Content from Jack Dorsey's archived blog/diary that was preserved at https://web.archive.org/web/20030417013332/gu.st/writ/ but consolidated here into 1 document for quick reference ------- the great art exists out of canvas off the page in your head out of tune, past the screen you can leave your brilliance simply by leaving a fingerprint wise silence has never been written the best word is not spoken things always move faster when there is something to relate to the moon is a reflection of the sun and here i am a reflection of you mine is the mind of a mnemonist i am rotten and ragged leaving marks to show that we were there: everywhere claiming first so that i can charge you for seconds i live my life as a series of moments expanded into an infinite my hands are sails cutting into your breath pushed and full by your words flickering by your entropy/turbulence and you know, i ride your bumps well, shock this i am a series of words traded over baited breath a lack of completeness a walking impossibility i am not the crowd from which i draw i am not i those that don’t lose their color in the dark not looking back and knowing i stay until closing and linger in the shadows i am the winding road, the corner less taken i am the bites and scars pushed deep i am 14 million stories, histories and nyms into one i am not i i am not individual i am orange dimensional the crisscross the jungle the jazz ataxia the waning light, offshore, off distance i am breaking rules and reeds this is my time i am chaos i am fractal i --------- brilliance is not simply the ability to hook together so many disparate pieces of pop culture; it will not impress me. there are so many of you pulling this act. brilliance is seeing past this culture, seeing the base of it, and uniting it. genius is union. and it has been shown again and again. it's high time that more people are recognized, praised, and thanked for the unions they create. for the understanding of what brings us together. for the compassion to see the seemingly infinite grey walls we put around us. this is what i respect above all. and this, this is what i strive for. ------ i don't know why this has occupied my mind lately, but i must let it go here. this won't be a strong entry, or even one well composed. i am still learning how to write and i make no apologies for my stream-of-consciousness style. i wish not to improve my writing style...only my consciousness. when you asked me if i knew what a good photographer was -- someone to tell the subject what to do -- and indeed if i was that sort of photographer, i felt at a loss and went along (my usual failure). thinking on it the day after, then the week after, followed until now, i've realized how much this is against my view of what a "good" photographer (or any artist for that matter) is and is not. you know, i've said this before, but i really hate to pose. given the choice of on-the-fly or posed pictures, i choose the fly. self portraits are another matter; the physicality of the situation often requires you to pose. i hope to overcome this limitation at some point; others have. in that light, what makes a good photograph, according to my soul, is not the perfect pose and details arranged just so as to only capture the photographer's wishes and intent. this is shallow; it ignores the full living dynamic of your subject. the subject in a controlled photograph becomes a subject of you, adhering to your whims and wishes to better complete your art. heed this: once you enlist another in your art, it is no longer solely yours. no. i would be the photographer, the artist, who asks only to observe you (or the being i'm dealing with, living or non). this is not to say that the photographer should become a simple, unfeeling machine. rather, i feel that the very presence alone of that human photographer is enough to allow for her very own art and vision. a presence so subtle and astute that you can't help but notice. what i am interested in is the dynamic between the artist and the subject, not the wishes of the artist. the latter is boring to me, while the former is amazingly alive! and alive! these are real moments, not staged, not fabricated, and not ripped from some fantasy or wish of the artist to make real an otherwise unlikely situation under the auspices of "art". for the sake of art has become for the sake of me, and i have little interest in you, now bend. i say we take it back. now. be wary of the ones that ask you to strip, bend that way, smile this way, stick that gun in your mouth, put this fake blood on, wear that clothing i bought for exactly this purpose so i may complete my vision...my great art. instead, come as you are. do what you want. do only what you feel and let yourself be the upper and lower bound. you are a part of this art, in fact the part; don't allow yourself to be a subordinate. if the artist doesn't care for who you really are and instead cares only to control the situation, leave. the greats can bring out the universal beauty of any situation or subject, not only those under their thumb, and you are worthy only of the greats. trust this, human. and if you can't, take the camera up yourself; they'll catch up. -- the strange thing is that there is a flow in my mind. right now. right before. for it was so beautiful and fluid. when i attempt a translation (kinetic into keyboard) i become mechanical like the medium itself. the flow is lost, and rigidness and rock stare back at me. i feel sorrow at the departure. at my own forgetfulness. my own inability to remember what was and how it went. just look at this mess. perhaps. perhaps i need to consider this an extension rather than a translation. some place to move something to. a mirror. is beauty lost in the reflection? is the flow dissolved? no, simply reversed. i'll type backwards and unashamed. --- you can go with the flow, or block the flow. those that block the flow, that restrict or try to stop the life will be worn down like so many a pebble in the undertow, and eventually, roll along. i choose the leaf. the fallen feather. the unseen. i chose to fly over the float. ---- i strive for the GOOD photographer who does not give command and instead insists on observing and listening to the vision rather than force a box around yet another be. a pose of a pose. we build too many boxes; i'll let the curve be a curve and you be the spiral that you NATURALLY are, unwound by me. -- i am man unwound. unrewinded into anew. anew thing that i can not accurately describe in this few, for my mind is a buzzz and i can no longer feel the prick of my feet. my feet which carried me so willingly under order through the cold night. the cold night which thought that it might ban me with its wind. with its multitude of geese to the right. with its speeding