day one facebook jail, again.
the word, putito.
tiny whore man.
male slut.
whipping boy.
child servant.
social media is life porn.
and we managed fine without IT before it.
there will be no singularity, in our lifetime, because we would never agree.
that is the spirit of intelligence, data analysis no matter how fast, cannot inhabit the spirit realm, do not possess telepathy, coordination, grace.
i got put in the timeline timeout for telling US soldiers setting up airbases in Costa Rica, to not. and i called them a name i'd not like to be called.
i cannot say "with all due respect" because i do not know them personally.
i know maps and the curvature of the planet.
i know the ocean.
and what they're doing is very much my business.
costa rica abolished it's own army but gave residence to israeli armed forces, to exmarines, to half of caracas, and half of medellin, accepted a gift of neutrality from taiwan and then betrayed the bridge of trust for plastic gunk from china.
my facebook timeline reads like a perfect synthesis of everything that REALLY HAPPENED since 2008 when i joined. publish to print, on hemp.
the first time out was handed to me for referring to a philosopher, chinese, handsome, contemporary, who sells our purpose and pleasure as a species to the doom and despair of toys and technology. the kind of mind so enmeshed with sadness, there is no life.
i called him a putito because he'd like to be, he wished he'd be, called such names, by me.
because i meant "sell out", i meant schill, i meant doubter.
the gift of abstract thought comes alive in writing.
it means i've noticed him, i've listened; after all, doomsayers are given the burden of warning the stupid out of the people. i called him a name i would not care to be called, not that in the past it would not hurt, but in the present, interpersonal relativity is so subject to name calling, price gauging, censorship, privacy, legalese, firuletes and exculensis, most of social media has developed thicker skins and double chins.
insults in 2020 have nowhere else to go anymore.
2020/06/29
2020/06/28
hungry sunday
dear jen,
not dismissive of your work.
not dismissive of your work.
i know and i feel your work is brilliant, necessary, kind.
what i question is our work.
as authors, even small-time, even unpublished, we have privilege beyond the doctors, billionaires and politicians that claim to run the show.
even in fiction, we are tellers of truth.
you'd be right to sense some resentment.
but it's not towards you, it's towards the industry of publishing.
it's towards industry and modernity.
towards progress and safety first.
towards helmets and seat belts instead of buses to love riding, service that's free of charge, freedom to move without having to drive, to go without wearing a car.
since we both wrote fictionalized reality, we were both published.
but when i wrote reality, i couldn't find a referral, an agent, an outlet.
and my anxiety is looking forward, not unlike your beautiful daughter, what will i know for certain is true? who were those people that julian assange blew the whistle on? how will i write anything that guarantees the purity of fact when half of our human perception relies on magic and fairy-tales?
artificial cancels intelligence.
jk rowling should never have outed dumbledore.
you'd be right to sense some resentment.
but it's not towards you, it's towards the industry of publishing.
it's towards industry and modernity.
towards progress and safety first.
towards helmets and seat belts instead of buses to love riding, service that's free of charge, freedom to move without having to drive, to go without wearing a car.
since we both wrote fictionalized reality, we were both published.
but when i wrote reality, i couldn't find a referral, an agent, an outlet.
and my anxiety is looking forward, not unlike your beautiful daughter, what will i know for certain is true? who were those people that julian assange blew the whistle on? how will i write anything that guarantees the purity of fact when half of our human perception relies on magic and fairy-tales?
artificial cancels intelligence.
jk rowling should never have outed dumbledore.
2020/06/24
and so the conversation began
I sent the previous blog to Jen Steill who now lives in London.
If savory brisquit is our friendship, what is the tea?
She wrote back immediately from the confines of corona isolation, generously untangling chronologies of events as pertaining to how she arrived in Yemen and what unfolded there.
These became source material of her first two novels The Woman Who Fell To Earth and The Ambassador's Wife.
The first, as categorized by Googlereads, is an Autobiography, a straight replay of how she came to move to Yemen, who she met there, where she lived, what she ate and how the newspaper learned and adapted to change.
