Imaginative self-flagellation
I am against it.
Think / Classify [ . . . ] Take Up Residence in Your Own Existence
Not having known hunger, it shaped a sense of necessity. It seemed necessary to acquire multiple appliances. It seemed necessary to be able to discern when a cascade of consequence was accelerating into being and when a cavalcade of ghost-shirted warriors gathered into an aggregate and scattered into a stream.
If you are growing tired of this strict hierarchy and the abstracted flow of adjacent money-functions, knock “a shave and a haircut . . . . All types of experiences come with shibboleths. It is legitimate to gripe and scratch at the wood floors until the bones in your fingers are but splinters.
It is also legitimate to run at a placating pace until the blisters pop and the thoughts slow down.
But here’s the thing - zombies aren’t passive. Hobbes was not born into this world until the lightning strike broke his mother’s water. Pol Pot is not just a character in a song by the Dead Kennedys. Figuratively speaking, there is no rhetorical sleight of hand.
It seemed necessary at the time because we have been trafficking in impoverished concepts of both “seeming” and “necessity” for what feels like forever. Amor fati, agape fati and it is the fattened calf which will end up as your last friend. This isn’t abstract wordplay. No dog, no goat, and the ships’s masts have been full the whole time.
Just So
If you want me again, look for me under your bootsoles.
Having wonderful dreams, telling wonderful lies, was a temptation Whitman could never resist; but telling the truth was a temptation he could never resist, either. When you buy him you know what you are buying. And only an innocent and solemn and systematic mind will condemn him for his contradictions: Whitman's catalogues of evils represent realities, and his denials of their reality represent other realities, of feeling and intuition and desire. If he is faithless to logic, to Reality As It Is -- whatever that is -- he is faithful to the feel of things, to reality as it seems; this is all that a poet has to be faithful to, and philosophers have been known to leave logic and Reality for it.
Foraging and Gorging and then Slipping into a Bureaucratic Dream
MYTHOS:
The tax collector, having assumed that a dinner of broth and bread would permit it possible to bid adieu the nightly gnashing and thrashing about and to aggregate an uninterrupted cache of sleep, blew out the candle, turned on the sound machine, and did his level best not to be distracted by the steady pulse of his beating heart.
In the dream, he and others gathered around a glass atrium partitioned into three sections. On one side a scorpion was deposited and entrapped. On the other a long slinking centipede. The inner walls were lifted and it was expected that a duel would end in at least one death. Instead each combatant retreated to a corner and attempted time after time to clamber up the walls. The tax collector woke with a start, lying in sheets damp with sweat, and fumbled for his phone to see that one hour and thirty seven minutes had passed. It did not go much better from there.
PATHOS:
A would-be scholar of Hemingway, neither shower nor grower, had decided to place on Craig’s list an ad that read: “one pair toddler’s shoes, never worn,” and record what response came in. This was ostensibly for the purpose of adding an empirical touch to a desultory thesis that his committee of Americanists had swatted away repeatedly, as if his offering were rancid garbage from a mediocre Chinese restaurant. He received three responses - two asking if they were free and one asking if they were pink.
ETHOS:
If, as a grown ass adult, you reach for a platter of ham intending to spear a slice or two with the fork from your table setting, before you have eaten anything with it, of course, and are rapped on the knuckle with cutlery wielded by the guest sitting next to you, whom you do not know and whose affiliation with the bride or groom is unclear, is it (a) always permissible, (b) sometimes permissible, or (c) never permissible to, with malice aforethought but apparent inadvertence, spill freshly poured hot coffee onto the neighbor’s lap once the plates are cleared and before the first speech is given?
A kind of metaphysical autopsy (a mode in aping of Harold Ramis)
So, what happened?
He died like a week later.
But how?
It wasn’t immediately clear. Some hiker - a middle school math teacher, we found out later - found the body at the bottom of a ravine at the base of Harney Peak.
Was it foul play?
No. It wasn’t necessarily even a surprise. We didn’t know if it was accidental or intentional. Eventually I decided it must have gone down like he slipped and fell while trying to find the right place to jump.
So it goes . . .
Slapdash Organism, or Yes, please, I would appreciate the receipt
It is a trick of magic for works to deny the censorship they promote. If the reaction to an offensive speaker is to demand that the program at which he appears be cancelled, then the reaction is all there is. Pardon me for making my narcissism part of the conversation, but . . .
I like to tell the story of the hanging gardens of Babylon with an asterisk that I know of Babylon only through the work of The Rolling Stones, not beggars banquet either.
