As Above, So Below

“Ex Nihilo Nihil Fit”

noreply@blogger.com (G. Etranger) — Sun, 13 Nov 2011 16:53:00 +0000

I watch documentaries. They tell me things like,

“The Universe is 17 billion years old.”

They make vague analogies and models

to support these claims, and fit it all into

an hour format for PBS or whomever.

A cabal of astrophysicists meet in secret

and decide, in presumptive but elaborate and

esoteric equations how it all works so that

that they can publish these findings.

And who will know the difference?

Ex nihilo nihil fit. One of my favorite expressions.

It means, in Latin, “From nothing nothing comes.”

Something cannot come from Nothing. Well, for me

it's a problem. It is the nagging question which pervades

my days and nights. It prompts the question I can not answer.

What is the Universe in?

I'm not disciplined to study thoroughly what may,

without guarantee, lead me to answers or more questions.

I'm also heartbroken. I thought about seeking solace in a wat,

but let's be real. I'm an iconoclastic bastard, not a monk.

Life, with a divine entity or without, breaks my heart.

The selfishness, cruelty, inconsideration of my modern

fellows breaks my heart. I dream of an island, and a muse,

a beautiful girl who wants to have my children and I

do things like fish and hunt wild boars. It's an empty dream.

Gauguin went to Tahiti to paint. Now there are seven billion

people living on this planet. So few places to hide. Call me

a coward, but that is exactly what I want to do: hide. When

the doctors tell me I'm mentally ill, I have to ask, “Isn't that

very much appropriate?” Death would be better than the lives of 95%.

Funafuti 8°31'S 179°13'E … unlikely

Nanumea 05°41'S 176°09'E … unlikely

Nui 07°13'29"S 177°09'37"E... unlikely

Nukufetau 08°00'S 178°22'E … unlikely

Nukulaelae 09°22'52"S 179°51'08"E … unlikely

Vaitupu 07°28'S 178°41'E … unlikely

They found what they believe to be some of Gauguin's teeth

in Tahiti. Like the life preserved as it was stopped by Pompeii in '79.

I can't know if Gauguin was happy, no matter how young

and how preserved the girls were from the institutions of shame.

But he did it. He said it, which often is a curse, and then did it.

My escape from this particular suburb of Dis will have to be different.

I will have to steal away into the night, with a backpack full of socks,

underwear, and some cash. I will require the same faith

that I seem to have lost along the way. I will have to let the judgments

of others slip off me the way rain does down and umbrella, or a raincoat.

So, while I draw up prototypes for tinfoil-lined umbrellas,

(so as to keep them from their mind reading / controlling rays)

in doing so, I keep my head full of broken heart above the water,

the waves which will drown me, I bend time. No, I don't bend it, I bide it.

If I could bend time, I'd be up to much more scintillating endeavors.

It will be me in this 17 billion year old Universe, for a fleeting millionth of a second

seeking that relief, that transcendental drunk from a wine fomented from grapes

grown on the vines of absurdity. In Judaism, there is a tenet that we (humans)

will never know god's face. Einstein, with his shock of hair, antennae for the cosmos,

said prophetically, “I want to know god's thoughts. The rest are details.”

The Devil in me. The Daniel Webster I aspire to be. These are at odds.

17 billion years ago, let's just say they're right. The “Big Bang” happened.

Great. So, please tell me, what was there before that big bang.

And if you say something like it was super-dense compaction blah blah blah, please

tell me it was a super-dense compaction of WHAT? And what before that!?

The stars whisper secrets. They have for longer than we were around to see them.

They whisper about dreams, and wishes, and to astronomers, they whisper about time,

but they mock me in symbol. Their very presence says “We see you, hahaha!”

Like peepholes for the superspatial beings. I know that creatures such as us,

who can't see, for the most part, our hand in front of our faces, can't answer these questions.

However, the questions remain. So, if I go to the Large Hadron Collider, and,

with some silver tongue explain my broken heart,

manage to get them to explain the whole thing to me, I can leave mended.

Perhaps I can get a job at the post office and a mortgage.

Love is in the Large Hadron Collider, baby. But only for a millionth of a second. Then it's gone.

par Giosue ben Dawell

Written on Demand

noreply@blogger.com (G. Etranger) — Tue, 01 Nov 2011 14:08:00 +0000

This is what scares me. The silence of night

it feels like shelter, but it's temporary

and that is never forgone. There is no sanctuary.

There is no lover. There is no family.

There is no cabin or penthouse or basement apartment.

I'm also as lost as any Priest or Rabbi or Seargant at Arms, any Worshipful Master

that I might have met.

There is nothing I believe in that

is worth dying for, and nothing I feel

worth living for.

This scares me.

The bridge outside the window tells me the day and time like

a 720000 ton clock, the machinery of society.

When the traffic starts again,

it will be followed by the sun and a day,

where the world expects me to participate.

How?

How the fuck do people care about any of it?

What's missing in me? What is the antidote?

I consider this: I am similar to other primates.

I have a vestigial tail, opposable thumbs, similar sensory organs.

Indeed, most of me is shared with my brethren

in any shrewdness of apes.

I'm weaker, but my brain is larger.

What good is it doing me?

If I am the 18,000,000^th cousin 10^23^rd removed

from any given cartload of monkeys,

and so, in effect, an animal, which is, to be fair,

more honest and obvious to me

than the rest of human-ness,

where am I left on this gyration

of elements, iron and oxygen, rust and salt, ice and water,

this spinning mass with a gravity that

holds me prisoner?

The mind has captured the heart.

And it imprisons.

To escape!

Like Hermes and Nikes and angels and demons, monkeys with ~wings~,

but still they must move bones to flap them.

The bat flies like I walk;

The bat is also a brother, but it too hides in the night.

So, I sit.

I know to keep shit separate from sleep.

I know simple things,

which will remind you

if you forget them,

like tying my shoes.

When I see they're untied,

or I trip.

I could build, but to what end?

You see, this candle, the sun, which I hide from,

that truly I know with my big monkey brain that I need to live,

for any life to live, will expire.

If, if what I know to be true is true, that is.

If I go any further trying to explain it to myself

I will fall into a solipsistic black hole.

So I sit. I try to deal with simple things. Somehow still I fail.

I can't fight gravity. I can't build anything that will outlast the wind.

I can't carve my being into any stone, any amount of Mt. Rushmore

that will outstand Gamma Ray Bursts and post-stellar nebulousness.

The atoms stuck between my teeth,

in my earwax

are as subject to the vicissitudes of time

as any that made up the first ape-coprography,

the latest columbite-tantalite contraption,

the great texts of the great libraries and great mens' brains.

It's all the same.

In an absolute scale of time,

if such a thing can be considered,

as opposed to a relative one,

none of this for-the-birds bullshit adds up

to anything but the sum of parts.

Maybe, in that absolute scale I am really in that solipsistic hole

but hear me!

If the diaphanous veneer of this aether is weathered over enough time,

matter following that law about entropy will, eventually,

after all the atoms' antics are played out,

present a nice, even, shitty sleep.

Won't it?

Never restful, never fitful.

Never rejuvenating, never haunted by nightmares.

Never anything at all, really. And that is the state that I am in.

Maybe I'm wrong.

I'd say I need sleep,

but I've already tried sleeping.

Maybe the Universe is a fantastic banger of a machine,

and all my whining and wailing

could and should be silent wonder.

This is not how it feels, though.

Humbly.

Two Pairs Fallen

noreply@blogger.com (G. Etranger) — Thu, 13 Oct 2011 16:23:00 +0000

Raffiniert ist der Herrgott, aber boshaft?

noreply@blogger.com (G. Etranger) — Sun, 18 Sep 2011 15:58:00 +0000

Every moon that rose, at least, the ones

I remember, made Lūnae, Veneris, what

named day of the week, so much less important

than the weather, sex, and dreams of tongues. And so

how do I know the words “lucciola” and “folletto”?

