Tag Archives: Kierkegaard

To Learn The Science Of Naming In Today's World Is Vicious

art-science
Art and Science
samplex

I saw the seven words, then it finally registered with all the synchronicity of a lighted odometer turning over from all nines to all zeroes. This was it! The riddle had been solved! In ill-considered black and white here before me, written three days earlier, on my mother’s 48th birthday was the culminating stroke of this freaky name-change operation thing I had charted for months with soft sell handshakes and strange grimaces to any new person who happened to meet me.

And I took the name Gabriel Thy...

The Howell House was clean and active, even upscale I suppose one could say, secure and nearly two-thirds geriatric. My mother lived four floors above me up on the sixth floor of the 18-story building. She was on staff as the senior citizens coordinator and bookkeeper, and I occasionally helped her out with some of the more confined and colorful patrons doing odd chores for them. I was anxious to tell her of my discovery, although I could hardly expect her to understand the impact this fresh twig of myth and reality would have on me, Richard, the eldest of her seven children. It was her birthday and we were to have dinner together. I was bursting with excitement but I was understandably challenged by a mother's sense of her own naming rights—to bring the gift of reason to the dinner table that night.

How would my family, particularly my mother react to this news, a most suspicious tale ringing with tremendous religious overtones, or as others might prefer, smacking of superstitious or worse, some kind of dangerous demonic affiliations? Of course many people have changed their names with no other purposes other than enhancing one’s business, hiding an ethnicity, blending in, or sheer simplicity in mind.
As it was written on the page, the name—Gabriel Thy—was not given but was taken. This seemingly minor detail concerned me for a quite a while, not in a truly bothersome way, but as a nuisance, like a flapping scarecrow in a field of errors. Having taken this name was it no longer a gift? But when someone gives you a nickel, don’t you take it and perhaps slip it into your own pocket? Such were the subtleties of bible and literary scholarship, and so it was with my own problematic gestures.

I was thoroughly bewildered. The name was certainly an odd one, a very special one. I liked it, approved of it, but without a doubt it certainly had a very pretentious ring to it. I was not at all certain I in good faith could take it. And what would I do with it? The cornpone religiosity, the in-your-face God-component of the now prophetic name-change operation, self-fulfilling and otherwise, was obvious to me. But I was sure others would laugh me right off the sidewalk. What about those who already knew me as RSN—a right interesting vintage acronym already, particularly when pronounced Risen or risin as in...Christ is risen! How would my family, particularly my mother react to this news, a most suspicious tale ringing with tremendous religious overtones, or as others might prefer, smacking of superstitious or worse, some kind of dangerous demonic affiliations? Of course many people have changed their names with no other purposes other than enhancing one's business, hiding an ethnicity, blending in, or sheer simplicity in mind.

Having finished with ecclesiastical literature, about this time I had also finished reading, was presently reading, or would very soon be reading the herded vapors of Gide, Camus, Sartre, Kierkegaard, Miller, Darwin, Kerouac, Nietzsche, Castaneda, and Douglas R. Hofstadter, author of Gödel, Escher, Bach: An Eternal Golden Braid, A Metaphorical Fugue on Minds and Machines in the Spirit of Lewis Carroll, the latter, a landmark ransom for me, among others. But I would not wholly give up the ghost. I clung to every shred of hope massaging my investigations that God would clear me for landing his understanding, that each and every one of the moderns were wrong in their denial of deity, dead wrong in their intemperance in disparaging the creative power from without, even as they worshipped the creative power within whether it be DNA or environmental advantages. Time and time again I found the writers complaining not against Christ but rather against the wretched incarnations of the church, its scavengerlike methods poisoning their minds against all of the burlier forms of theology and the God of Abraham, Issac, and Jesus of Nazareth. Still I persisted just as I persist today.

And by no stretch of time or imagination was this an easy task to discharge, seeing as I knew almost no women at the time and had little coin with which to persuade others that this was on the level, was no prank, no plot to appear artistic and sublime, nor merely a passing fancy. Yes neighbor, I was feeling tragically symbolic, alone but for the voice of God resounding in my head, just as intricately wrought analysis of my daily experiences had led me to belief.
I don’t remember my mother’s initial reactions to my telling the tale of the harbinger bringing forth her son a new name. Not then, not there. She in all likelihood, since I don’t specifically remember her response, sighed and said something along the lines of, “That’s interesting, son,” while thinking to herself that this was just a passing artistic phase or something or another and to follow form she’d share no words either of encouragement or of any personal horror. She’d always thought of herself as somewhat of a mystic, but was not easily persuaded that any such thing would rub off onto her children. So I use the words "not then, not there" simply because there was no mindjarring quarrel I recall from that Sunday night, and shortly thereafter, speaking both epistemologically and chronologically, things begin to shift into place with great importance.

