I flipped the switch and sighed. It was Monday. It was Monday, and it was the half-graveyard shift, and it was cold in the booth, and I had spilled coffee on my pants on the way in, and Sternberg was sure to come in and give me shit about not finishing the Dixon Report over the weekend...but those were just the hazards of going out in the world and trying to make a few bucks. Maybe put aside enough to buy your girlfriend a necklace, or yourself a nice bottle of booze. Not so complicated. I could live with that.
The problem was the Mahoney Report.
waiting poem
i would like to write a byzantine
sentence sometime
so i could sit back
and fold my fingers
behind my head and say,
"gee, what a byzantine
sentence i've written."
i think that would be an end
in itself that i could get into.
sentence sometime
so i could sit back
and fold my fingers
behind my head and say,
"gee, what a byzantine
sentence i've written."
i think that would be an end
in itself that i could get into.
The Misplaced Explanation
What mark should be marked?
Is there an easier way to think about the abstract?
These answers and more - ignored now and forever.
"...and then there he was - standing as if the whole scene had been laid out before him perfectly, like it was some sort of movie set. He was wearing these aqua seersucker pants - I think there was even a little stripe in them or something - and he was just standing there, like nothing had ever happened. Maybe it hadn't, for him, I dunno, but it really bothered me, the way he just expected everything to be the way it was, like his whole life had unfurled, I guess, and here he was, and sure, of course the brownies should be arranged on the plate that way - why wouldn't they be?! Twenty bucks? Why not! He was frozen there like that and it was like I could see all that happening but I knew I would never get there. That's not the way I work! The whole world is wrong to me - my whole life has unfurled and I'm in a foreign place, it's like all the signs are in Japanese and the brownies are all wrong and shit, I don't have twenty bucks..."
There is silence, and then there is the sound of air conditioners. They're both silence really, but one is palpable and the other is the Great Nothingness that we try not to think about. Let's talk about air conditioners. Do you have one? Does a loved one? They're machines, you know, and machines won't hurt us unless we let them. Nothing to be afraid of. They make us cooler, usually (if they're working properly). They often have fans built into them, which is kind of cool, because they're kind of like two machines in one! In fact there are probably more machines in there, but I'm no engineer. Think about these things. Think about that hum they make when they're running nice and smooth. DO NOT think about the silence. If you're thinking about silence, just imagine there's a wind blowing in, and maybe a storm. A storm is better than silence.
Futility is a weak word. Not because of what it connotes, but because it doesn't describe the thing enough. Come up with a better fucking word.
What mark should be marked?
Is there an easier way to think about the abstract?
These answers and more - ignored now and forever.
"...and then there he was - standing as if the whole scene had been laid out before him perfectly, like it was some sort of movie set. He was wearing these aqua seersucker pants - I think there was even a little stripe in them or something - and he was just standing there, like nothing had ever happened. Maybe it hadn't, for him, I dunno, but it really bothered me, the way he just expected everything to be the way it was, like his whole life had unfurled, I guess, and here he was, and sure, of course the brownies should be arranged on the plate that way - why wouldn't they be?! Twenty bucks? Why not! He was frozen there like that and it was like I could see all that happening but I knew I would never get there. That's not the way I work! The whole world is wrong to me - my whole life has unfurled and I'm in a foreign place, it's like all the signs are in Japanese and the brownies are all wrong and shit, I don't have twenty bucks..."
There is silence, and then there is the sound of air conditioners. They're both silence really, but one is palpable and the other is the Great Nothingness that we try not to think about. Let's talk about air conditioners. Do you have one? Does a loved one? They're machines, you know, and machines won't hurt us unless we let them. Nothing to be afraid of. They make us cooler, usually (if they're working properly). They often have fans built into them, which is kind of cool, because they're kind of like two machines in one! In fact there are probably more machines in there, but I'm no engineer. Think about these things. Think about that hum they make when they're running nice and smooth. DO NOT think about the silence. If you're thinking about silence, just imagine there's a wind blowing in, and maybe a storm. A storm is better than silence.
Futility is a weak word. Not because of what it connotes, but because it doesn't describe the thing enough. Come up with a better fucking word.
- His dad's an accountant, he's controlling [muffled] music business...
- A million five?
- Something like that...too much.
- Well, that's what I said in the first place - she wanted to start off that way, and I said to her, we have to make a point to get them to include the shorefront -
- Exactly.
- - and I'm just not sure we can go back now and
So that's how it went, at least for a while.
