I find myself wanting to move back to New York. That's not a good thing to find myself wanting, for it ain't gonna happen anytime soon. I realized that what i did wrong when i returned to the city at the beginning of November was failure to RENEW my relationship to it. I figured we'd just pick up where we left off, and it didn't work; the chemistry was all wrong. Upon reflection, I got to thinking it was like seeing an on/off lover after a long hiatus, and trying to bypass the whole seduction phase... (and just grabbing her tit). Everyone and everything has to be seduced - OVER AND OVER. If you can't get with this aspect of existence, you may as well just die.

On a more spritual level it's about living in the moment and about spontaneity. Every object is the Buddha and every situation is the guru.

Quitting smoking is much easier than its survivors will lead you to believe. It's really underrated at that.

Only in Willimasburgh do I see,
a face in the crowd - on a sidewalk.
I'm struck dumb by the brilliant luminosity of her.
I hesitate, and I'm reaching out a hand
to her shoulder
to stop her for a moment.
I can't possibly feel so much for someone,
and it not be something that we share.
Her every gesture is that of my eternal lover.
Every flicker of her eyelash and angle of her chin.

As if bit by a tropical spider
I find myself paralyzed,
and the moment passes.
She moves by me into the crowd,
never to be seen again.
Inside me there is only emptiness and loss.

But then I see another girl..!

Montreal is so quiet. It takes the strangest changing of gears to deal with this place.
I worked in Janie's basement today, putting insulation on all the water pipes. It felt good to do something other than vegetate, but i found myself wondering what happened to the fire I used to have for home improvement. Did I just remodel one too many? It's so crusty and nasty in janie's basement that I wore my orange flight suit. it may as well say L.A. COUNTY JAIL on the back. Where else do you see an orange jumpsuit? I walked over to outremont to visit terry and Yo; everyone was staring at my orange suit. I wished I'd worn something else.

This week is really about quitting smoking. It must be day VI or VII now. I'm not sure; it doesn't really matter. I work out at the Y every other day, and I'm reading SOMETIMES A GREAT NOTION. I think about New York, and Sara, and the film and all that shit, but it seems like another world now. Right now life is Montreal and a fresh dusting of snow every morning: Montreal is about weather that makes you stand up and take notice.

The part of life that I live for is somewhere in the future. This is like filler. I keep saying i'm going to go off to portugal or France, but I have trouble imagining anything so bold. Still, the thought of staying here is worse.

Tonight Vale and I went out for supper. It was very special and sweet. I think I finally saw all the work I've put into our post-realtionship: The trust and the vulnerability are tangible. We seem to be free of all the competitiveness and pretense that followed our breakup. I visited her new home, and came ustairs to say hi to Yann. It was all really nice.

When Vali and I said goodbye, I know we could have kissed, there on her front porch. I'll be thinking about that one for awhile. Underneath all the politeness, and the dutiful visits, I'd basically lay down my life for that girl. I guess she knows that.

I had a sudden impulse to particpate in the larger blogging community. As usual, I find myself on the outside-looking in. And so I began to consider jumping in on the apology week theme.

Was this an N.A. (Nick Adams) concept?

It's interesting to note here, that when I first began to read the apologies I had a vague feeling of discomfort. But that's not unusual for me. In that moment I attributed said uneasiness to my historic "outsider" mindset. I had a spike of irritation with myself for being so predictable. Later, on reflection, I considered that the very essence of apologies skeeves me out. In the 12 step world, there comes a time TO MAKE AMENDS TO SUCH PEOPLE WHEREVER POSSIBLE...

(fuck that shit man!!!)

During the filming of NOTHING REALLY HAPPENS, I had more than the usual apologies to make. My most chronic offense is treating people like idiots: Seth, Justine, Casey and Beca were my victims. It's a terrible burden to be right all the time. Then again, they made their displeasure known - in spades.

As I skim the Filbert blogs I see that everyone, as usual, is "grooving together" and digging the same things. I on the other hand cultivate my differences and try obsessively try to play to my strengths.

For that I apologize to everyone. I should really try harder to be one of the guys.

