give me your head
rest it on me tonight
and i will stroke you
ruffle your dress
under your armour
on this night
here and now
in this city
between shores
allong every way
and sinuews of your skin
wherever i am welcome
after i am rejected
as soon as i forgive
everytime you don't ask
i'll touch you
wherever
whenever
you like
Monday, September 29, 2008
Wednesday, September 24, 2008
Et encore, henry miller on a becoming of creativity - from Sexus
The world would only begin to get something of value from me the moment i stopped being a serious member of society and became - myself. The State, the nations, the united nations of the world, were nothing but one great aggregation of individuals who repeated the mistakes of their forefathers. They were caught in the wheel from birth and they kept at it till death -- and this treadmill they tried to dignify by calling it "life". If you asked anyone to define life, what was the be all and end all, you got a blank look for answer. Life was something philosophers dealt with in books that no one read. Those in the thick of life, "the plugs in harness", had no time for such idle questions. "You got to eat, haven't you?" This query, which was supposed to be a stop-gap, and which had already been answered, if not in the absolute negative at least in a disturbingly realtive negative by those who knew, was a clue to all the other questions which followed in the veritable Euclidian suite. From the little reading i had done i had observed that men who were most in life, who were moulding life, who were life itself, ate little, slept little, owned little or nothing. They had no illusions about duty, or the perpetuation of their kith and kin, or the preservation of the State. They were interested in truth and in truth alone. They recognised only one kind of activity - creation. Nobody could command their services because they had of their own pledged themeselves to give all. They gave gratuitously, because that is the only way to give. This was the way of life which appealed to me: it made sound sense. It was life -- not the simulacrum which those about me worshipped.
[...]
"I stood before a mirror and said fearfully: 'I want to see how I look in the mirror with my eyes closed'" (Richter)
[...]
There is a time when ideas tyrannize over one, when one is just a hapless victim of an other's thoughts. This "possession" by another seems to occur in periods of depersonalisation, then the warring selves come unglued, as it were. Normally one is impervious to ideas; they come and go, are accepted or rejected, put on like shirts, taken off like dirty socks. But in those periods one calls crises, when the mind sunders and splinters like a diamond under the blows of a sledge-hammer, these innocent ideas of a dreamer take hold, lodge in the crevices of the brain, and by some sublte process of inflitration bring about a definite, irrevocable alteration of the personality. Outwardly no great change take place; the individual affected does not suddenly behave differently; on the contrary, he may behave in more "normal" fashion than before. This seeming normality assumes more and more the quality of a protective device. From surface deception he passes to inner deception. With each new crisis, however, he becomes more strongly aware of a change which is no change, but rather an intensification of somthing hidden deep within. Now when he closes his eyes, he can really look at himself. He no longer sees a mask. He sees without seeing, to be exact. Vision without sight, a fluid grasp of intangibles: the merging of sight and sound: the heart of the web. Here stream the distant personalities which evade the crude contact of the senses: here the overtones of recognition discreetly lap against one another in bright, vibrant harmonies. There is no language employed, no outlines delineated.
The world would only begin to get something of value from me the moment i stopped being a serious member of society and became - myself. The State, the nations, the united nations of the world, were nothing but one great aggregation of individuals who repeated the mistakes of their forefathers. They were caught in the wheel from birth and they kept at it till death -- and this treadmill they tried to dignify by calling it "life". If you asked anyone to define life, what was the be all and end all, you got a blank look for answer. Life was something philosophers dealt with in books that no one read. Those in the thick of life, "the plugs in harness", had no time for such idle questions. "You got to eat, haven't you?" This query, which was supposed to be a stop-gap, and which had already been answered, if not in the absolute negative at least in a disturbingly realtive negative by those who knew, was a clue to all the other questions which followed in the veritable Euclidian suite. From the little reading i had done i had observed that men who were most in life, who were moulding life, who were life itself, ate little, slept little, owned little or nothing. They had no illusions about duty, or the perpetuation of their kith and kin, or the preservation of the State. They were interested in truth and in truth alone. They recognised only one kind of activity - creation. Nobody could command their services because they had of their own pledged themeselves to give all. They gave gratuitously, because that is the only way to give. This was the way of life which appealed to me: it made sound sense. It was life -- not the simulacrum which those about me worshipped.
[...]
"I stood before a mirror and said fearfully: 'I want to see how I look in the mirror with my eyes closed'" (Richter)
[...]
