Want to witness a magic trick?
Yay! I love magic!
Ok, calm down zippy. This is a special trick that you can actually experience in your own life and self, given of course that you are not one who refuses the existence of an essentialized stable self based on some kind of Cartesian ontolotogical…
Umm…can we start the trick please…
(murmurs something evil) Ok. So this is what you do. For three straight weeks, get up around 6:30 in the morning, complete your entire morning routine and be at the office by 9:30…
I’m a burgeoning scholar; I have no need to play by bourgeois ‘work time’ schedule.
No, listen. You do this of your own volition so that you can 1) take care of all those bureaucratic loose ends 2) have a rigorous discipline that allows you to maximum space for productivity.
All right, you may continue.
So; you establish this schedule that allows for approximately 12 solid hours of work and another 4 hours for your meditations, martial arts practice and hygienic duties. You continue this for 3 really strong productive weeks.
That sounds good…
Doesn’t it. You will begin to build momentum, perform your tasks with greater peace and concentration, be more efficient..
Oh wow, is that the magic?
No no, that’s just the start. You begin to accelerate, grow more determined, and more convinced that this semester is going to be the strongest ever..
That must be the magic!
Nope. The magic happens when the universe shoves a barrel full of thick mucus in every breathing passage you have prevents you from thinking sleeping or functioning clearly makes you feel like you’re going to choke if you lay down announces drastic changes in plans so that you have rethink projects syllabi and plans gives you tremendously exciting prospects that will require the very discipline you began to instill before the crippling snot suspended all hope which surprisingly stays alive despite the overmedicated dull hazy consciousness you are slowly normalizing as your own mode.
Uh-huh. How is that magical exactly?
Quiet you. You’re just an imaginary voice used to create a situation where I can vent my frustrations in a clever mode and avoid the always annoying voice of self-pity.
Ah, am I the imaginary or are you?
I’m Keyser Soze biatch…
My unimitable nephew dismisses televised rhetoirc as mere lip play…
...then explores the interface between proprioception and alternate states of consciousness…
Dull gray skies join earth in mists covering Detroit’s post-industrial flattened landscape. Allergy season has announced itself in grand melancholy with two weeks of rainy dullness and heavy sinus congestion. The medication has left me unable to concentrate or write with any sense of confidence. Meanwhile, the blank white document winks menacingly at the end of every written word, challenging, laughing and mocking my momentarily paralyzed writing.
That paragraph died there, trapped somewhere in my body’s infinite mucus production which has drawn energy away from all higher brain functioning.
After conceding to my body-mind revolt and returning home, I watched Eugene Jarecki’s Why We Fight. The film is a beautifully constructed polemic against the American “military-industrial complex,” the term that articulates the film’s central thesis. Although the film includes many voices, from Richard Perle to an Iraqi shepherd, there is little here that will surprise any Leftist. However, the film makes several important moves that are becoming tropes both in my thinking and my teaching.
The film opens with a clip of President Eisenhower’s farewell address that warns against the costs/repercussions of developing an immense military capability. Eisenhower’s address is repeatedly invoked throughout, using various clips while repeating others. His warning, given in 1961, is immediately juxtaposed with clips of GW Bush, Clinton, Reagan and other recent leaders’ call to armed intervention. The shifts, the cuts, from a blurry black and white past to the HD present represent a central trope in my thinking and teaching; contextualizing the present through multiple historical narratives. When Vietnam comes into focus as a particular example, a retired New York police sergeant’s own experience of the war is deployed to particularize the experience. His profound self-awareness of those moments as a helicopter gunner, of dealing with people’s lives, is suddenly held in tension with abstract dehumanizing; “they were just objects, you know.” The particularity of his narrative, and the additional depth it provides relative to a major but fading American memory, is both complexified and made present by our knowledge of his son’s death in the 9/11 tragedy. Placing multiple intersecting, overlapping historical narratives, themselves ranging from the abstract to the particular, in relief and in conversation with the present is, for me, an important cognitive/ pedagogical project.
A simultaneous and coterminous move, one already alluded to, is from the hyperlocal to the global and back; hence globalization studies. The film does this with great generality, as the world map simply becomes a two- dimensional surface for the deployment of American power. I took this to be a brilliant performance of the very thing being critiqued. However, the film does provide a brief but detailed history of the US helping place the Shah in Iran, backing Saddam Hussein to limit the Iranian revolution and then demonizing him as the greatest threat to ‘the civilized world.’ More importantly, the camera metaphorically and literally zooms in on Iraqi corpses produced by American bombs. Tears and nausea intersect here as the melted paled toes of a jean-clad body form the stack’s apex. Bleeding children and tearful parents open an internal space for testimony from Iraqi doctors and morticians on the absence of military victims.
