Macroscian

Macrosian is a mysterious word. It's so intentional and so unknown. I'm sorry I've only recently come across it.

Chair too stiff,
lights too bright,
slowly becoming mole people

Not-bad people
turned to not good,
assholes have vampire influence.

I miss the sun,
I miss cute girls,
I'm right downtown but still alone in a world.

Getting fat,
not from home cooking,
offices not in the Bible.
I'm no longer feeling vital
This life is no longer right
Maybe it was never right
But my goals weren't so white,
My teeth are still white,
but no one's seen them in months.


1. One casting a long shadow.

2. One who inhabits polar regions.

3. Me, always.

10 minutes

Plenty of time to write, really. Dr. Williams built his lifetime body in between delivering bodies from bodies. If not time consuming, applaud WCW for working his beatuiful works amid biological distraction. Many of us put our creativity and energy into the reasons not to write rather than typing some damn words. Worst decision I ever made was moving off of paper and into cyberia. Can cantos come between e-mail updates and the urge to post our face to strangers?

10 minutes before they arrive, before I am left and go become that. Do I really need more time? Not when I have been suffering with internal pleading for this peripateia, this relative abundance of peace, this declaration of intense and wondrous and tragically brief quiet.

Xerophagy

These are supposed to be good days for woolgathering. But those eyes, like Guinness, they remind how much good things can be and so are not. Sad how we adapt to boring phrases and dull experiences rather than revolt. Our bodies physically repel against the unadventurous life with putrefaction, and we accept this? How can we call ourselves members of an animal kingdom with this response? Ah, tis our minds that make us different, minds that warn us to stay adroit by sending the message to laugh at sitcoms or respond to inquiries into our health and well being with one word, and never an interesting one. These warnings so often fail as we mistranslate this sirenic blare to mean "time to relax." Tell me again about our amazing brains? Let's wait until the commercial.

Those eyes, they should draw us from this grave, dissemble the bars with which we surround ourselves, and inject us with such passionate fury as to refuse the unoriginal and deny ourselves all our poison comforts.

Our lives are wired for these moments. And when obstructions occur, our wiring is supposed to adjust. War, economy, stress, relationships, futures: these are the guts of daydreaming, the equal and opposite pre-action to idle thoughts and restful minds and eyes that ignite, eyes that devastate with eternal depth and resuscitate with a blink of such perfect length. How did we fuck this up?

An End for Daylight

The last time I wrote here, people told me to change my clock. Two seasons later, they tell me to change it back. I have singular feelings about being led astray by others, only to be brought back into the good stuff by the same ones who led me astray. There's some lesson here to be applied to meth users, or habitual cheaters, or the next kid to break his face trying to film himself popping a wheelie from his roof so he can send a YouTube link of the act to Vida Guerra's MySpace profile, but right now I need to concern myself with myself. That's evident in a blog entry, but not really now that I type that out and think about what those words mean. What is a blog entry but being unconcerned with ourselves for ourselves, and entirely filled with ourselves for others. Our personal pieces are for you to see, and we always act differently when others watch, don't we? Dostoyevsky comes out of the bag when the right people are watching. A stranger sees us grieving, and we show him how we grieve. How do we actually grieve? We don't know, you know. Single tasks don't give us cause to record internally.

I saw my friend look dead today. Maybe that's why I'm typing now. Maybe that's why any of us type, or read, or connect.

Couple of important changes in awareness to share. One: the lesson has already been written:

“Master, what is it that I hear? Who are those people so defeated by their pain?”

And he to me: “This miserable way is taken by the sorry souls of those who lived without disgrace and without praise. They now commingle with the coward angels, the company of those who were not rebels nor faithful to their God, but stood apart. The heavens, that their beauty not be lessened, have cast them out, nor will deep Hell receive them—even the wicked cannot glory in them.”—Inferno, Canto III.

Typical with me: my best ideas are from others, learned in part, remembering just the basics and forgetting the luscious details and the essential core. Realizing this is a nice feeling, though. It's fun to take part in a Dante simulation, in a pantomime of what we are not. What we are so often disappoints when we take the time to go deep. Or frightens.

Second change: there is no change. The stream into which we step really is the same.

Third change: I'm writing again. Nothing new for me to start writing again. Maybe this will be the time it continues. If not, there's always more friends that will look dead, more authors to pretend to be, more streams to contemplate from the underside, where light never comes out of the bag because the right people are never looking.

In the Mood To Write

I just don't know what. I won't let that stop me, though--that's the point of this whole thing, right, to be able to write no matter when we're in the mood, and no matter if we have anything to say. It's the opposite of a blank piece of paper, which is so difficult to add ink to, just like that. You could say that this environment is so easy, too easy. When anything is worthy of writing about, do words die?

Time to end this, for self preservation. Just like that.

Ear Slime

This is why I'm hot, this is why I'm hot, this is why, this is why, this is why I'm hot.

This is why I'm hot, this is why I'm hot, this is why, this is why, this is why I'm hot.

I'm hot because I'm fly, you ain't because you not, this is—CEASE AND DESIST. Enough.

This song, which I'm sure is called "This Is Why I'm Hot," is such a complete pile of shit that I hesitate to use so familiar a term, lest you consider it in the same vein as any other pile of shit you might hear. My Humps is a pile of shit, but you might catch yourself dancing to it for a few seconds. "I went down, down to the disco--damn, can't believe I just shook my ass to that." But you did. But This Is Why I'm Hot? Like gonhorrea and our appendices, I wonder why it exists.

I cannot get that line out of my head: I'm hot because I'm fly, you ain't because you not." It's a wood-burrowing insect mistaking my brain for oak. It's an enormous wad of Big League Chew caught in a boot. I'd give up at least three toes to be fluent in any language, or to remember long sections of obscure plays, or even someone's birthday without help from Microsoft Outlook, but this stank line--probably with me for life.

Incunabulum

What can you say about a person who prefers the lives of poets to the poems themselves? The poems now refer to their past so much that almost nothing is original. How can it be? To paraphrase someone I can't remember once said, Elizabethan England had 20 poets. There's now 20 poets in one neighborhood in Dayton, Ohio. It's all been said!

Give me the lives of the authors instead: Genet's impossible life, Anais Nin's non-self-published secrets, and Rimbaud's back-alley adventures! Their words are surely the same as something somebody did, but their lives, their creative quest, usual sexual and exciting, is always original.

I want to find the Ur-book, the one that makes no reference to others because there's nothing else to reference. This takes imagination, though. How can we imagine The Iliad as original when its progeny are everywhere? How can we understand a world of no Hamlet when we exist with him, when he is a part of our upbringing, like a home from childhood

Even Os Lusiadas, the greatest story no one reads. Even this gorgeous tale begins by ripping off Virgil, and ends I don't know how, because who can finish 10 cantos during commercials? No, better to read about Luis Vaz de Camoes, who lost an eye in battle defending his country in an unnecessary war, who fought the wrong guy in the streets and was jailed for it, who served in an Orient that knew no Occident: human suffering and perseverance that any dummy can get, even if they don't like that heavy stuff. Can't you see him, tossed into the water from a shipwreck, his masterwork in one hand above the waves as he struggles to reach land? Can't you feel that desperation? We need his words to need to know him. His words are for our souls, when we're ready. His struggle is for our lives, ready or not.

He died as his country ceased to be. Vice versa, probably. Either way, it's been done.