This too shall pass (I hope)

The Lindy Hop

Dance, you mad whirling bastards!  Kick up your heels thusly!

Dancing is just one of those things

I cannot do (sober) unless it is a full moon.  Lycanthropy and coordination are

remarkably similar conditions...  So why do I sometimes

think that

I should

dance

with

you?

New thought:

Where were you when Michael Flatly became intolerable to watch?  I don't remember, myself,

not when there are other things to never forget remembering.  Never remember.

Yell up the stairs saying hello for the first time or the

most recent time (time being what it was, it will be impossible to have been recalling)

did they actually know just what is/couldbe/wouldbe/won'tbe/am?

Thump.  Thump.

The dancers jump.

Twist. Twist.

Methinks they're pissed.

Flop, flap.

The people applaud.

In Which I am not a Poet

This does not make me a poet

There might be some temptation you see to say that now, now that I haven't written anything that

isn't poetry

isn't essay

isn't anything like a lie

for a while that I have stopped being author to become a poet.

I never thought much of the machinations of the universe (university)

not when it came to what it did to me (not free, that's the solution for—getting head of myself).

There are only a few times a month when I am write.

Savor this one.  Cleverness offset by a writing mistake.

Yin and yang.

I stole that from a conversation we had once.  Originality is a grand thing.

This is stolen too:

Do you want to become a lonely grumpy smartass?

That's implying I'm not already.

I made this poetic by saying it was poetic.  Don't you agree?

Line breaks wear down returns.  There is an ancient mariner, and he refuses to pay his fee.

Fi.

Fo.

Fum.

We done here?

Yeah, we're done.

What is Language and Why does it Matter?

  Language, as defined by the Oxford English Dictionary, is difficult to pin down.  Even this concept has multiple meanings; “The system of spoken or written communication used by a particular country, people, community, etc., typically consisting of words used within a regular grammatical and syntactic structure,” “the vocal sounds by which mammals and birds communicate,” “A means of communicating other than by the use of words,” (emphasis mine) and even “The style of a literary composition; (also) the wording of a document, statute, etc.”  There are more meanings to the word, which is perhaps the problem in a nutshell: Language cannot be described without the use of itself.  That is to say, one must use language in order to describe language.  Any discussion of the use language must, therefore, begin with the acknowledgement that language is itself as nebulous as any other term.

  It is not the intention of this essay to gaze too deeply into the abyss that lurks behind the assigned meaning(s) of a word, but it illustrates an inherent instability in the practice of language that has been noted by other writers and will continue to be noticed and commented upon; it will be the case that writers and indeed anyone who speaks (any) language(s) will forever have to wrestle with language in order to convey the meaning they want to convey, or at least a meaning that can be called close enough for comfort (or government work, or your own phrase of choice).  This still does not come any closer to saying what language is, though it does come closer to saying why it's important; language is perhaps the best possible (though imperfect) method for transmission of thoughts short of telepathy.

  Language allows the world to if nothing else make slightly more sense than it would otherwise, and allows the people of the world to make a kind of sense of one another.  Language makes sense of things, categorizes things, expresses what could not be otherwise expressed.  This is the importance of language, this is why language matters.  Language's rather nebulous nature, however, means that using language to communicate complex ideas takes a special amount of care and precision.  True mastery of language comes from being able to communicate one's ideas clearly and effectively.  To say what needs to be said in a way that the meaning is left to little doubt, to utilize all the tools which have been created for the management of language over centuries of practice (metaphor, allegory, etc.), to use the rules of style and form that had been agreed upon for forms of fiction and essay and poetry—that is what separates a writing novice from a true craftsman, so to speak.  In the beginning, anyway...

Time, Space, Other Stuff

"I wish to travel through time," the old man said, sitting on his stoop.

"That's easy.  Just keep sitting there and you'll do it without much trouble."  The dapper-looking man stood leaning on his cane, the obvious 'I-have-lots-of-stops-to-make-today' pose.  He seemed to be resisting the urge to check his watch.  "You may even make it all the way to tomorrow in but a few hours."

A snort of impatience escaped the old man's nose.  "You know that's not what I meant, sir, and to pretend you didn't is a waste of time for the both of us."