I figure I can afford to apologize to Nick, for talking non-stop about my own life. Consider this my appy-polly-loggies.

To Melissa and Mike, I would like to apologize for being at all times ham-fisted in my conservatism. I actually take very little pleasure from political arguments. My actions are a better indicator of who I am.

To Anna, I apologize for rolling my eyes when you talk about the inter-relationships of your friends. Do you know what I'm talking about?

And Bob; I apologize for never being sufficiently grounded and present when we intercourse socially.

I think that's everyone in the foreground Filbert pages.

Peace to you all

NOTES ON A CRUSH
(this is from last week)

DAILY you allow yourself to think, to consider, to hope that (the object of your desire) will come to you.

The crush flows against life's inherent spontaneity. Despite the belief we cling to that "there is always hope", the situation will not improve. If it was going to happen it would have already.

The sight of another lightheartedly flirting with (the object of your desire) is more fearsome than death. And you have about as much power over it.

As you near the lowest levels of misery, there eventually comes the step of deliberately revealing the obsession to (the object of your desire). Here begines the full-on reversal of fortune. This is when things really begin to turn downwards.

Ther anger, frustration, and impotence you feel in her presence begin to form on your face a gruesome mask that you can't take off. When you catch the eye of (the oject of your desire), you attempt to be friendly, sweet and non-oppressive, but this only causes the mask to contort even more hideously.. This mask is chained to your head for the duration of the crush.

Finally you reach the decision to remove yourself entirely from the presence of (the object of your desire). Like a broken-hearted young man who enlists in a faraway bush-war in order to escape the maddening obsession over a woman. In the instant you say your heroe's goodbye; this is the moment of dignity which you will pay for with your life. you will the most certainly see something in her eyes that makes you hesitate and wonder if she wouyld rather you stay.

But it's too late. It was too late before it even started.

I'd like to think i'm hitting some kind of stride with this job - and this trip (this whole experience) in new York: But i'm not. I'm seeing with eyes I never expected to be wearing.

The boggest (the bloggest - I meant BIGGEST) problem here is the crush i have on sarah. I may as well have a toothache, or hemmorhoids (sp?). or maybe that's just the symptom. And the problem is something deeper! An inner hole! (no wait - SHE has that) I never get crushes anymore, and for fucking good reason. They're not fun. Having a crsuh makes the object of your desire HATE you. So dumb.

I almost went to stay with terry i was beginiing to feel so lousy here. It doesn't matter becasue all i do is sleep and watch DVDS anyway. Fortunately the work is going not bad - though tonight Phil remarked that the single shot we did of Carmella looked like a Mexican soap opera. I thought it looked like dogshit. i winced when the camera rolled. It's going to happen on hinky little movies. Ouch, it hurts though.

I miss the dog. i fear my dad may have taken his love away from me. BooBoo and I make a great team. If he was here i'd own this town.

I'm doing one-arm push-ups now. By the end of the film i want to do 25 per side.

When we shoot night exteriors in big cities, it's customary to have a cop dedicated to the set. The officer's role is to make sure nothing negative occurs between the film unit and the neigborhood. They also do some traffic control. When you shoot in dicey neigborhoods, it's reassuring to have those guys around, becasue a film shoot draws people like moths to a light, and I've seen it happen where street types begin harrassing crew members.

Last night we were shooting on Sutton St. in the greenpoint section of brooklyn. All day we'd heard forecasts of rain. sleet and hail. This made me very anxious, as I know night exteriors to be risky enough, without the water/electricity relationship, or the high winds/grip problematic (shit blows around). I'd just added a last light to a shot of an old car parked at the curb, when this cop with a thick rockaway accent says to me: "Get that light out of the street! You gotta keep a twelve foot fire lane open here."
I was rushing back to the monitor to see how our shot looked, and i stopped in my tracks, sighed, and winced.
"Sir," I said, looking at the cop finally. "You are quite seriously hampering my creative process."
I'd meant it as a joke. He didn't take it too well.
"Get your damn light outta the street." He said menacingly, "or I'll really give you something to worry about."

