Posts Tagged ‘sleep’

Roll Your Own Bandwidth

31 Mar

true-detectiveOriginally posted on Mon Mar 31 02:01:23 1997

Yes. Checking the clock and checking my pages. Saturday's bandwidth problems are not reproducing themselves tonight. The graphics are loading almost as fast as they do from my own hard drive. That's good to know. The sluggishness this past Saturday at four in the afternoon was depressing, but understandable for a plethora. Thanks for the software. I'll examine it in the morning, as I'm getting ready to hit the sack. I just hope it doesn't hit back...

Postscript 2013: When I was somewhere in the vicinity of ten years old, my hometown got a 7-11 convenience store. So now we had one red light and one Seven-Eleven. Growing up, going cosmopolitan. My world had suddenly expanded to include cherry icees and True Detective magazines. I welcomed both these wonderful new products with exactly the same internal combustion as I had two years earlier discovered my first baseball cards. At ten I probably was the number one trader in town, maybe number two. I had thousands of cards. I would continue to trade the cards, but now I had found something else to do on the pretense of buying an icee. I never bought the magazines, but I would squat down—perched on the balls of my feet in front of the monster wooden rack backed up against the cashier's area—facing just a few feet from the familiar glass storefront doors to spend precious moments staring at the lurid covers and thumbing through what I soon learned were the less interesting pages of TD. Trapped between shame and boldness, it was the covers of scantily clad women in and out of some sort of criminal bondage scenario that jailed my eyes for anybody wandering into the store just feet behind me to note.

Years later I learned that Ludwig Wittgenstein also loved the American True Detective pulp magazines, according to his biographer Ray Monk in The Duty of Genius, but surely the fellow that was once known as the Boy Genius of Cambridge must have loved them for the stories.


Where Are You Sleeping?

22 Feb


The Bird Collector


Orginally published on February 22, 1997

I sent this to Steve earlier this morning. Just to tide you over until I can focus on DAY 2 of the Fevers...

In other words, what is your current address? All I've got is those Taft Street digits. This morning early, after waking up in a fit of harrumph from an intrusive dream starring the "bar none kidz" Tim & Jennifer, yes, after listening to them prattle on about how much they didn't appreciate this and that about how badly I treated them last month...of course Jennifer was doing most of the squawking while bringing out the PERQUACKY gameboard she wanted to engage with Tim, while strong silent type Tim was in the kitchen elbowing Sue in helping himself to the coffeemaker, and suddenly I realized I had a hard-on, typical morning wakeup dream, and my nemesis because all the women I had ever known were slow risers or late sleepers who had to rush off to the office and preferred late night delights when I was too tired to make the effort...

I've been busy since early in the wee scratching out postcards, lovely postcards I threw together a couple of years ago on heavy stock with various old and contemporary photos of me, and of me and the Suzy, all embossed with typical GT crytic title. Sent my dad a batch back then but I was told he never received them. Thought I'd send you one since I'd already addressed and stamped a batch, knowing you'd probably appreciate the younger Mohican Gabriel. It would be a shame that you've never had a sleeping chance to get a good laugh of me in the Eighties.

Reality is indeed a wicked business, full of overloads, overlords, and understudies. Marsh grasses, foggy bottoms, and tricks of the trade. But even in the beer leagues one plays to win.
Back to the dream. The "bar none kidz" had arrived at the back door together wanting to make amends, which in their vernacular, was to point out my unprovoked rudeness. At one point Jennifer blurted out that she wanted the money she had spent on me returned, uh, she bought me a hamburger at Ruby Tuesday's on Monday's field trip to the shopping Mall (oops, that part of the story hasn't been written in blood yet!), and she came bearing a bottle of champagne the Saturday she arrived, but that pretty much sums up to the penny (well, gasoline to drive down) the whole of Jennifer's financial support in 12 years of Dollhouse maneuvers. I told her to forget it, no way, no mula. How about her share in the $500 bucks we plunked down for limo, booze, and food when she was here?

She backed off with the wince of an Ellis Island immigrant. Uh, geez, and I thought she knew how to make an argument. At one point I grabbed her in a bear hug, and walked her upright to the backdoor, but as soon as she was free she rocketed off on how she didn't appreciate being manhandled that way, and besides she hadn't played her game yet. In my drippiest sarcasm I mock the easily offended sensibilities of a woman scouring the AOL gutters as a submissive painseeking thrill artist while shoving this big fat lie of forever love up the nose of somebody she has known way too long to shaft like this. Meanwhile Tim is grumbling in the kitchen in his best Rodney King, "Can't we just get along" reasoning. I had finally had enough. I go beserk, trumpeting all arms akimbo:

"Wait a damn minute. I tossed both of you out of here, and I haven't invited either of you back and from the general sniff of things nor do I intend to, and yet here you are, making yourselves quite at home. Tim, get OUT of my kitchen! Jennifer, PUT that board down. It's not even mine. It's Steve's..."

That's about the gist of it. I grabbed her up again and was making my way to the backdoor since she had once again adopted the diningroom table as her podium, before I woke from the sofa, and noticed my hard-on was gone. Sharing this whole cinematic reel du force with Sue just a few minutes ago, with the summation that as boring as the dream sequence was, unfortunately, there's not much distortion in that version from what we both imagine, knowing them as symptomatically as we do, in how Tim and Jennifer could waltz in proud as peacocks to the beat of their own hummer humming six weeks, six months, six years from now...

I allow myself to feel a slight remorse that I pushed the envelope of no return by taking a stick to old friends, but like your own proverbial red-face, it flushes and soon passes. Reality is indeed a wicked business, full of overloads, overlords, and understudies. Marsh grasses, foggy bottoms, and tricks of the trade. But even in the beer leagues one plays to win.

Guess Day 2 of the Six Day fever is overdue, but to borrow a phrase, I'm playing it by ear, having too much fun tweaking the nipple on my Macintosh laptop, my Destouches dream dancer...



23 May

Yesterday's gone to sleep
waiting for her husband to return from the plant
where soot finds its way into his very dignity
clothing his shame in layers of insult too twisted to recant.

Yesterday's alone with child
sitting in the backroom of the artist's studio
where he will pay her to reveal her very dignity
painting her memoirs in colors her husband wouldn't know.

Yesterday's grown to hate
all men and women who killed her husband and child
with cathedral bells buying and selling her very dignity
knowing nothing could ever be reconciled.

(Many years later)
Yesterday's shown no favor
declaring the artist serves no one from inside a jail
where neither mind nor beauty can save its very dignity
blaspheming birth as eternal blackmail.


"Ignorance and virtue suck on the same straw. Souls grow on bones, but die beneath bankers' hours.""