Jan 30, 2004

Joe Trippi's last ball game.

Jan 29, 2004

Waiting for a squirrel
I keep reading obituaries. I didn’t notice it until I started reading them faster than the coffins were set down.

I have this feeling I’ll feel better, knowing that they’re dead even though they were famous enough to get a picture next to their obit in the New York Times and I’m sitting in this chair reading it and wondering what I’m going to do next. Thinking there’s a thing comforting in knowing they’re deceased, passed away, gone to a better place, over and done, while I’m a 21 year old knocking about the country and papering my walls with words that might have something to them.

But there might not be something to them and pretty much no one believes I prefer 100 stories and pretty much everyone believes that even if I do, I’m wrong. So that comforting thing keeps slipping slipping. Elusive devil.

And I don’t feel better, since I never knew them and they never knew me. And neither of us can figure out how to claim anything over the other, with wooden boxes all around and another round for everyone.

I keep reading obituaries. I forget why, but then I never knew. Something to do with orange juice, coffee and dieing before I bootleg bread to the pigeons in the park. Something about waiting for one of a 100 squirrels. Something about remembering a word that doesn't exist.
To the question that had no story, I was silent.
My name rhymes with pomo
He likes me too, except for my postmodern tendencies.

Which is significantly less than most people have against me.
1.  Being ranked among the gods, becoming a god.
2. An ascription of extraordinary power or virtue; glorification.
3. Deification, glorification, or exaltation of a principle or practice.
4. Ascension to glory, departure or release from earthly life.

Jan 28, 2004

In the world
Merleau-Ponty notes mostly related to class

The mistake is to fix it so subject & object can’t be brought together, or to fix it so there is no problem of subject &object.

The reuniting of fissured man is a thinking in such a way that I too am out there. Stretch out your arm: embodiment engaging the world.

"Lo" vs. "yo," and "behold" vs. "listen" as the difference between a system of immediate awareness, givenness, prepositional cleat and distinct truth, and a story to be presented and considered. Think on the relation of embodiment and narrative.

The possibility of an accidental profundity in Descartes eccentric centers of importance of the body and the inability to think (contain) the infinite. In what way is this a cannibalization of ignored theology (Ireneaus & Anselm)?

No datum can be singled out. No particulate can be determined. We are already condemned to meaning.
Coloring the sky with ash
Got a foot in the door,
God knows what for,
and it'll cut me down to size.
Stupidity tries.
Everything here is free,
everything but you and me.
This painting never dries.
Stupidity tries.
So then a shoulder
raised a cheer
coloring the sky with ash
because they found some privateer
to sail across the sea of trash.
The enemy is within,
don't confuse me with him.
The truth is otherwise.
Stupidity tries,
and so I go from floor to floor
looking for a port of call.
Another drunk conquistador
conquering the governor's ball.
I couldn't think of a thing
that I hope tomorrow brings.
Oh what a surprise:
Stupidity tries
        - Elliott Smith
Three names I've always liked for their sound:
        - Balzac
        - Thelonious
        - Derrida

Jan 27, 2004

My rootlessness _
        & the openness of the horizon.

Jan 26, 2004

Current Project:
Hoping that running headlong into a wall will put everything back straight.

Or allow me to win a race.

And knowing that even if I lose, even if I only have a concussion, it'll be a hell of a story (and but by a story we cannot be saved).
Familiar people in faraway lands
My former roommate Stephen Slater is blogging some good and interesting material from Israel and Bethany Boyd is posting from England while she prepared to go to Africa.

Four of the people I spent serious amounts of time with last semester are overseas this semester, in Israel, Norway, France, and Uganda.

Being one who's never wandered past North America, I have this strange feeling about it all.

Jan 25, 2004

The hobo king is dead.

Long live the king.
The natural object is always the adequate symbol

If I could have, as a gift, one poetic movement, I would take Ezra Pound's Imagism. I would flay it, peeling off the politics and the Amygists and the hacks and maybe soak it in dadaism.

To present an image. A fine sounding movement that wasn't. A fine sounding project that thumps solid. A aesthetic that was prepared to rid us of bad poetry and romanticist cliches, and then became of the home of 40,000 bad poets with bad images.

