Saturday, June 13, 2009

thoughts (fragments)

the Firemen and the Devil, Hollis Brown Thornton

i walk back towards my car. in my head i'm composing the presentation i have to give next week. "Cohen's quadripartite division to justify property is a consequence not soo much of taxonomy, but of the fundamental difficulty of assigning a definition to it [property]. Most scholars have had no choice but to approach the topic multitudiniously, because single-faceted approaches have left unacceptable gaps. The crux of the problem is that the law has been constructed to manage relationships between persons- the rights and duties and obligations of persons. Property being an inanimate object, and occasionally an incorporeal construct, presents a problem of relationships. How do we incorporate physicalities into a our legal structure? A preliminary proposition is to define ownership of property as the right to exclude others from 'it'. Such a right... "

it is nice to be lost in thoughts that are soo seperate from myself. but of course, the ignition is turned. i am filled with repugnance. i am hating my car nowadays. it's only a matter of time till i get rid of it. (and the property-train-of-thought finally reaches its destination with an exhalation).


in my head i play out scenes. fantasies. i am certain that nothing in the future will ever happen as expected. as planned. sometimes it will be better beyond all conception. you get what you want, but in a way you never could have imagined. at a time you weren't preparing for it. othertimes... well. disasters. tragedies. those... intimate little genocides just for you. so these scenes- everytime i imagine something in my head... a phonecall about a bookdeal, __a conversation, all things i need to hear right now, said aloud, real, __installing a stereo into my next(new) car, __i say goodbye to that particular course of events. if i imagine it, i have destroyed the possibility of it happening in that way. perhaps i will hear those things, but not at the restaraunt i had imagined. not phrased the way they are in my head. she won't be wearing that dress. she may not be wearing a dress at all. she may be wearing a pale yellow knit with light-grey tracksuit pants. we may be in my bedroom sitting on a yellow couch. she may preface it by holding her hair in a great heap with one hand. (possibility extinguished). it may be a he. he may say it at O'Hare International Airport, with his hand holding my elbow, looking me intently in the face, searching for the whole genealogy of that moment (which over tea i'll tell him and his wife later). that situation will never exist again.

it makes me sad. sometimes i consciously stop myself from dreaming. you limit your possibilities by imaginging them ahead of time. Q, don't do it. let them exist as possibilities.


i'm listening to the long version of Life in a Glasshouse. with the long horn intro. a demented jazz band. Thom Yorke's long high-pitched syllables. from the street, the night looks into houses with the lights on. plush white carpets. kids toys scattered everywhere. televisions on mute, but still on. the gorgeous brown inside glass bottles. the red eyes of desperate men. lonely women. rebellious teenagers. micro hifi stereos. vases that haven't been dusted in too long. in black underwear, impersonating swimming motions on plush white carpets, inbetween drunk texts. the smell of dogs. the comatose fish in their water-tombs. barely a bubble. the whhirrss of heaters. the click of toasters. late night nibbles. under blankets, still awake, mumbling prayers. hands with nothing to touch. vinyl kitchen counters. white lights scare my soul back into a cave. pour another. another. the red eyes of delighted teens. of miserable divorcees. of depressives with and without cause to be. the friendless. the stressed. the thrill-seekers. family portraits look fake, too much time has passed, who are these people? on the fridge something slips out from under a magnet, falls to the floor. blue pens that don't work under bare feet. soundless feet taking soundless steps around mute homes. like sown-up lips except for the light in the living room window illuminating the grass on the lawn. the too far gone. pour another, another. heaving for breath. this is (is?) life. night. now. before. again. never. tomorrow. who the f*ck knows. who? another. another. (rolls off the white couch onto the carpet. laugh until my head comes off). her house. the computer-mouse is greasy. flip through television channels on mute. mindlessly. thumbs declaring mutiny. pornography at 3am is the realm of desperate men. a sickly conclusion on your belly. the scrape of a tissue. wretch. another, another. pour another. who knows, who? the joy-seekers. the spin-the-bottle teens. the girl's night out come back home. the calm. the skeletons of the day. the bones of our play. the dregs of our stay. pee again. laugh until my head comes off (he swims on the white carpet in his underwear). who knows, who?

_________(night smiles and walks away)

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