“Are You Happy Being A Schmuck? Lou Reed, Sydney 1975”

No rights: homage.

I am a part-time many things, but a full-time rock n’ roll animal.

While I am on record as not enjoying hearing musicians talk about their music, there are several notable exceptions that make the rule.

Neil Young, Johnny Lydon, Michael Stipe, Joni Mitchell, David Bowie.

But, my absolute favorite musician interviewee is Lou Reed.

This captures some of his essence.

This captures all the bizarreness of journalism and media.

Unposted Letters Containing Letters.

I found an old letter

I had

written you.

Unposted despite having postage.

I let it age for you, ewe.

I could no longer read my own hand.

In my cans, no-one speaks, as I scribble this idyll for the popular, un-idle, idol.

Casting pods like fishing nets

sewn by hand.

Longhand and cool-handed.

Nothing in my hands.


Little something kept on-hand.

The noon approaches and I remember the rattlers.

Snakes giving fair warning: kindly, don’t tread on me.

Whispers of wisteria wander.

Shouting sprouts ready to be snapped then snatched from stems.

Quiet quilts covering made-up beds.

Panting pansies parched for water to partake.

What’s the plan?: he asks.

Wait and see?: I sheepishly speculate.

Why do you do what you do?: he asks.

Because, I can. The difference between ‘could’ & ‘should’ still alludes, though.: I say.

I walk the aisles of miles between your vines. I share the plants’ oxygen and they rebirth my breath.

Gaseous exchanges of my alveoli.

Nitrogen; Oxygen; Carbon Dioxide.

Periodic tabling with held breath.

Breathe, you; I hold my breath, not for you, dear sorrel,

I hold my breath for naught

other than myself,

for my next step.

I take the rite of alternating left foot/right foot,

Of being pedestrian.

I told him: I’m better on my feet.

The voice came through my cans

and said: I function better with the sun in my eyes.

I misheard it as something filthy and smile in realization of my mistake.

My eyes are moons whence comes all of tomorrow’s noons.



floating in bluə-day skies,

stormy and grəy, like your

Sky-eyəs over a

choppy, white-capped səa.

Quote Like Song Lyrix Stuck in my Head

Eclecticism is self-defeating not because there is only one direction in which it is useful to move, but because there are so many: it is necessary to choose.

THE INTERPRETATION OF CULTURES: Selected Essays. Geertz, Clifford. Basic Books, Inc., Publishers. New York, 1973.

The poetics of “defamiliarization”: Umberto Eco’s On Literature.

The poetics of “defamiliarization”

Representing something in such a way that one feels as if one were seeing it for the first time, thus making the perception of the object difficult for the reader.

“Ratios of revision”

“Nonextraneity of structure in art.”

extraneous: irrelevant or unrelated to the subject/of external origin (Concise OED, 2008)

Structure of words in a poem/story become art in that they are a looking-glass house, a skeleton key, a scaffold.

An example of the aesthetics of structure creating art in unexpected places. Like the table of contents of a book on aesthetics.

Luigi Pareyson’s Aesthetics (Milan: Bompiani, 1988)

Section 3 of Chapter 3 is titled: “The parts of the Whole”

Chapter 3 is titled: “Completeness of the work of art”

subsection 10 of Chapter 3 Section 3 is entitled: “The essential nature of each part: structure, stopgaps, imperfections.

“In this sense the relation that the parts have among themselves do nothing but reflect the relation that each part has with the whole: the harmony of the parts forms the whole because the whole forms their unity.

As regards “stopgaps in literature”:

“It can be a banal opening, which can be useful for finding a sublime ending.”

The Chestnutt Mare

Callæbus eqqus is an Open (printed) Book.

Be content with the content? Slide your saucerful full of secrets over here?

Disappointed roundtable debators believed that

She had been animal

And mineral

And element,

And Creature,

And Cretin.

And a camællia.

The wandering star gent is part sugar-foot.

A real Achilles heel for him when it melts in the rain.

Sugary sweet

But, highly soluable.

Death and the Lover.

But, she knows him under different handles.

They rotate who leads the dance to each saraband song.

Often swapping pieces of clothes

Endless variations.

Her suspension of choice made him slay her.

What choice?

Can anybody make anybody do anything?

The difference between clumsy, specious interference and kind, capable manipulation?

Fuzzy adjustments.

