Phil's Journal

Wed, 07 Nov 2007 15:57:37 GMT

Desafortunadamente, I now post only on my blogger blog. Come take a look.

Thanks!

they're doing the mess around

Fri, 07 Sep 2007 13:57:38 GMT

friday and i've slunked into work unshaven (unshorn?), my hair a vague cloud about my head, clapped in jeans and my obama for illinois shirt. god blessum the corner office, where i can hide behind my closed door, lurking like a lovecraftian shambler on the threshold, unobserved and thus unremarked.

though i may make or take a sojourn to the kitchenette thing in order to rapscallion me some coffee or tea. or some crude made mocha. days like these i don't feel like i'm really employed here at all. just some guy who wondered into the wrong building, found himself an empty office and decided to hang about checking the internet, wondering if he'd be stopped if he took the stash of cookies from the fridge. "Oh, me? I - I'm part of the Human Resources department. No - the Online Harpsichord Division. What's that? I don't really know, yet. I'm new. I'm hoping they'll tell me."

It would be interesting if every time you banged your elbow and set your funny bone to twanging visible rays of purple and blue light would emanate from said offended joint and radiate out and thrum in the air. Or if physical sensations could be apprehended visually by others. A cold, electric blue ache in somebody's cramped knee, for example, or a dull, snowfall static haze about a man's head indicating a headache. Imagine what a migraine would look like - a vast cloud of ink tincturing the air, rhythmically ebbing and flowing, all distances skewed when viewed through its terrible corpus, shot through occasionally with funnels of irradiating white light. Extending for yards and yards from the person's head, sometimes filling entire rooms, flowing down hallways and into elevators...

Pictures from New Zealand

Mon, 31 Oct 2005 04:34:46 GMT

A selection of shots from my trip in the South Island. The only two that require any explanation are the first couple; the second is a shot of my running along the beach seen in the first, to which I fought my way with Kat over the course of almost an hour as I scrambled madly down a steep and treacherous stream bed.

Sat, 24 Jan 2004 16:22:19 GMT

Strange dream last night.

An underground Roman temple had been converted into a restaurant by the cultists who owned it. It was huge, built with massive stone blocks, torches flaring along the walls, thronged with fellow cultists dining out. Went in with Will and some other people to dine, sat down and examined the menu. All the dishes were shaped like ancient Roman boats and ships as seen from above - they looked like swords. Strange.

The meal the cultist restaurant was famous for was this woman. She stood in about twelve raised alcoves around the room, alive and talking to the diners. In each progressive alcove she was older than the last. Thus in the first she was a young woman of 18 years, and in the last she was a crone. What one did if you elected to eat her was take these spear length fondu forks and go up to her, talk to her if you liked, and then spear the fork into her flesh and tear some free, take the gobbet of meat back to your table and cook it over a flame there. If you chose to eat of her you had to work your way through each of the twelve alcoves. Pretty gruesome. Nobody at our table opted for that option; we all picked just appetizers.

(I think the woman was some sort of deity, an enemy of the cultist's goddess who had been defeated in a war long past and condemned to eternal torture in this restaurant.)

Other bits of my dream that I am too lazy to describe in full:

My being at an airport and missing my plane to the cult temple due to thinking I could still board at the last minute and just ride the moving sidewalks reading magazines - I was wrong.

Being led into the temple which, as a cover, was disguised as some sort of emergency water relief for the adjacent river. It was operated by smacking a squash ball into its rotten wooden supports so that they fragmented, lowering the temple's floor and allowing the water to run through it. This all made sense in my dream.

After the temple bit, being in a dugout with this fitness coach who was doing a question and answer session with these fanatical aerobic instructors.

Sat, 17 Jan 2004 13:07:20 GMT

Quick update:

Dreamt that I was in a floating mini approaching a toll booth on the Amazon river. Was being chased by somebody familiar in a second mini, and we were shooting at each other discretely through our sunroofs. There was an Indian village on the bank on the right, and it was illegal to park our minis there.

We all got in line and were waiting to pass the toll booth when an argument flared up between the captain of the toll booth, the captain of a large boat before us (Russel Crowe) and the Indian chief, who was this wise old man who got Crowe really pissed off.

The indians were building this strange ramp up into the sky which channeled the river water not only against the current but against gravity. The point, I knew, was to build a reverse river into the sky, so the indian chief's son could sail up into the heavens and enlist the aid of their dead ancestors in fighting the forces of the white man that had destroyed their power and tribe.

Tue, 13 Jan 2004 06:49:57 GMT

BERLIN (Reuters) - German police are investigating after an angry man returned a computer he had just bought saying it was packed with small potatoes instead of computer parts.
The store replaced the computer free of charge but became suspicious when he returned a short time later with another potato-filled computer casing, police in the western city of Kaiserslautern said on Monday.

"The second time he said he didn't need a computer any more and asked for his money back in cash," a police spokesman said.

Police are now investigating the man for fraud.

That's what I call a news story.

Sun, 11 Jan 2004 18:54:22 GMT

Ethereal and sublime. My friend and I arrived by canoe at this island, where we were greeted by a beautiful young chinese woman, who asked us to join her on shore. Suspecting a trap, I was wary, and when she played us false I grabbed her arm and twisted it behind her back. She laughed coldly, saying her friend was waiting, hidden, along the path that led up to the village, and we would never ascend it without being killed. I looked up the dark and tunnel-like path that rose up the hill under the canopy and saw her friend hidden in shadow - I called out to her, and to her disbelief she knew I had seen her, and slowly came forth.

