Yes, it is now safe to go to the bathroom. Toilet paper at last.

There is something to be said for clean kitchens, white tile showers, a shortage of unshowered stangers. An apartment of ones own is nothing to be sneezed at. At the Greenhouse the smell of compost holds noses in the kitchen hostage. Greenhouse floors constantly yield dust as if the earth my housemate activists want so deeply to save is coming up, growing like their other miraculous, anti-Miracle Grow plans unconnected to firm soil, out of the second and third story floorboards. But not all Greenhouse thought is disconnected from New Haven streets, suspended in mid air. There is dirt and grime and grit (I'm going for my first dumpster diving expedition ever Tuesday). And here at the Greenhouse we believe everone should cultiver notre jardin. (Notre an important word, communal, the only way to set up commune with the earth.) There's the farm share. We groom organic lettuce and rope up organic baby tomato plants. When there're utopian organic vegetable beds to tend to (idealists need to be fed by these ideas that have grown into rows and need weeding), beds don't get made, dishes washed, mold discouraged from growing. It seems things are always growing here. Clouds of flies blossom out of the kitchen sink. The sixties psychadelic shower curtain, formerly clear with pink and yellow flowers, turned brown. The flowers weren't hydroponic happy; they needed to root themselves in earthy flowerbeds. Usually soil grows flowers, but at the topsy-turvy greenhouse flowers grow soiled shower curtains. Then there are the excrementals who grew in the common room. Seeds blown along their course, plotting the march from the DNC to the RNC, Adam and Mikey plotted themselves right down in the bright stripes of the common room usually only known for it's fertile crops of couches, chairs, peace flags, and pillows that sprout buttons of the family "No Nukes," the rarer variety "Support Kyoto," and the common (room goes wild) flowers "Local 35: We're with you!" and "Jews for Change at Yale." Adam and Mikey seemed like they were mulched with manure. The excrementals, experimentals, extra-mentals, they were hydrophobe hippies. When their smell grew too great, they had to be transplanted out of the House. But they and the other passing and staying activists tended to thoughts, planted seeds of insurgencies, hoed out patches of rebellions. We're growing revolutions. Home-grown revolutionnaries taste best and are more nutritious than your sterile supermarket vegetables. No pesticides, deodorant, or razors ruin these crops. Incidentally, not so coincidentally, I'm helping out a housemate, selling organic vegetables for a farmer friend of Marina's while she's out in Cali next weekend. Wooster Square Farmer's Market July 17th. If you're in town stop by to see me and the beginning of the City Seeds organic revolt.

Blame Canada, blame CAN-A-DA

Of course Loose Cans was the first. Kicking up motes of motivation and merely enjoying it. He is a voice. Became the Village Voice of our scattered town. An Op-ed column, arts and entertainment, potential personals page (funnyface seeks Mr. Wonderful). There're reviews and rendez-vous, records of goings and comings, debates, debauchery and tone. Also serves as my news site. On the blog, I found out Arnold got govenor, Hussein was nabbed, and Sam played frisbee, again. And it is a gravitational hole; it does not obey the same rules of time and space. If ever want to crawl into the black hole of high school, it's strangely comforting and expectedly exasperating.
 
Then Seema with her sketchbook. Steadily practicing her craft or art. Not sullenly in the dead of an occasional night, but daily, the thing she carries with her everywhere. So to daily themes, through daily streams I'll struggle. I'm not doing this for someone to talk to, at least not for a page or imaginary readers. Perhaps this is to talk with my most imaginary friends, the man moved to page by those cherry blossoms in Bavaria or the rhythm man who knew some woman lovely in her bones. But I have breathing beasts to talk to. I'm cat-sitting Will's cats and, very Zen, where there's no Will there's a way for Whaylon the wailer to escape. Overly competitive I'm gloating over my recent win. The game is this: Whaylon and Claws look pitiful in the window. I open it. We hang out on the sunset roof. Then Whaylon darts from one side of the roof with the view to the other. He leaps onto the tree and goes ungainly, indelicately down. At the bottom he rolls on the ground happy to be on terra firma again while between terza rima tangles of oaths I smile disapprovingly at him. He has descended into the Inferno I threaten him with. So it's in the window, down the stairs, out to the porch. Cajole, coddle, grab the cat. Up the stairs, out the window, across the not hot, not tin roof, and into his window. Which I draw down fast and taunt him as he peers dramatically through purple and red reflections of a sunset he's never going to sail away into.
 
The last reason was Ben. He thought we should all have blogs so there'd be more worlds to check into to check out at work. I don't know if this inn is ready to be openned.

The first time

seems more momentous, holding whole momentum of pent up thoughts bent behind it. Some sum of desire and faith opposed by an equal antithetical force of terror. Trembling. With too much joy or too much fear readable on the face of the screen creased by lines, wrinkles of doubt, I write. Self-conscious and terribly aware of the body across from me that might touch but could never empirically know. I'll grow sea green and coldy die in brineness and volubility because I haven't learned to have withholdings. I'm unbound bonding myself in this language, bound to want to bodysurf in the stream, streaming conciousness conscientiously. No form, nothing but body surfacing, I don't yet know how to stop from banging clumsily. I crash into these harbor keyes each wave of thought. Should learn to spread my hands out in front to stop, to give some shape to this surfing, not try to ride each wave to the very end, beyond deep enough water, not to plunge straight and hard into the pebbles of the shore at the end of the sentence. The first time is not about form, said a former formalist. The formula's not yet found, so I flounder. It's exciting. It's the exciting of the new old thing. Something I haven't tried but have talked about. Partly just trying to get through this first posting, to break the blog in. Partly enjoying this new nakedness, this vulnerability in volubility. But before I bleed all over the beach on this ground breaking expedition, I should set some ground rules. Grind my teeth and pull up short instead of grinding my body into beach sand. Ground myself because somethings shouldn't be allowed out of the house, my mouth, on weekday nights. Calling ourselves the house. It's not just the intimacy that's dangerous. I'm terrified of the conventions of this form just beginning to enjoy floating on. Scared of being conventional, doing already by wrote, and the conventional comment smoked when it's done. But I won't be scarred. Seemingly naked, the thick skin of Writer will protect. To learning by going where to go. This newly discovered shaking keeps me steady, I should know.