Wednesday, August 26, 2015

Um... okay.

11 door to door miles today and no sale... okay.  Keep hope alive?  Sure. Door to door miles are the distance equivalent of dog years.

Sunday, August 16, 2015

The Wretched -- Peter Ferguson

Like a drunk in a midnight choir, I have tried in my way to be free...

It seems pointless to write, when yet again, someone has beaten me to the punch and illustrated the feeling and emotion in painstaking detail.  The Wretched, indeed... Closing time is closer still to the asylum when the cell door are about to shut for the night, except rather than being locked in the afflicted are about to be locked out.  Banished to lonely, dry bedrooms where rather than listening to the howling of other inmates you hear only the inmates locked in your own head, and the dull roar of the fridge or an old air conditioner.  The party's over.

Circumnavigating Manhattan by Foot

Part 2 South Ferry to St Nicholas Park.  Total walking today -- 21.7 miles

Thursday, August 13, 2015

Washington Square Park

Taking a moment and taking it in.  Many of the same elements remain, and I was about to say 'same old' but that wouldn't be accurate.  There are approximations and recreations of the same old but it is all shiny and new. That applies doubly to the people, some of whom look more or less like hippies, punks and freaks.  The attention to detail is spot on but there is an edge you cannot recreate.  It is there or it isn't.  You can't fake grime.  You can't fake hunger.  Doesn't work that way. 

Wednesday, August 12, 2015

Tuesday, August 11, 2015

The words of the perverts...

Are written on the toilet stalls, and bathroom walls... or something like that.  This in the hallowed halls of the Barnes & Noble bathroom on Union Square. 



Monday, August 10, 2015

In case you needed to be reminded... Sherman Alexie


         We carried the furniture out of the burning house –
                  it was a blister-fingered chore –
         And then hurried all of the chairs, sofas, and beds
                  into the burning house next door.

No. 2 Pencil

Jasenko Dordevic

Sunday, August 09, 2015

Freud & Jung in Short Pants

It occurred to me this week that I haven't had a proper vacation in a while.  There have been days off here and there and the odd long weekend but no proper holiday.  The spotty employment in recent years doesn't really count nor should it.  Time off is not exactly an entitlement in this here ewe ass of A.  

When and where it struck me was in my analyst's office, scheduling appointments for when she returns from two weeks away.  The timing is unfortunate, though of course she certainly deserves it. It's just that I've only just begun letting go and opening up in Hess sessions.  I have come to look forward to them, despite that they can be an ordeal. Of course it's all about my feelings...

She gave me an emergency contact and that sort of threw me.  I have walked around with all these issues for so long that it hadn't occurred to me there could me an emergency.  It struck me for a moment that maybe she sees some urgency that I have ignored for too long.  It was momentarily unsettling.  Okay, a long moment.  

Second guessing my ability to meet any difficulty I might face wasn't an option for the longest time.  The bravado and some dumb luck carried me through some dark times.  You take on weight as you go however, like barnacles affixing to the sides until the weight crushes the hull.  It was getting near he breaking point for me.  There are certainly rough days still but there is no comparison really.  

Or is there? Miss Freud may disagree with my evaluation.  Who knows?  Probably just protocol that she offered the contact info.  

And I will try to remain open to using it if something comes out of left field.  

That is new behavior.

And yes that is Sigmund Freud and Carl Jung on holiday together circa 1910.

William Blake and the Eternals...

Because you can never have enough William Blake....

Multi-talented, multi-tasking and a bit of an egoist, judging by this one... Los, Symbol of Poetic Genius, Consumed By Flames.  I will assume it is semi-autobiographical, at least insofar as where Billy saw the role of the poet in offering up some greater truth.  Hell on Earth or Hell in the Hereafter for daring to share the Knowledge.  The Philosophers' Stone, if the scholars are to be believed.  And why would the academics be less vain than the athletes and war heroes?  

I cannot argue Blake's (presumed) claim to genius.  He was everywhere at once in all disciplines.  You go, Ol' Billy Bwoy!  Get your props!


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