I think it’s possible to be a visionary and to see what I’m supposed to see, if I am open to it. Early this morning, say 315 am, I was seeing how alienated I am from myself. Why else would it be so hard to go to a simple Christmas party and relax. Then Charlene just opens up the whole atmosphere for me. Because really, I’m mostly not in myself. I’m in the carpentry, at best. Or I’m talking to ghosts (like Jeb). (And Richard and Grandma Margaret.)
Because all talking is talking from someone to someone else, isn’t it? Didn’t someone talk to us as babies and so we picked up complete volumes of inflection before actual meaning, so maybe this is why I was so attracted towards my Grandfather Willard, who was a frustrated poet and college professor down in Florida, but passed away at the end of my Dad’s own college years right when he went into the world. Supposed to be evidently another Black Mountain College, Rollin’s College was a playboy’s college by the time I went to visit in 1980 or so. A lot of water skiing going on. But the house I visited, my Grandmother Mary being in her early 90’s, was full of books, Willard’s books, he could’t go into a bookstore without coming out with two or three she had complained to my Dad. Not that I was very attracted to his poetry: rhyming, Christian, something about the Garden of Gesthemane. Someone I know told me they’d seen me at the crucifixion of Jesus and somehow they might be right, or right enough anyway. Which is part of why I’m wondering about this feeling of being alienated from myself, both in the Marxian (martian) sense and in the bodily sense, having done enough psychedelics but not too much, and as well, while down in Florida, Woodrose seeds, which gave me - after the complete nausea, a floaty flying feeling and a radiant power locus in my solar plexus. With the proper tutelage, what could I have learned on that trip, at that overgrown garden and slightly dusty home in central Florida amongst the tall thick trees, the Spanish moss hanging, the luxuriant flowers everywhere, the moist fragrant nights. The screaming blue jays during the day as I read Walt Whitman.
And then a friend of my Grandma Mary’s got me a grunt job at a construction site, deep down in the ground building a bank, the walls were to be like 2 foot thick, as we tied the rods into grids with this little twisting wire tool, twin circles and a twist. I invited a new friend from the job site over to the house in the evening, a short black man, stout, and with a lazy luxuriant smile thiiiiiiis wide. He strummed a guitar and we shared a joint, but as it got dark he said he had to go, he couldn’t be seen after dark in the neighborhood and I felt that little shock again, the one i’d felt at age 5 or 6 when Vernon Johnson down the street had told me he was different (somehow) because of his skin color ( he must of just had ‘the talk’ with his mother I realized only a couple years ago) and he showed me his hand and I didn’t say anything, I was stumped and have been ever since, it’s a shame, a shame shame shame.
The electricity is now doing strange things, I have the electric heater on in here and the Beethoven string quartets are going up and down. Very modern and intense these songs, they have the vibe of a chant, and maybe the loudness is supposed to go up and down. I don’t know. They have signs for that kind of thing in the score, but I can’t see the score right along with the music.
If I write the wrong thing then I forget what I was going to say, or going to write, one or the other. Which might be why I am attracted to script writing right now, using the journaling to find out what is going on in there, and combining that with some reading of Zizek, and last night stunningly, some Neal Cassidy letters from the so interesting Ann Charter’s beat anthology, her almost unobtrusive comments (was that her doing that?) pulling the whole story of Neal, Jack, Allen, and of course unnamed numbers of women, probably named somewhere, but their quest to be able to talk, to write, to be in their bodies most of all, instead of being talked out of their bodies, which I think is their great great great realization, that they, when going to Columbia University or in just day to day life here and there were getting talked out of their lives by whomever but often ‘The Man’, and so if they talked to one another firstly, becoming friends and lovers, gay, bi, whatnot, and but talking talking talking thinking reading plays aloud discussing ideas, perhaps they could somehow get back into their bodies, own yourself, be yourself, have your own future, you you you.
And of course that is what I’d like to do in a movie, if I could, establish the other leap frogging kinds of communications possible, a message for today, seeing how Jarmusch amazingly pulled it off, or Hogg more contemporaneously, and Rejtman in Argentina - but maybe I ought to stick with this journalistic path and make some kind of auto-fiction movie out of it like the movie I saw last night, ‘Unknown Country’, by Morrisa Maltz, evidently a Native American woman who had a n actress stand in for her, she sort of looked Native, as she goes back to her relatives near ‘the res’ and visits a wedding then reconnects with her great uncle and finds final beautiful mourning for her Grandmother in a pic and at Great Bend Texas, so she is there. And she is there. And of course I could feel the presence of my Grandmother who wished all of that for me, for me to not be alienated and for me to be in my body, which now I know I am not really that much, as of 315 am last night. [I definitely am when I’m with Jessie, haha.] Isn’t that what old age could be for then, to finally make peace with yourself, or at least be in your body halfway enough to be comfortable with friends and relatives. Make new friends, like Charlene down the street, something about her experience as a Black American meant she knew how to talk and connect with me at that damned Christmas party at which after all I had a very nice time. But also it could have had to do with her having been adopted which after all might mean a child of everyone.
