She said, "What's next?" I was feeling lyrical: "Darlin, I am going to take a stinging toke, rustle in the restless smoke, and hopefully deliver the punch line to my psychic joke."
Writing is breaching. --Derrida
Writing is breaching--a crossing inside that is not only unplanned, but unable to be remedied. It is an explosion beyond the border of safety that leaves one paralyzed with trauma. Life is about breaching--about the moments of crossing--where there is something inside of you that leaves you helpless. Life is about breaching--about one--another--something--crossing a border and leaving you traumatized in a speechless paralysis.
When it is love--we call it beautiful. When it is a lover, we call it by screaming its name. When it is not--we call it death--or something like it. We call it worse than death because it traumatized in a way that means we are still here to experience it.
Yes, life is breaching--about moments of decision that scare the shit out of us because it means letting something pass beyond the border where we are able to defend ourselves. Life begins with a breach and never stops being constituted by them. Life is about the space--the decision-between who and what can breach the borders of our personal sacred space.
Breaching--eruption--can result in anger.
Writing is anger.
Writing is the being-sick of the trauma of a breaching that is not love, but death. Writing is spewing-forth something that appears to be a congealed, coherent substance of sick resulting from the trauma of an unexpected breach.
Writing is anger congealed--the fabrication of chaos congealed--the chaos of death congealed.
Writing is life. Breaching is life.
Sunday, November 29, 2009
Monday, November 23, 2009
Flake
All flakes are different, right? Snow flakes are never the same. I suppose dandruff flakes are unique, too. Flakes come in different--and sometimes alluring--sizes.
I know she said it's alright
But you can make it up next time
I know she knows it's not right
There ain't no use in lying
Maybe she thinks I know something
Maybe maybe she thinks its fine
Maybe she knows something I don't
I'm so, I'm so tired, I'm so tired of trying
It's alright? Actually, it is not. It is not alright, it is not right, and it shall never be again. She knows--kind of. She knows only because she was reminded--probed--investigated. She knows, but not really. She knows, but she isn't willing to know too deeply. She knows something I don't? Actually, no. She doesn't even know the things she should know, much less what I do. Yes, now, at this point, I am tired. I am tired of trying--trying to forget; of trying to stop trying to exert energy forgetting. Why is it so easy to remember and so impossible to consciously--intentionally--forget?
I know she loves the sunrise
No longer sees it with her sleeping eyes
And I know that when she said she's gonna try
Well it might not work because of other ties and
I know she usually has some other ties
And I wouldn't want to break 'em, nah, I wouldn't want to break 'em
Maybe she'll help me to untie this but
Until then well, I'm gonna have to lie to you.
She loves the sunrise, the sunset . . . well, the sun in general. Under that sun--the sun being maybe the only one who knows all the things we are speaking of here--she had/has a few ties. I kind of knew this. I was kind of in the same boat. And, actually, I did want to break them. I wanted to break the ties--to be the only tie there was. I thought untying both of our respective knots might result in a story--a line--that led somewhere down the road--somewhere new--somewhere where we knew without lying. But, the knots were more tangled than we knew. The new could not emerge because, among other things, she knew not what she should have. What a flake.
It seems to me that maybe
It pretty much always means no
So don't tell me you might just let it go
And often times we're lazy
It seems to stand in my way
Cause no one no not no one
Likes to be let down
It seems to me that maybe
It pretty much always means no
So don't tell me you might just let it go
It may not always mean no, but most times--overwhelmingly so--it does mean disappointment. No one likes to be let down. Her ties and her unwillingngess to know herself--these let me down. Her knots--and her inability to realize her knottiness--are disappointing. You are not a memory. You are a an attempted-forgotten. See the difference? So, don't tell me to let it go. Don't tell me to let it go so we can be friends. Don't tell me to let it go so we can be nice. It's useless. You don't even have the capacity to know--to try to know--so what's the point? Disappointing; altogether disappointing. You are an attempted-forgotten disappointment flake--one melting into the landscape at the hands of the sunrise. When the sun gets high enough, you shall blend back into nothing--into a nothing of which I know nothing.
I know she said it's alright
But you can make it up next time
I know she knows it's not right
There ain't no use in lying
Maybe she thinks I know something
Maybe maybe she thinks its fine
Maybe she knows something I don't
I'm so, I'm so tired, I'm so tired of trying
It's alright? Actually, it is not. It is not alright, it is not right, and it shall never be again. She knows--kind of. She knows only because she was reminded--probed--investigated. She knows, but not really. She knows, but she isn't willing to know too deeply. She knows something I don't? Actually, no. She doesn't even know the things she should know, much less what I do. Yes, now, at this point, I am tired. I am tired of trying--trying to forget; of trying to stop trying to exert energy forgetting. Why is it so easy to remember and so impossible to consciously--intentionally--forget?
