The method of no method No attainment and nothing to attain
Original awareness
No attainment is possible No purpose Other than to be
Awake
“Having oscillated all his life between the torments of a superficial loitering and the horrors of disinterested endeavour, he finds himself at last in a situation where to do nothing exclusively would be an act of the highest value, and significance.”
“Dada is like your hopes: nothing like your paradise: nothing like your idols: nothing like your heroes: nothing like your artists: nothing like your religions: nothing”
harangued & cast out & homeless foced to survive on wild plants i am want & wretchedness saw palmetto shredded my clothes & shoes violence spiraled my face enough to cause dread discomfort dis-ease i am i
“Whoredom and wine and new wine take away the heart … therefore your daughters shall commit whoredom, and your spouses shall commit adultery.”
The cerulean welkin rang in the plenary session of geraniums (about to feast on saltimboca) to session as the ether-tinged clouds parted. Dutch masters buggered their tulip clippings before the opening of the futures market, overseen by officers taking hedges on restart dates.
I’m a Supreme Court registered attorney, and I don’t understand any of this. The floors are being swept by gardeners on ice skates. Jelly hangs from the ceilings and splatters in irregular patterns on the floor. Marimba music pumps through the speakers imbedded in the walls at appropriate “social distancing” distances while someone plays Martin Denny tunes at 78 r.p.m. from a distant office… and all the court hearings have been cancelled.
“Use email if you want to file a writ of abstemious corpus, corpus delicti, or corpus callosum in flagrante delicto,” screeches an EBS message on my smartphone. “Don’t fret and don’t dance to ‘Mr. Bojangles’ (the Sammy Davis Jr. cover version) and take care to financially covet your neighbor’s wife’s bank statements. Please call your conduit jurisdictions and don’t kill your trustees. This has been an emergency broadcast system test. Please disregard if you’re feeling queasy.”
“I’m the uncrowned king of the insomniacs Who still fights his ghosts with a sword, A student of ceilings and closed doors … “
keep away ghost of a thousand eyes go back to hell where you belong ive seen your lips move out of sequence with the haunted sounds you dredge up why are you dragging a boat about your neck the river what’s left of it tells me im too late
Sitting in the radiology waiting room—double masked— with a handful of others assiduously avoiding eye contact. Staring into their phone screens, another mumbling through her mask something from the grocery list … make sure you don’t forget … the pregnant lady is called in, not quite at her pop point but fairly well along, the nurse tells her sorry about the wait. What does that portend for me? I’m almost half an hour early. The other two sitting in the darkened corner where the TV used to blare Fox News, thankfully someone put a stop to that.
The screen merely shows a bouncing logo for the MC music channel tuned in—whatever it is. Looking around the room I can assure you no one is moved or soothed by this music, but it’s an aural anodyne to trance you further into your phone screen. Everybody, save the conversationalist who coughs—and prompts a tilt of four heads in her direction. She quickly produces a cough lozenge from her capacious, yet overfull, purse—her telegraphy for: I don’t have Covid, folks, relax, just a cough (no words are exchanged, we all understand).
And here I wait, 11 minutes shy of my appointed hour, and some cheesy cover of “Drift Away” comes on the TV—the MC logo sure to ping-pong on the screen for the 3 or so minutes the song acts as a soporific. De-tune, de-stress, diminish your anxiety folks sitting waiting for potentially bad news.
Something else breaks the monotonal blandness another “waitron” walks in, and she has something of a Jamaican lilt to her inflection, and a hearty laugh when asked if she feels like if she’s going to fall. And then, oh Jesus!, America’s “I Need You” shifts onto the MC channel—No! Put me out now! Pump me full of drugs and let me coast down the delivery ramp in a patient wheelchair and straight into the dumpster out back.
Then the receptionist stretches closer to the cutout in the glass partition and says: We are running half an hour late on ultrasounds. This elicits a groan from half of those assembled here which has grown to seven “waitrons.”
And so I wait like a good “waitron.”
“Write. Start writing today. Start writing right now. Don’t write it right, just write it –and then make it right later. Give yourself the mental freedom to enjoy the process, because the process of writing is a long one. Be wary of writing rules and advice. Do it your way.”
Don’t talk to me about bloody urine, son! There were days when I’d drink ground glass shakes and piss blood clots all day.
I’d pee bloody streams incarnate!
So go away with your complaints of I’ve got discolored urine, dad. I used to piss shards, lad.
Shards!
“How do we begin to make sense of our own complicity, however reluctant, in this nightmare? I know that I’m complicit; my hands drip crude. Hell is murky.”
thee istsfor manity reader 