sporadic bottle-rockets, M-80′s, and strings of fire-crackers going off signals the approach of the New Years celebration in three short days. discussions do circulate on the condition of the world. and the possibilities of … but nobody knows anything for sure. so, speculation gets to be old and stale, and there is left only hollow waiting, which is, for me, a space of suspended living. there is no real breathless rushing towards doom. and portents are quite harmless, although they do pop into consciousness from time to time. waiting. letting fingernails grow, not calling folks. dinner last night with Val, Neils, Haukur, and Helmut, like the old times. Loki a few years older, eating, drinking, and talking. all of us older. me graying at the muzzle, look in the mirror, after pissing, behind amorphous silica eye covers, technology does not impact my being, only the body, or maybe it is vice-versa, maybe everything is changed with the advent of networked machines.

the day is a blur. truly a Monday morning. late evening phone calls, full of silent pauses, where each are trying to catch a psychic breath, letting heart gather stillness, let chest push beyond closing constrictions. somehow, I have come to a different point in life these past months. not sure whether it is a crux, juncture, discontinuity, a crisis, turning point, simple chance, a result of earlier mis-calculations, whatever. curious how isolated I feel. again, in another foreign country (looking around, how’d I get HERE?), talking to stranger after stranger about esoteric and aesthetic things. or nothing at all. the explorations of energy transfer between humans becomes theoretical and somehow less than real. it is subtracted from what should be a reality, leaving only a dried husk of presence. ‘nuf said.

As in any well-functioning totalitarian society, the inhabitants of this automated prison believe they live this way by choice, having long since developed an aversion both to the surface of the earth and to direct experiences, unmediated by the machine. — E. M. Forster

well, the pretty/evil dentist, Riita, didn’t need to pull my wisdom teeth, they weren’t really infected, but rather (it appeared) that it was just a cavity in another tooth that has been irritating me. I was so worried about going to the dentist this morning that I forgot the PIN number to my bank account, fortunately I had my Visa card with me. Riita wasn’t really evil, actually a bit timid as her English wasn’t so good. and I think she was new at the job. hmmmm. but I just have to head home. spending too much time with this machine. Sanna is in Portugal for a week, so life is different yet again.

deep dreams of transformation and dislocation. solutions in the near and far future are clear, but for each solution there is an inherent pain. heartache. that will have to be faced and sublimated into the action of living. I am not aware of systems that can simply remove that heartache, except for time. although even that treatment does not erase the physiological effects of such sensations. mending broken hearts. or of the possibility of life renewing itself, rediscovering, reconnecting under circumstances that are more auspicious and conducive to (r)evolutionary survival.

Man puts the longest distances between him in the shortest time. He puts the greatest distances behind himself and thus puts everything before himself at the shortest range. Yet the frantic abolition of all distances brings no nearness; for nearness does not consist in shortness of distance. What is least remote from us in point of distance, by virtue of its picture on film or its sound on the radio, can remain far from us. What is incalculably far from us in point of distance can be near to us. Short distance is not in itself nearness. Nor is great distance remoteness.– Martin Heidegger

on the above note, couldn’t project energies any longer into this space, but days have pulled me forward through nights as Rilke’s rider, “riding, riding, through the day, through the night, through the day, riding, riding, riding, through the night.” and threads build into a new fabrics to wear as old ways get worn pressed between body and outer beings. too many things happening for me NOT to be noting some of them. case I forget what happens now, off in some future time, maybe tomorrow, maybe next week, maybe when this medium itself is not readable anyway. creating archeological ruins in the moment, of the moment. head has been full even eyes can’t see sometimes now, thought-forms dragging along despite outside influence. or just accumulating. (summer is a time of storing and accumulating, and it is already gone.) surrounded by successful people. why is success important? it seems to have a deep evolutionary reading. having or lacking the tools for survival. strong body, intelligence, creativity, cleverness, adaptability, conserving resources for lean times, positioning the self (security) properly when the body declines.

no celebration here. just fatigue soaking deep in to the body. celebrating a revolution? no way. and no Mix-Master de-Light ramming of content down any local body’s constricted vocabulary projector. no bodies care lies still, encased in streams of spiral-wrapped conduits, snaking, (no fixed address), but a carrier. tired of things to carry. it slid into my burnt awareness to day, wandering over to school, second time in 20 minutes, fuming, that a nomad takes no prisoners. makes no documents, and tells stories only about others, not himself, to strangers. no form of permanent record, except organic and portable memory. no weight. gravity is a nomads enemy.