Tristan Tzara suggested that an authentic act might involve running through the street with a gun, shooting indiscriminately. If only we could presently cancel authenticity . . . I once bought a glock 9 mmfrom a friend as a birthday present for my father. It was not whatever the opposite of patricidal ambition is. The gun had a button, when depressed, shone a light that traced wherever the barrel pointed. If you don’t think that’s cool, even if just at an atavistic level, then you did not grow up on the movies I grew up on.
The authority figure’s thing was wanting his honesty to be pungent and to be praised like a pugilist, as though bluntness was a seduction method above and below sophisticated deflection. His exhibitions betrayed this habit of mind and then some. Straight talk about old people and senescence is far less art-world salient than revolution and the exchange-value of misanthropy. Four white walls yes you could ask for more but let’s start with accepting what’s on offer before we order off menu.
Staggered elections in Calvinist garb
The mistake is not in succumbing to the idea that all this (gesturing) is rendered absurd by the idea that all this (gesturing) could be laid low by a virus. It is in forgetting that absurdity is the baseline, the starting point, at which all this (gesturing) bottoms out in the first place. Mud not bedrock. Objects, not descriptions, but aleatory objects, at that.
And sentimentalizing that acknowledgment of the absurd with archetypal accessories ( bad acid jazz, gesticulating young males in a smoky room, a mime playing chess on a cutting board with no squares) - keeping at arm’s length the finite parallax view and the kitschy end-times ballads - does not expiate the barren foreign feeling. Rejoice in the click of the door that locks shut behind, without asking for something more. Puke your guts out and then go back to hot buffet sizzling under the sneeze guard. Eo nomine ludere, et lux in tenebris lucet. That sort of thing.
Child is Father of Man
“We go back to the poetry, the poet. I see a figure in a field. There is genuine moonlight shining on his crowbar. He is prying stumps out of his ground. Poetry busts guts.”
A body with very few clothes
An old radio
Some apples
You get to eat
as many slices of bacon as you want
the morning of a home game
The way his sweater smells
It gets so hot it smokes
After awhile
just when Sam Cooke’s new song
comes on
Worms and a homely girl from Texas
who can read quicker than you
Good marks
and a lost crop
like a whole season
that passed without a letter
from my brother
Benzodiazepine Blots
Arrhythmic sighs from the shuffle of ice against the shore, on that first March day to hit 60 and all the garbage underneath sits there stupefied and bare, like a drunk who didn’t make it to bed or out of his clothes waking on the floor to a crippling morning hangover. Nature being more playful than purposeful, the random dance of plastic in the ring of open space beneath a canopy of four or five Doug fir.
Lodge pole pine not Doug fir
The Stack, early-mid-March
If you set a high value on liberty, you must set a low value on everything else.
The Brain is wider than the sky
If seasons cease to exist, many of our moods will cease to believe in one another. Early spring melt speaks a kind of language that sits beside whatever might pass for conversation in the bicameral mind. Sometimes that language stays recessed back and whispers and sometimes it hit like a cymbal crash or a symbol smash. Either way being primed to hear what is being said comes from a close and recent acquaintance with some other felt reality, say, the overlapping late winter bone-chill. The one conditions and calls forth the other. And too much concrete and too much living in boxes ends up dissuading us from acknowledging the undercurrent. It doesn’t mean it goes away. It just sits unacknowledged, as though skepticism were somehow warranted on its own terms and not willed and honored only in the breach. That we emerge into language at all is a wonder, yes.
Leap Day Stack
Not enough daylight . . . .
Sominex and a Thousand Sheep
For every sour moment in a quicksand year, the Tyrant who runs this rudderless ship of a place masquerades as the tenant whose name is on the lease and we are but temporary roommates. The Tyrant takes every whimpered plea for less prevarication and more timely rental payments as an admission of more misery to come. That is the Tyrant’s function, to twist pleas into admissions, to contort earnest efforts at connection into static silence, and to conjure out of thin air a manic need to fill this hole with empty calories.
It is not a homely place, this premises.
Outside gray blasts of warm wind strip the leaves off trees and make the residue of corn husks pirouette in the air. Vulnerability is this mound of snow reduced to a shuddering puddle. It was months ago that we got the crops out of the fields and still the deer pick through it under a quarter moon and wispy nighttime nimbus clouds. Inside it is either too cold or too hot, and the units that would calibrate sit downstairs in the basement always running in conflict with the directive I give them, turning the thermostat.
In my memory, a coffee pot is always on, and the tv plays the price is right or old green acres episodes. That was a different era and a different geography but it all sits here, memories piled up on top of each room’s slightly less than rectangular contour. Tonight the screen is clamped shut, a photograph somewhere in there eager to be exposed.
