Reading this all that time without my knowledge wasn't kind. It was the opposite of kind. He should never have shared this with you.

Thankfully I met someone who never would have.






624 days to go.


oct.23,2001 bed. laptop is working

lonely for a mind.


i'll have to ask the engineers at the station for a cable
with a prong for each one of the senses not among the standard five i'm equipped with by being human. so i can plug into the universe
are we missing worlds that are all around us
could i find a lover
and do i have to chase the future
or will it embrace me from behind


wishing, wishing on a sock.







625 days to go.




grey morning.
pat of butter,
drizzle of
slices. i'm
out of coffee.
l.a. times.

could i quit
coffee? can't


why doesn't the pentagon just admit they hit the hospital? why do they wait? what purpose does that serve?

this is all beginning to make me sick. but why doesn't the taliban just hand him over? is he worth getting bombed over? apparently so. yeah, they offered to hand him over 'if we can produce enough evidence' but i suppose then they decide what is 'enough'? ~~well, you know what, i guess we still should have played. just to demonstrate that we want to try anything but reciprocal violence. i do think they made an empty gesture, but it had face value.


okay. i'll try to quit coffee. just made that decision. tried once, for a month...a groggy month with terrible headaches every day.

let's try it again. you never know....

spanky, what the hell? he's going insane over there, with a whole variety of noises. from tuneful gibbering to jungle screeching. neighbors must love it...geez, little dude, are you ever full of beans. now, he's making kissy noises and humming with a closed beak; now, he peeled off an octave of obnoxious chirps, eh, what up bird,wolf whistle baby, tooty toot toot.


can't believe the computer is working. sometimes it works and sometimes it doesn't.

he's walking

reading the paper....even with all of the above regarding our airstrikes, i STILL am REALLY pissed at this notion that keeps popping up about how we somehow brought this on ourselves because 'we are so hated.' i mean, this from a japanese scholar; do i have to refer again to aum supreme truth& what they wanted to do IN JAPAN? fanatic behavior does nothing but look for targets and so-called righteous causes, god damn it, and if the u.s. has sinned, and it has, so have other countries.

if we had never ventured near the middle east, it would still be fucked up. anyone care to argue? anyone? any takers?

it's a moot point, though. the middle east needs other countries. they want to sell us their oil. hello. what are they going to do with the oil if they don't sell it? drink it?

anyway, we're not an island. we've done plenty plenty evil. and i mean, plenty. that issue is aside from this--i could go on about the wrongs our government has done--but my point is that it's a separate issue. this idea that our mistakes are to blame for the fanaticism that crops up is such bullshit. i understand that every possible leap will be taken in search of explanations but try as i might, because i'm willing to entertain all possibilities, i can't see that that's anything but a wrong, a dangerously wrong stretch to make. we're an extremely self-critical and apologetic population--and that's good--but to a point, people.

jim jones. hitler. al quaeda. come on.

if we were so hated and fucked up, people would not come here from every country around the world for our health care, our opportunity, our bursting often-ignorant vitality. they would stay in mexico. china. south america. the middle east. india. wherever. they'd fucking stay where they were.

if there were no united states, if there never had been, are you really going to tell me evil would just go away? fanaticism and grandiose, apocalyptic gestures like this just wouldn't happen? these people want a target for their hate. bin laden has an agenda. he wants to form the muslim world according to his inner vision and so he struck at what he sees as the financial foundation of infidel support and influence. (and incidentally, he does hate us. we're a target for that madness as well, with our nasty hollywood shallow way of life.)

hate wants targets. and it finds them. we were the target in this case and not the cause. fanatics are desperate for something to believe in: for a shot at being players in a holy struggle. and that kind of struggle needs an 'evil' opposition. and in this case it was us. normal people who happened to have some kind of business in buildings that symbolize a concentration of power. the kids in the day care. the morning wait staff at windows on the world. boy, i wonder if bin laden could just have everything his way, if all opposition evaporated, if there were no 'holy war' to fight, what kind of peace would ensue under him, or others of his ilk.

not that i think we should be dropping bombs on the desert. not that i think we shouldn't examine our government and its policies. but i'm going to maintain again and again and again and again: our policies are just the excuse, the target.
this is why it's all the more distressing to just drop bombs like big dummies. we could be playing right into the extremists' hands, and start a spiral of repercussions.

spanky, off the keyboard.

guess that's my rant for the day. gad. computer is still working. i was going to go run to work out some of this aggression. but i guess i ran off at the mouth, instead.

he won't get off the keyboard and he's going crazy pecking at the keys. then he fluffs up indignantly, and spits. don't know what his problem is. he seems pissed. maybe he wants attention? dude, you shit on this keyboard, and your ass is grass.




