Archive for November, 2007

treatise upon criticism

Posted in Prosage on November 29, 2007 by Mike Rosales

criticism, an opinion, is inevitable, forever. the peculiarities of instance demand a reaction.

upon buying a ticket, the door is shut in my face.

i appear only to ask when i am able to return, and yet i am crudely asked to desist from my pestering ways and remove myself.

i bought the ticket at cost.

to confer upon a person the singularity of judgement is not to be heralded as shameful. i dislike this man, for the moment. and it must be for the moment. he is a man i know and like and it is clear that he has simply not recognized me. i am not a violent person, so i shall take my dislike and walk away.

not without getting my money back, naturally.

the articulation of dissatisfaction must, within this instance, be taken up with the box-office vendor. during the act of criticism, in relaying a series of events that may or may not be true but are without doubt mine, i am also careful to allow the possibility for error.

to look at the process, as it processes.

i have my money back. but rather than reject my ill-feeling, i now hate the man. a simple dislike has blossomed into a healthy hatred.

the opinion itself is not the thing. it is the draw and sway of the current that pulls our mind, and our ability to fill each vessel, be it hate, love or an active displeasure, is the magnified virtue. one only enters into the world of criticism and validation in order to lose one’s way, to confirm that without reaction, the substance of reaction is invisible and an existence that is self-reliant is no existence at all.

besides, the film was apparently not worth seeing.

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morning reveries

Posted in Prosage on November 27, 2007 by Mike Rosales

i dream a lot these days. chekhov before bedtime.

the alarm woke me, and i rose from a quarry where i was sitting next to a sultry-eyed image beneath a frame of burnt timber. honeysuckle was entwined with the joints of the structure and the stars were just beyond, out of reach.

(it’s all or nothing, the stark resonance echoing like timbres from a tomb, relationships laid bare and an essential loneliness, essential because reduced and necessary.)

i reached up, exhausted, to meet the day. i wasn’t ready and i was still naked, hoping for post.

the food was finished, a shower was approached–the fallacies of routine! little lies written upon our foreheads in italics. yawning through and stretching out, the plans formed, the lines of enquiry spreading across the city, a pulse into hours ahead.

i returned to the living room. i looked to the kitchen and saw boiling water flowing over the sides of the pan and onto the floor, the smell of burnt plastic (unattended, again) and still no fucking post. i turned on the television and i began to cry at the complicated realities of television news.

it is more difficult at some times, than it is at others, to justify a return to bed.

clot

Posted in Prosage on November 25, 2007 by Mike Rosales

there can be no possibilities of having imagined a day like this.

coagulation begins with an injury to my shoulder, the injury itself becoming a result and cause no more important or significant to the order of things than the cascade of biochemical activities (the coagulation cascade) that stops the bleeding, that is to say it is crucial and its significance is only diminished through association with equals, with the other processes that make this unnoticeable. i form a clot from a mixture of the blood protein fibrin and platelets. once my bleeding is stopped, another blood protein dissolves the clot by breaking down the fibrin into fragments.

the only difference here would be if none of this happened.

today’s headlines

Posted in Poemage on November 22, 2007 by Mike Rosales

BONG

supermarket worker falls in puddle
pulling trolley of stock onto her, and
breaking her leg.
ambulance arrives, paramedic laughs.
song in background is bill withers’ lovely day.

BONG

discussions continue as to
best way to wrap presents.

BONG

cigarettes cheapest in wet markets.

BONG

chip butty not worth it if bread not buttered, says old man.

BONG

i lied to the bus driver.

BONG

that man keeps staring at me.
him, that one by the window.

BONG

more later.

three scenes

Posted in Prosage on November 18, 2007 by Mike Rosales

*
*
*
*

[in the kitchen, earlier]

a plate breaks. this discrete joy and driving fatigue hurts when laid against the fact of things.

it is my plate. definites, things if you will/want/like, have been contesting our little gauche truths for a while.

i’ll sweep it up. not the simple game of displacement (a leap to another), nor a concession to subjectivity, but rather the space allowed by the frame of you will never know.

put it in the bin. compaction is a resultant symptom of narrow vision, a petty denial.

i’ll take the bin out and go for a walk.

*

thought is an unexpected terrain, a cracked pavement and as i fall, i think of the plate and it cannot help now, not now as my knee impacts upon a concrete ridge. last night’s mini-storm is visible in the form of rivulets that run through my scalp while bluster touches at my cheeks and the containment of my philosophy has helped no one, but then it arrives, it really matters for a moment that could be forever and i don’t feel the need to get up or accept help.

*

[in the kitchen, later]

“you seem the same to me.”
“really?”
“yes.”
“not more–i don’t know, lucid and alive through an embrace with existence?”
“not really, no.”
“are you sure? no change at all?”
“i don’t think so.”
“look carefully.”
“i am looking carefully. i see no difference.”
“nothing?.”
“sorry.”
“it’s okay.”
“good.”

[a pause]

“i’m sorry i couldn’t see it, i really am, i can see that it is really important to you but, you know…are you okay?”

[a pause]

“i broke my plate.”

*
*
*
*

dear interested party

Posted in Prosage on November 16, 2007 by Mike Rosales

surroundings are indicative of nothing but themselves. the plains of my desk remind me of my desk. i ate some cakes earlier to banish the graze of hunger upon my insides and i couldn’t move. i complained of feeling sick, i tidied up. it was mainly my clothes that formed a small drift against the legs of the chair.

i am hoping to sleep soon, my social side sits on a balcony opposite in the bitter night air reading a russian novel. close your mouths, here is something. you will get what you seek. and you think you are anxious! i have written only two pages while seated at this desk, and i am due to leave for sagada very soon. i promised myself a hundred pages in three days. this is pre-emptively halfway down one of them; the first one. two pathetic pages; hardly the foundations for publication or even a lasting relationship. i am tired, the boulevard curve of my spine aches from the base.

a gentle, anxious search for the journal that confirms my frugal creativity is underway as a slanting lightness inside my head is opening out into the room and i hold a yawn at bay. the height of the rooms was to be expected i suppose.

i saw a lot of tall buildings today though, and a lot of old ones, too.

newsprint covers my hands but that isn’t what i need. i need to know of the old dictionary worn at the corners and torn on page four two six. on that postcard is a horse-drawn tram. and down there or over there, people laugh, three people, three men. there is the camera i bought. i just didn’t think to carry it with on those expeditions to the city.

that is my coffee mug, i made it this morning (the coffee not the cup). i have forgotten yesterday already, and i write this quietly because my sister is sleeping. i am free to question my own stamina, and my literary impotence; it bears upon my day, lashing it down. i try to guess the time and think of how much is left before i have to move. i am unsure but it is okay because in the end we won’t go out anyway.

the very best for less

Posted in Prosage on November 14, 2007 by Mike Rosales

a statement of intent as poignant as a fight i saw outside a supermarket.