Interesting Times

by practicalspactical

Swine Flu and the Great Recession. Suddenly history is relevant, with talks of 1919 and 1929 and 1939 on the horizon? The War is over, and we got the best President ever – we got hope and maybe change — Jerry Garcia is playing on my Xbox. I’m standing on my head in the 21st Century, learning the Law of Evidence (“I’ve got an objection –“). Sitting on a couch. Sitting in a room. Smooth like a rhapsody. My several masterpiece. The mediation of communication. Sentences without verbs. The verb is implied — the ontalogical verb, the predicate noun, the substance dancing, the music of the strings. Nothing is lost. Everything old is new again. Yeats. Sailing to Byzantium. Gilded birdsong, delighting endless lines of Emperors, lost names of Bzyantium, stretching through the halls of memories.

Why do I fear graveyards but love bookstores? Why do I shun disease but love history? Am I looking for the part that remains? The internet, strange tool, new medium (new message), good news? slouching bethlehem, do the best lack conviction, are the worst the most passionate, can I jump up and down on the limbs of great trees flying up to heaven and then back down to human arms?

What a world, what a beautiful world, Shakespeare Watcher at the center of it all, he’s dead too, wrote it best, about the King and the Bunghole, Beevis and Butthead when I was young, South Park its dark reflection, everything reflected, the same old in and out, from a greater perspective our lives are all identical, I believe that the topology of existence is similar, I believe that what it feels like to be me is what it feels like to be you, or a bat for that matter, I believe that our qualia are close.

Cannot be proven. Why be good? Why do anything? Why not curl up into a corner, and watch the glass melt back into sand? Mouse run through the kitchen. My blood clutches to little molecules of oxygen, thirsty, jealous — an electric guitar — a digital representation of Apollo’s lute doubled back over and over again — we did not invent music, we discovered it — we did not invent law, we discovered it — we must love one another and/or die. Auden said that. Changed it to reflect deep sadness. MP3s — as much music as you want, but — quality is not quite the same. I live on an island, in the 21st century. Down at the bottom of this island, they are filling in a hole. Trying and failing to repair what was lost.

“What do I have in my pocket?” My mind is an archeolgical dig. Tel-Gezer. The Lost City of Troy. Does Helen stand on the walls? Do all these losses stir in me an unspeakable wrath, a rage to move Myrmidons, the deep secret desire to have my name known and repeated even after I return to dirt. Filth of the world clinging to me, clinging to us. I clean the walls of this apartment. Is is godly. It is godly. There are things we can do. Things we can do to change. We can clean. We can hold ourselves together. Oh, I am a river, overflowing my banks. I am a river, overflowing my banks. Bob Dylan you singer, you Shakespeare, what wonderful stories you told, what a wonderful way with words, sweet assonance there —

One day on my walking through this island of Manhattan, I will find a door leading into a basement, and when I open the door, I will be blinded by deep impenentrable light, and behind the light there will be a garden stretching to infinity and I will walk through the door and –

A certain madness — call it mermaids. Mermaids of the Hudson. The deep waters press close here. Close here. Close here. Close here. Here. There. The Sun sets, behind the palisades of New Jersey. The Statue of Liberty is still green. I am and I am not the center of the universe. My eyes look out on the world — but from where do they look? I twist in the twilight evening, and my song of is like a wind-chime, betraying both my location and the nature of the wind.