Sort

even when you think you are knowing yourself the most, telling it in words in your head as close to your truth as is can be, somehow you still miss. Sometimes, you still lie

Is that a shortcoming of language--the way you frame the world, even to yourself?
Or maybe a shortcoming in scope, all the while zooming in, like your superego as life pushes along--the ages, the days-- like a fractal, always more specific, obliterating the preciseness of the last to the point it might've been inaccurate. Wrong. I was wrong. I am right, I know myself, now.

So what is this--what is that poetry of Creeley numbing with truth? I guess it is a process, and Creeley knows it with confidence, knows this is the way truth simply is in human life (and death (he does not try painting the afterlife; it will just come, it's not his field)): the words we say, lyrically, with our breath, to no one but ourselves, at that time in our lives where we know no better. It's as close as we can get. And we keep refining and revising it. Or living by it, when we have hit it. But we take chances, acting, that is the stuff of life.

SHORTEST STORY

I think there were sleeping pills in that enchilada.

That party

the world’s crazy it ain’t me
--------- - - misanthrope’s sad, but socialite’s more peculiar

--------- - - I was almost one, but no one told me, they told me

--------- - - or the other; it’s hard to neither, always tending
one way or other
--------- - - I just like people. ‘s gotta be a certain way?

who told you to talk that way?

Express down westside Manhattan

On the way down, the black woman next to me sitting upright as I was had a simple yet ornamental nail-paint design across each digit, as we rumbled down through the tunnels, my book in front on my lap, head down, and I noticed I liked her dark purple yarn head hat, still on, and like my fur heavy coat and belongings all over, covered, might have been driving her to the sleep that was coming to us. I heard her softly and cozy as at home in a dark room, the bed, rumbling snoring, and then I woke (saw that we were upright, again, and not on my side), and realized I was not in bed with her, this friend of mine, like we were having a slumber party.

Seeing 2 workshop professors sifting through scripts at a coffee shop

What is the point of writing (now)? To produce a commodity? Writing and its product was not a commodity not too long ago; relatively speaking, the printing press + industrial revolution: in relation to the word, and reading in society and publishing houses (newspapers, mags, novels, non-fictions, Broadway, Hollywood, talking about talking about talking about intellectual communities depicted sitcom) are babies, but the circumstance, in (institutional) writing now. Are we getting confused, but no one's asking? Just writing into filters after filters and institutionalized? To be used--by professors, by happiness superficial praise, of "goodness" (and therefore badness), of MFA machines that operate like banks, by disconnections to life lived it's processed like American cheese (but it tastes good, I love it on my sandwiches)? What's it all for? What of writing for people to read, now, and down the line, free of institutions, especially those based on currencies seperate from pure imaginative expression.

From thinking to thinking is all that it's really meant for, at it's most humanistically powerful: Many things are clouding this, and there is a euphoric confusion. When you're older, you'll realize. Or, you won't; and that's the pop life.

Thinking in physics

As I wlk
' thataway
Quick, or only
' as fast as
the earth moves:
' my legs are
miniscule & insignif.

That snack bar
' keeps me from
hungry, and it's
' made of joy
That's what we're
' made for?
Innit?

humanity at 23 1/2

When I am old, what will I think of the time when twenty-three and a half was the age I was at?

I think people’s, and more generally—because this can be generalized—humanity’s, understanding, or, at least ponderance, of what is the meaning of this life lived, is changed to be one of scientific rationale and capitalistic commodity. Aside from those communities of minds religiously devoted, human parts have become interchangeable, pharmable in test tubes, as long as that ability to think, is still there, if our limbs were cut off and resynthesized, as long as that Descartes I am has place within this diminishing body that is ours, that is becoming more and more like occupied terroritory, tagged and priced, that is where life is still existential, and only so.

To the billion children of the new age where literacy is to walk and intellectualism and bastardized forms that exist like franchizes in capitalism are the arena where the remaining of life is lived, worked, and time spent: To enjoy, that bourgeouis outlet of energy, like gyms all over that are recepticles at the same time capitalistic institutions of profit that give us outlet to expend our human mitochondria calories, now that farmlife and physical movement as an economy are for the poor, exotically rural Others, is all that life is, just like heaven is the sky and hell is beneath the earth. To enjoy is life, and striving for that is what we are worth. But isn’t that how it always was? with those few exceptions, and altogether with different props, ridding of anachronisms along the way?

Gyms, from alien eyes, are those wheels mice run in, doing none of the fleeing from predators, towards food, molding a home (unless the predators are our anxieties and modern fears; our food the physical satisfaction of sweat, we consume that now that calories are in abundance; home, well, a place where many gather and share space?). Gyms—ever-expanding cyberspace, technoterritory, cable-satellite channels, games, games, games. Enjoyment.

But to catch up humanity amongst humans, this world, with this neo-human Revolution, and to be consistent, to give (get) integrity back to humans in tandem with the world now (what we’ve created, and is rolling fast)—that is the task of the artistic within the human. The creative—the ability to imagine not only what may be, but what is, since it is all subjective and changing, as a physicist and chemist, respectively, once said—in humans can be the applicable and practical, and it must be in order for any progress, for this catch-up to occur.