stretching the game back twice a day. again, like 18 months ago. time flies.

after a day at Hershey Park, cooking in the summer sun. here in a cheap motel in Hometown, Pennsylvania. Loki crashed in bed after a stimulating day. too much sun, too much heat, cotton candy, dolphins, Ferris wheel, and roller coasters. dosing of Amurika. he and Sarah seem to compliment each other. we hit the road to get to this place. and the twistedness of it all. on the road. in the dark of this place. stories of Armageddon continue to mount. dwelling on it is senseless. it’s the media circus. it is inevitable that this happen at this time. time. running. the movements bear witnesses. the madness of things. of things. what has gone down this month. it is only the body that carries some continuity. that it was there, that it is now here.

alien nation. night train really isn’t. leaving the flat at 1745 by taxi. leaving Tornio by bus at 1810. leaving Kemi at 2000, trudging in Light to the South, but noticeable dimming within the roaring grinding cabin, high whine of air movers, both the two bunks too slim for two, but two forced to be in one because of need. needs of fate, needs of whatever. I do not know, needs of time, beautiful in sleep, beautiful upon waking, stretching away, and the shyness that for me is an inscrutable hidden in language and culture difference and herself. her silence given to searching for words, and that thing I know well of Babylon — the excretory hubris to attain God after the language leaves. maybe this can never become anything other than what it is. and for that I am thankful, for it to be what it is in the moment of when it is enough. the word romantic surfaces, but this is only a poor shake of letters not touching on the actuality. romantic movements are gritty-eyed, skin-burnishing events. hallucinogenic Light flashing through the trees when the shades are opened in the morning, well, at the 0500 hour because sleep is not possible for me. last car in the train. yeah, the language difference, something I am too familiar with, and the limits of expression. can we substitute one form of expression purely for another? the example being the susseration of skin-to-skin, a touch-language (this has been thought of for years: and acted upon more than once), instead of this ancient way of going that would never be now — constructs of letters making sound, making sense and dissonance. the shaping and imprinting, wanting to remember the feeling (do we ever have memories of feeling?) hand moves back and forth, pressing the body-wall of Other, never knowing what it is to be. the conflict of sensory feeding and sensory survival and sensory overload and sensory subjugation and sensory purpose. goodbye is goodbye when the first meeting is only days in the past. saying goodbye is unspeakable. the way one looks at the Other. the eye as receptor (not transmitter like history gazing on itself) nor ear as receptor, only a transmitter of attention. The body and the voice as transmitter (touch, the receiver and transmitter.) Light emissions. (voices move) through the containing ether. shaping the words to trace an outline of being on the vacated space of that body once known or thought to be known or thought to be anticipated (memory of loss. and loss of memory.) anticipating that I would. or just anticipating what it was. shoulder, arm, wrist, finger. ring.

Sleep comes slowly, my right neck and shoulder are contorted by muscular contraction, internal stress mapping. From traveling, although the travel yesterday went totally smooth. And the situation here in Kiel seems to be absolutely optimal. And even the weather is pleasant. Where to take this text (raw self-consciousness is a worn-out policy). No skills available like Henry Miller had, no raucous sex and rampant depravity to denote. Appreciable way of going, and writing, yes, but as something to emulate, I ain’t got the writing skills. Exactly what are skills in writing? Organizing thoughts, ordered presentation of information, logical arguments, reasonable dialogues, uh, accurate pictures inscribed by words, (mind-states precisely mediated by language), descriptive flashes of brilliance, insight, comic diversion, poetry, what the hell is poetry? Can’t remember the last time I wrote a funny story, although I do tell such things frequently. Oh shit, orbiting egos and oscillating senses. Too much mind energy spent in communications with individuals. I need forays into mass communications. To grind down the specificity at which (where is the body?), well, weariness sets in. Boredom. As a state of bodily function.

Somewhere over the North Atlantic or so. A feeling of stress. I recognize that the ego is driving my work and my existence at the moment, and has for the past years ever since I became aware of a difference between motivation, greed, selfishness, ego-centricity, altruism, speed, attention, concentration, giving, etc. Is it possible to harness this beast and bring it to be in service of productive living? Or do I have to destroy it and the self in order to come to some freedom of being? I know that it must be left behind, it is a shell, an artifact of the presence of the body, the incarnation of being … An illusory state of requisition and need that pollutes what is meant to be a transitory and pure experience of living in this world. It forefronts my existence. Keeping the few genuine qualities that I do possess out of balance and … (never finished)