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from (online journal of nyc resident)

I hate to say this, but I can't stop thinking about it. I've never had a whit of respect for President Bush, and I didn't expect that he'd handle this situation particularly well, but I've been appalled by just how badly he's handled it. It hit me most clearly when I saw Giuliani on television, making his 4th or 5th public statement, handling reporters' questions, providing information to television viewers. I've never really liked Giuliani, either, but I was filled with admiration for him as he stood up there, going beyond even what his press secretary wanted him to do to answer questions and provide comfort and information. Bush, by contrast, looks like a cornered rabbit, and his unwillingness to take questions from reporters or to say anything that indicates that he even know what's going on is worse, now, than uninspiring: it's terrifying. I don't want that man leading the country into war.

(more likeanorb)

Last night we sat around at Antarctica listening to one of the rescue workers, a 'mole,' who climbs down into holes in the World Trade Center rubble to find bodies, talk about his job. He said, "there I am, worst disaster in the world, and I have my choice of 7 kinds of potato. I can have my potatoes baked, fried, au gratin, roasted; I can have my hot dogs grilled or fried and with or without cheese; I can get rehydrated, dehydrated, have my eyes washed out and get a massage from a nurse all at the same time. I feel almost guilty down there." He also confirmed what everyone has said–that you can't imagine how monumental the debris piles down there are; and that he'd had it with the journalists trying to get in down there: "They ask me if I've found any bodies, and what do they want me to say? I'm not going to talk about that. I tell them about the potatoes. If you see me on t.v., talking to a reporter, you can be sure I'm making everything up."

But the mole also told us that he'd never seen a better or more inspiring display of work, that you couldn't imagine how efficient and skilled the effort was. It's like an ant colony, people shoulder-to-shoulder working bucket lines, hanging from cranes with blow torches to cut up girders, the mayor–who, he said, had actually been buried in the rubble himself and had to be rescued right after the buildings collapsed–climbing around in the debris, shaking the hand of every worker.




remember the japanese cult that released sarin gas on the subway? they had a plan to fly over japanese cities with cropdusters and release deadly bacteria. they never got that far.

on the front steps of kate's apartment there's candle wax, from the night everyone stood on the porches --silently--with lit candles. i remember walking home and all through the neighborhood, people were standing quietly on the lawns, with flags, or on their porches holding candles. it was very quiet that night in santa monica. i felt a sadness in the air, and a kind of respect and thoughtfulness.

and then, and then there are the idiots plowing into mosques, attacking anyone with brown skin, idiots, many different kinds of people in this world.

bush's retoric is really bothering me. bombing innocent, poor people is not 'smoking' anyone out. we're slamming our fist into the desert. the shit will live on in the cracks. and meanwhile, what horrible events will spiral from this?

get the fuckers who did this and will do more, yes. but this does not seem right. i don't like the rhetoric, i don't like how little information we get, i don't like that we're using blunt force with a subtle issue.

so much money, so many resources; i'm disappointed in everyone but powell at this point. i'm ashamed of my government for behaving like rednecks.

we were the victims and the insane fuckheads who are behind this must be found. but smashing and thrashing our might like this could spread the poison and amplify and aggravate god knows what. please, please, some intelligent words, something, something, some subtlety from our leaders, is that just too damn much to expect that they speak to us above sixth grade level?





day 74....sun....oct.21,2001

"the open palm of desire
wants everything, wants everything
wants soil as soft as summer,
and the strength to push like spring."
--paul simon

dreams of jetliners with no pilots.


