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  • hardie karges 7:49 am on September 29, 2008 Permalink | Reply
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    Sometimes I wonder if it’s worth it having the wife, the kid, the three-car garage. 

    Sometimes I wonder if it’s worth it having the microwave, the DVD, the five-liter fridge. I sleep best with a ‘vacancy’ sign flashing outside my window and the roar of the freeway in the distance. I feel best at about five hundred miles an hour, not looking down but looking up, beyond atmosphere and trivial pursuits, to the level where the sky fades to black, just like some predictable movie selling soap to bored house husbands. I need love but not in my face. Just knowing it is there is usually enough. Once it descends into the Hell of internecine squabbling and righteous indignation, then I’d rather be alone, just me and the elements, air earth fire water. I just need to know it’s out there, waiting for me, just like I’m waiting for it. It doesn’t have to be reduced to chores and snores, shopping lists and rent receipts, and jockeying for bathroom rights. Love’s better than that. Save love for the sublime and the subliminal aspects of existence, the passage of solids into vapor without the intermediate phase of liquid, the passage of matter into spirit without the intermediate phase of thought, bodies making love in mid-air without so much as a glance downward, suspension of disbelief. Let the idle mind do the dirty work of handling liquids and scrubbing cracks. Let the hired hands change the tires and splice the wires. Let the experts fix the clocks and deal the stocks. Love should be pure and powerful, a force to be reckoned with, not a force to reckon with. Lovers should meet under waterfalls and rainbows, not under storm and stress. Lovers should meet between silk sheets and satin shirts, not between rushed dinners and hushed desserts. Love should be placed right on the pedestal where the Romans put it, posed and poised, romantic to a fault.

  • hardie karges 7:15 am on June 26, 2008 Permalink | Reply
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    The nice thing about ‘automatic writing’ 

    is that there’s never any writer’s block because there’s no structure anyway. It should be word-jazz like be-bop, open the gates and let out all the chickens and scaredy-cats that’ve been cooped up since consciousness sprouted from seed in the fertile soil at the crossroads where attraction meets imagination and the algebra of need meets the geometry of desire. I don’t even have my glasses on so won’t know most of my typographic errors until later. Forget centrality, theme, whatever, everything but meaning. The only worthwhile goal of writing, of anything for that matter, is to find meaning in a world that doesn’t necessarily have any.

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