So vast the surge of human souls that rains
Continuously down on us, I marvel
That there are any left here on the earth.
4.30.2007
4.26.2007
The runaway girl whom the highway men won't catch.
Did you run, run away? Go with the boy; run far. You'll hide away in a forest cabin. He'll hunt and skin, you'll boil water for stew. It'll be a hard life, but you'll make it. And as night falls and you both retire from your duties, give it a good fuck. The fuck the nobleman can't have. He won't catch you. He's too far off; his highway men are too few. Come to the tanner's shop if you should require me; I'll give you what little I can spare.
4.25.2007
4.16.2007
Excerpt from, The Silent Men, Albert Camus
"The strain also foreshadowed old age. Wherever the muscles are involved, work eventually becomes hateful, it precedes death, and on evenings following great physical effort to sleep itself is like death. The boy wanted to become a school-teacher, he was right; those who indulge in clichés about manual work don't know what they're talking about."
3.12.2007
Doctorow Returns for Chancellor’s Series
ACADEMICS: Award-winning author E.L. Doctorow spoke about the connection between religion and writing.
“Writers are conservers who cultivate the human mind,” commented Chancellor’s Distinguished Fellow Edgar Laurence Doctorow, during a lecture given last Thursday to a hall crowded with graduate students, academics and admiring readers. Doctorow returns to UC Irvine after 35 years. Early in his academic career, Doctorow taught in UCI’s then-burgeoning writing program. No doubt he had a hand in its present repute.
Winner of two National Book Critics Circle Awards, the PEN/Faulkner Award, a National Book Award and the National Humanities Medal awarded by President Bill Clinton, Doctorow has firmly established himself as notable among contemporary American novelists. “The Book of Daniel,” written during his stay here at UCI, brought him success and attention from several American literary circles. Recognized as a gifted novelist, Doctorow currently holds the Glucksman Chair in American Letters at New York University and was inducted into the American Academy and National Institute of Arts and Letters in 1984.
“The March,” his latest novel and winner of the 2005 PEN/Faulkner Award, follows William Tecumseh Sherman’s Atlanta Campaign during the finish of the Civil War. Pulitzer Prize-winning critic Richard Eder proclaims in the Los Angeles Times that Doctorow “transforms [historical moments] with a freedom and incandescence that have no more to do with the general run of historical fiction than do ‘War and Peace’ and ‘The Charterhouse of Parma.’” His current project is “Religion and Literature,” on which he gave a lecture last Thursday.
Doctorow likened the writer’s prose to an act of divine creation.
“The source of its genius is knowledge,” Doctorow said. “[It] is a damsel upon whom nothing is lost.” Doctorow contrasted the modern writer and the ancient Biblical writer who authored the “sacred texts.” In both worlds, literature structures a “moral framework for being,” in which the human experience and tradition are founded. The religious authors, however, wrote a more poignant and rapturous moral sermon, than do the novelists of today. But, as Doctorow explained, the nature of modern literature has changed since then, to a more secular humanist approach.
“Language was enchanted [back then], where the act of storytelling held an element of truth,” Doctorow said. The speech of an impassioned prophet carried an unquestioned authority whereas now the prose must “make it on its own.” The modern author must persuade the reader to believe her story upon a sheet of paper. With such a formidable task, the character of the author changed as well.
The dichotomy Doctorow faced as a Jew raised by a pious mother and a secular father, contributed to his creative sensitivity.
“All writers worth a name are unaffiliated with the complete dogma of religion,” where the blend of sedulous devotion and secular humanism is the most admirable trait of an author. Doctorow gave Walt Whitman as an example of such an author.
As the lecture went on, Doctorow’s criticism of religion and its pervasion in American politics became clear. The audience clapped and hollered its approval as Doctorow spoke critically of the Bush administration and its affiliation of the fundamentalist right. With great emotion, he claimed “doubt” to be “the great civilizer on earth”––a compulsion to ethical behavior, he explains, has come as a result of it and blind faith theocracies have only “Satanized and murdered.”
Doctorow has been acclaimed for his eerie ability to create an atmosphere of a familiar past. His intricate and provocative prose makes his narratives – and the messages carried within – some of the best among living American authors.
