I wrote to Christopher:

I always hear talk and read words about accepting others for who they are, and I’m all for it, but how about also accepting yourself for who you are?

I was raised in an environment where I was guilty until proven innocent. Not just my parents treated me this way, but every authority figure in the whole decrepit town. If any one of them spoke out against me, even in my minute youth, my parents took their word over mine. I learned to expect it to be this way and, instead, learned to be a very good liar. I could not help being who I was and I really did not want to change, so I could not afford to tell the truth about the way I went about life. I’m not saying that I trolled around robbing shops and setting things on fire, but that I was, for lack of a better word, out.

My mother uttered words yesterday which offended me deeply. I thought I had moved beyond such adolescent stabs of pain, but seemingly, I have not. She exemplified the first sentence in the previous paragraph. My throat tightened as I heard her speak of my lethargy and uselessness behind my back. The door to my bedroom was open. She did not know I heard at the time. Perhaps I would have taken it in stride and actually gone into a bit of self analysis had her words struck some vein of truth. However, her accusations were quite off the mark. I was busy with my little intellectual projects (possibly of no import to her idea of work, but that is beside the point), thoroughly enjoying myself with the initial pursuit of Scala and deciding whether to advance my knowledge of it (and probably reconnect with my Java past in the process), when she barked her scurrilous words. My throat tightened. I colud no longer concentrate. I barked back at her, much like an angered puppy. I was hot around the collar. She was pulling on my leash. Truthfully, it was an awful feeling which brought me back to my childhood and adolescence and my fear of being myself.

Now, shouldn’t we be able to accept ourselves for who we are? Who are others to tell us what we should or should not be? Really?

But isn’t that what fundamentalism is all about?

Yes, that is certainly true, BUT, it need not be the norm. I flee from it. No - not in fear, but because it is not a productive force in my life. I want nothing to do with it. Perhaps flee is the wrong word. Yah. I expunge it.

I refused to speak to her for the remains of the day. It was adolescent and immature a solution to an extreme, but I stuck with it. Today I act normally towards her. Whether it taught her a lesson or not remains to be seen. I would guess no, and it does not matter. It made me think of many things.

First: I had to exercise a great amount of control to not go through the motions. What I mean is this: My habitual comments and reactions threatened to burst forth during many moments. I had to hold them. I had to control myself. I believe I put myself in a situation, however negative in one respect, which taught me a bit of self control. And, more importantly, it taught me that I need to watch my daily routines and habits. I need to reign them in. I need to be in control. Not them.

Second: The whole scene reminded me of Sylvia and Gustav in the book The Unconsoled by Kazuo Ishiguro. Decades before the story takes place, they had made a decision to never speak to each other. Instead of even simple discourse when they were proximous, they’d converse through whomevever else was with them. Usually this meant Sylvia’s child, Boris. Even after half a day of retaining silence with my mother yesterday, I understood how difficult it might be to break it again as time sheds weighty dust onto it. After weeks, months, years, it would not be the silence which was uncomfortable, but the thought of speaking to her again. It would become the routine, the habit which is simply too hard to break. Inertia would impel it.

I write to Christopher:

What was the impetus for wanting to return to Antarctica? Was it only the loss of the new job opportunity or something deeper? I know that both of us have and always have had inside a turbulence which ia never exactly quiet, but always fidgets at different intensities. I know that in my case it never allows me to be COMPLETELY happy when in a “stable” situation, though a high percentage of satisfaction or contentment in daily life quashes it to an extent. How is it for you? Of course, you have responsibilities now which were absent in our wilder years, but I’m sure the uneasiness still lives somewhere inside you. Such fundamental aspects of personality never completely cease to be.

It appears that Christopher will no longer go to Antarctica. It was up in the air in the first place, for sure, but it is now certain. I asked him a few days ago during a chat whether Anne’s reason for wanting him to stay was selfish or practical. He answered that it was both, but much more of the latter. I can see that. The strain on Anne and Sylvia would be great without Christopher there. Of course, Sylvia would not understand it rationally, but would feel the temporary loss of parentage most likely deeply. Perhaps even an unconscious resentment would spring from Christopher’s absence. I’ve heard of such things happening, though perhaps only in fiction and I am extrapolating.

I do know that Christopher and I are similar enough that we are both dissatisfied to an extent when we are in stable situations for an extended time. Our minds feed on change. They feed on stimuli. There is a sidebar in one of my favourite books about how cubicles kill brain cells. If you are stuck in a drab cubicle, no matter your profession, you will grow fewer new neurons. The brain needs a rich environment full of myriad stimuli for it to flourish. Now, Christopher is stuck in a job which he claims he despises. He despises not the work, however, but the environment. But it is the environment which prevents the brain from flourishing. Listening to challenging music at work is one thing he does to compensate.

