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Friday, December 29th, 2006
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This journal is going a very lazy friends-only. If I'm not your friend, I may very well add you if comment below.
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Tuesday, November 7th, 2006
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Just now as I burned the toast -- a lovely crusty white bread, none of this still-soft-after-you-toast-it business. As I burned the toast, but lightly, so that the top of each slice was slightly blackened, then middle golden brown and bottom white, but hardened, crispy. As I burned the toast, as I smelled the burnt toast, I did recall the time we put Lydia up to burning the toast at Grandma's. Smoke and blackness and charred toast, beyond saving with even the most well-intentioned butterknife scrape, filled the room.
And these were hijinks, yes. And Papa would have approved, I know. But it fell flat upon our deflated family. No matter that you and I, John, were so pleased with ourselves. It fell flat for us too.
We want him back.
~
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Wednesday, May 25th, 2005
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Beginning to begin,
Hence, beginning. Alright, so thoughts, ideas, conceptualizations as words, as verbal masturbation, as supposed representation of actual things, but Derrida says, not the thing, sign insignificant of signified. Thus words, especially these abstract words about words, or perhaps less so these words about words. Words perhaps do describe other words. Truth in fiction. Idea describes idea without recourse to something specific that is supposed to be real outside of this interrelated system of words words word.
So then the bass part just goes crazy. And the stereo is frankly assaulting me up until the obscured mad procession. Right there, the3 procession.
Plodding, doddling, noddling. But so going ever so slowly proceeding never ever ever until, until, until, until, the return of a mad procession.
I want to do these things, I want this habit of writing as writing something real, something that goes beyond these internets. I'll crack your eyes open with face smacking goodness. I'll insinuate, I'll deprecate. I'll talk in funny voices.
So the lady, ah, there's her. Then but also there is a couple in Chicago, with attendent indie rock superstar. They want life, and I ought to give it to them, but there is this lack of the proper feeling. I need to get past feeling, into mere inclination. This is not a block. This is a "why haven't you written that already." So perhaps deadlines. I should like to have my OCD lady story done by June 16 -- pine press number 3. Rock Journalism by end of summer. These are the goals.
~
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| Time: | 4:05 am. |
| Mood: | blaze'd. | | Music: | Pavement - Grounded. |
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The burn being one that could be gotten used to, I could get used to that burn, that rug burn. But getting used to the burn not the desired effect. The burn should continue to fucking burn. It must sting and gnaw and growl and gnash at every opportunity. And I should, myself, grapple with said burn, oh, burn, blazed.
Oh damn, damn, da-amn, damn yo, shit yo, damn. Damn, blazed yo, burn, snap.
It's not about loneliness, it wasn't, before. It was about those contradictory feelings: that modern feeling of individuality versus that ancient, basic feeling of oneness, of worldspirit, of essential wholeness. As being something distinct, but being indistinct and darkness and immersion. Which is to say, not the loneliness but this confusion between competing drives, that of the capitalist individual and that of preconomic* singularity.
It was the tribal unity, differentiation neither an option nor missed. And no we cannot bring back the hour of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower; we will grieve not. But rather take comfort in what remains: that feeling, that attainable oneness. That tribal goodness, that exclusion that is not an exclusion because it forgets the other, in effect nullifies the one itself. One cannot be counted without two. So this unity is more than a unity, it is an infinity and hence the more attractive. That infinite infinity, that of the all of everything to the eradication of thing, of difference, of the possibility of such a thing really being about loneliness. The thing having at last to be about the void that the unity of everything is. The assumption being that everything must stand in relation to something in order to be, i.e., that everything is relative.
~
*Decidedly not a word.
