briefcase full of blues

they say when a man’s happy, he can’t write for shit. actually i said that!

life is too good right now. every minute, every day. i spent a stupid amount of money on meals today. $100 to be exact. $50 at dinner, to take my dad out for father’s day in effing fisherman’s wharf. he and Billy ate half a crab each, i ate the chowder in a bread bowl. then we got coffee:

fathers day 2013

happy early father’s day! (we celebrated early because i’m leaving for Montana in three days; more on that in a second, maybe.)

the other $50 i spent taking a freshly graduated claremont girl out to a schmancy SoMa tech bubble bullshit lunch place by my office. for every bit of advice i couldn’t give her, i fed her deviled eggs, lamb, and avocado. hopefully it helps her in all her endeavors.

can i go day by day? week by week? joy by joy?

sunday i felt like shit so i skipped Sarah’s birthday party. in the evening, Claire came over and we had a jolly good strange time as always. later on, i came completely clean about my girlfriend, and it’s all good, i think, thank god. we can still be friends.

saturday i broke my fucking neck, went deaf in my left ear, and took a sweat shower so i could rub John Dwyer’s PA while getting elbowed in the back. Thee motherfucking Oh Sees at the Eagle motherfucking Tavern. holy jesus christ, son of the virgin mary, loveless adulteress to god, creator of heaven and all the bursts of disco across the earth. that good. then Natalie kissed my wounds w every cell in her epidermis, like the beautiful creature she is.

i basically spent all of friday night making out w her. not much more this man needs.

no memory in mind, i must dig into the facebook archives for further proof of joy passed.

well, fuck, on the sixth day of june, news broke out that the NSA is a fucking filthy piece of shit. but guess what, most people in this country fear “terrorism” so much that they’re okay with it. oligarchs love democracy because common people are stupid. oh yeah, and the Field. the motherfucking Field.

on the fifth day, Dorothy and i recorded ourselves onto cassette for the first time ever. we sound fine, but not great. we have a great amount of work to do, and that’s just fine.

on the fourth day, good god, i have no idea. on the first day, i recounted every drink i drank last month. last month, i found out i have a girlfriend. she’s the most beautiful girl in the world but it gets better because underneath all that beauty her mind works miracles through her fingers and her eyes, it’s like food and jewelry in no such physical form, feeding my hungry, poor heart. she is wonderful and more. i also found out about Drakes Beach. keep it a secret. i also found all about Random Access Memories. i found about the age 25. i found out about going to Montana.

in three days, i’m driving to Bozeman, MT w Cameron and Amanda. he’s going back home. we’re going along for the ride. we’re gonna camp Yellowstone. we’re gonna walk around. we’re gonna think things. i’m gonna miss my girl. she’s gonna miss her boy. Cameron’s gonna miss his Bay, barely. then we’re leaving him, riding the boring ass salt flats back to our beautiful golden city of legends.

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every drink i drank last month

the fourth day was the first time i faltered. Natalie and i drove to my coworker Mark’s birthday party at Iron & Gold, where he and his comrades were already well-soaked. it was my first time hanging out a bar during the experiment, and i felt very very nervous. partly because i already felt proud for having gone *FOUR WHOLE DAYS* without a drink, partly due to gentle nudging from friends, partly because i felt like i couldn’t properly celebrate my good friend’s 33rd birthday, partly because my bartender friends there kept wondering what i wanted—in short, for no very good reason at all—i ordered a Pacifico. yum.

a few days later, Amanda and i got dinner in the Mission. i think it was phở, and if it was, it was Sunflower. i didn’t drink there, but afterwards we wandered over to Elbo Room, where Dorothy was to participate in something of a fashion show. weirdly, i didn’t have a drink the entire time i sat upstairs by myself, watching a mediocre opening band play while waiting for the show to start. instead, because Amanda didn’t want to pay the cover fee, we sat at the bar downstairs and had a drink before she left. Pacifico again, again yum.

on the ninth day, i fell far. having started chatting to a girl over tinder (a dating app) a few weeks before, and having much in common, we resolved to meet up eventually. for my part, i resolved to meet her in spite of having a girlfriend, since prior experience with Jillian and Ashley had taught me that you can meet friends through dating apps too. she invited me to the Chapel to see a desert rock & roll band from socal called Allah-Las, who turned out to be amazing. unfortunately, she bought us drinks. then i bought us drinks. then i bought us drinks. then i bought us drinks. by the end of the night, i had tallied up a total of four drinks.

