Gonzo Marketing:Winning Through Worst Practices The Bombast Transcripts: Rants and Screeds of RageBoy
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Thursday, October 23, 2003
Mnemosyne
Tonight I had to move my car because they're paving the parking lots for the next three days, and any cars remaining in those lots will be towed, and they always add: at the owner's expense. Couldn't have that. And I am forgetful these latter days. Of some things, if not -- as I have been reminded -- of others. But we'll get to that. We'll get to all of it eventually. I recall here a song The Lovin Spoonful sang. I saw them once in Buffalo, the drummer it was rumored, having been holed up in the van all day on a bad trip. Solly, the lead guitarist, later on a bad trip of his own for turning states evidence on other heads to save his own skin. Yeah and a daydream may last you for thousand years. But it wasn't that one. And it wasn't Do You Believe in Magic, though that's what I asked the first time I really spoke to her on the street one day down by the Post Office at 15th and Walnut. All this means nothing to you, I know. All this is gone now, as you said. All this is, as you reminded me, no longer. Gone forever. And the colored girls go doo doo-doo...

And the Buddhist millions, godless heathens all, go GATE GATE PARAGATE PARASAMGATE BODHI SVAHA. I quote from memory, mother of the muses, as the just-published 11th edition of Merriam-Webster's Collegiate Dictionary tells me. Adding helpfully, by Zeus. Right you are. I'll take Greek Mythology for 400, Alex. By Zeus, I'll take you for what you are, for what you meant to me, for all you're worth. So that's the title slug for you, what it means. The Sanskrit (and Tibetan in the grafik) translates something like gone, gone, gone beyond, gone beyond beyond, no longer there: awake.

I quote from memory. Yes yes yes, she said. And I wrote to her just last week: "you fucking liar."

Keep in mind any number can play. As the hometown band noted: it's all mixed up.

And as one thing leads to another, always has, always will, I am put in mind of another song, this one by The Incredible String Band, than which there were never more hippie musicians, unless it was The Fugs doing Blake.... Ah Sunflower, weary of time... etc, etc, as Alfred Korzybski, general semanticist par excellence (who can also get in line to kiss my ass, the map having become indistinguishable from the territory since the precession of simulacra came to town) said we should always add to any statement to show that there's more, etc. There's always more, as she said, though in a much different context. Much different. Much more. Those who do not study the past, someone else said, probably somebody famous, are doomed to repeat it: the intertext an endless palimpsest, a canvas stretched across time, a long look backward to the Indo-European, wolfsong on the steppes, repetition compulsion for madmen only, and they sang...

Sleepers awaken
The night has gone and taken
Your darkest fears and left you here
And the sun shines bright and clear.
O awake for the world is wonderful.
The Incredible String Band, that is. I used to sing it some mornings when I felt like that. And the Blake thing too. But I haven't forgotten where this started out back there -- with The Lovin Spoonful, remember? -- three paragraphs or thirty years ago...
I will be there in the morning if I live.
I will be there in the morning if I don't get killed.
And if I'm never no more,
girl, what can I say?
be sure to
remember me....
Something like that.

So as I was saying, I had to move my car. Which I did, not feeling able to withstand the fine this time for forgetting. For forfeiting memory. For the backwards fugue of Godel's Escher's Bach, an infernal Holden Caulfield. In short, for waltzing four-four time, the web and the rock, and you can't go home again. Be sure to move the car I was telling myself all day. Be sure to move the car. Like Samuel L. in The Long Kiss Goodnight -- gypsy woman tol' my mama... do-do-do-do-doo... day I was born...

Be sure to remember me. Etc.

As if one could forget the precedents of common law. Even if one wanted to. And one does. Yet one doesn't. The Lord is my Shepherdizer. I shall not want: the Lexus nexus or the rosy crucifixion, the miller's tale, sexus plexus and the air-conditioned nightmare. I shall not want. I will not desire. An endless river. An endless palimpsest. A canvas stretched to breaking. And I thought to myself: this must be the place.

Yes yes yes.

The hallways all looked the same anyway. And nothing doing down any of them anymore. As you pointed out. In case that had escaped me. As if only some of us needed to go back there. As if holding these things now gone forever were the source of this grief instead of its harbingers and handmaidens, doomed to repeat, to repeat after me: you got a man child comin'... do-do-do-do-doo... gonna be a son of a gun...

