Halloween. Not feeling that keen on going out. A wet weekend up here in the jungle.

No smoking cigarettes for three days now. The physical addiction to the nicotiene has past for the most part. Now it's just the compulsion. My mouth is insatiable. Drink something smoke something eat something kiss something chew something talk something sound something something something. All the time. It seems.

Anyways. I noticed that I had only one soggy little bud left. I've been cleaning house and catching leaks in the roof. I found a Marlboro light box on the desk. I stared at it. Using my nicotene vision I assesed that there were no cigarettes in the box before I picked it up. Before I tossed it I checked it anyways. Found half a dozen fat joints rolled in nonstick papers. Yippie. Went to a party at homie Jadi's in Waimanalo. Met a couple that had come to the islands for to marry and were leaving the next day. They passed their stash on to me. Forgot about it. I was flush at the time. Ok. So I have THC and Caffiene. Mexican Expresso from Chicago and local herb from tourists. Yep.

I reamed the kitchen last night. Every corner. Every dish. Somehow the rest of the house deterioriated in the process. For an hour or so I wandered around the house with a roll of masking tape and a can of flat black spray paint. I used the inside of the roll as a stencil and painted black dots all over the house. I don't know if it was a good idea. It's mildly disturbing having nonreflective voids all around. Then I thought of the Adbusters black dot campaign. The anti-logo logo. The dots were evident last night. My eyes kept darting from one to the other, an inadvertant game of connect the dots. Black constilations. Today I hardly noticed them. But they're there.

Downpour. Civil War. Cleaning house. Trap a Rat. Fix the Dog. Find the Cat.

Just recieved an important memo from an undesclosed source

(see important memo)

Talk of a country divided.

Some go as far to say civil war.

Barbarism employed in the sterile style

of fascism.

Brutality with clean lines.

Yes, the Face of America is changing

morphing like the face one sees when tripping.

A projection beyond definition.

It's open season now.

Who's going to call it?

Will conscious intention best armed reaction?

Will we wake up from the Scheme of Things?

Do we need to know if what we want is what we need?

We might soon need to know what we need and how to have it without leaving someone out.

It would do us well to know this now.

Blahg blahg blahg

It's 03:20am on Halloween. I will sleep soon. (Note to self: add "belly dancer roady" to resume)

In other news: I ran over my dog with a dumptruck. Just one leg. No bones broken. Dog audibles and blood though.

Firesworn. Beadtatch an prelease. Hit sollen ther. Ayenad dowerin tunder flossalalia, petal tuda mental. Falun goff odd head. Idano. Hee winthere, La-ongt tymago. Fister.

Halo gram; eye bee as sigh sea inn might ream.

Calous soul outer age of a pic perp whore shuns.

Sigh lent Sir cuss mass sing indi wings.

Scent her staged, Adai Ying grace.

Odd the ants sin raptured.

Die rector off theme om it cap toured, lost tint I'm.

Produce hers ray king hit hen.

.

Coffee, tea, nicotine, THC, and music....

Ok. What are we doing here, you and me? I'm writing stuff, and you are reading it.

In my mind I see all the web pages glowing in front of people, all of the pages possible to pull up. Phosphorescent slates of digital symbols branding the brain. In a very real way it becomes a part of us (or, some might say that by viewing we are bringing our awareness to that part of who we are, being that we are one. whatever). Google claims over three billion web pages in it's engine. World population estimate at the time of this writing: 6,393,577,323. crazy. I don't have much of a concept for what a billion means. It boggles me. So this page is one of more than three billion available to be viewed by the more than six billion people of the Earth. So the odds of you sitting here, pulling up this page, and actually reading this are staggering. Hi. thanks for stopping in.

Now, this brings me to the question: What the hell am I doing this for? Well, i would like to think that I'm writing for you, to offer some perspective or meme that might foster a direct experience of our undeniable interconnectedness. I know that I write to expectorate perspectives and memes that I find usefull or entertaining, in order to make room for fresh ones. I don't see either of the motivations being mutually exclusive, fortunately.

