Sunday, October 05, 2014
our pumping hearts?
Seek and sift
secretions of our
on shifting sands
where secret hearts
an individual's hidden stuff,
diffuse on deltas
before the endless sea
to be submerged
stops and secret hearts
pump no longer
our secret melancholic stuff!
The sun's horizontal
recalls the blazing
passion and loneliness
We start small
so don't see the
difference in height
between mom and dad
And only later learn
it's odd that
she's so much taller.
Thursday, December 08, 2011
Wednesday, November 16, 2011
Monday, October 11, 2010
On the rainy death of some fat man comes and goes a stream of tiny ants, back and forth, forever. What has happened here?! People would yell, if there had been any people around. But the place is empty for miles, just some corpse and some ants in a great big forest.
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
Writing by hand, the physical act of setting ink to page. The pleasant and familiar curves of one's own letters! Bringing forth memories of past encounters with the task.
A keyboard only confuses; forcing one down twisted, unnatural paths. For example, one hunches more uncomfortably forward when one must also stare ahead into the screen.
The impression my pen makes on the paper, however slight, is also lasting; it is testament. And I am God, delivering the word. These are my lines, and can be made by no one else.
One freezes in mid-step on a cold rainy day. Holding an umbrella, you’ve nearly stepped in a puddle! The puddle looks up at you. “Get the fuck out of my face,” it says.
You’re not surprised. This sort of stuff happens all the time. You know you’ve gone mad. Who knows how long you’ve known? Years maybe.
You step wide of the puddle and turn, bending down to face it.
“I said, get the fuck out of my face!”
“You can’t really be talking, I know that,” you say.
“Then you must be crazy, right?” The puddle chuckles. “Come on bub! Can’t you do any better? I’m a talking puddle for godsake!” You're distracted by the clearly agitated ripples upsetting his face.
“Are you talking to me?” You ask, as if he were not there, feeling strange, queasy, like you've done this before, and you know it's really gross. “What am I doing,” you ask, “am I talking to myself?”
“Talking!?” The puddle laughs, causing more ripples, “do you hear anything? Maybe you really are mad! Standing here, on this—what?—street?”—More laughter—“Deep in conversation with a puddle!? And not just that, but one inside your head!? Haha, that’s a good one! A knee slapper!” You could swear that if the puddle had knees, he'd just slapped them for emphasis.
“Then what?” you ask, not really paying attention. You look around. "How many people are watching me have this conversation right now?"
“I think you need to focus more on yourself. You know, what role you’re going to play.” You notice the puddle adjust itself, sending small waves to collide about haphazardly. They settle down and a very arrogant, straight-backed man appears, reflecting off his surface. “Or you could focus on me, I am after all a very important element here. A so-to-say Estragon to your Vladimir, if you can pardon my pretension.”
“But you’re just a puddle.”
“Just a puddle!?” Rain drops begin to sound against your jacket. “So I’m just your average talking puddle then?” The puddle replies. Umbrellas pop open as the street quickly empties of unprepared pedestrians. As the raindrops cascade and impact the puddle's face like tiny meteors, he turns violent; his surface ever shifting and crashing into itself. “if I’m nothing special, why don’t you lean over and take a look at this?”
Intimidated and curious, you bend over even further until your face is hovering just above his surface. You strain to see through the thrashing waves, droplets getting getting in your eyes and making you blink. Is some object hidden there? Your strain to peer within. “I don’t see anything,” you say.
“What do you see?” The puddle asks impatiently.
“All I see are rain drops splashing into to you.”
“Where is your umbrella?”
You stiffen. Standing erect, you look about. Where is it? Nauseated now, you turn around to search behind you and in every direction.“My god! Where is my umbrella!?” Shading your eyes against the rain, you shout, “I don't even remember bringing it with me!”
The rain stops, the puddle settles down. He'd look smug, if a puddle could look smug. “Do you doubt my power now?” He demands. His voice rising from below.
“That’s not fair,” You turn to face him. Feeling childish, you have to stop yourself from stamping your feet. “You’re just fucking with me.”
“I am not!” The puddle grows still. “In this, your—our—story, I make your umbrella disappear!”
“But how is that possible?” You ask.
The wind blows a flutter of tiny waves across the puddle’s face, making it indistinct, like the skin of an old woman. “Are you an idiot, boy? How do you think it’s possible?”
