“Who does that?” She was pissed.
“It’s not real,” but I was confused.
“Total disrespect.” I felt awful, used, naked and ashamed. But I stood up and faced it.
What a fuckin’ experiment to reveal it all, live time in words across the web. I felt pretty sure no one would care about it, probably forever but maybe in some years if I kept at it and if it was relevant and if it was art or turned out to be art. Still, I felt ulcerous and queer and gangly.
“But it’s not real,” I repeated. And it’s not or at least that is how I think of it. It’s an experiment in reality, like a snowglobe or that Jim Carrey movie where he figures out his constructed reality and busts out after the clues don’t add up. But this is different because I put myself in it, so I know and I control it, somewhat, except for the raw thoughts, those are just risk. I told T this and he sent me home with a pile of Japanese Anime – I found it gross and violent and overly sexualized and somewhat boring. I never got anime, the “ghost in the machine” n such. Salami gave me some a while back and be damned if I couldn’t figure out the allure. Cartoons in general. I assumed it was my problem, that I was missing the code. I blamed my philosophy education. Philosophy will fuck a man up, make him lose all perspective. Then again, it does the opposite to some. What’s the use, I thought, so I took T’s pile home and decided to project it constantly until something clicked. After three days I called him up to report the progress or lack thereof. He was laid up, on pills from a disaster at the dentist. Apparently African Americans have extra long molar roots and the Doc had to dig ‘em out for two hours. He sounded relaxed at least. We had a short conversation about the anime when something clicked – all that sex and violence was like a fantasy, it’s a mixture of thoughts and dreams and reality wrapped in line drawings and mock motion. It made sense, had the power to trigger undeveloped or base things, sort of like a hypo-real and/or hyper-real fantasy. Like pouring the mold out the head of common man. I turned the projections off and decided to sit on that for a while and look again in a few weeks. The sexual images stuck with me the longest. Sex is better than violence.
I thought I’d better write about it. That this blog and what it reveals was/is a year long event to end on January first. I could look back at it like a mirror and use it like a mirror to reflect light and ideas across time. It’s also a hammer, but the musical kind, one that strikes strings like a mallet or bone. You may not like the tunes but there IS music and it holds a power. I wanted to hear it first. So in response I found a program that would do just that. I downloaded it, installed it and opened the blog, all 60,000 some words of published and unpublished stuff. But it loaded as gibberish and played in a melodic brief so beautiful I recorded it with the microphone on the adjacent studio tower before closing down. It’s the first and only time I had done so. Later I found that the program corrupted the file irreparably. The blog and all its subtle confusion, side notes and unpublished briefs were gone for good. What’s more, the computer was backing up at the very moment this happened and the backup file recorded as the corrupt one. It is gone. What remains is a short distorted audible sequence which itself disappeared while converting from native to editable format. It too, is gone. Everything else is live and lived and yours. The rest is pure fiction.
Thursday, November 29, 2007
Saturday, November 24, 2007
Hawks n' Crows
Have I left polite society? How many friends do I know who will walk away or take sides or get even remotely close to base and honest things? Like grunting animals when the den is felled and exposed, redacted and queer to the influence of the mother. When there is not a leader among us, the tension spreads and when the tension spreads men will curse neighbors for saving scraps or storing them or devouring them or for failing to share. Separate wheat from chafe and each will not recognize the other, each grown in the same sifty fields, content to point out the reasons for his own hideous demise. That man will be an example for the petty and the weak. The rest will not care.
…
“I don’t envy your life,” says M Cavot.
Not much I could say to that. “Oh?.”
“I enjoy my kids too much.”
“Of course. I enjoy your kids too much.” But the reason to make the distinction seemed odd. What of the belief in that still small voice or guidance or courage but then again maybe everyone follows it to some extent. Which wouldn’t bother me. It always seemed a precious thing to be human, of all things to be. Many billion still small voices is still smaller than many trillion plankton or the countless sands or lunar dust or chess combinations. Plenty of room for fancy. I wondered if it was arrogant or insane to follow unclear dreams or to describe them as voices or visions. I thought everyone wanted fiction, it helps clarify the living.
“Well, whatever, we had a good time.”
“You playing world of warcraft?” I ask half mocking because I knew he was.
“You think nicotine is addicting. This thing is worse.” He adds in a lower voice as if imparting a secret.
“Right. Pure escape from boredom that doesn’t involve mindless staring. At least you’re punching keys.”
“I know it.” He adds in that same low breath clearly distracted by the game.
“OK, I’ll let you get back to it.” Adding ‘I love you’ in my mind as we are not the kind to say it or at least that wasn’t the habit. I know the final step will include speaking those things.
