can I break in front of you?

this is a placeholder post.

it is sunday morning for me so I have all day but it will only be the last day in November for a couple more hours in my time zone so this is the last post of November but I am not sure yet what it is going to consist of.

there may be a picture of the undercarriage of the California Zephyr on display in Missoula MT. there may be a picture of something else. chances are it won’t look much like what I say it is.

accompanying this theoretical image might be something about how walking across the street in the crosswalk sometimes makes me feel like I am untouchable but at other times it occurs to me that the painted lines on the pavement would be no match for a driver who just decided to run over me for whatever reason or it might be something about how it is that people often do not understand the experiences of others until you get them to push a little past their own personal knowledge regarding an assumption that they always thought was natural and normal or it might have something to do with the question of choice and freedom when it comes to the socially mediated signs in which we find our bodily experience embedded: the idea that “socially constructed” is equivalent to or even implies “chosen voluntarily by ourselves as free agents” has no ground in the arguments about social construction themselves but is the result of an assumption one brings to those arguments.

or it might be something entirely new whose subject or at least vocabulary I have not yet dreamed up.

in any case, it probably won’t be formulated until sometime after the end of the month occurs calendarwise, so here is its placeholder in time, sitting back in November even after this November is over for good.

types at flies

types at flies

types at flies

listing on the port side sliding
past bergs two thirds unknown I have heard
wait here at length you will be along
the rail head bent to trace a line
to the vanishing point five feet distant
silhouettes against a heaven red with hints
of release in silver flashing
its menace at arms innocent and prone
to attacks of doubt
drove an entire school from circling
the black figure under a full moon
drew our eyes skyward
shooting rockets flared
into particles of flame returning to earth
is never as straightforward as might be thought.

a practiced nightmare.
couriers at full gallop.
crouched tipping a tin cup into the remnant of rainwater
secured us against thirst.
drosophilia living in a glass jar.
gracefully angling across a minute expanse.
no longer veiled rage
pulled round your shoulders a wool moth-eaten blanket.
a bold maneuver stakes shivering
rheumatic joints arrived naked and scarred.
stereotyped behavior driven in a standard
set of feral gestures
at a rock cairn indicating our destination.

iron filings.
ionic or
a sea change sundered.

directories do not begin to comprehend
the destiny of your soul considered
five seals or seven.
falsified evidence.
diverse litanies written in brittle cadence.
trouble sulked crestfallen
soldiered benignly

refraining from content or pointing at weathermen

large red small

large red small

a car dealership closes on fourteenth street disgusted but clamoring for starry-eyed decorous lechery crisply ushered into red blaring sirened silence. cavernous swell you toss coins excoriated rumors due north northeast duly noted deep chested my heart’s rhythm jumpy since we scrambled ten of us fifty of them the once bustling square in cities tenderfaced and broken.

drifting on the ice mailboxes in peril but only kissed lightly so we turned and returned until june’s hail and lightning made the hair on my arms stand on end. franz marc foreordained. notice words leaned heavily filigreed scaffolding with coffee for unemployed engineers.

first trace. first center with wheat or feathered earth crumbling orbit decayed and toothsome. fastened recreated bulleted and justified right where light makes night and snakes through embankments of leather unencumbered.

ribald showers underscored with shadowy pieces of shattered knifeblades entrenched between concrete and coldpress fibered glass. you’ll not find wharves until flashing terraces floresce at the meeting of sun and moraine.

what I meant was culpability or basal metabolism. you there: heretic clad deftly left of pneumatic traumas or plated temples at least at last slated and labile. trance iron etched remnants still writing. pugilist. tarnished. drapes counting and tipsy. shred monotony. dash smartly east with impending fog.

one last ditch.

jim broadcast. opt to descend.

jim broadcast

a trojan horse

“why did you watch it if you
did not like it.”
“I thought you liked it.”

you recall a term
for violet place settings. I
picked at a dried piece of yesterday’s
supper with my thumbnail.
that one trilled note piercing
surprised me the thrush
flapping out of my throat.

dismissed from sunday school
the latchkey carpenter
at loss as to
what to repent
his trail petered out dripping pitch
whose hollow scent would stick with you
fingered your collar
turned up in style
manual transmissions
spread southeast into
spanish moss and swampland.

how do you know the mosquito is not a vector
you’re not dead yet that’s how

and when your mother granted you birth
and you drew the short straw
amicably limned tincture of cedar and fir
and that sentinel sat up nights
a sight for lines or tents
your ice canoe
headed out
to skate on the underside of
“his eminence in exile”
“seattle lsd ’96′”

minutes overtime

minutes overtime

minutes overtime

Chicago was far enough once. which
reminds me
it is not that association gets you nowhere.
or it is
but gaping impractically. or more than the sage
like the pulse of a glock
all the way to that shelf where instant gathers into shade.
the best of distance brought
not home exactly.
base 10 written
the shine on an electron
the talk strained at its circular run
manufactured extruded steel. they will dig here
cynical pick axes pulverizing veins liver and heart.
between torn tissue the veil rent also
holiest holes dank and bitter
give up the ghost steamed in modest portions.
varnish the truth seal it up
good. a paneled cell holding the perfect thief.
thrown in for good measure:
a pewter stein with a hunting motif–
receptacle for relief.
you always forget to
make it brief. rare earth
science names you
names keep you
the keep will hold you
until escape
excuses itself remanding the breach here.
a bus shudders where no one could see
the course is frayed so remain composed
faithfully estranged.
were it to stop. but no–
you’ll arrive fashionably late
dressed to the nines.

not your everyday post

So I guess one could say I am not doing so well at this blog-every-day effort. I was going great guns there at first, but honestly the political ranting is not something that I want to engage in on a full-time basis–or rather, 100% of my blog’s time; I do not do anything on a “full time” basis as traditionaly understood in the US–but I kind of got myself cornered into it because it is easy to react to just about any politically oriented piece I read on the internet, making said reactions sort of a natural blogging genre if one is looking to throw together easy-bake arguments in fifteen minutes a day.

