I want to mail you something
to test the distance;
count the seconds till impact.
Not a letter – the word proved too defiant.
A greater liaison to better serve
the wary temperance of solitude. And so
I reach through the hole at the end of the driveway
and far away an arm snatches dumbly at the air.
I want to mail you a bouquet of delicacy
to sidestep the noise of speaking,
common symbol of budding branch and nature’s readiness.
Root and bulb beneath the soil
mutely inch toward some future;
living repositories of vegetable gnosis.
I’ll include an unknown specimen
and never learn its name.
I want to mail you a basket of sensation,
after all, you and I are hardly commonplace.
Rich confection and storied jams
with handmade labels lovingly arranged beneath clear plastic.
Objects that encourage touch and generate a private warmth
surrounded in wet and steam like a proper shower,
buckle your knees and contort your face with accomplishment
to see you glisten in my fondness.
I want to mail you a catalog of memory,
after all, the physical is but a moment.
Mementoes serve as signposts leading back to where you once were.
The card I took from Barbuzzo, tickets to Natalie Portman,
these are topographical maps of a hidden kingdom.
The napkins I spun absently while searching for a better example
- indeed, entire transcripted conversations -
the real reason no one can replace you.
I want to mail you an envelope of petals,
after all, objects never swell with our investment.
A treasure removed for safe keeping
from trees that bore witness to our secrets.
An acceptance of the larger cycle, but something more.
Something I would myself wish to receive,
to recognize as I wish to be recognized
as both form and void together.
These things are not enough,
these tokens crumble as I name them.
The postal service cannot box this maelstrom, and matter
fails to connect our fingertips our faces. Eye to eye,
rather brainstem to brainstem, safe from abstraction.
The solution is from earlier in evolution,
close your eyes
I am beside you.
Monday, May 30, 2011
Friday, May 27, 2011
Ninth Grade
I came across this excerpt.
I was an awkward child. My principle interests consisted of Dungeons and Dragons and the vivid fantasy world I inhabited. These were related but distinct. My fascination with Dungeons and Dragons revolved around designing and populating adventure scenarios rather than actually enacting those scenarios with others, which was always an exercise in disappointment. The fantasy world, on the other hand, stemmed from imagined re-enactments of daily life, which became imagined acts generally, then developed into a vast, personal mythology in the order of Walter Mitty. This isn’t to say that I didn’t have friends, I certainly did, but there was always an element of distance. I was focused inward to an alarming degree, a fact which school pictures from this period bear out. Here was a boy who paid literally no attention whatsoever to his appearance. My hair was maintained rather than styled, evoking a median or park hedge. My clothing was accumulated rather than chosen and begged for peer disapproval. Amongst my fellow students I was quiet, but not too quiet; studious, but not too studious. I cultivated the role of spectator. I was forgettable.
For whatever reason, Mrs. E had divided the class into two or three groups, I can’t remember, and each had read a different book. Each group took turns gathering with the teacher to discuss what they had read. My group had been assigned To Kill a Mockingbird. There was a strict lesson plan. She’s called Scout because she’s like a scout and she’s exploring new ideas. Every name had some godawful, heavy-handed symbolism behind it, and this infuriated me. I couldn’t let it go. Clearly, this was the information we needed for the quiz laid out neatly. It didn’t matter and I didn’t even like this book. Karen and Paul happily fed her the clearly telegraphed responses she sought, but I demanded to know how she could make these claims. There was something base and vulgar about it, some belittling element that pulled the humming string of meaning too tightly and held it too long. I didn’t understand the source of my indignation. I was content to believe that she was stupid and unfit; unable to see what I could see. It was easy to dismiss Mrs. E on these terms as I would proceed to dismiss hundreds of others, thousands, with youthful conceit untempered by perspective or humility. I hated her and I hated my class and I hated being a drab boy in a drab place with no control over what happened around me.
It is tempting to engage such memories armed with the vocabulary of critical theory, but that would solve nothing. Such description is a violation somehow; an act of confinement in which a live, formless thing is conquered and made to die. I struggle with how to logically conclude about this experience, which though not particularly important in my life is nonetheless representative of many such moments. I want to say that what Mrs. E was doing, passing tidy judgment on Harper Lee’s fantasy, represented a very real threat to the imaginative core that fueled me and maybe draw some larger parallel. What I do know for certain is that, many years later, I still remember this room and I remember this day and I am still wary of explanations about literature.
I was an awkward child. My principle interests consisted of Dungeons and Dragons and the vivid fantasy world I inhabited. These were related but distinct. My fascination with Dungeons and Dragons revolved around designing and populating adventure scenarios rather than actually enacting those scenarios with others, which was always an exercise in disappointment. The fantasy world, on the other hand, stemmed from imagined re-enactments of daily life, which became imagined acts generally, then developed into a vast, personal mythology in the order of Walter Mitty. This isn’t to say that I didn’t have friends, I certainly did, but there was always an element of distance. I was focused inward to an alarming degree, a fact which school pictures from this period bear out. Here was a boy who paid literally no attention whatsoever to his appearance. My hair was maintained rather than styled, evoking a median or park hedge. My clothing was accumulated rather than chosen and begged for peer disapproval. Amongst my fellow students I was quiet, but not too quiet; studious, but not too studious. I cultivated the role of spectator. I was forgettable.
