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The Sunday Tunnel: And So Pass The Days

[Continued from here, here and here.]

Hardly original, as is ‘hardly original’. So forth. Fuck it. As it fucks me.

“Our inertia is so immense it causes causes to collect like dammed-up water; we must amass motives like money before we make our move; we recruit a regiment of reasons; then let them, like a firing squad, fire obediently into the helpless body of their effect.” (ibid., p. 175)

Here I am, wanting to disagree with the vengeance cultivated by generations unfairly treated by others descending from the mythical slayer of their most famous forefather (who slays foremothers? – it isn’t even a word so how can it have reference).  Here I am, able to only say: so true! I want to kill my effect: if my looks could kill the first thing I’d do is look for a mirror (all credits to jessica bailey whomever she is).

Fair is such an unfair word. Where it turns up it puts down. Fair as in fairytale. Un-fairytale would be fairly synonymous with reality.

I have made a copy of Baudelaire’s suicide note. I keep a collection. “The fatigue of going to sleep and the fatigue of waking up have become insupportable.” (ibid., p. 186)

Justice as fairness is limited to the right to die, to call it quits, toexit by the backdoor … unseen by the cameras at the front; unheard of; untouched; untasted; smelled maybe – but only after the facts. Exit by the backdoor because you know there’s no-one at the front except those you care about whom you know to care about you enough to grant you a quiet exit. Forget the difference principle, comfort only lies in sameness. I get mellow. That too is a bad sign.

“We are friendlier with the Japanese now than we were before the Pacific war. I pointed out that, like quarrels, too, the loser may not be the loser. Results are deceptive.”

The Joker though never has the last laugh. The optimist never sees the dawn. There is asymmetry there as the pessimists are assured to witness an evening and the serious will then always have the last of the land.

“Herschel, I think, is a kind of cruel copy editor, and I, alas, am often his hapless text. he replaces every  ‘which’ with ‘that’, and every ‘that’ with ‘which’. He prefers commas to semicolons because commas are more noncommittal, comforting, egalitarian, and because he cannot be happy and still stay in harmony with the way I breathe. He faults my parallels. He snips off anything that dangles. He hates my elisions, my transpositions, my sloppy use of ‘you’ and ‘one’. He invariably finds that my position hasn’t the preferred spelling. He l.c.’s my heavily German Capitals, deletes my !’s, eliminates italics, prefers the peace of parens to my more aggressive brackets, disputes, every time, the way I break ideas into images, and dislikes single quotes. He says dots and dashes should be reserved exclusively for Morse. He always wants to check my sources, moderate mu intemperate verbs if not their Latinate length, avoid the first person, words in bad taste, the present tense, the subjunctive mood, and the passive voice. He covers the margins of my mind with niggling little queries. Which is to say, he is a thorough P in that p-art of the a;ss called Crack!” (ibid., p. 202)

Damned, again The Gass, The Kohler, The Gohler, … ; this stupid, dumb and deaf golem speaks for me. & against Herschel Honey, therefore against me. It isn’t even a paradox. It doesn’t make sense. People may refer to me but that’s all I get and even that mostly only from myself. A bullet without direction falling like snowflakes small, angry at the inability to hurt; yes, disappointed, at not even being a grenade that can be picked up to explode in someone’s face.

And so pass the days, as joanna names her blog. Would she think about herself in terms of reference without sense?

“I can confess to the merest middle-class crimes. I shall not become famous. I’m resigned to that now. No. I am perfectly ordinary. A humble burgher. O sweet humility, how it shames us, Martha exclaimed on the occasion of my submitted estimate. Do you really think you’re like everybody else, Martha went on, scraping some carrots as if she were flaying my skin, what an insult to humanity!” (ibid., p. 213)

The golem disintegrates. Gass and Kohler come apart. Well, one comes and the other is a p-art of the a;ss called Crack! Up to you to choose which is that. The principle of difference enters through the backdoor again and blocks your way out so you are stuck to pass the days seeing every hour being lost …

  • for the causes that assemble as water behind a dam,
  • to, what?

[Continues here]

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January 20, 2013 - Posted by | Sunday Stories | , , ,

2 Comments

  1. [...] [Continues here.] [...]

    Pingback by The Sunday Tunnel: So Alone « The Weblog | January 20, 2013

  2. [...] [Continued from here] [...]

    Pingback by The Sunday Tunnel: Level Again « The Weblog | February 3, 2013


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