Sunday, March 13th, 2005

Served as emcee for the Earth Mother Mind Jam @ Anna Bananas yesterday. I think this was a record for me: 10 hour gig. Ten hours of shooting my mouth off. There were acts in between. Some very good acts, actually. A number of performers flew themselves in from the mainland to perform free at this gig. Unfortunately they were mostly performing for each other. Honolulu missed out.

ralo set the whole thing up. I have to say that she has some major cajones to set up a festival in Hawai'i (she lives in Minnisota), invite acts from the mainland (who pay their own way), and make a line-up with local acts (that she doesn't know intimately, if at all). She is charmed. It was a nice place to be for ten hours. The crowd was not as large as she had hoped. The people here weren't willing to pay $10 for mainland acts they didn't know, and the local acts didn't have much drawing power for the door. So, a room full of talent and their friends and family members mutually supported each other. I didn't have a financial stake in the thing (I live ten minuites from the gig), so I was able to enjoy the eclectic line-up without stressing the airfair, unsold CD's, promotion costs, or reputation with the club owners.

Alt Rock. Alt Country. Hawai'ian Slack Key. Alt Folk. Alt Hip Hop. Alt Regge. Retro Poetry. Lethal Yo-Yo (alt Yo-Yo). Alt Spoken Word with Alt Fusion. Most everyone was respectable. One self promoting hack slipped through the crack and landed himself a prime spot, but was swiftly and deftly givin the hook by ralo. I verbally trounced the self deluded fool in a less than tactfull way. I did it in an indirect way that was not really that indirect. I felt the door of the voracious id monsters start to creak open and was tempted to let them loose, but moved on to the final act out of respect for the late hour.

DO NOT SUPPORT BAD ART

The message was clear. This was the first of ralo's event's held here in Honolulu. I hope it isn't the last.

Mildly wigged.

Looking at the life I have carved out for myself...

I have no complaints about this active lifestyle I am living. I have notions of where it's heading, but no idea how it will play out. Reading through and transcribing my old journal has givin me a perspective of a younger me that only time could provide. It has also shown me how small my objectivity of my current situation. I don't know what I'm doing. I let myself think I know so that I will continue, but I don't know, really. The life I live now could be a fevered dream from the past; the past that may well be a fiction I created.

Sister found a free gas stove on Craigs List. I picked it up sunday morning. It seems that the hose fittings for natural gas and the fittings for propane are not compatable. I found this out today after running all over Honolulu looking for a way to hook the new stove to the old tank. Someone from Maui is supposed to call me tomorrow. So, the new stove with the functioning oven is in the kitchen not functioning, and the old stove with the broken oven is working on my front walkway. I like it out there. The dog vacuums the stirfry escapees, and the birds clean the pan and range in the mornings.

I couldn't make this shit up.

NEW BLOG: New blog of old work, transcribed.
www.gobawoba.blogspot.com

The machine is back in comission.

Carson says I may have consumption, "the poets disease." Poets used to die from it. Some kind of resperatory thing. She doesn't think I'm going to die though.

Expiating the smoking karma. Had do give up smoking herb too. No cloves either.

Been drinking tumeric tea, supposedly good for the lungs. Brother Jason grew buckets of the stuff, fat like ginger. The hippy markets won't buy it because it's not certified organic. He has unofficial tumeric. My lungs don't care about the certification.

Anyway, I don't think I have consumption. I just looked it up on the net. It is also known as tuberculosis. I don't think I have tuberculosis. I'm going to go see a Chinese herbalist. My energy levels are for shite.

Ok. How many entries have I started with the word, "ok?'

Ok. So, I looked up Hypneroticamachia on the dictionary. No go. I found Hypnerotomachia Poliphili: a book written in 1499 by a Dominican monk in Venice. Very obscure. That monk was a tripper.

There are a number of subjects that I am interested in writing in at the moment. I hesitate though, because the subjects demand time an attention. I'm stingy with these things. Want to be less so.

So. Was talking to Carson this morning while driving. Talking about blogging turning juornalism inside out, about the internet. Carson mentioned that the internet was still free, mentioned that it narrowly avoided being privatized like the airwaves of telivision, radio, etc. This started me thinking about a scenario I had playing in my head about ten years ago.

It would be fair to say that I was psychotic, delusional, and acutely paranoid at the time. I picked up bits of information and history and wove them with conjecture into stories that would have made a tight little series of morden fiction, even though I was living them out as fact in my customized low-rider reality.

