Moraline's morning gift: rashaan roland kirk (commentary below)

"oh volunteered slavery, you don't know how it is to be free, you got
a spend all day in bed with me....." Shackles in the back
ground.......

Holy fucksake, this is up there with Danny Richmond with Mingus: "Why
are they so sick and ridiculous--Govenor Faubus fascist nazi
supreme!!!!!!!!"

Got a real Mingus big band feel to it--Jesus, as if it could be a
track on the same fucking album. Beatles---they break into Hey
Jude!!!!!!!!!!! Jesus, they are playing Hey Jude!!!!!!

Hard to listen to muu-sick anymore after being reminded of how good this shit is.

10,000 meters

American laps a Kenyan in 10,000 meters. 26:48.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xt1sHQza_ww

Flux

A change in plans:
2 mile warm up
800 meters jog&stride
3200: 10:56
800 jog
800: 2:33
400 jog
400: 71
200 jog
400: 71
1200 meter jog

Total mileage: 7.125
Morning 3.6
Day's total 10.7125

Left hinge felt strange on warm up, but loosened up. No issue with hamstring though.

I've given up on thoughts. I have an idea about 'the other' but Moraline hates ontology and so I won't expound. I am going off to eat food now. No hunting of women, I'm through with that. I need my sleep. I'll run 3.6 in the morning and then either 7 or 10 with Chrome at night. 12 Sat morning with Shannon and then 15 on Sunday at high altitude. Running is my project. Nothing else really makes sense to me.

a project

This morning as the ghost of Moraline hovered over Denver, Western culture, and mingled with the lost souls of caleñas, I considered Sekota's maxim that we get what we want. When we are miserable and lost, we are getting what we want, because we are out of balance, not on any one path, because out of fear and a lack of force in action, we fail to choose, and so the time comes for the train, working at high speed, to choose among the tracks at the crossing, the train tears through the rails, deep into the dirt, careening into the granite face of the mountainside, exploding, all passengers horribly burned and dismembered. Each day begins and ends such.

When, due to a man's force of action, he can right his direction, his energies coalesce into a thing of great beauty and power. After my run this morning, as part of my program of 70 miles per week, as part of my program to break 1:17 on October 9th, I realized my energies should be focused on running the half marathon. Writing will only serve as a journal of my understanding of my passage from a slow runner to a faster runner. Writing will only serve running. Today I will run 6 1-mile repeats, with a 2 mile warm up and a 2 mile cool down. This morning I ran 3.6 miles at a 6:50 pace.

Giving up on Maximin

I remember when I first gave up on Maximin. It was September of 2011. He had learned nothing from Colombia. He clung to his desk job. He either let women lead him around, or he prided himself on leading around skanks. His writing was terrible. He operated in a sport run by women, most of them soccer moms. He began to get drunk alone--this was perhaps his greatest achievement in years. I kept trying to tell him he should kill himself, but he ignored my advice and ate cliff bars at night. He tried to connect with 20-something American women, but as anyone could have told him, they left him empty. Man, his last years were sad, there was a myth of a myth of a myth that a man gets what he wants, that a man creates a myth that he gets what he wants but only when there is a myth. Make the myth and dance in between the pillars of its foundation. Yeah, man, make that fuckin myth work for you.

