Sunday, January 20, 2008

Scotsman’s Hat and X-ray Spectacles

(Jan 20/08)

I am a piebald liar, a Peabody tosspot. Neither have I a Scotsman’s cap nor X-ray spectacles, although I have been known to make a damn spectacle of myself. Lately I’ve been thinking a lot about thinking, giving it, thinking, a good thinking over. Bishop Berkeley thought a lot about thinking, or was it George Berkeley, either way one or the other of them (perhaps both of them) put a good deal of thought into thinking about thinking. Just this moment, maybe a moment ago, a moment past (hard to tell, all this clogged up thinking thoughts) I was thinking about the thought that I might, might very well indeed, be a solipsist. If this is so, this thinking like this, like a solipsist would think, or so I imagine he or she (me, perhaps) would think, then solipsism isn’t such a tough go at all, not by a long shot, short if you prefer. I am a piebald lair, a Peabody tosspot, a cesspit in a Scotsman’s cap and X-ray spectacles. We solipsists, if in fact I am one, a solipsist, are a snotty bunch of fuckers, even by a short shot, even that.

(Jan 19/08)

A pea-size peck of a morning: a blue bluer blue sky wearing a Scotsman’s hat and X-ray spectacles. Dear me dearest me, what am I to do, not a peck or a pickle have I, oh dear, Yes. Pedro Pepper picked a peck of pickled plumper’s, shod in sabots and wooly woolen socks was he. (This id the last time I will say this, I promise). Grammar and syntax to the wind, fuck me, oh dear me, Yes.

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"Poetry is the short-circuiting of meaning between words, the impetuous regeneration of primordial myth". Bruno Schulz
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