drockleberry (![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} uminthecoil) wrote,@ 2009-06-29 11:06:00 |
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It’s disquieting, even ‘objectionable’, just how much alcohol gets swigged down and swallowed here in Madison…the sounds of bottle caps plinking and so many, many beer cans snapping are only two of the many scores of expressions that ‘time’ makes just prior to being wasted here…
”nearly everything which we call life is just insomnia”…
I know, that’s painting in broad strokes, and sure enough, “nothing is a waste that makes a memory”…but it’s late, and the feeling, the itch, it’s raw and red here - you see, there is a famine here, a famine of both sense and purpose…nearly every night, or every other night, this house, that house, the other house, they’re all playing host to a cognitive surplus, as if everyone present were immortal and bored, everyone lax to experience anything if not while intoxicated…watching the same movies, having the same conversations, as if a lullaby is what they’re really after.
Seemed as though there was the promise of “sense & purpose” when I moved here, but it was just a mirage created by the sweet air from off the lake...
I sit on the porch drawing the portrait of a nude woman reclining on a pillow. Her lips are a full bow of dozy smiles. She’s just made love. Some unnamable need was left unsatisfied, but she smiles for her lover who she adores but secretly wishes would leave her now so that she could cry herself to sleep with her unnamable need flirting just out of the reach of her drowsy thoughts.
A neighbor from across the street; a young man I’ve never seen before has stepped out the second story window and sits on the chin of his roof to catch the breeze. We wave at one another and grin.
Just below me are three rabbits jooking and darting about…
To my back is our house, and just the other side of the wall is a living room that is almost criminally disordered and just as hot. Duder is passed out on the couch, floating listlessly amid a stale sea of chunder - I’d have to pay a chunder-accountant more money than I make in a year to poke around and audit the chunder in that room. Just a glance, merely passing through and stealing a look about the room is to suffer a vulgar blow of depression…to sleep in it, I can scarcely imagine the danger to one’s heart…heh…and yet the Duder drifts on, near a half a full day brought to a halt after some derisory wave of the white flag.
I’ve felt this week as though behind my eyes and deep behind my brow there is a grave and persuasive pressure, like some teetering kettle of tears tottering back and forth to bawl over a great many somethings that have appealed over their warrant of weariness…to wake up in this place with another mouth full of blood, squeezing my face over the bathroom sink, forcing the dribble of filth from a grateful exit in my gums…to wake up in this place again, lapsing off again from yet another night-before where people have and will spend the afternoon, the evening and wee hours celebrating a whole lot of ’nothing’…raising their glasses to toast the famine of sense and purpose, over and over again…and I’m reminded of that terrible experiment where a living frog is slow-cooked, where the temperature is progressively raised just slowly enough that the frog never realizes it’s being grilled alive.
In their defense I should say that their giggles are sincere enough giggles…it’s for something else that I brood.
I know it’s only melancholy...and that life stretches out from moment to moment in stupendous infinitude. "Whatever you think the cosmos to be it is and could not possibly be anything else as long as you are you and I am I." So I walk it off like a twisted ankle…
A few blocks from here, just up East Washington is a spot I always linger at, if just to marvel through the fence where someone has caged the remnants of a clock tower’s spire that had been otherwise lost to a fire. The remains look every bit like the fallen crown of a child’s toy castle, or some steam-punk vision of a rocketship-apartment…and this broken marvel simply sits there, roasting in the sun and bathing in the moon behind a tall chain-linked fence, where it’s Roman numeral clock’s face waits on with a plucky persistence for something ‘unnamable’…
...
As I mentioned before, I've submitted another story to the Zuda competition...still no word on that just yet, but I thought I'd share an odd "page one" that I wound up excising from my submission to make room for a wee more story...it was fun to piece together, but I suppose it really doesn't quite belong.
cheers.
”nearly everything which we call life is just insomnia”…
I know, that’s painting in broad strokes, and sure enough, “nothing is a waste that makes a memory”…but it’s late, and the feeling, the itch, it’s raw and red here - you see, there is a famine here, a famine of both sense and purpose…nearly every night, or every other night, this house, that house, the other house, they’re all playing host to a cognitive surplus, as if everyone present were immortal and bored, everyone lax to experience anything if not while intoxicated…watching the same movies, having the same conversations, as if a lullaby is what they’re really after.
Seemed as though there was the promise of “sense & purpose” when I moved here, but it was just a mirage created by the sweet air from off the lake...
I sit on the porch drawing the portrait of a nude woman reclining on a pillow. Her lips are a full bow of dozy smiles. She’s just made love. Some unnamable need was left unsatisfied, but she smiles for her lover who she adores but secretly wishes would leave her now so that she could cry herself to sleep with her unnamable need flirting just out of the reach of her drowsy thoughts.
A neighbor from across the street; a young man I’ve never seen before has stepped out the second story window and sits on the chin of his roof to catch the breeze. We wave at one another and grin.
Just below me are three rabbits jooking and darting about…
To my back is our house, and just the other side of the wall is a living room that is almost criminally disordered and just as hot. Duder is passed out on the couch, floating listlessly amid a stale sea of chunder - I’d have to pay a chunder-accountant more money than I make in a year to poke around and audit the chunder in that room. Just a glance, merely passing through and stealing a look about the room is to suffer a vulgar blow of depression…to sleep in it, I can scarcely imagine the danger to one’s heart…heh…and yet the Duder drifts on, near a half a full day brought to a halt after some derisory wave of the white flag.
I’ve felt this week as though behind my eyes and deep behind my brow there is a grave and persuasive pressure, like some teetering kettle of tears tottering back and forth to bawl over a great many somethings that have appealed over their warrant of weariness…to wake up in this place with another mouth full of blood, squeezing my face over the bathroom sink, forcing the dribble of filth from a grateful exit in my gums…to wake up in this place again, lapsing off again from yet another night-before where people have and will spend the afternoon, the evening and wee hours celebrating a whole lot of ’nothing’…raising their glasses to toast the famine of sense and purpose, over and over again…and I’m reminded of that terrible experiment where a living frog is slow-cooked, where the temperature is progressively raised just slowly enough that the frog never realizes it’s being grilled alive.
In their defense I should say that their giggles are sincere enough giggles…it’s for something else that I brood.
I know it’s only melancholy...and that life stretches out from moment to moment in stupendous infinitude. "Whatever you think the cosmos to be it is and could not possibly be anything else as long as you are you and I am I." So I walk it off like a twisted ankle…
A few blocks from here, just up East Washington is a spot I always linger at, if just to marvel through the fence where someone has caged the remnants of a clock tower’s spire that had been otherwise lost to a fire. The remains look every bit like the fallen crown of a child’s toy castle, or some steam-punk vision of a rocketship-apartment…and this broken marvel simply sits there, roasting in the sun and bathing in the moon behind a tall chain-linked fence, where it’s Roman numeral clock’s face waits on with a plucky persistence for something ‘unnamable’…
...
As I mentioned before, I've submitted another story to the Zuda competition...still no word on that just yet, but I thought I'd share an odd "page one" that I wound up excising from my submission to make room for a wee more story...it was fun to piece together, but I suppose it really doesn't quite belong.
cheers.
