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have made it to paris were the weather is like spring.
its cheaper than london and the women are ... o... je ne sais quoei.
on the road again and ain't it great again.
its warm gray and drizzling here in paris. (as paris should be in
jan.) the writer's brother and him are staying in a hostel in the 11th
arrondisement from which they conduct their daily walks, followed by an
afternoon nap and then some drinking in some hip little bar. jet lag
has yet to be overcome but the last 2 days have found our travelers
under t-shirt spring-like sunny weather.
I stand on a triple edge. here there is no left or right or up or
down. only the triple edge. it is here that i begin to dance. like a
consideration, like a passing thought that reoccurs every morning and
one edge is the void, 0 (zero), another is the sum of everything, all
that is imagined or incarnated, and the third is that which is between
to be continued
where do u go when u cant go home and u cant go on?
a dance of balance on the 3rd edge. the one between nothing and all
else. i've look to the void and felt the desire to reenter its
embrace, to leave the triple edge and become, once again, one with
nothing. it was a desire so strong it made rain fall from my eyes.
rarely has a desire been so strong in me. it filled me like air in a
balloon, making me light, and the approaching decision so easy to make.
but there was hope yet in me. i've tried to kill all the hope that i
have. for hope is a virus of the soul, a fungus of the spirit, the
emotion that will keep one looking and reaching for the stars and one's
dreams. and dreams are not meant to be reached in the light of the
equally unreachable sun but only glimpsed through the shadows of the
night. hoping leads to disalusionment. the edge of all. it was hope
that kept me from walking off into the mountains of the void, that
brought me back to the edge of illusion, of all. it was on this edge
that i danced and played, prodded and disturbed for the last several
years. my desires were manifest and i had no hope. i thought i had
conquered that monster, though i knew it would return. and it did. and
it took with it my manifest desires and left daily living pain. from
that i fled. and though, for the moment i have not succumbed to the
desire of the edge of the void, the pain is no longer living, it is a
i dance on the edge between nothing and all. it is an edge on fire
that burns the razor wounds of my considerations.
last nite the writer's brother went out to check up on the swing
dancing scene here in paris but the style was so different that he
didn't even get out on the floor.
no matter the brothers go out to try a different swing club and the
writer will witness his brother cutting it up.
ce matin the brothers P. walked under a cool gray paris sky in the
cemetery montparse where they saw the grave of sartre and simon de
buvoir and also serge gainsbourg.
they then descended into the catacombs where they faced 5-6 million
person's bones and skulls. the writer was able to translate some of the
morbid things written in stone on the walls.
the brothers bought a flash light from an old man who told them tales
of chasing nazis through the tunnels during the war.
"why is this part told in the 3d person?"
"he's trying to disassociate himself."
"a word that's most likely spelled wrong."
having been in a certain sense excommunicated from the edge of
everything i looked back and wished i could return immediately. wishful
thinking; it's like hope.
i was adrift. no sense of direction. where my sense of purpose had
been there was now the edge of the void.
i was forced, partly by my hand, to the edge between. here where there
is no forward or backward, no desire, no hope, no good or bad. it is
without inspiration or motivation.
"is he being redundant?"
"he must tell the story in his own way."
"this is a story?"
"listen, read, sense."
(editors note the writer does not give me the needed time to correct
spelling and i also can take no credit for his new style of grammar or
the edge of all at times seems like an illusion. it is a bit like
window shopping, things are presented in the best possible fashion but
they're expensive. and dont really bring the image to life.
or its like swimming in a storm tossed sea, full of sharks and jelly
though i miss it my emotional core is not ready to leave the edge in
between. here i must dance the balance on the flaming razor before i
fall to one of the other edges.
again i repeat:
i have played with fire, been burned, and will play again.
if you meet yourself on the road; burn yourself down
it will come to you
but you will not know it
saturday morning, the writer and his brother were once again forced
out on to the streets of paris so the auberge could clean up after
the messy travelers. this puts the writer in dazed state (editors
note: the writer puts himself in a dazed state on a regular basis. it
is somewhat unfair to blame the hostel for the fact that he was out
drinking late the nite before.) as he needs more sleep. (eds. note: no
the swing club of last nite turned out to be a bad lead. the writer's
brother could not dance to bad disco. oh well. they'll try again
tonite. tomorrow the brothers P. head south.
the edge in between; a liminal nonplace (utopia)
"what's a liminal nonplace?"
