1. His mother and father died when he was 15, and his first super-8 film was of chalk drawings in darkened spaces: where he imagines the poses and places where his people died.
2. On forms and applications he checks the box “Other Disability:”
He writes in the explanation box:
“I’m moderately misanthropic. I hate crowds, and the excessive inane conversation of mindless individuals. It’s an attitude-disorder.”
3. He tells the barista : “l’m a multidisciplinary artist, working at the intersection of physical texture, shadow, and sound.
My works explore what could have been, by tracing the physical gestures and material qualities of everyday things.”
4. He tells the patrolman he’s driving his inner child home after the stabbing.
He talks to other policeman all night long, without stop.
5. When they ask him why he did it he says:
“ I’ve got the KetoFuelDoctor1 tracking me down. He fills my junk mailbox daily! What are you trying to say, Doc? Do I look fat in these pants?
Well I am fat, doc! But I don’t want what you’re peddling.
What the hell is he peddling?
I’m not clicking on the links in his emails!
But I read the subject lines…”
What I’m Reading:
Whenever he thought he had finally mapped out his boundaries there was always the wilderness. The farther. The dregs of him. Black parts of which he was ashamed. There’s no returning from some places. Maybe that was the grand realization. You are the monstrous, the abominable. You are the beast beyond love.
I often stare into the sun. It’s the only way I know to calm down. My father required it of me when I was a young boy—he broke me early and often. He was the superintendent of our crumbling building in Boca de Camarioca after the revolution. Our homely squalor had a taste and a color: bile-yellow.
When I was a pre-teen my mother also demanded that I stare for hours at the sun. One early morning she plunged all of my father’s screwdrivers—a dozen from his tool box—into his chest; and when I say early morning I mean when it was still dark out. The talon ends of three claw hammers were embedded into his head.
None of this was traumatizing at the time. But over the past few years I find myself living inside that visionary loop multiple times daily. And here, when I say daily, I mean when it’s light out. In the dark I have other devices and literary tropes to rely on.
All these years later I live in exile, in Hialeah, and as you might imagine I am half-blind. I still look into the sun out of habit, but the sun at this hyper-capitalist meridian is out of tune—a legato A minor flat 6 chord that fills me with revulsion. I want to go back to my island where the sun is in the proper key.
But for now I wait in this dollar-rama thrift shop of a philosophically bankrupt and pestilent country. At least I still have my guaguancó and my son montuno. I carry those in my heart everywhere I go.
I do like the sound of the word kookaburra but I hate the fact that’s it’s a silly looking bird. It should be a sabre-toothed marsupial with a name like that. I hate it when life does that!
Life does that all the time.
And I hate inhabiting my skin. It gets to me, especially these days—it happens more and more that I find myself with some sharp implement in hand ideating about all sorts of bitter and painful ends for myself, but I can’t get anything to happen. My hands won’t conform to the images unspooling in the projection room in my head.
But, man, do I remember mother and those stare-downs with the sun. For the record, I never blinked first. I was always called away to do my chores.
Sometimes I envy how the Mongols had Caffa (I think they call it Feodosia now) and their trebuchet delights; how the Spaniards had their mastiffs for Taino ambush oneupmanship; and how deftly American colonials deployed their pox blankets.
Why can’t I get what I want?
Please, please, please let me get what I want… but I’m even off of that song, as the man who sang it is a white supremacist of some sort now.
The rails—bottom and top—don’t stay in place anymore… everything that rises must converge… or so mother told me. But I found, as all frauds are eventually found out—it was really something she gleaned from a Flannery O’Connor narrative… and then she said that Hemingway rewrote the last page of The Sun Also Rises 39 times.
Apocrypha?
Sometimes I feel like a detached bathysphere. All I have is this metaphoric gibbet and the wheel: I’m here alone. Pitched up here—30 feet in the air, spinning a half turn with every stiff breeze…
What I’m Reading:
He knew that was nonsense the moment he had said it. Human beings were deluding themselves when they claimed that hatred was something they had to be taught. Hatred of rivals, of intruders on private property, of the more powerful male or the more fertile female, was implicit in the psychological structure of mankind.
You have to learn who you are before it’s too late. The big mistakes people keep making in life—the pattern is so obvious to everyone except the people themselves.
Is there a bicycle culture war happening on the streets right now? It sure does seem like it, as conversations turn from differences in policy to inflammatory and, yes, hate-fuelled rhetoric. Do bicyclists represent more than just a person wanted to pedal a two-wheeled thing of beauty to work? And, since when do people who choose cars represent everything wrong with the world?
