The influence of gaslight or electric light on the growth of paraheliotropic trees

bonebrushing the edges of the res interna (upper transcend)

Month: October, 2008

My father

My father lost his job today. That’s real. No bullshit, no purple prose, no literary circumlocutions. In 2008, October 30, my father lost his job. Just bought a new house too.

You think I have problems? Or I think I have problems?

He’s fifty-one. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Was it his fault? Is he not a team player? Or decided to ‘rent’ instead of ‘buy’ when it came to his career? No one is as good as my father — but being good — maybe that doesn’t matter — execution is for low-level plebes, no, if you want to get ahead in this world you got to be a greaser, greasing every squeaky wheel you can find.

Killed two mice today. Maybe kill another two tomorrow.

This is the end. This is the end my friend. The end. 3:23 AM in the morning, da da dada dada da dadadada. That’s the Smurf theme song; Lollapalooza. Crazy Halloween party tomorrow on the roof. I won’t be there. Visiting my girlfriend.

Once, I never thought I’d have a girlfriend. Back then I was full of endless longing, endless yearning, I was all potential, no actuality; now — I don’t even know what I want anymore.

I realize this post, this diary entry into nothingness, with no audience, no love, falls on empty ears, is more pessimistic, and without that rosy bluesy romantic fog that usually makes sadness so lovely; I guess cause this ain’t sadness, this is something else, anger and disappointment. The big 100 law firms of America, now being crucified, didn’t want me, had no desire for me, maybe it was something I said, and now I have to scrape and beg to be their lapdog, their hound, I don’t want that, fuck that, I’m 26, it wasn’t supposed to be like this, fuck you, world, I’m not paying back my student loans — take that and suck it, assholes — $50,000 a year tuition to be a fucking bottomfeeder leech. I don’t want it anymore. If it were all the same, I’d go back to Elsewhere, and smoke weed every evening and certain afternoons.

The Rastafari don’t like it being called a weed. To them it’s a sacrament. If I ever get a moment, remind me to tell you about Jamaica, and how the Market Orthodox at the I.M.Fucking.F. fucked that one up from here to China. When exactly was it that Americans sold their democracy for a couple of magic beans at the market? 1968, when they thought better of their decision 8 years earlier and decided to go with the Dickie Nixon’s shifty smile? Or twelve years later when history decided to repeat itself as farce on the strong shoulders of Ron Reagan?

These fucking Republicans.

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Fusiform Face Area

The Fusiform face area (FFA) is a part of the human visual system which might be specialized for facial recognition, although there is some evidence that it also processes categorical information about other objects. What is the evolutionary significance of this cerebral specialization? How many faces were seen and not recognized? How many faces seen, the extra seconds of recognition providing some adaptive advantage, attributed by the monkey to some aboriginal concept of luck? Pump primed by ten thousand father-corpses, bodies now mulcher, good strong humus dirt.

Mannahatta – Walt Whitman

I was asking for something specific and perfect for my city,
Whereupon lo! upsprang the aboriginal name.

Now I see what there is in a name, a word, liquid, sane,
 unruly, musical, self-sufficient,
I see that the word of my city is that word from of old,
Because I see that word nested in nests of water-bays,
 superb,
Rich, hemm’d thick all around with sailships and
 steamships, an island sixteen miles long, solid-founded,
Numberless crowded streets, high growths of iron, slender,
 strong, light, splendidly uprising torward clear skies,
Tides swift and ample, well-loved by me, toward sundown,
The flowing sea-currents, the little islands, larger adjoining
 islands, the heights, the villas,
The countless masts, the white shore-steamers, the lighters,
 the ferry-boats, the black sea-steamers well-model’d,
The down-town streets, the jobbers’ houses of business, the
 houses of business of the ship-merchants and money-
 brokers, the river-streets,
The summer air, the bright sun shining, and the sailing
 clouds aloft,
The winter snows, the sleigh-bells, the broken ice in the
 river, passing along up or down with the flood-tide or
 ebb-tide,
The mechanics of the city, the masters, well-form’d,
 beautiful-faced, looking you straight in the eyes,
Trottoirs throng’d, vehicles, Broadway, the women, the
 shops and shows,
A million people–manners free and superb–open voices–
 hospitality–the most courageous and friendly young
 men,
City of hurried and sparkling waters! city of spires and masts!
City nested in bays! my city!

Words gone to seed

My sentences have grown long and unwieldy, strange, with long hairs and whiskers sprouting out at odd angles, equivalent to the dreadlocked beards that hippies favor.

No more cute summations.

Pungent aphorisms.

The one paragraph sentence that says it all.

Instead I ramble, overflow my banks, I am a flooded city, trees and houses poking up above the murky water, the government is gone, absent, incompetent, and I go on, alluvial subconcious pulling up words I once knew to fill & block the white space.

