He told the boy that although he was huérfano still he must cease his wanderings and make for himself some place in the world because to wander in this way would become for him a passion and by this passion he would become estranged from men and so ultimately from himself. He said that the world could only be known as it existed in men’s hearts. For while it seemed a place which contained men it was in reality a place contained within them and therefore to know it one must look there and come to know those hearts and to do this one must live with men and not simply pass among them. He said that while the huérfano might feel that he no longer belonged among men he must set this feeling aside for he contained within him a largeness of spirit which men could see and that men would wish to know him and that the world would need him even as he needed the world for they were one. Lastly he said that while this itself was a good thing like all good things it was also a danger. Then he removed his hands from the boy’s saddle and stepped away and stood. The boy thanked him for his words but he said that he was in fact not an orphan and then he thanked the women standing there and turned the horse and rode out. They stood watching him go. As he passed the last of the brush wickiups he turned and looked back and as he did so the old man called out to him. Eres, he said. Eres huérfano.
Last night I had to leave the TWO SUNS show right after they played because they were so good that I just had to go back to the studio I share with one of them, AMALIA WILSON, and work on my own things so that I could make something that good too. And then when I went home around two am my housemate, JACOB MAZER, was still up in his room writing and I had to resist the urge to walk back to my studio. Instead I listened to the new tape of my former-coworker’s band, BAD ENERGY, and felt even more guilty for not working hard enough.
Anonymous asked: where is your email
patrokolos at riseup dot net
"The masochist feels guilty, he asks to be beaten, he expiates, but why and for what crime? Is it not precisely the father-image in him that is thus miniaturized, beaten, ridiculed and humiliated? What the subject atones for is his resemblance to the father and the father’s likeness in him: the formula of masochism is the humiliated father."
HEIDEGGER: Everything functions. That is exactly what is uncanny. Everything functions and the functioning drives us further and further to more functioning, and technology tears people away and uproots them from the earth more and more. I don’t know if you are scared; I was certainly scared when I recently saw the photographs of the earth taken from the moon. We don’t need an atom bomb at all; the uprooting of human beings is already taking place. We only have purely technological conditions left. It is no longer an earth on which human beings live today. I recently had a long conversation with René Char in Provence – as you know, the poet and Resistance fighter. Rocket bases are being built in Provence, and the country is being devastated in an incredible way. The poet, who certainly cannot be suspected of sentimentality or a glorification of the idyllic, said to me that the uprooting of human beings which is going on now is the end if thinking and poetry do not acquire nonviolent power once again.
SPIEGEL: Now, we must say that although we prefer to be here on earth, and we probably will not have to leave it during our life-time, who knows whether it is human beings’ destiny to be on this earth? It is conceivable that human beings have no destiny at all. But at any rate a possibility for human beings could be seen in that they reach out from this earth to other planets. It will certainly not happen for a long time. But where is it written that human beings’ place is here?
HEIDEGGER: From our human experience and history, at least as far as I am informed, I know that everything essential and great has only emerged when human beings had a home and were rooted in a tradition. Today’s literature is, for instance, largely destructive.
SPIEGEL: We are bothered by the word destructive here because the word nihilistic received a very broad context of meaning precisely through you and your philosophy. It astonishes us to hear the word destructive in connection with literature you could or ought to see as a part of this nihilism.
HEIDEGGER: I would like to say that the literature I meant is not nihilistic in the way that I defined nihilism.
SPIEGEL: You apparently see, so you have expressed it, a world movement that either brings about or has already brought about the absolute technological state?
HEIDEGGER: Yes! But it is precisely the technological state that least corresponds to the world and society determined by the essence of technology. The technological state would be the most obsequious and blind servant in the face of the power of technology.
SPIEGEL: Fine. But now the question of course poses itself: Can the individual still influence this network of inevitabilities at all, or can philosophy influence it, or can they both influence it together in that philosophy leads one individual or several individuals to a certain action?
HEIDEGGER: Those questions bring us back to the beginning of our conversation. If I may answer quickly and perhaps somewhat vehemently, but from long reflection: Philosophy will not be able to bring about a direct change of the present state of the world. This is true not only of philosophy but of all merely human meditations and endeavors. Only a god can still save us. I think the only possibility of salvation left to us is to prepare readiness, through thinking and poetry, for the appearance of the god or for the absence of the god during the decline; so that we do not, simply put, die meaningless deaths, but that when we decline, we decline in the face of the absent god.
If you want to watch a twenty minute video of my legs while I read my story “The Meat Between Us” out loud in my basement then here it is.
Content includes masochism, being unable to speak, and some violence.
To buy a copy of the journal it was published in go here.
They went across the lake to the region of the Gerasenes. When Jesus got out of the boat, a man with an impure spirit came from the tombs to meet him. This man lived in the tombs, and no one could bind him anymore, not even with a chain. For he had often been chained hand and foot, but he tore the chains apart and broke the irons on his feet. No one was strong enough to subdue him. Night and day among the tombs and in the hills he would cry out and cut himself with stones.
When he saw Jesus from a distance, he ran and fell on his knees in front of him. He shouted at the top of his voice, “What do you want with me, Jesus, Son of the Most High God? In God’s name don’t torture me!”
The first time I read “Work” by Denis Johnson I immediately reread it and then read it for a third time out loud. It is the story that made me want to write fiction, that made me realize I could write the things I wanted to. It is about flawed people but also there is something beautiful.
"Step outside," Wayne said.
And the man said, “This ain’t school.”
“What the goddamn fucking piss-hell,” Wayne said, “is that suppose to mean?”
“I ain’t stepping outside like you do at school. Make your try right here and now.”
“This ain’t a place for our kind of business,” Wayne said, “not inside here with women and children and dogs and cripples.”
“Shit,” the man said. “You’re just drunk.” “I don’t care,” Wayne said. “To me you don’t make no more noise than a fart in a paper bag.” The huge, murderous man said nothing. “I’m going to sit down now,” Wayne said, “and I’m going to play my game, and fuck you.”
The man shook his head. He sat down too. This was an amazing thing. By reaching out one hand and taking hold of it for two or three seconds, he could have popped Wayne’s head like an egg.
And then came one of those moments. I remember living through one when I was eighteen and spending the afternoon in bed with my first wife, before we were married. Our naked bodies started glowing, and the air turned such a strange color I thought my life must be leaving me, and with every young fiber and cell I wanted to hold on to it for another breath. A clattering sound was tearing up my head as I staggered upright and opened the door on a vision I will never see again: Where are my women now, with their sweet wet words and ways, and the miraculous balls of hail popping in a green translucence in the yards?
We put on our clothes, she and I, and walked out into a town flooded ankle-deep with white, buoyant stones. Birth should have been like that. That moment in the bar, after the fight was narrowly averted, was like the green silence after the hailstorm.