Monday started productively. I finished the necesary 501(c)(3) application materials and sent them to Barry at ACC's Non-Profit Center to have him review them. Hopefully there won't be too many corrections to make.

I almost immediately turned that game I had found, but at 1:00 in the afternoon it had lost a great deal of its charm. I finished it and fiddled with some of its other features, but soon left to work on my bike at YBP and never returned to it. Unfortunately, YBP was closed, and I wasn't able to work on my bike. On my way over, though, I had repeated thoughts of the couple hundred dollars in my wallet and fear that somebody would rob me. It's never happened, and I've only heard of one friend being mugged in that neighborhood. Still, it's the only place in Austin where that sort of thing happens, as far as I know. So I stashed my money elsewhere when I got back.

I was feeling crappy that evening, probably because I'd wasted a good hour or two playing a game and I felt guilty about it. I went for a walk, but that diddn't help things too much. So I rode over to Bikes Across Borders and started working on a bike. Ignosio spent a half hour showing me the shop and then recommending a bike to me. It was already mostly built, and all I had to do was true the wheels, align the gears, and touch up a few other issues. I stayed there for probably three hours working on the bike, and it was almost done when I left.

As I was going, a man who stays at the Rhizome tried to tell me something in Spanish, and I was completely incapable to understanding him. It led to a lot of miming, and ultimately I realized that he wanted me to leave a gap in the door while I was locking up. That was the second convesation somebody tried to have with me in Spanish that day.

That night I looked for another game. I found a good one which I played until about three in the morning. The next I was groggy from it, and I was in a foul mood for most the day.

It started with a lunch out with Adam, Wyatt, Sarah, and Matt. I was quiet for most of the meal, but I wasn't unhappy at the time and nobody seemed bothered by my silence. We each bought something to share with everyone, and the feast was ultimately exsessive. Almost everyone was slow and happy from the amount of food we ate. There was a great deal left over, too. Thinking back on it now, I wonder if any of us cleaned up after ourselves. I hope so. I know the people who work there, at least in so far as I recognize them and they recognize me. It would be embarassing if they now associated me with a big mess.

When I got back, I caught the tell end of Lauren giving a tour to a weaver named Margo. She wanted a studio to set up her loom in. She seemed nice, like my mother. As she was leaving, she and her friend talked about how much she had changed in the last forty years. She had started out as a bank teller in Wisconsian, but he led her to become a free spirit in Austin.

I spent the next couple of hours in a groggy, full stupor. I played my banjo some, pulling a chair out into the courtyard so I could sit under the sun. I felt good, and I remember feeling a bit of pride that I could now play in front of people. Aim was here, as was Lauren. My playing wasn't great, and I knew it. But still, I was overcoming a sort of stage fright. The wierd thing is, for the next hour--every time I walked by Aim, I half expected her to comment positively on my playing.

I gave another tour a painter named Court just before sunset. She seemed like a calm, solid person, and she dressed with a pleasent amount of class. She was kind of like Ilana, and she was also from Chicago. She wasn't interested in our space, though, and as I kept trying to sell one to her, she eventually made the comment that her paintings are her living. She takes them very seriuosly. And it's funny how that hurt, even though she didn't intend it to. Because ultimately she was distinguishing herself from the people here, who couldn't dress with the same sort of class. We couldn't sell our work. We were just acting at being artists.

I was really upset after that, and in an effort to feel better I played football with Enrique. It helped me blow off some steam, though even that ended with a frustrating session. I threw the ball onto the roof of one of the warehouses, it got stuck, and I needed to attach several poles to eachother to scrape it back down. At least I got it down again, though.

I was exhuasted after all of that, and even when Christian showed up for a surprise visit and had to lay down and take a nap. I didn't get up again until everyone left for Bikes Across Borders. I finished working on my bike, and basically came to accept the fact that I wouldn't be able to join them on the trip because I wouldn't be able to find somebody to replace me in the warehouse. Still, I was proud to have polished the bike to the point where it could do everything in perfect operating condition. It certainly didn't start that way. And when I handed it off to Roy and told him I probably wouldn't be able to join them and would like to see somebody else ride it down to Mexico, he seemed really grateful.

