Sunday, November 19, 2006

I am a lousy blogger
I am a lousy blogger. I don't keep up enough to make it interesting or worth anyone's while to check in on me. But for those of you who do check, I'm here and I'm still sober. I'm losing count a bit, I think it's 78 days now. I am still feeling great. I do have to be careful of cravings still. Like when I passed an outdoor cafe on my way home from work on Friday. The white wine being served look so cool, crisp and elegant. Or even if I'm leafing through a Crate and Barrel catalogue, the bar ware can make me crave.
I've enjoyed reading some of the gratitude lists I see on the blogs I read, particulary JJ's and Scott's. I thought I might try to do something like that. Today, I am grateful for having pushed myself to get up at 6 AM and hop on my treadmill. I felt great afterwards. I'm also grateful for summer mornings and a pool to jump into after my workout to cool off. And I'm grateful for hot coffee in the garden while everyone is still sleeping.

Wednesday, September 06, 2006

Call it a love hate relationship with words relationships people places and mostly writing or art or whatever the name that gets used and made up like the names in the back of the local city tabloid straight from key west florida give it up for the beautiful summer remember gentlemen ladies work for tips and tips only – I love my shit hate my shit either way that made up name stays the same for years carrying future dreams like the old bastard in the nursing home who refuses to die because the red sox might just win the whole damn thing this time…..
Latley I’ve been thinking about starting a book club, an online bookclub with a few chosen elite individuals who will REALLY read the book and not just read a few passages the night before or the day of the meeting. Okay, so maybe that was always me, but it must be an out of print hard to find cool ass book that few people know about and I get to pick it.
1 hour later after receiving a phone call from my brother and finally realizing that I won’t be at Winfield this year…..
It suddenly occurs to me that I may be the only member, that in fact, I already have the club going. Damn, and here I thought I was on to something big. Oh well…I didn’t want to wait on slow readers anyway. A book of the month club? Geez….Imagine if there was a video of the month club. I know, I know, it takes longer to read a book, still though…….
Fuck Winfield, been there done that……
How about a Festival of the month club?
Damn computer is dying…..
Time to close the store……..

Tuesday, March 14, 2006

Ordinary madnesses
On the chess-board, the insane ones of the King are well wisely aligned. Their only imagination, to move in diagonal, but always on the boxes of their color.
In the province of Dakar, Senegal, one built a village for the insane ones. They live there in family. It is explained there that the madness comprises already its amount of violence, of clearness, and that one cannot, moreover, to separate the insane ones as of theirs. Then, the families or the scraps of what it remains about it, arrive with kitchen ustensils and plaits to sleep. They remain time there that it is necessary so that the insane one "finds its skin".
In Madagascar, all the fifteen or twenty years, one unearths deaths. It is a festival in their honor. One trimbale craniums and other bones from one end to another of the villages, while singing and dancing. One waltz with the tibia of aunt Désirée and one empties glass with the jaw of Pépé Mabou. Then one digs a new hole, any expenses to them, very nine.
One day, I saw this woman who only spoke in the street, extremely and with great gestures which mimaient. It was the principal of my daughter.
Did one day, I intend to say "but not, do not be afraid, one does not die, one goes up to the sky, it is all?" and I was afraid.
One day, I crossed the glance éperdu of a patient after a meeting of electric shocks. Its eyes veiled only one great vacuum. Not a blued, luminous vacuum? Did an empty, metal and rusted vacuum, where the least sound make echo only with itself, ad infinitum?
Once, ten times, hundred times, I looked myself in the mirror, and I did not recognize myself, but then at all, and worst it is than I did not have any judgement on myself. I "was not inspired" not. Then, I remained there, the swinging spirit, as a bubble left my head which would only seek to take again its place?