I know she loves the sunrise
No longer sees it with her sleeping eyes
And I know that when she said she's gonna try
Well it might not work because of other ties and
I know she usually has some other ties
And I wouldn't want to break 'em, nah, I wouldn't want to break 'em
Maybe she'll help me to untie this but
Until then well, I'm gonna have to lie to you.
She loves the sunrise, the sunset . . . well, the sun in general. Under that sun--the sun being maybe the only one who knows all the things we are speaking of here--she had/has a few ties. I kind of knew this. I was kind of in the same boat. And, actually, I did want to break them. I wanted to break the ties--to be the only tie there was. I thought untying both of our respective knots might result in a story--a line--that led somewhere down the road--somewhere new--somewhere where we knew without lying. But, the knots were more tangled than we knew. The new could not emerge because, among other things, she knew not what she should have. What a flake.
It seems to me that maybe
It pretty much always means no
So don't tell me you might just let it go
And often times we're lazy
It seems to stand in my way
Cause no one no not no one
Likes to be let down
It seems to me that maybe
It pretty much always means no
So don't tell me you might just let it go
It may not always mean no, but most times--overwhelmingly so--it does mean disappointment. No one likes to be let down. Her ties and her unwillingngess to know herself--these let me down. Her knots--and her inability to realize her knottiness--are disappointing. You are not a memory. You are a an attempted-forgotten. See the difference? So, don't tell me to let it go. Don't tell me to let it go so we can be friends. Don't tell me to let it go so we can be nice. It's useless. You don't even have the capacity to know--to try to know--so what's the point? Disappointing; altogether disappointing. You are an attempted-forgotten disappointment flake--one melting into the landscape at the hands of the sunrise. When the sun gets high enough, you shall blend back into nothing--into a nothing of which I know nothing.
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
Episodes in the Smoke-Filled Coffee Shop: Your Stake was not Worth It
Yes, life is about stakes. The problem? Stakes are made to pierce--to open--to violently cross erected boundaries. We pound stakes into the ground in order to setup a temporary dwellings--to make homes, always temporary, in order to work, sleep, and rest.
Stakes open.
Stakes violate one border in order to make it possible for there to be a place--a temporary home. We make tents all day everyday.
Life is about this--this piercing, wounding, transgressing opening--crossing borders in order to erect the kinds of places--spaces--in which we want to dwell.
Yes, life is about stakes. Life is about deciding where and when to hammer--to break a boundary in order to try to make a home; to destroy a border in order to make a space; to try--through violence--to make something new, special, unique, different.
How could it not hurt when the stakes are divested--when the home collapses--the space evaporates--the trying is no more?
Of course it hurts. Piercing is one thing, but dealing with the trauma of a breached boundary--with the fact that someone's stake has crossed your border and then for one reason or another been taken out again--this hurts. This stings.
Life is about stakes. Most times, at least it seems for now, the borders we cross--the places we dig and let dig into us--are not worth it. Most times, they are overwhelmingly disappointing. The soil, the foundation, the consistency of the place you stake--the dull, indescribable pain of a stake being pulled from layer after layer of the space beneath your breached border--well, it hurts. It hurts because you are closing a wound. It hurts worse if the wound involves disappointment--not being rejected, but realizing the place you staked--the place you stuck yourself--was never worth it in the beginning.
Stakes open.
Stakes violate one border in order to make it possible for there to be a place--a temporary home. We make tents all day everyday.
Life is about this--this piercing, wounding, transgressing opening--crossing borders in order to erect the kinds of places--spaces--in which we want to dwell.
Yes, life is about stakes. Life is about deciding where and when to hammer--to break a boundary in order to try to make a home; to destroy a border in order to make a space; to try--through violence--to make something new, special, unique, different.
How could it not hurt when the stakes are divested--when the home collapses--the space evaporates--the trying is no more?
Of course it hurts. Piercing is one thing, but dealing with the trauma of a breached boundary--with the fact that someone's stake has crossed your border and then for one reason or another been taken out again--this hurts. This stings.
Life is about stakes. Most times, at least it seems for now, the borders we cross--the places we dig and let dig into us--are not worth it. Most times, they are overwhelmingly disappointing. The soil, the foundation, the consistency of the place you stake--the dull, indescribable pain of a stake being pulled from layer after layer of the space beneath your breached border--well, it hurts. It hurts because you are closing a wound. It hurts worse if the wound involves disappointment--not being rejected, but realizing the place you staked--the place you stuck yourself--was never worth it in the beginning.
Saturday, November 14, 2009
Episodes in the Smoke-Filled Coffee Shop: Words and their Stakes
Life is about stakes. What is at stake? There is always something at stake. Always. No matter how hard we try, everyone of us is always already committed--entrenched--circulating--within a world of significations, meanings, and networks. On top of that, we are always responsible for our stakes--our stake.
A man Heidegger taught me that. He was a Nazi.
