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Below are the 20 most recent journal entries recorded in omar's LiveJournal:

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Monday, October 5th, 2015
9:14 am
not back. not here, wasn't anywhere, but was.
haven't returned, haven't decided much, can't commit to anything.


numbers add up to nothin'.


Current Mood: awake
Friday, January 7th, 2011
10:04 pm
another año
half a life i spend before earning another, & by then it’s nearly gone. lucky, cos some don’t have even that. did you ever imagine everything that came out of your being struck holy genius or landed somewhere that did some good, like a seed sprung from your head hits paydirt, sprouts, creeps up, reaches & even touches skies you barely or nearly dreamed? ah, the beauty when anything happens, when not every word, gesture, idea, creation shocks and withers in frigid ground, dry dirt, sand & not soil. we sure have a lot of words for the cold cold ground, & for fecal matter.

Current Mood: numb
Monday, August 30th, 2010
8:40 am
My last journal entries age, and are hard to find. Without cheating, I begin again
The tendency to cheat, to have an outcome seem real, but actually be a manipulated end based on expectations or shame, entices me to rig my seeming life, trapping myself and anyone who may notice in deceit. This happens almost I almost wrote innocently, but it’s the opposite. A sense of guilt pushes my low consciousness to convince my active conscience that committing some dishonest act actually serves to balance the scale that has thrown me unfairly into less than I deserve. The world owes me, for what happened, for bad things that came my way, for receiving less than someone else. This whole justification process has led me into retreat or rash acts of destruction. I want neither of these things, though I have played the two against each other—thrown myself in front of the horses of the law, asking to be trampled or locked up. I have had a bit of both, but neither did I want, not really. My second visit to jail helped push my motivation beyond its previous halfway undecided state of diminishment to a defeated soul begging for a final chance. I got it, but it was not “deserved” or “earned” or any merely logical outcome. It was a gift, and I learned what it meant to live one day at a time. Only in this moment can I actively be who I am. Only now can I see and know (not know), breathe the invisible silence and kiss her soggy smile.
Sunday, December 14th, 2008
12:12 am
our illusion, disallusion, eluded, eLooted
I said something today to someone. Was it April? I think so. I said my generation was the last old school generation. Life for us was like it was since the beginning of the century, basically. We had projected images, recorded music, mechanized transportation, international air travel, & professional sports. No one lives who was around for what came before that. But the people I saw, like Johnny Cash, Nirvana, the Ramones, meant something for me & my generation, my people, that cannot be transmitted whole to a generation who remember not the age before the internet. This is where truth came from, the reality of living, of availability of resources, of influences. We had a connection to record clubs that actually sent you records. I got tapes, though. We were around before CDs. We predate the digitization of reality. Things were mirrors for us. Mirrors don't mean the same thing now. Analogous optics, an illusion that misses its mark by an exact angle, predictable, surprising, a vision of discovery. The beauty of my life in a stolen moment I was going to say, which is something not far from this Dylan stuff, eh? Ha.

My teachers came from the sixties, from earlier. We came after drugs had been exposed. We weren't born innocent. We arrived at an intent. We were told the original lies & we began to doubt them. We were around when racism supposedly didn't exist, & watched its comeback from delusion to feel our seclusion, to see that mirror turn funhouse, to see ourselves as something other than intent, to then begin to free ourselves from the destined or ordained lines traced ahead of us & to replace these steps with our own, however ill-conceived or self-delusory. The point was that we chose them. We took that hit, knowing full well the deviance of our act. We were born innocent, but our innocence disappeared. I don't believe anyone's born innocent anymore. We were the last innocent ones, & it was betrayed from the start. We saw the stuff come out, we smelled it. Kurt Cobain spoke for us. Because a new prophet comes to town, the old words of wisdom don't cease to be true. Pretty lies were told by many, & we had to stumble through that territory on our way to this realization. & many of these kids have the misfortune to have never lived in a time when the idyllic, ideal
America was reality. We played as kids in the neighborhood, we were free in the woods, we lived the life of kids from generations prior. Maybe ours was the truly decadent generation. If I was "spoiled," then the lucky of us were. Or were we? What does that even mean?

