Wednesday the twenty second of March, 2006
I like travelling - to see infirm people & on occasion, mad ones. Seeing how their compatriots treat them is generally how I form opinions about all sorts of things about foreignness.
There are quite a few instances of infirmity around the place; sort of exacerbations of social vulnerability, unwashed or overscrubbed, louse ridden, painfully shy, aggressive and wary - hey, I guess that's what inequality means - unforgiving, unheeded people.
They offer nothing that is wanted by the robust individuals of functioning units and yet ignoring them does not diminish them. It has an obverse effect, it diminishes the sum total of the particular societies value. To itself and that's the funniest thing. It's as ever present an evocation of what's "real" in a place as the filthy railway box I'm alive in.
The mad are another matter. These angry birds who have yet to form a coalition, who, (in the whole wide world and throughout millennia), are the most highly cohesive amalgam to combine penetrating thought, exemplary existential investigation with persistant voice.
Mad people are international. Mad people are very scary when they try to be friendly. Mad people are not affected to an overwhelming extent by, for example, their circumstances. This sets them apart from the infirm, whose existence, (and experience of their existence), is in large part, a product of their surroundings.
Mad people are relatively untouched by the normalcy which surrounds them - invarious forms, regional & national. But they are not unhinged, they are plugged in to some "higher", more insistant reality which is pressing on them. Thus, mad people are not placeless, and I like watching them, when I find one, watching those around them navigate around each other and doing their best to provide guidance.
Tuesday, March 21, 2006
Monday, March 20, 2006
everybody looked fulfilled
Tuesday the twenty first of March, 2006
The most striking examples of the city's character stemmed from the serene complacency of all those wearing the funny items.
Pristine lines of sculptured bikes, that, as they transversed the metropolis, reflected the hypodermic rays of morning light and played on my eyes like a symphony of silences whose intentions were to spread whimsy and a practicality associated with Finnish housemothers who provide tomato sandwiches for break.
Footwear with philosophical ramifications. Made with materials that referenced the past of other peoples. Molded with total appreciation of the pedal ligaments or with total disregard for the anatomical alignment of either foot.
People who wore their uniforms to the letter and people who wore the emblems of occupations they did not pursue, to the letter, were winking at me, saying that this was their city that I was in, and that this was them.
The peace and electricity hummed along nicely, while I spent the time looking into the eyes of the place and saw openness and curiousity, which was what was looking back at me.
I very much liked this place for it's expressiveness, for it's lightness and steadfastness. Everybody looked fulfilled.
The most striking examples of the city's character stemmed from the serene complacency of all those wearing the funny items.
Pristine lines of sculptured bikes, that, as they transversed the metropolis, reflected the hypodermic rays of morning light and played on my eyes like a symphony of silences whose intentions were to spread whimsy and a practicality associated with Finnish housemothers who provide tomato sandwiches for break.
Footwear with philosophical ramifications. Made with materials that referenced the past of other peoples. Molded with total appreciation of the pedal ligaments or with total disregard for the anatomical alignment of either foot.
People who wore their uniforms to the letter and people who wore the emblems of occupations they did not pursue, to the letter, were winking at me, saying that this was their city that I was in, and that this was them.
The peace and electricity hummed along nicely, while I spent the time looking into the eyes of the place and saw openness and curiousity, which was what was looking back at me.
I very much liked this place for it's expressiveness, for it's lightness and steadfastness. Everybody looked fulfilled.
Sunday, February 12, 2006
shabat
Sunday February 12th, 2006
there is no sun in the night, as a statement of fact and no definable importance, other than that it is an empiric observation that could be suggested as a necessary condition for the purposes of describing "not day".
we are all creatures of the mind, said the little one, interjecting another thought into the handful that had words attached, an opposable thumb, a whimsical thought that was strong enough to divert what you minded, strong enough to return to for giggles.
Sometimes I am ridiculously happy and calm, and things seem secondary to my experiencing them. And at others, it's as though my tail is easier to chase than attempting to ride through the multiple situations that various groupings of people are lassoing me with based on my position among them. Baseless, shifting sands, hello tail, and neurotica, and self-assuming the qualities that I feel from outside myself.
I feel (totally subjective, could be my madness - there I go again) unloved - ergo I say: I am unlovable. I feel taken for granted - I say: I give too easily for this situation, I misjudged. I feel out of the loop - I say: I am insufficiently social.
And it's not true.
I'm telling you now, it's absolutely indupitably contrary to how things are.
So I reassure myself, put my vocabulary back on fair and square (no sliding, inferences, warping for trauma).
And where does that leave me, undermining my own naive enjoyment of all my friends, coworkers, and family?
It's impossible to tell everybody everything. And why would you?
But still it's impossible, and the gaps make it hard to navigate. How to know in advance what is relevant. And how it changes. The trajectory is one thing, the curvature of the arc determines that the points of intersection will be significantly different. That's significant, little one.
We are all creatures of the mind.
Sometimes I feel the equilibrium that comes, like it did today, from all of us acting out of our own initiatives, small gestures that addeed up together, quiet consideration, a low-key syncronised comfort, because I am leaving and it somehow takes the pressure off, to have an end-date, and the moments were appreciated, as they came and flowed into others.
I appreciate the people who got in a taxi and made the trip, who dressed for the occasion, who provided surprises, who extended themselves only as far as, who asked for what they needed, who made new jokes, included the new people, and told new stories, who behaved as one should when it's goodbye but not really good bye.
The new ones displayed evidence of their idiosyncracies about food, responsability, social silence. That was funny. And the old ones, we know what ours are.
