Gazelle tour populair

This Sunday, July 23, I'm going to get what will finally be my trusty ride. Will upload pics. Hopefully I'm not jumping the gun. Update: I backed out of this deal, happy and yet sad, for I do need a ride better than my routens to enjoy NYC. But happy because these days I am meditating a lot more and watching the little things transpire, the evening winds, the migration patterns of insects, etc., things in life better enjoyed while on foot. July.23, 2023-I went on foot toward the Williamsburg bridge to see if my object study series would hang well on a certain wall I had once seen beneath it, and along the way a little baby offered me a cheeto. Tuesday, July 25. Ghosted again by another bakery, my spirit is definitely taxed to the extreme. Walking into my apartment a robin dropped a worm in front of me and I thought of rescuing the worm. The robin and another watched from a few yards away. The worm squirmed weakly. I passed it by and as I did the Robin ran to it and finished it off. I felt like the heavens were ruining me in showing me the ugliness of this vicious wheel of fortune we know as life. Wanting to get reincarnated in Milan Italy, Mortis Vague bought a one way plane ticket from New York. Arriving in Milan a pretty young Italian woman working in the immigration booth asks Mortis Vague what his business is in Milan and the name and address of whom he will see. Mortis says his business is death. The woman looks into his eyes in question. Mortis says an old friend has died. She asks Mortis for the address and name of whom he will meet, and Mortis chooses a random street, random number, and makes up a name. As the story unfolds Mortis Vague undergoes mysterious and dark events but most importantly he finds himself on the street he pronounced to the immigration woman. Struck with wonder and then shaken with fear he sees there is in fact the house number he came up with. It is a gated apartment building and Mortis approaches the gatekeeper and asks if such a person inhabits the home by the name of that name he randomly fell upon in immigration, and the gatekeeper affirms that there is indeed such a person here, and asks if Mortis would like to have him beckoned. Aug. 6, 2023. My manipulative senior landlord has forgotten about 300 dollars that belongs to me, and it is quickly looming up into a pink elephant because the guy is so sickeningly evil I don't want to remind him. So it is like the beginning of Thus Spake Zarathustra when the tightrope walker is obstructed by a dancing devil. August 10, 2023. I have been taken by the sudden beauty found in the concept of 'crash landing'. August.15 As autumn overtakes me I will oftentimes fall asleep on the wayside of the road from work to home, through the forest, near the babel drum permanent industrial instrument. August 19., 2023. Arriving to the bakery at 11pm I saw the donut shop a block down the street was up in flames. Getting off my shift at 6 thirty or so in the morning I went to have a look and it was indeed the shop named Ugly Donuts. I thought to myself there is something here beneath the surface. Three apartments above it were gutted. In front of the store a man in a spectrum internet truck was busying himself on a tablet, I assume closing an account or something of the sort, bringing something to an end, tying an end off. August. 22, 2023- Another outing in Williamsburg has made me consider my paranoia to such an extent that I am left at the fount to that ancient quarry of the philosopher's in which man cannot posit an object outside of his own subject, therefore one cannot explicitly know if they are a target for secret governmental or other types of policing agents. Sep.02, 2023. I never thought my joy in life would be lost because of my inability to make a beautiful baguette. There is a tremendous amount of responsibility on me for the bakery and they are spreading rumors about me because of the terrible baguettes I make. September 5, 2023: the importance of the babel drum instrument in the playground on the edge of the forest is looming up in my unconscious as something having to do with my fate, destiny, and salvation. I did a google search for other such installations and came up with nothing. It would be nice to have a map of their coordinates. This morning I betook myself to Brighton beach for a dip in the sea. September 13, All that is left of my red routens is the bar and stem that I had welded into union. It was indeed stolen, but I feel its nearness and one day I know I will see her again. On top of that my pink routens sold back home. Currently in my state of exile I have been reduced to a willy's adult kick scooter. Sept. 16, 2023. When life gives you lemons, reject them, or else you will become merely an integer in the horrors of something automatic. Sept. 25, 2023: I don't want to read the biography of Mozart's golden decade. But neither did I want to read Coco Chanel's biography. In the end we applaud the work as work in itself. We shudder in awe that a human being would have spent his life making it one. And it is just that that is most stupefying, that the work is one. Where is the idea of it in actuality? Does it really capture time itself? Journal entry for Tuesday, sept. 26, 2023: