Day 7

The Website has been discovered by The Notebook. Ian M, who will make two appearances today, had a great suggestion. “You should change the font colors on your webblog so all notebook entries are, I don’t know, red, an all the stuff you add is black, like a donkey or dolphin I respond to colors.” Good idea, Ian. Also, you are hired. Email alpha@estamosaqui.org for further instructions on your first mission.

Another intersection of the virtual and hyperlocal occurred when Steve Lockitch made his second entry, which contained an actual advertisement for his website. We speculated that 4WRD! could have been our first ad, but this seems definitive. “I love walking in the morning. Evering smells so fresh. A good way to wake up & get your endorfines moving & get some exercise & meet friends. Steve Lockitch [sumthin] Alexander Enterprises www.webnow.com” Webnow is, apparently, a way to get a free small business website. As they say, “Your business on the web NOW – it clicks!” Right, no, wait.

From work to leisure, we found Ken and Bob the Dog out looking for furries, which thankfully meant animals in this case. We also suspect that Ken might be a military man.

“TUESDAY 10 April @ 0900. My vacation bank at work is full, rather than donate to the mega-corp, decided to burn a few days. The dog + I, on patrol at the Lake looking for furry creatures to watch. “Bob” the dog will not eat them, but has an affinity for them. Noticed your notebook, having my coffee in hand, sat for a while, soaked up the local wildlife + caffinated the body. Slightly overcast with a hint of chill, the sun trying to emerge with some success. People jogging + walking. One can only guess are they running “to” or “from”.” My guess, on the strong evidence of our next comment, is "from" the locust. “I can see a skeleton tree that reminds me of fall. When will it be warm and sunny! Lame Seattle… Lame. P.S. Don’t drink water from Greenlake or you’ll get rabies and locust will devour your soul.” It is a good thing that our soul is actually made out of pesticides. Joke’s on them.

Beneath that entry there was a page of pictures, possibly the last recorded scribblings of a man dying of rabies. There was an ice cream cone, a flower, a sun, a heart, and a fuzzy monster that says “Rawr!” Next to the sun, someone wrote, “Sun is wrong L Go to Arizona” Another person wrote “LOVE” in block letters, which two distinct handwriters then finished with, “yourself” then “maybe”.

There were several very well-written entries today, but none of them by someone as openly young as, Ruby, Age 10, who contributed a rumination on adventure and the evil laugh:

“Venture along
Venture with
Trust venture along
Like a lion or fox
Mwa ha haaa”

Talk about trust. BLESR wrote what is probably the heaviest story that has graced these pages. No commentary needed or helpful: “I’m taking a break to sit on the bench w/my brother. We have been walking around the lake to get some exercise and look @ girls for me, doods for him. I live in Eastern Washington and I am a heroin addict. I kicked two months ago with only 1 fuck up this time, so im optimistic. I will be moving to Seattle in the next few weeks to get out of Eastern Wa and the likelyhood that I will be a junky forever. Also, I want to make new friends and write graffiti.” He then signed his name is script and it was, indeed, very good graffiti. We wish him luck.

We had our longest poem also, which was about the necessity and importance of death. There was an internal Corporation conversation about whether or not corporate cogs are realists or idealists. One member argued the realist position that “they are drowning in cynicism and sarcasm: American psycho.” The other responded that “Deep down they believe their jobs/lives are meaningful, which is crazy. To think ‘adding value’ is sufficient for a considered existence ignores the ultimate truth. They live a total fantasy that they won't die.” No one won that round of conversation. The Notebook, courtesy of THA and William Blake, answers in poem form, arguing for death:

I’m dying to tell you I’m dying

What day isn’t as beautiful
As everyone that came before or after
When should a smile be not in your [unreadable]
When the birds fly above you
And the conqueror worm below you
Everything in the world dies
And I wouldn’t want it any other way
What else could make the sun so warm
On living skin that knows its end
Is always at hand, always just beneath the surface
The wind that kisses your face
Will one day carry you into oblivion
And it will be the most beautiful passage
Into the object of creation
The ever present artifact that we are put on
To learn its purpose, our design
And that you are here ‘til you are gone.
“God appears and God is light
To those who dwell in realms of night
But does a human form display
To those who live in realm of day.”

But enough death, let’s have a quick shower and a poop joke instead. We return to BEHMC recruit, Ian M, and his provocatively titled, “Easter Confession.”

“Yesterday I took my dog for an Easter morning walk from my house in Fremont to the U District Big 5. On the way, my dog pooped so I cleaned it up and desposed of it in my neighbors garbage can left out for the garbage man. Big 5 was closed for Easter. DAMN, I really wanted a carribeaner. On the way back my dog pooped again! This poo was of equal size or greater than the original. My pradinkadink was that I only brought one plastic bag with me on my Easter conquest. So I look left, look right, Shit! There are people who may have seen, or may not have seen my dogs stinky loafs dropping. Think quick. I lean over the pile, pretending to grab something from my pocket, and pretend to be picking up the poo until the pedestrians pass. Phew. Then I walked home."

This story alone would have been enough to win Ian some respect around the boardroom, but this last sentence made us scream out, in unison, like a Greek chorus, "That's right. Now you've got it! That's the spirit!"

"To any new readers in search of some vigilante justice, the poop at hand is located on the north side of 43^rd between 11^th and Brooklyn." One wonders what type of justice Ian is looking to have meted out. We can only imagine what damage can be done with "poop at hand".

In any case, this type of attention to the quirky details of social regulation—strong enough to force the pantomiming of dog poop extraction, for example—is reminiscent of Nicholson Baker’s The Mezzanine. A fantastic book featuring among other things, the greatest imaginary peeing on someone sequence in all of literature. We swear: you'll laugh so hard you'll pee in your neighbor's pants.

There was actually another Confession. Someone admitted to power walking. “Day one of power walking… Never thought it did much for you but already sore. My best friend + I just walking and talking! Both of us w/the no direction. Keep you posted! Enjoy the lake!” We also enjoyed the idea of a way of going called "the no direction."

One very imaginative writer conceived of one use of The Notebook that we hadn’t thought of. He/she wrote, “This book sucks dick!” These young guys, they are harder than they used to be; it must be MySpace’s fault.

Theresa, on the other hand, seems like a very nice person, composing a spontaneous love poem for her husband:

“The day after
Easter and it
blusters and blows
here in cold park
on cold bench,
my heart warm
with love of my husband.
Next to me.
A warm heart on a
cold cold day.”

The next to last entry of the day was compelling for its glimpse into the life of your average competitive koi breeder. “What up. Well pretty men I am entering a koi competition with a sweet ass fish named nypny. Soooo cool. Nice and… I like cake. Man thank gawd for this journal it was special.” The sarcasm is thick, bro, and you know that old saying, “He who enters koi competitions shouldn’t throw barbs.” Oh, hell-o! We’ll be here all forever. And we like cake too. After all, “This is a pretty place. Embrace it.”