It's been over a month now. Cliches and puns aside, this is the deepest I've ever felt engrossed in something before... I read online that an asian kid went into a college and shot up more people than anyone ever did before. I feel so far removed from it. I remember being 11 and seeing photos from Columbine on the news and being horrified. Now, six years later, in this abyss, I can only read the stories and the pictures and wonder how it has any relevance at all. People will forget it, just like they did so many other things - that Titanic won like 11 oscars, that the Red Sox won the World Series, that Bush stole the 2000 election... "everyone forgets what went before them."
I finally listened to a mix that I found in one of Sylvia's books. It's unmarked except for a white-out and sharpie sketch of stormclouds. I haven't been able to find a tracklisting yet, but I've come to like it. It's really slow downloading new things here, so finding a new CD amongst her belongings was like getting the new Whatever album by Whoever I would be anticipating. It's pretty drab and lo-fi, but charming in its own rite. There was one band she mentions in her journal that has the lyric "everyone forgets what went before them" called the Vacuums. That's about it so far. I might post it, since I can't find the band online anywhere, and I want people to hear it.
Bananaboy, salute!
Thursday, April 19, 2007
Tuesday, April 17, 2007
A Tree Falls in the Forest
I came up last night to the surface to pouring rain and laughed in spite of myself for getting wet for the first time (outside of regular bathing) when leaving the fucking submarine. I'm surrounded by water daily, and when I decide to go up to the atmosphere, there happens to be torrential rains. This is yet another sign that god hates me.
After toweling off my face and returning to my womb, the Morale, I became fully aware of something: In the last four weeks or so, I've done exactly what I wanted to do for probably the first time in my whole life. When I read about these men who came and died before my time who were famous for just living their lives and recording their exploits, it gives me some hope for those who just do what they want without apology and with (hopefully) minimal preaching. "We all treat grief differently," but in the case of Sylvia, I am oddly set free... despite my metal tomb.
The thing that sets me apart from those famous writers and such who came before is that people read them. I don't write much, and when I do there isn't much anyone hasn't thought or heard before, so I have some excuse, but it's sort of depressing to think that what my father called a "call for attention" is panning out to give me less attention than I got previously.
Womb and tomb rhyme.
Think about it.
After toweling off my face and returning to my womb, the Morale, I became fully aware of something: In the last four weeks or so, I've done exactly what I wanted to do for probably the first time in my whole life. When I read about these men who came and died before my time who were famous for just living their lives and recording their exploits, it gives me some hope for those who just do what they want without apology and with (hopefully) minimal preaching. "We all treat grief differently," but in the case of Sylvia, I am oddly set free... despite my metal tomb.
The thing that sets me apart from those famous writers and such who came before is that people read them. I don't write much, and when I do there isn't much anyone hasn't thought or heard before, so I have some excuse, but it's sort of depressing to think that what my father called a "call for attention" is panning out to give me less attention than I got previously.
Womb and tomb rhyme.
Think about it.
Thursday, April 12, 2007
The First Dandelion
I found something among Sylvia's things that doesn't make sense to me. She had a book which looks to be pretty old, and is full of short stories, all by authors I can't seem to find online, anywhere. It's called "The Trials of Children" and contains a few illustrations with each story. The first story, which is written by a certain Gerald Finch, struck me, and not just because of Sylvia's notes. I can't find the text online, so I typed it out... I'm going to bed after this. I don't really want to think about it any more today.
I.
A long time ago in a village to the East there lived a pair of orphan children. Their parents, they were told, had been the targets of powerful magic and were never to return. They were a brother and a sister about ten years apart. The people of the village generally watched out for the children who lived in the house of their late parents. They were not bothered, and were offered food by the kind villagers, and the young girl had learnt to grow things and weave baskets to collect berries. They lived a quiet life in the hills, undisturbed.
On a warm summer day, the little boy went out picking flowers for his sister, a habit which he had picked up with the start of the warmer weather. At his young age, the boy’s attention to this task was not easily kept. He chased grasshoppers and butterflies, ran from bees, and tumbled in the summer grass with glee.
