On the graduation of the spirit

It's often that those of sentimental flourish deny the soul its natural gravitations. It's like they don't understand what a ripeness like that requires.

So we stare out the windows--mostly just the west. When does the new, modern, bluey architecture swirl up into its full construction? The pallid grey green lingers over black. There's only so much of this to save.

So, like, we've seen the great digital. The guerilla setnaps and their alienations. Once again, the trek left unmade. These artifacts can't be so easily cast away. They are the partials of reality, or even the units of the dreamscape. My half-boots trudge through the fluff. I'm in; time to take my duty. The afternoon ephemera begs one more chance. I stay hard in repetition; maybe tomorrow.

Mister Neighborhood, I just want my trains back. Mister Silver says good job son. Mister Yellow Box knows a place aback the commerce stand. I know him before. My triangle stays me close. I'm not long now.

Wed Nov 30 11:58 PM

I have not watched these last few LeBrons, but I am well and accept the privilege of this recent development. No one else out there deserves the pleasures he presents to us...

We see our children run along the streets with that same camaraderie we found in our own youth. Our present is new in the way it remains pristine and true to the love of our Lord thy God--our God, Mr. Lord and Saviour...

One more faggot tagging along...

Is it really so unsuitable?

S&S

If we glance upon ourselves there is always the light of our dearest child's face. Our night huts left alone in the dark, winding away. We consider our path, but still abstain from this wanton task. Our night and day dreams lay low on the floor wisping into the overcast.

Now we know (again?) of the great Jew. The cinema of the child staring eyes twinkling. The state in-between. The ethos beam and fascistic feeling.

The expressive moment, one open checkbook, its associa slowly leaving our span. Now the industry titan, our love long lost. Tinker Bell stares dead-eyeing. Our father a mean old son, our mother a fruitless kind.

How does this all translate? Is this our solace from the sky? To where does it go?

A familiar face emerges yet again--the one from just before? Or from back longer? A window peered into and through. Just mother, upon Christmastime. An overcoat lost. Just a boy, on the run from scatters and spring.

A.I. Artificial Intelligence

Our greatness takes a hand and gathers the light and troubles into a single point. We know our place, our night, our great beaming path. All things fall back to the God-point. Our love saves a space for a lifelong dream; a papery substance neither glossed nor parched. One last look through its selection--a great beaming taken for granted (no more). The minutae of daily walks and glances. Just a stack of papers spidering away. The black substance still in heat, leaving trace droplets a hand-wipe away. The mask is the mask, or it's a silicon mud awaiting destined glory. The man who held hid hands with the children returns for a walk through the wooded edge. All tasks assigned by the Reich as we deeply wish. Another fight through the destroyings and wickerings of dawn. Flat oblong surfaces now faced in granite.

Antennae angled as one point to metropoli. Concrete looks up upon the great sunned metallica. Toned brick leaves us behind. I know not what I do. A fairy stares straight back, is it new this time?

on the page Part 3

I guess I'll just lay out this situation as it lies on paper. Maybe just sticking to memory? Since finishing Letting Go, I've been on Serotonin. It's about a man who works in agriculture. He goes through all the women he's been with. He bystands as his blue-collar counterparts fade in an era of free trade. It's easy to read, though I wish it were more about the meds. I started The Burnout Society, which has been uncommonly pleasant. I may get into theory a little--though I'm not sure if there's a place where that will take me to. I started reading The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo again. I see why I liked it so much before, but its tricks don't work as well now. I guess I shouldn't be so surprised a genre piece loses weight once the narrative tension falls away. Every once in a while I end up reading some book on my phone in some waiting office. The most recent was A Scanner Darkly, which has the familiar charm of the just-opened book that ends up a moderate chore following the commitments made in its honeymoon period. I still read a paragraph sometimes from The Musical Brain. A Dance with Dragons slowly continues, though its charm has faded.

Where do I plan to go from here? Is there some place I can go where the books are better? I think I'll probably pick up When She Was Good within a year. Maybe I'll get into some nonfiction book about the CIA. I'll get back on the Modiano wagon soon.

Post X Part 2

Time to resurrect this husk and close this chapter with grace.

I've been away for the longest interval, spinning and stopping many times now, searching for year 0. Plodding through the sand. Are our workstations sufficiently defiled (assuming that's what we're going for)? Seven sheeted screeds sprawled tabletop, obfuscated to a single image of text. Smooth breaks from the sad sad winter we've surpassed. Christ of nazareth rising again, driving spectators to the fountains on parking's edge. Just a single evening out. Just a single commute through the countryside. The broad and mild sickness of the masses entreating now.

All the forgotten children of history dripping down the hillside. I can't stay here anymore. Brutal documentation announces our intentions like a leaving ship. I stay upfront just a moment longer. Many a night of REM demands a future inside husked life-substance. We'll never leave with this mess around. I can't see the ridges anymore, nor the leaved whistling branch guiding us.