My intention was to broadly characterize my project as shifts between the microscopic and the telescopic, but that explication will have to wait till tomorrow; perhaps the highest complement I can offer this film, or any project, is that I am emotionally drained from engaging it.
The question of family ‘normality’ evokes within me the most ardent absolute relativism and a critical knee jerk dismissal of all other positions as insular. After Kristine and I briefly visited a Pakistani grocery store, she noted the palpable hostility the store clerk and his friend directed at me. Although there was nothing particularly mean spirited about their now too familiar responses, the survey, evaluation, and rejection of my inauthentic Indianness took mere seconds. While the notion of the “authentic” is dense with cultural, economic and discursive density, my own ruminations here will be centered on a simple definition: Authenticity is the praxis of codes established by the Self. This open ended, ambiguous, problematically relative ‘definition’ replicates the very absurdity of ‘the authentic’ while also providing for a few markers to help find our way.
In the space of the grocery store, thick with the smell of spices, mixes, vegetables, the figure wearing sunglasses, dressy jeans and a quirky yellow t-shirt screamed inauthentic. The clerk’s heavy accent announced his recent emigration, betraying his high academic achievements in the English-medium schools attended in India. His turbaned, heavily bearded Sikh friend paused conversation when the white girl and I entered. My American accented English said that I couldn’t speak any Indian languages, especially the Hinid or Urdu necessary in this situation. I bought nothing. Clearly, I was an American Born Confused Desi (ABCD) not a FOB (Fresh Off the Boat).
When I first arrived on the Wayne State campus, I was putt off by the two distinct South Asian communities. The first were young college students like myself but whom I judged to be generally too superficial for my tastes. The second community, and second class in my mind, was comprised of the numerous graduate students who were clearly new arrivals. Complaints from fellow students about their thick accents and incomprehensible presentations as discussion and lab leaders embarrassed me. The snobbish glare I shot was matched with the unanswerable thought, “Why can’t you just be normal?” Maturation, desensitization and a few wonderful lab leaders began to normalize their existence, but it was family that brought a radical break.
Visiting newly arrived and newly married cousins in Texas had all the excitement of a desert plain. However, when Vishali, an elder sister-figure in my youth, mentioned that she clearly felt the hostility and condescension in undergraduate glares, I fell silent. Otherness sat next to me. The accent, clothing and other such practiced codes fell under the weight of courage required to uproot and repot one’s existence. Wayne campus was suddenly filled with the inspiring audacity of belief, placing my anglicized ass in its proper place. The authentic, as a codified praxis, dissolved and allowed me to step closer to the Real.
The heated emotional stakes of a conflict, like the one my family currently faces, are predicated on the practice of codes established by a Self; they are wars of authenticity, or more precisely, authentic modes of being. Negotiations and/ or mediation can only begin when all sides are assailed with the inherent violence of their position through a nauseating hypernegativity that opens the space for recognition of the relative. That is, ruthlessly interrogating the Self will begin to reveal the artificial construction of the various codes so desperately clung to. When even a modicum of artificiality—here understood as historically and socially overdetermined––is recognized, there is space for change.
The article, the blog post, and the comments section about India’s caste system.
Two article excerpts:
“There was found to be great, and at times violent, intolerance of displays of well-being, or public celebrations by Dalits. In many villages, bans operated on wedding processions on public (arrogated as upper-caste) roads. In 10 to 20 per cent villages, Dalits weren’t allowed even to wear fashionable clothes or sunglasses. They could not ride their bicycles, unfurl their umbrellas, wear chappals on public roads, smoke or stand without head bowed. Restrictions on their entry into Hindu temples averaged 64 per cent in 11 states, ranging from 47 per cent in UP to 94 per cent in Karnataka.“Untouchable” Dalits are a horrifying reminder of the absence of a global now, of a temporality that is devoid of lived praxis. A project last semester saw me investigate the heterogeneity of global time as evidenced by the existence of pre-modern (mob) social formations that, although coexistent with global capital, are built on codes that are antithetical to it. The phenomenon of untouchability, however, has greater if more personal stakes, through its embodied practices.
