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[28 Jul 2009|11:14am] |
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llevarino.blogspot
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[28 Apr 2009|07:54pm] |
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"Graphomania (an obsession with writing books) takes on the proportions of a mass epidemic whenever a society develops to the point where it can provide three basic conditions:
1. a higher enough degree of general well-being to enable people to donate their energies to useless activities;
2. an advanced state of social atomization and the resultant general feeling of the isolation of the individual;
3. a radical absence of significant social change in the internal development of the nation.
But the effect transmits a kind of flashback to the cause. If general isolation causes graphomania, mass graphomania itself reinforces and aggravates the feeling of general isolation. The invention of printing originally promoted mutual understanding. In the area of graphomania the writing of books has the opposite effect: everyone surrounds himself with his own writings as with a wall of mirrors cutting off all voices from without."
from The Book of Laughter and Forgetting, Milan Kundera
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[11 Oct 2008|11:10pm] |
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si paloma
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[21 Sep 2008|11:59am] |
I can tell that we already have the elements for the perfect, classic love-hate relationship. Do you think it means anything that he pours my milk in the shape of a heart?
Speaking of love, I was thinking about it today while I was running. Love and Buddha and learning from past mistakes.
For those of you who don't know (and you all should to the extent that I complained about it), I hurt my hip somehow through running and gave up the sport for a year. I took up yoga, an exercise that I had formerly scoffed at as pussy-play, and thought that I was reaching Nirvana. I swore that I would never run again, seeing as how it had effed-up my body. Then one night I had a dream in which I was crying because I thought I would never run again. The tears could have brought down an orchestra: In fact, I was crying so hard that I brought myself into dream-consciousness. I decided to wake up to find out if I had also been crying in my sleep. A week later I decided to start running again. Today I ran throug a field and stepped in a pothole. I fell on my face and scraped up my knees and elbows. I think it's the first time I've really been externally bloody in...a year? I've developed a very soft exo-sceleton. I felt exhilerated.
Some say that you have to be comfortable releasing one world in order to experience another--that life can't be done justice with only one lifestyle. Maybe this is the 21st century's form of Buddhism as well--to engage in and appreciate the oscillations of life. But can we ever really let go of what we've loved?
I can't help but think about Pynchon's depiction of the LSD induced Mucho who Oedipa returns to. In her "new" husband's drug altered state, everything is equally worthy of the same kind of love. Oedipa doesn't get it. Her world is irreconsilably chaotic. The best she can do is search for symbols and signs in an attemt to construct some sort of road map with the intent of finding meaning in a society where meaning may or may not exist. Mucho's response to the instability of his environment is a retreat into drugs (or, think about today's new-age movements, also nostalgia for simpler times--a resurgence of old-time music and more natural life-styles). Oedipa is drawn into her culture by Pierce's will. She is compelled to engage.
I'm going a million different dirction with this, but I wonder if the things we can't help but love are our roadmaps--if we use adages of wisdom, experience, and a practical self-denial as a means of rising above or disengaging ourselves from life.
Think about how often fear of making the same mistake makes you cautious towards life. Really, you can never make the same mistake.
I'm talking about in everything--in love, in education, in your own physical maintainance. The only mistake is not doing anything. You know, we are pretty much constructed to withstand a million bruises.
Provers from Hell
The pride of the peacock is the glory of God
The lust of the goat is the bounty of God.
The wrath of the lion is the wisdom of God.
The nakedness of woman is the work of God.
The roaring of lions, the howling of wolves, the raging of the stormy sea, and the destrcutive sword, are portions of eternity, too great for the eye of man.
The tygers of warath are wiser than the horses of instruction.
You never know what is enough unless you know what is more than enough.
What is now proved was one only imagin'd.
Improvement makes straight roads; but the crooked roads
without improvements are roads of Genius.
Sooner murder and infant in its cradle than nurse unacted desires.
The road of excess leads to the palace of wisdom.
He who desires but acts not, breeds pestulence.
Eternity is in love with the productions of time.
No bird soars too high, if he soars with his own wings.
If the food would persist in his folly he would become wise.
Exuberance is beauty.
William Blake
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| P.S. A.J. characters. Wonder. |
[20 Sep 2008|11:00am] |
So I have been missing San Francisco like a motherfucker. I guess I miss the wonder and magic of the city. I guess I miss the wonder and magic of anything (though I am by no means saying ATX is devoid of wonder--I've just been living in a way that has become familiar).
But anyway, the reason why I like working at AJ is that there is always a good story to tell after every shift.
There's no more interesting happening than what occurs between people, because, you know, every person is a small universe. To this extent, when people--preferably two--come into contact with each other, if either person is even slightly vulnerable, caught off-guard, or open to penetration, then the collision of the two earthly bodies is as great in magnitude and implication as that of heavenly bodies! Good or bad.