" . . . we believe that poetry should render particulars exactly and not deal in vague generalities, however magnificent and sonorous. It is for this reason that we oppose the cosmic poet, who seems to us to shirk the real difficulties of his art."

It could have been good.
Seen in Lansing
We didn't actually enter the place, since they didn't serve dinner and the dress code sign didn't describe what we were wearing, but looking in the windows from the cold street . . .

It was the choice of weapons that changed that spat over a woman from a normal Saturday night step-20-paces-turn-and-fire affair to the brutal brawl of legends.

A challenge, and a challenge accepted, but not with the yawn-inspiring pair of pistols or swords.

This was a duel of pianos.

Twenty-paces. Turn. Heave the piano up and swing it smashing, fend off the in-flying piano, return the blow with a tipping or a devastating drop as the shards of woods and snapping wires and chunks of ivory fly.

Jan 24, 2004

Only another man’s note:
        "Dear Pound, I am leaving England."

Interruption of a 40-Day Wake

A collars turn against the dust.
A raven’s fist raised against the rain:
        pecking after infertile earth,
        biting at 12 new-mounded graves.
Innocent symbols of death eating at dirty fields tuned dry.

For 40 years, he swore, only to die of drought.
Because every bird goes home
        walking with an old limp
        to those windows always shuttered for never
        to a small red flower of the end.

Another good year Stan—
face to the sky while you wonder what it means to wander fro
on the other side of Cain.

Jan 23, 2004

Plans for the weekend:
      1. survive;
      2. not to kill anyone or rob a bank;
      3. attempt to normalize;
      4. lay on my bed and look at the ceiling;
      5. read something that has nothing to do with anything;
      6. wander the snowy streets looking for the image of a meaning.
Problems clearing towards a definition

I'm trying to think definitionally about "postmodern Christianity" because it's something I don't have handy and something I promised a while ago that I would think about.

Finding a definitional way to state rethinking this religion with this philosophy isn't the hard part as much as finding a decent and non-violent description of postmodernism. The quickest one is "always being suspicious of metanarrative," but this does more violence to the scope of relations than I am comfortable with, especially when talking about postmodernism as it meets Christianity. It's almost a definition with amnesia, since it remembers the old enemy but constantly forgets what's being saved.

A more narrative description that people find palatable is "a process of extraction from Modernism," though part of the reason it's palatable is it's indefinite fog. "Modernism" is left open and thus so is "extraction."

I'm also worried about postmodern Christians are concerned just with the reading of texts, not because that isn't there or relevant or important - in an age that is protestantized under the banner of scientific-historicism those questions are often first but still maybe concerns too within the framework they're proposing to remove. As if postmodern Christianity was the disgruntled child of Modern Christianity: always reacting to, alienated by and fighting against its parents. I want to "get over" Modern Christianity in such a way that I can stop asking and answering those questions.

This is only a problematization, and a case for the need of a definition. I hope to start a sketch - with a postponed thought towards its connection to Christianity - especially considering postmodernism's development as the co-joining of phenomenology and post-structuralism.
When did irony seek me out?
I wish the New Brutalism blog was still going, because I'd like to follow a group effort to flesh out a poetry theory, a taste.

Jan 22, 2004

I've been warholed.
A hodge-podge of religious movements and philosophical sounds taking shape
Nice. Very very nice. RadOx, A blog on Radical Orthodoxy co-authored by philosophy professor Joel Garver.

Radical Orthodoxy is something I've been interested in and, though I've not yet studied it in depth, I think it's something I've begun to bring into my own religious practice along with postmodern Christianity and negative theology.

Which is to say, Radical Orthodox is a part of my Anglo-Catholicism I can feel without having too specific of a location for it. When asked about it, I'm mostly likely to connect it to the related but peripheral Anglo-Catholic statement that fuller understanding of theology is to be found in participation in the liturgy, with Karl Barthes revision of his major theological work to say that theology is not an individual enterprise and only takes place in a community, with the idea of disentangling our faith from modernity and separating doctrine and practice from a strict adherence to a philosophy. I generally throw something of Phenomenological religion in there as well.