"Ah, but there's where you're wrong, Mister Creely."  The dapper-looking man's smile could have stretched across the street and blocked traffic.  "Time is only a concern for those who can't move around it, and that is a talent which I possess.  A talent which, if I'm not mistaken, is what caused you to contact me in the first place."

"So you do know how to get around time."  Mister Creely looked smug.  "I knew you did, even if you wouldn't come right out and say so over the phone."

"Of course not!  Phones are not to be trusted with this sort of information."  The dapper-looking man's smile stretched even wider, though it was clear from a slight twitch that he clearly felt as if he'd lost the last exchange.  "Nor, I should add, are front lawns especially the best area to have this sort of conversation."

"Too bad.  I've heard all about you, so I'll thank you to stay exactly where you are while we conduct our business."  This statement was punctuated by a glint of gunmetal in Creely's hand.  The blanket over his legs concealed the rest.

This provoked laughter from the dapper-looking man.  "Very good, very good!  It wouldn't do you any good if I intended to do you harm, but I'm glad to see that you're the clever sort of fellow who knows to do his homework nonetheless.  Well then, I'm all ears, Mister Creely.  What do you propose to offer me in return for my secrets?"

Strange Happenings

I have, of late, become rather discontented with Barry Macsweeny.  We didn't get along from the get-go, and I find his poetry trite and boring.  It is small wonder to me that his book is out of print, because he sucks.  But what use is my opinion?  You won't have to read him unless you happen to be taking postmodern poetics as well, which you aren't.  Probably.

But I am, and it has made me hate the man.  Well, not the man, but certainly I don't like his poetry very much.  There's no playing around in it!  It's all the same sort of images and themes we've seen before, or maybe I'm just getting cynical.  Which is possible.  Of course.

And now I am in a strange place, brain-wise.  I find myself reading him and thinking that I want to be reading something else, something that isn't Macsweeny's poetry.  So I turn to my shelf, and consider it closely, and (instead of a novel) I take down a collection of Bernstein's poetry I got from the library and haven't had the chance to read, and I think what the fuck just happened here?

I wanted a break from work, so I pulled down a book of poetry?  I am reading this poetry for pleasure, rather than to feed any sort of research, or because I have to, or anything so strange as that.  I pulled the book down because I enjoy reading Charles 'motherfucking' Bernstein and no other reason.

At some point, I became
incredibly
fucking
pretentious.

Oh Come ON.

It's been some time now, and I hate that fact.  I hate the fact that things can only be kept going while I'm more or less depressed or bored or exhausted.  Why do I have to be good at complaining but absolutely lousy at explaining why things are awesome and, I should add, are likely to remain awesome for the foreseeable future?

The hell of it is, I love a happy ending.  I want everyone to get at least one story that ends happily, but for whatever reason every time I end happily I have this voice saying "it didn't last, you know.  Snow White got old or her people realized how brutal she'd been to the previous queen and threw her out on her ass; the prince got poisoned by a bad bit of fish and died, and life was nasty, brutish, and short.  Which is an outright lie, of course.  The bit of me that enjoys writing, that secretly hopes that something happens in 2012 (not the end of the world, but I'm quite partial to the thought that magic will return and we'll have wizards and dragons again) and is generally happy in the world wants to tell a story, goddammit, and it will probably never get the chance because I come up with happy endings when I'm happy, and when I'm happy I tend not to be able to write.

Until today, which finds me not thrilled but certainly less angry than usual, making a post about not being able to write.  Writing about writer's block.  Confessing, here and now, that I need very badly to stop reading so much poetry because every time I do I get the urge to try writing it again.

I'm not a fan of the poems I write.  I resist the urge whenever possible, but the Language poets seem to have their hooks in me, if only because I cannot help but like the idea of just throwing words together because they sound neat rather than because of any great meaning they may have.  That's the sort of thing that makes me think strange thoughts, and having never (at least not in recent memory) written anything that rhymes consistently or at all it's got me rather intrigued.  We'll see what happens, but I warn you that it could all come to nothing.  In fact; it probably will come to nothing, and that ain't just the cynicism talking.  That's good old fashioned common sense.