The question deserves some thought. Clasping your hands behind your back, you squint up into the sky, ostensibly contemplating the question. After sometime, you muse, “I’ve gone mad, my original explanation, seems very likely.” You hold your fingers in front of the puddle, ticking them off, as though adding up a simple sum. Clearing your throat in imitation of one who has reached a serious conclusion, you say, “It’s clear to me now.”
Silence stretches, long but not uncomfortable. You've been distracted by birdsong and have almost lost interest in the puddle. Finally, he scowls and says, “Mad!? You? Don’t anthropomorphize so much!”
“What?” You ask, confused.
“Nevermind. There’s not really anything more to talk about.” The puddle sighs and appears to stretch itself out, like an old man preparing to sit and relax in his chair.
A bell! It rings high-pitched and clear. Instinctively, you jump back. A biker in tight, colorful shorts speeds swiftly through the middle of the puddle, scattering its watery guts. The puddle screams out in shock and pain!
Surprised by the recklessness of the biker and the suddenness of the puddle’s scream, you reflexively cover your mouth and shout out, “Holy Jesus fucking Christ!” The biker glances back at you, a scowl on his mouth, his sunglasses yellow and green reflective insect eyes.
The moment passes. “Puddle?” You ask, heart pounding, waves of paranoia—the urge to run—growing more and finally less intense. “Are you ok?”
“God, you really are an idiot, kid,” he says, his face still tossing wildly. “Of course I’m alright. What the fuck could happen to me? I'm a puddle.”
“Then why did you scream?” You ask.
“To fuck with you, kid.” The puddle grins despite the waves, “here, let me tell you something: as it stands now, I—both you and I actually—have a very real, a very near-at-hand (if ever tenuous, mind you) possibly of actually existing. The possibility of really being in the world, being a part of it! And not just that, but actually existing—actually being—for a very long time to come, in perpetuity perhaps! (Though I imagine many small changes must happen first)” The puddle winks at you conspiratorially.
Is this some kind of lesson? You can hardly believe you're being lectured by a puddle. “Well that’s good news, I guess,” you say, reluctant to take the bait.
“Exactly!” The puddle continues enthusiastically. You're pulled ever closer to its grinning surface, although it's against your will. You're so close now and you wonder how you got there. “Now," it continues, "you were right to comment before that I am just a not-so-special puddle.”
“Oh!” Straightening up again, feeling embarrassed, you interrupt, “I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings by it.”
“Whatever. You were right. I am, ultimately, wholly uninteresting,” says the puddle cheerfully.
(“That’s not true!” You feel obliged to add. But you're not sure if you say them aloud.)
“Yes it’s true. And so are you!—not very interesting I mean,” a watery finger emerges starkly from the middle of the puddle. “But!” It exclaims, “We—you and I—might be lucky enough to remain just so uninteresting for the next thousand, even ten-thousand years!”
“Interesting...” you try to begin—
“Wait!” The puddle, ecstatic, is hopping around. “The point is that nothing bad can happen to me here! To us both! Here we are safe, and someday maybe immutable! Do you understand? Here we might grow to become who-knows-what!" He stretches himself upwards, as if drawn by some force, until he's nearly at eye-level with you. "Here, you and I, son, are God!”
Another pause. You gather your wits.
“Ok, listen puddle, I think I get it. But I don’t have time for your philosophizing. I’ve lost my umbrella—I need to retrace my steps, and it is beginning to rain again. I might still be crazy, I haven’t made up my mind yet. (God knows we’ve had our share of strange looks throughout this conversation!) But all that aside, I’m going now. Goodbye!” You turn to leave.
“If that’s what you wish. See you again!” The puddle waves.
Already on your way, you call back, “Probably!" And you smile. "That was pretty cheesy by the way.”
Then, swallowed up by traffic, forgotten.
Monday, May 03, 2010
Friday, April 30, 2010
My site has generated nearly a thousand hits since November. You, like me, are proabably asking yourself how that's possible. Well, it's due my clever title choices of course! You'd be amazed how many people are curious about "marijuana and masterbation" (I'm google result #3)! But the big suprise is "macroevolution". Who knew that more people were interested in macroevolution than in marijuana AND masterbation? In latter's defense, of the 20 most googled phrases that led users to my blog, 11 of them had something to do with marijuana and masterbation (if you let me include "masterbation stain" and "макроеволюция" which is probably Russian for marijuana and masterbation...). The majority of the remaining most searched phrases have to do with being or feeling pissed. Still, "macroevolution" tops the list, with 10 hits this month alone! The real odd man out is " "robert p. george" and neitzsche".
