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mystic bourgeoisie 

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Blind Boy Apollo
and the All-White Astronauts

New Age "Asiatic" thought ... is establishing itself as the
hegemonic ideology of global capitalism. (Zizek)

Monday, April 6

wheel of fortune

“I love the babes, don't get me wrong.
Hey, that's why I wrote this song!”

dire straits ~ heavy fuel

You know what I'm thinking? No, of course not. That's why I write this stuff. To tell you. And what I'm thinking right now, as I track down references to C. Wright Mills and Ralph Waldo Emerson (more about them later on), only to find myself, via Google, thinking about the same stuff six years ago... what I'm thinking now is that maybe it's time for certain parts of Entropy Gradient Reversals to come together with certain parts of Mystic Bourgeoisie. Since we've lately been getting so personal and all. I mean, it's all coming from the same source, my attempts at diversionary prestidigitation notwithstanding.

So here. This is cryptic as hell, hell being perhaps merely a form of cryptomnesia. And more on that later, too. In the meantime...

   Sunday, April 13, 2003
   Border Patrol
   coyote moon, half high, half full,
   girl on the radio singing no one
   could ever compare to you. middle
   of the night, I'm out of cigarettes.
   all day reading Alice Miller. not
   reading really. what I do. tracking
   something down.
   two days ago I bought this first 
   edition. not that I collect the 
   things. not for their dates of 
   publication anyway. I got a coffee
   and walked back to where I'd read
   those first few pages a year and 
   change ago.
   and funny thing, it was a different
   book. Prisoners of Childhood it was
   called in 1981 when this all started,
   just now noticing. that fits. nothing
   else does. not really. not well. the
   receipt I found in the other one says
   01-27-02. sitting in this same spot
   that day outside of starbucks on the
   mall I said oh my god, this is me.
   well of course it was. and everyone
   else. what marketing genius. 
   back then I'd been thinking about
   C. Wright Mills. about voice. about
   anything but the moon. thinking that
   he'd said the sociological imagination
   flowered where biography intersected 
   but in the Drama of the Gifted Child,
   Alice Miller says in those first few
   pages, first paragraph in fact, that
   biography is all that counts, and not
   all that abstract intellectual stuff.
   it's all we have, she says, to protect
   us from mental illness. I'm quoting.
   for the personal history of our
   childhood defines, for each of us,
   she says, our own truth. your truth
   my truth his truth her truth.
   and this truth, though different for
   each, so different that it takes a
   boatload of empathy to get it, is that
   each of us was abused raped sodomized
   beaten. left for dead. but nobody wants
   to hear about your truth because of
   this secret conspiracy of nasty old-boy
   psychoanalysts to hush it all up, like
   Freud with his drives and instincts.
   Eros was bad enough, but how about
   Thanatos, she says. and now how do you 
   like your blue eyed boy, Mr. Death?
   but here's the weird thing. in the 
   first edition, she says I'm not going
   to talk a lot about narcissism. then
   does. at length. by that name. on and
   on. however, by the new improved second
   edition, the word doesn't appear at 
   all except in a brief retelling of
   the story of Narcissus and Echo, which
   just sort of sits there, disconnected.
   split off and out of place. 
   she doesn't like Melanie Klein or
   Kernberg she says, with their over harsh
   views about darkness and pathology. she
   does like Kohut, though, who deep sixed
   all that nonsense about drives and said
   no, instead it was all the self, evolving
   naturally, coming to its own realization.
   it's own truth, you could say.
   but tell me something Alice, honey, where
   does all that abusive aggression come from
   then? when the true self blooms in the 
   gentle listening of someone as enlightened
   as yourself (no other authors are cited),
   is it all just perfect niceness after that?
   and nobody anymore wants a piece of your
   and tell me another thing before you go.
   what happened to all those references to
   narcissism, leaving us with our little
   personal stories but no common history,
   no imagination, except for an undriven
   darkness that, in truth, does not exist?
   and why no mention of solipsism, leaving
   me with your truth, the revised expanded
   second edition, and me with this coyote
   moon, half high, half empty. girl on the 
   radio, interrupted.
   10:22 AM | link |