Sunday, January 31, 2016
Something there is that doesn't love a wall,
That sends the frozen-ground-swell under it,
And spills the upper boulders in the sun;
And makes gaps even two can pass abreast.
The work of hunters is another thing:
I have come after them and made repair
Where they have left not one stone on a stone,
But they would have the rabbit out of hiding,
To please the yelping dogs. The gaps I mean,
No one has seen them made or heard them made,
But at spring mending-time we find them there.
I let my neighbor know beyond the hill;
And on a day we meet to walk the line
And set the wall between us once again.
We keep the wall between us as we go.
To each the boulders that have fallen to each.
And some are loaves and some so nearly balls
We have to use a spell to make them balance:
'Stay where you are until our backs are turned!'
We wear our fingers rough with handling them.
Oh, just another kind of outdoor game,
One on a side. It comes to little more:
There where it is we do not need the wall:
He is all pine and I am apple orchard.
My apple trees will never get across
And eat the cones under his pines, I tell him.
He only says, 'Good fences make good neighbors.'
Spring is the mischief in me, and I wonder
If I could put a notion in his head:
'Why do they make good neighbors? Isn't it
Where there are cows? But here there are no cows.
Before I built a wall I'd ask to know
What I was walling in or walling out,
And to whom I was like to give offense.
Something there is that doesn't love a wall,
That wants it down.' I could say 'Elves' to him,
But it's not elves exactly, and I'd rather
He said it for himself. I see him there
Bringing a stone grasped firmly by the top
In each hand, like an old-stone savage armed.
He moves in darkness as it seems to me,
Not of woods only and the shade of trees.
He will not go behind his father's saying,
And he likes having thought of it so well
He says again, 'Good fences make good neighbors.
Saturday, January 30, 2016
Friday, January 29, 2016
(a passive aggressive blog post)
Thursday, January 28, 2016
Wednesday, January 27, 2016
Tuesday, January 26, 2016
Monday, January 25, 2016
Sunday, January 24, 2016
Still pondering this idea, the continual protest of my own disappearance and fleshing it out with semi-related ideas.
For example, when asked what superpower I would choose if given only a single option, the first that pops into my head has always been invisibility. This is clearly at odds with one of my biggest fears, which is invisibility, rendered by other "in" words, like:
And "in over my head"
Or the "un" word, unnecessary.
The struggle to be heard above other voices... outside voices yes, but these day mostly echoes from a distant past and those in my head.
And of course how these fears manifest?
Have you seen this man?
The Crocodiles would say, "If you want to make God laugh, tell him your plans for tomorrow."
This one is somewhat more direct, sort of an agnostic's adaptation, but the message is the same.
I'm just trying to find the tipping point between forces beyond my control and self-fulfilling prophesy... or the logical trajectory of bad choices.
Saturday, January 23, 2016
Friday, January 22, 2016
CLICK FOR MORE FEAR
Yah, this stuff can nag at a body. Some of my own fears are far more far gone and strange than this assortment. What is it that Bob Dylan said? "If my thought dreams could be seen, they'd probably put my head, in a guillotine." One of my more irrational fears is that people can actually read some of those thoughts.
Five mornings now in the new digs on Ocean Parkway. It seems a world away from The Coyote Den. Another country. Another culture. Of course that has to be in my head.
It is not unpleasant. It is a big, clean place, brightly lit with wide hallways. I can hear children playing behind newly painted doors. The hallway smells of fresh coffee in the morning and dinner aromas at night. The people smile and exchange quiet hellos and good byes and haveanicedays in the hall.
There is daylight in my bedroom when I remember to open the curtains and blinds. There were no curtains to open in the old place and no daylight to let in. To run on an old joke, I've no pot to piss in but now I've a window to throw it out of when I do.
Jane was sitting on the bed and looking out the window when I left just a while ago. This is new for her too and she just sat there in a quiet restlessness, staring out at the street. She reminded me of Abuelita, who watched Kyle when he was a chubby infant. She could no longer get about, so she would sit there at the window like it was a television, baby on her lap. They were there in the morning when I left him, and their silhouette was framed in the window when I came to pick him up. I looked up this morning as I was leaving to see if Jane was still there watching. The light and angle were off though so I couldn't see. For all I know she had moved on to begin whatever it is she thinks about doing with a long day of no responsibility.
I am not unhappy this morning, but I am not exactly content. I am fixated on new curtains but I don't really need them so my guess is that it's not the curtains that are ailing me. Today though the prevailing feeling is a mild, buzzing melancholia. There is a migraine brewing behind my eye and the forecast is pretty certain, unlike the actual weather which is merely threatening a storm. My own tempest is on its way but I am letting it come. I am weary of struggling against the inevitable. The serenity prayer is slowly making more sense.
