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the saddest blog that ever was
8.03.2005:
"i could be bounded in a nutshell and count myself a king of infinite space"
-hamlet, act II scene II
my nutshell (or walnut shell, to be more precise) looks remarkably like louis bourgeois' femmes-maisons, its circadian rhythms the chant of sexton: i have gone out, a possessed witch, haunting the black air, braver at night...
however, the soul of my infinite space, composed of "not only the well-rounded truth, its unwavering heart"-Parmenides, translator Gadamer (emen aletheies eukukleos atremes etor) belongs still to Friedrich's Artic Shipwreck aka Sea of Ice aka the Wreck of the Hope aka Shipwreck of the Hope in Ice and 1824. Snyder sings the chanteys on my blue-gray sea: "how poetry comes to me"
It comes blundering over the
Boulders at night, it stays
Frightened outside the
Range of my campfire
I go to meet it at the
Edge of the light.
they couldnt understand why it was she wouldnt need people and would need people-less-ness, silence, the unnameable in beckett hence the unsayable. so she gave up trying to speak, to do the work of speaking, par egon logoi. it understandly did not work out well with certain members of the queen's wal(l)-nutshell. but the invitations to the beheading went unheeded and rebellion ensued. the shell was broken and all i have left are bitter-smoked fragments of rind, wafts of old burnt smells drifting through wreckage. adrienne rich said poetry is like diving into the wreck. friedrich anticipates this a century and a half before.
PS: i just listened to the most inchoate, drunk conversation about minor threat in the history of probable and imaginary space-time and its seven extra dimensions. then they proceeded to unknowingly serenade me under my window (homonculus-e in my hidden pitch-colored nook most receptive to pounding with furious vengence upon thee, little keys), sprawled upon the grass of my lawn, perspiring eighty-five degree alcohlic sweat onto the dewy humid mulch. the entire discography was blurrily chopped through, an angular trapeze of voice rather than anything resembling a warble. recognizable hits included "out of step," "salad days" and "i dont wanna hear it." THEN, he went on and on about the metaphysical (well i inserted this connotation in order to elide it within the framework of my studies, plato/derrida, khora) significance of the fact that millions (millions?) of people around the world had the sheep tatoo so those people were just like the blind deaf mute sheepish followers of mass soceity that was the very thing ian railed against, now they were simply blind deaf mute minor threat sheep. it was very reality-bites meets mcsweeneys even with the metaphysicality. (ben stiller inserts heidegger's being and time into almost every one of his so-called dramas, this tome is what ethan hawke is reading in the coffee shop when winona ryder rushes in to tell him something i dont remember what). i really need to leave the walnut-shell and talk to actual people. no i dont. i love tivoli and working ceaselessly. tomorrow when i hike my daily little circumnavigational trample around the hot dry edges of town i will take polaroids of every haunted house and tree, leering back at me.
sudden memory triggered by sein und zeit: we were so poor when we lived in the one-room basement in queens that my mother washed her hair, and my and my sister's hair, with palmolive dishwashing liquid. she had heard or read somewhere that it was an ecumenical device, money-saving and just as effective. i think she failed to dilute the sodium lauryl sulfate that actually is the same exact active ingredient (surfactant cosmetic chemists call it) in dish soap, shampoo, laundry detergent ect and our hairs would rest like straw atop our heads bundles of hay for birds to roost in. no wonder a bird shit on her head. but she refused to wash the shit out of her hair for days until i stopped speaking to her in the third grade. (where was the father? only a patronymic shadow?) which leads us to the confusion of immigrant poverty, the weird digressions from logic engendered by a constant state of deprivation: deprivation of common tongue, language as that first entryway, the primary portal of conceptuality (english being for me only a modality from the fourth grade onwards, and in the sixth i forever stopped dreaming in chinese, a tortuous event). this compounded by an infinitude of difficulties great and small, no change leftover for umbrellas so the plastic key foods bags go over the head as well as being held by the hand anchored precariously with government eggs; then, what is this? an intransigence eminating so fiercly, shining like fire, from a ten year old girl who just refused to wear plastic bags on her head for the walk home, demanding instead to march forth in the downpour. the broken english parlayed along with the folded creased pages of food stamps apparently affront enough for someone whose mother wore pigeon poop like some new form of millinery wet dream. the furor and the repatriation. and now look. traitor. renouncer of all that she had stood for in the third through sixth grades. reading the pre-socratics as if it wasn't the utmost betrayal. complete effacement of the other within her, achieved through no small modicum of philosophic geist and zest (gest?), gusto? relish? no, no, that cannot be the truth, alethia. she still reads the copy of tillie olsen's "i stand here ironing" and oates' "foxfire" as if it were composed from the very corpuscles of her blood, surging up against nutshells of infinite space. it is the vast and open sea i seek, and as always, the mermaids singing each to each. i do not think that they will sing to me.
Blog // 1:53 PM
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