"Come with me, come with me", said the night. "Leave the dark to itself." And he ground my hand to dust.
there is no sun in the night, as a statement of fact and no definable importance, other than that it is an empiric observation that could be suggested as a necessary condition for the purposes of describing "not day".
we are all creatures of the mind, said the little one, interjecting another thought into the handful that had words attached, an opposable thumb, a whimsical thought that was strong enough to divert what you minded, strong enough to return to for giggles.
Sometimes I am ridiculously happy and calm, and things seem secondary to my experiencing them. And at others, it's as though my tail is easier to chase than attempting to ride through the multiple situations that various groupings of people are lassoing me with based on my position among them. Baseless, shifting sands, hello tail, and neurotica, and self-assuming the qualities that I feel from outside myself.
I feel (totally subjective, could be my madness - there I go again) unloved - ergo I say: I am unlovable. I feel taken for granted - I say: I give too easily for this situation, I misjudged. I feel out of the loop - I say: I am insufficiently social.
And it's not true.
I'm telling you now, it's absolutely indupitably contrary to how things are.
So I reassure myself, put my vocabulary back on fair and square (no sliding, inferences, warping for trauma).
And where does that leave me, undermining my own naive enjoyment of all my friends, coworkers, and family?
It's impossible to tell everybody everything. And why would you?
But still it's impossible, and the gaps make it hard to navigate. How to know in advance what is relevant. And how it changes. The trajectory is one thing, the curvature of the arc determines that the points of intersection will be significantly different. That's significant, little one.
We are all creatures of the mind.
Sometimes I feel the equilibrium that comes, like it did today, from all of us acting out of our own initiatives, small gestures that addeed up together, quiet consideration, a low-key syncronised comfort, because I am leaving and it somehow takes the pressure off, to have an end-date, and the moments were appreciated, as they came and flowed into others.
I appreciate the people who got in a taxi and made the trip, who dressed for the occasion, who provided surprises, who extended themselves only as far as, who asked for what they needed, who made new jokes, included the new people, and told new stories, who behaved as one should when it's goodbye but not really good bye.
The new ones displayed evidence of their idiosyncracies about food, responsability, social silence. That was funny. And the old ones, we know what ours are.
"Come with me, come with me", said the night. "Leave the dark to itself." And he ground my hand to dust.
Saturday, January 21, 2006
Choix de Vivre
Saturday 21st January 2006
Striding the asphalt of the avenue, a madness not of his choosing took hold of him. He parsed beneath the tree branches, jacarandas all of them.
He could not find his comfort in the company of anyone he knew. There was a restless pause between his emotions these few weeks and what his friends offered in their interactions. He knew he existed apart from the relationships he had. And had had, although, they weren't dead or invisible or irrelevant, they were before and elusive, and they were still just as accessible as the relationships he was in now.
He wasn't disappointed, not even close. He always dove in, fully present, unaware of asking for anything other than what the others were extending, and madder than hell when at those times people shied away, asking for a prenup before a simple smile. A precursor. A guarantee of fidelity and for the other person - him - to extend an indicator of trust. Things he would never percieve at the start of startings, smiling and such. Saying hello, making eyecontact. Giving a lift. Asking what he could do, far over how he could help.
Was it bending over backwards? Hardly.
Or was it?
Did they look and think, that man tries, and laugh?
Not his question. Not his concern. It was a disservice to his understanding of humanity to single out the gladhanders.
But damn, the cheek, the gall and the presumption of the semiretards who withhold their potential for fulfillment. Who refuse to say yes.
They scared or what?
Fear from where? He, this man under the jacarandas, did not know of a fear that would cripple so mindlessly and needlessly. He hated it.
By not comprehending it, it didn't really occur to him in any clear sense.
He could not attack it and have done with it. He still wanted to be friends with the world, but not the ones who turned their heads to the walls, who looked down and practised being shy. Who snubbed and deprecated, according to conventions that brought them a diminished account of being alive and in their bodies. He was persistently disturbed by the unsatisfactory restricted prescriptive silence.
I choose, he said. I choose.
Striding the asphalt of the avenue, a madness not of his choosing took hold of him. He parsed beneath the tree branches, jacarandas all of them.
He could not find his comfort in the company of anyone he knew. There was a restless pause between his emotions these few weeks and what his friends offered in their interactions. He knew he existed apart from the relationships he had. And had had, although, they weren't dead or invisible or irrelevant, they were before and elusive, and they were still just as accessible as the relationships he was in now.
He wasn't disappointed, not even close. He always dove in, fully present, unaware of asking for anything other than what the others were extending, and madder than hell when at those times people shied away, asking for a prenup before a simple smile. A precursor. A guarantee of fidelity and for the other person - him - to extend an indicator of trust. Things he would never percieve at the start of startings, smiling and such. Saying hello, making eyecontact. Giving a lift. Asking what he could do, far over how he could help.
Was it bending over backwards? Hardly.
Or was it?
Did they look and think, that man tries, and laugh?
Not his question. Not his concern. It was a disservice to his understanding of humanity to single out the gladhanders.
But damn, the cheek, the gall and the presumption of the semiretards who withhold their potential for fulfillment. Who refuse to say yes.
They scared or what?
Fear from where? He, this man under the jacarandas, did not know of a fear that would cripple so mindlessly and needlessly. He hated it.
By not comprehending it, it didn't really occur to him in any clear sense.
He could not attack it and have done with it. He still wanted to be friends with the world, but not the ones who turned their heads to the walls, who looked down and practised being shy. Who snubbed and deprecated, according to conventions that brought them a diminished account of being alive and in their bodies. He was persistently disturbed by the unsatisfactory restricted prescriptive silence.
I choose, he said. I choose.
