Errr… drank too much rum last night. Wasted day this shall be. Tomorrow I go to Prague.

I made the best moussaka I have ever tasted yesterday evening. To satisfy Vesna, layers of sliced potatoes (along with the usual eggplant and my typical mushroom/onion/garlic/tomato sauce) were added to the whole. Suprisingly, it tasted even better reheated this morning. A yummy breakfast, indeed.

I finally accurately recorded the monstrously unrelenting bassline of ‘Stone Calendar’. The trancelike qualities whilst performing it should be noted as similar to the focal-on-ambulation idea I mentioned in the last entry. Project: a tape full of repetitive/meditative pieces along the same lines as ‘Stone Calendar’. Ask Tone to write lyrics to all of them.

About three weeks ago, I applied (abortively, I thought at the time) for a computational linguistics position through an agency here in Munich. Today, a kind female dubbed ‘Elizabeth’ rang me with regard to my interest in the position. I was startled. I still expect nothing (which is the best thing to do in any instance) in the long run, but the call flavoured my day like a dash of asafoetida does to a simmering pot of french lentils.

I am contemplating a jaunt to South America for at least 3 months. Loyal and I need some time together to suture still seeping wounds.

Brief icq “chat” with dana:

me -> how is the cantankerous creature?

dana -> tanned

me -> that’s bad for your skin, you know.

dana -> no

me -> of course it is! you’ll have skin cancer within a week! i guarantee it!

dana -> fine

me -> you are not as full of humour as you once were.

dana -> thanks for telling me; i really appreciate sincere creatures.

me -> sincerity is my forte.

dana -> i fortell your forte

me -> your fortellings are usually false.

dana -> i haven’t said they were true

me -> and i am not contradicting you.

dana -> i didn’t say you were contradicting me

me -> and my replies are not intended as inferences into what you have said.

dana -> have i said they were?

Damn formatting. Ah well. Tomorrow morning I should finish finally the govno which must be done to achieve a state of employment again. I should be worried silly about money, but I am not in the least. The problem floats by like flotsam as I walk barefoot on the beach, enjoying the sensation of each step on the sand.

Speaking of stepping, I have been trying to apply ideas (twisted in my own manner, of course) from Boris’ book on Buddhism (specifically on meditation) to my everyday life. Meditation whilst in movement, synchronizing breath with step. I concentrate on the present sensation of ambulation, of my body being carried forward by each step. I must admit that it is a fascinating feeling, especially if prolonged.

(defun permute (govno)
  (cond ((null govno) '(()))
        (t (mapcan #'(lambda (element)
                       (mapcar #'(lambda (perm)
                                   (cons element perm))
                               (permute
                                 (remove* element
                                          govno
                                          :count 1
                                          :test #'eq))))
                   govno))))

So I have just spent an hour updating my livejournal “interests”. A few surprising notes: I found another Magma fan, a Henry Cow fan, and a few other fractional siblings in thought. It is just simply amazing the kind of people you can find when you have a site available to the diversity offered on the internet. One thing I did notice, however, and which disappointed me, is that very few journals I perused were written by non-USA-type-people (only one, in fact).

Still no work on “Stone Calendar”. I shall soon walk the fifteen minute walk to my place of residence and prepare humous (interspersed with the taking up of my gueetar and layin’ some mean chords onto tape).

Yeah.

Whoopie! Today I finalized my residence and work permit in the nefarious, humid, crowded Kreisverwaltungsreferat. Say that 26 times quickly. Fucksheep seems to be down. No idea why. The weekend was filled with pattern matching code which flowed from my fingers and into Emacs flawlessly (well, actually with a few flaws, but they can be overlooked). But, unfortunately, I did not even as much as touch my guitar. Can I will myself to remedy this today?

As in the past, the onslaught of encroaching summer hate (heat) dulls my will and ambition. But I shall stay stranded in this concrete hades until in my pocket once again are those colourful notes which promote escape.

Heat. A breeze would be nice, but this stifling computer lab, windows though it has open, offers not even a hint of one. Bells play about my aural sphere, emanating from somewhere other than this room (although sweltering they may be, as well). Ah, the mediaeval postures of a modern city.

I began a book on buddhism. I am taken back to my days in Clear Lake, alone in my commodious dwelling, poised in meditation, and oddly satisfied. Prolly just nostalgia. Boris gave the tome to Vesna. She might well benefit from its pages better than I would.