Soon he realised he did not know where he was. The boy had climbed stone walls, trekked through tall weeds, splashed in mushy swamps, and rested on enormous felled trees blanketed with the purest emerald moss. Despite losing his way, the boy did not cry for help – he looked out into the field before him and saw a curious thing. He ran over to a group of little grey flowers, soft orbs of feathers held in the centre with brown hands reaching from a white head. They each had a little green straw for a stem. There were only three of them in the whole field.
The little boy picked one from the ground to examine it further, but a gust of wind picked up from the hillside, and, to his dismay, blew all of the feathers away! A thousand little parachutes filled the sky, swirled around, and took off down the hillside. The little boy ran as fast as he could after them, through swamps, around trees, through towering weeds, and over stone walls covered with vines until he lost sight of them, but found himself home.
The boy ran into his little house and tugged at his sister’s sleeve. He did not speak – although his sister, trouble by this, often tried to coax language from him. Instead, the boy pointed and smiled, in hopes that she would come with him. The girl looked at her little brother and was instantly curious at his excitement. Filled with joy and pride, the little boy raced through all the traps of nature and arrived, finally, at the field with his sister right behind him.
There he picked her one of the remaining flowers and presented it, breathing heavily from his journey. She took it into her hand and studied it. Her smile turned to a frown.
“Oh, but this is not a flower, little one. It is ugly and boring. Why play with such things when there are lady slippers, lilies, phlox, and orchids?” she scolded.
The boy began to cry. The girl shook her head slowly and cast the flower aside. The boy was suddenly filled with anger. He ran over to the discarded gem and blocked her way. Their eyes met for a moment, and there was silence. He raised the flower in the air, and, just as before, the winds rose and carried the tiny feathers into the sky in a swirl. They danced around the girl and were swept off over the trees and hills beyond sight. The girl’s eyes widened and were filled with tears.
“I'm so sorry! This is a beautiful thing, little brother, a real a treasure. What a beautiful flower!”
The girl kissed her little brother, and took his hand. They ran to the last remaining flower, dug it up gently, shielded it from the threatening breezes, and took it home. They planted the flower in a prominent spot near the bird bath in the garden, and took a jar from the pantry and placed it over their magic flower.
II.
Every day the little boy would search for more specimens of his beloved flower, and would bring back little gifts for it – pretty stones, bugs, and unusual leaves, - as offerings, in hopes that it would survive. His sister taught him to draw the outdoors, giving him lessons in the grass everyday, and soon the little boy took with him a small pad of paper and pencil wherever he went, to document his findings. Always, though, the flower was his favourite image to draw.
One morning, after a pink moon the night before, the little boy found a little white cat sleeping in the grass. It brushed past his legs and purred. The boy pet the little creature and the pair walked home together. The boy was eager to share the wonder of the flower with his new friend.
Before the boy was able to show off his treasure, the cat spotted a sparrow, relaxing in the birdbath. The little cat surged ahead of his companion and leapt for the bird. The boy’s eyes filled with horror, for as the white blur before him took to the air he sent the sacred jar rolling across the ground. The cat landed with a splash, but came up empty-pawed. Disappointed and damp, the cat hopped to the ground and ran out of sight. A gust of wind followed behind him, taking with it the last of the magic flowers.
Dismayed and wet-eyed, the boy shuffled into the house and sat down at a chair with his back to the window where he remained for the rest of the summer.
Outside, the leaves turned beautiful colours, the animals stored up food for the cold season ahead, and the empty stem of the flower flicked in the breezes, but the boy refused to see any of it. He retreated to his notebook, where he drew frightening images of monsters: trees with faces of men; enormous grasshoppers with razors for hands; and, often, a devilish white cat. His sister worried about him, and each day would ask him if he would join her for a walk in the woods. Every day he kept silent. He still had not uttered a word in his life.
III.
The winter came, and brought with it the most terrible winds and snow the land had seen in ages. By New Year, a young doe, trying to keep warm her twin fawns, was ultimately survived by them. It was not long after that the little boy grew ill.
His sister kept a close watch at him and read to him everyday from the dusty library in the study. He never made any indication that he was listening, but she read anyway.