Kids are born from sin into sin. We were baptized into life children, lambs of a benevolent spirit, we would call Him God. Kids are born dirty vagrants of sin, germs of incest & rape, revenges committed against self, post-Oedipal transgressions, television nightmare visions of kinetic frenzy, eyes born naked, sucked into the overkill, bloodied in school, blood & piss & shit & cum & sweat stinking in all is lost, we've fallen into our own protection, poisoned with protection, Neil Young said. We were raised in the Cold War. Soviet Union, East Germany, Romania, Poland, Lech Walesa, all this must seem rote to anyone who lived there, but what is the use of knowledge, of possessing the trivia by rote, of an elite, when the vast majority of humans on this earth know little or less, thinking they know any one thing, when they know not even nothing? This is ancient, typical. But what is new is that this is desirable. We live in a time much like the Dark Ages, where knowledge is held by a startlingly small coterie of educated, where even the "educated" are trained only to serve as slaves in this system. This is the liberation that can be achieved, but can only be so in the efforts of a compassionate circumspection, an indirect exposure of truth, perhaps before it's too late. But most of us think it's already too late. We feel that there was a reason the children of the sixties were innocent. They had a choice. They rejected revolution. They succumbed to fear & fell into falseness, mostly breeding a cult of pleasure that has only grown stronger with each passing minute, rapidly expanding, until it seems bent on consuming us all, maybe something like the horrors depicted in that film, the book, what is it? A Scanner Darkly.

Have many of us betrayed our truth? I know I rolled lowly in my un-life, one of a generation of vampires, infected with disease of addiction, perhaps as simple as that, anything that can terrify us into death-lust, what must its power be over subsequent events? How can we cure our ill brains? What can we do to open our eyes freshly into an innocent world, after all? We were born innocent, so we have that in our memories, that paradise. But can the younger people actually grow up in a new innocence, finding it easier than we did? Is the middle bent out of this? Perhaps the Gen-Y kids are the Judas to our Christ. That's so funny. I don't even know what made me write it.
12:03 am
Everything is symbolic.
Words express whatever they want, but in themselves, they mean what we want, so wanting has nothing to do with it. I see an image on the screen, click that image, something happens. Maybe it's a wedge pointing to the right. I maneuver an arrow-shaped image over that image, & press a button. A click ensues, followed by a showing of a silent film from 1921. Terrible. In the film, there are things that fly from stringed, curved sections of wood, shaped not quite like my arrow cursor, but there's that. The arrows hit hearts or heads, indicate directions or misdirections. An arrow through Steve Martin's head, an arrow through Bugs Bunny's head, an arrow in the chest, well, next to it, through the armpit, stand sideways, groan & pretend to be something you're not—hit, dying, injured. We pretend to be injured & get hurt. We imagine the sky is falling & it is. This or that individual possesses all the attributes we've been told are characteristics of the Antichrist. The bus barely misses our dumb ass & thank God, for he clearly has a purpose for us. In life, as well as literature, everything is symbolic.

After what you will, what-have-you symbolizes the preceeding act. A cigar follows a rich meal, must be consumed in the "den," where the "men" gather to discuss "business." A cigarette in bed beside the beloved, well, that symbolizes a certain other business. A bed itself, a "big brass bed," a woman a man, amen, seven sisters, seventh sons, things come in threes, the four horses or horsemen, the galloping ghost or a host with the most, hostess with the mostess. What's a cake without frosting? "Let them eat cake" lost a Marie her head—her namesake, she of the virgin pregnancy, years earlier lost a head, the head of the body of believers, of the spiritual body, as Paul put it, with each of us a cell in the second finger of the first hand of the One. She lost & we gained, we regained something? As it's said, postlapsarian, Antedominus, after the coming of the christ, the head, the dome, the covering for all our sins & our souls, our bones buried, unearthed if valued enough to cure believers of aches & sores, a toe bone good for arthritis, a femur curing indolence, relished relics religious require rigorous ritualization.

Religious symbology aside, what about rain? or an itchy right hand? all kinds of superstitions affect human behavior. Symbolism helps them navigate the unknown, this made up known for the knocking back of accidentally invoked juju, monkeys' paws & rabbits' feet & eagle feathers & the like.

Is anything not symbolic? Is anything just what it is? Is anything anything but everything? a portal to a perfect reality, the Symbolized itself, which can never be symbolized? Meaning is symbolic, dots that lie separate & are connected by the imagination, & so form a line, a way, a path, an idea, an insight, a Truth.

Current Mood: awake
Wednesday, November 5th, 2008
12:08 am
this is a day of days.
of all days i’ve lived, this is a special day.
we live in a country that has a chance to live up to its creed.
he has quoted lincoln twice, referred to him again.
i have always found in him something of the statesman, the diplomat. he definitely is capable of reflection, of learning. he knows how to read, & to write. that’s something special in a leader of this country. & there’s jesse jackson with tears in his eyes. yes we can he’s saying. i do believe we can.