Disappointment comes from staking in something that didn't want your stake, or wasn't worth it. Sometimes we are sad because the one--the thing--the something--doesn't want us. Other times, we are sad because what we thought was worth our stake is actually not worth our stake.
The Old Man was shaking his head and looking out the window. I don't know what was on his mind, but something was on his mind. His crossword puzzle was on his lap in front of him, but it was just a poor disguise for his pensive involvements.
I think stakes were the problem between myself and the semi-hippy woman. I don't know where her stakes were--or are. I don't think she thinks of that too consciously.
The Old Man got up to take a piss. He almost walked into the women's bathroom despite having been in the shop everyday for months.
Nothing changes when there is nothing at stake. For her, fucking held no stakes. It was fun. It was amazing. She loved it—I know she did. But, she wasn't looking for anything there—those encounters weren't a place where she expected to find something, discover something, hear something. Those times weren't a place she expected to dig deep at the limits of our possibilities—to fucking defy all our bodily limits in order to stretch into some other realm; to be taken elsewhere somehow.
I guess I can't blame her. I guess for most people fucking is fucking—some people love it, some people love it and are horrible at it, some people think it is nice once in a while, or a good way to feel close to someone, or nice way to show someone they love them. That all sounds great. That all sounds ordinary. It is ordinary—it accepts the fact that fucking is nothing more—nothing beyond—nothing extraordinary; like our bodies don't have secrets pent up in hidden, seemingly inaccessible places that can't be unlocked by words. It accepts that fucking is controlled by words just like every other aspect of life. We talk while we wait for the bus. We text each other at every goddamn minute of the day. We update our personal pages to tell everyone when we are eating dinner, changing clothes, and taking a shit. We talk during dinner. We talk at work.
Even those times we don't speak—when we listen—the words are in charge. Films talk to us. Music speaks to us.
Words. Words. Words. Words. Words.
The words are ubiquitous.
Words. Words. Words. Words. Words.
Always words.
Even silence is just a momentary ignoring of words—it doesn't cancel them, surpass them, or provide anythig more than the opposite (and thus the same) as the words. It is a band-aid, not an elixir.
We are born into words. We are born into a situation in which words have been developed into a languge that has labeled the vast network of things we encounter in the world—from trees to traffic signs to the moon—with a signficance. The network is already mapped out—we just jump into it—or are thrown into it. The world already exists, and each and every fucker here showed up without a choice in the matter. If we are to manuever the crossing, complex networks of the human world—well, we have to use the fucking words. Words are the lifeblood. Words are the only way you can think. You can't think without words—you don't have the means. Words are us. We are words. floating—moving--changing--being pushed and pulled perpetually by the flows of words—signifiers—meanings--apellations--nominations--accusations. You are not, apart from words.
I have always felt them following me. I have always loved words and hated them. I know life is meaningless. I know life is a random grouping molecules thrown into fucking deep fryer. I know life is a balmy, unforgiving trek through time's hell. And, the words are time's foreman—the SS Officer standing at the top of the tower watching over the camp.
I know that politics, or good deeds, or humanitarian acts are all useful. But, they are also all meaningless. Most of the time, I accept it. I don't want to sit around thinking about this bullshit. Do you? Nietzsche did and he ended up fucking a horse in the street and going mad (at least, that's what someone told me). That sounds terrible. I don't want to cut my ear off, or commit suicide, or even worse, start a revolution. No, I don't. I like people. I enjoy things at times. But I have no grand illusions. They all collapsed long ago in a heap of adolescence and optimism.
She just didn't get it. Fucking is a chance to escape the words--even for seconds, or a second. Fucking is one of the few realms where there is a chance that for a minute the words will disappear—the world will disappear—time will stop. There aren't many chances in this world to experience something—sometime--when your stream of consciousness is literally halted by a wave of overwhelming darts to your self. There are not many times when you literally cannot think because your body won't let you. There are not many times when the world—when the context of all of it—the bed, and the nightstand, and the house, and the sweat, the tits, the legs, ass, feet, toes, fingers, forearms, shoulders, quadriceps, hamstrings, eyebrows; when the breathing, the glancing, the uttering, the showing, the trying, the performing; the wondering, hating, worrying; when the time and the space disappear into an abyss of nothingness and you exist nowhwere. There are not many times you can be nowhere. It is like trying to forget something, it just doesn't work. There are not many times, you see, when you can be dead without dying.
I'm not a freak. I know there are times you fuck before bed, enjoy it, and then say goodnight. I know there are times you fool around a little on a Saturday morning and then go make breakfast. I don't want to spend my life at swinger parties or sex clubs. I'm just saying, there is more at stake in fucking than a hobby. Fucking is a more existential phenomenon than darts, gin rummy, knitting, flying kites, kayaking, or your local book club.
