So I picked up a few cactus fruits with my bare hands yesterday, which was not the smartest thing I've ever done. Hindsight is 20/20 and all that. They looked as though all of their needles had fallen off or been removed, but there were plenty of very small ones--so many and so small that I didn't bother picking them out of my hands; by this morning, I think most all of them had fallen out.
Monica left yesterday, and I may go up to Milan to visit her, but her father is sickand the situation may be too strained for a visit. Otherwise, I'm off to Florence and Rome for theten days between this Wednesday, when I leave Elba, and the first of October, when I'm set to begin working the olive harvest in Abruzzo. Yesterday also marked the arrival of Chris, a WOOFer from Scotland. We spoke in Italian for most of the night, which was comical, but significant insofar as weboth wanted to work through the language--simpler communication, but more saturated with the gesture and the choice of what to pursue communicating and what to leave be. He's 34, very open and sincere, very approachable. As a general rule, I'm often intimidated by new people; and so I couldn't tell if it was him or changes in myself or our common struggle with the language or some combination of these which put me at ease with him immediately. Later we talked in English, and I found myself gushing out thoughts to Chris; being able to express myself in English to someone so immediately present must have opened a valve. Take this blog and condense it into two or three conversations, and that is what Chris got, more or less. I apologized later for the bombardment, but he seemed to appreciate talking, or at least me talking at him. I asked him about ways he has travelled on a budget and on his own, and he said "find good people who are willing to help you," and I think this is good.
My head has been very practical lately, with the arrangements for Florence, Rome, the next two farms, and thinking on the next big leg of the trip. I've decided not to go to Tunisia, and to spend the whole six month North Africa chunk before summer 2007 in Morocco. I though harder about why I wanted to go to Tunisia, and it was pretty much because I wanted to live in a troglodyte home in the desert for a couple of months. As Sarah said to me later, "you can dig a hole anywhereand live in it."
Also, I designed a new label for the wine here, which Vittorio totally digs, and if everything works out, it'll be on shelves by the next vintage.
PS- Yay Sarah for the Story Corps gig!
9.18.2006
9.13.2006
...and when this ship goes down, it will become apparent that there was no captain, only the mad sea. (journal excerpts)
--When people ask how I am enjoying Italy or what Italy is like, I don't have much to say. I am in summer, a farm near the sea, a small room to myself, but rarely am I in Italy. Customs and cultural differences bring me there once or twice a day at most. The people are less Italian than anybody new. What most significantly makes Italy italian is Italian. And what can I say of the language that would mean much of anything in the way of an answer? I cannot speak of Italy, but only of travel, which is to say, of myself. I don't believe in Italy or America or Israel, but in place; there is no happiness, anger, relief, grief, guilt, but feeling; no green, red, blue, but these colors I see. I am discovering the New World far older than the Old World and already discovered and explored many times over. What is bed but that upon which my sleeping body rests? I am going to bed, and it is the stomach of a giant reptile. There is no touch but feel, no sight but see, and no I but symphonic life. I do not ask for this to last, because that would be Old World; I simply receive as I am given.
--No to see but see and seeing, no to feel but feel and feeling, no to be but be and being. The infinitive is an undead lie; undead because it never lives, and so can never die.
--When I was working in the fields this morning, I saw spider-webs all across the field, connecting the world to itself, and there were ants through which living lives anf moving moves. I understod that the logic expressed in yesterday's journal entry is only one logic, which is wonderful when you live in it, but there is more and there is always more. I saw the ants and saw that there is also the infinitive and the genrund and the noun--to live lives through me, living lives through me, life lives through me--I am a sieve and a vehicle as well as that atomic or monadic explorer. Sense is the easiest thing to make for a fool--the logics are so abundant that sense is most completely nonsense. Of course, most completely is not completely complete--in fact, within most logics, sense makes sens and not nonsense. And then there is this logic of logics, where nonsense makes sense and sense is nonsense. What is logic? It is modality. This is construction near the ground floor, the pneumatic psychic floor which is more pervasive than floor, it is thought in the brain or music in the air.
