Established Marvel : a Monk by Abbreviation
Sunday, September 24, 2006
HARBOR IN THE SHED OF THIS WORLD
46. HARBOR IN THE SHED OF THIS WORLD:
We are falling spinning twirling expanding rotating turning racing out all at the same time - we are growing within the within we are one spot doing all of this in a myriad of spots all soundless and swift constant and steady unceasing and without fail AND each going about its work without thought just evolving momentarily into time into a time and place which just appears to be and all this swirling meandering falling and speeding gas and fire and light and object produces its own effluence and the gravities of force and speed bend the outer into the inner and make the inners writhe to the outers in great swirling spirals and eddies of light and shape and form and gaseous throws of design and motion and that idea of momentary movement is appreciated by eternity and everything together breaks for nothing but grows to decay and from the decay grows again into its own absence its own negation and its oneness grows dual and works anew to form another and somewhere within what we inhabit we MAY ONLY glimpse that which we think we see or that which we only surmise the evidences of and in that darkened light of blindness at our core we move forward to produce from energies and winds those worlds we wish to have and hold and inhabit and ALL THE SAME ALL DIFFERENT FOR EACH we swarm like light ourselves like distant matter converging and our ‘SYSTEM’ we call a solar system based on this light and growth and energy but unrecognizable as it is we name it and claim to recognize it anyway and within it move about and our solar system becomes our galaxy becomes one cosmos fraught with constants and erratics and other things we decode wrongly or wrongly decode into something other than what is into which that which is then transforms itself into a confirmation of our assumption - by which we go on and on and on unceasing and all that is ruling that picture is moment and the error of the moment which changes constantly and in that change reinterprets all around it which in turn over OUR time evolves our ethos of place and habit and by such magic of turning we grow societies and their stories and the tales of history and mirth and murder and sorrow and huge lines of wars and famines and subjective alterations each connected with stories and myths of their own and in so singing the ONE VOICE of us all goes on until the net comes in and that goes on and we talk and die and talk and reappear and suddenly symbols and objects and worries and things pop up anew and begin another turn and the great swirling which inhabits us is the eternal swirling which inhabits nothing and which IS us and which we attach labels and meanings to and over time everything that changes comes back to itself again HOMO HABILES HOMO FABER handy man man the maker the one with the tools the shaper of rock the walker of earth the silent fellow who moves the loud fellow who demands change the sad one who retreats ‘all and every object my son has harbor in the shed of this world’.
[‘Harbor in the Shed of this World.’]
We are falling spinning twirling expanding rotating turning racing out all at the same time - we are growing within the within we are one spot doing all of this in a myriad of spots all soundless and swift constant and steady unceasing and without fail AND each going about its work without thought just evolving momentarily into time into a time and place which just appears to be and all this swirling meandering falling and speeding gas and fire and light and object produces its own effluence and the gravities of force and speed bend the outer into the inner and make the inners writhe to the outers in great swirling spirals and eddies of light and shape and form and gaseous throws of design and motion and that idea of momentary movement is appreciated by eternity and everything together breaks for nothing but grows to decay and from the decay grows again into its own absence its own negation and its oneness grows dual and works anew to form another and somewhere within what we inhabit we MAY ONLY glimpse that which we think we see or that which we only surmise the evidences of and in that darkened light of blindness at our core we move forward to produce from energies and winds those worlds we wish to have and hold and inhabit and ALL THE SAME ALL DIFFERENT FOR EACH we swarm like light ourselves like distant matter converging and our ‘SYSTEM’ we call a solar system based on this light and growth and energy but unrecognizable as it is we name it and claim to recognize it anyway and within it move about and our solar system becomes our galaxy becomes one cosmos fraught with constants and erratics and other things we decode wrongly or wrongly decode into something other than what is into which that which is then transforms itself into a confirmation of our assumption - by which we go on and on and on unceasing and all that is ruling that picture is moment and the error of the moment which changes constantly and in that change reinterprets all around it which in turn over OUR time evolves our ethos of place and habit and by such magic of turning we grow societies and their stories and the tales of history and mirth and murder and sorrow and huge lines of wars and famines and subjective alterations each connected with stories and myths of their own and in so singing the ONE VOICE of us all goes on until the net comes in and that goes on and we talk and die and talk and reappear and suddenly symbols and objects and worries and things pop up anew and begin another turn and the great swirling which inhabits us is the eternal swirling which inhabits nothing and which IS us and which we attach labels and meanings to and over time everything that changes comes back to itself again HOMO HABILES HOMO FABER handy man man the maker the one with the tools the shaper of rock the walker of earth the silent fellow who moves the loud fellow who demands change the sad one who retreats ‘all and every object my son has harbor in the shed of this world’.
[‘Harbor in the Shed of this World.’]
