Wednesday, January 23, 2008

smart

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Sometimes I think I'm really smart.

Smarter than most people anyway, in the most important way, since there are many ways a person can be smart.
Don't get me wrong. I've been known to do some pretty stupid, selfish things, which don't even work out for anyone, but me, or not even that; or compromised my time and efforts and integrity for the sake of obligation, or for the sense of 'doing the right thing,' which ultimately only served other people's selfish desires.
All that got old after I realized things didn't have to suck unless you let it.

The kind of smart I'm talking about though, is hard to explain since in order to even understand it, without it seeming like some smart myth, is to either be that brand of smart, or to see it, respect it and try to achieve it through patient practices in humility.

What, what is it, what are you talking about, you're talking out of your ass little girl, what do you know sexy, come here, let me put my fingers on you.

The kind of smart I am is in the way that I can see things for what they really are. It's about perceptive awareness; it's about intuition which can be so keen that precognition seems feasible and not some Philip K Dick sooth seer jive.

The sad thing is: People can't get this smart unless they've been murdered and resurrected a couple dozen times in life, brushed off, sore when it rains from broken bones mended, raw meat heart held together with tar and splints, fingers jagged razors cutting through exteriors, to see past the all too familiar veneers; it's by watching people die, by heartbreak, disappointment, deception, poverty, compromised freedom, deconstruction, faithlessness, complete and total feeling nothing for a long time apathy, earned and warranted cynicism, topped with a big heap of total fucking asinine bullshit people copping power trips, ego trips, ownerships.

I mean sure, books are good. I love books. They have words in them; words which are tools to communicate.

And speaking of tools, my desk chair is held together by six screws.

I didn't know that until I got it home in a box.

I had to borrow a screwdriver, a Phillips, and screw the damn thing together thinking the whole time: I wonder how many screws are in a blender, in a car, there are screws everywhere, holding everything we own together, and I've been taking this for granted, my alarm clock may have fifteen, my refrigerator, like fifty screws!

I felt accomplished my chair was sturdy and upright, felt as if I learned an important lesson about deconstruction, reconstruction, productivity, I felt smart and independent in ways which felt important, useful, unlike GRE perfect scores, unlike Pulitzer prize winning poets.

I fell today on a soapy mop watered floor in front of two Mexican ladies cleaning, got up and kept going with only a minor flinch of humiliation on a mission, it hurt later, but at the time, there was no time for hurt. My elbow feels as though it's been punched.

Sorry, this has nothing to do with anything, I just wanted some sympathy. A kissy on my elbow would be nice. I could go for that. Kissy's are cool.

Sometimes I think I am really dumb in a way that everybody understands, since that is what they expect from me in the first place.

I probably fell hard.
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Sunday, January 13, 2008

party

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last night was some
incredible party.
everywhere red, white, and blue.
themed campaign suicide,
we wore ties, suits,
face painted gashes,
slashes on wrists,
there were pretzels,
hummus,
plenty of rum,
and music to dance to,
in the living room,
along with the pundit stand,
made out of styrofoam, and
a speaker,
streamers streaming,
the faces were nice,
though the liquor was nicer.
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