Saturday, July 08, 2006

7.07.06, Scratch the Myths, Why Not

Friday night (you gotta work when you can work) before sleep approaches, wait. That should be more accurately put ". . . before I decide it's about 30 minutes or so before I need to sleep and take an Ambien." Tired of reading. God, how much can a person read — and I am the one who chose the most inappropriate profession since I read like a sloth. Enjoy it, yes; do it quickly, not even. After wandering from Spinoza to Socrates (ok, Plato really) to some generic on text on Buddhist enlightenment (Top Secret) to Bruce R. McConkie (Mormon theologian) to Nietzsche to Zizek. How much indeed. The string of ideas and theories comes round to a kind of mental blur where I now find myself, confusion maybe, chemo-fication perhaps, an uncharted state where my thoughts wander and figure "why not post twice in one day?" and "why not post something that might not be related to cancer?" (Though it does relate to poetry; and then through words to voyeurism, and I know you're all voyeurs.)



And if I try to push the connections I might say we've discussed or at least alluded to the power of myth and mythologizing on this blog before and that alone could connect what I'm going to post at bottom. Another tie might be themes of finishing one phase and moving into another. Not progress, not so naive; but naive enough still in the way it's written. In my defense it's ten+ years old so cut me some slack. If you're also in this state of Friday night mindblur you might not mind too much. If you're still buzzed from a night out and simply checking the site out of mindless habit, you might also not mind too much. A word or two still strike me as out of place whenever I look back at this — and that's breaking the great first rule of public speaking and or reading: Never begin by apologizing. Alas. More mindblur.

The poem:

"It Is a Myth Where I Live . . ."

It is a myth where I live,
a dark purple sleep of myth they call life,
where I do everything but forgive
an ex-friend who now goes by wife,
living with me without being what is us,
rocking in and out of deceitful slumber
to avoid sitting together to discuss
the quirks of mine that numb her —
when waking to this brunt it’s painful
my soul-joints crack and creak when I rise,
forecast the weather, dimly attempt again to fill
the bottomless void of compromise
between what I saw as self and thought integrity,
to appear pleased about philistines’ presents
lest they feel discomfort on account of me.
They buy and wrap their Gods in flowered paper
never dare, why would they, to open them alone.
The memories of those times will not escape her, for
blood is thicker than watering what you haven’t sewn.

Wiping rheum from my sleepless eyes
as I wait to learn why missteps and strife
are more common to us than compassion,
depression better known than the happy life,
I ask through artifice, the one medium
that does not talk back in eternal truths
but rather lies to me, my thanks, so that
tedium will never scratch the legends
or taint the heroes that I choose . . .

(12:44 AM, August 1991
Provo, Utah)

9 comments:

madame x said...

Hey mr j.
all.
Today I am enthused because it turns out I am the first comment-er, sleepless in seattle I believe here at nearly 1 a.m. Is it possible to watch Victor Victoria for the 1,007th time? Might sleep come?

I wish I had read the hiccups blog in time. I am an *expert* my friend. An expert. A frickin' hiccup-hunting, diaphram-regulating Ph.d. A professional lung regulator of the humanities kind. Next time, call me. My gift. My gift.

Leslie Ann Warren is singing "chicago, illinois" on screen.

Today I told mr. j that I liked him while driving him somewhere pointless in the car. it helps to remain in motion, yes?

I hope all find their place to rest tonight. mr. j, you have my sweetness this evening. may you be hiccup free.

mme x

[disenchanted princess] said...

Your writing has defintely changed in 15 years, as see in pretty remarkable contrast with your more recent stuff. You even start with rhyming couplets . . . =)

Thanks for the glimpse into your past.

Anonymous said...

For Scott

I read your post each day in Seoul
So I know about the Franky scale
And your singular poetics which
Makes you my yogic teacher.

Now in the 800 year old city
Splinters of a glass heated so far
We bend under, an eyeless program has set itself against
Words begun with "b" and ending with a "log."
Oh, the Wheel of the Law, desperate villagers' claims;
The words of prophets from the desert,
That old rascal Jefferson and his pals
(Even imprecations to the old Chairman's doxa)
They've ruined it for everybody.

As if; as if in this heat, words could
Change what time's inertia has
Scorched onto an overburdened land.
All this to be fully deciphered later
When we are both in New Town

Or maybe just in the next city I go to,
Later, where the court is more in the
Nature of a distant report, or a bad dream.

Tani, Beijing July 06

spacely said...

hey spot, spacely here! Well I have to say we enjoyed lake powell without you, it probably would have been more fun with you though. We went to san diego the zoo and the beach and had great fun. Then went to disneyland again but we had a reason.. we saw the new pirates ride with johnny depp in it!! And of course my kids favorite part is when the women are getting auctioned off and the pirates are screaming,"we wants the redhead!" Then lake powell and kanab! In powell it was crazy, have you ever seen a thunderstorm there?! Well we were in one, on the lake in a thimble that floats that they all a boat!I'm sorry I haven't read your blog in almost 2 weeks, and I haven't read all of them yet, but you know me, I don't quite understand them but enjoy reading about you and your thoughts. Of course you are laughing :D :D :D about my long running sentences but we have to go flying out the door and we barely walked in the door!! Love you infinite numbers...ME
p.s. I'm giving you our travel log because you still think my phone doesn't work :(

spacely said...

spacely here again ... So glad you are reading something light like Bruce R. McKonkie

spacely said...

P.S.S. I just realized your new name is "Blog Author"

dzd said...

ah yes, I remember this po-em. a good one, and reminds me of the first things I learned and loved about you...(as well as the mysteries)
xoxo
Dz

Mr. Jones said...

dearest spacely,

do you really think that i'm reading bruce r. mcconkie in the way you'd like me to? (i'm reading him because he's a doctrinal maniac! he happens to represent authoritatively a set of ideologies and beliefs that are completely fascinating to me in their whacky-ness; and i'm checking certain doctrinal points since my current book project deals, of course, with the rules and regs of the Church, capital C, which invited me to leave it in order to, and i quote "so that God might be glorified.")

always the silly one--it's odd how you seemed to get all of that gene ;-) -Mr. J.

Mr. Jones said...

p.s. you're not in denial about my being a quite happy and confident atheist, are you? death holds certain fears for me, to be sure, but none of them are metaphysical nor do they involve last minute rituals.

let's talk soon. -Mr. J.