The second, Googlereads categorizes as Thriller, Suspense, Domestic Fiction. So, it would be an autobiographical true story based on the experience of meeting her husband and of being briefly abducted while visiting the countryside.
Both are real stories yet one is categorically "true" and the other is truth with a little flair?
As Jen unraveled her recent past, she too remembered meeting in new york city, where i stopped over for a night between boston and a flight back to costa rica. i had been considering writing my life story my whole life, that i night i decided it was important.
And so I did.
And it wasn't.
Over the next seven years, i wrote it and since then was ostracized by every single person in my life, family, friends, community. In the Cock year I got my Dog ass handed to me, called a prostitute, threatened with police summons, forbidden from speaking to my niece, called a thief, a liar, crazy, arrogant, and once my mother finished writing her own memoir, told that i literally had no life.
When I first met Jen at the corner bar, i was coming off the high of being published in Perú.
A fictionalized version of my life, what I would be like if I weren't a Bahai and if I had a lot money, and a father with no scruples.
I'd be just as lost.
shoegaze.
Casa de las muchachas, a two hundred page narrative about nine months of fetal development as experienced by the boozy best friend, in Santiago of 1995.
Casa de las muchachas was loosely based on my experience of bars and writers, in Chile, before gazing at shoes was a category to define a type of music, when the country was coming off the high of the plebiscite that removed Pinochet from power and replaced it with something far more sinister, a fanbase.
When Trini Subercaseux handed the keep of the corner bar I met Jen Steill in, to a man named Oscar, Trini went on to becoming a head chef for mccormick spices in their Latin American division.
She would visit restaurants far and wide compiling, sharing and promoting food preparation, plating and recipes, weaving commercial networks for the brand.
Two years ago, she started her own successful bistro in town.
If Trini is a real person in my life and I can write truthfully about her, about how she linked me to Jen Steill, why is Julian Assange still in jail?
thriller. suspense. domestic fiction.
I thought Casa de las muchachas would solve my life.
The way Julian Assange would solve crimes against humanity by exposing them, before discrepancy between official and informal information gathering was categorized as fake, between the street and the editorial, the chop block and the steak.
When the twin towers in NYC were demolished, the world and the time they were written and designed for, were erased.
Casa de las muchachas was merely the bilingual greys of my brain matter, an exercise of putting memory to paper, to words on pages, letting them out, passing them on.
wikipedia categorizes Elizabeth Wurtzel's work Prozac Nation as "confessional memoir". She published it when she was 27. There are no figures on the googlesearch, that tell how many copies were sold, only that reviews compared her work in importance to the Bell Jar and Girl Interrupted. She died last January, aged 52.
printed press, real news, false flag.
jen steill has had four of her books go to print, the latest is "exile music" at peguinrandomhouse.
about a musical family of austrian jews that migrate to bolivia to escape nazi germany.
this is not a review of that work, but the number of europeans who flocked to south america before, during and after, cannot be summarized in what i imagine is a well worded, bildungsroman.
i've never read a book from a kindle.
i don't tinder.
i've only read books that burn.
i've only seen one of the books i've written go to print.
since then i wrote The Puta Manifesto. i trusted the pages to a universal serial bus drive. i trusted the USB to Marco Kelso. he formatted the words with some pictures of me from 1996 into a virtual book. it seemed great at the moment. and then his real love took interest in him once again and he lost whatever The Puta Manifesto was, wires were tripped, circuits were shortened, files were erased, and their daughter was born.
shoegaze.
like a jeff buckley cover of an elliot smith song, jkrawling's world of magical wonders are neither magical nor wonderful. they don't speak the names of magic people, they bank on and burocratize magic, they limit magic by rule of law and order, it's almost as if a muggle who wanted to make a lot of money wrote about appropriating magical appropriation, harry instead of sarah potter.
Harry Potter was heavy and long and repetitive and full of formula designed to lull the young adult's brain into the comfortable space of reading, following plot thread, through familiar settings of schools and racists, secret societies and things that sound british.
HP also stands for Hewlett-Packard, a printing company that stood to profit from Hogwarts.
HP stands in Spanish for Hijo Puta.