"a state of mind."
on this edge much if not all is possible. one is not constrained by
the raging currents of the edge of reality that tend to suck one under
and drown one with illusions that are too real. one is not soothed by
the shadowy embrace of the edge of nothing.
but balance is needed on this edge between, for it is so easy to fall
into all or not. it is the sharpest of edges, finer than a razor (eds.
note: and certainly sharper than the knife the writer used on himself
at a pagan ritual last year) (writers note: the editor thinks he is
funny, but it was done with only good intentions). but not nearly as
straight, for it winds it's way between all and nothing.
"is it like the tao?"
"the tao which can be spoken is not the tao."
here i dance, a dance of my own making for i know not of dance that is
appropriate for a nonplace. here i dance until i fall.
the writer and his brother left paris sunday morning taking the tgv
south through a rain storm, then a snow storm, and then again into
rain that covered the cote d'azur. by this morning it had cleared.
last nite the writer read 2 books that left him sleepless, questions
following smoke up to the ceiling.
i tire of this dance. in the evening shadows i grow tired but with the
onset of nite i awake to the same set of all too recent
memories. (eds. note: these are the ones that some have encouraged the
writer to forget or get over and this editor agrees.) (writers note:
denial is not a good trait in a writer and is not possible on the 3d
edge, sweet forgetfulness is found in the storm tossed seas of the
edge of all or the infinite void of the edge of nothing.) (eds. note
that was a long response.) (writers note: then edit it.) (eds. note:
you don't give me any time.)
"who are these guys?"
"they are other aspects."
"what are aspects?"
"they are us and we them"
the morning sun finds me dazed and in need of yet some more french
crack (eds. note: expresso). on this 3d edge it seems i have only the
soft glow of pain from the edge of all on the one side and the
temptation of the sweet embrace of the edge of nothing on the other.
how much longer can i continue this dance on the edge in-between? it
seems that i need inspiration. ideas are many but a spark is most
i can not go home and i can not go back but i see no road ahead only a
burnt field of possibilities none of which interest me very much. (eds.
note: the writer needs to go dancing or make some music or get drunk)
(writers note: the editor needs to get a life.)
the writer's brother is asleep at the hotel and soon must be awakened
for the evening meal. inspiration should be sent to this address if
you the reader find any extra.
the winter's sun glares down on the streets of Nice making it hard for
the writer to find a 1st expresso of the day. the brothers P. are off
to Monaco for an afternoon of gambling(?) and chi-chiness.
to all that is said or even not said there is a subtext and often more
than one. and here one can find more of a truth than one wants to
know. for there is truth in everything, even in outright lies. beneath
a lie lies the subtext and there one can find a truth.
"what's a subtext?
"it's what's not said."
"why isn't it said"
"sometimes those that are talking don't know what it is."
everything that we do also has a subtext and though we might not
realize it this is often more true than the action itself. (eds. note:
the writer must admit that it is often misreading of words and actions
that one mistakes for truth) (writers note: give me a second i'm
getting to that). i once argued with a friend about a priori truths.
he claimed that there were such things while i said that there couldn't
be anything so definite. (eds. note: that is a poor representation of
the discussion.) (writers note: shut up and let me finish). but i've
changed my mind. emotions are real, they are truths which can not be
denied. even if they are not definitive. almost by definition they are
confusing. but at the same time they are the one of the best ways to
read subtext. feel your emotional reaction to what someone says or
does and this can tell you alot about what their subtext is. this is
hardly an exact science but is better than taking things at face
value, which is naive in the extreme. for there are few who can tell
or even know what is true for them or others.
--------------------------the writer and his brother decided against monaca. it was a sunny and
warm day so they climbed a hill overlooking Nice and enjoyed the sun.
besides, Nice is plenty chi chi. the writer also met a congo player
who told them of a gig that nite that they went and enjoyed. the next
day was even warmer and so the brothers P. walked along the beach and
thanked the weather that they were not in the north where it is
winterlike. that evening the writer translated several tv shows for
his brother. of course for every line that is translated the following
one is lost. the writer cannot talk and listen at the same time.
yesterday was laundry and another walk up the hill to watch the sunset
and the lights of nice. that nite was for drinking. the best part,
besides the writers brother getting the eye from some french girl, was
having a drink in a british pub, in the south of france, with italian
bartenders and waiters.
tonite we take a train to paris were my brother leaves for london and
i go to brittany to see a friend. there i will speak only french and
i'm not sure i'll have access to the net so this might be the last
posting for awhile. (eds. note get to the interesting stuff.)
my identifying with the trickster myths has taught me much.