But I was hoping to vary my routine a little more than that. And I wanted to make this neither a diary nor a daily rant. And now I am wondering whether blogging every single day is necessary, or even good, for me. There is a difference between, say, writing a little bit on your book/thesis/dissertation every day and finding a topic to go on about in public every day, making it something that you can give a “treatment” to in ten paragraphs or less. How crucial is it that I think of something coherent but compact to say about a single, varied topic every day?

I am not sure.

I would like to blog more often than, say, once a month. And I would like to be able to feel like when I have something to say about something, be it linear or nonlinear or even nonverbal, that I can find the wherewithal to go on and say it, do it, perform it–whatever is necessary to externalize it in a way that is satisfactory to me.

But every day?

By stroke of free-associative internet luck, a few minutes ago I was reading an user review of a book I had never heard of, Why Should Extroverts Make All the Money. I got there via a link from an Atlantic Monthly essay on introversion, “Caring For Your Introvert,” which is a short and, to me, ultimately frustrating piece on how it is that introverts are a misunderstood minority, at least in North American culture. It is a column, and so meant to be entertaining and somewhat light, so I do not think I should have expected too much from it, but ultimately it ends up saying the same thing as every piece I have ever read on the topic of how introverts have to find ways to get along in an overwhelmingly extroverted society: there are not enough of us to really change our culture so that it takes care, or even notice, of our needs, and so the best we really can hope for is to find ways to adapt when possible and to suffer in silence the rest of the time.

There is a link here with what I was saying at first. Bear with me.

But so this user review of Why Should Extroverts Make All the Money is a favorable review, written by an introvert who is happy that the book “enables self-acceptance while at the same time encourages and guides toward change.” Upon reading this I thought “What?? Why should we be the ones who have to change?”

This is so often the approach taken in self-help books for introverts–how to adapt to an extroverted culture that is not at all interested in adapting to us–that every time I see this sort of advice given I die a little bit. Honestly. It is not that I have no sense of humor, and it is not that I am unwilling to compromise with the world; in fact I spent the first 20 years of my own life compromising in every aspect imaginable with the demands that were thrown my way by a family and community that had no earthly idea what to make of me nor what was wrong with me. But they knew that something was, and that it needed to be rooted out and worked over until I was willing to believe, willing to speak, and willing to accept that I was defective to the point of needing a divine miracle to set me aright.

So. I do not do that anymore. Or that is, I am trying to learn how to accept what it is that makes my own neurological processes somewhat unique, or unique enough that they often feel at odds with the majority of those around them. And I am trying to learn how to create a space in the world where I can live without shame or constant self-approbation.

Even writing that out gives me some pause, as though I am not entitled to anything of the kind and need to go back to the sort of compromises I once made, which, among other things, required that I spend most of my waking hours dissociated and that I defer, indefinitely, doing the kind of work that I find most important and most necessary, because that kind of work is not generally valued or even considered work in most instances.

But I have been told, more lately than, say, 1982, that it is not necessary so much to cure myself as to be myself. Now, there is much I could say on the topic of “myself,” but for now I am going to let the word stand in for the processes and events that constitute this idea that I might even approximate a self to which I could be authentic or not. These processes and events, though, are not up for judgment as to whether they unfurl in the correct way so much as to what sort of effects they have. As they are, the only suffering they cause is that which they themselves undergo. Thus, even to the extent that they function so as to be thought of as introverted, as contrasted with extroverted, there is nothing about them that needs to change in order to be made more acceptable according to any external principle.

What does this have to do with blogging every day? Generally I find that it takes time before I can come up with something that I think is an adequate response to a given question or thought or issue, and, unlike the extroverts among whom I have to make some kind of peace, I do not find it useful to air my thought processes in public, unless I am specifically trying to expose those processes themselves as a topic in itself. Which I sometimes do: writing about writing, thinking about thinking–l’art pour l’art, in a way. But whether I am meta-writing or not, it still can take some time before I think I actually have something to put out there. Whether or not it happens every day is not as important to me as whether or not I can let it happen as it happens whenever it happens. The whole point of my undertaking the goal of blogging daily was to make it a device for lifting the veil of self-censorship, which is closely connected to shame and which keeps me from speaking up in the ways in which I do speak, when I speak.

Thus whether I have something to say every day is of less matter to me than that I be able to make time to write when it is time to write, which is a question with variable answers, all of which are unpredictable. What I want is to be ready and able to write whenever it seems necessary or valuable. So that is how I am going to finish out the month, and that is how I am going to continue not to stop myself from writing but not force myself into writing, either. That seems fair enough.