the following day, a friday, i didn’t even leave work without having a drink. Sarah came over right before she was leaving just to drop me a little iced whiskey. oh well.

the following day—yes, the third consecutive day of drinking in a month of “no drinking”—was the day Natalie and i went to see the San Francisco Ballet perform Cinderella. at her house before the show, she offered red wine. thinking to myself this to be a very special occasion (and generally feeling crippled when asked such a simple question from such pretty lips), i said yes. we also had wine at the show, each of us sipping our glasses on the balcony while looking out at city hall and trading pecks. then later on we had a night cap red wine once more, bringing the total for the day to three.

three days later, on the fourteenth day of the month, i once again found myself at Iron & Gold, not to celebrate a birthday but to spin my records. strangely enough, aforementioned birthday boy joined me, bringing along not just his space disco records but his penchant for heavy drinking. in spite of my gentle insisting that i didn’t need a drink, he kept asking me what i wanted, so i said, “whatever.” he scoffed and proceeded to ask Alicia to pour me a shot of their absolute worst tequila. not bad.

a day or two later, i was lounging in my kitchen late at night with Rich, Xanthe, Dorothy, and her stereotypically snobby European friend Saraya. the majority of the words that fell from our Belgian guest’s mouth revolved around odd American habits and our disgusting wine. she knew nothing of Napa, so eventually it came to pass that Xanthe popped open a $20 bottle of red wine. nothing crazy, but certainly good stuff. i had to have a glass.

on the night of the seventeenth fell the second quarterly Dirtybird of the year. electronic music mavens humping a Funktion-One feels so good. this may have been my laziest instance of accepting drinks: simply because Natalie, Xanthe, Cameron, or whoever else ordered too many and couldn’t find somebody to take them. can i argue that part of having good rhythm and dancing well involves taking the plastic wishy-washy burden from your friend’s hand, and doing a little spin? i took two.

on the twentieth day, i met up with Claire (the girl from Tinder) to see Daughter perform at Amoeba in the Haight. i don’t actually listen to them, i’m just so Daft Punk sick i’d hoped they’d perform their cover of “Get Lucky.” they didn’t. disappointed only slightly, i picked up a couple records and parted w Claire just long enough to rendezvous once more at Sparky’s Diner in the Castro. she bought us dinner (to pay back for all the drinks from Allah-Las), then we walked and BARTed to my place, where we blasted Led Zeppelin. i also poured her a whiskey. after being overly polite (and thereby slightly creepy) by telling her to drink “ALL MY WHISKEY” and yet not having any myself, i decided to share hers. i marked it up as half a drink.

the next day, Random Access Ronneries. friends and family came over for a RAM listening party and to celebrate my birthday, happily accepting my holiday absurdity. as a gift, my dad brought over one of his bottles of Jacuzzi wine, so of course i had to partake with him: two glasses total.

would i could forget the twenty-third. at this point, i drank simply to ease the pain of hearing two terrible DJs mangle Daft Punk and Radiohead by playing low-bitrate, poorly-remixed versions of some of my favorite songs ever. two whiskies didn’t do the trick, but they certainly helped.

the next evening, i joined my family at Caffe Sport in North Beach for delicious pasta and red wine to celebrate my birthday. seems my dad’s consistently proves the hardest peer pressure to resist, so i indulged in one-and-a-half glasses.

finally, my actual birthday came. the 26th. five drinks total i consumed, from the evening champagne at Davies Symphony Hall to the two extraordinary beers at suppenküche to the extraordinarily common beers at the Hive. the next day, the hangover prevented me from being anything like a human being, as i lazed about my house, worthless. somewhere, deep inside of me, some sorority girl of a daemon probably said something along the lines of “ugh, i am NEVER drinking again.”

in total, 25 drinks, one for every year of my new age.

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on my 25th birthday, i stood alone at the Ocean Beach shore and read aloud this poem, “To the One of Fictive Music,” by Wallace Stevens. then i looked up, photographed the sun.

Sister and mother and diviner love,
And of the sisterhood of the living dead
Most near, most clear, and of the clearest bloom,
And of the fragrant mothers the most dear
And queen, and of diviner love the day
And flame and summer and sweet fire, no thread
Of cloudy silver sprinkles in your gown
Its venom of renown, and on your head
No crown is simpler than the simple hair.