Thursday, January 19, 2006
Supplying your own demands
Thursday January 19th, 2006
Sometimes I love taste so much, it occurs to me that it might be the one thing I live for. Or the one thing I know to declare so. The reaction that my system has to the essence of a substance upon it being ingested, when it is positive, is all-encompassing. A complete satisfaction fulfillment. When that happens, what I am wanting to smell, or hold or see, or be around, or drink or hold in my hand and inhale the steam of, or put in my mouth, appears with clarity to my consciousness. No matter what else I might have been consumed by or uninvolved over, the presence of the thing to which my desire has alighted me, brings a pleasure in its certainty and an enjoyment as much out of myself, as it is a part of me connecting my abstract and material experiences.
Chocolate. The smell of apple gummi bears. The idea of figs. The smell of the sun at the mouth of a plane that has just landed, infused with the flora and whitewash and wild life of the existing structures.
I think it must be history, the build-up of sensory expectation. It is satisfied by the available history.
Sometimes I love taste so much, it occurs to me that it might be the one thing I live for. Or the one thing I know to declare so. The reaction that my system has to the essence of a substance upon it being ingested, when it is positive, is all-encompassing. A complete satisfaction fulfillment. When that happens, what I am wanting to smell, or hold or see, or be around, or drink or hold in my hand and inhale the steam of, or put in my mouth, appears with clarity to my consciousness. No matter what else I might have been consumed by or uninvolved over, the presence of the thing to which my desire has alighted me, brings a pleasure in its certainty and an enjoyment as much out of myself, as it is a part of me connecting my abstract and material experiences.
Chocolate. The smell of apple gummi bears. The idea of figs. The smell of the sun at the mouth of a plane that has just landed, infused with the flora and whitewash and wild life of the existing structures.
I think it must be history, the build-up of sensory expectation. It is satisfied by the available history.
Saturday, January 07, 2006
and now, about the other one
Sunday the eighth of January, 2006
The creases alternated between shadowing her face with the whispers of memories previous - Things that were even memories in the time before we met - and revealing another face to be included in all the other faces her face had to reveal. She had lived a long time. She had lived a lot in the time she had begun to count. She had more living accumulated in her features than one life could reveal, and she was revealed as wondrous and never-ending as time itself; she occupied the present in such intensity that it was matched and kept constant only in her abdication of any contemporary ties, that balanced the immediacy of her presence with an absoluteness that bespoke her longevity and her connection to the things I recognised as having meaning.
She was a human, breathing scales of eternity as far as it could find scope in the experience of a homosapiens of no broadcasted reknown.
How do we come to know these ones when we come across them? I neither know this or many other questions, similar and disparate.
About the treatment of time on her face, from careful, undisturbed glances on her skin as her mind is occupied with conversation, arithmetic, joke sharing, arranging food, preparing the properties of comfort for another person, the refining process that it has enacted is peerless. She is both here and wholly, not-enough for the present.
I don't think that the world is enough for her. She is certainly meet for the world. She has accompanied it in faith, long enough, and will continue to do so in the future that is not a guarantee.
The creases alternated between shadowing her face with the whispers of memories previous - Things that were even memories in the time before we met - and revealing another face to be included in all the other faces her face had to reveal. She had lived a long time. She had lived a lot in the time she had begun to count. She had more living accumulated in her features than one life could reveal, and she was revealed as wondrous and never-ending as time itself; she occupied the present in such intensity that it was matched and kept constant only in her abdication of any contemporary ties, that balanced the immediacy of her presence with an absoluteness that bespoke her longevity and her connection to the things I recognised as having meaning.
She was a human, breathing scales of eternity as far as it could find scope in the experience of a homosapiens of no broadcasted reknown.
How do we come to know these ones when we come across them? I neither know this or many other questions, similar and disparate.
About the treatment of time on her face, from careful, undisturbed glances on her skin as her mind is occupied with conversation, arithmetic, joke sharing, arranging food, preparing the properties of comfort for another person, the refining process that it has enacted is peerless. She is both here and wholly, not-enough for the present.
I don't think that the world is enough for her. She is certainly meet for the world. She has accompanied it in faith, long enough, and will continue to do so in the future that is not a guarantee.
Friday, December 30, 2005
The present moment
December 31st, Saturday, 2006
We are taking forever.
"Before. That was a memory, all memories being a linguistically-fuelled device used to (that we use to) refashion the present."
"Our present."
"Ours, yes. We make a before to buffer an awareness of a 'now' and to give ourselves space to breathe an 'us'"
"Oh
they did say "oh"
" community."
Quite prayerful. Amused, uncomprehending, scornful and bargaining. As I beseach you....I wish they had said " beseach you" but they didn't. Perhaps it will come to pass in future memory this phrase, with this invocation.
When we come together, it has the strands of the moment's impulses, the ways we accommodate each other, a historicism that we both seek out; and so it feels like we invoke a drawing out of something that is both independant and fundamental. We do do that, and the effect of so doing is felt by me.
"Community."
We are taking forever.
"Before. That was a memory, all memories being a linguistically-fuelled device used to (that we use to) refashion the present."
"Our present."
"Ours, yes. We make a before to buffer an awareness of a 'now' and to give ourselves space to breathe an 'us'"
"Oh
they did say "oh"
" community."
Quite prayerful. Amused, uncomprehending, scornful and bargaining. As I beseach you....I wish they had said " beseach you" but they didn't. Perhaps it will come to pass in future memory this phrase, with this invocation.
When we come together, it has the strands of the moment's impulses, the ways we accommodate each other, a historicism that we both seek out; and so it feels like we invoke a drawing out of something that is both independant and fundamental. We do do that, and the effect of so doing is felt by me.
"Community."
Sunday, November 13, 2005
echoes in sand
Sunday the 13th of November, 2005
She carves in touch on her palm, hiding the curves and sensuality from the sight of her addressee even as the sounding out of counting falls from her lips.