The funnist set-cop I've ever encountered was in L.A. We had this crusty old guy from the motorcycle division. The scene we were shooting was too sisters having the big hash out of their lives, the night before one was to get married. We were shooting on melbourne St. in Los Feliz, but it was supposed to play for Providence, Rhode Island.
As the camera rolled, these two lousy, primadonna actresses did their sisterly argument - screaming stuff like: "MOM AND DAD ALWAYS LOVED YOU MORE THAN ME! THAT'S WHY I STUDIED SO HARD AND BECAME A BIG CORPORATE LAWYER."

When the A.D. called cut, I could see other crew memebers laughing and holding their noses. The burly grey-hairedcop leaned to me and said: "Hmm. I think I'm smelling an academy on that one."

How funny. How weird.

I must have stepped into one of those emotional air pockets tonight. A really nice day off ended with a late dinner at the diner up the street, and I run into my cousin martha, and she's like a stranger. I noticed her inside talking to my friends while I was outside on the telephone. When I came in to say hello

"Hey, how's it going?" I said, leaning forward to kiss her.
She kissed me back, and then put her hand on my right shoulder and began to sort of push and pull me back and forth by my sweater.
"I know - you're here." She said. "I saw you outside."
I hesitated as she push/pulled me, trying to register what it meant. She stared at me without any trace of smile.
"Are you high?" I asked, finally.

Anyway, weirder things have been known to happen. I asked Terry about it as we walked back to the house. He just stared straight ahead.
"I ain't getting in the middle of any of your family's shit." He said, shaking his head with a cynical frown.

I must have seriously missed something while I was outside on the phone. This is probably not such a big deal but there are other weird thing afoot.

I don't really know where I belong. Usually I try HOPE that it's the same place as where I am. There's so much potential for things to go wrong, or people to radically turn against you (I mean "Me" - I just say: "You" - it's a weird usage thing in American English).

There's a weird wind blowing through new York tonight. Perhaps the rain brought something. Whether this whole story turns into a dream or a terrible nightmare will have nothing to do with me.

Last Spring in the city of Angels,
I was faced a terrible chore.
My great love had ended and best friends retreated.
T'was high time to open a new door.

Forced to leave a house of mirth,
I'd known none but the greatest of luck.
I packed up my stuff, and gave back the keys,
setting off in my black Nissan truck.

Laida, a girl I'd met in SF,
offered her Hollywood pad.
with time-a-wastin' and homelessness looming
Her pad wasn't soundin' too bad

The place was a godsend, very cosy and girly,
surrounded by gardens and trees.
I could pass the nights watching digital cable,
or picking through her DVDs.

The day I showed up with my boxes,
I'd packed that day while I cried,
there was the sound of another girl there,
kinda knocking about inside.

I made my arrival obious,
by coughing and shouting hello.
A gentleman's duty's to reaasure a lady,
not barge in "a la" creep or weird-O.

She opened the door but a sliver,
hers was the bloodiest of eyes:
Who are you and what is your business?
I'm not into rock and roll guys!

I explained how I'd been invited,
she was by no means satisfied.
She curled back her lip, bared her white teeth,
and just stepped right on back inside.

Desperate to prove my relation
to the "lady" of the house herself
I showed her the key that I'd managed to find,
on the fuse boxe's wee hidden shelf.

And despite my great sense of displeasure,
being treated like some common brute,
I couldn't help but think to myself,
God DAMN is this girl ever cute!

I know not of you MAN she said,
even if you are Laida's mate,
I'M here at the moment and I'm doing my laundry,
so you'll just have to sit there and wait.

With that madamoiselle closed the door,
and she closed it quite hard at that,
I stood on the stoop, and thought to myself,
this girl is a real little brat.

Ten minutes or so passed while I waited,
and she finally made her way out.
I'd hoped that she'd smile or say some goodbye,
but to her I was no more than a lout.

Fast forward now eight or ten months,
To a New york loft - and a whole new kind of play.
This is the place, where I've got the juice,
and guess who'll be coming to stay.

