Think of all the frightful and devilish things that we have inflicted upon each other. That should happen in your heart. Suffer it through your own hand, and know that it is your own heinous and devilish hand that inflicts the suffering on you, but not the other, who wrestles alone with their own devils.
I would like you to see what the murdered hero means.” —Jung
Dudes. Fine as hell. Ripped prowess.
I will google nudes
His palms are sweaty, knees weak
there’s vomit on spaghetti already
He’s nervous, but on the surface he looks calm spaghetti
to drop bombs
but he keeps on spaghetti
It is late at night, cold and damp
The air is filled with tobacco smoke.
My brain is worried and tired.
I pick up the encyclopedia,
The volume GIC to HAR,
It seems I have read everything in it,
So many other nights like this.
I sit staring empty-headed at the article Grosbeak,
Listening to the long rattle and pound
Of freight cars and switch engines in the distance.
Suddenly I remember
Coming home from swimming
In Ten Mile Creek,
Over the long moraine in the early summer evening,
My hair wet, smelling of waterweeds and mud.
I remember a sycamore in front of a ruined farmhouse,
And instantly and clearly the revelation
Of a song of incredible purity and joy,
My first rose-breasted grosbeak,
Facing the low sun, his body
Suffused with light.
I was motionless and cold in the hot evening
Until he flew away, and I went on knowing
In my twelfth year one of the great things
Of my life had happened.
Thirty factories empty their refuse in the creek.
On the parched lawns are starlings, alien and aggressive.
And I am on the other side of the continent
Ten years in an unfriendly city.
GIC to HAR, Kenneth Rexroth
- Now leaving - terminal station, mainland.
- Lower mainland.
- Belower mainland.
- Bear-worm tunnels, beneath belower mainland.
- KRAFT imperial cracker cheese warehouse A0x6-1, built one thousand years ago on nine crystal girders straddling the deepest depths of the great hollow, the dead inner-earth known as the void of below beneath belower mainland.
- Cantankerous blue-glass skeleton who sleeps lightly at the gates of lowest mainland.
- Now arriving - terminal station, lowest mainland: court of the old mantle-elf, chronarium of patterned dust throughout the ages, home of the whopper.
A Young girl commits suicide. Because of What? DADA
The spirits are telephoned. Who invented it? DADA
Someone walks on your feet. It’s DADA
If you have serious ideas about life,
If you make artistic discoveries
And if all of a sudden your head begins to crackle with laughter,
If you find all your ideas useless and ridiculous, know that
It is DADA beginning to speak to you.” —Dadaist Manifesto (1921)
There hasn’t been a rogue heartbeat in this body for years now but Spikes doesn’t seem to care about that. I’m still on his faculty, the professor of self-combat. He sends me one student at a time. A bright-faced kid appears on my doorstep with Spikes by his side.
“Diogenes 2,” he addresses me, “this is Lil’ Iron Dojo,” or “this is Brentwood’s Revenge,” or “this is Hidden Midden, the new new kid.” The kid looks all disappointed. “Here he is,” says Spikes,”this guy is the drunkest, most spiritual dude in the whole scene.” Spikes starts drawing connections between me and him, folk from the past and the folk to come. When Spikes gets done he tells the kid they get to ask me one question.
“How old are you?”
“How do I get un-sad?”
“What’s the biggest lesson you learnt?”
“Why do you look like shit?”
“Can I make my own dreams?”
“Can I get your cellnumber?”
No matter what they ask the answer I give is always the same. The dribble falls from my chin down my linen robes and my hand sets out through the space between us, me and the kid, fingers twitching in precognition of the contours of their young little face. They hear through the rasp of my whisper only one word repeating: yesyesyesyes…
Jean-Jacques Rousseau, The Social Contract
My being concentrates seeking to perforate the Unknown. Tension. Silence creates isolated sounds and sculpts them.
Bendetta - Human Forces: Striving Toward Differentiation