Sunday, September 30, 2007
Outdoors at Summer's End
"And if a Pearl in a Toad's Head may Dwell..."
(-Bunyan)
Two strong Puerto Rican boys are by themselves in the grass, a gay couple enthralled by one another's presence.
Line from bone. Flesh in sway to gravitation. Indication of structure. Symptom of chordate life.
An animal that has a soul.
A thought invisible in the sun.
Photographers stalk, prowl, hang back. They record this and that.
Animals that think. They're deciders: on what to frame, isolate, and share, or on what outfit to present and what physical bearing, and they go out and you see them and we're all together, and we could do anything if we knew we would be happy, but who would listen to me, and why do I make problems for myself, and what is the best way to get strong enough to plan, and how can I go through with it.
I ask, "HOW CAN I BRING MYSELF".
In the self, there is a lightless pool. I fall in, and there listen for the sounds of saints haunting. Their speech and their aspect--one to another of my clamoring selves--is cold (without the heat of friendship) and dim (without the light of wisdom). It takes place in the dream that the woke self turns blind eyes to: the incessant dream of the dreaming self, an animal that lives inside me like a coiled crab in a moon snail shell.
All day inside there's envy and lust for violence, and all night strange attractions to ideas and to the shapes of unfamiliar women. Without real hope to, the dreaming self chews on the prospect of getting to see God, or else some comprehensive library, or some just society where it can shut itself away in the open like a speechless statue. I guess: a drape thrown over the physical being, a beautiful covering of great worth and skill. I guess: a thing you would see and sigh over, saying, 'This is the most accurate portrayal of the man.'
Cloaked with wrought art and speechless as in a sarcophagus. Meanwhile the light of the present world bends the same over everyone in the grass, and over passing ships on the river, and ugly cars and tall buildings and passing fictions. Rhythm is all: a tide, a lunar sympathy, with others. A correspondence with inhuman energies that as people we share. The pool of the self being so deep, and the icy center being so familiar; the ancient comforts of the flooded cold cave.
You, too, will sigh someday.
(-Bunyan)
Two strong Puerto Rican boys are by themselves in the grass, a gay couple enthralled by one another's presence.
Line from bone. Flesh in sway to gravitation. Indication of structure. Symptom of chordate life.
An animal that has a soul.
A thought invisible in the sun.
Photographers stalk, prowl, hang back. They record this and that.
Animals that think. They're deciders: on what to frame, isolate, and share, or on what outfit to present and what physical bearing, and they go out and you see them and we're all together, and we could do anything if we knew we would be happy, but who would listen to me, and why do I make problems for myself, and what is the best way to get strong enough to plan, and how can I go through with it.
I ask, "HOW CAN I BRING MYSELF".
In the self, there is a lightless pool. I fall in, and there listen for the sounds of saints haunting. Their speech and their aspect--one to another of my clamoring selves--is cold (without the heat of friendship) and dim (without the light of wisdom). It takes place in the dream that the woke self turns blind eyes to: the incessant dream of the dreaming self, an animal that lives inside me like a coiled crab in a moon snail shell.
All day inside there's envy and lust for violence, and all night strange attractions to ideas and to the shapes of unfamiliar women. Without real hope to, the dreaming self chews on the prospect of getting to see God, or else some comprehensive library, or some just society where it can shut itself away in the open like a speechless statue. I guess: a drape thrown over the physical being, a beautiful covering of great worth and skill. I guess: a thing you would see and sigh over, saying, 'This is the most accurate portrayal of the man.'
Cloaked with wrought art and speechless as in a sarcophagus. Meanwhile the light of the present world bends the same over everyone in the grass, and over passing ships on the river, and ugly cars and tall buildings and passing fictions. Rhythm is all: a tide, a lunar sympathy, with others. A correspondence with inhuman energies that as people we share. The pool of the self being so deep, and the icy center being so familiar; the ancient comforts of the flooded cold cave.
You, too, will sigh someday.
Headlines
A new, glossy 'business news' magazine is launched. The title:
BUSINESS as USUAL
"It's better than having your clitoris cut out," one hears.
That practice, that custom, I guess you could point to as an unmitigated evil: an unmistakeable flashpoint in the war between dominion and liberty.
Callousness and.
Forget it.
Pleasure.
Human mercy and heavenly mercy?
Inhuman order and human something something. I don't want to say 'jouissance,' such a pansy word. 'Love' is not it. Pleasure, or liberty: but liberty connotes Jefferson and Voltaire. Those magnanimous Houdon brows need not be connoted.
Not connote anything!
Just, to pursue, to live in the being with the consciousness unique to the human!
Even 'free' means, free from, which is to say, It is permitted.
I mean, freedom from having to have permission.
Jouissance I guess.
I have my own Philosophy of the Bedroom: I stay up at night and sleep till afternoon.
BUSINESS as USUAL
"It's better than having your clitoris cut out," one hears.
That practice, that custom, I guess you could point to as an unmitigated evil: an unmistakeable flashpoint in the war between dominion and liberty.
Callousness and.
Forget it.
Pleasure.
Human mercy and heavenly mercy?
Inhuman order and human something something. I don't want to say 'jouissance,' such a pansy word. 'Love' is not it. Pleasure, or liberty: but liberty connotes Jefferson and Voltaire. Those magnanimous Houdon brows need not be connoted.
Not connote anything!
Just, to pursue, to live in the being with the consciousness unique to the human!
Even 'free' means, free from, which is to say, It is permitted.
I mean, freedom from having to have permission.
Jouissance I guess.
