Subject: NEW EYES FOR THE OLD DOG; from Galen
Monday
November 20, 2006
Dear Jaromir (& Magda),
Thanks again for inviting us to Andrew's going-away party at Governor Stumpy's last Saturday night. Marie agrees that it would probably have been a bit much for her; and I very much enjoyed chatting one-to-one with you, Jaromir. I look forward to continuing our "dangling conversation" (a la Paul Simon) on Thanksgiving. I'll do my best not to embarrass you in front of your other friends.
Since our most recent visit, I've been thinking more about that problem of good people being in love with their own goodness, of liberals being in love with their liberal virtues, of (not to intentionally make a joke of it) the humble being proud of their very humility. On a purely existential level, it's a dilemma with which I find myself struggling more and more, as the years wear on and time runs out. As I mentioned to you Saturday night, Thomas Franks addresses this problem in WHAT'S THE MATTER WITH KANSAS?. But Karl Rove and his boy W. are both evil but believe themselves to be virtuous.
One of the most important lessons life has taught me is that WORDS LIE. You probably figured this out while still a boy. Many people do. But I only began understanding it one evening at the Wichita State University library while thumbing through Ludwig Wittgenstein's blue & brown Notebooks. It was something he said, the exact wording of which I'd never be able to go back and find, even if my life depended on it. But it's precisely because it's so very difficult to MAKE WORDS TELL THE TRUTH that I seem to have chosen that difficult pursuit as my hobby.
At this particular juncture in my journey, I'm enjoying listening to you and Magda describe your experiences and observations as relative newcomers to these United States and to Kansas. Our faux-president said recently that we need to have some NEW EYES looking at the problems in Iraq. As much as I hate to go where W. has gone or to touch anything he has touched, I'm going to steal his NEW EYES metaphor just long enough to say that I'm finding it refreshing to look at our country and our regional culture through the new eyes of our new European friends.
Thanks again for inviting me/us to the Saturday thing and to the Thanksgiving with your other friends. See you Thursday at 1:30. (Should we perhaps get some aerosol whipped cream for the pumpkin pies? Would that seen as de classe? Gouache? Let us know.
Faithfully Faithless,
Galen
Saturday, June 7, 2008
Sunday, June 1, 2008
"Modern Romance" (Galen's Vain Attempt to Name the Unnameable
.
MODERN ROMANCE
My feeble fingers trace the crack running through the hot green fuse
Of this flower which none can rend, our love which fills this room whose
Crack runs deep and wide and cold and black, all the way down to the bittersweet end
Of our melded bodies, ripe with booze. Floating in this room, we send
Salvation forth to softly attack any creature wearing shoes.
Light rays bend around our shack and penetrate this love we lend.
My feeble eardrums trace the click of your tongue as it polishes off each phrase.
Built upon a foundation of sand, our language possesses the strength to seize
The power and glory of my stick, as we lie upon this auctioned land
We thought we owned and realize that those who own each hand and gland
Of us, each ditch and prick, have set us dancing to a sadder jazz
That’s left a crack through each lovelick on lip and hip and sand and mind.
You listen to my engine knock and ask me why I choose to lose.
I tune my brain to the tunes of Bach, ill-tempered bastards, bent on fending
Off old age, and so they choose instead to tread the darkness, Zenned
And drunk on bigoted blindness. Talk about drug problems! Look wh woos
Complacency! Let us unlock another universe, Dear Friend.
My feeble fingers trace the wick and light the flame and watch it freeze.
Beaten, robbed, raped, tortured, skinned, I lie in sun in plastic chaise
And ponder in the sky a slick of toxic waste. Our parents sinned
And put our teeth on edge to ease their cowardice and so we’re pinned
Beneath a bulldozer. And the hick at the controls is a bum who plays
Crap with our bones and leaves a crick from neck to toe, as we face the wind.
My feeble fingers trace the lack of newness in what we call “the news”.
What I feel for you is blended into my heart’s opposing views.
Floating in this room, we wrack Reality so as to amend
10,000 years of unsung blues.
We dance a world-weary day and spend our was on crap to please the pack.
I lick your cut; you lick my bruise, as hand-in-hand we try to hack
Meaning where these light rays bend.
Words and Music by Galen Green c 1986 .
MODERN ROMANCE
My feeble fingers trace the crack running through the hot green fuse
Of this flower which none can rend, our love which fills this room whose
Crack runs deep and wide and cold and black, all the way down to the bittersweet end
Of our melded bodies, ripe with booze. Floating in this room, we send
Salvation forth to softly attack any creature wearing shoes.
Light rays bend around our shack and penetrate this love we lend.
My feeble eardrums trace the click of your tongue as it polishes off each phrase.
Built upon a foundation of sand, our language possesses the strength to seize
The power and glory of my stick, as we lie upon this auctioned land
We thought we owned and realize that those who own each hand and gland
Of us, each ditch and prick, have set us dancing to a sadder jazz
That’s left a crack through each lovelick on lip and hip and sand and mind.
You listen to my engine knock and ask me why I choose to lose.
I tune my brain to the tunes of Bach, ill-tempered bastards, bent on fending
Off old age, and so they choose instead to tread the darkness, Zenned
And drunk on bigoted blindness. Talk about drug problems! Look wh woos
Complacency! Let us unlock another universe, Dear Friend.
My feeble fingers trace the wick and light the flame and watch it freeze.
Beaten, robbed, raped, tortured, skinned, I lie in sun in plastic chaise
And ponder in the sky a slick of toxic waste. Our parents sinned
And put our teeth on edge to ease their cowardice and so we’re pinned
Beneath a bulldozer. And the hick at the controls is a bum who plays
Crap with our bones and leaves a crick from neck to toe, as we face the wind.
My feeble fingers trace the lack of newness in what we call “the news”.
What I feel for you is blended into my heart’s opposing views.
Floating in this room, we wrack Reality so as to amend
10,000 years of unsung blues.
We dance a world-weary day and spend our was on crap to please the pack.
I lick your cut; you lick my bruise, as hand-in-hand we try to hack
Meaning where these light rays bend.
Words and Music by Galen Green c 1986 .
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)