I don't know, really, that these things have specific or direct connections to Radical Orthodoxy. It's just that they've been connected for me and are in need of fleshing out.

This is material you've probably seen me talking around and about in recent times. It's related to Hugger's latest Fairfield on eschewing "religion" where religion is a propositional system to which we adhere and his occasional mention of Eucharistic resistance. It's a subject that came up sideways the other day when I was answering some questions of Dave's relating to narrative-myth as the place we learn ethics as opposed to an abstracted absolute Good.

Since I'm here, I'll wander plateaus to fit in the non-propositional Nicene Creed. It seems we, our protestantized world, want to read the creed as a series of propositional statements we agree with. - Cue Francis Schaffer's "All truth is propositional truth." - Yet, we can just as well read it as the restatement of a story, seeing that the narrative is never absent here.

And, eminently more important, a fuller understanding of the creed comes in reciting (chanting) the creed in community. Understanding comes with this communal embodied act, an act preformed in an actual unity with the church living and departed. It comes with a depth that cannot be had by an individual(istic) reading, a standing off. Embodied knowledge cannot be had from without, by dissection, through analysis.
"Everything's a scandal. Dying's a scandal. But we all do it."
        - Eric Packer, in Don DeLillo's Cosmopolis.
More than a black turtleneck
Of course looking like a writer is fine, nice stylistically and all that.

But when you write like a writer - for that one page, that one sentence, that one image when you've cut through everything everyone else has done and stepped out into writing that stings - then you know you're all right.


I wrote down a dream. Considering it. Working it over with my chewed pen. Poking until it released every primordial image, every animal of violence, every color of hope.

Setting it against paper that I might set it against myself.

And no part of my life escaped writing.

Jan 21, 2004

Reading to get inside
The way I read poetry - a description that may or may not have a defense:

1) Imagery
2) Sound
3) Structure/plan

Jan 20, 2004

The writer himself is a new idiom
(putting out of play)
Two Over and Out
CyberHillsdale gets smaller as they fall by the side.

Last night Metzger quit, as far as I can tell, because he felt like it and Dave's out for "artistically self-indulgent reasons."
"I'd rather write 100 stories . . . "
Two years and 105, 371 words with a new medium

Today I reach the notch that marks two years of blogging.
I began after discovering the medium through Andrew Sullivan and Jonah Goldberg and talking to fellow student Dan Greene about how difficult the technology was.

From then until today, I've written 105,371 words intended solely for this space on the internet: A novel’s worth at 299 pages of single spaced text.

_ The most enduring question on this blog have been the questions of myth, appearing in the first few weeks and in the last week.
_ The most enduring philosophical question has been the mind/body quandry.
_ The first picture was of Chaim Potok.
_ The longest blogging relationship has been with Seraphim.
_ The biggest change has been the Hillsdale Bloggers listing.
_ The worst heckler was "Steven" who disagreed with the inclusion of an Al Jezeera correspondent in an obit for journalists who died in Iraq.
_ The biggest changes in my personal life have been my religious conversion to Anglo-Catholicism and philosophical conversion to postmodernism.

I spent the first year trying to be a political blogger in the vein of Sullivan, Claybourn or Domenech. In the second summer I gave up politics, embraced philosophy and art, decided I had write primarily and only for myself, and began the experimental work that has drawn and repelled, attracted and appalled readers ever since.

Today I’m proud to have been called one of the most experimental bloggers and am interested in daily testing and exploring this medium with which we can begin a "systematic and unexpected variation of the modes of language, of narrative, of existing literary forms."

My life works started here.
"!" he said. And died.
A delightfully esoteric & colorful list of special character names.

My favorites: ! = wow, bang; * = Hale; & = Donald Duck; / = slack.

Jan 19, 2004

The coolest game we played in grade school but never knew was official: ROCK - PAPER - SCISSORS.
A new entry into my top 10 movies: Waking Life


"Our critique began as all critiques begin, with doubt. Doubt became our narrative. Ours was a quest for a new story: our own."

"On really romantic nights of self, I go salsa dancing with my confusion."

