Monday, February 17, 2003

Piano moving logistics are impressive. I know now why they make good money, piano movers. I hired the company that actually came out and looked at the place. I fear anyone else, giving me a bid on the phone, would try to bilk me once they got here. Steve, I know, will be on the up and up. He can't say he doesn't know. 2:44:34 PM

What if the greatest gift of the greatest giver were simply to receive. A gift. 1:15:53 AM

The thing that makes the Yoda voice in me tricky to listen to, as well as valid to listen to, is the fact that, beyond being an imaginary character, and simply a figurative figure, a totem for my Gestalt Jungian voodoo, he's been around for 1,000's of years. So wait. Breath. See what happens. I'm thinking, yeah, but you've been around forEVER. What if nothing ever happens? And he says, "Yes. What if nothing ever happens." Like he knows. And he does, like all the tommorrows and yesterdays are here today. 1:12:17 AM

And then I would write something like this tonight: I am still alive. But I do not have strippo-vision. Yet. Just more splinters. 12:45:33 AM

I wonder if, and I don't know if this ever becomes something we can consider retrospectively - when it does become part of our collective past, with enough distance for review, we collectively won't care - because we'll be dead, or blissful, or evil - but I wonder, if, in the end the storytellers will win the battle of good versus evil. By capturing the imagination of children that good must triumph over evil, creating some hopeful warriors out the masses. Like Harry Potter, when I saw a billboard adverting the next movie. I was searching for the word for the b-monster in Harry Potter, when it finally came to me last night. Basilisk. My basilisk tooth of a splinter is the description I was looking for, of that nasty critter. It's strange sometimes, how conversations erupt between my blog and e-mail and conversations and books, as I think of describing what each one wrote or said to each of the other. E-mails sometimes begin, as I wrote in my blog. And I was just thinking of doing the same thing here, as I wrote in an e-mail last night. Do I need to cite myself? Is this some strange cannibalistic plagiarism, borrowing materials from myself? I should e-mail someone about that. But I did write last night, and maybe I'll just grab it and plug it in, pretending, if I hadn't done this intro, that I just wrote it tonight. And hope I don't offend my blog that I sometimes write to other people, sometimes, probably most times, better than I write here. My thumb hurts. The thought has crossed my mind that I may be dying. Poisoned by that basilisk tooth of a splinter, covered in lead paint and stripping goo. The thought has also crossed my mind that I might mutate into some superhero refinisher, capable of stripping layers of paint off with my strippo-vision. Funny how as a kid I was fascinated with x-ray glasses and seeing naked ladies. Now, my idea of superhero strippo-vision involves exposing wood, not boobs. I like nakedness and all, but this world is so saturated and not saturated with sex, all neon lit and flashing so bright you can't really. See anything. Real. Or feel. Separate real wants and needs from the projected, promoted, packaged idea of self and self desire we so much become. Right now, I'm so sensitized and sensualized about the uncovery of this beautiful beautiful cherry stained and varnished fir serving as stair risers that it's about all I can think about right now. I haven't even begun to catch the full beauty, just glimpses, under layers upon layers of paint slowly, too slowly blistering away. It's not so much sexy, but sensual, yes, and most definitely real. 12:41:40 AM