“Writers are conservers who cultivate the human mind,” commented Chancellor’s Distinguished Fellow Edgar Laurence Doctorow, during a lecture given last Thursday to a hall crowded with graduate students, academics and admiring readers. Doctorow returns to UC Irvine after 35 years. Early in his academic career, Doctorow taught in UCI’s then-burgeoning writing program. No doubt he had a hand in its present repute.
Winner of two National Book Critics Circle Awards, the PEN/Faulkner Award, a National Book Award and the National Humanities Medal awarded by President Bill Clinton, Doctorow has firmly established himself as notable among contemporary American novelists. “The Book of Daniel,” written during his stay here at UCI, brought him success and attention from several American literary circles. Recognized as a gifted novelist, Doctorow currently holds the Glucksman Chair in American Letters at New York University and was inducted into the American Academy and National Institute of Arts and Letters in 1984.
“The March,” his latest novel and winner of the 2005 PEN/Faulkner Award, follows William Tecumseh Sherman’s Atlanta Campaign during the finish of the Civil War. Pulitzer Prize-winning critic Richard Eder proclaims in the Los Angeles Times that Doctorow “transforms [historical moments] with a freedom and incandescence that have no more to do with the general run of historical fiction than do ‘War and Peace’ and ‘The Charterhouse of Parma.’” His current project is “Religion and Literature,” on which he gave a lecture last Thursday.
Doctorow likened the writer’s prose to an act of divine creation.
“The source of its genius is knowledge,” Doctorow said. “[It] is a damsel upon whom nothing is lost.” Doctorow contrasted the modern writer and the ancient Biblical writer who authored the “sacred texts.” In both worlds, literature structures a “moral framework for being,” in which the human experience and tradition are founded. The religious authors, however, wrote a more poignant and rapturous moral sermon, than do the novelists of today. But, as Doctorow explained, the nature of modern literature has changed since then, to a more secular humanist approach.
“Language was enchanted [back then], where the act of storytelling held an element of truth,” Doctorow said. The speech of an impassioned prophet carried an unquestioned authority whereas now the prose must “make it on its own.” The modern author must persuade the reader to believe her story upon a sheet of paper. With such a formidable task, the character of the author changed as well.
The dichotomy Doctorow faced as a Jew raised by a pious mother and a secular father, contributed to his creative sensitivity.
“All writers worth a name are unaffiliated with the complete dogma of religion,” where the blend of sedulous devotion and secular humanism is the most admirable trait of an author. Doctorow gave Walt Whitman as an example of such an author.
As the lecture went on, Doctorow’s criticism of religion and its pervasion in American politics became clear. The audience clapped and hollered its approval as Doctorow spoke critically of the Bush administration and its affiliation of the fundamentalist right. With great emotion, he claimed “doubt” to be “the great civilizer on earth”––a compulsion to ethical behavior, he explains, has come as a result of it and blind faith theocracies have only “Satanized and murdered.”
Doctorow has been acclaimed for his eerie ability to create an atmosphere of a familiar past. His intricate and provocative prose makes his narratives – and the messages carried within – some of the best among living American authors.
3.10.2007
Photographer Laurencine Lot Discusses ‘Sacred Monsters’
Chancellor’s distinguished lecturer Laurencine Lot visited UCI last Wednesday to lecture on her experiences as photographer of the venerated Comédie-Française, France’s major classical theatre founded in 1680. During her visit, she took the opportunity to photograph several drama students in class, capturing the heart and spirit of acting.
Laurencine Lot’s photographs of French and European theatre have earned worldwide acclaim for their intimate portrayal of stage actors. She has also brought her work to places such as Barcelona, Spain, Luxembourg and Moscow, Russia.
Lot began her freelance photography in 1973 as a young university student in Paris, when she was captivated by John-Michael Tebelak’s “Godspell,” playing at the Théâtre de la Porte Saint-Martin, which she saw over 70 times. Thereafter, equipped with only a small matchbox camera, Lot started photographing the Comédie-Française and other stages around Paris and Europe, gaining reputation and authority as a gifted photographer of theater. For over 30 years, attending thousands of plays, Lot has literally catalogued the history of French theatre, producing remarkably visceral images of France’s “monstres sacrés” (sacred monsters).
Although there exists no English equivalent to this bizarre moniker, Lot describes these “sacred monsters” as those actors who possess “all the qualities of acting required to reach God at some point.”
