cry baby cry. this is the old beatles song... i forget what album it came from. but it is evocative... the accordion part particularly recalls some seaside jaunt (?).
***
now thom yorke is singing something live, it was something weird, but now it transitions into "everything in its right place."
i am following some thread. it is a loose thread i dislodged in the knot of my soul. now i am following it, sometimes pulling it tight, sometimes picking at it like a scab to find a way to untangle and loosen it from myself. i am hoping this thread leads to something significant- or that it opens me up to some nothingness, a freeness, a liberty. but it could be another red herring, a deception. endlessly to find no heart to myself, only another deception, a clotting of blood at its exposure to the air. there is nothing within me.
shodo's poem hinted at this. that the heart is a heavy stone, tacit and silent, at the top of a hill. and that our job is to repeatedly cast this stone away. or that the heart is an echo of the shell of a cicada. and that our job is to repeatedly try to listen for its voice, its beat, its nonexistent instructions...
***
having an image of the first culdesac i lived in, and the red house on the corner, and the two story house outside of the culdesac that intersected and caught the kite that i had released from my hands. all these young families, all innocent like my own. they are all gone now, all grown up, all old or dead or jaded, which in certain senses is also dead...
***
we are all flies and maggots buzzing. that is what i think. i hear it all around me, the voices of children mocking and singing. and thinking of richard's praises, as though his opinion meant anything, that i could catch poetry in my words, that i could be a source...
***
there is nothing else. i am irritable and empty. there are no friends to speak to. we are all strangers passing. no one wishes to recognize me, because i am a bomb of emptiness, a blast of meaninglessness. i can make anything transparent and translucent. i see your bones. i see your ugliness. but be aware that i see it in myself first. i always saw it in me first. but nevertheless my eyes are cruel and penetrative. they stab through and impale the surfaces. they cannot help but do this.
***
the drumming. my heartbeat (or lack thereof). we are empty rhythms interpenetrating. there is no rhyme scheme or time signature that can contain it. the one we have settled on is a compromise, and it seems to hold us together. but actually we are always tempting to fall out of sync, and transform everything into some cacophany.
help me.
***
it is now... the rims of buildings, with ticker tape running around. a building somewhere in seattle. somewhere where the weather is temperate. there is an old black man who is an expert at bagua and other internal martial arts wandering around. beatnicks and hipsters. and the air is creativity, a kind of snarky crunchy creativity that feeds off itself, cannibalistic, but vital and thriving in its life-death. and there is sex there. free sex. women with large afros, and color in their hair, large circular tinted sunglasses, and bell bottoms, and others in tight leather dresses, every fetish imaginable, exploring their wants on anyone available to serve as raw material for fantasies. and i live in this place. in my dreams. i walk on in a time where there is enough time for dreams, for wasted time. the oregon of leslie eleveld, this place of self absorption, and anxiety of self-absorption.
***
now chimes. chiming. the song is about what. beeping, the interruption of electronica. heaving and heaving. slipping into something else. what is it. the onset of a transformation. whether you want it or not.
***
thinking: i am being watched, i am being listened to. and the strings, the catgut strings of my heart, being plucked. the electromagnetic fields of eyes. the tense strings of awareness. taut. i hear it, vibrations like spiderwebs. even though we are disconnected, connected. an arc of electricity, making real the search for a connection in the charged atmosphere.
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