10 April 2019> Shifted to Rosslyn, Virginia, a place famous, for us, as where Martin Sheen was shot (in West Wing)... crazy to think Marty went from AWOL special op assassin to POTUS. (It's that time of year when we rewatch Apocalypse Now, followed by Hearts of Darkness.) All sorts of reel-moondough folk starting to appear in Textiloma, like Kevin Bacon, River Phoenix + Spike Jonze (or Jonez as we call hym).... wadda u think, dear Inurnet—did Spike Jonze marry Sofia Coppola to get inside axess to her father? Seems the smart move for any budding film-maker. The 1 thing still great about Inurnet (besides cat memes) is u god all sorts of intresting fax at yo fingertips. Like yesterday we discovered the bass player from Murder City Devils went on to form Pretty Girls Make Graves, 2 bands we adore, not cuz of the bass playing, but can't be a coinsidance, can hit? Just like how coinsidance smacks of coin-side-dance...
Our 5¢ense logo before we switched to The Daily Noose.
Can't be coinsidental. Ore that TM smacks of Transitdental MadaytensionTM, or how OM rhymes w/ home, not Rome. A poem? Still in limbo, an udder 10 dayzzzzzzzzzz til we moove into our new casa. Case u's wondering why we's doing ∀ll this resent archiving... far as Textiloma weave sorta maxed out what we can do on our laptop , or edits + notes hand-written on what we printed out. We'll flip back to hour ℝeel-moondough journulls now, picking up from where we left off 2 posts ago in Paris, Jan 1995, after working on a movie in Nice for 2 months, which plays a big part in Textiloma (like Marsupial, and Apocalypose Now, the book is morphing into a screenplay of the making of said movie (or, The Post-Modern Epimetheus in our book, directed by Spike Jonez). Below is the continuation of the real-whirled aftermath, when Telemachus returns to California + then Mexico. Din't have no camraw in those days, so no accompanying photos.
Jan. 11, 1995— VENICE! (...California)
(Far cry from Italy... if they have an exclamation point, they should have the opposite thereof.) Left Paris with a hollow longing, shrouded in a sad weight. Sat on the plane alone, since Richard stayed behind. Tom was in 1st class. The only time I saw him was when he came back to scam on the young polynesian boys in my section. And I'm sitting next to these cuddly lesbians. They fucked me over going through customs, gave me the wrong forms. Tom's roommate picked us up and we went to their place in Venice, eating at La Cabaña on the way. Now I wait out the gratuitous night. If not jet lag, than what would you call it? Jet advance?
The saga of Richard in Paris is analogous to Bury an Indian [the novel we was working on at the time, that we ended up calling Strip Mine])... though it was me who egged him on to flip the coin.
Jan 12, LAX — Spent the night at Tom's though I didn't really sleep. Surreal rainy night of listening to Tom talking on the phone, and people coming in and out. Brief insight to gay culture. I was restless to get "home" and come sunrise really wanted to leave. I was calling around and trying to find a way to the airport (though I didn't have a flight) and his other roommate was going just then to take his bizarre Mexican girlfriend. Got to talking on the way and ends up he was none other than Alex Cox! Chauferring me to the airport. He was being all modest, like "you've probably never heard of my movies," but i told him how much I loved Repo Man. So a quick ride here and I got a plane to SFO. All I want is a place to settle and let all this sink in, all that's yet to come. I left my address book at Tom's, otherwise I'd call somebody. My first journal entry in this journal (black one) was in LAX and now I'm back. LAX reminds me mostly of Dad's death. It comes back to me everytime I pass through here. It's like passing thru the gates of Hades, to the "terminal". LAX is the hub of transition, Trans-it-ions. Exactly 13 years ago today I was passing through by myself on the way to PDX for his funeral. It would be interesting to piece-meal all my journal entries from LAX, just to see the progression linked together. It's a pseudo-underworld, but most of all this airport has instilled in me a longing to continue on . . .
I'm over Alcatraz now. Funny how people can be out of touch for years and years and the 1st thing they always ask when they see eachother again is how their trip was (to where they meet). It's beyond small talk, it's people's inherent capacity to not imagine other people in a context that doesn't relate to them. A reflection of the fate of seeing anew.
[At this point, this hand-written spirel-bound black notebook ends + from here on out we entered the digital realm...]
January 15, 1995— Menlo Park, California
1st entry in our Powerbook!!!!. Back at Granini's now in front of the fire. Still mentally disheveled and unable to sleep. Mom is still in Mexico. So I'm in acute limbo, waiting and wondering what's next. All I know is I need time and space, time and space to write. Spent ½ my earnings from France (after losing a bunch on a shitty exchange rate) on this powerbook 150, jumped the bandwagon. Kevin is going ape shit with his, spending thousands and thousands for scanners, writing boards, modems, etc. for which he needs memory expansions,... I just want a simple word processor, that's it (and I got it!) I did get a copy of the American Heritage dictionary, Roget's thesaraus and an encyclopedia. I even have Word but I'd rather use the less-advanced Claris.
I've been up to the city a few times to help Kevin deal with Jordan's absurd collection of things. Yesterday we went up to some horse farm way up north where Jordan used to live, to drop a load off. He kept talking about how her things are "loaded", how she wants to store their things together in the same storage space. The rain has been coming down something fierce, floods everywhere. Where we dropped the stuff off, the guy had a stutter. He stuttered on words like "Gr-Gr-Grandfather" or "do you want to st-st-stay?" It made me think of stuttering as some sort of subliminal emphasis. It was a good trip driving in the rain through wine country.
