The new job is tres, tres bizarre...
seeming unending silent rows of cubicles, everybody plugged into their iPod pounding away at the keys, spilling falsities of language denied even the status of lies by utter absence of belief, security keys needed for entrance and exit, all emails available to everyone and almost everything communicated via these, outside the dead of night roaring with distant sussurance of tires on blacktop, smoking a cigarette alone just so as to have time to think a thought of my own, file after file of scanty info on businesses i couldn't care less about (seriously, how do you make up 250 words about an aluminum welding business when you don't know the first fucking thing about it and the owners provide fuck-all for material), a sweet girl attempting to make friends via email then going all flustered when we meet in the flesh shooting eyes everywhere but mine...
knowing i'm invisible behind the high walls of my cube, knowing that everything i do is being watched, motorola administrators perusing my emails, monitoring my internet usage, every word of copy I write read and re-read time and time again, checked for grammar for accuracy for customer satisfaction, eating lunch alone at my desk not ready yet to break into the break room even though most likely no one else is at lunch (lunch! its ten-thirty at night, i'm on my third coffee of the evening, fifth of the day, longing for a drink (there's a bar downstairs, i think I might have to start grabbing a lunch-time pint))...
walking home on the dead streets of the weekday East Bay middle of the night / morning / pre-dawn, furiously sucking a cigarette, hoping nobody stops me to bum one, or some change, or to mug me (not that it would matter anyway, i'm in that new-job flat broke interim and haven't anything more than my debit card, phone and a few cigarettes - besides, people overestimate the dangers of a pre-dawn walk in these cities), traversing three city's borders in a half hour, knowing my girl's at home, softly snoring and alone, aching to slide into bed beside her, knowing there's another mile to go...
and now...a work in progress...
sentence
love is a house of cards, a tangible, friable construction, subject to a whim of breath, redundant yet necessary as a pastime, a ho-hum, a rhythm, like a habit of the body, expressed and dispelled, each day depending upon the one before it like girders of a nascent skyscraper, each link of extension feeding tension down to that below, 'til ground stone and mortar, 'til eggshell crust of earth, to seethe of magma beneath eventually absorb, this weight of space, this reliquary of countless breaths and the expirations of saline 'til it reaches what density of air a throbbing core can conceive, out of extremities of ecstasy and distance, palm fronds and photons, granite and gravity, elections and electrons, zombies philosophical and pulp, songs of nexus and current pulsing meeting thicknesses of not, of what lies within, thus, making love two vacuums interweave, threading, suturing nothing to nothing, just as breath does, we trade signs sometimes back to face, one array of symbols reflecting just barely, as ghosts, or at least, as we hope ghosts might impress themselves upon the unreflective rush of time, in the glossy skins of one to another, indecipherable texts seeking reflection in another, as we pass before glass walls of businesses, seeing this oh-so-solid double exposed with lengths of cotton, networks of wires, screens upon screens translucent (thus allowing vision) or opaque (thus allowing reflection) wondering what to acquire, what will say me to you and you and you or rather, maybe, what will show the me in or you or is it the you in me, either way, enough to show that we are the same, difference, after all, is something i hardly need to display, don't you think, since its so obvious, here before you, a fold of light, wave condensed to knot, despite my efforts to elide, as lids elide, well, any number of things, not the least of which being dreams, so that, you see, we see to see by being blind, otherwise attaining the incandescent, explosive opacity of the flesh when stretched to such caul-like dimensions, every word, every gesture, every look (prolonged to glance, to gaze, to regard, to stare), conflating autobiography and genetics, biography and nutrition, enters into it, there's nothing that can be separated, no distinctions figure, church and state, body and mind, soul and flesh, all fade into their accustomed indistinction, reclining into the gorgeous unity of something like truth, if truth can be called any view which takes into account any and all factors, no moment can be lost, nor hour unaccounted for, we adopt, by necessity, the accuracy of accountants, the precision of artists, the painstaking focus of architects, the focus and concern of artisans, no masterpiece (no "Guernica," no "Nude Descending a Staircase," no "ceci n'est pas un pipe," no "Starry Night" nor "Mona Lisa") can compare, for not a single increment (or anything) can be occluded from its sight (not a single snore, feculent fart, no hemorrhoid nor muttering in sleep, not a single moaning thrust nor meld of lips, not