𝙟𝙪𝙨𝙩 𝙖 𝙩𝙖𝙙

Dispatch
01-05-02024

𝗛𝗲𝗮𝗿𝘁 𝗗𝗲𝗳𝗶𝗯𝗿𝗶𝗹𝗹𝗮𝘁𝗼𝗿 , 𝕄𝔸𝔻 𝔻𝕆𝔾 , 𝕮𝖍𝖚𝖗𝖈𝖍 𝕸𝖚𝖘𝖎𝖈 :: Phrases floating like icebergs across my moment. I’d hoped to strike one, to suffer an ego hull breach and sink into the briny deeps of myself — down to murky poetics and pressure induced ego-deaths.

I sail past them all though, unperturbed. The dutiful dullard in my crow’s nest is keen and alert — steering my consciousness into 2024 unruptured by romantics and flippant meaning-making. He doesn’t seem to mind that . . .

‘𝚂𝚑𝚒𝚙 𝙰𝚛𝚛𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚜 𝚂𝚊𝚏𝚎𝚕𝚢 𝚝𝚘 𝙿𝚘𝚛𝚝’

. . . is such a boring headline.

‘𝕄𝔸𝔻 𝔻𝕆𝔾’ is tattooed across the flexed arm of a Saint Bernard T-shirt graphic, a vintage 𝗕𝗶𝗴 𝗗𝗼𝗴™ clad on the back of a bartender.

“𝓗𝓮 𝓸𝔀𝓷𝓼 𝓮𝓿𝓮𝓻𝔂 𝓟𝓸𝓼𝓽 𝓜𝓪𝓵𝓸𝓷𝓮 𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝓣𝓱𝓮 𝓦𝓮𝓮𝓴𝓷𝓭 𝓻𝓮𝓬𝓸𝓻𝓭, 𝓫𝓾𝓽 𝓲𝓼 𝓼𝓾𝓻𝓹𝓻𝓲𝓼𝓲𝓷𝓰𝓵𝔂 𝓷𝓸𝓷-𝓽𝓸𝔁𝓲𝓬”

. . . I hear her say about her new fling as she pours a pint of 𝕮𝖍𝖚𝖗𝖈𝖍 𝕸𝖚𝖘𝖎𝖈 IPA.

The phrase ‘𝗛𝗲𝗮𝗿𝘁 𝗗𝗲𝗳𝗶𝗯𝗿𝗶𝗹𝗹𝗮𝘁𝗼𝗿’ just popped to mind. It’s a device I’m thinking of purchasing as a lil’ personal new year’s treat. My heart is beating fine, but I feel like it could use some excitement.

In a few days, I celebrate the month where I write and cross out 【２３】 in my journal every morning. The span of time since 2020 continues to feel like one ░L░O░N░G░ year — the time dilation effect of the ever present meta-event called ‘PANDEMIC’ or ‘ELECTION’ or ‘WAR’.

But personally, this ░L░O░N░G░ year has more to do with my own unraveling relationship with linearity. 2020 is the year I doubled down Nietzche’s philosophical concept, the  ᴱᵀᴱᴿᴺᴬᴸ 𖣘 ᴿᴱᵀᵁᴿᴺ. I doubt I’ll ever grasp this construct full-n-firm, but my slip grip I got has whipped the line of my life into a wonky spiral. I ring around my wake and sleep, my rise and set, my seasons that leave and return, experiencing the same emotions in a plethora of settings, and a plethora of emotions in the same settings. Everything comes back the ᔕᗩᗰE-ᔕᗩᗰE, but 𝙟𝙪𝙨𝙩 𝙖 𝙩𝙖𝙙 different. I’m watching that ‘𝙟𝙪𝙨𝙩 𝙖 𝙩𝙖𝙙’ transform into a nourishing juice, squeezed out of life by pressure of living.

I lived in Thailand for a year in 2010. The Thai use the phrase ‘ᔕᗩᗰE-ᔕᗩᗰE’ often. ‘ᔕᗩᗰE-ᔕᗩᗰE’ is not the same as ‘same’. It’s an invitation to become conceptually flexible. I remember asking for a ferry ticket to the island of Koh Pha-Ngan.

“𝘕𝘰 𝘵𝘪𝘤𝘬𝘦𝘵𝘴 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘒𝘰𝘩 𝘗𝘩𝘢-𝘕𝘨𝘢𝘯 𝘵𝘰𝘥𝘢𝘺, 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘴𝘰𝘭𝘥. 𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘢 𝘵𝘪𝘤𝘬𝘦𝘵 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘒𝘰𝘩 𝘛𝘢𝘰. 𝘒𝘰𝘩 𝘛𝘢𝘰 𝘪𝘴 ᔕᗩᗰ𝘌-ᔕᗩᗰ𝘌.”

. . . two beach paradises surrounded by azul seas, not the same, but ᔕᗩᗰE-ᔕᗩᗰE, with a 𝙟𝙪𝙨𝙩 𝙖 𝙩𝙖𝙙 of difference to squeeze. It took me over a decade to see that ᔕᗩᗰE - ᔕᗩᗰE = ᔕᗩᗰE + ᔕᑌᖇᑭᖇIᔕE. I feel more receptive to that invitation now.

