Been increasingly important to find moral touchstones, things to return to, to pull my mind out of the abstractions which I've been absorbing. King (John Berger) and "Rosetta" (belgian film) have helped. Other books and films (what art should do, I guess, among other things). Been using the word 'moral' more than before, trying not to shy away from its implications, which are to take a stand, a personal stand, and take responsibility for it. Keep dancing back and forth on the idea of evidence, as well, on what a historian does and why I am so annoyed by people who argue with math to "prove" a point about behaviour, when I'm not all that convinced about the right was to argue with "facts" and what they "mean."

May 30 00 dj'ed again at the cafe on Friday. I think I'm getting the hang of the vibe more. I don't like playing for sitdown crowds as much, I like it when folks dance. But at this cafe (unlike other loungey places I've played), when you look around, the sitting people are listening to the music. And when you try something, some mix, some new idea, they notice, they smile or respond, they nod. If I look up from the decks a bit, and scan around the room, I can see some effects on people's bodies, it's just much more subtle.

Saturday I played at a houseparty, but the weather was awful (it's been cold and rainy all weekend) and it was pretty underattended. Actually the crowd was about 80% german, which was funny. All friends/acquaintances of Quitschenchen (my german dj friend whose house it was, who also organises the cafe night). there were also these two guys who were there when I came, and stayed the whole night, who were such a funny pair. super-euro-preppy style. two sets of pastel button-downs under two v-neck sweaters, khaki pants and shoes, short hair cut to look like it had no style (not really but you know, without reference to any particular era except a hint of 80s), standing stiffly around, talking together, when they wanted to look at something, they craned their necks kinda chin-forward, looking down their noses or almost sideways like birds. I think they were french? After my set (3:30-4 am), we went up to the roofdeck, where Quitschenchen (QSC) and some friends were throwing extra flyers off the roof to the misty rainy street below. a terrible mess, but it was beautiful, the flyers were strips of smooth cardstock, in near-iridescent whites and blue-lavender. covering the street and the cars. Looked down at them in the rain, then wandered off to a squatparty a few blocks away. Me in my kungfu jacket and black-silver-glittery knit cap, twirling my red umbrelly in the 5am whitesky rain. Heard the party (as is best) before I saw it, rumbling bass and voicelayers, slipped in a shifty side door with lots of shifty kids standing around inside. Was a more white-English-looking party than usual, lots of slightly dangerous waifish looking boys, shorthaired, hungry looking, sportsgear-clad and slightly feral. Plus the usual crusties and a mix of other folk. I heard trance and techno bounding from rooms on either side as I shoved my way through the people, the air heavy with sweat and smoke and other funk. The building was either half-demolished or half-built, unfinished wooden or concrete staircases with no rail or anything on one side, so you looked out over the crowd, riskily on the sweat-slicked surface. Lots of small rooms, many windowless. farther down the hall I heard drum-n-bass beats and forged through to a dark room with nothing but a cop-car light, and danced to beats. Three or four djs were trading off at the decks, a few records each. There was a volunteer mc hollering encouragement at the crowd, and there was just enough space to dance with some freedom, even with my record bag jouncing on my back. I removed as many layers as possible, as the air was thick and hot, and let the sounds overwhelm.
After a few hours, it was time for me to leave, and I walked to the morning bus (maybe 7:30 am) in the still-white-sky rain, singing "bam bam" dreamily.

May 26 00 Went to a local club's weekly drum'n'bass night. I think the music's turned another corner: it was good again. I haven't been out to any of the mainstream nights for a few months. Last I went all the DJs even the 'names' were playing these shapeless, energyless sets just putting monotonous twostep and rollers one after the other, you'd hear the same beat for 40 minutes. Ray Keith especially, last night, tore it up. Still a lot of twostep and rollers, but mixed with more attention to overall flow, and some new tunes which make the most of the way a twostep beat can switchback to a swing beat, a triplet almost. More syncopation, and the music got sexy again, the rolling beats back with thunderous and slippery basslines which turn it into slow tidalbeats music. going back next week I do believe. Now that classes are done my schedule is mine mostly.

got in late late and called my sweetie, since the time difference meant he was probably maxin and relaxin in Boston's Chinatown. long lovely talk with me curled up and postclub-sweaty in the living room. Aftwards I took a deliriously good bath, although my roommate told me it was very loud. This is actually a victory because it's the first time she has complained directly to me. Usually she complains to the other roommate, who tells me. Silly, but if he doesn't mind conveying all her messages I wouldn't mind.. except that the other roommate is also the landlord. This puts a weird vibe on it. Anyway she never tells me when I do something which bothers her, and I have no way of knowing unless she tells me, especially because she's in her room almost all the time, often with the light and the TV on, so I can't tell what she hears. I'll point out as well that I wasn't making any extra noises, not even with the deliriously good bath, it was running water etc. and her room is not next to the bathroom. and, when I came upstairs to the bathroom the light was on in her room. This is why communication is good, right, because otherwise I have to try to guess what all these little signals mean or try to read her mind..

