Thanks anyway November 26, 2015Posted by The Typist in Fortin Street, FYYFF, New Orleans, The Narrative, The Typist, Toulouse Street.
It is too easy to slur Columbus Day and ignore Thanksgiving, for fear of upsetting the neighbors. Today we sit down to celebrate the complete incompetence of European settlers to feed themselves and contemplate the gratitude they showed to their Native neighbors, to offer our thanks to their omnipotently paranoid god who blessed the casual erasure of humans and bison from sea to shining sea, to engorge ourselves on indigenous corn and potatoes and African yams without a thought to their origins, eat thick slices from the engineered breast of a native bird bred like Chevrolets in a feed house it could not survive without constant dosing with antibiotics.
Let’s just fess up and admit that we are setting out to a glutton’s banquet at which we will eat until we are barely able to bend forward and reach the bottle to pour yet another glass of wine. I am Orleanian to the bone and have no problem with this. The gods of my hearth are not cosmic, are small and indigenous to this place and take great pleasure in our banquet. They are the absent ancestors whose places we have taken at the table, and food is their holiest sacrament. I will give thanks not to a remote god but to the stooped-back women who picked the cranberries and the men who wielded the death hammers of the slaughter house. I will wish them joy of a tall boy and pre-paid card from the corner store to call their distant families, camaraderie over food as best they can manage, and a day of rest.
Poetry Is Not November 17, 2015Posted by The Typist in Poetry, The Journey, The Narrative, The Typist, Toulouse Street.
Tags: Nicanor Parra, PoetryIsNot
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In poetry everything is permitted.
With only this condition of course,
You have to improve the blank page.
— Nicanor Parra
The Magnolia Gate November 9, 2015Posted by The Typist in cryptical envelopment, New Orleans, The Journey, The Narrative, The Typist, Toulouse Street.
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If I do not leave as I entered, between the two trees I call the Magnolia Gate (careful of the fallen fruit), have I really returned? Or is some small bit of me still circling the Bayou Metairie lagoon? Such a small haunting would not a bad thing in this ghost-peopled town. If you think you catch sight me of walking that path in the park late at night or in some inclement weather, then perhaps I am forever a bit of that part of the Back of Town.
A Single Step November 8, 2015Posted by The Typist in cryptical envelopment, New Orleans, The Journey, The Narrative, The Typist, Toulouse Street.
Tags: Carolos Casteneda, xochicalco
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Twelve more days, and then…
“You have everything needed for the extravagant journey that is your life.”
― Carlos Castaneda
Image by xochicalco.
Unfuck Yourself November 6, 2015Posted by The Typist in cryptical envelopment, The Narrative, The Typist, Toulouse Street.
Your temporal/spatial forecast for today November 6, 2015Posted by The Typist in cryptical envelopment, New Orleans, The Narrative, The Typist, Toulouse Street.
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Your temporal/spatial interaction forecast for today extends outward for a very limited ~8-10 hours and an associated radius of two miles from the Fortress of Squalitude due to continuing limiting factors. Sleep, concentration and social interaction remains deeply disrupted by the massive adharmic rent in the fabric of the universe located somewhere on the 41st floor of a building in Long Island City, NY. Energy drain remains as a very high peak flux along a fixed, occluded trough extending from LIC to the Fortress. The static potential associated with this trough has reached gigavolt levels, with a high possibility of random discharge. Bridges are at particular risk from such events. The previously forecast dissolution of this persistent trough has moved out to Nov. 20. (The event itself will continue to consume disproportionate energy in a generalized mode until the dissolution of the corporate vortex occurs. There is no visibility in this forecast suggesting this would occur soon.) Catastrophic amounts of coffee and associated chain-smoking continue, punctuated by weekends of continued pre-dawn awakenings combined with frequent naps, will continue. Social interaction remains at an extremely low 1.5, depending on your son’s work schedule and the possibility of exhaustive disassociation or meetings with Singapore on Date Night. Due to continued libidic disruption and extreme dietary restrictions of minus 1 on the Leidenhiemer scale associated with the high level of sheer stress from extreme cognotive dissonance resulting from this extended event, interaction with Arabella the Ghost Stick and the Speaking Tequila Skull is contraindicated. Do not wear your Trout Mask.
One’s Inner Daemon October 31, 2015Posted by The Typist in cryptical envelopment, New Orleans, Poetry, The Narrative, The Typist, Toulouse Street.
Getting in touch with one’s inner daemon, not infernal but an amoral engine of perception whose only purpose is music, not of the spheres, of the equinoctial routine but rather the assembly of images like maenads, words raving and tearing at each other’s clothes until assembled, naked and purposeful, in union, in invocation: the earth shifts its ecliptic and the divine is eye is opened.
Every time a bell rings, someone has entered the shop door of Hell. October 25, 2015Posted by The Typist in cryptical envelopment, FYYFF, The Narrative, The Typist, Toulouse Street, We Are Not OK.
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“Things are tight, ” the man
said, tightening his
“We can’t give you a
job, we can’t give you
any money, and
we don’t want these here
poems either.” He
tightened his tie. “Fact
is, the old cosmic
gravy train’s ground to
a halt. It’s the end
of the line. From now
on there’s going to
be no more nothing.”
He went on, lighting
a cigar: “We don’t
wish we could help, but
even if we did,
we couldn’t. It’s not
our fault, by God, it’s
just tight all over.”
He brought his fist down
on the burnished desk
and lo! from that tight
place there jetted forth
rivers of living water.
- Everette Maddox
The voice, it is not madness October 24, 2015Posted by The Typist in cryptical envelopment, The Journey, The Narrative, The Typist, Toulouse Street.
