all the subjects of biographies have succeeded. even the biographers.
peace in war, power in illusion.
work in progress. the sea wall.
for the benefit of innocence and spare time.
spider's nest dressed in raindrops.
it was given that i work out my karma with the dog.
i tried to hide from the dog but the dog always found me.
the dog lived in another dimension, ha ha,
the here and now.
our dreams were small dreams.
now whatever we do is normal.
it was like discovering an unsuspected freedom. maybe that's what freedom always is: a discovery, or an invention.
cesar aira,
the musical brain.
a question by very nature unresolved.
in the beginning, in the morning of the enveloping world,
was a web, that was all center, all radiant.
specific gravity.
for a while i kept moving the camera around and with each move the grasshopper would mirror move, hiding on the other side of the leaf of grass.
copp's cache. he found a bottle here once, and i thought he was thinking magically another would appear, and he was right.
the waves were sexy big curls today and we rose up and down dressed in smiles and whitecaps. then mr. went ashore to be with the shore girls with their charms and treats and i wondered if he would return for me, and he did.
now he is looking intently at me wondering what i could possibly be doing with myself.
pasco. i thought he was maybe pascal, this being a zone of great writer dogs, but he is pasco like tabasco.
the alchemy of puppy love.
flowering fen,
for
jessica.
speaks the language of flowers.
the evanescence of the flower
is reminder
of the fullness of time
passing.
may your pain be eased as your love eases ours.
a dog like fen
will never engage in shady business
savage politics
or dirty war.
i could not even explain
those things to him.
i am confident
in saying this.
more than this, oh there's nothing.
i wanna be where you are.
(happy birthday michael jackson.)
one of these days, i'm gonna sit down and write a long letter. and it won't be long.
four strong winds that blow lonely, seven seas that run high, all those things that don't change, come what may.
i guess this was penned by ian of ian & sylvia, but i always knew it as neil's song.
oh-oh, this ole world keeps spinnin' round, it's a wonder tall trees ain't layin' down. there comes a time, comes a time, comes a time.
i remember when comes a time appeared and enveloped me like aural love. i will always be grateful to neil young for the peace and passion and love he brings to life. thank you neil young, my troubadour.
gimme things that won't get lost.
it's dream, it's only a dream, and it's fading now, fading away. it's only a dream, just a memory, without anywhere to stay.
neil young
see heart of gold, jonathan demme's movie of neil young's dream, i urge you.
ah, what the hell, what matters, chiara?
his cancer incubating for years after he quit smoking if i am anything
like him i'll be dead in sixteen years.
i remember the playground girls and the rocks of my collection, a bouquet
thrown in the air like a hard cheer by
mt. zion elementary
like so many random things
i wonder where they are now.
why do i obsess
about dad-
fathers in general because
i am a failure.
there is only one
person i helped
be happy.
thee old man
lived simply,
a main line mansion,
a five-story colonial office
in the city of brotherly love,
a lichened cedar shake cape cod summer house
and a bluebird blue porsche.
dude was suave, he inhabited that life so natural.
i could never aspire.
i was sick with awe.
but he saw what-facades,
he knew there was something
beyond his purchase.
it is amazing to think of,
there are as many molecules in a body as stars in the universe
and so many rich people have transitioned
while their money like finer flesh
still lives.
think of cave club, & other cavelike structures, & tunnels, where alien sounds hollowly penetrate spaces we briefly lurk in, drifting through the walls, in sleep, allowed because we don't matter, because matter is energy, we don't contribute, we stop nothing.
think of that conversation
in the sunken living room with the charcoal deathscape over the fireplace.
when he said he doesn't want to work, just two nickel to rub for luck,and sent me away,
my odd way.
think of the mass
solid his bluestone mansion
main line pa
he seemed so small within
like he was squating,
closing off wings
trying to heat the goddamn thing
the hearth exploding with effort.
soot everywhere
no money for me.
there we were convinced
we were solid existence
not those adopted ghosts,
we that haunted,
with hollow conviction
inhabited.
ithink of the dad in zero k. dad supporting son, because he has so much and maybe loves him more than money, but that wont be tested. son who entertains interviews. hobby of luxury.
dad who wants him to go with him
into cryonic suspension,
where his second wife waits,
wondering where.
i think of kafka's dad. dad
sorrow nor money
words will
not assuage.
i think of the afterlife
of dad's money.
i think of how solid he seemed,
built hard, of money.
i think of his remains, money,
snug in his third wife's bank, his bone dust clouds long ago leached,
into groundwater,
roots and natural gas.
think of the particulate rising
of his remains,
flowing up,
his third wife's hands.
now we're talking about the afterlife of technology is technology the afterlife does it contain us
this war on terror, is it
the final gold rush.
Those of us who are here don't belong anywhere else. We've fallen out of history. We've abandoned who we were and where we were in order to be here.
Don Delillo,
Zero K.
cant confront a decimated future
better the angel you know than the devil who's in charge.
my voice is strange to me it's me but it's not what i wish to say i'm emotional but a puppet i'm unstrung i'm not one i'm pulled apart.
then the angel any one sees our distress pities and pulls us up. anything yet can happen.
devices have become personal
not vices. devices
absorb us. our
consciousness no longer
is personal,
exposed, fragile,
somehow
we've transcended us.