The village was composed of long, low houses built in the ancient chinese style, painted crimson and filled with these beautiful chinese woman who hated us. Strangely enough, the far eastern side of the village was an out door mall of sorts, with clothing racks and tables set up on them, like the inside of a Bloomingdales.

We were all celebrating - because peace had finally been made and a friend of mine was marrying a chinese girl. This part was more like a musical, with everybody dancing, laughing, striking poses and playing in the mall area. Lots of silly fun, with that undercurrent of danger that had me watching my back at all times.

Then a group of male warriors charged in on us, killing my friends and the women they were going to marry, forcing me into hiding and despoiling the village. I swore revenge, and decided to hunt down the tree men who had killed my three companions.

What followed was an incredible hunting sequence through this massive chinese castle. All the chinese people were shapeshifters - they could assume the form of a certain animal. I was able to fly - though it was a very strange flight. What I would do is push off of something - a stone railing, or a massive ornamental lamp - and would soar slowly, as if through water, towards my destination, which I would latch onto (these jumps were never more than ten yards) and use my momentum to swing around and jump again, or simply hang there for a second before falling gently to the ground. It was glorious, thrilling, and very dangerous because I truly was soaring at a ridiculously slow speed while others were moving normally.

I only remember what happened at the end of the dream now. I had reached the top of the castle, where the second man was sparring with his son. He was shirtless, short and well muscled, with a look of mercilessness about him. I confronted him, and we fought, though his movements were hampered due to his desire to protect his son. The combat was incredible, and I finally killed him.

At this point the POV shifted to that of one of the chinese girls, who could soar much better than I could. She ascended with slow leaps and bounds all the way to the top of the castle, and there, in this dark kitchen, she fought the final man, who transformed himself into this long snake with a needle at the end of its tail. It was perhaps two yards long and she drifted around the air, darting blows with a thin shovel at where the snake danced, finally striking twice as it rounded a corner, cutting a small segement from the middle of its body and killing it, leaving it to shudder and twitch as it died.

The dream ended there, but I felt as if she cast herself off the cliff to die, having nothing left to live for now that her enemies were dead.

I've left out tonnes of details - some beautiful, others creepy - and at least two fifths of the whole dream because it is gone from me. It was all painted in vivid colors, with a dynamic and movie-esqe feel to it, charged with drama, eroticism and danger. And the slow soaring jumps I was able to take, pushing myself off from something and floating through the air towards the top of a lamp post, or a wall...

Sat, 10 Jan 2004 21:21:14 GMT

Interesting dream last night. Involved Paul.

We were all covert spies investigating a massive scientific/military compound - there must have been five of us. The building was truly gigantic, shaped like a vast, iron gray brick, all hard angles and sharp corners, covered with slate gray windows and fire escapes. We were attending a movie screening - that was our way in, and during the film we were planning on slipping out and exploring.

So - we line up outside, buy our tickets, are led to this movie theater inside that must have been able to seat at least 2000 people, except there were perhaps twenty five there. We sit way up at the top, and look for a way to escape but can't - we're being watched by tonnes of guards. Then some powerful dignitary makes his way in at the bottom - and during that moment I seize the opportunity to escape through a side door, leaving the others behind.

Out and into the science complex. I find myself accidentally stepping out into a courtyard of sorts which is watched by guards - they're everywhere. Door is locked behind me, and I know that I have to cross the gravel yard somehow to get to the next door. Which is impossible - or would be, if I didn't suddenly manifest this chameleon-like ability to change the surface of my body into the material I'm crossing over. So - thinking hard - I change my skin and slink out and around and up onto the landing and in through the door. Only to slip out into the far side of the courtyard again, and have to repeat the process. (sidenote: changing my skin and to a degree my body shape was very, very fun)

Into the corridors. Trying to avoid people who are walking around and in so doing end up ducking down a side corridor while being chased and then out a window and onto a fire escape and then down to the ground far below. Outside, free, but with my friends trapped within and stuck.

How to get back inside? I walk around, explore, go to the ticket booth and complain that I left my shoe or something in the movie theater. They call a Professor who asks me some questions and lets me back in. I sneak off down a side corridor and slip out once again into that courtyard. Back across, changing my skin, up and in, running and avoiding guards, dodging and hiding. End up in this secret room several levels below, where I meet some prisoners of war...

And then SHIFT

And I'm in a red caddy driven by this British friend of Mark's and we're killing time out in the countryside till this show starts and I'm in the backseat and somebody is riding shotgun. Looks like we're driving around Alabama, what with all the haystacks and pickup trucks and farms and whatnot.

Mark's friend has this cool magnet attached to his key chain that is incredibly powerful - as we drive slowly past this deserted gas tanker, he turns it on and gets all the small latches to unsnick themselves one by one. We start joyriding over some bumps, getting over five feet of air at times, and then we reach a field and I ask if I can drive over the next few bumps. Sure, he says, and I run over to check out the bumps - only to see that they're impossible to drive over, a trick in perspective, because each bump is over eight feet high, two feet long and with only a couple more feet between them. Disappointed I go back, and the dream ends.

