Archive for May, 2014

I Remember You

Americans feel entitled to happiness, or, once they manage to find it, they feel as if they own it. If they are deprived of it, they feel cheated. If they feel it has been taken away from them, they imagine they have done wrong. This guilt, I have felt it from everyone I’ve known. It’s a bit like a Dylan song: they have held the world in their hands and let it slip through their fingers.

—from Terrence Malick’s last interview, in 1979, for Le Monde

Memorial Day. Yeah, well, in this country, the US of A, that day’s all about lipsticking the cold blue frozen lifeless lips of people shot to shit, shot to shit unto death. Shot to shit unto death in numberless senseless wars.

For any war you can number, was is and always will be, senseless.

Hoorah!

Long may they—dead in the grave—wave.

The dead, frozen like flies in plastic, realized—at the moment of death when of course they stopped—that humanity must grow to feeling, to empathy, or become extinct. But the dead cannot speak.

—James Jones

I was at Anzio. Glad I wasn’t the GI enjoying that final “no-wake-up-call” sleep on his blood-padded mud mattress.

It would be interesting to hear his comment if we could hoorahgrab a handful of his hair, drag his head out of the dirt, and ask his opinion on the questions that are posed every decade, the contemporary shouts of: “How long are we going to put up with Cuba’s nonsense?” “Just how many insults can we take from Russia?”

I was at Salerno. I can take a lot of insults.

—Lenny Bruce

Hoorah! Hoorah! Hoorah!

Semper fi.

Kick out the jams.

Hoorah! Hoorah! Hoorah!

Bloody old bastard over on Kill The Negro, he wants us all to kneel and fellate the granite graves of his forebears, who, ululating without surcease, went out, able addled and always, to kill and kill and kill and kill and kill.

For more than a thousand years. Proud is he, that for more than a thousand years, his people have killed and killed and killed.

Retrovert unto the eleventy-billionth degree, this nimrod.

Wanting us, here, now, to worship, ape upon ape, beating ape, unto death; agents of Thantaos, in ecstasy, tossing heavenward the bone.

Go, please, to hell. Where you and yours have consigned so many innocent others. Including your own sons.

As Herman Melville did say: “Only the man who says ‘no,’ is free.”

And, also said he, “I would prefer not to.”

And so, here, now, as always, leastways when I am, I think, mostly, at my best, I am he, of no; he, of prefer not to: I select, instead, to “might as well jump.”

And so, I already did Memorial Day. I did it, for instance, here and here and here and here and here and here and here and here and here and here.

And did you people stop killing each other?

No. You did not.

So the hell with it. Life’s too short. To keep banging my words onto your unyielding obdurate bloodseeping walls.

So, instead, for Memorial Day, because I remember you—all of you—I am going to recount remembrances of those who at least once encountered the key. In this case, in the earnest fumbling hands of that overweight Oklahoma shy astral extraterrestrial boy, director Terrence Malick.

He of:

we are but a moment’s sunlight
fading in the grass

furthur=>

All The Other Kids

Nose For News

All day I have been seeing these headlines about some racehorse and “nasal strips.”

Do I even want to snortknow what this is about?

No. I do not.

All I know is that yesterday I bought a pink plastic watering can in the shape of a pig; when you water, the water flows out the pig’s twin noseholes.

This, clearly, is the zenith of both the industrial age, and the information age.

As they say in scripture: “It is accomplished.”

Both ages: they are over.

Now, we can move on to something else.

As we can move on to something else from “riding” a horse in a “race.”

When you are with an animal, when an animal is with you, you are only, who you are, when it’s an island.

Just you two.

And you are an animal. All of you.

I Am A Gnome Farmer

07/14/13

This place is $522 a month: 656 square feet, but with three bedrooms. Maybe a home for gnomes? There is a glass-topped table in the living room, convenient for snorting cocaine and/or other substances. There is a strange object on the counter, next to the sink, that may be from space.

07/30/13

I have decided I am going to paint an oil painting of the piano, and then happyhang it above the piano. I will be like a painting gnome, in the basement.

01/07/14

Eventually I see the truck entering a tow-yard. I go to the little booth and tell the gnome in the booth that the truck must be released at once, because it belongs to Pete. He asks if I’m Pete, and I say no. He asks for Pete’s full name, and I say I don’t know his full name. The gnome is full of sneers, but at last he says if I pay the full tow and storage fee I can have the truck, no matter who I am. He quotes some price so outrageous my mind refuses to remember it. I pay it, and he lets me into the yard. Which is like a graveyard of elevated trucks, in various states of dismantlement, except they’re all orange. None of them are red. “Pete’s truck is red!” I cry. “Where did you put it?” Tow-orcs sneer that they only have orange trucks in that yard, as everyone knows, and if I couldn’t even get the right yard, that was my problem, not theirs.