"what's a trickster myth?"
"something that never was but is always true."
i've played my hand and paid the price. now i try to distance myself
to see better what it all was. this could very well be a trick that i
play on myself, and at what price?
one cannot outrun the past and i feel as though i'm losing time. i
want to crash in to the future but am stuck in the present. can i
trick myself or is that a right reserved only for others? if so then
trick me , i beg u.
--------------------------------------the writer and his brother have parted ways. it was a long overnite
train to paris where the writer took a series of trains to brittany
where he got off at the wrong stop and almost got stranded in a small
the writer has dazed feeling from being up all nite with some friends
here in brest.
i've arrived at a place where there is almost nothing to do. after
seeing the very pretty town of morliax i'm left to contemplate.
"it's what we are doing here."
"what are we doing here?"
"ask the editor"
(editors note: we are mostly trying to deal with french computers,
keyboards, and connections.)
thanks to all who have replied to these postings. right now though
there are 7 kids playing computer games that are very loud and i cant
till next time,mateo
paris...the final french frontier... these are the voyages of mateo...
his 4 week mission to discover new french words, different
subcultures... to go where he has not gone before. (editors note: the
narrator thinks he is being cute. he'll now return to his usual style.)
the writer finds himself in paris once again. he parted ways with his
brother here a week ago when he took a train to brittany to see a
friend. in the space of that week there were alot of parties and 2
nuits blance. for the whole week the writer heard almost no english
and spent several suny windswept days walking small cobble stone
streets in picturesque towns. the all-niters were much needed as the
writer felt that he was losing his edge. (eds. note: not the triple
edge but the more pedestrian partying edge that keeps him in such fine
form.) the mornings after would find him in fine form with narry a
headache. and are the readers (eds. note: that would be you.) shocked
to hear that the writer has not had a drop of vodka since nyc but
instead has consumed copious quantities of beer! ( writers note: which
i find very hard to get even a buzz from.) ( eds. note: but he does
manage in the end.) the week also included several 3-4 long meals that
were truly french. lots of little dishes and wine both red and white
and a whiskey or ricard to start.
"A map of the world that does not include Utopia is not even worth
glancing at, for it leaves out the one country at which humanity is
a strange place utopia. noplaceia as translated literaly. it is in a
sense where i have landed. now, after a week of reimersion in french
culture, i feel myself bluring. it is no longer on the triple edge
that i dance. whole days went by and i didn't even think of the past.
what a relief forgetfulness is. if even only for a day or 2.
"what is bluring?"
"a mixture of past present and future."
last nite as i lay with a snoring frenchman in the bunk over me my
mind returned to the recent past and little pieces of things that
people said or did clairified and confirmed what i had been afraid to
believe before. it is not only the ones u love that can hurt u but
they certianly seem to do the best job of it.
"what is clarified?"mateo
"the last piece of a puzzle."
-------------------------------the writer left the cybercafe yesterday after the last posting to be
greeted once again by a sunny windswept day. he turned a corner,
pondering how to pass the rest of the day, and ran into a mob several
thousand strong at the place de la republic. he wandered on in and
made his way to the sound of the drums of which he soon aquired the
bass. the jamming began. a bagpipe player joined in, then a brass
section struck up some french faves which got the crowd pogoing. then
the mass of protesting architecture students began to march. they had
no idea the writer was a sal gringo american (translaters note: an
unclean w.a.s.p. citezen of the u.s.a.) (eds. note: but "sal gringo"
is not even french) (writers note: the point is i blended right in).
across half of paris they marched, to the palais royal, where after
trying to sit in a major street and being blocked by riot police from
doing so they stormed the inner courtyard of the palais. here student
leaders addressed the crowd (writers note: without a bullhorn) and
said if they were not given an interview with somebody in 10 mins.
they would storm the place. during the next 10 minutes different colleges
would hold meetings that were someone standing up and shouting out an
opinion followed by a question that was then voted on. (writers note:
needless to say the votes were all unanamous). the beurocrats had not
sent out anyone to talk to the students so they tried to bum rush the
door at which piont the riot cops, which the writer was keeping a
careful eye on (eds.note: he figured that he blended in so well he'd
be the first to get nabbed if the merde got stepped on with the right
foot.) (translaters note: if the shit hit the fan), put on their
helmets and picked up thier shields. nobody seemed realy tense, it was
as if it was a according to the script. (eds. note: the narrater is
someone finaly came down to talk to the students who were face to face
mask with the riot cops at this piont. then it became just another
french 8 way debate.
it was dark and cold and the writer was out of cigarettes and in needmateo
of some french crack (trans. note: expresso) and the the whole thing
was winding down so he left.
this morning the writer has decided that the narrator had enoegh of a
work out yesterday.
walking and expresso. france has had a calming effect on me. (eds.
note: the student demonstration aside) and these postings a purgeing
it has been suggested (eds. note: more like, the writer has been
accused of...) that i feel sorry for myself, that i'm indulgeing in
"what's self pity?"
