dis orientation

hard cider: a sweet compromise between beer & wine.

i began with cider at about three in the afternoon, out on the front stoop, reading "harry, revised." pretty much ensconced in mark sarvas' story, i failed to notice that my roommate had returned, and had somehow found a seat for the spare bike hanging up by the back door. that, with lock & key, meant mental diversion. as much as i wanted to know exactly what was going to happen to the unlucky Harry as possible, the sun was extraordinarily warm, and there was enough of a breeze to make me long for the outdoors, for the whip of wind shearing over my face. my chance came with an invitation to go meet E's friends: S & C, nearby. so i stowed the book in my bag along with some other things, and off we went.

portland is a small town. and when i say small, i mean, it's a tiny weird curve of a peninsula, a fingernail clipping, in the atlantic. it is crowned by the east end, munjoy hill, which drops off at the eastern promenade, a street of large, Victorian houses with pillars & huge windows. beyond the promenade (and the small, sandy beach) are the islands, extending for miles: rocky clusters that, from above, look like pieces of the ocean have been torn out of the world.

all of that was to illustrate the fact that we biked about five minutes, maybe less. two? it would have taken ten to fifteen a pied. the exhilaration of the rabbit overtaking the tortoise. so, of course, sped by this new frenzy of motion, i ride home after a cider, try to read a bit more, but am consumed by new distractions. now, i can feel the alcoholic buzz creeping like electric moss over the surface of my brain. on the bike ride, the cuff of my pants was snagged in the frame of the bike. i was ill-dressed for such activity. i needed to change clothes. but what? then my train of thought completely derailed, and with a sigh, set down "harry, revised" again. it took a few minutes to decide, based on this new criteria, what to wear, and as soon as i was dressed, i was tugged out the door, back to the street. i was so tugged that i walked quicker throughout the house, although my steps inside are always sort of rapid and flat-footed.

the dismount is going to be a problem, i can tell. i like everything i do to appear practiced and smooth, even if i myself am not eighty-two percent of the time. i struggle with the bike, unfamiliar with it. i realize as i am unlocking it from the wall of the house something, a little darkling in my brain, about the way i treat things, which communicates into how i treat other people. i realize my discomfort - or at least, cautious hesitance when it comes to this bike, this thing that operates in a way i am familiar with and knowledgeable about, but if it broke, i would have no idea how to fix and it would become another rusty thing left behind somewhere in the trail of apartments. either that, or wait for E to be able to fix it, which means relying on someone else -

the dismount is going to be a problem. i stutter to a halt, applying brake pressure with my left hand, and ramp up onto the curb, tilting a bit to the right, and stepping down. then, i swing off of the bike, right leg rigid and awkward. this is something i am going to need to practice doing. i have very poor balance as it is. when the bike slows down, i find that the front tire wobbles, that i become very bad at steering. i do not ride with confidence: i am unaware of traffic patterns beyond the markings on the road and the lights in front of me.

so: hard cider. then a little whiskey, a red bull, beer .. none of these things are things i should have done last night, due to winter still being stuck in my craw - and quite literally, i do sound hoarse, i am congested and strange-sounding coughs scrape out of my throat. i am finding that my thoughts tend toward the why of alcohol lately. last night, i enjoyed the vague blur that occurred. events, people, conversations, drinks, cigarettes, all phased into one another, bled from bar to bar. i was able to converse (or at least, perceived that i could) comfortably, relaxedly.

eventually, 1AM came around, and i turned into a bit of pickled pumpkin. M. was one of the bars - the darkest one, with the dim pulses of red and blue, with the frizzy-haired bartender who always sees me at my drunkest. M. was dancing on the floor, white shirt unbuttoned halfway down. though he appeared intoxicated, his eyes remained steady. i found it very easy to pick him out on the dance floor, though the alcohol in my system had reached a boiling point. i needed to chill out.

i could hear the sound of tiny things, cracking, in my ears.

a few cheap beers later, i stumbled up the hill to the bike, where i'd left it locked on a NO RIGHT TURN sign. surprisingly, somehow, lit a kretek cigarette (bummed from - or donated to me by - B) pressed play on my iPod and shot off down the empty streets. i became exhilarated. took the long way home. circled around the block, around the deserted playground. sped around the west end until i became disoriented, chose a street that looked promising and sped off down that one. i'd chosen the wrong one, of course, and was headed in the opposite direction of home - although it doesn't matter. everywhere goes everywhere in portland. you can't really get too lost. just keep going, and you'll either see the ocean, the park, the highway, or congress street.