My host, an old war pal of sorts
explains'me his altruistic flash
She's coming over here to work on the film,
and with us she is going to crash.

I hardened my face, and snarled these words,
"Big deal! - that chick's vibe is fleeting."
But I have to confess, with no small trace of shame,
that my heart it sure 'nough went-a-beating.

And so this song reveals to you reader
how man is so strong and so meek.
I don't know whether to slap that girl's face,
or gently carress her dear cheek.

Travel always leads to feelings of uncertainty in me. Knowing this is very valuable. I'm back in New York, and it's like a social experiment on myself. I say, if you ever want to know how you REALLY feel about something - I mean get into the unsocialized, inner-child- QUIT SMOKING. I was doing fine on the plane to New York, but when we landed I listened to my messages and both terry and David informed me that neither of them had received my flight itinerary, and they were both at different parties, in different boroughs, so i'd have to make my own way home. I'm in a cab, with 200 lbs. of lighting gak, with no keys to anywhere (and it's cold). Yeah, I was getting a little cranky.
Anyway. New York has changed, and it's exactly the same. I love it, and i rememebr why I left. I don't think it's healthy for the environment I live in, to be bigger, louder, more imposing or dominating than anything else in my life. New York drones everything else out. It's impossible to forget where you are, when you're in New York.

We played flag football in McCarren Park on Sunday. It was sunny, windy and brisk; just the weather I've missed from the east coast. When i met everyone else at the field I felt shy and didn't say much, even though they were all very nice. I never thought of myself as much of a football player, but I did alright. I actually made the game-winning touchdown. Oh baby.

Today at 3:20 in the afternoon I set back out for Williamsburgh from manhattan. It was really horrible traffic, everywhere, on every street, all day. Delancey street leading to the bridge was (as terry put it) "third world". I ain't driving into manhattan AGAIN during daylight hours. It's too claustrophobic. The island is busting open with big cars, and they're all fighting their way onto these old bridges that can't nearly accomodate them. I never noticed it before.

The best thing about this trip, and hgelping out with such a chronically disorganized film, is that i can really give a lot to people I love. Just being quite is the most valuable thing right now, as the yelling has begun in the production office. The more manic it gets, the greater my need to be calm and kind, and useful. That's the best thing about production: The better you get at it, the more you can give.

It's funny to me that Tony Soprano always watches the history channel and Biography. That's all I ever watch either. I never cared for episodic television. Presumably Tony Sporano is an extension of the show's creator, as are all the rest of the characters. In episode III of season IV, Tony goes off on a vent about "special interest" and asks what happened to the guys like Gary Cooper. Cooper he describes as "the strong silent type" who didn't complain about being "poor, Irish from Texas - whatever the fuck".

I watched the Biography edition of Jimmy Stewart, and he struck me as having lived his life the same way. He worked in the studios, he married one woman and stayed with her until she passed away. When WWII broke out he enlisted in the Air corps and flew B-17s over Europe. When the war ended and he was discharged , he returned to his "job" as an actor and never mentioned his service. When he was honored by the academy back in the late '70s, he appeared on stage looking great, silver-haired, with the same likable smile he always had. Unimpressed by his own life.

A week later Biography profiled Marlon Brando: "The rebel, misfit actor". It came across that he was always the center of attention, with his mysterious method and use of props to prepare himself. Then, as his career progressed, he got sidetracked by all these things that were removed from his own life: He became involved in the Tahitian independence movement , and American Indian struggles. He was frequently getting arrested, and God knows where his kids were or who was steering them into the adult world. He was taking all kinds of self-prescribed shit, and juicing and turning into a whale... Then, by the '80s his world was collapsing: his son killed somebody, and Brando himself was sitting in the docket, sobbing and pleading for the court to have mercy on him. I guess his half-Tahitian daughter killed herself, and there was some speculation about sexual abuse in the Brando house. The whole thing was a smoking, flaming wreck. Very tragic.

Obviously there's more separating Jimmy Stewart and Marlon Brando than a generation gap, but I couldn't help seeing the simlarity between Brando's life's arc, and A LOT of people I grew up around.