Now, of the music summoned by the birth
That separates us from the wind and sea,
Yet leaves us in them, until earth becomes,
By being so much of the things we are,
Gross effigy and simulacrum, none
Gives motion to perfection more serene
Than yours, out of our own imperfections wrought,
Most rare, or ever of more kindred air
In the laborious weaving that you wear.

For so retentive of themselves are men
That music is intensest which proclaims
The near, the clear, and vaunts the clearest bloom,
And of all the vigils musing the obscure,
That apprehends the most which sees and names,
As in your name, an image that is sure,
Among the arrant spices of the sun,
O bough and bush and scented vine, in whom
We give ourselves our likest issuance.

Yet not too like, yet not so like to be
Too near, too clear, saving a little to endow
Our feigning with the strange unlike, whence springs
The difference that heavenly pity brings.
For this, musician, in your girdle fixed
Bear other perfumes. On your pale head wear
A band entwining, set with fatal stones.
Unreal, give back to us what once you gave:
The imagination that we spurned and crave.

looking up, west

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visions at Fillmore

the old grey wizard, wispy braid swinging, stroking the long, tall, parallel golden bars marking the entrance to the music venue. unwavering in his focus, he dabs in polish and wipes with care.

the small blonde boy in school uniform hugging his small white dog while ducking behind garbage bins and bus stops, hiding from nobody knows whom.

the curly-haired rainbow hippie in light beige moccasins weaving an early dream for some faraway man perhaps even she has never seen.

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chasing a sugar high

sometimes, during my daily naps w mama, i would sneak to the kitchen, open the sugar bowl, and stuff a spoonful in my mouth.

tumblr_mn7vybS5Si1sr9b8mo1_1280

my childhood memory illustrated by Postcards From My Childhood.

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Random Access Memories (LP vs CD)

RAM LP

LP above.

CD below.

RAM CD

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tote

but how is an idea conceived? here’s an example.

for many months, for over a year, i biked to work every single day.

a few months ago, i moved further out, so i resigned myself to taking muni. this wasn’t so bad. after all, i could read and read and read and read to my heart’s content, and i did.

then last thursday, the official 2013 bike to work day in SF, i took the opportunity to bust out my bike. it wasn’t actually that bad. slight downhill on the way over and more than a slight uphill on the way back, the total riding time came out to a little over an hour. it was a beautiful day.

after that, i decided that it wouldn’t be so bad to bike to work once a week. without picking any day in particular, i actually followed through this past monday morning. i’d heard from someone else that it’d be the warmest day of the week which, even though i don’t put much faith in the bay area’s meteorologists, gave me a place to start my new weekly tradition.

yesterday morning, due to the unprecedented release of a new Daft Punk studio album in my conscious, adult life, i reserved my muni commute for Random Access Memories. later, my coworker gave me a ride home. these two instances combined meant reading was put off for another day, but no matter. today, over the course of there and back again, i flew through all five acts of Oscar Wilde’s blank verse drama called The Duchess of Padua.

The days are over when God walked with men,
But Love, which is His image, holds His place.
When a man loves a woman, then he knows
God’s secret, and the secret of the world. (III)

it was astounding.

the hundreds of words of the day sank under my skin while i danced around my house to the Postal Service, did the dishes, and practiced some bass. eventually the bass made me feel hungry, so i decided to make the most decadent breakfast ever: fried way too much bacon for one person, threw sliced mushrooms in the leftover grease (then removed them), and toasted bread w white cheddar cheese while frying a couple eggs in the grease. finally, lay down some spinach on the open-face bread’s melted cheese, bacon on the spinach, mushrooms on the bacon, and eggs on the mushrooms. divine.

a little too divine perhaps. after all, i’m getting to be 25. should a man be eating so much bacon and cheese and grease that his cheeks are full while he’s sticking further strips and bits inside? maybe. but maybe i should be trying to counterbalance it a little bit too. why not a bike ride tomorrow?

indeed, it would solve one other problem… my reading too fast. sometimes when you read six plays in a row, they sort of run together instead of really seeping in. i tried to counterbalance this by trading off genres with other genres (drama >> philosophy >> fiction >> etc) but that honestly wasn’t that effective. they’re all just words and words are weary.

so, the idea: bike in between every finished work.