The name was mine to take. That much was had been chanced upon, had been written, had arrived in a happy circumstance. There was no doubt in my mind that this was living theatre, that I had been given an emblazoned word of prophecy in Corpus Christi, and it was fulfilled here in Atlanta because I had stayed the course. But I also intuited that there were certain terms involved, certain measures and quotas to be filled, certain spiritual hoops to be jumped through in order to discern whether or not this was this real McCoy. Because it was my understanding that I’d come to this earth through the wondrous body of a woman, was named by that same woman, had bullishly married and was now irreparably separated from another woman once twice my age, it was preserved in my mind and reinforced by circular logic that if this name change was truly from God, my doubts could only be dispelled if endorsed by a woman. And by no stretch of time or imagination was this an easy task to discharge, seeing as I knew almost no women at the time and had little coin with which to persuade others that this was on the level, was no prank, no plot to appear artistic and sublime, nor merely a passing fancy. Yes neighbor, I was feeling tragically symbolic, alone but for the voice of God resounding in my head, just as intricately wrought analysis of my daily experiences had led me to belief.

I was working three hours a day downtown delivering pizzas and sandwiches on foot to the downtown Atlanta highrise luncheon crowd. I saw many faces and shared a quick grin or a few words of friendly chat, but my social importance was next to nothing. When I had a few dollars to spare I’d occasionally dip into a rather eclectic pub down Peachtree Street a few blocks from the Howell House for a pitcher of cheap suds, but knew only a few guys, the bar maid, and maybe one woman superficially at best. The happy hour crowd was always buzzing with a spattering of high profile cultural scooters including the nucleus I later grew to appreciate individually as an art curator, a couple of attorneys, an old hippie or two, a librarian, a couple of salesmen, a science fiction aficionado, a banker, a copywriter, an amateur actress, a faux cubist painter, a few struggling musicians, a chess champion, and a CDC technician.

The nihilistic era of the rude nickname had arrived in spades, the new epithet of the unsung, pacing the steamy streets and charlatanic nightclubs with the vengeance of a caged wolf, with little respect for anything, hardly sparing themselves. Visceral yearnings in youth were reshaping a new generation’s perspective on love and hatred, and the mad rush for mostly vulgar monikers had already begun in earnest.
This circle of soon to be regulars was still small at the time of the White Crow writing. All of them knew me as Richard, slightly weird and chalked up with an armload of library books. Keep in mind of course that when I introduced myself to someone, that was the last mention of a name-change operation, the line was dead until the next stranger was introduced. I didn’t go around like some enfilading riflemouth spraying people with some nonsense line in search of attention. In fact I was often quite self-conscious when introducing myself. Within a few days (three, four, five?) however I was to meet a young woman four or five years older than me named Kathleen Baker, a woman whose more delicate features were overshadowed by the liberal contours of her body. She weighed over 300 pounds, sang classical music with the voice of a monk, and immediately seemed to enjoy the nimble dispatches my wit invested among the afternoon mélange. Thinking again as I write this, perhaps I hadn’t told my mother of the Gabriel Thy transmogrification after all, not then that night of her birthday, for whatever reasons I now forget, because with each ascendant memory, in fact, as I am thinking about this concentratedly for the first time in many years, it seems that Kathleen Baker’s were the very first ears to hear the entire mess of fish from beginning to end, sans of course, the still confidential part about needing a woman to validate the transition (part of the test is to not publicly reveal all the details but to allow the truth to unfold according to God’s will and not mine), and that she energetically embraced the novelty of what she was hearing and resolved at that very first meeting to call me Gabriel, Gabriel Thy, enough said. And so in that unorchestrated off the cuff fashion this woman became the first person to know me only as Gabriel Thy, not Richard Nix.

Yes, that was it. She listened to my poem and she approved. Mother would learn only later, and now I recall another event which I shall get to shortly. That afternoon at the Stein tavern I did however note my apprehension at appearing far too pretentious for these cynical hobbyhorse times by dubbing myself Gabriel Thy. I was a nothing, a fledgling writer, a seeker after an illusive and much debated truth, caught within the mechanical web of all breeds and conjugation of fact and fantasy, and yet despite my busy faith and rote exhilaration, I could not call myself a christian because quite frankly I couldn't fathom exactly what the word meant anymore, if indeed I ever did. There were so many conflicting versions of the title that I just preferred to leave it alone, to let the scavengers pick the bones clean if need be.

