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polite tipsy cool
May. 17th, 2012
10:54 pm
1. Love has ruined all my relationships. Fuck love.
2. I am seriously angry at the world. Fuck the world.
Feb. 26th, 2012
07:05 pm
Kid-eyes over soda—Crush food dyes, Yellow 6 and Red 40, stain the soft-fleshed philtrum—here in Four Angels inspect me by the bored washer whir and dryer hum. De-celebrate with a Founders Centennial IPA, home around the corner in a wine bottle apartment with grape-textured walls. Is this it for wonder? Radiator's arrhythmic Morse, incomprehensible and lonely and unceasing, cooks me into steady febrile torpor. I am touched by the bitter angels of our nature, and arise arise. Jet-song is accompanied by bass subliminal. Dread dilates and darkens the room. Hope Icarian, x approaches, a thing with abstract wings profoundly receding. Wait for meaning, echo of the word.
Current Location: US, New York, Sylvan Ter, 2
Jan. 31st, 2012
08:46 am
The vicomte was a nice-looking young man with soft features and polished manners, who evidently considered himself a celebrity but out of politeness modestly placed himself at the disposal of the circle in which he found himself. Anna Pavlovna was obviously serving him up as a treat to her guests. As a clever maitre d'hotel serves up as a specially choice delicacy a piece of meat that no one who had seen it in the kitchen would have cared to eat, so Anna Pavlovna served up to her guests, first the vicomte and then the abbe, as peculiarly choice morsels.
--War and Peace
Jan. 16th, 2012
08:59 pm
Comma bacillus from a culture, x about 1000.
"Poor Swann," said Mme. des Laumes that night to her husband; "he is always charming, but he does look so dreadfully unhappy. You will see for yourself, for he has promised to dine with us one of these days. I do feel that it's really absurd that a man of his intelligence should let himself be made to suffer by a creature of that kind, who isn't even interesting, for they tell me, she's an absolute idiot!" she concluded with the wisdom invariably shewn by people who, not being in love themselves, feel that a clever man ought to be unhappy only about such persons as are worth his while; which is rather like being astonished that anyone should condescend to die of cholera at the bidding of so insignificant a creature as the common bacillus.
--Swann's Way, Marcel Proust
Nov. 28th, 2011
11:50 pm
— Si tú eres mi linda amiga,
¿cómo no me abrazas, di?
— Brazos con que te abrazaba
de gusanos los cubrí.
If you are my pretty friend,
why don't you hold me tight?
The arms I hugged you with
are covered now in worms.
—From the traditional "Romance del palmero" (Pilgrim's Ballad) [Note from In Search of Duende by Frederico García Lorca]
¿Qué dicen? Un silencio con hedores reposa.
Estamos con un cuerpo presente que se esfuma,
con una forma clara que tuvo ruiseñores
y la vemos llenarse de agujeros sin fondo.
What are they saying? A stenching silence settles down.
We are here with a body laid out which fades away,
with a pure shape which had nightingales
and we see it being filled with depthless holes.
—"Llanto por Ignacio Sánchez Mejías" [Lament for Ignacio Sánchez Mejías] by Frederico García Lorca, translated by Stephen Spender & J.L. Gili, from In Search of Duende
What is in theory theory traversable was first burrowed intently by worm. Fatally deformed body opens a speechless mouth. Through Lorca's natal cord we eat time, nom nom. When I first saw you, there were many worlds but one worm, and the child devoured its only mother, brined in her soured milk. Soul was a worm, and silence was a worm, and earth was granular time and word that buried our collapsible eye at the center of an indefinite shadow (frame without mirror). Thalean water became honey of Ovid, and we were stuck at the beginning, circular, saccharine, toothless thanatopsic mouth. What have you eaten today? I have eaten Meinong's golden mouth, which has eaten his golden mountain. Eyes like teeth eat the fertile vision, o holy depthless, covered and filled. The conjecture of the worms is silent on this exotic matter. My ineluctable friend, why do you fade away?
