I awoke wake up with a headache.  Cross out "awoke" and write "wake up" after I take two ibuprofen.  Did I spell that right?  Write.  Do I dare to eat a peach?  Spiel.

Occasionally I wonder how to spell ocassionaly.  Go look in the diction-aerie where eagles dare I command myself second person imperative beside myself outside myself but not in ex-stasis.

Stasis.  The city is not static.  Every morning the three different gas company trucks rumble by beeping their horns.  Then the water trucks come by with their burdens of giant drinking water bottles.  Mexico is a country of street vendors and now they drive trucks.  I carried our garrafon to the water store yes.ter.day.

Tameme macegual cargador burden bearer?  Sí pero nehua pipiltsin yes but I am nobility picaro faker fakir yogi

grunt and bear it still headache yes.

Bubbles of air frozen in Greenland ice reveal the atmosphere back for thousands of years.  Another gas truck drives by.  In ten years the climate changed from Chicago to Atlanta.  When the icecaps melt downtown Tijuana will be buried under the sea and the worshipers of Juan Soldado shall cast little boats upon the waters with flickering candles and say "his tomb is out there..."

When the icecaps melt downtown Tijuana will be buried under the sea and Otay Mesa become the new Tijuana.  That is not why they called it

Nueva Tijuana

but I say it is anyway.  There was still ice anyway in Greenland even after to leave its trace my stepfather growled in his La Jolla house I SAW THE MOUNTAINS THERE DAMNIT NONE OF YOU KNOW WHAT YOU'RE TALKING ABOUT AND GO AHEAD VOTE FOR GORE that bore me I'm for the elephants... okay poppa whatever....

All I want to know is what is online art?

What is art?
What is online?

To evoke in oneself a feeling one has experienced, and having evoked it in oneself, then by means of movement, line, color, sounds or forms expressed in words, so to transmit the same feeling - this is the activity of art.
                             Leo Tolstoy

I am online.  You are online.  We are online.

I begin to forget the names of people I knew thirty years ago, before I moved to the nation's capital.  Dogs are howling in the distance of Nueva Tijuana.  Everyone knows the name Tijuana (welcome to... tequila, sexo y mariguana) but even here people ask me ¿La Nueva? ¿Donde es esa?

I am determined to be more macaronic with or without translation and also with partially incorrect (version).  When I graduated from the sixth grade we walked to Eucalyptus Park and ran three-legged races.  My partner and I won by pacing ourselves middle-side-middle-side-middle-side but no one was pleased and I learned it AIN'T the destination it's HOW you get there WHAT MATTERS because everyone wanted to laugh at all theeee bozos stumbling all over the grass they did NOT want to see some math whizzers zip down the field wham bam thank you ma'am is that all there is we won already.

Violet L. Seeman (spelling?) was our teacher's name.  She wrote on my last report card Be True To Yourself, Danny.  I used to stop by and see her once in a while for the next few years but that was long long ago when we were still crawling under our desks to the sound of air raid sirens... well, they told us then it was for earthquakes still we kissed our asses goodbye at last once a month heh heh heh... who woulda thunk we'd wax nostalgic moon for the cold war eh?

The year before most of us had Mr. Phyfe (spelling?), and the year before Beverly Foster (Glines) who drove a Chevrolet and correctly understood I should NOT skip another grade....

I still wonder what happened to all those men and women who taught me that my parents weren't the only sensitive and intelligent people in this world...

Well, dear reader now I have you, too, eh?  In my dreams....

Where was I?  Oh yes... I was going to say that well I haven't forgotten those names, at least.

Horns are sounding in the distance and the dogs are briefly quiet.  Only briefly, until they will interrupt the melodious birdsong morning sing madrigal's aye.

Under the greenwood tree who longs to lie with me?
And tune his merry note unto the sweet bird's throat?
Come hither, come hither, come hither
here shall he see no enemy
but winter and bad weather.

---

This form of diary.blog I say demands fast daily turnaround even though I skip some days still there is no time for a hundred visions and revisions before the taking of a toast and tea with TS Elliot and Jesus.

         This entry for example I write by hand this morning at my little table - the same table, but now in a our new house - and later I will type it online virtually punchanged into the internet cafe machine.  This numbered piece of scibbled scrabbled text shall suffer very little vision and revision well yes some vision but virtual no revision or rewrite.  Compare that with this poem below I wrote and rewrote and wrote again and put its head in a vise like Casino and cranked it slowly closed shut until finally there remained remains only a question of one word or another plus of course the whole gay thing I could never sell it to the Army Times, for example.  No.

Tijuaniraq

in corners of the bankrupt border mall
plywood sheets and concrete staircases
lift up terrace smells from urine trash

no girls wander hustling customers
past mountains of empty cardboard glass

sprawling stucco abandoned plaster

no ecstasy outside gay nightclub
no laughter no scorn no sailor cash
on forgotten transvestite benches
behind the borderline bus station

streets lead with insidious intent
toward trench wars of stolen poetry
luring clients safely home to drink
in corners of this broken plaza wall
where no girls hustle now few birds sing

I may have mentioned I was upset last Saturday because a book Luisa and I translated was printed without our names as translators.  Upset.  Hell.  Pissed and depressed at once.  To their credit the author and illustrator offered to have an erratum printed but I hate those things even worse than the exclusion OR AT LEAST SO I THOUGHT... shoulda done it when we had the chance.  But then I was walking along from the river zone toward downtown feeling sorry for myself and a friend of my drove by and waved hey, come over here and say hello.  That was when I found out his nephew had been murdered the week before.  That sort of put my lost shoe into context man with no legs yes.  No.  The picture was in the newspaper with blood running down the street well you know Mexican newspapers but this time it was more than upsetting it broke my heart again just like when Noé disappeared last year.... ¿Oh Lord, how long?  My friend's nephew was so young not even thirty yet and to be married next year.  No drugs were found in his blood they say autopsy said but... no.  I won't tell you any more.  That's the way things are around here and anyway you can figure it out for yourself I don't want to be next.  Just read it and weep.