A false harrisonian memoir and a true kippenbergian auto da fe

I have failed to keep apace with these turbulent and enervating times and to keep my readers abreast of all the sundry and magnificent developments in my personal life that have kept these pages blank - happiness writes white and all that. I have no readers and no magnificent developments and no personal life. A cipher, a Pynchonian courier, a bard of Oxnard, Slim with Tilted Brim, except not a million megapixels of the Pyrex. Don’t flex, etc etc.

I can say that love found me and I abandoned it, wrote it a dear John letter, sold my artistic ambitions for a two stall garage and the staccato dispensations of the automatic sprinkler system, and found dog in the gnostic planes of dyslexia.

(Tom-Tom, snare, crash).

soon enough my progeny will abandon me and the sixteen hour days and the cot sleeping and the bleary eyed magnetic purposeless avaricious swagger will return. And having lost myself I will lose myself again in digressions and spastic pseudo poems figuring escape from cirrhosis as escape from Alcatraz.

A post for another date: percival Everett as homo sacer.

Also this, by way of metonymic callback to the figuration just invoked:

A soft boiled sod and eldritch pantomime

I don’t think that the idea of a death mask would make us less afraid of death, more comfortable with it. Cold putty on cold but clammy inanimate skin, the curve around the nose and the closed eyes. Those who support it say otherwise. And maybe own part of the death mask company. It’s not a grift, necessarily, to try to sell a meal a few minutes before sitting down to eat one’s own cooking.

Scandalous but not slanderous

1. In the midst of the pullulating mass of data and information, theories descriptive and normative are all the more significant.

2. Hanging chads are not yet adequately subject of counterfactual history.

3. Gory details of forever war waged on the oversoul eventually become part of the firmament and shock only those who stand outside, in but not of the world.

4. Lucky charms are infamous for bad milk breath amplification.

5. I can’t say that there is sufficient breathing room for the chilled speech that conforming forces pushes back down the ululating maw of the culture of the poor and the weak and the weary, the unspoken for but oft spoken of.

6. Abysses are for staring back.

signaling not just the demise of utopia, but the demise of even the idea of the possibility of utopia.

Off we go down the mole hole of a mole hill and that irreducible hobgoblin: originalism, that ghost in the machine that says the only way to interpret what was meant with what was founded and set years after we exclaimed that these laws we hold to be self evident are not really so self evident. Hence structure, hence the first amendment which was originally not the first but it makes for such better story. Give me good story and I’m yours forever.

But a theory beats no theory and the textualists are so overcommitted that it’s not even funny, not funny haha but funny kiss your sister and be a whirling dervish at the offering plate.

Retry. Object not found.

Detect elective affinities astride the flow of qualia

Yes yes yes to Thomas hirschhorn and Peter Doig and Ivan Doig and Wendell Berry and the dog that ate Lydia’s lunch and the really big lunch that came late in the Letters to Yesenin and that image of a stilled body swinging from a rope hung from the barn’s rafters, that haunting uncanny feeling I see in Doig-Peter paintings and on the surface of Thomas’s texts and in the simple grounded intelligence manifesting the dignified realism of berry’s stories and Doig-Ivan’s novels.

Am I wasting precious and precocious time paying so much attention to this art and being so wracked in attention-debt for the leftover life? Good gracious, yes yes yes affirmative, it fills me up but isn’t there more to bring full, to consuming, why not doing why so straitjacketed and stultified and confined to corners by myself and how glorious too.

I don’t know what we should be more ashamed of: our stupid credulity or our oh-so-clever suspicion.

More Hofmann. Always, more. Harried Henry can wait. The German Brit down in Gainesville who knows enough to call Les fat bald and odd but also knows he is a bard.

A surly contentment is not worthy doing well, but worth doing

Because the evidence of absence is not evidence of absence, and because we chase so many tales that go down rabbit holes in pursuit of what we thought to be a meal, and turn out to be the appetizer, and because the question why does not always surrender to the logic of because, I can understand why you might hold with those who prefer to be manic, joyous, and entirely vital, and then stand knocking on deaths door, asking to be let in because it falls apart, breaks, and the idea of bearing under its wait any longer is not just inconceivable, but productive of a kind of physical agony.

That I can understand why you might share such preference I have gone looking to fill the hole with a further final fact and found it to be a fools errand.

Cantankerous:depressive::impatient:consensus reality

Winter ate spring’s breakfast and is now astride the commode letting loose some unconscionable filth oblivious to just how outworn is its welcome.

Trust; the only good Indians; orthodoxy; epistles; amateurs

Art is suffering is shame is redundant isn’t so hard to spell correctly is a Modernism among many is a slogan for a mid-tier university press.