It all ended something along lines like these:

John was a perversion of his own ethics. The

most disturbing part was how well he knew but

Rebecca knew I had passed it on to Erik

so when she hit me she need no remorse feel

and Melanie and Basha made rites of the

nights we spent hiding from gravity's invasions

while Emily never gave up her day job

when I would appear, on bisat Sulaiman,

it would mean that I would need to be more of

human than ghost. Aradia translated (again)

between Providence and New York assured through

voices of Ionna, Elisabeth, and others

that what Great Mechanick there is, showing its

faces in improbable odds that I, right

then, was meant to be so fucking lucky

that I would grab a shoeshine on my way in

wearing really awesome suits and ties. So

when I won, Emily. But after that, Yana

the Russian, became the middlegirl of the

connection. She walked me down that primrose path

but when I saw the River of Styx, alarmed

I flew from the vice of the NYPD

to the Pacific. Keri and Ava cast

the spells conjured somniculum. Gain enough

to jump the Atlantic. Transcontinental

the runway stopped. I needed, really really

needed my passport. This sounds false but it's true

it was in the basement of C.I.A. How

much was that Great Architect willing to grant

favor me? That much more. In Paris I stopped

laid on a cemetery wall, laughed silver

like a child hopped up on goofballs and smiled through

red strained lips and teeth. The joke was soon over

So I found Gogol and offered him a deal

No derelict can refuse. He set me up

At Château Rouge, taught me the french I needed

– the most important words, “Cherche des Skenan”–

while mischievious magrebs purveyed goods and

I had not-quite sex with another, future

State Department courtesan. Elizabeth

outclassed me, but there was a long recording

and then! Gemma brought it all to presque-vu

when she asked me the question my life was, had

been. Before, Chealsea (Drugstore) and I spent nights

At the Chelsea Hotel. Breathing for her on

more than one occasion. Towers, their doormen

Never understood preferences for taxis

over nine-one-one. Elisabeth at least

came-to by the time I got her out of the

restaurant. So Gemma in the squat party

Châteaudun, Gemma, asking me if I knew

any way out of the fucking nightmare and

could I take her, Gemma who I would love and

“No, I am lost,” but I said, “I know a place

(Raffiniert ist der Herrgott, aber boshaft?)

Gemma, Brixton.” Portuguese junkie “tea-leaves”

like Manuelo and Toza who lived that day

and at three, darkness. Piss, the safest water

from cock to hand then injected in the blood

is, however disgusting, why I don't have

Hep C, HIV... Der Hergott saw me take

Gemma, and I, make wedding vows in Vegas

(Elvis long dead, was present for the rite). Mom

– honest, I wasn't hatched from an egg – said that

she couldn't come because it undermined her

against sister's catholic wedding service and

ten years had now passed. Some have been omitted

if not one of them more or less innocent

than another. I failed Gemma. Not for want

of will, or fear, or some lack of character

like. I was only given a score and ten

So I appealed to der Hergott-psychopomp-

top of my skull. This time I was transported

to the first panel of Tuin der Lusten

where my imminent death was given reprieve

in water and sun and all things that are good

for the soul. Boschaft ist der nicht. I would live

another day. Nothing more. Gemma phoned me

as I rode on a bus. I wasn't going to meet

her in Belgium and she wasn't coming to me in

Florida. That was over. I cried for two

stops. To be fair I shouldn't even be alive now.

Unused

noreply@blogger.com (G. Etranger) — Thu, 15 Sep 2011 09:18:00 +0000

She Called the Hospital

If I were a better liar,

a better chess player...

If I had the type of mind

that sees social strategy

I never, even being so

very young, would have

walked into her office

and told her the truth.

They were the philanthropists.

They were brilliant.

They were lovers of men.

But me? My truth wasn't OK.

When asked whether it was

a matter of pounds or dollars

I should have said dollars.

Less exotic, more common.

It cost me the sort of chance,

the once in a lifetime

opportunity, that I carry guilt

for having already had too many.

Maybe it's not guilt.

Perhaps that's shame.

Either way, the redux is:

I'm a horrible liar.

She told me stories

of hearing Jerry Springer

in the background blaring.

In those days you could smoke.

That I didn't have a room

That they wouldn't give her

any information about me

gave rise to suspicion.

I called my bank and...

the machine voice told me

in so many words that

I had several thousand.

I left. I still could have lied.

From the Dark Annals of My Dreams

noreply@blogger.com (G. Etranger) — Thu, 15 Sep 2011 07:51:00 +0000

It was a suburban neighborhood. I was exiting one or another house, and as I did so, she walked to make her entrance. I was unsure if she was going to feign an unawareness of my presence. At first it seemed that way. It was then impossible. But I was distracted, which I counted as some advantage, some protection. When I confronted her to greet her not knowing how I should do that, I saw her eyes see mine.

I can fly in my dreams. It's a regular thing.

I had that business that distracted me, but I flew up and out and around a tree. When I came back, like some boomerang, she was walking away. I threw a tantrum where I ripped the trees apart like a scythe, cutting swaths of them with my anger as I spun.

When I woke up, I meant to remember it.

Capitulation

noreply@blogger.com (G. Etranger) — Wed, 14 Sep 2011 19:07:00 +0000

The Mission (like the Dream, not a neighborhood or design style)

noreply@blogger.com (G. Etranger) — Thu, 01 Sep 2011 15:22:00 +0000

Fowls

noreply@blogger.com (G. Etranger) — Thu, 01 Sep 2011 15:19:00 +0000

Chimney Sweep Song

noreply@blogger.com (G. Etranger) — Fri, 19 Aug 2011 07:03:00 +0000

Chim Chimney

Chim Chiminy, Chim Chiminy, Chim Chim Cheree

A sweep is as lucky, as lucky can be

Chim Chiminy, Chim Chiminy, Chim Chim Cheroo

Good luck will rub off when I shakes 'ands with you

Or blow me a kiss--and that's lucky, too!

Now as the ladder of life 'as been strung

You might think a sweep's on the bottommost rung

Though I spend me time in the ashes and smoke

In this whole wide world there's no 'appier bloke

I choose me bristles with pride, yes I do

A broom for the shaft and a brush for the flue

Though I'm covered in soot, from me head to me toes

A sweep knows he's welcome wherever he goes

Up where the smoke is all billered and curled

'Tween pavement and sky is the chimney-sweep world

Where there's 'ardly no day, nor 'ardly no night

There's things 'alf in shadow, and 'alfway in light

On the rooftops of London--Coo! What a sight.

Chim Chiminy, Chim Chiminy, Chim Chim Cheree

When you're with a sweep you're in glad company

Nowhere is there a more 'appier crew

Then them wot sings Chim Chim Cheree, Chim Cheroo

Chim Chiminy Chim Chim, Cheree Chim Cheroo

09/04/01

noreply@blogger.com (G. Etranger) — Fri, 19 Aug 2011 06:48:00 +0000

Right before my world changed: 09/04/01

Thank God that August is over. It's been a wicked month. I must
rebuild the temple, must wash the dishes, must clean my room. Samuel had arrived.
He met me at work and then I left. He helped me move twice. We tried to
insult each other in the most disturbing vile way possible for the course
of his entire visit. He helped me move twice. I thought that he was a
very conservative and intellectual, logic-oriented uptight Swede who would
be very cautious about everything. The maniac, of course, is only half
that. At one point during his visit, he was riding on top of the
advertisement on a yellow cab going over the Brooklyn Bridge at about
40-50 miles per hour or so. He looked insane. I think he was. Later he
ended up running from police (although it is still undecided if he
were actually being chased) and cutting his hands all up climbing over
fences in the area of the Brooklyn Navy Yard (east/north of there??).

Eventually he found himself in a dumpster, confused as to how he had
arrived there. Perhaps it was because of the "police" or perhaps it was
tied in somehow with the fact that he now had no money. After wandering
around, realizing that he had no possible way of finding my new space and
didn't even know the address, he ended up with a cabbie who dropped him
off at the station and gave him 1.50 for the train.

Eventually he made his way to a friend's and then called me the next
morning. Lately my friends have been able to give me very dangerous and
insane stories about the course of events (or lack of a 'course') during
nights of remarkable excess.

My new place is across the street from the Brooklyn Navy Yard. Three
blocks away is a Talmudic School. In the morning I see so many Orthodox
or Hasidic Jews. It seems like they all have a special way of walking or
maybe it's because of the similar attire that it appears that way to me.
What's more, my neighborhood is highly unresidential.. i.e. no stores or
homes. Maybe on Washington there are some homes, but everything is mostly
warehouses and factories and in-dustrial. Then there is the other side of
my street, which is the Brooklyn Navy Yard.

I'm so very tired. I have no bed. I don't want to build a loft
because I'm afraid that I'll fall out of it in my sleep and the floor is
concrete with a rug on top of it. At first I was concerned because my
room had no window, but I sort of like the inability to know what time it
is unless you look at the clock.

I'm being lulled right now by hold music. It's making me want to close
my eyes. Must...not... be... reprogrammed.... to .... buy ...
everything... from ... them...