It’s hard to ride a bicycle to work on a regular basis, and not turn into a bike advocate. People want to be safe, and riding a bicycle for transportation currently comes with significant risks.
— Ron Johnson / “Why is Riding a Bicycle in the City Turning Into a Culture War” / Momentum
… The idea of nation is a record full of __. Anzaldua wrote, the U.S.-Mexican border es una herida abierta. Scrawled in black marker on a wall in Bulgaria, EVERY BORDER IS A WOUND.
— Patrycja Humienik / “Borderwound”
Someone asked me this week what my artistic process is. “I don’t really have a process,” I said, thinking. “I just make what I feel like I have to make.” It’s less like a well-honed practice and more like a compulsion, an itch I have to pay attention to. These days, it’s easy for me to spin out and feel powerless. I try to not get into a mental swamp where fear and anger make it impossible for me to create what I want to in the world. I try to see it as a victory against all the oppressive forces in our country when I live my life freely and create art that’s not making any billionaires any money.
— S. Mirk / “No Star Knows the Shape of Its Constellation”
… there is still so much violence. And hunger.
— David Williams / When the English Fall
“Let’s be brave and take cycling out of the culture wars,” wrote Trudy Harrison, a Conservative MP in the United Kingdom, in a recent opinion piece. “I encourage every candidate standing at the next election to include walking or cycling on their leaflets; it might just attract people who don’t currently feel spoken to. People want to cycle more. We just need to help them do it.”
— Ron Johnson / “Why is Riding a Bicycle in the City Turning Into a Culture War” / Momentum
Sit here by me. It all worked out for the best, because look, here you are and we’re happy and safe now!
That didn’t last, though. The happiness.
The safeness. The now.
— Margaret Atwood / The Heart Goes Last
Philip Crosby once said “slowness to change usually means fear of the new.” And that could very much be the case when it comes to urban cycling. But by understanding these complex dynamics, we can better appreciate why riding a bicycle is becoming more than just a mode of transportation—it is turning into a symbolic battleground in some strange culture war. It doesn’t have to be this way.
— Ron Johnson / “Why is Riding a Bicycle in the City Turning Into a Culture War” / Momentum
detail: Laurie Anderson, The Weather, Mass MOCA
What I’m Listening To:
Every night Oh, man What you pray? Look out the window It’s Hell out there
It was an aversion that grew out of a childhood compulsion to read every interpretive sign she came across on family vacations and school field trips.
She began back in the analog age on a single lens reflex camera, in high school she switched to a digital camera. She rarely dipped her hands into photochemicals again—goodbye, D-76 and HC-110—hello memory cards. Within a decade everything she shot she shot on her phone. All through the years the same obsession persisted she must shoot every interpretive sign with its ancillary scene, if possible, she encountered. And she often went far out of her way to encounter them.
She still hadn’t figured out how to create a vacation or trip where she was assured of encountering these illustrated signs, but a historical or memorial plaque in situ would do in a pinch. Clearly, her ideal was to shoot the scene illustrated on the sign before the self-same scene in nature from the same angle illustrated on the sign.
It was not always possible, but she always strived for perfection—often waiting hours until the flow of tourists at scenic or historic spots dwindled away, or more often arriving at spots before tourists arrived. Although the lighting often added its own set of challenges. She was in the process of transcending—a true existential argonaut.
What I’m Reading:
… we’re a disgusting species with horrible manners and not fit to survive…
This takes place everywhere and nowhere at once. At the center of a spin art piece before the paint reticulates out; in manifold dusty, dark spaces; in destitute backyards choked with crabgrass; and Gusman Hall in Miami, Florida.
A father. A son. Supporting players.
Illicit substances, vitriol, a gun, mind control techniques, married people that shouldn’t have been… married, that is.
And here, someplace, we join…
Son:
Don’t twang that pang of that Journey to Ixtlan at me. I believe the interregnum is better than the internecine, and neither are as good as interstices. What do you sing? What do you sing?
Father:
I sing of the sun going out. White dwarf? White dwarf? Pray tell, dying star, where was your fiery giant? This will all disappear someday after we’ve disappeared in an anthropocentric extinction — the sixth great extinction!
(He points savagely at the heavens.)
There will be nothing you can do… do be do be doo… do about that?
