Betsy said: "You have to understand."
Betsy said, "You have to understand that fiction protects the writer's life. It's a shield that lets the writer attack the world. How?"
She answered her own question: "By turning the writer into a laughable existence."
Amen.
Then she said, "And fiction protects the world from one-sided bigotry."
Amen to that, too.
Thursday, August 27, 2009
Sunday, August 23, 2009
Dust
Dust, Gus was sure, must be experienced differently all around the world. First, there are different colors of dust, and second, there's texture. Gray, copper, sapphire dust. Unwanted dust, beautiful dust. Unwanted and beautiful dust. Dust that never touched people. Dust that does touch people. Dust that only skirts people's eyes, but is nevertheless seen. Allergenic dust. Forgotten dust. Toxic dust. Rain clouds cannot form without dust, can they? Gus was very curious to find out more about dust from all over the world. Where did all the dust come from, and where was it all going? He was going to create the world's first Department of Dust. He was certain, that perhaps in a thousand years, many students and laymen around the world would be studying dust, from a variety of perspectives. The most popular boy's name would be Dustin, and for girls, Dustina. What a wonderful world it would be, to live under the humble glory of dust. And Gus would never live to see that. Timeless dust. Dust cannot be dated. Gus knew. Gus knew that any speck of dust could contain so much more than he could ever hope to hold inside himself, let alone comprehend. The world needed to see this, too.
Beijing
Gu Lou Da Jie is a street in Beijing
I had never known I would set foot on it
More than a street, it speeds through my mind like a vine,
A maze.
How could a straight road twist and turn into a labyrinth?
Your mind
Your mind, your mind, your mind
I had never known I would set foot on it
More than a street, it speeds through my mind like a vine,
A maze.
How could a straight road twist and turn into a labyrinth?
Your mind
Your mind, your mind, your mind
Friday, August 21, 2009
Mirrors
The curious mirroring of syllables--
Tokyo and Kyoto, Lady and Delay, Good and Bad.
Did I say, Good and Bad?
Tokyo and Kyoto, Lady and Delay, Good and Bad.
Did I say, Good and Bad?
Thursday, August 20, 2009
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
The Circle
Once you are outside the circle,
The circle does not mean anything anymore.
It ceases to have meaning,
No one will understand or appreciate it.
The great question is: to be or not to be inside the circle.
The circle vanishes as soon as you step outside
Will you be there for me, oh Joy, will you be there?
I need help, and no one will give it to me
The thing is, I have been here before
Outside, that is
The outside is terrifying
Will you be there, Joy? Will you be there?
The circle does not mean anything anymore.
It ceases to have meaning,
No one will understand or appreciate it.
The great question is: to be or not to be inside the circle.
The circle vanishes as soon as you step outside
Will you be there for me, oh Joy, will you be there?
I need help, and no one will give it to me
The thing is, I have been here before
Outside, that is
The outside is terrifying
Will you be there, Joy? Will you be there?
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
It is Not Me
It is not me who is writing
But someone else.
Please, every literature professor,
Teach the students that narrator does not equal author
That the author may speak through the narrator
But that the narrator does not necessarily live out the person whom the author lives out
In real life
Of course, the distinction between
Life and Art
Is neither sacrosanct nor even definable
But it is true that
There is no one-to-one correspondence bridging life and art
Just like how
Good translators do not rely on word-to-word correspondences
And instead, live by transformations bordering on infidelity
Transformations, transfusions
Mimicry is mocking
It is not about making an exact copy
Life is art, and
I mock you, by dissembling myself in the infinite expanse
Of the one I'm not
But someone else.
Please, every literature professor,
Teach the students that narrator does not equal author
That the author may speak through the narrator
But that the narrator does not necessarily live out the person whom the author lives out
In real life
Of course, the distinction between
Life and Art
Is neither sacrosanct nor even definable
But it is true that
There is no one-to-one correspondence bridging life and art
Just like how
Good translators do not rely on word-to-word correspondences
And instead, live by transformations bordering on infidelity
Transformations, transfusions
Mimicry is mocking
It is not about making an exact copy
Life is art, and
I mock you, by dissembling myself in the infinite expanse
Of the one I'm not
Monday, August 17, 2009
Nevers
The end of war, the end of time
Don't forget
New ones are starting,
But also
Nothing ends in this world
Nothing has an end
Nothing is lost, if losses are disappearances
Nothing disappears
Everything accumulates,
Even losses and loss
Never assume
Embrace your indecisiveness
A blessing is a curse
And a curse, a blessing
Go out, and tell the world this
That nothing ends
That someone will survive and suffer greatly
The world's accumulation of never's
Don't forget
New ones are starting,
But also
Nothing ends in this world
Nothing has an end
Nothing is lost, if losses are disappearances
Nothing disappears
Everything accumulates,
Even losses and loss
Never assume
Embrace your indecisiveness
A blessing is a curse
And a curse, a blessing
Go out, and tell the world this
That nothing ends
That someone will survive and suffer greatly
The world's accumulation of never's
Friday, August 14, 2009
Yet
Between my eyes, as irrational as it had been,
The circus crops out and then disappears
Moonlit, moonlight, half-domes fading
Too heavy too light, the light
Keeps flashing, to keep off the night
The night breeze, and the word "breeze"
Come seeping through the rain-filled interior
Of my little hut, in the rain
The moss, the dew long due, the mountains
Look to your left, for the fog is lifting
In a carriage, you go
It is raining
You go
The fog is not lifting
Yet
The circus crops out and then disappears
Moonlit, moonlight, half-domes fading
Too heavy too light, the light
Keeps flashing, to keep off the night
The night breeze, and the word "breeze"
Come seeping through the rain-filled interior
Of my little hut, in the rain
The moss, the dew long due, the mountains
Look to your left, for the fog is lifting
In a carriage, you go
It is raining
You go
The fog is not lifting
Yet
Thursday, August 13, 2009
Wednesday, August 5, 2009
On the Eve of
Unable to do anything, I stall.
