When leaving the closer room.

Contrary to ideals of what walking out of a therapy room would look/feel/seem like, the closer room (the room in which i do therapy) looks nothing like the picture to the left. *This, the exit of Bourgeois Pig near Depaul, is instead what I would want myself and those I see to feel as they left the closer room (not sure why its called this so don't ask)* Instead, you walk out to a staircase which is usually dark, almost always empty, and most surely holding in the echoes of the entire building. Today's questions from therapy: How to keep a girl away from prostitution, how to stop a boy from cutting the bottoms of his feet, how to keep a man from losing faith in those around them, how to help a mother of six to ask herself the very questions she's afraid of in regard to her childhood, how to keep oneself from pushing an agenda, and how to help a teen boy realize his mother actually has good intentions...Six fishbowls to attend to, break, and walk away from. Glass, water, debris as the catalyst for coming across...Flying to LA in two days so this will be the last post of the year. Some awkward conversations, some endearments from childhood, some pressing issues better left for musing upon on the sand in Manhattan Beach. Relevant spottings, passings, moments in 07': Charlie and the plastic fruit containers from Stanley's Fruit and Vegetables...Old friends from Syracuse in Coney Island acting 20 again...The birth of "hmm, maybe it does exist," introductions to the world of road bikes, goodbyes to the idea that childhood friends would never confront the hardest things in the the attempts to make some sincerities right...The passing of the color maroon...Hellos to Summer, beginnings of novels best read with a lover, guac, corn chips, veggie tacos...Succumbing to American Apparel gear...The return of Sox and Matt...The birth of fame for Terri...Weddings...Overpriced airplane tickets...Critical mass...Raspberries...Broken shelves, broken frames, art for art's sake...My Nintendo DS lite, the scribblings on the back of an envelope of a phone bill which would be a playground for psychoanalysis: *hyena has a penis and gives birth.garter snake morphs into a woman to stay warm. woman as fire. seahorse switches sex...solga...blue line. the lyric is missing but man him something to do with insight when the words are muted... a window washer competition*...reintroductions on ways to spend time properly...the amazing friends in Chicago who have helped make a temporary home more believable...words passed in bakeries and cafes and patisseries...introductions to the family system...humility...hoodies...grace in the form of vulnerability. Eugenides quote about something to do with not believing in one word emotions like "sadness," "joy," or "regret"...To multi-layered "hybrids" interspersed with idiomatic and idiosyncratic abstractions to give the softest and sweetest of emotions their just due. When leaving the closer room, faith in the idea that the most tender of emotions folded up in the most complicated of origami shapes could be at least labeled "something bigger and more important than I had ever imagined."

The Chinese, virgin suicides, and looseleaf notebooks.

I was walking downtown near my old apartment in the E.V. when I took this picture. He was fast asleep snoring in the same manner that I do. I got to thinking that someone like this must hold a lot of secrets. Or so I'd hope. I would see him on 6th then 3rd then in Chinatown then in the Bowery. Always in that same crab position with one hand on his suitcase, always with his eyes closed, always snoring. He's like that old man in "Even Cowgirls Get the Blues." Perhaps he went to college and studied differential cryptanalysis and in 79' read Adi Shamir's "how to keep a secret" and shat his pants because he knew how huge that paper was. This then would surely have made him invest all his time learning everything about algorithms and public key cryptography. Perhaps he got disenchanted by the fact that such epiphanies to security issues lead to more security issues. Perhaps he has been fucked with for years as an immigrant while assholes like me take pictures of him and stare at him wanting answers and making up hypotheticals more in reference to my own hopes than his. Perhaps he's just a man who wants some space and peace of mind...Need to finish reading Charlie's book. Need to find those piles of looseleaf notebooks wrapped in rubberbands that I always meant to give out for Christmas. Need to make a guac mix for a day or two of solace before flights to Los Angeles. This afternoon I was cleaning up some old files from ethics, family and seminar and came across a quote: "The best measure of change in self is the long term effect it has on others that are important to you. If you 'change' and your family does not, then either you have not changed as much as you think you have or you are using a lot of distance to deal with others." (Kerr)...I need to disrupt the system.

The day I rode the elevator with Mr. Baldwin.