This went on for a few weeks, and the boy’s condition neither worsened nor improved. One day, however, the sister rose from bed unusually early and found her brother not drawing near the window as he normally did, but instead, curled up on the floor near the fireplace, pale and limp. She rushed over to him and lifted his fevered head. His eyes were barely open and hazy. The sister carried her brother to his bed. After some hours of consulting a healing book, she prepared for him a powerful concoction, and slowly ran it between his parched lips.
There he slept for a week, while his sister wept by the window. The boy had not moved in what seemed like an eternity, and the girl was beginning to feel weak and feverish. The window framed the icy countryside. It snowed hard. Outside she could barely make out the shapes of two young deer, searching for food. The girl’s eyes welled with tears.
Suddenly, a comforting thought came to her. She lifted herself from the old rocking chair, made her way down the stairs to the pantry, and gathered her last loaf of bread. The floorboards were frigid through her thin shoes. She went back to her window, forced it open through the ice and frost. Through the burst of icy wind and snow, she heaved the bread onto the lawn. The deer looked up to the window, and stole away into the wood with the bread.
The girl closed the window. Her reflection frightened her. Her stomach tied in knots. She turned her head to her brother, still breathing lightly.
“If ever we make it through this, little brother – ” her voice was cut off by a series of hacking coughs.
The young boy turned his head slightly.
His sister climbed into the bed, thinking of their mother.
IV.
When the boy awoke, many days had passed. His room was noticeably warmer and bright, but he was alone. His mouth was sticky and tasted of ash, and when he breathed, there was a painful feeling in his ears. After testing his limbs, he decided that he was still alive. Aching, he shuffled down the hallway to his sister’s room.
There she lay, huddled into a ball on the floor, her shivering finally ceased.
Outside in the field, patches of golden flowers with a thousand petals bloomed, waiting to be picked.
I.
A long time ago in a village to the East there lived a pair of orphan children. Their parents, they were told, had been the targets of powerful magic and were never to return. They were a brother and a sister about ten years apart. The people of the village generally watched out for the children who lived in the house of their late parents. They were not bothered, and were offered food by the kind villagers, and the young girl had learnt to grow things and weave baskets to collect berries. They lived a quiet life in the hills, undisturbed.
On a warm summer day, the little boy went out picking flowers for his sister, a habit which he had picked up with the start of the warmer weather. At his young age, the boy’s attention to this task was not easily kept. He chased grasshoppers and butterflies, ran from bees, and tumbled in the summer grass with glee.
Soon he realised he did not know where he was. The boy had climbed stone walls, trekked through tall weeds, splashed in mushy swamps, and rested on enormous felled trees blanketed with the purest emerald moss. Despite losing his way, the boy did not cry for help – he looked out into the field before him and saw a curious thing. He ran over to a group of little grey flowers, soft orbs of feathers held in the centre with brown hands reaching from a white head. They each had a little green straw for a stem. There were only three of them in the whole field.
The little boy picked one from the ground to examine it further, but a gust of wind picked up from the hillside, and, to his dismay, blew all of the feathers away! A thousand little parachutes filled the sky, swirled around, and took off down the hillside. The little boy ran as fast as he could after them, through swamps, around trees, through towering weeds, and over stone walls covered with vines until he lost sight of them, but found himself home.
The boy ran into his little house and tugged at his sister’s sleeve. He did not speak – although his sister, trouble by this, often tried to coax language from him. Instead, the boy pointed and smiled, in hopes that she would come with him. The girl looked at her little brother and was instantly curious at his excitement. Filled with joy and pride, the little boy raced through all the traps of nature and arrived, finally, at the field with his sister right behind him.
There he picked her one of the remaining flowers and presented it, breathing heavily from his journey. She took it into her hand and studied it. Her smile turned to a frown.
“Oh, but this is not a flower, little one. It is ugly and boring. Why play with such things when there are lady slippers, lilies, phlox, and orchids?” she scolded.
The boy began to cry. The girl shook her head slowly and cast the flower aside. The boy was suddenly filled with anger. He ran over to the discarded gem and blocked her way. Their eyes met for a moment, and there was silence. He raised the flower in the air, and, just as before, the winds rose and carried the tiny feathers into the sky in a swirl. They danced around the girl and were swept off over the trees and hills beyond sight. The girl’s eyes widened and were filled with tears.
