Quantum Physics

reading this and considering the role of the quantum language in my own understanding of the world – to find out for sure by observation is in fact to collapse the wavfunction. I dig that metaphor and see the value in this line of thinking.


Suddenly it is Tuesday night. I am on the couch, drinking wine. All day long I have been working away, ie : not living. Just now I am living, finally.

I was thinking again this afternoon about palettes. I went to the beach around one and thought about a four or five color palette of the grey day beach – four greys, in fact, accompanied by the dark sea. And then the palette of the chaparral – more tan, more green. Finally the palette of the high ground when you’re up out of the fog and the sky is that wonderfully fresh blue –


What if we told stories in palettes? It’s an idea that I had in 2003/2004 when I wanted to write the pointillist story of Seb chasing Maryanne through the streets of Paris, and I came back to it this weekend thanks to Jason Kottke. Could you identify the palette of a place? Would you know, for example, a san Francisco palette from a San Diego palette? What about a time? What was the palette of a time in your childhood? Can you store information in them and if so, shouldn’t you be able to tell a story in palettes?


Great French wine weekend, starting with a Chateauneuf du Pape on Friday, coming back this afternoon with a Tavel rose.

Lately though I’m up and then I’m down. It’s the coffee, the caffeine. I need to break off from drinking so much on the weekends. Today I had far too much and am riding the coaster at the moment. It’s an addiction, just like coke, and I need to break it.

This afternoon I’ve had a little wine and now I’m slowly working my way through a bite to eat – a bite that may last all evening. It is five o’clock on Sunday and I am feeling extraordinarily pleasant. I am alone but with myself and my laptop and good wine and abundant food I am a very happy man.

Poetry Scrap

To Write or To Dance

First time Erectus or Habilis intimated
“you go on and dance, I’m gonna work on this”
was the bad day, the first day that
less than all did our
funny little dance where we
encircle nothingnesses entrapping them;
This time less than whole with
a hole in our imperfect circle and they
got out and they seemed to vanish – ha!
just more exhaust, man – forget it.
Soon the dance was passé, for the old folks the
silly nostalgic fuddies – for us,
he did this and she did that and
when we learned to measure we found
the nothingness was between all of us
and ever after we’ve tried
with tears and with guns to
get the writers to put down pens
and make again that
imperfect circle


I was dreaming last night about a sharp intellect, about the gym and being able to lift more than a guy twice my size and being a bit embarrassed about it; finally it all took place in the current incarnation of my Foreign City which is a café-laden amalgamation of Vienna, Paris, Seattle, Shanghai, more –


I bolt at grey dawn like the chimpanzee who’s at least clever enough to realize that his days are numbered and therefore to make the most of them in terms of both quality and quantity requires going at each with a gusto. I slap on jeans and shoes and a shirt and head into the street. Out in the calles everyone is still in it, the drooped eyes and haggered looks of those forced to rise far earlier than they’d prefer. I walk into the café and order coffee and the biggest Danish they have.