Tuesday, June 29, 2004
Impermanence
The room was pale white. On the walls were charts and graphs and a few pieces of art that looked like they didn't belong and had likely come from a cheap print shop in a mall. It was a depressing display.
The golf shirt collared man stood at the front of the room, near the whiteboard, and held a tiny marker in his hand in a way that made Black think that this must be how he held his prick each morning, vainly trying to cheer it out of its decades long slumber. The collar was lost in his own unconscious, he was explaining a flow chart that had the simplicity of a grade school assignment, and he grasped his marker too tight so that it made his whole arm shake slightly if you paid enough attention to it.
Black paid enough attention to it.
Black tried to imagine the collar fucking. He was middle age, not very overweight, still had his hair; it was not an inconceivable proposition. But his lifeless drone and obvious excitement with the myriad of arrows and bubbles made such an image nearly impossible. Black could only imagine it as surreal vaudeville; every movement made too fast, the collar and his mate dressed in far too formal garb, the collar wearing an oversized top hat, a piano playing frantically in the background completely out of rhythm with the strokes.
Black stifled a laugh at the thought. And then he became very sad. The pale white appeared to darken. The collar lost his surreal affront and appeared as a man in all its horror. Black, face to face with the realisation, shifted uncomfortably in his seat near the back of the room and tried to drown himself to the tune of 'Suzanne', but even the words of Leonard Cohen did little to console him. Soon he would present himself.
Monday, June 28, 2004
The Motions
|
'And what do you know of Marx?' he exclaimed, a twang of sarcasm in his voice. 'I know he was certainly wrong,' the other said without contempt. 'Perhaps he has only yet to be right,' he tapped his cigarette on the ash tray, and brought it to his mouth but not quite there and let it hang, the smoke rising until it touched the yellow light above. The other scoffed. 'Your prophesies are open ended. Every prediction has been lost. The empire is dead. Admit your savior was a fraud.' 'I admit the second and the third, but will say nothing of the others. And I only give you this much because they were not true to their heritage.' |
 |
'I ask you to look at your institutions and tell me you do not see concentration of capital? I ask you whether your workers and tell me that you do not see the stagnation of their wage. And finally I ask you that you do not see an end to what the earth will give.'
He paused, and smiled knowingly, 'The predictions were indeed incorrect. They relied on details were not yet determined, on structures that were yet to exist. But the prophecies, you forget, are based on nothing other then your capitalism's most basic nature. And this will be your undoing.'
It was the other's turn to laugh with sarcasm. He said no more, and left the beggar on the street, returning to his righteous palace.
Thursday, June 24, 2004
The spurned Lover so soon
An hour! A single hour lies between myself and my castle gates. Sweet is the water of her moat. High do her towers climb. Long is her terrace, long and wide with every color of the rainbow in the flowers that dance around it. Oh sweet, sweet woman! Can this hour be so much more. Let me see your ribboned walls, lead me to their lovely corridors, press my hands on the cold wintery touch and warm them with my pulsing vein. Let me, oh woman! And never let me out.
I say your name a thousand times and hope that it will bring you near to me. That the magic of your sound will connect my spark, a chaotic twirl, an irrational twist, and we are wind together.
Tuesday, June 22, 2004
I woke up last night from an unknown dream to the sound of a car backfiring up the street. And while I don't know what I was dreaming, I do know that when I fell back asleep I was greeted with images of walls, strewn with bullet holes, spewing bright red blood onto the floor.
Monday, June 21, 2004
I Remember the Last One
There's this little coffee shop just off of 19th and Webster that I go to most every saturday and sunday morning.
So it just so happened to be saturday morning, and it was quite early, but I was up because I had woken to a bad dream that was quite a fright and I hadn't been able to get back to sleep. It was busy in the little coffee shop. Ahead of me in line there was a very pretty woman, very shapely and curvaeous, looking much too styled in her tight black suit and golden accessories for the rest of us loafers with sleep crusted eyes and untucked shirts. She was one of those women that I have this deep desire to fuck but I don't know why cuz I'm sure if we ever talked it would take about two minutes to become obvious that we were on different planets. But no matter.
