Progress

This picture isn’t finished, but neither is the sitter, so I guess it is 100% done for today.

----------------------------------------------

Congratulations to all the people of North Korea. I know it hurts right now, but trust me, you’ll be feeling much better by next xmas.

Life is hell

Every time I decide to get a haircut my hair looks great, then I change my mind and decide not to get a haircut.

Love and hate

They say after you have a child your testosterone level goes down … I believe it. Fortunately, there’s still so much to build it back up … so many assholes … so many vaginas … so many stupid, stupid people … so many beautiful, gorgeous people.

Much ado about nothing

I always desperately wanted to be gay. Freddie Mercury optimized glorious humanity to me. Then Prince and David Bowie abated my disappointment in my nature, and it was okay to be straight … with a little twist.

As I grow up, I feel a desperate need to remember what drove me to excess … what inspired me to greatness. As the birth of my daughter approaches, I feel the need to try harder … to be larger than life … to be majestic.

Bring it on

So, the woman formerly known as baby (TWFKAB) is heavily pregnant … it’s a girl. As anyone knows, the best thing about having a child is naming it. So far, my suggestions have all been rejected … Jezebel, Rosie, Nene, Queen Mary, Fabulous. I had ideas of having a boy (names lined up are: Elvis, Jesus, Johnny) … teaching him how to fish, how to throw a baseball, how to treat girls … truth is … I have no idea … I have 3 months left to become financially secure, responsible, caring, capable, somewhat slightly less self-absorbed.

Where to begin

My hands … waking up, I can’t feel my hands when I wake up … new york … Baby, or, the woman formally known as baby (TWFKAB) … heavily impregnated … robbed … I’ll never forget, TWFKAB saying “My computer is gone” … it was like death … absolute loss … everything stolen … even the phones … but my hands … I can’t feel them when I awaken … I hate everyone … I want to make love to everyone … I don’t understand.

Black Sunday

This is out 1^st floor bathroom … it doesn’t have a floor at the moment.

One of the first albums I bought was “The Last In Line” by Dio. It’s not really something I would normally play out loud these days, but because he just died I downloaded a copy to listen by myself. It’s been about 23 years since I heard it last, but I still remember every little nuance. I loved those days when you cherished every record you owned … back when music wasn’t disposable.

Life in Brooklyn

Living large

We now have ceilings on the 2nd floor ... and roses in the front yard!

Get it together

I overcame my fear of heights about 10 years ago by climbing the exterior of the elevator shaft on the roof of the building I was working at. I thought I was cured … till I decided to waterproof the garden side of our new house. I’m scared as hell up there … just 2 floors up.

Perks

House is gradually moving from deconstruction towards construction. One good thing, we are a fifteen minute walk to Prospect Park.

distractions

I wanted a break from breaking open walls and started reading about the Collatz conjecture on Wikipedia, which led me to the Primitive Root modulo n.
I don't get it, but it kind of excites me ...
"In modular arithmetic, a branch of number theory, a primitive root modulo n is any number g with the property that any number coprime to n is congruent to a power of g (mod n). That is, if g is a primitive root (mod n), then for every integer a that has gcd(a, n) = 1, there is an integer k such that gk ≡ a (mod n). k is called the index of a. That is, g is a generator of the multiplicative group of integers modulo n."

Don't look back

I just can’t seem to drink this off my mind.

The house stripped bare

Today I felt something close to despair … all the ceiling on the 2nd floor were torn down … we took refuge in the garden to eat bread and cheese. No electric, no heat, no internet and no more cash after this next set of renovations. I ended the day chipping plaster … uncovering a fireplace and listening to Ryan Bingham and the Dead Horses … everything felt great again.

Out damned spot

Baby arrives tomorrow. I’ve bleached down the bathroom and kitchen … sterilized them. I haven’t fixed much yet … just breaking things down … opening walls. My crown achievement has been replacing the front door handle. I feel like I’m in a race somehow to take over this house … and if I’m too slow the previous tenants will overtake the house again. It doesn’t make sense, but that’s how it feels. There is a refrigerator downstairs that is still full of food … its amazing … I want to take a photo of it but it’s too dark. There are glass containers where the metal top has disintegrated. You can’t smell it unless you open the door, and when you do its pretty rank. I emptied a closet yesterday … an old trunk full of belts, blankets, Pepto-Bismol and things. I started putting my foot out the door just in case some ghost force shut the door on me and trapped me in the closet.

