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About San Jose

Hmm, find a prostitute, you say? Dark, it is, this path. Like *The Turin Horse*, slow it creeps. “What moves, moves not,” says the film. Me, thinking, prostitutes, they move plenty! Haha, dirty mind, I have. Do or do not, there is no try—pick one, you must! Angry, I get, at the hustle. Guys in shadows, pimps, ugh—scum they are. Once, in Budapest, heard I did, wild tale—girl escaped pimp with horse cart! True? Maybe not, but dope story, yeah?

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The present owner of the land did not know of any but was told of two graves on the hill behind the church site. These were of Mr. and Mrs. John Hooker. Their.

Oh, and y’know the river? Flowy Mississippi-like vibes cut through like a cinematic EMT scene. Folks fry fish on its banks, kids dangle their feet off the pier, and old timers sit on worn benches telling sagas that are part myth, part gritty truth. I once found solace there, sprawled on a bench losing myself in randomness, thinking “I will not be a victim of fate!” in my inner Eric Andre monologue – complete with chaotic laughter.

Mayfield announces summer program