GOODBYE DESOLATE RAILYARD

alexare@uchicago.edu — Mon, 10 Nov 2008 03:14:37 GMT

So Ayn Rand and Ringo Starr are duking it out on this salad dish. Now, they're little tiny things, the size of two grasshoppers, alright?, and they're just going at it like two little Kassim Ouma GI Joes some kind of furious Raging Bull meets Toy Story, alright?

Quick as a flash Ayn draws this plastic skewer out of an anchovy and she points it square at Ringo, and then I'm really freaking out I'm thinking Ayn is a millimeter away from impaling Marge's favorite Beatle like a bouquet of prawn, so I kind of take the platter by the hands and I jostle it. I jostle it. . . . Like this, see? Well, suddenly they freeze in place and tip over like sticks and this terrible siren goes off. I'm freaking out even more. I'm thinking, Jesus, what could I have just interrupted? What could have possibly been the meaning of all this?

A voice comes over the inter com and starts calmly explaining, "Who knows when you dreamed this?"

alexare@uchicago.edu — Sun, 27 May 2007 21:23:15 GMT

I would knock on her door, look into her deep eyes, tell her that I love her, that after two years if she was in any bind I would drop anything, give her everything she needed, that all she would have to do is call me, after two years of no calls at all. I could no sooner remove the mark of her love on my soul than a hot iron brand from my dermis. A brand I branded myself. A loyalty that arises from my cardinal respect for Earthly life. And when she leaves, though I could never tell her now, I will worry for her every day. I know her primes and principles. Whether or not she remembers me-- it doesn't change a thing.

alexare@uchicago.edu — Sun, 06 May 2007 23:38:18 GMT

My stomach, I arched my back, felt . . . pain? As if my internal organs could be terminally evacuated in molten pleasure out of my body. I rolled to one side. Said emptily, "that was incredible."

Located my body in a mirror, felt confused, hardly comprehending my strange capacity for . . .

When was the last time I thought of the word "felt?"

Was this what it felt like when I was new, when I was in love, could imagine myself in someone else's body?

We went into the courtyard, five walls barely composing a polygon where . . . I found the joint in my pack of cigarettes and we smoked it and we went inside and lied down again and listened to Sgt Peppers. Felt strange, like I could never be sad again. As long as, in this moment, I had once existed.

**

How did we meet? The web?

She looks at me with evident guilt.

She knows that she doesn't love me, but she is sometimes lonely. I can tell her feelings for me are complicated but tender.

I feel like I am five. I shut my eyes. A cigarette turns to a cylinder of ashes in my hand. How did it get there?

How did I get here?

alexare@uchicago.edu — Thu, 29 Mar 2007 05:02:28 GMT

Sometimes when I see a really, really beautiful girl in a movie or picture, I kiss the pixels.

alexare@uchicago.edu — Sun, 18 Feb 2007 10:02:04 GMT

i Would leave this body and vanish into a rhythm forever.
Stay.

whole step

alexare@uchicago.edu — Sat, 20 Jan 2007 06:32:11 GMT

A certain number of things in this life I have figured out. That's the woman I'm looking for.

alexare@uchicago.edu — Sun, 10 Dec 2006 04:43:16 GMT

The Beatles.

I wanna give this feeling to other people one day.

If I contribute one thing to this life, can that be it?

I promise to work as hard as I can.

**

alexare@uchicago.edu — Wed, 06 Dec 2006 17:48:12 GMT

well-fed caffeinated and blueberry-connected and having just sharpshot my last final of the term I run what seems like hundreds of miles at the best treadmill in Ratner rapping aloud to Blueprint 2 (h-o v a) a sensation of incredible relief alighting all my senses I feel like I have cheated defeat and made good on a fortune of old-bankrolled karma. Got my mojo back, baby, "oh behave!"

alexare@uchicago.edu — Wed, 29 Nov 2006 20:14:18 GMT

Wish I could take finals at the start of each term. There's a strong counter-placebo effect to human psychology. Imagine if a doctor tells you you've got 4 months to live; your chances of being fatally hit by a car or falling from a bridge must quadruple. For the same reason I always believed that all fact began as fiction, when I noticed after reading "Brave New World" in high school that the best fiction always seems inevitable, irrevocable.

