Anyway, back to last Friday--on our way to a birthday dinner at Amigos, Pam and I passed this fortuitous sign--there was my name! Why? Who tagged that? A nice beginning to a nice evening.
Post-dinner, Broadway at sunset. Unfortunately the camera phased out the deep orange of the sky. C'est la vie. The Lonely Londoners--not sure if I've mentioned it before, but quite a book--all about the immigrant West Indian experience in London in the 1950s. Exciting for me, for that's when my maternal grandparents immigrated to London from Trinidad.
I'm not sure yet how I'm going to approach the essay, but Selvon's narrative, if I remember it correctly, highlighted the economic challenges the immigrants faced. The grid of London as a map of economic power points. The ancient cold grey city as lock-box. How to access the money? The necessity of appearing non-threatening. 
Below, my friend Sasha and I. He came here years ago from the old Yugoslavia, and has built a life for himself here. 
I'm going to have to look into some of my Foucalt books. The internalization of authority. Arranging one's life so that it runs parallel with the dominant pathology. My grandmother loved the British Empire--admired the Queen and traditional British culture. As she grew older she grew angry at the new waves of immigrants moving into her borough of east London, Barking. Owain and I with a bottle of nice rum. I must say I'm blessed with fantastic friends. 
And here's Bruce, owner of a legendary party place here in toon town. Wielder of a deadly squash racket, but nice enough to host some pre-bar birthday drinks for me at short notice.
Will have to read the novel again tomorrow. Time to buckle down once again. Foucalt's panopticon. The ideal of power is that we internalize authority and police ourselves. Here's Jordan and I--Jordan with the famous Glasgow flat, where Arthur Conan Doyle employed forensic techniques to solve a murder so I'm told. Jordie's synchronicity antennae were tuned in...there was an interview with Irvine Welsh recently in the Guardian, and lo and behold, Jordan gifted me with Reheated Garbage by Welsh. Trainspotting, shit. I remember reading that years ago for the first time in England--can't remember what made me pick it up. After I finally got used to his Scottish vernacular, I was blown away--after weaning myself on Burroughs and Kerouac it was a nice departure but still on the same airline, if you know what I mean. In the interview he said he writes like he drinks--binge style.
And Sexing the Cherry. Years ago I read a book of essays by Winterson--Art and Lies I believe it was called. I can't recall much about it, except that I liked it...I'm telling you, my powers of literary criticism know no bounds. If you want some pretty sweet lit. crit. check out this tumblr called popfop. Authority in Sexing the Cherry, hmmm. Puritans.
I think we did a pretty good job of resisting the puritan ethic on Friday. Blaine and Kristen enjoying a cigarette.
Sexing the Cherry has it all--time-jumping, transformation of traditional sex-roles, fairy-tale extravaganzas, reality as an accident-of-light...
This tree is actually an Ent. It got up and walked away when we were done.
This essay will be tough, but I'm excited to work on it.
Yeah I'm glad I went out. I spent the previous weeks telling people I didn't care and that I did not want to do anything. I was wrong. Again.
Rocker kicks at Vangellis to obscure dj noodlings. I liked it the music--so much so that I felt I had to go tell the dj guy, who I'm sure really appreciated my thoughts.
Classic Crown Victoria. My dad used to have one--it was all white. This car might look rough, but we all know it's a marshmallow ride.
Saturday afternoon. The plan was to sleep it away, but my dad ended up coming to town, so we went walking the dogs--much better than hiding away in bed all day. Hangovers--you gotta turn that fuzzy head into a memorable wise-cracking afternoon...
saw this bike after going through the Dairy Queen drive through for dipped cones. 
Ha! A good start to a new year!
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