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Thursday, December 19th, 2013

Time:11:18 pm.
His father died and left him a little farm in New England.
All the long black funeral cars left the scene
And the boy was just standing there alone
Looking at the shiny red tractor
Him and his daddy used to sit inside
And circle the blue fields and grease the night.
It was if someone had spread butter on all the fine points of the stars
'Cause when he looked up they started to slip.
Then he put his head in the crux of his arm
And he started to drift, drift to the belly of a ship,
Let the ship slide open, and he went inside of it
And saw his daddy 'hind the control board streamin' beads of light,
He saw his daddy 'hind the control board,
And he was very different tonight
'Cause he was not human, he was not human.

And then the little boy's face lit up with such naked joy
That the sun burned around his lids and his eyes were like two suns,
White lids, white opals, seeing everything just a little bit too clearly
And he looked around and there was no black ship in sight,
No black funeral cars, nothing except for him the raven
And fell on his knees and looked up and cried out,
“No, daddy, don't leave me here alone,
Take me up, daddy, to the belly of your ship,
Let the ship slide open and I'll go inside of it
Where you're not human, you are not human.”

But nobody heard the boy's cry of alarm.
Nobody there 'cept for the birds around the New England farm
And they gathered in all directions, like roses they scattered
And they were like compass grass coming together into the head of a shaman bouquet
Slit in his nose and all the others went shooting
And he saw the lights of traffic beckoning like the hands of Blake
Grabbing at his cheeks, taking out his neck,
All his limbs, everything was twisted and he said,
“I won't give up, won't give up, don't let me give up,
I won't give up, come here, let me go up fast,
Take me up quick, take me up, up to the belly of a ship
And the ship slides open and I go inside of it where I am not human.”

I am helium raven and this movie is mine,
So he cried out as he stretched the sky,
Pushing it all out like latex cartoon, am I all alone in this generation?
We'll just be dreaming of animation night and day
And won't let up, won't let up and I see them coming in,
Oh, I couldn't hear them before, but I hear 'em now,
It's a radar scope in all silver and all platinum lights
Moving in like black ships, they were moving in, streams of them,
And he put up his hands and he said, “It's me, it's me,
I'll give you my eyes, take me up, oh now please take me up,
I'm helium raven waitin' for you, please take me up,
Don't leave me here!”
The son, the sign, the cross,
Like the shape of a tortured woman, the true shape of a tortured woman,
The mother standing in the doorway letting her sons
No longer presidents but prophets
They're all dreaming they're gonna bear the prophet,
He's gonna run through the fields dreaming in animation
It's all gonna split his skull
It's gonna come out like a black bouquet shining
Like a fist that's gonna shoot them up
Like light, like Mohammed Boxer
Take them up up up up up up
Oh, let's go up, up, take me up, I'll go up,
I'm going up, I'm going up
Take me up, I'm going up, I'll go up there
Go up go up go up go up up up up up up up
Up, up to the belly of a ship.
Let the ship slide open and we'll go inside of it
Where we are not human, we're not human.

Well, there was sand, there were tiles,
The sun had melted the sand and it coagulated
Like a river of glass
When it hardened he looked at the surface
He saw his face
And where there were eyes were just two white opals, two white opals,
Where there were eyes there were just two white opals
And he looked up and the rays shot
And he saw raven comin' in
And he crawled on his back and he went up
Up up up up up up
Sha da do wop, da shaman do way, sha da do wop, da shaman do way,
Sha da do wop, da shaman do way, sha da do wop, da shaman do way,
Sha da do wop, da shaman do way,
We like birdland.
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Tuesday, October 8th, 2013

Time:11:42 pm.
I just wrote the most difficult letter I've ever had to write thus far in my life. Hopefully someday I will look back at this moment as having been perched on the precipice of something wonderful. For now, though, I'm grieving the loss of a certain future.