I am dragging this shell around trying to find a place to download my database. I'm reading Raymond Carver's Fires and there's some stuff on writing. Says he did his best writing in times of troubles and transition, when you live in constant threat of having the chair pulled out from under you. I can relate. This is when I feel inspired, it's just the logistics of not having anywhere to sit. Now it's just a matter of resource (financial). And don't doubt yourself for one second. Just do it and regret it later if anything. I'd be up north now but there is too much flooding, ice and snow. And now Marit invited herself to come down to see me here and I'm not sure how I feel about that. Normally I'd be into it, but I just want to be alone and writing. It's going to be awkward having her here at Granini's. She's staying here for 5 nights. I'm debating whether to go to Spokane, that would be a good place to write, but I'm sure these 5 days will decide it for me.
Besides all this, the usual 2063 shit—dinners where I struggle to understand most everyone's mundane existence. I hate the bay area and I'm not sure why. Associations, maybe. People are just so vain and naive here. Especially after some time in France.
January 19, 1995— en route SFO —> Guadalajara
Got fed up of California. Marit came for a long weekend of bad vibes. I can't help but to be negative, cynical and cold in a place like California. But at least I got Marit off her knees at my altar. I honestly don't want or need anyone right now. Write now. I just want to find a spot for a while, wher i can just be, as mom said just now as she was dropping me off at the airport. She'll meet me later in Ajijic. It will be a good thing to spend time with her renovating her house. Back to the story concept: son renovates mom's home.
Hard to complain about 3 nights in the big cushy bed with Marit, but after a few times it just became old hash. It's become this mechanical pleasure, like stupid fucking animals. No passion, I'd almost rather pay for a prostitute. Or spend a life of cheap one night stands. One late night, afterwards, she was crying, saying things like—"I can't believe I wasted so much time caring for you." That just seemed so abstract, strictly parsing the language, as a physicist, so far removed from original emotive. I don't understand such lingo, how can these words mean what they mean, I think people just use words for their effect. How can someone "can't believe they wasted so much time caring" for someone. I don't think she understands what she says either.
So I took her around to all the touristy shit, SF, Berkeley, Half Moon Bay, etc. cruised the Haight, clamchowder in sourdough bowls at fishermans wharf, bookstores on Telegraph, golden gate park, Japanese tea gardens, Asian Art Museum (always a pleasure), penguins, etc. Just waiting, waiting to be anywhere but there, and alone. I had thought for a while to go to Spokane with her, no way. Just childish romantic longings for Carver country. Glad I had a reality check. Marit had originally planned on staying 5 days, I asked her to leave after 3. Politely told her it was a lot of stress on Granini (which was true... at one point she told me, "this isn't a flophouse"). Glad to get her out of my hair. But still not glad to be here. Why do I even bother to go to 2063? I guess I spent 9 days in America, that's enough. Got my computer anyway, but I may have to resurface to pay taxes, get the beater pink slip notarized and get a secret code for my credit card.
Why do the endings to Carver's brilliant stories always suck, especially the last lines?
January 20, 1995— Axixic, Mexico
Arrived to Lago de Chapala and spent the first morning getting the dust off of everything, finding a sturdy table and chair and sticking them upstairs with a small hard bed to replace the big soft one. Then I was having my doubts. Maybe the courtyard room would be better? So why not both? When it's cool and sunny I'll write up stairs where it's well lit and airy. When it gets too hot hot I'll write in the dark damp courtyard room. The house is in disrepair but still carries its soul. Dust and chipping paint, mom collecting worthless shit everywhere. I'm helping these 2 guys, Pedro and Alfonso, tearing down walls and building new ones. The reverse of what mom had them do a few years back. Tearing things down and rebuilding them as if that will make things better. Expandable walls, trying to find the right design like a kid playing with Lincoln Logs or Legos. This is like the inside of her mind. This house is her greatest achievement, her masterpiece she'll leave to the world. And I'm here to remodel it. I paid a visit to the new and improved pinche Tomas. His house is also a work of art in it's own right.
End of January 1995— Axixic, Mexico
There is no time nor space here. The days and nights run on end. I'm not here, I'm in South Dakota— in this book. Every once in a while I'll step out of this compound to buy food or coffee or beer and it freaks me out. Pulled into the reality of these cobblestone streets where people's mindsets are so much different than mine. End of January, Axixic. Where the fuck am I and what the fuck am I doing here? Sometimes I get these reality checks that hit hard—who do I think I am, writing a novel? I have no qualificatoins, so to speak. It's all a waste of time. Nobobdy will get it. If anyone ever reads it, which no one probably will. What am I doing? Why am I doing it? These questions are vain, as all I know is I'm obsessed. [Incidentally, we never even bothered to try to publish this book... treated it as a 1st pancake, but perhaps we shd revisit it?]
Blazed through the first 12 chapters. 60 pages. Now I've reached this gaping void, doubting myself, feeling like I'm getting sucked into my own world. I have no outside validation. I myself cannot judge how good or bad this will be. Now I know why writers drink so much. The same reason people need to drink during cocktail parties, to lose inhibition and self-consciousness. Sometimes I stop to read what I've written as if I was someone else. I try anyway. I get this sense of pity, self-compassion, like "yah, he's crazy. But just nod and say 'it's good' to make him feel alright." I just get really fucking depressed and fall deep into an instant of time. But then I have to remember that when it's all said and done, it doesn't matter. Other times I feel incredibly high, like 'these are the times'. When I'm fully absorbed and inspired. When I don't doubt myself for a second... in that second. I day dream into the future and look back with a longing for nostalgia, thinking these are the times, don't take them for granted. The times when no one believed in me, except myself. The times when my anguish was mine only to share with myself. But then there are times like now, I FEEL it hard, almost to the point of giving up hope.
[24 years later + nothing has changed, except we have a partner in life, a bedder-½, who at the moment is in Purdue.]
[journull continues here, Feb 1995 in Mexico]