Nov. 26th, 2011
02:20 am
The bow broke for Assisi, hair torn, leaned against a tree. We walked to the narrowest house across from follicles of stone on the hill. I ate two persimmons, and she insisted that we search for duende over bowls of phở. A catacomb opened in my brain. We sealed it with our mouths, and the dead walked all over our tongues until the ash began to taste sweet under its bitterness. Their skulls looked like fake gems in the numbered mist. She wore them as costume jewelry. She drank the fruit like the eyes of the people and saw in its seed the winter knife, a spoon of snow, and the tines of the seasons. I saw in the anatomy of the persimmon, a forked aorta, telling my death before the chambers. She tore through sinew with the clack of her gem-eyes. She bored the delicate bone to string into a frame for an elegant dress. She was the death of the party. She was the bird-bones of the lost hands of Saint Francis. She carried away the gutted song.
Oct. 30th, 2011
11:53 pm - MoMAlone I & II
I took two trips to MoMA, yesterday and today. Back behind the parenthetical curtain are various images, animated gifs, and random notes.
( CURTAIN )
Current Location: United States, New York, New York
Oct. 27th, 2011
11:35 pm
Every few weeks I downtown to Veselka for a beer, borscht, and the vegetarian plate of pirogues and stuffed cabbage. Then I walk the block over to St. Mark's Bookshop, look at every poetry title, feel dissatisfied, and walk to the train thinking I'll write something. It's chill and gray now dark with occasionally the wet wind where everyone'll say how gross it's out, but I'm secretly cheering the cloud-filter-lit luminous deserted places. I've spent at least part of the day not thinking of this someone or that while I think now I will alienate myself and let my fool mouth reveal too much like sitting too close at the movie. If you describe yourself too much there is nothing left to do. That's why I'll thank you for wasting my waste of time because time itself is proved to be not linear but dispersed like a terrorist cell in a broken decentralized honeycomb floating in medio flumine. This Just Keeps Happening is the headline in your head line so you think maybe it's easier like the others to hold the magnet outwards to their outwards magnet like reverse bumper cars. Distance is increasing; why not help it along? Fun is better had from far away without risk, which is what I learned that the eyes are the windows to the potato's soul. The potato is a hard animal, bony creatures everywhere on the lower east side. I felt the softness was new, but it turns out that it's just the inside of a boiled potato. The eyes, the eyes, what arrangements you'll see in the windows. The windows are the souls of a business, and every soul has business to attend to until the marbles add up. But as Burroughs said, the states can be achieved in other ways. His family was an adding machine without marbles. I'll keep myself in the center of one, at a distance and visible.
Oct. 26th, 2011
11:10 pm
I visited Boston for the first time in a decade.
( HERE )
are a bunch of photos from two recent weekend trips in no particular sequence or order of significance.
Current Location: United States, New York, New York
Current Mood: over it
09:12 pm
This passage brought me back to Kripke's Naming and Necessity (and by virtue, Frege, Wittgenstein, and the whole lot of them). There are plenty of examples of such in ole Ludwig's Investigations. Proust's hits all the nerves I need now I think. The whole thread about music takes me back to undergrad philosophy of music reading. The way he describes the whole intimate psychology of taking it all in is really affecting. I just finished Cormac McCarthy's Blood Meridian last night on the bus home from Boston, which just left me (the book, not the bus... possibly both) in a dark cold empty but incredibly and beautifully described place. It wasn't so much a novel as the most ingeniously re-organized dictionary I've ever read. But Proust makes me want to linger--and not only because the sentences are pages long so you have to re-read them a dozen times if your attention's waning or distractions abound. There's more, but I just wanted to note this for now so I don't forget and can come back round. I will go find a place to have a beer now. Here is a photo from my wanderings in Boston:
So that for some time there was no change from the procedure which he had followed on that first evening, when he had started by touching her throat, with his fingers first and then with his lips, but their caresses began invariably with this modest exploration. And long afterwards, when the arrangement (or, rather, the ritual pretence of an arrangement) of her cattleyas had quite fallen into desuetude, the metaphor "Do a cattleya," transmuted into a simple verb which they would employ without a thought of its original meaning when they wished to refer to the act of physical possession (in which, paradoxically, the possessor possesses nothing), survived to commemorate in their vocabulary the long forgotten custom from which it sprang.
--Swann's Way by Marcel Proust, Translated by C.K. Scott Moncrieff
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