Undoubtedly, things would change (things always change when there's nothing else to do), but that's how it was. I didn't know, or maybe understand, what the original commitment would entail, how it would eventually mutate. I certainly didn't think it would end up with such intricate and laborious machinations. There's a time to fly loose and easy, and I wish I could always have the energy to play it that way, but sometimes it's just real goddamn difficult to escape the spirals of algorithmic nonsense and the endless labyrinth of possibilities that hums below every decision made and action taken. There's an imprisonment about it even, but what's to be done? Are we just meant to forget that we're in prison?
steam stern stark the melons are up from normandy all hands on captain kangol (easy for you to say) no such wonder or none so confused (easy for you to say) potatoing silently along the banks of ernie, the ride of triple-slash brought forth (easy for you to say) an april to remember, the cruelest (shut up already)
and anyway
when you drive home
facing west
and you wish the air
was fragile as fescue,
wavering like that,
it falls
and only the night
holds the sky up
- A million five?
- Something like that...too much.
- Well, that's what I said in the first place - she wanted to start off that way, and I said to her, we have to make a point to get them to include the shorefront -
- Exactly.
- - and I'm just not sure we can go back now and
Undoubtedly, things would change (things always change when there's nothing else to do), but that's how it was. I didn't know, or maybe understand, what the original commitment would entail, how it would eventually mutate. I certainly didn't think it would end up with such intricate and laborious machinations. There's a time to fly loose and easy, and I wish I could always have the energy to play it that way, but sometimes it's just real goddamn difficult to escape the spirals of algorithmic nonsense and the endless labyrinth of possibilities that hums below every decision made and action taken. There's an imprisonment about it even, but what's to be done? Are we just meant to forget that we're in prison?
when you drive home
facing west
and you wish the air
was fragile as fescue,
wavering like that,
it falls
and only the night
holds the sky up
Opening Day of Major League Baseball Two Thousand and Twelve. Gee whillakers what a big deal. The president is there to throw the first bird off of the roof. Gentleman sway as the pitches are thrown towards the white boy. Harry Heilmann is also there, reminscing about the TIME when TY Cobb killed that guy on purpose, and then laughing about the time he did it on accident, and then crying about the time when Al Kaline refused to eat chicken pot pie with him (research shows that he was late to the second half of a double header, and had only been out for a moment to rendezvous with a lady friend in an old hotel that they later converted into Camden Yards). Meanwhile, there are fish in the outfield, and boy I'm not talking about Mardy Fish or Brandon Bass or Mike Trout - no way, no how! Seriously. There are fucking fish out there. Let's all go to the sock hop and listen to Metallica.
helen frankenthaler dee gordon mary queen of scots justin sellers peter sellers marge schott amy winehouse miguel sano twins prospect 2012 mlb breathing i wish i could help here is everything and ted williams 1920s baseball no one everyone let's get it together pete jones alistair johnston alex zuckerman are you vain are you vain
helen frankenthaler dee gordon mary queen of scots justin sellers peter sellers marge schott amy winehouse miguel sano twins prospect 2012 mlb breathing i wish i could help here is everything and ted williams 1920s baseball no one everyone let's get it together pete jones alistair johnston alex zuckerman are you vain are you vain
The Difficulty of One Thing/Many Things (TRASH)
Two problems with blogging as-is:
1. There is too much shit in the world, and most of it is stupid. Am I being overly frank? Very well then, I'm being overly frrank. We know too much. There are incredible things happening everywhere, all at once - tiny things, profound moments in people's lives, people dying, food, silence. "How Mark Zuckerberg Accidentally Endorsed Mitt Romney on Facebook" is not one of them. I don't want to think about this, much less read a second-order blurb with half an opinion on it. But I do and I did, and they'll keep shitting out this fluff-refuse as long as people keep clicking, which they will, because people are dumb and AJ Daulerio knows how to dangle the carrot.
2. Viewpoints are garbage. Everyone has one, so no one's means anything. The dominant blurb-comment format just perpetuates the defecation of worthless opinions onto the Internet. "Here, read this piece of news, and then read some shithead's THOUGHTS about it!"I have thoughts. Why would I want to read your forced snark? What we need is ABSTRACTION. What we need is inspiration for thought, incitement for feeling. I don't want to be told what to think; I want to be kicked in the ass and set afire by something I don't understand.
PLEASE AND THANK YOU
1. There is too much shit in the world, and most of it is stupid. Am I being overly frank? Very well then, I'm being overly frrank. We know too much. There are incredible things happening everywhere, all at once - tiny things, profound moments in people's lives, people dying, food, silence. "How Mark Zuckerberg Accidentally Endorsed Mitt Romney on Facebook" is not one of them. I don't want to think about this, much less read a second-order blurb with half an opinion on it. But I do and I did, and they'll keep shitting out this fluff-refuse as long as people keep clicking, which they will, because people are dumb and AJ Daulerio knows how to dangle the carrot.
2. Viewpoints are garbage. Everyone has one, so no one's means anything. The dominant blurb-comment format just perpetuates the defecation of worthless opinions onto the Internet. "Here, read this piece of news, and then read some shithead's THOUGHTS about it!"I have thoughts. Why would I want to read your forced snark? What we need is ABSTRACTION. What we need is inspiration for thought, incitement for feeling. I don't want to be told what to think; I want to be kicked in the ass and set afire by something I don't understand.
