Dear diary,
Wow, I am one selfish soul. I have no concept of any person’s relationships beyond what concerns myself. And I have no memory. Here is what happened this morning:
I was riding my bike down the pathway to Park Magnetron (that last word is used here to denote our town’s recreational area; but, on its own, it is defined as “an electron tube for amplifying or generating microwaves, with the flow of electrons controlled by an external magnetic field”), and up ahead on the road was standing a mother and her little tiny daughter. They were waiting for the bus. I’m guessing that it was the daughter’s first day of school. The girl was maybe six years old; she was very small, about the size of an army boot.
Then I watch a school bus pull up and stop at the side of the road. (This is all occurring up ahead of me, and I am seeing it from my bike as I approach.) So the little daughter takes her tiny steps across the grass and onto the bus; and the mother watches her board the vehicle safely. This is where I enter the scene. I note that my paved path runs between the mother and the school bus, so the mother will be at my right, and the bus will be at my left, as I pass by. Now, when I reach a point equidistant from either entity, the mother smiles brightly at me and waves to me. So I smile and wave back. Then she gets a disturbed look and slightly flinches. That’s when I realize that she was not waving at me but to her daughter, who is on the school bus yonder. There are transparent windows on the bus, so, if you’re a parent, you can stand on the street and view your child through the glass: you can see where your child is sitting, and you can wave to your child. The obvious order of this situation escaped me entirely. Not only am I averse to logic, but I can only follow plot lines if they revolve around me. I assumed the mother was waving because she recognized the big rap star and North American author Bryan Ray.
But I reached my destination, locked up my bike, and entered the woods. My walk was pleasant; thanks for asking. I was, by my count, the only living human who decided to spend the morning at Park Magnetosphere (“the region surrounding an astronomical body in which its magnetic field is predominant and effective”). The breeze was crisp, which I like. I kept thinking of Whitman’s lines from “Song of Myself”:
The little light fades the immense & diaphanous shadows,
The air tastes good to my palate.
Stop complaining, all ye who complain that I quote “Song of Myself” too much. This is my favorite poem of all, so I have a right to over-quote it. Asking me to avoid mentioning it in these blog posts is like asking a Christian to avoid quoting St. Paul’s wacky letters. And please note: I do not say that a Christian will quote the Holy Bible, but I focus specifically on the wacky letters of St. Paul: that is because only non-believers quote the rest of the Bible. I’ll explain this remark in a moment; but first I want to give a quote in support of my high praise of Whitman’s “Song of Myself.” My current favorite poet is Anne Carson. I mean, of the poets who still suffer life in the flesh. Before Carson, my favorite poet was John Ashbery; and before Ashbery it was A.R. Ammons. I only lay out these facts for you, dear diary, because I can’t remember if I’ve mentioned Ammons much since I began reporting here. In an un-mailed letter to Harold Bloom (from Ithaca, dated September 19, 1973), Ammons calls Whitman’s song “the single greatest poem in the last 150 years.” It makes me happy to see that a great artist agrees with my opinion.
In the same letter, Ammons, then in his mid-40s, writes a despairing paragraph that I relate to FAR too much. I noticed it just now, as I have the full text of the letter sitting before me—my eyes wandered over to the part where I made a curvaceous marking with my pencil, indicating deep interest. My ancient reader-self has accomplished a successful communication to its future writer-self, who is me at present (alas). The volume I’m using, by the way, is called An Image for Longing: Selected Letters and Journals of A.R. Ammons 1951–1974. And it is extra disturbing for me to realize that the passage quoted below was composed four years before I was born, so my mother and father had not even eaten the food that became me; and I, who now read the following excerpt, am presently edging up on the same age that Ammons had reached when he wrote it. As if I needed further proof that we existents are trapped in a recurring nightmare.
It seems to me everything serious is turning into a farce, including principally me. Here I am already old with at best not terribly many years left. I’ve struggled in terror for years and all I have done is arrive dazed, speechless, nearly lost. Nothing to say, too much invested in the future to want to change it. My heroes mostly toppled into mediocrities. The world is organized in such a way that you cannot win: there is nothing to win. Become financially independent, a precious liberty found, you become untouchable and impudent. Go along from day to day, broke, taking chances, there are rigors of astonishment and despair. It all balances, so the total is never more than middling, a little of this and a little of that.
I wonder what the secret escape-trick is? Like in The Exterminating Angel (1962), where the trapped group decides to try re-performing the actions that they were engaged in around the instant when their evening became deranged, in hopes that this will, as it were, lift the spell. What must we do to be saved?
(If I am making no sense here, it is because I’m too in love with the vicissitudes of this kaleidoscope to bother to codify any snapshot of its permaflux.)