yell and sparkle of luminent light. the light from the moon drove my mind onto farther realms that i can no longer comprehend. no longer comprehend not because of loss, but be cause of a willingness to let go. to let go into my full self. the err of my self is that i do not fully see what is around and so far abound. abound are my lids, ready to close at the site of it. at the sight of misfortune and misdeed in which i thought i might lay myself down. down to only find that i must travel up. not up but across. across the sea of asphalt unto the next journey. a journey into a bottle that reveals so well my innner thoughts of late. late are these thoughts, but are they mind? do they belong to me? i cannot tell; and already i have traveled the distance far too far and i tire. sleep is salvation, though sleep contains another walk into the unknown. for the unknown is where i am. where i am is of course, of course, it is of course the end. -- ORIGAMI PANTS with emphasis on folding, wrinkles, asymmetry, and length imperfections over traditional line binding while still being immensely comfortable and naked. SLING BAG simple into complex folds form a tight closure that adapts to the changing shape of the back. FOOT SKIMS minimal contured fitting with bottom foot plane coverage to protect against adversities while still providing flexibility to proj proj proj. ARTIFICIAL UNCONSCIOUS FLOW where a program is fed deeply personal information as a basis for random, but shared selection in order to identify and authorize. similar to a person focusing on a specific playing card and another person taking guesses from the "collective unconscious". the first experiment will take random seeds off a personal blurb and select a simple set of colors. the person selects the same to gain access. it's hoped that the program's efforts create a turbulance so focused and intense that the intended recipient (the one wanting access) can't help but pick up on it. along with this are experiments into general program-human consciousness/psychic flow (if possible). also will deal with deeply ingrained authorization and identity schemes where the methods are so intensely personal that you can't help but pick the right path. this is authorization based on behavior rather than memory. GLOBAL CONSCIOUSNESS SYNCS experimentations with synchronizing massive amounts of conscious focus in order to effect some physical reality the group is aware of. a simple way to do this is a basic client program that allows one to broadcast a focus out to the world, with interested people joining. the number of people gathered is made known, and an indicator sounds all when to start focusing thier conscious on the desired result ("it will be a rain-free night"). after a span of time, another indicator sounds, and the group disbands as if never existing at all. participants are made aware of how to keep in touch for futher discussion of the phenomena. reminiscent of raves where the collective focus is a sort of awakening. SWAY POWER harnessing the sway to generate trickle electricity. skeletal rods that run along the branch and usurp power from the friction of the flex. --- He awakes creased with pillow wondering where the hardness came from and if the machines are eliminating the need for our ability to paint entire worlds within. The creation before was dreamed. And thought. And moved throughout so many a neuron far before another even fired to collapse onto blank pages of desire. For the cost of mistake was prohibitive and bind. You could not afford misplaced strokes of evolving into the great picture. The computers allow mistakes. They allow one to off ideas and incomplete thoughts without worry of cost or waste. Put it down, move it around, recontextualize, reformat, redo, the memory is infinite and you have no excuse to limit yourself to your own inadequate networks of synapse. Silicon mirrors that of so many connected pathways leading to one awareness: the collective conscious. His toes were a tingle and he remembered to water the plants on Friday. Her face arose and disappeared into a spark of code that never was and never will. He can no longer hold worlds in his head, if he were ever able. The machine stores his everything, his everything that he never forgot, that never was, a fabrication of fabrications of time and all that that time thing means to every soul embarking on greatness. He wonders if the computer will allow awareness of a collective consciousness. He wonders why we can't do this on our own. Why must we see it thought a creation of ours. He realizes that all awareness is shallow when we allow it to derive from our fingers, our minds, our feet. He realizes that we will find ourselves through the networks we build, built only to lead us back to our own self, to our own realization that we are enough. That he is all and everything that matters. He arrived as the cosmos and departs the same. He picks his toenail. -- i wish i had the eyes of a poet and the ears of a violinist jarred with the sight of so many a savior. then i might be greatness. for now, i diminish and remain nameless unto a name less spoken. manhattan 5th ave conversations one way and rushing into frenzy and i'm going the wrong way trying to fight the upstream while you're busy dodging dents checking the rearview for your wake of followers seeking waves of affection too hyped up to realize that you're floating 'drocs on nothing but potholes and absent manholes. mirror check, 1. 2. --- it's wind accelerated by the vents accelerated by your stride accelerated by my synaptic fire accelerated by the sky scraper's sway dance accelerated by your stare accelerated by my flaps accelerated by that trap you wouldn't see accelerated by the furl accelerated by my pen flair accelerated by her grasp accelerated by his shot accelerated by their collective failure accelerated by my pain accelerated by this green bench passing that loose newsprint into your modern day tumbleweed into traffic dance into curb romance curbed trace accelerated by my unconscious your subconscious and that leaf cyclone accelerated by the chipped yellow warnings accelerated by words of mourning accelerated by your gold chain blowing into that drain accelerated by the bus' belching laugh of poison control accelerated by her broke hair and his ragged Polo accelerated by this and that accelerated by acceleration followed by anticipation stalking hesitation raping civilization wrapping contemplation over mind infestation choking respiration cloaking immediation now yesterday. --- 11:42 my thursday last, which is every day mood: backdown music: Ani Difranco - fierce flawless you find yourself entering the city. or is this exiting? The park ranger greens, "the park gates close at 10." it's midnight:04. Were they