Five, fifteen plus a half, nineteen seventeen, how much for each banana. As if the transaction must be logged from the left hand to the right, the right to the left. Voiced all the while, her voice a wall, obscuring the effective incantation.
It is this much she says, in spite of the the other prices it could be.
It is this much and no more, on account of my left hand has audited my mental calculations by way of my right.
She is accounting for so much more, one would assume from her sleight of hand, than the mere calibration of numbers.
She is keeping a tally of the bruises on the air, as we talk, as we walk, as we cast things aside without a second glance. She picks them out, guitarist of the things we don't make manifest, and reassures her self before any money has passed over her palm, of what has amounted and what it has amounted to.
I want her to grab my hand and imprint the truth into my self, make her ramblings a path over the mountains. I don't think she can tell me anything, but what she tells herself, I want to know.
She carves in touch on her palm, hiding the curves and sensuality from the sight of her addressee even as the sounding out of counting falls from her lips.
Five, fifteen plus a half, nineteen seventeen, how much for each banana. As if the transaction must be logged from the left hand to the right, the right to the left. Voiced all the while, her voice a wall, obscuring the effective incantation.
It is this much she says, in spite of the the other prices it could be.
It is this much and no more, on account of my left hand has audited my mental calculations by way of my right.
She is accounting for so much more, one would assume from her sleight of hand, than the mere calibration of numbers.
She is keeping a tally of the bruises on the air, as we talk, as we walk, as we cast things aside without a second glance. She picks them out, guitarist of the things we don't make manifest, and reassures her self before any money has passed over her palm, of what has amounted and what it has amounted to.
I want her to grab my hand and imprint the truth into my self, make her ramblings a path over the mountains. I don't think she can tell me anything, but what she tells herself, I want to know.
Wednesday, November 09, 2005
Several cameras
Wednesday the ninth of November, 2005
What did I reveal when I showed you something? What did you see when I spoke my mind? Where did you take me, that walk in that light afternoon?
We stayed indoors and I played the piano. I always play the piano, I'm boring like that. I don't rise to your expectations. And I'm flatter than a book.
Which part of me glinted, in your eye, what dust was there that knew to be irritated? Which are the bits that I have the other bits of, that I don't get and didn't see? When I say we had a good time and the glow is the glow of a distinct constellation, is it anything like a galaxy for you, or a gap between sandwiches?
We
Why do you do this?
See you when I see you.
Yes.
What if I am not who you think I am. Who is flummoxed?
Of course you aren't who I think you are. Or you, you. Or you, me. Or me, me.
Being and showing and looking. Generally, I'm looking to the stars. Or just away. You know that, you're with me, I'm looking away when we're together. So are you. And then you tell me what you see, and show me what you know. That's how we know each other.
Together let's go on an expedition. We'll have to spend money and consider an itinerary and probably get joint provisions. And it will be in the future. Some kind of solid projection. We might even have to involve an intermediary. A travel agent or something. And know that when it comes to the pilot, it has nothing to do with trust. And develop pictures that show what happened that have nothing to do with what it was like.
What did I reveal when I showed you something? What did you see when I spoke my mind? Where did you take me, that walk in that light afternoon?
We stayed indoors and I played the piano. I always play the piano, I'm boring like that. I don't rise to your expectations. And I'm flatter than a book.
Which part of me glinted, in your eye, what dust was there that knew to be irritated? Which are the bits that I have the other bits of, that I don't get and didn't see? When I say we had a good time and the glow is the glow of a distinct constellation, is it anything like a galaxy for you, or a gap between sandwiches?
We
Why do you do this?
See you when I see you.
Yes.
What if I am not who you think I am. Who is flummoxed?
Of course you aren't who I think you are. Or you, you. Or you, me. Or me, me.
Being and showing and looking. Generally, I'm looking to the stars. Or just away. You know that, you're with me, I'm looking away when we're together. So are you. And then you tell me what you see, and show me what you know. That's how we know each other.
Together let's go on an expedition. We'll have to spend money and consider an itinerary and probably get joint provisions. And it will be in the future. Some kind of solid projection. We might even have to involve an intermediary. A travel agent or something. And know that when it comes to the pilot, it has nothing to do with trust. And develop pictures that show what happened that have nothing to do with what it was like.
Friday, November 04, 2005
Worn through
Saturday, the 4th of November
Deep, dark, rich, scratchy neckwear. Woolen smoke and mulberry; knotted silk like cresting waves and guano; this cravat a rainbow of memories cold-pressed, photo-pristine, shabby and loved. Shabby but loved. LOVED. Did I yell that? It's the scarf, the warmth-giver, protecting my voice, my heart, blazening my intentions all over the show.
Flat skirts, box-stencilled, the order of heritage worn by girls, only girls, a garment that is a telescope into a fundamental aesthetic.
Deep, dark, rich, scratchy neckwear. Woolen smoke and mulberry; knotted silk like cresting waves and guano; this cravat a rainbow of memories cold-pressed, photo-pristine, shabby and loved. Shabby but loved. LOVED. Did I yell that? It's the scarf, the warmth-giver, protecting my voice, my heart, blazening my intentions all over the show.
Flat skirts, box-stencilled, the order of heritage worn by girls, only girls, a garment that is a telescope into a fundamental aesthetic.
Saturday, October 22, 2005
what there is to have
saturday, october 21st
There is acid in the wind today. There is more phlegm in the spittle on the pavement. There is a heavy violet greasiness to the waft of product that remains like an unwanted hand on my shoulder from passing by the groups of haircutted yuppie-emulators. There is a wolvish honesty that the sharp drop in temperature has brought out from the practised protocol behind the smiles.
"Hello." You sound like a violin out of tune.
In summer, the new arrivals mistook it for a yodel of introduction.
