When I awoke this morning, I came across strange things. As I glid silenty and slowly through that place in which I dwell, I became aware of certain things going on that would only happen if my presence was not suspected; indeed, the surity that I could not be present, and at all, was the foundation thereof. I stood stock still in my place, not intending to come across anything, and things were unaware of me. It was not any wanting to see, I didn't mean to be; as if when I had said goodnight
I come from a town famous for producing expatriates. Our walk of fame is like a collection of memorials for those who turned their back on the city, the state, the country; a kind of expression of acknowledging disappointment, and catalysm:
We are the place that drove them away (to greatness).
Oh yes, this planted the seed in me, as well. I am an American. What I mean by that is, really, that I was born here, and I am familiar with ways of thinking and behaving in particular parts of
An Explosion, in several parts
Fassung fassen! jabberwalk!
Part one is that I part from grief
part to partial partitur, I hate, I love
I wear away, I'm here and why
my own words crack my head asunder
shedding tears and sobs like stress.
DAMNED! and Damning!
Walled in now, with music and my headphone towers
no one reaches me who cannot, willnot, write.
Mimetic? Stuffed! I build with words
the world I ought to see and don't.
Part one is that I part from grief
17 March 2010
I did promise to tell everyone about Lady Gaga's Monster Ball, didn't I. And then time slid away from me like...a slimy thing.
I am reminded of it though because of the recent release of Gaga's music video "Telephone". I said in my last post I doubted it would take long before someone starts to write critical theorily of her work, and I was right. A graduate student here in the US was even interviewed by one of our larger national TV stations (ABC) because of her extremel
I already wrote about my vampire dream. I think I will make that into a story...in a short story collection involving the following things, nightmarish and funny.
They discovered the marble tomb of St. Paul the other day. Paulus's tomb had holes, so that in the middle ages, pilgrims could reach in and touch his skull or some other artifact. In the story, someone as part of a group goes to put his or her hand in the hole, and Paulus suddenly comes to and bites the person. It escalates to
I spend a lot of time thinking about fascism. I think about its impact as well as its legacy. I think about the line between minor despotism and fascist thinking. I can never decide where it lies but I rail against any attempt to conform for no reason. For example: I was at a party at which there was much food. I picked the items I thought I might enjoy. I sat down to enjoy them. I was suddenly descended upon by incredulous colleagues who had apparently just been upbraided by some authent
It isn't possible to love and to part. You will wish that it was.
And I hate it when she puts that lipstick on. Like a mortician painted on her face, a cold and lonely lovely work of art, a death role hanging in exhibition. She doesn't belong to me, those lips make her, acceptable and more gorgeous. That lipstick strips her to a photograph that does not recognize me and I can't touch her anymore. I wish that I could part from her but I fall before her, begging her to return, dying away
I perceive that I belong to those who believe that what differentiates the human from, say, my cat, is that humans strive to overcome instinct. A vague definition of what I perceive as reason, the attempt to combat instinct, in favor of rational behavior, which overcomes the instinct when it calls itself into question. As soon as the question mark is thought, instinct has been impeded. But it never is completely--man is an animal first, and a tribal one at that. Behaviors exhibited at partie
I would rather suffer quietly and internally than stake my rights on another night of finger-pointing. What happens when one reaches that feeling--or even absence of it--when it doesn't matter anymore who said what and when, when it doesn't matter where anything began, you'll take anything, give anything just to have the tension go away. A part of me ceased to be, a little part that insisted on rights, among them the right to express oneself. It was a strangely compacted paradoxical part of m
I am wary of nostalgia. I am I am I am.
Nonetheless. Sometimes you have these moments, and something from the now sutures itself in a flash to a then. And again like the Werdegang time both stops and stretches out and moves, it seems you are endlessly a child before yourself while the scene that is not you unfolds before you in slow motion and it seems like all nights last forever.
The floodlights from the house sent a layer of light out across the back yard. It was like light parti
Where is there a more insistent form than rhythm? O we strive to keep with it, weave our dance steps into it or around it, but nonetheless in concert with it, we have people with batons who mark it for us and who yell themselves red in the face if the rhythm is in any way disregarded or not observed; we have both fascinatingly manual and electronic machines that keep it for us, since we cannot count upon ourselves to keep rhythm properly. Man is an inexact creature. We strive within reason to
Angrily I returned from the library, driven relentlessly by my compulsion to feel music. Earphones pressed close to my head if only I could get the music inside my heartbeat rather than the other way round. I know why string instruments are closest to the human voice, I can feel it as I hum along with the cello, the way my vocal chordes work just like a bow across strings. I need to be closer.