PLEASE AND THANK YOU
Peyton Manning cannot feel his right hand, which, if he had two or three right hands or if he had never picked up a football (which is to say - if his dad had never picked up a football...but you can't stop a thing like picking something up, unless you completely remove the thing itself, so really, if footballs had never existed, if balls in games were all smaller and whiter and less oblong, as if there was never any rugby either, or England), or if he were just left handed, wouldn't be too bad, but his livelihood - outside of drinking Gatorade and turning on televisions, at least when he's paid to do so - depends on it. He eats cereal with the spoon in his left hand, and prays that it will rain (prays first that he is playing outside), pretends that he is an adult.
Not that it matters. His dad will surely wake him up in the morning, as early as usual, bowl of Raisin Bran already poured. Peyton will hope his dad doesn't notice the spoon in the left hand, but his dad doesn't miss much and it's been three days already and four feels like luck being pushed. He will surely pay for this later.
That Long Ride Backwards
I dreamed I saw three photographs of a car crash last night. A man with a gray wig that was coming off his hairline was . Even now that I’m awake, I his face just before the car smashed into the retaining wall: its color was the same pale white that ran through the wig, interrupted by a “I’m fine.” I said. “I’m warm enough.”
You turned up the heat anyway. The whole way home, you assumed will 'blow up'. But I enjoyed being by myself. Me and the poinsettia, frosted, in the backseat. The Cat Stevens you put on even nearly drowned out your incessant small talk with him – leadfoot Cyrano bastard – and allowed me to contemplate the movement of the cars.
I could not see the face of the driver. It was obscured by the dark blur of his sleeve moving to shield his eyes from the inevitability that stood in front of him, arriving closer with every finishing breath he took. He did not want to see his , suddenly so real, monolith much taller than the concrete he was about to be thrown into, though just as unforgiving and more permanent.
Why was I still living with you, after being traded in like a lemon for a new model? I could almost see myself hunched up intrying not to listen to you, or him, or anything, like I was drifting along behind the car like some washed-up angel.
chaos, your wailing tires.
“Godammit, Jim, why do you always drive so fast why do you feel the need to tear down perfectly clear roads with the first goddam frost…”
I went back to sleep.
The last one was of the crumpled mess of iron and flames that was poured all over the little wall. Everything seemed staged: the skidmarks leading to the end; the clumsy, violent paint on the concrete; the doors flapping open; a of smoke drifting from the mountainous hood. I couldn’t see the bodies from the picture – just that brilliant white wig laying sordid pavement.
When we got back, you gave dismissive goodnight and heaformulaic praiseded into your inner sanctum with the man you told me you loved now.
I sat on your Turkish rug below the window, with my back against the heater. I listened to the silence. Out there, the winter was real…whiplashed icicles on bare bones, pricking flesh like unified acupuncture. All I had, in the emptiness , was a head full of winter dreams, winter desires – the ones that nobody saw me ask for except God himself, hiding in the streetlights, illuminating the first snow, which you had wanted since July, which I had secretly hoped would never come, which was painting a dark world white.
You turned up the heat anyway. The whole way home, you assumed will 'blow up'. But I enjoyed being by myself. Me and the poinsettia, frosted, in the backseat. The Cat Stevens you put on even nearly drowned out your incessant small talk with him – leadfoot Cyrano bastard – and allowed me to contemplate the movement of the cars.
I could not see the face of the driver. It was obscured by the dark blur of his sleeve moving to shield his eyes from the inevitability that stood in front of him, arriving closer with every finishing breath he took. He did not want to see his , suddenly so real, monolith much taller than the concrete he was about to be thrown into, though just as unforgiving and more permanent.
Why was I still living with you, after being traded in like a lemon for a new model? I could almost see myself hunched up intrying not to listen to you, or him, or anything, like I was drifting along behind the car like some washed-up angel.
chaos, your wailing tires.
“Godammit, Jim, why do you always drive so fast why do you feel the need to tear down perfectly clear roads with the first goddam frost…”
I went back to sleep.
The last one was of the crumpled mess of iron and flames that was poured all over the little wall. Everything seemed staged: the skidmarks leading to the end; the clumsy, violent paint on the concrete; the doors flapping open; a of smoke drifting from the mountainous hood. I couldn’t see the bodies from the picture – just that brilliant white wig laying sordid pavement.
When we got back, you gave dismissive goodnight and heaformulaic praiseded into your inner sanctum with the man you told me you loved now.
I sat on your Turkish rug below the window, with my back against the heater. I listened to the silence. Out there, the winter was real…whiplashed icicles on bare bones, pricking flesh like unified acupuncture. All I had, in the emptiness , was a head full of winter dreams, winter desires – the ones that nobody saw me ask for except God himself, hiding in the streetlights, illuminating the first snow, which you had wanted since July, which I had secretly hoped would never come, which was painting a dark world white.
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