Monday, March 4, 2013

(with a little help from erasmus and nietzsche)

the old days- 

strange to call them that, hermit, even though that's what they are now, apparently.  old and strange.  rivet-bound.  fascinating.  unruly.  micromortality hideaways. unsearchable by four-fifths of the population at least, depending on where the sun is and how safe one's sleeping chamber appears against the backdrop of nothingness.

how slightly soever I am esteemed in the common vogue of the world, (for I well know how disingenuously folly is decried, even by those who are themselves the greatest fools,) yet it is from my influence alone that the whole universe receives her ferment of mirth and jollity: of which this may be urged as a convincing argument, in that as soon as I appeared to speak before this numerous assembly all their countenances were gilded over with a lively sparkling pleasantness: you soon welcomed me with so encouraging a look, you spurred me on with so cheerful a hum, that truly in all appearance, you seem now flushed with a good dose of reviving nectar, when as just before you sate drowsy and melancholy, as if you were lately come out of some lunatic's cell. but as it is usual, that as soon as the sun peeps from her eastern bed, and draws back the curtains of the darksome night; or as when, after a hard winter, the restorative spring breathes a more enlivening air, nature forthwith changes her apparel, and all things seem to renew their age; so at the first sight of me you all unmask, and appear in more lively colours.

I'd put on headphones and SOTL and head down to the lake.  they said, "hey, old words, come and visit me", and because we didn't have any other pressing engagements, it became a meaningful question, and the slight tremor became an almost-but-not-quite equally meaningful answer. benches reserved again along the edge of mulholland, bicycle paths spiraling around in dna catacombs, a collage-maker's fantasy, wedges of shadow slithering over cracked walls in the hospital where someone was not born according to plan or on schedule on plan according born somewhere slithering rat's nest of illusion catacombs spiraling back towards the old days edge along again served equal meanings tremors slight in the scary blue dawn of lake michigan.

'tis night: now do all gushing fountains speak louder. and my soul also is a gushing fountain. 'tis night: now only do all songs of the loving ones awake.  and   my soul    also   is      the      song      of   a  loving  one. something    unappeased,          unappeasable,         is      within      me;       it       longeth    to    find expression.    a     craving for love is within me, which speaketh itself the language of love.  light am I: ah, that I were night!  but it is my lonesomeness to be begirt with light!  ah, that I were dark and nightly! how would I suck at the breasts of light!  and you yourselves would I bless, ye twinkling starlets and glow-worms aloft!  and would rejoice in the gifts of your light.  but I live in mine own light, I drink again into myself the flames that break forth from me.  I know not the happiness of the receiver; and oft have I dreamt that stealing must be more blessed than receiving.  it is my poverty that my hand never ceaseth bestowing; it is mine envy that I see waiting eyes and the brightened nights of longing.  oh, the misery of all bestowers!  oh, the darkening of my sun! oh, the craving to crave!  oh, the violent hunger in satiety!  they take from me: but do I yet touch their soul?  there is a gap 'twixt giving and receiving; and the smallest gap hath finally to be bridged over.

old paintings sold here-
"a unique thrift store experience."  
sentry, so-called, never blinking.  
tweed coat, pocket watch, cigarillo,  
his own headphones, his beverages, his cell phone thrown off the pier and mosaiced/de-spliced with all the rest of the rabbit holes, all the time, all the worlds, all the old nights come back to me, second hand frames hanging cock-eyed, glitch music custom-made, custom-rendered, 24 hours a day, insubordinate, chicken wire chain link picnic shelters serve now as emergency housing, that's cozy.

old clothing repaired here-  

old domiciles refurbished here-
old radios tuned here-
old food preserved here-

kids with plastic serpents hanging out their back pockets, full grown adults terrified at the mere sight of a person simply walking alone, even at this hour of night, the ghost choir lies down to discuss the sonata, they're expecting nothing, and guess what, nothing expects them as well.  primordial standards here, the premier sailing league pushes off, the waves lengthen and quietly prepare shock treatment on a first come-first served basis.  (don't worry, there's a sliding scale for those of you out there with money problems, worry big time.) 

mine eye no longer overfloweth for the shame of suppliants; my hand hath become too hard for the trembling of filled hands.  whence have gone the tears of mine eye, and the down of my heart?  oh, the lonesomeness of all bestowers!  oh, the silence of all shining ones!  many suns circle in desert space: to all that is dark do they speak with their light- but to me they are silent.  oh, this is the hostility of light to the shining one- unpityingly doth it pursue its course. unfair to the shining one in its innermost heart, cold to the suns- thus travelleth every sun. like a storm do the suns pursue their courses- that is their travelling. their inexorable will do they follow- that is their coldness.  oh, ye only is it, ye dark, nightly ones, that extract warmth from the shining ones!  oh, ye only drink milk and refreshment from the light's udders! ah, there is ice around me; my hand burneth with the iciness!  ah, there is thirst in me; it panteth after your thirst!    'tis night:     alas,       that     I       have     to   be     light!       and         thirst      for          the nightly!       and        lonesomeness!         'tis night: now  doth      my          longing               break       forth       in       me    as    a   fountain-       for   speech do I  long.       'tis night:             now      do    all   gushing   fountains       speak       louder.      and my    soul    i s   a    g ush in g    f     o  u n t a in   a s w  e l     l    .

but why need I have been so impertinent as to have told you all this, as if my very looks did not sufficiently betray what I am; or supposing any be so credulous as to take me for some sage matron or goddess of wisdom, as if a single glance from me would not immediately correct their mistake, while my visage, the exact reflex of my soul, would supply and supersede the trouble of any other confessions: for I appear always in my natural colours, and an unartificial dress, and never let my face pretend one thing, and my heart conceal another; nay, and in all things I am so true to my principles, that I cannot be so much as counterfeited, even by those who challenge the name of wits, yet indeed are no better than jackanapes tricked up in gawdy clothes, and asses strutting in lions’ skins; and how cunningly soever they carry it, their long ears appear, and betray what they are.

old echoes, like favorite spots to watch pigeons circling, continents welded together, wow, took my new camera, took notebooks, took a part of the trilogy, heading north on sheridan avenue past the blinking neon, the dollar store, the el fresco experience happening right there in plain sight, gravel-voiced, oil-soaked, momentum decidedly seizure-like, older terminus cobwebbed, odder link card data costumes uncovered, waiting patiently, moving thru the dharma vortex of permanent homeless encampments, sand registers anyone who cares to show up without any current id, atm, dnf, dmv, ect, bbc, dsm puts it all out there at fire-sale prices.

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