certainkind - Tumblr blog

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there

unforeseen

and i could

and gently

i dedicate this to u

we had change of the moon

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and better if they fold in over, the fold in over, i think its a mimic the fold in over, put my mind out to deep deep seas, I wont see I wont see i think its a mimic the fold in over, where holy, holy! if you can, if i can smooth it over pushing it with palms, cotton brush out fuzz out buzz out lulled out wait i hear that back and forth metal toss outside how conjured up outwards outwards porch outwards your hand am I coming in from the street and am I going out from the house peachlight bright and no time, only time, walking time, leaves, sides, water, nights, summers, goings, nowheres, no ideas, no ideas, no ideas. not made for day right grasses all sides press fingers over hush ideas barely friends just company just up against and rough i dont want to die, or ever die tomorrow maybe, worth/gold/worth weight worth wait - say it pure and straight say it plain, want to not give up these clear kid ideas, clear kids want to say youre a kid and even now cold flat bright i am out at night i am out in that night youre a kid your a kid your kid im kidding im kidding, im kidding i’m kidding i’m kid I’m coming in from the street now I’m coming in, I told you I’m coming in from the street now - darkening street, while black and white periphery and night off, into the windows, in the garden, in the backyard in the dirt along the fence, along the trees along the creek up the creek at night up the steps, up at night, in the door at night up wet from the creek eight years old and shaking, making the dogs fight to hear them strong fat biting barking, me too

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oh give me your heart

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please come back tooo life

please come back to life

please life come back to life

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i dont know where this went

               was from ne yer a while ago (keep reading ok)                                                       

hard thinking going on tim for some. Today. Of all days last day of 2011. Its bee a year. Not a strange year, a year too. All the things this year that happenend to me, with max, wu=this year is really a with max year. I’m not sure if we got a lot done, but wi=e did do a lot. A lot happened around us, we saw a lot, we saw. Did I see as much as other yearS? That’s a weird question. It’s a weird question to ask comparing years, what are ou comparing? Do I have more now or les,s,? did my balances move around? Tis floor looks like staring into space with all the nebula and gases and stars and comets. Writing stretched out on the floors, writing done stretched out on the floors. On a futon, on a felt pad, straight on the cool linoleum or wood or tile or rug. Like allways I am waiting, I a, not good with the passing of time. outside kids are lighting rockets. Through amsterdam like a war going on, like ive heard or closest ive heard to war sounds, close and near and all over the city explosions sounds reeling and rolling over and back against the brick and windows. Sound carries. The water in the canals carry sound fast and far in circles in the heart of amsterdam it feels right good to be alone, learning to roll a cigarette with privacy, no mistakes just ok learning alls well. Lots of little fires all here in the centerof jordaan on the side streets. Here in my room and outside in the crossing streets. Kids tossing rockets, fireworks, fire crackers under hand down the streets, or throwing brave handfuls into a orange bucket and running away in all directions. Heels hard hitting stone street, fast legs sure. I’m not going to capture the idea of my generation. Hard truth. Not going to find it,  am not rooted anywhere. Maybe going to pick up a thread. I’m just writing about what I’m thinking and incidentaly hearing. I see a lot of inconsequence. I do a lot of inconsequence. I get lost in my stomach parts. I make myself outside fake outside, like a garden wall. Like a tumble of somewhat related ideas, like I imagine I feel something like hunger when noon comes around and correct it rightly like ive heard seen before. Art history means I have a big repository of “like this” and “resembling”. I can’t tell if someone is showering on my floor in my shower, or the floor above, the pipes make it seem so. I am hands clenched looking, grabbing grabbing, bike bell boy crying wailing, hard words in dutch, oncoming car sounds, rockets a few streets over, the water in the pipe. Good to recognize in me, the feeling of waiting, like boredom, like restlessness, like calm unease, with bare dry feet stacked and crossed on floor unsmooth and sandy. With… not “resolve;” but its not resolve, but its… when you realize something and are working towards ok ness. Like I am… I am, like when you look down unseeing and coil back a little, I am, like when you breathe out and look down unseeing at the street or a piece of trash, without noticing, like you are seeing clearly without comment, like you do not respond, like you yield. Like you are in deference, like I am… prostrate, but not that, but not quite like you lost but that you acknowledge, and lose ground, or are resolute, or. Surrender. There is some middle ground between surrender and resolve that im talking about and I mean its like when you come down after a manic, tendon tight bleary rage and you stop lashing with your nails and nose dripping and eyes are no longer tight tight tight closed but you… are  sensible. Not rational is not even, but ok, but resolved to the fact. When you resigned to the fact. Like i