Fri, 09 Jan 2004 17:04:08 GMT

New dream, brief sketch:

A robot gladiatorial fight. Began with what looked like a patrol of miniature storm troopers entering a steel room, with a voice over as to how deadly they were and how none of the old contenders could stand up to them. Then it changed, and it became my rubbery ectoplasmic organic robot thing versus another one that looked like a blend between an Atari and a skateboard.

Mine got its ass kicked, because I bought the two most powerful weapons and used them up straight away, missing my target. Which then mocked me and began to destroy my robot, until I crept up behind it and dropped a big brick on it.

Hahahaha, dumb ass skateboard robot.

Thu, 08 Jan 2004 19:57:46 GMT

Alternate Self in 6 years if I had gone to work on Wallstreet and remained hooked on Queer Eye for the Straight Guy:

BATEMAN (V.0.)
I believe in taking care of
myself, in a balanced diet, in a
rigorous exercise routine. In the
morning, if my face is a little
puffy, I'll put on an ice
pack while doing my stomach
crunches. I can do a thousand
now.

Bateman ties a plastic ice pack around his face.
Bateman does his morning stretching exercises in the living room wearing the ice pack.

CUT TO:

A mirror-lined bathroom. Bateman is luxuriating in the shower steam, scrubbing his body, admiring his muscles.

BATEMAN (V.O.)
After I remove the icepack, I use
a deep pore-cleanser lotion. In
the shower, I use a water-
activated gel cleanser, then a
honey-almond body scrub, and on
the face an exfoliating gel scrub.

Bateman stands in front of a massive marble sink applying a gel facial masque.

BATEMAN (V.O.)
Then I apply an herb mint facial
masque which I leave on for ten
minutes while I prepare the rest
of my routine.

Bateman opens the door of a mirrored cabinet, which is stocked with immaculate rows of skin care products. He begins selecting bottles jars and brushes, laying them in readiness on the marble counter.

BATEMAN (V.O.)
I always use an after-shave
lotion with little or no alcohol
because alcohol dries your face
out and makes you look older.
Then moisturizer, then an anti-
aging eye balm, followed by a
final moisturizing "protective"
lotion...

Bateman stares into the mirror. The masque has dried,
giving his face a strange distorted look as if it has been wrapped in plastic. He begins slowly peeling the gel masque off his face.

BATEMAN (V.O.)
There is an idea of a Patrick
Bateman, some kind of abstraction,
hut there is no real me, only an
entity, something illusory, and
though I can hide my cold
gaze and you can shake my hand
and feel flesh gripping you
and maybe you can even sense our
lifestyles are probably
comparable: I simply am not there.

Wed, 07 Jan 2004 17:49:06 GMT

Three dreams last night. One was about a monk in black in my living room trying to force my mother to give him my soul. The second was about an slumber party with a ton of cute girls and paul. The third was set in a medieaval/polynesian world where i defended a castle and then was hired as a consultant to defend it the second time.

Wed, 07 Jan 2004 08:10:53 GMT

"What I fear most, I think, is the death of the imagination. When the sky outside is merely pink, and the rooftops merely black: that photographic mind which paradoxically tells the truth, but the worthless truth, about the world. It is that synthesizing spirit, that 'shaping' force, which prolifically sprouts and makes up its own worlds with more inventiveness thatn God which I desire. If I sit still and don't do anything, the world goes on beating like a slack drum, without meaning. We must be moving, working, making dreams to run toward; the poverty of life without dreams is too horrible to imagine: it is that kind of madness which is worst: the kind with fancies and hallucinations would be a Bosch-ish relief."

- Sylvia Plath, Feb 25th, 1955

Wed, 07 Jan 2004 07:36:03 GMT

A journalistic entry of existintial woe, which has pushed through the jaded feeling I have developed of late for all such entries in which I lament my weaknesses and lack of focus and drive and wasted opportunities. Through jaded self reflection and into the state of paralyzed, empty speculation – will there ever be change, growth, maturity, creative energy and style? The eternal question in which the artist asks if he is any good and is told that that question can’t be answered, that while art is a means towards communicating the celebration of living as the artist sees it it can never escape the lens of the artist’s eye and thus never be anything but the artist on paper, wholey in some facet or other, whose ability to communicate is dependant on the artist’s inherent talent and discipline and truthfullness towards himself.

Be yourself! Write what you will, how you wish and about what only you would like to read. Metaphysics is a bitch, and the hardest thing to do once you’ve learnt from the masters is to forget them, forget their genius and narrow your gaze myopically to the page before you, clean and pure and pristine and awaiting to be despoiled by you, you and you only, unconscious and vicious and streaming and crying and laughing and always on the verge of quitting. Forget them – you can never be what they were, nor speak as they did, nor imagine worlds and people like they did either. No – for you, there is only yourself, your own alpha and omega, your own empty audience hall in which you perform before a mirror and bow to the empty applause that never resounds inside your head.

