who's leaving who this time? (again, a theme for violins)

i swear i swear i swear i'm gonna yuke like all over the place my legs feel like jello you are my friendship rock of womanhood civilization i am so so sad this weekend this week i am so excited for you so excited for you so excited for you so excited that my bitterest rivers flow sweet such that we can kiss and not feel aroused my traitorous body at last feels nothing its bones damp and its nerves damp we did the sentimental thing which was like a funeral for the not-dead the just-leaving promise you will call me i read lorca i thought the repetition makes no sense i am growing tired of repetition it is so so easy so so so so facile and limpid and crystalline and easy easy easy easy there easy now easy now it is so easy to repeat yourself i said lorca lorca lorca why all the repeating the repetition is so so boring as the man and three women step to each other closer and closer whispering on the edge of the woods i am not interested in this anymore except when we are all always having been being on the edge of heartbreak not the woods not the grass not even the clear sky but the thunderstorms and concrete and holding a cellphone up to play music cupping your hands around it to blast it out in a very specific trajectory round/under chain link everywhere sweat underneath shoulder straps everything damp my bones my nerves my notions here here here like a symphony like ravel's terrible bolero that refuses to resolve at the very last moment the moment in which we have been playing charades and it's turned into war i am so so so so so excited for you i am excited for me i am excited for us YOU WERE ALWAYS THE MOST MOROSE DRUNK everyone's mumbling death or talking about their new job are you king of groupon yet are you the king of my heart we could all fuck before we go our separate ways my nerves my nevers my bones all damp the day ends in a cold bath and a headache

Notes from the Overground

I. And there's this thing about the young and the addled, who ask, "Is there a god and what does he think of me?" - treading sidewalks and ghosting over storefronts, what choice is there? - tramping from hotspot to hotspot, places we are allowed to stop and always looking to turn more places into places we can stop, click the clip lights of our bikes and take off our shoes -  we all just want everywhere to be home, so we can doff our PJs anytime.

So, my angels, and here's that ignoble lining - we'd all take the deal now. Lord love us, but somehow the self got severed from the self sometime after the war (or maybe earlier; we've got our best scientists on it, I promise), which means mustering a lot of imaginative force, which means a lot of tired people, which means a lot of bed-worshipping people, which means people who want to put on their PJs, which means people who would take the deal. In the annals of ignobility, the entire generation takes the deal because if others will happily purchase you in your unadulterated form, maybe you can get some peace, you know?

(Positive side effects of fame include using your imaginative powers for everything except living.)
(Or at least, evidence to the contrary, say the Phoenix fam, gets assiduously ignored.)

II. What the fuck is art for if you want to destroy culture?

III. The question remains, who am I doing this for? The question sometimes becomes, why would anyone do this for free? At worst the question is, WHAT IS THIS? And sometimes, there is a horrible tumbling of, how can we pretend to narrativize that which resists narrative so completely, structure the unstructured, enforce logic on the illogical and the vast, maybe we got a few things right but what if our basic assumptions are wrong spinning us out into some sort of weird collective delusion, there are no names for the nameless, action doesn't even mean the same thing it meant three thousand years ago, but really who am i to say because we move so goddamn slow as a whole, what if stories have to change to catch up with the way we think of the self now which has almost nothing to do with what we do, what of Mac Wellman's recidivist, what of quoting scripture for my purpose, what of evil, i can't even begin to imagine a new form, i'll die if i have reinvent the wheel tomorrow, i'm not ready, i'm not ready, when will i ever be ready, amen.

Ya know?

IV. Notes on tone from N+1: "Women’s websites like the Hairpin created unity among their readers by cultivating the sense of membership in an inner circle, where women displayed their intimacy and cemented their belonging by speaking to one another like high school best friends. The Hairpin’s voice, filled with chatty camaraderie, was sometimes cloying and sometimes engaging when it gave me style tips and book recommendations (“I know I made you all go out and get your Villette tramp stamps like my first day here”); but in articles that took on larger topics, that voice read as distracting, condescending, or even anxious at the prospect of alienating readers."

V.  Off to London tonight, don't really know what to do there. Turns out tickets to the Olympics are real complicated to get. Turns out the Olympics are a moral shitfest.

VI.

Jupiter is passing through Aries, which explains all this luck I´m experiencing....

Guatemala, lago d`atitlan. San Marcos is a little town on the lake where every other house is a meditation or healing center. Music every night at the ganesh collective, up the giant elephant trunk staircase. I feel a bit like I´m back in California with the new-age hippies and rainbow kids down by the lake, but then I walk up into the village and am greeted by all the guatemalan families, the kids asking for a quetzal, the girls wondering about my jewelry.

A coincidental series of events upon my arrival led me to climb up the mountain and find Fernando´s house, an architectural masterpiece in progress with the most fantastic view I´ve ever seen. You can see the entire lake, the volcano, and all the surrounding villages. He wasn´t there upon my arrival, but a young Austrian traveler gave me a pair of keys and said I could probably move in. My room has a buddah on one wall decorated with turquoise and sea shells, opposite a mural of the ruins at Palenque.
Met Fernando yesterday- a Mexican man in his fifties who made a lot of money when he was younger, and since then has been living in ashrams, traveling, and being an artisano. His dream now is to turn this place into an eco-community to survive next years financial apocalypse, and so he´s grounding out to build and garden. He even has another piece of land in Oaxaca which is Plan B if San Marcos gets swept away.

He´s open to Brea and I doing whatever we want while we´re here-- painting, gardening, chilling. He´s not interested in money and just wants to make community. To share love and spiritual growth. I am so astounded by this blessing. Wow. I sense I´ll be making a home and sticking around for a while, maybe taking some shiatsu classes, but mostly reading, writing, and helping build up on the hill.

Ripe mangoes, pineapple, and avocado... rainbow family... a room of my own surrounded by coffee plants and banana trees. Somehow it keeps getting better.

I´m learning that the more specific intentions I have for my space, my life, my crafts, the better they manifest. Have been doing a lot of mind-mapping to clarify what this world can be for me. And it seems to work.
I feel somehow overly positive for this blog, but it´s like- damn, there is another reality out there if you are open to it. As Don Juan says, just watch for the signs.