Winter 2000

noreply@blogger.com (G. Etranger) — Fri, 19 Aug 2011 06:02:00 +0000

01/08/01
When I was younger I had this habit that my friend Jason pointed outwas a good one. As I went to sleep at night I played chronologically through the course ofthe day'sevents in great detail. What would happen is that I would sort of re-liveall of the day'shighs and lows, sometimes being very critical of myself.. others proud. Everyone sort of goes over things that they have done of course, wishingthat they had saidsomething different, more perfect or something. The strange thing aboutwhat I used to dois that I would go through and try to remember as much detail and do it inorder. I don'tdo this anymore, but I think that it's a good way to fall asleep. Byremembering the daysinteractions, events, etc. right before sleep you also etch them furtherinto memory I think,since people are supposed to be able to memorize things more easily orpermanently or somethingin the brain state right before sleep. I think that I may have been a bitwiser when I had beendoing this.
I mention this because I'd like to dump out the events of the pastweeks in great detail, butI've lost a lot. There are things that I experienced or thought that Iwanted to save, and wascertain that I'd remember them when I got to a computer but was verywrong. Writing with pen andpaper is sort of annoying for me. It seems like maybe a better way towrite, and probably is themost convenient way to record dreams, little lyrical thoughts or somethingon the train, in(just out of) the shower, etc.
In Paris, Boxer John decided to head to the Netherlands, and I went toLe Mazel. I took a trainto Montelimar, where I arrived at around 10 at night and there were nomore buses to Les Vans. Istayed at some dingy hotel, where I watched some strange French moviecalled The Mystery at ScotlandYard or something on the little TV in the room that you had to push thevolume buttons severaltimes rather than the power button to turn on. I paid extra for theremote, but it didn't work, andI didn't care enough to go back downstairs and sound annoying. The nextmorning I got the bus to LesVans and was now within 7 km of the very small villa of Le Mazel.
It was sort of afternoon, and the town is very small. I saw a few barsand the post office andlittle stores that were all closed. One place was sort of open, called LeHomard Americain. The 'Americain' suggested maybe they would maybe speak a little English. They did, but just that. The Homard Americain is a movie, they say. Anyway, I ask the bartender ifhe knows where Le Mazelis. Nope. I show him the map that Ryan had drawn for me. Nope. He shows it to the coroner courier/ambulance driver/taxi of thearea. This guy is eatingsome sausage, and has a gander. There is really no reason for him to helpme, but he offers a rideanyway. I had been trying to reach someone named Heidi, who lives nearbyto arrange for a ride upthe mountains to the villa. She wasn't answering. I accept the ride, andorder a beer, but he saysthat we have to go now and someone translated that he had to go playFather Christmas in like 30 min. I drank the beer very quickly and hopped in the ambulance/taxi with anununiformed Santa.
When I get to Le Mazel, the sky is blue and the rocks (slate?) arethis strange light grey. It'samazing, the ride is amazing. No one is there, except for 4 Frenchconstruction workers that knewnothing of me coming and had very little to do with the house. We hadfunny little conversations inpoor spanish/english/french/pantimime. They laughed that I was in LeMazel. Therewas no public phone around,and I had no key. I had this bag of potato chips. They pointed to thenext villa, which wasn't morethan a kilometer through the woods, but it was like around mountains anddown a valley and there'strees and stuff. I found a path and started dropping potato chips as Iwent along, a little trickpicked up from Hansel and Gretal.
This well marked and old stone paved trail led me in no time to Banne. There I found a pay phone,situated under the ruins of an old castle and some houses. Not like a bigcastle up on a hill, butkind of like right there. No one was around, really, and when cars drovepast the people seemed tolook at me. I guess that's not abnormal. No answer from Heidi, so I wentback to Le Mazel and foundan unlocked door to Ryan's studio. I climbed up some really scary oldmetal ladder and then was ona second level. I tried a window that had curtains, assuming that thatwould be lived-in, but itwas locked. I popped up from this balcony when I heard Heidi callingHelllooooo. She asked if Iwas Joshua and blah blah blah. She was very cool. She let me in, showedme around, and then we wenton some errands. Went to the garage to get a chainsaw fixed, but whilethey were working on that, weran over to a nursery to get a little tannenbaum (she's German) and thento the farmer-woman's houseto get the dinde (turkey). Heidi was telling me how she had met theturkey and he was a good one. Itwas like some arranged marriage, her and the turkey.
I stayed in Le Mazel for Christmas and read some Italo Calvino. Heidi's family and some of their friends came to stay too. Theywere very nice and I ate Christmas dinner with them. There were youngkids that liked when read Pippi Longstocking aloudin German, even though I didn't really understand what I was reading. There were some teenaged kids too, named Milan andMascha. I got along with the family and they kids would translate toEnglish for me if something seemed particularlyinteresting. There was one Jackass though named Tomas. I like him, but Ihave to say that he's a Jackass. Heidi'smom was probably 60 or something and was riding around inside the house onone of those scooters like a kid. She was alsovery nice and smiles and all that. She spoke English.
I rode Ryan's bike down the mountain and to Les Vans. It's only 7km orso, and only one turn. There arecurvy mountain roads with cliffs and no railings and barely enough roomfor two little cars to slide by. I prettymuch held the brake the whole way down. I bought something down in town,got a little money and rode the bike back up. I wasn't sure that I was going to be able to make it all the way, sincemost of it was fairly steep and I've been smoking. I did though, and on the way, I stopped at some land that Ryan wants tobuy. It too is amazing, with terraced vines andbeautiful ruins. I would like to make some money and buy some land there. The land seems very clean and sane and divine.
Thehouse used to belong to a Swedish actress named Mai Zetterling, andsome of her things are still there. She has anice library, which was really cool to hang out in.
After a week in France, I went to Barcelona to meet Boxer John again. Unfortunately, I hadn't been able tocommunicate with him and he had left Barcelona hours before I got there. I had fallen asleep on a train and ended up inIrun. When I arrived in Barcelona, I couldn't find any open hostels,since there was some strange holiday called New Year'sor something and I didn't have a reservation anywhere. I found a quietseemingly untraveled street with some little artgalleries on it and slept for a while in the threshold of a loading dock. So far, that has been the only time I really,really needed a sleeping bag. I did need it then though. I woke up a fewtimes during the night when I heard footsteps,but for the most part I slept fairly well. After checking my mail, Ilearned that Boxer John would be in Ciudad Real and Iagreed to meet him the next day. We met and nothing was happening inCiudad Real. We went to Algeceiras and spent the nightin a pretty clean double room for not much money.
It was Dec 31st there and we were in a Chinese Restaurant (the onlything we could find that was open, the town was dead) atMidnight. They gave us grapes. We didn't really eat them, but we drankwine. Sleep and then the ferry to Tangier. TheMediterranean was very blue. We got our sea-faring adventure on. Therock of Gibraltar isn't that exciting looking, butafter having a pretty annoying conversation with a British trucker on theferry, I'm convinced that there are all sorts ofneat intelligence/information gathering operations on/in Gibraltar. Or anEvil Lair or something.
I had read all sorts of stories of hustlers in the guidebooks andwhatever, and had expected to be hostile in getting throughthe port. I think I was overdoing it though, since the first few things Isaid when I got off was 'Go Away.. No Than..Go Away.' This pissed one guy off; next time I just won't say anything. Afterfinally getting past all the people looking to make abuck, we were walking down some street with our backpacks on when aMoroccan who was very suspiciously wearing a Canadian pin. He had recognized us by John's blonde-dyed hair, which his 'brother' orfriend had described to him over the phone from Algeceiras. His friend had given us the name of a hostel in Tangier in the hostel inAlgeceiras. We accepted, but weren't necessarily makingsome commitment. In any event, he wrote it down in Arabic, which was kindof annoying since of course we can't read Arabic.
We decide to follow this guy to the hotel across the street which hesays is his, and then he tells us some exorbitant rate. He's probably trying to make some commission from us or some bullshit. Now I understand that you have to make a buck somehow,and maybe there aren't exactly a lot of jobs in Tangier, but it stillfucking annoys me since he's not saying that he's tryingto make a buck. Who knows, he very well may have worked there, but hisbrother said that he owned it. We ask him his name andafter a brief hesitation he gives us 'Mohammed'... yeah, no shit. Anyway,so we tell him we don't want to pay whatever price thatwas and he decides to show us this other hostel that he owns... no hisfather owns... you see.. he's very powerful in Tangier,blah blah blah. The whole while giving us this load of bullshit andtrying to become our guide. He shows us this sad roomin some hotel after speaking again in Arabic to the people that workthere. He tells us to leave our luggage there, which arebackpacks, and we're like, no we'll just carry them. Then we say thatwe've got to go to an ATM, which was true... we had nomoney, but we wanted to discuss shit in private. Igpay Atinlay isn't abad idea, but it's not very effective when Johntranslates out loud to figure out what you said, and it's not veryconvenient for a lot of information.
We explain to Mohammed that we'll be back and that we'll find the ATM,etc. and that we don't need a guide, thank you, and he gets allpissed off because he probably spent a decent part of the day looking forus. His brother probably told him we were coming onthe earlier ferry, but we waited a while and so probably did he. Meanwhile, this guy with one eye and pocks and stuff all overhis face is loitering around with too much interest. So Mohammed gets allpissed, starts calling us Jewish, and threatening tofuck us up. In retrospect, he's sort of comical. The one-eye guy tellsJohn he has to give the guy something. John doesn't.I try to tell Mohammed that we're sorry, we appreciate his concern for ourwell being, but he must have been confused about usneeding a guide. I put my hand in my pocket and One-Eye comes over, "whatyou have in you pocket..a knife? i have a knife; youwant a present in you face? you see blood on you face!" I actually didhave a knife in my pocket, but that was coincidence,and I would have been probably too concerned about police and all thatshit to use it. These guys so far hadn't touched us, but nowOne-eye is following us and telling John to give him Pesetas. John pullsout a 100 peseta coin, which I don't think you caneven change, and is worth very little and he decides he wants paper. That's simply out of the question, and the guy is makingthese demands with his hand in his pocket, and probably no knife. So hewalks back up the hill or something and then startscoming back down with some lighter or some bullshit in his hand. We kindof cross the street fast and these Moroccans in a cafeare laughing at the whole situation.
We go to the Port again, and hide in this cafe. Drink some water,smoke a cigarette, etc. Then we decide to go to the HotelMauritania, because Lonely Planet says it's nice and they have bidets inthe rooms. We take a taxi there, which is cheap andcheck in without further incident. Tangier is the most amazing place I'vebeen, excluding that Mohammed character and ol' One-Eye, but even theywere sort of amazing.
Mint Tea, The Hand of Fatima, Dream of a Thief, The Call to Prayer,Where Can We Get Toilet Paper, "My Friend" (aka Mon Ami,Mi Amigo, etc.), 1 Dirham for 1 Marlboro, and Flies on Cakes. The flyprobably costs extra.
01/15/01
I'm waking up very early and going to sleep at Midnight. I'm happy tobe back in the US, Philadelphia. I miss New York. Philadelphia has itsbenefits, though and for the first time I've considered what it would belike to live here. We'll see.
I feel different now. Like the world has gotten a lot smaller or Ihave gotten bigger. I am 5'9", I really am.
I bet on Dingley Dell against All Muggleton with John. It appears thatDingley Dell lost 0-54, and I owe John the equivalent of 10 USD or so. Ithink John had the game fixed.
01/18/01
Boxer John has been abducted. I think that he's fine and that he'llreappear any day now. Zoe makes me happy. I crave skateboarding. I amsetting up some art modeling to make some money immediately. Reality ismostly back, and New York City is better than it has been for a while.
I'd like to collect superstitions. Please email them to me if you knowof any, even the most common American ones.
01/20/01
Oil Joints.
01/22/01
Life isn't that hard sometimes, even when it is. One stressful daywhen I was maybe 14 or 15 it occurred to me that no matter how painful orunpleasant a situation becomes, you probably aren't going to die. Well,you may die, but then the situation won't matter that much anyway. Thatput things into a more acceptable perspective. I am healthy and eventhough things are a little bit tricky right now, I am fairly content.
01/24/01
Sometimes you have to keep the plans loose as a goose. That time isnow. I'm beginning to wonder what the immediate future has in store forme. I don't know, I don't know.
I was modeling today and was doing the same pose three times for 20minutes. I would breathe very deeply and slowly and get very relaxed andin the blink of an eye the 20 minutes would be up. I almost didn'twant to get up it was so comfortable, but that would have been weird and Ididn't want to set any new precedent for keeping a pose for longer than 20minutes. I can't wait to have some sort of sanctuary. Some sane place.
One morning I woke up to the very familiar smell and sound of bacon andeggs cooking up. That Stssshsshshshshshs when the bacon hits the hot panwas usually loud enough to wake me up, even though I was sleepingupstairs. I was young though and usually woke up very early anyway, so Iprobably was barely asleep at that point in the morning.
I went downstairs and Polly was there, not at all surprised that I wasawake now like she knew that her cooking breakfast woke me up. I had caught all these crayfish, maybe 10 or so little ones andput them in a jar. The evening before I had set them on the windowsill andthey seemed content and everything. In the morning there were nolonger 10 little ones, but one very large one! I didn't say anything atfirst, since this was a very strange situation. I thought and thoughtabout it for a while, and definitely remembered 10 little ones. It wasonly yesterday. I still didn't say anything, but I thought that Polly orDave must have had something to do with this. Then again, animals did doweird things, and there was the Voltron effect.
01/31/01