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Monday, February 18th, 2013

Subject:In search of a book
Time:3:59 pm.
 I've been searching, listlessly, for a book to read.  I can't recall having so much trouble finding a volume that speaks to me, whose voice I wasn't eager to reverberate against the drum of my contemplations.
    There used to be this level of synchronicity that I felt with this world, that I long to return to.  Now I feel utterly discontinuous, some kind of sore thumb in the niche that I am currently occupying.  The only way I can describe it, or at least the only succinct, readily-available way I can, would be listlessness.
    Reflecting back on my previous writing is always embarrassing.  3 months ago, my self seemed so absurd, so pitiful.  3 months from now, when the reliefless itch to take solace in some form of literature strikes again, I will look back at this entry/reflection and see my critique of my 6 month-old self as self-pitying as well...a perpetual redundant engagement.
     I suppose I am writing now as a way to attempt to quell or ebb away at this troublesome issue of being unable to read.  I have certainly heard of writer's block, and definitely experienced it a multitude of times--but its opposite?  I suppose writing and reading are not completely opposite to one another. Perhaps the word 'opposite' was a poor choice.  "Reader's Block?"  What the fuck is that?  It feels strange to curse to myself.  Writing that last sentence felt oddly kitschy-- it somehow produced a social audience.  I read a piece somewhat recently that truly inspired me, on Kafka and writing for oneself.  I think that my reader's block is the result of some kind of jamming of my individuality, brought on by a career of a-political education and socialization that is my current teaching job.

     It is such a beautiful, bright, delicious "spring" day here in Phoenix.  I itch to enjoy it--I desperately want to, but realize I don't know how.  Some kind of amnesia of the present.  Part of why we love beautiful days comes with the naturally-derived impetus to abandon social responsibility, to predicate ourselves on our biological environment and let its enigmatic beauty guide our actions.  The corollary of this would be those guilt-free, dreary days, where our existential gloom is affirmed by the world we are immediately disposed to.  Schopenhauer probably LOVED rainy days.
     Dreary days cause me to appreciate my humanness, while sunny days cause me to be ashamed of it, to desire to rebuke or reject it.  My sunbathing dogs know how to enjoy a beautiful day more effectively than I do.  So much for my humanity!
     All of this thematically ties together-- Kafka's notion of audience as a detriment to the creative process, my thorough inability to enjoy the day, my 3-month old and perhaps years long whining about being unable to find a voice, and now being unable to find a book.
     In this state of things, we are a voiceless society.  The seemingly self-made, empowering aspects of personal technology are merely marketing strategies in the production of social capital; the downfall of our humanity that Andy Warhol so artfully (or artlessly) predicted.
     Perhaps originality, or identity in an individual sense,  is what is socially-constructed, or socially-determined.  A fiction.  A work of fiction!  As Nietzsche put it, we as a society not only define what is acceptable, but in so doing negatively define or delineate what lies, or can lie, outside the norm.  Therefore, by defining or giving creedence to a particular idea, we in effect inspire or breathe life into its exact opposite.  The original is therefore somehow thoroughly contrived by the norm--is enslaved to it, in a sense.
     The only avenue left, as I see it, even amidst other creative forms of expression, is to write.  The commodified culture has created a "world" that is all-too easy to access.  We are a visually hyper- or over-stimulated culture, and with the advent of media and Pinterest, or other internet-based search and retrieval capabilities, can call forth and resurrect an army of whatever images or ideas that we would like, at will.  The Golem metaphor continues to prevail here.  Somehow, these images or forms are hollow, or become hollow, when they are unnaturally or synthetically encountered.
     The chaos of our material existence is what creates the synchronicity that sustains and rejuvenates me.  My wanderlust has been squandered by the era into which I have been incarnated.  I do not know yet if this problem is an intractable one.

     The quote, "Shall I project a world?"  looms before me.

     Texts to consult:
            The Crying of Lot 49-- Pynchon
            The World as Will and Representation-- Schopenhauer
            The Unbearable Lightness of Being-- Kundera
            Alterity and Transcendence-- Levinas
            Clerk Maxwell's writings
            Nietzsche
            Being and Nothingness-- Sartre
            Warhol critiques
            The Castle--Kafka
            Breaking the Spell--Dennett
            Anathem-- Neal Stephenson

I have found a book.
Comments: Add Your Own.

Sunday, November 11th, 2012

Time:3:31 am.
Mood: uncomfortable.
It's hard to sleep most nights.  Over the years I have found that I either need to work myself to the bone or be in need of a lapse of reality in order to sleep soundly.