the slightest, most insouciant, tossed-off comment, nor direct, intensely thought question) like being, there is nothing but a thought of nothing outside of it, if it's a house of cards it's the Babel of such, only it has not fallen yet, or rather, its fallen countless times, only to reverse time and rise, then fall again, and build itself beyond the flesh its builders are, and use to blend its mortar, its blocks of cinder-to-be, its rebar of bone and circuitry, or wiring, of nerves, our arrangements are chance, yes, yet determined by our interdependence, it's possible no queen of hearts could be upheld by any other than the ace of spades, that an x could no more be itself, vertical, without another x or y, also vertical, for support, and yet, the card is always itself, remains separate except when taken into context of the house, of this support beam meeting this particular plane, and that no one particular arrangement (vertical) could exist, i.e. persist, or become, without this other (horizontal) relation, in other words, its just conceivable that i couldn't love you without having loved (or loathed) another, and that that (previous) linkage is necessary to this (present) conjunction, or, in other words still, that you (in so far as your relation to me is, i.e. persists) are contingent upon her or him, who blazed the trail (scorched or machete-incised, inscribed by a burning tongue or a cold knife) that you now walk, or that, without her ever knowing you, pointed out the way that a path might be made, of course, this collision takes place in me, or in the succession of leanings that lead up to me, and you experience them only as a train of forces channeled through my stock, stalk, blooming in you only in this moment which is itself a durable construction, and yet only exists insofar as it lends itself to the continued ascension of this elaboration, or arrangement of chance, a song of praise in that one note builds upon another, a coruscation arising not from the falling of light but from that of attention, which is so alike as to make, really, no difference, both systems of particle and wave, and translated through what is both, or neither, we'd die for a gaze, a glaze of light cast from one glossed back to another, communicated, no doubt incalculable plays of entropy at play, countless deflections from dust-mote (in which worlds live) and carapace, invisible living things, muted by light, skirling through breath, a fugue of light, repeating musically in space, defined by eyes as much as ears, a sentence (sententious and penal) careering across a page, the grammar function delayed as long as no period appears, yes, there's always another's word upon our tongue (but who's?), most of all, perhaps, when two tongues spill silence, a heart's parole, but don't worry, it's not as if you're an actor, spilling someone else's soliloquy, you're in the cards, that's sure, adding your part to the unruly text we're all every second interpreting, apocryphal commentary, critically canonical, for without you what would the tongue have to speak, the word to say
seeming unending silent rows of cubicles, everybody plugged into their iPod pounding away at the keys, spilling falsities of language denied even the status of lies by utter absence of belief, security keys needed for entrance and exit, all emails available to everyone and almost everything communicated via these, outside the dead of night roaring with distant sussurance of tires on blacktop, smoking a cigarette alone just so as to have time to think a thought of my own, file after file of scanty info on businesses i couldn't care less about (seriously, how do you make up 250 words about an aluminum welding business when you don't know the first fucking thing about it and the owners provide fuck-all for material), a sweet girl attempting to make friends via email then going all flustered when we meet in the flesh shooting eyes everywhere but mine...
knowing i'm invisible behind the high walls of my cube, knowing that everything i do is being watched, motorola administrators perusing my emails, monitoring my internet usage, every word of copy I write read and re-read time and time again, checked for grammar for accuracy for customer satisfaction, eating lunch alone at my desk not ready yet to break into the break room even though most likely no one else is at lunch (lunch! its ten-thirty at night, i'm on my third coffee of the evening, fifth of the day, longing for a drink (there's a bar downstairs, i think I might have to start grabbing a lunch-time pint))...
walking home on the dead streets of the weekday East Bay middle of the night / morning / pre-dawn, furiously sucking a cigarette, hoping nobody stops me to bum one, or some change, or to mug me (not that it would matter anyway, i'm in that new-job flat broke interim and haven't anything more than my debit card, phone and a few cigarettes - besides, people overestimate the dangers of a pre-dawn walk in these cities), traversing three city's borders in a half hour, knowing my girl's at home, softly snoring and alone, aching to slide into bed beside her, knowing there's another mile to go...
and now...a work in progress...