ever open? And sir, which way do they swing? am i on the way out or in? and sir, which way do you swing? "the park closes at 10." I'm on my way out. someone pushed a bullet through another head tonight and all i could do was listen to the music. You find yourself backwards under Mozart and Rossini. staring matches with the bust of the former. i'm finding the perfect angle where i'm out of the perfection gaze while still in the warm ray of brilliance. met with a pout face and stonecold following stare of indifference. i've ridden you it says. I've fucking WRITTEN you. the classical left behind rings your ears. this is the bandstand where you listened in awe while picking the blades of grass. like so many others. blades of insignificance. i'm in the hall of masters unwilling to house a future prodigy. i'm listening to the emptiness filling fullness of the compton Heights concert Band. Sunday afternoons bleeding evenings in the tower grove park. cue the rushing slowing ambulance with red ambivalence. gunshot 13. shot 12. cue the lazy sirens. 11. 10. if you've never heard a gunshot, picture slabs of 2x4s slapping together. one wanting only to traverse the opposing. shot 9. 8 7 6. turn the reverb and echo up up up up. shot 5. click on the howling dogs. cue the scream polluted air. shot 4. cue the squealed rubber on asphalt. shot 3. 2. 1. cue the band. conductor, take control. take the ears. take our heads. you find yourself walking back under Gounod and Verdi. the loosely defined paths brought you here. tracing the left side with your eyes closed and feet close to the curved curb. you're driven by the supernova of the bandstand. middle right, only light in the forest wasteland. 1904 World's Fair architecture. i'm running my hands over restored woodworks and 14 million steps backwards into musical history. don't trip over the newly installed electrical outlets. the tracks are notes. and you can dance all early morning long. or watch from the lawn. the vibrations will feel you. shot zero. You lose yourself running backwards into Beethoven and Wagner. you're just another shadow here. a slowly moving one at that. you dare walk on those of the great oaks? the sugar maples raining helicopter seeds? the simple act of falling is creation. is beauty. you find yourself falling backwards into the park. ---- i'm starting a band: jak daemon and the other st. losers. actually, that's just the seed name. it will be switched as fast as the members, instruments, and style. line one from me, pass the mike to you, to your friend, to an unknown, until the cable tangles and weaves us all. i'm looking at you to provide the beats off the floor. knocking the trashcan, banging your head, jingling your pocket change, screaming your inspiration. the song will never end because it never started. we'll crash off the stage, out of the venue, and into the street poisoning the city one sidewalkcornerbusstop at a time. -- beautiful people, but none for me i find my beauty behind broken key ---- have no super powers but i skip reasonably well i wanted to write the sky today and my wrists are holding me down. kids are absent from structure, and play in the disorder while creating more as soon as i record, you become false. ---- this is the buffet of me and you're picking without truly taking so, why the hell are you in the line ---- bug on the wall i'm under the ball point, get down and be small did she appreciate my call? am i setting myself up for a fall? i'll end up in another crawl up and over with a drunken drawl or maybe in a forbidden brawl slamming me against THAT wall. --- Thursday [12.04.2001] 01:19 i can't stand on your head. you heard? mood: lonely music: ani difranco - so what i felt very alone tonight. perhaps it was most of the day? no, it was easy to place my mind in another false container in the earlier hours. but the walk dragged me along all the rough. under a false moon, light dust, and stars moving at true airspeed. that one breaking sound. that one going to 124 distant homes. that one looking out on me looking back at it waving unnoticed and implausible. there i was kicking sticks off the concrete reflection of my lack of consistency mixture racing the 30mph wind which pushed me into corners i didn't want to hide in pointing out the faces in the violent sway of the trees i may never see. this loneliness was only matched by my night on the stairs Market St San Francisco brewing my special blend of tears fermented with detachment and obscurity. crushed into the the ledge with the dead ants and debris. the wind wouldn't let me stand still. i can't stand breaking myself into crunchy chunks of reason and structure parts. i can't stand the stares which are repeatedly hurled my way. i can't stand being quiet tonight. i can't stand writing this. why can't i deposit my thoughts in the soil along with the tulips as i walk past? one day a petal will be a gunpoint hostage of that same wind and end up siding your feet. you'll look up and slip in the rain. oh, you'll notice now when it relocates to your forehead during the whirl. why can't my thoughts be a pheromone trail for you to follow? i'll lead you down the wrong path, i promise. the ported mid-death CEO moves me to the front of the lecture for my misbehavior and jittery knee (true story). i'm pulled closer to you than i'd like to be. i have no real tragedy. my only tragedy is that i'm not you. the coffee is cold because she made it that way. my shoes untied cuz she never bent down. my hair a mess cuz she never combed it. my lips are chapped cuz that's how she parted them. my heart full cuz that's the way she left it. now i find myself walking past the frontlit mansions naked and unashamed. or was that a while ago? i thought yesterday about tomorrow moving into today. pissing on the same gargoyles that protected me last night from my misconscious. i can't stand here. can't stand there. am i sleeping? have i slept? have i been you longer and longer? the flap flap crunch of one broken shutter. the movement of the shadow people into my corrected vision. i don't want you to feel me. i want you to feel yourself. and i can't stand the people who don't wave back. the people and trees who won't say 'hello!!' the people who take my slur as a sign of stupidity. as if my verbal barrage of foot stumbles and misplacement has anything to do with my understanding of your lack of questioning. your lack of dark water. read my eyes motherfunker: they're pointed right at your cranium. oh, sorry, to the side as you now look away in abandonment. my lack of your intelligent intelligence. your concept of the same. i'm lower than you because i don't follow the rules as well. i'm behind the pack that you roam looking for the way out looking for that blaring red neon EXIT sign. get me out of your