North Carolina

•May 5, 2019 • Leave a Comment

I didn’t go there for experience. Definitely not for the weather.

There was a boy and a girl. I was 18 and I wanted them both. I was there to build houses. I cared about building houses; they’d be occupied eventually by people who needed houses. So, under the cruel sun and the humid breath of North Carolina at any time of the year, I hammered, spit nails, longed for the shower at the end of the day. We’d retreat to K.,’s house in the research triangle — spacious, equipped with a fire pit out back, where we’d talk shit with each other.

I mostly kept silent — I didn’t know what to say. I just took it in, the silence, the lightning bugs triggering their brilliance on and off, the moon laughing. I didn’t realize what majesty I’d stumbled into. We watched “Donnie Darko,” and I thought I’d seen the face of gods, but he wasn’t interested. More hammering, more nails (no puns).

Eventually we drove back to New Hampshire, most of us never to see each other again. Yet the moment his eyes met mine with 80s perfect, as only they could be, and everything after… that I can’t rewrite, renarrate. It happened that way, and we both forgot.

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•May 1, 2019 • Leave a Comment

For me, $18 is a lot of money. That’s like a month’s worth of petrol, or one futile submission fee. So I was nonplussed to say the least to see a charge for that amount on my bank account; then I remembered the time of year and realized, oh, it’s my annual fee to keep this url. I should probably use it more often…

After all, there’s no one quite like… (you knew it was coming) —

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FuXNumBwDOM&feature=share

Sly Beasts

•March 23, 2019 • Leave a Comment

At night, I like to read or watch TV/stream something or just waste time generally in bed, two pillows propped up behind me, a book or my iPad propped up in front of me. Ariel, my furry friend, likes to snuggle up right along my left hip — he seems always to fashion a little blanket nest into which — shockingly! — he fits as perfectly as a dollop of butter on a hot waffle.

He has a maneuver, of which he seems very proud — and should be, as it’s thus far enjoyed a near 100% success rate — according to which he’ll slightly and slowly turn his head to his left, so that no matter what I’m doing, I can absentmindedly scratch his chin and right cheek with my left hand. (If it wasn’t obvious, I’m right-handed.) Then, he’ll spring his trap, start purring and look at me with languorous bedtime eyes. As he starts to bring his head down, he’ll extend his right arm over my left forearm, so that his impossibly cute paw curls around my outer forearm, and is therefore no longer accessible to me. At this point, he’s won. I can either try to free my left forearm and risk waking the dreamer or just — as is usually the case — submit to being a kept man.

I’m okay with that, Ari.

•March 6, 2019 • Leave a Comment

My English copy of Adorno’s “Minima Moralia” (seminal seminal text of post WWII response to vogue existentialism) translates „Reflexionen aus dem beschädigten Leben“ as “Reflections on a Damaged Life” — this is not the proper translation; technically it is an honest and fitting translation, but. I’ve seen that translated also as “Reflections on Damaged Life,” losing the article to express what I interpret as Adorno’s point — it isn’t that *a* life has been damaged, rather that “life” as commonly understood, the process of *living* as an extant being has in its essence been damaged beyond conceivable repair. This interpretation holds true even 74 years after WWII’s end, and projects a means of resistance to the post-capitalist public information-totalitarianism knocking on our collective doors.

*addendum* — by the act of writing to a collective “us,” and addressing a future “we,” Adorno complicates the postwar logic of I and Thou.

A Calling or a Hobby?

•February 13, 2019 • Leave a Comment

My entire life, my thought has been organized around the basic principle — assumption — that material reality fundamentally is knowable. Given the time, instruments, work, and imagination, the basic nature of what constitutes everything we experience, from our morning coffee to our office affair to our heroin addiction can be explained, analyzed rationally, and, if needed, diagnosed and treated, but always with the underlying understanding that everything can be explained.

What if that’s not the case? What if the correct answer to an unthought-of question isn’t just “I don’t know,” but also “I don’t know why” and “I don’t know how?” What happens, aside from the shattering of physics, chemistry, ontology, metaphysics — practically everything but art (which brackets or completely ignores what we consider a ‘reality principle?’) What if even subatomically, what and who we are operates on a level we don’t know and — most importantly — *can’t know?* If the nature of reality is inaccessible to us not because we haven’t developed proper tools (physical, ideospherical or philosophical) but because reality’s warp and weft, so to speak, is inaccessible to us?

If particle physics’ basic assumption that the world is there and it can be known isn’t the case? To adopt the famous phrasing, if not do we not know what we don’t know, but can’t know what we don’t know?

Jettisoning that seemingly basic assumption leaves us grasping in the dark for meaning that has always been assumed, but may not have ever been. To quote the balladeer of apocalypse, the Talking Heads, “home — is where I want to be / but I guess I’m already there.”

To abuse a phrase, there might not be any there, there.

Boots We Had Known

•January 30, 2019 • Leave a Comment

“We bathed the children and went out on the back porch, smoked and drank coffee, talked about shoes. We talked about all the important shoes in our lives. The first penny loafers, first high heels. Silver platforms. Boots we had known. Perfect pumps. Handmade sandals. Huaraches. Spike heels. While we talked our bare feet wriggled in the damp green grass by the porch. Her toenails were painted black.”

—Lucia Berlin, “Melina,” A Manual for Cleaning Women

The Twenty-Eighth Amendment

•January 12, 2019 • Leave a Comment

This editorial from the New York Times’ Editorial Board rightfully applauds the decision by Florida voters to restore voting rights to convicted felons. Why not enshrine the right to vote for all in the Constitution once and for all? Currently, the Thirteenth (slaves/former slaves), Nineteenth (women), and the Twenty-Sixth (lowering the voting age from 21 to 18) Amendments each expand the franchise. Why not amend the constitution to combine those three and establish the right to vote for citizens absolutely and permanently?

Proposal, the Twenty-Eighth Amendment to the United States Constitution: “The Right to vote is hereby affirmed for all United States citizens aged eighteen or older, and shall not be abrogated for any reason.”

Clear as crystal.

 

 
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