"when you wont even give yourself the time of day."
realy now. here i am in france about to leave for london on the first
leg of the second part of my journy. this time to central america. oh,
doesn't my life just suck so badly, i think i'll commit suicide. (eds.
note: at least wait until your in a warm climate) (writers note: hey!
the editor just spoke directly to me. he must realy love me! someone
loves me!) (eds. note: dont get carried away now).
ok maybe there were times i felt sorry for myself. i know i made some
mistakes. (eds. note: understatement of the month) but my situation
at the time realy did suck and that was what brought me down. i do not
now nor have i felt for a long time that i'm a loser. i love my life
and i plan to continue this way. (eds. note: so watch out!)
"what is he talking about?"
"if you have to ask you'll never know."
(eds. note: actualy the writer will recount the whole sordid tale to
i would like to thank several people who helped me more than they can
and Senor Raspa (writers note: without whom i might not
have returned from my nite on the bay bridge.)
and to others who gave me encourgement sans motivation ultierrer.
i hope you have all enjoyed these postings as much as i have.
i´m in guatemala on a lake at 5500 feet elavation but it is warm and
sunny. posting to follow.
the writer spent a short spell in nyc then hopped a couple of planes
to guatemala where without stopping to catch his breath he stood in an
over crowded bus for 3 hours till he got to a lake where he meet his
the sun has made him lazy and he will post more another time.
(if you're reading this, you should really send the guano a message):
[More to come, I left half them on my other computer]
NICE WRITING, I'M SURPRISED!
YOU'RE ALMOST A DEEP MAN, ALMOST SENSITIVE. KINDA GAY, BUT I KNOW
YOU DO IT CAUSE THE SF CHICKS DIG IT! WELL HERE IN KFGLAND THAT KINDA
BULLSHIT DOESN'T WASH!
RONY WAN KENOBY, THE ORIGINAL TRICKSTER, WILL ENJOY THIS PRINTOUT
VERY MUCH. YOU HAVE TOUCHED THE VERY BASIS OF HIS LIFE FORCE, HIS
PHILOSOPHY, WHICH HE SPREADS GENEROUSLY TO SCHOOL THE CHUMPY ONES (AND
HOPEFULLY AGGRAVATE THEM) WITH EXTREME PREJUDICE. EXTREME SILLINESS AND
DISREGARD FOR ANYTHING DECENT AND MORAL AND SACRED. THAT, AS WELL AS
LOTS OF THIEVERY IS WHAT ALLOWS THE KFG TO TRANSCEND THE PETTY BOREDOM OF DAILY LIFE, THAT LIFE OF QUIET DESPERATION WHICH IS INFINETLY MORE
SIGNIFICANT NOW THAN WHEN THIS PHRASE WAS QUOTED.
EL-DIABLO CARES NOT FOR ANY OF YOUR SADNESS, HE ENJOYS THE BITTER
FRUIT OF DISILLUSION AND DENIAL. HE HAS DEVELOPED THE TASTE FOR FEAR AND
IT MAKES HIM STRONGER. THE ONLY WAY TO TRANSCEND, THROUGH PAIN AND
DISCOMFORT, BREAKING THE THRESHHOLD OF WHAT ONE CONSIDERS TO BE ONE'S
"LIMITS". PAST THAT ILLUSIONARY LIMIT IS ALWAYS THE "NEW", THAT FEELING
THAT WE CRAVE BECAUSE IT REIGNITES THE BODY AND IMAGINATION. THE DESIRE
TO MOVE TO THE NEXT AND FIND OUT MORE. THE MENTAL EXERCISE OF GUESSING
INTO THE FUTURE TO TRY TO MANIPULATE IT IN OUR DIRECTION! EVERYTHING ELSE
IS A SCRIPT, WRITTEN LONG AGO, AND THAT SOME STILL FOLLOW BECAUSE THEY
LOST THE ONE THEY HAD STARTED WRITING IN THEIR CHILDHOOD, WHEN THEY
ABANDONED IT FOR THE STANDARD.
