Page One, Page One...

This is the first page of the story that I am writing that will be due on 1 August 2005. I don't have a title yet. I have three pages so far, but I won't post all of it at once, as that might make the entry too long. I will try to post a page every day until the story's end for those of you who have nothing better to do than check my blog every day. Let me know what you think of it.

****

He woke up gasping, reaching, retching. He was soaked in sweat (piss?), a vinegar-like film that made him smell and slip. He slid in his own sheets, the dream still real in the fuzz of new dawn. In his dream, He is about to fall down a rabbit-hole; he is clutching the dirt, twigs, and grass for dear life, for below was the City of Dis, ready to consume him in flames that torturously burned the heretics, the pagans, the atheists. In his dream, he ends up slipping down because the queen of hearts (an apparition most apparent) sentences and sends him there, much to the glee of Beelzebub and Mephistopheles. He falls into the burning light, and awakens.

This dream occurred and recurred, a current current in the streams of sleep. He would usually wake up relieved, glad the near-real was denied by the real, and go about his daily business. But he felt off this morning, still hot, the dream a little more fresh than usual. He could not efface the smug smile on the queen of hearts’ face, still vivid in a mind capable of producing and reproducing images; the fall itself; and the intense heat just before wakening. They were all uncannily real. A cold shower would help.

His daily business was not truly a business, other than it kept himself busy. He would wake up at dawn, sweating from his dream, and, in a dream-like stupor, smoke a cigarette for breakfast. After a shower, he would check the scores in the paper, or on television, of all the teams in various sports on which he had placed bets. He would call his bookie. He met is bookie daily for lunch at a sports bar, or a grille, or a fast food chain—whichever place that spontaneity mandated. His bookie would pay for lunch or have him pay for lunch, and they would discuss politics, religion, philosophy—whatever spontaneity mandated. At the dinner hour, he would head towards the nearest casino at the reservation and play Texas Hold ‘em into the early hours of the next day. He would go home, drunk, tired—whichever his spontaneous body mandated—and would sleep, perchance to dream a different dream. He never dreamt a different dream.

"So, the Club Persai?" He almost forgot that he was on the phone with Darius, discussing lunch plans.
"I guess. Have I eaten there before?"
"No, I thought we’d go someplace different. I feel like being spontaneous."
"Okay. We’ll go then."
"Great. Get dressed up, this place is high class, and you’re payin’!"
Bewildered, he checked the scores for the Red Sox game; they had lost, which meant he had lost.
So, two hours later, donned in a black coat, white shoes, and a black hat, he met Darius in the parking lot outside the Club Persai. Darius was all smiles, all the time. He never lost, no matter who won. He would take a hefty cut from winnings, and he would take all from losings. Darius fixed his tie, patted him on the back, and then led him inside.

The Club Persai was a large, grand hall, filled with fine tables, fine china, fine people. There were intricate, baroque paintings of maidens in pools or rivers or oceans all over the walls; there was a bronze statue of Hermes or Mercury with his shield and his shoes with their wings, and he stood still, posing for an infinite minute. The Club Persai was a country club that looked over a vast country of one hundred and fifty eight acres. It had a golf course. It had a casino. He was impressed with the place, unlike any place he had ever been to, and yet very familiar.

Before and After

Here are the pictures, as promised.

Before


After


Before


After


Before


After


Just an After

Clogging

Should I even link to this?

Doe-Rae-Mi

Beware leechers of wireless networks!

On another note...

I saw something that made me angry. It was a Toyota Prius with the following bumper sticker:

Tax the Rich
SUV=WMD

Aside from the non-sequitur, and the obvious problem with equating two abbreviations, it just seemed superfluous to have a bumper sticker such as this on a Prius. By driving a Toyota Prius, you are already making a statement about your political philosophy: who would want to drive an expensive, hideous, and powerless car other than those who really want to stick it to their SUV driving peers? And why would someone want to "Tax the Rich" when he spent an inordinate amount of money on his Prius? It boggles my mind.

On yet another note....

Here's the first draft of Mike's logo for the graphics/clothing company he wants to start; he wants to call it "Stellas."



I wanted to add something about language and pronunciation, but it's late. So all you get are my three notes, which, if turned into chords and sped up, might become a horrible punk song.

Creatively Non-Creative

I have not been very good--or creative--these past couple of days. Maybe the past couple of weeks. My posts evince this. Fortunately, one of my good friends sent me something via email that will serve as a post.

