🚀 go-pugleaf

"Some Kind of Record" (continued)        GR4302

Nov 7  Boy am I lost.  Wandering around this city.  What am I doing?
How come I can't manage to escape?  Is it becoming obvious?  Guess
I'll come clean.  I was born in the Midwest...well, at least I grew up
there.  I can even say " on account a' " and sound convincing.  For
the last week or so I've been hanging out in coffee houses and diners
again.  That's too bad, because, as you know, I hate coffee and most
of what they serve in city diners isn't fit for pig-slop.  I know how
to grow pigs on black locust and tomatoes on pee.  I'd make one hell
of an organic farmer, but I can't stand to work for big corporations.
Guess I could "flee to Columbia" as I always thought I would someday.
Can't seem to get away from picking brains and growing revolution on
shit, spit and sloganeering.  Still you'd think I could get back to
Arizona or even Guatemala.  Yeh, Guatemala, that's where I'll go.  I
mean there's gotta be something more than this, you know?  I mean,
these Celtic music dives are giving me the willies.  There's gotta be
something I could reach out and grab, something beyond everything but
as much a part of human life as the automobile must've been in 1863.
Hey!  Something just took over my mind!  Hey, I swear, and I'm
recording it right here.  Something just now grabbed my head and I
felt like I was typing.  I was typing "--arven blue scandle.  Heaven
in a cottlefish...", but when I looked down nothing was there.  Am I
crazy?  Am I going crazy?  No, I don't think so.  I seem to be
functioning normally now.  Hmmmm....gotta get out of this city, I
guess.  But no, this time it is my head.  Somewhere in the back of my
mind I can hear Kierkegaard wagging his rotation tongue at me.
Endless noodling!  That's it!  Joe said the other night he could tell
I'd grown up in the midwest because I like "that endless noodling
music."  It somehow makes sense to me now though I don't know if I can
explain.  That's why I don't want to travel anymore.

Nov 9  Started to write an entry about orange juice today but
scratched it.  Realized I've left Harry in an awful bind.  I should be
kind to him and have the poor sonuvabitch blow himself away, but I
won't.  Not till he does something for me, hah?  What was it that guy
up on Hudson Bay said?  Something about if the winter wouldn't freeze
the lake, summer would not let it come.  He was telling me about the
monster that walks across the frozen waters of Canada in winter.  At
first I thought this was another European (he was French of course)
Nature allegory--you know the crude kind fermented from the authentic
by the Romantics and Gothic Victorians, but now I'm beginning to
believe that he did know a thing or too about the alchemical
psychologies and how they represent the tantalizingly ubiquitous and
illusively fluid hives of meaning that we call consciousness.  Hmmm,
I've just realized that this Harry story IS a dream-vision.  Of
course, my subconscious knew it all along.  Hmmph, but now I've grown
--yawawawn-- tired and I'll write it all tomorrow or the next day.
Harry gets his muffins baked and becomes inventions mother.  It's all
a rather painful and gory birth, like most, and the details are hardly
necessary.  Still, if we don't get carried away into the false
illusion that the details somehow convey the reality, they do make the
ride more interesting, since, of course, these things have all been
said before.  And so, tomorrow, tomorrow I will write it all.

