Walking to Peets for my morning caff-blast, considering that I’m storing my Choi Lai Fut knowledge in the same part of my brain that I used for things I’d learn in High School, things I knew but didn’t know and that slipped out as easily as they came in. This is why I can’t do them well outside of the structure of drill – I’ve learned them but I haven’t internalized them yet.

Which brings up the question – how do I internalize knowledge? Certain pieces of info are stuck – take Kantian Ethics or Konrad Lorenz’s theory of Neoteny or how to find x rows with column i being equal to j within a multi-table DataSet. Why are these pieces stuck and liable to pop out in my writing at any point, yet things I’ve studied for years, like Choi Lai Fut, are not?

The answer lies within the root of my intelligence, which is the ever-nending internal dialogue between myself and my near-nodes. Broken down to the exquisitely single, this is the ghost of my pet cat Muffin who was run over by a car when I was three. On an expansive view this is anyone who’s ever caught my eye – not with physical beauty though but with the seductive charm of interest. Not that I didn’t say intellect. Interest is what is attractive. Intellect without interest is possibly the biggest turn-off on the planet. Interest trumps intellect, every time. Without my nodule conversations I am an idiot. A simpleton. The boy who can’t learn. This is why I didn’t do well in school – I couldn’t or wouldn’t converse about things the boring man or woman up front was trying to pipe into me and so I’d fail the test. Meanwhile I’d go home and read Hume or Hegel or Hemingway and get it, get it in an incomplete way, an abortive way, a wonderfully broken way that only those of us who are self-taught get.

Aging Humans

These 29 year old bones like to roll out early, peep outside at the grey day forming. This whole business of being 29. It is simultaneously unreal and hyper-real. Below and above.

Pictures help a bit. We probably needed someone to take a picture of us from roughly the same angle every day of our lives. We could then rewind and fast-forward through the days. My stack would have 10,592 flash cards, counting today. That would help a lot. Visual proof of our age.

Journaling helps. I’ve been at it on a daily basis for a little over three years now, on an irregular basis since I left for Europe in May of 1998. It’s something to look back on, some tangible proof of existing on prior days. I cannot live anymore without writing something every day, even if its gobbledygook like this. Dumping into the written word has become as essential to my mental health as sleep.

Just sitting still helps. It must be why our grandparents do it. Did it – mine are long gone. Sitting still, thinking about ourselves, almost letting ourselves become a bit bored. I haven’t been bored in years, and I mean as in even for a minute. Everywhere I go I have my laptop and my Verizon card so there’s the Net and there’s Word and there’s something to do. As this thing rocketships towards the Singularity, boredom has been not so much eradicated as obviated. There’s simply no room for it on the good ship Humana no more.

Life seems to get a little grin over making you miserable if you try to grasp on to it. You can see this in a microcosm by trying to grab on to an hour, a minute, a moment. I used to try to do it with important football games or big parties. The harder you hold onto the rail the faster it goes. Surfing is the only solution. The wave is coming and it’s going to take you over. Fight it and it’ll drop you off the cliff. Swim ahead of it if you want – the break is coming, the reef is ahead, the rocks are sharp. Getting up on that board, it’s the only thing for it. If you’ve gotta go, you might as well get in a hell of a ride on the way.


Whenever it rains in San Diego it feels as though it’s raining At last. There’s a sense that everything comes last of all to this far corner of the country. When the rain comes it never lasts long, and I’ll sit on the patio or in a café or in my apartment and watch it hit the windows and splash in the street.

Language is the ways and means of ideas

I like thinking about language and lingual connotations. I’m driving out to Morro Bay thinking about this. About Chomsky, about my pet theory that so much of our capabilities roots back to our software – our languages. I think the hardware can take more, particularly when caffeinated. I think it’s the software, which means that all of us have capabilities to be big thinkers but only if we develop them.

This coming from my idea that the most people only see the surface, but there are layers and layers of zoom below the surface, but they take a sharp and trained eye in order to see them. Some of them you can’t see but must feel, must simply conceptualize feeling. Some of them you can only smell. But one thing remains –

The more layers you have available to zoom into, the happier you have the potential to be.

Public Transportation

Waiting at the platform for my train. It’s crowded tonight and all along the platform are people waiting in groups and pairs and singles– men in their thirties with their arms crossed, big middleaged women talking with their smaller friends, men in dress shirts and slacks reading the paper or fiddling with cell phones, little women talking on their phones. There’s a girl waiting by the tracks with the cutest haircut. She’s just standing staring down the track Another girl comes up the ramp to the platform, a hot little blonde in a business suit. She whips out her cell phone and starts playing with it.

There’s a guy walking along with a stacked Nikon Rifle. Thing is like a foot and a half long, almost all lens. It’s a nice piece.

“Thanks man. Had it for two years now. Great to be out here taking pictures. I take it everywhere I go. You never know when you’ll see something.”

I tell him I know what he means.


Another springtime storm. Out my window a field of grey, pockmarked with spots of blueity. To punch up a url and get a satellite view, this is a triumph of modernity, the great dream of every man a lord.

Thinking this morning about Lawrence Ferlinghetti calling his verse Transitions. The notion that you can use poetrics to transition your mood and yourself, that’s heavy.

Today is work and when the work is done then today will be about sports. The World Baseball Classic is on, the Tourney is going on. I may watch from here, I may try to get a seat.


I like picking up a woman, giving her piggy back rides, touching her whenever I feel I need to exert my necessary humanity into her world.