A life as open as i can, brothers

Some factual tyranny real quick: Friday night went out to a high end speak easy downtown with Shannon (70 bill for 4 drinks and an appetizer)—it was fun, she looked beautiful, but this 26-year-old was taking me for a ride, plain and simple. She arrived on a bus from Westminster, I met her there, and that was one of the few smiles of the night—when she saw me at the station. She looked stunning—black satin short shorts, a sequin top, her hair braided and blonde and beautiful. But my game is off, I’m not her type, and I won’t chase, praise, or goad her ego. We went for some light fare and drinks then at Linger, and the space was great and a lot cheaper and we chatted until 1 but there was no chemistry, nothing, and I dropped her off at the bus station and that was that. No kiss, nothing. I woke up early the next morning, and headed to Breckenridge for a 5k trail run that I technically won but I ran off course and finished 7th officially but the race director gal who was hot along with the other blonde who was hot gave me what was officially the winner’s prize: a huge ceramic beer stein from Germany with two drink tickets for the Oktoberfest in Breck. I hung out with my parents in Breckenridge and we wandered the streets during the festival and I ran 14 on the dirt mining road and trails on Sunday, wandered more with the folks then hiked with them then ate dinner. I drank too much Fri-Sun but last night only had two beers, 1.5 of them at Park Tav with some greasy Mexican food, saw Chrome for but a moment at PT, he shared a beer and ate two tacos then had to buy peanut butter for Rogue then split I left too leaving half my beer on the table then ate some more food upon returning home—my appetite has increased lately with the miles—and got to sleep at a good time and slept in this morning till near 7:30. On Sunday night Erin came over round 8:30 and we drank some Breckenridge whiskey, wine, beer, I showed her my Colombian pictures, my folding bike, lots of things she hadn’t seen since the two of us had split, and we had some hot encounters in the kitchen, the couch, then the bed, maybe once at night and then twice in the a.m.—standard for us. There’s real sexual chemistry between us, but that’s it. One thing I notice about this quick rundown in the journal is how I feel—how it’s do damn clear—that I’m leaving out the meaning and all the good ideas surrounding these experiences. But I can’t sit and write about my life all day. Too busy getting out there. Too busy running off all the fucking greasy Mexican food I ate last night, for one. I’ll hit up 4 laps tonight—three with the Tue group and then one on my own.
While I was running on Sunday on the mining trail in Breckenridge at about 8:50 a.m. in the cool mountain breeze, I thought of how common “alien life” was in the Dr. Who television series—not artificial intelligence, but alien life. Who not tackle the problem of the other from this perspective? Alien life, rather than the simple minded and naïve set-up of the problem of the automaton? The automaton set-up just from the outset reveals our carbon ba-ed prejudices—why not just work with the idea that “otherness” is just foreign, but what it does have in common is our perception that the thing is spontaneous. Of course, Dr. Who makes it easy by giving his aliens the ability to either speak English or his characters the ability to translate—and here we assume that the language of the aliens is not so multilayered, rich, mysterious, and different, that we aren’t wiping out most of its meaning in translation—my biggest concern with alien language translation.

The other as enemy, as in situation. How does this compare to our fighting against the weather, that is to say, the elements, or an animal, such as a mountain lion?

10:02 Out for more hunting. A man gets what he wants.

Jesus

Cuando Jesús lloró, lloró por mí y yo solamente.

Plato, slices

Allison and Sasha were their names. Sasha was a Russian, Allison a redhead beaut--tall and thin and lithe, and she bought me a slice at 1 a.m. and then did what I normally do (she wandered off) and Sasha and I followed. The three of us spoke in Spanish the first part of the night (then in Russian-Bulgarian). This is because these girls go to South and Central America and live there--how dangerous, really, are these countries, when these girls go their in dresses and shorts and sandals? Hostels, their homes for their visits, are speed dating for fucking, and I don't blame them for the venue choice, because the feedback is immediate, the setting is quiet practical, and fucking is visceral--it gets way past that wobbly speaking movement which gets nobody nowhere.

My ears are ringing. God damn it my ears are ringing. I smoked a cigarette last night. Minor Threat serenaded these women. I say I can't write but now reading your work I realize why: what would I write about? How I can go to a bar, eat tacos, grab two girls, and wander and drink? That sounds like the soul-less march of Miami coke fiends. I'm not a coke fiend. I'll never be a coke fiend, unless it's with that yeh-yo flake you talk about. Maybe with that yeh-yo yellow flake golden ritual snort you speak about there Donnie.

Man, I trained with the guys that night too, but I chase these damn girls. Moraline saves the world, and I drive my Subaru each day to the deskjob and spend the fake currency on the booze that fuels the gatekeepers who let me in each night

God damn there captain your writing gets so many thinking about so many things. I mean my degeneracy is interesting, it can be good for a laugh or a read, but what the hell does it feel like to know your work is perennial? What a swagger it must give to a man. And you are with good people too, your family. Your trust them. They know you are progressing mankind singlehandedly in your basement. And I've been to that basement and can attest that it gives you no unfair advantage. Man, I should have gone home after the shot and the beers and the tacos, but I saw the redhead and her face melted the whole fucking place down, and I did what Chrome always did, I sat down and spoke as if I was continuing a long lost oral tradition.

