May 20th

I left a baby alone for thirty seconds and it died. Second one. I’m not sure of liv­ing bey­ond this; preg­nancy is so much labour.

Al Pacino as an old drunk in a movie, people try­ing to man­oeuvre him out of his firm & take his job. He walks as a giant around the city, takes a pic­ture of inside his ear with a bill­board, sleeps at nite drown­ing in alco­hol in a dirt hole in the ground.

I’m walk­ing on an even­ing towards the lib­rary at Mom’s along a long gray dirt road. Think­ing of Uma Thur­man as an early hip­ster. I pull a cart with a strange Czech man on it as he’s just behind me on the road at one point wish­ing to get past. After I drop him off I think of turn­ing back, but just then some men, plumb­ers of some kind, are work­ing on a house nearby & they seal off the path that I just came along. No way to go but ahead. I walk thru aban­doned houses, a large stone gal­lery. Some people on the oth­er side of wooden doors some­times, an old bald man, but I don’t open the door. I walk towards a second grade school think­ing I’m approach­ing the lib­rary. Near the school a rac­coon runs out & towards me. Beau­ti­ful creature, slow motion past me. Bruno Schulz died near here — I walk thru his old room in an old sparse stone house. Jen­nifer Dun­bar Dorn is telling how he befriended a teach­er, & how the teach­er would remind him that he could only make of the world what he brought to the table, even if the stor­ies that res­ul­ted turned out grot­esque or dark. Then this is a story about Schulz that I’m read­ing, by Han­nah Aren­dt — it ends, “I did­n’t know that he had died.”

Jen­nifer Dun­bar Dorn is answer­ing ques­tions about Ed Dorn asked by Derek Bailey. She’s sit­ting on a wooden deck, per­haps a wharf. Bailey asks about a strange piece of writ­ing Dorn did early on, from Rio de Janeiro. She says that it’s unusu­al because he was deeply effected by each new place he lived, & that he would pick up on cul­ture & things that he oth­er­wise had no interest in, “like rhumba”. She points out that the voice of the piece is “not him”, but it non­ethe­less is col­lec­ted along­side his oth­er early works.

Vivid empty places, derel­ict vil­lages, old long dirt roads.

May 6th

Stand­ing on the top of a large met­al cross, with my arms looped around two of the bars, as a giant protest is going on. Ken Loach has just sung a ‘revolu­tion­ary song’ & climbed by rope up a pas­sage­way to stand on top of anoth­er cross that’s up atop a huge church. There’s massive protests inside & out­side the church we’re occupy­ing. I’m ter­ri­fied I’m going to fall or be pulled off the cross I’m on, which is about fif­teen or twenty feet above the floor in this church, but I can only ima­gine how dan­ger­ous Loach’s situ­ation is out there. The author­it­ies are mostly allow­ing this protest to pro­ceed unmo­les­ted, but that can change at any moment. There’s an enorm­ous group of people gathered in this church, every pew is filled like a movie theatre, & there’s clearly many oth­ers out­side. Later I see a news­pa­per clip­ping stat­ing that the gov­ern­ment has spent $10 mil­lion of tax­pay­er money poli­cing this one day of protest alone. Ben has sent me this clip­ping with a note say­ing “Good job on a healthy protest,” & say­ing that he & Esth­er are doing an inter­view for a Chinese news­pa­per, & he col­lect­ively refers to the media as ‘the enemy’. I don’t know how this’ll end up — do I trust these people? The state will attack, it’s only a mat­ter of time.

