activepieces

   It is so easy to sell your soul. To die and get old in that order. For years I thought that when my professional life was exactly as I wanted it I would start to really live, but it's been the opposite. I make about three times as much money as I ever did before, I love my work and keep my hours to around 30 a week, and yet I have lived less in the last year of this dream come true than back when I suffered on a daily basis at work. I am less physically healthy, less energetic, and waste a far larger percentage of my free time.

  I am at a crossroads in my life. Either slide off this plateau into ever more dismal despair or make a radical, positive change.

  I am giving up the booze. There was a time when alcohol was my trusted friend, and I had a strength and youthful exuberance that it couldn't conquer, but those days are dead. Alcohol is like a lover gone fat, loveless, lackluster. It is no longer someone I want to be with. I imagine that it feels the same way about me. Maybe it's best for us both to move on. And I am not using alcohol as some kind of metaphor here.

   I do not know if I will be able to make it. I do not suffer physical withdrawals from its absence, which is fantastically lucky considering how much and for how long I've drank. I am confident that I can kick the habit cold turkey, but I know that it usually doesn't work that way for addicts. I know that their will be nights where I suffer for want of the old magic that I got from booze, but I am convinced that I cannot be a casual drinker. I am an all or nothing person. I cannot pursue even alcoholism limpidly, and to go full out would be even worse.

   I am reconnecting with my confidence already, and for the first time in many months I am excited about life. I believe that when I remove the chains of alcohol addiction from me I will be free to achieve more than I ever have before. Although there is a trap here, the "I'll give up alcohol and then really start living" trap. It's bullshit, because, although in theory it sounds good, there IS NOTHING STOPPING YOU IN THIS MOMENT FROM BUILDING AN EXTRAORDINARY LIFE.

  We will see. This is day two of what I hope will be a very long and eventful sobriety, or maybe better yet a new drunkeness on life.

 

  There is only one way to be good and many ways to be bad, says Aristotle.

  I'm full on a prisoners last meal.

 naked in the living room.

 cat a little gray tiger.

 slap it, yeah, slap it.

 don't let bob barker find out, no, keep it secret.

  My birthday on a cold wet September afternoon,  pre- chess but well into lonely
  The suburban homes that had sprouted up were faded in the rain and I carried
   a wooden stake I had plucked from the ground in case I felt like battling orcs
   
   Melancholy walking I looked at the neighbors lawn that once was fanatic green
   now brown bent in the rain, I looked ahead at the mud puddles I'd caroused with friends
  I went into woods made for me where my first girl would one day lay with me

 they were wet and moving in the wind and i stood there grim

 somehow knowing

 amongst the mud and dark magic

  that swirled.

        My ankle hurts. It is sprained. I have to blow my nose. I slept 11 hours because my ankle is sprained. I really need to blow my nose. brb. I blew it.
    I am eating lots of protein. Apparently protein is used to heal stuff. I've been sleeping asmp because that is when stuff is healed. The entire top right side of my foot is quite swollen, and just above the bottom right ridge is a long 4 centimeter tall purple bruise. Of course, the ankle itself is as plump as a diaper commercial baby. 

  I went to the doctor and they ex rayed it. It is not broken, it's just a "very bad sprain." I asked the doctor if I had Thrombosis and he was very confused.

  When they pushed me to the ex ray room in the wheelchair I said I felt like I was in a war chariot.

  I said 3 times, "All those years I played basketball and nothing happened. And now THIS, just getting off a stage." And then I shook my head.
 I like referring to the glory days. "Even when I scored 17 points against Hickory Hills Middle school, and made eleven out of twelve free throws to seal the deal versus rich rival Carver Middle school I didn't have this ankle trouble! And all those times I had sex! Never a problem like this! Even when I became the first local player to win Rochesters' Marchand chess open I came out fitter than THIS!"

      I nevertheless went back to the open mic where it happened. This time it was St. Patricks day, and virtually no one watched my performance, just the guy who "ran" it. (get it?) But as I have noted elsewhere, the audience isn't really important except as fodder for new spontaneous material. "Why do people suddenly "woo" like that when they're drunk?" " Are you guys enjoying St.Patricks day? But...You're black." I had fun, I sang my favorite L Cohen song, and read comments  the other cast members left  on the program of my high school dinner theatre play.

   If I hadn't gone back to the scene of the accident, only then would that pukey little stage have defeated me. Let's see Lance Armstrong do THAT. Livestrong indeed, pshaw. I have my own bracelet now, from the hospital. I can't get it off my wrist. I'll make the most of it.

  My head is itching and my nose needs a blowin' I'm a nose whore.


   

  Drunk enough to be a little boy, consternated.

   Minds illusions crave pink lightning and swirling easy infinity. 

 Infinite bottle swig and unending beer flowing to the guts. 