relax to the idea. Un curl. Relax in alone now. Like you understand. Like you KNOW. like I can’t control the minute details, or get caught up in them, I have to undo, let go, let GO. Let allowed, let some things pass allowed and ok and approved. Let some things not be mine for me or from me, and not of me and of me. There is some cowardice in this lack. Some thing that I don’t know I have to trust I can learn. I can and should trust myself too, I can do these things, they are well within my ability. I should know that I can accomplish these things and understand their costs. But now I write and I have an above narrative going on saying: Look! A person grapples with their frustration at the lack of accomplishments in their lives on the last day of the year! Look, and imagine myself ten years on, laughing at myself, laughing at what I thought at the time was important and big and good, and I realize that I am very cruel. Very, deep rooted in the bone cruel. That I imagine in the future I will be cruel. And that my eye is so cruel that I will never be able to close it in self-satisfaction and approval, but instead always look beyond and look for more, and better, and more right, and perfect, and improved. And How is it done Otherwise, Elsewhere, and those ways I can see merit in their difference, and I have been taught to always surrender the fort I built under my values and to desert for the other, in order to steal and steal and steal or wriggle belly up like a dog under someones hand. These things are so meager. That I have out on the cloth… here with these I can offer meticulous piecing together, I am good at finding connections between things, but I am good at it like a virus, which seeds things and breaks them apart from the inside, with nothing and no body of my own to tend. When I have such a distate, I can’t tell, my taste otherwise is nothing but submissive. I’m here writing about myself and outside boys are yelling, laughing and silenced in rhythm, hissing fuses and bratty snaps of small fire crackers and the vague dumb, unpreventable wash of terror I get when the big rockets fire and my heart stops and the car alarms whine in response. Like I can’t and don’t have a grasp on the order of things, yes I should go out and I do like it, when I walk and walk and see the water moving under lights, and the city quiet in the evening, and all the familiar feeling of the brick houses stacked and bright yellow windows from within. Walking past the rank exhale of the cheese shop, and the bookstore of artists books all brave and curious and otherworldly, and the clothes which preoccupy me with the wrongness of their shapes, the wrongness of the cut and stitch, and the evocation all wrong, not direct enough, and too self concious, like the world theyre evoking is too empty alone, and I looked there for the fullest world and of course didn’t find it. I was surprised I didn’t find it, in all the visibility it seemed as if it would even appear the fullest world. Preoccupy with how the world should LOOK. These are not even the biggest thoughts, but I don’t give them the attention in order to draw them out with resolve, acknowledging that my thinking process is slow and labourious with extraneous detail and related tangents, and the constant flip of arguments needling each other for bruises. I realize now that when I don’t have a problem to work out I’m no good. that’s a good realization maybe it’s a good realization to tell other people? It feels good to tell other people things, like  you are gaining ground. And traction. I imagine a huge wheel, like a tire with deep treads. I wouldn’t say a cog, because a cog is maybe with teeth attached and can fit into with ease, it has a DESIGN, purpose, it WORKS. But a tire gets stuck and sometimes the roads are easy and sometimes puddly and slippery and the tire gets old and is unfit or unused and sits around with the television on and no where to go. I could sit here for weeks, opening and closing the window for air and against cold, getting up for the chair or stretching out across the felt pad on the floor. Until a problem comes up, like cold or lack of air, or a simple stomach problem, the kinds that have preoccupied me for years, for a decade. The simple stomach problem—has so many components I haven’t been able to put it down yet. First- it hurts, and the hurt is fundamentally intolerable, the cells are starving and wanting, and I have to give them time and what they need, and so. That’s the very first problem, but getting that problem solved requires time, and knowledge, and craft—you can also use this problem efficiently, and accomplish many diverse things when you solve this problem. You can solve it so that you also experience pleasure—this pleasure itself has many dimensions. You have the pleasure first and foremost of the cessation of the pain, and then the pleasure of change for your tongue, and this pleasure of change is also the pleasure first of instinct for sweet, at its most basic, but this instinct for sweet itself you can’t find because its wrapped and tangled and embedded deeply in the evocation of memories, and food is intertwined and tainted and fragranced and redolent of every conversation over food, and the people you sat with, and these are only your own memories, because also you can evoke imagination and cultural memory, and you feel like a participant in culture, yours or otherwise, and history rises up dark and formless when you tear and fill your mouth, and chew and swallow. These can be exercises in self affirmation, when you recount the taste of being young, and waking up early before school, and y fitting so well in your head with other suburban feelings, like biking alone or fishing for dozens of starving bass