I am in Seminole visiting my parents. The contrast from Nova Scotia is great. The stimuli has decreased a hundredfold. Whereas, there I could just walk outside to multitudinous perceptions all attacking me, here I must search desperately every moment for new ones. I had to filter out so many things in Seaforth that I received only a fraction of available input. I wish it to be so wherever I am. My parents love Seminole (and West Texas, in general) because it is quiet. That quiescence is more damaging than tranquil, in my opinion. It incites restlessness.

The paragraph I wrote to Christopher reminds bluntly of our rootlessness. It is a feature (bane?) we share. It contrasts sharply with Tony’s rooted existence in Austin. Whether Tony is happy or not there (perhaps content is a better adjective) doesn’t change the state of his inner stability. Of course, I cannot see exactly what is in Tony’s feelings at all moments, but this is my guess. Inwards, I am always in flux. I must change my inner and outer environment often to achieve this contentment. Or, if you will, happiness.

I’m sitting on a couch in Seaforth, Nova Scotia. The back porch is divided from the house by sliding door and sliding screen. The mosquitos and wasps would otherwise invade and bite. Well, they would not bite me, but the smaller one.

It is the third full day of the vacation. All is calm. All is tranquil. Yet, there seems little time to do the things I want to do, such as write. I feel hurried when I shouldn’t at all.

The jet lag, a factor I never consider, has drug me down for days now. I suspect its bane shall be lifted soon - hopefully today.

Praha is as far away as the horizon, and even further. The horizon is perpendicular to my glance which drifts the length of the siding door, from the wooden floor of the porch to the semi-distant house which sits along the winding, dirt road leading from this house to the main road. Above the house is the stretch of the bay and endless flat of ocean beyond. The horizon is its end. Somewhere beyond it is Praha.

Seaforth contrasts Praha. Here there is silence and the perpetual, if faint, smell of salt. There is the bustle and must of the city.

Just around the corner is Hope for Wildlife. Gretel, cantankerous, awaits. I have already sustained an injury from her. I gaze at it momentarily. Two small gashes sit on the crest of the knuckle of my right thumb. Her teeth made them.

Henderson also awaits. He lopes not unlike a bear and seems to contemplate everything around him bemused. Hope may not be able to free him. His year stay in captivity has somewhat tamed and surely blunted his wild instincts, though he is most likely still a slight danger to humans. He bit me lightly on the first full day. He wanted my backpack yesterday - badly.

We are herded like cattle within a small space. The space leaves us nothing but the feeling of being caged. There is no place to plug the laptop nor the phone in. Nothing. It has been planned this way. The herd is what is expected once you enter America. The difference is extreme.

Why is this?

Why is this?

My parents, the ever worms, are fed this day to day, though they secrete a bit of rebellion in their farm. And the oil. Where is the oil, actually?

We shall see.

I am a claustrophobic person. Enclosure is desolation to me. I feel it now. And the herd. The mentality. I cannot live this way.

He might burn out the divinity generator, and then, where would they be? I have not really got the brilliance of this album until just now. Yeah, I know that Blegvad is a wordsmith and Partridge a (as well as a wordsmith) soundscapesmith.

The foothills of Hell.

I recall when I was listening to this in Zabehlice when Justin was around, visiting, or whatever he called it (yes, I am bitter). He listened for a moment (or perhaps I only regarded it as a moment - I don’t know), and declared - “Some guy reciting poetry. Why do you like this? And bad poetry, at that.”

How wrong he is. But, I mean, of course, in my opinion.

I find it disturbing and a bit sad that in every relationship I have, I feel like I must take only what is of utmost importance. This is a historical artifact, for sure. When Marcie first destroyed all of my possessions still in her presence, something broke inside of me. Of course, she may have had just cause for this, but, again, this is something in my mind, a paranoia which springs from deep within the fertile peat of childhood when I was taught that I was to blame for everything.

• Simply
• Everything

So, when I leave Praha, I look at my possessions and the first thing that crosses my mind is whether I’ll ever see them again. It is a disease vomited up from my past.

And I am, too, at fault. I have always been a nomad. Christian would laugh if he read these words: It is in my blood. What an awful cliche. Whatever I leave behind is gone. I believe that is the point.

Whatever I leave behind is gone.