For whatever reason, Mrs. E had divided the class into two or three groups, I can’t remember, and each had read a different book. Each group took turns gathering with the teacher to discuss what they had read. My group had been assigned To Kill a Mockingbird. There was a strict lesson plan. She’s called Scout because she’s like a scout and she’s exploring new ideas. Every name had some godawful, heavy-handed symbolism behind it, and this infuriated me. I couldn’t let it go. Clearly, this was the information we needed for the quiz laid out neatly. It didn’t matter and I didn’t even like this book. Karen and Paul happily fed her the clearly telegraphed responses she sought, but I demanded to know how she could make these claims. There was something base and vulgar about it, some belittling element that pulled the humming string of meaning too tightly and held it too long. I didn’t understand the source of my indignation. I was content to believe that she was stupid and unfit; unable to see what I could see. It was easy to dismiss Mrs. E on these terms as I would proceed to dismiss hundreds of others, thousands, with youthful conceit untempered by perspective or humility. I hated her and I hated my class and I hated being a drab boy in a drab place with no control over what happened around me.
It is tempting to engage such memories armed with the vocabulary of critical theory, but that would solve nothing. Such description is a violation somehow; an act of confinement in which a live, formless thing is conquered and made to die. I struggle with how to logically conclude about this experience, which though not particularly important in my life is nonetheless representative of many such moments. I want to say that what Mrs. E was doing, passing tidy judgment on Harper Lee’s fantasy, represented a very real threat to the imaginative core that fueled me and maybe draw some larger parallel. What I do know for certain is that, many years later, I still remember this room and I remember this day and I am still wary of explanations about literature.
Wednesday, May 25, 2011
Feelings
I have certain feelings. Emotional response stems from thoughts or actions and I then try to decide how best to respond. How can this be so difficult? Why is it I don’t constantly hear about others agonizing over this process? People seem to know what they think and what they want without endless deliberation and fraught grandstanding. They may not know what choice to make, but they seem to understand instinctively what factors are in play and what outcome they’d prefer. Meanwhile, I’m rolling around in the night and making charts and taking notes and, when I finally assemble all the data, I have no idea what it means.
Maybe emotion is too extreme an example to begin. Those types of decisions can arrive in a charged state and a certain degree of hemming and hawing is understandable. Let’s consider opinion instead. The root issue is similar and potential examples are more readily related.
When someone asks me, “what did you think of film X?” I rarely tell them what I thought of film X. I thought everything about film X. Yes, the actual embedded question is “did you like film X?” but that’s not all that much easier to answer. I liked the following things and I disliked the following things. I alternated liking and disliking the following things. I liked certain things in one sense and disliked those same things in another sense. These decisions are subject to revision, often nearly at once. I’m not even always sure if I enjoyed the experience. Was it good? What sort of scale are we using? How can you compare such things? There is an insurmountable apples and oranges issue inherent in evaluation of this kind.
My typical solution is to select the object features I am most willing to talk about at that moment and use that as a framework. Onto this we stretch sackcloth, dab paints, and affix glass baubles. When you ask for my opinion, this is what I give you. Maybe other people do this, too. I have no idea.
Maybe emotion is too extreme an example to begin. Those types of decisions can arrive in a charged state and a certain degree of hemming and hawing is understandable. Let’s consider opinion instead. The root issue is similar and potential examples are more readily related.
When someone asks me, “what did you think of film X?” I rarely tell them what I thought of film X. I thought everything about film X. Yes, the actual embedded question is “did you like film X?” but that’s not all that much easier to answer. I liked the following things and I disliked the following things. I alternated liking and disliking the following things. I liked certain things in one sense and disliked those same things in another sense. These decisions are subject to revision, often nearly at once. I’m not even always sure if I enjoyed the experience. Was it good? What sort of scale are we using? How can you compare such things? There is an insurmountable apples and oranges issue inherent in evaluation of this kind.
My typical solution is to select the object features I am most willing to talk about at that moment and use that as a framework. Onto this we stretch sackcloth, dab paints, and affix glass baubles. When you ask for my opinion, this is what I give you. Maybe other people do this, too. I have no idea.
Tuesday, May 24, 2011
Humor
I have a complicated relationship with humor. It’s a tool and a straitjacket. Humor is an alternate victory condition like shooting the moon. It allows you to bring to bear a certain skill set that is not normally useful in socialization.
The Good: It delights and amuses, makes you distinct and memorable, encourages others to talk to you and spend time in your presence. Women love it provided they aren’t stupid (see “The Bad”). It’s especially useful for disarming situations – this is my specialty.
I found out early that I could say awful things and get away with otherwise inexcusable behavior by carefully deploying a great line. Each time it gets easier. Once people get accustomed to dry humor, especially dry humor that might take them a few minutes to understand, they brace for it. When you wear the groove deeply enough they begin to laugh before you’re even finished speaking in sheer anticipation.
The Bad: Of course, because of that, it’s often difficult for others to know when you’re being serious. When one pendulums between great seriousness and great jest the end result can be frustrating for both speaker and listener. It becomes an obligation. They expect performance. You may find yourself in social situations in which you provide much entertainment and receive little in return.
You also need to read an audience. Those you know well are easy. A well timed callback to something that happened in your common past or a reference to a mutually loved film is usually adequate. Strangers are harder. What one person might find hilarious another might find offensive. Wit typically requires a certain amount of active attention and analysis, even for simple word play. Many cannot do this and find such talk snobbish. Like using weighty vocabulary or scratching your crotch it must be done in select company.