Lot aims to shoot and arrest the sacred monster in her divine climax, which flees from scene to scene. And in her vivid photographs, rather than ceasing to be when the play ends, the soul of the actor’s character is preserved and kept alive, suspended in its brilliant animation and passion.
Lot has photographed famous sacred monsters such as Jeanne Moreau, Maria Casarès, Carlotta Ikeda and Jean-Claude Drouot. Lot told of a particularly close relationship with Maria Casarès, whom she photographed doing her make-up backstage. By this form of contact, befriending and meeting her subjects backstage, Lot put personality to otherwise anonymous faces. Lot bridges photographer with subject and injects herself into the theatre culture, becoming a part of it, rather than sitting distant in the audience.
Upon being asked of her future projects or plans, Lot reveals the nature of not only her photography, but her attitude towards her profession: a day-by-day, whimsical approach. When I asked her if she had any plans to photograph American Broadway, she said she would not rule it out, and if a whim took her, she possibly may. She also describes her photography in much the same manner, describing her work as rooted in “anticipation and instinct.” Her method is far from conventional, rather, it is like the nuances and vagaries of acting—unpredictable and wanton.
Some of her photographs were showcased in the Cal-IT2 Atrium last week. Her last exhibit was in Moscow, Russia. In this new century, Lot has already published four telling books of the stage: “La Comédie-Française, Trente Ans de Creation Théâtrale” (2003), with photographs from the theater company’s last thirty years; “Monstres Sacrés, Sacrés Comédien” (2004), with photographs of “sacred monsters” from numerous theaters around France; “Carlotta Ikeda: Danse Butô et au-delà” (2005), following Carlotta Ikeda’s 25 year acting career; and the most recent “Catherine Samie, une enfant de Molière” (2007), which follows the long and famous career of Catherine Samie, deemed as one of France’s most successful classical actresses. In 2002, Lot also published Tous les Vélos du monde, in which photographs of bicycles from all over the world appear.
Lot describes her vocation as a “magical job,” and plans to continue photographing theater for the rest of her life. Although photography is her primary occupation, she also translates books from English and German to her native French, including her own renditions of English psychologist Gregory Bateson.
Lot is cherished in the prolific and expansive French theater and she certainly reciprocates its sentiments with love, patronage, and a lifelong devotion to the stage. She lives in Paris with her husband, playwright and novelist Jean Verdun.
Laurencine Lot’s photographs of French and European theatre have earned worldwide acclaim for their intimate portrayal of stage actors. She has also brought her work to places such as Barcelona, Spain, Luxembourg and Moscow, Russia.
Lot began her freelance photography in 1973 as a young university student in Paris, when she was captivated by John-Michael Tebelak’s “Godspell,” playing at the Théâtre de la Porte Saint-Martin, which she saw over 70 times. Thereafter, equipped with only a small matchbox camera, Lot started photographing the Comédie-Française and other stages around Paris and Europe, gaining reputation and authority as a gifted photographer of theater. For over 30 years, attending thousands of plays, Lot has literally catalogued the history of French theatre, producing remarkably visceral images of France’s “monstres sacrés” (sacred monsters).
Although there exists no English equivalent to this bizarre moniker, Lot describes these “sacred monsters” as those actors who possess “all the qualities of acting required to reach God at some point.”
Lot aims to shoot and arrest the sacred monster in her divine climax, which flees from scene to scene. And in her vivid photographs, rather than ceasing to be when the play ends, the soul of the actor’s character is preserved and kept alive, suspended in its brilliant animation and passion.
Lot has photographed famous sacred monsters such as Jeanne Moreau, Maria Casarès, Carlotta Ikeda and Jean-Claude Drouot. Lot told of a particularly close relationship with Maria Casarès, whom she photographed doing her make-up backstage. By this form of contact, befriending and meeting her subjects backstage, Lot put personality to otherwise anonymous faces. Lot bridges photographer with subject and injects herself into the theatre culture, becoming a part of it, rather than sitting distant in the audience.
Upon being asked of her future projects or plans, Lot reveals the nature of not only her photography, but her attitude towards her profession: a day-by-day, whimsical approach. When I asked her if she had any plans to photograph American Broadway, she said she would not rule it out, and if a whim took her, she possibly may. She also describes her photography in much the same manner, describing her work as rooted in “anticipation and instinct.” Her method is far from conventional, rather, it is like the nuances and vagaries of acting—unpredictable and wanton.
