i've been tuning out of the news again, rather not tuning in. i have the feeling i should drift in this time. see this stone bench, the kids i guess who made the flower sacrifice on the column that was a sun dial peeled away the black paint i thought was a memorial cover of graffiti but it looks like there was a painting that is light and feels like emerging. who know what the kids were thinking of, but they were tuning in to something that was covered, the sense of place emerges almost unconsciously, and sometimes we follow the sense to consciousness. obomba wanted to cover the place with a parking lot adjacent to his monument to himself, in the center of the space he would occupy as a king of space who can take anything and name it after himself. steve asks what he was thinking, and i said i don't think he thinks of anything but his own utility. he doesn't have a sense of place. he has the will to appropriate. anyway of obomba has his way i don't know if i can stay in this place. i think it will be so overwhelmed the sense of place now already compromised will be buried, and the fact that somehow the sense has survived all this time, the restoration, the poison, the erosion, the burning, the denuding, that it may be buried alive, and used as if it is another place entirely with no life of its own, i want to say i can't abide, but i may be here still anyway, under the eyes of the secret service, in the monumental shadow of obomba's shining white tower, flush with the sense of place disregarded. i think if you have a sense of place in the american sense you must have a tragic sense. i don't think obomba and his kind have a sense of place. they have a sense of dominion.