I have my own Philosophy of the Bedroom: I stay up at night and sleep till afternoon.
Legend of the Horse
Attribution
Mare piss
To be born and forced to learn a zodiac
Shape of a thought, difference between fantasy and premonition
The horse cock, foam in its hide like frothed sperm
A woman on horseback
The wildness of dissimilarity
(Something about learning the sounds different animals make.)
Mare piss
To be born and forced to learn a zodiac
Shape of a thought, difference between fantasy and premonition
The horse cock, foam in its hide like frothed sperm
A woman on horseback
The wildness of dissimilarity
(Something about learning the sounds different animals make.)
No Can Do
Collect up winter clothes (such as gloves, warm coat, thicker shirts etc.) in a storage area, for use at certain times of each year (each time a season ‘rolls around’)
Collect fresh produce at intervals and prepare daily food
Talk on the phone to agents of rapacious corporations – suppliers, lenders, even representatives of the local and federal government
Come out of bed and exercise, eat, shit, bathe, look out the window, keep appointments
Say hello, explain myself at length to everyone
Stay informed about what is going on in the world
Combat physical illness
Buy new shoes and new silverware when the old ones wear out or break
Psych myself up and make an impression
Traipse around like a sheep on a green hill
Suffer each small inconvenience and regrettable setback
Utter every cliché
Wax-impress
Saturday, September 15, 2007
Intellectuals?
"The institutional world needs intellectuals because they are intellectuals, but it does not want them as intellectuals."
--Irving Howe, "This Age of Conformity" (1954)
'Because there are so many intellectuals',:
Let's try, for a second, to complete this proposition about American life.
For just a second. Corollaries. We'll try a few different ones.
What can we honestly adduce?
'Because there are so many intellectuals':
Books cost money, computers cost money, little garrets with ink-pots and ashtrays cost money. Benzedrine and matrimony and open-heart surgery and double-espresso and childbirth: you balk, it needles at you, you take on debt. You wear the yoke! Anyway, the only people moaning over it are intellectuals, thus Q.E.D.
--Irving Howe, "This Age of Conformity" (1954)
'Because there are so many intellectuals',:
Let's try, for a second, to complete this proposition about American life.
For just a second. Corollaries. We'll try a few different ones.
What can we honestly adduce?
'Because there are so many intellectuals':
- NYRB runs in the black?
- Book readership something something?
- Movies and TV etc etc?
- Higher education uh bluh bluh bluh bluh?
Books cost money, computers cost money, little garrets with ink-pots and ashtrays cost money. Benzedrine and matrimony and open-heart surgery and double-espresso and childbirth: you balk, it needles at you, you take on debt. You wear the yoke! Anyway, the only people moaning over it are intellectuals, thus Q.E.D.
(Excrescence)
"All that disturbed me once, has become delicious to me." --Gide, The Immoralist (1921)
Movin on, walkin down, desertification.
Excrescence: once in a while he does some nutty creative project to his surroundings.
Origami, you call this.
Straw-wrapper doilies.
Pennies glued to scratched CDs.
Cigarette butts in an orange plastic pill bottle.
Songs on YouTube.
Shirts with rips.
Stickers on Polaroids.
Soda-can flowers. Things like this.
Things like that.
Wetted temporary tattoos stuck to glass.
Pencil drawings of a TV show.
Newspaper hats!
Human beings, looking at their lives, fighting back!
Pushing hard against the tide of commerce and co-optation.
Living like geese on a golf course.
Stupid organic meals. Stupid rented real estate. Lame hacks looking hard.
Lame ducks looking up mates online. Planning an alternative wedding; rap and neo-folk.
Oozing.
Sleeping.
Aggregating RSS.
Breathing CO2.
Sharing pdfs.
Describing OBEs.
Feeding on spirit.
Hoarding details.
Movin on, walkin down, desertification.
Excrescence: once in a while he does some nutty creative project to his surroundings.
Origami, you call this.
Straw-wrapper doilies.
Pennies glued to scratched CDs.
Cigarette butts in an orange plastic pill bottle.
Songs on YouTube.
Shirts with rips.
Stickers on Polaroids.
Soda-can flowers. Things like this.
Things like that.
Wetted temporary tattoos stuck to glass.
Pencil drawings of a TV show.
Newspaper hats!
Human beings, looking at their lives, fighting back!
Pushing hard against the tide of commerce and co-optation.
Living like geese on a golf course.
Stupid organic meals. Stupid rented real estate. Lame hacks looking hard.
Lame ducks looking up mates online. Planning an alternative wedding; rap and neo-folk.
Oozing.
Sleeping.
Aggregating RSS.
Breathing CO2.
Sharing pdfs.
Describing OBEs.
Feeding on spirit.
Hoarding details.
Wednesday, September 12, 2007
"The Black Rainbow Over the Minch"
A black rainbow owre the Minch
Needna mak' onybody flinch.
It means juist aboot the same
As gin the usual colours came.--Hugh McDiarmid, 1977
reprinted in TLS
Tuesday, September 11, 2007
Ripeness is All
(...of cunt, and pussy hair.)
In my mind's eye I see wreckage of ships on the sidewalks and angelic hosts with polished forks and knives poised about your ball-sack. There's no privacy, to be sure, and neither is there any comfort: there is only an opaque Emergency, in the shape of a woman's ripe body. My gift to friends will be more like a twinge of fear than one of hope, but it's the same in the end: I say it's the same in the end: I say it's the same in the end.