And if some of it turns up later, it is a happy surprise. To view life in this fashion, I have already carved out a hollow in an asteroid floating randomly through uncharted space.

I do not think I have ever listened to this album before, though it has come up often in forums I have read, and even perhaps in one or two conversations. The title is to the point: I Advance Masked. It is, as some may know, by Robert Fripp and Andy Summers, and I am not sure why it is on the hard drive at the moment. It was staring at me from the top part of the Amarok artist listing, sandwiched between Alvin Curran and Bearded Seals. I stared back, so it is now the soundtrack of these words.

I am in the BRIDGE Bar - Eating House in Terminal Three of London Heathrow Aeroport after discovering that they take Euros (17 of which occupied my walled). It is a pleasant enough place and the intertwining guitars block out the dull roar of its ambient noise. I am en-route from Praha to Boston. The final destination is Seaforth. The contrast in level of tranquility will most likely be astonishing.

My original intention was to work on music. Specifically Cycle Parts VI and VII. That will not happen, however, because I do not have Lilypond installed on Mustela-Ermina. Why I neglected this when installing Ardour and the like to pursue my first musicking outings after the reinstallation of the operating system (with Arch Linux) is beyond the feeble computing power of my mind at the moment. (It must be either the lack of sleep or dearth of neural activity in general which has plagued me over the past weeks to blame.)

I suppose I could sketch the idea which is in my mind and in doing so perhaps fill it out a bit more.

Cycle left us at the end of a meandering path which could seemingly wane and wane into a pasture, growing fainter and fainter as it wound further. Part V ends ambiguously, stumbling in 3/4 time, punctured with syncopated bassoon. (It’s not really a bassoon, you know.) Originally, I intended to bring Part II crashing back in with a sort of dissonant majesty. I no longer feel this way. I like the meandering path analogy. It fades.

Part VI shares structure with Part II. It is based on a foundation of three notes: F E Ees. In Part II, the progression added the E again at the end, creating an edginess underpinning a majestic melody. I want the melody to be more subdued this time.

In the spirit of things, I’ll reverse that progression this time, beginning with E. I’ll just check if that’ll work with the end of Part V. One moment, please, whilst I check the sheet music.

Part V ends on an E, with a d e hanging above and gis a beginning the final measure. Then Part VI begins by resting on E, though switching back to our familiar F major. I play with my favourite modal scale here, the A phrygian. First, after this pedal point is established (which will not change as often as in Part II), an ostinato begins. It toys especially with the bes, which is the second of the phrygian scale. Another important point is the ambiguity between F major and Bes major (again). The ostinato, especially when the pedal point shifts to Ees, feels like A locrean. This ostinato repeats for the whole of Part VI. No. Parts of it drop out (the higher registers) to make way for the melody (the same which is in Part II), which subtly blends with it. An intesnifying factor will be the mellotron which builds dissonantly as the E Ees E F foundation begins shifting more rapidly.

Then there is Part VII, a reprise of Part I.

I am happy with what is currently in my mind. I must install Lilypond whilst at John’s this evening, however! (Or in the morning…. oh, meandering mind).

I don’t know what I felt. I wanted to destroy everything around me. I remembered when Zuzana and I were sitting at the park near the Divadlo and she said to me ‘what if someone rapes me?’ i could not answer that question because I really did not care.

Does Prague consume me or berate me?

Christopher: There are lots of intangible benefits to being in one place over others.

Christopher is perhaps stating the obvious, but his statement is nevertheless very poignant to me. The peace I feel in Prague as opposed to anywhere in Texas is tangible. I felt the weight lift when I entered the country (and completely, of course, when I was let through passport control heh). The bulky black shawl which covered me and collected soot over two years and a month has been tossed aside and the crusty soot was, indeed, weighty. It is gone.

Christopher: There are definite benefits to places, though.

Again, he stated the obvious, but aside from employment advantages, how many people do I know who live in a place which has all the benefits which bring about a peaceable and fecund lifestyle?

Not many.

My parents are always a good example of people who do not understand the concept that Christopher is jutting from his forehead. In their opinion, one must live wherever one can get employment, no matter any ills which emenate from the place. They do not consider the depression I lived through whilst growing up in West Texas as anything striking or relevant. They went to Fort Stockton because they found work there (or, more specifically, my father found work there). They stayed eventually so long because of inertia. The ill of a place can poison you into believing its reek is a pleasant fragrance. Their youthful ideals were blanched by the desert.

I dare not think what would happen to me (or to Christopher, for that matter) were I to remain in such an atmosphere for an extended time.