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initial data from Random Access Memories

hype.
ragtime disco.
F-Zero X.
Sufjan Stevens.
Zapp & Roger.
Chromeo.
Kermit.
live drumming. nothing is better than live drumming.
live bass. nothing is better than live drumming backed by live bass.
choirs.
dad rock.
that “pew” sound we all know from “Ring My Bell.”
Michael Jackson is dead.
Donna Summer is dead.
Moroder is alive.
Nile’s alive.
house.
so slow but just fast enough.
handclaps.
syncopated syllables from Panda Bear.
Final Fantasy.
NASA.
Aphex Twin.
Fleetwood Mac.
Sade.
“Aerodynamic.”
“Teachers.”
“Human After All.”
how else do you present the ridiculous? as if it were perfectly ordinary?
patience.
magic.
a song about sex.
a song about dance.
songs about life.
a Rhodes.
i want to believe.
arpeggios, strings, four and the floor, don’t ask for more.
cheese.
thesis, antithesis, synthesis.

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my favorites from The Superior Person’s Second Book of Weird & Wondrous Words, by Peter Bowler, with my own sample sentences provided

ailurophile (n.)
a cat lover.
though Tina only entered my life a year ago, i already considered myself a bona fide ailurophile.

arcipluvian (adj.)
many-colored, like a rainbow.
an enormous arcipluvian flag stands tall and erect at the corner of Castro and Market.

azoic (adj.)
having no trace of life or organic remains.
sometimes, after several consecutive weeks of attending desert raves, she begins to feel azoic.

bathycolpian (adj.)
having an ample bosom with a deep cleavage.
no man can feel sorrow while buried in the warmth of his bathycolpian honey.

blennophobia (n.)
an abnormal fear or dislike of slime.
blennophobia need not deter you from riding BART, for their metal slugs move by electricity.

bombilate (v.)
make a buzzing sound.
deter your amplifier from unnecessarily bombilating when not in use by muting your guitar.

brash (n.)
another name for heartburn.
in order to alleviate my brash symptoms, i have seriously cut back on coffee, alcohol, and spicy food for the entire month.

brimborion (n.)
a useless or valueless object.
if you’re looking for a brimborion, look no further than your own quarters; we’re all guilty.

cachinnate (v.)
laugh loudly.
to the joy of all those around her, even the silliest joke will cause Dorothy to cachinnate.

cacodaemon (n.)
a malevolent spirit or person.
some believe a proper airing of sage sufficiently sends cacodaemons on their way.

catachresis (n.)
the use of a word in a way that is not correct, for example, the use of mitigate for militate.
in order to avoid catachresis, either avoid tedious people or don’t speak at all.

cepaceous (adj.)
having an onion-like smell or taste.
the year i discovered the power of cooking with onion was the year all my dishes became cepaceous.

clinomania (n.)
an obsession with bed rest.
when i am with my love, my clinomania returns in full force.

commensal (adj.)
of, relating to, or characterized by a symbiotic relationship in which one species is benefited while the other is unaffected.
Man’s relationship with Nature is purely commensal, no matter the protests of environmentalists, for nothing we do could permanently damage the Earth.

compotation (n.)
the act of drinking together in a company.
with so many frequent compotations occurring in the city, there’s rarely a reason to suffer the bottle alone.

crime passionel (n.)
a crime, typically a murder, committed in a fit of sexual jealousy.
establish ground rules in advance, lest your ménage à trois transform into a crime passionel.

dendrophilous (adj.)
living in or on trees; arboreal.
many dendrophilous creatures regularly gather on Hippie Hill.

diamantiferous (adj.)
(of a rock formation, region, etc.) producing or yielding diamonds.
how depressing to think that the recently discovered diamantiferous planet will soon be soaked in blood.

didymitis (n.)
inflammation of a testis.
though males rarely protest enlargement in their genital region, didymitis is never welcomed.

dioestrum (n.)
period of sexual inactivity between “heats.”
female cats enjoy their dioestrum by not screaming like maddened banshees.

discission (n.)
an incision of the lens of the eye, as for removal of cataract
cross my heart, hope to die, discission.

doxographer (n.)
a person who collects the opinions and conjectures of ancient Greek philosophers.
in the 21st century, somebody should carry a lamp around the city streets; when asked what for, they should reply, “i’m looking for an honest doxographer.”

doxology (n.)
a liturgical formula of praise to God.
remember to regularly read your doxology, and nothing will happen.