I was born for good luck
and money too.
I got seven hundred dollars, baby,           {{{so Euan tells me}}}
gonna mess with you,
'cause I am...
Everbody knows I am. Including and especially you. Your eyes that night. Broke my heart. But I understood. Thought I maybe did. I always understand. Think I maybe do. It's that ol' empathy disease makes me so angry, baby. Drives me wild. I love you. I chose the pain no matter what. Call me crazy. But don't say it, don't think it, let go. It will only hurt more. There's nothing here for you. Nothing left. Thanks, I really needed that. Sex, lies and film at 11. But I gotta say, you're really bad at it. Lying, that is. Did I ever tell you I wrote this for the Everlies in 1960? That I was with Linda when she hit with it in '75? Damn what a woman.
I've been made blue.
I've been lied to.
When will I be loved.
Unless what your eyes were telling me is true. In which case, false. In which case... what? Must be my arrogance kicking up again, to say I know you better than you know yourself. My truth. Your truth. Fuck that. That was never our game. There was no game. No eye, no ear, no body, no mind... Those heathen Buddhists chanting in my head again. I love you no matter what you do or say. No boundaries. No limit. I was born for it. Yeah that, and money too. It is to laugh. But you don't see me laughing. Can't keep you straight anymore. Can't tell you apart.
I bought a book this afternoon, after I dropped Selene off. Selene whom I love so much. Who is so smart and alive, so beautiful, such a pain in the ass. You think everyone's a narcissist, she said. Do not, I said, but I've known a few. Yes you do, she said. You think everyone's a narcissist. I guess I was talking about my first girlfriend. Who was one. Trust me. And my last. So there's that. My whole life sandwiched between sexually alluring psycho vampires. I attract them like flies. (May I have a kitten next time, Master?) Selene loves to give me shit. The book was Telling Lies: Clues to Deceit in the Marketplace, Politics, and Marriage. I showed it to her in Borders. Said I needed to get some new tips. She said Asshat! I got home around 3 and wanted to read it, but I knew I was going to crash. So I put on Scream III. I've been falling asleep to movies for the last couple months, as the only talk radio I can pull in is some rabid Christian whacko shit, and I started thinking I was going to wake up one day and want to bomb abortion clinics, kill queers, and support our Commander-in-Chief.

Just as I was nodding off, Jennifer Plastic Girl, who is playing Gale Weathers in Stab III (it's complicated if you haven't seen the movie, or even if you have) is complaining bitterly to Dewey (not the Dewey of Huey and Louie or the Decimal System). She says of the "real" Gale Weathers: "She's a narcissistic psycho bitch!" I woke up. I ran the tape back. Did she really say that? If I'd imagined it, Selene was right: I was in deep psychological sheepdip. I hit play. Plastic Girl said, "She's a narcissistic psycho bitch!"

Whew!

I called Selene, left a message on the answering machine explaining all this. She knows the Scream movies inside out, so it was easier than with you. "She's a narcissistic psycho bitch!" I said. I said, so see? Wes Craven and me. Like minds. I wonder what her mom must've thought. What she doesn't know is that Selene and I also talk about things she might find useful in her schoolwork. Like how the money that supports the Nobel Prize came from the fortune amassed by Alfred Nobel after he discovered nitroglycerine and how you take a little bit of that sublingually if you feel a heart attack coming on. History, science, medicine, all worked neatly into a single paragraph.

"Dynamite, huh?" I say. I think I'm a pretty good role model.

"You're scaring me," Selene says. "You're very fucked up, you know that."

"I know," I say, and very loud, "I NEED MY MEDS!!!"

We're standing at a stoplight. A woman in the passenger seat of a car three lanes over turns around and looks. Selene and I are laughing. We stop so I can get an iced espresso. She begs me not to. I buy her a raspberry sorbet. She calms down. "How is it?" I ask. "Pretty good," she says. "Asshat!"

So Telling Lies. Yeah. Here's an unrepresentative clip from the chapter titled "Lying, Leakage, and Clues to Deceit." The rest of the book is not necessarily as amusing, which is not to say it isn't good; just more serious; as in: as cancer. I do wish I'd read this bit a couple years ago, though, as it might have come in handy at a particularly noxious Boulder gallery showing.

"Another technique that allows the liar to avoid saying anything untrue is the incorrect-inference dodge. A newspaper columnist gave a humorous account of how to use this dodge to solve the familiar problem of what to say when you don't like a friend's work. You are at the opening of your friend's art exhibition. You think the work is dreadful, but before you can sneak out your friend rushes over and asks you what you think. "'Jerry,' you say (assuming the artist in question is named Jerry), gazing deep into his eyes as if overcome with emotion, 'Jerry, Jerry, Jerry.' Maintain the clasp, maintain the eye contact. Ten times out of ten Jerry will finally break your grip, mumble a modest phrase or two, and move on..."

I stood at the edge of the parking garage and smoked a cigarette. There was a party going on somewhere. I looked at the sky and felt myself looking at it from the inside. The color of the clouds at sunset. The color of how I was looking at them. I am here. It was more than a thought. And less. I myself.

Yesterday I read something that reminded me of that. Interiority, it said. Something about interiority.

Tonight after I moved the car. I took a walk. I thought how long it's been. How long since I walked here. And I knew why. All that I carried, held. All that I lost. I was afraid. So I made myself keep walking. There's a clue. Down the path that begins at the end of the street. A place I'd been many times. When I first moved here. Memories of you. Whichever one you are now. But I took the other fork this time, walked into the darkness. No moon. No one to know. Some people seek solitude, I thought. I don't even have to look. There was appreciation in it, gratitude, even if mixed with a little irony. Same boy I used to be.

I heard a strange noise. I stopped. Listened. What was it? Coming from over there in the field on my right. No, coming from right above me. No, just ahead. Then it stopped. I was a little scared. Just a little. But out there, you know? Out there where it could be anything. A breeze came up and I heard it again, this time all around me. And I knew what it was then: dry leaves on the autumnal trees along the path, rustling in the wind.

When spirit moves under the stars, memory stirs like a rattle of snakes, like scorpions rising to the cool of night, these eyes, this love, this lifelonging taste for the beautiful terrifying edges of the world. And self is the trace it leaves passing through. No matter what.


1:27 AM | link |



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"RageBoy: Giving being fucking nuts a good name since 1985."
~D. Weinberger
28 October 2004

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