  On the soccer field we twisted and fell on the ice. The field was more like an ice rink. I wished I had ice skates. But I can't skate anyway.

  I hurt my neck and banged my head. I was the biggest one on the field. I weigh 214 pounds. I guess I'm big, but I don't feel big. 

  "They talk to me. Birds talk to me. If I go down on my knees."

My teeth need brushing. I have alternated between not being able to locate the toothepaste and not being able to find my toothbrush. Beery, foody teeth are smacked by my human tongue. They feel a little laquered, not as smooth as usual.

  Just another day of distraction. Distraction, corn fields pooped in by farmer boys, dark green soft corn leaves wiping asses in the country fly buzz heat.

 Distraction, Mozart was a genius at it. 

  "The bathroom mirror makes you look tall. But it's all in your head."

   Alone with my music.  The cats are sleeping quietly. 
 
 
   

   Parsippany was bleak and sad, all one way streets and empty suburbs, not a person in sight.

   I wore a blue doublet and nice gray khakis. 

  Actually I wore a well fitting black sweater with gray stripes and beige dress pants, on the first day.

  I didn't break out the doublet until....Well, I never broke out the doublet. I don't even own a doublet.

 The tourney was bustling, the Hilton was jam packed with people who knew who Efim Bogolujubov and Roman Dzindzichashvilli were/are.

  Now is the time to mention the guy who had no legs who walked around on his hands. He wore orange gloves like "men at work" road workers. I wondered if there were women with fetishes for legless torso men. I concluded that there might well be. I logically wondered if the man had a penis. What does he pee with?

  The Greek Diner we ate at was owned by a fat gruff man who walked around and thanked the customers for being there. Gruffly.

 I left my allergy pills at the hotel we stayed at on the way there, so I itched a lot.

 One team consisted of three famous Grandmasters and a complete weakling for fourth board.

 The Grandmasters lost no games. The weakling lost all games. They won the tournament.

 In one round I played a skinny kid from the University of Delaware. I could sense his arrogance over the board, felt like a hot breeze. 

  He played for traps, variational traps and he won 2 pawns right in the opening. The hot breeze was growing stronger.

   I crushed him in a 2 pawn down endgame. My teamates rejoiced.

 Masturbating at night in the hotel room was nice. I didn't come, just fantacized and created pelvis shocking theoretical novelties. I hope my teamates didn't notice...

  At TGI Fridays I ate Zen chicken dumplings. The waiter said, "Here are your chicken dumplings." I said, "My Zen chicken dumplings? Great."

 Before the last round I had a splitting headache. I took 3 excedrin, drank 3 bottles of water, and wrote in my journal. I wrote, "I want nothing more than music. There is nothing in the world I want as much as music right now." It was true, not alcohol, or sex, or chess, or money. I just wanted music. But I had forgotten to take batteries for my portable c.d player. 

  I found a quiet place and started singing songs. I was pleased to find that my head retained some beautiful music that I was in the mood for. I sang to an Ellot Smith Melody, with words I made up on the spot. The words made no sense. It was ever such a fine feeling.

 As I write this I listen to the Velvet Uderground. And Tom Petty. I listen to them. Tommorow I listened to them. 1,000 years from now I dreamed about them.  Yesterday I was going to listen to them. When mom and Dad were fucking I was going to listen to them. 

  When I have to wander around the apartment to grab more beer or pee I carry my blue boom box like a man on dialisis carries his kidney kit.

  It's nice to be free of the Craig La Salle American, 25 years old, 212 pounds, brown haired blue eyed son brother friend lover illusion for awhile. 

  Parsippany. I won a prize for being born in the 80's. It was a chess book.

 The buffet at the hilton was 15 dollars. Maybe that's why Paris is so thin...

  GM Joel Benjamin looks exactly how he looked 15 years ago. He has been 45 for 15 years. His paunch is perhaps slightly more protruding. Insect-like, thin but bulbous.

 "I'll be king when dogs get wings. Can I help it if I still dream time to time?"

  Heaven is a hash, hashbrowns coffee smash, milky ladys dash through my hippocampus or probably some other alien portion of my living coral brain.

 

 I went to the Syracuse open today. This used to be "my" tournament. I won it the first 5 or 6 times I played in it. It is a grueling tournament, with a total of about eight hours of chess playing. I remember back when I was the champ...
 I always dressed nice. I focused so completely that literally every thought I had was meditated upon with the all important question, "Will this help me win the tournament?" 
   Like, "will washing my hands with Dove soap help me feel more refreshed, and lead to an infintesimal strengthening of my chess?" And if I thought it would, I'd use Dove soap. 
   I was the champ. I strutted around the tournament room like a prizefighter, well aware that all eyes were upon me, the Rochester kid. I even shadowboxed to pump myself up and provide me with the endless energy needed for success. 
 Well, I'm old or something, (I'm 25...) I can't do it anymore.
 I lost to Syracuse's top player, Tom Riccardi, In the last round. He was rated number 1 in the 22 player field, I was rated number 2.  I blundered into a three move combonation that won a piece. Sort of ridiculous.
  I was tired. I'm getting old, or something. I just don't care that much anymore. It used to be life or death, like an aproaching orgasm. Now, I am a statesman of chess. A teacher with dozens of students. I can't be a killer anymore.
  sigh.
 