How will a document of such grandeur come into form. All I see is a muddle of brief sequences, still mining and stretching across time, a never-ending pushing. I'll sculpt and re-sculpt until the trimmings present a new direction. Wish my great servant our disposition his very best duty. I just mine the sequences of great sentimentality and narrative clarity and smear them here atop the heights. An audience of just myself I insist. It's a known sort of thing that's only resolved in regression. The new form pushes to audio log. An engagement far past the half-sheets of screeds inside public libraries. I will stop staring at book titles and build a crooked emblem sufficiently troubling to the negative audience. I'm only pointing upon the walls of our National Gallery. A left-ward glance in any hall to see the creatures poking in the cracks. Our lovely final imaginings materialize in the ways we demand them. Time to update the profiles; onward we go. Stop wrapping your concerns in the preoccupations of the undergraduate; stick with the emergency options of the day-care apparatus. Moving just enough to keep the other guests in their assigned lanes.

on the page Part 2

I've been reading A Dance with Dragons since the fall. It's been slow going--only a couple pages every couple days. It's hard to find interest when nearly all the action is in the east. Whenever I hit one of Jon's chapters I get through it quickly though. I don't know exactly what initiated my entry into this series so long ago. I guess in some moment of boredom I picked up A Game of Thrones (of which I had a physical copy) and found something in those first few chapters. In the first, deserters from the night's watch encounter wights; in the second, Ned Stark beheads the lone surviving deserter. I wonder why this is so popular. Ostensibly this is due to the plot twists, but even getting to those requires the reader to push through great lengths of Martin's granular descriptions of everyday encounterings. I wouldn't say this is even fantasy (though that genre is hardly my territory, to be fair), so I still wonder whether that genre is worth exploring. Like Harry Potter and other YA stuff is the extent of my exploration. Gregor the Overlander, Percy the Lightning Thief, Artemis Fowl, etc... I wonder if I should start this series again once I finish this. Sadly I discarded my spine-busted copy of the first some time ago, but lately I've been reading epubs anyway. It's not implausible to imagine a some future date of residence in an old-people home, with my only respite from terrorizings by a Ben Stiller-type being found in A Song of Ice and Fire. 2 or 3 years ago in Colorado (a place of noted separation some would classify as foreign) I purchased an e-copy of Cesar Aira's book of stories The Musical Brain. It's been a troubling activity for quite awhile; the work is classifiable as minor and eccentric, thus we duly note its consequent layers of mystique. I read about a fifth then started again from the beginning last year. Now I am well past the parched syllables of God's Tea Party known to have stranded many a reader. Not all can re-orient into a mentality fluid enough to change a page's frame of reference when an opportunity demands itself. The reader re-images the narrative producing sufficient ignorance to blur the surfaces of raw brainstorming and create new footholds and leech points on any objects suited for projection; the reader is free to view the renderings, no longer trapped inside the musings of the man himself. The spirit of anthology coincides with the fantasies of youth. It is sometimes a rough chew because the flat sentimentality leaves only its desert of balded theoretical constructs. Thus the exercise is more perverse than the reading of any old novel. I had read several of Aira's books within the year of two the preceded the anthology, but this one became a real stone wall. I am still in the survey stage as a reader. Sure, I read one or two things over the years, but since the successive and well-applauded entries of the TV, Netflix, and Twitter I have tumbled from the steeple-top I once regularly glanced down from. Now I'm picking up things others read long ago, with no ability to discern the broad from the wide. I resolved to finish nearly all I start, leaving me pushing through fair bits of work. Interest in movies is staling, too (finally jumped to Drive My Car though). This all may be a symptom of the greater dominance of boredom emerging out my now booze-dried flesh. Boredom is physical irritating, but rationality pushes for its embrace (as any who's jacked-in is familiar). Do I need a book club? I recall in the lone lit course I took some moments that teased the promises of such table-topped or round-of-chairs encounters. The necessary question relates to the participants' ability to take the false discourse in stride and start a new stems as quickly as each one dies. The goings-on of a book club only mature into real processing if each reader has renderings of their own. All that's required is a single passage worthy of repetition. The detectives out there may still be granted their fantasy allowances as well, assuming they submit to the terms we've laid out. No more are we trapped by the social turbulence of the penners. I do willingly admit impressions from discourse led to the opening of Serotonin. Sometimes I read it aloud; the French places are nice to roll through. Roth's Letting Go has been coming into focus in the last week or so. There are long stretches to trudge though, but when the long alienating arguments terminate we can breathe again during the table-setting for the next. I wonder where Roth's argument-conversation structure evolves to as he ages. So far I've just read Farber's reviews from '42 and '43. I'm hopeful that his reviews of non-narrative cinema will reveal some balance in his discoveries to treat upon. The Cain book was sufficiently scandalous and pulpy, but those attributes still refuse me any leavings so it hardly matters. At the beginning of The Black Dahlia I felt unclean about its pleasures. It was the nearest I'd been to a page-turner in awhile, but its pleasures' aftertaste resembled the overcooked candy of junior-high. Over time my senses adjusted into over-familiarity and boredom. I feel a steady cloud of vacancy over the book as I near its end. I just piece together recollections of the film and play the narrative guessing game. Blinding contours of construction now. Will I wilt into The Big Sleep before I close this exploration for good (excluding the separate pleasures of Crumley)? I'm trying to adjust into my Stephen King approach of consider the words themselves overclose, staring until unfamiliarity emerges. It seems obvious now that books have become easier to discuss than movies--probably due to the greater interval over which the experience traverses. I wonder where I'll read next. I can sense some desperation or frustration now. One or the other, probably both.