Monday, December 25, 2006

Indie: Is self-deprecation a rejection of self-importance? Or merely an odder form of the same?

This existence playing out for one person, a moment at a time--and also occupied by an awareness of the existence of another. So that every step is like a thought given to those steps of this other, whose heart is beating as surely as your own.

But the other is always wholly absent. His existence like a breath barely noticed, but subtly audible when due attention is spared. And for some reason it is, more often than before... before what?

Existence is not a necessary thing--we are blessed to have it. Do you see this? Can you give me a reason for why you do anything!? I wouldn't accept it anyway.

This other person--illustrative; identical; entirely possible. He is a blanket thrown over the presence of cold in a place that it belongs. Gratification is at odds with appreciation. Why the constant looking around? Is life a decision we can't remember making? [But if existence is defined thus, ought our lives be too?]

It's living inside of your head--and in this way intuiting correctly the extent of the world as limit-unrelated. This is strangely like pointing at things, saying "Look! You see!?" with gratitude & frankness, and a threat behind grinning teeth and eyes--disallowance of pity in the slightest, so inappropriate; misplaced with obscene certainty.

A line does not dictate motion. Rather, it assures us of a beginning or an end. While a circle gives potential to eternity? [People are doing things! All the time, they're doing things!!] Quit pretending that you know what's going on, please.

Friday, December 15, 2006

Ugh. Or maybe not. (Who do we perform for!?) Mediocrity is so depressing.

Stop fucking around. This is it: yours. When were you ever mistaken until now? (But this is just the framework, fancied up.)

It's when shoving through the ocean during winter sounds like a good idea that you know you might be getting somewhere, but charging through the rain with a pit bull gets you noticed. It's when you fill your head with the most cunning self-deprecation imaginable for to disappear the irrational smile that still stays. It's how the things you do have to have never been done exactly before so that you can disregard anyone else's silly glance. It's sitting in a computer lab at 2am with your hood pulled over your face to keep your grin your own, and you know your eyes would show at least that they're holding something back.

But this isn't good enough yet. We've gotta make it into something, maybe magnificently important.

He's walking. Where's he walking to? He's in the forest. Is he with somebody? Alone? Of course he's alone. And he's barefoot. His shoes are in his backpack and his feet hurt, but he's glad of it...

The stones that had settled into dents on the bottom of his feet keep others from their intended invasion. Not that the pain differentiates this for him, he who would have felt either sentence sufficient. Presently, he mumbles to himself.

“It's not true, you know, don't pretend you don't! You know what's real, no matter how much you think you should forget...” He won't let his feet bleed. “Poetry's not good enough this time. There needs to be something more than words, but you have to bear it there beyond them. Just don't forget the taste in your mouth right now.”

I want to pinpoint this. I want to describe everything; it's all very important, if only because it's not that at all. But it's all here: the wrong necklace; the insistent smile; the unlived memory of sex; the smell of polluted sea on skin; the split-ends in honeyed hues; the disregarded fingertips; the dampness. What are we to do with all of it?

“Who else knows what it's like, not to be waited for?” He needs to eat something but he has no desire to subdue his body's complaints. It seems to him obscene, or at least inconsiderate, pausing to satisfy such things: it doesn't matter where he's going—what right has he to stop?

How can it be untrue, and still this real? [This is what you want at all times? Something better than what you have? Keep talking yourself down, love. Solitude is not a disease. If you could watch yourself from afar, you would find yourself suddenly proud. Don't forget that this is so.]

Tuesday, December 5, 2006

The sweetest candied yams or debilitating depression? Hmm...

[WE HAVE TO GO INTO SLOW MODE--IT'S NECESSARY FOR-TO-WRITE, FOR SOME REASON. COLD FEET AND FINGERS, i THINK, SEEM TO BETTER REALIZE SOMETHING.]

"Counterfeit exhaustion got him there, but the coming fall is all his own. His pulse is strong and slow, which seems odd to him. Under his breath, his own voice mutters to him but he isn't making it out."

[YOU HAVE TO FALL INTO THE VOICE, AND THEN YOU HAVE TO FIGURE OUT WHAT IT'S SAYING; YOU SO EASILY WRITE ABOUT BEING this PRESENT THAT IT MUST NATURALLY BE GROUNDED IN ITS POSSIBILITIES. (As endless...? Or else you're reading Heidegger these days.)]

"Instead, he gulps the coffee sitting on the church pew beside him and wishes he could be of service to someone."

[YOU'RE NOT PRESENTLY EXHIBITING THE MARK OF A PROLIFIC WRITER!]

(To what do you owe the promise of poetry? Why must being be constantly translated as doing? Doing what!? Bah. You wanna talk about something like love!? God, no--that's what writing is for. Anyway, what's there to know about two people?; we know nothing about Two People. It's only ever one-wanting-wanting-wanting--(ever something more? (Loser.)--one more...whether for-to look at, or else to sit pretty for. I wish I could say, 'Fuck it,' honestly.)

"She's saying from behind him, 'I never met a man like that before...he's like a kid in a candy store when he's sitting on our counselor's stupid, green couch.'"

[LIKE A STEADY-STREAM OF WORDS IN MONOTONE? OR A POT-SHOT, CHEAPLY THROWN AND LACKING CONVICTION?]

"'I feel like I'm putting you on the spot by asking--you don't have to answer...'"

[THE FLOWERS ARE S0 RED UNDER THIS LIGHT! IT'S TERRIBLY LIKE COMPLETION. LAST-LINE, LAST-LINE, LAST-LINE... Man, what a freakin' waste.]