(March 31. 05)
I have many things to do today, the least of which will require droves of murderous thought. Being a philosopher or one so inclined, such is the tally of my life. I tally like a beggar with little in common with the pedestrian hoards, as they perceive the world through milk-skinned eyes, dunning what lays hidden behind and before. Silly cunts haven’t lectern or pulpit to piss in, reading about wizards and goblins and boy-heroes with spectacles and trousers too short for walking, so as they must they fly and soar unwary of the delicacies of science and reason. Such is their mien I suppose, sopping sorry shits. I need a cigarette or two, like it or not. Stoking the bellows of unreason, zithers in droves, murderously so.
Screaming rains roiling sod and muck into a shim of gray sky, scudding dirt, carbons and brine, dog’s-filth, worm and dun. What a fucking inhospitable mire, no rest for the weary and light of step. Fleet-footed some say, but they, I fear, are mistaken and should have chosen their words with more care, economy and thrift. Silly bugger’s-cunts the lot of ‘em.
As tiresome a cunt as I can be, I never mince reason with dross. Professor F. Peddle has asked that I sent him an academic CV. Having a slim to dimming notion of what that is or requires, I have emailed Maggie in Upsidedownland to ask for direction and help. My first uncensored thought on the subject (the oedipal-savant that I am) was Cunt Vagina, but of course that was just my Id talking through the Dantean trumpet of my ass. If it were not for Virgil’s cloven clip-clops, Dante would not be the great man and poet he is remember as today, not a by long fucking shot. Climbing up the sclerosis of Dis’ back like Sharpies with sackcloth and gum crimped soles. What a fucking sight that must have been, cud’s of blue cheese and dry biscuits with licorice whips and the blackest black jujubes. I’d have paid a pretty-penny to be a fly on the back of Beelzebub to have seen that, I kid you not. Clip-clop the trumpet of me ass is blaring dissonant toot-toots, so it is.
I am fearsomely tired, exhausted, perhaps more so. It seems unreasonable to abuse the common italic such as I do, but as I see it, eyes cleaved like pigs’ hocks, such is such I suppose. Nothing further or more need be said or written on the subject. Let’s leave it at that and be done with it. Common criminal that I am, fuck it and be off and done. Silly experiential world of dross and sharp tacks, never one to mince and monger a good metaphor, I see fit to be tied, quartered, feathered and tarred. That’s if the fucking sclerotic cunts can catch me of course. Not that I’m much of a cross-country runner, yet I do know how to dodge and shuffle with the best of ‘em. Fucking mealy cleats and the like, not so much fun when you have to hack dribs from copper. Dave was a fleet of foot runner, crossing shoelaces with nimble fore and thumb. Almost what one would call ambidextrous, silly panting bastard used to shoot the fenders and hubs off of model cars he modeled in the privy of his basement with lead pellets and forced air. I once saw someone’s little sister chewing on an elastic band with tiny milkteeth that weren’t properly positioned in the dorm of ‘ere mouth; sad sight it was, as I recall some thirty-years on. Such is the genome I suppose, always has some deformation and trick up it’s sleeve, fucking cunt. Rubber bands are for bundling mail and keeping one’s trouser legs from scuffing the floor, not an after school treat or chewing gum. Fuck no! I am fearsome, not tired.
(April 1. 05)
A calico gray sky. Millet gray perhaps, perhaps grayer. Fenders and hubs shot off with lead pellets. I began drinking at fifteen or so, a six-pack of Labia’s Blue in hard metal cans. We sucked it through straws and slurped it off spoons, thinking as we did that it would quicken the buzz and stiffen our cocks. Of course neither was to occur, though we did learn that bile and vomit tear the esophagus from the hinge of one’s sternum. The night sky is blacker than tarpaper shack tar. Time for bed.
(April 2. 05)
A jackdaw wings like scissors cutting paper angels in the gray April sky. I wonder who has died today, left this mortal coil. Jackdaws’ advent death; wings like devilfish sculling watery air. Allow me this indulgence: I cannot imagine, nor would I, a more fitting mate for myself than a Plumtree’s Potted Meat plump Molly Bloom, warbling forget-me-nots in the cones and stirrups of my ear. Perhaps I, with clutching fingers and head at a tilt, would pump and mandible between those scabbard-red thighs, scouring Liffey’d bits and arias from scalloped-raw flesh. Blazes be damned, I would if I could, no ifs ands or buts about it. My Cossack’s-cock fencing in the soar scullery of her swallow’s nest. Then as tradition would have it, a bar of lemony-scented soap hooked from the pocket of Leopold’s trousers, for post-coital lavations and scrubbings. Joyce himself would approve, if he were not dead and rotting in bog and peat. What more can one expect of a cunning savant, having slept no more than four hours in succession, I haven’t a Plumtree’s potted pot to piss in, now have I?
