Heat and Other Shit — copied from my notebook scribbles
Out here in the heat — a delirium I caress. The sun burns my eyes and I squint by the absurd laws of psychosis in a Saharan sandstorm. Words are coming. Visions with them. I record these vibrations like a demented seismograph, never stopping motion but keeping it in mind. Saeto, sweet Saeto, not once until this moment have I been so enamored with the delirious suffering of your mad horns, an offering to a lapsed higher power, like incense or sentience. We are every one of us a fallen angel in the heat. Death will arrive, pale and gentle, and restore our wings. Until then, heat.
I turn a scaffolded corner and appear in Puerto Rico. My first desire is for rum, cheap rum — when the rum is cheap, it’s just abominable water. The heat makes it more so. Oppressive, the heat, but I’m okay. Suffering is my song and I’ll laugh about it until the day I die. A relatively controlled suffering, of course, which is why I find it so hilarious and abysmal. Laughter and shrugging are my favorite things to do. After that, drinking. Then eating. Then writing, for it needs to be fed by all these that precede it.
Rincon is a fever dream, but a vivid fever dream, and I wonder if I was ever truly there. Perhaps I was only transported there one day when I sat in horrific heat, one hundred and six degree heat, on a bar patio in Manhattan. Perhaps the earthquakes were merely some psychical manifestation of the bewildered seismograph in my mind.
“Clement Clarke Moore Park… hilarious”
“Knowing you are dreaming and knowing you are asleep are different things”
“Ten pages of garbage and two good lines — that is how my life is written. And if the two lines are beautiful enough, the trash seems alright, too.”
“And the man strumming his classical guitar and singing in a honeyed falsetto that echoed down the cavernous hallway made me feel as if I were the main character in a Spanish film about heartbreak”
“‘Whatcha doin?’ ‘Livin’ the dream.’ ‘Really?’ ‘No.’”
“In primal astrology, I am a sea star.”
“Rick — INTJ”
“Oh yeah, that’s us. Very modern. We’ll send you our latest catalog by carrier pigeon. Hey, can I borrow your Victrola? I want to play us a jaunty rag.”
“Light and longevity shear things of their prose”
“Trees grow without a blueprint”
“Whippets — .75 second delay (musical implications)”
“The seagulls dip down and drop into the surface of the water like pins through a corkboard. It has always given me great pleasure to feel a pin go through corkboard. There is something at once gentle, quiet, but violent and disruptive.”