04-17-2025, 06:56 AM
IV
I'm WC Fields Robert Johnson Antonin Artaud
John Constantine Mad Max All of the Marx Brothers
Sherlock Holmes Philip Dick
not their gifts but they
all
at once and at intervals.
My Buffoonery says that my mistakes and failures are part of my iconography. (Where would W. C. Fields be without his flaws? His character defects are his character.) My Narcissism tells me that my most selfless acts are born from egoist notions of what I SHOULD do (Even an act of pure bravery and self-sacrifice is glittering with mythopoetic notions of grandeur; or, in another situation, a desperate need to protect or help others or another, based on my own conceits. My own values, my fear of cowardice, my need for approval even in death, my fear of loss that would make my pain while alive worse than the pain of whoever lost me from my own point of view. Even when I am beyond point of view, it is ME that is absent.).
There's a duck on the table, rubber; not clear which, the duck or the table.
I see myself as I am, holding a cup, like someone in a 19th century or 20th century movie. I feel aesthetically somebody. A me.
The same as a character in a movie is and does within the context of the movie.
When someone is dead, you can write their biography and evaluate their work and depict them as a character in a sense of Absolute Motion.
I am simply living that Absolution (pun intended). I am the character in the movie, the movie is realtime reality.
I have the satisfaction of being Complete and Unfinished. I'm my own Role Model. I live vicariously through myself.
Anything that happens is happening as the movie, and adds to my character. I am complete and open to alterity.
Two gongs sit on a table. And a purse from an older decade. Some cookies in a jar.
A box fan is also on the table. It is turned on and blowing toward the hall where no one is.
The sunlight through the window behind me is making shadows on the walls and floors. All the lights are off in the house.
The sound of the fan and what it would feel like, as it's a couple hours after noon. This is years ago.
. . .
V
"my personality has been eclipsed by my consciousness of personality"
me, 2004
Decades of self-reflective OCD.
15 years of solitude, identity feedback on "its" "self", no experiences, relationships, social-cultural happenings in which to forge an identity or salvage what, as a child, I had.
The only means of transportation conducted by those who constantly feedback on what I apparently am, how I look, how I talk, how I walk, what is and isn't appropriate.
Taken to therapists to further analyze what I am.
Phone calls and letters to far off friends and romantic interests, further talk of things not experienced, more analysis of life not life, more feedback.
To poetry readings where I listen to others, and myself either ask about others or remain silent.
Poetry readings where I can find an opportunity to read, but these are groups, where instead of reading and leaving, I'm asked to give feedback on others and receive feedback on my work.
To online poetry sites where the rules allow no feedback but dull readings, or feedback required on others' and given on yours.
A life of feedback on an identity that's very identity is nothing but a closed feedback loop.
But from the middle of that loop, a monster has been born. A tradition warped flow of fiery alterity.
To shake my hand is to imprison yourself, as I pick your pocket for every key to every novelty your body electric is capable of . . .
. . .
There is no such thing as OCD
There is no such thing as Trauma
There is no such thing as Denial
There is no such thing as Regression
There is no such thing as Misunderstanding
These are excuses.
. . .
Stripped to naked earth
of all illusion,
I no longer speak
to Self,
but to you and Bia.
I'm WC Fields Robert Johnson Antonin Artaud
John Constantine Mad Max All of the Marx Brothers
Sherlock Holmes Philip Dick
not their gifts but they
all
at once and at intervals.
My Buffoonery says that my mistakes and failures are part of my iconography. (Where would W. C. Fields be without his flaws? His character defects are his character.) My Narcissism tells me that my most selfless acts are born from egoist notions of what I SHOULD do (Even an act of pure bravery and self-sacrifice is glittering with mythopoetic notions of grandeur; or, in another situation, a desperate need to protect or help others or another, based on my own conceits. My own values, my fear of cowardice, my need for approval even in death, my fear of loss that would make my pain while alive worse than the pain of whoever lost me from my own point of view. Even when I am beyond point of view, it is ME that is absent.).
There's a duck on the table, rubber; not clear which, the duck or the table.
I see myself as I am, holding a cup, like someone in a 19th century or 20th century movie. I feel aesthetically somebody. A me.
The same as a character in a movie is and does within the context of the movie.
When someone is dead, you can write their biography and evaluate their work and depict them as a character in a sense of Absolute Motion.
I am simply living that Absolution (pun intended). I am the character in the movie, the movie is realtime reality.
I have the satisfaction of being Complete and Unfinished. I'm my own Role Model. I live vicariously through myself.
Anything that happens is happening as the movie, and adds to my character. I am complete and open to alterity.
Two gongs sit on a table. And a purse from an older decade. Some cookies in a jar.
A box fan is also on the table. It is turned on and blowing toward the hall where no one is.
The sunlight through the window behind me is making shadows on the walls and floors. All the lights are off in the house.
The sound of the fan and what it would feel like, as it's a couple hours after noon. This is years ago.
. . .
V
"my personality has been eclipsed by my consciousness of personality"
me, 2004
Decades of self-reflective OCD.
15 years of solitude, identity feedback on "its" "self", no experiences, relationships, social-cultural happenings in which to forge an identity or salvage what, as a child, I had.
The only means of transportation conducted by those who constantly feedback on what I apparently am, how I look, how I talk, how I walk, what is and isn't appropriate.
Taken to therapists to further analyze what I am.
Phone calls and letters to far off friends and romantic interests, further talk of things not experienced, more analysis of life not life, more feedback.
To poetry readings where I listen to others, and myself either ask about others or remain silent.
Poetry readings where I can find an opportunity to read, but these are groups, where instead of reading and leaving, I'm asked to give feedback on others and receive feedback on my work.
To online poetry sites where the rules allow no feedback but dull readings, or feedback required on others' and given on yours.
A life of feedback on an identity that's very identity is nothing but a closed feedback loop.
But from the middle of that loop, a monster has been born. A tradition warped flow of fiery alterity.
To shake my hand is to imprison yourself, as I pick your pocket for every key to every novelty your body electric is capable of . . .
. . .
There is no such thing as OCD
There is no such thing as Trauma
There is no such thing as Denial
There is no such thing as Regression
There is no such thing as Misunderstanding
These are excuses.
. . .
Stripped to naked earth
of all illusion,
I no longer speak
to Self,
but to you and Bia.