One scenario went like this:

Early 1960's: There is revolution in the air. The cultural landscape shimmered with an irridescense illuminated by the dawning of the psychedellic era. Change ceased to appear dangerous to the young and mentally flexible.

From another perspective, the kids were freaking out. The older, more "respnsible" members of the society were in control of the media and used it to portray the anomolous behaviours of the young as foolish, freakish brats. The cameras found the most dramatic examples of the Hippies, the Yippies, the Panthers and other revolutionaries, passing up the more subdued and coherent. The microphones zeroed in on the post verbal members of this movement, people whose experiences left them speechless. "Wow man" just didn't translate the new consciousness to the uninitiated. It served instead to alienate.

So, I conjectured that the brains and visionaries realized, on some level, that they would need to capture the media, and that meant creating the technology that the old guard would have to come to rely on. The Trojan Horse would be wheeled onto the world stage. Seen as a capitulation of the revolutionaries to the capitolists, business and government alike would open their gates and welcome in the gift of the new Tech. The internet serves as a crude mechanical model of our interconnectedness, the interconnectedness that precedes the division of country, religion, socioeconomic, etc.

The new media is free. The new journalism is free, or has the capacity to be free of commercial bias.

In my fevered scenario, the bottom would drop out of this Thechno Trojan Horse, and the minions of humanity would drop in behind the fortress of the Social Norms, and overwhelm them in their sleep with outrageous honesty. A doomsday bug for the thugs.

We should communicate freely. We should live on this planet freely. We should have access to water for free.

Should and shall share the same etymology.

My computer has been down. I went back to stone age writing. I'll fix the computer someday, when I can administer a laxitive to my financial constipation. So much to say. So much to pay.

It was a sweet gathering at the open mic last night. I counted 75 people at one point. Jamala came down to play and did a hour long set. People were transfixed on the synchronous hands of two facile players. I watched a baby that could barely stand determine to dance after watching the drumming and the dancing it inspired.

The good Dr. slipped me an envelope of green paper to help support me and these events. Much appreciated and needed this week. Gas and food will continue for a few more days. I am going to go eat right now, because I can. More later when I can get into it.

Slept in 'til noon today. For once I wasn't goaded into the day by a coughing jag that demanded I get vertical to quell it. I pulled some presents out of a plastic bag that had been delivered surreptitiously by Ambra from her mom.

With my breath, face, and voice still in morning mode I told Julienne that I saw some fat guy leaving the house last night when I came stumbling down from Ritchies stoned on triptiphane and THC. I told her I thought Grizz had returned, but figured it wasn't Grizz because he didn't howl. I said he must of left this stuff here and then I gave it to her.

Then I called sister. We had plans to go to a matinee and spend the rest of the day in the theatre copping free movies. I made a couple of egg sandwiches and grabbed a couple of sodas and hit the road.

Life Aquatic: Bill Murray and crew deliver flawless flaws in a subtle comedy that didn't pander to the lowest common denominator. Excellent directing. Two thumbs up.

The Lemony Snicket flick: A series of situations that allows Jim Carey to show off some of his physical comedy gags. Panders to tweens that are certain that all adults are either bumbling or evil. Obviously and unashamedly derivative. Wait for video release.

The Fockers: a paycheck for some actors that needed a gig this quarter to keep the Blue Cross insurance current. It did pander to the lowest common denominator. DeNiro and crew would do well to observe Johnny Depp and see what an actor that consciously chooses projects looks like. Then they could study him and method act their way back into the realm of artistic integrity. The director was asleep or is a sadist that gets a kick out of further dulling the cognitive functions of the paying audience. Glad I didn't pay.

There. I just threw my hat into the movie critic blog ring. Being a critic evokes my most brutal honesty. I like it, but am unnerved by the karmic tremors I feel dopplering off every time I mock the people that I once aspired to be like. A wave to ride later.

Mercury is no longer in retrograde...

At least that's what I heard. From a source I don't recall... So I don't know the validity or veracity of this bit of inf. However, I'm acting as if this were true and relevant to my life condition. Because of this, my witness self seems to perceive (metaphorically) a waning of a shadow that has been dimming my cognition.

So, I feel better. A bit of relief, really. Also picked up an eighth tonight; that helps heaps.

And on this line I had hoped to write something profound, that would bring this whole entry into a radiating sphere of poetic cohesion

Eh...