Fucking Charles Bernstein and his Klupzy Girls.

It's shit, right?

"Love," he says, deep into his drink by this point and just about ready to get philosophical, "is a lot like shit."

"Bravo," remarks his drinking companion dryly, unimpressed by this seemingly cynical statement.  "I doubt very much, my friend, that what you have just said can go any further than a slightly more vulgar way of saying that old standby 'love stinks.'"

"That is precisely, my good man, where you are completely fucking wrong."  He takes a moment now to stifle a belch just in case there are any ladies present and continues, occasionally pausing to sip from a glass of something or other, he can't really remember anymore what it is.  "Both shit and love can come upon you suddenly, or slowly.  You may spend all day with a slow need to shit building, or you can eat the wrong thing and have to shit immediately.  Likewise, love is something that can take its time building up, or in some cases it can be almost instantaneous.  It depends on the person, and the circumstances."

"And the spiciness of the dish, of course."  A wag calls out from the small crowd that has gathered, shortly before realizing that he really should have thought of a better joke to make than that.

"Perhaps so," the speaker says with a beatific smile that lets the wag know that he could embarrass him right now, but will choose not to do so out of the depths of his merciful nature, "but there is more to it than this."

"Pray tell, enlighten us then."  The speaker's drinking companion smiles with a trace of humor.  "Let's see how far you can take this ridiculous simile."

The speaker smiles again, and wags a finger at his friend.  "A challenge that I shall rise to, though it be laughably easy.  For love, sir, like shit, can be very messy as well.  Not in the literal sense, I suppose, though it can involve its fair share of property damage when it goes ill, but it is a very complex thing for some, and can, like a bad shit, make one feel as if death would be a mercy."

A hush has descended over the crowd now, as each listener privately recalled such a moment in their own lives that had in fact perfectly proven the speaker's point.  There was also a break as the speaker realized he'd been holding an empty glass for the last few minutes and made an assault on the bar to remedy the situation.  His empty glass having been exchanged for a full one, he weaved his way back through the maze of tables and patrons and sat down, fully aware of the expectant looks of those seated nearby, and fully committed to milking it for as long as possible.

"So," he finally says with a smile, after he has taken a few long draughts, "shit, and love.  You may find that forcing the issue with either love or shit will only cause unnecessary strain and even physical pain.  You may get out alive, of course—and it may even all work out in the end for you despite your rash haste—but you'll know deep down that it could have been better than it was, and that will eventually make everything that you've done seem foolish and eat away at whatever enjoyment you get like a sinister canker.  A good shit will happen with very little physical effort, just like love will develop quite naturally (provided, of course, one doesn't do anything stupid).  Sometimes one must admit that one must give up and merely get off the toilet while things develop a little further."

Even the speaker's drinking companion is slightly impressed now, leaning closer and even occasionally raising an eyebrow to show surprise at a particular point.  The speaker himself is feeling slightly confused as to where he is getting these ideas, they seem to flow from some hidden part of his mind that has, he assumes, always known these things to be true and only now had the opportunity to spread the world.  Idly he wonders if perhaps this is how the great philosophers felt when they gave their talks.

"We all act differently when it comes to our shit.  Some will trumpet their successes, urging people to come in and observe what they have wrought with only their digestive system and some food.  Others cannot bear the thought of it being widely known they shit at all, and will in fact endeavor to cultivate an image of being a shitless being, waiting until in the privacy of their home to do the deed.  And so it is with love:  some choose to show their love to the world, and others deny they have ever felt the emotion.  But know this:  Everyone shits, and everyone loves."

The entire bar erupts into spontaneous applause, men and women embrace, and a few people stand up and stride into the bathrooms with a new sense of purpose.  The speaker's companion rolls his eyes and nudges his companion.  "Well, I suppose I must confess to being impressed.  Did you have that speech planned beforehand, by any chance?"

"Nah," the speaker says, having come down from the initial rush of excitement that comes from being wildly applauded by a room full of strangers (well, mostly strangers).  "I pulled the whole thing out of my ass."

Somewhere, a drummer feels the urge to do a rimshot, and doesn't know why.