Direct Me to the Nearest Surgeon

Hi, Everybody--

As a person that can no longer umbrella his mistakes with newness, I humbly cry uncle toward Blogger and its unique capacity cooperate as it sees fit, which is increasingly seldom. I would swear at it, but to pillory a program is one step too abstract--the computer is behaving, and my family is blurrily zipping about, and I don't wish for any of these real-life subjects/objects to think themselves, even for a second, to be recipients of my contumely.

I am working at switching this blog over to the official Good Ideas on Paper website, which will also feature a pantload of professional information and the flagrant suchlike as well as the enigmatic furthermore. Thanks infinity to Rob McClellan for having bestowed the domain name unto me as a holiday gift.

So, please pardon my roiling. Thank you. 

Waxing Intractable

2/8/2001, 10:48 AM

Hi. I'm on Molly's computer (the one with the strange keynoard problems).

There's a lot that will happen when everything becomes whatever it will be that enables me to support the claims made at the beginning of this very sentence (remember that?).

This will be a brief post.

In mundane news, I am still trying to ken how Blogger works. It seems to be somewhat limited. For one thing, I'd like to have the posts be listed in chronological (rather than reverse-chronological) order--anyone?

For now, I will classify my whole please post comments as fodder for discussion attempt as a failed experiment. Since I've been thinking such a lot about failure these days, I have decided here to post an old poem, from 2002.

a failed haiku

at ten nineteen in the morning this morning; in the face and/or faces of foolishness; in the spirits of our captors and their unintended kindnesses; for the sake of both argument and concord; suspended by our own cables under the thumb of this as-blisterful-as-it’s-infinite ether – i with you am alive and living and we together never have known less

at this exact second that’s now-ago over by, i speak in present tense as if to report from some-or-other scene, but i lie without trying, for the body of time that anything takes in its transit makes it like everything sudden and untouchable i forget why

solitary wanting never roots right and even though it’s written plainly all over our aging bodies it’s never sufficient to cripple a system that banks on there being a next moment and a lot of anothers, all of whom employ different techniques (many of which are tediously mirrored in printed literature) in order to say the same thing: “a new past has arrived and more is forthcoming – try not to think too much about it”

so there

and in that torsion that rending that rapture that rupture that turvy and swerve and inverting, we behave accordingly. we fall in love with someone/something/someone’s things (and it is only a story a portrait in reverse forever and irrevocably partial a mosaic both gray with doubting and radiant with serenity) for what

i could combine into one sentence all of that which everybody knows but doesn’t say and let its broadcast lull me into wherever it is that i am, or combine into one unfairly abbreviated dream all of that which i say without knowing, but a memory’s present is only and ever an irrelevant elegy