JK went on, and on, for four thousand, two hundred, twenty four pages.
that sold half a billion copies.
i can't do the math of the trees that were felled in china and chile so the seven set collection of the series could sit, next to the hunger games, the twilight and the shades of grey series, on fake mantles in the tiny apartments of gentrification.
i do know they invented an actual machine that mimics the lumber harvesters of the lorax to harvest that lumber.
a speaker of truth has no friends.
so when Jen replied, she took me on about lumping her with Julian Assange into a same narrative, bashed the poor fucker, she wrote: "I am trying to think of Assange (one of the biggest assholes I've ever met, incidentally, so madly in love with himself he wouldn't recognize truth if it walked by in a bikini. White male patriarchal bullshit at its most shining) having any relation to me."
Assange spoke real names, banks, burocrats, law and order, reported war crimes, hacked computers, released content, leaked proof and exposed lies.
There is no relation between Julian Assange and Jen Steill, except in that we hold opinions, she about his reputation, me about the value of his work, why is the truth of wikileaks criminal?
It's was my best friend's birthday when i wrote this, she died 11.11.2013. gemini to scorpio.
de-escalate any possible situation before it got too bleak, too personal or too basic.
Casa de las muchachas was followed, shortly before i met jen, with The Puta Manifiesto. It was a twelve part essay written in the three years following 9.11.2001. It was about the energy emitted by the word "fuck".
The Woman Who Fell To Earth was a journal kept.
Good journalism.
trini and jen are both scorpio.
the tea, perhaps is a third friend, another scorpio ivonne montealegre, a blond, blue-eyed costa rican poker player. she moved to malta 2010.
what is artificial cannot be intelligent.
spirit is the intelligence not the cross analysis of data.
a machine, that does not experience the biological duality of sex, cannot be intelligent.
during one month stint in the censurship jail of the social media, i decided to explore the meaning and correlations of the word that got me in here: "putito".
to quote iñigo montoya, "i do not think that means what you think it means"
"putito"
it's a cute little word.
it means tiny man-whore.
a teeny tiny man, who will make love to a woman, for money, fame and/or power, without making the effort of loving women.
he will say all the right things to them, even if they're lies, in order to fuck.
if you say something he'll call you the same name back, shame your sexuality, mock your orgasms.
putitos know and understand the law, they agree with some of it, and disobey the rest.
the difference between myself and a putito is that they stand by, defend and believe in the law.
they live inside the law, they shield their business with it, they apply it to everyone beside themselves. instead of changing the law, they profit from others breaking it.
calling someone antisemite means nothing unless you're a racist.
one that distinguishes between white jews and white christians and white persians.
If savory brisquit is our friendship, what is the tea?
She wrote back immediately from the confines of corona isolation, generously untangling chronologies of events as pertaining to how she arrived in Yemen and what unfolded there.
These became source material of her first two novels The Woman Who Fell To Earth and The Ambassador's Wife.
The first, as categorized by Googlereads, is an Autobiography, a straight replay of how she came to move to Yemen, who she met there, where she lived, what she ate and how the newspaper learned and adapted to change.
The second, Googlereads categorizes as Thriller, Suspense, Domestic Fiction. So, it would be an autobiographical true story based on the experience of meeting her husband and of being briefly abducted while visiting the countryside.
Both are real stories yet one is categorically "true" and the other is truth with a little flair?
As Jen unraveled her recent past, she too remembered meeting in new york city, where i stopped over for a night between boston and a flight back to costa rica. i had been considering writing my life story my whole life, that i night i decided it was important.
And so I did.
And it wasn't.
Over the next seven years, i wrote it and since then was ostracized by every single person in my life, family, friends, community. In the Cock year I got my Dog ass handed to me, called a prostitute, threatened with police summons, forbidden from speaking to my niece, called a thief, a liar, crazy, arrogant, and once my mother finished writing her own memoir, told that i literally had no life.
When I first met Jen at the corner bar, i was coming off the high of being published in Perú.
A fictionalized version of my life, what I would be like if I weren't a Bahai and if I had a lot money, and a father with no scruples.
I'd be just as lost.
shoegaze.
