Stay open, forever, so open it hurts, and then open up some more

In all things, we are the victims of The Misconception From Afar. There is the idea of a city, and the city itself, too great to be held in the mind. And it is in this gap (between the conceptual and the real) that aggression begins. No place works any different from any other place, really, beyond mere details. The universal human laws — need, love for the beloved, fear, hunger, periodic exaltation, the kindness that rises up naturally in the absence of hunger/fear/pain — are constant, predictable, reliable, universal, and are merely ornamented with the details of local culture. What a powerful thing to know: that one’s own desires are mappable onto strangers; that what one finds in oneself will most certainly be found in The Other — perhaps muted, exaggerated, or distorted, yes, but there nonetheless, and thus a source of comfort.

Just before I doze off, I counsel myself grandiosely: Fuck concepts. Don’t be afraid to be confused. Try to remain permanently confused. Anything is possible. Stay open, forever, so open it hurts, and then open up some more, until the day you die, world without end, amen.

— George Saunders, “The New Mecca” (from The Braindead Megaphone)

the comfort of being small and being able to think about being happy

May all the Gods preserve me, until the moment in which this aspect of myself ceases, the clear and solar notion of external reality, the sense of my unimportance, the comfort of being small and being able to think about being happy.

— Bernardo Soares (Fernando Pessoa), The Book of Disquiet

Thrush :: Louise Glück

Snow began falling, over the surface of the whole earth.
That can’t be true. And yet it felt true,
falling more and more thickly over everything I could see.
The pines turned brittle with ice.

This is the place I told you about,
where I used to come at night to see the red-winged blackbirds,
what we call thrush here–
red flicker of the life that disappears–

But for me — I think the guilt I feel must mean
I haven’t lived well.

Someone like me doesn’t escape. I think you sleep awhile,
then you descend into the terror of the next life
except

the soul is in some different form,
more or less conscious than it was before,
more or less covetous.

After many lives, maybe something changes.
I think in the end what you want
you’ll be able to see–

Then you don’t need anymore
to die and come back again.

[From Averno]

Archaic Fragment :: Louise Glück

I was trying to love matter.
I taped a sign over the mirror:
You cannot hate matter and love form.

It was a beautiful day, though cold.
This was, for me, an extravagantly emotional gesture.

. . . . . . . . your poem:
tried, could not.

I taped a sign over the first sign:
Cry, weep, thrash yourself, rend your garments–

List of things to love:
dirt, food, shells, human hair.

. . . . . . . . said
tasteless excess. Then I

rent the signs.

AIAIAIAI cried
the naked mirror.

[From Averno]

Crater Lake :: Louise Glück

There was a war between good and evil.
We decided to call the body good.

That made death evil.
It turned the soul
against death completely.

Like a foot soldier wanting
to serve a great warrior, the soul
wanted to side with the body.

It turned against the dark,
against the forms of death
it recognized.

Where does the voice come from
that says suppose the war
is evil, that says

suppose the body did this to us,
made us afraid of love–

[From Averno]

I think we are climates above which pause threats of storms that take place elsewhere

I think we are climates above which pause threats of storms that take place elsewhere.

The empty immensity of things, the grand oblivion in heaven and earth…

– Bernando Soares (Fernando Pessoa), The Book of Disquiet

Strictly speaking, history does not repeat itself, but . . .

Strictly speaking, history does not repeat itself, but since the illusions man is capable of are limited in number, they always return in another disguise, thereby giving some ultradecrepit filth a look of novelty and a tragic glaze.

— E. M. Cioran, The Trouble With Being Born

Omens :: Louise Glück

I rode to meet you: dreams
like living beings swarmed around me
and the moon on my right side
followed me, burning.

I rode back: everything changed.
My soul in love was sad
and the moon on my left side
trailed me without hope.

To such endless impressions
we poets give ourselves absolutely,
making, in silence, omen of mere event,
until the world reflects the deepest needs of the soul.

after Alexander Pushkin

[From Averno]

The Grammy/man-briefly-involved-with-a-Ding-Dong/penisless-man Coalition

in persuasion nation

1

A man and a woman sit in a field of daisies.

“Forever?” he says.

“Forever,” she says, and they kiss.

A giant Twinkie runs past, trailed by perhaps two hundred young women.

The woman leaps to her feet and runs to catch up to the Twinkie.

“The sweetest thing in the world,” the voiceover says, “just got sweeter.”

The man sits sadly in the field of daisies.

Luckily, a giant Ding-Dong runs past, trailed by perhaps two hundred young men.

