Mere Anarchy

Critical evidence.
andre breton
james dickey
kafka
theodore roethke
wb yeats
sylvia
ts eliot
irvine welsh
chuck palahniuk
dostoevsky

Forensic reports.
edward gorey
man ray
simon boses

Admissions of guilt.
deadcandance
cohen
nick cave
natalie merchant
rammstein
iggy pop

Crime scenes
aurora picture show
diverseworks
theater LaB houston
voices breaking boundaries

Damning testimony.
surrealism
roller derby
exploding dog
levity
girlsarepretty

Eye luv Eer-lan.

We huv bears un poobs fuhl uf main drainkin. Moost paypool whud call em droonks. We call em pooets un righters.

If yer expactin a kik in da bahls un ya git a slap un tha face thats a victery

posted by James @ 11:05 PM

Freitag, November 15, 2002

All celings are essentially the same, the way highways or mountain ranges are. There are variations drawn from a short list of expected possibilities. Peaks, valleys, riverbeds- inverted plaster miniatures- morning’s light judges their contrasts out of night's unknowable equality.

When I was a child we moved every year. I would lie awake at night, in a bunk bed, on the floor, in the back of a moving car and look at the stars, the bed above me, the plaster landscape, and try to imagine the foreign lines of this new state we were passing through. I could lift their rough parameters from maps painted on playground asphalt, 50 piece wooden jigsaw puzzles, from veined roadmaps spread on the hood of a car with a blown radiator. Like colonial Africa I knew where it ended and where it began, but knew nothing of the interior.

At four in the morning every city is the same. There are variations drawn from a short list of expected possibilities.

Imagination is a curse. Every time there was a change I imagined it would be cataclysmic. Small towns in Oklahoma full of child molesting vampires. A city in Louisiana were people had a knot of squid tentacles instead of hands. A cave in New Mexico that led to the doors of purgatory. A lake in Michigan that is perpetually frozen because a young boy drowned his younger sister in it fifty years ago for telling their parents what he did at night. They say that the screeching of your skates is her screams.

Every time I leave the safety of the familiar I am terrified. Every time the unknown becomes commonplace I am disappointed.

posted by James @ 2:03 PM

Donnerstag, November 14, 2002