All I can think about are the projects I want to make in the upcoming months. Music. And its combination and recombination with theater. A movie I dream of making called "Bogey in Baghdad." When I saw those youtube videos (making Iraqi kids chase after a bottle of Evian; crushing a looter's car with a tank after shooting it up in nightmarish Scarface street justice style) I thought about Gold Hat and his famous speech, "Badges? We ain't got no badges. We don't need no badges. I ain't got to show you no stinking badges."

So much else in Treasure of the Sierra Madre comes to mind when I think of our boys' perverted Hearts and Minds battle abroad. It was such a redemptive story of gratitude, guilt, the hope for moral self-authority in the face of absolute corruption. The hope that there are men out there with mettle and decency. Sometimes I put the DVD in my computer just to watch Howard talk about being grateful to the mountain, healing its wounds, oweing it something after taking the gold from it. His incredible sincerity sways even the cynical Dobbs to stay and spend a week recuperating the damage they inflicted on mountain by mining it.

Imagine if we had a leader like that. Because we're kind of like Bogey. When you take us collectively. Who today can summon a fraction of that affectionate authority? Who remembers "what gold does to men's souls"?

alexare@uchicago.edu — Sun, 19 Nov 2006 19:29:30 GMT

As excited as I am about working on my "BA", making an original contribution to my field, capitalizing on my Core training, submitting to an academic journal, &c; a part of me wants to buy a Nintendo Wii and participate in re-imagining my life circa grammar school.

The bygone Ocarina of Time days. With David and Aaron, and Oreos.

***

I have alchemical sympathies. The need to believe in a certain innocent all-possibility.

Latent inchoateness which an artistic facilitator can transmute into spiritual perfection ("gold").

The optimum world is an unresolved future or a Romantic/Classical Europe. A Europe that predates the discovery of America and the disfigurement of the myth of Eldorado or the Fountain of Youth.

Maybe the modus operandi of an artist is exactly the opposite of that of a scientist. To passively insinuate oneself into what we do not wish actually to fathom. A voluntary satisfaction with images unresolved by empirical possession.

***

Maybe that's why I talk about the future so much. Why I like to place things there.
So is it ironic that we title that kind of speculation "science fiction"?

alexare@uchicago.edu — Sat, 11 Nov 2006 21:45:13 GMT

Last night took V to Jimmy's and paid for some drinks. She smoked Nat Shermans. Found that unusual. You fall hard for dumb things sometimes.

Working on my first 20-25 page paper. Hard to disguise that I'm laying it out on the table this time. Nothing to hide. It's drawing heavily on my Japanese language skills (using untranslated films, untranslated primary and secondary source documents, Japanese "panpan girl" diaries that are highly colloquial, etc.) to make a point that hits close to home academically: how film can recuperate the spiritual losses of a people damaged by national tragedy. How authorial decisions can be accountable to the mediation of massive cultural wounds. In this case; defeat in war and foreign occupation. It's not a stretch to say that this paper could be my BA, with smaller stakes.

Music going well; working with Daniel and Wayne. Today we're going to make a recording of one of Daniel's songs. A folk melody with three parts for male voices. Hopefully it sounds as good on tape as it does in our minds. Daniel brought up, at the twelfth hour, that he wants me to sing. We'll see how it goes.

Keep running treadmill as the weather gets colder. Can't smoke too much, but don't feel compelled to. Today I said "hey" to A at Third World. Told her that I hoped I would see her at JC's birthday party tonight. Is she ever a beautiful girl.

alexare@uchicago.edu — Thu, 02 Nov 2006 02:40:32 GMT

userp: I want to set up a copy of "changes" so the "ch ch ch ch" goes on forever.