April 30th [frag­ment]

Dream exper­i­ments with a doc­tor & André Bre­ton. Bre­ton dreams of a polar bear & two nearby people hav­ing sex in a sparsely fur­nished room, per­haps a hotel room. Else­where, Amy De’Ath & Fred Wah doing a talk some­where. I have to intro­duce them at one point, & my Brook­lynese pro­nun­ci­ation of ‘Wah’ gets a chuckle from the stage. Did that just offend them? Shit I hope not.

c. March 23rd [frag­ment]

Eugene Chadbourne/Jimmy Carl Black/someone else play ‘Doc­tor Dark’ on a record­ing. There’s a val­ley full of beds with a woman in each, & a few beds with young men in ’em too — Mom assumes this is some kind of fer­til­ity ritu­al, but it’s being done in memory of some loc­al act­ress who’s just died. This is men­tioned in a Mark Twain book, & else­where in the same book — prob­ably Huckle­berry Finn — he men­tions an early Amer­ic­an wrest­ler grabbing an Arab sheik wrest­ler by the gen­it­als as some­thing that’s become legendary among these same loc­als. I drive Mom & Joe from the back seat of Mom’s car, then pull over to change to sit in the front when I almost hit a dog crossing.

I’m try­ing to write down my dreams for the nite but Mom keeps try­ing to talk to me. Ask­ing ques­tions like “Do you tell people about how weird we are? Do you feel like you had a bad upbring­ing? What do you think about when you’re on the bus leav­ing here to go back to the city?” etc. I’m try­ing to type without a key­board — I have to estim­ate where the keys are in a plate of gravy & food­stuffs. I’m almost done when this pre­view comes on. The movie is sup­posed to be some kind of com­edy? The main char­ac­ter is horse­shoe bald, older.

I’m tak­ing a bath. I’ve writ­ten some clev­er Face­book status that some­body clicked like on, then I messed with it, & now I don’t know how to get it back. Down the street I hear ‘Girls Just Wanna Have Fun’. I can see that I’ve gone pretty well bald. No one’ll want me now!

March 22nd

I get to Eng­land at last but I have no place to stay or to work. Gamma is alive but he can­’t really help me (the bed at the Mar­tian Embassy is still broken). Ben can­’t help either. I vis­it Kar­en Brook­man but she’s ren­ted out her ‘sev­en-storey’ place to some fam­ily. Every­one’s full of stor­ies, as tho there will be help at the end, but the stor­ies are just excuses for the fact that there’ll be no help at all. Kar­en, after I fol­low her along for sev­en storeys, shows me Derek Bailey’s remain­ing doc­u­ments & things. There’s a strange hard­cov­er book of Simon H Fell’s sexu­al dreams, which he ‘acci­dent­ally’ left behind, & some Derek Bailey dream journ­als. She says she’s only allowed two or three dreams from his twen­ties to be pub­lished so far — all the rest are from much later in his life. I men­tion my own plans to pub­lish my dreams, that it’s twenty years of dreams, early ones, but that they’d be pub­lished while I’m still rel­at­ively young. If I was older, I imply, per­haps I would­n’t be so will­ing to have these early ones out there either. It’s cold out­side & gray — where am I going to go now?

March 17th

If a viol­in­ist or any­body else ever says ‘Heil Hitler’ or any­thing like that, I will tell them, ‘Earth. Earth, the record­ing of sound.’ ” That’s a Sri Chin­moy lookalike guru man in a video of vir­tu­al world, pray­ing beside a guru woman before a digit­al house on a digit­al porch. They are part of a spir­itu­al video, included after or along­side some doc­u­ment­ary about Radi­o­head set­ting up atmo­spher­ic under­wa­ter music. The music is, it seems, impro­vised, but the atmo­spher­ics are all in the mix­ing, which is done with great care. Everything else dis­ap­pears, there is only music. & bubbles.

March 13th [frag­ment]

Some Columbo detect­ive ‘solves’ a crime by accus­ing me of steal­ing a store’s money. He comes up to me & a few oth­er employ­ees, say­ing “When does the bank open in ‘Beck­ett 90’?” I say, “What?” He says, “What’s the mat­ter, you’re scared? Just answer dir­ectly.” I say, “I don’t think I heard you. What is ‘Beck­ett 90’?” He says, “I thought you were the lit­er­ary expert. The bank opens at 10, there & in all of Bri­tain. & when does the bank open here?” I say, “Which bank?” He’s strong-arm­ing & yells out “Nine!” The oth­ers are going along with this because they think he’s found the solu­tion to everything. I say, “I’m going to get a law­yer, & then sue your ass & the store’s if you think you can put any of this on me.” He says “Oh, we can put it on you alrite — if you just take out a woman’s fin­ger­nails from your purse… Because you dressed up as a black woman to rob the store!” I’m look­ing at my cowork­ers, includ­ing Luke McMul­lan, with dis­be­lief that they’re going along with this jack­ass. “Do I look like a black woman to you?” I ask. In fair­ness tho, before this turn of events he had me won­der­ing if I had actu­ally taken the store’s money.