In my mind's eye I see wreckage of ships on the sidewalks and angelic hosts with polished forks and knives poised about your ball-sack. There's no privacy, to be sure, and neither is there any comfort: there is only an opaque Emergency, in the shape of a woman's ripe body. My gift to friends will be more like a twinge of fear than one of hope, but it's the same in the end: I say it's the same in the end: I say it's the same in the end.
Sunday, September 9, 2007
A Pretty Kettle of Fish
In an 1818 letter to his sister Fanny, written during a tour of Scotland, Keats breaks into a little song lyric about all the animals he used to bring home to the family house, over the objections of their grandmother Alice Jennings. Keats as a boy was enamored with "the whole tribe of Bushes and Brooks."
"There was a naughty boy
And a naughty boy was he,
He kept little fishes
In washing tubs three
In spite
Of the might
of the Maid
Nor afraid
Of his Granny-good--
He often would
Hurly-burly
Get up early
And go
By hook or crook
To the brook
And bring home
Miller's thumb,
Tittlebat
Not over fat,
Minnows small
As the stall
Of a glove,
Not above
The size
Of a nice
Little Baby's
Little finger--
O he made
'Twas his trade
Of Fish a Pretty Kettle
A Kettle--
A Kettle
Of Fish a Pretty Kettle
A Kettle!"
"There was a naughty boy
And a naughty boy was he,
He kept little fishes
In washing tubs three
In spite
Of the might
of the Maid
Nor afraid
Of his Granny-good--
He often would
Hurly-burly
Get up early
And go
By hook or crook
To the brook
And bring home
Miller's thumb,
Tittlebat
Not over fat,
Minnows small
As the stall
Of a glove,
Not above
The size
Of a nice
Little Baby's
Little finger--
O he made
'Twas his trade
Of Fish a Pretty Kettle
A Kettle--
A Kettle
Of Fish a Pretty Kettle
A Kettle!"
Thursday, September 6, 2007
Exquisite Bridge
"I feel now as if I were building a very delicate intricate bridge quietly in the night, across the dark from one grave to another while the giant is sleeping. Help me build this o so exquisite bridge."
--Sylvia Plath, December 11 1955
--Sylvia Plath, December 11 1955
Wednesday, September 5, 2007
'This is the Life I Chose, or Rather, the Life that Chose Me'
"PROPOSITIONS
1) There is not really such a thing as privacy.
2) I'm hoping for peace and death. Seems almost do-able.
3) To live this way is not to hurt anyone. Not so far, I guess.
4) Whatever I've tried to do, this is the product.
5) Everybody dies, thank Christ. (Cioran- "We shall never have existed for so many of our idols, our name will have troubled none of the centuries before us...")
6) I would like ECSTASY (first preference) or ANNIHILATION (second). Just these two. This is the being I am, at my worst. No energy or imagination to spare on the world, all the stuff of it.
7) It's all so silly. I picture a deep sigh of relief, a chuckle at the far-off day.
8) LITERATURE--It's a mythical white beast. Like the Loch Ness Monster, it's just hype and badinage, a localized force-nexus of polyphonic hype.
9) In the Hereafter, I want to understand and comprehend infinity, I want to understand and comprehend God's love and infinite mercy, I want to learn about justice, how everything totals up--however--If after death your petty subjectivity lives on, that would be a gruesome disappointment. That would feel to me like Hollywood.
10) I am convinced, but only down to a certain watermark, that you die and that's it. Life is an incomprehensible trick-of-perception, like green in a sunset. What we think of as consciousness, what we think of as local. The troubling thing is how zeitgeisty this is. Surely the laws of the universe... Human societies evolve differing outlooks...
Onward.
11) From newspapers and TV I've learned about many people, English-speaking and otherwise, living and dead, who lived worthwhile and meaningful lives. (That cocksucking fireman who taught karate to the blind. 'What color belt are you?')
12) It's like I fell in a trap and broke my leg. But, I will never know if it was set for me somehow, or what. You could think of the known universe as a trap. Can there really be no way to get OUTSIDE REALITY? I remember intuiting the great infinite and things like that, but I don't put stock in those intuitions now.
13) Everything is so goddam interesting and worthy: Every beautiful or noble thing in the world is only a pure piece of garbage. I could renounce it. I'd feel a little dizzy.
14) Today in America we think and speak in this particular way; what does that mean?
15) "I'm going to Hell to burn lovelessly, but I would like to bring my iPod with Bach and my charger, and naked photos of my ex-girlfriend to jerk off to. Surely this is permitted."
16) Fuck my faculties of comprehension. I truly have nothing on faith. I live in a tiny clean space in my own cold heart, far from the overgrown ruin of my intellect.
17) Even if it's just on paper, I'm one of those who can chatter their heads off until they die, blithering back and forth in the storm of subjugation. Noise: that's something to renounce."
1) There is not really such a thing as privacy.
2) I'm hoping for peace and death. Seems almost do-able.
3) To live this way is not to hurt anyone. Not so far, I guess.
4) Whatever I've tried to do, this is the product.
5) Everybody dies, thank Christ. (Cioran- "We shall never have existed for so many of our idols, our name will have troubled none of the centuries before us...")
6) I would like ECSTASY (first preference) or ANNIHILATION (second). Just these two. This is the being I am, at my worst. No energy or imagination to spare on the world, all the stuff of it.
7) It's all so silly. I picture a deep sigh of relief, a chuckle at the far-off day.
8) LITERATURE--It's a mythical white beast. Like the Loch Ness Monster, it's just hype and badinage, a localized force-nexus of polyphonic hype.