Peddling in humor has another interesting and unexpected effect on social choices. The laugh becomes the prize. There is immediate positive feedback when it’s done properly and you start to hunger for that feedback. The interesting part is that not all laughter is equally satisfying. Part of this has to do with seeking approval. If you respect the listener and his or her judgment, the potential they offer is superior. There’s also a strictly tonal element. There are people who have an amazing laugh, one that is simply a joy to elicit. There are people who I find rather boring but love to talk with because they laugh so well. The opposite is also true.
Sunday, May 22, 2011
Robert Smith
Oh, Robert. What happened.
You were glory. I curled up on the red white and blue deco comforter my mom chose and stared at the liner notes and I couldn’t even understand how it was possible. “Play this music loud”, it said. The pageant of abandon I could not wait to join it crowded out the dozen other templates that nuzzled into vision and vied for internal relevance.
It was pie in the face ridiculous. No question. Somehow that was necessary. All these disparate signals and melodic tensions contrived to form a consistent message that was both vital and true. Black tressed, pale swaying alongside harsh and tragic masters the approval of which signified absolute validation and sensual fulfillment. They were out there. I was making contact from my signal tower gathering crumbs toward satiation.
And time passes. I see you in a hockey jersey. I see you now a jowly corpse retrieved from the riverside like old ladies who refuse to cut their hair and vainly tread against the inevitable. God, it kills me.
Give me better lighting and smoother cheeks and send me out to be in the night world and embrace on the dance floor. Take me back to the tiny room behind Pulsations and leave me there I won’t cut my hair go on without me. Go on without us.
Thursday, May 19, 2011
Game Theory
Imagine the following:
What we have here is a stand off. Participant A and Participant B facing one another some scant distance apart, and both have the privilege of adequate cover. Both parties are armed.
What makes this interesting is that both A and B have the same goal. Not as in categorically similar but mutually exclusive, such as vying for a victory only one could claim. That would be simple competition. No, I mean identical. Each wishes to shoot and be shot in turn.
The reason for the stand off is that both participants fear that, should they act, that act might not be reciprocated. A may have misread the situation and, discharging his weapon, be abandoned by B for whom the game is now at an end. B might step out from behind the enclosure too quickly and therefore be found unworthy of escalation in the eyes of A.
So they wait.
Attempts to communicate subtly have been inconclusive. Communicating explicitly is considered action and begins the potentially damaging event cascade described above.
Option #1 – Go
Participant A or Participant B begins the sequence and continues beyond PNR.
Duration: Low
Risk: High
Option #2 – Wait
Eventually it becomes likely that each party is adequately invested in the engagement.
Duration: High
Risk: Low
Option #3 – Quit
The situation is scrapped in favor of a new set of variables.
Duration: Low
Risk: Low
Solve.
Tuesday, May 17, 2011
More and Faster
“I am nothing and I should be everything.”
So you wanted to be free of the tyranny of meaning? There you go.
So you wanted to no longer truck in strict negation? How’s that going?
Such aspirations are not going to make things any easier. How have we not learned this lesson yet? You are still attempting to solve the problems inherent in symbol use through symbol use. It’s as inbred and ill advised as it sounds. You know better. This is the root complaint of deconstructionism. “Guess and check?” Well, since we’ve long since determined that there is no way to verify the veracity of communication – theoretically or practically – it’s more like guess and guess. As a means of bridging distance and unclenching fists this ranks alongside jack and squat.
So the issue is…what? Achieving connection? How much are you willing to suffer to achieve some passing connection to a numerically distinct self? It’s really not that amazing. There’s no promise of felicity or even satisfaction. It’s a blinking light like Voyager proceeding in one direction: away. That’s you.
What else is there, then? Oh, don’t pretend that you don’t know. There is body. Haptics. Brainstem shit the likes of which you’ve summarily dismissed in passive aggressive pride. That’s what there is. Body has solutions where artifice has none.
Certain problems will be overcome, but it can be safely assumed that many others will simply cease to be. The system of pulse and procedure that led to such ungainly proposition and, let’s be frank, wholesale misery, is a necessary condition for their perpetuity. You can deny that child sustenance and it will surely wither. Why cut off so many heads when you can just disbelieve?
So you wanted to be free of the tyranny of meaning? There you go.
So you wanted to no longer truck in strict negation? How’s that going?
Such aspirations are not going to make things any easier. How have we not learned this lesson yet? You are still attempting to solve the problems inherent in symbol use through symbol use. It’s as inbred and ill advised as it sounds. You know better. This is the root complaint of deconstructionism. “Guess and check?” Well, since we’ve long since determined that there is no way to verify the veracity of communication – theoretically or practically – it’s more like guess and guess. As a means of bridging distance and unclenching fists this ranks alongside jack and squat.
So the issue is…what? Achieving connection? How much are you willing to suffer to achieve some passing connection to a numerically distinct self? It’s really not that amazing. There’s no promise of felicity or even satisfaction. It’s a blinking light like Voyager proceeding in one direction: away. That’s you.
What else is there, then? Oh, don’t pretend that you don’t know. There is body. Haptics. Brainstem shit the likes of which you’ve summarily dismissed in passive aggressive pride. That’s what there is. Body has solutions where artifice has none.