…
“We won,” says AG.
“I suppose if anyone can tell, it’s you.” We were discussing politeness and feminism and the reaction I had to a recent grad show – beautiful but stale. Well, not stale but safe. Everyone loved it which tells me something, namely that it doesn’t challenge anyone so for me, what’s the use. I told AG this. She responded favorably. I wasn’t a threat and that’s the way she likes her men but with sincerity. I didn’t want to be a threat anyway, so we enjoy each other.
“You should have spoken up,” AG adds.
I let a huff of air escape through my nostrils.
“Enough was said.”
“Do you still feel like a foreigner?” She’s an expat from Europe, still with enough of an accent to call her experience of America into question.
“Always,” she answers.
“Always,” I repeat. “I think that is how you can survive this place.” “Very few here can claim such a perspective.” This animates our conversation because it’s true and it flatters her strengths. Still I said it sincerely. We get back to the impolite thing.
“I mean when I look at her stuff I think of Marina Ambrovic and I think she missed the opportunity.” I was attempting to make the connection that a sheltered American girl from suburban New England perhaps lacks the engagement necessary to roil anything but polite applause. Like a Josh Groban concert. Still I liked them too. I wished they were mine. That’s when AG added the polite line.
“Well, these are more polite.” It’s true, I wondered if that made sense. I felt gruff.
“That’s a good point.” I wonder if I’m just used to scrapping, that I miss too much in through the heat of my skin, always boiling.
“Where’s the new form?” I ask because it’s my thing now. I want to see work stretched to an undeniable new form and full of youth and something real, not just studied.
“It was a good show but you should have asked about that and see what HER answer was.” “I was watching a film with my daughter and it was pretty much all sex and motorcycles and she was really embarrassed to be watching it in front of her mom and dad even though they’re both artists.” She switched to the third person for identity and I made a note of it.
“Really?”, I grunted again through my nose. She obviously loved her kid.
“It was a wonderful movie. We didn’t care but she did.” I understood because we all come from that same roiling catholic repression. It takes bold action to squash the cage. Most can’t survive it. They say the first seven years of life will define a man’s thinking. That is what the church will do to a youth before he even formulates a question. It fails but in a sense, it succeeds in taking hold of what a mind will struggle against. Even Warhol spent his days deflecting the Catholic question. I understand that sweet bastard more every day. Why else would one be so focused on boredom or violence or mindless pop idolatry? I feel certain to meet him in hell. Also, I’m sure he’s not gay and that he believes in love. The beautiful protestant American century just squashed that possibility out of him. What an honest being.
The rest of the conversation was pleasantries. We ended in talk about trauma and getting in on AthruZ’s train. But more about that later.
…
“I don’t envy your life,” says M Cavot.
Not much I could say to that. “Oh?.”
“I enjoy my kids too much.”
“Of course. I enjoy your kids too much.” But the reason to make the distinction seemed odd. What of the belief in that still small voice or guidance or courage but then again maybe everyone follows it to some extent. Which wouldn’t bother me. It always seemed a precious thing to be human, of all things to be. Many billion still small voices is still smaller than many trillion plankton or the countless sands or lunar dust or chess combinations. Plenty of room for fancy. I wondered if it was arrogant or insane to follow unclear dreams or to describe them as voices or visions. I thought everyone wanted fiction, it helps clarify the living.
“Well, whatever, we had a good time.”
“You playing world of warcraft?” I ask half mocking because I knew he was.
“You think nicotine is addicting. This thing is worse.” He adds in a lower voice as if imparting a secret.
“Right. Pure escape from boredom that doesn’t involve mindless staring. At least you’re punching keys.”
“I know it.” He adds in that same low breath clearly distracted by the game.
“OK, I’ll let you get back to it.” Adding ‘I love you’ in my mind as we are not the kind to say it or at least that wasn’t the habit. I know the final step will include speaking those things.
…
“We won,” says AG.
“I suppose if anyone can tell, it’s you.” We were discussing politeness and feminism and the reaction I had to a recent grad show – beautiful but stale. Well, not stale but safe. Everyone loved it which tells me something, namely that it doesn’t challenge anyone so for me, what’s the use. I told AG this. She responded favorably. I wasn’t a threat and that’s the way she likes her men but with sincerity. I didn’t want to be a threat anyway, so we enjoy each other.
“You should have spoken up,” AG adds.
I let a huff of air escape through my nostrils.
“Enough was said.”
“Do you still feel like a foreigner?” She’s an expat from Europe, still with enough of an accent to call her experience of America into question.
“Always,” she answers.
