How not to go on, & some reactions to a foeblog

(Image: John H. Sammis wrote the Christian hymn Trust and Obey, and goods can be exchanged for U.S. dollars.)

Dear diary,

We just got back from biking around 1.3 parks. Why the fraction? Because the atmosphere at the first park smelled like rotten fish, pig manure and burning plastic. So we aborted our trip when only three tenths of the way thru; then rode to a different park where the air smelled normal. And by normal I mean car exhaust and burning frankfurters.

But enough about my day. I aim to write something here that proceeds along the thought-lines from my last couple entries: the ones that I posted surrounding the holiday...

Yet, now that I have looked back and re-read those entries, I don’t know how to continue. At the time I was composing them, I remember thinking that I’d keep traveling in the same direction the next time I add to this diary; yet now here I am, confused. I can’t grasp what I was doing in those prior writings – my intention was to unveil more of my soul, to tell about my inner self, to make my private self more public… but I guess I’m too scared to do this clearly and directly; because the resultant entries read like…

My self-exploration is not simple and straightforward as I want it to be. I hope to return, and to keep returning, to the same idea – soul-bearing – because I think it’s worth it; but, for now, I’ll let my exhausted self write a plain entry about nothing in particular...

Where should I begin?

Books are a large part of my life, so it’s always easy to start with what I’m reading. But I’m not even reading any books right now. I mean, I got halfway thru Gore Vidal’s Hollywood and had to return it to the library; so I need to request it again and finish it. (It’s an interlibrary loan, so the process takes longer. Why do they not carry Vidal’s “Narratives of Empire” in any of my local library branches?) And, even tho I own a copy of Against the Day by Thomas Pynchon, I’m still stuck halfway thru it. And Malcolm Lowry’s Under the Volcano – I’m stuck there too. Only Dostoyevsky’s The Brothers Karamazov is allowing me passage, but that’s because I’m reading it aloud daily with my sweetheart. And, for the same reason, we’re coasting through the The Daybooks of Geoffrey Hill, at the very end of his collection Broken Hierarchies: Poems 1952-2012. And the small collection of Breton’s writings, as well as Emerson’s translation of Dante’s New Life. All these I’ve listed recently, but I have to give them again because I’m so slow. I wasn’t always this slow. But my ambition wanes and progress is halting because I’m sad at midlife. The world of books seems inconsequential. I know that it is of highest consequence truly, but at this time in my life it SEEMS inconsequential. And an additional obstacle is that my boss’s wife handed me a copy of a novel by one of our era’s most popular, best-selling authors and said: “Read this.” Even tho his works are lauded by the multitudes and have been adapted into countless movies and TV shows, I’ve never read this guy before. (The reason I’m neglecting to name him is that he doesn’t deserve to be remembered alongside the others I’ve mentioned, when futurity canonizes every last jot of my quill.) But I’m undertaking the challenge, not just because I was ordered to do so by Missus D.; I also see it as a perfect opportunity for me to learn about the attraction of this type of thing. And I wish I could report my findings, beyond being predictably underwhelmed, but the truth is that, again, I’m stuck halfway.

But a casual-yet-scholarly weblog that I happened on thirteen weeks ago, which also shall remain nameless, keeps capturing my interest: it is written by a professional book-reviewer whose opinions differ from mine on almost all artists. This is good. It’s healthy for me to realize that intelligent, learned, well-read, eloquent individuals can gainsay my divine judgment regarding aesthetics. I seriously assumed, before looking into this fellow’s online offerings, that everyone would agree with my stance if they only were informed. I mean: if anyone would deign to open her heart to the writing of, for instance, William Blake, it would be impossible for her not to apprehend that the farthest-reaching wisdom is contained therein. But I guess that it takes genius to recognize genius. For this pro reviewer labels Blake “a nutcase.” This is an easy attitude that I find harmful:

When faced with strangeness, one has at least a couple choices. One can slow down to wander with one’s concentration, to discern what treasures might be found in this new domain; OR one can give in to one’s impatience and just dismiss anything alien with the label insane. In one post, the aforesaid reviewer quotes another reviewer’s review (Eric Ormsby, “Songs of Innocence and Experience”; New York Sun, 28 Nov 2007) – after mentioning Wordsworth’s…

[Just now, my sweetheart walked in the door after returning from dining with friends at a restaurant, and she brought me my favorite sandwich from the local sandwich shop—a magic sandwich with magic ingredients—so this improved my mood tenfold!]