She lays the pen aside in such a heat of words.

He called her to come to him from an ocean away. In her stomach and heart, she already then felt bits of twine string loosely drape. Cordons that began slithering into knots pulling tighter and tighter.

She felt it and she said so.

“I promise I feel those sweet fingers clasping at my heartstrings. That is all I promise in the right-now. But, darling, I fear I love you.” she said

How much emotional energy, she wondered? She ought not be fearful of loving, but this one was something else in her mind. This man was impeccable.

In love vs. I love.

One (N) to the right of (I)

is all it takes.

The difference between loved and beloved.

Fitted and bespoke.

She knew quick that she loved deep. And, still could not abstain from diving head first. No one had ever spoke of weal to her before. She wanted to court him and please him and displease him. But, then her imagination spun some daydreams she presented to him. A bombardment of her ideas presented in delicious, but inexperienced confusion. In retrospect, she shuddered at how giddy the effort must have seen. She felt sad like maybe she blew the idea and made herself look ridiculous. Then she grinned and found a laugh, because at least she tried.

She closed her eyes, imagined he could hear her speak and she said aloud,

I’ve not known eyes like yours, or words used like yours. You are special and rare. The way you move through time. The way time moves through you.
You wear it, those lines, on your face. You will only grow more captivating. I am too old to be this young. You’re so well aged. It could sweet. And even naughty.

The cost of a swoony swoon. The dreams of a romantic mystic. The desires of a feral bitch rising from within. Howling and sniffing.

Then she heeded the call and he was the Genuine article.

Arriving on pins and needles; visiting on tenterhooks; finally

She left slain.

Embarrassingly taken aback by how he puts his hands in his denim pants pockets. Adored. Astir in wonderful calmness, he made mere moments eons with just a bit of string or a yarn to spin. Captivating her wonder. A dream of an artful life

She could recall none other that spoke to her as he did.

In fact, he spoke to her about those things most amazing.

He spoke of passions because he knew them too. His laugh endeared. And his smile was usually close-lipped.

She returned home. Visitors at her home. A small party. A confusing dissonance. Time fell strange.

Three days after returning home, she knew with certainty that she wanted to return to him. She wanted to be by him. Partners in art and crime.

She wanted to

Suggest it might…

Concede it must….

Surrender her nerves with a hard swallow

Submit to hot tears.

She wants a new life with him. Silly girl. She knows though, she can do it on her own and feel proud but she could be in love and do it.

Silly. She feels unhip. But, she knows exactly how she feels. And, she knows it may be just a pretty lie she tells herself.

Yet, her intuition just smiles and whispers: it could be sweet. There are so many possible movements to take on this chessboard, that it becomes a real treat when you have a moment where you know exactly what you want and you can accept that it may not happen.

The difference between I don’t think so and I hope so.

Again, alone in her room, she closed her eyes, imagined he could hear her speak and she said aloud,

“I think I see you the way you wish the world would see you, dearheart. You look fine in these eyes. Fingers such as yours come carrying currents. Diligence meets nuanced, indicating well-honed. Your voice, its quiet, clear enunciation draws my ears. I feel you pull slowly on my vibrations. Shifting energetic threads like braiding hair. Bringing to balance the diabolus.

Worth all risk.

She came from a place of dinosaurs.

She moved to a shiny silicon land where lives occur in hands and eyes look down at screens. People speak in hashtags now. A girl 5 years younger laughed as she told her she listens to CD’s in her car. The last physical format to kill off, I am a CD in a digital town.

So, a compact disc chances upon a cassette tape.

Taken from the Three Lives: The Rainmaker p. 459

“…all that was beyond reality penetrated almost violently into the boy’s senses. And sense impressions are a deeper soil for growing memories than the best systems and analytic methods…Knecht had more to learn by his feet and hands, his eyes, skin, ears, and nose, than his intellect…No doubt they were really seeking the same ends as the science and technology of later centuries, but the went about it in an entirely different way. But one thing was utterly impossible for them: not in their most audacious moments would it have occurred to them to meet nature and the world of spirits without fear, let alone to feel superior to them. Such hubris was unthinkable, they could not have imagined having any other attitude but fear toward the forces of nature. The various systems of sacrifice kept fear at bay. A man who had been able to ennoble his fear by transforming part of it to awe had gained a great deal.”