Somewhere Between The Goon Show And Proust

It’s fascinating to watch someone play the piano. Fascinating to watch the flutter of hands amid all the music stands. Everybody looks so calm. I’d be terrified of fucking up. Getting a cramp in my hand. Poking somebody in the eye with my violin bow.

The piano is a percussion instrument. It builds architectures of sound with little hammers. The top of my head flies off like the lid on a cookie jar. And I see things for the first time as they truly are, not as they appear to be. Literature is constructed a little differently. It's built with the murky teakettles of supposition. It’s a rebellion of empty chairs and frenetic combustibility. Its strategies focus on titillation, the fine hairs of the pubis as well as the heavy thuds of the glans. But its true fuel is a combination of gloom and spaghetti. An artist must trust her pain. There are empty bottles and torn pillows strewn all over the place. An arthritic magician lowers himself paragraph by paragraph into a novel held together by a frayed rope and a nylon consciousness. This is truly where it begins. The night Merry Clayton shoved the heavy glass door of Sunset Sound Recorders open and shouted rape and murder in her pajamas.

The doors are always open in Proust. But Françoise is petulant. Albertine will be dropping by around midnight. This is scandalous. But this is how it’s done. There has to be this shift in our understanding before the league of whistles breeds its vehement futility. And perhaps, while our mind goes wandering among all the new impediments, strange implications and wide-open dilemmas, our benevolence spreads by undulating waves a malleable tale of cracks and buttocks before the mountain begins to speak its language of stars.

Language is the house of Being. My advice is to grab a book and stay in your room. Things are getting dire at the home office. Everything is hectic with clothing. I shave in a mirror of pronouns. I need to look interesting and incomprehensible. At least as half as intriguing as Saturday. I walk across a consonant to open a vowel. Out comes a blaze of hawthorn. I begin to feel oblong. I do parlor tricks on a high wire. The hole in the knee of my jeans is expanding as rapidly as the country hollows from the inside out. If I move against the grammar that has been hammered into our expectations of life I come near to an understanding of our true predicament below the handstand of an extenuating circumstance. And this helps me understand oblivion. Not as a negation, but a prairie.

We garden adjectives in a field of adverbs. The self becomes a kind of throw rug. A personality is generally about what forces assemble us. The braid is insignificant. What counts is talk. You can heal things with language. You can instigate things with language. Take a long wide look at your incentives. Shadows rupture from a brief but startling emotion. Many noses are archaic, or arch youthfully in abstraction, only to become so later.  Pollock only dripped for 48 months. Huge canvases shoved around. Flopped on the floor. Thuds so loud I could actually feel them physically impact my ear drums. It made me breakable. Which is good. I like bending the rules. All my efforts were fat, poorly developed, and timid. But they resulted in a surge of nervous excitement and a heart-wrenching melody. This just goes to show that you can achieve wonders of pyrotechnic glory, but if you can't turn a mule into a butterfly, you haven't done anything extraordinary. Therefore, let the lamp happen inside its milk. Think of this as a bridge to elsewhere. Every time I see a horse, I fill with the shimmer of its being.

A lot of people ask questions about Hegel’s dialectical method. It is a mechanical sewing machine from history known for its borders and gardens. I kiss its animatronic morality with the steam and participation it deserves. I hear the parables crackling about it. While not inherently harmful, prolonged holidays on an elevator can cause awkward implications or holes in one's logic. We want this, because everything that is needed at the moment when we do something else under the same conditions as the tropics will be comical, and we must consider another question. I can see what it does to the roots. The abstract has a beautiful black eyelash based purely on the caprice of any given moment. It's largely a flirtation with movement, despite the many imponderables uniting our bananas. And you know as well as I do that a dream of sand has many implications, ripples caused by wind and wave, the foam of the moment, and is a future with a junkyard in it. There is one fabrication for the ocean that sleeps in all of us, and that is who we are, who we were, who we aspire to be, who we will never be, and who we try hard not to be. Everything else is a shadow of some higher reality. I’m reaching for you out of this seclusion.  I'm heading towards a Saturday in another country. Would you like to come with me? You don’t have to pack. I carry a big house with me wherever I go because it's a source of beautiful friction.

This house is a demonstrable calculus of pins and bas-relief. It’s how I operate. I refine an unpopular opinion by sharing a saga of herding words in a dream of sand. The cricket's well-being is what makes my furrow so spoonful. So blackberry. So nearby. So faraway. So recumbent. So delicately embroidered. So strangely unembarrassed.

Elevators offer us a brief limbo between The Goon Show and Proust. I juggle plates and concepts. Breakfast is a beacon to the naked eye. This style of drilling was featured on the Spirit Express. I’m screaming this is my elevator but what good does it do? The sapphire that sleeps in a faith until it becomes a coconut wire is another knee on the quantum future of jellyfish. As the fluctuations of Earth inspire a prosody engorged with duende while a raw element in the melody grasps at a useful anguish, these changes take on a life of their own in Spain. This is the old saga beside the new cream. Don’t get a knot in your jodhpurs. Hold my jelly while I humor the jar it came in. They seem to know me personally about a winch. I think these words are too small to support a garbage truck. But they will support a memory. Who remembers The Lobsters from the glorious 60s? They were a little known band that played the clubs around Vegas. They had a hit song. Poker is a game based on drapery. But just let me get my claws on the Queen of Hearts and I’ll show you all the eerie feelings I can’t describe in words. It’s not an envy. Not a spin cycle. Not a bitter realization. Not a wad of money. Not a sad example. It’s nothing like that at all. It’s a spoon with an elaborate handle. It’s an old man playing a concertina. It’s a wedge of ice cream. It’s ha ha ha ha I told you so. And a drop of rain zigzagging down a window pane. In Zaragoza.