He asked me to read one of his "pieces" that described the real world, or something about capturing the "real"...something about the "thing in itself"....something about "no ideas."
After I finished, he asked, "how about it?"
And since I did not know, nor do I know now, much about content-form-meaning, and purpose, I told him that it was good. That it evoked some sort of sadness in me. He smiled and said "thanks." I wasn't sure if he meant it sincerely or if it was sarcastic or if he was simply responding in accordance with reciprocity. The doubt elucidaed a mild schizophrenia elicited by a type of capitalism that provides the paradox of a no-identity.
I'm horrible at goodbyes, and what follows is what occurred to me at that moment of departure: I waved and half-smiled and returned to my table, exhausted from self-induced awkwardness.
His "piece" reminded me that after reading Dostoevsky and Castellanos, I still had the audacity to write, let alone the audacity to speak on matters very unfamiliar and foreign to me: life.
And I mean the above in the very sincere. Dostoevsky made me bow to the Christian G-d and Castellanos helped make sense of the senseless, and versa-vice, and thus, everyday it's vice-versa and versa vice; up-down, bow-stand; left-right; no-yes-no; downside-upside-down. Is this real? Have I captured the "real" in itself? Oh! oh! oh! bless me! Amen! Amen! Amen!
All this and nothing until the movement reflects mechanization, a movement directed by the given factors--perhaps you may know this as "Historical Materialism." Tossing and turning, turning and tossing, all the while gathering an empiricist epistemological theoretical framework by which to approach and (re)examine the "current circumstance"--perhaps you may know this as experience. And this experience allows the currency that yields authority to speaker/writer/listener, and the currency gathers charge by the effectiveness of the experience--some may call it dialect and rhetoric, and those outside of the "enlightened" rhetoric and dialect and theory/theories of words, or "commoners," would call it mental masturbation, or crazy. The latter is probably right.
And it is the "current circumstance" which perpetually perplexes scholars and "commoners" alike, and it is the "current circumstance" that I am no expert in, and, thus, retell you, dear cyber-cruiser, that I still have the audacity to write, and write badly. worsely and worserly.
This writing process damages by tormenting. The act seems, to me, a 2, 3, rhizomatic street. But, the very structure I write in, in the "current circumstance," reflects the degree of (my) proper schooling and training in the written word. Indeed, The language seems to often reflect, and neglect, a particular worldview of the user, and the language allows for a given set of expressions that which the current time in history allows, or so it seems to me, in my "current circumstance."
Indeed, every individual possess a degree of development and understanding in accordance to the present factors. The content demands certain form, and vice-versa. But, this, this very "piece" is merely goobledygook for the "unlearned," and this is gookygoobledy for the learned, and vise-jaw-versa--(c)LOCKwork. round and drown. no one knows what they are talking about and when someone says something "smart" and everyone goes goo-goo-ga-ga, a common and popular phrase nowadays that translates into, "ah, yes! I identify!" a mere appearance of (ex)change occurs.
The outsider can serve as a mirror to the insider, modalities can alter and power can dissolve, and vice-versa. The other day I saw a man wearing a Rorschach inkblot shirt and I called him a racist! He replied, wot? and mumbled "babblebabble," a dastardly gesture no doubt!
All this to say, my e-confidant, that I am caught in the schizo-frenzy, a mild schizoid neonate that ate the advertisement adverse to self and incapacitated in the capacity to individuate, actualize, and realize, that I'm a nonsense talker phraseologist peddling pedantic semantic walking the tightrope and tap-tap-tap dancing along a thin wire for the greenback.
Identity fostered and linked to the urge to consume, sell me an identity please. Commodify me. Abuse me. Rape me. Language is the name of my game. What do you read? words words words. round round rounding in a sea of words. Old Jameson, all "postmodernism in consumer society" type. The old whiskey type. Blended Irish type. Consume enough words and the virus starts to do its work. The "I" in "me" is where again? outside? a construct you say? incoherent you say? crazy you say? thank you? say you? you? what? now? nothing? no
I'm sorry for the digression dear cyber-friend and that after having tormented you with a dose of madness I hope you have not been decimated, perhaps you have not been touched at all! great, I am too tired to continue this line, or dis-linear mode, of thought.
I will tell you the magical day that followed after having met my friend and his "piece" of beat poetry.
This particular day felt like a nightmare. Throughout my tutoring sessions, I saw the same person with a different mask every 30-minutes, each one of them linked by the common association of amnesia. And this amnesia was contagious...wait, didn't I just...never mind. How can I help you? It felt like a cruel joke: "Someone's idea of fun"
The day flowed along until I found myself in my little room, as though transported by some sort of surreal magical realism that modern realism does not allow.
