Afternoon Bones

Indecision

Self-interest

The perfect noble protagonist, some will observe, rarely considers his or her own self-interest. No accident, this: we naturally find another's absorbtion with Self to be abhorrent, for such activity infringes upon our own.

The image of nobility, then, does not allow the noble to debase themselves with self-concerning thoughts. The image of nobility, observed, does not force us, its observers, to cease our own self-focus. "Nobility" allows us to remain within, self-contained: it does not force us to ourselves be noble.

And yet there is an attractive confidence to the opposite side of this. The perfectly ignoble--a self-absorbed buffoon, thinking only of himself--is no hero, but he is often a protagonist. And he often gets the girl. The reasons we love this scoundrel, though, are the same for which we also love his noble brother: one distracts us from our self-loathing, while the other does not keep us from self-love.

We are a fickle species, we audience.

March 2015

Hay in a Pincushion

Craigslist personals: that wierd, sad, lonely corner of our endlessly mystifying culture.

This is an occasional late-night morbid-curiosity hobby of mine.  Something about the raw, desperate tenor in these online guttees appeals to my sense that we are approaching some social deconstruction, here.  We are losing something.

On most pages, in most Craigslists, tucked between the prostitutes and dick pics, are the cries of desperately lonely people who do not know where to look for companionship.  They cast a line for a needle in a haystack; they self-consciously admit they've never done this before; they nervously disclose irrelevant information.  The mask reveals much more than it conceals.

And for all I read and do not understand, I also fail to comprehend what draws me back.

the hearing

in dark silence, i complain
to no-one in particular
that i cannot stay here.
the space is too small, and
isn't what was advertised or sold;
a grevious bait-and-switch,
and so i'd like to speak to
management--who tells me
nothing.

later on, a representative calls
to tell me in her pretty voice, space
being what it is, i'll have to stay
and try to compact my frame
to fit what's been given me
or sleep outdoors and wait
with no guarantee for better digs,
plus--a litany of other losses and
regrets.

back, and back again i go
hammering on the manager's door,
convinced that somehow all my
pleading (embarassed and indignant)
will change his iron will. no response
is tendered, yet the act becomes
a balm upon this wound: suffering
in noise to salve the painful
silence.

i never shrink, nor compact, nor
move. the space remains my own, and
i fill it to the brim, a bittered tenant
to my own unwanted place. there is
no resolution known nor hoped, only
dismal continuity to my sneering fate.
late some night, i'll start again to raise my
self-pitying declarations, and find i am
alone

among the ruins of this cavernous
constriction. that's always what
it wasn't, i suppose; i never wanted
the management at all--likely even,
i never minded much the space, just
wanted not to be so wronged, to be
so poorly served. but then, alone,
i suppose i'll find i only wanted to be
heard.




february 2015