Current Mood: rejuvenated
Sunday, November 2nd, 2008
9:50 pm
do watch the movie "crossroads"
i am a slacker, but feel like i'm beginning to understand something about the post-slacker "millenials." if you call them slackers, they take it as an insult. it reminds me of what richard linklater said, something surrounding the philosophy of his movie, "Slacker" (incidentally, one of the most profound cinematic statements ever made), to the effect that a slacker is a person who is seen as a slacker or lazy or a person whose values do not correspond to that societal concept of "success" that the straitjacketed working drones are conditioned into accepting. the intensive creativity which does not necessarily require any acknowledgement. a work of art in progress, as part of the engaged life. a turning away from the humdrum submission to corporate acceptance & wage slavery that dominates amerikkkan dreams. anyway, something like that.

a slacker, then, is a creative person who appears to be doing nothing, because what he or she does is unrecognizable to the status quo as valuable, which further means that it is the only thing of value in a culture that values a label over a real thing, an image over substance, or money over satisfaction.

so i find myself misusing this term, referring to these kids as slackers, who really aren't, who actually just follow along the roads they're grooved into, without any creative anarchy, are shocked by anything outrageous in reality, unless they're protected by a tv or computer screen from something beyond the real, something that, if they saw it in front of them, they would fear like a mouse fears the pinpointing shadow of a divebombing hawk that blocks the light that glinted its presence to the raptor from a tremendous height (isn't that a piece of a song lyric? that "tremendous height" thing?).

I found that to be the case when I was a drunken, drugged out lunatic, & i find it truer now that i'm a sober, responsible citizen, trustworthy to a certain extent, who often even answers emails & returns phone calls, doesn't intentionally not pay bills, etc.

anyway, this may not have anything to do with anything, but it may. either way, when i joke with a student that they're a "slacker," & they take offense, i'm always shocked, but they always are. but i'll turn around & call myself that a hundred times, & they'll laugh. maybe it's dangerous to be one. maybe it gets your email subpoenaed, phones tapped, activities followed. maybe i'm a mouse who's dared exit my scuzzy little hole in daylight in a clean field, & maybe predators are everywhere. maybe i'm naive. it's kinda fun thinking so.

i suppose we'll see. we'll always see. it's funny, but it's hard to see in the present, but it does seem true that we will see. something will come out, some idea will emerge, some thought will mature, some essay will be written, some of these slacker dreams will bear fruit. maybe no one will eat it, not the ones we'd hoped. maybe it'll rot on the vine. maybe not even songbirds or monkeys will get a bite. but there are always earth's cleansing agents ready to recycle this product, make it rot & return to soil, ready to feed something else.

i suppose it's not very humble to suppose that thoughts the transformation of which i happen to facilitate into symbolically arranged electrons could be culturally reified or fixed into some one human's schema, some random mind-picture of reality, when it's worth something just to play with it all. isn't that what a good slacker would want? "obscurity is truth." who said that?

i hope this didn't rob you of as much time reading as it did me writing.

Current Mood: creative
Saturday, October 25th, 2008
12:45 am
Who can protest and does not, is an accomplice in the act.
- The Talmud
Thursday, October 23rd, 2008
9:00 pm
A Symbol for Salvage
When the symbol for something approached me, I wondered in amazement at the rain, how it cleansed something, brought about change, washed me down the highway, carried me away on a river of emotion, for instance, to Santa Cruz to nonsense, to a girl who couldn’t shoot pool because two days before she dislocated her shoulder in the ocean. So my passion for a game was deflected simultaneously with my passion for her, & both melted away thereafter. She challenged my expectations, my madness took her by surprise, & it did me, too, because I could sense it was mad but couldn’t be sure. So what did we have to do with it? We had nowhere to go, nothing to gain or lose, or perhaps loss was what I had to gain, & getting my fill of emptiness, of surfeit, of defeat.

Along a different avenue, I boarded a plane. The water wasn’t liquid, but partially gas. We drank other forms of liquid, & I drank more than them. We smoked some stuff, & I tried to get my hands on some & sometimes bought some. I was poor in spirit, but wealthy in reality. My expenditures did not exceed my salvations. Or salvation. I’m not sure which. I still cannot be sure. I wonder what we had to say. We said it so differently. “I really like you’re writing style, but you’re a scary person,” that’s a paraphrase. “What are you doin? Getting into fights? Smoking weed & drinking all the time? Well, I know I drink all the time, but come on, man, it really changes you.” I found myself absent from my life for a long time. I find myself today remembering that stuff like it’s more recent than last year, or last month. The ancientest times for me are the last couple years I drank & did drugs. The freshest days are yesterday & today. The far past isn’t so far. It telescopes backward, furthest like two years ago, closer until it gets to college, then kind of matches the past two years, & flows in reality’s consciousness fresh & memorable, preserved, perhaps, because so gone? So real because the I I see with my eye eyes the aye ever agone, beetling like a beagle, that child lives in me yet. My goodness, he is me! How long till I truly forgive myself for having been born?