I hope to finish ‘Stone Calendar’ tomorrow. It has gone from being a calming, ambient piece punctuated with meditative, pulsating passages to becoming a confusing wash of chaos and evil. And this is a good thing.

What would mother say if I joined a monastery? Father would be peeved. Escape from the toils reeking of penitence into routinized bliss. What a grey future I see. But I have said that hundreds of times and Sweet Entropy has come to the rescue. I await her again.

I cannot believe the govno people write in this forum. bleh.

Tony replies: Someone has to.

I think today is February 3. I will never send this letter to Dana. It would be abortive - futile venture. In another key, another motif, the advantage to being alone is that I can stay out as late as I wish, get as drunk as I want, etc, and there is no one at home waiting to complain.

If the reader now makes the assumption that I AM alone, he / she would be incorrect. There days ago, or so, Vesna and I moved into a flat rather near the dreaded ex-workplace -> 1 2 Snap. I now sit in a pub 100m from that then hated now nostalgic place.

It is strange the twists, the honey candle’s wax of life, running down the slowly dissolving stick, makes. So stability becons like a mute siren, body lying naked and alluring.

Furnitureless, our flat does not suck at my soul to possess it, but instead repels me. I left Vesna reposing there and walked a mere five minutes to sit at this table, sip beer, shoot vodkas, and write this.

If we jump back a few subjects and write of the fading phantasm who is Dana, one can tell, perusing the discarded letter to her, my feelings immediately after departing her presence. One could read them like a book, even. The final hours in her aura were miserable. She cried enough tears to overfill the Aegean Sea, lamented her love for me so redundantly, at the same time so bitterly and so desperately, that my brain dislocated a few emotional lobes which are still finding their way(s) back to their proper places.

Pictures are telling, sure, but these displaced neurons still suffer from Romanian tinitus.

As for my feelings now for her? Well, they are transient and primarily nostalgic, calling back the ideallic moments we spent together in Prague… just distant and lost dreams neither relevant to the future nor the present.

You are the crossroads, Bob is what she sobbed to me in breath that smelt of wine and cigarettes, as usual. Perhaps she also was the crossroads for me. Without a doubt she was the catalyst for me changing my life once again, modifying the direction of the wind, and tossing like a pinch of salt over my shoulder my life in Prague away.

But the future, as is the present, is Vesna’s … no one else’s. My intermittent melancholy (an ailment I have not been able to or have been unable to bring my self to shrug for more than fifteen years) should not let me dismiss this fact from any hour - even sleeping ones.

Twice now I have had a dream about Vesna’s inverted nipples and the creatures who live within. She cried in pleasure as sickly, penis shaped fungi pushed themselves from within through the hole where her nipples should be. They wriggled and swayed like living entities of their own, sometimes shyly ducking back into their fatty home, and at other times paling or glowing cherry red and awaiting my tongue or lips.

I awoke from these dreams with a sense of desperation to flee and a slight taste of bile - of fear - on my pallate.

THE FOLLOWING PAGE BELONGS TO USA.

I don’t need to think. I’m a woman. - Nataša Nisic 21 Dec 2000

After urinating:

Has anyone reading this heard of GERD? It stands for Gastric Esophogal Reflux Disease and I am afraid that your modest author is afflicted by it, or seems to have all or most of its symptoms. Especially after eating, I am subject to the stereotypical heartburn. But mostly when I or my digestive system have no connection to the culinary universe at all, pain erupts from the center of my breast, under my sternum, cracks like the treelike structure of a typical brain scan, and shoots needles of hate through my whole torso.

The feeling is unlike any normal intense pain I have experienced in the past. It is similar to what one might experience if a large, booted man stepped square onto one’s sternum and crushed the air from the body but only to the point where it was slightly possible to do the normal inhale / exhale routine.

Anyway, next topic.

Jeníček and Hanka’s worry for me because of the aforementioned affliction is unexpected and touching.

9pm on a Saturday night in Muenchen.

Oh, how it called me and I answered with more than just my heart. I dug a canal with my tongue from the eastern bloc to this sterile city, riding the waters in a boat made of expectations. My pail for bailing was ever at hand, yet never used.

Another communion with alcohol is at hand. The vodka rapes my memories, leaving them dripping with its seed, sure to spawn some mutinous children who will haunt me for these drunken hours. Man! Am I brilliant or what?? Oh, wait….