Now it is yelp of that bastard inequality. We are all piano tuners under the skin, we've been pitched into unease.
Now is the time to refashion yourself into a Russian, what? English? it does not turn my head, does not resonate with me, I have no response, and you are left there, breathing your own air. How does that taste? While then, a ripple of reassessment mellifluates everybody; the terms of composure are dwelt upon.
Sometimes a non--answer makes you investigate the question. Warm your heart, cool your blood, come back from the frost, blink.
There is acid in the wind today. There is more phlegm in the spittle on the pavement. There is a heavy violet greasiness to the waft of product that remains like an unwanted hand on my shoulder from passing by the groups of haircutted yuppie-emulators. There is a wolvish honesty that the sharp drop in temperature has brought out from the practised protocol behind the smiles.
"Hello." You sound like a violin out of tune.
In summer, the new arrivals mistook it for a yodel of introduction.
Now it is yelp of that bastard inequality. We are all piano tuners under the skin, we've been pitched into unease.
Now is the time to refashion yourself into a Russian, what? English? it does not turn my head, does not resonate with me, I have no response, and you are left there, breathing your own air. How does that taste? While then, a ripple of reassessment mellifluates everybody; the terms of composure are dwelt upon.
Sometimes a non--answer makes you investigate the question. Warm your heart, cool your blood, come back from the frost, blink.
Wednesday, October 12, 2005
frame
thursday, october 13th
"... is only one child and they keep getting born over and over and what makes different people is the lives and the conditions of living. So "different people" just means different versions of the person, of all what it can mean to be a person. Like the one child has split and is dealing with fractions of themselves. Or is dealing with themselves on a time-fractured basis. And the loop of population, no I mean demographics, ok, ok, no, both and also a general climate of social conditions, what if that looping is a self-referential and sensitive logarithm?"
Why do I have to be held back by the maths teacher and be the last one on the bus and have to sit next to Max?
Why today?
And I'm certainly not going to put a why question to Max.
I mean, it's interesting talking when it's summer and we're on the trampoline and the universe is really big and it's easy to think and talk like this. That's one thing. But dude not here and now.
I'm on the bus going home and your clothes are stateless, they are refugee clothes, man, you really should be a little more aware.
and I look out of the window and am confronted by squares. Everywhere man, just like every shape of thing I see out there is a collection of squares and, if not square, a whole damn lot of right angles.
I've been doing that a lot lately, feeling smacked over the head with squares every time I open my eyes and the teachers at school got a snitch, like pack mentality, about where my eyes are. I mean, they say, about me not paying attention. In class. But I can hear and think and look just fine justthe same on separate tracks.
I'm kind of noticeable to teachers, or they have radar for when my eyes are either not on them or the board. Or on my desk.
I like being in lessons and it's kind of soothing hearing an adult's voice making continuous connections for like, thirty minutes, even when they repeat themselves. And as more and more arrangements of squares keep coming into view, I have additional draws to my attention and the thing is they're on a grid, so moving your head, it's like all the crystals get redrawn. And the teachers don't like it. They start holding you after class and blaming things on things. Now, that, I don't know why. If it was last summer I would ask Max and he might talk it through like he knew.
But what with all the squares in sight at the moment, what am I going to do, not notice them?
"... is only one child and they keep getting born over and over and what makes different people is the lives and the conditions of living. So "different people" just means different versions of the person, of all what it can mean to be a person. Like the one child has split and is dealing with fractions of themselves. Or is dealing with themselves on a time-fractured basis. And the loop of population, no I mean demographics, ok, ok, no, both and also a general climate of social conditions, what if that looping is a self-referential and sensitive logarithm?"
Why do I have to be held back by the maths teacher and be the last one on the bus and have to sit next to Max?
Why today?
And I'm certainly not going to put a why question to Max.
I mean, it's interesting talking when it's summer and we're on the trampoline and the universe is really big and it's easy to think and talk like this. That's one thing. But dude not here and now.
I'm on the bus going home and your clothes are stateless, they are refugee clothes, man, you really should be a little more aware.
and I look out of the window and am confronted by squares. Everywhere man, just like every shape of thing I see out there is a collection of squares and, if not square, a whole damn lot of right angles.
I've been doing that a lot lately, feeling smacked over the head with squares every time I open my eyes and the teachers at school got a snitch, like pack mentality, about where my eyes are. I mean, they say, about me not paying attention. In class. But I can hear and think and look just fine justthe same on separate tracks.
I'm kind of noticeable to teachers, or they have radar for when my eyes are either not on them or the board. Or on my desk.
I like being in lessons and it's kind of soothing hearing an adult's voice making continuous connections for like, thirty minutes, even when they repeat themselves. And as more and more arrangements of squares keep coming into view, I have additional draws to my attention and the thing is they're on a grid, so moving your head, it's like all the crystals get redrawn. And the teachers don't like it. They start holding you after class and blaming things on things. Now, that, I don't know why. If it was last summer I would ask Max and he might talk it through like he knew.
But what with all the squares in sight at the moment, what am I going to do, not notice them?
Friday, September 30, 2005
From The Talking Horse and the Sad Girl and the Village Under the Sea by Mark Haddon
This Poem is Certificate 18
When you open a collection of poetry or attend a reading you need to know that the poems you choose to read or hear are suitable for the audience.
To help you understand what a poem is like you can look at the certificate it has been given. This poem has been classified as 18. That means this poem is unsuitable for anyone younger than 18.
A poem with an 18 certificate may contain scenes of a violent nature. Carlos de Sessa burning at the stake, for example, his hot fat bubbling like porridge. Or Erymas, stabbed in the mouth, the blade smashing clean through to the brain so that teeth, bone and blood spray from his ruptured face. The slow death of a parent, often from cancer, is particularly common.