Rockstar Nation.

Superstar on the world stage for a page or two in the book of evolution.

High on our own press

Stoned on state of the art pharmaceuticles

Economic blow jobs from corporate groupies

that have posters of the 50's plastered across the lenses of their perceptions

Rockstar Nation

Rapid morphing of a national personae

analogous of Elvis:

the Young Rebel Elvis

Pop Star Elvis

King of Pop Elvis

Vegas Karate Elvis

Fat Pill Popping Armed and Dangerous Volitile Chicken and Jelly Doughnut Eating Burnout Elvis

America has become that Fat Armed and Dangerous Burnout Elvis

A has-been still riding high on what was

As the buzz of the New and Improved Rockstar Nation

starts a vibration that shakes the Earth to the core

The Next Big Thing

The Company wants to bank on the Next Big Thing

The Label finds new pastures with cheap labor

and that look in the eye that says "I will Dominate!"

China will take our best riffs and make then their own

turn their citizens into good consumers

A Super Power without the unwieldy onus of an ostensibly free public

A Rockstar Nation of Billions instead of Millions.
As a has-been America sits on the can

sequined jumpsuit around the ankles

eating chicken and popping pills

yelling at the TV

and reaching for the gun

I watched TV for several hours tonight at my sisters.

I've felt less guilty for drinking excessive amounts of alchohol, dropping acid, or masturbating excessively. The madness stuns me. This brutal media experiment on the minds of the past few generations has turned a fantastic and noble species into a kind of livestock for obscure vampires. We are called citizens, or people, or Americans far less often than we are called consumers. I am so dumbstruck by the audacity of this programming that I just stare in disbelief at the extent to which we humans endure this demeaning marginalization of the finer qualities of the species. If the TV is on and we are viewing, submitting our minds to the insidious pandering of the Sponsors to our most primitive capacities, we are passively allowing ourselves to be defined by these base media steroids. We are complicit addicts to a mind warping media diet. My compassion for the species falls under the shadow of my outrage over our idiocy and lazyness. And I walk away thinking: we are lost, hopeless, entranced by a cheesy mesmerist that siphons off our souls into I don't know what.

The image of the fat Elvis haunts me.

Busted. My number came up.

Today while canvasing for plumaria trees I was pulled over by a cop in Aina Hina. He was stern and not very friendly. I told him I didn't have insurance or current registration, and he saw that my safety inspection was expired. I asked him if he could give me a little break. He told me to go sit in the car. After he punched my name in he walked around his car polishing specs off his chrome and glass listening through the window to the radio. After a while, while still facing his car and polishing his glass, he called me over, told me I had an outstanding violation. He asked me if I knew about that. No, I said. He handed me back my liscense and told me to take care of it, then got in a pulled off.

I drove away a little stunned and thought about how much I liked the Honolulu Police Department. They are so much more humane here I thought to myself as I marveled at my good fortune.

Tonight I had dinner at Cee and Jessicas. He invited me over to meet his parents (He originally from Iriguay, she from Costa Rica) visiting from D.C. I was completely charmed by the whole scene. Lots of candles, shrimp and veggie shish kabab, wine, and fluid conversation about nothing in particular. Then smores and chocolate shaped and wrapped like little booze bottles and full of various liquers.

When time for me to go, Cee came with for the ride to my sisters, where I needed to pick up an invoice before she slept. I was telling Cee about my near miss with the police earlier in the day when a cop appeared at an intersection. I passed it and another cop came over the hill and passed me. I took my next right and the cop followed. I turned into what looked to be an apartment complex and parked and the cop passed. We sat for a minuite. When I pulled back out the cop was parked on the side of the road, waiting. I passed it, it pulled me over. The cop that passed on the hill pulled in as well. thre cops circled my truck and two simultaneously interviewed Cee and me. My cop looked nice enough, big blue open eyes, Brazillian accent. I tried to ask for a break but he shrugged uncomfortably and nodded toward the other cops, a third cruiser pulling in to check out the scene. Ok. So after the other two cars left, the officer returned, with his partner behind him. Tickets for insurance and registration, but they let me go on the safety. I turned to the shadow officer and aked him if they would have come back for me if I had not pulled back out. Yep, he said, he had already seen my year expired tags and know from eight years on the beat that my truck didn't belong there. Ah. Ok. Got me. he lightened up a bit and officer blue eyes seemed a little less nervous. They made it clear that they didn't want to ticket me, but I chimed in and said that I know, it's their job, no hard feelings on my part, we all live in the same neighborhood, I don't need any enemies. I cruised for a year, saving more in insurance and tags than I would pay for the fine tonight(I pray). They have their game, I have mine: Cheers to the games we play.

