CXLVII.

November 21, 2012 § Leave a Comment

If I could stare long enough at a single point . . . say, I was standing in a room and staring—not into a corner or at a blank wall, but if I could stare long enough, holding my friend’s hand while I did so (because her presence provides such strength), I could see into that spot, into this empty air, this vacuum, this invisible little nothingness between the ceiling and the floor and the walls, the part we walk through daily without feeling it pass through us—

if I could stare into the nonspecific space long enough I might see the atoms buzzing.

There is a law in quantum mechanics stating the specific placement of an atom cannot be exacted. A definite number cannot place its presence. The measurements are given in scientific notation so as to account for error. This is because the atoms are never not moving. Everything buzzes always. Without movement, nothing survives. Without the moon’s gravity and the tidal push, organic matter does not shift, life does not emerge on land. Stagnant lakes harbor death and bacteria. With only movement does life and light exist. With collision, new life is birthed. With a dying star, elements are hurled out into the nothingness; here, the debris collects and compacts. Planets are made. They move. The atoms they are made of move.

The laws of physics we are submitted to are specific to us and our size. Our atoms do not follow the same laws. They follow their own. How is it that the very essence of which we are made of does not follow the same rules?

The meteors and the red giants and the colliding galaxies are rushing ever-always, looming overhead. We are stuck between the quantum-sized fabric of matter and the ominous threats, the larger, unfeeling, relentless beasts. We are the Middle, a harmonizing of the unseen and the incomprehensible, all coalescing into brawn and sensuality and intellect and humor.

Vibrations of the atoms affect each erogenous pocket of matter—

screaming, we enter

pleading, we exit—

how magnificent, how frightening—

this begs interpretation but the truth remains evasive (“truth?” is the wrong question to ask here but I am left lying here, fighting off sleep and these poisonous thoughts that often plague a young man in his twenties.)

Another quantum law states how no prediction can be reached on what will happen in any given circumstance.

CXLV.

November 19, 2012 § Leave a Comment

a man broken

absent of brawn

aged, bent

Not me

branchless, I spring

bathing, rising

rooted to rock

origin reaches origin

Youth nourishes ambition

Forever young, I rise

not like you

a man broken

Returning: XCII. & XXVIII.

October 31, 2012 § Leave a Comment

XCII.

Soon as I dictate my thoughts to my limbs

to my fingertips

the keys

the thought vanishes with the magic of its inception

- -

soon as I etch mentalities into a yellow legal pad

I become less of who I was

I become much less

enhanced by refinement

bereft of any chance of purity

- -

am I More now or Less now than prior to This?

XXVIII.

No matter how I try, can’t trace my pen-hand. Its shadow attached, trapped existing; out of light, extinguished, is its only rest.

Move a thumb. It moves. It interprets. It soothes. It means. It mars. It takes.

CXXXI.

October 31, 2012 § Leave a Comment

It nags, pulls here; it is not the impulse to write but

you sleep; I write

is this not true? Or am I deceived?

Skin of my bones, my muscle, my egg-carton of organs (cook, crack, split them; they expire, they spoil; all it takes is time)

all it takes is time and these nights fade

you sleep; I write

there was a life here, was there not? Out here floating off is a boy

a balloon missing its weighted-piece –

not “decorum” because my inflated form does not belong up here

not “decorum” because the wind whipped it about, scuffed the plastic, wore-down the edges

faded; all fades as these nights are closing

in, around — I am deceived

you sleep

I write

CXXVII.

October 26, 2012 § Leave a Comment

“I felt absence; no density or weight. I feel no density or weight there now. What an odd and derogatory thing to have to say about our masculine genitalia.

It is our weakest reed…

…(Women don’t suffer from penis envy. Men do.)

They are such fractional parts of the total construction they might easily be overlooked if we did not dwell on them. They are arrogant and absurd in their haughty, sniffing, pushy, egotistical pretentions. (We let them get away with an awful lot.) They can’t even hold their lordly pose for half a day a week. What a feeble weapon indeed for establishing male supremacy, a flabby, collapsing channel for a universal power drive ejaculated now and then in sporadic spoonfuls. No wonder we have to make fists and raise our voices at the kitchen table…

…I might just as well have shrugged my shoulders and claimed:

‘It’s not mine. There’s nothing I can do about it.’”

Joseph Heller, Something Happened

CXVI.

June 14, 2012 § 2 Comments

Writing fiction is one of the worst necessary choices I had to make. It nurtured me through periods of alienation. It also alienated me from those who wanted to nurture. It rescued me from despair but it distracted me from focusing on what could have made me money. It created for me a home to live in when I felt homeless, but it also became that home I could never stay in for very long. It became a chore to upkeep, to maintain, and it grew into a monster I couldn’t tame; it became an ugly growth I could not expose, but I had already removed its wrappings;

I had unveiled what I am, what I do.

Writing fiction brought me here, to this place, to this terrible June, where I’m fretting over resumes and completing a degree and now this trip to see a man who they say is my father. It has put me in this uncomfortable position from where I dispense only the ugliest of truths; it has become a burden for me to bear and unload it here for a measly 4,400-something page hits. It has me wishing for the dumbest things: fame, recognition, praise, controversy;

it has me defending myself to those who do not believe in this road trip I am undertaking, those who believe in book trilogies adapted to movies, both forms so wasteful but profitable; these enemies of mine believe in what the Screen shows; they believe in what the latest PR claims;

they do not believe in me, what I am, what I do.

Writing fiction has brought me to this blog that I have considered deleting now about 116 times…but each time I sit to do it I instead begin typing

as if it’s going to help the pain of disappointment subside,

as if I am committed to a monster worthwhile.

CVI.

April 17, 2012 § Leave a Comment

A long while has passed for when a constant Stream has since vomited forth from the Head

(The, From, Has, For, A, Of, To, Uh)

Uh, Uh

the Ums

and why should you care? You, the Identified, the Consumer, made by our linguistic consummation; that is, you interpret, I spill

(my guts) (your soft, vulnerable synapses firing)

fireworks, goes Us

(more allusions, more allusions, more of That and Those)

and why you are this far along with me now I am not sure

you must have plenty time to waste

(Time! Invention! more dull thoughts, and we’re stupider for them)

you give enough for Me to give of Me

I give so little for You to give of You

Where Am I?

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