Tuesday, March 30, 2010

How to Write Again (retrospective from a week or two)

"On ne peut penser et √©crire qu’assis [one can’t think and write unless one is seated] (Gustave Flaubert). ––Now I’ve got you, you nihilist! Ass-iduity is the sin against the Holy Spirit. Only thoughts that come to you by walking have any value.”
- Nietzsche, bad translation of
Transcend algebra when the variables start to speak of their own volition. You're checking your graph against your class, but you can see the uncertainty in the curves and if you let it go you know you've come to the right conclusions.

Wait for the night to overtake, wait for the moment to feel you coming on, start with the first word you hear and don't leave spaces. Start in and: keep hold of the only ways you'll ever go, use words like they'll never come together in real literature. You're real literature, you're never real, you'll ever be. Friday nights, never ends, changes when you've had long enough already. Nietzche alluded to it, I'm anxiety and walking proof. Walk-walk-walk it, tell me about high ceilings in libraries, buildings you don't believe in, marching bands and circus housing and entertaining the inevitable.

I've aching eyes and throat, wrists and ankles, but it could be my own fault for screaming at the sound and sleeping under the lights. Girl later, I'll write you a manifesto for making friends; girl today, come down and say hey hey, I always wanted to know you. If you've got a bowl of rice and c-o-n-c-e-n-t-r-a-t-i-o-n, I've got what it takes to be better. Time is strong, carry on, carry on. Melt in the lines, switch over the times, tell me when you're out on the other side.

Saturday, March 27, 2010

Down to the Levee, Part 1



Everyone thinks we must come from the same place to be friends, and wrong again: we're just both pieced in to some social fabric. What shall we drink to? Absent friends, or memories, random meetings, Mariah Anderson, love, lust, or freedom.

When Julius leaves you, he leaves you a step closer to the streets and a block out in every direction, with the soul of a cowboy and the will of the troubadour. Miss Anna, miss butter and sugar in the mornings, misplaced or missed out, miss what now girl, mistakes or take what you can get. Some little kids do more amazing things in a morning than you've done this week. Maybe you'll start getting up earlier (but I can't like coffee, honey, I just cannot).

Some times ain't the right time, but if you go home an honorable man, well, hey Julius, 'til I see you again, which is a surer thing the further we go. Hey Julius, what's the song? Let me hear it again —
Early in the morning, risin' to the street
Light me up that cigarette and I strap shoes on my feet
Got to find a reason, a reason things went wrong
Got to find a reason why my money's all gone

- Sublime, "What I Got"

Monday, March 1, 2010

Getcha kicks, marimba pick-ups (like taking action on regrets)

Have I been secretly priming the pump for my future self? Are we still in contact, in some meta messaging system, now switched over to the cognitive platform in the dead of night of the Dark City? But then, the self current is always being primed by the self previous. Good morning, good night forever.

Skinny heart: you're a secret, but I can see you. As much as you already want to lie to yourself, you must remember that wanting to be sick can be in itself a sickness. There's a fast clock on the trading floor; remember that it counts your time, too.

How grateful we ought to be, how alone we are? Fewer adults have not been dedicated to your care before, nor more. You are finally truly alone at last, most of you. The dark-haired woman will not be patrolling the halls searching, to scold you, to collect you in and hold you. Take heart in your freedom with every early morning you must drag yourself back to the life you've carved out, to keep digging youself into the hole.

Deep heart, you are here to recall that all daylight is not bad and all darkness not evil. You can still skate on skinned knees, and you will when spring comes. Once you had summer legs, bramble-scratched and and rambled, and someday day baby, you will too. If Mikey won't marry you no one could, but future lover, someday will be your first, and I'm here to ask if I'll be there to share in it.
Comfort, comfort
Why do you run for it?
Why can't you keep doing
What you're supposed to do?

Why do you have to go?
Why do you have to go?
I'm in the dark unknown
And you're staying home

- Animal Collective, "Graze"