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

bonebrushing the edges of the res interna (upper transcend)

Month: February, 2011

Books I want to Write

1. Ecological Biohistorical Green Dream Johnny Appleseed — referencing a) historical biography, memory, and legend making; b) conservation, ecology, frontiers; c) religious faith vs. reason; d) sexual normativity & deviance; e) youth, aging, and old age and non-linear storytelling in midst of linear lives; f) the city vs. the country; g)Ā futurism & retroism, temporal fetishism, Whitmanesque ‘now us, later them’;

2. Holocaust Love Story: Jews, love, the 20th Century, the Holocaust, the Worst of Humanity vs. the Best of Humanity; the choices we make, choices to die; the idea of the Best of All Possible Worlds; the problem of alternate worlds & decision making; morality;

3. TrueLife Ultramodern Roman A Clef – portrait of the Artist as a young man, but instead Ensemble, a great and wonderful ensemble novel that takes as its focus point, rosebud, omphalos and unifying idea the strange idea of time passing, and not being able to distinguish now from then in narrative and stories and love, and trying somehow to reverse or escape the cruel Arrow of Time.


now (the perfect fit, by the Dresden Dolls)

Now. Now we are. Now we’re here. And funny stories. That keep coming. Porn on my computer. The Perfect Fit, by Dresden Girls, and a new girl, old girl, old friend, and shopping, endless shopping, series of screens, flashing before my eyes, the quickness flutter paints the illusion of motion — I use to be the bright one, smart as a whip, the song sings — I use to be the tight one — the perfect fit — something else – to be, someone else — wasps listening softly the changing world around them — the Wikipedia Review, the Annotated Dance, the words, the wrongs, the little experiments, the secret plans, a woman, a man, a tree, sun-clad, light-clad, smiles, and giggles, and —

Time. Time. Time.

How does it keep happening? The illusion of motion.

Meon. Non-being. The lacuna. What we owe the unknowable other. We only take it on faith. And we are always other to ourselves. Past selves. Future selves. The me who smokes the cigarette now slays slowly the other me who I don’t yet know, but one day will — and to think, I once laid there on a pallet in Greensboro before Elsewhere existed, next to her, my friend, and did not know what would happen, I didn’t know then where I’d go, or what I’d do, or the cities I’d live in, or the plots I’d fill, characters I’d meet, lovely characters animated by their own sad and brilliant actors, white souls, black souls, every-colored souls, constant actors, wearing different skins.

And now this one. Now that one. Now this one.

Innocent of Alaska