Monday, December 20, 2021

Caught in His Own Careless Wreckage

A year ago today I posted the first grid, I typed last night
Transitioning from ink and tablet journal keeping ended my ink and tablet self-portraiting because why? that's right, fuck me
some of those early grids hoowee and quoting from links like chum, chum, like you'll click for beg-me bait when you won't at basic bait
I miss writing in journals and still do on hikes when Earthgirl paints, but deciphering my handwriting and editing before comprehending when translating and typing into digital, unfuck me there, I could tap into simplenote on my phone on hike when Earthgirl painting it just occurred to me laugh out loud, when have lots of days to hike the next two weeks
I started tapping at simplenote in Summer 2020 and its limitations freed me with an archiving option tablets don't have - I can't do anything in it *but* type and tag then cut and paste and - here's the key - abandon knowing I reread it in a horrible sans serif font I can't change but can control + the screen so I can read it without squinting. I build the link grids in sheets, the part that's me typed in simplenote
The grid I realized an attempt to replace the ink and watercolor straight lines intersecting at deliberately just plus or minus 90 degree angles, once I discovered posting photos into grid cells didn't crash my free shitlord blogging platform but did allow just one post to front page at a time and the asshole in charge of brand marketing in my head said no can do
That's right, here's where I talk about Tony Hecht who taught me structure liberates, freedom constricts, I think this true, and though the haikus have dried up and I seem to be following no rules now and am content with content
In any case, I had no idea a year since I started gridding and never stopped and though hooweed through iterations but I see grids remaining until they don't, I can't imagine me thinking the bullets before the grid should replace the grid, I can't imagine my eyesight improving to when I desire a smaller font (push me)
I told a friend years ago the blog *is* the poem and still true

Asymptomatically Dead: the year in review
Here's what we know, December 2021
Cold war liberalism, what is it good for?
Don't eat animals, but also don't eat Kellogg's (Morningstar Farm) fake animal product
The industry creating 1/3 of the world's waste
Code red, glacier blood, megadrought
Capitalists are dispensable, laborers are not
Nine don't miss environmental interviews from 2021
How to pray to a dead god
My favorite English language homophone pray/prey
Maggie's weekly links
{ feuilleton }'s weekend links


Jeff Worley

I believed only air
stretched between the dogwood

and the barberry: another
thoughtless human assumption

sidetracking the best story
this furrow spider knew to spin.

And, trying to get the sticky
filament off my face, I must look,

to the neighbors, like someone
being attacked by his own nervous

system, a man conducting an orchestra
of bees. Or maybe it’s only the dance

of human history I’m reenacting:
caught in his own careless wreckage,

a man trying to extricate himself,
afraid to open his eyes.

1 comment:

  1. with regard to the last eleven words of worley's poem -

    what happens next depends on whether the closed eyes are opened - or not

    "open my eyes" - nazz