Friday, January 29, 2010
Bedcrooming Intoune Bemeing
There was a map of the world –
Its spread of countries, blood-spattered red.
There were prints by French Impressionists on the walls and
The bookshelf held novels from the same era.
Cloths from the upper Andes of Perú were draped over the window.
There were black and white photographs
Crystallizing images from all corners of Earth.
The lack of light and a presence of life without color,
Sets the tone of the piece about man – absent of mirth.
Empty bottles that once held red wine, now held candles –
Flames flickering and fine.
The bookshelves were cluttered and spilled onto the floor,
What would not fit there were stacked against the wall.
Their pages were watermarked and worn
Tattered and stained burgundy.
They held secrets to life and an escape from that room,
Which felt like it was stuck in time –
Over a hole.
Existence should bounce forward and back;
Each action should leave tracers for the eye.
The closet doors were ajar and spotted shirts and pants
Spued onto the floor like sullied souls climbing
Pathetically out of the dark.
The foot of the bed slept a small black cat.
The duvets were disheveled
From the previous night’s sleep.
Pools of cooled wax clung hard to the shelf,
Encompassing the clock and time itself.
There was the mask in the corner he wore when he went outside . . .
There was the mask on the floor broken;
The one he wore to hide.
There was the drunken monkey he could never fully abide
And the elephant in the closet people never saw outside.
The chest of drawers hung
Wide-open, clothes belching forth.
He looked about and saw everything that was without . . .
Without care, without neglect . . .
Without despair, without respect.
His cuticles were bleeding but he picked them still.
His mind was sad but he tortured it yet –
He knew it still moved and he longed for results.
If he found any in the theater of his mind,
He yearned to share them with others.
Though a part of him knew
It would come of no good . . .
He dreamed of the day he would pick himself up off the floor –
When everything would be new and nothing a bore.
When he would walk through doors and
On the other side find each scene different.
Ennui is crippling and leaves too much time to think.
The individual is a lonely hunter
Who only stalks the self.
Once something is built to satisfy others
The artist tears it down and runs for cover.
He dreamed of coming home from college for the holidays by train.
He wondered what it would be like to be sturdy and sound,
To be built solid,
Pound per pound.
Of desire he pleaded for a life more romantic,
To know true love – if such a thing existed.
Birth, death, sex,
He knew were the fundamental realities,
He never took the human connection for granted.
He wanted to brush skin with
Beautiful women he respected.
He wanted to be a writer and
Hoped it would work out.
He would leave his home and never look back
Were it not for the few loved ones he did not lack.
He wanted to quit the life he had forged for himself,
He wanted to stand on mountains and navigate vast valleys.
Oh to be deep inside the recesses of your lover,
To hit the heart and have ecstasy
Explode from the stars in your eyes.
A passionate scream jutting out from the dark is
Ground enough for a man to stand.
He was learning how to play the game,
Where to push and where to pull.
He had butted his head into many a wall,
He had tripped and stumbled,
Bruised from the fall.
Over and over –
The man picked himself up and stretched his neck in
The direction that resembled forward.
Way out in the distance,
Where the earth curved away from the sky,
There was a new glow of light,
A fire to fuel the inside.
He was a runner in the night
Always in search of the unknown.
So, he pushed the big white elephant into the shadows
And stepped forward with sharp eyes.
All the dirty shirts in the world
Could not stop him now,
Nor the empty wine bottles –
He would break them.
The horizon,
For all its murkiness,
Was a beautiful place to be . . .
Its spread of countries, blood-spattered red.
There were prints by French Impressionists on the walls and
The bookshelf held novels from the same era.
Cloths from the upper Andes of Perú were draped over the window.
There were black and white photographs
Crystallizing images from all corners of Earth.
The lack of light and a presence of life without color,
Sets the tone of the piece about man – absent of mirth.
Empty bottles that once held red wine, now held candles –
Flames flickering and fine.
The bookshelves were cluttered and spilled onto the floor,
What would not fit there were stacked against the wall.
Their pages were watermarked and worn
Tattered and stained burgundy.
They held secrets to life and an escape from that room,
Which felt like it was stuck in time –
Over a hole.
Existence should bounce forward and back;
Each action should leave tracers for the eye.
The closet doors were ajar and spotted shirts and pants
Spued onto the floor like sullied souls climbing
Pathetically out of the dark.
