in the democracy of poets - what better way to save
myself from despair than to mingle
a reading of walt whitman with...
a snippet of a biography turned into an essay
on the "topic" of Karl Tierney...
a perfect friday night, it would seem,
i've left all my crossword / sudoku puzzle muddles
in the back of the man:
as i write this, i am pretty sure they have
added to the one great aspiration i've always
held dear... to un-dream dreams...
i listen to these anglo-saxon ghosts come from
the ether of thought with stories about
labyrinths and octopus-head gods on
nightmares... how they write about such
elaborate dreams...
i'm almost always in awe...
until... i read some Nietzsche in my native tongue...
"lucky" for me... i can only read philosophy
in Polack-spreschen...
minor biographical fact - how soon? too soon...
i implode into myself like some "unique"
specimen of what's otherwise learned from
a high school motto...
set in England, but a mile shy from Beijing:
'you're different! just like everyone else!'
"they" never really have that same, blistering,
attitude, when it comes to the person who makes
it to that: the grass is greener on the otherside,
scenario of later activities in life of worth note...
but Nietzsche read something somewhere
and called it... a hindu term...
about the inability to dream...
he transcribed it, of course...
but i'm not willing to check for a verbatim,
so a circa will have to do:
to no dream is to arrive at a unison with god...
or the omni-litany of "special powers"...
it's a most painful event, given its recurrence...
a day is "lived", or: a crux / pivot of "life" is met within
the confines of: i exist... and then...
minor facts and other paraphenelia of life
come to a rubric sensibility of: day "lived"...
the inability to dream is hardly a welcome "sensation",
in that it is, a sensation... an incremental frothing
at the mouth of a... mad dog that forgot
to bark and instead started to imagine a phantom
jaw: extending into the air, having to persist
in biting and chewing... lawnmower-esque parallels...
close to "god"... my... what a grand expectation, met...
oh how insensible of me to mention, this,
"thing"... in this, sensible, 21st century...
like there was never some, imaginary fwend to be better
akin to... no... just lunatics in robes
and the mere thought of: said "thing" is somehow
and forever has to be... an... "insensibility"...
because if it wasn't french existentialist sensibility
in the 20th century... then it has to be scandinavian
existentialist sensibilities for the 21st century...
it is still a Friday - and i was supposed to go and watch
tourism in action...
i.e. i figured... i could have taken a chance on Prague...
but London, just as well...
everything that's familiar can stay in the background...
i'll just become the "tourist" of tourists...
i'll look at them looking at Big Ben and try to...
figure something out...
Nietzsche also mentioned something about forgetfulness...
i always championed memory for its aspect
of creating a cameo out of me: in a cinema of
piquant delights... 5 or 6 memories of distinct
potency would sometimes whril in my head...
and always nothing worth a spectacle to encapsulate
and audience too...
for the past six weeks i cooked for my grandparents
and... i can remember about 6 dinners of my repertoire...
so much effort goes into memory,
i hardly think we have the... luxury...
to remember what we'd like...
i'm concerned with this fact...
and that fact is that: i have in my memory bank
only 5 to 6 memories i want to remember...
minor vitories in life...
the rest? i guess the brain just automates and churns
to a nothing... an amnesia canvas that
only works in favor of the everyday mundane
sensibility of calling Monday a Monday...
a week a week, a month a month,
a year a year... to imagine a life without this sort
of coherent structure... willy-nilly...
tickling chaos... this need for reference points...
to have the microscopic orientation to tell the difference
between 190cm and 150cm... or an inch shy of a foot...
to be able to tell the difference between
an hour when sat in a plane to an hour spent
walking... or rather... the inability to do so...
primarily with the use of: FEEL...
- yes, because thinking is always relegated to
mind such things... like thinking is not structured
to mind the anal-spew of egoism / solipsism /
any other fart-whizz-ism...
once upon a time a friday night would equal
1 liter of whiskey and mindless itching at the finger-tips
to fill a blank canvas...
now? drinking a measured amount:
IIII /
IIII /
IIII (50ml each) and going to bed early in order
to spend the morning watching a rugby match with
my father...
for lack of a better word...
a ghost in my life...
when others had a father between the ages of
4 and 8... i had a telephone call,
the odd package from England sent to
the former soviet satellite periphery "state"
(yes, Poland is still a "state" these days)...
and an alcoholic grandfather would managed
to tango a broken arm of a grandmother pushed through
a door...
and i'm still here among these "ghosts" like
some prized Oedipal study of sorts,
of some, "lingering" ambition?
imagine my relief when it came to Knausgård's
grandmother... living with her son...
how she became animated by a drop of alcohol...
- and i'm pretty sure i've exhausted my precious time
with this canvas... i'm darting across and trying
to encompass a multi-narrative...
if some linguistic technicality doesn't slow me down...
i'll end up in the rubble of...
what could have been a pleasant evening...
if... if i were armed with a tuxedo...
and a date: a fixed social event...
this is hardly... a predilection...
i have in waiting about 30 minutes of:
something resembling bliss and something that could
be written like an antithesis of ecce homo -
well well... what an under-statement...
but can i be excused from doing what already
excuses painters like Kandinsky?
sure... words... letters... at least there's an order
in the words... i.e. w, o, r, d, s... they are spelled...
but outside of the realm of spelling?
can i have a Kandinsky moment?
yes, i was really hoping for a fucking Tolstoy / Turner...
a homage to the classical narrative...
a blurry sunset... Napoleon fingering the anus
of Crimea... but! alas! it was not to be!
all i have here is this... grotesque...
at best a form of juxtaposition...
at worst... what was necessarily required of me,
and of the time i had a chance to occupy
myself with.
- this is the zenith of my day...
i could hope for a zenith in sleep: via dreams...
but... i'll sooner walk an elephant on a string
and a grasshopper on a chain...
it's only the gaping void from here...
i'll allow myself an hour or so spent
colouring this grey murk blob of phlegm with
some whiskey.