Why I hate this blog (Bob!)

Today, I am sitting in a room, with forty computers and eighty college students. The main character is not here, I am a supporting character, and when he isn't here, I of course stop existing . I am listening to The Kills, I am typing and realizing.

There is the man bob. I am quite excited to have the man bob in existence today, because he flushed my toilet 11 times…to no avail. The man bob haggled with my landlord, hoping to get some poetry out of our little arrangement… to no avail. The man, that is, the man bob, has shrunken two and a half inches in the last forty years. We believe it to be a result of massive beer consumption.

Once, Bob read a blog. He sifted through its pages and posts only to realize he needed to flush my toilet again. Then he stopped reading the blog. Later, he gave it another go, shortly after killing half of a cockroach. Finding the Scarsdalekings he shrugged, winked at the computer screen, and screamed. The commas were out of place, the style was sophomoric at best, the ideas were feebly conveyed, and most importantly, the words were not words. He read the words and realized the words were not words. No, not words, but replacements for words. On the site Word meant Party, Bob meant homophobe, or student, and on and on and on. The words, letters, phrases were so deceitful and evil and plaguing, the man Bob shrugged, winked, and screamed. And then he ate it. He ate the blog, or as it is in reality, sandwich, and he never spoke to me again.

Damnit.

Why I hate Poland

There are many reasons to hate Poland. I have chosen to dwell on merely two. The bountiful constraints of my life have left me in a position in which I am unable to express my opinions and feelings completely--it's a time constraint, not a constraint of expression. Folks, I assure you I have no problems with inability of expression.

1. Vaclav Havel.

According to Wikipedia and the vast body of general knowledge (increasing at at least a constant rate, sometimes increasing rate) that I possess, this man, who was commander-in-chief of this sad excuse for an encapsulation of borders from 1990-1995, helped Poland achieve a state of post-communism. Normally, I would say "'Nuff said", but this time I will be a little less brief. Get rid of communism? Why? Doesn't that mean Vaclav's an asshole? Doesn't care about the rights of workers and shit? Fuck that guy.

2. Biskupin.

This open-air museum is home to Poland's "most famous archeological find". Woop-de-doo! Who cares? It's a model of some little civilization that existed in that region from the Iron Age. If I ever wanted to get an extremely good bicep muscle workout, you know what I'd do? I'd purchase a plane ticket to Poland, pay for entry into the Biskupin, then let my hand do what it inevitably will do: suppress yawns. Thousands and thousands of yawns.

Don't even get me started about United Arab Emirates.

Agamben man (A Message to the nonexistent)

I am sitting in a room going stale. Two chairs, one table, a lamp, those are the items that comprise the totality of the room and my existence. My fist supports my fluid filled skull, and I sit hunched over looking into the thing, the thing being everything. I have moved only once since I became aware of my existence, and for a very brief interval. Since that time I have sat, hunched, seeing the thing that is everything that could have been, every word that would have been, the sights that weren’t seen. My days are spent like this. Wide eyes open, staring, until I pass out and then awake, only to find myself in the same position. I cannot move.

In my eye, the one outside of the fluid and skull, the one connected to my optic nerve, as I have said, I go over each thing, every nonsensical word, abrupt gesture, and random occurrence. I hop onto the table, I poke the wall, fall into the floor and emerge standing on the ceiling while the room melts, and then say the word “Jar!” Then my eyes, you know the one I told you about, do it again, now ending with a different inflection, then a slightly different word. Imagine each possible event that could have transpired as you sat reading this, dear imaginary muse. Imagine the many thoughts you could have thought, the spasms that didn’t happen, the orgasm unexpected. I have done it. I have. Of course I am only millennia away from finishing my task, but that OBVIOUSLY isn’t the goal. No. The goal is not to do.

I did once. Once, when I sat hunched over after coming into consciousness, I reached over to the lamp and felt its warmth, without touching it. It passed beautiful heat into my index and middle fingers, and I passed out and awoke in my position. My position. I have made it mine, it is mine, and if no other action, thought or pose is rightfully mine, I claim this can belong to no other. Don’t position yourself in my position. Please.