I love my life and my work, though I haven't made it a priority to make them copacetic with the state power/insurance juggernaut.

As I was getting the tickets I thought, this is small in the scheme of things. I can take this opportunity to get to know more people from my community. I'm here for a while. Ticket or not, there was no reason to be rude, surly or poor-me-baby like. Th Brazillian officer seemed so relieved when he didn't have to deal with me making faces and sounds designed to make him feel bad for the economic slap he just gave me. It made me feel good to not make him feel bad. We both made impressions on each other tonight. They were more profound than the tickets.

I gave them both Monkey Works cards with the by line "Don't Be Afraid to Grow" at the top. I dropped a meme on them I thought as I drove away.

Talked with Cee about guerilla theatre concepts. Like some stuff that came up.

Tired now. Will sleep. Deal with life again in the morning.

Trade winds blowing like mad.

Feet are cold. Up early to hike to the waterfall today. Fixed the water line fairly quickly. Walking back in the morning sun I felt grateful to be here. Glad to be alive again. Paused to soak in the trees swaying on the mountain, the gnarled old koa with the banyan parasites, the stream running full, the dog that is my friend. Emoted gratitude to and for all of it.

I considered the state of the nation that I live in. It is falling, undoubtedly. Buckling under the weight of its delirious good fortune. Like a roman candle, brilliant but brief. Rockstar nation burning out. Overdosed. Going out like Elvis, fat and armed to the teeth. Over run by addiction and parasitic economic groupies. China will recycle us, take our best riffs and capitalize on the trends we set. Like we did to Europe. Now maybe we can go back to being humans, instead of Trade Marked Americans.

One day we will laugh at all this. The immature and flatulent media covering posturing arrogant stars of the left and right coasts. I think it's funny now, only because I am not heavily invested in it. I know how to take cold showers and I've given up most of my addictions. I can live without TV and cigarettes and marijuana and the myth of security. Does your insurance cover falling nations?

Hoo. Boy.

Living on farmers hours these days. Early to bed and early to rise and all that.

Up at 06:45. Clean out a few buckets, throw 'em in the truck, drive down past the gate, but forget my toothbrush. Back up the hill and grab it. Down the drive again past the gate. Forget my phone and notebook. Back up the hill and grab them. Down the hill again and past the gate, and into town. The Sun is perched atop the hill of Waialai Blvd. Driving up and straight into the Sun. I imagine flooring it and jumping through the flaming hoop of a full eclipse. No eclipse today, I am squinting with my hand in front of my eyes dragging an inordinately long shadow behind me.

07:35. Rockstar parking at this early hour. Feed the meter and grab the buckets, enter Coffee Talk. Drop the buckets and order a coffee and bowl of granola, fruit, and yogurt. Take my antibiotics. Grab the full buckets of coffee grinds and off to the dentist. On the way I return a call from yesterday, a guy I met driving down the street in Betty a few weeks ago(he only talked to me because of Betty, wanted to use her to haul some tree trimmings). He wants to buy a tree. Yippie. I had no idea how I was going to pay the dentist today.

08:14. I'm late, but so is the dentist. The good Dr. Is one of the funny dentists, not like the Dr. Tisk-tisk I had far too many years ago. He makes me feel good about my level of neglect. He's seen worse I suppose. I have a host of mouth projects for him; where to start? Somewhere cheap I say. Two fillings and the pulling of a broken molar. I tell him I'm broke, ask if I can pay in the afternoon. Sure, he says with a don't screw me look. The Dr. And nurse are good with the distracting banter that one must master to be a good dentist. Still needs to find a way to include the patient without asking questions though, unless this is some inside dentist joke that they like to play on people. I refuse to attempt answers with the menagerie in my mouth. I just focus on the magic bright dentist light that doesn't burn the eyes. What he lacks in a "professional" demeanor he makes up for in his expeditious technique, a trade-off I am happy with.

