I was going to post something about “Figh Errorism” but then I made a couple of cups of tea…which I imagined I could share with the Statue of Gliberty because Rae wanted decaf. Big green lips. My resolution last year was to only post haiku here, but it was always cold and grey outside last January and I was sometimes running ten miles a day with a snorkel running from my ski mask down into my parka, at night, trying unsuccessfully not to injure my lungs in the Polar Vortex, and there’s not much poetry in that. Big green lips. I’m going with big green lips this year.
Figh means to weave, or to construct a story. I was looking up the Irish origin of the word “figh”. Because enough people look up bad news and football stats and recipes and snarky cat videos already, and I’m left with this opportunity and I can’t pass it up. There’s a breathtaking open field of research not being conducted upon the origin of Irish words mistakenly added into old English nursery rhymes. Fee fo fum was a Shakespear King Lear trio. Where’d the fie come from? In decomposing the stupid phrase “fight terrorism” I totally eschewed the NOFX reference as well. I never listened to the band. I suppose I lose a dimension of richness by ignoring NOFX. Sorry, guys. It just wasn’t my cup of errorism. I was more of a Joy Division sort of scamp.
Errorism seems to be the more boring of the two parts, but then it gets weird. Remember, all I was trying to do was to decompose a silly phrase that parlays, even in the atom of it’s spare organization of two words, all the silliness of Western Literature and Western Theosophy. The split, the mind/body dichotomy, the chirality of the DNA helix (spoiler alert, looks like there’s six woven strands, not two) . An errata is a document intending to reveal a needed correction of a previously published document. Because back in the Modus, the good old Modii, these were kept by a publisher, but never really released to the public. These days, though, the mistakes would be of interest. A list of errors would often accompany, for example, the corrections needed for a string of computer code, commonly known as a “patch”. So, we have Figh=weave, errorism=the process of making something out of the condition of making mistakes. To make a process of mistakes. To patch patches. a list of mistakes and corrections to accompany something already published. In fact, WordPress is pretty good about saving and resaving drafts of different versions of posts, an evolution of design. If a great success is sometimes arrived at by way of many small, persistent failures, then this would indicate that good form is a collection of failed drafts, only that, the final form is finally thought to be reasonably scrubbed of error.
The fraily ludicrousness. The faultworthy infinitude of remembrances…left to their own devices, are decaying versions of what could be said to have been an authentic moment. Our memories are versions of what we remember. The versions decay, the details fray and deisintegrate unless there was a true struggle. We remember differences, unique indicators of transformative data fields that are moving dynamically into less obscure vectors, vacuums that sort of suck us in. Writing richly detailed accounts of an event has the tang of veracity, a verisimilitude of vervancy. That’s a portmanteau of “Verve + vacancy”, empty vigor. Using neologisms all the time is okay if you’re Shakespeare or Joyce, but if you’re someone like me, someone you read but no one else does, it means I’m crazy, I guess, and probably somewhat aphasic. Our little secret. The difference between a cult and a religion, the size of the crater it leaves. It’s all about the successful weaving of certainty into the crazy weird patchwork of memories we share.
That reminds me of a song I just made up
BIG GREEN LIPS
You got some big green lips.
I can hear you talking, you sound somewhat distant.
My thoughts all muddled, my sweats all puddled,
but we’re all cuddled by your big green lips.
You can’t go walking, so omniscient,
Your clarion thoughts spilling from your big green lips,
you gather the dawn in your raised green torch,
to light the way we move to your beacon,
costa rican, puerto rican, even mohican,
by no means the last to start tweakin’
to the sounds of gliberty
rolling off your big green lips
[chorus] x 1
I got reds, I got blacks
My solitaire, a stack of numbers, jacks and spread ace cracks,
the cards all bent, my money lent
to pay my fare to see you there,
To take a picture with my phone.
You know I’m on dead air, waiting for your call
I wish you’d ring me back
Confused and waiting at the mall
To buy a dime of fake ace crack
No pleasure anymore
The century is gone, indeed it maybe never was
Meant to be
But I’ll still wait and see
Checking my messages
to see if you’d
At least lie to me
With your big green lips.