"We are the authors of ourselves, co-authoring a gigantic Dostoevsky novel starring clowns."
Recanting my Republican crimes against humanity
An opinion for the Hillsdale Collegian

This is a confession: I want to be an NPR liberal.

I want to care about politics in India, I want to consider new technologies in binding rare books, I want to follow the latest trends in folk music and Canadian book awards. I want to embrace a kind of political world thinking about humans not in that distanced way of wonkery and polls and elections but with the humanist concern for individuals, for stories about people crying or laughing, for art.

I came of age on talk radio, you could say. In high school I worked for a beekeeper and listened to 8 hours of right winged air waves every day as I painted beehives or extracted honey from the comb. I listened to the local guys and the national guys and I collected attacks on Clinton with my paycheck.

I read Tom Paine and the founding fathers. I looked up old issues of National Review dating back to the 80s. I read Russell Kirk and Alexander Solzhenitsyn. I came to Hillsdale College. But, slowly, I started slipping.

I think it was Solzhenitsyn first. I didn’t realize it at the time but, reading the Gulag Archipelago as a 15-year-old political activist, I took in the horrors of ideology and was learning to replace them with the particulars of human stories. From a long-bearded man in a Russian prison system to the foothills of central California I was taught a lesson: Never place politics over human hopes and human pains; never replace humanity with ideology; never set politics at the core of your world.

I didn’t realize what was happening until I read Whittaker Chambers, a man hiding from Communists in darkened farmhouses writing a letter to his children and refusing to call himself a conservative lest he commit the sin of ideology. As I went door to door wearing a Republican tee shirt and talking up a Republican Senator, I began to question my political eagerness, I began to doubt, to slip from my fortified position as a fighter for the right, the true, the Grand Old Party.

As I sat in a Young Republicans meeting listening to my friend and co-campaigner state definitively that all poor people deserved to be poor I began to wonder, in the darkness of a silence that was a fear of self-condemnation, if we weren’t guilty of the sin of political ideology. I wondered if we, arguing against the evil that was political and working towards a political solution, weren’t guilty of the same crimes against humanity as the Stalinists and the Fascists, of the spirit of the dirty politics of Nixon and Clinton, Henry Kissinger and Heuy Long.

This is a confession: I let the political take over my world; I was an ideologist; I made humanity second to candidacies and party platforms; I was a politico committed to the sins of the fascists, the communists and poll-driven politicians.

The summer before I moved to Hillsdale I read a lot of Jonah Goldberg – before we knew he was the poster child for neo-conservatism – and a bit of Russell Kirk. There was a growing dissonance in my soul, a growing rift between the conservatism that I wanted to believe and the conservatism I was practicing. There was an increasing conflict between the politics I was learning and a politics that could harmonize with philosophy, art, culture and humanity itself.

I was Jacob wrestling in the desert night.

I was trying to save something… a political vision, a party affiliation, a candidate, a side in the political battles raging about my ears. I was trying to hang on to the place I’d carved out as the aggressive young man in my local party, the opportunity of a career in state politics, the approving looks and the encouragement from older party members and activists. I wanted to keep my world painted in red, white, blue and elephant.

And yet, the angel who refused me his name kept saying, you cannot lose art; philosophy must be more than political philosophy; you cannot fit every story to the frame of a party platform; you cannot take every thought captive for your candidate.

I’ve not renewed my subscription to National Review this year. I’ve asked Hillsdale College to erect a statue to a non-political poet or philosopher. I’ve tried to avoid the daily polls and election journalism. I’ve reminded myself not to dehumanize political enemies. I’ve begun to listen to NPR. I’ve refocused, working on philosophy, poetry and poetry criticism.

I’m a repentant politico, a recovering wonk, and a humbled man confessing I once believed politics could save us.

This is a confession, and I pray that my penance be accepted.
Explorers of the Buddah’s feet returned with a box of Frequently Asked Questions.

Go read Bechtel's coming poetry chapbook.
Translating screws
I have found, with the help of my economist friend Andrew McCallum, the equation of a screw, which I want to use as the central example for linguistic parallelism. You can now view the equation of a screw here.