A melody, a rhythm, the solo that lives inside them. Words as melody and rhythm, the solo that makes a poem. The voice of god in the bell of a mad saxophone. The poem as illuminated gospel. The artist in the corner frantically keeping time, the signature of pencil or charcoal capturing in her imagination the melody of colors to follow from the notes.
Listen. Listen to his tune. Calls it his duty-free gift for the Traveler.
— Rahsaan Roland Kirk, “Theme for the Eulipions”
Pedestrian I: Lost Flamingo October 18, 2015Posted by The Typist in cryptical envelopment, Pedestrian I, The Journey, The Narrative, The Typist, Toulouse Street.
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Its bright pink eroded by so many suns, nearly hidden in the shrubbery, faded to something like the waterbirds in the nearby park who also hide themselves along the marge, it is reduced to a muted respectability appropriate to a neighborhood which takes its name from that park, and is entered between two pillars.
Unhappy: hcolom October 14, 2015Posted by The Typist in cryptical envelopment, The Narrative, The Typist, Toulouse Street.
Tags: Scott Walker
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(That’s It For) The Other One October 6, 2015Posted by The Typist in A Fiction, cryptical envelopment, The Narrative, The Typist, Toulouse Street.
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He ends his day by slipping comfortably into the third person, as into a pair of slippers formed to his feet by long use. This shift is not among his many disorders, those of the mind, of the body, the derangement of his bookshelves or the irregular draping of his room in laundry. This narrative shift out of of day’s I shall, I must, I have forgotten, I must never into a comfortable distance quiets the incessant, neurotic scissoring of memory and its demon familiars, regret and doubt.
The plural simply won’t do. What shall we have for dinner evokes loneliness, the absence of so much as a cat. He had a cat once, his daughter’s, which he watched die, taking with it the last possibility of a plural innocence. His son, who loved the cat perhaps more than his daughter, assisted at the end, and by doing so helped erased their childhoods from his life.
He is incapable as that other, self-aware and self-centered person of meditation, of stilling the mind. The inexorable scissors, clattering from the moment he awakes–often bodily exhausted and short of sleep–that slice open the envelope of worry and empty its contents onto the bed. Then it is did I? Will I? How shall I and so on to coffee and a cigarette, his ego’s faithful companions in preparing to confront the mirror, his I standing their red-veined and unfocused, stumped by the choice between washcloth and toothbrush, the dangerous razor.
He lives to survive another day, his I fixed on the computer screen and the unending stream of work. To Them he is a third person, a distant figure time zones and plane changes away, a receptacle for tasks to be emptied every night, but this is not him, and evening’s distanced and remote person is his own creation, something beyond Their reach. He lights a cigarette and reaches for his book or his e-reader, ready to surrender to someone else’s story, allowing their omniscience to fill his world with hims and hers and them.
Later he will brush his teeth and wash up without reference to his tiny shaving mirror, the bathroom conveniently disarranged with a set of shelves before him and the mirror off to the side. He knows where his mouth is, the familiar shape of his face under the washcloth. The brush and rag are always in the same place, one bit of stability among all his disorders, the unstable arrangement of his unwashed dishes faintly rattling as he passes, the dishabille of his bedclothes, the absence of pajamas in his overstuffed drawers. When he is done he can pass through the house switch by switch, enveloping it in a comfortable darkness. There is no need for his I to guide him down his familiar path.
Sleep will come without too much difficulty as long as it is he and only he who climbs into bed, having closed his I hours ago.
The Future Is Fun October 2, 2015Posted by The Typist in cryptical envelopment, The Narrative, The Typist, Toulouse Street.
Tags: Firesign Theater, We're All Bozos On This Bus
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Many busy executives ask me, “What about the job displacement market program in the city of the future?” Well, count on us to be there, JIM, because, if we’re lucky tomorrow, we won’t have to deal with questions like yours ever again.
(How does he make his voice do that?)
Dream Song 103: I consider a song will be as humming-bird September 29, 2015Posted by The Typist in cryptical envelopment, New Orleans, Poetry, The Narrative, The Typist, Toulouse Street.
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I consider a song will be as humming-bird
swift, down-light, missile-metal-hard, & strange
as the world of anti-matter
where they are wondering: does time run backward—
which the poet thought was true; Scarlatti-supple;
but can Henry write it?
Wreckt, in deep danger, he shook once his head,
returning to meditation. And word had sped
all from the farthest West
that Henry was desired: can he get free
of the hanging menace, & this all, and go?
He doesn’t think so.
Therefore he shakes and he will sing no more,
much less a song as fast as said, as light,
so deep, so flexing. He broods.
He may, rehearsing, here of his bad year
at the very end, in squalor, ill, outside.
—Happy New Year, Mr Bones.
— John Berryman
Furthur September 22, 2015Posted by The Typist in cryptical envelopment, The Journey, The Narrative, The Typist, Toulouse Street.
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“The further in you go, the bigger it gets.”
― John Crowley,
Agape September 12, 2015Posted by The Typist in Poetry, The Journey, The Narrative, The Typist, Toulouse Street.
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By César Vallejo
Today no one has come to inquire;
nor have they asked me for anything this afternoon.
I’ve not seen a single cemetery flower
in such a happy procession of lights.
Forgive me, Lord: how little I have died!
On this afternoon everybody, everybody passes by
without inquiring or asking me for anything.
And I don’t know what they forget and remains
strangely in my hands, like something that’s not mine.
I’ve gone to the door,
and feel like shouting at everybody:
If you’re missing something, here it remains!
Because in all the afternoons of this life,
I don’t know what doors they slam in a face,
and my soul is seized by someone else’s thing.
Today no one has come;
and today how little I have died this afternoon!