Certain problems will be overcome, but it can be safely assumed that many others will simply cease to be. The system of pulse and procedure that led to such ungainly proposition and, let’s be frank, wholesale misery, is a necessary condition for their perpetuity. You can deny that child sustenance and it will surely wither. Why cut off so many heads when you can just disbelieve?
Sunday, May 15, 2011
On Seeing the 100% Perfect Girl One Beautiful April Morning
by Haruki Murakami
"One beautiful April morning, on a narrow side street in Tokyo's fashionable Harujuku neighborhood, I walked past the 100% perfect girl.
Tell you the truth, she's not that good-looking. She doesn't stand out in any way. Her clothes are nothing special. The back of her hair is still bent out of shape from sleep. She isn't young, either - must be near thirty, not even close to a "girl," properly speaking. But still, I know from fifty yards away: She's the 100% perfect girl for me. The moment I see her, there's a rumbling in my chest, and my mouth is as dry as a desert.
Maybe you have your own particular favorite type of girl - one with slim ankles, say, or big eyes, or graceful fingers, or you're drawn for no good reason to girls who take their time with every meal. I have my own preferences, of course. Sometimes in a restaurant I'll catch myself staring at the girl at the next table to mine because I like the shape of her nose.
But no one can insist that his 100% perfect girl correspond to some preconceived type. Much as I like noses, I can't recall the shape of hers - or even if she had one. All I can remember for sure is that she was no great beauty. It's weird.
"Yesterday on the street I passed the 100% girl," I tell someone.
"Yeah?" he says. "Good-looking?"
"Not really."
"Your favorite type, then?"
"I don't know. I can't seem to remember anything about her - the shape of her eyes or the size of her breasts."
"Strange."
"Yeah. Strange."
"So anyhow," he says, already bored, "what did you do? Talk to her? Follow her?"
"Nah. Just passed her on the street."
She's walking east to west, and I west to east. It's a really nice April morning.
Wish I could talk to her. Half an hour would be plenty: just ask her about herself, tell her about myself, and - what I'd really like to do - explain to her the complexities of fate that have led to our passing each other on a side street in Harajuku on a beautiful April morning in 1981. This was something sure to be crammed full of warm secrets, like an antique clock build when peace filled the world.
After talking, we'd have lunch somewhere, maybe see a Woody Allen movie, stop by a hotel bar for cocktails. With any kind of luck, we might end up in bed.
Potentiality knocks on the door of my heart.
Now the distance between us has narrowed to fifteen yards.
How can I approach her? What should I say?
"Good morning, miss. Do you think you could spare half an hour for a little conversation?"
Ridiculous. I'd sound like an insurance salesman.
"Pardon me, but would you happen to know if there is an all-night cleaners in the neighborhood?"
No, this is just as ridiculous. I'm not carrying any laundry, for one thing. Who's going to buy a line like that?
Maybe the simple truth would do. "Good morning. You are the 100% perfect girl for me."
No, she wouldn't believe it. Or even if she did, she might not want to talk to me. Sorry, she could say, I might be the 100% perfect girl for you, but you're not the 100% boy for me. It could happen. And if I found myself in that situation, I'd probably go to pieces. I'd never recover from the shock. I'm thirty-two, and that's what growing older is all about.
We pass in front of a flower shop. A small, warm air mass touches my skin. The asphalt is damp, and I catch the scent of roses. I can't bring myself to speak to her. She wears a white sweater, and in her right hand she holds a crisp white envelope lacking only a stamp. So: She's written somebody a letter, maybe spent the whole night writing, to judge from the sleepy look in her eyes. The envelope could contain every secret she's ever had.
I take a few more strides and turn: She's lost in the crowd.
Now, of course, I know exactly what I should have said to her. It would have been a long speech, though, far too long for me to have delivered it properly. The ideas I come up with are never very practical.
Oh, well. It would have started "Once upon a time" and ended "A sad story, don't you think?"
Once upon a time, there lived a boy and a girl. The boy was eighteen and the girl sixteen. He was not unusually handsome, and she was not especially beautiful. They were just an ordinary lonely boy and an ordinary lonely girl, like all the others. But they believed with their whole hearts that somewhere in the world there lived the 100% perfect boy and the 100% perfect girl for them. Yes, they believed in a miracle. And that miracle actually happened.
One day the two came upon each other on the corner of a street.
"This is amazing," he said. "I've been looking for you all my life. You may not believe this, but you're the 100% perfect girl for me."
"And you," she said to him, "are the 100% perfect boy for me, exactly as I'd pictured you in every detail. It's like a dream."
They sat on a park bench, held hands, and told each other their stories hour after hour. They were not lonely anymore. They had found and been found by their 100% perfect other. What a wonderful thing it is to find and be found by your 100% perfect other. It's a miracle, a cosmic miracle.
As they sat and talked, however, a tiny, tiny sliver of doubt took root in their hearts: Was it really all right for one's dreams to come true so easily?
And so, when there came a momentary lull in their conversation, the boy said to the girl, "Let's test ourselves - just once. If we really are each other's 100% perfect lovers, then sometime, somewhere, we will meet again without fail. And when that happens, and we know that we are the 100% perfect ones, we'll marry then and there. What do you think?"
"Yes," she said, "that is exactly what we should do."
And so they parted, she to the east, and he to the west.