dracocephalic (adj.)
with a dragon-shaped head.
to know if your cat can transform into a dragon, simply determine if it is dracocephalic.

ebriection (n.)
mental breakdown from too much boozing.
contrary to common belief, ebriection cannot be alleviated with daily drinking.

eldritch (adj.)
weird and sinister or ghostly.
keep halloween eldritch, not slutty.

electuary (n.)
a medicinal substance mixed with honey or another sweet substance.
take this electuary if you want to see tracers.

encephalalgia (n.)
pain in the head; headache.
don’t say you’re suffering from encephalalgia, unless you want your head to hurt more.

encopresis (n.)
involuntary defecation, esp. associated with emotional disturbance or psychiatric disorder.
rumor has it there exists a sonic frequency and amplitude capable of invoking encopresis in all those who hear it.

endophasia (n.)
speech that is not audible or visible.
my computer and i get along fine communicating with endophasia alone.

epigamic (adj.)
attracting the opposite sex, as the colors of certain birds.
what is it about gay men that women so often find epigamic?

epistemophilia (n.)
an excessive love or reverence for knowledge.
only a christian would accuse one of epistemophilia.

eremophilous (adj.)
requiring a desert habitat.
eremophilous are those who return to burning man every single year.

fantabulous (adj.)
excellent; wonderful.
doesn’t Meryl’s feather sequined skirt look just fantabulous?

galeanthropy (n.)
the delusion that one has become a cat.
there’s nothing wrong with a little galeanthropy, so long as you keep it to the bedroom.

galimatias (n.)
nonsense, gibberish.
even from a young age, the Coker twins spoke proficient galimatias.

gallivant (v.)
go around from one place to another in the pursuit of pleasure or entertainment.
in Las Vegas, gallivanting has far surpassed all other modes of transportation.

gambrinous (adj.)
to be content and happy due to a stomach full of beer.
the gambrinous man smiled a smile as peaceful as the Buddha.

gamophobia (n.)
the fear of getting married, being in a relationship, or commitment.
after several successful dates, he found her to be a perfect match in every way… except she did not share his gamophobia.

globose (adj.)
spherical; globular.
the globose man smiled a smile as peaceful as the Buddha.

grapholagnia (n.)
an urge to look at sexually-explicit, obscene, scatological, lewd, vulgar, pornographic, or offensive pictures.
most people rarely experience grapholagnia until they gain access to the Internet.

gymnophobia (n.)
a fear of nudity.
anyone born with gymnophobia must first and foremost be afraid of themselves.

gynephobia (n.)
irrational fear of or aversion to women.
gynephobia mixed with gymnophobia makes Jack a dull boy.

gynotikolobomassophile (n.)
someone who is fond of nibbling on a woman’s ear.
lend me your ear, and i will sing you the song of the gynotikolobomassophile.

hierodule (n.)
a slave or prostitute in the service of a temple (as in ancient Greece).
ever since the decrease in hierodules, worship just hasn’t been the same.

hodiernal (adj.)
of or relating to the present day.
the hodiernal rising of the sun is one of the few things you can depend on in this world.

horrisonant (adj.)
making horrible sound.
Trent Reznor thrives in horrisonant composition making.

huggermugger (adj.)
1. confused; disorderly.
2. secret; clandestine.
in love, as in war, all is huggermugger.

hypaesthesia (n.)
diminished sensitivity to stimulation.
hypaesthesia is a natural part of growing up, and death is its ultimate conclusion.

hyperhedonia (n.)
an abnormal pleasure in anything.
given enough MDMA, one’s tendencies to hyperhedonia rapidly accelerate.

idioglossia (n.)
an idiosyncratic language invented and spoken by only one person or very few people.
each and every one of us hones an individual idioglossia, no matter what we want to believe.

ignis fatuus (n.)
a will-o’-the-wisp. something deceptive or deluding.
i am an ignis fatuus, not a firefly, declared the proud bug.

illuminati (n.)
people claiming to possess special enlightenment or knowledge of something.
the true conspiracy: everybody purporting they know the truth behind all conspiracies are themselves members of the illuminati.

innascible (adj.)
not subject to birth; self-existent.
the best music, innascible, we know before we hear.

intersillent (adj.)
suddenly emerging in the midst of something.
human consciousness is an endless chain of intersillent thoughts in an ocean of nothingness.