In front of her were a few others of which I paid no attention to because I was paying all my attention and then some to this Shannon Baker scarlet. I did manage to notice however, the very average looking woman and the very average looking boy that were seated at one of the tables, a little to the right of the register. And I did manage to notice a little behind them, standing at the counter where you load up with your milk and your cream and your little plastic lids, two other women who were doing just that, along with a child, maybe a few years older then the first.
One of the women standing at the counter was blonde and fashionable and a little overweight in that overindulgent rich yuppie in the suburbs kind of way. It was her son presumably; she seemed to be leading him around like a pet. I think she gave him at least three separate orders in the time it took her to fill her coffee with condiments, which I found quite an impressive feat and was probably the reason I noticed them in the first place.
Her son was blonde and blue eyed and clean cut and could have been straight out of a fascist propaganda movie from the 40s. I think he might have been playing a little with the other quite average kid who was seated at the table with his quite average mother. But maybe not. I was too busy glancing back to the black haired Athena to take note either way. No matter.
Well the two women at the counter, the overindulged yuppie mom and her yuppie friend, got their coffees filled and their lids tight and made their way out of the shop. But the overindulged yuppie mom stumbled and nearly fell when she bumped into a stroller that was barely protruding at all into the walk way. It was the stroller of the quite average looking woman and her average looking son.
The overindulged yuppie mom, who held her head unnaturally high and had most likely bumped into the stroller because just that, well she made a nasty and haughty and leading remark to my very average woman. I prefer not to repeat it. Still, my woman in response made what was in my estimation a quite unnecessary but most gracious apology. The yuppie mom walked on and didn't say a word.
And then, in perfect symmetry, the very average boy said quite genuinely to the perfect fascist boy, 'bye.' The little fascist boy looked at him awkwardly, and I swear he stuck his nose as high as his mother, and then he walked out behind her without uttering a reply.
Sunday, June 20, 2004
History is...
The russian state, being for our purposes without philosophy, instead stole from the germans (embracing hegel and marx among others). Yet the russian state ended up with communism, the epitomy of a philosophy in action, the ultimate realization of a rational thought.
The german state was ripe with philosophers who seem to have grown in tiny ill-lit apartments like mushrooms under stone, and they produced endless philosophical dissertations explaining this, that, and the point of eternity. Yet the german state ended up with fascism, which is really quite devoid of any philosophy, at least one beyond the mentality of a preschooler. It could even be defined by its irrational nature.
Its so insane.
Friday, June 18, 2004
Never kissed a girl
The old man sat to the left. There was a wooden chair on which he sat that had been there forever and at one time had belonged to Sue. It creaked when he leaned forward to rest his head on his hands.
To his right, in the corner, kneeled up against the wall was Joe. He cradled a guitar and plucked away at a few strings, pretending to keep the notes to the Roy Orbison tune that was playing faintly in the other room. Joe didn't make much of Roy Orbison, but he found it kept him occupied and made him stop thinking of her so much.
The young man was still in bed, just as he had been for most of a week. He looked sickly pale and every so often he'd let a slight moan, almost inaudible, and he'd wheeze as he'd struggle for breath.
Above, the full moon had come out and was casting its glow through the open window, past the dull grey buildings and over the rowdy city streets, and it made everyone a little off, and because of it nothing seemed really quite right.
Thursday, June 17, 2004
Its not that I don't like to lose. Its more that I can't stand getting the shit kicked out of me.
I'm an excellent loser. I've lost all my life. When I was young my best friend was a kid down the street named Steve. Now Steve was not my best friend by any choice of either of ours, but by the circumstance that we should both grow up in a neighbourhood without another kid our age.
So Steve was my best friend by default.
Steve was also always taller and bigger than I.
Being taller and bigger is sometimes a insurmountable advantage. It didn't matter how hard I worked, or how much I practiced, I lost continuously to Steve.
I give him credit, he never let up. Even after the 15th win of one on one, the 10th straight time he'd been at bat without being struck out, he never once let down his guard and let me win. Not that I can remember. I guess if he ever did I probably would have made such a fuss and pounded and screamed that he would never do it again.