09:30. I sit in the truck for a few minutes and work to get my bearings. Blood tinged drool on a quasimoto lip. Nose wants to decongest. I call sis, check in for the morning briefing. Drive back to Coffee Talk to recuperate, drinking cold coffee. Call tree guy, Jordan. He will meet me and follow to farm. I write this:

College radio DJ
informs me that Mercury is in retrograde

Just out of dentist office
a broken tooth pulled
two cavities filled
head feels like a battle field
antibiotics attacking
sinus infection insurgents

Trying not to dribble
fizzing cold medicine
over numb lip
meditative sips

coffee house in Kaimuki
waiting for Kahala home owner
meeting to sell a tree
to pay for teeth

end of year fiscal dredging
money gauze to stop the bleeding

10:45. Drive to the farm. Jordan with a lady feeding my mosquitoes. Show them my trees. They settle on my most impressive pua kenikeni. A fair price for they and I, a dollar five short of the mouth work bill. I smile brighter. They ask if I can plant it for them, then go to pick up compost for the hole. The Poet is planting the Showers. Pay Grey, he helps the Poet. Tree, pick, shovel, saw, stakes, tape, knife loaded and down the hill.

13:00 Coffee Talk for the third time today. Sandwich and lemonade and antibiotics. Talk to Noel. Shining face I won't see this Christmas. She and Shawzy both hopping off this rock in different directions. Tais comps my lunch. Cruise the neighborhood around the golf course looking at landscapes. Listen to NPR. An interview with the big cheese catholic priest of DC. I laugh out loud at the straight face answers. Ludicrous religion. Ludicrous politics. Ludicrous culture. Tragically so. How Nature will show this to the blankly blinking buyers of the scheme I don't know. Though,I imagine the curtains parting for the real deal. Feel the anticipation in the audience, sense the calm before the storm, see the conductor in the orchestra pit readying his baton.

14:00. Dig a hole. Avoid a line. Cut a root. Plant a tree. Sweating profusely. The sickness dripping out of me. Jordan asks questions, senses my situation, asks me to put in more plants soon. Wants more trees. Wants to pay me cash. We make a plan for the weekend. He pays me for the tree, pays me for the planting.

16:30 Pay the Dr. And and marvel at the beauty of this life. Then blow my nose. Go to Kokua and buy Vitamin C, Vitamin E, ginger root and tea. Eat Pizza at Boston's. Talk to Grizz. He feels better about being in South America. His back feels better. He's making friends on the way to Machu Pichu. I buy some more generic robotussin and fluids for the body. Drinking cough syrup from the bottle on the way to the back of the valley. Sun is setting. Kaau crater is wreathed with indistinct clouds.

20:51 Goth Mom delivers dinner to the sniffing writer. The family is up at Ritchies doing laundry. The stream behind the house is raging now. It was quiet when I started writing. The clouds split and a brief but powerful downpour hammered my little shack in the jungle. Water streamed down and around the light socket that illuminates this office. A drop fell from my nose. I continued the prose.

Twelve hours later...

I am alive. The worst has passed. Am taking it easy today, not boggling my mind with things not done. I am not depressed. Thinking about it though, or I wouldn't have said so.

Shawzy called me today. She had a similar illness a couple of weeks ago. In the height of her fever she decided to quit school, sell everything, and run off to a remote section of Moloka'i to help uncover an ancient Hawai'ian village. I am missing her already. Respect her for choosing freedom over the pretense of security.

I'm not chucking everything, though the thought did cross my mind in my fevered state. I'm digging in. I want to know what it feels like to accomplish this task I have taken on. This experiment is still young. I have borrowed money and called people in to help me. I have committed myself to this. This sickness was a well timed slap in the face. A good place to re-calibrate.

Tomorrow morning I hike to fix the water. Set the crew to work then deliver some airlayers. Pow wow with sis in the eve. I have a notebook that I keep with me constantly now. Phone messages, to-do lists, long term projects, appointments.

My parents have a home video of me as a kid standing on the edge of a swimming pool, pumping my arms back and forth in anticipation of jumping in. Then a pause. Then more pumping. Eventually I leap in. My nature caught on celluloid.

I am alive. I don't know if will be tomorrow, but today I am alive. I am thankful for this.

4:11am Information...

I will breathe freely again. Breathe free or die. Learning to relate to the body. Head has been separated a long time. Most my life probably. Reintegrating.

Restless miserable "sleeping" til 9 am this morn. Called sis. She's sick too. Made plans to meet and head to the Waikiki Heath Center to see if antibiotics would hep us. Asked her to make a deposit for Grizz, told her I was going to the bank to cash a check, would meet at India Cafe. Woke the Poet and his lady. Asked them to expedidite the donning of their costumes. The Poet must shave his head every day he says. It's a god thing he says. A primadonna thing I says.

