Rest assured, when really bad things happen in my little world, I am utterly without words. Life, after all, is very, very snug here, in my suburban cocoon. For Christ's sake, to think I was loosing sleep over an undelivered city vehicle sticker! I fake intelligence—or, perhaps, that much is clear.
Showing posts from September, 2006
There he is, the FireVaney—yet again replaying the unremitting stretch of silken, violinistic sawing nestled (roughly) 3 minutes into the fifth track of String Quartet No. 5 by Philip Glass, performed by the Kronos Quartet—flailing his arms as if some crazed orchestral conductor. Why does this mad "conducting" of the music better connect him to it? Is his pen recklessly inscribing nonsense into the air (when it should be draining itself upon the page below) not some upper-limbed manifestation of the Modern Dance mode—albeit seated?
First thing every morning after pissing: he steps on the scale, waits for it to register, curses it, he steps off the scale; he steps on the scale, waits for it to register, curses it, he steps off the scale; he steps on the scale, waits for it to register, curses it, he steps off the scale; then he gets on with the rest of his day, stuffing his face throughout most of it.
I was working the espresso machine on the corner of Broadway and Aldine in Chicago. Upon hearing the news my first question was: "Are they still standing?" That seemed, at that moment, most important. The customer, his face slack and pallid and haunted by the TV images, said yes, they were. "Good," I said, "so long as they're still standing."
What is the difference between a daredevil and a fool? A fool, you'd agree, doesn't know what he's getting into. And, yes, most fools are men (after all, ladies and gents, it takes one to know one). A fool walks into a situation both blind and clueless. A daredevil, while still at least something of a fool, likely knows the danger of Heading In. Also, the daredevil has an aim—no matter how reckless; no matter how insane. As sniffling and mundane and specious as he may appear to you, the FireVaney secretly seeks to date a daredevil—so that he may proceed to write about her, of course; thus dispensing with the need to conjure such an intrepid vixen up out of thin air. (Although, in the end, he'll probably marry a librarian.) Which the "Croc Hunter" was, daredevil or fool, the FireVaney does not care enough to investigate and conclude. He scribbled down the factoid into his notepad upon hearing the news this morning. Three hours later, roughly, the urge to draw
As convoluted as it may strike you, from one perspective, there is strength in shutting everyone and everything you fear out of your life; but, admittedly, from another perspective, opening up to those same feared people and things, is, perhaps, the most empowering choice you could make. You see, if it / if she / if he has a debilitating effect, why bother any further? Then again, if you admit to your faults, and endeavor to move past them, well, then, how can you not find respect for yourself? Either way, it's risky. That is, depending upon the damage you've done. But when is it not risky to scrape all that caked-on shit free of the proverbially hit fan—and while its blades are still slicing the stifling air at full force? One can only try, although Master Yoda and (incidentally or perhaps not incidentally) Charles Bukowski both insisted that one can only "do." According to one source, "Don't try" is chiseled into Mr. Bukowski's tombstone. And, r