Spinning Round

     I don’t want to write today because I’d have to write about loving so and so and how I’m so pround of them, they might be really flying out of the nest on their own this time.

     And I’d also have to write about what happens when you spin round and there are strange magnets in your heart and they get buzzes when you are facing certain people, places or things, such that the spinning produces a rainbow of sensations that conspire to keep you spinning, much like a motor. A great humming sound emanates, if you only tune your heart’s ears to the frequency. Lonliness is a cry of need, want, and desire as Jacques Lacan so gratuitously explained, and the differences therein create a vibration. Want pulls, desire envelopes and need (or demand as my cat so often portrays) grabs. The resulting vacuum in each situation conjures forth certain notes that stand next to each other and through harmony and dissonance create a tune. That tune at higher speeds sounds like a humming noise.

     We certainly would love to hear and comprehend that tune, given half a chance, and would love to dance and move in time to it, but usually we would rather not slow down the spinning enough to distinguish the melody. Mortal fear of paralysis (peril) grips us, often enough, when occasional moments of reflection and deep silence afford us the chance to slow it down. Mini riffs from the great concert appear in our heart’s mind’s ears and we gasp audibly at the sheer poignancy of the vibratory relevance, to who we are and to the makeup of our bodies internal momentums and trajectories. For after all, our legs are propelled by their leggy needs, our fingers itch with want to feel the joyous sensations that they did feel at past moments of glorious crafty creation, our sex desires to revel in past dances with goddesses and gods, princes and princesses, kings and queens and scoundrel theives and prostitutes, murderers and assasins, - and equally, our minds playfully need (for yet another example) desperately x, y, and z such as they have grown up to believe -and desire a, b, and c such as they have built an image of which through our years of adventures on solid earth.

     In this way, that great humming sound that emanates mystically behind the veil of all the other noises and silences of so called reality, is both fearful to us and tantalyzingly close. Perhaps that’s what awakens me at 5 am sometimes, and I long to toss and turn a little longer and hover myself in an airship, as I visualize it now, a little closer to the motor spinning. And as the motor spins, grasp in my heart’s eye's mind’s ears just a phrase or two this morning, and a riff and slide and whistle or two tomorrow morning.

Dedicated to the people of Attawapiskat, in Canada, who have been experiencing a suicide epidemic. The town is about 900 miles from the arctic circle.*

I’ve been writing since I can remember anything worth remembering, which doesn’t always seem to amount to many memories, as the present presses to such a degree. All my memories flash, and surge back and forth as I am judging myself, am observing, am trying to find a coherence. Because without coherence comes… dissolution.

They used to use the word dissolution as a word for a manner of death. I’d like to bring that back into usage. And what happens on the way to dissolution? The various pieces of “myself” battle back and forth and precious little action takes place with sincerity. The path to substance seems to be arduous and long-winded. And whence are the memories that might save me from myself? Aha, a contridiction, upon which we might thrive!

Dissolution, I could propose, is Capitalism's baby, a Frankenstein we inexoribly morph into, as we come to disbelieve in general and become, in specific, morphing itself. The more I watch television that is not made by my own hands, I become what I see, inside, where no one can see it but myself, - as long as I’m not sharing it. Shame = not sharing, as the socialists say, but as an anarchist, the proto-socialist, there is a view upon such morphing. Mary Shelley, whose father was a proto-anarchist and mother was a proto-feminist (and whose impact on European society must by defintion be unfathomable) wrote the prescient story Frankenstein during the summer of 1816, "the year without a summer" (also perhaps a prescient climate moment) and during a time when electricity was being “discovered” and considered the galvanizer of life at some level or other. *

And thus, like touching two wires together to poles emerging from the head, Mary Shelley named the future: dissolution with legs. Frankenstein. Who ends up in snowy climes, rejected by humanity. Just not getting it. We have our own machines that echo our fingers now, laptops. The more I type the further I go. Am I attached, making a fetish, a voodoo doll, looking to be galvanized? Some have morphed to iPhones with their FBI ears and the sucking sounds of any kind of ring you please, but me, I’d like to keep my distance. Perhaps in vain, however, and thus this blog.

Dismiss me you must, if it pleases you. I beg of you, don’t enter unless… unless… unless… you wish to meet me at the void, amongst the chasms of chilling artic ices and the blazing of a merciless sun above, that won’t set at the horizon until summer’s end. Melting, melting, melting your heart from the steadfast grip of a disbelieving mind.

As for the Wretch, he disappeared on an ice raft into the Arctic, who will follow him into the northern wilds?

* First Nations community grappling with suicide crisis: 'We're crying out for help'

"In the case of Attawapiskat, the debate's tone is one of cruel irony, given that the land is home to a diamond mine. 'These people in Attawapiskat are watching the resources of their community, of their territory, of their traditional land, being taken away by corporations,' said Boyden. 'They watch this happen as they live in third-world conditions.'"

** The story itself, incidently, is considered by some to be the very first true “science fiction” story and as well an early modern “horror” story which spawned (yes!) multitudes of glorious sci-fi, monster and horror stories, which contribute to the ecology of todays domineering symbology.