Monthly Archives: November 2008

Born Free

I’m not sure how many people develop into truly free beings, but I think the overwhelming majority of those who are free, are born that way, or to be fair, at least are made so very early on.

My Aunt Joan is one of them. From my mother’s retellings of their youth she has been free of the fetters of conventionality from the very beginning, and based on her own self-assessment I think it’s safe to say that she’s operating on a whole ‘nother level.

My respect for this woman has only grown as the years have passed, as I hope is the case with everyone. I fear that many people lose respect for their family as the years pass, but perhaps this is just in the years of adolescence. I would imagine so. Haply, I only lost respect for myself as the years passed, but my respect for family has been ever on the up; now if I can only get the self-respect on the increase we’ll be going in the right direction!

But back to my aunt: she’s crazy free, and her freedom inspires me. Jeg elsker dig, Joan.


Penguins: an explanation

The thing about penguins is that they seem like random thoughts. Like unnatural interjections in the barren landscape of the antarctic tundra, like living little non-sequiturs. And so it is when they occur in the landscape of the mind, they represent that which does not follow, that which is foreign, freakish, and absolutely alien. They’re downright absurd when you think about it, too. To think, a bird more at home under the water than on it or out of it: it’s freakish.

I think this is why Mr. Simon Jeffes of PCO’s fevered vision was so entirely fitting: “I am the Proprietor of the Penguin Café, I will tell you things at random.” And Mr. Sam Brown’s old man in the forest is easily likened unto this random owner, what with his miscellaneous trivia of life-sustaining machines, fat moons, and The Story of the King. He may as well have had a penguin in the forest rendering hot soup to the world-weary travelers. But it’s alien-ness is one that waxes all too familiar to the dabbler in the absurd arts, and we know it well by now, well enough at least to say that we are familiar with that stranger. So forgive me my reminiscence on the odd and the absurd with this little ditty on desolace.

Penguin Plateau

Whilst meandering listlessly
upon a pallid plateau,
a dreary and overcast twilight
outlined the horizon.

I happened there upon
a fellow ambler there up on
that desolate landscape.

We walked a while,
he, leading the way
to where I did not know.

But when I could forge along no longer
“I cannot go on,” I cried, “My legs give way!”
And looking down, I saw my knees were turned to jelly

You can continue, my companion replied.
And this was true, he had not lied,
So I shuffled along behind him

Until we reached the edge of that dreaded cliff.
A portentous precipice before us loomed,
and I, unsure of my newfound stature
fell down among the ruins.

And here I’ve been
for what seems like eons,
patron saint of the Fallen and Forgotten.
My decent was swift, but my reign has been long.

Nebulous blob

Emotionally, I feel like one right about now. One thing I can say about my younger years was that it was easier to read myself; my emotions were clear-cut and fairly simple to pick up on. Now…now I can’t even tell what I feel like. I think I may be hiding my feelings from myself, or hiding my desires.

Speaking of which: should we deny ourselves our desires? If your desires keep coming back, should you act on them? Obviously not, if it’s detrimental to someone else in the long run, but what if it’s good for everyone in the long run? Should you finally take action, final action that will stand to benefit everyone involved? I hope these weren’t the questions der Führer made when he came up with his Final Solution, but they are certainly the questions I think are important for making my own personal decisions…

Kafka’s "Confidence Trickster"

I thought I knew what the gist was of Kafka’s Confidence Trickster, but only recently came to understand it fully. It’s such a weird phrase for me, such an odd appellation, that I couldn’t quite get my head around the term. I moved on from the story without gleaning the full meaning, but was intrigued and interested in it nevertheless.

Later, in looking up whether or not a particular word I wanted to use for a story I’m writing was actually a word (“grift”), I found that one who engages in grift is also in fact a “confidence trickster”! Who knew? Knowing the meaning of one led me to find the synonymical appellative phrase elsewhere! Good thing, too–opened up a whole new world of meaning to Kafka’s insane little story–of course you should run away from a grifter! Speaking of which–the story that is–I’ll have to start transferring the stuff I write on paper to this electronic medium. I wrote a bit on Kafka and Lovecraft that I think may do well online…

See you soon!

Choke: Review

Sorry, Chuck. I read your book in the store. I know I ought to have bought it or rented it from the library, but I promise you: just as I do with all of my books, I hardly opened the thing, and it’s spine is still fully intact, no creases, no bending of pages. I put it at the bottom of the pile so in about 18-24 hours, it will literally be as good as new.

Great read. No wonder I read it in 3 hours! It gripped me by the balls from start to finish. Might have something to do with the fact that I’m ovulating and thus, insatiable on a sexual level. I tell you though, fertility-status aside, this is a sex-fanatic/addict’s dream-come-true. And also dysfunctional family survivor’s dream-come-true. I just couldn’t get enough of it, and so I stayed there, sipping Jerusalem Spider for 3 hours, and legitating, in bliss.

I have no idea about anyone’s name. Doesn’t matter in the end. After reading this, I just know about sitting in traffic with your junked-up mom, working on a farm in a colonial village, dealing with bat-shit friends and co-workers, and visiting your mom post-loony-bin-admission. Oh, and fucking. Fucking in churches, hospitals, planes, barns. Fucking anywhere you can get a fix. This is delightful; and yes, I’m a sick fuck for thinking so. But some of you will understand. I’ll meet in you in the 2nd stall to those who do.

I tell you, this is the kind of smack that makes reading worthwhile again. All you nouveau-realist literary addicts out there: here’s where the pusher man gives you the straight shit that makes you think you were just born again–be ready. This will satiate you on many, many levels.