Gods, to be driven, to be alive, to be filled with passion! Why do I not have a monkey on my shoulder, forcing me to write write write? Why do I opt for such an indolent life, filled with wasted time and spurious thoughts, wishful thinking and laziness? To be driven, to see the world in such a different way that you must express it as best you can, must write it down over and over again so that you may make sense of it, may understand why it seems so different to others and why you are so unique. Not I, no, not I, far from the realms of genius and individual vision do I stand. I do not see the world differently, but perhaps only with greater understanding of what little I manage to see. What I do comprehend, I comprehend well, but it is like having a single spot of sunlight in a vast and terrible jungle that is otherwise filled with night. In that spot glistens a crimson toadstool, jeweled with dew and an of such intense hues and shades that it hurts the mind. Marvel at how well you perceive it, this strange and wondrous fungi, and ignore the forest that stretches out into infinity on all sides, dark and mysterious and beyond your ken.

To struggle, to fight, to rise up like a horse at bay, neighing and kicking, fighting the pack of wolves that are time and the death of all hope, that hold you at bay, that pursue you and corner you and never give you surcease from your troubles. To fight and scream and rage and flail, to stand before the oceans like Canute and bid them be still, to attempt the impossible and have faith in yourself while doing it – this I would have be mine own mindset, be me, Canute II, sitting confidently at the keyboard and knowing that what I write matters not to anybody else but me, that I should write as if each page were being deleted as it were produced, for refinement and sales mean nothing when the only true source of creation is to reveal yourself, to communicate your pain and love and passion and fear and perversity to a world that cares not at all.

Futile! All, all futile! There is no meaning, no cause, no effect. There is only now, the infinite now that stretches away as far as you can see and ends when you blink, as soon as you sit down to rest and close your eyes and never open them again. A trillion blinks end in one closure and then its over and what have you done? Produced thousands of works of art like Picasso, driven like a mad thing, whipped by his muse, fevered and driven and hailed as a genius? Sat around in your room like a rock, accumulating nothing but dust and dead dreams that are curled around your stooped and defeated form like dry leaves? My heart is a coliseum in which a flame gutters. Nobody could ever understand, you cry into the night, knowing that while many actually could, they never would be you, they never would stand in your own casing of skin and blood and see the world through your eyes and feel it all with your heart and mind.

Tue, 06 Jan 2004 17:21:29 GMT

I'm losing this one even as I type. Up in some mountain area, rural, cabins, right next to some very large lake. We're making a film. Gary Sinise is directing. Beautiful weather, heavy woods, gorgeous. Some six of us in the film. No idea what it's about - some sort of drama.

Warnings are issued to us. Since we film mostly at night, beware of the many ghosts that haunt the trails. Never walk alone, and if we must, take a sword and constantly hack at the air before you. Director shows us how, and severs a ghost's head, which looks like a rubbery Halloween mask of a zombie. He picks it up, and emphasises how important this is.

We memorize the lines from the scripts momements before we are to act them out. Director has a large, hand held camera. We're going to film this one scene in this ruined cabin, so this beautiful woman and I go out to collect material to fix the roof. I jog off to find her where she's working - cutting up logs, massive sheets of cardboard, etc in a small clearing which I reach by running down this narrow path through some underbrush, swinging my sword as I go.

She's very tall, very strong looking, beautiful with striking features. Athletic. We decide to take a particularly large sheet of cardboard, and opt for swimming back in the lake, dragging the cardboard behind us. Things change slightly, and the lake becomes this beautiful sapphire sea, the waters practically luminous under the blazing sun. She strips and swims naked - I follow suit. Yet somehow she able to simply rise to the surface of the water and simply sit on it, legs outstretched, while I have to swim.

I attempt to follow her, but feel myself being pulled to one side, unable to keep up as she begins to drift away. I call out, yell that she must be on a current I've slipped out of, and she turns, swims towards me - I find a leathery rope or tentacle has wrapped around my ankle and is pulling me away - she cuts it and we swim back to the film shoot.

Night again. We're all dressed in many layers, looking for Abercrombie and Fitch. We're filming a scene where I have to walk past this guy and shove him - the Director tells me this, but for some reason I've not memorized any of the lines, and everybody else is ready. Can't waste time. Panicking, I walk out, filn rolling, and push the guy lightly on the shoulder with my hand, moving past him. I know I've pushed him wrong - director wanted a hard shoulder shove. He cuts filming, explains. Ah... ok. I get it. One sec.

I run back into the cabin, search for my script. Where is it? Missing. Fuck! I ask one of the other actors for theres, but for some reason they've copied their's out on a large piece of slashed up plastic raincoat which is all bent over and placed outside. He gets it, everybody notices, director is moving the set about a little, I begin to feverishly read my lines. I have to say something like:

"What are you looking at? Jonny Torributo, you some ridiculous hack from 1979..." There were another four sentances, but even what I just typed is wrong. I would see the words in my dream, and be unable to retain them when I tried to recite them. I'd look back, same words, no memory later. People start hissing at me to go out there.

Just then, an argument starts to brew. The other actors are seated at this old picnic table, and the athletic girl starts raising her voice, accusing the director of having done something in the past. The director starts defending himself, shocked, and I hear things like, 'You were responsible' and 'Six dead' and the like. One of the guys, angry, says loudly, 'He's the principal - if he says drop it, drop it.' I'm ecstatic. Argue more! Give me time to memorize my lines! Keep going!

(There was much more before this one, and between these scenes. Long dream, most of it gone now. Ah well.)