in the fake lake with your dog. You can easily and assuredly conjure up other family feelings, anyone you’ve shared a meal with—taste complicated by unstable evaluative structures—canned things become best when you need to remember something about your grandmas house in salt lake city, when you need to remember running down the “creek” with its fake blue water (“poison”) and resulting pastel, baby, candy blue fountains. The shape of the rocks they cart in to the line the bottom, homeless rocks, and the ducks died blue underneath from the water, and the dry prick of pine needles everywhere. Brushing your hair with pine needles. Tiny black and white televisions. Basements with never working fire places. Mancala, nintendo on tweed couches. Every book you ever read. Pop corn and chewed plastic toys from 70s 80s and 90s. And all the tastes you associate with girls you’ve loved: coffee, and roasted things, and cigarettes. Wading through all these is organizational torture, anxiety of putting things away, like I’ll never remember them if I don’t relive them three times a day, like its something I owe the people and the times. But also of course, these things involve more than reference—there are moral qualities. The shallow, deep rutted moral arguments over caring about the world, and preventing pain in animals, these also have memory aspects, like being 14 and being courageously vegetarian. Like remembering the people that carefully and gently made food choices in front of me, or carelessly, violently chose them in front of me. There is the food that made everyday life in the books I read, and if there was the life I wanted, I could make a similar choice, and imagine myself there, like scones tasting like the things in the hobbit books, or taffy my grandma made to remind me of the pioneers. A hundred thousand layers. And then finally, the over reaching—the health, which is a knowledge that for me is wrapped horribly in memories and morals, health which costs uncertain futures and has ulterior motives—the anxieties of others pressing hard onto me for assurance and approval, my anxieties bubbling out and over or pressing, bursting out to wash over other peoples tables. The health which for me is code word for starving, which for me meant exhaustion that eliminated day and night, and meant wrapping in tired, flannel and hair falling and freezing, and lips pursed, watching horribly out of the window in summer or reading coverless books in winter. Lots of sneaking and secrecy, and violence and strangeness when appetite became focus, and frustration and hard violence. Giving in and giving became very much exactly the same here probably. It required a lot of time but gave results that I enjoyed—visual intrigue, accomplishment, unashamed self obsession, unchecked self obsession, a problem that required total and constant attention and also total and constant ignorance. It entirely eluded anyones description of it, including mine, and this was a knowledge I enjoyed secretly, that no matter what anyone applied to the problem I knew they were wrong excepting me. That I could neatly situated the parameters of this problem within the bounds that others would not acknowledge, and the size and consequence of this problem were entirely mine to decide, and entirely mine to decide were the consequences of this problem, and the cost, and entirely mine to decide were the results. This is very appealing. I could make of what I want the results, as long as I didn’t tell anyone how much I valued them, I could get away without any exhausting confrontations. Of course a problem which requires entire dedication and whose results are so contrary and contradictory is not a sustainable problem, also, I did have a self outside that problem, which could not be reconciled, thank god. That self even if it was only a vanity let me the chance to develop new problems and focus on new problems, as the problem at hand was not the right problem for me, I could understand. And I remember understanding this as I sat in the middle seat of the car, driving back from the mountains with my parents and family, with my ankles stretched out in front of me, my ankles I think, in black stockings, as only thin thin rods of tired bone that I truly felt sorry for. I felt some compassion for them, and I apologized to them. I promised them I would let them become healthier, which is something they take care of themselves if you let them. But I never gave up the problem, really, because it was the only problem I’d ever put my heart and soul into, the only problem strong enough that I believed in enough to let other things go and to “sacrifice” I guess things for. I see now this problem has itself obvious problems. But now my stomach calls and I must listen to it, in order to put it away and get back to this, right now this is an important problem. The problem with this problem is that it has no consequences. I won’t say “in reality,” but I will say, pragmatically. It cannot be an ultimate problem, anymore. I am too big for it to be a driving, ultimate problem. There are more valuable things than it. It must become a lesser problem, a step in a bigger problem, and just a small step in a much bigger problem. In order for it to become an ultimate problem, I would have to deepen it and sophisticate it until it itself became justifiable. This is not worth it to me, what it would cost. There are other things that exist that are more interesting to me, other people, other creations. The result, creation, consequence of this problem is not enough for me. What is enough for me? Things that are approved by others automatically feel like they are worth more—the mystery of -the brooding stoners of amsterdam, max says- bacxk after distrtractions