Writing isn't exactly going to solve things, either.  Never been good at it; I'm not succinct enough.  Too verbose, kind of like the opposite of what a great cartoon or comic artist should be.  My words are not heavy handed enough; my conviction is too fluid. 
I find that people misinterpret the versatility of my character for weakness.  They do not appear to understand that I am just confident and sincere in my intent, regardless of all the meandering about.  My students comment that I appear lost, but I am perfectly at home wandering the world, hardly suffering from this Cain's complex.

Have generally struggled with writing because I find it hard to establish a voice that is or feels authentic.  Have a problem with committing to a self, or crystallizing one, anyway.  Maybe it's part and parcel with being in my 20s--rock & roll musicians and the ominous 27 is just an archetype embodying the freneticism of what it is to be freshly human.  A human condition

Regardless of the identity psychology behind my issues with turning a face to the inside, or creating a mental impression, I still am or feel wildly unsuccessful at establishing a voice.  Just as I cannot create an object with my hands, I cannot create an object with the words that are created by my hands.

My mental state is taut, and needs to be cut through with substance, or an alcoholic one anyway.  Something to snap me down from my head and alleviate me into reality.  I never feel in touch with the ground, only floating.  But not with levity.  More of paranoia that comes with detachment.  I suppose I feel like the balloon, not the kid, that has been released.  I'm a flying collagenic material infused with the breath of life and cosmically uprooted, endlessly separating from the wistful gaze of my creator.  My inspiration.  

Perhaps when I find the light I will melt or pop and make my way back to earth a deflated, worn Golem that has wearily returned to its mud.  

As time passes I get this sense of expansiveness and vertigo-induced or infused perspective.  Not sure I want it anymore.

I wonder if my Great Grandmother--or Grandmother, for that matter--ever thought her furniture would end up in Phoenix.  After existing meticulously for so long in the mausoleum on Atlantic Beach, they are now landlocked in a desert that smells like dog.  

Then again I wonder if my Great Grandmother ever expected to have great grandchildren who were anything beyond paupers, given her disdain and resentment for my father and her disappointment in the decisions or brashness of my mother.  Too bad. We both like Gibran.  

There's always been this paralytic anxiety brooding within me, churning a Black Pearl the depths of which I hope no one will uncover.  I can't lose it, and it is oddly contagious to behold in its beauty, to those who I allow to experience it.  It can also be suffocating.  A Black Hole, the other side of which is some unknown, uncharted oblivion.  

For all of that, my external demeanor is oddly comical, entertaining in its well-meaning buffoon boorishness.  I am stubborn in my ways, reeking of absurdity.  Almost jester-like.  When I sleep I wake up in the position of the Hanged Man.

Not sure when all of these self-indulgent, insulating feelings will subside.  Not sure when they began, only that I was overtaken by them in high school era.  I've longed to forget what it is to feel this burden, to carry it between my scapulas, radiating down a scoliotic and compensatory curvature. 

Taut, my consciousness is itself tautology.  
My mind is its professor.  There is no tenure in sight.

The Tin Man wants to reject his heart transplant.
The Tin Man has opted to reject the transplant.
The Tin Man has rejected his heart transplant.
The Tin Man has not died, for he has not lived.

Empty empty emptiness awaits.  There is nothing to wait for, only sleep

No more messianic waiting.

Humpty Dumpty, once cracked, can never be put back together.
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Wednesday, September 21st, 2011

Time:10:32 pm.
at the end of all of this
it's what i've wanted since i could think
and as much as i am an eclectic person
i'm still me
with my private aspirations, when the lights go out
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Thursday, May 5th, 2011

Subject:from cat
Time:4:07 am.
Sam-- 
These two passages from Kierkegaard reminded me of our conversations about authenticity and intellectualism:

"To be sure, every human being is a bit of a subject, in a sense. But now to strive to become what one already is: who would take the pains to waste his time on such a task, involving the greatest imaginable degree of resignation? Quite so. But for this very reason alone it is a very difficult task, the most difficult of all tasks in fact, precisely because every human being has a strong natural bent and passion to become something more and different."