A Moment of October September 12, 2015Posted by The Typist in New Orleans, The Narrative, The Typist, Toulouse Street.
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The air is heavy with September in this barely peninsular city, surrounded by bath water swamps and a large, shallow lake, where the Yankee Farmer’s Almanac is purely a source of amusement. Humidity respects no levee and as the sun burns through the morning stratus the air warms slowly like a pot of soup. Soon it will bubble and the vanishing stratus will be replaced by clumps of cumulus that will rise to the boil of thunderstorms. I took a walk this morning to see what the crows were so excited about. One cawed not far to the north, a block I would think, and its companions came shooting toward the call with unusual urgency. I followed them up the street but whatever the excitement was, it was further away than I thought. The single caw had moved off toward the railroad tracks, and was lost in all the other bird call. In spite of the whine of Saturday morning lawn work the sound of a half-dozen different sorts of birds rose above it all. The birds know something is up. There is a cold front just over the horizon but nothing except the morning paper and the restless flutter of the birds indicates it is coming. There are no warning signs darkening the horizon. The air merely simmers. The leaf-rattling winds will come tonight, one hopes. The chill winds, blowing away all the clouds and leaving the air cool and dry, the first pleasant moment outside of a passing thunderstorm in months, one brief day of October arriving early like a scouting party. Tomorrow around 7 a.m. it will plunge to 66, just minutes after sunrise, as a temporarily gentler sun crests the trees. If you are not out looking east tomorrow, shame on you. It is only a single day, say the weathermen, and then it will be back to September again, summer’s close cousin. Leave a window open tonight. As the winds clock north, let the restless trees replace the sound of the air conditioner. Let the chill be your wake up call, and the warmth of the coffee welcome as you step outside.
Row September 10, 2015Posted by The Typist in cryptical envelopment, The Narrative, The Typist, Toulouse Street.
Tags: Hokusai, The Great Wave
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Hokusai’s Great Wave off the Coast of Kanagawa
Through the lens of imminent disaster Fuji–the looming ink stroke over innumerable sepia washes–is an insignificant bystander. The mountainous water towers over the iconic peak and the doomed boat. The sailor’s backs are turned to the crest of threatening fingers, their hands clasped in muscular prayer, heads bent to the task of rowing. They did not choose the sea. It is the world they were granted by their ancestors, rain on their fields and fish in the sea. The sky is a mirror of the sea, sometimes placid and other times fierce with wind, and where else shall they live except between the sky and the sea, those promising and pitiless fields of blue? They know the tales of typhoon and tsunami, whole villages swallowed by the sea, coasts given over to ghosts. Still, they rise up with the sun and go down to their own boats. When confronted with the Great Wave, there is nothing to do but row.
Le Mal Du Pays September 4, 2015Posted by The Typist in cryptical envelopment, New Orleans, The Narrative, The Typist, Toulouse Street.
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Kroníon put a dark cloud in the zenith
over the ship, and gloom spread on the sea.
When We Were So Bad We Were Good September 3, 2015Posted by The Typist in cryptical envelopment, je me souviens, The Narrative, The Typist, Toulouse Street.
Tags: Jeff Nunokawa, Notes
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So close to the mark, I heard the bullet whiz by. Still, invisibly I bled. Visibly, if you were here to see my eyes, the lingering glimmer of the memory of tears, brimming at the edge of recall.
4620. When We Were Bad
September 3, 2015 at 11:32am
Our odd, mismatched sort of friendship declined and neither made any effort to revive it. There was bloodguilt between us, we shared an evil secret, a hateful revelation (Katherine Anne Porter, “St. Augustine and the Bullfight”).
Some of the people I’ve been with, I’d never tell you about: I’d be too ashamed. I’m still not sorry I got together with them, though. If it hadn’t been for those partners in crime, I don’t think I’d ever have seen how much I like being bad.
Or how much I can try to be better.
Note: In the complete darkness . . . You could see a long way (Raymond Chandler, Farewell, My Lovely)
— Jeff Nunokawa Note 4620 on Facebook.
He had won the victory over himself August 30, 2015Posted by The Typist in New Orleans, The Narrative, The Typist, Toulouse Street.
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“Never again will you be capable of ordinary human feeling. Everything will be dead inside you. Never again will you be capable of love, or friendship, or joy of living, or laughter, or curiosity, or courage, or integrity. You will be hollow. We shall squeeze you empty and then we shall fill you with ourselves.”
— George Orwell, 1984
Unremembering August 29, 2015Posted by The Typist in New Orleans, postdiluvian, The Journey, The Narrative, The Typist, Toulouse Street.
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You are a young soul, I think, he said, and not much troubled by ghosts.
Ghosts, she said, without the inflection of a question, but as if he had said pixies or unicorns, and with a just perceptible wrinkling of the features as if sniffing a carton of milk and pronouncing it spoiled.
You believe in ghosts? Have you seen one? And what exactly do you mean?
You have watched too much bad television, he replied. You don’t need to see them. He took another large swallow of his drink. It was a party, a deliberate unremembering party, and he was venturing into topics forbidden to the guests. They are just a sense of the age of a place, like the dust somewhere neglected but not quit as corporeal, not even as dust to dust. You sense them in things, such as the sagging of these old houses, and the noises they make settling into the earth, like old men sinking into their rocking chairs.
Uh, huh, she said, taking an ironic sip from her Stella Artois to punctuate her response. I thought ghosts were the spirits of the dead, some lingering part of a person’s consciousness, someone with unfinished business or some neurotic compulsion.
