Trauma Bound

 

I think I’m ready to begin processing what had happened to me in Oklahoma City.  I had been in a relationship with this woman since the beginning of May that I wouldn’t call committed since breakups were early and often and the writing was on the wall in the form of dents.  She cost me my business, my home, and threatened my life.

And knowing now that attempting to determine her ways to be a futile endeavor, I’ve decided to settle on a snapshot to help myself process and to help others to hopefully learn to recognize that which misrepresents itself.  Also, here's a link for anybody else who finds themselves in a similar situation and needs help or inspiration to find their way out.

This particular night was a Friday (10/16/21).  She had worked early and I had worked late, we both worked as servers.  When we arrive home, we arrive to a place that is yet unpacked, we had moved in together that Wednesday. This was the first night we were to stay in our own place. Earlier that day I had assembled a table and unpacked a tote into a cupboards.  This was something I had informed her of as to prepare her mind for shock.  This still produced a stress response so great that I had to record it.  She was mad because the table was facing the wall and that some of the items were unpacked incorrectly in her professional opinion.  She moved the table to another wall a few days later.

The following is the recording:

Her: “No, this is not your space.  Put your shit in your fucking room.  This is not your space and it never will be.  That’s your room.  You have a room, I asked you, take all your dumb shit, put it in your room.  Put it allll in your room and pack your room with your shit, your clothes, your dumb shit and put it in there. Not expanding into the living-room.  I don’t want your Wingspan game, it doesn’t need to come into the living-room, no!  Pick up your shit and put it into your fucking room.”

Me: “I’m sorry, who paid for all this?”

Her: “It doesn’t matter. I don’t need you.  Where are you going to put all your fucking bullshit? You’re going to put it on the fucking bookshelf? I don’t want your gaudy-ass games and someone walks in and sees your stupid fucking games sitting in a beautiful architecturally-sound place and seeing Wingspan, fucking no.  Like I said, if you’re going to have the basement and a room and I have a bedroom, this is common, this is comfortable, you have your own fucking room,” then in a dramatic whisper, “put it all in there.”

Me: “This may be agreeable once you start paying half. You’ve paid nothing.”

Her: “Yet! But I will.”

Me: “Well then do that!  Do that and then start telling me what to do.”

Her: “Get it out.”

She starts sliding totes in the living-room toward my room.

Me: “I get it, I know, I just started unpacking. You just got home, drunk, to tell me what to do and you haven’t even paid half.”

Her: “This place will be beautiful with your shit out and you unpacking dumb shit and putting food that you could have left in a bin and put it in to the cabinets.  And now I have to take all this shit out and redo it when you could have just kept it in a Tupperware.”

Me: “You’re a really cool partner, you’re a realllly cool partner.”

Her: “You’re a really dumb partner,” she says something about my family tree I can’t make out.

Me: “Just because you can’t reach anything!” she’s too short.

Her: “There is a pantry right beside me. That is not for spices!” indicating a drawer by the sink. “You’ve never actually worked in a kitchen so don’t touch a fucking kitchen.”

Me: “You’ve never actually unpacked any of this!”

Her: “Yeah because this is how you dumbassly fucking have some bitty tall bitch beckoning…Go back, I’ll be better off.”

Me: “I can’t!  You brought me here to be with you!”

Her: “Go back with *your ex.  I don’t want to be with you anymore.  I haven’t for fucking months.”

Me: “That’s not what you said!”

“Like you said, we all pretend,” she says.

“Okay…”

“*Your ex makes a mockery by dating this skinny little fucker that’s smaller than you and stupider than you, probably, but that’s alright, go back.”

“But I’m not trying to go back!”

“I don’t give a fuck because I don’t want to be with you. If you want to pay for her car and everything else, by all means, go.  Please go back.”

“If you want to pay for this house, then fine!”

“I can find someone else and the door opens because there’s something else, somebody else in this house that’s been telling me ever since I walked in this house it keeps telling me in dreams about you that’s telling me not to be anywhere near you.”

“Okay.  Find somebody else, that’s fine!”

“You keep talking to her anyway and you want to go back!”

“I don’t!”

“You already texted her and I already saw it you’re like ‘Ohh, why’d you move? Oh, I want you to come back!’ Pay for her bills. Pay for her shit.  You get on my ass about paying for me but we’re in an actual relationship and you’re not with her, but you’re still paying for her shit and she’s in a relationship…I don’t…You’re a piece of shit.”