When the door of the elevator opened, he was standing next to his son. They both looked exhausted (neither held any reverence for the winters). I was holding a copy of blue note jazz LP's *before the fated world of umbrella labels* (Grant Green, Hank Mobley, Donald Byrd, Lou Donaldson...) and two grocery bags of fruit. Without stopping to attend to his son, he glanced past my hand and the LP's and nodded to himself *not intended for me in any way* His son had his lips, pursed and rosy, and he was slightly awkward with eyes that were constantly looking through (not at) everything in their path. I had known how highly endeared Mr. Baldwin was to watching this little boy count floors. I had heard that he was heading home soon *speculation* His little boy, raised with all the unconventional means for the most healthy of childhoods, looked at hope like a prism. Being that it was the first time I had actually seen this boy, he looked much older than I had supposed. Mr. Baldwin had his right hand pressed against the middle of the young boy's back while he stared up at the top of the elevator. He was listening to the sounds of cables covered in plastic rubbing and slapping against metal. There are those indelibly delicious moments when your very aspirations lay in the middle of a young boy's eyes staring through an elevator wall while his father watches on. I would have said something but neither was aware I was in the elevator. I shook my grocery bags a bit as to warn them of an upcoming floor stop but they paid no mind. There are those important days where you're unheard, ignored and unseen. This sets off a chain reaction in all the right directions, for fathers and sons to take note of the importance of such silence. I stepped off, turned back, and saw Mr. Balwin staring intently on a young boy looking up and wondering why the elevator stopped in the first place.

Constructions - - Reclaiming three panel strips.

Four robots: Kiyomura Samurai. Chroino FT, Reem-A, and Salamandra Robotica. Go green: Pull cord generators, sphelar sun absorbers, hybrid batteries, and energy curtains(embedded with solar cells and light emitting materials). A handful of sitcoms: Silver spoons, the facts of life, the great space coaster, good times. The aforementioned were all taken and thrown into three panel comic strips by penny arcaders, mass media mavens with sketch and ink skills, wired magazine mac boys with pro tools and adobe love, and the most reclusive of artists with ideas much too fragile to be discussed in any other way. You're in a room filled with these comic strips, thousands of them really. The construction is as followed: take a few weeks to read through the sketches, the balloons filled with words, the intentions of the writers and illustrators. Be meticulous and go over everything. Keep what's relevant, including feelings, bits, fragments, and themes. Burn the rest. Find a box to store what's to be saved and give the box to the person you're endeared to the most...I had an ethics test today. In an extended three panel format, you would see caricatures of myself, the professor, the handful of others in the room. You'd see a lot of squiggles above my head, furrowed brows, breaks staring over to Brooke and Ash and Alyssa and Elsa. The end of the strip ends with me alone a room looking up at a clock and shrugging my shoulders. That strip will hopefully be in the box alongside an old heathcliff rant that you're especially fond of for some reason...Vacation starts today. Or something resembling such. Comps Jan.2. *strip in search of an optimistic illustrator with a good eye for making shadows alongside lamplight*

See line woman.

"On May 13, 1939, Herbert Halpert made a series of field recordings in Byhalia, MS, including several with the family of Walter and Mary Shipp." There were 14 children, all of whom wanted to help Mr. Halpert record. The eldest daughters, Katherine and Christine, were the anomalies of the family however because they had exceptional voices and were able to carry certain eerie tones that would turns simple lyrics into haunting landscapes. Mr. Halpert was blown away and recorded the two of them alone without other family members by having them sing a few feet from his mic with various rhythms and lyrical sets. One fragment of his project, "sea lion woman," was taken by Nina Simone who looped the hook, remastered and re-named it. Field recordings were the first inkling of sampling. Root. The fragment took various shapes over the years becoming a template for folk singers, blues guitarists, London DJ's and jazz hipsters wanting something of substance: Sea Lion Woman, See Lyin' Woman, C-Line Woman, See-Lye Woman, See Line Woman, She lyin' Woman. This is how street narratives come about. Family history, day one, hour one. "Trust the narratives."...Application: Boy and girl sit in garages and attics and write lyrics. They play some shows. They seduce one another with a mic a few feet away from one another. He writes a song. Girl claims it hers. Boy leaves and feels nothing but spite. That song, in turn, is stolen from her. He writes three more, she writes fifteen. Each song takes from one another. There's one song on a few crumpled up papers: "wiggle wiggle, turn like a cat, wink at a man and he winks back, now child see-line woman."...that song goes unseen though you'll hear it in verse. It vanished the minute the two girls, Katherine and Christine, let a stranger hear them and bottle up their voices.

