thee istsfor manity reader

Disengage From Timbre

It’s been six days since I fell through the crack.  I’m spiraling down depression way again.  The crack has been widening and if I don’t do something about it — San Andreas be thy name — you unholy fucking fissure! 

This is a familiar landscape, I’m never too far from my stepping through it, into it, farther and farther down — canyon-like — now in a skirl of whorling minimalist notes, repeated and repeated until I am tranced-out and lost.  

Having lost six days now I ask myself: what’s next?  Which way do I move?  What direction?  How do I get out of this, and here I am writing again.  Is it fair enough to start like this again?  The only option really.  How did I get here again?  How do I avoid ending up here again? 

I don’t think I can adequately answer the latter, but the first question must be asked always because it presupposes awareness of the situation.  And here is where I usually make the pivot, because a pivot is required.  The only other option isn’t really an option.  Is it? 

No.  

So here I’ll start again, and content myself with starting again.  This is an acceptable… No, it’s a GOOD step forward.  It had to begin somewhere.  Why not right here?

Here:

I exist in meaningless patter, in the trifling titter of expense and abuse.  I persist in this dominant issue of breaking a standard that I once pretended to.  I perform unlimited horrors on my own discernment and troubled world view.  I will disengage from timbre and search for a tone so acute it pilfers life itself. 

This signifies nothing within nothing.  

But Thoreau said:  “Write while the heat is in you.  The writer who postpones the recording of his thoughts uses an iron which has cooled to burn a hole with.” 

And that’s why I persist with this thumb tapping.  To use what little heat warms these fingers attached to a tepid body sitting on a cold toilet.

“When I’m writing, darkness is always there. I go where the pain is.”
— Anne Rice

Central Smoke Bone

She had grown red and corpse-like below the Danish authority standard issue yellowish canopy beyond the dune and deadwood. Nearby, the crusted and congealed, many rats in  hazel frozen a on twig.

Bleating, and she a sheep, that sand crackled and raised in the wool course of the afternoon.  The wife to pooling streaks of curly substances — with areas glued to highlighted clauses and codicils.

A lining of corn is what I picked out — usually in far arcs instead of center nodules. I noticed dried mud and qualities of contractual clouds of condensed water on all sides of the pace window.

I sawed the far central branches —  and what of the ears? 

Those…

In an increasing density at the left of the central smoke bone, she said: “what an attractive calumny as the stumble chooses. What does he choose?”

I chose. Her. Intently.

I dove tumble blind.  The rocks (later chosen) over the chin into what we consider sticking faux yellow moves in air. Did you? 

You, who watched living rings in our mouths of technology and compared those to wire geologic plates —  tectonic, venous, glowing yellow and white. 

You found that sort of catheter like feature —  a leaf growing dizzy  in the eddy of a creek.

“I believe that in art, the things you wouldn’t want in real life can be entertained or understood, or even seen and examined.”
— Mary Gaitskill



Doused Chiaoscuro

See more ideas about black and white:
the dramatic effect of contrasting areas
taken on February 24,
when the deus ex machina fell through the trapdoor
into the charnel house.

See deus roll among the flaky
fillets doused in slightly sweet vinegar and finished with a peppery
Caravaggio touch / a tenebrism used only to obtain
a dramatic impact while chiaroscuro psychologically moves
and deus
in Renaissance style, and later in a Godard film says:

“I think of buying hand cream to douse the smell of blood.”

Oh! O! o! the Principal is waiting for you in his office, there is NO emotion.

Wet Season is a cold, harsh dousing of the realities of city-living
then deus is doused in garlic butter / She
panhandled and chided him all through the reduction.

Viewers are once again ejoined to cover their eyes…
Turn out the lights, douse the lights,
dim the lights, turn off the lights,
switch off the lights —

deus!
dreary dubious dulcet dungeon —
escaped mental patient doused with sulphuric acid…

Topped with sea salt, pepper and fresh thyme,
the black stone paths, the jug and the red grapes,
made by the use of force
deus
relents off-stage…

Centrifugal.

Then the scent of rain-doused pines.

Petrichor.

“Do you believe in God?” I said. “God’s in prison,” he said. “What’d he do?” I said. “Everything,” he said.

— James Tate / “Desperate Talk”

flarfish 623: bilious viridity

My dysfunction is an (especially) excessive Viridity to the oak — whether thee extended
use of the term “jaundiced” — or not — 
I aspired to the bilious Lord who achieved such glory on our collective backs.

Or was it to the mingling terms she enchanted us with? Mean-spirited, suspicion, and anger…

If you are a choleric inhabitant of New Orleans (as I was during 1982-1984) and you tender your professional services to the citizens of Marietta, now tending toward the stereofluoroscopic highroad, and then casting a Coptic teamster 
of invincible strength
and author of manumission tracts — 
who brings forth this Tincture whereby he 
attained a oneness — unfussy and mannishly liberalistic and glamorized…

What is to become of us?

I inoculated her cautious objectivism with the title: A Mother’s Grateful Tribute Analysis of Urine — read backwards and then abroad 
in the free soil of Nature — it imparted a Poststructuralist meaning within meaninglessness,
and filigreed a display of new strength.

And yet nothing remains…

“I think young writers ought to be heretical.”

— Derek Walcott

Fall

Fall.  Fall, I say.  She doesn’t.  She stays perched on her branch.  Fall, I say.  She does not.  This ritual —  the repetition is liturgical.  A call and response in absentia.  There is no rejoinder.  There is no: and also with you.  There is only silence and the absence in her eyes.  Fall, I say again.  She looks down where I stand.  She looks away into the distance.  I look.  I see what she sees.  Nothing there.  Fall, I say.  She’s like an unhinged censer rolling away down a transept.  Fall, I say.  And she jumps.  I turn.  I step away.

