Jazz-Tuning Innuendo in Egyptian Blue Turmoil

Journal #37

Thursday, June 26, 2008
3:26—WSQ! —In the truncated* park on a forlorn and fractious bench.

Fear turns to fatigue as a hollow afternoon rotates ponderously across an imploded solar chart.
Underside of the city as I retreat from fear and paranoia.
Comatose on the park bench as irrelevant thoughts sputter and expire in an over-stimulated nervous system.
Magnetic disturbance of a street as shadows walk through the haze of the late afternoon.
Clinging to obscure corners of the Memory-Park-in-Exile.
Dozing off on a multi-dimensional bench.
Husks shuffle through and around the de-natured chess circle [Re-located to the north-west quadrant against all laws of physics—and decency!]
De-camped on the very periphery of the chess quadrant—feeling too frail to be embroiled in the madness of that still-potent node of fractious contention.

4:33—On an even more obscure bench near the Baci court [Now ripped out and already forgotten!]

Brats continue to scream all through the pain/continuum.

Moved to an even more obscure location on the other side of the Baci court.
Now in the locus of two equidistant “jazz” bands, each playing in what I believe to be the style known as “free” jazz. This produces a music** that is perhaps superior to either of the individual bands alone. 
**Jazz-tuning innuendo in Egyptian Blue turmoil.

Dreams born on chemical mists and industrial solvents.
Tomorrow I have an interview for a graphics job at some horrible law firm at 12:00—it will be a miracle if they hire me and a mistake on their part if they do! I am an incompetant, a day-dreamer, and a slacker! Lord!
 

6:07—At yet another bench/location.
Jerking and twitching criminals skulk around the chess circle...
Early evening announces itself on a cool breeze from the south-west. Another day rotates sluggishly out of existence as we hapless creatures are whirled through outer space at unimaginable speeds. I wonder how fast the Earth is actually travelling in its crazed orbit around the sun? Perhaps 10,000 miles an hour? Much faster? Or perhaps slower? I’ll look it up tonight... why should I even be interested? I don’t know—anything to distract me from my misery and fears. So we are orbiting and rotating at the same time—and the sun itself is also moving around the galaxy. No wonder we are all confused and agitated: we’re orbiting and spinning and being dragged around the galaxy by the sun at the same time and it never stops! Why doesn’t everyone simply go mad at the very thought of such a situation? It’s like some insane carnival ride!
[The Earth travels in its orbit at approximately 66,000 mph, and rotates on its axis at a little over 1000 mph]

...A little later on an F-Train heading back to Ditmas Park—at least I got a seat...

9:40—Back in the Ditmas.
Vertiginous evening—thoughts are born and expire before I can examine them...

* In the midst of the great renovation/desecration—take your pick

/// wsq /// solar system /// alienation /// solitude

The Flatlands

Journal #31
Tuesday, July 3, 2007

11:03—On a Q-Train heading to WSQ—
Have to scrape together the Ditmas rent somehow...
All the brouhaha with the band is meaningless because my hearing is worse than ever—I’m totally toxified* and weakened and my ears are ringing all the time. Impossible! Not an option! Academic! End of problem!

2:09—WSQ—beautiful day in a dream—soon to be nothing but a lost page in a barbaric book.
Lives squandered and turned to paper. I now realize that the toxins have seeped into my dreams and then overflowed onto these ghostly pages...
*Poison-Fueled Literature, Vol. I

Wednesday, July 4, 2007
The Fourth of July!
11:42—I quit the environs of Ditmas in a shroud of toxic fumes and walked along a certain version of Ditmas Avenue on the way to the F-Train on MacDonald Avenue.

Ditmas Avenue (between certain streets) possesses a sadness and weariness—I don’t feel that I am fully here—that I pass through (tenuously) a very late and debased version of the avenue—the absurd feeling that my version could never measure up to previous versions—that the heyday of the avenue existed a long time ago—or may never have existed... the streets are fluid and elastic and strewn with psychic debris...
 

MacDonald Avenue Station—
The elevated platform gives a view of a limitless Brooklyn—I lose myself—as the Flatlands of Old Brooklyn stretch off to the industrial horizon in an atomized haze...