When I got back, I wanted to immediately start playing the game I had found. However, I knew I would have to work all day on New Years and needed good energy, so I made some lentil barley stew. Aim, Tuesday, Matt, and I ended up staying up until midnight talking, which was good. At one point Matt asked us to each talk about our year. Afterwards, I decided to play the game anyway. It kept me up until three in the morning again. And once again, I was groggy when I woke up.

Met with an older artist, a woman who used to be a blacksmith before she shattered her wrist. She wanted to see our studio and consider a position here. Unfortunately, the space wasn't quiet what she was looking for, so she declined our invitation. Still, we had a long conversation which culminated in her expressing interest in teaching classes in our free school.

I met with my cousin Pat after that. I rarely see him, and this was the first time I saw him since I was still basically a child. He always struck me as intellegent, probably because he's worked for both NASA and The Pentagon. I was pleased at how easily I could make him and his guests laugh. They seem thoroughly impressed by our warehouse.

I then went to Bikes Across Borders for a meeting, but left after waiting for it to start for 30 minutes. I don't really feel like I have the right to go on the trip, anyway, on account of my not building a bike like everyone else. Maybe I still can in time, but first I need to find people to replace me at the warehouse.

I then took the long bike ride to Wheatsville and bought a lot of good food: polenta, barley, lentils, split-peas, dried apricots, raisens, and bananas. I also "sampled" each of the chunks of energy. The one with chocolate and greens is by far the best treat I've eaten in months. The others are so-so. Before I left, I also grabbed a Slingshot planner for the coming year. Hopefully, I'll actually stay organized this time.

As I was checking out, my bag of lentils burst over the conveyer belt. I ran to grab another bag to put it in, and the cashier was very encouraging of my desire to put all the beans in a new bag. I think she thought I was embarassed, although I wasn't, because she kept saying that it happened all the time to other customers. That was probably a smart thing to say, just encase I was embarassed.

When I came back I immediately started making split-pea soup. Matt asked if he could have some, too, and I told him he could if he bought me some carrots, potatoes, and collard greens from HEB. He did so, and then Aim brought over some collards from her own garden as well as a bag of broccoli. As I mixed all the ingredients together, I realized that Matt hadn't gotten collards but turnip greens. So much the better. The soup was delicious and everyone had several bowls. Ryan joined us as well, bringing a bottle of red wine.

The conversation was good. Matt talked about older women hitting on him at work, and I told the story of the Amazonians accosting me in the allyway. We laughed for hours, and I felt good for hours after our conversation ended. I proceeded to seek a new game, and found one I enjoyed. I then spent nearly four hours toying with it.

bleh

I am so hollow today. But it's not really that. There's a power inside, but it's unfocused. I have trouble figuring out what it wants. I cannot put it into words. But I want to, so that's what this is for. This entry, I warn you, will be a RAMBLE. It will be as unfocused as the desire or pain or whatever is inside of me.

Maybe all this is is a song. Maybe it's the echo of The Dresden Doll's Sex Changes. Because I was empty today, because my heart was hollow and cavernous, it was easy for a song to fill it with noise. It's now bouncing around in there, making me fill like I'm full.

But I fear that I'm losing parts of my soul. I fear that my drive and creativity are slipping. Time goes by too quickly. I seem to be crippled inside, incapable of finishng anything.

It's this damn essay. The Breathing Mountain keeps me fettered to this chair. I sit here, futily attempting to make progress on this piece, while what I really want is to go outside. I want to be outside while the sun is out. I want to see light. But as long as I have to finish this essay, I stay inside. I look at this screen. I try, try, try to pump something out. But I also get distracted, because I need release. And it wastes my time. I waste my time in front of a computer all day. Nightmares about it.

Oh, none of this sounds right. Maybe it's all true. But it only shows and reinforces the literal structure of my thoughts. Where's the poetry? I can get poetic in my emails, but not in my journal? Of course, it's at simple as bringing lyrisism to your lines. It's a matter of . . . ah, fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. If I was painting, what would those lines look like? Splatters of black, the edge serrated. For every thought in words, there is an echo in image. There is a dialouge that happens in my own mind. Noticing this dialouge is the key to becoming a good writer.