What will be done? How will I ever write a novel like this, let alone a law brief? X sues Y, but why do I care? Is it the liquid work-time they’ll deposit ones and zeroes like into my PNC checking account? Yes that’s it, sure, it transforms into chicken nuggets and movie tickets and ballroom dancing at the Rainbow Room, sure, or another day in this Rotten Apple, Meretricious, vocab word from fifth grade, pulled out of Gatsby, remembered still as a word I didn’t know. Meretetricious beauty, everybody struggling for the same thing, the old nest, the roundabout, laymedown, the big nothing, sad nothing, this is how it goes, how the water goes, perfect madness, endless sadness, comma-d phrases, lists by Whitman, I sing, I sing, leaves, pages, my backpages, and the attics of my life — I am a fan (Dan’s fans, here me blow) of the Grateful Dead rockband — I was not always, not as a child, but I am now — but once, oneday, I reflected, with my friend, Don Thaddeo, about how our endless joy of listening was inexorably and firmly linked to the deep abyssmal sadness and tragedy of Jerry Garcia’s life — how many of his years were blown-away, gone, to the needle — the needle, the hard needle, took him, took others — but it took him, took him seriously, and the endless pleasure — God’s pleasure, no doubt — how did it compare? with the days not lived, both while he lived and after he died? Not that old, no, he could still be living, and yet is not. The Grateful Dead — Man’s Tragedy.

We must make choices wearing blindfolds.

We must walk out into rainstorms without raincoats. We must

Shema

Shema Yisrael Adonai Elohenu Adonai Echad. Baruch Shem Kavod Malchuto Leolam Vaed. God say goodnight to Zedah, and Little Bubbie, and Grandpa Dowdell, and Little Nana, and Grandpa Bum, and Uncle Michael, and Artie, and Buckie, and Rhoda, and the others.

Genesis

Wind on the waters. Not darkness but light, unknown, unseen. A whisper, ohm, and then a storm. That is all — that is everything — that is how we come to be, how I come to be, writing these words, really, truly, ground between the two wheeled gears of World and Time, relishing in the Holy Moment at this Late Hour, 4:27 in the morning, October 28, 2008.

Let there be light; so speaketh the words of an ancient book, laid down like I lay this down. Once, during the Days of Awe, the High HolyDays, I was a child, and I sat in my old house, now sold, on my old couch, given away, reading the linear Pentateuch, when my uncle, now dead (I myself laid him in the ground, wailing and wailing of women, crying in my father’s arms, crying in my aunt’s arms at the apartment after the funeral, no words, no nothing, just the pure and terrrible emotion of heartbreaking pain and the feeling of human arms around me, holding me up), reading about the Genesis. Those days are gone — past out of the Holy Moment, replaced by other days replaced by other days that have led me to this day, this day which is my chance, my one true chance, to reach both out and in and in gathering the legions of my will so touch those same waters of time and beginnings that once rippled with the whispers of a universe being born. I need no whitehaired Zeus-God to tell me the truth before my eyes — the truth that perpetually slips beyond our grasp, pushed out by televisions and lcd screens that exalt the eyeball and wither the hand — reach out then, soldier, child of the lord, reach out, self, lyric odes to action, sitting here, thinking and writing and forming words in the cockhours before dawn, opposite of sleep, opposite of action, student, studious, unused, waiting, waaiting, how much will I lose, how long will I wait, what else, and when else, and why, and there are other friends, and other roads, and first, perhaps, make friends with myself, and find myself in this new city, and do things, and love, and go forth, traveling, on the road, all is not lost, where there’s a word there’s a way, ten vowel phonemes, and graphemes, and syllabic exercises, and weaktongued lovemaking, and alabaster arms, freckled, wrapped around me, smiling, giggling, presenting a poem or joke, my peacock tale, my plumage, dancing now, we’re dancing now, words fall away, it is late, it is early, I am lullabying myself to sleep, to places where I’ll dream, and make actions with the pure factors of my thought, I’ll dream of life, and not death, faces of my uncle and my grandfather who have gone before, my old great grandmother, the love of all who have e’er loved me, all the girls I ever loved, all the friends I ever had, and above them, Saints Paramount, the Special Few, dancing, loving, twirling around, skirts fluttering, hands in gloves and ears in muffs and scarves wound tightly around pale white necks, red cheeks, and breath made visible, crossing the inches of air lit up with the light of holy fires, captured at high price, a bird is pecking, so we go, up, and up, and up, and out, and up, and on, and on, Sisyphus is happy, maybe, maybe still, and I am happy, with him, in the depths of madness and at the height of love and being loved, I will find my place, I will find my calling, my great work, I will sleep, I will dream, I will sleep, I will dream.

Thích Quảng Đức

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Th%C3%ADch_Qu%E1%BA%A3ng_%C4%90%E1%BB%A9c

The Clock of the Long Now

http://www.longnow.org/projects/clock/

To the Harbormaster – Frank O’Hara

I wanted to be sure to reach you;
though my ship was on the way it got caught
in some moorings. I am always tying up
and then deciding to depart. In storms and
at sunset, with the metallic coils of the tide
around my fathomless arms, I am unable
to understand the forms of my vanity
or I am hard alee with my Polish rudder
in my hand and the sun sinking. To
you I offer my hull and the tattered cordage
of my will. The terrible channels where
the wind drives me against the brown lips
of the reeds are not all behind me. Yet
I trust the sanity of my vessel; and
if it sinks, it may well be in answer
to the reasoning of the eternal voices,
the waves which have kept me from reaching you.

Laughing Baby

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Laughing_Baby