damn head and forget. throw me to the gutter and let it pour. i'll transfer control to the labyrinth of sewers and i'll still end up beating you to the fuking beach. my patterns are in the open and free for all. i love you until you withdraw. i love me only through the prism of you and you through the smudged fractured pane of me. i can't stand here without being taxed by you. by her and by him. i can't call this my own cuz you already laid claim. i can't stand here and cry under your damn FLAG even though it's flown and furled by MYfuckingBREATH. i can't talk to you even though i'm already in your lungs. every breath i draw on this 8th plane comes from you and you and yes, you too. this wind is MINE. this wind is YOURS. if i were to exhale i could blow you down. if i were to blink i could b(l)ind your perception. so orange off with your property and possession. or give me my breath back. give me back the tears that you unconsciously drink. and my pulse that you pulsate and vibrate. give me back the skin that you robbed and the electricity i fired penning these words fueled off your spit in my face. pushed off by your beat and trounced under your feet. give me back the light i let you play and the body warmth that made you sound. give me back that scream that rocked your bounced head and my roaming molecules orbiting your neck. that dirt trapped under your shoe is mine. that ink which sings your name is my blood. return my imperfections which made you perfect. now. --- jak. my name is jak. what does that mean to you. what images are brought to the forefront of your mind when you hear that word? what emotions are felt, what feelings replayed, upon replaying that syllable? do i become a past lover? a past hater? someone from the 2nd grade who threw water in your face. a seventh grader that called you names? a first kiss, a loss of innocence, a discovery of self? a father who couldn't connect or boyfriend who couldn't rise up? all of these feelings, these realms of memory collapsed down to me when you hear my name. my reputation follows closely but is not mine at all. i don't want to be a collapse. i want to expand. i want to fill the spaces instantly with myself. full expansion and erection of self. i want to collapse on you. i want you to collapse on me. and then, maybe we'll see, that the collapse is just a backwards expansion. let's turn around, together. -- i've been coloring to get out ever since they drew me in isolation cloaked as individuality 'be someone different' over empathy and we're told to look to the stars tellin' us to break new ground we're always told to rise above and we're missing those around and look around stalk around tell me what you didn't found and look away look up and look down yeah, tell me you were never bound forever lost in the circle of chasing our own rabid tails we've got lossy techno-interaction down to a science of: bail! bail! we're not looking for the way out just delaying the way back in we've been swirled again and again feigning uniqueness that won't be shared i've thrown out my individuality to understand what's been going on cuz i think the individual of all of us is better than the one let's seep; will you and me will you seep with me? seep through the fabric of time to discover nothing but crime seep into the fabric of our history to discover it's nothing but past we'll seep around and around and around gone abound and around creating our own horizontal propelling the new turbulence only to shake them up and down bouncing off our cratered surface so we can finally scream our sound will you make your mark on me without leaving any trace? will you stain your mark on them seeping orange into their lace? seep through all our connections and we'll learn how we relate soak up all our common intersections and we'll feel just how to create seep out -- conversation: one way stop. hold. now burst. wait for me to, well, wait for you and wait. waiting. wanting. i'm wanting --- corner window possibilities walk away bright and bouncy scheming lines and could-be ---- you wore jeans and a t-shirt. you had your florescent green hat backwards and expelling a dirt flume. you walked in a waddle with a jazz ataxia slagging a ragged-ass walkman with the grace of a rhino busting through a flower stand. tramps like you are you. definition: a walking trip. you snarled at the rest. poking only my eyes: "do everything man. do fucking everything." -- draw your lines and curves on mine -- fight or flight? my flight is into your fight --- find yourself amongst the train yard where the freights bring the winds brings that rapidly approaching dust storm to your eyes sitting in the forgotten lazy-boy strewn over discarded liquor bottles. can you please toot your horn for me? next, locate the highest concentration of heavy violent flags and plant yourself beneath the sun and the teetering poles. clank. ignore that security official and blank stares of onlookers as you write out fractal formulas and turbulence patterns in your blue brown cross stitch dinner jacket/sport coat, orange neon yellow socks and top buttoned collared shirt, rbr around your chest and ears. the 80s music behind on the tin speakers is drowned in a sewer of sporadic pole movements and 3 flags constipated to rip apart shred into 40,000 memories of minutes spent shaking never to be raised again. hail to the trenchcoat for his ignorance of the obvious oblivious to tripping over the street nomad with the stench and mandlebrot experience. turn your head to the arch grounds leading to underground railways and the windtunnel effect between your fellow buildings. this is going nowhere and you're smacked into 5 oclock realization that neither are you. fuck all, you yell now and the gust complies. "through all my failures, i've made the wind race faster." now breathe out and touch 3 million cheeks. -- your brill- iance is a finger -print pushed into me --- give me the courage to forget my... --- i'm crying at all the spaces inbetween those left behind and unfulfilled cuz in that emptiness i can expand and i think i can fit you in -- the uniqueness of the piece is not posioned by the whole but rather enriches the whole --- you probably don't believe me but taste has never tasted this good and is this what texture feels like? who would have thought that my craving for wind could be satisfied by your breath? you probably don't believe me but i just walked three weeks into infinity --- jakd. check my freshness date. i exist to break your rules. and drink water along with chocolate-covered caffeine pills. i need the fuel to learn how you play the game. emphasis on learn. so give me something to remember you by. allow me to use you as a kaleidoscope and i'll reciprocate. fiddle me this: what will you create with me? let's