Current Mood: fine
Thursday, October 16th, 2008
11:00 am
Handjobs & Replacement Children
Handjobs & Replacement Children
(an essay mostly about the movie Rushmore, a little about Juno)
By Glenn Marsala

“I knew for sure when I saw them out back skinnydipping & giving each other handjobs while you were taking a nap on the front porch.”

"If I gave you a handjob, would it put an end to all this?"

“What do you call getting a handjob from Mrs. Calloway in the back of a Jaguar?”
“A fucking lie.”

“I’m sorry about what I said, about your mom giving me a handjob.”
“I know, Max. I’m sorry I didn’t take your hand when Buchan kicked your ass.”

“So, this is where the magic happens?”
“What magic?”
“I wouldn’t know.”

Theater full of hands. A thunderous applause. Orgasmic response to Max's "hit play." He gets punched in the face. "Don't fuck with my play!" He's fighting over it like he's fighting over a girl. He's jealous of the play? Yet when Miss Cross asks him if he thinks they are "going to have sex," and he says, "Isn't that a crude way to put it?" she responds, "Not if you've ever fucked before." His imaginative life, the dramas of love, violence, drugs, and even academic heroism, are more masturbatory fantasies, involving little real intimacy. He shakes hands with Mrs. Calloway and Miss Cross. This seems benign enough, as the reporter kid responds to the news of this intimacy with Dirk’s mother with, “Big deal! Buchan said he’d have already banged her by now.”

In both of Max's plays he suffers a blow to the head. He also is rewarded by those standing ovations, that affirmation of his worth that he has such a hard time getting from friends or family. Even with these most public of affirmations, through his sufferings and his triumphs, when he recieves personal praise his comments are: "It was better in rehearsals," and, "It went ok. At least no one got hurt." This certainly differs from the bombast of his insistance that he “wrote a hit play and directed it,” so he’s “not sweating it, either.” This posturing comes with the perceived threat of Peter Flynn, Miss Cross’s fellow Harvard alum. Max does hit Peter’s hand with his spoon—he doesn’t shake it.

After the final scene of Heaven and Hell, Blume does not applaud with hands, but with a raised fist, fierce, showing comradery and solidarity—with tears. He is moved. Through emotional infidelity, actual or imagined infidelity, fights with his sons, his divorce, he feels nothing. He runs over Max's bike with no change in expression. He is fierce, but sad. Blume resignedly suffers a buildup of non-emotional inability to feel, a dullness & almost deadness. He even seems lackadaisical about a threat to his life. Max tells him he wanted to have a tree fall on Blume, who says, "It would've flattened me like a pancake." He expresses this profound ennui in a few understatements: "I'm a little bit lonely these days," & "I don't know, Burt."

With this, we see a man floundering, with only bursts of rage aimed at his sons, a genuine fondness for Max—perhaps his only real friendship. He has focused on work, probably a contributing factor to his disconnection from his sons, and spends hours after dark at his factory. His physical and emotional distance may explain why his wife flirts with a guy at the twins' birthday party, even as Blume sits nearby, on the other side of the pool. But the pool symbolizes the ocean that divides them. Blume is profoundly alone.

He offers the 15-year-old Fischer a job, saying, "I could use someone like you," because he sees the world and companionship as something that needs to be hired to be kept. It's a safe way to bring a person he is truly interested in closer to him. Who's the mentor? I think Max mentors the older Blume. If Max, "one of the worst students we've got," has "got it pretty figured out," then what does this say about how figured out Blume has it? He asks for money to build the aquarium. Fischer obviously has great leadership & planning abilities. He has ideas. He follows his ideas through. He doesn't give up on anything, to the point of self-destruction. Blume has gone about things with a similar drive, but not because it answers a specific calling. The force of momentum, clearly, pushes him through his life. He wants "steel, not alloys." He wants what he knows & trusts, not something different. His life has a sense of sameness.

He tells Max he was "in the shit" in Vietnam, & this carries with it a depth of trauma, of possible abandonment of traits such as friendship or comradery, perhaps because his best friends died. Why does he cry at the end of Heaven and Hell? He finds in it a “spark” of that old “vitality,” which he buried in a meaningless role as husband and father, a thin role as industrialist. His life is empty. His advice for the young is one of competitiveness, survival, bitterness, contempt for people like his sons—children of wealth. His wife is also a beneficiary of his wealth, rather than a producer of it. She and the boys serve as lamprey eels to his shark.