I drank strong whiskies
Cupped in the palms
Of my hands
Cupped in the palms
Of my hands
Black water culled from fiords
With bucket and trove
Coke fires blackening heath
With bucket and trove
Coke fires blackening heath
Sod-spade driven heel to toe
Cutting clods of peat
Men with strong backs
Cutting clods of peat
Men with strong backs
And gray cricks of hair
Bent over bevel and hoe
Cutting stokes of black earth
Bent over bevel and hoe
Cutting stokes of black earth
Rain clouds black as bootstraps; sodomites (such as I) should stick to proper grammar and syntax and be mindful of our minds. Consciousness has its limits, or so I’ve come to learn. Having eaten a fools-fill of dinner, I now sit drumming a tympanum on the taut skin of my stomach; fingers joist to wrist and palm with twills and scotching. Having, as I do, no conception of time or space, I stuff and glut my belly with a robber’s disregard. Pope John Paul II has left this mortal-coil, leaving a legacy of kindness, love and faith in a life ever after. He will be mourned and remembered with love, hope and kind words. Rain dulls thought, but reawakens a triage of pain.
(April 3. 05)
A millet gray sky heavy with rain and sleet. April is a cur’s month, a mangy dog with worms and fleas. A heckling wind encrypted on skin and bone, a tattoo pecked marrow deep, dug into the grit of a roughshod arm. That is all I have or need to say for today. These fucking April showers will be the ruin of me. An umbrella is a useless thing; repelling nothing more than hopes and dry clothing. A dustbin lid would serve just as much purpose; stone deafened like a fucking Mason, but dry as the fucking Sahara. Some good that’ll be in a windstorm or a fucking deluge. Stupid monk’swool pulled taut over head and shoulder, calling the all-clear for the Rector and his Christian brethren. I suppose sodomy’s not that bad, as long as you’re not on the receiving-end of the pulpit. Too much triage and not nearly enough suturing and bloodletting. The only failsafe panacea I can think of is death, shoveling dirt and millet, thumbs splayed round trowel-shank and umbrella (just in case its raining cats and bogs) making a fucking mess out of your face and suit trousers. Good night, and don’t slam the fucking door on your way out, or in.
(April 4. 05)
Mercenaries like pullets pecking the blue out of a gods-made sky. The all-clear is clear, breastplate to strop, heave-ho and stern, hawking scabies and rumcakes. I missed analysis this afternoon; got rundown by a carload of Mexican anarchists with peyote buttons for eyes, fucking Incas. I ate a generous serving of chocolate pudding for desert this evening, four couplets to be exact. I licked the leftovers off the spoon with the scup of my tongue, wondering why it is I have such a dialectic for chocolate stewed in pots; perhaps it’s the shinny black skin that forms on top, crackling like thin ice under heavy boots, exhuming the turbid waters underneath. Or maybe, as it is, it has to do with my dear mother’s fritters, pocked with corn and dressed in syrupy maple syrup. Or corn-beef, potatoes and cabbage, all boiled in the same pot, a lubricous scum roiling on top. Gods only know, I suppose. Another murderous day breached at the knees. Time again (as it is) for bed.
(April 5. 05)
A cloudless blue sky, bluer than stonewashed denim. Tomorrow morning at ten fifteen sharp I am to meet with Professor Francis Peddle to discuss my suitability for the Ph.D. program at the Dominicain College situated in a limestone rectory on Empress Street, Ottawa Ontario. I will wear freshly laundered denim-trousers and a wool-polyester blend turtleneck sweater with piping and ribbing on the chest and shoulders. My feet will be shoed in shiny black Doc Martin eight-eyelet lace boots with yellow air-walk soles and stitching. I will not wear a hat or carry an umbrella, as these two haberdashery items are not to my liking or mien; and from past experience, tend to make me look obtruding and garishly overdressed. I will leave that sort of dross and buffoonery to dandies and Oxford Dons. Although I did smoke a pipe when I was in my teens, tamping Presbyterian mixture into the cob, I have no such desire to do so today nor in the near to middling future. Cobs and tamping are for lecturers and tutors, not those with dreadful compulsions and recalcitrant obsessions. My COD is quite intractable, and as such, not worth the bother of an explanation or abreaction. Perhaps it is I who am the dandy and not the Oxon Don or ancient historiographer. This just may be the case; in fact it is, without a doubt. I must abreact a catharsis and none too soon I suppose.
