North of the Jet Stream

North of the Jet Stream
Low pressure is what it's called, but it looks just like winter to me. The Jet Stream is flowing up the Columbia River—like a jet ski. It rains & the drain backs up in front of my door. I'm pulling loose. It makes me happy to write that—I hope it's true.
I start up with (Monty) pythonisms but they die back again—I confounded Library Kate with The Bread Also Rises (where Jake Barnes punches Ruth Reichl in the nose—or says he does—“Hey, do I have hair on my chest, or what?")
I should pull down my sweats. "Hey, do I have fat on my belly or what?"

For some reason the rain makes all the college kids talk on their cell phones, those that aren't busy tapping their laptops. What are they doing here? It's almost the middle of June—why don't they go home?

I had somebody else's terrible dream last night. It was a crime drama about Indians & ended with them catching the guy raping the little girl in the back of the truck (in the trunk?) & so drunk that he kept pumping away as they pulled him off & one of the police (they were there for the [gang-related] stabbings]) shot him. Glad to wake up from that one.
The dream was shot in that edgy digital style too. How do I do that? Channeling? Maybe it is possible to use your brain like a radio/TV receiver.
BM *Bx 6/11/01

Do the Voices
OK, the brothers gonna boycott Starbucks because they don't like Pete's hair cut. Sean comes up confused about bombing abortion clinics. I explain: It's because babies are cute & grown-ups ugly & that makes it okay. (Course, I personally don't think fetuses are very darn cute.) Sean has a retainer.
*
Now, Ray Davies' new book: Ray may only have 4 strings to his guitar, but he plays a pretty clever set of songs on those 4 strings. I'd like to run into him in an elevator, so I could say, "Les Mulligan, innit? Or maybe Les Ismore?" And then, "It could be worse, mate, you could be Bryan Ferry."


It comes on sometimes. Or comes over, like a herd of wiener dogs, galloping along the ground at the ends of their tiny leashes. They've certain gotten popular, wiener dogs, at least in town. Fashions in dog boom & bust.
Yeah, research tools.
What I want to know is always some obscure & soon outdated (& meaningless) fact. The weirder the better. Should be able to make something of that. Nnn?
Guess how many strings I have on my piano. Right. Wrong. On my mop. On my string theory.
BM *bux 6/12/01

Beheaded
Make straight in this desert a freeway. The doings of my life are bumping along a donkey trail in a handcart & now the damn cart won't go. Not to hell nor nowhere. What somebody (Megan or Cosmic Annie) would explain with: Jupiter's in retrograde.

That means for 2 days the computer is down so I can't print. And nobody sends me email except people who want me to send them money (fat chance) (and whence comes that expression?), and no mail except for the invisible Mr. Holloway. I've gotten annoyed enough with this phantom to put his mail back in the box direct. But as far as progress—another day older. I did get a weak smile out of Jessica, QFC's Queen of Customer Disservice. I wrote a page or 2 on Meta's part of Matryoshka, decided to have her go down into the underworld—& then realized I did that in OD&D. Well, darn, or maybe like Inanna, we could have her dried & hung on a peg. Or maybe we'll drop Part IV.
(But what happened to Julia?)
Anyway, some events "happened" after I wrote & so I'll have some finish for the party & then—I don't know.

Writing is the worst life of all. Of the arts lives, I mean. —Or maybe not, maybe I'm just unsuited for it. (But dance, while it had a nicer rhythm & more interesting scenery, was exhausting.)

What to do? What to do.
Something to use me up.

Frank has started singing again. Time to go.
BM *Bux 6/13/01