Friday, September 15, 2006
PETER COOPER STATION
45. PETER COOPER STATION
PO Box 872 Cooper Station 10276 was the only address the guy would give me and so I wrote it down and quickly lost it for at least a year or it was that much time before I stumbled back upon it in any case nothing ever answered from that location no sound not a spot of anything so one day I walked over there to that post office and promptly attempted to cancel the box but of course the clerk - a narrow mischievous man with a small yellow beard - turned his face from me and mumbled "I’m afraid that box cannot be closed people have been trying to do that for years but the main problem is neither can it be opened" and with that I turned and left and just outside the doorway were two guys arguing over their bicycles for one had apparently hit the other as they both rolled in but the argument was going nowhere so I didn’t stay to listen and by leaving when I did I of course missed what the newspaper the next day called a ‘post office slaying’ as in ‘two men apparently arguing over a light pole onto which they sought to lock their bicycles became violent yesterday afternoon as one man pulled out a hunting knife and stabbed the other man at least fourteen times leaving him dead on the sidewalk’ and then curiously enough the paper said ‘both men were apprehended’ well yeah I guess so and I wondered too if the dead man’s bicycle was ever stolen?
PO Box 872 Cooper Station 10276 was the only address the guy would give me and so I wrote it down and quickly lost it for at least a year or it was that much time before I stumbled back upon it in any case nothing ever answered from that location no sound not a spot of anything so one day I walked over there to that post office and promptly attempted to cancel the box but of course the clerk - a narrow mischievous man with a small yellow beard - turned his face from me and mumbled "I’m afraid that box cannot be closed people have been trying to do that for years but the main problem is neither can it be opened" and with that I turned and left and just outside the doorway were two guys arguing over their bicycles for one had apparently hit the other as they both rolled in but the argument was going nowhere so I didn’t stay to listen and by leaving when I did I of course missed what the newspaper the next day called a ‘post office slaying’ as in ‘two men apparently arguing over a light pole onto which they sought to lock their bicycles became violent yesterday afternoon as one man pulled out a hunting knife and stabbed the other man at least fourteen times leaving him dead on the sidewalk’ and then curiously enough the paper said ‘both men were apprehended’ well yeah I guess so and I wondered too if the dead man’s bicycle was ever stolen?
Monday, September 11, 2006
PERSHING PLAZA
44. PERSHING PLAZA:
"Well now that that’s over and done with we really should move on" those were the words Lincoln Pabst used on me as we were walking along the edge of Grand Central Station right after I commented to him how it was that I remembered these very storefronts there as nothing but cheap ruins and crappy bargain sports stores thirty years ago when the entire place should probably have been boarded up and moved away and he laughed back and then said that which I just told you he said while right before that we’d just passed the side streets along Pershing Plaza which he said wasn’t really a ‘Plaza’ just a conjunction of some streets and a restaurant and the entrance to both a tunnel and a ramp and I said "yeah yeah that makes some sense and they probably had to name it after someone historical anyway because they wouldn’t name it after the restaurant or some other commercial venture which probably changes every five years anyway and for ponderous places you do need a right and historical name something people could ‘relate’ to if they ever still relate" and he nodded and said ‘well yeah but most people don’t relate anymore to anything and the kids they say can’t even find places on the map anymore and so even geography’s taken a rare bump on the long road to neglect but what’s to be expected anyway when you look around you today what do you see but a bunch of essential wise-asses strutting their stuff chasing timetables and teams and games and electronics and all the rest of the shit that flows in and out of a culture like this like some black running water of JUNK through the population and it’s everywhere now in huge horrid globs of overload and these people right here the ones who come into New York from places like Pennsylvania and Idaho and West Virginia what do you think they come here for but to get their own fatal dose of this stuff and take it back to their home towns and implant the same disease in their own friends and neighbors just maybe a little bit behind the times by then but ripe anyway for anything they can get their hands on and don’t let anyone fool you into thinking otherwise - there’s nothing out there anymore the old crap about right and religion and goodness and all that’s been swallowed up and busted over people’s heads a million times by now I tell you it’s itself a fearful shame that we’ve got to live with it all here ourselves" and I was listening and watching at both the same time as he talked and figuring much of the same stuff and how he was probably right I started differentiating between the people I saw the staid and monied New York types going by me were easy to pick out the women with nice faces and proper coats and the detritus of money dripping from them and the little groups of kids and young adults still beautiful to watch and see but another step away distant and then (right outside the ‘Dylan’ Hotel as it’s properly called and named on the windows) I saw the other New York the visitor’s one with the classy out-of-towners hanging out and exiting cars and taxis and stretching themselves over the lobby and the bar and the doorman oozing attitude and all the rest and just outside that along the streetcorners the lower breeds of street types meandering and walking and talking within their own concerns all of that mixed up together in one some fatal brew and that was right then the make-up of some place I saw just like this all of this and it really no longer mattered whatever one ‘Lincoln Pabst’ said to me because (as in so much else and every other thing) I only saw things my way and he his and everyone apart is just like that we’re all separate all living distinctly in different little worlds and only where they overlap are we able to come to some kind of agreement about what IS and what EXISTS and after that point of convergence is passed - be it one hundred or one hundred million times