Thursday, March 19, 2009

In my body, and a voice I care to hear bangs on the stone of my damn three times (not twice, like god ordained) and I pour forth

Before I broke my last "D" string in the unfortunate cold of this winter I obsessively recorded my "repertoire" in the closed-door echo chamber of my bathroom. After so many months of not hearing myself, I can say, I'm not half bad. Least offensive, surprisingly, is the intonation of my own voice. (What? My father vindicated?! I love the sound of my own voice!)

I grow to appreciate the daring and solitude of Nietzsche more and more. You (no scare quotes) said that you couldn't believe that people were actually the way they are. I haughtily thought at the time: you conflate trust and belief--the punch-line ran something like this: I've no belief, but I trust people are what they say/show/insist they are. Perhaps I believe, despite myself, because I refuse to believe it, and my trust is shaken.

Italians, at least from this particular town some of us know, laugh via Facebook chat as follows: "ihihi"
(and a particular italian offered to suck me off in my sleep. a few years too late, but i still appreciate the sentiment. he also says "hello!")

A perfect sentence: "Brothel paragraphs housing sentences needing diaphragms."

Whenever I listen to music through headphones while my Facebook page is up I sporadically hear the "blip" of a new chat message. An auditory hallucination, perhaps. But then, the bathroom off the foyer of my parent's condominium has a fan that replicates the sound of their telephone ringing. My sister hears it, too. Or she used to.

J.S. Mill commands no grasp of elegant syntax. His essays are so many pus-ridden, scabied anuses. One needs a ventilator to dare them, and a hot shower afterwards. I've made my first mistake as a professor in assigning him, which edifies two ways: 1) read first what you will be forced to teach later, 2) I was right: having now read Mill for the first time I can confidently affirm all that I charged last year--the man is a sniveling punk, a crony with ambitions of grandeur scuttled by an unresolved Oedipus conflict. (This is addressed to you, Greg.)

I am not ashamed of my judgments, nor my capacity to judge, but I do not like making people wince. I am not a Liberal--or any of that sorcery, which conjures Rights and Equality: I've ascended too high to be clawed down by guilt, and my wings have just now begun to fully expand. Not Truth, not Justice, but Beauty: an artist's experiment re-(re)staged: "Here lies one whose name was writ in water."

Once Alcibiades was about to get thrown in a wrestling match and he bit the hand of his opponent, who exclaimed: "Alcibiades, you bite like a woman." "No," replied Alcibiades, "like a lion." (From Plutarch)...
"Best rear no lion in your city, 'tis true;
But treat him like a lion if you do."
--"The Frogs" (a line delivered-over by Aeschylus, the Fritz Lang of Aristophanes' Hellenic New Wave "Contempt".)
Forget the Commic and the Old Guard, it's (un)time something new: I'm going to become a child soon, innocent and necessary.



I'm still listening to the archives of my "repertoire" but I seem to have forgotten that I spoke to the recorder as if to a live audience. For instance, "Well...uh, that was a kind of a... The majority of these songs are going to fall between one of two poles... Uh... Either, uh, the 'you broke my heart...please, fix it?' pole or the 'you broke my heart and I wish you were dead!'...haha... pole. And then there're a couple I wrote before... you broke my heart. Anyway, umm... And then there are some that I wrote when I was in love with you and changed to 'but then you broke my heart' and that's one of these..." (12.09.08--between "Open House" and "S/he Says," recorded in my bathroom). At another point I compare songs to a pair of jeans, saying, "you can just keep the jeans and buy a new sweater." I don't know what that was supposed to mean: moral: I can be too profound for myself, also.

Tonight it's been Magic Hat's seasonal "HI.P.A"--the first time in months beer and not wine. It all started at Little Jim's--why do all the "dive bars" in my life (in Chicago) bare a version of James--my father's nomen--for names? So I bought an old guy a beer. Yup, subverting normalizing regimes of power. He was a man whose cheeks resemble Voldemort's in the 4th film--waxen sheen and everything, and agitated eyes dodging between two TV screens as he made small talk. When Bobby Jindal came on screen he used a derogatory slur to ask who he was, but I didn't catch the epithet and replied, "The only Republican who can attack Obama without the risk of the taint of racism... and he wants to run for President in 2012."

Oh, and there's 10 dollars or so worth of a Mexican cuisine-styled antipasto in my fridge because I made it to Wholefoods before they closed--the first time in months I've had something in my fridge other than that square of butter: breakfast.

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