But will I publish this blog? Sure, nobody else is going to read it. But for my own sake, don't I want to read back over entries of a certain calliber? Because this isn't. But maybe I'll appreciate the rawness later. Ah, cliche is a word that should be illistrative, that hints at the dialouge between thought and image, but is really just thought. I say raw, but I don't think of rawness. What image really comes to mind here? Exposed pipes. This is a type of architecture. It is a design choice. It leaves the underbelly, the functioning of the space visable to its occupents and visitors. This entry has no drywall or ceiling. It hides nothing beneath a smooth marble finish. It is what it is.

the last night of seu jacinto

Tonight was possibly the last night of Seu Jacinto. Lula will be returning to Brazil shortly, and he may never come back to The States. Without him, Seu Jacinto is . . . well, not dead exactly, but less lively. I've heard that he is their heart. Without him, things may simply stop pumping.

My face is little numb from all the beer I drank tonight. (Which wasn't much, really. I'm a light drinker.) The only reason I mention that is because I just stroked my face, and--well, there's not a lot of feeling. It's kind of neat, having a numb face. Maybe I should get drunk more often.

Anyway, off top.

The story here revolves around Seu Jacinto. (I hope I'm spelling that correctly.) Lauren kept emphasizing that "This could be our last show!" And so I had to go, because I like their music and needed to say goodbye. And, I had to be there as a friend. Well, maybe "had to" is too strong in both cases. What I'm really trying to say is that it would have been nice if I showed up, so I did.

Josh was on the fence, and at the last minute he decided not, too. In response, I did something interesting. (Or, maybe not "interesting"--but uncharacteristic.) The two of them have been on the rocks recently. Not horribly so, but noticably. And as soon as they move their seperate ways, I suspect they'll go their seperate ways, too. Lauren is aware of this, at least unconsciously, and I think a lot of her anger towards Josh is derived from a fear of losing his friendship. Even though she gets mad about him for "taking advantage of the warehouse," she wouldn't get mad at me for the same things. And it's because she's not really, entirely mad about what he's doing to this space. She's frustrated to see a close friend drift away, and these instances are where they come out.

I suspect this has been happening, in some ways, throughout her life. That's she's dealt with unfair rejection again and again, starting in middle school on account of something as arbitrary as her being Jewish. Her response has been agression. She fights back, because that's what she learned at that point in her life. Unfortunately, it's one of those defense mechanisms that estranges people even further, pushing loved ones away even as she wants to cling to them.

Josh, for his part, seems to drift from friend to friend. Why is that? I suspect she's still somebody important to him, but that it's become too much of a hassle and he's not sure what to do, so he's just going to abandon the friendship. Or something like that. I think he still cares. They both still care. But he responds to stress by backing away and she responds by pushing, and it's just leading to the two of them getting more and more distant.

So, anyway, today I did something uncharacteristic. I made an intervention. A little intervention. But one that I believed was the right choice. When Josh said he wouldn't go, I told him that, "Lauren would really like it if you were there." And then I even offered to pay the cover. And in the next moment he was getting his shoes. And we were riding our bikes, and we were there.

After the show, she gave him such a hug. I was even a little bit jealous. But it clearly did matter to her, and she definitely did really like it that he was there. So maybe I helped things out between them. Maybe I helped Josh show that he still really cared about her. I don't know. I was told never to touch a butterfly coming out of its cocoon. I was told not to interfer with things, because I'll only make matters worse. But maybe this was the right choice.

saving what is sacred

There are beautiful things in this world, things that I often overlook. When I realize that they're there, I get the inspiration to write poetry about them. I want to capture this beauty in words. And, even if it is vane, to wear those words like a badge of my awareness. But I worry that the act of writing is a sort of defilement. It's me barging into an ancient ceremony and taking pictures with a cheap digital camera. It's sending these photos to National Geographic. It's transforming experience into a commodity. "No sooner are words pinned down then they fold their wings and die."

Maybe there will be a point when inspiration fills me with such abundance that I can write about it. It will spill over at all hours of the day, and to put it into words would only be to catch the droplets falling over the side. But for now, I need to keep these things in me. I need to nurture them, water them, keep them warm with my breath. To twist them into words would kill them. And I can't do that.

