Filed under: Uncategorized
It didn’t start anywhere; it just always was. Like nearly everything else in the known world, it evolved in the same creeping manner any large cultural movement eventually obtains, something in the image of an ever-present entity seemingly expanding forever. The actual physics of the movement bore no resemblance to the image presented in every form of media, from thirty second radio ads featuring the most golden voices of the age to the feature films that could craft narrative out of seemingly incongruous experiments with space and time. Eventually, even space and time seemed meaningless in the face of a movement that spread not as a raging inferno, but a smoldering and creeping blaze generating consistent heat.
The movement had constructed itself in the time honored tradition, moving from orthodox dogma to a hypocritical (though largely unnoticed) scramble for positioning that was constrained only by the inability to dictate the terms of reality. This would prove no obstacle, as experiments at all the finer universities would soon prove. Reality for most people came in a bifurcated manner; first hand experience contrasted against expectations and memory (faulty, but tried and true, same as almost everything else) and what they imagined was happening elsewhere. The advent of new technologies didn’t actually change anything except the speed and distance with which an idea could be projected. The rest was window dressing. The cultural movement, which came to be known as (INSERT NAME HERE) came along at a time when both technology and a seemingly endless malaise struck the heart of a great empire. The great questions remaining in the wake of history are not how a benign social movement became an all encompassing weltanschauung, nor the pedantic recreation of an alternate narrative of the rise to power. The most dangerous man in the world solved the riddle when he wondered if it could have been done better. Though still unresolved, the great universities and cultural centers of learning have already begun forming committee’s charged to investigate and identify. Sun rise, sunset. For the moment, that is something best left for later. There is still the past, malleable and dynamic.
I can’t smell a god damned thing. With the music playing in the background turned way up, the sound overcomes every train of thought. Like shattered glass, the whole encumbered moment is in splinters, a little bit of sound, a fragment of light, the reflection of a context, a wisp of smoke the only testimony. Everything was either coming or going with no middle ground. A big-titted anchor on the cable news does the salubrious job of telling the viewer what tales of the past would be told in the soon to be. Spun doesn’t begin to cover it. There was nary an introduction on this tranquil morning, just a meeting between harried winds and my head, swung up from the bed upon waking to the scene.
Late questions spoken in some kind of degraded voice; posture and tone increasingly distant, as if the day that rolls onward to the evening is simply obeying a mechanical structure of a twin mandate to rise and fall each day. What remains from one day to the next is an apparition of unknown origin, metastasizing from single celled beginnings to a complex and vibrant though increasing hard to remember set of fungible stories explaining the why and where of the present. For many of the same reasons, I choose to grow facial hair or perhaps identify my favorite pair of shorts to act as a mnemonic device capable of an instant refresh and keyed in on important narratives that bear constant monitoring.
Utter nonsense and gibberish. I can’t think. Nothing is working the way it’s supposed to, which would usually not matter, except a stunning ignorance slammed down on my memory until all I could think about was a girl who didn’t like clowns. Was it a memory or a hallucination? Hard to tell. It moved like a shadow but spoke like a mute. There is no doubt it doesn’t fit the picture, but no suggestion of malice or even forethought. Like much else here in this happy home, it seems to exist only to remind visitors to adjust expectations accordingly. The whole vibe can manifest itself into a frenzied mass of unmet expectations, and under the wrong circumstances, I have a hunch that things could turn violent. Naturally, as a pacifist, I want nothing to do with any of that madness. Isn’t there someone that deals with that sort of thing?
The key element is that nothing happens. Whatever occurs does so only in relation to the wider background, longer timeline, or murkier light waves. The whole odd deal may (or may not) be related in and of itself to the insightful yet seismic revelations brought on by moments of concentration. I can’t quite imagine what would push a mind in this direction, but have yet to find anything that looks at all like an answer.
It’s been quite a while, but the day is clear and warm while the slow wind blows an experienced summer day across the parking lot and up to the second floor lounge. It feels like the same sunny afternoon I used to get my hands around a few years ago when living a several thousand miles to the left from where I’m sitting right now. This is both discomforting and alluvial, though for different reasons. Imagine looking back only to see the same damn explosion that was in the rear view mirror years ago. Its like it never moved on. Maybe it didn’t, there is no way of knowing sitting this far to the side of all the shit that was. There are stories that I would love to tell, but can’t, because I don’t know the ending. It would be foolhardy to begin a story all the while knowing that the screen would fade to black long before resolution. You wouldn’t like most of the resolution anyway. Too much of a story you can figure out for yourself, but not the ending or where I was going by bringing up a sore subject. If I felt like doing something mean, I would do it, but it is so hard to hurt the ones we hate when the sun lords over the sky here, and far to the left.
