"In Nonsense is Strength"

I lifted my title from the book I am currently reading, Breakfast of Champions by Kurt Vonnegut. He was using it to describe how the bizarre symbols of the US dollar are supposed to mean something, but really seems to be a bunch of "nonsense." And therefore that is what our country is built upon. He is using it in a more negative context, and I pretty much agree that the stuff on the dollar and much about this country is nonsense. But I'm also going to say, Kurt, with much respect I really do think there is strength in nonsense. And hell, I really think he would agree with me on some fronts.

If I may, I need to add a side note on KV. My grandparents actually knew the guy--he lived on Cape Cod right near them! Vonnegut actually wrote a short story about Sandy Neck, a little peninsula of sand dunes in Barnstable Harbor. My family would go sailing over there. I guess that story is out of print now. What I would give to get my hands on that.

Anyway, back to nonsense. I am interpreting the term to mean something that doesn't make sense in the normal context of things. But really, much of this supposed insanity is what makes the most sense of all. This is certainly true in writing. It could be said that James Joyce's Finnegan's Wake is nonsense. While it is certainly hard to understand, every place in it is real. (No, I have not read it and nor plan to without help.) I'm sure there are ignorant folks out there who say Dr. Seuss is simply frivolous fodder for children. Yes, he is wacky, but nearly every one of his books points to something meaningful: whether for the world or for a child personally. Sometimes turning something on its head or inside out makes its significance so much clearer.
Speaking of weird things, what did you think of my plant poem? I did say I would provide the "answers"to both. See how describing every day objects such as babies, clocks, or televisions from a completely different perspective makes you stop for a moment? Makes you take a second look at everything? Hopefully. I dare you to try it.

Caxtons are mechanical birds with many wings books
and some are treasured for their markings--

they cause the eyes to melt laugh or cry
or the body to shriek without pain.

I have never seen one fly, but
sometimes they perch on the hand.

Mist in when the sky is tired of flight
and rests its soft machine on ground:

then the world is dim and bookish
like engravings under tissue paper.

Rain is when the earth is television.
It has the property of making colors darker.

Model T is a room with the lock inside-- a car ride--I love that the Martian
a key is turned to see the world interprets it as the world moving, not the car

for movement, so quick there is a film
to watch for anything missed.

But time is tied to the wrist
or kept in a box, ticking with impatience.

In homes, a haunted apparatus sleeps, I think this is a cat
that snores when you pick it up.

If the ghost cries, they carry it a baby
to their lips and soothe it to sleep.

with sounds. And yet, they wake it up
deliberately, by tickling with a finger.

Only the young are allowed to suffer
openly. Adults go to a punishment room I think this way of seeing using
the bathroom is brilliant
with water but nothing to eat.
They lock the door and suffer the noises

alone. No one is exempt
and everyone's pain has a different smell.

At night, when all the colors die, sleeping and dreaming--beautiful
they hide in pairs

and read about themselves--
in color, with their eyelids shut.




Contemplations of a House Plant


The motiles pour love on our nest so we continue: Motile means mobile, the plant does not know love as we do, but sees the all important water as something like love. The plant wonders why the mobile creature feels obliged to keep it alive.
this worship baffles.

We must reach for the Presence to glean food from within, Presence is the sun, which we close
the shades to

but it is poison to the motiles: when the Presence sings
strongest the walls are closed.

A trunk hums beside us and commands them to lay down The TV, the only thing that
temporary radicles-- then they are still for a time. keeps us still. Radicles are roots

But every Absence the motiles revolt and silence the box: Absence means the absence of the
an unsymbiotic relationship. sun. At night the people turn off the tv

Sometimes there is an Infestation. I tried to use words a plant would know--
in this case an "infestation" of humans is a party


A device pollinates dense vibrations; The vibrating device is a stereo
it causes madness in the unrooted.

They flutter and grasp, until they finally fall in a rotting heap. Dancing, fallen down drunk,
By the arrival of the Presence, they are weeded out. stumbling home the next day

Occasionally a starving terror finds me. A child pulling at its leaves. Since
It rips rips at our organs, and never feels the scream. the plant doesn't understand the
child's playful motives, it assumes
the child is a starving creature.
I'm not sure if I believe the thing about plants screaming in pain; I was thinking this was more an expression of irritation.

During the Absence the motiles vanish. But they always return from the terrible nothing; and the adoration begins anew.

The plant doesn't understand the humans disappearing every night, and assumes they actually are gone from its reality. Yet they come back every morning and continue to "worship" the plant

A dose of perspective...

A little change of perspective is good for all of us now and then. The problem is, it is pretty damn hard to actually change your perspective. We can try to see things from another point of view, but only try. Of course, it is probably better that we can't. In the kick-ass movie Being John Malkovich, the people who do get to literally see through another's eyes become hopelessly obsessed with it.

But sometimes circumstances force people to experience things in a whole new way. In the seminal Pilgrim at Tinker Creek by Annie Dillard, there is a chapter devoted to this subject. She talks about reading accounts of people who newly sighted people who were born blind. These people literally have to rediscover the world, and what they see is incredible:

"To one patient, a human hand, unrecognized, is 'something bright and then holes.' One girl was eager to tell her blind friend that 'men do not really look like trees at all,' and astounded to discover that every visitor had an utterly different face."

