Archive for January 26th, 2015

Unstuck In Time

The other night I was becalmed in what I think of as American Stupor: lying on the couch, watching the television.

The series I was watching was unreeling a show, set many years ago, at Christmas. And I thought, “right, Christmas. We’ll be having that here soon.”

For, in my mind, I believed I was timeinhabiting that time and space that is the resting-on-one’s-oars period between Thanksgiving and Christmas.

Thanksgiving, I knew, had passed. But Christmas was still to come.

This was my Reality. Until nearly the show was over. When suddenly I recalled: no, we have already had Christmas. It passed more than three weeks ago.

And I then realized: I had become unstuck in time.

Billy Pilgrim famously became unstuck in time in Dr. Kurt Vonnegut’s true-life non-fiction anthropological accounting Slaughterhouse-Five.

There, Mr. Pilgrim, he went through life, oscillating to and fro, from the moment of his birth, to the moment of his death, and unto every moment in between. He traveled, bouncing, bob-bob-bobbing along, from here to there to everywhere. And back again.

It was hypothesized that Mr. Pilgrim had become unstuck in time because of his experience in the German meat-locker dubbed Slaughterhouse-Five, wherein he survived the fire-bombing of Dresden. Such a horror, this, that it catapulted his being beyond the “normal” boundaries of space and time.

As I lay there, in my American Stupor, not really sure where or when I was, I understood that I had maybe become unmoored from space and time because of my experience with SlaughterhouseHebdo. Which I had opened spacemy being to be. Because sometimes I do that. Against all sense. Because it is Right.

Part of me, for sure, knew there had already been Christmas.

But, really, another part said, how could I be sure? I mean, the Christmas tree—can’t be denied—is still out there in the front room. I “thought” it was because the cats had not yet come to a final conclusion as to which ornaments were but ornaments, rather than cat toys. But maybe it was up there because really Christmas hadn’t come yet. How should I know? Would I know? Could I know?

Right this moment the kitten is out there playing the piano. Not just walking across the keys, but playing the piano. He is making a melody. Next, I suppose, he’ll sing. Why not? Nothing is stopping that, except a belief that it can’t happen.

I am now and forever eschewing all that. Any and all “can’ts.” For I am unstuck in time. And in space.

Anything can happen. And therefore it will.

So let it be written. So let it redone.



I get the old guy now. The mean one. The rat bastard out of the Old Testament.

Mr. Grumpy. Yahweh. Jehovah. Mr. Fuck You I’m chew backSick Of You I’m Killing You.

Mr. Anger.

The vicious Abrahamic paterfamilias who oozes his anger into Judaism, Christianity, Islam. Who fires his peoples with bile.

Brought to his knees. In anger in tears like water flow in anger in tears like water flow in anger from aching in anger broken in anger disappointed in anger in broken heart. In anger. Righteous. Blinding. Blinded.

So. Drown the globe. Melt the motherfucker. Sweep it all away. For look what, look what, look what, look what, look what they, what they, what they, what they all have done.

You just, in anger, get sick of them. And think:

the fire next time. burn the motherfuckers down.

But he fucked up. The old one. The mean one. The rat bastard out of the Old Testament.

Because drowning and burning and erasing: these don’t do shit. All they do is make more of themselves. Make more of drowning and burning and erasing. Of shit.

Instead, shave that flagyou have to laugh.

You know, old mean rat bastard dude: like your murdered Charlie Hebdo kids did. The ones who met the horror of anti-semitism upbubbling again in France by taking the “pretty face” of the supreme ugliness of renewed Jew-hatred, Marine Le Pen, and portraying her as shaving the Hitler mustache off her pubes.

Like your kid Kenneth Patchen did. In one of your best Good Books. In The Journal Of Albion Moonlight. Where he recounts how your own murdered flesh-and-blood-of-the-dove kid did laugh, and couldn’t stop, laughing.

I forgot to say that Christ went back to Heaven. His presence was awkward for all concerned. However, Jackeen (rest her soul), did make a dictaphone record of a conversation between Adolph Hitler and Him.

Hitler: Punishment? What do you know of my punishment?
Christ: (He laughs).
Hitler: I take credit for my own guilt.
Christ: (Laughs).
Hitler: What do you say to that?
Christ: (Laughs).
Hitler: Answer me!
Christ: (Laughs louder).
Hitler: (Beginning to sob). Give me credit for my guilt!
Christ: (Laughs still louder).
Hitler: (Sobs). All my life I have been afraid.
Christ: (Laughs uncontrollably).
Hitler: (Sobs).
Christ: (Continues to laugh).
Hitler: (Sobs louder).
Christ: (Laughs).
Hitler: Please . . . !
Christ: Ho! Ho! Ho!
Hitler: Please . . .
Christ: Ha! Ha! Ha!
Hitler: (Beginning to scream). Please! Please . . .
Christ: (His laughter drowns out all else).

When I Worked

January 2015
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