Erik (eriktrips) wrote,

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some of this I wrote on the train on Monday and some of it I wrote just now.

I've skipped over a large portion that I am not at all sure about.


imagine us thinking we were here for some divinely ordained purpose. these fields although they feed me offend me. except for the signs of life they emit such as broken dirt in great mounds each of which must contain one thousand crawling legs and alien feet or such as the yellow spray of daffodils against the green so green it can only be named green of plants that are surely weeds but are surely green or broken fences mustered briefly from the ground and now crumbling back into it or the pleasing lyrics drawn by farm implements whose names I do not know but which leave more green things growing in evenly spaced rows or the fur of the earth which we all are every one of us even the toxic chemicals that will leach back into the groundwater once this car rusts completely away. the force that drew poisons from many things and gathered them into this one thing that is reclaimed by soil and air releasing the poison is lethally splendid even though I often lobby passionately against it.

is it not a marvel how quickly and completely I can stray from the point. every paragraph could be a book but I do not have the time to write them so perhaps you will do it. choose one and take off.

back when I fantasized about hugging my friends until something completely unpredictable but wonderful happened one of my favorite places to dream of taking them when I was grown up and could do what I wanted was the small town of Aberdeen WA. this was before I knew that my kind would likely as not be killed or at least beaten there were they to find out of what kind I was. at the time though a small wooden house painted bright blue and placed in the center of a damp and mossy yard with a small truck parked beside it was charming beyond all the menace such an appearance now seethes with.

the small truck would be for drives out to the surrounding forests where damp moss takes on monstrous but beautiful proportions as the only cold wet blanket you would ever want to wrap yourself in and there we would hug and hug and hug and I never could make it anywhere past that point in my imagination as there was nothing recognizable in that beyond. damply we would play out this one and only scene that I could think of over and over.

here is one difference between boys and girls that is the stiffness of one and the dampness of the other but if you venture out into less well-worn territory things get confused to the extent that any particular difference shrinks into triviality amidst a nearly terrifying host: not number but its precursor. to speak imprecisely.

concretely there are some of us who can be both stiff and damp. would that we could fuck ourselves. there may be some others who harbor the same sentiment. to champion an appendage that is only laughable in its disinclination to tower above the competition. to make too much of it.

the plow for instance. had it a less aggressive model it would only trace so lightly that the soil would simply be informed of its vulnerability and no more.

not that I would erect something new. we've hardly touched upon the convenience of self-lubrication for example much less its metaphysical consequences. the miracle is not that our anatomy reflects eternal principles but that we would think it could. given the jealous rage eternal principles sometimes fly into this is also the tragedy. make it up as you go along then abandon it forthwith. that is the golden rule.

I am going to have to change some things around. who knows whether there is time. death has beckoned us all to go on watching so in a little while we will gather together to watch although the vigil itself had there been one would have passed a few weeks ago but we now have each other to watch in the interim which may last for years or only minutes.

I knew a man who died, you see. to say any more about it would be to imply mistakenly that his was a special case although I can say at least this and that is that he was one for sitting with whatever struck him without immediately striking back. that this did not get him anywhere is apparent insofar as he is now dead but I suspect he knew ahead of time that things were going to turn out this way no matter what he did.

oh how to say it. sit here. we are not going to get anywhere but will rather undergo this and that until that one day when we vanish into the thin air.

it is not that I take pride exactly in not knowing what to exclude or when to stop but rather that I have made of it my method and that quite deliberately. this and that will make its appearance here because where else would anyone let it show up. once this fellow was gone all that was left was to go on and not be stingy in the telling not because one had anything important to say for what is said is nothing beside the gesture that brings itself naked before all comers but because the breath of the utterance is the only mercy some of us will know.

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