The ocean also symbolizes Miss Cross’s separation from love. Her husband drowned, presumably in the ocean, pursuing his love of the sea. Max is “married to the sea”—Rushmore. He, like Miss Cross and Blume, has “been out to sea a long time.” Time, of course, could be relative. In Miss Cross’s case, her husband died “last year,” Blume has struggled to achieve what he now sees as meaningless for probably a good 25 years, and Max’s mother died when he was seven, eight years earlier. Just as a person could be lost at sea just a few miles offshore, or finally spot land at the furthest distance from the origination of the journey, the emotional distance interposed between these characters and real intimacy—and the psychological time elapsed while they have spent “out to sea”—is indicated by Max’s so aptly vague and suggestive “long time.” “Long” does not measure a specific number of days, months or years, but seems a hard trial, an interminable stretch, to the individual considering where he or she has been, and yet remains.

The relationship of Max to his mother, who died of cancer when he was seven, helped him get into Rushmore. "My mother read it & thought I should go to Rushmore." His mother is the reason he's at Rushmore. She is connected to this situation. He is a performer, wants the glory. He dreams in chapel about being applauded for solving the "hardest geometry problem in the world," which even Dr. Leakey at MIT couldn't solve. He cannot achieve glory through academics, & he probably learned this long before. He doesn't care for private accomplishment or quiet good grades. He seeks applause. It is this recognition that he craves. He has a rather mild & polite relationship with his father. Everything he does is something like Buchan says, "big show, all talk, no results." He brags of the infamous handjob, which is, as Buchan so eloquently puts it, "a fuckin' lie." The show—Max's play or plays—which are really a public performance of talk, with artificial situations and drama, rather than real "results." The resounding applause, the "handjob" writ large, are what he desires. As he turns to stare down the actor who punched him in the face, his triumph—overwhelmingly evidenced by the standing ovation as he crosses the stage—comes as a result of a dangerous drive to overcome obstacles. He pursues Miss Cross with a similar vehemence. He ignores his "sudden death academic probation,” & moves forward, completely in his own world, undeterred.

What of Juno & her pregnancy? Who decides to have sex? Bleeker must have been in on it. The runners. Boys running. Bouncing boys, bouncing balls, always running. Mark runs—away from marriage and, perhaps most of all, fatherhood. Juno's mom runs, to Arizona, and builds a new life, sending annual cacti back to Minnesota on Valentine’s Day. Is this symbolic of defenses she raises against her first child? Are they a warning to "stay away"? Juno, however, expresses her bitterness about this abandonment with typical sarcasm, distancing herself from feeling anything about it. Could a true emotional response threaten to expose her as weak and afraid? If her “uncool” idealism, even in so basic and obvious a truth as her love for Bleeker, were exposed, then the consequences could devastate her. This happens at the Lorings’. She cries, on suspects, for much more than this disillusionment. She cries for her loss of innocence, definitely, but also for her mother, for Brenda’s generosity and motherliness—when she stood up for her to the ultrasound tech and then warned her about “the dynamics of marriage.” She cries for her predicament, for Vanessa’s loss, and she realizes that she loves Bleeker and she needs to give her child to Vanessa. She suddenly becomes clear and decisive. Perhaps she discovers “what kind of girl” she is.

Juno, despite being so clearly “different,” as Bleeker’s mom puts it, appears to really see things a little differently than her image advertises. She wants the "magnificent discarded living room set." She wants the pipe & the old-fashioned American Drean ideal of Leave it to Beaver or Mayberry or something. She believes in true love for a lifetime. Her idiosyncracy is in her innocence, which extends throughout her universe. She makes jokes about her condition, about abortion, about everything, leaving it in a child's way of unimportance. There is nothing to be responsible for, no one to be responsible to. She is a child, and revels in her childishness, “a kraken from the sea,” until she’s not a child anymore. She insists on total freedom and self-will, until she gets pregnant. She still considers herself free, until she declares her love for Bleeker. Of course, he's perfect. Of course, she's beautiful.

The baby boy is a replacement child for the the child Vanessa married. He feels like a teenager, his mom telling him to “get a job,” ridiculing his “jam session,” while he feels he has not had the chance to get out there and live his dream. He speaks with great faith about the “best time for rock and roll,” and longs for nothing more than that feeling. It is his Rushmore. Fatherhood, marriage, “contributing”—this is nothing more or less, to him, in his heart of hearts, than selling out. His scene working on a microwavable brunch jingle, interrupted by a youth who worships at the altar of punk, represents the loss of something profound to his imagination, and the still further, future loss of his last, best chance at freedom. As a father, he will really be expected to contribute. Rock and roll will die.

Juno is the queen of the gods. The only "lay" that Jupitor married. She is the "family values" goddess. If I'm not mistaken, she did not commit adultery. I need to check on that.