Now I have to cease casting brainwaves out into the abyss that is outside, because I know I haven’t written, spoken, or done anything, but I have merely thought these thoughts to some being which will never see them. I have to stop now, because I know there is no magic fairy to receive my thoughts and write them, and hold them, and cherish them, but there is just me, in my room, with my hand in a fist on the base of my jar, supporting the fluid and matter in my skull. Maybe I have been alive for a day, but maybe forever. Regardless, you have never been at all. Goodbye now imaginary men, I must continue my task, and you must continue to not be.

Who Will Meet Me in Alaska?

I just realized something. When I meet a person, I must find out where they're from before I can shake his/her hand. The reason, you ask?

Well, let me give you a scenario:

I find out that Adam is from California. I have just met him. I am from New York. I shake his hand and our hands become Nebraska in my mind's eye. My hands feel dry, yet meaty. Well-fed and plump. Although, on the exterior they are the same amalgamation of chicken bones.

Do you see what happened there?

I met Parisian Pierre. My hands were clammy, moist. I met Jaime, from Mexico. My hands were ten gallons and again well-fed. On winter days I hold hands with my South African princess chicle. In the summer, who will meet me in Alaska?

Our anarchist

The anarchist’s arms dangled spastically in the air with a stick pointing out and to the right, like a supply and demand curve, as he preached the good word. The word coming out in jumps, flutters, piles, outside a looming white castle-church—Ignacio, the church. The stick in his hand darted back and forth in between commodity words, while his body shook under his gesticulations. His energy formed raw and pure and unabashedly directed itself toward the passersby walking through the empty night, on their way home from 200,000 dollar educations and 100,000 dollar jobs. A jump, a hop, a giggle.

Jump and hop back two days, and I swear I’ll make you giggle, because jumping makes you fall off balance, and you start moving slowly, but then you accelerate like aggregate supply after the equilibrium point. Two days previous the anarchist and I stood in a library while he struggled to whisper, something he never quite got down. Through struggling words he spoke to me of a day when the buildings would still stand and the money would fly into fires. “SHHHHHh!” We were in a library. We left the library. And then he told me why. “Why will the people give up money?” “Love.” “Ha!” I was another schmuck laughing in the face of this poor withered loving soul. Counter points flew out like daggers, or swords thrown by giants, and his eyes moved like lizards, the animal his shaman said he embodied. So am I surprised that after the insults flew he packed his bags and his manifesto to spread the good word? No, but I never thought he’d proclaim himself leader of legion, legion of suburban Newton, on a night when I had to pick up a package and couldn’t help.

But when they later spoke of his arms in the air, and his beautiful life changing words, and his eyes taking in every corner of the world, I had to praise him, kneel on one knee, kiss his imaginary cheek (because I was insane by then, of course). Then the cops came and he shouted at the “slaves of capitalism,” and the dissenter was arrested and shipped to a mental hospital, where they put the geniuses, the artists, and the beautiful. But that sermon on the rock will go down in history, if for nothing else than the fear it evoked and the dehumanization his friends and past followers invoked upon his imprisonment. Another was.

Was does something special. It makes that beautiful boy into a beautiful myth. He is no longer a person, he is more. He invokes sad awe in sad eyes as they struggle to figure out what it means to be on a different plane of sanity, which I suppose most call insanity. The fallen men are myths, that becomes their identity., They are our cherished mirage memories, and we sadly tell their stories. You can recognize a story-wielder if you look in the glazed eyeballs we point towards Orion’s belt, and the flaccid postures we mosey from place to place when thinking on the mythologized. In the end, the anarchist, the leader of nonexistent legions, is dead to these people, to me. I may shake his hand, or hug him during a visit, but he is real only in a memory of a dream of the night in a library when he told me why the world would change. His existence is diluted and transmuted in my mind. But that’s because he’s different. That is because he is different. He is human no more, and a blur forever. 

This is a movement. Just check the MVMT splitting the skull in two.

St. Valentine's Day Massacre (The Counterpart)

"Power to the people
Power to the people
Power to the people
Power to the people
Power to the people
Power to the people
Power to the people
Power to the people, right on "
--- Power to the People, John Lennon

"Nice," I said as I took my headphones off. I was sitting in my room at my desk, but I decided to get on the bus and go to Home Depot.

"Drills?"

"Aisle 3."

"Thanks."