There is a chance to communicate with another—to communicate in a way that doesn't require words. There is a chance to strip down to nothing—to bodies—to sensations—to let the secret part of yourself—the part you are most embarrassed about because you don't know it—haven't dealt with it—be seen, touched, and explored. There is a chance to let the forbidden space that you don't know how to access be revealed to another person. There is a chance to explore the concealed depths of mortality. There is a chance to surpass the words in order to communicate in a way that is not normal.
And, yes, that is what I want. I want to communicate. Yes, I want to communicate so well that I do not exist, and you do not either. I want to communicate so well that there is an in-distinguish-ability that renders our normal way of being mute. I want to communicate so well that you and I are mute. That is my goal. That is what my desire hinges upon.
How to do that? Well, it seems not with the words. The words can't help us here. Words are for this world. Words denote the everyday. We need the words, but here, we need something different. The way I want to communicate won't work with the words.
Yes, I want to communicate apart from the words--with means--in channels--via pathways--and inacessible secrets--in places unseen and unmentioned--spaces surrounded by fear and taboo--rings of filth mixed with a pain that is pleasurable--where the cut of time has incised unforgettably, but not ineluctably--where I don't know, but you can find--where you won't go, but will let me explore--where there are no words . . . where there is a deep, insatiable reach for continuity--for union--for the ability to transform, tweak, and distort bodies and words and thoughts and feelings and perceptions and images. I want to disappear from the world into a place that does not exist. I want to leave the world for a non-place untouched by space and time.
Of course, of course--this requires risk. It requires vulnerability. And most of all, it requires obscenity.
If we are communicate ourselves into silence, there will have to be some discomfort and some risk. Stripping naked can be a bit tenuous. For some, it is no big deal; they want to speak the silent words we are speaking of here. I don't know if they know the secrets pent up in the criss-crossed channels that lead from their pores to the endless space that makes up the little room where the words come from in the first place. I know, I know. Not all nakedness is about this quest to find the silent words. I know that it is not always about communicating without speaking; I know we can't always render the words mute through a meeting--an encounter--that dispossesses us. But, shouldn't it be most of the time? Sometimes? Is it unreasonable to search for the sacred in the obscene? To find something--something extraordinary--in the terror and vulnerability of nakedness? Or have we given up on that idea, amidst the plethora of stretched, augmented, and displayed bodies in our space and cyberspace? Have we let that go in lieu of the commodified ease of voyerurism? Have we given up on obscenity--sacred obscenity--in order to feed ourselves a constant diet of spectacle, shine, technique, gossip, and mechanics?
Dancing is easier than this. Dancing is safer than nakedness. You can fuck and dance at the same time. You can fuck and dance with your clothes on and off. Yes, back to the dancing. There is always dancing in these instances--it is an easy way to try halfheartedly. Let's move. Let's shake. But, no, let's not dare strip naked--let's not dare show ourselves into the ugly, awful, nauseating, limitless soup of atoms that constitute the space behind the words--the place that is untouched--the place where separation gives way to the rupture of the nameless disquiet.
We are one flesh--for moments or seconds or hours or days--but, I know, I know . . . . . . . I am naive . . . endlessly naive . . . always stars--always separate--always discontinuous.
I know. You don't have to tell me. I know the quest--this one of communication, silence, and nakedness--is impossible--I know it leads nowhere but to a frustrating, fatal cliff--I know it ends in the world re-appearing--with us re-appearing in the palce where we are visible, temporal, and slaves to the words. But, it's worth a try. Sometimes at least. It's not even that she didn't want to try. She didn't have the capacity to understand any of this in order to try.
The Old Man returned from the bathroom with a small, but noticeable wetspot on his cotton, cream-colored old man shorts.
"What you lookin at?"
"Nothing, nothing at all. You okay?"
A man Heidegger taught me that. He was a Nazi.
Disappointment comes from staking in something that didn't want your stake, or wasn't worth it. Sometimes we are sad because the one--the thing--the something--doesn't want us. Other times, we are sad because what we thought was worth our stake is actually not worth our stake.
The Old Man was shaking his head and looking out the window. I don't know what was on his mind, but something was on his mind. His crossword puzzle was on his lap in front of him, but it was just a poor disguise for his pensive involvements.
I think stakes were the problem between myself and the semi-hippy woman. I don't know where her stakes were--or are. I don't think she thinks of that too consciously.
The Old Man got up to take a piss. He almost walked into the women's bathroom despite having been in the shop everyday for months.
Nothing changes when there is nothing at stake. For her, fucking held no stakes. It was fun. It was amazing. She loved it—I know she did. But, she wasn't looking for anything there—those encounters weren't a place where she expected to find something, discover something, hear something. Those times weren't a place she expected to dig deep at the limits of our possibilities—to fucking defy all our bodily limits in order to stretch into some other realm; to be taken elsewhere somehow.