I hated being allowed to win far more than I hated losing.
So anyways, I lost a lot. And I learned that the sun still came up the next day. And I learned that losing isn't so bad, that far worse was the feeling you got when you hadn't tried because you had been pouting or pissed off or deflated. You always try hard, and then it doesn't matter if you lose.
I think it was a good lesson. I don't get very upset by losing.
But I do get upset by being embarassed. I believe that is not acceptable.
I mean, somebody has to lose. But nobody has to get the shit kicked out of them. And if you do, then you better go back to the drawing board and figure out what went wrong and work hard to get better, or get the hell off the field for good.
I think that's fair. And I'll stand by it. For better or worse.
Sunday, June 13, 2004
And the man was asked what he wanted, and he replied that there was nothing that he wanted.
And after that there was silence, and then the question was asked that if the man wanted nothing, then should he not then give up everything.
The man replied to this that he was not suggesting that he needed nothing, only that he wanted nothing.
And so it was asked that if he were to give up something, something that he had, would he want what he had given up?
He replied that he did not know.
This lead to much speculation, and loud murmers among many.
The man, in an attempt to dispel the speculation, made the following statement: 'There is a subtle line on which I walk my life. It is so subtle that I am not able to see it clearly myself, at least not yet. I cannot define to you its formula. But I know on which side of this line I am walking at all times, and therefore I know which way I should lean in my wanderings, so as to always stay closely to the line. When I am in right to be in want, I am on one side of the line. When I in right to be content, I am on the other. I may disagree with what I am in right to be, but I cannot contest that I know on which side of the line I reside. And that is how your speculation is answered.'
Mant di not understand, but the few who did went away content.
Wednesday, June 09, 2004
The Unfortunate Tragedy of our Wonderful Times
'A new idea?'
The blond haired man looked at Rene with his dark eyes. He wore a grin of disbelief on his face.
The two men were together in the back seat of a cab being shuttled past concrete slabs and bustling business folk. Rene had been staring absently out the window, still unaccustom and somewhat awed by such a crowd.
'What for?' the young man continued, shaking his head. 'Why go about fishing for food when you can be stuffed full right here. I know how to make money. I know how to have a good time. I know how to live. What else could I learn? Not much I think. You have to change that attitude. You talk like the old men reminiscing about the times before. Out with the old guard. That's what I say. We're past that tired age of ideas. They were out of fashion with my grandfather. Those silly philosphers have no place here, and they know it! Do you ever hear about them? Well I guess you haven't been here long enough to realise it, but believe me, you don't. They have nothing left to say. Those left are smart to leave themselves in the dark corners that we lay out for them and amuse themselves with trivial puzzles and obscure theory. Lock them behind wooden doors, and let them write papers no one reads. A little like our own intellectual zoo.' he laughed heartily at this notion.
'The only idea you need is the one that reminds you to look out for yourself.' He pushed a finger hard into Rene's chest. Rene flinched but did not yield. 'That's what matters,' he continued animatedly, 'I went to school, I learned how the game works, I learned how to make myself, and now I'm going to go about doing it. Life is about living, not books and silly theories.'
Rene nodded obediently, though he was still not sure that he agreed with what was being said. John, however, confident and well regarded, argued powerfully, and being the older of the two and more experienced with the ways of the city, he was an intimidating presence. Rene was reluctant to express his disagreement. Besides, he was not sure of what he thought. It was confusing. While his intuition screamed to disagree, he could reason his mind to no conclusion.
'Maybe he is right. What is the point in wasting my time immersed in stories and theories... better to be out in the world, creating. Creating wealth, creating happiness, creating my life. I think I've spent my life too much in theory. I've missed life itself.' He thought back again to his night with Betty, and a hint of regret shivered through him.
Still, would he have left G~ had it not been for theory? He doubted it. But maybe there is no need for that here. What would be their purpose? 'My mind is still trapped by this former life. I still grasp at these ideas, as though I still need them to escape. But I have escaped. I am free. What use are they to me now? None. Here they've discovered life, they aren't held back by an invisible God that they have to fight with theory, so what purpose does such thought hold? Maybe none. Maybe here it is a waste?'