There is much unfinished business here, or rather there is finished business of an unpleasant sort. This is an old place, built by slaves and poor immigrants set to unpleasant tasks such as digging the old canal that is now a freeway and a long park. They buried the poor Irishmen who dug it in the spoil bank as they fell, you know. It’s like the old saying about an unlucky place: built on an Indian graveyard,. And then there are all those who died of the fevers, settling at the edge of a mosquito infested swamp. All this before the flood, and the guns.
That was all long ago, old man, she said, and has nothing to do with me. I look at these old houses, all gutted and rebuilt, the way they have been painted to highlight the oldwork of the facades. It’s as pretty as some corner of Europe. Everything is being rebuilt so beautifully.That is why we come here. From what I’m told, the flood was the best thing that could have happened here, washing away your old ghosts but leaving these houses ready for fixing up. They probably were never as beautiful as they are today.
That is because you are a young soul. You don’t see the beauty that was there before, even as the weatherboards weathered, and the porches sagged like a middle-aged stomach. They were beautiful when they were painted in plain white wash, when they were built by night by men who worked all day, to make a home of their own for their families. They were built simple but sturdy. Once the walls were plaster-and-lath, and the houses could breathe. Now that is all torn out and if they are not sealed up like coffins for the new air conditioning, the mildew creeps past the mill work and onto the walls. When they were plastered, carefully applied trowel by trowel across the delicate lathe work, that would not have happened. But so much of that was torn out, a bit of the soul of the house put out to the curb. The dust of it that lingers, that is a sort of ghost.
We still have plaster, and bargeboard floors. We bought our house because it was old, because it still had those things.
And you appreciate their beauty, or simply their potential appreciation?
What does that mean? Why do you talk in riddles?
They are only riddles to you because you are a young soul.
Again with souls and ghosts. Another sip of beer. We appreciate the house’s beauty. That’s why we bought it, cheap and rundown, and are putting it not just back together but back together better. And it is “it’s” appreciation. It is a thing, not a person. Sorry, I’m a teacher, and people here have laziest habits of speech. Now all the schools are new, and we can help lift the people up out of that laziness, make them ready for a brighter future. We just need to break their old habits and teach them proper speech, punctuality, and careful work. This will be a much better place for our coming, out contribution
What you call their lazy habits of speech are just another sort of ghost, the lingering gendering of things from the time when French was still spoken. We are not a lazy people. Who do you think built your beautiful house, its strong bones without which it would not be there for your to fix? Is it lazy to value time over money, and spend it freely? You may pile up all the money you might ever want, but it won’t buy you more time. I don’t mean what you, in your teacherly fashion, would call free time, but one’s own time, owned in a sense by yourself, time spent lingering over coffee mid-afternoon instead of running back to sell your time for money. What you might think laziness, a luxury you must steal away every now and then to enjoy, free time as in freedom to spend it with friends, or in a book, instead of watching time slip away on a cheap plastic clock on the wall waiting for your free time to begin.
That’s not the way the world works, old man. Time is money, and that money pays to fix up our house and all these others.
The world has its own notions of time, and we have ours. The two are not so far apart as your’s is.
More beer, buying time to think.
Whatever, was still all she could muster. People like you need to realize this is a different city now. Your ghosts and your excuses and your old notions were washed away. It will be a better city, keeping enough of the old to be charming, but not left behind the times as it was before.
Perhaps it was better to be left behind, he said, to amble along as we did than to march in lockstep to the ticking of a clock. I have lived in other places, you know, for many years. I have marched dutifully into work at the appointed time, mowed my lawn as required, and even chiseled the plow-melt snow on my corner lot up to the curb where the sidewalks crossed. I waged war on the dandelion and for what? So that someone could walk their dog along a perfect sidewalk past identical lawns undistracted from their podcast, or admiring the colorful repetition flats of annuals dutifully planted provides? I never did that, myself. I only planted perennials. Not as colorful except at their appointed bloom time, but themselves a sort of clock or calendar running on a time uninterrupted by the clangor of appointments on your smart watch.
Uh huh, again. I’m going to get another beer.
Enjoy the party, he said. She didn’t answer. He walked away from the crowd, none of whom smoked, out to the sidewalk and lit a cigarette, trading a bit of lifetime for the pleasure of it, mindless of the consequences. He watched as someone at the corner carried plastic sacks of groceries from their tiny, hybrid car into the door set at an angle to the corner, and wondered if they knew why it was built that way, framed by what they called two picture windows which did not look out onto any sort of vista as a proper picture window would because, he knew ( but suspected they did not), they were meant to be looked into and not out of. The blinds were drawn tight and his gaze wandered off down the street with no particular purpose in mind.
Ten. August 28, 2015Posted by The Typist in 504ever, 8-29, Federal Flood, Flood, ghosts, je me souviens, New Orleans, postdiluvian, Shield of Beauty, The Narrative, The Typist, Toulouse Street.
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Three years August and the storms are being named like epic ships, a doom upon our shore, and I think of the levees still leaking and of the flood-walls patched with paper mache, our Potemkin defenses are not ready and we are not ready and the Big One is out there, invisible, a mighty wind, waiting for us. Someone empties a pistol into the night and I think of Jessica and Chanel and Helen and Dinerral as I watch the MPs in their Humvees roll by like armored ghosts. I think of the streets running into blocks running into miles of houses houses houses houses houses empty eyed with plywood doors and ragged lawns. And I think I’ll have another drink and light another cigarette and then another drink and then–I stop thinking. That is when this thought comes into my head. It is a compulsion, like biting ones nails until they smart and bleed, this thought that what we blog may not be our Genesis but an Apocalypse, the history of the end. And yet we stay because to live here is to walk through wrack and ruin counting the flowers in the weeds and discover you are not alone, everywhere there are people smiling, people with crumpled souls and rough stomachs, suffering what you are suffering, worse than you are suffering, suffering beyond your imagining and all for the sake of this place, because they see this city as you do, because they are the figures in the frame that make the landscape. A terrible beauty spills out of their eyes like tears and bathes the city in light.
