Albania Rising. Sunday afternoon, 17 February 2008. A street-scene photographed by my friend Artan at the northwest corner of the triangle formed by the intersections of 7th ave., Broadway, and 43rd st., Manhattan EEUU.

«Let Greeks be Greeks, and Women what they are.» Anne Bradstreet, first anglophone poet of the americas, better-published than Shakspear in her day; which was his, too, roughly speaking. Her husband Simon, whose name she bore in specific weight of the patriarchal logic of zevgari, was the last director of the Massatwoshits Bay Colony before it submitted to a long string of crown-imposed governors in 1684. He worked clerically at Anne Hutchinson's 1637 banishment trial, hollowing himself into appropriate absence as amanuensis to take dictation from one of the best minds of seventeenth-century New Angelund; a mind which, with its body, subsequently went south to unanxiously annihilate itself in the anger of the ill-dealt Mahicans of Pelham Bay, Dutch Bronx.

Open letter. [from LG and JG]:
If pubic hair is always within ideology, what happens when I play with pubic hair patterns? I stay mostly within the bounds of the "New-Age hippie profuse growth" ideology, notable for its inactivity, which nonetheless manifests as activity (comfort-seeking, laziness, resistance to buying anything, including razors, or resistance to heteronormative gender-patterns) which trips me back behind the veil of ideology. Occasionally, for fun, braving discomfort, I will try the "yuppie strip," which in my mind is the same as the "stripper skunk," realizing that this moment of agency is a collective dynamic, reflecting the recomposition (confusion) of class, and that as such my self-interested shaving action coincides with the general need of humanity, or at least of my class, to resist the branding of our genitals. In what ideology do I reside if I play within/among ideologies? How self-aware can we be? Are you reading this blog, Slavoj, or do I have to drop by your house? Jajaja.
File under: more thoughts on play.
On another note, I was unexpectedly gifted eight tiny succulent offspring, treasures, including bomboană, panda (kalanchoe tomentosa), porumb vie (euphorbia mammillaris variegata), jellybean (sedum pachyphyllum), and airplane (haworthia mirabilis) varieties; and while potting them in front of the window watched a gecko squiggle across the window-screen, skin wrinkling. It paused and changed color from light green to grey. In my head I have to resist the overuse of the cartooned gecko in branding (insurance companies, caribbean vacation brochures, etc.) to fully appreciate the beauty of this creature.

Rhythms of me run easy between the library and home. Bodily energy low, attributable to disordered sleep and too much wheat/sweets while in Vienna; otherwise I'm present, comfortable, distracted only in minor keys by digestion of the tight grain of my time with cousin X. Having been away, things here seem uglier, lovelier, easier – lovelier in the sense of being well-inhabited by love, easier in the sense of how a used car can be advertised as having an "easy nose". My affection for this pleasantly ugly cityscape, the loveliness of Rina, Belmondo's nose.
Cousin X set me onto my flight home with a volume of stories published this year in Vostoni Massahousseti, EEUU. They're written by one Heman Chase, some greek, an acquaintance of hers, which is usually code for lover. Excellent stories, drawing things down through me like how breath-yoga does; a great flake to have taken home with me of the brilliance of X's milieu. The title story, "Ils Faisaient du Foin Grec," opens like this: "There, in the dim light, the addicts of chainii grib's productions; eschewing food, stomachs afizz with the acids and answers that are the gentle harvest of their beloved bacteria-yeast complex, these long-thighed gentlemen saunter happily through the mornings of the world..."