New York is stretching back out. I'm back in its veins, coursingaround like some kind of blood-squid. The lair I work in has no naturallight and lots of construction. Please donate tapestries. People arereally silly. It's amazing how much power you have when you just don'tcare. It's amazing how much the common little shit that works whereveryou work will try to dump his problems on you, elevate his esteem at yourcost, exploit your fears or feelings of guilt. When you just don't care(read "give a shit") all of that dissipates. You're free to do what yoneed and want to do as you see fit. If you make someone unhappy, theytell you about it and you try to make them feel better, assuming that youshould.
My search for a place to live is moving along, but the main issue isgetting the ducats in the account. People really make a lot of sacrificesto live in this city. I personally tend to think that it's worth it, butit still strikes me as extreme what people will pay, share, and deal withcommuting/traveling as far as living space. I hear that this isn't evenas bad as other places in the U.S.
I had a strange dream that I was running while standing on my hands, sorunning on my hands down the halls of my rarely attended high school. This kid kicked me in my chest, which was near the ground since Iwas upside down. I started kicking his ass, and then his friend was thereand then they were sort of crying a little bit and mad at me. I explainedthat they were really tough and everything and that they could have beatenme up, they just didn't work together. Then I went on running down thehalls on my hands.
I came to some councelor that I had had during high school who Ireally didn't like and to this day would have to bite my tongue if I everran into her. I didn't bite my tongue in this dream and ripped her apart. She countered by presenting an issue of the magazine "W" that I was on thecover of, in a picture where I was very obviously intoxicated. I couldn'tfigure out where the picture came from but it seemed like somewhere I hadbeen in Europe. I was sort of embarrassed although in real life I'd beextremely surprised and probably equally excited that my picture was onthe cover of "W". I don't remember what happened after that.
I have some ideas.
02/04/01
A dirty, subterranean night last night. Freezing cold. Popping out ofthe ground on a manhattan sidewalk holding your fingers to your lips tostartled passersby is incredible.
Excerpt about brazen summer attempt at riding a bike South. 151 ofmany? My eyes sting for some reason. Probably the dirt.
Dreams about a short flight, B. John in a jelaba confused by theMilitary Police for a 'monk or a scribe'. I fell asleep by the warm lightof a 6 hour tape full of The Simpsons.
Word from India, China, and other parts, but nothing definite. Beenthinking about the supposed 2nd Ave subway tunnel sections. I am lookingfor an apt, after all.
02/06/01
I may have an amazing apartment that I can move into on February 15th. That is making my day go down pretty well. Sat through a really longmeeting this morning, and although that basically means that I have lesstime to do the things that I already had to do, I enjoyed it.
I really love Jamaican beef patties. I want to have a party and I wantto have those things.
02/08/01
Nope, I don't have an amazing apt that I can move into on the 15th. Back to the drawing board. www.billburg.comand www.aprilslist.com.Working is insane. I smell red leather gloves, with padding inside.
02/08/01
Nope, I don't have an amazing apt that I can move into on the 15th. Back to the drawing board. www.billburg.comand www.aprilslist.com.Working is insane. I smell red leather gloves, with padding inside.
02/09/01
I've got heaps of work but that's alright. I'm really glad that Ididn't end up in that particular place in Williamsburg that was sortof more expensive than it was worth to me, even though it was very verynice. I don't really care about Williamsburg because I don't reallyknow about it and I don't trust popular opinion anyway. Last night Iwas back up in Spanish Harlem for the first time in a long time and Ireally really like it up there. Even though Pleasant Ave. is far fromthe 116th 6 stop, I still think that I would live there.
02/13/01
I really need a sanctuary. Work is insane. The rate at which peoplecan come up with problems is amazing. There are only like 30 of thelittle buggers here, but they generate and endless supply of problems.
Apartment hunting in NYC is getting old. Hopefully I'll at leastfind a sublet that I can afford sometime in the very near future. I'mstaying with a friend in Astoria in an apt. called Cairo due to it'sextremely sunny, dry, and hot climate. You have to leave the windowsopen all the way even though it's February.
On Sunday night I went to the store to buy juice and whatever andsaw this really tasty looking chocolate ice cream bar.. At the sametime I realized that I needed to buy a toothbrush. I only had enoughmoney for one of the two items though. I debated and decided on thedove bar.
Let's go back a little bit. I think that it was my birthday, ormaybe my sister's. I was probably around 11 or so. My friend wasexpected to be arriving any minute, so I went to the end of the streetto see him arrive. I was waiting for a really long time, and I had thisskateboard, so I was sort of playing around on it. I wasn't reallyable to ride too quickly, so I would kneel or whatever and push myself.Well, my friend arrived and was driving down the street with his mom. Naturally, I decided to race the car. All was going well, even thoughit looked like they were going to beat me. All was going well, thatwas, until I hit some crack in the sidewalk and launched forward andlanded on my face, breaking my front tooth in half. It hurt, and Isoiled myself at the same time to add that extra embarrassment.
My grandmother, Mammaw, took me to the dentist and I got all fixed up.My new fake tooth was really big though and didn't look right next toall my other teeth. Eventually I grew into the tooth, but for a longtime it was too big.
The other night, as soon as I walked out of the store with the stupidice cream bar and bit into it, my cap chipped off. Now I have to paystupid amounts of money to get it fixed and whatever. I went immediatelyacross the street to buy the toothbrush to avoid incurring any more ironicdental problems.
02/19/01
Dying well. I'm all busted up. Boxer John is in theAnglo-Babbling-Junion figuring out how to network apples. Rumor has itthat I've been mocked! Imagine!
I need air.
02/20/01
So strange. I'm happy about a few trivial compliments here and there. That's not the strange part. The strange part is that I woke up beforedawn and found myself sitting upright on my sleeping bag Indian-style. It would seem that I spent some time sleeping in that position.
02/21/01
Something that really frustrates me about the web are reallyinterestingly titled sites or links with perfectly relevant seeminginformation that ends up being entirely useless. I hope that no one everends up at this site while looking for something else. People will go sofar as to even title their full url directories to seem like you're goingto be presented with the EXACT information that you're looking for as soonas you go ahead and click.
I stole MDomino's vegetable burrito while he was on the phone. I'llbuy him another one. That's ok, right? He wasn't happy about it.
Cynerton is a looney place. There are some amazing people, but thereare also some really ridiculous ones with almost nothing to offer that Iconsider to be that valuable. Perhaps there are even a few that have moreof a detrimental influence than positive. Without even knowing, I'm sure.
People are so greedy. It's sick to see it come out in a place that issupposed to be battling back some of the eventualities of individual orco-operative greediness. I really think that many more people than wecommonly think are genuinely crazy. Myself included.
02/24/01
Last night a very strange saline evening. At some art opening on 22ndbetween 10th and 11th and talking to a dear friend who subjects herself toall sorts of maternal concerns for her friends and lovers. As I'm tryingto point out a funny characteristic of a mutual friend, I see a manwalking by in my peripheral vision who looks familiar and as it clicks Iutter, "Ohhh my gaaawd..." only to have John Waters mock me with a morenasaly voice. Normally I wouldn't even recognize a famous person, but hereally is a bizarre one. I also wouldn't normally say something like, "Ohmy god." even if I did recognize them. Funny.
For the first time in my life I ingested too much salt. As I wastrying to go to sleep, very concerned about what my body was doing, Irealized how dangerous good old salt is. Many things are unsorted, but Ihave faith.
02/25/01
My right index finger is funked up. I jammed it at a funny party lastnight while trying to jump over some jingle jangle jarred up fireflies. And it hurts. Now to hack out some living arrangement until I can getinto my Crown Heights station.
03/01/01
I am wearing the same clothes as yesterday and avoiding running intopeople that saw me yesterday. I think that I should use my lunch hour togo to H&M and buy some new digs. I can get to 51st and 5th quicklyenough. I've added some pictures and hope to be adding more soon. Itdawned on me that it's pretty vain to have this gallery of yourself, soI'm going to start including other things.
Lately I've been considering taking up some things that I have beenreally critical of or something. I requested some course catalogues froma few schools and think that I need to start taking photos.
It's funny how things turn out and sometimes it's extra funny. Soon I'll move into my sublet and then hopefully Fernando Fernandez and Ican work something out for a studio or one bedroom for me on 116th. Jerome would be an excellent neighborhood as well. Jerome, for those ofyou that weren't there for me to believe the Boxer when he told me thatthat is what the neighborhood's actual name is, is an area in Harlem atthe bottom of Marcus Garvey park (I think). I seem to recall it being on120th or something, so if those two things are not compatible, then pickone, it's not a real name for a neighborhood.
03/02/01
Trying to get this stupid yellowdog linux distro to do an ftp or http install off some wacky server which onlyworks half the time and not all the way. Looks like I'll have to actually wait for the CD to get here. Thatreally annoys me. Z is coming to meet me and will probably go bust over to Queens. I could very well end up inPhiladelphia before the night is over, for there is a party in that city to which I have been invited. There isalso a J Tigabinowitz who I would like to chill with.
Watching old people fumble with technology can sometimes be pretty amusing. I have a hard time not smirkingsometimes. In one of those office resigning parties someone noticed this about me today. I feel for the oldpeople, I really do. There are those that I give credit to though, those that will go ahead and figure things out.
Not that it is particularly interesting but I did some springime shell cleaning yesterday and my account feels alot more accommodating. I moved things where they maybe should be filed and exported my old mail to big text filesfor storage and certain misplacement or deletion.
This very journal sits precariously on a free server in Texas that could be taken down at any moment withoutnotice. They could pull the plug and anything I don't have backed up locally somewhere is gone, gone, gone. I'vehad it happen before. It's not fun.
I was reading Anais Nin's journal again on the train this morning and realized that hers is really much betterthan mine. Where did she find the time to write so much? I don't think she had a steady job. She wasmoonlighting in NYC as a psychotherapist for a while, but even then she still wrote what seems to me to be a lot. I also have to consider the fact that mine is public and has a lot of potential for changing my immediate relationswith people. I end up editing a lot and not writing about certain subjects that are too sensitive or private. That definitely takes away from the therapeutic value of regular personal writing.
Last night I ate this kim-chi and had three Sapporos. It seems like it was pretty early when I fell asleep. MDomino was kind enough to remind me to borrow his cell phone and set it for 8AM, which I did. I ended up wakingup at 7:59AM, but anyway.. earlier on in the night I must have gotten up to do something. Whatever I was doing orwhyever I got up, I decided that I should sleep in MDomino's bed. The couch is my bed, I never sleep there. Well, I wake up at like 4:30 or something and have no idea where I am. Where was I reading that the Sufis orsomething think that this sensation is the closest to enlightenment that we become?.. So, then I figure out thatI'm in MDomino's bed, which is briefly satisfying until I ask myself WHAT I am doing there. Hoping that MDominocould shed some light on the situation I ask, "What the ---- am I doing in your bed?!" He thought that this wasfunny, so I guess it's ok, but it's still weird. I have a long history of doing weird things in my sleep. I wakeup in different rooms, with my head on the opposite side of the bed that it was when I went to sleep, talking,teeth grinding, snoring, eating, moving, and much worse.
My eyes are stinging and it's stuffy in here.
03/04/01
Friday after arriving in Astoria, Z, MDomino and I went to have dinner. We came back to spot a very large cockroachin his very clean and very white apartment. I'm not really _that_ disgusted by the creatures, but they are sneaky andyou don't know what they're up to. Z didn't like it very much and I was concerned that it would decide to hide in mypile of stuff (sleeping bag, shirts, pants, backpack, sweaters, etc. that MDomino graciouslytolerates taking up spaceon his living room floor) but MDomino managed to take a glass and put itover the bug. Now it wasn't so threatening. MDominohad encountered some even larger bugs at an undisclosed residence in Brooklyn and they had named the two bugs they hadfound Ponce De Leon and Christopher Columbus. They had captured these in jars and thrown them several yards over fromtheir backyard. This one on Friday was Magellan. I didn't have a problem with approaching Magellan now andtransferred him into a jar with a lid. The operation did freak me out a little and I had to walk back into the livingroom and not think about it scurrying around and almost jumping out as I was capping the jar.
There was some discussion about what to do with Magellan now, but I had to think about it for a bit. I decidedthat he deserves a chance and that the subway system would provide the adventure suitable for an explorer such asMagellan.
I labelled the jar with masking tape that his name was Magellan and that he had no home. I also explained that hehad lost a lot of money investing in stupid stocks. I put my email address and this URL hoping to hear more about thefate of Magellan. At Union Square I left him on a City Hall bound new 6 train. I wonder if he made the abandonedstation loop. As the train was pulling out and people sat down where the jar was, I noticed someone pick it up and showit to their friend.
I hope that Magellan does well.
03/13/01
It's 3AM and I'm at work. Oh, noooowwww I remember. I have dreams ofmuddy, back breaking hard labor.
03/15/01
Friends, countrymen, thank you for lending your sofas. I have beenriding the wave of sofas, hostels, and floors since September orsomething. Of course, I have been accomodated in guest rooms and ithasn't been exactly HARD in the grand scheme of things but you're neverreally alone when you're homeless. You always have to be social. It'sfine and I'm so used to it that it will be weird to have my own livingspace but I am happy.
I crack my jaw too much and grind my teeth.
03/14/01
Date: Wed, 14 Mar 2001 20:01:32 -0000
From: John Kosinski <boxrjohn@hotmail.com>
To: milk@ductape.net
Subject: succor at last