the surest way to see if it is raining outside is to look at the puddles and see if there is the ripples, because the rain when it falls from the clouds would fall all at once if it could but the air is too thin, so it can only fall in drops of water that are round and circular resembling balls. These drops then fall through the air from the cloud toward the ground because they are heavy and when such drops find themselves hitting the surface of a puddle the puddle's strong surface undergoes a sudden force and this causes the ripple, because the puddle is not falling it is still. The puddle is still and not moving because it is a place on the ground where the water that has already fallen in drops of rain has found a spot to gather because the ground is too hard for water because water is not so hard as stone, and the planet earth is stone and water but water has to move from the dry places to the watery places. This way is better than the hearing way because the wind through trees makes the same noise as the drops of rain upon the ground, but they are not the same thing though the noise is similar there is no connection other than it is two things in collision. The observable phenomenon in itself is not the thing in itself though, it is only the remains of what has already happened and what is happening outside of our knowledge of it. October 21, 2023. I feel ostracized at the bakery by the other bakers who refuse to accept my way. No matter how one looks at it, in every circumstance we encounter to undertake something rather that is our will, and the means to the end are infinite though there is one end in sight. It can be argued the end too is infinite, but with bread the end is a loaf that has risen to maximum capacity. What they are disheveled about is that I pay attention to the breads amidst the baguette "time". I form the breads when they need to be formed, which means I have to leave baguettes, and this makes the other coworker completely mad. They have threatened me outright. I have spent so much thought in self discipline that I often relish in self destruction at the hands of my enemies, but consider this. I have had co workers tell me how to measure flour, that there is a first thing to do and last thing to do. Yet in reality it matters naught whether we measure here or there. In another job I was told how to measure the temperature of dirt, an old man told me that first I must scrap the minuscule top layer of the specimen off, then insert the node. But too, it makes no difference whatsoever, and yet these crocodiles give me the boot. Journal entry for October 24, 2023: I found a way to be quicker but they made themselves obstructions, and I am not paid for the extra hour, and thus am getting severely depressed again and am looking for a better job. This is the strangest thing of life's ways, ultimately can I even know myself to know my sense of justice? It is true I am superfluous. I would rush the sandwich baguettes into the proofer, then jump onto the five grains and use the water spray bottle instead of dousing the loaves, and these two changes that favored my overall performance caused my abjection from the team. The sadness of humanism is that each of them honor their hedonistic will though it is removed from truth. That they have found a manner to earn their living is not a virtue if that work is absurd. And yet, it is well to pass through these flames. Diary entry for October 31, 2023: I don't find the value in the possible art that I might create, my judgment coming forth from either the given, or my senses. That is to say from the age I live in or my emotions. There is the thought that if I had wealthy parents as a child I would find better subject matter, and only because I have had to struggle monetarily in the world my emotions are forever tainted. Then couldn't I be a Duchamp? A Francis Bacon, a Edgar Poe? Who knows. A plot of late that has taken my fancy is about a girl stricken with ill luck all her life, everything she does brings ill fortune to her family, town and state. Finally they send her overseas and think all is well but then she falls in love and brings her lover back to her town, where he promptly starts a revolution. Nov. 02, 2023. Diary entry: it has occurred to me the factor of truth hood is placed by the knowing the subject on the objective: thus we cannot know really if the person who walks into the shop is the famous person who it appears to be, in reality life is perpetual impersonation. November 7, 2023. I had a great, fantastic ride today. I took Myrtle all the way to the Manhattan bridge, early enough before all the trolls awake, made my way to the world trade centers, then to battery park and there, going around the tip of Manhattan, I sat on a bench overlooking the east river. The Brooklyn bridge was off to the left, Brooklyn Heights was across the river, and the helipad was nearest me. The tourist choppers coming and going, I ate a loaf of rye bread with caraway seeds and dried mulberries. I can't wait to try this recipe again, the mulberries and the caraway have an astonishing taste. November 12. "I'm not used to being so assaulted in such a way" "You have to call the police, get a restraining order, why don't you?" "Because the