“Always,” I repeat. “I think that is how you can survive this place.” “Very few here can claim such a perspective.” This animates our conversation because it’s true and it flatters her strengths. Still I said it sincerely. We get back to the impolite thing.
“I mean when I look at her stuff I think of Marina Ambrovic and I think she missed the opportunity.” I was attempting to make the connection that a sheltered American girl from suburban New England perhaps lacks the engagement necessary to roil anything but polite applause. Like a Josh Groban concert. Still I liked them too. I wished they were mine. That’s when AG added the polite line.
“Well, these are more polite.” It’s true, I wondered if that made sense. I felt gruff.
“That’s a good point.” I wonder if I’m just used to scrapping, that I miss too much in through the heat of my skin, always boiling.
“Where’s the new form?” I ask because it’s my thing now. I want to see work stretched to an undeniable new form and full of youth and something real, not just studied.
“It was a good show but you should have asked about that and see what HER answer was.” “I was watching a film with my daughter and it was pretty much all sex and motorcycles and she was really embarrassed to be watching it in front of her mom and dad even though they’re both artists.” She switched to the third person for identity and I made a note of it.
“Really?”, I grunted again through my nose. She obviously loved her kid.
“It was a wonderful movie. We didn’t care but she did.” I understood because we all come from that same roiling catholic repression. It takes bold action to squash the cage. Most can’t survive it. They say the first seven years of life will define a man’s thinking. That is what the church will do to a youth before he even formulates a question. It fails but in a sense, it succeeds in taking hold of what a mind will struggle against. Even Warhol spent his days deflecting the Catholic question. I understand that sweet bastard more every day. Why else would one be so focused on boredom or violence or mindless pop idolatry? I feel certain to meet him in hell. Also, I’m sure he’s not gay and that he believes in love. The beautiful protestant American century just squashed that possibility out of him. What an honest being.
The rest of the conversation was pleasantries. We ended in talk about trauma and getting in on AthruZ’s train. But more about that later.
Monday, November 19, 2007
Decisionals
There I was in court for the second time in as many months. This time it wasn’t me, thank god. The last time I stood in court was for a near fist fight I had with an overzealous cop named Bambi who thought it was right and good to give me a ticket for not having a light on my bicycle. I was doing my civic duty and cycling to the bar instead of wielding a deadly vehicular weapon. I told her so. She was unimpressed. After engaging in a little semantic dance, she called another car and had mock conversations with the other troopers (one mustachioed like a villain in a western flick) before releasing me with the ticket, hand on pistol. I shot the western fellow a challenging glance and walked my bike home like a listless hobo. As usual my belligerence accomplished nothing but I fought the ticket anyway and the judge saw it my way. Go figure. The current engagement was for a friend. She needed it and I felt obliged. She walked away with a reprimand and a fine after a second DUI offense, unheard of. I have good luck with the courts if not enforcement. That night we got good and drunk to celebrate. I drove.
When I got home I felt a crushing depression for missing _ _ _ _. It slowly ate away at my heart and mind until I caved and sent a message. No response. It had been four days since I contacted her last and that wasn’t exactly a pleasant encounter. Poor girl had to be hurting and so was I so I caved further and sent a few more texts. No response. Typical. Then I got desperate and sent a whole bunch of messages and called about five times and emailed and finally called her family for news (there was a small chance she had overdosed or some other bullshit). She was fine. I felt like a prick and she got what she needed – to know that her absence caused me a bunch of hurt. After a few days it was clear she wasn’t going to call. I was as good as dead, again. On the practical end, she still had my shit though and something had to be done about that. Loyalty with lovers is fucked up. Amazing we survive it at all.
Later that night at the bar I met a girl. I told her I liked her so we made out near the toilets. It was one of those strange nights where many women showed interest. I must have showed the hurt. I felt vulnerable and I was. Chics dig that. They also like assholes, especially ones that’ll go down on them the first date. I planned on doing that with this beauty except the drinks added up to the spins and I puked out the car window on the way to her place. Once there we smoked a bowl which made the situation critical so I had her drive me home and puked in the bushes in front of the building through the harsh light of her Honda headlamps before heading in. I told her it was a sign. The next six hours I slept slung over the public toilet working up food from two days prior; rock star style. I would’ve puked up my asshole if it wasn’t attached. There was nothing fun about it. I even thought of calling an ambulance then recalled the acute depression episode and decided death would be preferable. It took a full 48 hours to be back to 85% capacity. It felt like a premonition, like God was saying “you will die alone in disgrace. And your lesson will be, accept it, for I am lord.” The lord speaks to me through disgrace; a voice of disreason clouded by the knowledge that it was planted there by my ancestry before choice and before free will. Now he taunts me with unreasonable clarity and love for my enemy at the most dire of moments when hatred would serve me far better. Those who the Lord loves most, he tortures. He plants a perfect bitter seed of truth deeper than flesh. I pitied Saint Sebastian. Heaven is a vat of shit for martyrs and common men, a florid dish of perfect disease. I struggled not to call my wife for how much I understood, how much I loved her. I saw my reflection in the puke; it bent up through the white porcelain which made me dizzy and racked my dirty mind with pain. I felt sorry for God and the job he had with this filthy lot. Then I sat it out as in a truce, my body in pain, grateful it wasn’t my mind. A diseased body is far easier than a diseased mind.