Little did I know at the time that even as I in all seriousness was changing my name thousands of others were performing a similar operation. The nihilistic era of the rude nickname had arrived in spades, the new epithet of the unsung, pacing the steamy streets and charlatanic nightclubs with the vengeance of a caged wolf, with little respect for anything, hardly sparing themselves. Visceral yearnings in youth were reshaping a new generation’s perspective on love and hatred, and the mad rush for mostly vulgar monikers had already begun in earnest.

Names like Johnny Rotten and Sid Vicious became the norming curve for acceptance into this thriving cult of nothingness. My own name mutation, void of applause or record deals, shock value or normalcy, was a serious matter, referencing everything I earnestly believed about the nature and signature of the Creator, flagging for all to observe, his will for me and mankind. To understand this name would take time for me as I experienced what surely would be a new direction in destiny. The easy part was over. Onto the Directed Path of God’s dotted line I was willing to sign, but where, and how?

My anxiety with these problematic questions did not evaporate with the introduction to Kathleen. I still begged in my spirit for more validation.

SWILL: Economy But One Strata In Whole Geology Of Troubles

economides
Economides
samplex

To: sworg-talk@scenewash.org
Date: 23 Feb 2001 03:07:35 +0000

BEGIN ANOTHER SWILL, THIS ONE WON'T LAST FOREVER

Reading more from Article 3:

The SI also inherited a nineteenth century conception of materialism from the same sources. This legacy prevented SI critique from appreciating the complex alchemical processes which take place between subjective and objective facts (specifically the potent and complex role of existentialism and human psychological necessities which ensue from it). It is specifically this incomplete conception of materialism which gives rise to the naive revolutionism which anticipates that revolution follows dutifully on the heels of revelation—that human belief, perceptions and will follow meekly behind a radical description of the world. The uncomfortably ill-defined relationship of situationism with communist and anarchist blocs also derives from this unfinished work. This discomfort with other leftist bedfellows is in fact serious enough to raise questions about whether situationism is in fact compatible with these other traditions at all (or rather—vice versa).

Rebunk: I might caution against the use of the term "existentialism" in this instance, evoking as it does yer Sartres, Camus', Merleau-Pontys and the rest of yer "Temps Modernes" gang, especially when I think you're referring more to Keirkegaard, Nietzsche, Dostoevsky et.al. (have we discussed Heidegger ever?)

Ghe word Existentialism should definitely appear in the said declaration because it is a word which we cannot afford to lose to the enemy. However, I shall try to think of a phrase to add which briefly defines what is meant by it so that, as you say, it is distanced from the dreary likes of Sartre and Camus. As for Heidegger—wot a friggin kraut wanker he woz, eh? A genius without doubt but I'd sooner not have to actually go mince myself in any of that shit if it can possibly be avoided. (shoulda mentioned Husserl in there somewhere too—just to annoy the "antifascists").

Rebunk: These thinkers also have something in common with the young Marx, pre-autocritique Lukacs, and all of Korsch in the centrality that the notion of alienation holds within their work. If we can find some form of unification here—whose seeds exist in the work of the Frankfurt School; Kube has already mentioned Reich and Fromm, and I'd like to add Adorno and Benjamin...

Now my metaphor is this—suppose the handful of degrees of initial chill is equivalent to the relative deprivation induced by material shortages, by the exploitations of captalism. It sets up a chain reaction of social relationships which may in their turn worsen such shortages or in some other way worsen social cruelties or suppress consciousness.
Not happy with this. "Alienation" is a very much parenthesised version of angst. It tends to constrain the idea, once again, in the dated and inadequate conception that only the issue of production, of capitalist class relations, is what matters in the attempt to realize a better way of life. It tends to distract from the notion of SIN—of the root of alienation in an imperfect response to inherited (and personal) karma (to use no-doubt wholly unacceptable terms to convey a virtually indigestible idea). Reich and Fromm, for all their fine points, did precious little to redress this either, although the psychoanalytic school has certainly come out with some juicy stuff in recent years (such as 'Sexual Personae' and some of its very dubious political conclusions, which I plan to discuss sometime soon). Moreover—what kind of people think of themselves as "alienated" these days? Iffy kinds of people. The fact is that a LACK of alienation is no guide whatever as to whether a person is living a good life or not, and nor, basically, is alienation. All we see in this phenomenon is whether some particular individual is currently relatively successful or unsuccessful in losing him or herself in activity / whether LUCK (as much as anything else) is providing an adequate supply of options at a particular moment.