Some of the best movie watching experiences I've had were those instances when I dozed off in the middle of the film for 10 or 15 minutes. I could count on feeling quite refreshed and interested - receptive - once I was back from my slumber. It feels good to give oneself permission to sleep.
Gartists must possess, among other things, a rigorous honesty about how they view and mythologize themselves. Where else would fictitious characters come from? The ability to understand the value in an experience, a landscape or a certain light; I imagine that's what enables one to draw from it again and again. If you know why sunsets are romantic (fleeting, rarified last breath of the day - before plunging into night, mystery, sex, lunacy, danger), then you can use those pieces like spare parts. I guess this would be most true of filmmakers. Musicians must experience such emotional stimulii in a completely different language or sensibility.

I watched Montenegro tonight, and I felt my dormant longing to be a fiery Slav reawakened. I imagine that's what one's supposed to feel. Perhaps not everyone responds the same way. There's like 10 other people I've ALSO always wanted to be: They take turns at the helm of my subconscious imagination.

I dreamed last night that i was in Montreal, and I finally had a new motorcycle. I was very self-consciously proud of it. But I also had my old bike, and I kept needing to leave one or the other at someone's house. I was supposed to go to janie's (which had relocated to park Ave. between Van Horne and Bernard) but I was stopped in a store by two of the Mexican guys who worked on painting my house. We got into a fight, and one of them tied a lit cigarette to my arm with a little black piece of silk. I got it off with a very deft calm move, and then began stabbing him in the bottom of his feet.
I really need a change. Maybe sleep in a bed that has access to better dreams.

On the morning of the day in which I am to die, I hope to...
Lovely a time I'm having with Vince and Judy &
Kid gloves fit snug but are not fashionable. How
expensive - I'd even say expansive, hemispherical... I lose
track Whack! lip smack-shellac bivouac nice rack
Kerouac was unrecognizable in his teddy bear
costume. Personally i believe we all love to wear someone else's
clothes the wind-o I wont too sea know moor. Fair wall and
Good-buy anything you want. But you'll have to carry it around all
day-o, day-ay-o, daylight come and me won' go
home cooking. that's what I miss the
most - Oh Daddy, you the MOST!! The most far-out cat daddy.
But I have a smashing woodsplitting motherfucker
headache medicine didn't work for the
skeleton - skinny. That's what we're all gonna be on the BIG
Halloween Nightmare on Elm St. Psycho Blood beach The Thing
Squirm in their chairs. But the king did not
expect the best. because this Halloween's gonna be on fire.

Mel's Halloween Opus

Long time no blog!
I took a couple hours off from my chores and tasks around the big blue house yesterday; so that I could visit a funky little motorcycle shop down by the ballpark. I chanced upon this [guy] and his start-up garage through craigslist.org. He advertised "a whole bunch of F-2 and F-3 parts" that he'd collected for years. My bike being without gauges, or matching colored wheels I figured I'd see what I could... See.
It's not often I find myself down on the Embarcadero, and I was struck by the utter newness of it. It's really a planned city, without any semblance of spontaneity or random expression. I realized, by my own equation, that it had none of what I consider Quality. But I should qualify that my reaction was influenced by the lack of numbered addresses visible on any of the new retail/office complexes. I was rolling along on the bike, my eyes dangerously off the traffic, scanning the sides of these buildings, and unable to situate which block of king street I was on. Suddenly I was forced onto the southbound 280, headed for Potrero Hill. The plight of the newby. I'm sure the workers just haven't gotten around to bolting the number plates onto the buildings.
But after all this driving, the motorcycle shop was closed. "Goddamn everything!" I thought to myself. I'd called the guy on the phone two hours before, and he didn't mention anything about closing early. Thinking to myself that the fellow may just be on a coffee run, I took out my book and decided to settle in and wait for awhile. I was rather grateful to be in a different setting, away from my house and my neigborhood. I leaned against the bike and began to read from CITY OF QUARTZ when a middle-age couple, climbed out of a white SUV, approached me and asked if I was: "...Looking for Casey?" They appeared to be his folks, and as they went on to explain how they were up from San Luis Obisbo, basically dropping in and checking up on their son, and his new (13 months young) enterprise. They expressed dissapointment that he'd split in the middle of the day, while clients (me) waited outside. I gathered he wasn't overburdened with customers - at least not in mom and dad's opinion.
Interesting thing. Usually I'm the one who does all the talking, but these guys - in what I'm seeing now was an atempt to hold me there until Casey returned and snared some sale - essentially bent my ear about their son. They told me of his lifelong misadventures (including federal prison), his dreams of redemption in a motorcycle shop... And I thought about ur friend N.A., and breathed a discreet sigh of relief on his behalf.
I was thinking to myself: Boy would Casey hate to know about this conversation. Mom and dad are sweet; I found myself touched by their openness about their son's (comment tu dis..?) issues. But the utter lack of respect for his privacy was at the same time quite awkward. I don't know what I'd do if my mom and dad were telling some stranger the kind of stuff I wouldn't even share in an AA meeting.
And I don't mean American Airlines.