~ Fini ~
In The Zone August 28, 2015Posted by The Typist in Federal Flood, FYYFF, Hurricane Katrina, je me souviens, Memory, New Orleans, postdiluvian, Remember, Sinn Fein, The Narrative, The Typist, Toulouse Street, We Are Not OK.
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The reconstruction of the city around me will last at least as long as WWII. There will be long periods of boredom and routine punctuated by times of great excitement, much of that of the unpleasant kind. Yes, we will have shore leave for Mardi Gras and Jazz Fest but most of our time will be spent scrapping rust and paint knowing all the while that just over the ocean’s horizon there is something threatening.
In this peculiar armada the officers are as useless as the French nobility. They look fine high up there in their crosswise hats and give marvelous speeches, but we know from hard experience that they are worthless. People mutter all around the city about mutiny of one form or another, but mutiny is a lot of damn work and it is awfully hot. I like to think we could yet rise up and have our storming of the Bastille moment but every passing day it seems more unlikely. No Fletcher Christian or Maximilien Robespierre has stepped forward to lead us, and every angry mob needs a leader.
Perhaps I ask for too much. If history and the city consumes us all one-by-one but the city lives on, that perhaps what was always intended, why were were all lured home. In the end, perhaps Pynchon has given us the model to surviving It’s After the End of the World. If history has gone too wrong for any one of us to stop what is happening around us, maybe it is better to amble down a shady street in New Orleans without a particular thought in my head except the distant sound of what might be Slothrop’s harmonica, to disappear into the random noise in the signal.
And death shall have no dominion August 27, 2015Posted by The Typist in Federal Flood, FYYFF, Hurricane Katrina, je me souviens, Memory, New Orleans, postdiluvian, Remember, Sinn Fein, The Narrative, The Typist, Toulouse Street, We Are Not OK.
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Postdiluvian August 26, 2015Posted by The Typist in Federal Flood, FYYFF, Hurricane Katrina, je me souviens, Memory, New Orleans, postdiluvian, Remember, Sinn Fein, The Narrative, The Typist, Toulouse Street, We Are Not OK.
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“It is no longer I, but another whose life is just beginning.”
Resurrection Fern August 24, 2015Posted by The Typist in Back of Town, je me souviens, New Orleans, postdiluvian, Remember, The Journey, The Narrative, The Typist, Toulouse Street.
Tags: Grandfather Cypress, oaktrees, resurrection ferm, spanish moss, The Federal Flood
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How long their beards have grown in ten years, the oaks along Roosevelt Mall. The wind, such as it was and the coast got the worst of it, stripped away much of the Spanish Moss from the oaks that stood through it all. Ten years, and now it hangs in long, Confucian threads, the oaks like monks who have stood in long silence on the high ground on what was once the spoil bank of Bayou Metairie. The Great Depression, the men who came and built much of the old park around them, the hump bridges that gave a thrill to the stomach, the widely spaced row of chiseled concrete eagles along the Mall, were as the brief passage of a gnat.
The moss is back, the Resurrection fern that lines the branches–taking its name from its habit of drying brown during dry spells but coming back after a grain, and some small fan palm has rooted in the crooks of a few where the wide base trunk divides into the branches, the lowest of which tend back toward the ground as they lengthen, granting easy access for adventurous children to scramble into the trees. The oldest oaks, the ones with names and stories–Dueling Oak, Suicide Oak, and another name I heard the other day and have forgotten because it has not been repeated since childhood–are old, older than any building in the city, older than the arrival of Europeans.
The idea that the oldest grow on the spoil bank of Bayou Metairie, the last bit of which is the one natural lagoon in the park, the one south and parallel to City Park Avenue, came to me the other day walking out for cigarettes from my girlfriend’s house in south Metairie. The crazy job of which you have heard too much of late in these virtual pages, the one that keeps me trapped in the house rather than out noticing the oaks, has started me smoking again. It was Sunday morning, and I have developed the habit of going out for a really dark cup of coffee, not the weak store-brand Colombian she buys. I needed cigarettes and set out first down toward Dolly’s gas and cafe, taking the next cross street to Canal Boulevard and there I found a cypress of incredible girth, and a crown the size of a hot air balloon, which I immediately christened Grandfather Cypress. My arms (not the longest) stretched out encompassed a third a best, perhaps only a quarter of the trunk. This tree, I thought, was so much older than south Lakeview, older than the spur track just south that grew up along what was once the Lafitte Canal toward downtown, older than Metairie Road when it was a farm-and-cattle track before the bayou was filled in ,older than the cemeteries sited at the back of town to bury the yellow fever dead far out-of-town. I have never seen a cypress of such size but I am a city boy. This tree clearly predates the city.
On my way back from coffee (in the opposite direction, up the boulevard and back toward the L&N line), I went out of my way and passed the shortest cross-street home in spite of the early morning heat of a record-setting August to see this tree again. The current owner of the house was out watering her front garden, and we spoke for a bit. The crown was once even larger, and she had called an arborist to have it cut back a bit, to make sure it would weather any storm. She told me once she described the three she didn’t have to give her address. The man know it well, a tree familiar to those whose care for trees. I did not kneel as I had meant when I broke open a cigarette and sprinkled some tobacco as an offering and said a silent prayer, much as I had on my way out when I stood in silence several minutes, my hand against its trunk. I explained before I started how I had come back to do just that, and she just smiled. She had bought the house, she said, because of that three.