Anyway, I guess there must be some relationship between marijuana and masterbation. All the more reason why marijuana is dangerous and should never be smoked by anyone! We wouldn't want our youth materbating all the time, for fuck's sake!
Or at least that's probably what the people who come here for my macroevolution post think....
PS: I know you're reading my blog, whoever you are....
Monday, April 26, 2010
Tuesday, March 02, 2010
Monday, February 15, 2010
It's been a long while since I've posted anything. And this promises to be short. Here's one for you: A conservative Christian organization dedicated to "presenting America's forgotten history and heroes with an emphasis on moral, religious, and constitutional heritage". In other words, and this the view they whole-heartedly promote: the USA is divinely inspired. Our founders, our law, our destiny: all straight from Jesus. The guiding philosophy of this organization: the devil's in the details... so we'll just leave them out. Nevermind examples of religious infighting, or instances of the religious establishment opposing what later became fundamental to our concept of progress and what constitutes American values. Everything US-historical up until now was one big miracle planned and executed perfectly by God.
The message: we have to keep up God's work! If we don't remain vigilant, the evil liberals and their satanic idol Obama will derail God's plan for America! In brief: God needs our help!
All that's well and good, just about what you would expect really. But now the best part: the organization calls itself "Wallbuilders". What refreshing honesty! Finally, a conservative Christian organization who frankly admits their goal: to segregate our society along those holy boundries of institutionalized religious dogma. Because what would Jesus do? Build walls to keep those fuckin muslims out! And cut taxes for the wealthiest 1%! Amen!
So, in conclusion, vote Palin 2012.
Monday, December 21, 2009
Sunday, December 20, 2009
Monday, December 14, 2009
Thank God! The War on Terrorism protects dozens of people around the world every year, and only costs billions of dollars and tens of thousands of lives. It's about time we extended this extremely effecient, well organized and effective conflict to cyberspace! I'm sick of being enslaved by all this freedom on the internet! Go America. Go Obama.
Sunday, November 29, 2009
I need to submit a 10-page writing sample if I intend to apply to the Germanics PhD program at Washington University. It’s annoying that I also have to take the GRE. I doubt seriously that I will finish both by the deadline. Which makes me appear lazy, and anything but a competitive candidate. And honestly, I feel less competitive even though my resume is now stronger. Stronger, I would venture, than many, even most, other applicants. Why not feeling competitive then? Something broke the wrong way in me. Long have I hoped, daydreamed, that one day something would snap, and presto, a Chell untethered, taking his place among the geniuses of the age. But no. There was no snap, as it turns out, just a slow developing. And what have I become? That is the question. Less obvious than what I was before, that’s for sure. More unusual. Less intelligent perhaps--I’ve definitely lost some learning at least. Unimpressed, less patient; the rise of vice spurred by a doubt of virtue’s asset. Lazy, addicted, barren, enlightened. I am convinced of something more important. I can almost hear the uncanny ahoy! sounding from all the little places most of us long ago forgot. I find myself starring at things I’ve seen ten-thousand times before: little balls of dust or a rotting leaf, the accumulation of hair in the bathtub drain, a light socket or a bit of faded graffiti. These things are not new, and neither do I see them in any sort of new light. They retain, in my unthinking, pondering-less gaze, all of their mundanity. What do I see? Why are these objects so captivating? It’s not nausea, although thinking about it might make me nauseous. It is most surely not something philosophical! The best I can say is that it is absence. That these things are in fact absent. And that I am merely curious that they persist nevertheless. If I were more inclined to tidy up a bit, then perhaps they’d cease to not exist and I’d know just what to do: throw them out! But being indifferent to their usefulness, and content to just let them be, I find myself confused, from time to time, that they are there at all. And I stare at these objects for long moments. Hoping and dreading secretly that the insanity they promise would hurry up and be manifest. What do I do then? I run. I run as fast as I can into my head. And there I slay dragons, become a cybernetic god, have carnal relations with women I’ll never know, write a novel, open an underground club where we plot the overthrow of a fascist USA and generally avoid what must be, I am told, death.
