midday of the soul

No matter how early I get up, I cannot stay ahead of three pm. No matter how early. I can get started two hours before sunrise and still three pm will catch up with me even when I have been running flat out needles pegged westward since jumping out of bed and into my shoes. Three pm never approaches any faster or any slower than it has before or will again but always with just enough hurry to overtake me with relentless unconcern almost exactly like so much boring clockwork. Resolute and implacable and without a trace of regret for my alleged peace of mind: three pm neglects even to pause in the face of the shining virtue into which I arose with the first birdsong of the day.

The exercise. The daily gallon of water. The plant-based protein. The modest bedtime and the washing of the hands every single time you visit the toilet. Three pm respects none of these and nothing you can promise it will keep it at a distance. Deep sleep: three pm does not care. Sorting the plastic into recyclable and not: three pm is not impressed. Scooping the cat box daily: three pm never looks at the cat box and expects you to have scooped it twice yesterday without anyone having to ask.

I have experimented with studied patience. Watching. Listening. Taking no action other than that required to remain conscious. Three pm arrives and then three pm is here or rather three pm is whatever three pm is and then without a beat three pm continues on and three pm oh one arrives having approached also for some time and also continuing to stay for no time and all the time I may have left would not be sufficient to chronicle all this passing exactly as it passes as it does so without notable features so from there you will have to imagine how it goes. How three pm goes and then three pm oh one how that goes and whatever might be said to go next or after or then or now. If outrunning three pm is not possible neither is waiting for it whether with patience or resignation or some imagined immune response to the repeated exposures any earth-borne creature must undergo to that which three pm denotes. It passes, leaving nothing, taking nothing, saying nothing, and changing almost nothing almost as to not change even to the eye fully-clothed watching for half a century now.

I have tried taking three pm apart and I have tried to take apart its passing or any other passing for that matter–and if it makes it easier to understand what passing means use time instead although to do that is fairly circular and non-explanatory but it may be more comfortable which is often all anyone really needs at three pm to be made comfortable or to become comfortable or somehow otherwise prone to comfort. Passing falls apart all by itself with only the touch of a glance into the possibility of change and then change as change and then the consequences of change and the memory of the possibilities and the realizations and the consequences and also some tendency or other to measure how slowly or quickly change occurs as though there were a fixed and unchanging backdrop against which we could line up and compare the different rates at which change goes from one somehow inferable moment to the next.

That we have never found such a backdrop has not stopped us from devising clocks and sundials and water wheels and hourglasses and various opaque structures fashioned around some space or another sometimes two spaces and a surface for the reflection of light or shadow and upon which the sun will shine at a predictable angle for a single moment out of all the other moments. There are other sorts of mechanisms and procedures that do more or less the same sorts of things that is make of the acceleration and slowing down of change a quasi-entity that can be measured using a single scale no matter where one applies that scale that is no matter where one is able to locate or stipulate the entity by separating it from the change it is supposed both to enable and contain and then apply the scale to it–or enumerate it as consistently quantifiable while also independent of change.

Otherwise how would we know it was enumerated consistently if that could change at any time.

When I am done with all that three pm although theorized into practical nonexistence remains insistently. This three pm and all the other three pms are not anythings I can describe. They are side effects of one or several desires to measure or to parse or to record or to predict or to regularize other desires and other forces and other impulses without discernible origin all of whom might otherwise wreak change without warning or at least without consistency that is the warning may be always in effect but the exact order of change unknown and unknowable until after the change or changes in question have already occurred and the dead and wounded sorted and counted and sent for repair to a place where appropriate practices are practiced or for return to the elements through one or more of several conceivable routes.

If in the wake of this three pm–this one always approaching–lies every other three pm that had already passed when this three pm did so, this three pm does not notice or care. If this three pm were to have the power to do so this three pm would disclaim any relation to the other three pms even as they follow quickly and emphatically in all persistence despite the other three pm’s once having been followed by this three pm.

Spatial metaphors can only go so far before they drop off the edge of the world or something.

Not that I can speak or disclaim for this or any other three pm I would not even be able to guess how to go about imagining how a side effect of a tendency would begin to speak much less what it would say so when I write that three pm would disclaim any relation to the other three pms what I might mean might be more accurately stated that this three pm is as far as I can make out nothing if not indifferent. So indifferent it is that I can only see it or notice it or remark it after I have myself posited it there in that approximate place–for lack of a better way to clear out room for it–where I then find it.

