my advice is to not...

...let the boys in.

only zimmerman's twisted sense of humor can make you smile on a day like this.

man that will live longer than he

call it discourse. call it rigid categories of mind. call it the opposite of free thinking. call it lack of questioning. you may not respect the authority--you may not respect the way things are done.

but you have to respect those thousands of fallen angels---scattered all around the earth. you have to respect the selflessness of the act. you have to respect the humanity in it. and if you don't...well, i guess you don't really have a heart.

...

where are those vulnerable ones? the ones that burn out like roman candles?
I have my "aww" here stuck in my throat. where are those tender ones, now? the ashen ones, the pale ones.
the hands stretched out, the curtains lifted. the bare hearts and the bare minds.
where are those angelic ones? the broken ones, the kind ones. where are those loving ones?
the unbounded ones, the unlimited ones.
where are those simple ones? the open ones, the honest ones.
where are those beautiful ones?
I have my "aww" here stuck in my heart.

come out, come out wherever you are. only the true ones, the sharing ones, the loving ones, the maskless, planless, grudgeless, hopeless ones.

i have many many around of the other ones. i want you now.

...

not much to say really. i'm sick and having a major sick-couch day. good chance to go over no direction home again. but then again i should probably study.

oh well...

sugar for sugar, salt for salt

well done boys. you've made me proud.

ain't it clear that i just can't fit

I was gathering stuff up in the pit of stomach to write--but i just couldn't get the right words out. All day I've been trying to spit out something--just empty my chest enough to be able to breathe. but it just didn't happen. i couldn't find the words. i can't even find them in this very moment.

then i came across this. i don't know what it was about it--it may not even be the song, hell, i'm sure it's not the song--but that was it:

what i've been wanting to say all day.

...

"You don't figure out happenings, you dig happenings." -- B.D.

in Durance

"I am homesick after mine own kind,
Oh I know that there are folk about me, friendly faces,
But I am homesick after mine own kind.

"These sell our pictures"! Oh well,
They reach me not, touch me some edge or that,
But reach me not and all my life's become
One flame, that reaches not beyond
My heart's own hearth,
Or hides among the ashes there for thee.
"Thee" ? Oh, "Thee" is who cometh first
Out of mine own soul-kin,
For I am homesick after mine own kind
And ordinary people touch me not.
Yea I am homesick,
After mine own kind that know, and feel
And have some breath for beauty and the arts.


Aye, I am wistful for my kin of the spirit
And have none about me save in the shadows
When come they, surging of power, "DAEMON,"
"Quasi KALOUN." S.T. says Beauty is most that, a
"calling to the soul."
Well then, so call they, the swirlers out of the mist
of my soul,
They that come mewards, bearing old magic.


But for all that, I am homesick after mine own kind
And would meet kindred even as I am,
Flesh-shrouded bearing the secret.
"All they that with strange sadness"
Have the earth in mockery, and are kind to all,
My fellows, aye I know the glory
Of th' unbounded ones, but ye, that hide
As I hide most the while
And burst forth to the windows only whiles or whiles
For love, or hope, or beauty or for power,
Then smoulder, with the lids half closed
And are untouched by echoes of the world.


Oh ye, my fellows: with the seas between us some be,
Purple and sapphire for the silver shafts
Of sun and spray all shattered at the bows;
And some the hills hold off,
The little hills to east of us, though here we
Have damp and plain to be our shutting in.


And yet my soul sings "Up!" and we are one.
Yea thou, and Thou, and THOU, and all my kin
To whom my breast and arms are ever warm,
For that I love ye as the wind the trees
That holds their blossoms and their leaves in cure
And calls the utmost singing from the boughs
That 'thout him, save the aspen, were as dumb
Still shade, and bade no whisper speak the birds of
how
"Beyond, beyond, beyond, there lies . . . ""

Ezra Pound

October 21, 1969

" 'Where are you going?' which is precisely what they asked me a year later under television floodlights in New York--Just as you can't explain to the police, you can't explain to society 'Looking for peace.'"

Desolation Angels-- Jack Kerouac

october...

"God is words--" -- J.K.

lazarus' foot

"So as Lazarus walk through the villages, [of the ants] so God walks thru our lives, and like the workers and the warriors we worry like worrywarts to straighten up the damage as fast as we can, tho the whole thing's hopeless at the end. For God has a much bigger foot than Lazarus..." -- J.K.

bear with me for two more days, so death may not, after all, have its dominion.

the Good Night

"It is said that those condemned to death sleep soundly on the last night."
F.M.D.



even October has its miseries.

see you later, allen ginsberg

this french guy looks up to me, then to the Rimbaud I had just taken out of my purse and handed to him. He asks with all his good will, "You're also political science student, right?"