maybe that's why i chose this city to become a drunkard in. you can't really get lost. there's no real danger. you can ride your bike down the streets at two in the morning and there's no one to say different. you can ride your bike drunk down the streets at two in the morning. as long as you watch out for the shiny gloss of police cars gliding their way by, like weird white eels in the inky night.

supposed to rain today. i am watching the clouds roll in.

crazy guy in the corduroy jacket who haunts me.

everywhere i go, there he is. and he's hatefully insane, too. talks to himself with the distinct and intentional purpose of others hearing his bile. the coffee shop, the library.

the past few days: ripening with the warmth of the sun, but still tempered yet by chill, stiff winds out of the north. i am to meet old friends for lunch today. i am become suddenly so mobile, backpack a part of me all over again, wandering the street from destination to destination, returning home only briefly to refuel - light the bowl, down an emergen-c, maybe eat something. grab a sweater, drop off something. pick up something. then out the door again and not home til morning. that's two nights in three days i haven't slept in my bed. i don't miss it.

dr. says i think in extremes. says i walk around with my heart four feet in front of me. i am disgusted with this characterization of myself.

last night: night five of a bender. perhaps night six, tonight? probably not. but it's so nice outside, i can't rationalize staying inside and doing the same thing i did all winter. besides, when i drink, i write. i've been writing - short abortions of poetry, but it's something. now that i'm chronicling it, i won't be able to anymore - watch. maybe i shouldn't talk about it.

read a little 'vanity of duluoz' last night. kerouac-cobbled prose after, jerky and wild. delved into an old green notebook. the ink is blurry with the effects of a drugged out bike ride ending in pouring rain. shoved it in my backpack this morning after smoking a quick shower and hit off of a fresh green bowl. earphones in, cigarette lit, and out the door and away!

in other news: a sudden windfall, which i have definitely cut into these past few nights with my exorbitant dipsomania - but i'm thinking maybe it's definitely time for a tattoo. i was also invited to go to puerto rico for a week this coming july. might save up to do that, too.

i have three undeveloped rolls of film. their contents are a total mystery to me. tomorrow i think i will have them developed.

gotta write gotta write gotta write

a nearly decomposable system. as defined by m. hofstadter in (hereafter "GEB") Godel, Escher & Bach. that is what work is. that is what a lot of things are.

a nearly decomposable system whose constituent parts, at their most individual, speak entirely different languages. yet speak english.

mu.

cold labyrinth: leaves
tossed around the entrance -
a few dare inside,
then hurry out again.

his girlfriend is walking
around the labyrinth,
in slow, determined strides.
she wishes
she had her iPod with her.
she makes do with
his cigarettes
from one pocket of his jacket
and a book of matches from the other

he forgot the damned ball of string,
left the hardware store
without it. he was distracted by her
walking by the window. ran out -

(she was on her way there, too - )

the wind cries where are you
through the anonymous halls.
he lights the corridors
with his cell phone's
weak blue light.

at the center, there is nothing
sitting,
waiting,
fangs bared,
silently.

i need better words for some of these things

sometimes, he said to me, the words don't come out right and it's all a jumble.

i think that happens to a lot of us, i said and trailed off like i always do. i don't know if he heard the last part.

today: windy. cold. momentary reassessments; i feel good, though i only say good because i don't have a better word for it. i don't feel 'bad.' so, necessarily, i must feel the opposite. i feel somewhere in between the two. then i run up against quality and what it means to be either of them. what is the context of these so often-used words? how the fuck are you supposed to answer the ubiquitous question: "how are you?" without them? although, to be fair, how many people do you know that answer with "bad"?

when i think about this, i begin to feel less "good" than i did before. does that mean i feel "bad" or "worse"? momentary reassessment: if thinking about this makes me feel differently than i did when i started, then i should stop thinking about this.