Rebunk: Then we can relocate revolutionary nihilism in the drama of everyday existence. From this I would tentatively argue that radical change takes place not after revelation, either through the presentation of a utopian ideology or pointing out the poverty of current conditions of existence, but after grasping the mechanisms of real social relations and locating the energies capable of transforming them.

Jahwohl. We are not so far apart on this at all, but to hell with the "tentatively" part. However whilst I do not dismiss the role of capital (therefore would not neglect to pay cheques into my bank account if I had any) the nature of those energies which do indeed transform real social relations is incredibly more subtle, and enduring, than the fixation on mere class-economics has long suggested. A prog on tonights TV suggests to me an example—600 million years ago, the earth for some reason suffered a smallish dip in average temperatures severe enough that in time the sea began to freeze over as far down as Texas. Because the frozen snowy wastes were WHITE, they reflected a substantial proportion of the suns heat back into space thereby making the chill increase geometrically. As a result the entire world was soon frozen solid EVERYWHERE. This flipping of state was basically irreversible—even at the equator there is estimated to have been a kilometre of ice. No free water, no rain—just one big snowball planet under a cold blue sky. (in fact this condition probably lasted for 10 million years until volcanic greenhouse gases flipped it back out). Now my metaphor is this—suppose the handful of degrees of initial chill is equivalent to the relative deprivation induced by material shortages, by the exploitations of captalism. It sets up a chain reaction of social relationships which may in their turn worsen such shortages or in some other way worsen social cruelties or suppress consciousness. It is entirely conceivable for the consequent social conditions to not only perpetuate unnecessary material scarcities even after the technological means of ending them altogether has been brought into existence, but even of increasing atrocities of various kinds as well as denuding life of warmth in general and replacing it with ever-growing suspicion, or hedonistic distractions from emptiness and the rest. The world could be trapped in such conditions for ten million years after the original economic cause has long since been irrelevant. Oh yes it could.

We must eliminate the assumption that reversing such a scenario hinges upon crude mechanisms, or else (at least) to prosper within it we must. The economy is but one strata in a whole geology of troubles—all of which are entirely REAL.

—kubhlai

********* END OF THIS SWORG SWILL TRANSMISSION *********

Just A Quick Notion On The Winces of Kierkegaard

kierkegaard
Kierkegaard in Suspense
samplex

Date: Tue Apr 22, 1997 2:03:45 PM

Whew! E-mail is so much fun, fun, fun, I just hate to quit, but I just wanted to add something to that last note I was meaning to include, but forgot, in my haste to close...but your theology seems patently Kierkegaardian [Soren] who actually is recognized more as a famous existentialist philosopher than the theologian his lesser-known but notable father was.

Are you familiar with this line of devotedness? Actually I count myself among that fuzzy number (in logic) although as the grandfather of modern existentialism (albeit in a christian context, whereas Sartre's atheistic philosophy some 60 years later is generally counted as the full maturity of the logic) Kierkegaard's moral forces point up many more questions rather than answers of the biblical accounts; most famously, his take on Abraham's dilemma in sacrificing Issac in his small book "Fear and Trembling", the moral urgency of the individualistic voice of God as opposed to the giant institutional promises, as God always attempts to stretch his handpicked servant's perceptions far beyond the norm of the culture at hand.

Many christians like to play dodge ball with the sixty-six Jewish books you call the Word, picking and choosing which Old Testament rules to follow and which ones to throw off as a revelation of Jesus. I don't want to draw you into a long-winded blather you are not interested in pursuing, since you've already given me your Pauline summation nicely concise, but I was just wondering what, if anything you thought of the Kierkegaardian concept of God's will beyond common acts of simple goodness just as Hinduistic as anything purportedly Christian? Because in a rough and tumble world, simple goodness and moral certainty often are incompatible with questions of greater good and lasting peace, eh?

GT

Slurfish The Adjective

slurfish-the-adjective
Slurfish The Adjective
samplex

Date: Sat, 24 Feb 1996 07:35:20

What's e-mail? As you see, Slurfish, I am again interested in the hidden intentions of man. What's really going on? About e-mail (like communication itself) someone wrote it'll be a mirroring of oneself on others to form out [one's] own individuality. A basic human urge. Made acceptable and harmless by this kind of Freudian explanation.