“We have an agreement.”  I’m not actually paying for her (my ex’s) shit it’s just that some of the payments still go through me because it saves both of us money and it’s too much of a hassle to bother sorting out.  Not that it’s any of this woman’s business to begin with.

“It’s not an agreement, you didn’t tell me that, that’s not an agreement. An agreement is like us, and you suck.  You suck and you want to hold back anything that I owe you, and yet you’re still paying for dumb bitches’ fucking payments.  Fuck off. Fuck her. Fuck you.  And if you think I have a problem, get the fuck out of this house and I will fucking take everything, tell you to suck my dick, sit on a fucking rock and kill yourself.  I have no problem. Fuck you. Fuck *your ex. Fuck all your fucking friends. That’s all. Bye! Bye! I haven’t wanted to be with you for days upon weeks. I’m not happy.  That’s why I don’t fuck you. Disgusting. I’m not going to take this back. I’m literally done. I’ve no want, nothing. You have selfishly fucked me into a corner with dumb shit from day one numerous amounts of times where now I have my balls and I’m done with you and I don’t care.  Fuck *your ex. Go home. Do whatever you want. Like, I’m great, I will figure this shit out. Bye. You’ve left me, you’ve manipulated, you’ve ruined me, you’ve (done something) multiple times and still talk to other people? You have no love for me and no respect for me so I have none for you and I will never I don’t think I ever can, I don’t think I could ever trust and/or respect you because you’ve left me in my darkest places for shitty fucking people that you think that ‘oh I did this I like that…’

“What happened to the part where you love me?  According to you…”

Nah, well I thought I did, I thought I did until I got to see the real truth, and if you’re still so in love with your ex, fuck her fat ass. She’s fat and ugly and stupid and relied on you to pay for all her bills and didn’t have a strong personality and you’re so in love and that’s your friend and you want to go back to *your ex to get your car. You already told me…”

She starts a mock cry-whine of what’s supposed to be my ex, “Why didn’t you tell me you moved to Oklahoma? Why didn’t you tell me? Oh my God I want to see you!” and then back, “Fuck off. Go to her.  Get the fuck out of the house. Please bye. Bye. I do not love you.  I don’t like you.”

“That’s fine, but I’ve paid for this and you have not paid for anything!”

“Mmm…I can go back on other things.”

“Yeah, you can go back on a lot of things, obviously, because that’s what you do.”

“And so do you with your dumb fat bitch ex.”

“I have not done anything with her!”

“No, but you sit there,” and now mocking again, “I want to see you!” “And then your text…”

“She’s a friend!”

“I don’t care, get the fuck out of my sight. Please get the fuck out of my sight. Get the fuck out of the house! You want to ask your best friend, your best friend, ‘Oh I cry when I miss her!’ Call your fat, chubby-armed, fucked up teeth like yours, fucked up mad fucking vampire mouth, it looks like you guys have fucked up veneers, call your fucking Buffalo bitch who looks like a buffalo and go. Bye. Bye.”

“Alright, this is left-field.”

“Yeah, bye. You’re gross. You’re both gross as fuck to me.  Fucked up teeth. Fucked up personalities. Chubby arms. Fat, tall, stupid. Bye.  New York can get the fuck away from me.  ‘Cause that’s not even New York, that’s the retarded parts that no one wants to go to, hence like, who would ever want to live in Buffalo?  I know what I’ve known, and even Dave said, ‘who the fuck would want to live in Buffalo? Dumbasses.’  And you’re like, ‘oh there’s so many bars, everybody’s so…’ cause they’re drunk and fat. Bye. Bye. Bye.”

This whole interaction took about 10 minutes, real time.

"It is better to dwell in the wilderness, than with a contentious and an angry woman."
Proverbs 21:19