sentence
love is a house of cards, a tangible, friable construction, subject to a whim of breath, redundant yet necessary as a pastime, a ho-hum, a rhythm, like a habit of the body, expressed and dispelled, each day depending upon the one before it like girders of a nascent skyscraper, each link of extension feeding tension down to that below, 'til ground stone and mortar, 'til eggshell crust of earth, to seethe of magma beneath eventually absorb, this weight of space, this reliquary of countless breaths and the expirations of saline 'til it reaches what density of air a throbbing core can conceive, out of extremities of ecstasy and distance, palm fronds and photons, granite and gravity, elections and electrons, zombies philosophical and pulp, songs of nexus and current pulsing meeting thicknesses of not, of what lies within, thus, making love two vacuums interweave, threading, suturing nothing to nothing, just as breath does, we trade signs sometimes back to face, one array of symbols reflecting just barely, as ghosts, or at least, as we hope ghosts might impress themselves upon the unreflective rush of time, in the glossy skins of one to another, indecipherable texts seeking reflection in another, as we pass before glass walls of businesses, seeing this oh-so-solid double exposed with lengths of cotton, networks of wires, screens upon screens translucent (thus allowing vision) or opaque (thus allowing reflection) wondering what to acquire, what will say me to you and you and you or rather, maybe, what will show the me in or you or is it the you in me, either way, enough to show that we are the same, difference, after all, is something i hardly need to display, don't you think, since its so obvious, here before you, a fold of light, wave condensed to knot, despite my efforts to elide, as lids elide, well, any number of things, not the least of which being dreams, so that, you see, we see to see by being blind, otherwise attaining the incandescent, explosive opacity of the flesh when stretched to such caul-like dimensions, every word, every gesture, every look (prolonged to glance, to gaze, to regard, to stare), conflating autobiography and genetics, biography and nutrition, enters into it, there's nothing that can be separated, no distinctions figure, church and state, body and mind, soul and flesh, all fade into their accustomed indistinction, reclining into the gorgeous unity of something like truth, if truth can be called any view which takes into account any and all factors, no moment can be lost, nor hour unaccounted for, we adopt, by necessity, the accuracy of accountants, the precision of artists, the painstaking focus of architects, the focus and concern of artisans, no masterpiece (no "Guernica," no "Nude Descending a Staircase," no "ceci n'est pas un pipe," no "Starry Night" nor "Mona Lisa") can compare, for not a single increment (or anything) can be occluded from its sight (not a single snore, feculent fart, no hemorrhoid nor muttering in sleep, not a single moaning thrust nor meld of lips, not the slightest, most insouciant, tossed-off comment, nor direct, intensely thought question) like being, there is nothing but a thought of nothing outside of it, if it's a house of cards it's the Babel of such, only it has not fallen yet, or rather, its fallen countless times, only to reverse time and rise, then fall again, and build itself beyond the flesh its builders are, and use to blend its mortar, its blocks of cinder-to-be, its rebar of bone and circuitry, or wiring, of nerves, our arrangements are chance, yes, yet determined by our interdependence, it's possible no queen of hearts could be upheld by any other than the ace of spades, that an x could no more be itself, vertical, without another x or y, also vertical, for support, and yet, the card is always itself, remains separate except when taken into context of the house, of this support beam meeting this particular plane, and that no one particular arrangement (vertical) could exist, i.e. persist, or become, without this other (horizontal) relation, in other words, its just conceivable that i couldn't love you without having loved (or loathed) another, and that that (previous) linkage is necessary to this (present) conjunction, or, in other words still, that you (in so far as your relation to me is, i.e. persists) are contingent upon her or him, who blazed the trail (scorched or machete-incised, inscribed by a burning tongue or a cold knife) that you now walk, or that, without her ever knowing you, pointed out the way that a path might be made, of course, this collision takes place in me, or in the succession of leanings that lead up to me, and you experience them only as a train of forces channeled through my stock, stalk, blooming in you only in this moment which is itself a durable construction, and yet only exists insofar as it lends itself to the continued ascension of this elaboration, or arrangement of chance, a song of praise in that one note builds upon another, a coruscation arising not from the falling of light but from that of attention, which is so alike as to make, really, no difference, both systems of particle and wave, and translated through what is both, or neither, we'd die for a gaze, a glaze of light cast from one glossed back to another, communicated, no doubt incalculable plays of entropy at play, countless deflections from dust-mote (in which worlds live) and carapace, invisible living things, muted by light, skirling through breath, a fugue of light, repeating musically in space, defined by eyes as much as ears, a sentence (sententious and penal) careering across a page, the grammar function delayed as long as no period appears, yes, there's always another's word upon our tongue (but who's?), most of all, perhaps, when two tongues spill silence, a heart's parole, but don't worry, it's not as if you're an actor, spilling someone else's soliloquy, you're in the cards, that's sure, adding your part to the unruly text we're all every second interpreting, apocryphal commentary, critically canonical, for without you what would the tongue have to speak, the word to say
VIEW 25 of 28 COMMENTS
However, I'm making new molds right now and will have a new series by the end of fall. I'll post updates as things get moving again.
And i have this slight problem when trying to speak about things that are important to me: i break out into uncontrollable tears and just cant say a word. Truth is i am so much better with the keyboard... But He has read that post, and i figure sooner or later we will have to discuss the matter, specially because i got a call to travel to the south of the country to perform in the end of the month. Things are getting serious, yes they are. A bit scary, one must confess.
i plan on tattooing that arm, as not to cut it anymore. Maybe it will help... to write: "And never be afraid again".
thanks a lot. You're a doll.