Ten years since the last Great Flood, what I once called the Federal Flood for the failure of the levees, but to Grandfather Cypress and the old oaks on the river end of the park it is simply the last great flood. They have weathered many, no doubt, and survived. The City survives as well, rebuilt by what I called the 200,000, those who came back in the first year and rebuilt it with their own hands and the help of a flood of immigrants from Latin America, the children of people who built even greater cities and saw them abandoned back to the forest, or destroyed by Spanish conquistadors, the bricks of their temples taken to build the new cathedral and palaces. i wonder if they think at all of the transformations their ancestors underwent, or if they just think of the beer and dinner at the end of the day, of a weekly remittance to family back home wired from the corner store now well stocked with familiar baked goods and tubs of iced, cold Modelo.
We have our own conquistadors in our own small way, the influx settling into and transforming the old neighborhoods in the sliver by the river, the high ground running down from downtown toward the mouth of the river, come to bring us Yankee ingenuity and industriousness while they take the pleasure of an entirely different culture which does not care so much of such things, and which may or may not survive their arrival, the resulting dispersal from their old neighborhoods of the people who made that culture. That is all the worry these days, in the bands of land from which the old trees were cleared hundreds of years ago.
I don’t live down there, and while I find it regrettable that they come as the Spanish came, greedy and bearing an alien religion in which the dollar sign supplants the cross of the Jesuits I live in the back of town, where the oldest trees survive, and now think more of them. The culture of the dollar at all costs has pushed nature too far, and I walk past grandfather oak in the warmest August since records began in the 1880s. Worse, the best minds tell us we have pushed the oceans themselves past the tipping point already. These will steadily warm, the distant arctic ices will melt and the water rise as sure as Noah’s flood. Other’s argue about whether the levees are really any better but I know that New Orleans is doomed, if not in my life time than in my children’s and their children’s. A greater flood is coming than the old oaks and cypress have ever seen, one that will not recede. Even the resilient cypress, accustomed to flooding, will not survive. Grandfather Cypress has seen his day in which the minutes are decades, in which we are less than the passing buzz of a mosquito.
Think Ghouls. It’s Friday. August 21, 2015Posted by The Typist in cryptical envelopment, Moloch, The Narrative, The Typist, Toulouse Street, Whiskey Tango Foxtrot.
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Arabella’s request for a Friday song. The Speaking Tequila Skull approves.
And roverman’s refrain of the sacrilege recluse
For the loss of a horse
Went the bowels and a tail of a rat
Come again, choose to go
And if epiphany’s terror reduced you to shame
Have your head bobbed and weaved
Choose a side to be on
If this job doesn’t kill me, I will emerge a creature that would horrify Rimbaud, Hunter and Lovecraft. I will utter words of truth so monstrous the unfrozen pole will shift its axis, the clouds will rain fears dissolving the statistically consistent, and all of the money hustlers will be swallowed by the gaping cracks that will grin in the earth hungry for their souls.
No Camels or Burros Were Harmed In The Making Of This Message August 20, 2015Posted by The Typist in Moloch, The Narrative, The Typist, Toulouse Street, Whiskey Tango Foxtrot.
Tags: Ezra Pound
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Before I settle down to an evening of [NON DISCLOSURE REDACTED]: first, settle in with a big, steaming mug of hot, black WHAT THE FUCK AM I DOING THIS PEOPLE ARE GOING TO KILL ME to make you straighten up and fly right, as my good old mother used to say. And to help keep me going, light up a COUGH HACK WHEEZE cigarette made without added chemical ingredients by sage smoke-wreathed, earth-prayer chanting naked Indian maidens WHO ARE IN REALITY A ROBOTIC PRODUCTION LINE IMPORTED FROM CHINA. This message has been brought to you by DEBT IS THE MODERN BASIS OF SLAVERY [Ezra Pound].
This Is Not Funny August 17, 2015Posted by The Typist in cryptical envelopment, Moloch, music, The Narrative, The Typist, Toulouse Street.
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I want to get off.
The hottest record on Radio Free Albemuth goes out to all of the frantically sprinting slaves of Moloch, whose soul is electricity and banks…
radio August 16, 2015Posted by The Typist in cryptical envelopment, Poetry, The Narrative, The Typist, Toulouse Street.
Tags: >Mockingbird Wish Me Luck, Charles Bukowski, radio
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strange eyes in my head
I’m the coward and the fool and the clown and
I listen to a man telling me that I can get a
restaurant guide and an expanding cultural events calendar
I’m just not here today
I don’t want restaurants and expanding cultural events
I want an old shack in the hills
with enough to eat and drink until I die
strange eyes in my head
Bukowski, Charles (2009-03-17). Mockingbird Wish Me Luck
Consummation Of Grief August 16, 2015Posted by The Typist in FYYFF, Poetry, The Narrative, The Typist.
Tags: Charles Bukowski
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By Charles Bukowski
I even hear the mountains
the way they laugh
up and down their blue sides
and down in the water
the fish cry
and the water
is their tears.
I listen to the water
on nights I drink away
and the sadness becomes so great
I hear it in my clock
it becomes knobs upon my dresser
it becomes paper on the floor
it becomes a shoehorn
a laundry ticket
climbing a chapel of dark vines. . .
it matters little
very little love is not so bad
or very little life
is waiting on walls
I was born for this
I was born to hustle roses down the avenues of the dead.
Periplumb August 14, 2015Posted by The Typist in poem, Poetry, The Journey, The Narrative, The Typist, Toulouse Street.
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Full-moon Venice preriplumb
Vaparetto No 2. S. Marco:
Campari soda at Harry’s Bar (2)
linen slacks, lime sherbet shirt
my best hat (American, called Milano)
new Italian loafers (no socks)
squandering Euros for a moment
of history, of artificial beauty–
better leather, tan-complimenting
French nails, Italian movie glamour.