May 25 00 Saw Jan Svankmajer's "Faust" yesterday, with a newer friend, who I'll call Semi-Crusty Smartguy (SCS): this half-nuts guy kinda from Brighton (which is sort of like being a not-richie from Gloucester MA, or Cape Cod -resort towns with seedy underbellies). done the travelling thing both around England and Europe and to India and also the US (only the deep South for the music), he writes reviews of blues shows, does oddjob/handyman things, won't settle, can't be told what to do..you know.. the kind of guy who's trouble. Then he's really intelligent, especially when he reins himself in, or lets himself go. exasperating and exhilarating. We've fallen into a familiar thing, part of a pattern that I'm not sure is a good thing in my life overall, of crazy guys who are smart and maybe wish to reform or have some regrets or summat, and they get drawn to me, a 'good girl' who looks like a bad girl. more complicated than that, of course i am, but also a grain of truth..
When romance was involved, that pattern often set us up for a lot of pain. it's part of LDL and my relationship as well; from past experience i have to say it's usually doomed: the one who doesn't believe in human nature but would like to, is trying to change themselves or unlearn things or something, which always involves making promises they can't seem to keep, even though they really really want to. Anyway, no romance here, exactly, but it's a bit of a balancing act, as I try to weigh how not to take someone too much to heart but to respect the side of them they try to bring out. Yes I have mentioned my sweetheart in Boston. Three times. although there's may have been a hint of romance in the air, because I was reluctant to. Also it's that fear of rejection, many guys shut off all their energy if they find out you're involved (fuckit, not going to have sex with them, that's what it means). I've done well so far here, in actually finding male friends. Actually I wish I had more femme friends, but they always come slower in a new place. slower to come but more reliable when they're there, usually..

Back to "Faust". Amazing film. Seen some of his work before: animation, small and melancholy, mesmerising stop-motion, eerie dolls, surfaces that rust and crumble, furring over with age or sprouting maggots, layers on layers peeling away, sepia-tone mystery and the red of raw flesh beneath. This time also live-action, combined with stop-motion, time-lapse, some claymation, and other weirdnesses. Put us in a dreamstate, it worked like my mind does, when I wonder what's behind the little grey door in the wall of the subway station, padlocked gate in an alley. This city and houses, all linked by doors and stairways which move when you're not looking. And then there was a short, very creepy moment of puppet sex. which is about a unnerving as anything I can think of.

May 24 00 (reports from Kingston, Jamaica) From the Monday before the sizzla show, just to break things up:

sunburnt today --such the redneck tourist. Sunday I braved the notorious public-ish bus system to get to the beach, one of the hellshire beaches, popular with kingstonians (said lonely planet guide). this meant: walked down the road from Hollywood Villas (where I'm staying), wait for the bus to Half Way Tree. On the bus, it's not as crowded as I usually see them. Some folks in their Sunday best, and the music is lower than usual. I like Sundays especially because of the sunday ladies with hats and gloves and dignity, walking along the side of the road, followed by a little boy in his suit, shortcropped hair and ears sticking out. The heat licks skin where it's in the sun, but it's not as humid so the shade is cool. Halfwaytree: in the middle of kingston area, big crossroads, many buses and minibuses. Also shops, malls, Fried Chicken and other fast food, and folks selling stuff (mostly clothes and fruit) on the street. There's some fascinating graffiti I always crane my head at as I go by. Some of it quite old, about Gorbachev, and some about the strength/weakness of the Jamaican Dollar and Clinton's financial policies. Sunday morning meant it wasn't too crowded there, but usually it's folk everywhere, sitting standing selling singing. Caught the bus to the Parade (downtown kingston bus hub), walk halfway round to where other buses and minibuses are lined, in a crowd of hawkers, stalls, folks sitting on fences, and driver/touts hailing passersby to take them to their destination. Several guys charged for me as I walked, to convince me they knew where I was going. "Nah, man," I wave at them, on to the corner where the busdriver had said buses to 'ellshire went. Several more folks perked up and called "taxi, taxi", one man came from a crowd of minibuses- "hellshire?" I shouted at him, "yeah man" he gestured towards the minibus, which was pretty much as it sounds. White low-ish van (VW or Daihatsu, something boxy), crammed with folks, it was full. "Next to the brown man" he said, waving inside. I peered in. needless to say, everyone on the bus was varying shades of brown. I looked at him. "In the back, next to the brown man." three men in the back seat sit side by side, looking in various directions, they squished aside to make room for my butt (shoulders didn't fit for another ten minutes). He continued to pile people in, putting a plank between the seats across the space I had just squeezed through for a young boy to sit in. It wasn't bad, a little hot, maybe. The music was lovers' rock and christian reggae stuff, a woman near the front sang quietly out the window. We jounced out of the city. Only 30 jamaican dollars (under one dollar) to hellshire. so i thought. I got dropped off, however at a taxi stand, the minibus didn't go all the way. Dusty parking lot, full of white taxis (all taxis are white and most other folks seem to have white cars so they can be taxis when they want, or the color makes sense in the heat and sun). As I approached, all started calling out, one large man in his late 30s called "taxi darling" and somehow I gravitated that way. For 300 jamaican dollars, he'd take me to fisherman's beach. on the way he told me of another beach, owned by a friend, more private, smaller, etc. I decided what the hell. came up on a stretch of beach that at 11am on Sunday was empty anyway, rudimentary bathrooms, and a restaurant/bar shack (with only meat and seafood). I spread out my little purple dress which I have found is almost as absorbent as a towel I forgot to pack. and lay and lay and lay. Had agreed with the drive that he was coming back at five or so.
The beach wasn't gorgeous, just a narrow-ish strip of brownish sand, but the water really was turqouise and warm. There was a scrubby tree where I piled my belongings, lay flat on my back and shut my eyes. Some time later I was jolted awake by a chesty snort-snuffle noise. Opened my eyes to find a horse standing calmly at my head, saying hello. I looked around. No rider, no other person around. Obviously he's just out for a morning constitutional. He looks at me for a minute, snuffles the dry grass around the tree and moves off.

now. my sunblock was working fine, until I went in the water, then i put it on while i was too wet, and it didn't really sink in everywhere. and i did get my feet but then i waded again. so now i have an interesting fingermark-outlined red triangle running the length of one calf, and the tops of my feet are really fucking painful. Only pink on my shoulders and neck, and my ears and face are fine, though, so I'm not feeling a complete tyro.
After many hours of loafing, driver dropped me at a bus stop where I caught a clean, relatively uncrowded bus all the way to Half Way Tree, and a cab home.

and THEN, i had been planning to go to catch the new Rockers International night, roots reggae, up at what looked like a beautiful location in gordontown, overlooking lots of the city. (kingston sprawls up the hills towards the blue mountains, so the richies especially can look out over the rest. well it isn't really divided that way completely, but a lot of the fancier areas -like Beverly Hills [!] are literally up in the hills). so after rounding up a taxi driver, we three (Iriela and another) headed up there.
we all head up to this place in the side of the hill with a stack of speakers taller than my head blasting roots. Gabriel Selassie is the DJ and he is good. damn good. He was Augustus Pablo's apprentice, or some such, says Iriela. He's half-chinese, half afro-jamaican, slight and serious swaying over the decks with a glowlight lining his edges with gold. I'm not automatically a roots fan but it was a blistering set (my tingling feet-tops under hopefully cushioning socks), even i could tell it. The language of the tunes overlapped, replayed, the effects pulling out echoes and subrythms, the vocals and vocals-from-the-mic.. Our friend who came with us got on for a while, and a few other cats too.
scene from the night: this bredren who with a woman who is somewhat sweet on him. boy he is lovely, although he's playing it too cagey for my tastes. I do like the way he speaks, though, soft voiced and sweet smiled, half-poetic but aware, as well. But I watch the way he is with her and i think he playing that enjoy-the-attention-while-letting-the-girl-wear-herself-out-trying-to-figure-out-what's-up. Okay, so he may not actually know how he feels, he may be conflicted (he's got reasons), but still.. I felt for her. she had made herself clear, but all was shifting shifting.
And the space was incredible. there was a low wall of stones, maybe three feet high or less? several small buildings made of slats with wood roofs. to the right the dj booth, enclosed in slat-walls, with two open, glassless windows in front of the tables, and two open doorways on either side. Inside was a yellow light, the dj, and someone pon the mike. the lightglow came out in diamonds through the slats. on the left (as you're facing the structure) side of the dj room was a smaller room with an inside window. Then facing that was a circular bar with a circular wood roof. at the back of it (against the outer -streetside- wall of the enclosure) was a table with fruits and nuts, as well as everpresent Red Stripe, Ting, Apple-J, Rum and Guinness. there were more hut-buildings on the other side of the bar. As you looked out over the low wall of stones, you could see all of Kingston spread below in the night, glittering. A huge view, and the other way loomed the hills. Scattered inside the space were men, tall and short, dread and non, dancing and swaying and smoking to the music. I met one dread who spoke little english, Though he looked convincingly local to my foreign eyes, he was an ethiopian who had been living in cuba, who had just come to Jamaica a few months ago. I resurrected my horrendous spanish, he was nice. Talked about who goes to cuba and why. danced a little, and enjoyed the vibe (especially the way some of the men danced when the music spoke to them), and the vocal style, the call-outs, the phrases, and the spirit. intense.