The Tyrant wears an eye patch and has a hideously precise soul patch that frames his thin pink lips. He lunges up the stairs, skipping a step and closing the distance on whatever chore he is half-assing. He bloviates about sinfulness. Is it fear or habit that makes us declaim about all this in cloying whispers? There is nothing like unqualified false assertion delivered in dulcet half-hearted tones to make obvious a contradiction. You may! You are now free to obey! That sort of thing. Exhausting choice-adherence.
Knowing where the skeletons are is not the same as feeling comfortable cleaning out closets. Somewhere I learned a spell of how to summon ascendancy from the pet cemetery, how to make a sculpture out of this Walmart of thwarted acquisition. We are equipped to make do. The pizza place is *6 on speed dial. Avoidance is all the rage. Pity the fool who pins a notice to quit on this door. Pity the snow and the corn and the clouds.
Funereal City
City of unrest, unsolved murders, machinations at the top of glass boxes glimmering high in the sky like slung-shot diamonds, rough-edged hoods and finks with like-minded schemes, sewers full of warring basks of crocodiles, Dutch elms dying of eponymous disease as arborists turn in their shears and take up on skid row for rotgut reveries, canned tuna subsistence, and the boring kind of cirrhosis . . .
city of Nordic angles, fanboys of austerity, where every barbershop has talc powder with or without asbestos, and every step you take isn’t just a Police song but is a police data point, hunger artists flourish here and the meth comes from Mexico up the 29 corridor. It gets stepped on three times before the middle schoolers sling it to their teachers guardians and the powers that be. the mayor - fat bald and psoriasis flaky - has a sign above his desk that says - you guessed it - repent repent repent nigh is end times. He contemplates tax increment financing and runs the numbers each weekday afternoon as he stands looking out the window slurping potato soup from a can . . .
god this is awful. At least laugh at its awfulness.
Rarefied air, actual American water, remember don’t repeat
Hack away at the parts of yourself that feel true for long enough and with a sharp enough scythe, and it’s not that you will be reduced or re-used for some ulterior purpose. You’ll end up venerating a life stroke that does almost nothing but keep your head above the surface. Life as the scroll of the TV guide channel, a monument to streaming descriptions of the thing that is overshadowed by its own synopsis.
Parsec Perspective
We now know that our universe is almost certainly 13.77 billion years old, and that it expanded more than 1 trillion trillion times in the first trillionth of a trillionth of a second of its life. The tiny variations created during that while beginning of the seas of the galaxies we see today.
Image from Light [=] Image from Black
THE PLANET IS THE CAMERA
The thing we see as an “image” was constructed from data produced not by a conventional camera, but by Event Horizon, a network of telescopes harmonized to focus on the same location at the same time. The resolution of any image depends on the aperture of the camera, and this noncontiguous perception engine linked telescopes from Greenland to Antarctica— an aperture as wide as the Earth. To make this image, our planet itself became the camera, peering out and looking back in time at ancient light that traveled to Earth—indeed, in this case looked out at time. Locally, the eight sites of the Event Horizon array were locked into synchronization by a GPS time standard and after their scans, five petabytes of data were developed into the “image” of the black hole. The mechanism is less a camera than a vast sensing surface: a different kind of difference engine. What we see in the resulting image is the orangey accretion disc of glowing gas being sucked into the void of M87*, outlined by all the non-void it is about to consume. It is 6.5 million times more massive than our sun and roughly 53 million light years away. The light that hit the Event Horizon telescopic sensing array was emitted during the early Eocene period here on Earth, a time of dramatic climate methane flux. Much closer by, there is a supermassive black hole in the center of our Milky Way. That’s right, we have always been circling an omnivorous void.
Awash in Portis, in Situ in T-town, AL
[FILL YOUR HAND, YOU SON OF A BITCH]
a great gallery of Portisan talkers: brilliant and garrulous con artists, deliriously gifted fabricators, delusional mountebanks, disbarred lawyers, defrocked doctors, disgruntled inventors, dispossessed cranks, and disgraced dreamers who crawl out of the cracks and crevices of Trailways America with confident claims that they have the philosopher’s stone, the key to all mysteries. Or, more often, that they had it and lost it, or had it stolen from them but are close to getting it back.
And if the man had been not merely honest but also forthright, he would have offered that he had discovered the very elixir for which his disjointed and long-suffering search had first commenced, that it was in fact what he had conceived it in dreams to be, and that it had been here, the whole time, hidden beneath all the combustible lampooning and self-helpery by which he had tried to make sense of the need to traipse across the map in the first instance. It was and is America’s bequest to the seekers and the strivers and the holy confounded mess of leaders who are to be doing the bidding of the People who are also the Rabble, “it” being scripture, American scripture, from prophets as diversely voiced as any nation might plausibly hope for, and it impels and implores and inveigled against, attaining a kind of comic poetry that stands shoulder to shoulder with the blazing irascible sun itself.