If I were to pick my totem spirit for this phase of life, it would be Nietzche’s eagle, flying wide loops with its best friend Mr. Serpent undulating round its neck — my loftiest ideals spiraling in intimate harmony with the peristalsis of my most earthly instincts. A total fucking power couple.

To pick my totem 𝘗𝘰𝘬𝘦𝘮𝘰𝘯™? A Poliwhirl, ready for action, flaunting their spiral.



I’m on a long drive, and I find just the right song to score it, so right it is revelatory. I put the song on repeat, hearing it become less potent with each return, until its waning wills me to roll the dice on different tune, or risk it all on silence.

It can be hard for me to enjoy silence, but oooh do I enjoy having been silent.

For me, snagging time for silence falls into that frustrating category of 𝗵𝗮𝗿𝗱 things that make life 𝓮𝓪𝓼𝓲𝓮𝓻 — a birthright that has been beaten into a privilege. A hypocritical beating administered to food, clean water, healthcare, and not being crushed by war rubble. I tug the sweater threads of all these birthrights/privilege, hoping to unveil an inalienable truth, but they just unravel in a pile of yarn around a shivering body. I weave them back up on intuition and hand them over . . . shouting a 𝓗ට𝓛𝓨 . . .

‘ᖴᑌᑕK’

. . . at the lunatic apparatus that demands market viable solutions for suffering.

The logic of hard work, money management, strong borders, and national security. Logics like so many clouds in a sky that — bless it — waits patiently to clear.

I think it might be the oldest game kids play, giving names to clouds . . .

‘𝓽𝓱𝓲𝓼 𝓸𝓷𝓮 𝓵𝓸𝓸𝓴𝓼 𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝓸𝔁, 𝓽𝓱𝓪𝓽 𝓸𝓷𝓮 𝓪 𝓼𝓪𝓫𝓮𝓻𝓽𝓸𝓸𝓽𝓱 𝓽𝓲𝓰𝓮𝓻, 𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓯𝓻𝓾𝓶𝓹𝔂 𝓸𝓷𝓮 𝓾𝓹 𝓽𝓱𝓮𝓻𝓮 𝓵𝓸𝓸𝓴𝓼 𝓪 𝓫𝓲𝓽 𝓵𝓲𝓴𝓮 𝓜𝓪𝓻𝓰𝓮𝓽 𝓣𝓱𝓪𝓽𝓬𝓱𝓮𝓻’

. . . I may spend the rest of my life I’m trying to unname them.

On the eve of 2024, I’m running along the urban Phoenix canals and finishing the latest New Models Podcast. It ends with the song Ｂｌｏｗｎ, by ＬＦＯ. I turn Ｂｌｏｗｎ to repeat and feel it’s revelation spiral whisper . . .

“𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓈 𝒾𝓈 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓇𝒾𝑔𝒽𝓉 𝓅𝓁𝒶𝒸𝑒.”

Over the past 2 years, I’ve become as familiar with these canal ecosystems — their turtles, waterfowl, and gargantuan catfish — as I had with any redwood trail from my previous decade in Oakland. I noticed a skateboard (a 𝓟𝓮𝓷𝓷𝔂 𝓒𝓵𝓪𝓼𝓼𝓲𝓬 to be exact) in the canal, half sunk between a shopping cart and a purple bike. I always wanted a 𝓟𝓮𝓷𝓷𝔂 𝓒𝓵𝓪𝓼𝓼𝓲𝓬.

I slide down the steep cement embankment, landing righty-lefty on the bike’s top bar and seat,  and make a nimble hop to the shopping cart — it teeters . . . then rests.

I grab the 𝓟𝓮𝓷𝓷𝔂 𝓒𝓵𝓪𝓼𝓼𝓲𝓬, scramble up the embankment, throw the board to the Earth, and —Ｂｌｏｗｎ still spiraling — hop on. It looked like it’d been down in that muck for a minute, but rolls as smooth as the life I desire for us all in 2024.

Despite a decade off the board, wide sweeping kick-pushes flowing out my pelvis like a pendulum. I rode the 3 mile home near-falling several times navigating the crosswalks, listening to Ｂｌｏｗｎ slip out euphoria and into nostalgia. I start feeling into how ♥ᖴᑌᑎ♥ this all woulda been with a kid — them and I riding home on river trash discoveries, on a day 𝙟𝙪𝙨𝙩 𝙖 𝙩𝙖𝙙 different than the last. It’s a relief to think I might have enough magic left in me to be a half-decent Dad.



For now, the sidewalk 𝙠𝙖-𝙘𝙡𝙪𝙣𝙠 𝙠𝙖-𝙘𝙡𝙪𝙣𝙠 blends into the beat. Om Shanti Shanti, past fentanyl foils, single-use plastics, and a discarded DVD copy of ˢᴬᵂ : ᵀʰᵉ ᴰⁱʳᵉᶜᵗᵒʳˢ ᶜᵘᵗ. Despite my resentment of all things sanctimonious, saccharine, and sentimental, I’m a wash in the allegory of renewal that accompanies the【２３／２４】 numerical switch-up of a calendar I never choose.

For a precious sec, I’m all Ｂｌｏｗｎ out of it.