The man leaps to his feet and runs to catch up with the Ding-Dong.

“But not to worry,” the voiceover says. “There’s more than enough sweetness to go around!”

The Ding-Dong puts his arm around the young man, and the young man smiles up at the Ding-Dong, and the Ding-Dong bends down and gives the young man a kiss on the head.

2

A hip-looking teen watches an elderly woman hobble across the street on a walker.

“Grammy’s here!” he shouts.

He puts some MacAttack Mac&Cheese in the microwave and dons headphones and takes out a video game so he won’t be bored during the forty seconds it takes his lunch to cook. A truck comes around the corner and hits Grammy, sending her flying over the roof into the backyard, where she luckily lands on a trampoline. Unluckily, she bounces back over the roof, into the front yard, landing in a rosebush.

“Timmy,” Grammy says feebly. “Call 911.”

Just then the bell on the microwave dings.

We see from the look on his face that Timmy is conflicted.

“Timmy dear,” Grammy says. “For God’s sake. It’s me. Your Grammy, dear.”

Timmy comes to his senses, takes his MacAttack Mac&Cheese from the microwave, and sits languorously eating it while listening to his headphones while playing his video game.

“Sometimes you just gotta have your MacAttack,” the voiceover says.

Grammy scowls in the bush. We see that she is a grouchy old unhip hag who probably wouldn’t have even been cool enough to let Timmy have his MacAttack, but would likely have forced him to eat some unhip old-person gruel or fruit.

Then fortunately Grammy’s head drops back, and she is dead.

4

Two best friends look at their penises under sophisticated microscopes.

“You call this Elongated?” says one man.

“Jim, I gained four inches,” says the other. “Perhaps you should try my brand.”

“What is your brand, Kevin?” says the other.

“My brand is, I hang a brick from my penis and stand for hour at the edge of the Grand Canyon,” says Kevin.

“Okay Kevin,” says Jim. “You’ve been my dearest friend since kindergarten. I’ll give it a try.”

Then we see Jim standing at the edge of the Grand Canyon, brick dangling from his penis, while Kevin tiptoes toward Jim’s car, and a voiceover says: Pontiac Sophisto: So sophisticated, it might just make you trick your best friend into a dangling a brick from his penis!

While Jim is distracted by the pain of the brick on his penis, Kevin squeals away in Jim’s Sophisto. As Jim spins around to look, his penis rips off and plummets into the Grand Canyon. Jim smiles wryly, acknowledging Kevin’s trick but also Kevin’s good taste in cars, then starts down into the Grand Canyon, to retrieve and, hopefully, reattach his penis.

— George Saunders, selections from the story “In Persuasion Nation” (from the book In Persuasion Nation)

a wrinkling of sputum scorpions

Those creatures all had sold their souls to a devil from Hell’s lower classes, greedy for sordidness and laxity. They lived the intoxication of vanity and idleness, and they died blandly amid cushions of words in a wrinkling of sputum scorpions.

— Bernando Soares (Fernando Pessoa), The Book of Disquiet

I would give the whole universe and all of Shakespeare

To get up in the morning, wash and then wait for some unforeseen variety of dread or depression.

I would give the whole universe and all of Shakespeare for a grain of ataraxy.

— E. M. Cioran, The Trouble With Being Born

The Revolution will be complete when the language is perfect.

“Don’t you see that the whole aim of Newspeak is to narrow the range of thought? In the end we shall make thoughtcrime literally impossible, because there will be no words in which to express it. Every concept that can ever be needed will be expressed by exactly one word, with its meaning rigidly defined and all its subsidiary meanings rubbed out and forgotten. Already, in the Eleventh Edition, we’re not far from that point. But the process will still be continuing long after you and I are dead. Every year fewer and fewer words, and the range of consciousness always a little smaller. Even now, there’s no reason or excuse for committing thoughtcrime. It’s merely a question of self-discipline, reality-control. The Revolution will be complete when the language is perfect. Newspeak is Ingsoc and Ingsoc is Newspeak,” he added with a sort of mystical satisfaction.

— George Orwell, 1984

The Night Migrations :: Louise Glück

This is the moment when you see again
the red berries of the mountain ash
and in the dark sky
the birds’ night migrations.

It grieves me to think
the dead won’t see them–
these things we depend on,
they disappear.

What will the soul do for solace then?
I tell myself maybe it won’t need
these pleasure anymore;
maybe just not being is simply enough,
hard as that is to imagine.

[From Averno]