9) In the Hereafter, I want to understand and comprehend infinity, I want to understand and comprehend God's love and infinite mercy, I want to learn about justice, how everything totals up--however--If after death your petty subjectivity lives on, that would be a gruesome disappointment. That would feel to me like Hollywood.
10) I am convinced, but only down to a certain watermark, that you die and that's it. Life is an incomprehensible trick-of-perception, like green in a sunset. What we think of as consciousness, what we think of as local. The troubling thing is how zeitgeisty this is. Surely the laws of the universe... Human societies evolve differing outlooks...
Onward.
11) From newspapers and TV I've learned about many people, English-speaking and otherwise, living and dead, who lived worthwhile and meaningful lives. (That cocksucking fireman who taught karate to the blind. 'What color belt are you?')
12) It's like I fell in a trap and broke my leg. But, I will never know if it was set for me somehow, or what. You could think of the known universe as a trap. Can there really be no way to get OUTSIDE REALITY? I remember intuiting the great infinite and things like that, but I don't put stock in those intuitions now.
13) Everything is so goddam interesting and worthy: Every beautiful or noble thing in the world is only a pure piece of garbage. I could renounce it. I'd feel a little dizzy.
14) Today in America we think and speak in this particular way; what does that mean?
15) "I'm going to Hell to burn lovelessly, but I would like to bring my iPod with Bach and my charger, and naked photos of my ex-girlfriend to jerk off to. Surely this is permitted."
16) Fuck my faculties of comprehension. I truly have nothing on faith. I live in a tiny clean space in my own cold heart, far from the overgrown ruin of my intellect.
17) Even if it's just on paper, I'm one of those who can chatter their heads off until they die, blithering back and forth in the storm of subjugation. Noise: that's something to renounce."
Hopes and Dreams at Bedtime
"I tried to write a love poem, just one good love poem to her. It seemed so hard to do--seated at my desk, I did not feel suffused with love. I felt dry and panicky. ('I feel, I feel'.) I wanted to compose something classic--the truth, the general, expressed perfectly in the particular. -Ah freedom--If I could but taste it..."
"I swear that all I want to do is read great novels attentively, and be a novelist. Otherwise fuck it, go to Iraq and take an IED."
(What a misguided juxtaposition there. A shrapnel splinter dug from Hans Castorp.)
"In childhood I became myself... the wounded dreamer, the musician with weird pain, the hurt one in the twilit valley singing in the flowers and watching my melancholy reflection in the brook: white-eyed. -Everyone asks the question: 'Why unfit?' What unfits you besides your lack of will? Well, it's the lack of will. Or lack of an instinct to want to project the will to will oneself. I mean, you could go on and on having more and more fun. -A person who's so good at having fun: eating a nice restaurant dinner, watching a porno, fishing a mountain stream, playing pick-up basketball, cooking for two, putting together a surprise get-well package for a sick friend. One of those people, and there are a ton of them. --Lightning from God is what you pray for. 'God!' These incidents crystallized out of your life, when you called out from hilltops in the wilderness. But you were calling for a particular kind of God, the God of the artist, and that's not a real god, it's a figment.
"I have certain flashes of how I could be satisfied to live my life as a monk on the knife edge of joy, serving God. Letting God prepare my meals and walk in my footsteps. Inhale and exhale each other. Be close to God and religious. That would be like the Monastic Life, it would be in a certain sense like the life of a soldier. To reject these lives means hitching a star to private, personal Progress. What kind of progress do you see yourself making?"
(I am alive and Life is not.)
"I swear that all I want to do is read great novels attentively, and be a novelist. Otherwise fuck it, go to Iraq and take an IED."
(What a misguided juxtaposition there. A shrapnel splinter dug from Hans Castorp.)
"In childhood I became myself... the wounded dreamer, the musician with weird pain, the hurt one in the twilit valley singing in the flowers and watching my melancholy reflection in the brook: white-eyed. -Everyone asks the question: 'Why unfit?' What unfits you besides your lack of will? Well, it's the lack of will. Or lack of an instinct to want to project the will to will oneself. I mean, you could go on and on having more and more fun. -A person who's so good at having fun: eating a nice restaurant dinner, watching a porno, fishing a mountain stream, playing pick-up basketball, cooking for two, putting together a surprise get-well package for a sick friend. One of those people, and there are a ton of them. --Lightning from God is what you pray for. 'God!' These incidents crystallized out of your life, when you called out from hilltops in the wilderness. But you were calling for a particular kind of God, the God of the artist, and that's not a real god, it's a figment.
"I have certain flashes of how I could be satisfied to live my life as a monk on the knife edge of joy, serving God. Letting God prepare my meals and walk in my footsteps. Inhale and exhale each other. Be close to God and religious. That would be like the Monastic Life, it would be in a certain sense like the life of a soldier. To reject these lives means hitching a star to private, personal Progress. What kind of progress do you see yourself making?"
(I am alive and Life is not.)
Tuesday, September 4, 2007
Farce continuelle!
"Chacun a sa raison, mépris et charité: je retiens ma place au sommet de cette angélique échelle de bon sens."
-A Season in Hell
(Each has its perks, contempt and charity: I reserve my place at the top of this angelic ladder of good sense.)
"Just depressed out of my fucking mind, want to sleep it out. Ever since I was sixteen I've been filling notebooks and hard drives with terrible, weird writing. I can't withstand it anymore: just a waste, a misguided, ragged, shitty hobby. Just makes me angry, nauseates me. What was I thinking. My brain, my stupid dick. What was I trying to redeem.
"Whatever it is, depair, whatever, it gets so fascinatingly clean and pure. Almost beautiful, this hopelessness or somehing--the absence of woman, eros, play. Sealed. It is so clean and undiluted: it startles, attracts, scintillates with novelty."