Max is obviously delusional about staying at Rushmore "forever." He is also unrealistically dedicated to "getting with" Miss Cross. As long as nothing happens, he can pretend that a relationship is possible, like receiving a handjob from Mrs. Calloway. In his plays, play gunfire, play cocaine, play war. He shoots Buchan with a bb gun. That's the "cap" he "pops" in his "ass."
When Max says, after his play, Heaven and Hell, debuts, "At least no one got hurt," Miss Cross glances at his bandaged forehead and responds, "Except you." This statement resonates past the cut on his head, to the punches he took to the face, his expulsion from Rushmore, the loss of his mother at age seven, the feuds with Dirk and Blume, and especially his rejection by Miss Cross herself. Max, however, replies, "I didn't get hurt that bad." Why? Because his world is imaginary? His creativity is unbounded by reality, by possibility; consequently, he can make the impossible happen—dynamite, fire onstage, chainsaws, Latin. As the music at the end seems to insist, Max wishes he had known before what he knows now, "when [he] was younger" and "stronger"—younger not in age, but innocence; stronger not physically, but in his faith that he could go to Rushmore forever, or consummate his love for Miss Cross.

Current Mood: working
Wednesday, March 12th, 2008
9:39 pm
2 songs

when she left my side for a quick, stale ride,
i found myself alone, roused, set to, blamed.
the dancing was so long ago...

we felt old like oxen, pulling just frail hide,
but laden, turgid, bowed, dulled, framed.
the rolling ran down long ago...

she left an anjou pear in the fridge outside
it huddled into itself, shifted its weight, unnamed.
the juice dried up so long ago....

i set one foot in a soleless boot, my doubt lied,
told me leave its leaden bolts, stripped, lamed.
the latch rusted shut so long ago....


where the down fluffed up we slept.
when the town ran down we stepped.
when the drugs ran out we did.
when the time ran out we hid.
we were caught in lime
we did many hours' time
set free, set free,
we feel alright.

when the dawn busts open we rise
where the road rolls heavy we flies
when the food went bad we shopped
when the puddles gathered we hopped.
we sprayed the dewey thyme
with our fingers, light as rhymes
set free, set free,
we feel alright

if she boards the bus we drive
if she roars down the rapids we glide
when she arrived my car was parked
shoulders sunk in dusk's soft dark
where the blackbirds whirred
we sat silent, swallowed words
set free, set free,
we feel alright.

Current Mood: cliché
Sunday, February 10th, 2008
11:43 pm
pet food dog
Mr. General Avatar overvalued his nephew, and found himself in the awkward plight of reassigning Plinth to another district. The boy began innocently enough, carving carcases for shaving, belting their viscera into parasails to clean the terminals. He messed up, though, leaving one old woman alive and pounding the surf with pagan boreds, and they called a flesh cop to stretch her into a representative ikon, failing her mastectomy with sombre shades of particle art.
"My lad," began the Mr., "you can likely guess the import of my discourse, so let's forego the civilities, shall we?" He asked but waited nought for a response, which stutteringly Plinth was ill-prepared to do. "You've got to go. I have to cover your error with a pellet of snot and have done with you."
Terror. "But Unky Jee, mother will"
"She won't, boy. We'll cover it neatly enough, despite the mess and obvious bullshit of it all."
Dread. Hopeless. "But the lady wasn't done, and that wasn't my place."
"We needn't discuss particulars. You'll no longer work in the public. We've got line work for you."
Grief. Nausea. "I've had enough of a time adjusting"
"It's not a question of adjusting, so no more words, alright?"
A disconsolate nod.
"You won't be in the guts, you know, just a barker. You'll get the dogs on them bones, my boy. You're still my nephew, dammit, and that means management."
Watching it all, seeing them before... and then, the transformation...
The old lady was enough, putting her torn bits into the sling when she began. What possessed her to live through that? How did she fail to breathe or pump till then? He was sure he had an object, not a subject. How did he mistake?
But he did, and the vegetable collectors were there, protesting from the first, the seeding and fileting of the day's take too much for them for whatever reasons. Two men, he thought honestly enough, had confessed to physical disgust at the sight or thought of meat ingestion. Meat bubbling through my meat, Plinth just flashed, the image conjured, doubtless, from the roiling nausea infesting his sphincter just now. Maybe he, too, would hereafter needs abstain from flesh. To command its vivisection, inutile as the aged subject had become, shocked what he though was his beplaqued mind white, the nerves burnt clean, and visible reality clouded his conscience.
He, like the rest of the ruling class, even as minscule in importance as he, a motherless nephew, father fallen in the burning of Iran, of a man named to lead armies but who, instead, supplied the machine with fuel, as he put it, to pull the oysters of our lives' meaning through faceless vaginas and rented orgasms.
My God, he freaked, I'm an Enemy.
He suddenly recalled that young man he met down by the treeport, sucking sapling beer with his protector, his doctor, Emilie Lazare. What was his name? Benkor. He sought infiltration—not insemination, but a quarter turn from the flock's fascination with what he termed the "terminal slots of empire's billion dollar nickels." Look askance at the "Hopes, Dreams, and Spiritual Fulfillment" promised by admittance, and one sees what Plinth could only begin to see now, the first glimpse while the wind kicked her half off the sail and the surfers' dogs noticed....
But it was as much earlier, much earlier, as it was that time, for it was only a continuation of the loss he now felt so keenly. He thought of the light he believed in before he saw the bait put to the hook, and the way he laughed at it, gorged himself on the sea's excrement like that, the forgotten things, the natural competition, the fair fight, the chase.
Pete, the old Korean tinkerer, chuckled at the way all animals, and people too, reminded him of the fat little dogs they used to eat back home. "They were bred to be stupid, so we didn't feel anything about eating them. They were very tender," he said. "We had other, smarter dogs for pets."
The boredom in flights of fancy has bereft me of my madness, though it expresses itself through me better most days than any rounder forgettings. He left a slice of my old hats under the refrigerator car, which is cold to the touch.
He hadn't asked him if they fed their pet dogs these food dogs.

