i still hold my lungs in high esteem
breath before the next act
loosen your tie
ok. i give up.
sardines are my preferred lunch
twice turned corners
notice the salutations
and hellos building goodbye castles
for the dukes and peasants
let’s make this work for everyone
i give up
eventually very much nowhere
find me in the wasteland
yea, april is the cruelest month
april is the cruelest month
i drink my wine in soft melodies
don’t tell me who i am
interestingly never in the position to remark
slurp the soft
you’re voice is strange,
can’t you whisper
the bending isn’t becoming
bangs for whimpers
lungs for ashes
cold tongues encased in brittle…
rose mouth, ice frothing lips
don’t kiss me, I’m a wanderer
struck with a thought
cradled a thought
found a thought
stumbled upon a thought.
encountered a thought.
inhabited a thought.
lost a thought.
fought a thought.
still fighting thoughts.
thought i thought.
gave a thought.
or gave a shit.
want to think?
got a thought?
— M. Foucault, preface to Anti-Oedipus (via raynoll)
“Incidentally, I use the word reader very loosely. Curiously enough, one cannot read a book: one can only reread it. A good reader, a major reader, an active and creative reader is a rereader. And I shall tell you why. When we read a book for the first time the very process of laboriously moving our eyes from left to right, line after line, page after page, this complicated physical work upon the book, the very process of learning in terms of space and time what the book is about, this stands between us and artistic appreciation. When we look at a painting we do not have to move our eyes in a special way even if, as in a book, the picture contains elements of depth and development. The element of time does not really enter in a first contact with a painting. In reading a book, we must have time to acquaint ourselves with it. We have no physical organ (as we have the eye in regard to a painting) that takes in the whole picture and then can enjoy its details. But at a second, or third, or fourth reading we do, in a sense, behave towards a book as we do towards a painting. However, let us not confuse the physical eye, that monstrous masterpiece of evolution, with the mind, an even more monstrous achievement. A book, no matter what it is—a work of fiction or a work of science (the boundary line between the two is not as clear as is generally believed)—a book of fiction appeals first of all to the mind. The mind, the brain, the top of the tingling spine, is, or should be, the only instrument used upon a book.”
you need to eat memories and digest them on a regular basis,
like kale and garlic and wine
i read a Brodsky poem earlier today,
(‘i sit by the window’)
so of course,
i moved my chair and pulled back the curtains:
“i said the forest’s only part of a tree,
who needs the whole girl if you’ve got her knee?”
and i remembered late last evening when i decided to sharpen a few knives,
slow swipes back and forth across japanese stone,
and my dreams largely consisted of this act - sharpening select blades
and cutting white paper suspended in mid-air.
small cuts of life make up Life,
or maybe Life is only a piece of small cuts,
and the forest’s only part of the tree…
the days when i witnessed myself as a conductor
and coordinated sweeping passages of my own life
with broomsticks and lullabies of monstrous childhood fears
i feared the day the sun would stop burning at the age of 6
and one can only imagine how petty my fears are now
growing inward, sadly,
preferring to spread out like moss which holds life beneath snow, ice and the driest winters.
i recently went to the snow for the first time in years. Our cars slid down the hill and missed the driveway on the first night. we rose the following morning to shovel ice and snow from the driveway, tossing massive chunks into the neighbor’s territory; we carried firewood on our shoulders and the tops of our heads; we teased darkness, gambled in the wretched outskirts of Nevada and smashed icicles from the edges of our cabin. I cannot recall the last time i laughed so tremendously, three days in a row, my stomach was sore; we tended to a roaring fire which has only now caught up to my soul and ignited some furious desire for life in all its naked intensity and melting.
*and here begins another attempt to write on a consistent basis in this goddamned blog*
it’s now a sharp and bitter san francisco night. listening to sally whitwell play philip glass, reading henry miller’s letters to anais nin, flipping pages in “sons and lovers” and finally, after a week away from my apartment….