words #7 (a brief examination of words)

 

words tumble out of my mouth . . . .

words 1976

broken words wither

words #2 1983

 

when looking back over the duration of 32 years of writing i am often amazed to hear stories of writers that plagiarize another writers thoughts or work– not that i have lived a totally honest life, but plagiarism to me has always been one of the sleaziest and at the same time silliest offences applicable to the writing world–

to call someone else’s words your own?  i went to college with many people that used pre-written papers and quoted extensively from other “great” thoughts and it always made me wonder– laziness or just plain shallow waters?  and quotes???  i have often been amazed by the use of quotations in excess–  as chuck brodsky says in his song G-ddamned Blessed Road, and i quote–

Alot of good books have been written – you can read every one
You can take notes and recite quotes as proof that you got your reading done

words, the spoken or written statements of an individual are sacred in that they are original, personal extensions of an individuals thoughts and feelings to other human beings– a quote is fine, but it does not share anything other than the show of memory or the ability to read, it does not share the individual with the group–  in this short lived life that we have our words are one of the most intimate ways that we have of sharing our thoughts and ideas with others— i am amazed that any real writer would treat them any other way—

 

words #3                                                                           4-11,12-91

 

words tumble out of my mouth . . . .

broken words wither . . . .

 

and with a combination of morphemes

i watch the merry-andrews quite amused

yet the tears as a whistler plummeting to the ground,

feather-dust the lines upon my face

and as i plod along i wonder

should i dismantle or tolerate the white elephant

which i have entangled with my soul

for broken words wither . . . they wither before dull eyes

 

i used to be a soldier

i found myself at battle with a razor and a typewriter in the dead of night

and the words crashed through my fingers bleeding dark upon each page

and grinning shit-faced i cursed each syllable,

killed the fifth, took my stelazine, and wrote another phrase

i used to be a soldier

i used to be quite insane

 

when dealing with synesthesia must i remember to dot my eyes?

surely the reader cares enough to attempt to comprehend

nothing appears upon a platter

nothing is given

realize—

when blinders are removed hearing can also be improved

perhaps rich is correct—

for the analysis of words in not indicative of the pen

is isn’t morphallaxis!

the analysis is indicative of the mind

they mean so much to me

are they only words?

must i remember to dot my “i’s”?

for broken words wither . . . they wither before dull eyes

 

i used to be a soldier

dodging commas left and right

i fancied myself neoteric

standing upon the front line with my smith corona held tightly in my hands

i used to be a soldier

i used to be quite sane

 

words tumble out of my mouth . . . .

broken words wither . . . .

and with a broom i sweep discarded words with dust across the floor—

i’m alright, nobody worry ’bout me

 

 

actually a woodchuck–  here they come–

tracing– (second take)

tracing

i remember when i first heard about the project “traces of the trade” and realized that the film-makers name was katrina– this was some time after the hurricane named katrina tore apart the city of new orleans and the surrounding areas– it was the hurricane katrina that first drew forth my out-rage and disbelief as america complacently sat back and watched via the flat screens as a major part of our nation’s citizenry was left to survive on their own– quite honestly, one thing that scares old whitey the most is the black race rising up in revolution and as i swore at bush and the bureaucracy that displaced thousands from their homes forever, i silently wished for such a revolution to occur– in retrospect, thank god that it didn’t but i can’t help but wonder when it will–

i have always felt, growing up and living the majority of my life within white society that there must be many people like myself that view the daily discrimination which occurs between the many different races yet even though this is witnessed, feels so powerless in attempting to acknowledge it, let alone utter the thoughts of possibly taking action to bring about a change– i have always felt that there are always so many in our society that deny racism and in doing so create even more boundaries and borders that eventually must be crossed and taken down–

in the previous post i stated that i was impressed with the effort that all the family members put forth to participate in the project– i do feel this and simultaneously realize that i am only a critic throwing peanuts from the peanut gallery–

however, after watching the film a second time there are a couple of things which continue to gnaw at the back of my throat– the strongest is of course the sexism that continues to be the norm for the family members– deference given (in my opinion) to the males of the family and the way the two different sexes are portrayed– although there appear to be several powerful women within the group it is the males that are shown making the more clinical questions and observations, and the women that are shown as the more emotional– this is of course normal for this group, yet the appearance remains a constant–

another instance that i find particularly disturbing and makes me question the film-makers thoughts is the scene where the family goes into the kakum rainforest park– the family is led by a guide up a steep incline and one of the perry brothers assists keila who appears to have a slight physical disability–

the guide tells the family some of the history of the native creatures and plants and tells the family of the custom of naming the newborns by the days of the week that they are born– the family also realizes that the name for monday is the same as the name of one of the children given to james dewolf’s personal slaves that he gave to his wife as a christmas gift–

horrific enough as this is, the following scene shows the family descending the steep incline with keila being assisted by a young black man as the children’s nursery rhyme about adjua and pauledore is recited in the background– is the implication of the servant even considered here?