Current Mood: awake
Saturday, February 9th, 2008
11:05 pm
Off the citations from my first solo car ride, I crumpled together a trite moment of blissfully ignorant near-death experiences. These other people, see, ones like my mother or my girlfriends, they all gave me the same warning. They said, "Be careful." I didn't believe them. Later, M said, "Drive fast & take chances." This made far more sense to me, & confirmed me in my belief in humor or irony, & especially speed & risk. So I sped over many & risked my own & others' lives. This I did until last year, at the age of 33, when it got far worse, & then gave me a chance to get better.
Enough has already been written about the consequences which forced me to reconsider my transient position in society, just passing through, only by destruction could I tell I'd even been there, that I'll skip most of that, for now. R, of course, writes three words of his autobiography in perfect cursive handwriting that, for the life of me, I could never decipher. Girls would say, "You have such exquisite handwriting," & I'd wrinkle up my nose & down my forehead & maybe smirk. I didn't get it. It's a matter of not seeing what others do. This happens daily. K told me I was rude. I don't think I believed her, but would come around after 17 years of similar candid critiques.
Fact is, no one got close enough or cared enough to tell me anything like that before then. Someone taking a chance would get a cutting comment, like the time I told Janice she was stupid. No, I told John that, when he insinuated that she liked me, or I liked her, which of course I rather did, but was still a month or a moment that side of puberty, so habit told me girls were yucky enough to not fear speaking to. In fact, the shame that accompanied that remark may have defined my pubic moment. An à propos way to fuck up into adolescence.

Current Mood: contemplative
11:01 pm
We scattered our selves, or ourselves—the one the many gone astray, or strayed, in straits or straight, or crooked like a genius; the other in the ones of each of us, wrecked & plundered by narcotic exhibition, anticipation of of recognition unrealized, a chance unchanged parted ways—to several winds or ways wound wandering, reassembled, some of us broken in dozens of alleys at once, at once!

We're here, after all that, the rain easing up & stirring again, the sludge of preparation washed together, indistinguishable from our reckless dreams, the kind we will only disremember forever, alleys we pare away, from multiple personalities or orgasms to just the one, perfect, final. Who wants that?

To live is to fly sang Townes, & it's also to swim, some days thicker substance, like today, the rain pushing aside our porous dispersal of fishbowl content to find the filaments of zucchini, among other things. Other places, out West, maybe, to Arizona, where the rains pounce cataclysmic relief, the end of one & beginning of another, moving, shifting shapes every day, another insect flies, another swims, another floats, another burrows, another dies. Blips of life's bitter taste somewhere, the truth a bitter essence, the joy a sweet wonder, forever, the downturned fishbowl airless or waterless, more or less, the fuzzy edges of a ragged beard itches my neck & sends all these glories for nowhere, nonexistent, like a fragment of tickle taken for the all of my consciousness, scratching can't relieve something like that, only brings pain to the half-thought, the triumph a dream, so why not live in the glory in this short, semi-lucid dream?

So I write a friend in a garden, left a frustration in the bar, every night last summer. We looked at each other, frazzled, those nights I had, & wound our way to one of five concentrations of bacteria, holed up away from life, but where we thought we'd find it. went diving in a toilet hoping to find daisies. We flushed the flowers years ago.

