Is there a point?
Do you notice that individual has the words dual and divide and in in it? And two eyes around a V-shaped nose?

Maybe the point of the nose is the point.
The Zibaldone reminds me of the college library where I started going when my old library killed itself. There is no Leopardi there. I pronounced that in the Italian way to impress the women here, which we have very few of currently, by the way.
They still have the old books with kind of like the old smells of the books in my old library.
My old library that became young and colorful. And hurt me inside.
Like all young and colorful things used to. Before I realized there are better things over The Rainbow.

I keep my Zibaldone next to my Kafka's Dearest Father. A first edition old book of Kafka's notebook that I stole from my old library, because I had seen its fate. All books before the '80s were going in the chute. Including Camus' Chute. Well, that s', does it work on a silent s?

See, I'm not stupid. I just drink a lot and have no education.

One day I'm going to find my poem Genet's Library.

I'm writing my own, well, I'm collecting my own writings, I'll call it, what you say?,

I found a copy of one of Jacob Boheme's books published in 1624 stuffed behind some unrelated books while looking for something else.  I snuck it out of the library and kept it in a tupperware in my refrigerator for 5 years.  Of course I couldn't read it, but I could hold it and stare at the fraktur German.

I gave it back when I quit the job.  Some I did not return.  I've created my own library, the Prester John Memorial Libray.  That's where I work these days.  It's sort of the Alphaville Public Library too.  

Thanks for the Beck video.  I worship Beck.  I'm going to spend the day listening to Beck.

Will your collection be obtainable some day?  Or is it just for you?
I tried posting another Beck song after the other one last night, with a story to go along with it. But that thread locks up the computer sometimes. I had to wait twenty minutes, and then it got locked up again.

The seasons cut me up, too. A natural cut up. I'm not professional enough yet, when the seasonal atmosphere changes, I stop getting whatever it is that keeps my longer books going, I have to wait till next year.
But that's also a good way to mold a personal style with overlapping content.

I look on the brightside of everything these days, and make everything work. Spring and Fall bring their own unique atmospheres and types of situations and entities. Spring is more science fiction, Fall more mystical, and sometimes horrific. They have their overlaps too. The more alien mutant machine stuff, I call bladerunning; the more demonic and mythological, I call hellblazing. Billy Malone does that stuff. South Boston Williamson tells the jokes. I AM Samraj does the religious philosophy. My magical name is secret, FOR THE TIME BEING. Only my most trusted associates know it.

Still, my papers and notebooks lay scattered all about. My mind is a lot more orderly than my room.

And autumn is the season of mists and melancholy and brown foggy thickets and roadside walks and faraway love and writing poetry outside sitting on the grass like they do in movies about 19th century poets.
Working and adventuring and pining away all the while the fiends come for me over the trees and through the nightcracks in the dark brown walls of my room. As I lay in bed floating between dreams and the places between dreams, or sit at my desk and hear things moving in the grass outside my door, or sit in the woods in my tent, waiting for something wacky to happen, or wave my arms around drawing colorful geometrical symbols and formulas in the candled and incensed air, like they say to do in the expensive books, the procuring of the book being part of the ritual's intensity, and transfiguring into my own magical journals the alchemy of a new design.
All those things that people find incredibly lame. I make a life of them.

I found a nice-looking biography of Jakob Boehme at a used-bookstore. I didn't get it. And regretted it for weeks, nay, months.
"Don't wait to be hunted to hide, that was always my motto."  Molloy, S. Beckett

The only magic** I know is art, especially words on a page.  But movies probably even more, music somewhere a poor third.  Beckett has my attention now, for about a month.  I read very slowly.  So Beckett and Instant Dreams (a movie), and a book about the worship of hermaphrodites, and now Leopardi is skulking around, demanding more attention.  I want to watch Who Afraid of Virginia Woolf; it's been too long since I lived through a night with George and Martha. 

I would really like to see a machine that allows us to step into a movie at the moment of death, any movie of our choice.  I'd become an extra in Cocoanuts.

Hart Crane/mug's game:  someone said that about H.C.  Not that it's not true I guess.  I'm definitely a mug.  And poetry is the only game I got left.  

**exaggeration, i do believe in the I Ching and now the Tarot.  And Buddha sounds pretty sensible to me.  But he's not magic, like Jesus was, and Mohammed, and all those numberless others.  I'm not well-versed in Islam. I started the Koran several times, tried different translations, and it finally hit me how the Bible had made me expect another account book, and the Koran is truly what dictation from Above would read like.
It can be easier to go into Islam through sufis, and the 1000 Nights and a Night. Some buddhas are magic, and discard it as distraction.
I got drunk Saturday night. When I got tired of looking at Beth Roars; . : .

It takes a lot of punctuation, if you're lonely, unless, of course, __________________

This is a really good video.

Jiddu Krishnamurti proved that Gurgjieff and me and you and everybody else who's ever lived is wrong about everything.

U. G. Krishnamurti, beyond T. S. Eliot's Waste Land, and everything else, well, if you're willing to listen, whatever.

My favorite part in The Cocoanuts, is when they're running through rooms, and Groucho acts like he's getting ready to take off his coat, and . . . 

You know if you know.

When I really got into Beckett, is when my library first started getting rid of books. Those nice hardcovers, published in the '50s.
I remember I went in there and noticed they were all gone. All in a heartbeat.

B for Beckett.

But the oldest looking books went first.

And what I noticed.

The Salinger books. Hardcover.
And the Sartre novels. I actually really liked Sartre's novels they had there. They'd been there since I was a kid. More than the philosophy,
which they had until . . .

And Hesse.
Hesse I sworn to in that library.

In the '90s.

And if I start with the mythology or folklore section, I'm going to cry.

I had to steal books.
My fairy book was destroyed.
When that happened, I no longer considered that library as a human dwelling,
and just took what I wanted.

They destroyed a first edition of Yeats' A Vision. Who the fuck does that? Unless they were lying.

But it was a Public Library. Did somebody go online and decide they could sell stuff?
Or did they do what they said, and toss the stuff out the way to make room for the new authors?

I tried to do a poetry reading there, and they rejected me.

And then I felt proud.

These new authors are better than me and Yeats.


Then I realized that wasn't the case.

And I found this U. G. Krishnamurti video that discredits everything.

Is there a point?

I think there is




Empson. William Empson made that comment in a critical essay, edited in a 1980s book of literary criticism, collected by Harold Bloom.

Hart Crane, a mug's game.

That very book, I stole from my old library.
And so, you know, fits this discourse.

The majority of that volume is harsh on Crane. But Harold Bloom is the editor, and, so, Bloom waves his covering angel wings over the whole thing, and Hart Crane comes out the winner.

How do you say winner that emphasizes the er in French? WinnER!

Any fuckin way, Ug Krishnamurti seems to have all of us aced.

I understand perfectly what U. G. Krishnamurti is talking about.
I never grew up in the church.
My first exposure to religion were the essays of D. H. Lawrence.

I am in a world not your own.

But it is the real world.

I posted a real tubular documentary about DH Lawrence. Did anybody watch it?

The reason they made those books of poetic criticism so easy to steal is because nobody knows anything.

I didn't make a double negative, but I did in spirit.

We're into cutups now.
Have any of us read Philip Larkin?
Elizabeth Bishop?
Carl Samuels?

I made that name up. Carl Samuels.
If there is a real poet named Carl Samuels, well, you just got served.

Let's dive into some necromancy, honies. It's getting dull. Read Thomas Hardy: the poetry.
You'll come back with more you have.

And, new members, you haven't posted anything yet. And if you're reading this, you're probably not posting.
Stop reading.


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