But then we know about the illusions in it, especially the imagination of knowing the world. We are so much involved with surrogates, that we welcome even the most artificial, tricking ourselves with enthusiasm. Our true agency nearly always slips out of our reach. So e-mail as well seems to be a vicious circle, like all of those hobbies, specialisations and fanaticisms making the people feel like beeing worth something and giving life a sense.

That is the down-side. E-mail is artificial, highly mediated, masky and a tower of solitariness. But then, what is not? Language itself, to me, suffers this kind of course. No, what I really think is that it is unnatural to live in a dull society having nobody you can exchange with intellectually, and trying to give a smile on newest Hollywood-gag not honestly longing for it. Free media makes people more individual. New media brought strife in a sad manner, what concerns Disney and Hollywood dreams. But what degrades people by showing them money and lifestyle they will never reach is similar to shocking people with porno or dividing them by culture between intellectuals and simple minds.

I cannot value this. Me, myself, I go all right with very different people. Nowadays I don't feel lost in an agency of advertisment and I like simple people too. But I nearly gave up my search for someone having read some books. It's funny. I know many artists, very fine musicians and even some philosophers but people involved with literature seem to be out of my reach. Till now.

Ben

Well Ben, there is nothing innately flawed in your preceptions concerning the modern mind of man nor is your take on his creative postures—designed to keep himself "occupied" in the most broad sense of the word until he no longer is able to agitate for something to do#151;corruptable by anything I might add or detract. High artistry and the lowest common denominator syndrome has factored into our modern age the impossibility of avoiding conflict within the psychological domains of the man on the street who like Eliot wonders whether he should simply eat a peach to maintain his dignity in the Kierkegaardian sense, or rather roll up his pants and go for the gusto in some foul hedonistic construct some will applaud while others will mock.

While it is true that nutrients and liquids are a priori mainstays, sex is not, nor is communication, yet neither are easily stymied in a cultural setting. In this sense culture is equated with that education the individual is supplied by his senses as he awakens to them from birth.
After breathing the air he cannot see, the singularly most natural thing for the homo sapien to engage himself, all else falls into the category of the artificially induced and orchestrated by weakly understood urges and socialization processes (at the personal level, regardless of intellect). Food and drink. Sex and procreation. Thus by extension, of course the impulse to communicate whatever the individual and the collective culture deems plain or unique could be said to be artificially induced by activity perhaps natural in the broadest sense, but unnatural in the keenest, where man in truth has no purpose other than to explore the concepts life itself identifies as supernatural.

Now it is always true that the act of observing others brings with it the competing notions of equality and the superiority/inferiority pathos. I would agree that the media, in particular the latter 20th century media has brought many woes upon the world with its fluid imagery and caustic irresponsibility. Envy is the bastard child of the visual arts. We all want what we have seen others seemingly no more capable or deserving than us achieve. While conservative thought stereotypically touts suppression of urges for things presently unattainable, the liberal mind rejoices in showing it like it really is or "should" become, that is to say, the apotheosis of urges. Fact is, neither do either very well, and so chaos insues.

Ah, Ben, I see we now approach the fetching frontier that the religious mind (even distilled by Kant) has struggled against for milleniums in the heats of a breathless deity, while the scientific mind seeks to stake its own claim demanding whole dominion of these gallant human strides in its own name.
Correspondence thru E-mail is without a doubt the greatest boon to the cause of personal communication and letterwriting since the Age of Romanticism, extinct a century now, with its zenith probably two hundred years ago. The telephone and the democratic notion of education for all has brought the art of communication down several notches while spreading its joy to more populations within and across cultures. While it is true that across the electronic medium the garbage in, garbage out formula is highlighted in spades, any brief perusal thru the mundane strings of code which pass for "communication" in these myopic times proves that—along with the urges moving biological sustinance (hunger, thirst, sex) to an obedience to natural law—the forces which compel a person to communicate himself to others at some basic level also fall into that secondary category behind simply breathing. While it is true that nutrients and liquids are a priori mainstays, sex is not, nor is communication, yet neither are easily stymied in a cultural setting. In this sense culture is equated with that education the individual is supplied by his senses as he awakens to them from birth.

