First and foremost, I think it is pretty darn brilliant that I wrote the VAST majority
of all this on
my silly phone.
Yes, it’s true. I still email myself. It’s efficient. Not only can I write whenever I want,
I can say whatever I want. Furthermore, I get a handy dandy backup archive on my gmail account…
AND there is the distinct possibility that cellular signals are easily received by
whomever is in charge of this grand orchestration.
“Whoa. What did she just say?”
You heard me. It’s signal and pattern. All in code, out in the ethers.
Welcome to the universe. For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction.*
For every blip, there is a beep…or a bloop…
These signals are ELECTRIC in nature. Everything is.
*Yes, this is debatable. No. It’s not. Except for the part about opposites. It doesn’t always have
to be opposite. We know that sometimes thing react in collaboration and symbiosis.
It is not all about pushing a brick wall backwards.
Additionally, the part about equal is totally bunk. For example, one would not think that a simple
email to oneself could effectively undo a fundamental theory of physics and cause it, in two sentences,
to sound utterly idiotic.
If you pay any attention at all, it doesn’t even make sense.
So, what I really need to write about is how nobody is really fucked up, but that
sometimes situations are fucked up and fucked up simply means dysfunctional in the
current context…there is nothing permanent about fucked up, unless you are talking pure toxicity –
like radioactive waste. Even that is relative. Radioactive waste is not harmful to radioactive waste.
So, when identifying a person as fucked up, perhaps what I really ought
to do is identify that there is a functional incompatability in worldview, communication style,
expectations, norms or rituals. Respect that I am just as fucked up to them…a fact that I think
I do a good job – too good a job, really – of keeping keen about. I am always figuring out the ways
that people might see me as fucked up.
Maybe I should start considering the ways that people may see me as awesome?
I wrote over a thousand pages on my phone.
That’s pretty fuckin’ awesome.
This is a copper bird that was jammed into an ATM in
early 2010. Call it wishful thinking.
I called it a Present.
In other news, the direct occupation
in Asheville has turned into a
Flannery O’Connor novel.
The night was cold and the trees sounded bitter.
Everything was dry.
There was none of the promised snow,
Oh, I don’t have the patience for this.
These were the words she thought to herself
as she walked up the orange-lit concrete stairs,
then the rust-cornered metal planks,
to the tents that were on the little strip of land
on the SW side of City Hall.
No, really, I don’t have the patience for this.
Ha. So, yes, I went to the encampment this evening and it was quite a tragicomedy
in the most tragedy-oriented sense of the word.
It was funny only because it was so unbelievably like a Flannery O’Connor story.
I don’t want to write about the people there. They are my friends.
I try to honor their stories. I will not make fiction out of them.
I might someday write poetry for them, though – the blue eyed drunks and angry chapped lips
with the stories of hundred and one lives lived and died.
When I sat down, someone handed me a single key, a silver kwikset on a simple jumpring.
“Here. It’s a house key. You’re responsible for it now. Someone lost it. It was in the dirt.”
I told him I wouldn’t hang on to it. That I’d leave it on the table. He hung it up on a winter-bare
branch instead and it looked to me to be a good sign, shining silver in the downtown light.
I was emptying my purse of change, pennies and nickels, a few quarters in the corner.
Handing the coins to a gloved hand, who said, that’s enough, that’s enough. His girlfriend, to
whom I gave a crocheted cloud to back in late-September, told him to shut up and we laughed.
I told her that I thought she was magic and she told me that she’d forgotten my name.
I told a man who will die if he does not drink, a man who I know to be good, that he should go home.
His shoulders were all bone.
The dog is starving.
That’s not the worst of it. It never is.
On the bright side of things, this is the nature of things. Standing down on the sidewalk
with the man who loaned me the Villoldo book, that I admitted to only skimming through, as I
found it to be binding in an odd way, I exclaimed, “This is the been an amazing night!”
“It’s falling apart.” He looked confused. “It started disintegrating last night.”
“Yeah, but that’s what happens.” It is a known fact that I appreciate the points and patterns of dispersion.
After I walked him back up to the encampment,
we saw a black cat run all the way across
the City Hall stairs.
I also appreciate cats.