I learned the truth at seventeen

Here’s a REAL diary entry I wrote at seventeen in a miserable little room in Oakland across from the Siddha yoga ashram at which my mother was a devotee.

The fantasy here is out of control, of course, but what’s fascinating to me is the number of things that have come some tempered version of true. Do we write our lives into being? I always wonder…

May 19, 1981

Good morning. Today is Malcom X day, and there’s no school. Isn’t that a joyous fact? Well frankly, I haven’t got anything to do. Anthony was supposed to come over last night, but he didn’t; didn’t even call, either. Very bad boy. When the time comes, I won’t be mad enough at him. Wish I’d written down my dreams. They were strange & awkward. Well, and what shall I do? Sit around and let my hair grow. I always think it’s come to a standstill. Maybe it just grows at a snail’s pace. YUK – SNAILS. I’m mad. What’s to do? I wish I was rich and lived in New York. I would go out and buy the most interesting clothing imaginable. I’d ride around in a red convertible. Yes and I’d have a beautiful house filled with food and cute boys. My closet would be a whole room. My shoes alone would take up ½ a wall. I would always have clean underwear. And about 200 sweaters – intricate, original, mohair & cashmere patterns. Leather pants and jeans in every color, almost. At least fifty gorgeous vintage dresses, all of which would fit perfectly, in taffeta, cotton, silk, etc. Plus I would have tailored tuxedos in rose and grey and gold. With the most elaborate of antique lace blouses. My hair would be twice as long as it is now – red, yellow, and brown, like fire, and in a hundred tiny braids. I would wear a lot of extreme but lovely makeup. But best of all I would always have something to do. I would give parties and invite sweet brilliant people. Lots of food and music. Here’s a typical day: upon awakening in my lace canopy bed with the satin comforter and 100% cotton sheets and fluffy perfect pillows I’d be served breakfast in bed by one of the many cute boys in my employment. I would have ordered it the night before – anything I want, from eggplant parmesan to Cream of Wheat. All the cute boys would be very cool, in bands, and this would be their way of getting extra money, which I could spare. From a list of thousands of records I’d pick one. After eating I’d bathe in my gorgeous fern-filled bathroom, which had music piped in. It’s a Jacuzzi and bubble bath, of course. When I get out of the tub and dry off with a soft plush 100% cotton towel, one of my friends, a girl, comes to help me with my hair and makeup, arranging the braids, choosing the best shade of magenta lipstick. But I don’t get dressed yet, not till the late afternoon (unless of course, I have plans), I go into my beautiful study with the comfortable chairs and couch and the antique desk and electronic typewriter and I either read or write. I have a beautiful extensive library to choose from and I read several languages. Then I’d get dressed and go out in my red convertible to have a late lunch with friends. Or else I’ll invite them over. Then we all go out to see complex foreign films or live theatre or a museum or we’ll just plain bum around (I’ll still be young, you know) and talk to people on the street and go to old bookstores and clothes stores and cafes or whatever we feel like doing. And maybe I’d go home and maybe write or sleep for a while before I dress in the height of interesting-ness to go out to some wild art party where I’d invariably have one or two (at least) romances going on. And sometimes I’d bring home a cute boy or girl, but not very often because all the time I’d be wondering about Anthony who became a gypsy before I got rich and I couldn’t contact him, although I’d traveled the world looking for him. And so although I’d be happy on the surface and content and all that I’d yearn for him, and that would be the tragedy in this life to make it realistic. I would have gotten rich from writing, of course. Novels and poetry and non-fiction and stories. And then one day Anthony would appear at my doorstep, needing a shave, and I’d support him for the rest of our lives, until the world ended or until we’d committed mutual suicide.

The end.

I Won’t Be Adulthoodedness Anymore

I Won’t Be adulthoodedness Anymore

All i want is your little bouquet in the night,
Mr. “Art is art-as-art.”

Is strobe’s collective surprise still only for me?

Let reasonably “real” external manifestations of inner nervous receptivity-of-impulse welcome me,

and yield with musically wired meat consciousness
the same fleeting ”tawdriness” of other.

I am truly chiaroscuro glottal mucus slippage

When i crush into the yang of trial dessert,
nonchalantly and impudently naked

Love begin to narrate its mechanical trickery in me

But there’s only cellular messages at the apex
of American consumer fetishism.

Really, i can’t exhaust language without you, my shaped tone

I remember on your storm of dark jittery sparks to me

The day when you became my slowly uncoiling projector

Flickering me over with your haphazard composure

I won’t be pizzicato (MUTED form of plucking) or variable oval (actually unnameable) beautiful ruffled crisp language “sparrows,” – free from dogma and staged subservient “outsideness” – or a burst of white scratches… in anybody’s brain-dance ¬– anymore.

My Inaudible globular and disjunctly fretted entanglement-of-curves

My Inaudible globular and disjunctly fretted entanglement-of-curves

Push me like a plethora of inexplicable visitations

Infer me deeply

Search my nervous extremity

Have i now be your flute-throat mate?