What I’m trying to relay here is that this blogger, whose posts I’ve come to follow on account of his hatred of my favorites, quoted the above-mentioned newspaper article, where William Wordsworth in turn is said to have said that Blake’s “insanity” is more interesting than the “sanity” of other bigshot poets (whoa, had to fix a typo: “bigshit poets” – ha, Freudian slip); then the reviewer himself later adds his own opinion: “perhaps the most impressive aspect of Blake’s greatness is that, for all his newfound respectability, he still seems as crazy as ever.”

So all this moves me to underscore yet again, for the seven and seventy-seventh time, Blake’s words from the introduction to his “Proverbs of Hell” section in The Marriage of Heaven and Hell:

…I was walking among the fires of hell, delighted with the enjoyments of Genius; which to Angels look like torment and insanity…

And, one last thing: On clicking thru the link that the blogger’s post provided to the newspaper review, I found the following sentence directly after the one that the first reviewer quoted:

Of course, only “thin partitions” separate the madman from the visionary, the crackpot from the prophet.

THIS moves me to retort that NOTHING separates the madman from the visionary, the crackpot from the prophet: ALL are ONE. Or rather, any difference is in the quality of their creations; but their essence is the same. So: we call someone a crackpot-madman instead of a poet-visionary, for the same reason that we differentiate between “good” poets and “bad” poets (one who writes a lousy poem is still a poet: we do not say that a failed effort, or even multiple failed efforts, render a soul no longer a poet but a scientist). Recall again Oscar Wilde’s famous aphorism:

There is no such thing as a moral or an immoral book. Books are well written, or badly written. That is all.

...& there’s no partition separating one type of soul from another, causing one to end up a madman and another a visionary: there’s rather one soul expending its energy either effectively or defectively. Occasionally Jeremiah prophesies well, that is to say exuberantly, in a way that bolsters all of the human form divine, in which case he’s a prophet; and other times he prophesies selfishly, and then he’s a crackpot (and is rightfully parodied by a fellow biblical author in the funny Book of Jonah – I take this observation from Harold Bloom). And the same can be said of Joseph Smith, and of St. Paul (tho the latter is almost 100% crackpot), etc. This is another reason that I love Paul Thomas Anderson’s film The Master (2012): it presents Lancaster Dodd, the titular character, as being neither exactly one thing nor the other, a crackpot or a visionary, but fully capable of either state, willy-nilly. Like Emerson said Christ said:

I am divine. Through me, God acts; through me, speaks. Would you see God, see me; or, see thee, when thou also thinkest as I now think.

I emphasize that last clause: whenever anyone thinks the thots of a prophet (one thru whom God speaks or acts), that soul IS a prophet. Or else we’re ALL mad. I’ll give Blake the last word:

Some will say, Is not God alone the Prolific? I answer, God only Acts & Is. in existing beings or Men.

*

You can tell that I’m on a muddy part of life’s path because this entry was just a repeat of things I’ve said better elsewhere (the desire to be more candid about my inner self; what books I’m reading; and points that I’ve made again & again about Blake); but I’ll share it anyway, in hopes that it’ll trigger... something different next time.

P.S.

I finished uploading my latest rap demo onto the Internet. I don’t know if people prefer to ignore the album as one full file on YouTube, or ignore it track-by-track via Bandcamp, so I’ll put both here below. Also I’ll copy the full lyrics, since it makes me proud to scroll thru all those words…

Lyrics:

1. Hose

MCB the gangster
Using a hanger to hang my banger
Selling my drugs on the block increasing my stock
Now I have high stock for cocaine rocks

2. Park

One time I grew up as high as the moon
After that I gave birth to a bloody baboon
I’m MCB and this is my band
And I’m much bigger than the country Japan
I’m dripping with blood my brain’s exploding
Calling my homies cuz now I am lonely
Then I drive my Fiero to the center of the earth
And had a transcendental vision of Mrs Butterworth
I like to throw metal Chinese stars
After telling some nursery rhymes at the park

3. Hand

Bang bang bang now I bang my banger
Loading my weapon and waiting for danger
I sniff cocaine crystals
I just whistle and somebody hands me a pistol
And just for no reason I shoot somebody
That’s why my carpet looks all ruddy
That’s why I own a massive freezer
I use bangers to bang crack geekers
Of all citizens of New Jersey
Crack geekers are the least trustworthy
I’m giving birth to a battering ram
That damages the delivering doctor’s hand