The test they had agreed upon, however, was utterly unnecessary. They should never have undertaken it, because they really and truly were each other's 100% perfect lovers, and it was a miracle that they had ever met. But it was impossible for them to know this, young as they were. The cold, indifferent waves of fate proceeded to toss them unmercifully.
One winter, both the boy and the girl came down with the season's terrible inluenza, and after drifting for weeks between life and death they lost all memory of their earlier years. When they awoke, their heads were as empty as the young D. H. Lawrence's piggy bank.
They were two bright, determined young people, however, and through their unremitting efforts they were able to acquire once again the knowledge and feeling that qualified them to return as full-fledged members of society. Heaven be praised, they became truly upstanding citizens who knew how to transfer from one subway line to another, who were fully capable of sending a special-delivery letter at the post office. Indeed, they even experienced love again, sometimes as much as 75% or even 85% love.
Time passed with shocking swiftness, and soon the boy was thirty-two, the girl thirty.
One beautiful April morning, in search of a cup of coffee to start the day, the boy was walking from west to east, while the girl, intending to send a special-delivery letter, was walking from east to west, but along the same narrow street in the Harajuku neighborhood of Tokyo. They passed each other in the very center of the street. The faintest gleam of their lost memories glimmered for the briefest moment in their hearts. Each felt a rumbling in their chest. And they knew:
She is the 100% perfect girl for me.
He is the 100% perfect boy for me.
But the glow of their memories was far too weak, and their thoughts no longer had the clarity of fouteen years earlier. Without a word, they passed each other, disappearing into the crowd. Forever.
A sad story, don't you think?
Yes, that's it, that is what I should have said to her."
"One beautiful April morning, on a narrow side street in Tokyo's fashionable Harujuku neighborhood, I walked past the 100% perfect girl.
Tell you the truth, she's not that good-looking. She doesn't stand out in any way. Her clothes are nothing special. The back of her hair is still bent out of shape from sleep. She isn't young, either - must be near thirty, not even close to a "girl," properly speaking. But still, I know from fifty yards away: She's the 100% perfect girl for me. The moment I see her, there's a rumbling in my chest, and my mouth is as dry as a desert.
Maybe you have your own particular favorite type of girl - one with slim ankles, say, or big eyes, or graceful fingers, or you're drawn for no good reason to girls who take their time with every meal. I have my own preferences, of course. Sometimes in a restaurant I'll catch myself staring at the girl at the next table to mine because I like the shape of her nose.
But no one can insist that his 100% perfect girl correspond to some preconceived type. Much as I like noses, I can't recall the shape of hers - or even if she had one. All I can remember for sure is that she was no great beauty. It's weird.
"Yesterday on the street I passed the 100% girl," I tell someone.
"Yeah?" he says. "Good-looking?"
"Not really."
"Your favorite type, then?"
"I don't know. I can't seem to remember anything about her - the shape of her eyes or the size of her breasts."
"Strange."
"Yeah. Strange."
"So anyhow," he says, already bored, "what did you do? Talk to her? Follow her?"
"Nah. Just passed her on the street."
She's walking east to west, and I west to east. It's a really nice April morning.
Wish I could talk to her. Half an hour would be plenty: just ask her about herself, tell her about myself, and - what I'd really like to do - explain to her the complexities of fate that have led to our passing each other on a side street in Harajuku on a beautiful April morning in 1981. This was something sure to be crammed full of warm secrets, like an antique clock build when peace filled the world.
After talking, we'd have lunch somewhere, maybe see a Woody Allen movie, stop by a hotel bar for cocktails. With any kind of luck, we might end up in bed.
Potentiality knocks on the door of my heart.
Now the distance between us has narrowed to fifteen yards.
How can I approach her? What should I say?
"Good morning, miss. Do you think you could spare half an hour for a little conversation?"
Ridiculous. I'd sound like an insurance salesman.
"Pardon me, but would you happen to know if there is an all-night cleaners in the neighborhood?"
No, this is just as ridiculous. I'm not carrying any laundry, for one thing. Who's going to buy a line like that?
Maybe the simple truth would do. "Good morning. You are the 100% perfect girl for me."
No, she wouldn't believe it. Or even if she did, she might not want to talk to me. Sorry, she could say, I might be the 100% perfect girl for you, but you're not the 100% boy for me. It could happen. And if I found myself in that situation, I'd probably go to pieces. I'd never recover from the shock. I'm thirty-two, and that's what growing older is all about.
We pass in front of a flower shop. A small, warm air mass touches my skin. The asphalt is damp, and I catch the scent of roses. I can't bring myself to speak to her. She wears a white sweater, and in her right hand she holds a crisp white envelope lacking only a stamp. So: She's written somebody a letter, maybe spent the whole night writing, to judge from the sleepy look in her eyes. The envelope could contain every secret she's ever had.
I take a few more strides and turn: She's lost in the crowd.
Now, of course, I know exactly what I should have said to her. It would have been a long speech, though, far too long for me to have delivered it properly. The ideas I come up with are never very practical.
Oh, well. It would have started "Once upon a time" and ended "A sad story, don't you think?"
Once upon a time, there lived a boy and a girl. The boy was eighteen and the girl sixteen. He was not unusually handsome, and she was not especially beautiful. They were just an ordinary lonely boy and an ordinary lonely girl, like all the others. But they believed with their whole hearts that somewhere in the world there lived the 100% perfect boy and the 100% perfect girl for them. Yes, they believed in a miracle. And that miracle actually happened.
