resolution

my hope is to share (even) a sliver of all the beauty i've seen.

soy v. almond

last night i made the switch from soy to almond milk, on counsel of my meditation teacher. Saylor had told me to make the move months ago, but i ignored his wisdom.

this is beside the point.

the point is that (allegedly) soy milk adversely affects your boy qi by increasing estrogen levels in the bloodstream, and i need all the help i can get...

yesterday, continued

after Jache left, i ate Indian food with a meditating rabbi from Canada, and upon my return i put on Jim Croce as the Madness descended. i wrote for hours and drank decaf, but this is beside the point.

the point is that on the way to the restaurant, we were serenaded by the screaming sounds of Dolphins fans as the team edged out the Jets. my friend looked at me and asked "what's that?" i told her, "that's my pratyahara practice."

the dangers of re-gifting

Jache and his girlfriend came by this afternoon so i could re-gift her a t-shirt...

the next thing i knew i was mid-rant, talking about Stravinksy, Raskalnikov and a hotel room near the Meadowlands, New Jersey. i tried to explain the necessity of laying the proper groundwork, of building a firm foundation so that what is to come might be properly understood. Jache looked me dead in the eye and said:

"this is going to require a Venn diagram."

a change of plan

i was going to write about backgammon and the joys of Bedouin pants, but i just received a text from Saylor with pictures of the sketches for the chapbook.

they are amazing and i am excited to know that we are closing in on the final stage of the project. it was initially conceived as a conceptual art piece cum treatise on duality and romance, but has ultimately found equilibrium as a stand-alone with the potential for serialization. so long as i love the ones i cannot touch,

this poetry may never cease...

experiments, all the way down?

thirty-odd years into the Experiment, one month into the experiment, and one holiday afternoon of this experiment:

Jache and i spent the afternoon trying be Jewish, gorging on Chinese food and then going to the feel good Nazi movie of the year. the food was good, the movie was lousy, and we spent most of the night just looking back and forth at each other like two 13 years who just paid for Pez dipped in acid.

"are you feeling anything yet?"
"maybe, are you feeling it?"
"i think so."

but at the end of the night we were still just a couple of goyim on a man-date.

disgusting

i was going to write about waiting and wonkiness, but i was just informed by my host that she would be preparing cauliflower mash tonight, some sort of repugnant substitute for mashed potatoes. i told her i would be having none of it, based on my belief that the cauliflower is some sort of monstrous, disgusting alien life form.

a letter arrived yesterday

i got a letter from Mardou yesterday after a long, uncomfortable weekend of sadness. this time last year Mardou was the (apparent) source of my sadness, but yesterday's package was a blessing. inside was a picture of her, golden, blond and shining in front of a Caribbean blue wall full of words. it was taken in Jamaica during the months we spent not talking, and it brought tears to my eyes.

every thing has a purpose and place and time.

i talked to the current (apparent) source of my sadness last night and told her i was sick of not talking, not calling, not sharing - all because i was afraid of spoiling some illusory notion of us. i told her freedom was more important to me than romance, and i wasn't willing to trade one for the possibility of the other any longer.

looking for a period

yesterday morning was spent in ritual, and the appropriate parties have been informed. before the day was done, i was in receipt of job offers in Los Angeles. but this is beside the point.

the point is that for dinner i had a big plate of tempeh and sadness, noticing the cute girls noticing me and not doing a thing about it, still hung up on the last one, still in the midst of the experiment. i walked home alone and made a cup of tea and wished a happy solstice to an answering machine.

perhaps, when these days are mektoub, yesterday will be the day i finally found the punctuation i've been looking for.

trust

last night i came home after a long weekend of work, with still one more day to come. everyone else went to Dada but i thought it best to spend the night at home, alone and reflecting.

today is the solstice. the nights have grown longer every day for six months, but i never saw it so much as i have these past few weeks. i felt my skin begin to crawl a little before midnight, and i wanted to blame it on the bugs from the fresh papayas that morning, or my scabies-infected friend from two nights before - but maybe it was the itch from the year that was.

i took a shower, and when i stepped out it was after midnight. i decided to begin my new year much like the one that came before, much like those yet to come...

i wrote, i prayed, i meditated.

