Enough for one day

Fortunately, Brian was eager to sort through the 1000 pictures he took Friday (200 an hour for five hours) and send me one that can be posted here. The others are for my private family album. Or I'll print them out and autograph them for any ladies (or men) who can't get enough of my broken back body and skinny chicken legs and shriveled penis...as I lay on the ground reaching toward a dangling violin, my ass sagging like a wet paper towel.

It's a good picture except for the fact the bow is not perfectly perpendicular to the strings. That was something my teacher always told me to watch out for. There are like a dozen things to keep in mind when playing the violin and I remembered two or three. I hope I got it perpendicular a few times for him. Terrible form!

Speaking of remembering...The picture below is a reminder to take the ring off when playing tennis.
Today's contribution to the Santa Cruz saga makes me think the problem with wanting to live in a tree so I can recreate the frame of mind I was in at the time is that as soon as I move into the tree I will start a completely unrelated experience that will then overshadow the original experience. It reminds me of my second trip to Alaska in 1994 where I wanted to "Vanquish the demons from 1990." Yeah, in the process I basically unleashed a goddamn army of totally different demons that joined forces with the ones from 1990 and haven't shut up since. So, although the tie dye demons from 1995 are horrible I have learned to live with them and I just ask them to cooperate with me so I can get it down on paper LIKE WE AGREED.


Diagonally across Oggy’s view an ice cream truck’s Ragtime melody lures children from distant activities. A father of one of the children is in the act of protecting his child from viewing the ragged robbed aluminum scavenger. This sets off a chain reaction of free association within Oggy’s mind, an association of his image of a swear word, “FUCK” written in chalk on a brick wall much like the brick wall on the elementary school in Oggy’s home town of Bone Harbor, New Hampshire. “FUCK”, written there not in reality but only transposed there after a 9th grade reading of Catcher in the Rye. This moment here of a parent protecting his child from the sight of a man in rags digging through trash cans in search of recyclable aluminum has the exact same dramatic implications as the fabricated moment in Oggy’s childhood where he saw the word FUCK written in chalk on his own elementary school and thus the two moments are forever linked and Oggy categorizes them mentally in a file of categorized moments that is forever and always reshuffled and reorganized to make room for more and better defined experiences. To further develop the cross referencing, Oggy then transcends his flesh and sees the moment from a vantage point in a tree or a cloud above. There is Oggy, tangled hair and tattered canvas poncho waving through the split air, his juggling pins dangle precariously next to his bicycle tire, a pleather guitar case strapped to his back, the guitar itself visible through several holes, his legs in the fixed motion of pedaling, eyes scanning a pastoral scene, the Frisbee, the dog, the hippies, the children in the grass, the stoners and tweakers and drunks and junk poppers in the weeds, the aluminum man with his ragged pants and plastic bag of cans, the playground and the children catching the first note of ragtime jingling toward them and the one child who is already scanning the colorful menu for his favorite Neapolitan ice cream sandwich while his father has seen the aluminum can man as an idealistic danger to his perfect outing in the park, not prepared to field questions on poverty and lifestyle choices, preferring to simply buy ice cream and play toss with the boy and teach him to catch with both hands. Isn’t that enough for one day?