in one lifetime - we again are still separate and alone in our thoughts and reality and we agree that the ‘make-up’ of the world as we see it is what we see all that and nothing more and it’s like the last final dream of our lives (each of us apart) when we dream of those two hands on our shoulders gently waking us from some strange and deep sleep that we slowly and gradually slip out of a trance-state dream-like and fall back gently and softly into once again yet another reality one of long duration and distorted minutes all and even moreso than any dream of life we may each have just had and with that the billowing slow clouds come over and enclose us and cover our thoughts and break us from whatever training we may have had and reduce us anew to something wise and bright and fresh and somehow together and yet alone all alone as one all over again and that’s the dream of life the rigged rugged ribald and raw dream of the New York or wherever streets born and shouldered in reality like this but traveling allover and ever-present everywhere on and within the globe and a million moments together some NEVER equal one simple minute alone with our thoughts YET never-ceasing the ever opening door continues its movement and just never seems to close NO MATTER HOW WE TRY to close it or have it close around us - and that is the struggle that is the work and THAT is the achievement of time and all its workings.
"Well now that that’s over and done with we really should move on" those were the words Lincoln Pabst used on me as we were walking along the edge of Grand Central Station right after I commented to him how it was that I remembered these very storefronts there as nothing but cheap ruins and crappy bargain sports stores thirty years ago when the entire place should probably have been boarded up and moved away and he laughed back and then said that which I just told you he said while right before that we’d just passed the side streets along Pershing Plaza which he said wasn’t really a ‘Plaza’ just a conjunction of some streets and a restaurant and the entrance to both a tunnel and a ramp and I said "yeah yeah that makes some sense and they probably had to name it after someone historical anyway because they wouldn’t name it after the restaurant or some other commercial venture which probably changes every five years anyway and for ponderous places you do need a right and historical name something people could ‘relate’ to if they ever still relate" and he nodded and said ‘well yeah but most people don’t relate anymore to anything and the kids they say can’t even find places on the map anymore and so even geography’s taken a rare bump on the long road to neglect but what’s to be expected anyway when you look around you today what do you see but a bunch of essential wise-asses strutting their stuff chasing timetables and teams and games and electronics and all the rest of the shit that flows in and out of a culture like this like some black running water of JUNK through the population and it’s everywhere now in huge horrid globs of overload and these people right here the ones who come into New York from places like Pennsylvania and Idaho and West Virginia what do you think they come here for but to get their own fatal dose of this stuff and take it back to their home towns and implant the same disease in their own friends and neighbors just maybe a little bit behind the times by then but ripe anyway for anything they can get their hands on and don’t let anyone fool you into thinking otherwise - there’s nothing out there anymore the old crap about right and religion and goodness and all that’s been swallowed up and busted over people’s heads a million times by now I tell you it’s itself a fearful shame that we’ve got to live with it all here ourselves" and I was listening and watching at both the same time as he talked and figuring much of the same stuff and how he was probably right I started differentiating between the people I saw the staid and monied New York types going by me were easy to pick out the women with nice faces and proper coats and the detritus of money dripping from them and the little groups of kids and young adults still beautiful to watch and see but another step away distant and then (right outside the ‘Dylan’ Hotel as it’s properly called and named on the windows) I saw the other New York the visitor’s one with the classy out-of-towners hanging out and exiting cars and taxis and stretching themselves over the lobby and the bar and the doorman oozing attitude and all the rest and just outside that along the streetcorners the lower breeds of street types meandering and walking and talking within their own concerns all of that mixed up together in one some fatal brew and that was right then the make-up of some place I saw just like this all of this and it really no longer mattered whatever one ‘Lincoln Pabst’ said to me because (as in so much else and every other thing) I only saw things my way and he his and everyone apart is just like that we’re all separate all living distinctly in different little worlds and only where they overlap are we able to come to some kind of agreement about what IS and what EXISTS and after that point of convergence is passed - be it one hundred or one hundred million times in one lifetime - we again are still separate and alone in our thoughts and reality and we agree that the ‘make-up’ of the world as we see it is what we see all that and nothing more and it’s like the last final dream of our lives (each of us apart) when we dream of those two hands on our shoulders gently waking us from some strange and deep sleep that we slowly and gradually slip out of a trance-state dream-like and fall back gently and softly into once again yet another reality one of long duration and distorted minutes all and even moreso than any dream of life we may each have just had and with that the billowing slow clouds come over and enclose us and cover our thoughts and break us from whatever training we may have had and reduce us anew to something wise and bright and fresh and somehow together and yet alone all alone as one all over again and that’s the dream of life the rigged rugged ribald and raw dream of the New York or wherever streets born and shouldered in reality like this but traveling allover and ever-present everywhere on and within the globe and a million moments together some NEVER equal one simple minute alone with our thoughts YET never-ceasing the ever opening door continues its movement and just never seems to close NO MATTER HOW WE TRY to close it or have it close around us - and that is the struggle that is the work and THAT is the achievement of time and all its workings.