intestacy (n.)
the state or condition of dying without having made a valid will or without having disposed by will of a segment of the property of the decedent.
so far, i am on track for intestacy, though my only dying wish is for my funeral to be a disco.

jubate (adj.)
fringed with long pendent hairs like a mane.
she could not resist stroking his jubate head.

kalokagathia (n.)
ideal physical and moral beauty.
adhere to strict kalokagathia to ensure certain disappointment in love.

kalopsia (n.)
the delusion of things being more beautiful than they are.
either Human After All is a wonderful work of sound and art, or i merely suffer from kalopsia.

kippage (n.)
disorder, confusion.
Joy Division and Spacemen 3 specialize in the art of musical kippage.

lallation (n.)
imperfect speech, especially the repetition of meaningless sounds by babies.
if it’s anything like Hopelandic, it’s lallation not a language.

lay figure (n.)
a dummy or jointed manikin of a human body used by artists, esp. for arranging drapery on.
upon the artist’s desk lay the lay figure, waiting to be cast in dreams and nightmares.

librate (v.)
to oscillate or waver.
gotta keep those loving good librations happening with her.

loganamnosis (n.)
a mania, or obsession, for trying to recall forgotten words or a specific word.
goddamnit i just thought of this word for, like, obsessing over a word for something.

lupanarian (adj.)
of or pertaining to a brothel; fit for the surroundings of a brothel.
little did her legions know, but Little Lupe loved her lupanarian lifestyle.

lygophilia (n.)
the love of darkness.
before the era of electricity, lygophilia might have been an advantageous attribute.

metrophobia (n.)
the fear or hatred of poetry.
to those with metrophobia: i have no words.

micronoetic (adj.)
with minimal intellectual or cognitive content.
in spite of its author’s astronomical ego, ronblog is mostly micronoetic.

minimifidianism (n.)
having smallest possible degree of faith.
yes, father, i have the greatest minimifidianism that some dude died for our sins.

monoglot (n.)
using or speaking only one language.
the monoglot preferred to approach languages with a “depth-first search” as opposed to a “breadth-first search,” so he taught himself obscure words instead of practicing his Spanish.

morology (n.)
foolish talk; nonsense; folly.
i don’t write poetry, i write morology.

mumblecrust (n.)
a toothless one; more figuratively, an old beggar.
from Mission to Market, the city of San Francisco presents many wondrous opportunities to evade the omnipresent mumblecrust.

mycophagy (n.)
the process of organisms consuming fungi.
mycophagy, not Jesus Christ, presents the true way to eternal understanding.

necromimesis (n.)
a pathological state in which a person believes himself or herself to be dead.
talk about backfiring: the guy tried to fake his own death, but instead he fell into an inescapable episode of necromimesis.

noctivagant (n.)
going about in the night; night-wandering.
what is it with young people and their noctivagant ways?

noesis (n.)
the cognitive process; cognition.
as she stood there in her bra and boy shorts, i gradually experienced my faculties of noesis shutting down.

nonplus (v.)
surprise and confuse (someone) so much that they are unsure how to react.
if you want to nonplus someone, just send them to http://link-wellexcusemeprincess.ytmnd.com/

nullibist (n.)
person denying soul’s existence in space.
if you’re a nullibist like me, drummers have as little soul as drum machines.

numinous (adj.)
having a strong religious or spiritual quality; indicating or suggesting the presence of a divinity.
the numinous state of all your jewelry seems at best dubious.

nuncheon (n.)
a formal lunch, or a formal word for lunch.
as much as i’d like to attend your important noontime meeting, i have previously engaged myself to an even more important nuncheon far, far away from the office.

obambulate (v.)
to walk about; wander.
when in a major city, instead of frantically trying to “get somewhere,” i suggest you simply obambulate around.

ophelimity (n.)
economic satisfaction.
greater and greater riches are acquired through steady, calculated evasion of any form of ophelimity.

orarian (adj.)
of or pertaining to a coast.
all my life i’ve lived orarian, and i wouldn’t have it any other way.

paizogony (n.)
love play.
kissing her yoni, sweet paizogony.

panpsychist (n.)
one who believes that everything material, however small, has an element of individual consciousness.
every stoner in the planetarium toyed with the possibility of being a panpsychist.

pantophagy (n.)
the habit or power of eating all kinds of food.
if only i could truly embrace pantophagy, then i’d never go hungry again.

