Monday, February 28, 2005

letter to guy

Garbled Vomit,

This is a letter to you who is that guy who ran that place where television was watched and movies enjoyed and chai so sweet that blisters in the mouth and corroded, black, sinister teeth. You are the recipient and object of these words, so enjoy it because it will be the last I write until the next time or the time after whichever it be. So news to write, the next three lines will be censored and then after that will be more lines with words to write. So that was what I thought about the death of the third caliphate. Now let’s move on to the fact that for a week I knew well a girl who was French and somewhat beautiful though small and tasted of cancer and too different than I, and that now I will know her less biblically because she wants a relationship, which is something I do not think that is something that I want. Oh well. What can you do as a person with no prospects? To you I will send movies and books, but not at the moment. I will look into phones perhaps that would be feasible, to be brought to Africa with wings and a pint of gin, gin to be drunk. I’m ambivalent at the moment about coming to tz. I think too much work to interview people at bus stand, but should be interesting. Nothing is sto my me what I want to do now. No longer. To do what to do nothing? I am who want nothing to do nothing be nothing, perhaps write about nothing. In abook about nothing, and now I have this thing called a blog which is an online journal so that I can record some thoughts and not leave them hostage to some exgirlfriend in the letters I wrote to her. Bitch, whore, I read a john irving book, son of the circus, uses great word, cunt of misery. Of all the appellations the best appelatoin appostive not quite but to the mininmum I feel that way. Applied to this job in Afghanistan, in northeast poppy growing region, but they needed someone to leave this week and I said no, I am still being indoctrinated with Marxism and am not ready to be more than my own person yet. Am still the person who my professors tell me to be, jimmy, what more can you ask, who shall I be tomorrow but that guy that they told me to be and not the one that we’re all afraid to be. And I’ve realized that I do have to figure out when I am to stop seeking to serve the world and worry more about serving myself self serving. But not yet. I need to save the world one miserable little human being at a time, like a religious movement they should take me the miserable little missionary of goodwill into their miserable little lives and we can be wretched together in the same foul place, sitting in the muck, let it be foul, odious, hateful little life and then populate the world with our mistakes flesh and moral. That is who I will be tomorrow and the day after, but in the future, miserable alone and not miserable dogooder, miserable take take take ther is no slake. Stuff as such will continue. That I am not going to be sure but will talk about parents and bishops and knights moves to you. My father comes to Ireland in may and there I will go and will be and visit and drink water sometimes. That will be what happens when I am there and then they will come here and see that I have built a little life like a temple to astringent cleansers. I have no dirty hands, no hands that peck and pick and struggle for profundity, but they have clean no blisters and no pus and no gaping wounds to be my Christ. I’m alive and not crying and then isn’t that enough when you think of it, so I say yes I do. I need to find a place to which to go that is not here and not british with pale skin and teeth that ago every which way. Your stories about moral movies and upright secretaries to bishops can not resonate with me, I believe in nothing more than chairs, which are good for sitting anyway. I will publish my letter sto you on the web and if you had internet you could read them faster than mail can deliver, but you don’t have intornet not the interest. Do you like William Faulkner? I will send you a good story mocking georgy in the fashion of Faulkner written to be that way, so hilarious and worth reading and makes me feel like a better person for having read it. Doesn’t happen often. Not since border trilogy or Troilus and Cressida, Chaucer you know dirty old chap. So nice when something you read can move you to more than apathy and mild disgust. I hope my letter fill you with hate in the same way that day to day fills me with hate and guns. So filled with guns that my pants sag and my friends are always asking me why I have so many guns that I use as electric toothbrushes and other small appliances. And I have no answer other than that guns make me feel like a man, a righteous man out to do georgy’s and god’s work in god’s country, I mean america’s country, that place with the desert and the one with the mountains and the forest and the place that is not covered by ocean. God bless America and those people that love its subjucation, support our troops to the max til you can’t throw them no more. They’ll be there for you the poor suckers till you kick them up and down again. Dig it, like that pony you dug. Funy story today about a guy who loves to fuck calves at his neighbor’s farm. When caught he defended himself by claiming that he’d never cheated on his wife or any girlfriends with a cow. And then Richard senett wasn’t talking about fucking cows, but about how we do bad things with race by pseudospeciating people, - psycho analytic stuff – and then if you’d fuck an animal you can fuck a person, and there was a thought in there but I no longer feel like articulating it, just assimilate it, tuck it a way in a corner of cavernous head mind and then pull it out later next time someone thinks about fucking a cow and you will learn to love sennett and ideas that come from his mouth. I know that’s the propensity. Store and use, little squirrel, winter’s here at last. You’ll need to use it bitter cold and no snow to mask london’s filth. And there you go, I’ve written you a letter about things both uninteresting and hateful, and you will read it because you live in Africa and you don’t hate me. Good things come to those who hate as the saying goes. Ok, you have a good one to the max, I’ll relieve you from tripe and guts and did I tell you that vegetarianism has come to me quietly recently and quite recently and is now who I am and what I proselytise. Don’t eat meat, it kills babies. Don’t eat cows. Theyr’e for fucking. Don’t eat pork. My religion hates you. Don’t eat goats. Also good for fucking. See how well I take to it? The best ever man. What else going on? I hope that you are well and eating at happy pub where the eggs are greasy and waitresses truculent. I’m alooking for a job, I need to head west, old man. Figure it all out for me.
adm