talkabout walkabout 4am berzerkely style leaving a fractal stream of irrate awoken masses in our wake. make some noise so i can reverb and rearticulate. battle me by crawling into my eyes. now what do you see? don't ignore the man behind the curtain: that's me. step off, crak your head, and let's groove to a new beat. we'll give our creation to the first street dweller we stumble upon. you'll go home with a drunken smile scheming to recreate this experience with another pirate. remember to follow the rules. -- Working the World Through Local Relationships jak daemon The world is a seemingly complex place to exist. Surviving, much less working, in this current state proves to be an increasingly formidable task. Fixes are promised and systems that do nothing more than aggregate the complexity result; the citizens learn to deal. Any system (not just those based on a ruck of electronics) that is to be used as a tool must allow itself to mutate according to the specific needs of the individual user. One aspect of our lives that is often overlooked is the ability to effect regional and occasionly global actions through local relationships. That is, by utilizing and focusing on the relationships I actively maintain (always with an eye towards future expansion), I may propogate ideas and actions to other relationship networks in my domain or physical region. We, as humans, tend to be very good at managing simple networks and connections which in someway link to some personal facet. We attempt to ignore that which does not propell us in favor of seeking out and fueling what does. Needless to say, we want what we determine at the time to be the "best" for us or our network of compatriots. Why, then, do we not have a tool that focuses on management and upkeep of those relationships with a desire for self-improvement? Something that puts our personal or collective viewpoints at the center, linking to those we interact with in real-time? A graphical or textual metaphor which accents the stresses and faults in select links? This article aims to describe a framework which I am calling the Kinetic Assignment Relationship MAnager system, or KARMA for short. What I describe will be more conceptual than hardline, although I do provide a working set of implementation notes (as yet to be fully realized). I will be using, as an example, the relationship between a customer and a dispatch firm (or collective of workers). I will attempt to describe how the use of a KARMA-like system may make network participants more self-conscious and responsible for their actions while erasing the need for third party governance or intervention. blast from the center You (being an individual or collective) are the center of your world. It really is that simple. Relationships and events radiate from and around you. A KARMA system, therefore, strives to relate all infomation of interest to you. It will highlight conditions that are relevant to your current state or desire. If your work or actions place another entity in the central role, a KARMA system provides the necessary context to link back to you. the ant, the witch, and the wardrobe love the bomb, drop the needle, and pump me that chaos notice there's no "P" in our "OOL," we'd like to keep it that way hemorrhoidal flare up (exception handling) take it on the otherside let your true colors shine through i can't believe it's not butter! implementation notes (or How To Make Your Own Molotov Cocktails) fin ----- Ever get the urge to give something back? Something besides the spurting emotion, sweat, tears, cheers and synaptic fires? Something altogether musical? Something to show your awe and blur the stage via music waves? Well, here's a chance... Ani Difranco plays St. Louis Saturday, April 21st at the Pageant. Bring yer kazoo. Play yer kazoo in unison at a particular time (you'll be instructed at the show by a group of us passing the gossip). Watch Ani bounce in surprize and (hopefully) play off it in her unique way. Yep, that's right, the 'audience' is the band is the audience is the instrument. Why a kazoo? Cheap. Simple. Pervasive. A ready extension to the emotion found in voice. It works nicely with the new song "Kazoointoit" on Ani's new album, Reveling/Reckoning. More instruction at the door and on the floor. If you're not in St. Louis, you can help in two ways: 1) donate money for kazoo buying (we'll be handing some out at the doors for those that didn't get the early message), or 2) organize a coup at your local show. contact kcoup@trakcore.net in either case. Any questions? Wanna help? email kcoup@trakcore.net --- we crawl up to the stage under false pretense of a duet. this is part of the act. 'another,' they chant under cover of reburied heads applied to books and meaningless self-full conversations. ostrich outrage. falsetto put down. they're expecting us to sing along nicely out of the way. in the subdued corner and 3/4 foot rise. a nice detour, but offering nothing permanent. nothing to slow down for; the chrome rims will survive this glitch. the invisible chains are fastened, and we're supposed to behave. behind the white line. this is all part of the act. sure, they'll allow the occasional radical. they're covered in inverse white decontamination suits feigning an untouchable pseudonym. liar. shrinking off any slight chance of infection. this is our shared conditioned atmosphere and self. the boundaries are drawn right there on the retinas. tonight. tonight, we're squishing through. we kiss. this is part of the act. this is the part where they're wondering when the real act will begin. ha, these are prelims for luck. it won't last. but it does. sitting there gaping over the lost places in books and banter. pen homicides. shifting bodies in chairs and dispensing alarmed whispers of uncomfortable screams. this is all part of the act and it will continue as long as it has to. this isn't a kiss planted on nonna's lips. it's not the kiss you saw in the flicker of the screen or in your words in your head. this goes deeper. this strobes darker. this is me swallowing you swallowing me. you delving into the back of my head and tonguing every member of the viewing crowd. the ones questioning the realness of this now. tripping shaking swerving with uncertainty now. this is floating invisible up and between the knees. slowly. lips act only as pillow barriers; nice, but in the way. this part of the act is over now. exit stage left. out the door into the night. this is where they're left sitting. fearful of the continuance of events carried on in collective mind. lack of comfort breeds want. shock breeds lust breeds sex. gossip breeds more. we're watching from that one perfect tree. and then we continue. this is part of the act. --- no, this is not my language. i don't own it. nor