The one three pm and the other three pm and the other other three pm all run together. That glare in the middle: a dispassionate sun hangs from an uncertain meridian where it unloads everything it possibly can without mercy for us or relief for itself over and over and over and over and over.

Three pm was never my idea. I was handed three pm already fully formed. From there it has solidified in several directions and begun to decompose in several other directions and in several directions besides these it has broken down into unrecognizable components or rather other ideas that are nothing like three pm or noon even or midnight or anything I can think of that has anything in common with three pm or noon or midnight or anything.

As difficult as it is to pick out three pm from some of these angles and as noiselessly as three pm approaches at some of these times it remains as unmistakably three pm as it ever has. It bursts through the blinds no matter how tightly drawn its disingenuously pleading voice well aware that it can continue to plead for at least one moment longer than you can continue to refuse it admission. The plea is its alibi its cover for the nearly absolute power at its disposal should its plea falter but it never does or that is it never did I always gave in at least one second before it had had enough.

I have tried sleeping through three pm with some success insofar as success might consist of not noticing three pm as it approaches and passes and approaches and passes but you will note or I have noted that sleeping does not fend it off.

Sleeping does not prevent its passing nor its receding into the folds of remembered and forgotten three pms or thereabouts.

Nor does sleeping prevent any of them then from reverberating with the boredom of headaches and motion sickness and diesel exhaust and the ride home where hats were hung and heads above the hats were hung and swords above the heads were hung and still hang today despite protestations that no sword has ever been brought into the house.

Which is why nobody goes home anymore.

But three pm will pass whether or not anyone is home and three pm will pass whether I try to pretend I do not see it when I am at the store or when I am at the park or when I am at the library or when I am at the doctors office or when I am in my room which is not the same as being at home my room is much less far less dangerous than is home. My room is the familiar collection of rocks and sticks and needles and dirt and old hair and cast off skins all worn smooth and dry and painless to touch. It is the modulation of heat and noise and light down to amplitudes that do not blare. It is the coincidence of mammalian rhythms and temperate latitudes. It is the stamina of wood and metal and mineral against casual intrusion. It is a modest supply of tools and instruments that can be used to do things or initiate processes that have no utility and no exchange value on any of the most pressing markets neither those by now compulsory nor those remaining optional and so in most modern senses of the phrase none of them follow from honest labor. If the things made or processes initiated have any effect on anything it would be to act on time and space and materials and forces in such a way as to deflect if only at the very most oblique angle such other times and spaces and materials and forces as three pm and heat so deep it piles up in great waves all the way to the sky asserting its persistence: a persistence just as infinite as it has to be to obtain your resignation to its inexhaustibility.

◊ ◊ ◊

I am up early today.
I will outrun three pm with the enthusiasm of six am resurrect and reanimate.

Nothing is impossible until at least noon.

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sort of like you know I’m not sure but definitely I will think about it yes

I found this at How to Make Money Writing Poetry (Part One):

  1. Always use keyword research when you are writing material that you will use to draw traffic or to make money online.
  2. Use Keyword Research to select your blog niche, blog title and blog URL. Preferably you want to select popular AND profitable keyword terms.
  3. Use keyword research to select blog topic posts and write blog posts or poems based on profitable and popular keywords.
  4. If you already have a collection of poems for your blog posts package them such that they fall into a profitable keyword niche.
  5. Make sure you include the main keyword at the beginning of the title of your blog post (so that it will show in the URL of the blog post) e.g. A Sad Love Poem by Your Name: Love Lost. Keep in mind that for branding purposes, keyword research and search engine optimization, the poem niche and your name are more important than the title of the poem.
  6. Make sure that you include your main keyword in the body of your blog post and in the tags. You should also try to include related popular keywords.

Some backstory:

I am doing a research project. It is really the same one it has always been and it is not particularly distinct from any of the other concrete things that I work on but it may have been for instance my primary topic of academic writing if I had kept to a course in which academic writing was the sort of writing I was doing but since I am not so much writing of academic pieces even though everything I do write would have been impossible to write without having for a long time been an academic and without still being more or less in study more or less all of the time this research project is not precisely an academic research project but it is not precisely not one either.

The topic, broadly, could be put this way:

What the fuck.
I mean.
What. The. Fuck.

