Jo is inside Kretschmar's office. Why?
"Hey there, Dr. Kretschmar?"
"Hmm?"
She barely looks up from her paperwork.
"I was uh, wondering, do you think that you could, like turn Dr. X down or something?"
Kretschmar looks up, confusion on her face.
"What do you mean, turn her down? Is there something wrong?"
"Well, it's just that, well. She seems kinda hyper lately, almost, y'know, like manic or something."
"Hmmm. I'll look into it. Monitor her behaviour over the next week and get back to me. I'll see what I can do."
"Ok. Thanks. See ya later."
Kretschmar's already gone back to her paperwork.

Prin tried living on her own once, for a whole summer. In fact, I got to bear witness to this attempt because it was me wid whom she shared a place. Dis where d’irony is. You gotta know what Pane an Pinch is really like in order to appreciate it. When I first moved into da neighbourhood... Actually, da’s how me an Prin met. Both of us got into Dork U. And we both needed a roommate. So, we enlisted online and each other is what we found. Together we went out in search of an apartment.

So mosta d'houses we looked at were pretty run-down. Der was one place where once d'agent (‘cuz de landlord couldn be bothered to show us de place hisself, of course) had finished givin us de tour an accompanyin spiel we happened upon de tenants o’d'apartment below ours. Dey were comin down de stairs de same time as us. Dey musta recognized d’agent-guy or somethin ‘cause when dey saw us comin dey stopped on de landin an waited for us. Den dey started bawlin out d’agent cuz dey couldn believe de landlord was showin de place when it was practically fallin apart. Chunks o’der ceilin were fallin down into der bathtub. But dese were d’only kindsa places dat I could afford. I had to be saving up for med school, yo. Prin stuck wid me cuz she felt like me and her would make good roommates, and’at was one thing dat she wanted to be able to count on. Eventually we found a place an got all our shit moved right into d’heart o’de Pain and Pinch neighbourhood cuz da’s pretty much what surrounds Dork U. In some ways i’s good cuz i’s like exposin a lotta bourgeois suburbanites (like Prin) to shit dat dey wouldn’t normally experience. On d’other hand... De very next week after we got ourselves moved in d’apartment above ours got all busted up, not only were dey robbed but all der windows were smashed an all de shit dat wasn stolen got fuct up an ruined somehow by de robbers. Later on me ‘n Prin actually discovered dat de robbers had gotten into our place somehow, dey jus hadn gotten around to takin anythin dat was o’much value. But das another story. I was worried dat our neighbours might be a bit suspicious of us because we had no idea dat de whole ting had happened. You know, like, why didn we hear all dat shit gettin busted upstairs an what-not. But we all were talkin about it an it turned out dat me ‘n Prin were out shakin our asses til late de nite dat it happened, so we weren’t around to hear a thing. Anyway, just a week after dat whole thing happened, Prin got mugged at knifepoint.

See, how it went down was Prin was carryin a video camera dat she got from de media library at school. De media centre der does everythin dey can to keep dis sorta ting from happenin. Dey put stickers on d’outside o’de cases for d’equipment dat say, “Biohazard”, “Toxic Chemicals”, etc., but I guess maybe some crooks done figured mosta dat shit out by now. So, here’s Prin carryin a video camera in a case dat advertises rotten chemicals, and all of a sudden she hears some guy walkin behind her and his pace is increasin. She thinks dat he’s jus goin to pass her by, but instead he grabs her roun de neck an holds a knife to her face. He says real close up in her ear dat if she don hand over de case he’s gonna fuckin slit her throat. She drops de case. He jus kinda laughs, still in her ear. He says, “Now lets see what else you can give me.” At which point a car comes ‘roun de corner wid headlights bright to illuminate de scene. De fuckin shitass coward thief grabs de case an takes off. De car wasn goin so fast, an it stops an’ a man jumps out to see what de hell is goin on. Prin is standin frozen in de spot where she was accosted. She can’t speak, she can’t get any sound to come out at all. Dis man is tryin to communicate wid her. He’s tryin to piece together what happened, but she’s all in shock. Der’s a spot on her neck where a little bit o’blood is comin out now, a spot where de coward fuckhead thief was holdin his stupid knife.
Prin drops to the ground. This freaks the man out, and he tries to pick her up, but as soon as he touches her she screams an just runs into dese trees dat are nearby. She keeps runnin an’ runnin til she finds a spot under a bush where she hides an sits an tries to compose herself for bout an hour. Den eventually she gets up again an runs de rest o’de way home. She stays up de rest o’de nite sittin on de couch cross-legged watchin some jesus infomercials on de christian channel. Dis is where I find her de next mornin, an man, she’s a fuckin mess. I’m tryin to tell her dat she needs to inform de cops an whatnot an she’s all like, what fuckin good is dat gonna do. She wants to kill dat fuckin creep. She wans to get a vigilante crew together an take down his ass herself.
“Yeah, ok. We can do dat but, maybe first to make it look all official we should at least tell de media centre what happened an dey’ll help us fill out a police report an’ stuff.”
“Ok, but you don’t understand. If we do that they’ll know that I’m out to catch his ass an then they’ll be on to me an’ then they’ll try to stop me or somethin.”
“Hmmm... But maybe dey could help somehow.”
“No way. I’s gotta be me an I’m gonna get Jess and Lisa Tai... YOU know how tough Lisa Tai is. And Olivia, an Christine.”