“I'm so sorry! This is a beautiful thing, little brother, a real a treasure. What a beautiful flower!”
The girl kissed her little brother, and took his hand. They ran to the last remaining flower, dug it up gently, shielded it from the threatening breezes, and took it home. They planted the flower in a prominent spot near the bird bath in the garden, and took a jar from the pantry and placed it over their magic flower.
II.
Every day the little boy would search for more specimens of his beloved flower, and would bring back little gifts for it – pretty stones, bugs, and unusual leaves, - as offerings, in hopes that it would survive. His sister taught him to draw the outdoors, giving him lessons in the grass everyday, and soon the little boy took with him a small pad of paper and pencil wherever he went, to document his findings. Always, though, the flower was his favourite image to draw.
One morning, after a pink moon the night before, the little boy found a little white cat sleeping in the grass. It brushed past his legs and purred. The boy pet the little creature and the pair walked home together. The boy was eager to share the wonder of the flower with his new friend.
Before the boy was able to show off his treasure, the cat spotted a sparrow, relaxing in the birdbath. The little cat surged ahead of his companion and leapt for the bird. The boy’s eyes filled with horror, for as the white blur before him took to the air he sent the sacred jar rolling across the ground. The cat landed with a splash, but came up empty-pawed. Disappointed and damp, the cat hopped to the ground and ran out of sight. A gust of wind followed behind him, taking with it the last of the magic flowers.
Dismayed and wet-eyed, the boy shuffled into the house and sat down at a chair with his back to the window where he remained for the rest of the summer.
Outside, the leaves turned beautiful colours, the animals stored up food for the cold season ahead, and the empty stem of the flower flicked in the breezes, but the boy refused to see any of it. He retreated to his notebook, where he drew frightening images of monsters: trees with faces of men; enormous grasshoppers with razors for hands; and, often, a devilish white cat. His sister worried about him, and each day would ask him if he would join her for a walk in the woods. Every day he kept silent. He still had not uttered a word in his life.
III.
The winter came, and brought with it the most terrible winds and snow the land had seen in ages. By New Year, a young doe, trying to keep warm her twin fawns, was ultimately survived by them. It was not long after that the little boy grew ill.
His sister kept a close watch at him and read to him everyday from the dusty library in the study. He never made any indication that he was listening, but she read anyway.
This went on for a few weeks, and the boy’s condition neither worsened nor improved. One day, however, the sister rose from bed unusually early and found her brother not drawing near the window as he normally did, but instead, curled up on the floor near the fireplace, pale and limp. She rushed over to him and lifted his fevered head. His eyes were barely open and hazy. The sister carried her brother to his bed. After some hours of consulting a healing book, she prepared for him a powerful concoction, and slowly ran it between his parched lips.
There he slept for a week, while his sister wept by the window. The boy had not moved in what seemed like an eternity, and the girl was beginning to feel weak and feverish. The window framed the icy countryside. It snowed hard. Outside she could barely make out the shapes of two young deer, searching for food. The girl’s eyes welled with tears.
Suddenly, a comforting thought came to her. She lifted herself from the old rocking chair, made her way down the stairs to the pantry, and gathered her last loaf of bread. The floorboards were frigid through her thin shoes. She went back to her window, forced it open through the ice and frost. Through the burst of icy wind and snow, she heaved the bread onto the lawn. The deer looked up to the window, and stole away into the wood with the bread.
The girl closed the window. Her reflection frightened her. Her stomach tied in knots. She turned her head to her brother, still breathing lightly.
“If ever we make it through this, little brother – ” her voice was cut off by a series of hacking coughs.
The young boy turned his head slightly.
His sister climbed into the bed, thinking of their mother.
IV.
When the boy awoke, many days had passed. His room was noticeably warmer and bright, but he was alone. His mouth was sticky and tasted of ash, and when he breathed, there was a painful feeling in his ears. After testing his limbs, he decided that he was still alive. Aching, he shuffled down the hallway to his sister’s room.
There she lay, huddled into a ball on the floor, her shivering finally ceased.
Outside in the field, patches of golden flowers with a thousand petals bloomed, waiting to be picked.
