21 February, 2012

Feb 21 2012

Look, your honor,
I was standing - wait, that's tricky, the 'was' part. Everything is was, is past, probably even the future. Furthermore, it's not just that was 'was', but that 'was' 'is' part of 'is', which as everyone knows is exceedingly tricky. To know the 'is' is the trick. The only interesting thing said by a president of these u s of a in recent memory 'was' "it depends on the meaning of is". Nothing could be truer. Plato said it, Heidegger quoted him: 'for so long we thought we knew what being meant...' We think we know what is and we think we know what 'is' is.
Even worse - when that president stated not only the uncertainty of pinning down being but also of the towering command of context in that quest to understand being, he was mocked. He was accused of being nonsensical, of deliberately trying to mislead. (talk about context - he didn't want people to know his intern gave him a hummer. ok. but in my mind if the president wants a blow job, the president can have a blow job. as the card company says (someecards): "blowjobs are like flowers for men.")
Anyway, there I stood - gramatically superior to 'I was standing', though a little less easygoing. 'Stood' sounds like rigor, sounds like 'stood stiff' or 'stood next to but not leaning on a lamppost'. Definitely on two feet, not trying to balance on one or trying to lean back with one leg on the wall, jacket collar upturned and a cigarette held between thumb and forefinger.
Stop interrupting me, brain filled with images from movie posters and cnn. I wanted to mention the fact that I had been standing. It was a fact, not a thing, not an image, not imagined, not crusty like old peanut butter memories slathered on rye toast from a bag in the diner's kitchen that had stood open for several days.
There were several sirens in the background. I remember thinking that the local constabulary might have seen someone not white driving through Whiteville, my town. When this happens eight or so bazooka toting, bulletproof vest sporting pizza loving white guys surround the offending vehicle and threaten to receive instant gratification at the driver's expense.
It's curious how ontology leads to ethics most of the time, even though the purists say it shouldn't. Probably because the people who really need to understand get stuck in habits they call moral and never get to a level of ethics.
Anyway, to make a long story short, I was just standing there outside of the pizza place in downtown Whiteville. Then I saw this guy walking up the sidewalk. He looked, don't ask me why, like a republican presidential candidate. And I can't help myself when I see those preachers. I always have this urge to jack off into a condom and throw it at them, screaming something about how the unborn are stalking them.
So I guess that's why I'm here, more or less, if we want to talk about 'here'.

25 January, 2012

doubt, redoubt

people feel helpless when they can't control their lives. 
by default, we cannot control our lives to a great extent
by default, we tend to stay in the same social class as our parents
studies will be made, results written up and posted on the internet so
people can argue about their varied interpretations.
"this is the world of facts, not of things" (St. Wittgenstein)
this is the world of interpretation
except something must be true.
there must be an 'is the case.'
channeling descartes right about now
i'm thinking 
that's all i can know
it's all subject to doubt:
that coke zero has zero calories
that vitamins are full of shit
that poetry can sooth the shouters
that the anxiety i feel when thinking of my children and college
can ever disappear
as a society we've got it wrong and the money whores who long thought they'd won
see challenge as a declaration of war, see dissent as jealousy, see fairness measured only in currency
keep your yachts, your cars, your many houses, your plane trips, your private schools, your designer clothes
even as we build the roads, open the draw bridges, gas the jets, sweep the halls
enjoy the lottery of privilege
i just want my kids to go to college without paying for it the rest of their lives
i don't even mind if i never retire

some people think america should be a free for all
ok, a banker works hard and deserves his money
but if banks and industry hold us hostage, what can be done?
mostly i am spending the day in figurative head in hands stance
reading about what others are doing
this has been the case for well over twenty years.
what to do what to do what to do
where is robin hood

18 May, 2011

What is the point of Speaking in an age of interconnectivity when everyone speaks and it is difficult to Listen?

The claim is that social networking and the like have created an information transference system that not only pushes information, but receives it as well. Pick your buzzword for the phenomenon.
Humanity’s sheer volume precludes attention. My complaint letter creates a form letter in response. I must complain again. Form response 2.0. Complain to the masses. Possible engagement if the matter is interesting enough.
Humanity’s sheer volume precludes individuated attention. There is always a replacement. Another customer. Another employee.
The twitter feed: look at this, look at that.
The facebook feed: I did this, went there.
Above all: look at me. Listen to me.
All of these voices saying the same thing at one another (not really to one another).
If you take a step back, you can feel the clamor, the wind of so much speech.
Then the question of our time appears: why say anything?
This speech we hear is not one of a questioning or curious nature. It is the speech of those who know. Those who know cannot learn. How then can we teach them about ourselves?
They already claim to know us. We are that customer, employee. We are the replacement. Until we are replaced.
The act of replacement? A categorizing into the known, regardless of fit.
Volume precludes individuation.