Some of her photographs were showcased in the Cal-IT2 Atrium last week. Her last exhibit was in Moscow, Russia. In this new century, Lot has already published four telling books of the stage: “La Comédie-Française, Trente Ans de Creation Théâtrale” (2003), with photographs from the theater company’s last thirty years; “Monstres Sacrés, Sacrés Comédien” (2004), with photographs of “sacred monsters” from numerous theaters around France; “Carlotta Ikeda: Danse Butô et au-delà” (2005), following Carlotta Ikeda’s 25 year acting career; and the most recent “Catherine Samie, une enfant de Molière” (2007), which follows the long and famous career of Catherine Samie, deemed as one of France’s most successful classical actresses. In 2002, Lot also published Tous les Vélos du monde, in which photographs of bicycles from all over the world appear.
Lot describes her vocation as a “magical job,” and plans to continue photographing theater for the rest of her life. Although photography is her primary occupation, she also translates books from English and German to her native French, including her own renditions of English psychologist Gregory Bateson.
Lot is cherished in the prolific and expansive French theater and she certainly reciprocates its sentiments with love, patronage, and a lifelong devotion to the stage. She lives in Paris with her husband, playwright and novelist Jean Verdun.
2.14.2007
Apparently, the guys had broken into one of the rooms at an old, abandoned retirement home, and set themselves up something pretty enviable: a mini-fridge stocked with the "good stuff," a tattered couch, and a mattress in the bedroom. They were having a shindig tonight, and it's supposed to be "chill," or so I've heard. Paul was driving down to chauffeur us. He had the previous night been there, so he knew how to get there, and generally he's the one who catches wind of these sort of gems.
We arrived around dusk at the time when the liquor was in full display on the cheap, worn table. Amongst the bottles of Jack Daniel, Bicardi, Jim Bean, and Captain Morgan, were shot glasses, cluttered in such a way as to suggest little use; after all, the fluorescent lights with which the room had been equipped hadn't needed to be flicked on yet. I think these kind of promiscuous gatherings begged for only two lighting options--either a dusky, lackluster natural light, or a harsh, palpable fluorecent bulb.
A couple of guys put on disgustingly banal hip hop, and started to dance with a couple of nondescript blondes. The carpet on which they danced was a stained ocre color, matted from years of various furniture arrangements and shoes not taken off at the foyer. The whole scene was disgusting; the dicking around just to get laid; the motions one had to deal with when, at this kickback, all the attendants were carnal and intemperate bastards--as I said: the dicking around. Fuck it, cynics always lose, and nothing ever comes out of analyzing the whole damned situation. Embrace the fucking hilarity of it all; use it, manipulate it, so that you can, too, get ass.
On the couch sat two cross-legged girls, not more than sixteen years of age. One had oily black hair and a tawdry white skirt that went down scarcely to her mid thigh; the other, red hair on a talcum white face, wore a sickly halter top that exposed a pierced navel. I could just imagine the redhead, ravaged by so many greasy men, curling smoke about her lips as she sat on a soiled bed in some guy's apartment, whom she had met only the night before--yes she had that air of debauchery about her. Anyone would have wanted to be one of those greasy men.
The girls--the pretty girls--weren't the kind to bat their eyes or--they weren't ladies, suffice to say, and that's enough to be said. They were just as crass and hedonistic as the boys, preferring martinis in wax paper Dixie cups. Though, they knew the game, and would give indignant lip if called a sullied whore, but they took great joy in the sport. Their hand was the goal, taut moisturized skin, gussied to empower them to capture the victor, whomever they chose. Not between the girls and boys, but amongst the girls, did the control exist. The boys--damned silly boys--were objects for their leisure and pleasure; they aped like fools, cavorting in something which they had little part. Pretty girls played with dicks like a symphony. Applying bow to string, they played and played and played played played--with taut moisturized skin, dark pretty freckles and moist glossy lips, they did play their boy marionettes. Lovely, lovely girls.
All ladies (and girls) hold spell over boys--they do. An alluring smile and a ruthless gusto cast it. Easy, easy boys.
