Diary, Verse, Work / Life

Readily Unprepared

Less than 6 hours til our taxi takes us to Charles de Gaulle Airport. Our flight leaves at 11am for Toronto.

At the Used Book Café on Boulevard Beaumarchais.

At the Used Book Café on Boulevard Beaumarchais.

Anxiousness has ceded to readiness. (Although readiness ≠ preparedness.)
I’m ready for home.
I’m not prepared to be back (there).
Paris is shoving me westward; Indianapolis is tugging me to South Broad Ripple.
At 10pm, I’ll be in Indy (4am, Paris time).
I am unthinkingly ready.
I’m readily unprepared.
Being places is always foreign.
Home is where the habit is.

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Verse

Occurring? Was, or will be.

02:23. 40° in 31 Rue Charlot’s cobblestone courtyard.

From haven to destination. (at Shakespeare & Co, 37 Rue de la Bûcherie)

From haven to destination. (at Shakespeare & Co, 37 Rue de la Bûcherie)

Tomorrow’s all we ever thought.
And all we talked was yesterday.
Occurring? Was, or will be.

The de-manifestation of the present
neutralised the paralysing uncertainty
of potential.
(Potentialities hang on
fragile hopes & dreams;
Histories & futures hinge on
knowing unknown things.)

31 Rue Charlot cobblestone courtyard nook

31 Rue Charlot cobblestone courtyard nook

We stand planted in the past
& rooted in what’s coming,
attuned to both
aware of each
& living/being them at once.
(Not now,
but here
amidst the haze
of futured history.)

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Verse

Lose a body, Lose an hour

01:59. 34° in the courtyard. Easter Sunday.

22:00-23:00-00:00-01:00-[01:59-03:00]-04:00-05:00

Skipped an hour whilst traipsing down the stairwell.
One hour gone in the span of a few steps.

Easter Sunday walk in Paris (at Rue Des Hospitalieres Saint Gervais)

Easter Sunday walk in Paris (at Rue Des Hospitalieres Saint Gervais)

Easter Sunday.
lose an hour
lose a body.
Don’t worry
both hour & body
re-appear
then disappear
then re-appear again.

Daylight Savings Time is
Christianity’s method of
subliminal resurrection-reinforcement.

Lose an hour
lose a body;
Find the hour
find the body
(each re-/disappearing from the ether
like impetuous apparitions).

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Verse, Work / Life

Finding a Rhythm

Rhythm     ->   metered habit  -> addiction
Syncopation ->  repetition  -> drone (fermata)

Establish habit
healthful addict
(balance is extraneous).
It’s not so much a
back-and-forth,
but forwardness found backwards:
a rhythm formed by history,
built upon past tendencies
( – liminal fomentation – )
present-tense excluded;
The coming’s now,
all Janus-jangled,
cloning permutations of
routine and ritual.
Sure, pragmatic mysticism,
fish-eyed logic, self-imitation…
But grasping fact & truth
requires infinite contortion.
Wellness is an addict acrobat.

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Verse

Uncommodified Creation

02:04. 34° in the courtyard, after walking through Le Marais.

@ballarde instagramIt’s not a rite of passage.
It’s a duty of duration.
Live long enough to earn enough to
validate your existence.
Is creation actual without commodification?
Is there creation that isn’t consumable?
And, if there is, does it have value?
And, if valuable, is the value measurable?
And, if measurable, are its metrics based solely on its use?

Harbinger of aesthetic nihilism No. 1: ironically pseudo-self-aware street art.

Harbinger of aesthetic nihilism No. 1: ironically pseudo-self-aware street art.

What use is a creation that refuses to become commodified?
(Or, conversely, is a non-commodified “creation”
merely a piece of abstract artifice?)
((Thus unusable, unmeasurable, discarded ephemera/detritus))
Forget art for art’s sake
it’s arts for survival’s sake,
And, if it aids survival (of humanity),
it has use —
unmeasurable, uncommodifiable, or not…

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Verse, Work / Life

On Never Finishing Thoughts

Nighttime propaganda posters in Le Marais: anticapitaliste, anti-austérité …and anti-/pro-Lana Del Rey?

I never finish
thoughts —
there’s a congenital reductio
ad absurdum
algorithm of indefinance:
etymological
ontological,
discursive & tautological.
I exist in this displaced space,
clawing at prefixes qua equations,
gnawing on the roots of words,
surviving on the fiber of tangential ideations,
veins knotted up with viscous minutiae.
It isn’t lack of will or melancholy or insufficiency —
It’s a disbelief in completion &
fear of its absolution
(every finished thought is absolved
upon conclusion).
And the salvation of absolution – being an End – is terrifying.

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Verse

Arbitrary Generation. Sacred Wage.

Sweat the black tar dread of
waking eating breathing,
The eeking of
energy-efficient electro-shock living
wage of my Arbitrary Generation.

Payment is penance
is rent is debt
is sacred is virtue;
There is no vice in this new century, millenium:
the Ledger is our only metric –
online on paper on bank statements
on collections notices on existing.

There is no vice
when alternatives are absent;
Our virtue is made of lack
of options change or
post-theory revolutions;

We are the recipients of
our arbitrary system;
We are the generation,
overdosed on false choices.

We’re the arbiters of a brilliant joke.
And we must laugh
and pay
for it.

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