The World: a dead tree in the cemetery “Will speak our speech and never know,” - Wallace Stevens, Postcard from the Volcano Con/Jur/d, 5/14/15 I’ve habituated myself again reliant on the Ancestors, don’t see, the World, unborn, immobile, always present unmade, moving, ending, beginning I didn’t like my ancestors much, some of them I loved to a fault, shifting to accommodate beetles boring without compunction into our flesh, into our trunk, cutting through the rings, mechanically. Adopting the rage for transparency -- they didn’t like me much either, agrarian roots forming certain expectations on how we would blossom, how copulation and pollination was essentially the same, although less suggestive than pistons, pumping, pumping, pumping lay minister, fun hating, angry, angry, Grandfather an avid trainspotter was quick with a belt, forced by creeping liberal values to adopt, becoming quick with soap, water and and mouth, forcing one to swish, swish going on and on and on about his sociopathic god, his holy pain inducing, name, name, name by which he said, now as clear as these clouds threatening rain, behind the dead tree and its wind fractured branch rising above spoiled white, granite grey headstones, he missed the language of long distances, the frontiers of belonging, a mystery connecting us all, a rhythmic Hypnotic bass beat cutting thru our liminal horizons chug, chug, a chug Woooo Hoooo!
Well, y’all, hopefully, this arrives in your mailbox as we’re heading up to the Adirondacks to stay in The Old Moose Lodge. The last time we stayed there, we found a note and a key at the front desk when we arrived. It is a deeply surreal experience to enter an old hotel, whose history dates back to the Robber Barons and the Rockefellers and not see another living soul. Very 217/237, and worth repeating. Hope you're enjoying your Saturday!