We arrived around dusk at the time when the liquor was in full display on the cheap, worn table. Amongst the bottles of Jack Daniel, Bicardi, Jim Bean, and Captain Morgan, were shot glasses, cluttered in such a way as to suggest little use; after all, the fluorescent lights with which the room had been equipped hadn't needed to be flicked on yet. I think these kind of promiscuous gatherings begged for only two lighting options--either a dusky, lackluster natural light, or a harsh, palpable fluorecent bulb.
A couple of guys put on disgustingly banal hip hop, and started to dance with a couple of nondescript blondes. The carpet on which they danced was a stained ocre color, matted from years of various furniture arrangements and shoes not taken off at the foyer. The whole scene was disgusting; the dicking around just to get laid; the motions one had to deal with when, at this kickback, all the attendants were carnal and intemperate bastards--as I said: the dicking around. Fuck it, cynics always lose, and nothing ever comes out of analyzing the whole damned situation. Embrace the fucking hilarity of it all; use it, manipulate it, so that you can, too, get ass.
On the couch sat two cross-legged girls, not more than sixteen years of age. One had oily black hair and a tawdry white skirt that went down scarcely to her mid thigh; the other, red hair on a talcum white face, wore a sickly halter top that exposed a pierced navel. I could just imagine the redhead, ravaged by so many greasy men, curling smoke about her lips as she sat on a soiled bed in some guy's apartment, whom she had met only the night before--yes she had that air of debauchery about her. Anyone would have wanted to be one of those greasy men.
The girls--the pretty girls--weren't the kind to bat their eyes or--they weren't ladies, suffice to say, and that's enough to be said. They were just as crass and hedonistic as the boys, preferring martinis in wax paper Dixie cups. Though, they knew the game, and would give indignant lip if called a sullied whore, but they took great joy in the sport. Their hand was the goal, taut moisturized skin, gussied to empower them to capture the victor, whomever they chose. Not between the girls and boys, but amongst the girls, did the control exist. The boys--damned silly boys--were objects for their leisure and pleasure; they aped like fools, cavorting in something which they had little part. Pretty girls played with dicks like a symphony. Applying bow to string, they played and played and played played played--with taut moisturized skin, dark pretty freckles and moist glossy lips, they did play their boy marionettes. Lovely, lovely girls.
All ladies (and girls) hold spell over boys--they do. An alluring smile and a ruthless gusto cast it. Easy, easy boys.
2.12.2007
From The Lonely Londoners, Sam Selvon
Also, for the old test who singing, it ain't have no thought at all about where this tanner come from, or who throw it, man, woman or child, it ain't make no difference. All he know is that a tanner fall in the road, and he had to watch it else it roll and get lost.
When you come to think of it, everything in life like that. Maybe afterwards if a friend go to that woman and say that the test is a lazy fellar and worthless, she wouldn't throw any more money if he pass up that street. Or if the fried say he is a poor old man having a hard time she will throw a bob the next time he pass.
When you come to think of it, everything in life like that. Maybe afterwards if a friend go to that woman and say that the test is a lazy fellar and worthless, she wouldn't throw any more money if he pass up that street. Or if the fried say he is a poor old man having a hard time she will throw a bob the next time he pass.
2.05.2007
From Burmese Days, George Orwell
"Is my hair very untidy?" she said.
"It's beautiful."
"But has it got untidy? Smooth it for me, would you, please?"
"It's beautiful."
"But has it got untidy? Smooth it for me, would you, please?"
1.15.2007
She fled the tin foil grips of her mother;
from the styrofoam and cellophane dinners.
First sporting couture and stiletto heels,
She took to high fashion and modern culture.
Her walk made the boys on the street anxious;
her urbane speech sweetened her kiss of class.
Sharp in all things aesthestic, she stood there
poised, with fingers straddling a cigarette,
shamelessly waiting for another dance.
All the boys were anxious at their tables;
dirty boys with crass tongues and greasy hair.
Unhanded, the boys left her, all askance.
She fucked selfishly, never heeding another,
but she didn't need to - her grace staggered;
her curves disarmed, and you were hers to use.
She never looked directly at your face,
preferring to keep her chin tilted so.
A match strike preceded a dismount, that bitch.