Sun, 04 Jan 2004 20:38:16 GMT

Approaching the thick rock and coral gates that seemed to be but a natural part of the cliff face, Trask the pirate captain turned to us and told us to wait. Letting slip his hunting octopus, we watched cayenne pepper colored thing dart towards the edge of land, drifting over the ground with ease, and come to a stop before a hunched over little man who was fishing. It hovered just beyond his reach, and then returned.

Trask nodded as it told him something, and we continued towards the gates. "They don't let people in, usually. Or ever, for that matter. You need to know exactly what flavor to present them with, and that changes regularly. No worries though."

He strode off into the forest to the right, and we entered the channel in the rock face that led to the gates. Calling out, we were greeted by the face of a hoary old man who looked down at us angrily from above, and yelled for us to go away. We asked to be allowed in, and he replied scornfully that unless we knew what the flavor was, we had not a chance in hell. At this point Trask approached, peeling a garlic clove, and showed it to the old man, who was shocked beyond belief. The two gates swung open, and we entered.

Within the compound was a small ship, landlocked and baroque. Trask, alone, approached, and sought a way in. It was the ship of his enemy, and he needed to enter in order to find out his plans. Circling the metal sides, he finally came to a part where he could leap up and grab onto the thin, corrugated metal bars that protected the bottle glass windows. This had always worked before, but this time the metal snapped away under his hand and he fell back. Again, and again he fell back, until the third time he managed to hold on and haul himself up.

Only to be greeted by an armed crew and the captain, who laugh at him for having fallen so easily into their ambush. He's put on a long, metal canoe and pushed off the boat onto a spiralling waterway that courses down and around the island all the way to the ocean below. Zooming down, around and around, he finally surged out into the ocean, and without a means to guide himself, floated away.

On a beach somewhere, we were all resting as night fell. Nick was preparing a barbeque, and many of us were watching this gorgeous blonde woman swim incredibly powerfully through the surf, her pace never flagging as she swam through the emerald waters. She went to far, and below her, a dark shape that swam through the rocky grottos spotted her and began to ascend rapidly - a vast shark.

Somehow everybody on the beach knew what was going on, despite the distance, and the crowd was galvanised. Some people jumped in the water and began swimming towards her, others grabbed their sniper guns and took position, ready to take crack shots at the shark. I went over to where Nick was, and asked when the food would be ready. He said soonish, and stretched out his leg and placed it on the metal siding of the barbeque, which I then accidentally shoved deep into the coals. Nick looked angril at me and then pulled his leg out slow, wiping away the cinders that had embedded them in his flesh. I felt really bad, and then he started to yell and had to have his leg wrapped up with some green leaves or something.

And there was another dream about being a huge hotel in which I ran across Rowan Atkinson (Mr Bean) sleeping in a small conferance room and then later got to watch him do a small standup routine followed by his joinging us for dinner. Fun.

Fri, 02 Jan 2004 17:05:56 GMT

Perfect example of a dream fading on you. I'll recount what I can.

Starts off in some sort of military game. I'm in a small complex, hunting down my opponents. Olive colored walls built in slab like sections, grated floors, sliding doors. It's exactly like a game of Quake, which I haven't played recently. I kneel down by a corner and kill two scouts as the round it, making them part of my team. I retreat into a room, the scouts guarding the door, and see with a roaming camera pov that a large man is coming down the outside corridor with an industrial flamethrower. Before I know what's happened, he's stepped into the doorway and killed everybody.

Next level - I'm with Will and suddenly we're no longer so intent on killing people for some reason. I don't know why, but we're now with a girl and we've convinced her to do something that has resulted in her not eating. This complex looks more like a fancy five star hotel, and we stop off in the restaurant. We've got to get to New York, so we rise, and are astonished when she reveals how little she's eaten of late. (we didn't directly tell her to stop eating - she just had as a result of our decision, or being poor or something.)

I steal a piece of cheese from the buffet table on the way out, and espy these huge, crunchy rolls which I try and grab but don't because the waiter is close. As we walk out the beige marble entranceway, through the glass doors, I effect a strut and approach the waiter, asking in my haughtiest tones if he could get me a roll for the road. When he assures me he can, I offer to do it myself (knowing I'll grab some more stuff for the girl while I'm at it) but he says no, clearly suspicious. He comes back out with a roll in a little basket, and I see that there is ham and cheese in it. Ah, good little waiter.

So we're off, Will and this now eating girl and myself, through the complex which has given up and just become the world, and the hotel lobby leads straight into a metro stop in which a spry middle aged man plays the fiddle with gusto, with a sizeable crowd watching. Feeling generous, I stop and give him a dollar, only to have Will and the girl harangue me to the point where I go back and give him another dollar. I nod to the man, who's got this goatish goatee and long black hair tied back and looks vaguely gypsyish and vaguely New Yorken, and suddenly realize that somehow several large pages of soft pornography have fallen out of my wallet and onto the pile of cash before him. A young boy is on the verge of beginning his voyage of sexual discovery, but I swoop in and grab my porn, not knowing how all that got in my wallet in the first place, and then we're off.

At this point Will and I jump into my mother's car, having somehow arranged to meet the girl in NYC proper. We drive and there's some middle bits where we're outside some place and something happens but that's all gone now. Next thing we know we're just outside Manhattan and we're trying to get in. We drive into the bridgeport (like a tollstation of sorts), narrowly avoiding hitting some homeless people that have congregated there for some reason, and are told by this curt black lady that we can't cross the bridge till midnight cause it's currently in its red phase and thus not open to our kind of traffic.

