byTuesday, September 22, 2020
It's more than a perception, if anything it's a rift, torn open by the actions of all who have occupied spaces before us. A leper squatted here, mute with the impediment of stigma, no longer seen as any parts human but all parts disease; a king lay there, drunk with the pleasures of a thousand concubines, tormented by those of his court who lust for thrones; here's the place a suicide had her final deep blue pulse of thought: the earth was touched by each one, time and space covered them equally with touch, memorised their delicious bodies and filled itself with the intentions of their spirit.
Don't say you haven't felt the pull, on some lonely, rambling walk upon a trail, or some anxious rush down a dark sidestreet, or entering an unfamiliar building - the presence of the things that came before - you walked through a centuries old murder scene on Sunset Boulevard; you slept upon a birthplace in a hotel in the 17th arrondissement; in Marrakesh you stepped upon the hallowed spot that a broken-hearted lover spilled tears of a grief born to secrecy. Here was a battle; there was a man stung to death by bumblebees; a pregnant milkmaid was stripped from horseback by a flash-flooding river on the exact spot where you rested on the bank. The force of past events that have inhabited the spaces we enter can fling us to the ground like we're dead branches in the path of a hurricane, can dislodge us from the delicate distractions of our lives with their power and terror and grace.
byMonday, September 21, 2020
This is a parable for the clever kids. Nursery rhymes for politicians, next muck.
Are your arms inside the metaphor? Then, quick-quick, it's opportune to leap now, from that timesink to this, or from one sinkhole to another - it doesn't matter how you view it - we need to snap the arrow altogether to get a grasp or grope of this meander: a reverse migration, to find ourselves sinking upwards through the yellow bog in the roof of your dreams - here, take a hand! Keep hold of your wits: there'll be no chance to send a rabbit back for them, to drop them would be a calamity: they'll be stewed soon enough. Your wits, that is: the bunny - no such luck on this night of nights.
Back to it...addlings upon addlings, you will realize that the shavings from your own coherence are so dense on the floor that you can wade through them, and mine, and your Aunty Betty's (or, for quibbling's benefit, her nemesis or namesake), and the population of several small archipelagos, all of the inhabited planets - the collective threshing room, if you will - mi casa, su casa, - my madness is your humbled abode. Or kingdom of abodes. Or ocean of kingdoms of abodes. Or, the chase cut to: universe of universes (to capitalize or not? Point of style overkill - take note of the anti-rules...hearts and minds inside the philosophy at all times please...)
- In a universe of universes, everything remains causal. (One cannot find anything in a universe of universes that does not have a relationship with things within a universe of universes.)
- The ability to displace with language diminishes with each additional universe.
- A universe of universes has more possibility space than can be imagined by a collective consciousness.
- In a universe of rockstars, everything whoops ass. Rockstars and whooping ass become passé.
"What the what? How the so? Is that EVEN a punchline? Can I get a hallelujah? My money back? A what-the-Dickens? A *headdesk*? A rhizome to regenerate the forest of my mind? A cruise missile to the island of my will? A string to fly the sanctity of my sanctities from the flagpole of my vanities? It's like we're on a first date and you've tried to slip your heebie-jeebies up my prep-school sensibilities. That will not DO sir!"
Patience, hopgrasser. My question is: whose sameness are you selling? Whose sameness are you buying? Are you one-and-the-saming with the sucker that was born through history: every...single...minute? You still have time, it's evident. You reek of it. Let it go, it's of no use to you here. Or there, take your pick. Green-eggs-and-ham it. I would not, COULD NOT, on a train. I would not, COULD NOT, in my brain. Imagination has volunteered to replace time in the universe, in toto. Nothing causes time but the thinking of others. Your life is the event horizon being mirrored back to the present from the future and the past, with units of measurement that you never had a hand in naming. Increments of yourself, possessed by a language of seconds and afternoons, hours and weekends, months and calendars!
For instance, how tall am I? Exactly one Maverick, give or take, thank you. What's my star sign? Twinkle, baby, twinkle. I measure myself in phenomenon. Phenomena. Manamana. Doo doo de doo-doo.