do i crave any sort of ownership over it. i simply want to particate. i want the words that vibrate from the back of my throat and off my fingers to perturb the cosmos. i will add my misformed grafts and lack of proper structure. i will rearrange the letters without worry of a 2nd party check. i will add my own imperfections to what is considered the universal perfect and therefore standard. why should i dot myself in correction fluid when i can instead blow up the next fork? why shouldn't i show the world what it means to converse in the language of me? give me the grammerless and misspellers. they are the players and creators. and that is who i mark with. that is where you'll find my tag. --- it's when i realized that the moon is not a reflection of the sun, but a reflection of our passion for it's beauty. the want and need. -- the great thing about NYC is that you can walk anyway you want and people think that's how you really walk. you can completely lose yourself in the mass of flesh and concrete or become an active part of it (a further source of perturbation). you can transform/mutate in an instant and no one will know the difference. thoughts while walking race faster than a cabbie on a suicide race to the east river. the city seems to evolve with you in a very obvious way. things are not destroyed, but built upon. there's always another freak to ante up. nature IS the culture. an alley is an alley one day, a bazaar the next, a crashpad the next, and a drug deal the next. an artist is everyone. everyone is an artist. you've walked through 40 thousand paintings, stories, movies, and whispers JUST by crossing the street. (what a rush!) the complexity of life is torn down on the sidewalk in front of you to show the massive wetworks. all your plans are co-opted and you end up having a peak experience. you can lay on a bench with the east river to one side of you, and the mass of buildings and animals to the other. high class or lower, you all hear the same noise. you can smell the emotion as easily as the sweat falling off the terrified onlookers. the simple act of STANDING in the Long Island RailRoad lobby during rush hour can invoke the greatest sense of fear you've EVER let take control. you can be completely invisible simply by standing on a corner in Times Square. you can experience the entire world by exploring one city block. you feel lost until you turn that corner... --- the orange moon of new amsterdam it's the FEELING it gives me. don't you understand that? don't you get that full-on rush of every feeling you've ever known in one boiling instant? every feeling you can put words to along with the new ones that you can't name. maybe it's the mixture or moisture causing the confusion. maybe it's that moon. this city will do it to me. san francisco does it to me everytime. montreal does it to me. it's that blanket washing of emotion that i can't comprehend. that i dream about and i live to feel. it's pushed to me along lit streets passing by at walking speed. it's given to me on the pulse of blinking lights. it's pushed at the speed of dream and need. don't you feel that pulse? you feel the pulse beat in your skin and see it pulse out the window. syncronocity never brought this. but it does every time i land in NYC. and even when i leave. i saw the most beautiful orange move hovering above the horizon of manhattan. waning to be full, so much like the inhabitants below looking up for a feeling of share. i wanted someone to share it with. look at this! share this with me please! look at the orangeness of that expanding moon and the speed at which it rises. it won't be that color for long so look now! and look now! and look now! this is what i love. i love you new york. i love you so much. i passed my city from 3000 feet one city block at a time. red. white. red. headlight white. red. white. breaklight red into the glow of the chrysler building. up to the christmas light of the Empire State. (i sent signals from there, my voice was carried far over the island. red. white. red. white. 14th ave and blackness. new amsterdam confusion. east village is within and living. and living. down to woolworth. and nothing. where is my marker? where is my home? i lived all of one block from the world trade center entrance. 11 John street 9th floor with the other eccentrics. with the other outcasts who shouldn't have been in the wall street district after 8. i was in the shadow every day and all i regarded it as was the shadow of a map marker. Look, i live near there! one block! i steal words and itellectual property from one borders bookstore on a daliy basis! i spend my 3am in the basement sitting on the floor and wondering. always trying to comprehend the greatness i'm living in just to participate in it the same moment. don't you realise what you and your moon do to me, new york? i groove daily on the music you brew just by being. fuk if i'm not in listening range; you still pound my drums and regulate my pulse regulating my rythm regulating my life feeding back into you. my rythym drives you. the turbulance behind my walking back, the wind broken through my hair, you take it all an amplify it so i can finally appreciate self. you are myself. you are me. i can't stop looking. i can't stop listening. i can't stop watching and feeling your constant and stentorian vibrations of wind. i can't help but accept your breath. i am yours and feel complete. flying into new york puts a smile on my face. thinking of nyc does the same. walking, biking, running, watching, bussing, speeding by train, all strech the extremeties of my mouth. how the fuk do you do it? how? i'm one step away from stepping off and falling down. and falling forever. can i borrow your orange for the flare? this is not all i have to say. i'll say the rest to the moon. see you soon, jak ---- _top security: post 13 i like the people who stare through a blank page. those that wear blemishes and bruises as war paint; constantly swirling into new configurations and constellations. cypher rebels with black exploding hair who sprawl on the dirt ground next to the hyper green bench. blurry-eyed schemers who have that chaos style. the people who skim trends from the inside. culture filters adding their own blacks and blues. people with headphones that let the beat ooze out with every stomp. i like the people who blast from the core. silent types whose thoughts bounce their skulls and tilt their eyes. people who walk into a room and form a network, be it hidden or orange, only to instigate another meme black market. those that aren't afraid to stare back. catch the eye of another freak and ante up. i focus on those without. those who skate the blur and fuzz the clear. those that make the most noise on the bus. on the sidewalk. in your dreams. those