Will is livid, using not so very subtle sarcasm as we sit around trying to figure out what to do. We'd arrange to meet the girl, and she is wholey dependant on us for some reason and we can't fail to cross. We can't walk over the bridge, and to go around it would require driving through Georgia for some reason. My mother hits on the idea of having to go through in order to pick up the girl at the airport, which is a legitimate reason to cross back to our side, but we're not sure it's good enough to cross over in the first place. Great bit of Will sitting down to draw a map and explain to me why driving through Georgia would be a setback, and him pacing and muttering imprecations.

Then I think I woke up.

Thu, 01 Jan 2004 17:48:20 GMT

Tailend of last night's dream:

Sitting in a bar with a friend and two girls and a young kid. Just met the two girls. Place has two floors, and is mostly restaurant. It's a dangerous place, because my friend (who reminds me of the doctor in Master and Commander) and i are being hunted by these individuals who know we can be found there, so we're on the lookout while drinking our waters.

My friend is explaining how he stopped being a seer and is now a card fortune teller. I spend some time questioning him about this move, and he explains with a delightful level of cynicism as to his own willingness to do whatever it takes to get money off of his customers - licensed or no. A little boy who is sitting to my right asks of my friend several very astute questions, and is rewarded with informational cards - I didn't understand that bit, but my dream didn't need me to.

Then trouble arrives, and my friend and I rise and bid a very hasty fare well, threading our way to the back and then up some steps to the open air second floor where we'll make out escape (I think by leaping onto another balcony). We pass the hostess who tries to offer these absolutely delicious cocktail chocolate icecream things, and I find that one of the girls has joined our flight, and instead of running straight, turns left once we ascend the stairs.

This turns out to be a good thing. I hear my voice narrate something like, "I had never seen magic being practiced before," and I get a snapshot of a very short woman with honey colored curls gesticulating. I thought, within my dream, where the hell is this magic user? Not knowing when I would see her for the first time, I ran after the girl who grabbed a massive pile of plates and then proceded to dump them all on the magician, who had been waiting in this off left side to cast a spell on us as we ran down the center.

Quick note about setting - outside, lots of tree branches overhead, railings and floor made of polished wood, little lamps strung everywhere, quite small, with wooden picnic tables set along the side to sit and dine on.

So crash, all the plates slide through the surprised magic user's hands, and I step in, wrap my forarm around her neck and place my foot against the back of her leg, forcing the joint to flex so that I can fully pressure the back of her calf and drive her throat even harder into the choke. Classic ju-jutsu. I've got no idea what to do next - she's scrabbling at my arm, and the other two guys are coming up from downstairs. I look around for my other friend but he's gone.

Then, stepping out from the crowd is one of the guys, a short, well dressed young man with a pointy little beard and a very arrogant look to his face. He casually takes my hand and removes it from her throat, and I then casually continue his movement and snap his arm. Turning to run, I weave through the crowd and get back only to be faced by the second guy, who originally looked different but is now Bill Murray.

These two had a history in my dream - they were prior characters - but I don't recall that now. Feeling cocky for having snapped the other guy's arm so easily, I engage Bill in a quick fight, but he's got longer reach and some practice and he clocks me in the eye. It's at this point that I start thinking about running away again, and wake up.

Wed, 31 Dec 2003 19:52:26 GMT

Snapshots from last night's dream:

Riding about a small italian town (the kind with winding, cobbled streets, piazzas and old fashioned buildings looming quaintly everywhere) in a large, fibreglass caddy. The driver was the ominous boss of two yakuza style assassins I had met earlier, and who hid his dangerous nature behind the facade of an immature and sycophantic teenager. Long, greasy brown hair, large eyes, pale skin and an over eager manner. However, he'd spared the life of a space lieutenant earlier by telling the yakuza guy behind him something like, "I know you have already heated both paper clips and are ready - but not now."

Anyways. Riding around in this badly made caddy, trying to catch up with some people. Driver decides to make a go at driving up some stone steps, but the caddy was too long and got stuck. I jumped out, and saw that the fiberglass middle was bending dangerously, so I ran round to the back and grabbed the caddy and shifted it around, hoping to give the bicycle tires more purchase. Didn't work, so I pulled it back, off the steps, and leapt back in as we began to cruise around for another way up.

Wed, 31 Dec 2003 16:42:54 GMT

From Altercation by Eric Altman today:

Oops! There goes Another Constitutional Right… I don’t suppose it would interest anyone in the mass media but George W. Bush appears to have signed major aspects of the much-reviled USA Patriot Act II into law without anyone noticing. According to this story in the San Antonio Current ( http://www.sacurrent.com/site/news.cfm?newsid=10705756&BRD=2318&PAG=461&dept_id=484045&rfi=8 )

Wed, 31 Dec 2003 05:57:41 GMT

Vodka tasting night, with snacks courtesy of Xixon, a spanish boutique filled with the most delectable delights this side of the Atlantic. The contestants: Grey Goose, Ketel One, Belvedere, Three Olives and Ciroc.

The arenas? Sour Green Apple Martinis, Strep Chepe, Vodka Cran and straight up. Baby.

