Brief to the Noosphere

The hive is on hiatus but the bees are at it until the dawn convulses on the lawn. The brushwork gargles pencils and the harlequin spits red. It’s one of those kinds of motels. There are spirits in the limestone. Accordions in the curtain. Odors in the bedsprings and an airport on my tongue. You can change a circumference but you can’t change pi.

And here I am driving an ultramarine submarine down Santa Monica Boulevard. The debris of my emotional life is deformed and trumpeted. When I walk in the rain, it seems as if the news is made of gauze and the world is so crazy that even the night wears a blindfold.

I like to dive into books. My eyebrows grasp the forehead of meaning and everything turns upside down. Meaning is always reversible. Metaphors are reversible. Reversibility is reversible. Every little word beats my lip until the components of meaning waddle around like gaudy explanations and write themselves into weather and empire.

Motion has its severity. The brush is goopy with blue. Even the leaves have turned into prophesies. They will fall. Each one will fall. And they know it. How do I know they know it? Knowledge can be hypothetical, yes. But is it still knowledge? Some things I know by touch, some by reason. Knowledge is what you know, said Gertrude Stein. I know that the boiling point of water is 212 degrees Fahrenheit, or 100 degrees Celsius. I know that sunlight has no weight but that an equivalent mass for its energy can be roughly determined by the average radiation flux incident on the earth’s surface multiplied by one half of the area of the earth. The formula E=mC2 will thus yield an answer of 2.8 kilograms, albeit measured as seconds, not weight.

I know what time Café Vita opens at the bottom of the hill, and how much it will hurt if I punch the wall. I do not know under what circumstances I may want to punch the wall, but I do know that a feeling of something vague and ineffable can drive a poem to paradise, and if, under the right conditions, a palomino can be trained to embody the Noosphere of Vienna, and stream out of a human heart in a pink cloud of mutual aspirations, and whispered dreams and murmured endeavors, and prayers and pledges and bizarre confessions uttered in anesthetic bliss, then the collective conscience of Grindavik, Iceland will approach the sanguine magnitude of a pumpkin.

How do I know it? I just know it. I hear it in the wind. I see it in the glow of birch on a Rocky Mountain slope. I see it in the feathers of the crow. I hear it in the wisteria.  I taste it in my cinnamon roll. I smell it at the border. I feel it reaching out of my sternum.

Poor Texas. So much distance, so much grandeur, yet so little zucchini. You must garden what chords you can on a Martin N20. This is open to interpretation, of course, because there will always be those for whom the Fauve movement was just plain silly, and those for whom it was wildly exhilarating. See how calculus ruins everything? I am prodigal with resilience. Until I’m out of resilience. Glue is a purpose unto itself. It is its own sticky teleology. This is not a mere metaphysics that touches the heart. This is a call for welding. Think of it as a lamp mounted on the front of a copula. The sleeves are for emphasis. If you find yourself grimacing in the middle of this sentence, then the mailbox is correct, and setting the washer for an extra rinse cycle is the appropriate thing to do. Your grimace will be returned UPS.

The path adapts to the irregularities of the mountain. Amber provides a refuge for the eyes. My reticence to speak was squashed like meadow flowers under a raging medieval battle. The clang of metal, the abdication of kings. I lost all restraint and said things I later regretted but so quickly forgot that it didn’t matter until someone reminded me, and then I had to shoot that person. Think of this as a moody reality eating oats from the hand of propinquity. Fractions are sometimes plump. Fragments are wholly partial.

The siege cannot continue under these conditions. Something must be found to keep the salt and pepper shakers filled. There is a weird coherence to the napkins, and the propellers are flashing principles of motion at the grease.  

Death is a caboose, pathos for a tie. I wander the world ravenous for experience. Jingle your intuition. Sneeze on a rock. There is a hit song for every potato. Even the thumb has a parameter. I think of coffee as the engine that causes me to flex my muscles and experiment with history.

Packing a suitcase is an art. You’re in trouble if you fill it with lobsters. You will arrive at your destination and regret that you did not bring enough enthusiasm. Throw yourself into it anyway, whatever ‘it’ turns out to be. Sometimes ‘it’ is just a pronoun, but even then, it’s important to decorate the room with something sidereal and paradigmatic. Insects are good for medicine and also make lovely pets, though you may substitute a crustacean. Nudity is a custom served best with clothes.

All the totems during our journey strained to evade definition. We saw stains on a blanket metaphorical as a crackling fire and two episodes of Rawhide on TV. We saw minerals push the mountains into the sky and men and women go around in hats with quixotic plumes.  All in all, I would say the hiatus was a success, though our chauffeur turned mournful as a SCUBA diver, and that was uncalled for. Wearing a hot suit and oxygen tanks in the midst of heavy Manhattan traffic is bound to make anyone crabby.

Hinduism is optional. All those semi-nude sculptures making love are seamless as rhythm on a drum. There were peculiarities of aluminum in the shaded picnic area, but the plywood nipple urged conference and plunged us into the surf of conversation, visceral and fresh as a detour.

I just want to say, I relate completely to coffee. It helps me trickle into life and seek abstraction. I cannot describe a calliope without a little pulchritude, and a pulley or two. The world is coiled in destiny like a loaf of French bread. I think they call it a baguette. I can’t tell you how the leavening of evil is purged by singing, but the bread can speak for itself.