"I believe in adventure. I believe in backpacks instead of rolling bags despite the bruised hips and shoulders. I belive in hostels and internet cafes run by German-Indian men with bad b.o. I believe that one can live off of salami, cheese and bread and drink only water for weeks on end. I believe in the kindness of the Irish, the hospitality of the Swiss, the French, the Canadian, the Dutch, the Belgian, the English and the German. I believe in beautiful European children. I believe in falling in love over and over again with the world around me. I believe in spending long train rides with my MP3 player watching the world go by or sleeping on someone's shoulder whom I met three days earlier. I believe in stuffy noses, headaches, sore backs, tired feet, cuts, mystery bruises, sprained ankles and blisters. But I also believe that those things are nothing that a hot shower and a nap can't fix. I believe in Guinness, rosti, chocolate, waffles, crepes, anything with Nutella, coffee and bread for breakfast, and ice cream. I believe in love at first sight and kissing under the Eiffel Tower like a 1960's French movie. I believe in meeting someone and changing your plans for them. I believe that 5 weeks on your own can make you realize that everything you thought you wanted is not at all what you want. I believe in wearing the same outfit for three days in a row and the same jeans for three weeks. I believe in giant bags of Haribo gummy bears. I belive in being strong, independent, outgoing, kind, brave and lovely. I believe in deciphering strange keyboards. I believe in mountains, beaches, cities, museums, cafes, bars, clubs, pubs and parks. Ultimately, I believe in the right to travel on your own and the courage to do it. "
-Berlin, 2005
Meredith Sherwin
International Nomad

And if that doesn't get your mo-jo going, then I guess some of the links I added might.

The pact, however, is still in tact. So, by my word, I must produce something creative, complete, and good by 1 August 2005. And, as far as I know, pictures will still be coming soon, maybe within the next week or so.

Happy Birthday, Suleyman

Hung up here on a web of comfort
Taking off with nowhere to go
Standing tall with but your new cloak armor
Making out like it's all been done
It's harder than it seems
You slip but never fall

They'll take you, when you wont come back to me

Tearing down what we built up so well
Layin' low as you came my way
Look alive with your head on backwards, goin off when there's nothin wrong
It's only in your dreams, but it felt like it was real

They'll take you, when you won't come back to me

Hang loose, my friend dont walk away from me, because i really think you're cool
Is it worth turning back despite these open hands?
You're tearing me apart.

They'll take you, when you won't come back to me
(you need to find yourself).

~Jimmy Eat World
Seventeen

(Ironically--fittingly--that is how old my brother is turning today.)

Independence Day

future butterfly gonna spend the day higher than high
you'll be beautiful confusion
ooh once i was you
i saw you caught between all the people out making the scene
and a bright ideal tomorrow
ooh, don't go too far
stay who you are
everybody knows
everybody knows
everybody knows
you only live a day
but it's brilliant anyway
i saw you at a perfect place
it's gonna happen soon but not today
so go to sleep and make the change
i'll meet you here tomorrow
independence day
independence day
independence day

~Elliott Smith

The Nymph

"Kit read the title from the ill-ordered manuscript Raleigh took from his ill-ordered table: The Transformation of the King of Triniidado's two daughters, Madam Panacea and the Nymph Tobacco. He said:
-- This last name, which I do not know, seems not a feminine name.
-- Well, she may at first strike you with a masculine buffet, but thereafter she is gentler than love. And all that Hariot says is true. You know Hariot? No, but you will. There are many that you are yet to know. Are you willing to yield to the nymph? You look doubtful. Well, I will demonstrate.

And Raleigh opened up a cabinet under his window. It held rows of long tubes, as he showed, curved gracefully and ending in a shallow bowl. Clay, he said, as in Virginia, but here I have one especially fashioned in silver. It glinted in the firelight. And here is the nymph. From a drawer of the cabinet he took a fair pinch of a herb, strands of yellow, brown, black, and stuffed this in the silver bowl. Smell, he said, proffering. Kit sniffed. Heady, outlandish, altogether new. And now, Raleigh said, her enlivening and curative spirit riseth in smoke. He took from a pot a spill and enflamed it at his fire. Then he inflamed the herb, the herb smouldered, he drew in smoke and, in a blue jet, emitted it. The aroma sidled towards Kit; Kit coughed gently. Aye, you will cough more when you kiss her. But the cough will be in the manner of a cleansing, a disgorgement of the grosser humours, you may even vomit them up. There is a bowl beneath that table. And then no more coughing, only the bliss of inhalation. Curse it, my talking has doused her. And he refired his spill and relighted. The blue jet bore his words: Will you try?"