The research established that such restrictions endured even after conversion of Dalits to egalitarian faiths. In punjab, 41 of the 51 villages surveyed reported separate gurdwaras for Dalit Sikhs. Dalits who worshipped in gurdwaras frequented by upper-caste Jats were served in separate lines at the langar and were not permitted to prepare or serve the sacred food. In Maharashtra, despite mass conversions of the Mahars to Buddhism, Dalits were denied temple entry in 51 per cent villages. In Kerala and Andhra, there are divisions in the church between Dalit converts and others, and discrimination even against ordained Dalit priests.”
Although I was very young when I lived in India, I clearly remember both the pride and distance I felt when old men, bodies creased with years of farming labor, would call me “Dorah” or “Chinna (small)-Dorah.” Translating the word is not within my ken, but it implied a title, a class based on landownership, weighed down by a tradition of respectful reserve that I did not feel justified invoking.
Historicizing the notion of a “global now” would probably take us to the creation of standard time and the concurrent industrialization that needed such mechanisms. However, cognizing a singular temporality that we all share has the effect of both dehistoricizing the particularity of a lived present and subsuming the temporal ruptures in the grand colonial-industrial narrative of a past-backwardness and present-enlightenment. Moreover, this progress narrative is deployed as judgment and categorization based on the lived actions, which themselves are imbedded within other narratives (religious, political, caste). Less abstractly, the prohibitions on Dalits to wear sandals, ride their bicycles, smoke, etc., are simultaneously conditioned by social narratives, the lived praxis of these narratives, and reinscribed into the “global now” to evince their backwardness and justified persecution.
The strange injunction against wearing fashionable clothing and sunglasses is based precisely on this logic. Such cultural signifiers would begin to close the temporal gap through bodily inscription, through a lived praxis, that announced their presence as constitutive of the present. Other prohibitions would be forced to shift away from the logic of “backwardness” and place greater emphasis on the historically rooted practices of exclusion, which in turn are troubled by the absence of temporal dissonance.
Wearing sunglasses is admittedly being politicized in this context, but is certainly not being offered as a solution to the complex and deeply imbedded insanity of caste prejudice. Rather, I am attempting to think through the bodily inscription and lived praxis of temporality, which both ruptures and responds to the “global now,” while negotiating the particular exigencies of a situation.
The swarming mosquitoes are scattered by the ceiling fan now turned to high and spinning so vigorously that I am sure it will dislodge and decapitate me. Thickening night and mating crickets are interrupted by a group of young voices whose eyes I just begin to see. I lift the flashlight (torch) next to the door and point it outside only to hear scurrying footsteps. On the bed again, I fix my gaze to the TV and wait for my favorite tv show. The young voices approach without distracting my awareness and are suddenly at the door. Children my age, dark and dressed in soiled scraps, lean in and smile. I launch from the bed and shoo them away, surprised by how naturally I imitated my uncles’ responses to stray dogs and beggars. Twice more, I run at the door shouting threats as they dart into the adjacent field; it’s become a game and I’m enjoying it.
Dad returns from the bathroom and has one of the children by his side. I…pause, baffled. He goes back to the door and yells for them, “Come here! Come on!” using the ‘ra’ suffix, appropriate for a Dorah talking to others.
Two or three sit next to me on the bed, five or six are on the hard cement floor and we all watch our favorite tv show.
I lost the link to this article but here are three key moments I found interesting.
Science, [William James] argued, is a methodology rather than a set of ontological conclusions.
There is no complete generalization, no total point of view, no all-pervasive unity, but everywhere some residual resistance to verbalization, formulation, discursification, some genius of reality that escapes from the pressure of the logical finger, that says ‘hands off,’ and claims its privacy, and means to be left to its own life.––William James
Discarnate: a new word to my admittedly limited and usually poorly deployed vocabulary.
I was asked to submit a brief bio for the Community-based writing initiative website.
After chitchatting with the Buddha about Tibet, Shashi Thandra incarnated in South India and was forced to spend eight years with the postcolonial savages learning the Queen’s English. He jumped at the chance to return to Columbus’ India, America, and has spent much of his waking life there. Shashi decided not to walk at commencement after completing his B.A at Wayne State University, fearing that the Phi Beta Kappa key would knot itself in the Magna Cum Laude tassels causing him to trip before receiving his English degree (with honors). He is a humble man.