Casa de las muchachas, a two hundred page narrative about nine months of fetal development as experienced by the boozy best friend, in Santiago of 1995.
Casa de las muchachas was loosely based on my experience of bars and writers, in Chile, before gazing at shoes was a category to define a type of music, when the country was coming off the high of the plebiscite that removed Pinochet from power and replaced it with something far more sinister, a fanbase.
When Trini Subercaseux handed the keep of the corner bar I met Jen Steill in, to a man named Oscar, Trini went on to becoming a head chef for mccormick spices in their Latin American division.
She would visit restaurants far and wide compiling, sharing and promoting food preparation, plating and recipes, weaving commercial networks for the brand.
Two years ago, she started her own successful bistro in town.
If Trini is a real person in my life and I can write truthfully about her, about how she linked me to Jen Steill, why is Julian Assange still in jail?
thriller. suspense. domestic fiction.
I thought Casa de las muchachas would solve my life.
The way Julian Assange would solve crimes against humanity by exposing them, before discrepancy between official and informal information gathering was categorized as fake, between the street and the editorial, the chop block and the steak.
When the twin towers in NYC were demolished, the world and the time they were written and designed for, were erased.
Casa de las muchachas was merely the bilingual greys of my brain matter, an exercise of putting memory to paper, to words on pages, letting them out, passing them on.
wikipedia categorizes Elizabeth Wurtzel's work Prozac Nation as "confessional memoir". She published it when she was 27. There are no figures on the googlesearch, that tell how many copies were sold, only that reviews compared her work in importance to the Bell Jar and Girl Interrupted. She died last January, aged 52.
printed press, real news, false flag.
jen steill has had four of her books go to print, the latest is "exile music" at peguinrandomhouse.
about a musical family of austrian jews that migrate to bolivia to escape nazi germany.
this is not a review of that work, but the number of europeans who flocked to south america before, during and after, cannot be summarized in what i imagine is a well worded, bildungsroman.
i've never read a book from a kindle.
i don't tinder.
i've only read books that burn.
i've only seen one of the books i've written go to print.
since then i wrote The Puta Manifesto. i trusted the pages to a universal serial bus drive. i trusted the USB to Marco Kelso. he formatted the words with some pictures of me from 1996 into a virtual book. it seemed great at the moment. and then his real love took interest in him once again and he lost whatever The Puta Manifesto was, wires were tripped, circuits were shortened, files were erased, and their daughter was born.
shoegaze.
like a jeff buckley cover of an elliot smith song, jkrawling's world of magical wonders are neither magical nor wonderful. they don't speak the names of magic people, they bank on and burocratize magic, they limit magic by rule of law and order, it's almost as if a muggle who wanted to make a lot of money wrote about appropriating magical appropriation, harry instead of sarah potter.
Harry Potter was heavy and long and repetitive and full of formula designed to lull the young adult's brain into the comfortable space of reading, following plot thread, through familiar settings of schools and racists, secret societies and things that sound british.
HP also stands for Hewlett-Packard, a printing company that stood to profit from Hogwarts.
HP stands in Spanish for Hijo Puta.
JK went on, and on, for four thousand, two hundred, twenty four pages.
that sold half a billion copies.
i can't do the math of the trees that were felled in china and chile so the seven set collection of the series could sit, next to the hunger games, the twilight and the shades of grey series, on fake mantles in the tiny apartments of gentrification.
i do know they invented an actual machine that mimics the lumber harvesters of the lorax to harvest that lumber.
a speaker of truth has no friends.
so when Jen replied, she took me on about lumping her with Julian Assange into a same narrative, bashed the poor fucker, she wrote: "I am trying to think of Assange (one of the biggest assholes I've ever met, incidentally, so madly in love with himself he wouldn't recognize truth if it walked by in a bikini. White male patriarchal bullshit at its most shining) having any relation to me."
Assange spoke real names, banks, burocrats, law and order, reported war crimes, hacked computers, released content, leaked proof and exposed lies.
There is no relation between Julian Assange and Jen Steill, except in that we hold opinions, she about his reputation, me about the value of his work, why is the truth of wikileaks criminal?