on 20 November 2006,

i went to a crystal singing bowl meditation with a friend of mine. the woman running the event explained to us, briefly, the seven major chakras and told us that each of the bowls was created to tune into one of those energy centers. before we began she went around the room and had each of us state what it was we wanted to manifest in our lives. i felt dubious curiosity, but when my turn came i said "discernment."

the past two years have illustrated that my ignorance was vast,
and i hope it continues to grow.

bugs

last night Jache's girlfriend came by so i could sign a belated birthday present. i did so, referencing The Document to ascertain the particularities of our peculiarities. i was pleased, but not surprised, to find circles and prime numbers in the course of my (brief) research. but this is beside the point.

the point is that Jache's girlfriend had her scabies-ridden friend with her. she recounted the events leading up to her infection, and i listened in horror as i tried to manuever her away from my bedding. she said not to worry, that it was transmitted by protracted skin-to-skin contact, and she now had Scabicide on the case.

they left, and i spent the rest of the night itching from the psychosomaticism.

some presents find you

one of those presents i was worried about just showed up in the most pleasantly unexpected way. but this is beside the point.

the point is that i slept soundly last night for the first time in more than a week. a dreamy, dreamless eight hours that left me wide-eyed and bushy-tailed. if this were last year, i would wake in the morning and go work at a soup kitchen. but, as fate would have it, my tomorrow will be spent instead with world champion ballroom dancers. weird.

consumption (not the tuberculin kind)

the deed is done. i have bought all of the holiday presents that require the service of the USPS. this year i had a theory: i decided not to buy anyone anything that required electricity. of course this required sending one of my friends a broken gift, but this is the point.

the point is that the gifts remaining can't be bought or made or found. they already exist, they're already in this room.

i just have to trust that i will recognize them when i see them.

sagiquarians

i just got back from Jache's apartment. it's his birthday and we spent the afternoon ogling digital cameras and talking about cigarettes and apples. but this is beside the point.

the point is my sister used to say that she used to try to keep a sagiquarian around at all times.

that's what Mardou and i were to her,
that's what Jache and i are to me.

ants, art and ahimsa

there is very ant insect living on my desk. it keeps showing up from time to time, scurrying about and probably leaving microscopic excrement on my workspace. i refuse to kill the ant because i am practicing ahimsa.

a time or two it has made its way onto the screen of my laptop and when it does i blow it into oblivion, as if it was art.

but it always comes back again, as if it was art.

this afternoon

i saw a red-dotted beauty looking like Ananda Moyi Ma, singing to me in quarter tones without ever saying a word. i heard the mysteries of heaven in her voice and felt the pulse of life in the tablas below.
37 years ago, Bangladesh was on the cusp of its independence, and i have been hanging out with the celebrants all day long.

but this is beside the point.

the point is that last night i was attacked by a flying clementine while reading Augusten Burroughs. in an attempt to lift my spirits i put in an Italian movie based on the writing of the Maruis de Sade and starring the Nazis. (like you do).

somehow it didn't work.

tonight!

Saylor's opening is tonight and i feel a little excited and a little headachy and a little dreadful. those words in the wrong order still haven't found their way into meaning yet, and i sat this morning ripping and taping a slicing surplus pulp again. one book is progressing nicely, the other is yet to begin. the experiment continues. but all this is beside the point.

the point is that tonight's festivities will involve delicious pies in tiny jars. i do not know which one i will eat - blueberry or pecan? allegedly blueberries are full of tasty anti-oxidents, but i have a soft spot for pecan pie, especially when i say it like my grandmother, "peekn pie."

time will tell.

at 5:11am

i danced between dream and vision with my brother Neal Cassady, hiding backstage, waiting for the play of life to end. the curtain was falling; the next act was about to begin. but this is beside the point.

the point is that i have a bunch of words stuck in my head, but they're in the wrong order and it's driving me mad(der).

it's finished

yesterday was Mardou's birthday, next week is Jache's. my life is lousy with Sagittarians, but this is beside the point.

the point is that i had hours to write at work today, and i have now read the death of the voice. it died with a September whimper in the Blue Ridge Mountains more than two years ago, and i spent years in the hospital before that, alternating euthanasias.

without her i don't know if i would have known where to look,
without him i don't know if i would have said what i saw.