Now I will explain why, above, I teased Christians for attending exclusively to the words of St. Paul and added that “only non-believers quote the rest of the Bible.” I’m basically just making a light joke with the hope that someone who perceives it will thus awaken to my superior view. And my view accords wholly with that of Ralph Waldo Emerson – yesterday afternoon I was reading in his essay “Montaigne, or the Skeptic” from the collection of lectures called Representative Men, and I was surprised how little of the American’s speech dealt specifically with that Frenchman, but how spot-on those words were which did take him as topic; and also I felt a deep and intense love for a few full paragraphs, among which were these two:
Great believers are always reckoned infidels, impracticable, fantastic, atheistic, and really men of no account. The spiritualist finds himself driven to express his faith by a series of skepticisms. Charitable souls come with their projects, and ask his coöperation. How can he hesitate? It is the rule of mere comity and courtesy to agree where you can, and to turn your sentence with something auspicious, and not freezing and sinister. But he is forced to say, ‘O, these things will be as they must be: what can you do? These particular griefs and crimes are the foliage and fruit of such trees as we see growing. It is vain to complain of the leaf or the berry: cut it off; it will bear another just as bad. You must begin your cure lower down.’ The generosities of the day prove an intractable element for him. The people’s questions are not his; their methods are not his; and against all the dictates of good nature, he is driven to say, he has no pleasure in them.
Even the doctrines dear to the hope of man, of the divine Providence, and of the immortality of the soul, his neighbors can not put the statement so that he shall affirm it. But he denies out of more faith, and not less. He denies out of honesty. He had rather stand charged with the imbecility of skepticism, than with untruth. I believe, he says, in the moral design of the universe; it exists hospitably for the weal of souls; but your dogmas seem to me caricatures: why should I make believe them? Will any say, this is cold and infidel? The wise and magnanimous will not say so. They will exult in his far-sighted good-will, that can abandon to the adversary all the ground of tradition and common belief, without losing a jot of strength. It sees to the end of all transgression. George Fox saw “that there was an ocean of darkness and death; but withal, an infinite ocean of light and love which flowed over that of darkness.”
More faith, not less. I don’t say to cut the Bible down but rather to add Whitman’s “Song of Myself” to the scriptures, as well as Ralph Waldo Emerson’s writings, and Emily Dickinson, and Herman Melville’s Moby Dick…
But, on second thought, I guess I do advise the holders of shears to trim the Bible, for I’ve been known to bark long and growl hard against certain books like Leviticus and Revelation. Plus although I wouldn’t eliminate the epistles of St. Paul from the scriptures entirely, I would prefer that they be published in a separate section, accompanied by disclaimers that their inclusion is more on account of historical curiosity than spiritual worth and so on… Like how, at family events, there is an adult table plus a separate table for children – I suggest that St. Paul be relegated to the adult table.
But his madness proves that he is my brother. And we share more than blood, we share spirit: my astringent life of zero motion and received indifference to the cult that I tried to invent are ways that a super-dimensional being atones for its sins. I suppose I should have kept my ambition in check.
P.S.
I didn’t get a chance to upload any new rap demo tracks since I last posted here, but my latest non-album, which I decided to title Rapping in My Room (I chose the word “Room” over the more descriptive “Bedroom” to avoid insinuating anything unintentionally sexy) is now available for clicking away from:
Lyrics:
1. Giant Orange Peel with Deadly Teeth
Here is a story that I should tell
About one time when all was well
But then we all stopped and looked around
And holy crap! up out of the ground
Comes a giant orange peel with deadly teeth
And chased everybody who was at the beach
Its deadly teeth were like razor sharp
And for miles around you could hear its bark
I was like scared I was going to die
And my brother was with me and so was Bry
And we all were sobbing and trying to run
From the giant orange peel with nasty gums
And big teeth
2. Airborne Boat
Have you ever ridden in an airborne boat
They are safe for children and soft like snow
They glide thru the air with skis of silk
And they’re warm inside like a pitcher of milk
I like to ride in my airborne boat
Cuz it goes so fast cuz it can’t go slow
It only goes slow when you need to land
But you will rarely need to do that
Cuz it is a boat that floats on air
It eliminates all worldly cares
It never breaks down, it doesn’t use fuel
It’s powered by using a magic tool
And it’s totally odorless and safe for kids
And it looks like a capsule filled with fizz
With two silk skis for landing softly
It tastes better than decaf coffee
Airborne boat holy smokes
Looks like a little piece of soap
Nothing as strange has ever been built
With skis on the bottom that are made of silk
3. Chocolate Grave Monsters
I don’t mean to scare you to death
But here is a thing that I saw out west
Chocolate grave monsters raving mad
They tried to chase us and tried to grab
