A Story, Begun but not finished
Piano was the sound that she began the story with, and in a minor key. At first she thought of it as a broad Steinway, but then she thought about a concert she had attended at noon, on Tremont St. in the church called King's Chapel, in Boston – a church without a steeple, crowded by much newer sheened buildings. Being at 12 PM, it had only one selection – but by Beethoven! It was one of his violin sonatas, and she had never heard it on a pianoforte nor with a violin strung with gut strings. It was the old way of playing this music, looking backwards at Haydn, and Mozart. The two players were not known to her at first.
There was a sound, at once tinny and growled, was anything more than pleasant. But it grew on her - until she could not hear the music any other way. She remember the last name of the violinist – Ogata was a strange name to remember. It had occurred to her to go up and speak with them, but there came a very common hesitation and shyness. What would she say to the violinist or the pianoforte specialist who accompanied her? As a special note, she reminded herself that the piano-forte, of light dexterity and amazing facility, was named Watson – remembering both was important.
Instead, she walked out the front door - not realizing that the two instrumentalists would be wishing attendes well in a view minutes – and she felt a grasp of sunlight on her face amidst the tall glass towers. Then began to walk to the Park Street Station, and begin her work – or such it was called, though in fact it was truly mind numbing in its gloriously set boredom. It largely consisted of transferring hand written notes to keyed in comments in a database. Why anyone would do this, because in fact no one really was concerned with their content. But she girded herself for an afternoon better spent on other things – and wishing that she had a gift, any gift, which would allow her to sit at the top of a white walled and red carpeted ambo, reciting from her words. Alas, the scratchings of her pen – and she meant this, rather than typing the way most writers did -but never came up to the standard. Oh, too have the gift of words, or anything else, which would draw in even a dozen people. Let alone be musical gift that the two artists had in drawing out from flat print, and conduct a chancel in notes. Her thoughts turned the icon that the two performers made, and how out of their almost stone coldness came out a beautiful sound.
To be at once the congregation and the nave, and hold fast to some forgotten reading, or perhaps music unheard of. But back to work, the story would have to be finish later, as if it mattered.
It was her that he imagined. But he did not describe her, because he wanted each person to view a perfect female. For women, it would be herself as she imagined, for men, it would be the perfect woman he would dream of. or at least that was the plan for heterosexual people, but there were other forms who would dream a different dream entirely.
Instead of acting, he listen Beethoven, playing 10 violin sonatas straight, on his computer. And again.
Revolution Revolution Revolution
we need a revolution revolution revolution
not the kind that they can proclaim on video video video
but a revolution in our hearts and in our minds
that will not stop until it is one
not the kind that was proclaimed by Republicans and Democrats
who mouth the lines as if their race or religion or creed
will be what matters in its time
we need a revolution revolution revolution
and we need to know this from the inside out,
outside in, middle ground in both directions
as if Gödel told us in his famous indeterminacy prove
with Turing as is witness, meditations by Nash,
and proven by Audin in a tome which no one reads.
we need a revolution not evolution not permutation
never mind what tense it is in, because creole languages
never have tense in mind when they are created
and do not have the name creole when they start.
and someone pours for through Google, and Twitter, and Facebook,
and Pinterst - and all the other words that it has not yet formed in its vocabulary.
suborned by perjury on Kerouac's lips
with endless profits saying endless songs written by Dylan
recited in a monopoetic way of speaking learned from rolling stone,
which at that moment was not capitalized because it was not cool.
and if you elder statesman tell us that O'Neill foretold
and Ernest Hemingway told in monosyllabic words
which F Scott Fitzgerald would later make arabesques.
and Ishmael was hidden in plain sight because it was spelled
while others watch on their telly
we must do that thing which no one knows what to do
as in the 30s they marched in lockstep
and in the 60s they crowded around.
with no end in sight.
a gift for the eye to see them endlessly paraded.
why do we need a revolution?
because everyone is selling one, but not delivering at all
in any way any word in any context
there is only silence to be had.
On the model of poetic with a snow aureus tone of voice, which is not what I said, nor even close, as I try to explain what I am saying. I wish I may I wish I might have the wish I wish tonight. What t hronging is I when I is no longer uttered until this page. And then it streams forth as if to say that it is really all that I wish for is to express the ideas of I. That every thought begins with how to I express the eye that I have in mind without expressing the one syllable that I wished I could get out of my mind. It was a future past, feature present, future eternity. Each phrase exists to complement the wishing text which has no time at all.
It futures without any understanding of what that means, because in the mind of the person residing these words which were spoken in to a microphone, there was no past, no present, no future at all. You can tell when I am reciting a near and future – because in their time words like eschatological were in vogue, and they use them to prove to themselves that they are parents would not use them except in the secret of the woods, where signs were drawn up featuring the raging sun or a sadly bent across. Why not Kerouac whatnot Faulkner why not Steinbeck? Why must I recite James Joyce? Even though I know why. He was first, and though many others would hide in the backdrop, such as Kafka, he was the one who put it all together. And that was ghastly from Woolf position, because she wanted to be first and new that this ugly brutish clod had gotten there first.
This would not due.
It was then that I truly needed a revolution, but none came. And I wept. James Joyce was ecstatic in Ulysses, the author of this is not. Because he does not have a female character to say yes yes yes, and call out the name which he forbids. We are is Nash when I need him the most? Probably in one of his dark moods, where he roomed with his former lover, former wife. And he did not know what was real and what was imagination, though you probably would want to form a word that was in fact and fiction both, and proclaim the ends of the sun.
It is that I am like a character in Ulysses, thinking of my self watching someone else, but are delving that I am not myself – which is the point of the urinal day. When, speaking of the camera, I slip and utter that since of self for all eternity, and then some. But beyond the eye there is something that I must admit, though it is truly terrible to contemplate. I left her in New York, beneath the sign which pointed to Connecticut, letting her drift without a point, a reason, a plan. Because I knew that we could not be with each other – and it is entirely my fault. Even though I come from an age which imagines the terrorizing madness of King Henry VIII, or King George III. But this was anointed and announced by different Angels.
If rage was the most anointed expression of the 19th century, and lust was the pinnacle of the 20th century, I have to say that neither one expresses the inner light of madness that I now feel, so away with the rage of Goethe's transparent cousin, away with the transfigured I, and let me grope into a new day, where madness is the sun. gleaming bright as the first English man took his cap off and turned to face the inner stage, which transgressed with merely players on which they trudge mindlessly until ready to applaud with Richard's, Henry's – and all of their ilk. And now the chorus pleads with them to applaud this matinee, and inspired by some form of amusement, goes tripply on the town, to show what he imagines he will pass off by amusement as is his gift.