pantophobia (n.)
a fear of everything.
i cowered in fear when reading the definition for “pantophobia” on account of my dreadful pantophobia.

phoronomics (n.)
the science of motion; kinematics.
economics is phoronomics; money makes the world go round.

pogonophobia (n.)
an abnormal fear or dislike of beards.
maybe i’ve never met anybody suffering from pognophobia because they’re all hiding.

polyphagia (n.)
an excessive or pathological desire to eat.
without fail, doctor, i suffer from extreme polyphagia pangs in the morning, at noon, in the evening, and sometimes even in the middle of the night.

ponophobia (n.)
a fear of overwork or an abnormal distaste for exerting oneself or of becoming fatigued.
my colleague left the office early to go treat her ponophobia, so i’ll be having a long night.

poriomania (n.)
an unconscious tendency to walk away from home; ambulatory automatism.
it’s well-documented that bouts of poriomania greatly increase wherever slavery flourishes, though nobody can explain why.

prosopography (n.)
a description of a person’s social and family connections, career, etc., or a collection of such descriptions.
my friend’s startup is building an online prosopography that will take down Facebook, LinkedIn, and Twitter all at once.

raddled (adj.)
(of a person or their face) showing signs of age or fatigue.
quit your drug benders or you’re only going to look more raddled.

reboant (adj.)
marked by reverberation.
sometimes i think i can hear ancient sounds, reboant, streaming through space and time.

Posted in oxford | Leave a comment

who can judge me?

it was three in the afternoon, and he just didn’t give a shit. since lunchtime, he’d done nothing but digested the fancy free food, poked around the social networks, chatted here and there, sat on the toilet while reading reddit (not actually excreting or submitting a thing), and repeated the process all over again. he couldn’t even feign productivity or passion to any degree anymore. earlier in the day, when he had been the only one sitting on his side of the office, one of his four managers came over and jokingly asked, “am i missing a party?” with twice as much humor and just a dash of spite in his throat, he replied, “ha! the party’s all right here,” generally motioning to himself. his manager walked back to his desk.

nobody gave a shit.

so, when three in the afternoon rolled around, and he started feeling physically anxious, he decided to message one of his coworkers. “so yeah i suppose we should do stuff?” “yeah, probably,” she said, “but first i have to go pee.” he watched her get up from her desk and awkwardly walk in the direction of the restrooms, after which he looked out the corner window once more, this time taking in the glorious city sun. goddamn. his coworker returned, pinging him, “so should we do that thing?” “i don’t know. i don’t really care.” “me neither.” “what if i just left?” “nobody would give a shit.”

he packed his backpack as if it were already 1700 and walked out. nay, he unlocked his bicycle and raced away in a fury. where to? who knows, chaos, anxiousness unleashed knows not direction.

if only there were somebody in the city who enjoyed weirdness, who didn’t have a typical 9-5 job, and… were a pretty girl. pulling the bike over to the side, he whipped his phone out and tease-texted Claire. she was studying at her place in NoPa, so he proposed meeting her in the Panhandle for sun and thursday strangeness. intermittent texting, biking, texting, biking, he honed in on the Wiggle, in case it’s a sure thing. he pulled over on Dolores and 16th, and checked his phone. she has ballet in an hour. not gonna happen. he looks up at the Mission. hm.

after biking across the street, he pokes his head into the gift shop, and learns that the self-guided tour is $5. perfect. he locks his bike up, ponies up the cash, and enters the chapel. Mission San Francisco de Asís. founded in mid-1776, it is the oldest surviving structure in San Francisco. the large wooden door shut behind him, and he was alone, surrounded by an aura of sacred nostalgia. spiral staircase, triangles on the ceiling, rows and rows of wooden pews, and a lavish altar. he breathed and stepped lightly, stopping every few feet to snap photos (some of which he sent to his hardworking friends to make them feel some combination of envy and confusion). Chris replied, “say a little prayer for me,” but all he heard in his head was Madonna.

stepping out of the chapel, he found himself in a narrow, sunlit courtyard. directly in front of him lay a diorama depicting the Mission as it may have looked to a soaring seagull in the 18th or 19th century. Twin Peaks and Mt. Davidson looming in the background, a stream (!) running through to the foreground, and, directly in the center, a self-satisfied father looking down with easy pomp on the scattered natives working on various labors all about the scene. what a dream it must have been for the Ohlone people, from 4000 B.C.E through the millennia, exploring the San Francisco Bay Area up and down long, long before it was the San Francisco Bay Area. they were hunter-gatherers, subsisting on crushed acorns, nuts, grass seeds, and berries, or mussels and abalone if they were lucky. the men went naked, generally. the women got tattoos. there houses were either woven huts seated upon the ground or conical structures made from redwood. though there may have been war from time to time, there was balance. then came the Christians.

