I really want to get this going....

Each day's listing is an excerpted edit from my work. These are numbered and sub-headed for ease of read and isolation from full body of continued text. Each small excerpt is a single-themed piece culled from a much larger whole. Please follow the heading numbers down to #1, or click on 'archive'. The highest numbers are most recently posted, obviously. If so interested, for follow-up, you may contact via e-mail shown - perhaps for discussion or annotation needed.

Thursday, February 23, 2006



In all it means the same thing one way or another whether I was in time or through time because I knew at one level where I'd started from and Zuider Zee or Nat King Cole - either one - would offer me a NAME of no recognition other than that which I understood to be (and I get sorrowful and sore in such pain and sadly remiss in the telling of same) but I'm sorry for whatever has occured and everything one way or the other relates to shame and release or sorrow and grief - but in the earliest of morning sunlight when the changeable sky just opens itself up to light and the passing sinecure of the moon to my side is falling and I move along in silence I watch the deer or some single raccoon traipse along and make its own way through nature as the railroad tracks roar with some tired old freight and smokestacks stand silent and barren where nothing is made and all the old fields have fallen to places where only housing now grows like a blight and I watch the Hindi family outside of their tan house piling into some car or another and they make their way out in strange silence while a few geese overhead are pealing and something else moves along the ground near the creek - but these people notice nothing - all might as well be a cactus or a palm and all the morning is silent no matter as people pass in bundles and nothing is acknowledged - the Baron in the trees would know no less and mosey on alone same as I have and THOUGH I've been nowhere I've been a million places and though I've been a million places it's a nowhere I have seen ; the brutal cold comes rolling in the portrait of stars is upon the sky the spinning orange planets they dance on high and all tomorrow's lanterns - already lit - are dying embers by noon.
I was out standing by a doorway and thinking of names and remembering places and all the things lost when I realized that for moment after moment there'd never again be another voice being sent my way another word of any sort NOTHING that I'd have to recreate textuate orchestrate - Althea Goodyear Wetz herself the girl I used to know the one sitting in the front seat back seat wherever and the big guy walks in with the stupid flower in his hat and sits down right next to her then he begins some trance-talk pretending to know what he don't know and the afternoon goes on like that for too long a time while talk turns to Ireland to where he says "I'm going back and never coming back" and silence is the watchword buzzword of that day but then I realize if there's no way to get back what once was yours then life itself has no meaning or not that much anyway but for whatever purposes that can be made of it we live it anyway nothing ventured nothing gained.
So why orchestrate the matter ? why try to make sense ? for "Theodore is not a hobo a vagabond or a dirty hitchiker he is instead a jobless graphic designer who has no work nor prospects because computer skills (which he also doesn't have) have pretty much replaced his version of T-square and art-pen graphic design HE having become OUTMODED and every morning before going job hunting he still bends down over his sleeping wife's head and twirls a piece of her hair around his index finger as he whispers into her ear 'Nan I'm leaving' and she in turn rustles a bit and mutters something and then finds herself wondering if he means for the day or forever and she never knows when she'll come home to nothing to the empty apartment to his absence and the lack of his warmth in the hallway or the muffled sound of TV in the other room or that smell in the place like a person has been there before her" and someone was apparently attempting to describe some domestic scene or something - recounting some story he'd heard or been privy to and as I sat there I found myself too listening to the words flow forth and I realized I too was part of the scene - able to be described as much as anyone else in the telling or the saying for each and every human episode is at base the same - something of emotion and heart or solace or envy any of the hundred things which go into the make of EITHER harmony or conflict and that's the human condition no matter what else anyone tries to tell you and it's all like some old black and white engraving of say Fiorello LaGuardia pugilistically intoning about something in front of some pinball machines painted evil or whatever and he attacks them with a hatchet - making emotion out of some passive rite some mental state of material - all really a NOTHING - but like anyone else he imbues it with something and thereby it lives forever and we still see him whacking the machines over and over a million newsreel minutes of ephemeral time over all these elapsed years the very selfsame things - elm trees across from City Hall a few old boats sagging in the East River harbor and the tired old sullen bell at the Seaman's Church clanging away for something for nothing for some other death PERHAPS at sea - and no one ever knows the difference nor cares yet life goes on in its stagey way and we the AUDIENCE are still trained to clap and applaud at the varied and prescribed times - as we dutifully do en masse for whatever reason it all may be.


Post a Comment

<< Home