you know, nicole, its not in any of those things. You know its not in just sitting and the window, though sometimes it feels like it. Its not in lighting the cigarettes or putting them out, or in lighting the rockets, putting them out. Its not in going to the grocery store and buying things, or buying books, even if it feel slike it it is sometimes. Its not in lighting the stove and putting it out. Or in lighting your stomach and putting it out. Somes it feels like its in diane cluck, though its not in lighting diane cluck and putting it out, or bob dylan, lighting blonde on blonde and putting it out. Or lighting your body and putting it out, lighting the screen and putting it out, open your mouth and lighting the words and then closing it and putting them out lighting your fingers and then resting them and lighting a fist and then unrolling it out flat again. All these things out into the air and back into inside the room again. On and upwards and then back, down and out. fire fire fire fire fire now in the room and then out again for sleeping and the room getting colder until morning, like a fire comes roaring in at half-light here I am, again here I am oh my delight came out like a hawk, balled up in the morning so in the light what colors, I don’t how I should call them say someone said to die daily, die daily implies being born daily

all in my head a pheonix and doves fly out in the morning out in the day now what bird dogs suss me out in the fields, yo up from the grounds how I hear them snapping up at my heels, yo hot on my head, what light makes the heat makes the fire makes the ashes oh, I thought I was dead a pheonix and doves fly out in the morning say someone said to die daily die daily implies being born daily up in my head a pheonix and doves fly a pheonix and doves fly out a pheonix and doves fly out a pheonix and doves fly out when I learn from you, I am copying and learning by copying when I learn from you I am learning through mimicry and the rockets and love outside makes my heart jump and burrow blind, terrified in the nonlight this afternoons room with the quick flashes really a war on me and this room think about your wild deer tumbling out from the woods to drink the water you count twenty seven or so, I know how it goes. Drinking the bay from beneath your boat. Now that you’ve calmed down, your heart beats so steady I could set my watch by it. If only I could always stay like this with the bath water over my head bubbles going upwards marking where upwards is. That the water never poured in where it shouldn’t or over the rim, and never getting colder and unfriendly but always this felt pad beneath me on the floor and the rockets would stay always on the other side of the window. but I know it took you a while to learn the guitar, and it hurt your fingers probably, and I know you thought about the problems of food, because you have big bowls of blue plums in your pictures and your skin is tight and nervous. I know you so well in these parts there now me too and I recall them, I light them and put them out like they were mine alone. I am not afraid of being by myself, only what I do when I am by myself is scary to me. Whether I am alone by myself I don’t know if I am, because it is hard to curl back up, brush the sand out and curl right up. What else is there to do but set your sight on something and pull your tangles through. I would have gone crooked but for you , I hope I can say I would have gone crooked but. Hey you feel steady and you feel good, light and empty of last nights food. When you are ready to go up from  the edge of the turn around road. Mandalas or pendulas or pentacles at the end of the road where you sit in the morning. The weeks have been hazy but some thing is changing. Well, it makes sense to me. Because things are easier to recall when you give them support with sound, when you round them out, and rhymes too-I love them. They foreshadow with all earnestness and promise and fullness, and the future becomes contained so profoundly in tricky syllables thank god for all of you, and all of your words I can remember because they run long and loud in my head while I walk or cook or piss or shower or cry or sleep. And thank god they are so generous and flexible and fit here in amsterdam, with the rockets going off all outside in the street and the keys of the neighbors just as loud passing my door without pause in the stairway. Do you like me, or not? Do you like me… or not? Hey, do you like me or not? we leave with the first ones who befriend us and holy holy holy shit, when you lift them high and clear with your good voice I just