Unable to think, unable to cry, unable to smell
Unable to drink, unable to seek, cry, and cry
If you have seen it even once
You will not laugh
Don't be shocked, be shocked
On the eve of commemoration
"So, what's the big deal?" You ask, in your Canadian accent. Nasal and teenager-like.
"Nothing," I say. "I feel a little pain in the palm of my tummy."
"Are you not well?" You ask.
"I am well," I say. "I am well, but someone else wasn't, well, isn't, so well."
Why didn't you ask me, "Where the heck is the palm of your tummy?"
Why didn't you ask? Instead, you went off to eat your dinner. You don't care about me any more, do you?
Unable to think, unable to cry, unable to smell
Unable to drink, unable to seek, cry, and cry
If you have seen it even once
You will not laugh
Don't be shocked, be shocked
On the eve of commemoration
"So, what's the big deal?" You ask, in your Canadian accent. Nasal and teenager-like.
"Nothing," I say. "I feel a little pain in the palm of my tummy."
"Are you not well?" You ask.
"I am well," I say. "I am well, but someone else wasn't, well, isn't, so well."
Why didn't you ask me, "Where the heck is the palm of your tummy?"
Why didn't you ask? Instead, you went off to eat your dinner. You don't care about me any more, do you?
Rain
I am the enzyme, the gadfly
I am the ruined apple in the pot,
The rain clouds
Bringing rain and the clear skies after the storms
Rain-rain, smile
Rain-rain, shine
Rain-rain, the end.
I am the ruined apple in the pot,
The rain clouds
Bringing rain and the clear skies after the storms
Rain-rain, smile
Rain-rain, shine
Rain-rain, the end.
Tuesday, August 4, 2009
Weddings
I don't want normal weddings.
I want them to be life-changing, world-changing, world-shattering.
I want them to be life-changing, world-changing, world-shattering.
Sunday, August 2, 2009
Orange
I asked my orange, "Are you capable of language?"
I was going to peel my orange, and admiring it, I said, "But oh, we don't share the same language."
Somehow, I knew that my orange had a world of its own that was immersed in language.
For one, the orange clearly cannot "speak" like humans. But think of all the plants and animals and even "inanimate" objects that you've ever come into contact with. Didn't they have language, some way of signifying something, maybe not to you, but to the universe?
They all have a presence, each of them. Even the small dust-ant-dust (is it alive, dead, or neither?) has a presence.
My orange. It had a structure. It was round, and much more than just round. It was organized, certainly, but it was much more than just an organization. It was really present, and very scary because of that. Much scarier than, say, just a visualized skeleton of an orange inside a computer screen. My orange had juice, and it could go bad and become rotten. It was very scary.
It would be hubris, human hubris, H-H, to think that my orange was actually trying to tell me something. Me? No! My orange is very busy. It may not have time for me. But it was trying to tell, it was already telling. Even if it wasn't "saying" anything. It may not have been "thinking," either. But it was telling.
Because I was holding it in my hand. I was looking at it. I was loving it, even before I began eating it. Language lay in the relationship between me and my orange. Whether my orange liked it or not, ever since it had become my prey, it had entered into a relationship with me.
By itself, the orange could not have language. All by myself, I cannot have language, either. I can be alone and have language, certainly, but only because I've picked up and established so many relationships with everything and everyone around me since Day One, and I carry them around, not just in my head, but in my whole being, which, incidentally, might coincide, overlap completely without becoming one, with language itself. It's as if I couldn't exist without the existence of others. My language owes all to them, the others, as well as me. And my language is my being.
No music, no painting on the walls, without my being.
I was going to peel my orange, and admiring it, I said, "But oh, we don't share the same language."
Somehow, I knew that my orange had a world of its own that was immersed in language.
For one, the orange clearly cannot "speak" like humans. But think of all the plants and animals and even "inanimate" objects that you've ever come into contact with. Didn't they have language, some way of signifying something, maybe not to you, but to the universe?
They all have a presence, each of them. Even the small dust-ant-dust (is it alive, dead, or neither?) has a presence.
My orange. It had a structure. It was round, and much more than just round. It was organized, certainly, but it was much more than just an organization. It was really present, and very scary because of that. Much scarier than, say, just a visualized skeleton of an orange inside a computer screen. My orange had juice, and it could go bad and become rotten. It was very scary.
It would be hubris, human hubris, H-H, to think that my orange was actually trying to tell me something. Me? No! My orange is very busy. It may not have time for me. But it was trying to tell, it was already telling. Even if it wasn't "saying" anything. It may not have been "thinking," either. But it was telling.
Because I was holding it in my hand. I was looking at it. I was loving it, even before I began eating it. Language lay in the relationship between me and my orange. Whether my orange liked it or not, ever since it had become my prey, it had entered into a relationship with me.
By itself, the orange could not have language. All by myself, I cannot have language, either. I can be alone and have language, certainly, but only because I've picked up and established so many relationships with everything and everyone around me since Day One, and I carry them around, not just in my head, but in my whole being, which, incidentally, might coincide, overlap completely without becoming one, with language itself. It's as if I couldn't exist without the existence of others. My language owes all to them, the others, as well as me. And my language is my being.
No music, no painting on the walls, without my being.
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