They popped up out of the gravy mosh pit
Scary monsters all made of chocolate
I was like scared to death of them
Cuz there were so many like more than ten
They were chasing howling and totally barking
And one of them even was illegally parking
I was so scared I’m not gonna lie
Cuz chocolate grave monsters cannot die
Cuz chocolate never does really go bad
Cuz all of the preservatives that it has
But even at that it’s a tasty snack
Unless it dies and then like comes back
Chocolate grave monsters
Help me mom
Chocolate grave monsters
They’re the bomb
4. Nasty Teachers
When I was young and I went to school
And even though I was a stupid fool
The stupider fools were my nasty teachers
They have faces all covered with leeches
When they were teaching me how to read
Their nasty lips would like crack and bleed
And their hair would fall out and shed on me
And their drool would splash all wet on me
And when they would come and speak to me
Their breath would totally reek to me
Their breath was nasty stinking bad
Like raw meat rancid egg breath ham
Then they would try to teach me math
But I was like dang you need a bath
Cuz they had like visibly dirty clothes
And their armpits were totally soaked
Nasty teachers take a bath
Only then will I learn math
I refuse to learn your lesson
Until you like take a breath mint
5. Pot Smoking Crib Robbers
Call the mommy call the father
Pot smoking crib robbers
Where’s my baby where’s my daughter
Pot smoking crib robbers
Help somebody call the cops
There’s a residue of pot
And my baby now is gone
Look they left a magic wand
No that’s not a magic wand
That’s a cigarette for pot
That explains the residue
But where is my baby boo
She was sleeping in the crib
Then I went to do a bid
Now I’m back but she is gone
Plus it really smells like pot
Oh my god this can’t be happening
I think I’m going crazy
Someone came into my house
And smoked some pot and stole my baby
Call the mommy call the father
Pot smoking crib robbers
Where’s my baby where’s my daughter
Pot smoking crib robbers
6. Alien Lettuce People
Here is the worst kind of moral evil
Meeting some alien lettuce people
I remember when I was five
When I met them I almost died
They were all green and leafy crisp
And I was like totally scared as shit
Oh my gosh mom here they are
The alien lettuces steal our car
And drive really slow and chase us down
And show us their roots and make us frown
Alien lettuces you are bad
Now I’m gonna go get my dad
So my dad comes and now he’s mad
He only eats red meat and fat
He never eats no lettuce, fool
You’re gonna make him blow his fuse
7. Dead Angel
Once upon a time on the 4th of July
I was going for a fly up high in the sky
In my gold helicopter taking a spin
Then I heard something hit my fin
A super loud thud that made me scared
So I pulled over and fixed my hair
Then I got out and looked oh my gosh
There's a dead angel like on that rock
I hit an angel in my helicopter
Cuz I was driving all high on vodka
I was all sobbing and trying to focus
And looking around hoping nobody noticed
He’s too heavy for me to move
So I tie a rope to one of his shoes
And with my chopper I lift him high
And drop him into a lake nearby
Is it a bird? Probably not
Is it a plane? Oh my gosh
It is neither of those two things
Why does a dead raccoon have wings
8. Syrup Forest
Back when I was dating Chuck Norris
We took a stroll thru Syrup Forest
Wow what a nice place for lovers
All of the birds are trying to flutter
But all their wings are all drenched and sticky
Plus the tree leaves are wilted sickly
And all over the ground is mushy
All squirrel tails are never bushy
They’re all slicked back to look like rats
Here comes a syrup jungle cat
That’s trying to clean its fur that’s sticky
Then Mr. Norris moves in to kiss me
Now he’s frenching me deep and slow
All syrupy smooth like hot french toast
Then we ease down onto the ground
And sink down in it and drown
Syrup Forest a place for lovers
Syrup Forest devoid of gutters
9. Plastic Fireman
So even though he can’t move his hands
And his back has a big stamp “Made in Japan”
He’ll still save your life from the burning can
No he’s not wax he’s Plastic Fireman
And even though he has a painted face
And one of his hands fused with a suitcase
And hard to balance on plastic legs
He’ll rescue you from the burning keg
He’s Plastic Fireman super cool
He can position himself on stools
To create the illusion that he’s ready to jump
And put out the fire he saved you from
He doesn’t worry about his health
Even if he does get burnt and melt
All they have to do is mold him again
And then after that just paint him red
Plastic Fireman ring the bell
Thank you for saving us out of Hell
10. Waterproof Pantyhose
Here is a product I’d like to show
They are some waterproof pantyhose
Very useful and nice and sturdy
I am size twelve, you’re size thirty
I was at a party with all of my colleagues
And there was a punch bowl of liquid broccoli
And somebody lost their contact in it
So I jumped in and swam deep in it
And found not only their contact lens
But also a hen and two firemen
And all because I had waterproof pantyhose
Plus they are patterned with turquoise roses
They make super fun gifts for Christmas
Because the crotch has sturdy stitches
And you can wear them with moon boots now
Plus there’s a back door for choo-choo cows
Waterproof means you can spill your beer
And pantyhose means they’re super queer
I run around and huff and pout
And float all about in my period blouse
*
More rap demo tapes available at https://demorap.bandcamp.com/
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