.:wanderlustmedia+dot+org:.

look into your past long enough (but don’t stare- gaze: figure th difference between th two as an early step in th process)
look into th past long enough to discover th ways it is your own
as well as th ways it is not (yr own past grows alien to you)
you may notice there is an ebb & flow to its surface- like th breathing
of th tides or th tides of breathing- rising & falling, filling & emptying-

sometimes barely evidencing variation in th level & presence
of its seemingly abject, invisibly accumulating mass- easing minimally
higher & lower along th shore of everyday consciousness-
a hazy memory of minute, isolated, yet mysteriously unplaceable incident drawing alternately closer into, then away from, th pouring edge of th present in an unmeasurable, imperceptible rhythm…
other times, th flood of reconnection climbs & falls in dizzy extremes
engulfing us (us?) in wave after wave of vividly recalled, dramatically
freighted chains of events that sweep away boundaries
between personal history & th surrounding circumstance of th world:
a tangled mesh of circumstance once experienced @ a conventionally
safe remove allowing for intelligibility & th construction of meaning
is mashed & whippd up into swirling currents threatening to drag us
under…
only to recede & dry away, leaving debris-strewn mudflats
where isolated lifesign gestures throw reflecting glints of light
off shallow, windswept tidepools & fragments that once were signposts
lie exposed in all their flimsy absurdity…

love, d=(8{>

another saturday night…
‘don’t you ever be ashamed/’cause y’re only lonely…’
who sang that? j.d.souther? -& was it nigel olsson, elton john’s sometime
drummer, who had a hit w/ a tune telling us to
‘put on yr dancing shoes/shake out those worn-out blues/here’s one
to love & to chance/ caught on that wheel of romance…
another saturday night/& i ain’t got nobody…
dancing around th kitchen, fixing up my usual salad niçoise for dinner, my
tongue
trips upon a new-age version of ‘i’ve got you under my skin’: it’s not too
different,
but when you come to th bridge- ‘don’t you know, you fool/you never can
win’
* this is very subtle, it’s like a mistake, but terribly meaningful- th lines go-’use yr REALITY/wake up to MENTALITY’…oh, wow…
got a big citronella candle in a bucket burning hot w/ a big flame @ my ankles…
i miss you all…i miss ‘th kindness of strangers’ out there, receding
further & further away as th world & middle age wear on…
* & speaking of lyrics- one insomniac night last wk i was trying to remember dylan’s ‘memphis blues again’ from th blonde on blonde album as i tossd & turnd-
well, there’s
one stanza i remember fairly well, goes-
‘when ruthie says come see her/by her honky-tonk lagoon
where i can watch her waltz away for free/’neath her panamanian moon i says, oh, come on, now/don’t you know ’bout my debutante ‘n she says, yr debutante knows what you need/but i know…what you want’ (ohhmama/can this really be th end?/to be stuck inside’a moblie w/ th memphis blues again…)
* & i realized that last line had bn bothering me all along- i mean- dylan’s supposd to be saying ruthie has a deeper knowledge of th ‘narrator’s’ desires than a young (WASPy?) debutante does, right? but, excuse me, bob, NEEDS seem to me, by
definition, closer
to th deep, hidden undercurrent(s) of desire, where WANTS signify th
socially conditioned
whims we certainly learn not to indulge but are closer to th surface- am i
right here, or
what? like father hession used to say to us in his tenth grade english
class in san ignacio,
‘discuss!’

