More Random Thoughts:

James Mason in Bigger Than Life

from The Garden of CYRUS by Sir Thomas Browne:

“Nor will the sweetest delight of Gardens afford much comfort in sleep; wherein the dulnesse of that sense shakes hands with delectable odours; and though in the Bed* of Cleopatra, can hardly with any delight raise up the ghost of a Rose.”

[*Strewed with roses.]

My twenties are sweating. Photographic frontal eye-lid. Abstract’s compassion. Pilot of sound. The outrage of it. Tiny bird attached to a mirror. Reach, grab, cut yourself. Possible name-change: Pinkham Aizawa. ¹ - Whining sea urchins turning cartwheels in the deepest sea. ² - Marilyn Monroe, like Elvis, is everywhere we go. ³ - Earthworms harden like bayonets in the blistering sun. 4 - Mother, repeating herself, grows ill. The children, wincing.

I see digital as a two-sided phenomenon. The fact that pictures are free can lead to greater spontaneity. As I watch people photograph (with film), I often see a hesitation, an inhibition, in their process. I don't see this as much with digital. There seems to be a greater freedom and lack of restraint. This is analogous to how word processing affects writing: one can put thoughts down in writing, even tangential thoughts, with a minimum of inner censorship, knowing that the piece can be edited later. The other side of this lack of restraint is greater indiscriminancy. Here's a tautology: as one considers one's pictures less, one produces fewer truly considered pictures. [Stephen Shore]

Light enters the room to disappear. Particles of dust peeks in, peeks out of sight; the immeasurable and altogether forgotten wing we are created from, the dust; corpses of teeth, and I assumed that it was only I who was failing to see myself as if I had no sense in which to bury my head in the nearest heater as if to melt, Molten, preserved. I recognize poems as what they aren’t which reminds me of Sandy Dennis’s smile, or a chasm passing through nobody, straightforwardly, like meddlesome representation. Value in a poem is considered clumsy, a resurgence of the unforgettable populace. At what point should the notion be a notation of allowing all words to sink into the ciphered-eye of the mind? As distinguished as an antenna, as unstable as a contentious issue.

Is “action” unknown unless we partake in it? We are born into action, therefore human consumption, through action, is in the reaction. To think God-like, free and colourless. She found it shocking that I had cursed. She made it sound prolifically-apocalyptic, as if her life-long cat had just died...all because of me. While she was talking, I accidentally clawed over the small mole on my back, making me cringe, which then produced thoughts of cancer. To uproot a mole is like tampering with nature. Cloud seeding.

Stars blink conversely, a chatting nonsense – hiccups of the universe.

To state “I’m Other” is an attempt at being different, which is too transparent and overdone, thus there is no originality (no such anyhow!), nor justice, but instead is a faulty motivation, or desire, to get the viewer to tread through thorns as if there were a pursuit on unhappy hunting-grounds for a kind of madness in this individual. Perception of character needn’t be ‘visual.’

Writers are pathetic. Writers aren’t writers. Writers should never write a thing.

I’m a poet with a tongue of sharp blades, word-spikes directly into your soul the way that Ty Cobb played. As sterling as Rod Serling, I recreate my own script, endless wordplay, in a lyrical Twilight Zone is where I stay. God shook himself and mankind; a great roar in the sky – A great nation still awaiting, in history, with all its power.

To free-will excitedly, joyously, down a slippery street, writing poems, reciting poems, ducking paint-balls, physical firework to the body.

I believe that there are three levels of the subconscious mind. Example: Last night I went to bed with the thought that I had previously took the time to extract a piece of food from in-between my teeth, taking much longer than the normal procedure. This thought was “anew” as I ventured to bed, thus producing horrible dreams of my teeth loosening and eventually falling out (no one caring in the dream, as per usual). This particular alley of the brain was stuck. Is still stuck. I can’t locate it again. Drifts to sleep in the deepest core, the deepest valley, darkest cave, lightless areas “unknown to man,” the portion of the brain that “never gets used.” I think I’ve used that part of my brain once, but it’s vague.

I think of the fruits of thought with no avail. The peaches have molded. The Kennedy Curse is upon them. Who? [shrug] – Why do people want their own personal “world domination”? I have never really been able to understand this thought-process. Why would you give up running free-willingly through a beautiful meadow to want to “conquer the world”? Power is in politics. Don’t be fooled. Government is itching; they throw their rashes onto everyone else and pretend that they can’t see how pinkly-red everything has become. World Domination? Nah! I am a little more subterranean – just give me the fishes and the deep blue sea.

August Sander, Architect Hans Heinz Lüttgen and his Wife Dora, 1926

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