Jan 18, 2004

Praying to avoid tomorrow
That Oedipus feeling when you receive the telegram announcing your pending slip, the message framing your habits and your tendencies with what has yet to happen, the telling you that it will be so.
Five scars I have; five scars I don’t have
Part of an ongoing series of a weird legend…

1. A very small scar on my forehead at the hairline from a metal dump truck when I was 4.
2. A small burn scar on the first finger of my left hand from a hot lawn mower muffler.
3. A medium scar on my left forearm. Cause unknown. Looks like a cut.
4. A small scar on my right thigh from a home-forged gouge that slipped while I was carving.
5. A long scar on my left palm below the thumb that broke through the wood.

1. Nothing from driving a riding lawn mower through a metal shed wall.
2. Nothing from the childhood stick fights and dirt clod wars with my brother.
3. Nothing from the many, many cuts on my hands with a carving knife, working with a band saw, chainsaw, etc.
4. Nothing from a bare-knuckle brawl.
5. Nothing from a runaway hay wagon pulled by draft horses I was driving.

Jan 17, 2004

In the future, everyone will be married to Britney Spears for fifteen minutes.
In the neighborhood
Seraphim is driving a shiney new blog and the Mrs. Gugg is now blogging.

Jan 16, 2004

Beowulf fo rizzle
"Hweat," the word opening Old English poems, should probably be translated "Yo."
The Guggs in Holy Matrimony
Cook-Dyess wedding pictures are now online. My favorites: the bride and groom; with the bishop; before the alter; around the alter; before the witnesses; two hairy greeks; and some friends.

Jan 15, 2004

Sylvia Beach and James Joyce at Shakespeare & Co. in Paris

But by a story
we cannot be saved

More considerations of the importance of myth.

If the resurrection of Christ were a fact without a story, would it be worth believing?

No one was ever moved, but by a story.

In response to a story this age always asks "Is it true?" And we who believe in the importance of stories are always required to say "It was so." The car did get stuck in a tree. The woman did raise from the dead. St. David did ride a sea monster. Jack did climb the beanstalk. In what world would this answer cease to be needed, would the story not be trapped beneath scientific history?

There are stories I have told that I later learned were not factually true, and continued to tell. There are stories I have told that were other people stories, adopted to include me. I have told stories that didn't happen or didn't happen like that. The stories were important as stories, while the facts were irrelevant.

Science, when accepted as true, is translated into a story. We cannot whisper "Yet is still moves" as a fact, for in the whisper it is already a story.

The structuralists attempted to reduce myth to science, yet for the science to be of importance it would have to be translated back out into a story. Thus, the structuralists wanted to trade one type of story for another.

On the day lightning ceased to be the hammer of Thor and became electricity, we eliminated not stories but a certain type of story.

Consider the competing merits of evolution and creation. Not scientific merits, for science doesn't direct the way we think and live, but the narratal merits. Let us choose the better myth.

To the question, "How does one know which story is better" we can never offer a simple or mechanized answer. A story is better because it is worth retelling, because it translates beyond its time, because it moves us.

When "myth" is no longer a prejorative, this age will have passed.

Jan 14, 2004

tout autre : wholly other
The beginning of a running list

- God
- death
- khora
- tout autre
- monsters
- surprise
- Plato's Good?

      Consider the relationship of the impossible to the wholly other.
Two Jacks
Caputo will be coming to Hillsdale next year, though the dates aren't set, and Derrida is doing okay. I don't have a medical report on his cancer but as of Christmas he was "still kicking."
Favorite films of '03
Man on the Train
21 Grams
Finding Nemo
Pirates of the Caribbean

The movies I wish I'd seen:
Lost in Translation
Kill Bill, vol. 1
Mystic River

Jan 13, 2004

So how 'bout that ontological arguement?
Hate us. Love us.
      Disdain us. Admire us.

Whatever. We are unrepentant.

We are the dork side.

