Self and reality. Symbol and language. Myth and image. Memory and consciousness.
Dream and unreality: locus communis.

Sunday, January 19, 2020

12. Haiku Sentence

9           once again (tonight) / he refuses
7           once again he refuses
8           tonight, again, he refuse/s

5           wandering fat moon
7           once again he refuses
5           to set his antique
1           watch

5           wandering fat moon
7           once again he refuses
5           to set his antique/pocket watch
1           watch

set his pocket watch
wind his pocket watch
set his antique watch
wind his antique watch


•••••


858. the wandering moon, once again, forgets to wind up his pocket watch

Monday, January 13, 2020

11. Haiku Sentence


7           circling twice around the house
5           a sly/slow winter moon
5           settles down for night

•••

5           after circling twice
around the house (a) winter / moon
settles for the night

•••

8           after circling around the / house
4           a winter moon
5           settles for the night

••••••••••••


857. After circling around the house, a winter moon settles for the night.



Saturday, January 11, 2020

10. Sylvia Plath



Just thought of this quote— suits the weekend.


I shall move north. I shall move into a long blackness.
I see myself as a shadow, neither man nor woman,
Neither woman, happy to be like a man, nor a man
Blunt and flat enough to feel no lack. I feel a lack.
I hold my fingers up, ten white pickets.
See, the darkness is leaking from the cracks.
I cannot contain it. I cannot contain my life.

           ― Sylvia Plath, "Winter Trees"

9. winter



A steady cold, grey day. The kind of weather that makes it easy to hide indoors— maintaining one’s already established existence as an introvert. The internal editor in high drive, continually questioning diction and selection of imagery. I would rather be crafting an elaborate labyrinth of a poem with angular enjambments, sudden twisting of metaphor. But instead I argue with word choice and tone. Every action generating—

and the fact that Billie Holiday is on the radio doesn’t help, her voice motioning within a slow lounge number, within an elaborate control of mood. Generating a scene that deserves to be incoporated into a larger work: eclectic patterns and clipped syllables. Dated references and thrown-back allusions to past film noir, a bar choked with blue cigarette smoke, shot glasses set in a row along the counter as the bartender sweeps the marble tiles at the back tables; there are only a handful of clienteles at the moment, in particular a young woman with her coarse winter coat flung over her shoulders as she leans forward, her gin and tonic half finished, her focus concentrated on the middle ground, trying to find her background story, find her point in the paragraph as late afternoon traffic slips outside the neon barfront, as she slips her a strand of hair behind her ear, the ice in her drink blurring with alcohol and the dark lipstick stains across the rim, shades of evening or the addict’s loose jacket in the back alley, his frame rocking forward and back, forward and back, that familiar pulse of his blue twilight settling between his arms, surging into his lungs a steady—

Tuesday, January 7, 2020

7. Berlin Library



•••

The above scene I have carried with me ever since I first saw the film Der Himmel über Berlin in Minneapolis. To this day, (un)consciously I continuously try to emulate the themes and gestures within my own writing: the murmur of background voices, the grey tones, the stark symbolism, the subtle gestures of a hand. Every so often I have come so close with an awkward phrase, a stumbling scene. Or with a sentence that meanders endlessly across the page in Faulknerian-logic.

But borrowing intentions of a movie to translate them to a static text remains frustratingly unsatisfying. A balanced mix of bitter honesty (realism) with surreal dream logic (fantasy) persists as unattainable idealism. The ideal paragraph that embodies Wim Wender's creative product alludes me, just out of reach, a winter's moon hovering along the horizon.

Monday, January 6, 2020

6. A Sudden Paleness

Suddenly, a loss of words. All day I was working towards developing a complaint, a heavy commentary on the pale structure of contemporary poetry— but as usual, the phrases have faded from my head. Pale ink on pale paper.

Waking at 4:00 this morning did not help: the pale light of early morning crept under the blinds even before full surise, before the pale-ish hour of consciousness. My observations no longer relevant, without a valid defense.

•••

Sunday, January 5, 2020

5. Found Document / A Revisionary Post

Call me reclusive; but do not call me a recluse. The two terms are actually just extremes of one another. So it seems. Despite the fact I could hide away in my office for most of the day doesn't mean I choose to hide away.

•••

Midday winter lunch. Angled sun in the eyes. The light from the kitchen windows slants across the face. Shifting an individual’s perception to a Cubist painting from the thirties. Contrasted perspectives of shadow and brightness. Caught between notebook paper with smudges of text and lunch. Warm sandwich: left over roastbeef with hot mustard, on toasted wheat, and slices of apples, the pale plate piled with fruit, with over-sweet pears.



