Tuesday, February 08, 2005
The Disappointments of Archibald Kent
That sometimes listening to music he feels as if he is that music yet remains, in fact, himself.
That green is less comely upon his being than he tells himself it is; he knows, and his telling is in the face of his knowing; leads him to his various ties of green and green fields, frogs, clover, aspens, the Hulk for his son on Museum Day; his telling himself is his dissatisfaction.
Is a folk ballad playing in the elevator.
Moby-Dick. The Rapture. Original Sin.
Commuting is not, contrary to long preconception revealed to be rationalized desire by the unfolding of actual time, conducive to introspection.
That spirituality has nothing to do with dreaming.
Having spent $2.19/lb. on an organic pumpkin and finding upon his habitual porch pulp and cracked seeds in a nimbus around the rodent-cored vegetable.
Fishing, in general, is not as relaxing as he’d expect.
That due to inflation, cost comparisons over time are inaccurate. That adjusting by rate is a further lie, in that dollars are relative and unless the commodity pool is equivalent, how can you know what anything is worth or was worth, in and of itself, let alone each to the other?
The Rolling Stones’ 25th reunion concert.
Not knowing, opossum, squirrel, or raccoon. His son not caring too much either way.
When groups of small waves are interspersed by too-few larger ones.
The week camping in Shenandoah his father promised to teach him fly-fishing.
That professor who would say ‘incredible’ regarding details which were, in fact, mundane.
The unconscious being far less mysterious than he’d planned. Than he’d been promised. Also, the internet.
Dreams. Especially wet ones. Not to mention his romantic life.
That “melodrama cannot be seen as frivolous.”
Meekness often passes unrecognized.
Tunnels which lead somewhere. Language. Almost all bagels, though not Lender’s. That is to say, essential instability.
That time has no recognizable rhythm, and does not repeat. Or will not. At least, it won’t him. But does, to him, the stars. Though not really; for even such is mocking. Is apparent, not true, repetition.
That his dissatisfactions seem not to be shared by others.
That people who say “go with the flow” really mean go with their flow. And don’t.
That sometimes listening to music he feels as if he is that music yet remains, in fact, himself.
That green is less comely upon his being than he tells himself it is; he knows, and his telling is in the face of his knowing; leads him to his various ties of green and green fields, frogs, clover, aspens, the Hulk for his son on Museum Day; his telling himself is his dissatisfaction.
Is a folk ballad playing in the elevator.
Moby-Dick. The Rapture. Original Sin.
Commuting is not, contrary to long preconception revealed to be rationalized desire by the unfolding of actual time, conducive to introspection.
That spirituality has nothing to do with dreaming.
Having spent $2.19/lb. on an organic pumpkin and finding upon his habitual porch pulp and cracked seeds in a nimbus around the rodent-cored vegetable.
Fishing, in general, is not as relaxing as he’d expect.
That due to inflation, cost comparisons over time are inaccurate. That adjusting by rate is a further lie, in that dollars are relative and unless the commodity pool is equivalent, how can you know what anything is worth or was worth, in and of itself, let alone each to the other?
The Rolling Stones’ 25th reunion concert.
Not knowing, opossum, squirrel, or raccoon. His son not caring too much either way.
When groups of small waves are interspersed by too-few larger ones.
The week camping in Shenandoah his father promised to teach him fly-fishing.
That professor who would say ‘incredible’ regarding details which were, in fact, mundane.
The unconscious being far less mysterious than he’d planned. Than he’d been promised. Also, the internet.
Dreams. Especially wet ones. Not to mention his romantic life.
That “melodrama cannot be seen as frivolous.”
Meekness often passes unrecognized.
Tunnels which lead somewhere. Language. Almost all bagels, though not Lender’s. That is to say, essential instability.
That time has no recognizable rhythm, and does not repeat. Or will not. At least, it won’t him. But does, to him, the stars. Though not really; for even such is mocking. Is apparent, not true, repetition.
That his dissatisfactions seem not to be shared by others.
That people who say “go with the flow” really mean go with their flow. And don’t.