The new place is lovely. The anxiety behind moving is behind me. I can face forward now and not have to lean so sharply into the wind. Things can be okay if only I just let them.
I will ponder what The Sphinx said about struggling against disappearing entirely, but I am not going to tangle myself by running in circles with it. It is already making sense. I'm in no rush to explain it here either. I can afford to talk less.
Thursday, January 21, 2016
And just because SHARING IS CARING (CLICK HERE)
I'm not being snarky. We can talk about it or we can sit alone, each of us in our individual rooms, clutching and tearing at our hair and skin. It's one in four. That means you're not a fucking freak.
Meanwhile, since every day needs a soundtrack, this one works:
Wednesday, January 20, 2016
One of the best segues in pop music, and always tied to one specific memory of the first listen: Driving to Poughkeepsie on a late night mission in a snowstorm, creeping up Route 9 with the occasional sideways-shimmy-slide-spin.
Life's the same, you're shaking like tremolo...
Passing a bottle of something that burned, or maybe it was the smoke, but the snowflakes coming from the gloom into the headlights it felt like that moment the Enterprise goes into warp speed, the brief pause before points of light become lines.
Pull on the bottle.
Grip the wheel.
Roll the window to let the smoke out.
Pull out of the spin.
I am right there in that memory. I am not in my chair on the Upper West Side where I am supposed to be.
It's so easy to fly through a window.
It's so easy to play with the sound.
Willing to go to any length...
It's not about feeling homicidal today. It's merely a feeling that I'm not about to suffer fools gladly and take even a little shit. It's about feeling backed into a corner, and more than a little dangerous. It's not like I haven't needed to find my balls and hang onto them. It's rather overdue actually. Never one for moderation though...
It's not about feeling especially articulate either, apparently, so maybe I'll let the picture do the talking. This is definitely a placeholder though and can be filed under "For further exploration."
via Kourtney Roy
" the capacity of a photograph to create the illusion of a fixed point in time. "
The above quote from an article in Aesthetica Magazine about the intent of Ms. Roy's work, or what her series of self-portraiture is exploring... in a sense that is what all photographers are doing, isn't it? The difference may be in her creation of characters and scenes, as if from movie stills. These are fixed points in fictional time, though it may be argued that we are all creating characters in our heads which we hope to present to the world through photos of ourselves.
Certainly this is true of selfies, which are probably the most base, and certainly the most common examples of self-portraiture. We choose a time and a setting, whether it's in front of a national landmark while on holiday somewhere, or in our bedrooms or kitchens or offices. We can express a specific feeling..
I am happy today.
I am very sad.
I am confused.
I am at a loss for words for this feeling.
...or we can be purposely vague, hoping to evoke any kind of response, and jet it out on social media. All are, in a sense, fictional versions of ourselves.
By no means do I want this to sound dismissive of Kourtney Roy's work, which is out-fucking-standing. It's more my own exploration or observation of the expanding "auto-portraiture" realm of the selfie generation.
And not to ramble, but as we create all these fixed points in time and struggle to find relevancy in every breathing moment and the possible associated feelings, are we becoming more or less genuine? Are we drifting further into fictional portrayals of ourselves? When we publish a self-portrait to social media, have we created it with this character in mind? Is it published with a specific audience in mind? Here's where we drift into the vagaries of self-doubt and it becomes apparent that Roy's photographs are the most honest of all.
It only comes lately in short rests of 2 to 3 hours. Dreams, if there are any at all, ebb back into the mist within minutes of waking, like pieces of kelp that follow you to the shore but then drift back out.
I've heeded all the warnings, cut back caffeine, exercised an hour before bed, and removed all electronics from the bedside. I've meditated and done relaxation exercises, and counted sheep and other animals, and I've even prayed. Still nothing to write home about.
It's not that there are specific issues nagging away. It's more a blanket of unspecified anxiety. There is an urgent sense that something, just something, nerds to be done right away. And yet I don't or can't get up to see to it. Couldn't I just get up and do just anything in its stead? There's a fucking question for you!
Sleeping in a new place could be blamed, had I been sleeping in the old place. And it just struck me. There is a pervading feeling that there is unfinished business in the old place, despite that there isnt. What could there be that couldn't have been done in six years there? It has to e a subconscious unwillingness to let go of the unfulfilled promises made there, all the resolutions and to-do lists. What else could it be?
Ending this here. My fingers are clawing around the phone as I tap this out. There is something nagging away at me, a compulsion to reveal something that has not yet fully revealed itself to me. I am falling asleep in my seat though. Sleep is a tricky bastard. Wake me up if I'm about to dream the truth. Knock me out if I'm about to write it.