sob out all breaths This really isn’t about telling a story right now just letting myself know. This is hey, holy hey last day of a year of my life, turning tonight. Turning on its heels and running in another direction, hopefully hitting stride and covering distance at an easy lope. My legs aren’t long enough for an easy lope this is a falseness I just hate like, I can imagine, those, first muddy steps ugly fuck with my stern and stupid cruelty why, not an

easy hand with lifting and eyes forwardand lips closed or running over and over your thank god lines over, over over in rhythm focus on the problem you grew yourself or was grown for you and give myself whole heartedly with yes yes I am yes yes yes I do yes you get no more chances you get every chance, , drop all and hit running, and fly away at a sprint and push and push, just gowill love it, you will love it, you love it, its trueand hey you are good at hiding if for a while you are nervous about reactions, you can untie your necklace chains pretty well with care and dexterity and let it go, just let it fucking go, let it roll out in the daylight and into the evening his her she, a them, whole family watching it disbelief, and with half an eye on theirselves and only a bit on you,just go on it, if you must don’t worry about color just edit it’s thethat makes it good and full can do the necessary preperations, in order to go on it, care less what others are doing, except those you care truly for, and if so give to them fully and totally, and yourself too, and those things you love more, them in totality, you can live inward so, its your way always since childhood, just, mostly and bestly when you let it be and work well in your own perimeters, unusual if you make a hundred things before you look up that’s ok to, you look up to see the place of your things around you and for fucks sake, write, and do it fully and honestly,words and yours and anyone elses, that you can do truly all these just this once you need them, for a go, trust, your own fucking words you distrusting do you see how free the body moves, the bones inside the skin are loose. Its for you to live submerged often, and  are so, lucky, give yourself wholeheartedly, to everything that wants you and everything you are. for late night, early morning  when only your things are before you lucky lucky, you he gets that first sense, which runs along your skin, you get alone and together and strong, you lucky, which leads you lips first, eyes first, fingers first into long hours late at night, when no one can know better, you can only know, there is no know better, there is just knowing, and letting it wash so gently over you and you get that sharp yield, full yield, you so lucky to have been baptized, get the whole life metaphor, which trapped in your wet eight year old skin you carry always water with you and when you walk over it it leaves you ringing and the rain can send you ringing with the bells through it german nights or the canals smoky to the bottom send you ringing lucky lucky be alone and only with one other, very lucky, and it hurts to turn things off and put them out but everything can’t be burning low, but better one thing a pyre burning high high high throw things on it, throw other thngs on it, throw everything on it and throw your self on it eyes smoke bleary and screaming love wholeheartedly, and love your own  wholeheartedly, and knew this when you found out this word yourself, and with yourself salvage savage what you can and build and head out and run headlong out at a fucking sprint, those things you love love truly, love with curoisity, affirm all she gets is a row of fires, burn a path through the brush and not just a wide erratic sweep you me