i am getting paid to write CODE! ALL DAY!
_________________________________________________________________
Get your FREE download of MSN Explorer at http://explorer.msn.com
03/16/01
I slept in the living room of my new sublet in Crown Heights. I reallylike the house, it's older and comfortable and the floors are verysqueaky. I will move upstairs into my room very soon.. tonight? I amexhausted and saw these huge bags under my eyes this morning. I watchedSense and Sensibility last night or part of it. It was a very girly movieI think.
So I've heard about Foot and Mouth disease from two sources in twodays. The first time I heard it I thought it was Foot *in* Mouth disease,which I thought was a very interesting name for a disease. Perhaps I havethis disease. I was reading in the newspaper that theyare 'destroying animals in 2 square mile swaths' or something. What amessed up job. Not only that, but then farmers were burning the bodies? It's really almost enough to make me only eat McDonald's. Maybe Ishoudn't eat meat. I've always been convinced that the -real- healthsecret is to poison yourself with loads of beef and butter and if you'rereally going to get your Mithridates on then supplement that with nightlydoses of whiskey or gin. Smoking cigarettes detracts from the beneficialproperties of beef, butter, and whiskey. However, most people who consumeindecent quantities of beef, butter, and whiskey also smoke. This is whythis method has not been publicly recognized. I think that I'm wrongthough. I don't really like to eat chicken unless it's from a fast foodplace, and even then it's a little bit freaky. Beef is a pretty soundmeat, so I'm very comfortable with it, but lately all these diseases havestruck the cows and I'm wondering if I should give it up. I'll create ameatlog. I mean, I'll create a log of my meat consumption. I'm sure thisI don't have the resolve to religiously keep it up, but at least I'lldocument my flakyness that much better.
I'll start the meatlog now by going to purchase some liverwurst. Boy Ilove liverwurst.
03/19/01
This little freaking wireless Palm modem keeps shocking me pretty hardand it's not the day for shock therapy. This morning some wiltingsouthern girl tries to pass blame on me for not telling them that theproblem that she and her very important (at least he thinks so) boss wereexperiencing had been fixed for hours.
He starts attacking me and I tell him that I understand hisfrustrations and that there was a hardware failure that I could not haveknown about. So I got in at 9:15 or so even though I left early. PerhapsI could have beat them in in the morning because it's a rather big day andwe're having this event and everything. Whatever. The mailserver keepsbugging out as well and I'm sure that that is going to cause me someproblems. Basically I told the person I effectively report to that if Iget any more crap from that guy then she can expect my resignation. Heapologized, but I really only have so much tolerance for the bullshit. Igenuinely believe that I can be happy washing dishes and poor. At leastfor a while. Not that I'm really going to resign, but I also don'tthink that they'd really let me go. It would be welcome anyway blizzip.
Brooklyn is growing on me. I like my house although myroommates are sort of alien to me. Not that we can't get along orcommunicate, and I even like them, but they're sort of _strange_. I likethe lighting in my room and have been thinking of it all day as I've beengoing through hell. A bed. Clean sheets. NPR. Freshly brushed teeth.My mostly black laundry drying everywhere since we have a washer but nodryer which is really great for my clothes as I usually end up toastingthem into weird crunchy shapes at the laundromat. Brooklyn where theydon't have a city hall but a Borough Hall. Wouldn't Manhattan let them?Did it used to be Brooklyn City Hall? When I walk down the street I thinkthat people think that I am trying to buy drugs or maybe they're justtrying to rip me off because I'm white. Maybe they're really just tryingto sell me good shit and they offer to everyone that seems like aprospective client and I seem like that.
It's so close to springtime in NYC and I'm hoping that this spring willbring many relaxed, healthy days. I've challenged Turp to a boxing matchand have to get into shape now, so I'm quitting smoking. I still feel abit sick from drinking too much beer and smoking too many cigarettes thisweekend, but think that maybe tomorrow I should go for a jog throughBrooklyn if the weather is good in the morning. I'm notsure that we'll get around to the fight, but I still have to train. Thissummer might be a big skateboarding summer. I have to be in shape forthat since the past few summers I can almost get all loose and in shapebut I spend too much time just struggling to get comfortable again. Ithink that I should definitely travel again. Perhaps to Egypt, althoughthe summer may not be the best time. Fall. I could see SF this summer.
I'm fully immersed in the mundane. Reality is very real. I can't seethe strangeness of the texture of the ether.
I'm not recording every time I eat meat. Who has the time andattention for that?! What a dumbass idea that wouldn't have even producedinteresting results unless I could do a poll where people could rate howmuch more or less meat than me.