Load the people in the truck. Walking into the bank, sis calls. She said the bank was robbed while she was there. I asked her if she made the deposit. Yes she says, and thanks for your concern. I was sure no one was hurt, or I would have heard it in her voice. She's one of the most sensitive people I know. We balance each other out. Drop the family on the street to catch a bus then meet sis. The last walk-in was accepted just before us. I think of the Poets shiny head as we sniff and cough our way out to the car. Grab some food at India Cafe then run to the mall to make a credit card payment for Grizz. Christmas season traffic. I am suffering. Sweating. Walk into the mall, hit the head then make the payment. I saw some faces that I liked, that shined, but mostly was dismayed by the culture of my birth, seen at it's worst this time of year.

Home. Crash in bed with my head pounding. Fever. Little sleep. Dream of creative ways to kill myself. Thought of using the high tension powerlines as a zip line then jumping before I hit the next tower. Saw myself crashing through someone's roof below, naked. Leave 'em scratching their heads. Toss and turn in bed twisting my sheets into knots. I embrace the fever. Yes. This is good. It will kill the virus, or the bacteria, or whatever. Or me. Burning. Purifying. Drinking green electrolytes to rehydrate.

Pua'a visits again. Dreamed there were a dozen pigs in front of the house, during the day. With Kolohe. The pigs were rooting around all tusks and snout. One plowed into the ground behind Kolohe and burst forth in front of him, facing me, snorting. I feel no threat though. Admire the power. I turn and see other holes, one is big enough for me to climb through and I enter the underground. There is something going on down here. A whole other world. Other people. And I am skiing down insanely steep mountains. There are others there and it feels like I'm at some kind of resort. Caverns accommodated with Ikea like furnishings. Feels like a timeshare set up.

Sit up at 5:30pm and call the Poet. Direct him to a drugstore and grocery store, tell him to catch a cab from there, back here. Try to eat. Pull the lone ginger root from the garden and make tea. Read. Sweat.

Family enters, eats, sleeps. Can't sleep. Fever has broken and I feel some relief. Still have to cough it all up though. Hurting to do so. Write an e-mail to Griz to try and convince him to stay in South America for two more months while I set my house and business in order. I think that I should start chanting again. Heal myself so that I can breathe again.

I have decided to resign as King of the World. Too much stress, not enough perks. At least it's on my resume now.

Sick.

Hot and cold. Thinking of death. Old god concept come back to me and I consider groveling before it out of some imprinted Christian guilt complex. Odd sensations over my whole body. Don't know which are the sickness and which are the over the counter "remedies". Was tossing and turning in the bed flashing hot, blowing snot into aloe infused tissues. Sister brought them over. My adamant non-consumerist bent hates to admit that they are better than the cheap toilet paper I've been using. Both are piling up inside a shoebox beside the bed heavy with yellow green from inside me. I have hit a low spot. First time I've been this ill since I left LA five years ago. I got up to use the bathroom and was dismayed at the pathetic size of my penis. Usually it's a source of comfort, a magic wand that provides an almost mystic sense of empowerment and confidence. Now it's like a whimpering mutt trying to back into my pelvis like a doghouse every time I cough. I think the hacking is building my abs though.

Speaking of LA, The Poet is staying here with me. I haven't seen him in years. Last time I saw him he was riding high on the Dot.Com bubble in San Fran. I was working at the bread counter at a Whole Foods market in Glendale. Years before that, he was living on my couch in Laurel Canyon in a place literally as wide as a sliding glass door. We were both certifiable, dropping heaps of top notch acid and getting ripped on mind expanding books. We both had messiah complexes. We were going to turn the world on to the obvious reality of our interconnectedness as a species and planet, and beyond. But other stuff happened. The poet wrote a book and produced an album. I produced two children and volumes of writing that pile up to this day. His works are still unreleased. My daughters are with their mothers in other states and the paradigm shattering poem still eludes me. Ten years later.