I have no doubt that becoming sighted after a life of blindness is terrifying in many ways. And yet I am envious of this sudden transformation in the way the world is literally seen. These stories moved Annie Dillard to attempt to see the world in other perspectives:

"I blurred my eyes and gazed towards the brim of my hat and saw a new world...I saw the linear flashes, gleaming silver, like stars being born at random down a rolling scroll of time. Something broke and something opened. I filled up like a new wineskin. I breathed an air like light, I saw a light like water."

I should mention Annie Dillard is one of my idols. I'm pretty sure she was nuts, but a genius nut.

Another master of perspective change is Craig Raine, in his wonderful poem "A Martian Sends a Postcard Home:"

Caxtons are mechanical birds with many wings
and some are treasured for their markings--

they cause the eyes to melt
or the body to shriek without pain.

I have never seen one fly, but
sometimes they perch on the hand.

Mist in when the sky is tired of flight
and rests its soft machine on ground:

then the world is dim and bookish
like engravings under tissue paper.

Rain is when the earth is television.
It has the property of making colors darker.

Model T is a room with the lock inside--
a key is turned to see the world

for movement, so quick there is a film
to watch for anything missed.

But time is tied to the wrist
or kept in a box, ticking with impatience.

In homes, a haunted apparatus sleeps,
that snores when you pick it up.

If the ghost cries, they carry it
to their lips and soothe it to sleep.

with sounds. And yet, they wake it up
deliberately, by tickling with a finger.

Only the young are allowed to suffer
openly. Adults go to a punishment room

with water but nothing to eat.
They lock the door and suffer the noises

alone. No one is exempt
and everyone's pain has a different smell.

At night, when all the colors die,
they hide in pairs

and read about themselves--
in color, with their eyelids shut.


Some of the "martian's" experiences are pretty self-explanatory, some take some thought.

I can't help but try my own hand at this perspective thing. Perhaps it is foolish to put my own writing after Dillard's and Raine's, but what is writing if not a little foolish and risky? Tune in next time for the "answers" to the poems.

Contemplations of a House Plant


The motiles pour love on our nest so we continue:
this worship baffles.

We must reach for the Presence to glean food from within, but it is poison to the motiles: when the Presence sings strongest the walls are closed.

A trunk hums beside us and commands them to lay down temporary radicles-- then they are still for a time.

But every Absence the motiles revolt and silence the box: an unsymbiotic relationship.

Sometimes there is an Infestation.

A device pollinates dense vibrations; it causes madness in the unrooted.

They flutter and grasp, until they finally fall in a rotting heap. By the arrival of the Presence, they are weeded out.

Occasionally a starving terror finds me. It rips rips at our organs, and never feels the scream.

During the Absence the motiles vanish. But they always return from the terrible nothing; and the adoration begins anew.

Are you Angry or are you Boring?

These confrontational words greet visitors to the Gilbert and George exhibit at the DeYoung museum. While I strive to be neither, I came away feeling it is better to be angry than boring. I guess I took "angry" to mean "passionate--" as G & G are passionately anti-war, pro-youth, and pro-sex, among other interesting things. We all should be moved by something.

And what does this have to do with anything, you ask?

Well, it sounds cheesy, but I am passionate about life. And the stuff of real life is where I have found my writing material. So far, anyway. This is my first venture into blogdom, and I hope you enjoy the pieces. I'll start off with a couple poems. (Don't worry, the poems are all short.) I welcome your comments. Go get angry, everyone!


Night Stalk(er) July 2007

The sunflower woke me up at 3 this morning.
A voyeur on my desk; its imploring face was bowed,
one large brown eye looking at me.
I don’t even like the color yellow, but
I love this brazen creature.
I have to touch it-- there are so many delightful textures.
My fingers run up the taut and hairy spine, and then
stroke baby-skinned saffron petals.
The beckoning brown center begins as innocently fuzzy.
But the very middle is a stickiness, transparent globs on a velvet carpet. I poke it again and again
and the stick won’t go away.
Finally I press my face into my silent spy.
The smell is raw springtime: new grass and bee sex.
I love the sunflower, and I half wish it gone.
It is too bright for this room
and my mood.
I can’t sleep with it staring.
Guess I have to touch it
again and
again.



Tuolome River August 2006


We walk along in the sweat sucking heat;

thin air pushes against our tired hearts.

A river seeks us

and we hear it soon-- waiting.

Then it appears--

a sinuous, porcine animal

continually diving downwards.

By a glassy pool

we remove our clothes

and I suddenly I am afraid.

Why? To experience fierce cool is why we came.

Ankles in, I feel ice dragons bite at my bones.

How can water hurt so much?

I retreat, and sensation leaks back down my legs.

A small, deep copper pool offers full immersion.

I jump in, and the scream escaping my throat is

sucked back, and all my organs

quail inwards for core warmth.

In two seconds I experience a year of broken crystal in every pore; it is

terrible and amazing to be consumed by this beautiful creature.

I flee the artic maw, and grab my forehead


to ease the external ice cream headache.

My limbs find warm granite,

and they kindly lower my torso.

Sun thaws my marrow

and I am simultaneously

tranquilized

energized.

Back in my body,

I watch the liquid shards

drip from my hair and realize

I am finally

violently

Alive.