istanbul//on the way hand, yes, i absolutely believe in the idea of life as art, of my every action and interaction and view of the world being the great living artwork that i spend my life creating. and thus so long as this piece is given my attention, concentration, my skill and love, my work towards mastery, then i am living the complete life, the life full and worthy. and my artistic endeavors, the silly songs and scattermess writings, are just a small part of this larger more important whole, my life, my god and love and child. this is the way hand, smiling and clear.

the other hand, is, such a raging jealousy everytime i read or see or hear something that ahs me to the core. and i want to do that! i want to do that! i want to do that! gallileo crying in the snow, this hurts so much. oh it does. it does! i want to write a novel, and have a platinum album, and make a series of internet sensation videos that get optioned by hbo. oh the fame and the quality are entangled, i know they are. i do, damn it, i do! oh hell! i do!

still, in istanbul we managed to get into a very posh club (having learned the hard way last time to avoid the nightclubs filled with prostitutes, unordered food {fruit, though, all delicous fruit!} and YTL40 drinks {$28ish}, closer to 100 should you buy one for the finebellied lady), in which we were originally refused entry because we were girlless. girl-less. three drinks and one horrendous turkish eighties cover band later (the slowest version of "blister in the sun" ever, with strange minor thirds in the happy melody. why, why?), we went back, and were unrecognized, and walked through confident and tall...then stopped half way in, but no, no, turkish girls, turkish girls told us to meet them here, young beautiful turkish girls, mira and sonya...here, at carvot, they told us to meet them...no, we dont have their number, they are up there, and we start to walk, and ok! go ahead! had ha! up four, five flights of stairs to the pulsing rooftop party with jamiriquoi (my band will be instantly spellable) videos projected on a screen against dark turkish sky. but thats not the music, the music is pure turkish, tambouras zinging and voices ayayayayayyaaaing over quarter tones triumphant. what a dance, and in the drunken darkness grabbing for a handful of spicy nuts accidentally grabbed a few shells and a butt from an ashtray. oh, terrible, terrible, wonderful craze and this music all around and people sitting raise their hands in the air and i realize i am in the midst of it, in the midst of one of those nights, where everything is interlocked tender. and finally clinches it is much much later on another roof i am brought to woolen warmth by mr bob dylan, oh you sweet you, anachronistic crooning "one more cup of coffee" of all things.

he gets me! he did it! i want to do that, i want to do that.

but on the cab ride home, i was the crooner. we are drunk and speeding and he doesnt speak a lick of english, and we not a lick or turkish, and so we are miming the cruise ship destination to our bedazzled cabbie. i swim airbutterfly! i toot airhorn! i aircast fish! all for him, and hes sir smiling crazy laughing and turns the music up as loud as possible and im drunk and gone and theres of course a doner in my hand. howling at the moon! the cabbie loves it, i love it. we are arting each other supreme.

arting each other supreme, that was the moment, that was the golden moment.

mr. dylan, did you ever do that? i mean, exactly that? precisely that ocombinationo of movement and sound? no, no of course not!
it was a hit, a real charttopper, the kids in my head were dancing smacking their dashboards to it all summer night long.

and so im okay, for today,

(oh but that thirst, that seldom acknowledged desert thirst.)