BLUE COUP D’ETAT

ON THE SUBWAY
Evelyn Hawkins pointed to a picture of Matthew Barney sitting in a bathtub full of naked Asian women and said, “There he is, that’s Satan.”

THE WAY OF CAREY part 4 words - more from Carey Westbrook circa 1999
music
son house

CAREYwords

I lied twice today, it is really fucking me up. Don’t want to lie in my life, no matter what the consequences. Tactfully omitting the truth is a different matter but outright lying–can’t live like that, it never stops growing and choking all sincerity into oblivion.

from an hour after dinner one warm evening in may
a walk in fort greene park
hanging out in the living room at the place back on south oxford
starring walker, shannon, derek, me and a saint bernard
photographed by chiz

music
sufjan stevens
derek cianfrance
chopin
devendra banhart

1summerevening

Does the light play on the water or does the water play with the light?

The screaming swing sets protest the setting sun.

Looking for answers where there are none. Silent confessions. Loving reflections that seem so real, indefinable and unspeakable for me now. I wait and live in a limbo that I must pretend is full and rich, must pretend is complete. The alone, must believe and find comfort in the alone, must speak with a happiness I don’t feel, must make happiness out of the mud of my thoughts, out of the sludge of my desires, out of the brief moments of wonder, the shooting stars on clear summer nights when the sky never really turns black, only the deep blue of Sheba’s skin - in all of this longing there must be an equal and opposite fulfillment that can stem from the same place. The deep feeling must be multifaceted. Ask and ask and ask again.

I noticed a scar on her hip. Mom always said if you don’t have nothing nice to say don’t say nothing at all but what happens to that nothing? Something has gotta happen to that nothing. Taxi ride: there’s a stream of green lights, if I could ride around in the back of a car all day . . . or actually night, late night when everybody’s asleep, the streets stand empty and traffic flows. This Madison Avenue flow feels so precarious as each light turns green right before the last instant to brake without ending up in the intersection. So often I stare up ahead through the windshield but tonight all I can see is inside the car, hundreds of night shadows dancing in rhythm and then I’m out on Riverside Drive, standing on the bridge overlooking W. 138th Street. The cloudy Hudson, Riverbank Park, and the sewage disposal plant that it shares space with are looming in the darkness to the West. There is a hush on the bridge, the muted sound of the Westside Highway, nothing more. A mist of halos surrounds the orange and purple street lamps, she steps onto the bridge. I feel the Hudson tremble and the faintest of wind; then nothing, just a sentimental dream, the kind that hurts, the kind that fools you. Another nothing that’s got no place to go so it strives for some kind of inhuman detachment, an un-emotion, cold and calculating arguments, that’s all twenty-twenty hindsight, living vicariously in the past. NOTHING goes IN - that’s where it goes.

Conspire with the dust, contrive with a sunbeam; a moment that would realize you.

The man yelled, “TV IS ONLY 55 YEARS OLD! BEFORE TV THERE WAS GOD! Man came home to God! He didn’t come home and log on, he had the bible. Now he looks for answers on TV, on the internet; from man not from God!” the subway temporarily rocks his balance, people stare through him, pretending not to hear but occasionally there is a glimmer of reaction, feet shift in discomfort.
Bracing himself against the doors of the train he vented his frustrations, the connection with the roaring mechanical beast fueling his fury. He rants that this country was founded on the morality laid out in the Bible, he seethes that we are deviating from that path by letting television rule our lives, he proclaims that the country is going to hell, he concludes that we are falling apart.
His glasses shake down his nose, trembling with the anger of electricity and steel buried in the earth, perhaps we are under a river or an ocean, an underground shaking with life, charged with rage. In his eyes everything is in such a miserable state and that attitude soaks us all like gasoline, clouding the subway car with an invisible flammability, creating small ignitions, maybe an argument later with your wife or girlfriend or a disagreement with taxi driver or a cynicism about the media or maybe someone crosses your path too quickly on the sidewalk. On a certain level I agree with him, shit’s fucked up but I’m not so sure it wasn’t fucked up before television or that God was waiting for people when they got home from work.

as it appeared in my journal:

Don’t let the moments add up into

KEITH FRANKLIN ZIMMERMAN SAID, “DREAMS ARE FREE MOTHERFUCKER” FIRST

an overwhelming weight, let the moments pass without remorse, without the clamming up and the desire to be invincible; invincibility by not doing or saying is voluntary isolation without an end.

Unzip my skin, the soul gleams light gold floating away unhampered by responsibility.