I thought for a second that I were Acy. Sorry for the subjuctive mood there, but I thought that it was appropriate.

Tired old metaphors

Out of context - out of time

Fleshless skeletons

Mexcan girl, don’t leave me alone! I’ve got a heart as big as a stone!

Ohne without bez no other word for this emptiness not filled by some liquid which sloshes is my hara like a trapped and aggravated bird. Dead inside is a popular cliché which encompasses nothing but an American idea of boredom. They die sullenly, finally seeing their skeletons march triumphant from heaps of rotting flesh.

I am no artist, but my concepts are solid, valid, and I will dispute them to the end. I fear each of the humans I have ever been close to’s judgement of my art, especially egoist Acy’s and confident Tony’s. Strange contrast, those two. They stand as two of my longest comrades, but two of my greatest contenders, at least in my mind.

I would choose to slice them with the most granular part of my cheese grater into material suitable for fusing, then create a new, pleasing being - one with the admirable qualities of both.

It’s the eye of the TIGER

Oouh, baby

I think I have made a new friend at this pub. He is happy to have an auslander consuming his wares, occupying his space, adding spice to his redundant evenings. But mayhap I am only being pretentious. I doubt often that they have some strange looking auslander sitting at a table alone writing in his tagesbuch with red ink, however – fucking Deep Purple blares now. I am not impressed.

Now Rush. Spirit of Radio.

My new friend is named Rudy. Ty vole. Too many memories mixing. I am unable to distinguish one from another. But mayhap this is the key: The connections between these parts of life - abstracting each instance. Sigh. Cannot continue.

Alcoholic abortion.

There I am on a train again, spinning away from you. The pain is intense, maybe akin to what you feel – distraught, lost. I have made a number of relatively terrible mistakes in my life, but I must admit that leaving you has to be the worst.

Now I expect you’ll change your phone number, your emails, perhaps even your name to cut me from your life. I wonder if you can forgive this stupidity of mine. I reread your I Love You note that is warmly nestled in my pocket and much to my chagrin, I could not help but begin crying.

My companions in this cabin must think me mad (somewhat).

I wonder when you may receive this, actually, especially if you leave for Budapešt during next week. Maybe it will sit, unread, for days or weeks. I know not.

But I love you, Creature. Yeah, yeah. I can see you shrugging your shoulders and saying to me it doesn’t matter: I love you. You love me. So we will love each other forever… But from a distance… Your words, for sure.

I will not blame you for the decision of cutting contact completely if you indeed decide to do this, but I will be regretful. I already am. I see you in my mind, submerged in eucalyptus suffused liquid, crying, smoking – perhaps already with a bottle of red wine. The torture I have been and am putting you through is pathetic of me.

Yes, pathetic is the word I have been searching for to describe my actions.

Each man kills the one he loves … or the thing he loves. For what? I know not. Maybe there is some sense of tragedy which appeals to me on a basic, fundamental level. Be it this, I am pathetic.

All there is now is pain from loss. You told me you could see no way to fill the emptiness widening within you. Well, I feel that now. The place in my fragile, pathetic chest where was my creature is now devoid of any substance, any life or hope or, indeed, future.

I have not felt this vacant since Lee took his life. Not even the ridiculous pain which occluded months on end because of my loss of Melanie does not compare to this. Still, you would say to me, the plain fact is that I am rolling away on this train from you to some other absurd adventure.

I paused to listen to the Peter Hammill CD I have with me – the one we listened to several times in your flat. Typically, the lyrics to many songs are quite pertinent to our situation. It has saddened me even more and now I struggle with these words, simple though they are.

It seems difficult to coax anything reasonable from my pen on this lurching train. The bottom line is this: I do not think I will ever give up on us, no matter my indecision, my confusion, and my need for the arbitrary. You did something to me that no one else could have done: You awakened the sleeping Bob, opened his eyes, let him see the sun again. And taught him to somehow love it. You have been the crossroads in my life, as you have said I am the crossroads in yours.

Oh, I can hear you clearly in my head telling me that crossroads meet at only a single point, but I’ll shrug it off as a Dana-ism. Not that I do not love Dana-isms, but your peculiar love for the paranoid and pessimistic sometimes peaks too often. Or is it the pain you feel that makes these two Ps so relevant in your life now?

Sigh. I will abortively try to sleep now.