this now so what then now you love words and lines, and when people put them together well, talk with intention, treat yourself and your very fewwith care ultimately and so do it be gentle with awkwardness like now New years resolutions be generous be forgiving be kind be judicious be empty more often be full more often and really respect your  gently,  such limited  fling all out without rule but rule come too for to come so now, draw  you that speculation above all, and things which resonate to others you love, so really you love two things the lines and the words that resonate with others, so, these backdrops that come in and are here with us that we use to make new things. The leisure things that are accomplished with ideas you were jealous when others made, but you were jealous of them letting themselves make. And you very much see and love the need for holding up, above others the things that work and feel good, and don’t hurt, but push forward or push out in all directions. You can be revolutionary with careful care too and attentionyou will know when some things were right and some things weren’t and the things you care about need to be fought and fought and fought for, namely, those things that maybe are not now but have existed and fought for before, and find where people are fighting for those similar things and love them whole heartedly amen amen amen throw the windows wide and call amen amen amen

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i’ve been silent for ten years i’ve been dreaming

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Wolfgang LaibRice House,1998

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2010

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when i

when i sing song to him he becomes calm

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Not that I thought I had to write. I am pretty certain I didn’t, or don’t, in that there isn’t a space that I’ll feel out  and fill. Just like a discipline exercise in putting thing one two three. My sister in the next room plays the same falling chords over and over this evening, and then is quiet, and the dog pads around with water in her mouth. The library gets greener and my brothers move around heavy across the house. Looking for things to play. Hands on the table and chairs. Parents out, driving. I’m the oldest. I am tired of being only half in touch with you but there isn’t a fix, so, I’ll just keep picking it open. Girls girls girls all day, like I’m trying it on. Girls in the loft, I mean, on the computer whle I’m in the loft, it’s a good game, pretend I’m Edwin. Pretty pretend I got magic fingers for guitar, bass, girls, comic sans. Baloons outside, dog on the floor. I helped my brother make a glitter flag asking the girl “emma”, “prom?”—make sure the scooter works, drive it across the field.   Well sorry its not that I don’t have patience for your depressions, sure go see someone about it. I just got distracted thinking about like, gas station soda. Specifically, the straws, with the long red lines, guy goes—hey, so so so many cents, thanks. Coin sounds, door bell. Specifically driving around with a big cold diet coke between my legs. Sorry go ahead. I think that elegance is an end in itself. Its pretty inelegant to do that and see someone. I think it is in bad taste. I think she’ll stroke and coax you and I would do a lot just for spite.  I have a “spite problem”.  Like, for example, I won’t listen to that band, because I want to spite you. I want little needles of spite fly around you and prick and prick you until you are all holes. We are not good company for each other today but I really need it. I’m going to eat you whole. You are a fat stupid planet, I am a fat stupid planet. We are rolling around this fat stupid idea like big immortal idiots. I never watched the lakers play. I try to think about the 90s but I come up empty or like, with useless shit like freezer food and basements. Like I have professors that live in the suburbs with 30 year old pot plants. A whole corner of plants. Fuck this story is big enough already. Ok well this morning when I woke up my head was practically vertical with stiffness and I rolled over with my mouth open and the sky all white with light and blue and my dog on the stairs watched the house for snakes, with the ageless wordless thoughtless stare, and the water ran in the mountains while I waited again and my bed empty and the sheets in a knot never, never, never undone.   

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Down all the years now, all the same I get it, neoclassicism, etc. even the courtauld, I think its pure good happy to know meet you tonight me in montparnasse I got that comradery thing going on big heaven big heaven

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Thomas Hirschhorn and the Crystal of Resistance

Today I saw a man for whom English is not a native language give a talk on his work and practice. At one point he was searching for a word and landed on “remembership.” I don’t think he meant to, but I also don’t think I have ever heard a more beautiful word in my entire life.

Participating in memory, electing to remember, a discourse of ghosts.

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openings: all the smokers in the city together in one room