Ahh... Gusty, warm nights in October. I'm set to walk over to the cafe on 22nd street and make a plan (pitch a plan - is more like it) to the very sweet German girl who works there. I saw her on the street today, and she told me to come by her work at eight - when she finishes - and it seemed to be hummin'.
But now... Ah, confidence, bluster, swagger, bullshit... Where do they go?

I've noticed no one writes LOVE STUFF on Blogger; at least in our little camp. It's not the greatest, this "boy meets girl" thing. Not the most interesting story out there. My back is sore for some reason. It's that tired-sore that always seems to suggest psychosomaticality. I'm trying to figure out if my loss of mojo to go hang with this girl stems from my own depleted energies from working, or some "worm hole" of the moods I unwittingly crawled into.
Or, if it's something coming from her; a shift in her consciousness. Life is not in a vacuum. I wish I could just lie down on a hardwood floor.

I walked the dog around the neigborhood and up to Dolores park tonight. There were several parties going on in different corners of the park - some final hoorah for Critical Mass. I steered pretty well clear of them; somehow the energy didn't seem that positive. It was more like people looking for a struggle in which to pour their energies. All over the mission district I saw groups of six or seven cyclists, heading home after the big rallye, and filling the lanes with their bikes two and three abreast. A small taste of power tends to have an ugly effect on weak-minded people. The whole thing seemed defiant and confrontational, for the sake of defiance and confrontation. HEY MAN, DON'T FUCK WITH US. WE'LL HIT YOU WITH OUR KRYPTONITE LOCKS.
Everybody's got a plan to make the world better. Invariably calls on other people to change what they are doing.

I keep having these weird encounters with groups of lesbians around here. This area has become the stomping ground for young, angry, punk-rock dykes. They go to the Lexington Club on 19th street, and when there's enough of them together, they start fronting tough. How dumb can you get? I've heard other people recount the same experience. Gay, straight... It's all the same. If you act like a shithead, you will be treated like a shit head. Sometimes you'll be treated like a shithead even if you're an angel. That's just the nature of life.

Shit. It's Sunday, and I have to go work on the house. Everyday I work on the house. It has gotten so hard to keep at it. I think I am in the sixth or seventh week of painting, and though it's near done - everyone says so - I can't seem to see the end. The most interesting thing about this process, is seeing myself brought to the end of my will; my strength; my resolve. i consider myself the strongest man alive, but I'm watching the steeply banking downward curve of my focus.
The hardest thing is knowing how much personal business needs seeing to, and not having the nergy at the end of the day to deal with it. yesterday our front door lock went on the fritz, and I just left it. For all I know the house is wide open. My room upstairs is just a sty, mattress bare, clothes on the floor, alongside garbage, crumpled up receipts, pieces of sandpaper. If only I coyuld finish today, in one twelve hour rush of work. I would totally do it. Instead I'm only able to fill holes and gaps in the wood with caulking and bondo. I want to take this day off, but I'll regret it tomorrow.
It's scary to push myself so hard and so far.