My sparkled optics’ most immediate radiance

I try to write you down my barest perpectival logic

into the bottom of cathectic thought ’till there’s no more geo-classical ordering

This love letter (self’s pulp of audible being) shall remind me

Meat ineffable love just as this far and it should be frank enough also

Well, i wish the hypnogogically inspired of your organic blobs

to see you intrinsically variable always in the pulp of animal being

release my wilder pop

Release me

Suddenly he come back into your eye after he broke your handkerchief a long time ago…

My feedback loop
I write this reeking
With arias

Why so many balls
This reeking
Sound of you
Pulp that full of redness

My loop
Fulfill my blushing denial
To you alone

Why so hard to even squeak
this loop
Let me sour
And release my wilder pop.

(what are you gonna do?)

Sing with your rarebit vices

Look at Me

Sing with your rarebit vices
To yell you

Missing you
flying free in spuds
fallen furbelows
Semiosis of nastiness come over me

Say it my love
Your smile full of evacuation information
Must love be bickered over
In teardrop worms?

Only one weirdness:
I want you to shrink it.
Look at me.

Let the boys sing about me

In the Name of Antinomy

Here I am wilting
Here I forget who I am
In the name of antinomy
There’s no more sideways blanking out

Falling blown into crust
Crawling towards obscenity
Uncomplicated lamb

In the name of karaoke
Let me lip-sync once more
The frothing sigh
Only one is my wife

Let the boys sing about me
One bad history
And if minds turn slack
into it’s puree
Will you be my cast-iron brassiere?

Now I am only want to say “pharmokinetics.”

Give me your Liver

Sometimes we make a deep cervical muscle, before it’s too limp, don’t hesitate to say to your love, “analgesia,” but don’t try to make the same muscle again.

Give me one chimp.

My love,
Had you heard the nausea sing
The light of the analgesia touch our hand
A pain field of the living.

My love
Our first profound statement
is always military
A industrial love story

My love
Give me one neurophilosophy
Despite the low rates of somnolence
I am wincing
Expect you to come home as a folk construct

I wish I can fly into the toxicity
Together we may hear pluralogues
Now I am only want to say “pharmokinetics.”
Forgive me.

Phenomenal Philosopher

(after Maya Angelou)

Petty philosophers wonder where my thesis lies.
I’m not smart or built to theorize
But when I start to tell them,
They think I’m telling lies.
I say,
It’s in the reach of my propositions
The span of my logic,
The stride of my argument,
The curl of my rhetoric.
I’m a philosopher
Phenomenal philosopher,
That’s me.

I walk into a room
Just as cool as you please,
And to a disciple,
The acolytes stand or
Fall down on their syllogisms.
Then they swarm around me,
A hive of minor premises.
I say,
It’s the fire in my cogito,
And the flash of my materialism,
The swing in my noumena,
And the joy in my ontology.
I’m a philosopher
Phenomenal philosopher,
That’s me.

Disciples themselves have wondered
What they see in me.
They try so much
But they can’t touch
My inner monadology.
When I try to show them
They say they still can’t see.
I say,
It’s in the arch of my mind-body problem,
The sun of my hermeneutics,
The ride of my fallacies,
The grace of my axioms.
I’m a philosopher

Phenomenal philosopher,
That’s me.

Now you understand
Just why my head’s not contingent.
I don’t appeal to emotion or authority
Or have to talk real loud.
When you see me ratiocinating
It ought to make you proud.
I say,
It’s in the click of my eternal return,
The bend of my dialectic,
the Weltanshauung of my Wirklichkeit,
The need of my petitio principii,
‘Cause I’m a philosopher
Phenomenal philosopher,
That’s me.

Lucky Geisha

IRO performs an original song, “Lucky Geisha,” in the Kanda area of Tokyo on November 14, 1990. Atsushi Nozu/bass & song credits; Naoki Kurakata/drums; Yasuyuki Umemoto/guitar; Nada Gordon/vocals. The video quality is lamentably terrible.

Here’s a rough translation of Atsushi’s great song:

Left and right
cockroaches all over the place
I’m sick and tired
of this lifestyle

North and south
spring is coming
[something about flowers?]

Before I left my village
there was a festival
I wore a yukata
and danced, sweaty

Left and right
this unknown territory
This lost feeling
I want it to end already

Flowers of Edo
men swarm around
and now…
I’m a geisha, you know

Until the end of the evening
always these men
Until evening ends
all these men up against me
People say I’m a lucky girl
People say I’m a lucky girl
Lucky geisha…

Edo’s night sky
is just empty to me
O please hold me
I can’t bear it any longer

When I go back to my village
I’ll be with Ichijiro
When I go back to my village
I want it to be for good

Before I left my village
there was a festival
I wore a yukata
and danced, sweaty

People say I’m a lucky girl
People say I’m a lucky girl
People say I’m a lucky girl

Lucky geisha…