Tuesday, June 08, 2004
Banal Wanal
On tuesday she came to my studio. She wore a distraught look on her face. After some prodding, she explained to me how she had been ripped off by a local vendor the night before, and how she wished she weren't so timid and that it hadn't happened so far from her home and that she really should go back to the vendor and take back what was hers.
She had been away from our neighbourhood at the time, and was down on the west side. She had needed to purchase a bottle of wine for a dinner guest she was to have that evening, as he was a finicky sort who would not approve of a glass of beer. And so she had stopped by a distributor in the area in hopes of finding a suitable vintage. She was in a rush, for she had ballet at 7 and it was already 6. To make matters worse she had to stop by home before leaving for her practice, so she was likely already to be late. In her hurry when she purchased the bottle of wine she neglected to check the price that she paid and the vendor, unwittingly or not, took advantage of her haste and charged her an elevated amount.
For the rest of the night she went about her business, first to her ballet practice and then back home where she made dinner for her coming guest. It was only after her guest had arrived and the bottle had been brought out for enjoyment that she glanced at the receipt, which had apparently fallen on the table when the bottle was removed from its bag. She immediately realised the error. Such was her anguish over the discrepancy that she immediately ordered her dinner guest to go home and, not wishing to hear his rapacious demands, went to her room and cried.
On tuesday I tried to console her, emphasizing that it was only a bottle of wine and that the price she had paid was really not so atrocious. But she was too disturbed to be softened by my words. She left, I regret, in not much better condition than when she had arrived. Still, at the time she left she appeared to have no plans to go back to the vendor. Upon leaving she explained to me that it was simply too far and too much trouble given the fact that she had no transportation, but she did so sheepishly, for we both knew very well that this was of little matter to her actions.
On wednesday she returned to my studio as she always did, and we partook in our affairs in quite the usual fashion. Still, I discerned almost from the first a noticable change in her demeanour. But I said nothing and instead only looked to her at times with imperceptibly raised eyebrow of which I doubt she was even aware.
Towards the end of the session she solicited that I stop for she had something to say. I agreed. She told me that the day before, after our chat, she did in fact go back to the vendor, that she had left straight there from leaving me, and that she had walked the entire way in fact. I admit that I was more than a little surprised.
She went on to say that she felt much better about things now that the matter was settled. I concurred and mentioned that I had noticed that she was in better spirits today. She smiled brightly. She then explained to me, with a not a little malice, the satisfaction she had felt as she watched the vendor's establishment burn to the ground.
Monday, June 07, 2004
I am empty. Bottomless. Drained. Nothing. When the last ounce of creativity has been usurped from your veins and your blood is left to run cold and dry, you become strangely aware of a sense of peace, one that is the result of all expectations being withered and from the knowledge that there is nothing left to do but wait.
And so do I wait for the miracle to come.
Sunday, June 06, 2004
That Terrible Epiphany
'Do I dare tell of that last encounter? god, I don't know. Sitting here now, still at this kitchen table, still where I have been since dusk, my mind is raped by indecent thoughts. But are they really indecent? Or am I only not accustom to them. Perhaps it is too soon to write. The taste of the words are still bitter on my tongue, the smoke from his cigarette still lingers in the air. I must rest. Or at least try to rest. Try, but how can one sleep up-side-down? Will not the blood rush to my head, bringing forth its new born army of temptations, each more blushing then the last? Oh, how my mind pulses. I truly do not dare speak of this yet. The bread must cool before I break it.'
Such were his thoughts. From the kitchen he rose from his chair and walked, slowly, to his bedroom, where he lay down to sleep. I won't betray his confidence further with only this exception; that none of it mattered in the least.
Saturday, June 05, 2004
We Interrupt this Blog for a Bit of Hegel
First, why Hegel? Simple, because Hegel matters. He, unlike most philosophers, has had an effect on the world. So its good to understand why.
Masters and slaves. Masters and slaves. Hegel says that history is nothing but the struggle of masters and slaves.