Jan 12, 2004

Where the bushes used to burn

"I was a preacher,"
the man said seriously, "Reverend Jim Casy - was a Burning Busher. Used to howl out the name of Jesus to glory. And used to get an irrigation ditch so squirmin' full of repentant sinners half of 'em like to drowned. But no more," he sighed. "Just Jim Casy now. Ain't got the call no more."

Jan 11, 2004

Dreams of Dieing: Ann Arbor Events
Tent Revival style
The Heretic's Bible book tour will be coming through Ann Arbor on January 28th at Borders at 7:00pm, if any of us are interested.

    on the 31st the fantastic movie Donnie Darko is playing on the big screens at State Theater as a midnight movie. We have to see this.
And the next semester begins.

      _deep breath_

Going away
Bethany Boyd is leaving for Uganda today, and Stephen Slater is leaving for Israel. Best of luck to both of them.

I set up a blog for Stephen to post from Israel, but we'll see if he uses it.
Bloggin' awards
Nominations for the 2004 Bloggies being accepted until the 12th. Look through the categories, look through your blog rolls, look through the Hillsdale Blogging Community list, and make some nominations.

Jan 10, 2004

Kissing the sky:
A question of the essence of rock 'n' roll
If one rock song were supposed to capture rock, to take it in and set it down in lyrics and rocking rythm, I think it would be the Stone's Satisfaction.

"I can’t get no, oh no no no.
Hey hey hey, that’s what I say.
I can’t get no satisfaction,
I can’t get no satisfaction.
’cause I try and I try and I try and I try.
I can’t get no, I can’t get no.
When I’m watchin’ my tv
And that man comes on to tell me
How white my shirts can be.
Well he can’t be a man ’cause he doesn’t smoke
The same cigarrettes as me.
I can’t get no, oh no no no."

But it might be Jimi with Purple Haze.
      Excuse me while I kiss the sky.
'High o'r the courthouse they stuck his head on a spear'

I'm in this hay mow about 50 feet off the ground moving bales down five tiers to the guy below me who's loading them onto a 45-foot drop deck black semi trailer and wind's decided to blow from the other direction now, so we're getting big fat wet flakes coming in of the lake into this barn and flying into my face at the perfect angle to lift chaff into a swirling mess sticking to the shirt I am currently sweating through.

So I start thinking about the Easter 1916 Revoluton.

I repeat to myself everything I know about the event and mentally organize it into pieces and from the pieces I single out themes and run them through, through the history of Ireland, previous revolutions, biographies of the revolutionaries, the following revolution of Michael Collins that was victorious, secondary influences on culture, English and global perspectives on Ireland and how they changed things and how they changed, other movements of oppressed people and how they shared in these themes . . .

And I spread out my themes - the manner of socialist knowledge in fighting an industrialist foe defined as capitalist, the political role of culture in identification in a time of revolution, the ability to self-indentify with art and the violence this breeds, the tension between honor-nobility-martyrdom and brutality-fierceness-victory - comparing and catagorizing and running together to find other themes and other stories.

I sink my hook deep in the end of the bound hay. Lift the bale to my knee. Take hold of the bottom edge. Whip my hook into the other end. Lift-heave-launch the bale around and out over the tier's ledge to tumble to my partner's swinging hook.

In the hay above me I see Ireland. In the hay below me I see culture meeting oppression and oppression meeting culture. I read a thesis in this bale, feel a paper with that hook. I shuffle the straw for knowledge, come up with worlds and move another bale.
While Rush has me on hold
According to the Christian Science Moniter's Are You a Neocon? quiz, I'm a liberal concerning foreign policy.

Wait. You know when I got the letter from the Michigan GOP asking for money to stop the invading Democrats, the evil liberals? You don't think they were talking about me do you?

Jan 8, 2004

A Captin-Hook-looking tool
The old man leaned back in the wooden chair that's been sitting around this kitchen in Ohio since the Civil War.

"I see you've got the blister," he said.

I look up from my hot saurkraut soup. It's snot-freezing cold out there and maybe it's messed with my hearing because I think he just said "The Blister." I look at him.

My coat collar is turned up around my ears and my hair is wild, stuck with hay and the sweat frozen to ice in my hair is starting to drip off and right when he said "blister" this large drop of thawed sweat hit the oak table. Kerrr-PLOP! Looking at the table, I notice that I can feel my toes, that the muscle in my forearm hurts when I lift my spoon and that my legs are starting to relax.