cocoon" "What?" "Ever since a cocoon appeared on the wall in my room" "What? You think it is because that?" "Yes" Diary entry November 29, 2023. Walking past a tree squirrel I took note of its hair along the ridge of its back, for it were nearly green. Then it bolted in typical squirrel fashion to the nearest tree trunk. Diary entry for December 3, 2023. I envision myself setting up a table in Chelsea where I will sell my self published book about a man dying of love who sees before he dies every minute thing in an incessant act of love and finally hears the oceans waves lapping the shore like his tongue were mingling with his lost love. The book opens with he and she in bed, then she leaves him with a mysterious motorcade of black suv vehicles with tinted windows. I then envision my career starting when the movie version wins at Sundance. Dec. 4: "Imagine if you locked me in the freezer, I would have to wait for a customer to order something so they would come in, and then what they order would eventuate a cycle of persuasions that would loom up in my unconscious" December 14, 2023. "My phone doesn't work in the corridors of the subway, but the clock on it does, because time is hardwired". Jan. 1, 2024. If I am in the heated battle between Turnus' army and the remnant of Troy, why does not my somnolence ever reflect it? Never has literature entered my dreams. It seems to be the case that dreams are made of memories from our entire body. Thus, the only memory of a book is the touch as I hold it, and perhaps the action of my eyes interpreting shades of light. But the actual images of the author, the art itself, I do not know in what way is actually experienced. Jan. 5, 2024. Fired from another viennoserie. I walked away from my surprise last day choked up a bit. Lots of variables in this one. But I refuse to build my life on economy. I looked into good sleeping bags, but when summer comes around I don't know what to do with it. Upper Hudson looks like a good place to be. Is there else besides material dialectical reasoning? What gives me the authority to say what I choose as an ideal? It is true, to not base my life on economy is to base it on economy. If only I were a man of few words. When I'm old and grey I might finally drug myself into silence. Plot idea: a love story about a girl who falls in love with a man who's purpose in life is to light the rocket on fire, a job which has killed nine out of ten. Jan. 6. Good names for characters in nu morality play: "Top", "Worry", "Reason", "Results". Diary Entry for January 9, 2024. I purchased a year's subscription to B_R_ but gave the wrong shipping address, so it will arrive across the street from my apartment building. It is a seething wound, for the reasons culminating in my purchase of the deal in the first place were multitudinous, reaching as far as my life expectancy in a state of exile, and certain truths in my philosophy. I emailed the publishing house, and have not yet received a response. It is a row of houses on that side of the street, and today I scrutinized the porch of the house. What is silly is that I have already given it up. The newsprint left my fingertips absolutely sullied with ink. But there was such a wonderful correspondence in the December-January issue that out of respect I paid the ninety or so dollars for a monthly paper. But the fact that I exist a mere block away, and then I will exist there too, as a sort of ultra superfluity, makes me reach unheard of shores of despondency. On top of this I bought the year subscription, not only to hold my heart above the flood, but to start the new year with a slight push. It is like I donated money that will pay for a year of dull lightening strikes on a stranger's porch. I wonder that after a few months in New York I lost the strength to give alms to beggars, and have hardened my heart against society, but then mistakes such as this redeem itself from me. I am at the mercy of something I will never know and whose stage mask is language. January 13, 2024. Plot idea: a struggling artist finds a book at The Strand, the book's title is "Mathew Lovejoy's Book Length Suicide Note". January 15, 2024, diary entry: Going to open call for dishwashers at house of lasagna in Murray hill Manhattan. Quick bus ride away from my queens flat. All last week I blanketed entry level positions with my resume. I got only automated responses saying thanks for applying and talk to you later. Of corse there is no later. Then my great uncle calls on wassapp. Last year when he called I promptly got hired at the bakery where I was then strangled by a coworker on drugs. Today I know exactly what I will encounter: a handful of Mexicans, Hondurans or Venezuelans looking for a second or third job, in a line. Worst is that the restaurants are all phasing into new owners as all those young studs from the eighties have suddenly looked very very old. Beauty is the measure, youth is definitely beauty. Thus the best course of action is to own the place, then expand it to the maximum therefore to hide one's self behind a barrage of young managers. If one can't expand they are living in a grave. Mysterious of all is all things break even. Talking in a congenial manner with the boss also is a big mistake, the