"An apology always on my lips for not giving all of myself in conversation, as stupid as I am and as lame as my ideas are. But it's not a man's ideas that are wanted here, it's his jellyfish-shaped sentiments, his charity of all his soul, which is the same for every being, the same for every"one, but this is what he has to give, and apologize because can't give more. So: the blank wait while I bite my tongue and simultaneously vomit tears... Close your eyes for a bit, and God will give you a taste of His Hell, of the world without His simple love, and this is more terrible than any nightmare dispersed by day which you record. --If I pull it out and am ever happy and efficient again, I want to always try to take care of everyone. Spare no effort. Bully them until they come out and lose themselves in something engaging and confraternal: not try to get them to see their folly, but just browbeat them into taking some pleasure in their experience. Drink this nectar. --It takes real courage for a joyful man to deny the Creator."
"My heart is full of itching sand. You dream about sliding clean for eternity across frictionless glass."
"God is Love, love is not ludic--Love is what is. Play is torture and power. God cannot tease, God cannot flirt. Only Zeus could fuck. God, no slave, cannot be enraptured."
'Leaves of Grass': "The scent of these arm-pits, aroma finer than prayer." --When I die (of pussyitis) there will be in my nostrils the human smell of my armpits, mixed with the chemical-nostalgic smell of my deodorant, in a little piece of last music.
-A Season in Hell
(Each has its perks, contempt and charity: I reserve my place at the top of this angelic ladder of good sense.)
"Just depressed out of my fucking mind, want to sleep it out. Ever since I was sixteen I've been filling notebooks and hard drives with terrible, weird writing. I can't withstand it anymore: just a waste, a misguided, ragged, shitty hobby. Just makes me angry, nauseates me. What was I thinking. My brain, my stupid dick. What was I trying to redeem.
"Whatever it is, depair, whatever, it gets so fascinatingly clean and pure. Almost beautiful, this hopelessness or somehing--the absence of woman, eros, play. Sealed. It is so clean and undiluted: it startles, attracts, scintillates with novelty."
"An apology always on my lips for not giving all of myself in conversation, as stupid as I am and as lame as my ideas are. But it's not a man's ideas that are wanted here, it's his jellyfish-shaped sentiments, his charity of all his soul, which is the same for every being, the same for every"one, but this is what he has to give, and apologize because can't give more. So: the blank wait while I bite my tongue and simultaneously vomit tears... Close your eyes for a bit, and God will give you a taste of His Hell, of the world without His simple love, and this is more terrible than any nightmare dispersed by day which you record. --If I pull it out and am ever happy and efficient again, I want to always try to take care of everyone. Spare no effort. Bully them until they come out and lose themselves in something engaging and confraternal: not try to get them to see their folly, but just browbeat them into taking some pleasure in their experience. Drink this nectar. --It takes real courage for a joyful man to deny the Creator."
"My heart is full of itching sand. You dream about sliding clean for eternity across frictionless glass."
"God is Love, love is not ludic--Love is what is. Play is torture and power. God cannot tease, God cannot flirt. Only Zeus could fuck. God, no slave, cannot be enraptured."
'Leaves of Grass': "The scent of these arm-pits, aroma finer than prayer." --When I die (of pussyitis) there will be in my nostrils the human smell of my armpits, mixed with the chemical-nostalgic smell of my deodorant, in a little piece of last music.
- "Must I pray for the strength to keep from checking my ex-girlfriend's blog?"
Valediction
"You glow in my mind."
"I had some magic days with you."
"I want to be a good woman--and I want you to be a good man."
"Maybe we should just stop."
"Good-bye, Giovanni."
"..."
"Don't say 'good-bye'. Just say, 'I'll see you later'."
"Have a good time."
"You are the comedy."
"Good-bye, I love you."
"Si, voy a renunciar a él."
"I had some magic days with you."
"I want to be a good woman--and I want you to be a good man."
"Maybe we should just stop."
"Good-bye, Giovanni."
"..."
"Don't say 'good-bye'. Just say, 'I'll see you later'."
"Have a good time."
"You are the comedy."
"Good-bye, I love you."
"Si, voy a renunciar a él."
Monday, September 3, 2007
Reflections
In living practice, Rock Music, and all good pop music, is nothing more than a platform for uncontrollable fantasies of adventurous sex, and of brooding journeys though nights of drugs and luxury. ('Rock criticism' which neglects this fundamental premise misses everything. There is not much to be said, after all. The salient fact of rock, as with sexual pleasure, is that it is either present or absent and longed for. The presence is only an annullment of the longing, and that's all we get, who are condemned to live this way: beholden to these coarse gratifications.)
To advance into time and the night, one must undertake not to be bored by the vacancy of one's self. It can be tricky when all you have are monotonous and uninspired records, like [this source], but the working method--recall--is to check your worst impulses and your scorn and your appetite for distractions, and fake being a scholar of your inner life until it finally seems to work: you begin to get gold and silver memories unbidden trickling out of cracks, old places and forgotten expectations lighting up, lachyrmose, in the darkness of locked-off places in the world.
Now--you could write simply. If you worry about cataloguing your wisdom, you should condense your thoughts, and condense your records the same way, and write down only what's important. If you want any of the possible satisfaction or the passion of this way of life, the only course is steeliness and withholding.