--What is meant, then, by the scar? or the wound? The wound is the event (that is to say, the mark of difference) which, instead of healing, takes on other shapes. The scar is the presence of the wound in its various shapes. And the tattoo is the desired scar, the scar that is sought after. Narrative life is synonymous with the growth of scar tissue, the memory of which molfds it into new shapes, as does the growth of one scar push on all the rest and they bend with one another like points in an energy field. The acceptance of the wound and of the scar is an acceptance of life--the appreciation of difficulties and so-called wrongs can be the submission to sublime Grace. What then of scars that oppose themselves to this mode of thought, such as the fear of conflict or the addiction to overcoming addiction? We here are all addicts, whether we answer to attention, approval, the mere presence of others, habit, love, ideas, mastery of self, of others, movement, progress, magic, self, making others happy, making yourself happy, the new, fear, or something else entirely. And when the acceptance meets non-acceptance, we are thrown from our high transcendental horse into the horseshit of better and worse, of progress and regress, more and less--horseshit that smells so pungent and addictive, so good and bad and neither. There is no solution to this save perhaps its dissolution. Multiform and manifold life with its endless modalities will not stand for the Either-Or; it is and, or, neither--accepting, denying, appearing, disappearing, progressing, regressing, none of the above. What of scars that will not submit to divine Grace? They will arrive and may be molded into new shapes that in turn submit, resist, disappear, grow, etc. as will the tattoos and scars that do bow to Grace. Nothing, something, somethings, everything--the flux of fields--the and, the or, the neither. So let it be, don't let it be, let it not be, don't let it not be, and so on and so forth, Amen.
--I am afraid of Writing and of attempting to write Writing. I know what craft is and what artifice is, but not art. When I try to Write, I am overwhelmed by artifice. I think art is a happening; and I saturate this Writing with artifice in the attempt to realize the art of it, to happen upon beauty and profundity. When I Write I try to realize an idea or ideas in the medium in which I am working. Content and form do not make art, though art manifests itself through them. Art is the imagination of life. How confusingly natural it all is--for the stars to be eyes and stretching legs to be a journey around the world to be change to be death to be birth. Life imagines art, which, in turn, imagines life; and in imagining life, art realizes and adds to it. I feel there will be a time I will throw away my books and go for a walk.
--Just got touched by a jellyfish. It felt like an electric shock on the skin. Then I peed on my arm and pressed it against hot rocks, which didn't do much, but it didn't hurt either.
I've been taking off my glasses more often, giving myself new sight; and there are the sunglasses and the combinations I can make. I've become more tactile through this, and I've been trying to feel thought as a sense through with this expanded sense of touch. I feel as though I've intellectualized myself to a higher pain threshold. I also feel more playful. The past few days I've experienced a rush of memories and writing. I remember painful memories best; I'd like to believe these memories stick out because I did and do generally feel good, and so I think on things past not as the good old days, but the old days, and the memories of pain are sweetened as they remind me of myself and my selves. One memory examined for a brief time, intead of being touched upon and disregarded, leads into the labyrinth of memory, an endless body. It began with a random thought of Mr. Nemeth, my high school drama teacher, and exploded from there. I am letting emotions, intuitions, ambiences, and energies play a larger role in my daily experiences. I am also remembering how I experienced as a child--living in my head and out in space, looking out of the side window of the car instead of the windshield, entering conversation when I feel like it and exiting just as easily. This rediscovery has been greatly aided by the fact of the language hurdle. I sometimes look around and laugh as these people are talking and where are we? and isn't it all so strange and bewildering? so hilarious and spacious. There you are, but who are you? Everyone is some certain someone, and it is miraculous. Everyone is anyone and people are all people. I was close to touching the sublimity of humans the other day, just standing or walking around the border, looking out onto the sublime. Looking at Vittorio or Monica or Chinzia, it was the same--"who are you?" "How strange it is to be anything at all."
--On the boat to the island of Montechristo, Monica says that the island seems unreal. I think it is a rock in the middle of the sea like Chicago is or anything else. What does seem real? The only thing I can come up with is the unexamined habit.
--The infinite as that beyond which one cannot see...this is also inside rocks or behind any vision, whether it be chair, star, thought, past, or future.