March 12th

I walk into a sci­ence lab with anoth­er guy — the lab con­tains human babies no big­ger than a fist on tables. They are the ‘organ­ic’ exper­i­ments — the babies are giv­en very tiny bugs to eat, along­side tiny grains. I see a size­able black bug in the pro­cess of sting­ing one of the babies. When I point it out to the lead sci­ent­ist, the bearded sci­ent­ist guy from And the Band Played On, he shrugs it off, says it’s no big deal, there are lots of safe­guards in place. I won­der if ‘the safe­guards’ refers to defence against law­suits rather than defence for the babies. There’s equa­tions & notes scribbled all over the tables. The lead sci­ent­ist talks with one of the oth­er work­ers, say­ing they could try “x + y = d, or just about that…” The lead sci­ent­ist’s non­chal­ance is wor­ri­some. My com­pan­ion & I leave the lab cer­tain that this man is respons­ible for at least para­lys­ing, if not actu­ally killing, babies in this experiment.

Else­where, Lenny is an anim­at­or. Some show is fea­tur­ing his anim­a­tion of clocks & home knick­knacks. It’s pretty good.

A com­edy skit in a classroom. When Kev­in McDon­ald from The Kids in the Hall gets up to speak, my com­pan­ions (a group of Span­ish women) get up & all sim­ul­tan­eously begin talk­ing dif­fer­ent weird shit. The women mostly speak Span­ish while mak­ing dif­fer­ent ges­tures, some as tho in a workout video, etc. I get up & pre­tend to be doing a tv weath­er report. Then we all go out of the room as a group, being weird people thru the alley­ways of this school.

Walk­ing thru hall­ways with Yas­mine & Gina from ISO. We’re arms-over-each-oth­ers’ shoulders quite famil­i­ar, in good humour. I for­got that Gina was an identic­al twin, & we joke about it, even tho Yas­mine seems quite ser­i­ous, & was evid­ently in a ser­i­ous & drunk­en state the pre­vi­ous nite (I was­n’t there). We come across a woman with a blue-col­oured face who tells us some use­ful inform­a­tion about where to go next. I’m quite attrac­ted to her. I say, “I’ve always wanted to meet a blue woman.” But we move on.

George still has a place even tho I thought he’d’ve moved out by now. It’s still full of his stuff. I ask him if he’d like me to take any­thing with me when I leave, but he’s in a dif­fi­cult mood, say­ing “Do you want to take things? Is that what you’re ask­ing me?” There’s some good books still here, & I don’t want them to just be left for the next people mov­ing in to pos­sibly throw out. Not sure if I’ll get to save ’em tho.

He shoots the man right in the head, kills him in one shot. He then starts with me.

