pointless.

taormina//cold blazing he is, frostbit boiling as he granites his gaze through the tour bus window, and of course to multiply his frustration the seat is there right at the window pane, and forward or behind the view is so cut, cutcut, and cut like his and unkindest cut with the frustrations of the job, feeling for the first time the bad boss feeling, the knowing of *i am right* over this boss who is not, this silly foolish man over man who does not deserve to be there, and this sole interaction, the previous nights events (a vindictive bass line, a critical comment, a smallizing meeting) pasted crude upon the possible italian beauty around and he is just raw, just dumb with anger and disdain, and all the morsels of the world lose their delight and see him in this state unsated to the land of darknod, sleep dead hate, the sun growling through the glass at just the wrong angle, how can the sun seem so ugly. this is the attitude of the approach, the space in which he approaches, taormina--

land of mcw's praise, holy culture radiant, and i know that i approach this place with the sacred ghosting that so much of this trip has had; for i am not the first fire, here, others have blazed these european paths, and i see these womens ghosts perfuming across the piazzas. god i want this subjective objective to end...but i am he, and they are she, and we twirl together through this space only, time irrelevant as i hop though the town that another woman so lovely so fine young traveled first, and hope i hope this ghostlight will beautify heal me...

and i want to believe that but dont--- that's critical here, i dont believe it, my whole bus drive from messina to taormina, sicily, i am bitter boy and every tune that ipod shuffler unto me is discredited under my headache bitter, and i am not buying it, i am ready for the bad days. some days i hate so much...its no use denying it, this is ahh i am, and they so stupid fill me with such rage and i unbuddhasize myself into such rage, so small my anger, so small a man i am in this mix, oh god you bastard you dave malloy bastard, and i am hate for this boss and this band and this life that makes me work when all i want is song wine and arms around me.

and so: heres the point: im committed to this bad feeing, i know ill have this bad day. and the bus drops us in taormina and the guests ask me silly and there the boring dancer asking me to sudden coffee and i am trapped and ugh my god this world and so own am i, my mind is convinced so low. i travel as a tour escort, pinned, a tattooed gecko on the wall, and i walk amidst tentacles and get out quick, rush ahead to the greek theater and there climb the stairs high up and sit in the bleachers and everyone looks small and pretty down there; and thats a little better.

and this is nice and lovely that i can sit quiet on their stair and the world calm of ease moment, but fundamentally i am still raw ajar boy, grr vinegar man, leave me far away.

thats when nature lady starts it really in. the map has two kinds of paths labelled: "archaeological ruins" and "natural beauty". i go for "natural beauty". which starts out pretty shit, a winding narrow sidewalkless road, killmecars whiz. grr! but, a respite at a cemetery, with the photos on the tombstones, old sicilians gazing blank into eternity, and then back to the road. mmm/grr. mmm, sure. but then: grr. im back to grr. fucking pebble, etc.

but only for a moment, because, hey hey. there. there, there! theres another off limit staircase!! oh, how lovely that my lifes author is working from a consistent symbol pool! this one leading down, down into overgrown green. im wearing pants and sandals, and the grass is dewy wet, so my toes get instant tickle. and this stair is crumbling, whole steps missing, just brown dirt, and the bushes are bigger and bigger and the prickers blocking my path require my careful thumb and forefinger attention. and my wet little toes, and the smells are everywhere, and my god look all around im in italy. im here. im right here right now. oh yes. and then from nowhere an elderly british couple appears, walking up, speaking cheery, and they warn me: wild hens. mmm.

and sure enough, wild hens. and im smiling in spite of myself. once again, my mind seems to have an infinite number of subsections, crisscrossing all dueling for eyesight supremacy. and so nice, for now the grumbler has lost and im healed.

hmm, mmm. thank god for mutable time after all.