(April 7, 05)
Yesterday was a mirror of all days that preceded it, and as such, not worth the bother of description or recounting. Cutthroats of cloud skip like devils across a dun-gray sky. April showers pissing on the head of the world.
Wittgenstein says we will never understand pain, only experience it, each in his own solipsistic hell. A language of triage is impossible, as the very problem lies in our inability to communicate our pain to others, what we are feeling or experiencing, and this, clearly, is the metalanguage of pain; its very incommunicability. As such, pain is monological and remains so until death. The only way to understand, or more to the point, feel another’s pain, is through the backdoor, through a reconstruction of one’s own experience of pain through a solipsism that denies access and objectivity. Pain is distinctly subjective; I must take your word for it, nothing more is possible than that. As would have it, I am in horrible pain, yet you have only my word and grimaces to go by in determining whether I am telling the truth or not. Such is the nature of pain, a most elusive and hellish experience.
(April 8. 05)
After a brief albeit maddening fuck-up of my right ear prosthesis, I can now again hear; cones and stirrups be damned. A glaringly bright April morning sky, rainless and adobe dry.
(April 9. 05)
We live in a world of mice and men; some scurry while others plod. I, however, plod scurrying, like neither mouse nor man. I have little time or patience for moping about, as there are more important things to do, such as skillet-blackening a plump red kidney or scrubbing myself to Braille with a bar of lemony-scented apothecary soap.
I spent a lovely afternoon with Tracey recalling a time and place in my life when solipsism was nothing more than a philosophical word, and alcohol a simple albeit childish coping skill. Albeit, I’ll be fine. Solipsism has its advantages, even though they can never be verified or reissued by anyone other than…a curious bystander.
(April 10. 05)
Without further ado, I will now yank my esophagus through the rectory of my ass, a trumpeting dissonance that would surely re-deafen Beethoven; macerating stirrup and hinge like Nereid bone. No rest for the weary and heavy of heart. I am not a mere casualty of unreasonableness, but a hookworm feasting on the gluttonous imprecations and ideals of those who have come before me, some more skillful at derision. But poxes, as you know, cause such awful syphilitic delusions in the (un) anointed, rendering there host a blithering fool. I am a glut, not a gourmandizer of dross and ill- humors. So be it, or so say those lucky few, those who have been anointed with dry biscuits and tannic ethereal blood. Time to polish and roan my damnable thesis and be done with it for good. . I failed miserably, but have somehow managed to fake my way through yet another day, in this, the best of all possible worlds, the only one we have as callous and (un) transcendent as they may sound. Unsettled dreams and jimmying-legs await me, sleep ever as I may. The skill is in seeming unskilled, and that, dare I say, is the parable of the ‘casualty of unreasonableness’. Take it or leave it.
(April 11. 05)
A token-blue sky, summer is in the air. Today I will hurry and scat about, having no time for dilly or dalliances. First my hearing-prosthesis must be taken into the contraptionist for repair. Then I need to request two letters of reference: then an afternoon walk, perhaps some dilly-dallying, sun permitting: then forty-five minutes pinioned to the analytic-couch: then an ACA meeting, which I find contrapuntal, but of interest just the same: then some polishing and scrubbing: then sleep, merciless sleep. Where to begin?