(1) here is th moonless midweek fear wd shut me up, down
* it’s precisely another wednesday when i finally make it out to vega baja. dr.dad has decided he can use primer for th whole paint job he’s decided to do by himself: except for th flaky, transparent new coat on th walls, th beach house looks
pretty
much like i left it th first week of october, down to th rolled-up slat
curtains
standing on end in th stairs as i go up to th second floor- not to mention
th proppd-up panels that fail to close up th gap left by th blown-out
picture
window upstairs, & th consequent puddles of water on th floor…
this time, th moon aches towards fullness, but heavy weather keeps clouds running their curtains across its face…close, wind-driven rain falls in swirling sheets…
(5?) (bare strip of road growing car dealerships for supper)
* sandwiched between a bland euro-ballad by a second-generation heartthrob sporting th ‘iglesias’ family brand name & a slickd-up production of authentic
‘música jíbara’
puertorriqueña which still only gets on commercial radio playlists for th
christmas
season, alanis morrissette chants her wildly, succesfully grateful
self-help slogans…
here she is too, inescapably following me across th music industry’s heavy
rotation lock
on th not-so-new international world order airwaves…all th way from nyc &
th capitals
of mass media culture to this barely glorified little truck-stop off th
highway
th army corps of engineers built along th north coast on th eve (-or in th waning days?) of WW2 for th further militarization of th island…
(2) th liquor whisper, mumbling to itself
* my inner soundtrack as i wait for my octopus salad runs more to joni mitchell- ‘it was a rainy night/we took a taxi to yr mother’s home…
you sat up all th night & watched me/to see/who in th world i might be…’
* or even ‘toto’- ‘ i bless th rains down in africa…’
’some people live their dreams/some people close their eyes/some people’s destiny/passes by…as soon as forever is through/ i’ll be over you..’
(4) to weed-whacker wake-up posse razing fragile saplings
(*3) a maze of daydream bulletins finds me home abuzz
* i return to caparra to find cabletv has taken dr.dad @ his word &
discontinued service-
seems he calld to complain about billing for unprovided service in th
aftermath of hurricane georges- a full month?? i don’t know, dr.d may be
exaggerating…on th other hand, these guys have a monopoly on cable access
in th san juan metro area & they usually get away w/ murder (also known as
‘what th market will bear’) soooo- he ended up telling th sweet,
ingratiating customer rep on th other end of th line to ‘just
fuhgeddaboudid!’ -i’m taking both translating & poetic license here…i
think there’s still an old-fashioned antenna up on
th roof, but i wouldn’t swear to it…waiting for it to dry out to check,
but we’re really getting a full monsoon experience these days…rain hasn’t stoppd in over a week…
(7) (roy haynes snap crackles his way out of boston to my joy)
* wrtu, radio universidad de puerto rico, has changed programming & instead of tuning into an installment of npr’s jazz profiles when i drive home from my meal @ ‘el fogón #2′ sometime after ten in th evening, they’re broadcasting some radio magazine seemingly co-produced by some latino studies program in california, featuring
interviews w/ women writers from puerto rico, who are in guadalajara for th big latin america book fair & find th gender-grouping that seems to have become policy & rule a bewildering irritation…
(6) turn into thelonious joint, cravings washd out & sunk

where is theodore roethke when i need him? in his books i guess… i also miss th copy of ‘patterson’ by william carlos williams that stephen petronio borrowed back in nyc maybe fifteen years ago by now & never returnd… that one & aimé cesaire’s ‘cahier d’un retour au pays natal’ are my models for sustained, book length narratives shifting between prose & poetic form & tone…
(in re.: to th ‘original’ text: th lines were written as presented, th
numbers
posited a possible reordering…)
love,d=(8{>
———– End warded sage ————–

Friday th 27, 11.1998 (13h39) in th notion of escape yet

a motion of return & recovery holds fast th integrity of th fabric…

-fliegende heimat? hogar/hearth en l’air?