edit– 062708 interesting post at

http://yourehistory.wordpress.com/2008/06/02/nonfiction-inheriting-the-trade-by-thomas-norman-dewolf/

tracing– (first take)

i was up until 3 am this morning watching a documentary “traces of the trade a story from the deep north” by katrina browne– the film deals with several extended family members dealing with the realization that our “dewolf” ancestors profited extensively from the illegal slave trade–  as a descendant on the perry side of the family i personally find the subject disturbing yet see the need to explore and deal with the past and the issues of racism and white privilege with the hopes of healing in whatever way some of the wounds of the past and present– 

having read “inheriting the trade” by thomas dewolf i was already intellectually familiar with the process that the family members were taking upon themselves, yet found that i was having with only the book as a guidance, a hard time disassociating the individuals with my interpretations of them from interactions within my own extended family–

although i structurally liked “inheriting the trade” by thomas dewolf, i was left with an aftertaste in my mouth that was somewhat hard to describe–  i enjoyed the book and thought that the author was gifted in his profession yet didn’t feel that the subject was cohesive throughout the entire piece–

the documentary “traces of the trade a story from the deep north” by katrina browne is a good match for “inheriting the trade” and i can’t help but wonder how the documentary will be for someone that has yet to read the book–  the individuals took on a more personable appearance and it was good to see some interactions, facial expressions, and genuine emotions between the group members–

in particular, thomas dewolf took on a different role for me as he was now a participant instead of a narrator–  this in itself makes me appreciate more the work that he took on in his book–

in short, i can only be impressed with the effort that all family members put forth to participate in this project–  however, only the individuals themselves will know in the long run the full effect of their participation–

edit–062608  interesting write-up at http://www.theroot.com/id/46973 by katrina browne

now that’s a nice hat

 

a gift came in the mail today–  an article to wear for the next trip down in two weeks–  thanks!!!

old pictures

there is a picture i have somewhere in the seemingly endless collection that i have gathered over the past 5 decades–  i have just spent the past two hours looking for it and now i am scratching my head wondering if it is in fact only in my memory–  several years ago i transferred some old slides from the 60’s over to pics and it is possible that it was among these although now i am not totally sure–

the picture is of a friend and myself and we are both 4th or 5th graders–  we are standing in my yard and we have an inner tube around us as though we are planning on going down the river–  my friends sister is also in the picture and she stands behind us and we are unaware that she is also in the picture–  she was a younger sister and at that time we probably weren’t as appreciative of her presence–

i have always liked this picture as it showed my friend and i on a summer day when all the world was still ours, ripe for the picking–

we have drifted apart over the years and in fact haven’t seen each other for over 30 years–  i happened to talk to him long distance back in the summer of 99 before kathleen and i got married and at that time he sounded like he was doing well– 

anyway, today is his birthday and although i am not even sure that he is still out there . . .  john, if you are out there, happy birthday–

and remember, you’re fifty and i’m not 

and the raccoons (take 1)

 

as i was leaving for work today i noticed some tracks on the back of my truck that i sure didn’t put there–  this of course is exciting to me because even though we live in the heart of upstate farmland our own little piece here has been oddly sparse of any critters since we first moved in–  at first i had thought it might be the dogs but one would expect the occasional possum or raccoon playing in the creek behind the house–  well, a week ago i stirred up a doe as i was circling behind the barn to mow, and now a raccoon was fooling around in the truck–  ah . . .  the critters . . .  i’ll probably be missing their absence real soon–

4101

i normally try to be aware of the count to the day–  it seems a small thing to ask that those of us that never know the risk of war at least be aware of the count–  i missed the rise to 4100 this week–  yes . . .  i guess life goes on . . .  for those of us safe here in the u.s.–

i’m voting republican

and the bears (take 3)

it’s always the loose, straying (fraying) ends . . .   that can get one lost within the tiergarten

you know, . . .  personally (while spinning round and round upon this gyroscope) i have always felt that it was a matter of perspective– 

eyes wide open, scotch tape and keep em wide, glancing quickly to the left and then back to the right, like a paranoid madman continually looking over the shoulder, ducking behind the hedge–  never mind that normal crap//  push it to the mental limits// and then throwing oneself forward as fast as humanly possible while traveling through the wienerwald// yet still trying vainly to avoid the bears that appear to lumber continually into the path–  they’ve obviously escaped again–  i would swear that i heard them last night running in the creek behind the house–  i awaited their approach and swore that i heard them scrabbling up the hill and yet they did not come–  perhaps they were searching for siggy and hannes graff–  perhaps they were searching for holes and doorways in the path–  perhaps they are always running about aimlessly searching for a way to get back home– 

seriously, even if it is the real question, does the way to tiergarten really matter in the larger scheme of things?

for now . . .  in the silence strapped down tightly amongst the needles ‘neath the pine trees, the madness appears unable to remain hidden any longer–  and yet it has been over twenty years now since the bastards first escaped–   and now . . .  strains of choral music performed by the barrington choir boys running endlessly through the empty matter in my head//  strains of ave maria providing that damn white christian musical backdrop to the psychedelic thoughts that intertwine within my atheistic soul–  memories of winter nights wrapped in scarves and wool fedoras–  and still//  chasing them down// wild beasts fur, foam and fantasies flying as i tackle them and go tumbling to the ground in a flurry of awareness and then understanding the threat, rising quickly and running from them// the claws, the teeth, the nightmares overwhelming me with every step//  awakening to each tear and rip as the flesh is torn from my body, sweat pouring down the center of my chest flowing past my middle age gut//  and i find myself awakening again and again thanking jesus for the moon–  god the bastard got at least one thing right//  jesus gave me something to howl at tonight//  throw open the cages and set the god damn bears all free!!!