Awful Masterpieces

These insomnolent nights of late (in advance of a decision about whether or not I am a suitable candidate to work at this stupendous job to which I have applied [and for which I have interviewed]) are giving me fallible impetus for cursing the epiphenomenal February cold with which I am an have been so grievously afflicted.

I just had a wonderful meeting (accompanied by Desmond and Ivor) with a former partner (you know, like a romanticality-type partner), and I am awed how nobody actually fits into any narrative. You know what I mean? There is always more to every seeming than is comprehensible. I'll explain by way of muddling everything.

The dubious dust-settling clarity that is alleged with hindsight is actually only masquerading as clarity; as "hindsight" is immanently temporal, then all that's happening is the birth of yet another knot.

[On that note, what'd be the word for greater/more/farther hindsight? Hindersight? Call the cops.]

New (re)visions and (re)versions exist only to justify whatever cascading consequence, unrelated agenda, or ambition (degree of fulfillment or folly regardless) that the perceiver perceives the need to perceive. The teller will call it "explaining," but it's only explaining the teller's need to a) explain, and b) tell you about it.

In preposterously crude terms: "Good Friday" wasn't always so good, but now it justifies Easter. Because of things that happened afterward, right? But what if we found out that some profane evildoer sought to perpetuate an as-yet-unspecified injustice by way of inverting the calendar, and that we're participating unwittingly with our half-conscious conceptions of time as we understand it?

"Well, heck," one might say. I would not have started reading this post in the first place.

I remember how Molly said, early in our relationship, to her frenetic boyfriend: "There is no finish line." She was and is absolutely right. I would even say that any conclusion drawn without a distinct timestamp is forgettably flawful. We could be right about one thing in 2012, yet be dreadfully mistaken at a future juncture. Look at building with asbestos, or Urban Renewal, or the Atkins Diet, or the illegality of once-treasured cinematic courtship rituals. What about when all of those tedious texter types have forgotten how to spell AND have developed arthritis in their thumbs?

So, anyway, the thing at which I was getting is that this tiresome apparatus of a "story" that we silly humans are so frequently (even unconsciously) attempting to make of our lives WILL OUTSMART US. Maybe after we’re dead, but eventually. As far as I've been able to construe it, living is a fluid empire.

Only If You March First

BEFORE ANYTHING, I gotta say that I LOVE COMMENTS; how else would I know that you came here naturally instead of through the ridiculous tags? Thank you.


(Before this post commences, I should tell you about the night's vagaries: just as I was getting ready to publish this, the computer crashed and would not restart. Then I discovered that my bank account had gone into overdraft during the night. I sat here with the computer for an hour, tweezing dust from the fans. There was't much there, but at least the thing starts now. Hello hooray March.)

Hi! This is a Zygarnic poem (the "Zygarnic Effect" is that nagging discomfort that accompanies neglect of one's duties). Motivated by "why complete assignments when the everything is just so much?" 

I had been called for jury duty on the day (in june, 2002) before this poem was written;  appearing punctually at the courthouse and everything, I accepted the $20 that they gave me (for "lost pay") and got drunk with it during lunch. 

I walked around, smelling Gardenias and looking for misspelled traffic signs (the two notable ones read 

DEAF CHILDERN 

and 

NO INTOXIATING BEVERAGES PERMITTED IN PARK.


Yes!).

And I didn't spare a thought for my woefully overdue Master's thesis, which felt as good as it could have felt. If I were a string, I wondered, what tone would I produce when plucked?

deadlines are guidelines

before it writes

it speaks and

before it speaks

it thinks and

before it thinks

it moves and

when it has moved

enough to think then

it stops moving for

long enough to think

the thinking and after it

thinks the thinking then it

does with it what it will or

what is generally expected

so excited to be up on its damn

self that it forgets the motion

and is discovered locking

certain doors without any

palpable effort but what if it just kept

moving and moving and moving and

moving (like an advancing desert) and moving and

moving and moving (like love or somesuch) and moving

and moving (like a collision minus impact) and

moving (sallying forth)

and (don’t hang on)

moving (ha

a-ha-a-hahahahaha) getting

all like there’s no shame ‘cause

there’s not and also something’s there

like a proton you know

everything always

happening for real

at the same time

what kind of crazy

shit is that