LaughingDragon: hehe. dude.

LaughingDragon: and a copy of "my generation" with Roger Daltry saying "ge ge ge ge" forever.

userp: And "movin' out" with Billy Joel saying "attack ack ack ack ack" forever.

LaughingDragon: we're going to make the single greatest pop album of the 21st century.

alexare@uchicago.edu — Tue, 31 Oct 2006 22:31:01 GMT

There's something incredibly unromantic about buying music from the iTMS.

organ grinder

alexare@uchicago.edu — Fri, 27 Oct 2006 01:25:36 GMT

It isn't like, without medication, I can't do my work.

I can do pretty well.

It just takes up time.

Sometimes it feels like simultaneously standing on two floors of the same building.

And, stuff. It's just that it's a drain on my time.

alexare@uchicago.edu — Fri, 20 Oct 2006 04:53:54 GMT

wanna disappear

alexare@uchicago.edu — Tue, 17 Oct 2006 04:32:06 GMT

I remember once asking my mother what was the difference between a mountain bike and a motor bike. She said, "you can't have a mountain bike." I was mortified by her firmness, and immediately shut up.

This short exchange has stuck with me for ten years, I estimate. I want to go back and ask her, "What did you mean by that?" Because a mountain bike and a motor bike are simply different bikes; one with a motor, one without. I know there's no way she would remember this exchange. She must have forgotten it immediately. I don't really understand why I remembered that and not the words I said to evoke my first kiss.

Another thing I remember from that day. It was the day I was on kids' Jeopardy. I monopolized the prizes for the episode, and at the last break for commercial I turned to an aide and said, "Are you guys going to take that stuff away at the end or is it mine?" But I immediately felt humiliated when I asked this question, because the woman just silently refilled my cup of water and left.

That day was in retrospect very regrettable. My mother refused to sign the papers that would have gifted me the mountain bike. Instead she opted for its list value in the form of a check. I walked to the car feeling as small as a toy. I probably think about all this inadvertently once or twice a month.

alexare@uchicago.edu — Fri, 13 Oct 2006 01:30:59 GMT

Instead of preparing my presentation on Nigel Burch's criticism of Mizoguchi, and definitely instead of working, I fucked around for several hours. Basically through lunch, until punch out.

I had found this very old video game that I used to play as a kid, back in the days of Windows 3.1. I played it all the time, during the summer of 5th grade. I really, really wanted to play it again.

I tried running the old game in compatability mode in XP, but that didn't work. Then I tried using a DOS emulator, Dos Box, but, again, no luck.

I turned to the web for advice. A crude-looking BBS post from 2004 said my game needed to be run in 3.1, but could "sometimes" be run in Virtual PC, in 3.1 virtually.

I downloaded VPC for OSX, for free via the University license, but found that it wouldn't run on my Intel Mac. It was PPC only. Alas.

Then I tried running a virtual XP installation using Parallels, and downloaded to windows version of VPC. Inside the virtual XP I was able to run Virtual PC virtually, and virtualize Windows 3.1. To my surprise, this worked. I could run a game from my childhood inside a virtualization inside a virtualization.

Daniel came over, and saw the concentric cubbied windows inside windows inside OSX, and laughed. I guess it was pretty funny, but when the excitement of searching for a solution to my problem waned I realized it was actually kind of sad. Was this ordeal some kind of incredibly contrived metonym for my loss of innocence? Once I got it working, my interest in the game dwindled.

alexare@uchicago.edu — Thu, 28 Sep 2006 23:10:17 GMT

i'm strong

alexare@uchicago.edu — Wed, 27 Sep 2006 13:21:15 GMT

Lately remastered editions of older albums sound overcompressed. Mind Games suck/s.

alexare@uchicago.edu — Tue, 15 Aug 2006 03:38:59 GMT

Hot damn I am psyched about the muffin I will eat tomorrow morning.

It's going to be really, really good.