Yes, we are there yet. You can thank the in-flight crew at the after-party. For the moment, please allow me to climb out of your head in an orderly fashion.
bySunday, September 20, 2020
On those days that I long to be an automobile, I walk the shoulders of freeways, lycra streamlining my torso, avoiding loose gravel and potholes. I am honing my mileage-to-the-gallon edges. I am output made transcendent by European effeciency. I am noise friendly rolling, sans thunder.
Pimp this ride. Pimp this heart, pimp the soul of the defective man that cowers here with the ineffective gauges and the broken instruments - rocking and mumbling; rattling and humming; kissing the clumsy jagged absurdist maps of reality that have never resembled the territory.
On those days that I long to be an automobile, I am practising not being judged for the things that I am not. I am not a sliver of smooth quartz in the wild indigene hand. I am not a Warhol nude. A cave‘s gaping silence. Lower altitude. Bluegrass.
On those days that I long to be an automobile I am luring squints towards my shadowy form. I am striving not to be the moon. That dream is hung higher, and crescent shaped, and none of the light I cast has ever been my own.
bySaturday, September 19, 2020
I stretch, immersed in the scent of dew and fresh day, summer-new and hale, the scent of clarity and rebirth. Everything is opening to light. On the horizon, mauves and butterscotches bleed from the retreating darkness, lilacs and oranges seep like watercolors from the ascending furnace of the sun, and the pastel origins of an azure future gather in number across the sky.
Somewhere, early, a brushcutter's whine splits the peace; a bullfrog's urgent call to mate begins, and beneath it all, the original drone instruments, the honeybees, hum the day into being, orbiting the dandelions and the clover, small moons of industry.
An ancestral communion takes place and the body tunes in as a fork to the resonating world, an intimate ear to the atom in everything. Cleansing the heart, a grounding voice speaks from the inner realm with the benevolence of a god, and I am free to be a man, free to be a miracle once more, free to surrender, free to be part of the illumination that everything submits to.
Love says, simply: Come out of youself. Be a fire.
byMonday, April 2, 2018"No man is an island..."1 the poet2 scrawled, and perhaps scrawled into Modern English the notion that we all - man, meaning human, and far from meaning the singular, and exclusively masculine form: "male" - are condemned to be part of a broad community of humankind, from outcast to highmost, and are therefore affected by the actions of countless others, and by extension, diminished by their countless deaths. On a general basis, one must nod in hesitant agreement with the poet, for it is true that even as we sit down to dine at a simple meal of corn mashed potatoes and milk; even if we have farmed the ingredients ourselves on a selection of land far from any road; even if we have renounced the remainder of our fellow beings from within a profound and violent misanthropy, we will, until the last of our days, have persisted in reaping the benefits of being human, from the countless successes in the history of maize cultivation, to those in the domain of milk production, those in the domestication of dairy cattle, and those in the fields of food preparation and cookery. Indeed, the realization must be that for all our living as an isolato we are lousy with dependence on our kind, an inescapable and intractable truth, and we have not yet risen from the dining table. To take an abrupt turn, while it must be taken as a true statement that "No one is an island," it must also be acknowledged that "No one is an island," is true in the same sense that "No one is a stairway," or even: "No one is an elderberry." It is here that our forementioned poet maroons the entire notion of being in relation to a metaphorical self, and we must excuse ourselves from participating any further in this ontological deceit. For though it is true that an individual is not an island, there is a notion in the philosophy of character that one could be proposed as being an archipelago of sorts, or even a series of isthmuses, or perhaps a continent composed of several nation states, autonomous zones, principalities, and a patch or two of terra incognita. It is to this latter premise, a nation of selves, that this author intends to dedicate inquiry, and in the process seek to defend the idea that one may be a continent and an island, never merely one and almost always both at the same time, and that this may never be entire of itself, or others, or divided from the process of becoming one for long enough to ever achieve that objective. In so doing, the notion of authorial voice will be challenged, together with the veracity of many home remedies, flagrant rumors, physical and universal laws, and the notion that the writer of these words has ever existed, or ever will. To those ends, let us tinker on.