--I had another good conversation with Vittorio today. I told him how I expected a resurgence of some mutation of feudalism as the de-centered, polymorphous philosophy of the post-modern and post-structural germinates in the blood and behind the eyes of the populus. He said he expected hedonism, and that is was good and pragmatic--that hedonism is a pragmatic ideology insofar as the subject is forced to decide what he or she wants, to think about the worlds available and to act according to these descisions instead of habitually and unthinkingly submitting to popular and hand-me-down ideologies. I think that's not such a bad idea, especially given that the ideological structures such as the state or the school already function hedonistically, that is to say, they seek their own good--and to be suckered into their good is to submit to an agenda not necessarily your own.
--My compliments to the Romans.
--No to see but see and seeing, no to feel but feel and feeling, no to be but be and being. The infinitive is an undead lie; undead because it never lives, and so can never die.
--When I was working in the fields this morning, I saw spider-webs all across the field, connecting the world to itself, and there were ants through which living lives anf moving moves. I understod that the logic expressed in yesterday's journal entry is only one logic, which is wonderful when you live in it, but there is more and there is always more. I saw the ants and saw that there is also the infinitive and the genrund and the noun--to live lives through me, living lives through me, life lives through me--I am a sieve and a vehicle as well as that atomic or monadic explorer. Sense is the easiest thing to make for a fool--the logics are so abundant that sense is most completely nonsense. Of course, most completely is not completely complete--in fact, within most logics, sense makes sens and not nonsense. And then there is this logic of logics, where nonsense makes sense and sense is nonsense. What is logic? It is modality. This is construction near the ground floor, the pneumatic psychic floor which is more pervasive than floor, it is thought in the brain or music in the air.
--What is meant, then, by the scar? or the wound? The wound is the event (that is to say, the mark of difference) which, instead of healing, takes on other shapes. The scar is the presence of the wound in its various shapes. And the tattoo is the desired scar, the scar that is sought after. Narrative life is synonymous with the growth of scar tissue, the memory of which molfds it into new shapes, as does the growth of one scar push on all the rest and they bend with one another like points in an energy field. The acceptance of the wound and of the scar is an acceptance of life--the appreciation of difficulties and so-called wrongs can be the submission to sublime Grace. What then of scars that oppose themselves to this mode of thought, such as the fear of conflict or the addiction to overcoming addiction? We here are all addicts, whether we answer to attention, approval, the mere presence of others, habit, love, ideas, mastery of self, of others, movement, progress, magic, self, making others happy, making yourself happy, the new, fear, or something else entirely. And when the acceptance meets non-acceptance, we are thrown from our high transcendental horse into the horseshit of better and worse, of progress and regress, more and less--horseshit that smells so pungent and addictive, so good and bad and neither. There is no solution to this save perhaps its dissolution. Multiform and manifold life with its endless modalities will not stand for the Either-Or; it is and, or, neither--accepting, denying, appearing, disappearing, progressing, regressing, none of the above. What of scars that will not submit to divine Grace? They will arrive and may be molded into new shapes that in turn submit, resist, disappear, grow, etc. as will the tattoos and scars that do bow to Grace. Nothing, something, somethings, everything--the flux of fields--the and, the or, the neither. So let it be, don't let it be, let it not be, don't let it not be, and so on and so forth, Amen.
--I am afraid of Writing and of attempting to write Writing. I know what craft is and what artifice is, but not art. When I try to Write, I am overwhelmed by artifice. I think art is a happening; and I saturate this Writing with artifice in the attempt to realize the art of it, to happen upon beauty and profundity. When I Write I try to realize an idea or ideas in the medium in which I am working. Content and form do not make art, though art manifests itself through them. Art is the imagination of life. How confusingly natural it all is--for the stars to be eyes and stretching legs to be a journey around the world to be change to be death to be birth. Life imagines art, which, in turn, imagines life; and in imagining life, art realizes and adds to it. I feel there will be a time I will throw away my books and go for a walk.
--Just got touched by a jellyfish. It felt like an electric shock on the skin. Then I peed on my arm and pressed it against hot rocks, which didn't do much, but it didn't hurt either.