Now, opinions differ. But who cares? I declare Three Olives as my personal favorite, due to its having a distinct yet pleasant taste and still being sufficiently smooth to not offend. Second came Belvedere, which, while smoother than 3 Olives, was devoid of discernable taste. This may make it a favorite for others, but if I want to just taste cranberry, I'll order it straight up, on the rocks. Third came Grey Goose, which, while as smooth as Belvedere, had a taste - an aftertaste almost - that in comparison was a bit abrasive - a ever so slightly off putting. At that point in the night, when I realized how I was describing Grey Goose, I knew I had become a vodka snob. Then came Ketel One, that polish fox which was just to strong, too pungent, for my liking, followed by the French Ciroc, distilled five times from grapes and still pretty damn shitty.

It was a long night, filled with scientific discernment and plenty of personal sacrifice. However, I thought Denise, Gracie and my beloved aunt Katya performed admirably under pressure, and despite buying the smallest bottles on the black market, we have sufficient libations to go one more round some other night.

Hold me back, Tonto.

Presents

Tue, 30 Dec 2003 13:53:05 GMT

Things I didn't get for X-mas

Pair of comfy slippers
Cordless Headphones
Bose noiseless headphones
Art book on Hieronymus Bosch
Etchings by Gustave Dore (Divine Comedy)
Subscriptions to The Atlantic Monthly, Harpers, Mens Health, The Economist, GQ, Maxim, The New Yorker, Locus and Asimov's Science Fiction Magazine.
The ability to sleep before 1am
A suit

Tue, 30 Dec 2003 13:14:58 GMT

Just had a strange dream in which I was a young chinese soldier. Our division was camped out in this modern school in some sort of winter setting, with deep snow covering the fields and buildings, and an endless sky of infinite, freezing blue above us. It began with my being in a field - might have been the exercise field, standing in formation with hundreds of other soldiers in our thick, olive colored trenchcoats. My gun was a wooden affair with a bate minimum of machinery - in effect a glorified bb gun which I broke up in the center and then plugged a finger long bullet into, snapped back closed and fired.

We were drilling, and my gun was malfunctioning - everytime I snapped it back closed it would fire almost straight away, so that I shot it off to the left and just a few feet over the heads of my friends. Frightened, knowing I had almost killed somebody, I stepped out of line, and ducking my head ran off the field and up to the side of one of the large, single story school buildings where an officer stood giving orders to soldiers who came and went with news in this covered walkway. Who took one look at my gun and demanded to know if I had cleaned it as ordered. I stammered something about thinking maybe I had, and he yelled at me to go clean it and stop wasting his time.

Taking one of those rectangular sink sponges with iron wool on once side, I walked away and around the building and sat on some cement steps, where I began to intently scrape the rust and blackish muck that had seeped into the wood from the gun. The school we were in was quite massive - the buildings were made of brick, and the railings were bright red tubes with wire mesh beneath them. Some rose to some six stories, large, irregularly shaped geometric affairs, while others were simpler and single storied, with sloping roofs of a Japanese cast. Large windows, modern, clean, empty.

I scrubbed the wooden stock clean, and then got to work on the metal barrel. The grain began to appear, and I saw that the wood of the gun was actually quite light and beautifully grained. Pleased with my work, I stood, putting the sponge away, and walked back to where the officer had stood. He was gone, so I continued around the building, past the knot of people stand still worked and out following the walkway into this columned area.

There I saw another young chinese man carrying a heavy pack and looking slightly wild around the eyes. I hailed him, and he yelled a greeting, claiming that he had just come back from the front and was looking for a superior. Something about him struck me as off, and I decided to escort him to an officer. A sense of etiquette, part of me, took over, and I asked if I could help carry his pack. He agreed immediately, annoying me, and I shouldered it, and began to walk with him. Several women stared at us as we passed, as did other soldiers, and when I finally reached an officer, I dropped the pack and stood back.

The officer, a small, intense looking man in his thirties, listened for a short moment to the refugee, and then screamed at him and ordered him to be escorted away. I didn't understand why, but presented myself with my now clean gun and asked for instructions. He flicked his cold eyes over me and yelled that I should make for the south-east book building, where fighting had broken out.

I had no idea where that was, but nodded alertly and turned and ran. I had perhaps only four finger long bullets in my pocket, a clean gun and no real idea as to quite how to use it. People were running back and forth, and as I stepped out from under that walkway which connected the small group of buildings that surrounded the field I saw that the school sloped rapidly down about fifteen yards into a miniature valley which was divided by massive buildings, all connected by cement paths obscured mostly by snow or further walkways.

Regiments ran back and forth, and as I hurried to join one I saw a group of strangely dressed foreigners moving towards us, lost in our crowds, arms in the air, yelling, "We surrender! We surrender!" They were ignored and laughed at, and soon we were past them, tromping quickly down this path that led alongside this vast hectagonal building of brick, cement and dark glass. A school? For what? We ran down some steep, sharp steps, and came to a fork, where everybody was turning right. I saw that if I kept on the steps and went down to the left, I would be able to hook to the right further down, and with nobody infront of me sprint ahead.

