Monday, February 21, 2011

bats in the belfry

"If in a cluster of grapes there are no two alike, why do you want me to describe this grape by the other, by all the others? Our brains are dulled by the incurable mania of wanting to make the unknown known, classifiable … It is pointless to add that experience itself has found itself increasingly circumscribed. It paces back and forth in a cage from which it is more and more difficult to make it emerge … Forbidden is any kind of search for truth that is not in conformance with accepted practices…" -- AndrĂ© Breton

“There’s something wrong with me.” He heard it while walking. “Something’s gone haywire in my circuits.” It was conducive to the plunger-toting toilet officers. “Nobody makes collect calls to themselves.” Hopping mad. “Spaghetti hits the fan. Lead-heavy surroundings prevail.” Picture me on a sidewalk, pacing, remiss, soul-looted. “Every single gesture builds on all other gestures, and a hand goes over a mouth, and I am not safe inside my skin.” If it requires sleep. “Operations manipulate themselves. There is this, but whose this is this? My services are no longer necessary.” Driving along the highway late at night. Think of it. The way the lights make you see things. Windshield bugs. Something pleasant, like windows rolling down, or a rummaged investment’s true odor. “Dogs baying: ‘I’ll take you dancing on mars when you’re done counting down the days.’” The smell of bleach and cigarette smoke. The putter of motorcycles. “And then if you come to feel morally bankrupt.” The joke’s punch line was missed because the door squeaked open. “It’s just prodrome, old buddy pal. That’s all it is.” Avalanching thoughts. “I’ve been hearing their voices outside of my head.” Now it’s Borodin. “There’s something wrong with my brain.” If you can figure out what it is then you can either figure out why you’re doing it, whether it’s out of laziness or being stubborn because you might actually like what it is you’re doing, and try to either stop doing it, or come to grips with it and do it in a way that makes you and other people more happy, but ignoring it ain’t gonna help a damn thing. “Moments have stopped connecting to one another. The boundaries between fantasy and lived reality have become too porous.” Carole King was playing the piano with a staple gun. “Voices carry.” Getting slung over a shoulder. Filled with rain. Tumbling towards steps never taken. “Out-of-whack. Leaking. Drops that won’t drip.” He heard it while lying down, while playing records, while grumbling about his job, while cutting his fingernails, in the shower, over the office intercom, beneath moans and over panic. “Italicized prayers, and that’ll pound the dent out of dreams.” No conversations were completed. Broomed and mopped and older still, um-teenthed through plowed concrete, trust puts a bandage on. “Invisibility wears off.” Othering choices middle-distanced and welded in daily installments of poise. Every last appearance made up for with white wine and vinegar. “There are a lot of somethings not right with me.” If one wishes to partake in the applied industrial mechanics pertaining to the physical aspects of boredom there must be some pluckiness involved, or so say the moose-eared around here. “South Korea is not in this room. Close the open. Get old.” Mistakes are sprouting, and climbing is not partial, so there is an observance period where things act differently and empty pig bladders are blown into balloons. “I don’t know which me to be.” The lessening of the survival instinct tends to weed the grief gardens in the more copasetic lairs of the brain. “Time is warped.” The total collapse of a moment. Instants that won’t start or end. Engraving choices in neural pathways with violent scratches of consciousness. “Fairly backing-up-truck type noise, an unending chorus of voicemail beeps, chinking daylight’s armor.” He moped in his stubborn way, checking mirrors, caressing bricks, swaying around lampposts. “Hooked up to brighter electric lights than this, bullied by my own head into hiding, carefully indoors, unsought, behind drawn shades of anxiety.” Order fades. “I am mischief cheating itself out of feeling free.” It’s just emotional mascara, praying before you kneel, or a flywheel for your dreams. “The ovoid mouth of opera screaming wide, loud, and long.” A sitting ovation. Values smeltered or calendered into wish-thin sheets of hope. The pursuit of glibness. “If there’s something wrong with me does that mean that there is ipso facto then something right with everybody else that I for some reason unknowable am lacking in?” Left with less of a now to spend a lifetime in, pandering to used-to-bes, and bound with a rainy disposition. “I’m powerless over me.” Without anything nice to say all that is left is silence. The Wah-Watusi was playing in the supermarket as the old lady felt the oranges, examining their skin in her hand, its texture and resilience, squeezing them to check for plumpness, and she soon scowled, then yawned. Offering condolences to one’s self is no good. “Golden cars smell factory-made, but the silver of insulation wears off, and bronze windows crack when the dead-air nightmare comes true in the static of another fumbled chance.” Raining on the inside, as the drizzly sky plays the slide guitar, and life descends. “It is too cold to be nice.” Implications notwithstanding costume changes and expenses. “I’m just some guy looking for my brains. I’ve grown tired of living in my own head. I must ask myself to leave.”