This serves to illustrate a point I want to make. Who hasn't heard the word that we inhabit a planet? Is there anyone here that still thinks that it's prudent to make choices based on an US vs. THEM territorial premise when the totality of the species, and all related, has been seen from space? The borders are ink on paper. The thoughts and beliefs are mental lines that define the extent of what aspects one will accept from the obvious reality of totality; subject to revision at any point the operator chooses.

Whoa... I'm getting dizzy. Running a spherical argument, hoping that the gravity of it keeps me grounded.

So, we have these cognitive pedants dominating the palate of the American media diet, and our critical faculties are starting to resemble the bodies of kids raised on McDonalds. We can't continue to take in this much fat, information pap, and expect to be mentallly healthy enough to process our world in a healthy way. We can argue points of difference between the personalities of the polentertainers to amuse ourselves or impress our friends, but in doing so we endorse the premise that these power junkies are worthy of our attention in the first place.

In the yard of the old school

the crowd gathers around the two with something to prove

and waits for the blood.

The bellowing and posturing of the ape men facinate the people

to the point that their awareness of the rest of the world is all but missing.

Outside this fevered ring:

a circus with silent clowns and and a freak show unseen.

.

I suppose I consider myself fortunate enough to be surrounded by people that are more relevant to me than this cock fight distraction. I know very few people that still talk in this crusty bi-polar rhetoric that seems to be so popular with the politistars. Nobody in my world talks to me like those dudes on tv. Dichotomous, pedantic, neurotically repetitive tripe dumped into the collective through our individual subscription to the drama. The time we spend masticating the prescribed madness robs our lives of more healthy input. To play the part of consumer to the mainstream media market is to be branded with base premise after base premise. The cost includes sacrificing true communication in the family, and community at large. Our viewing pleasure compromises our relation with the environment outside our own doors, healthy sex, and our destiny as humans.

Becoming aware of addictive behaviours in my own personality has shown me the power of habit, the seduction of compulsion, and the will destroying cause of choosing to do what you know is not healthy. From my experience: quitting the addiction isn't hard, it's making and implementing the choice to quit that gives us the fit. Then the fun part: choosing the new addiction.

I haven't owned a tv in six years. When I did own and watch tv, I hardly knew anyone that didn't. Now, I'm hard pressed to think of people that I know that do. The former group seemed heavily invested in (massivly funded and skillfully marketed) consensus culture. The latter seem far more active in (an inherent and necessary)local community culture. I have found one to be more relevent, vibrant, fulfilled, and interesting. Inspiring.

Look ma, no alarm clock...

I'm up. it's 07:13. Got a call about an hour ago from Grizz in Bolivia. Wanted to know if we Western Unioned the money. We did. For some reason the Rurrenabaque office wasn't giving it up. Grizz was out of cash and down to the wire on his calling card. He can be a little difficult to work with when he gets stressed. Karrie got him a confirmation number. Hope it works.

I spent about three hours writing last night, ranting about the imbicilic pedantry of our presidential candidates. Then I somehow erased it. It was virulent rhyming prose, biting, incisive, and offering possibilities for a more relevant agenda. I went to sleep restless and irritable over the loss of the work. Then my scrotum was bitten or stung by some creature irritated by my tossing and turning. Recording session slated for Wednesday and the new material down the drain. Now I'm halfway through a mean cup of cowboy style mexican espresso. It's a new day.

Lungs are heavy, weighted down with nicotine, and I'm coughing compulsively. and I'm smoking a cigarette.

Did an I Ching reading while eating yogurt and papaya. Fellowship With Others changing to Revolution. ya ya. Eyes are dry and irritated.

Karrie is on the way over. Ant and Allen are waiting for my call. Going to Waikele to start the big rainbow job.