4. Path

I am a big rapper totally mean
Standing right in your path and wearing Guess Jeans
I’m stealing all your lunch money plugging up your plumbing
Now I’m going hunting and I’m killing some guppies
I give credit cards out at Christmas
You’ll never guess how enormous my fist is
It is like bigger than a box of tofu
Red lights are the only kind I go thru

I receive severed fingers as gifts
And my favorite deejay is DJ Quik

5. Master Rapper

Let’s get down to business
MCB is raping Christmas
Throwing meatloaf at my mistress
Faster than some flying discs
I’m a flannel wearing mammal
Teaching Daniel from the Bible jazz piano
With a rifle
At the wrong banjo recital
While I’m tweaking both your ears
My brain is leaking into gear
Tho I’m speaking what you hear
I’m freaking cuz I need crack rock
Baby gimme crack rock
All I want is crack rock
Gimme shiny crack rock
I’m teaching using lazy baby bearings
MCB I’m wearing
Something very sheen sheener than a laser beam
Laser beaming ballerina and I’m wearing Danger Jeans
I’m the preteen Stratocaster
Proto-plastic master rapper

6. Tanker

MCB keeping it real
Staying true to the streets packing steel
This aint no joke this is life for me
I always pack steel and rap on beat
Yeah gangster rap waving my banger
Rest in peace to Kris Parker my trainer
I go bang bang at rival gangs
Then I do cocaine then I steal a plane
I got rifles with real long stems
And loose-fitting clothes in which to hide them
You can tell that I’m thugging cuz I’m waving my banger
That is shooting with the bang force thrust of a tanker

7. Untitled (Geese)

I have two guns that shoot out bombs
And a faceless clock with invisible arms
My name is Bryan I rap the beat
And geese make good goose-flavored ice cream
My name’s Bryan I’m a serial rappist
I got drowned by some maniac Baptists
I rock the mike with kissably fresh breath
And my stage name is Billy Crystal Meth
I drive a tank with a sunroof
Either or an edible horse with bun hooves
I wear parachute pants that help me dance
And a super sharp lance for sweet romance
My pigtails are eight miles long
Why did you break my fake trial bong

8. Untitled (Ma)

I slam the track with an awesome rap
That’s really my hair it’s not no hat
I’m the big dope rapper Daddy Mack B
With a gold chain with a fur coat with fleas
I’m dazzling wack rappers I’m battling
Getting help from dead rappers I’m channeling
And you know that cuz I’m juicy
Bigger than a big blackberry-filled fruit tree
I’m like that crazy drunken lady
Who kept paging me in 1980
Or I’m like half He-Man half Skeletor
Half Battle Cat Roosevelt Eleanor
Flashdance can smasher
I’m afflicting the MC Hammer dancers with pant cancer
Crawling out the gutter eating butter
Retroactively aborting my mother

9. Untitled (Peace)

MCB now I’m back in town
Mobbing with the dog pound bow wow wow
I like to ride my bike to the mall
And shoot all people at random y’all
Now I’m back with a cracked head laying in bed
Bleeding on everything, everything’s red
I like blood because it drips and flows
And it makes really good french blood toast
I’m Blood Man taking a bloodbath
Eating a blood snack smoking some blood crack
Baking a blood cake waiting till it coagulates
Then I’m eating my blood cake make no mistake
I’m chilling in the ghetto wearing army fatigues
Chilling in the street hiding under some leaves
Shooting at some people as they walk by me
It’s war in the streets word up peace

10. Untitled (Tooth)

MCB I’m smooth as silk
Or I’m rapping like butter cuz I’m like buttermilk
Cuz I’m smooth and relaxed kicking back on the track
When I rap I always wear a nice hat
Either that or my hair is combed really nice
I only roll dice and my favorite food is rice
Now I’m back on the track with a rap for you
Now I’m back with my posse that’s wack for you
My posse is the best cuz we pass every test
Even if you ask my neighbors they always say yes
When you ask anybody if my posse is cool
There is no way they’ll ever say no to you
I’m gonna slam this track to death
Cuz I got all high on crystal meth
Now I’m MCB the growing boy
That’s how you know I eat my soy
MCB and you know I’m smooth
I’m back on the groove with a tube of lube
I’m back and I’m wack and I’m smooth like that
And I’m always on the track with a rap that’s bad
Cuz I rap so smooth and I’m totally nude
Which is why I’m so smooth I lost my tooth

*

More rap demo tapes available at https://demorap.bandcamp.com/