04/01/14

The Bainbridge man is now in the new building. He has a small public booth upstairs, but most of his stuff is in a secret gnome room, upstairs behind a closed door, that he opens to humans only Wednesday through Saturday.

04/05/14

As I suspected, many people froth and foam that a fiddle should not be purchased online. However, there is a folk/bluegrass-outfit-only in Illinois, that offers fully guaranteed returnable vintage fiddles that are pre-“set up”: everybody says the instrument when purchased MUST then be “set up,” and this can only properly be done by some old gnome puttering around fiddlein the back of a violin shop.

04/06/14

Now that there are two gnomes, I have decided they are too scary to be in the house. I will get more, but then they have to live outside. Probably they should go in the fenced-in place, so they don’t get knocked over.

P.S. I think my gnome fear comes from the fact that the newest gnome is waving.

04/14/14

The little gnome spent the night outside. He is brave.

My latest thought is that the little gnomes might look bigger if I perch them on those disused white ant pipes. Not only will they look bigger, but they can change the energy. If I pursue this latest theory, I will have to count the pipes, and then maybe be forced to accumulate more gnomes accordingly.

04/14/14

So I put on shoes and socks and pants to go out and plant a pepper plant. And the “music” neighbor was playing a death metal song with a constant refrain of a man frothily shouting “son of a bitch! son of a bitch!”

So I went in the house and ate cheese on a bagel.

That music will make the little gnome get PTSD. And then maybe he’ll become a freeway shooter.

04/14/14

The nice lights have come on and there is a big moon in the sky.

There should be solar gnomes.

04/16/14

You need gnomes, because when K——- who can’t write has the meetings where she tries to boss the writers, she should be facing a window, and outside somebody will dance the gnomes, before the window, like in The Full Monty, and everyone else in the room de gnome de gnomewill say they don’t see the gnomes, and then K——- will know she is having a breakdown, and will go into a Home, and then she won’t bother you any more, and then you can be the Ruler, as is supposed to happen.

04/25/14

When I was in Canned Food the other day I saw more mosaic lights and gnomes. I am going to buy them. The waving gnome is now on the railing of the front porch, cheerily greeting people who pass by. I’m thinking I should just give up and litter the place with gnomes. I also believe there can not be too many mosaic lights. Last night I strung 30 Kesey bells. I am going to go by Michaels and buy several hundred more. Probably soon it will be time for those large see-through metallic wire sculptures of flying dinosaurs. Cables can grow on them.

04/25/14

I know I can’t look at my banking on the intertubes for some days, because I know the shock would be too great. But I suppose if you go out shopping intending to buy all the gnomes and mosiac lights in the store, you have to assume a descent into madness.

04/26/14

I went to Mabel’s and got two mushrooms. I put them with two gnomes and two mosaic solar lights and two pine cones by the four pink clovers, now supplemented by four purple alyssum and four white alyssum.

The waving gnome remains on the railing. Together with the two clover gnomes, that makes three. That means I only have three gnomes left for the entire remainder of the property.

I SUFFER FROM AN APPALLING DEARTH OF GNOMES. ; (

04/27/14

There is a Neil Diamond song that goes “stones would play/inside my head.” In my head it’s playing as “gnomes would play/inside my head.”

04/28/14

All the gnomes are here. No rototiller damage to the circles of light.

04/29/14

I like to sit out and watch the solar lights come out. And I really like my gnome array. I watered it at sundown, so tomorrow when the hot sun comes out, they will not be afraid.

05/01/14

I’m supposed to meet with S— and G—- and the orchard-shooting client tomorrow in the late afternoon. Then on Saturday they want me to go out with them to talk to some witness.

Don’t they understand I’m a gnome farmer? : /

05/02/14

Last night I unwrapped the gnomes and placed them together on the counter. They did not look menacing or threatening or anything. They just looked absurd.

This morning, however, in the light, they’re kind of unsettling. They will need soon to fan out across the land.

05/03/14

Gnomes are fanning out into the countryside.

05/03/14

While weeding I discovered I might have a modest little portal to another realm under my little stump. I put a gnome there.

05/03/14

I put the shocked and sagging green bell peppers by the gnome, so he could help them.

I think once the Protected Area is all landscaped some solar lights might have to go in there. It is also possible that each lone gnome may need to have a solar light.

05/06/14

I placed three more gnomes yesterday. The one on the white ant pipe nearest the road seems kind of far away and forlorn. I’ll probably have to get him a mushroom. And some plants.

Only three gnomes remain in the house.