In dreams on Tuesday nights, We so often forget to say of the restaurant - “the food there is terrible.” And expect our companions to respond: “and such small portions, too” without hankering for another a beat.

an immense panorama of futility and anarchy, the stern doubting Thomas says

He would envision failure, moving from the abstract to the palpable. A huge failure, a blistering mind-fuck of failure that rattles around in certain peoples’ heads like gravel in an empty can, orchestrated, for no reason, other than being tired of unblemished success and domination. 4 years and 4 state championships, now a senior, chasing a record tying 5th: all that rolling around on a mat with other dudes, straining and pushing and pulling, inflicting pain and imposing will, did not prevent the fixation that he would end with his shoulders pin to the mat, not by an actual opponent (he did not fear this for he could not fathom it), but by purposelessness. It was the stuff of a bad dream, seeing the ref raise a hand and slam it down, a short piercing whistle, unable to move and no one out there with him.  Pinned by nothingness, letting all the struggle seep out, and a crowd in the bleachers cheering at his humiliation

The countless times he heard it said “don’t leave anything left on the bone“ growing up, so it became engrained and part of him, like the involuntary smile that spread across his face when an opponent would flail in panic. To the same extent he was taught and came to internalize with no hedging the idea that saying no when everyone wants a yes is a sign of strength.

Ficciones. Copyright and all rights reserved re text

Quirky artifacts of heartache and of terminal end stage malaise

Kelvin was reading Ferry’s rendering (clearing brambles of the mind) on the epistle to the manager of the farm. He was deep in the stacks and as he alternated checking and marveling over and questioning what Ferry had wrought, his mind would occasionally drift to the classicist wunderkind in a PhD program at age 19 who could not help but give off the austere luxury vibe of the unconscionably wealth even when donning the indigent graduate assistant khaki/sweater/clarks suede Chukkas uniform and whose invocation of and subsequent riffing on the genitive/possessive ambiguity in the title of the seminar kelvin was auditing and he was guest starring in, Philosophy of Art, shattered Kelvin’s brain cells. He thought of it later too as they leaned over the multiple lines of second city marching powder, those little blue capsules smashed into a more or less sequenced delivery system for which Kelvin and the grad student, named Peter Cunningham, shared an ever deepening affinity, Kelvin with his scratch paper from the computer lab rolled into a spherical tube and Peter always at the ready with his fifty quid rolled up the same, until it got to the point where it would seem only inevitable they would retire to the corner bar to argue the proposition of whether China will get rich before it gets old and take in the eye candy around them, then stumble up and down the streets that are inconspicuously but thoroughly haunted by the ghosts of leopold and loeb, still.

ficciones

Spilt coffee on the table and hearing the drip drip

Spilling goes to spilt as spoiling goes to spoiled. Sold American where selling is conquest without parting with gold and treasure is thought to be the arrival of souled Americans, which is, to some, a pity and others a monstrosity and still others one of several causes of celebration.

We have warrant to say if John was hit by this falling Apple, then this falling Apple hit John. Some think we have warrant to say the falling Apple exhibits the properties of gravity, and others would describe at as exhibiting a theory of gravity’s properties. Others say the bitten Apple foretell human misery, just as it enabled truth to have bite and gain purchase on the world. Gaining purchase is an old-time and cold-ass form of apprehension, which is just one more circle, perhaps, whose circumference will admit of expansion. It is on these Sunday nights, most often, when I want to walk into a painting and get lost in it, to climb into the percussive list of a poem and find the beat of my heart fall into line with the rise and fall of its phrasing and breaks and melt into its soft sibilants and brace against its hard flat Saxon stopping points.

I can’t help but watch the surface tension of the puddle gathered on the grain of the wood or find solace in the soft scratch of the pencil as it makes progress and then lifts and drops to the start of the new line as the needle on the record player draws ever tighter loops and sets the bright declarations of a trumpet pregnant with the birth of cool against the percolating hiss and excess of a new cup filling and spilling over.

For god’s sake, let us sit upon the ground and tell sad stories of the death of kings

It is curious how often we accept the idea of an obvious fact and sprint past whatever assumption is informing us that of course this thing is true and scolding us no there is no need for proof or explanation. Like, why would JP Morgan look like a butcher in a Turkish bath? Or when Buendia stands in front of the firing squad, thinking of his father and the idea of ice, why do we see him lost in thought and in the splendor of his regalia? Will it always be the case that I will want to cry when the singer puts the guitar down at the end of Two-Headed Boy? Isn’t it obvious? Does it betray some deep need that I would think most everyone else would want to cry, too? Or some deep misunderstanding?