When Gwen Gorzelsky thoroughly whopped up on Shashi during a sparring session at the martial arts school they both attended, he realized that learning to live a peaceful, mindful life is only for sissies who are not interested in the amorphous, emerging field known as Globalization Studies. Shashi’s involvement in community-based writing is based less on a desire to practice and theorize the aphorism, “Think globally, act locally,” than to take revenge on Dr. Gorzelsky through the Honor students he will be teaching and whose program he hopes to shape at the departmental level.
Shashi believed that he unraveled the question of Being while eating chocolate and shaping his Bonsai, immediately forsook his primary scholastic interest in alterity, but lost his realization when Buddha reminded him not be a ham in public spaces.
And my picture:
What will post-globalization scholarship look like and say?
“Glacial pace;” the adjective has become nebulous and politically charged in the moment of global climate change.
How can I train my cellular structure to work consistently, with great concentration for 10-12 hours at a time?
Although I am deeply wary of “great man/woman” talk, this article about Roger Federer comes after watching him win a recent tournament. Various factors, including the procrastination that partly drives this writing, allowed me to watch the final match twice, to see again the kinesthetic brilliance of a dominant athlete. I instantly became a Roger Federer fan. More than refined talent, I fell in love with Federer’s whole one court persona, which, like Pete Samprass before him, exudes a poised quietude despite the overwhelming genius of his play.
The article is written by David Foster Wallace whose name sounds eerily familiar but eludes placement. Regardless, the piece is beautifully constructed and makes great formal use of the endnotes. More importantly, however, anyone who follows my writings in this space or has talked to me for a day or two knows my experience and fascination with physical-embodied aesthetics, the particular technical artistry understood through proprioception. Wallace does an excellent job relaying, especially formally through his injections of William Caines’ story, the strange –felt- awareness we are capable but often unconscious of. Although the felt awareness, the “thought that is also felt,” he invokes through the formal structure of the article is not the same quiet lightness experienced in performance, one does gain a basic sense of our possibilities. Most interestingly, especially for those readers who also practice an art, Wallace does an excellent job describing the flattening out of Time/Space, and the easy perfection that follows, through a slowed down glimpse into a tennis stroke. My own experiences of this same flattening, in hockey, in martial arts, even in reading at times, are carved into memory as a series of flashes, of perfect movements, of cellular understandings, of an embodied thrill that is experienced and reflected in a space outside of the conscious mind. Wallace’s article activated some of those starving neurons, simultaneously reminding me of the possibilities ready in the space of concentrated immersion.
On a related tangent, I have started my first Bonsai plant. My ex-roommate had been working on Bonsai for several years with varying degrees of success. Craig’s latest, named Tegreeno, began as a living archive of his relationship with Ishita, the love of his life. I had the scary privilege of taking care of Tegreeno for a month and fell in love with the process. So, after returning from my wonderful spiritual retreat, Craig helped me begin my own Bonsai, now named Tyger (pronounced like the Winnie the Poo character) in honor of Tegreeno’s inspiration and Blake’s Tyger, Tyger.
As we worked to pot and shape Tyger, delicately bending hard copper wire around the fragile branches to ‘train’ growth into a particular form, it became obvious why martial artists, and Zen masters of various practices would be so enthralled in the art of Bonsai. The sensitivity and concentration required in each step of the process is balanced with foresight, the vision to see both what you desire and the potential of the living being in front of you. Whether clipping branches, wiring, dekeing a goalie, side stepping a punch, or for Federer, hitting impossible angle shots, immersive experiences offer a organic time-space conflation that carve new possibilities for a cellular proprioception beyond conscious thought.
An ungendered parental figure turns beast, vampire like, and begins to ravage those around me. I scramble around the cramped space as I see the creature approaching, open the car door and run out. Looking back for a brief moment, I see the figure with a glib smile and I realize that fleeing will only delay the inevitable. The realization is joined with a passing panic quickly transformed into acceptance. I seat myself on the ground, seiza (Japanese formal kneeling), and take a meditation posture.
A calm female face in white lab coat tells me that she will inject me with an episode-causing agent––they need my body to produce an antibody, I think. Another figure behind me holds my body as the shocks course through my cells; I’m strangely calm considering this is a heart attack. The eyes cannot roll back, they are fixated forward forced to imbibe the idiocy of spasms, the helpless horizontal orientation in the figure’s hands.
The photos that were once reminders of a beautiful lost turn into visionary documents of an ethereal future, born in its practice.
I was thrown out of NYU. On my metaphysics final, they caught me cheating. I looked within the soul of the boy sitting next to me. (Woody Allen)
oh, the possibilities, the joyous possibilities: here are two course descriptions from a scholar at UC Irvine that make me drool.