The rain kicks back up again, pounding earth, maybe bounces gritty kisses up to broccoli leaf, lettuce leaf, cornstalks twitching in the rain.

Current Mood: accomplished
Monday, December 24th, 2007
1:02 am
some one
calls himself the one, the Entity.
feels his life fulfills its own destiny.
his life is its own tragedy.
he rides the sun down a ledge & scampers on muddy creeks with no vision, busted down to his frail age, drawn & stretched, battered & fried, he cracks open faulty eyes, cries crooked lies, screams them fair & candled, cradled, ladled open, frought cancellation stumped outside the crunch he palled under the cunning flappers' grins. she stuffed her love full of his night, & the darkness was incomplete.

Current Mood: dorky
Thursday, September 6th, 2007
12:15 am
I'm afraid to enter things here, in this most random & likely lonesome locale, where it's hard to know what anyone knows anyway. Why do I exasperate myself, put myself behind the net, underneath the background or backdrop, the downfall. Someone said to shadow someone who's been there, & I agree. That's Saturday. I have made promises, & I can live up to them. I returned some things to some people. I did that with the help of my friends. I need more meetings.
12:08 am
Frere Wedding Reflections
The wedding, fresh on my mind, a joining of two souls, such as I'd never seen. The water ceremony was particularly moving. Two pitchers, containing pure water, such as the two participants in the ritual, their souls, they each poured their symbolic essences into a chalice, then drank of it. She handed it to him, he bowed his head, drank, slowly lowered it in meditation, offered a silent prayer, & gave it to her. She drank, tears swimming in her eyes. They spoke their vows quietly to each other, hers overshadowed by a child murmuring, his accompanied by his father, the minister, on his harp. With her final vow, whispered into Noah's ear, tears filled his eyes, something I'd never seen, such a normally reserved, stately person is my best friend.

Finally, Keith presented the bride & groom as Jill and Noah Frere. Tears were in my eyes, the joy & beauty of his taking her name. So now Noah has a maiden name. How wonderful! Such was a perfect & original union born before us.
12:06 am
The terrors of nights lit slightly buzz.
slightly askew, i ask you, have you?
particularly haphazard,
we forgot the title of our lives, forgot the next six thousand odd years, the way we'll remember this night, in this room, as she crochets alongside the television soap opera, Alan Watts, learning to bear the cold, "It is how the be comfortable under all circumstances."

wiring our lives under the direction of other people's fantastical elocutions, out of our sight, insight, on site, the fairly torrential aspect to the insects tripping inside our hive, hide. the skunk slinks by tonight, like last night, when we saw.

The cats begin to run for reasons not their own.
Monday, February 26th, 2007
2:46 pm
to err is genius! & not.
Consider it lately, the human preponderence the inevitability of imitation. We learn not by being taught in a directorial way, but by copying someone’s moves. Or by mocking them. When Pete Townsend mistook Keith Richards’ flailing about backstage for a performance technique. It’s completely invention by way of imitation, accidental novelty, which aims at something it can’t hit, or doesn’t aim at, but misses creatively. That is, creation is accident. Mistakes make the innovation. What is improvisation but accident? When it’s not, does it become artificial? Is sameness, the stiving for sameness that drives the human, the highest? Or is failure to achieve the same, the perfect reproduction or facsimile or forgery, a matter of perception or perspective? The grandest failure for all its error is completely unplanned. The plan is for a copy. The accident is the word of god. The copying, the ditto, is something less. It is insect, drone, sterile. People who can make mistakes can make something new. Is copying something perfectly the most inhuman act, while at the same time the most human urge?

Current Mood: recumbent
Saturday, January 6th, 2007
12:07 am
ok, time for an update
I had my court date. They gave me 9 months of probation.
If everything goes well, they'll dismiss the charges.
But other things are nice. Ever gone to AA? I went to two
in FL, one in Siesta Key & one in Bradenton.
I just didn't get it then.
I've met some of the most open, honest, & engaging people ever.
I have friends! Cramming myself into a squalid isolation
isn't as romantic as it sounds.
I actually forget to call friends, cos I suddenly have a life!
I look back on things with a new perspective,
without mood-altering poisons cooking my organs.
But one side effect no one told me about was a
giant spike in my appetite. I want to eat everything,
all the time. I've gained like ten pounds in a month.
It never happened when I stopped smoking.
Oh well. I didn't really like smoking anyway.
I loved drinking. Past tense. Way past.
Wow, six weeks sober. It doesn't seem like a long time, though.
It feels nice to be around right now.
Not perfect, but more than bearable.
Happy times, y'all.

Current Mood: okay
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