13 June 2013
16 May 2012
08 April 2012
Picture this: a cabinet. Any kind you like. Wood, metal, plastic, smooth, curved, angular, squat, tall, drawered or cupboarded, old, new, colored, colorless, etc. Whatever its construction, make it curious for yourself. A curious cabinet. A cabinet of curiosities. A wunderkammer. Do you have it? If you don’t you never will. If you do, you don’t. At any rate, let’s call this cabinet dandyism. Wait. It seems as if I’ve thrown a strange and ill-fitting cover over our/your/my cabinet with this word. Not just a word, an –ism! “We demand answers! We need clarification!” Don’t worry, this sensation will pass. Slowly. Or it won’t. I don’t want to lie. At any rate, we are not done with the canvassing of cabinets, the covering of dandyism. There is a third accessory to arbitrarily contend with: horror. “Oh no! Another word, another term?! What a mess! What a…what? Not what, but how. It is the how of wonder, the how of dandyism, the how of horror that will fill, constitute, and shatter our presupposed cabinet. I hope that you didn’t make it too precious. Also, try to start thinking about the shelves, the compartments, the drawers, of your cabinet. You’ll find that they are many-in-one, Legion[i] In a way, demonic[ii]. Here’s the last (I promise) addition: this little triad is completed by a certain horror. It is the horror of the dandy when, according to Barbey, he exceeds “astonishment” and moves into “terror”. This is the fine line between careful, ironic, ascetic aestheticism and “eccentricity” (a bad word for Barbey, but something else for us). The eccentric, the monstrous, the horrific, the dandy (him/her/itself a kind of monstrous) are all concepts thrown to the boundaries of thought, like the catapulted pollen-globes of that strange triadic orchid described by Darwin[iii]. They are all and always “in retreat”, and used to re-treat us to the limits of what we know or think or think we know. They are illegible via their interpretive fecundity, stimes-glimmers glimpses of something else, they are an abundant withdrawal, an overwhelmingly absent presence.
25 April 2011
Fall faster, while away trills of garbage on hanging wings of stomped out born-agains. I am not commanding anyone to do anything, and by that method it compels. Truncated dreams survive because of our misguided compassion: think about that three-legged dog you saw or had or heard or heard of. Don’t we all like the branching options of collective life?
My speech’s reaches (stupid-ignore that, excuse it) extend me like the lines that dead-end into screens and smiles…it feels more right to have proof of life like this. If I can obliterate more of the blankness I might even drop a few. And the branches mingle. Options pair and fly away for the day of life they are allotted. We pare them. And the party is wonderful. Sure I can’t taste anything, but that’s a good thing. No, really, it’s a good good thing. I am leaving the party. I am walking out.
This exercise is not about adding. It is an amputation of null. I am putting memory out of its misery, putting down the dog. Where I am walking three legs can’t follow. I am setting out in a straight line. Eventually I will meet an alternate form of myself. He will have heard or heard of the call to fall, but his nails will be less gnawed, and his eyes will be lustrous and assured.
All of the pre-packaging will disintegrate when we see each other. He’ll appear with it, I will appear of it, and both of us will have to avert our eyes. Oops and oh no! Who was supposed to bring the message? Momentum oozes through the pores of blame, and we’re back to those churlish looks that we reserve for myself. Being me, being this version of me, on this side of the hypothetical, I imagine that he’d be the one to figure it out first and stop the bleeding dye circles and perpetuity.
“It’s all right to be more of yourself. We have plenty.”
Will he hold me after this? Probably. That doesn’t extinguish the fireline back to the old ways. It’s not overreaching to say that sadness was the first story. It’s the hardest to hold back, and always wants to be at the front. It’s pushy that way.
The other me is not pushy. He yields to lesser forces thinking it the work of his immeasurable sway. When we depart I say this, and the lapping of water.
17 April 2011
I want there to be music.Gravy boats sail on full throttle into maws of greedy botulism. Wonderful crawdads and heliotropic cancer cells wish that we could be for each other. I hate the word together and forewarn you not to use it or even think of it. Candles. Who lights so many candles? Circles of light and shadow, it reminds me of coffee rings, stains and ruined furniture. These are the times when nothing can be excavated. Does that mean nothing is there? Potential rings too, and it tastes like old coffee, so that's something.