It's was my best friend's birthday when i wrote this, she died 11.11.2013. gemini to scorpio.
de-escalate any possible situation before it got too bleak, too personal or too basic.
Casa de las muchachas was followed, shortly before i met jen, with The Puta Manifiesto. It was a twelve part essay written in the three years following 9.11.2001. It was about the energy emitted by the word "fuck".
The Woman Who Fell To Earth was a journal kept.
Good journalism.
trini and jen are both scorpio.
the tea, perhaps is a third friend, another scorpio ivonne montealegre, a blond, blue-eyed costa rican poker player. she moved to malta 2010.
what is artificial cannot be intelligent.
spirit is the intelligence not the cross analysis of data.
a machine, that does not experience the biological duality of sex, cannot be intelligent.
during one month stint in the censurship jail of the social media, i decided to explore the meaning and correlations of the word that got me in here: "putito".
to quote iñigo montoya, "i do not think that means what you think it means"
"putito"
it's a cute little word.
it means tiny man-whore.
a teeny tiny man, who will make love to a woman, for money, fame and/or power, without making the effort of loving women.
he will say all the right things to them, even if they're lies, in order to fuck.
if you say something he'll call you the same name back, shame your sexuality, mock your orgasms.
putitos know and understand the law, they agree with some of it, and disobey the rest.
the difference between myself and a putito is that they stand by, defend and believe in the law.
they live inside the law, they shield their business with it, they apply it to everyone beside themselves. instead of changing the law, they profit from others breaking it.
calling someone antisemite means nothing unless you're a racist.
one that distinguishes between white jews and white christians and white persians.
2020/06/13
how i met ms jen steil, author
june 1st, 2020
costa rica
it rains
it rains the rain of a billion years
each and every drop that condenses and falls and evaporates are each and every drop that has ever condensed and fallen and evaporated, since rain was rain, before each world, itself.
each drop is the tiny miraculous gem of atoms once weaponized, now returned, restored, repaired both before and after cern went on and offline.
this is, a year within a year, zero sum to replenish and revitalize all time and all memory, undoing ritual and rite of passage, dark magic, cabals, secret societies, clearing the minds of hate, hurt and worry, the washing of the water, in sleep, filters and removes the thoughts that plague and torment, dissolving the fine grains of bother, unravelling the muddled confusion of threat, revealing every hoax and hex that stood to gain from separation and neglect.
water is life.
and yet, in conversation, what do we say? "que pereza la lluvia".
we attribute rain to sloth.
with one flippant word, for the sake of mundane conversation, we disdain what is most precious, perfection.
it rains on this town.
this town cannot write itself...
under the hum of this rain on its rooftops.
circular timelines between rains, sun kissed, the neighbors don't bother with gossip unless the fights are real, so the quarrels end quickly, some forever.
punchlines are forgotten here and same jokes are laughed at repeatedly.
the mayor closed down all the bars, eventually.
our bar was at the bottom of the hill i'd lived on forever.
once a christian social hall, always a dive, i'd known two men killed near the premise:
billy pichuza and freddy pejibaye.
billy was killed by a blow to the back of his head, in the central market, as he walked home, by a taxi driver who was afraid of him. billy was black and tall and handsome.
freddy was killed by electricity, while welding. freddy had once looked like pop singer Gerardo of "rico suave" fame, before he died though, he'd turned the color of a pejibaye, a very reddish orange.
our bar sat on a corner and was full of caverns.
sometimes it had windows, mostly it had the lingering dusk of every tropical storm, of every time the song dust in the wind had reached someone's ears, the wood floor creaked, the tile remained unfaded, the tin roof leaked and the toilets flowed into the yard. the decorum swung between retro caribbean candle light and trova, to a white washed fade into argentine pop and rock deprogramming, to simply oscar's bar.
jen showed up when trini subercaseux was the keep, she liked to play cepillin pinpon, for last call.
at the other side of the bar, jen was flanked with two eager townies.
she had long wavy black hair that flowed from two silver stars forming at her temples, top mascara over bright blue eyes and proper red lip stick.
trini took her drink and set it over next to mine.
"i hope you don't mind" jen said to me as she sat down.