One day the two came upon each other on the corner of a street.
"This is amazing," he said. "I've been looking for you all my life. You may not believe this, but you're the 100% perfect girl for me."
"And you," she said to him, "are the 100% perfect boy for me, exactly as I'd pictured you in every detail. It's like a dream."
They sat on a park bench, held hands, and told each other their stories hour after hour. They were not lonely anymore. They had found and been found by their 100% perfect other. What a wonderful thing it is to find and be found by your 100% perfect other. It's a miracle, a cosmic miracle.
As they sat and talked, however, a tiny, tiny sliver of doubt took root in their hearts: Was it really all right for one's dreams to come true so easily?
And so, when there came a momentary lull in their conversation, the boy said to the girl, "Let's test ourselves - just once. If we really are each other's 100% perfect lovers, then sometime, somewhere, we will meet again without fail. And when that happens, and we know that we are the 100% perfect ones, we'll marry then and there. What do you think?"
"Yes," she said, "that is exactly what we should do."
And so they parted, she to the east, and he to the west.
The test they had agreed upon, however, was utterly unnecessary. They should never have undertaken it, because they really and truly were each other's 100% perfect lovers, and it was a miracle that they had ever met. But it was impossible for them to know this, young as they were. The cold, indifferent waves of fate proceeded to toss them unmercifully.
One winter, both the boy and the girl came down with the season's terrible inluenza, and after drifting for weeks between life and death they lost all memory of their earlier years. When they awoke, their heads were as empty as the young D. H. Lawrence's piggy bank.
They were two bright, determined young people, however, and through their unremitting efforts they were able to acquire once again the knowledge and feeling that qualified them to return as full-fledged members of society. Heaven be praised, they became truly upstanding citizens who knew how to transfer from one subway line to another, who were fully capable of sending a special-delivery letter at the post office. Indeed, they even experienced love again, sometimes as much as 75% or even 85% love.
Time passed with shocking swiftness, and soon the boy was thirty-two, the girl thirty.
One beautiful April morning, in search of a cup of coffee to start the day, the boy was walking from west to east, while the girl, intending to send a special-delivery letter, was walking from east to west, but along the same narrow street in the Harajuku neighborhood of Tokyo. They passed each other in the very center of the street. The faintest gleam of their lost memories glimmered for the briefest moment in their hearts. Each felt a rumbling in their chest. And they knew:
She is the 100% perfect girl for me.
He is the 100% perfect boy for me.
But the glow of their memories was far too weak, and their thoughts no longer had the clarity of fouteen years earlier. Without a word, they passed each other, disappearing into the crowd. Forever.
A sad story, don't you think?
Yes, that's it, that is what I should have said to her."
Friday, May 13, 2011
Fall Plans
They're coming back in October and we're going to be there.
In the meantime there will be passing amusement. In the meantime I'm going to continue with the broadcast. In the meantime I'm checking my watch. In the meantime I have DFA queued up and a full tank of gas.
Wednesday, May 11, 2011
Keep on the Borderlands; I, iii
It is impossible, I think, to overstate the enormity of the renovations undertaken upon our arrival. I remember being stricken by the very idea. Trees were uprooted and replanted elsewhere. Walls were painted. Walls were patched. All was wreathed in rope and scaffold. A dust cloud, low and consistent, obscured vision and elicited fits of coughing from the work crews, many of which took to tying cloth around their lower faces. I wasn’t sure what to make of this place. Arriving that first day, a shoebox filled with GI Joe figures, wandering the halls until I found the room that was to be my own. The walls were covered with hideous faux wood paneling. Beneath that were a different shade of paneling and several layers of patterned wallpaper. There was one window that looked out over the front courtyard. I sat in the corner and tried to expand my sense of things to include this place, this space. Debris from removed carpeting, bent nails and scraps of padding, a grainy particulate that had resulted from the rot of neglect and lingered in the air like peat. The flooring revealed was sadly damaged. On the ceiling was a rectangular discoloration from what must have once been an entrance to the attic, lazily patched. I took Beachhead from the box and he began scaling the wall, grappling from chip to pockmark in rugged ascent.
The people were generally honest, and boorishness was frowned upon. There were, after all, legitimate concerns to distract a body. These consisted of manning the walls, patrolling, and repairing the facilities. My days were often spent alone and away from the industry. The best play was the careful construction of battle scenes in which one force, well entrenched, repelled tireless invaders. Furniture, books, and blankets together formed complex military installations the assembly of which constituted the longest and most central of amusements. With no other playmates to spoil its rich integrity, my imagination crafted grand narrative arcs of drama and violent betrayal. Men loved and men fell. Hideous creatures burst forth from cave walls and shambling nightmares oozed in through the ether. It was so far beyond the intensity of ball catching or bike riding or other banalities so often suggested as a better use of this time. “Go make some friends,” they would say. “Play with your sisters,” they would say. I would, and in tree helicopters wielding stick guns and screaming out to the dying light someone would invariably get a skinned knee or wounded pride and, appealing to authority, end the game. The best trait was a willingness to be subsumed by my vision, which was clear and rapid, and only it could deliver what was wanted with consistency.
