It is 8:30pm. The portal through which I continue to engage policracy, encountering the extension of space, the web, the workings of thought played out in self generated misconceptions of folk cultures. Neither bad nor good. Always twirling. The Boston Celtics continue to follow on the coat tails of the Los Angels Lakers. With two minuets remaining in the fourth LA is leading 84 to 80. The old notions of loyalties to place arise as I switch back and forth between writing this post and checking the score on NBA.com. My digital self is a good deal more nervous, moving frantically back and forth from one sight to another, sometimes 6 at time, I am also searching for images of Punk Handbills. The Celtics continue to trail with little time left. In Basketball seconds can take hours in Real Time. I download an image of a goat from my email, T is searching for more, the goat is the symbol of resistance according to Olson . Across the street a man in a long black trench coat is walking a white pit bull outfitted with a muzzle, presumably to confine the shear ferocity of this aggressive animal. I am also aware of the dishes from dinner, old email conversations, I attempt to focus on the task at hand by locating myself on the map placed in the center of the Boston Celtics have lost, there is the garden out back and the Garden. I saw Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers play there once shortly before it was torn down to build the Fleet Center (but may now be called something else). My eighth grade science teacher told me engineers were worried about the release of rats into the city when the ancient structure was demolished. A Catholic scientist who excused the bible and argued vehemently against sex education in school on whose memory I purchased a can of natural rodent repellent the other day designed to reference the smell of Fox urine to ward off intruders in the garden. There use to be a display in the old North Station of images from when the Beatles played there while Red smoked a court side cigar. Outside the soil is thick with heavy metals from the busy thoroughfare of nearby South Van Ness Ave. Digging through car exhaust laced soil, not dirt (The City Gardeners Handbook: From Balcony to Backyard by Linda Yang), pouring thick as oil with nowhere else to go but through the cuts in my fingernails into the blood stream till I am blind from the high acidic PH level of my skins. I have never been all that into basketball.
The Polis is rising.
In the meantime watch: Polis Is This.