The Poet has been staying with me for a couple of weeks now. Last week his fiance and her nine year old daughter joined him. I warned him about the life I was living: a shack in the jungle, no hot water (when my water is working), close to the earth living basic. I have had time to adjust to my lifestyle. He and she have not. The idea was for him to come out, work on the farm, make a few bucks and get a place where his lady and her little could join him. He couldn't bear to be separated that long and reasoned that if she came out sooner, they could both work and expedite the process. City slickers bandaging blisters. She grew up in the rural, so this is not completely foreign to her, though I wouldn't have guessed when she showed up from the airport in pink and black vynals with mistress of the dark makeup. The Poet has a high maintenance manicured bad boy biker image. He seems to have become more anal since he was "born again" a few years ago. He admits to being a control freak with no apologies. We have clashed over this once already. We are all counting the days. Except for the little. She stays well rooted in the moment.

I must sleep. and try to have productive coughs so that this load in my chest and head is lightened. My life is special.

A gripping introduction...

I spend a lot of time some nights just thinking about the opening line to these entries. I didn't think about it much tonight.

I am alive. I tell myself that sometimes. I need to be reminded.

I don't smoke cigarettes any more. I am not a non-smoker though. I refuse to be defined by what I don't do. There are some people that have never smoked that define themselves as non-smokers.

"I'm a non-murderer." Sounds so odd when applied out of the smoking context. "Hi, I'm a non-heroin addict." there is something to this. I could spend the next hour ranting about the influence that tobacco wielded over the American Century, but I don't care about it that much.

As the story goes, Guerdjieff challenged Ouspensky to quit the cigarette habit.. Some time passed during which Ospensky did quit. More time passed, and when Ospensky met with Guerdjieff again, he exulted that he had quit, proclaiming that he was now free. As I understand it, Guerdjieff lit up a fine Turkish blend cigarette and said to Ospensky "If you are free, then have one of these."

Dr. John Tell related this anecdote today at Coffee Talk. Dr. John is mad, in some of my favorite ways. There is trepidation without fear, righteousness without arrogance, wisdom in the whispers, and original behaviour. My faith in humanity is fueled my the loons on the street. The irony is that the loon has not taken a mental vacation, but lives in relation with the moment. He may have a rap, but is not on auto pilot. A holy moment can arise when he looks you in the eyes if you do not disguise our common thing with a dream of separation.

Out Here in There...

Monday:

*Was still on the computer @ midnight as Monday rolled around. Stayed there 'til There closed @ around 3:35am. I am happy that There closes. I would not sleep otherwise.