IN THE WORDS OF G-LAYER
I CAN'T BE NORMAL
I'M NOT THE NORM.
I CAN'T BE FORMAL
MY BEHAVIOR HAS NO FORM.
I'M A DISASTER LIKE A MASSACRE
I FELL OUT OF THE WOMB ON THE FLOOR.
MOM SAYS I'M ALL DISEASED LIKE FECES,
AND THERE'S NO CURE...
IT'S ALL ABOUT NORMS AND MERDE! THE KFG BRINGS FIRE, MAGIC AND
MEDICINE THAT'S HARD TO SWALLOW.
KFG KFGTHE kfgTHEBUTCHER thEKFGKfg
KFG KFG kfgKFGKFGKF KFG KFG
KFG KFG kfg KFG KFG
G-LAYERG kfg KFG
KFGKFG T kfg H KFG E
KFG KFG kfgROBY-1 KFg
KFG KFG kfg THE EL-DIABLo
KFG KFG kfg KFG KFG
KFG kKFG kfg KFG KFG
KFG fKF kf KF KFG
KFG k F GKFGKFGKF
Lego Kevin here, I'm moving out of SPLUNG Feb 1. Unsure what is next, where I'm headed, or if I'll stay in SF. I know exactly what you mean about the 3rd edge, I've been riding it barely balancing for far too long.
I woke this morning from a dream about Fiji, living another life as a happy but unsettled oceanographer, the day before I dreamt of getting stuck and staying overnight ina sierra mining town full of skinheads. And I was the only longhair, though there were a team of Danish playmates there to chat with.
I really don't know what this means, but Jan 24 is my 3 decade mark, I'm likely to throw some sort of party on the 22nd, then Feb 1 if no new place is in sight I may hit the road for someplace south, and tropical. Maybe Australia, or maybe it is time to see the island nations before they disappear in to the sea. Maybe Cuba.
Happy trails, I'll keep an eye on your online journal
Guano go for it!!
what do u mean whith triple edge?
Guano you left your ear in my studio please don't you
smell that smell !!
hope still alive , cure the virus of your soul
and never forget rock and roll is a gift from god.
Vive Quimper beautiful town !!
salut et fraternite camarade
Inspiration is a burning field where my solitude is still standing
The sea in britanny could cover the desesperate minds.
see u soon
jl et steph
I was thinking about people who were living
on "dirty boulevard".
I was thinking about lou reed in fact and his way to communicate.
Music is finally the best way to give emotion in a passive feeling.
Writting songs is "indissociable" from its own future accompagned music, i
You know , i don't know which are the real difference between different
you have an american culture,,, what is it an american culture nowadays?
We took good and bad things, Mixing the colors and the tastes!!! Maybe it is
We don't come from a country we come from a town.
my youngers days are always present, i am what i was.
When u are in travel u are proud of your identity and i agree.
When u receive its different.(i know i've some grammatical mistakes) fuck!!
In France actual political is on my way.
On the left as we say. But my deepers convictions are on "power and life
isn't goog for people. I'm realistic, i'm desapointed.
Nuclear ic asking a problem for me.
Should we stop the program, ?Should we keep employments??
Fucky question It is not this bottle of french wine (bordeaux 88)which
give us answer.
Thank u mother for giving me life, thank you !!
Aucun tacot n'y va.
Delaissant les grands axes j'ai pris la contre allees
A quoi c'est du
A decouvert le ventre a l'air
Lancer de frisbies
Avec Monica je divorce
je fais la noce
Avec Yasmina je concoxe
Faudra se serrer comme une foret vierge
faudra se meler de lianes infinies
effet de serre
La vie sous verre s'averre ebrechee
j'suis parti, j'avais mal
"tu es parti c'est tout"
Avale Avale Avale.....
Strange streets in paris ;i remember a state whith a band
i wasvery young (15). i was dealing some shit whih Rabah
a friend of a friend. Happy hours lot of money bad times.
In France there re 10 years now we were rebel.
Soldat sans joie va deguerpir
l'amour t'as fausse compagnie
Mes prisons sont des modèles
mes prisons sont des femelles
Sometimes it's calm
Mes prisons s'evanouissent des que ta peau m'appelle.
Non lieu as we said;;; clear whith police
[More to come as soon as I get the other responses off my other computer - Hugh Mann, mann of many computers]
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