link to slate article, 23-2-05 The Administration and the Fury by Sam Apple
http://www.slate.com/id/2113927/

continuing on in that fashion, to the max

and then today, a small bit of destruction, belated, should have been saturday down a deep dark hole water rushing freezing, destruction, but today no soreness, no broken body, bent but not broken, just the cessssation of a small little contentment built not so long ago not so durable, not so important, not meriting enough of pain in destruction. overthrown, the rest that is not this little bit but most actually, on and on tomorrow be today was yesterday it's about the future, boy and there it is waiting for you, green grass soiled pants. the year here is over. nmh awaits, marxism is an ideology from a frenchwoman, yes the truth is spoken by a foreigner once, not twice they go away after that. so much to read on infrastructure and have to print out your letter and send to you stories about love, bad movies, worse theorising, and english spelling. buy my ticket will be there soon, so not later. intornet wastes too much. it's where your mother sleeps and the room where monkeys are people with guns who shoot people with forks in their eyes unprotected by corks and enough well, ok, for later to talk be will it be.

Sunday, February 27, 2005

frozen boots in the morning

slowly people wake up and dip a finger through te greasy pan, overthrown. got to go caving, maybe, maybe nevermind back to sleep lazy fuck. was the best of times and the worst of times, stopped by a muddy hole, returned to wobbly ladder and waning daylight. no self destruction, no soreness save the bailing bucket syndrome. british radio is the radio of suck. so weekend existed up and down in the mendips, now tired, plied people with germs germs give vomiting, pain, misery. sharing is god's country salt of the earth. swildon's hole. people are too young too young, but good story of bush on faulkner on slate is salt. mellow madness only word to describe is magical to the max three words to the max not one only three. get to know a few people in the tsunami.

Wednesday, February 23, 2005

support your troops' habits

no afghani for me, fell down a hole and that hole is immediacy not for me, can't leave next week for some job that little british girls whine and sell soul for, but another time, cv in to funny man, danced about a bit and out of the hot room and into the snow, london snow never accumulate not this time. adam appreciates adams emails and shares the same name and the same height is not shared but not so dissimilar that the troll would be apt description for latter and the giant for former, but rest no and then they read blank stare. nobody to know, three weeks left til gone and gone, tedious conversatoin too much fine china talk, enough wit hte big country with people numerous and smoky misty mountaintops in south desert west factories clouds the rest. nothing interesting to write tonight eat cauliflour or cauliflower is white vegetable like tape worm is white and long and segmented slimy. don't eat that though. no, shouldn't do that. time to read.