The anarchists are out
in the dark like rats:
case por tutti
non si ama liberi
Sheila can you dance like Mussolini?
but the grave carabinieri
who shared my boat,
a blocky, Homeric man
with a square beard,
hefty Berretta on his hip,
keeps their paint bombs
away from S. Marco.
Abandon Harry’s mirrors,
women dressed for Venice
but not Venice, tawdry
among the marble.
Vaporetto No. 2. S. Marco,
round out the periplumb.
One woman alone: brown hair,
glasses, simple slacks and blouse,
natural, a primal Italian beauty,
a noble line of face
fit to strike in metal
the color of her skin.
Glances at my age are flattering,
returning them feels unbecoming but
alone in full-moon Venice
is temptation monumental.
By happy accident I take a seat
in the bow across an aisle
wide as the Grand Canal.
No words. No room. No hope.
Her glances continue, presuming
some intent in my choice of seat.
She removes one shoe, stretches red toes
suggesting the continuation
of lithe curves tending toward
a narrow alley in some quiet sestieri
but no. I watch the passing palazzo.
She turns assertively
to look the other way.
My Venice adventure passes by,
Ca’ Desdemona dark in the moonlight.
My periblumb ends as it began
Dinner And A Movie August 12, 2015Posted by The Typist in The Narrative, The Typist, Toulouse Street.
Tags: patriotism, Yukio Mishima
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Watching Yukio Mishima’s Patriotism, macaroni and cheese with barbecue is not recommended, particularly if you’ve finished your brisket sandwhiches and the run-off sauce has gotten into the mac-and-cheese, even if the hari-kiri scene is in black and white. Movie: Five Stars. Dinner: One Star, and unfinished.
Psephology Presenting As Thalassophobia August 12, 2015Posted by The Typist in Politics, The Narrative, The Typist, Toulouse Street.
Tags: Architeuthis, cephalopods, giant squid, GOP, psephology
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Word of the day:
1. the study of elections.
Psephology, which puts me in mind of cephalopods which brings to mind the GOP candidates. Not the intelligent octopus, but rather the squid (best fried with marinara), in particular the lurking giant squid (genus Architeuthis), the terror of ancient sailors by rumor but which, brought up into the bright light of day, perishes. I am of a mind with the ancient mariners, fear the tentacle at the scupper, the terror of them dragging us down into their depths and oblivion, hope that exposed they will swell up and burst like Chris Christie at a pie eating contest.
Repent Walpurgis August 11, 2015Posted by The Typist in cryptical envelopment, The Narrative, The Typist, Toulouse Street.
Tags: Procol Harum, Repent Walpurgis
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After all the sturm und drang, a light musical interlude…
I’ll Remember It For You, No Charge August 11, 2015Posted by The Typist in movie, Politics, Reality, The Narrative, The Typist, Toulouse Street, We Are Not OK, Whiskey Tango Foxtrot, WTF.
Tags: Bobby Kennedy, Radio Free Albemuth, Sen. Bernie Sanders
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It was the reference to Bobby Kennedy that was the gut punch. I won’t know if a Hollywood writer tossed in the line about Ferris F. Fremont buying up all the voting machine companies, or if that’s in Phillip K. Dick’s novel Radio Free Albemuth. It would be easy enough to find out. Get it on Kindle. Search it. It might put my mind at east to know that is was a bit a Hollywood fluffing for an overtly political movie.
I’m afraid if I buy it, I’ll read it.
Bobby Kennedy. I found myself compulsively wondering, as I wandered up to Cansecos for cigarettes to steady my nerves. if Sen. Bernie Sanders will make it to the podium alive. Bobby. Martin Luther King, turning from civil rights to the war and economics, stealing Malcom’s African Nationalist economics of the Ballot or the Bullet speech into equal rights on every level, questioning the foundations of a society that requires a pool of surplus labor of all colors starving in the wings, wars invented to siphon off and thin the surplus while making money for all the right people.
Have you ever watched Bulworth? If you do, freeze frame on the assassination scene at the end. (Don’t complain about the spoiler. If you were going to watch the most important political film made in America in the 20th century you’d have gotten around to it by now.) Notice the uncanny resemblance of the central tableau to that on the balcony of the Lorraine Motel.
Perhaps They have evolved beyond that, become more sophisticated. Buying airtime for Rush Limbaugh until he caught on, tapped a vital and ugly vein at the core of America. Fox News. Badgering the real journalists for not being Fair and Balanced until the media corporations took over and enforced their version of Fair and Balanced. Flat earth versus round, equal time for both sides: you decide. They have divided us as bitterly as the Serbs and Croats, something to think about if it all comes apart. Because that ended so well. And the Right has all the guns.
So that’s it, I’ve lost it. You’re sure of it. Certain, because you never took a turn to sleep in your office because someone tried to break in, because someone was rifling the trash at night before corner-store shredders were a thing, because of the dark sedan frequently across the street that drove off when you approached it. All because of that Menace to the American Way, U.S. Rep. John Breaux. His voting record is hard to find, but he was as centrist as they come. A founder of the Democratic Leadership Council, which birthed President Bill Clinton and gave that cute young Republican Hillary a leg up into her lap dance for Wall Street. Still, he was a threat. A victory by Breaux in the “first primary” of the old Louisiana election system could have upset the apple cart and tipped the Senate to the Democrats in 1986. This bode ill not just for the last years of Reagan, but was a threat to the entire Southern Strategy of the GOP, built on open race baiting and voter suppression. And he did. We did. We beat the motherfuckers, even if my own views were nothing like Breaux’s. And those things happened: the sedan, the garbage riffling, the attempts to force the door.