I've been taking off my glasses more often, giving myself new sight; and there are the sunglasses and the combinations I can make. I've become more tactile through this, and I've been trying to feel thought as a sense through with this expanded sense of touch. I feel as though I've intellectualized myself to a higher pain threshold. I also feel more playful. The past few days I've experienced a rush of memories and writing. I remember painful memories best; I'd like to believe these memories stick out because I did and do generally feel good, and so I think on things past not as the good old days, but the old days, and the memories of pain are sweetened as they remind me of myself and my selves. One memory examined for a brief time, intead of being touched upon and disregarded, leads into the labyrinth of memory, an endless body. It began with a random thought of Mr. Nemeth, my high school drama teacher, and exploded from there. I am letting emotions, intuitions, ambiences, and energies play a larger role in my daily experiences. I am also remembering how I experienced as a child--living in my head and out in space, looking out of the side window of the car instead of the windshield, entering conversation when I feel like it and exiting just as easily. This rediscovery has been greatly aided by the fact of the language hurdle. I sometimes look around and laugh as these people are talking and where are we? and isn't it all so strange and bewildering? so hilarious and spacious. There you are, but who are you? Everyone is some certain someone, and it is miraculous. Everyone is anyone and people are all people. I was close to touching the sublimity of humans the other day, just standing or walking around the border, looking out onto the sublime. Looking at Vittorio or Monica or Chinzia, it was the same--"who are you?" "How strange it is to be anything at all."--On the boat to the island of Montechristo, Monica says that the island seems unreal. I think it is a rock in the middle of the sea like Chicago is or anything else. What does seem real? The only thing I can come up with is the unexamined habit.
--The infinite as that beyond which one cannot see...this is also inside rocks or behind any vision, whether it be chair, star, thought, past, or future.
--I had another good conversation with Vittorio today. I told him how I expected a resurgence of some mutation of feudalism as the de-centered, polymorphous philosophy of the post-modern and post-structural germinates in the blood and behind the eyes of the populus. He said he expected hedonism, and that is was good and pragmatic--that hedonism is a pragmatic ideology insofar as the subject is forced to decide what he or she wants, to think about the worlds available and to act according to these descisions instead of habitually and unthinkingly submitting to popular and hand-me-down ideologies. I think that's not such a bad idea, especially given that the ideological structures such as the state or the school already function hedonistically, that is to say, they seek their own good--and to be suckered into their good is to submit to an agenda not necessarily your own.
--My compliments to the Romans.
9.03.2006
Curses and Curtains
Fast as it is, feels like soft lava carrying me down to sea and dissolving the flesh and vestigial bones. What a solipsist! An egoist! And? And too democratic a soul, or else a coward. A rambling sidestep, pointing towards, but not at. It is maybe time to dismantle this perverse communication. I know too well the manipulation of rhetoric and sincerity which makes things too easy and overwhelmingly frightening. Some serpentine monster stretched through my intestines, lungs, heart, nose, eyes, brain, woven through the teeth; I fear the bellybutton scar and all it means with me and with us. Listen, I know this is obtuse and how it could be and how it could very well be the only way to where I am.
There are plenty of domesticated human stories that do not interest me enough to go on about now or maybe ever. A wet dog walks into a bar and is given water. No, I get too much from this performance to stop, even and especially as I take on the aspect of this snakeish thing which is born of the umbilical scar you can feel the beginning worm of which just behind the navel. Melt the vestigial bones, the tonsils, the appendices! Cold blood and hot electric current. Declarative navigation with loose rudder! Dogs playing poker! Drinking water! Swinging a hammer! Drinking sulfuric acid! Taking off the glasses before going to sleep!
Can't sleep. Bed's on fire.
There are plenty of domesticated human stories that do not interest me enough to go on about now or maybe ever. A wet dog walks into a bar and is given water. No, I get too much from this performance to stop, even and especially as I take on the aspect of this snakeish thing which is born of the umbilical scar you can feel the beginning worm of which just behind the navel. Melt the vestigial bones, the tonsils, the appendices! Cold blood and hot electric current. Declarative navigation with loose rudder! Dogs playing poker! Drinking water! Swinging a hammer! Drinking sulfuric acid! Taking off the glasses before going to sleep!
Can't sleep. Bed's on fire.
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