But maybe the problem isn't with the act of writing, but with the way you write. It is your perfectionism, your need to twist an idea to fit it into words. If you could write about these things without hurting them, without coercing them, then maybe it would only make them stronger.

As you walked home from the grocery store, you watched the trees. You became aware of them. And the bag of pretzels in your hand. It was sunshine and golden wheat. These were little sacred things. If I were to write about them, I would put them under the microscope. I would tear at them with a scalpel and examine what was inside. That is what writing has become for me. But no longer.

12 Hour Meeting

I don't know how much I'm going to say, or how much I can even expect to say in the state of mind I'm in. It's almost like being drunk. I have been in meetings for the past 12 hours. At noon I joined Treasure City for it's twice yearly pajamaroma, which was a meeting that continued through 7:30--when I left to go to Whalefall. At Whalefall, we met for another four hours. At midnight, it was finally over.

Midnight is now. I am tired. Tired in a way I haven't been in a long, long time. My thoughts are lurching. I'm struggling to hold my head up straight, and involuntarily I find myself lurching forward and then pulling back. I'm like that guy in the back of the bus who's nodding off, but jerking back to wakefulness at every bump. Only I'm entirely awake. My head is just going through the same motions.

In the room beside me Blake is playing Sigur Ros, loud. I hear it, and it makes these moments dramatic.

Heh. . . .

I am the old farmer standing leaning against his hoe, gazing at the great clods of earth he has turned. Damn hard day. But something will come of all this talk. We are changing. We. . . .

I can't seem to communicate anything. Maybe I really do have ADD. (I never realized that spelt "add.") Whenever I start writing about a new subject, it excites me and I get my focus back. But after I write about it for a while, I'll begin to drift off and say things that don't entirely make sense. There's some point that's been left behind, buried beneath the ellipses. It's an avalanche of periods, and the tiny village under the mountain now lies in ruins under the weight of collapsed thought.

Yikes. It's happening again.

Maybe we get meta because it's the only interesting thing left to talk about.

I would like to write about my day and the meeting, but it's dead. It's over. I have no heartstrings tied to the past. But, I'm still curious. What will happen if I try. I must try. I will try.

Scott and Ann live in a cottage, for lack of a better word. It's built out of brick, with gleaming windows and all the luxuries of modern design. But there's something quaint and cozy about the space which makes me think of a cottage huddled warmly within a snowy landscape. The front yard is alive with greenery, though, and cultivated with the careful touch of a gardener's hand. As I pulled my bike up their driveway, I found over a dozen bikes sheltered beneath the carport. I recognized Rachel's green fixxie beside the others, all the bikes of my colleagues.

Inside, I heard Cory talking with James. I could see Paul through the window. When I tried to open the door, it was locked. For a brief moment I was worried there'd be a scene. I was fifteen minutes late. We're they going to open the door for me, and I'd find them all sitting the living room, quietly staring at me with disapproval?

A moment later I heard Scott call out, "Sorry! Let me open the door real quick!" As he opened the door, he gave me one of his toothy grins and explained that they had to lock it. I nodded, not really understanding, then scurried inside. There were a few people sitting in the living room, and Simon and Chrissi looked up to flash me a smile before returning to their conversations. Others were in the kitchen preparing breakfast, I walked over to them to deliver the polenta I'd prepared before coming. Nobody seemed to care that I was late, and as soon as they saw the polenta, there was no question. As I removed the aluminan foil lids, I found the polenta was still gooey, though. I grimaced disapprovingly, but still had hope that it would firm up before people started eating it.

. . . .

Well, the quality of the writing is starting to slip. Maybe it's time for me to wrap things up and call it a night. Before I do, though, I want to mention that there's something growing in my writing. It's not there entirely, but it's starting (in places) to gain a sheen of sincerity. I want that to continue growing. I'm convinced that the best way to develop this trait is to read expository essays, get a sense of what sincerity sounds like, and then recognize it in your own work. And push, gently, towards incorporating more of it into your writing.

Yikes.

Goodnight.