that dream at 40mph while walking at 2. at 3am. people who fuel off the flickering urban lights. step off the curb to feel the traffic dance. people who engulf you in a stentorian rush and trip to pick up the pennies. people who shine through desolation. those that run from the right, embracing what's left. people who take a dive over the new joint on 16th. people who absorb the drunken mess and brew their own neural alcohol. people who create trash out of art. people who sit on the outskirts acting as poetic terrorists. those seeking other daemons to join in by conquering their skin with thick black ink symbols which fly for some fleeting state. those that alter the pace to keep you guessing and yearning. those that leave an evaporating trail only a select few can follow. those that leave their gates open at night. those that stomp loud and carry a big bucket. people who form irregular circles. chew words and devour ideas. people who don't give a fuk. --- i have a problem with my wrists too. it's not a superficial or aesthetic thing but one more of sweet pain. hurts to type but feels so good to communicate. hurts to write but it's so great to see the ink bleed. i'm sort of like the subject of this card. except for the fact that i don't usually have a hilighter-yellow hue to my skin. i'm not normally spotted with a red bandana around my non-existant shoulder length hair. i consider myself to be more like a number 13. i'm lacking the chest muscles and amazonian name. and i'm never armed with a submachine gun. but, yeah, i'm sort of like that guy. my life is like this postcard. not the Kate Gauf vision (although i do like breaking the barriers this card alludes to). i constantly feel like i'm on my way to some unknown but ever welcoming place. helped along by a thousand hands and eyes looking to push me along to the "right" bin. if i end up in the trash, there's always the dumpster divers to fetch me out and smile. --- jak daemon is your standard, unusual, stentorian, grassroots hacker. jak lives in a chaotic cruise of crypto anarchy, pseudonym federations, 4AM hacks, viral dispatch, reputation taggers, temporary autonomous zones, colony/clan workforces, urban cores, and corporate disorder. jak's past and current efforts manipulate the background process in small ways to drive various aspects of the world. one node at a time. -- it's not going To rhyme and it doesn't have Much struct it can't self-correct and it breaks on uneven cracks it has dots where there should be pounDs and caps in places of mistrust. -- schemes for the night include Better Living Through Circuitry. perhaps a few eats stressing that EastBay ethnicity. i may be ditched while exploring some alt.country complexity. home alone on the third rail pumping thoughts and electricity. -- i am a series of words traded over baited breath a lack of completeness a walking impossibility --- so i was sitting on the corner of grand and arsenal enjoying my scalding hot coffee fuk and the innocents escaping my stare. pedaling up in my periphery is a tandem blue bike with that sort of corrosive chrome that injects the need to strip it with your eye revealing some glimmer of hope. maybe hope isn't the right word. maybe i was just looking for a mirror, unsatisfied with the retinal pool through the passing windshields. anyway, the two riders commandeering this vessel were both male, the leader older than the younger, grayer than the blacker, wider-eyed than the closed and blind. this sparked a steam train of thought in my own head: what was it like to completely give all control to another. here was this blind participant hurling down the street on a vehicle that he had no control over. his only input was that of further locomotion. one sense closed, the others amplified 3 trillion times over. 'i'll give my eyes and pedals to you.' and i'm wondering if i've ever been in that situation. have i donated my life and vision to another in toto? have i ever been at the eye of a storm feeling only the rush and hearing all that jumbled complexity of the thought and metal junk traffic around me? and i'm wondering why the hell not? and i'm wondering why i don't take you with me? will you accept me in the backseat amidst the receipts of regret and orange peels? would you mind if i let you drive for a while as i listen to the music you create? and can you tell me when you're ready to switch places? what is a 'thought?' is it easily compartmentalized and categorized? no. how can you possibly name/write something that has no end? or beginning. how can you go and make something static which is screaming DYNAMIC! i can't write faster than thought and when i try the white of the paper blinds my eyes to the rest of the world. scratch that last bit, sub in 'to the rest of my mind.' i'm often caught in this konundrum; ticketed by the burly metermaid for the act of parking illegally. overtime/notime/wotime. and you know what? i'm no longer walking on the sunny side of the street. no no, i'm SPRINTing
down the middle of YOUR street
and if you were up on it, you would join me. and if you were able, you'd stop buying/stealing those flowers for your next one, instead running takeout to the garden with all that mixed color and weed. and please, don't take off without spreading your own seeds, or at least your breath, so i may know you were there. so i know how to follow your trail. so i know what you meant by that look hook and so i know that i have nothing to fear. what's up with that impossibly expensive pawn shop? and where does that misty alley ever end? are you sure this depressed brick doorway to nowhere will take me to the 17th plane of disReality? the one where bus boys scream "Safety Clown says STOP FOR CHILDREN" and the homeless read "RECEIVE JESUS." wait. wait. in the fingerpaint of life, i'm spreading the neon! ---- i am sliding your perception. i am spinning your wor(l)d. ---- the stage stops here fuck flying, i want horizontal thermal cyclones wind pushing me millimeters from the ground at speed let's hover fuck escaping to the stratosphere, meet me in the crosswind let's conquer and solve the ground before we look up, down. ---- yes, it is about steps. take notice that everyone posesses their own walk, their own stomp. there's a bounce to some, a float and zag to others. i look at the way of the walk, and feel comfort in the fact that i do the same. and feel comfort in the fact that i glide and sneak a bit differently. walking is a physical blurting of what it means to be! what it means to exist and spiral in this whirl! what it is! every step of mine is another step of realization. of the awareness of simply being aware. the awareness that you're brinking into infinity with every shuffle. please realize that you are making these same small steps, every