"The objective tendency, which proposes to make everyone an observer, and in its maximum to transform him into so objective an observer that he becomes almost a ghost, scarcely to be distinguished from the tremendous spirit of the historical past--this tendency naturally refuses to know or listen to anything except what stands in relation to itself."
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Saturday, March 5th, 2011

Subject:For A.L.
Time:6:24 am.
when i ask you to let me love you

what i mean is i want you to limit my freedom

but the question i pose somehow becomes generously cumbersome

like asking the gas station attendant to keep the 9 cents:

“Thanks, but it’ll screw up my total; I’d prefer to keep everything neat.” 
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Sunday, January 2nd, 2011

Subject: roll call in absentia
Time:2:08 am.
c.

I did not know what I would not want

That you would want

just a fill in your blank

h.

Your polite rage

Stings me

Passé

as quiet riot

Let’s not have another clash.

Though nothing is left but a pillar of salt

L'essentiel est invisible pour les yeux

a.

Projections abound,

But withhold

i.

I’m sorry to have held up the mirror

To what you did and did not want to see

Strange, the convolutions and diffractions of the reflective:

We are trapped in our mind’s eye;

For all its convexity and concavity,

Alone there can be no depth perception

n.

Thank you for the time spent

Sitting beside me on the couch

Teaching me how to calculate potential energy.

In kinesis energy can be misdirected

But never lost

m.

A true siren

Your biology is in keeping with evolution,

of pressures of fitness.

The brightest colors are to be avoided,

Attractive in their portent.

I wish you didn't cry so,
Or that I was farther away so as not to hear your music
Pied, I'll always be inclined

e.

What if we do?
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Thursday, December 2nd, 2010

Time:10:33 pm.
i dreamt that a house was falling down on my family, it was a house within a house.
it wasn't enough to be apocalyptic, it was a frame within a frame. a fill frame, crashing in on the living room. i made it out of the house first, but ran back in to pull the rest of my family out. everyone escaped unscathed, but it was the idea of the destruction that did the most damage. only upon asking myself what it meant, did my character in the dream pull the chain on the lamp of my consciousness, and i switched on. made it to class just in time
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Saturday, November 27th, 2010

Time:4:16 am.
 i don't quite know why it is that i feel encumbered by life.  looking back on how i've changed since high school, i realize how much certain aspects of my demeanor have not changed.  i have always been a lover of humanity, but of the flavor that i've coined, a Dark Optimist.  i am most at ease when i am doing things for others, which is why i think that college has been such a terrible experience for me, beyond the circumstantial chunks, existential vomit.  i'm self-motivated to a fault.  i keep beating myself up, stressing myself out, dreading the academic performance.  i suppose i could pinpoint the onset of this bizarre rebellious condition, track it to the spring of junior year when i would drop an assignment off, and skip school to go to the library on the water in downtown fort pierce.  the image surfaces so cleanly to mind; i'm certain that if i were to search the archives of my journal and find the day, the descriptions would be so similar.  though i suppose the mundane is called for in the construction of livejournal entires; sometimes i wonder if i chose to even bother recording the most memorable days of my life.  in trying to fall asleep i was listening to various Wellesley College professors reading excerpts of books they are currently enjoying; i listened to my independent study on the Golem mythology in Jewish mysticism, Ed Silver, reading an excerpt ouf of the book Gilead by Marilynne Robinson.  In the Bible "Gilead" means hill of testimony or mound of witness.  the narrator of the novel is a 76 year old preacher writing a memoir of his life, containing advice and philosophical musings, to his 7 year old son.  i would love to read the entire work, if i had time.  to relate this impression to what i was getting at previously, the next excerpt reading i clicked on was that of Courtney Lannert (who i thought always reminded me of hailey), reading out of a book on the history of quantum theory up through the 1960s.  there were two quotes that resonated with me, spoken by none other than Einstein himself:
  If everyone lived a life like mine, there would be no need for novels. --
  Only a life lived for others is worth living. --