Tuesday, February 22, 2005

what is gum, what is hake?

big voice talking in recently shorn head tonight about stuff, bit of enthusiasm in the decrepit body, fallen ankle. shake it left and right and now it's better, keep on truckin. and this could so easily be the stories of the beautiful girls i meet and offend. not british, but from those places where the food is less shit and less shit o nthe ground and fewer teeth shitty teeth fewer shitty teeth and skanky skirts and trashy tripos, that would be them. they proliferate, belligerent and numerous. tomorrow central asia corralled in a little room in soas where we beat it with questions and shiny faces enthusiasm all to make it give us pounds and pounds and one year of its time. and me too though more of a glare than a smile and little weasley will be there too with a question abotu the world bank and americans and recycle his feel good moment yet again. how big do i go then? do i revolutionize modern thought with my ten pager or do i muddle about in the back of a van, pita nyuma, damn you, andy needs answers and soon to give to give and then only the job left. and then there was that time at some point in the dry sweltering days before the rain breaks that Josephat stood proudly amidst the piles of sun baked bricks as if he were moses appraising the land that god offered him and the sluglike growth shined on the back of his neck. the bricks were the same red as the dust that swirled about him, and he picked up oneo of his bricks, and proudly exclaimed, "now this is a fine brick, and we're going to build a fine school with it," and he placed it gently back on the heap whereupon it cracked in twain, and josephat didn't realize that he had shitty bricks, that his bricks were as shitty as any other 46 year old virgin's bricks and that his school would be shitty whether with good bricks or bad because he still lived with his parents, and i hated tanzanian bricks. why didn't they ever build a good brick, they had the fire, they had the time, but the bricks you could chew them to clean your teeth and spit out the red sludge find its place next to the wad of sugar cane some sullen student bit off between classes and no baba wa taifa for joselflap. his bricks just weren't good enough. good bricks beget good walls beget good places for raping children. oh well.

Monday, February 21, 2005

facility with nalgene, dirty dirty nalgene

why always too tired to write with hands both write and right and left, and nothing to say to this or that, by this time of night it's reached the point of studied disinterest, but tonight do i have a reason to stay awake, more than toye and development and new angles with informality, not sure phone calls to me that i should answer but nothing to say particularly to frenchy, though pretty and tastes like cancer. oh well. people are good people sometimes bad people sometimes nonentities and it's the last of the three from which i plucked l and then foot straddle the line body one side what's that her personality has it not crossed over yet, but what does it matter in the end? four more weeks. and then there's africa, keeps jumping out of the past won't you leave me alone you dark continent you, and no too young to be an africanist and don't have the energy to be a theorist, but practicioner yes but not taht guy who's that guy who has one s tory and how many times have a itold it to you? more than you can remember you say? but yeah i'm just waiting on my next story, dirty little london isn't the home of anything but the mundane, what's to tell you if you;ve experienced itall yourself? to whom am i going to gloss over my inadequacies with slightly fictional stories glorifying the hardships i've endured and the lives i've saved and my stoic resolve in the face of screaming meanies, but then well stories, i'll tell you about the one where i caught my leg in that rope and then the boat was sinking and out on the prow like george washington crossing the delaware we stood chin thrust forward, the wind blowing into our steely faces as the little engine powered us onward away from the burning shoreline and to the verirtable conuerbation that would be nkhata bay after the absolute insignificance of mbamba bay and its shady fishermen. and there we crouched on our gunny sacks of maize, insensible to the cold and the fear lining the shadowy visage of the boatman as he slowly lost the battle to the rising water in the boat. Our will alone brought that boat to shore as we smuggled one foreigner and twenty sacks of maize for the starving people of malawi. in the early morning we were heroes and just wanted to go to bed. so magical that now i am a new man and can tell this story to you confident that you can't contradict me. i have pictures and guns and germs, but no diamonds; if you want to see my rubies, they're in the little case shaped like a dung beetle, made of pulverized limestone pressed into a mould. they're small and uncut, but the germ of another story that you can't refute. and that's what it's all about and on and on. short story tonoight shorter story tomorrow night, have to get a letter out to you.ok be well.

Sunday, February 20, 2005

garbled vomit on the floor

it happend for the third time. oh well. no different than the last, lingering disgust, recrimination, but more than anything else indifference to it all. another night.