a syncopated nomadic songline threading back&forth, my attention shuttles

like a loom, seeking to weave some poetry

out of th gathered fiber of random observation & circumstantial

(e)vidence…

then sleep ties its own connecting knotwork-

I dream a joking conversation (w/ ingrid, th patternmaker from graz i want

to know better)

in which i seek a reassuring pretext to shave my body clean

-of a major rebuilding of th beach house, round egyptian columns

rising to turn th sea-facing open terrace into an atrium-

some sort of (holographic?) projection/recreation (-or actual

sandfill?) rebuilding of th sandy shoreline of my childhood, th slanting

concrete forms of th collapsed seawall still rising above th recovered

beach-

like a makeshift parapet, like protective ramparts…

(i find a fragment of august, a little airstream of hot summer riding

on th vague nostalgia seeping out of th lyrics to america’s ’sister

golden-hair’-

‘i ain’t ready for th altar/but i do agree

there’s times/when a woman sure can be a friend of mine…

i’ve been one more foolish– (??)/i’ve been too too hard

to find/ but that doesn’t mean/ you ain’t been on my mind…’)

th moon is late on my desk…

celestial bodies burnish & deepen their glow

as they drop from th heavens & sink into dim earth…

will you meet me, will you find me there?

will you soften th frightening oblivion

of yr child-seeking embrace?

I recognise & am drawn w/ attentive fascination to courtship in th wild:

watch th crabs on th shoreline rocks lock pincers & tango as th noontide

climbs-

thrill to crickets calling in th spare, dry grass or hiding

behind th icebox as th seabreeze sinks into th dead calm of twilight-

I lay silent emotional bets on th feistiest little dog in th pack

chasing bitch scent, creep up close behind puffd-up parading pigeons

until their fearful awareness of my presence deflates them & nod

drowsily under th spell of th inconsolable turtledove’s three hollow flute

notes…

(it’s th mating rituals of my species that stump me…

frustrate befuddle bewilder bemuse & completely elude me…)

love,d=(8{>

Friday th 27, 11.1998 (13h39) in th notion of escape yet a motion of return & recovery holds fast th integrity of th fabric…
* fliegende heimat? hogar/hearth en l’air?

a syncopated nomadic songline threading back&forth, my attention shuttles
like a loom, seeking to weave some poetry
out of th gathered fiber of random observation & circumstantial
(e)vidence…
then sleep ties its own connecting knotwork-
I dream a joking conversation (w/ ingrid, th patternmaker from graz i want
to know better)
in which i seek a reassuring pretext to shave my body clean
* of a major rebuilding of th beach house, round egyptian columns rising to turn th sea-facing open terrace into an atrium-some sort of (holographic?) projection/recreation (-or actual
sandfill?) rebuilding of th sandy shoreline of my childhood, th slanting concrete forms of th collapsed seawall still rising above th recovered beach-like a makeshift parapet, like protective ramparts…
(i find a fragment of august, a little airstream of hot summer riding
on th vague nostalgia seeping out of th lyrics to america’s ’sister
golden-hair’-
‘i ain’t ready for th altar/but i do agree
there’s times/when a woman sure can be a friend of mine…
i’ve been one more foolish– (??)/i’ve been too too hard
to find/ but that doesn’t mean/ you ain’t been on my mind…’)

th moon is late on my desk…
celestial bodies burnish & deepen their glow
as they drop from th heavens & sink into dim earth…

will you meet me, will you find me there?
will you soften th frightening oblivion
of yr child-seeking embrace?

I recognise & am drawn w/ attentive fascination to courtship in th wild:
watch th crabs on th shoreline rocks lock pincers & tango as th noontide
climbs-
thrill to crickets calling in th spare, dry grass or hiding
behind th icebox as th seabreeze sinks into th dead calm of twilight- I lay silent emotional bets on th feistiest little dog in th pack chasing bitch scent, creep up close behind puffd-up parading pigeons until their fearful awareness of my presence deflates them & nod drowsily under th spell of th inconsolable turtledove’s three hollow flute notes…
(it’s th mating rituals of my species that stump me… frustrate befuddle bewilder bemuse & completely elude me…)
love,d=(8{>