*Sleep. Alarm sounds at 7:am. I hit snooze. I am supposed to fix water first thing this morning. I don't. Tired. Eyes bloodshot. Chilly in the mountain valley and the mud fresh and deep.
*Ant calls at 8:am. I don't get the phone though. My clock says it's 11:am. I panic for a moment, then turn to look at the light on the bamboo and banana leaves. I see that I reset the clock in one of my slapping snoozes. Sister calls half hour later. I don't get that either. I'm striving to clear my head, to prepare mentally for the day. Then dozing off again.
*I hear Ants truck pull in. I hop up and dress, walk downstairs and out. Check the Hong Kong Orchid airlayers. Fat. Ant and his Nephew unload and I get it together. Call Alan. Get fliers for plumarias.
*Meet Alan @ Coffee Talk. Coffee and bagel to go. I wore the wrong shirt. Was cool in the valley, but warm in the city. Long sleeve pullover (broken water; no laundry). BDU pants with a big knife shoved into my pant waist. Slippers. Asshole glasses. Folding saw in back pocket. Tree farmer costume.
*Drive Betty, loaded with plumarias, to Kahala, park her, ride with Alan to troll for trees. A timid transvestite talks to me through the veil of a white steel screen security door. I tell her that I want to trim her tree for free. Suspiciously she takes my card and says she'll talk to her boyfriend. Then gives me the once-over-up-and-down with her eyes and her face opens a bit. Bye bye.
*Find an old account from two years back. Five trees in the back. We get the ok to go. I call Ant and give our 20. Alan takes me back to Betty and I drive her to Waimanalo, drop plumaria cuttings at Koba's. Need 75 more. Back to Kahala.
*Alan cutting the last tree. 80 pieces. Excellent. Load. Back to Waimanalo. Finish the order. 200 6' to 12' cuttings. 215, actually. Bonus for them.
*Pick up a hitchhiker on the Makapu'u bend. Paraglider from Canada. He had the whole thing in a back pack. Wanted a ride to Koko Head crater (Hawai'ian name:----------Means Flaming Vaginal Lips?). Drop him there.
*Park in Aina Haina. Hop across the Kalanianole Highway to the center median. Cut seeds from manila palms.
*Stop for pizza at Boston's. On the way back to the farm up I pass Paul in his drive. He says he is waiting for someone to go down so that he could pick up his truck. "It's 4 o'clock, someone has to come down. "
*Go home. Feed animals, pilfer in the garden. Talk to Mayor Ted about using Betty to haul street sweeper leaf mulch from the University (peppered with nutritious pea gravel for an excellent loamy potting compost).
*Make calls. Arrange tomorrows schedule for me and the crew, Chings and Spizannos.
* Laundry at Camp Palolo. Uses Ritchies shower (hot high pressure water...mmmmmmmmmmmmmm....such a luxury). Drink some Chilean booze, _______. Smoke a dube. Rant about There and the implications, the applications, boggle their minds with my guilt stricken enthusiasm. Drop some papayas and split.
*I go There. Find people to Jump off Jesus's head with me.
*Hop in the truck. Door stuck. Hinge giving away. Damn. Pass Paul in his driveway. It's 10:pm. "Hey" we say. "Can I get a ride down?" he asks. "This isn't the same ride you were waiting on at four is it?" I Q. "No," he A's. "I took the car down to get the truck. Now I need a ride down to get the car." I don't ask questions. Sometimes not knowing is better. Paul rides in the back (my wet laundry in front) and tells me jokes through the window. He says we have to stop meeting like this(second time in a week he's seen me driving around at odd hours in me red bathrobe). He asks questions. Going to Shawzys to dry clothes I am to wear out to Keolas b-day party at Hale Noa kava bar.
*Door is closed, but the open-door tone screams. I try to drive and hold pressure on the door. Turn up the classical. The tone faded behind violins and I was struck at how well it was camouflaged by the strings. Then I think of the social metaphor for this: a steady tone of warning, alerting the operators that something is in error. But the din of media neurosis screams higher than the warning, and the operators plow on through the cacophony of modernity.. Caca phony. I try to drive and pull the door tighter into the frame. I exhaust myself after a couple of miles. Let it go. Then the interior light flashes when I hit the shudder bump, like lightening flashes. The music doesn't help with this.
*Paul gives me a beer before he hops in his car. Between the beer the Chilean hooch and the dube I have an excuse not to drink the kava ( I like the kava, but the kava doesn't mix with the booze.), and not to spend money I don't have right now anyway.
* Shawzy, sitting in a pink kimono, is wrapping jewelry and surrounded by a treasure box of things from Carson in Chicago. Noel and I chat as the dryer spins. Belly dancer neighbor enters with warm chocolate peanut butter m&m cookies. Alex enters. I rant more about There. The There economy, the thrill of finding people to jump off Jesus' head with me. The mind numbing implications. I understand how the concept of the Matrix movie is manifesting. I could put in an IV drip and a catheter and somehow goggle my screen so that There is all I see. I could start a cyber nursery and design landscaping plants for the new community developments. A cyber plant wholesaler. In my spare time I could start a cult of Jesus jumpers. Flimflam them out of their money and sell them salvation in the cyberlife ("...afterlife was just an error in translation from Hebrew to English..."...Not the meek shall inherit the Earth my deluded young vixen, it is the geek. You embrace your geekieness as you embrace me..."). Then I look down at my finger and it's print and I fall in love with this world all over again. Nothing beats the thrill of mortality. Jumping off the head of reality and falling into the myth of separation, just for fun, not to be taken too seriously.
*Kava bar opted to close and party moved to Keolas house. A Wednesday garage party on a Monday. Low pro local musicians playing in the carport. Real people on real couches playing some real nice music in the late hours of a nice night. Low tones, respectful of the neighbors. Drummer playing trap like a cat: tata tat tata tat tata tat tat. Electric bass and unplugged ukuleles, big voices in island falsetto. We wish well the host. We parked rude and blocked someone so that we would have an excuse to leave early and retreat back to our Palolo homes. On cue we're asked to move and our appearance ended there.
*Home. Type this, or half of this, then crawled under the net. It is the next day now, the next night. Another day of adventure come and gone, un documented, not archived, live and unexpected. Then I go There to fly off Christo's head and fall down a mountain and run around in the desert.

Late now. 00:24 on Wednesday and I don't know who the president will be. I suspect it's Georgie. I wonder how long I can go without finding out. I wonder if I could avoid finding out for a whole week. This is my goal. Success does not look good I fear. I will try to go as long as I can.