...Chewing up Municipal Property and the Like...

noreply@blogger.com (G. Etranger) — Fri, 19 Aug 2011 05:50:00 +0000

06/14/01

Money comes and goes. Probably love too.

Ever steal a parking meter? Not me. But I'll tell you how I would if
I were going to do it. First, I would find a quiet street with those
double meters on the same post. They look like a Y. This street is
preferrably one that is used a lot during business hours and everything
and the best day to strike depends on when they empty them. Beforehand,
you might want to find a really strong tube of steel or maybe a 2x4,
although I would guess that a 2x4 might be a little too squeaky during the
'get the meters off the post' stage. The length of the tube should
probably be at least 5 to 6 feet. The longer the better, more mechanical
advantage.

Now approach the parking meter taking care not to be noticed by police
or any Goodie-Two-Shoes types. Put the end of the metal tube between the
two meters on the post. Holding the other end of the pipe, walk around
the post (I would try counter-clockwise first) until you're using one
meter to push against the other and make both of them want to move in
opposite directions. If you're lucky, you'll notice the meters will start
to give a little and then you'll liberate them.

When they're free from being attached to the post, try to lift them
off. Take care, they're heavy and you'd probably be making the local
authorities cranky. Haul them off somehow and then either pick the locks
open or bash the tops off with a sledge hammer, whichever works.

I would estimate that there would be anywhere from 20 - 80 dollars,
depending on the schedule when they are collected.

The way a Rajah taught me to cut a mango.

noreply@blogger.com (G. Etranger) — Tue, 16 Aug 2011 22:25:00 +0000

This might make you laugh.

noreply@blogger.com (G. Etranger) — Fri, 12 Aug 2011 01:54:00 +0000

a C. Figueroa

I had a dream I started out hanging out with my friend Zoe Glassner as well as a Candace Bushnell in character in NYC. Well, Madam Bushnell invited me to Miami, but then booked us into a 1 bed suite. I was sort of happy about that. I mean, as far as sluts go, she's certainly a prize. Well, I'm in Miami and she's hosting all these parties and all these weird characters that I don't know from around the world are all imposing their interests and demands on the environment/atmosphere so I get frustrated and take a walk.

I mean people from Mauritius, and a elven blond woman speaking Welsh or something fucking impossible. And then young, idiotic, American, athelete Dave Matthews fans. It was just intolerable. I liked the strangeness at first, but they fought over my music, which Candace was happy to let me govern.

There are sharks in the water at Miami Beach and there is some crazy insane storm. So I follow these people on to this bus and it ends up being like all marines, and they were total assholes. We drive out to see on some imaginary causeway and blah blah blah and then the driver throws away my skateboard because "it could have a bomb in it". I'm so pissed off, but I make my way onto a train, except I find out that the train is taking a bunch of other Marines to Atlantic City. I notice you are on this train. You get the train to stop, but we're still in stripmall hell, anywhere, USA. Then I'm on my own again with the guy who plays Mr. Pink in Reservoir Dogs and another bad guy and they're challenging the US sovereignty in some weird way and the non Mr. Pink bad guy wants me to kill Mr. Pink with a scissors, but I want to kill both of them and get off this new fucking train. Then I woke up.

Fucking hell.

Oooh! A proposition! Should I take it up?

noreply@blogger.com (G. Etranger) — Mon, 08 Aug 2011 13:56:00 +0000

MSG 0:

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Date: Mon, 01 Aug 2011 05:11:49 +0100
From: "Charles R. Britton"
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I am Mr. Chen Guan, Foreign Operations Manager of the Bank of China (Hong Kong).
I have a business suggestion for you of $50,000,000 Million USD.
Further details Contact me via email (chenguan06@msnzone.cn).
*****Note********
If you are not interested in this business offer please do not respond.

MSG 1:

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Master Chen,

I'd like to know your proposition. To describe a business "suggestion"
to be "of $50,000,000 Million USD." is unclear to me. Is this what I
stand to gain, or is this the investment you seek?

Regards,
Mr. Giosue Etranger

MSG 2:

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From: Chen Guan
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Date: Tue, 9 Aug 2011 08:51:33 +0000
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I am Mr. Chen Guan, Financial Director, Bank of China .