There may be sex, too. A man may be sucked off in a McDonald's en route to the airport, a babysitter may masturbate on the kiln-fired tiles of her employers' bathroom and an arsehole may be described in more detail than is necessary. The word "cunt" may be used.
In a poem with an 18 certificate the syntax may be knottier and the meaning more opaque than in light, narrative or straightforward lyric verse. A phrase may have as many as four different interpretations, all intended for more or less simultaneous comprehension. Conversely, when the hedged sun draws into itself for self-quenching and these modalities stoop to re-enter the subterrane of faith, the intention may simply be to confuse the less intelligent reader. Sometimes a line or phrase is used simply because "it sounded right".
A poem with an 18 certificate may be written according to occult rules which are not made available to the reader. A parallel universe may be assumed wherein the expanded inkling undergoes an allusion and, at the climax of frogging, binges in the Bermuda. Some 18 certificate poems purport to be translations of work by Finnish and Romanian poets who do not, in fact, exist. In others a lightbulb may be granted sentience.
Like plumbers and dentists, poets are fallible, and the possibility of genuine nonsense cannot be ruled out. Unlike plumbing and dentistry, however, poetry is slow, frustrating and poorly rewarded work which fails more often than it succeeds and is therefore embarked upon largely by men and women labouring under a sense of almost religious vocation, grandiose self-delusion or some combination of both. As a result, many poems with an 18 certificate are written by people whose minds you may not wish to enter.
The language of a poem with an 18 certificate may be denser and more powerful than the language you are used to dealing with. And though it makes nothing happen it may, like a piece of ice on a hot stove, ride its own melting into your soul and bring you face to face with the madness of space.
It is an offence to read or supply a poem classified as 18 to anyone below that age.
Poetry certificates are there to help you make the right choice.
When you open a collection of poetry or attend a reading you need to know that the poems you choose to read or hear are suitable for the audience.
To help you understand what a poem is like you can look at the certificate it has been given. This poem has been classified as 18. That means this poem is unsuitable for anyone younger than 18.
A poem with an 18 certificate may contain scenes of a violent nature. Carlos de Sessa burning at the stake, for example, his hot fat bubbling like porridge. Or Erymas, stabbed in the mouth, the blade smashing clean through to the brain so that teeth, bone and blood spray from his ruptured face. The slow death of a parent, often from cancer, is particularly common.
There may be sex, too. A man may be sucked off in a McDonald's en route to the airport, a babysitter may masturbate on the kiln-fired tiles of her employers' bathroom and an arsehole may be described in more detail than is necessary. The word "cunt" may be used.
In a poem with an 18 certificate the syntax may be knottier and the meaning more opaque than in light, narrative or straightforward lyric verse. A phrase may have as many as four different interpretations, all intended for more or less simultaneous comprehension. Conversely, when the hedged sun draws into itself for self-quenching and these modalities stoop to re-enter the subterrane of faith, the intention may simply be to confuse the less intelligent reader. Sometimes a line or phrase is used simply because "it sounded right".
A poem with an 18 certificate may be written according to occult rules which are not made available to the reader. A parallel universe may be assumed wherein the expanded inkling undergoes an allusion and, at the climax of frogging, binges in the Bermuda. Some 18 certificate poems purport to be translations of work by Finnish and Romanian poets who do not, in fact, exist. In others a lightbulb may be granted sentience.
Like plumbers and dentists, poets are fallible, and the possibility of genuine nonsense cannot be ruled out. Unlike plumbing and dentistry, however, poetry is slow, frustrating and poorly rewarded work which fails more often than it succeeds and is therefore embarked upon largely by men and women labouring under a sense of almost religious vocation, grandiose self-delusion or some combination of both. As a result, many poems with an 18 certificate are written by people whose minds you may not wish to enter.
The language of a poem with an 18 certificate may be denser and more powerful than the language you are used to dealing with. And though it makes nothing happen it may, like a piece of ice on a hot stove, ride its own melting into your soul and bring you face to face with the madness of space.
It is an offence to read or supply a poem classified as 18 to anyone below that age.
Poetry certificates are there to help you make the right choice.
Saturday, September 17, 2005
servitude
Saturday, September 17th, 2005
might I suggest she said i love you and leave it at that
well that was how she poured coffee, that waitress whose collar was creased so sharp you knew she was wearing the shirt for the duration - but it was early only Tuesday - sprayed wet and ironed in the important places.
Funny, these outlines of people, "waitress", her attire a line-drawing of a coffee pourer, taking notes on floppy paper. Dark hair.
leaving and returning, that was what she did and how she did it, pouring coffee we didn't want into our stained cups
when she spoke, we looked at her, and suddenly she blurred into the haze of cosy ambience, less outlined than imprinted against the circus poster prints, the dragonfly lighting
and Carlos couldn't disagree.
His MO like his DNA was impervious to her guile. He was the one dealing with the object of his affections, and he was it had to be said, by me, who had been listening to an everbuilding code of versions and episodes as they worked their way through his emotions and psyche, my hardworking friend who could only take so much, being dealt to by a master operator.
so anybody could suggest anything, because advice is only offered. It's a very light thing, comparably, wrapped up in sparkly paper. But you know, and Carlos I think felt it, because it occupied a lot of his time this relationship, that the material form of a thing has no bearing on it's use in any situation, it is not an all-purpose measurement, the dimensions of a thing.
Carlos had to fit his intentions to the will of another human being (mentioned earlier I do believe).