I did not get the job; the one I was indifferent to from the start and interested in solely as a means to buying more Gauloises and books, neither of which are crucial for sustenance or a healthy-lifestyle. Illness, however, are crucial, especially if one expects to get one’s worth out of one’s healthcare taxes. Fucking taxes and bad decisions will spell the end of me of that I am certain. Philosophical-mollycoddling is always an option, even though it does encourage the impetigo and onerous-clutching. As I told my analyst this afternoon while whiling away on the Persian-divan, masturbation is a form of transubstantiation, the remnants and cobbling of Christ’s person within the strum of my loins. I will be trumpeted into the black-grave of hell for this, but in the larger scope of my life, that is the least of my concerns for the time being. A quid of gray-ash with a mordant sense of the absurd is smoldering in the jujube dish I use for an ashtray. Such, I suppose, is my lot in life, Sodom and Gomorra in droves. Gonorrhea of the esophagus, so I have been led to understand, is quite painful for those wearing neckties, ascots and boy scouts’ waggles. Alkala will fib, jib, drib, or some such other depersonalizing nonsense. Fat bastard scoutmaster with half-chewed mint shit in the scrotum of his mouth. These are memories and rebuses one does not soon forget if ever.
(April 12.05)
An azure blue sky caught napping on the job. Birds tatting straw and string into latticework nests, such is the morning as imagined from the parapet of my windowsill. Such fucking grave indifference to man and machine, I need a country retreat, field’s abuzz with honeybees and mudwasps. A good four hours of uninterrupted Joycean wordplay, I feel motivated and ready to put an end to it all, the thesis of course, not my measly life. Sodom and Gomorra would be proud, if not all together syphilitic with spirochetes and worms. Perhaps sleep will cure me of this heckling scoutmaster’s dropsy. Stranger things have happened I suppose. Gods’night to you all.
(April 13. 05)
I forgot to wear my watch today; such is the essence I time, never there when you need it, spent when you do. It’s the moments in between that are of interest to me; the lapse ellipsis which make life worth waking up to every day. Without these we’re nothing but quips and scats of existential collusion. And that, I fear, I fear more than ontological nothingness. At least nothingness has its designation, albeit a shaky one, but none the less, one where cocks and freemen are free to rump and rumpus with complete and utter impunity. Self-consciousness aside, there’s a place I’d give me eyeteeth to have a moment’s rumpus and rump in, no watches with floral wristbands or crystal methampetamines that come in capsulate and tincture. No sire Bob, not a fucking chance in hell, frozen stiff as Dante’s cock or not. (I’d be there without a moment’s noticed, all decked out in friar’s frock and cleric’s miter; no two words about it, times a fucking cur, no ifs ands or buts about it; no sire Bob, not a one). Silly bastard, who the fuck gives a whores cuss what you think, not a one I’m sure. Time to put this nonsense to bed. Silly cunt that I am, I’m sure they’ll be more time for this dross and scat in the morning when I am less cunning and arrhythmic; off to bed you sleepy head, before the goblins and child-heroes fold you into origami shreds. Gods be with you adman Bloom, good night.
(April 14. 05)
There are subterranean implosions going on in my neighborhood, where, I am uncertain, but I can feel the rumblings in the seat of my underpants just the same. Perhaps they’re chipping bone from Etruscan loom, or making a hole for who knows what constructional purpose. Reifications are merciless, especially when plotted with dynamite and explosives. I, however, will sit here in contempt of reason, smoking cheroots bitter with tar, benzene and toxic hydrocarbons. Such is my mien, I suppose.
Skeins of gold-spun crepuscular light, like fucking devils, shine through the portico of my bedroom window. Dusk is upon us; so it seems. Gouts of it, so much so that my eyes are seared shut and burnt umber. Late day sun is always such a fucking nuisance, flitting about like a bluebottle or a junebug. I cannot see beyond the tiptoe of my nose, bridged as it is spanning the chasm that separates the dross from the millstone. Fucking Italics will be the end of me, of that I am sure. Whets anything got to do with dross and millstones? I haven’t the faintest, though I have, in the not too recent past, lost the tether that holds me to the fray of conscious consciousness. Dennett no doubt would abjure, but who really gives a ram’s ass what he thinks or not? Anyone Mephistophelean enough to entitle a book, ‘Consciousness Explained’ has some serious explaining to do, no doubt. I would expect nothing less than an intentional recantation on hands and knees, supplicating to a surrealist’s scribbling of Derrida and Wittgenstein in full academic gown. Nothing more would suffice. Not a leather-bound copy of Kant or a photo of Hanna and Martin fucking. As I myself have not been fucking in quite sometime, I should whet my appetite on unconscious jimmying and call it a day. So be it, good night one and all.
(April 15. 05)
Morning has rived a crick in the loom of my neck. I can’t put up with much more of this nonsense, not if I expect to make anything of myself. Silly neck, sillier crick in the loom of my frigging neck.