~ Anthony Burgess
A Dead Man in Deptford (pp. 126-7)

When Did France Become a Third World Nation?

Monday, June 27, 2005 (SF Chronicle)

Arab rocker Rachid Taha's music fueled by politics, punk attitude and -- what else? -- romance
Jonathan Curiel, Chronicle Staff Writer

He's an Arab punk rocker. He's a provocateur who criticizes Arab governments. He's a romantic who sprinkles conversations with sex references. Oh, yeah -- he's also a budding screenwriter and novelist, not to mention a jokester who says his success with singing is almost a fluke.

"When you come from the Third World, and you're a kid growing up there, your dream is to become a doctor or an engineer," says Rachid Taha, who was born and raised in Algeria. "The working class never dreams of having a musical career; the upper class dreams of that."

Taha is speaking on the phone from Paris, where he lives when he's not performing around the world. Tuesday night, Taha will be in San Francisco on his latest tour, which coincides with the release of "Tekitoi," a new album that's vintage Taha. There's an ode to his Arab roots (the classic song "Ya Rayah," written by Abderrahmane Amrani); there's a hard-sounding riff on the state of Arab politicians ("Safi," which includes the lines,"Our culture in not democratic . . . the rulers have neutered the people"); there's an atmospheric collaboration with a high-profile fan of Taha's (Brian Eno, who orchestrates their song "Dima"); and there's a reworking of a Western standard (the Clash's "Rock the Casbah"). Taha's "Rock El Casbah" features an Egyptian string ensemble, Moroccan flute, Arabic percussion and an up-tempo, playful approach that makes it seem Joe Strummer's work (which is about music fans opposing an oppressive king) was written just for Taha.

Taha, who is 46, has liked punk music since he was a teenager in France. He moved there with his parents, who were strict Muslims, when he was 10. Taha's father worked in a factory -- a job Taha also took when he was young, though at night he spun music as a DJ in his own club. In those days, Taha and other Algerian immigrants living in Lyon were generally prohibited from the regular night spots -- a level of discrimination that made Taha angry and set up his identification with the punk music of the Clash and other groups. Taha has been influenced by a smorgasbord of other musicians, including Elvis Presley; Led Zepplin and Robert Plant; Oum Kalthoum, Egypt's greatest classical singer; and Bollywood groups that perform the big-budget love songs of India's most popular films. Still, it's rock music that Taha has internalized the most. He once told an interviewer, "For me, (my) music is rock 'n' roll, colored by what's inside me -- and what's inside me is I'm European, Arab and Muslim."

Taha, who's released a series of critically acclaimed albums, sings in French and Arabic. Onstage, he likes to wear leather pants and shake hishead and longish dark hair into a frenzy like the punk rockers he idolized. Taha is also known to grab himself during songs in a way that accentuates his feeling for a particular lyric. With a voice that's throaty and resonant, and a manner that mixes humor and rebelliousness, Taha has managed to draw large numbers of fans from disparate countries, including Mexico and Russia. Last month, Taha performed with Eno in Moscow and St. Petersburg. Typical of Taha's approach, he invited audience members onstage to dance with him, which they did.

Taha's parents have only seen him once in concert, which is deliberate: He doesn't like them attending his shows. "My parents seeing me onstage would be almost like they were seeing me make love to a woman," he says through an interpreter. "If Elvis Presley and Bob Dylan had their parents in the room, they'd (feel) the same way."

Besides being critical of Arab leaders, Taha points an accusing finger at President Bush, whom he calls a fundamentalist for his role in the Iraq war. Politics, though, is not always on Taha's mind. Romance is a preoccupation, and so the screenplay he's working on has "a love theme," he says, without elaborating. Taha, who has a 20-year-old son from a previous relationship, says one of his biggest thrills in life is "meeting new faces." Years ago, he'd wanted to be a journalist.

"Now," he says, "my message is through music."

Pact Like Sardines?

I tried and tried to think of something cogent to say about the House passing the bill against flag burning. It turns out Rothbard has said all that needs to be said on the issue.