I called the girl three days later to apologize. Apparently it wasn’t so offensive because she came over immediately and fucked me. I was terrible, racked with pain and guilt over my _ _ _ _. Very little of it made sense. I told her how I felt before I put it in, told her I didn’t want to, showed her it was limp and unimpressive. Yet somehow from the gloom it rose, I put it in, worked her and fell sound asleep. The lord stayed silent and I knew I’d leave her too, maybe soon, maybe in a year. It was too soon to tell and I far too stupid to stop it.
When I got home I felt a crushing depression for missing _ _ _ _. It slowly ate away at my heart and mind until I caved and sent a message. No response. It had been four days since I contacted her last and that wasn’t exactly a pleasant encounter. Poor girl had to be hurting and so was I so I caved further and sent a few more texts. No response. Typical. Then I got desperate and sent a whole bunch of messages and called about five times and emailed and finally called her family for news (there was a small chance she had overdosed or some other bullshit). She was fine. I felt like a prick and she got what she needed – to know that her absence caused me a bunch of hurt. After a few days it was clear she wasn’t going to call. I was as good as dead, again. On the practical end, she still had my shit though and something had to be done about that. Loyalty with lovers is fucked up. Amazing we survive it at all.
Later that night at the bar I met a girl. I told her I liked her so we made out near the toilets. It was one of those strange nights where many women showed interest. I must have showed the hurt. I felt vulnerable and I was. Chics dig that. They also like assholes, especially ones that’ll go down on them the first date. I planned on doing that with this beauty except the drinks added up to the spins and I puked out the car window on the way to her place. Once there we smoked a bowl which made the situation critical so I had her drive me home and puked in the bushes in front of the building through the harsh light of her Honda headlamps before heading in. I told her it was a sign. The next six hours I slept slung over the public toilet working up food from two days prior; rock star style. I would’ve puked up my asshole if it wasn’t attached. There was nothing fun about it. I even thought of calling an ambulance then recalled the acute depression episode and decided death would be preferable. It took a full 48 hours to be back to 85% capacity. It felt like a premonition, like God was saying “you will die alone in disgrace. And your lesson will be, accept it, for I am lord.” The lord speaks to me through disgrace; a voice of disreason clouded by the knowledge that it was planted there by my ancestry before choice and before free will. Now he taunts me with unreasonable clarity and love for my enemy at the most dire of moments when hatred would serve me far better. Those who the Lord loves most, he tortures. He plants a perfect bitter seed of truth deeper than flesh. I pitied Saint Sebastian. Heaven is a vat of shit for martyrs and common men, a florid dish of perfect disease. I struggled not to call my wife for how much I understood, how much I loved her. I saw my reflection in the puke; it bent up through the white porcelain which made me dizzy and racked my dirty mind with pain. I felt sorry for God and the job he had with this filthy lot. Then I sat it out as in a truce, my body in pain, grateful it wasn’t my mind. A diseased body is far easier than a diseased mind.
I called the girl three days later to apologize. Apparently it wasn’t so offensive because she came over immediately and fucked me. I was terrible, racked with pain and guilt over my _ _ _ _. Very little of it made sense. I told her how I felt before I put it in, told her I didn’t want to, showed her it was limp and unimpressive. Yet somehow from the gloom it rose, I put it in, worked her and fell sound asleep. The lord stayed silent and I knew I’d leave her too, maybe soon, maybe in a year. It was too soon to tell and I far too stupid to stop it.
Thursday, November 8, 2007
Cocks On a Roost
_ _ _ _ showed up unannounced at the studio door after three days and a series of attempts at contact. I let her in after some protest, fucked her and sent her home with no promises. There’s nothing like rejection to get a woman excited. I thought, “I’m an asshole”, but at least I’m honest. She was extra wet between her legs and it felt relieving to be wanted and inside her. As this occurred I felt the flickering desire for my wife die down to a dark chilling ember and wondered how long it can hold even though I already knew the answer. Every woman must know this, that in the hearts of men our lovers haunt us and can linger for lifetimes. Cheaters, like bumblers, share a different plight but the haunting remains, a disease of the heart or mind or both. These truths are complex and I know them now like I know the lay of the land; essentially blind to the satellite view when traversing it except through plots to highest ground and clues from celestial bodies.