Christopher: You probably know this feeling - of being an alien in a world where what other people take very seriously seems absurd to you.

This is the story of most jobs I have had in my lifetime. When I worked for/with Andrew and Rob at E-Dult, I believe it reached a pinnacle of dichotomy. Half of me loved it. Half of me loathed it. I believe Jenicek felt the same as I did. The environment was fantastic. I was free to create in my own way the development cycle and to smoke as much hash as I wanted whilst in the office. Rob provided us occasionally with wine. They sent me to Amsterdam twice with a pocket full of money and a free hotel room.

But looking back, Andrew, surely, found our product absurd. His credo was In 5 years, I want to be sitting on a beach on some island all day doing nothing at all. So it was a means to an end. For Rob, it was another way to do business. It was a money-making prospect and I believe to him the manner did not matter, only the result. The journey to that result interested him to an extent, but was not his main concern, if I recall correctly.

The girls working there, however, took it supremely seriously. It was their livelihood. What’s more, it was a better prospect for them than dancing in a club or prostituting themselves. The dichotomy! They had nothing else. We laughed at our development process. They struggled to make a living from our architected absurdity. For us it was merely an experiment.

Most other working environments (such as 12snap) were different. Oh, my point of view was the same - it was an experiment - but the owners and managers and especially the marketing goats took every step cautiously, carefully and seriously. Jenicek, Viking and I snickered at their earnestness. The fakery of creating a useless product for the bored masses to help line your billfold with cash still appalls me.

I suppose that when I discern that any one or group is taking something too seriously, I do yearn to make fun of it and to point out their useless earnestness. I, at times, use mockery. Probably this is not the best method.

For a week now, Praha has been a welcoming force. I sit in the office which was once mine and is mine once again. There is an air of greetings in everything I encounter. Yes, a portion of this is nostalgia, but my uplifted spirits (perpetually) have not fluttered yet even close to the dusty floor. I trust they will at some point, but again waft upwards, for there is always that which brings simpers to my lips in the city I call home.

And now for some stochastic composition.

w a v e c a s o m o r p h i n s o r b o d y t h e
t a n s s i m p l i c i u s u n c h a i n e d u p
t h e c i t y y o u r t i m e s t a r t s n o w c
o l l i d e r h e a v e n h e a t h c r o w h m z
e l e c t r i c c o u n t e r p o i n t t w o s l
o w o n t h e r o a d t o j o l i e t f a l l i n
g s n o w s h e s g o t a b o y f r i e n d c o r
p o r a l c l e g g p a t c h e n p o l y k a c k
a n o z u h i g h l y s t r u n g r u i d o s o k
a z u i f i t s i n y o u c s i d e l i t t l e r
e d b o x d a n t h e w i n g g i v e u p t h e g
h o s t s h e a i n t m y g i r l l e s u p e r v
i l a i n u p t h e c i t y a s a u c e r f u l o
f s e c r e t s o u r f o r t r e s s i s b u r n
i n g t h r e e t h e g r a i n h u n g a r i a n
h o l i d a y e x u d u s t e a w i t h t h e s u
n h a b i t o f t h e b r o k e n h e a r t l e c
r i l o t u s f l o w e r m e c h a n i c a l b i
r d s m a r i a n a s a v e y o u r m o n e y s p
e c t r a l m o r n i n g s m a t h e m a t i c s
d r e a m s w i d e a w a k e l e m u s i c i e n
m e d u s a s l e h a c k a f i r e a b o v e i c
e b e l o w t h e w a l t z o f t h e s k y s c r
a p e r g o n e m u s i c f o r m a l l e t i n s
t r u m e n t s v o i c e a n d o r g a n i n a d
e s e r t s e v e n d r a p e r i e s p a r t t h
r e e o n w a x i n g l a m o r t d e t r i s t a
n m e s s a n g e r b i r d s m i s t e r s a n d
s t h e s i l k r o a d n i c k e l m o u n t a i
n a s t e r i s k s u n d a y a f t e r n o o n i
n t h e p a r k j u l i a d r e a m g h o s t o f
a c h a n c e f a r a n d w e e c e l l o c o u n
t e r p o i n t r e v e r e n d s i s t e r s w o
r l d o f m a d e s e p a r a t o r a p e r f e c
t b o t t l e c o n s c i e n c e t h e c o m p a
n i o n s t e r r a p i n t h e c r e a t u r e l
o n g g o n e e a s t w i n d o w 0 3 1 e c l y p

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