That night seemed like an eternal Saturday night; in fact, it was suddenly Saturday night and the city glowed with warm oranges and reds, and the heat came out from summer night rock n' roll fever; Warm dance floors exhausted sweaty and salty and oh so sweet cries of pleasure and shameless laughter.
from the hilltop I could hear the youth enjoy red wine and lose their senses...just enough to carry on a sensible conversation about how mad and obsessed love has made them.
I was there, observing and writing as a break from grading papers. My skin could not contain the desire to see the apathetic trees wave to and fro, persuaded by the wind to dance along to zephyr moods where moonlight swims. I started committing the pathetic fallacy. I wanted to shake the realism. Not because it was a "no" to nihilistic existential psycho-babble blah-blah-blasé, but because I needed a dose of fantasy, a dose of surreality and madness. I was already feeling crazy, the only option after having lost your mind, some might agree, is to see how deep the rabbit hole goes, or perhaps it was just the heat.
I raise my head from the counter and finish my beer. A sudden shift in my position that I attributed to residues of amnesia.
I am walking along Broadway Boulevard greeting the theaters that have been turned to Churches--The Million Dollar Theatre, The Palace, the Orpheum, the Los Angeles Theatre!
I raise my head from the counter and finish my beer. A sudden shift in my position that I attributed to residues of amnesia.
I am walking along Broadway Boulevard greeting the theaters that have been turned to Churches--The Million Dollar Theatre, The Palace, the Orpheum, the Los Angeles Theatre!
I walk among the defeated that face the city symphony of indifference: stale stench of wet tobacco and piss fumigate the butterflies away from the roaches and rats and madmen.
I feel sorry and angry and superior when I bump into foreigners that call me foreigner and giggle hee-haw-hee-haw.
My eyes start itching and out come moths. A spell of magical realism no doubt. Everything's too sudden. Everything unbelievable. Sirens bellow toward the Eastside down Sunset, a common playground for Eros, Dionysus and Ares. The West belongs to Thanatos, and that is where I'm headed. But suddenly I find myself on the hilltop on Grand Ave. Walt Disney Concert Music Hall. A stranger greets me, and it seems she's been waiting for me.
Her silhouette figure blends into and out of the shadows; she dances but there is no music. My eyes start to tear up. I feel weak and tired and stupid and like a terrible human being. I fall on my knees and she hurries over and lifts my chin and my eyes are now looking at stars.
"I'm sorry! I'm sorry!" I utter through tears that I am still holding back. Choked cries. Angered. Hot. Steaming. Weak. Exhausted.
She continues dancing. Not a care in the world. I run after her.
Walt Disney Concert Music Hall madness. Fuck this. I've no reason to feel like I do; try walking through the dessert for 3 days without food, evading trucks with armed men and shinny badges. Try living amid a war zone with constant threat of a raid. Try drinking your latte without creamer. Try witnessing your parents beheaded by Khmer Rouge. Try having your brother prosecuted for Communism. Try being addicted to crack. Try walking down Skid Row on payday. Try hearing your mother's head crack against bedroom window. Try seeing your cousin sleep on the sidewalk bus stop (did you help?). Try having your father only communicate when drunk. Try not thinking about your self. Try not writing about others. Try writing about yourself. Try looking in the mirror. Weak pathetic fool. Try it!
I realize that I'm walking in circles. vice-(ver)sameness. I am reminded (by my very self! oh the "cleverness" of me) that I am just a damn fool. And I'm back in my room. Hot. Steaming. Tired. Exhausted.
From the hilltop of City Terrace, everything in this little room suddenly turns into a detached peacefulness too quiet for comfort. My throat dries up, trapped inside a tiny, stuffy room. Saliva soaks in immediately into my parched salty tongue. Ancient blood courses underneath my sweltering skin. Sticky skin and cracked lips beg for moisture.
I'm surrounded by words. Books. Papers. Articles. A clear reflection of my inability to grasp words. A clear illustration that I am trying to understand words. Clear evidence that I am drowning in a sea of words. Psychosis intensifies when the first thing I find rummaging through the mounds of articles is an underlined text I once read on the effects of language and physical deprivation...Something about Frederick II, Holy Roman Emperor, killing babies by depriving them of language and touch.
A knock on my door and a voice behind asks me to go "check this out."
"The ambulance came for the neighbor. Something crazy must've happened"
"His daughter is hysterical...she's trembling all over the place"
"look! look!"
It was all too real. Red and white lights bounced off my wall, moving around and around atop the ambulance van. Inaudible words could be heard through static of radio walkie-talkies, and I drifted off to sleep, drifting into a temporary rest, and "pushing out," or "suppressing," or whatever you wanna call it, le tourbillion.