Nov 9  We spend alot of time in our world (not THE world)
systematizing phenomena, demonstrating accuracy of prediction; indeed,
we pride ourselves on inventing predictable circumstances from the raw
components of life, i.e, materials and information.  Ontology
recapitulates morphology.  We evolve from experiential pupae into
systematizing machines, and we systematize and predict and believe
like a butterflies fly and eat shit--it's in our blood.  We can see,
and so usually do see it that way, the child develop into the adult by
a series of revelations about the systematic and predictable nature of
existence that become more and more sophisticated through the years
until one has a PhD in Astrophysics or at least can hold a
conversation on a street corner and not sound entirely provincial.
Yet what, indeed, all of these complexities, that we, in our naively
culturally schizophrenic manner, continue to shout out in more complex
and erudite ways, becoming ever more insistent on their
'reality'--what this self-supporting hodgepodge is indeed saying to
the astute observer is that such emphasis, such intricate
protestation, must hide some obvious and basic contradiction, that, of
course, being, the nevertheless singularity of reality.  All the later
experiments with systematization seem to drive out all the early ones
in which we learn the darnedness of corporeal existence.  Age 3:
You've rolled that ball down the stairs 37 times today and it's
smacked the wall in 37 different places evidenced by 37 slight smudges
which singularly would go unnoticed, or even in twos, but such amount
cannot helped but be noticed and punished.  See!  You naughty girl,
you've gone and revealed the chaos behind our winks and nudges!  Go to
your room while I scrub these 37 marks off with this handy pump spray
and rag.  Thirty-seven?   Wow?  Yes, thirty-seven.  I counted them so
the story would tell well at the koffee-klatsch--has a nice ring to
it.  No cookies for you, substitute a questing mind for a bowl of rice
and a pair of blinders.  C'mon Bess!  We're going to town!  That's why
history's made to seem unfair-- incentive to believe in automatic
adjustment theories, futile protests against one's own face.  Take
Harry, for example.  How singular.  He's possessed by the ghost of his
dear old Dad.  So what's a son to do, huh?  You remember.  Feeds
President Daddy on porno and devises subtle plans.  Harry quickly
realizes that he can outwit old Dad in lots of ways.  First off he
encodes his ideas in subtle protein patterns in his blood.  He can
forget about everything and then review when the times comes again for
plotting.  All he needs to recall is the bootstrap knowledge that he's
hatching a plan to peel the old man out his head, and this he needs
not hide.  Daddy could guess it if he wanted to and does and has and
hasn't been able to find any evidence of the anticipated attack.  At
first Harry's Dad is having too much fun to notice, but soon the lack
of memory trails begin to seem suspicious, and, wretchedly wrenchingly
pulls himself away from the tender sweet thing below his surrogate
body to peek in on his son.  He can see him weaving his web of code
and knows he cannot break it.  He also knows that by tomorrow Harry
will know about this little espionage, and that he cannot stop Harry
from doing whatever he's doing.  He's frightened and in a frenzy pulls
back to the woman at full force, and, having seemed to her to have
dozed for a moment, drives into her with a vigor so intense that all
three persons in this perverse little menage-aux-trois are shocked by
the jolt of it.  Daddy's going out in one last intense and
mind-boggling eruption of semen that is, after all, at least half his.
Harry understands the implications and encodes secret rejoicing on his
protein chains.

Nov 13  The big day has arrived once more.  Harry hasn't slept eaten
drank or moved more than thirty feet in five days.  Ghost of Daddy is
very upset.  He, however, has found, to both their surprise, that his
lusts have enchained him.  Like a convict on the row he awaits the
familiar fatal hour as Harry assembles his machine from old PCs and
three vacuum cleaners.  The plans were altered from a hover-craft 50
cent blue print ad from an old back issue of Boy's Life.  Damn,
thought Daddy, them scouts were no good.  Shocked by his ever
slackening dialect, Daddy can only caterwaul when the juice is thrown
and Harry filters his mind through the contraption; and as well as
straining out his father's ghost, Harry finds himself an insight he
can hardly believe.  A companion.  The future promises him a companion
with red hair and big bosoms.  Next week he's to meet her at an
official party for which the invitation will arrive in moments.  Hands
pressed against his nose, Harry cannot understand the gift, but, now
rid of all cursings, the thought of love begins to massage many sore
spots soon to be made healthy.  And so we leave are misbegotten folk
hero wrapped up in a little fetal ball and waiting on the edge of
someone's soap-bubble possibility, a charity, that though he talked
with the dead and knew great signs and wonders, destined to make his
soon to be passed self seem but a collection of tin trinkets.  Bye
Harry.

Nov 14  Thought what the hell.  I'll climb the Empire State Building.
It's not as high as the others and anyway I suppose they'll knock it
down sometime soon.  Nothing sacred these days, not even nasty lumps
of steel and concrete shit.  Up flight after flight.  Caught the
elevator for seven floors but it was more annoying than the stairs.
Saw a couple having sex somewhere where I'd lost track of the floor
count.  They didn't see me.  Ten flights from the top I decided to
hell with it and took a twenty flight shortcut down.  Ruined a good
pair of shoes.  Serves me right for buying good shoes.

Nov 15  Never go to the Hogalum Coffee House on what's-its-face
street.  Just take my word for it.  I'm beginning to see how intensely
specific geography affects our lives.  Being in the right or wrong
place in amazingly significant.  Should've learned this from the Hopi
out West--maybe I did.  All at once it seems terrible to let other
people and social institutions decide for you where you should be.
All at once our whole damn world seems mean and petty, worthy only of
ignominy.  I should go to Guatemala.  This world is bad, but there're
plenty of others (smaller ones) on this planet, and I for one am about
ready for a nice cave in a mountain somewhere to hide out in and
conceive a new world, or an old one, just a different one.