“You have to be willing to look stupid, to stumble down unproductive paths, and to endure bad afternoons when all your ideas are flat and sterile and derivative. If you don’t take yourself too seriously, you’ll bounce back from these lulls and be ready for the music’s next visit.”

— George Meyer

flarfish 20: ecdysis anthropocene splash

Sixth Extinction! Anthropocene!

Cry baby!

“¡Llorona!” for example, can splash water from her toilet

Amphibians, Crocs, Fauna, Wildlife Crocodile, Alligator Crocodile

“¡Buenos dias!” A Baby Elephant this morning at Sabi Sabi was the last born

it was smelling the air but it almost looked like the pachyderm supreme…

Explore F. Alvarez’s AK board in the catalog

global of ideas. | See more about Thoughts Baby monkey!

PLEASE LIKE BEFORE YOU sever your foot

And more about Deer, Mornings and Forests

It’s not the end

It is the end

“It’s not the end of the world at all,” he said. “It’s only the end for us. The world will go on just the same, only we shan’t be in it. I dare say it will get along all right without us.”

— Nevil Shute / On The Beach

Wanderlust

I spent most of the last two days in an altered state of consciousness. Somewhat deluded, exhausted, and floating in and out of the lands of Fratish Sapish. Stop. Don’t open your Google Maps app and search it out, there is no Fratish Sapish — not on a map, anyway.

This altered state was the result of driving 45 hours straight through from Yellowstone National Park to Coral Gables, Florida, where my family used to live. I mean they still lived there, technically, but now they were all dead — all four of them — so I suppose they didn’t really live there anymore. But their bodies, their stuff, and my childhood stuff, was still there; so you see it’s a sort of gray area.

I suffered from a literate sort of wanderlust, but now life seemed world-weary and over. I was exhausted, overtaxed, and constantly slipping in and out of Fratish Sapish.

(Note: I originally called it Frapish Satish but then I Googled the name and found it was the name of a journalist. So I changed a couple of consonants… that’s how I roll)

But now I had so much to do — baleful acts of bailing out of my past. But first, and without delay, I had to get some sleep by way of Fratish Sapish. There would be plenty of time to change my name tomorrow.

“Fiction is the lie through which we tell the truth.”

— Albert Camus / Notebooks 1935-1942

flarfish 5: dada flarf-a-rama

Flarf poetry was an… scant garde poetry movement of the 21st century.

corrosive, cute, or cloying, awfulness. Wrong.

the style of which he promptly dubbed “Flarf,” with… something ineffable

in Dada 3 (1918) , except that here the landscapes keep dissolving until the edges soften in 1932

in poetry – Infogalactic: the planetary knowledge core is missing

The historical context to explore scientific inquiry and the

marama rama dada agdada Anus vetula dediikod Alavia bie stutter

“flarf” e.g.) And on the… home-a-rama makeshift other

futurists, dadaists, surrealists, Russian constructivists

Beat culture, Pop and the “Pictures.

Generation” drunk or sober

“An artist is a creature driven by demons. He don’t know why they choose him and he’s usually too busy to wonder why. He is completely amoral in that he will rob, borrow, beg, or steal from anybody and everybody to get the work done.”

— William Faulkner

A Hawk Checks His Waterproofs

A London man creates a call in exchange for the oft-deplored offer — characters dominated by the increasingly unhinged hawks on the banks of the Thames. Gophers ruin the soil before a Parliamentary veto on who was appointed. This act is unusual, it’s an aberration of heart.

He looked like he was only in his early thirties, a former operator of the alleged slightly larger than a half-inch square image, a painter of miniatures. Missing a course on etymology — scumbling with an unusual triangular instrument, and reconstructing his left ventricle.

A mining concern might be dangerous or impossible if you open your door to the most interesting uncertainties. Don’t you think it’s easy to worry about the future? The effects of the river on the brood of chicks on a biweekly basis. The occupation, place of origin, clan affiliation, patronage, parentage, adoption, and even physical characteristics in doubt. A gosling is a gross thing, and a hawk is checking its waterproofs.

The five-week period of the Lluvia, which means “rain,” began as it was reported. The reason behind this was people in groups – and the ornithologists missing after the semester concluded.

Gravity was inescapable. Nothing made sense.

“You must stay drunk on writing so reality cannot destroy you.”

— Ray Bradbury

My Day in Fratish Sapish

It was something like “together,” with the possibility of “maybe” — then it’s take a job, with the “most excellent” Thomas in Minnesota, near Bemidji, which was one of the really nice places. Then, cut to Oklahoma: a flare in English — include an afflatus (“a divine imparting of knowledge or power”). So far, going to see how many I can make, until I get bored.

These things do get boring — maybe we’ll make a fake Z. Oooo far, and wide, going to see the mahatma. I can make it, until I get bored. We’ll make a circuit of the leagues of Fratish Sapish. They just did the work that was in front of me for six and a half years. A float! Grotty and stuffed with brambles and gorse.

Somehow, people’s perceptions of essential jobs during a pandemic lead to headlines and cut-ups — and to her introduction, explaining why she likes to use collage and juxtaposition once — from which the reader can pick and choose a noose. Nothing bores me more than a moose, a flat patty, and one-long often bemused rutted hunter.

Who characterized his Presidential vote as principled… heh!

“Life is not always explained…”

— Annie DeWitt