moment. the biggest movements follow the smallest steps. -- some stupid fuck shoots his doctor in the face another in the back for fleeing two shots pierce a nurse simply for being and my city has come to this instead of shooting from our lips we're shooting from the hip concealed projectiles and confusion replace words and deliberation cuz my word is final and yours is inconsequential cuz my word is law and you've drawn my short straw and anger is so easy when it's a sharpened .22 we're afraid of interaction we're afraid of standing up so let's raise our guns and waste them all to ashes, to ashes and we all fall down --- explaining the tattoos... i currently have two organized ink blots on my person and have never really explained them in a digital forum such as this. so here goes. the first is on my right leg. an anarcho black star with an orange half symbolizing anarcho-immediatism which is an idea/dynamic that i enjoy exploring and furthering. the second is my most important. on my left forearm in thick black letters reads: "0daemon!?" this has multiple meanings which tend to define the ideals closest to me. let me break it down... 0: symbolizes a zerowork lifestyle. nothing exploding into everything. 0d: hexadecimal for the number 13. living in the 13th hour. one of my favorites. this also symbolizes "0 day" which is another metaphor for immediatism. living for and because of the moment. daemon: a background angel. in computer terms, a background process. i live in the background. i strive to be behind the curtain with that subtle influence. that's where i've always found myself. i like to dig deep. find out how things function underneath the covers and thoughts. this also points to chaos theory and the butterfly effect. !: being overly excited and intense throughout life. in every emotion and experience. living with an over abundance of energy that you share with all who will subscribe. ?: living by the idiom "i don't know." maintaining a high level of curiosity and skepticism. finding things out for myself and experiencing them to the fullest extent. it's upside down to my viewpoint to remind me to look at things in different ways and from all angles. --- no i don't know what time it is. in fact i've never checked. what is the month and the date? what is the year? -- every facial twitch has burst each texture bump into another reality contrast pops the unmentionable today pushed tomorrow out of the way. i don't know how. i don't much care. --- why do you look at me with that cock of your neck broken into jealous contortions as i sit no i stand in the middle of broadway sprawled below the yellow lines within Porsche exhaust writing faster than your feet can baffle and your eyes can travel? i'm not that different from you in fact we're the same in a way its sorta like a 4 lane street and you're stalling on the sidewalk watching me watching you hurl curiosities at me and that's the first step don't you know until you pick up that voice and make the first step off the curb. -- .wind.kite. .waves.hyperspace. .tunnel.mobility.simple. .4AM-hack.grid.tag.orange. .bang.rover.transit.proj.AI. .communities.bike.courier.wow. .zerowork.dirt.pileonme.lift.k. .ped.zero.odyssey.berkeley.gust. .manhattan.crypto.caffeine.virus. .security.flow.core.berkeley.now. .noise.inbetween.network.bazaars. .anarchy.terse.stentorian.speed. .pi.postcards.interface.plexus. .post.strings.research.mutate. .tong.federation.background. .underground.zero-time.32. .copywrong: 2040.daemon. .40.!?.pirate.bug. .jump.zoom. -- i'm thermaling away from the past. and i won't dance over the mandelbrot turbulance of the future. let's sing about now. let's expand into the recesses of now. isn't it possible to fill up every moment, especially this, with wander and soul gusting into full immersion and everything-awareness? just look over at that congregation of sunflowers. you see that!? do you see that spread? that perfect, spiraling, unbounded expansion into the present tense? can't you hear the unending music the petals vibrate from the flow of the wind? the beautiful sound of regenerative motion and whirl? an escape from the self and departure from the flower ego. a return to the aspect of the whole. a running to the flavor and pheromone of now. allow me to lift and dedicate this fleeting moment: for now i am known only as "wow!" --- this was written now. in fact, this was never written. this is me in real time and that's the way i want to drive this. i no longer want to be recorded and mediated. i want you to experience the raw me. across from all the normal tripe shit some call 'conversation.' you see, i want you to see. i want you inside of my head leading me around new corners twisting into fog soaked alleys and rougher interactions. i want to do everything in a single instant and then fall hard into nothingness. i want to take all my closest friends and 40 random people off the street and battle them all verbally creating instant and violent word art bleeding into unconscious streams of emotional rage. then i want to have each draw their fears on the blank page, pass them around instructing all to make it 40 times more hideous, rinse repeat, until it's received back by the instigator as something humorous. the chorus of laughter will fuel the rest of the evening which just swung an erotic corner. you weren't supposed to feel this good. you're not supposed to do that thing with that other thing. i'm going to shatter your rules of the street with a single kiss dripping into 4 thousand and live to pass it on. infecting all until we form a common mix of sweat and tears. i want to feel the blur of action against my skin and through my eyes. i'll stop swirling for you and we'll shift the direction. -- you forgot that the wind has the ability to blow your starter cap(TM) across market to play frogger with that rather overbearing diesel bus rambling down to collision that it can make you tear up for no reason even on that sunny marble stoop of yours. that it can make your nipples erect through that double breasted armani. that it can snap your necktie into a strangle hold while the boss walks above you forgot the wind can smear your makeup and erases your perfume in smell of your true stench. i caught that. that it can make you jump sneer and steer clear of me. wobble wobble. that it can rob you of all your securities to show me the marrow. into today into tomorrow. you forgot the wind leaves only now. only this. this pen dancing tracing bracing skipping to the beat groove thermal of your breath eternal and what is eternal but that shred of hyper yellow police line drifting on impossible drafts of gusts lusts and oh yeah fuck trust. bust a new style a new curve crime amongst the straight line freaks amongst the poker faces and passion traces.