we have broke the problem light into a thousand
lucent crescents, confronted by
the difficulty of
how we are caught, again—
gazing at the ground
to find the sun
you think there is green grass.
you think there is a dying leaf.
you think there is love.
you think there is pain.
listen: the machines or aliens is
god, and also:
there is no death, innit.
nothing is permanent and yet
there is not “love” and
“not love.” there is
not “pain” and
do you hear?
how it is all the same?
it is all the same.
we should never try to get anywhere other than
where we are
where we are is in the midst of a thunder
situation, in which case not even
the Bald Man can help
if your friend is lying around quietly in your
favorite smelly spot, pounce
all up on that bastard
until he caves to a play situation
we are deep into green season
flat-footed and heavy with now
What about this: maybe there are
no problems, innit.
Maybe the only problems are
problems with time.
When we lose the groundhog under the
small house, have we really lost anything?
Or have we only found something
we weren’t looking for.
This past weekend was full of dem readings.
First off, on Saturday, the THIS IS NOT A CONFESSION tour (Rothko and I) loaded the BIG SIGN into the truck and drove to Philadelphia.
This is a book party for THIS IS NOT A CONFESSION.
I’ve always considered the process of writing to be mostly a solitary creative endeavor. And, if I’m being honest, that’s one of the things that has always made it appealing to me: the idea that a particular piece—an essay, a poem, a beer “pros and cons” list, a love letter to Emma Stone—can be my vision, and mine alone, from start to finish. There are, of course, other art forms like that, too. Photography, another thing I do a fair amount of, is sometimes that way, at least the type of photography I do. There are some other forms of photography which are more about collaboration and teamwork. But man, I tend to shy away from those forms. Fashion shoots. Working with human models. Christ. That seems stressful. I much prefer dogs. Or if I’m feeling particularly antisocial or misanthropic, just give me some inanimate objects and a good fixed focal-length lens.
But here’s a surprising thing I’ve learned in making my first book. Here is a confession, if you like, about making This Is Not a Confession…
My book, This is Not A Confession, published by Awst Press will drop in a little over fourteen weeks. April 22rd, to be exact. And as we get closer to that date, I’ve been wanting to tell you something. Okay, I don’t really want to tell you this. (And my publisher probably doesn’t want me to tell you this, either.) But here it is, anyway: You may not want to recommend my book to your easily-offended Aunt Marsha, your church pastor, or anybody else who you deem sensitive to graphic sexual content.
I am not exaggerating when I say that I have taken tens of thousands of photographs of Honey. As I go back through them, I am struck with a sadness. I thought it was a sadness of remembering. But I also felt like that didn’t seem right somehow. It didn’t explain why I didn’t necessarily want to look at those photos, yet. It seemed more complicated than that.
Here’s why: It wasn’t a sadness of remembering. It was a sadness of forgetting.
All these photographs I’ve taken of Honey have been to “preserve” something. A spirit. A feeling. And the sad, terrible — indeed “treacherous” — thing is that as I go about looking at these artifacts, they feel like they’re having the reverse effect. Instead of bringing those feelings back to me, I feel like they’re moving them further away. Instead of recreating those memories for me, I feel like they’re destroying them.