As sensible as those words were, as perfectly formed a statement as it was, Carlos could not simply say truth in as loose afashion as that. By all accounts, it would be a betrayal of the web they spun together, and here he was just trying to give a little struggle free of the stickiness of the relationship to a sympathetic, that is to say, silent, ear (me). So he just smiled and we ordered moccacinos to walk out into the night with.
might I suggest she said i love you and leave it at that
well that was how she poured coffee, that waitress whose collar was creased so sharp you knew she was wearing the shirt for the duration - but it was early only Tuesday - sprayed wet and ironed in the important places.
Funny, these outlines of people, "waitress", her attire a line-drawing of a coffee pourer, taking notes on floppy paper. Dark hair.
leaving and returning, that was what she did and how she did it, pouring coffee we didn't want into our stained cups
when she spoke, we looked at her, and suddenly she blurred into the haze of cosy ambience, less outlined than imprinted against the circus poster prints, the dragonfly lighting
and Carlos couldn't disagree.
His MO like his DNA was impervious to her guile. He was the one dealing with the object of his affections, and he was it had to be said, by me, who had been listening to an everbuilding code of versions and episodes as they worked their way through his emotions and psyche, my hardworking friend who could only take so much, being dealt to by a master operator.
so anybody could suggest anything, because advice is only offered. It's a very light thing, comparably, wrapped up in sparkly paper. But you know, and Carlos I think felt it, because it occupied a lot of his time this relationship, that the material form of a thing has no bearing on it's use in any situation, it is not an all-purpose measurement, the dimensions of a thing.
Carlos had to fit his intentions to the will of another human being (mentioned earlier I do believe).
As sensible as those words were, as perfectly formed a statement as it was, Carlos could not simply say truth in as loose afashion as that. By all accounts, it would be a betrayal of the web they spun together, and here he was just trying to give a little struggle free of the stickiness of the relationship to a sympathetic, that is to say, silent, ear (me). So he just smiled and we ordered moccacinos to walk out into the night with.
Tuesday, September 13, 2005
what is water asked the child
tuesday, the thirteenth of September
water is what makes everything work. It runs between and keeps everything running. Water is the clearest of evidences on the capacity of boundary, as a theoretical term, and it is resplendent in it's permeability.
Impermeable is an example of vanity. Isn't everything permeable?
The degrees to which things are unitary, are 'not-the-other'; the quality of the persuasion which will resonate with their structures; what are these if not instances, faceted through sensory perception: reductions from the entity of life: a formulaic partiality?
These are what they are and highly dissolvable, increasingly submerged. They are what they are and absorbed or exposed, they come from the genesis of water.
water is what makes everything work. It runs between and keeps everything running. Water is the clearest of evidences on the capacity of boundary, as a theoretical term, and it is resplendent in it's permeability.
Impermeable is an example of vanity. Isn't everything permeable?
The degrees to which things are unitary, are 'not-the-other'; the quality of the persuasion which will resonate with their structures; what are these if not instances, faceted through sensory perception: reductions from the entity of life: a formulaic partiality?
These are what they are and highly dissolvable, increasingly submerged. They are what they are and absorbed or exposed, they come from the genesis of water.
Saturday, September 03, 2005
attenuating circumstances
Saturday, the 3rd of September
how many people are going to be awake like they are the only ones, moving like they are a minority within a routinely sleeping group?
what are the dimensions of this solidarity?
worldwide, between the ones who feel their solitude acutely and come socket-to-blade keen in connivance with the boundaries of their impulses and the ghostly framework of solitary agitation?
how even when it's happening it has the quality of memory and how your feelings whisper into the atolls of the nerves of feeling which are tenuous at this time because even while they are as clear as they are, in this ante-time they are liable to become something else as you squint or swing it.
how many people are going to be awake like they are the only ones, moving like they are a minority within a routinely sleeping group?
what are the dimensions of this solidarity?
worldwide, between the ones who feel their solitude acutely and come socket-to-blade keen in connivance with the boundaries of their impulses and the ghostly framework of solitary agitation?
how even when it's happening it has the quality of memory and how your feelings whisper into the atolls of the nerves of feeling which are tenuous at this time because even while they are as clear as they are, in this ante-time they are liable to become something else as you squint or swing it.
Tuesday, August 23, 2005
lifts you up
Tuesday, August the 23rd
perched before the tide, on fine sand, blonde like the mats whose strings hoisted them lightly concordant with the sun in the South China Sea, on this afternoon and this island where it was happening, the barbeque began to rustle, the air rose, the concrete kept its amusement to itself, flat beneath the chef's weight, strewn with cotton about its pillars, our pavillion accomodated the light breaths that remained with all the people who had flown to be here.
perched before the tide, on fine sand, blonde like the mats whose strings hoisted them lightly concordant with the sun in the South China Sea, on this afternoon and this island where it was happening, the barbeque began to rustle, the air rose, the concrete kept its amusement to itself, flat beneath the chef's weight, strewn with cotton about its pillars, our pavillion accomodated the light breaths that remained with all the people who had flown to be here.
Saturday, July 30, 2005
being here and being able
saturday, the 30th of July
The feeling was as though the blood at the tops of her legs was on spin-cycle. She stopped just before apartments, where the parking space flattened out the tarmac, and the white-blindness came on. Blank flakes beyond which the world escaped its pictures. Her own hands appeared to be insubstantial. And yet she recognised this feeling as being alive, her blood being rediverted along all the routes that kept her alive, operating on such a precise level of efficiency that she experienced the dips in availability fully and visceral. The warmth of the sun on her skin came justly, into her fingers even, and it was welcome. She seemed to be running a slight temperature these days that cooperated pleasingly with the outside weather conditions. Her heartbeat sped up to a count of 5 for each in breath and decreased markedly to 2 for every out. It was like running a tap through a sensitive hose and being able to monitor all manner of readjustments the intelligent liquid within the casing was making. Yes, indeed it was, she thought, it was like being able to do both these things simultaneously. The pounding behind her ears, where her neck became her skull bucket, would soon subside, swoosh into a resting frequency, she would think it had stopped. The general faintness would pass into a lightness of being and she could set off down the dry-cleaning street feeling happier and happier at being here and being able. There is a trick of letting the optimum time evolve so that she can walk the length of the apartments in the sunshine having had the more insistently mechanical preparations of her body dissipate prior to turning left into the oncoming at full stride. No counting, just breathe through it.