“Oh my gawed.”
We stop and stare at one another.
“We could get Christine and all of her freakin sisters together, y’know how incredible that would be. They’re practically like a gang in and of themselves.”
She definitely had a point there. I was beginning to understand her position, though I had noticed dat she had yet to mention de names of any men. But I didn’t wanna press it at dis point cuz I didn’t know how she was gonna react to me questioning her on somethin like dat.
“You an I both know that the legal system don’t do shit anymore. It’s my duty as a good, tax-payin citizen o’this city to take matters into my own hands. We gotta make sure that this don’t happen again. Hey, ya wanna join us?”
She’s got my arm in her grip an the grip is gettin tighter as she speaks. She’s lookin me straight in d’eye an what I see in her face scares me to death. I’s like der’s a demon comin outta her. Her face has been taken over by somethin completely beyond her.

“Now, to understand what had me so frightened you gotta know a bit about Prin...”
Jo is looking at me kinda strangely. Had’is look for mosta my narrative.
“What’s wrong?”
“You’re really taking this memory shit to heart, aren’t you?”
“Well, i’s my job to...”
“Yeah, but X, I think you’re taking some of this a little too personally. YOU know that these aren’t YOUR memories, right?”
“What? Yeah, of course. Of course I know dat. What’dya think I am... What?”
...
“Well, I should be goin anyway. Maro’s calling me. I done stayed here too long anyway. Talkin yer ear off an shit.”
“That’s why I’m here.”
“Yeah, and I appreciate it, Jo. I really do. I’ll see ya later.”
Granted I didn know Prin too well at dat point, but still de little I did know was enough to tell me dat she might have gone over d’edge there. Why does Jo hafta be such a prick sometimes. Ha, oh dat was good. Funny. Gawd, not my memories. Fuck. Maro, pull up dat fuckin email. You know d’one. I’ve looked at it like 1000 times. Yeah, da’s de shit.

August 16
I have included the list of things that I can remember that I have, I probably have more in terms of stuff for the kitchen but as you can see I do not have alot of furniture. Perhaps we can go shopping after we’ve moved in if we need more.
Anyway.
I am not a big television watcher, but I am addicted to movies. I saw Super Cop with Jackie Chan and Michelle Khan last night, it was awesome. I am really impartial in musical taste - the only music I can’t stand to listen to is Phish. In terms of my living habits - my bedrooms are notoriously trashed - mostly with clothing or books - I love books. You mentioned that you were a fan of the ‘stacking’ cleaning technique - I am also. I am much better at keeping the other areas of the house clean (as opposed to my bedroom). I love to cook - I love food basically - especially food from other cultures.
I was really excited when I saw that your favourite tv show is Northern Exposure - mine is too. I also can’t believe you love water - I do too. Every time I get near water it ends up all over me or me in it.
I can’t think of much else. I think (I hope) that I’ll be pretty easy to live with, but at any time if you have any problem with anything that I do please tell me - I’ll do the same.
The first person to move into the apartment needs to call the landlady and tell her what day we need the keys by (and ask her where to get the keys, also).
Anyway, I’ll see you soon. Sincerely, Prin (that’s my nickname, in case you were wondering)

Maro, let me get yer opinion on something.

Ok, dis vigilante madness stuff was not yer normal Prin behaviour. She’s from dis suburb way d’hell north o’de city, an accordin to her she’s always been a bit of a weirdo. One o’de first courses she took here was English lit. or some shit. So, she had to write dis essay about how she ended up at Dork U. She wrote dis really cool piece. She gave me a copy of it to read over for her an everythin. I think I even have a copy somewhere. Yeah, yeah, da’s it. In my opinion, i’s kinda shitty writing, but who am I, Dostoevsky?