Last night this girl came into Austin Java--she reminded me of someone I'd seen in San Fran years ago, maybe that's why she caught my interest. She had various tribal tattoos, most of them hidden, and she could only have been my age or a couple year older. She was dressed like an Ozarks hippie even though it was only a few degrees warmer than it usually is in Austin: she wore tights, low boots, a black skirt, and a woven brown sweater/jacket. She was deadpan serious when I took her order and only slightly warmer when I brought her food out to her. I noticed she was studying from a science book. She came in a few minutes later to ask for matches. I assumed for a cigerette...the only thing I could find was our gas lighter. When I showed it to her, she couldn't help but smile! I knew that it was exactly what she wanted--it was perfect! I imagined her sitting outside alone in the overcast weather, lighting her cigarette sideways with this kitchen tool. Redemption for Austin. It only helped the picture when I noticed that she had two silver teeth.
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[19 Sep 2008|10:04pm] |
So, think about this.
There are many different ways to conceptualize life--I mean, we tend to divide life (in general) into categories, cycles. Sometimes things are good, sometimes things are bad; easy come, easy go. This is how we define random, arbitrary chaos: how we justify a more Buddhist attitude towards the world.
Now, what about: abundance and lack.
By "abundance and lack" I mean, in every sense. I mean materially: Adrienne and I were scraping on rice and beans for weeks, we went home for a day, and now there's no space in the fridge. I mean emotionally: sometime there is an abundance of love, sometimes there is a lack. Sometimes there are an abundance of friends, sometimes there seems to be a lack.
We'll call this the "blind man's walk."
The only thing a person can do for himself/herself is try not to
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| wrestling the iron lion |
[17 Sep 2008|05:22pm] |
The reason why poetry as survived so many ages of expression is that, so far as I can think, it is one of the most perfect expressions of paradox/contradiction. And, the conflict of dealing with/living with contradition (b/c humans tend to view opposing forces, discomfort as conflict) is at the root of most chronic unhappiness.
One could say that the most obvious way poetry "expresses" paradox is through the use of verbal and impressionistic irony. From "Lessons of the War, Naming of Parts" :
Today we have the naming of parts. Yesterday
We had a daily cleaning. And tomorrow morning,
We shall have what to do after firing. But today,
Today we have naming of parts. Japonica
Glistens like coral in all the neighboring gardens,
And today we have naming of parts.
This is the lower sling swivel. And this
Is the upper sling swivel, whose use you will see,
When you are given your slings. And this is the piling swivel,
Which in your case you have not got. The branches
Hold in the gardens their silent, eloquent gestures,
Which in our case we have not got.
This is the safety-chatch, which is always released
With an easy flick of the thumb. And please do not let me
See anyone using his finger. You can do it quite easy
If you have strength in your thumb. The blossoms
Are fragile and motionless, never letting anyone see
Any of them use their finger.
And this you can see is the bolt. The purpose of this
Is to open the breech, as you see. We can slide it
Rapidly backwards and forwards: we call this
Easing the spring. And rapidly backwards and forwards
The early bees are assaulting and fumbling the flowers:
They call it easing the Spring.
They call it easing the Spring: it is perfectly easy
If you have any strength in your thumb: like the bolt,
And the breech, and the cocking piece, and the point of
balance,
Which in our case we have not got; and the almond-blossom
Silent in all of the gardens and the bees going backwards and
forwards
For today we have naming the parts.
Through the use of ironic language--ironic feeling, --the juxtaposition of artillery with flowers--the human preparation for war and death with the natural world's preparation for the coming of Spring.
In good poetry, the irony of language or image is timed so well that the product (regardless of how many times the poem has been edited or re-written) is a seemingly perfect work of spontaneous expression.
It is in this way that poetry represents both the life of the individual that is defined by conflicting wants and needs, and the world at large that seems to us, at least sometimes, to be governed by random and chaotic forces.
And this is one of the reasons why I think the role of poetry is so important, especially in this country where the great American dream itself is a paradox (is a couple paradoxes, actually): the very act of reading or writing it involves actively engaging with contradiction, it's a grappling with the very force that destroys those who are unconscious of its influence, i.e. those who become the helpless victims of their own contradictions (the paralyzed, the unattractively wishy-washy, those incapable of action, decision or thought).
::It's wrestling the iron lion. It's a form of the most severe discipline.
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[17 Sep 2008|12:27pm] |
a dream about and for S.
At 2am last night
someone threw a turtle though my open window. The turtle landed, alive, and commneced walking across the floorboards toward my bed. I ran to the window. I knew I would see you but the patio was empty. I went back to bed and dreamed that we were working together behind the restaurant's counter. You had the smoothie blender raised in your left hand and you were dancing for the customers like an overweight whore. You had so much rhytm! The way you moved your hips was beautiful, like water. Suddenly you stopped and ran out into the street, still holding the blender. I don't know what could have compelled you to leave so suddenly. I saw the car when it hit you, but I was still about the way you'd be dancing.