Reasons to own a BMX bike shop.

It's always closed. Downstairs in the basement is a makeshift skatepark where the owner decided would be a good outlet for himself as well as the kids (the ones in the know at least) to stay in from the winter cold while still having ramps and metal piping to play on. "Shit, I'd rather have them in my basement than being outside getting into trouble. At least here I know where they are." *this is what community care looks like* Inside, the store is nondescript, skateboard boys as interior designers. Some shoes, some shirts, some bike parts, some bikes. Walk toward the back, two couches covered in doritos and bike bits, gamer mags, Hannah Montana toys (BMX bikers eventually grow up and have daughters who hang around the store bored out of their mind wishing they were elsewhere). A flatscreen TV with a huge iguana to the right of it sitting under a heat lamp, also surely bored out of her mind). Alongside this makeshift living room/lobby/waiting room are bike repair stands where two owners (Alex and Jeff) spend most of their time putting bikes together, swapping parts, selling road bike conversions, and serving as therapists/social workers to the boys. At any given late afternoon you could hear the following from a 13 year old's mouth. "That Tat I paid for was 350 not 175 because the fucker charged me under the table cause I couldn't sign consent," "I touched her titties but she got scared and walked back to Chem," "I love this show *pointing at The Brady Bunch*." I spent many afternoons on the couches waiting for my bike and just taking in the community. It reminds me somewhat of being 15 in Los Angeles in a friend's home covered in dirty clothes, games, pornography, cds, records, and feeling right at home (Mr. Dobalina, Mr. Bob Hata Dobalina). The owner likes to weave his stories into his time in the shop. "...when I was their age..." He tells the story to Ang and I. Youth. Violence. Carelessness. Ego. Desert Storm. And then the condom breaks. And the back gives out. And the leg gets fractured in 7 spots. A handful of moves, a handful of bad decisions. Then humility. Then grace. Then a botched health care plan turned right and some money out of "thin air." "Call my mobile phone in another few hours and i'll have disassembled your Raleigh. Your rims will be here on Tuesday but it'll take me a day to get the closed hubs you want...Ooh, and i'll call my friend about the bike stand. There's paint and shit on it but its solid." He told us when the summer comes around, we have to come join him and ride BMX bikes into Lake Michigan off street ramps. "Right around 5am. We'll drink and skate and just hang till then. It hurts if you land wrong but you gotta come." Ang shook her neck, that move that suggests a finger snap, and grinned at him "we're all over that ish. Just tell us when and we're there."

*In a Harvard symposium going on at that very moment*:
Myth #1 It's too late to start something that ambitious.
Myth #2 You're better off without it.
Myth #3 Watching it is just as good as living through it.
*Charlie peeks her head into the window of the lecture and screams "What is IT!!!?", smiles, and runs off karate kicking into the air.*

Movement and iconography

He told me he sings when most afraid. "Every fuckin day, yo!" I saw him walk in today and felt relieved he was ok. He had a red hoodie covering his red afro, talked for an hour on how everyone called him “ro fro” showed off his thumb size brush handed out by the state, and walked all of us through paying for a mistake. A handful of us ate lunch and he talked to some of the younger boys about corndogs and trading "shit food for good food" because you get to eat more and stay out of harm's way." He talked to the adults about how to sleep in blankets half your size and how to hold onto your pride when all that comes out of your mouth are apologies. He left a paper bookmark on my desk that has nutrition listings of major foods. I placed it in a first edition hardcover of Skinner's "beyond freedom and dignity." As he walked out, he said "you pay a price when you take for granted space to move. It's really that simple." On the back of his jacket, an intricate circle with arrows facing up and dashes, a symbol with earth/fire/water written alongside the edges.

The Chevy Chase Country Club.