I bought a drill. I think only I can understand this one. I was going after Omega Superior. And his mother. I had a dream about him and he made fun of me. Nobody insults me. Dead men tell no tales.

I went to Regal Cinema. That's where Omega Superior takes girls on dates. I saw his mother near the entrance. She was sitting by herself at a table. She saw me and ran.

"She acted rather quickly. Perhaps too quickly. Some might say she is too hasty in this endeavor and has no real reason to act in this way," I said to myself as I pulled a gun out my pocket.

I shot her. I felt happy. Not too happy though. Not the definition of happy. Definitely not.

People stared. She writhed. She died. I proceeded to the theaters. People tried to stop me, but I pulled out my drill and they backed away. I ran into "Black Swan" because I knew Omega Superior would be there.

He was. He was in the back row. He had a girl next to him. I stopped and stared.

The ease and finesse with which I leapt over his head, I cannot explain to you. I won't even try. I was in my element. Plain and simple. I was Aquafina amidst a tempest. All I can explain to you with any degree of finery and justice is the terror on his face. As I stood upon the back of the chair in front of him, and stared deeply into Omega Superior's face, this is what I saw:

His mouth was a hole. A knot, if you will, because he was a tree. He was petrified wood. Petrified in the sense that his face legitimately seemed to have been in this particular contortion for centuries, and would continue to do so for eons and eons. Until Paul Bunyan disembowels the forest in which he resides somewhere in eastern Tennessee. The lines. The lines that cracked his face into fragments momentarily frightened me. I hadn't seen so many lines since I was auditioning for "Les Miserables." All joking aside, they were plentiful. They barely allowed for the portals of his face to exist and perceive what was happening to him. The irrationality of fear. These were the ramifications (I can't take credit for that one):

In this position, perched atop a tottering Regal Cinema comfy chair, I remained for five seconds. Not a fraction longer. The exact moment I noticed his eyelids amplify and reveal a hint of gleam from the towering screen behind me, I plunged. I plunged my drill into his knee. That scream. Ah, that scream!

Hahahahahahahahahaha!!!!!!

Ah.

I sit back now, like many a magnanimous artificer before me, in a cell. Recalling my tales. Unloading my burden. Gather round everyone, the festival has just begun. Omega Superior is still out there. He lurks in the corner of your subconscious and urges you to act. Do.

Happy Valentine's Day!!!!

Finger Mountains (Valentine's Day)

Dear You, without You, Artist

I’m sitting on a coach in forbidden lands, a little outside Scarsdale, with The Artist on me, looking into me. We’re about to leave and we don’t know it. The moment has its own color, something like blue-green or chasmic (which isn’t a real color, but it should be). The Artist and I will fall now, into the moment’s color and each other. Maybe it’s the heat. It must be the heat that makes us melt together, because this recreation has a warm soothing feeling to it. Or maybe it was what The Artist said, “Don’t analyze, just feel.”

The world is about to change, and it’s right as The Artist lay still next to me, and as I gravitate toward the window seal. But then I know. The world is about to change. And my hands grip her and pull her in, and my legs fumble about, sweat drips, breathing labors, but it’s all in my head. Did The Artist feel that embrace, did she feel my hands running down her side, hoping to chase my mind down, around, over those valleys and mountains? Probably not, but I felt, I didn’t think. I felt in the dark, and the moment was red-pink, but perhaps her moment was just black.

And now here I am, after an event that may or may not have happened. She is miles away from me, I am miles away from me. So here we are, feeling! Not thinking. Is feeling enough though? Would thorny flowers with golden stems and giant pedals express or substitute the feeling? But that’s just thinking. Well, The Artist is miles away, sick, and I’m confused, and the feeling confuses the thinking, so please excuse this.


Thanks,
Him, or a part of Him, New Guy

And Now I’m sitting, and the world has changed. She’s gone. Not just miles away this time, but gone gone. Gone with a text not much better than “It’s not you, it’s me.” The finger mountains are gone, the color is gone, gray is here, feeling is here. But I’m screaming to myself “DISSOCIATE!” But the dissociation properties suck, and the gray makes me think I suck. Finger mountains are all I have now that that world is gone, on Valentine’s Day. But the colors melt with me now still, and gray just doesn’t rub off. Maybe it just won’t rub off. Whatever. Cliché, you and I are one.