Wednesday, September 19, 2018

i read a key to treehouse living, and thought of the people living in treehouses in the black forest so to protect them from being cut down. i liked the story, that was just a list of words and phrases in alphabetical order, that seems oblique but establishes a voice and a mind thinking, and an oblique narrative emerges. however, i don't think i can swing do androids dream of electric sheep, and can keep my perfect record of zero one book, one chicago books, though in future one may come along that i've read, and still maintain my record of zero.

i say i'm going to try to be more pragmatic but it sounds like eight words more or less.  feeling disquiet, feeling futile, what if i give my attention to things i can be a part of. the cataclysms of society will still impact me, but perhaps there is sanity in not wasting attention and energy and despairing the things that are beyond me. can i even change me. this is not a pragmatic time, the feeling is not pragmatic. the time feels insane and i feel insane with the time. these are not pragmatic times. these are not pragmatic feelings. i can't opt out and i can't opt in. this is how it's always been. it's not just a default mode. as far as i am able i choose. i have opted out to the degree that i can, and it is a little pragmatic, yet quite problematic. i've tried to be in but not of this world as a non-believer, in money, or technology, or a presiding godhead. i don't feel like i came from another world, nor that i will go to another world. mostly i've felt stuck in this one and despaired that it is the only world, and that i have one life, so this is the first and last world, and i can't adapt, and i have wasted precious time. and that a lot of people have wasted precious time, and that we have wasted energy to the end of exhaustion of our lives and the lives of others many of whom we have never identified.

i start out tired. it's only wednesday i say but i work every day and can't stop. it's not just the news, it's my soul that is unquiet, still i'm going to not look at any news for an experiment and see how i feel. i say i pick up on things anyway, that i have antennae. but i look at stuff and it does get worse and certainly we can't look at the news for hope, so, what if i can just focus on pragmatic things. on presences rather than disturbances. what if i can calm myself as i wish i could calm lulu. now i'm going to get ready to go get mister, and i'm going to go as slowly as he needs, and i'm going to try to make a silence in myself that i can live within and take on walks with me.
i'm a wreck.
 i can't sleep.

how am i gonna get through the week.

Tuesday, September 18, 2018

everyone has a private language.

maybe the test is silence. do you want to be in that silence. can you be.
i do not know what happened entirely but there was an upheaval and then it grew quiet. i don't know if something grew in the quiet or if the quiet grew out of the end of upheaval or if it ended truly or just subsided out of tiredness or if grew was the right word but it feels right, it didn't shrink into quiet or die down. it grew, i'll say. i'd say it was unquiet before and grew quiet after. but that's just a way of thinking, i don't really know for certain what occurred, but for certain i was there, or here i should say. you were too, similar to me.

on certainty.

as far as i can ascertain everything is uncertain that is certain, and everything that is certain is certainly not by any means i can ascertain.

lulu does not like to pose.

                                                                                        i'm posin'.
and all that stuff i say about the criminals running the world, i don't really care about them, i just wish they'd go fuck up some other place. and there is no other place, so yes, i hate the bastards and i wish they'd fuck off and die.
sometimes i wish i could just stop everything and just sit in a window looking out and watching it all go down. would i still feel like a jerk if i did nothing at all? it stuns me that i could have lived so long being so ill-adapted to the world and in communication with fellow beings. how did i live? one thing; i've been with dogs for so long, yet i have no game, i'm clueless with a puppy. this sounds absurd, and it is, but really it's true at least in my mind that i wish i could stop everything, go into suspended animation, except for sight, so i could just watch how everything unfolds without me. you can't do that, you have to be in it, but so much of it i don't want to be in. it's a fruitless thing to wish there was another world.
“Hope” is the thing with feathers -
That perches in the soul -
And sings the tune without the words -
And never stops - at all -

And sweetest - in the Gale - is heard -
And sore must be the storm -
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm -

I’ve heard it in the chillest land -
And on the strangest Sea -
Yet - never - in Extremity,
It asked a crumb - of me.

sara asked what does it mean, hope is the thing with feathers? i said, it's emily d. she said i know that. oh you mean what does it mean?  so i read it again and thanks sara. i got chills. she's metaphysical. what it means it feels. emily d. it feels like a wind enters the room and brushes your entire skin. 
oh it means something particular today in the wake of florence. like dance revolution after 911, after the penultimate trump. after emma g. after anarchy. 
speaking of which, my friend z. in star shirt and pink tutu with feathers from the pillow wash she would not let be removed, little dancing anarchist, do a jeteƩ with pink fluff and feathers, fly- while throwing hilde's planet dog ball backward. when i say do you know exactly where it's going to go, she says yes, assuredly.
why isn't it with fur, s. says. it is. that and other things.