Journal Entry from 1/13/20

@ Battlecat, Monday, Democracy Now! on the radio: J.P. Morgan-Chase lends millions to oil/gas companies to build pipeline in Minnesota across Native farmland, and as wildfire continues to rage in Australia, global warming. Armed aggressors meet peaceful protesters on the plain. “When nothing is done, nothing is left undone,” but irreligious, amoral, and warlike entities continue to proliferate out of fear, anger, and hatred, believing perhaps in transhumanism – that through technology somehow one might live forever in this existence, or that loyalty to the establishment power-elite minority might grant access to comfort, favor, and luxury, or that this is a ‘sick, sad world’ or alternately a world whose abundance is eternally exploitable to those with gumption to extract its black, tarry bounty for firing up the rattling engine that foreshadows massacre, and somehow one will remain untargeted by dualistic forces abalance.  It’s starting to rain. Aramark comes to collect dirty towels, replace with clean ones.  A PT-91 Twardy rumbles down the main landing strip to a vision of unusurpable peace.  A regular menace to society, a Great Pyrenees German Shepherd hybrid eating sticks for ruffage while his owner smokes fags for sustenance. A Mexican with a green Skoal cap marches in, moving quickly, slowly dying to the tune of factory farm combines. There’s the notion that the industrious will has the ability to overpower obstacles or sneak by in camouflage.  Deer moving in shadows of night move stealthily, munch grass, are unobtrusive, a gunshot rings out, but the buck is dead before it’s startled. Meat for a month plus blanket. Split logs for a day, a month of heat and fuel for baking. Simplicity. Boredom seems to be a major obstacle for many, maybe two months for marijuana. Ideas flower. Many mundane tasks are made more manageable, enjoyable even. Many more creative, fearless, and hyperactive publish, produce, and compose; lecture, climb mountains, and scale walls. Across the street from the lumberyard where contractors collect materials collected from the forest, straightened, smoothed, and treated, ready for erection.  Imagining the hotness of now homeless nymphs, now psychotic Jennifer’s who can’t escape black mold, the aging process.  “You either die a hero, or you live long enough to see yourself become the villain,” (“The Dark Knight”) especially where beauty is connected to conceit, that is, how one sees oneself in the mirror or abstractly in society amongst pretty peers one happens to like seeing oneself around. Lesbians exit, one more androgynous than the next, more mannish, into a Subaru, love makes the machine come and go. On the parkway, in the backseat, two children lick each other’s lips, nipples, and labia, age not directly related to maturity with refusal to ‘grow-up’ because who would want to ‘become accustomed to’ the world as it is presented to us? With every daily worst-case-scenario broadcast on the news agoraphobics eternally justified by anchors become Anchoritic, stay close to home, hardly ever go out, worship the cat-headed goddess of crafting, biscuit eucharist, body transubstantiated fat, antennae steeple, private chapel.  It’s not that society has become godless, but that the Pantheon has multiplied, every logo a graven image, every materialist’s list of materials ever expanded, every obscure belief has its own faith, and every faith has its deities, rituals, and artifacts of a specific sense of superiority.  @ Westville, super-church of Oprah on TV, a sold-out stadium full of believers in the motivational force that encourages those of the super-congregation to get up off their seats to dance and jump in place in order to feel the transference of energy, dopamine, serotonin, and endorphins secreted that express the general connectedness of all things as professed by The Secret!

Spinoza Poems

Las traslucias manos del judio
Labran en la penumbra los cristales
Y la tarde que muere es miedo y frio.
(Las tardes a las tardes son iguales.)
Las manos y el espacio de jacinto
Que palidece enel confin del Ghetto
Casi no existen para el hombre quieto
Que esta sonando un claro laberinto.
No lo turba la fama, ese reflejo
De suenos en al sueeno de otro espejo
Y el temeroso amor de las doncellas.
Libre de la metaphor a y del mito,
Labra un arduo o cristal: el infinito
Mapa de Aquel que es todas sus estrellas.

“Spinoza.” Borges

The Jew’s hands, translucent in the dusk,
Polish the lenses time and again.
The dying afternoon is fear, is
cold, and all afternoons are the same.
The hands and the hyacinth – blue air
That whitens at the ghetto edges
Do not quite exist for this silent
Man who conjures up a clear labyrinth,
Undisturbed by fame – that reflection
Of dreams in the dreams of another
Mirror – or by maidens’ timid love.
Free of metaphor and myth, he grinds
A stubborn crystal: the infinite
Map of the one who is all His stars.

Translated by Richard Howard & Cesar Rennert

A haze of gold, the Occident lights up
The window.  Now, the assiduous manuscript
Is waiting, weighed down with the infinite.
Someone is building God in a dark cup.
A man engenders God. He is a Jew
With saddened eyes and lemon-colored skin;
Time carries him the way a leaf, dropped in
A river, is borne off by waters to
Its end. No matter. The magician moved
Carves out his God with fine geometry;
From his disease, from nothing, he’s begun
To construct God, using the word. Noone
Is granted such prodigious love as he:
The love that has no hope of being loved.

