Welcome to Earth!
Oh, don't you shoot that green shit at me
July 2014. It has been seven years since my last confession.
I tell a madman's tale.
I fell down into the black hole of literature, my particles were stripped and twisted in the quantum flux of the Event Horizon, I am a Changed Man.
This is what remains: on the other side of the fire.
–––All the animals in mo(u)ths come bellowing forth, now, I call upon you now, give sinew and semen to it, I call upon you to bring Kilroy back from the Styx, bring the hungering slyness and grasp it to the bit(e)s, the pulses, the nano-moments of reality. You are in the grotesque turbulence of a panicked beast's wake. Obama surfs, as the t-shirt says. But the waves attack on all sides. There is little leadership. There is little direction.
To the future generations! –––who will never read this because these words will disappear like the years in Paris and Oxford and Chicago disappeared ––––I say to YOU!:
It is July 3, 2014. The Supreme Court of the United States of America is an offensive joke. California representatives are initiating a Constitutional convention to prohibit unlimited corporate political donations in a Constitutional amendement, after the offensively-hilariously named "Citizens United" case basically made corporate sponsorship of Congress an institutionalized way of life.
I myself work for a global corporation that works on behalf of other global corporations.
People work all the time. Most of the time there are too many people working on the same thing at the same time, because you have to "collaborate" with lots of different people with lots of different "skill-sets" and there are too many people in the room. Most of the time these days I would leave myself out of it if I could.
It is July 3, 2014. We know global warming is happening and we know that we need to invent more sustainable ways of doing business, and we're inventing them, but we are locked down by obsolete concepts of the world, which are sustained only by systems of organized thievery, ignorance and petty-mindedness.
Capitalism is devouring its own. Not even the Union Square Café can stay in Union Square, because the cost of Union is three times what it was last week. If I lose New York, where else is there for me to go?
It is July 3, 2014. I am in the center of what accounts for counter-culture these days, among the mostly unimaginative and idea-challenged art-beards of Bushwick –– who lurk inside warehouse-lofts erupting with fantastical street-murals of such dense rich woven thematic arcs and statements, it is as if every mouth of the Great Cityworldmind speaks together in waveform tongues –– I see them, I hear them in my ten-minute walk to the train––
–––which takes me to Hell's Kitchen
–––which is where the sausage is really packed
–––to feed to the Meatpacking District
It is July 3, 2014. I am listening to Minimal Radio on my Sonos which is why this, this return to words, is happening. KLANGtherapeuten
is happening now. I am being cooled by very precise central air-conditioning in a crisp modern apartment that, with M's help, would look like a mad scientist's Modern-Romantic reading room if I bothered to do my laundry. The building is at once brilliant, ingenious and obscene: London speculation that Bushwick was the next Soho constructed a monstrous glass-and-HiWe'reWhitePeople entryway –– I think all the building's residents are so afflicted with class-and-race guilt that we quietly avoid each other...
The Corporation invades again. The time swallows me up again. It is all impossible––––
It is July 3, 2014. When the poor are overweight, fat and lean years are inverted.
I have had seven years of what you will. My coat of many colors has faded to just two: blue and gray. I write in the futile hope the madness at Fort Sumter shall not explode again.
It is July 3, 2014. I fell through the maw, I was consumed by literature, and literature spat me out. I fought wizard duels –– I shot an albatross –– tumbled through the sunless sea which is wine-dark
–– I saw the ghostings of Circe –– I was a part of them –– I am a Mad Man living on Eccles Street, fashioning the dullest of keys.
It is July 3, 2014. I fell through the maw, I was saved ––– Anny V, what warpedness ––– led me to New Haven, the source of all failed dreams, to a V for Vendetta day when the steeples shone red in the sunlight of a brutalwind November.
Seven years ago.
I fell through a South Bronx loft inhabited by psychotics (I was one of four, counting the cat); I fell into love; I fell into the Machine. No, I did not fall: facing nothing else, I launched myself, I clawed my way
into the Machine. The Machine does not care. If you do not care,
you can be part of the Machine. I made myself believe the Machine could see how caring was in accordance with its own logic of self-preservation. I can't say I was
a fool; I made
myself a fool out of necessity. I declared I wished to see beyond the parapet. I wished to understand how to build a better business.
There is no place as interesting and terrifying, as hopeful and as insane as New York City. You're either in the blur or in the bubble. You have to be okay with the bubble bursting, and being blown back into the blur. But there are no gray areas any more, when you get down to the pixel, such as we are here – mere pixels –– the economics increasingly dictate a strong bubble, built of layers upon layers of polymers and latex and all the oils which smooth out the frictions of so many bodies trying to get places in such a small space.
I vomit every morning. Phlegm, phlegm, bubbles, traffic-safety-yellow bile.
I am growing old. And I don't know what to do with my life.