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| Time: | 7:35 am. |
| Mood: | warm-fac'd, heat-strok'd. | | Music: | The Scene Is Now - Machiavelli. |
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What Rob objected to finally was not so much the slowness, nor the cheapness. It was not those emphatic black roots inches beyond the scalp, nor those unambiguously teal and plastic track pants, ruffling with each shambling, rocking stride -- the entire body moving as one, side to side, this motion easier somehow than bending a joint. No, it was neither the front ass nor the back ass -- twin shelving units -- no. It was not even, as he had for some time been convinced, a matter of inefficiency: not the way she would choose an archetypal lollipop, with which she would compare each and every sucker in the box until she found the very best ten to thirty -- always a multiple of five -- all the while sitting that double ass upon the convenience store floor. No. It was decidedly not her embodiment of Jewish stereotypes (insisting that these fifteen cent suckers were in fact ten, demanding free day-old bagels) the recognition of which stereotypes made Rob blush an anti-semitic blush.
And yet perhaps it was the combination of these, when she chuckled that inapposite chuckle -- what had ever been funny escaped him -- in every gap left by Rob in her cloying small-talk.
...more later, tired.
~
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Wednesday, May 18th, 2005
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| Time: | 12:28 am. |
| Mood: | stein'd. |
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Walking toward central timing. Timing centrality toward walking without sensation. Sensation without sensation. Sensation of walking toward time, but central and timing the walking, though central to sensation is walking through timing toward center. But timing the walking, the walking sensation. Timing the walking sensation toward centrality. The nerve central sensation of timing walking toward without sensation of walking.
Without regret, without regress, without regress, without again. Again regain the grace of walking through timing. And again regain the grace of walking the nerve central sensation. Again regain the timing that was walking, having walked, regain walking without regress, the grace of walking, that sensation of grace by grace, through grace. Again regain sensation, that sensation, regain that sensation of walking and timing and toward. Central is timing and walking and regaining and grace. And grace is central and timing. And regaining again is grace and sensation and timing. And timing is walking and gaining and regaining and regaining and again. A gain is again a gain. A gain is a regain, again. Again a gain. Regain timing, regain grace, regain sensation. The nerve central sensation is. Is the nerve central never. Is the central never nerve. The nerve central is sensation of timing walking toward central timing.
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The pound and the three are on the same key, which makes entry #3 especially easy to note. [I wonder if he speaks like an ordinary guy.] But so the point is-- this is no point to be espousing a point. No point at which to hammer down intelligences of this and that. No point to this or that.
So the options are Nietzschean Nobility, or Kantian Worthiness, and I am beginning to believe they are essentially similar. Essentially similar, though, is an incredibly low standard for comparison. [Dutch Dutch Dutch.]
So in the [center of this town] -- in the trappings of infinite regress, I hesitate to hesitate, I know that this would not be what even I should want to read, that it is in fact intolerable.
So it's this test which is designed to fail any testee. Which is different from a teste.
But so it's an instrumental, or the beginning is instrumental and what's a boy to do?
~
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Was freedom formerly -- was it just drunkeness? Was I merely constantly under the influence? Am I even now?
It is decidedly no. The answer to that question. And yet, and yet. Here I am.
Zach Curd, get used to drunk Michael Langdon. At least for the summer. Because apparently my life again lacks meaning or direction. I am an irrational being following mere inclination. I do not express reason. I am not the representation, the manifestation of some sort of noumenal being. I am mere appearance. I am as the animals -- determined, amoral, unfree.
Freedom -- it's not just a Ween song, it's a way of life. I am broken and fixed. I can't see a puppy finding the irony in that terminology. It can't be a simple term with me, it must in fact be terminology.
You know I'm not sober because I'm using adverbs and adverbial phrases, with glee, as giddy repartee.
But broken am I. And perhaps beyond repair. This is the human condition: detachment, partiality. This part of a whole feels itself to be singular and yet, and yet. And yet wanting always the wholeness, the oneness that it feels it ought on its own to be.
~
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The koshering process for unicornification having resulted in various and irregular results, we managed to have had certain and particular obstacles in our manifestations of the obnsequities -- such as they are -- having -- as we did -- been ever so grateful for the trout mask and the replica thereof.
I do tend to believe there's precious little that could amount to more than kissing in the grass.
~
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Two song lyrics:
It's kind of a relief to be done. It's kind of a relief to be finished. [Frankenixon]
and
This house is empty now. There's nothing I can do to make you stay. So tell me now: How am I supposed to live without you. [Elvis Costello]
Neither of them are about what you might think.