> i gave up. i was late in trying to link up w/ th bread & puppeteers @
> whatever their place in th 25th anniversary hallowe’en parade may have
bn,
> & tried to play catch-up for an hour & a half or so, coming up against
> police barriers & complete blockades as i made my way up from canal
street,
> having to return to varick, then seventh avenue south to find my way
uptown.
> i gave up @ fourteenth street, after craning my neck standing on an
aluminum
> barrier for ten, fifteen minutes looking upon th heads & banners of th
> parade marchers as they made their way up sixth avenue…
> th last time i was here- & i was part of th parade, shaking maracas, if i
> remember right, as a member of th on th lam street band, th musical
> contingent of sometime new york resident bread & puppeteers- was
halowe’en
> ‘89, & terribly rainy night it was…it was my only experience of th
> expanded parade route- th time before that, back in ‘84…ah, hallowe’en
> ‘84, having broken up w/ christalia, just finishd performing tim miller’s
> ‘democracy in america’ piece @ brooklyn academy of music…back in ‘84,
we
> gathered @ westbeth…is ralph lee still involved in this?
> i digress: i stayed in nyc for th hallowe’en parade & i feel i missd it
> after all…when spectatorship supersedes participation, th economic
> triggers go off & th ritual becomes a corporate & media event..i haven’t
> followed
> th process, i just see th results…
> it’s interesting to see political content grow
> in emphasis, explicitly, as if to balance th growing intervention &
control
> of th structure of th parade on th part of th powers-that-be…w/ a rock
> band on a big float chanting ‘people have th power’ & a sizeable
contingent
> decrying homophobic violence, it certainly seems af if th pure carnival
> aspect, th role-playing & merriment have become subsumed under th
struggle
> between th liberal & conservative, reactionary forces in american
society,
> as acted out in th politically important new york stage prior to these
> midterm elections…
> meanwhile, to go back to th riotous, disorderly, transgressive, pagan
roots
> of th festival, i am taking a couple of deep breaths as i prepare to
visit
> hellfire, one of th fetish clubs that endure under th giuliani
regimen…(a
> suivre…)
> d=(8{>
> (ps:cd any who have access to my address list from earlier installments
of
> my ‘hebdomadaire’ forward them to further firends & audience? mil gracias-
&
> japi jalouin!!)
>

(just as i thankd carlos o for th use of his packard-bell & two nights
of freezing air-conditioned splendor away from th debris of th beach
house, gracias a chehugo for a chance to try out his web tv setup in
catching up w/ my newletter/serial installments!)
new york city is celebrating th yankees’ world series triumph while i
look back on th last month: i wonder if it’s part of post-traumatic
stress syndrome to evidence memory gaps? i don’t remember when dr.dad &
javier finally showed up @ th beach house- was it as early as thursday
of that first week? -& was it friday or saturday that i finally took
javier up on his invite to stay over, only to be kept up most of th
night while he bangd on th window, ranting on about orion’s belt,
th pleiades, ufo’s & armageddon?
i spent just over two wks up to my flight on thursday th 8th living
mostly on clif bars, coffee & th occasional octopus salad- w/ an hour of
sweeping (squeegeeing?) floodwaters & glass shards here, an hour of
clearing branches & dead leaves there, & many hours in between of
near-overwhelmed contemplation of th fragility, transience & ultimate
futility of all human ambition & enterprise…
to cut to th chase- or from one chase to another- one of th engines on
th plane flying up to newark sprung a leak in a fuel line & had us
sitting in a big pool of gas until they had all passengers deplane for
repairs…
th resulting hour’s delay grew exponentially while straightening out
details on my rental agreement
@ th hertz’ counter…
i managed to hydroplane @ an average
70 mph thru an occasionally heavy connecticut rainstorm to reach my home
for th new alchemy reunion wkend- carol mead’s in osterville, not far
from hyannis, a 1,000 thank you’s, carol!- sometime before two in th
morning…th reunion deserves a fuller report than i can spool out @
this time- suffice it to say it may have bn th most positive, important
step i’ve taken in furthering each & every one of my various projects &
dreams… meanwhile, as has become th rule for autumn, ich spiele der
steppenwulf am new york…bis gleich, hugs to all- david=(8{>

