from ‘Perfect Blue Distant Objects’

1 December 2014

That a subject can be observed, under its own

volition saying, ‘I

am with persons unfamiliar with difference. I

differ more

from things than from those places that effect
distance.’ At one remove from the latter we have

to back

them, their interests biting into former gains,

being back

in a home stripped of nature and thus full

of the art of the ill.

Very seldom are reports raised, or any

imaginings of present

disappointments, great estimates by individuals

high

on malice, constantly juiced on malice. We are

what

ignorance makes of a defective reality out

beyond

actual monsters and all their quaint little bugs.

It bears

out that hearsay is a thing, too, like matter,

that hearing

people as irritable conjecture or abstractions is
a particular quality of action to some. Acts

against ourselves

are not where we dislike the concrete. Existence
as arbitrary names, arbitrary nicks in the nominal,

innumerable

sides to the qualified good, other indifferences

of the damned.

Our features fill up the portrait. We are caricatures

who

know enough to hate scarcity, anyone

can, and has previously.

To whom should the observed up and complain. An acute
wish to spite the moment, to let it see him,

his particular

enmity, to sit down disarmed and go some way

toward disarming

circumstance. If he can view it, quartered in its unforeseen
neutrality, like any other supposed adversary, respect

for like men

might turn as the ugly eye turns, not balked at

but put out.

He is an abstracted object, not in the way

of expected

disagreements; he and his distance are an implacable

disgust,

hatred in a long room where the same person is
a face with no nose and a general to man. He found
you alone with your diversions, with your sympathies, alone
he seems contemptuous, he has nothing, and says

stupidity

conceived him over a laugh. You heard something laughing

as he laughed.

Unranked subjects talked and talked, knowing

you’d torn

into the party hoping to find some virulent

strain, find a writer

tamed by some animal’s cough. The sort who bites himself.
That’s him, in shorts, making nothing of opposites, even in
company he is balanced in a vice. Another expert

may be one

lime cordial away from dull hatred but you try

him for that also,

for that and other offenses you merely wished

were somewhere given.

Before learning to earn you acquainted yourself

with the nearest

fool. It is as well he’s forgiven your other hand,

as your other hand

is profligate with secrets milled from the public, characters
shaken out of the given heart and spoken to kindly,

handed

parts of their mothers and fathers as sport, as an aged

politics

hauling its personable carbuncle of fellowship. You are

a person

who has been told. You are sallow from all the ocular proof

of a face

on the ghost. Ghost mending this blue in the blunt matter.
Your dignity held up against ridicule is one edge
of the edited lie. He has invented _______ from scotch tape

and

a fondness for the anonymous just. Where you were not
just, so am I not the author of a moment. The moment can be known

critically,

or learned well, even as it comes out of the _______

unsatisfied.

Is it only the mask man dreads and do we only

hate disguise

if a human in shorts dredges the something for notions

concerning himself?

Distance entertains us only partially, and people

entertain

compounded simplicities then work out their guesses
in answer to nothing derived from reality. We drive

those ideas

into experience, mixing the only true general

up with models

abstracted from naked ones and zeros, the perfect

favoured over deformity.

Our being ill together, the mingled good

of our lives on the web

is not fault but whipped virtue. Our pride

not ours if not

encouraged by them. If I despair of vice,

my ‘if’ is courage,

a finely tuned one-­‐-by-­‐-one into the truly

long weakness, it bisects

pride, party of the proudly weak, named,

mean, learning all having is classified.

 


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