Is this an appropriate beginning for a grad-school writing sample? Or, more importantly, could I keep this up for ten long pages? I’d hate to seem some whimpering bitch, lazy, and so-fuck-it my attitude. Worse still: pretentious; a kind of “academics is so blasé, and this is my middle finger to your decadence…” I do not want to seem to be saying that, because then I'd never be accepted. And besides, who wants to be that guy? Because that guy’s an asshole in all the wrong ways. And this raises another very good question: do I have any choice? It is my experience, as well as yours, that people don’t ever choose who they are. Annoying people (an easy example) know, despite all signs otherwise, that they are annoying people. Of course they feel bad about it! They hate themselves sometimes, and would rather be somebody else. So if I'm a pretentious asshole who projects his own doubts about his academic potential onto the institution he’s afraid will fail to recognize him, can I be held accountable? The answer is: Yes. Especially if said projection takes the form of my grad-school application.
(It is important, before I go any further, to clarify that I am not an annoying person. The other we are still not sure about, although I think my show of self -perspicacity ought to establish some confidence against the assumption that pretension-hiding-insecurity is in any way my defining characteristic. And quite the opposite actually; I’m the sort of person who looks down, averts his eyes, when others laugh at my jokes. The implicit compliment of laughter--that I’ve brought pleasure to others--is wonderful but above all embarrassing. However, annoying I am not! The annoying person from the paragraph above was meant only as an example, not some accidental elucidation of another suspected character flaw. I digress.)
Where to go now? I’m just about three pages down. If I actually submit this, I’d have to be crazy or use a fake name. Who knows, maybe its uncommon enough to be refreshing, but most likely it’ll be interpreted “not-taking-this-seriously.” That is not the case; by the time I finish writing this I will have already re-read it upwards of 100 times. This writing-sample is really an exercise in writing, and as such I hope it will not be so quickly disregarded as something insincere! Writing is serious. If for no other reason than the difficulty required to put all the little morphemes together in significant order. And also the constant disagreements over possible revisions, the frustrating minor changes that already appear somehow in the next sentence prompting undo and again more conflict! The labor reminds one of swimming through molasses, or that dream-state where our most desperate punches are also our least effective!
You: “The act of writing may very well be difficult, and therefore serious. About this we have no disagreements. What is, however, disagreeable to us, is your failure to take seriously your task: to write an acceptable writing-sample!”
Me: “At the risk of sounding like a smart-ass, this is a sample of something I’ve written and so, ipso facto, a writing-sample. It was never up to me to decide on its acceptability. But I am no fool, and I understand your concern. However, I have nothing scholarly of appropriate length to submit. And the reason is, in all my years of study I’ve never written anything honest. Every essay I produced was always already contaminated; compromised for the politics of undergraduate grade-grubbing! This present writing-sample may be little more than barely comprehensible, unthematic splatter writing, but at least its honest! Penned from that place where my words come as authentically as I’m able, and hence more apropos to your assessment of my candidacy than any paper already written for another purpose could be!”
And then there were four. To do six more seems an almost insurmountable task. And so I'll leave this for the present a fragment, and return to it hopefully never...
Sunday, November 22, 2009
I'm joking. I'm wholly against book burning. And, in fact, I wish Palin a measure of success. Nothing would grant Obama a second term more swiftly and cleanly than a messy struggle within the ranks of the GOP. In one corner we could have the conservative establishment, and in the other, the conservative "rogues". The establishment, with all their facts and psudo-higher education certificates, not to mention their more or less concrete policy positions, would appear WAY too elite to all the joe (and especially jane) dumbasses in our country. When you're really stupid, even an honorary degree from community college is threatening. Palin galvanizes these people. They've had a little taste of a country fueled not by ideas or even plausible solutions but rather by angry religious fervor and celebrity worship, and boy does it feel good! Now, with any luck, they'll only vote for Palin or someone who wears Palin's brand. Every other conservative in this country, who doesn't give a shit if the president is on a first name basis with a chunk of Hollywood's a-list, might just refuse to vote altogether for any of these Palin-people. Who would the GOP pick then? Some right-center-right candidate? Someone who wears enough Palin brand to get enough crazies to the polls without discouraging too many of the establishment voters? And what would happen? Well, independents wouldn't vote red because the party will have moved further to the right. The dems will appear to be the only center-oriented party out there. And bam! four more years. Best case scenario: the "rogues" actually go rogue and break off from the GOP. An nice clean split right down the middle. Three mainstream presidential candidates in 2012. Obama vs. Palin vs. old-fart-republican-nobody-knows-guy. Or something like that. Then it would be 30 years of unchallenged democratic rule. Not that I'd ever advocate for that. I mean fuck, the dems ain't that much better, not really. But it would be fun to watch.