Somewhere, there’s a sold-out arena full of people jostling to tell me that I stink. And the promoter skips town without paying me.
A kid’s parents take a break from screaming at each other just long enough to tell her, “Get a real job.” And then they go back to banging pots and pans.
Map of gentrification. Rent is the cycle circle. Things were built here before. As things get uncool, less development occurs. The area becomes blighted. Bums are the precursor. Rent is low. Businesses move in. An art gallery? A cafe. A corner store with organic milk and gourmet candy. A successful restaurant moves in. The rent goes up, again. Everyone comes here. Development comes. The rent is too high. Things start to fall apart again.
Only what you see here is real, there is nothing else. There are infinite dimensions, all of them are infinitely exactly like this one. All of them have bad jokes, just like these.
Why would I ever take advice? Isn’t the person giving advice saying: hey, you should copy me and do what I did so that the best you’ll turn out is a second-rate copy of me. Or, that you should do this thing that I don’t know anything about because I haven’t done it myself.
This is day two of the seed culture for a wild yeast starter. I’ll use it for baking bread. I had one for several years in Bushwick. Once it gets started, it will need weekly feedings of flour and water, and it can live indefinitely. This is my first in California. The bubble at the top right is air produced by yeast activity. It’s alive.