a jetliner out of control; i go up front. no one is flying the plane. i call david, an engineer at the station, on his cell phone. he tries to tell me how to fly the plane. below i see tilting landscapes, storms blasting through the sky and around me, churning black clouds &lightning spears, whirling outside the cockpit windows. the plane goes upside down, the floor lurches, everything is inverted, david still on the phone; at one point we are pointed straight down, towards the ground, racing diving for earth, the distant ground thundering up toward us;

another dream; i am flying, naked. --with underwear. but they're my old, frayed, holey underwear, that i leave at the bottom of the drawer for laundry crises; the elastic is loose and they're flapping; i feel naked; i'm flying over industrial areas, oceans, parking lots, swooping down over city streets, through neighborhoods, in day, night, this flying dream seemed to go on for hours.

i wasn't joyously flying, but observing, trying hard to steer and stay up, but looking, looking down over all these different things. always a feeling of unease, almost fear, because i know i'm not supposed to be flying; i hold my arms out to my sides and slightly back, trying to hold my body straight and resemble an airplane as much as possible. and by some force of will, keep myself in flight, steer by leaning slightly, but if my will or attention falters for even a second, i start to fall toward earth, or go off course, or drift uncontrollably; so it's a tiring dream. full of swoopings, odd perspectives on things, and the grimiest corners of the strangest neighborhoods i could imagine...

amid the aching confusion of analyses, opinions, conflicting reports, propoganda, perspectives, and the endless chatter of hopeless gasbags like tim russert
it's very hard to keep focused and plow through and keep learning and evaluating information.

i do remember now why i don't watch tv, though. my brain only has so much capacity. i'd rather use the time and energy i have for reading, internet, radio; &also i guess i spend my work days with televisions looming from every ceiling corner. it's good for immediate updates. but in the long haul, to get the deeper picture, it's such a small part of the equation i need that it's hard to believe it's a primary source for many people. my boss thinks i'm a little misguided and idealistic not to have it at home. but i still contend my time is better spent with other media.

in today's living section, of all places, is one of the more succinct perspectives i've heard. too bad it wasn't more prominently featured in a news section. above all i want to know what afghans think: here is the link: (coming soon)

at the coffeeshop yesterday i was talking to this very cute guy who was studying some sort of equation while the music was blasting and people were talking all around. i was asking him how he could concentrate. after a moment's conversation i walked away, and caught up with kate, who said to me, 'you know, you're really getting a pooch. you ought to untuck your shirt.'

it's not unusual to hear a constructive-criticism comment like that; we're girlfriends; we have to watch out for each other when we slip, &i do it to her too sometimes; but it seemed like an odd moment for her to say that. i had expected some comment on how the guy was cute, or something like that. so, for about half an hour i obsessed about the pooch. & she felt kind of bad. but in the back of my mind i was thinking: of all moments and of all things to say right at that moment, why that one? i was having a cute little conversation with this guy, and that was what she was thinking as she observed that~~~that i have a pooch? not, what a cute guy, or oh look, she's being outgoing for once, but, look at her pooch?

maybe that just happened to be the moment she picked to notice & mention. but i wondered.

i'm not going to write everything on these pages. i'm coming to realize that i just can't write about everything. it is a kind of public forum, among my own friends; many who have this are not in L.A. or are even out of state and not in my day to day world; still, i can't treat this exactly as a journal with ALL my innermost thoughts. there are some subjects that are going to have to go unmentioned in these pages,whole areas of life i'm going to have to leave out. i started this page to help me work through the end of this love affair and the inevitable long process of moving on; so i'll mostly focus on that. & world events and ...stories. kate said i should tell more stories, like the one about chris pinero. so i may do that.


a cherished mistake. heart was heavy, feet were bleeding from sharp cuts on this road. looked down and saw it was paved not with gravel but with gemstones. cut improperly, fractured with clashing realms of wrongly colored light. purple over forest green; a blade of orange. overlays of shadows, violet, flash of pure morning sun receding quickly. colors between. lowlights of a savage midnight. blood-red dusk pulsing on some far distant edge, low and beneath. a play of light resolving into rich beams of unlikely beauty and muted brightness. casting a glow like a dark twilight into the future. pointed by memories, learning, not from imagined perfection, but from pain and the things that came in spite of. and an unconscious rhythm, and the light from you. the road away.

and toward. and i walked. and i found my feet were healing. and the light was still around me. and what i kept was more beautiful than the scars you left.

a mistake is a mistake, and pain is pain. &i will not open the same wounds on top of these scars if i can help it. you gave me embraces in dark water; the rest i have to find on my own. cast in the light from beneath my feet. beyond a bend i haven't reached.


if i were standing before god and he asked me, is he a good man, did he love me as much as he absolutely could, i would have to say yes.
he said there had never been lovemaking for him like that before, that we had a pure and direct line of feeling between the two of us; and i believe him, and i believe it was not just about sex.

i believe him, i believe there was a cold fire in his eyes when he held me by the shoulders,
i may be wrong, but i believe.