Nov 19  Blown away.  Couldn't see it coming.  Some crazy sonuvabitch
with a fish head on his t-shirt warned me but I wouldn't listen--
actually couldn't because of a passing train and didn't ask him to
repeat himself.  Columbia, I can't hardly believe this could be
happening and I could be writing about it in a personal journal,
Columbia has decided to move into some neighborhoods and in a
preemptive strike have killed two supposed drug-dealers.  All hell's
breaking loose.  I can't believe it.  Everything's changed but I'll be
damned if this ain't the same hole from back with Jimmy--It's the same
damned block at least!  As you can imagine, it's taken us (SDS-R) by
surprise.  I saw a few eggheads crying.  Oh well, this is what it's
all about anyway.  Little surprises.  Whoops batons and gas comin' our
way.  Over and out.

Nov 20   Help! Help!  Read all about it!  Monkey-man arrested for
molesting his wife without a permit!  Two-timing scumbags take the
money and run after judge rules in favor of the lawyers!  Today,
though, I think I'm gonna get one of them with a big stick!

Nov 21  Holed up in one of the condemned brownhouses.  Can't begin to
tell you all that's been happening.  Crazy business, this.  Glad I
didn't go to Arizona after all.  Wait, oh shit, here they come.  Bye.

Nov 22  A poster's gone up accusing us of all the usuals, basically
the use of undue force to gain political ends.  All the walls and all
the nets, the same, almost a carbon copy of the original--seven months
(not counting years) difference, hmmmmf, maybe we'll be lucky--
basically saying that we shove ourselves down everybody else's throats
with impunity and with big nasty technology so that nobody else can be
heard (ha!).  WE threaten the system, WE break any rule we want to...
Well?  So what?  So what if WE do?  I for one don't give a chicken's
back neck.  Nick, yeah, they ask if Nick will be our next Lieutenant
Blunderbuss, Administrator in Charge of Punishments for
Undergraduates.  And then the requisite call for arms from the morally
deficient plurality (read finance majors) to come bash us.  At first
unsigned, now it's come forth is several editions, paper and
electronic, with everyone and their dog (as we'd say in the midwest!)
taking credit.  Of course, walla (as they say in LA), the threats of
goon counterattacks have swelled our ranks with doogies and liberals,
folks that hate us but hate the right more.  Hhhh!  Remember Jeems??
Remember?  Suddenly I remember they called us all Pukes back then!
That's true!  Still I hate what all this shit might do to my image in
the coffee-house circuit; I've grown such a rapport with these folks,
and I think there might be an out for some of them, though sometimes I
think that it's rilly sex; I mean, I'm too middle-class by nature not
to find those people, well, erotic.  Oh well I'm in this for the
duration no matter what.