I'm back now--that was my great and cleansing bowel movement of 7:42 a.m. Denver time. I do most of my work there, it's where I have a copy of the same damn books reading the same damn passages that get me nowhere, still on to fucking ontology when you've created a new way of accounting for the meaning of experience. What you've done here is injected this anthropology into the anemic discipline of the Frenchies and Krauts. Yeah, and you're taking on this culture like Miguel attacks the serpent, you know, the one from the bible. You are doing the work of so many men and so few men at the same time--so few men, because so few men really have affected world history--man, just think of Plato, just think if he had chosen to go to Park Tavern and go for late night slices instead of getting his work done? Man, think if he had to drive to work now. But she'll feel good when that long dress comes off. I don't think Plato ever felt that.

Cindy, the Slovenian, je je

Cindy

The cell phone, the ‘smart’ phone, didn’t work right in front of the place. I try calling Chrome and nothing gets out. Energy is the starting point for the ideas here—we’ve already said that language, much more than a messy bastard (cf. Moraline), is just one orginary experience that, out of our fear and the domination of others, has been programmed through indoctrination. And we know with the first sentence someone will jump the gun. The chef who pulls apart an animal, moves his arms in a ballet so that the animal falls apart before his eyes, has no strategy, but an art. We do not approach him as he is working.

The energy was disrupted because Cindy has been working with energy for some time. I didn’t know her address yet I walked right into the right building and, after one encounter with a woman who may well could have massaged me, I found Cindy. But the passive activity of massage is not what Cindy’s work is about—she likens her work to optometry, where the patient must judge what prism feels best, works best. The pelvis is the center of many things, or similar to the indoctrination of language, this is where she begins. Some osteopath figured things out about the body with energy—no doubt what he figured out was ancient, but there is no fucking ‘uncovering’ in anything: it’s as new now as it was then.

My proprioception is off, she tells, me; I told her how Charlie had a book with this title, how self perception is a big deal for me, how a lot of good thinking starts there, like how she starts with the pelvis. Moraline and I have battled about these starting points, but it may be like how you push off with your right foot if you are right handed—you must push with something, start somewhere, there cannot be a desperate quietism. I don’t know where the Colombians begin or which foot they push off with—it seems they’ve always been dancing, they’ve never stopped moving, they’ve always had that rhythm to them, they’ve never been looking for that new music to make all the salsa go away, but they may dance with some new rhythms if it feels right.

I am a man without a dance and a rythym—it embarrasses me in cultures where dance is how they lead themselves in the morning and through their sleep and in the fields, on the street with a girl, with a beer with a girl, dancing with a girl. If you have to mimic dance, if you must take lessons, if you must look for music, you are an orphaned soul and you have no parents, no family, your legs and arms and hips--your pelvis, the center of your energy, has no friends--and at night you sleep like Jayne alone and cold yet growing among the new stars. In other words, a man without dance is at once the saddest yet most hopeful occurrence in existence: He is nothing, but has the chance of orginary: when he finally dances---if he finally dances—he will share a universe patently strange, born as a star’s first breath of light, it will shine on a woman’s face and make her a queen, a man a pharaoh.

The Slovenian

The Slovenian was incredulous the New Yorkers could not imagine the flavor of sour milk—it’s like peanut butter in familiarity. There is a wheat, potato, and milk pastry from his village, far outside the capital, near the Ukrainian border. It has to be made there, for the energy, all the feelings, eyesight of the village, morning trash burning, sticks on fire mid day to boil tomatoes and peppers in the stew, chickens walking under drying clothes, and a gypsy's final day: wander for scraps, maybe better, maybe a harcover book read in a dry undisrupted forest free from summer fires. He protected an explosives depot at home when in the military, Iraq was worse than Serbia at that time because it probably meant some fighting, the Croatians wiped out many Serbs in the second war, plus they were Nazis, so pay attention to how ‘bad’ the Serbs really were, was his point, listen well, measure these images you have been given: why were the serbs so pissed off? Why would they do so many ‘bad’ things? Very small compared to the 40s, you have no idea, he meant.

Who is chasing who?

“Je je.” Not a laugh of joy but what we call ‘irony,’ that lament that we know what’s happening but we do not send it back more forcefully in the opposite direction. Yes, N., indeed we both want to run away from each other, yet one seems to chase, and one moves to the dry rocks of the reservoir to the sun at the foothills of summer and autumn. A woman can only be on top for so long before I think of my next meal or climb through the rocks that leads to the meadow.