I guess I can't blame her. I guess for most people fucking is fucking—some people love it, some people love it and are horrible at it, some people think it is nice once in a while, or a good way to feel close to someone, or nice way to show someone they love them. That all sounds great. That all sounds ordinary. It is ordinary—it accepts the fact that fucking is nothing more—nothing beyond—nothing extraordinary; like our bodies don't have secrets pent up in hidden, seemingly inaccessible places that can't be unlocked by words. It accepts that fucking is controlled by words just like every other aspect of life. We talk while we wait for the bus. We text each other at every goddamn minute of the day. We update our personal pages to tell everyone when we are eating dinner, changing clothes, and taking a shit. We talk during dinner. We talk at work.
Even those times we don't speak—when we listen—the words are in charge. Films talk to us. Music speaks to us.
Words. Words. Words. Words. Words.
The words are ubiquitous.
Words. Words. Words. Words. Words.
Always words.
Even silence is just a momentary ignoring of words—it doesn't cancel them, surpass them, or provide anythig more than the opposite (and thus the same) as the words. It is a band-aid, not an elixir.
We are born into words. We are born into a situation in which words have been developed into a languge that has labeled the vast network of things we encounter in the world—from trees to traffic signs to the moon—with a signficance. The network is already mapped out—we just jump into it—or are thrown into it. The world already exists, and each and every fucker here showed up without a choice in the matter. If we are to manuever the crossing, complex networks of the human world—well, we have to use the fucking words. Words are the lifeblood. Words are the only way you can think. You can't think without words—you don't have the means. Words are us. We are words. floating—moving--changing--being pushed and pulled perpetually by the flows of words—signifiers—meanings--apellations--nominations--accusations. You are not, apart from words.
I have always felt them following me. I have always loved words and hated them. I know life is meaningless. I know life is a random grouping molecules thrown into fucking deep fryer. I know life is a balmy, unforgiving trek through time's hell. And, the words are time's foreman—the SS Officer standing at the top of the tower watching over the camp.
I know that politics, or good deeds, or humanitarian acts are all useful. But, they are also all meaningless. Most of the time, I accept it. I don't want to sit around thinking about this bullshit. Do you? Nietzsche did and he ended up fucking a horse in the street and going mad (at least, that's what someone told me). That sounds terrible. I don't want to cut my ear off, or commit suicide, or even worse, start a revolution. No, I don't. I like people. I enjoy things at times. But I have no grand illusions. They all collapsed long ago in a heap of adolescence and optimism.
She just didn't get it. Fucking is a chance to escape the words--even for seconds, or a second. Fucking is one of the few realms where there is a chance that for a minute the words will disappear—the world will disappear—time will stop. There aren't many chances in this world to experience something—sometime--when your stream of consciousness is literally halted by a wave of overwhelming darts to your self. There are not many times when you literally cannot think because your body won't let you. There are not many times when the world—when the context of all of it—the bed, and the nightstand, and the house, and the sweat, the tits, the legs, ass, feet, toes, fingers, forearms, shoulders, quadriceps, hamstrings, eyebrows; when the breathing, the glancing, the uttering, the showing, the trying, the performing; the wondering, hating, worrying; when the time and the space disappear into an abyss of nothingness and you exist nowhwere. There are not many times you can be nowhere. It is like trying to forget something, it just doesn't work. There are not many times, you see, when you can be dead without dying.
I'm not a freak. I know there are times you fuck before bed, enjoy it, and then say goodnight. I know there are times you fool around a little on a Saturday morning and then go make breakfast. I don't want to spend my life at swinger parties or sex clubs. I'm just saying, there is more at stake in fucking than a hobby. Fucking is a more existential phenomenon than darts, gin rummy, knitting, flying kites, kayaking, or your local book club.
There is a chance to communicate with another—to communicate in a way that doesn't require words. There is a chance to strip down to nothing—to bodies—to sensations—to let the secret part of yourself—the part you are most embarrassed about because you don't know it—haven't dealt with it—be seen, touched, and explored. There is a chance to let the forbidden space that you don't know how to access be revealed to another person. There is a chance to explore the concealed depths of mortality. There is a chance to surpass the words in order to communicate in a way that is not normal.
And, yes, that is what I want. I want to communicate. Yes, I want to communicate so well that I do not exist, and you do not either. I want to communicate so well that there is an in-distinguish-ability that renders our normal way of being mute. I want to communicate so well that you and I are mute. That is my goal. That is what my desire hinges upon.
How to do that? Well, it seems not with the words. The words can't help us here. Words are for this world. Words denote the everyday. We need the words, but here, we need something different. The way I want to communicate won't work with the words.