I am exhausted and unfortunately most likely won't make it to flesh out my impressions, but i took particular solace in the entire experience of hearing my professors read aloud in a dark, solitary room.  after a thanksgiving spent alone (well, the terrier i was dog-sitting did stare me down, unblinking, as i devoured the dry slices of turkey breast from a royally A+ shitty Whole Foods), i'm realizing the tranquility that comes along with being beholden to nobody but yourself, your own boring, generally unsurprising, mealy consciousness.  well clearly the previous description boils it all down for you as to where my head is currently 'at.'  this bizarre, stifling tranquility is making me intellectual uneasy--i realize how much i miss having someone to share my ideas with, to talk excitedly about the problems of the world, the problems of a particular class, SOMETHING TRULY OF SUBSTANCE.  it's so miserable how quiet everyone keeps about their contemplations; i suppose i'm assuming that everyone has the kinds of friends i have here at wellesley.  i realize i am someone who is very aural and kinesthetic, and to just keep my ideas to myself becomes literally itchy; i hope he is doing okay and that you are not passing out.  


oh wow.  i am so tired that i just turned the latter half of what was intended to be a coherent sentence actually manifested in a prayer to my friend Gladyz, regarding a baby sibling and a grandfather.  i have no idea.  i should sleep.  perhaps i'll get back and write what i truly signed in to write, a poem about the stifling "How are you?"  well.  using it as a contributing image.  probably would be the least esoteric reference.  i am so tired, fnally.
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Monday, October 4th, 2010

Subject:some of these days you'll miss me, honey
Time:3:00 pm.
 my grandfather may have been a garbage collector on staten island, but he lived his life so i wouldn’t have to pick up trash in the future.

my great aunt was an artist who could see the beauty in trash, and the ugliness in the lavish.

i don’t know who i will be, or what you are

some of these days you’ll miss me, honey
Comments: Add Your Own.

Sunday, September 19th, 2010

Subject:Just a New York Poem
Time:8:21 pm.
 i wanted to take 
your hand and run with you
together toward 
ourselves down the street to your street 
i wanted to laugh aloud 
and skip the notes past
the marquee advertising "women
in love" past the record
shop with "The Spirit
In The Dark" past the smoke shop
past the park and no
parking today signs
past the blue velvet and i don't remember 
what you wore but only that i didn't want 
anything to be wearing you
i wanted to give 
myself to the cyclone that is
your arms 
and let you in the eye of my hurricane and know
the calm before


and some fall evening 
after the cocktails
and the very expensive and very bad
steak served with day-old baked potatoes 
after the second cup of coffee taken
while listening to the rejected 
violin player
maybe some fall evening
when the taxis have passed you by
and that light sort of rain 
that occasionally falls 
in new york begins
you'll take a thought
and laugh aloud 
the notes carrying all the way over
to me and we'll run again
together 
toward each other
yes?
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Time:7:45 pm.
 [ ]

there is a hunger

often associated with pain

that you feel

when you look at someone

you used to love and enjoyed

loving and want

to love again

though you know you can’t

that gnaws at you

as steadily as a mosquito

some michigan summer

churning her wings

through your window screen

but the real world says you are strong

and anyway she never thought you’d really miss her
Comments: Add Your Own.

Friday, August 27th, 2010

Subject: Ignes fatui
Time:3:25 am.
I. Cowed

our ancestors were so broken!

teeth falling neatly into a pile, millions of years old Man

floating, stagnating.

looking at your eyes, i used to be able to know what you were

thinking. and you would look at my eyes, knowing that i knew

what you were thinking. and i would know that you knew that

i knew what you were thinking…

we were floating.

years later, when i see you i will see your unhappiness, and

that you see that i see it. i do not want this.

i am uncomfortable for the same reason that we want to close

the eyes of a corpse—ethereal blankness.

i don’t want to see it in you,

two running black pools in your pretty little head.