Tuesday, April 10, 2007
Monday, April 2, 2007
willful destruction
My head is reeling. I feel as if I'm leaking energy from some place between my eyes and the taste in my mouth is expired medicine. When I first decided to engage in "hermetic studies" I thought it was sincerely because I had some thinking to do that could not be done engaged with the surface world. The idea was that there's a harmony with nature, returning to the water, and all the surface sounds blending with the water, resonating and colliding, create an Aum, a peaceful sound. The sound helps with my frustrations sometimes... others, like the past week or so I think it's been, little helps.
After a few days straight of creative work and investigation, I began to lose steam. I felt lost and useless. Every move I made felt meaningless. I was haunted by things about Sylvia I had forgotten - the way she obsessed about her small hands and wanted surgery to make them bigger, her stutter, how once we fell asleep in the woods and she woke up screaming, then cried, and did not speak at all, despite my pressing, for several hours.
It terrifies me to think that no one will know these things, and, according to what she used to tell me, that perhaps I don't even know them. I still don't think I can lie to myself, but every so often I forget what I'm doing, and I don't know if I was thinking something just then, before it - maybe about something terrible but true, or something hideous and untrue which I will someday believe to be true. Great lies are the work of creative analysts. The meaning and subtext of these inventions, accidental or not, are imbedded, imbued from experience and environment. If Sylvia never broke down in the woods, why would I have allowed myself to believe it, and what does it mean? Was her nightmare one of my own?
I've had some time to collect myself from ego paralysis. I read some more of Sylvia's books, some being the critical word. Brothers Karamazov caused me to put it down after the "Grand Inquisitor." I nearly fell back down again. Then I read Notes from the Underground, and was saved, in a sense. It was almost like that scene in the Neverending Story where Bastian discovers that he's not only reading it, but writing it as well - it was eerily familiar, and magic in a way. Sylvia never talked about it, but as I read it myself, and looked at her notes in the margins, I started to well up, and realised two things:
one, that there is only one escape from the crushing weight of existence and metaphysical and emotional suffering.
two, that Sylvia had discovered it.
I start reading Nausea today... and recording more threnodies.
PS, happy birthday to me. 1 april, 1990.
"I could make a career of being blue:
I could dress in black and read Camus,
smoke clove cigarettes and drink vermouth
like I was 17,
that would be a scream,
but I don't want to get over you."
- stephen merritt
After a few days straight of creative work and investigation, I began to lose steam. I felt lost and useless. Every move I made felt meaningless. I was haunted by things about Sylvia I had forgotten - the way she obsessed about her small hands and wanted surgery to make them bigger, her stutter, how once we fell asleep in the woods and she woke up screaming, then cried, and did not speak at all, despite my pressing, for several hours.
It terrifies me to think that no one will know these things, and, according to what she used to tell me, that perhaps I don't even know them. I still don't think I can lie to myself, but every so often I forget what I'm doing, and I don't know if I was thinking something just then, before it - maybe about something terrible but true, or something hideous and untrue which I will someday believe to be true. Great lies are the work of creative analysts. The meaning and subtext of these inventions, accidental or not, are imbedded, imbued from experience and environment. If Sylvia never broke down in the woods, why would I have allowed myself to believe it, and what does it mean? Was her nightmare one of my own?
I've had some time to collect myself from ego paralysis. I read some more of Sylvia's books, some being the critical word. Brothers Karamazov caused me to put it down after the "Grand Inquisitor." I nearly fell back down again. Then I read Notes from the Underground, and was saved, in a sense. It was almost like that scene in the Neverending Story where Bastian discovers that he's not only reading it, but writing it as well - it was eerily familiar, and magic in a way. Sylvia never talked about it, but as I read it myself, and looked at her notes in the margins, I started to well up, and realised two things:
one, that there is only one escape from the crushing weight of existence and metaphysical and emotional suffering.
two, that Sylvia had discovered it.
I start reading Nausea today... and recording more threnodies.
PS, happy birthday to me. 1 april, 1990.
"I could make a career of being blue:
I could dress in black and read Camus,
smoke clove cigarettes and drink vermouth
like I was 17,
that would be a scream,
but I don't want to get over you."
- stephen merritt
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