Yes, I want to communicate apart from the words--with means--in channels--via pathways--and inacessible secrets--in places unseen and unmentioned--spaces surrounded by fear and taboo--rings of filth mixed with a pain that is pleasurable--where the cut of time has incised unforgettably, but not ineluctably--where I don't know, but you can find--where you won't go, but will let me explore--where there are no words . . . where there is a deep, insatiable reach for continuity--for union--for the ability to transform, tweak, and distort bodies and words and thoughts and feelings and perceptions and images. I want to disappear from the world into a place that does not exist. I want to leave the world for a non-place untouched by space and time.
Of course, of course--this requires risk. It requires vulnerability. And most of all, it requires obscenity.
If we are communicate ourselves into silence, there will have to be some discomfort and some risk. Stripping naked can be a bit tenuous. For some, it is no big deal; they want to speak the silent words we are speaking of here. I don't know if they know the secrets pent up in the criss-crossed channels that lead from their pores to the endless space that makes up the little room where the words come from in the first place. I know, I know. Not all nakedness is about this quest to find the silent words. I know that it is not always about communicating without speaking; I know we can't always render the words mute through a meeting--an encounter--that dispossesses us. But, shouldn't it be most of the time? Sometimes? Is it unreasonable to search for the sacred in the obscene? To find something--something extraordinary--in the terror and vulnerability of nakedness? Or have we given up on that idea, amidst the plethora of stretched, augmented, and displayed bodies in our space and cyberspace? Have we let that go in lieu of the commodified ease of voyerurism? Have we given up on obscenity--sacred obscenity--in order to feed ourselves a constant diet of spectacle, shine, technique, gossip, and mechanics?
Dancing is easier than this. Dancing is safer than nakedness. You can fuck and dance at the same time. You can fuck and dance with your clothes on and off. Yes, back to the dancing. There is always dancing in these instances--it is an easy way to try halfheartedly. Let's move. Let's shake. But, no, let's not dare strip naked--let's not dare show ourselves into the ugly, awful, nauseating, limitless soup of atoms that constitute the space behind the words--the place that is untouched--the place where separation gives way to the rupture of the nameless disquiet.
We are one flesh--for moments or seconds or hours or days--but, I know, I know . . . . . . . I am naive . . . endlessly naive . . . always stars--always separate--always discontinuous.
I know. You don't have to tell me. I know the quest--this one of communication, silence, and nakedness--is impossible--I know it leads nowhere but to a frustrating, fatal cliff--I know it ends in the world re-appearing--with us re-appearing in the palce where we are visible, temporal, and slaves to the words. But, it's worth a try. Sometimes at least. It's not even that she didn't want to try. She didn't have the capacity to understand any of this in order to try.
The Old Man returned from the bathroom with a small, but noticeable wetspot on his cotton, cream-colored old man shorts.
"What you lookin at?"
"Nothing, nothing at all. You okay?"
Evenings on the Porch with the Ohana
Smoke fills the cold air from the cigar in the left hand. As the port is sipped gently in a singular movement of the right hand to the mouth and then down the throat, distant thoughts are lured to the foreground--thoughts lodged somewhere between sub-consciousness, recognized consciousness and the chaos of existence.
The thoughts filter out through the comfortable breath of exhale as the left hand brings the cigar to the mouth resulting in a surplus of breath, mixing with the mystical smoke, which then evaporates into the darkness of night. Within seconds, the strange conglomerate of smoke and breath are gone--not only to never be seen again, but also never to exist in the unique combination of flow, movement and ease in which they were excreted. The seconds of their existence wisped away without meaning or signficance. No crowd is present on the porch, in the void of the night to see the hybrid of elements disappear into the air. No recording takes record of their existence. No one applauds. No one cares.
But, for a moment the awe and wonder of the weightless gas, the combination of thought, reflection, interaction, absurdity and meaninglessness which pervade the exhaled breath are suspended in mid-stream. Weightless, bodiless, and formless the suspended moment of exhale remains long enough for the eye to catch the mystery which they contain.
And, this is why we sit on porches, sipping port and smoking cigars. This is why we breath each day--breathe in the no's, the chaos, the hurt, the tears--because we have caught a glimpse before--a glimpse of the mystery within the evaporating exhale and it is just enough to keep us breathing in each moment. The moments which seem impossible--the marriage of breath and smoke hanging in front of nothing--contain the glimpses of creativity and wonder which somehow constitute the breath of life.
It's all in Genesis 1 . . .
The thoughts filter out through the comfortable breath of exhale as the left hand brings the cigar to the mouth resulting in a surplus of breath, mixing with the mystical smoke, which then evaporates into the darkness of night. Within seconds, the strange conglomerate of smoke and breath are gone--not only to never be seen again, but also never to exist in the unique combination of flow, movement and ease in which they were excreted. The seconds of their existence wisped away without meaning or signficance. No crowd is present on the porch, in the void of the night to see the hybrid of elements disappear into the air. No recording takes record of their existence. No one applauds. No one cares.
