home start to get bored, but of course can’t be sensible and stop, work for sleep. If I have, I do. Look at suicide girls and some tranny site. Craigslist post for company. Go over to some guy’s in neighborhood round 9a. Classic strategy. Hands beer, “hey, you like porn?” (turning it on), after awhile “I love eating pussy, but when I’m fucked up and horny and there’s none around, I like to suck cock.” So I make deal. Having already discovered he writes and seen his first book I’m all excited about how much he’d like the books of a friend of mine who writes in same vein. I want to get off on that. So say if I can show him some stuff on Amazon and a zine, I’ll let him suck my dick. We do. I show him how to smoke crack. I shower. I repose for the sucking. Thing is, I stay so close for so long, rewinding best porn sequence, and going nuts like I’ve had girls do but never done myself. God it’s crazy punishing bliss forever and when I go it’s so damn fucking intense I’m left quivering jelly. Seriously, people say this, but I don’t think I’ve ever come like that. I needed that. We smoke more and talked book publicity, his previous trade. I walk home. I write first blog entry

Am I at rock bottom?

God is my rock (bottom).

“Break your mama’s back!”