First principles. Hegel says that the essential feature of man as distinguished from nature is self-consciousness. To be self-conscious is to be able to differentiate between oneself and others. But there's more to it then that. Hegel's self-consciousness is not simply the contemplation of a man or woman across the street and the recognition that you are distinct. No, not at all. Hegel's says that self-consciousness manifests itself not through the recognition of the other person, but in the desire to be recognized by that other person.
The desire to be recognized and have one's consciousness affirmed is the base. What follows is that man acts on his desire to be recognized. Sometimes it takes violent means to be recognized.
So we have all these people going around trying to gain recognition from each other and using whatever means to do so. Well, not so fast. Because some people are too timid to act out their desire to be recognized. And others aren't. Thus enter onto the scene the masters and the slaves.
And who are the masters? Well, they are the fellows that take it upon themselves to be recognized. According to Hegel they are also the poor fellows who aren't ever able to be satisfied through their recognition. They have to live with their riches and power and accept that the only the recognition they will ever get is from a bunch of unworthies who they see as nothing but objects.
And who are the slaves? Well they are the weak and timid without the cahunas to step up and seek recognition. They have no identity. They are only objects. Without identity, instead they cling to reasons for their impotence. To a god, to indifference, or to skepticism itself.
And what is history? well its nothing but the struggle of slaves to assert their identity against the masters. See the slaves are weak, but they still have the same basic instinct to be recognized as do the masters. They just need prodding.
History then takes on the form of a constant dialectic between masters and slaves. Each struggle between slave and master creates a new synthesis, a fancy word for order, from which another struggle evolves. And this goes on and on until the end of history.
But when does history end? It ends when there are no more slaves and no more masters and every consciousness is acknowledged by every other.
And what does it all mean? Well it seems to have meant concentration camps and genocide and some of the worst atrocities in history.
More on that later. For now, back to your regularly scheduled blogging.
Friday, June 04, 2004
Humour Me
And the tall blond girl at the other end of the trolley asked, 'But can you make people laugh?'
I've given that some thought. Its a finicky matter. However, a good friend said to me once, 'you know, they aren't laughing with you.'
So I guess somebody was laughing.
Thursday, June 03, 2004
I won't miss you very well.
Especially in the mornings. You always woke too early. Busy making coffee with the dawn.
No I won't miss you very well at all.
Wednesday, June 02, 2004
Ernie Borderman - A Pointless Novel, Page 3
Ernie was now half-way through his second freezer.
He was becoming greatly agitated about what he would do when it became full. The problem was his apartment, which now, housing two large industrial freezers, was quite full. What space was available left little room for movement, and it simply was not conceivable that Ernie could fit another freezer.
The first freezer Ernie had put in his kitchen, removing his dining table, which he had rarely used anyways. Finding space for the second freezer, however, had been more difficult. He had been forced eventually, much to his own chagrin, to leave it his living room. After much deliberation, from which he could find no suitable solution, Ernie had removed the TV stand from his living room and replaced with his second unit, deciding that the freezer, when covered with cloth, could serve the purpose of the stand.
At first he had thought this to be an ingenious idea, but in time it became obvious that it had a severe drawback, as Ernie was continually forced to lift the television off the freezer in order to fill it with each new shipment of meat. But there appeared to be no perfect solution, for the freezer had no place else to go. Exasperated, Ernie eventually succumbed and put his television to rest on the armchair of his sofa, from where he could sit and watch TV comfortably while sitting on the new appliance.
And so Ernie had solved the problem of the second freezer, and had become tolerant, if not comfortable, of his new cramped quarters, but it was evident that no easy solution would be available for the third. Ernie fretted for weeks as he watched his second freezer become closer to full with each passing shipment of pork loin roast and head cheese. He did not sleep well at night. His dreams were clouded by nightmarish images of rooms packed full to the brim of various cuts of meat. He would wake up in a cold sweat, dreading the next pay-day when he would be forced to add another layer to that forever shrinking tomb that he housed across from his couch. It eventually became too much for Ernie to bear.
And so Ernie Borderman began his search for new residence.
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons License.
