Archive for May, 2009

no

i miss vladimir but estragon

not so much (‘workshop’ buzz word for the ages)

plug in adaptors are arousing in the cruelest way,

only september though, when

visiting experts proclaim personifying the land

dead, because human arrogance is despicable

in me, & you pull off everything.

i spy trees to hang us in (we / me).

 

lastly, there’s the first word learnt. i’m 

basking in that futility, earning points for the academy

& the dream was of a caravan, with slot machines. 

fruit figured.

crescent

often, you have a discussion with someone in your life that leaves you ruminating on things. other times you won’t have a conversation, & this leaves you ruminating too – the function of the conversation can then be to air things, to remove the agitation that can come out of useless cyclical rumination. 

being sometimes subject to insomnia (the types suggested over here on the overland blog) i tend to take notice of the fluctuation in thought patterns, the strength of the link between variation in thought & overall calm. there are two possibilities that arise from my recent discoveries, one bad, one good, both at any rate interesting.

the results require a narrative of digression. as a child i lived in a dead-end street, a crescent, in werribee (is this usually called a cul-de-sac?). we were on the corner, & the house had a large thatched fence all the way around the back. to attain some focus: there was a small collection of vegetation refuse at the back corner of the yard. it was possibly years & years worth of dirt, leaves, grass etc. as one does during childhood years (these are situated between 1 – 6) i would give small objects heightened importance, status. one day, i found an old matchbox tractor in the refuse pile. i knew it was old because it had most of the paint worn away, & it had obviously come to the heap before we lived there. i kept it & thought about it quite a bit, then a few years ago wrote the discovery into not one, but two poems.

last night i thought about it again. as can happen i began remembering other incidents & objects temporally located near the found tractor. a crab-apple tree. tyre-swings. faux-evidence of the easter bunny. all of these things came upon me with a welcome surprise, much like the initial surprise of finding an old toy, something that you can move forward to treasure. the greater point is though that these thoughts (situated in 1980′s werribee) made me feel peaceful, & in a better frame of mind for sleep. there is something in this. because whenever you try to change your mind about your mood (in the vein of: ‘happiness is state of mind. if you’re depressed, simply change your mind!’) invariably the attempt fails. especially (yeah yeah, for you, for me, universality implied) if you try to do something like recite lists to settle the mind & invite sleep. it seems that a relaxed state of consciousness, one that allows physical rest, is always a surprise.

so. the good thing is surprises abound. we are constantly being surprised by even the smallest of things. it might be minor or not. but nothing is as expected. if it were we would always be depressed: yep, it happened just like i thought it would. there is an extreme likelihood we will be happily at rest by just allowing ourselves to be surprised. to take notice of such occurrences. if you can’t sleep, if you are feeling worried or unsure about something, just await the surprise of anew situation or circumstance.

but the bad is that you can’t predict such things. we feel like shit & want that to change on the spot. we take seeping pills. we blast our synapses with alcohol. we blame other people for our un-functional brain. what is to be done?

i don’t know. but it has to do with seeing things. treat every little thing (for instance the constantly unexpected green flash your mobile phone gps function makes that illuminates your 3am darkened room) as if it were a matchbox truck with the pain rubbed away by time & strange hands. maybe it’s what i was searching at with ‘innocent eyes’. but then again.

slit

the climbing rose

carefully gauges its

bravado roofs

mill with appropriate

personal space

aerial plain stoic

hanging dresses

are refusing to

dance your curtain

unhappy with its tattooed

design grass clustering

in earlier frost moisture

glass panels sit

in the sills of years

past light bulb

reflecting ominous

 

.

(parenthetical gorilla)

it just won’t go away. that & the ‘people rendering’ tag users keep searching on. then there’s ‘thanks for this very interesting post’ submitted by a hyperlink incarnate, ‘with this diet i lost 30 pounds in 30 days’. that’s interesting in the way despondence is in others.

the gorilla is bound by it’s linguistic captors just like anyone & everyone else. even if we were reading the poetry of john laws to pass the time (& we are for fuck’s sake) the gorilla would still know us by this common link. like the poetry of ted nielsen turning out to be all about iphones.

when the kids were younger we might occasionaly race to see who could eat food quicker, but then i would only say ‘you know, this is a race’ if i was nearly finished & it looked like i would win the race. now it barely musters a giggle. gone are the days of calculators. yesterday my sparest brilliance was discussing the likelihood of neural implants in our lifetime. that & the way the sun caught me & my red wine, making us think of afternoon naps, the winters only spain throws up.