This is what happens, Larry. This is what happens . . . . ——-) [turned page] Prairie nocturne

Joel and Ethan for the next two months, eager to continue to revisit the goods and see what has staying power, what surprises, and what basks best in the light of the first look. In the meantime, in the land of vertiginous texts:

*****

Trips to deserts and mountains lay bare

The minimalist slippage of the plains

When the snow is here.

In winter any farmhouse or naked strand

Of naked trees isn’t so much desolate as

Unfinished. Reading Hugo and degrees of gray

Doesn’t cut the ketchup. It’s either

the intimate, insulated hush when the wind

Is out of breath, or it’s the moaning

And keening and prostrating when it

Is at full ecstatic hostility and

Compounds its interest on having so much to say

With this broad, sparse, and saddle-sore canvas

To spread across itself and

To spread itself across.

I know where flames the fixed star of certainty and success

“How can we contrive to be at once astonished at the world and yet at home in it?”

So asks Gabriel Keith, and proceeds to put a little chest in it by talking of maniacs of materialism and egoism and the soft narcotizing patter of pragmatists, too. So on he goes, pressing the point that those who may have taken on aspects of the preceding generation of sheep may come out with reddened tooth and claw, the better defend the practice of having conviction. In the name of conviction those sheepish aspects are made ravenous, going on and on exhorting and declaiming their very selves at dawn and midnight alike.

I for one am not well versed in this practice. My conviction muscles atrophied and kinked up with each episode of early Mike Judge. And as I start this particular book, which came to me at a slant and with a kind of wolfish hunger for a less kinetic theorizing than the the critique involving a dwarf, a puppet, and a fair amount of jokes about Slavs and Kompromat in which I first saw reference to this bracing orthodoxy. I wonder if there are a kind of spiritual exercises (whether as Pierre Hadot might conceive or Joel Osteen might loan on high interest credit) by which to test whether those conviction muscles are gone or capable of coming back into round.

Who would you rather have at your back or next to you on the charge, a passel of Davening mystics who truck with the emptied idea of this-is-all-as-it-should-be because it is all illusory and because suffering is constitutive of whatever is not illusory, or four jesuits in hairshirts on whose visage emaciation is quite becoming? Odin and Mithras besides . . .

I have some more orthodoxy to witness. It is no small thing to be able to look up in wonder.

Everyone deserves our spite

In an age where few had left any fucks to give, I knew of one who took a kind of rebarbative solace in being against. Against infinite resignation. Against intransigent empathy. Against supposing that truth is a woman or that we might find a chaste place to stand and assess and measure and judge and condemn. Dirty-handed complicity isn’t underhanded or a fall from grace; it’s a baseline condition.

This person lived a quiet life, doing honest work, telling everyone who was naked that they were naked, and going a-sauntering when it seemed the time and hoeing beans simply for the sake of counting bushels at harvest. Only a measure of solace he drew from this, though, not the full compensatory redemptive sort: consistency in this pessimism against any and all comers (what are you rebelling against? Whaddaya got) the heated forge out of which the constancy of his character might be welded. Can’t hide the seam, though.

I mean, for Chrast’s sake, what are you on about?

Of all the high-functioning-but-depressive-on-the-margins avant garde belletrist readers one might ask for, Markson - who knew every taut curve of every limb of Wittgenstein’s mistress - might be the most ideal for Bill, whose letters to his mother his most ardent fans have tattooed on the wan skin of their solar plexus. I will not attend the funeral of the English major, but I will forever burn sage at the altar of whatever contemporary analog might spill over into this black and white imbroglio.

The problem of undifferentiated epochs, or scrambled time

DNA has a signature, or chemicals and elements do. Light from distant objects has to be recalibrated for red shift, just as salary snd pricing data (sticky and inelastic) need to be inflation-adjusted if looking back or reduced to present value if casting about in the game of forward looking forecasting. Rhetorical throat clearing over.

It is not endorsing the end of history to acknowledge the uncanny feeling that modernity presently cast is stuck, and to see that there is no historical horizon which will look different from what has come before, in living memory.

It is a sickly nostalgia positing that Truly Great Moments are found in the past and may be revived but new ground cannot be broken and greater depth in the field of human heroism is illusory, like when eyes fist-rubbed raw in disbelief that Santa didn’t leave presents for anyone.

I am writing this to put myself to sleep. Presumably it works that effect on you too. I forget if dudes who want to make babies are advised to wear boxers or briefs, and I wake up nearly every night recognizing that I likely won’t be able to go back to sleep. Cold, bitter cold, freezing, and life threatening bone-fixing skin-blistering frigidity.

Clarity is better than money, when it comes to sleeping soundly. Never in my adult life have I slept like a baby.