Nathan and I have made a pact to get complete stories done by August first. It seems like a long time from now, but I should get cracking. (I have not completed a short story, or any story, since about this time last year.) If it's any good, it might make its way onto this blog. Most likely, A Dead Man in Deptford will be quoted, and I will try to palm it off as my own writing. I'm not too concerned, the difference between Burgess and me is akin to the difference between the sun and the moon.

I'll also post some pictures in about three weeks.

Summer Theologica

Since it's all the rage to take internet quizzes, and since internet quizzes accurately reflect who you are and your characteristics, I decided to take one. It's a theological one, a Christian Theologian one. I tried to answer the questions to the best of my ability, given I am not a Christian (we'll leave Russell's apology out of this post). It turns out, as the bar graph will show, that I'm pretty much John Calvin. I'm glad that, unlike John, I am not 100% of any theologian. It might cause me, given the gravity of internet quizzes, to question my beliefs.

So, these are the results (I have not even heard of half the theologians listed!):

You scored as John Calvin. Much of what is now called Calvinism had more to do with his followers than Calvin himself, and so you may or may not be committed to TULIP, though God's sovereignty is all important. John Calvin 73% Karl Barth 67% Martin Luther 60% Friedrich Schleiermacher 60% Anselm 60% Paul Tillich 33% Jonathan Edwards 33% Jürgen Moltmann 33% Charles Finney 20% Augustine 20% Which theologian are you? created with QuizFarm.com

Con-Grads.

Yes, today is Father's Day. Yes, I took these photographs a week ago. Yes, practically everyone has graduated already. Yes, I know.

The Asian Sensation

UCSD's Finest

What Four Hours of Happiness Looks Like

Congratulations to everyone that has graduated from some institution, and happy Father's Day.

The Party Never Stops

Back in October or November of 2004, my mother made the mistake of donating money to the Democratic Party. Try as I might, I could not convince my mother to not give the money to them, no matter what rhetorical strategy or logical argument I presented. It's not that my mother is affiliated with any political party, she doesn't even like the Democratic Party, but she gave the money out of principle (the principle of "They are asking, and I have the money"). I tried to tell her that "they" are not some beggars, or some people in dire need, they aren't even an organization that would help anyone out; "they" are a machine that needed fuel in the form of green backs. I don't think there is any moral principle that states that we have to give money to machines. She gave the money anyway.

Since then, it has been one annoyance after another. Junk mail from the Party continued to arrive at our home. They asked for more money. They have called with surveys. They hide in our back yard and monitor us while we sleep--well, they don't do that, but they might as well. It seems the Democratic Party is poorer than I was while in school. They even sold my mother's name and address to the ACLU, because, about three or four days ago, we received a letter from the American Civil Liberties Union, along with a survey, along with a plea for money. Fortunately, my mother is not going to give to the ACLU. She says she doesn't have the money.

I didn't immediately toss the letter from "Anthony D. Romero" (Executive Director--he's so important, his title is redundant!), partly because I wanted to see why the ACLU sent a four page letter to us. I read through it, and of course it was repetitive and incoherent, but the crux of the letter was about freedom, or "civil liberties." Mr. Romero does not attempt to define freedom or civil liberties, but he believes that we are for them: "Like many others, you may be feeling that civil liberties in our country are going to get worse before they get better. But I'm betting that you are also like the thousands of people who are raising their voices and standing up for the basic American values of justice and liberty for all." I think Mr. Romero just lost some money.

Later on in the letter, Mr. Romero tells us that, "Through all the ups and downs of political debates, we must never lose sight of the fact that those who stand in opposition to freedom are standing on the wrong side of history," which immediately brought to mind a part of the "Team America" theme song..."Freedom is the only way." And of course, it's blatantly obvious that any neoconservative would respond by saying whatever they are doing is supporting freedom, and that the ACLU, being opposed to whatever the neocons are doing, is on the "wrong side of history" (whatever that means).

It's also interesting that the ACLU is against big government when it's mostly Republican: "George Bush has four more years to pursue a double-edged agenda that uses the war on terror to vastly expand unchecked government powers, while working hand-in-hand with religious right extremists to undermine religious liberty, suppress free speech and dissent, undo a woman's right to choose and deny equal rights to lesbians and gay men." Mr. Romero probably would not have said anything about "unchecked government powers" with a Democrat in office. The ACLU was also for civil rights legislation back in the '60s. They fed the beast, and now they are unhappy that it isn't doing what they say.

I guess my mother will just have to wait until a Democrat is elected president in 2008, so that we can stop getting junk mail.