he breathed a deep breath and opened his eyes. he was sitting in a pew, completely alone, in the vast basilica, built in the 20th century just adjacent to the original Mission chapel. there was Jesus, bleeding and tormented on the cross, a martyr. and yet, nobody remembers an Ohlone martyr. indeed, no one among us knows the name of a single Ohlone. he looked with disgust at the sheer decadence of the church, from the pretentious dome to the gilded furniture to the vast organs. money, money, money, and humanity. perhaps the most difficult thought to swallow was how natural it all seemed; suns engulf worlds, bolides and volcanoes trigger mass extinctions, and Spanish Franciscan friars bind harmony in shackles. life feeds on life feeds on life feeds on life, as they say.

swallow the idea he did, though, and he breathed deeply once more. Music always helps, so he began to hum the tune to the only Memorial Acclamation he knew: “Christ has died, Christ is risen, Christ will come again.” he took a cursory look around the huge church, just to make sure, and sang the same tune… this time with his mouth open. “ahhhhhh-ah, ahhhhhh-ah-ahhh, ahhhh ahhh ahhh ahh ah.” and then a third time, without even scoping the church for strangers, full lyrics and all.

rising, he stepped to the mini indoor fountain, respectfully trickling water in obeisance to the vast silence surrounding. it was nice. he turned on his heel toward the organ, and reached under the cover to see if he could strike a key. nope. how about the pedals? nothing.

finished with the basilica, he returned through the door he came, emerging once more in the sunny courtyard. he quickly toured a small room packed with artifacts from both the Spanish friars and the Ohlone, including clothing, jewelry, and other miscellaneous possessions of the dead. from there, he meandered over to the cemetery.

larger than the chapel but smaller than the basilica, Mission Cemetery is the last standing human burial ground in the city. the earth there appeared to him at a glance to be largely composed of “white people,” for no names etched there sounded Ohlone. no matter, for the dead have no race. perfectly perpendicular turns awaited him every fork in the road so that the entire place began to feel like a labryinth, a playful trick of its morbid designer, no doubt. across the way, he spied the large stone statue of Junípero Serra, the friar who founded the Mission chain in California. he looked a depressing fellow, though formidable and steadfast, apparently doomed forever to direct his downcast gaze toward Earth. behind him, a replica of an Ohlone tent lay humbly, though, too, formidable and steadfast. he who had a moment ago eyed the religious statue w mild aversion, now sat inside the hut, cross-legged, looking out into the remainder of the cemetery. he closed his eyes and breathed deeply. he wished he could construct a hut in the Ohlone fashion. he wished he could sleep under the roof with his lover, he wished they could feast on berries in the morning, nuts in the afternoon, and abalone at night. he wished many things that could never be, or might have already been.

foreign voices awoke him from his momentary daydream, so he stepped out of the hut, assured the tourists standing there they did no harm, and left the Mission.

how funny, he thought to himself, would it be to journey from the lowest point of the city (where pompous assholes in the name of religion had eradicated harmony in the name of Silicon Valley) to the highest point in the city, Mount Davidson. so, after just a cursory glance at the map, he flew southwest. where he erred, he wouldn’t realize until sitting upon the rocky slope of Glen Canyon Park, was not understanding that, between the Mission and the Mount, there lay Glen Canyon Park. and what a canyon it was. he biked not without struggle across its narrow, precarious dirt roads, stopping just once to rest on a large rock formation. it reminded him of Greece. it was calming, but he was starting to feel hungry and it was almost time to go home.

out of the sun into the thicket he dragged his mountain bike, ducking underneath low-hanging branches and stepping over earth-breaching roots. when he finally reached a major road again, he knew he was near Twin Peaks but was at a complete loss as to the location of Mt. Davidson. another day, he resigned, as his stomach grumbled a warning.

Tower Burger, thankfully, arose just a few blocks down Portola. one Tower Burger, one small chocolate shake, and one order of onion rings, please. nearly $20 for the nearly 25-year-old’s meal, zero regrets.

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