- These women had to be survivors because of, you know, the abuse.
- An ambitious production
- Make it look like an accident
- Burned & burned
- The Black Hills were stolen from the Sioux
- Mine the miners
- Death by knife
- Martha Jane Burke
- Elizabeth Cook-Lynn
- New language comes from a real place in the soul
- Cold cream
- Beholden to no human cock-sucker!
- Most moral codes are elevated expressions of economic necessity.
- Cohabitation of the primitively obscene with an ornate presentation
- Let's not queer our hustle
- Obscenity protects by not giving facts
- Lost eyesight
- Create a theatrical version of reality
- How to be, regardless of defects of character or inner demons
- People unable to turn wishes into passions, natural disaster attracts them. First they idolize then destroy. They want to appropriate the value of the people who live lives of passion.
- Community is the secular version of religion
- "You can't think your way to right action, you can only act your way to right thinking."
- Pray over it
- The benign version of yearning
- Reason is 17th
- Encounter all of the materials that are trust-worthy then forget them.
- Precious to give ourselves in imagination, take joy in respecting integrity, treasure difference.
- Walking around with a secret
(The truths of storytelling are not the truths of reportage, they have to come alive in the imagination of the viewer and in order for that to happen they have to come alive in the imagination of the storyteller.)
- Is my way less noble than any other?
(History is a lie agreed upon. So in this case, the women of history were voiceless, simply the instruments of men's will, and kept drugged, one way or another, 24 hours a day. Society always tells us that when they're imprisoning people outside of prisons they're doing it for that person's own good: hence: hysteria (a beautifully evolved word). So hysteria is behaviour of the essence of being a woman and if its the essence of being a woman it's crazy. So she's hyterical which means she's "being a woman" which means we drug her. Opium. The hysterical woman was made to further the illusions of every man she came into contact with which is the essential truth of the constructed Western Woman.)
- He was just a hustler
- Truths swallow eachother up
- Get to the most general universal -via- being rigorously specific
- The "American Story" is original sin reenacted
- The violation of the sanctity of another person's heart is the unpardonable sin (via Hawthorne)
- There's all kinds of cannibalism.
- A high falutin' term: psedo-speciation
- To distract the populace from any spiritual unease is to give them a more convenient object upon whom to focus their anxieties.
(The spiritual need in every person must be answered on a nightly basis. If that need can't be accomodated in a quiessence of spirit it's accomodated in anxiety and the proper receptacles for anxiety are drugs, gambling, sex, and alcohol.)
- That sad tale
- The fundmental dynamic of humor = things survive (Freud)
- When one member suffers all the members suffer
- What's the verdict?
(Pick a road to go down. And keep going down it. I haven't been down ANY road I haven't found interesting. You just have to know how to look. What allows you to look and to see is humility. Which doesn't require of the road that it conform to your expectations or your previous expreience of roads. Then the definition of a road begins to expand and so - uh - you know - uh - I never think of what I'm gonna write at the beginning of the day. I pray and I sit down. And - uh -)
- The illusion of control is fundamentally at variance with the going out of the spirit which is what you do when you create
- Visions come to prepared spirits
- It's not by any virture that I've received a gift
- The muse does know where to find me
- Keynote, struck
well this shit is so hard core it's taking my breath away. The flooding in South Louisiana is OUT OF CONTROL and all the locals there say it's never been like this, and we know Louisiana is f'd, it's the vanishing wetlands and those wetlands aren't coming back. All the wasted time and money and this is so graphically serious it's obliterating my sense of direction. I don't know what to do, don't know which way to go or move, don't know where to stay. I don't know how to be. It's CRIMINAL, this situation, it's an absolutely horrific situation and what's there to do, really? All we can do is just keep on flooding, losing our homes and friends and families, losing our nature our history our place - either that or just leave. I can't be light-hearted and la-di-dah about this. I'd give anything for a government and a country that really sincerely gave a shit about us here.
I liked the first night best. Unslept for over 2 days, we made it to McComb and Ginger's mom's house. She had gumbo on, which we ate with crackers, sweet tea, and banana pudding with small cups of coffee, for dessert. Generators, dogs, evacuees.
One winding drive through green on green brought us to Felders Camp and cabin #39, Miss Barbara's. In a flurry of sweaty draggy punch-drunky-ness we each claimed our rooms, got our shit unpacked and headed down to the creek for a swim.
There's snakes in that water and it's cold and sweet. Different from Northern lakes, different from European rivers, somehow softer, browner, with an undertow of treachery and gothic betrayals. Some of us jumped off the platform with the rope swing, the dogs kicked up sand, the banks were steep and red.
For dinner we had burgers, a great huge salad, baked beans and drinks. Kiyoko pulled out the puzzle, I got the cats situated, Jacob read Grimm's Fairy Tales out loud, Christian never stopped moving, Jennifer hand-rolled cigarettes with her cute little hands, and Greg, Greg pretty much did all that.
At one point standing out front in the twilight the sky changed like that, racing winds and a cold air, I shit you not, all of a sudden, and then a drenching downpour. I'd heard on the transistor radio that "Jackson" was evacuating and thought, damn, that's above us. They were having a church meeting across the way and we hauled over there, dogs and all, wet and wide eyed, getting the advice of the old timers. Well of course they meant "Jackson County", not the city Jackson, and nobody was evacuating, it might flood some and the power would surely go out but these folks were staying put. So we could too, which was a great relief, given our utter exhaustion.
So this and that, some cards, some songs, and when everyone else hit the hay Jennifer and I went on an adventure in the dark moist night. By this point I knew I was gonna be wet all the time, hair, feet, clothes - and it was swell to just not care about being dry - to just wander in the strange Mississippi church camp and come upon surprises.
Like the open air amphitheatre where we discovered our bodies as gigantic shadow puppets, eyes blinking from side to side, a hilarious caricature that only we would ever see. Bumping and singing on the slick muddy paths, our dogs just delerious with night time country freedom, girls being silly, letting go of stress.
In the morning the power went out. We had a propane stove, I brought candles and flashlights, we had coolers and ice and everything you could need - cards, Scrabble, gossip rags, Twizzler's, rum, coffee, apples, each other. It's an odd place to be, total limbo, and made me want to just sit on the porch swing and watch the rain. So I did.
Sometimes here you will find a gem, something awful, or delights heretofore unknown. Of course I like to start my day slightly more off-kilter than most, or perhaps austere, by all means bright and clear. Then of course there's the old stand-by always respected by my young guns, and so it goes before a dog walk, the Saints game, and tapas with Andy.
My writing lately has totally sucked, especially here. Perhaps there's a reason for it, perhaps not. Sometimes it soothes me to consider there might be no reasons for anything. It's refreshing to not know the meanings of things, to just let it go, let things be. But as far as writing goes that attitude's a cop out or what I mean is it just doesn't produce anything and if I stand for anything it's "production". Sure, there's no meaning - but just as easily there is and I am compelled to add something to that mix. Not now, certainly, because it's late and I'm disgusted with my obvious lack of control over my medium. But soon, soon -
oh this photo is here because I am smitten with the dumbness of this art work. I mean look at it, it's just stupid. Perhaps it's ancient, perhaps it's from the Bywater Artist's Market, who cares? I just love the studded borders and the damn idiotic gesture of the rider's hands. Who would make that? Clearly a man. I love that man to bits.