II. Dyad

in the Night of the Living Dead, the part that always scared

me was the eyes of the young girl as she awakes a zombie.

though the film was black and white, i remember the scene and

her eyes as bathed in the sheer blue of dawn. like the whole

scene had been dyed cornflower.

the most terrifying color, the most terrifying thought, to see signs that the sun will rise over a dead hope. signs of dawn that do not share the colors of dawn. these days i am terrified to be awake here, that i am alone becomes palpable. i would prefer not to watch. even while we were together, you would be laying next to me, asleep, as i would become possessed by this suffocating blue. i remember staring up at the ceiling of your room, hearing you breathing, my eyes transfixed on this blue ceiling that was not the sky, that was not the sky in the day, that was the wrong hue. and i would feel so alone, so terrified to be alone even though i was alone with you. you were asleep, pleasantly ignorant to this most stygian of colors.

i’ve since rewatched that scene, and it’s

never how i remembered it; it’s just black and white and

gray, not a hint of blue. but i still feel the sharpness of

that color, the burn of the friar’s lantern as it infuses me awake with life in a dying night: I loved you.

III. Dyads, Dryads

ignis fatuus

blue eyes, brown eyes: dyads

skin cowed by time becomes leather.
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Thursday, July 29th, 2010

Subject:so strange.
Time:3:25 am.
i thought about Paul tonight, thought i would try and find him on facebook.  oddly enough, i found him in a wedding.com registry, engaged to a Fiona lady--their wedding is tomorrow, july 30th.  i found them both on facebook, and it is legitimate. 

how bizarre.  i'm happy for everyone
Comments: Add Your Own.

Friday, July 23rd, 2010

Time:6:11 am.
I wish you'd looked me in the eye when we said goodbye; instead i'm left with this clumsy portrait of the back of your head, dirty blonde. 
Dirty blonde, with your clean blue eyes and lips, sweet razorblades!

Now that I've cut my mouth apart I can sing with nothing to say:
 
If the moon is a fond memory, so far away that it follows me
then the Man in the Moon is the face of a friend. 

The moon looked caught up in a tree like my mind and heart caught in a dream.  I thought it was where it was not; I thought I was when I was not awake. 

Walden isn't real.  When you're gone, you're really gone--there's no chorus in this love song.
There's no  pretense in solitude, but maybe a cat or two
and the sweet wine of sour grapes.
Comments: Add Your Own.

Saturday, June 12th, 2010

Time:1:28 am.
just ran 3 miles on a treadmill, did a mile of high-resistance stairmastering, and rowed 2000 m.  and worked a little bit (45 lb chest pressing and 50 lbs tricep stretching) on my triceps.  a little bit, haha.  all in one hour, from 9-10 pm.

i'd been running around Lake Waban a couple times for the last two weeks of my time at Wellesley, and have played a little bit of basketball with my family since i've been home, but other than that i have been inactive for most of the past 4 years, so i'm pretty shocked and proud of myself.  cardio all the way!  at particular points of increased resistances i sadistically imposed on myself, my heartrate got to 206, but not to worry--my average was 170, which is definitely a workout, boyyyy.

it felt good to do this; i failed to think ahead about bringing my own music, so the half hour on the treadmill and the 10 minutes on the stairmaster were very contemplative.  almost too much so....as my thoughts wandered away from the stress on my body, the places they ended up were perhaps even more stressful, in a negative way.  but by the last quarter of it, it felt like i was in this kind of meditative release state, where my mind became open to esoteric impressions of my surroundings, and not myself; i felt a rush of euphoria in tandem with this state of perception. 

it was wonderful.  i think i will go again in the morning. the body is an amazing piece of work--sometimes i am moved by its capabilities moreso than the mind's....more from an engineering approach, i guess.  by the end of it, i was just so amazed at my body's latent strength and endurance.  i think that these kinds of experiences will do wonders on convincing my mind of its similar power; i want to sweat away the negativity.

perhaps florida is the best place to do this! it was 93 and humid today, ladies and gents!
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Monday, June 7th, 2010

Subject:telescoping
Time:6:02 am.
There is a moment after you move your eye away
When you forget where you are
Because you've been living, it seems,
Somewhere else, in the silence of the night sky.

You've stopped being here in the world.
You're in a different place,
A place where human life has no meaning.

You're not a creature in a body.
You exist as the stars exist,
Participating in their stillness, their immensity.

Then you're in the world again.
At night, on a cold hill,
Taking the telescope apart.

You realize afterward
Not that the image is false
But the relation is false.

You see again how far away
Each thing is from every other thing.
Comments: Add Your Own.

