Saturday, October 25, 2008
This morning, I really had a breakthrough with the toast. Simply the most perfection I've ever managed to introduce into a piece of toast. Fine grained. Light crumb. Evenly but not monotonously browned, with a subtle variability of embrownpoint traversing the surface with a series of elusive transitional shadings. I had arrived.
Crowned heads of Europe stop me in the street and say: "When are you coming to make toast for me?"
I say: "I have no time."
I open my notebook and say: "Look at my timetable. You see any time in my timetable for you? I have no time. I'm toasting everywhere. I am booked."
Now they see I carry a piece of toast with jam and bite marks on it and everything in my hand, and they say: "Please, may I taste it? Let me only have a taste."
I say: "No."
I say: "NO."
They say: "Please, a bite from that back corner there."
I say: "That corner is the best part! I've been looking forward all day to eating that part! The whole point of the process of toasting is to cultivate that very corner, to make it the succulent end point of your journey through the toast, to give it final delectableness!"
They say: ""Well, I don't care if you bite it or no, let me have a taste from the end you're eating then."
If you want to become a toastmaster, you must understand that there is no technique. This is the first illusion you must disabuse yourself of, if you are to go on. You cannot make advances if you are weighted down with this Eurocentric concept of "technique."
A true toastmaster like myself can make toast out of anything, can make toast anywhere. I have made stone toast. I have made nourishing toast of air. You may eat a slice of fire toast that will give you power to race up steep cliffs. I have spread bitter tears on the toast of teasing. I have made toast from verbs and abstract nouns. I have eaten the supernal toast of beauty and justice. This practice is the best practice. It is to this practice you must look if you are to find the toaster's way.
Wednesday, October 8, 2008
masulisch 16 grotesque it "the kingdom of heaven means nothing
the dashing rage of cottaged clouds
in bewildered atmosphere
weightless mountains loom
monument swells fall
to rise in musical fury of cyclones again
a white chaos from the moon
Like thin, false hands balled up in shrouds
That shred as they appear,
it snakes along the breakers’ backs
taking any water for its tracks
the black water crawls like lava
and plummets down the glassy slope
a locomotive on a rope of smoke
the firemen with wolfhound heads
and black and brawny hands
the bellowing hearth
hurtle on like a comet without need
joyous in wild nightmare of speed
incurable dream of illness,
voluptuous and insane.
perch ministers, like spiders and owls
like a pendant over heaving breast
the reckless engine dangles
down elastic eversion of their triangles
Or a man about to drown.
Braids of foam, a hollow column,
acres of green hood
they lean far from the windows
when they reach
the reeking bottom of the waves
the cars bristle in nervous rows
of long boathooks and nets on staves
they look to see what chance will bring them
in eerie moment before the rise
one crazed fisher lunges so far his friends
must batten on his coat and arm to drag him in again
mow the reeking bottom of the wave
to bid on the briny armor
whose lividity embosses
pinions of raven albatrosses
with women’s cries borne forth on the blast
the howls of furies ring out like brass
by the train’s flanks in great gouts he breathed,
in mania rolled, in spume enwreathed,
the (whale) which even archaic name outspans
the cyclopean trunk of his sex
by mistake or - who will say? –
the monster couples with the train
mad amorous altercation flung in disarray of
the sharp clouts of titan heart’s pulsation
the people hilarious
of power unencircled
The engine garlanded in sperm
laved in unliving alive witch light -aved
Moon - delirious
Sky - demented
Sea - depraved