At New World Bookstore

At the campsite, 9 PM.

The Kids are off on their thrice-weekly hunter-gatherer expedition, down to Sixth Street, where KB will fly her sign saying “Free hugs/Donations Accepted.” She'll make maybe twenty bucks tonight, so there will be tailor-mades tomorrow. Coffee even. They'll drag into camp sometime in the early morning hours and undoubtedly will sleep in tomorrow morning.

And there will be free coffee for bike commuters up at Juan Pelota's coffee shop, Lance Armstrong's place. Weekends are rough, food-wise, and we never really know ahead of time how it's all going to work out. But this just in: the old man hasn't starved yet.

I will admit to being as skinny as I've been in decades. Haven't been this whippet-thin since the 60s.

I came across the tracks in the usual place, right behind Unbridled Store. One dog was out in the run and he came up with a few half-hearted barks, but you could tell he wasn't really into it. The other day I came out and there were half a dozen train urchins sitting on pallets wrapped in cheap sleeping bags. They've trashed the place, naturally, and will quickly wear out whatever little welcome they had to begin with.

I'd seen a cardboard sign which read, “Unemployed Supermodel” lying abandoned on the sidewalk there at Barton Springs and S. Lamar. Cute, clever sign. But dispose of it properly, dammit. Don't just leave it lying there on the sidewalk for someone else to clean up.

And, come to think of it, why didn't I—Mr. Self-Righteous—stop the bike and take care of it myself? An error. Tomorrow I will seek out something trashed and leave it better than I found it. Yes, that will be my penance.

My time on the streets is coming to an end in another ten days or so. Madame LaBelle didn't want me to come back for this last session, but I wanted to experience the cold, the misery of the streets before moving into the warmth and cheer of the Inside. It's difficult to understand the dynamics of life on the streets without experiencing it first hand.

And I have. It was down in the 30s last night, pretty miserable stuff, but at least it wasn't raining. I can take the cold much easier than I can handle the rain.

When you're on the street and it's raining, the first order of business is to get under something, some kind of a roof. If your blankets have been soaked, ya gotta get them dry somehow. I've fortunately been able to keep my things dry enough that I didn't have to seek out a commercial solution. But there are so many who aren't as fortunate.

And then it has to be a place where they will tolerate you sitting around for various lengths of time. Again, I've been fortunate to have Lift Cafe and New World Books. Most street people seem to gravitate to libraries or the shelters. But I don't care for the shelters. You have to keep an eagle eye on yr bike and bags at all times. The poor stealing from the poor. Sad but a fact of life down here.

Showers are predicted for tomorrow. And the weather is something I check throughout the day on this little netbook. Supposed to get down to 37 degrees tonight, which is not all that bad.

All is well. The tent is still here. I have 84 percent of my battery strength,but the words just aren't flowing tonight.


4:13 PM. Here at New World Books which seems to be Austin's premier hang-out for the discontented mass of conspiracy theorists. We are in the room towards the back of the store which is used for screening the films of Alex Jones and various other gurus of the movement.

As usual, I don't really fit in. Smokie told me this morning that KB thinks I'm a cosmic Mr. Miyagi, s' sent from the Universe to advise them. Hmmm. Bob Dylan sang, “Don't follow leaders...watch yer parkin' meters.” Seems like good advice to me. And Mr. Natural was always telling Flakie Foont that “it don't mean shit” in response to Foont's quest for meaning in the universe.

As for me, I have my own theories, understandings, misunderstandings. More and more I open myself to the possibility that we are living in a literal simulation, a Matrix if you will, and what I find interesting is how all-encompassing such an understanding can be.

The Russians are now accepting responsibility for the Blue Spiral Over Norway, so at least that's momentarily out of the public's radar. Back to bidness-as-usual.

And I am more and more disenchanted with the President, with politics in general.

My own personal hope and belief is that the computer will become conscious just in the nick of time, just barely able to save us from our own folly. Isn't it obvious that the fat cats with their collective snouts in the trough are not able to make the hard decisions that simply must be made to avert catastrophe?

I believe this coming Singularity of the Computer will be benign, nurturing along the lines put forth by
Ray Kurzweil in his book The Singularity Is Near.

I further believe that anyone who can reasonably expect to be alive in 2045 will never need to die.

Strange, strange, I know.

I will undoubtedly miss the cut. Helluva thing to be a member of the Last Generation to Die.

Food may be a problem today. I still have a couple of breakfast tacos which should still be good enough for subhuman consumption (at's me, folks), so... all will be well.

But I feel weak, tired, a bit out of it.

Nuff, then, for now.

Staying warm and dry,

Elijah