I located you through an agency that helps seek people by their email.

Our Client, Gen Zaiki Abdul Ali a businessman and also who was with the Iraqi Forces, made a fixed deposit, of Fifty Million United State Dollars only in my branch. A number of notices were sent to him before the war which began in 2003 and also after the war but, no response came from him. We later found out that the General along with his wife and only daughter had been killed during the war in a bomb blast that hit their home.

After more inquiry, it was also discovered that the Late General did not declare any next of kin in his official papers including the paper work of his bank deposit. What bothers me most is according to the laws of my country at the expiration of 8 years, the funds will be reverted to the ownership of the Hong Kong Government if nobody comes for the funds. Against this scenery, I have all the information needed to claim these funds and I want you to act as the beneficiary of the deposit, there is no risk involved in this matter, as we are going to adopt a legitimate method and the attorney will prepare all the necessary documents.

All I require is your honest co-operation and I guarantee that this will be executed under a legitimate arrangement that will protect you from any breach of the Law. Please accept my apologies and keep my confidence.

I have attached to this mail, an agreement letter which you are to fill and sign, then scan and send it as an attachment via E-mail to me. If not possible you can send me the following via email:
Your Full Name:
Your Complete Address (Physical Address
with Zip Code not P.O.BOX):
Name of City of Residence :
Country:
Direct Telephone Number:
Mobile Number:
Fax Number:
Occupation:
Age and Sex:
Your copy of ID card :

before the Attorney can go ahead with the preparation of the required documents that shall place you as the sole benefactor to the funds.

I await your prompt reply on this.

Please note that I would be replying your mails via this email address.

Kind Regards
Mr. Chen Guan

Blah Blah Blah

noreply@blogger.com (G. Etranger) — Mon, 08 Aug 2011 13:37:00 +0000

Lexapro made everything surreal and made me ... It was the least harsh. It's the levorotary isomer of citalopram (Celexa). I couldn't afford it, and while it was fun to be a 12 year old boy sexually again, it was too weird, the surreality. Celexa made me shake, my heart pound, and have panic attacks. They still prescribe it, I just can't take it. When I took prozac once, I had the most painful week psychologically that I could remember in my adult life, and you know I've had some rough times. Prozac made life hell, and I was obsessed with the geometries of the architecture of the building I was in. I was very close to suicidal on prozac. Abnormal thinking. Wellbutrin made me feel like I was having a heart attack and basically my thinking is this:

I'm depressed because I should be. I'm dissatisfied. It's appropriate. No one measures my seratonin / norepinephrine / whatever neurotransmitter levels, they just sort of shoot in the dark with these different compounds. Generally, I'm not depressed any more than one should be, and probably much less than one would be.

I capitulated my vow to never get a GED / diploma and did the damned G.E.D. It let me get into school. When I took the placement tests, I did really well so they offered me the year long Honors integrated curriculum, which was well described by my fellow classmate as "Like academic bootcamp or basic training". We ran through Plato, Socrates, Diogenes, Thucydides, Herodotus to Diamond, Spinoza, Reimarus, Locke, stopping by Diderot and doing Jane Austin, Dante's Inferno, Sophocles, Antigone, Medea, Hamlet, the Sonnets and much more. It was serious business. It turns out I'm a thorough Malthusian.

In the meantime, I take guitar, work on the Kryptos sculpture, keep up learning Spanish and French, and writing a book with a friend as well as my podcasts and personal blog. Oh, and i've been trying to get material together for a 'zine printed on paper. When Bucknell interviewed me for a scholarship (which I didn't get because I waxed romantic about UCLA and said nothing about Bucknell, who doesn't have the major that I want) the woman asked me "when do you find the time to do all of this?"

So I've thought about medication for depression, yes.

On 8/8/2011 9:22 AM, Victoria Moe wrote:

Did you finish high school?

Sent from my iPhone

On 8/8/2011 9:16 AM, Victoria Moe wrote:

And?

Sent from my iPhone

On Aug 8, 2011, at 9:15 AM, Joshua <myemail@address.com> wrote:
Yes.

On 8/8/2011 9:09 AM, Victoria Moe wrote:

My friend. We spoke after you were hit by a car. I always wondered where you went. Fake boobs are great. Have you thought about takin medication for depression?

Sent from my iPhone

fires lit

noreply@blogger.com (G. Etranger) — Mon, 08 Aug 2011 08:30:00 +0000

fires lit by nihiti

Some of the Places I Once Lived

noreply@blogger.com (G. Etranger) — Fri, 05 Aug 2011 16:45:00 +0000

Etude Null

noreply@blogger.com (G. Etranger) — Mon, 01 Aug 2011 13:37:00 +0000

Humilidad

noreply@blogger.com (G. Etranger) — Tue, 12 Jul 2011 12:58:00 +0000

25 February 2009
Mark Domino
gisoue
where the hell are you? the world would have missed a lot of my genius if you'd sent me out that window.

can't believe you'd stoop to facebook! still using lynx?
01 March 2009
Mihi Nomenest Joshua
i know about that window. it's not that far down.

ALpine.

just tried to watch Lexx consecutively through to make some sense of it and decided that #4 just needed to get laid. then i stopped taking the drugs.

don't panic.

Some Letter

noreply@blogger.com (G. Etranger) — Tue, 05 Jul 2011 18:25:00 +0000

Yes, I had a company with J- A- called A- & W-, Inc. We were technology consultants and we had perversely thorough contracts, the templates and other legalities propelled by W- V- and others at P-.com. Our first client was Reader's Digest in Chappaqua, NY (or really close, I can't remember the mailing city). I, as you know, did not finish high school, but none of my clients ever asked me for a diploma. They just assumed I knew what I was talking about because most of the time I did. S-.org was one client that I was the primary consultant for and my duty, as I felt, subscribing to the McKinsey & Co. ethos (see mckinsey.com) was to tell them to hire someone to handle all of the in-house stuff like printer jams, connection issues and the like. I was more about policy and planning. I represented their IT interests on the board as a liaison, not a boardmember.

My business partner, J-, and I were in David Rockefeller Jr's office in Rockefeller Plaza. There was a photo of him hanging out with a pensive looking Bill Clinton on a wooden porch. They had their own in-house IT team, as you can imagine, but I was the primary consultant for s-.org. (if you google my name, look at the third hit). They were hosting S- because S- is Peggy's child (I think, I can't speak for her). J- became really brash and rude on the telephone in an office HOSTING as a guest one of our clients. I hung the phone up for him, called the other man back and explained that I would speak to him to resolve whatever challenges we shared and that I was most surely at his service to accomplish this. I was, believe it or not, the people man. At least that's what my clients said. It was then that I understood that Emily was doing what was best for her and that was not me. My roommate decided she was moving in with her boyfriend and J- was breaking my heart with the antics. I decided to sell my half for some nominal amount to J-, endorse all the clients to him, and then go backpacking. So I did.

When I was in Prague, the HR lady at S-.org wrote to me saying they were going with my plan and hiring someone. They trusted me and asked if I would do it. I was running out of money so I was very grateful. I asked why they weren't staying with A- & W-, Inc. (I'm the second father, she was my baby, I wanted her to thrive). They said that A- "didn't ingratiate himself with the staff". I said OK. I relayed this to J- to make sure I wasn't crossing any lines (see, I do follow rules when they matter). La la la.

Life became amazing. I had money, benefits I doubt I will ever find again, and 4 weeks paid vacation to start. I had an office with a window and I ordered Kandinsky prints. Soon enough, though, I threw all this away. You know I'm a wildcard but not everyone does. When I'm good I'm the best. When I'm not, I'm pretty fucking bad. So, because we had a USAID grant and I had selfishly violated one of the terms of the grant, I was given unemployment. That was 405 dollars a week. When 9.11 happened, GWB extended it for a year. Then a friend in NYC invited me to a birthday party in Biarritz. I told him I would go. Z- told him I wouldn't be able to make it. I can't tolerate when people who love me speak for me. That made me all the more sure I was going. It was insane. I was nearly homeless in San Francisco and somehow richocheted from NYC to CGD to the train to Biarritz. On the train, I met Sophie Russo. She became my lover. She was the daughter of a doctor and his mistress in Paris, and had her own separate house on their estate in the good banlieu. St. Cloud or somewhere near, as I recall, was where they lived.

I worked it out so an old friend would deposit my unemployment checks, which were getting mailed to a Brooklyn address, and looked for a job in Paris. I didn't speak a word more than Bonjour when I landed. I suppose I also knew "maman" because it's in the first line of The Stranger, and other words that English has appropriated. Still, it was rough. I was taking morphine sulphate and drinking a lot. I met G- at a party at kilometerzero.org. She and I knew each other from as soon as we met. It was pretty beautiful. My friend Samuel was staying with me from Stockholm, and I made him take a walk. There you have it.

