New Contrition
It's not exactly guilt at sinfulness, and not regrets at life experiences missed. It's something else that emanates from below the floorboards. Rants too influenced by William Burroughs resolving mechanistically a few sentences later into the grand cosmic design or an equivalent guru-esque phrase. Dreams unremembered in the hazy sleep-crud morning methodicaly plodding through the morning ablutions. Erections in congregations where children shimmy under the pews and the arrases on the grand columns sway with the convection isidce the mostrous hopeless tomb.
I guess I'm missing something.
Is it the faculty of Eros? Let's go Jungian on it for a second. But just for a second, because the real analysis comes in a flash of insight: and so the analysis is inextricably linked up to the thing analyzed, which is a hopeless contradiction in terms. But only if you're a square unable to stand on two feet at the hepcat reveries. Reveries in jazz and reveries clothed with second-hand clothes; plucked from the strains of an ABA minuet or constellated in nameless trees on spectral hillsides, cosummated in life-affirming sledding wipeouts where the main factor was body contact, affirmed again in Platonic proto-obscenity with a sister I never had. Reveries farmed out to word-processing windmills in the Dutch countryside, conserving the anandamide shrieks and creaks of the Ancien Regime. And the whole benighted mess comes sluicing down, rendered less viscous by the latest heat wave & heat from human bodies under stress jacking up cortisol and thyroid hormone. The bass line of the universe and the section-marking timpanis have been eaten by termites. (A very Garcia Marquez reverie. No ascensions to heaven, though. Sorry: it didn't hqappen the previous 3,000 times, and it sure as hell won't happen now.)
Who the fuck is Kurt Cobain?
He was aunt Phyllis' main beneficiary. Or was he the incredibly punctual and neat and sexy gardener on her estate? I don't remember? The dude leaning up against a pole repeating the narcotic pusher's catechism: "you need anything?" Or was he that laptop player for the new electro-spazzcore industrial outfit on our small town scene? Or did he stamp my orders at the bank in the late 1960s? Hard to tell. I'll have to think more about this.
Consider: "To clear the mind of its noise then to lose the mind altogether. This is meditation. (Of course some would call this insanity.)"
I guess I'm missing something.
Is it the faculty of Eros? Let's go Jungian on it for a second. But just for a second, because the real analysis comes in a flash of insight: and so the analysis is inextricably linked up to the thing analyzed, which is a hopeless contradiction in terms. But only if you're a square unable to stand on two feet at the hepcat reveries. Reveries in jazz and reveries clothed with second-hand clothes; plucked from the strains of an ABA minuet or constellated in nameless trees on spectral hillsides, cosummated in life-affirming sledding wipeouts where the main factor was body contact, affirmed again in Platonic proto-obscenity with a sister I never had. Reveries farmed out to word-processing windmills in the Dutch countryside, conserving the anandamide shrieks and creaks of the Ancien Regime. And the whole benighted mess comes sluicing down, rendered less viscous by the latest heat wave & heat from human bodies under stress jacking up cortisol and thyroid hormone. The bass line of the universe and the section-marking timpanis have been eaten by termites. (A very Garcia Marquez reverie. No ascensions to heaven, though. Sorry: it didn't hqappen the previous 3,000 times, and it sure as hell won't happen now.)
Who the fuck is Kurt Cobain?
He was aunt Phyllis' main beneficiary. Or was he the incredibly punctual and neat and sexy gardener on her estate? I don't remember? The dude leaning up against a pole repeating the narcotic pusher's catechism: "you need anything?" Or was he that laptop player for the new electro-spazzcore industrial outfit on our small town scene? Or did he stamp my orders at the bank in the late 1960s? Hard to tell. I'll have to think more about this.
Consider: "To clear the mind of its noise then to lose the mind altogether. This is meditation. (Of course some would call this insanity.)"
posted by A. D. at 2:48 AM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home