Because all talking is talking from someone to someone else, isn’t it? Didn’t someone talk to us as babies and so we picked up complete volumes of inflection before actual meaning, so maybe this is why I was so attracted towards my Grandfather Willard, who was a frustrated poet and college professor down in Florida, but passed away at the end of my Dad’s own college years right when he went into the world. Supposed to be evidently another Black Mountain College, Rollin’s College was a playboy’s college by the time I went to visit in 1980 or so. A lot of water skiing going on. But the house I visited, my Grandmother Mary being in her early 90’s, was full of books, Willard’s books, he could’t go into a bookstore without coming out with two or three she had complained to my Dad. Not that I was very attracted to his poetry: rhyming, Christian, something about the Garden of Gesthemane. Someone I know told me they’d seen me at the crucifixion of Jesus and somehow they might be right, or right enough anyway. Which is part of why I’m wondering about this feeling of being alienated from myself, both in the Marxian (martian) sense and in the bodily sense, having done enough psychedelics but not too much, and as well, while down in Florida, Woodrose seeds, which gave me - after the complete nausea, a floaty flying feeling and a radiant power locus in my solar plexus. With the proper tutelage, what could I have learned on that trip, at that overgrown garden and slightly dusty home in central Florida amongst the tall thick trees, the Spanish moss hanging, the luxuriant flowers everywhere, the moist fragrant nights. The screaming blue jays during the day as I read Walt Whitman.
And then a friend of my Grandma Mary’s got me a grunt job at a construction site, deep down in the ground building a bank, the walls were to be like 2 foot thick, as we tied the rods into grids with this little twisting wire tool, twin circles and a twist. I invited a new friend from the job site over to the house in the evening, a short black man, stout, and with a lazy luxuriant smile thiiiiiiis wide. He strummed a guitar and we shared a joint, but as it got dark he said he had to go, he couldn’t be seen after dark in the neighborhood and I felt that little shock again, the one i’d felt at age 5 or 6 when Vernon Johnson down the street had told me he was different (somehow) because of his skin color ( he must of just had ‘the talk’ with his mother I realized only a couple years ago) and he showed me his hand and I didn’t say anything, I was stumped and have been ever since, it’s a shame, a shame shame shame.
The electricity is now doing strange things, I have the electric heater on in here and the Beethoven string quartets are going up and down. Very modern and intense these songs, they have the vibe of a chant, and maybe the loudness is supposed to go up and down. I don’t know. They have signs for that kind of thing in the score, but I can’t see the score right along with the music.
If I write the wrong thing then I forget what I was going to say, or going to write, one or the other. Which might be why I am attracted to script writing right now, using the journaling to find out what is going on in there, and combining that with some reading of Zizek, and last night stunningly, some Neal Cassidy letters from the so interesting Ann Charter’s beat anthology, her almost unobtrusive comments (was that her doing that?) pulling the whole story of Neal, Jack, Allen, and of course unnamed numbers of women, probably named somewhere, but their quest to be able to talk, to write, to be in their bodies most of all, instead of being talked out of their bodies, which I think is their great great great realization, that they, when going to Columbia University or in just day to day life here and there were getting talked out of their lives by whomever but often ‘The Man’, and so if they talked to one another firstly, becoming friends and lovers, gay, bi, whatnot, and but talking talking talking thinking reading plays aloud discussing ideas, perhaps they could somehow get back into their bodies, own yourself, be yourself, have your own future, you you you.
And of course that is what I’d like to do in a movie, if I could, establish the other leap frogging kinds of communications possible, a message for today, seeing how Jarmusch amazingly pulled it off, or Hogg more contemporaneously, and Rejtman in Argentina - but maybe I ought to stick with this journalistic path and make some kind of auto-fiction movie out of it like the movie I saw last night, ‘Unknown Country’, by Morrisa Maltz, evidently a Native American woman who had a n actress stand in for her, she sort of looked Native, as she goes back to her relatives near ‘the res’ and visits a wedding then reconnects with her great uncle and finds final beautiful mourning for her Grandmother in a pic and at Great Bend Texas, so she is there. And she is there. And of course I could feel the presence of my Grandmother who wished all of that for me, for me to not be alienated and for me to be in my body, which now I know I am not really that much, as of 315 am last night. [I definitely am when I’m with Jessie, haha.] Isn’t that what old age could be for then, to finally make peace with yourself, or at least be in your body halfway enough to be comfortable with friends and relatives. Make new friends, like Charlene down the street, something about her experience as a Black American meant she knew how to talk and connect with me at that damned Christmas party at which after all I had a very nice time. But also it could have had to do with her having been adopted which after all might mean a child of everyone.