The Savoy Society put on Gilbert and Ed Sullivan’s ‘Patience’ this evening at the Centre Point Theatre. I have none. My hearing-aide deafened midway through the first act so I was spared any further Sullivan and Gilbert. I would have much preferred an evening with the Marquis de Sade, as he certainly would have raised the appreciation of an otherwise syphilitic evening. Octogenarians are not well known for their appreciation of metered-rhythms and operatic-variances, as they tend to be lacking in both conscious and tonal acuity, leaving gray-cricks and midwives fidgeting like children in too soft seats. Give me Puccini and Wagner, or Strauss and Debussy, not Sullivan and Giblets in woman’s silk slippers and shears. Nonetheless, I did have a most enjoyable evening just the same.
(April 3. 05)
A millet gray sky heavy with rain and sleet. April is a cur’s month, a mangy dog with worms and fleas. A heckling wind encrypted on skin and bone, a tattoo pecked marrow deep, dug into the grit of a roughshod arm. That is all I have or need to say for today. These fucking April showers will be the ruin of me. An umbrella is a useless thing; repelling nothing more than hopes and dry clothing. A dustbin lid would serve just as much purpose; stone deafened like a fucking Mason, but dry as the fucking Sahara. Some good that’ll be in a windstorm or a fucking deluge. Stupid monk’swool pulled taut over head and shoulder, calling the all-clear for the Rector and his Christian brethren. I suppose sodomy’s not that bad, as long as you’re not on the receiving-end of the pulpit. Too much triage and not nearly enough suturing and bloodletting. The only failsafe panacea I can think of is death, shoveling dirt and millet, thumbs splayed round trowel-shank and umbrella (just in case its raining cats and bogs) making a fucking mess out of your face and suit trousers. Good night, and don’t slam the fucking door on your way out, or in.
(April 4. 05)
Mercenaries like pullets pecking the blue out of a gods-made sky. The all-clear is clear, breastplate to strop, heave-ho and stern, hawking scabies and rumcakes. I missed analysis this afternoon; got rundown by a carload of Mexican anarchists with peyote buttons for eyes, fucking Incas. I ate a generous serving of chocolate pudding for desert this evening, four couplets to be exact. I licked the leftovers off the spoon with the scup of my tongue, wondering why it is I have such a dialectic for chocolate stewed in pots; perhaps it’s the shinny black skin that forms on top, crackling like thin ice under heavy boots, exhuming the turbid waters underneath. Or maybe, as it is, it has to do with my dear mother’s fritters, pocked with corn and dressed in syrupy maple syrup. Or corn-beef, potatoes and cabbage, all boiled in the same pot, a lubricous scum roiling on top. Gods only know, I suppose. Another murderous day breached at the knees. Time again (as it is) for bed.
(April 5. 05)
A cloudless blue sky, bluer than stonewashed denim. Tomorrow morning at ten fifteen sharp I am to meet with Professor Francis Peddle to discuss my suitability for the Ph.D. program at the Dominicain College situated in a limestone rectory on Empress Street, Ottawa Ontario. I will wear freshly laundered denim-trousers and a wool-polyester blend turtleneck sweater with piping and ribbing on the chest and shoulders. My feet will be shoed in shiny black Doc Martin eight-eyelet lace boots with yellow air-walk soles and stitching. I will not wear a hat or carry an umbrella, as these two haberdashery items are not to my liking or mien; and from past experience, tend to make me look obtruding and garishly overdressed. I will leave that sort of dross and buffoonery to dandies and Oxford Dons. Although I did smoke a pipe when I was in my teens, tamping Presbyterian mixture into the cob, I have no such desire to do so today nor in the near to middling future. Cobs and tamping are for lecturers and tutors, not those with dreadful compulsions and recalcitrant obsessions. My COD is quite intractable, and as such, not worth the bother of an explanation or abreaction. Perhaps it is I who am the dandy and not the Oxon Don or ancient historiographer. This just may be the case; in fact it is, without a doubt. I must abreact a catharsis and none too soon I suppose.
(April 7, 05)
Yesterday was a mirror of all days that preceded it, and as such, not worth the bother of description or recounting. Cutthroats of cloud skip like devils across a dun-gray sky. April showers pissing on the head of the world.
