A list of flops and flips, daily thoughts, other things

By Lucy Skaer

Today, had an ear-conversation w/ a deaf fellow; initial glances, outer words spoken, he clung to himself, thinking that he was merely ignoring me, until I learned of his disability in which he let me know by slightly-shouting and pointing at his ear. Moments such as this make me feel more appreciative with a kind of overwhelming industrial power, feeling more blessed than ever. My mind keeps rushing around all over the place like angry Christmas shoppers. Watched a group of women speaking in a foreign language—babies squealing like little piglets (one of them dressed in pink)—feeling so foreign like Alvin Curran’s “Wonder Bread”—feeling so foreign in certain places (she once said to me: “It is like we’re foreigners in this city”—we’d been in a certain city, unknown and wide-eyed with comprehension in our highest interest).

A particular man (seemingly unhappy; looks as if he probably snores) told me about his problems, how his son passed away—the german shepherd would stay in his room, would inform his son of when the alarm would go off for time to arise, but one morning the alarm went off, the dog was even suspicious this day, and his son never arose. He said, “I thought he may have just did not get up—being lazy—but he never did. I went upstairs, turned him over, his face had already turned blue.” His wife, passed away not long ago, as well, and he said, “I don’t know why, either. It’s crazy. Certain people in the hospital are NUTS, man; I think there is a cult going on in there. I knew someone that knew of certain nurses that would laugh at the way people were dying.” He went on, “To this day, I don’t know how she died. I didn’t have an autopsy done on her.” He had just had an operation, had been out of work for four months, had three to go, but they want him to come in to work now. “The ends of my fingers are really numb...” Later, he said, “...and I just had my truck fixed up, and now I’m looking for pots and pans, because my old ones are worn out. Everything is so cheap these days, and isn’t worth a crap. I hate glass tops on my pots and pans; they have to be metal.” The only thing left is he and his dog. He was grumpy, unhappy, foul-mouthed, and had a stick-it-to-you type of attitude, which, I thought, may be the primary reason for all of the problems and disappointments. I tend to always hold my tongue in these instances and just listen . . . and just, glisten. Grumbling, unhappy people? Be kind to them.

Something about the seashore, as a child, was like a “seasnore.” Anyhow, thoughts from work: this October-warmth feels like a tease; soon the freeze will chapmark every ground—one’s tongue, like a weapon, shall never prosper. Attitudes-aplenty around every surrounding ground, like gulping on rotten things, pulp of life unappreciated, so tragic, so dewy and “fooey”—chewy loosened teeth, corroded buildings taunt—Lesley once sent me photographs of the wounds on her legs—“I think of you in all types of weather,” she says, and last night the thunder woke me up with a dash, thoughts like “need to unplug the juice to the computer”—never got up, drifted dreamily, unremembered—woke up in a pool of language.

I stick to myself, taking that literally, as if my body were velcro on one side—a kind of yin and yang, or not really. A curious trail of something positioning itself around me?

People putting their trust in planets is silly, as if planets will somehow have some cosmic effect on one’s energy and life. It’s like trying to set in screws and wheels towards something that is unapplicable.

Sarah Mclachlan’s music depresses me, not to mention people’s toilet-mouths, the kind that go “kerplunk” and needing “fixing.” Maybe,

just maybe, I should have been a clock builder, making time go slower (reminding me of a particular “The Prisoner” episode, Patrick McGoohan-style). Imagining living outside of time, like God (soon to come).

Making “no bones about it.” Making muscles be about “it.” A wireless fantasy, like some Ussachevsky composition. Ah, then there is Luc Ferrari. Musique concrete delights. He once described his work as being like “electroacoustic nature photographs.” Ooo. I often thought, often pondered, thinking and wishing how I could've seen Arthur Rubenstein play Chopin. Time, time, it never, never settles, it never settles but it constantly changes, re-arranges, and projects itself all around like dust particles. I realized not long ago that the reason why I love avant-garde/concrete music so in-depthly is because it represents, for the most part, what is going on in my mind.

I chew gum when I am nervous. I also shake my right leg uncontrollably if I am sitting down while nervous. “Quotations are useful in periods of ignorance or obscurantist beliefs.” Guy Debord (was bored?).

Robin sd: “You know, you remind me of my son’s friend." I sd: “Do I?” She sd: “Y-yeah, you, you do, and I know that I have told you this before, but you totally do.” I sd: “Ah, well that’s okay...” She sd: “You look like one of those hip ... hipster-type guys.” I laughed, sd: “Do I? In what way?" She sd: “Oh, you just do ... my son’s friend is kind of the same way. The glasses, everything.”

When I was 13, I was really into ninjas, and one year dressed up as one for Halloween (but I ran from people—My ninja-ness was like a soaking rag). Some people do not understand poets because poetry does not exist inside of them. It tries to enter into them, but it just exits, flees quickly. It has to be “wanted.” Recently ran across (or it ran to me?) Canadian poet Gwendolyn MacEwan. This, from 1987 from Afterwards, titled “Let Me Make This Perfectly Clear”:

Let me make this perfectly clear.
I have never written anything because it is a Poem.
This is a mistake you always make about me,
A dangerous mistake. I promise you
I am not writing this because it is a Poem.

You suspect this is a posture or an act
I am sorry to tell you it is not an act.

You actually think I care if this
Poem gets off the ground or not. Well
I don't care if this poem gets off the ground or not
And neither should you.
All I have every cared about
And all you should ever care about
Is what happens when you lift your eyes from this page.

Do not think for one minute it is the Poem that matters.
Is is not the Poem that matters.
You can shove the Poem.
What matters is what is out there in the large dark
and in the long light,
Breathing.

How delightful.

The U.S. dollar isn't so “almighty” anymore. Congress cannot stop the death of the American dollar because congress doesn’t control its destiny. “Every peregrine has a toothlike projection on each side of its upper mandible that enables it to dislocate the vertebrae at the base of its victim’s cranium.” This, like a perfected-metaphor for our government; certain politicians are like frollicky peregrines.

No apparent notice in such tsk-tsking!

Sleepy. Looked in the mirror earlier, noticed that my head looks like Sinead O’Connor’s. “Nothing Compares” (or compared, in this case) to this evening’s light. I will most likely repeat this tomorrow.

(found): N40570321072