when i eventually head towards the look of most hip middle-aged men i will go all out. i will combine the perfectly shaved head, trendy spectacles, clean ruddy face, & expensive pure wool jumper (juxtaposed with low-fi jeans & running shoes). i will establish a glint in the corner of my eye that suggests i am older but still interested in cultural happenings. i shall probably work out, & in true tim rogers fashion i’ll be heard to ‘talk about the drugs you just won’t touch no more’. this will not be a scaffolding process of adjustment. it will be swift and seamless.

no doubt the gorilla will play some role in this (this, but also that, being the unusual observation/edit/speak gambit i take on in this blog thing). i have to keep him in parentheses because he’s liable to make outlandish gestures when you squeeze him in the right way, & that’s just plain unpredictable. we must establish some base level of predictability. else we all end up learning about quantum mechanics on youtube. hearing the banter-like epithets of the days of yore that seem to glow when they spotlight your ex-physics teacher for a monologue involving his own stupidity. things have neither properties of waves or light. they are things. the gorilla is a symbol for this & he stares at me from the post title beaming out that knowledge. just a stymbol. like the last night plastic doll’s penis: a symbol that reassures us all things are natural, sorta okay.

freudulant

we value the salad role as combatants

& your beauty depends on a fluorescent bulb.

mawkish. my father drank tomato juice with pepper,

climbing straight from a shortlisted collection,

dripping liquid chunks. i speechbubble him ‘abracadabra’.

painting on the bildungsroman moustache as he gets her in

the end of all ends, maybe bus-stop fracas whir,

eggtimers, or you, aren’t, much, too look at gulls

might be informative & pop-gun leftovers

just reflect the defunct tv tray.

 

teddy rupert assays my dreams with upright force (gloating

you’ll see my astronomic curve (though the errors even in

books on poetics (nothing comes out of america), things

persist while the research into things is a new lemon

flavoured drink. help us make some cast-iron brackets.

the going fishing myth still get vouched for, swollen

into a mindset that turned erotic. 

 

.

Who Magazine’s 100 most beautiful people (Lily Allen)

‘…Allen is no stranger to reinvention. Using the crisis of a miscarriage and the chrysalis of a psych-clinic, she emerged a Chanel-ed butterfly who has found some peace but not lost her fearless personality or sharp social observations. “It’s her honesty that I find most beautiful,” says Ritchie.’

We construct the gossip out of pictures. Celebrities cannot hide inside all the time and so they must be photographed, much more than the average person. If the celebrities do not say anything (or if they do not provide a media-release) it is only natural that the gossip writer must use their powers of invention. Many such writers gained communications degrees at prestigious universities named after major cities. And so, ‘X flies into paparazzi rage’, ‘Y sheds the baby kilos’, or ‘Z takes drugs.’ (My wording is not so good but you get the idea. My city was not so major). This will often be followed by the scoop story granted to the magazine by a ‘close friend’ of the celebrity in question. The legitimacy of such a claim is irrelevant.

Here we are told Allen is ‘no stranger to reinvention’. This means images exist of her looking not so good. You only need google her to find some. Her weight has varied over time. She has been quite drunk on occasion. She might have been arrested. The image in Who however – an expensively textured black & white shot – shows her at her best. The story resulting revolves around change. We need not know anything beyond the image to grasp the narrative of evolution.

What floors us though is the wonderfully expansive metaphor employed in the writing. Miscarriage as crisis now becomes biological catalyst, the same process that causes a caterpillar to rethink its physical form. Psych-clinic is chrysalis. Most would hope this is the case – we come out transformed, hopefully never to be carried drunk from a public bar ever again. And of course, ‘Chanel-ed butterfly’. Masterful. We would have presumed an error with chaneled, but now we do understand – Allen’s transmutation is completed by her embrace of the latest and finest of fashions. Inner and outer beauty work in tandem. She is perfection incarnate. And she can still speak her mind.

You may remember Ritchie from such televsion shows such as Home & Away. I remember her in this way, but also from the time some guy I knew said ‘You know Sally from Home & Away is in a porno’. He told me that apparently some guy has sex with her and taped it. You can look at this film online if you like, if it’s still there. From years ago I recall that it’s blurry; nothing is definite let alone the identity of the stars. But I wonder if she gets asked about it these days. And if she was the girl in the video, would she be honest about it? One could see it as a crisis (let’s allow that one can see anything as anything else if it helps). The ensuing chrysalis is her leaving Home & Away. Her rebirth: becoming a radio presenter & paid commenter on the images of others. That much is easy when your own image pops up less and less.

In conclusion, nothing is effected via beauty. Utter destruction of the image leads to power. Only after visual sublimation (intentional or non) can one gain control over the narrative. Who Magazine should never be ventured upon.


Recent tweets (keredm)


Follow

Get every new post delivered to your Inbox.