Wednesday, February 16, 2005

eyes closed or open

birthday catchers pitchers of gin, need more gin. today like the other it went, and gone almost with a little scp thrown in to make the day more interminable, but yes as i said earlier, it's gone. did large portion of future determining today as we sat and read and then stood and read and milled about because my topic wasn't quite there and then pratt, who'se my guy, my advisor said no not taht direction, take another, a road not chose by you because you just can't see it and then i said to omyself nod your head and you'll find it in some david harvey. walk back two steps turn around and yo're out the door and down the hallway skipping the elevator because despite your gimpy ankle you cant not take the stairs you fat ass. keep walking, but jonesy more agreeable and less angrifying in that he didn't contest, but intsead proffered hope of connections to zambia of which my only experience is davis, the philandering thief of a teacher who one time stole the school's jumpers and sold them off and went into hiding before he was caught and resumed his english instruction. i swear he stole those english books. oh well. so cv done, tomorrow a fair and a tour and ken livingstone's house roundish egg cracked open for us to peer at its governance, dirty dirty secrets there they are just waiting ripe and simply uninteresting. yes that's the ticket. too much gum on the pavement here.

Tuesday, February 15, 2005

where i go sometimes with feet that walk

A letter by adm that is to say me who is that guy you knew in songea who quit his game and muddied his feet and flew back to old America which was a nation a good 180 years before tanganiyka and zanibar clung together in a mulatto union. Just finished yesterday, blood meridian by cormack mccarthy, the most violent, disgusting, hateful book I’ve ever read, but in a good way. I’ll send you one of his books some time the one about which I’m writing now. or you should order it. almost magic realism, though not quite, he could be marquez in the autumn of the patriarch lines of blue light arc across the sky wastelands solitude not 100 years, (writing letter at work cause nothing else to do and background chatter boss always talks to himself yelling and disgruntled bad for blood pressure good guy but supremely critical) now read Ralph Ellison invisible man so small where is he? never before have read. going this weekend to see passion of Christ become member of popular consciousness suck in breathe out we’re all the same taste at minimum. but go and Christians rail and wail and love their god and so pained by the suffering he had painted onto him with red oil paints and charcoal and rubber whips and metallic nails and god was there and is like it was good old pope hates gays and a Tennessee town wants to make homosexuality illegal and put them in jail or expel them from the county. good old home that I love. grandmother died last week got a three day vacation and a tv. nobody eulogized her, she went to the grave unremembered. stomped around in the dumpster to compact her life’s detritus, her house is empty and she’s gone. still training for marathon. one month left to go. I walk everywhere with blisters on my feet and stiff and tired legs no boyish enthusiasm allowed arthritic and hesitant gait scuffed shoes. but will try to run still, not going so badly. on and on to the max big suv. have been rejected from two graduate schools, expect other rejections shortly, only school to which I’m interested in going at this point is lse, but they are having problems with my references so that aspiration has been mooted and my rut gets deeper, as a failure I always have plans b and c and d and e and for now plan b is to stick with job for another year save some money and hike the Appalachian trail after which I go to law school and save some poor fellow from the systems while I drown in whiskey where has my life gone? still compelled to try to save the world, consider immigration law because bush and patriots so hateful towards foreigners they need all the help they can get, I have to get off this kick, not be afraid of money, money’s good, but can I stay at my job another year as I waste away each day eyes rotting from flickering computer screen. pinpoint the one day each two or three months during which I actually exercise my brain at work. plan b sounded good if I can gloss over the next year and look forward to next march and five months of hiking on the trail, but will I suffer plan b when I actually have to live it? perhaps better option is to run off in a vaguely defined plan c that drives me to flee to another country and find my way somehow. lassitude soporific quit quit quit, just sit in your chair, the time passes, don’t worry about it. support your troops, eat more fat, clog your medical system with your obesity born disease. I don’t recall when the last time I wrote to you was or when was the last time, what has happened since, no loves won and then lost. discovery of good music that you would not like neutral milk hotel, go to cape cod play on beach slate gray water churning, sucking, cloying at ankles, log rolling about in littoral. class continues on as little intellectual stimulation. mates fear my advance. little kids all, I’m and old man. enjoy lrb. met this literary wunderkind of a girl who developed crush on me because I read it and can fake conversations about such and such and their incisive tripe. I’m glad you got that movie, one of so beautiful color and slow and Americans don’t know how to do that. we always talk, fast, and some people say we make faster movies because we as audience are better versed on moviecraft and understand process better and need less coddling in exposition, but I think too short attention span is big factor. no appreciation of silence that foreign movies have, bad bad to the min. hyperbole dystopy not dystrophy. bored. so how life in new house new money new sold no debt? I’m glad you like the piss, you need people that are talk and understand and up and down can read your head to see what it says irony there no slack jaw, viane talk too fast don’t understand. I sent him through school and he sends me an email that he’s graduating now, he expects a gift from me. I owe it to him. no gift from my bounty. barren. giftless shiftless gun control. this letter will be long. I declare filled with vacuity. read it love it spit on it and bandy it about my ideas about the louse the grouse eat the latter infested by the former, a night in morogoro bloody sheets. I read at least two newspapers a day as well as two or three online news sources. being better informed doesn’t slake appetite. it’s good news that alex is going to school. he’s a good kid and better to do something than nothing. what kind of taxi did rasta purchase? not a landrover? if he leaves his money with his wife that is good. but if he leaves it and then takes it and remorse, the money is still gone and he is drunk., but at least he admitted that he is a sieve. good first step, if he were in suburbia, we could bake him a cake and kick the habit with good intentioned, god intentioned good Christian housewives support circle, or dingy church basement circle folding chairs, worship at throne of Fight Club. anyway, if you have mother Theresa complex, does it matter? too late to change, twenty years into the process. as long as you got your house and your movies, I’d just say that you need a dvd player. and lots of chai. all of that is good and better than not having. owning is good. I punish you with words many many. stop reading, the letter’s intent could have been conveyed in two sentences: “screw you, hippies!” and “the mud seems to be getting deeper.” but I’ll continue on in my own fashion and digress and circumlocution and perambulation and kick it you crazy Tanzanians. just when was supposed to be warm, but now snows and spring begins tomorrow. any interesting news? abnegation. a man in India married his grandmother so that he could more effectively care for her. a little girl had been earlier married to a dog for good luck. my friend’s father is purchasing a soda vending machine for his home which he is buying so that his step children will have to pay for soda instead of just taking it from the fridge. a man in Afghanistan was arrested when he was caught having sex with a donkey inside a ruined edifice. watch the movie osama. ok I am ending letter now for now. you have good time doing stuff and dust and cooler weather and walking up hill. I will write again unless I don’t. I will, I mean.
adm