Asian American (F06) 201 CRIT THRY WORKSHOP RADHAKRISHNAN,R.
So, is humanism "dead?" What comes "after?" How does one determine and respond to the longue duree of humanism? Even if humanism were not "over," is it time to superannuate humanism with a sheer act of theoretical will? Is there a good humanism and a bad humanism? Is it possible to salvage and sustain the good incarnation and eradicate the bad one? Is humanism a worldview, an ideology, an ethico-political blueprint?
Is humanism universal, planetary, anthropocentric, unavoidably Eurocentric? What is the sexuality and the gender of "the human?" What are the fraught connections between humanism as epistemology and humanism as cultural politics? How does Humanism deal with problems of Selfhood and Alterity? Does Humanism participate in the brutality of a world structured in dominance, or does it seek a way out of the geopolitics of nevenness? How does the "human" dangle between Ontology and Epistemology, between Truth and Power, between everyday phenomenology and the density of specialist discourse? Assuming that there is a post-humanism, how is such a "post-ality" a measure both of the post-structural and the post-colonial? These are a few of the questions that will constitute our agenda for this seminar. Starting with an in depth reading of Edward Said’s posthumously published book, Humanism and democratic Criticism, we will revisit a number of important debates that have shaped the historicity as well as the temporality of humanism over the last 100 years. Here are a few voices that will resonate through the seminar: Martin Heidegger (Letter on Humanism), Jean Paul-Sartre (humanism, Existentialism, Marxism), Maurice Merleau-Ponty (Humanism and Terror), Michel Foucault (selected readings), Louis Althusser (The
Humanist Controversy), Frantz Fanon (The Wretched of the Earth), Judith Butler (Precarious Life), and others. I hope that by the end of the seminar we will all have, with a little help from one another, a sophisticated awareness of what it means to reject or accept humanism in "our own times."
—> Some Detroit politics would really be necessary in this seminar don’t you think? word up biatches…
And this one absolutely sent a chill up my spine….yes..*up* my spine…
(Same as Eng 210) The purpose of this seminar is to submit the theme of Alterity and the binary epistemic regime it exemplifies to rigorous critique. The Self-Other grid as the structuring principle of human self-understanding has a long and problematic “omni-history.” Philosophers, theorists, artists, and writers have negotiated this problematic with varying degrees of success and frustration. For a variety of world-historical reasons, this theme has become urgently significant in the last few decades. Alterity has been legitimated as a major theme in a variety of discourses such as psychoanalysis, poststructuralism, ethics, nationalist, diasporan, and transnational studies. I am hoping, with your help, to bring together some of the most exciting debates about the Self-Other problematic in Theory with literary practices that have struggled with the same issue in the name of aesthetic representation, and narrative authority. In this seminar we will be elaborating the Self-Other problematic on a variety of registers: the ethical, the political, and the epistemological. What does it mean to be interpellated by the Other? What is all the fuss over the distinction between the big O and the lower case o? Is the obsession with the Self-Other binary structure the metier of the dominant discourse? What is the relationship between a purely allegorical celebration of Alterity and the historical problems of various “selves” and “others” that are situated co-evally in a world structured in dominance? How does the Self-Other theme emerge in the context of Racism, Patriarchy, Colonialism, linguistic representation, Madness, Anthropology? These are some of the questions that will resonate through the course as we dive fearlessly into Virginia Woolf’s Mrs. Dalloway, Ralph Ellison’s Invisible Man, Fyodor Dostoevsky’s Notes From Underground, Nadine Gordimer’s Burger’s Daughter, Amitav Ghosh’s The Shadow Lines, Maxine Hong Kingston’s The Woman Warrior in active conjunction with readings from Michel Foucault, Jacques Derrida, Jacques Lacan, W.E.B. Du Bois, Mikhail Bakhtin, Edward Said, Johannes Fabian, and Martin Heidegger.
—> ye yea!!
Survival of the fittest: 3 posts in 1
Temporal play has long fascinated me, ever since watching episodes of Star Trek: The Next Generation that offered a rethinking of the space-time continuum and the epistemic modalities encompassed within it. However, I have only recently become cognizant of my own slavish adherence to linearity in my practical affairs and the potential damage this has to my ability to be a high functioning academic. The stringent, assembly line like, focus is the consequence of an immature understanding of Zen in martial arts.
The notion of focus, complete and utter concentration, was greatly emphasized in my practice. I, however, began to interpret that as an avoidance of all other tasks, projects, spaces until my object of focus had been completely finished. This initial understanding has grounded much of my day-to-day life and its larger frame.