Feb­ru­ary 27th

I’m with a group of men trav­el­ling along roads & rail­ways, on the run. One of our group is great with explos­ives, & as we’re run­ning up met­al scaf­fold­ing to flee oncom­ing people in pur­suit, our explos­ives man (a grey-haired Howard Moon from The Mighty Boosh) knows he is caught & drops a small card. It’s a bomb that explodes the men in pur­suit as well as him­self. We’d be able to get away, except for the bad magic man fol­low­ing us all. He (the long­faced, longnosed schlub guy from Dazed & Con­fused, etc — tho he reminds me of the main char­ac­ter in Inside Llewyn Dav­is) is very power­ful, floats in a con­vert­ible car in the sky above us. He stares at us with dead, even, open eyes des­pite going under­wa­ter sev­er­al times. He nev­er even flinches. He forced me & my oth­er two com­pan­ions around a table, on low sofas, & takes out a deck of cards. “Let’s play,” he says flatly. He draws three upside down cards then turns them right­side up. There’s a two, a six, a two. “Oh, this is not your game.” He shoots the man right in the head, kills him in one shot. He then starts with me. I tell my oth­er friend, “He’s going to kill us all any­way.” The guy looks at me, says “Smart man.” I tell him to just get it over with & he shoots me dead before I’ve even fin­ished speak­ing. He then says to the main one of us, the one he came for, that he has a ques­tion to ask him. “You wrote in your journ­al a few days ago a poem that men­tioned that I take anti-depress­ants…” I laugh & applaud des­pite being dead. “Yes! Yes you scared little man, yes! As tho you’re the first per­son on a med­ic­a­tion that you don’t have! The dead applaud you!” I real­ise, & help my friend real­ise, that he can­’t kill the last of us if he does­n’t get sat­is­fac­tion. If my friend leads him to believe that men­tal ill­ness is clearly affect­ing his magic­al powers, that it’s obvi­ous to all of us, he can­’t kill my friend, because he needs to learn from him how to hide it, fix it, etc.

Before this, as my com­pan­ions & I flee our pur­suers, a black & white, late 1800s You Can­’t Win-look­ing scene has a brown puddle in the midst of it that gets stepped in & causes the pic­ture to ripple. George watches this & is dis­gus­ted at the gra­tu­it­ous intru­sion of shit into this story.

Feb­ru­ary 6th

A cook­ing show to improve pris­on food. This will have abso­lutely no effect. Dav­id Cross.

Feb­ru­ary 2nd

A large dead woman is stripped naked & made part of a zom­bie ritu­al. Her skin is touched & beaten with feath­ers, spoiled milk pours out of her decay­ing breasts. She begins to move & dance. Her hand fol­lows over anoth­er dan­cer covered in feath­ers. She is telling him where to go.

Janu­ary 25th

I’m mak­ing a bet with Chris­toph­er from The Sop­ranos & I lose. I push to make it double or noth­ing. He’s not sure, but I push for it. I’m dressed like an old woman, Mrs Doubt­fire like. I think we’re bet­ting on cin­na­mon toast.

Janu­ary 24th

Apo­ca­lypse. Anim­al herds migrat­ing thru human areas & hab­it­a­tions. Occupy groups tear up road­ways & des­troy traffic sig­nals & are met with extreme pre­ju­dice, death. Objects fall­ing off the walls of houses. Lit­er­ally everything fall­ing apart. I watched as, behind Mom’s house, ostriches & bears passed by. A bus George was try­ing to catch was stopped by Occu­pi­ers des­troy­ing the roads. The people inside the traffic light box were thrown out onto the pave­ment by police, fire fight­ers. News reports that women Occu­pi­ers brought to jail died after “hav­ing sexu­al rela­tions with the men” — try­ing to blame it on the Occu­pi­ers them­selves, to scare people away from par­ti­cip­at­ing in the actions. Mom tries repla­cing objects on the wall (in the piano room in New Jer­sey), but it’s no use. The world is fall­ing apart.

Janu­ary 18th [day]

Mar­ie-Angelique appar­ently arranged to play with Eugene Chad­bourne on his UK trip — she put up pic­tures on Face­book of them play­ing ‘m for mf’ with oth­er people that she knows, & she calls Chad­bourne her ‘sev­enth teach­er’. Bless her, but I wish oth­ers knew before­hand, & that they made some kinda recordings.

Else­where, a tal­ent con­test in a school aud­it­or­i­um, where a young black man plays gui­tar. He’s amaz­ing, plays Hendrix & Mar­vin Gaye in a Chad­bourne-like way, in addi­tion to play­ing the bass­lines with his thumb along the bot­tom string of the gui­tar. Wildly won­der­ful tim­ing & innov­at­ive playing.

Janu­ary 14th [frag­ment]

Fem­in­ist graf­fiti all over a school, along its lock­ers, etc. A woman who does­n’t want to be hav­ing sex who’s giv­en in, leaves a note that says “80% of women have sex when pres­sured with men they don’t want to be with. The oth­er 20% drink fine wine.”