November 23   When's Thanksgiving?  Oh well, today I guess, since I'm
fasting.  How many days will it last?  Not a political protest.
Something more important that I need to see and this is the way to do
it.  I feel great.  Wait, no, this is the wrong day and it's giving
back to a whoops three days ago.  Today there were 500 people at the
Info Pagodas listening to Nick Fanderville, who most think is a jerk
because he calls us all shitheads.  He wants everyone to spread out
and "fuck the place up good if they don't give in."  Someone suggests
taking over the library and holding someone male, white and
enfranchised hostage for a while.  Nick is male and white, which makes
him stand out like a bald dry roasted lima bean anyway; he nervously
yells:  "Well go ahead!  That sounds good.  Just makes sure you get
the biggest prick you can find if your gonna play games.  I don't
wanna see no librarian tortured, man.  Grab some real ones.  Go up
town to fucking Wall Street if you think your such a sonuvabitch
buddy, but for today we're trashing this place with impunity.  Are you
with me?"  A roar goes up from the crowd, but I can't tell if it's for
Nick or because the Goons with Dean Whiner in their midst sneak attack
the crowd with mace and billyclubs.  There all wearing T-shirts that
say "Go! Go! Go! Go!"  I don't know what it means.  A "Go!" for each
direction or each point of the cross?  or one for each grunt it takes
to get the job done?  That's it!  That's why we're all going to die
this time!  Because we've been reduced to "getting the job done", the
catch phrase of the current administration, what we used to call the
Ronald McDonald Reagan special--french fries with extra ketchup.  We
need kids for the future, so, let's say, gang raping civilians gets
the job done.  It's a sick metaphor I know, but hey, what year is it
anyway?  All at once our ranks swell from out of nowhere and we swarm
from the pagoda pad into the streets and straight into the
neighborhood where they killed the squatters.  We rush into condemned
houses screaming, "We claim this dwelling for the freedom of all
peoples!"  Why are we saying this?  What does it mean?  Eventually the
bulk of the crowd finds its way to where there's an ugly fence cutting
across the park, behind which is a big gaping hole where they've begun
the excavation for one of their fucking police safeports, a damn Goon
stronghouse.  In a fierce burst of anger we rush the site pushing
aside the few police who're standing ridiculously defiant in front of
us.  Some dude with long hair and a beard yells at me "Hey leave that
cop alone."  A couple of us grab the cop and throw him at the hippie
who yelled; they smack the pavement together in a painful embrace.  We
rip up the fence and push it into the hole.  Then we push a few
roadblocks and cars into the whole.  And then we push everything in.
The community has turned out in force to help.  There's a joyous noise
going up from the participants.  Children run by laughing, throwing
ragdolls at each other.  Folks dump their old sofas and lamps and lots
and lots of TVs into the pit.  Radios, microwave ovens, old analog
recordings, and the garbage from all the dumpsters.  I time the
action.  Seventeen minutes.  The hole is three-quarters full, we hear
the screaming sirens of the big pigs coming at us.  Everyone beats a
hasty retreat into doing their thing.  The students (and I) run back
to campus and instinctively break off into occupying groups for all
the major buildings and begin making strategies for the next round.
So far communications are superb, thanks to my friends.  And all of
this is being recorded back at base, uh, my home, though I'm sure that
you're reading an edited (not too much) version.  Before we go to bed
someone produces magic markers, big thick ones, and we draw murals all
over the walls.  I think we're in the history department.  No, it's
physics or analytic com.

November 24  Some lunatic starts crowing like a rooster at 5:35 AM.
He crows, we all groan and then he screams:  "Now I got yall
attention.  Look, all the white folks and wannabes gots to go."  A
couple of young white girls in a corner next to me start cracking up
with laughter and slobbering.  They can't see any white people
anywhere.  They can't see me or Boots wherever he is.  "What white
people?" one of the girls yells laughing.  Someone has the good graces
to hit Mr. Rooster in the head with a shoe.  He yells and runs off.
Somebody with a heavy Central Asian accent says:  "Don't mind him
folks, he's probably just wet his pants or something, eh?"  We all go
back to sleep, including the look outs.  We get up about nine and
there's a bunch of very young people hanging out by the pagodas with
painted faces and signs designed to present alternative and
provocative view points.  I'm the only one in our building who is even
slightly impressed.  A few people suggest that we should throw things
at them but they are quickly shouted down, as most suggestion are.
Somebody announces that he's finally found the secret room, and though
he seems like a kid from some Disney movie, a good selection of
intelligent looking people jump up immediately and follow him back out
the door.  Thinking quickly I rush out also.  Soon everyone else does
too, which is why I jumped.  I was afraid that would happen.  Sure
enough, though, our rapid pace brings us quickly into this sort of
inner temple hidden room that's filled with all sorts of objects
d'arte and reams of data disks.  But very comfortable.  A big desk,
plush carpeting, beautiful food machines which we turn on full blast.
We feast on fruits and nuts of all kinds, and I saw some even eating
baloney sandwiches and chicken, which I think bold in this crowd.
Satiated we then divide into groups to begin the routine tasks.  Water
and rags for tear gas.  Properly engineered door blocks.  And some
begin reading and filtering the many terabytes of data in the
cabinets, feeding the results into the satellite link and base.  We're
like fucking ants.  I think I understand now what THEY are rilly
afraid of, and it makes me feel very unsure all at once now about the
future.  Smells....musty.