Full of myself and my triumphant cock I pranced around the following morning like a jubilant fawn. I thought, this was the breakthrough; this is what I needed; to know what I want, say what I mean and mean what I say. This was the final piece I was looking for, an end and a new beginning. I was the man again and this wasn’t gonna change anytime soon. Behave or be gone. My way goes. Confront it, anyone, with all the tricks and tools of my trade. Make it useful. Make it sing. Make love. Awaken to power and use it well and good and fierce as a bull and as graceful as a loon. All diplomatic unrest awash by the complete acceptance of poverty and the realized dream of godly love and earthly filth. Accept it all. Weep and be let down and live broken and better in triumphant accord. Like a child. With resolve.
When I returned home from work that evening, after hitching a ride across town from a friend who, by all indications, only tolerated the favor, I found the studio door shut and the key non functional. I knew but didn’t want to believe it for a moment. My studio lock had been changed due to back rent owed. I wrestled with it for awhile and realized this was indeed the case; locked out of my home and workspace through brazen arrogance and ingenious stupidity. From the neighbor’s studio, I made the necessary calls, paid the bill to the best of my abilities and looked forward to some days of rationing and further humility. Some cock; with no coop to roost. I noticed the rails were busy with cars filled with scrap metal as I spoke with Sterz about the boy and recent choices that left him alienated from his family. He’s an artist, what else is new. The boy started school recently and the series of social tests and integrations have begun. They’re gonna need help and friendship and conversation and celebration and discipline and love. I would too. We spoke for a few hours until the burly locksmith and the kindly superintendant showed up. The repo man couldn’t look me in the eye as I bore into him with kindness and acceptance. I understand duty and work and hold no ill but I can’t respect a man who doesn’t lock a stare while speaking or acting his role. I exchanged a check for passage and rested easy that night in meek brutishness watching the full moon rise to the east through the camera’s electronic viewfinder. I looked around at what was left of my stuff and realized I could let it all go, I didn’t need any of it, not the old negatives or the laptop or the cameras or the clothing or books or bike or any of it. As a celebration I searched online for some decent porn, couples who appeared to be in love with no violence and minimal anal, jerked off and fell into a deep and restful sleep.
Full of myself and my triumphant cock I pranced around the following morning like a jubilant fawn. I thought, this was the breakthrough; this is what I needed; to know what I want, say what I mean and mean what I say. This was the final piece I was looking for, an end and a new beginning. I was the man again and this wasn’t gonna change anytime soon. Behave or be gone. My way goes. Confront it, anyone, with all the tricks and tools of my trade. Make it useful. Make it sing. Make love. Awaken to power and use it well and good and fierce as a bull and as graceful as a loon. All diplomatic unrest awash by the complete acceptance of poverty and the realized dream of godly love and earthly filth. Accept it all. Weep and be let down and live broken and better in triumphant accord. Like a child. With resolve.
When I returned home from work that evening, after hitching a ride across town from a friend who, by all indications, only tolerated the favor, I found the studio door shut and the key non functional. I knew but didn’t want to believe it for a moment. My studio lock had been changed due to back rent owed. I wrestled with it for awhile and realized this was indeed the case; locked out of my home and workspace through brazen arrogance and ingenious stupidity. From the neighbor’s studio, I made the necessary calls, paid the bill to the best of my abilities and looked forward to some days of rationing and further humility. Some cock; with no coop to roost. I noticed the rails were busy with cars filled with scrap metal as I spoke with Sterz about the boy and recent choices that left him alienated from his family. He’s an artist, what else is new. The boy started school recently and the series of social tests and integrations have begun. They’re gonna need help and friendship and conversation and celebration and discipline and love. I would too. We spoke for a few hours until the burly locksmith and the kindly superintendant showed up. The repo man couldn’t look me in the eye as I bore into him with kindness and acceptance. I understand duty and work and hold no ill but I can’t respect a man who doesn’t lock a stare while speaking or acting his role. I exchanged a check for passage and rested easy that night in meek brutishness watching the full moon rise to the east through the camera’s electronic viewfinder. I looked around at what was left of my stuff and realized I could let it all go, I didn’t need any of it, not the old negatives or the laptop or the cameras or the clothing or books or bike or any of it. As a celebration I searched online for some decent porn, couples who appeared to be in love with no violence and minimal anal, jerked off and fell into a deep and restful sleep.
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