Also known as The Cornelius Crane Chase Country Club. "Before becoming famous as a writer, actor and comedian, Chase worked in many jobs including as a cab driver, truck driver, motorcycle construction worker, waiter, busboy, fruit picker, produce manager of a supermarket, audio engineer, salesman in a wine store, and a theater usher."...He was also expelled from four private schools (or five depending on who you ask) in his youth. He has made a career since doing what no one else was willing to or knew how...*paths to success* But I'm wondering what in the world he has to do with a country club with his namesake 30 miles northwest from Chicago in Wheeling and why the committee from that particular town would name their snazzy joint after him. "Built in 1927, the classic, Tudor-style clubhouse harkens back to a genteel and elegant era when making guests feel welcome was an art form." 125 acres of "welcoming."...So we have this boy who was unconventional and spent most of his life trying to go against the grain, pushing the envelope on practicality. And we have this conventional clubhouse holding onto old ideals for dear life. Its fitting. More country clubs and aristocratic societies should be named after comedians and misfits. The Steve Martin Coutre Fashion Boutique, The Sam Kinison Haut Monde Golf Club, The Gilda Radner Taste and Tea Cafe Society. Perhaps I underestimate the trickle down effect trickling up. Something refreshing about the idea of someone proving me wrong in a board room of that ilk...Onto the more relevant. The ice was bad last night and I, as always, served as quite the shitty navigator. Charlie took hold of the instructions after awhile as to not lose the piles of dried up snowballs that will surely melt away eventually. There was an experience shared followed by disconnect followed by silence followed by the softest of words that are always needed when walking alongside salt dolls in the most fragile of places. Additionally, there's a theatre usher biting her nails right now hoping there's a therapist out there who understands why she's so bent on running the other way.

A typebar, inked fabric, and a carriage return.

Barbara Blackburn is the fastest English language typist in the world, according to The Guiness Book. Using the Dvorak Keyboard, she has maintained 150 words per minute (wpm) for 50 minutes, and 170 wpm for shorter periods. She has been clocked at a peak speed of 212 wpm." That's just ridiculous. I sweat her...I mention Miss Blackburn because of a few things. One, The Dvorak keyboard has a layout that really makes sense and, unbeknownst to most, its in your OS (mac/xp/vista/linux included). Programmers are starting to use that ish, high-end ergonomic typewriters are starting to pop up, and unlike QUERTY type it wasn't modeled after the primary reason to simply avoid jamming on typewriters. It was created by studying letter frequencies in words and physiology. Also, more importantly than all this random shit you could surely find on wikipedia, the Dvorak Typewriter is playing a major role in the story itself. There's a rare 1961 Selectric 72 made by IBM sitting on the table alongside a book of encyclopedias of the older couple who broke out of the fish bowl long ago. in their 70's and 60's respectively, they fell in love long ago and the idea of their former selves still burgeoning into relevant pieces of their current framework left them giddy in the mornings, old handmade pieces of art from the 50's and 60's strewn about. The typewriter is relevant because at the time, the man didn't buy into the Smith-Corona salesman's pitch. He wanted something different. the keys didn't make sense to him so he told the dude, who became increasingly pushy, to fuck himself with that baby blue typewriter before he went stomping out. He eventually came across a neighbor who had a "slightly offbeat suggestion." The typewriter, eventually became hers as she cultivated random ideas on it while he baked and learned the crafts that she grew up endeared to. As per many others of their generation, they got extreme pleasure from adages of their past and present as a means for inspiration. "Function when open" and "anywhere except for the mind" would make the two of them chuckle as "It is an ironic habit of human beings to run faster when we have lost our way" would make them lighter when questioning one another. The most important day was the one where he accidentally came across a page that wasn't intended for his eyes. She had been sitting at the typewriter for hours. He asked her what it was that she needed and she shrugged. Out of frustration, she left the room. He had reached over for the "YZ" of the encyclopedia and couldn't help but to see the one line on the typewriter. He first looked around at some of his paintings and random clocks in the home. He then let his eyes roll past the otherwise blank page and read it out loud to himself which startled him and made his heart start beating: "Save a wall for me." ...*Did you see that shit? He just got it*