i hope that if you are ever in a situation where you are walking with a friend, and they finally have the courage and honesty to admit out loud “i really don’t believe that i’ve done anything actually worthwhile, anything of value at all in my life”, i hope that you do not respond hamvoiced and blubbering “oh, that’s not true! and etcetera”.

it’s worth a few moment’s thought.

it is worth thinking of whether anyone has been doing anything worthwhile, lately.

there are railings along a bridge that spans the androscoggin. it is filled with spiderwebs, and the spiderwebs are filled with spiders, catching little insects in the river breeze. the spiders go back countless generations. an ancestry of spiders that have only ever known a bridge spanning the androscoggin. they sit waiting for a mosquito to get caught. they while away the time comparing their web to the one their great-great-great-great-grandmother may have spun.

on saturday night i will be the singer in a band that plays in front of hundreds of people. i can already sense that it will be anticlimatic after thirty minutes, compared to how my teenageself might have envisioned. nonetheless, i will paint my face white and i will fashion black rectangles round my eyes. the triangles will be upside down. i will be dressed in a wizard’s robe, hood up. i will carry a staff. the staff will emanate brilliant white light at its top.

There is no such lapse.

Albert & Hannah were roundabout twenty-one years old in 1907. They got married in the summer. They must have been flummoxing the countryside, deep in their blackandwhite rurals, making love in wheatfields and all matter of being so sickeningly alive beyond comprehension, as people were or are far beyond my familiar bounds.

Perhaps a wheatfield within sight of the Swafield Rectory, a few hundred yards beyond the village, on the way to or from Knapton. They made love with British accents, like jowl-less Churchill and a jowl-less Queen Victoria. Youthful and mysterious, beneath a sky snared like a trap.

This is the field in which they now grow strawberries. I picked some on July 10th, 2010. Just beyond the perimeter of an afternoon shadow of the Rectory. The shadow was on its way to Knapton. I’ll give you a ride if you wait a few minutes, i said to the shadow. I am picking strawberries.

I picked a small carton full of what would become the best strawberries i would ever eat. I paid three pounds twenty to a few teenage girls and then i put the carton on the passenger seat, which located itself awkwardly to my left. The passenger seat was a lousy conversationalist but it did better with the carton of strawberries giving it some sort of topography.

The topography was subtracted as the afternoon ran its oblique course.

Strawberry juice trickled down my esophagus like a stray dog wandering a crowded beach. I was a phantom from one-hundred and three years in the future, passing Albert & Hannah who walked leisurely along the road, with a vague sense of a great-grandson passing them at high speed, with a vague scent of strawberry, with a newly-conceived great-uncle whatshisface sleeping in a tummy, a prefetus anticipation being prepared for the likes of strawberries and America.

The universe shrugs.

The verse isconvinced that nothings’s existeduntil now.

Sea was red andthe sky was grey wondered how tomorrwo could ever follow to day.

Who has never never never been borne.

And the air required.

And the air required a handshake. And the air required a dance of retribution. And the retribution required a fathom to take. And the take required a pound of gold that i punched in the face.

Check the box and return home.

On July 31st i will form upon a silly floor, in front of hundreds i shall return to rialveeds afforded from once so long ago. Within a mile of where someone once decreed “give me liberty or give me breath” ..two or more hundred years ago, the deaths no longer decide.

fliph this capitol eclipse.

Someday i will cut down a tree and re-carve its shape with the wood. It will be a sculpture. Poignant people might consider it poignant, considerate people may not considerate it at all.

Daniel Plainview wants no one to win the World Cup, and neither do i.

I will eat whatever is put in front of me, but no one is around to put anything anywhere.

The whole of the whirled looses its interest, until there is none.

When i was very little, everyone puts notes into floating balloons and let them go, they might go around the world who knows. I put two and a half notes into my balloon and i never heard back from anyone or anything. I guess it liked the view oh well.

I had dinner with my boss tonight he asked if i ever considered coming back to work full time i said no.

Next week i am going to England. England is where all of my family branches converge, all of them. It is pretty hard to believe but it is true, i did the analysis myself one branch even goes back to 1286, it is wearing dark ages rags. The other branches have nice-looking cumberbunds, though they smell of body odor.

Maybe i will research my genealogy when i am in England. Maybe i won’t. It’s sort of anticlimactic to finish listing out all of your ancestors for six generations. You put them in front of you and then you say “well, there they are” and then you go to pet the cat, who is alive right now.

Oh, linus. Who becomes the most necessary?

I do not know whether i am recovering from something, or the opposite. The pulse of the universe seems so faint, i wonder if my nerves have become frayed beyond recognition. sometimes.

I liked when we would be comedians, all of us. The thing about the old days is that there were not enough of them, and they did not last long enough.

Everyone likes Van gogh but the thing about Van gogh is that he shot himself in the fucking heart.

triste peristalsis & tributary-to

Originally uploaded by amnesoid

MUTE, originally uploaded by amnesoid.

//
my time/ limes like
the sun above your equat or,
which does ever-so-waver

Little by little, the night turns around. Counting the leaves which tremble at dawn. Lotuses lean on each other in yearning. One inch of love is one inch of shadow. Set the controls for the heart of the Sun.

Towards the consign, eaves for the intertwined,

All the way from the floor to the outer rings of Saturn and back

Originally uploaded by amnesoid

Billions of small fragments of you were forged at the center of a star billions of times your size, billions of years ago

I am hoping to make elements within my core and when i go supernovae someday
all of the new and unprecedented little fragments will be on their way towards forming someone who will wonder about me, billions of years from now.

I have earned four nights vanity and an ignorance of the tally,

I have earned an eternal light the size of a splinter which has healed beneath the skins of OH i should have stopped thirteen paragraphs ago, what am i nineteen?

i am not a seventeenth-century prude. i am not concerned about your damnation. but please do not tell me about all of your sexual pursuits and conquests like you are a conquistador. do not hint at them incessantly like a cartographer. i am not certain whether i do not envy your stories, but i am surely certain that they are not currency. you are not buying any clout.

you should still give a fuck about what your grandmother would think.

humility is nice, every once in awhile.