last thing an old dying lion needs is a sick young lion talking film noir, scandal in Sorrento, scent of a woman, testament de orphee. And of course my family wants me to live, they still ask why not teach English in southamerica, or why not hang the paintings there, in bogota or try Mexico City. January 16, diary entry. Interview in green point. I ride the subway, get off at Nassau ave and walk north. An inch of snow fell last night and this morning, it falls lightly yet. Ahead of me some thirty paces two men walk, one of them takes his hands out of his coat pocket and in doing so dislodges a glove, it falls to the ground. I yell to him, but notice he seems to be consciously ignoring me, and then I notice they hurry their pace and then scamper across the street and vanish somewhere. After the interview I find what is to date the best used book store in the city. The titles of the books I paused over: "diary of an unknown", "critique of dialectical reason pt. 2", "the metamorphosis of Ovid", "Amerika", and then an expensive first edition of a novel by iris Murdoch wrapped tightly in a plastic cover, the title I've forgotten but the abstract on the back went on about a London Underground. I didn't bring cash, so despite nearly using my card to buy a donut, I return to the subway. I sit down, across the aisle an obnoxious Latina woman is bickering about something. I notice some thing above her, and looking closely, I see in the handle to open the window of the subway there is a glove stuffed in it some how. I close my eyes and wonder. I remember last week I walked across the George Washington bridge and into the palisades park, and found a wonderful trail called "The Carpenter's Trail". And at the very end of it, the end of which lies at the bottom of the zig zagging stone staircase and several tunnels which make up the trail, a soiled white glove was resting on a little pillar of stone. I don't know, I feel like I'm being reprimanded by the heavens. But what about recurrent sights such as empty bottles? Or recurrent sights that are entire spectacles with actors? Two days ago I was walking in Soho and overheard a young mother detailing social laws to her little daughter, primarily about how a bully exists in school and how one should not repeat their actions. Then the mother littered. And then today in the paper I read capitalism has enclosed the world order entirely. A title I saw today in the book store that comes to me now suddenly, "does it matter?". To go back to the book store, I am looking for one author mainly, the phenomenologist Ponty. I currently am enthralled by Sophie Hawkin's "damn I wish I was your lover". Jan. 23, 2024. Diary entry. San Francisco craigslist has something like 7 thousand bikes listed for sale, including an Alex Singer. January 26, 2024. Diary entry: Andre's Hungarian bakery on queens blvd has marvelous little cookies, today I flew through the forest with a score of them in my berthoud bag. spontaneous rides in the pockets of rain storms are the best. January 27, diary entry: Kierkegaard, Unamuno, Buber and some lesser known thinkers, their existentialism is rooted in an ethics of religion. Thus their entire work is argumentation about why and how the value system of society is absolutely wrong. What they failed to perceive, is what Sartre perceived, that it is folly to critique society because it merely proves one is not accepted by society. And even if Keirkegaard, for example, were to have accepted society and used as a tool the system of values, he would have still perished under the thralldom of its main law, that law being the Master and Slave dichotomy. What we are dealing with, in regards that human type called "artist", or "poet", or "philosopher", is an ugly person using all his craft to dissemble his ill fortune. Whether Socrates existed or not, his story, in the pen of Plato, exposes the ultimate and foremost experience of life. Which is one is at the mercy of circumstance, regardless of how we feel about it. Prevailing opinion being the manner circumstance rules one's life. But in the case of Socrates he was unjustly ruined because there was no authority to really distinguish good deeds. But still, in a certain sense he was playing with fire. Maybe he was making a stand against other atrocities committed by the state, thus he died to prove that man is ignorant ad perpetuo. This is a gigantic fissure beneath the nature of humanity: ugly people become statutes for principles that guide beautiful people. It is so strange. I mean it is the truth, take the Epic of Gilgamesh for instance, the very first written book in the annuls of mankind. It says frankly that all life is spent seeking yesterday's splendor. To this day we have not changed, but even so, who in his right mind would have spent so much time carving the story into a stone tablet? An insane man. A man removed in some sense from the love of woman. I dare say even Picasso had a mental illness. Are you going to buy the latest phone? Think again before you do, because imagine what horrors of people are working on them around the clock. It is a huge problem we will face soon I hope, but also fear. I recall a popular plot where there is no more beautiful people and when there is they find it best to kill themselves on stage. Or another plot is the workforce getting fed by sterile, queer, retarded and handicap people so a tiny group of healthy people continue living. January 31, 2024 diary entry. In work one's self is lost. Bury myself in work. That is the goal. Working on design for a.i. for dogs at home alone to call their owners. Feb. 01, 2024. Diary entry: "meanwhile the kings advance". Titles for books judged entirely by the cover. Not doing good at all. Owe two pairs of booties to a customer. Cried on two shoulders. Bus never quite on time. 1. Organize shop, create my place and benny's. 2. Deal with mismatched tickets. 