I nod. I know where this is headed.

"Then why are you reading Rimbaud?"

As if that has anything to do with it.

said sugar, make it slow and we'll come together fine

pain is looked upon as weak, but i tell ya, people sure do spend a whole lotta strength on avoiding an enemy they consider to be so inferior. and man, they avoid it like hell.

there's a noble, tender air to pain and misery that we just can't seem to stay away, i'll accept that too. I haven't seen many people who won't mellow out once someone sheds a few tears--mankind looks lost and bewildered and appealing in the process of crying--and the one across gets this unstoppable urge to just ease the sorrow and the sadness. we rarely manage to do so, or even more rarely we try to do so, but still...the feeling just creeps in. you just wanna stop the hurting of someone else, and tears and sobs make you feel desperate and helpless, even more than theone crying--and very much likely you don't understand, and you're of no use.

i always cherished the act of crying. i think it's one of those state of beings that puts everyone on an equal level. you can be anyone and anywhere, but when you let that wall go down, you're just like everyone else. you're no longer envious, evil, plotting, cruel--you're just crying. i like that idea. i like the prospect of beliving everyone's at the core just another human being. to be able to strip away from all those unpleasent side affects of humanity and just to admit defeat with childish surrender. it refreshes your faith in everyone--and accordingly, in everything.

and life's a crazy mumbling of words, and if "cody" is right, and if we do all go to heaven leaning on the arm of someone we helped, then there isn't much to say about anything else. some have better hearts, and some don't. and evil is just as common--if not more--as good, and i don't mean it in a religious sense, i just mean it in an emotional way. there are way too many people out there who lies and cheats and murders and steals and hurts others by a hundred percent, full on free will--by choice.

and those, oftenly, cause pain for others. but pain is quite easy to cause, and not just by meannes and cruelty too. it's all a neverending, crazy dylan song. you can't get hung up on the details. most likely, you won't have a clue what's happening. you just move along, at times it'll feel magnificent, at times it'll be down the drains. one you call friend today won't even get a "hello" the next day. these things happen. people go out like stars, and worse linger around like bugs fallen on their backs. everybody hurts, even the worst ones.

and pain can make you put a gun to your head or go dye your hair, but that's not the point. The point is, everybody cries.

Just not for the same stuff.

"All the passions in the end become virtues, and all the devils angels."
F.N.

how sweet is the baez

i had different plans for the night, but i got sidetracked.

i got the chance to watch a great documentary about joan baez--the woman who proved to me that not all women were evil (myself included, that is)--and it was just wonderful. and the best part was when my dad came in, took a look at the monitor, and just as i was getting ready to shove him out the room, he just let out, "That's Baez, isn't it?" A few seconds of my amazement passed and he added, casually, "she sings the sad stuff, though."

Baez gets to you in a different way, you know. It got to me in a different way at least. She's intimidating in her unusual beauty, and her fierceness, not to mention her pretty awesome sense of humour. Lady lived a good life, that's all I can say.

It makes you think, it really does. But I won't get to that here, for now. What's the use? I think I'm gonna keep my piehole shut tonight, listen to a few songs and maybe try to get my fingers to part wide enough to hit the right chords. who knows. i say all these things, and say some more, and then nothing happens in the end. and the saddest part is that I go back and say them once more.

...

more dylan, rimbaud, and pound to come. i just have some stuff to do tonight, but if i have the time and the muse i'll pop in later to write stuff. if not, i'll get back to ya tomorrow.

ps: ignore the entry on chronicles. like, compeletely. pretend that it never happened, i would have deleted but that would just be pathetic now, wouldn't it?

hey mr. tambourine man--

yay. finally. bought myself a guitar.

"down in the Village, nothing seemed wrong..."

It happened in a flash of light. I picked it up, and I put it down. The lines were rapid-- I tried to rip them into shreads to understand first. I held onto each word like my life depended on it, created a million visions out of them, grabbed them so tight that they couldn't even move. But that is no way to take the man down. I know that now.

It was the weirdest trip of my life. I wonder if this was how he felt when he read Bound For Glory, or probably he didn't--i seriously doubt that our minds--well, at least our hearts--work similarly.