“Baruch Spinoza”
Translated by Willis Barnstone

One

basic

truth can

be used as

a foundation for

a mountain of lies,

and if we dig down deep

enough in the mountain of lies,

and bring out that truth, to set it

on top of the mountain of lies; the entire

mountain of lies will crumble under the weight of

that one truth, and there is nothing more devastating to a

structure of lies than the revelation of the truth upon which

the structure of lies was built, because the shockwaves of

the revelation of the truth reverberate, and continue to

reverberate throughout the Earth for generations to

follow, awakening even those

people who had no

desire to be

awakened

to the

truth.

Delamer Duverus

Over-Dude

Hating construction: orange tape, cranes, destroying the landscape for another phallic behemoth that profits few and costs many.  Surveyors on Hole 17, Richmond Hill, aren’t there to plant more trees, zoning.  Zoning out, succeeding at boredom, in the board room, another PowerPoint™ meeting takes place:

“Envision this:” she starts, attempting to impress a group of male colleagues like a well-dressed whore. “3 acres, prime real estate, stripped bare – denuded, levelled, and them… domes!” with pause for effect.

“I’m getting a massive erection!” said the president sincerely, getting attention, “It may be an eyesore, but it’ll get more looks being there which is better for the bottom-line.”

Buckminster Fuller’s communist/feminine geodesics fail to be ‘tried and true.’  Calm me, calm me, commie, can’t we all just get along and share a blanket and a supreme ideology?

A problem with stock markets are that investors are essentially glorified gamblers who desire to stack the odds in their favor, and if, looking back at historical precedent, it can be found that profit was proven to exist in a certain place and modality, the importation of said modality for supposed guaranteed profit trumps all other considerations. 

At least one guy in the boardroom supports getting 3 domes to try it out, but will not voice an opinion that dissents the established worldview of the Russian piss enthusiast, his boss, the one who signs the paychecks (digitally), that pays for his desirable condominium in midtown, in the heart like a fist of it all. He doesn’t love it, but imagines someone will. He imagines some dime will be gullible enough to swipe right on Tinder®, and then with the right lines, a few drinks, and mood lighting, she will fail to discern his shortcomings until it is too late and she becomes emotionally invested like the gullible chick she is and he will get all the dome he wants.  He comes to finishing touches. She puts him in her mouth.  He teaches her a thing or two. She will learn to keep her opinions to herself. He continues to fantasize about the size of his new place, the location, the amenities, the luxuries, his accrued account balance, and the amount of sex he’ll be having because of it. As of now he’s only pulling sixes and sevens, basic bitches he looks at with disgust like his weak-willed mother.  There’s some philanthropic fellatio, but no call backs, just another stepping-stone he thinks as he StairMaster®s the gym, staring off into space with his Spotify® Airpod™ mix blaring crap EDM.  Tedium, ‘getting his steps in,’ a modern phrase for efficiency fiends.  Modern pedometers, Bluetooth cock-rings give a more accurate reading bouncing on the dangle. 

A spring chicken choked for a clear mind and protein, down at the Tyson® production facility, a concentration camp for heathen hens, Sally Sue dumps a tray full of gibbets into the dog-food receptacle and replaces the plastic bin back on the end of the row after chucking the last few chunks into the mass grater, grinder, and processor. Dreaming of the big city, sick of these backwards backwoods clowns who spit and shoot and take seconds without asking.

Many sell themselves into slavery for security, identifying part-heartedly with an occupation that pays some foreign energy conglomerate for their national gridiron, oil-wells, and mining equipment.  Protesters in Chile burnt down the headquarters of “Enel Chile, a subsidiary of Italian utility Enel…” harvesting income inequality, destabilizing by claiming rights to resources halfway across the globe, because apparently Italia est perfecta and has no problems at home.  A father who travels for work to escape/support his wife and kids who increasingly know luxury, but lack guidance.  Generations pass, kindred burgeon, now concentrated in cities, fail to look one another in the eye, fail to familiarize oneself with another, separated in spirit yet sharing common ancestry.

Living in the moment, a Brazilian dumptruck driver dumps his payload of plastic bagged waste into the Amazon Basin.  Living in the moments to come, generations will have to rectify, reconcile, and regenerate the damages. Do we think we can get away with this bullshit philosophy? An atheist suicide reincarnation victim born again against his will in more blood and less spirit (as is his Dharma) struggles with the fact that God doesn’t care that he wanted out.  A consciousness irreparably diminished to a lower order may continue to descend at his or her own animal peril since slaughter remains in vogue at the abattoir.  What does it mean to ‘live in the moment?’ For many it’s a McDonald’s cup or wrapper out the car window. Bye-bye! They go back to their litter of filthy children without a chance they thrust on society like a baby-tossing gypsy crook, bent on profiting from a baby’s ability to evoke sympathy. I’d let that future criminal crash and protect my wallet!