3. Prep dance sole. 4. Finish half sole. 5. Tell irate customer either booties fixed for free or she is paid for two new pairs, out of my paycheck. February 5, diary entry. I tell myself to do whatever it takes to remain in new york, but for selfish reasons that cause the place to eject me. And the difference between sensual euphoria and divine ecstacy is thin. But at least even here, even in the darkest hour, each one is measurable to the infinte. Capeesh. Where is the realm of forms? What is the good? Countless learned scolars have asserted the impotence of knowledge without oneself existing first. Consider the vista from the j subway as it passes elderts lane and there climbing the hill is the cypress hills cemetery. The dead, corpses of us. Eternal sleep, as we endeavor in the light. What is more folly, pursuing life or burying the dead? What is the serious aspect/attribute of reality? On last analysis the stomach eats itself in its own blind force accidentally. Incidentally it existed at all. Feb. 6: adonis blood is neither opaque nor translucent. My senses are quick for springs first tide, will be sad walking a dirty mile, without the coat. Feb. O8. Diary entry. Fossilization by word. Existence of reactionary counter force. To utter a rationale is to ruin a barrier. There are other business models, un named. The cistern candy hawker envisions bedrock persistence. Walking on the other side of the street i see ive been ignorant of a wonderful sign some metres off the ground that says "L.Salzinger". My belief that my experience is acoustic provokes an octave in all things. Across from L. Salzinger on myrtle is the receptory docks of "Bazarr" grocery store, and seeing the cavernous space it alludes that machinery on the back of the trash trucks, that shovel blade that stuffs and crushes the rubble into the hold. With dexterity and no small amount of bravery one might possibly hide within it. "Hello new york, this is nicolas and i want to warn you of the dangers of subway surfing. It is near to impossible. The tracks and the inertia of the cars are too unpredictable." Between the thought of colombo pigeons nesting in razorblades and spike cielings lowering into the floor ive realised the atomic structure of this material worls is wrenting itself ceaselessly. Feb. 13, 2024. Diary entry. Laid off from cobbler shop. Going tonight to dishwashing gig. Landlord on warpath, needs me to 'be nothing'. I tell him, " at your age shouldnt you know happiness lies in surmounting these stumbling blocks?" He rages, curses at me, says the apartment belongs to him. I say, " i know that, but your arguments are flawed, you know me by now, im not a liar. You say i can't touch the blinds anymore because i play with them too much. If you simply said no more touching blinds because i say so, i would have said nothing. But to say i play with them is begging me to argue. Your argument has nothing to do with me, but with the function of the blinds." Feb. 14, 2024. Diary entry. What is needed to speak about reality? And if reality is spoken, in actuality what is spoken is the opposite of reality, and reality escapes. Thus humanism is the stereotypification of past emotion. Scientific positivism is the upmost pessimism in the face of our impending death before the inexaustible denial of life. The foundation of it is the defeat in and by the love for our parents. It is the ultimate lock upon our freedom. Consider the ant that leaves the catatonic line. Walking to the subway i found a pile of abandoned personal belongings, clothes, wallets and coin purses, but worst of all was a myriad of family photos. To judge by the pictures it appeared to be an immigrant family, a young mother with two children. There was an incredible anguish within me, but from either the false hope of building our faith on the image of beauty, or from my very own impetus to liberty. In the former it is the stereotypification of that decade after puberty. In the second case it is the harrowing experience of others with whom i must deal with. Last night i had a shift dishwashing in the lower easr side, and i am certain i caused sadness to a few customers merely by my sympathy. Ultimately life is pathetic. Every person is drowned in themselves. And yet, this is the attraction of a dive bar. In a dive bar i could respect a dostoievsky who hides the pistol in his coat and who admits before dawn tomorrow he will be dead. But is not there a terribly thin line between heroism and outright folly? The judgment will be in favor of life as we have known it to be, a majoritism that annhilates its protractors. Without a certain