edsel

once upon a time there was a boy made of dirt. gepetto made a boy of wood, but this was a boy made of dirt. and they raised the boy to believe that he should be a cowboy and that he should walk like jesus. and the dirt boy read in the book of acts that he should walk up and down and to and fro giving the news. and that when he came to rooms where people would not hear his words he should leave them, kicking his heels at the threshhold to remove the dust.
but the boy was made of dirt and he found that when he kicked his heels - for none in any room ever listened to the silly preachy motherfucker - why he kicked his heels and bits of himself fell off and he was always falling apart.
so he decided he'd live like pig-pen in peanuts. he'd just let the dirt and trash swirl around him. fuck it.

i was a dataist with ron braverman. see below : but i was always the luddite wing of dataism.

after columbine went down carter, my brother, favored stricter control and i did not. in our fighting he zinged me: "look at you. you get off on this." the stupid punk trenchcoat senseless violence killing. that zing struck its mark and i have worried a lot about it.

i do get off on the killing. i'm a mean streets natural born killing sort of boy. i'm sorry. like the samuel jackson character at the end of pulp fiction (i think he's riffing isiah -that can't be the right spelling) i am trying to get better.

i liked it on the morning of 9/11. and the days immediately following. for me that was a peaceful time. on the thursday morning following i walked beth to work at the whitney and the lampposts had bloomed with missing xerox's "have you seen this poor child?" someone's lost darling.

"look, honey," i sd. (for i am alwys talking) "it's like the death moved south twenty blocks."

when we came to this town there was a full on war in spanish harlem but they didn't talk about it much on the t.v. every corner festooned with crosses commemorating the falling of some little boy or girl.

my daddy was dying in centralia, washington in the spring of 94. he was racing kurt. i went there and told him how new york was and how it was changing. "harlem next" i sd. "there's no place else to go."
"they been saying that twenty years, quin." daddy was dismissive. daddy died. i was right.

julliette slept over. i put on a c.d. of my donne songs and immediately she fell asleep. that's cool. i'll play for the somnolence of crazy skinny french girls..

she's thinking of taking a place at 116 and lenox.

brave new world.



dataism