The white car’s hood seemed to be left not fully closed, a crack open, and he walked up to it and tried to close it. It popped right back up, not closing tightly. He’d ruined it.  (He couldn’t find the seed that started it. Did it matter? To appreciate the tree, must one look to the seed? Perhaps one mustn’t. The seed can be a distraction.)  I hate it when people tell other people they don’t know very well about how they cry at the opera or at the theatre.  My roost is elsewhere, if anywhere. I certainly don’t share it with others, the gossiping hens.  Only I’m not lonely, well at times I’m not lonely. Why do we need social interaction? Man and woman sound anonymous. “I am a lonely man.” That sounds wordish. Social interaction is like a good drug, you take a little bit, or for that matter bite off a large chunk, chew it for a while, enjoy it, then scurry back to the laboratory to perform more tests.  I want to record what I imagine to be the imagined experiences of an individual, not social interaction. The individual can still be important and interesting.  You have a lot of chemicals in your medicine cabinet, this one for making your teeth whiter, this one makes your skin whiter. You like the color white, don’t you? No, I know that other people like white, and I will not be able to interact with them as productively if my whiteness has blemishes. So you’re conscious of the fact that you mold yourself for other people’s (impressions, perceptions, they’re both clichéd.) intentions, (like a sculpture sculpting itself?), and you think that makes it alright? It could just as likely make it worse, no?  He heard a crackling. It sounded like plastic grocery bags being crumpled up outside his door. It was either his neighbor or Bill. Please don’t let it be Bill. He should be gone for a few more days, a few more days of delicious solitude. Great, he hasn’t come in, it must be my neighbor. [A half hour later.] Walking back in from a cigarette, he saw there were autumn leaves on the ground, and rustled them with his feet. Then he recognized the noise. It was the crackling of the grocery bag. She had been outside rustling leaves. He wondered if she was hearing him crackle the leaves. Maybe she was inside thinking about him. He pined for her a few moments through his rustling. My gloves. My gloves protect my hands.  I want her to leave him for me, but I don’t like the idea of coming in between people.  What are you doing with him?  It’s so hard to think about what I just thought about. What turned out to be a taxi driver stepped out of the drivers side, walked around and ushered the man out of the vehicle. So, she was a taxi driver, a big taxi driver. He rubbed his thumb between the two middle creases of his middle finger. He turned around and walked back to the door, deliberately smashing two of the leaves on his way in.

What is up with the F.C.C.? Something tells me this is not what the founding fathers had in mind.

THESE SORTS OF PEOPLE WILL SEIZE POWER ONE DAY, AND PEOPLE LIKE YOU WILL NOT CARE

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Just thought I’d throw this out into the whatever it is we throw stuff into when we press publish:

The next thing I’ve gotten into is the Cremaster Cycle, which I’ve wanted to see for a few years now, but’ve never been able to. As you may know if you know about Matthew Barney, he never released the films on video. I think they’re still shown in big cities, but since I don’t live in one, I can’t go see them. I found three of them on Youtube the other day, which no doubt violates countless copyright laws, but I’m willing to break laws, when it comes to something I don’t have the option to consume unless I steal it! Ripping off artists isn’t something I usually do; I stopped using Limewire about a half a year ago, and have bought my music in stores or on Itunes since. But in this case, he decided not to release the films at all, so I have the choice of either not seeing them or watching them on Youtube. I watched. When I make a decision, if I’m not going to harm anyone and I have some benefit to take from deciding in the affirmative, I’ll take the affirmative. I know that’s not a very solid base on which to build an ethical system. But it’s impossible to live without harming. To live is to harm. Every time I take a step or a bite, I harm, but not to step or not to bite would be to give up living. To live is to harm. I must harm if I want to continue to exist.

He went jogging, which sounds a bit more productive in French. Il a fait du jogging. He made some jogging. Like Theseus Athens, he poietically summoned jogging into the world. After having peripatetically circumnavigated St. Joseph’s lake, he was about to cross over an ancient overgrown softball field which separates St. Joseph’s from St. Mary’s lake, when he noticed a large group of female runners, svelte & sexy, who were running toward what had been his trajectory a few moments before, and he thought, I should have opened up my arms and given them a goofy smile, pretending to run toward them like so, as if I were expecting a big sweaty group hug, and then a moment later turned away, giving them a wave, so they knew I was only kidding, and were amused. (Realistically, maybe one of them would have been amused. He also might have ended up in the slammer.) If he had noticed them before having slightly changed his trajectory, he really would have pulled it off though! As it happened, he continued on across the softball field and began circling around St. Mary’s lake, until he noticed the men’s cross training team, or in any event, a group of mostly shirtless young laddies who were running toward him in the opposite direction, and he thought, it’s times like these when I wish I swung the other way, first of all because it would be a great thing to behold a bevy of sporatically dressed beautiful young swains running around a shimmering beswanned St. Mary’s lake were I a gay young man-runner with all of his healthy sexual urges still intact. But also because instead of diegetically maneuvering around them, I would run right through them, excusing myself, letting my elbows slide across their naked arms glistening with perspiration, “oops, sorry about that, excuse me, pardon me!” But at the same time, as he was thinking this, he wasn’t really thinking it, but was thinking about thinking it, cogitabat de cogitare, because it was a joke from the beginning. He didn’t really wish he were gay. He just thought this thought because he was thinking, if I were with someone at this moment, I could tell them this, and they would laugh, and think “What a funny guy he is! I’m glad to know a guy like him, and am presently in his company!” It was all rather pathetic. But if he were gay, he really would run right through that group of joggers, whereas as a heterosexual young man, there would be a  disaster, were he to run right through a troop of sweaty young running college girls. A pity, that.

Lord, they sure as shit take that popehat-wearin’ feller deadly serious! Just ’cause he chose pope-being for a career don’t mean we gotta hang on every dag-blasted word comin’ outis popey yap!

He is pope hear me snore! He’ll only stop when people stop listening, and we’ll all be doing him a favor since he’ll stop taking himself so seriously once everyone else stops. Do it for the pope, ergo! Per il papa!

OK, now that I’ve got that out of my system.. Eight more months and away from the mecca of Catholicism and football I’ll ferry myself! Perhaps I’ll be less bitter at this time.

He was being thrown in a cell. He didn’t mind. The world was a cell anyhow, plus oceans and jungles and cities, butterflies and young cross training teams of both sexes.

Working toward an unpastichable work of art is the telos of all human cultures.  Your individual human life is so close to nothing that it is effectively nothing, a flash in the all. The work of art may only be a spark in the universe, but it at least is a spark, which is not nothing. The techne telos is to bring Mozart to more important species of the universe, to provoke percolations of space-laughter, which resemble Liszt morceaux, had amphetamines been synthesized and prescribed in the early 19th century.