Son:
I think you mean to bring me down at the nascent end of the good new year! It’s 1979! Get with it.
Father:
Nope! Look around, look around, you’re already well into the first act of the end. Act two is a bitch! No one has ever seen anything like it.
(He adjusts his Pope’s mitre — a hat that never became him, always slipping off his shaved head. He flings the hat over the backyard fence. He recoups.)
Act three is acid, bitter, and terminal. The dènouement. So out! Out. Out in your bitter boy britches and fasten your seat belt, son. It gets harrowing from here. A goon’s new year to you, boy!
Son:
I fear my grip on reality is tenuous, at best. I grant you that. After all, you pulled a gun on me when I was eleven. You often pulled the same gun on my mother during those hazy rages in our smoke-filled living room.
(A paisley brocade sofa, a large stereo console, and field and stream oils materialize on the busted walls.)
The ash trays were always overfull — the butts were a dark prophecy of lost days to come. The record player always hiccuping from the stylus on the never ending last groove. Pop! Pop! Pop! Johnny Mathis did not soothe your savagery.
Father:
It’s best not to bog down in theories or paralyzing rationalizations. It was what it was. Just something. Your experience may vary, my mileage was fine. I’m here aren’t I? Buck up!
Son:
I never thought such displeasures were possible. Yours, hers, mine. We drowned.
Father:
Oh, yes we did! The best plan was none. Chaos undergirding all designs — it yielded the most mileage per trauma cluster. That hothouse in your skull is full of dendritic knots.
(He swings his arm out like a madcap magician and produces a silk scarf out of his sleeve.)
There will be cold and snowy days; there will be warm and sunny days. I’m here to make sure many of them will be a hell!
Hell— Hello. Helloooo!
(His voice echoes and bounces back from the corners of the warping room.)
Try me, sonny. Go ahead. Try and find me somewhere in the spring of 1981. I disappeared from your life for a reason. Try to shape my thinking. It hasn’t happened since Silva Mind Control — my method is thee only Method! I use it to pick up all the I women want, from 15 to 53!
Son:
Wait! You claim to use the power of mustard seed grain faith to move a mountain, and instead you use it to pick up women? Really?
You claim to control and harness your mind power to dissipate clouds and divert hurricanes. You claim to shoot lasers out of your third eye, and you’ve the power to lay hands-on to cure cancer, and instead of doing something truly useful you’re using it to pick up women?
Father:
It’s useful to me.
***
Two weeks later my father came to my high school graduation with his new wife — an 18-year old woman barely six months older than I was — and introduced her (left to right, in order of largest mouth-agape) to my mother and my gangster stepfather of three months; to my 60-year old grandmother-inquisitor and her mute husband of 6 months; and to my drug dealer uncle and his pregnant 16-year old mistress.
In that fitful din of graduates and families finding their seats, during the opening strains of Pomp and Circumstance, I took out my pocket comb and made the first gouge. The first of a thousand of gouges to come.
I resolved to never marry.
After the graduation ceremony, bleeding from the chest and thighs beneath my graduation robe, I drove to Tijuana and joined the Camacho Brothers’ Freak Show.
And so I stand here, as you see me now.
What I’m Reading:
If there is something gnawing at you, that means you’re delicious. That gnawing is the universe trying to get at the tasty juice inside of you. Your entire unsatisfying life is just the rind…
what is this place now? a narrowing inward turn— the shock of the real—
falling short of our ideals— original sin baked in
(now flourishes unchecked / unimpeded)
What I’m Reading:
A common stereotype about people on bikes is that they’re anti-car or just don’t drive. This myth is particularly harmful in that it leads to a high level of antagonism and subsequent danger on the roads because the two sides are pitted against each other when cyclists are perceived as an “other.” In reality, 88% of American bike riders also drive a car. When drivers complain about cyclists getting in their way or not following the rules of the road, it would be helpful to note that cyclists are, in fact, also drivers.
— Hilary Angus / “The 10 most common myths about cyclists” / Momentum
my heart distills my blood heliotrope looking for a sun
a plantation of hateful verdigris factors out to flow
out big star not too far severance runs rampant over
my tripartite welcome parse the light hiding from guards
foiling the crowds out in the rain
i care less each passing year
What I’m Reading:
Just as he was placing his camera in position, the sand at his feet began to move with a rustle. He drew his foot back, shuddering, but the flow of the sand did not stop for some time.
thee istsfor manity reader 