miscellaneabad poetry, line prose, and ill-opinionby j jackson |
as good trash as anyone, like stupid poetry books published, pretending to be all insightful. 8-9-1 |
As Big As I Am If, I do not see myself but, othersmisinterpret what it is I see, then others who are small and desirable, in my small mind are not themselves, but me. I mean, I am, myself, in my mind small, see more myself in others' small demean as they see. Do they wonder how I see as much myself as them, as I am seen? I want so much to be small, as they are, I create myself in them, I can see. 4-3-2 |
Too Far I know someoneI must remain a distance from. Too close, she is too dangerous, an entity apart, of me. Too far, she is a distant loss. 3-20-2 |
Bit By Bit I Try To Change Myself
7-27-1 |
sometimes this is who I am:sometimes wise, sometimes stupid sometimes experienced, sometimes naive sometimes optimistic, sometimes pessimistic etceteraetcceterablahblahblah all of this taken as a whole and much more. If you feel you have to be critical of me, be critical of the whole me, not some small part of what I am, (Maybe, in this way, you will think twice about how people are criticized for what often only in very small part they are. But I doubt it.) Each specific idea or incident I report about my life is just that, one out of a whole. Any one particular piece is what I wanted to say in the way I wanted to say it at the time, each insignificant, except as a fragment of what I sometimes am. 7-15-1 |
belief We are programmed to believewhat we believe is truth, conditioned by society and culture, we search in vain for self, independent of creation. There is nothing to search for. 6-24-l |
The Other Half Wanes
Height of the year. This is as good as it gets. Today is 6-21-1 |
The Fragile Inner Self
"channel insecurity in a positive rather than in a negative way"
I remember back when I published my first book. I was so insecure 6-16-1 |
In Memory of the Human Animal
I don't think McVeigh was wrong in any way 6-12-1 |
Different People
On many days, I am not myself. 6-8-1 |
It's Not Me, It's Life
If people put their words, themselves, out over the Internet 6-8-1 |
Art Form Some artists seek technical perfection,some seek mere expression; some find the former through the latter, some the latter through the former. Some editors examine photographs with loops for pixel acuity, some rely upon experience to know what's good, without magnification. Some writers sit down, to create stories out of thin air, some scribble notes on old envelopes, capturing ideas as they occur. 6-5-1 |
Being. Alone
A good way to end an era is
-- I. Illich
Is postmodernism ending? It seems to be so. A world seems to be, reintegrating around me, leaving me, a kernel of post-optimism within an infinitely complex minutia of interrelation. Whereas I have felt that I belonged, isolated among this society of pseudo-social citizens, now I am beginning, to feel again, separated, at a loss: a last hold-out. I know, this is not true; people everyday face the protoplasmic dangers
associated with being, cut-off, from the larger organism, yet everyday I feel, we take a step closer to our destiny, which will leave me stranded 6-5-1 |
Life Temporarily Forgotten
that is my life, and I try again to get it down into words while the insight persists, because it won't last long, it won't be long before I sink back into the fantasy that I am doing something sort of worthwhile here---or, at least, something sane. dramatic way, I am profoundly aware that I am doing, really, nothing--- because living only for art, mostly my own, and showing the littlest portion of it to the world, is all but nothing. And yet, each time, I realize as I try to rationalize it, an individual, capable, of great doubt, but at the same time, of great vision. The fact that I seldom concretize that vision is...irrelevant. The best thing I can say of my life, then, is that it is mine, I'm alive; no one even tries to tell me what to do any more.
devices, which is what I've always wanted since I was very young. In this sense, you may say I am successful: I've become so independent as to be essentially alone, and I don't mind, not so much, as long as I can continue to write about it. designed by some imaginary creator to clue me as to the state that I am in, (I know that the creator is a less specific form of self), I worry, being, lost. Then, out of a sense of futility, not having written anything significant for so long, I write, I am down in it, I am motivated by my desperation to write about it, lifting myself up out of it via writing, I no longer have the need to write, not being desperate enough. And so I go on, feeling smug about my independence, having written at least something.
or reading, or merely looking at the landscape, I'm free, to pursue a mind I am, perceiving, becoming, aware, that I am consciousness personified, alive; but when I'm unable or unwilling to work, or bored to death with life so that I will then not, I am not so conscious at these moments, having sunk into an ordinary funk out of which I must arise, usually out of my dreams, to begin to work again. I may say nothing of, significance, life, at all, having forgotten, purpose, but I do it, anyway. struggle with the fear, that one day, I will not be, not even conscious enough to fear it. Art does this for me, relieves the frailty of humanity, who is weak. It causes me, not to forget it, but to remember, that I am an artist, and so, I reflect the world, alone and lost.
5-4-1 |
Creating Fate
I want to write what I want to write. It's all I want to do-- 4-7-1 |
Apparently
An attitude that will punctuate the winter but preponderate in spring: 4-6-1 |
short script
"Aren't you done working yet?" 5-29-00 |