The people were generally honest, and boorishness was frowned upon. There were, after all, legitimate concerns to distract a body. These consisted of manning the walls, patrolling, and repairing the facilities. My days were often spent alone and away from the industry. The best play was the careful construction of battle scenes in which one force, well entrenched, repelled tireless invaders. Furniture, books, and blankets together formed complex military installations the assembly of which constituted the longest and most central of amusements. With no other playmates to spoil its rich integrity, my imagination crafted grand narrative arcs of drama and violent betrayal. Men loved and men fell. Hideous creatures burst forth from cave walls and shambling nightmares oozed in through the ether. It was so far beyond the intensity of ball catching or bike riding or other banalities so often suggested as a better use of this time. “Go make some friends,” they would say. “Play with your sisters,” they would say. I would, and in tree helicopters wielding stick guns and screaming out to the dying light someone would invariably get a skinned knee or wounded pride and, appealing to authority, end the game. The best trait was a willingness to be subsumed by my vision, which was clear and rapid, and only it could deliver what was wanted with consistency.
Monday, May 9, 2011
Keep on the Borderlands; I, ii
The keep itself rose above the skyline, an enfeebled cardinal held in obligation and becoming tangled in his vestments. A protuberance among the orchards in grays and reds providing surface for lichens and vine culture gangways that offset the motes of morning light and azure horizon. This was hilly land, and forest, and it was impossible to see very far in any direction. The worn range of once mighty peaks adjacent to these holdings was only visible along the major roads and in select raised places. Deciduous wood and fruit-bearing trees crowded close to the north and west, and the gradual eastern incline gave way to tiny ponds, gardens, and the collection of outbuildings that housed what few constituted the local populace. Further still were the wilds. There was all manner of savagery: boar and brigand and standing stones. It was understood to be unsafe as are all places beyond the limits of current definition. This area marked the edge of the known and this fortress stood sentinel against horrors that might be. In this manner, the structural integrity of the kingdom proper might be secured and all the rest meant nothing.
It was built by the Buonis. The tangled embarrassment of their legacy could be assembled through local whisper. It was all the usual things. Mother ran off with father’s friend leaving two families crippled. The children received hunting magazines and killed for pleasure and drank for sport. These were heartland people misplaced. What little maintenance was performed was performed poorly. The curtain walls were cracked. The system of flues intended to aerate were clogged with filth and nests. The southern tower had all but collapsed and was therefore avoided. Termites and carpenter ants had their way with barns, barracks, and storage sheds. The interior could only be described as severe. What little furnishing and décor remained were sadly inadequate and morbidly untended. Worse were the environs. Stunted bushes broke through the courtyard in countless places. The groves were diseased and surrendered to the steady tread of entropy. The once grand entrance path now consisted of a meandering line of broken pavers that split and shifted like harridans’ teeth. The Buonis stayed inside and paid little attention as the wilds encroached. That they were left in position for so very long was a testament to the remoteness of the post and the apathy of its governing body. No news was good news. No news was the preference. When, at last, their finances had sufficiently atrophied, and word of their incompetence sufficiently spread, the caretakers were removed. That is when we came; when mother came. Mother was the castellan.
It was built by the Buonis. The tangled embarrassment of their legacy could be assembled through local whisper. It was all the usual things. Mother ran off with father’s friend leaving two families crippled. The children received hunting magazines and killed for pleasure and drank for sport. These were heartland people misplaced. What little maintenance was performed was performed poorly. The curtain walls were cracked. The system of flues intended to aerate were clogged with filth and nests. The southern tower had all but collapsed and was therefore avoided. Termites and carpenter ants had their way with barns, barracks, and storage sheds. The interior could only be described as severe. What little furnishing and décor remained were sadly inadequate and morbidly untended. Worse were the environs. Stunted bushes broke through the courtyard in countless places. The groves were diseased and surrendered to the steady tread of entropy. The once grand entrance path now consisted of a meandering line of broken pavers that split and shifted like harridans’ teeth. The Buonis stayed inside and paid little attention as the wilds encroached. That they were left in position for so very long was a testament to the remoteness of the post and the apathy of its governing body. No news was good news. No news was the preference. When, at last, their finances had sufficiently atrophied, and word of their incompetence sufficiently spread, the caretakers were removed. That is when we came; when mother came. Mother was the castellan.
Saturday, May 7, 2011
Patterns
So today I went pillaging. The original plan was to put up another piece of KotB, but after spending some time poring over the outline – which is abundant – I decided to leave it to fill the coming week.
I have an email address from many years ago which is mostly inactive. It actually shunts to my current address. I’ve never bothered to cancel it because it’s full of relics and I’m too lazy to sort out what I would want to keep. I thought it might be interesting to pull forth some moist specimen and pin it to the dissection table.
There’s some dark product in there. Things were not quite as I remembered. Some of these memories persist more strongly than I would have predicted. They recall pain or, worse, pain inflicted on another. It’s difficult to know how one should handle memories like these. They are defining and important, certainly. Instructive. They catalogue mistakes I plan to not make again. At the same time, what good can come of opening old wounds? It’s not as if I can track all these people down like a Nick Hornby novel. Who the hell would want to? There’s a statute of limitations on seeking emotional catharsis, and I’m glad for it. I can think of quite a few faces I’d hate to see at my door, mostly because there’s only so many ways you can say, “I know, you’re right, I’m sorry.” Some of you may be reading this, in which case please understand that I know, you’re right, and I’m sorry.