As I write this, however, a larger emotional tide has drowned me in the realization that linearity may have also cost me a relationship. Reading one book to the end before picking up another that is also due, finishing one paper before even beginning another, and other similarly small tasks may not be the sole victims of a rigidly linear mode. This part of my life is dedicated to X, while the next phase––post doctorate to tenure––will be dedicated to Y; this leaves no room for Y to show itself in the same room X is, thus shutting the door on possibly productive cognitive tangents.
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I hit random on my hip-hop collection and stumbled on a gem that I had long ignored; Mobb Deep The Infamous, specifically “Eye for an eye (your beef is mines).”
Chorus:
As time goes by, an eye for an eye
We in this together son your beef is mines
So long as the sun shines to light up the sky
We in this together son your beef is mines
Interestingly, I heard this song just after reading “From Citizen to Volunteer: Neoliberal Governance and the Erasure of Poverty” by Susan Brin Hyatt, which makes a compelling case for the complex social relationships already functioning within impoverished communities. “That is, informal structures of reciprocity…have long flourished among the poor. Such relationships of mutuality do not arise autochthonously but have emerged in response to the exigencies posed by state policy.”
A long running trope in hip-hop is the interwoveness of federal and state policy, especially in terms of police injustice—the “Jake”—and local solidarity organized around race, class and age—the ghetto black youth. I had never thought of gangsterism as a mode of social solidarity in the same way more ‘legitimate’ neighborhood organizations and efforts are cognized. While this struck me as interesting in itself, I was also struck with a new sense of aesthetic appreciation grounded in the radical political gesture such productions manifest; radical not for the notions of resistance, but for the politics of solidarity that are both a response to and a product of government policy.
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I went out to lunch with Kristine and had the briefest of conversations about a framed photograph on the restaurant wall; a series of smoke stacks that cast a shadow modified to look like classic Greek columns.
Me: “Why is everything so didactic?”
KFD: “Because that’s bad art.”
Indeed. However, a strange tangential rumination this afternoon bore a new thought. Perhaps such didactic productions are necessary as initial forays into self-reflexive thought. My command of aesthetic forms and their politics is minimal, so bear with me. When I pursued this line, didactic as necessary, it occurred to me that we have been influenced greatly by such productions, if only in the early stages of politicization, which is precisely the space that interests me here. At age 5 or 50, it seems to me that we have gone through a moment when such productions actually bore an insight into larger conditions and our relationship to them. Now, however, when such critiques blaring a message that has already been internalized, they become are banal, reductive clichés.
For those who are attempting to make the movement of infinite resignation, of letting [them] go, here is a quote that I found timely. Courtesy of Gwen, this is a brief excerpt from an intro to Thich Nhat Hanh and Buddhist philosophy; this article, like the quote from Said, will lay foundational principles in my Fall and Winter classes.
“The elements that make up the world are patterns of dependency and interweaving. In other words, they are relationsips. When we are fully aware, we see that there are only relationships. All relationships are patters of interaction. So they are, by definition, dynamic; they are patterns of change. There are no individual things, but only ongoing processes. These processes are made up of other, constantly changing processes. All of reality is combinations of patterns of relationships in process.”
…and a part of that process is loss…
These are two ‘sonnets’ I wrote four years ago, when I was approximately 19-20ish. They were wriiten for Barrett’s class, for a paper that attempted to think through Ted Berrigan thinking through Shakespeare, and a really fucked up relationship I had at the moment.
38
Masked marauders rape eternity in an instant
Bass lines soothe perfumed down
As Divine love is dragged into drains.
flee into invisibility
I remember why it’s called an Eternal quest
I wish it had rained.
Why couldn’t you be? A dream
As the rain kept off for our garden voyage
It saved my eyes from truth.
Sense gives, senses ride, and I dive
shine behind the darkness of closed eyes
And guides to the death of I.
The movie, the dream; light a dreamed movie
to watch when you’re raped blind.
10
Dream unravels longing,
Guides to the death of I.
Control + (s)aved
Immortality of death
I forget to remember; a Dream
The waning beating source
Sunk in your murk
Why so much damn dimness?
The raped undead, battling Non-sense
in walks across rainy gardens,
Was lost in our youth.
Eternal light in artful eyes
Fruitlessly thriving in Divine love.
Her clutch feigns direction
Beware the ephemeral, or forget: dream.