The allure of her wry smile never quit -
no, she didn't have an answering machine.
from the styrofoam and cellophane dinners.
First sporting couture and stiletto heels,
She took to high fashion and modern culture.
Her walk made the boys on the street anxious;
her urbane speech sweetened her kiss of class.
Sharp in all things aesthestic, she stood there
poised, with fingers straddling a cigarette,
shamelessly waiting for another dance.
All the boys were anxious at their tables;
dirty boys with crass tongues and greasy hair.
Unhanded, the boys left her, all askance.
She fucked selfishly, never heeding another,
but she didn't need to - her grace staggered;
her curves disarmed, and you were hers to use.
She never looked directly at your face,
preferring to keep her chin tilted so.
A match strike preceded a dismount, that bitch.
The allure of her wry smile never quit -
no, she didn't have an answering machine.
1.08.2007
Our legs buckled, and like rag dolls, we collapsed upon the grassy slope, tumbling revolution after revolution; our laughter making sound spirals that drifted among the arbor leaves. With the greatest of passionate vigor, our helices caroused with the birds and the fruit, which, precariously swayed from the branches to which they held clung.
Our eyes agape, we rolled to a terminal stop - so bright was the sun above, but we didn't dare squint; every curve, every complexion, and every surface was kept alive by an argus-eyed stare.
I blinked first, and I'm sorry - the clouds then came, and the sun dimmed; the grass became bristly rough, and rent the pores of our skin; the fruit rotted quickly, and the birds asphyxiated under the stifling fumes. All grew dead. All grew quiet. And we both just laid there in tears.
We didn't know how fragile our world had become.
12.29.2006
12.10.2006
Personal Ads from the London Review of Books
And people say the academic and intellectual are boring and lack a sense of humor:
Beneath this hostile museum curator's exterior lies a hostile museum curator's interior. We meet at the coat check and never - and I mean never - deviate from the mapped route. Zone one: Ancient Egypt. Zone two: The Treasures of Greece. Zone three: guided tours only, keep your hands where I can see them. F, 38. Box no. 3452
Most vegetarians complain about missing the taste of bacon. Not me, I complain about my liver disease. And rural postal services. Man, 40. Box no. 3143
My animal passions would satisfy any woman, if only it weren't for the filibustering of this damned colon. And the chafing of these infernal hospital sheets. Write now to M, 83, for ward visiting hours and a list of approved solids, Box no. 2377
You're a brunette, 6', long legs, 25-30, intelligent, articulate and drop-dead gorgeous. I, on the other hand, am 4'10", have the looks of Herve Villechaize and carry an odour of wheat. No returns and no refunds at box no. 3321
My finger on the pulse of culture, my ear to the ground of philosophy, my hip in the medical waste bin of Glasgow Royal Infirmary. 14% plastic and counting - geriatric brainiac and compulsive NHS malingering fool (M, 81), looking for richer, older sex-starved woman on the brink of death to exploit and ruin every replacement operation I've had since 1974. Box no. 7648 (quickly, the clock's ticking, and so is this pacemaker).
Remember when all this was open fields, and you could go out and leave your door unlocked? Woman, 24. Inherited her mother's unreasonable and utterly unfounded nostalgia (and her father's hirsute back). WLTM barber with fondness for Sherbet Dib-Dabs and Parma Violets. Box no. 8486
Your age is immaterial, your looks irrelevant. Your bank balance, on the other hand - lets not joke about with that. Grabbing F (28). Box no. 3652
Beneath this hostile museum curator's exterior lies a hostile museum curator's interior. We meet at the coat check and never - and I mean never - deviate from the mapped route. Zone one: Ancient Egypt. Zone two: The Treasures of Greece. Zone three: guided tours only, keep your hands where I can see them. F, 38. Box no. 3452
Most vegetarians complain about missing the taste of bacon. Not me, I complain about my liver disease. And rural postal services. Man, 40. Box no. 3143
My animal passions would satisfy any woman, if only it weren't for the filibustering of this damned colon. And the chafing of these infernal hospital sheets. Write now to M, 83, for ward visiting hours and a list of approved solids, Box no. 2377
You're a brunette, 6', long legs, 25-30, intelligent, articulate and drop-dead gorgeous. I, on the other hand, am 4'10", have the looks of Herve Villechaize and carry an odour of wheat. No returns and no refunds at box no. 3321
My finger on the pulse of culture, my ear to the ground of philosophy, my hip in the medical waste bin of Glasgow Royal Infirmary. 14% plastic and counting - geriatric brainiac and compulsive NHS malingering fool (M, 81), looking for richer, older sex-starved woman on the brink of death to exploit and ruin every replacement operation I've had since 1974. Box no. 7648 (quickly, the clock's ticking, and so is this pacemaker).