It must be a question of temperament. Most people I know don’t feel some sacred compulsion to analyze every facet of their past. It is enough to make choices, to recall those choices, and to proceed under the auspice of result. Perhaps it’s because, looking back, I don’t see a pattern. Despite my best efforts, I have not been able to create an acceptable narrative through which to define myself. I have been too many people. I have held too many contradictory beliefs. I have said too many wonderful and horrible things. Whenever I attempt to explain the particulars of my life I am left feeling that my audience has failed to appreciate the scope of what happened. I am both better and worse than they now believe. My solution? More words. Words and words and words. I back the truck up and just bury them alive in all my language.
I considered a poem I had written at seventeen. It’s clumsy, but the precision of metaphor is undeniable. It’s also one of the few pieces I still have from high school. I would periodically suffer through maudlin fits during which I would destroy everything I had recently written. The recipient sent it to me many years later, for which I am thankful. I just can’t bring myself to drag that out. It’s been through enough.
I considered the final break-up letter of my last serious relationship. What a jagged enterprise. It’s beautiful and tragic in precisely the correct proportion and I couldn’t even read the whole thing. That shit’s still raw. Not the girl. It’s not about the girl, that’s the crazy part. It’s the letter! The letter too accurately recalls my exact psychological state, which in turn evokes that state. I would like to think that it would be imprudent to loose such a thing into the world, but in reality it’s just too personal, even for me.
Let’s talk about evocation, instead.
A term I plan to someday define properly, it made me remember a piece of paper I found a few days ago. I am guessing this is from about 2005. It contains four distinct sections, presumably unrelated. At least, I hope they’re unrelated:
Evocation // involves the set of all object properties which create subject reaction. It is, specifically, the process by which one discovers/decodes these reactions, and the willful and deliberate act of symbol use to manifest, or “evoke”, predictable and desired subject-based outcomes.
Imagination is the most potent and least understood human phenomenon.
Empathy is a hindrance to communication as often as an asset. Aggravated concern for the position and comfort of the listener detracts greatly from both attention and message precision.
Have you ever seen two retards making out? It’s like a civil war field hospital. It’s like watching a calf being born.
I know, right?
It’s possible that some of that previous madness may end up lashed to the post for your amusement eventually. Not today.
I have an email address from many years ago which is mostly inactive. It actually shunts to my current address. I’ve never bothered to cancel it because it’s full of relics and I’m too lazy to sort out what I would want to keep. I thought it might be interesting to pull forth some moist specimen and pin it to the dissection table.
There’s some dark product in there. Things were not quite as I remembered. Some of these memories persist more strongly than I would have predicted. They recall pain or, worse, pain inflicted on another. It’s difficult to know how one should handle memories like these. They are defining and important, certainly. Instructive. They catalogue mistakes I plan to not make again. At the same time, what good can come of opening old wounds? It’s not as if I can track all these people down like a Nick Hornby novel. Who the hell would want to? There’s a statute of limitations on seeking emotional catharsis, and I’m glad for it. I can think of quite a few faces I’d hate to see at my door, mostly because there’s only so many ways you can say, “I know, you’re right, I’m sorry.” Some of you may be reading this, in which case please understand that I know, you’re right, and I’m sorry.
It must be a question of temperament. Most people I know don’t feel some sacred compulsion to analyze every facet of their past. It is enough to make choices, to recall those choices, and to proceed under the auspice of result. Perhaps it’s because, looking back, I don’t see a pattern. Despite my best efforts, I have not been able to create an acceptable narrative through which to define myself. I have been too many people. I have held too many contradictory beliefs. I have said too many wonderful and horrible things. Whenever I attempt to explain the particulars of my life I am left feeling that my audience has failed to appreciate the scope of what happened. I am both better and worse than they now believe. My solution? More words. Words and words and words. I back the truck up and just bury them alive in all my language.
I considered a poem I had written at seventeen. It’s clumsy, but the precision of metaphor is undeniable. It’s also one of the few pieces I still have from high school. I would periodically suffer through maudlin fits during which I would destroy everything I had recently written. The recipient sent it to me many years later, for which I am thankful. I just can’t bring myself to drag that out. It’s been through enough.
I considered the final break-up letter of my last serious relationship. What a jagged enterprise. It’s beautiful and tragic in precisely the correct proportion and I couldn’t even read the whole thing. That shit’s still raw. Not the girl. It’s not about the girl, that’s the crazy part. It’s the letter! The letter too accurately recalls my exact psychological state, which in turn evokes that state. I would like to think that it would be imprudent to loose such a thing into the world, but in reality it’s just too personal, even for me.
Let’s talk about evocation, instead.
A term I plan to someday define properly, it made me remember a piece of paper I found a few days ago. I am guessing this is from about 2005. It contains four distinct sections, presumably unrelated. At least, I hope they’re unrelated:
Evocation // involves the set of all object properties which create subject reaction. It is, specifically, the process by which one discovers/decodes these reactions, and the willful and deliberate act of symbol use to manifest, or “evoke”, predictable and desired subject-based outcomes.
Imagination is the most potent and least understood human phenomenon.
Empathy is a hindrance to communication as often as an asset. Aggravated concern for the position and comfort of the listener detracts greatly from both attention and message precision.
Have you ever seen two retards making out? It’s like a civil war field hospital. It’s like watching a calf being born.
I know, right?
It’s possible that some of that previous madness may end up lashed to the post for your amusement eventually. Not today.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)