all the bad choices, every little thing that was given over to fear returns anew in the unforgiving light.

in a perfect world, Mickey never spoke nor sang nor did he captain a steamboat.

in the perfect world the songbirds sing to the rising son their song of freedom. it is still free as the night. not owned by the day nor owned by anything in between.

they remind us that some things survive dreamtime. pieces that can never be crushed or silenced by the Meanies and Warlocks who duel by law and black magicians who conjure into being the slavery of day.

I also deleted my MySpace account (but that doesn't matter since I haven't logged on in a year or more.)

Now I'm just here again in this backwater corner of the web...

railing in the dark like the hermit curmudgeon crank that I am.

It feels like a virtual cave, comfortable and cool. Quiet.

Bed Stuy is alright if you like getting socked in the throat.

Bed Stuy is alright if you like homophobia.

Bed Stuy is alright if you like the ghetto.

Bed Stuy is alright if you like getting hit up for spare change while eating in a restaurant.

Bed Stuy is alright if you like corner drug dealers.

Bed Stuy is alright if you like drive by shootings.

Bed Stuy is alright if you like to get your hair and nails done.

Bed Stuy is alright if an abundance of churches and poverty turn you on.

Bed Stuy is alright if you're a slave to fashion.

Bed Stuy is alright if you like Escalades.

Bed Stuy is alright if you think Drug Wars are still necessary.

Bed Stuy is alright if you like reckless driving.

Bed Stuy is alright if you love litter.

Bed Stuy is alright if you like to thump your music loud.

Bed Stuy is alright if you don't like to pick up your dog's shit.

Bed Stuy is alright if you hate whitey.

Bed Stuy is alright if you like to keep yourself down.

This is how it has been and the way it will be from now on. Simple fact.

I can't imagine living with the vain hope of improvement; returning to the way it was. But that's how it's been for her these 800 days. Hoping against impossible odds.

To me it seems a freak show of desperation. But I have not had to face that harsh reality. I don't know if I would fare any better. Maybe I would also fill the air with delusion: Do everything possible to distract my attention from the simple fact that there is no going back. It's all gone.

No second chances. No opportunity to watch it all disappear.

It's already gone.

yep. back to L.A. for 3 weeks.

aaaaaaaaaaaagh !!!!!!!!!!!!

fuck L.A.

for me there's no place left that seems anywhere close to home. no place to unwind.

nowhere feels safe.

for the first time, it's scary and foreign in a way that it never felt like before.

for reals.

no place for rest. no place for comfort.

oh god it's not just L.A., it's this world. it's me. nowhere safe.

fuck.

See how your neighborhood ranks in the CompStat system:
http://www.nyc.gov/html/nypd/html/crime_prevention/crime_statistics.shtml

In all of New York City this year there will likely be about 10-people-per-week murdered.

Hooray! crime is "down" compared to it's historic highs. 10 murders a week is TOTALLY acceptable.

Bravo, CompStat.

So instead of the average 10 murders expected for the rest of the year... we have 2 more to hit our quota.

If the cops gun down a couple MORE retarded kids on the street does that count? I don't think they counted the first one in their statistics. I'm pretty sure they counted that Sonny-Corleone-style takedown as a "good" shooting.

That gives the amateurs and thugs 2 "gimmees" to round out their activities.

Some people obsess on Ball games and team sports to get their Statistic Jones satisfied.

How fuckin boring.

Come on, Bed-Stuy.... 40% drop in rape this year?!?!!?!! What are you.... Gay?

Goooooooooooooo Bed-Stuy!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Wooooooooo!!!!!

The Life Cycle of a Chinese Girl:
year 1 - 7: childhood
year 8 - 14: factory work
year 15 - 26: prostitution (plus factory work)
year 27 - ?: factory work

is this the ultimate goal in our society?

really?

what the fuck, man.

days pass and i barely notice.

weeks and months to the wind.

yesterday though. yesterday i remember.

the big black lady at the corner Grease Peddler... lazily standing at the order window even though i was trying to get my slice of cheeses pizza through the small opening. Blocking most of the 2-foot square hole with her girthy form as she waited for her chicken wings.

the laundromat. it's convenient prepaid cards make fishing for quarters a thing of the past. the suds, the smell, the ritual.

Fee Fee's presence.

Miss Mollie got over her fear and discovered the magic of spreadsheets.

the beef stew at Collado restaurant and that familiar part of East Broadway.

the walk down Broadway and around East New York and Brownsville. Pimpy mens clothing stores. African markets in Crown Heights. Delicious nuggets of ghetto entertainment everywhere. People yelling and carrying on.

The relative quietness of our corner of Bed-Stuy.

This apartment, a living sacrifice to Flux and Form.

a kiss or two. a touch. a thought. a feeling.

things went on. stuff was said and done.

Really, not much happened. But it seemed like 5 days passed - all slow and detailed.

It's already disappearing - creeping into the void of All Yesterdays.

the dread never fully abates. since late last year, it has been the dread of not knowing.

not knowing if i had what it takes to sustain a higher level of lifestyle complexity - higher expenses, unknown emotional road map and all.

but things just keep rolling along.

different, stranger? yes.

harder? no. not really.

along with the heat and humidity of a Brooklyn spring/summer comes a dull enveloping blankness.

the muscles warm up and loosen. everyone slows down. i speed up.

big cat gliding through his hunting grounds. i am almost that.

luckily i have a girlfriend whos near-constant disdain keeps me human.

hooray for hapless boobs like me.

Mollie is in the shower. We're going to Bushwick's open studio event today. Dozens of artists and venues are opening their studios. Showing their work, having performances and such.

It should be uber-hipsterific. Much drinking of Pabst Blue Ribbon and other low quality headache-inducing brew and other irony-centric shenanigans.

Give me a Newcastle any day. I don't care if it's up to a buck-seventy-five a bottle. It doesn't punish like swill punishes.

I'm wearing one of Mollie's T-shirts. Her "Technics" record player one. It fits so tight yet is far less gay-ey than her gray shirt with the neck cut out.

You might say I look very "Greg Barnett-ish"

mm hm.

yeah.

In August, Mollie and I are having a "First Annual Bed-Stuy Artist-Open-Studio-Day-on-Monroe-Street-between-Stuyvesant-and-Lewis catty-corner-from-the-drug-house-that-the plain-clothes-NYPD-appear-to-be-targeting-regularly"

Yes. It will be something like the Mar Vista "moon" parties.

Be there bitches.

Unlike the previous day, I didn't wake up at 3am and continue to modify and optimize web pages - no work-from-home-and-continue-to-work-on-site shenanigans.

When I got home last night I trimmed the plant up front. A continuation of the massive trimming the day before. I also sawed a 2x4 into pieces, building a low ramp for pushing my new (new for me, but 3.4 decades old itself) motorcycle up near the front stoop and off the street.

Having a night's sleep - deep sleep - blissfully emotionally released from work. Knowing that it all has to be done eventually. Knowing there are other, more enjoyable, things to do in conjunction with that universe.

Knowing.

Knowing in my cells.

Other stuff. A balance of things. Jumping from one to the other. As needed. for their maintenance and most especially: for my peace of mind.

Every day. Every moment.

I just spent another few minutes trimming the bush some more. I'll try to find seeds today. Wild flowers might be good.

Something to fill the east end of the small dirt square being cleared.

I have plans to launch a new web site... or maybe just fold the idea here into YUMMYMEAT.

Something wonderfully big and slick, bringing to bear all the deep WEB 2.0 knowledge I've taught myself over the past 6 months... combined with other, older, obsessions.

It should be nice.

Oh yeah... and I blogged.

here. now.