I'll cut to the chase--I'm done with Chronicles, Volume One. I'm glad I'm done with it, cause god knows, my whole life was on hold since the day it landed in my hands. I read it through lectures, between lectures, i read it waiting for the bus, on the bus, at home, at school, on the streets while people passed me by with a wondering look in their eyes--I read it the minute I opened my eyes in the morning, and I read it right before I closed them. It was enchanting, it was magical, there wasn't much I could do about it. Even when I wasn't reading it, I kept it there on the desk, at the corner--as some teacher told me about some useless info on some useless political scheme, he just kept looking at me with a crooked, half beaten look on his face, almost telling me, well--more like snarling, "Is this some kind of a joke?"

And now I have tons too tell, but I'll try to make it quick and clear here and don't turn this into a needlessly bottomless pit. It's not a personal book, I'll start with that. Yeah, it's far more insight that he had ever given on anything but still, something's off. You circle and circle around him, you get to see his face, his ears, his mouth, you get too see all others hanging out by him, but you still can't get in. It's shut, it's too far off. It's just foreign. Whether or not its his intention--i know better than assuming when it's him we're talking about--or maybe, to him, it isn't even that way--but me, I'm still just lost. I'm still just as stranded and confused, just as ignorant.

But there are a few snapshots here and there that just lifts up the veil and you see a moment of his life--an image, a word --something, something that is more intimate and private than others. I'm not talking about some fancy romantic scene with a woman, or some insanely detailed explanation of inner self. Na-ah, nothing of that sort. Maybe it's the crazy way my brain works, but what really got to me, of all the rest, what rose up above the ground and shone like a bright star--was something much more simpler. He talks about--at the first chapter I think--about how he used to sneak into the kitchen of Cafe Wha?, with a pal of his while they were both playing there, and there would be a burger waiting for him, and they would munch on that. That's it, that's the singlehandedly most effective, radiant, mind blowing, magical moment of the book for me--this 20 some year old kid, with two piercing blue eyes, cocking a smile at a greasy burger.

Everybody has their own Dylan, and I think I found mine after much ravaging-- he's that one from Cafe Wha?'s kitchen on a snowy, freezing New York evening.

Let me see.. What else...man, I can talk about this all day. And everytime I start of a sentence, I realize that it's really not what I've been thinking to say at all, and I try to change it, but I don't know. I can't say much on the book other than the fact it just creeped me out--and I see that now--as if I entered some forbidden territory, and that all my prior convictions were bound to be burnt at the stake, along with my misguided, misled, selfish idoltary.

OK, that was a lie. There was nothing in that book that made me care less about his words or his songs or his way of thinking---but there was stuff in it that made him much more, well, ordinary. The parts about recording stuff. that for example, was very human and obviously very mechanical---not the usual way you picture these things to happen--because you expect him to create in a moment of craze and delusion, and you expect the muse to hit him hard--sort of sending him to a trance, but it doesn't have to work that way. I saw that. Another thing I saw--very very very rarely, maybe in one moment, or two--a more vulnerable figure than I took him to be.

But over all, I saw a man. That's it. A man of flesh and blood, of words that are worth saying and words of no importance whatsoever, of moments crucial and moments downright awkward; of a vague, human carelessness and a fiery way of defending territory at times, of childhood faith, anticipation, joy and confusion, anger, even pain, of a compassionate heart sometimes and a frowning one at others, of lifting a finger high up in the face of everyone who pushes and presses, then an unexplained desire to explain...

A man of not so much to discuss. He puts it out there, the way he wants to, and you can't take that too seriously.

There's too much in my head crawling--and it will be there for a few days until i digest--but until then, I'll bend my head sideways and peek through the cracked door, and a man-kid of 20 will be sitting on the kitchen counter, with a friend next to him, a bright smile on his thin but long lips, his insanely blue eyes jumping out of his pale face, and in his hands an hamburger large enough to devour him instead. And the man-kid keeps smiling, and takes a bite, then keeps on talking about whatever the hell he was talking about right before.

"Eventually, different anachronisms were thrust upon me--anachronisms of lesser dilemma--though they might seem bigger. Legend, Icon, Enigma (Buddha in European Clothes was my favorite)--stuff like that, but that was all right. These titles were placid and harmless, threadbare, easy to get around with them. Prophet, Messiah, Savior--those are tough ones."

Bob Dylan--Chronicles, Volume One

hiatus

i know, i know...too much silence. but stuff's happening, and god knows i have so much to say--and i will say it. just give me a little time.

mine've been like Verlaine's and Rimbaud...!

"..Death without tears, our active daughter and servant, a desperate Love and a pretty Crime crying in the mud of the streets...."

A. Rimbaud

you can still find some room

there there. sweet way to spend a sunday.

latin, that soft bastard

Puellae vitam poetae coservant.