Wittgenstein says we will never understand pain, only experience it, each in his own solipsistic hell. A language of triage is impossible, as the very problem lies in our inability to communicate our pain to others, what we are feeling or experiencing, and this, clearly, is the metalanguage of pain; its very incommunicability. As such, pain is monological and remains so until death. The only way to understand, or more to the point, feel another’s pain, is through the backdoor, through a reconstruction of one’s own experience of pain through a solipsism that denies access and objectivity. Pain is distinctly subjective; I must take your word for it, nothing more is possible than that. As would have it, I am in horrible pain, yet you have only my word and grimaces to go by in determining whether I am telling the truth or not. Such is the nature of pain, a most elusive and hellish experience.
(April 8. 05)
After a brief albeit maddening fuck-up of my right ear prosthesis, I can now again hear; cones and stirrups be damned. A glaringly bright April morning sky, rainless and adobe dry.
(April 9. 05)
We live in a world of mice and men; some scurry while others plod. I, however, plod scurrying, like neither mouse nor man. I have little time or patience for moping about, as there are more important things to do, such as skillet-blackening a plump red kidney or scrubbing myself to Braille with a bar of lemony-scented apothecary soap.
I spent a lovely afternoon with Tracey recalling a time and place in my life when solipsism was nothing more than a philosophical word, and alcohol a simple albeit childish coping skill. Albeit, I’ll be fine. Solipsism has its advantages, even though they can never be verified or reissued by anyone other than…a curious bystander.
(April 10. 05)
Without further ado, I will now yank my esophagus through the rectory of my ass, a trumpeting dissonance that would surely re-deafen Beethoven; macerating stirrup and hinge like Nereid bone. No rest for the weary and heavy of heart. I am not a mere casualty of unreasonableness, but a hookworm feasting on the gluttonous imprecations and ideals of those who have come before me, some more skillful at derision. But poxes, as you know, cause such awful syphilitic delusions in the (un) anointed, rendering there host a blithering fool. I am a glut, not a gourmandizer of dross and ill- humors. So be it, or so say those lucky few, those who have been anointed with dry biscuits and tannic ethereal blood. Time to polish and roan my damnable thesis and be done with it for good. . I failed miserably, but have somehow managed to fake my way through yet another day, in this, the best of all possible worlds, the only one we have as callous and (un) transcendent as they may sound. Unsettled dreams and jimmying-legs await me, sleep ever as I may. The skill is in seeming unskilled, and that, dare I say, is the parable of the ‘casualty of unreasonableness’. Take it or leave it.
(April 11. 05)
A token-blue sky, summer is in the air. Today I will hurry and scat about, having no time for dilly or dalliances. First my hearing-prosthesis must be taken into the contraptionist for repair. Then I need to request two letters of reference: then an afternoon walk, perhaps some dilly-dallying, sun permitting: then forty-five minutes pinioned to the analytic-couch: then an ACA meeting, which I find contrapuntal, but of interest just the same: then some polishing and scrubbing: then sleep, merciless sleep. Where to begin?
I did not get the job; the one I was indifferent to from the start and interested in solely as a means to buying more Gauloises and books, neither of which are crucial for sustenance or a healthy-lifestyle. Illness, however, are crucial, especially if one expects to get one’s worth out of one’s healthcare taxes. Fucking taxes and bad decisions will spell the end of me of that I am certain. Philosophical-mollycoddling is always an option, even though it does encourage the impetigo and onerous-clutching. As I told my analyst this afternoon while whiling away on the Persian-divan, masturbation is a form of transubstantiation, the remnants and cobbling of Christ’s person within the strum of my loins. I will be trumpeted into the black-grave of hell for this, but in the larger scope of my life, that is the least of my concerns for the time being. A quid of gray-ash with a mordant sense of the absurd is smoldering in the jujube dish I use for an ashtray. Such, I suppose, is my lot in life, Sodom and Gomorra in droves. Gonorrhea of the esophagus, so I have been led to understand, is quite painful for those wearing neckties, ascots and boy scouts’ waggles. Alkala will fib, jib, drib, or some such other depersonalizing nonsense. Fat bastard scoutmaster with half-chewed mint shit in the scrotum of his mouth. These are memories and rebuses one does not soon forget if ever.
