There was a poet, long ago (for the manner in which illiterate louts keep time, very long indeed, being before anyone they've any chance of running into / fuck-or-fight-ing with / etcetera was born ; but otherwise recently in the sense of long after anything important or interesting last happened). And for that matter, there were many poets, long but not so very long ago. The poets that were, you know ?
One of them was a bum ; the other of them was also a bum. Comfortable circumstances don't seem to well comingle with versification, or a lyrical vocation, or rather : because the epicurean ideals rest firmly on the golden mean (possibly the worst idea yet, and certainly a horribly worse gift than the original Pandora's box, seeing how it and naught else is whence mediocrity as a vocation came upon us, along with its impudently offensive if overwhelmingly indefensible pretense to gilt, especially self-applied) whereas literary accomplishment is always a matter of excessi, it then follows that the comfortable and the readable rarely happen to be the same people. Specialization, you know, that thing for ants, is not something poets are magically above of simply for being poets ; au contraire.
In any case, one had a wifeii, the other also eventually had a wife ; one was seduced by a boy's letter he received, and engaged in a pedophillic homosexual relationship with an underage "victim"iii for many years and in the direst of circumstances -- something that was not merely practicable but outright common at the timeiv whereas the other moved on to trafficking arms in Africav and other avatars of the... well, excess, what would you call it, what could it be called... The unmastered (lit, nestapinita), the disreigned (lit, desfrinata) life.vi
Do you know, by the way, how come the young boy, the future "victim" and so on even had the time in the first place to write missives so as to be rescued ? Why, school was closed! The authorities took it over to turn it into a hospital, as part of period mobilizations to "fight" and etcetera! Yes, that's right Nannare : you dun it now, you big goof! What do you think all those bored fifteen year olds that deeply (and for good cause) despise you will do with their time ?vii Huh ? What, you really thought they might not notice you're despicable ?! Beeeeehehehehehe...
Anyways, the observation providing the impetuus for this article was that lo, it's been a week since last I wrote on Trilema ; and upon consideration it became undeniable an' obvious that indeed my lifestyle's changed sensibly. These days I spend a lot less time with machines, and a lot longer with nature, human or otherwise. As I was observing in private to a friend, who confessed dropping her attempt at Diablo II after a few brief weeks, that indeed twenty-some years ago I'd spend a few hours with the girls and gladly game for half the day ; but these days I'll spend half day with the girls and barely manage an hour or two of screen time, during which...
Well, that's the thing, writing is the product of reading rather than of thinking as such ; the less one reads the less one thinks in the specific sense and meaning of thinking involved in writing, and therefore one can, apparently, be done -- in the sense of deciding to be done -- with the muses : all it takes is activity of a different sort. Which brought to mind the story I've not really recounted above (for to me and whoever else might be familiar it needs not recounting, and anyone else couldn't be helped by recounts anyways). Apparently this has happened before (long or not so very long ago, dealer's choice) ; but once I sat down to write I obviously proceeded to reading, and as my eyes followed the lines of letters and my mind followed the mists as from such lines might thereupon exude... what
I was going I thought I was about to write became something entirely else altogether, different not in one way or another but in myriad ways incomprehensible if they were expressible ; but inexpressible anyways, not merely for complexity but firstly for structure : trees form the way they form, and cutting one stump at the root cuts out also the leaves -- and all of them.viii
And so now... here we are, again, the subservient paper in its true and only Master's hand, shivering and sighing. Paper, endless or otherwise, virtual or cellulose-bound, might not blush for idiots ; but it does always blush under my hand, it's always palpitatingly covered in rosacea when bearing my tools as a projection of my will as a manifestation of... what does it manifest, one's own mind is not one's own as clearly seen here (and everywhere else), for never yet it has been the case that one wrote what he thought he sat down to write, not since letters were invented in any case (nor before -- do try and draw what you mean and see what I mean ; whence and wherefore is your drawing of what you mean actually depict what I mean instead ?)...
In the end, writing's not for everyone because, specifically because, everyone could write.———
- Oh look, I made a joke. Can you spot the joke ?
Ha-HA! Say it with me now, trace it with me now, pretend you're laughing with me now : ha... ha.
- Speaking of the Westermarck : Elisa growing up with him very much didn't deter him sexually, which renders plausible the hypothesis that perhaps the psychological problems and mental issues of the cvasi-male spawn on the wrong side of the Hajnal line aren't nearly as universal as the cripples in question seem doggedly decided to pretend ? [↩]
- Not to mention the "other victim", a pregnant young woman abandoned to her fate.
I'm sure that's the sort of thing that preoccupies you set of "oh, how can Celine Dion marry that old guy" snitch&bitches. Here's the thing : the abandoned pregnant young woman's better off with the wolves than with your help. [↩]
- What did you think "punk" even means ?! [↩]
- No, it didn't work out for him ; business and literacy don't mix so well. [↩]
- Don't you find it suspicious that absolutely needful words, utterly workhorse epithets, tools squarely required for the most cursory, plainly minimal exercise of examination are so... misplaced, so underlain in silt and overgrown with grime in this pigdin you supposedly employ for some purpose (though I can scarcely think, and you certainly can not explain, what the hell that'd be) ? [↩]
- Let's put it this way : the first white man to wet his pecker in Ethiopian cunt directly on the very farm was an erstwhile bored boy of Charleville. [↩]
- It's starting to irritate me that italics are ambiguously both the sign of words in other languages as well as the mark of stress or counterpoint ; but I don't know yet what I'll be doing about it, if indeed anything whatsoever can even be done.
Can anything ever be done ? [↩]