the mouth
skin
shorelines
faultlines
bloodlines
graves
the horizon
the atmosphere
all holes
sanity
knives
fences
borders
the cutting part of paper
cliffs
fingernails
dawn
(2022)
the mouth
skin
shorelines
faultlines
bloodlines
graves
the horizon
the atmosphere
all holes
sanity
knives
fences
borders
the cutting part of paper
cliffs
fingernails
dawn
(2022)
Lots of new readers have started following The Fixer since I last posted one of these. It seems sensible to preface this episode, which happens to be my 100th post, with explaining again why I say “ruined.”
Because I’m not wrecked. There is as much “wrong” with me as there is with you. We are none of us normal, because the norm isn’t a thing, it’s a statistic. We can talk as long as you like about the ghost of Aristotle in the shell of modern thought, but suffice to say there is no Normal Person we can all strive to emulate, and there never will be.
So why say ‘ruined’?
First, because it plays to my obsessional idiom, which has most of my written correspondence (from this blog to my text messages) employing the intellectual, somewhat stilted but still wholly lucid prose of an British college don circa 1948, for which I only slightly apologize.
Second, because in a sense it’s true. Any instinct in me to get along, accept good old school-marriage-breeding-working-death as my inevitable path, was further and further eroded by each of these encounters with The Other.
And boy, was there ever a lot of Other in the mid-1990s.
If you knew where to look. We used to call it counter-culture, because it offered a wholly alternate universe that felt wildly contrary both to what I’d grown up with and with what was being shown on TV. A realm in which the earth was held as sacred, my body was mine to both worship and gleefully deface, sexuality of all kinds was not just tolerated but encouraged, drug use was by informed consent and sensible practice while alcohol use was almost nil, and the music was both relentlessly joyful and wildly seditious in a time of increasing state surveillance and corporate control.
I’m not saying it was a golden age because I don’t believe in golden ages. Much of my experience was a function of my privilege (white, middle class, expensively educated, etc) because looking back I understand how hard other people were struggling for basic rights of safety and freedom that are only now in place. It’s deeply concerning, even embarrassing, to think how far we’ve backslid in the last few years into unfettered corporate control, restriction of reproductive and sexual rights, and infantilized violence perpetrated against people who are already oppressed. The more I think about it, the more it makes sense that yeah, Boomers and Gen X are all suffering from lead poisoning from their toxic childhood homes, because otherwise why are they acting like such fucking idiots?
Yeah, yeah, not all Boomers…don’t even start.
On the other hand, I’m firmly in the camp of the historical dialectic (see above re college don) and the notion that the pendulum each time swings further towards justice and freedom for all and away from authoritarianism. I fully expect that this present day ultra-conservative movement is not a new beginning but their last gasp, the Hail Mary, the desperate acts of desperate individuals who see their old way of life eroding and can’t deal with the fact that change exists, and that it spares no one.
Because it seems impossible not to
Because at least i will remember what i had to say
Because i am so very afraid of someone reading what i have written
Because the world has enough “unsuccessful” artists wallowing in insecurity, waiting endlessly for unobtainable perfection before they “enter the world.” You are already in the world. You have always been in the world. There is nothing but the world. Be in it.
Because we have so much awfulness to get through
Because silence is deadly
Because more is not worse
Because math
Because it’s not impossible that I might actually be nearly as clever, almost as acute and expressive, as I expect a good writer to be
Because there’s only one way to find out
(2021)
I entered your address
or what I recall of it
into a satellite map
and I thought
for a minute
I could see you
I should have waved
as I went by
just in case
(2012/2022)
I practice a form of time travel called insomnia
or maybe it practices me
a liminal state
awake but wrongly
the morning uninevitable
though it is always morning somewhere
what is a morning but the night’s fist unclenching
present always but not noticed until it strikes
rattling your old bones
the earth dragged onward
spiraling through all that night
that fist
opening again and again
and closing
and us
raked by cosmic winds
barely clinging
all our ambitions a smear on glass
a concrescence of matter
a chance
I practice a form of time travel called insomnia
or maybe it practices me
Remember that time
When the light was golden
And the colours lost their edges
Like an old photograph
A chemical reaction in plain air
On the forward edge of thunderclouds?
Do you remember? she asked
As if that was a thing I could forget
(2022)
this is the magic of the fear-not ritual
this is why ritual is
so that when you place your hand in the box and
the pain is indescribable
when your fear says: pull away, save yourself
questioning this fear, you remember everyone before who passed this test
generation upon generation who did not pull away
who asked this question: why?
remember this like your own name: pain and fear are two separate things
distinct, divisible, neither inevitable
we mistake them for each other
the experience of one produces the other
but they are separate things
when, from pain, you experience fear
ask it: why?
some pain simply happens
or maybe all things
happen simply
what we call fear is a reflex
the animal retreat
hate is the choice to not question your fear
(July 2022)
tell me how it happened
we knew so much but this
we couldn’t know
we had such power
that to think of stopping was impossible
to speak it, death
this is what we left ourselves
this brotherhood
these stale defences
self-made
empty-handed
possessed of no inner life
partaking of no mystery
no raw internal knowings
the shapes of us proscribed
the tablets broken
the prophets’ voices stilled
our cells know nothing
born and borne in churning, soupy chaos
wisdom embodied new in every newborn mind
our cells know what we teach them
a limb, deleted
a kindness tasting more and more like fear
what’s the point of man?
what meaning in becoming so?
in mimicking the still point in this maelstrom
an embodied singularity
a fecund drop
erupting then forever calmed
what is a man?
what point
in ever
being
so?
there’s no such thing as clouds she said
I asked her to explain
she said
the clouds are just a metaphor
if you touch them
they aren’t there
dissolved by our attention
like particles avoiding a dark plate
suspended in ten thousand tons of water
depending on which technician lifts the lid
huge somethings made of nothing
the weight of mountains
mist fading from your grasp
before you even close your hand
a metaphor, she said
for water’s longing for the sea
(2022)
One of the few philosophers of the 21st Century known to the general public, Alain de Botton is renowned for his detailed explorations of the minutiae of daily life (for a given quantity of middle class white Europeans, but more on that below.) If The Art of Travel is an indication, he is also the sort of person I hate meeting on vacation.
He’s the Show Me state, arriving grumpy and rumpled from his voyage to stand before the purported spectacle he has dutifully come to observe and demand that it enthrall him, turning away spitting into the dust when the vista/church façade/thing in the guide book cannot overcome his exhaustion, his highway numbness, his sense of entitlement. All I could think was, brother, you’ve got to get out more.
De Botton’s enduring thesis appears to be that, since travel is never quite what we expect it to be, we shouldn’t do it at all. Perhaps because he draws inspiration from some of Europe’s greatest grumps. Anyone who’s travelled a lot may have noticed that no type of person is more consistently displeased by the facts of travelling than middle-aged white men, yet these are de Botton’s only voices of reference.
Men like Charles Baudelaire, who crafted many beautiful sentences in his writing, evoking our emotions with a master’s touch, but who personally was a miserable shit who despised the world and sought constantly to escape from it. Ought we really to take his word on the value of going abroad? A man who was so disgusted by a layover in the tropical isle of Mauritius that he cancelled his entire trip and went home? That’s not exactly the mark of a staggering genius.

Yes, there are moments of more interesting thought, but I was in truth too busy travelling (and enjoying the shit out of it) to read much of the rest of the book. I do know that it has confirmed my intention to never, ever go on an ocean cruise. Because if I encounter a fellow traveler of De Botton’s temperament, I want to be able to walk away.