Feeling a bit unresolved. Vaporlocked on a few issues arresting my energy: potential unevolved. I could be breathing and stretching but opt to sit and moulder. Boulders gathering moss in my head. Powder keg with a fuse that got wet.

Birds outside the windows carry on, greet the day with the same old song that is never wrong. Original yet in the improvisation. I make my sounds and walk around gathering the tools for the day.

Dear Diary...

I left the office light on before I left for the Studio 1 fundraiser show thing. A plethora of gnats swarming over the desk, buzz and tapping me to distraction. I turn off the source of their facination and turn on the other office bulb in an attempt to lure them away. The harsh naked bulb evokes the striotypical movie portrayal of the interrogation room.

"Where were you on the night of October 9th 2004?"


At around 18:45 I left for Studio 1. I didn't really feel like going. Iona Contemporary Dance theatre was there, and the Hawai'i Slam Team. And Communication, and Melodious Solutions, and Quadraphonix. and Squirril. All good reasons to go. I don't feel social though. I can't sit still. I let the cigarettes lead me around tonight. Outside to smoke, out of respect, and an excuse to move. Back inside to see who's onstage. Pace. Greet people. I know lots of people. I say hey and hug, smile and kiss, how are you and I am good and miss the moment by a mile. Some kind of insulation redux. Not connecting. Weak. Heavy.

But the show was good. I missed Communication, or most of it. Was there for the intro, the opening, then left for a cigarette, or a drink, or something. I tried to be social. I asked some people some questions, listened to the answers, I enjoyed company, I saw people I have not seen in long time.

Melodious Solutions were tight, solid and original in an infectious way. They actually got me to stay in one place for a few numbers in a row. I was on the sidewalk smoking when Ted came out shaking his head, reeling from the visual sensory impression he sustained from the band. I had to check it. I walked in and viewed from the side the band. Yes. They were grinding on Jah's leg in a Taoist sex kind of way.

So many interesting people there. Characters. Dancers. Beautiful people. Trippers. Talent out the door. But I wasn't feeling it. Quadriphonix taking note of the Solutions. Uh huh. Oh yeah. Oh yeah? Ok. They took the stage with a lilt in their steps. I haven't seem them play in a year or so, last Halloween I think. I think the recent tour to the West Coast greased the wheels. Was tight and smooth and moved the people out of their chairs. I sat and stared, catching glimpses of the band through the flashing gaps in the dancers. I itch to perform as I sit on the sidelines. Inspired to step it up. Someday. When I feel like it.

After, Johnathan asks me if I want to smoke I say yes. Leaning on minivans on Nuuanu passing a joint. Post show show. Stage adrenaline amping the dialogue. I'm stone silent, thinking about how to get back to the truck. I feel that I should have at least a little interaction with the people of the circle before I puff and blow out of there. But the ball wouldn't drop and I wasn't grabbing for it. Tightnit wits staging it between two minivans. Sardonic freestyle.

Old black man in camoflouge pan handles the curb clique. Words were exchanged, but no money. He said he'd be back to give us another chance. People started saying goodbye and I took my que and withdrew. Across Nuuanu to King. Then I hear that thing. A freestyle ring of boys and girls just being. Free. Joel holds it down with the beat boxing and Kealoha on the Uke. A shining man in baby blue is excited about this happening. He sings, wings it through his awkwardness and participates, relates. He tries to include me in the circle but I back up against the wall and roll a smoke.

The camoflouge comes up and makes his pitch, Joels says he has to sing for it. He doesn't miss a beat and chimes in with it rhymin' for a minimum of three minuites. Takes his cash and splits, smiles all around. I use the break to take my leave before the baby blue man insist I open up and be loose with myself. Serenade from Joel. Spreading that melifluous love of his all over the streets of Honolulu. I sever any attempt at connect and retreat down the street, missing the opportunity for community that I say I want to see so badly. I put it off sadly. Claim it as my kink. Think about how I can put it into words.