28 April, 2011

A Baltimore Thursday possibly

1. Site hits here don't desperately drop over the course of a couple of months of not posting. Mostly hits relative to images included in posts.
2. Sitting in a Caribou Coffee (a former employer) in Baltimore watching city folk. Just saw the first tourist family heading down to the inner harbor, science museum or aquarium. Bright colored t-shirts, hand holding, all looking tired - these are the signs.
3. Thinking of heading to the cemetery where Poe is buried. Depends on the rain. Would like to visit his house, which may or may not be open between 1 and 3 today. However, I have been warned this is not a pleasant walk. Amazing how we allow the 'bad neighborhood' to exist. And not in the sense that the Middle East is a bad neighborhood, but that we have areas in our immediate surroundings the very visiting of which could be life threatening. Blame the lack of wealth dispersion and the planting of goods as an ultimate goal. How long until these neighborhoods expand? How long until a trip to the suburban wal-mart becomes something of a sketchy shopping venture?
Oh well, here we are. Thinking of inspiration. Interesting how the search for inspiration takes one to the past. What used to inspire me? What inspired me when I was more productive (maybe couple that with more/any free time...nah, couldn't be that, could it?) Anyway, works progress slowly these days. The very creation of work is in doubt. How to indulge poetic impulses when the world is shit?
Or maybe poetic impulses can be a refuge. Maybe. Maybe not. We can't know, though, because we can't get outside of the situation to look at it. We can only do. Or do not, as yoda might say...

22 February, 2011

another look at escape from the everyday

Given the probable pre- and post-, life is the anomaly.
Therefore, life should be what?
Attacked lustfully.
Then come the careerists and the politicos. Those who deny death's finality by placing last hopes of immortality into the collection of funds, of reputation, of country, clan, affiliation, behavioral code and the sweet, sweet songs of evermore, the flowering lies of eternity.
Do this, be that. Or else.
Enough already.
Where were you before you were born? There you will be after the end.
As Socrates said, 'if death is a dreamless sleep, how bad can it be?'

01 February, 2011

preacher watches the ice storm

Preacher steps down from his stool and walks over to the window.
There they are, he says, those determined ones walking under the falling ice, those insatiable ones slipping across the pavement.
What ho, you neighbor across the way. Videotaping the chaos? Of course, of course. Document everything. All of our mishits, missteps will end up online in the end. Catch the mistakes as our good teachers taught us. Show and warn others. Do not worry if you cause the great trepidation. We, then, will step even more lightly. Do not catch us in our great errors. We want our learning to appear from nowhere.
It's this Brooklyn rain, he sighs. Even when frozen it comforts me. The ratatat of the windowsill, fire escape, even, I imagine, the roof far overhead, the sound soothes much as the snowfall's silence.
When will I see the yellow bulb of the snowplow, hear the slush scraped into the parked cars, hear the wails of the car owners at their new workload.
In here, I can have my joy. Out there, there are those who seek to take it away. I sense them, I sense their fearful lurks, their hidden loathing. Can we all have joy? It's an open question.
The weather hits and reveals us. Who is willing to sit back and contemplate? Who forces their way through nature as if nothing has happened, as if nature dared to spoil their day?
I see joy on one side, fear on the other.
Lead us not, oh blind rule followers, out of our joy and into the great trepidation. This is our prayer and our first line of defense.

20 December, 2010

somewhat confusing, disconcerting, yet not unexpected...

I put this statement on facebook and twitter today - don't know why, just like to share, I suppose: 'think i'm having a st. paul moment.'
I can only imagine what responses this will bring, yet I believe it to be true. Something about the notion of grace, something about having fought my beliefs for what seems like forever.
Perhaps not. Feels pretty real, though.

17 December, 2010

'dirty' limericks

Today's challenge was to create a dirty limerick in the form of 'there once was a man from Nantucket'. So here are two:

Anatomically he was palatial
alas her temperament was more glacial
she spoke of the cons
While stroking the glans
And that’s how we discovered the facial

The attraction had to be chemical
He thought through his alcohol spectacles
When the dick hit his eye
He said shit that’s a guy
I guess now I’m heteroflexible

16 December, 2010

Seasonal Greeting Card Ubiquity

It’s the time of year for the triumph of the bearded man, image etched and laser inkjet printed upon millions of folded cardstock, the kind with a barcode on the back, scanned into your mailbox, pile upon pile.
Picture that pallid snow scene, the cabin, the chimney, the blazing fire and the red-cheeked bearded one, in red long underwear, resting hands on his belly as he nibbles, brushes crumbs from the whiskers.
Step back and imagine that lonely cabin, the creatures that roam the background, the howls. Surely there are creatures unseen.
Now step back from the scene to the hastily scribbled signature. Hasty, because there are a million more to go. They must be mailed on time. Was anyone forgotten? Is there anyone else on the reciprocal morality list? So easy to be moral with a checklist. Wait … sniff, sniff … smells like guilt.
It is that time of year. The time for ritual automation overload. This is the time of year we act this way. This is the time of year for happy holidays and the succulent remembrance of youth.
In January we can be callous again.