Justifiably an ARTIST
I come from a small town. People in small towns tend to view life rather simply. Judgments are made without hesitation and without much thought of the consequences that ensue. Judging people according to their surface appearance keeps life simple. Things that can be placed in a defined category are easily sized-up and filed away in some corner of the mind.
When it comes to choosing a profession in a small town there is one rule and one rule only: You are what you do. Heaven forbid anyone have the audacity to change his or her profession midway through life, thereby forcing the alteration
of a community’s perceptions regarding that person. Small town citizens will be damned if they'll give up their convenient definitions of what a person is or isn't. Thus when it came time for me to choose a profession I discovered that according to my outward appearance and mannerisms I had very little choice indeed.
From an early age on it was apparent that I was to become something peculiar. One sign of this peculiarity was unmistakable: more often than not I would be off "in my own little world". Being a dreamer and having little desire to verbally communicate the dreams I indulged in led to ridicule from my peers. Once cast aside from the games of the playground, my only solace was the security I found in independence. This independent attitude led to further isolation from my small town community. I became suspicious of anyone accepted by the society with which I had become familiar. Furthermore, having virtually no friends made me withdrawn and moody.
A virtual recluse at age 11, I would sometimes catch snippets of conversations concerning "what was to become of" me. One that all the overheard descriptions of me included was "artist's temperament". This phrase germinated and took root when I began to exhibit interest in various areas of the fine arts. It was at this point that I suddenly realized my options for the future had without my knowledge or consent, been limited.
My aptitudes in math and science were of little significance to teachers who had me pegged as one of those "creative types". When I began highschool and shared with our guidance counselor my ambition to enter into the field of medicine he, while making little effort to hide his shock and dismay, suggested that I aim for something more in line with my obvious proclivities. He hinted that trespassers in fields like that of medicine were shot on sight. The "types" of fields to which he was referring were those of a no-nonsense, serious nature (i.e., science, business, etc.). Social deviants were not encouraged to immerse themselves in studies that would land them in positions of power within the community (i.e., Who would have any respect for a doctor dressed like some sort of circus performer?). Instead, my guidance counselor steered me towards a career in an area that was a little closer to what he assumed were my tastes: the fine arts.
Of course I was angry. Flagrant discrimination on the basis of appearance and social behavior seemed like a burning injustice to my adolescent mind. From that point on I walked around with a chip on my shoulder and preoccupied myself with thoughts of proving everyone wrong. This earned me the reputation of a scatter-brained, absent-minded girl with a bad temper. Lacking the wherewithal to verbally express my anger, I took to using visual media to express myself. I painted, drew and sculpted my opinions of those around me, thereby fulfilling the artist’s stereotype completely. I did not conform. I did not fit in. I was angry with my peers and society at large. I did not communicate in a normal fashion. I looked like an artist, and now I had truly come to behave like one.
I will admit to you that I am the embodiment of my small town's concept of an artist. On the surface I am prone to moodiness and impulsive behavior. I express myself using unconventional means. Furthermore I may seem flighty, immature and unreliable. This is the persona that has been shaped for me and I can offer no excuses for it other than the circumstances in which I was brought up. It may seem as though I ended up in the fine arts by default, that art is the only salvation left for a social deviant such as myself.
The persona created for me by my environment may fit me like a glove but, in the end it is my choice to don such a glove. I choose whether or not to embrace this destiny. Should I choose to accept this destiny, I will be in a position to portray my impressions of all other professions. It is the artist more than any other professional, who has the opportunity to draw upon all the resources that human civilization has to offer. When the language, the currency, and the members of any given culture have died, their art will still live on. So, be careful about what you say to me. It may just be kept for posterity’s sake.

A’right, so parts o’dat essay still make me cringe. To tell you de truth, I hate writin, myself. Sometimes I don'trust de written word at all. Words jus get you into trouble. If I had a choice I wouldn't use dem at all. Dey are inadequate to de bone. Dis probly sound like some kinda o’foppery considerin all de written words an notes dat I keep takin and keepin and takin, etc. all de goddam time. But anyway, de point is... What was my fuckin point, anyway?
...
Well, her teacher really liked’essay. It was the kinda thing where he read it to de whole class, yadda yadda, which again, centers her out. And in d’end, what he told her was dat her essay was d’only one outta de class dat indicated she had ended up in her program because of prejudice. Boy, did that ever make her think.
...
I think da’s part o’da reason she was so big on being my roommate: she wanted to go into medicine. She jus felt like she wasn smart enough to make it.
...
Shit. Dat was my point. No matter how much she got made fun of, no matter how much she was centered out an laughed at, she never (an dey did some mean shit to her man, let me tell you) fuckin fought back. Never once. When I first met her, she was de nicest damn person I had ever known. And’en after d’attack, she jus fuckin snapped. Prin was on de warpath, an from dat moment on she didn stop. To see her like dat was quite eerie. I’s like she totally flipped a switch. And it really makes me wonder. Maybe we all start out innocent and wonderful, it’s just a matter o’time before our experience corrupts us. Prin led a pretty sheltered life. Maybe she was able to hold out longer dan most.
...