05/06/14

I am going to dump the catbox and then be a gnome farmer. I am going to plant the hyssops that are growing in the baby tray because they’ve stopped getting bigger and I’m going to put them between the chewed-down serranos because the tubes say deer deer:evilhave a great Hate for hyssop and will flee it whenever they see it. I am also watering the lonely gnome and when the ground is sufficiently water-worked I am going to plant around him the remaining alyssum and one or more of those dianthus. He’ll probably still need a mushroom. I have one of those plastic whirligig pinwheels down in the basement: maybe I’ll plant that next to him. I had to put one of the three remaining house gnomes out by the volunteer daffodil by the pear tree because in my blindness I kept stepping on it. He will prevent that.

05/09/14

In the night a gnome was bowled over. I don’t know if it was the wind, or a marauder.

05/10/14

Here, the wind is not only ringing the fairy bells, it’s also bobbing the gnome heads.

05/10/14

I may be facing a gnome shortage. I have placed 14 so far, with only two left in the house.

Shake The Tree

Shake The Tree

Shake The Tree

it’s your day
woman’s day

Yada Yada Yada, Blah Blah Blah

Madness

Madness

Madness

Madness

Gold That Never Was

Let There Be Lust

(Reprinting this here because I’m still grumpy from making the mistake May 1 of descending into the pre-monolith political blogs, wherein knuckle-dragging screechers and screamers were, foam-flecked, furiously flinging feces at one another, as to whether anarchists, dewcommunists, or slow-moving centrist sloths, did first come up with “May Day.”

(All of them: wrong. So wrong. So completely wrong.

(For the day, outside this so desensualized industrial age, has never had anything whatsoever to do with anything so foul and filthy and sterile and impotent and neuter and non-productive and fleeting and impermanent and totally over as “labor,” as “work.”

(May Day: it’s a fuck festival. Always has been; always will be. Alpha and omega. Unto the end. Amen.)

Millennia before the political people got hold of it, May Day was for lovers.

Equidistant between the Vernal Equinox and the Summer Solstice, arrived that day when human beings participated in the seasonal renewal of life by themselves bursting into bloom—making love.

Or, sometimes, simply, easily, naturally: in “but” fucking.

Details varied. In some places, particularly in the Celtic realm, this day was known as Beltane. Sometimes a woman and man, recognized as particularly sympathetic to or skilled in the magic arts, would, representing the Goddess and God themselves, couple in a ritualized ceremony, either observed or alone, and most often in a freshly seeded field.

Very often, as it says here, “[y]oung couples were encouraged to test their fertility with Beltane trysts, and any babies born from Beltane were believed to be blessed by the Goddess herself.” Pretty magical, such witch children.

Too, “[t]rial unions, called hand-fastings (as the lovers’ clasped hands were bound by ribbon), were also popular at Beltane, committing the couple to each other for one year and a day in preparation for a marital commitment.” Such a ceremony is today popular among some contemporary neo-pagans.

Other places, on this day, there was a sort of relationship “time-out,” when the people of the tribe, in the interest of renewing the earth, could couple indiscriminately, and without consequence.

furthur=>

Of The Essential Nature Of The Present Situation In Ukraine

“I have this beetle here in one hand,” Aristotle proclaimed one day, “with a single oval shell and eight jointed legs, and I have here in my other hand this second beetle of lighter hue which has twelve legs and a shell that is reallonger and segmented. Can you explain the differences?”

“Yes,” said Plato. “There is no such thing as a beetle, in either of your hands. There is no such thing as your hand. What you think of as a beetle and a hand are merely reflections of your recognition of the idea of a beetle and a hand. There is only the idea, which existed before these specimens came into being. Otherwise, how could they come into being? And the form of the idea, of course, is always eternal and real, and never changes. What you are holding in what you think are your hands are shadows of that idea. Have you forgotten my illustration of the cave in my Republic? Read it once more. That the two beetles you have are different is clear enough proof that neither is real. It therefore follows that only the form or the idea of the form is susceptible to study, and it is something about which we will never be able to learn more than we already know. Ideas alone are worth contemplating. You are not real, my vain young Aristotle. I’m not real. Socrates himself was but an imitation of himself. All of us are merely inferior copies of the form that is us. I know you understand me.”

—Joseph Heller, Picture This

The Scream

dudeTesting and training are all to the good, but they take time. And time is short. All the powers are making last-minute overtures to one another. According to intercepted cables, the French ambassador to Germany, Coulondre, told Hitler than a long war could result in chaos and unexpected results: “You are thinking of yourselves as victors . . . but have you thought of another possibility, that the victor might be Trotsky?” Hitler jumped from his chair “as if he had been hit in the pit of his stomach, and screamed.”

I know how he feels.

—Richard Lourie, The Autobiography Of Joseph Stalin


When I Worked

May 2014
M T W T F S S
 1234
567891011
12131415161718
19202122232425
262728293031