Verdantless

I met our neighbor today. I’d been a little concerned by him … the last time I saw him … and I’m sure about this … he was wearing some kind of kitchen pot on his head like a hat. He’s either a brilliant eccentric, or he’s been on the wrong medication so long the damage is irreversible. While we chatted he was perfectly lucid and personable … a creative genius perhaps … he just might be my kind of guy. He mentioned I have to do something about the yard … he’s right.

No rest for the wretched

I had an idea to record the progress of our work here, but I’d forgotten how tiring physical work is. Baby arrives in 4 days … I’m trying to prepare her … telling her to imagine the worst case scenario. This is addictive … a project … a long-term project. My body feels great though … I walk down the street, all dusty and taught, like I could kill anyone. What hurts most, interestingly, are my forearms and hands.

To Winthrop Street

Baby and I have bought our second house (ahem). This one is in Brooklyn – not a beautiful brownstone, but a fine old brick building more suitable to our budget, South-East of Prospect Park. Tonight is my 3rd night there as I busily try to make it livable before Baby arrives next week.
It’s kind of a mess. I arrived in NY a few days ago thinking I needed to do some painting and maybe strip a little paint and do the floors. Since then I’ve discovered we need to replace all the plumbing, tear out the 2nd floor ceiling, buy a new boiler, put in 3 new bathrooms and 3 new kitchens and replace all the windows plus the various small pieces like fix the skylight, dig out the garden, etc. I knew some of this was coming, but I’m a little overwhelmed as we can’t afford all of this and we need to rent the place out immediately to pay back our loan.
To be honest, I am enjoying the panic, and will try to make the most of it.

The house has been empty a while. I’m not sure how long. Even though it was supposed to be delivered empty, there are still loads of items scattered around to give clues to the last inhabitants. I am assuming the last owner died, as we bought it as an ‘estate’. Evidence is also clear from the cupboards, which indicate the person here didn’t plan to leave, most noticeably the 2 unopened bottled of mustard in the downstairs cupboard (and an amazing supply of Tic-Tacs).
I have found 3 pornographic magazines – 2 Playboys from 1981, and one Hustler from 1976. I can’t stop musing on these. As the piles of garbage get thrown out, some key items remain – heavy things, very dirty things, hard to remove things, useful/interesting things. A 34 year-old pornographic magazine must be worth something on eBay. It’s very charming and nostalgic with its cigarette ads and very hairy private parts.

So far we only have electricity in a few rooms on the 2nd floor. I worried I may find it creepy living alone in the entire building with almost no electricity where, presumably, somebody died; but fortunately I am too distracted by the unceasing cold to spare time to flights of fancy. As daylight is king I wake up at dawn, finish house-work around 5pm and do job-work till around 10pm, then sleep. On the first night I slept in the room on the 2nd floor near the street lights as it was the least scary room, but now I have moved to a more central room with no electricity because it’s warmer. All the physical work, the cold, and the hunger have made me more aggressive than normal, so I haven’t really been bothered by the spooky things yet.

I thought a decent sleeping bag would be good enough, but the problem is the cold floor, it seeps through and drains your heat. I solved this by laying garbage bags on the floor, covered with newspaper, then a yoga mat and a down comforter. Wearing lots of clothes, a thermal hat and covering the sleeping bag with my down jacket helps.

writeplaywrite

The play has started well … I’d forgotten writing … how satisfying it is … it’s up there with painting and orgasms and loud guitars and fast motorcycles and violence. The play has a gimmick … something so brilliant I don’t dare disclose it … not even a hint.

.................

This is a drawing from 17 years ago.

Just when you thought it was safe to go to church again …

When I was young I had a list of goals which I thought would enable me to gain unassailable power. These included taking over a bank by force, building a solid gold statue of myself, and writing a new testament to the bible. Though I’ve never been sexually abused as a child (as far as I can remember) there was always an innate understanding that those who held a high position in the religious ranks were more powerful than even celebrities and politicians. I never imagined the desire to hold on to power could drive men to muffle so much suffering, to such an extensive rate, for such a long time, so successfully.
As usual, by the time I figure it out it’s too late. I could have joined the club and enslaved half of Eastern Europe by now with complete anonymity. I could have amassed a whole army, developed weapons of mass destruction, built a whole empire, and the worst that would have happened would be that the pope would tell me I couldn’t attend confession anymore.
I should maybe go to Italy and make friends with the pope … I’d be able to get away with murder then. But surely by now it’s too late and the church can’t be allowed so much authority … that’s obvious, right?