truth we have only classism. We cannot really know if the tree is rediculously more intelligent than man. Feb. 16, diary entry. It is the case my death is upon me unless i return to the west coast. New York has been so vile i want rather to ruin it. Besides every minute detail of how it happened, there is the strange manner in which i ended up living with a senior. It all began with a near death, but i saw an ad for a room on 110th st., manhattan. Situated near central park. I call and he answers, only to say the room is somewhere else entirely, and thence it perhaps is not what i want. He nearly hung up but i, talking fast, secure a meeting. It is far off in queens, and i pass in the interview as a humble person with only good intentions, i suppose, and so it began. Then the first day i take the garbage out, but upon returning to the door i find it only opens from inside. No big deal, i just knock. Nothing. I knock louder. Nothing. I ring the bell. Nothing. Finally, after i fall against the wall in the hallway, i hear him slither to the door and opens it, then he says " now you know to take your key". Then about two nights later i hang my coat up in the coat closet. I come in around midnight and see my room door is open, and so is his. I take two steps into the flat when i hear him slithering out of his chair. He appears before me dishevelled, his left eye bulging and bleary, and he then corners me in the frame of my door and absolutely fumes about my idiotic nature to use his coat closet, even pounding his bald head with his finger screaming about my "thick" person. I suddenly was overcome with saintly beatitude, for i realised i was dealing with a person slightly senile. In the one hand i prayed to be led in the light, thus this paradigm is what i deserve. On the other hand i prayed to be cured, absolved of my errors that have given me to this devil. That was how it began, and nothing has changed. He has ruined me, and yet i have done something to deserve it. I have no option now but to aquit my exile. To return to the west coast. He has bled me dry, and if i persist in saintly beatitude i will perish. Thus i wonder about my return. I feel like an insect, without a doubt. And i wish i could vanish at once. Theres no telling the ways he will kick my wounds now that im really downed. I thought of writing a note telling him ive taken a vow of silence to ready my soul for its flight. Then i envision a month more of selflessness before him will be better. Of course i also wonder why i was totally unable to find a means to survive. Ugliness, ultimately, made life not worth its while. I thought it was proof the intellectual class is getting ruined, but i realised i speak only for myself. I told myself reasons to like food service jobs, because such forms of income rely on honest endeavours. But even so, it was the case every restaurant was drowning not a few individuals. There was something sickening about alcoholics, that is sure. And the problem with the libido that is rampant in the uneducated masses. That ever present law of beauty. In the Kantian sense ive made a reality appear from behind all these images, and that reality is the nature of mans humble living being a leap of faith in-to acts at the foot of a merciless furnace. And thus i have begun to adore my mother and father, perhaps to the point of a fiendish foolishness. I want at least to know if they suffered as much as i. When they suffered, why, and if they felt themselves an object of "the devil". And if they cast their demons aside, if it was a sucess, or if it was not and was merely a very long wait for liberation in the pains of denial. A huge part of my rationalization to live here with a senior is because it is only one other person. I have been able to quietly enjoy countless mornings in tranquility, before he rouses himself. Walking to a market i began to cultivate the society of a nice girl, but then my depression got too heavy. I try to picture myself back in california, and i know i will long for these little habits. I really do wish to starve into redemption of some sort. But even that would be like lying down as a worm. I will need a job in california too. I am cursed to be an end in itself, when the cause of life is an end consumed by its means. Even if i interrogate my parents it will be difficult to percieve their entente. It will be morbid. If i seek out my siblings with school children, it seems i will feel the flame of survival of the fittest. Feb. 20, tuesday. Diary entry. Ahead of me i foresee great sadness in the humdrum life back in my childhood nest. I tell myself the rides i will do, la jolla cove, wells book store, the quint contemporary. But then, from without my current surroundings here in queens, the sound of my parents whispers into my hearing. And i picture myself hiding all night from their inquisitions. The girl at the market is tremendously sincere and i think i will write a note of farewell. For the senile landlord i will buy a card, and only sign my name, and place the keys atop it and leave it on his table. I have a week and 3 days to liquidate my wardrobe. The ebisu is boarding the amtrak with me. Contemplating a quiet vista it is so often the case that two or three disconected events