<<

today: windy, cold. leaves in brittle piles on the sidewalk. woke up with yeasayer in my head. strange how that happens. one day it's this, the next day, that. fleet foxes happened a day or so ago. before that, apes & androids. for a long, long time, bon iver. i think i can say that my favourite music is the music which repeats itself, silently, in my dreams. perhaps even informs them, as a rivers do oceans.

described my ideal world to myself yesterday. i am approaching some semblance of it, some settlement. i am writing, if not every day, every other day. journal entries, or coffeeshop notebook entries. from time to time, a burst of a story or a scribbled-out poem. peristaltic at best. i am now into part II of godel, escher & bach. i hope there is less number theory in this part. after that, i have a book on the development of the english language. interspersed, i have a book of zen koans, and some early zen writing.

{i used to curse Kerouac for 'the dharma bums'. i said it was when his light changed. it's the one where he starts Buddhaing all over the place. i felt that the energy he exuded, which i identified with so strongly, was unnameable before, and that gave him a sort of mysticism. but then suddenly, he found a label for it.}

suddenly i find myself thirsting for routine, for regularity, for schedule. i want to wake up early and go to the gym, or for a run or something, or DO something, then go to the coffeeshop and sit. and read and write. to study physical movement, the basic mechanics of the body. to meditate, to be conscious. to be present. to inspire trust. to be able to emit in a healthy way. to exist with my own energy and not need others' for the sake of basic maintenance.

suddenly. i'll be 25 next thursday. quarterlife crisis. i put such emphasis on birthdays, yet i've never really celebrated one. i've been drunk, but i've never felt ... completed. this year, i want to really celebrate the fact that i got myself where i am. i also want to celebrate that i have a long way yet to go.

i should end there, but there's something else i have to say: something i've been reading in these Zen books. talking about enlightenment as being non-enlightened, talking about realizing that once everything is simply everything that you are enlightened. i feel like i, myself, am aware of this fact and that it exists, but i am completely disconnected from it. there is too much emphasis on the future. i feel as though my next challenge is patience; patience & modulating that future-consciousness down a few nodes. future-mindfulness.

perhaps i truly can change for the better.

(you're all going: DUH)

sometimes, he said to me, the words don't come out right and it's all a jumble. i can never say what i mean.

you can never say what you mean, i said, almost automatically.

lately i sleep on my back.

brouhaha

the linguistic theory of dissimilation, wherein a consonant sound becomes more like another - (i.e., the latin for 'midday' being, first, 'medio-dies' then 'meri-dies')

the linguistic theory of phonetic shift, changing the phoneme of a word - (i.e., "don't be sorry" becoming "dombe sorry")

... thoughts on the formation of a New English.

... thoughts on the devolution of language & communication. does telepathy render speech useless?

there's going to have to be a modality shift in the very nature of communication coming soon. how much language has changed already: co-opted slang from other culture sets, whether out of idolatry or irony. the dulling edge of interesting vocabulary - at least, for me, from an academic standpoint. 'dulling' is, of course, all perception. some might argue that english is being spiced up, added vigour. perhaps language is simply doing what it always does, evolving. whether in a physical sense (the laziness of jaw, the total lack of respect for diction), english is evolving. spiteful folk (and myself, admittedly) call it devolving. why, then, is diction so important? should we be on guard, rigorously, against the inexorable laziness of our own jaws? what about our new culture is causing us to have such disrespect for the way we communicate with one another? how can we not strive to find the words necessary to say exactly what it is that we are feeling.

there's an episode of the Sopranos. i paraphrase: "well, once we have taken care of food, and hunger, we can concentrate on other pains: like truth, and the search for self." perhaps, then, in this country, with its devolving language, most have not taken care of food, or hunger, or any of the pains which keep us from diving at the bigger things. like communication. being aware of how we convey our thoughts to others, and striving to be as precise as language will allow ...

anyway.

what was i blogging about? oh right. blog blog blog.

i am reading "Godel, Escher, Bach." leave me alone, i don't have an umlaut key. it's fascinating so far, but now i'm in "MEANING AND FORM IN MATHEMATICS" and i find myself having to constantly go back & figure out the formulas, which i assume i haven't understood and then realize it's much more basic than i thought when i finally do understand them. still takes awhile, though. math is not my forte. in fact, i can barely do simple addition. go figure. i compute it via the multiplication tables. doesn't always work, but then, what does.

wrote something yesterday. brand new yellow notebook. seems that even though i have this laptop, old habits die hard. can't just whip out a laptop in the bar from my backpack. nervous about carrying it around everywhere. i find that i rarely unplug it from the charger. hope that's not killing the battery. doesn't seem to be.

more woes, wit & wisdom: next time.