"not at all, what's your story?"
"i write"
i was glad, because i like it when gorgeous people, who i don't know, be they men or women, admit that they too are constantly on the lookout for another anecdote, metaphor, punchline, irony, epiphany to mull over, share and reflect upon, to spin forwards and backwards, till the staggered walk home feels like a musical number in a movie scene. cepillin pinpon.
writers are the best drinkers.
on that night she explained she'd been holed up at roger white's artist colony in the hills finishing a manuscript, getting over a heartbreak, swimming every day. she was between jobs, assignments, flexing her wings for what would end up being a long flight to Africa, for what i knew, then and there, would be a long career writing about other people and their cultures.
if i recall correctly she'd aim for Malawi, but end up in Yemen, editor in chief at a struggling newspaper, before the internet caught on.
"they don't know the formula for reporting" she said "you know, the who did what where when and why".
she told me about pace makers and the shifting sound they made, about the distractions of dutch men with big brown curls.
it was cute.
like all tourists, larping about overseas, who feel shocked "to their cores" when they see costa rica's sex tourism first hand, the very young girls, boys, the old war veterans in ugly shirts, the drugs and the taxi rides, the politicians and film stars.
i'd no way of informing her, any more than what she could see first hand.
i chose not to be embarrassed.
"it's business" i told her.
wikileaks is business.
the business of journalism at it's finest.
tax payers deserve to know how their money is spent.
how the media they consume is managed.
just writing shit down can bypass television, radio, cinema, cgi, games, brands, chemistry and has the power, if it's in the service of truth, to cancel black magic.
when i met jen, julian assange had published his first wikidrop.
i was coming down off the high of having my first novel win a publishing deal in perú.
trini's argentine disco pub was the cross between macondo azul and oscar's bar.
jk rawling was finishing the last tome of her ten year saga covering the adolescence of a privileged white contemporary warlock.
the bar no longer exists.
the corner building was razed and a parking lot was laid for a bank built on the soppy end of the yard where the toilets flowed.
and rawling has fallen on hard times with her fans for restating that male-female identity are paramount to both reality and magic. without the nature of the female and the male there is no fantasy. the political movement with it's preference specific gender identification is mostly the imagination and as a legal entity or literary device, serve no purpose.
she blew it when she outed dumbledore, a common female misuse of power.
but i did the math. the cold hard numbers. if the tomes of her seven books totaled 4,224 pages and she sold half a billion copies, the number of pages printed is 2,112 billion pages in which none of the adolescents at hogwarts show any interest in occult sexuality.
june 12
third time community standards "violation" back in facebook prison, as of yesterday.
i can still scroll through the 13 year history between the time jen and i became friends, thousands of shares, loves, likes, tears, wows and memes, gifs, congratulations and condolences.
the timeline i share with jen since then is like a brisquit, which neither of us is sure exactly what it is but that it sounds delicious and tricky to cook.
costa rica
it rains
it rains the rain of a billion years
each and every drop that condenses and falls and evaporates are each and every drop that has ever condensed and fallen and evaporated, since rain was rain, before each world, itself.
each drop is the tiny miraculous gem of atoms once weaponized, now returned, restored, repaired both before and after cern went on and offline.
this is, a year within a year, zero sum to replenish and revitalize all time and all memory, undoing ritual and rite of passage, dark magic, cabals, secret societies, clearing the minds of hate, hurt and worry, the washing of the water, in sleep, filters and removes the thoughts that plague and torment, dissolving the fine grains of bother, unravelling the muddled confusion of threat, revealing every hoax and hex that stood to gain from separation and neglect.
water is life.
and yet, in conversation, what do we say? "que pereza la lluvia".
we attribute rain to sloth.
with one flippant word, for the sake of mundane conversation, we disdain what is most precious, perfection.
it rains on this town.
this town cannot write itself...
under the hum of this rain on its rooftops.
circular timelines between rains, sun kissed, the neighbors don't bother with gossip unless the fights are real, so the quarrels end quickly, some forever.
punchlines are forgotten here and same jokes are laughed at repeatedly.
the mayor closed down all the bars, eventually.