Like, when you get them in the morning and they're all hot from the freaking oven.

And a fresh cup of coffee. With some cream in it.

Shit damn I can hardly contain my enthusiasm for this muffin.

You see, during the last week I ate just one solitary muffin, due to lack of finances.

Instead: bowls of cereal. And coffee grounds from the freezer.

Laaaaame.

Right?

Compared to muffin: Lame.

But this week shall be different.

Untold muffins shall be consumed.

alexare@uchicago.edu — Wed, 09 Aug 2006 03:54:32 GMT

I am comfortable here now.

I come to work every day. Dress in the mornings and make tea. In the afternoon, pour a bowl of soup to eat; and wholesome bread from the Medici Bakery.

I go to the gym after work. Sometimes after a short nap.

As I run, I wonder if I am too comfortable.

One thing I know: I will never taste triumph if I leave its small ingredients to chance.

When I run I feel at peace with my center and know who I am and why.

I can feel my oneself buried in my one muscle, tenant of the center of all things.

Every sense singing, I hover on the verge of untouchability.

I waste this summer day. Tomorrow morning I will love platonically and I will seduce the phantom of tomorrow at dusk.

2 The spoils of health

I don't sit at my peppy terminal during quiet moments and compose odes to whores, hashish, wine, and cocaine.

But I do not feel like the same species as my middle manager from Indiana.

Michael has no commitments, but no cultural occupations. He ran from home no further than the border of Illinois.

He talks the innocuous musical gibberish of babies, is round and bald as one, treats us like we were. Peaceful, gentle, unexceptional. Sometimes the answers are . . .

3 A German word

misery caused by spontaneous sensitivity to a
buried love affair

4 At my terminal

We are visiting a seven pass nuclear obliteration on Joshua Schodel's old data.

For no particular reason, I reserve his personal folders to my private share when I think that no one is watching . . .

Later, Michael is staring at me, grinning.

I don't believe he has evidence to suspect I am doing something he would disapprove of. He is just looking at me.

I observe: "This is a wistful process somehow. Emptying all this data from forgotten computers."

". . . Excuse me?"

Michael has this insane deer-in-the-headlights look on his face that I must remind myself every day is not patronizing.

"Seven pass wipes make me a little wistful, I said."

"No, I mean, what does wistful mean?"

I think for a moment.

"Well, it's a thoughtful feeling; not as strong as regret. A regret that presents no difficulty."

"I was thinking it sounds like whimsical. Doesn't it?"

"Decade old data makes you whimsical?"

"It makes you whimsical."

BRING A BOWL TOMORROW˙
for soup.

In it for the money.

All I can see is the prospect of future love and sex.

alexare@uchicago.edu — Sun, 09 Jul 2006 20:49:08 GMT

Zidane! What the fuck?

alexare@uchicago.edu — Sun, 02 Jul 2006 18:29:33 GMT

Dream I had bionic hands installed after an accident. I become a famous pianist using my new manual articulateness; a composer of pieces for bionic players, bionic keyboarding exercises, a conductor of a bionic ensemble. One day Sam tells me the feeling is going away in his new leg. He pulls up his pant sleeve, and we both realize in horror that they're all coming loose from the bones, rubber nerves snapping, skin melting away. The smell is terrible and everywhere. I wake up and reread this slashdot piece about biotech prosthetics getting tested on marines. Wow: I feel like I'm in the future.

Paper-Writing: The Goldilocks Schema

alexare@uchicago.edu — Thu, 08 Jun 2006 04:12:04 GMT

Attempt one: Stupid.

Attempt two: So abstract it is incomprehensible/divorced from the text.

Attempt three: Just Right. *

alexare@uchicago.edu — Thu, 01 Jun 2006 04:41:31 GMT

The difference between CMST and ENGL is the difference between observing a human in motion and dissecting a corpse. This 19 cen Am Lit Prof has to euthanize her subject and cover its genitals with a polite drape.