Last (or lost) in home around subtle thunder with no storm. There is little to be said in these silly days where one war is being questioned and another baptized with a hope of finding POWs. The controversy and duality is enorm, like a gap in the knitting of a large quilt. But no one cares. In this home place full of “buts” and more caring in the name of JC. Where can we get the wisdom? It’s there like the sea Peter was working when the biggest fish found him. As though there is no place to swim.
Kenneth Patchen: Journal of Albion Moon, Memoirs of a Shy Pornographer, Collected Poems.
A very nice young lady at a Connecticut Ave. bookstore demanded that she record the info regarding Patchen. And now I fel as though her writing at least will haunt us through this book. Oh terror of another sort.
To rid myself teh burden I will drown these sorrows in tabloid-like excess.
From H. Miller. “So much for the dominant note. As for the subdominant the thought is–don’t wait for things to change, the hour of man is nw and whether you are working at the bottom of the pile or on top, if you are a creative individual you will go on producing, come hell or high water. And this is the most you can hope to do. One has to go on believing in himself, whether recognized or not, whether heeded or not,. The world may seenl ike hell on wheels–and we are doing our best, are we not, to make it so?–but there is always room, if only in one’s own soul, to create a spot of paradise, crazy though it may sound.” -Preface to Hummingbird Essays
And I agree, Mr. Miller, that every creative should recognize God’s voice and give it its due. (Or maybe not.)
How is it possible that a society can achieve so much and when that achievement is at its pinnacle and that achievement was achieved with at least a certain level of ingenuity, all that is left atop the pinnacle is a horde of bumbling idiots?
Where are the wingnut poets? Where is the literary voice that will lead the way to the first (first???) nation-state self annihilation?
What to do in a perpetual state of hopelessness? Humankind continues because its source is unattainable–as though locked away in some quantum mechanic dimensional refuge(e). It’s not an issue of science, i.e. question + knowledge acquisition = answer. Perpetual hopelessness is both of the physical and the mystical. It is between the two we drift and fondle each other in grand colored paddle boats.
Is the artist destined to play second fiddle? To the pauper? Or is it the piper? “Portrait of an artist as a killer,” I say! Take him out there, into the jungle and machete his way to the top of a pyramid, where the honorary man, the controller of all else, rests his fingers and has his feet manicured, only to face his life, seeping away in a puddle of…
The idear, the premise, is to produce. The artist must produce, no matter what. If (s)he does not, then he is not an artist. Basta!
Oh, come on! Allow me a blast from the past. Please. Something frivolous, with just as much mendacity as when it was first mentioned…
The problem is that America has been beat-up for two long. She can’t take it anymore, but that is beside the point. Now we must face her. And so the (he) healthy witness her because she is witness-able and the sight they see motivates them more because she is so disgust(ed)(ing). The…
Something is produced that is “sick”. And then they find out that the artist who produced it is actually (medically) sick.
Why is USD copied more than MS products?
If one considers the state of society then my desire to go thru life childless was valid. But now that I am with child-born (the reason for which I shall not address here in order to save you from the utmost in matrimonial boredom…) I must face certain realities. For example, I believed with all my life when I was fucking the American Bimbos that childlessness was the answer. The derogatory remark, although un-called for as a
in generalizations, I hold relevant in the details (yet to be revealed). Yes, both the women/girls/chicks and the society/national mess, gave me such conclusion. And yet I travelled aborad and was enthralled by the European Bimbos. And so there was a trick (played on me). For nature, you old bitch, is tricky. You witch. I think not! There were powers beyond. Something beyond. (Like the people who jus sat next to me. Obxoxious as they’d like…) That droe out the seed. That planted the seed. Which held and became… The God’s wanted that I bring them something but not on soiled ground.