~
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| Time: | 5:07 pm. |
| Mood: | nerved. | | Music: | Dressy Bessy - She Likes It. |
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On the El platform at Milwaukee and North, the befogged apex of the Sears Tower can just barely be discerned. Once upon street level, though, that soaring "kick me" sign is forgotten. I'm accosted here by so many uneven haircuts, so much faux and actual vintage clothing, and oh so many white belts, that I keep looking around for the stage and the band. But the only music is the grumble and squeal of automobiles navigating an impossibly subtle three road intersection.
Navigating this intersection, I am nearly flattened by a police car whose driver graciously blares his horn and gives me the finger as I scurry past him.
~
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| Time: | 8:28 am. |
| Mood: | to my head. | | Music: | New Pornographers - The Slow Descent into Alcoholism. |
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Ladybird. Ladybird, the British call them. Ladybird -- neither lady, nor bird. Why so many. Why so many? These sort of brown, orange. Not so red, these ones. Still the spots, of course. Of course. Invasive, I heard, invasive species. Introduced by farmers, or for farmers; or by biologists for farmers. Aphids, they eat. Where they find so many aphids. Did we have the aphids before the ladybirds? Must've. Must have.
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This is the end of "Delight and Liberty." The whole story is here. If you read it, please tell me what you think. If you read part of it and decide to stop, please tell me where. Maybe I can make it better.
SCENE 3
(DINING ROOM. THE WOMAN ENTERS. ROB FOLLOWS. THEY SIT.)
(SILENCE EXCEPT EATING)
THE MAN: (SUDDENLY) Well, that was delicious as always, Marie, thank you.
THE WOMAN: You're welcome Harold.
THE MAN: Kids?
DEBBIE: Thanks, mom.
REBECCA, PAUL, PATTY: (NOT IN UNISON) Thanks, mom.
THE WOMAN: You're welcome.
REBECCA: May I be excused?
THE MAN: Yes, you may.
REBECCA: Thanks. (REBECCA EXITS.)
(SILENCE EXCEPT EATING)
DEBBIE: Look what you did, Rob.
ROB: No, I didn't.
DEBBIE: No, you did, Rob.
ROB: No, Mom started it.
DEBBIE: You never paid any attention to us, Rob, and now when we don't have anything realistic to say, that's supposed to be our fault?
THE WOMAN: You'd think I hit you with that door on purpose. You'd think I had no feelings at all, Robbie.
DEBBIE: This is all your fault, Rob. You tried to make us these heartless, yet boring demons, Rob. You've succeeded. Are you happy with your two-dimensions, Rob? Are you happy about the quotation marks around "truth?"
ROB: No, this isn't what's supposed to happen. Dinner is supposed to end. You're all supposed to get up and go to the living room to watch tee-vee. Then you start tickling me and I have a screaming fit.
DEBBIE: Right, 'cause we're against you. Sure, Rob. Has it ever occurred to you we have lives of our own, that we hardly think of you at all? That's the offense, isn't it, Rob?
PAUL: Come on! God!
THE MAN: We do not take the Lord's name in vain, young man.
PAUL: God! God! GOD!
(HE GRABS PAUL'S SHIRT, EXITS PULLING HIM.)
THE END
At the table Debbie pushes this pea across her plate, left. She pushes that square carrot right.
The woman clears her throat.
Rob asks, "May I be excused?"
The woman replies, "Wait, Rob."
Patty exclaims, "Seconds!"
"Seconds, please," corrects the woman.
The bathroom door, dimly lit, shouts something garbled and sudsy.
But Paul thinks:
At the end of the field, at the edge of the wood, in the mud ankle-deep, by myself alone, I stood. Still, quiet, I stood.
The autumnal wood spread before me: beech trees in red, black oaken yellows, orange silver maples, set against the ever-green of blue spruce and white pine. To my left, a dark orange sun lazed above a distant grove, where it would rest the night. High above, a hawk flew easily from grey, to purple, to red sky, before diving to the earth.
