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.

Post X

I built a fascist ideology to save just for myself. I've seen all the films I must see and will demonstrate consequent knowledge (such as there is) in the following notes and draftings.

I spent years writing inside a terminal. Many instances of just a note or two viewed in sequence makes itself a journal. One that's even on exact mark with this blog. It's a mass resurrection in this very post of ran-over and re-puzzled jottings into publication-sufficient fodder.

I admit it--a blog is still a very scary place to look upon, but in keeping with the overall body of work I'll keep building, even if I'm not sure where exactly to go. All I see now is the sky. I wish to be left alone; let me stare and stare some more. I'll will things to change into their ideal form, like in the dreams that follow urination. All I know is the things brow-beaten in. I am only my sticker-price, not what else you've said. All we've seen is the blood of dead ideas floating down the main thoroughfare. You know this as well as I. But your sickness leaves no choice. Our death would never change the course of life. All I can see is this line of thought conceived years ago. All I can feel is the mania in the words said then.

Nighttime stills coinciding with emotional sameness. A page of The Lord of the Rings, then falling asleep. Drinking two Modelos, day after day, then repeat with two Old Mills. Forcing changes to find the necessary answers. Finally a better tasting beer at a place made for friday nights. Writing down every single interest you have to get out of the boredom of it all. For a reason, delaying post-interval Andrei Rublev, not watching Last Tango. Still not aware of tone. First Seti then New Coke; we stare at the puzzlement on Mackenzie Davis then Kerry Bische then the other. Back to Nocal, finally. I read something Saturday. The title possibly Modern Theatre of France or French Modern Theatre. I read it Sunday, too, though in a worse way. The sanitized early-00s library with extensive magazine selection. No way to read one and escape the bit. I read Ars Poetica:

To look at the river made of time and water

And remember that time is another river,

To know that we are lost like the river

And that faces dissolve like water.

To be aware that waking dreams it is not asleep

While it is another dream, and that the death

That our flesh goes in fear of is that death

Which comes every night and is called sleep.

To feel that waking is another dream
that dreams of not dreaming and that the death
we fear in our bones is the death
that every night we call a dream.

I'm behind; I don't ask for another history, but that's just pride. I need to write directly to the source. Evolve to the modern practice. If it's a Bergman film, make sure it's interesting enough. The bends of the road keep the driver on her toes, constantly reassuring herself, blocking out the warningless signs in front of her. She brakes harder than advised at the bends, the bounds of expected wear and tear exceeded. The stateless existence interferes with progress. In a seeming sort of way, the reptiles packed tightly in one large vat, their streamlined lifelessnesses increasing efficiency for all those involved. Keep wooden boxes upon your feet. The scaled coffins will keep you asleep. I moved the mouse right. I'm hungry right now. It's just a very small portion of the very large snowball that's still accumulating size. What is the final solution, without alcohol. Not so dulled anymore, just dread that follows euphoria--the leftover stoned diaphragm. I've been sitting here too long. I doubt there's any predisposition at all. The scale blurs at the extremes. Now having re-reached the can't read state I can say it's only a meager effect. I like to think that if I did open a book, I would have some sort of sensation. I like to imagine things. You're reading this for the wrong reasons--though it could be argued (and very well) that I'm writing this for wrong reasons as well. Not just the not right, the perfect and diamond-cut, wrong. I'm always looking around into precisely wrong places.

Vitti walks through Sicily, going from one building to the next, destination-less, haunted into boredom. A feeble Sandler rebuilds into form. The presiding moral abyss leaves Jack to go through. Our simple needs privacy and support sometimes leave us, and with it morality. Walking through a park to keep to basic channels.

Tagging behind, not pouting, but slowed by physical limits, compensation only through exertion. An unfamiliar story still faithful to itself, a familiar story faithful to its familiarities and its medium's necessities. A car swerves out of my lane, though I don't swerve. A boat with some passengers; just boaters and a body of water. Overall, news is good. I'll spare the rest for fear of serious degeneration.

Keep toward the front

The obsequious demon of the soul lurks, peeling in and out of its dragonspan. All horses bridled, angled on eastward approach. Nothing more is ever pursued. Every single apparatus they've ever constructed is dragged from behind. All we can see is their flat humble faces, yet unconstructed to our eye. All that's inside the known kept at bay through blanketed augmentation.

I can't keep it all straight anymore. What's left behind lurks into the shadowed palace steps. My sin keeps the listed realities underneath the bright face in front and atop the throne. I just see bow ties, portraits of ancient women, bright red dresses, more bowties, and statues sculpted from the bare prophet's instruction. The fountain tumbles red, a drag from a cigarette, still even, just stay clear. I know things are well.

Where is this new place everyone demands of? It's like nothing can be shared now. The party continues, eating just enough for another moment to begrudgingly appear. Agape releasing silence, trapped into the moment just before. Where will it all be kept at bay? Another kicking comes fast up from behind. No place else to be but here in this windowframe keeping both sides where they belong. Fumes firelit in line with expected consumption. Make sure each unit on the calendar is highlit just tiny enough. Already finding each event in conclusion wondering how to scrape things back into track. Looking again at the lovely bow tie of the command line future. All I see is the white and black blasting together. No confrontation ever making the bill enough to make a whistle beside one final time.