Waiting for your call
Waiting at the mall.
You see that I’m tall
Wishing for a fall. Let me down again.
I have a fairly bad memory. I’m too busy trying to forget what is happening to me.It would be likely that I would probably grow to forgive all my enemies, would forget and forgive what I was fighting about in the first place. Wouldn’t surprise me if I gave up on hating myself for being so spineless, but I get turned around, spun around by so many new dances I’m supposed to know. I can’t even figh errorism.
And I know this is going nowhere, just a lazy slide off the tip of an old quill, a feather spinning and pointing to earth, dropped and spluttering upon far fair rock below, a constellation of blotches, unconnections, a chaosmosis of unbecoming segues datamoshing into the next Erra. The Erra of Reason. Whoops, lose the wigs and tights, bitches, get real.
I stepped so far outside, became so contrarian that I can’t even hold myself together. I let it all slip away (I pushed myself away). It’s hard to come up with a way to make things better because I don’t even know what it means to be human anymore. From an individual perspective, I have limits, walls, bills, temporal references, schedules, debt, certain pratfalls to avoid to maintain the semblance of a normal person’s gathering of cultural awareness, self-actualizations that I choose to embrace or discard in a pragmatic way that sort of defeats the purpose of being alive.
There was never any rule that explicitly stated that you had to remain a human being in a world that’s being removed from the value system we impose upon it. It’s like playing hide and seek with your own eyes.
What calendar am I supposed to choose? The Gregorian calendar was not an improvement upon the older, thirteen month lunar calendar that bespoke a more feminine awareness, a softness, a classier regard for nature. It didn’t have daylight savings. How much daylight is actually saved. If you step off the surface of the earth and look out across the galaxy, there’s no more day, no more seasons. These are celestial ways of movement being overcome by terrestrial forces in turn being maladapted to a 19th century, feudal, bureaucratic facade enforced by a global banking cartel’s laid across the eyes of the waking century like gauze, like copper pennies, letting me look through the hole in Lincoln’s open mind.
In order to form a more perfect union. It only takes 3.5% of a revolting populace to undermine and overthrow a totalitarian regime. I think the stats on democracy might be even higher. but in our system, our own outrage is interpreted to be a node of unrealized product fetishism, a hole in the pocket that needs filling, needs discharging like a current. Think of this. You are born of two parts, sperm and zygote, like two poles of a magnet. You spin through life, revolving around the sun on a planet like an electrical current traveling the coils of an electric motor.
You get stressed, you chill out, you have good days and bad, you fall in and out of love, greet your face in the mirror every day to see who’s looking back at you, you gradually wear out, lose your spark, return to the diaper, the toothless desires, the homogenized acceptance of all things and become dissolute again. You live to forget that you forgot to live. In the middle, there’s a relay, a series of dramatic shifts that sort of defines the path you’ve taken, and maybe it changes things for the better, maybe not, you living like an electric current in a tube of plastic, a conduit for power to flow through you, out of you. The more time the system has a chance to fuck up your flow, the stronger you are able to commit to this roller coaster of give and take.
Fish don’t resolve to do anything. Neither does nitrogen or the color blue. It’s stupid. It’s like we’re the unfortunate animal that is designed to fool itself into thinking that, individually, we are more important than the whole of us. So, I have to resolve to disappear.
I guess that’s why I run marathons. I try to maintain and empty mind, go strong with the theta forces in my brainiage. It helps me to sleep, to dream, to remain true to the dreams and wanton bliss of imaginary life, the one I choose to let destroy me, consume me. I worship at the alter of dreams. When I’m zoning out, thinking about nothing in particular, I’m actually communing with a higher form of myself trapped within this biome. I’m trying to recognize a supra-awareness of the biome existing with me as a sort of dumb cell within a larger tissue, participating, functioning, but in no way steering the massive function of the elements of which I’m encompassed, that which has animated my tissues.
I resolve to lose as much power as possible without disintegrating. It doesn’t matter how hard I try. I’m faded. I’ll keep doing the fade away.