•••

I have fallen into a silence these past two years or so, a period without proper writing practices, just casual scraps of poetry every so often, here and there. Higgedly-piggedly. My main focus has been centered on slash fanfictions, stories laced with dubious alternative timelines, re-knitted plots, and re-examined personalities to suit an individual's personal tastes. A wealth of colloquial expressions, obsessions. The low-end of the writing spectrum: dark alleys with standing water. Smut. Prose without purpose. Pure escapism. Warehouses with dim lighting. There is a benefit reading non-academic based material. Removes the restrictive fetters of proper, scholarly observations and paragraph development, allowing for a pure pathos defense, a libido-driven logic for evidence.

And I have gathered “legitimate” readings as well. Discovered by accident another Italo Calvino book: If on a Winter’s Night, A Traveler. A means of rebuilding, adding more into the labyrinthine library in my head. He collects alternatives. Random samples of possibilities for a novel. Not one main focused plot, but hundreds.



Saturday, January 4, 2020

4. Barbed Tongues

The devil of an itch ran across the surface of my right foot for over an hour— no amount of scratching or applying lotion would remove the barbed tongues along the top half of my metatasal bones, the skin shifting into a sore, reddening rash of continuous dry skin. I kept scrubbing at the flesh repeatedly, peeling back several layers of cells, until a wound managed to make its presence known, larger than a two dollar coins lying side-by-side. A week later it remains, an awkward gash refusing to fully scab over. Irritating eye persistent pain.

•••••


•••••

An imperfect, malleable moon lingers over the horizon tonight. A lump of damp clay. Neither round nor square. Polymorphic insistence for following its own path. Falling moan.

Friday, January 3, 2020

3. Dilapidation

This is all a means of making amends for two years of mild silence. Distractions fall into my lap. Miss-placed files remain hidden. Today's entry for example. It was mapped out and ready to be published days ago, but now, now it has vanished in a clutch of digital papers with obscure titles or unsaved memories.

By accident I discovered slash fanfiction and immersed myself into the alternate universes of individuals remaking, reshaping their favorite characters into something else. There was an initial purpose for the lapse into casual reading— I was seeking out a colloquial tone, an everyday vernacular to use in a new series of poems— language of the everyday; time will tell if the lost time was an actual benefit or a heavy distraction.

There is a cumbersome beauty in scrawled graffiti, the phrases of a curse, painted along the base of a warehouse, or a primitive, awkward chalk outline of a phallus smeared on the sidewalk outside a secret door along the riverfront. Where the status quo do not venture. The streets in disrepair, cracked cobblestones making up the pavements. I am obsessed with dilapidation. With colloquial lines of broken grammar. It is a love/hate situation. Like the overused contraction or the cliched expressions that litter the walking conversations of teenagers in the hallways as they run between classes. An act of rebellion in itself. A personal jazz. Personal lingo for cliques and close associations. A belonging in other words. What I feel is missing from my writing career, a sense of belonging to an established group of writers/readers.

Thursday, January 2, 2020

2. A Blank Page

Presentation of a blank page. An empty cup of coffee. Grey winter outside the window.

Spent the majority of the day rebuilding a syllabus for the upcoming new semester of school. So as a result the brain is lost in rigid formulas. Set perimeters of expectation. Waiting for the muse to present an epiphany: a soft tongued dove whispering in the ear. Lightning bolt. Unopened letter. Anything.

Wednesday, January 1, 2020

1. Continuous Whining

Today is a repetition of the past hour. This week is a repetition of last week. And the week before. A perpetual cycle of negation. As I have already mentioned, it keeps proving harder and harder to find an alternative voice, to sort out a different persona for narration of experience--one other than my own. That habitual, personal cliché. That well-worn complaint.

It all comes down to the fact I have fallen out of my usual writing patterns. My usual ebb and flow of words. Too many distractions. Conflictions and obstacles. Mixed emotions. The fan buzzes overhead--managing to shift my attention span, cause a broad range of sleepiness, soft drone of electricity. As a purring. A pulse. Or your fingers slipping across my shoulders.

Even the fragmented imagery fractures in furious, odd patterns, out of sync with my primary intentions. The rhythm I mean is breaking lines into irregular, nonsensical phrases that do not relate to one another directly.

End result: feel the need for insistent, continuous whining.

•••

leftover sandwich: warm roast beef on slices of toasted wheat, hot mustard; eating in winter sunlight