Remember when all this was open fields, and you could go out and leave your door unlocked? Woman, 24. Inherited her mother's unreasonable and utterly unfounded nostalgia (and her father's hirsute back). WLTM barber with fondness for Sherbet Dib-Dabs and Parma Violets. Box no. 8486
Your age is immaterial, your looks irrelevant. Your bank balance, on the other hand - lets not joke about with that. Grabbing F (28). Box no. 3652
A Hanged Man
Leaning against the bank's wooden colonnade, I took several long drags from one of the rolled cigarettes I kept in my shirt pocket. The air was moist after the long showers which had fell during the night. It had rained for a good four hours before dawn, waking the town from its indolent routine. A hanging was to take place; a spectacle for all ages. The children made masks in effigy of the condemned man, but they were too generic to resemble the person for whom they were intended. The man, I'm told, committed horse theft; typical, but I guess the judge wanted to make an example. In these parts, horses were good for two things--breeding and selling. If you couldn't do either of them, you had to steal.
I'd reckon him to be royalty, if not for the circumstances; the aire he cast about muted the crowd and etiolated their skin. I was too far away to see his face, but the man appeared as a debutant performing before the pallid and mute crowd. I don't know who this man is, but in earnest I cared for his fate. What if he were a good man with a harmless disposition for theft? David was a murderous adulterer, yet he was so loved and favored. What if, for all the sin in him, a redemption commanded still a moral graceness, like Moses at Mizraim.
I departed the colonnade, walked over to the gallows, stepped up onto the platform, pulled out my gun, and shot the executioner. He fell into the crowd, juxtaposing a feverish red to the pale-stricken crowd. They say that red is the color of revolution. For the first time, I looked at him. He had been gruffed up a bit by the jailer, sporting bruises of a variety of shapes and sizes. A grizzled beard contributed to his guilty appearence, and resembled that of a ruffian visiting port after a few months at sea. "Who are you," he asked with a contemptuous tone. I didn't answer. He asked again. I was wrong; this man is nothing but a common vagabond, not some Christ to save me from the fucking indolence of this town...so, I shot him in the face. Slumping to the platform, the smell of pathetic mortality filled my nostrils. I announced to the children, "Remove your masks; for he is not worth your worship or fear."
Enraged with nihilism, I fired off four more shots into the man, but then I stopped. One of the children approached and gave me a pendant. There were neither demarkations of signfigance, nor vestiges of engraving on the trinket; so, then, why had it been given to me? The child spoke, "Worship this and keep it close in mind. This is your mind now." To which, I raised my gun to my temple and fired.
I'd reckon him to be royalty, if not for the circumstances; the aire he cast about muted the crowd and etiolated their skin. I was too far away to see his face, but the man appeared as a debutant performing before the pallid and mute crowd. I don't know who this man is, but in earnest I cared for his fate. What if he were a good man with a harmless disposition for theft? David was a murderous adulterer, yet he was so loved and favored. What if, for all the sin in him, a redemption commanded still a moral graceness, like Moses at Mizraim.
I departed the colonnade, walked over to the gallows, stepped up onto the platform, pulled out my gun, and shot the executioner. He fell into the crowd, juxtaposing a feverish red to the pale-stricken crowd. They say that red is the color of revolution. For the first time, I looked at him. He had been gruffed up a bit by the jailer, sporting bruises of a variety of shapes and sizes. A grizzled beard contributed to his guilty appearence, and resembled that of a ruffian visiting port after a few months at sea. "Who are you," he asked with a contemptuous tone. I didn't answer. He asked again. I was wrong; this man is nothing but a common vagabond, not some Christ to save me from the fucking indolence of this town...so, I shot him in the face. Slumping to the platform, the smell of pathetic mortality filled my nostrils. I announced to the children, "Remove your masks; for he is not worth your worship or fear."