will suddenly occupy the same moment. One stares emptily at the ocean, and the moment an airplane issues into hearing a ship blots itself upon the sea. One is eating a sandwich and it is embarassingly fiendish, and the moment the last morsel is in our hands a person appears to watch us finish the gorge. What manner can be undertaken to scrutinize this? Sophisms have put it aside as the knowledge of god, "you get what you give", "see no evil hear no evil". Generalizations seem to be the limit. I knew though that by force the purchase of my train ticket west would unleash oppurtunities for my livlihood. And so soon as i did, coming home, an email. A cheaper room. Another email. A bakery job. I just stay in bed. In the Liebnizian sense the essence really is percieved. Man creates the world, we have no choice but to reap what we have sown. Some say we only see what we know because we control it. But if it happens in time, it is the case perception is entwined, woven in-to the upsurgent happening of the world. How often these disconnected phenomena happen the very moment my mind bored itself, and necessitated their entrance. In this sense the mind is the escape of ions. But also under a barrage of pressures, under which circumstances what was our freedom to exalt our vision is reduced to the grammar of a conversation between strangers whose destinies are polar opposite. And in the same breath our perception is pitted against a world that is merely information, and that remains no more than shade. This issue of simultaneity is bizarre indeed. It undermines the entire concept of the urbane sense of self. Even if one constructs the image of themself one cannot account for every variable. And at times it is magical, for instance the day i ran into Adam Green in chelsea. Then sometimes it is really profane. Like when i attempt to show an important family picture to someone, and yet at that moment a gigantic fly lands on it. Right now in fact there is such a fly in my kitchen, it seems to have been a victim of the exterminators poison gas, for its wings are jumbled up into thick masses. Im cooking rice and it is watching conspicuously from the lid of the cookie jar. Feb. 21, diary entry. I think the sadness of life has its foundations in what i term "the radical square retardation" or put more simply "the double retardation" and it would end "of experience". And it is the sadness of giving or not giving attention to the doings of another person. If one chooses to ignore the other person, it is as if they are doing things utterly not worth its own sake. And yet if we choose to give attention to their doings we adulterate the undertaking often merely by observation. In both cases the individuals are in state of retardation the moment they exist for eachother. How often ive dealt with a demon in this double retardation. If only to swoon and cover my blushing face would save my identity. But no, menaced to the point of becoming either a pillar of virtue or a speck of dust for the attacker, i have had to negotiate. Afterwards praying that i be let into the secrets of the divine so that to know why. In this wise my exile period in ny was mostly avoiding trolls. One knows that a dark alley at 2 a.m. is dangerous. In SF i remembet distinctly a hand painted sign that said "to choose to remain neutral is the same as siding with the enemy". But the idealism such a statement is based on is groundless. The problem concludes with symbology of everyday events having immense influence on our life. One boards the subway in bushwick at 2 p.m. on friday. Guaranteed riding in the same car will be at least 2 demoniacal fiends, 1 tough man willing to strangle them, a crowd choosing politically to help them peacably, a crowd to imprison them, and perhaps 3 other people who put the question why to the heavens. February 22, thursday. My glee is bounding and ive struggled not in vain to persist on my senile landlord's good side. But today i planned to go look for a pair of keds sneakers when he appeared and made me want rather to lock myself in my room. I then tried to run out of the flat when he was in the kitchen, but he ran just as quick, reopened the door and said a cross remark as i was putting my shoes on outside. I wanted to die. Tears welled in my eyes and i lost all strength to try a bus or subway. I walked distractedly and went to buy a sheet for the bed, again, so he wont find a tooth to pick. In the store a young boy was bouncing a ball, i immediately got so irritated i was about to leave. Then an employee approached, and i asked for the sheet. Paying for it the boy threw the ball at my heel. I ignored. Soon he did it again, i turned around and demanded he stop, the tears again welled up and stuck in my throat. I was epileptic as i left. Friday, 23 of february. Diary entry. Ive never found the song as a device in literature. Songs are too ephemeral. Music is too much in the quick of the moment. I was troubled and tainted by the mention of bob dylan in the end of murakami's "hardboiled wonderland and the end of the world". I tried so vigourously to delymn that novel. I went today to flushings, a mall, to a shoe store. The wallflowers "one headlight" song began to play in the mall, but each store had its own