So I left the regiment, my boots clomping rapidly on the steps as I ran down further and then took the next left off the steps and began to run around the base of the building, the bright fire engine red railing to my left, the brick wall to my right, a cement balcony over my head, the diffuse light of the winter sky spearing in from above and sparkling off the mounds of snow. Somebody - some cleaner - had left his coat, gloves and cleaning equipment stashed into a bank of snow that had overflowed the railing, and not even daring to look around, I grabbed up his blue gloves and thrust them in my pocket.

I came to another flight of stairs, and started running up, up and around and around, but each floor I came to had only locked doors. Three, four floors, and then finally I pushed through a large, square door of metal at the top and saw that I had ascended once more to that plateau where the training field had been. I stepped out onto the snow covered cement, the plateau extending off to my left, the building top behind me and another building, singe storied, immediately before me. To my right was what appeared to be a cliff; I stopped and stared out over the school, at the buildings glistening in the harsh light and the many olive figures running towards what must be the south-east.

Unsure where to go, I heard a laugh and turned, seeing a young man, slighty older than I, watching me. He shook his head and asked if I was lost, which I admitted I was, and I guessed him to be an officer of some sort. He pointed out that I had to go back down the way I had came, and then how to get to the book building. There was something strange about him - around him I felt calm, confident, though speaking to him gave me a strange, dream-like feeling. He told me that things would be alright, and asked me if there was a girl in my life. I allowed that there might be, and he laughed again and said there always was. I smiled and watched him force open the metal door of the building before me, the mound of snow that had piled up before it giving way under it's edge.

I closed my eyes, still smiling, no longer worried so much about battle and death, and when I opened them I saw that he was gone, and the door closed. I wasn't surprised to see the pile of snow once more before the door, or the fact that there were no footprints. A spirit then - or my future self? I accepted this with ease, and after a minute carefully recomposed my mind so that I believed only in the state religion again, and not shintoism. Turning, I looked out over the cliff, and stepping forwards I saw that the ground sloped sharply down for five feet and then just ended. The quick way down, I wondered? Tempted, I stood there, irresolute, and then I shook my head and went back through the door I had exited through.

2003:12:29:20:58:43

Tue, 30 Dec 2003 02:07:14 GMT

Resetting your biological clock is damned tricky. At about four or five in the morning, you find yourself awake, cocking and fully credulant that you can easily spend the next sixteen hours awake in order to fall asleep at a sensible and childish time like 10pm. Come 9am, you are convinced that you can easily stay awake best by lying in bed with a good book.

Bad idea. I awoke at 2, spent the afternoon reading about Picasso, and then took a slight nap from about 5 till now. Suffice to say that my world has taken up all the skewed angles and disturbing vagueness of something that I am no longer in sync with, and don't quite understand anymore. I'm no longer sleepy nor tired, awake nor energetic. I feel like the 1000 yard stare made flesh; that if you were to cut me I would not bleed, but only reveal a gray, slightly damp interior of the same composition as play-do, except for inside my head which is filled with damp cotton wool.

However, I did have a dream about Tori Amos. Which is strange, because we've never talked, much less met, and nor do I listen to her music or really know what she looks like. I was in some sort of recital hall/attic with some friends and her and she was looking incredibly classy and beautiful. I was chatting away at the crowd, and being generally ignored, except by her. She smiled at me in a quiet, knowing way, and by saying nothing led me to believe she was extremely wise. Here's a desc I wrote of her:

Description of Tori Amos in my dream:

Most important were her eyes, wide and almond shaped, large and violet, though at other times they were a cerulean blue with this galaxy affect of gray in a circle around the pupil, the blue as variegated as a peacocks tail, intelligent and amused and sympathetic and reserved. Her skin was luminous white, her lips wide, sensual, composed in a slight, enigmatic smile. Hair a luxious honey, smooth and curved, her body wrapped up in some sort of strange suit or cloud of dark blue and purple, velvety and 50’s and simple. She didn’t speak much at all, instead simply listening

I'm going to download some of her songs now. Which are good? Cornflake girl? Crucified? Those are the only titles that are familiar, and only because I've heard Paul and Lisa nattering on about her in the dim and distant past.

2003:12:29:7:02:47

Mon, 29 Dec 2003 12:16:39 GMT

New journal, new beginnings. Tempted to leave this revamp till the New Year, but that would be bordering on trite. No, new beginnings need no symbolism. They simply need the end of something else, a grave from which they can spring, like the phoenix, rejuvenated, wholely new.

New beginnings, and towards what end? The pirate metaphor had grown stilted and constricting and I felt no urge to write further in that vein. No - now I shall speak as I will, on what I will, and when I wish. Of what matters shall this journal concern itself? I don't honestly know, nor care. This is the garbage pile, where others can look should they care to, knowing full well, forwarned, that though they may glean the occasional rough gem from these writings, for the most part they should expect little more than dross and crap.

"More than enough reasons, Senor, to confirm my worst suspicions regarding the world in which we live, and to classify you as a brainless, mentally defective shithead (I use the first and third terms as metaphors; the second is to be taken literally.)"

So read if you want, I care not. If you are not interested or amused by my ramblings, then feel free to fuck off.

That said, I have nothing else to say. Except for a quote from Jonathon Swift, which seems apropos, given its fecal focus:

"Of course I nearly lost my wits,
Celia, Celia, Celia shits."

Love and bodily functions - mutually exclusive, or complimentary?