(April 12.05)
An azure blue sky caught napping on the job. Birds tatting straw and string into latticework nests, such is the morning as imagined from the parapet of my windowsill. Such fucking grave indifference to man and machine, I need a country retreat, field’s abuzz with honeybees and mudwasps. A good four hours of uninterrupted Joycean wordplay, I feel motivated and ready to put an end to it all, the thesis of course, not my measly life. Sodom and Gomorra would be proud, if not all together syphilitic with spirochetes and worms. Perhaps sleep will cure me of this heckling scoutmaster’s dropsy. Stranger things have happened I suppose. Gods’night to you all.
(April 13. 05)
I forgot to wear my watch today; such is the essence I time, never there when you need it, spent when you do. It’s the moments in between that are of interest to me; the lapse ellipsis which make life worth waking up to every day. Without these we’re nothing but quips and scats of existential collusion. And that, I fear, I fear more than ontological nothingness. At least nothingness has its designation, albeit a shaky one, but none the less, one where cocks and freemen are free to rump and rumpus with complete and utter impunity. Self-consciousness aside, there’s a place I’d give me eyeteeth to have a moment’s rumpus and rump in, no watches with floral wristbands or crystal methampetamines that come in capsulate and tincture. No sire Bob, not a fucking chance in hell, frozen stiff as Dante’s cock or not. (I’d be there without a moment’s noticed, all decked out in friar’s frock and cleric’s miter; no two words about it, times a fucking cur, no ifs ands or buts about it; no sire Bob, not a one). Silly bastard, who the fuck gives a whores cuss what you think, not a one I’m sure. Time to put this nonsense to bed. Silly cunt that I am, I’m sure they’ll be more time for this dross and scat in the morning when I am less cunning and arrhythmic; off to bed you sleepy head, before the goblins and child-heroes fold you into origami shreds. Gods be with you adman Bloom, good night.
(April 14. 05)
There are subterranean implosions going on in my neighborhood, where, I am uncertain, but I can feel the rumblings in the seat of my underpants just the same. Perhaps they’re chipping bone from Etruscan loom, or making a hole for who knows what constructional purpose. Reifications are merciless, especially when plotted with dynamite and explosives. I, however, will sit here in contempt of reason, smoking cheroots bitter with tar, benzene and toxic hydrocarbons. Such is my mien, I suppose.
Skeins of gold-spun crepuscular light, like fucking devils, shine through the portico of my bedroom window. Dusk is upon us; so it seems. Gouts of it, so much so that my eyes are seared shut and burnt umber. Late day sun is always such a fucking nuisance, flitting about like a bluebottle or a junebug. I cannot see beyond the tiptoe of my nose, bridged as it is spanning the chasm that separates the dross from the millstone. Fucking Italics will be the end of me, of that I am sure. Whets anything got to do with dross and millstones? I haven’t the faintest, though I have, in the not too recent past, lost the tether that holds me to the fray of conscious consciousness. Dennett no doubt would abjure, but who really gives a ram’s ass what he thinks or not? Anyone Mephistophelean enough to entitle a book, ‘Consciousness Explained’ has some serious explaining to do, no doubt. I would expect nothing less than an intentional recantation on hands and knees, supplicating to a surrealist’s scribbling of Derrida and Wittgenstein in full academic gown. Nothing more would suffice. Not a leather-bound copy of Kant or a photo of Hanna and Martin fucking. As I myself have not been fucking in quite sometime, I should whet my appetite on unconscious jimmying and call it a day. So be it, good night one and all.
(April 15. 05)
Morning has rived a crick in the loom of my neck. I can’t put up with much more of this nonsense, not if I expect to make anything of myself. Silly neck, sillier crick in the loom of my frigging neck.
The Savoy Society put on Gilbert and Ed Sullivan’s ‘Patience’ this evening at the Centre Point Theatre. I have none. My hearing-aide deafened midway through the first act so I was spared any further Sullivan and Gilbert. I would have much preferred an evening with the Marquis de Sade, as he certainly would have raised the appreciation of an otherwise syphilitic evening. Octogenarians are not well known for their appreciation of metered-rhythms and operatic-variances, as they tend to be lacking in both conscious and tonal acuity, leaving gray-cricks and midwives fidgeting like children in too soft seats. Give me Puccini and Wagner, or Strauss and Debussy, not Sullivan and Giblets in woman’s silk slippers and shears. Nonetheless, I did have a most enjoyable evening just the same.
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