To advance into time and the night, one must undertake not to be bored by the vacancy of one's self. It can be tricky when all you have are monotonous and uninspired records, like [this source], but the working method--recall--is to check your worst impulses and your scorn and your appetite for distractions, and fake being a scholar of your inner life until it finally seems to work: you begin to get gold and silver memories unbidden trickling out of cracks, old places and forgotten expectations lighting up, lachyrmose, in the darkness of locked-off places in the world.
Now--you could write simply. If you worry about cataloguing your wisdom, you should condense your thoughts, and condense your records the same way, and write down only what's important. If you want any of the possible satisfaction or the passion of this way of life, the only course is steeliness and withholding.
Forever
COCK
PUSSY
COCK
PUSSY
COCK.
PUSSY.
COCK.
COCK. COCK. COCK.
FOREVER. FOREVER. FOREVER.
COCK. FIND PUSSY.
COCK. PUSSY AWAITS.
MAKE HER WET.
MAKE HER PUSSY WET.
FUCK HER.
FUCK HER PUSSY.
FUCK HER PUSSY.
FUCK HER PUSSY.
FIND PUSSY.
FUCK HER PUSSY.
SHE IS IN LOVE.
FUCK HER PUSSY.
SHE IS IN LOVE WITH YOUR HARD COCK.
WET HER PUSSY. FUCK HER PUSSY.
I LOVE HER PUSSY. I LOVE HER ASS I LOVE HER TITS BUT I REALLY.
BUT I REALLY.
BUT I REALLY.
REMEMBER HOW IT GOES?
BUT I REALLY.
BUT I REALLY LOVE HER HOT WET.
HER HOT WET.
HER HOT WET.
AND MY COCK IS HARD.
AND I WANT TO FUCK IT
AND I WANT TO FUCK IT
AND MY COCK PERSISTS
AND THE COCK IS ETERNAL
AND THE COME IS ETERNAL
WHEN I DIE
WHEN I'M DEAD
WHEN I DIE I'LL HAVE A NEED
I'LL NEED TO FUCK THAT PUSSY
GIVE ME THAT PUSSY GIVE ME THAT PUSSY GIVE ME THAT PUSSY GIVE YOUR PUSSY MY LOVE MY LOVE GIVE ME YOUR PUSSY YOUR PUSSY YOUR PUSSY AND LET ME FUCK YOU LET ME FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU
PUSSY IS NOT A JOKE.
MY HARD COCK IS NOT A JOKE.
I WANT YOUR WET PUSSY.
I WANT YOUR HOT PUSSY.
BABY GIVE YOUR PUSSY TO ME.
BABY GIVE YOUR PUSSY TO ME.
FOREVER.
PUSSY
COCK
PUSSY
COCK.
PUSSY.
COCK.
COCK. COCK. COCK.
FOREVER. FOREVER. FOREVER.
COCK. FIND PUSSY.
COCK. PUSSY AWAITS.
MAKE HER WET.
MAKE HER PUSSY WET.
FUCK HER.
FUCK HER PUSSY.
FUCK HER PUSSY.
FUCK HER PUSSY.
FIND PUSSY.
FUCK HER PUSSY.
SHE IS IN LOVE.
FUCK HER PUSSY.
SHE IS IN LOVE WITH YOUR HARD COCK.
WET HER PUSSY. FUCK HER PUSSY.
I LOVE HER PUSSY. I LOVE HER ASS I LOVE HER TITS BUT I REALLY.
BUT I REALLY.
BUT I REALLY.
REMEMBER HOW IT GOES?
BUT I REALLY.
BUT I REALLY LOVE HER HOT WET.
HER HOT WET.
HER HOT WET.
AND MY COCK IS HARD.
AND I WANT TO FUCK IT
AND I WANT TO FUCK IT
AND MY COCK PERSISTS
AND THE COCK IS ETERNAL
AND THE COME IS ETERNAL
WHEN I DIE
WHEN I'M DEAD
WHEN I DIE I'LL HAVE A NEED
I'LL NEED TO FUCK THAT PUSSY
GIVE ME THAT PUSSY GIVE ME THAT PUSSY GIVE ME THAT PUSSY GIVE YOUR PUSSY MY LOVE MY LOVE GIVE ME YOUR PUSSY YOUR PUSSY YOUR PUSSY AND LET ME FUCK YOU LET ME FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU
PUSSY IS NOT A JOKE.
MY HARD COCK IS NOT A JOKE.
I WANT YOUR WET PUSSY.
I WANT YOUR HOT PUSSY.
BABY GIVE YOUR PUSSY TO ME.
BABY GIVE YOUR PUSSY TO ME.
FOREVER.
Saturday, September 1, 2007
Out of the Sightless Paradise of Thingliness
WALKING:
All in all: Having moved between such profound doubt (who is this loser, this scum), and such profound affirmation (the truly private experience of the soul links us to the grand shared experience of all souls.)
Where would we be without drudgery?
As a little boy, I was so melancholy so often. You come from the abyss or something; you do prepare to return there. You try to prepare, or you try to be able to be prepared.
It is a state without music, but maybe there is another ecstasy outside music: of PRESENCE without MEDIATION. History and materiality, opposed to nothingless nothing.
(There is at least a particular problem, and you sense how one form of resolution would be an extravagantly direct feeling of existence: that there is that which is, there is that which is. You have a knowledge, and your knowledge touches and equates to the existence."
"-So who you checkin for now?"
"-Probably some intellectual."
All in all: Having moved between such profound doubt (who is this loser, this scum), and such profound affirmation (the truly private experience of the soul links us to the grand shared experience of all souls.)
Where would we be without drudgery?
As a little boy, I was so melancholy so often. You come from the abyss or something; you do prepare to return there. You try to prepare, or you try to be able to be prepared.