How to Be Alone for the Rest of Your Life

- Be the nicest person you can possibly be.

- Notice when girls get haircuts, highlights, or new shoes.

- Compliment them on their haircuts, highlights, or new shoes.

- Continue to be intimidated by pretty girls.

- When you speak, blurt out something idiotic, incoherent, and meaningless.

- Be encouraging.

- Live with your parents.

- Stare at pretty girls until you realize they're looking at you, then quickly turn away as if you were not looking at them.

- Listen to every one of your instincts.

- Work in a law office that specializes in divorce.

- Don't believe in love.

- Have an obssession with The Simpsons that borders on addiction, and quote The Simpsons at inopportune moments.

- Ignore most of your friends.

- No alarms and no surprises, please.

- Get ticked off at the most trivial things; proceed to pretend that you're not angry.

- Have no ambition whatsoever.

- Act oblivious in most situations.

- Misinterpret everything.

- Get the nerve to do something, and then don't do it.

- Hold views that would make Pat Buchanan blush; agree with everyone.

- Go to bed at 10:00 post meridian every night.

- Use the term "post meridian" instead of "p.m."

- Keep telling yourself, "she's got to have a boyfriend."

- She does have a boyfriend. (It's not you.)

- Listen to Elliott Smith.

- Make sure to NEVER let her know how you feel.

- Have a useless blog that only one person reads.

- Follow every item on this list.

Middle English "galaunt," from Old French "galant," present participle of "galer": to rejoice, of Germanic origin. See wel-1 in Indo-European Roots.

Single File

The Other Side

Triple (Flip) Diamond

Dashboard Confessional

Face to Face

For John D.

Because you've never done it.

Because, as far as I know, you've never done it.

Because I Have Nothing New to Say

I've lost more sleep than I can say
And blurred the lines between the days
Pour myself another cup
Put one out, light another up
My mind's stopped making any sense
I've lost track of the present tense
Don't wanna leave, don't wanna stay
I'd kill to bring back yesterday
Folded up and left for dead
The things I wish I would've said
The times I should've turned to run
But the damage was already done
And I dug myself a deeper hole
Raked myself over the coals
Reason brings redemption
But redemption won't be mine

Suppressed my frustration
But it returned
Lost in the translation
I'm not concerned
Smoke 'em if you got 'em
'Cuz we're never gonna learn
And dance upon the ashes of this world

Got hours more and miles to go
I feel the clock begin to slow
Play the hand that I was dealt
By the enemy that is myself
If I don't get out from under this
I might never know what I fucking missed
I'm at the breaking point
But don't know where to draw the line

I'm ticking like a fucking bomb
Had the best of intentions
My resolve outlasts my apprehensions
Won't be the first time
Not gonna be the last
I looked ahead through bleary eyes
And wondered what was left
Wondered will I pass the test

I've lost myself and found myself
And lost it all again

It comes down to me in the end
The more I know
The less I comprehend
It comes down to me in the end.

~Dillinger Four
SELLTHEHOUSESELLTHECARSELLTHEKIDSFINDSOMEONEELSE
FORGETITI'MNEVERCOMINGBACKFORGETIT

Something to Live For

"[Bertrand] Russell's analytic approach had its origins in numbers; mathematics was his first love. In his autobiography he recalled his miserable adolescence and a footpath down which he would wander on England's south coast. 'I used to go there alone to watch the sunset and contemplate suicide. I did not, however, commit suicide, because I wished to know more about mathematics.'"

~Wittgenstein's Poker p. 222

Figure 8

Saint Ide's Heaven

I'm a Junkyard

Alameda Closed

They Took Your Life Apart

The Elliot Smith Memorial

Back to the Rock

(C'mon Hollywood!)

No more waiting on them
As you rise inside new rooms
It's official, you've gone,
You could live for no one
Else man, the guilt must be huge
There's no pain in failure
You succeed at being mine yeah,
Old friend, see you there
I will be proud from afar
I can paint a picture in a moment
Of memories, and there are many left
I am extradited
Uninvited

(Yeah, C'mon!)
It's just another Saturday

Take a step to freedom
You and her loathing
This cruel world
Take a breath of shelter
Then exhale trust and allegiance
Liberate yourself from hell

It's just another Saturday
It's just another Saturday

(Let's Go!
C'mon Dude!
C'mon!
There you go fucker!)

(Goddamn Hollywood, Thanks very much.)

~Lagwagon, May 16th
(Taken from Live in a Dive)