untitled.

joseph campbell: now i just want to speak about the phases in the development of any mythology; how does it start and what happens to it. i think one can say this. that all of the high culchus, and low culchus, and primitive culchus, and charming, simple culchus, and great big enormous ones, have grown out of myths. they are founded on myths. and what these myths have given, has been inspiration, for aspiration.

the economic interpretation of history is for the birds.

economics is itself a function of aspiration. it's what people aspire to that creates the field in which economics works. and people who dont have any aspirations - you know - the problem of a businessman who cant get people to want anything.

it's the want. it's the aspiration. and what is wanted is not simply one, two, or three meals a day and a bed. that's not enough. it's gotta be much more than that, to make a life. now where do these aspirations come from? they come from a very wonderful, childlike thing. fascination.

...these fascinations are the creation of new activities.

i only date women from red states; what was first an observation became an instigation, and then, somewhere without my being consciously aware of it, became a preternatural intuition. the women i court, turn out, after the fact, to be from texas and florida and georgia.

i dont live in williamsburg anymore. that is not brooklyn. brooklyn is being one of only a handful of white people on the c train when you go home at night. tonite, i was one of two. and she got off before me. and i loved that.

im a sprinter - if not at heart, in muscle and gut memory. during high school, i used to crouch among countless black boys, bunched like eggs in cartons behind the starting line of the 50, in the armory on 168. that was an uncomfortable feeling of exhilaration that i felt more comfortable with than most any feeling i had felt before. i was a boy. and im younger now.

bruce springsteen: baby once i thought i knew. everything i needed - to know about you. sweet whisper, your tender touch.

i didnt really, know that much.

the guy sitting to my right on the c didnt look like 'an intellectual.' but in his lap was a wikipedia printout of singapore airlines flight 006.

On 31 October 2000, at 15:17 UTC, 23:17 Taipei local time, a Boeing 747-412[1] on the route attempted to take off from the wrong runway in Taipei during a typhoon, destroying the aircraft and killing 83 of the 179 occupants.

joke's on me, but it's - gonna be okay.

if i could. get through this lonesome day.

lonesome fall day.

yankees 10, angels 1.

how many angels can dance on the sweetspot of a-rod's bat?

nice and smooth: a-rod's bat is sweeter and thicker than a chico stick.

sweetspot bigger than prospect park in july. the angels, drunk on his sangria.

i saw your mother making a subway transfer in union square tonite. she was leaving the 4 with two friends and i was arriving with one memory. and i thought of you. (like i wasnt already.)

my sister recently said something about baseball that made me realize shes smarter than i am (and i liked that).

she said baseball doesnt need instant replay. it doesnt matter if an umpire gets a call wrong.

all that matters is that everyone is doing their thing.

baseball is not about the score. that's why it doesnt have a clock. it's about custom. tradition. it's people, not players. it's culture. it's culchu. it's myth.

stephen covey (paraphrased, as if he were talking about baseball - which he may as well be): it's about a compass, not a clock.

baseball tonite: johnny damon hit a grand slam against the yankees on this date in 04.

then - it made me literally sick to my stomach.

tonite - he hit a two-run homer for us. i yelped with joy and stood up and pumped my arm. alone in my apartment in real brooklyn. i dont think of him as a red sock anymore.

life is fluid.

palm l.o. hedcatt: due to intractability, it is incumbent upon you to ratchet down. (the only constant is change. change is intractable.)

i dont want to ratchet down.

i just want to ratchet up in the right places.

i dont know how things will be.

except i know theyll be different.

i cant wait. i can never wait.

fall is the only honest season. things are ripening and dying at the same time. green chlorophyll abandons leaves and reveals the colorful residues of their lives, like a cut reveals oxygenated red blood, the milk of life. fall is the delta of veins in your wrist: the image of it all at once, the cross-section, straight through the layers of life.

the chill in the air, as fresh on your skin as the day you were born.

the mecury's vertiginous improvisation is like a trombone.

the fall is jazz.

jazz is the most honest music. you dont know what will come next, but your intuition validates it after the fact. because maybe it knew it all along.

or maybe it didnt know it. but then, it knew that.

brooklyn is the fall of new york.

30 is the fall of life.

baseball is the only sport that awards its olive wreath in fall. the most honest crown.

me: i dont know how things will be.

except i know theyll be different.

i cant wait. i can never wait.