Paranoid. If paranoia consists of someone putting a plate of fish in front of you and saying, here’s your chicken, and you call them out, then I’m pretty much stark raving. If paranoia is writing stories questioning the campaign finances of a suburban police chief who publicly pistol whipped a disapproved of boyfriend of his daughter’s b in the parking lot of Oakwood Shopping Center, and having your car broken into and nothing taken, not even several dollars of change in the tray on the console. Nothing but your briefcase. Yep, I’m pretty much talking to the lizard wall paper. That’s me.
I’m sure it’s just a coincidence that a few chapters of Black Lives Matter have taken to harassing Sanders, because groups like that are never infiltrated by the Red Squad. There are no provocateurs. Red Squads, he says. (Make circle around your ear with you finger here). No, I’m sorry, I meant that bunch of photographers covering the First Gulf War Protest who were standing at a good distance from the rest of the media. The ones in suits. Ever met any photo-journalists? Ever seen one working in a suit?
Paranoid. Ever had your named leaked to the newspaper as part of a list of people who would not be admitted to a George Bush rally? I think the most radical thing I had done in the 20 years before that was write a letter to the editor suggesting if they wanted a Decalogue in the city park behind my office, maybe they should consider the Bill of Rights. Oh, and I volunteered for Howard Dean. Remember him? Raaawwwhhhhh. Yeah, him. Pretty much everyone on the Fargo 42 had done some work for Dean.
So, signed any petitions for Bernie Sanders? Been to any rallies? Really. (Scribbles in notebooks). Anything else? Any intemperate political remarks on Facebook? Hmmmm. (Scribbles).
I have shied away from electoral politics since the Coup of 2000. (Yes, you heard that right. Or don’t you remember that video of the flown-in GOP hill staff Hitler youth trying to break down the doors in Broward Country, bringing the recount to an end.
(Damn, he went and did it. Hitler.} No, I said Hitler Youth. I think I get an exemption for that. If not go back and see if you can find the video on the Internet. It forgets nothing. Unless it is erased.
I haven’t watched a national news program since I returned from Europe. I had avoided cable news in any form for years before that. My ex- kept asking me why I wouldn’t watch MSNBC. I couldn’t. I probably would have had a stroke by now if I did. I joined the Breaux campaign not because I agreed with his politics, but because as a young newspaper reporter I was tired of watching. I wanted to get into the Great Game.
It is not a game, unless your definition of games includes Russian roulette, the poison scene from The Princess Bride and, possibly, Day Glo lawn darts in the dark while on acid.
I try not to click through the latest bits of idiocy by the GOP nominees. I would not have been caught dead watching that debate. This isn’t for shits and giggles. This is real, as real as that black sedan, as real as the leaked list, as real as it gets. And I have a feeling it about to get a lot worse.
Why did they have to mention Bobby Kennedy?
Why, when Sanders is single digits behind the neo-liberal (did I say lap dance?) Secretary Clinton.
Why did I watch that fucking movie?
Do not watch Radio Free Albemuth. Do not watch Bulworth (sorry about the spoiler). Just go on about your lives treating the GOP nominees like they’re from the Flat Earth Society. But do stop and think and debate the tactics of certain chapters of Black Lives Matter as if there wasn’t only once answer.
Oh, and definitely do not watch Network. Especially the assassination scene.
Sorry, I hope I didn’t spoil that one for you, too.
Get Over It August 8, 2015Posted by The Typist in cryptical envelopment, Poetry, The Narrative, The Typist.
Tags: Luis Alberto Urrea, Tiajuana Book od the Dead
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Item A) get over it.
Item B) keep typing.
— Luis Alberto Urrea
Tijuana Book of the Dead
Beckett August 6, 2015Posted by The Typist in books, literature, The Journey, The Narrative, The Typist, Toulouse Street.
Tags: Samuel Beckett
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How can you stand reading Beckett, she asked. I hate him.
I usually do not stand reading Beckett, as I do not frequently travel by city buses any more. More typically, I sit, although at times I recline, bolstered in the bed. And I do not read Beckett so much as enter into Beckett. I imagine myself in a chair in an empty room, as in a setting for End Game, or somewhere unidentifiable in the dark, as when I wake at an odd hour with my sleep mask on. At such times there is an unsettling silence and stillness, leaving one entirely alone with one’s thoughts which is the most mentally unhealthy thing which a thinking person can do, I mean someone who really thinks, not just worries although worry always enters into it, worries not in the abstract but in the concrete concerns of a thinking, vivid imagination contemplating what slumbers in the dark, the great rendering gears of the world waiting for the sound of a bell to begin to grind and compress us into statistically satisfying compliance or into a reject package, like cast-off metal suitable for export. Or it is day and there is light, grey light while outside the drawn curtains the world rumbles and lurches by, an unbalanced machine always at the edge of the tipping point, lurching and smoking past the gutters of poverty where the hungry search the cast-off packaging of the rich for scraps, along streets the lamps of which are perpetually dimmed by willful ignorance, past crowded sidewalks governed by traffic rules the preeminent of which is eyes should not meet, but may wander the bodies of the opposite sex and appraise them as one does cuts of meet for quality versus expense, between buildings the windows of which have curtains drawn to hide their secrets, or which open into the spacious offices of those who rule over the cubicles, each worker like a bee assigned his place in the comb, beneath a sky laced with contrails of others hurrying on the errands of plutocratic commerce or toward resorts that decorate the coasts of mestizo poverty like colorful tumors.
I read Beckett, I tell her, to escape, to imagine him a madman, and that his material was not the world.