teleological

optimism is fragile. oh well. read about alaska today - where more people disappear per capita than anywhere else in the united states; bespeaks opportunity in that chris mcandless kind of way, and something fun to day dream about as my loans pile up and my cv reports an inane picture. on and on. where's that good letter that i wrote? need to find it. happened a while ago, but anyway. tiresome in c's class as we hit a wall of academics from whom we can not get an acknowledgement that a reality exists beyond discourse and that discourse may not always have all the answers. if we spend the day condemning the teology of modernism, how can we rest on a different teology that communities become marginalized in their failure to achieve some standard of living that we offer up as desirable? it's tiresome sometimes. theory has to hit the ground somewhere, and then it breaks loose. oh well, another time.

Monday, February 14, 2005

first post, second blog

So this will be my second attempt at a blog, and will try to keep it up this time. last time got too self conscious about what to write and became mired in self recrimination. this time, well probably the same, but i'm trying under a different conceptual framework, and instead of a journal, i'll think of it as a series of letters. the only time in my life that i've successfully recorded my thoughts and experiences was during the time i spent in tanzania and then only because i had someone back whom whom i trusted completely and in whom in confided honestly - some day i hope to get those letters back from her to use in some writing - but i'll try to stir the same confessional need again, although i no longer have s as my reader. there are two or three people whom i imagine would be similarly forgiving readers, and it is to them i will write. I'm beginning this at a period of unusual hope and optimism in my life that is only occasionally tempered by the uncertainty i will be facing in a too near future, and i'll try to be consistent for what i know that in the future i'll appreciate that i've preserved some of what i've learned and felt along the way. shall see though

monday

again