Putting on the well spun face to the world for a few moments in a vain attempt to steal whatever isn’t gifted by the morning rains. That’s the long of way of saying that I’m sitting in the middle of a large room on a rainy day, eloquently crafting a narrative that explains disparate data points and a feeling of peace brought on by chemical experimentation. Every once in a while, I laugh out loud for a few seconds before worrying that someone might here my laugh and misinterpret the joy with which air can escape such a meaningless moment. It rapes the mind; it really does. Since there isn’t any kind of agreement to strive for betwixt anything more rapacious than a few molecules playing games in the space between. If there ever was a calm rain falling, you’d be wet.
Bits of picked up themes found scattered in a bunch of different places. While the short term memory required to makes use of the differential is functioning, that is a kind judgment and does not reflect the facts on the ground. You would need a device that could record the practical results of half muttered conversations as well as critique the method and strategy with which they are conducted. That doesn’t even make any sense to end of a cigarette or a brain crippled by under utilization. Just something to consider, not offered or put forth as anything other than an attempt to soothe the fractured time line. Curiosity is a bitch. The exact kind of statement that revels in syllogisms rather than solutions. Selfish to the extent that reason can phase in and out of focus, as well as importance. Could be worse, I guess.
What’s the right reaction to subjectively comparative arguments? Since the very meaning of such an exchange precludes either party from claiming any degree of truth, it seems to be an exercise in futility. This is one of the vexing yet seemingly meaningful questions that somebody should be studying. Grants should be made. Buildings and departments at major universities should be dedicated to helping us all by finally finding the utility in spending increasing amounts of time repeating the phrase “I’m right because.” Speeches will have to be given by personages of some repute, explaining to the multitudes the importance of this undertaking. My assumption is that things will go swimmingly until someone makes the comparison to WW2 mobilization, then everything will fall apart, people will lose faith, and the question that sparked a movement will go unanswered and forgotten. Some will even question whether it was a wise use of resources. From a results based standpoint, it will not have been a wise use of anything. Of course, twenty years later, there will be a small but committed revival movement. Concerts will be held, money donated, more resources consumed, albeit a smaller amount with less national acclaim. This echo movement will also end in failure, but a few of the participants will have the forethought to have a good time and to ride the wave as long as it lasts. At long last, the question will still be unanswered. The formula is adaptable to suit any purpose, to proclaim any movement. And here we were claiming idealism is dead.
When you’re done laughing, stop. Maybe it has something to do with the rising levels of disconnect between the more obvious happenings and the slow devolution of our ability to consider the ramifications of pretense. Maybe that is the long way of saying that there should be no surprise when a system made up of illogical creatures each living according to a slightly different context will be capable of every possible degree of kindness, cruelty, and genius.
Was it a question or a concern? The going rate is steep, much deeper than I’d ever admit to in person, though obviously that is unlikely at best. Slings and arrows are of no use; there’s nothing to target. If it’s good for a thousand mile laugh, all the better. Hysterical negotiation expressed in five single syllable words. It could be the first line of a haiku, or maybe the leftover question asked by a professor trying to teach a student that won’t learn. The words are anathema to the supposition of an answer, and even if an acceptable reply could be found, it would sound like a series of garbled sentences and mixed metaphors. I stammer when I’m nervous, and most everybody knows exactly when I lie.
I’m not saying the words bothered me. With this kind of time on my hands, I can afford to give serious consideration to the most ridiculous of statements. I measure the intent against my slowly extending follicles. A whole bunch of them decided on their own to turn gray, but there are enough black ones left up there to serve as chronometer. Imagine the situation that might (or might not) have given rise to this scene. I see it as a matter of consternation. In between sips of laughter, there is a sadness in knowing that somethings can only be said to the candle in the window. When the lights come on, the image in the glass shimmies off to dance somewhere else.
The phrase did stick with me longer than I’d thought it would. Certainly illustrates the end result of benzedrine head. Most certain this will be mistaken, slapped with a title that almost makes you think….what? That devolution is just a game played by people with nothing better to do? Maybe the answer that seemed so close a few days ago seems a million miles away. Maybe the learning curve is such that we all forget the things we need because it’s too much to keep up with. More questions than answers, and no reply waiting in the mailbox. Just another day’s hair growth, another in a long line of bring down’s and come on’s. A story written on wet newspaper hanging off a stick dug into the mud.
The variety show continues. Every joke is slow, every punchline another chance to consider the how’s and why’s. When I step out into the cold night air to decorate with the smoke from a plain cigarette, I know it could just as easily be located somewhere else with a new backing soundtrack. There’s nothing to differentiate the hateful speech emphasized with what I remember as the voice of destiny and the mutinous hatred streaming in on the back of questions like this. Sentimentality is not one of my vices, but even cynicism seems too blunt an object to cut the cord between here and now.
