Saturday, June 4, 2016

Reflections and Noodles

REFLECTIONS AND NOODLES

I’m 100 into minimalism and all the planets that it is a moon goddess to.

Not much fishable water anymore, however, and through the use of increasing by a high castle and beat, and also a few people that are of the panda, we’re most of us gravitational gamblers.

A puzzled lord winked at the frogs but gaffed their turgid advocates wardrobed in smoking cigars, thereby nullifying in-and-out privileges of the impoverished statuary. He’d been attracted to the pond in the first place because of the free parking.


CURRENTS EVENT

How did so many of my generation of Democrats (my first presidential vote was for George McGovern) suddenly become such old fogeys, sounding so frail and frightened. What happened?


FEMALE GNAT

After winning the silver medal for shot put, she rewarded herself with a lemon sugar scrub, rejuvenating full body micro crystal exfoliation, and butter massage with rich body butter. Who cares what these hoodlums think.


BY JOHN JEREMIAH SULLIVAN

“You came up pretty rough,” I said.
“Not really,” Darius said.  “Some people ain’t got hands and feet.”


WRITING

In a high rise office building, a young, fat, inattentive black janitor lackadaisically emptying trash cans is hailed by a hearing impaired white girl who hadn’t yet lost her baby fat: “Garbage man, garbage man, don’t forget me.” Later, wasting time at the desk of a smart, beautiful, flawlessly deep mocha skinned female supervisor the janitor complains about the white girl: “You hear what she call me?” The supervisor, supple and silky caramel skin on a body that won’t quit, looks at him, taking in with disdain the whole of his sloppy comportment says: “She just callin’ it like she see it.”

That’s the essence of writing, calling it like you see it, like you hear it and touch it and taste it and smell it. I’ve read a million other versions of something along the lines of “Make the reader feel the heat, don’t just report that it’s hot.”


WORLD SYSTEMS

Airy portapotties line the route as the ultra elite military unit caprioles invisibly in the occluding glimmer of the obverse parade--the distinction between civilians and soldiers is blurred--followed by six seafaring, six unrelated but concurrent, six consecrated, constipated susserating raptors mulching and molting confetti and feathers. Always a crowd favorite, world systems have talent.

“And in those days men shall look for death, but not find it, and they shall desire death, but death shall escape them.”  (from Revelation, Lattimore trans.)

Those days are now.


QUIT IT

I read a Nobel Prize (literature) winner snarking about Emily Dickinson having the opportunity to write full-time while she, the winner, had to work a 9-5 job. Well, my heart goes out to you, but that 9-5 “job” is teaching at the university level and I read another writer/teacher, a Pulitzer Prize (poetry) winner, extolling the life: “You get so much time in the academic world to think and to write...You need silence.  You need idle time.  You need windows to look out of and think.” Somebody punching a clock in the ivory tower?


THE POOR

I’m glad the poor we’ll always have with us.  They are the reason I live as well as I do. There’s money to be made in helping the poor.  If not for them, I wouldn’t be living any better than they are. I love the poor. I owe my home, my car, and my luxury vacations to the poor. Thank you, poor.


HOW OLD WAS YOU?

The first time you did it, how old was you?  How old was you the first time you smelled pineapple and hot cranberries? Or you attended your first intertribal powwow or when you realized you were different and different was going to be a tough sell? When you first heard the snappy chatter among sheets pinned to the clothesline and later slept in their crisp embrace? When you encountered Bohr’s demands of complementarity? Or had green chile. Or the time you wandered into the park-‘n’-ride jungle, the encampments of headless robots? Or the first time you caught yourself being the only one remaining in the theater, watching the credits? When your Sunday school teacher committed suicide or you got jumped for your Nikes or you heard your parents fight or saw lenticular clouds or felt the rush of air in the metro, oh and when you searched for a definition for doomed and seen your name, any of that, the first time, how old was you?


HEADLINE

At Least 9 Killed, 41 Shot In Mother`s Day Weekend Violence Across Chicago.


ROUND AND AROUND AND UP AND DOWN WE GO

Talk in the cafe is the low water levels at the nearby lakes. Music is “Let’s Twist Again.” Breakfast special is the California omelet. His daughter is taking classes. And my mom’s all like uh no. And I’ll see Jeff today and Meredith today too.


ROUGH MORNINGS

A masked ball advisory remains in effect as midnight dumps out into anxious dawn. I am a hungover hunter-gatherer who oughtn’t be left alone, breaking the surface of consciousness only to mind eddy like a riderless lawn mower doing donuts. The electric razor is fucking the coffee maker, who’s a screamer.

I can hear the kids congest the street with their bicycles and skateboards and scooters. Somebody’s edging in the back yard, probably my brother, and my mom’s probably thinning the fruit trees where finches study for their notary license exam during lunch and breaks, and grosbeaks tan by rubbing up against the apricots in the apricot trees. And my sister Daisy’s probably shooting hoops next door with her friend Bekka.

Is it my head or is my dad clubbering another sea lion pup that dropped out of the sky and landed on the roof and rolled off onto the patio of our three billion bedroom, two and a half billion bath home. A similar incident yesterday resulted in the swimming pool maintenance guy walking off the job.

The clothes came out of the dryer smoking their own lint. If Bekka was only like older by about five years.


CAREERIST

I wrote my “final” book a few years ago, and have written several since. I enjoy it. It’s like being posthumous without having to go to the trouble of being dead. 


MUSTER

Is what I call this excerpt from Leaves of Grass by Walt Whitman.  If what I’m writing doesn’t pass, it doesn’t get promoted.

These are the thoughts of all men in all ages and lands, they are not
            original with me,
If they are not yours as much as mine they are nothing or next to
            nothing,
If they do not enclose everything they are next to nothing,
If they are not the riddle and the untying of the riddle they are
            nothing,
If they are not just as close as they are distant they are nothing.

This is the grass that grows wherever the land is and the water is,
This is the common air that bathes the globe.





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