Shining movement, time divides only the static from the dynamic, the resting from the moving. Long weekends shiver into working weeks, a work I like to do, but exhausting me each time. Stamina of the sixteen weeks in fair weather and sunshine is different than the stamina of a week’s workshop in a strange land. This month is over. The year closes in the chill of winter. Spring will be June in Lapland again, a couple of months after spring here. I gravely ponder where I will be, how I will be, when I will be, then. I cannot concentrate on healing this back, as the pain is a pure distraction that I cover over. I would wish for a quiet place to live for six months, nothing else to do but write and do digital work, take care of Loki. I, houseman, not a worker, but a dreamer, no, not even a dreamer, more a…

making it on eight hours or less of sleep for the last months. with this monstrous incapability of body. I will visit Maureen, a physical therapist, next Wednesday, and have been taking Traumed, a German homeopathic with Arnica Montana in a cocktail of natural compounds (written in Latin — what is that the language of? Arcaenum. and obscurity.) I don’t see the effect, but lying one night on my belly, I explore the geometry of my lower back for some time, tracing the nerves hidden behind muscle wall, tissues, bones, tendons, the fiber of the body. I push, prod body, and ruminate on the sad dysfunction between the medical establishment and self. Knowledge is potent, but I find an equal lack of simple information, simple things that can make a massive difference to how one pictures oneself, and ones body. And how this physical interface that we carry, hung face-forward on soul, remains a crux to being.

Indolent days slip into thunderstorms. August is more wet than usual, I am told. I recall the browns of August in years past, maybe this is true. Weather is such a relative thing, though, with people’s perceptions. I seem to have developed some allergies since I have returned to the Front Range, though, some say the pollen and mold counts are especially high for this time of year because of the excessive moisture. I think my lungs have been spoiled by the (relatively) pristine air of Scandinavia. One never knows: I have the suspicion that there are unknown factors that are beginning to work on people’s bodies, physical incarnations, in these late days. Linda has all kinds of Chinese and homeopathic concoctions that I ply myself with all day and evening, but none of them really get to this irritation of the throat, a tickling that keeps me coughing at a steady pace most of the time. Incredibly irritating it is. It ruined my sleep last night, something I can’t afford tonight as I have a big day tomorrow and the next two days after that … Gees. Erica Doss invites me to teach another class at CU this fall, thankfully, a class in Critical Thinking on Art and Society in addition to the Digital Imaging class for Jim. And, actually this afternoon I get a call from Susan at Metro State about teaching an Advanced Computer Graphics class. Doubt I will take that one. I have to think forward to when Loki will be here with me, and I don’t want to get spread thin, besides there are plenty of other projects that need to get done this fall. Plus people to visit with, and infrastructure to lay down for the possibility of returning here next fall. Hmmmm. Seems VERY possible, but, is it the right path?

Back flat on my back, with a vengeance. After tripping over my cat this morning at breakfast. I almost fell, then caught myself, pulled a hamstring and completely wrenched my back much worse than two months ago. I am a wreck, and now cannot even sit up in bed, much less have my spine anything but flat horizontal on the bed. Crawling into the bathroom to take a piss, I almost black out. Serious irritation of the nerves in the lower back which seem to affect the lower abdomen also causing vascular problems as well as the shooting sciatic pain down the lower leg. It is strange that the side previously injured is fine — it is the other side that is affected now. And I was doing so well, the pain from the original injury was almost gone, but now, here I am back even worse than in December. Total breakdown. I begin to feel like Job in his troubles.

Juggling mental images, virtual being-ness, weather impressions, family, others, water, body, rain. I saw a coyote loping along the road this morning on the way over to Jim and Janet’s for breakfast. Angelique made biscuits and gravy. Jim was out waiting for a javelina to show up at a friends house — I guess you could call it vermit huntin’ — inside the town limits, and a big javelina it was rumored to be.

The Stupid Bowel, as I named it, was today. I was pleased that during that spectacle of spectacles, the internet was FAST! Like, Blazing! Wish it was always that way … Alexandra and I finally touched base with an IRC test this evening for something over an hour. I am having difficulty putting some kind of deconstructive take on this whole eight dialogues project. It is carrying energy, of that I am certain. The energy is real time, but the effect of the text mediation, the time lapse, the technical interface, and the perception/manifestation of physical presence. I have been having trouble typing all day, too, inverting letter order. Don’t understand that. I wouldn’t mind a better keyboard and working situation here at the house. I work standing up for my back and then my feet and legs just go crazy. I have never been so conscious of my body and its limits as I have these past weeks here in Arizona.