Sunday, August 03, 2003

'reading' is correctionalised in children's minds in terms of the dynamics of comprehension tests. folks are skooled to read text with an eye to the test following and when the words begin to murky they see only their grade point average plummeting and they wail: "i don't understand" and they run away. soft little shits. who does understand? out of what book you get this theory of easy understanding? child, you want to stop war? quit skool. never take a grade off a motherfucker again. but i know this is likely gonna be hard for you and truly i don't want children to be hard on themselves. i have a revolutionary thought: i think old people need to be hard on themselves and children should get cut a lot of slack. i'm getting old enough i can say that. oh i may be a vain self righteous flesh defiling piece of shit but i don't think nobody gonna say i don't push on my walk. child, quitting skool all at once might be hard on you so start easy: ditch class. get bad grades. have some fun. and stiff them on the tuition payments anyway you can. notes for my tract i'm gonna give yale students this fall. 1:25:19 PM    comment []

sometime when i was up in dallas working for ianni's i read, in the library at smu, in new left review i think an essay on how frankenstein's monster and dracula could be read the poles of bougeois dread in the nineteenth century. the manufactured man alienated from nature and god and the princely blooded relic of a sanguinary (sp?) mystical feudalism. mary shelley wasn't too much older than cleo the night the modern forms of those two great philosophical archetypes took shape in the converstion between her and those beautiful brilliant fucked up poet boys. whoa. double whoa. this is the song i wrote for them towers falling down... {chorus} i'm frankenstein's monster turning on daddy/ i'm old dracula tired of always sucking./ n i'm schemeing out how it be that i shall survive/ when the electricity dies. bridges fall down/ towers they do to./ if water stays wet / i'll swim to you. suits they have puffy hair/ suits they love to talk./ what a nation means is you can't drive/ as far as you can walk. {chorus} captain, oh captain, if you take the b from blood/ i was born in the dirt/ and i can return/ into the mud. t.v. girl, my t.v. girl/ if t.v. did not exist/ we could tune in byron/ read for us by quentin crisp. {chorus} 11:26:02 AM    comment []