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| Again |
[25 Aug 2008|03:46pm] |
Crazy Dog Events:
1. Act like a crazy dog. Wear sashes and other fine clothes, carry a rattle, & dance along the roads singing crazy dog songs after everybody else has gone to bed.
2. Talk crosswise: say the opposite of what you mean & make others say the opposite of what they mean in return.
3. Fight like a fool by rushing up to an enemy & offering to be killed. Dig a hole near the enemy, & when the enemy surrounds it, leap out at them & drive them back.
4. Paint yourself white, mount a white horse, cover its eyes & make it jump down a steep & rocky bank, until both of you are crushed.
Jerome Rothenberg
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| numbers |
[09 Aug 2008|05:57pm] |
Today I randomly looked at the clock at 2:22, 3:33, and 5:55.
Katthi counted exactly nine dollars in tips in the morning.
Someone gave me his phone number.
I randomly gave a man number 23 when his total order came out to $23.23
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[06 Aug 2008|05:28pm] |
I was held by a woman known as the holder
And i'll stay in her arms for the rest of my days
She told me she had something,
Something sacred to give me
And she asked for me to open my mind, so i did
It was very hard
And the struggle nearly killed me
Then she told me to inhale
Whatever came my way
Then a colour turned up
Which never been seen by human eyes
And she said it was mine to keep,
To keep, to keep
Now it's deep inside of me
And it holds four different women
Who am me, if you see what i mean
That was why she gave me that gift,
So that i could make room
For the me, the me, the me and the me
-"As Four" -The Concretes
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[04 Aug 2008|08:07pm] |
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Someone hacked into my college email account!
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[31 Jul 2008|03:18pm] |
Jeff: secret love of my life
You give me everything I need:
You give me cigarettes, you give me
Internet connection.
Actually nix to the former. But I have been wondering if it would further—and painfully—secure my position as “the juvenile punk” in this little housing establishment if I were to ask “Hey Jeff, can I bum a cigarette?”
You know, I’m the girl in the bubble of tenant men, the dying cabrio squeezed in between the BMWs. Also, it’s heartbreakingly clear to me, when I drive up in my Armani shirt (hey but I bought it at a second hand store!) and iced coffee that I’m no better than the J.A.P. (Jewish American Princess). I’m just not Jewish. And I live in the South.
But I’ve been wondering lately if many of my “doing” problems stem from not wanting to be what I (socially) am. I think I wrote about this earlier—sitting across from a friend at Whitman, and her telling me that it has taken her a long time to accept the fact that she was born a late 20th century middle class girl, and not a sweet young thing destined for the nunnery; the latter, her preference. Well I have and have had many preferences that are not what I am (socially), but everything I was given and am being given is for to live this life.
Edit:
but I really am happy when I'm just fuckin' around.
I mean, I'm more impressed when a trucker honks and waves at me in the middle of traffic than when little Willy asks me to study for the astronomy test with him after class.
I get pissed off and that's no good.
H, I can even understand how you'd get seriously annoyed,or even resentful towards someone who's too nice...
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[08 Jul 2008|11:02pm] |
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i just wanna see his goddamn face
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[05 Jul 2008|12:47am] |
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Tonight, while I was out walking the dogs, I saw a bat swoop down and snatch a bug out of the air. It is the first time I have seen that happen.
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[23 Jun 2008|11:25pm] |
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Cain, am I a maniaC?
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[30 Jan 2008|09:32pm] |
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oh god. i am so happy right now.
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[12 Jan 2008|04:27pm] |
why'm i so exhausted?
this isn't a joke; this is real exhaustion. I feel like I've taken a long trip, but it's the end of vacation.
Last night I walked up to the top of the road when it was cool and dark outside and watched one of the prettiest sunsets I've seen since coming back. I felt certain that I would be back here next year, and when I said goodbye to Chloe, she said, "I know I'll see you next year, because horniness always wins out." What she meant is "I know you can't be a eunch for two more years." And she's right, but there are other things too.
Dad came in to talk--he has dreams for all of us. His dream for me is that I'll finish up at Whitman. Next year, though, I'll study abroad in Ireland or Scottland and study European literature. Learn Spanish at the same time, and if that works, he'll pay to send me to Argentina for a year after college.
What can I say? That sounds pretty good too.
I'm thinking that I want to start reading again. I want to start reading the way I used to, but it's going to be difficult unless I change my life. Doing THIS, being "this", I can't read, the focus is never on the words themselves; it's always on me. That doesn't work. If anything, I've gotta learn how to be less selfish for a while.
But I keep thinking about the things I want that I've gone to long without. I guess I've gotta break out...
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[07 Nov 2007|04:58pm] |
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anonymous, who are you?
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[06 Nov 2007|09:12am] |
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i just wanna listen to magnetic fields and dance around! i don't wanna read no stinkin scarlet letter
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