It is a state without music, but maybe there is another ecstasy outside music: of PRESENCE without MEDIATION. History and materiality, opposed to nothingless nothing.
(There is at least a particular problem, and you sense how one form of resolution would be an extravagantly direct feeling of existence: that there is that which is, there is that which is. You have a knowledge, and your knowledge touches and equates to the existence."
"-So who you checkin for now?"
"-Probably some intellectual."
Ecc. 5: 2-3, KJV - "Be Not Rash with Thy Mouth"
"Be not rash with thy mouth, and let not thine heart be hasty to utter any thing before God, for God is in heaven, and thou upon earth; therefore let thy words be few./ For a dream cometh through a multitude of business; and a fool's voice is known by multitude of words."
It's like, 'This also is vanity,' etc. etc. etc.
There's a far distance to go, if you wish to travel it.
The weak and the strong alike perish from the earth and nobody knows what crops up after them. A hundred years, two hundred years: death and tranquility bloom everywhere; the hardness of bestial endurance and the sweet spleen of vegetable idiocy.
-ART IS A HISTORY, just like personhood. It's best to draw art out of the wish to STILL be truthful, in the face of the monstrous need of survival. Survival is not as great as the thought that crystallizes it as a thing-choice-pastime-act of will. To see a thing as act of will is to have the greater power.
-LAST NIGHT, my wonderous thoughts. I couldn't sleep, though I was practically in a state of sleep as I reflected. Too tired to find a PEN, but my mind moved around like a starfish for five hours or six hours, prying everything open, regenerating its problems. For some individuals, this is simply a lifestyle. Thankfully few individuals. (They're a nuisance population.)
-SCHOLARLY WORK: Once you're in the real world for a while (inane shit every day to produce revenue for someone and complete 'projects') you have a better perspective on the full world that scholarly knowledge is a part of, how to write it up, what's top-importance. 'THAT WHICH DIFFERS FROM' the inane bullshit determined by capitalism.
-WHY LET YOURSELF BE UNHAPPY? Every character in this dance comes out preposterous.
-WHAT'S THE ITCH UP IN THE THROAT BY THE HEART? Joyful expectation, like an itchy clog of sand, like a sneeze or ejaculation coming on and postponed: the rawness of nerve endings.
-FATES, FINITUDE. Eternity of guesswork. -A nice fat ass and a sweet musical voice. Why dream about perfect satisfaction? Because your intuition has convinced you: things LACK, LACK, LACK.
-Manhattan is this last irremovable sliver of granite in the sluice of the great Northeastern drainage system. A sliver that has not been rubbed down yet.
It's like, 'This also is vanity,' etc. etc. etc.
There's a far distance to go, if you wish to travel it.
The weak and the strong alike perish from the earth and nobody knows what crops up after them. A hundred years, two hundred years: death and tranquility bloom everywhere; the hardness of bestial endurance and the sweet spleen of vegetable idiocy.
-ART IS A HISTORY, just like personhood. It's best to draw art out of the wish to STILL be truthful, in the face of the monstrous need of survival. Survival is not as great as the thought that crystallizes it as a thing-choice-pastime-act of will. To see a thing as act of will is to have the greater power.
-LAST NIGHT, my wonderous thoughts. I couldn't sleep, though I was practically in a state of sleep as I reflected. Too tired to find a PEN, but my mind moved around like a starfish for five hours or six hours, prying everything open, regenerating its problems. For some individuals, this is simply a lifestyle. Thankfully few individuals. (They're a nuisance population.)
-SCHOLARLY WORK: Once you're in the real world for a while (inane shit every day to produce revenue for someone and complete 'projects') you have a better perspective on the full world that scholarly knowledge is a part of, how to write it up, what's top-importance. 'THAT WHICH DIFFERS FROM' the inane bullshit determined by capitalism.
-WHY LET YOURSELF BE UNHAPPY? Every character in this dance comes out preposterous.
-WHAT'S THE ITCH UP IN THE THROAT BY THE HEART? Joyful expectation, like an itchy clog of sand, like a sneeze or ejaculation coming on and postponed: the rawness of nerve endings.
-FATES, FINITUDE. Eternity of guesswork. -A nice fat ass and a sweet musical voice. Why dream about perfect satisfaction? Because your intuition has convinced you: things LACK, LACK, LACK.
-Manhattan is this last irremovable sliver of granite in the sluice of the great Northeastern drainage system. A sliver that has not been rubbed down yet.
Sheer Literariness
DOES IT MEAN ANYTHING FOR ANYTHING THAT THERE IS LIFE INSTEAD OF NOTHINGESS.
If so--if it does--Why waste anything?
Why waste your consciousness? What is consciousness, just something to waste and funnel away? (Did you TiVo your subjectivity so you could have it for when you got some free time, or when you were bored with other entertainment?)
What point is to be made here, here on this proposition, that life is unique against a backdrop of difference and death.
Hm hm hm.
If so--if it does--Why waste anything?
Why waste your consciousness? What is consciousness, just something to waste and funnel away? (Did you TiVo your subjectivity so you could have it for when you got some free time, or when you were bored with other entertainment?)
What point is to be made here, here on this proposition, that life is unique against a backdrop of difference and death.
Hm hm hm.