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  If you want to feel really alive, you need to hate or you need to love.
  I have done some experimenting with both of them. They both work.

  Hatred has the virtue of ease. It's like fast food, or bottom shelf gin. It's always    there for you. Hatred lights up your brain and gets you off napalm style.
 
  Love is much harder. Love is a patiently tended roast turkey. Love is a sparkling pitcher of good fruit. Love is noticing how streetlights illuminate your lady's hair, and how her skin gleams perfect by the candlelight.
 
 Hatred is righteous.
 Love is righteous.
 You can't choose based on righteousness.
 
 Hatred is a porno.
 Hatred is sarcastic.
 Hatred is unendingly clever.
 Hatred is successful.
 
 Love is love making.
 Love is compassionate.
 Love is unendingly clever.
 Love is successful.

 Hatred is offended.
 Hatred is opinionated.
 Hatred is loud.
 Hatred squawks
 like an enormous foul bird.
 Hatred is strong.
 
Love is forgiving.
Love is open to discussion.
Love is tender.
Love seeks not to control,
but to accept.  
Love is strong.
 
 I haven't figured out which is stronger yet, love or hate.
 They might well be in balance.
 
I suspect that love is deeper, but I'm not sure.

I believe that hate is commoner.

I'll let you know when I learn more.

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           The first official world chess champion was Wilhelm Steinetz, from Austria, who defeated the German Zukertort to win the title in 1886. By the end of his life Steinetz was a raving lunatic, unable to accept that he was no longer world champion. He died penniless and insane, a fate shared by to many champions of the worlds greatest game.

           "Chess is life."

         
           The next champion was the German Emanual Lasker, who reigned for 27 years before he was defeated by the much younger Cuban, Jose R. Capablanca in 1921. In 1927 Capablanca, being perhaps overconfident in his phenomenal powers, lost a world championship match against Alexander Alekhine in 1927. Alekhine was Russian. He was the first in  a long string of Russian/Soviet world champs.

 "The Russians have fixed chess."
 
 Alekihine retained the championship until 1935, when he unexpectedly (due perhaps to excessive flirtation with vodka during the match) lost a match to the Dutchman Max Euwe. However, in 1937 Alekhine regained his title in a return match. Alekhine loved cats. His cat was named "chess."

 When Alekhine died in 1946 the chess kings throne was empty. A great tournament was held to decide the next world champion. This tournament was won by Mikhail Botvinnik, Russian.  The Next World champ was Smyslov, Russian, then Tal (Lativian, USSR), then Petrosian, Armenian (USSR), Then Spassky, Russian, who remained champion until the highly publicized  "Match of the  century" in 1972. This match was viewed in millions of homes worldwide, including the United States, a country that is well known to be rather ignorant of chess culture.

 "I like to feel the other fellows ego break."

  It was 1956. By this time The World Championship had been exclusively owned by Russians/Soviets since 1927, save for the Euwe "fluke" against the drunken Alekhine.
 Not only was the chess king Soviet, but all of the serious challengers were  Soviets as well. Russia was capable of playing a 20 board match against all other countries combined and winning it!
  However, the transcript of a game arrived in Moscow in 1956 that must have sent shock waves through the elite Soviet Grandmasters. A beautiful game score came from across the sea, fresh from America. The game featured a dazzling Queen sacrifice, that had obviously been prepared many moves before it was actually played, and extended many moves after it was launched. It was a  game that showed incredible foresight and imagination. International Master Hans Kmoch dubbed it, "The game of the century." The player who lost the game of the century was also an International Master, Donald Byrne. The player who won it was a little known chess master from New York City. His name was Robert Fischer. He was 13 years old!
    
  " You gotta give squares to get squares!"

The following year "Bobby" Fischer won his first U.S. championship in his first attempt, at the amazing age of 14, competing against many players who had been competing at the highest level in U.S. chess for longer than Fischer had even been alive, including a handful of Grandmasters.
 
   Fischer dominated U.S. chess for the next 14 years, winning 8 U.S. championships in 8 attempts.  He also competed in the greatest of the international competitions and by 1964, at the age of 21, he was already widely considered to be the worlds best player, though he didn't get a crack at the official title until 1972, the "Match of the century."

 "The greatest chess masters in history are unquestionably Alekhine and myself."