November 25  I'm going to skip the twenty-fifth.  We fix two broken
computers and use them to send press releases over the nets.  We find
much incriminating information in the data stores, which we released
in further press releases.  I get bored and sneak off to a city diner
for a sandwich and some coffee.  Thinking better of it I leave the
coffee untouched and eat the sandwich on a bustop bench.  I get about
half through with the sandwich when some creep shows up and starts
grabbing my legs.  I shove the rest of the sandwich in his face and
kick him in the kneecap, then walk home, dress up like my mother and
fall to sleep on the couch.  Later I wake up and make arrangements to
take a vacation in the Adirondacks for the next couple of days.  On
the radio I hear that Florida Springfield and the Melianite coalition
are on campus.  Good, that means they won't be in the Adirondacks.  I
then run a police line to get back into campus and our
no-longer-a-secret room.  It's relatively easy for me to do this, and
I chalk it up to being a middle-age white woman in a skirt.  When I
get back I change in a restroom and fall asleep in a chair in front of
one of the computers while reading the news.  I guess I didn't skip
the twenty-fifth, just the details, and something I seem to have
forgotten.  Did I write all this for a reason?  Is this how it
happened?  I feel good.

November 26  I get up early and walk right passed the cops and home.
At 9:55 I catch a train north and spend the time chatting with an old
friend on the portaphone.  We talk about the Columbia action.  He
smugly asks me when's the last time I read Ghandi or Alfred North
Whitehead.  I ask him when's the last time he kicked a cop in the
balls.  He says he's never done that.  Well, I said, I think Whitehead
would approve.  Anyway I'm no-one's fool and know my head is not
entirely my own.  We make arrangements to meet soon and I get the
sensation that my work and my paranoias are both rapidly coming to a
head.  Somehow the riot I've left behind seems rather petty and I
don't know if I'll return.  Perhaps it's some kind of smokescreen, a
performance staged by the Circus Central to through us off the scent,
that hidden something, can't quite put my finger on it.  Perhaps I've
freaked out--already off the deep end.  But I don't think so...not
yet.

November 27  Spent the night in a cabin, the day hiking up to the top
of a mountain; it's supposed to be sacred.  It was good for me.  When
I got to the top I climbed the biggest tree.  I'm too old for doing
something like that, I think.  I stayed up there for a long time
(probably only fifteen minutes or so) and then climb down part way and
dropped the rest of the way.  Sitting on a rock examining my scratches
and bruises, I suddenly felt a satori.  I wish I had a better word for
it though, it doesn't fit the feeling, but it's as close as I can get.
I reflected over the last six months of my life and had mental
sensations I can't explain.  Too deep.  Some shade between the cliche
and the esoteric.  Let me try:  I felt new in a mystical and powerful
way.  Something about feeling my lungs work as I breathed in and out.
Feeling the oxygen dissolve into my blood.  Something I learned in a
hole in the ground in Northern Mexico (or was it on a rainy rock in
Nova Scotia?) sank deep within me and I came to know things that I
cannot write, some because they cannot be expressed in words, others
because you wouldn't believe me.  That only leaves the cliche, so
let's just say I found a way to peel myself up out of the holes within
my bundled soul, and to stand and survey the world.  I know somehow
that the only things within myself I cannot control are actual
ignorances that will soon be overcome.  This hike.  Nobody knew about
it until me when I decided on impulse to do it.  Nobody knew about
this trip.  That gives me, somehow, some reassurance.  I feel like
I've come off some kind of addiction.
      After the hike I quickly pack and head back to the city and
Columbia.  When I get back the food runs are on.  People are getting
pretty hungry as the police have been blockading us for three days.
Allies, though, seem to stream in from everywhere and the cops can't
keep track of everyone.  When I get back to command central I find
lots to eat but am not hungry.  I consider calling "my friend" again
but can't find a working phone.  This has me worried.  I'm more bored
than worried, though, and after much searching find a nice empty study
carrel to sleep in.  Goodnight.

November 28  The day just seems to drag on.  I wish the NYPD would get
off their butts and come bust us.  Now I'm sure this is all a
smokescreen.  I have this tremendous craving to find secret tunnels
underneath the buildings and crawl around in some giant vents for a
while before giving up.  We decide late in the afternoon to have a
formal meeting, but it doesn't go over well.  Only about half of the
regulars show.  I realize I haven't seen Stacy in over a week.  Twenty
minutes of whining and I realize we're going to need some massive
reorganization when this is all through.  And I think we are all
through for practical purposes.  The noon news didn't even mention us.
Oh well, I think it's time to put this little game behind us anyway.
There're some more wars stirring in Central Asia and in Africa that
probably would be more worthy targets of our attention.  I feel like
getting drunk or laid or both.  Impossible here, huh?  Instead I spend
the night on the roof with a young student discussing the civil wars
of the last decade.  At about 3 AM he suddenly and bluntly comes on to
me.  I tell him I'm too tired, which is the truth, and curl up in a
ball and fall to sleep right there on the roof.