"Slip-Ons"
FLAT
PERFORATED
MATTE LEATHER UPPER
COST ABOUT TWICE
WHAT THE MAYOR PAID AT SUPPER
FUCK
THE LOAFERS AND THE CHUCKS
WITH THE LACES
MY SLIP-ONS PULL THE CHICKS
AND I'M CUMMIN ON THEY FACES
I BE SLIPPIN IT
I BE
I BE SLIPPIN IT ON
SHE BE TAKIN IT
SHE BE
SHE BE TAKIN IT OFF
I BE SLIPPIN IT
I BE I BE SLIPPIN IT IN
SHE LOVE IT, MY SLIP
SHE LOVIN MY SLIP
ONS
PERFORATED
MATTE LEATHER UPPER
COST ABOUT TWICE
WHAT THE MAYOR PAID AT SUPPER
FUCK
THE LOAFERS AND THE CHUCKS
WITH THE LACES
MY SLIP-ONS PULL THE CHICKS
AND I'M CUMMIN ON THEY FACES
I BE SLIPPIN IT
I BE
I BE SLIPPIN IT ON
SHE BE TAKIN IT
SHE BE
SHE BE TAKIN IT OFF
I BE SLIPPIN IT
I BE I BE SLIPPIN IT IN
SHE LOVE IT, MY SLIP
SHE LOVIN MY SLIP
ONS
Social Anxiety
"I've had too much of people seeing my in such a state, so often.
--A knot here to untie.
Begin somewhere. Take a holiday. It's already basically resolved. This is how I do things, make tons of tiny lines of redundant annotation. Not PRODUCTIVE-- But HUMANE--
The issue is, I can't stay within a normal horizon of feeling and I can't predict my moods. So, now I'm anxious and dreaming, and suddenly I get out of nowhere an overmastering tranquility, or euphoria, and then it's like what the fuck."
--A knot here to untie.
Begin somewhere. Take a holiday. It's already basically resolved. This is how I do things, make tons of tiny lines of redundant annotation. Not PRODUCTIVE-- But HUMANE--
The issue is, I can't stay within a normal horizon of feeling and I can't predict my moods. So, now I'm anxious and dreaming, and suddenly I get out of nowhere an overmastering tranquility, or euphoria, and then it's like what the fuck."
Marine Iguana
IT IS A WONDER that there's a marine iguana- Amblyrhynchus cristatus-
a wonder that it must come up for air. It is suited to the water but it can't breathe there.
'I feel good,' it thinks, 'I want more life, and of a richer quality.'
In conversation I will be more honest with everyone, in this way endeavoring to open what's closed.
I will drive downward with air in my lungs and like a terrestrial creature, I will spy on an unfamiliar world: the world, in fact, to which I was perversely adapted.
I am like a fool.
In faith, I go about this way.
The person who would say on seeing me 'He is foolish': This is the person who knows how to assay value.
In my carriage and attitude is no value. Despair is the egg I lay on deadly beaches of volcano sand. No one can claim a greater need to discover what's true, what's good, what's beautiful.
In its undulations at sea the iguana is beautiful. It is a reptile whose life is to swim in the sea wave. I want to fill my whole heart with that which mysteriously trembles and that which dilates: these mysterious infinite quantities, by which all the lives of all souls are beckoned onward, ad plures ire.
How IGNORANT we are, but how HAPPY I am!
a wonder that it must come up for air. It is suited to the water but it can't breathe there.
'I feel good,' it thinks, 'I want more life, and of a richer quality.'
In conversation I will be more honest with everyone, in this way endeavoring to open what's closed.
I will drive downward with air in my lungs and like a terrestrial creature, I will spy on an unfamiliar world: the world, in fact, to which I was perversely adapted.
I am like a fool.
In faith, I go about this way.
The person who would say on seeing me 'He is foolish': This is the person who knows how to assay value.
In my carriage and attitude is no value. Despair is the egg I lay on deadly beaches of volcano sand. No one can claim a greater need to discover what's true, what's good, what's beautiful.
In its undulations at sea the iguana is beautiful. It is a reptile whose life is to swim in the sea wave. I want to fill my whole heart with that which mysteriously trembles and that which dilates: these mysterious infinite quantities, by which all the lives of all souls are beckoned onward, ad plures ire.
How IGNORANT we are, but how HAPPY I am!
Pens
These are ink-filled vessels.
There usually will be some in the house, of different provenance.
They are things which contain and which leak. The dye is engineered with sophistication to a particular medium.
They conform to a special behavior we do.
We feel the need come over us, and unthinkingly we find a pen in our fingers and we set it to leaking.
The pens leak a fluid we see.
At small scale, at this large, we see the bends and dips left over from our jerks, we know where the ink has been pushed and trailed, and precisely why, because there are only 26 letters to choose from in this particular regime of script-use.
The symbol set can offer back the crystallized tension between compulsion and invention.
"The specter of myself who has never learned to live," Derrida said.
In the future I'll have done with scribbling. I'll write in cum on a lady, in incendiary fire on a city, and on water over my tombstone. It's all blogging. It's all data. It all reposes.
There usually will be some in the house, of different provenance.
They are things which contain and which leak. The dye is engineered with sophistication to a particular medium.
They conform to a special behavior we do.
We feel the need come over us, and unthinkingly we find a pen in our fingers and we set it to leaking.
The pens leak a fluid we see.
At small scale, at this large, we see the bends and dips left over from our jerks, we know where the ink has been pushed and trailed, and precisely why, because there are only 26 letters to choose from in this particular regime of script-use.
The symbol set can offer back the crystallized tension between compulsion and invention.
"The specter of myself who has never learned to live," Derrida said.
In the future I'll have done with scribbling. I'll write in cum on a lady, in incendiary fire on a city, and on water over my tombstone. It's all blogging. It's all data. It all reposes.
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