the solstice is ten days away; soon the writing begins.

six-toed cats

after the discussions of fair trade coffee, lesbianism, and Machu Picchu came the arrival of a six-toed cat named Ezekiel. the doctor told me that the cat was once prone to hallucinations but has mellowed with age.

i can relate.

by day's end

it appears, by day's end, there will be only two notebooks left to read. these two notebooks span nearly four years. these two notebooks are full of empty.

soon i will read the death of the voice.

a night with Jache is like:

i just had the most amazing bowl of yogurt i have ever eaten in my life. it was made from whole milk, with cream on top, and topped with delicious blueberries and wholesome pumpkin flax seed granola. but this is beside the point.

the point is that last night a poet's mother told me that my genius bordered on disability while he read me essays in the living room, the smell of sautéed portobellos in a cast iron skillet mingling with the croon of Tom Waits.

eventually i had to leave and, on my way to where i was going, i started to wonder if i was on my way to where i was going. the bakery admonition of the voodoo priestess still rang in my ears,

"slow down,"

as i walked past an amazing drummer singing his raspy soulful blues while a legless black man laid down the bottom end.

i knew i was in the right place.

procrastination

Mardou called just before midnight to tell me about her new job and the government plates and the package that arrived for her today. i wrote on it: "open in case of birthday." but this is an ancilla to the point.

the point is that i'm blogging because i don't want to write about last night. i'm sick of writing uncomfortable yesterdays; i remember being sick of them in March, and May, and July, and August, and here i am again.

the pain isn't in the sadness, the pain is in not letting go.

i know this because there was a time when there was pain in writing of Mardou, but those days are long gone and last night her call was an oasis. i told her about [her] and the experiment and how it's not going as planned.

i woke this morning a little closer to letting go.

looking for the right word

i've been treating my sadness with Exile on Main Street and reading about the coldest winter i ever saw and the horrible spring that followed.

there are two weeks of shorter days and two months of longer nights to follow.

i pulled myself away and drove across town and the words just came. pretty words, clever words, allusive words - words i didn't even know i knew back then come easily now. but there are still things that are hard to say, things i can't quite get my tongue around.

i'm feeling the sway right now, i'm feeling the weight of this wait, making plans for a future, reminding myself that tomorrow never got here yet.

this deserves more than this... but for now it will have to do.

but who's counting?

i'm trying not to count the phases of the moon -
it's easier at night; it's easier with my eyes closed.

a new way of counting will pop into my head and i (try to) let it pass. sometimes i put on a movie, but if the movie is in French it only makes matters worse. sometimes i open up a book, but my compulsive disorder makes it hard for me to let go before the last page is read; the one i'm reading now is passing so slowly.

sometimes i open up my computer and type and type and type...

preparing for Art Basel

i spent my yesterday afternoon running around delivering art for an opening next week and listening to a proprietor of a coffee shop describe her customer base as "broke as shit" to a woman hoping to display her paintings. in the interim i stumbled into an artist whose work i enjoy very much.

of course none of these things have to do with Art Basel (per se...)

keeping warm in December

i just got a love letter from the IRS (not to be confused with I.R.S.) but this is beside the point.

the point is that it is cold today (and by cold i mean 60˚) and when i walked down the avenue i was reminded not of Atlantic but of Remsen. i've been reading journals written on endless freezing mornings a lifetime ago in New Jersey when you could see still the towers smoldering on the horizon. i dreamed of Rumsfeld and bin Laden and kept vigils at the Virgil's.

it was the harshest winter i ever saw.

sadness v. gloom

the excitement of being amazed has subsided, and there is a pink rose dying in my living room. i sit in my bedroom and move from one project to the next, hoping to find one that speaks to the spark.

the caffeine isn't working.

i stare at my ennui, listening to a girl sing about an "impossible girl."

i know how she feels.

on the bright side,

a friend of mine texted me, "how's the weather?" and i told her it was cold, rainy and sad. yesterday i spent seven hours inside my laptop hiding from the malaise, and twice i sat around with my eyes closed and allowed the mantram to take over.

sometimes we forget the overcasts are merely passing over.

there is beauty and meaning in all things, and tonight Venus and Jupiter will make love to Luna, a celestial ménage a trios, even if there's no one there to see it.