music. My guitar sold. So now ive been singing REM "man on the moon" accapela. We would like to think cinema puts the popular songs to good use, but even that fades quickly. Consider the new version of cocteau's beauty and the beast, re scored by phillip glass. Everything can be redubbed. Theres something fleeting about it. There's something silly about the chinese store's english names. Even their churches for jesus often have whimsical names. I even saw once, in flushings, a deserted sinagogue, and beside it a chinese one with a big advertisement "free". And again, another chinese church in flushings i stumbled upon while taking a photo. It was called "dream church". Today i deboard the bus on kissena blvd and mainstreet to a gang of chinese men with pickets in their hands that had writ in both languages, "following jesus". Its a bustling confluence there. I told myself, "electricians have the day off?" I wonder about them now, as they rest perhaps tossing in bed, does my image replay in their mind? Do their wives avoid the area while they do that? Do they eat dinner together and the men answer their wives silent question, "the day was good"? I dont understand protests. I will one day, when im really trampled on. I would have first to believe in property as something existing outside of time, at one remove. I can imagine the agony of death, easily, beginning with the loss of a home. Its very much the same thing. But that image is actually the pains of life. Death its very self is probably a sentiment of warmth. And so warm that it is as a tea kettle whistling, when our last breath is exhaled. I think then our soul is measured directly by the key of that sound. So really we moon beam off of the planet. Sunday, february 25. 2.35 a.m., diary entry. Agitated for the departure in 3 days. Shopped a last time and bought a babka too much. Washed clothes yesterday a last time. Called my mother and tried to free myself from them although i will be living there. My father went so far as to construct a bed for me. It looks like im really in for a bizarre case of lunacy that is sure. My sister is in town and the day before i depart we will have a coffee and some of the babka, the same bench as last year, beneath the simon bolivar equestrian statue. While boiling water i look out the window as a cat sneaks through the yards behind the buiding. The moon is quite full. Chicago will be tough. Looking forward to seeing the amish again. Something tells me the fenders on my bike will get abused on the train. Isnt orthodox religion child abuse? I did a search on craigslist for randonneurs, a beautiful crust romanceur appears in vermont, with a gilles berthoud saddle bag. I ask if he might sale the bag. He replies no, and his email is signed with the website of his business, which i find to be "dharma coach". Ive realised my landlord constructs his ego based on painful experience, just like i realised two meals a day is overkill. Im not going to escape his prodding nature. Does it still hold true that the masses of people follow philosophers? Every time i see the girl at the market her smile takes my breath away and i get reduced to a debit card. Theres not even a chance of handing her a note. But at this moment i think the note will at least mention that the chance meeting of our lives was destiny, and i will advertise my email address, soliciting myself as a hero. Feb. 26, 2024. Tomorrow my sister and i will visit the shrine for Flaco the owl who was found dead after a casual night flight turned tragic. Feb. 27, 4.27 a.m. its a matter of throwing it all away. Im certain i shouldnt have shipped it all. But i did. Very inspired i made a sculpture of the found objects. I still have to rid a gallon of plaster-of paris. Flaco's death troubles me like all deaths: a rage of vengeance with no outlet. My only lead is the muralist who tried to make a splash by painting 8 murals of Flaco. He is the first suspect. Another aspect to consider is flaco's fear of leaving central park. This wrings my soul to imagine his sadness and the failure of his courage. February 28. A handful of hours left before the train arrives to chicago. I am stricken with a strenuos image of the planets formation within the sun, when the sun were larger. Feb. 29 7.56 a.m. im wont to suggest ive boarded the wrong train the way to chicago seems so interminable. Im already a cadaver and ahead is the second leg of the route. 12.12 pm in chicago great hall. If i displayed the musical nature of the bronze lamp poles to someone and we agreed they are musical instruments, and then if i later heard that same person tell some one else that there are no musical instruments here, i would distrust that person and feel wronged. 5.43 p.m. ive rationalised the insane crudity of a 4 day train ride, the problem in the process is the injunction of others who i suddenly grow unalterably weary of. On the one hand ive designed in my lucubrations a train-ride-unto-death in which one perishes from hunger because the constantly changing landscape is like a divine food. March 2, 5.31 a.m. finally all the opressing passengers are mostly deboarded. Will be in LA by one this afternoon. A certain vertigo assails my senses when i see them hobbling down in the parkinglots.