the birth of language
november 18th, 2000

Ahoy, and I can breathe again, god bless it.

It doesn't matter how much I have to do, how much I need to simply lock 
myself in a room with Laurie Anderson and Albrecht Durer and punch out 
some assemblance of a report, or how many slides and artists and pieces of 
work I need to commit to memory by Monday morning - there is nothing in 
the world like having your house full of laughter on a late Friday night, 
nothing like hot green-ginseng-sleepyime tea and vegetarian pizza and 
explorations in charcoal. There's nothing like falling asleep watching the 
Monkees movie Head, there's nothing like sharing notebook doodles and tiny 
spidery words. There's nothing like taking to the road in an icy afternoon 
singing Bob Dylan at the top of your lungs; there's nothing like 
pretending to speak a different language as you shop for groceries. But 
most of all, there's nothing like a visit from Alestar. There's nothing 
that will flip your mood from bad to good faster than that.

A piece of advice - never go anywhere without your pen. Keep writing 
utensils on you at all times. You never know when you might have to make 
an emergency detour to the side of the road to scribble a few wayward 
lines before they escape you forever.

The Queen of Kentucky
has 500 faces -
impossible to tell where she keeps them all.
Two sets of tracks on a snowy night
divided by yellow margins -
impossible to retrace.
When they cancel eachother out, I make a note -
I speak in tongues, for what it's worth.
It's the birth of language.