November 29  I wake up at sunrise all alone.  I stretch, stand and
swear to get the hell out of this business, well at least out of this
operation.  Then in the distance I hear noises that convince me I've
come to the right conclusion too late.  We're being busted in a big
way.  I climb over to the side and look down on the quad.  The
Tactical Force is all over the campus.  I can see them kicking down
barricades and rushing into all the buildings.  There are helicopters
flying over head so I duck into the shadow of the portico.  From the
helicopters they are broadcasting one very loud message to the world:
"Come out with your hands up!  You will not be harmed!"  Yeh, I've
heard that one before.  Below me confusion reigns.  Everywhere I look
I see cops, plainclothes and uniformed, running around gassing and
clubbing students.  There's a distinct smell of shit in the air.  I
pick up a rock and smack a bluecapped head.  Luckily nobody knows
where it came from, still I decide it rilly is time to get the hell
out.  I sneak down the back stairs and head across campus.  Well I
guess Nick got his way--the place looks pretty trashed.  Somehow it
doesn't make me happy.  Trying to look like I know what I'm doing I
get all the way to the other side of campus and start to cross a
barricade when someone shout, "Grab her!  She's one of them!!"  I'm
grabbed by three uniform cops who wrestle me to the ground and
handcuff me.  I feign sexual excitement and one of the cops calls me a
"stupid bitch."  I look at his face, he must be 19, and call him a
"snot nosed punk."  They quickly hustle me off to the paddy wagon,
some Japanese all-terrain vehicle.  When I step up in everyone cheers.
     We are taken to the 204th precinct for booking.  It's pretty
degrading, but I've been through all of this before.  The woman who's
supposed to make me strip and then look up my ass and cunt has mercy
on me for some strange reason and tells me just to shut up and keep
moving.  Fine with me, I've already been violated enough for one day.
Still, my mind is elsewhere.  I hardly even notice where I am.  I keep
thinking about those caves in Nova Scotia that I neglected to find.  I
keep imagining myself escaping into the sewer.  Taking a nap in our
little crowded cell is difficult, but my friends make me comfortable.
I dream about escaping into the sewer.  I wake up in time to be
released on my own reconnaissance, another term I've never fully
understood.  A couple of the guys give me a ride home, and I invite
them up for a while.  They can't believe how incredibly mainstream my
apartment is.  Stacy shows up with a woman named Janice who looks like
she's from my generation but just played a little too hard in her day.
She seems vaguely familiar.  They all decide to go to a club.  I
decline and see them off thinking I'll later go to one of my coffee
houses.  Looking out the window I see a man playing a muted trumpet in
the alley.  He tells a passer by that he's playing blues because he's
saddened by all the violence.  'No shit,' I think, 'we always leave
ruined lives in our wake,' and start to feel guilty.  When is this all
going to end?  Probably in April when they bring Constanzi Boy One to
trial for the murder of his grandfather.  Tomorrow I'm calling my ex
to finalize our plans.  I'm not going to the Pagoda rally tomorrow;
I'm heading off for Arizona instead.  I'm not going to help SDS-R sort
it all out; they're better off without me (I insist).  Some of my
Adirondack revelation starts to make more sense.  I've got to get to
Arizona and ask Armando a few more questions, then it's off to see my
ex.  He'll be glad to hear me say I'll sleep with him again--well, at
least at first, until the big surprise....

March 7   Well I guess I'm giving this up.  Just got back from
Guatemala.  Going to Virginia to finally see my ex again next week.
He's been ecstatic since our little Christmas tryst, just about where
I want him.  My mind's a complicated mess I almost got it worked out.
It is coming soon, I just know it.  After Virginia maybe--the big
showdown with my subconscious.  My head's a wreck, my fingers are
putty.  Just can't write anymore.  Too much to do anyway between now
and July (when the CB-1 trial, perhaps, will start).  I'm probably
going to get busted tonight, but I have a plan to elude that if I can.
It'll need precision timing and the incompetency of the city water and
sewer workers to fall together, but I have high hopes.  Sorry, this
record is finished.
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