"We were loading hay from the Riverside barn," said his great-nephew, my friend. "I figure I've had a callous on the side of my finger for like six years."

"I've never used a bale hook before," I said.

"How do you like hay?"

"It's work," I say, trying to keep a little gaurded on a new job, until I figure things out.

"It sucks," he said.
I pray God to rid me of God.
        - Meister Eckhart

Jan 6, 2004

Housebroken Ezra Pounds would be a good name for this year's edition of Hillsdale's lit mag.
Do ba ba di ba do
Luke and I hit a poetry reading after church at St. Joe's yesterday, something on the downtown block of Sandusky with two guys from Cleveland reading together and seperatly followed by an open mic. The two guys were okay - a few good pieces and a good line occasionally but pockmarked with cliches and an unrational attraction to haikus.

A few people read at the open mic, a student from a local college and an English teacher who appears to miss New Hampshire. I read End of the Reel and Sidewalk Forms to good response.

A few comments:
#a. Cliches are evil.
#b. Using an era or a school of poetry as a starting place, as something to work from, is fine. Part of the process. But you have to get over them. The Beat's were great but no Beat would sit around ripping off Ginsburg or immitate the intonations of Kerouac.
#c. Haiku is dead.
#d. Joke-poems get very tired.
#e. Cliches! Are! Evil!
#f. I don't want to hear the preface to the poem.
Blogging about blogging tee shirts
Emily Stack thinks I need this tee shirt. She's probably right.
Rectilinear: consisting of or pertaining to straight lines.

Jan 4, 2004

Droll observations of a blogger-hacker of the future
As I read my way into the cyberpunk canon

"He imagined that she'd told him that he'd never work in that town again, and indeed it seemed he might not. Disloyalty to one's employer being a particularly difficult notch on anyone's ticket, and parhaps particularly so, in that town, when the act itself had sprung from what Larry recalled had once been called scruples.

The word itself striking him now as singularly ridiculous."

"Laney had recently noticed that the only people who had titles that clearly described their jobs had jobs he wouldn't have wanted."

      by Williman Gibson in Idoru
With red barns and silos
I stepped onto Ohio soil, took in the view a field and felt the warm night wind, and agrarian blood began to flow. Luke Heyman and I talked about trees - red oak, maple, walnut, boxwood, evergreens - before we went to bed.

It felt good today, tearing down and old barn, loading hay and driving Ohio country roads in a forestry green stick shift pick-up truck while Luke and I talk.

Jan 2, 2004

Noah's raven
What's with Noah's raven?

And it came to pass at the end of forty days, that Noah opened the window of the ark which he made: And he sent forth a raven which went forth to and fro until the waters were dried up from the earth. Also he sent forth a dove from him . . .
The poetric line


Jan 1, 2004

End of the Reel

A Mexican standoff around my head -
Double-guns     like a John Woo gangster.

          The raven rises slow-mo flaping to the blood beat.

Bullets finding the center I have never had.
Double-dieing to cheat life twice.

Tell me about your father, he says.
Welcome to '04
What would you think if I sang out of tune
With friends like these

If anything can save me it will, finally, be my friends.

In the last few days - seeing friends gather for the wedding of the Guggs, walking around an empty and therefore ugly campus, hearing Luke get excited on the telephone when I told him I'd drive and pick him up, waking up on Prizio's floor between Metzger and Heyman, hearing Prizio laugh at me while Caitlin rolls her eyes - I've noticed that I have the best of friends.

I have the coolest, friendliest, smartest, funniest and most generous friends. We're lame in all the right ways.

I have friends that I would choose all over again.

Special thanks to Adam and Caitlin - our F. Scott and Zelda - for having me to Ann Arbor for the last three holidays.
Private lemonade

Twelve strings
                yellow jello

Because I know
So I'm watching some movie and see this part with three nerds laughing at some bit of esoteria and I think, "that's not how nerds laugh."

So now I'm looking for a job as nerd technical advisor.