When the room fills up what will THAT be like?

Do people pay attention to me? It goes without saying that I will pay attention to them. I wonder if they ever feel watched by me. Do they feel listened-to when I am observing them? I suppose that affects the observations. But then again, they’d be watched no matter what. I’m sure they don really think too much bout any o’dis anyway. Dis a very good place to have a conversation wid yerself.

Jo never listened to me. He didn’t like poetry and he didn’ like Henry Sugar. Or perhaps he jus didn’t like bein read to.

“Look Ma! I’m an existentialist!”
A fake laugh, such a fake, fake laugh.
Dey’re interrupting. Want me to move my chair, my body (my existence?). Well, it’s not going to happen. fractals connected. fibraccio. libarace. Maro is part of de closed circuit. Maro is a telekinetic photon-machine. D'ultimate gadget. Can take still photos, can shoot moving targets. Maro can send notes to other similar gadgets across time and space. what universe did i attend? it’s called FU. I should be talking to her ARM AND NAVaL. saying, Intelligence, you need not worry bout fallowing out, there. to be completed at a later date.

Kretschmar. You can’t trust her, ever, not even for one cool minute. You gotta remember that. You gotta keep dat fear in your heart. De terrible thing is dat she wants you to have dat fear there. It should be about respect. That’s what you’d think it would be about, but it’s not. It’s all about fear and de kind of control dat she has over you. She needs to have dat control, no matter what situation she’s in.

She has her minions. And you have to watch out for dem at all times, eh Maro?
I once looked up to her. I almost admired her. Almost. I thought she had something like compassion. But I was dead wrong. I’s not compassion afterall. I’s jus’elf preservation, a sickening, destructive kind of self-preservation. She’s only nice to you as an after-thought, or perhaps she actually needs something from you, though she would never want you to know it. She will demand things from you. That’s all. She will never admit to actually needing you.

Diagnosis? No.
Don't know why she's getting better.






WHOA. I was totally dozing off there.



Da’s it. I’m jus gonna sit here beside all these ridiculous people an work on my own fuckin report or somethin.
How does one become an autonomous agent? Is it possible for an agent to contribute to his own process of autonomy?
It would seem that it may be possible for an agent to dissociate himself from the sort of deliberation that he uses to decide between first-order desires. In this way, one could say that an agent may not identify with the sort of reasons-responsive mechanisms that she uses for deliberation, as well as the potential solutions that they may provide him with. If an agent does not himself recognize or identify with the psychological capacities that should render him autonomous ought we to hold him responsible for his actions?
I dunno.

“Exactly, but I like this... You couldn’t say that I’m shy... [laughing].”

“I went to a newsgroup last year... She’s a psychic... Judy, in my group, she’s so unhappy... But... You just take these trips...”

“Hmmm...”

“New York... The divorce hadn’t gone through, yet... And then they broke up... One day...”

“So, it could be the last day... I wrote everything... I... I... I... Friends.”

“And then you say it’s not my fault. [laughing]”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“I cry so loud. Why don’t you help me.”

“So we’re chatting away...”

“I told him...”

“No, the guy...”

“Always remember... Yeah, confirming... TSX Group Inc. and Montreal Exchange Inc... Yesterday. They have renewed merger talks... a made-in-Canada deal.”

“Who’s going to underwrite that sort of bill?”

“Certainly not Heywood Securities, Vancouver.”

“Most definitely. I heard they’re going under.”

“What?!”

“Yeah, they took a big hit with the meltdown. Seriously, at least five of their companies are gone, like they disappeared overnight.”

“No shit! I guess they’re out of the game.”

“No shit.”

“Then she wrote... from there... She should travel... then she will understand.”

“You want to take on...”

“So it’s there...”

“Actually...”

“She says, ‘I brought it up and the next thing I know...’”

“Did you ever get away?”

“And Johann will be here in August.”

“He didn’t sound right...”

“So, um...”

“And I know that I will be with her...”

I’s Alison Tsoukalas and her sister-in-law (whose name I can’t quite locate). Nice little stock-tip dey giving me der. I oughtta try dat one out. Alison should know, seeing as how she used to work for Heywood Securities’ head-office in Vancouver.