But, for a moment the awe and wonder of the weightless gas, the combination of thought, reflection, interaction, absurdity and meaninglessness which pervade the exhaled breath are suspended in mid-stream. Weightless, bodiless, and formless the suspended moment of exhale remains long enough for the eye to catch the mystery which they contain.
And, this is why we sit on porches, sipping port and smoking cigars. This is why we breath each day--breathe in the no's, the chaos, the hurt, the tears--because we have caught a glimpse before--a glimpse of the mystery within the evaporating exhale and it is just enough to keep us breathing in each moment. The moments which seem impossible--the marriage of breath and smoke hanging in front of nothing--contain the glimpses of creativity and wonder which somehow constitute the breath of life.
It's all in Genesis 1 . . .
Thursday, November 12, 2009
Episodes in the Smoke-Filled Coffee Shop
She said, "What is all this about the words?"
The semi-hippy woman wanted to know about my nonsense. She wanted to figure out my little misfiring brain and all its idiocracy.
"I don't know. The way I see it, the words are anger and chaos congealed. They are anger and chaos formed into a fabricated ball of incoherent coherence. The words are anger and chaos mortally immortalized--made immortal by a mortal who is already dead. They are a hopeless chance to live forever--to form a life that is immortal out of chaotic events and stinging anger. Writing is anger. Writing is fabricating chaos."
"Huh."
"Let's get another beer and listen to the music. This shit is depressing."
The semi-hippy woman wanted to know about my nonsense. She wanted to figure out my little misfiring brain and all its idiocracy.
"I don't know. The way I see it, the words are anger and chaos congealed. They are anger and chaos formed into a fabricated ball of incoherent coherence. The words are anger and chaos mortally immortalized--made immortal by a mortal who is already dead. They are a hopeless chance to live forever--to form a life that is immortal out of chaotic events and stinging anger. Writing is anger. Writing is fabricating chaos."
"Huh."
"Let's get another beer and listen to the music. This shit is depressing."
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
You and Me and Words (more words)
Was it you who spoke the words that things would happen but not to me
Oh things are gonna happen naturally
Oh taking your advice I'm looking on the bright side
And balancing the whole thing
But often times those words get tangled up in lines
And the bright lights turn to night
Until the dawn it brings
Another day to sing about the magic that was you and me
Things will happen. Things are happening. And, yes, naturally--they have to happen this way. What's natural about the situation? I don't know. I don't know. Looking on the bright side? Yes. I think so. At the moment, the bright side is that there are words--lots of them. The words spew forth, yes, naturally. It's like there is no creating involved anymore; it is a matter of emanation, not trying. They are there, always. Dawn? I don't think the words will bring the dawn--I think the words keep the hope of dawn alive. There is a difference, an important difference.
Cause you and I both loved
What you and I spoke of
And others just read of
Others only read of the love, the love that I love.
Yes, we loved--both of us. But, we didn't speak of it. We didn't speak of it and that's the reason that we can't read about it, just like everyone else. Others try to read the words--the natural ones--that flow from what we both loved--from the non-thing that gives rise to all these words. They try to read about it because the words try to describe it. If we had spoken about it, it woudln't exist. If we had spoken of it, others wouldn't have to try read about it; but more importantly, it wouldn't be ours--it would be something altogether different. It wouldn't be love--it would be something worldly; something wordy.
See I'm all about them words
Over numbers, unencumbered numbered words
Hundreds of pages, pages, pages forwards
More words then I had ever heard and I feel so alive
Yes, the words are unencumbered. They come without burden or restriction. In fact, the words are the burden. The words are the burden of every day, every second. The words plague me. I have to work to crack myself open--to puncture every hidden space to bring those words to light--to let them breathe--to make them earn their existence. The words are coming, and the words are the burden. Almost out? No. Not even close. The words seem endless. And, thus, so does the burden.
You and I, you and I
Not so little you and I anymore
And with this silence brings a moral story
More importantly evolving is the glory of a boy
The silence? Don't get it confused. There are words. There will always be words. The silence doesn't signify the absence of words. No, the silence signifies the inability--my inability--despite the endless burden--to speak of what we loved. In this way, the silence is the reason for the words. The words are the silence.
Cause you and I both loved
What you and I spoke of
And others just dream of
And if you could see me now
Well I'm almost finally out of
I'm finally out of
Finally deedeedeedee
Well I'm almost finally, finally
Well I'm free, oh, I'm free
Others dream of it, but I am not so sure I don't either. But, don't worry, make no mistake, I'm not free. The words are free. The words come with ease. But, if the words are free, I am the opposite. Freedom isn't a matter of power--freedom is a matter of having a space in which to describe the love--the non-thing--that can't be described. In that sense, I am free. In that sense, the burden is a free one.