got home, dazed, at 3:30 and staggered in to bed.

May 23 00 Okay at long last, first part of the Sizzla show. From my trip to Jamaica. Intro:
Iriela and myself were out that day when she told me about the free show in Augusttown. Sizzla's home neighborhood in Kingston out past the University up against the hills. Bobo Ashanti dread territory. Her friend/driver seemed a little concerned that we were going to go unaccompanied. We had been planning to go with bredren, but they had to cancel. On our way back to her place for dinner, we drove through the area, to see where Sizzla lived. the main road was already blocked off for traffic and excitement was in the air. Road was lined with lean-to type shacks covered in writing: praises, declamations, names and some pictures, where you could buy beer and drink and mostly processed snack food. Rumshops too, with men perched on stools inside (if there was an inside,) or around the serving window. Men and women everywhere, and a higher concentration of bobo dreads with the big turban-headwraps, and khaki, or long robes. All male, these styles. There were women out too, in street clothes or some night-gear: tight dresses and big earrings. Most with processed hair. the 'natural' for women wasn't too common. A few in head-wraps, but the bobo dread thing seemed quite male, or publicly male. Road was paved, with dust on either side. houses kind of perched on the ground.
After dinner, around 10:30pm, we decided we'd go anyway, just us two. Dressed in long skirts, long sleeves and head-wraps. I'm not exactly clear on the specific beliefs that the bobo dreads espouse, but it seems more hardline afrocentric and chauvanistic, so we thought feminine-modest clothes were sensible. Called a taxi, the driver wouldn't drive into the area, expressed suprise that we were going there, then left us at the end of a road at the other end of which must be the event. As we walked closer, the road was crammed with cars and people, and I remembered it was Good Friday. There was an interesting anti-christian thing the bobo dread folk had going. we heard "burn the pope!" shouted, and "burn batty-bwoy jesus." Capleton is clearly ruling the popular scene here, with all his tunes about fire and burning. I've written about them before, this weird conflation of cleansing rage against corrupt establishment, and the fear of homosexuality. His songs (and many by other artists catching on to the fad) now refer to fire, it's a big phrase/concept repeated everywhere among young people, and lots of the time it's about "burn sodomites." This theme has already been clear on the radio and everywhere in Kingston. In general, young men and rastas here do a lot of calling out, shouting words and phrases (especially Haile Selassie's name and permutations thereof) as they walk, or as people walk by. "fire" and "more fire" are also common.
So we walked with purpose, towards the place we remembered seeing in our drive. Some folks eyed us, but in general spirits were high around us and people were hyping themselves and each other up. Came to where the event was, a big bare lot, unpaved and stony. the sides were lined with more shacks selling drink, ganja, nuts, snacks. Already a substantial crowd at the front, as well as folks milling around. Stone Love sound system (currently dominating Kingston) was playing tunes out of the enormous speaker towers. We slipped to the front, stage-left, next to a light-tower. In front of us were children aged seven to twelve interspersed with men in wheelchairs. Not very old men. the crowd was a mix of genders, and styles. No full-on batty-rider shorts (the tiny hotpants favored in many nightclubs) or supersexbomb outfits of patent leather and such, but plenty minskirts and all, as well as jeans and little matching outfits. Men in sportswear, or the more militant in khaki or army green with turbans, or a few in long robes.
And there we stood, for the next five hours.

I'll start the show later..

May 16 00 Second exam over, next one not until JUNE 21st.. when I might be home in Boston while my mom has an operation... I might have to take the exam in Boston. One person suggested that it would be at the British Embassy, so I could be supervised. I wondered why on earth the Embassy people would give a good goddamn about me and my sociology exam "It's a small country" said mom "maybe they all hang together."