Wolfi I think you really are going mad...
Remember, George, remember when I was in the orc
I wished so hard upon a star
for months I wished and wished and wished
I lay awake the night's long line
for fear that it would come to nicht.
my soul strech'd out twixt ev'ry star
I saw for nights around around
and wished my soul on ev'ry one
and cried out loud, but without sound.
The stars must hear! the planets, too!
align themselves from me for you
where is justice, where is right?
I cried out into that dark night
Came the message with the sun
War is over,
For me it is late and I am very active...almost euphorically active.
Yet slowly I am becoming aware of a feeling of uneasiness, as if something is coming...these periods of euphoria are almost always followed by a severe blow. Sometimes it is an earthquake...sometimes something else.
I hope I am wrong.
(A silly face to take the edge off.)
A recent article, or several I suppose, have addressed the topic of a link between left-handedness and what is persistently referred to as 'mental illnesses', although scientists are hard-pressed to give much conclusive proof of such a link. Just, it seems left-handed people tend also to be different health-wise, especially where paranoia and dyslexia, and I am sure we'll hear other things as well, are concerned.
And...well I can't help noticing that almost inevitably these articles begin wit
Finding joy in the little things! At times I am good at it, but in my Costanza-like way I hang on a universe of begetting, with every peep of the joyful there will come the slight of the bad. One does well not to get caught up in the euphoria, distracted from the lurking demons ready to take you down a notch in every corner of life. I forgot that little mantra last week, and, euphoric over the joy of others surrounding me, I was utterly dumbstruck by the comeupance of rejection. A small step
Parallel events: a scream rushes from my brain towards my lips, in my dream I plummet toward a ground I can't see. Just as I hit the ground full force, the scream bursts from my mouth, and again I sit bolt upright, breathless. For one moment I am blissfully unaware, and perplexed as to where I am. In hindsight that moment, the whole succession of events moves slower than a snail, though it was certainly no more than two blinks of an eye. The moment ends too quickly and it all floods over the
I've just returned from seeing "The Golden Compass." I feel the desire to write a review. Not an in-depth one, as I've seen it but once and I've not read the books, but it raised some questions and thoughts in me.
Or rather, it raised nothing but questions, in such a way that I found myself unable to come to any final decision on anything. And I am no longer certain whether that is good or bad. Is this the future of film narrative? That's what it all comes down to.
Granted, I am aware, vague
Lost in a room is nothing new
and sometimes pleasanter than others
and watch the young people dancing
watch the young people smiling
watch the young people leave the room
smiling, dancing, making sense
No, not one of them, not me
there they go and I am not
one of them
or two of them
I am happy for all the others
all the others
all the others
I wish them everything I can't
have and sometimes a tear fills my well
being but happy they have
a moment of p
Whenever I am writing something academic, I fall into a kind of bubble. The rest of the world has to be shut out, I cannot be distracted by anything outside of my most selfish needs... writing is not just about writing, it is about watching other people create, listening to other people create and talk about creating; it is about ordering pizza and eating it distractedly all day, breakfast at noon, dinner at midnight, but eating all day, anyway; it is about 8-10 cups of coffee and no alcohol; it
I know that many of you here have pets that are very important to you, and I know some of you have also lost important pet friends in recent years. I am grieving the loss of my cat Casha, who I had put to sleep two days ago. He was the most important everything in my life for the twelve years we had each other. He chose me at the adoption center when he was 6 weeks old. We have been nearly inseparable ever since. Even now, I think, in some way, we are not entirely apart. Part of me died when he
I used to dream a lot about living in a communal house, often it was made of glass or had a lot of windows. I haven't had a dream like that in a number of years. This morning I was deeply asleep, I must have been, not only because the dream was so vivid, but because I woke up flat on my back with my arms weirdly crossed over my chest, on the sofa. I haven't been able to sleep in my bed since Casha died.
I was in a giant old house filled with things, knick knacks, miscellany, everything, includ