.:wanderlustmedia+dot+org:.

(Message text written by INTERNET:terri@microrave.com:)
“try being alone without being lonely… there’s nothing other then ‘U’ that exists, so relax and expand into your true self~ ”
gratitude list: i don’t need to be medicated to get thru my day… I’m grateful for my physical health…for (this) contradictory, new, exciting vehicle & means of expression/production I’ve found…discovered…seized… for th diverse group of friends, acquaintances, associates (codependents?) I’ve corralled into becoming something between audience & support group…
a very special public new year’s thanks to my ‘netfriend terri, who helps me stay sane in basic but ultimately mysterious ways that resist rational explanation…
& who teaches me by her unique example to take th risk & accept responsibility for determining what th appropiate boundaries are between my ‘public’ & ‘private’ selves/spheres…thankyouthankyouthankyou…
got my wolf engine running again, not yet running me down though running me ragged up th peaks, ragged & raw down th troughs… I come alive on a route anywhere- on my way elsewhere, legs in motion pedal to th metal or path to be self-plodded…
(Thursday th 31, 12.1998 (10h47) here comes nineteen-ninety-nine circling th globe, rushing @ us in darkness- th sun is already setting across europe on this last day of th year… is it midnight in tokyo yet? do they much care about it there? does th christian calendar & ordering of time rule th planet? apart from muslims & jews…does th ‘orient’ share some sort of a generalisd buddhist reckoning? excuse my ignorance…
…muchas felicidades & prospero a~o nuevo- d=(8{>

Thursday th 24, 12.1998 (11h14) dreams of boys last night-well, one guy: if it wasn’t jamie spader, it sure lookd like him…
I was sincerely apologetic, sorry if I’d led him on, I loved to flirt
but I wasn’t really into guys…explanations going nowhere, wondering
embarrassedly
if I should try to get mself excited for him, nothing if not anxiously
eager to please…
(my inner 18yr-old snickers @ me- ‘hey, old man- thought you’d have figured women out well enough to @ least get laid every once in a blue moon by now- @ 44 yrs of age! really…!’)
(I feel th condescension & contempt of women of all ages & walks of life-
friends, ex-lovers
& total strangers…yes, I am my momma’s frightened, frustrated, bewildered little boy, still…) speaking of doña mili- (‘uno no hace más q sufrir…q ganas d mortificar a uno…’) her three boys certainly seem to have inherited some kind of vocation for suffering & martyrdom…
but dr.dad helpd instill it, too…they made a team of magnificent,
self-righteous martyrs,
my mom&dad did…christmas is th perfect season for reflecting on all this-or should it be easter??
Saturday th 26, 12.1998 (23h53)
say a prayer/for th hardworking poeple/say a prayer for th salt of th
earth…
th moon is a sinking silver boat smiling all th way down behind th horizon
tonight…
Saturday night is th loneliest night of th week…any questions? got no
answers here…
forgot to ask mister kleiman where he got th venison chops…
my postchristmas splurge @ ‘iche’s’- is this my artists date? all by
myself…
dessert & everything…double grappa & a decaf espresso for th first time
since I left nyc last month…
‘this is th bad time, christmas, & th myths are honed fine…’
to quote dick hugo, ‘grand old detective of th heart’, as james crumley
dubbed him…
love & lukewarm half-gallons of holiday cheer, d=(8{>

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 ————–