jeremy

which do you think is more patient, an idea or a hope?

which do you think is more patient, an idea or a hope?

beauty is what, my semi-synthetic friend? illness, decay and exploitation? a tapestry of small abuses, fights and littering, lake-loads of unready chemicals piped into my water bed, greed and decline, preaching teaching crying dying and walking the fucking dogs, breeding and needing and working and...

dead papa toothwort has seen monks executed on this land, seen witches drowned, seen industrial slaughter of animals, seen men beat each other senseless, seen bodies abused and violated, seen people hurt their closest, harm themselves, plot and worry or panic and rage, and the same can be said of the earth. he has seen the land itself cut apart, its top layer disembowelled, stripped and re-plundered, sliced into tinier pieces by wire, hedges and law. he has seen it poisoned by chemicals. he has seen it outlive its surgeons, worshippers and attackers. it holds firm and survives the village again and again and he loves it. he wouldn't do well in a wilderness.

why did the curator do it so rong, making the groop with the gratest skils the meenest?

why did the curator do it so rong, making the groop with the gratest skils the meenest?

if you want to feel as bad as we foxes are feeling at this time: (1) bare lee eat for weeks, (2) note that many frends, including you, are getting skinyer every day, and (3) watch sevral of your beluvved frends get so skiny they die.

life is change and movement. i stay still, doing the same thing every day, while everyone else is rushing around at a phenomenal speed.

life is change and movement. i stay still, doing the same thing every day, while everyone else is rushing around at a phenomenal speed.

in a way, you don't have to be a believer to believe in the life to come, because the two lives are superimposed and blended in the present. "he who waits despairs," as the proverb says. i would say: "he who waits deludes himself" because what you're waiting for has already begun and sometimes it's already over. that's the nature of the present.

there's a hole in me, and in that little white darkness, i discover the real heart of the mystery, which is also my rosetta stone. if i could translate what i don't know into what i know, i would be able to understand the purpose of my life. as things are, it all seems an illusion, a simulacrum made of words. and even if i understood, the scandal of my ignorance would remain intact. i lean over this bottomless well, narcissus reborn, and an unfamiliar sadness overcomes me. i think this is the first time i have felt like a part of humanity, just when i finally have a reason to feel different.

despite all the segregation, the tragedy is we are on the same side. we've always been here together, shipwrecked here together.

the land where the failures of the nation, the failures of myth, met the failures of men. where history went to die. where rivers brimful in april slicked to gravel by august. where the grass was tough and thick before the plow and ever after the dust lifted from the sour, alkali hardpan left in the wake of the plow. a land of ravaging pine beetles, of ever longer summers and shorter, dryer winters. the land itself animated sorrow and anger, birthed and cradled and raised up failure and fear, a raw and righteous violence.

as i listen to the director's speech from the periphery of the gathering, i notice that the audience encircling our master of ceremonies has been made (i want to say: biddable?). it is the theater of the thing. they cease to be an aggregation of individuals and instead have become a single organism: a creature that responds quickly and obediently to the prompts provided it; clapping, grumbling, cheering, etc. we are enjoying ourselves, i think. or, they are. all of them. committed, fervent. feelings i simply can't manage.

nocturne

cool glass, when leaning forehead against window. late-night lights go out, leaving us even lonelier. spider webs woven by wires over rooftops. for no reason, the hollow trot of passing nags makes us emotional.
what does the howl of these cats in heat call to mind, and what can the scraps of paper be plotting as they slither onto empty patios?
the time of night when old furniture seizes the chance to shed its lies, when pipes make strangulated cries, as though suffocating inside the walls.
now and then we think, when flipping the electric light switch, of the fright the shadows must feel, and we'd like to warn them so they have time to curl up in the corners. and now and then there is something sinister about the telephone-pole crosses over the rooftops, and one wants to slink along the walls like a cat or a thief.
nights when we wish for a hand to caress our lower back, when we suddenly realize that no tenderness compares to stroking something as it sleeps.

silence!—voiceless cricket that hops in our ear. leaky faucet song!—the only cricket that suits the city.

(buenos aries, november 1921)

none of us can talk to our parents. by "us" i mean my generation, people born after the Change. you know that thing where you break up with someone and say, it's not you, it's me? this is the opposite. it's not us, it's them. everyone knows what the problem is. the diagnosis isn't hard—the diagnosis isn't even controversial. it's guilt: mass guilt, generational guilt. the olds feel they irretrievably fucked up the world, then allowed us to be born into it. you know what? it's true. that's exactly what they did. they know it, we know it. everybody knows it.

trump is always playing trump—fighting to win, but win what or why? he has no clue and knows he has no clue. and we know he has no clue. and he knows we know he has no clue. and his lostness, his irreducible sadness, is what i find so compelling, al

trump is always playing trump—fighting to win, but win what or why? he has no clue and knows he has no clue. and we know he has no clue. and he knows we know he has no clue. and his lostness, his irreducible sadness, is what i find so compelling, almost moving, about him.

"beneath his bluff exterior, i've always sensed a hurt, incredibly vunerable little boy who just wanted to be loved. what trump craves most deeply is the adulation he has found so fleeting." (tony schwartz, co-author of the art of the deal, as quoted herein)

the most interesting thing about him to me, by far, is his commitment to self-immolation, which is unmissable and unending.