The foot of the bed slept a small black cat.
The duvets were disheveled
From the previous night’s sleep.
Pools of cooled wax clung hard to the shelf,
Encompassing the clock and time itself.
There was the mask in the corner he wore when he went outside . . .
There was the mask on the floor broken;
The one he wore to hide.
There was the drunken monkey he could never fully abide
And the elephant in the closet people never saw outside.
The chest of drawers hung
Wide-open, clothes belching forth.
He looked about and saw everything that was without . . .
Without care, without neglect . . .
Without despair, without respect.
His cuticles were bleeding but he picked them still.
His mind was sad but he tortured it yet –
He knew it still moved and he longed for results.
If he found any in the theater of his mind,
He yearned to share them with others.
Though a part of him knew
It would come of no good . . .
He dreamed of the day he would pick himself up off the floor –
When everything would be new and nothing a bore.
When he would walk through doors and
On the other side find each scene different.
Ennui is crippling and leaves too much time to think.
The individual is a lonely hunter
Who only stalks the self.
Once something is built to satisfy others
The artist tears it down and runs for cover.
He dreamed of coming home from college for the holidays by train.
He wondered what it would be like to be sturdy and sound,
To be built solid,
Pound per pound.
Of desire he pleaded for a life more romantic,
To know true love – if such a thing existed.
Birth, death, sex,
He knew were the fundamental realities,
He never took the human connection for granted.
He wanted to brush skin with
Beautiful women he respected.
He wanted to be a writer and
Hoped it would work out.
He would leave his home and never look back
Were it not for the few loved ones he did not lack.
He wanted to quit the life he had forged for himself,
He wanted to stand on mountains and navigate vast valleys.
Oh to be deep inside the recesses of your lover,
To hit the heart and have ecstasy
Explode from the stars in your eyes.
A passionate scream jutting out from the dark is
Ground enough for a man to stand.
He was learning how to play the game,
Where to push and where to pull.
He had butted his head into many a wall,
He had tripped and stumbled,
Bruised from the fall.
Over and over –
The man picked himself up and stretched his neck in
The direction that resembled forward.
Way out in the distance,
Where the earth curved away from the sky,
There was a new glow of light,
A fire to fuel the inside.
He was a runner in the night
Always in search of the unknown.
So, he pushed the big white elephant into the shadows
And stepped forward with sharp eyes.
All the dirty shirts in the world
Could not stop him now,
Nor the empty wine bottles –
He would break them.
The horizon,
For all its murkiness,
Was a beautiful place to be . . .
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
Spinnegan Mememormee
The Section of Finnegans Wake I will memorize can be found on page 229, beginning of the second full paragraph. “Maleesh! He would bare to untired world of Leimuncononnulstria (and what a strip poker blobbtrottel they pairs would looks!) how wholefallows, his guffer, the sabbatarian (might faction split his beard!) I liked the words: Maleesh, bobbtrottel, wholefallows, and sabbatarian.
Thursday, January 21, 2010
The Iffian Entanglement
So I’m writing a paragraph modeled after, imitating, burlesquing this over-articulate incessantly repetitive Water Genie. Seriously, He says the same goddamn thing over and over again. The identical idea . . . twin thought . . . double-speak, but not doublespeak like Orwell – then it would be Orwellian and not Rushdian. All the same, the words are different, but the meaning remains. It’s kind of like life. Every week, school . . . work . . . school . . . work ¬– it never changes. How cliché! Give me some variation, some variety, some hurdles, throw some boulders! But isn’t that what this is – something new? A blog? What the hell is that? Never heard of it. Nope not me, I’m a Luddite! Or am I? Oh I forgot, who the hell cares anyway? So here we are, another semester, more classes, and new knowledge - or is it old knowledge? Depends on whom you ask. Back in the labyrinth that is Wilson – have we been here before? There’s no place like home. Where are my Rudy Slippers? After Finnegans Wake I’ll surely need them. Wow! What a mountain, talk about throwing boulders. But in any case it’s something new, exciting, unfamiliar, novel, a new frontier; one that comes after the west but before Mars. Who will we find and what will we incorporate? Here we are at a new beginning ready to jump, leap . . . fall – head over heels, in love out of love again, armed to the teeth and bursting with questions. Scared shitless and loving it. So that’s it, the paragraph is over and I’m ready to begin. End, prost, chau, good night, Salud, cheers, fin!
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