Alan Gutierrez

After a full week of socialization, I’ve had my fill of people. I am content to sit here before my computer, quietly, listening to the rain.

At the end of JazzFest, I’d see people that I knew at a distance, and correct my course, before I had another bout of reminicances, before there was more catching up to do.

This morning, I’m approaching crackers. I don’t want to listen. I do not want to talk. To speak is to give voice to anxiety. Touch sets a collapse in motion.

I retreated. Took some sleep. Took a walk. Ate Coop’s Cajun pasta, not at the bar, but at a table, all alone.

It appears at first to be owing to the fact that I survive in isolation. Computer programming is how I afford myself. When I am away from the desk to long, I fear that I’ll return to find bottom line drenched in red.

Then as it subsides, it appears to be something fundimental. I sense that something corrosive and ever present that the recent marathon of socialization exposed.

Socialization is bad for me for some reason, or rather that it is bad for some part of me.

That most human interaction is, for me, a net loss.

Intuition tells me that it will not do.

Intiution tells me to start with, you never get a second chance to make a first impression. That hopeless prayer of self-conciousness has been a thorn in my side or quite some time.

Beat. I’m writing from JazzFest, the WWOZ brass pass tent, where I am watching the computer table for Christian Kuffner.

Brainjams was fun. Turns out that I’m not a madman, alone in the wilderness. Bloggers are real. A fever dream come true.

The disconnect was percieved on both sides. I was disarmed. An effective application of open spaces. Success for Chris and Kristie. Good show.

Out until late. Jeff Harris can tell a story. Sip, listen, repeat.

Friday was lackadaisical. Hangovers tend to be. Becky arrives to accompany me in a pursuit of things medicinal. Sushi. Ice cream. Naps. We met with Dave Coustan for a drink. Learn no lessons. Wee hours again.

Up early today. Nackered.

It is getting ready to rain something awful.

I’m off to find a Cuban sandwich, and, maybe, listen to jazz.

Wish you were here.

JazzFest is approaching. I’ll be volunteering at the WWOZ tent, watching over some computers for Christian Kuffner.

French Quarter Fest has passed. Caught the second day. Listened to Wynton Marsallis debut “Congo Square” in Congo Square, Armstrong Park. The sun was hot. The music was brassy. We listened from the edges in the shade. Saw many Mid-City people.

On the way back to my place, Rebecca Houtman and I stopped into the Farrington Smith Gallery, where Adam Farrington and Scott Smith were lounging about.

At some point in the lazy conversation, Adam lights up, as he will, and announces that he made a chair bike. He returns from the courtyard with a bicycle that has a chair attached to the frame before the handlebars. He offers me a ride on the bike as he blusters past and out the door, such was his confidence that I would accept.

And sure enough, the rolls reversed on Chartres. I piloted the chair bike, and it is quite managable. The weight is attached to the frame and sprung. Zero injuries.