Archive for:February, 2007


February 27th, 2007

After work every day he would walk 3 blocks through the city to his apartment. Once inside the first thing he would do is fix himself a fried-egg sandwich. Toasted bread.

But before that, he would have adventures. One of the things that would happen is he would walk in a furiously erratic pattern on the way home. Every shop window or alley or facade or trash-can or poodle or wino commanding first his attention and then his entire body. Magnet, amok. Part of him could help it, part of him couldn’t.

The part he could help was the starting of it all. Because it was up to him if he wanted to start walking that way.

But once it began — well, he couldn’t quite do much about it at that point. And it felt nice anyhow. You felt closer to things.

Often bicycles would strike him because of his habit, unable to veer away in time from his careenings. Sometimes panting joggers shouldering into him and past, muttering, cursing.

He called this adventure C32 to distinguish it from others.

C. Way/ © 2006

[posted by: C Way at 11:52 PM]

[file under: ART OF THE DAY]


February 27th, 2007

Music, a toppling, clamoring mess … I’ll go to the store to buy an iced tea or something and suddenly — like that — a melody, a little infant Athena-ed into my head, and I almost turn around to go home and sing it into my tape recorder before I lose it, but I’m lazy, and overconfident, so I walk on, down peaceful quiet streets, hurrying before the melody unfolds into a shape I won’t be able to remember, and all of a sudden, crash, noise blaring around me, the world conspiring to distract me from my little useless ditty, like someone saying ’6, 4,14,2,4′ when you’re trying to count to ten, cars honking, old women grousing, little kids bleating and stamping, dogs yapping, manholes clanking, landscapers buzzsawing and mulching refuse, thunder cracking from the sky, hogs being loosened into the street in a great stinking honking outrage, volcanoes erupting at my feet and tossing me like a fucking penny up into the air, geese hollering and biting my crotch, airplanes crashing all around me in hillocks of shrapnel and mutilation, Polynesian orchestras marching into each other with all sorts of tuba trombone and piccolo dissonances, and me crawling through it all, trying not to be distracted, cupping my song in my head like a smoker palming a lighter’s flame away from the wind, looking like an idiot mouthing my pathetic little motif to myself, and then — Thank god — I’m there!… temporary reprieve! — I reach the safety of the Rite Aid! The air conditioned quiet safety of its aisles… until suddenly Beyonce comes sallying out of the loudspeakers, scrambling my brain, giving me epilepsy — I froth at the mouth, I scratch my scalp to ribbons, I pass out — it’s madness — I’ve taken to walking around in earplugs — maybe I’ll stop going out period –

C. Way/ © 2007

[posted by: C Way at 12:10 AM]

[file under: Music]

Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan: Like Fire Up a Mothwing Rope

February 23rd, 2007

Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan – Kise Da Yaar Na Wichre

This voice sets your bones back into place.

This voice is a torrent heedless of seawall and sandbag, hungry beyond the coasts it engulfs.

This voice is the joyous smoking escape of geysers.

This voice is an orange cougar scaling a black tree and scattering the hundred larks that nest there into white cloudrivaling skysprays.

This voice is the fiery-wheeled outrage of prophets.

This voice carves & harrows the air in which it’s sounded & deposits in the hollows ash, seeds & dewy rich soil.

This voice is reverse lightning, infinite climbing fractal-branching, restless carving through the night from earth to sky.

C. Way/ © 2006

[posted by: C Way at 10:14 PM]

[file under: Ekphrasis ||| Music ||| music - mp3s]

Knock it Down. Clean it Up.

February 21st, 2007

“Knock it down,” the man beside me says, “clean it up.”

A building is being demolished outside, there are strange sounds, the steel beams are squealing in shocked animal protest, people walking dogs pause and gawk, bikers brake and linger.

Stand long enough and little white particles will accrete to your hair and clothes and to the alveoli of your lungs, blown by the wind from the wrecking place. Yet we stand, and watch. And some thrill.

We were born with a hunger for violence –- atavistic, slumbering, forgotten, euphemized, dressed up in the clothes of progress and civilization, but never erased, never unyoked to our spirits.

And if we can no longer slake it, from atrophy of will or muscle, we build things to do it for us –- or sate ourselves by proxy of army and mob.

C. Way/ © 2006

[posted by: C Way at 5:25 PM]

[file under: ART OF THE DAY]

Dream Log: Suppuration Anxiety

February 11th, 2007

I’m on a plane and I’ve forgotten to bring the other half of my bedframe.

Onboard I stash the battered longbox containing the bed’s aluminum rods and wonder when we’re going to take off.

I fall asleep by the window, the sun shining on my face and arm, I wake up stabbed with the realization that I’ve developed cancer while I’ve been asleep. I now have a thick and pus-encrusted rash all over my neck and chest, and in the bathroom I see that my neck has sprouted a boil as firm and round as a puffball mushroom, I pinch it with my long nails and watch a bead of blood well up from the puncture, I look inside the cavity and see the blood writhe as I tremble, the boil full like a teacup.

I lean over the sink and look down in the drain while I feel the fleshcup empty, the blood pouring thick and dark, the sensation’s ticklish, when I look up in the mirror, the left side of my mouth has twisted permanently somehow from the ruin on my neck, some subcutaneous implosion like a sinkhole, some underground collapse, I close my eyes, when I open them my neck sparkles like a rare treasure with its sugary crust of crystalline pus.

I smile. I doesn’t look so bad, after all. In a certain light — if I turn my head a certain way — just so — I give myself a wink and walk back to my seat.

C. Way/ © 2006

[posted by: C Way at 11:38 AM]

[file under: non-fiction & essays]