And it's okay if you have go away
Oh just remember the telephone works both ways
And if I never ever hear them ring
If nothing else I'll think the bells inside
Have finally found you someone else and that's okay
Cause I'll remember everything you sang
I know, it has to happen naturally. I know. I know that the silence--even if it doesn't mean the absence of words--might mean the absence of ringing, and even singing. I know the bells will sound for you again--you know how to sing too well, to call too well, and to play all too well. But, that doesn't mean the words will stop. It doesn't mean a double silence. No, the words will always come--keep coming--gush forth onto the page. With those words--with every letter--comes the hope of inseminating the page--the hope that someday the page will give birth to what we sang of--what we loved. Couldn't it, just once? Couldn't the unspeakable come to fore on the page? The revelation of love reveal itself on pages, in time, and, yes, in words? It is why the words exist, isn't it? I know, I know, it is admittedly a hope against hope. But, like I have explained, even if the words are free, I am the opposite. The words have me--possess me--so they'll keep coming, into a dawn that is nowhere--no how--in sight. And, if we aren't willing to hope against hope--at least once in a while--occasionally--well, is life--the breathing that makes both the speakable words and the unspeakable love--worth it?
Oh things are gonna happen naturally
Oh taking your advice I'm looking on the bright side
And balancing the whole thing
But often times those words get tangled up in lines
And the bright lights turn to night
Until the dawn it brings
Another day to sing about the magic that was you and me
Things will happen. Things are happening. And, yes, naturally--they have to happen this way. What's natural about the situation? I don't know. I don't know. Looking on the bright side? Yes. I think so. At the moment, the bright side is that there are words--lots of them. The words spew forth, yes, naturally. It's like there is no creating involved anymore; it is a matter of emanation, not trying. They are there, always. Dawn? I don't think the words will bring the dawn--I think the words keep the hope of dawn alive. There is a difference, an important difference.
Cause you and I both loved
What you and I spoke of
And others just read of
Others only read of the love, the love that I love.
Yes, we loved--both of us. But, we didn't speak of it. We didn't speak of it and that's the reason that we can't read about it, just like everyone else. Others try to read the words--the natural ones--that flow from what we both loved--from the non-thing that gives rise to all these words. They try to read about it because the words try to describe it. If we had spoken about it, it woudln't exist. If we had spoken of it, others wouldn't have to try read about it; but more importantly, it wouldn't be ours--it would be something altogether different. It wouldn't be love--it would be something worldly; something wordy.
See I'm all about them words
Over numbers, unencumbered numbered words
Hundreds of pages, pages, pages forwards
More words then I had ever heard and I feel so alive
Yes, the words are unencumbered. They come without burden or restriction. In fact, the words are the burden. The words are the burden of every day, every second. The words plague me. I have to work to crack myself open--to puncture every hidden space to bring those words to light--to let them breathe--to make them earn their existence. The words are coming, and the words are the burden. Almost out? No. Not even close. The words seem endless. And, thus, so does the burden.
You and I, you and I
Not so little you and I anymore
And with this silence brings a moral story
More importantly evolving is the glory of a boy
The silence? Don't get it confused. There are words. There will always be words. The silence doesn't signify the absence of words. No, the silence signifies the inability--my inability--despite the endless burden--to speak of what we loved. In this way, the silence is the reason for the words. The words are the silence.
Cause you and I both loved
What you and I spoke of
And others just dream of
And if you could see me now
Well I'm almost finally out of
I'm finally out of
Finally deedeedeedee
Well I'm almost finally, finally
Well I'm free, oh, I'm free
Others dream of it, but I am not so sure I don't either. But, don't worry, make no mistake, I'm not free. The words are free. The words come with ease. But, if the words are free, I am the opposite. Freedom isn't a matter of power--freedom is a matter of having a space in which to describe the love--the non-thing--that can't be described. In that sense, I am free. In that sense, the burden is a free one.
And it's okay if you have go away
Oh just remember the telephone works both ways
And if I never ever hear them ring
If nothing else I'll think the bells inside
Have finally found you someone else and that's okay
Cause I'll remember everything you sang
I know, it has to happen naturally. I know. I know that the silence--even if it doesn't mean the absence of words--might mean the absence of ringing, and even singing. I know the bells will sound for you again--you know how to sing too well, to call too well, and to play all too well. But, that doesn't mean the words will stop. It doesn't mean a double silence. No, the words will always come--keep coming--gush forth onto the page. With those words--with every letter--comes the hope of inseminating the page--the hope that someday the page will give birth to what we sang of--what we loved. Couldn't it, just once? Couldn't the unspeakable come to fore on the page? The revelation of love reveal itself on pages, in time, and, yes, in words? It is why the words exist, isn't it? I know, I know, it is admittedly a hope against hope. But, like I have explained, even if the words are free, I am the opposite. The words have me--possess me--so they'll keep coming, into a dawn that is nowhere--no how--in sight. And, if we aren't willing to hope against hope--at least once in a while--occasionally--well, is life--the breathing that makes both the speakable words and the unspeakable love--worth it?
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