Each of your statements made in this discussion I deem to be true, as well as my own. So what is it I am ultimately trying to transmit? Perhaps nothing more than to agree—with what that legendary wit who, as the story goes, once threatened to slice an infant into two halves to determine its true mother who was engaged in a custody battle with an imposter to assert her maternal privileges—that all is folly, and that there is nothing new under the sun. Even the code strings that allow our technology and hence this communication to be transmitted from me to you in mere seconds are nothing but man's mimickry of the genetic and molecular codes already billions of years in laughable reruns.

Who possesses these syndication rights? Ah, Ben, I see we now approach the fetching frontier that the religious mind (even distilled by Kant) has struggled against for milleniums in the heats of a breathless deity, while the scientific mind seeks to stake its own claim demanding whole dominion of these gallant human strides in its own name.

Simply put, ALL of life's petty attempts at serious as opposed to artificial importance is seen through a smudged unfocusable lens. ALL is artificially stimulated by the powers of the hour. ALL is fake except through the grace of a well-scrimmaged acceptance and propped up rationale. Damn, I had no idea where I was headed in this diatribe, but I am sounding remarkably like some street corner Protestant preacher locking horns with the other side of his brain, that of the cynical fart artiste fingering his own anus simply because it feels so good and he can get no one else he'd ever allow to poke it for him, since of course, he's an "original", unique in his artistry, hallowed in all his ways.

Well, that's about it for now Ben. Got some HTML to fathom. Til we cross the great divide once again, I'll leave you with this little ditty of a riddle with the promise that I will forward to you a list of responses, including my own a bit later: Why DID the chicken cross the road?

Gabriel

P.S. And Ben, do not "automatically reply" to this note but instead send anything back to my NEW address at:

slurfish@radix.net

I am still phasing out my Clarknet account but I wanted to include your most recent comments in this note and nearly freaked when I couldn't find them in my current mail bin. It turned out they were over here on my wife's computer posted a few hours after I established my new account, transferring my old to hers, and so in a sense your words fell between the cracks. Finding them safe and sassy kept me a happy camper for although I had a hardcopy I was reluctant to retype your whole note. Anyway, cheers...and another poetic shimmer:

"If there's an original thought out there, I could use it just about now..." —Bob Dylan

"Now, he's hell-bent for destruction, he's afraid and confused,
His brain's been mismanaged with great skill. All he believes are his eyes
And his eyes, they just tell him lies..." —Bob Dylan

Case History In So Many Words...

nondum blanda tuas leges
et vacuum pectus ab igne fuit
—Elegy 7, John Milton

The real and the unused.
Crust to call it out of work homages,
thus imply, willed as poet the surveyor,
bust subjugationalism, hurry
grave, easy tones as captor as comforter.
Not yet did I know your laws
and my breast was free from fire.
The missing I. The real and the unused.
Behold your applicant as he struggles to strip
the veil of anguish from the master of ceremonies,
characterized by constant papersludge, choices
that lead to detention, standard sophistications,
irreparable materials at hand. But every
mother worth her milk refuses, calls
us heretic, criminal, an awkward position
endorsing belligerent behavior I say's
better built for lazy ones who street it,
gas grinners, cigarette teeth and whiskey eyeballs,
starving, filthcoated tongues
lost in gutter grime and babythick weathered lips
long ago. Celine's boys. Dreaming dogs.
The real and the unused.
Do you really know this man?
Or they called it infantile ascension.
Case history in so many words.
I mustard promise at every passing fancy,
drill skirts through the pedestal inviting
every passing nancy
to cut out my vital stat,
roll it in dough,
unscrew the nerves keeping me out of work,
in homage, and out of the Goethe Institute.
I feel like night, my creeds as complex
as the birth of an incomplete child,
regardless of pace,
breed or compatibility with a dead hero. The latter,
a pneumatic pretense of distinction. As bloody gnat,
I lust to feel burning glacier women who believe in the holy captive,
the real and the unused, naive truth, blanket nerve, price wars,
comparative nostrils. Wah but, such works of true determination
are reserved for the few, rarely an overnight sensation.
The real and the unused.
I, Gabriel Thy,
I, the richard spalding nix,
I, poet of cull verse and friend to all natives,
I, the missing I, complete the roulette parallelogram,
the pickpocket's trilogy terrorizing
self in search of the city,
this corpus christi,
her sand and her silk and her honesty,
assembled in the punished faces of the wedding tree, wah but
Young Man of resembled talents redeeming
the real and the unused.

That was before I read a book on windmills by Kierkegaard.

[1982, Corpus Christi, TX ]