I came back to the US to try to round up some more money, and then left again for Paris with no intention of returning. The movie Bowling for Columbine and a comment that my friend Ch- made sort of led me to understand that I was nauseated by a lot of Americana. G- & I paid the security and all that but couldn't move in until the beginning of the month. We went to the UK to wait at her parents' house in Lincolnshire. When we were there, her father sort of talked to her and it did become clear that France was a big challenge and even though I'd be illegal if I stayed on my course (which I did), I would be better off finding work in a country that spoke English. So we moved to London, then Nottingham. I worked in kitchens and also did independent consulting where I would send and invoice and the client would send me a check. No UK Customs & Excise was necessary. I did, though, go to them and explain my predicament, the element of true love, and they gave me an official looking paper that explained to prospective employers that it wasn't on them to provide a National Insurance number (the UK equiv of an SS number), and used TN01061978M for a temporary number. It was all pretty beautiful.

Later, though, G- looked at me one night and said, "why don't we go to the U.S. and get married, live there for a while, and you can make a living easier?" I asked, "can we get married in Vegas?" She replied, "that's what I wanted to do!" So you see, there's a screw for every nut!

We did so, I got hired on the phone on a Thursday and the job wanted me to start that Monday. I took everything I could on the plane, told G- it was underway and to bring everything she could in two weeks. She did. I worked at Pep Boys HQ during their rollout of a new Point-Of-Sale system sort of covering what was not covered. Ever since I saw Pulp Fiction and heard the lines,

Jules: "You're sendin' The Wolf?"
Marsellus: "Feel better, Motherfucker?"
Jules: "Sheeeit, Negro! That's all you had to say!"

I've wanted to be "The Wolf". When I'm good, I'm almost that reassuring. Usually, I'm more of a liability. As the Wolf, I did the Pep Boys' project and got hired at H--I.com as the Network Manager. G- was living with me in South Philly. We were doing what we wanted to do, living the dream and all of that. There are three reasons why she went back to England:

1. She had a plane ticket to go visit
2. She was very lonely and I worked all the time
3. A more personal one that I'm not comfortable disclosing really

So, she went to England. I went to South Florida. She told me she wasn't coming back. I stayed in Miami. I lived there at 820 Ocean Drive for a year. Then I came back to Philadelphia and stayed in a 5 bedroom my friend owned that was empty to keep it "lived in" sort of and clean and secure. I was working as a waiter in Miami. In Philadelphia I caught up with an old friend, R-, and G- had been in England for a year and we agreed that it wasn't really working the way it was. She had a boyfriend that looks so much like me others have told me, "I guess G- has a 'type'!" and so I approved. He must be devilishly handsome, I thought.

R- had just passed the bar exam, became an attorney to practice in PA & NJ, and we lived together for the past two years until about 2 weeks ago today.

So there you have it. Warts and all, it's been the quick snapshot of what I've been up to. I've been other places and had other drama, but mostly I've found that so long as my heart is pure and my mind is clear life works out for me. When my head isn't clear and I'm up to no good it doesn't. As such, I'd say that so long as your motives are good and you use counsel, strategy and perserverance coupled with faith, your own situation is bound to work out. No matter what, "there's always a hole somewhere" (a sort of IT phrase regarding security). I do feel for you and do not believe it is in your own, your man's, or your childrens' interests to be paying to have the US interfere with something much older and more natural than federal governance, but I'm deviating from the sentence I want to give you:

It'll work out; be sure of that.

Dreams June 11, 2011

noreply@blogger.com (G. Etranger) — Mon, 04 Jul 2011 19:34:00 +0000

Dreams of St. Albans:

On an airplane to Indiana. Near Alabama (Baton Rouge I say). The pilot asks me questions. A beautiful girl is being abused, harrassed by some fuck. I tell him to chill, he takes offense. It escalates. I ask him if he reads USA Today. He says, “He's an asshole, not an idiot”.

...Walking through a bizarre, like somewhere in Morocco with Jason Charles. He talks about money; investment stuff, not real money.

Finally we get to his ride: a silver motorcycle. He rides us on absurd dangerous trails, highways in the sky, icy, covered in ice past wreckage and bodies.

I ask him to cut the threads from my teeth. He does at two separate places. One is a public bathroom.

We park and descend through a scaffold of paths fraught with danger. Two or three pairs of pants fall from guys who dissolve. Some sort of reagent or acid.

In NYC he says he lives at the end of the #2 train. We end up in an imaginary place I dream of. St. Alban's park area. This is a place that appears in many of my dreams. I look for alprazolam in my coat. There are russians in a NYC apartment. It feels so familiar. The St. Albans park is familiar. Just outside Manhattan, in Queens.

Somniculosa

noreply@blogger.com (G. Etranger) — Thu, 30 Jun 2011 13:20:00 +0000

A long time ago, or maybe not so long ago, there was a sad boy. He grew up into a sad man. No one ever wants this. No one but sad people ever want it for the people they like the least. He spent his days without talking to people, his nights without looking at stars. The only thing that he looked forwards to was sleep. Sleep was as close to happiness as he could find. The world went away, and he went away with it.

It wasn't so simple, though. For he would dream. The dreams he had made his sleep broken and uneasy. Mornings came and he couldn't hide in sleep. By the time mornings came, he'd usually been shaken from the dark hideaway that the sleep was by the dreams which haunted that sleep. He dreamt of everything from falling into autumn valleys from high places, even being so small that he was tossed from a car on a bridge to being imprisoned in strange facilities of his psyche where he was kept by inabilities. Dreams where he did wrong and wasn't found out and dreams where he had done no wrong but was prosecuted were equally effective in upsetting him.

When he woke though, the regularity of the sadness was perhaps more cruel. He felt the life slipping from him, moment by moment, hour by hour. While the idea of killing himself, finding that ultimate sleep had crossed his mind, he never fully engaged it. It would come just as quickly as a morning on the scales of time he framed it all in. There was no need to rush something so permanent. What he knew was that something would give. Something had to give. If it was he that was to break, his mind to fissure and crumble, or his body to die a slow and wretched cancerous death or a fast and merciful heart attack or fatal stroke, then so be it. Otherwise, the universe would make room for him and he would be free.

What made him sick was the feeling of inability that plagued him. He was, in all likelihood, more than able, but he felt unable to extricate himself from his misery and death. Sometimes he read a story, a play, or watched a film that lit a light inside, that moved him to want more. He looked around him when he was forced to go outside and saw not much more than zombies of the modern age. Sure, he was a pessimist, but there was a reason. He couldn't rightly see that the status quo was anything but tragic. Even the games he played and the projects he took on for the sake of feeling like he was doing something were empty. He did it for someone else. It wasn't what he wanted, and it scared him.

Maybe he was losing the ability to want. Not in some enlightened buddhist way, but in a very sick way. To not want, never to be excited, never to feel alive were the characteristics of this loss. Even when he lived on heroin in England, his skin was pale, but there was something ghostly about him now. Like the scene in Back to the Future when Marty McFly is disappearing. That half-wayness of it all added to the unbearable weight of it all. He did retain a desire, though. One desire he knew, that he kept, that he would not be stripped of was to return to the light and levity that he once lived.

All that seriousness and certainty with which nearly everyone he knew ordered their lives would make him smirk. He knew, maybe all he knew, was that the universe was a joke, a blag, and that whatever was going to happen would or wouldn't and there wasn't much point in worrying about it. Thinking this way, he found himself starting a company that was presented as an offer to him. Knowing these things he found love and the beauty of New York when one is young and June comes. He loved planes. He loved the idea that one could buy tickets to other realities.

Sure, it was the same planet and the same people, but it was all different and, truthfully, at least to him, the priorities with which the people lived, while generally oriented the same, were different when it mattered. It mattered most when it came to relating. The way men & women looked at, spoke to, and handled each other. The way strangers did. The way that friends and the ways that colleagues regarded each other. They were different than in America. That was real.

The thought that any given telephone wire was there for as long as he was, give or take, and would be along after he was, give or take, was profound to him. It made him realize that the world, life, reality didn't need him. Extending this to the cosmos led directly to a more fundamental redux, but no one ever wanted to talk about that because there didn't seem to be much to talk about to them. Not to him. That was what was worth talking about more than anything else. It was all a comedy. Or a tragedy. Or both or fuck all.

This is what he missed. Men had all sorts of advice they were prone to give. He tolerated a lot of it, and had learned to entertain it. Maybe he didn't understand life. Maybe he did. Maybe that can't be absolutely determined.

There was a limit to how much he could sleep. One day he would feel so rested, he would not be able to stand still. Maybe on that day greater things would come to pass.

As June Ends, & Primavera Passes, the Summer Baiser is Laid Upon Us

noreply@blogger.com (G. Etranger) — Tue, 28 Jun 2011 17:55:00 +0000