I could spend some time detailing the many contexts in which I so often say or read or hear about this approximate topic but I do not know that I could do this adequately in fewer than 5000 words and I am not up to 5000 words today and besides it would take at least 10,000 to really explore all the genres of what the fuck. So this is but a bare outline of where my own overburdened incredulity has led me up to this point:

I am looking at the colonization of Europe by specific human species and groups starting around 45,000 years or so ago through the fall of the Roman Empire and the Christian conquest of what is often called paganism. I am looking at the development of the idea of individuality in Europe and the Americas. I am looking at the geneaology of dualistic structures in mainly European and USian traditions of thought and inquiry. I am looking at USian psychiatry’s approach to diagnosis and treatment of “mental disorders” and I am looking at whatever relationships might suggest themselves between cultural trauma and abusive child-rearing philosophies.

I am also trying to track my own family’s history in the US and in Europe at so many times and places I have no hope of putting anything in narrative order. I am looking at USian imagery and discourse on disability, responsibility, and productivity. I am looking at the broad spectrum of outcomes of treating the designated symptoms of PTSD with neuroleptics, mood stabilizers, SSRIs, SNRIs, novel antidepressants, anticonvulsants, stimulants, and whatever else might be deemed possibly beneficial.

I am also looking at what I think I see as a tendency in disciplines practicing the scientific method toward reductive haste and over-confident explanation and investigating ensuing patterns of having repeatedly to recognize greater complexity in observing and theorizing empirical reality.

So. You know.

Over the weekend I decided to try to read one of the many texts I have been accumulating on these and related subjects only to find that once again I had to stop after less than ten pages and go write.

I say once again because this has been happening with greater and greater frequency over I would reckon the last two or three years. Maybe longer but I think in 2010 I could still finish a book-length academic text and in fact did so although I am not sure which one because I have completely lost track of what I have started to read and what I have read all the way through and what I am in the middle of and what I have put down because I was sleepy or exasperated or disgusted or curious about cited sources or excited about curious sources or so energized that I had to go take a five-mile walk.

And so I went to write. And I can even say that I was successful at least to the degree that I did indeed write even to the point of finishing a section of unDiaGnosed or that is writing enough on it that I was reasonably willing to post it for public consumption and so did just that.

I do not know what I am going to try to do next but it will probably be a response to this growing hunch that it is time to write and that if I try to do other than write I am probably going to be frustrated and depressed and cranky and unbearable even and especially to myself.

And although I do write because I cannot not write or that is when I write it often is the case that not writing was not so much an option I also do write in hopes that someone will read what has been written and find it appealing or useful or amusing or not a complete waste of time and because this has happened before I do actively search for readers although “actively” is sometimes of necessity not particularly active-looking to anyone not familiar with the way I am put together and sometimes that anyone includes myself.

But so the SEO Poetry tips were the result of a Google search looking for suggestions on how to broaden one’s online audience and of nearly everything they say one should do there is almost no chance that I will do any of it except maybe ponder some basic web user interface problems which I have historically tossed to the winds because I was not really trying to make things easy to find and certainly not trying to create descriptive links and in fact usually wanted you to have no idea what a given link would produce when clicked. I think though that I might have to make a concession or two at least for the purposes of providing clear paths to anyone who might actually be trying to find a thing because they want to read it. On the other other hand this thing that I write that might be a blog but is sporadic and without direction although I am not all that interested in furnishing it with any particular sense of direction I would like it to be somewhat less sporadic in some way that might actually render me able to pull off something like a change in direction for the collection of writing sites that are nominally mine and that I consider active even if I have not posted in two years on at least one of them.

Something might happen here is what I almost mean to say. I do not know what. I do not know if anything at all will happen but if say I were to find energy enough and to enjoy any period of what they call productivity at all I would like to try a couple of things. None of them are SEO poetry.

Unless they are. Because I did stop in my rush to make fun of the How to Make Money Writing Poetry (Part One) tips and wondered what it might be like actually to follow these tips without following them. Or to take them as occasions for making something they probably were not trying to help me put together. Because when it comes to cultural subversion I am pretty much about straight-on perversity or certainly what usually results is abruptly orthogonal even to what I think I am trying to do.