Dress Code @ Work or why I don't live in Switzerland (though I like it and love the scenery)

Dress Code @ Work

01 November, 2010

not interesting, but i want to push it out

Hearing the laughter of others while sitting out of sight, mind, hearing and touch is almost the essential moment of consciousness for the lonely.
There is life. Here I am. The dualism screams for fulfillment.
Whence arises this separation from the world?
The world thinks it has it all figured out. Do this. Follow this pattern. People of the world only respect people like themselves. Don’t you forget it. Don’t you believe it.
What happens when those ancient stone tablets weather away, when the holy words, when the notion of holiness as ancient fetters finds itself but another stake in the boneyard?
How 19th century to shake with worry at a non-holding center, at heliocentric misanthropes who saunter right by the abyss as if nothing were there.
The abyss bottoms out, don’t forget. And where? Upon new tablets? No. The tablet itself is a headstone. Please work hard, obey the rules and ease yourself into death. Don’t forget to leave the organs.
A world without tablets? Without commandments? Do not those television heads spin the idea into chaos, into nonsense? Can you not picture the smirking news host laughing the idea into a commercial segue?
This is the dangerous idea.
The more people tell you it will never work, the more people tell you the idea is absurd, the more people shun it, the more you know you are on to something.
What is dangerous, that is what you must embrace. Once you see this truth, once you take it to your chest and guts you will know that it is your truth.
You, yes you, know many who have seen it, who know it, and who have run away with it. Feel their misery react to your joy.
The only tablets left, the only dusty commandments reside in the grass behind the churches that litter our countryside.
Don’t think, though, that danger begets only worry. No, all of my loves, it begets great joy, the greatest joy you can ever know. When we all stop hiding our desires, stop wondering where we can stash our feelings, stop forcing ourselves and those we love into lives that do not fit. Only then can we live as honest creatures, fearing not eternal retribution or ephemeral rejection.
We can have everything. We can be everything. We set our own limits, expressly or not.
All you sheep just don’t get it.
“This is the way we’re supposed to live, supposed to live, supposed to live. This is the way we’re supposed to live, early in the morning.”
We have all found ourselves confronted with desire while simultaneously telling ourselves we cannot feel it. Let alone act on it. And yet, you know this too well, the more you run away, the stronger it becomes.
This is not very interesting. What is interesting is how we react to facing our desire. Somewhere our society decided desire should be hidden, channeled, pushed aside. So we end up with rabid expression, moments of excitement that welcome guilt. Not our guilt, only the guilt that now we are on our own, that we are somewhere outside the rest of the world.
For those of us that are anyway, we are in position to welcome our desire and be at home with it.
And for those of us who think too much, well, that’s just how we are.
Thinking makes up for the loneliness. And the loneliness is perpetual, striking and deep.

15 October, 2010

inkle, inkle, little thought

(also published at http://nihilhumanum.tumblr.com/
The real issue? Hard to tell. Hard to tell if it's a classic case of first world guilt. Wondering if it's fair to be able to choose from over 500 channels of mindless wandering when most of Africa walks on dusty roads in colored long skirts holding heavy barrels on heads. We lift weights for fun, for sex appeal, ostensibly for strength.
How can we do anything if Africa continues to produce child soldiers who can barely lift their Kalashnikovs but who have learned that the slightest press of the trigger, the quick flick of the knifed wrist can seed the ground with blood and earn the respect of ones peers.
Here our peers respect what - the earning of money.
We've killed spirit. We let the priests get hold of the term, then, even worse, the preachers of the apocalypse, the head-dunkers. How many drink their snake oil hoping for a newer car or a longer cruise on a boat filled with fruity rum, the odor of squashed strawberries and early morning bar stench growling in the sunlight.
Are we as a species not as strong as our weakest link? Too many think not. Too many think strength is for one person at a time, that there is a limited pool of strength from which one may take.
No, an overestimation - there is no thinking involved, you sheep.
Guilt? Shall guilt engender our morality?
The real issue: disgust. Nausea infused anti-oxidant green tea supermarket aisle in unending brand-itis.

18 May, 2010

priorities, distraction

How hypermedia loses the way, distress beckons, an offshoot
of one-time happiness cozies its way into bed with you
Too many times, you think, I've been here before
Too many times, you think, I've said I've been here before
Too many times the world says show me your objects, tell me a story
then I'll guess at how you felt, how someone else might feel, since our
motives are
so transparent.
We are mummified gauze when we give way to ancient actions
deep in the cortex daze
days of wine
nights of lust
imagination outside some mediterranean fresco
pale yellow stone, tile and iron furniture
all the mount st helens and sleeping icelanders can wait
click and shout, click and shout is all you can hear
show me the love, tell me a story
make it a movie downloaded for free
28 seconds of amateur comedy, amateur poesie
culture of flicks where nothing sticks