......i may be romanticizing, seeing 'what i want to see.'

but let me weave my own tapestry from the unraveled threads. let me decide what's valuable, and let me take from it what i need. if some of what's left is pure illusion, it's still mine. it's still rich and glowing, and weaves among elements more stark to create poetry.

without illusion, inward realms casting themselves into the world, would there be music? we walk among each others' illusions every day, and gesture from within, sometimes at shadows. and so the world accepts and rejects and forms and reforms, and the ground is fertile with both failed dreams, and successes whose time has ended.

don't trot out your self-help jargon, don't sit on your lofty perch of 'oh, poor you, and what a jerk he is.' don't give me the simple answer, don't sum things up according to their failures, unless the failures dictate the future.

which they don't.

i can't just relegate this to something labeled by the pop psych or even psych books. i just can't. i can't remove the music, the magic, the naked truth of the bare flame between us. a friend once said, 'oh, he is so full of crap' in response to his telling me how much he cared; but that's not the whole story.

she should have known, knowing me, i'm someone remarkable that he would care about. i think i captivated him. i know he captivated me. so his pull was stronger for me than mine for him; so? i think i make a lasting impression on some, and i know i made a lasting impression on him. it was not all using, it was not all corrupt. limited yes~which i fought against.

but ....i believe we each saw each other in a wonderful way, sometimes. we understood the children we had been, and forgave them for their failures and fears, and for ruling our darkest hours.

i think he forgave me; i know i can forgive him.

~none of this changes what has to be done, but my most basic instincts tell me that even with all the crap, in spite of; in the storms, the violent crossfire, the love and the hate and the slamming together and wrenching apart of souls,
in all this chaos, there is a flame, a flickering flame sometimes weak and dashed to and fro by the forces;
sometimes strong and tall when we were still and dropped defenses; sometimes suffocating under damp musty blankets,
sometimes starved for oxygen. it never went out.

you call it friendship, i call it love, & so we part; friendship is not enough for me. other flames have not yet been lit~i've been too busy protecting this one and feeding it oxygen that may have been better used for other purposes; but that's in an alternate perfect world, which this is not.
in this imperfect world, in this imperfect way, things are built the way they are by forces not completely in our control. through mistakes we know each other sometimes.
mistake or no
i'm not sorry, no.

what i'm trying to say is ...what? i believe in the goodness of what you intended &the power of your response. but, that is all i believe in. you did not want to build on it....but that doesn't negate the core of it which was wonderful and must now be put in a box to age and lose its lust.

i also will have to trust and believe that there was something he needed that he couldn't get from me; and and learn to accept and move on. the anger is only partly at his boneheadedness and selfishness. it's also about the fact that i have to let him go.

sweetest smile i ever put my lips against, hard to let you go. hard to let you go to another and then just hard to let you go. goodbye is better than endless whiplash between love and fury. fury will play out... &taper off in the end. but it's there. a hot red devil waiting in moments i think are most calm. stay out of my way.

don't expect me to be sweet or reconciled to losing you. i hate it like bombs and hijacked airplanes. i hate the death of this thing, so don't ask for my sweetness. i accept.

but don't expect a pretense at agreement or peace with it. i hate a world where i can't make love to you, with the sharpest edges of my teeth.

i hate
another woman in your bed with all the loathing that exists in my limited self. all, absolutely all, and all i can gather from the air around me, pure loathing, absolutely crystal-pure blazing hate, do you understand?

&more than anything
i hate a weakness of spirit that would allow your failures to inflame my failures and crush me with their combined violence. i hate any love affair that requires me to debase myself any further. &i won't. i won't be enslaved by these weaknesses. but neither will i pretend i've found peace with this, with telling you goodbye. i will do it but i do not have to like it. and don't you dare, don't you dare expect me to pretend. that it's okay to never hold you again.


"the open palm of desire,
the rose of jericho
soil as soft as summer,
and the strength to let you go."

goodnight, satellites.