the american global system has always been an extraction economy, which translates theft ever upward. the money stream defies gravity, ever flowing up, higher and higher, towering precariously. today the criminal government is stealing from the people evermore blatantly, breaking up communities, imprisoning and deporting people. the e.p.a. is gobbled up by  dirty energy. f.e.m.a. is gobbled up by  i.c.e., the detention and deportation machine. while the people are drowning in floods and toxic coal ash 3.6 billion goes to immigration control. this is the economy of disaster, the perfectly named disaster capitalism. 
so when the toxic blooms float downstream on cape fear river and the people are deported or displaced, the disaster capitalists will come and make elevated resort communities with private sea walls. viva puerto rico! guaranteed, a land grab will always ensue. disaster is opportunity in the great extraction economy. 

z windup.

Monday, September 17, 2018

mister blue skies.

oh god help us, mayor preckwinkle? she's in obomba's butt pocket! no. no and no.
i was feeling overwhelmed. there were all kinds of threads or filaments in the air and many caterpillars dead like they'd just been injected with some stunning serum. i told a friend how can we not be overwhelmed, how can we center on the good stuff when the whole fucking society is predicated on evil destruction and we're in the midst of such all-encompassing criminal corruption, and the air and water bear neurotoxins and the kids are getting asthma and anxiety attacks and they don't even want to go to school just to get indoctrinated and bullied. she told me don't watch any news! and i said i only watch democracy now! is that bad? and she said oh, no, not democracy now! i said i try to just give my attention to the dogs, but the dogs are getting parasites and they keep on eating funky human things. and she said just go swimming! and i said i did i did! twice a day! then i get back on the road on my bike with the cruelly insane autopilots and by time i get home i'm a wreck again. but jesus-christ-on-a stick! as xstine the good ursuline girl use to say, all being said and done, we are so fucking lucky, just look at us! say!

                               mister gets chiara's spare stick.
welcome home r. i love you and i'm glad you're back. look at this bee. ain't it soul sweet.

this afternoon when we went under the train tracks the light was bright and level and when cars passed between the columns interrupting and reflecting, our shadows flickered and replicated like a kinetoscope film. lulu didn't see it as i did i don't think, i think she just saw the usual flashing ghosts.
kissing the bodhisattva's paws underwater. it is soul good.
good news. comet's diarrhea is yesterday. and lulu had a solid poop. mister had two. i had two too. that's all the good news.
rapists, torturers, marauders, corporate criminals, assassins, bankers, and state terrorists are in control. how long will it last, and how are we going to survive this horror-show?
i think about seasons of longing and dread. think about my father's house long dead. 
six months of winter struggling on the ground for spring, and suddenly it's fall dreading winter. my father had a woodpile that was a fortress. by the time the wood was cured it was rotting, and he kept splitting. when he split his lip with the chainsaw he had enough wood for several more seasons. then he divorced that house and that wife. the woodpile was that life's remains. i hated the violence, the groaning futility of the life-parted wood. i hated joining his grim task. in the basement we burned it, straight up through the blue stone emptiness to the sky. he could never heat that house. he didn't even seem to live there. he was in there aspiring, lean on the mantle, drink in hand. in my mind he leans there still. the flue sucking the heat he produced from the basement air.

Sunday, September 16, 2018

it's about writing your life on the face of  the world in such a way
that you and the world, both, are made real.

elliot reed,
a guide to treehouse living.

speaking clearly

people are hard to understand on many levels, but especially
when they're talking. you can get a lot of information from
people just by watching them for a little while. it's when
they speak that the problems of communication come out.

elliot reed,
a guide to treehouse living.

when you feel heavy in your body 
look at the creatures of the air. 
when you are lost, at random,
suddenly come revelations 
in ordinary bodies of light.
may what is obscuring you now
soon reveal you. 
i'm sorry i took you like this but i just wanted to hold you a minute this time of the season when i know you will be going and i will miss seeing you like every year i get sad in the fall and i also remember the feeling of walking with dad. autumnal. that was his season. cutting and stacking wood obsessively. more than he ever burned. more than ever he burns. in the fall.
you might say dog has no plan. you might say dog's plan is improvise.

Saturday, September 15, 2018

there's a thing the french call l'appel du vide. i felt it on a mountain road in greece on a hairpin road looking down at a crumpled car, and swinging in a harness going down devil's tower, and in those endless dreams running breathless along a crumbling path edging an abyss. it allies with the feeling of wildness that comes even in the city, when i feel fear, or when i feel the wave crush at pebble beach, or even looking at a dead grasshopper clinging to a dry stalk at the end of summer. also the rush of one body into another, a culmination both void and spirit.

this boy.

he's no longer the king of the drones, or deporter in chief, but he's still a highly paid liar.