…construction crews are pulling serious overtime laying superaqueduct pipe this Friday night…lavender-white mercury floodlamps light up th dig like a jim cameron location shoot: yellow cranes growl & tear @ mounds of dark earth. I’ve got a stiff clutch to sink- or, my little four-wheel drive toyota does- & my left thigh hurts fit to cramp…I follow a river of red taillights, winding its way out of san juan on th highway: th blood corpuscles of this island society, clumping about th toll plaza @ th foot of th hill…

Sent: Wednesday, September 23, 1998 10:24 AM
Subject: am strand#9(…number nine…) estuary

open-shut case, insight lands me
endless- incomplete & struggling
still, to glow peace on th margins
of th gold-depleted mangrove delta-

aimful fireflies float burn-green
gender signals to cocoon my pace
another sticky-silk dead August twilight
* ghostly traffic old as silence or big bang

needs whirr like cicadas while
th landscape shadows into doubt
& hunger hones endurance into anger

(yet soak th violent courtship off
our dancing skin to slough th burden
shrouding every miracle mute)

(power outage. stuck coffee craving. things i don’t want to see- a man & a woman in a car, passenger door side open- his hand a tight fist, pulling her hair as she yells to let go- ’suéltame!’ …if i were phillip marlowe or a similar six-foot, hundred & eighty pound hardboild knight errant, i might butt in- ‘excuse me, th lady said LET GO’- but i continue on my run, gritting my teeth- maybe i can ring 911 from th little cafetín-bar by th surf break down th road…)

well, i’ve got a couple of st.george’s crosses (see th union jack) or what
i hope are acceptable faccsimiles put up in duct tape on th picture windows
facing th ocean. i’d like to think they may keep any breaking glass from
throwing flying shards, but i guess they’re mostly there to propitiate la
benevolencia et faveur de georges qui nous approche a grand vitesse- for a
hurricane.
have had some interesting feedback on my last posting- think i was a little
cryptic about what was going on in that one, i may redo & resend…for all
friends & fans of more structured form, some of my usual jotted
observations have evolved into a sonnet over th last three- four weeks…
close to three-thirty right now & i’ve disregarded all advice to leave th
beach house. hope it doesn’t prove a foolishly reckless course of action.
got some territorial issues i’m acting out here, certainly, but it felt
really important to take a stand as a caretaker & see if i can handle th
risk in a responsible way…got a two hour battery in this baby, so as long
as phone lines hold, i can post this & maybe a followup in tomorrow’s
aftermath…over & out for now- 1540h-d-(8{>

1- here is th moonless midweek fear wd shut me up, down (5?bare strip of road growing car dealerships for supper)
2- th liquor whisper, mumbling to itself
4- to weed-whacker wake-up posse razing fragile saplings 3- a maze of daydream bulletins finds me home abuzz 7-(roy haynes snap crackles his way out of boston to my joy)
6- turn into thelonious joint, cravings washd out & sunk

…morning after, ocean swollen oily w/ th tide- grey, airless quiet takes its own sweet noon to blow clouds’ thread no less than bare & gust into th glare in one fell rasp…
where is theodore roethke when i need him? in his books i guess…
life is good: i’ll be out of bed by seven-thirty my third straight day
tomorrow.
pello (peyo?), newly married to my cousin charo, has decided he can spare
some of
th krew he has working on my dad’s building in town (leaky roof, cranky
tenants)
to do some long overdue work on th beach house: grounds these first couple
of days,
roofwork & paint into next week…can he help me w/ my studio bungalow
plans???
die deutscher don’t arrive until 21.dezember. i’d love to have th floor &
part of
th walls up before these three months are up. hellllp! in yr hands…d-(8{>