Enraged with nihilism, I fired off four more shots into the man, but then I stopped. One of the children approached and gave me a pendant. There were neither demarkations of signfigance, nor vestiges of engraving on the trinket; so, then, why had it been given to me? The child spoke, "Worship this and keep it close in mind. This is your mind now." To which, I raised my gun to my temple and fired.
11.16.2006
Damned Rice
The road has[n't] people on it,
but maybe they're aberrations--
from where? Possibly a world not
like mine.
In my world, there are only
me and aberrations--
apparitions of unfamiliarity;
like a cruel consciousness of confusion
When you know everything about what confuses you,
but it still confuses--
I am confused,
like a monkey caught in a coconut
Wrenching and wrenching,
grinding bare my knuckles--
what I want won't come out and leave me happy,
like a drunkard who finds enough for another
He marvels at the money,
and is certain on what he'll spend his treasure--
no, I'm sorry, he'll be back with his hand in the coconut,
like Me
but maybe they're aberrations--
from where? Possibly a world not
like mine.
In my world, there are only
me and aberrations--
apparitions of unfamiliarity;
like a cruel consciousness of confusion
When you know everything about what confuses you,
but it still confuses--
I am confused,
like a monkey caught in a coconut
Wrenching and wrenching,
grinding bare my knuckles--
what I want won't come out and leave me happy,
like a drunkard who finds enough for another
He marvels at the money,
and is certain on what he'll spend his treasure--
no, I'm sorry, he'll be back with his hand in the coconut,
like Me
10.31.2006
10.30.2006
Idyll
The philosophy professor lectured on Descartes’' Meditations, utilizing the image of a tree to describe Descartes’' aim of authorship. I lingered perhaps too long on this image, and drifted off into an arbor idyll daydream--of course, not having anything to do with Descartes.
Imagine, first, the edge of a forest, where meadow meets a dark, gloomy wall of deciduous trees; and you're peering out from just within the forest to the meadow and an autumn ocher sky. Distinguishing itself from both the forest and the meadow, a magnificent maple tree stands as a median between the two adjoining natures. The air is languid and saturated with a goldenrod mixture of pollen and dust. Wisteria and vines bind the tree into shackled servitude to their purposes, promising never to slip to younger times; a time when the tree wasn't modestly dressed. A musty, earthy odor overpowers the senses, masking the rank recesses of the inner forests; as if the tree itself let off the pleasant smell. You, the imaginer, are cradled in a bed of root and moss, as a warm afternoon draft lulls you to sleep.
It was a moment of reverie--yummers.
Imagine, first, the edge of a forest, where meadow meets a dark, gloomy wall of deciduous trees; and you're peering out from just within the forest to the meadow and an autumn ocher sky. Distinguishing itself from both the forest and the meadow, a magnificent maple tree stands as a median between the two adjoining natures. The air is languid and saturated with a goldenrod mixture of pollen and dust. Wisteria and vines bind the tree into shackled servitude to their purposes, promising never to slip to younger times; a time when the tree wasn't modestly dressed. A musty, earthy odor overpowers the senses, masking the rank recesses of the inner forests; as if the tree itself let off the pleasant smell. You, the imaginer, are cradled in a bed of root and moss, as a warm afternoon draft lulls you to sleep.
It was a moment of reverie--yummers.
12.04.2005
Music to my eyes
the piano starts, but by only one note,
repeating
repeating
repeati--and softly the cello accompanies in scales
then numbers
dash off strings and fill the room
a hundred fingers tapping and tapping
but by only ten
envoking emotion to order another scotch
and to lend your ears for awhile more
by god, where has everybody run off?
oh, they are all at the bar ordering gin and tonic
and the cello opens rifts as the piano turns notes into
volume
depth
precision
momentum
power
what happens when the world is music
and nobody knows it?
repeating
repeating
repeati--and softly the cello accompanies in scales
then numbers
dash off strings and fill the room
a hundred fingers tapping and tapping
but by only ten
envoking emotion to order another scotch
and to lend your ears for awhile more
by god, where has everybody run off?
oh, they are all at the bar ordering gin and tonic
and the cello opens rifts as the piano turns notes into
volume
depth
precision
momentum
power
what happens when the world is music
and nobody knows it?
11.02.2005
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