I'm experiencing a goddamn amazing piece of time travel today. I's like a science fiction movie, in which a character keeps walking through those viscouous liquid time portals, unwillingly walking back and forth from one dimension to another. Today it was 1994 for me; halfway through my undergrad and trying to extract some information or service from concordia University.

It all started when i decided i would apply to UCLA's MFA program, with the notion of fast-tracking myself to YET another dimension, where everyone's above the line, the grass is green and the girls are pretty: With a masters degree i could say goodbye forever to grip trucks, sandbags, cable runs, shitty six day weeks... But the deadline is upon me, and suddenly i have to rememeber my student ID # and password for the on-line admisiions and transcript services (and the former wasn't VALI - when did I change that?)

When I left concordia, and Montreal, i never thought I'd look back, but now six years later THINGS HAVE CHANGED. dealing with institutions takes a lot of experience. I feel like I'm out of shape. I have two weeks to hustle my application together for the Fall 2003 semester. That one won't be in my hands.

I gave Mike Manzone notice of my intention to take over his apartment on march 1st, 2001. He seemed agreeable to it. I have a stable life in my future. Just the thought of it seems to energize me.

My blogs are not smelling too fresh right now. What, it's been three weeks since I touched this. Goddamn, what happens? It's like a blackout drunk - waking up in jail, or a wrecked car. I don't even drink. I'm addicted to painting.

Everything i want to write is too personal for blogger-forum. I don't know if that's good or bad. I should probably branch off to another venue of personal expression. Ambitions thwarted by procrastination; I'm not going to lay that one out. Letting fall every plan or design... Smoking has really cost me a lot in the last 18 months. I only have one week left of that.

I was excited about going to new york a few weeks ago, but now i'm shuddering at the thought of living out of bags for another month - two - three months. Who knows? I know i can buck up, but it's not too inviting.

Zack asked me tonight what i planned to do on Sept 11th, and I hadn't thought about it. Inwardly, I figured I'd wait and see what happened... you know - out in the world. Maybe I'd arm myself in the house, and listen to patriotic radio broadcasts. I'm not going out and around the Mission district. I know there will be marches, and demonstrrations calling for peace and rethinking of American policy. I think that's so childish and simplistic and goddamn holy. I'd rather go out to Alameda and attend services on the U.S.S. Hornet. I find that much more comforting than the alternative-world of this neighborhood. I don't know what I'll do on Sept 11. If I work on painting the house, i'll probably hang an American flag on the scaffold. Everyone else on the block can find their own interpretation of events.

The week seemed to run by in hyper-time, and i didn't get to exert any creative energy on blogger or anywhere else, unless you count LA PEINTURE.

The stress level of the week was moderate most of the time, with a couple moments of code red when we rigged the scaffold to do the 35' high sunburst of bartlett St. My dad seems to think I'm going over budget, and I need to start thinking about cutting corners. I'm of the mind that there couldn't be a less perfunctory prep, unless we painted right over the cracked, peeling paint. Sigh.

Last night Terry and I went to see an old French film at the castro, and I found myself uplifted by the experience. When we entered the theater, the old Wurlitzer organ was playing LA VIE EN ROSE in baseball-time and we giggled at the wonderful otherness of it. I found myself thinking about value and romance, and the book of short stories i want to write which would explore those themes.
Sitting in the theater, as the lights dimmed down, I was struck like lightning with the conclusion that exposure to life, and people and ideas and culture saves us from our own nihilistic thoughts. In that moment, I realized that the Herculean task of painting our old house has a certain, preciousness to it - if i can find it. I can be Chaplin - or harold Lloyd - riding on the hands of the big clock tower, or scrambling up and down the scaffold, with gallons of beautifully colored liquids -clanging against each other, gently seeing to every inch of the old, wooden facade. A nail or a screw here, and some sanding there, and as we move the scaffold another 10' feet, the poor, broken old house emerges with a sparkle; and every passer-by smiles, and thanks us for taking care of the old place.

This week I will begin the first installment of the "Painting the Gingerbread palace" feature on filbert.net. There will be pictures and stories. I hope everyone stops in to take a look.