our bar was at the bottom of the hill i'd lived on forever.
once a christian social hall, always a dive, i'd known two men killed near the premise:
billy pichuza and freddy pejibaye.
billy was killed by a blow to the back of his head, in the central market, as he walked home, by a taxi driver who was afraid of him. billy was black and tall and handsome.
freddy was killed by electricity, while welding. freddy had once looked like pop singer Gerardo of "rico suave" fame, before he died though, he'd turned the color of a pejibaye, a very reddish orange.
our bar sat on a corner and was full of caverns.
sometimes it had windows, mostly it had the lingering dusk of every tropical storm, of every time the song dust in the wind had reached someone's ears, the wood floor creaked, the tile remained unfaded, the tin roof leaked and the toilets flowed into the yard. the decorum swung between retro caribbean candle light and trova, to a white washed fade into argentine pop and rock deprogramming, to simply oscar's bar.
jen showed up when trini subercaseux was the keep, she liked to play cepillin pinpon, for last call.
at the other side of the bar, jen was flanked with two eager townies.
she had long wavy black hair that flowed from two silver stars forming at her temples, top mascara over bright blue eyes and proper red lip stick.
trini took her drink and set it over next to mine.
"i hope you don't mind" jen said to me as she sat down.
"not at all, what's your story?"
"i write"
i was glad, because i like it when gorgeous people, who i don't know, be they men or women, admit that they too are constantly on the lookout for another anecdote, metaphor, punchline, irony, epiphany to mull over, share and reflect upon, to spin forwards and backwards, till the staggered walk home feels like a musical number in a movie scene. cepillin pinpon.
writers are the best drinkers.
on that night she explained she'd been holed up at roger white's artist colony in the hills finishing a manuscript, getting over a heartbreak, swimming every day. she was between jobs, assignments, flexing her wings for what would end up being a long flight to Africa, for what i knew, then and there, would be a long career writing about other people and their cultures.
if i recall correctly she'd aim for Malawi, but end up in Yemen, editor in chief at a struggling newspaper, before the internet caught on.
"they don't know the formula for reporting" she said "you know, the who did what where when and why".
she told me about pace makers and the shifting sound they made, about the distractions of dutch men with big brown curls.
it was cute.
like all tourists, larping about overseas, who feel shocked "to their cores" when they see costa rica's sex tourism first hand, the very young girls, boys, the old war veterans in ugly shirts, the drugs and the taxi rides, the politicians and film stars.
i'd no way of informing her, any more than what she could see first hand.
i chose not to be embarrassed.
"it's business" i told her.
wikileaks is business.
the business of journalism at it's finest.
tax payers deserve to know how their money is spent.
how the media they consume is managed.
just writing shit down can bypass television, radio, cinema, cgi, games, brands, chemistry and has the power, if it's in the service of truth, to cancel black magic.
when i met jen, julian assange had published his first wikidrop.
i was coming down off the high of having my first novel win a publishing deal in perú.
trini's argentine disco pub was the cross between macondo azul and oscar's bar.
jk rawling was finishing the last tome of her ten year saga covering the adolescence of a privileged white contemporary warlock.
the bar no longer exists.
the corner building was razed and a parking lot was laid for a bank built on the soppy end of the yard where the toilets flowed.
and rawling has fallen on hard times with her fans for restating that male-female identity are paramount to both reality and magic. without the nature of the female and the male there is no fantasy. the political movement with it's preference specific gender identification is mostly the imagination and as a legal entity or literary device, serve no purpose.
she blew it when she outed dumbledore, a common female misuse of power.
but i did the math. the cold hard numbers. if the tomes of her seven books totaled 4,224 pages and she sold half a billion copies, the number of pages printed is 2,112 billion pages in which none of the adolescents at hogwarts show any interest in occult sexuality.
june 12
third time community standards "violation" back in facebook prison, as of yesterday.
i can still scroll through the 13 year history between the time jen and i became friends, thousands of shares, loves, likes, tears, wows and memes, gifs, congratulations and condolences.
the timeline i share with jen since then is like a brisquit, which neither of us is sure exactly what it is but that it sounds delicious and tricky to cook.
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