Before me then an orange fox emerged from the woods. His moist black nose shone even in that light. White of his upright tail wagged slightly.
"What are you looking at?"
"What?" I asked.
"You heard me."
"I was, I was looking at you," I admitted.
"You don't talk to me."
"But you're talking to me!" I exclaimed.
"No I'm not, stupid boy."
The roaring then of a pickup truck coming towards me drove the fox into the woods.
~
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Monday, October 11th, 2004
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( The rather long story so far )
He sits before the green plastic. He sighs. Job done.
As he kicks, Rob's feet glide just above the carpet.
No one saw the little one skip that barefoot skip, all pigtails and sleep encrusted eyesnot, alongside the table to the armed chair on the end. The tiny digits placed the plastic bottle -- white with pastel shapes -- atop the table. Between arm and seat, Patty hefted herself into the chair to sit upon kneeling legs. With regal poise at table's end, she surveyed her dominion: indigo and ruddy clay vase with dried arrangement, ivy-specked-green table cloth. But the spoils lay before her -- child-proof lid is no impediment. Greedily she grabbed the bottle and, biting bottom lip, squeezed the top and wrenched with minor might. Success is a chalk-blue two-dimensional--
"Dino!" she exclaimed and jawed the dinosaur.
--multi-vitamin cartoon, followed by--
"Fred!"
--a red and--
"Barney!"
--a purple and--
"Wilma!"
--an orange and--
"Bam-Bam!"
--so on. Success is sweet, gritty iron shavings -- half a bottle -- devoured while bouncing happily, humming, chewing, licking powdered fingers.
Success is sliding beneath the table to lie upon the carpet, wrapping one arm about a chair leg, blowing bubbles in nutrient rich spittle until--
"Patty!"
--the shout. Her stomach heaved. She crawled her best crawl: away from the voice and between chairs into the bathroom, where she did not stand.
Nor does Rob see Patty now as she climbs into the corner seat with the plate of yellow plastic. The boy in the buffet mirror curls down his bottom lip, with thumb and forefinger pulls up his top. He puts his lips back together and puffs cheeks to produce a distinctly flatulent noise.
~
I have to be given some credit for only implying vomit, and not writing about it in elaborate detail with extensive metaphors, right? Opinions, opinions, opinions?
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| Time: | 9:26 am. |
| Mood: | NBS'd. | | Music: | The Beatles - For No One. |
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My performance in school thus far has been stellar. But today the eight page paper is due in Philosophy and I've fucked myself.
Always been a procrastinator. I don't believe that I can't change, but I don't know how I would. Even when I think about trying to change, I end up thinking about at what future point I'll start changing. "Yes, next semester I'll stop procrastinating, definitely." I feel too far behind to do it now. Too much unread Hegel, too much unstudied English trivia, too many unanalyzed poems. I'm just lucky I have two crap classes to round out all this pain.
This LiveJOURnal was brought to you by WORRY.
~
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Monday, October 4th, 2004
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That you are of but zero years in age
Does not connote that you must not collect
Things; and them, you.
Therefore have I of them one for you now.
This.
~
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| Time: | 3:22 am. |
| Mood: | shimmeröd. | | Music: | Dungen - Glömd Konst Kommer Stundom. |
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I am largely composed of monkey spray and glitterazi. I have every opportunity to garnish tableaux with catamarans and dingoes. I do manage to afford myself occasionally of said opportunities. Have a pushpin, they are marvelous for invection, and trainy train train. Tavern folk have excessive tantrums at tocharian dialects which erupt at prespecified intervals. That is the sound, yes.
Say, have you the garden hose? I have it, but I thought you also might, given the fabricated sophisticate and his utterly dendrous tussle with Mrs. Fatterworth.
Victor, do trundle thy bed elsewhere, willn't thou? Willn't thou though thou be of the ramifacatory persuasion that ye be? Barrent thee arsamin? Timfordlent schwilligow? Tersanimous quizzlequint? Jossapersome biggenthorp!! Sanctillious yamtorbint!!!
~
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anthropomo's journal