Radio-Captured 2017 Playlist!

Shazam 2017!

Asheville Radio!

Jimmy Cliff – Sitting in Limbo

Jethro Tull – Cross-Eyed Mary

King Tubby – Breezing Dub

The Growlers - Monotonia

The Ventures – The Swingin’ Creeper

D. R. Hooker – Forge Your Own Chains

Sly and The Family Stone – If You Want Me to Stay

Chet Faker – I’m Into You

Jackie Wilson – Light My Fire

Toubab Krewe – Bamana Niya

The Fritz – Sound. Habits. Blame.

The Rapture – The Devil

Dr. Bacon - Peculiar

Jake Bugg – Lightning Bolt

Empire of The Sun - Friends

Conrad Clifton – La Da Dee (He’s Hopeless)

Professor Elemental – Fighting Trousers
Headroom – Flower of Light

Buffalo Radio!

Chocolate Milk – Action Speaks Louder Than Words

Caravan Palace - Maniac

Death By Unga Bunga – Make Up Your Mind

Jean Leloup – La Fin Du Monde Est A 7 Heure

Turnover – Take My Head

The Spitfires - Relapse

Madness – Mumbo Jumbo

The Velveteins – Shimmy Shake

Salt Peter – Funky Magazine

Mom Said No - Cruising

Lonnie Liston Smith – Mardi Gras

Thee Oh Sees – The Axis

The Middle Labor Day Way

4/28:

Feeling funny-fuzzy, partially incontinent, and cold and grey like the weather here in Buffalo today like a regional stereotype and a bad joke.  Emotionally and spiritually fatigued as I am, out-looking positive, and just overwhelmed that everything’s switching off-and-on, as it were, from contentment to desire, from life to death, instead of following the so-called ‘middle-way’.  [Am-bee-ants ambience]  A macabre double-header of wakes where heads are removed and necks are joined and buried as one bitorsoed body like a grisly palindrome in desecrated semiotic decay.  Diabolic efficiency!  But it’s important to be grateful to-for others who put ease in footsteps and add beauty to what could be considered obscene (by perspective) in a dark night of the soul – a metaphysical blindness that constitutes melancholy.  Burping, smoking, with crude physiology, a brick shithouse backhand slapping, desk charging, taboo living, ‘do you wanna get high?’ Smokin’ joints with the old Weezers on their way to wakefulness, back into Barb’s bag with the failure of twisted words to manifest in the moments I remain (thankfully) unawares, oblivious to academic threes, dream quadrants, and holy pentagrams!  I’m confused, aimless, drifting to Tudor drafts, barging in on conversations about Bethlehem steel and Love Canal, chasing a delirious shake with financial pity for the suffering shark.  (Who has time for real friends?)  The madness of science for earning, efficiency, and mechanism solely, when in reality we are all connected in a unified field where we all suffer for the likes of the sadistic separatists who pulverize their human remains for the pulse of entrails and think they can privatize gas emissions and watershed pollutants as they run off to lonely islands with obvious disdain for environment and neighborhoods.  The nerve of superiority!  Atlas shrugs as Oklahoma earthquakes are becoming more seismic with the waste water of hydraulic fracturing.  Industrious savages!  Too drunk to be funny, but jest sober enough to hammer bass. The desire to lay my lips on something sweet overwhelms as I drink potions...

6/18:

Deep Economy: Erin, care of Canada via Peru, at Taza where all worries dissipate into cooperativeness, where it’s popular to be unpopular, because cliques exist past high school, cast your vote where you spend your money.  Cuomo must drink a lot of coffee!  Andrew Cu-omo, that copper (Cu) homo (Nid) has no idea how to live, only how to die; tool, running the devil machine that should be called New Amsterdam if he were doing it better.  Instead the Guido leader of the legal mafia in blue that kills blacks and supports the proletariat hierarchy that was supposed to have been abolished in 1776, “governs”.  If I could put a fork in the blacktopped road I’d create a metaphor that stands for divergence with a little flag that isn’t resembling a Union Jack.  Such is the vicious nature of interconnectedness, and the further we expand the net, web, or globalized economic culture, the more difficult it is to remove the black tar that represents corporate greed, plutocracy and profit; and the heroin that represents psychic removal, black markets, impurity, and incarceration.  The glutinous ‘bigger is better’ mega-list philosophy is further and further removed from reality like an autistic automaton, a manufacturer of the mechanistic, or a proponent of wasteful hastiness.  [Eyeball; I balk.]  Doors off his Tracker, child in the back seat, blasting bachata; must be a terrorist!. What is socially unjustifiable anymore?  Life around a card table full of cheaters, meaningless microcosm, synecdoche of a game, wet 2D symbolism, 3D projection of a 4D world, becoming between destiny and history...