Then that makes me what? It may as well be a documentary, except I have no issues examining the whole thing in the public sphere. It won’t make anything any easier, just more refractive. If I was to declare that I was something, or something else, would it change the question? I remain unconcerned. I remain as defiant as ever, secure in the knowledge that there’s nothing but time to make use of. This makes me unrepentant, one of the higher planes of moral turpitude. There are moments when it seems really keen to be cornered by the right words. The few nerves still able to respond are trying to take control of my fingers, but all that means is that I have to be more careful about what is brought about by my tired fingers.
I’d have welcomed any exploration of this type had it occurred years ago. Now is too late to worry about what it is I think I am, or, and I mean this generally, what you might mistake me for. I’m the one who paid for mattress and I’m the one who once believed that the right plan might make everything work out for the best. So, the real question isn’t who I think I am, or what any of this bullshit makes me. These games notwithstanding, the real question is why anyone would spend the time to ask a question that they could just as easily answer on their own. You don’t want to see me. You want me to see you. We’ll continue at your leisure. Get a drink, grab your future and dance to the tune seeping out of the radio. These are the height of times, and they won’t last forever. Nothing ever does.
Filed under: Poetry
tanked again.
in this place the empty cans
speak over protestations.
i thought real hard about
all the suppositions
and Mickey Rourke.
falling down,
i tripped on some carpet
and cracked my jaw.
serves me right
for flailing about the room
looking for a lit cigarette.
Filed under: love n' luck
Velocity without speed is a slow delirium. No explanation necessary, I’m sure. You get it; you’re hip to the scene and one of those in demand types, someone who probably doesn’t need any kind of public denouement to find the silver lining. You look over and see a half crushed pill or just the remains of a shaken down soul and think to yourself “Maybe it was the fish.” A steel tipped kick to the face would be enlightening. That sensation of coming across something you don’t understand feels slimy and foreign. You’re phone rings and you ignore the call. I get it… we have some odd unspoken agreement. After the beep, you know how to dummy up and play dead, or give one of those performances dancing back across the line. I like it; maybe I like the way you don’t say anything. Your cold heart really gets me going.
Something funny about the whole thing. Here I am, counting the minutes before the bar opens up and in sails a picture of an old friend, for no reason. Can’t be sentimentality. If it was, I’d probably be vomiting. I’m not, so let’s chalk it up to the desire to see old friends doing well. Nobody really sucks off a memory, that’s just malarkey. The image persists in spite of the facts. I’d throw down the lightning bolts that ricochet off my spine in an attempt to shake loose from the past. I ain’t running from shit. I can’t move that fast.
The tendrils of everything that came before warp the now, distorting the images and obscuring what is in reality a clear choice between worshiping an old myth or accepting that nothing is as it was. One of those immutable realities of living in a dream. For a few bucks I’d torch the whole thing and leave the memory intact. I’m not sentimental, but I do enjoy the occasional keepsake. Later on, it’ll be the salve that calms the speed infused nerves. Fast moving and intemperate, I want to be remembered like a hurricane, or maybe ignored long enough for things to get interesting.
Later on there will be time to get drunk and pretend to remember names, faces, and identities. Right now there is work to do, some devil urging me onward before letting me down slowly. Fight the rise of the razor nation at your own risk; I’m not much of a fighter. I’m right where I want to be until a new carcass washes up on shore. Then it’ll be my turn to pick the bones and savor the finery.
Filed under: Poetry
stumble through the door,
another night’s morning song
playing across an empty can
makeshift fortune of a bastard’s
parade.
tourniquet in the morning light
of petty dispute.
insouciant stream of
verse taken apart
like petals of a flower
Filed under: Uncategorized
It’s dark in here. Something like being thrown away. All the same, the fantastic pacing volatility throws everything out of sorts. Items around the room change places as they are picked up, toyed with, and moved by momentary interest or occasional fits of disconsolate. It would make more sense if there was some wind in here, but the doors and windows are boarded up for the winter to keep the warmth from fleeing the room. Curious movements are just a symptom of the deep restlessness of the situation.
I stripped the room of harsh light. In the pseudo darkness everything takes on a new appearance. It still seems a random jumble of crap occasionally changing its location around the apartment. Paper paragraphs inhabit one shelf while the books hang out on the bookshelf waiting for someone to develop enough interest to open. The food in the refrigerator probably feels the same way. Hunger is a thing of the past without movement. The only movement here is the exhalations of a flaming cigarette bobbing and weaving in the darkness.
The most alluring thought is to sleep through the early evening. If I’m lucky, I wont regain consciousness until sometime tomorrow morning. Part of me rebels against that philosophy; the mind reels but cannot find purpose in the darkened room. If I was paint, I could hang on the wall or live in a can, never knowing any better. Not being paint, I can’t seem to get over the sensation of motionless drifting. Maybe I should have been a boat.
Passing strangers say odd, time-constrained things. For me, time has slowed to a crawl. Eyes close, but the little man jabbing his knife into my spine won’t quit anytime soon. I’m going to drown him someday.