 In 1972 Boris Spassky and Bobby Fischer squared off in Reykjavik Iceland.

 "Genius. It's a word. If I win I'm a genius. If I don't, I'm not."

  Fischer won, despite the fact that he was alone against the might of the Soviet sporting authority. Spassky had many world class Soviet Grandmasters who were paid by the authorities to reveal their opening secrets to Spassky, and to assist him throughout the match. Fischer became the 11th World chess champion.

  "All I want to do, ever, is just play chess."
 
  After winning the championship in the prime of his life, Fischer never again played serious chess, except for a 1992 "return match" against the aging Spassky, for millions of dollars. A match was arranged in 1975 between him and  Anatoly Karpov, the next great Soviet chess genius in the long line of them. However, the soviets refused to agree with Fischers match demands, not wanting to seem weak before the match, or perhaps sensing that Fischers delicate psychology would be unable to withstand the tension of the unending negotiations. Fischer wouldn't budge on his demands, wouldn't play under the current match conditions. Eventually the world governing body of chess voted to forfeit his championship title to Karpov without a match.

"I will punish the chess world. They will never again see any of my games."

Bobby Fischer died last night.

 As I sat here at the chess center writing this Isay Golyak, a 75 year old chess master came up to me and put a hand on my shoulder. Isay is originally from Leningrad. He moved to the U.S. 10 years ago. He said to me,

 "Today I cry. Today Igor cry. A great...genius has died. Maybe he was not...great citizen of U.S., but..."
  
 I will tell you a secret. When I have a new chess student to teach the first question I ask them is, "How many squares are there on a chess board?"

  Bobby Fischer is dead at the age of 64.

 Below is a list of famous Grandmasters reactions to His passing.

 
     Viktor Kortchnoi: "A chess genius has died; a loss for humanity."

      Lajos Portisch: "A big shock; the best chess player in history has passed away."    
     
      Ljubomir Ljubojevic: "A man without frontiers. He didn't divide the East and the West, he brought them together in their admiration for him."

       Jan Timman: "A great player and a great example for many. His book My 60 Memorable Games had a big impact on me. It is a shame he didn't continue to enrich the world of chess with his unparalleled understanding after 1972."

   Gonna die. Gonna die. Gnnnna! die!

 She wore a velvet blue dress that concealed her softness and ape-ish lustliness.

  Strwberry kool-aid and cheap vodka.

 Bobby Fischers Mom was a jew and his dad was  Russian.
 Fischer hates jews and russias!
 Fischer isn't dead, he only believes in Fischer random death, not ordinary death.

 Fischer isn't dead he's chryogenicallt frozen!

 He gonna play Kaspy for the real worlds championship!

 I aint in control a this poem or wehat the fuck ou call it! A demon or somethin takes command!
I weren;t ment for command!

 I weren't meant for this wotld! I wrent meant for shit! Not shit!

 I'm sallow as a mo-fo, ready foe salllow cat shit morose cyniciasm!

 Cynismsm!

 Cynismsm!

  A jerk dost I be, She see's, they all see's, I sees, A jerk be I be.

 A jerk be I be, She sees and hes sees and they all see I jerk be I BE.

I jerk be I be, cheer loud for me!

 Shit!
 No sense make I NOW, Let me be like a cotone plant at 3 am, in the southern mionlight, let me be like a white slave in the cotton field late late before the birds are signing laying drunk in the moist prickl..;y cotton fuield neth the whiZky moon, lone as blind homer up amongst the stars,
 american 21st century poor but smarter than the 80,000 $ a year mofo with his black suiiot and long term plan, lol, his longterm plan is a a whisker on my cat, neigh, it aint woth so much as my lovely catys whisker, it aint nuthin, can'tm compare to a single honest strand of green grass soiled and sunned!

  Look, I aint nuthin special, fuck, I'M EVEN A JERK, MORE THAN ONE HAS TOLD ME SO,  BUT you knosew, accept me anyway, if for no other reason that aI need you, my dear, my friend, I need you to make it through another selfish lonley year.,
 and I need you, my dear to keep trucking actross this country looking for somethin resembling salvation or happines or truth, anD i NEED YOU MY DEAR, to tell me that We all spell words wrong, and you love me anyway, because I am just a cat that can't rule, that is rulled, and only tries to meow truths or drunken bullshit facts,
 but wehatever, let me be, yo, I've studied some, but I aint no scholar I just wanta I don't even know I just wanta (love?) I don't even know do I have a soulmate? I don';t even know!
 Is 2 plus 2 4?
 sure!
 Is 1 d4 the best move? I don't even know!

 Am I A saint?
 No!
 I am a gfood guy!

No!
 
 I am a kool-aid vodaka drinking drunk goonna fuck you up noy really, so be it, ooooh!
 Send him to the briggs and bust his balls!