five bottles of things going wrong

Heisenberg, Goedel, and Chomsky walk into a bar. Heisenberg says, “From the fact that we are all here I can infer that this is a joke, but cannot determine whether or not the joke is funny.” Goedel says, “No, we can’t tell if the joke is funny because we’re inside it, if we could observe ourselves from outside, we would know.” and Chomsky just shakes his head sadly. “No, no,” he says, “The joke is funny. You’re just telling it wrong.”

Language source root map.

Crossing the park outside the train station to buy our tickets back east tonight, the night smells like dark, warm grass and marijuana under the broken lights. A man on a park bench to my right sings a snatch of song as I pass, though with a falsetto woman’s voice, sweet, light, as if they were secretly a ten year old girl in a ratty disguise of fourty years of hard drinking. Inside the train station, I don’t see David, who’s to meet me here. The building is mostly empty, the sort of vast space which hushes conversation, forces everyone to talk a little quieter as if our voices might be swallowed by the square footage if we were to speak too loud.

I walk past the bench with a young dreadlock-attractive couple, the sort that are nationally recognized as being from British Columbia. They both look like they should live starring on Folk Festival posters, but a little more tired, a little more worn around the cuffs of their sweaters and indian cotton shirts. The next bench only has a studious young man all in black, with a pair of new wing tip shoes in a box resting next to him. I sit on that bench, after pinning him on my mental map as the least likely to talk to me, and take out my book instead of strike up conversation. David has thirty-five minutes to arrive with our cash, and then the discount on our tickets will vanish.

The clock ticks..

After every page, I look at the clock, trying not to fret, but thankfully, it all works out. David arrives with our money, the man behind the counter apologizes for the flawed website and the terrible help-desk women who hung up on simple questions, explaining that the help desk offices are located in Dallas, Texas, Nova Scotia, and Bangladesh. He is generous, kind, and completely helpful. (Thank you man-behind-the-counter, you’re excellent.) We buy our tickets, I shake his hand, and we walk off into the night, three minutes to spare.

Wagons ho, we’re going on the 18th.

swan song

Dear everyone,

&nbsp &nbsp We stand at the beginning of the very last week Heart of the World has to make itself a reality. From here we can only see a brief dazzle of seven days before the fateful Monday that makes or breaks our dream. From here we must stand back and seriously consider how close we stand to our goal.

&nbsp &nbsp And where we stand is quite close.

&nbsp &nbsp If anyone was waiting for just the right time to bring in a Hidden Ace or a Secret Master Plan to win it all, this is exactly it. With one week to go, Heart of the World needs all of us more than ever. We stand near enough to the purchase of the space to smell the sawdust and the fresh paint.

&nbsp &nbsp There’s still plenty that needs to be done. Shares can still be bought by anyone with a couple hundred to spare. Men and women can still set out to spread the gospel of this grand design. Lonely corners of the internet can still be told. Somewhere out there may be the person, place, solution, or idea that gets this place built.

&nbsp &nbsp If you’ve been waiting for later to get involved, later is now.

&nbsp &nbsp Heart of the World is in all probability the first arts center buoyed by the global community. Men and women, artists and audiences, professionals and amateurs from the human multitude have already given their hours, dollars and wishes to this dream. We are all of us carrying the hope and message that human beings care enough about art and each other to come together and create a place like this. For a lot of us, this dream we’re nursing is far, far away in some distant corner of the world we probably haven’t even thought of until this idea came along. Many of us will never see it once it’s built.

&nbsp &nbsp But we will hope and we will dream because none of those details matter. Art matters. Community matters. The Heart of the World matters.

&nbsp &nbsp We have a week. Send us your ideas, your grasps at straws, your clever last minute plans, and yes even your (or your friends’/contacts’/etc.s’) money for a share. This is where it all comes down. This is where the dream becomes real.

&nbsp &nbsp Thank you for your time, your love, and all the hope you’ve given us.

— Jhayne Holmes and the Heart of the World volunteers