Look: there's a cup of coffee from yesterday, right there in that video box. So now, boss, you can see yesterday. What's the matter with that guy? Is he asleep? No, just reading the screen. Thinking. Writing. And deliberately, very oh so deliberately, not moving his head. The woman at the cafe was a little freaked out. She tiptoed over discretely, delicately, with my coffee. I almost forgot she was coming. Huh. It was good. A sip, at last, at the end. Video.

ANYWAY that burnout and not having any energy left to write after spending
all my re-write, that is one reason why I made the resolution rule
(one of several, another is coming true this weekend thanks
to Araceli's hard work), that sufficient for the day
be the evil thereof, that I should spend each
day focussing on each day's diary@vision

and not on other days' blablablogREvision, and I didn't do that
yesterday I mean I did and that was the problem
look there he is reading and re-writing
the day before yesterday,
yesterday.

BAaaaaaaddddd dog. Woof.

No. I am in that little box up there spending literally hours on Tues:yesterday going over and over Mondayblog:from.the:daybefore, polishing, softening the outrageous political hellfire preaching (oh yes, I softened it, it still looks bad enough ranting and raving and flaming but) and then finishing the part about responsibility and loyalties struggling in my mind now that I am actually publishing open to the world windows on the electronic street, not just hidden away in my room where no one sees unless they break in and steal rummage violate etcetera no.

Do I repeat myself? Very well, then I repeat myself. I am infinite.
I contain multitudes. Lots of mediocre spinoff photocopies
knocked off Walt Whitman bla bla bla bla bla.

Part of the above is a lie. I did ALL of the re-writing and re-vision at home.
But I must have looked very much like that, reading and doing
nothing at all on the pyamid steps — but, so,
isn't that the same thing?
No, it ain't.

Now you know what "semi-fiction" means. It is true
but it ain't "isn't" — heh.ho.ha.hee.
Or, as a friend of mine once
said,  " M o o . . . . "

It's not that I can't write about yesterday or tomorrow or last week or next year or a thousand years ago or ten thousand years in the future when we will be engaged in a great struggle over the Hyades cluster and all its young stars with their many new worlds, no. I can write about anything at all any when at all, just so long as I do it today the day of the date of the diary@blog. No ex post facto postdating revisions – except for emergencies, corrections, absolutely necessary buttwipetceterazz and nothing but sufficient for the day amen.

I may "write" about anything at all. It is the publishing that gives me censorship blues and the need to pay attention to my responsibility not to lie, not to yell fire in the crowded theater when there is no fire, and maybe yes yell when there is, and then also not to slander, not to mispiel slandar, and not

bla bla bla

freedom is not just liberty. It is

a quality of life of the mind

wbich must be defended, responsibly. One has obligations to not abuse while you amuse self-indulgent authorial divertissment. The price of freedom is vigilance. And truth-telling is one of those costs that must be paid to be preserved marmalade.

And the truth is I should have begun my diary with only writing on the day itself. A dated entry is a dated entry. If A, then A.

But almost from the beginning I felt rebellious. If I am writing, then I make the rules. Well, [perhaps] that's maybe true, yes, but I still must live by certain actual, physical realities. I am free to make many many choices in this life, but I must always accept the consequences for those choices. If I choose to hold my breath until I pass out (in spite of all the oxygen starving pain), then my body will probably start breathing for me. If I choose to jump off the golden gate bridge then I will pay the consequences of smashing into the water at a hundred or something miles an hour and that would be stupid not to mention painful. No. I choose not, thank you. I would rather live now.

I say these extreme examples merely to point out that we may make many choices, some of them very dangerous, and we will always pay the consequences for our actions and choices.

That there are natural laws within whose boundaries we always live. We are free, yes, but we live within limits. And one of the greatest limits is the mind itself, and is also one of the greatest freedoms. Bla bla bla. Ditto God freedom and limit. Good. Merciful. Bismallah Amen.

One of the principal rules and laws that governs this page of language is the three footed stool of communications.

The three feet are the semantic, the syntactic, and the pragmatic. They govern meaning and make it rule the world of our reading and writing here.

Semantic is the meaning and meanings of one word itself. Syntactic is the meaning of a sentence or context or stream of words. Pragmatic is the meaning as determined by a reader herself, himself. Each word, each sentence, each individual reader, construct meaning together. Sometimes semantic is as simple as the sytax is as simple as "a house cat is not a cat house" and there the pragmatic is determined by whether or not a reader knows what a cat-house is. Which is not a dog-house. I am in the dog-house today because I wrote nothing yesterday, Only re-vised day before yes ter d a y

I lit Maria's "boyler" (boiler, hot water heater, properly called, in Castillian Spanish I think, calentador) yesterday when I was there. She had run out of gas Saturday night and so she couldn't cook the breakfast Sunday she had promised me I took eggs and cheese and beans and tortillas over there and only got around to going to get them back last night.

I have been so sorely tempted to move back in, and when she said again that I could and should, I was even more tempted that it set off the storm of contemplation you may have read about above under #1 half in invisible writing (click and drag to block into view one of my usual hyperpage tricks I love the internet it is beyond paper "over-paper" as in "over-drive" etc.) WHERE THE HELL WAS I GOING with this oh yes

I have not had hot water at my studio for almost two months now because the landlord has never bought us a decent hot water heater they are always second hand refurbished that keep burning bad and now this one is all covered with carbon ash and emits huge clouds of dark smoke so we never lit it much after new year's and now, well, now my ex-neighbors took the tank of gas away with them and I ain't going to buy one. No. Go ahead, try and force me. But I miss hot water. I am getting really really tired of cold baths and once a week I heat up a huge bucket of hot or rather very warm water and wash deliciously with that but today I am seriously thinking about going to a bath-house down on the boulevard that I have noticed while I walk to the green taxis downtown that launch from Vidal y Planos corner.