Are we not touched by the same breath of air which was among that which came before? is there not an echo of those who have been silenced in the voices to which we lend our ears today? 

Walter Benjamin

 fascism is always on the verge of collapse.

 a glassine envelope with a tuft of jaspie's hair tied with a thread by r.

 i thought charlie would be home tomorrow for her birthday and the full moon but she's still vacated in indiana. so, a hug from a state away, in non-locality, babe. happy third birthday. 

 oh lu, pee wee and sinéad, they both have died. 

 the super-powered neo-con huckster's oligarchic complex colonizes the commons.

 i hate and i'm afraid i shall never learn to love the o-bomb.

i don't get it.

in my humble opinion there actually may be nothing to get.

be that as it may the fact remains i still don't get it.

 it is increasingly obvious to even the most casual of observers that obama has developed a massive complex. 

 an emergency of hope for the southside.

 all we can do is watch. fortunately, we like to watch, even when we don't like what we see.

 now they're tearing up the alley for obama's "improvements". we can't boycott obama. it's a done dirty deal. he's taking over the neighborhood.

 everybody by now knows what's up with the oligarch in the park.

 yeah, so we worked in the archive a couple hours. it's hot in there, and i did get a little whelmed, but then we sold some books and got snacks and came to the graveyard. thanks and love to r. for supporting and helping me in the transition. at one time i thought i would likely be in that cold water flat til i croaked. now i can see myself standing proudly on the other side. 

 i see a lot of jewish graves that aren't in the jewish section, then a wall of evergreens. they need workers in the graveyard. i wonder why, but then i think i'd rather not work there, i'd rather linger and daydream with the ghosts and the critters. they have a lot of nice trees in the graveyard. it was nice to decompress there after working in the museum of my past self. 

 

oh, dog grave. oh, man and dog grave. i can dig it. 

 maybe the displaced neighbors will still be able to see his beacon of light from their new neighborhood.

 i was looking at beverly buchanan's marsh ruins slowly disintegrating. looking and being in that particular and general place where she worked, in that essential humility. now i'm looking at the obamachron, imaging the way beverly would make it, how it might look, as a slowly sinking ruin, humbled by nature and time.

 desperate in bucktown, i ended up putting most of my things in the alley. an hour later i looked and they were gone. i put some books and art in storage and flew to athens. when i came back six months later those things too were gone. things accumulate, we accumulate things, and emotions, and, love help us, we have to clear, and next time we say, we'll know what matters, we'll live simply, with less inertia and less attachment from now on. 

 i remember when i lived in bucktown and i had to get out of it. i saw the film the sacrifice and learned about the monks who burned all their belongings every five years and moved on to the next place. i was walking around the neighborhood musing and smelled smoke and imagined it was my apartment. but you can't burn an apartment. you have to clear it. it makes me breathe shallow then deep. it's not just the apartments. it's the head and heart, it's our life we have to clear.

 dude, nato wants to take over the planet like obama took the park, like it's a done deal.

 obama, landlord of the commons.

 

Attention, taken to its highest degree, is the same thing as prayer. 

                                                                            

                                                                                   -Simone Weil

 if i was a dog would i be a social dog? maybe some of us are shy by nature, maybe some of us just got stuck somewhere along the line. i'm not so social with humans. both dogs and humans are on a spectrum. i'd like to be easy with my nature, not uncertain what my nature is. i wouldn't mind being shy if i could relax. when i'm relaxed everything is fine. i hope we all get the help we need.

 i returned proust i have to say, and i got the bomb, the weapon that changed the world. i know what you're thinking, no wonder i'm so gloom and doom and dyspeptic, but it's a graphic novel, so don't worry. 

 this is just to say.

 yes, yes, in the future no parks will be under-utilized, all parks will be privatized. the future is now! make money, money! 

make money, money, make money, money, make money, money, make money, money

the money song, 

obamachron

tree struck down by the obamachron. i mean tree struck down not by the obamachron but near the obamachron, tree which would be killed anyway to make way for the obamachron playground. in the obama park system no space will be left alone, underutilized. the park will be one endless chain of concessions.

 

It is No Measure of Health to be Well Adjusted to a Profoundly Sick Society

-Jiddu Krishnamurti

 it was a rough night. an east wind from the lake cooled us for a minute then the heat came back and a massive storm buster hit us from the west and dust was blowing and the chair was rocking like a crazy ghost story words flying and penny cried and ran for the closet. we had to batten the hatches and crank the fan but we fell asleep in time and woke with a coolness and sun again. in paradise in the city on earth spinning tales and voyaging in the infinitely expanding cosmos impossible to reckon, granted.

these processes were not really designed to give the masses of people a voice, but instead to legitimize the dominance of the ruling class. we must continue to expose this dictatorship of the rich and powerful for what it is. 

malcolm x

 i'm still in a weird mood. it may be the smoke brain. am i gonna read marcel proust's seventy-five portfolios and other unpublished manuscripts before i read remembrance of lost time? i started reading it and stopped, it was too daunting somehow, maybe it's not my cup of tea, or madeleine. or maybe the unpublished manuscripts will lead me into the magnum opus. it's terms like that that make me nervous. oh what the hell, i'll try.

 the gilded age is over. the people's age is beginning.     

 -cornel west

 whelp i finished diary of a young naturalist. the last half i got impatient, i was in a weird mood, but it could have been the book too. first i felt connected, the words felt like thinking and then it felt like book writing, though in the outward form of a diary. we're all on that autism spectrum i believe, and the degree seems to correlate with a feeling for the non-human and nature. i'll have dara on my mind. now, proust!?