What I mean is that I do not think I will be writing ironic SEO poetry not just because irony has been chewing on its own tail for so long now that it has practically devoured the distance from itself that it requires of itself but more because I still do best at associational perversity. I may forget about SEO poetry altogether and make no response at all but I am still going to think about it. Or something else.

Kickstarter project: we have achieved liftoff!

One Last Ditch: the movie.s. has been launched at Kickstarter! I have 45 days to reach my funding goal so that I can start making non-pixelated videos–or at least, when I want them to be non-pixelated–in October or so. Please go visit and please consider funding more poetry videos, for whatever reason compels you to support poetic and visual art. I have my own reasons, but they may not be yours: I am trying to find my own voice in order to speak up for life experiences that are not necessarily considered “normal” in American culture in the twenty first century. I know that hearing and seeing others who were considered freaks in their own milieux helped me to find reasons to stay alive when I was young and terribly unhappy, and although I do not propose to go into this to save lives, I do know the power of images and language when used well. I only hope to use them well and for the forces of life and the forces of love.

And it’s fun, besides. :)

If you wish to bookmark the page (but pledge soon, because 45 days is not as long as it sounds!), use this url: http://www.tinyurl.com/onelastditch –it’s much easier to remember than the long Kickstarter url.

ensign

I have not written anything here in quite some time and all I have today is a poem but I think it might be worth reading for some of you maybe. It’s.. well really I would like to hear what you find it to be about.

20110328 update:
It has a title now and I changed the ending which may or may not really be the ending but for now it is.

~~~~~~

Speaking of which
whetting molted silver gelatin and tin
Estate sales without captions
prints adrift.
I have a book in my cupboard it is
a board
for cups or so it..

driftwoods spirit face moving
over water
I jumped. I meant
to go back and jump again

pinned on my back when he leapt
unheard “do
what I say and I won’t
hurt you” only
what he said itself blunt force
bearing down on me
and up

Between “turn
over” and
“you’re free to go”
blank space or not space yet
as blank
eraser ripping paper it was so hard to modulate
the swipe.

whisper it.
Ships topple sails purple
slack waving
Flagstone and remnant coursing according
to tide tables
traced
tenderly

Rescind me.
One hot July night not fighting but
well sighted
Sighed open ceiling white sheetrock
I slipped through
roughshod tottering
a canyon rim yonder lights out
ignites shout under jet
streamed ice waterwheel
turned or
burned
or
fern walled gullies in March I place
my cheek to wet moss

splayed under this body
three times my size
in spasms beyond recall
This gentle assailant stalls
rubbing himself
forgetful.

Myself I could not seize the moment
only counting on time to peter out
slow blinking deriliction no notes
Here the scene ends

and ends
and ends
and never tires of ending

I cut my teeth on critique
could train resolve on careful reasoning
Neither
jester
nor prince and you
read with the cunning of
some species reknown
for sprightly banter be it
blood at the teeth or thick wine
tableside

Me I
sputter and point
words
pelts
Spit sticks like glue
if you choose your materials
with care.

Water
paper
plastic
Thrown at the wheel or under

Foam specks on the lens
where it met
my teeth
If speech embargoed emits
tines or spikes
might tumbled sand anaesthetics
supply torsioned skin as parchment.

In my dreams soldiers shadows steel-browed and tensile
summon aircraft screeching phallic and armed.
Set us to flight or walk or crawl
or pulling one fist of earth over the other against that insistent friction

You
have dreamed it too:
cement walled crawl spaces
transparent tenements for
the likes
of us.

Who could have less to hide–

but drift
across storefronts
under street lamps
crowd into shopping malls
shipyards
senate chambers

–in hairshirts
of many colors
Cache of zinc
and lead
tungsten flame
charm
of mercury vapor
let us
let our wolf note
exhale
half-buried
half-ascent
its troubled
wave battered
breath
now swept low–

Shall I

swear or forewarn
as thought races its
final lap
My legs numb
still lurching seaward.

another letter

I want to write letters. Dear Michael. Dear Richard. Dear Patti.
I have written the last one already but it is possible to write a thing more than once and sustain the same sort of sense while varying the precise wording each time.

We share approximate cultural milieux although different social circles although the two intersect and often at multiple points but this is not to say that I have made my way into very many of the social circles that I might have set my sights upon for whatever reasons and there are plenty of reasons to want to be a part of this or that although there are also for me a variety of reasons why going here or there terrifies me so I do not leave my room.
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