Tuesday, September 05, 2006
NEWSPAPER BICYCLES...A GIRL NAMED LENORE
43. NEWSPAPER BICYCLES ASLEEP ON THE FLOOR - THREE POLICEMEN SNOOZING AND A GIRL NAMED LENORE:
Well at least there’s a scene there but you’ve got to pick and choose your audience pretty well and that’s the most important thing and (you know) I really hate the people who sit about reading The New York Post as if it mattered and they scour the columns for any logic or reason but it’s all a mishmash of no glory all guts no learning all gory and fun fashion flim-flam stars and all who cares but hey TO THEM it’s a heavy read but you find it mostly turned upside down and back sheet first for in that world the only important stuff happens at the endings and then they amble out comfortable to construct another awful day and you find it most often in lunch rooms and counters and bus-stops and dorms and for whatever reason that matters (they skewer all norms) no sense can be found nor knowledge yet the once-king long-lost ruler of logic and doubt has taken its certain vacation (to the HINTERLANDS ! so far out!) but nothing like that is ever missed and anyway they've already (kissed) and right now they couldn’t care less but ashtrays and cigarette butts are things of the past too and only memories collate to contradict : five taxis yellow lined up at the curb for the people de-planing from out in the sticks and Colorado Kuala Lumpur was her name (so she said) but I knew as Lenore that girl from the shore and for certain I’d had her and OH so much more she walked with a waltz and she whistled a tune grevious in error and fat as the moon but no one from the unmedicated crowd claimed to know her or want her and they muttered aloud of the singing they’d heard at the edge of some water as the yellow cart flew over marvelous scenes of gravy and glory and songsters sang ripples of Murray and Maury and all the like names and "Pennsylvania Railroad hhhas the bbest tracks I think and I’ve bben to llots of them plenty and I ttook pictures too fffrom Maryland to Maine if you don’t bbelieve just wait and you’ll see" so he said he was a railroad engineer photographer coalman’s mate and he stuttered on trains that ran by steam no more so I could see no sense in anything he said and thanked him profusely for his help instead and I asked him how he ‘got to a non-railroad town as this’ and he said "I’m nnot really sssure I just took my picks aand ended up hhere" AND SOMEHOW SOMEHOW I really understood.
Well at least there’s a scene there but you’ve got to pick and choose your audience pretty well and that’s the most important thing and (you know) I really hate the people who sit about reading The New York Post as if it mattered and they scour the columns for any logic or reason but it’s all a mishmash of no glory all guts no learning all gory and fun fashion flim-flam stars and all who cares but hey TO THEM it’s a heavy read but you find it mostly turned upside down and back sheet first for in that world the only important stuff happens at the endings and then they amble out comfortable to construct another awful day and you find it most often in lunch rooms and counters and bus-stops and dorms and for whatever reason that matters (they skewer all norms) no sense can be found nor knowledge yet the once-king long-lost ruler of logic and doubt has taken its certain vacation (to the HINTERLANDS ! so far out!) but nothing like that is ever missed and anyway they've already (kissed) and right now they couldn’t care less but ashtrays and cigarette butts are things of the past too and only memories collate to contradict : five taxis yellow lined up at the curb for the people de-planing from out in the sticks and Colorado Kuala Lumpur was her name (so she said) but I knew as Lenore that girl from the shore and for certain I’d had her and OH so much more she walked with a waltz and she whistled a tune grevious in error and fat as the moon but no one from the unmedicated crowd claimed to know her or want her and they muttered aloud of the singing they’d heard at the edge of some water as the yellow cart flew over marvelous scenes of gravy and glory and songsters sang ripples of Murray and Maury and all the like names and "Pennsylvania Railroad hhhas the bbest tracks I think and I’ve bben to llots of them plenty and I ttook pictures too fffrom Maryland to Maine if you don’t bbelieve just wait and you’ll see" so he said he was a railroad engineer photographer coalman’s mate and he stuttered on trains that ran by steam no more so I could see no sense in anything he said and thanked him profusely for his help instead and I asked him how he ‘got to a non-railroad town as this’ and he said "I’m nnot really sssure I just took my picks aand ended up hhere" AND SOMEHOW SOMEHOW I really understood.
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