0511Reflection

Choosing my words more carefully, the power in My hands?  Not without discipline, exercise, and stretching?  So the power is in my hands?  That’s a lot of pressure.  Take it back, my libido.  Should I open this up?  Should I open my self? Am I up to scrutiny?  So many questions when you can’t sleep.  There was an outline…

                I really appreciate her present (however abstract) presence. I appreciate her being.  I want to give her body stuff ha-ha.  There will be one day when the laughs will all be mine!  And the horde of laughter (the tour group from the group home) will laugh for the last time!  My competition in abstraction salutes the smashing sun.  I really love her so my!  Oh my! So much!  Forever never-never forever, but on and on into infinity and maybe even eternity instead or also?  What backwards rides everything?  Artificial intelligence shoves gnomes up yoga pants victims near vain, conceited mirrors, a real clockwork horrorshow!  The lost art of fucking-people-over is really lost on her, as I believe in her foot, thankfully, and gratefully I believe and in the flesh, my spirit, Jesus, my Lord, the debt I will owe will be too great!  Two pennies fare o’er sticks!  (Styx) Fuck it, let’s sail!  Frankenstein’s promethean wide-world worldwide getaway-from-revenge scheme against his own spirit made reanimated flesh, another freak unable to find love for the reason that his God was a real son-of-a-bitch. 

My intelligence; my phoniness; the reason I like to party is man is made of mostly water, and while some of us barely know ourselves, I remember that it’s water that carries that charge and alcohol that keeps that liquid spark alive!  If nature has taught me anything; flow.  The difference between having and not having is not so different if you have any imagination, but obsessions, fetishes, and attachments draw me to things like the negative pole of an evil magnet, the one that took your chunky digit on the last day you forgot to skip for not the streets, but for corporate credit, corporeal currency, and bodily Beelzebub.  “Are you proud of yourself?”

The past that pursues a person, like a clown to whatever ‘it’ is or a fool like a dog to its own vomit, what can Solomon do but preach and rule knowing his conviction and the ring he laid down at her feet with supreme deference? I’m a rat by comparison to you, so merciful, so kind…I put pressure on myself to compare…

Later that day:  Jamie’s telling me about Paul Walker de Asheville’s Quatro de Cinco taco ride and bicycle detailing; decal yellow. “All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy,” reads my Red King mug.  Little links in the chain cipher decipher, interpret, and fantasize. The early dog gets the pet? The police dog fetches the stray bullet, canine olfactory evidence; C.O.E. (Hapax L. v. 6^th Amendment).  Beautiful molting bug, hanging from my light fixture, will you become as a delicate jewel encased in amber?  Mosquito’s proboscis! The colored (red) guy can barely maneuver the benches or close his dilapidated car’s door!  He may be a member of the mobile homeless.  [Rancheros on Niagara, near the gas station, formerly Rascals (directions to a native Buffalonian)]

Still later that day: At Armory restaurant for the first time to eat food…a disorganized noontime scene, Italian restaurant, is it too late for lasagna? Never (IMO)! Harbison Bros. Appenheimer Ave. (East side) -> L.B.’s urban farm (also East side) where we’re potentially going to grow mushrooms out of logs.  In the interim I’ll figure out a system for pasteurizing straw.  Will need thermometer, siphon (move it), have 55-gallon basket materialized (do I need it?), tub, and weed-whacker for chopping straw into finer pieces.  Tomorrow, try hose-water + siphon system for soaking coffee-oyster blocks (where dehydration seems to be a problem (too many coffee exudites? (didn’t need siphon (amethyst enough to tip)))) Asheville next week, Antonia should be counted upon because she’s great (and I think I love her, (but only fools rush in (as They say (fuckin’ cabal)))).  Butterflies anyway…And turtles all the way down…And the Bruce is loose.