Wednesday, June 2nd, 2010

Subject:regrettably non-euclidean on staten island
Time:4:37 am.
It is this deep blankness is the real thing strange.
The more things happen to you the more you can't
Tell or remember even what they were.
The contradictions cover such a range.
The talk would talk and go so far aslant.
You don't want madhouse and the whole thing there.


walked around staten island today, had a pristine time alone, in my own head.  mistakes continuously made once i decided to respond to messages on my cell phone.  it's funny, there's always that little voice, or tug, if you will, that disinclines me to respond to invitations that make me feel at all uncomfortable.  i suppose most normal people are able to resist or decline entering themselves into situations that might make them feel uneasy; for me nearly all social interactions are associated with a tinge of unease or obligation.  i need to get away from that, and i don't know how.  i honestly think living alone, in a place where nobody knows me, and avoiding the  internet's increasing pressure to create an avatar of onesself will help release me from all of the stress that has welled up.  it's funny, on the face of it i'm sure i possess some charm or charisma, but i feel like it's lately serving more of an insulating function.  lately i find that i enjoy situations like cafe el table, where i can serve some function to someone, make polite conversation, and then be done.  i am thoroughly exhausted with being or feeling beholden to the will of other people.  i need to find a way to get back to myself, reaching out of this paralytic well  for what it is that i want out of life. but it's hard to do, morbidly paradoxical, even, when i am conflating being alive to being stuck in a fleshy well.  i do realize that we are multitudes, and perhaps putting pressure on having a cogent self is a bit presumptuous, a bit much. but i think recognizing this and acting nihilistic as a result is irresponsible.   i have at times felt completely comfortable embracing ways of being that are perhaps discontinuous with my overarching theme of selves, my identity.  but i think such comfort comes from being in environments that foster frenetic growth, not recursion.  Every day feels permutative.  Which comes as no surprise; much of life operates combinatorically.  It's only problematic in that I feel that the elements or substrates of my life that are being permuted are shit.  I keep introducing new elements, thinking that novelty might help, but, no.  A maelstrom of shit.  While I was feverish these past couple of days I fantasized about shrinking down to a point, a cathartic period. 

 


 
 
What name do I have for you?
Certainly there is not name for you
In the sense that the stars have names
That somehow fit them. Just walking around,

An object of curiosity to some,
But you are too preoccupied
By the secret smudge in the back of your soul
To say much and wander around,

Smiling to yourself and others.
It gets to be kind of lonely
But at the same time off-putting.
Counterproductive, as you realize once again

That the longest way is the most efficient way,
The one that looped among islands, and
You always seemed to be traveling in a circle.
And now that the end is near

The segments of the trip swing open like an orange.
There is light in there and mystery and food.
Come see it.
Come not for me but it.
But if I am still there, grant that we may see each other.


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Tuesday, April 6th, 2010

Subject:june-n-july
Time:3:12 am.
wrote this song in '42
i'll reincarnate just for you
marching to the battle drum
when this song was just a hum
rolling in my head
and keeping me from losing it
is this little soldier gonna make it
'till it's june n july?
till june n july?


it's hard to tell this story without
giving away confidential facts
about the secret army camp
and all it's occupants
two girls in particular
had the eyes of officers
upon them, they were twins
and their names happened to be
june n july
they were june n july
calling june n july
they were june n july


i can't fight the fever
when i think about that summer
i can't fight the fever
when i think about that summer


it was the coldest morning
we had seen upon the battlefield
two of the enlisted were frozen
from the inside out
and when they called for
special volunteers then
i knew that it was my turn
i stood up
and so did june n july
so did june n july


what happened on that day
i can't repeat
i'm sworn to secrecy
we thought we were
the side of righteousness
freedom and liberty
now i look back through the years
and i feel differently
what if we had waited
had held out
till it was june n july?
till june n july
calling june n july
oh june n july


i can't fight the fever
when i think about that summer
i can't fight the fever
when i think about that summer


will you listen to my story
call it testimonial
will it matter to you
will it change your mind at all
i know that you're young, girl,
got so much ahead of you
listen to your heart then
only to yourself be true


i can't fight the fever
when i think about that summer
i can't fight the fever
when i think about that summer
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