The feeling was as though the blood at the tops of her legs was on spin-cycle. She stopped just before apartments, where the parking space flattened out the tarmac, and the white-blindness came on. Blank flakes beyond which the world escaped its pictures. Her own hands appeared to be insubstantial. And yet she recognised this feeling as being alive, her blood being rediverted along all the routes that kept her alive, operating on such a precise level of efficiency that she experienced the dips in availability fully and visceral. The warmth of the sun on her skin came justly, into her fingers even, and it was welcome. She seemed to be running a slight temperature these days that cooperated pleasingly with the outside weather conditions. Her heartbeat sped up to a count of 5 for each in breath and decreased markedly to 2 for every out. It was like running a tap through a sensitive hose and being able to monitor all manner of readjustments the intelligent liquid within the casing was making. Yes, indeed it was, she thought, it was like being able to do both these things simultaneously. The pounding behind her ears, where her neck became her skull bucket, would soon subside, swoosh into a resting frequency, she would think it had stopped. The general faintness would pass into a lightness of being and she could set off down the dry-cleaning street feeling happier and happier at being here and being able. There is a trick of letting the optimum time evolve so that she can walk the length of the apartments in the sunshine having had the more insistently mechanical preparations of her body dissipate prior to turning left into the oncoming at full stride. No counting, just breathe through it.
Monday, July 25, 2005
light fantastic
Monday the 25th of July
the pudgy hands from under the computer console, jerking the other one off, in the cartel of childhood, always must playact, complete with the mock authority voice, the brusque ineffectual smacking away, well aimed slaps, but the legs remain, the legs are out of combat, you know we know you know where the fidelity lies.
and it makes me an anger of sorts, because the deflective sensationalism that makes up most of the reportage on this subject, has groomed indignation to be the first reponse, and in a process of misnaming and batting all the little cruxes that build the symmetry of encroachment and complicity and release and relief away, makes it a vortex of common sense hermetically sealed.
look at me, the kids are screaming. they shriek it. there is a vein of laughter within it, you know the cunning laughter that is closely tempered to cleverness as it winds itself around revelation upon revelation. look at us , we are hurting the other, look at our bad behaviour, you are not invited to our bad behaviour, this is private, this is our choice, look at us. this is private, look at us.
ha, got you there. but nobody has been got, the conventions of respect, autonomy, expression, and protection have got themselves into a tangle in the uncertain terrain of responsability.
to be frank, i am not interested, i know this memory of shadowy anger to be a fake.
i remember maths lessons with clarity here, and water polo, and ballet classes before the teacher arrived, and scavenger animals caught by children beside the club kitchens, and the coldness in my eyes wanting to scream at the white fuck up by the blackboard. Don't be ludicrous. abstract thought and general principals, are an odd screen for an immediate education in neglect and blindness.
So much is a product of bad behaviour. The conditions of today are the product of an earlier set of circumstances. Something happened to somebody once, sort of thing. Things like this will keep on happening, to you, by you, by me, for me, for the ancestors, because it's good for you, because you deserve it, because this is who you are, because this is who we are, for no reason, why are you asking so many questions, why are you asking such stupid questions.
Mothers who cannot protect their children for one - who are mothers today because they were unprotected and who receive no societal fortification today, cut down and endlessly self-justifying. Subscribing to rationalisations for their own inferiority, invented by the people whose existence they support.
the pudgy hands from under the computer console, jerking the other one off, in the cartel of childhood, always must playact, complete with the mock authority voice, the brusque ineffectual smacking away, well aimed slaps, but the legs remain, the legs are out of combat, you know we know you know where the fidelity lies.
and it makes me an anger of sorts, because the deflective sensationalism that makes up most of the reportage on this subject, has groomed indignation to be the first reponse, and in a process of misnaming and batting all the little cruxes that build the symmetry of encroachment and complicity and release and relief away, makes it a vortex of common sense hermetically sealed.
look at me, the kids are screaming. they shriek it. there is a vein of laughter within it, you know the cunning laughter that is closely tempered to cleverness as it winds itself around revelation upon revelation. look at us , we are hurting the other, look at our bad behaviour, you are not invited to our bad behaviour, this is private, this is our choice, look at us. this is private, look at us.
ha, got you there. but nobody has been got, the conventions of respect, autonomy, expression, and protection have got themselves into a tangle in the uncertain terrain of responsability.
to be frank, i am not interested, i know this memory of shadowy anger to be a fake.
i remember maths lessons with clarity here, and water polo, and ballet classes before the teacher arrived, and scavenger animals caught by children beside the club kitchens, and the coldness in my eyes wanting to scream at the white fuck up by the blackboard. Don't be ludicrous. abstract thought and general principals, are an odd screen for an immediate education in neglect and blindness.
So much is a product of bad behaviour. The conditions of today are the product of an earlier set of circumstances. Something happened to somebody once, sort of thing. Things like this will keep on happening, to you, by you, by me, for me, for the ancestors, because it's good for you, because you deserve it, because this is who you are, because this is who we are, for no reason, why are you asking so many questions, why are you asking such stupid questions.
Mothers who cannot protect their children for one - who are mothers today because they were unprotected and who receive no societal fortification today, cut down and endlessly self-justifying. Subscribing to rationalisations for their own inferiority, invented by the people whose existence they support.
Sunday, July 10, 2005
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