There is a time when ideas tyrannize over one, when one is just a hapless victim of an other's thoughts. This "possession" by another seems to occur in periods of depersonalisation, then the warring selves come unglued, as it were. Normally one is impervious to ideas; they come and go, are accepted or rejected, put on like shirts, taken off like dirty socks. But in those periods one calls crises, when the mind sunders and splinters like a diamond under the blows of a sledge-hammer, these innocent ideas of a dreamer take hold, lodge in the crevices of the brain, and by some sublte process of inflitration bring about a definite, irrevocable alteration of the personality. Outwardly no great change take place; the individual affected does not suddenly behave differently; on the contrary, he may behave in more "normal" fashion than before. This seeming normality assumes more and more the quality of a protective device. From surface deception he passes to inner deception. With each new crisis, however, he becomes more strongly aware of a change which is no change, but rather an intensification of somthing hidden deep within. Now when he closes his eyes, he can really look at himself. He no longer sees a mask. He sees without seeing, to be exact. Vision without sight, a fluid grasp of intangibles: the merging of sight and sound: the heart of the web. Here stream the distant personalities which evade the crude contact of the senses: here the overtones of recognition discreetly lap against one another in bright, vibrant harmonies. There is no language employed, no outlines delineated.
Sunday, September 21, 2008
and across the plateau
There are very many things that don't matter
one such thing
is hanging your laundry out just before it rains
at three in the morning
when you hear it fall
just as you settle into bed
after a day unlike others
there's really nothing that can wake you
but the thought of telling the story
of how you learned this and that, once more as if it were the first time
for a seasoned body
to meet an all too seasoned piece of meat
on the slab of fortune
at dusk of paltry movements
from here to there
to a night over which i slept
more sound than i could have thought
marred in breathless volume
as loud as retaliating gunfire
one such thing
is hanging your laundry out just before it rains
at three in the morning
when you hear it fall
just as you settle into bed
after a day unlike others
there's really nothing that can wake you
but the thought of telling the story
of how you learned this and that, once more as if it were the first time
for a seasoned body
to meet an all too seasoned piece of meat
on the slab of fortune
at dusk of paltry movements
from here to there
to a night over which i slept
more sound than i could have thought
marred in breathless volume
as loud as retaliating gunfire
Friday, September 19, 2008
annie from hamilton
In a jazz club i wish i were
some time
a long time ago
just so long as i would know
annie
difranco?
no, just you, annie from hamilton
who plays piano
jazz, i know
how could i not
you've turned my heart in knots
just two minutes as you stood not two steps from me
tonight on a street i grew up on, between esplanade and waverly
In a jazz club i wish i were
some time
a long time ago
just so long as i would know
annie
difranco?
no, just you, annie from hamilton
who plays piano
jazz, i know
how could i not
you've turned my heart in knots
just two minutes as you stood not two steps from me
tonight on a street i grew up on, between esplanade and waverly
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
Recognising words when you know about one hundred is a pleasure indescribable when you are a child. Recognising such words when you are grown-up, being less sure than ever about what words mean, is positively anxiety-inducing. Some of us i'm sure free ourselves from such an underdeveloped issue by reforming our entire verbal communicative system around six or seven solid newly created words and their myriad configurations, which we were unaware of in our youth. Now the only time we feel embarrassed is when other, current, youth find our own new vocabulary as fun as a cat's tongue. Bahahhahaaa.
In any case, passons le passe poile a beau grand papa sur nanamouskourire.
As for the rest of us, i'm not sure. But it seems to me that we do things, by holding on some way or other to our original vocabulary, that move people by way of little communities of microbes holding hands across the body somewhere at the core of their bone marrow not quite as visible as before (proportionally, owing to our being bier in size).
In any case, passons le passe poile a beau grand papa sur nanamouskourire.
As for the rest of us, i'm not sure. But it seems to me that we do things, by holding on some way or other to our original vocabulary, that move people by way of little communities of microbes holding hands across the body somewhere at the core of their bone marrow not quite as visible as before (proportionally, owing to our being bier in size).
Sunday, September 14, 2008
barf
I should have gone to bed a very very very long time ago
my being up is not even worth this mediocre blaeugh
the molasses of tobacco prevents me from slumber
it even suppresses the instinct of regurgitation
of all the things that could have gone wrong
but didn't
from lack of attempt
ignited blindness
forgotten desire
spent aphorisms
from lack of words to say disiac
bleurgh
barf
aack
tack me on a wall
i am thin
I should have gone to bed a very very very long time ago
my being up is not even worth this mediocre blaeugh
the molasses of tobacco prevents me from slumber
it even suppresses the instinct of regurgitation
of all the things that could have gone wrong
but didn't
from lack of attempt
ignited blindness
forgotten desire
spent aphorisms
from lack of words to say disiac
bleurgh
barf
aack
tack me on a wall
i am thin
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)